Must be sunny

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/16574126.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Relationship: Jeon Jungkook/Kim Taehyung | V, Jeon Jungkook/Original Female
Character(s)
Character: Kim Taehyung | V, Kim Taehyung | V’s Sister, Jeon Jungkook, Jeon
Jungkook's Parents
Additional Tags: Angst, Rich Jeon Jungkook, Poor Kim Taehyung | V, Threesome -
F/M/M, Sexual Tension, Internalized Homophobia, Top Jeon Jungkook,
Jeon Jungkook Is Bad at Feelings, Jeon Jungkook Being an Asshole,
Manipulative Jeon Jungkook, Underground Fighter Jeon Jungkook,
Age Swap, Bottom Kim Taehyung | V, Kim Taehyung | V Is Whipped,
Moral Ambiguity, possibly some dub-con but not really, Explicit Sexual
Content, Abuse, Voyeurism, Power Play, Jungkook is a reaaaal ass,
dark themes, Recreational Drug Use, Substance Abuse
Series: Part 1 of Richhood
Stats: Published: 2018-11-10 Updated: 2019-08-04 Chapters: 25/? Words:
341766

Must be sunny
by AlainaMill

Summary

Kim Taehyung makes a hobby of observing the rich.

The rich being primarily Jeon Jungkook and his marvelous girlfriend, Julia.

The rich sometimes get bored and ironically, the poor pay for it.

The poor being Kim Taehyung.

Alternatively, Jungkook and his girlfriend make a bet out of boredom, the winner gets to pick
someone for a threesome, and Julia has her sights on pretty, poor waiter Kim Taehyung.
Things get complicated as she drops out of the equation.

Notes

First fic ever, bare with it.

 Chapter 1

Kim Taehyung is neither here, nor there. In a constant state of a personality flux Taehyung manages
to be the very perfect and poetic definition of a wallflower one day and the most flamboyant person
in the room the other. It all depends on the company and his mood, and the place, of course, a little
bit, and what music marks the background and what he has had for breakfast and normal factors like
that, like everyone has.

But in any case, in all of Richhood, his and his sister’s choice of reference for Gangnam and its most
noteworthy inhabitants, he is invisible, to his knowledge. There, he is an outsider, but a careful
observer. He observes everyone in this bubble, he reasons with himself, and has no reason to worry
that the person over who his eyes glaze the most is Jeon Jungkook, the person on table number
sixteen on July the sixteenth right now.

"I'm bored," Julia complains, one of her first sentences in greeting. Her right leg bounces slowly
crossed over her left one whose Gucci heel rhythmically clicks on the Gangnam pavement.

Jungkook shifts his gaze to lazily look at her. She had gotten him out of bed and demanded his
attention and he does not particularly care to entertain her right then. "What?" He cocks his head
quizzically and very much ironically, lifting a brow. "Two weeks vacationing in the Bahamas is a
bore for you, is it?"

He is not exactly joyous at her return from her yearly summer trip. He had taken full advantage of the
absence of his girlfriend and spoiled himself with sex and liquor and now, the moderate guilt that
accompanied the former forces some tolerance into him so he humors her instead of snapping.

Julia does not resist an eye roll that starts from staring at Jungkook’s disinterest and ends up at
Taehyung’s unsubtle indulgence. He looks away quickly upon being discovered and she sees a
delightful redness crawling up his neck. She rests her stare on him and keeps it there with a spark of
a smirk. "There is nothing to do on the Bahamas, but tan, Jungkook. You, of all people, know I am
not that easily satisfied."

Taehyung feels her nagging eyes bore into him as he tries to move around and do his job. Unsure of
whether he has started imagining things or not, he pays a hopefully cautious glance in the direction of
the couple, skidding his eyes over Jungkook first, over his long, carefully built body, his casual
stance, and the tap of his ringed finger on the glass table. Dissatisfied with just how observant he is
of the guy notorious for being a right bastard, he moves further, landing his stare right into the trap of
Julia's. She holds it firm and pointed as she raises a manicured hand in demand of his service,
uncrosses her legs, spreading them and flashing red lace at him before crossing them again on the
other side.
Jungkook stares at her prolonged movement with the corner of his eye. He raises a brow and scoffs,
the end of which ends with a bitter smirk twisting at his features. "You think that virgin can satisfy
you?" She snaps her gaze at him and glares. Taehyung, in response to her gestures has come near; he
hears. Jungkook doesn’t care; if anything, he basks in the visible discomfort it induces. The smirk
stretched malicious on his face. He reaches a hand, big palm, callused at the top from pull ups and
weight lifting, and long fingers encapsulating her slim thigh before he pushes up at her otherwise
short skirt boldly. "Only I can satisfy you, Julia." The temper of his voice is suggestive, only just
reminiscent of a whisper, yet still pointedly enunciated — not at all only reserved to charm his
girlfriend, but seeking to petrify their waiter as well, which is a right success.

Taehyung is practically at the table when Jungkook moves brusquely. He grips the leg of Julia's chair
and pulls it into him, the metal scraping against the cement. Close enough now, he sneaks his hand
underneath her skirt and with a gasp and surprising composure after the brief slip, she loosens her
legs.

Taehyung cannot tear his eyes away from it, from Julia as she shifts on her chair, ruts her hips
slightly, almost unnoticeably into Jungkook’s venturous hand and her head lay back, her neck
craning and her mouth parting, a pink tongue poking out. Her chest pushes out with he curve of her
back at the new position, her tank top doing little to conceal and Taehyung cannot help it, his eyes
dart all over, all wide and shocked. It is late afternoon. The sun is still there, shining and unfaltering
and there are people all around. He gulps.

Yet Jungkook, shameless and unfaltering, is staring at him, at his reaction, his eyes boring into the
reddening boy.

Taehyung tries to look at him, tentatively, gaze jumping from where his hand is moving in between
Julia's legs and his expectant centered, challenging eyes. He clears his throat. "Was there-" he
struggles, breathing in, chest expanding. He wonders who’s having more trouble staying coherent,
him or Julia. "Was there something that you wanted?"

His heart thumps violently in his chest and his neck and ears are burning. Suddenly he feels as if his
body has too much blood circulating in it and it is going in all the wrong places.

"Yes, actually," Jungkook speaks calm, but tantalizing. His hand speeds up or his fingers do some
trick or something of that sort because Julia suddenly makes a sound, so feminine and desperate and
her body convulses and snaps on her chair. It is subtle, but for Taehyung it is all he can notice now,
all he can focus on. It makes his blood flow even quicker and a thought strikes him, a query, whether
she can feel the ring on his fingers and he flushes more, wants to close his eyes and maybe just for a
moment, die. "I wanted you to tell me and my pretty little Julia, here," upon addressing her,
Jungkook does it again, a snapping movement, harder than before and Julia gasps, her hand landing
on his wrist. "Have you ever touched a woman, boy?"

As his heart is ferociously beating, it suddenly stops, skips a moment of beating and drops in his
stomach. "I-" he blinks at Jungkook helplessly as he keeps fingering his girlfriend for everyone to see
if they turned their heads for long enough.

"Answer the question, boy," Jungkook instructs, the entertainment subsiding on his face to allow for
a threatening vibe to vibrate off of his voice.

Boy. It was a ridiculous way to address him, considering they had a year and some pathetic months
difference in age, but the sternness and size of Jeon Jungkook intimidates him into feeling just that,
like a boy.

"I, erm-" he hesitates. He had, technically been with a couple of girls, but just that really. No
foreplay, no anything. Both were on some of Ji-woo’s house parties where everyone is horny
enough to be immediately fucked. "No," he confesses finally, looks down as he finds he cannot hold
Jungkook’s gaze: it is fiery enough to blister his skin.

"Hm," Jungkook cocks his head. "And do you think you can make her come if you tried right now?"

Taehyung’s eyes involuntary land on Jungkook’s hand working her into moaning and trashing just a
little, just subtly. He can see her trying to hold back, her teeth sinking into the pillow of her lower lip,
a hiss escaping her, her fingers latched around his wrist tight and whitening with pressure. Jungkook,
throughout the whole ordeal, does not move his eyes from his once.

Taehyung gulps down spit. "No," he says, just barely a whisper, his head still down but his eyes
wandering.

"Aha," Jungkook is nodding energetically, irony-clad energy as his lips curl cruel and unforgiving a
glint passing in his eye. "I agree with you on that." He pauses. “And with those conditions
straightened out, I will kindly ask you to stop fucking staring at my girlfriend and think I'm dumb
enough not to notice. You've been eyeing us since we've sat down, thinking you're all subtle, Kim."

Taehyung has no words left in him at that point. He stares at Jungkook's feet dumbly. "I... erm. I'm
sorry," he says after a moment. He hadn't been staring at Julia in all honesty. He does not particularly
care about her revealing tank top, short skirt and newly tanned body. He was staring at Jungkook.
But that is much too inappropriate to admit. "It won't happen again," he tries to promise in a small
voice and finally gathers up the courage to glance at the other’s face.

He finds Jungkook’s smirk has dropped entirely at some point. "Good," he announces and briefly
nods at Taehyung’s crotch. "Now go jerk that thing off. I don't want you serving me with it. It's
disgusting."

Taehyung obediently nods, not even daring to assume he had been more embarrassed at any other
point of his life. Was the situation different, he would not be this timid in response to the likes of Jeon
Jungkook. But sex and the likes of the aforementioned in a combination make him a kind of nervous
he has never before been and he has no knowledge how to deal with it— or the ridiculousness of
what the spoiled brat is doing because of a couple of stares too much on his part.

Julia had come at some point, but his ears are buzzing too much for him to even notice the peak of
sounds, trashing and desperation and she is now recovering with a satisfied smile on her face as
Jungkook rubs calming circles into her thighs and in between.

When Taehyung leaves, which is immediately, with quick, wide steps and a curiously positioned
trey, Jungkook turns to Julia the smirk back and more dangerous, the thrill of the kill. It gives him
pleasure, always has — the taunt. Touching Julia solely for the sake of making her come had become
disinteresting for him a while back, he knows how to work her, where to press. It is moments like
this, rarely granted by pathetic, poor boys that still give him satisfaction, a rush, maybe even the
beginnings of an erection. “Still bored now?"

Julia is breathing hard but happy. She lets out a breath of a chuckle, feeling her body tingling, almost
giddy, all over in effect of different thrills of pleasure and gratification, twisted like her boyfriend.
“You can fuck me anyway that you'd like tonight," she tells him before she seals their lips together.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Summary

It's going to get actually interesting in a little bit, bare with it

Just a little insight on our characters for now

Chapter Notes

Let me know if you're enjoying it. Don't really know how this site works yet, lol, but I
hope I'm doing okay

“Don’t move,”Ji-woo scolds, her fingers threading through Taehyung’s hair and tightening into his
scalp. She is rough as she keeps his head straight and clicks the scissors at a scathing proximity to his
left ear. He holds back a flinch but does not shy away from a grimace and some whining.

“Aww, fuck. What do you want to do? Rip my fucking scalp of my head?” He attempts a pointed
glare, but she has his hair in such a tight grip, he has to be content with giving it to the kitchen sink
from his position on the stool.

“Well, I don’t have a goddamn degree in hairstyling, Taehyung,” she grits out as she holds him in
place by the hair. “If you want someone to give you a massage and ask you is the water okay,” and
she says that in the brattiest, most nasally high-pitched voice she could manage, “you have to pay.”

Taehyung’s eyes roll lazily, and he wiggles on the chair as she gives him a particularly hard tug. “I
ampaying you,” he points out, without too much of an actual bite.

He hears her scoff as the scissors snap by his nape. She pushed his head forward brusquely, his chin
forced into his chest. She leans in close to explore as she cuts. “Not nearly enough for me to ask you
is the water okay.”

“There wouldn’t have been any time for you to ask anyway. You literally poured it over my head.”

Another scoff. “Shut up.”

“And do you speak to your customers in that voice?” He questions as she pulls his head back up --
by his hair,because why not.

“What voice, Taehyung?”

She does end up scraping the dumb blades of the scissors on the corner of his ear and he hisses at the
immediate sensation but does not acknowledge it otherwise.

“The nasally how is the waterone.” Taehyung does his best to imitate her level of high pitch, but it
comes surprisingly like his waiter voice.

“Hm. Well, I’m actually quite lucky. I don’t really get to speak to the bastards a whole lot. They just
want their houses clean.” She’s distracted as she speaks, sorting out strands. She’s taking this
seriously now for some reason, a strike of inspiration maybe, she should get a degree in hairstyling.
Her eyes dart to his ear as she feels a warmer moisture on her finger. “Shit, you’re bleeding now.
Goddamnit, Taehyung.”

“What do you mean goddamnit, Taehyung? Youmade me bleed.”

She snatches a napkin from somewhere around her and presses it into him. “Hold it and don’t
complain. Your capillaries are weak as fuck. My scissors just barely grazed you. And honestly, those
scissors are so shit they barely cut your hair, but of course they would go through yourgoddamn
skin.”

Taehyung folds his arms before his chest and tries to drag his eyes out to the corners as far as they
would go so that his glare will be as directed to his sister as possible. “Thank fucking god you don’t
speak to clients. You would have been out of a job a long, long time ago.”

She deliberately threads four fingers through his hair and tugs, sharp enough for him to almost lose
his balance, but he untangles his arms and grips his seating at the last moment.

“And you would have been even more malnourished, Tae. Appreciate me, yeah?”

He snorts. “Yeah, sure.”

Her voice booms close to his ears next as she is bent to him and eyeing strands. He jumps on his
chair, which she wholeheartedly ignores. “Are you even watching the eggs, you brat?”

Taehyung manages his balance on the chair once again after her widely unnecessary shriek and
remembers to reach forward in the tiny kitchen, grip onto the pan, shuffle the liquid in it a bit with
desperate hopes it would have some solidity to it. It swishes, and he frowns. “Ts. The stove is more
useless at being a stove than you are as a hairdresser,” he remarks, a bit of a smirk tugging at the
corners of his lips.

The scissors snap sharply by his ear. “Tae, dear, you do realize I now have the power to cut you up
so bizarre you will not only be out of a job, but potentially hospitalized if you step foot in Gangnam.”

Taehyung blinks, allows himself a rather genuine smile. He tries to turn around to flash it to his big
sister, but her hands grip onto the sides of his head into stillness at any notion of motion and
squeezeto get their message across. “You can do anything you want to my hair and I’ll still be hotter
than you.”

“Yeah?” A small grin plays at her lips as she stands back and gauges her work, but it’s a little off, a
little sad. Her voice draws softer. “Try not to be too hot around them, okay?”

His eyes roll naturally, but a little fondness seeps in and he feels the nature of his own smile,
previously mischievous with a slight smugness, change into something more dangerously genuine.

“I’ll be fine. I just see them in the streets. You go to their actual homesand come back alive.”

Her fingers are softer in his hair now as she lets them roam, pulling gently at strands to see if they are
at least somewhat even, releases them when she finds them satisfying and then gliding through
purposelessly. “I’m stronger than you, Tae. Always been.”

His arms tangle again and he’s pouting, subconsciously edging his head back to her touch; it’s been
rarer and rarer on her part, he’s noticed, affection that is. “Bullshit.”

She flicks him then.

“They’re not that nasty most of the time, though, are they?” He asks. He knows the answer, but he
asks, because he wants the conversation to naturally flow towards the direction he wants, to the
nastiest, to the Jeons.

She snorts. “Some are decent. Others are beyond your imagination. The parents, I mean. Jeon, for
example, is out of the world.”

“Hm. The father?”

“Yeah,” she nods and clips at something with the scissors again, straightening up behind him. “He’s
the devil, I swear. The twins are pretty horrible, too, but with a father like that I’m not surprised the
girl feels the constant need to be drugged up or get fucked or get fucked while she’s drugged up.”

Taehyung perks up. The twins, that’s what he wanted to hear. The Taunting Twins, notoriously
entitled, quick, scathing tongues, wastefully talented to the brim of their skin, perfect on the outside,
rotten on the inside.

“Have you met her?” He questions, looking at his nails as if they matter, as if he could ever afford to
care for them. But he hasto look at something now.

“Not really,” his sister says, too engaged with strands of his hair to notice his sudden inadequate
interest. “She’s around the house the most, but she’s rarely conscious. Rarely dressed, not that she
finds nudity particularly bothering. She never says anything. I’ve never heard her speak, but I have
heard her moan.”

Taehyung grimaces. The Taunting Twins could very likely easily live up to their reputation and
more.

“She does not look particularly despicable, though, compared to Jeon,” Ji-woo continues
unexpectedly before Taehyung could slip into thoughts. “Just a bit dead inside.”

“What about Jungkook?” He says, and he registers the words have been spoken after he hears them.

He stirs a bit, but it goes unnoticed. Ji-woo is once again too intrigued by her own interpretation of
making sure strands are even. Taehyung is personally starting to feel she is having too much fun for
this, considering she demands some actual pay in return. She hums as her fingers work pieces of hair.
“Do you see him?” Taehyung asks now, particularly encouraged by her obvious distraction.

“I have a couple of times, unfortunately,” she replies and straightens up. Taehyung is starting to
wonder how her waist doesn’t hurt from all the unnecessary bending she is doing to fool herself into
feeling professional.

His brows raise to his hair, an expression of curiosity that is reserved for him alone, but he cannot
help it — maybe the kitchen sink appreciates it as well, though his sister is currently pushing at his
banks and he is unsure how his fully exposed forehead would be received even by inanimate objects.
“Unfortunately?” He probes.

Ji-woo scoffs a bit, by now just taking advantage of the freedom she’s given with Taehyung’s hair to
experiment with looks on him. “The guy’s a prick. He doesn’t speak to me either, but he does look at
me, unlike his sister, all entitled and condescending, has a bit of a permanent sneer.” She pauses and
lifts her hands off of Taehyung’s hair, gesticulating instead as she seems to recount something she
feels particularly moved by, eager to tell him with that annoyed irony laced in her voice she always
uses when she describes the actions of her clients. “I remember, he came home one day when I was
cleaning, and he was bleeding all over.”

“Bleeding?” Taehyung slightly twists, instinctively searching her face to find her as he expected her:
residually pissed off.

She nods, looks Taehyung in the eye and presses her lips together, before she embarks on a
particularly animated continuation. “Their whole marble hallway — they have a fucking hallway
made out of marble — all stubborn red, stinking of iron. Foolish me, decided to ask him if he was
alright, where the bleeding was from. He got a bit in my face and snarled at me, something along the
lines of,” and she lowers her voice and speaks all masculine and brusque and burly. “I’m not paying
you to know where it’s from; I’m paying you to get rid of it.”

Taehyung turns back around, reaches a hand out to grip at the pan, check on the eggs. He’s almost
positive by now they will have to drink them, instead. The stove is utterly useless. “Wow,” he
exclaims, a bit silent, mostly to himself.

“Yeah. Prick.”

“Prick.” Taehyung agrees. He gives the pan a bit of a shake. “So, you didn’t find out why he was
bleeding?”
Ji-woo opens a drawer and it clutters with contents. She carelessly drops the scissors in there, already
disregarding the frustration of having searched for them for half an hour as she never pays much
mind to where she places them – or anything else, for that matter. She shrugs at Taehyung, eyeing
him a bit with a curiously arched brow. “Kind of stopped caring after his response.” She uses her
hips to click the drawer shut and it slams with a worrying bang she ignores as she leans into it.
“Wouldn’t you?”

Taehyung replaces the pan on the stove, though he is pretty sure if he slammed his palm on it, he
would not feel heat — not really into attempting it just yet, in case his skin does come off. He shrugs
as well, eyes boring into the kitchen sink because he can feel his sister’s stare on him now and he
dislikes it, almost as much as he dislikes how badly he wants to know why Jungkook was bleeding,
despite the fact he is still borderline traumatized by his last interaction with the boy. “Would probably
be curious, is all,” Taehyung settles for after a moment of searching his mind for a proper response.

He is curious, but that’s the problem: it is nothing new, this perpetual, infuriating curiosity. He is
always curious. Always sort of enjoyed his job because of how much it allows him to pry, to listen in
on conversations of the rich, who mostly care so little about his presence around them that they
carelessly go off into streams of gossip and unconscious self disclosure around him that he feels he
has managed to peek into much more of what these people would like him to have. He gets off on it,
a bit, of being present in their lives without them as much as suspecting he knows who spends the
nights with whom and who pays for it, sometimes.

Some of them know him. The regulars know him. The ones that frequent the night club have seen
him hang by Jimin’s side, after he dances, know he is their cleaner’s little brother, some have flirted
with him, even. Some have demanded favors from him with disregard of all common decency that is
to be at least flirtatious before you inform you are looking for some cock sucking, but that is it about
those people. They can afford to disregard any decency in their private lives at all times and
comfortably live with people like Taehyung and Ji-woo on their knees for them, scraping their floors,
shining their shoes or sucking their dicks, figuratively and literally alike.

Taehyung has always been cautious not to allow himself to go this far, considers his prevalence in
his denial a strength of his. Ji-woo considers it a weakness.

Jungkook knows him. Julia knows him as well. Kim, they call him, Kim, they call his sister. The
Kims they call their entire family, all five members, including their mentally absent father, their little
brother and their estranged older brother. The Kims, the hopelessly poor individuals that always
somehow manage to string their lives around their rich people business. Their father had done it, their
brother had done it fairly well before he got up and left, saved himself, he said, from the sticky, toxic
webs of it, now Ji-woo was folding their sheets and cleaning their underwear and Taehyung was
serving them coffee and cocktails and watching them finger their girlfriends out in the open.
The Kims, is what they would call them before they went in circle talking shit, laughing their asses
off, made comments about Ji-woo in her uniform skirt that would offend Hugh Hefner, then
concluded with the matter of putting them in their place.

A hand falls on top of his head, making him retract his neck back into his shoulders, much alike a
turtle, snapping him rather roughly out of his otherwise unwanted thoughts. Fingers wiggle playfully
around freshly cut strands. “Be careful with that curiosity. Yeah, Tae?”

He reaches a hand, swats his sister’s away. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he lists offhandedly, betrays
annoyance in his voice and his actions, though he feels none of it, but rather something he doesn’t
particularly want to confess to himself or to her, an apprehension akin to dread he cannot quite
fathom.

“I’m serious, pretty boy. You can’t let your mind wander, or your eyes. Okay?” Taehyung is rolling
his eyes and folding his arms, forging the perfect depiction of childishness, before she can even
finish. “No, I’m serious, pretty boy. You have to promise me, okay?”

She steps around the chair, forcing herself in his line of vision, her eyes capturing his with soft
pointedness.

“Okay,” he answers to her emotional coercion.

She places one hand on his shoulder, lifts another up, curls a fist. “Pinky promise.”

Taehyung’s eyes fall on the finger, such a simple gesture it would be of him, to lift up and curl his
digit around his sister’s as he had done numerous times, but somehow his skin tingles with the same
apprehension from before and he feels weirdly as if hers does as well and joining them together
would light a spark, maybe he cannot quench.

Before he hesitates enough to worry her, Taehyung lifts his hand up and wraps his finger around
hers.

“Pinky promise.”
Taehyung is poignantly aware that Jungkook is in the Ozone that night – Julia is there as well, and
she has herself wrapped around him tightly, in a sort of VIP booth where all of them are, his arm
lazily tugged on her shoulder and her whole palm resting on his chest, one of her legs strewn over
one of his. Her nails play around the fabric of his shirt, her other hand is on his thigh and it is still, but
under the glare of the almost epileptic lights of the club it seems to tease, somehow, with the rhythm
of the heavy beat of the music.

Taehyung is poignantly aware that Jungkook is in the Ozone that night and he is giving his best not
to break his promise, but he’s had a drink and the darkness in the flash of the lights fools him into the
bravery of thinking his wandering eyes will go unnoticed.

“The little brat is looking again,” Jungkook acknowledges, his fingers tapping on the throat of his
bottle as he leisurely lays his arm on the table. Julia’s lips are gliding across his neck, soft and
teasing, above a mark she left the previous day that had made him snap at her. She appreciates it
more now.

“Let him look,” she teases into a gap at his collarbone, opening her mouth against it. His hand hovers
at her breast and she arches into him, but his fingers twitch away.

Jungkook’s eyes are on Taehyung and Julia’s are on him, watching him watch him. His tongue
pokes into his cheek and she grins a tiny bit.

“You want him to look,” Jungkook says, his voice is casual, his body is as well, but there is the little
tick in his jaw and she knows he is uneased. Competition always threatens him, no matter how much
he has it engrained in his skull that he could beat anyone into regretting the simplicity of their very
existence.

Julia presses her palm harder into his chest to force him to be aware of her, her nails creating
crescents in the skin underneath the exquisite Egyptian cotton of his brand shirt. “I look as well,” she
confesses, her eyes straying from the features of the boy she has under her palms to poor, lovely Kim
Taehyung.

He is radiant, as always, hair in his eyes, though shorter than it was a couple days ago, said eyes
enigmatic and fit perfectly into the soft, round, shapely features of his beautifully crafted face. He
may be poor, but he is a visual, lean, but malnourished, collarbones protruding sharply, stretching
pure, tan skin and she sort of wants to create crescents with her nails there as well, maybe draw some
blood, soothe it over with her tongue.
As the thought passes, so does Jungkook’s own tongue over the full pillow of his pink lips and it
occurs to her she wouldn’t mind if hesoothes the pain she draws from Taehyung.

“At Kim?” Jungkook says in a voice that implies the mere thought offends him and it does. His arm
wraps further around her neck, like a snake, and he draws her closer, caging her in as his hand grips
at hers and squeezes at her fingers. She does not deserve to mark him while she’s looking at someone
like Kim.

Julia replaces her gaze on Jungkook. He chooses to look at his bottle now.

“He’s pretty,” she confesses, voice as sultry as she finds Taehyung’s eyes to be when he’s sipped on
too much of whatever he’s having and steals a glance at their, elaborately put, embrace. It’s an
understatement, for her, as, at least while she is on E, she finds him to be positively ethereal. She
wants him almost as much as she wants Jungkook to want her.

“He’s cheap,” Jungkook enunciates, brings disgust into the spite of his voice and he almost feels it as
well, as his nose bundles up and he returns a lazy glare towards the person in question.

“You can’t afford him,” Julia teases, the twist of her mouth curling malicious.

Jungkook laughs, low and disingenuous – cold. “I don’t want him. Do you fancy me a faggot,
Julia?” His smile stretches poisonous in that it seems to hold truth, actual entertainment as he finally
looks at her.

“Never,” she says, “but he does seem to want what you have, doesn’t he? He stares.”

“You like it when he stares,” Jungkook counters.

“You don’t.”

“No,” he confesses, “but at least he’s keeping you entertained a while.”

Julia hums, relaxes her head on his shoulder. “It’s your reaction to him that is keeping me
entertained, Jungkook.”

“You think he’s pretty.”

She nods. “He is,” she says. “And you’re hot.”

She’s overwhelmed by the combination of truths as it formulates in her head and again, maybe it’s
just the ecstasy, but she cannot imagine a more desirable pair. It’s playing tricks on her calm night
out, her heart no longer beating with the rhythm of the music, but faster, which scares her, and she
has a little bit of Jungkook’s beer to calm it down.

“You’re hot,” Jungkook retorts, taking his beer back and sipping on it himself.

“Who else do you find attractive here?” Julia is asking as she watches the bob of his throat.

Jungkook’s eyes train briefly on Julia, trail to Taehyung, and then skim around the crowd, landing on
a girl whose dress clings well enough for him to wonder how she feels underneath. He points the
throat of the bottle in her direction and Julia glances at her with immediate contemptuous distaste.

She’s pretty, but she has nothing on Taehyung.

“Do you reckon you can have her before I can have Kim?” Julia asks and Jungkook’s fingers tighten
round hers, squeeze into the bottle as well.

He shifts. “Not fair. Kim’s already proved interest.”

Julia’s eyes roll lazily, and she worries they will remain behind her lids for a moment, but they come
back out and find a target quicker than she had anticipated, close by the bar, close by Kim. She
knows Jae has wanted her for a while, but Jungkook doesn’t. She’s sure she can have him in a blink
of an eye, a much more unfair choice than Taehyung himself, but that is information only available to
her, and she plans to keep it that way as she indicates him with a nod.

“Fine,” she sighs as if she concedes, “blue shirt,” she says.

Jungkook’s eyes scan him briefly. The guy in the blue shirt is as ordinary as they come. Standing so
close to Taehyung, he is nothing. Jungkook is satisfied with this, nods, takes a sip and lowers the
bottle.

“What does the winner get?”

Julia’s lips curl dangerously on her face. “A choice.”

“For?”

“A threesome,” she blurts.

Jungkook pauses. He untangles himself from Julia, pours the rest of the liquid down his throat then
eases off the booth. “Hope you’re ready to fuck a girl.” He turns to her, smirks, and she meets it with
a rival twist of her mouth. “Usual rules?”

“Usual rules.”
 Chapter 3
Chapter Summary

Jungkook is cheating at a game and Taehyung thinks he might be going insane.

Chapter Notes

This is really unedited, I'm sorry.

Taehyung hates the fact they sit at a table he has to serve. He eyes the pair apprehensively as they
position themselves and feels immense dread at the fact he has to approach them.

Hecannot, not after his body had decided to be treacherous in the most embarrassing way humanly
possible. It is a little sick of him, he realizes, even though on a conscious level he does not find
anything in the situation sexually exciting, especially considering the circumstances and the message
which was specifically contemptuous against him, for him to go and pop a boner. Hormones,
though, never really mind one’s personal supposed preferences and have absolutely no consideration
for appropriateness and simple adequacy, do they?

He wonders, still, what was it that made his body betray him so horridly and thinks it might have
been the adrenaline of confrontation from his object of curiosity combined with his unfathomable
wondering of whether Julia could feel Jungkook’s ring.

His fingers are thick and considerably long, look warm, though, mostly, his whole body does, and he
imagines the cold metal of the ring must be quite a juxtaposition to the heat of his skin.

He wonders if the ring feels cold and metallic now as he presses it into his lip, toying with it for a
moment, then it hits him he is watching Jungkook play with his mouth, and whips his head away,
going to check on a customer.

He is starting to question this worrying infatuation he has with observing the Taunting Twin. It is
getting rather bothersome, especially because it does not only involve looking, which is not that
surprising to do, he is a lot to look at. He is handsome, sharp featured, muscled.
It is the muscles that began it. Taehyung has always wanted to work on himself, but never really
imagined he could actually put it as a priority. Jungkook is exactly what Taehyung has always
dreamed of -- to be, not to have, Taehyung chastises the misinterpretation his flow of thoughts could
have even in the confines of his head -- perfectly proportioned, lean, sinewy muscles, skin stretched
tightly over protruding veins. He could see definition through his clothes, chiseled as the structure of
his sculpted face, are his stomach and his thighs, trousers and jeans always clinging into the shape of
him, flexing apparent as he adjusts. His arms are constantly exposed, and it is borderline rude,
Taehyung thinks, how pronounced each muscle is on there, perpetually on show making Taehyung
all… envious, he concludes.

Taehyung thinks he should dislike Jungkook more than he does, considering. He certainly should
not be as aware of him as he is. Lots of rich, entitled pricks surround him at his particular place of
work, some have been suggestive towards him, none quite as far and as bold as Jungkook had been
to prove a point, but lots have done things to make him aware of their presence. None have left much
of an impression, though.

With Jungkook, as soon as he arrives, Taehyung learns it and does not forget it, becomes more
conscious of his own movements and manners, somehow more alert as to not embarrass himself,
though he knows Jungkook does not look at him.

He doesn’t now, when Taehyung glances from the corner of his eye. He is relaxed back into his
chair, legs spread wide and possessive of the air around him, the space around him. He is on his
phone, seemingly oblivious even to Julia’s presence. Julia herself is propped up on the table, legs
crossed, sunglasses on. She appears pale to Taehyung as he dreadfully approaches.

He stops as far away as he feels he can afford and glances at Jungkook first, instinctively almost, as
he addresses the table.

“Hello and welcome. What can I do for you today?”

Julia’s lips are stretched wide at the sound of his question, but Taehyung forgets to look away from
Jungkook’s disinterest until she speaks up, voice much too sultry for the morning. “I can think of a
few things, actually.”

Jungkook’s eyes lift up from the screen with peculiar nonchalance considering his girlfriend’s
obvious flirtatiousness and he catches Taehyung in the moment he replaces his stare to the girl who
had addressed him. He struggles with an urge to gulp, feeling a warm rush crawl up the skin of his
neck and sneak upon his cheeks, securing them a red color he despised.
He pokes his tongue at his lips quickly, smoothly, a subconscious nervous gesture and Jungkook’s
stare falls on it briefly, the lazy arrogance a perpetual atmosphere he carried with himself.

“What would that be?” Taehyung asks, and he struggles to keep even the merest suggestion of
suggestiveness out of his tone of voice, but with the variance of scrutiny centered upon him, he feels
some that can be interpreted at such betrays his attempts.

Julia’s ragingly obvious self-satisfaction reaffirms the potential for this. Her smirk nags at his
nervousness as her lashes, a little full and fake, bat at him from above her sunglasses. Her lips part
slowly, and perfect pearly teeth peek along with the tip of her tongue.

“How about we start with just coffee?” Jungkook’s voice interrupts from her side. Her eyes roll from
their elicit stare at Taehyung and land a little icily at her boyfriend’s awaiting dullness.

“Will we be not keeping promises now, my love?” Julia asks, the words rolling tightly from her
tongue. Her fingers pray distractedly with her hair. She sounds somehow slow today, drowsy, as if it
takes effort for her to fully formulate coherence. The arm she uses to prop her chin up is necessary,
she appears, as holding her head is a struggle.

Taehyung gives the silence a moment in case Jungkook would decide to fill it, but the pause is long
enough for him to feel comfortable with speaking. “So,” his brows lift, “two coffees? Would you like
some milk with it?”

Her head tilts and the little view he has of her eyes disappears. Her sunglasses, fully hiding her gaze,
make him nervous. He knows she’s looking, but he doesn’t know how, and his imagination is
brining wild things into play. “I would like mine to be Irish,” she announces. Her smile is tight-lipped
and as lazy as Jungkook’s following attempt of a scold.

“It’s elevon o’clock in the morning.”

“It’s eleven pm in the Bahamas,” she replies, not missing a beat.

Taehyung does not know what influences him to do it, but he shifts his glance from Julia to
Jungkook right then. It is a search for approval that he himself rationally finds to be incredibly bizarre
in its misogyny and blatant unreasonableness. It is a reflection of his position, he supposes, in
Richhood, to seek permission in some variation of authority he finds near, however, he cannot
explain to himself what pushes him to consider Jungkook an authority over Julia.
It is a short moment that takes all three parties to realise the intent of his change in attention. Julia
scoffs, a move so animated it triggers an actual wave of her body, her back arching with it. Jungkook
replaces his eyes from his girlfriend to acknowledge Taehyung, tilting his head in an ever so slight
curiosity to betray his insouciance. His lips twitch.

He shrugs. “Whatever,” he says, but his eyes dance along the indication of Taehyung’s silent address
with the starting notion of a something and Taehyung can slightly feel it on his skin.

Julia’s voice is heinously sweet when she speaks. “He won’t give me what I reallywant, so he’ll
allow me that.”

Her tongue clicks, and she pauses, stops. Her legs are crossed, and her foot is toying with slipping an
expensive heeled shoe on and off.

Taehyung’s eyes jump to her, the red colour painting his cheeks resurfacing slightly over his tanned
skin and his body wants to flinch, but he holds it back. He chooses to nod. “Anything else?” he asks
politely. He is using his waiter voice for them, though it is a bit more pitched than that, even.

Julia bounces her shoe into place and it smacks against her heel. “Actually—"

“No,” Jungkook interjects, short and dismissive.

Taehyung is nodding again. He is pressing the trey that he carries into his stomach protectively, as a
shield, but it does nothing to hide the crimson of his skin that is not usually there. “Your order will be
with you shortly,” he announces as custom and makes a step to leave.

He does, but he is still there to hear words he does not expect as Jungkook, still short, somewhat
cold, says, “Thank you.” It is a phrase, Taehyung realizes as he walks away, he has not heard leave
the other boy’s lips no matter how many coffees and drinks he has brought him over his work span.
It makes the colour darken on his face.
Minho is the one to bring the couple their drinks as Taehyung is stuck in the back room, back
pressed against some cases of beer and books propped in his lap, dealing with some mishap in
accountancy that the manager asked him to look over. He is good with numbers, always has been.
And he is cheap. The manager knows he will readily do it for a larger portion of his tips that day and
unfailingly trusts him with looking things over to save a few paychecks for bureaucrats, as he
constantly chides.

Minho returns as Taehyung taps the frame of his glasses against his nose, a privately personal
indication of concentration that few others are familiar with. Minho is not one of them, though he has
avoidantly witnessed it numerous times. Unaware and uncaring, he interrupts.

“Why did Julia ask about you?” Minho questions as he opens the door.

“What?” Taehyung says dumbly, barely shifting his attention, too engrossed in the consistency of a
set of numbers.

“Jungkook’s Julia?” Minho specifies, still at the door, practically hanging by the handle. “She asked
me why Taehyung was gone and pouted at me when I said you had some business to attend to.
Made sure to drop a mention that her coffee would be tastier if you were there.”

Taehyung almost drops the book he is currently propping up. He catches it last moment, but pages
suffer from his clumsy handling and he feels a couple of buck slip right through his fingers as one
tears slightly.

“She’s—” he stutters, pauses. It’s not like he has a reason.He knows nothing of why she chooses to
tease Jungkook like this, why she does it at all, except maybe to coax him into the sort of sexual
outburst that she triggered the other time a couple of days ago. He does not know what made him her
target, supposes maybe it could be how easy he is to make blush and the convenience of his job. It is
still not enough to formulate a proper answer in his head. “She’s just kidding,” he says, finally and it
feels dumb, but he can virtually think of nothing else.

“Are you friendswith Jungkook’s Julia now, Taehyung?” Minho asks.

“No,” Taehyung shrieks at the sheer incredulity of the question.

Minho shakes his head, more to himself. “You always get yourself into trouble, don’t you, pretty
boy?” he says, but he does not seem to await a response as he lets the handle go and walks away.

Taehyung sighs, concentration entirely lost and now some additionally burdening thoughts of what it
is precisely that Julia wants from him. He is a pawn, he realizes, in some game with no rules she is
playing with Jungkook, and he does not like to imagine, but feels the games will only have one loser
and it will be Kim Taehyung.

He closes the books and places them on an arbitrary industrial shelf. He stacks his glasses on top of
them as well, rubbing the heel of his palm over an eye slightly. He yawns. He has not had much
sleep, working some problems for a summer course on geometrics he is forcing himself to complete
as it would help him with his potential (though prospectively unlikely) pursuit of a degree in
architecture.

He steps out of the back room into the corridor, hands still slightly blocking and blurring his vision of
his surroundings, head pointed to the floor. He does not particularly care about being aware in this
space as he has spent so much of his time there, he could literally turn blind and still point to a hole of
a tragically misused champagne bottle drilled into the wall on the first time.

He hears steps that do not surprise him as that is the hallway which leads to the customer’s toilet.
What does surprise him is when a pair of feet stop right into the front of his downward line of vision.
Dark shoes, trimmed all the way around the soles with the Louis Vuitton logo, stand impossibly
close to him and appear dangerously familiar. The raise of his head and eyes across the body they are
attached to is almost comically slow. He takes in the perfect lines of the well-dressed body that was
subject to his rather inappropriate, but mostly envious thoughts for the better part of the morning,
skimming over blatant muscle, thick thighs, tight stomach. His eyes have barely managed to skim
past a sharp jawline when a hand wraps around near the knot of his tie and his back meets the wall.

The force of the push is unnervingly strong, stronger than what somewhere in a restricted section of
his mind he had imagined it could be. His back collides with the hard surface it is easily tilted and
directed to and for a moment it sucks the breath out of him along with the shock of the concept of it
actually happening. His eyes are wide and staring as Jungkook edges closer, his grip unrelenting
against the tie, which he uses to manipulate his body to his will.

Taehyung’s hand is wrapped around his wrist without his conscious permission, flying up and long
fingers twisting around his skin, clasping. He had been right – Jungkook, about sinewy muscle, is
warm, hot,scorching. Or maybe, Taehyung is going insane, but the contact he subconsciously makes
with such a small bit of his skin feels so forbidden it does feel as if the touch burns him.

His eyes fall to it briefly before they refocus on Jungkook’s. Taehyung’s stare is wide and wild,
perplexed and doe-like. Jungkook is as it previously was – lazy and unbothered. It shocks Taehyung,
that it takes so little effort of him to throw him around like that, could still his countenance unmoved
and lazy while easily twisting him to his will. So close, he feels so small, though in height they are
not much different. It is the size of Jungkook, though, that is impressive and makes their difference so
significant.

Taehyung hasn’t much time to mull over that fact and how it secretly makes him feel, as Jungkook is
speaking next. It distracts Taehyung that the air of his breath, smelling of coffee, hits him, along with
another peculiar scent that is as expensive as it is nice. It makes him slightly light headed, but he is
unsure whether it is not just the proximity of Jeon Jungkook that is enough to turn his brain to the
stuttering mush he feels it is, as first lazy, somewhat tantalizing words travel to his ears. “Blushing
over my girlfriend’s words, aren’t you?” It’s almost a whisper and Jungkook’s nose almost touches
his before he tilts his head. It all feels private with an inappropriate, threatening sense of intimacy.
Shivers bring out gooseflesh on Taehyung’s skin and his hand tightens subconsciously against
Jungkook’s. “You like the idea of her wanting something from you.”

Taehyung stutters, voice almost a cough. “Jungkook-nim, I—”

“Shh. Ts, ts, ts,” the sound of the shush is a wave of a breath over Taehyung’s face as Jungkook
brings himself closer. Taehyung’s heart is palpitating worryingly in his chest, beating so powerful
and vicious it’s certainly not healthy. He can feel the heat of Jungkook’s body lining up with his own
and it brings out peculiar sensations in him, all warm and somewhat vacuous, igniting, he feels
desperate to move away, but too scared to do much about it. “Excuses are pointless, I know she is
pretty.”

He pauses briefly, tongue poking out to wet pink, full lips. Taehyung raids his mind for a response,
but just as something surfaces on the edge his eyes begin a brawl with his sense of adequacy about
glancing at his mouth again and again and he finds himself slightly at a loss for words. He has not
much to say to help his case, really, does not reckon the admittance he thinks Jungkook is worthier to
look at will do a whole lot in his favor, so he keeps his tongue behind his teeth and tries to fix his
gaze into Jungkook’s lazy eyes. It becomes most troubling when said lazy eyes drop to do a bit of an
exploration of their own, moving across his face slowly and dragging along the length of his body as
well before returning to dart across his expression again.

“You arepretty, too, aren’t you?” he says, and it is somehow gentle, yet somehow vituperative.
Taehyung’s ears are ablaze, body catches internal fire at the brim of his stomach and he becomes
weirdly aware of his knees. Jungkook makes their eyes meet and his lowered lips betray little to no
expression, while Taehyung imagines his must speak a thousand words. Jungkook comes closer still
and his nose is almost nudging at his cheek. “Smell a bit good, too.”

Taehyung wants to gulp but is afraid Jungkook will feel it from the grip her has on his tie. He tries to
stay impossibly still, eyes helplessly studying the features on Jungkook’s face, falling a little to slide
across the expanse of his neck. He is so close, and it is killing Taehyung that he can smell him and
Jungkook, obviously, can as well. He probably stinks of the moist, dull smell of the back room, some
cheap product he uses to wash himself. Jungkook is only a bit divine, a scent that is pointedly
expensive, Taehyung might have smelled it before, on other clients, but it does not sit as well, sink so
perfectly into their skin, and it is combined with the little more familiar nuance of sweat, which,
ridiculously is the furthest thing from repulsive. It’s -- and Taehyung cringes as it passes through his
head – weirdly masculine.

Jungkook’s hand tightens its grip while the other raises, a finger gilding at the corner of collar and
Taehyung is now striving so hard to stay still, he forgets to breathe. “Uniform looks nice on you.” He
speaks with a peculiar mixture of intimate impartiality, low and deep and measured. “Probably the
most expensive thing you’ve had on you,” he notes, still in that much composed voice and Taehyung
needs a moment to realize he has been offended, but before he even has the chance to think of a
possible response, Jungkook is saying more.

“Well, except now, you have me.” And he takes a step, closes a gap that sucks any rationality away
from Taehyung, lining his body along with his, the similar proportions of their length allowing him to
smoothly press against him. He can feel his thighs, his goddamn thighs.

Taehyung feels a bit faint and Jungkook is looking him over with those lazy, lazier eyes, smoothing
over the other boy’s discomfort and maybe a little smugness seeps in, threatens to expose itself at the
edge of his lips, which Taehyung glances at a couple of times for the briefest of seconds because
when he parts them, he can feel the warmth of his breath fan.

Jungkook’s eyes land on his own hand, the one which is holding him perfectly in place by the tie,
and now, he scoffs, brows furrow the tiniest bit. “Of course, you’ve done it the idiot way.”

He pulls away and both hands land on the tie now, undoing the knot. His eyes focus there, on the
movements he is making, and Taehyung’s heart is beating strenuously against his chest. It worries
him how close those hands are to his heart, worried if he knew why it was beating so hard if he
wouldn’t try to rip it right out. “Listen, pretty boy, Kim, I’m here to ask you something, yeah?” He
speaks to him now with the voice he uses to order his drinks, cold, detached and condescending. His
hands work the tie still, now creating a knot of their own. He is watching his hands move and
Taehyung is watching his lips move. “If my girlfriend comes to you and asks for a favor of anysort,”
the knot is almost done, all it takes is a little tightening, his eyes lift, and Taehyung’s instinctively
meet them, “be kind to yourself,” his fist glides against the length of his tie and the knot is done now.
“Say no.”

Jungkook pats him on the chest a single time then and leaves. Taehyung lets out a breath, head
falling back to the wall. He needs a minute, maybe more, just until it doesn’t feel like he has a
handprint on his chest from heat.
 Chapter 4
Chapter Summary

Very unedited, but I really wanted to get it out there. Might revise it at some point soon.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Ji-woo announces her entrance with a door slam that Taehyung, doing some poor attempt of
seasoning – as he refers to putting on an overly generous amount of salt -- their dinner, a dubiously
cooked omelet, fails to hear with headphones in his ears, humming to a tune. So, he is only made
aware of her presence when she takes the liberty to hit him over the back with their little brother’s
school bag.

He shrieks and spins at the attack, ready to reciprocate with both the particularly heavy salt shaker he
had stolen – or, well, borrowedas he insists – from his workplace and the spatula he used to poke at
the eggs which he kept to utilize as a microphone in the case he decided to be expressive with his
nightly performance.

“What the--?” his eyes widen as he processes the sight of his older sister’s enlarged nostrils and
narrowed gaze. His mind immediately rummages for what mistake of his could have brought upon
her current rage, but he comes up blank.

She does not leave him wondering for long, though, as in a moment, she is yelling, “Did you forget
to pick up Woowoo from kindergarten?”

Taehyung blanks further, pales, stutters next. “I—what?”

Her brows lift up at his slightly gaping mouth. “Woojin? Our baby brother, Taehyung?”

“I know who Woowoo is, noona,” Taehyung counters dumbly.

“Well, do you know why he was left waiting for 2 hours outsideuntil his teacher called me and asked
me what the fuck was going on?” she closes up on him a little as he speaks, and he feels himself
retract towards the stove, backing down and nervously glancing at the stance with which she holds
herself and the strap of their brother’s bag, so easy to swing. “Hm, Tae. What the fuck went on?”

“I—” Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He forgot. He had finished up his shift and just gone straight home, really
desperate to take a shower and clear his head a little, as his thoughts had seriously deterred in certain
directions he wanted to avoid and saw no true point in indulging. “I forgot,” he confesses, voice thin.

“You,what?” Ji-woo shrieks, pitched, takes a step forward and Taehyung almost recoils, almost feels
the bag colliding with his body. “I told you two days ago that rent is coming up and I’ll be cleaning
at the Jungs house warming party with the agency to earn something extra as well as agreeing to do
weeklies for an additional family and all youhad to do was remember to pick up our brother up and
you forgot?”

Shit, shit, shit. He takes a step forward, arms opening. “Ji, I’m so- “

She interrupts him with a finger in the air, a loud, brisk suck of air through her nose as she resorts to
something more torturous than her screaming – her reasonable, deflated disappointment. “Do not
apologize to me, Taehyung. He’s our brother. And he was waiting for two hours.”

Taehyung shakes his head, quick and desperate. “I know. I know. I know. It won’t happen again. I
just—” and he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to excuse himself, because he reasons I
was a bit overwhelmed by those rich guys you have to deal with as much as I dois clearly not an
adequate enough explanation for replacing the memory of having to pick up his brother with
panicking over Jeon Jungkook.

Ji-woo presses one hand into her hip, runs the other over the whole of her face before she weaves it
through her hair, pulling at the roots, the action drawing strands back and baring her face, pulling
Taehyung’s attention to the dark circles underneath her eyes. She sighs. “We promised each other
Woowoo would never feel abandoned, Tae.” Her voice is one of defeat as she closes her eyes, she
will not scream anymore, not tonight, and it breaks Taehyung a little.

He places the salt and the spatula on the counter behind him and steps closer, his hands wrapping
around her biceps and squeezing, but her eyes remain shut. “I know, noona, I know. I’m sorry. He
won’t. Not again. Not ever. I’ll speak to him,” it is a mantra of promises in a gentle, soothing voice,
his eyes searching her face.

“Tomorrow,” she says. “Speak to him tomorrow, he fell asleep. Don’t wake him.” She steps away
from his touch, not meeting his eyes, and his hands drop aimlessly by his body. She lifts Woojin’s
bag on a counter, leaning against it by her palms, her elbows twisting together with how skinny she
is.
“What about dinner?” Taehyung asks, but does not attempt to physically approach her again.

“I bought him a burger to make up for your absence,” she says. “You can have whatever you made
on your own. Omelet again, is it?”

“The eggs go bad tomorrow. I wanted to use them up,” he explains. She nods, eyes still pointed
blank to the counter. “What about you?” Taehyung questions.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re tired,” he says.

Her head shoots up, eyes bore into him. “Well, of course I’m tired, Tae. I spent eleven hours of my
day, cleaning and then I had to walk to Woowoo’s kindergarten and around to find him food and get
him home.”

Taehyung knows nothing he can say will be of any true substance. Words have rarely been, lately –
lately being the last he doesn’t know how many years. Still, he tries. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Ji-woo sighs, pulls away from the counter. Her lips tighten in something akin to a smile, but sadly it
is far away from reaching her eyes. “Yeah,” she whispers, maybe because she wants to, maybe
because she does not have the strength to do more. “Me too.”

She climbs the stairs after that, skips the third as they all know it’s a weak one and Taehyung got his
leg stuck there once. Taehyung eats two bites of the eggs before he scoops them in the bin. He thinks
about sleeping on the couch for a while that night before he goes upstairs to his and Woojin’s room.
He climbs the top bunk and spends a good few hours staring plainly at the ceiling before he manages
to fall asleep.

Jungkook drops his sack on the couch when he walks in, goes to the fridge. He grabs a bottle of beer
and attempts to go for his room, walking past the study. The door of it is gaping, however.

“Did you win?” his father’s voice sounds and Jungkook’s feet pause.

“Yes,” Jungkook replies honestly, swinging a gulp.

“Come closer,” his father instructs, fingers rotating his crystal glass on top of the end table, his legs
crossed. If Jungkook did not know better, he would assume his father actually had class.

He hesitates in following the order, but does not let his father see it, allows his legs to move smoothly
towards the armchair the other man is sitting on. He stops only a few steps into the unnecessarily big
room. He makes it apparent with a conclusive stance of wide legs that he has no intention of coming
further in.

His father’s eyes skim his body silently for a moment. “Must you keep that hideous hood on?” he
speaks with distaste, sips on his drink.

“It’s raining,” Jungkook shrugs.

“It’s not raining in here,” his father deadpans. His eyes are on him, always scrutinizingly on him at
this part of the night, when he is still coherent, when he can hold his head up enough to look at him.

Jungkook’s eyes roll, tongue pokes in his cheek. He reaches up and slides the hood from his head,
directs his stare to some piece of contemporary art that sits in their study for it is accredited by its
price tag.

His father makes a sound of dissatisfaction with his tongue that makes Jungkook’s skin crawl. “He
got you pretty bad, boy,” he comments.

Jungkook knows the bruise is already forming round his left eye, the skin angry and reddening, flesh
swelling underneath. The guy had got too clear of a jab on his face and Jungkook knows it, does not
need to be reminded of it. He also knows the skin of his stomach will be a variety of colors of red,
blue, yellow, purple. He realizes it will hurt him when fucks Julia the following day. But he also saw
the other guy fall to the ground, felt a rib crack under his fist, completely changed the look of his
nose even underneath the shots of blood, was the cause why the people he was with had to drag his
body in a corner and then away. They will have to search for someone to check on him, see if he has
internal bleeding, if the ribs will heal, while Jungkook will just have to deal with his father today and
then he gets to go to bed.

Jungkook is heavily entertained by the prospect of saying you should have seen the other guybut
holds back on it. “I won,” he says simply. “Does it matter?

His father hums, sips. “As long as you didn’t make a fool out of yourself.”

“I didn’t,” Jungkook strains too quick, throat tight around his palpable instinct to snap.

His father’s eyes flit to him with the pace of his reply. They dart across him as his son stays still, chin
tilted slightly up, so the lightning would catch more on his good eye.

“Good,” he says, but it means nothing, “Because your sister did.”

Jungkook’s teeth grind together, jaw ticks, he acknowledges the comment with a head tilt. “Did she
now?” he asks tightly.

“She failed her violin solo,” his father explains, voice detached and casual, yet lilted by some sort of
iciness that Jungkook is terribly familiar with and despises – it is an arrogant note, a despicable note.
“It is hard to play an instrument when you have snorted too much cocaine.”

Jungkook remains wordless to this, stares at the excuse for art again, though he knows the prickly
eyes of his father are searching for his with a glint of condescending self-satisfaction, just because he
wants to see it all bother him.

“Jung Byung-Chul was present for it,” he continues, lifting the glass and tilting it towards his lips. “It
was wildly embarrassing for the whole family.” He pauses, sips. “You weren’t there, of course,”
eyes are sharp on him. “Where were you?”

“I was with Julia,” Jungkook answers honestly. “And Yoongi, briefly.”

“Ah, yes. The Mins were disappointed in the absence of their son as well,” his father acknowledges.
“We went to the Ring earlier to discuss terms. He had to be there.”

His father lets the excuse hang in the air for a bit. “Schedule your beatingsaround events from now
on, would you? I need at least one presentable child around influential people.”

Jungkook allows his eyes to finally meet his father’s, struggles to keep the contempt away from
himself whenever there is a mention of his sister in their conversations.

“Did you hear me, Jungkook?” he insists.

Tightly, he says, “Yes. I will.” His tongue pokes out, goes briefly across his lips. “May I be excused
now? I am slightly tired.”

“As long as we’re clear.”

“We’re clear,” Jungkook responds automatically. His father lifts a hand, waves it dismissively.
Jungkook bows, keeping eye contact.

He spins and goes to leave, but his father’s voice stops him in his tracks. “Oh, and Jungkook.” He
pauses, sigh on his lips, eyes falling shut.

“Yes.”

“Would you make sure the maid is paid on Sunday? Neither I nor your mother will be available, and
she takes weekly payments in cash.”

“The maid?” Jungkook pauses, thinks. “Kim Ji-woo cleans for us, doesn’t she?”

“I don’t keep account of the names of the help.”

Jungkook twists his head, arches an eyebrow. “Not even for Kim Junsu’s daughter?” he pipes.
His father lights a cigar. “Hm. Cannot keep track of the bastard’s children. Poor people do reproduce
like bunnies, don’t they? How many did he have again?”

“Four,” Jungkook replies.

“That’s four too many.”

Jungkook hums in agreement and turns. He leaves next, going for his room. Down the marble
corridor he pauses. He hesitates in front of his sister’s room, lingers, eyes root to the door. It
intimidates him in a sort of way that he is unfamiliar with and, frankly, unready to address. It takes
him a moment, but he pokes his tongue in his cheek, rolls his eyes and goes in.

She is sprawled on the disproportionally enormous bed, her body looking tiny on top of engulfing
sheets; she almost disappears within them, but he comes closer and sees her distinctively, her hair
long on her back, clad in something expensive and decent, he imagines it was demanded of her to
wear. Her breathing is slow, her pose does not seem to be too comfortable, but he can guess she is
too trashed to care.

He comes close, crouches by her bed, studies her from there. She has her head on her hands and her
eyes shut, hair ruffles from the poof of her soft breath, falls in stranded waves in front of her face. It
is instinctive of him to reach up and move it behind her ear.

Her eyes part with his touch and he pulls his arm back, lets it hover in the air above her. Her lids bat,
once, twice, before she can fully keep them opened, one slightly squished by her position. Her eyes
are bloodshot.

Jungkook lets his hand fall back to his side.

“Hey,” he says softly as their eyes meet. He stretches his lips pointlessly into his cheeks, though they
both know it is not a smile.

Hers is. It is weak and barely there, but it is genuine. “Hey, Kook,” she rasps.

“How are you,” he asks carefully, “Clo?”

Her eyes fall closed for a moment and Jungkook wonders if she briefly falls asleep just then. They
part again and dart across his face numbly. After a second of silent gazing, she moves her hand,
reaches a finger towards his face, but he flinches before she can touch him, and she lets it drop on the
bed with a soft thud. “You’re bruising,” she tells him.

He looks at her eyes, first at the both of them, then focuses on one. “So are you,” he replies.

The weak stretch of her lips is no more; her mouth recoils briefly into itself. Her stare has no focus,
but then she looks at him bravely. Her voice is all she can manage, “He only hit once, don’t worry.”

His response is sharper than he means, almost like an exhale. “Once?”

“Yes,” she confirms, nods.

Jungkook breathes heavy, sucks his lips between his teeth. He looks away, shakes his head, darts his
eyes all across her room, her expensive, exquisite, rich fucking room, with all those expensive
thingsin it, furniture, art, goddamn vases with all these decorative flowers. He has that, all that, as
many fake flowers as he fucking wants, he can probably buy all the fake flowers in Korea.

And Clo has a bruising on her face and it is in the shape of a ring he has on his finger, one his father
has, too, one she herself owns, but never wears.

“Someday…” Jungkook says, trails off. He does not mean to trail off, he actually wants to finish the
sentence for once, but she catches he can’t yet and interrupts him.

“I know, Jungkook. I know,” she whispers. “Not today, though, Kook.”

His tongue pokes between his lips. He thinks. “Clo—”

“It’s fine.” She smiles again, but this time it is more like Jungkook’s smile. “I’m tired now, Kook.
You can go to sleep.”
“Will I see you tomorrow?” He asks.

“Probably not,” she responds, and her eyes fall shut.

He nods although she is already out of it and he gets up and leaves.

“Are you dancing tonight?” Taehyung asks Jimin as he watches him change in a private room of the
Ozone. “Or just doing the bar?” He is toying with a delicate chain that has a jewel bunny in the end
and fell off one of Jimin’s outfits, whipping it up and down with brisk motions of his wrist, slapping
it Into his forearm. It has gone red now in a circular shape near a vein. His eyes stay centered on the
angered skin.

Jimin does his buttons. “Dancing,” he replies.

Taehyung lifts a brow. “That’s three shifts in a row now,” he acknowledges with a slight pout. His
legs are stretched long in front of him, heals digging in an excessively furry carpet near a suspicious
spot. His ass is propped on the arm of the leather couch and if it weren’t for the friction provided to
his feet, he might have been toppling to the floor.

“I need extra tips,” Jimin says, fixing something on his costume. He glances at Taehyung in
acknowledgment, but the other is still too engrossed by the jewel slamming accurately in the exact
same spot over and over again. “Rent is coming.”

“So I hear,” Taehyung snorts, and Jimin lifts a brow, but there is some particular deflation in the
scrunch of Taehyung’s nose and the following expression of inexpression that keeps him off of
questioning the comment.

“You know you can actually sit on the couch, right?” Jimin asks instead, lips tilting slightly at
Taehyung’s awkward and muscle activity demanding position.

He finally receives a stare, one of glaring horror, from his friend, as his eyes, quick and wide and
bewildered meet his. “And catch AIDS?” His voice is expressively high. He returns his gaze to its
previous indulgence. “No, thanks.”

Jimin’s eyes roll naturally. “Taehyung, for the I don’t know which time, that is not what these rooms
are for.”

“Then why is there a couch here?” Taehyung challenges.

“So people can sit?” Jimin says, filling his voice with sheer, ironing obviousness.

Taehyung lets his eyes play again, this time smirking when they meet Jimin’s, lips indulging as well,
twisting at edges. He looks a bit devilish when he makes such expressions and Jimin often thinks
with the assets Taehyung was born into physically, he could play his cards a lot more sinister. “What,
while other people ride them?”

Jimin nears him, uses the fabric he has in his hands to slap at him. It sounds in the air as Jimin laughs.
“Filthy,” he calls Taehyung, eyes playful on him and smile fighting hard to spread on his face,
dubiously entertained, yet certainly fond.

“Rich,” Taehyung retorts, “coming from you.”

He grips at the fabric when Jimin attempts to hit him again, and he tugs, pulling the other forward
unexpectedly until he loses his balance and awkwardly stumbles. He catches himself by instinctively
stretching an arm, pressing it into Taehyung’s shoulder, which falters slightly under the weight of
holding him up. His legs spread, each one on each side of Taehyung.

“Do you want me in your lap, Tae?” Jimin teases, voice slick. “Is that what this is about?”

“Please,” Taehyung peels Jimin’s hand off of his shoulder easily as the other straightens up, walking
backwards. “Don’t project your desires on me.”

Jimin smacks him successfully this time. “I have to go,” he tells him. “I don’t imagine you’re staying
here?”

“No,” Taehyung stands on his feet now. “I give it half an hour until someone busts in to introduce
more curious spots on the carpet. It’s dangerous.”

Jimin shakes his head, sighs, as he’s walking out. “I can’t keep you company, though, for at least
two hours. You’ll be fine at the bar, yeah?”

“I’m a big boy, hyung. Worry not,” Taehyung assures, following him out.

“I’m not worried,” Jimin says, a little low considering they are walking towards the hard thump of
the music.

“What was that?” Taehyung hums, lips rubbing together.

“I’m not worried,” Jimin repeats. “I don’t worry.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay.” He chooses to agree, letting as little irony as possible seep
into his response. He doesn’t worry either. It’s a rule, unspoken rule, but it’s a palpable, well-
established one. He doesn’t worry. No one here worries. No one here cares. It’s the Ozone and the
Ozone is in Richhood and Richhood is no place for the personality and inter-personal indulgences of
worrying.

When Jimin leaves him at the bar and goes to dance, Taehyung drinks as he always does. He gets
approached as he always does and he flirts as he always does. He tilts his head back, downs a shot,
pouring it down his throat, trying hard not to let the liquid make actual contact with his tongue. As he
always does.

And when he gulps it down easily and straightens up, when he shakes thick strands of hair out of his
face, he lets his eyes wander. As he always does.

He tells himself he is not searching for anything explicitly, not for anyone, certainly, though the part
of him that worries someone will steal Jimin’s tips straight out of his pocket like it happened last
week, knows very well his sights are set. He glances at a boot up on the podium, the type of booth
that they keep reserved, which tonight plays host to Min Yoongi and Jung Hoseok. It’s just them
tonight and some faceless, nameless people, Taehyung doesn’t recognize and neither Yoongi nor
Hoseok will remember.

He rests his forearm on the bar, sighs. The bartender for the night is handing him another drink that
he is happily taking.

“Taehyung,” he thinks a voice sounds over the overwhelming thump of the music. It is the type of
music that will make him have problems hearing when he leaves. The type that forces his heart to
beat in accordance of its beat.

He feels a touch to his shoulder, delicate and almost there, so different to all the shoves he has dealt
with in this night, and he tenses. A body presses in his back, flush and tight, the shape of a woman
fills in awkwardly with his back, her warm breasts too close, too relieved. Her breath is on his neck
and her arms wrap around his waist, fingers draw on his arm, making hairs stand up before they
reach his wrist. She squeezes and tugs.

“Taehyung,” she says again, and this time he is certain his name has sounded; he feels it, the
vibration rubbing into his back as she does. “I have something to ask you, Taehyung.”

Her body disappears, but her grip on his wrist stays and she rotated him with her motion. Her voice
is almost ominous with how much it feels like a whisper when it is a shout.

Taehyung already knows what he will see when he turns, but still when his eyes find Jungkook
leaning on the bar behind Julia, he tenses further.

Jungkook has one hand loose on Julia’s waist while the arm of the other is fully lounging on the
counter next to him, fingers wrapped around a glass with no ice and lots of liquid. The fabric of his
simple clothes fits into him right, tight and flattering on top of his form, buttons popped on top,
sinewy neck revealed as well as the top of his chest. Taehyung does not know if he can get used to
the sharpness of his features, to the strictness of his eyes, so blank of anything, yet utterly demanding.

They are on Taehyung, and he can’t really think properly while that stays such, not when he is
wondering if he smells the same as he did the other day, deliciously, explicitly masculine, if, were
Taehyung wearing a tie astray, he would fix it again, if his body would mould better against
Taehyung’s back than Julia’s just did. He imagines it would, snug and hard.

Julia tightens her grip on his wrist, her nails digging into skin and he breaks eyes contact, pulls his
eyes away, though Jungkook keeps his in place. Taehyung looks at her. She looks a little dead.

She pulls at him and he follows because Jungkook spins and walks. Taehyung’s eyes stay on his
back for the duration of the awkward, panic-inducing walk. The lights are going insane to fit the
upbeat music and each time they change so do the shapes on his shirt, moving over his shoulders.

They take him to a room much nicer than the one Jimin uses to change his clothes. It has a couch as
well, some mirrors and chairs, an even furrier rug. It’s tastefully colorful, feels perfectly with the
extravagant richness of the Ozone, designed perfectly to fit the vibe and style of those who
perpetuate it.

Jungkook is the one to open the door and, after Julia takes him to the center of the room, he is the
one to close it. He does not venture into the room as his girlfriend does. Rather, he chooses to remain
by the door, leaning on the surface, hard eyes finding Taehyung and he has never felt so trapped.

He is actually beginning to feel the commencement of fear, a cold sensation that is most palpable in
his tummy and on his neck.

Taehyung would not have been able to imagine it if it had been left to his creativity, but now with
clear lightning and the music only a numbed memory that tries to force itself through the door,
Jungkook’s eyes are worse. His continuous vibe of lazy arrogance is particularly intimidating that
day, stare hard and dark, though it holds a glint of something almost fiery. An actual expression on
his face is nearly non-existent. His features are set into the way they have been perfectly molded and
he is nearly reminiscent of a statue to Taehyung.

He holds himself so casual, back against the door, arms folded, yet his vibrates something
intrinsically dominant and captivating, and Taehyung is striving hard to look at Julia, who is clearly
after his attention. He wants to allow them to perpetuate their shared belief that it is Julia who draws
Taehyung’s eyes for inappropriate amounts of time, but the compulsion of Jungkook’s demanding
stare feels impossible to evade until she speaks.

“Have you been here before, Taehyung?” She asks, voice light and pitched and very much
rehearsed. She speaks like a character from a movie, reading off of a script, with a lilt so pointedly
nuanced into feigned innocence that Taehyung worries she is unreal.

“No,” he says and he fails to keep the shake from his voice, though he is not entirely sure he is
trying. Intimidated, he is. He is not particularly surprised at their approach, had been apprehensively
anticipating it ever since Jungkook’s confrontation in the café. “I don’t know why I’m here now,
either.”

His eyes fall on Julia’s and she smiles a smile so gentle. There is a pause as he does and he has the
instinct to look back at Jungkook, ask him with his eyes, though he realizes it is ridiculous to expect
an answer.
Jungkook has been so quiet, he is mostly a presence, an incredibly enthralling, slightly hostile, mostly
neutral presence.

“Do you think I’m beautiful, Taehyung?” She asks, still using that fabricated innocent femininity and
Taehyung gapes, at a loss for words. It is harder now for him not to look at Jungkook — he feels he
needs permission for whatever his answer might be. Julia cocks her head at his hesitance, pouts,
though she does not mean it. “I think you’re incredibly beautiful,” she tells him.

Taehyung can only blink for a bit. Eyes dart to Jungkook with one of the helpless flutters of his lids,
but it is so quick he does not properly see him.

He has been called pretty boy many times. He has never been called beautiful.

“I,” he stutters, lets the pronoun hang in the air.

“Be honest,” Julia instructs, prompting him softly.

“Yes,” he gulps, after a beat. “You’re marvelous,” he tells her and she is, but he does not particularly
care; she’s beautiful and it is undeniable, but she has nothing that captures his attention.

“Oh,” she says, her smile spreads. She takes a step forward. “Can I ask you to do me a favor,
Taehyung?”

His heart drops. His eyes fly instinctively to Jungkook, wide and perplexed, scared, almost. He
thinks he sees the other guy’s chin move in a nod, but he could be wrong, takes it as such anyway.

“I, uhm,” he is still stuttering and it is embarrassing, though he does not think he has been anything
but in front of this couple. “What could you possibly want from me?”

He allows his genuine curiosity and surprise shine through the question. She chuckles at this, but
stops before the sound feels naturally completed. “You’d be surprised,” she tells him, bites her li,
puts her arms behind her back, stares at the floor. She forms the perfect imagery of an innocent girl
and it is borderline ridiculous that he can see her nipples through the dress she is wearing. “I want
you to watch Jungkook fuck me, Taehyung.”
His jaw drops. Her lashes bat. Jungkook does not move a muscle.

“I— you, what?”

“It’s what I want,” she says, simple as that, and in retrospect, he supposes it is simple: people do just
want things at times, independent of their opinions, what they think is right or wrong, what they want
to want. “It’s what I want,” she repeats.

He has stilled completely. He knew the answer before she asked the question, because he has no
interest in Jungkook rearranging his face.

He has not processed it well, not processed the fact that maybe he wants it a little as well, when the
word leaves his mouth, hopefully definitively.

“No.”

Julia arches a brow. “No?” Her attitude does not change despite his denial and it is a worrying
indication for him that he is not being convincing enough.

He feels hot again, is pretty sure there is perspiration layering his neck, maybe his forehead a bit, and
not just from the heat of the Ozone. His eyes peek at Jungkook for help, but find none, only
newfound entertainment at his discomfort.

“No,” he repeats.

“Why?” She says, childish curiosity layering her voice. It makes his ears burn hot.

“Because I…” his eyes find Jungkook’s again for the merest second and he wonders how quickly he
would have said no if he hadn’t approached him, if he would have said no at all. He scrunches his
brows. “Why would I?”

Julia hums, takes a step towards him. She reaches, her nail falling on his chest and teasing along its
length. Three pairs of eyes follow the motion. Taehyung’s heart is rapid underneath the feel of it and
the scrutiny it causes.

“What if…” she trails off, voice syncing with the movement of her finger. It drops off of him when it
reaches too low and their eyes meet simultaneously. He can feel her breath on him and it is almost as
tangible as Jungkook's stare. “What if you get your sister’s monthly pay for doing it?" She pauses
and her when she hums in question and begins again, her voice twists higher in a textbook definition
of manipulation. "For sitting in a chair and watching something you’re only pretending you don’t
want to because it feels wrong?”

Her eyes search his and his search hers. Wheels turn in his mind like insane.

Money. It’s the dirtiest thing she could have offered and simultaneously and most sadly, it is the one
thing to unfailingly grab his attention.

His sister’s monthly pay on top of what the both of them usually make? For them, that would be a
small fortune. He can replace the stove with that; he can pay his part for next month’s rent as well
and keep a bit for severe cases. He can buy Woowoo that toy he forgets that all the other kids in his
group have but he doesn’t.

Her palm lays on his chest and, though it is warm, it is not nearly as scorching as Jungkook’s brief
pat felt the other day. “Think about it,” she tells him, barely above a whisper.

She can see his hesitation. It is written on his face that the no from before is now shaping into a
maybe in his head. It is enough to allow the smirk to linger on her lips.

She leaves him with the words and spins and goes, a small smirk finding itself on her mouth.
Jungkook’s hand is on the doorknob, he’s already twisting it and Julia is nearly there, they have both
nearly left, each of them self-satisfied for a different reason with an underlying conviction of their
own -- one about to be broken -- and then Taehyung’s voice sounds before he has really made up his
mind.

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

“What?” Jungkook snarls, snaps, head whipping and a powerful glare landing on Taehyung at the
same time that Julia spins with a much calmer “what” of her own.
 Taehyung ignores Jungkook’s burning eyes and instead indulges Julia’s smirking stare with all he
has. “I’ll do it,” he repeats. “If you pay me, I’ll watch you.”

“Good choice, pretty boy,” she tells him, smiles, almost genuinely. For a second, she looks less dead.
“We’ll be in touch.” With that she spins, she leaves.

Jungkook holds the door open for her. His eyes are dead set on Taehyung and all his previous
nuances of almost fear have now gathered and shaped into a complete and utter horror. Taehyung is
terrified.

“We’ll be in touch,”Jungkook tells him, promises through gritted teeth. It is a clear threat and it does
not fail to send shivers down Taehyung’s spine.

The door slams and he jumps. With the ring of it, the fact settles into his head, that he got himself into
his biggest trouble yet.

Chapter End Notes

Thoughts? Lol

Taetae’s in for all kinds of shit

 Chapter 5
Chapter Notes

This one is a bit shorter, but oh well

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Taehyung barely manages to open the door, labeled staff only,when he is roughly shoved back
inside. The door slams shut again, but not before someone who is certainly not staff enters the small
space of the storage room.

Small?It is tiny now, feelstiny, not enough space to properly breathe actual air, as his body meets
some metal shelving, digs into skin and bones and meat. It will likely mark with the force ofthe
collision, but physical pain is not what he can focus on as a hand grips his chin, fingers cold and
bruising, much too tight on his jaw. He holds Taehyung’s face in place, makes eye contact
unavoidable as he closes in.

“Whatthe fuck,Kim?” his voice is not the shout he was expecting, not the angry snarl from the
previous day. Rather it is a calculated demand, slow, low and chilling, deep and almost guttural.

Taehyung knew he would face the wrath of Jeon Jungkook after his rashly made morally dubious
decision, which, he reasons with himself, was the right choice. He does not know what is going on
between Jungkook and Julia and nor does he wish to – which is maybe not the mostaccurate
statement, but he settles for it. All he does know is he will get an overly generous amount of money
to satisfy a rich kid’s whim borne out of a peculiar perversion of some sort, the analysis of which is
not in his domain of interests. Where his interest lies is, he simply has to be presentfor an act that,
while admittedly potentially disturbing, will unlikely last over an hour to receive full month’s salary.
It is not like he has to partake; his conscience, as desperate as him to maybe not eat nearly raw eggs
for a day or two, dictates there is nothing illogical in the decision he made, taking everything into
consideration.

Except of course, the factor of the worryingly violent, well-muscled other party affected in his
decision-making process, who is currently shoving him into shelves and cornering him tight.

He does not touch his body to his, not this time, stands close enough to feel and put into proportion
in Taehyung’s impulsive head the sheer difference of their sizes. His shoulders are broad, and his
hold is unwavering.
His eyes are as ever demanding, hard when they bore into Taehyung, pierce into him more brutal
than the accompanying scathing hiss of his voice. One is slightly swollen, purplish and yellow, and
Taehyung has the most ridiculousintuition to ask what happened. He remembers Ji-woo telling him
of her own meddling into his hurt, that he does not particularly enjoy it – though, quite frankly, he
doesn’t seem the type-- and Taehyung has already done enough to initiate a beating for himself – he
certainly does not need to give him another reason to slap him around some more. Most importantly,
he shouldn’t careabout Jeon Jungkook’s swollen eye.

“I—” Taehyung attempts to begin, but Jungkook takes a single step forward that almost seals their
bodies together, leaves just a breath of space. Taehyung’s back arches at an awkward angle, the edge
of the shelf digging painfully into his skin. His hands grip onto the lower shelf, squeeze tightly until
their knuckles turn white to distract him from other sensations coursing through his body.

“I asked you for one thing, Kim,” Jungkook interrupts, hisses.

Taehyung grits his teeth, attempts to shake his grip off, but Jungkook persists, tightens. “You asked,”
Taehyung confirms. The sound of his words mimics the intonation of the other’s hiss, hostility too
much for the confines of such a tiny space. “She’s paying.”

His musing from the day before are answered. Jungkook smells the same, expensive and masculine
and a little sweaty. He reeks of testosterone, Taehyung formulates, not just in his scent, in his stance
as well, all physical and threatening, gripping at him, bending him to his will. Taehyung’s alert,
aware of it, of him, of how close his body is and how warm his breath feels on his lips, how even
and controlled his breathing is despite the confrontation, juxtaposed to Taehyung’s labored exhales
and thumping heart. It annoys him, really, that he can remain so calm.

Jungkook’s proximity holds a worrying mixture of intimidation and allure. Taehyung refuses to
consciously acknowledge that the heat of his tangible presence brings more than infinite dread.

His head cocks and he sneers, “Should’ve known you would be easy to buy.” His next sentence is
alike a spit. “You’re a Kim.”

Kim. There it is. A Kim. The Kims. He’s one of them.

Taehyung’s eyes narrow. Distaste pulls at his mouth, causes his lips to edge down. “If you think
youropinion on my poverty means anything to me, you’re dead wrong.”
Jungkook shakes his head as if in disappointed disbelief, his tongue peeks out slightly, pokes at
where his upper lip meets his teeth.

“Why are the poor so fucking self-righteous?”

Taehyung scoffs. “Why are the rich so fucking entitled?” He retaliates. Jungkook’s eyes are sharp on
him when he continues. “I don’t owe you anything, Jungkook-ssi.” He tries to pull his head away
again, but Jungkook’s fingers tighten in a warning before they relax against his skin slightly, just
hold him. “Unless you pay me. Which your girlfriend will be doing, so if you have problems with
that, hit her, not me.”

Taehyung half expects to be hit at this point, almost flinches as he speaks. Instead, Jungkook smirks.
His voice drops a note when he talks next, reaches its usual laziness and more. His eyes drop as well,
dart across Taehyung’s face as he loosens his grip on it further to reveal it fully. His touch is barely
there by that point, fingers ghosting over skin and it is almost gentle. Taehyung does actually flinch
when his thumb glides across the line of his jaw, and Jungkook’s lip twitches in amusement at his
reaction. “You’re mouthy today, aren’t you?” he questions lightly, it is near a whisper and Taehyung
pauses in his venture of response, though he has a couple of things in mind, stiffens both at the
unexpected sound of it and when Jungkook’s eyes pointedly drop to his mouth, a thumb sliding
underneath it on his chin. With the same tantalizingly gentle voice, he whispers, “It really sucks your
face is too pretty to ruin. Julia would be so mad.”

His eyes dart upwards again, meet Taehyung’s widened gaze, scrutinize subtly every feature of his
face and the way they would twist at his handling or words. Taehyung feels just a bit like he’s on fire
under those eyes. They’re a powerful set, dark and deep and demanding, yet possessing the eeriest
sense of playfulness. They tease him, without even fully intending to, it seems, and Taehyung hates
them.

“You really need to sort shit out with her, don’t you?” Taehyung says, and he attempts to layer his
voice with a bite but is unsure it is successful.

Jungkook’s face is way too fucking close. He realizes the proximity of it is threatening, a violent
statement of masculine dominance over him by standing near enough to breathe on his skin, to
almost brush the tips of their noses, but to Taehyung it simultaneously feels like more, and he hates
that, too.

“It’s none of your business,” his mouth says it to him, but it his eyes that spell it out.

Still, Taehyung cannot resist the rashness of his own tongue. “You’re makingit my business.” He
can’t see why not, really, Jungkook had already stated his face would not be rearranged – too pretty.

The skin of it where Jungkook’s fingers still slightly ghost feels scorching. Jungkook’s head cocks.
The neutrality of his set face is troubling to Taehyung, who is perfectly sure he reads like an open
book, has always been cursed with expressive features, the vulnerability of which always most
palpable and dangerous in Richhood.

“You could have said no,” Jungkook says calmly, yet Taehyung can almost feel the rumble of his
chest against his, just a breath of an air, really, between Jungkook’s Egyptian cotton and Taehyung’s
polyester.

Taehyung shakes his head as much as Jungkook’s loose grip would allow him. He does not know
why in that moment he tries to genuinely reason, lets honesty soak through his words, though
Jungkook could never understand. “I needto say yes.”

Jungkook’s eyes harden. “Are you sure you’re just not using your poverty as an excuse to watch my
girlfriend naked?”

Taehyung breathes, the exhale of his angered disappointment flowing through his parted lips and
directly into Jungkook’s and he hopes the other can taste it on his tongue, though he understands that
would be giving him too much credit into the ability to empathize. His eyes narrow and as honesty
does not seem to work – and as Taehyung does not have the capacity or trust for more in the
presence of the rich – he resorts to spiteful hostility. “Maybe if you satisfied her better, your girlfriend
wouldn’t want meto watch her naked.”

It leaves his mouth and Jungkook moves quick enough for Taehyung to know it is not fully
conscious. His body closes in further, thigh forces its way between his legs as his elbow and the
length of his arm press sharply into his chest under the ministration of his hand, fingers, quick and
agile, wrapping around his neck. The pads of his digits squeeze into flesh and his palm digs forward
into his jugular. Taehyung’s hand flies up instinctively, latches around what he can of Jungkook’s
forearm, though it is trapped flush between their chests. His eyes go wide as the heat of shock and
fear grips him, running over the length of his body almost like a current. He can feel his throat
constrain around a choke, but the other’s grip is not truly hard enough to take his breath, just brusque
enough to surprise and scare, and when Taehyung’s lips part to gasp for the air he is afraid to be rid
of, instead they expel a subtle, quiet moan.

Jungkook’s mouth had previously opened to prepare for retaliation, but as the sound hits his senses,
the breath of it hot on his skin, he pauses. The boy in his rough hold visibly stiffens. Taehyung is
engulfed by nerves of a nature that is not exactly clear to him as he stares, eyes wide and perplexed
as Jungkook watches him. Those eyes, those eyes that he hates, study his face, dart across it with a
quiet, bemused interest, still not entirely rid of their lazy, arrogant indifference, though it is subdued
by a small betrayal of curiosity. They are slow in their exploration of his features and completely
shameless, unadulterated, bold, charting across as if they have the right to be exposed to each
sentiment of Taehyung’s newly emerged vulnerability.

The gaze is as scorching as the grip still firm on his neck, as the thigh still pressed into him to keep
him in place. Taehyung squeezes at the other’s forearm and it is a plea that Jungkook uncaringly
ignores. He is fully engrossed now in scanning every inch of Taehyung he can cover with his
scathing eyes, his face a mask that Taehyung loathes.

It doesn’t mean anything. None of it does, nothing in this interaction means absolutely anything,
because Taehyung said yes and no matter what confrontation he is promised enough money to
perpetuate that answer. So Jungkook’s hand on his neck and body on his means nothing; in a
moment it will be gone and then, forgotten. Jungkook won’t remember that when he squeezed his
neck, Taehyung moaned, because Jungkook doesn’tcare. And Taehyung won’t as well, because, as
much as he is aware what implications it may have, he also knows the truth of it was just a peculiarly
shaped gasp of pain and shock and nothing more.

It doesn’t matter how Jungkook’s body feels on his, because the heat is fear and the palpitations in
his heart is stress. Because no matter what twisted interest he has taken in Jungkook’s outward
physique, no matter what curiosity he feels towards him, Taehyung likes to be inside of girlsand
thinks nothing of the leg Jungkook has between his – all it is is discomfort. He thinks nothing of how
easy Jungkook can manhandle him – it’s derogatory, nothing unexpected of the rich towards him. He
thinks nothing of Jungkook’s eyes taking in his entire being right about now, pausing at his foolish
mouth through which the cursed sound had been evoked, as all Taehyung could do is breath through
parted lips and helplessly stare back.

The poor’s life is as ever in the hands of the rich. The silence kills him, and he needs to have the
other one distracted.

“I don’t care to see your girlfriend naked,” he partially says, partially croaks out, voice rough and
breathy.

Jungkook’s eyes dart up at the sound of his voice. He is still quiet, awfully quiet, though his eyes
speak volumes, which remain nonsensical to Taehyung, coded in a language he can’t learn to read.
He still voices nothing as his fingers tentatively tighten around Taehyung’s neck. He watches his
face contort, features twisting dubiously, lids struggling not to meet. He hasto keep his stare, but
teeth take his lip, bite down into the tissue until Jungkook loosens his grip.

Taehyung instinctively loosens the one he has on his forearm, realizes he might have been squeezing
there too hard, using his unevenly cut nails, and worries he might have left marks that would remind
Jungkook of this, but then reasons Jungkook is probably in the capacity to ignore any scar if he wills
it, and summon any inexistent one on Taehyung’s skin to remain in the position he is in.

Jungkook shakes his head suddenly, nose scrunches up, creating lines between his eyes, and the
atmosphere in the room twists and bends to his bidding – as does Taehyung’s body. “What’s wrong
with you, Kim?” Jungkook snarls and releases him, steps away.

It can mean anything, and, honestly, too many things are wrong with Taehyung for him to answer,
so he remains silent, still in his position reminiscent of that of a cornered animal. He has the urge to
touch his neck where Jungkook’s hold had been, but he resists it, stares ahead instead.

“Get your money,” Jungkook tells him, cold, firm and dismissive. “After that, stop fucking watching
us.”

Us, he says, not her. And then he leaves.

Ji-woo is almost done, fortunately, when Jeon Jungkook enters his kitchen and clears his throat.

She is wearing the uniform required of her agency, playing as a docile maid, almost ridiculous and
movielike, so stereotypical it reminds her of the costume of the service in The Sims. She is wiping at
his table, body bent awkwardly, arm stretched to cover as much mahogany as possible from one and
the same position.

She straightens up at the sound he makes to announce his presence, retracts her arms protectively into
herself, instinctively moving behind the cover of a chair. Working for her particular agency, she has
met enough brats that sexualize her uniform and think fit to make advances with the rationale they
are paying. Though the few times she has encountered the younger Jeon he, unlike his despicable
father, has never laid even an eye on her, it is second nature for her to be protective of her
appearance in front of male clients. And bending over a table is a no go for her.
He’s bruised, it’s the first thing she notices. His neck is layered with several marks, reddish and
purple in color, mapped on his skin, there to stay as reminders of something privy to him and
whoever left them – and Ji-woo would assume it was Julia, but it is never a safe guess with people
like Jungkook. He is sporting a blue eye as well, a bruise of a completely different character, but it
sits less angry on his skin.

“Good day, Jungkook-ssi,” she addresses and bows down in greeting. She is slightly apprehensive as
to why he would take the time to notify her of his presence, seeing as he usually treats her like
excessive furniture.

His response is a nod, more than his father is willing to give and she attempts to pull her lips in a
smile. He steps forward, and she tells herself to stay in place. He is impressive as is his sister, both in
looks and in talent, and it is hard for Ji-woo not to acknowledge this, no matter how perfectly cold
and distant the Taunting Twins are. Of all their talents widely known, in sports, in music, academics,
thisshe is most envious of, their ability to completely detach.

He continues stepping closer and remains obediently in place until he makes his pause a couple of
steps from her. He has a presence and a stance that is naturally intimidating, fed well with his
physique, but Ji-woo has spent her entire life being intimidated and by now for her it has lost its
significance.

He reaches a hand into his back pocket, fishes out a wallet of some coarse material, all simple and
black with the expectance of the Louis Vuitton logo embraided in the corner. She goes off as she
always does, wondering for how long her family and her can survive on the price of an object as
simple as this, as he peeks at his insides, counts some notes, gathers them into his hand and then
stretches them towards her.

“This will be for your service for the week,” he tells her.

She takes them, bows again, smiles in truth this time now with the notes secure in her fingers.
“Thank you,” she says, pitched work voice easily falling through her lips. “I’m almost done. I’ll be
leaving in a bit.” She informs him out of habit, though she doesn’t suppose he cares. His penthouse is
big enough for him to avoid her presence completely if he wills it.

She bows at him again, conclusively, and twists with the intention to continue her work, though in
mind of her position, careful not to do anything that could be in any way assumed provocative. It
doesn’t matter really, the perversion and entitlement of some of the rich can sickeningly twist any
small indication into sexual. She is used to their lewdness.
She has taken advantage of it, as rare as she can, but she has. There was shame tied in with this fact
of her life once, but shame is not something she can afford.

“Is my sister in?” Jungkook’s voice is nearly startling for her. She does not expect a conversation
with him.

“I believe she’s asleep,” Ji-woo responds honestly. She had had to spit the girl’s room for the day
with her cleaning, as the Taunting Twin had been plastered on the sheets, nearly bare, her clothing
half-way off and a little ripped. Asleep, Ji-woo says, but she is almost convinced the young girl was
passed out.

Jungkook nods, and she expects he will walk away after, but he lingers. Her ears and the corner of
her eyes track his movements as he strolls towards the fridge, takes out something that sounds like a
can when he pops it opened and leans against a counter. She’s uncomfortably aware of the younger’s
presence, mainly in how atypical it is, wishes he would leave, though when she chances a glance,
she can see he is on his phone, not looking at her.

In a mediocre attempt to ignore him, she focuses on wiping his table.

“Is that how much all families pay you for weeklies?” his voice sounds and Ji-woo’s eye shoot to
him, narrowing. His are still on the device in his hand.

“Excuse me?” She straightens up, one hand automatically clutching at her hip. She squeezes it to
remind herself to be careful with him, though she can’t help the animosity that falls through her
voice. His had been neutral if anything, but to her it sounds like accusation and if he dares to
insinuate she is taking too much from them she will be ready to beat his ass with his fucking Louis
Vuitton wallet no matter how many muscles he has.

He looks up briefly. “Can’t really be enough to look after a household,” he acknowledges, and it
could have come across empathetic, but he makes sure it doesn’t.

His eyes are back on his phone and Ji-woo studies him for a moment before she decides it’s
pointless, he gives nothing away other than sheer brattiness. She shrugs her shoulders, “Taehyungie
works as well,” she tells him, though she regrets it as soon as it comes out of her mouth. She is
always hesitant in mentioning anything about her family around her clients.

“Taehyung?” his eyes are back on her and his voice is slow as he lets the name roll on his tongue.
She does not like the way he says it, does not think he has any place speaking it, especially as
ominously as he does.

“My baby brother,” Ji-woo says, though she knows Jungkook knows exactly who Kim Taehyung is.
Everyone knows who each of the Kims are, and she’s always hated that. “He waits at Rouge,” she
continues, though her client is well aware of that as well. She’s sure Taehyung has served him
enough times for him to take note that he is being waited by aKim.

Jungkook nods. The pause that follows is long enough for her to finish up the table. “Does he fuck
girls, your baby brother?”

Her brusque, sharp ‘What?’ is spluttered out of her mouth as soon as his words register. Wide eyes
search for his, but he is once again taken with his phone.

“You heard me.”

She blinks at him, at his boldness. “What sort of question is that?” her client voice is replaced by
shrillness she can’t control.

His eyes jump to hers briefly before returning carelessly to the screen. “He looks a bit like a faggot,
doesn’t he?”

Her hand is back on her lips and her eyes are narrowed in a lethal glare. “Not that is any of
yourbusiness, Jungkook-nim,” she licks her lips. She’s trying to keep her anger low and under
control, refuses to hand on a platter another reason for her brother to be the talk of Richhood. His
name and salary do enough damage. “But he does fuck girls. Some I would rather he didn’t,
honestly.” She lets genuine annoyance at some of her brother’s past rendezvous’ coat her voice, as
he does tend to sleep with herfriends, hoping maybe the other would detect it.

She does not know what looking like a faggot is supposed to constitute in his limit, rich head, but she
refuses to question it. Her brother, she knows, is certainly not one, not a faggot and not gay, either.

Jungkook’s brows lift on his forehead. “Hit a nerve?” he teases, is arrogant enough to even tease
with indifference.

Ji-woo cocks her head, scoffs. “My responsibilities here are done for the day, sir, so if you’ll excuse
 me.” He doesn’t excuse her, but he doesn’t stop her, either, so she gathers her belongings from their
marble hallway and leaves.

Chapter End Notes

comments are appreciated -- it is my first fic, so all feedback is welcome; thank you to
those who have left kudos and nice comments so far, it really makes my day to see
people enjoying it
 Chapter 6
Chapter Summary

This monstrous piece of shit was written in one sitting that lasted until 4 am and then
some and it is completely unedited, so, fair warning, there might be mistakes. I'll revisit
it in a bit, but for now I just want it out there. Hope you enjoy. Thank you to those who
left kudos and comments, especially comments nothing is as motiving to write.

Taehyung was well aware of the hatred he harbored for Jeon Jungkook’s eyes, but he could have
never really imagined what the extent of it was until he met them while he was fucking his girlfriend.

Taehyung receives a message from an unknown phone number at noon on one of his free days. As
soon as his phone vibrates, his heart squeezes in itself. He has not opened the notification yet, but he
feels weirdly uncomfortable at merely receiving it. He isn’t usually superstitious, but there is some
unpleasant giddiness disturbing his chest and his hollow stomach as he feels the device. He
straightens up in his lounging position, preps himself, once he’s sat properly, he does not feel ready
per se, but he sees no point in waiting. Then he opens it.

Letters stare at him. Bright and numbing, he sees the words on his flashing screen. It’s ridiculous
how something as simple as a text message can carry an ambiance that is this intimidating. Maybe
he’s just broken now, maybe Jungkook squeezed at his neck too hard and somehow, he popped a
braincell too many.

The words are very simple. The Executive Tower. Room 7.13. Saturday. 22.00

The message is signed a very simple ‘J’and it could mean both Julia or Jungkook, but either makes
his heart swell and tremble worryingly into his chest and drives him to be peculiarly aware of the
tonsils in his throat, which feel weirdly large in their confines. He swallows in attempt to make them
settle.

It is obvious to him what the message refers to and his eyes bulge a bit at the destination the pair have
chosen, though retrospectively, he shouldn’t be surprised. Jungkook’s a Jeon and Julia’s a Seung. He
briefly catered for an event in the Executive Tower once, knows the prices range from 400,000 won
a night to about a million. A greedy, curious part of him wants to go solely for the purpose of
witnessing such luxury. He remembers he had entertained the idea of trying to sneak into a room
while he was there, absolutely fascinated and intimidated by the sheer glory of the foyer and the
restaurant. The world fancy had been engrained in his brain for the whole duration of his busy stay in
the premises, though it failed to even begin to describe the quality and nature of his surroundings.
It is fitting, he thinks, that Jungkook and Julia could afford to bask even their perversions in utmost
luxury.

Taehyung already knows he will go. Privately, he sees no chance for him not to. Ji-woo and
WooWoo and him, they need those money. Their father has not been home for three weeks and four
days now – Taehyung counts, and he knows his little brother does as well, he sees the lines he makes
on the wooden boards of the top bunk with an especially pointy pen he has. Ji-woo has been
working her ass for lately, taking every opportunity her firm gives her to wash more toilets. He
knows she is tired, that she hardly eats so that there is more food for Woo and himself, that the stress
and desperation attached to sense of responsibility drives her into making harsh, rash decisions which
get people talking, calling her names that reach Taehyung’s ears. He knows the rumors, knows even
that some of them are true.

He hasto go. That is not what worries him. Rather it is the fact, he wantsto.

His rationale is a strange mixture of flattery and curiosity, to the extent he is willing to admit to
himself. He does not want to entertain even as privately as it is in the very personal confines of his
own brain, how much his ridiculous and inexplicable fascination with Jungkook is at play in the
formation of the realization.

He is nervous, and he is guilty. When Ji-woo smiles at him on Saturday morning before she leaves to
go to work, he feels an encompassing sensation of shame. He knows she has always made bad
decisions so that he doesn’t have to, yet here he is, wondering how to fucking dressto play a
background role in some exhibitionistic sex fantasy a rich girl can afford to have and act out. He is
explicitly aware he is nothing more than a convenient pawn that is, as Jungkook had accused, easy to
buy.

He is pretty sure most of the clothing he owns could lead to him being physically kicked out of a
place such as The Executive Tower, though Taehyung, considering his budget, is usually
distinctively well dressed. He likes clothes, he thinks, sometimes the ones catching his eye being
what most would see as ridiculous. His taste is particular. He would love to have the opportunity to
explore this peculiar passion, but rationalizes his admiration of purposefully ugly brand clothing is at
the lowest on his lists of priorities.

Especially as he enters the foyer of the Executive Tower. Filled with giddy dread, he feels small,
insignificant. He’s put on nice, but bleak clothes, yet he still feels immensely out of place. Everything
is simply grandiose, huge, towering and tangibly expensive. Radiant and luxurious, and it does not
fail to leave Taehyung’s mouth gaping and eyes impossibly wide as soon as he sets foot on the
exquisite flooring. He reminds himself not to gawk, to walk, is put at unease as people in suits
mostly, pass him, unbothered, thoroughly unimpressed.
A man bows at him as he enters, and, instinctively, he presses his palms together and respectfully
reciprocates the gesture, eyes wandering to his feet. When they return to the person’s face, Taehyung
recognizes perplexity coloring his features, brows furrowed and nose arched, his heart pumps faster
with worry that he had done something wrong.

The beat escalates further when fingers latch around his bicep, tightly, almost painfully, and thug at
him with sharpness and strength that propels him forward without a choice. He loses his balance for
barely a moment before his footing settles, body thinking quick in result of his countless accidents as
a waiter. He is now forced to take quick steps in a direction unbeknownst to him, digits still
bruisingly tight around his arm, a body close to his.

“Don’t do fucking full bows for staff, Kim, do you imaginemebowing to you?” Jungkook hisses,
speaks mostly through his teeth, lining his mouth with Taehyung’s ear just for the briefness of saying
that, but it is enough to elicit goosebumps on the other. He pulls his body away, but keeps his grip,
doesn’t trust him to fucking walkwithout assistance. He sets a pace that is just short of running and
leads him in a direction he is obviously well familiar with.

“I—” Taehyung attempts to speak, retort, but Jungkook interrupts him brusquely.

“Spare me the excuses and concentrate on walking before someone sees us.”

Taehyung’s mouth smacks shut, eyes rolling. He briefly considers making a scene just in spite of the
other’s entitled attitude but concludes he cannot risk the money at the expense of retaliation to
someone who will not even care in the end.

Jungkook only affords to let go of him when they step into an elevator that is wonderfully golden
and full of mirrors, gives Taehyung the stupid urge to take a selfie. Once the doors of it shut,
Jungkook drops his hold with exaggerated mannerisms, as if Taehyung would give him the plague if
he touches him for too long. He naturally leans his back onto a wall, props his hands on a railing,
after pressing the button, moves around the space with a comfort of familiarity that reminds
Taehyung just how different their lives are.

He does not dare lean on a wall, afraid he’ll somehow damage it, but does stand as near as the one
opposite from Jungkook as he could just so that he can be the furthest away from Jungkook that is
possible.

Taehyung’s eyes center on the floor as he simply refuses to look at Jungkook from such a proximity,
reasons he will be doing enough of lookingas the night proceeds, the twisted variation of dread and
excitement swelling inside of him as the thought strikes him again. He has been ignoring actively
contemplating what it is he is about to take part in -- or witness, he insists -- preferring to just go with
it and then forget about it, let his presence in the room be entirely physical and momentary.

Jungkook’s eyes are on him, however. His face is as ever oxymoronically intense and indifferent,
though in a moment in twists ever so slightly, brows drawing nearer and lips tilting downwards. He
frowns. “What’s with the hair?” he says into the ringing silence of the elevator.

Taehyung’s eyes snap up, hand instinctively flying to grip at some strands at the back of his neck,
fingers scratching. He hesitates. “It’s erm, because of my brother,” he settles for after a moment.
Normally, he wholeheartedly avoids speaking of his siblings to anyone in Richhood, especially of his
brother who is still not as actively labeled a Kim. His family has always been his greatest
vulnerability and, naturally, the last person he wants to betray that to is Jeon Jungkook.

Taehyung’s hair is currently painted bright red, which had been WooWoo’s condition for him to
forgive him for forgetting about him and practically abandoning him. Supposedly, wearing his
favorite color on his hair was a testament for his dedication and love, and when Taehyung kindly
explained to him he will likely be kicked straight out of work if he showed up looking like a stop
sign, WooWoo justified he could just do it for the weekend. Taehyung agreed, not really considering
Jungkook and Julia would see him with it, because quite frankly, WooWoo and Ji are always his
number ones.

Jungkook is silent for what feels too long to Taehyung after he acknowledges the hair. His eyes are
scrutinizing, plastered on him, boldly studying his features and the strands that fall into him, and it
makes him nervous for some reason. Suddenly, he is hit with the bewildering desire to know what
Jungkook thinks of something as insignificant as his hair color. He wants to know if Jungkook still
thinks he is pretty. He hates that he does.

“I know it’s weird. I –” Taehyung begins to say, his nervousness forcing a babble out of him, but the
other interjets.

“You should get rid of it,” he states curtly. His featured have settled into their usual insouciance
again, his voice and stance betray nothing. Taehyung’s mouth smacks shut for the second and
contorts into an instinctive pout, his eyes a little wider with deflation at the response.

Jungkook hates the hair. It’s vibrant, pulls his eyes right to him, like a magnet, attracting and gripping
his attention without his consent, and he really wishes the boy would get rid of it. He does not wish
to be as awareof him, of a Kim, and he does not want Julia to be either. He does not want for her to
look at him and see how the vibrancy brings out the melanin of his skin tone, which flatters his
features, takes him a little outside of being pretty on the verge of being beautiful.
Jungkook is not blind, neither is he stupid; he is perfectly capable of acknowledging when physical
characteristics sit well together, whether it is on a male or a female. Usually, he would just not have
that acknowledgement attracting his attention on a boy as it would on a girl. Taehyung’s unavoidable
goddamn hair makes that impossible. He could probably see him from a mile away on a crowd of
people with that glaring, poignant color.

His full lips are pouting and Jungkook is distracted. “It’s too vibrant. It’ll attract attention,and it will
get you fired,” he says, and Taehyung’s face twists confused at his elaboration after a prolonged
pause. The other boy’s pout softens, and he does not really think about it when he adds, “and we
don’t want you even more desperate for money now, do we?”

Taehyung’s eyes immediately narrow, a small semblance of hope that there is a shred of decency in
the rich fuck shatters as quickly as it had foolishly sprung. He wants to say fuck you or simply ignore
him, something that will not reap repercussions. That is not what he does, though. Impulsivity has
always been a sin of his, and he knows it, as words lush spitefully to his lips. “Why?” he speaks
roughly. “Are you worried your girlfriend would want to buy more of me?”

Jungkook does nothing but stare, though a bit of something flashes in his eyes, as he cocks his head.
Taehyung is shamefully irritated the other manages to remain so much in control, he has always
taken him for the violent, rash kind, had expected to have his hand around his throat again at the
boldness.

Jungkook’s stance is casual and unbothered, but his voice is icy. “Careful with those lips, Taehyung.
You don’t want something shoving in between them to keep them at bay.”

The elevator dings and Jungkook steps out, back to Taehyung before the other can even begin to
process what had been said. He gapes after him, stunned into immobility for long enough for the
doors of the elevator to slam into his sides when he begins to step out.

There is so much wrong with Jungkook’s last sentence, every bit of it, starting from its very
implication and ending with the fact that it is the first time he says his name to him. Taehyung, he’d
called him, not Kim. Taehyung is flushed and jittery, heart palpitating as Jungkook wordlessly leads
him towards their destination. He has been feeling generally inadequate and disconnected throughout
the day, ever since Ji-woo smiled at him the morning, but now sort of settles into reality and his
fingers are twitching.

Taehyung. He sort of wants to hear him say it again, the acknowledgment of him being his own
person, not a Kim. Then again, the context of the pronunciation of his name makes him tangle his
feet a bit. Taehyung knows these small, ridiculous desires, wanting to hear his name, wanting to
know what he thinks of his hair, are paving an extremely dangerous road, but he relaxes himself,
knowing he would not walk on it for a boy, especially not for a rich one.
Jungkook never pauses, not when he reaches his desired door, even, already having fished out a card
out of his pocket. He opens the door and Taehyung has to, of course, embarrass himself in his efforts
to reach it before it slams shut, doing a small half run to catch it.

It shuts behind him.

Jungkook enters as if he owns the space, shunning himself out of a suit jacket he was wearing as
soon as he steps in, throwing it on a couch in a lounging area that is in front of a huge bed. The room
is naturally impressive, big and sterile, fit for luxury, warm brown, orange, beige colors with a couple
of bright reds for contrast. It is beyond Taehyung’s imagination really, considering he has only ever
been in a motel. It is something off of a movie for him. He refuses to allow himself to gawk at it, at
what money can buy, though he does not know what else to do, really. How to handle himself in
such surroundings. He lingers awkwardly by the door.

Julia is there. She is curled elegantly to the point of it seeming unnatural on a couch in the seating
area, adjacent to the one Jungkook used as a clothing rack. She is wearing something black that is
contrasting to her pale skin and Taehyung cannot properly distinguish whether it is a dress or a
nightgown. Her eyes drag slowly towards Taehyung and he gulps.

Jungkook approaches her, rolling the sleeves of his shirt, exposing sinewy forearms that Taehyung
refuses to look at.

“Were you seriously going to allow him to wander off to the receptionists?” Jungkook snaps,
looming above her.

Her eyes shift to him. She smirks languidly. “I don’t see why not.”

Jungkook huffs, shakes his head and walks away from her. “You’re going to get me in so much
trouble one day, Julia.”

He stalks to a cupboard underneath the flat screen TV that is fitted to a wall that is so nicely paneled
Taehyung could spend an entire day just looking at it, as he could at the embraided pillows on the
couches and the bed. Jungkook’s fingers disappear in his pocket, and he pulls a small metal box out
of it, that by itself is prettier than anything Taehyung owns. He places it on the cupboard, opens it
and hastily toys with its contents.
“You get yourself into enough trouble without my assistance, love,” Julia speaks to her boyfriend,
but her eyes are on Taehyung. He, however, fails to notice as he is too engrossed in watching
Jungkook.

“Not over a Kim,” Jungkook grinds out. He picks something metal, thin and pointed, bends over the
cupboard, and snorts.

Back to a Kim, is Taehyung’s first thought. He’s snorting cocaine is Taehyung’s second, though it
fails to genuinely surprise him. Working where he does, he has dealt with removing remains of the
white powder from toilet sits and sinks enough times to know where its pseudonym Rich Man’s
Drug comes from.

Jungkook straightens up, wipes at his nose. “Do you want some?”

“No, I want to be sober tonight,” Julia says, though the way she speaks makes Taehyung wonder if
she has taken anything else.

“Suit yourself,” Jungkook says. He does another line quickly. His eyes then fall on Taehyung, dark
and pointed. “Kim?” he arches a brow.

Taehyung blinks, taken aback. “Are you offering me?” he implies incredulity in his voice without
actually attempting to.

Jungkook’s lips stretch, twist, and he is smirking as well, all lazy and nonchalant. His body is half
twisted to him, staring at him from his side, half a profile, half en face, and Taehyung is annoyed.
Dark hair, pale skin, and sharp, rugged features. Everything about him is so prominent, muscles,
bones, beauty. He doesn’t deserve it, Taehyung thinks.

“I have manners,” Jungkook says, teases, and Taehyung knowshe doesn’t deserve it.

Taehyung’s lips crack opened. Julia interrupts, and her voice is rougher. “I want him sober as well.”
Taehyung’s eyes are forced to hers. She stares, unbothered, when she says, “Your hair is fucking
hot.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, whether to thank her or not, feels dumb when he turns to
gauge Jungkook’s reaction. He sees his jaw tick, firm. The line of it is harsh and protruding on his
face. “Julia,” he says, but she keeps her eyes on Taehyung, even when he walks towards her and
pauses beside her. “You’re the director. Say how you want this to play out and let’s get it over with.”

She finally does entertain his presence, lifting a hand and flattening her palm against the lower part of
his stomach, her fingers long and well-manicured as they stretch out on him. Taehyung wonders
whether the lines of his stomach feel as hard as he imagines them to be. His teeth sink to his lips,
nervous and punishing of his thoughts.

“Eager, are we?” she grins and it’s venomous.

“I want this done,” Jungkook says.

“Why?” Julia’s voice is sultry and malicious. Her fingers sink lower and her palm hovers at his
crotch. “What are you afraid of?” she nearly whispers to him, looking up, widening her eyes with
innocence that is foreign to her body. She presses her hand against him.

He grips at her wrist and pulls her at her feet. She stumbles a bit, the elegance that she had been
forcing into her demeanor breaking a bit. He keeps his hold on her, placing the other hand on her
hip. He presses her into himself, something fiery sneaking into the glare she turns to him. His
indifference remains, and it is almost palpable as he looks down on her. Taehyung already knows
that indifference well enough, but he wonders what it would be like to be looked like that by
someone you tell you love.

“Tell him where you want him,” Jungkook instructs Julia, his hand lowering from her hip, circling
around until it reaches her backside. It pauses there and after a firm squeeze, settles. They’re mouths
are a breath away, words traveling from his to hers and Taehyung already feels he is breaking in on
intimacy where he is not supposed to, mostly because of the way her eyes dart across Jungkook’s
face, losing their hardness with each passing second and softening into a vulnerable affection that
lacks in the other’s entire being.

Taehyung wonders if his eyes had been as traitorous of vulnerability when words travelled from his
mouth to Jungkook’s when he had his hand around his throat and his leg between his a few days
prior.

“Here,” Julia says, she points to the couch where she had been sitting. It looks towards the bed, and
it is way, way too close to it. “I want him here.”
“Okay,” Jungkook breathes, releases her wrist for the sake of brushing a finger across her lower lip,
his thumb and forefinger cupping her cheek. He turns to Taehyung. Julia’s lips touch at his jaw.
“Can you sit here for me, Taehyung?”

Taehyung’s mouth is dry, and he does not trust his voice. It is the second time he says his name and
Taehyung is glad he had granted him with the first one as a chance to prepare himself because he is
not sure he would have been able to live through that one. He swallows nothing and nods, tongue
poking out to taste at his lips, checking to see if there is actually any moisture left.

Jungkook’s lips twist ever so slightly at Taehyung’s obvious affect and the latter hates it with a
passion. Julia tongues at a hollow dip of his jaw and throat, her lids have closed together, and
Taehyung wonders if she knows his attention is on him. Jungkook lifts a hand up, the one that used
to hold her chin and beckons with a single finger.

Taehyung has underestimated this, he realizes wholeheartedly, as soon as his feet move under the
motion, as soon as something unfamiliar and charging courses through him. He has underestimated
the unwitting power Jungkook has developed over him due to his awkward and misplaced interest.

Jungkook slides his palm in Julia’s and tugs her away. Taehyung stands before the couch they had
indicated for him. His eyes dart questioning and wide towards the other boy. He nods at him and
Taehyung drops to the cushion.

When Jungkook looks at him, it is with the perpetual indifference and some borderline distaste.
Taehyung knows what the gaze says, that it means he is doing this for Julia and that he does not
want to be there. Yet, there is a pinning intensity to his last glance that makes Taehyung forget he is
doing this for Julia(‘s money) and not because he wants to be there, there for Jungkook.

The object of his thoughts turns to Julia at last and his tone drops. He defines seduction and he does
it well, says, “Now tell me what you want me to do,” demands it softly, but firmly at the crown of
her head, brushes her skin with his lips lightly, lets them hover as his lids drop low as if heavy, to
allow his pupils to focus on her from his towering proximity to her.

Taehyung gulps.

He sees her bare skin awaken under his ministrations, gooseflesh layering her body. He understands,
imagines it would have the same effect on him, and hates himself briefly for replacing himself with
Julia and not with Jungkook, like a normal boy would do.
“Kiss me,” she tells him.

He cocks his head, lets his lips hover high up on her cheek before he presses them there, kissing her
gently.

“Jungkook,” she whines, frustration oozing from her voice and traveling into Taehyung’s body. She
fists at his shoulders, her fingers gathering the expensive fabric. He hums to her in question, a soft
vibration of his chest where her fists lie. “Kiss me.”

“I did,” he teases. His mere voice is a sin.

“Properly.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere,” she breathes with exasperation.

She almost does not get to finish her last breath because he sucks it out of her, lips meeting hers,
parting immediately and he kisses her, properly. Taehyung stirs. He has no place there. He shouldn’t
be there. He should go. Jungkook kisses with vigor and she returns it with just as much if not more.
It’s slow, but it’s deep, it’s bold, it’s wet, it’s… erotic.

Her hands are on his biceps, on his shoulders, on his neck, in his hair, fingers threading through,
tightening in strands, tugging. His are on her body, squeeze at her waist, her hips, her ass. He pressed
her to himself, holds their body flush, uses the hold he has on her cheeks to control her movements
and she is pliant in her hands, though Taehyung knows his strength is enough to move her even with
protests.

His fingers gather the material of her gown and he bundles it until reaches above her backside,
revealing her tight, round cheeks. Taehyung watches the veins and bones in his hands and fingers
move as he does it, as he touches her skin next, digs into it, underneath it and next she is in his arms,
her bare, skinny legs strewn around his waist, high heels still tightly fit to her feet. She seems to
weigh nothing to him as he lines her body with his. Her fingers are still in his hair, he’s kissing her
jaw, her neck, her collarbones. He’s kissing her everywhere.

Her head falls back, lips gasp and part, her eyes are shut. Taehyung sees Jungkook roll his body into
hers, directing her middle with his hands as he wishes, pressing her where he wants her on him.

He has her back on the mattress in a moment, walking her over the side so that Taehyung would
have a side view as his body aligns on top of her. Jungkook tugs on her dress and it drops off of one
of her shoulders easily, revealing a single small, perky breast. He runs his fingers over the curve of it,
and Taehyung is mesmerized by how naturally his fingers find her nipple, press and roll it between
their tips as he kisses her neck. She arches her back, releases a lewd moan, her fingers still on his
nape. She tugs on his hair

He grips her wrists, presses them into the mattress by her sides, her hands so, so small in his. His
tongue licks a stripe down her skin. Briefly his mouth simply parts against the globe of her breast,
does not touch it, rather than just allow the warm ghost of a sensation pass through her. It gets her
whining again, and he closes his lips around her nipple. Taehyung sees the graze of his teeth before
he parts with it because he is watching Jungkook move down her body rather than the way her
features twist and her lips shape around her moans.

Jungkook straightens up on his knees, looks down at her. He has his muscled ties in between hers as
her legs fall apart from their hold on him. Though he releases her hands as he looms above her, she
keeps them in the position in which he had pointedly pressed them. He looks at her, eyes dark and
low-lidded. He has disheveled her in the shortest time. They match in heaving breaths and parted,
swollen lips. Her eyes open, finally again, and she takes him in, gaze questions and beg, why had he
stopped, leaving her half naked and waiting.

Her legs press into him, and he taps the knee of one with a single finger. She parts them. He settles
his whole palm there, wordlessly sliding it across her thigh, lower and lower until it disappears
underneath her gown. It comes back out again, this time a finger hooked on a flimsy piece of fabric.
He drags it up to her knees, then moves back to allow it to fall.

Taehyung has his own hands on his knees, fingers squeezing hard into his protruding caps. His heart
is racing in his chest, mouth drier. He feels his own lids have dropped slightly, heavy, as his eyes
watch, his lips are beginning to part.

The fabric catches on her heel, but Jungkook pushes it away. He places both hands on her calves,
runs his fingers up until they reach the back of her knees, gliding them across her skin ever so slights,
then grips, holds her, Taehyung sees them dig into her flesh. He parts her knees and bends.

Taehyung sees very little, watches it like soft porn from a movie scene, her legs around him, him
fully dressed and her stretched out in the scant dressed, one breast on show. He sees him bite her
thigh first before his head dips, sees Jungkook’s dark hair between her parted thighs, sees the
muscles on his back move even under the fabric of his shirt. He wishes he would take it off. He sees
her hands finally betray their position and reach for him, tangle in his hair again, sees her back arch
more, her lips gasp and moan. One of his own hands slides down the length of her, then diverts at
her elbow. His fingers tease at her breast again, twirling around her nipple.

Her digits squeeze into his hair, tug at strands.

“Jungkook,” she says, she moans, she whines. Her head falls to the side, her face now fully revealed
to Taehyung. He squeezes at his knees harder when her eyes part briefly, tease over him, heavy and
dark and gone, she’s gone. Still, she manages a smirk, her mouth curling cruelly before a gasp is
forced out of her, her lids draw together with pressure and her teeth bare, white and glistening as she
closes them over her lower lip.

Jungkook straightens up and she whines terribly again, returning her attention to him, eyes wide to
his. He is stable on his knees while her legs are trembling around him. He runs a hand in his hair.
Taehyung feels scorching, blazing heat course through him at the sight of him. His hair is wild, and
his eyes are lazy, but dark, deep, intense. His lips are full and swollen, glisten.

Julia’s thighs press into him desperately, her eyes never leaving his face. He licks his lips and
Taehyung squeezes his knees even harder.

“Wanna suck my cock?”

Taehyung does not know how he doesn’t snap his kneecap into pieces.

Julia’s smirk turns devious. She twists on the bed, lying on her stomach in front of him. Her fingers
cup around him, her eyes following the movement of her digits for a moment before her lashes bath
and she stares up at him.

Her smile twists, the corners frowning. “You’re hard,” she tells him, feeling him.

“You make me hard,” he responds slowly. Her eyes drop to his crotch again, where Taehyung can
see the clean outline of a firm bulge. It makes his face burn, makes the blood in his vessels rush
worryingly. He keeps his eyes away from him. Julia’s twist to him and, accidentally he meets them.
She does not look at him with the same sultry zest from before; there is the strangest notion of
deflation in her orbs.

“Julia,” Jungkook calls, his fingers lingering beneath her chin. Her attention falls on him again, their
eyes connecting as she lies before him. He strokes his thumb across her jaw. “Suck my cock.”

He drops his hand from her face and instead replaces it in her hair as she brings hers forward, fingers
pulling at his belt, unfastening it quick and clean and smooth.

Careful with those lips, Taehyung. You don’t want something shoving in between them to keep them
at bay.

It rings promisingly, threateningly through his head as Julia slides his zip down. Jungkook sucks in a
breath, hisses, cocks his head. His fingers thread through Julia’s hair. Her digits disappear beneath
the fabric. She pulls his cock out and, indeed, Jungkook is hard and thick,and she holds him, licks the
underside of him, before her tongue teases at the tip, lips circle and her mouth sinks on him, and
fuck, Taehyung is hard as well.

He hates it, hates the fact that he barely feels the type of discomfort he is supposed to. Rather what he
faces is a tightening in his pants, a racing heart and heaving breaths, worst of all, running, ludicrous
thoughts, urges, wonderings – he wonders, wonders if Jungkook is heavy in her arm, if he is hot, if
the skin of him feels silky, how his skin tastes, if it’s uncomfortable to stretch her lips like that around
him, if his fingers are pulling too hard in her hair. If it hurts her.

“Good girl,” Jungkook hisses under his breath and Taehyung has to skip a breath to avoid choking
on it. She takes him well, he sees, her cheeks hollowing out around him and his length disappearing
with the bob of her head.

Jungkook gathers all her hair in one hand, shapes it like a ponytail and holds it like that, using his
grip to set and direct her pace. His head cocks, twists, and suddenly his eyes are on Taehyung and
this time Taehyung skips a full ten seconds of breathing. His eyes are blatantly dangerous, still very
much lazy, but glinting, focused, heavy-lidded and dark. His face is a peculiar mixture of relaxed and
tensed with pleasure, features sharp, but softer than usual. His lips are parted, breaths shallow as they
pass through. His jaw angles upwards, the line of it straight and cutting as he looks at Taehyung from
above it.

Taehyung leans back into the couch; he wants to be as far away from that stare as possible. His legs
part unconsciously, he does not want to put pressure on himself in case his situation gets worse and
the position allows him a little freedom. His hands now grip at his thighs, not at his knees, and he
accepts the challenge in that look. He does not shy away from it, no matter how much it burns him,
at his skin and at his insides.

Jungkook returns his eyes to his girlfriend. He tugs at her hair. “Enough,” he mutters, hissing when
she pulls away and his cock falls out of her mouth. He holds her in place by the grip he has on her,
his other hand falling to him, stroking himself languidly a couple of times. Taehyung pulls his lips in
his mouth, sucking on them, biting, hard.

“Lose the dress,” he instructs and releases her hair. She straightens on her knees in front of him, the
both of them mirroring each other on the mattress, eyes rooted into the gaze of the other, his hand on
his cock. She grips the edges of her gown, lifting it shamelessly over her head and discarding it
carelessly on the floor, not even sparing it a glance, less Jungkook’s focus escapes her and Taehyung
does not want to think of its price. She’s slim and tight and firm, her breasts small, but full.
Taehyung’s gaze doesn’t linger.

She crawls towards him, her fingers latching on buttons. They’re trembling a bit; her legs are as well.
She undoes his shirt and he watches her, but when she goes to push the fabric off of his shoulders, he
grips at her wrists.

“No,” he says.

“Why?” she whines, her hands struggling in his hold, but it is firm, causes the muscles in his
forearms to bulge.

Jungkook’s jaw juts towards the couch on which Taehyung is sat. “Hedoesn’t get to see me,” he
grunts out. His voice is rough and raw and final.

“But Jungkook—” she attempts, but in a flash he has her on her back beneath him, a hand pressing
her down in between her collarbones. He looms above her completely bare body, his own clad,
though his parted shirt allows for glimpses of bruised skin and sharp muscle and Taehyung loathes
his desire to see more.

“I. said. no,” he grinds out, pressing his hand into her harder.

Julia’s eyes harden into a glare. “Fuck you,” she breathes.

Taehyung agrees, fuck him.

Jungkook’s lips stretch. He smirks as a hand reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a condom
that now Taehyung realizes would have been imprinted with the tightness of the back of his pants
and marvels at his boldness, to stroll around the Empire Tower with the glaring implication of a
condom. “Works other way round, sweetheart.”

He opens the packet of his teeth, because of course that is what he does. He rolls it on himself with
one hand, the other disappearing between her thighs, but Taehyung cannot see exactly what he does
from the side. Only sees her twist and gasp.

“Fuck,” she hisses. “Fine. Fuck me.”

“Gladly,” he tells her, grips at himself. He props a fist by her head and slides inside of her with a roll
of his body that to Taehyung can only be described as exquisite. A loud moan jumps through her
parted, gasping lips, answered in a grunt of his.

Taehyung’s hands gather into fists and squeeze into themselves as he watches Jungkook move. He is
ruthless, quick and rhythmic with his thrusts, moving Julia’s body easily beneath him. He rocks into
her with power and control and it drives her desperate and whining, her legs hooking around his
waist, her hands gripping at his shoulders, but he pushes them into the mattress above her head with
one of his, grips at them there and fucks into her faster.

Taehyung is throbbing. His eyes are transfixed and captivated, darting across the whole of his body,
the way he moves, rough, hard, but controlled. Taehyung hates his clothes, fucking loathes them
more than poverty in this goddamn moment. He wants to see him, wants to see his skin, his muscles,
where they dip, where they protrude, how they align and bulge underneath his hot, glistening skin.

Jungkook fucks like it’s goddamn job.

Julia is lost beneath him, a mess, she moans and arches into him.

“Fuck,” he’s hissing, voice impossibly breathy and nuanced with pressure and strain – it’s beautiful.
“How are you such a slut and you’re still so tight?”

Taehyung’s ears burn. Julia moans.

“Jungkook,” she calls his name, desperation lacing through her shaky speech. He fucks her a bit
harder. “Is he—“ she stutters, struggles, moans. Her eyes are shut, and her lips are trapped between
her teeth. She releases them to speak, attempt to, whimpers betraying through her words. “Is he
watching me?”

Taehyung’s heart drops in his chest when Jungkook’s head turns and their eyes meet. His eyes are
permeating, sultry, demanding, glaring, and absolutely beautiful and Taehyung absolutely hates
them. He despises them, loathes them. He has never been more passionate about anything as much as
he is about his loaded hatred towards Jungkook’s eyes.

His expression is strained, more authentic, vulnerable. He is softened by pleasure, and though his
movements are controlled, composure slips through his face to betray the most erotic defenselessness
of sex and pleasure. It’s in the furrow of his brows, the tongue poking lightly through lips as he
breathes hard and uneven, but mostly, it is in his eyes.

Jungkook knows where Taehyung’s eyes are before he even turns. He feelsthem.

He knows the pair are rooted on him, haven’t left him all night, and won’t. He is well aware of the
bulge straining in Taehyung’s pants before he even sees it, though once his eyes do pass by it, his
hips stutter roughly inside of Julia.

Taehyung is sat there, legs spread wide and stretched before him, expression hooded by whatever it
is he desires, by the fact he is turned on. His face is soft and exposed, pouty mouth parted around
slow, heavy breaths. He wonders if Taehyung knows how his stare looks, how his eyes have
dropped low-lidded and alluring, beckoning and sensuous. He wonders if Taehyung knows his want
has morphed him into something completely different than the nervous mess he is supposed to be.

His wide legs and hooded eyes make him look as if he is the one orchestrating this, as if Jungkook is
fucking for his sake. He appears domineering, possessive of the air around him, powerful, seductive,
bordering on devious underneath the vibrant red hair.

Jungkook is glad for his uneasy shift on the couch, for his tightening fists. They remind him he is the
one in power. Taehyung is there because hecan pay him, and he is there against his will, but he still
has his cock hard in his pants, wanting, struggling. Jungkook knows it must be straining against the
fabric, uncomfortable. That with the little shift of his hips just now it must have brushed against them,
teasing him. He wonders how much Taehyung has to hold back; how he much he would like to stare
right into Jungkook’s eyes with that heavy, gone gaze and reach into his pants, pull his cock out,
wrap his goddamn endlessly long fingers around it and stroke himself until he’s spurting, maybe
Jungkook’s name a breath on his pouty, desperate lips.

“Jungkook,” Julia moans and his hips snap.

“Fuck,” he curses, losing a bit of his control, his rhythm. “He’s looking.”

He spares Julia a glance, but his eyes are quick on Taehyung again.

Jungkook allows himself a smirk and sees Taehyung’s tight fist shift closer to his stomach. He
wonders if he can fuck Julia hard enough to make the other touch himself.

Taehyung’s eyes almost pop out of their sockets when Jungkook releases Julia’s arms and instead
wraps his fingers around her neck. He squeezes. She gasps her name falling through her lips, more
pitched now, her trashing is getting more desperate, her hips lifting to meet his are brusque and
instinctive.

She’s close, but Jungkook’s eyes are not on her. They are on Taehyung as he holds her neck.
Taehyung’s lips part further, lower one dropping. He’s gaping. His cock twitches, untouched in his
pants, and his legs close together on their own accord. Jungkook’s smirk stretches more, and
Taehyung is convinced he is the Devil reincarnated, but then he grunts, betrays that same
vulnerability again. His hips are rushing, snapping, rhythm dropping.

“Jungkook,” Julia whines, chokes out, more and more putty in his hands by the second.

“Come for me,” he rasps to her, putting pressure on her neck. His eyes are still firm on Taehyung
and the latter feels a bit faint. He’s hot, sweating, feels the perspiration layer each inch of his skin
underneath his clothes, and wonders how Jungkook survives with the exertion, wants to scoff at his
stubbornness.

Julia’s hips pace impossibly against his and then they still completely, pressure gripping her body and
holding it for a moment as Jungkook keeps fucking into her. She comes with the syllables of his
name loose on her lips.

Jungkook lets go of her neck and falls on his elbows, his mouth layers with hers briefly, and their
eyes meet before he turns his head. She breathes words in the skin of his neck and ear as he rocks
into her, hard and rough and unrelenting. His thrusts are snapping. His eyes are shut tight until they
are not, and he stares at Taehyung for the last time before his breath hitches, hips shove into her and
still. He rolls himself languidly inside of her a few final times. She holds his biceps and keeps her lips
on his skin.
It’s the last time that night Taehyung gets to see his eyes. Jungkook avoids his presence like the
plague when he slides out of Julia, when he pulls the condom off, when he walks off to a room he
supposes it the bathroom.

Julia, on the other hand, does not stop staring. She pros herself on her palms, breathes heavy, fucked
out and sweaty. She stares at him, naked, shameless, a handprint on her neck. She struggles to catch
her breath for a moment, disheveled, but when she does, the smirk is immediate on her face – it’s
different, though, gentle, almost, soft. He feels she is not smirking at him, but to herself and very
privately to herself.

“You’re hard,” she announces, her eyes bold and wandering to the obvious bulge in his pants.

Taehyung’s gaze instinctively falls to it, too. He shifts, clears his throat. “I—

“He’s leaving,” Jungkook appears at the door, his hard, indifferent eyes settled and firm on Julia.
“Give him the money. He’s leaving.”

He disappears inside the room again and Julia flashes a manicured middle finger at his back. She
pushes herself out of the bed and walks comfortably around the room, completely bare. She flinches
with her first step, switches her footing a bit, then walks easily. She almost has a leap in her step as
she walks over to the cupboard on top of which Jungkook’s cocaine still stays. She opens a drawer,
takes out a fat load of cash.

She’s casually in front of Taehyung in a moment and he stares at the floor.

“Come on,” she rolls her eyes, “you just watched me get fucked. It made you goddamn hard,
Taehyung. You can look at me naked.”

Taehyung blinks. “I—

She brushes a finger on his cheek, he lifts his head with the motion, following it until he meets her
eyes. “I want you to look at me naked.” She bends, next, and his heart stutters with nerves when her
lips gently land on his cheek. He stares at her collarbones, at the hair that falls in the both of their
faces. “Thank you, Taehyung,” she whispers to him before she straightens up.

He’s wordless.
She slips the money in his lap, spins and returns to the bed. “You can go,” she’s barely said, and he
is on his feet. He wants to get out of there. He wants to get rid of the fucking hard on he’s sporting, is
actually considering amputating it at this point, ponders children and sex are worth the
embarrassment of Jeon Jungkook knowing he turns him on and Seung Julia thinking she does.

“Taehyung,” she calls when he is at the door. He pauses, though he does not look at her. “What do
you think of me?”

His hand is on the handle. “I think you’re beautiful, Julia,” he tells her. Then he leaves.
 Chapter 7
Chapter Summary

A little insight into characters and Jungkook being a prick as always.

Chapter Notes

It’s been a long time, but well it’s Christmas. Merry Christmas. Thank you all for the
wonderful feedback, best possible gift.

Ji-woo comes down the stairs on Tuesday after a nap she was too tired not to take. Taehyung is at
that point humming distractedly to himself as he cooks. Bibimbap, he’s cooking, not just eggs. He’s
using nice ingredients as well, not ones that were on promotion because they were about to go bad.

Her hands grip a ball on the rail, dig into it until knuckles turn wide. Her eyes are wide and her voice
is shrill when she calls to him, startling him into almost dropping his utensils before taking a
ridiculous defensive stance.

“Tae,” she shrieks. “Woojin steals.”

Now, Taehyung drops his utensil and it falls to the dingy floor with a loud, penetrating ring. “What?”
He responds, mirroring her alarm.

Ji-woo takes a couple of more steps down, edging closer to him. She replaces her wide eyes from
him to her footing a few times. Those stairs can’t be trusted even if one knows them well. “That
automated car toy he wanted with a remote control that three of his friends reportedly have? He’s
currently playing with it. Taehyung, he stole it.”

Granted, her voice is brimming with exasperated disappointment. The thing is, the Kims? They steal.
Their father steals. Their brother used to steal, he doesn’t anymore, to their knowledge, though they
currently have no knowledge of him. Ji-woo takes things sometimes, things she knows won’t be
missed, little, meaningless things. Taehyung borrows things from the restaurant. The utensil currently
lying at his feet, for example, he did not buy. The stainless steel got burned in a clumsy mistake of an
assistant chef, so he figured they could do without it.

They do it. However, that does not mean they don’t consider it wrong. It does not mean they would
ever endorse their little brother doing it. Ji-woo and Taehyung have promised each other time and
time again, each time their father disappears, the day their brother left for good, that Woojin’s life
would always be the furthest it could from that of a Kim.

Taehyung sighs, relieved, his eyes rolling backwards on their own accord as he waves a dismissive
hand and bends to pick up his utensil, wiping it off on his ancient, similarly burned apron. “He didn’t
steal it, noona. Chill.”

Ji-woo’s arms fold in front of her chest as she steps towards him, the scent of his cookery reaching
her senses and sneaking into her nostrils. Her brows arch. Her voice rings suspicious. “And how did
he get his hands on it then?”

Taehyung hesitates, licks his lips. He has his back to her again, but feels her edging closer. He
shrugs. “I bought it for him.”

The shrillness and incredulity return as Ji-woo speaks. “You bought it? With what money,
Taehyung? And why? Are you trying to buy his forgiveness when we still haven’t paid rent— Is that
brand fucking rice? Have you gone absolutely mad?”

Her voice raises so suddenly and loudly, close to his sensitive ears, that he almost hits her on instinct.
“My god, noona, scream any louder my ears will fall off.”

“Can you focus on the fact you’ve completely flipped out?” She chastises, backing off a bit
physically, but ready to yell some more if it needs be. “They’ll kick us out if we’re late with rent
again.”

Taehyung refuses to turn to her. “They won’t. I already paid.” He mumbles as he speaks, talks
underneath his nose, but she hears.

Her brows draw together, lids blinking on their own accord like a bat flapping its wings, rapid and
heavy. She pauses. “What do you mean you paid?” Disbelief layers her voice, perplexity as well;
she’s doubtful and confused.

Taehyung pretends the food he is cooking is in dire need of his absolute undivided attention as he
speaks. He cannot look at her when he is spewing his carefully prepared lies. He is afraid she would
be able to tell by the spark of guilt in his genuine eyes. His mouth crafts lies easily, trained to do so
by the life he’s been living, but his eyes, when it comes to his family are treacherous of all his
intentions. “A waiter spilled brewed tea on me and the restaurant paid me damages not to sue them
for potential bodily harm like the Lees did two years ago.”

Ji-woo blinks once more. A smile too big for the perpetual unobtrusive sadness of her natural face
spreads immediately into her cheeks, shining through her voice when she shrieks entirely too
differently from before. “Really? Oh my god, Tae, that’s fucking amazing. That’s awesome, how
even the fuck — I, er, I mean. I mean you’re okay, right? Are you okay?”

Her slim hand is suddenly on his shoulder, spinning him around as sympathetic eyes examine him
from the forehead to the heels of his feet, though the unadulterated happiness has not left her face.
Taehyung meets those eyes, worries his lip between his teeth, but allows the tips to twist, a grin a
helpless reciprocation of his sister’s happiness.

“I’m fine,” he says, placing his hand on a spot on his stomach which he randomly chooses. “I just
have a big red blotch right about here, but really I’d take a couple of more oolongs if it means I get to
see you and WooWoo smile like this.”

He’d watch anything Julia wants him to to see his siblings shine like this.

Ji-woo swats at his shoulder. “That’s shit, Tae.” She tries to remove the grin from her face, but it
seems impossible for her to fight it. “Did he really smile?”

Taehyung’s nodding hurriedly. “He was beaming. You should have seen him.”

“I wish I had.” In a sudden outburst of movement Ji-woo wraps her arms around Taehyung’s middle,
cheek pressing tightly into his chest, and she rocks them both to the sides gently. “God. I can’t
believe I’m actually happy you got boiling tea spilled on you. I’m bad.”
Taehyung’s smile changes slightly, grows fonder and more vulnerable on his face as he eyes down
the girl clinging to him firmly. She’s warm against him, but he holds his arms spread wide apart to
accommodate her, doesn’t really hug her back. It’s been so long, he realizes, since he’s been
embraced like this. It feels warm and weird, but good.

He’d fucking join the rich brats for this.

He grips at his sister’s shoulders and gently peels her away from him, suddenly even more
uncomfortable at holding her when the thought hits him. His cheeks burn slightly, blood running hot
on the inside of his skin as prospective images cross his mind, vision of Jungkook moving above
Julia, him shunning his shirt this time. Him touching Taehyung this time

He should want to be inside of Julia, he realizes. And he does, a bit. She’s tight, Jungkook had said,
igniting a fire in Taehyung with the desperate breathiness of his strained voice, and for a moment he
imagines the roles to be reversed, him fucking Julia and Jungkook’s ungodly eyes focused on him,
forced on him, all his undivided attention reserved solely for Taehyung. Would it turn him on like it
did Taehyung? Would he be tempted to reach inside his pants, tug himself out, fuck his palm with
the fire of his gaze engrained on Taehyung’s body?

“I have to finish dinner.” Taehyung announces, clearing his throat. He turns away from his sister,
swarmed with a variation of guilt that is entirely new for him. He’s never hidden something like this
from her. Ever. She has dedicated her entire life the past couple of years to taking care of him and
WooWoo. And what does he do in return? Wonders what a Jeon would look like masturbating.

Lies. He tells dirty, stupid lies. Lets himself get bought. What would Ji-woo think if she knew? She
falls low for money as well, she does – he doesn’t ask, but he knows. Still, he thinks she would
throw away their dinner and WooWoo’s toy straight away if she knew how he’d bought them.

She’d still allow him to pay rent, though. She can’t afford to be that disgusted.

“You do that,” Ji-Woo smiles at him and an empty sort of hurt bugs at his stomach instead of the
burnt that is supposed to be there. “I’ll go play with WooWoo until dinner.”

Taehyung nods and she turns to leave, a hop in her steps as she bounces up the stairs energized. She
halts at the top, turns to look at her other little brother. “Taehyung,” she calls. He hums in response,
focus on his food. “Thank you,” she says softly.

She disappears then completely and so does his smile.

Jungkook’s eyes roll almost naturally. Annoyance pricks at him and his voice is akin to a scoff, when
he lazily drawls. “How many times?”

Julia’s fingernails skim across a bruise her own lips left that he allowed out of regret. Now, that he
has been previously punished for it, he flinches away from her touch and her hand drops to his
shoulder, the fabric of his shirt exquisite, but not nearly as his bruised skin is to her. “As many as it
takes to convince him,” she replies as she pulls away. She takes Yoongi’s lighter from where it is
lying on the table on the Mins’ roof garden and smokes. Her fingers tremble a bit as she tries to hold
the thin cigarette and it could be because she hasn’t taken anything this week. “A bet is a bet,
Jungkook.”

She leans back again, but not into him this time. She props herself on soft outdoor pillows and blows
smoke, legs crossing and her eyes focusing on Hoseok who is in swimming trunks, trying to shake
the girl who passed out in the hot tub awake. He gives her exactly two nudges on the shoulder before
he gives up and lets her droop.

“I hate that,” Jungkook voices distaste, layering it on his face as well. “You’ll get the stench on my
clothes.”

Julia sucks on her cigarette firmly. “I’ll buy you new clothes,” she dismisses.

Yoongi walks leisurely towards the hot tub, a colorful drink in his hand with a funny straw. He is
wearing trunks as well, and dark sunglasses to hide his red eyes. His body is dangerously skinny,
skin pale and sweating. “At least drag her body out of my tub, Hob. I’m not swimming with
carcasses.” He swings his bony legs into the water and sinks in, placing his drink on the side.

“Carcass is only used for animals,” the girl’s friend says, her head tilted back to look at the clouds.
Or maybe she can’t properly hold her neck up.

“Whatever,” Yoongi says. He turns his head and lets his lips find the top of the straw. He sucks the
liquid until it’s slurping, and it disappears, coloring his mouth and tongue loud, neon blue.

“Corpses,” her friend says. “You don’t want to be swimming with corpses.”

“I don’t,” Yoongi confirms.

Hoseok grips underneath the passed out girl’s shoulders and pulls up until he can wrap his arms
around her stomach and easily lifts her from the water. He lies her body down on the nearest chaise
lounge.

“Be a doll, Hobi,” Yoongi calls. “Make me another drink.”

Hoseok clicks his tongue. “Suck my dick,” he says.

Yoongi’s lips stretch lightly on his face. “Okay.”

The other rolls his eyes, stepping into the closed glass space on the roof garden where Yoongi’s
personalized mixologist bar is. “One of these days,” he mutters, though it’s heard loud and clear.
“I’m actually gonna put it down your throat.”

“Until I’m choking, please,” Yoongi says, smirks.

Julia finishes her cigarette and puts it out on the glass layer of the end table in front of her. “Make
one for me as well.”

“He was hard last time,” Jungkook says privately as he watches the skin of the thin passed-out girl
glisten with the water from the hot tub before it dries underneath the sun.

“He was,” Julia nods, a smile teasing at her lips.

“He’ll cave soon,” Jungkook continues.

“Eager?” Julia drawls, cocking her head and cozying her eyes towards him. She wants to touch him
again, but she feels he will flinch and Yoongi is here now. He will notice and she hates to let him
see.

“To be rid of him, yes,” Jungkook nods, speaks rough but lazy.

Julia clicks her tongue, hides her smirk, though her eyes glint with eerie, sultry mischief as words roll
out her tongue almost cunningly, “If I ask nicely enough.” She licks her lips with intent, with
insinuation, “maybe he’ll agree next time. Do you think he wants me?”

Jungkook clenches his teeth. “Yes,” he grinds out. His eyes blink away from the bare girl and focus
instead on Hoseok who returns to Yoongi and teases him quietly before handing him the drink. “I’ll
be the one asking, though.” He announces.

Julia’s brows arch, head cocking further. Entertainment stretches her mouth suspiciously. “You?”

“I don’t want you getting too cozy with Kim,” Jungkook says, purposefully lilts his voice with a
condescending form of disgust when he explicitly mentions the boy. “He’ll be out of the picture
soon,” he promises.

Julia’s eyes roll tediously. She lets his palpable distaste hang in the air between them, pauses. Her
eyes are on Hoseok’s approaching form as she speaks. Her voice is numbed in a deadpan. “You got
hard from eating me out, Jungkook. You. He gets you off as well.”

Jungkook’s eyes finally shoot to her, accusatory and scathing as his glare settles on the side of her
head. “He—“

“For you,” Hoseok’s permanently cheery voice invades his ears as his physique blocks the sun
suddenly, looming over the pair. His ears buzz.

Julia takes the suspiciously colorful drink he has extended to her with her manicured figures. The
straw in it is ridiculous as is the umbrella he has stuck in it. Her lips ignore the straw as they latch
onto the glass and her head tips.

“What’s with you, Kook?” Hoseok’s eyes have skimmed to him, studying the glare he’s focused on
his girlfriend, atypical for Jungkook to put so much of anything into his countenance.

Jungkook’s tongue pokes into his cheek as he rolls his gaze to his face, losing the heat of it in the
movement. “Drop the questions, Hoseok hyung, and go fuck your girl.”

Hoseok grins widely. “She’s unconscious,” he says.

“Yoongi hyung’s, then.” Jungkook smirks.

“Yoongi hyung, then,” the boy in question calls from the hot tub, craning his neck, arching his entire
back, his arms spread on the edges of the tub. His drink is finished again.

Hoseok props himself on a leg he lifts to the table, bend by the knee. “One day,” he tells them all,
“I’ll actually fuck you like a pussy.”

Yoongi turns fully then, his lips spreading into a lazy grin. He’s still chewing on his straw, though
liquid from his glass is long gone. He shakes his wet hair out of his hooded eyes. “Faggot,” he
laughs.

Hoseok laughs as well and Jungkook does, too.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” are the first words that foolishly leave Taehyung’s lips when
his eyes lift from the accounting books at the sound of the door to the storage room opening and
closing and widen with recognition and alarm as the broad, threatening and inconveniently familiar
shape of Jeon Jungkook invades the privacy of his room.

Taehyung straightens up from the regretful for his back position he has previously taken, slumping
over the printed numbers with his ankles crossed. He places the papers behind himself on the storage
unit Jungkook had pressed him into the last time the two had shared the air in this room. He leaves
the pen he had used to underline inaccuracies as well and watches it awkwardly roll to the floor
behind the unit and out of his reach.

Jungkook pauses a few feet away from him, though his presence is enough to make Taehyung’s
heart palpitate worryingly into the cage of his ribs. His gaze, stoic, dark and lazy, focusing on him as
he casually struts into his space with his arms crossed and bulging in front of his chest is all it takes
for the uppermost layer of Taehyung’s skin to suddenly become alive and buzzing.

The other’s head cocks, an authoritative arrogance dripping from his voice. “Should I even dignify
this with an answer,” he says.

Taehyung scoffs, his eyes rolling instinctively. He shouldn’t probably, none of his managers would
make much of a problem if they find a Jeon in the back. Rather, they would likely be proud they
have enticed his curiosity enough for him to explore, scared it is too dusty for his brand clothing,
shiny shoes and shinier presence.

“What are you doing here, Jungkook-ssi?” Taehyung asks, carefully. A pang of fear is coursing itself
through his veins, through his voice as well, if he has to be completely honest. Julia was done with
him, after all, and now there was nothing stopping Jungkook from rearranging his face until his own
sister wouldn’t recognize him.

Jungkook ignores the question completely, taking leisurely steps towards where Taehyung stands,
and he physically recoils with a flinch without fully meaning to when Jungkook reaches out a hand.
It passes by him, however, fingers delving into the papers and listing through pages distractedly. He
eyes Taehyung briefly as the other recovers and attempts to hide there was anything to recover from
altogether. He fails and judges it by the nearly inconspicuous smirk that graces Jungkook’s lips.

“Are you an accountant now as well, Kim?” Jungkook asks.

Taehyung blinks, hesitates. He is as physically taken aback from the question as he was from the
approach. “Erm…” he prolongs the sound, rummaging his head for what the right thing to say is,
scared to be honest, but unable to think of a lie. “I’m just helping out is all. I’m good with numbers,”
he settles for, finally.

Jungkook is close now, though his eyes are on the paper. It is distracting for Taehyung to have the
other in such proximity. Presence is unnerving enough, but proximity is downright dangerous.
Especially when he can smell him.

“You like Math?” Jungkook asks, nose arching upwards with a bit of a distaste.

Taehyung shakes his head. He can’t take his eyes off of Jungkook’s face, but he desperately wants
to. “No,” he replies. He does not know why, but he continues speaking afterwards, clarifying as if
Jungkook could ever care about his interests and endeavors. “Architecture. Math comes with it,
though, unfortunately.”
Jungkook’s eyes skim to his, his fingers pausing and instead just resting there, close to Taehyung’s
head. His body is angled towards Taehyung’s while the other’s is pointed straight, and his other side
is completely free and potent for escape. He still feels trapped, though, locked in space with his feet
immobilized just because of the heaviness of Jungkook’s gaze.

“You know this is illegal, right?” Jungkook says, edges a bit closer and, though his face does not
betray it in any way, Taehyung swears entertainment flashes through him as Taehyung pales. He
gulps.

Oh god. Ohgodohgodohgod.

“I—” panic laces the single syllable loud and clear, but before he can say anything else – and he is
not necessarily sure what his mouth is going to blurt out – Jungkook interjects.

“Relax,” Jungkook instructs, voice demanding, yet peculiarly calm, hissing. He is used to holding
authority, it is clear in his merest requests. “I’m not going to get you in trouble with the law, Kim.”

“No?” Taehyung perks, word tilting curiously, and he follows Jungkook with wide shiny eyes as he
edges closer still, extending another sinewy arm to prop near his waist on the other side, essentially
trapping him now, but remaining a distance, his arms both stretched fully, keeping him away.

“No,” Jungkook confirms, nodding his head. His voice drops an octave lower, or it feels to
Taehyung as if it does. As if he speaks rawer now, from his chest and through his throat. “As long as
you answer a question that is?”

Taehyung’s tongue pokes out, wets his lips. Jungkook’s eyes briefly drop to it, attracted by the
motion, before they lift to hold the other’s gaze. “Okay,” Taehyung breathes carefully, slowly, his
agreement holding a question in itself.

Jungook pokes into his cheek with his tongue, his lazy, captivating eyes boring into Taehyung’s
face. He’s studying him, the younger realizes, again and again, he is under the constant, exhilarating
scrutiny of Jungkook’s powerful eyes. He breathes and he speaks, rough, but easy, unobstructed and
Taehyung wants to die. “Did you get yourself off afterwards?”

His eyes widen even more, helpless, innocent and shocked, before they change shape and narrow.
He backs up, recoiling further into the storage unit behind him, pursing his lips, mouth a thin line, but
the pair of them still perky and full and pink on his offended face. “Jung— “

His voice is not far from the breath of a beg and Jungkook already knows before he hears it that it
won’t be an answer he finds satisfying. So he takes a step, instructs softly but firmly. “Tell me.”

Taehyung’s cheeks burn. His heart is irrational in his chest by now, dangerous, but he can’t help it in
the clutches of Jungkook’s eyes. The skin on the back of his neck is tingling uncomfortably, as well,
red with memories and truths he refuses to voice to himself let alone to a Jeon. “What’s it to you?”
He asks and it is spiteful, defensive in the way it attacks.

Jungkook’s brow arches at the tone he uses, but other than that, he preserves the ambiance he forces
with his calm demeanor of authority. His voice is light, but dismissive. “Curious,” he says, though he
does not sound it, does not allow himself to betray any interest at all, even though he claims it, and
Taehyung yearns a bit for the vulnerability of him that he only got to witness ones.

That shone through his eyes in the hotel and then through Taehyung’s mind when he desperately and
shamefully got himself off to recent memories in his cheap bathroom. He’d leaned his forearm on the
tiles, pressed his eyes onto it, onto the bone, engulfing himself in darkness and jerked himself off,
biting on his lips punishingly, until he’d spurted on the tiles with a strangled cry.

He’d scrubbed his skin even more desperately after that, almost to the point of pain. It was red and
angry when he was done, and Taehyung deserved it.

Taehyung is silent and nervous and Jungkook gets antsy and impatient with waiting within a minute.
He murmurs and it gives his voice a gentle note that forces intimacy in the breaths they share, though
space between them is still not scarce enough and much too small at the same time, “Did you?”
Jungkook tilts his head, he parts his lips and leaves them such, drawing a glance from the other boy.
His own eyes fall to Taehyung’s mouth when he feels the puff of his warm breath on his skin.
Jungkook chases a smile away from his lips when he watches him subconsciously shiver and he
draws closer still. “What did you think about? Did it play out in your head?”

He whispers the mind numbing questions with suggestive conviction and Taehyung is afraid he
nodded without realizing. He presses himself further back into the unit and the smirk that graces
Jungkook’s sharp, handsome features is unquestionable, tugging at his mouth and mocking
Taehyung with its teasing, smug quality. Jungkook’s unaffectedness in all of their interactions is
unmeasurably frustrating. It makes Taehyung want to tear his hair right out of its roots.

Jungkook’s provocative and he knows it. Taehyung, if he allowed himself to theorize about his
behavior, which he doesn’t because dwelling on it, indulging him, would only makes things worse
— the Taunting Twin haunts his thoughts enough, did so even before his girlfriend and him took this
unbearable interest in him — Taehyung would then think he was enjoying it, doing it on purpose to
coax a reaction out of him, literally using him as a toy to go on a little power trip. The rich have
always got off on what they hold over the poor, on their manufactured superiority. It gives a certain
high, he imagines, and maybe this does, too. The affect he so easily draws from Taehyung with the
meters form of attention he pays to him must be satisfying in a sick sort of way, one he would expect
from someone nicknamed Taunting.

Taehyung hates he’s so easy to rile up, despises the fact he allows this satisfaction to breach
Jungkook at his expense, that he’s just that pliant to toy with, cheap to boy, quick to react.

Now, he’s flustered and unease under Jungkook’s crafted simple — so fucking simple —
ministrations, heavy eyes and whispered words. His steady breath filtering over to fan across his
reddened skin coerces Taehyung’s own into quickened unevenness.

Jungkook takes the tiniest step, but Taehyung notices, his body acknowledging it without his explicit
permission.

Jungkook tongues at his lips. Taehyung’s breath stutters as it leaves his. “Did you envision other
things you wanted me to do to her?” Jungkook asks. He’s closer now, too close. Taehyung refuses to
respond as meaning reaches his ears, irks at his skin, his blood, which feels heated. He turns his head
away and stares at the floor on his side, his arms close to his body, rigid and uptight. He’s scared
he’ll feel Jungkook’s fingers on the skin of his chin again, but it is worse. He feels his breath on his
cheek, instead, his own picking up again, hopelessly, the heat of his body closing up on him. He sees
his feet, his fancy, shiny shoes almost touch the tip of his worn out, borrowed ones. Sees his elbow
bend as he moves. Taehyung senses the pattern of Jungkook’s breath shift with the words he taunts
him with, coy and slow at his cheek, by his ear. “Her riding me?” Jungkook arches his voice into a
question. Taehyung struggles to breath, images flashing through his naive, creative stupid poor head.
Jungkook’s mere voice is a sin. It’s peculiarly erotic against his skin. “Me fucking her in the ass?” He
says crudely, yet so softly it’s like he’s whispering sweet nothings into his ears.

Taehyung’s head turns sharply and their noses brush before he pulls back, growling through gritted
teeth with treacherous frustration. “Stop it,” he grinds out. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it.”

Taehyung refuses to allow himself to be used for the personal entertainment of the rich. The last
person he would allow to tickle his ego with his responsiveness is Jungkook. Not when he
desperately wants the other to be affected as well, affected by him, by their proximity.

Jungkook’s voice drops some of its teasing eroticism, but he keeps himself in his space. He switches
to a casualness that annoys Taehyung further. Why is he allowed not to care? He shrugs. Jungkook
fucking shrugs, nonchalant and easy. “I’m not doing anything in particular just making
conversation.”

Taehyung wonders how quickly will Jungkook hospitalize him if he finally flips out and hits him.

“What made you come here then?” He speaks with unhindered animosity. His eyes are narrowed in
a glare, but it is soft and hooded, affected, regretfully. Jungkook’s proximity, his words, their blatant
sexuality and the raw eroticism he forces into his whisper and even the vibrations of his body, they
do something to Taehyung.

Jungkook is blunt. “Julia wants you again,” he tells him and Taehyung blinks, confused.

He wants to cross his arms but he is afraid he will brush Jungkook’s if he moves and he doesn’t want
to touch him because of how much he yearns to touch him. He arches his brows. “Why doesn’t Julia
tell me herself then?”

Jungkook allows a lazy smirk to sneak onto his lips again. “I volunteered,” he confesses idly.

Taehyung’s mouth opens and closes dumbly. Something spikes through him at the prospect, at the
fact Jungkook is not here to order him to refuse, but to ask him to come. Taehyung wants to say
something, but Jungkook interrupts, rearranging his footing. The tips of their noses are close, too
close. Jungkook’s lids are low on his fiery eyes, which dart across the features of Taehyung’s face.
Sultriness crosses his words again. “And if you tell me what you want, I might do it to her.”

White, hot anger spikes through Taehyung. Anger, it is. “Shut the fuck up,” he grunts. His voice is
more leveled than he expects, than he feels and he’s glad.

Jungkook’s lips twitch. “You’ve thought about it, haven’t you?” His brows arch, his head tilts.
Taehyung’s heart pounds and he pushes his head back in the gaps of the shelves, taking it as far
away from Jungkook’s as his neck would give. “What do you want me to do her, Kim?” He
questions. His nose brushes his cheek for the briefest moment before he pulls away and watches him
instead.

Taehyung wants to die. “Leave,” he tells him, begs him almost. “I have work.”

“Your work is worthless compared to what we’ll give you,” Jungkook dismisses quickly, arrogantly.
“Tell me,” he instructs. “What do you want, Taehyung?”

His name on Jungkook’s lips forces a shameful shiver to run through his body. His eyes don’t miss
it, dart across the length of him, to his face again.

“How do you want me to do her?” All Taehyung can do is breath. Jungkook’s close, so close, too
close, and he’s caging him with his body, muscled arms, broad shoulders. “Or do you want her? Or
do you want—?”

The door slams open and Minho’s voice startles Taehyung, his head tilting to him immediately,
though Jungkook doesn’t even flinch. “Taehyung, Jung-nim wants you to— Oh. Jungkook-ssi. I
apologize.”

Minho’s eyes widen and search Taehyung’s in question as he bows at Jungkook’s back instinctively.
Granted, only someone like Jungkook would get apologized to for interfering with his trespassing.

Jungkook sighs. He drops his arms from Taehyung’s sides, but remains in the dangerous proximity,
still keeps his eyes on him, though now they betray annoyance instead of their previous
suggestiveness. It doesn’t mean Taehyung can relax. He’s still burning.

“It’s alright,” Jungkook says, voice enviously leveled and holding a neutrality that makes Taehyung
ache. “I was just checking something.”

Jungkook’s hands raise and Taehyung’s breath hitches in his throat, eyes return wide and
questioning with alarm. His fingers settle at his neck, catching at the fabric, undoing the knot of his
tie before he redoes it, eyes falling on his handwork as Taehyung stares and studies as his face
helplessly.

“Okay...” Minho says, prolongs. He is hesitant and bewildered, eyes darting across the two as
Jungkook skillfully and quickly ties a perfect, textbook knot right around the other’s neck. His hand
fists at the bottom of the knot and glides slowly up until it reaches the top, securing it tight.

Jungkook leans forward, lifting his eyes slowly from where he was tracking his illicit motions to
meet Taehyung’s eyes. He speaks privately when he does, speech reduced to a whisper, though it it
just low, not as suggestive. “You really need to learn how to do that,” he tells him and it is enough to
make something cold run straight down the line of Taehyung’s spine.

He gulps, his throat bobbing. Jungkook places a palm on his chest, the touch igniting a small fire
with its shape. He leans closer still and Taehyung tilts his head away. His lips are close to his ear,
coaxing goose flesh. “Saturday,” Jungkook whispers. “Same time. Same place.”

There is pause that is loud and buzzing for Taehyung. Jungkook steps back before Taehyung realizes
he has nodded. The rich boy moves away, leaving behind a gaping coolness as Taehyung stills in his
place. He brushes over Minho as he leaves, not paying him a single glance, sharp jaw held high as he
struts away, leaving with no further word or look towards either of them.

Taehyung follows him with his eyes and when he disappears completely from view he looks at the
empty space he has left behind.

He ignores Minho’s questioning, perplexed gaze and quickly gathers the sheets behind him, eyes
falling desperately to the numbers.
 Chapter 8
Chapter Summary

Another night at the Executive Tower.

Chapter Notes

Feedback has been amazing. I have read and reread comments and just smiled to myself.
They're so inspiring and helpful, so thank you thank you thank you, and sorry for the
slow updates, but exam and holiday season has been rough and yeah. I got a couple of
people asking me if I have twitter or Tumblr, and I didn't, but I figured I'd try it out. So I
have a twitter account now. It's https://twitter.com/AlainaMillkovi1, so if you wanna
come talk, feel free.

Once again thank you for the amazing feedback. I am very new to this whole fan fiction
thing, so naturally I am almost nervous and doubtful of what I post, but people have
been so nice. Nothing makes me happier really.

Taehyung finds himself in the uncomfortably luxurious suite, same time, same place, as instructed
and paid for, and Jungkook is not there. He’s sat, legs pressed tight together, hands in his lap with his
long fingers tangled and clumsily intertwined, tugging at each other absent minded, palms rubbing
together. He’s leaning forward by the elbows, body folded in on itself, eyes focused on the carpeted
floor.

Julia is there. She’s sprawled on the bed on her stomach, her ankles crossed and lifted into the air.
She’s propped herself on her elbows, chin in her palm and she appears as if it is hard for her to hold
it up just on her neck. Her hair is disheveled; it’s everywhere. Her eyes are intense on him, focusing
and losing it every few seconds as her lips, maybe dry, for she tongues at them a lot, stretch lazy and
sultry on her pale face, teeth shine whitened in between. Her lashes bat slowly, illicitly. She’s
somehow suggestive in the very way she lays on her bed, skin mostly bared. Taehyung is once again
not convinced the crimson piece of branded fabric on her body is not simply underwear, but he
hasn’t been looking at her enough to judge fairly.

He is afraid the sound of his gulp rings around the room, that she can hear his breaths and his
moistened skin rubbing together as well as he can hear the sheets rustle with her merest movements
and small sighs he feels she makes on purpose. They’re soft and unnecessary and border on moans
as they are expelled through her parted, dried lips.

“Are you nervous, Taehyungie?” Julia says and it sounds like a sigh as well, breathy and leisurely.
His eyes shoot to hers. Only his sister calls him that and he feels her mouth dirties it, he does not
want to hear it again. “I— no,” he replies, and it is a lie so blatant it is unnecessary to even attempt to
convince. He keeps his chin up though, nose high. “It’s not like I have to do anything,” the
justification falls through and it is voiced for his own sake and not for hers, but she smiles.

“You don’t have to,” she’s amused when she pauses, something new is flashing through her eyes
now as they dart across Taehyung, scrutinize his traitorous body language. Her tongue coats her lips
again as they stretch cunning and cold. “You canif you want to,” she finishes and Taehyung pales.

A “What?” slips through his mouth, brusque even to him. It’s mostly through his teeth, near a gasp.
It’s breathy as well, but different to hers, listed by disbelief. His eyes search her for teasing, to see her
break character and laugh at him for falling for her implications.

Her body rolls to the side, her whole body stretching, and he swears he hears her purr, like a cat, her
entire behavior is feline, he concludes in a suggestive, nearly perverse way. “Don’t you want to
touch me, pretty boy?”

She’s offering herself, it occurs to him, and Taehyung’s blood runs hot with the immediate question
of what would Jungkook thinkinvading his head. How would he look, his eyes, would he even react,
or would that completely bypass him as well, allowing him to remain calm and collected, keeping
that cool, utterly frustrating demeanor? Taehyung wonders were he to lift up off the couch now, look
at his girlfriend straight in the eyes and say yes, he wants to touch her, wants to do everythingto her,
spread her on the bed they pay for, would it at least tug at his goddamn rich kid pride if not at his
probably inexistent emotions?

He doesn’t, though. Instead, he swallows nothing, presses his lips together tightly and shakes his
head. “No,” he voices, brief and soft.

Julia straightens on her knees and the mattress barely dips under her weight. The strap on her
shoulder slips down her arms, collarbones protrude underneath her pale skin. Her lips don’t hold a
smile anymore. They’re set in a line. Her eyes are lidded low, narrowed. “You’re lying,” she accuses
darkly.

Taehyung does not know how he would have replied necessarily, but he doesn’t get to, anyway, as
that is the moment Jungkook barges in. The door slams slightly into the wall and Taehyung flinches
instinctively. Even the walls are expensive here and it is simply disrespectful to treat them like that,
but Taehyung quickly forgets all about that, because Jungkook vibrates. He literally carries with
himself an energy of frustrated rage that is atypical for the Jungkook Taehyung has directly
experienced, but akin to rumors he has heard of him, the violent, vituperative Taunting Twin, the one
who likes to hurt, can’t help but hurt, as much as his sister enjoys doing it with her mouth, he
supposedly does with his fists.

He shuts the door behind himself with his entrance, and the automatic lock clicks brusque, abused.
Taehyung almost flinches again in his place, his eyes sealing compelled on the other boy, who walks
in somehow possessive of the space that surrounds him, of even the last string on the intricate
carpeting. He disregards Taehyung’s presence completely, but he can hardly take offense, as
Jungkook does not acknowledge his girlfriend either as he strides towards a cupboard, fishes out of it
a bottle whose shape and label scream expensive to Taehyung. He moves some more, takes out a
glass that Taehyung has seen enough movies to know is for whiskey.

What Taehyung senses is off about Jungkook, Julia must as well, because her eyes fall dead on him,
and she falls into complete silence, allows for the sound of him opening the bottle to penetrate the
tense air, the liquid pouring down, him gulping it in one go, before he fills the glass again. He relaxes
into the counter after that, crosses long legs and holds the glass light and casual as if his jaw does not
keep ticking, as if his eyes don’t flicker with pent up something, that irks at Taehyung’s curiosity
with power he cannot explain.

As much as the alcohol by his waist screams expensive so does everything about Jungkook. His
posture, his skin, the thick ring on his finger, the watch strapped around his wrist, the belt high on his
waist, the fine dark trousers hugging his legs, and the darker shirt pulled at his muscles. He’s strewn
with elegance, with quality, and Taehyung wants to know what is on the verge of making that
careful front burst.

His dark eyes dart to Taehyung, and he blinks away, quick and obvious, as if burnt. He’d be
embarrassed, but Jungkook, for as many bad qualities as Taehyung can assign to him doubtlessly,
does not seem stupid. He is aware Taehyung watches;what he watches he cannot be sure of, as
Taehyung himself is not entirely sure, but that his eyes are almost always on him is obvious.

Jungkook’s eyes pry away from Taehyung and instead center where they should, on his scantily clad
girlfriend so demandingly focused on him, it must scorch. His lips are tight and thin today, a fine line;
it parts as he sips golden liquid as if it a refreshing drink and not a burning spirit, and then, then he
smiles. It is a dangerous, dark tug of his lips, malicious and predatory as turns his glance, glinting
with something unspoken, yet felt, felt in the pit of Taehyung’s stomach and seen on the tips of
Julia’s skin.

“Shall we begin?” Jungkook breaks the silence, voice like lead. It’s low and hard. The corners of
Taehyung’s eyes are darting to him again, and then again, until he’s fully staring at Jungkook as he
approaches, slow leisurely steps, and once again Taehyung’s watching, but he cannot bring himself
to care – they payhim to watch after all.
Julia is still on her knees, close to the edge of the bed. Her eyes follow her boyfriend in his stride, but
they have taken some open, wide, wet vulnerability that Taehyung immediately has to look away
from. “Jungkook…” she pronounces, trails off.

“Take off your dress, Julia,” Jungkook instructs in a voice that would have got Taehyung to shed his
clothing too, if addressed. He pauses close to where she is kneeling and watches her, a hand in his
pocket, the drink in his other one.

She seems reluctant for less than a second, their eyes firm on each other, before thin fingers grip at
the hem and she lifts the fabric up and over her head, drops it on the floor near the bed and once
again meets his gaze, her own challenging, but her lips shut. She’s slim in her lacy underwear,
breasts small, but perky, nipples hard above her ribcage.

Jungkook takes the small necessary step forward to be almost touching her. He watches her for a
moment from the new proximity before his head drops, lips seal to her neck. Julia’s mouth falls open,
a small sound exhaling through, akin to a hiss at first, and then it is not; it’s a sigh. Her hand flies up,
grips into the fabric of his shirt at his shoulder and her fingers stay there, digging into it hard.
Jungkook’s hands remain as they are, one in his pocket and the other gripping at his whiskey and
Taehyung doesn’t know what to make of that, but Julia’s eyes fall shut and her teeth take her lower
lip into her mouth, so he supposes there is nothing to make of it.

Jungkook’s lips bruise her. They’re almost systematic in the way they leave a trail of love bites on
her paling skin, marking down the line of her long neck, before they skim at collarbones and dip
further lower. When his teeth wrap around her nipple, her fingers dig hard into his shoulder, her
other hand flying up and grasping at his slim waist.

His fingers leave his pocket, and he reaches in between her legs instead, rubbing two long fingers
across her once. It makes her shudder and it makes him pull his head away.

“You’re already wet,” he hisses. A breathy, uncomposed “shit” leaves him, and Taehyung finds it
exhilarating, the frustration he obviously has built up inside him, snapping and adapting into sexual
tension. Jungkook’s voice is rough and exquisite when he continues, dark eyes focusing on his
girlfriend as her head dips back and she moans. Taehyung has limited vision over Jungkook’s broad
shoulder, but he thinks he sees one of his fingers push her underwear to the side. He brushes his
knuckles over her, moves one finger languidly across her, but teases, doesn’t fully touch. “You get
off just on thinking about this, don’t you?” Jungkook asks. His head cocks, and he presses his fingers
against her past a tease, a real touch, before he takes them away again. “Is it for him or is it for me?”
He rasps, tongue poking out to skim at his lips. He almost looks hungry now as he sizes up his pray,
then those eyes, dark and starved, turn to Taehyung, interrupt his breath – he nearly chokes with the
amount of air he sucks into his lungs – with a single, short, indicative jut of his sharp jaw. “Bet your
boy toy’s turned on, too.” Taehyung’s ears are ablaze, and he gulps – he wasn’t, a mere minute ago
maybe he wasn’t, but the way Jungkook speaks, somehow, he manages to gather all his previous
anger and conduct It into raw sexual energy whose allure courses straight through Taehyung’s blood.
Jungkook suddenly pouts, and then he whines with structured irony. “Did you start without me?”

Julia’s nails dig into the fabric of his clothes. Her head shakes. “Never,” she breathes.Never,
Taehyung confirms in his head.

Jungkook smirks. “Be a doll,” he says, voice sultry. His head tilts again and the corner of his eyes
briefly catches on Taehyung’s unwavering stare. “Take off my shirt.”

Taehyung flushes, rubs his palms on the length of his thighs, then catches his knee caps, holds,
squeezes. His palms are sweating, and his heart is thudding in a way that is familiar to him, in a way
he allows himself to feel every once in a while, mostly for prudish, simple reasons, never because he
was about to see a man shirtless. He’s… excited.

He abhors it, is absolutely furious with himself at what pricks at him as Julia’s fingers, agile, but
trembling readily work Jungkook’s buttons. She is quick, and Taehyung is glad for it, stupidly afraid
Jungkook might change his mind and stop her. She untugs the material from his belt then reaches for
his shoulders, pushing at it. He lets it fall down his arms, replacing his glass from one hand to the
other to allow the shirt to fully slip from his body.

Taehyung’s breath hitches, his thighs drawing closer together. He lets his eyes roam. Skin, there is so
much skin, smooth and perfect and stretched over muscles and bones that shift and protrude. He’s
admiring his shoulder blades, his arms, he’s admiring the goddamn dipped line of his spine. Julia is
running the palms of her hands all across the skin and Taehyung has the most despicable urge to
replace her hands with his.

Jungkook steps closer to her, presses his front to hers, his lips on her skin again, obviously oblivious
of Taehyung’s silent begging desperation for him to turn around, so that he can see. The fingers of
his free hand seem light and feathery as they explore the skin of her back for they own, caress down
the length of her spine until they dip low. Taehyung’s wishes completely shift as suddenly he hopes
Jungkook never turns for he is taking such a ridiculous position on the couch to follow those ringed
fingers. He cups at her cheek for a moment before he slips a finger sideways into her panties, close to
where her ass meets her back; he slides the length of his finger beneath the fabric before he allows it
to twist, close together, and her panties gather as he pulls up. She gasps as fabric digs into her,
between her legs unexpectedly, cheeks fully exposed know with the lace of her panties tugged in
between under Jungkook’s ministrations.

He pulls his lips away and readjusts his grip on her underwear, holding it with two fingers and his
thumb. He gives it another tug and watches, sees her mouth part as another strangles gasp escapes.
Taehyung cannot imagine how this is anything but uncomfortable for her but the way her thighs
shift, so similarly to how his unconsciously move, betray she is just waiting for more. He is positively
mesmerized by the way Jungkook is able to work her so well, his eyes glued to the boy, to his sharp,
broad back, so full of skin, to his wondrous, wandering fingers, to the line of his lips, the glint in his
stare.

Julia’s hips are making the tiniest movements and Taehyung wonders if she is even aware she is
grinding slightly into the fabric Jungkook holds for her, pulls for her. He tips his head, lines his lips
with her ear, briefly teases at its lobe with pearly white teeth, then he’s murmuring in her ear in a
voice too loud to be simply for her sake and Taehyung can’t help when his mind wanders with
curiosity of why Jungkook is so much more adamant on putting on a show for him today. “I’m tired
baby,” he tells her. “I’ve had a long, hardday.” His tongue teases at the cleft behind her ear. “So, I
want you to ride me.”

He tugs on her panties one final time, before he lets her go. He replaces his grip on her wrist and
pulls her of the bed, and she follows, willing and obedient. With her feet on the floor, he faces her,
sideways to Taehyung and he can see a nipple. He swallows nothing and almost chokes on it.
Jungkook’s fingers tug a stray strand of hair behind Julia’s ear as she watches him as if there is
nothing else in the world worth watching and it is so eerily gentle, what transpires between them, that
is makes Taehyung feel more out of place than Jungkook demanding she rides him.

“Can you do that for me, baby girl?” he says. And she nods, she smirks, and she is Julia again,
smirking and suggestive, low-lidded and so illicitly sexual. She grips at his arms, wraps her fingers
right around his biceps and Taehyung wonders just how hard they must feel.

She turns him and he allows her and Taehyung and Jungkook’s eyes would have met right then if
Taehyung’s hadn’t immediately drop to explore with a slight heat made apparent in his tanned
cheeks. He is perfectly aware he ogles, but it cannot be helped as his eyes follow the hard, defined
lines of his well-relieved stomach before they slide across his chest, his nipples, small and pointed on
his bulked chest. Taehyung’s jaw loosens slightly and his tongue pokes out, skims across the oval
shape the part of his lips create before they close, thin, and his chin sets, eyes meet Jungkook’s, and
he’sglaring.

He’s glaring because Taehyung is supposed to look vulnerable, like a deer caught in the head
fucking lights, he’s not supposed to be low-lidded, gaze heavy, and doing that thing with his mouth
whatever the fuck that thing even was. He’s not supposed to be setting his jaw, and he really
shouldn’t be allowed to be that fucking pretty. It’s annoying, really. He’s a man. What is a man
doing being pretty? His hair is blonde now, not red, but it is still so glaringly light that eyes seal to it
irrevocably, and Jungkook is angry again.
Julia pushes him to sit and he does. He spreads his thigh on the bed wide, mirroring Taehyung’s
position perfectly, but he can’t lean on the back of a couch. Instead, he uses his hand, twists his wrist
and leans on a palm, the whole weight of his upper body dependent on it, and Taehyung’s eyes trail
to it, dart across the places it bulges with muscle.

He looks away, forces his eyes on Julia. If that is the position they will stay in, and it looks like it, as
Julia drops on her knees in between his spread legs, Taehyung is not sure he will survive the night.
Blood is already rushing in places it is not welcome to, heart palpitating. His legs are shifting on their
own accord, betraying his discomfort as knees bound to sides, but he just can’t seem to keep still. He
doesn’t hear what Julia says, doesn’t hear what Jungkook replies, his ears buzz, but then she is
pulling his cock out and he is half hard as she holds the weight of it, licks the underside slow and
tantalizing, eyes looking up to meet Jungkook’s and he is staring at her as well, even as he brings his
drink to his lips and sips on it. His neck seems longer when his chest is bear, when his head tips back
to accommodate the glass and Taehyung wonders if he would look better if he was arching back to
moan.

“Don’t tease,” Jungkook grinds out and it sounds almost like a warning. It sends Taehyung
wondering once again, what if she does, what if she does tease, what would Jungkook do, then.

He sees the back of Julia’s head moving, hears the explicit, wet sound of her going down on him,
notes a stutter in Jungkook’s breathing pattern, in a small pause of his chest when they fill out to
inhale. Taehyung wants to cross his legs, but he is afraid it will create a tightness harder to resist and
his hips will just shift into it; he does not trust his hormones enough to make friction so tangibly
attainable.

Jungkook’s hips shift and he allows himself a slight grunt. “Fuck, you take me so well.” She makes a
sound around him, readjusts on her knees. Taehyung supposes he should be staring at her ass,
perfectly on show, emphasized by the way she sits on her calves and arches her back to reach
Jungkook. Instead, he’s focused on the barest movement of the other boy’s thighs, on the exposed
skin of his stomach and chest, on the muscle that bulges in his arm, the one that ticks at his jaw.
Jungkook, however, is watching the way Julia trembles on her knees, the way her thighs tighten
together as Taehyung’s crave to do. “This is getting you off, too, isn’t it? Always so hungry for my
cock.” Jungkook finishes his drink and rolls the glass on the bed until it falls to the carpet with a dull
thud. He sits up, threads his fingers through her hair. “And he’s watching,” Jungkook’s eyes lift up
and Taehyung’s heart pauses in his chest. His tongue pokes out, wets his lips. Then he smirks, holds
Taehyung’s gaze with those loathsome, compelling eyes and speaks some more, “He’s looking at
you, baby. I bet you can’t wait to show him how good you ride me. I bet he’ll imagine it’s himself.”

Shit. Shitshitshit. His mouth is sinful, and his words are dubious. Leave so much room for
interpretation, too much room for interpretation. Taehyung’s throat constricts on itself.

Jungkook wraps his fingers tight around her hair and pulls her away. Taehyung doesn’t see her face,
only Jungkook’s when he glances down at her and smirks, again and again. “You ready to fuck
yourself, baby?”

Julia’s fingers grasp on his thighs. “Please,” she says, voice hoarse.

“Come here,” Jungkook says, nearly soothing. She’s on her feet next, dropping her underwear to the
floor and stepping out of it. He is fishing his wallet out of his pants, a thin Louis Vuitton. He takes
out a package and tosses his wallet away carelessly, eyes shifting to Taehyung briefly, but the other
is keeping his on him.

Julia wordlessly takes the condom out of his hands. She straddles his hips easily, comfortably, and
Taehyung wonders if Jungkook ever does have sex without any of his clothes. Julia doesn’t seem to
mind his pants stay on as her thighs are on his. Blocked from Taehyung’s view, she rolls the condom
on Jungkook. Her fingers remain on him, stroking him, and she looks at it briefly, focused, before
her eyes lift up to Jungkook’s, wide and wet and darkened with unbidden arousal. “Can I?” she says,
she breathes.

Jungkook nods. “Of course,” he whispers to her.

She holds him as she lifts her body up on her knees and now Taehyung can see, between her legs.
He sees her hand that grips him, that lines him carefully with herself as the other holds onto his bare
shoulder. She sinks on him slowly, so unnervingly, frustratingly slowly, and Taehyung’s legs stutter
to and fro by the time her ass rests on him again. Her mouth is wide opened and she’s whimpering,
ever so softly.

Jungkook leans back on one hand again, fondles at her hip with the other. “Move,” he says, short
and dark, and she does. She lifts her hips up and slides down on him again, and again, and then,
she’s fucking herself on him.

I bet he’ll imagine it’s himself.

Taehyung swallows. Jungkook’s cock is long and thick and it must be stretching her out, and she
moans on him, she loves it, she moves confident, but hungry and Taehyung can barely look at it. It’s
harder this time, so much harder with Jungkook fucking facinghim. With his sultry, dark eyes
filtering over to Taehyung as Julia closes hers, arches her neck, her back, brushes the tips of her
breasts on his chest.
Her eyes are screwed shut and his are wide opened and Taehyung has his lip in his mouth, biting on
it hard. His hands are on his knees, he’s squeezing them so hard, they’ll likely bruise. He bruises
easily. His back bruised from Jungkook pressing him into the storage unit, when he was on him, so
close, he could feel his thighs. The thighs Julia uses for support as she rides him.

“You’re so wet,” Jungkook speaks to her, sighs.

Julia wraps her arms around his shoulders, tips her head forward. She wants to meet his eyes and he
allows her, tears them away from Taehyung and catches his girlfriend’s primal stare. “All for you,”
she tells him, whispers to him, bringing her forehead close to his so she can speak in his mouth and
there are the first words spoken not meant for Taehyung, but he hears, anyway. He hears their
breaths as well, heavy, getting heavier. He sees her move, her hips, systematic, experienced, the way
her fingers dig into his shoulders.

Jungkook trails his hands across her thighs, slow and pointed; he fondles, grips into her flesh as if she
belongs to him, and, frankly, Taehyung reckons she does – with the way she moves on him, the way
she calls his name, most of all, with the way she looks at him. His palms trail to her ass and she
squeezes, both cheeks at the same time, coerces her movements into a certain pace by the grip he
preserves on it and Taehyung watches the way her flesh dents and the thin bones of his hands
protrude. He wonders what the fuck’s wrong with him, why the hell he is more focused on the back
of Jungkook’s hands than he is on the tight ass of a girl.

Jungkook looks as if it is intrinsic for him to get pleasured, confident and domineering even in the
way he sits, the way he seems to control her with his very gaze, the way he makes Taehyung’s
breath stutter each time he teases his eyes in his direction. It fits him, being pleasured, Taehyung
concludes, but still, he is still too composed; he’s different from last time, but he’s not nearly as lost
as Julia is bouncing on him.

He sucks on her neck, on the side he left unmarked, he teases her breast with his mouth, with his
teeth and his tongue. She moans, she digs her nails in his nape and he hisses at her, squeezes her ass
hard as a warning.

Jungkook’s stare darts to Taehyung in a moment he readjusts quite obviously on the couch. His hair
is in his eyes, punishingly teasing, and his mouth twitches. He smirks and looks away, pulls Julia up
by the grip he has on her until he slips out.

She whines, her palms spread on his chest. “Jungkook,” her voice trembles and so do her thighs as
her knees hold her up.
“Patience,” Jungkook chides, tsks. “Hold like this for me, baby.”

“Why?” she’s whining again, but she remains up as Jungkook’s hand dips. He brushes his fingers
over her navel, light and feathery, and she retracts from the touch a little. He presses into her next,
between her legs, slips a finger inside of her.

“You really are fucking wet tonight,” he grunts to her and she sighs, holds onto his shoulders as her
hips push into him, into his hand. He pulls it away, slipping his digit out of her, and she seems ready
to throw a tantrum in his lap, but in a moment he’s pushing in her ass.

She gasps, fingers digging hard into him and her hips snap forward, almost brushing into his chest.
“Jungkook—” she startles, though it’s breathless, disheveled. She’s biting her lips as they’re forming
an excited smile.

“Wet enough for me to fuck you in the ass,” Jungkook’s saying and he’s meeting Taehyung’s eyes,
whose are wide, so wide and bulging, his knee bouncing up and down; his jaw is loosened, lips are
parted. Oh god. Ohgodohgod. Jeon Jungkook is simply cruel. “Would you like that, baby?”

He rubs his thumb into her front and moves up to the knuckle into her back and she fucking falls into
it, allows her thighs to set back gently, carefully, pushes herself into his fingers. “Yes,” she grinds
out, and there is something primal in the way she says it.

She sinks into it, grinds into it, and Taehyung’s eyes are finally sealed on her, on the fact she seems
uncomfortable for about a nanosecond before she appears to be enjoying it, rubbing herself onto
Jungkook’s glistening fingers as he gathers more of her natural wetness and slips in a second one. A
sound escapes her, but she doesn’t stop, doesn’t even pause.

“Just like that,” Jungkook murmurs. “Fuck yourself on my fingers.”

She’s moaning and he’s slipping a third, the one with the ring.

Taehyung gulps, swallows. His knee is going wild and he’s not sure he can properly breath at this
point. He hates Jungkook, that much is certain, but he loathes himself a bit, too, because his fucking
body is tingling all over and his goddamn mind is wandering to places so derailed from where they
should be.
He shouldn’t be here at all. He shouldn’t. But WooWoo had been so happy with his toy. Ji-woo
hadhuggedhim. She’d thanked him.

“You ready for me?” Jungkook leans, whispers in her ear and she cannot see his dark eyes briefly
dart to Taehyung.

“Yes,” she hisses.

His palm lands on her ass with a smack. “Get on your knees,” he instructs, and she only takes a
moment, to pout, before she’s climbing off his lap and onto the bed. She faces Taehyung for the first
time in a while and he makes sure their eyes meet, makes sure he’s watching her, licking his lips.
Makes it obvious he thinks she’s mesmerizing, worthy to look at, at all times, then Jungkook pushes
at the back of her head and she presses it into the mattress, and he looks away.

Her arms stretch forward, face in the duvet as Jungkook directs with subtle touches before he
positions himself on his knees behind her. He grips at her ankles and parts them a little more, glides
his hand across her back, squeezes firm at her hips. Taehyung’s eyes are glued as he probes at her
with his fingers for a bit more, before he grips at himself, presses the head at her and ever so slightly
pushes, she gives and he’s sliding inside her.

Taehyung’s teeth are pressing so hard into each other they might snap. He’s too focused on this, on
the fact Jungkook is sliding his cock into an ass, to really notice the other is watching, dark eyes
dancing over a twist of his mouth, sultry and malicious and smug, oh so smug.

“She has one hole free, you know.”

Taehyung’s eyes snap to him, head moving so fast he nearly gives himself a whiplash and he stares,
open-mouthed and dumbfounded. He wants to say something, but one has to breathe in order to
make sounds and his lungs are failing him, brain as well, worse than his family tree. He can’t even
stutter a pronoun. Can’t even sound afuck youthis instance.

They never address him during this. They talk about him, about the fact he’s watching, but they
don’t address him, they can’t; no one warned him they would – that Jungkook would be shirtless and
balls deep inside of someone and looking at him and speaking to him, in that rugged, rough voice,
with that tantalizing, horrible smirk.

Jungkook is still inside of her, and he can’t tell if he is waiting for her to adjust or for Taehyung to
respond. Jungkook’s head tilts and the smile at his mouth turns positively evil, makes cold sweat run
all across Taehyung, makes his heart thud. “You wanna join, pretty boy?” he says. He says, and
Taehyung almost runs, but doesn’t.

“Jungkook,” Julia speaks, pressing her cheek into the bedding. “Fuck me already. Please. I want
you.”

She presses her hips back into him and Jungkook glares at her. He grips at her, holds her still.
“Patience, I said.”

He shakes hair out of his eyes and looks at Taehyung again, the cruel entertainment settling back into
his sculpted features. “You wanna touch yourself at least, pretty boy?”

He does. God, he so desperately does. His cock is aching in his pants and it’s getting worse and
worse with every single syllable that falls through Jungkook’s lips. Pretty boy. If he calls him that
again, he’ll burst.

“Come on, I can see you’re hard from here. You can if you want to” Jungkook continues nodding at
his crotch and Taehyung’s hand jumps across it instinctively, an effort to hide it from the other’s
penetrating eyes, but he touches himself ever so slightly and he’s hissing. Something flashes in
Jungkook’s gaze. “Do it,” he challenges. Taehyung’s head shakes but his hand itches. “You know,”
Jungkook’s head is cocking to the other side – he looks lazy again, lazy and teasing and way too
fucking smug, “I won’t move until you do.” Julia whines, her hands gathering into the fabric, fisting
at it until her knuckles are white. Jungkook’s lips arch and they are pouting. His places his palms on
his girlfriend’s back, glides them across, presses into dips and crescents. “You’re being cruel to our
horny Julia.”

“Taehyung, please,” she moans as if on cue and his name feels wrong, so very wrong in the context
of this.

Jungkook raises his brows. His own hands are tight on her flesh, this must take a lot of willpower
for him, too. Still, he manages to tease. “You got her begging,” he says.

Taehyung is very explicitly aware of the hand above his crotch. It feels warm and it’s twitching. His
hips are a moment away from thrusting into it, and he’s so goddamn hard it’s starting to hurt. Most of
all, he reads the challenge in Jungkook’s eyes and he sees doubt. As provocative as he is being,
Taehyung knows Jungkook likely believes his coercion won’t fall through.
“Your pants must be tight. Straining,” Jungkook is saying. He’s laughing at him, at his prudishness
or something else, at some inside joke he has with himself and Julia’s moaning underneath him.

“Jungkook,” She’s whining. He’s shaking his head, turning to her, gripping at her hips. He’s
readying himself and the smirk on his goddamned mouth is so fucking annoying.

Taehyung is pretty sure all his braincells have evaporated when he snaps the button of his pants and
pulls the zipper down. Jungkook’s smile falters, he stills, for barely a moment and then his eyes turn
to Taehyung again, and the other does not shy away. He looks straight at him when his long fingers
dip into his underwear and pull him out. Jungkook’s jaw ticks, tightens. His lids drop as his pupils
dart across him, fall towards his hand that wraps around himself.

Taehyung’s hissing, sighing, finally reaching some notion of physical relief. His lids drop as well,
mirroring Jungkook when eyes trail back to him. His mouth parts, tongue pokes out for a second. He
cannot help his expression, is too far gone with what he doesn’t know to even care.

Jungkook struggles not to swallow air. He forces the smile back onto his expression and it irks at
Taehyung, so much. “There you go,” Jungkook says softly, gently. He grips at Julia, finally moves
his hips ever so slowly and she’s whimpering contentedly. “Yeah. You’re making my girl all kinds
of happy. Come on, now, pretty boy.” At the endearment Taehyung’s eyes narrow. He pauses his
movement, reaches his hand up and stares at Jungkook dead in the dark, teasing eyes as he slowly
drags his tongue right across his palm. Jungkook’s hips shove into Julia, his hooded eyes glaring as
Taehyung reaches for himself again, wraps his moistened palm around his cock and slides it.

It feels good. Amazing. There is a rush going through him, scorching and alive and it laces over his
skin and traces underneath as well, setting a fire inside him, the pit of his stomach and over his blood
and it all begins and ends in Jungkook’s fiery eyes that are on him as he touches himself. It’s an
excitement, an unfamiliar adrenaline mixed in with a challenge, an unspoken competition of a sort he
is doomed to lose because no matter how much he surprises Jungkook he is too far gone just for
being in his presence. He does not want to focus on that, though. Not now. Instead, he focuses on
pleasure. He focuses on Jungkook. On his face, his eyes, his lips, his jaw. On his body, his arms, his
chest, his stomach. On the way he moves, the way he speaks.

And he’s speaking now, speaking to Taehyung. “You set the pace,” He says, eyes trained on the
motion of Taehyung’s hand across his length. His fingers are so thin, so long, so elegant. Even his
hands are pretty, and they shouldn’t be. They shouldn’t but they are, and he wants to punish him for
it. “Just so you know, she likes it fast.”

Taehyung listens. Eyes narrowed and one hand dug tight into the cushion next to him, he takes his
lip into his mouth and he tugs at himself, sets a pace, jerks himself off, and Jungkook, now he
watches. He has to, to match the pace and he does. With the same rapid motion that Taehyung snaps
his wrist with, Jungkook thrusts into Julia, unforgiving and thorough.

Taehyung hates him all over again. Hates him because Julia is moaning and he is wondering, why?
How is that comfortable, let alone pleasurable, having something shoved into your ass, what is it like,
how does it feel? A finger? Two, three, a cock? Hips slamming into her, Jungkook’s hips smacking
into her thighs, her ass every time he completes a thrust, every time Taehyung’s fist reaches the head
of his cock.

He’s breathing hard. He’s breathing so hard and his heart is about to jump out of his chest.

“Faster,” Julia moans and he’s thankful because he needs to go faster, lest he bursts.

“Faster,” Jungkook repeats, for a moment blinking away from Taehyung’s motions to look at his
face when he pauses the instruction. His eyes pause, stare, and what’s he thinking, Taehyung
desperately wants to know what he is thinking.

At that moment Taehyung himself cannot think. He just moves, simply fists himself, presses his
thumb into his slit when he manages and he sees Jungkook’s hand reach forward, brush between
Julia’s legs and it remains there, rubbing. Taehyung’s hips are restless on the couch at this point, no
matter how much he wants to preserve at least the vulnerability of helplessness to himself, hide it
away from Jungkook’s prying eyes. He can’t. He’s gone. He fucks his fist and bites into his lip so
hard, the skin breaks, but he will not, he refuses to, absolutely refuses to make a sound.

Jungkook wants to hear him. He knows it will torture Taehyung if his mouth betrays him, if he
moans, and he thinks it is proper punishment for him, for being like this, for looking like this. He’s a
Kim and he’s poor and he’s a man, and he’s pretty. Pretty when he’s turned on, too, those fine dark
eyebrows knotting together, forehead creasing, lips turned white. His eyes are wild and so, so
vulnerable Jungkook almost pacing.

“Will you come for me?” He says, and then he turns to Julia. Julia. Julia. He wants to see Julia come.
“Come for me.”

Julia. Julia. Taehyung reminds himself. He wants Julia to come for him.

Still. Still. His hips stutter violently, hand moves so fast over his cock, so desperate. His mouth
almost bleeds and he looks at Jungkook. Jungkook, Jungkook, fucking Jungkook. And he comes for
him. Comes with a choked, swallowed noise and he comes so hard for a brief moment he loses sight.
He’s spurting, fist still rapid, but slowing over him as he rides his high, making a mess on his shirt,
but he doesn’t care he feels so damn good. He has no limbs for a brief few moments.

Julia must be coming as well because Jungkook is talking. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah. Ah. Good girl.”

She’s moaning, she’s saying his name, and she’s fisting the bedding. Taehyung doesn’t really care.

He’s spent, trying to catch his breath and calm his heart, chest raising and falling.

Jungkook comes as well, slamming his hips into Julia’s and twisting his face beautifully, features
tightening and head tipping back. He allows a sound, a groan, and it’s not nearly enough, nearly not
what Taehyung wants to hear from him.

He slides out of Julia and stands, taking the condom off of himself and walking towards the
bathroom. Julia lets her hips fall to the bed, stretches. Her thighs are trembling with aftershocks and
she’s moaning into the sheets, feeling them with her hands.

“God. I won’t be able to sit for a week.”

She seems tired, too tired to speak to him, at least, because with him she would have to put up a
front, and he is thankful for that, as he cannot speak to her either. He’s too confused, too spent, too
much back on earth now, can sense the come staining his shirt sink into his skin as well. He feels
dirty; he’s dirty. And an idiot. He doesn’t know what he did, why he did it. He’s panicking. He’s
tugging himself back into his pants, doing the button with trembling hands, and, oh god, he’s
panicking.

What would his sister think? He has the scent of come on his hand, the stain of it on his shirt. What
did he do? What did he do?

He’s panicking and Jungkook is walking out of the bathroom. He’s not ready to face him, not at all,
let alone bare chested, but he’s there, as Taehyung stands up, there he is in all his shirtless, cruel
glory standing right in front of him.

“Here,” he says, and he stretches out money, practically shoves them at him, expression gone and
slipped into a cold neutrality that is ironically so palpable it almost hurts. Taehyung’s fingers wrap
around the fingers and Jungkook’s hand draws back so quick they almost fall in between them. “And
here,” he speaks again, and this time shoves a shirt at him, the one that he had worn that had been
disregarded to the floor. “This one doesn’t have come on it,” he explains, though it is with a scathing
disinterest and he steps away, and Taehyung thinksgood, good because he should not be allowed to
stand so close to him, shirtless.

But then, he has his shirt in his hand and he’s mouth is parting, stuttering. Are you sure, he wants to
say, because this is expensive surely, brand clothing, the most expensive article he’s probably ever
held between his fingers. I’ll give it back,he wants to say, because that is what he should say. Thank
you, he should thank him.

Instead, his dumb mouth speaks, asks the question that has been running through his head ever since
Jungkook set foot in the room, obviously angry. “Are you okay?” Taehyung says, and Jungkook’s
head snaps in his direction.

Julia’s head lifts off the bed, eyes rolling towards them, but she remains silent.

“Am I okay?” Jungkook snarls and he takes a step towards Taehyung and he immediately takes one
back. “Am I okay?” Jungkook’s laughing, humorless and cold and Taehyung is flinching. “Get the
fuck out of here, Kim.”

And Taehyung does. He hesitates, a passing moment in which their eyes meet and his heart trembles,
but he does leave. He takes his shirt off in the elevator, wipes himself, puts Jungkook’s shirt on, the
fine fabric that smells like him, the one he takes off as soon as he steps into his house, where he goes
to bed, but doesn’t fall asleep until the early morning.

“Jungkookie! Hey, how are you?” Jungkook knows the voice, recognizes it the second it hits his
senses, yet he does not expect to hear it here, now, a few blocks away from the Executive Tower
where they’ll be waiting for him. He does not expect to hear it pitched this way, either, excited and
cheerful.

It makes sense when he sees her, the way she is draped over some mildly familiar man, her hands all
over him, legs stuggling, and dress offensively high on her thighs. Jungkook briefly wonders if he
has seen that guy with Kai and it makes his blood run cold. It makes sense when he sees her eyes,
pupils blown wide and all gone, incapable of focusing on one thing.

“Clo,” he addresses, trying to keep his voice in line. His eyes fall to the way the man wraps his hand
around her hips, falls near to her thigh, and he wants to bash his skull in. “What are you on?”

Her hand’s wave around her dismissively and she puts so much motion into it she nearly stumbles,
and he reaches, despite the grasp the man has on her. He wraps a hand around her wrist, steadies her,
squeezes just for the sake of it, the sake of giving her some sensation of him being there, because
although she speaks to him, he is not sure she is aware. “Nothing new. Nothing new.” She falls a bit
with the words, and he tugs her, until she slips from the man’s hold and has to steady herself with her
palm on his chest. The man glares but says nothing. “What are you doing here at this hour,
Jungkook-ah?”

“I’m meeting Julia,” Jungkook says quickly, simply. He squeezes her wrist, tries to coax her into
speaking again. “Clo, tell me what you took, yeah?” He’s gentle, slow.

She’s brusque and fast, hitting her hand into his chest “Nothing new,” she insists. She isn’t looking at
him. She isn’t looking at anyone. Her tongue pokes out, licks over her mouth and it draws
Jungkook’s attention to it. Her lips are so dry, they’re peeling. “But hey do you know what is new,
what I found out today. Seokjin sleeps with older women for money. Remember Seokjin? The one
with the morals.” She laughs as she says it, spits the last word more so than she says it – it offends
her. She cackles. It is loud, short, forced, and so ironic is physically pains him. “Well, he fucks sad
hags for money.”

Jungkook turns his head to the man beside her, trying to judge if he is bothered she speaks of another
man, but now as he sees him, he is convinced he has seen him with Kai.

He tightens his grip on her wrist and tugs, “Clo, come home with me now.” He asks, low, through
teeth, but it only coaxes her to try to pull away. She’s too weak to successfully do it, limbs useless.
She settles for shaking her body, like a child throwing a tantrum.

“I thought you had a thing with Julia,” she says, even smirks. Her laughter rings now as if the mere
notion of having a thing with Julia is purely hilarious and her head tips back, the sound of it dying
down as soon it does. She moans instead, a whine that’s almost indicative of pain and Jungkook tugs
at her again.

“That can wait, she can wait, come with me.” Jungkook says and he means it. Julia can wait.
Taehyung can wait. She’d have enough fun with him on her own, he doesn’t care.
“But I need to go to the Ozone cause Seokjin wanted to talk.” She laughs to herself then, teeth
baring. She has too much saliva in her mouth. Her eyes are wet and glossy. “You reckon he’s going
to charge me?”

Jungkook’s teeth grind together, jaw ticks. “I thought you promised oppa you wouldn’t speak to Jin
again, Clo.”

Julia scoffs, glares at him with such conscious passion that throws him off enough that when she
attempts to shake his hand again, he lets her. “And you promised you wouldn’t let him hurt me again
two years ago, Jungkook, but I still get black eyes, don’t I?”

His mouth parts, but it falls shut again, as soon as it does. He’s wordless, speechless for long enough
that she falls a few steps back, back into the arm of the man who holds her up where Jungkook failed
to keep her in his grip. Her eyes soften on him, the glare glosses over with the wetness. His voice is a
breath, a plea. “Clo—” he attempts.

She doesn’t allow it, though. “Leave, Kook.” She says. “I don’t blame you.”

And he doesn’t. He stays. But soon, she’s gone and all he can do is watch the man take her away
and hope Seokjin does find her, does speak to her, despite their father’s wishes.

And when she finally completely disappears from his sight, he does leave, but not before he beats his
helplessness into the nearest trashcan, breaking it apart, piece by piece.
 Chapter 9
Chapter Summary

Jungkook might and might not be an asshole.

Chapter Notes

Well this is a lot longer than intended xx

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Ji-woo had felt something was wrong from the very first crash she heard. She had flinched,
grimaced, eyes falling shut and a breath of loaded exasperation had expelled through her lips, but that
had been it. She kept cleaning, just as rigorously scrubbing at the shelf, if not with even more intent
now, suddenly overcome with the desire to leave as quickly as possible. She had a room to complete,
though, and it was a comparatively huge one.

Everything is huge in the Jeon’s home, if she has to be honest. It’s bountiful and luxurious,
unnecessarily enormous and shiny, some ornaments elaborate and sophisticated, while others
modernly stylish, contemporary, yet still showy, all having their own particular beauty as separate
objects or pieces of furniture, but altogether poised and tasteless. It all just gives the notion, to Ji-woo,
personally, that the eldest Jeon has an exceptionally small dick.

She had tensed when he had entered, as she could hear, even with her back to him, his steps were
clumsy and uncoordinated; she just needs her ears to recognize a drunk – experience teaches. So, she
knows, as soon as he enters, she grows increasingly aware. She always is in homes that belong in
Richhood, especially in ones whose owners she suspects of having tiny penises and scarred egos.
Entitlement reeks off of men like Jeon. Over possessions, over behaviors that go unpunished, over
people he can afford, and he can afford her.

And today, a shiver had run down her spine the moment she noticed his presence.

She did not entirely remember what had transpired.

He’d stood near behind her, she’d startled. A crash had sounded as she’d spun, instinctively, her
fingers opening for the barest second needed for the ornament in her hand to slip right through. She’d
faced the towering man, his eyes bloodshot and gone. The slap to her cheek had followed, ringing
eerie in the way it so easily bounced off of the walls, familiar to the room.

As he grips her elbow tight by the bone and gets in her face, pupils dilating and large, nostrils
widened and mouth snarling in an ugly rage, she’s terrified, white, hot fear rushing through her
blood, her heart thumping in her chest in a steady, but escalated rhythm. She keeps her head averted,
to where it points automatically with the force of the slap, and doesn’t move. Her breathing pattern is
the only evidence something was wrong. She knows to keep her calm.

She’s scared and she knows it, but he doesn’t have to. He’s entitled to a lot, but not to her fear, and
she won’t give him it, knows it will only aggravate him further, egg him on, urge him to do more to
her, hit her again. Her fingers tremble and so do her lips, but her body keeps still, thankfully.

His digits tighten around her arm so viciously were he a little soberer her bone might have snapped.
He uses the hold he has to shake her, her whole body moving with his drunken stupor. He says a
number, slurs it passionately, face red, a number that she easily forgets. “That’s how much
yourfuckingmistake just cost.”

It’s his fault. He snuck up on her, startled her. She doesn’t say it, never would.

“I’m sorry,” she says cautiously, struggles not to let her voice betray her affect, but her tongue feels
incredibly dry when it touches the roof of her mouth and she’s afraid it shows.

Not that he would notice, as he shakes her again. “Clumsy bitch,” he snorts, distaste as obvious as
his drunkenness, “Sorry doesn’t pay me back.”

“I—”

“You either leave with no salary, or,” her eyes screw shut before he finishes, a single tear rolling
down her cheek past her dried lips, squeezed white into each other until they’ve disappeared. She
doesn’t know when it gathered in her eye, but it doesn’t matter. Her heart is crashing against her
chest now, about to burst, crashes in tandem with her back as he pushes her and she stumbles,
cornered into a wall. She knows how the sentence will finish before he opens his smirking, twisted
mouth to speak. “we will have to find another way for you to pay.”

It still strangles out a sob from out of her as he rounds up at her, like a vulture its pathetic prey. Final
hope diminishes as the words reach her ears and breath escapes her entirely. Her ribcage closes up on
her heart, on her insides as she sucks in air so desperately, she almost coughs.
Her head shakes, and the word no is a mantra on her lips, though she does not know if she whispers
it aloud or it just stays private to herself. She has done things, been offered things, and accepted, to
keep food on the table, to pay rent, she has. But she can’t, physically can’t do this, with him, not
when the mere thought of him makes her want to retch, when she can even now feel the bile rise in
her throat. She’s afraid if he touches her, she’ll vomit, and she’ll go home moneyless and jobless.

His hand is reaching towards her – she doesn’t look, but she feels it. She’s digging herself so hard
into the wall, she actually hopes for a blind moment it will dematerialize and let her fall through,
swallow her whole.

Naturally, it doesn’t. But he doesn’t touch her either.

“Leave her alone.”

The voice is cold, almost firm, firm enough for her, and it is close.Her eyes open instinctively, and
Jungkook is there, and she had never, ever, not even in her bravest dreams in which she’s a
worldwide famous billionaire, imagined she could be glad to see Jeon ungkook.

He stands near in a simple white t-shirt, arms crossed, an unreadable expression set on his harsh face,
directed at his father. She has never seen him so casual in attire, so pointed in emotion, but, though it
is little and dwindling, he has it. It’s unrecognizable to her, maybe she has never felt it, maybe it was
never even given a name, but his eyes betray something, and it is passionate in the way it oozes off
of him onto the elder Jeon.

“Mind your fucking business, Jungkook,” his father slurs, his eyes fixated on Ji-woo. He attempts to
take a step towards her, and he stumbles, arm reaching out to support him, plastering loud and
echoing right next to her head. She recoils, her shoulders lifting with her flinch and remaining there
to uselessly shield her.

“This ismy business.” Jungkook insists through teeth, his jaw ticking. He steps forward, arms
untangling. “Get off her.”

He reaches forward and grips at his shoulder, but his father brushes the touch off roughly, stumbling
even more forward with the brusqueness of his motion. His other arm raises, and it presses into Ji-
woo’s waist, digs into her flesh. He’s not touching her for the sake of it as much as in attempt to hold
himself up, but the sensation of his heat on her still sends her heart into overdrive, makes it spiral
with disgust. She wants him gone, gonegonegone.
She breathes, nearly chokes on it.

“Go to your room, ungrateful piece of shit.” He edges close towards Ji-woo, his body nearing, his
face inching dangerously. She can smell the liquor on his breath, and it makes her light headed. Her
heart is thumping. Silent tears are falling freely now, wetting her cheeks as she squirms. His hand
lifts off the wall, it graces her chin. She has the encompassing urge to gather as much saliva as her
dry throat can hold and spit in his red, distorted face. “Daddy wants to play.”

It hasn’t fully reached her ears, she hasn’t allowed herself to panic yet, when the man is ripped off of
her and shoved away. Jungkook stands nearer now, almost in front of her, his body a shield to hers.
His fists are gathered tight together, knuckles bulging, and he stands, eyes narrowed, legs poised. “I
told you to get the fuckoff of her.” His voice rings changed and unrecognizable. It is close to a yell,
and now when he doesn’t speak so leveled, so lazy, so sinister, there is something strangely melodic
to his anger.

There’s only spiteful hostility in his father’s when he manages his footing, surprising them all, even
himself when he finally straightens. “You’ll get yourself in trouble, little boy.” The threat is a slurred
whisper, and, though it is not directed at her, it entices a shiver in Ji-woo, raises the hairs on the back
of her neck, which feels explicitly cold now, layered with the moistness of sweat. His father reaches
forward and pushes him back, but it is futile.

Jungkook reciprocates, delivers a shove to his shoulders, but he is obviously careful, only to push
him away. His father stumbles, snarls – his mouth curls so ugly and vituperative. He charges forward
with clumsy steps. The hit he delivers to Jungkook’s chin is thankfully drunken, but not at all held
back. “It’s past your bedtime, Jungkookie.”

When his fist draws back again and swings, Jungkook swiftly captures it in his, squeezes.

“Don’t bring her into this,” he says; his voice has dropped, not for a lack of anger lacing it anymore,
but it seems to seek privacy. The other emotion, the one from before, the one that was coloring his
eyes, now strings through it, forces into him some sort of ill-tasting vulnerability and he seems to
push it away, his head shaking, as he pushes his father back as well and this time, he does it with
power. His father loses footing, drops foolishly to the floor – it fits him, Ji-woo thinks. Jungkook
looms over him, replaces the previous eerie emotionality with a firm harshness that nears the melodic
yell again. “You do not want to bring more people into this.”

Taehyung’s sister. It’s flashing through his head; it’s been flashing through his head ever since he
saw her trembling against the wall. She lookslike him, a bit, not nearly as pretty, as memorable, but
she does, and his father, he cannotbring more people into this mess of his. He cannot bring
Taehyung’s sister into this, and maybe it is too late for Jungkook to protect his own, to protect the
most important woman in his life from the pure heinousnessof his father’s whims, of his disturbances,
but it is not too late for him to protect Taehyung’s, and he will.

His father glares at him in a way that promises future regret, but Jungkook only stares back for a
moment. He is drunk, and it will be hard for him to get on his feet without assistance, but he has
done worse things when he was drunker and Jungkook needs to get Ji-woo out of there.

Jungkook’s fingers wrap around her wrist and pull her as she stares in shock. “Shit, come on,” he
mutters underneath his breath, giving her a firm tug that forces her into motion. Despite his
intentions, he is rough with her, brusque, his digits too tight and powerful, too controlling, and she
wonders if he has ever held someone gently, if he even can.

The steps he takes are large and pointed, and she follows. He does not give her much of a choice,
leading her into that marble hallway. The collision of their feet with the expensive stone rings around
the room, hers more regularly than his, until they pause. Her heels root into the ground, but she
stumbles a couple more steps after him with his initial inertia.

“Wa-wait,” she implores, and she stutters. She never stutters, and she hates it for a moment, but
doesn’t care the next. Can’t afford to care as he turns, still as brusque, eyes hard as they fix on her.

“Fuck, what?” he snaps, hands releasing her wrist and she surrounds it with her own digits
instinctively, fingers wrapping around skin in a subconscious need to soothe it, and his eyes fall to
that, too, almost seem to soften before they dart to hers again, as set and as harsh as before.

“I can’t — I can’t afford not to finish my shift. I, Tae and WooWoo need me to finish this.”

Jungkook blinks, eyes widen. “Are you fucking serious right now?” His stare darts to the door
behind him. They can both hear the fabric shuffling along the floor.

“No, I—”

Jungkook interjects, states firmly. “You have to drop our weeklies.”

“What?” she breathes sharply, sucks in air. It’s still hard for her, heart still dangerously uncalm. She
had been close to hyperventilating moments ago. She’s not rationally surprised by what had
happened to her, but she is irrationally still in shock of it. She gathers thoughts, tries to voice them.
“No, I can’t. WooWoo—”

Jungkook sighs, breathes. He’s exasperated, and it shows. He’s never seemed to her like a patient
man and it is very unlikely that he can be one, but he tries to reason now. “You have to before he
fires you. If he fires you, you get a bad name. You drop out, it won’t be that bad. Clashing hours,
unpredicted inconvenience, you’ll think of something.”

She shakes her head, her mouth opening and closing dumbly for a moment, and she feels she is
much uncharacteristically reminiscent of a fish. They can’t fire her. “I need the money,” she tells him,
though her voice is a plea. “I won’t tell anyone he hit me. I won’t, I swear.”

Jungkook blinks for a moment, staring at her, before he pauses, eyes fall shut, jaw ticks tight and he
breathes through his nose. When they open again, it is with a start that he hides well, as the two are
both alert to the fact they no longer hear shuffling, but steps. “Go,” Jungkook instructs, hurried. He
touches her shoulder as he urges, but when she flinches at the touch, he easily drops his arm. “Go
now. I’ll find a way to pay you for today later.”

She listens, leaves. He closes the door behind her, and she thinks in another world she might have
thanked him.

“You still on lunch break, Tae?” Jimin’s voice sounds clear and familiar through the phone when
Taehyung presses it to his ear. He relaxes back onto the edge of the stool after shifting to fish his
phone out of his pocket and crosses his legs.

He swallows the apple in his mouth. Jimin always scolds him if he speaks with his mouth full,
disgusting, he calls him. “Wouldn’t have answered if I weren’t, babe.”

Jimin’s gasp sounds on the other end of the line as Taehyung eyes the half-eaten apple in his hand a
little sadly. He wants to eat already. “You wouldn’t pick up even if it’s me?”

“Nope.” Taehyung rotates the apple in his hand, carefully plans when his next bite would be placed.
If he has to wait, then he will reward himself with a supple one after he hangs up, finally.
“And what if it is urgent?”

“Nothing’s urgent enough to get me fired, hyung,” he answers easily. He has now located the exact
spot where he desperately wants to sink his teeth into. He can almost taste it in his mouth.

“What if I’m dying?”

“Make sure your funeral’s on a weekend if you want me to make it.”

“I hate you,” Jimin snorts.

“You love me.”

“I might just,” he replies, and it lingers. The door to the kitchen where Taehyung is taking his lunch
opens, and he instinctively lifts his eyes up. Minho walks in, carrying a tray with empty glasses on it.
He meets his gaze immediately. Taehyung lifts his eyebrows into his hair, questioning silently, and
Minho raises his arm, taps at his wrist a couple of times.

“What’s up, Jimin?” Taehyung asks into his phone as he pushes off the stool and nods in his
coworker’s direction. “I have to go.”

“Come with me to the Ring tomorrow,” Jimin spews quickly, his voice rapid and slightly childish,
hurried, likely because he knows what the answer will be.

“What?” Taehyung hisses sharply. “The Ring? What the fuck would we do at the Ring?”

“I’ll dance and you’ll support me because I don’t want to be alone,” Jimin explains firmly, as if it is a
given already as Taehyung starts to walk out of the kitchen. Taehyung’s features contort with
questioning confusion even if Jimin cannot see him, but the other elaborates anyway, a pinch of
annoyance shining through his voice. “The brats are so bold they’re now collaborating with the
Ozone for illegal goddamn fights. My boss’ got me on duty cause I deal with them best.”

“Why do they need male dancers for a boxing fight anyway?” Taehyung asks, incredulous. Of
course, they would have the nerve to hire professional staff, associated with an actual club to an
underground fight. Only Richhood youth goes to the Ring really, and a few others, desperate or
brave enough to be their prey, he can’t know for sure. He’d been there once, briefly, and he’d
regretted it. “Don’t they only need exceptionally busty girls in their underwear?”

“It’s a final of a championship or some shit, so it is an event.” Taehyung can practically sense him
rolling his eyes with the sigh he expels. “We’re doing an actual routine.”

“A routine?” Taehyung questions with an almost amused skepticism.

“Well, as close as it gets to it, Tae. I’m not filming a freaking K-pop MV, obviously,” he sounds
aggravated and Taehyung knows he’ll take pity on him. He’ll agree. “Point is, I have an actual
fucking choreography, I’m not just shaking my ass shirtless tomorrow and I want you there, cause I
have a dance in the beginning of the night and in the end as well, and I’ll fucking die in the middle if
you’re not there.”

Taehyung snorts. “I’m pretty sure you’ll find someone else to entertain you, hyung. You always do.
Especially on nights you dance.”

“Idon’t find them. Theyfind me.”

Jimin and Taehyung’s relationship first and foremost prospers as such because of how much they are
capable of understanding each other’s most dubious motivations. Park Jimin is almost a Kim in his
successful, unobtrusive way to sneak into the premises of Richhood before it is too late to kick him
out, though, quite honestly, no one would attempt to. Jimin’s a name that people know as simply
that, his first and given name, he does not have the label of a family attached to him – he is alone in
who he is, and it is a fitting reflection of how he has spent most of his life. Not alone, but lonely,
trying to scorch loneliness with movement, with sensation. He’d never been as settled as he currently
is, never before been somewhere long enough to have a reputation, but now he does.

He is Kim Taehyung’s friend. But above that, he is a dancer in the Ozone. He engraved his position
with a natural sultriness and a calculated quality of salaciousness, oozed just right, in the most
pragmatic direction. Jimin is consciously titillating in the most shameless and, consequently,
dangerous sense possible. It gets him places, gets him things, gets him money. It is exhilarating and
gratifying in a way that is not entirely familiar to Taehyung – more a state of callous, ill-tasting
accomplishment that his sister can relate to, but he understands it.

Jimin has always insisted Taehyung had the asset to play the game of being poor in Richhood
similarly, but Taehyung almost never caves, because Jimin would understand, but Jimin is alone.
Taehyung is not. Taehyung is the only remaining man in Woojin’s life, only figure he has access to
look up to if he were to venture into masculinity and some scant shape of honor, he has to be there to
incline him to believe it is possible. So, Taehyung almost never caves.

Sometimes, it’s too easy, though. Sometimes when Jimin dances and he’s alone by the bar in the
Ozone, someone would inevitably approach him, buy him a drink. He would smile at the girl that
wants him inside her, look her over – he would be slow, unsubtle in a way that would make her
reciprocate the nature of his smile, lucidly provocative. He would simply suggest she could have
him, never promise, and his long fingers would pat at her palm, her wrist, her own digits,
immemorable jewelry easily slipping off and into his pocket. It shines bright, but he shines brighter
and, in some moments, very few, negligently few, he allows himself to know it.

Nothing compared to Jimin who now asks of him to come, again. He’d have more luck trying to
convince him in person, work his tricks on Taehyung as well, though he understands him much too
well for any of them to work. What does coax Taehyung into considering it is the repressed fondness
tugging at him, one Jimin would outwardly reproach.

“Who’s fighting, do you know?” Taehyung asks, maybe it’d be someone interesting. Curiosity has
always been Taehyung’s greatest sin.

He suffers from it now again as he exits the kitchen and pauses behind the bar to finish the
conversation. He suffers in the way both his footing and his breath slightly halt with Jimin’s reply.
“Taunting Jeon and Yunsik.”

Jungkook’s fighting. For a moment Taehyung thinks he might have heard wrong, his imagination
playing tricks on him, because it is too damn comfortable for it to be him. But then again it simply
makes sense. Of fucking course if it’s a championship, he’d be the one on the Ring. Taehyung tries
to remember all the things that had encapsulated his burdening curiosity and shifted it to the Taunting
Twin, exactly, and he knows one of them was raw, enviable talent. He has a talent for everything
unrelated to sensitivity; he supposes it spreads even to violence.

“I have to go, hyung,” Taehyung says into the phone. “My shift is starting.”

“Are you coming?” Jimin pipes with finality.

Ironically, it’s the exact moment he sees him through the window. “I’ll see.”

Taehyung ends the call. He puts his phone away with one hand behind the bar and throws away his
half-eaten apple with the other.

Jungkook is unsurprisingly there and it makes Taehyung’s throat feel awfully dry and constricted.
Fortunately, he’s, firstly, sans Julia this time. Instead, he’s with Jung Hoseok, who seems a
wonderful alternative to Taehyung. In daylight, that particular rich kid can almost be pleasant. He is
the only one who is actually capable of smiling, does it quite a lot even, other than Seokjin, though
Taehyung, despite his diminutive knowledge of the newcomer feels it would be offensive to place
him in the same category as the likes of a Jeon and his most trusted company. The second fortunate
aspect of Jungkook’s daily visit is that he is not sat at a table Taehyung has to serve, so, theoretically,
he should be fully able to avoid contact.

It reminds him it is Julia who’s targeted him from the two, and though with the situation as such
Jungkook has taken a liking to playing with him, he does not have a genuine interest in Taehyung.

It’s weirdly dejecting.

Taehyung ignores it the sensation when it swells up in him, wholeheartedly avoiding any plausible
implications that could derive from it, but he cannot ignore how conscious he is of the knot of his tie.
He fumbles with it, carefully inspecting it before he sees a couple sit outside in his area and he
gathers some menus, goes out to do his work.

He hates the tense awareness he feels when he walks perfectly in Jungkook’s sight. He hates how
badly he wants to know if Jungkook acknowledges his presence, if without Julia around, he spares
him a glance. It is a destructive headspace that he wants to escape, but his heart still beats one pace
too quick when he takes the couple’s order.

He doesn’t recognize the woman, just the man, but today, he isn’t particularly interested in who
either of them is.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything to him as he saunters by, and he tells himself he doesn’t purposefully
slow his step to give them both a chance to look at each other. Mostly he tries to convince himself
that because when he can’t resist anymore, and he steals a glance, it is unreciprocated. Jungkook is
engrossed with whatever it is that Hoseok is saying, and though he does not seem to like it one bit,
his attention holds firm and set.

The pang of deflation that surges through him is unwelcome, and unlasting.
He lets the door fall shut behind him automatically, pays no mind when he doesn’t hear it close.

What inevitably does capture his attention is the voice that calls his name. “Taehyung,” it lilts
familiarly behind him, extracting an immediate shiver, throws him off a bit and he visibly takes a step
too close to a client. The voice is no longer a problem in a moment, as an arm snakes along his lower
back and a hand grips on his waist unnecessarily, intuitively; there’s something familiar and natural
in the way Jungkook’s fingers assert themselves on Taehyung, something instinctive and borderline
possessive, and it could be an unhealthy combination of his innate sense of entitlement and the fact
they have seen other orgasm. Whatever it is, Taehyung’s immediately reaches to it, about to push it
off, but it disappears on its own. “Hey. Chill. I’m not doing anything. I just want you to give this to
your sister.”

His hands raise of him completely as Taehyung only half turns to address him. His eyes, however,
fall on a small stack of money in Jungkook’s outstretched hand, something immediate and hostile
washes over him. “My sister?” He voices with a sounded clasp of his teeth, animosity seeping from
his tongue and his narrowed eyes alike when he questions, “Why the fuck are you giving money to
my sister?”

Jungkook’s brows lift, likely he does not expect Taehyung to be this aggravated, but Taehyung is
still ridiculously bothered by the fact he cared Jungkook didn’t even spare him a glance. “Cause she
cleans my house?” Jungkook suggests; it comes off taunting, and Taehyung rolls his eyes. He takes
the money without allowing their skin to brush and ducks behind the bar. Jungkook doesn’t leave,
though, as Taehyung drops the menus in their place. No, Jungkook leans, he crosses his arms,
presses himself onto the bar and he leans. “Relax. Julia and I don’t have her booked on Fridays or
something.”

Taehyung’s eye roll only manages to complete now, and it finishes with a blank, open mouthed stare
pointed at Jungkook’s amused features. “You don’t actually think this is fucking funny, do you?” he
snaps at him.

The entertainment dwindles, but it isn’t replaced entirely by his typical lazy boredom. There’s
something else when he asks, “Would it bother you,” and then he pauses, cocks his head in half a
nod, indicative of Taehyung’s own expression and stance, “this much?”

Taehyung doesn’t skip a beat. “Yeah.”

Jungkook’s tongue clicks. “Why?” he ventures, and Taehyung is spinning around before the word
even finishes.
“Cause,” he deadpans with his back to Jungkook.

Taehyung pointedly strides into the kitchen, though it remains unbeknownst to him why he had even
for a moment figured Jungkook wouldn’t follow. It’s an attempted escape from the interaction, but, if
anything, it deteriorates the situation. It’s an hour at which they don’t serve food and the dish washer
is nowhere to be seen, so what Taehyung does is he essentially leads him to privacy, space in which
he thinks the entitlement of people like him amplifies with the unprecedented impunity it grands
them.

Moments prior to this, Taehyung had loved the particular time of the day which allows him to take
his break in peace and quiet. Now, he abhors he.

“That’s not really an answer,” Jungkook saunters in as if he owns the place, and Taehyung forgets to
be surprised at his audacity as he turns to direct his annoyance.

Jungkook pauses near by the door and it allows for some space between them, which Taehyung
appreciates, because he himself had stopped near a counter, and the prospect of having an
unmovable surface behind him when Jungkook lingers close by unnerves him.

“I’m working,” Taehyung declares emphatically, but all it earns him is a shrug.

“That’s not an answer, either.”

Taehyung looks away briefly, his tongue poking out to brush at his lips, wetting them. His arms
cross and in a venturous moment, he is speaking. “You don’t pay me to talk to you, do you?” he
meets his eyes firmly. “You pay me to watch you have sex. So that’s all I owe you, really.”

He turns to face the counter he had paused by, removing the cloth he keeps at his belt to clean tables
with and slams it onto the surface with zest, simply to give himself something to do, to distract
himself. If he focuses himself entirely on Jungkook, he’ll get lost, and it won’t be pretty, not for him.

Jungkook takes a step now and Taehyung senses and hears it all alike. The other does not seem to be
in any way fazed by the attitude, nor is he discouraged from confidently demanding more. “What do
you do with the money?”

Taehyung glances at him over his shoulder. “What’s with the interrogation?”
Jungkook takes another step. It’s a small one, languorous, he somehow makes it seem natural that he
has to step forward. “I’m just...” he trails off, and now that seems, while not unnatural per se,
atypical, “curious.”

Taehyung hates Jungkook being unexpected in an unexpected way. He’s used to the other surprising
him, but in a particular way – he’d learned to expect the unexpected from this man. Yet, his hesitance
catches him so off guard, it evokes an actual response. “Rent.” Taehyung says at first, scarcely, and
he doesn’t mean to say more, but Jungkook is quiet, and Taehyung needs to feel that silence. He
notices a spot on the tiled counter in front of him, a full-on blotch, one a health inspector would not
be happy with. He’s glad to be able to scrub at it with his towel as he distractedly speaks, lists for
him, his previous animosity a bygone. “Clothes for my brother, school supplies for my brother. I’m
thinking of replacing the stove, but it will be hell explaining that to my sister.”

Jungkook is taking another step forward behind Taehyung’s back. “Don’t you buy anything for
yourself?” he asks; he does so with indifference, bordering on a hint of curiosity, but as long as he
isn’t malicious, as long as he isn’t teasing, Taehyung keeps talking.

“Well,” He shrugs as he scrubs, “My potential education into architecture fond did suddenly become
abnormally large. And I might have bought a couple of shirts for myself. Oh.” He glances behind his
shoulder again, tries to be casual, but his eyes are flitting all over Jungkook when he realizes his
proximity, and the topic he is about to go onto makes him tingle, so, incapable of full on
nonchalance, he settles for steadiness, “By the way, how do you want me to return yours?” He turns
back to inspect if the spot’s disappearing. It’s been long gone, he supposes, but he just wants to make
sure. His next words are quiet. “I don’t reckon you want it in front of people.“

Jungkook’s eyes roam over him, over his back and stance, at the unnecessary, quick motion his long,
thin fingers make, scrubbing back and forth at the surface that by now is practically so clean it
glitters. Jungkook shrugs. “Keep it.”

Taehyung’s brows arch, lift into his hair and he can now see it from the side as he stands beside him,
presses his hip into the counter next to him. His eyes grow wide; he has big eyes, Jungkook
supposes. When he bats them with sheer incredulity and only faces him slightly, only with a tilt of his
neck, angling his body consistently away from his, he notices the lids are different. “Keep it?” he
questions.

Jungkook nods. “Yeah,” he confirms aloud, near a hum. He doesn’t particularly care for the shirt,
doesn’t even remember which one it was that he gave him – just a shirt, but Jungkook knowsit smells
of him, reminds him of him, even if he were to wash away Jungkook’s skin, the fabric would remain
too fine, to nice, the shirt a size or two too big to be Taehyung. There’s something peculiarly alluring
in having a piece of his clothing in Taehyung’s house, Jungkook concludes for a twisted reason that
doesn’t spark familiarity in him.

“It’s Hugo Boss,” Taehyung informs him, slowly, enunciates it, those different eyes still wide with
disbelief.

The brand means nothing to Jungkook. He has a lot of shirts with that label, none particularly
distinctive to him. He’d probably give them all to Taehyung if he asks him nicely, but the other’s
face and voice spell it out for him he finds even Jungkook’s current suggestion abysmally
preposterous. Jungkook’s shoulders lift casually, hands in his pockets. “Sell it then,” he tells him.

Taehyung eyes him slowly, cautiously, before his head cocks and his upper lip curves in a way that
would have been unattractive on anyone else, but Jungkook is starting to accept it is simply not
physically possible for Taehyung not to be frustratingly pretty. He’s still pretty when he shakes his
head and once again turns his back fully on him. “Do you really don’t want to touch something I’ve
worn that much?”

“No,” Jungkook replies, short, simple and straightforward. His arm reaches instinctively, hand
pressing in the side of Taehyung’s waist that is nearest to him, and he pushes at it slightly to tilt him,
draw his attention. His flesh is soft underneath his grasp, and the touch lingers. “How old is your
brother?”

For Taehyung, every grace of Jungkook’s firm, subtle touch feels scorching. He takes a step back,
out of his reach, out of his grasp. He does not particularly like the way Jungkook simply angles his
body as he sees fit, the way he readjusts him; he reminds himself he currently owes the other
nothing, except a shirt, maybe, but certainly not the will to be manhandled. “Stop touching me, will
you?” it slips out of his mouth as his hands lift up, defensive, though with no particular intent.

Jungkook replaces his hand back in his pocket calmly, and Taehyung allows himself to shift back
towards the counter, but he simply fingers at the gaps between the tiles, staring down at the emotion
of his own digits. “How old?” Jungkook repeats.

“Six,” Taehyung answers, before he sucks in a breath, looks at Jungkook again, but not at his eyes,
more at his nose. His nose’s the easiest part of his face to look at if he can resist glancing at his lips.
“Listen,” Taehyung starts, and he tries to be firm. “I don’t want to speak about my family with you.”

Jungkook’s brows raise, his mouth tilting slights and Taehyung fails, he steals a glance at full red
lips, which shape words with the tiniest bit of amusement. “What doyou want to speak with me
about?”
“I —” it catches Taehyung off guard. Stupidly, the answer to that is just about everything. His
curiosity often adventures to places of simply what it would be like to hear Jungkook speak, to share,
opinions, thoughts, ambitions, interests. Anything. “nothing,” Taehyung replies. “We don’t exactly
have any tangent lines, do we?” And he asks the question pointedly, including his eyes as well in the
manifestation of that particular thought – he wants to be proven wrong, but he knows he won’t be.
So, he adds, “Won’t you be the first to say?”

Jungkook moves. “Sure,” he says offhandedly, the voice coming from straight behind him and the
hairs on the back of his neck inadvertently raise, minutely aware of the other’s presence. It escalates,
the pestering awareness does, and so does his fragile heartbeat, when Jungkook’s sinewy forearms
come into view as he places his hands on the edge of the counter, trapping the other between his
intimidating body and an impenetrable piece of wood and granite. “Do you need more money,
Taehyung?” Jungkook asks and his voice has lowered

“What?” Taehyung breathes out. His eyes focus on Jungkook’s fingers, the ring on them, the bones
on his hands. They appear loose in the way they are plastered on the counter, yet Taehyung doesn’t
dare try to escape.

Jungkook shifts on his legs and it sends Taehyungs heart into overdrive. “I’m speaking about the one
thing we have in common,” Jungkook informs him, casual, nonchalant, but then when he speaks
next, his voice comes much too close to the shell of Taehyung’s ear and he has to censor a visible
shiver, stares forwards, blank and dump. “When I said, you could join,” Jungkook pauses pointedly
and it reaps a result that coaxes a smirk out him; Taehyung sucks in a breath.“I meant it,” the other
finishes dangerously, malignantly.

Taehyung’s head is shaking. “Jungkook-ssi,” he spells out, just above a whisper, his voice not
dissimilar to a pant, though he does not have much else to say, not at this current point – his brain
struggles and so does his mouth.

Jungkook lets out a sound that borders on a snort, but his voice is still hissing in a teasingly,
suggestive way when it waves over Taehyung’s ear. “For fuck’s sake, you can call me hyung.”

“Hyung, then,” Taehyung acknowledges, but his head keeps shaking. “Sex for money.” He says,
outlines it as clear and simple as it it, out loud. He needs to hear it to realise it, it seems, because the
moment he does, something stirs in his chest, a discomfort that is profound and disarming in a way it
is entirely withhimself, with whohe is. “That’s...” he continues futile and forward, “that’s prostitution.
I — no.”

When Jungkook’s hard chest presses against his back he feels his heart skip a beat. The sensation of
Jungkook fitting himself so physically, so palpably against him, aligning their bodies together, it
almost strings a gasp out of him, but he sinks his teeth into his lips and swallows it safely until it
closes on his throat. “Don’t do it for money then,” Jungkook’s whispering now, and Taehyung has
to squeeze at the cloth to remain calm. He can feel his breath on the back of his head, ruffling strands
of his hair. “Do it cause you want to.”

Taehyung twists his fingers with utmost lack of coordination and the cloth rips in his hands. He
stares ahead, eyes wide, lips no longer worried between his teeth, for his mouth gapes with his
stutter. “Wha- what? I don’t, I don’t want to.”

He wants to speak clear, say more, but it is practically impossible when his whole back is on fire
pressed into hard, burning chest. It’s ridiculously difficult for him to concentrate on words and their
actual, transpiring meaning when he has to put so much of his composure into not pressing back into
the heat of Jungkook’s body.

It becomes harder still when Jungkook’s lips brush at the shell of his ear. He cannot stifle a shiver
now. It rocks through his body electrically and Jungkook does not remain ignorant to it, mouth
curling cunningly as he murmurs to the other boy. “Come on, Taehyung,” he lets the name roll out,
slow and long and teasing and Taehyung seriously loses knowledge of how people breath. “You
came so hard,” the other continues, illicit and explicit in his ear. Taehyung feelsthe words rumble
through his chest, vibrate on his back, before he hearsthem. “You can’t tell me you don’t want…”
he pauses and something lingers palpable between them, something unspoken, yet nevertheless
exchanged, “Julia.”

“I... don’t.” He’s honest, he figures he can’t be anything but when his head is spinning as much,
thoughts fragmented and fraudulent, but sensation there to envelop. He doesn’t want Julia. He never
has.

“No?” Jungkook breathes out, quick with forged disbelief. Taehyung shakes his head. He can feel
the shape of his nose against it as he does and there is something scathingly intimate about that
proximity. “You don’t want to be inside of her...” Jungkook’s thin fingers reach forward from the
right, touch Taehyung’s fidgeting digits, brush over them, and Taehyung watches, entranced – his
ring feels cold, “just a thin piece of skin separating you from me?”

That does it for Taehyung. He bursts. “Stop,” he exclaims, orders, as he pushes Jungkook’s
dauntingly gentle fingers off of his roughly. He spins in his grasp, knocks his shoulder into his chest,
before he shoves him away with his hands. “Stop.stop stop.” Taehyung begs. He’d been right, he’s
in no state to be dishonest at that moment, so he has no other choice but to shove him away, because
if has to answer, does he want that, does he in some twisted, borderline degenerate shape or form
want Jungkook? He does. But Jungkook doesn’t want him. He doesn’t. He doesn’t. Taehyung has to
remind himself that he doesn’t so he asks, as Jungkook settles a good two feet away from him,
regressed back to his previous condescending boredom, he hasto ask. “Why do you— why would
you even want this?”

This time when Jungkook’s shoulders lift in a shrug, Taehyung’s slouch with unwarranted
disappointment. “I don’t,” Jungkook answers as if it is simple, as if it explains things. And it doesn’t.
It confuses them.

And Taehyung gapes, bewildered. “What?” he questions, and there is a shrillness to his voice that to
his own ears rings with piteousness.

“I don’t,” Jungkook repeats with that mind-numbingly frustrating ostensible indifference, and
Taehyung breathes in, closes his eyes. Jungkook finishes and it is as if he delivers a blow. “Julia does
and I lost a bet.”

“A bet?” It’s choked, and Taehyung’s eyes open wide again as an unfamiliar type of nuanced disgust
roots into him, curls his mouth into an unflattering grimace. “Is that what I am?”

Jungkook scoffs. “Please.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest and cocks his head, the
condescension now seeping in waves. “Don’t tell me you have enough pride to be offended.“

Taehyung wants to laugh. It plays in his voice when he speaks next, a dejected, disbelieving
laughter. “Oh, so I’m poor. I’m desperate. I must be shameless then as well.“

“Taehyung,” Jungkook tries to interject, but it’s built up now. It overwhelms him, the fucking need
to just scream. He doesn’t, but his voice still raises high and he moves, steps right and steps left,
needs to let off some of what is bubbling inside of him.

“Fuck you, Jungkook,” he proclaims, points a single finger at him. “You. Your girlfriend. And your
money. Fuck you.”

“Taehyung,” he attempts again.

“Stopsaying my name like this,” it’s the loudest he allows himself to get and he looks at the ceiling as
he does, his arms raised in exasperation, voice shrill and vibrating with his anger. He’s angry, he
recogonises that, though he’s not as angry with Jungkook as he is with himself, because first and
foremost he is something he never expected to be in relation to him and Julia. He is hurt. He meets
his eye and speaks almost normally again. “Go back to Kim. I prefer Kim.”
This time when Jungkook begins he does not allow himself to be interrupted before he finishes it,
completely disregarding Taehyung’s last request. “Taehyung, your sister will drop our weeklies.”

Taehyung’s mouth opens and closes. “I— What? Why? What did you to her?” His eyes narrow,
fists curling,.

Jungkook’s head shakes. “Nothing. Listen—"

“No,youlisten,” Taehyung grinds out through gritted teeth and he takes a step forward; it’s small, a
gesture more so than anything else. He enunciates, “Just stay away from me and my family.” Their
eyes meet and Jungkook’s obsidian fucking orbs probe into him, oxymoronically penetrative and
dull, and Taehyung really wishes he were in the position to hit him. “Okay?”

Jungkook’s jaw clenches. It ticks. He seems to swallow some words before he opens his mouth and
announce, “Saturday.”

Taehyung blinks, confused. “What?”

Jungkook speaks calmly. “If you change your mind, we’ll be there Saturday,” he says coldly and
with it, he spins, and he leaves, and Taehyung desperately searches for something in his reach to
throw behind him.

Taehyung thinks not only will he not be there on Saturday, but he is not even going to the boxing
fight with Jimin. He wants to be in at least a fifty-mile radius from Jungkook, Julia, and all of fucking
Richhood.

All it takes is a single conversation with his sister for Taehyung to go to the boxing match.

He goes with Jimin. The only other male dancer who is called in tonight drives a car that has the
passenger seat missing, but he always welcomes Taehyung for a lift if he needs it. The Ring is
naturally not particularly close to neither Taehyung nor Jimin’s places, so Baekhyun is kind enough
to pick them both up. Taehyung sits at the side of the passenger seat, shoulder pressed to Jimin’s
warm arm, as his legs are much too long for the driver’s side to accommodate him. It will never not
be weird to have the front of the car empty, but it’s certainly not what’s prickling at Taehyung with
foreboding anxiety, what makes him rub his palms together in between his thighs and keep his lower
lip vacuumed into his mouth for most of the trip.

Jimin eyes him wearily when Taehyung inadvertently draws his attention to himself when he
subconsciously rocks into his seat. He watches him for a moment, parts his lips, then shakes his head
and turns away.

Taehyung follows Baekhyun and Jimin into a dressing room that some bulky European with a folder
points them to. It’s situated in a tiled corridor that makes Taeyhung wonder how it doesn’t repel its
usual spoiled, fancy occupants. It’s dim and long, has several doors all similar in shape and size. Min
Yoongi is the sole current inhabitant of the space, other than them, as he steps out of a room, closes
the door behind himself and walks confident and unbothered down the length of it without looking
up from the glaring light of his phone once.

He’s so focused on whatever the screen holds that Taehyung allows himself to trail his eyes along
him, turn his head to stare after him as he turns a corner and disappears. Taehyung’s gaze replaces to
the door from which he had materialized. He’s instantly curious as to what hides behind it, has his
suspicions.

The room they enter is simple. Benches, lockers, showers all in the same tiled room. There are a
couple of girls there that they greet, they know them – other dancers.

Taehyung does not want the front row standing spot that he gets. He feels he stands out like a sore
thumb at the ringside, rigid and most obviously uncomfortable. The room is loud.It’s boisterous and
filled with the vibration of excited conversation, laughter, screams. The skin of the people around
him glistens, the pupils of their eyes are huge, and their smiles enormous. He sees perfect, straight
white teeth everywhere he turns, legs of girls, countless pairs of bare, thin legs, and hair sticking to
moist skin.

He sees Jung Hoseok and Jung Hoseok sees him. He’s relaxed into a chair, long legs forward, the
ankle of one thrown over the knee of the other and he has his arm strewn over a girl with bare legs
who is comfortably tugged into his side, her fingers drumming suggestively along his chest.
Hoseok’s pupils are wide and black and his dark hair sticks tight to his glistening skin, and his teeth
shine bright and sparkly with the width of his smile. It falters when it lands on Taehyung, visibly
contorts all features of his face, and Taehyung looks swiftly away, centers his gaze on the Ring,
where it shouldbe in the first place.
Jimin’s dancing.

Taehyung’s heart paces with directions in which his mind is wandering. He is overthinking and he
knows it, but he can hardly help mulling over the obvious attitude Hoseok had towards him. Lack of
indifference always disconcerts him in the premises of anything Richhood, and he allows himself to
think maybe Jungkook mentioned him, but then he remembers he is a Kim, and that is enough to
provoke distaste.

Jimin stands next to him, shirtless, in jeans, and with some glitter on top, when the fight begins. They
don’t talk – Taehyung doesn’t. He just watches.

Everyone does as the two man climb into the ring. Yungsik walks in alongside five other people
when he does, moves his shoulders unnecessarily and stares straight, stares dead, underneath a hood.
He kisses a particularly thin girl on the lips chastely before he slides in between the ropes.

Jungkook walks in with Min Yoongi alone and the other leaves him wordlessly to saunter over to
Hoseok before he even reaches the Ring on which Yungsik is now bouncing, raising his gloves,
visiting corners. As Yoongi approaches Hoseok untangles himself from the girl beside him and
whispers something to her that makes her face drop, a frown coloring her features. She almost
stumbles as she folds her arms and leaves, a snarling expression directed at Yoongi as he passes by
her. He does not spare her a glance as he falls into her seat and nuzzles his shoulder underneath
Hoseok who smoothly positions his arm on the back of his chair to accommodate him.

The crowd cheers louder when Jungkook throws his leg over the ropes, though he does not seem
like a pleaser. He doesn’t egg the audience on in the same movie-like way that Yungsik had. He
simply climbs onto the ring and stands as shouts erupt around him. Taehyung’s eyes zero in
hopelessly on his build form and they root. He’s got a dark hood over his raven hair as well, an
unzipped, sleeveless piece of material covering his back.

The intensity of his obsidian eyes is ground-shaking for Taehyung, and they are not even fixated on
him.

He takes the cloth off with a backward motion of his head and then a roll of his shoulders. It’s
attractive in a bizarre way, makes Taehyung swallow around nothing. He has never seen Jungkook
like this, so bare. He’s just in shorts and shoes and gloves. His calves are on show, muscled and
spread slightly in a stance that if it were directed at Taehyung, he is not sure he would keep
consciousness. His broad chest is bare, back as well, relieved stomach. There is nothing expensive on
him, and he seems different, primal. He has a strand in those eyes, his jaw his chiseled. Taehyung
finds even the bone structure of his face threatening.
The gloves are a lot thinner than they are in actual boxing. Taehyung’s lower lip is sucked back into
his mouth.

Yungsik is bigger.

Taehyung’s heart thumps in his chest.

He doesn’t fully register words though he does see other people move around on the Ring, someone
making announcements. A European girl in bikini. She passes too close to Jungkook, skids her eyes
across the whole of his body, bites her lip.

The fight starts. The crowd is alive, a wave of passion, and Taehyung doesn’t understandwhy. He
wants it to stop as soon as it begins.

Yungsik is bigger. Jungkook is quicker. And he’s restless.His expression is gone, dark. He hits with
passion. He looks the way he looks when he fucks, if not even more moved. He’s fervid, animalistic.
He’s terrifying. His eyes do not leave his target once. He’s alive on the ring, agile, rapid and
unforgiving. Taehyung’s breath hitches each time Yungsik manages a hit.

The fight has nothing to do with what Taehyung has seen on television. There’s nothing that can be
interpreted as hugging, barely any distance between them at any moment. It’s pure, clear cut hurt,
hurthurthurt.

Sweat layers Jungkook’s body from the exertion of movement. The strand before his eyes wets, his
chest expands and contracts heavy with breaths, but they are steady. He is still under control, always
under control, though with the way he delivers powerful punches it is borderline disturbing that he
can be so aware of himself, so conscious and rapacious, while inflicting such violence.

Both men are vicious. Neither holds back and the crowd simply loves it.

Everything’s so loud and bright and violent and it feels dystopian to Taehyung.

The fight ends in the second round when Jungkook knocks Yungsik out cold with a jab to the chin
that would be certain to fracture. He stands over the lifeless body in his feet, catching his breath. His
lips are parted, and his head is tilted downward, eyes darting across the unconscious man. His chest
fills out and sinks rapidly and he takes a step back, falls into it more so than he takes it, balance
barely attainable, and Taehyung sinks his teeth into the flesh of his mouth, hard, punishing, because
he’s fucking concerned, and of all things,that is simply unacceptable. Jungkook pokes his tongue
into his cheek, wipes at his mouth with his forearm and it comes off crimson. The color glares at
Taehyung.

And then in the next moment so does Jungkook.

His head tilts, eyes shoot up into the overwhelmed, screaming crowd and they bolt right into
Taehyung. His heart minutely stops in his chest.

Jungkook’s eyes remain fixed, still containing in themselves a dark, animalistic quality that burns
through Taehyung with penetrative intensity. A man catches Jungkook by the wrist, lifts it up into
the air and Jungkook takes a couple of more breaths with his eyes perilously fixated on Taehyung’s
before he averts them, tilts his whole head and he really looks at the crowd now, lifts his other arm
up, pulses it into the air, announcing himself champion. It drives everybody wild, and no seems to
notice the thin girl trying to pull Yungsik’s body of the ring on her very own.

Jungkook leaves shortly. Taehyung’s eyes trail after him as crowd parts in front of him and hands
reach for his back. Bodies coalesce once he passes through, and it swallows him entirely until he
disappears from view.

Jimin has to dance again. Taehyung turns to his left. Yoongi’s eyes are closed shut and Hoseok is
focused on him, hands on his shoulders, shaking him from left to right with a concentrated
expression.

Taehyung takes a chance. It’s not particularly easy to reach the hallway with the dressing rooms, but
it’s not as difficult as he expects it to be, either, and he manages, relieved to be free of countless
bodies, greedy for violence.

He pauses when he does reach it. The space seems to be glaring at him, challenging him. He takes a
breath, one that is quick and short and makes his shoulders lift and fall. He disregards the need of a
mental pep talk, figures it is best to just walkand he does, because he went there for a reason and he’s
not going to leave empty handed.

Taehyung halts in front of the door Min Yoongi had come out of and he takes a chance. He raises his
hand, turns the handle, and it swings opened, and he had been right.
Jungkook is there, sat on the bench in the middle of a room, identical to the one given to Baekhyun
and Jimin. His thighs are spread wide, and he leans on them, both elbows digging into the firm
muscle underneath his shorts. His hands are busy uncurling a strung fabric that had been protectively
wrapped around his wrists and palms. Taehyung’s feet are rooted in the doorway by the simple way
he glances up, captures him with his piercing eyes.

The primality of his fighting countenance has evaporated, and he has sunk back into his emblematic
languor, but the intensity to his eyes is not yet lost entirely as they fix over Taehyung.

He waits, it seems, but Taehyung is silent.

Jungkook’s tongue darts over his lips. “Did you come by to see me shirtless one more time?” his
voice rings.

Taehyung leans on the side of the doorway, ignores the way the words make him flush. “I’m here
because of Jimin,” he states firmly.

Jungkook returns his attention to his wrist, proceeds to uncurl the fabric. “I know,” comes his simple
reply.

It surprises Taehyung that a single line of teasing is all Jungkook serves to him. His eyes dart across
the other, the cut underneath his left eyebrow, the smudge of red beneath his mouth. “You’re
bleeding,” Taehyung announces suddenly, dumbly. He shouldn’t notice. He shouldn’t care,but
Jungkook just sits there with an open cut, and this isn’t the cleanest place that there it. Woojin’s cut
infected once and it wasn’t pretty.

Jungkook’s brows lift and he speaks with a condescending laughter in his voice, when he responds.
“I know that as well,” he says and allows himself a smirk. “It happens.”

Taehyung blinks away at the patronizing superiority the other insists on forcing into the exchange as
he pointedly talks to him like to a child. He huffs to himself, shakes his head. He really doesn’t care
about his stupid cut.

So, he gets to the point.

He exhales and it is after a laborious silence that his voice feels the vacant room again. “Jungkook,
why is my sister dropping her weeklies?”

The other looks up at this. He stands, steps forward. “She is going to do it, after all?”

“Yes.” Taehyung presses as Jungkook nears. The angle of his body suggests he is not walking
towards Taehyung, as much as he is about to walk by him, but the directed steps still unnerve him,
stir something within him. “Yes, she is.” Jungkook’s close now, and he is about to step over the
threshold, but Taehyung with sudden bravery, or stupidity, he can’t be sure, shifts right in his way.
“Why?” he demands.

Jungkook glances at him, the dullness of the stare somewhat annoyed, as if Taehyung’s a pest. “She
won’t tell you?” he questions, and attempts to sidestep him again, but Taehyung’s set on it now. He
blocks his path.

“Did you hurt her, Jungkook?” he asks loud and clear and it lingers in the air between them, which
scant, space is lacking.

Jungkook’s eyes narrow slightly at the question, at him. They fall on his indignantly, and he sets his
angular jaw, makes the bone at the edge of it tick. “Get out of my way, Taehyung,” he instructs
authoritatively, lowering the timbre of his voice, which emphasizes its current deepness.

Taehyung swallows, musters up courage, but he doesn’t obey. “Did you?” he insists.

Jungkook’s eyes roll, his tongue first invades his cheek and then clicks along the roof of his mouth
before he centers his dark gaze on Taehyung again. He crosses his arms, leans forward a bit and his
hot breath washes over Taehyung when the other whispers, malignant yet soft. “If I did,” he begins
and his pupils roll over Taehyung’s entire body, takes it in as it treacherously heaves with the effect
of his teasing breath, “what are you going to do about it?”

Taehyung really does not know what in the world compels him after what he had witnessed barely
minutes ago, maybe sick hopes that his prayers would summon Jungkook’s exhaustion, maybe his
intrinsic impulsivity that, if it escalates in similar patterns, will border on lunaticity, but he swings.

It catches Jungkook and his crossed arms off guard and he manages a single jab, but anything after
that, the initial betrayal of what his intentions are, every attempt on his side is futile. Jungkook
recovers from the first hit so quickly Taehyung has to wonder if he even landed it. He steps back
from the second, ducks from the third and at the fourth time, Jungkook, in a single motion captures
his wrist.

Taehyung fights dumbly. He fights with frustration. He’s grunting as he attempts to free his arm
foolishly. He attacks with the other as well, not even curling his fingers into a fist, just slapping at
him, and he is so wound up, he knows the frustration which he now channels is not just at this, not
just for the sake of his sister – it’s for anything and everything, for the very fact of Jungkook’s
existence, and he just wants to fucking hit him again, hurt him, but he can’t because the other has
encapsulated his other wrist as well.

Taehyung struggles against the hold, and it reaps no results, but this isn’t boxing, there are no rules,
so he lifts his leg up, knees somewhere around Jungkook’s hip and the other hisses in pain, finally
makes a move of his own.

Jungkook never hits him back. He just contains him, pressing him against the wall and lining his
body with his, trapping his legs into place between his strong thighs. He walks him back towards it
with firm, long steps and Taehyung almost loses his footing. Jungkook releases one of his wrists,
slams his palm into the wall instead to balance both of their bodies upright and Taehyung
instinctively reaches for him to hold himself up, captures the warm dip of his waist with his long,
cold fingers.

His back hits the wall, and so does his wrist that Jungkook still has clenched between his digits.

They’re close now, proximity inebriating for Taehyung, and his heady scent is words, and Taehyung
can’t breathe. He’d breathed out all his frustration and now he can’t still his chest; it raises and falls,
rhythmic, but hard, quick, rapid, not dissimilar to the way his heart pounds within it, uncontainable.

Jungkook’s breathing is strained, too, with holding himself back, with getting Taehyung to just
fucking relax. He has him now, firm and still against the wall, he has him.

They’re too close. Taehyung’s breath will never return safe to his lungs if Jungkook is at such a
distance. They’ve been in the same position before, with Jungkook being precariously physical in all
he does, and Taehyung begs he can get used to it, but he can’t. Especially not when Taehyung’s
releasing weeks’ worth of frustration canalized in an aggression to akin to savagery he does not
associate with himself, and Jungkook’s so bare.

He’s hot, scorching even, to the touch and Taehyung has his hand on him, on his thin waist, palm
holding him solid and curled. His bare upper body still glistens with the perspiration from the boxing
fight, and it accents the definition go his stomach and chest.
But Taehyung’s stupid. He wishes he was looking at his chiseled body, but he isn’t. He’s staring at
the features of his face, darting all across them, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. All across, his own
expression almost one of pain as his focus falls on the pink tongue that pokes out.

Taehyung’s pants expel and propel right into Jungkook’s parted lips.

So do Jungkook’s words when he breathes, speaks intimately, barely an inch from Taehyung’s
mouth. “I didn’t,” he confesses, and Taehyung’s brows raise, perplexed, his head blank and eyes
rooted to lips. “Hurt her,” Jungkook provides and Taehyung’s gaze liftes to meet his. “I wouldn’t.”

Taehyung lets his head fall back onto the wall. “Why do I find that hard to believe?” he murmurs.

Jungkook blinks at him, pauses and sighs. “Can’t blame you, can I?”

Taehyung’s calm now. There’s no need for Jungkook to hold him, but he does, his hard body
keeping him in place, and he’slooking him, so closely and somewhat intimately in the way their
breaths tangle, that it just reminds Taehyung how much he wishes he wasn’t just a bet.

The thought courses through him with venom and he tugs at his wrist to free it, nearly whines as he
demands, “Get off of me.”

Jungkook doesn’t, though. He stays put, stays on him, and he presses forward, with his hips that
tame Taehyung’s lower body, and his pelvis almost rolls into his, and Taehyung gasps a sigh so
shamefully lewd it almost reverberates into a moan. His fingers clench into Jungkook’s waist,
squeeze at the heated flesh, and Taehyung wonders, what are they even doing there still? “Is that
really what you want?”

Taehyung gulps. He hates that question, hates it, because in that moment in that moment Taehyung
wants something ridiculous, He wants to kiss him.

It’s such a strange urge to him, but it’s intrusive, unavoidable, makes his lips fucking tingle, and he
wonders, with the way Jungkook is still pressed to him, the way he looks at him, teases him, just
how gratifying he would find the bodily damage he inflicts on him if Taehyung does move an inch
and seal their lips together.
Or maybe—

A throat is cleared and Taehyung pales, removes his hand from Jungkook’s waist with admirable
quickness, slapping his palm into the wall behind him.

Jungkook, to his surprise, only retracts himself a little, just so that he isn’t touching him anymore, and
does not mirror his wide eyes and panicked retrieval of limbs. Instead, it is with lazy annoyance that
he turns to look at the intruder.

When Taehyung himself turns, he thinks maybe Jungkook was able to recognize the person just by
the sound they had made to announce their presence, because there in the doorway with one arm
thrown across the frame and her head leaned on it, stands his sister, pupils dilated, body glistening,
legs exposed, and smile bright.

“Ring girl asked for you,” Jeon Clo Eun says, as indolent as her brother, if not more. Her eyes dart
towards Taehyung lazily, and an instant discomfort waves over him, so he presses his hips firm back
into the wall, lifts the thigh closest to her up a little. She appears to take effort in closing her eyes and
opening them again to look at her brother. “I thought I’d tell her where she could find you. I know
you like to fuck after you fight.”

Taehyung sucks in a breath harshly.

Jungkook pushes off the wall and moves himself away from Taehyung entirely, and Taehyung just
has to wonder, was it so cold in here before. “So good to me, aren’t you?”

Taehyung blinks at the both of them, the exchange bewildering him first and soaring an uncanny
twist through the pit of his stomach next.

He’ll go, Taehyung realizes despondently. He’ll really go and fuck the European girl in the bikini
that made eyes at him. And Julia probably won’t even find out about it.

Clo Eun follows him with her eyes as he moves towards the door. “Yoongi passed out. Someone has
to manage your sex life.”

Jungkook huffs half a laugh as he pauses by her. He twists his neck, looks over his shoulder, a final
glance sheering over Taehyung, and he utters a single word. “Saturday,” he says, and Taehyung
 looks away, looks at the lockers, the bench, anywhere, but not at him.

He saunters out of the room and Taehyung begs the other Taunting Twin would leave with him, but
she lingers.

“Aren’t you a Kim?” she questions, voice lilted by unhidden curiosity.

He glances at her from the side. “Yes,” he answers shortly.

The girl cocks her head, idly scans him from the bottom of his feet to the top of his hair. Then she
pushes off the doorway, turns and leaves, but not before she utters a final appraisal.

“Interesting.”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you to everyone who reads and leaves kudos or comments. Feedback feels
incredible, criticism as well. I enjoy writing this, so I hope you enjoy reading, but it is
my first fanfic so of course it will be far from perfect.

I incorporated Tae's last two hair colors, but blue just won't do in this context, would it?
Taekook have been amazing lately, and if anyone thinks there was too many waist
touches in this chapter, blame them.
 Chapter 10
Chapter Summary

Everything, basically. Everything happens

Chapter Notes

this is a fourteen thousand word product of sleep deprivation and fascination with
taekook. it's also filthy as fuck, so beware

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Ji-woo is not the type of person to get nervous,so when she feels a slight empty disturbance to her
stomach as she most pointedly struts, much more in fashion of her typical character, she is perplexed.

The night at the Ozone has not yet began, it is entirely too early for people such as them, who are
likely still recovering from whatever they had consumed or injected themselves with the previous
night. It’s so early the lights are still on and the space around her would look unrecognizable if she
hadn’t helped clean it as many times as had. That is what she is supposed to do now as well, but she
grows aware of a certain someone entering and desire for confrontation nags at her.

She knows why he’s there, both him and Min Yoongi, as they sit on one of the VIP exclusives
boots, though it itself looks much less impressive when light shines upon it. It’s the 12th of August,
which in Richhood equates to Seung Julia’s birthday and loyal, model boyfriend Jungkook has to
make sure everything is right: music, setting, people.

Ji-woo feels incredibly underdressed and straightforwardly poor as she approaches the both of them.
On this particular night they have gone out of their way to look rich. Undeniably, they appear
beautiful, perfectly exquisite, rivaling on marvelous with a fancy touch of elegance to both, legs long,
waists thin, materials sewn explicitly for them, tailored to their chests and arms. Ji-woo wears a
uniform that is, fortunately, not her lewd porn-esqueone, but something that indulges a lot more in
being simply sanitary and disposable.

The both have drinks in front of them, Jungkook’s unattended, Yoongi’s drained to the last bit. Their
conversation is quiet, but ongoing, and she feels her voice sound a notch too loud than she intends it.
“Why did you give me the money through my brother?”
It’s a sharp, short question, and she doubts it necessitates a proper address, so she skips that part,
shoots straight.

As two pairs of eyes drowsily shift to impose on her with paradoxically half-assed scrutiny, she folds
her arms and cracks a hip to the side. She stands her ground, always does.

Jungkook’s arrogant. He sits arrogantly, looks arrogant, speaks arrogant. He is dismissive in the way
he acknowledges her, and she hadn’t known such a combination was even possible. His elbow on
the table, his ringed fingers close to his lips. He lifts one as he arches an eyebrow. His chin is held
high and it does not help his condensation and how easily Ji-woo is made to feel small with the way
the boot is platformed and she’s leveled with their ankles, their feet. He looks at her from above; she
supposes he always will. “Cause he works in a cafe which I frequent?” he says it as a question,
voices it as if it bewilders him she’d even ask and beneath his words underlies an obvious, why are
you wasting my time.

Ji-woo supposes she should be thanking him. But it is a lot more in her nature to narrow her eyes,
purse her lips. She tries to force a warning in her following demand, though she does not imagine
any variation of her voice could ever appear threatening to him. “Stay away from him.”

As she says it, she spins, and she leaves. She has no use of witnessing the way they would mock her
– she’s said what she had to. She has not forgotten Jungkook’s prying. Jungkook taunting, he looks
like a bit of a faggot, doesn’t he? She never wants to be a reason why someone like the younger Jeon
would approach her brother, no matter what he saves her from, even if he rescues her from allof the
more fucked up versions of himself in Richhood.

Yoongi rarely has what can be perceived as interest depicted on his countenance, and what sits on
his face now is not exactly it. It’s close enough to curiosity, however, and he speaks. “Her again?” he
addresses. “This is starting to smell, Jungkook.”

Jungkook separates his eyes from her retracting form and faces Yoongi. “Don’t bother your lazy,
little head with it, hyung.”

He says it with a smirk stretching on his lips, one that is positively devious. He doesn’t need to go to
Taehyung; no, not at all, because tonight Taehyung will come to him.
It’s the 8th of August, but that doesn’t matter. It’s a Saturday and that does.

Taehyung has never been more mentally split. Honestly, thus far, for what it’s worth, his life has
been fairly easy. Being as poor as he was, raised as a Kim, it is simple to go with the flow, to follow
his name, to only ever face moral ambiguity when he slips jewelry in his pocket and utensils in his
jacket, but to never really mull over the ambiguous aspect, as quite frankly, he is aware enough that
the rich, supposedvictimswon’t care, so why should he? He shouldn’t, he won’t. He doesn’t.

He bounces a ball to the wall as he feels the laundry machine vibrate uncomfortably underneath him.
He has taken to sitting on it when it is his turn to wash up, as otherwise it makes attempts to bounce
through the wall, and the plaster suffers horribly. It’s an old machine. He wonders why it’s becoming
more vigorous with the years instead of losing power, but as long as it keeps his clothes clean, he
deems it senseless to complain.

This is new to him, Taehyung acknowledges as he captures the ball, the doubt, the impugning
apprehension of deciding. That’s what Richhood does to you, makes you question everything you
know, instills an unsettling unfamiliarity of your own self. It’s him that is put at a test now, his sense
of morality, which dwindles, has been dwindling since he first stole food and he was just four when
that happened. It has always been out of need, as he chooses to interpret it, though he did not need to
keep that one ring he has in the seams of his mattress. It’s different now, though. This is terribly
different, leaves an actual ill taste in his mouth as he works his tongue over his teeth, over some
hollows and crevices of his dried-up tissue.

He’s aiming the ball too hard at the walls, doing as much damage as the laundry machine would.

He can’t go.

Just a thin piece of skin separating you from me.

Taehyung trembles slightly as he sits on top of the machine and blames the sporadic shiver of his
body to the vibrations underneath him, no matter how withering it had been. The memory of the
words washes over him, like a promise, but like a threat, as well.

He won’t go.
Taehyung kicks his heels at the door of the laundry machine in unintended rhythm, drawn out from
the frustration of uncertainty. When he does it, he certainly does not expect the machine to
reciprocate, but it jostles so suddenly after the motion of his kick that Taehyung, startled, topples to
the ground.

“Fuck.”

They need a new laundry machine. It happily digs into the wall after it has securely removed
Taehyung’s thwarting weight from its surface. He straightens on his feet, expels a sigh, and chooses
to lean on the wall instead. His ass is pulsing from the vibrations, and he figures it is not worth the
discomfort – the plaster is already in tragic condition. The suffering of his ass is a futile sacrifice that
will fail to save it.

Taehyung used a fair amount of money to replace the stove. More importantly, he did a fair amount
of lying to afford it, which, regretfully, earned him a few slaps around the head. “Gambling?” Ji-
woo had been shocked and appalled. She’d actually forgotten to be happy this time, did not gift him
with another one of those rare, curious hugs, though she did at least smile, which was rewarding
enough. Having a stove that actually cookswas rewarding enough.

As much as he abhorred deceiving the sole person in this world who unconditionally cared for him,
he had been satisfied with that particular excuse of his, because it incorporated a certain important
quality: it was reusable. Though, he did not see himself coming into any more money, as he simply
wouldn’t go.

Do it cause you want to.

He hits the ball so hard on the floor it ricochets into the ceiling. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t. He’s
conflicted. He’s so fucking conflicted, and there is only one person to blame and it is not Julia.

He wishes he could ricochet the ball into Jungkook’s smug, deadened face.

They need a new laundry machine. And Woojin would need new clothes for the winter, he’s
growing so fast, and, yes, maybe he could reuse Taehyung’s, but Taehyung’s are already hand-me-
downs and ripped a little, and just not good enough. What if it’s cold? And rent, they need to pay
rent. Rent is due. It’s always due. Rent and bills. Bills, bills, bills. So many of them, phones,
electricity, water, heating. God, last time Ji-woo was dismissed from a weekly they had gone without
electricity for threedays, and their father had even been home at the time.
And Jungkook and him will only be separated by a piece of skin.

Taehyung has to go.

He piles clothes out of the laundry machine, sticks them in the drying one, though it hasn’t
properly dried anything for about two years, and he charts up the stairs. It’s 7:34. If he leaves now,
he can make it.

Taehyung hates himself. For every single moment he takes to take off his sweat pants, his tee shirt,
he loathes himself. For every moment he takes to put on a shirt, black pants, he despises himself. He
knows it will be worse when he gets home. It had been last time; he’d felt dirty, nearly used. He
hadn’t slept that night and he won’t sleep this one, either. He will be used tonight. He’s a bet, that’s
all he is. It tastes so bad in his mouth, his stomach, his mind. For a short, petulant moment, he wants
to cry, but he doesn’t, he won’t. Ji-woo never does. He hasn’t seen her cry in twelve years.

A lump sits tight and heavy in his throat as he trudges down the stairs, skips the dangerous one. He’s
so close to the back door of the kitchen. And then, he hears a voice.

“Hyung, can you play with me?”

Taehyung whips around at the voice, at a small hand that tugs at the sleeve of his shirt. He retracts
his arm back instinctively, wraps his fingers around his own wrist. He doesn’t want WooWoo
touching him, not when he knows what he was about to do. He feels it on his skin, reckons it is guilt,
but it might as well be disgust.

Woojin stands there, dressed in clothes Taehyung’s probably worn before, and he stares at him with
big brown eyes. They are wide and gullible and young, so young. He holds a joystick in his small
hand, extending it a bit forward, a suggestion.

Taehyung closes his eyes, blows air through his nose and it ripples a strand of his hair. “Shit,
WooWoo. You scared me.”

“I’m sorry, hyung,” Woojin murmurs and it breaks Taehyung’s heart a little bit. He hadn’t scared
him, he couldn’t. It’s himself that Taehyung has been afraid of lately, what he’s been becoming.
“You just—You bought this, but you never play with me.”
Taehyung huffs. “That’s cause you never want to play Overwatch.” He removes some hair from his
face with a shake of his head.

Woojin perks up. “We can play anything you want.”

Taehyung’s lips purse. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, checks the time. If he doesn’t leave
immediately, he’ll be late. “Why don’t you play with Ji noona tonight? I have to be somewhere,
Woo.”

Woojin’s eyes find the ground and his lips form a pout that is too much for Taehyung. He’s weak
when it comes to certain things, incredibly and admittedly so, and WooWoo’s pout is one of them.
His brother speaks in a small voice, keeps his gaze on the parqueting. “Noona’s room is locked,” he
informs quietly. “She has an important meeting and says not to bother her.”

A deep sigh leaves Taehyung’s chest. He looks at his phone once again, before he secures it in his
pocket and crouches down, levels himself with his brother. He reaches an arm, cradles him by the
shoulder to regain his attention. Their eyes meet and Taehyung arches his brows, asks softly,
carefully, “Someone’s there?”

Woojin’s gulping a bit and Taehyung’s eyes fall shut when he hears the whispered confirmation.
“Yeah.”

Taehyung breathes. He doesn’t think. He’s past thinking when he sucks his lower lip into his mouth
and nods. “Okay,” he says. He parts his eyes, repeats, “Okay, Woo. I’ll play with you.” He
straightens on his feet, reaches a hand down. “Come on.”

Woojin’s small hand comfortably slips into Taehyung’s and he doesn’t feel he dirties his little brother
with the touch.

“Thank you for this, TaeTae,” Woojin tells him as the game loads and it is all worth it.

“It’s fine WooWoo,” Taehyung assures as he looks at the way the boy looks excitedly ahead at the
flashing screen. He can’t help himself, reaches a hand, pats at the back of his head, and his neck, his
touch lingering and his eyes remaining focused on his brother even as the game starts. “Always for
you, okay? When I can, always for you.”
Taehyung doesn’t know what to expect. It’s Monday and he’s working, and he has to see them, most
likely, and he has no idea whether they would acknowledge his absence at all, and if they would, he
dreads it. Any confrontation with Jungkook, he dreads.

He gets under his skin, palpably, annoyingly, indelibly. Before this whole perverse fiasco had
commenced, Taehyung used to look, to watch, he admits. But he didn’t think. Out of sight, out of
mind, it was, and he was comfortable with that. If the twin was at the café, at the Ozone, he would
slide a glance, let it linger, but once he was gone, he was gone. Now, Jeon Jungkook constantly
lurks in the twisted confines of his mind, and they simply must be twisted to skew Taehyung’s
thoughts in the directions in which they do so constantly he has to wonder what he even had to
occupy his attention previously.

He’d have to physically pry him out of there, it seems. He gladly would. He attempts to busy
himself. Plays Overwatch, works, talks to Jimin, to Baekhyun, even. It doesn’t work, though,
because thinking is just so frustratingly easy. So, he goes off, doing just that, wondering not if
Jungkook fucked that European girl, but how, wonders if he thought about him there, watching him,
if for Jungkook he remains a bet, or he likes having him there. He seems to, in a degenerate, deprived
way, he does. He wonders other things as well, stupid things, like what does Jungkook do? When he
doesn’t brood, or does he always brood. He imagines he has interests, explores his imagination for
what they could possibly be, but falls short, because he’s so far from understanding Jungkook, he is.

So, he doesn’t expect fingers tight against his wrist to pull him into the hallway, leading to the
storage units.

He doesn’t expect the burning digits to release him as soon the door falls shut behind them and
piercing, obsidian eyes to glare into his, surprisingly treacherous of some dubious, undecipherable
emotion.

He doesn’t expect Jungkook to look at him and almost accusingly, but mostly flatly, dully, state,
“You didn’t come”.

Taehyung blinks. He’s still not fully comprehending he’s been dragged into the hallway, let alone
that he is being confronted. His heart beats weirdly when he does, when he allows his eyes to meet
Jungkook’s intense stare. “Observant,” Taehyung mimics dullness. He attempts dismissiveness; he
might not be able to chase him away from his thoughts, but maybe he can eradicate him from his life.
“Why didn’t you?” Jungkook asks, and it’s simple. So simple. He’s asking as if they’re pondering
the weather. As if his expression isn’t set and his eyes don’t attempt to probe through Taehyung and
then inside him, with the way they scorch across him.

Taehyung crosses his arms before his chest, pretends he hadn’t almost opened the door to leave that
night, to go to him. “I told you I want nothing to do with you,” he breeds a hostility in himself he
hardly feels. It’s not animosity that charges him truly, but a deeply rooted frustration, a sensation that
he attempted to literally beat into Jungkook, but of course he quickly put an end to that to instill a
whole new wave into him.

Namely, the mind-hogging wave of wondering what it’d be like to kiss him.

It’s such a stupid thing to want, Taehyung realizes, to press his lips against his. It’s nothing and it’s
everything. It’s so utterly simple, yet so overwhelmingly difficult.

Jungkook is glaring, but he is silent, as Taehyung drops his gaze to his lips, unintentionally,
instinctively, but he can’t really stop himself, doesn’t fully regret it. They’re pretty lips, they’re red
and full and he keeps them glistening. Taehyung runs a tongue over his. The frustration that now
almost perpetually resides inside of him resurfaces tangibly and embodies itself into a grunted
question. “Why don’t you drop me already?”

Jungkook’s impartiality irks at Taehyung’s insides. He’s dragged him in a hallway against his will to
question him, glares at him as if this means something, then speaks as if Taehyung’s still just his
waiter and he’s ordering himself a cocktail. “Our bet was for a threesome,” he has the audacity to
shrug, “I owe her.”

Taehyung’s aggravated. He lets it seep into his speech and his motions as he spreads his arms to two
sides, exposing his chest, puffing it out. “Why don’t you find someone else then?” he asks, and he
doesn’t mean it, but it sounds a bit like a challenge as well. His hands drop, lay motionlessly by his
pockets, as he follows with a statement that is true in a way that does not sit well with him, “Loads of
people would be up for it for free.”

In a situation like this, Taehyung is dispensable at best, and he knows it perfectly well. Jeon
Jungkook and Seung Julia could persuade anyone into their bed, even their shared one. Fuck, if they
pulled it on Jimin, he’d probably agree. It makes Taehyung nervous. He worries a lip between his
teeth, tries not to show it, but what if they did exchange him. He hates that it inexplicably bothers
him, but it does, the idea of another man entering Jungkook’s life like that, his intimate life. That
European girl was one thing. Julia is a whole other. But the prospect of a guyirks him unfamiliarly,
yet discernably to an extent he can almost physically feel, in his stomach.
Jungkook’s stare manages to preserve the intensity of a glare while filtering in the frustration of
languor. His lids are low and his head tilts back slightly in a motion that centers Taehyung’s attention
to the pronounced line of his jaw, strong and chiseled. “She wants you, pretty boy,” Jungkook tells
him, speaks idly.

The nickname falls from his lips easily. He’s used to saying it – Taehyung’s not used to hearing it.

He ignores it, arches a brow. “Does she?”

Jungkook’s eyes are unwavering on him. “Yes,” he says.

The words drop out of Taehyung’s mouth, unbidden and exposing of a certain vulnerability he prays
would remain for himself. “You wouldn’t mind?” he asks, you wouldn’t mind exchanging me?

Jungkook’s stare falters. He blinks at Taehyung. Once. Twice. And he looks away. His arms cross
as his tongue pokes in his cheek. “Don’t expect anything from me, Kim,” he says caustically as his
gaze returns, tone and eyes are different now – they’re colder, and Taehyung’s chest hollows, “you’ll
be disappointed.”

Taehyung nods. He nods a lot, stares at the ground and just nods, and then he breathes through his
nose, looks Jungkook straight in the eye. “Don’t worry. I never would.” He says – he lies – with
something belligerent behind the words spoken and he leaves to finish his shift and Jungkook lets
him, staring at the empty space in which he’d just stood.

Taehyung hasn’t seen Ji-woo cry in twelve years, and he does not suppose she will allow him to
witness such a sight now, but it does not mean he can’t recognize her utter devastation as she sits on
the table when he comes down the stairs and into the kitchen the very same night.

He just wants some water.

Instead he gets to hear her suck in a sharp breath, gather her shoulders together, when she recognizes
the distinctive sound of him approaching. One of her hands holds her head, brushes irritably, weakly,
underneath her nose. The other holds paper, sheets and sheets of paper.

He knows the look in her eyes as she stares down at the contents of what she reads, he recognizes
desperation when he sees it, and that is exactly it. Her eyes glisten weak and wide with exhaustion,
too much of it for her to appear composed. And he supposes he catches her of guard with the way
she shifts, she tries to gather herself, straighten on the chair. Her head lifts to Taehyung as he walks
and her fingers gather paper nervously, squeeze into it with vengeance.

Her lips play at something, at some game of happiness and smiling, but they lose. They are tight as
they stretch on her face, much too tight, and dry. “Hey,” she greets, her voice rasps and thickens. He
hears her swallow, sees the bop of her throat as she tries to clear it.

“Hey,” Taehyung says back.

It’s only in moments like these where Taehyung allows himself to acknowledge the hate he harbors
for his own family. His older brother and his father. Anger thugs at him in the form of hate, as he
witnesses their doing, what they left behind; Ji-woo, now the oldest, with the whole weight of the
world on her shoulders.

“Are you alright?” Taehyung asks after he begrudgingly gulps down the onslaught of feeling with
the cold water he pours himself. He draws a chair and sits by her, tries to search her with his eyes,
but at the moment, she won’t allow him. She always has to be strong, for him and Woojin. She
promised them. Taehyung wishes she would take it back.

“Yes,” she says. She chokes, “No.”

Taehyung pushes his glass towards her, and she sips it, quietly. He listens to her gulp down the
liquid in silence until the water is drained and she sets it back down. She breathes, wipes at her
mouth.

“What’s going on, Ji-Woo?” Taehyung asks. He has an instinct to reach out and touch her, but on a
rational level it seems inappropriate to him, so he holds his own elbows as he folds his arms on the
table and leans.

She shakes her head. “Everything,” she says. “Everything is going on, Taehyung. I’m looking at
numbers, I – I don’t think I can drop the Jeons’ weeklies.”
She leans back into her chair, licks her lips. She still does not allow herself to cry, not in front of him.
She chews on her lip, drops her hand on the table with a slam and proceeds to repeatedly hit her fist
against it, small, measured punches to the wood. Her eyes are not on him, they are on nothing,
scrunched together to maybe keep the glossing inside, not allow it to formulate into tears that would
drop. Her voice strains when she speaks, stretches around a gulp in her throat he recognizes in the
mere strength it takes her to speak coherently. “I don’t know what to do, Taehyung. I don’t want to
go back there. Jungkook said—”

She cuts herself off, brings one hand to her face, but Taehyung latches on. “What?” he demands
sharply, sharper than he had intended. “What did he say, noona? What did Jungkook do to you?”

Her eyes find him with a focus of some incredulity only she knows. He, on his part, is wildly
confused. The look in her eyes is almost offended. “Nothing,” she says. “Okay, Taehyung? He did
nothing to me,” she stresses. There’s too much emphasis, he thinks. Something’s wrong, he knows.

“Then why do you want to drop their weeklies so badly?”

She sighs, breathes so deeply. “It’s just—I can’t go back there, Tae. They’re a lot. They’re too much.
I can’t. I don’t want to.”

“Okay,” Taehyung starts slow. He adjusts on his chair, looks at her tentatively. “Okay. What if I tell
you you don’t have to?”

She meets his eyes, shakes her head. “It’s impossible,” her fingers latch around the cursed numbered
papers and she tosses them at him. “Look at this. We have factored in another two weeklies at the
Jeons for this month. It’s impossible to pay off everything without them.”

Taehyung licks his lips. “What if I told you I lied?”

Ji-Woo lifts two brows, cocks her head. “You lied?” the skepticism hurts, because of how much it is
undeserved. Taehyung nods. “And what did you lie about, Taehyung?”

“The amount of money I gambled—

“Tae, you piece of—”

“It’s double,” he interrupts firmly, and she halts what was narrowing to be an outburst.

“Double?”

“Double.”

Ji-woo’s eyes shut, she exhales heavily through her nose and lips alike. “You mean to tell me,” she
pauses. Her eyes open slow and dangerous as they focus on him. “That you played with your whole
fucking salary?”

“I mean to tell you, Ji-woo,” he leans towards her slightly, speaks slowly, cautiously, running his
tongue across the surface of his lips, “that I doubled my whole fucking salary.”

“I don’t know if I should tell you I love you or beat you the fuck up.”

He smiles. “You can do both.”

She shakes her head. The slide of her chair across the floor is rough to his ears. “You’re fool,
Taehyung,” she tells him, looking at him from above with glossy eyes and a soft expression. He
knows she wants to scream at him. He knows she’s too tired to do it. “You’re lucky, but you’re a
fool.”

“I know,” Taehyung nods.

“Don’t do it again,” she says sententiously. His eyes stray from hers, drop to the numbers. “I mean it,
Taehyung. You could have lost it all.” She digs a forefinger into her chest, presses it tightly. “And it
is my job to save your ass, okay?”

Taehyung shakes his head. He stands. “No, Ji-woo, no. It’s not okay. You’re as much my
responsibility as I am yours. And I make my decisions.”

Ji-woo’s jaw sets, eyes narrow. She seethes, “You make stupid decisions.”
“Ihaveto,” Taehyung snaps, focuses a gaze of passion towards her, too much of it for this time of
night, too loaded to be pointed to his own sister. “I have to. Just like you do. We’re Kims, Ji-woo.
We survive on stupid decisions. They save us. This time’s no different.”

The tension in the dance of challenge between their similarly unmatched eyes burns through the
small kitchen. It’s Ji-woo’s that falters first. “I’m going to bed,” she announces. “Thank you,” she
tells him, she whispers to him. “Thank you for saving my ass, but I’m going to bed.”

He follows her with his eyes as she skips a step and climbs to her room. He sighs to himself when
she disappears, falls into his seat again. He’s tired, exhausted. And it’s draining in more ways than
one that once again, he lied. Taehyung has no money, not enough for sure. He needs money. And,
for better or for worse, he knows exactly where to get them.

Ji-woo hasn’t cried in twelve years. And he may not be as strong as she is, but he won’t cry, either,
no matter how much it tugs at him.

Taehyung is glad a girl is hitting on him quite determinedly that night because he needs all the liquid
courage that her bank account can offer at the striking prices of the Ozone.

He downs a shot and settles it on the bar at which he leans. She speaks, but he doesn’t listen. He’s
concentrating, targeting.

Jungkook is dancing tonight. It’s a considerably rare sight, though Taehyung, with his regretful
experience of constant, curiosity-bidden observation has previously witnessed it, studied it. Though
before, he could not realize that the sensuousness of Jungkook as a dancer is reminiscent of his
passion as a lover. His sense of rhythm is remarkable. His clothes are tight on him tonight, permit for
the illustrious agility of his body to appear, to tease with the fact he is talented in this, too. It’s a
peculiar thing to possess a flair in, fucking clubbing, but of course, he would. There’s a titillating
quality to the way he moves, and Taehyung is as always obnoxiously, ineluctably captivated.
The other man sweats. It’s unsurprising. The heat of bodies and dancing would do that, but it’s
distracting, because even perspiration sits well on him, on the fringe of his hair and the lines of his
jaw. It reminds him of when Jungkook fights and it reminds him of when Jungkook fucks.

Julia is in his arms. She ensconces between them with the ardent ripples of her own body, and they
coalesce together in a pattern that is betraying of just how well they have explored each other, how
familiar they are to this. Something malignant grows inside of Taehyung, something acerbic that has
no place in him, none at all. She presses her back into his chest, crevices filling. Her neck arches, she
holds his nape in her palm, arm stretched. She’s saying something to him, and she leaves him among
bodies for the third time that night.

Taehyung doesn’t know for how long she will be gone this time, so he downs another shot. It stings
on his tongue, his throat, but he ignores it, excuses himself from the rich girl who bought it for him.
Alcohol invigorates him to move. It’s a foolish technique to muster up courage, a vulnerable one, but
necessary, it seems.

Reaching Jungkook is a strenuous exercise, one that requires of him to come into contact with a lot
of bodies he certainly wishes he could avoid. When he finally squeezes to his side, he runs his
fingers over his bicep, presses into the muscle that lies underneath, a physical call for his attention, as
he deems an audible one useless at first. As indolent, hazy eyes flutter towards him he retracts his
hand demurely. There’s something indecent in touching the other while he’s like this.

Taehyung’s figure stands still and rigid, incongruous in the midst of an electric wave of dancing.

There’s something to Jungkook’s eyes that night, to his expression as a whole. The surfaces of his
orbs glisten reddened around dilated irises. His lids fall almost half across them in a hooded, alluring
gaze that settles on Taehyung with unbidden intensity. His lips are slightly parted, pink tongue
poking in between to run over white, sharp teeth. The perspiration is more obvious now, bright on
his skin. He’s high but beautiful.

Jungkook’s arm reaches instinctive towards him. His wrist rests on the crevice of his shoulder for a
moment before his fingers curl, extend to the back of his neck, his palm cupping at his nape. It
spreads a fiery sensation across Taehyung’s skin, each outline of a digit scorching where it touches.
His own hand moves, pushes at Jungkook’s elbow, gathers his shoulder together until the other’s
palm drops, leaving a lingering fire in its wake.

“What happened between you and my sister?” Taehyung shouts close to him.

Jungkook arches his neck, tilts his head slightly, lets his ear be close to Taehyung’s mouth as their
shoulders brush. He still moves, still dances. Taehyung’s eyes fall on the ear he’s given him, study its
shape as he moves his lips closer to it, licks them.

“What happened between you and my sister, Jungkook?” Taehyung repeats. He needs to know.
Before he does anything too stupid, stupid even for him, he needs to know.

Jungkook’s parted lips spread into a lascivious smirk, the tip of his tongue poking in between still,
teasing. He tips his head some more, so that his own mouth is close to Taehyung’s ear as his is to his
own. “Dance, pretty boy,” he speaks beguilingly, breath washing over Taehyung’s cheek in a
thrilling wave that almost produces a shudder.

His head shakes. “No,” he stresses. He stares ahead, looks at other people dancing now, as he does
not trust himself to look at Jungkook, not at the brazen suggestion. He has to remind himself of
certain things, Taehyung does. That Jungkook is currently high as a kite, and that Jungkook is a
manipulative prick, working him for a reaction. He does not want Taehyung to dance, not in the
same way he had Julia between his arms, pressed fully, securely, most lewdly against him, at least.
It’s an entirely different dance that he wants to see from Taehyung, a swift repetitive rotation around
his little finger.

“No?” Jungkook quirks. His own low-lidded eyes flutter across the side of Taehyung’s face, chart
over his body, stoic and rigid as he shakes his head again. The discrepancy between him and
Jungkook on the dance floor is palpable when they stand so close together. Jungkook wants to
quench it. “Why not?” He lifts a hand, presses it lightly against the other’s waist. Taehyung shifts at
the contact, a single step forward, away from it, but inadvertently closer to Jungkook. He runs his
hand across his back shortly, furtively. The touch in such a setting is inundating to Taehyung, sends
his heart into overdrive. “You’ve been such a good dancer for me until now, Taehyung.”

The words are unequivocally sensuous as they travel in between them, Jungkook’s lips brushing his
ear for the barest of moments. He’s stopped dancing almost completely, but still stands there, in
Taehyung’s space, reeking of himself, musky and expensive. Taehyung hates how it makes him
shudder.

“This is not a game for me, Jungkook,” he gulps through the sentence. He wonders just how high the
other must be not to care, someone might be lookingand if people look, they will talk. A Jeon
speaking so closely to a Kim on a dance floor. Jungkook holding a Kim by the waist, a boy by the
waist.

Nobody seems to be capable of paying attention, though. Music palpitates in the beat of hearts and
people seem too lost in each other to care about bystanders. Taehyung supposes his bystanders are
their own people, with their own lives, their own dances to dance. But then again this is Richhood.
Privacy is public unless you can pay for it not to be.
Jungkook’s eyes are rapturous, appetitive in the way they dart across the whole of Taehyung, take
him in, make his breath race. His own heart does not beat with the pulsing sound of the music. It
drums to a rhythm set by the intensity of their interaction, bold and fast.

“Pity,” Jungkook tells him and he feels it across the line of his spine. “You can make a good player.”
His lips touch to the lobe of Taehyung’s ear again, and it’s not an accident this time, it’s not, a
second later something else brushes over the cartilage, above, something teasing and firm, the tips of
teeth, bared through his parted lips, and Taehyung presses a palm into Jungkook’s chest, pushes him
back.

He can’t breathe with him so close, can’t fucking focus. He’d rather scream his lungs out to make
sure Jungkook hears him than give him an excuse to speak in his ear.

Jungkook’s lips finally seal shut, pull tight against each other. He’s completely still himself now, like
Taehyung, the both of them standing with locked stares. His jaw ticks with the way his teeth press
together, and his eyes fall hard on Taehyung, skimming across him with their typical languor, though
its slightly different today, almost petulant post-dismissal, somehow whiny.

“What happened with my sister, Jungkook?” Taehyung asks again, voice as firm as it would pull
through.

To his utter surprise, Jungkook’s following response actually relates to the question, though it’s
wildly unsatisfactory for Taehyung’s purposes. “It’s not my story to tell,” Jungkook tells him. “It’s
her you need to pry it from, Kim. Not me.”

There’s a certain distance in the way he addresses him, calls him Kim, a distance he supposes he put
there when he pushed him away. Taehyung tries to ignore that – he prefers Kim to pretty boy,
anyway. He focuses on the response, on what it could mean. The purposeful ambiguity irks at him,
in toll with the way there seems to be something peculiarly noblein Jungkook’s evasiveness. Chances
are, it’s fake, but it’s all Taehyung has to work with. He’s not entirely sure what exactlyto believe,
but he does trust Jungkook did not hurt his sister.

So, he summons up all his courage (read: alcohol), chases away every last notion of pride his body
might possess, and he pronounces, “I’ll do it.”

Jungkook’s reply is terse, sharp, a hiss. “What?” His eyes flash.

He knows Jungkook hears him over the boom of the music. “If you and Julia still want… me, I will
—” he swallows, literally swallows down pride, “I’ll do it.”

The next question that leaves Jungkook’s mouth, Taehyung certainly does not expect. “Why?” he
asks, just as cuttingly.

It’s striking enough for Taehyung to hesitate, but he composes himself into a response. “You know
why, Jungkook.” Money. Of all the things Taehyung remembers from time to time to hate, maybe
money sits on top of the list, a devil of greed and a devil of need, and, sadly, hopelessly, Taehyung
falls perfectly into the second category. It is his unbidden devil, always chirping at his shoulder,
forcing him like a notorious Kim to make stupid decisions, as he does now.

The duel of their stares falters following several moments of Jungkook’s heavy silence. It feels quiet
to Taehyung, which is borderline ridiculous, considering bodies still dance, music still charges them,
loud and powerful.

Jungkook’s tongue runs over his lips, his eyes roll, and then he’s leaning, back in Taehyung’s space.
His fingers are on him again, dig into him this time, in the bone of his hip, harsh into the flesh.
“Tomorrow,” Jungkook says into his ear, accentuates his words with a squeeze of his hand that
elicits a helpless whimper from Taehyung that he fruitlessly tries to mask. “Come heretomorrow.”
There’s a newness to his voice and it is cold and sharp, cruel, “It’s Julia’s birthday, and you, pretty
boy, will be the perfect gift. She would love to unwrap you.”

He releases him then and before Taehyung can form a coherent thought, he disappears, leaves him
lost and somehow stranded in the middle of the pulsing body of dancers. The music is loud again.

Jungkook lifts his arm off of Julia’s bony shoulders as she climbs out of Min Yoongi’s rooftop
terrace hot tub. He trails eyes after her lazily as she makes a show out of habit, swinging her hips
from side to side salaciously as she struts towards a chaise lounge. She settles on her stomach, folds
her arms, places her face in between them.

The roar of the hot tub is loud as water bubbles. She’s considerably far away. Jungkook’s gaze roots
on Yoongi’s scrawny form as he sits, arms spread long on both sides and his neck craned
uncomfortably as he stares at clouds. He likes clouds, he always says it.

“Yoongi,” he calls. The older hums in acknowledgment but does not bother to move a muscle. “Do
you know of Kim Ji-Woo?”

His reply comes idly. He speaks slow today, drowsy, has trouble formulating sounds that do not slur,
and he hates to slur. “Kim Junsu’s only daughter is she not?”

Jungkook nods. “Very same.”

It’s perhaps enough a striking of a name drop as Yoongi actually moves for it, lifts his head off of
where it relaxes and focuses his eyes calculatingly on Jungkook. “What of her?” he questions.

“She cleans,” Jungkook states simply.

“Okay.”

“I want you to hire her.”

Yoongi’s head cocks, brows arch. “I already have a house keeper.”

“Fire her,” Jungkook responds rather coldly. There’s a determination in his voice. A finality.

Yoongi pauses, ponders, but it’s for mere seconds. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Jungkook nods. “Subin might want to sell to you again. I’ll talk to him.”

A slow smile stretches on Yoongi’s features, as he relaxes back into his previous position, half
submerging his face underneath water as he props the back of his head on the edge of the tub. His
eyes fall shut as the sun glares down on his face, and he appears for a moment to be in a perfectly
euphoric state. “I love you, Jungkook,” he slurs this time, uncaringly.
Jungkook snorts. “You love drugs.”

“I do,” Yoongi says. “But I love you, too. You and even Hoseok. I love love love you.”

Jungkook jostles him when he thinks he might fall asleep, but he’s gone already, so Jungkook slips
an arm underneath his legs, one underneath his shoulder, carries him to the bathroom. He sticks two
fingers in his throat until Yoongi throws up, and then puts him to bed.

When Yoongi wakes up an hour later, Hoseok’s there, and he makes him a cocktail.

Taehyung’s presence in the Ozone that night is not acknowledged for a good hour before Clo Eun
approaches him.

“Jungkook told me to give you this,” she tells him. She’s sober and it’s downright weird. He’s never
witnesses such a sturdy focus to her yes, such coherence and straightforwardness in her words, such
enunciation. Not that he’s witnesses too much of her closely,still, it’s a peculiar sight to see.

Her eyes are unnerving. They rake over him with a calculatedness akin to that of her brother, though
she lacks some of the condescension and adds to the idleness. She holds herself with a conscious
stoicism that makes him slightly envious. Makes him wonder what sort of life both her and Jungkook
have to lead to be that composed and amputated of emotion.

She slips an envelope between his fingers, and his eyes fall to it instinctively. He’s not even looked at
it properly, hasn’t entirely processed the scenario, but she’s disappearing already, walking away with
ominous, charged words. “Mind your step, Kim,” is what she says as she struts away.

Taehyung’s head snaps up, gaze trails behind her as she saunters over to Seokjin. They don’t touch
each other as they leave the club, but they walk side by side and their shoulders brush.

The envelope holds a key card, asks him to go to the hotel and wait there. Granted they do not want
him for the birthday party itself – just need him for desert. He cannot fool himself into being
surprised. He was actually staggered he was allowed into the Ozone in the first place; on a night such
as this, people were incredibly filtered. It was no place for a Kim. Even Jimin was dismissed for the
night.

Waiting at the hotel is a real test of character. His phone is simply not entertaining enough to take his
mind off of the bubbling nervousness, the growing shame he tries to lucidly ignore, but it’s there,
baleful to his stomach. He scrolls, he texts, watches a game stream. None of it helps, not when the
bed is glaring at him. It taunts him. He hates how nothing, but a mere piece of furniture can
intimidate him so, make him want to pull strands from his hair off of his head.

How is this even going to work?

It’s a question he chooses not to dwell on, gags on a swell of apprehension. There is a dread in his
stomach, in his chest. There is. But it’s not enough. There’s something else as well and the audacity
of its presence magnifies the dread and gives it a new focus, a new target.

They come so late it’s early and Taehyung’s a jittery mess, but he won’t show it. They don’t deserve
it, any of it, any of him, but he’ll give himself to them anyway, because he has no choice, but to.
He’s already told the lie, promised money; damage’s done. He can’t escape this.

The both of them are flashy tonight in a way that is admittedly beautiful. Julia’s dress is wondrous,
sits well on her. Her hairstyle is elaborate, but she pulls at a long, elegant stick that pokes through the
bun of it as soon as she steps into the room, releasing it in gentle curls that fall over her shoulders.
She dismisses a scarf from around her that falls on the armchair beside him.

He sits, stunted with her immediate approach. She looks down at him, her eyes narrowing,
expression fierce. She says nothing to him, though, but her blatant expectation, her unavoidable
focus unnerves him.

He hesitates, but he does end up meekly saying, “Happy birthday.” It’s inappropriate in more ways
than he can count, but he has nothing else to tell her, really. It produces a smirk on Jungkook’s lips,
one that Taehyung fails to notice.

She crosses her arms. “I was hurt, Taehyung,” she announces, and it annoys him. They shouldn’t be
entitled to expecting anything from him, especially not something like this.

He doesn’t voice this, however. Not to Julia. Were it Jungkook trying to be confrontational, he
probably would have, but for Julia he remains silent. He has no desire to discuss this, anyway, in any
way, shape or form. A discussion is an acknowledgment, makes this whole thing real and he doesn’t
want it to be. He can ignore it, he can get it over with and he can ignore it.

He is not the first person in the world to sell sex, his body, himself. He certainly isn’t the last. Some
people do it every day. It’s not that big of a deal. It’s not. Taehyung is pretty sure his sister has
indirectly gone through this before. He suspects Jimin might have. Not so explicitly, not a done deal,
not such a forward exchange, not a currency after they are done, but gone through it nonetheless.

“I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” she continues, her voice is whiny.

He wonders if she sometimes forgets they pay him. If she likes to pretend they don’t.

But they do, and Taehyung caters. He swallows down a wave of something in his throat, gulps
visibly, and Jungkook follows the bob of it with scheming eyes. “I do,” Taehyung says vacuously.
Jungkook’s eyes return to his face, they narrow on his features.

A smile stretches on Julia’s face. It’s slow and crooked, but high and genuine. She extends her arm,
which twists at the elbow with how skinny she is, palm spread and opened towards him. He eyes it
for a moment wearily. He fights an instinct to look at Jungkook, who hangs by the door silently a
few feet away from the exchange. He’s awfully quiet and it brings a new turmoil of frustration to
Taehyung.

For Taehyung, this is between him and Jungkook; this whole game they have been the major
characters and Julia has been a plot device. He constantly strives to find proof that for Jungkook he is
at least acharacter – and he is, he knows he is, but he also knows Jungkook plays a different game.
He does not play against him. He plays with him, more like an instrument, he feels, because
Taehyung has so far, elicited all the right notes, the sounds he strives for. Except, perhaps, on
Saturday.

He begs his uneasy reluctance does not show when he slips his hand in Julia’s and allows her to
coax him to his feet with a gentle tug. Her fingers are cold and slim, and too small. Their hands don’t
fit, but he follows her, stupidly hopes his palm isn’t clammy. He doesn’t care, he shouldn’t.

She leads him to the bed. The intimidating bed that had glared at him for hours with the memories of
what he had seen and the anticipation – apprehension, he corrects himself – of what had been to
come, what now is. For the merest moment Julia has her back to him, and Taehyung’s eyes
compellingly stray. They drift to the boy at the door, slide across him. He’s exquisite tonight, clothes
tight pressed and simply beautiful. Taehyung’s repressed appreciation for fashion could admire him,
really, but he is entirely too busy posing a question with his eyes as they cross pathways. Why is he
impartial and quiet, why does he remain by the door?

Jungkook’s eyes are as ever hard, dark, inundating and challenging. He seems sober to what
Taehyung can judge, sober and composed. His gaze follows the interaction between his girlfriend
and him, an interaction that he allows stoically, as he lingers in his position with his arms crossed.
Taehyung is surprised how quickly their stares fall together, how immediately they meet.

Julia quickly forces his away. She spins him, presses her fingers lightly on his chest, just above her
nipples, and he can mostly feel her prickly nails. Her touch pushes, directs, and he obeys, falling onto
the bed, right onto the spot at which Jungkook sat as she rode him the previous week.

Taehyung’s heart drums. His eyes trail back to Julia, whose focus is reserved to Taehyung’s face.
She lifts a finger and it ghosts over Taehyung’s chin, her thumb grazes over his bottom lip and she
whispers, “So pretty.”

She drops her hand, next, but not her eyes, they stay rooted on him and he keeps his head tilted
upwards, watching her, striving to ignore the scorching sensation on the side of himself which
excites and teases with the suggestion of Jungkook’s own gaze situated on him.

“Can I undress him, Jungkook?” Julia pipes without looking away, some feline, feigned innocence
seeping in the way she contorts the pitch of her voice, the pout of her lips.

She demands Jungkook’s involvement now, and Taehyung has to struggle even more not to look at
the other boy, though a curiosity to study his reactions wages a war within him. His breath hitches
for a moment at the insinuation of her question, but he quickly releases it, allows himself to breath at
least steadily, although heavily. His mouth sucks in the lip she had touched, and he has to fight his
knee’s desire to nervously bounce.

It’s happening, he thinks, it’s starting. He still does not entirely feel like a participant, not with the
way Julia regards him as an actual present she can open up, with the way she seeks Jungkook’s
permission, but not his.

“Just a bit,” Jungkook’s voice sounds rough and raw for the first time that night and it triggers a
shiver in Taehyung. The older leans against the door, lining his shoulder blades with its surface as his
calculating, permeating eyes dance across the whole of Taehyung, his rigid position, the nervous
bulk of his throat.
Julia’s fingers touch his neck briefly as they land on a button, and he sucks in a breath sharply,
hisses. Her eyes chart to his, blink at him, all sultry and dangerous. “Relax,” she coos at him, presses
at him a bit more until he leans on his palms and releases a labored exhale. She works his shirt. Her
gaze drops to follow the pattern of her motion as he tries to level his breathing. Her digits wrap into
the cheap fabric, tug at it until it slips from the confines of his trousers.

“Enough,” Jungkook says and Julia turns to him with a petulant glare. She can see the length of
Taehyung’s skin now, the melanin that stretches over his bones and chest, his small nipples, but
Jungkook can’t and he does not want to.

“Jungkook—”

“Don’twhine,” he demands warningly, in a voice so set and domineering Taehyung’s skin prickles,
and her mouth seals shut. Jungkook tilts his head, nods his chin simplistically. “Get on him,” he
instructs, and Taehyung struggles to keep breathing. “Knees on each side.”

Taehyung can’t do this. He can’t. He thought he could, but this is too much to take, not with
Jungkook fucking narrating it, in that goddamn authoritative voice, with those piercing, idle eyes
searing as they explore him from the side.

Julia is docile when it comes to this. Her fingers slip beneath the collar of his shirt on his shoulder
and rest there, tighten as she uses him to support herself as she positions herself above him. She does
as Jungkook dictates, positions first one knee on his side and then the other. She’s close to him now,
so close, proximity hot, but not what he wants. She does not completely straddle him as he expects,
she hovers first, though the weight of her eyes is enough to him, her fingers are on his skin, and her
knees touch to his thighs.

“You can touch her, Taehyung,” Jungkook teases, addresses him, and his eyes shoot to his leaning
form inadvertently. He is watching with a neutrality that somehow palpably represses something and
when their gazes meet and his lips twitch, Taehyung supposes it is entertainment. “She doesn’t bite
too hard,” he doesn’t miss a beat.

“You can touch me,” Julia whispers above him and he cannot tell if the demure innocence is fake or
not anymore as he hopelessly returns his eyes to hers. “Touch me,” she says.

He does. He has no excuse not to. Considering he will have to be inside her in a matter of minutes,
touching her may be a start. He palms at her waist. It’s small, and the fabric of her dress feels
exquisite underneath his skin. He firms his touch, cradling at her, his fingers tightening. She relaxes
into it, pushes herself against the cup of his palm and lowers her body into his lap.
She fits herself over him, the dress riding up on her thighs as she pulls her knees apart, until it
bundles almost at her hips. The crevice of the middle of her thighs is snug on him, on his crotch, and
he wonders how she manages to position herself so swiftly so perfectly over him. She does not settle
singularly, she moves over him, rotates herself in place with a languid motion of her hips that stirs
something in him. The revealed lace of her panties ruts against the fabric of his trousers. There’s a
heat between her legs that she presses over him.

“Does she feel good?” Jungkook’s voice startles him. He looks at him again, while Julia’s gaze
refuses to falter. His eyes are dark, so dark they’re black, completely and entirely. The lids are low,
and his chin is still tilted, jaw set, tight and sharp. There is a permanent challenge etched into his
countenance today. One that Taehyung is uncertain he can uphold.

The hesitation is clear in Taehyung’s demeanor as his lips part and expel a futile pronoun. “I,” he
stutters out, pauses. Julia teases her hips over him; it’s barely a motion, but when they are lined so
close together, he feels it, every slight motion of her. “Yes,” he grits out.

It’s what she wants to hear, and it is not exactly a lie, a warm, soft heat grinding directly across his
crotch can hardly feel bad.He knows, however, that is conscious of half of the sensation because of
the way Jungkook speaks to him. It makes him aware of the way she fits over him, feels over him. It
increases the sensitivity of his body, the tingles on his skin, the laboriousness of the action of
breathing.

Jungkook pushes away from the door, straightens on his legs. Julia grinds into Taehyung’s lap and
he squeezes at her harder when Jungkook shuns himself off of the luxurious suit jacket he had
adorning his shoulders. It’s in perfect sync with the motions of her hips, and Julia sighs over him.
Jungkook disposes of the jacket on the couch as he struts about the room. His dress pants are high on
his waist, accentuate his figure, which is alluring, at best. It’s dangerous, beautiful. He’s built so
temptingly, and Taehyung supposes Julia is as well, but maybe she is just not his type.

There is an air of superiority in the way Jungkook carries himself about the room, something that
attracts Taehyung’s supposedly otherwise occupied attention, and binds it to him. Long strides pause
close behind Julia. He centers his own gaze to his wrists as he undoes the cuffs of his shirt, first one,
then the other, nimble fingers work them opened. He pushes the sleeves of it upwards, revealing
wiry forearms, each lined with a protruding vein that Taehyung wants to trail a fingertip over.

Jungkook’s head raises, fiery, powerful eyes meet Taehyung’s. “She’s warm, isn’t she?” He’s smug.

Julia moans in a way that is attention-grabbing more than it is needy. “He’s getting hard,” she voices.
Frustratingly, it’s true and he squeezes into her side when she ruts her hips into it.
The smirks that stretches across Jungkook’s face is positively devious. There is something menacing,
yet suggestive that flashes across his eyes. They’re glinting and compulsive, and it’s what Taehyung
stares into when his own lips part slightly to betray a first sound.

Jungkook’s lids flutter at the softness of it. It’s reminiscent of a whimper, quiet and unsolicited, but
there sounding through the air and reaching Jungkook’s ears, whose tips heat peculiarly. He filters
out a breath and it irritates him that is slightly shallow.

He’s not doing anything. There is nothing there that should cause his breath to stir and shake. For
Christ’s sake, he’s had to be solidly sucked into an erection for the past two years, by his own
girlfriend, the one woman that should always get him excited.

“Of course, he’s getting hard,” Jungkook seethes more than he intends. His teeth grind together.
“He’s a little slutjust like you.”

Taehyung’s eyes widen, and he’s fucking offended, he genuinely is. His own teeth clamp together
with the brief anger that surges through him, his blood and his mind, but there is something else,
something uncanny and largely uninvited, personally disturbing in the way it makes his pants tighten.
Julia’s hips stutter on top of his, soft grinds into his crotch. Her gaze is on him, on Taehyung as she
rotates onto his hardening cock, but his glare is unrelenting on Jungkook.

He bites back words, a caustic remark that sits on his lips just at the edge of his teeth. He’s hesitant to
interrupt this, wants it over and done with, and he does not want, for some reason, to reveal what he
now has the audacity to say to Jungkook in front of Julia. Is not that their interactions have
developed, not at all, but maybe they have altered, and he wants to keep the particular direction in
which they have made alteration private to the two of them. He wonders how blatantly ridiculous
Jungkook would find his thoughts, one moment, doesn’t care next, as he glared. He charges his gaze
with as much viciousness as he can. He is pointed and he feels Jungkook understands.

Because Jungkook’s lips twitch. He steps closer. “He wants it,” Jungkook says. Taehyung feels he
uses ambiguity on purpose, narrows his eyes even more because of it.

Taehyung does not understand his own motivations, cannot comprehend what invigorates him, but
he uses his other hand, palms over Julia’s thigh, spreads his fingers wide on top of her cool skin and
sinks his digits into her flesh in a forward motion that propels her closer to him, speeds up a grind she
was already in the midst of. “Yes, Julia,” he breathes. He replaces his eyes on her. “I want you.”
The beginning of a smirk on Jungkook’s face subside, disappear. His expression darkens as Julia
sighs on top of Taehyung, rhythmically nestling her crotch against his.

He steps forward, takes quick, sure strides and then he is behind Julia, towering over Taehyung.
He’s between his legs and his eyes are so daring, so intense Taehyung is actually glad to have the
girl serve as a barrier between them.

Jungkook slides a hand into his pocket, settles into a pretense of coolness, of detachment, that speaks
of the composure of dominance in the situation, but he keeps the glare in his eyes passionate, likely
cannot control it, and it makes Taehyung harder. “Pretty boy is eager, it seems,” Jungkook mocks.
He lifts his free arm, wraps the fingers of it against the back zipper of Julia’s dress, and he pulls.
“Let’s not keep him waiting.”

He undoes the dress as Taehyung swallows. Maybe he is taking on something he can’t handle,
answering to Jungkook’s taunting challenge.

“Take off my girlfriend’s dress,” Jungkook instructs.

Taehyung is reluctant and it is obvious. Jungkook is observant, anyway. There’s no point in

pretending, really. He presses his hand upwards on her thigh, slides it across her skin until it reaches
the hem of her dress. He replaces his other arm as well, takes lifts her dress up and over her head and
she helps him, raising her arms and throwing it on the floor.

She remains in stockings, heels and lacy panties, and it seems like Jungkook is satisfied with her state
of undress as such. The stockings are the definition of sexual, salacious, and she grinds into him
wantonly, but Taehyung’s attention is explicit on Jungkook. Even when he doesn’t look, he is
conscious of him, even when he trails his eyes across Julia’s newly revealed body, so bare and so
close. Her skin is hotter now, when he presses his hand against her waist again. Without the restraints
of her dress she fits better against him, more closely, the heat of the inside of her thighs inviting
against him, slightly wet, and he rolls back into her. Any friction is delicious.

Jungkook’s eyes snap to the motion. They prickle at where Taehyung and Julia’s bodies connect
and then return to the other boy’s, who isn’t looking at him. He is trained on Julia, venturing,
exploring, skimming every naked inch of skin that is revealed before him and Jungkook locks his
jaw, reaches forward. He curls his fingers against Julia’s neck, brings the digits forward, the tips on
her trachea, and he squeezes only indicatively. She relaxes her head back, tips it, and it rests on his
hard chest.

Taehyung’s eyes draw to Jungkook’s thick fingers, lids flutter as pupils concentrate on the metal of
the ring as it tightens over Julia’s neck. His lips part. Julia’s do as well, in unison, and she moans.

Jungkook holds her as he removes her from his chest. He leans down, brings his red lips to her ear.
He is close now, so damn close to Taehyung with that stare, unrivaled, feral, scorching, most
importantly, on him. Though he speaks to Julia, he watches him, and Taehyung can hardly keep
coherence of thought, let alone of movement, of speech. “Do you want to ride the poor, pretty boy,
my love?”

From his position over her shoulder, Jungkook can see Taehyung, he can see the revealed tan skin,
stretched over his flesh, which appears soft, but firm. He looks so smooth, so clean, not a single
defect on the length of it. His nipples are hard, and his collarbones protrude, stretch the melanin
above them sharply and Jungkook wonders how it feels, wants to trail his finger over it, dip in the
crevices his clavicles create, imagines just what sort of reaction it would coax out of him, if he
presses into it, if he rolls the tip of his digit on the buds atop his surprisingly solid pectorals.

“Can I?” Julia whines, twisting her head onto Jungkook’s shoulder now. He squeezes lightly into her
neck again.

“Anything for you, baby, anything you want,” Jungkook murmurs in her ear, chest vibrating onto
her. “It’s your birthday.”

It elicits a moan from her, an erotic sound that Taehyung sees, hears, and feels when she releases it.

The one hand that is not wrapped around her throat, glides across her back. His fingers press into the
line of her spine firmly, dragging downwards in a revelation he knows her body just right, as she
arches, moaning. He dips lower and lower, the twist of her back follows the motion, her chest
curving into Taehyung’s, hard, perky nipples brushing against him illicitly.

“Isn’t that right, Taehyung?” Jungkook addresses and Taehyung twitches.

He still cannot look at him with a gaze different to a hooded glare, he cannot meet his eyes without
feral animosity, but he wonders if it is enough to cloud the other sensations he feels, the other things
he wants to foolishly communicate to the other boy.

He nods acquiescently. He’s paid to.

“Are you wet?” Jungkook asks, low, raw, as he slides a finger in the back of her panties. “Hm? How
does his cock feel under you, baby?”

Taehyung almost chokes. Jungkook is filthy, of course he is, everything about this is such, lewd and
filthy and borderline wrong. The way he dips his fingers in her underwear is wrong. The way her
hips stutter in Taehyung’s lap at whatever his ministrations are, is wrong. The way Taehyung’s cock
twitches is certainly wrong.

“Do you want it?” Jungkook continues. The tone of his voice is pure sin. It evaporates all proper
function directly from Taehyung, makes him ravenous for something.

“Yes,” Julia hisses. She seems as gone as Taehyung feels, head thrown back, breathing ragged and
words rasped. “He feels good, Jungkook. He’s big, I can tell. I feel him when he twitches.”
Jungkook inhales sharply, his lids flutter, and he tightens his fingers around her neck, slides his other
ones across her as she lifts of Taehyung’s lap to accommodate her boyfriend as he slips a digit inside
of her. She is wet. “I want him.”

He releases her neck and wraps his arm around her waist instead, pulling her back slightly so that he
can work her more comfortably with his other hand. She’s gasping, reaching an arm back herself,
slipping fingers between strands of his hair. She tugs on him as he moves inside her.

“Take it out then,” Jungkook tells her softly. He skims his teeth across the lid of her ear, takes it
between, teases, then releases. He dips his head more, mouths at the side of her neck, skims his
tongue across it, and she cannot seem to focus on his command as he overwhelms her with sensation.

Taehyung is brimming as well, with something, with everything. He cannot comprehend any of
what is going on, of the fact Jungkook is fingering a girl that sits in his lap, he can almost feel the
motion of his digits as they thrust inside of her, just above him. That Jungkook is kissing her neck,
trailing his tongue on it, his teeth, but still looking at Taehyung, dark, glorious eyes settled on him
with a destructive libidinousness.

He watches the way his lips move, explore her revealed skin, and Taehyung wants; he desires things
he is not ready to admit to himself, but he cannot part his eyes with the way tongue, teeth and red
mouth moves wet and sultry over her. And Jungkook watches Taehyung watch him.

Jungkook’s previous instruction seems to register with Julia when he thrusts a finger hard enough to
makes her jostle. She fidgets, her fingers jittery, but still agile, experiences when they reach towards
him. Nails scrape across the skin above his trousers and he exhales sharply, tugging his stomach
away from the sudden touch. She undoes the button, pulls down the zipper.
As she pulls out his cock, Taehyung heaves a breath. He gulps. He is relieved when she frees him of
the confines of his tight and tightening pants, but he is undeniably fucking nervous.

Jungkook separates his lips from Julia. He straightens up, head tilted down. His eyes hood over, drop
over Taehyung’s cock.

Taehyung might collapse. Julia runs a fist over him, and Taehyung’s hips jerk into the sensation, but
as he leans back on his palms, he looks at Jungkook. Jungkook, fucking Jungkook, whose goddamn
eyes are on him, unrelenting and exploratory. Taehyung tingles, all over, he burns.

Jungkook’s face is a mask. Taehyung can’t tell anything of what the other is thinking, what runs
through his sick, rich head. He stares, reticent and still, the motion of his fingers inside his girlfriend
slowed.

Is he disgusted? It tugs at Taehyung balefully. Fuck, he probably is. Taehyung is overcome with
rapid, encompassing deflation at the prospect, but he figures, sudden and wrenching, that it is only
logical that he would be. Rich, spoiled, masculine boys, fighter boys, they tend to be disgusted by
dicks, don’t they?

Jungkook’s eyes lift, meet his. He’s scared his vulnerability sits on his face, exposes his current
fragility.

“Lay down, pretty boy,” Jungkook instructs.

He removes his hand from Julia, and she whines, audible and lascivious, his name falling from her
lips.

When Taehyung doesn’t move, Jungkook cocks his head. He orders, “On your back.”

Julia presses her free hand, the one that isn’t teasing lightly over his cock, on his chest and suedes
him into Jungkook’s instruction. “Listen,” she hisses. Her fingers are tentative on his dick, sure on his
chest, and he slides back to his elbows, then some more. He’s on his bad, pliantly, just as Jungkook
wants him.
He hates it, but he doesn’t all the same.

Jungkook undoes the buttons of his own shirt and Taehyung supposes maybe he should take keener
of an interest in the way Julia strokes his cock than the way Jungkook’s fingers move across the
fabric, but he’s entranced. He reveals skin, inch by inch, and Taehyung watches, gulps as with fluid
motion, Jungkook takes it off of his shoulders.

His bare upper body is marvelous to Taehyung, built, strong and relieved. His shoulders are sharp,
everything on him lean and defined and it hits Taehyung that Julia could never look like this. No
woman could ever look like this.

Jungkook props a knee on the bed, in between Taehyung’s spread legs and the other boy’s chest
rises aggressively, searching for breath, desperate for it. The older’s fingers are on Julia again. He
presses his chest to her back as she hovers over Taehyung’s back, as Jungkook stands between his
knees. He palms at her ass cheek, fondles the flesh lightly in a single squeeze and then it moves to
tug at her panties.

“Are those expensive?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” her voice is breathy. Her fingers grow firmer on Taehyung’s cock and he has to bite his lip,
sinks teeth into it. He fists at the sheet, the fabric exquisite underneath, but he cannot care.

Jungkook sighs, pauses. Then he grips at her underwear with both hands and in a smooth motion rips
it right off, muscle in his arms momentarily bulging.

“Unnecessary,” Julia hisses, and she pouts. “They were so pretty.”

“I’ll buy you prettier ones,” he promises. “You would’ve had to stand up.”

Jungkook does what he did last time, rubs the tips of his fingers in the front, slips two inside of her
briefly, before he pulls back and prods at her other entrance. He keeps his eyes on Taehyung, all
fucking night long, he keeps his eyes on him and Taehyung has long forgotten why he’s doing this,
he’s forgotten everything, really, everything but the masked lust in Jungkook’s dark eyes.

Jungkook uses his free hand to undo the buckle of his belt. He slips it form across his waist, lets it
clutter to the floor. He pops the button, tugs his own cock out. He’s hard, Taehyung notes with a
swallow, with a gulp. His breath shallows as he only pries away his gaze from Jungkook’s to
observe the motion of his ringer fingers as he wraps them around his length, strokes over his erection
idly, like he does everything, and Taehyung releases his lip, parts his mouth, runs a tongue over it.

Jungkook’s eyes drop to it before they harden, narrow at him.

Taehyung almost cringes as how obviously wanton he must appear – the other must really be
repulsed.

Repulsed, but firmly palming at his cock, fisting at it with languid stroked. Taehyung wishes Julia
would fist over him with the same pace, mirror the motion.

“Are you hard?” Julia asks, and there is something to her voice, something indecipherable to
Taehyung, but bordering on incredulity. She twists her head slightly to glance at him over her
shoulder, her hand slowing on Taehyung.

Jungkook thrusts his fingers in her with power that makes her arch forward. She grunts, keeps herself
up with a palm that props on the bed near Taehyung.

Jungkook does not reply to her. He lets go of his cock, lets it hand limp and hard, reaches for his
back pocket. He hands her a packet, a condom, instructs. “Put this on him.”

Julia’s lips pull, sinister and taunting as she teases salaciously, “Don’t youwanna do it?”

Taehyung’s breath hitches. She squeezes at him.

Jungkook’s motions are a flash as he slips his digits out of her and retracts his hand. His palm rings
against her skin when it lands on her ass, send her forward with a jolt and a gasped shriek that
inadvertently escapes her smirking lips. His fingers venture to her neck again, wrap around it, more
centered around the underside of her jaw, and tug her upwards roughly, pressing her back against his
bare chest. He levels his mouth to her, jeers close by, “Don’t be a fuckingbitch, if you want to be
able to walk.”

Taehyung simmers. His blood runs hot and quick in his face, and his cock is aching.
She swallows thickly around the hold he has on her and nods. Jungkook releases her.

“Now be a good girl, put the condom on him, and sit on his cock, okay?” With mocking gentleness,
he brushes all her hair from one side to the other, plays singularly with strands as he instructs, and
pats on them. The tips of his fingers brush at her nape and she shivers.

Jungkook holds her hips with both hands when she does as he says. She slides the condom on
Taehyung, and he waits, apprehension, anticipation, whatever it is, he’s hard, he needs release, or he
will burst, and he cannot handle Jungkook’s fucking eyes anymore, his presence. The way he
speaks, the way he moves, the way he handles himself in the space around him. It is driving
Taehyung insane, actually freaking mad, every single demoralizing sentence of this fucking exercise,
this play on nerves and sanity. He’s losing, he’s lost, and there is nothing he can do about it. This is
the moment, this is it, this is when he officially loses all respect for himself.

This is his goddamn inauguration in becoming a Kim. Julia slides down on top of him, on the length
of him, slow and wet and hot, and tight. Jungkook was right, she is tight, and he lets out a soft grunt,
can’t help it, and his initiation is done and fucking complete. He’s part of the family now. Bets they’d
all be proud of him, lying there pliantly on his back, while a Seung sinks on his cock, pays him to,
and he allows her, and he watches the man behind her when her eyes drop shut and she tilts her head
back with an open-mouthed moan.

Taehyung hasn’t slept with anyone in a while. An it feels good. It does. It’s sex, and he’s hard, what
the reason is for him being so desperately turned on does not need to be revealed to Julia. And Julia
does not need to reason for her to feel good when she fucks herself on his dick.

His hands move to her thighs subconsciously, dig into flesh.

She’s good at it. It comes to no surprise to him that she is, that she moves in a way that is rhythmic
and pleasurable. But his concentration lies on the fingers that squeeze at her waist, the dark eyes that
peer at him from behind her.

Jungkook watches Taehyung’s face twist. It contorts, eyes narrow, features tighten. He’s pretty. He’s
so fucking pretty he actually wants to beat it out of him. Prettiness can be demolished. It can be
broken. He can wreak destruction on that face, he can. But not now, now he looks.

Jungkook presses his mouth to Julia’s ear again. “Baby,” he breathes and her acknowledgment’s a
moan. He flexes his digits into her waist. “Can you take me as well? Do you want me?”
“Yes,” she gasps. “Yes, Jungkook. Please, yes.”

“Okay,” Jungkook says. “Good girl, okay.”

He releases her waist, slips a moistened finger in her ass again, and when it goes in easily, he allows
himself to add in a second. “Bend over for me,” he whispers.

Taehyung hasn’t had sex in a while, Julia feels good and warm around him, and if Jungkook keeps
talking like that, Taehyung might actually come.

Julia places her palms on Taehyung’s sides, bends. It switches the angle of the way she rides him,
but she adjusts to it quick, ruts her hips against him, rotates in patterned figures. Taehyung keeps his
hands on her thighs, raises his own to meet her in her thrusts.

Jungkook opens another packet, slips the wrapping back in his pocket from where he took it. He
slides it on him, and Taehyung is frustrated, because he can’t watch. Julia is above him, blocking
view and demanding attention, demanding his eyes, because hers are on him, and he can’t not look at
her, though he has absolutely no desire to.

Her hips still for a moment when Jungkook holds her in place, slides inside of her, slow, and
Taehyung feels her somehow tighter,as the other’s cock squeezes into her other hole. He places his
other knee on the bed as well, fully now settling between his legs.

Expect that Julia’s between them.

It’s exhilarating to think the slide of Jungkook’s cock adds to the tightness he feels around himself. It
steals his breath. He wants so desperately to look, to see him. He’s technically above him, hovering
over him, and he starts moving. Starts fucking, slow and deliberate, and Taehyung doesn’t see it, but
he does feel it.

It’s Jungkook that sets the pace, of course it’s him. He grips her hips and fucks into her. The
motion’s over Taehyung’s own cock are repercussions of Jungkook’s thrust, and conceptually, it is
too much to handle.

He picks up quickly, goes hard, goes rough, and Julia is crying out.
“I’m so full,” she moans, her palms give, and she is on her elbows next, forearms a line against the
sheets and her forehead falls on the mattress beside him. Her face is close to his, incredibly close, he
can feel it with some thrusts, and he can sense her entire body at all times, hot and almost flush with
his, breasts rubbing against his chest.

But he doesn’t care, really, because now she is out of his way. His hips stutter.

He has an excuse now, an excuse to look at Jungkook, above him, thrusting in earnest, hard and
rough and powerful. He feels it, and he sees it. Sees the way his features contort with pleasure in a
way that is by now familiar, but entirely new again, so exquisite, explicit, so hot.Hot in a different
way to how Julia’s is, hot in a way that is erotic, sensual. Hot in a way that scorches him and
imprints itself into his mind.

Jungkook bites his lip. He seems concentrated, face tight and pointed, narrowed with pleasure. He’s
not looking at Taehyung now, he’s staring down at where his body meets Julia, and Taehyung
realizes he must see him as well, his dick sliding in and out of his girlfriend as he tries to respond to
the pace Jungkook sets.

“Yeah?” he strains. “You like it? Like riding pretty boy’s cock while I fuck you in the ass?”

Julia whines in Taehyung’s shoulder, in lost confirmations.

“Fuck. Of course, you do. My little whore, loves getting stuffed.”

And his eyes lift then and there and meet Taehyung’s and he could just die.

Julia responds with something, but it doesn’t register to Taehyung. If it does with Jungkook, he
doesn’t acknowledge it as well. He holds Taehyung’s eyes. It’s brief; it’s so brief before he’s looking
away, gives him his jaw instead and looks ahead, stares at the wall.

It’s brief, but it’s better than when Julia first slid on him, turns him on more, makes his cock twitch.

Taehyung wants to see his eyes again, does not want his freaking jaw; it’s pretty, it’s beautiful, but’s
nothing on his eyes, absolutely nothing, not with the way they pin Taehyung down, pierce him,
entice him and threat him all the same.

Jungkook’s picking up pace. He goes hard, fast. Taehyung has to wonder how Julia doesn’t hurt,
why she only keeps moaning, crying out beside him, writhing. She’s absolutely lost to sensation. He
supposes maybe she does, maybe she just doesn’tcare. Maybe if there is pain, it’s worth it.

She groans. “Jungkook,” she’s desperate.

Taehyung hates how she is allowed to say his name.

“Yes, baby?”

Taehyung bites his lips. He squeezes into them hard, almost breaks skin.

“Can I come?” her head turns, and her begging breaths come as whiffs to the side of Taehyung’s
head, tease over his skin. “It’s so much, Jungkook, I need to come. Please. Fuck. Please.”

Jungkook’s thrusts are merciless, he fucks her, and it causes her to fuck on Taehyung. It’s too much
for him as well. He’s squeezing onto her thighs, hard. He’s going to break the skin of his lip, he
knows, but he cannot face the vulnerability of moaning.

“Anything you want, baby. Do you want to come?”

His voice is soft, though raw and breathy, juxtaposed to the way he relentlessly fucks into her.

He does something next, something so simple.

He touches Taehyung’s thigh, just above the knee. He lets go of Julia with one hand, places it on
him, light at first, barely there, just the ghost of sensation. If he means to coax a reaction, he
succeeds. Taehyung’s lips betray a whimper, his eyes widen and search his evasive face, but he does
not concede, stares ahead.

“Ye-yes,” Julia moans, she begs.

Jungkook’s fingers close more firmly over Taehyung’s thigh. They squeeze into him, dig right into
the flesh with a single, searing, breathtaking motion.

And then his eyes drop, hooded, dangerous and irresistible. They meet Taehyung’s wide,
questioning eyes.

“Come for me,” he says.

And Taehyung does. His hips gyrate into Julia’s with a raising thrust, his back arches slightly of the
bed and his head falls back, press tight and uncontrolled on the mattress. His eyes seal shut, hopeless,
and he moans. He can’t hold it back, not now when his world fucking spins with sensation. His
muscles contract, hold, as he spills inside the condom, pleasure washing over him, pleasure that
numbs his mind, captures him completely.

Julia comes with him, her orgasm heightening his as she squeezes around him, but that is all he cares
to see of it.

Jungkook’s hand disappears as he has to grip onto the girl’s hips again, hold her tight as he slams
into her until he comes as well and Taehyung’s too gone to witness it, though he tries, cracks his
eyes opened, but the other is not looking at him again. He just sees the tightening of his jaw, the
veins that bulge on his neck.

Jungkook slips out of Julia, grips her elbow and tugs at her until she straightens. “’M tired,” she
whines. But she lifts herself despite it, this and her trembling thighs, off of Taehyung and his cock
falls limp on his stomach.

He can’t catch his breath. Hair sticks to his forehead with a small layer of sweat covering it. He
breathes heavily, chest rigorously moving up and down and lips parted and he tries to look at
Jungkook, but the other won’t allow him.

Julia curses. She touches herself lightly between the legs and swears again. She slides the condom
off of Taehyung without an acknowledgment before, during, and after as he hisses. She ties it up,
takes Jungkook’s and saunters into the bathroom. He’s surprised she can walk, sees a falter in her
step.

When he returns his eyes for trailing after her, he catches Jungkook’s on him before he rips them
 away. Jungkook tugs himself back into his pants, strides towards his disregarded jacket. Taehyung
takes advantage of his sudden departure to do his own pants as well. He sits up, wants to get up next,
but he doesn’t get the chance to do it on his own.

Jungkook grabs him by the wrist, tugs him on his feet. They’re both disheveled, harbored breaths in
rhythm still lined with what they just did, the same pattern of sex. There’s something terribly erotic in
even standing before him, right now, Taehyung feels. Their pants expel into the air between them,
from a pair of parted lips into another, chests glisten, stomachs hollow.

There’s a moment. For whatever Jungkook means to say, to do, he pauses, and it is not deliberate.
It’s a moment in which he loses himself a bit, glances at Taehyung’s mismatched, heady eyes, at his
pink, parted lips, the way his neck and throat heave with the weight of his fucked out breath.
Something lingers palpably between them, something Taehyung doesn’t understand, but he senses.

Taehyung’s gaze darts across the other’s face, skims across his mouth. It’s almost painful not to kiss
him. It’s a stupid urge, condemnable urge. He needs to get rid of it. He needs to leave.

Jungkook stretches a neatly rolled up stack of money. “This is for your service,” he tells him,
breathily, dismissively, he stresses. Whatever had transpired had been entirely imagined, he proves to
Taehyung. “You’re free to go.”

Taehyung blinks, once, twice. He forces his mouth closed, sets his jaw tight; it heightens the
exposure of his muscles at the end of it. They tick and then relax. He looks away, at the floor, the
carpet. He nods. He’s nodding, small, irritated shakes of his head up and down. He holds the money
as he does his buttons. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay,” he says. And he’s fumbling. His fingers are not
doing it properly, failing at a task so simple as doing buttons, and he walks, he walks away.

It is a single step that takes him to evade Jungkook. He brushes his shoulder into him, roughly, hears
him inhale, slow and deep, but then he walks away. He doesn’t finish the buttons, doesn’t wait for
Julia to step out of the bathroom. He paces out of the room and slams the door shut.

Chapter End Notes

I don't know what happened once again and how this turned out so long, but it is what it
is, I guess. there have been more comments and kudos on this than I have ever imagined
getting and I love, love, love you for it. support and feedback keeps me motivated, kinda
makes the aforementioned sleep deprivation worth it

sorry for the excessive amount of Julia, this just sort of needed to happen cause it was
my original concept and I'm stubborn af; now that it is out of the way, on with the
taekook
 Chapter 11
Chapter Summary

Shit all over the place

Chapter Notes

its shit. i need sleep. im sorry kim taehyung.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Taehyung is at the Ozone and he hasn’t looked at him, once, for a period longer than would
circumstantially have to be considered accidental. It doesn’t matter, really. He’s completed his
punishment for losing the bet and has no more use of poor boy’s interest in him other than personal
entertainment, which if he’s frank Taehyung’s consistent reactions to him provide quite religiously.

So, okay, maybe it irks at him only slightly that his eyes don’t burn into him tonight. Jungkook reads
people, he has always been quite efficient at it, and he just knows Taehyung’s participation in this
short game he played with Julia stretches beyond his need of money. At least, he suspected it does.

Whatever this annoyance is that Taehyung looks content enough only sticking his eyes to the dancer
Park Jimin tonight, he decides it won’t be too hard to ignore it, not when Julia returns from the line
she does in the bathroom and settles her thin ass in his lap. She’s been extremely overly generous
with him post the completion of his punishment and imagines she would just delight in it if he asks
for a quick suck in a cubicle.

Jungkook does notice when his girlfriend begins her return to their booth. He rests a hand on
Hoseok’s knee, swiftly bringing his attention to himself and away from whatever he was whispering
in Yoongi’s ear. The elder leans his head invitingly in acknowledgment, offering his own ear to
Jungkook’s mouth, though his arm still resides extended on the cushion of the booth around
Yoongi’s shoulders. “Hobi,” Jungkook says to him, voice curling with a playful malice that should
not exist in combination, “wouldn’t you fancy a lap dance from little Jimin tonight?”

Hoseok’s features narrow. His fingers tap absently at Yoongi’s shoulder as the other sucks quite
contentedly on an elaborate straw. “No,” he replies, slightly embittered. “I only joke, Jeon. I don’t
actually—”
“I know, hyung. I’m not implying you’re a fag.” Julia is getting closer. “Little Jimin looks quite like a
girl, tonight, though, doesn’t he? Keep him busy.”

“Jungkook—”

“I’ma sking you to,” Jungkook stresses, squeezes his fingers over his knee cap slightly and Hoseok’s
distaste falters slightly on his face, morphs into a softened perplexity before it sinks into a neutrality.
It takes a moment, but he nods, and Jungkook nods back, it’s a thank you. When Hoseok begins to
lean away, to detach his arm from the cushion of the booth, when he makes to stand, Jungkook
tightens his digits in last indication, “Don’t tell Yoongi.”

Hoseok leaves with a lasting look of curiosity just as Julia returns and Yoongi pouts slightly at the
departure.

Her ass is bony when Jungkook wraps a hand around her elbow and tugs her into himself as she tries
to sit, but cocaine would do that to you, he supposes. Her eyes, dilated and glistening, slide over to
him with a silent question, a gasp dying on her mouth from the roughness of him manhandling her in
place with no adequate warning when he threads fingers through her hair and squeezes them around
strands, bringing her lips down on his.

She meets him with her mouth open and she kisses him like somebody who’s high, which she is. She
kisses him wet and wanting and vigorous, she kisses him well. And Jungkook wonders if
Taehyung’s watching.

He pulls her mouth away from his by the grip he keeps on her hair and she exhales, eyes
immediately on his, hands fisted at his chest. “Jungkook—”

“I want you,” he tells her. And he is supposed to, to want her. He does, he tells himself. He wants to
take her to the bathroom and fuck her throat as her knees bruise, but mostly, he wants to make a
spectacle out of it. He wants Taehyung to know she’s sucking his cock in the bathroom, to think
about herlips stretching around his dick, though his own lips are rather prettier than hers, fuller,
pinker. Jungkook’s fingers tighten in Julia’s hair at the unbidden thought. “Now,” he adds.

She easily allows him to take her away. She’s out of his lap in a moment, clutching to his forearm
and pulling him up. It allows him a glimpse. His eyes fall on Taehyung just as Park Jimin says
something in his ear, his arm wrapped around Hoseok’s waist, who lingers beside with no
decipherable expression whatsoever. As the dancer speaks, Taehyung’s mouth falls slightly opened,
those pink lips parting as he looks marginally confused, face a bit blank. By the time the other is
pulling away, however, his mouth shuts tight, jaw slackening and his eyes narrow as quick as they
move to directly and unquestionably meet Jungkook’s.

The glare glints with embittered passion even from across the dance floor and Jungkook meets it,
relentless and smug. He smirks, watches as it deepens, as a grudge forms in his pupils, glittering in
the epileptic lights of the Ozone, and raises his glass, a toast, before he takes one final sip and allows
his eager girlfriend to pull him away.

That sparkling glare follows them across the club as they move and Jungkook doesn’t like to think
how it excites him more than the lips that shortly close around his half-hard cock.

His nickname doesn’t come from thin air, Jungkook promises himself. He’s always loved to taunt,
he’s always loved to tease, to play, and Taehyung is just another game, and this is it. Jungkook
promises himself.

Taehyung supposes he has always underestimated himself as a cook, because, as it turns out, his
interpreted recipes don’t taste half bad when the products aren’t reduced due to impending expiry
dates and he actually has a functional stove and oven at his disposal.

Ji-woo says so as well, though it is one of her favorite things to pick on him for, his culinary
escapades. Namjoon had been the cook of the family, even if when their mother had still been alive
long, long ago he had been practically unable to cut an onion without her assistance, and Taehyung
had felt quite safe about being fed. Namjoon, after all, had always been resourceful, and, therefore,
reliable. Until he up and left them, that is.

Taehyung grew into the position of a cook quite forcibly. “You work in a restaurant,” Ji-woo had
exclaimed one night, quite aggravated as she pulled on her hair, and chucked a packet of ramyun at
the wall. “For God’s sake, you must have picked up something.” Most of their exchanges had been
filled up with exasperation at that particular point of time. Both of them were brimming with tension,
with Namjoon leaving naturally everything they had strained to build had deteriorated into a colossal
proportion of horseshit. Quite a few of their interactions were fueled by anger, not directed at each
other particularly, but they were only outlets they could know.

It was a rough patch, but they always get through those, always. They’ll get through this one as well,
through the one that has Ji-woo eyeing Taehyung wearily if he goes out at night, every time he buys
anything. She’s scornful of what she believes he has done, but Taehyung is well aware it’s best she
thinks he’s dumb fucking enough to gamble than for her to know he practically prostituted himself to
a Jeon and to a Seung.

Not that Jungkook did much to him, really, except of course, make certain Taehyung felt like
absolute shit, a delusional one at that.

Good food is quite efficient at soothing the tension, it turns out, especially when Taehyung is the one
to deliver it.

“Can’t believe the onetime I make something delicious, WooWoo won’t be here to taste it,”
Taehyung remarks as his tongue runs over his spoon. His voice sounds easily over the hum of the
TV. Some drama is on, but it’s the first episode of it he’s seeing, and he has no idea what’s going on.

Ji-woo adjusts the bowl in her lap for a moment, propping it up with one hand to make sure it does
not spill over the worn-out couch, as she checks her phone when it vibrates for the fifth time in a roll.
“Well, he’s not like us. He has friends.”

Taehyung slurps quite disgustingly. He eats too fast. One benefit of Woojin’s absence is there’s more
for them, though, so he’s unforgivable towards the food in his bowl. “I have friends,” he insists.

“Jimin doesn’t count,” she says as she smacks her lips together.

“How come?”

“Cause it’s convenient if he doesn’t,” she replies typing something away on her screen, a bit slow
because she can only use one hand. “I might have to make a call.”

“You have friends,” Taehyung replies.

“No, I don’t. I have people who I party with.”

“And when I sleep with them, they suddenly become your friends and I’m bad for doing them?”
Taehyung speaks pettily with his mouth half full and Ji-woo sends him a look that spells she is
grossed out by his pouty, open-mouthed chewing.
She is too distracted, however, to verbally scold him as her eyes quickly return to the device in her
hand and she makes to lift off the couch, leaning forward to place her bowl on the coffee table and
knocking Taehyung’s feet off of it simultaneously. “Yes, that is also quite convenient. I do have to
take a call.”

Taehyung’s pout deepens as he glares after her retreating form and stuffs his mouth as he most
comfortably returns his legs to their previous position, strewn across each other with his heels pressed
close to her bowl. He hears the muffled sound of her conversation, but she is strategic in how far she
goes so that he would not be able to hear. She is well aware he has some tendencies of
eavesdropping, and if she means to hide something from him, she easily can.

She returns shortly, knocking his legs right of the table with a single kick of hers that almost startles
him into choking. She falls onto the couch, body angled towards his, propping an elbow on the back
and starts talking without much of an acknowledgment of his narrowed eyes.

“So,” she begins conversationally but her voice is pitched high and a smile that previously wasn’t
there is tugging at her mouth, hiding still, but sure to spread momentarily; if Taehyung didn’t know
better, he’d say she’s excited. But it’s Ji-woo and Ji-woo doesn’t have an excited bone in her body.
“The weirdest fucking thing happened,” she pauses. For impact, he supposes. “The Mins requested
my service.”

Now the choking hazard is even bigger for Taehyung. He splutters. “I’m sorry,” he says, perplexed,
as he lowers his own bowl on the coffee table. It is unsafe in his hands. He lifts two brows, “the
Mins?”

It’s absurd. It’s absolutely fucking absurd that someone of the worth of the Mins would as simply
and suddenly request Kim Ji-woo. While Taehyung has no doubt that his sister is incredibly efficient
at what she does and has a perfect work record and ethic, it is just incomprehensible to him that the
Mins, one of the families that embody the very concept of Richhood, would willingly invitea Kiminto
their house.

“Well,” Ji-woo says with a bit of a shrug. She raises a hand, atypically gesticulated, lifts a finger.
“Just the one. The kid. Min Yoongi,” she explains, and Taehyung’s brows proceed to furrow as her
animated speech continues. “He has his own penthouse in Gangnam, and he wants me there.” She
pauses again, but then continues with her voice even more lilted. It’s obvious to him she finds the
situation incredulous as well. “Several times a week, not just once. Apparently, I have been
recommended.”

“Recommended?” Taehyung’s jaw slackens slightly. It’s obvious to him she does not mindthe
incredulity of the sudden interest. He does.

“Yes,” she nods. She’s almost smiling at this point, and it’s too disheartening to him to ruin it with
his downright suspicion.

But he cannot keep the tension of his voice when he asks, “By whom?”

“The Jungs,” she suffices. Something lingers in her own tone as she feels the need to add, “They told
me it was the Jungs.”

Taehyung doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like it one bit. But he supposes it is a steadier and healthier
income than his other techniques, so he supposes he will just have to live with it.

Jungkook does not like to be kept waiting, especially by people like Subin, who is aware of it and
smug about it. He pulls the chair across the cement and it grazes with a scathing sound before he
sinks into it with those god-awful sunglasses that are constantly perched on his nose. He relaxes into
the seat, spreads his legs wide and unnecessary and crosses his arms, a smirk almost perpetual on his
mouth. “Since when do you want to meet me at Rouge?” he asks, and he is snide about it.

Jungkook himself sits with his legs crossed at the knee and his face set. He’s terse. “Since now.”

“Can’t exactly sell you here.” Jungkook hears him say and tries to pay attention to it, to look at him,
not to glance as the passing waiter to check who it is.

He already caught a couple of glimpses of Taehyung, knows he’s there and he’s on shift, as the boy
strode around all docile and respectful with some menus, some drinks, and a couple of fake smiles
and deep bows.

“I’m not buying,” Jungkook informs him. He’s playing with a lighter he took from Julia, his fingers
rotating it around meaninglessly and his eyes centering on the motion for a longer while than he’s
genuinely interested in. “We’re talking.”

Subin’s brows reach above his shades. “About?”

Jungkook looks at him then, lifts his eyes with his head slightly angled in a manner he knows people
like Subin find slightly intimidating. That he knows Subin finds intimidating “I want you to start
selling to Yoongi again.”

The other’s brows lift significantly higher this time but that is all the indication of surprise he allows
Jungkook to read. Jungkook really despises sunglasses as dark as his, though he cares very little
about Subin’s reactions. “I thought you wanted him to quit.”

“He won’t.” His fingers light a flame before they smack the thing shut. A waiter passes by and his
head turns instinctively at the motion. Human’s attention is naturally drawn to movement. “He’s
found a new dealer. He was better off with you.”

Subin slides a tongue across his lips. His digits tap at his elbows where he has his arms crossed. He
stopped selling Yoongi for a reason. And that reason had partially been the Taunting Twin himself.
He cocks his head, says, “Tell your sister I say hi.”

Jungkook’s eyes draw to him darkly, yet he remains mostly inexpressive. Even his voice is void of
any real bite, when he replies, “Tell her yourself.”

“I haven’t seen her in record time.” Subin shrugs and, though Jungkook is halfway midst turning his
head to study another moving body, he tilts at this.

“What?” he actually conveys surprise and it breeds a cautious smirk on Subin’s face.

“Her new…” and he pauses; he’s careful, “friend, Seokjin?” he arches his voice, waits for
Jungkook’s nod and it annoys him he feels he has to seek permission, but he would rather it than
having another break to his nose. “I don’t think he likes it when she comes to visit me.”

Jungkook uses the elbow he has propped on the table to lean just slightly, just to let the other know
he’s trudging around territory where he has no place. “Clo and Seokjin are not friends,” he speaks
slow, enunciates his words,“nor could she ever give a fuck what he dislikes.”
Subin withholds a snort as his upper lip lifts curiously towards his nose. “Here I was thinking I was
being sensitive by implying they’re friendly.”

Jungkook’s eyes dart across Subin’s entire lanky form, he sizes him up, says, casual, but pointed, “I
think I’ve heard enough of your commentary on my sister.”

“Ah,” Subin adjusts on his chair, shakes his head, “you Taunting Twins, I wonder sometimes. What
would you do if she kills a person?”

Jungkook shrugs, and this time when he turns his head to follow the motion of a waiter, it is
Taehyung, but he is walking towards the inside of the café instead of outside. He catches another
man clad in the same uniform by the elbow to get his attention, says something to him, and when
they talk, he does not let go of the much unnecessary grip he has on his arm. “I’ll bury the body.”

Subin’s smirk stretches into a smile and he nods, air leaving through his nose that is close to a
chuckle, though he isn’t exactly brave enough to laugh. Jungkook’s attention is not snapping to him
at this, though, remains fixated on something else, and he attempts to follow it with his eyes. “It there
a problem, Jungkook? You seem…” and he really has to be careful now, assuming Jeon Jungkook’s
mood shortly after he has made remarks about his sister,“distracted,” he chooses.

“No.” Jungkook replies curt and dismissive as Taehyung releases the guy’s arm and sinks behind the
bar before he disappears into the kitchen. The man himself turns, meets Jungkook’s eyes quickly, too
quickly, and begins a stride in their direction. “No problem.”

The man bows at them when he reaches them, greeting them, wearing that same respectful and fake
smile that tends to adorn Taehyung’s face when he works. It is so fucking sweet it is actually sickly.
“Are you ready with your order?”

“Vodka,” Subin says, his eyes on Jungkook while the other darts his own calculatingly across the
waiter.

“Size?”

“Generous.”
The waiter parts his mouth to speak, but Jungkook interjects. “Isn’t this Taehyung’s table?”

The guy replaces his attention to him. “Yes, usually,” he responds, his voice so annoyingly polite.

Jungkook leans back into his seat fully, his fingers snapping the lighter, on and off, on and off. “So
why isn’t he serving me?” Subin personally would not enjoy it if Jungkook spoke to him like that,
looked at him like that. There isn’t anything too distinctive about it, no highlighted emotion or point,
but the younger Jeon’s perpetual air of threatening superiority suddenly escalates past his detached
insouciance.

The waiter obviously hesitates, cautions a brief look behind his shoulder before he responds, arching
his words at the end questioningly, “He’s currently otherwise occupied?”

Jungkook’s brusque, “With?”

The guy blinks a little blankly, “I’m not at ability to disclose—"

Subin’s hissing, clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, shaking his head. Rookie.
Jungkook’s laughing, cold and humorless and short. “I suppose you don’t know who I am.” He
straightens on the chair and he lifts a brow and the tilt of his mouth makes him look so falsely,
ironically friendly Subin would have probably shat himself were it directed at him.

Poor guy shakes his head, tries to explain himself, “No, I’m new. I—"

He interrupts, “What’s your name?”

“Bogum. Park Bogum.”

“Well, Park Bogum,” and Jungkook almost leans towards him now, eyes trained on his, demanding
undivided attention, “I want a Corona,” he spells it out, speaks slow and downright eerie, though the
waiter does not seem particularly affected and Subin deems it a mistake of lack of experience, “and I
want it served by Kim Taehyung.”

The waiter’s parted mouth seals and he’s pausing. He’s careful. Subin wonders if when they train
them here in Gangnam, they go through specific instructions on how to deal with the regulars. Flirt
with a Pyeong if you want an extra tip, make sure Min hasn’t taken too many pills before you serve
him alcohol in case he passes out without paying, and never, ever, mouth off to a Jeon. He figures
it’s blatantly cruel not to. “I’ll let him know then,” new boy replies smartly, and Jungkook dismisses
him solely with the assistance of his facial expression.

Subin wants to snort. More than that, he wants to ask, Kim Taehyung? But he’s not brave enough to
laugh and he’s certainly not brave enough to enquire into Jungkook’s business with a Kim. He didn’t
even buy from his elder brother when he was still in town, and Namjoon sold some good shit.

So, he settles for territories that are allowed for him. He settles for substances as he lifts a brow, “A
Corona?” Western beer, Mexican beer, 4%, almost not alcohol. “Are you not drinking again, Jeon?”

Jungkook’s eyes dart to him. “I was talking about Yoongi, weren’t I?”

“Yoongi.” He nods. “Yes. Why don’t you get his new dealer to stop selling him, too? You can be
quite… persuasive.”

“He’s been buying off of Kai,” Jungkook replies tightly, but in a moment his eyes are detaching from
him.

“Oh.” Subin pauses in understanding. Then he releases a breath of laughter, shaking his head,
saying, “Keep forgetting how fucking rich you all are.”

But Jungkook isn’t paying attention to him. He doesn’t even dignify him with a reply. Taehyung
carries their drinks without a trey, has one in each hand and has his eyes set on the table. He’s
moving quickly, too quickly, feet barely lifting off the ground as he comes, bends, places the orders
on the table.

He looks at neither of them, doesn’t smile, nothing, and it isn’t uncommon, for a waiter to try to be
nearly invisible as he delivers drinks, but he has completely dropped all semblance of courtesy, and it
irks Jungkook the wrong way. Taehyung is not supposed to ignore him, he never has. Pretty boy
always looks.

He doesn’t seem particularly nervous, either. Frankly, he appears as neutral to Jungkook’s presence
as Jungkook is supposed to be to his, though he knows there is something off about Taehyung’s
behavior as a moment ago he was smiling and polite, like a good, trained waiter boy at Rouge is
instructed to be, paid to be.

It’s the audacity, Jungkook concludes, that bothers him, the audacity that poor boy now thinks he can
get away with being impolite to him. He almost has a goddamn attitude as he clicks the glassware
onto the table and immediately straightens without as much as a glance, and Jungkook doesn’t really
think, doesn’t actively contemplate his actions when he reaches out and catches his wrist.

“Is that all?” Jungkook speaks slowly, darkly, and Taehyung’s finally meeting his eyes.

And no, Taehyung is not neutral. He’s borderline hostile, and it is something he easily recognizes in
him, as it is a layer over nervousness in most of their interactions, and usually a result of Jungkook
actively and most consciously aggravating him into animosity. Taehyung arches a brow above
glinting eyes. The sun looks good on his face, highlights his features. “Did you order anything else?”

He tugs at his wrist indicatively and Jungkook allows him to release himself because fucking Subin is
there, watching.

“No,” he replies.

“Then that’s all,” the boy announces with finality and he walks away and there is not much that
Jungkook can do other than trace narrowed eyes after him, because anything that Taehyung does is
meaningless to him.

When Taehyung volunteers himself to cater at the Executive Tower he does it with burdening
apprehension at the mere fact the event would take place there. The mention of the hotel itself causes
images to resurface in his mind, images and feelings alike, and they are staggeringly frustrating. It is
good pay, though, and with his head slightly hogged with uninvited thoughts, he’s there.

“Are you good, Taehyung?” Bogum asks him, a hand warm as it squeezes into his shoulder, and
Taehyung shakes his head, then nods, grits his teeth a little because it is Bogum’s first event like this
for Rouge and he’s supposed to be attentive to him, walk him through it, not have the other pull him
out of unsolicited dazes.

“Yes,” Taehyung says. He’s lying.

A rational part of him wants everything related to Julia and Jungkook out of his life, especially the
latter. Whatever it is that draws him to the twin, it’s toxic. It’s simply not fucking adequate that he
felt worse about the fact Jungkook had been dismissive towards him after what happened on Julia’s
birthday than about what actually happened. Taehyung knows he lives a life in which morality is
hardly a priority for him to indulge in, but he had thought better of himself, honestly, thought he
would be more bothered by selling sex than by a rich, spoiled Jeon giving him an attitude.

He’d warned him, don’t expect anything from me, he’d said. But Taehyung, courtesy of how
fucking good his sister is, is naïve. He can’t exactly pinpoint what it is that he expects, that he wants,
but he is sure he needs to drop any and all ideas related to it because harboring such is simply
destructive.

It annoys him that it has got to the point where even setting foot in the Executive Tower results in an
onslaught of memories. Jungkook, Taehyung concludes, is an actual bitch. There was no fucking
need for him to touch him, none whatsoever. Taehyung was already there, already giving him and
his girlfriend what they wanted. Jungkook had already won. But because he is an actual bitch he just
had to go and touch him, then look at him like that, then make him feel like a common whore.

Taehyung had thought he’d seen something.

That something had obviously been some very privileged and petty interpretation of sadism.
Jungkook does like to taunt it seems, to play, but it’s bordering on cruelty and Taehyung hates how
easy of a victim he is.

Still, he’s human, he’s dumb. He has an irrational, visceral part of himself. An irrational part that
pays too much attention to Jeon Jungkook, that reads into the fact he made Hoseok take Jimin away
from him, wanted him to bring him his goddamn Corona, touched his fucking thigh while they were
both inside the same girl. That irrational part of him likes to ignore that Jungkook by nature appears
to take pleasure in the misery of others. It assigns to him a humanity that he doesn’t deserve and
causes him to monopolize Taehyung’s thoughts at any given time.

It is that same irrationality that stirs something inside of him when he sees him.Taehyung’s not even
surprised he’s at the event, if he has to be honest. A Richhood event without representatives from the
Jeons is hardly complete and they are there, full package, both parents, both twins, looking
absolutely ethereal with elegance and beauty. He’s particularly exquisite today. He’s dressed to
impress and impress he does, every single layer of overpriced, brand clothing on him black and
presses perfectly into the shapes his body forms.

Taehyung has been doing so well not looking, being residually pissed with Jungkook’s unnecessary
attitude has made it quite easy for him, made avoiding him almost automatic and animosity a natural
reaction as soon as he set his sights on him.

Taehyung hopes he’s glaring now, though Jungkook doesn’t see him, but he knows he isn’t.

“Him again?” Bogum’s voice sounds as the two of them distribute platters of appetizers. “Jungkook,
right?”

It’s easy to trace Taehyung’s stare to where Jungkook is standing by his sister, posture nonchalant,
but elegant, important, as he sips lightly on a glass of champagne and speaks to who he knows to be
Jung Byung-Chul and his wife, whose name he forgets. Byung-Chul does not seem to care for her
all too much, either, though, if Taehyung can judge by the way he has his eyes inappropriately
rooted on Clo Eun.

“Yeah,” Taehyung says, swallows. He returns his eyes to where they should be, on the appetizers
he’s laying out. “That’s Jeon Jungkook.”

Bogum nods. “I’ve heard about him,” he informs Taehyung as he assists him in the arrangement of
the plates – they have to look all pretty and perfect. Taehyung hums, who hasn’t. “I’ve heard he’s a
prick.”

Taehyung snorts. “You’ve heard right.”

“What does he want from you?” Bogum asks. He’s nice. Bogum’s nice. Taehyung almost feels bad
for asking him to take care of his tables without as much a warning, but he hadn’t exactly expected
Jungkook to get confrontational.

“To make my life living hell, basically,” Taehyung says. He believes it as well.

“Why?”

He shrugs. “He gets off on it, I think.” It’s the only explanation Taehyung can find for his continuous
interference in his life.
“So, he really is that much of an ass, huh?” Bogum straightens after they finish with that table. It’s
the last table to be arranged. “Pity. He’s quite hot.”

Taehyung’s eyes slide over to his coworker, an eyebrow quirking at him inadvertently. Jungkook is
hot, Taehyung would be the first to attest to that, but it’s not something a boy openlysays about
another boy in Korea, certainly not in Gangnam.

Bogum’s response to the curious gaze features a small smirk. It’s different to any Jungkook’s ever
sent him, it’s mild and teasing, but in a way that is friendly, maybe even slightly flirtatious. “Don’t
worry,” he tells him. “You’re hotter.”

Taehyung bristles at first proceeds to full on laugh in a moment. He sidesteps Bogum, going for the
kitchen, but he does tap his shoulder on the way out. “Not so bad yourself, hyung.”

Bogum makes good company for distraction, it turns out, but it does not erase the impending doom
of interaction. It comes surprisingly quick when Taehyung is the one trusted to replace the bottle in
the cooler at the Jeon’s cocktail table of choice.

Taehyung is actually pissed he has no alcohol to assist him in mustering up strength this time. He’s
admittedly nervous. Every single Jeon at one table is a recipe for the misery of a Kim, of him. He
establishes it is highly unlikely that Jungkook would as much as look at him in the presence of his
parents, however, the twin has repeatedly proved himself to be completely unpredictable and
considering the rumors of who those people are he would expect that they would all enjoy making an
embarrassing mess of him in one way or another.

He trusts the nature of how Jungkook has chosen to embarrass him in particular would prevent him
of taking advantage of it in public, at least.

And he has no choice.

So, he walks there, apprehensive and quick. He tries to be ghostly, reach there, replace the bottle and
disappear, but the motion of his approach attracts eyes. The adults gathered at the table simply slide
their gazes towards him for the time that it takes to establish the reason of his presence, but to them
staff is of the same use and importance as the table is. The eyes of the twins, on the other hand,
linger.

Taehyung does not mean to look back. He is simply compelled, wants to see if Jungkook is as
handsome tonight up close as he is from a distance, and it only takes the single glance to realize that,
yes, he is, and also, he’s looking back, and their gazes are locking. Jungkook’s eyes widen slightly,
briefly, his brows shooting up before they settle too close to his eyes again, features aligning in a
hard, set frown, whose vulnerability is only betrayed by his lips which remain ever so slightly parted.

Taehyung’s immediate reaction is to bow, palms meeting by his knees.

Clo Eun’s sober and staring. Her eyes drift calculatingly from Taehyung to her brother, who is
looking away now, taking his eyes off of the waiter, but not focusing them on Byung-Chul
immediately after like he is supposed to. He darts them around, briefly, jaw ticking, before he falls
into his previous and constant composure and for the barest moment he seems slightly awkward.

Clo Eun’s head tips. Her lips thin, curl downwards.

Taehyung is not surprised at the lack of any acknowledgment different to the quick albeit lingering
gaze. Still, somehow, he manages to be foolishly deflated. He straightens and turns. He leaves.

It is close to the kitchen that Jungkook catches up to him. He’s turned a corner and he’s out of sight
of the Jeons, close to a highly unnecessary column that is likely there simply for the glamour of
design when fingers wrap around the bone of his elbow, digging into it, hard. The digits are bruising
as Jungkook squeezes, tugs Taehyung and settles him into a position he deems fit with a single
motion, a forceful reminder of his physical strength and authoritative audacity.

Taehyung spins, is spun, and his feet stop just short of Jungkook’s shiny shoes, he notices with a
glance to the floor as he tries to catch his footing. He lifts his eyes to narrow them at Jungkook just in
time to witness the tick of his jaw as he hisses, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m catering,” Taehyung stresses, pulling his arm away from Jungkook’s hold and the other allows
it with a cautious look around. They are still at the event, and Taehyung cannot help it. He looks
around as well. His fucking boss might be watching, and he certainly does not need to be caught
lingering behind columns with one of the guests. He only catches one person passing by, only
Bogum, who does quite obviously look at them, but continues on with his trey without pause.“I
didn’t come here for you,don’t worry. I’m doing my job.”
Jungkook’s snicker is cold and short and his following words come with a snarl. “You and I both
know how you really make money.”

Taehyung scoffs. Fuck him. “Fuck you.” He attempts to walk away, attempts to, honestly, he is in
no way obliged to listen to the prick; he’s going to have to find another victim for the night if the
event bores him that much. Of course, it’s wishful thinking to believe he would just allow him to
leave so suddenly and of his own accord. His fingers are back around his elbow, still bruising,
maybe tighter. Taehyung’s teeth clench. “Let go of me. I have to get back to work.”

“Listen,” Jungkook says, he sighs. He’s not as malicious now with the way he speaks, though the
grip he has on Taehyung is, “how about you handle the other end of the restaurant?”

“Why?” Taehyung sneers with something akin to a breath of a laugh at the finalizing vowel. “I
thought you wanted me to serve you.” His head tilts and he’s angry enough to take a step forward.
“Or is it too hard for you to pretend you don’t pay me to fuck you when your parents are around?”

Jungkook’s eyes sear into his with staggering vehemence. He growls, “I don’t pay you to fuck me.”

Taehyung doesn’t know what in the particular situation summons his bravery, maybe he’s had
enough of it, but he’s completely rid himself of a filter even if he is well aware audacity with a Jeon
equals stupidity. “I suppose you didn’t get Min Yoongi to hire my sister as well.”

He’s surprised his bones don’t snap with how hard Jungkook’s fingers dig into them. “The fuck are
you implying, Kim?”

Eyes search his with palpable rancor, and Taehyung thinks he returns it quite well, does a solid job
of seeping the spitefulness into his voice as well, when he tries to free himself with the statement, “I
have to go back to work.”

“No, you’re coming with me.” Jungkook’s jaw is tight and he immediately begins his stride, pulling
Taehyung along, of course he does. He likely thinks he is entitled to simply manhandling just about
anyone who is of worse social standing than he is.

“Why?” Taehyung grits out and attempts to press his heels into the floor, but Jungkook’s muscles are
not just for fighting, not just there to make him enticing when bare, they’re there to further his power,
and it is child’s play for him to drag Taehyung’s struggling body along.
Taehyung’s movements cannot be overly flamboyant in his attempts to stay as well; he cannot afford
to drag attention to himself, can’t make a scene, not in these circumstances.

“Cause I said so,” Jungkook announces simply and he presses the button to an elevator.

“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” Taehyung is saying, glaring at his nape before Jungkook turns
to allow him to meet his eyes, which most annoyingly have receded back to their usual infuriating
superior composure.

“It should, or your sister might lose her job as quickly as she got it,” he says, he threatens, a glint in
his stare and a darkness to his voice. He allows Taehyung to shake off his grip when they step into
the elevator.

Taehyung’s glare hardens on his, before he looks away, breathes. He shakes his head. He’s shaking
his head, biting at his lip. He’s so fucking defeatedevery time it comes to Jungkook, and he hates it.
His frustration is growing into exasperation and he wonders if he is ever going to be rid of him, the
monetary power he holds over him, and the ambiance of control he’s gained through the unsolicited
effect he has on him.

Taehyung’s fingers dig into the flesh of his own arms punishingly as he crosses them. He holds onto
himself tight, urges himself not to lose his fucking grip. His head snaps to Jungkook, to Jungkook
who is watching him as he grows into the quintessence of frustration, and his teeth release his lip,
which pouts out fuller and pinker from the abuse. “Why’d you do it, anyway?” Taehyung demands,
his brows shooting up. “Make sure I actually got money now, so that the whole fucking you thing
becomes virtually unnecessary? Do you get off on me suffering or something?”

Jungkook, of course, of fucking course, Jungkook simply shrugs his shoulders, eyes on Taehyung,
eyes all over Taehyung, who is wearing his shirt. “Yoongi needed a new house keeper. I heard the
Jungs referred your sister,” he lists as if it is simple, and most natural. “Not everything is about you,
Kim.”

Kim, he calls him Kim and Taehyungs wonders what will happen if he punches him again. “Then
why am I being dragged off now?” He says and he’s not harsh, he’s breathy and pitched, and he
doesn’t know what he is, really. The elevator stops and his eyes dart to the number. Seven.
“Wheream I being dragged off?”

Jungkook steps out, gives him his back, and he’s so unnervingly confident that Taehyung will
follow, and he does, because his threat is too realistic of a risk. “The room,” comes the response and
Taehyung stiffens even if he had a feeling that was where they were heading.
The walk down the familiar hallway itself gives him goosebumps. “Do you have that room
permanently reserved to lure people?”

“I own it,” Jungkook says and he touches the key card to the door to 7.13, and God, thirteen really is
a cursed, condemnable number.

“Of course, you do,” Taehyung snarks sardonically and the door closes after him, clicks shut, and it
is such a loud sound, penetrates through the whole of his skin, his largest organ and seeps into his
blood, launching a fire.

Taehyung’s suddenly obnoxiously aware of where he is and who he is there with. Alone.

“And no one lured you, Taehyung,” Jungkook spins to say and his eyes now, though not incredibly
expressive, just chargingly intense, pin him to his current position just at the entrance. “You came to
us,” he insists, voice firm.

“I had no choice.” Taehyung supposes his eyes hold a certain intensity as well if he can properly
judge by the passion that seizes his blood and his tongue.

“Yeah?” Jungkook exhales. He’s close, and then he’s closer, but Taehyung’s so high with the pure
testosterone of confrontation that he doesn’t even consider the proximity, does not retract from it,
easily stumbles into it instead. “You wouldn’t have come to us if you weren’t desperate for money?”

It’s somehow wildly satisfactory for him to spit, “Precisely.”

But then Jungkook’s all too close and there is a door behind him, and he has nowhere to run.
Jungkook’s voice is liquid, it drips with cruelty, and something else, something disturbingly salacious
and captivating. “What if Julia wasn’t there?”

Taehyung’s stumped. He’s frozen into place at the question, because Jungkook can observe it, but he
is not allowed to address this, certainly not now. His heart palpitates dangerously in his chest and all
he can do is watch Jungkook take that one other step closer that allows him into the intimacy of his
personal space, that causes his familiar scent to invade his senses. His pink tongue teases over
militant lips and, really, all Taehyung does is watch.
Jungkook’s head cocks. “Hm?”

The hum is as soft as it is malignant. The lids of his eyes are dropping and he’s studying Taehyung,
notices the pattern of his pupils as they dart across his face, as they hood themselves. Jungkook’s
demeanor is dubiously provocative.

Taehyung has always been jealous of how fucking strong Ji-woo is. He’s also always hated how
loving she is, because it’s made him weak. He’s weak. He’s not ready for Richhood, hasn’t suffered
enough, but he thinks Jungkook wants to make sure he will.

His eyes capture his. He’s so close, he can feel him breathe, the exhales gentle, but striking on the
skin of his face, of his neck. “Would it still be only out of desperation?” Jungkook asks and it is but a
murmur, and that slightly rational part of Taehyung wants to laugh.

He almost does, but he can’t channel enough energy to, so he simply shakes his head, watches his
mouth and breathes through his, “I don’t understand you, Jungkook.”

The other’s lips part, and he stares entranced as they form words, falsely, deceptively soft, “I never
asked of you to understand me.”

Taehyung’s eyes chart to his and he endeavors to fill his voice with the same determined
vociferousness from before, but he fails. It strains as it leaves his throat and it resembles a plea, “Then
what do you want from me?” he asks, he begs, “Your bet is over and done with, what do you want
from me?”

It’s unhealthy. Jungkook’s unhealthy for him and he cannot keep making himself part of his life.
Taehyung’s never thought his curiosity and wandering eyes would ever lead him to here, to this.
He’s breathing hard, as if he’s ran, though he hasn’t, and he isn’t now even if he should be.

Jungkook doesn’t answer. He ravages Taehyung with his eyes, sliding them across the whole of his
body before he slowly returns them to his imploring ones, rid of all vehemence. “You’re wearing my
shirt,” Jungkook announces simply.

He’s inhaling sharp as well, chest filling out and falling in, deep and unsteady, but Taehyung is too
lost to notice.
“I—”he struggles. His shirt, yes. He hadn’t washed his uniform and he needed a shirt, a simple white
shirt, and Taehyung hadn’t really thought when he’d slipped this one on. He tries to narrow his eyes.
“You told me to keep it.”

“Yeah?” Jungkook asks, but he is so absent with it. His hands reach and Taehyung flinches, elbow
hitting the door and it just reminds him how trapped he is here. Jungkook’s fingers touch the material
of his tie in an action that has grown somewhat familiar, but it does not fail to make Taehyung’s heart
thunder as he easily and swiftly undoes the pitiful knot.

“Yes,” Taehyung’s teeth knock together with assertiveness. He wants to pull away, but he has
nowhere to go. His eyes drop briefly to where Jungkook’s own focus lies, the digits that move so
close to his neck. “Is that what you want?” Taehyung breathes. He expects Jungkook to redo the
knot the way he likes it, but he doesn’t. He tugs at the fabric and lets it slither along Taehyung’s
chest and to the ground, atop their feet. “You want it back?”

Jungkook’s eyes peer at him. “Maybe.”

His hands do not drop, they linger, and they pop a first button and Taehyung cannot fucking breathe,
not with his fingers lingering so close to all parts of his respiratory system. But Jungkook is undoing
the second button, too. Taehyung’s chest sinks sharply, breath inhaled through teeth. His eyes search
Jungkook’s face helplessly, but Jungkook’s own seem entirely entranced by the motion of his finger
as they dip lower and part buttons. He’s slow, overwhelmingly deliberate, and it’s so easy for reality
to slip away from Taehyung.

And Jungkook is entranced, because Taehyung’s skin is fucking golden. He doesn’t know what he’s
doing, doesn’t really care, just as long as he gets to see more of it, stretched over bone, muscle and
flesh. It seems soft, so very smooth and unpolluted, so perfect that Jungkook just wants to touchand
he wants to scar.

The shirt cost him a fortune and naturally the material of it is exquisite, but it cannot begin to rival
what it reveals as he parts it, because what’s underneath simply must be priceless. Taehyung’s tan.
His clavicle is sharp and protruding, but the sight of it bare is peculiarly provocative. His nipples are
perky, small, so dissimilar to Julia’s but sit so well on the expanse of his alluring skin above the
hinted outline of his ribs.

Taehyung’s not bulky in any way, but his shoulders are broad, and he, Jungkook knows as he
undresses him, is most certainly a boy.

“It’s too big for you,” he notes softly, through a breath mostly as he tugs the remaining fabric out of
his waist line and pushes it off his shoulders, leaving his entire upper body bare.

Taehyung nearly gasps as Jungkook’s skin brushes his lightly when the removes the shirt from him
entirely and perplexingly allows it to drop to the floor.

It’s a waste, Taehyung thinks, though currently thinking is not something he can pronounce himself
efficient at. That shirt is too nice. It does not belong on someone like him.

“It’s too expensive for me,” Taehyung whispers, unintentionally matching the tone of conversation
that Jungkook sets. It forces a strange intimacy between them, between their parted lips as they
breathe words to one another. They’re so close.

“No,” Jungkook shakes his head. He gives into it, he touches. “It suits you.” His hand is on his waist
and Taehyung hisses, sucks in a breath. His stomach hollows out and then fills sharply. The touch is
scathing on his bare skin, scorching. Jungkook’s calloused hand has a heat attached to it that burns
through him when he slides it across him, still very much deliberate, very much slow.

It’s so simple. It’s nothing. He’s just running his hand across him, cupping at his waist, at his ribs,
and why Taehyung is more turned on than he’s ever been with any girl in his life is beyond him.
Jungkook’s hand edges higher, a single thumb brushes over his nipple and Taehyung’s sigh is almost
reminiscent of a moan.

His skin is as smooth as Jungkook imagines. He’s never expected a boy could be so gentle, so soft.
Softness, he’s always been taught, should be reserved to girls. But he is. He’s different, there’s no
globe of a breast, his rib cage is wide, his chest is so different, broad and shapely. He’s different, but
the curves of him are so inviting, so nice underneath Jungkook’s wandering touch. He cannot help
the brush across the bud at his pec, and Taehyung recoils from it with the immediacy of automaticity
before he curls against it, a tender, panting sound elicited from his parted, pink lips. Even his
goddamn nipples are pretty. He runs a forefinger against it, too.

Jungkook hates him. He absolutely fucking loathes Taehyung. He wants to ruin him.

This exploration of Jungkook’s hands on his bare body is lethal. It’s firm, teasing, but gentle, so
incongruous with who he is as a person, and it is just so unfair.“What do you really want from me,
Jungkook?” Taehyung asks, breathes, because he has to.

“Right now?” Jungkook’s eyes spring to his, brows shift.

“Yes, right now,” Taehyung says. He can’t take this. “What do you want from me in this fucking
instant?”

Jungkook grips at him with both hands, holding each side of his waist. It’s firm, it’s burning, and so
is his breath on his neck when Jungkook draws closer. He pulls him into him, has him stumbling a
step that aligns them in a way that is physically dangerous. Taehyung can feel him, all of him. He’s
hot. He’s scorching. His lips are brushing at his ear as he’s tilting his head. “You really want to
know?” There’s residual cruelty clouding his voice, but it is overpowered by its sheer eroticism.

Taehyung swallows, for a short moment he only manages to nod as he tongues quickly at his lips,
dried from staying parted for this long. “Tell me,” he exhales.

Jungkook’s hands tighten on his hips, muscles contracting and unconsciously bringing Taehyung’s
body closer still, until there is not even a breath of air between them, and he’s so warm and soft
beneath him, so pliantly curling himself against Jungkook’s hold, whether he does is purposefully or
not, he falls into it with ease, and he just fucking fits into the crevices of him so unnervingly well.
He’s wearing dress pants, dress pants that leave nothing to the imagination and Jungkook surprises
himself at how he is not repulsed when he feels him distinguishably harden slightly. He fucking likes
how hot it feels against him, how shapely, the very concept of it, of Taehyung’s resolve in opposing
him failing to give way to arousal.

It turns him on. The other boy’s fucking scent does as well, when Jungkook’s nose brushes his
cheek, eyes studying every inch of him from the angle, his clavicles, his throat, his goddamn ears. It’s
poor, so pointedly inexpensive, fruity, maybe, but distinctly masculine. And he’s not supposed to
fucking like how a boy smells and it’s so fucking unfair.

Jungkook’s fingers are bruising on his hips and his mouth is scathing at his cheek. “I think I want
you on your knees.”

Taehyung’s breath stutters, skin flushes heated and red. The blush of crimson dances all across him,
ventures down his neck, the back of his ears. He closes his eyes, seals them shut. Jungkook is
playing with him, must be, because it is simply impossible that he would want him.

“You’re sick,” Taehyung hisses. And truth is, Taehyung must be fucking sick too, because he wants
to, wants to drop to his knees. Taehyung blames it on the disturbingly extensive level of his curiosity,
he blames it on that and blames it on Jungkook, the way he touches him now, the way he holds him,
grips at him, breathes on him, teases him – the way he speaks, he demands, compels, but it’s so
alluringly soft. It’s cruel, but it’s gentle, the paradoxical epitome of tender vengeance.
“I’m rich,” Jungkook murmurs and Taehyung can feel his lips move on his cheek when he speaks,
and it knocks all reason straight from his head. He pauses, he’s pausing, and he’s moving, keeps his
body still by the tight grip he has on his hips, and brings his own forward. He’s on him, presses his
pelvis slow yet unyielding against his in an almost circular motion and Taehyung’s hand flies, grips
at Jungkook’s wrist and clenches, a regretful whimper evading his lips “I’m hard.”

He is. Taehyung can feel him. He can feel his cock as it patterns around him and Jungkook might be
playing, but he’s hard. Julia is not here. No woman is here. No one else is here. It’s for him.
Jungkook is hard for Taehyung and it will be the death of him.

Jungkook pulls his head away, retracts enough to give himself view of Taehyung’s face, to study it
and Taehyung’s eyes crack open at the sensation of the motion. It’s a mistake, really, it’s his biggest
mistake yet, because he meets Jungkook’s gaze and it breaks him.

Those eyes, he loathes those eyes with ambiguous passion. They’re piercing, they’re intense, and
they’re black, pure obsidian, gone and hooded and deadly.

Jungkook’s tongue darts across his lips and he whispers with the rhythm with which he clenches his
fingers around him again, “Get on your knees.”

And Taehyung fucking does. He allows Jungkook to take a single step back, separating their bodies
and before he can feel the cold abstinence at the loss of his touch, he bends and drops, settling his on
his knees on the floor.

His tongue is instinctive, pokes out, darts, wets at his lips as he stares up, holding the stare in which
Jungkook’s compulsively captured him, dark and unyielding until pupils drop, study the motion of
his tongue as it teases around his mouth. Jungkook’s jaw tightens, ticks, a muscle at the very end
protrudes almost threateningly.

His eyes are rough on him, glaring, yet hooded in a way maybe he simply can’t help, and Taehyung
waits.

Jungkook keeps a challenging hold on Taehyung’s stare as his fingers venture to his belt, to the
button of his trousers. It’s such a distinctive sound, the unbuckling of a belt, archetypically lewd in
nature, it seems, at least from Taehyung’s current position. Makes his ears buzz.
Taehyung swallows, gulps down thin air and saliva and his throat bobs.

He’s nervous. His heart rages. He’s never done this before, because Taehyung likes girls and boys
who likes girls don’t suck cock, but he wants to, he will, just for Jungkook. Peculiarly, it is with a
surge of power that the reality distorted with arousal hits him, as it will be a fact. He will suck
Jungkook’s cock and Jungkook will have to live with the knowledge of it, the memoryof it, that he
got hard touching Taehyung and got a boy to drop on his knees and get him off, got Kim Taehyung
to wrap his lips around his dick.

Jungkook shakes the blazer off of his shoulder and allows it to drop onto the floor, before his hand
reaches and fingers cradle at the underside of his jaw. The intensity of the glare of his eyes is so
intrinsically different to the delicacy of the touch as he proceeds to glide a thumb across his pouted,
parted lips, a single soft brush, quick and fleeting, yet it makes Taehyung’s mouth tingle.

“Open your mouth for me,” Jungkook says and the thumb dips, slips in between just lightly and
presses onto the top of teeth, the tip at the moist edge of his tongue, Taehyung’s lips parting
significantly at the gesture, at the words that hold an oxymoronically gentle authority.

His other hand makes its way into his pants, frees his cock and it is there, thick and real, a man’s
cock and Taehyung’s eyes fall away from Jungkook’s compulsive hold to explore it.

Jungkook’s thumb drops from his mouth, moves to his chin, and Taehyung moves forward boldly;
he’s had this done to him, he’s seen this done, watched fucking porn – his tongue teases out and at
the head and Jungkook hisses, two fingers digging into the bone of Taehyung’s jaw as he blinks up
at him.

Jungkook’s teeth are clenched. He glares. But the vulnerability of arousal is spelled out on his face.

Taehyung reaches a hand, touches the base of him, and it chases Jungkook’s own fingers away, as
his wrap tentatively around it, his thumb brushing along a vein it feels over the silky texture of his
length. It’s heavy in his grip, hot, and different to his own.

His fingers are so long, so thin.

He bends forward, props his other hand on Jungkook’s thigh, the muscle hard and tightening
underneath his timid touch and then Taehyung’s tracing his tongue over that same vein and
Jungkook’s hissing again and he replaces the grip he has on his jaw to thread punishing fingers
through his hair. They squeeze, tense into the strands and Taehyung’s gasping a bit at that, shifting
on his knees, the sensation edging from his stomach to his own bulging cock.

“Don’t fucking tease,” Jungkook growls, punctuating the words with a constrict of his fingers that
pulls deliciously at Taehyung’s scalp. “Open your mouth,” he instructs again, and Taehyung does
and Jungkook layers his fingers over his, directs his length into the crevice and sinks into it with a
sharp exhale.

Taehyung loosens his jaw as much as he possibly can, presses his lips into his teeth and feels the
alien length slip onto his tongue and down. His mouth stretches and the very pronounced scent and
taste of skin reaches his senses, but it’s not uncomfortable, nor is it unpleasant.

Conversely, Taehyung wants to fucking do it, he likes it.

Jungkook’s hips stutter into his mouth at the sudden warmth of it, only lightly, not enough to hurt
him, the head of his cock pressing into the beginnings of Taehyung’s throat and all the reaction he
gets of it is Taehyung’s fingers tightening into his thigh and tongue pressing upwards into the skin of
him.

So, he does it again.

Taehyung replaces his second hand on Jungkook’s other thigh, keeps palms opened for balance and
does his best to loosen his mouth, tongue at his cock, hollow his cheeks. He bobs his head only
slightly, a simultaneous rhythm with Jungkook’s thrust, and he looks up, meets Jungkook’s gone
eyes and the contortion of his face, features twisted and narrowed, traitorous of his affect, and it nulls
any possible discomfort – he’d do this and a lot more to have Jungkook stare at him like that, to drive
him to such vulnerability.

He has always been a pleaser, for his boss, his sister, his brothers, his parents when they were still
around. Taehyung has always enjoyed the power of pleasing others, never really in the current sense,
but the raw sexual nature of how he pleases now causes something fiery to surge through his blood.
The way Jungkook’s hold of his hair burns into his scalp spikes tingles of arousal within him, he
hums around his cock and Jungkook’s hips stutter. Taehyung’s own digits are tight in his muscly
thighs, digging into flesh over the exquisite fabric of his dress pants.

Jungkook’s all so prim and proper, tie still in place, shirt still buttoned, dress pants on and all, but
apart from that, he’s fucking disheveled. His face is gone, his thrusts peak up, relentless, almost make
his throat hurt, but he bears it, the burn of it is inexplicably gratifying.
The sound of it is obscene, sound of saliva, yet there is something salaciously naturalistic about it,
something so raw and Taehyung finds its pure crudeness overwhelmingly hot.

Jungkook is getting rougher with his thrusts, still not entirely processing that he’s having
Taehyung suck his cock.

Naturally, he’s not skilled at it. He’s wonderful at it, though. He’s warm, hot, and pliant. He’s so
putty and eager to satisfy, allowing anything that even the merest movement of Jungkook’s body
suggests, allows his own to be manipulated and adjusted just as Jungkook would like it. He tries
hard, hollows his cheeks, flattens his tongue, makes his throat perfect for Jungkook to fuck and use
and it’s Taehyung. When Jungkook glances down — and honestly, he can’t rip his eyes away from it
— it is Taehyung’s red lips stretched out wide and uncomfortable around his cock. It is him on his
knees, getting light bruises as a reminder of this, of the fact he was on his knees for Jungkook — it is
his shiny eyes glittering with concentration as they stare forward or shimmering enticingly when
Jungkook tugs at his hair and forces him to look at him. He looks almost innocent with his eyes wide
and glinting and Jungkook can’t pace his own hips.

Half the sensation, Jungkook thinks, comes from the fact and sight it is Taehyung. It is that pretty
fucking boy almost gagging on his cock, giving it his all, his absolute fucking best to try to satisfy
Jungkook, and Jungkook would honestly rather this than the most skilled dick sucker in history.

It feels dirty to fuck the mouth of a Kim, of a boy. To see the pretty, pouty lips of a man glisten with
stretched saliva and his precome. But Jungkook has never had less control of his body in a sexual
situation. He has never been so needy and desperate as he is watching Taehyung be needy for his
cock.

He takes pleasure in holding Taehyung by the hair and pulling his hard, pulsing cock out of his
mouth just to see the younger boy try to search for it with his lips again, poking his tongue at the
head at the slit. Jungkook hisses. Taehyung looks up with hooded, gone eyes, question in them, as he
licks swollen lips. A string of saliva that attaches his mouth to his cock breaks as he does and
Jungkook shoves his dick back into his mouth with an almost animalistic growl. Taehyung takes it,
readily, hungrily.

“Fuck,” Jungkook curses as Taehyung swallows around him once he takes his cock again. “Fuck,
Taehyung.”

Taehyung’s eyes flutter and he moans. And God, it’s so good, so hot, wet. And then it hits him he’s
said his name; he’s practically fucking growled poor boy’s name and shit. Shitshitshit.
This shouldn’t be about Taehyung. It shouldn’t. It’s just a mouth, it’s just a mouth, it’s just a mouth.
Jungkook’s just hard and that is just a mouth, and this is punishment, because he can’t be that pretty
and have skin this soft and not be on his knees. And this was supposed to be degrading, but it
Jungkook who is absolutely humiliated with how fucking hot he finds this, how he loses every ounce
of composure as his hips stutter towards the mouth that is supposed to be just a mouth. But it’s not,
it’s Taehyung, and Taehyung’s fucking gorgeous like this. He shouldn’t be, he should be pathetic
not gorgeous, but he is and no matter how hard Jungkook snaps his appetitive hips into him, no
matter how harshly he pulls at the soft locks of his hair, he can’t ruin it.

Tears brim out at his eyes, make them all glossy and shiny, and Jungkook has the fucking ridiculous
urge to reach a thumb, wipe them away as one drops at the delicate line of his nose. His glance up
must be fucking coy, it’s so titillating and wet.

He’s going to come. His hips are snapping relentlessly and Taehyung’s taking it, he’s doing so well,
so perfect, and it hasn’t even been that long, but Jungkook’s going to come. He’s grunting, tensing.

Fuck. He’s beautiful. He’s not pretty. He’s pure fucking beauty. Jungkook comes, hard and blinding.
Goddamn memorable, shaking fucking orgasm, eye-clenching, vein-popping, toe-curling fucking
orgasm at the mouth of a Kim.

When he comes, he doesn’t give him a warning because he doesn’t deserve one, doesn’t say
anything, but instinctively flexes his fingers into his hair, pulls him back a little as his hips slow.

Taehyung watches as Jungkook’s head arches backwards, exposing the attractive length of his neck,
and it’s all Taehyung gets to see; he’s not allowed to know his face when he makes him come, when
fingers pull at him warningly, though he tightens his grip at Jungkook’s thighs and sits still, lets him
fill his throat until he retracts his hips, slips a softening cock from his mouth.

He swallows down what he can, feels some moisture on his lips as well. Jungkook glances down
and meets his exploratory eyes just as his tongue pokes out to gather and lick, and he suddenly
releases his hair, brusque, so quick. He steps back, he curses under his nose, looks away, looks
down, at his feet, drives both his hands through his hair and he swears, aloud, so loud.

“Fuck,” his voice thunders as he pulls punishingly at the strands of his own hair. “Fucking fuck.”

Taehyung recoils from the boom of his voice, sits back on his calves for a moment and feels the door
at his back. He props a palm into it and stands, knees sore, throat sore. He’s sore. He’s ignoring that,
though, forgets everything for the sake of watching Jungkook who tugs himself back in his pants,
who’s taking steps, such large steps around the room and away from Taehyung, who’s doing his
button fervently with almost tangible vehemence.

Taehyung’s nervous all over again. He feels so empty. Jungkook’s immediate retraction turns his
insides into something he cannot explain, something intense and bilious. He doesn’t really know
what to do with himself, scrambles to get his shirt off the floor, gathers his tie as well. He puts it on,
does buttons as he sees Jungkook stride over to a drawer.

He sees him pull out something, watches with parted lips and wide, glossed over eyes. He can’t
make it out, and then suddenly he can and his heart lifts from his chest and travels right up to his
trachea, to his throat in which he can still taste Jungkook and he wants to vomit it right out.

“What are you doing?” Taehyung asks and his voice trembles with distinct deflation he can’t even
bother to try to control.

Jungkook’s striding over to him again, arm extended forward, and he’s saying, his voice tight with
something heavy and repressed, he’s saying, “Here that should be enough,” and he’s pushing money
at him with one hand, the other running through his hair again and again, and jaw ticking. He doesn’t
look at Taehyung, refuses to, eyes dart all across, but not at Taehyung who’s staring right at him.

“I’m not taking them,” he responds, soft, but sure.

Jungkook’s eyes snap to his, fierce. He speaks through clenched teeth. “What?” He rasps with a step
forward that is pure threat, reeks of violence, but Taehyung stands still.

“I’m not taking your money,” Taehyung is firm. He’s angered by hurt and it fuels his stoicism, jaw
equally tightens, though his eyes cannot reciprocate the belligerence of Jungkook’s.

“Taehyung, everything that happens in this room you’re paid for,” he says almost as if he’s spitting.

Taehyung shakes his head. “Not now.”

Jungkook’s palm smashes into the surface of the door right next to his head, loud and aggressive and
his voice edges, nears a shout. “Yes, fucking now,” he breathes, shoves the money into his chest.
“Take them.”
“No.”

His voice booms, juxtaposed to the firm, yet tentatively gentle denial of Taehyung’s. “Take the
fucking money.”

Taehyung shakes his head, hand reaching for his shoulder, to keep him still. “Jungkook—”

But he pulls away so fast, as if burned, as if he’s allergic to Taehyung. He takes steps back and
Taehyung’s hands linger and fall futile and dumb in the air. Jungkook’s own spread to the sides,
arms lifting, and he’s ranting immediately, a mantra, “Don’t touch me. Okay, Taehyung? Don’t
fucking touch me.”

And Jungkook’s breathing heavy, like he’s panicking and there it is, Taehyung thinks, finally, that’s
what can break his composure, that’s what can make him tick. Taehyung’s mere touch. Something
sits in Taehyung’s throat, tight and constricting. He has entirely hollowed out from the inside, he’s
completely and pathetically hurt.

His lips part, but Jungkook’s speaking again. “You’re just a warm mouth to me, okay?” His voice is
rough, but it shakes, chest lifts and falls so hard; he’s like a man disturbed. He’s lost all semblance of
control. His words reek with emotion, and suddenly Taehyung wishes he would go back to his
indifference, wishes he never triggered this, because he’s saying, “Make no mistake you’re just a
warm fucking mouth to me, a poor one, a poor throat that I can buy.”

Taehyung swallows, bites at his lip. It’s pathetic, he’s pathetic, but he tries, reaches again, begs,
“Jungkook—”

As soon as his hand touches him, Jungkook’s own reaches forward, catches at his shoulder and
clavicle and pushes back with force that sends him right back, that surges him straight into the
surface of the door, whole body flush into the crash with it, head bouncing off, and now it hurts
physically as well.

“Fuck,” Taehyung curses, hand cradles at his head at where the pain is emphasized most, features
contorting, and Jungkook’s eyes are wide then, though still set.

“Shit, shit shit shit.” Jungkook’s saying, it’s basically exhales, exhales of shit and that is all he can
manage. Jungkook breathes fucking shit. He’s screwing his eyes shut, then opening them again.
 “Taehyung. I didn’t mean to —” And he stops himself because what, he didn’t mean to what, push
him against the fucking door? He’s a fucking man, he can take it. Jungkook doesn’t apologize to
boys when he pushes them, he rams into their jaws until he knocks them out.

“To what?” Taehyung’s eyes suddenly open glaring into his. He’s staring with new fire. The
gentleness has dropped, the tentativeness disappears, and he bares his teeth when he speaks now,
passion etching into his words as he bites them out, gaze narrowed and determined. “To hurt me?”
His brows shoot up in a pointed challenge that Jungkook does not accept. It just makes him clench
his teeth harder, jaw ticking. It’s a pause long enough for Taehyung to charge again, while the
implication of his last words lingers echoing in the silence. “Hit me,” he pronounces, enunciates and
Jungkook’s eyes darken. “Hit me, push me again, Jungkook, just take your fucking money away.”

He might do it, Taehyung knows. He might hospitalize him if he wills it, he’s witnessed it by now,
but Taehyung doesn’t care, because he’s not going to allow him to make this into a transaction.

Jungkook’s fists land onto the door on either side of him with charge and Taehyung flinches, eyes
almost shutting, but he strives to keep them opened and glaring. He searches Jungkook’s face as
Jungkook’s searches his, trapping him against the door. Neither of them speaks for several moments,
only breaths are exchanged, breaths and hard glares, tension physically tangible between their
aggravated bodies, and suddenly Jungkook’s moving again, but he’s not hitting Taehyung.

No, he presses the money into his palm with just three fingers and moves both hands towards him.
Taehyung’s breath stills in his throat, eyes not dropping to follow the motion as Jungkook still glares
at him, and he needs to return it. And Jungkook, with his heated gaze not dropping once, does the
knot of his tie the way he likes it, tightens it around his throat, until Taehyung’s prim and proper as
well, though he still feels the taste of Jungkook in his mouth. His hands don’t lift immediately after,
though. He reaches a thumb, with a single motion wipes at the corner of his lip, and Taehyung
realizes, he wipes at his come.

Jungkook sucks at his own thumb so briefly and naturally Taehyung almost doesn’t notice it, before
his hands drop from him completely and the heat of his body disappears as he steps back.

“Fine,” Jungkook says, and it’s cold, so figuratively cold that it actually makes Taehyung physically
shiver. He slips the money in his back pocket and looks away. “Go back to work.”

And with a final lasting glance that can no longer be classified as a glare, Taehyung does.

Chapter End Notes

people are so active and nice in the comments and a few reaching out on twitter it fills
my heart, I love love love reading anything that anyone has to say about this honestly,
negative or not, so thank you for staying involved

I might actually completely drop my real life and move online people here are nicer

anyway, hope you enjoyed, have a nice day and listen to scenery cause wow
 Chapter 12
Chapter Summary

I don't know how to summarise this shit.

Chapter Notes

This is starting to get so fucking long smh sorry

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“So,” Clo twirls the straw in the vibrantly colored cocktail that Hoseok had passed to her previously
before he ventured off to wake up Yoongi, deeming three o’clock in the afternoon a good time for
him to finally be summoned into consciousness. Jungkook’s brow twitches at her tone, but he does
not acknowledge her with a look as she wraps lips around her straw and speaks most coyly, “what’s
with that boy?”

Jungkook keeps his body stoic, face unrestrained, but reticent. He keeps himself casual, eyes closed,
and head arched to the sky, the hum of the hot tub so common his senses have adapted to it beyond
registry. “What boy?”

Clo’s eyes narrow just slightly, with something akin to offence. “Don’t play with me, Jungkook.”
Her voice rivals a scoff. “What’s up with Kim?”

He tells himself he does not care for his sister’s expression as she probes into his personal life, but it’s
a lie, and he straightens lazily, puts the weight of his head onto his own neck and shoulders and
cracks his eyes opened, strained and hurting under the powerful light of the afternoon sun. Clo has,
as is to be expected, her features dulled into a virtual inexpression, simply sitting there with coy
expectancy that is vibrant and pointed. She does not appreciate being fooled, it’s one of their
common characteristics. Another one being their adoration for their personal privacy and lack of taste
for disclosure of their own matters. So, Jungkook does try to fool her, as frankly, she has no business
sticking her nose in hisshit.

“Julia has a thing for him,” he replies slow and measured and their eyes lock now, similar in the
intensity of their un-intensity.

Her head cocks. She releases the straw from in between her lips. “Julia only has a thing for you,
Jungkook,” she states. “And you always seem to disappear when he’s around.”

“He’s nothing, okay?” Jungkook replies trying to string his tone of voice away from animosity that
trudges by its edges. “Don’t bring him up.” He relaxes his head onto the tub again, but his eyes
remain opened.

He’s nothing. Jungkook believes it. Poor boy’s nothing. He’s nothing but a warm, pliant mouth.

Jungkook releases a breath, a sigh. His fingers tighten into a fist that clenches underneath the water,
away from his sister’s view. He’s not going to think about this.

Clo does not skip a bit, voice slithers around her question, “Why shouldn’t I bring him up if he’s
nothing?”

He is nothing. Jungkook’s thoughts never resonate around the meaninglessness of the things he
fucks. He fucks after fights and he fucks sometimes on drugs, and sometimes when he’s simply
tense. And if it is not Julia, then it is nothing relevant. It is never about the person, always about the
act, about release, relief, it’s about sex, and what sort of a horny teenager would he be to dwell on
the simplicity of details of past sex, keeping ridiculous mental images to toss off to. If he wants sex,
he can get it.

“He pisses me off,” Jungkook says simply, and because he senses her mouth opening again, he tries
to be firm, demanding, “That’s it. Drop it.”

He doesn’t want to think about him in any context, certainly does not want to entertain the fact that
he has been paying enough attention to him to make it suspicious. He doesn’t want to know that
Taehyung is likely going to ignore him even more now after this. He hadn’t contemplated it when
he’d told him to get on his knees, and when he’d pressed the money into his chest. He doesn’t
usually tend to think about the consequences of his actions when it comes to sex, when it comes to
most things, because ordinarily he doesn’t care about them.

He doesn’t this time as well. He’ll make sure of it. He’ll lose a fight if he has to, let his father beat
care out of him.

Clo leaves her glass on the edge of the tub and straightens. Her eyes look tired, skin pale, but circles
dark underneath her irises. She covers it up, usually, but not in this company, not with him. She used
to be more beautiful when she wasn’t simply sober, when she had never started. She speaks with
certain distaste, “I don’t like that you’ve targeted Namjoon’s little brother, Jungkook.”

And Jungkook lifts his head up and speaks with even more of it. “Fuck off,” he says, he spits, and
lets his eyes roll with all the pointedness he can manage. He reaches for her glass and removes the
straw, tips it over and drains it off liquid, practically inhales it.

Clo pauses, but not for long. “Jungkook—"

“What?” He says sharply, straightening his head again to pin her with a glare that comes to him
naturally. His voice toys with a narrow tinge of humor that is more cruel and cold than it is anything
else, though he does seep in the suggestion of incredulity, “You want to start a fucking fundraiser for
your precious Kims?”

Clo remains typically calm to the pointed animosity of his slight outburst as she asks, slow, but
confident, “Is it about Namjoon?”

“No,” Jungkook snaps, because it isn’t. “It has absolutely nothing to do with Namjoon,” he declares
with a little more passion twisted into bitterness than he would like to admit. It strikes him as
offensive, somehow, inexplicably, that she would suggest this thing with Taehyung would have to
do with his brother. It doesn’t. It has to do with Taehyung only.

He forgets it has to do with Julia as well.

“I’m just saying,” Clo is atypically careful. She trudges on sensitivity, and it is something the two of
them do not cope all too well with. “Don’t project—"

“I’m not projecting anything,” Jungkook interrupts harshly. He stands up, water dripping down him
somehow loud as he looms above her, face pointed and hard. “They’re all the same fucking lot.” He
steps out of the hot tub, saunters away to make himself another drink. “Would do anything to get
ahold of some money.”

“You still blame him,” Clo says, keeping her eyes still on where he used to be, the space now as
vacant as the direction of their conversation, as the direction of most of their conversations in the past
couple of years.

Jungkook scoffs easily as he walks away, “Of course, I still blame him. Kims are fucking pests.”
All Kims are simply fucking pests, nesting in places where they don’t belong, on their streets, their
houses, their cafes, work places, and most inexcusably in Jungkook’s fucking brain.

Jungkook rarely fucks her in his own bed, but when he does, it’s usually hard.

This time it’s harder. He’s inside her as she’s sprawled on his godly mattress, fucking her into it, fast
and good. He hovers above her, palms by her head as he uses them for leverage to keep himself up,
looking down, bangs moving heavy with sweat with the force of his thrusts.

She’s keening, moaning, arching into him, her thin legs wrapped around his waist, keeping her eyes
set on his, so set, because he rarely allows this for so long, rarely initiates and perpetuates eye contact
from start to finish but ever since he pushed her down onto his bed he hadn’t ripped his gaze away,
and it makes her melt into the velvety sheets.

He’s fucking her fast and good, fast and good, of course it’s good, it’s always good. He’s a talent,
talented at everything physical, everything primal and fucking is not an exception, he’s exceptional.
But there is something indisputably mechanical about the way he does her tonight, a repetitive
rhythm of him slamming his hips into her while he hovers above her. It’s a good rhythm, good depth,
hits all the right places, knows just how to make her moan and whimper.

But there is some terrible dispassion in the way he moves into her as he gazes into her eyes. Maybe,
she realizes, maybe it’s too good, too fast and good, too hard, too much just the way she likes it, too
perfect, controlled, balanced. Machinal.

But then after a slow release of breath, his elbows bend. His forearms straighten into the mattress and
he comes closer, body brushing against hers, and though it takes his eyes away from hers, though he
has to look away, it’s suddenly different. His head twists away, gaze disappears to stare at nothing in
particular, maybe his eyes screw shut, she imagines, and his breath hitches by her ear and the sound
of it is deliciously uninhibited.

He falters once in his rhythm in a snap of his hips that feels unrestrained and punishing in all the right
ways and it makes her gasp. He’s still fast, still good, but now he’s more frantic, now he seems
purposeful, seeking his own pleasure as well as simply grinding into her. He groans, he’s growling,
chest rumbles against her as he presses his forehead onto a pillow and fucks her, frustrated,
frustratingly.

It’s different now. It holds something. It’s better now. His hips gyrate, sink into hers, arch. The
rhythm is not as set, it seems he feels it rather than controls it, and it makes her lose herself in him that
he seems to have lost himself in this.

She calls his name when she comes, telling him how good he makes her feel, gripping onto the back
of his neck, treading fingers through his hair and helplessly cursing at him in a pleasured mantra of
rephrased thank yous.

He himself is atypically silent, foul, demanding lips shut and bitten as he comes afterwards. His teeth
sink into the pillow of his flesh hard, too hard until the red is white before it cracks and he releases it
before it turns crimson again, before it bleeds, a licentious groan traveling raw and beautiful in her
ear as he empties himself into the condom with final movements of his body.

The heat of him evaporates quick, so quick. He’s up and off of her, out of her, before she can
properly weave her fingers into his hair like she means to. He disposes of the condom in a bin by his
bed as he sits on the edge of it, legs spread wide, elbows pressed into them. He’s hunched over,
tense, regardless of what they just did. He’s running palms across his face, as If he’s scrubbing it
with water, then his own fingers sink into the strands of his hair, restless and firm as they tread and
pull onto them.

Julia straightens on a single elbow, eyes fixed on her boyfriend.

“Are you alright, Jungkook?” she asks, slow and cautious.

His back tenses, muscles rigid under his smooth skin before he straightens, shoulder blades relaxing.
He twists slightly at the waist, arching a pointed eyebrow at her, quizzical, “Yeah?”

There’s a suggestion in his demeanor, a suggestion that she’s imagining things and it offends her
slightly that he believes after all those years he either thinks he can still fool her or doesn’t care to
try. She grips on a sheet, layers it protectively over her body. “Don’t fucking look it,” she says, only
a bit harshly.

He sighs, leans back. His head cocks and his eyes venture away from hers again. “The rumors about
Clo and Seokjin,” he addresses and pauses until he notices her resolve change with the barest notion
of hesitance. “I don’t like them,” he finishes.

It’s a pattern she knows well, but still lacks the capacity to fully comprehend, because it’s a very well
manufactured form of manipulation for him to stir clear of actual discussion. Jungkook has long ago
established his sister holds a tender spot in his heart, inaccessible by others – he has long ago deemed
conversations about her taboo but has allowed Julia into the privacy of his insecurity revolving
around her. She’s allowed to know, but not to address, not to comment on. So, whenever Jungkook
is unnerved by anything he does not want talked about, he simply brings up his sister.

If Julia knows this, she never addresses it as well. What she does say is, “You think about your sister
and that newbie when you fuck me?”

He looks at her again, and with an intense conviction and honesty that she cannot help, but trust, he
claims, “No.”

The word carries an idiosyncratic weight that she cannot fully decipher, only feel.

She yearns to address it, lips parting, but then the door cracks open and his mother is there, smiling
and unbothered. Her son sits naked and exposed on the edge of his bed, his girlfriend sprawled
behind him, barely covered, and the scent of sex punctuates the air.

His mother’s eyes venture to Julia and widen in recognition. Her hands clasp together, fingers
intertwining as her palms press tight and a smile spreads on her face. “Julia,” she addresses, pitched
and short, “wonderful. I thought I’d heard you. Would you stay for dinner, darling?”

Julia’s eyes venture to Jungkook instinctively, though she is nodding and saying of course. The
answer is always of course.

“Perfect,” his mother announces, and she saunters off, a dismissive motion of her hand as it hangs in
the air. “Min Su, would you change my son’s sheets?”

Taehyung does not know what it is precisely that transpires inside of him when Jungkook appears at
Rouge with Julia, but he can tell it is peculiarly vindictive. It’s the first time he sees Julia after the
night of her birthday, but it does not properly register with him, because he’s too busy processing the
fact it is the first time he’s seeing Jungkook after he got on his knees for him and allowed him to
come in his mouth.

It sits irritably with him that their first encounter post the incident has to feature Seung Julia before he
bitterly remembers all of their encounters were supposed to feature her.

And she is his girlfriend.She’s the one supposed to suck his cock, not him, she has every right sitting
on that table with him, trailing fingers across the sinewy lines of his forearms, dragging nails
playfully across his thighs, the very same thighs Taehyung held onto as Jungkook fucked his mouth.

It is Taehyung who does nothave a place there. He has to serve them and that is it, that is what he
does, but as he carries the menu, he also carries the knowledge that he did make Jungkook come, and
he had moaned his name moments before he’d spilled into his mouth, and it had had nothing to do
with Julia at all and the fact of it is cruel and twisted in the way it grants him a sense of gratification
and empowerment. He almost feels smug which is ridiculous and borderline petty, but he does.

They’re sat on one of his tables, and though Taehyung suspects Jungkook would not make a scene
againand in front of Julia he cannot afford to ask Bogum to deal with anything more related to this.
He already seems suspiciously involved with Jungkook and he does not want to provide leverage for
questioning. What is more, he does not want to simply avoid Jungkook, especially not when Julia is
around. He can insert himself into their situation and not shy away from it, not run away flustered
and hard. He doesn’t have the upper hand in this, but he does have a hand and he’s set on proving it,
for the sake of his own sanity and internal well-being.

It does not mean the presence of Jungkook does not resonate with a sensation of hurt, especially
when his smirking, perpetually salacious girlfriend is currently occupying his attention, a reminder
Taehyung never truly does. She touches him and he watches her. She smiles at him and he smirks at
her and it tugs at Taehyung, because the shape in which Jungkook’s lips twist may not necessarily be
a smile but it closer than anything Taehyung dreams to be awarded with.

It’s beyond ridiculous, honestly, that he would crave a smile from Jeon Jungkook, but he does want
an array of the strangest things from him. When Julia leans and her lips meet his, Taehyung starts
walking. He walks towards them, he has to bring them their menus, take their order, and to order,
they need to break apart.

He still wonders what a kiss would feel like, but he abhors seeing it.

“Taehyung,” Julia says as her lips immediately twist with a familiar, titillating curve that is very much
a smirk and very little a smile. Taehyung is not surprised at her address, at the pitch of it and the bat
of her lashes as her eyes slide away from her boyfriend and over to him. He doesn’t much care for it.
He does, however, feel irritated at the fact Jungkook is not looking at him. No, he has his phone out
now and he’s fucking scrolling through social media and completely ignorant of Taehyung’s
presence and there he is, with Julia’s attention on him, though her palm on Jungkook’s thigh, and
Jungkook full-heartedly ignoring him and it is square one. Deja fucking vu. It’s not like this
anymore. It shouldn’t be. It should be more, he should be more now.

“Is there anything I can get you to start off with?” Taehyung speaks and he knows he says it tightly,
it registers in his own ears and he hopes it does in Jungkook’s as well.

Julia’s lips spread. “Hmm. So professional, Taehyung.”

He does not like the way she says his name, like she has some claim over it. “I’m working,” he states
simply, strained in his endeavors to not be overtly brusque with her and to keep his eyes away from
Jungkook, though he’s like some interpretive magnet for them, claiming his attention inadvertently,
regardless of the fact his own is utterly lacking.

He gives her a door, he supposes, and she sticks her foot in it and cracks it opened, saunters right in.
“If you ever get tired of this working and need a little extra money, Taehyung,” She trails off, her
smirk transforming into something he interprets as positively evil though it is mostly suggestive. Her
brows lift and fall swiftly. “Or if you’re ever fucking bored.”

Taehyung swallows around his words, “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, blinking towards the other
man, whose thumb is aggressive as it perpetuates a continuous, absent scroll. “Anything to drink?”
He tries to be leveled, tries not to sound frankly and simply pissed. Maybe he fails.

“A double coffee and a San Pellegrino,” Julia says and somehow even that manages to slip through
her lips with an air of something teasing.

Taehyung nods and his eyes naturally slide to Jungkook and he waits. The other does not deign him
with a look before he speaks, before he asks, “And for you?” Not before he adds, “Sir?”

Jungkook’s gaze does wander to him then, languorous and tantalizing as it slides to his from under
brows, under lashes. There’s some hardness in it as he captures Taehyung’s firm, set glare.

“A coke,” Jungkook says and Taehyung cannot know if he imagines the tension or it is truly
palpable and then his eyes drop to his phone again. “No sugar.”
Taehyung nods, licks at his lips. “Will that be all?”

Julia’s lips open, but Jungkook cuts her off, succinctly, “Yes.”

Taehyung is dismissed,technically, and so, he leaves. He walks into the café, places orders, places
them to Bogum who’s behind the bar today, to Bogum who has his eyes scrutinizing his face,
studying the all too obvious disgruntlement that encapsulates his pretty features.

Bogum’s leaning his elbows on the counter of the bar as Taehyung slips behind to make the coffee
himself. He appreciates the distraction of having something to do with his hands, something that
requires his attention, because otherwise it begrudgingly misplaces, seals onto the couple.

“He’s here again,” Bogum acknowledges and Taehyung’s eyes dart to the person in question,
automatic and regretful, as Jungkook has forgotten his phone and is present now, present with her.
“What did he want from you, the other day?” Bogum continues after Taehyung only lets out an
annoyed noise of affirmation. “You kind of, disappeared for a while.”

He’s cautious with his wording and Taehyung senses it, appreciates it, though he does suppose it is
done more for Jungkook’s sake than it is for his.

“Just to rough me up a little bit,” Taehyung replies as he works the espresso machine with the
automaticity of longitudinal familiarity. “Told you he gets off on making me suffer.” He says and the
coffee is done, so he makes to bring the drinks to the couple, but Bogum is on the other side of the
bar and has the trey in his hands as soon as Taehyung places the porcelain onto it.

“I’ll take care of it,” he informs him and when Taehyung attempts to protest, he interjects mid-spin,
“I’m closer.”

Thanks, Taehyung means to say, but he doesn’t, just nods. He watches as Bogum places the drinks
on the table, as Jungkook’s head twists to look at their waiter and then eyes, sharp and intense, center
on him through the window.

Taehyung refuses to award him with the satisfaction of a reciprocated look, so he replaces his gaze to
Bogum, follows him as he returns and as he places the tray onto the counter. Work is slow today, it’s
chill. It’s an hour during the week at which people are usually busy, it’s a money-making hour, but
Julia and Jungkook do not have to worry about making money, just spending it.
“Can I ask you something?” Bogum leans against the bar again. He is casual, but tangibly bordering
on some intent, tiptoeing around actual points, while focusing on nonchalance. As Taehyung mimics
his position on the other end of the counter and their elbows brush, he adds, “Don’t get offended.”

Taehyung’s drive to show indifferenceinvigorates him to seal his eyes onto Bogum though they
practically itching to check if Jungkook’s are still on Julia. “Yeah, no worries,” he tries to focus on
this conversation, with this person. He meets his eyes. “Few things can offend me.”

Bogum’s lips twitch before they straighten. He clears his throat, shakes some hair from his face. “Do
you deal to him?”

“What?” Taehyung asks a little bit sharply, a little bit blankly. It’s a lot more surprising to him than it
is offensive as Bogum had worried, and his brows shoot into his hair, features twist with the
confusion of the question.

“I just.” He’s playing with something he finds on the bar, some object that Taehyung does not
exactly know the purpose of, but it’s small and metallic. Bogum hesitates as he lifts his eyes from the
movement of his digits and looks instead at Taehyung, “I heard a Kim sells around here and I
thought it might be you. Thought it might have to do with your…” he chooses carefully,
“misunderstandings.”

“Ah,” Taehyung exhales, tongue tapping against the roof of his mouth, features tight as he nods,
once, twice, he’s shaking his head. His fingers clasp together and squeeze into each other. “That
would be my brother.” He straightens up, but he realizes he has nothing to do with himself, really, so
he stretches his back and leans onto the bar again. “He’s gone now, though. He went away.”

“Oh.” Bogum’s eyes widen slightly, genuinely. It’s refreshingly rare. “Sorry. I—"

Taehyung waves a hand. “It’s fine.” He grips onto his own elbow and allows a bit of a smile to tease
at his lips. “You really don’t know much about Richhood, do you?” A new variation of fondness
touches his voice at the end.

Bogum’s brows arch curiously, “Richhood?”

“Gangnam.” Taehyung responds, laughs, shoulders shaking with it as he drops his head and twists it
side to side. He says with a breath under his nose, “Christ.” Then lifts up to look at his coworker,
slapping a palm over the curl of his shoulder definitively. “Okay, Bogumie hyung. You work in
Rouge, you need to be educated in order to survive.” He enunciates pointedly, then
announces,“You’re coming with me to the Ozone.”

A smirk spreads on the other’s face, friendly enough but a little teasing as well. “To the Ozone,
yeah?”

Taehyung nods. “Yeah.”

Bogum lifts his brows up again, but this time differently, this time with suggestion, though it remains
pointedly playful, “Are you asking me out, Taehyung?”

Taehyung snorts, eyes rolling easily. His conversations with Bogum flow; they’re easy, casual. It
relaxes him slightly, to finally have something like this. Sometimes he feels every moment of his life
is burdened with a type of unspoken tension, bred from his clear-cut status of poverty. “No, I just
want you to see them in their natural habitat, snorting coke and dirty dancing and all that.” His eyes
dart unintentionally to the smoke-snorting, dirty-dancers in question, but he is quick to return them to
Bogum.

“Dirty dancing?” Bogum grins all wicked. “Is that what we’ll be doing?”

Taehyung buries his face in his hands, prolonging vowels as he whines, “Hyuuung.” Everything he
says can be used against him apparently, so he settles for nothing but a whine.

Fingers thread through his hair for the barest moment, ruffing it up, fluffing it, before they are
removed. “I’m just teasing, Taehyungie.” Taehyung straightens, his eyes naturally darting to
Jungkook as he regains vision of the background behind Bogum, a bit of a residual pout on his face
as he leans his chest and whole body on his fists against the bar. “Though, I wouldn’t particularly
mind.”

It takes Taehyung a moment, he needs to pause, because his gaze lingers and it does because it does
not meet the side of his head as expected, it meets his eyes, set and penetrative. But Taehyung does
remove his, speedily. He meets Bogum’s. “Keep going and I’ll report you for harassment,” he jokes.
He tries to keep it light, this light is the only one he is allowed to have, and he clings onto it.

But then Bogum’s smirk softens into a smile. It’s small on his face, and he is no longer staring at
Taehyung, so Taehyung looks away as well. “You look at them a lot,” Bogum announces. He says it
simply, quietly.

Taehyung nods. He knows he does. He always has. “Observation’s preservation.”

He settles for this, though currently Jungkook’s magnetic pull to his eyes does anything but keep him
safe. Conversely, it exposes truths he does not want to acknowledge.

“Who’s that with him?” Bogum asks, his chin nodding indicatively.

Taehyung’s tongue runs across his lips. “Seung Julia,” he says, looking around for something to do.
He desperately needs to be busy right now. “She’s his girlfriend. They’ve been together for like…”
and he realizes with a small sigh, “ever.”

Bogum nods, leaning backwards against the bar, scanning them over briefly. “She’s pretty, isn’t
she?”

“Gorgeous.” He makes another coffee, this one for himself, offers Bogum one, but he shakes his
head, so he makes himself a double because it takes longer.

“They look good together,” Bogum acknowledges, and Taehyung pulls at a lever a bit too hard, begs
he wouldn’t notice.

“Yeah,” Taehyung hits his finger on the machine with a movement that is too brusque and
uncoordinated, hisses, sucks on it briefly. “They fit.” He says.

It’s convenient when three people only two of whom Taehyung recognizes sit at a table that Bogum
has to serve because it effectively ends the conversation that Taehyung is not sure how to stir. He
doesn’t even like coffee.

He shakes his head, at himself, to himself, figures that with how slow the day is going it is not a
crime for him to go to the toilet when he is not on his break, so he slips away, ventures into the
hallway and then towards the bathroom. He stares at his own self in question when he washes his
hands, fills his cheeks with air, his chest and releases it in a large burst through circular lips.
He cups his palms, fills them with some water and chucks it at his face, and then he leaves.

His pause is immediate when he sees he is not alone in the hallway.

His steps halt unintentionally, eyes dart across the familiar figure of Jeon Jungkook as the door shuts
behind him, he’s clearly just come into the space as well. Taehyung’s chest fills with a breath he
struggles to take, but then he manages and drops his gaze to the floor with a small nod of
acknowledgment and he walks.

He means to walk past, pace quick and pointed, but of course, of course, fingers lock tight against
the bone of his elbow and Jungkook tugs him into a position that is not too close, not too far away,
that makes him face him with at least half of his body. Taehyung’s eyes narrow. His glare burns at
where Jungkook’s digits coalesce with his body, then up along the length of his arm and settles into
his own hardened stare.

Jungkook’s teeth are tight pressed, but he still manages to speak with insouciance. “You’re not
gonna tell anyone about what happened, right?” he says, and at the address of thisTaehyung’s
surprised into flinging his brows up into his hair.

He’d never expected Jungkook to voluntarily bring it up, with words, though not naming it, per se,
but instilling the fact of it happening into the tension of the space between them.

Jungkook only does it because he wants Taehyung to think about it when that other poor bastard
runs his hands through his hair again.

“What?” Taehyung hisses, because Taehyung is pissed, pissed because he can’t ignore him when
other people are around, then fucking seek him out and speak to him with the notion of a threat.And
if Jungkook wants to talk about it now, well then, he will talk about it, the way it was, “That I sucked
your cock?” He takes a single step forward, it’s brave and it’s stupid and he takes it. He lets the ring
of his words linger in the air of the quiet room. Then, he says, “I know I must be somelevel of
masochistic to talk to you, but I don’t go around looking for a good beating.”

Jungkook’s eyes shift away from him then return, jaw tightening. His free fingers, the ones that do
not attempt to bruise the memory of their hold into his flesh, tap repetitive and quick against his own
hip. “I mean Julia,” he tells him.

Oh, Taehyung thinks. “No,” Taehyung says. He does not manage to stray from embitterment, when
he promises, “I won’t.” He can, he could,thinks maybe she won’t kiss him so readily, won’t touch
him so freely, so often, so possessive, so confident in her possession, if he did, and he could spill it to
her in details because it’s sealed in his mind, engrained and visional, sensational. He could probably
rehearse every word, most importantly, the way Jungkook had said fuck, then, fuck again, and then
Taehyung, and then he’d come. But he won’t.

And after he concludes that, after he informs him of it, he glares away from Jungkook’s searching
eyes, reciprocal to his, and he attempts to walk away and for a moment the fingers around his elbow
are loose enough that he’s allowed to take a step.

Then they tighten, and they squeeze with suddenness that has him stumbling into his previous place.

Taehyung’s eyes dart to Jungkook again, seal onto him with the unspoken, but obvious, what now,
what does he want from him now.

Jungkook’s voice is indecipherable, but perceptibly constricted. It holds something sour, and
impugning, though he seems to force into it a casualness that does not fit the glint of his eyes and the
tick of his jaw,“You making a new friend?”

Taehyung’s brows lift, eyes blink, and is he implying something about Bogum, he scoffs. His face
deadens and he jostles his arm away from his grip. “Fuck off, Jungkook.”

He says and he walks away and Jungkook lets him, he has to let him, because any determination in
this case would signify bother, and he is most certainly not bothered by the fact Taehyung walks
away from this conversation and falls right into one with whoever the fuck this Park Bogum is. He
ignores the way his fingers twitch with encompassing irritability and stalks back to his girlfriend
slipping into the set neutrality his sister and him have an unspoken rule to perpetuate.

When Jungkook revisits Rouge the following day when Yoongi says he wants to talk, he tells
himself the destination has nothing to do with his curiosity of whether Taehyung would let Bogum
touch him again, and a lot more to do with the quality of the coffee, though he does not order one.

“I don’t think Subin is selling me clean,” Yoongi is saying, and Jungkook is willing himself to pay
attention, but Taehyung and Bogum are speaking inside, and it does not appear to be a professional
discussion, not one of co-workers, because co-working certainly does not require giggling and that is
exactly what Taehyung is doing.

His smile is so wide his eyes almost disappear, teeth fully exposed as his lips spread in a shape that is
almost rectangular, and some of his prettiness dwindles, his face dysmorphic with the purity of a grin
that reaches all aspects of his features. It’s not pretty, no longer pretty, but it is still attractivein some
sort of way that makes Jungkook want to put his fist through it until it’s ugly, as ugly as what he feels
when Taehyung flashes that frustrating smile simultaneously as he pushes Bogum by the shoulder
with discernable playfulness. Their interaction spells out reciprocal teasing, and, frankly, Jungkook
does not think Taehyung deservesit.

“Jungkook,” Yoongi presses and he realizes he might have made a mistake bringing him here,
because he is sober and when he is sober, he reads Jungkook almost as well as his sister does.

“No, he’s not,” Jungkook returns his eyes to Yoongi’s lazy, measured stare.

It narrows slightly. “And why is that?”

Jungkook shrugs in a way he knows infuriates his hyung. “Cause I told him not to.” He slides his
eyes briefly away, glancing through the window of the café, where Taehyung has his fingers on the
middle of Bogum’s forearm, other hand curled around his ear and he is whispering, and what the
fuck would they even have to whisper about. It is highly unnecessary, as is the hand that Bogum
keeps on Taehyung’s back when they talk.

“I’m not a baby, Jungkook,” Yoongi says with filtered aggravation.

Jungkook blinks back to him. “Then why do you cling to substances like a baby to its mother’s tit?”
He arches an eyebrow. He’s cruel and he knows it, but Yoongi is not one to take offence, and
Jungkook is not one to tiptoe around his friends, especially not when he is particularly ticked like he
is today.

Yoongi’s head cocks and his tongue drips venom. “I’m not that good with words. Why don’t you
ask your sister? She’s eloquent for an addict.”

Jungkook’s eyes flash brief and warning with the way he tilts his jaw. His tongue pokes into his
cheek. “Careful,” he says.
Yoongi laughs. “With who? With you?”

“Are you ready with your order?” And it is neither Bogum nor Taehyung who asks this because the
two are too busy laughing.

“I want something colorful,” Yoongi says, glancing up with a close-lipped smile that makes the
crescents of his eyes thin.

“Colorful?” It is a waitress that lingers with a worried arch of her eyebrow.

“Yes,” Yoongi nods with ready satisfaction before he adds, “And strong.”

“Do you have a preference for the spirit?”

He shakes his head. “Surprise me.”

Jungkook orders a diet coke, and she walks away and Yoongi grips at his knee where he has his legs
crossed one on top of the other and uses the hold he has to arch his body slightly, look the waitress
over. “I kind of want to fuck her, don’t you?”

“No,” Jungkook says. “Glad to hear you can get hard again.”

Yoongi scoffs. “You’re one to talk. Julia shares.”

“My dick’s limp out of boredom, not out of drugs, and I always deliver.”

Yoongi’s eyes trail smirking over the length of Jungkook’s body and his lips twitch. “Yes, Julia
shares about that as well.”

Jungkook tries not to be distracted by the fact Bogum’s hand still lingers on the back of Taehyung’s
waist and it seems to have dropped inappropriately lower. His fingers drum atop the table, tongue
poking into his other cheek as well.
“Do you think you’re taking care of me, Jungkook?” Yoongi’s voice carries gentle, deep, and slow.
It’s always relaxing. Jungkook used to love to just listen to him speak, when he had any good
thoughts to share.

He turns to him now with a pointedly questioning expression, raising a single eyebrow. “Huh?”

“I’m your hyung,” Yoongi says, still clad in languor. His throat must be dry; there’s no moistness in
his words. “I’m supposed to take care of you.”

Jungkook chooses to stare at his frustrated fingers, jarring and restless, tap tap tap, as they knock
against the surface of the table. “It’s just age, hyung,” he tells him, “It’s just numbers. It doesn’t
matter.”

“But it does,” Yoongi declares and it means something else as well, but Jungkook doesn’t catch it
because Taehyung’s brining their drinks over.

And they’re fucking walking together. Jungkook’s jaw slacks, teeth pressing rigid. It’s so goddamn
annoying.They’re working, not out on a fucking date, yet they both grip treys in their hands and
walk close to each other, shoulders brushing, speaking even as they do their job, as if their
conversation could possibly be so engaging as to not want to leave it even for a moment enough for
them to properly do what they are paid for.

They have to part ways for them to deliver to different tables, and Taehyung has the nerve to fucking
pout. Like a child. He looks ridiculous. He is certainly not paid to do that. Jungkook does not
appreciate servers that slack off on the job for the purpose of personal entertainment, workers that are
unprofessional enough to display their relationships with their colleagues. He does not pay 18%
service fee for Taehyung to have fucking fun, in a largely unnecessary manifestation of some
misplaced codependent affection for the new person who’s in this with him.

Taehyung slides the tip of the trey onto the edge of the table, reaches to place Yoongi’s drink in front
of him. He’s actually quite skilled at balancing the trey so that is takes up minimal space, experience
has bred in him some professionalism, though he disregards it for the sake of a newbie, and really,
it’s shame that Jungkook feels the need to stretch in just that moment. His fingers pause their tap and
his hand glides across the surface and knocks into the trey, disturbing its tentative balance, and it
twists and slips, Jungkook’s coke toppling to the ground, breaking into pieces and spilling over.

“Shit,” Taehyung’s hiss is a murmur, but it is immediate. His eyes are brief in the scathing glare they
lift to burn into him, before a mantra of swear words string from his lips in the breath of a whisper
and his gaze falls, concentrated and searching. He falls to his knees so naturally on the cement,
holding a palm opened and piling shards of glass into it and Jungkook is swarmed with a wave of
pleased satisfaction at how much better he looks on his knees between his legs than he does standing
up next to Bogum. “Shit, shit, shit. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He apologizes so quick and worried it must be instinctual, automatic. Jungkook supposes the belief,
the customer is always right, is one of God’s ten commandments in a place like this. He realizes
Taehyung must not mean to say sorry to him, but very likely feels he has to. It’s gratifying in a way
he is debauchedly familiar with, that it must be internally killing him to fall on his knees and to
apologize for it, but that he has no choice.

After the first quick, fiery glare he focuses on gathering the glass mostly, does not portray his distaste
in any way that is clearly visible, but Jungkook is starting to know Taehyung. He can feel it virtually
pulsate off of his skin, vibrate in the erratic motion of his hands, too quick, too sharp. He’s buzzing
with it. Jungkook wonders how much he would like to be able to afford to stand up and hit him right
then, but he can’t.

Yoongi studies the smirk etched into Jungkook’s features as he seals a cruel gaze on the poor boy
that gathers glass with his bare hands. It’s more pitiless than is typical for the younger man, who,
though is far from being particularly kind, usually does not care enough to be callous with staff. He
has always considered it beyond him, has never sunk into that specific pettiness of being rich.
Yoongi says nothing of it and he tries not to think anything of it as well.

“Taehyung,” Bogum, playing fucking Superman or some ridiculously pointless shit like that, calls his
name with concern, and angles closer, slipping his own now empty trey beneath his shoulder to
permit himself the mobility of helpinghim.

Jungkook lacks a filter. “Oh, don’t worry,” he says. He sits with his legs spread wide, possessive of
the mere air around him, and when Taehyung looks up at the sound of his voice with something that
is more confused and vulnerable than it is glaring, with lips slightly parted, he looks from in between
his knees and it is a pretty imagery, indeed. “He’s used to this.”

Taehyung’s lips clasp with resolve and he notices the bob of his long throat as he swallows. He
pauses as his eyes narrow and harden, his features twisting in a combination that perfectly depicts a
loaded aversion. “You wish,” he says slowly, he says petulantly. It’s such a simple thing to say, so
fucking schoolground, but it strikes Jungkook wrong, tugs at him, and he really wishes they were
alone.

He means to respond with something that is primal enough to not have consciously formulated in his
head as impending speech, when a person smartly dressed, smart, but cheap, practically flies out of
the restaurant, hands up in the air and clinging together. He speaks with the feigned drama of
business, screwing his features to convey textbook remorse, brows tight together and forehead
creased. “Jungkook-nim,” the man, much older than he is addresses with a voice that cannot
naturally sound this pitched, “I cannot even begin to communicate how terribly appalled I am that
Rouge has allowed this to happen. I will take measures—”

And he reaches down to take Taehyung by the elbow and Jungkook interrupts the ass-licking sleaze.
“If you fire him, I’ll fire you.”

There’s a concrete pause after the statement, and it annoys him how the sound of it lingers, so he
dismisses. “Just clean up this fucking mess and bring me another coke, yeah?”

Taehyung does take Bogum to the Ozone. It’s a Friday night, and the club is most naturally buzzing.
Jimin dances on Fridays, always does. Tips tend to be generous in the end of the week and he could
never deny the generosity of rich kids, so he passes by, introduces himself, politely slaps Taehyung
right in the middle of the ass cheeks and excuses himself as he climbs on a platform near the bar top.

Bogum’s eyes slide across him as he leans into Taehyung, palm cupped at the small of his back.
They’re close, the space in a place like the Ozone requires it, people fit together tightly, and if they
have any intention of hearing each other, they have to deal with merging proximity.

Taehyung has one hand wrapped around a bottle. He’s drinking beer tonight and it tastes bitter, but
he doesn’t want to do shots around Bogum just yet, considering he is most certainly a lightweight.

“Well, Jimin is certainly dirty dancing tonight,” Bogum jokes in Taehyung’s ear as the two share a
glance with lifted eyebrows before they refocus gazes on Jimin, who is definitely working for his
tips. Taehyung has watched him many times; he is no longer surprised by the pure eroticism of the
way he moves. It’s always an elaborate dance, it’s not simply seductive, not only sexy, it’s heavily
technical, body twisting complicated and sensual and so perfectly with the rhythm set by the
boisterous music. But still, in the end of the day, it fascinates with sex appeal, with the way Jimin is
not afraid of eye contact – he endorses it, perpetuates, lazy, wandering eyes as his hips basically
thrust into nothing. Taehyung smiles softly when his friend’s seeking gaze lands on him. He raises
his bottle lightly and Jimin has to look away to fight off a break in character for a sneaking fondness.

Taehyung’s forehead almost touches the side of Bogum’s as he speaks, “He’s good, isn’t he?”
Bogum’s fingers tighten a bit onto his back, an indication he wants his attention as he speaks. A
smile stretches on his face, one that shows off his teeth, but is consistently playful as well. “He’s
contagious,” Bogum says, something teasing lacing around his voice.

Taehyung leans away, shakes his head, bites his lower bit as he stares at the ground. “Sure, he is.”

He runs a hand through his hair, spreads it in two at the forehead and does what he’s really trying to
force himself not to. He looks around. He already knows Jungkook is there. It’s Friday and Jungkook
and Julia never skip Fridays. Today is no exception.

Taehyung only manages to look at them from the side, only from the corner of his eyes as he replies
to other things that Bogum says. He’s laughing, he’s smiling, but he glances at the couple.

They’re at their booth, the booth that might as well have their names fucking engraved into it. She’s
sat so close to him, she might as well be in his lap and has her head twisted, jaw exposed, murmuring
something in his ear. He has an arm around her, fingers hovering over her breast. Hoseok, Yoongi
and peculiarly enough, Seokjin are also at their table, Hoseok with a girl he doesn’t recognize twisted
around him with tangled limbs, lips on his, tongue in his mouth — Yoongi’s watching. Seokjin has a
girl next to him, too, and her body is quite overtly angled towards him, but he has his gaze rooted on
Jungkook who sits opposite him and the other returns it with its typical insouciant intensity.

It’s as if he senseshim. Jungkook’s eyes stir away from whatever duel they’re fighting with Seokjin’s
and slide lazily and so directly to his that he simply must have known he would be there, he would
be looking. There are hundreds of people in the club. It’s a Friday, but Jungkook’s eyes are on his
with powerful immediacy.

And just as immediately, Taehyung blinks away, heart palpitating in a different beat now, one he
thinks is reserved as a rhythm for Jungkook. He’s still smiling, teeth bared and eyes dancing with the
entertainment of his current conversation and he deems it a vulnerability he does not want to award
him with. He grins at Bogum, who says something funny. Bogum is funny. It strikes Taehyung he
rarely laughs lately with the way Bogum gets chuckles out of him ever so often.

He pushes lightly at his shoulder, looks at the ground. He looks shy, and he feels it, too, but Bogum
stares at him with confidence, angling his body differently, so that they are front to front and now his
hand twists, doesn’t hold him casually by the back anymore, he holds him intimately by the waist, his
palm cupping over in a touch that is unnecessary and intentional.

Taehyung recognizes he is being hit on. He’s not dense. Bogum is still incredibly friendly, but he’s
walking on boundaries, testing waters to see if Taehyung is hot or cold. He’s not interested, per se,
but Bogum’s pointed interest is flattering. He’s not pushy, he’s careful, and he is undeniably
charming, so Taehyung lets himself go a bit too much then he expects of himself, with a man.

Though, he does figure his set preference for women is a bit out of the window, considering he
sucked a boy’s cock, which is not something a lot of straight people pride themselves on doing.
Taehyung still does not know what to think about it. He wanted to do it, so he did it. He is attracted
to Jungkook, he’s not going to lie to himself; it’s physical and a little bit beyond that, maybe.
Jungkook has an allure. But a large part of him thinks it is not really boys, as much as it is Jungkook.

But he is not opposed to the way Bogum flirts. He does not necessarily want to act on it, doesn’t
really crave to kiss him, press himself into him, doesn’t really want to drop to his knees and suck his
cock. But when Bogum suggests they dance for the fourth time, he agrees with a shake of his head.

The Ozone is one of the few places in Gangnam where all types of promiscuity and salaciousness is
allowed. A boy dancing with a boy is not as scandalous, though it is viewed upon with the
connotation of something perverse. The rich, however, have always been allowed their secret
perversions in certain contexts. The poor are not allowed perversions, but they are allowed
shamelessness, and that is what they display.

Bogum slips his hand to his back again, but it’s different. He presses him forward, beckons him with
a body movement and meets his eyes. His smile is small, it’s close lipped and it borders on a smirk.
Taehyung shakes his head again, more to himself because he’s raising his arm, resting it on Bogum’s
shoulder. They dance differently to the way people around them do, there is no grinding. It is playful,
teasing, but still somewhat distant. Taehyung keeps it friendly. He keeps it friendly until he
remembers Jungkook’s fingers around his elbow, punishing, his teeth pressed as he seethes, “You
making a new friend?”

And then something flips inside of him and he spins. He gives Bogum his back and the other’s
eyebrows raise, the smile on his mouth completely morphing into a smirk and he sneaks his gaze all
across of what is now exposed to him, the whole length of Taehyung’s body, and he offers it, so he
does not shy on the look, he drags his eyes across, the dip of his back, the curve of his ass. He places
his hands on his hips, bony and warm and niceunderneath his touch, and he holds him, he presses his
fingers into the flesh of it pointedly.

Taehyung backs into the touch, he allows his body to brush Bogum’s and there’s some spark of
excitement inside of him at it. It’s impure in the way it is not about the dance itself, not even about
the people involved, but it charges Taehyung in a way similar to that of the beer and he permits
another brush, then another, until they touch more than they don’t.

He does not know what he hopes for, does not fully think of what consequences might be. He’s
aware he’ll stop after a dance, cannot allow himself to lead the other on more and with the way he
breathes a laugh against his ear that is heavy with the start of something he should probably really
stop.

He stops. He’s stopped.

Bogum’s body flies into his a little brusquely before he spins. Someone brushes past him with
unnecessary roughness and both Taehyung and he turn, him with a word on his mouth that falls
unspoken when he recognizes the culprit.

Jungkook’s eyes fix over Taehyung with a piercing intensity. It’s pinning and pointed, the direction
of it speaking in an unknown language before he takes them away, rests his elbows on the bar and
orders. Jungkook has no need to go to the bar. His booth is served by waiters. No one expects the
VIP’s to walk and queue for drinks.

Bogum’s gaze falls away from him and turns to Taehyung, a question lingering in his voice, “Tae--
?”

Taehyung’s eyes narrow. He looks at Jungkook when he says, “Let’s dance.”

Bogum’s tongue graces his lips. “Taehyung…”

Jungkook’s eyebrow lifts slow, his head turns slower, and now he’s looking at Taehyung as well,
but Taehyung is no longer looking at him. He turns to Bogum, clutches at his arm, “I wanna dance.”

Bogum’s lips part, but the next words Taehyung hears don’t come from him.

Jungkook’s fingers wrap around his forearm tautly, start at his wrist and slide up until they circle into
flesh and squeeze. His chest presses into Taehyung’s shoulder, hot, but not as scorching as his breath
feels on his jaw and neck when Jungkook orders in his ear, “No, I think you need to take a piss.”

“What?”Taehyung hisses, teeth clasping together with the power of it.

“Bathroom,” Jungkook simply says and then he releases him and walks away.
Taehyung’s eyes pathetically follow as he strides not in the direction of his booth, but towards where
they both know the bathroom to be. He glares at his receding form, heart beating in his chest, blood
pulsing in his veins. He hates how he gives him a choice. He would much rather have Jungkook
drag him away by force and threats like he did in the hotel, so that he does not have to deal with the
internal embarrassment of choosing to go to him.

For the first few moments after he loses sight of him completely, Taehyung’s mind is firmly set on
the conviction that he won’t go. In the following few, he is excusing himself, “I think I need to take a
piss,” and he’s walking away.

He reaches the bathroom, sparkly and clean and stylish, so unlike that of most clubs, with a repressed
excitement and an overly enhanced dread. The door closes behind him and the powerful sound of the
music dulls and fades into a vibrating background. It’s him and Jungkook, and they are alone.

Jungkook appears almost leisurely, back pressed into the polished counter of the sink, legs crossed,
arms, too. He lifts his head up at Taehyung’s entrance, eyes find him and cause a halt in his
movement. Taehyung pauses at the door, lingers beside it as the silent glare zeroes on him and he
speaks before he thinks.

“I need to take a piss,” he announces, pries his eyes away and ventures into a cubicle. It’s a pitiful
attempt at trying to retain pride; they both know that is not the purpose of his presence. Still, he
forces himself, pisses some of the beer out. He walks out of it silent and Jungkook shamelessly
follows him with hard, sinful eyes as he treads to him to wash his hands.

The streak of water is loud, and Taehyung does everything in his power not to return the look that is
so palpably seared into him. Pupils seal into his barest movement, and it again makes him nervous,
and he hates it, every bit of it. He feels peculiarly electric in Jungkook’s presence. Something buzzes
over his skin, something slithers through his blood underneath. It’s verging on discomfort, but in a
way that is disturbingly addictive.

When he turns the tap off and spins to direct his body to the door is when Jungkook gets tired of it.
He straightens from his position, with a single stride pins himself right in front of Taehyung and inch
or two before him. Taehyung stutters in his gait, taking a step back and his ass presses into the
counter of the sink.

“What?” Jungkook’s voice’s a bite, and Taehyung remains silent. There is a violent vehemence to it
that raises hairs on his body. “Do you officially like men now?” It’s caustic, vindictive, and filled
with a dripping irony that mocks him as he stretches arms and places each hand on a side of
Taehyung. There is something unnervingly oxymoronic in the casualness that his posture keeps as
his voice bathes in malignancy. “Are you really going to be such a little whore?” Words burn
through Taehyung as he enunciates them properly, so properly, speaking in a drawl that stretches
every vowel to hit hard. “You were fucking flirting,” he announces with a finality that demands an
answer.

Taehyung swallows, raises his jaw high, nose higher. He hopes his voice comes clean and reticent.
“What’s it to you?”

Jungkook blinks. He can practically hear his teeth grind together. “I want you to stop,” he says, he
demands, eyes so bold in the way they take in all of Taehyung as he speaks. His next word is a
breath, “okay?” And his next borders a growl, “You’reours.”

Taehyung’s body ignites. A fire blooms through him. Ours, ours, he says as if this is about him and
Julia, and not about him and Taehyung. The claim burns through him depraved. It carries an offence,
an insult. His own teeth clash together, and he sneers, “You don’t owe me, Jeon. You borrowme.
Outside of that I can do what I want.”

He makes to walk away, if that is fucking all, straightens and paces, but Jungkook is pressing a hand
into his chest, pushing him back into place somewhat weakly, with a word that is somehow weaker,
“Please,” he says, and it almost makes Taehyung choke. It’s airy, breathy, and his jaw slacks so
pointed after it that Taehyung wonders if it slipped through unintentional, if it’s purely accidental.
When he speaks next once Taehyung is safely pressed into the counter, his voice is hard again.
“Don’t.”

Taehyung studies him. He tries to but he cannot learn anything. He has to ask, and he does, “Why?”

Jungkook’s stare blinks away from the hold it has on him before it returns. “It bothers me,” he states
simply.

Taehyung’s teeth grind harder together. He presses, “Why?”

But Jungkook doesn’t answer. He simply rolls his eyes, juts his chin. “How much for you to stop?”

Taehyung’s voice softens with the desperation of speaking to goddamn wall. He darts his eyes
across the whole of his face, taking in every feature, every handsome feature that is misplaced on a
person as horrible as him. They linger on his lips. “You can’t buy exclusivity from me, Jungkook.”
“No?” His tone drops as well. Something sensual pulsates off the way Taehyung stares at his lips
from such a proximity and it sneaks into the ambiance of the conversation.

Taehyung’s eyes lift to his again. He’s so close. It’s a mere whisper when he says, “You can say
please again.”

And it breaks. Jungkook straightens. He scoffs. “Fuck you,” he says, voice hardening again.

Taehyung reciprocates the harshness, features narrowing as he makes his second attempt to leave
with an announcement. “Actually, I’d rather fuck Bogum.”

He gets nowhere. He is sent right back into the counter and it’s forceful enough for it to hurt when
flesh digs into the dark marble of it. Taehyung hisses with the pain of it, but Jungkook doesn’t care.
He closes in, steps into his space and digs cold, hard eyes onto his face.

“Please...” his voice teases gently over and Taehyung’s chest recedes back, ribcage closing in and
expanding with a harrowing sharpness. His skin tingles and his eyes are wide as they stare into
Jungkook’s. Something’s bundling inside of him, a narrow, twisted hope that feels new and hot and
exquisite, but Jungkook rips it right out of his chest, his stomach with a move that almost physically
hurts, “wear a condom. Julia wouldn’t want to fuck you with herpes.”

Taehyung’s eyes fall shut. His exhale is sharp, and he tries to walk away again, because he cannot
listen to this. Jungkook doesn’t let him though. He has him trapped, body stoic and unmovable.
Unbothered.

“Let go of me, Jungkook,” Taehyung demands and it’s almost a whine; he feels petulant with the
way he tries to trash into an escape, but it’s childish of Jungkook to keep like this as well, so
Taehyung compromises. He spins, angles his body towards the sink because he simply can’tlook at
him, but really it’s no good, because all he does is twist to a view of him between Jungkook’s arms
in the mirror.

“Why?” Jungkook asks sharply, in his ear. He doesn’t spin him back, just moves closer to him,
closer until he’s so close that there is no space, presses into him, fills each crevice and all Taehyung
does is watch it happen in the mirror, his breath hitching when he feels him. Jungkook’s warm, he’s
hot. His body on Taehyung conducts an energy that cannot be properly put into words, not now at
least, not by Taehyung because he’s about to lose his fucking mind again, he can feel it slipping, and
he doesn’t want to. He presses his lips together. He says nothing, he stares ahead, stoic and firm.
Jungkook’s voice saunters to dangerous territories, dropping low and soft. It’s a breathy exhale and
he speaks to Taehyung’s nape, forehead almost pressing into the back of his head as he whispers,
“Why when you don’t want him anyway, Tae?”

Taehyung’s heat skips a beat, and he screws his eyes shut. “Shit, don’t call me that.”

“You don’t want him.” Jungkook repeats, firm, but still soft, enticing. He presses his fingers into
Taehyung’s hips, the way that Bogum had, but it feels so different. His digits burn scorching into the
bones that hide beneath Taehyung’s flesh.

A breath slips through Taehyung’s slips, a breath that is much too reminiscent of the words, of the
confession, “I don’t.”

He keeps his eyes close because looking at his face as he allows this to happen is torture. Looking at
Jungkook as he does this to him is impossible. He feels his lips at his ear, a murmur that ruffles his
hair, “You want me.” Jungkook exhales it and Taehyung sucks in sharply, heart violent in his
ribcage. Fingers press harder into his hips, he’s squeezing into him so hard and Taehyung bruises so
easy he might have the remains of his fingertips there tomorrow, an imprint of his already
unforgettable touch. He pulls him closer to himself, though it is not much possible, lines himself with
the globe of his ass as he presses forward and Taehyung can feel every bit of him, hard, poised chest,
hot stiffening length. And yes, he does want him. His cock is stirring, mind is blurring, and Jungkook
is demanding in the softest whisper, “Tell me.”

Taehyung swallows, but he doesn’t speak. He won’t tell him. No matter how much he does,
Jungkook doesn’t deserve to hear it. His teeth find his lower lip, bury it in between. He’s set in his
resolve, and Jungkook knows it, so he grips onto him harder and presses forward, rotating his hips
into the warmth of him in a motion that emphasizes his shape against Taehyung and pushes him to
rub into the marble of the sink. A gasp betrays him, strung from him at the sudden onslaught of
sensation.

He has the lewd urge to press back into Jungkook. He wants to feel him some more, wants to know
the sensation of him growing hard and harder against him. It’s exhilarating, feeling him like this, but
he keeps his hips still, chides at himself, won’t allow him to use him again, won’t be just a warm
mouth for him.

He just needs a couple of moments to gather strength to push him away.

But then Jungkook’s hand slips. It travels past his hip and teases over his sensitive stomach before it
dips, and he shamelessly pops the button of his jeans. “I wanna make you feel good,” he breaths.
Taehyung’s eyes snap open, finding Jungkook’s in the mirror and he is looking at him with
something primitive and intense, something that pierces through his resolve as fingers glide across the
fabric on top of him in a motion that has his hips snapping back and rubbing into him. “What?”
Taehyung exhales.

“I wanna make you feel good, Tae.” And it is as lascivious as it is purely cruel. It’s frustratingly
tender, his breath slithers along Taehyung’s sensitive skin, his lips grazing ever so slightly at the tip
of his ear, eyes preserving their torturous hold on Taehyung through the mirror now that he made the
mistake to allow him to capture them. The way the nickname Tae slides from his alone feels
indecent. His sister calls him that, brothers call him that, and Jimin, and that completes the list. But
there is Jungkook now taking away his childhood out of it and instilling something raw and
vengeful, that has a lot less to do with familial affection and a lot more to do with wanton promises.
“Will you let me?”

Jungkook’s fingers close tentatively over him as pulls him back, detaching him from the counter of
the sink and pressing him fully flush against himself instead. Taehyungs fights a small gasp and loses
dramatically, cursing when it slips past petty lips, which he then punishes by digging his teeth into
them. Damage is done and Jungkook is smirking. The touch of his fingers is light, digits grazing, not
holding, but it does drive Taehyung mad, because in his logical perspective Jungkook would never
touch him.

Taehyung is retrospectively not too surprised with how their last lasting encounter had played out.
He has to remember sex is more a weapon than it is an act around people like them, a tool to put him
in his place, and though he’d gone on a little power trip watching Jungkook lose himself, he
imagines the other planned it to be the other way around and maybe for him it was.

But this is about Jungkook touching him. It surprises him; it scares him. Scares him how easily he
sucks in a breath through the teeth harsh on his lip and nods, he nods, “Shit, yes. Okay, yes.”

And anyone could walk in, anyone, anyone, but Jungkook is doing this with such confidence,
Taehyung would not be surprised if he has done some of his richmagic tricks to make sure no one
does, to make sure he has him to himself to torture and bend.

Jungkook’s fingers pull the zipper down, so tortuously slow, and Taehyung stares at the motion of it
in the mirror as Jungkook steadfastly studies his face. His body feels deliciously hard against his
back, every bit of it, every shape of it that he can feel.And his digits are sneaking down his pants and
he’s pulling him out.

Taehyung’s breath hitches and pauses in his throat for a worrying time. Jungkook releases him,
brings his hand up, palm spread. “Want it wet?”
Taehyung stares at it with rapid heart, and he hesitates, not really because of hygiene, but because the
last thing Jungkook touched was Julia’s knee and he wonders if her skin has a taste that clings to
Jungkook. But when Taehyung darts his eyes up, meets Jungkook’s and leans, sliding his tongue
along the length of his palm with the same excruciating pace that the other previously used on him,
all he can taste is musk and Jungkook. It’s the first time he’s tasting him, but it’s terribly distinct and
Taehyung is afraid it locks right into Taehyung’s memory.

Jungkook’s eyes narrow slightly in the mirror, the hand that holds Taehyung’s hip tightening and he
presses forward into him, nestling himself against Taehyung’s ass. Taehyung does not know why
that should be stimulating in any way, what is erogenous about the globe of his ass, it’s not like it’s
his dick, but Christ he wants to push back into him, wants to feel more of him, because Jungkook is
getting hard and the shape and heat of him against him is addictive.

His hand falls again, and fingers meet light around Taehyung, tracing veins, before his palm fits over
him near the head, a thumb gracing over the slit at the tip. He squeezes, it drags out a hissing fuck out
of Taehyung’s lips, because he can feel his goddamn ring, cold against him unlike the warmth of the
rest of him, and a bead of precum that he spreads over.

Taehyung expects Jungkook to be at least some variation of shy about this. He’s straight, straight like
most people, not like Taehyung is straight with a special dent for the man that now has him gripping
at the edge of the sin counter, knuckles going wide.

But of course, he has confidence with this as well, the confidence to exhale by his ear, to meet his
eyes in the mirror, to drag his fingers all the way to the base, then up, to squeeze at all the right
places. It feels tremendously different to when Taehyung jerks himself of. It makes him feel like he’s
about to spasm, and he knows it is about the whole configuration of it happening, of Jungkook
pressed against him and capturing his eyes. Of this being a public place, where anyone could walk
in. Julia could walk in, because Jesusif Jungkook has made someone keep guard, it is no one Seung
Julia cannot pass through.

Taehyung knows he’s also high on the adrenaline of this being a repercussion of him
flirting.Jungkook is territorial, it seems, does not like sharing.

Jungkook who is speaking to him, growling in his ear, “Wanna call me sir again?” It’s heavily laced
with irony, but with his slick hand fisting over him, he cannot help but whine.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung’s voice strains, and his name is all that he manages. It is supposed to be a
warning of some sort, or a plea, don’t bring shit up, but it comes out as a moan.
Jungkook’s head drops and he runs his lips along the side of his neck. He’s whispering into his
perspiring skin, “I think you like it.”

Taehyung’s words are a breath, a hitched, tense breath, and he wants to close his eyes, but he simply
cannot look away, the image of him between Jungkook’s arms. It does not look as wrongas he
expects; he does not appear that cheap.“What?”

“I think you like it,” Jungkook murmurs close over the bump of his throat as he swallows nothing.
“How rich I am, how I can hold that over you, how I can buy anyone, but choose you.”

Taehyung’s heart races. Shit, shit. He cannot say anything. Has nothing to say, because Taehyung
hadn’t thought about why Jungkook is doing this and he hasn’t thought about why he is doing it,
either. It’s not about money, Taehyung knows, not directly about it at least, though he does feel
monetary prowess has shaped Jungkook into what Taehyung craves now. He’s so powerful and
Taehyung is so powerless yetlook at Jungkook abandoning his girlfriend to stroke his cock in a
bathroom. It’s not about money, but Taehyung cannot exactly tell him that.

“I could probably have him if I tried,” Jungkook hisses cruelly by a vein of his neck that stretches
emphasized beneath skin with the pleasure that courses through him. His teeth bite into it, graze over
it, and it is subtle, but also it is not and he’s teasing his tongue over it, but then his lips are detached.

Taehyung’s heart sinks all rapid and primal, because Jungkook can fuck faceless girls all he wants,
Julia’s a brick in his wall, but he cannot touch other boys. He cannot be interested in other boys, and
Taehyung’s growling, “Jungkook, don’t.”

He tries to spin a bit in his arms, only the upper part of his body, seal into him a glare that is real and
palpable and not a reflection in the mirror, but as Jungkook straightens from teasing by his neck, he
looks so much softer than he looks in the mirror. His lips are parted, wet, and glistening, eyes heavy
and hooded, and glinting with undeniable lewdness.

His words are cruel, but his face is not; it’s soft. Taehyung’s own melts into a different expression,
less set, less angry, more wondrous.

“Sh,” Jungkook whispers to him directly, breath fanning across his face and Taehyung’s eyes drop to
the shape his lips make around the words. “I don’t want him,” he promises and something in
Taehyung fucking snaps.
It snaps, it breaks and Taehyung, bold and stupid, leans, leans in desperation to find a craving his
represses daily, what if feels like to kiss him. And he can feel his breath inside his mouth before he
cannot feel it at all and something breaks harder.

Jungkook pulls away almost with a jolt of his neck. “Don’t,” he growls, but his eyes are still soft on
him. His hand still moves across him and Taehyung can hardly breathe let alone think.

He swallows, “You said you wanted to make me feel good, right?” His brows arch, and he asks for
it, fucking asks Jeon Jungkook tokiss him and he does not know what sort of an alternative universe
he has ventured in. “Well, this will make me feel good.”

“No.” His chest rumbles with it and he snaps his hips with a force that settles him back into his
previous position. Taehyung moans with it, still overload with sensation, and Jungkook speaks, he
spills blatant sexuality into what they are doing, he speaks with an eroticism that drips, takes away
the connection to feel it with primitive, simple sex, pleasure. “Am I not making you feel good, Tae?”
he uses that name again, and it sounds wrong, but it sounds good, like everything with Jungkook
does, and then he’s humming by his neck. “Hm, aren’t you going to be a good boy and come for
me?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck. Taehyung’s fucked. He is. Conversation and sex should be separate with
Jungkook, because Taehyung is right. Sex is a tool. It’s a tool Jungkook knows how to use well, and
something that Taehyung only does when he’s tipsy and horny.

Fingers depart from his hip and clutch into his jaw, and he forces the position of his head, makes sure
Taehyung is looking at them through the mirror. “Look at yourself,” Taehyung does. He’s red, wet,
eyes gone and hooded. He himself is sexual, his reflection alone. He wonders if Jungkook know
how avidly his hips rub into his ass. “So pretty like this, aren’t you?” Taehyung’s crying out,
moaning because pleasure sears through him as his hand speeds up, as his hips grind into the back of
him, and because he calls him pretty boy, but he never tells him he is pretty. “Bet you’d be even
prettier bent over.”

And Taehyung doubles a bit and he comes. Jungkook finishes him off, well, good, pumping his fist
around him as he spurts into the sink, and Taehyung’s eyes fall shut and crease, but Jungkook’s stay
opened and they watch him.

He does not know what possesses the final line out of him, he does not know what brings any of this
over, and maybe it’s that Taehyung’s ass fits supple and hot so much better than Julia’s. There’s
something feminine, and not in the sense of female,in the sense of something that is associated with
femininity, gentle, teasing, wet and cold in the way his back arches so pliantly. Maybe it’s the way
his face contorts with the pleasure of it, so frustratingly beautiful.

Jungkook lets go of him and he steps away.

There is something tangibly cold in the departure. Taehyung’s back misses the heat as he tries to
gather himself, breathing in and out. Taehyung expects another outburst, but he doesn’t get it as he
begs his heart to settle down.

An outburst is not what he gets, but he sees Jungkook’s hand, reaching for his back pocket, and he
whirls around, not even caring his dick is out.

“Don’t you dare pull that fucking wallet out,” he seethes, teeth baring, and, honestly, he has no
chance of taming his heart until Jungkook is out of sight.

Jungkook’s head cocks, and his hand continues the motion. “I wasn’t going to,” he says and instead
fishes out a handkerchief that has his father’s initials ingrained in it. He hands it to Taehyung and
watches as he accepts it with clear-cut hesitance and then wipes his dripping cock with it.

Jungkook juts his jaw to the bin afterwards and does not take his eyes away from the fabric until it
disappears. Taehyung tugs himself in.

Taehyung’s tentative. He’s almost awkward as his eyes shy over the length of Jungkook’s body.
“Do you want—"

“I’ll get Julia to take care of it.” Jungkook cuts off, and Taehyung’s eyes narrow. Oh, his face
literally speaks, says, oh.

Taehyung huffs a breath. He rolls his eyes. He’s the definition of deflation and then he is the
definition of annoyed and he starts walking. “Where are you going?” Jungkook tries to take his arm,
but he doesn’t let him, turns half of his body around to look.

“Bogum’s waiting for me.” He announces simply and then he leaves.

He leaves and Jungkook has to bite his lip and look away as the door closes, because that fucker’s
 name strangles something out of him.

He spins, looks at himself in the mirror, washes hands, throws some cold, awakening water in his
face, hands running through his hair, squeezing thoughts out of his brain harshly. Since when is he
that possessive of his toys, he thinks.

And then he also thinks maybe he should have fucked his mouth again so that if Bogum dares to kiss
him he would taste Jungkook on his lips.

Chapter End Notes

Hope you enjoyed. People have been so encouraging and nice to me and I never want
to not write by now which is a bit problematic. haha. love everyone
 Chapter 13
Chapter Summary

well, shit, basically

Chapter Notes

People told me they like longer chapters, so this one is ridiculously long lol

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Bogum gets on the subway at around 4 or 5 in the morning and he walks Taehyung home, though he
lives nowhere close to him. After coming out of the bathroom, Taehyung lets himself go a bit, allows
himself some actual alcohol, though he is most definitely a lightweight compared to what the bodies
of the typical Richhood resident has grown accustomed to with the naturally demanded consumption.

At the point where they decide to leave, Taehyung is okay. He is still drunk – tipsy – but is nowhere
at the intoxication level to require actual assistance. He’s used to having to sober up before he goes
anywhere, because Jimin would never walk him home; it’s just not something Jimin does. He goes
home with someone else that night. He often does on Fridays, and Taehyung never questions it.

Bogum is different.He’s not from around here, he does not care much for implications, and he walks
Taehyung home. The trip sobers him up additionally, though he can still feel notions of intoxication
discoloring his thoughts, making him giggle more than he would.

Bogum is distracting.Which is exactly what Taehyung needs, so he giggles at half the things Bogum
says, lets his head rest on his shoulder when they sit together in the almost empty subway, and invites
him in when they reach the back door that enters into the kitchen.

Taehyung never invites people into his house, mainly because he has no one to invite there, but also
because the condition of it is borderline embarrassing. He does not feel the tinge of humiliation his
family home sometimes makes tug at him, and he doesn’t know if it is the fact alcohol still laces
through his judgment or the fact that Bogum puts him at ease.

Taehyung presses his forefinger to his lips and shushes Bogum through a chuckle that makes his
eyes crease, then he lets him in. He does a quick check as Ji-woo sometimes falls asleep on the couch
because the TV calms her down, but it’s empty, coast clear, and he returns to where he left his guest
in the kitchen.

“Clear,” he announces, though he makes sure he is still quiet, walls are thin in this house. “You want
coffee? It’s not as good as at Rouge, but I have some.”

“Won’t turn it down,” Bogum smiles. He leans elbows on the kitchen counter on the other side of
where Taehyung stands. “So, who are we quiet for?”

Taehyung heats up water using his very functional stove, thank you very much. “My older sister and
my little brother, right now. Usually my father lives with us as well. He’ll be back in a couple of
weeks probably.”

Bogum nods, and Taehyung can feel the desire to pry radiate off of him, but he doesn’t, and for that,
he’s thankful. He feels certainother people would not be as respectful of his boundaries, but he forces
his thoughts to stir away from anything in the lines of that. He thinks he succeeds, but when he hands
Bogum a mug, he reaches a hand and brushes a finger on his neck.

Taehyung almost flinches back from it, but Bogum’s touch disappears as soon as it signifies a certain
spot. “So,” and he cocks his head and the smile he pops is a little different,slightly ingenuine, “he just
likes to rough you up, huh?”

Taehyung’s brows twist, forehead creasing. “What?”

Bogum straightens up, fishes a phone out of his pocket and reaches a hand again, pushing at
Taehyung’s jaw with two fingers to make him twist his head, and then snaps a picture of his neck.
He rests elbows on the counter again and flips the phone. Taehyung’s eyes widen as they see his
own skin, angry and reddened in a shape that is distinguishably circular. It’s a small mark,
incomplete, and Taehyung’s hand instinctively flies, palm slapping over it.

“It’s—” Taehyung stutters, but he has to lie, because just with what brain did Jungkook think to
mark him, “that’s not from him.”

He supposes he speaks with certain panic lacing his voice, because Bogum straightens again, shakes
his head, he tries to calm him. “Taehyung, it’s okay—”

“Nah,” he shakes his own head in a very different manner. “No, it’s not. God, if he even heard you
implying—”

Bogum’s brows draw together. “Oh, it’s really not him?”

“Do you want to get some bones broken?” Taehyung triesto be convincing and judges by Bogum’s
expression that he is managing a good job. The guy shakes his head.

“No, Taehyung, I—”

“Then another lesson for the day,” Taehyung interjects quite passionately, though he keeps his voice
to a rough whisper. “Don’t imply that Jeon Jungkook would touch me in that way. You’ll get
yourself deformed.”

Bogum nods. “Okay,” he nods again, exhales. “Okay, I won’t – won’t mention it again.” And
Taehyung nods, too, and he almost says thank you because Bogum shouldn’t mention it again, for
his own sake and Taehyung, because Jungkook might not hit him, but if any of this gets out, he
certainly won’t touch him again.

“Julia doeslook pretty scary,” Bogum says, and it’s a joke, an attempt to ease a tension that he
unintentionally forces into the conversation. “I mean, her nails.”

“Julia,” Taehyung says as he sips on his own coffee and leans his back by the stove now,
comparatively far away from Bogum, admittedly bothered by the fact he walks around with marks
on his body he is unawareof, and just what was Jungkook thinking.“Julia,” Taehyung says, “is the
least of your worries. You haven’t seen Jungkook fight.”

“He fights?” Bogum lifts brows. His eyes fall over the space that Taehyung keeps between them
even from across the other side of the counter. When Taehyung nods, he breathes through his nose
and glances down at his the black, cooling liquid in the chipped mug that Taehyung gives him. “Of
course, he fights.” He shakes some hair from his eyes and looks up. “He’s good?”

“He’s amazing,” Taehyung says before he really thinks. He’s not bothered by the fact of it, he knows
that Jungkook is amazing. He dislikes the enthusiasm of his voice. His own eyes fly to his coffee,
and he fingers nervously at the edge of it. “I mean, I mean, he’s good, he’s a Jeon.” He likes to bring
things down to that, to simplify them to the facts. Jungkook’s a Jeon and that pretty well defines him,
and Taehyung is a Kim and that’s almost ninety per cent of his identity.
“You’ve seen him?” Bogum asks, and the answer is quite obvious, so Taehyung does not avoid it.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Can I?”

Taehyung’s eyes lift, bore into Bogum. “What?”

“I want to see him fight,” Bogum says, and he straightens fully now, walks over the counter and not
into Taehyung’s space, but the kitchen is small, and he is ridiculously close. “Kind of want to see if
he’s really that scary, if the suggestion of him touching you gets you that jumpy.”

Taehyung turns to his side, leaves his mug on the countertop next to him just to give himself a reason
to look away for a bit. “Bogum—”

“Because honestly he must get hit pretty badly over the head if he thinks touching you is something
bad.” And he says it with emphasis that makes Taehyung blink towards him again, and maybe he is
tipsier than he thought he was. Bogum is close now, and he has a quality to his face that is
unfamiliarly genuine, although his words are a clear-cut line. Taehyung does not know how to judge
his own feelings for it.

Bogum has a nice face, nice body. Bogum is certainly charismatic. He does not make his heart beat,
does not make his blood rush and skin tingle and flush red. He does not turn him on at the perverse
drop of virtually nothing. And maybe that is good, and Taehyung still doesn’t know if he is gay, but
he does not think he minds the way Bogum is with him.

“Bogum,” Taehyung says, and he chuckles again like he has done so many times tonight. He plays if
off as a joke, a flirtatious joke, but a joke nevertheless. Bogum flirts a lot, he just does, but he’s closer
now, and there is something different to his voice, drawn out and raspy, as it drops lower.

“I’m serious,” Bogum insists and he comes closer still and now he is in Taehyung’s space. “It’d be a
fucking honor to touch you.”

It’s flattering. It’s so unlike anything that anyone ever says to Taehyung that it startles him into a
silence that maybe Bogum interprets as an invitation. It’s not that exactly. It’s dumbfounded and it’s
still a little tipsy, so he’s slow. It is in fact so flattering, that Taehyung cannot help but feel it slip into
something disingenuous, some adulation.

It causes a pause in his own motions, own words, and he feels Bogum’s hand at the back of his head,
fingers slipping gently around his neck, and he studies him with his eyes very carefully, darts gaze all
across Taehyung’s blank face and then he leans, and he kisses him, simple as that.

It’s nice. It’s okay. It’s fine. Taehyung breathes through his nose and he closes his eyes and after a
moment, he allows himself to gingerly kiss him back. His lips are soft, and he smells well, sweet. He
is sweet. Bogum is a sweet boy, who walked him home, and who really leaned so slow, Taehyung
had all the time in the world to pull away, but he didn’t.

But then again, Bogum is a boy. He’s tall, shapely, and he’s not Jungkook and he’s kissing him in his
kitchen. Not that Taehyung would want Jungkook to kiss him in his kitchen. Honestly, the last place
he would even want to see Jungkook is his kitchen, but Taehyung wants to kiss him, despite the fact
he is a man, and maybe Taehyung had the very, extremely dumb desire for Jungkook to be the first
boy he kisses, though he would probably not grant him that, ever.

It is the main thing that goes through his head as Bogum kisses him in his kitchen, and he cannot
focus on the sensation of it, cannot lose the rationality from the fact that he is a boy and then a though
hits him, a thought that makes his blood run cold, because what if Ji-woo wakes up, what if Woojin
does?

Taehyung presses a palm into Bogum’s chest and pushes him back lightly, and he detaches his lips
from him easily, though he does expel a gentle sigh just before his mouth stretches to the side in an
exaggerated smile and he backs away, eyes parting and focusing on Taehyung’s face once again,
replacing his hand on his shoulder instead of cupping his neck.

“I—” Taehyung begins, shuts his eyes briefly again, before he breathes and opens them. He’s
awkward, and he knows it, but he feels slightly awkward. “I don’t—I’m not. I don’t kiss guys,
Bogum. I mean, I haven’t. I’ve never.”

“Oh,” Bogum says, and his hand fidgets where it is on his shoulder. He moves it lower. “Oh. Did
you – you seemed to… Did you hate it?”

Taehyung shakes his head. “No, no. I didn’t hate it.” He says and he is honest. He doesn’t know
how he feels about the kiss, but he certainly does not hate it.
“Did you,” he pauses, he hesitates, but he smiles, “perhaps,” and his hand sinks lower on
Taehyung’s shoulder, “like it?”

“I—” and Taehyung gapes, and he feels a bit stupid, but he confesses, “I don’t know, Bogum.”

“Well,” he says as he pulls away and it becomes a bit colder. “Maybe we can do it again sometime
when you’re completely sober and you can decide.”

Bogum is pouring the rest of his coffee, which is less than a sip, in the sink and he is starting some
water over it. Taehyung can tell by the angling of his body and its language as a whole that he is
planning on leaving. Taehyung stands where Bogum leaves him, not moving, not even politely
telling him he’d take care of his mug like he supposes he should. Instead he’s saying, “Okay,” and
he’s swallowing. “Maybe we can.”

He shoots him a smile and it’s all that Taehyung thinks Bogum is, charming and boyish and so
genuine that is just has to be dubious in Taehyung’s head, which is used to people with intentions
worth hiding, with masks worth putting on.

“Okay,” Bogum says and he puts the mug with some dishes that haven’t been washed yet because
Taehyung hasn’t been home. “Okay, Taehyung. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

They have a shift tomorrow, so Taehyung nods. He has to. “Yes,” he replies. “You’ll see me
tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Bogum repeats and he comes close again, and his face is close again and his lips are on
Taehyung’s cheek, so quick and short and soft and they disappear. “Go to bed, Taehyung. You look
tired.”

Bogum leaves after that and Taehyung, who is tired, washes the dishes because he cannot have Ji-
woo waking up to unwashed dishes. And as he scrubs at some quite suspicious stains, he
contemplates just what the fuck is wrong with him?
The sound of expensive cutlery clattering together, an overpriced fork uncomfortably occasionally
brushing into a porcelain dish, is loud and obnoxious in Jungkook’s ears in a way that is disturbingly
familiar, but he prefers it to the conversation he knows is impending.

His mother always insists on speaking during those family dinners, which he does not understand.
He doesn’t understand why they have to do this at all. From all the unnecessary shit his family puts
him through, this is the one he comprehends least. It’s a pretense of having a family time a lot more
than it is a family dinner, done much more for the sake of being able to claim they are capable of
sitting at a table together, just the four of them, of having a tradition, albeit manufactured. It’s not
tense necessarily, though putting Clo and their father at the same table is bound to build some sort of
tension, but it has a peculiarly palpable ambiance that he is perfectly comfortable with avoiding.

Jungkook is extremely set on chewing slowly. He wants to give himself something to do, his mouth
occupied until the very end of this, so he is not expected to give an opinion on whatever his mother
deems interesting to discuss, or more accurately narrate about, that night. He chews a lot, and he
drinks his wine even slower, and he has the trim of the crystal glass to his mouth when his mother
smiles charmingly and ever so politely says, her own glass making a distinct sound when she places
it gingerly on the table, she says “So, I hear one of the Kim’s a faggot now.”

It is bad that Jungkook has his own glass tipped to his lips at precisely that moment because the
liquid that sloshes down his throat almost traps and chokes him. He swallows, sets his glass down.
He is aware, though his mind is alarmingly ticking, his demeanor does not change one bit, so he
wants to know why Clo is suddenly so incessantly watching him, eyes searing into the side of his
head as she stares. She studies his profile with a varied intensity as she has her own glass to her lips.
She doesn’t eat, never eats during these, an interpretative form of a strike against these dinners at the
start of them and just a bodily dysmorphic habit of her polluted brain after a while.

“That’s priceless, isn’t it?” Their mother’s lips stretch so wide. Her teeth flash impossibly white
between her nuanced lipstick. “A Kim? Gay. It’s been a while since we’ve had someone gay.”
Jungkook wants to snort at how she’s excited over it. Her plate is almost full much alike her
daughter’s.

Their father on the other hand is inhaling food. “How?” He rasps, voice rough and escaping through
munching teeth, tearing mercilessly into red meat. “How’d you hear?” Jungkook likes looking at his
father in situations such as these, as simple as eating, because it reminds him he has nothinginherently
gallant about him, does not have a thread of gentlemanliness, a natural bone of it, though he’s always
poised in front of company, always so infuriatingly presentablejust as he likes his children to be.
Clo plays with her fork even if she doesn’t use it for its proper purpose. She pokes it in the pillow of
her fingertip to discover with a pout it is much too dull to hurt her. She blinks at her brother who
keeps his gaze on the table, set and firm and as dull as her fork. “He isn’t hiding it very well as far as
I know.” She says bored and lazy and Jungkook’s eyes dart to her for the merest moment,
becausewhy is she talking about this now? She leans a single protruding elbow onto the table and lets
the fork dangle from her fingers. “He kissed a boy in public.” Clo watches him as she speaks, all she
sees is him breath, though she does catch his digits tighten slightly into their hold of his glass. “The
new waiter.” She details unnecessarily and his tongue pokes into his cheek, quick once into the one
before it shifts into the other. “Park Boyeoun? Boseok?”

“Bogum.” Jungkook interjects instinctively. His eyes root to his sister now and he watches her smile
all fake and cruel and nod with feigned enthusiasm.

“Yes, that’s the one,” she announces, gaze fixed on his, before he takes it away. He knows she sees
nothing on him, he betrays nothing. He has learned to remain neutral in any and all contexts his
family can put him in, years of experience and hard work, but he’s mastered it now. But his mind is
buzzing, because what the fuck is Taehyung doing, telling him he doesn’t go around looking for a
beating and then kissing boys in public? And since when do Bogum and him fuckingkiss? Lips on
lips, hands on waists, eyes closed shut, the image surges unbidden in Jungkook’s surprisingly vivid
imagination and formulates with such detail that Jungkook has to force a bit of meat in his mouth to
have something to chew on, something to destroy right at that moment. He clearly remembers
Taehyung saying he doesn’t want fucking Bogum, minutes before he came so easily from
Jungkook’s touch.

And he’s supposed to be into girls. Into girls and into Jungkook, and Jungkook tries to chase that
thought away before he remembers he enjoys toying with the attention, so, yes, he is supposed to be
into Jungkook, and there’s nothing inherently bad about Jungkook wanting his interest reserved for
him. It’s a curious game to play, with a boy, how far he can push, how much Taehyung would bend.
But Park Bogum fucking ruins all the fun, and Jungkook wants him out of the picture. He came up
with the game. He gets to set the rules.

All he’ll do, anyway, is get the both of them beat up. People like Jungkook, they hit hard. They’ll
ruin Taehyung’s face, break his spirit, before Jungkook gets to.

Jungkook’s father splutters food out of his mouth when he speaks, “And he kisses him in public.” He
says it with offended incredulity, as if it is some pointed attack at his person. He aids his gulp with a
thick swallow of whisky, his fourth glass for the night. He sighs with it, loud and obnoxious and
with a disgruntled, moist mutter underneath his colorful breath, “Disgusting. Brings their fucking
faggotry onto my dinner table while I’m trying to eat.” Jungkook’s fingers twitches round his glass.
It’s not Taehyung’s faggotry bringing anything to his table, but his wife’s incessant gossiping and all
of Richhood’s vendetta against the Kim’s. “Jungkook,” his father addresses gruffly, wiping at his
mouth, “maybe you should teach the boy some decency.”
“Yeah,” Jungkook says, “maybe I should.” And he wonders how his father would feel about the
behavioristic reinforcement practice of making him suck his cock again for punishment, because to
Jungkook it seems like a rather fine technique.

The third time Bogum kisses Taehyung he has to think about Jungkook because Jungkook is there.
He doesn’t dare kiss him in public again, not after Taehyung pushes him away and reasonably panics
and he has to wonder in what sort of a perfect utopian world Bogum lived prior to coming to
Richhood to deign to attempt such things in front of actual people, but he doesn’t care all that much,
because he should get out of that habit quick.

He doesn’t know how he feels about the habit of him kissing him altogether. It’s not much of a habit,
considering it has only happened three times, but it feels like more. It starts to feel like a thing, and he
does not particularly mind the kissing. It does not feel wrong or anything like he half expects it to
every time he senses it approaches. It doesn’t feel much like anything. It’s a kiss from warm, soft lips,
and it’s nice to have someone who would want that from him.

They’re in the hallway that third time, coming out of the storage room after inventory of dry
ingredients.

“Are you still mad?” Bogum questions with an innocence to his voice that makes Taehyung slightly
guilty.

“I’m not mad, hyung,” He says, and he pauses in the hallway. If they’re going to have this
conversation it’s going to have to be there,though he does not feel particularly interested in talking it
through. He’d much rather be left to his work and just not be kissed in compromising situations. “I
just wish you’d get how this works.”

“You overthink, Taehyung,” Bogum tries. “No one cares.”

“No,” he cuts him off, firm. “No one should care. But they do. And even if they don’t, I do, and you
should care about that.”

Taehyung understands that Bogum doesn’t understand. You have to live in Richhood to truly get
Richhood, to capture the essence of what gossip does to you, of how easily it can ruin you, of how
there are enough rumors surrounding the name Kim, all of them somehow negative. He’s a leech,
pretty boy, meddlesome leech, poor and envious, he’s greedy. His brother was a drug dealer, his
sister is a slut, and their father is the worst. He does not want another label to his family. He doesn’t
want to be the gay one.

“Okay,” Bogum says. He’s okay with everything, Bogum is. He steps towards him. “Okay, we can
talk about this.” He also likes to talk about things, talk them through, and it is not a practice
Taehyung is familiar with. It sits uncomfortable with him, that someone would expect him to disclose
what goes on in his head, expose his thoughts like that. It would make him vulnerable. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Taehyung shrugs, much more out of desire for the topic to be concluded than the truth of
it being fine.

He has his arms crossed before his chest as he stands in the hallway quite rigid. They’re working,
and his current on shift manager is not all that pleased with him because he had to get threatened by a
Jeon because of him and his panties are probably still trembling from the animosity of it, so he would
much rather go back to his duties than have this conversation right now.

The Jeon in question is inthe café, just a couple of doors separating them now, and Taehyung might
be imaging it, but he feels he traced his motion with his eyes when Taehyung disappeared into the
hallway with Park Bogum and a folder. He has not said a word to Jungkook or perpetuated eye
contact for more than a second since he was with him in the bathroom in the Ozone, the amount of
interaction being terribly disproportionate to the amount of time Jungkook occupies Taehyung’s
mind, both in terms of simpler things, innocent things, just thoughts, and then other images, ones that
make him blush, especially since Jungkook had suggested he’d look prettier bent over, and he just
cannot get the idea of that out of his hormonal, delirious mind. Ironically, he deems the latter safer.
They are easier to explain, the fact he very much enjoyed his hand on him, physically, than the fact
he wonders what detergent Jungkook uses that shapes his scent like this, when he’ll fight again and if
he’s ready, what his relationship with his sister truly is.

Bogum places gentle fingers on his folded forearm, traces them gently. “Can I kiss you?” he says,
“I’ll always ask, I promise. Even in private.”

Taehyung’s shoulders lift and deflate with the breath he takes, so heavy. His eyes dart to the door.
He has a bad feeling about it, but he’s sighing. “No one’s watching,” Bogum’s saying, and he’s
nodding.

“Okay,” he’s the one saying okay now, though the word is growing to irritate him, slightly.

Bogum swallows, nods. He lifts a hand and holds him by the cheek, thumb on the underside of his
jaw, and he leans and kisses him, despite Taehyung’s body remaining rigid with the discomfort of
doing this with that door to the world so close and glaring at him. Bogum closes his eyes, tilts his
head a little bit so his nose brushes Taehyung and he just kisses him, lips moving slow and meek
against his, wandering and questioning, as if Taehyung is a china doll, he might break with
incessance, with force, and it’s another first for him, to be treated like this.

It’s a bit of a lie, he feels. It’s a promise that can’t be met, that he would get to be handled so gently,
so carefully. It’s a lie he doesn’t need, but one he lets Bogum feed him, and maybe himself, because
Taehyung thinks Bogum is just a bit too nice and gullible to realise things like this have no place in
Richhood, and Taehyung feels a bit good to realise he is not the most naïve one around. It’s closeted
and filtered, the way he kisses him, the way he kisses back. It’s slow. It’s conscious and self-
conscious.

He likes that Bogum kisses him like this. He wouldn’t have it any other way with him, but he thinks
with his repetitive desire for Jungkook to kiss him as well, he would hate if the other kisses like this.
He imagines something much more raw, more powerful, something naturalistic and angry.
Jungkook’s touch always radiates with certain honest anger, some at Taehyung, some at himself. It’s
an anger that translates to him so palpably he forgets if he just absorbs it from Jungkook or it
originates from himself as well.

He hates he thinks about Jungkook when Bogum kisses him, but he feels it might go away with time.
He’s just such a nagging presence in his life currently, but he can’t imagine a Jeon in the life of a
Kim would last, and he ignores the disappointment that tugs at him as the thought invades. He’s
naïve, but he’s not that naïve, to think Jungkook won’t soon get bored and tired of this game, move
on to something better, when Julia finds another target.

Taehyung feels ridiculously guilty it’s his ceaseless thoughts that summon him when the door opens
and Taehyung flies back from Bogum as if burned. It’s like some fucking jokethat Jungkook would
walk in on this, though retrospectively he is not all that surprised he would appear, considering they
haven’t talked since last time Jungkook addressed his relations with Bogum, making it quite clear he
was dissatisfied with them, and now he had watched them disappear together.

Taehyung hears Bogum sigh, sees the roll of his eyes as he removes his body from his frantically and
turns with eyes slightly widened to his side. He doesn’t much care Bogum is potentially annoyed
with him for pulling away so brusquely, because his heart is too angry in his chest now for such
pointless considerations and he stares at Jungkook pause at the door, fingers lingering where they
hold the handle.

Jungkook’s eyes harden when they land on Taehyung. He does not spare Bogum a glance, does not
even dart his gaze towards him, they seal powerfully onto Taehyung and he feels as if he has
committed some major transgression when he knows realistically, he has done nothing wrong.
He shuts the door. He shuts it slow and calm and he speaks in the same manner when he talks in a
moment, though his voice holds another quality, something cold and achingly chilling. “I don’t think
they pay you for that,” he says, and Taehyung swallows, breathes. He does not like the direction his
words take, payment accompanied with the concept of kissing.

“The fuck does it matter to you what they pay us for?” Bogum asks unfiltered and offended, and it
draws Jungkook’s eyes to him now. Slow and languorous, the balls of his pupils slide over to him
and he cocks his head at him, tips his upper lip in an arch of distaste.

“Bogum,” Taehyung warns, “don’t.”

Jungkook is a dictionary definition of condescending when he tilts a single eyebrow. “I’m currently
paying customer service for my girlfriend to wait twenty minutes for a soda while you faggots fuck
around.” His lip twitches when he witnesses the damage of his vulgarity – Bogum’s as if punched
and Taehyung really feels jealousy sneak up on him that he has thus far lived in a context where
something as derogatory is surprising. At the same time, he appreciates the fact words don’t affect
himthe least bit. It’s Jungkook, he says what he says for the impact of it. “It matters.”

“I—” Bogum attempts.

“You—“ Jungkook interrupts, crossing his arms; he stands with haunting confidence, superiority
transpiring into the ambiance of his presence just from the very way he stands, “should probably go
get her a soda. She gets antsy when she waits, you’ll find if you work here long enough, though it
doesseem doubtful.”

He laces a threat through his words so easily and naturally and Bogum is looking at Taehyung now,
in question. He’s taught silence at this point, learned scarcity of words is only his friend, never an
enemy. There’s not really a point in being defensive with Jungkook, it will just be more harm done,
so Taehyung nods at Bogum, juts his chin indicatively towards the door. “Go,” he says. “I’ll finish
up inventory.”

He watches his evident reluctance as he leaves, his pointed attempt to walk as far around Jungkook
as possible when he passes by him and through the door. The door shuts firmly, and words are in the
air momentarily with it.

“I heard about this but part of me still thought you weren’tstupid enough to actually do it,”
Jungkook’s voice is dead and rough.
Taehyung gapes a bit at this, lips parting and eyes widening. “You heard—”

That’s bad, that’s so fucking bad that he would hear, though news travels faster to Jungkook than it
would to his sister and maybe she won’t know at all. It’s not all hope lost.

Jungkook takes a step, a single step, he interjects the question that attempts to fall through
Taehyung’s lips, and this hallway is really all too narrow. His voice feels louder, though it still
reserves its scathing neutrality, but it has something lined underneath it. Taehyung has learned to
distinguish it by now. “Is he your boyfriend now? I thought you weren’t fucking gay.”

“I’m not,” Taehyung says, “He isn’t my boyfriend. It’s just—”

Jungkook’s eyes are unwavering, a test on his, so demanding, and he doesn’t know what to say,
because no matter how much Bogum enjoys talking things through, he doesn’t, and he has no idea
what they are doing. It’s kissing for now, just kissing, but he doesn’t know how to explain that
because it is not sex, but it is not a relationship, it’s not love, and basically it is nothing.

“Just what?” Jungkook bites when Taehyung hesitates into a blank stutter. He’s still silent, and
Jungkook presses, “I thought you didn’t wanthim.” He says it in a way that only spells out the fact of
it and erases completely the context of the conversation in which he’d said that particular sentence.

Taehyung looks away, he glances at the side, at nothing. “It’s different,” he says and virtually it’s
meaningless because he cannot bring himself to finish the sentence for what it’s truly worth, for the
fact that he means to tell him that he does not want Bogum like he wants him, doesn’t want him
blindly and irresponsibly in the bathroom of a club, not like this. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to
spend time with him, that he doesn’t want to try.

Jungkook scoffs. He shakes his head and a bit of a previous distaste that he seeped in for the sake of
informing Bogum of it very much pointedly now finds its way into his expression, lip arching,
nostrils broadening. “All you Kims do is go around looking for attention,” he says in tone with how
he shakes his head, “for some good fucking bone breaking.”

Taehyung wants to scoff at him as well. Instead he just grips at his elbows, mirrors the distaste. “Kim
again?” He nods at air, nods to himself. “I’m Kim again.”

He likes to bring things down to the fact that he is a Kim and Jungkook is a Jeon, but he absolutely
abhorsit when Jungkook does it. It means something else entirely.

“You’re always Kim,” Jungkook’s eyes are hard. Voice is hard. He no longer makes use of the
pretense of neutrality, so he allows a tame version of disgust to color his words in tow with his
features. “Bet you call up your brother once in a while, ask for fucking tips on how to be a fucking
Kim.”

Taehyung’s teeth grind together. “My brother,” he says with much necessary emphasis, because he
refuses to let the conversation stir in the direction of this, has absolutely no desire to have his brother
at the mouth of the walking, breathing, flesh and bone representation of what he suspects drove him
away, “has nothing to fucking do with you.”

Jungkook’s head whips, his eyes widening slightly. “Are you fucking serious?” he asks, and he asks
with a pointed passion that makes Taehyung wonder if he should be as genuinely serious as he is.
Still, he doesn’t hesitate when he nods his head, mouths the word yeah and Jungkook’s brows draw
together and he dares to be confused. “You are?” His brows lifting up now as it registers with him
that Taehyung has absolutely no idea how his brother would connect to him. He pauses. He shifts on
his feet, adjusts his body towards him in a way that almost appears threatening, although Taehyung
doesn’t think Jungkook scares him anymore, not physically at least. “Your brother,” he pronounces
with fervid distaste,“gotmy sister into drugs and she’s been a fucking vegetable since.”

Taehyung’s lips part and seal dumbly, resembling that of a fish minutely, before he manages actual
sounds, and when he does they are accompanied with narrowed eyes and disbelief at the insinuation,
“He… didn’t.” He is well aware his brother sold drugs, sold them to people who wanted them, who
asked for them, readily. He certainly wasn’t one to coax anyone into buying, or trying, and
Jungkook simply must be mistaken,“Namjoon wouldn’t get –“

Jungkook interrupts with violent eyes and a ticking jaw. Jungkook interrupts with a layered emotion
that Taehyung simply does not expect. “Why don’t you fucking call him and ask him?”

And Taehyung answers with that very same emotion, a specific, visceral sensitivity that is reserved
for a hurt only his family can cause, only people he trusts. He hates how he allows it into his voice,
but the fact he finds in Jungkook, who suggests his brother might be cause of it, draws it from him,
bares it all. “I don’t even talk to him, okay?” He says and his voice raises with it, arches with the
rawness of his throat. “I haven’t spoken to him since he left.”

Jungkook starts to say something, but his mouth closes for a moment and his eyes bind onto
Taehyung’s expression, slide across with unwarranted scrutiny that chills Taehyung but not as much
as the sudden nuance his voice takes, a breathy curious softness, “You haven’t?”
Taehyung swallows around the lump that attempts to build in his throat and meets Jungkook’s eyes,
though he feels strangely naked as he fixes his gaze into his. “I don’t even know where he fucking
went,” he confesses, and he hears the dying lump in his own words.

As Jungkook’s stare relaxes from its animosity, inadvertently so does Taehyungs. The atmosphere of
their conversations softens and with the poise of a threat entirely departing from Jungkook’s body his
proximity seems daunting in an entirely different way. There’s nothing sexual behind it, but now
there’s nothing violent behind it as well, no confrontation, and they are just soft and close and it’s
new. “Why?” Jungkook asks, and it’s not gentle,per se, but it borders on it.

Taehyung shakes his head. Looking at Jungkook’s face like that, so drastically human, draws some
honesty from him he doesn’t like all that much. He never really talks about Namjoon. With Ji-woo
it’s a subject taboo and she is the only person in the world he trusts enough to discuss him with. “I
don’t… I don’t know. Apparently, I don’t know him as well as I think I do.” There’s something
defeated in the confession. Namjoon is a fresh wound. He thinks he might always be one.

Jungkook looks at Taehyung and then he looks away. He sighs. A hand goes through his hair,
pulling at the strands, before it drops and his eyes are back on Taehyung and somehow, he feels
closer, though he doesn’t move a step, and Taehyung figures it must be something about the way he
watches him. “Your brother did some stupid shit, Taehyung,” he tells him in a voice Taehyung
hasn’t heard him use before. “Got mixed up with really shitty people.”

The question is immediate from Taehyung’s lips. “Like who?” he asks. He knows so frustratingly
little about this. Namjoon did not want neither he nor Ji-woo privy to this world and he supposes he
understands because he never knows Woojin to know what he does for money, either. It still
overwhelms with his thirst for a goddamn reason,for more of an explanation.

“Like Kai,” Jungkook says and Taehyung’s heart drops in his chest. “Like my sister and me.”
Jungkook’s pausing and he’s allowing the silence for long enough for the other to speak, but as soon
as Taehyung opens his mouth, he realizes he can’t answer his questions, so he won’t allow him to
ask them. He interrupts with a subconscious step forward, keeps his eyes firm on his face. “Just
don’t repeat his mistakes. Smart people learn from other people’s mistakes, don’t they?”

It generalizes the conversation, stirs it away from his brother, because Jungkook doesn’t know
enoughto share, and just rubbing salts in wounds is pointless. Taehyung is thankful Jungkook closes
the door on the topic, but he doesn’t want to leave just yet, not with the way Jungkook draws closer,
with the way he speaks to him with no intention to hurt or to take. He just speaks, voice ringing
pleasant, though a bit lower than what he thinks he has heard from his casual conversations with his
friends or Julia.

Taehyung swallows something else as he studies his face. He tongues at his lower lip, breathes. He’s
cautious. His voice escapes with a subtle breathy quality. “So, I should stay away from you?”

Jungkook’s eyes drop to the pink tongue that so invitingly wets lips before they lift to Taehyung’s
tentative gaze, “Probably,” he says. He should probably stay away from him as well. The bet is over,
and this is nothing. He certainly should not be having a heart to heart about his brother with him.

Taehyung nods, his eyes darting across every single feature of his face. “If I do,” he begins with his
gaze on his lips, “if I stay away from you,” and his eyes lift to his own, dig into his, “will you stay
away from me, too?”

Jungkook blinks at him and he’s never before contemplated the fact that they are actively not staying
away from each other, can’t really trace back why they interact so much, when the last time is he saw
Taehyung somewhere and did not somehow approach him, or had the other approach him. The
consistency of their interactions tugs at him now, and he wants to say fucking yes, he will, and it will
be easy, won’t even be a task, just a natural progression of events, but the image of Taehyung kissing
Bogum tugs at him worse. It’s one thing hearing about it, another thing seeing it, and yes is not what
Jungkook says.

“Don’t know if I can promise you that,” he confesses and Taehyung’s chest fills with a breath that he
doesn’t witness him take, because he doesn’t know if he can stay away, but right at that moment he
feels the need to walk away. “Still not bored of you,” Jungkook adds for the sake of adding. He says
it behind his back, does not see Taehyung’s face change with it. Then he leaves the hallway entirely
and goes back to his girlfriend and he kisses her as he sits down, and she doesn’t ask him what took
him so long.

Jungkook ties the hand wraps around his palms and wrists, careful, but quick in a motion that has
become heavily automatic with the habit of it. Yoongi has left the dressing room to do some final
negotiation with his opponent and it leaves Jungkook alone with his sister, who has her back pressed
into the wall opposite him and her eyes rooted to her nails as if she has some genuine interest for their
appearance. She hasn’t spoken to Seokjin for more than a week, Jungkook thinks, and it’s bothering
her visibly in a way he’s witnessed few things affect her prior.

He tightens the wrap on one hand with a final conclusive pull, but he focuses his gaze on it as if it
requires his conscious attention. “Clo,” he addresses and receives the acknowledgement of a single
hum, “do you still talk to Kim?”
Her eyes shift to him, but he refuses to reciprocate. “I thought you didn’t want me to talk to him”

He looks at her from underneath focused eyebrows as she gives him a door for confidence.
“Precisely,” he says.

She returns to her nails. “Not in a while, no.”

Jungkook waits. Then, he asks, “Do you know where he went?”

Her eyes dart to him, sharp like razors. She hesitates and the reluctance lingers in the air between
them, but she confesses, “Yes.”

Jungkook doesn’t skip a beat. “Where?”

“What is this?” Clo’s eyes narrow with avid suspicion.

Jungkook allows his to meet her with their overbearing neutrality to punctuate the truth of his words
when he answers, “Curiosity.”

Clo blinks. She studies his expression carefully for the semblance of something, but he remains
reticent and she has nothing to call him out for. “Abroad,” she answers.

“That’s vague,” Jungkook accuses.

“You’re vague,” Clo shoots back, quick and firm, no underlying hesitation this time. “When you
figure out why you want to ask, Jungkook, ask me again, and I might tell you,” she says and as if on
cue Yoongi returns, curiously satisfied and it effectively concludes the conversation.

Taehyung takes Bogum to the Ring because he cannot think of a proper enough reason to feed him
with of why he shouldn’t. He feels exaggeratedly nervous. It’s the second time he purposefully meets
with Bogum outside of work, the first time post their newly developed kissing habit and it scares him
the other might interpret it like a date, which would be downright weird.
Taehyung has in the entirety of his life never been on a date. Dates cost money, and dates build
expectations and he has never been good with either when it comes to people outside of the narrow
circle of his family and Jimin and parts of the expectations that feature his friendship with Jimin is
that there are no expectations between them.

The potential label of a date worries him, yes. The fact that it takes place in Jungkook’s most violent
niche magnifies that worry to an extent that makes his leg bounce incessantly. Baekhyun and Jimin
join them because Taehyung crafts a reason of why their presence will be helpful, translates it to
Jimin as a transportation need and stirs far away from mentioning that he wants to keep this as un-
date-like as possible. He certainly does not say anything about kissing in relation to Bogum.

Jimin likes the Ring, he enjoys the bloodshed, watching people that get off on making him miserable
or making use of him tear each other apart, and he is easy to convince. Baekhyun is easier.

The atmosphere at the Ring is similar to what it was last time, but it is a few decibels calmer. No
championship this time, just fight night. Several fights are set to take place, Taehyung comes to learn,
all personally arranged by the fighters for reasons that remain unbeknownst to him, but he suspects
they have do with either money or some dick-measuring pride gags.

He knows Jungkook is in on it tonight, because when a champion fights it’s fast news. When the
champion is one of the notorious Taunting Twins, it’s even faster.

Jimin talks excitedly to Taehyung about some older woman who bought him a watch that he thinks
he can pawn for the worth of his rent for at least two months, describes explicitly with a terrifying
grin what he did exactly to deserve the watch and Taehyung laughs at some quite inappropriate and
flattering comparisons he makes between his tongue and a laundry machine.

Talking gets harder and proceeds to become virtually impossible as the night progresses and the
actual fighting starts. Taehyung only recognizes one person in the first couple, but he knows both
opponents from the second.

Bogum’s shoulder brushes into his as they stand. They’re not as close to the ring as they were last
time, but still closer than he would prefer, close enough that his face would be recognizable to
someone who scans the audience, upon Jimin’s insisting and convincing ways. He feels fingers
hesitate by the small of his back before they gingerly press into the line of his spine and then he has
breath by his cheek, warm and almost unnoticed with the amount of heat that swallows the space.
“Who gets off on this shit?”
Taehyung tilts his head to bring his lips closer to Bogum’s ear. “Jimin,” he says with a playful grin as
his eyes slide indicatively to his friend who is currently brimming with enthusiasm, knocking his fist
against his spread palm in cheerful nagging, as he watches a guy he particularly dislikes -- that
Taehyung cannot fully recognize with the way his face swells and bleeds -- get the shit beat out of
him. “And everyone else here.”

Bogum’s brows lift. “Do you?”

Taehyung bristles at the suggestion. “No, hyung. Worry not.” He pokes a finger into his side, once,
twice, and Bogum flinches away from it, pats an arm over it.

“Though I suppose you wouldn’t mind watching that pounding get done to our dearest Jungkook,
eh?” Bogum laughs,and he knocks their elbows together with the same slightly brutal playfulness
that Taehyung had previously addressed Jimin’s out of character thirst for blood. He forces the smile
back onto his face, pulls at all his features tightly, as soon as it dares to drop against his conscious
volition.

“It won’t,” Taehyung says, and he hopes the octave of his voice translates to Bogum in a
disappointment that Jungkook is simply too good to get the living shit beat out of him, pity, instead of
the much more genuine fear that he might not be.

Taehyung tries to imagine Jungkook bloodied and bruised like that, struggling to get on his knees
like the guy on the ring currently is, and something terrifying swells in his stomach, raises through his
chest and directs to his throat. He swallows around it and pushes it down, represses it, because he
refuses to worry Jungkook might get physically hurt in something he choosesto do.

Bogum’s fingers tighten a bit into the fabric of his t-shirt. “Is he really that good?” he scoffs, clicks
his tongue. His eyes roll and he is the very depiction of annoyed and Taehyung hates how it annoys
him. Ideally, he should hope Jungkook gets his ass kicked as well, but the damage done on that Ring
with no rules is simply too gruesome for Taehyung to even attempt to wish it upon him.

“You’ll see, won’t you?” Taehyung responds and he forces out a chuckle that struggles to escape his
throat.

Another pair of fingers brush into his shoulder before they swiftly travel the length necessary for a
hand to wrap against his bicep and he jumps in place – it startles him and does not cease to unnerve
him as lips move close enough to his ear to speak to him in the chaos of the Ring. “Bold boys,” a
voice teases before the person moves away and drops their touch.
Taehyung’s head whips and his eyes widen to find the departing coy smirk of Clo Eun. She leaves
with haughty eyes and her arm tangled with Yoongi’s thin elbow. The guy’s own gaze skips over
Taehyung, but it does not linger. The pair saunters to where Yoongi had sat with Hoseok last time
and join him now as well. Yoongi’s mouth levitates to Hoseok’s ear immediately, the other’s arm
lifting and nesting behind him until his palm cups his shoulder. When Hoseok’s lids bat and open to
meet his stare, he realizes he’s made the mistake of tracing eyes after them.

He snaps his head forward to the Ring. The appearance of Yoongi and Clo Eun can only mean
Jungkook’s fight will follow. If Bogum notices Clo Eun’s short stop in acknowledgment, he does not
mention it. Taehyung knocks his elbow against him purposefully. “He’s next,” he informs.

His opponent comes first. It’s the same type of crowd pumper as the previous one. Most of them are,
engaging and throwing hands up in different corner of the rings. He comes with entourage, no hair
and lots of muscles. Lots of tattoos as well, one particularly distinctive one, a detailed snake that
slithers across his shoulder and down his chest, wraps around his nipple. Taehyung is not entirely
sure, but he has some memory it’s a testament to an affiliation with an underground gang.

“That guy’s fucking scary,” Bogum whisper-shouts in his ear and Taehyung swallows around the
truth of it. He doesn’t respond. His focus is taken, eyes darting to where the crowd parts for
Jungkook, who comes even more alone this time, completely by himself. People cheer for him and
Taehyung’s heart beats aggressively. He climbs between the ropes with confidence and stands tall
and poised in his side of the ring, dressed in a similar sleeveless sweatshirt. Bogum is leaning to him.
“Why do people like him?” It’s a question he has to ask with the way people around them go crazy
for him without even being coaxed into it. He does not engage.

You’ll see.Taehyung wants to say again. Few people truly like either of the Taunting Twins, but in
certain contexts they appreciate them, because they deliver. These people are here with the thirst for a
fight, they want to watch blood spill, and they want to see it done well and thorough. The crowd is
here for a technique of violence, for cracked bones and knocked out teeth. That’s what Jungkook
gives them, and he does it beautifully.He does not fight solely with the strength of his punches. It is
animalistic, but it is not purely that. It is an artistry, just where to punch, just when to duck, just how.

He’s an impressive fighter.

This time Jungkook sees him before the fight. His eyes catch Taehyung’s when he shakes the
material off of his shoulders, and they linger with a glint that is visceral underneath the flashing lights
of the club. A different European girl is passing on the ring, shaking her hips with emphasis and
glancing over Jungkook, but his attention is set. Bogum is saying something to him, in his ear, hand
on his back, but it is not properly registering with Taehyung. His heart thunders.
The gaze drops as quickly as it captures him, and the fight is starting. This one is worse. Jungkook is
worse. He’s relentless. He hits hard, hits precise. His eyes are narrowed on his opponent, brows
furrrowed and creased in concentration at some angles and completely flattened and relaxed at
others.

Jungkook teases. After a couple attempts of his opponent to hit him that fail miserably, he drops his
guard and bounces enticingly on his feet, chin jutted out invitingly, chest open, head open. When the
guy swings, he bobs and weaves, jabbing him at the underside of his jaw. His footwork is
magnificent, quick, swift, accurate. His punches are hard. Taehyung can see it in the way the flesh of
his opponent bends, the way his eyes lose focus and grow heady, the way they draw blood.

Bogum whistles at a particular jab and Taehyung hears it in his ear.

He tries not to hiss when Jungkook is on the receiving end. It’s rarer, but it happens. He takes one to
the side of his head, a few to his stomach. A hook. A cross. Taehyung is not sure, but he thinks he
sees the cut underneath his brow open with the friction of a particularly punishing hit.

His opponent clearly fights with power, not with technique, so the times he manages to land a hit, it
does damage. Taehyung things a good few of the jabs strike Jungkook simply becomes he insists on
preserving an attitude in this fight, a teasing cockiness that plays him badly, but not badly enough,
and the crowd fucking roars with every pattern of this game he dares to play on the ring.

He always plays games; the Taunting Twin does.

He taunts on the Ring as well, and still, he wins. He wins by knocking his opponent into bleeding
unconsciousness. He wins sure and confident and with animalistic but precise violence, with
depraved but calculated hits. He sweats with it, grows red with it, eyes go wild with it, but he wins
with it, blood trickling from the side of his head where Taehyung now knows his wound opens, and
he smirks with it.

His hands pump to the air now, an announcement of his victory, one of his wrists in the hand of their
referee.

“He’s fucking vicious,” Bogum is saying in his ear.

“I know,” Taehyung nods. He’s nervous. Jungkook’s smirking gaze hasn’t found him yet, but he
feels it will. The other guy’s limp body lies behind their feet, he has no girlfriend to pull him away
and his entourage is slow with it. The most representable man out of them is bent by Yoongi, saying
something in his ear.

His eyes do meet him, but they don’t linger. They only land on him for the duration of a single
indicative jut of his chin that Taehyung might as well have imagined, a tilt in the direction he knows
his dressing room to be.

Jungkook leaves soon after his fight like he did before as well. Crowd parts for him like the fucking
Red Sea and swallows him up, closes around him, hands on his back, his shoulders, praises in his
ears. Taehyung follows him with his eyes and buzzes with the idea he might want to follow him
physically as well, but he doesn’t dare fully assume it, so he stays put.

“Okay,” Bogum is shouting in his ear. “I’m disappointed but impressed.”

“Yeah. Told you,” Taehyung returns his attention to Bogum, tries to, but it incessantly wanders,
shifts to the direction in which Jungkook has disappeared, and he wonders what’s the harm in
checking if Jungkook had wanted him to follow. He figures it’d be better for him to go without
Jungkook beckoning him originally then leaving Jungkook hanging because, well, post witnessing
thishe wouldn’t want to piss him off.

“Listen,” Taehyung is saying before he has fully rationalized it to himself. He knows he wants to
speak to Jungkook as well, was too distracted by the peculiarity of their previous interaction to
express his displeasure with the fucking love bite he’d left on him unannounced. There’s unspoken
protocol with marks like these and he has yet to confront him, so okay, maybe he has to go.
“Bladder’s calling. You fine with Baek and Jimin?” he lifts his brows up.

“Yeah, sure,” he’s nodding. “Want me to come with?”

“Nah, I don’t think we’re quite there yet,” Taehyung smiles at him and Bogum chuckles, head
shaking.

Taehyung pulls away, the stretch of his lips dwindling from his features. He captures Jimin by the
shoulder, leans to his ear. “Hey, take care of him, yeah?” He juts his chin towards Bogum. “Doesn’t
know shit about Richhood yet.”

Jimin nods. “Boy’s under my wing. Where are you going?”

“Toilet.”

His brows shoot up. “Just after the fight?” Taehyung nods, informs him it is pressing matters. Jimin
snorts. “Good luck, I’ll be expecting you in about an hour if you make it.”

Taehyung’s response is a pointedly dissatisfied expression and a cock of his head, but he leaves with
it. It actually bodes well Jimin is skeptical he’ll be quick with it, gives him the excuse of time.
Reaching the dressing rooms is easier than reaching the bathroom. The most major influx of people is
in that direction. It’s still a considerably demanding task, but he manages, finds himself in the
depressing, slightly chilling hallway.

He has no way to know if Jungkook is in the same room he was last time, but it is the only lead he
has, so he treads towards it. The repeated state of nervousness feels emphasized in the lonesomeness
and silence of the corridor, where he can hear his own paces and recognizes the beat of his heart is
rapid despite the dulled music. A striking annoyance with himself for being like this invigorates him
into just walking,not that much thinking. He promises himself, he’ll find him, see what Jungkook
wants, tell him to never mark him like that again, as if he belongs to him and walk away.

After his small, but vigorous internal pep talk it is anticlimactic to find the room empty. He sighs,
ignores the nuance of deflation and strides into the hallway again. He passes by exactly two doors
before one opens swiftly and a hand is wrapping around his wrist, pulling him inside.

His back slams into tiled walls and he grunts with it, but the scorching touch that forces him into
place departs immediately. The door is shut, loud and clear, and the very distinctive sound of a lock
turning penetrates the air and nestles into Taehyung’s ears with apprehension. This room is slightly
different, only has showers lined up at the walls, and it has a lock, a lock that Jungkook’s turned and
now he looms before him from a small distance, sinewy arms crossed before his chest and the very
fact of it appears somewhat threatening. He’s still in the attire from the match, chest bare and
glistening, and it seems wider than it truly is like this, because it’s so clearly outlined by muscle.

Gone is the victorious smirk from his face, and instead he seems slightly pissed, features narrowed,
yet so very typically reserved into a general nothingness.

His features aren’t traitorous, but his voice is, or maybe it is pointed, because he speaks with the
charge of enmity. “What’d you bring him here for, Taehyung?” he asks, and Taehyung’s mouth
opens then closes.

He straightens up next to the wall, removes his back from it and instead stands tall on his two feet,
gives himself all of the inches of height he can before Jungkook, and he stands leveled and fair. “He
wanted to see you fight,” he announces the truth.

“Oh?” Jungkook’s head tilts, brows arch, and he drowns his voice in an ironic mockery. “Does he
want to know how I’ll bash his head in if he gets mouthy with me again?”

Taehyung mirrors the position, arms closing together, and he holds himself by the elbows. He
flattens his words as best as he possibly can. “Can you stop fucking threateninghim?” He doesn’t
know what precisely summons the defensiveness, but if the excuse of a conversation is going to
revolve around pointless threats and Bogum, then he might as well leave now.

Jungkook’s eyes shift into an undeniable glare, his step forward sounds clearly into the tiled floor.
“Do you like his face that much?”

Taehyung shakes his head with the futility of trying to speak to him. “Well, I—"

He interjects, words twist cold and low. “You should really consider keeping him away from me if
you like it in its current arrangement,” he presses, and it strikes Taehyung just how much Bogum has
been a catalyst for their recent interactions. In fact, there has not been a time for a while in which he
hasn’t been, and it must seem like he’s shoving him in his face, especially by bringing him to the
Ozone, then here, places that inherently belong to the Rich, to Jungkook. From his viewpoint,
Taehyung supposes, he wanders into his territory, brings someone along and allows him to play with
his toy.

Taehyung knows people like Jungkook faultlessly grow up to be possessive, territorial. They grow
up to be entitled. Bogum is the perfect tool to question and shake Jungkook’s authority over him,
except that he is not a tool, he is a person, and Taehyung should not have a hard time forgetting that,
because it would just make him more alike Jungkook than he dares and cares to realize.

“He’s not my goddamn dog,” Taehyung says. “He’s new. He simply wanted to—”

“Iwant you—“ Jungkook begins to declare with such pointed emphasis on the pronoun that
addresses him, forcing into it all the power and authority that Taehyung tries to forget into a single
syllable that denounces him, “to stop kissing him.”

The request, demand, washes over him with a peculiarly wakeful sensation, it teases over and under
his skin. His eyes narrow, they harden, fingers squeeze into the bones of his elbows and he feels
them up. “Until when,” he presses with some reciprocal acrimony, “until you get boredof me?”
He spits the words, laces them with that mocking irony that is signature of Jungkook’s speech, holds
a certain doze of petulance that does not retrospectively bother him because it fits the maturity of the
conversation, and he watches him roll his eyes.

“Don’t play games with me, Taehyung,” Jungkook says, pokes his tongue into his cheek in a brief,
fluid motion.

Taehyung bristles with the forced suggestion of incredulity. “That’s all you fucking do.”

Jungkook takes a step forward and the neat folding of his arms falls apart, revealing him whole, bare
and wide and strong. “I can afford to play.”

His eyes roll. It’s true to some extent Taehyung feels he’s able to deny for a few minutes at a time.
So once again petulantly, he says, “Fuck you.” And then he pauses, and because it bothershim and it
so perfectly fits right now with everything other than the fact that he is a Kim and has virtually no
leverage in front of a Jeon, he spills before he manages to filter, he spills with all the scathing
bitterness of the fact of it, he spills, “You get to kiss Julia all the time.”

It lingers in the air boldly. Julia is the one thing that can essentially not be removed from the situation
between them, because it will suggest the situation is, in fact, between them.Julia is a halo for
Jungkook, she is his intention, she is his reason for Taehyung even having a name in his mouth other
than Kim. Julia is not another person, like Bogum is. Julia is essential.

There’s a natural pause that descends heavily into the stretched air between them after the sound of
the words rings conclusively from the tiles of the walls and the flooring. Jungkook watches him with
his eyes still fixed in the glare of before, but his face mostly slave to its usual master of reticence.

Taehyung’s heart beats loud and then louder, his ears buzz with the proclamation of Jungkook’s
following words.

“I’ll stop,” Jungkook says as if it is simple, so simple.

All Taehyung can do for a moment is breathe and blink. Then, most blankly, he asks, “What?”
“If you don’t kiss him, I won’t kiss her,” he says, a deal. And it’s simple, so simple, and Taehyung
supposes maybe it truly is because all Jungkook promises is he won’t press his mouth to hers. He
does not say he won’t touch her, fuck her, have dinner with her, coffee with her, talk to her, smile at
her. He does not suggest he won’t be her boyfriend, that he won’t be affectionate in all other ways
possible, that he won’t pound her for a good night’s sleep and then sleep next to her and wake up
next to her. He doesn’t say that, because he doesn’t mean that. “Just stop kissing him, touching him,
stop fucking looking at him, okay?”

His downright jealousyis exhilarating to Taehyung, even if he is perfectly capable of rationalizing it

with just who Jungkook has grown up to be. He forgets to do it now, instead lets himself the naivety
to believe that this is not about Jungkook’s flaws, but about Taehyung. He doesn’t say yes, though,
no he breathes heavy, and instead he suggests it with a question that sounds weak to his own ears,
“So, I don’t get to kiss anyone?”

“Who do you wantto kiss?” Jungkook questions with steadfast exasperation.

“You,” it falls through his lips like a reaction. There is nothing voluntary in the confession. It is an
impulse he represses every time Jungkook looks at him from such a distance, proximity once again at
play, every time he licks his lips, pokes a tongue into his cheek, every time he fucking breathes. It’s
pathetic, really, how much he wants to kiss him.

Jungkook’s eyes drop to the floor after the declaration fills the air.

“You know, Taehyung,” and he’s closer still, and then his hands lift, press into his hips and for the
merest moment Taehyung doesn’t know how to breathe, but then he’s okay, it’s okay, everything’s
okay, except for the voice that Jungkook speaks with which falls to be so deliberately and
torturouslysoft, like his touch is, “my father said I should beat the shit out of you,” the brutality of his
words both loses an aspect of its power and retains and emphasizes another with the way he
pronounces it so strikingly gently. His eyes lift from the floor, stare straight into Taehyung’s and the
glare is an apparition, a memory of the past; his eyes glint, they shine, “teach you not to kiss boys.”

Taehyung’s heart races. One of his hands settles above Jungkook’s in indication, fingers wrapping
tight against his wrist. His skin is hot, heated and searing. His tone levels with his, words border a
whisper, “And who will beat you up for touching me?”

Jungkook’s father. Notoriously, the worst Jeon. Taehyung has the luxury of going through life not
thinking much about him and the way he handles Jungkook, the way he impacts Jungkook. For him,
it is a personal consideration when he decides not to bring the fact maybe he enjoys kissing boys to
his family. It’s something he’s not ready for, a confusion he deems unnecessary with the extent to
which everything is already pure shit,a label he doesn’t want for himself. He cannot, however,
imagine ever sharing this, sharing Bogum, for example, with his sister and receiving anything
different than support. Jungkook, she would mind because of the context he comes with, not because
of his gender.

But Jungkook’s father deems a boy kissing boys worth beating up. He wonders what else is a good
enough reason for him. He watches Jungkook and he wonders if he hits, if he strikes both verbally
and physically. He watches Jungkook and he thinks he might.

“Him, probably,” Jungkook shrugs and he keeps the same softness in his voice as he studies
Taehyung’s face, pupils darting across the entirety of it as Taehyung’s remain fixed and entranced
with the glint of his eyes. “If he found out, you know what he would probably do?” His gaze lifts to
his and easily meets his waiting eyes. He indicates the question with a swift raise of his brows, before
he returns his stare to the Taehyung’s lips and he speaks to them. “If he found out I touched you,
he’d probably break my fingers so that I can’t touch you again. He’d probably snap my cock in half,
just so that you never turn me on again. If he found out—"

“Well, he won’t,” Taehyung interrupts firmly and Jungkook’s eyes snap to him. He feels a very
distinct, curious hurt strain at him, makes it hard to swallow. A desire washes over him, something
rebellious and charged, and he wants Jungkook to touch him, he wants to turn him on, wants to do
everything with him, wants to go back in time and enjoy wiping his cock on the handkerchief with
their family crest a whole lot more.

“What?” Jungkook says with a genuine confusion that pauses the softness for a bare moment, though
it remains atypically secured into the features of his expression.

“He can’t,” Taehyung breathes, and his fingers tighten over Jungkook’s wrist, their eyes finding each
other easily. “Find out.” His tongue teases over his lips in a pause for mustering up bravery, and he is
not internally rationalizing much of what he is saying. Words drip from his mouth, fall through like
sighs, “You can do anything to me, and he won’t know.”

Jungkook’s fingers grip into his hips, adjust their position to capture him more thoroughly and he
pushes him the one step necessary for the top of Taehyung’s back to press against the tiled wall, his
hips tilted slightly forward into Jungkook’s hold. The contact is painless, slow, he suggests
Taehyung leans on the wall, rather than commands it with force, and he chooses to remain aligned
with it, digits squeezing over Jungkook’s wrist once and dancing upwards along the line of his
forearm. Jungkook’s eyes fix over him, so piercing and heavy. “He’d like to see you bruised,” he
tells him as If he confides in him, so personal and intimate in the small space that remains between
them.

“Bruise me then,” Taehyung exhales. It’s a permission of many things, an invitation of many.
Jungkook can hurt him now, hit him now. He can bruise him in any way he sees fit, because
Taehyung does not only allow it, he invites it.
And Jungkook glances at him with a challenge, and then he does because he wants to bruise him as
well, mark him all over so that Park Bogum just knows not to touch.Jungkook dips his head forward,
ducks down with the agility he used to evade punches all night long and he seals his lips over the
mark he’d left on Taehyung’s neck, the one that starts to fade. The contact of it somehow still feels
sudden, new, peculiarly violent, though it is nothing but soft, and it coaxes a gasp out of Taehyung,
his fingers snaking to Jungkook’s elbow and tightening there. Jungkook moves with the compulsive,
charging impulse tolayer all his skin with the dents of his teeth, the purple of his punishing lips; he
squeezes at him hard with fingers, tight and digging into the flesh of him, because he wants to leave
hand prints all across him. His father is right, anyway; he needs to be bruised. He does not deserve
skin that is so utterly flawless, not when he himself is so imperfect, so impure, a poor, little, faggot,
kissing boys, touching boys, boys who aren’t Jungkook.

Jungkook works the skin of his neck, bruises him. He uses his lips, uses his tongue, and he uses his
teeth. It has a notion of expert composure the way he is skilled with the abuse of his neck, but it also
has an element of deprivation, a cloud of something lustful and lewd with the way his mouth opens
and exhales, and the way his tongue trails, with the way his teeth skim, tease, and dip minutely,
something in the sighs it draws from Taehyung, sighs that do not register with him, but they fuel
Jungkook, make his fingers reach to his waist, where he is softer, where they can sink into flesh.

Taehyung is supposed to be scolding him about marking him like that, not inviting more of it and
basking in the sensation of cool, cruel lips on his skin. But Jungkook’s teeth are fixing over his
protruding collarbone, his tongue is dipping in between the clavicle at the curiously elegant crevice
of his throat and Taehyung is gone with it.

Taehyung is painfully aware that Jungkook refuses to kiss him the way he’d wanted it. He wants his
lips on his, their individual breaths abandoned for the sake of taking each other in, but Jungkook
won’t give him that and it comes with the bundling of a frustration he’s never known before. He’s
never wanted something like that before, so simple as a kiss, yet so devastatingly complicated in the
context of who they are and what they share, what they don’t.

Jungkook’s hands move and Taehyung’s hold on him is forced to drop. He hates he does not get to
squeeze his frustration into him, but the feeling subsides when fingers fist at the fabric of his shirt and
tug it up, rough palms unnecessarily snaking across his skin underneath. He raises his arms up and
lets Jungkook pull it over his head, disregard it on the floor, and he’s bare like him now.

His eyes take, take him all in, roam all over the skin he exposes. His eyes are hooded, dark and
piercing, and Taehyung remembers he hates them and then forgets it all the same. His hands are all
across him as well, touch searing and firm, but with a quality of reluctant softness, exploratory like
the last time he studied his bare chest, his stomach, so unknown and unfamiliar to him. Jungkook’s
hands are calloused. They’re rough. They touch almost gently but are coarse to begin with and it’s
uncommon for who he is. The rich prefer to have the poor get the callouses for them, doing dirty
work.
Jungkook bends and his mouth is on him, open, heavy and wet and exquisite. Taehyung tries to put
his hands on him, there is something instinctive and needy in the way he reaches and attempts to lace
them over his shoulders, his neck, he wants to put his fingers through his hair, feel if it is as soft as it
looks.

He doesn’t getto. Jungkook halts his endeavors with all the impressive skill he has displayed for the
night, capturing his wrists easily between strong fingers and forcing them to the wall, to the side of
his head in a motion that brings his body closer, the heat of it invading Taehyung’s senses, but he
forgets it for a moment, narrowing his eyes in a lost glare at the restriction he’s pushed into. “No
touching for you,” Jungkook commands, voice a titillating breath.

Taehyung’s chest expands and falls rapid and full. “Why?” he whines. He does not, however, to his
own surprise act against Jungkook in any way, not even when the other releases his wrists and grips
at his hips again, tugging his pelvis into himself roughly. No, Taehyung does not even consider the
option of acting out. He settles for a whine, for a glare, purses his lips in the semblance of a pout, but
that is all the reaction that comes to him naturally, his hands lingering where Jungkook instructs
them.

“For now,” Jungkook says with a pinning stare that by itself is dangerously provocative. It remains
on Taehyung’s face for a couple more moments even as his lips dip again and he focuses his touch
on his exposed body. He mouths at his shoulder, under his clavicle and he bruises all across, fingers
squeezing. He leaves marks on his chest, propels Taehyung’s body forward with subtle, but
powerful ministrations of his hands, arches the bottom of it into himself and they almost touch, and
then they touch, and then they don’t again.

Taehyung’s hips seek the heat of it, of his body, as Jungkook mouths at him. His blood pumps with
the promise of the word ‘now’, the suggestion of a ‘later’ and wonders if the arousal of a substance-
induced high can rival the delirious excitement of this, and he doubts it.

Jungkook’s tongue twirls around his nipple and it tears out a gasp from him. It is so
unnecessary,cannot in any way bruise him there, leave a mark. Still, his tongue toys with it and then
his teeth grace around it as it easily hardens, fingers treading to the dips of his ribs, fitting there easily
and he can feel the cool of his ring contrasting the wrecking warmth of his touch.

Taehyung is so far gone, and maybe Jungkook is as well, and he seems to realize it. It bothers him,
maybe, it does something to him. Maybe it hits him just how unnecessary it is to tug at his nipple
with his teeth like that, maybe Taehyung moans a bit too distinctively and it wakes him up.

It triesto. He straightens and he drops his hold and Taehyung’s eyes open all too wide and vulnerable
and curious. There is something wet that glints over them, underneath strands of fluffed hair, makes
them glisten as his full lips do. It’s striking to Taehyung just how goddamn coldthis room is.

“I’ll go now,” Jungkook says, and it is tight. It strains. He says it as if he doesn’t mean it, and
Taehyung latches onto it even if the danger remains that it is just a mirage of his clouded imagination,
laced with vey human wanton.

“Why?” he asks, dreads the suggestion of involuntary panic that treads through. The naked truth is
he doesn’t want Jungkook to leave him, not now, he’s getting hard for him, he’s turned on for him,
and the prospect of his departure now comes with a certain humiliation he does not want to face.

Jungkook’s tongue which up until now explored every inch of Taehyung’s upper body with fervor
ghosts over his lips. His head cocks. His eyes are still pinned on Taehyung, studying the damage he
has done, the beginnings of bruises, the rare arcs of his teeth, the glisten of his saliva. He begs for it
to be off-putting, on some level at least, but on any and all, it just makes him want more. “You know
I like to fuck after fights,” Jungkook says, he excuses. He should get himself out of there before he
does something stupid again.

Taehyung breathes, once twice. His nostrils flare, and there is some underlying anger, but mostly it is
brazen, depraved determination when he pauses and then proposes loud and clear, “Well then fuck
me.”

He’s thought about it, thought about it ever since Jungkook told him he’d look prettier bent over and
he’d started kissing boys, and he’d grown curious. What would it be like to get fucked, he’d
wondered, what it’d be like to have someone inside him, well, frankly, what it’d be like to have
Jungkookinside him? When he offers himself so blatantly, it is not backed up by that rational
curiosity, by him reasoning he should explore his sexuality. No, the words fall purely because he
wants Jungkook to fuck him.

It’s a strange thing to want, considering he does not even know what it constitutes in its entirety, that
in the suggestion of it lingers the possibility that it will hurt, that it comes with an array of
consequences, that the desire for it comes with a vengefulness towards a man he does not even
know. But in that very moment he is incapable of fully comprehending that, only knows that he
wants, and he supposes that is what lust is and there is a reason it’s such a tragic flaw, such a
dangerous sin.

Jungkook blinks. His heart skips a beat and his cock fucking twitches, and he cannot estimate
whether this is some sort of a sick joke, and all he can say is, “What?”
Taehyung is tentative. He touches the side of his waist, just barely, just enough to give himself the
leverage to just arch his hips forward in the way Jungkook had previously held him. He had felt the
heat of him, is perfectly aware Jungkook is affected, much like he himself is, and he wants him to
remember that. “Fuck me, Jungkook,” he says, says it softer. His eyes search his, teeth bite his lip,
and he adds almost subconsciously, “Please.”

It’s a whisper and Jungkook does not know whether it is it or the way he says his name that does it
for him, but something in him snaps and he loses a fight with himself he does not know he’s fighting.
He curses, “Fuck.” The word is strangled out of his mouth, vehement and conclusive and it’s done,
he’s done.

His hands find Taehyung’s hips again and he spins him. He captures him firm and pushes his front
against the wall, traps his arms between the tile and his body as Taehyung raises them protectively.
He grunts, curses in return. There is nothing soft about the way he handles him now, the underlying
anger and frustration that comes with his usual touch so emphasized now. It reminds Taehyung that
every time he even looks at him suggestively Jungkook goes against so many things, and it makes
him feel wanted in such a depraved, forbidden way.

He’s wanted and he wants. And now it will happen, the pain from colliding with the wall comes
with the satisfaction of that knowledge. They will fuck. Taehyung has never in his life been on a date
and consequently, he has never before had sex that matters -- though he has not generally had that
much sex -- in any way other than the physical gratification it grants, for any reason other than that it
satiates certain desires. He thinks now should not be much different, though he knows it is. He
knows he’ll care after it’s set and done, but he offers himself anyway, because he wants it and he
certainly does not want Jungkook to go to someone else.

Rationally, he knows that whoever else Jungkook goes to that night won’t be anyone he remembers,
but selfishly, he wants him all to himself, for tonight at least. He knows he won’t give him much
more, and he knows this is just sex. This is physical. He knows Jungkook sleeps with people who
aren’t Julia and then he goes back to her, always. He suspects she’s aware of it, everyone is. All
Taehyung can hope for is that he is slightly bit different to him, more memorable, and he knows he
will be, because he is a boy.

Jungkook presses himself against Taehyung, indulges in the way his ass feels, comfortably thick,
round, so soft and perfect. He lines his hips with it, slides himself boldly to ensure Taehyung can feel
him, all of him. He allows himself to enjoy the sensation of him against his cock. It’s just an ass,
Jungkook reminds himself. He’s horny because fights get him horny and he always fucks after fights,
always people who aren’t Julia, because she never comes to these, and this is no different.

This is not special. It has nothing to do with the way he is unable to resist after Taehyung so pliantly
offers himself, because he is simply not trying to resist. What would the point be?He’s hard.
Jungkook’s hard and the way Taehyung immediately pushes back against him gets him harder. His
hands snake to his front, pop the button and he pushes his jeans down underneath the globe of him.
Denim is hoarse and thick, and it prevents him from fully feeling him and he wants it out of the
fucking way. Taehyung gasps when he presses into him now, when he nestles the shape of his cock
between the fabric of his underwear and he can feel himself sink into the dip of his cheeks now, his
boxing shorts not leaving much to the imagination, and it is terribly exhilarating.

He just really wants to fuck him. He would very much like to just shove his pants down, shove his
cock in and fuck the daylights out of him, because he deserves it, for being so, so salacious. The way
he’d asked him to fuck him with his lips parted, eyes glinting like that, so deceptively innocent, so
frustratingly erotic, enticing. So pretty.

He wonders how much it will hurt him if he does it, if he’ll beg him to stop or if he’ll take it just for
the sake of having Jungkook fuck him.

“Open your mouth,” Jungkook tells him and watches him with hard eyes as he rests his cheek
against the wall and follows through. His profile is just as beautiful, even when squished against the
tile like this, and he dares to make eye contact as his lips part, and Jungkook exhales, rotates his hips
into him and watches his face change with it.

He squeezes fingers of one hand punishingly into the soft flesh of his waist and lifts the other up,
slides two fingers into his waiting mouth. The ring with his family crest brushes cold onto his lip.
“Get them really wet, pretty boy.”

Taehyung moans around the fingers, closes his lips around them and tries to do as told, for his own
sake. He realizes he will hurt, but he’s a bit too far gone to care, his hard cock brushing deliciously
yet torturously into the tiled wall against which Jungkook so thoroughly traps him. The shape of him
fits into Taehyung with suggestion, with promise, and his heart hammers, blood boils. He does not
think sex ever came with the prelude of this, with such build-up, such excitement.

He pushes back into Jungkook, swirls his tongue around his fingers and keeps their eyes locked.
Looking away feels impossible. He’s mesmerized.

Jungkook’s entranced. He does not want to look away from Taehyung. He presses his fingers into
his tongue, under his tongue, wants him to secrete as much saliva as possible. He’s never done this
without the lubrication of a woman and there’s something marginally uncomfortable in the idea that
he will hurt him, but he gets off on it a bit as well, because he remembers he is meant to hurt him.
Would not his dearest father just be fucking proud?

His fingers feel wet enough, but he knows saliva dries. He draws them out of his mouth and
Taehyung’s lips remain parted and suggestive, and he really fucking wants to shove his dick into
him.

He releases his waist for a moment, for the sake of tugging his underwear downwards, eyes dropping
compulsively to peek at the skin he reveals, the globe of his ass so predictably yet frustratingly
perfect. Taehyung watches Jungkook scrutinize every new inch of him, swallows some invasive
nerves. There’s nothing judgmental about the way he looks at him, takes him in, but there is an
intensity that makes Taehyung’s skin flare and heart pound.

He moves his fingers quickly, probing at him and Taehyung’s eyes screw shut, he presses his
forehead into the wall and inhales deeply. He can take this.

The tip of a single finger pushes past the rim and he expects the slight discomfort at the stretch of it.
He does not expect Jungkook’s voice, set and demanding, hard and rough, it’s rough. It has
abandoned all softness and replaced it with sternness, but the connotation of what he says is different.
He says, “Tell me if I hurt you, Taehyung.” Taehyung gulps and hums as his finger dips to a
knuckle. “Okay?”

He’s careful, he’s slow, but he’s also impatient and needy, and used to taking when he wants, and he
wants now, so desperately does. He presses his whole finger inside of him, watches his hips stutter
with it. He’s tight, wonderfully tight and hot, and Jungkook feels himself twitch, his patience
wearing thin and Taehyung is not answering him.

“Are you listening to me, Tae?” Tae. It falls off his lips easily, too easily but he chooses not to dwell
on it as he currently has a finger up the boy’s ass.

He still does not answer, just trembles with the motion of Jungkook’s finger and it pisses him off. He
rotates his other moistened finger along the rim, pushes the tip of it and watches him squirm around
the stretch of it, basks in his gasp, in the way he notices his brows furrow from the side view he
allows him, face buried in the wall. “Fuck,” Jungkook grunts, when Taehyung only bites his lip until
it goes white, “do you wantme to hurt you? Has life fucked you up that badly?”

His second finger slides fully in and with it Taehyung gasps. “No,” he says, and oh, he speaks, tight
and strained and maybe a moment ago, he simply couldn’t force out a response, but now he can. He
gulps, releases a breath. “You did,” he finishes and Jungkook’s fingers thrust into him almost
punishingly.

Taehyung means it. Safe from the occasional stealing, before Jungkook had entered his life, there
was nothing particularly questionableabout it. Now everything is. He appeared and he fucked it all
up, fucked him all up. Thiscertainly is questionable, just what the fuck is he doing. He pushes against
the fingers, pushes against them because they stretch him out and feel downright weird buried inside
of him, but not in a way that is wrong, no, he wants more of it, it draws out his curiosity. It’s a
demanding sensation, steals his focus. Jungkook does as a whole. He forgets most of everything else
and just focuses on him, on his scorching presence behind him, the shape of his cock that now
presses against just one of his cheeks. He wants to feel more of it, more of him.

Jungkook says nothing to Taehyung’s accusation, simply shoves his fingers inside of him harder.
He’s exploratory with the way he moves into him, never having done this with a man. He wants
Taehyung to live with the fact that Jungkook makes him feel good,wants the other to keep wanting
him, so he aims to please, curls his fingers, presses up. Taehyung’s hips snap, a sound drifting
through his lips and he curses and Jungkook presses into him again at that very point and watches his
fists tighten and his teeth bare more where he uses them to press down into his mouth.

Gratification slams inside of Jungkook at the sight of it, sight of repressed pleasure and his lips curve
with a smirk, though his eyes remain narrowed at the younger boy as he works him. He’s still so
impossibly tight. Jungkook slides his fingers out and his smirk stretches when Taehyung whines with
it. He lifts a third finger to his mouth. “Open.”

Taehyung slicks it as thoroughly as he can, allowing his eyes to meet with lewdness and prettiness
that strips Jungkook off of his smirk and he does not give him much time before he sinks three
fingers inside of him. He stretches him out, aims the curve of his digits into that spot that makes him
moan.

He reaches into his pocket, fishes out the condom that was reserved for the random girl of the night,
relieved he has one with extra lubrication because he doesn’t always want to bother. Working
Taehyung up is different, it’s gratifying as its own experience, making him squirm, seeing him
struggle not to moan and failing miserably at hiding the fact he enjoys it.

Still, Jungkook’s so painfully hard.

“You ready, pretty boy?”

Taehyung’s eyes crack opened at him and dart across his face. He releases his lip for the sake of
speaking, of teasing, “Didn’t think of you as one to ask.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens and he takes his fingers out, shoves him by the back into the wall until he’s
flat against it, arms trapped, and he grips at his hips. “I’ll take that as a fucking yes,” he says, he
growls at him, brings his lips close to his ear to make sure he senses it all when Taehyung shivers at
the sound of it.

He tugs his shorts down, just enough to get his cock out, tears the package with his teeth and shoves
the remains of it in his pocket as he slides the condom down his length. It’s such a relief, the
sensation of it, of having himself out – he’s so painfully hard. He strokes over himself with one hand,
grips tight into Taehyung with the other.

He tugs at him, so his back arches and his ass gives. He’s bent. The line of his spine twists with
peculiar elegance, and for a dumb moment he wishes he wasn’t fucking him in the shower room of
an excuse of a club, where he is expected to return in moments. Christ, people are probably already
looking for him, but he wants to take his time with this, indulge in it as much as the circumstances
allow it.

There’s nothing more fitting than the fact he fucks him here, now. There’s no other context for him
to be with him, no other reason. This is a consequence of circumstance, not something they seek out
from each other. It cannotbe something they look for.

He takes a breath, and he slides inside of him. Taehyung’s teeth grit and his eyes screw shut. He
hisses through the sensation of it, the burn of it. It stretches him out – he’s thick, but it’s not half as
bad as he expects, and he takes it. Jungkook is slow with it, he is careful, and a part of Taehyung
wants to tell him to just shove it in and fuck him already, and another is thankful he’s actually
considerate of just how much that would hurt.

He fills him so well and Taehyung learns he likes the sensation of being full. It comes to him
unexpected, but he basks in it, in the way he makes him feels. His skin tingles and his heart races,
and he’s just so hot. He trembles with every touch and he represses a very ridiculous compulsion to
beg Jungkook to move.

He does. He moves. He starts slow, rocks into him, but he starts off gentle, and it is very much
contrasting to how his fingers clench at him, squeezing into his hips tight and controlling adjusting
him and Taehyung is almost entirely sure he’ll have the prints of his grip shaped into his skin and it
thrills him. He savors every mark, everything that seals the experience into a material memory, a
physical proof, not that he could possibly ever forget. But Jungkook won’t be able to, either. Not
with the way he colored his neck.

His fingers curl over his bones and he grunts with a thrust that propels Taehyung’s hips forward. He
moans into the wall, his forehead pressing into it. He would very much love to watch Jungkook,
wants to angle his head to allow himself to at least peek at him, but the next movement is slightly
forceful, though he still does not bury himself fully inside, and Taehyung has a hard time keeping his
eyes opened.
Jungkook’s breath teases by his ear when Taehyung bottoms out. He fills him, Taehyung feels his
hips against his ass, and he speaks to him, low and raspy, “How does it feel?”

Taehyung’s features screw. He tries to catch his breath and fails, grunts out, “It hurts.”

Jungkook’s hips retract and they fall back into him with the mutter of, “Good.”

“You want, uh—” he struggles, pauses, Jungkook gathers the confidence to move inside of him and
it is so unfamiliar, but good, and he cannot wrap his head around it, around the fact Jungkook fucks
him, “you want to hurt me?”

His hips do not still once they build an initial pace. “I want to ruin you,” Jungkook confesses roughly
as he shoves himself inside of him.

Taehyung’s teeth latch around his lip, but then he releases it, tilts his head, and he manages to open
his eyes for the barest moment, but it is enough for him to meet Jungkook’s depraved gaze and tell
him, “You’re gonna have to try harder then.” He’s going to have to because yes, it hurts, but the
sting of it is terribly delicious.

Jungkook grunts and he does try harder, fucks him harder, lets himself go and fuck him with the
abandon that he craves. He forgets how it hurts. He fucks him senseless and careless and Taehyung
moans with it. Maybe life has really fucked him up. Maybe Jungkook really has, because he pushes
back against the sensation, moves with the direction of his bruising fingers, and he makes the most
mind-numbing sounds, lost and gone and pretty, so pretty. His voice is deep, much deeper than
Jungkook’s, it’s manly, but it’s so beautiful.

Taehyung is surprised how easy it is to lose himself in the sensation of something that his brain has
always pegged as slightly unnatural for him. The concept of getting fucked by a man seems so
rationally emasculating, but when it happens, it feels just right. Jungkook is purposeful in the way he
gyrates his hips to hit a certain spot, finds it impressively quickly and focuses on it and Taehyung
wonders why he ever had sex in any other way.

“Fuck,” Jungkook groans to him and his lips are so close to his nape. Taehyung wants to feel them
again, he misses them, but he doesn’t grant him that. “You’re so tight.”

Taehyung’s skin flushes with it. It feels like a praise, sparks something warm within him and he’s
moaning out. He’s saying, “No one’s ever been inside me.”

Jungkook growls. His head presses into the back of Taehyung’s forehead in his hair, and it only lasts
a moment before he straightens, but it happens. His fingers move up and down, his hips, his waist.
They squeeze into him.

Yes, no one else has ever been inside of him, and he doesn’t want anyone else, not like this.
Jungkook is so thorough. He’s so good. He’s so wrong, but so good, and the hurt is almost all gone.
It’s such an overwhelming feeling, to get fucked, feels so real and raw and encompassing. The
sounds that betray Taehyung are not subject to his control. He’s lost that, must have, to be in this
position. He keeps only a semblance of it, a pitiful semblance that represses his desire to look at
Jungkook, to try for a kiss he knows he won’t receive.

Jungkook pulls his hip backwards until he’s fully bending, and he takes his forehead away from the
wall, presses his forearms into it instead. He fucks him like this, snakes his hand forward and fists at
him, slips his fingers around his length and strokes, and God, how is Jungkook so thoughtfulwith
this.

Taehyung keens. He whimpers. “Jungkook.” It’s a deformity of the name, what escapes his lips, but
it is distinctive enough and it coaxes another groan from the other, a thrust that is desperately out of
rhythm. Taehyung loves the fact he has an effect, being so thoroughly wrecked himself. It’s only fair
that the other loses himself as well. “Ngh, Jungkook.”

His hand is quick over him, skilled, thumb running over the head, palm soothing over veins. His
hand is fucking enough, but the whole combination of it is enough to destroy. His arms move across
the wall, fists clenching, he’s clenching and Jungkook moans with it, and it’s such an exquisite
sound.

“Jungkook, I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he breathes.

And Taehyung does. It’s pried from him with the ministrations of Jungkook’s hand, the gyration of
his skilled hips. He comes, comes so hard it eradicates all thought. He brims with the sensation of it,
overwhelmed, tensing one moment, releasing the next. He comes on the tiles of the wall and
Jungkook fucks him all through it.
He fucks him harder then, fucks him faster, with purpose and Taehyung takes it with his eyes
screwed shut and his body almost numb. He fucks him until he comes as well. Comes with a groan
and a slam of his hips. He grips at Taehyung, stills him forcefully and rocks into him until he pushes
into him with the thrust that drains him, and he empties into the condom.

The silence that fills with their exhausted, satiated breaths falls heavy on them. Taehyung keeps his
eyes closed, forehead to the wall, trying to fucking gather himself until Jungkook slips out of him.
He whimpers a bit at it, at the emptiness. It hurts when he slides out.

His fingers leave his hips after a moment too long and then touch has left him altogether. Taehyung
gulps. He has to open his eyes, straighten, face this. He takes his time with it, takes the time
necessary for him to blink away the slight tears that gather at the brim of his eyes from mere
sensation. Takes the time he thinks will allow him to stand without wincing, though his face still
creases when he straightens.

Jungkook has his side to him when Taehyung gives him his side as well and he’s tying his shorts
with unnecessary concentration, chest heaving, up and down, with what just happened. His skin
glistens.

Taehyung tugs himself in, does the button on his jeans. He bends, winces, gathers his shirt and slides
it on.

He runs a hand through his hair, hopes it sorts it out a bit. He breathes. “I should probably go,” he
tries.

“You should, yes,” Jungkook is saying before he even has the chance to finish, and Taehyung thinks
he expects nothing and still feels somewhat deflated.

His throat constricts. He nods. This is so fucking complicated. He should probably go. Bogum,
Jimin, and Baekhyun, they’re waiting for him, and he prays the Ring is dim enough to hide his marks
for at least that night until he figures shit out. He has so much shit to figure out.

It takes something for Taehyung to tear his eyes away from Jungkook’s profile, but he manages.
“Right,” he says. He hesitates, gives Jungkook the chance to say anything, but he doesn’t, doesn’t
even look at him. “Right,” he repeats. Then he goes. He leaves.

He does not see, but Jungkook does look then, looks as he turns the lock and disappears and slams
 the door shut, and Jungkook can finally breathe. He releases a breath so powerful it hurts his lungs,
hollows his cheeks. His hands run wild through his hair and he walks frantic to the showers, eyes to
the floor. He turns the shower underneath which they fucked, turns it so it washes away Taehyung’s
come, and he turns the one next to that as well, the one next to that, and in the third one he allows
himself to stand with his shorts still on.

He turns the cold water, makes sure it freezes and steps underneath, lets the power of the water beat
into him, and he holds his head, pulls at the strands. He scrubs at himself, washes himself, but he
can’t, can’t wash this off.And no, okay, Taehyung may have left, but he still cannot breathe. He tries
to.

When Jungkook fucks people other than Julia, those people don’t matter. They’re faceless.
Taehyung is not faceless. He has a face and it is beautiful and it is etched into Jungkook’s memory
with the attachment of utter hatred.

He may have fucked Taehyung, but no one is more fucked than he is.

Chapter End Notes

wow I love you. people here are genuinely awesome, I never expected so much
engagement with this story, but wow there is. I love reading comments, here and on
twitter, and I love both opinions and some theories people have for this. I genuinely
cannot stress how amazing it feels to witness someone actually care and engage with
something I create, I truly appreciate it. thank you x
 Chapter 14
Chapter Summary

This is one is essentially a blurb and one scene that lasts 4 years

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

To Jungkook’s memory, he used to enjoy nights where the Ozone afterparty was taken to Yoongi’s
rooftop a whole lot more than he is right now. He uses Yoongi’s snuff kit tonight, as he bends down
by the bar, for hygienic purposes. He typically has trust that the surfaces in the penthouse are
thoroughly cleaned and suitable for the spread of a line, though he does not know if Kim Ji-woo is
already as accustomed to the necessity of incessant scrubbing as Yoongi’s previous house keeper
was. On nights like this, however, there is enough human shaped pollution on the premises for
Jungkook to worry it dirties the tables, so he sneaks the custom kit and does his lines on the snuff
mirror.

He inhales what he can of it, straightens up and knocks his head back, arching his neck. He prods a
finger at his nostril, it stings, but it hardly matters, and he wipes off some residual powder that gathers
at the edge, because his hands are shaking a tiny bit and he doesn’t get it all in, the tube trembling
with his fingers.

He brings his head back down with a sigh and he states to Hoseok who has been curiously hovering
around him for the past couple of hours, and he tries not to show it’s pissing him off. He states with
avid determination, “I want to find a girl,” he extends his hand on the bar and curls his fist onto the
surface. The music is quieter here than it is in the Ozone, but he still speaks as if it vibrates just as
powerfully around him. His ears buzz. “And I want to fuck the shit out of her,” he announces. He
very expressively thinks to himself and then he looks at Hoseok’s dulled features directly. “You
know what?” He pauses briefly. “I want to find two, I’m feeling like a threesome tonight.”

Hoseok cocks his head, raises a hand and pats at Jungkook’s shoulder. “Slow down, kid, you’re
snorting more than Yoongi.”

Jungkook scoffs loudly, with his whole face, shaking the hand off with a roll of both his shoulders
because he’s currently incapable of only rolling one. Then he rolls them again just because it feels
good. “Yoongi doesn’t even like coke,” he says, and he prods a finger at the bar top repeatedly.
“What’s your point, hyung?”

“My point is, Jungkook, that you’re going to knock yourself out at this rate and the only thing you’ll
be balls deep in will be my nerves.”

Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, once, twice, just to have something to do with it. He’s feeling
awfully jittery. “I’m not asking you to take care of me, Hobi,” he says, only a bit through teeth. He
would put more of himself into it, but it hurts his jaw to keep it tight and the inside of his mouth feels
numb.

“You wouldn’t,” Hoseok says, “But you would take care of me.”

He doesn’t entirely know what to say to this, doesn’t want to deny it, but he is not about to attest to it
either, so he keeps silent, his fingers tapping at the surface of the bar top in the same rapid beat with
which his heart slams against his chest, or at least it feels like it.

Hoseok sighs, turns his head away from Jungkook to observe, but does not spare himself an eyeroll
before he focuses on the plethora of people that crowd in Yoongi’s penthouse. “What about her?” he
juts his chin towards a girl who sleazes her eyes over Jungkook quite pointedly and Hoseok figures
he can get her to do what he wants even in this state.

Jungkook traces his gaze towards the girl Hoseok references, meets her eyes and then immediately
sees her startlingly white teeth as her tongue coats over them. He averts his attention. “No,” he says
simply.

Hoseok arches a brow. “No?” Jungkook nods and he keeps nodding, small bobs of his head, before
he catches himself doing it and stops. “She’s fit.”

“She’s short,” Jungkook declares. He watches his fingers tap.

Hoseok’s nose screws. “Since when do you give a fuck about height? Won’t change the fact she
might be tight.”

Jungkook groans, buries his fingers in the front of his hair and latches them around a strand, pulls at
it to see how it would feel. “Don’t rhyme, hyung. It hurts my head.”

“Jungkook—”
“Now,” he says, “since now. I care since now. I want a redhead.”

Hoseok’s brows arch skeptically onto his creased forehead. “A redhead?”

“Yes,” Jungkook nods. His legs shake a tiny bit, knees coming together before they go apart. “I want
to fuck someone, I want to fuck a girl whose hair is red,” he states with hurried conviction. “I would
also like a shot.” As soon as the idea sparks in him, he raises his hand, snaps his fingers and has a
shot in front of him in a couple of moments, and the eyes of a weary bartended sliding over him for
less than a second. Choosing this particular surface to prop Yoongi’s snuff mirror on is borderline
genius, he thinks.

He grips the shot, throws his head back and pours it down his throat. A little bit of the liquid slides
down his tongue before he swallows it, and he seeks the burn of its taste, but his buds have frozen,
feel numb, and he only gets the heat of alcohol when it settles in his chest. He wipes at his mouth
with the back of his wrist.

“There is no one with red hair here, Jungkook.”

“Fine,” Jungkook grumbles. He’s grumbling, he’s petulant, but he feels fucking good. His body
tingles, fingers shake, and he senses it to be borderline amazing though his mind is running, runs,
runs, runs, at some crazy miles an hour which he cannot determine. “Someone with a real nice ass
then,” he insists. Yes, that’s a must for tonight. “Round,” he says, “perky.”

“Okay,” Hoseok nods.

“Have you ever seen how bony Julia’s ass is, God, there’s literally nothing to hold.I want to put my
hand on something, you know? I want to, I want to—” what does he want, he was going somewhere
with this, he swears.

“Yes,” Hoseok says, “but she’s Julia,” he emphasizes as if it means something, as if it means
everything,

Jungkook scowls. “And I’m Jungkook,” he responds. “And you’re Hoseok hyung. And I want to
fuck someone with a nice ass.”

He says that, keeps saying that, but no one is fucking good enough, not one ass that night captures
his attention, his attention which is everywhere, so he keeps saying it to Hoseok all night long and
then he passes out at one of Yoongi’s chaise lounges and Yoongi puts sunglasses on him and some
sun scream before he puts some on himself and lies on the chaise lounge next to him.

The sound induces some anxiety and a reflex for Taehyung to pick up a lengthy umbrella on the way
as he takes tentative steps towards his front door, because a) no one has come in through the front
door in at least a couple of years and b) no one has ever knocked before they’d entered.

Not that the sound produced on the door is actual knocking. It’s a lot closer to the definition of
banging, rapid and incessant on the fragile surface of the Kim’s wooden door that makes winters
cold and summers scorch. The nature of the sound only serves to pick up his heart rate further, when
he’d just been comfortably taking advantage of the free house, still in his work clothes, sans a belt,
socks, and his tie, playing video games that were supposedly for Woojin on the couch.

When he does open the door and steps back a little with his umbrella readied, his heart rate spirals
out of control. He freezes in the position he takes, and he runs his eyes over the guest, a double take,
a triple take, and he still feels the ridiculous cartoon-movie need to rub his eyes to check if he
perceives reality or he has taken to hallucinations because of too many video games.

Because certainly Jeon Jungkook cannot be standing at his door. Taehyung, if he had to bet, would
quite confidently venture a guess that he has not even heard of the neighborhood Taehyung lives in,
let alone that he pays the occasional visit. Taehyung stares at him, dumbfounded, eyes wide, lips
parted, as if he’s an apparition of some sort and he simply must be, because a Jeon would consider
even the air in this area too unworthy to breathe, the ground too dirty to walk on with Louis Vuitton
shoes.

But someone that looks strikingly alike Jungkook leans his arm at the edge of his doorframe and
looks mind-numbingly relaxed while he’s at it. He dresses like Jungkook, brand names labeling all of
his clothes, and he carries the same ambiance as him, smells like him, which is a scent Taehyung
does not want to admit he recognizes, but he does, it’s inscribed in his memory painfully, attached to
instances, to moments, he cannot allow himself to think about. The guy’s eyes slither across
Taehyung’s body under a skeptically arched brow, as he stands holding the umbrella with confusion
outlined on his features and Taehyung feels his heart palpitate in that very familiar way that only
Jungkook can evoke.
He straightens up. “Can I come in?” He sounds like him as well.

Taehyung feels rather eloquent when all he can produce as he lowers the umbrella and Jungkook
brushes past him without waiting for an actual permission is the exclamation of, “What the fuck?”

Jungkook steps past the threshold of his house as if he has been cordially invited. Taehyung angles
his body sideways to let him through without allowing his shoulder to brush his chest, because quite
frankly, his presence scares him. He has not laid an eye on Jungkook for about a week and a half,
because he has not been in vicinity for the time being. The last time he saw him was beneath that
shower and ever since Jungkook has been AWOL, nowhere to be seen, not at the Ozone, certainly
not at Rouge. If Taehyung didn’t know any better, he’d assume Jungkook was specifically going out
of his way to avoid him. He’d been about ready to be petty about it, certainly not enjoying how he
went to work every single day with the anxiety of potentially seeing him again, and not knowing
how to fully act if he does appear. He knows he has no specific right to act out in any way, but it
does not remove the frustration from overthinking and planning and then wretchedly feeling
ridiculously disappointed when another day passes without Jungkook.

When he settles on an attitude of sheer pettiness, he only knows how to apply it on a waiter-client
basis in the frame of his mind. He certainly has never pre-imagined a situation in which Jungkook
comes to his house, without any warning whatsoever. Not that were he warned, Taehyung would
heed it, as simply it strikes him as a plot of some alternate universe.

“I can’t be home right now and Hoseok and Yoongi can’t know,” Jungkook speaks as he walks in,
his eyes scanning the space he ventures into, head tilting in all directions.There’s something slightly
different to his voice. Taehyung thinks he moves his tongue too quickly. Jungkook turns to look at
him hover at the door, the door he refuses to close, because he refuses to accept Jungkook will
actually linger. He looks at him pointedly, expressively. It’s so uncommon. “And it’s ridiculously
easy to find out your address, wow, this is a shithole.”

“Jungkook,” Taehyung says as he finally gives the door a push and hears it snap shut. He ignores the
fact Jungkook found his address, is not too surprised it’s out there, considering, flattens his
expression slightly at the very much unnecessary comment about his house, but remains surprisingly
unbothered by it, which he largely justifies with the fact it is entirely unsurprising. He slips the
umbrella back into place. “Are you alright?” He isn’t, he can’t be, if he’s here. Something must have
gone horribly awry on a neural, synaptic level for Jungkook to have made the decision to seek out
Taehyung’s house and enter it.

“Don’t know,” Jungkook shrugs and he’s fucking restless with the way he marches off to different
corners of Taehyung’s living room, “haven’t snorted that much coke in a while.”

“Jungkook—"
“Christ,” he interrupts with some questionable passion and charges wide eyes at Taehyung for a
moment before he allows them to continue their rapid exploration of the room, which he regards as if
it is extraterrestrial,“how do you commute every day? I’d move in fucking Rouge if I were you.”

“Jungkook,” Taehyung tries to get his attention again, walking towards him and taking a toy figurine
that he bought for Woojin out of Jungkook’s unwelcome grip. He tries to look at his face, because
when has Jungkook ever moved with such borderline childish energy, tries to find his eyes, but as
soon as he meets them, they are gone, scrutinizing every bit of the space. “What about Julia?” he
asks, because why would he come here, even if Yoongi and Hoseok are not an option, surely
Taehyung’s fucking house is not the next best place.

“Julia?” Jungkook contemplates somewhat animatedly. He’s incredibly chatty, tone light and lifted.
He’s peculiarly breezy and it bothers Taehyung how out of character it is. He has no preconception
on how to deal with this Jungkook, and just how much cocaine did he snort. “Julia’s in Paris. She
wanted a pain au chocolat. Really craved it, she says.”

“Oh,” Taehyung says. He glances down at the toy he now he fingers anxiously. He acknowledges,
“she’s gone.”

Jungkook does rest his gaze on him then, now that Taehyung is not looking. He skids his eyes over
him, dropping them to watch the way slender fingers toy with the figurine. “She wanted me to come
with.”

Taehyung’s eyes lift to his face, but Jungkook’s remain entranced on the digits that twirl around the
piece of plastic. “But you didn’t,” Taehyung says and mostly, it’s a pointless statement. For a
moment Jungkook’s gaze slides upwards and Taehyung can see the width of his dilated pupils before
he takes them away.

“No, I’m off carbs,” he dismisses. “I have to say I did not picture the Kim residence like that.”

Taehyung’s brows shoot up on his forehead. It creases. “The Kim residence?” There is some humor
in his voice as he repeats questioningly. He’s weirdly entertained by the phrase, by the way
Jungkook says it as if he means humor, which is just as bizarre as the very fact he is physically inside
the Kim residence.

“Yeah,” Jungkook nods. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and taps the tip of his
forefinger on his chin and Taehyung has genuinely never seen this much expression on his features if
it is not formulated in a threat. “Looks quite homely,” he shrugs and then shifts a pointed look to
Taehyung. “Still a shithole, though. It could use a renovation.”

Taehyung’s features dull as he returns Woojin’s toy to its rightful place. He expects himself to be
more bothered by such comments, by the very fact that something as expensive as Jungkook is inside
his, admittedly, shithole of a house, an exposure to his monetary vulnerability, perfectly placing
himself in the position to judge and to mock. “I barely have enough money to pay rent,” Taehyung
says because he struggled and sacrificed his sensibility to replace a single stove. He’s not about to do
a fucking episode of Fixer Upper because Jungkook suddenly decided visiting times are open.

Jungkook’s face shifts to something that is more familiar to Taehyung. A smirk graces his features,
though his pupils are wide enough for the glint in them to appear different. It could be only that, or it
could be intention as well, but Taehyung is sure it must be only the former. “Yeah?” his lips curl.
“Want some?” and then, so very casually, with half a shrug, he adds, “You could always suck my
cock.”

An unbidden color coats Taehyung’s cheeks as his eyes roll, a sigh immediately ripped from his
chest, his mouth, and he does not know precisely where he attempts to go – he cannot escape him in
his own house -- but he does mean to walk away from him, the slight concern, drastically
unwarranted, dwindling from his awareness of Jungkook. He manages a step and a half past him
before Jungkook’s body twists to follow his motion and his fingers, warm, latch securely around his
wrist and tug him back, tug him closer.

“Wait,” Jungkook says as his hand briefly trails after Taehyung before he pulls him back and
Taehyung falls into a position that is literal inches before him. “I didn’t mean that.” His eyes find
Taehyung for a moment and he dares to simulate exasperation, “Don’t get offended on me.”

Taehyung’s eyes land on the grip Jungkook perpetuates, his thumb sliding lightly across the apple of
his palm before he follows the gaze to where they touch, and he releases him. Taehyung sighs again,
sighs differently, tiredly, before he glances upwards and allows himself to study Jungkook’s face
again. “Why can’t you go home?” he asks softly.

He’s conflicted. He does not necessarily want Jungkook to leave, but he doesn’t want him there
either, in his home, in his comfort zone, still acting and holding himself with utmost confidence even
if the coke makes him peculiarly bubbly. He says a lot, yes, more than he usually would, but he does
not show much more than he typically does and the frustration of lost communication, of his
reticence characteristically grained into a cool neutrality now animated into chatter, remains.

He does not understand why Jungkook is there and he hopelessly wants to.
Jungkook pries his eyes away. He takes a step, another and he hovers around the couch Taehyung
was sitting on when he was so rudely interrupted. “Clo needs to have the house,” Jungkook says
with absolutely no semblance of being actually informative. “Can I sit?”

“Erm,” Taehyung hesitates, lingering at the other side of his coffee table. He crosses his arms. He has
never expected Jungkook to ask him for permission for anything, let alone twice in one day and
incidentally, this time he actually waits for a response. Taehyung swallows around it, for some
reason it strains to leave his throat, “yes.”

Jungkook easily drops back onto the couch, bouncing once onto it as if he is testing it and he looks
around again, his head finding what the furniture faces, and his features deform with something in
the midst of horror and confusion. He lifts a finger to indicate and he only lets the horror seep into his
voice as he asks, “What is that?”

Taehyung scans his eyes across the room to find what could possibly evoke such a reaction, moving
subconsciously closer in effort to narrow his line of vision with Jungkook’s. His voice is dead with
his reply when he recognizes Jungkook could only be pointing to one object. He blinks at his guest.
“A TV.”

Jungkook leans back into the couch, placing his ankle on top of his knee and for some reason
Taehyung looks at his socks, and God even they look as if they are too much of a luxury to exist in
this neighborhood. He relaxes a single arm on the length of the back of the couch. His posture
annoys Taehyung. Were the places reversed and on some unthinkable instant Taehyung ventured
into Jungkook’s home, he’d probably not make it past his infamous marble hallway without asking
verbal permission to take a step further.

“Ancient,” Jungkook notes and Taehyung groans.

He takes the one step necessary to reach and plops himself down onto the couch too, a hand running
through his hair. He makes a point to sit on a separate cushion, but he angles his body towards
Jungkook nevertheless and looks at him. “Seriously,” he says, “why can’t you just go home?”

Jungkook clicks hit tongue. “Can’t,” is all he delivers.

“Why?”

He does not look at Taehyung, gives him the side of his face so all Taehyung is allowed to notice is
the pull of his jaw, the muscle at the edge of it ticking by his ear. “She feels crowded,” he says, voice
smaller, quicker. He gets it out as if it physically pains his lips to formulate the words. His tongue
pokes out, skims as his lips, “She just needs Seokjin right now.”

“What?” Taehyung asks, his brows furrowing, body involuntary edging forward as he attempts to
catch a glimpse of Jungkook’s expression. There’s something tangibly ominous about the way he
only delivers bits and pieces of information with a heaviness not akin to him. It gives rise to an
awaking concern within Taehyung that he prays to chase away, but it tangles dangerously with his
everlasting curiosity and it is a stimulating combination. “Why?”

Jungkook pauses. He adjusts his position, gets both feet flat on the floor now, knees spreading, just
so he could lean on them to secure his expression as even less visible. “He helps her when she gets
like this,” he says, speaks fast, jaw unhinging and tongue dancing at the relief of his teeth as he
stretches out a silence when he formulates words in his mind, “when she panics. I used to help her
best, but now he helps her better, and she’s better off with one person.”

“She gets attacks?” Taehyung is asking before he really gives himself time to think it is intrusive. He
certainly would not be answering those questions readily if they were falling from Jungkook’s lips in
relation to him, so really, he does not expect much of an answer.

He gets more than he would bet on, though it is much more typically laconic. He gets a shrug. He
gets a mumble of, “Sometimes.”

Jeon Clo Eun gets panic attacks. Perfect, composed, sculptured in every aspect, cruel and beautiful,
Clo Eun who is a Jeon and who always appears so utterly ethereal, who can get men of all ages on
their knees. Clo Eun who is a prodigy at the violin and has whispers in the musical world about her
from professionals who do not give a damn about the name attached to her but are still capable of
acknowledging her potential for classical prowess. Jeon Clo Eun who is Jungkook’s sister. Stone
cold Jeon Clo Eun who is a Taunting Twin. She gets panic attacks.

“That’s—” Taehyung begins and with that he ends. He does not know what to say, how to express
what he is thinking because quite frankly he does not consider his shock that her perfection is
imperfect appropriate. He wants to say sorry, but he is very consciously aware sorry is a piece of shit
word to say when it comes to this. Sorry sounds insincere, stupid, textbook, not something he would
want to hear about Ji-woo if he’d share something like this about her. What Taehyung settles for is
just as stupid and meaningless, because all Taehyung manages to get out into the air between them is
a short, “oh,” a dumbfounded exclamation of realization.

Taehyung doesn’t know much about panic attacks, but he knows more often than not they do not
spiral out of thin air. They carry a history and carry a meaning. Taehyung forgets sometimes, that the
Jeons can hurt as well.
Jungkook turns his head, turns it for barely a moment, and Taehyung does not manage to catch
much, but what he does detect is that Jungkook has receded back into something more guarded than
before, but it feels less cold than it typically does. It feels as if it is not for the sake of instilling a
sensation into Taehyung, not a flash of reticent superiority, but for the sake of shielding Jungkook
himself. “You don’t have to say shit,” he tells him, and he turns his face to his own hands which
meet between his knees. He prods at his ring, slips it off of his finger before he rolls it on again and
Taehyung’s eyes are hopelessly drawn to the motion of it as well. “It’s okay. She gets better,” he
twirls the ring around his second knuckle. His gaze roots to it as if it necessitates his dedicated
concentration. “Just needs him to tell her he loves her.”

Taehyung must have lost his sense of a filter because he allows words to slip too easily, “Can’t
you?” he asks. “Don’t you?”

The only thing that Taehyung has in his life that he knows he can count on are his own siblings.
He’d thought it was all of them, thought he could count on Namjoon as much as he would allow
Namjoon to lean on him, and for him, he’d bend over backwards. He assigned to him a security he is
too careful to entrust into people because people are fluid, they change. But maybe Namjoon simply
did not love him as much as Taehyung loves Namjoon. He loves Ji-woo, he loves Woojin.

Taehyung does not know if Jungkook is capable of love.

Jungkook’s eyes snap to his and they don’t glare, but they do recapture some of his more
characteristic intensity that makes Taehyung fidget. “Love her?” he says, and his voice is hard for the
duration of the question before his gaze reseals to the motion of his own fingers and it softens,
lowers, “Love her more than anything else, but it’s been getting harder to prove.” He straightens a
bit. “He does it well, he calms her.” He shrugs. “It’s fine.” He shrugs.

Taehyung feels a desire prod at him to press further, see how much he would give, but it is almost
palpable how he closes off more and more with every atypical shrug. He shifts his curiosity in
another direction.

“Why can’t Yoongi and Hoseok know?” he asks because he is more comfortable intruding into his
relationship with his labeled friends than venturing into the territory of his family. Maybe he projects
his own sensitivity on the subject onto Jungkook, maybe he just feels his in the rising tension of his
posture.

Jungkook leans back into the couch again, turning his whole head around to look at Taehyung with
the confidence of insouciance that securely erases any and all affect from his features and allows
them to flatten into a slightly hostile boredom. “You ask a lot of fucking questions, don’t you?”
Taehyung gives a short scoff. His eyes narrow and he is pointed. “You came to my house.”

The other’s head falls back, the whole of his throat exposed and Taehyung’s gaze graces over it,
white and pale, untouched, while his still has a single dwindling mark to remind him of Jungkook’s
touch. “Yeah,” he notes slow and meaningless. “What do you do around here?”

Taehyung watches him for a moment, stares at his jaded eyes as they comfortably fall on his face and
just dart all over. Taehyung feels a sort of defensive animosity that could easily be cause of the
simplicity of Jungkook’s very presence in his house, which conceptually is more unnerving than he
feels it to be, but he senses it grow with the frustration of Jungkook letting him have a taste of
sincerity before slipping into a Jeon, and then immediately recede with a peculiar tug of pity.

Taehyung looks away and allows the enmity of his own eyes to dissipate. “Well, when my family is
out –”

Jungkook’s brows lift. “Your family is out?”

He nods. He honestly does not know how either Jungkook or he would have explained his presence
to Ji-woo had she been there, but in earnest Jungkook would probably not have made it past the door
if she were. “My brother’s at a sleepover,” Taehyung says. He pauses, ponders, a quick poke of his
tongue at his lips. “My sister’s at a different kind of a sleepover.”

Jungkook does not shift a muscle, relaxed onto the back of the couch, his body almost slacked in a
posture not entirely as graceful as himself. “So, it’s true, she is a slut.”

Taehyung’s eyes snap to him, flashing with an offended warning. His teeth click together as he
pronounces his name, “Jungkook –"

“What?” Jungkook interjects and lets his palms fall on the cushions of the couch around him.
“There’s nothing bad about it.” He uses them to prop himself up and sit a little straighter, but his eyes
do not shift away from Taehyung’s face. “I’m kind of a slut, if you haven’t noticed, fuck pretty boys
when I should be fucking my girlfriend.”

Taehyung has his lips parted and tongue readied to snap, but instead his jaw slackens. He goes blank
for a moment, keeps his glare firm on Jungkook. He has no proper response formulating as his mouth
clicks and his blood rushes at the fact Jungkook would as much as mention it after disappearing for a
week and a half. Jungkook confuses Taehyung, confuses the fuck out of him and he frustrates him,
and angers him, and turns him on and makes him goddamn curious about Jungkook and about his
own self, and he simply doesn’t know what to do with that.

So he turns his head away, looks at the TV, answers his previous question, “I was playing video
games” He adjusts on the couch, puts the ankle of one leg underneath the thigh of the other. “You
interrupted me.”

Jungkook’s head cocks. “Video games?” his voice lilts lightly.

“Are you going to insult that about me as well?” Taehyung says dully.

“No, actually…” he fully straightens now. He pauses, so visibly hesitates. “What were you playing?”

Confuses him. Taehyung frowns. Jungkook is the most perplexing individual he has ever met.
Taehyung is almost cautious as he pauses, mulls over the potential repercussions of answering such a
simple, easy question. “…Overwatch.”

He does not know what to expect as a reaction, but he certainly did not imagine Jungkook would
perk up. But he does. His eyes grow a tiny bit wider, brows shoot up and lips press together
appreciatively. “Really?” he quirks. “Shit. I haven’t played in months.”

Taehyung blinks. “You play Overwatch?”

And the pattern begins again. Perfect Jeon Jungkook, stone cold, untouchable, unattainable,
underground fighter Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook who is so constantly and pointedly bored because he
cannot be seen entertained by the peasantry of those around him, who spends his pastime snorting
coke and fucking girls (and Taehyung, maybe), and knocking people out. Taunting Twin Jungkook
plays fucking video games.

It’s such a normal thing to do. Taehyung doesn’t only forget Jeons can get hurt. He forgets
sometimes they’re people as well and can’t only fill their time with being rich and being pricks.

Still, how does Jeon Jungkook play fucking Overwatch?

Jungkook adjusts on the couch and he scoffs a bit, speaks with a bitterness that is not reserved for
this conversation, “Not since someone cracked my rib once and my father blamed it on video game
overdose and not the fact the guy was double my size.”

Taehyung’s eyes dart across Jungkook as he takes his face away from him with that final adjustment
on the cushion. He doesn’t have anything to say to this as well, though he doesn’t figure voicing the
slight pity that reemerges and thwarts his attempt to give way to the distaste at having Jungkook in
his house, but he simply cannot find in himself as desperately as he searches for it.

He flicks his brows up even if Jungkook isn’t looking at him anymore. “Want to play?”

“Fuck, yes.”

Taehyung stands up, gets a second joystick, sits back, unintentionally sits a bit closer on the cushion
next to him as he holds the joystick close to his lap to take it to him. Jungkook takes it as if the two of
them can on any level be truly casual.

The game loads. Taehyung licks his lips, hesitates. Then he speaks. “So, your father knows you fight
illegally?”

The game starts.

“Oh, he’s a fan,” Jungkook laces the words in a sour irony. “He doesn’t much care for the word
illegal. It’s explaining my injuries at luncheons and gatherings that bothers him, mostly.”

There’s something about the attention of both of them being reserved entirely on the flashing screen
that makes thinking less enough for the conversation to have some peculiar flow that is almost
ordinary.

“That’s shit,” Taehyung states, genuinely.

“Yeah,” Jungkook grumbles out. His thumbs move on the joystick easily. “Being rich is not always a
walk in the park, either, Kim.” He gives him a side glance short enough to smirk with the sound of
his family name.
Taehyung’s eyes roll. “Yeah?” he clicks on his joystick passionately. “I’ve actually heard your father
is the biggest piece of shit in all of Richhood.” His pupils dart to the side and return immediately to
the screen. “No offense.”

Jungkook remains focused on the TV. “None taken. Your sister is entitled to think he’s a piece of
shit.”

“She?” Taehyung’s brows crease. His head shifts for a moment long enough to see Jungkook nod.
“Why?”

Jungkook’s teeth find his lip and maybe it’s in concentration. “Don’t you talk?”

Taehyung shrugs. He feels a compulsion to look at Jungkook, but the motion on the screen is
gripping enough for now. “We used to,” he confesses, “Now, not much more than you and your
sister do, I suppose.” He says it, pauses, thinks. Jungkook does not reply, not immediately, and his
eyes seek him out. “Sorry, I—"

“It’s fine,” Jungkook interrupts. There’s a part of him that inexplicably wants for someone Taehyung
trusts, someone like his sister, to stress to Taehyung just how much of a piece of shit his father is, so
that he knows for sure that Jungkook means it when he says his father would be the type of person to
slice of that which dictates him a man if he knew the last few times Jungkook fucked his own
girlfriend who has been accredited as the perfect woman he thought about Taehyung. “God,”
Jungkook exhales a bit as the game loads for a moment again and Taehyung looks at him feel the
controller around in his hands, staring down at it with a somewhat innocent hint of fascination that
manages to break through the walls he now builds. “I haven’t held a joystick in so long.” He glances
up. “I’ll still beat your ass, though.”

The game has loaded. Taehyung scoffs, his head shaking as he sits more comfortably, leans on his
knees to give the TV the full concentration it deserves. “No chance, rich boy,” he clicks his tongue.
“All the time you’ve spend licking ass at luncheons I’ve spent practicing.” And the game has started.
“I’ll own your ass.”

Jungkook reciprocates the scoff, furnishes it with a tug of his lips, a smirk that is somehow crafted
and not warranted, a smirk that is for the sake of conversation. “Please,” he stresses. “I already own
yours,” He says and Taehyung presses on a button with his thumb much too hard and the joystick
almost slips from his hands, but he firms his grip at the last moment. “Allow yourself some self-
respect and keep your mouth shut before you embarrass yourself.”

Another loading screen and Taehyung’s eyes are back on Jungkook, always on Jungkook as the
both of them sit on his couch, the couch of the Kim Residence in mirroring gaming postures
swearing they’ll beat each other’s asses on a game.

And Jungkook’s head snaps to him, “What?”

Taehyung blinks, pauses. “What?”

Jungkook’s chin juts at him a little. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Like what, Taehyung wants to say, but he doesn’t because he already knows his eyes are a bit too
wide, and his lips part when they don’t need to. So instead of preserving an attitude, he simply says
softly, he voices his thoughts, “You look so fucking out of place here.”

“Yeah?” Jungkook indicates with his whole face, with his brows, his tongue poking in his cheek and
then his attention returns on the screen because the game has loaded. But Taehyung just keeps
looking at him, at the protruding skin and flesh at the side of his face as his tongue prods at it from
the inside. His mouth seals shut, and he takes a brief moment. “I don’t feel that out of place.”

Taehyung loses the next game.

Taehyung does not know how much time passes, but it feels incredibly short when the alarm on his
phone goes off and then another sound rings around from the room under the stairs. He reaches for
his phone to shut it off which, incidentally, is between the cushions of the couch on the other side of
Jungkook. He aims for it so reflexively he does not factor in it will demand for his body to layer and
hover over Jungkook’s lap as his fingers feel around for the device. Jungkook leans back, stares at
the screen and Taehyung stares at it as well before he clicks the one button necessary for the phone
to shut up and he discards it again somewhere on the soft surface.

Taehyung’s straightens up and stands and if reaching over Jungkook’s lap so casually is a
transgression of some sort neither of them addresses it. “Laundry’s done,” he says in justification.

Jungkook’s forehead creases. “Laundry?”

“Yeah?” Taehyung nods, widens his eyes on purpose as he animatedly explains, rotating his
forefinger in the air to simulate the motion of a washing machine. “You know that thing that gets
your clothes clean.”
Jungkook glowers at him, though it holds little of the typical intensity of a Jungkook glare. “I know
what laundry is, Taehyung.”

Taehyung is walking towards the room where the washing machine and the drier are situated and
surprisingly, Jungkook gets up to follow. “Good then,” Taehyung directs behind his back, “you’re
not completely imbecilic.”

He saunters in and Jungkook leans at the doorframe of the inexistent door because there hardly is
enough room for Taehyung and the laundry basket he keeps on top of the washer, let alone the both
of them, inside. He crosses his arms as relaxes the side of his bicep onto the wood. “Careful,” he
says, eyeing Taehyung as he kneels in front of the drier.

“Why?” Taehyung says and he feels humor but speaks flat. “Thought I was too pretty for you to
break my face,” he challenges just a little snidely. He allows his eyes to meet Jungkook’s under
strands of his bangs, a stilted playfulness residing there to be masked over by dullness.

Jungkook shrugs as Taehyung piles clothes in his basket. “You have a lot of bones.”

“Okay,” Taehyung says as he shuts the door of the drier and puts the basket on top to have space to
straighten up, “but I need them to do laundry, so please, refrain.”

“Can’t you do it later?” he asks, but there are not enough drugs in the world for him to add,because I
want to play video games with you now.

“No,” Taehyung says and looks at him as he speaks, tries to articulate his point with his features as
well as if he is partaking in a completely normal conversation, “clothes were in the drier. It will start
to stink, water comes back down the pipe and gets the fabric wet again and keeping it in a closed
space is not pretty. “

“That’s information I will forget,” Jungkook informs him as Taehyung refocuses to inspect the
clothes for any missing socks.

“Doesn’t suit you to know it, anyway,” he mutters to him as he feels around the basket and scowls
down at some moist fabric that brushes his skin. “Shit,” he breathes through his nose, some
underlying exasperation, “half of those are still fucking wet.”
Jungkook taps a finger on his forearm, raises his eyebrows. “Need a new machine?”

Taehyung’s head snaps to him, his eyes growing immediately wide and the exasperation is anything
but underlying now. “If you tell me to suck your cock, I swear—"

“I wasn’t,” Jungkook interjects, but he is smirking, and Taehyung does not know what Jungkook
would have suggested exactly, but he is certain he would have not liked the sound of it. Maybe the
feel of it, yes, but that’s a whole other story outside of the frame of any sort of payment.

Taehyung slumps his shoulders as he places both his hands on the handles of the basket. “I need to
sort these out,” he tells Jungkook. “Upstairs.”

He secures the basket in his grip and pushes past Jungkook, who angles his body easily to let him
slip through, trailing his attention after him.

“Okay,” he replies and uncrosses his arms, extends a motioning hand in front of Taehyung in a way
that is ridiculously gentlemanly, and Taehyung wants to roll his eyes, “lead the way.”

He glances at him. “You’re coming?”

When Taehyung turns and walks, Jungkook follows with a shrug. “Want to see more of the Kim
residence.”

“Fine,” Taehyung says with a careful glance behind his back as he leads him to the kitchen. “Don’t
trust you to leave you here, anyway.”

Jungkook captures his eyes for the short amount of time he gives them to him and accompanies the
contact with another small smirk. “When have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?”

Taehyung almost chokes on the snort that follows as he pauses on the bottom of his stairs because it
is unsafe to be walking up and processing Jungkook’s last joke at the same time. Taehyung allows all
of the incredulity he contemplates into his expression as he shakes his head and starts up. “Coke
makes you fucking weird.”
Jungkook shrugs as he trails behind. “Sometimes.”

Taehyung tries hard not to be entertained as he climbs up. “Mind the second step,” he warns.

“Renovate,” Jungkook says.

“Fuck you,” he replies, realizes the door he’s opened at the second the words depart his mouth and
he turns at the top of the stairs, sliding a momentary glare towards him to see the clear intention on
his face as he glances at it. “Don’t say anything.”

Jungkook raises his brows, once, twice, the smirk secured on his face, but he does remain silent as
Taehyung walks the two steps required to reach the room Woojin and him share.

“Is that your room?” Jungkook asks as he ventures in, eyes scanning the space immediately.
Taehyung strolls over to the closet and cracks the door opened, settling the basket on the lower bunk
that is right next to it.

“Yeah,” he says, his focus on the laundry, as he tries to swallow down some peculiar nervousness
that settles in his stomach and the hollow of his chest. He has not had anyone in his room in literal
years, not since he was a child, and he realizes the room itself tells more than he would like to. It’s
been the same ever since he was born, the furniture inside of it as well, and each sticker on the doors
of the closet, the walls, the scratches onto wood is a piece of memorabilia by itself. There are stickers
from a variety of his and Namjoon’s anime phases, a few too many Naruto ones on the window sill.
There are toys he used to play with that now Woojin uses. There are the lines that Woojin makes on
the desks of the top bunk with his math’s compasses to count the days for which their father
disappears.

There is no way for Jungkook to know the meaning of those lines, to understand their treacherous
vulnerability, to know that Taehyung counts them as well when he tells Woojin goodnight, but he
still feels overly aware of the corners of this room which are usually privy to him and his family
alone now exposed to Jungkook’s eyes and he does not shy away from taking, gaze exploring.

Taehyung focuses on laundry because he cannot look at Jungkook look.

“That’s a fucking bunk bed,” Jungkook says as if its existence offends him and tosses himself onto
the double bed propped by the window, adjusting both pillows to hold his head up.
“Saves space,” Taehyung shrugs as he folds some of the clothing that doesn’t need ironing.

Jungkook taps a palm on the cover sheet he lies on as he fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Who
gets the double?”

“Namjoon.”

There’s a pause and Jungkook’s eyes lift from the screen they’ve newly found to glance at Taehyung
who proceeds to sort out fabrics. “Oh.”

“Think you’re the first person to lie down on it since he left,” Taehyung confesses more for his sake
than to be informative to Jungkook. He shifts his gaze to the other as his fingers fumble with a sock
that has attached to a t-shirt. It seems nearly unnatural to have someone lay on Namjoon’s bed, let
alone the likes of Jeon Jungkook.

Jungkook’s brows lift a bit into his forehead and he shifts, straightening, “Are you waiting for me to
get up?”

Taehyung shakes his head, returns his attention to the clothes. “No, it’s fine.” He starts on the socks,
placing a pair together and rolling it into a well held up tight ball.

Jungkook’s brows go further up towards his hair and his nose scrunches. “The fuck are you doing?”

Taehyung is just as confused as Jungkook appears. “Sorting out clothes?”

Jungkook readjusts the pillows underneath him for a second time. A third. Fucking picky. “That’s
how you fold socks?” he says, exclaims almost.

Taehyung shakes his head, sighs, chases away the small smile that attempts to tug at his lips. “Of
course, you don’t even know how to fold fucking socks.”

“Hey,” Jungkook says, his returning to the glaring device in his hand as he speaks, “you don’t know
how to tie a tie. I don’t know how to fold socks. I don’t know how to work a laundry machine. You
don’t know how to knock a guy out.” Taehyung glances at him, but he is firmly set on typing a
message. “To each their own.”

Taehyung has little to say to that. He does not really want to verbally agree with Jungkook on
anything, figures it useless. The day has been conceptually traumatizing enough. He allows the
words to linger in the air and returns to his folding, lets Jungkook adjust the pillow for the nth time.

He gives him his back, reserves his whole attention to his closet, so he fails to see the fatal
readjustment. All he is aware of next is that Jungkook’s shuffling on the bed, but then he is not, he is
on his feet.

“What is this,Taehyung?” And it is his voice, so familiar, so much more like the Jungkook he knows
that makes Taehyung spin with alertness not the memory that he is a forgetful idiot.

No, that only comes when his eyes land on the object that Jungkook’s got in his hand, the one he
himself put under Namjoon’s pillow earlier this week because he knows it is the only place in the
whole house that is secure from Woojin’s wandering hands and Ji-woo’s inspections. The object
he’d desperately wanted to remain secret that now resides most comfortably in Jungkook’s raised
hand.

Jungkook who is capable of some striking duality as moments ago he appeared so normal, a bit
petulant, weirdly chill, playing games and marveling at sock folding skills, now glares, poised. His
whole posture is different, stiffer, tighter. He is much more underground fighter Jeon Jungkook, rich
ass prick Jungkook than he is the guy who plays video games.

“Shit,” Taehyung drops a sock back in the basket and reaches for it, but Jungkook raises his hand up
and back as if he is preventing a child from getting its toy, “put it down.”

Taehyung tries to get it again, but it necessitates contact with Jungkook’s body. He would have to
lean a hand on his chest to keep balance if he reaches for it, so his efforts are futile, yet the space
between them is still erased in Taehyung’s mindless endeavor to take it from him. His skin is flaring.
His heart thumps and, god, he wants to fucking hide. It’s granted that Jungkook’s presence in his
house should induce some embarrassment, but he expected it to be more a consequence of Jungkook
further focusing on the fact it is a shithole than this and honestly, he’d rather take Jungkook by the
hand and show him every place in which this house falls apart but this.

Jungkook’s jaw is tighter now. His words articulate careful and hard, puncture through Taehyung’s
skull. “That’s fucking lube.”
Taehyung swallows, his hand still up in the air, but it falls, drops, it’s hopeless. He means to take a
step back but Jungkook just takes it with him, trails forward, and they’re still inches apart. “Yes, I –”

“Who the fuck do you need lube for?” Jungkook seethes and Taehyung still wants to back away, but
he has Jungkook’s free hand, the one that does not hold his idiocy on glaring display, has the fingers
on the other one searing into the flesh of his forearm and holding him in place.

Taehyung tries to look away, formulate a proper sentence as his lips hang opened around unspoken
words, but Jungkook does not allow him much of that as well, tugging at the arm he holds to keep
his undivided attention to himself. Taehyung’s running fingers through his bangs, pushing them
back, opening his forehead and then his eyes, stares at his bare feet and Jungkook’s fancy shoes and
then looks up, meets that glare with something imploring, with an underlying beg of fucking drop
it,“Myself,” Taehyung confesses,“okay?”

Jungkook’s fingers tighten and relax onto his arm. Their pupils seek each other out in a searching
game of darting around that starts to feel as if they have an invisible string attaching them together.
“Yourself?”

Taehyung takes a deep breath in attempt to exhale some of the embarrassment that bundles in his
chest, but it simply does not work. “Yes,” he strains out.

“Just you,” Jungkook elaborates, eyes compelling and voice an oxymoronic mixture of soft hardness.

Taehyung’s tongue pokes at his lips; they feel dry and his throat feels impossibly so as well. “Just
me,” he promises. His lids tremble on top of his eyes, fluttering over his pupils as he falters, “I –
wanted to try something after…” he trails off, sucks his lower lip into his mouth, “your fight.”

“Try something?” Jungkook’s eyes drop, watch Taehyung’s teeth violate his pillowed lips.

“Yes,” Taehyung gulps, the other’s gaze observing the bob of his throat, the almost unnoticeable
mark next to it there unrecognizable for what it is anymore, except Jungkook knows. The fingers on
his arm feel heavy and he tries to pull away.

Jungkook allows him to lose his grip but makes him regret it immediately because he replaces his
hand on his waist instead, fingers snidely slipping in the gap between his elbow and his body and
sealing into the curve above his hip where his palm settles as if it belongs. Jungkook has got a bit too
used to holding him like he would a woman when he wants his attention. “Try what?”

The motion of it brings him closer and now Taehyung instinctively reaches, places a palm on hard
chest to keep a distance he desperately requires right now, because Jungkook’s eyes are charged
now, a tension rising from seemingly thin air. He looks away, looks at the floor, protects the
vulnerability of his blush from the invasive, intense eyes – they’re shameless. They always take so
much and give so little. “Jungkook,” Taehyung says simply, but it rings like a plea. drop this, drop
this, drop this.

His fingers cling a little more than he intends at the fabric of his shirt.

“Just tell me,” Jungkook coaxes in a voice that he lowers so expertly, fills it with a titillating quality
he’s painfully a master of. It teases at the sensitive skin of Taehyung’s reddened cheek.

Taehyung heaves a breath. Jungkook’s hold tightens on him and Taehyung pushes harder at his
chest, yet somehow, they draw closer. He takes his time, hesitates, says in a voice that trembles as it
sneaks through his lips, “With my fingers.”

He burns with the confession but allows himself to say it, nevertheless. He does not see Jungkook as
someone who would give up, and he wants to rip it off, like a band aid, but he also feels the
provocative internal compulsion to tell, to let him know. It’s faultlessly ridiculous, but it’s there
prickling at him from the inside, tainting his blood, clouding his sensibility.

Jungkook does not skip a beat. His eyes are all over Taehyung at the way he tries to avoid any
contact with him, whether it be physical or just the path of their eyes that pull. “Do you like it?” he
asks, the sound of it dripping as lewd as he intends it.

Taehyung needs a breath, he needs to close his eyes shut for a moment, but he does manage a
response, fingers of his both hands fidgeting. “It felt better than I expected, when you,” he pauses,
and it trails off as he swallows around the words he means to say. He blinks and he finds his gaze on
Jungkook’s face, on his cursedly handsome features that currently mask under something that to
Taehyung would have been indecipherable some time ago but now speaks of an awakening arousal
“– to have something inside of me.”

Jungkook’s fingers draw together on his waist and his palm slips, moves, glides ever so gently
around the small of his back, eliciting a shiver as it graces over the tail of his spine before the touch
dips, bold, and then the hand is venturing over the curve of his ass. He handles him with confidence,
as if he has a right to feel him up like this. His palm curls over the flesh and, fuck, that was what
Jungkook had meant when he had hopelessly demanded someone with a real nice ass. He has the
urge to squeeze, the sensation of it so enticing beneath the warmth of his hand, but it would be too
brusque. Taehyung’s obvious embarrassment coils into hesitance, and he has to be tentative.

With his touch, not his mouth. “When I fucked you,” he stresses boldly, takes advantage of
Taehyung giving him his eyes and meeting them, holding them, the current sealing between the
searching gazes, “is that what you wanted to say?”

Taehyung exhales, “Yes.”

There’s something mildly relieving about being able to share this. He is aware people learn about
themselves their entire lives, but it is undeniably frustrating that he is just now exploring a part of
himself he cannot reveal in front of anyone, not Ji-woo, not Jimin. There is some comfort in the
disclosure of it, in the fact that when he breathes the word Jungkook’s hand tightens on his ass and
the lids of his eyes droop with some undeniable headiness.

Jungkook’s head cocks in a way that emphasizes the line of his jaw to Taehyung’s wandering gaze.
His voice, quite frankly, should be illegal in the way it drawls with such intention, such vibrant
salaciousness. “Is that what you think about”

Taehyung turns to the floor again, his fingers curling in the precious fabric of the brand shirt.
“Jungkook,” he nearly whines.

“What,” he stresses tightening his fingers over flesh in a gesture that makes Taehyung squirm, his
eyes forced back to Jungkook to attempt a half-hearted glare, “do you think about? Guys? Me?” As
he indicates his hand slips lower, kneads into the flesh and neither of them really knows why
that would feel so questionably good. Jungkook’s tongue layers over his lower lip before it retracts
into his cheek and the motion of it emphasizes the bone structure of his face, and Taehyung’s eyes
take as selfishly as Jungkook’s tend to, “Do you think about me?”

Taehyung’s teeth press together. He feels the lids of his eyes hover more heavily as they take him in
from just inches apart. “Yes,” he grinds out and gets drawn closer still with the motion of Jungkook’s
hand possessively curled at the flesh of him. The last tug is brusque, fingers slipping from one cheek
towards the other and hover over where he’s most sensitive and Taehyung’s hand charges there on
reflex, fingers sliding around Jungkook’s wrist.

“Yes what?” Jungkook asks, but it vibrates from his chest more like a growl underneath Taehyung’s
palm.“Guys,” his brows lift and fall. His eyes glint. “Bogum?”
“No,” Taehyung denies much quicker than he likes, it falls off his lips almost in an exclamation, and
then his voice softens to fit more into the ambiance of the exchange, “not guys.” And because
Jungkook’s proximity, his touch, and his eyes spark some unhealthy incapability of lying in
Taehyung, he proceeds to confess, “You.” And he gulps with it, darts his gaze across every detail of
his face, the scar on his cheek. “I thought about you.”

Jungkook steps closer and he can almost feel him now, easily senses the heat that comes from his
body. There is no space for Taehyung’s arm between them anymore so the hand slips, glides across
the hard length of his chest and stomach and curls instead a bit around his hip to have leverage to
push away, he justifies.

“How does it feel?” Jungkook asks and the sensation of his palm over him makes Taehyung
dangerously aware of himself, of just exactly how it felt, how it can feel.

“Good,” he exhales earnestly. Jungkook’s breath fawns across his face, his lips, and it coaxes lost
confessions out of him, forces him to fall in into a mirroring manner of speaking, so undeniably
charged with a tension of want, pries answers from him that Jungkook doesn’t even seek, the
following sigh that escapes through him, “It feels so good.”

Jungkook’s palm and fingers feel so unbelievably hot even over the safety of the fabric of his pants
and he prays to god he does not unintentionally arch back into the grip like a small part of him urges
to do.

“Better than me?” Jungkook challenges, demands, along with a motion of his hand, kneading back
into him, and Taehyung’s gasp falls from his lips and slips right into his own.

“No,” he shakes his head. “No,” he says because Taehyung did entertain for a bit the salvation from
Jungkook could come if he could manage to make himself feel good like that, like he hadn’t before,
but even with his thoughts constantly shifting to the way he’d fucked him against that wall, it’d been
nowhere near. “Incomparable,” Taehyung breathes because Jungkook had been just that,
incomparable to any experience of the sort he had had before, and it makes Taehyung helplessly
crave a relief he knows comes with a burden that is not really worth it.

But Seung Julia said something very simple in the beginning of all this. It’s what I want, she’d said,
and she’d shrugged as if it were simple. It’s what I want, she’d repeated, so easily. And Taehyung?
Taehyung wants Jungkook.

“Why?” Jungkook asks, his tongue slickening over his lips. He curls his palm almost offensively
over Taehyung’s ass and tugs him closer, the other easily falling into the step he forces him to take
and he’s pressing into himself now, bodies smoothing together. “Why, tell me?” His words come
quicker now, with a quality to them that appears atypically ravenous for the pure fact that hunger is a
need so deprived of control.

There’s something entirely encouraging in the crack of composure. Taehyung latches onto any
reciprocity of affect and he is certainly far away from being collected. It burns into him that
Jungkook slowly slips out of that as well, though he supposes he must have been slipping long
before, when he touched Taehyung, when he made the decision to come to his house. “My fingers,”
Taehyung stutters with it, the arousal of it, of having Jungkook’s hard body pressed into him like
that, his scorching hand fondling over him, is not enough to erase the embarrassment of verbally
addressing something so personal he has not even communicated fully to himself, “they, they are
not…” he pause, he’s pausing, he’s sighing, “enough.”

Jungkook inhales audibly, his gaze so powerful with the way it dances over Taehyung’s face. The
intensity of his eyes is unrivaled in the way it manages to make Taehyung lose his mind.

There’s a beat. “Can you show me?”

And Taehyung’s heart is beating, running, crashing. His chest closes in and he almost jokes around
it, jokes around the “What?” that escapes through his mouth so sharply as breath is pried out of him
so savagely.

It’s instinctual that as his body grows so alert, he tries to pull away, his fingers tightening over
Jungkook’s wrist and pushing by his hip, but Jungkook is stronger, he does not allow him to move,
to escape. He holds him where he likes him and voices darkly, demandingly, voices in the way he’d
orchestrated and directed their nights with Julia, with an authoritative dominance that so naturally
slips him. “I want to see.”

Taehyung’s insides boil with the prospect of it, but his mind does as well, boils and sears into a
useless fucking mess and he cannot think straight. Cannot think straight past the way he so firmly
says, “No.”

No. no no no. It’s ridiculous how a man who’s fucked him can make him blush so easily, like a
fucking schoolgirl.

“Taehyung—”

“No.”
“Don’t you want to know what it felt like for her?” Jungkook murmurs to him and the feel of the
words hits Taehyung’s lips. “Why she wanted it so much? To be watched.”

Taehyung needs to take his eyes away because Jungkook’s are lethal. “Why would you,” he says, he
tries, he stumbles, “why would you want that?”

In Taehyung’s mind there is something so discernably gay in this. Feeling is one thing, he thinks, that
when Jungkook fucked him he felt him, took pleasure in it himself, and it was different, not
Taehyung on the spot, exposed and vulnerable. No, now Jungkook wouldn’t be feeling he’d only be
looking and what if it looks disgusting.

“I want to see what you do to yourself,” Jungkook’s voice seems worse now that Taehyung takes his
eyes away, because he moves to speak in his ear, whispers so gently by it, his words dripping with
coaxing eroticism that might as well be poisonous. “It’s only fair. You’ve seen what I do when I
think about you.”

Taehyung’s brows crease. His head shakes. “No, I…” he attempts but it trails over into oblivion with
the way Jungkook’s hand fondles into the flesh of his ass.

Jungkook’s lips press at his ear then, cool at the lobe of it, and his words are practically a breath, a
breath that knocks Taehyung’s own out of his body. “I fuck my girlfriend, Taehyung.”

“Shit,” Taehyung mumbles. Shitshitshit. It’s absolute fucking shit. He’s lying.

“Let me see,” Jungkook’s saying. Taehyung’s heart is hammering. He is speaking in his ear and then
he is not because his mouth is busy, his teeth taking the lob of it lightly, applying just enough
pressure to elicit a surprised gasp out of Taehyung. “Please,” Jungkook’s voice rings as he cocks his
head, his tongue skimming at the shell of Taehyung’s ear. “I know you’re getting hard, Taehyung. I
can feel you,” he mumbles to him, discards the lube onto the bed so his hand can cheat at this, palm
at him.

Taehyung’s breath stutters, his hips chiding forward into the touch.

“Don’t you want to make yourself feel good?"

He does, with the way Jungkook’s palm fits over him so easily, over his growing hardness, the way
he is so aware of his own ass, pulsating with the lingering touch over it.

Taehyung pushes him away and only manages an actual result because Jungkook certainly does not
expect it.

“Okay,” Taehyung breathes. His chest lifts and falls heavily. “Okay, but you will sit.”

Jungkook’s lips part, the beginnings of a protest, but then they seal. His eyes seem darker somehow.
“Where?” the word drops, strikingly conclusive.

Taehyung swallows. “Here,” he indicates the lower bunk. “You’ll sit there.”

There’s a pause. There’s a challenge between them, a challenge that lurks in the fact Taehyung gives
a direction. He sees Jungkook’s teeth line together with the press of his jaw. “Okay,” he says. He
takes a step and Taehyung takes one back, knocking his back into the poll that holds the upper bunk
and his breath catches as Jungkook stands before him, so close yet again. “Okay,” he simply repeats,
and he does, spins almost on his heel and he sits down onto his brother’s bunk bed.

Taehyung’s gaze hopelessly falls onto him as he stares back unforgiving. He almost understands
why Jungkook had almost sounded offended in his indication of the bunk bed. The sight of him on it
is incredulous. He sits with that posture of possession that naturally comes to him, knees spreading
wide and muscular thighs claiming the space.

Taehyung gives him his back as he steps forward and Jungkook’s eyes shamelessly roam over the
globe of his ass, so perfect. He stands, staring at the coming darkness outside the window as he
undoes the cuffs of his shirt. He pulls it out of the confines of his pants. His fingers tremble slightly
with the way he moves. His heart refuses to calm in his chest, but he does it nevertheless, pops the
button of his trousers, slides them down his thin, long legs slowly.

He is undeniably nervous about doing this, but in a way that is curiously exciting. It is with a
thundering adrenaline that he feels Jungkook’s eyes scorch into him as he slithers the fabric lower
and lower, his body bending.

Jungkook finds Taehyung simply enthralling. It is the first time he sees that much of him, first time he
sees his legs and fuck, even they are pretty. His skin is just as flawless, his thighs much meatier than
Julia, in a way that makes his hands want to reach and squeeze. He keeps his shirt on as he steps out
of the pants and it looks so big on his as it droops over narrow shoulder. Let loose now it hides the
curvature of his behind, as he bends and as he straightens and Jungkook has to chastise himself into
patience. He does not want to seem eager, enough is enough.

His teeth find his lips, and he watches, watches as Taehyung hesitates with the way his fingers fit
into the bands of his underwear, watches his chest raise and fall as his back expands with his ribcage
even underneath the loose shirt at the loaded breath he takes. He is so excruciatingly slow in the way
he takes them off and he has to hold back, hold his tongue back, hands back, does not want to give
him a reason to stop.

Taehyung steps out of the underwear as well as he straightens and, shit, Jungkook hates that shirt. He
wants to see, see if bare his ass is as good as it seems, as it feels, as round and thick. Taehyung is
skinny, but the curve of him after the gentle dip of his back is so eloquent, he cannot help but admire.
Any woman would be envious of him.

Jungkook leans forward, places his elbows on his thighs. It is an incredibly uncomfortable position
for him, makes the fabric of his pants press into his hardening length, but he cannot care for a
moment. “Do you get on your hands and knees?”

Taehyung’s head turns, he looks at him over his shoulder, gaze unbelievably sultry underneath the
light strands of his hair and he probably doesn’t even know it, doesn’t realize to Jungkook he appears
blatantly seductive with the way he shows so much, yet so little, stands there with his long, pretty
legs on show and the shirt hiding everything else, giving him this innocent, bratty over the shoulder
glance, blushing like this. His fucking lids bat.

It makes Jungkook almost as angry as it turns him on.

“I—once, yes. Once not.”

Jungkook’s brows lift. “Twice? Have you done this twice?”

Taehyung nods. Jungkook breathes.

“Did you like it on your hands and knees?”

Taehyung takes his head away. “Yes,” he hisses out and the frustration of it is visible in his
shoulders.
“Get on your hands and knees, Taehyung.”

Taehyung swallows, his throat bobbing with it. Jungkook makes this so much easier for him, telling
him exactly what he wants, because he has the inadequate urge to deliver, exactly as he feels it
would rid him of a sense of inadequacy in this case. He climbs onto the bed palms first, crawls onto
it. He hopes his elbows don’t give.

The shirt rides up with the way his back naturally curves with the position he takes, the back of him
exposed.

Jungkook breathes. “Show me,” he urges, the lisp of hunger still coating his lips.

Taehyung reaches for the discarded bottle as he holds himself up on the other before he relaxes onto
his calf for a moment long enough to squirt some amount on his fingers. He drops the object that got
him into this onto the bed again, rubs his fingers a bit to heat it up, having learned from the first, the
second time. He tries to pretend Jungkook is not there, not scrutinizing him with those heavy,
loathsome eyes, that he’s simply horny and lonely and wants to try some stuff out.

It’s impossible, though, because he feels himself arch his back more, take his time. He wants to
please, desperately wants for Jungkook to like what he sees. He props a palm on the bed, bends on
hands and knees and he screws his eyes shut, tries not to think what he exposed of himself and
reaches. His circles a single finger around his rim, lets it slip, feels his lips part with the pressure of it,
releases a breath when it falls in fully.

He’s slow but he manages, gets it to one knuckle then the next. He tests the feeling of it, pulling it
out almost to the tip before he presses it back in and then again. He picks up a tentative rhythm with
it, his skin burning, heart thundering. His mind pulses with Jungkook’s name, he’s so aware of him,
his presence, his eyes, his opinion.

He feels himself putting on a show he’s not rehearsed for, something he does not know how to do.
He naturally falls into the pattern of it, of throwing his head down and moaning when he doesn’t
need to, of rocking his hips back onto his fingers when he still hasn’t got into it. He represses a
compulsion to look at Jungkook, knows it will only make him shake again and he’s just barely
learned to stand straight. In his mind he understands this has grown to be for him, for Jungkook, but
he wants it to appear as if it is for himself, his own sake.

He stills his ministrations to press the tip of a second finger. He eases it into himself, careful. He
slides both thin fingers in. Jungkook’s had been thicker the first time he’d opened him up and
Taehyung feels himself miss that thickness, crave it as he works himself. He curls the digits inside of
himself, tries to find the spot that makes his moans real, parting his fingers to seek some of that
missing thickness.

His cock pulses, feels heavy, and at this point he would have probably touched himself, were he
alone, but he holds back, fucks himself with two fingers and slowly it’s starting to build up into the
reason he’d started doing this, the pleasure growing tangible in parts of him, his bones, his skin, his
blood. He’s truthful when he says it feels good to have something inside of him, the stretch of it still
burns slightly, but it’s easy and it’s gratifying before it is anything else.

He thrusts his fingers forward, moves his hips back. His head arches onto his shoulder and when a
sound escapes him this time it’s genuine. His breath traps in his chest, then in his throat, it catches. It
gets harder to control as he fucks himself with his fingers as Jungkook watches.

Maybe Taehyung does understand why Julia had enjoyed this, there is something incredibly pleasing
about feeling so desired, something drastically disarming, so bittersweet, in revealing himself like
that, doing something so intimate and private for the eyes of someone else. Taehyung does know,
though, it is only because it is Jungkook, he’s conscious of it no matter how much he wants to
pretend this is all some long journey of discovering his sexuality and along with it latching onto a
couple of kinks. He is perfectly aware kissing Bogum had felt nothing like anything that Jungkook
had ever allowed, that him merely fixing his tie takes his breath away more.

He knows he would not be bending over like that for someone else, because nobody else hold this
unwavering authority that Jungkook does, this inexorable dominance that bristles off of him in waves
and coaxes Taehyung into a strange obedience.

He grinds onto his fingers harder.

“Won’t you add a third?” Jungkook’s voice sounds and, fuck, he will. He does. Halts for a moment
long enough to slip a third finger inside of himself, does not slide it in carefully enough, but he
doesn’t care, he wants to keep going.

He moans with the feel of it – it stretches him. And then he moves.

And Jungkook’s on his feet. Jungkook’s on his fucking feet, and he means to turn around, tell him to
sit, but he doesn’t. He allows him to come closer, feels the bed dip as Jungkook raises a knee, presses
it onto the mattress next to Taehyung’s calves.
A hand is on his ass, on one cheek of it as Jungkook pushes his shirt away and Taehyung’s eyes
screw shut tighter.

Fingers knead into the flesh of him and he keens, a strangled sound escaping from his throat as he
attempts to hold himself up.

“You’re so fucking hot, Taehyung,” Jungkook growls, voice so naked and depraved, and
Taehyung’s hips stutter. Were he to turn, he’d see his gone eyes, glazed over with the darkness of
pure wanton as he watches the pretty boy fuck himself on his fingers for him, make a show, give a
show, back so gracefully curved, the line of his spine so gentle it could only be feminine. But it’s not,
he’s not. He’s a boy, pretty boy, pretty beautiful boy, who works his ass opened. “Fuck yourself so
good for me.”

Taehyung’s breath leaves him in sighs, in grunts. He lets Jungkook watch from so close. It feels
exhilarating to know he’s behind him, to feel him touch him.

Jungkook’s fingers slide closer to where Taehyung’s are until they brush the skin of his wrist and,
god, he’ll just about die.

And then Jungkook’s digits are squeezing into his cheek and his other hand raises, stills Taehyung’s
hips.

“Taehyung,” he’s saying and all he does is whine unintelligibly in response. “Taehyung,” he’s
breathing, “can I fuck you?”

The pause stretches long, too long. It’s heavy between them, tense, and every inch of Taehyung’s
skin feels as if it’s on fire.

He cranes his neck, takes his fingers out, bites his lower lip. And then he says, “Please.”

Jungkook’s undoing his belt before the word has fully left his mouth, fingers almost clumsy with the
way they work it and he has not felt like this since he was sixteen. Taehyung leans on both palms
now and his back dips with the new position, ass arches more, arches better, and fuck him if it is not
a sight to behold.
Jungkook wonders if he should do another line before he fucks him, makes everything more
intense, but maybe less real and he decides he doesn’t really want that, not now, he’s still high
enough, at least feels like it with the way his heart thunders and blood pulses, though he thinks he
would much like to do a line of his ass, the curve of it beautiful. He’s so impossibly perky and it
fucks with Jungkook’s mind, boys are not supposed to be built like this, but there he is.

Taehyung’s gaze on him reserves that inescapable sultriness he deems him unaware of as he bats
lashes and waits, bent over. But then his voice drawls as seductive as those eyes, dangerous eyes that
maybe fuck with Jungkook’s mind as much as his ass does. “Can you take off your shirt?” he asks
and Jungkook really wants to fuck that curious innocence out of him because it has no place
sounding at his lips when he’s bent over ready to be rammed like a girl. “I like your body,”
Taehyung tells him.

Jungkook does not say anything, simply reaches for his buttons, undoes them slow, but not painful,
and he lets the material slip from his shoulder, basks in the way Taehyung’s eyes layer over him,
attesting to his claim as they dart all across, pausing at every dip of muscle, at the lines and veins that
lead lower, that disappear into his pants and Jungkook makes sure he is still watching when he
undoes them, slips his cock out with a breathy exhale of relief.

Taehyung’s tongue pokes over his lips. Suddenly he recounts how heavy the length of him had felt
on his tongue and he’s captured off guard by the rising desire to put it in his mouth a desire that will
in no way serve him, but he thwarts it because he feels so fucking empty and every bone of his urges
him to do anything to get the delicious stretch again, to be filled.

Luckily, Jungkook appears desperate. He fishes his wallet out of the pocket of his pants, takes a
condom out and throws it on the bed, easily the most expensive thing that has freely roamed this
house, but he doesn’t give a fuck, because Jungkook is tearing the condom opened, slips the
wrapping in his back pocket and rolls it on.

One of his hands returns to Taehyung’s ass, cupping over the cheek and pushing at it, spreading it
opened as he holds himself, fisting over the length casually before he lines himself up. Taehyung’s
well stretched out, lubed up, not like before, not with just spit, but Jungkook still feels so incredibly
thick as he presses the tip past his rim that Taehyung’s elbows finally do give, and he leans on his
forearms, has to, features contorting with the pressure of it.

His lips crack opened, a silent moan hanging in between them as he stares at the sheets, grips at them
with whitening fingers, with the feel of Jungkook entering him.

He fills him up so well, so much better than his fingers ever could.
He’s less careful this time, he’s still slow, still allows Taehyung to adjust to the thickness and length
of him, but he starts rocking lightly so soon, fingers unforgiving as they hold him, one hand
punishing on his ass, the other replacing on his hip once he’s fully directed his cock inside.

He thrusts once, twice, picks up, much more confident to set a pace this time. Taehyung’s whining at
the feel it, trying to bite his lips, keep sounds down, but they’re cracking through despite his resolve.
The stretch of it is what he had shamefully craved when he had first got the chance to try this out
himself, reaching an oxymoronically frustrated relief, because it had just been so almost.

There’s nothing almost about this. It’s everything.

Hands secure around his hips and Jungkook is so quick to fuck him in earnest that Taehyung does
not know what to do with himself. He picks up a punishing rhythm, practically pounding the
frustration of his despicable desire. Jungkook’s wondering if he can fuck Taehyung hard enough to
never want him again, if he can ram him out of his system. He tries to do just that, does not admit to
himself that he’s aiming to angle his hips so he can press into that spot that gets Taehyung to forget
his resolve of keeping quiet.

Jungkook feels he starts nearly slamming his hips into him much too soon, his thighs knocking into
the back of Taehyung’s into crease of the cheeks of his ass, an ass that Jungkook thinks would look
even impossibly better if it had his fingertips all across. But Taehyung just falls on his elbows and
takes it.

Jungkook’s features tense. “How do you take me so well already, fuck?” He can’t be, not with how
fucking tight and warm and wet he feels around him, he must be hurting, at least a little bit, and
Jungkook wants to see,to know it, but Taehyung doesn’t let him. He shows so little now, head
directed now, the shirt hanging loosely over his body.

Jungkook hates nothing more than the fact he does not feel entirely satisfied with watching him from
behind, watching him so impersonal. No, he wants to see his face, witness the sight of what he does
to him betrayed on his expressive, pretty features that he cannot repress no matter how hard he tries
to swallow sounds.

Taehyung presses his forehead into the mattress, keens, but then he has fingers in his hair,
unrelenting strong fingers that pull him up, tug at strands. He moans with it as he straightens under
their command, the sting of it delicious.

“Come here,” Jungkook’s saying, groaning at him, but he’s not giving him much of a chance to do
anything else. He wraps an arm around his middle, muscle of his bulked forearm pressed into his
stomach as he allows Taehyung’s back to lean onto his chest. His teeth catch at his ear for a moment,
rhythm unrelenting. “You like that,” he nearly growls, “you like when I tell you how good you are
for me?”

Taehyung says nothing, bites his lip. The angle is so different, he does not expect the way it reaches
into him, the way it creates more pressure inside of him. The feel of Jungkook’s chest sliding against
his back is ruinous. Taehyung does not lie, he loves Jungkook’s body, the way it’s so crafted and
built and the muscle of it looks good but feels better. The fabric of his thin shirt does little to mask the
heady, heated sensation of so much of his bare skin being pressed into him.

He does not know what to do with his head, has the urge to rest it back onto Jungkook’s shoulder,
but it seems somehow intimate, he realizes it will bring their faces close, raise the foolish desire for
his lips again, a desire he so desperately tries to suppress.

The fingers tighten in his hair when all he does is grunt through savage teeth. “Of course you do,”
Jungkook’s telling him, in his ear, the breath all across his cheek, his neck, the vibrations from his
words rumbling from his chest onto his back, heat swallows him entirely the shirt sticking to him
with the growing perspiration of clear-cut raw fucking, and if Jungkook wasn’t holding him up in so
many ways he might have collapsed. “No one ever tells you, do they?” Jungkook’s groaning into the
shell of his ear, but Taehyung still seals his teeth over his lip, and it drives him insane. His hand
releases his hair, circles his body and starts at his chest, slips up until fingers close around the
beginnings of his throat, like that one time in the storage room in Rouge, and it strangles a gasp out
of him, mouth helplessly parting. “A Jeon’s never told you.”

“Jungkook,” Taehyung pleads though he does not know what it is he asks for, to be let go or not. He
gives up on holding his own head up, cranes his neck back into the crease of Jungkook’s, into the
gap at his shoulder, his hair attaching to his skin with the sweat of it.

Jungkook keeps moving and Jungkook keeps talking, his fingers ever so lightly applying pressure
where they wrap around his neck.

“You’re so good for me, fuck” he grunts out as he snaps his hips up inside of him, voice still as
depraved, lustrous, gone, he’s gone and there is something so visceral about the way his lips brush
Taehyung’s ear as they form strung out words, “the prettiest thing I’ve been inside.”

Taehyung’s gone, just as gone, if not more. The hunger that levitates from Jungkook feeds into him,
into his own and escalates it and it’s already dangerous to start with in the way it obliterates the
chance of actual thought.

This is not about thinking, though. It’s about feeling, so that’s what Taehyung allows himself to do,
sex, it’s about sex. Jungkook is the only one who can do him like that, the only one who knows that
Taehyung wants it, why Taehyung wants it. And Taehyung is the only one who can know this about
Jungkook that he also wants to be inside a boy, so really, they’re alone in this, but alone together and
they might as well.

“You’re so good for me,” Jungkook’s whispering to him and in his ears it sounds vicious. Like a
promise or a threat, because if Jungkook likes something, Jungkook fucking takes.

And Taehyung’s struggling to breathe and struggling to say, to confess, to himself and to Jungkook
alike, he tells them, “You’re so bad for me.”

He is, horrible for him. But he’s still inside of him, he’s still fucking him, fucking with him. “Then
why are you letting me do this to you, Tae?” He’s asking, voice deadly, intent lethal and he’s
snapping his hips inside of him so hard, there is not way for Taehyung to be coherent, not when he
calls him Tae like that, while he’s so pressed into him, he can feel his chest, his thighs, his arms, his
breath, both as it forms in his body and as it waves over his cheek. “Why?”

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be letting him touch him at all, but he is, and Jungkook is selfish so he’ll
take it. And he genuinely wonders, why would someone like Taehyung let him inside of him like
that, why Jungkook, Jungkook who cannot even take care of his own sister, not anymore.

Taehyung doesn’t know, knows nothing, just this that it’s happening. “I don’t know.” He breathes,
the fingers burn on his neck. “Fuck. I want you.” He says it because it is all he knows. “I want you,”
he confesses and then, just because he is so terribly aware of who is making him feel this, he
whimpers, “Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s breath seems to hitch and still before the next whisper comes in his ear, “I want you,
too.”

Taehyung does stop breathing for a moment, his heart palpitating aggressive in his chest. You have
me, he wants to say. You have me, but he won’t, because yes, Jungkook has him, right now, in that
moment, but he doesn’t deserve him, not now and not at all, not at grand, and he simply cannot let
him know that he does.

So, he doesn’t say anything, nothing but his name, again and then again, and Jungkook seems to
love it. His hand is sinking lower around his stomach until it’s wrapping around him, fist closing over
the length, the base, then it’s on the tip and he’s jerking him off, steady, but fast, so fast as fast as he’s
fucking him and he’s fucking ruining him. And Taehyung’s moaning, coming.
He comes, hard, presses his teeth into his lip punishingly as it tries to part to let out a name again. His
eyes are screwing shut, body trembling. He comes so good, feels so good, a relief so different to that
he can bring to himself even if he’s realized now that he prefers having something inside of him than
jerking off.

Jungkook hates those teeth ridding him of the downright pleasure of hearing that deep voice drawl
his name in such an abandon, but he feels too much to do anything. Taehyung closes around him
when he comes and he fucks into him hard, harder, he’s lost all semblance of a rhythm now that he
sees Taehyung finish, let’s his body do as it wills, let’s it take what it wants and it does manage to
pry Taehyung’s mouth opened again. He’s crying out and Jungkook has to wrap an arm around him
again to hold him for himself as he grinds into him.

He’s coming as well, snapping his hips, once, twice, hard, he’s gyrating inside of him then, grunting
and he might be telling him he’s so good and tight for him as well, but he might just be thinking it
really loud, pulsating in his brain just how good this boy feels.

Jungkook stills inside of him. Taehyung cannot catch his breath yet and neither can the man behind
him, chest rising and falling so hard. He presses his forehead onto Taehyung’s hair, his exhales
ruffling the strands at the beginnings of his neck and it makes him stifle a tremble all over again. He’s
still holding him, arm still draped across his stomach, cock still inside of him.

Taehyung does not know how much longer his knees can hold him up. He’s cracking his eyes
opened, looking at the mess he’s made of Namjoon’s bed, the mess he’s made of himself. He
constricts around Jungkook, does not feel his body is ready to be left to fend for its own. His head is
still gone, but it’s slowly coming around, and he knows reality will start to set in soon.

He knows probably as soon as Jungkook is out of him he’ll be out of his house, so he clings on the
sensation of him draped all over him like this, pressed inside of him, because Taehyung knows what
this is and it is sex and there is effectively no reason for them to stick around each other, but it does
not erase the uncomfortable whim for Jungkook to choose to stay. He cannot even process what
exactly has led to Jungkook ramming inside of him from folding socks.

It takes more than a minute for Jungkook to pull out and Taehyung savors it. He slips out slowly and
Taehyung feels it, all of it, flinches with the sensation of it. Hands leave him next and he wants to be
the one to move first so no matter how much his thighs tremble, how much he just wants to collapse
forward he gets up, off the bed.

Jungkook steps off with his motion, having been just at the edge and Taehyung is stripping the sheets
off of the mattress, needs to get rid of the fact he allowed this on Namjoon’s fucking bed. He gets
them off, tugs them all off, roughly and he’s going down the stairs and around, not even caring much
about the fact he’s completely bare underneath the shirt. He stuffs the sheets in the laundry machine,
turns it on. He cannot be sure Ji-woo is actually going to stay the night wherever she is, and he
certainly cannot think of a way to explain come stains on the bed sheets that have been touched so
rarely since his departure they might as well be considered sacred.

He certainly does not expect that when he walks up the stairs Jungkook would be lying on top of the
duvets that had remained unharmed, appearing as casual as he had before he’d found the lube, legs
crossed, arm propped and one hand holding his phone as he scrolls away with it.

When he senses Taehyung’s presence, which lingers by the door with the surprise of the sight,
Jungkook’s eyes shift to look at him and he does nothing but stretch, his bare chest raising with it,
arms extending to the side, one brushing on the mattress next to him almost indicatively, and maybe
it’s subconscious, but Taehyung’s gaze draw to the natural motion of the gesture.

“Let’s chill here,” he’s almost groaning with the stretch and then he retrieves his previous position,
resting his phone on his stomach as he returns his eyes to the screen. “I’m too lazy to move.”

He’s coming down from a high, Taehyung’s thinking. He should have come down a long time ago,
but then again Taehyung doesn’t know how much he’d snorted and just what quality it
was.Taehyung doesn’t snort, but he knows enough about Richhood to observe that when they do
lines, they need to revisit the bathroom at half an hour, or hour intervals to keep the high going.He’s
still at the door, watching as Jungkook relaxes into the position he takes and tries to ignore the slight
escalation of the pulse of his heart. Whatever it is that rises almost physically in his throat, like bile,
and he swallows it down.

“Okay,” he says, walking in finally. He walks towards his cupboard, makes a very careful squat in
front of it that allows his shirt to cover him and gets his current notebook out with the handout he’s
been working on. “I’ll do some work.”

“Work?” Jungkook’s brows arch as Taehyung tosses the sheets onto the bed by his crossed feet. He
is reaching for his underwear next, mouth opening to provide a response, but Jungkook is cocking
his head, clicking his tongue. “You don’t really need those, do you?”

Taehyung slides his eyes to him, goes almost whiny, “Jungkook.”

He shrugs, returns his gaze to his phone. “Your shirt leaves enough to the imagination. Just do your
work.”
Taehyung sighs, drops the fabric onto the floor just because he doesn’t want to wear the same pair
and is all too worn out to find others. He lies himself on the bed where he’d thrown the paper,
propping on his elbows as he presses his stomach on the mattress, body in reverse to Jungkook’s and
keeping his distance.

He filters the papers out, seals his gaze on them, and tries to pretend he is not as aware of Jungkook’s
body next to him as he is.

“So, what’s work?” Jungkook asks though his attention is on his phone.

Taehyung hesitates for barely a moment. “I’m trying to get in this architecture night school course,
but I need to pass a math exam for it, so I’ve been doing some problems.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook hums, head bobbing. “You’re good with numbers.”

“I’m good with numbers,” Taehyung repeats, confirms. He tries to focus on those numbers.

He lets him do this in silence and again Taehyung does not know how much time passes before
Jungkook gets bored from whatever messages he’s writing on his phone, whatever media he’s
scrolling through, because he actually manages to fall into his work. He does not necessarily enjoy
the mathematical part of it, but he understands why it’s such an integral part of what he wants to do,
and it does help he is truthfully efficient at it.

He has gone through several problem, hand incessantly scribbling on the pieces of paper, eyes
darting from the handout copies of the textbook he cannot afford to buy and back to the patterns his
own fingers make with the pen.

He almost doesn’t feel it when a warm hand touches at the bottom of his spine, ventures boldly up,
revealing the expanse of his skin as he takes the fabric of his shirt with it.

“Jungkook,”Taehyung says, the suggestion of a warning coloring his voice, but his eyes remain
fixed.

“What?” the other plays innocent, gaze falling over the line of his spine as he reveals it. It’s so gently
curled, dips so beautifully before the arch of his ass. The skin is smooth, dark, soft, and he enjoys
skidding his calloused arm against something so exquisitely velvety.
Taehyung does not respond, ignores him, hand scribbling viciously along the paper, and he may be
concentrated, but Jungkook is bored. He lowers himself forward, urges to feel the skin with his
mouth as well, and he presses up, near his shoulder blade, teeth sinking into the flesh of it. Taehyung
hisses, but keeps his tongue behind the line of his own teeth, and it pisses Jungkook off a bit that he
can ignore him so easily. He sins his teeth lightly around the skin lower on his back, tongues at the
line of his spine.

He lifts himself up, skimming his eyes across Taehyung’s neck.

“The marks are starting to fade,” he tells him, because he’d given Jungkook the right to bruise him,
but the evidence of it is starting to sink into nothing and it irks at him enough to mention.

Taehyung finally sacrifices some attention, tilting his head over the protruding bone of his shoulder,
down which the fabric of his shirt so provocatively rides. He blinks at him bitter, his eyes pulled
sharp.

“I haven’t seen you in over a week and a half, Jungkook,” Taehyung says, and he strives for
something soft, conversational, simply a statement, a fact as numerical as the problem he’s solving,
tries desperately to remain behind the border of accusatory.

He fails.

And because he fails, he does not allow him to see his face much more, turns back to his work, seals
his eyes over it, but now numbers feel blurry.

They feel blurrier when Jungkook’s hand slides low, lower, then fingers layer over his cheek and in
between, a single one, the one that holds that despicable ring, gracing its tip ever so lightly over the
rim that’s still so sensitive it causes an almost embarrassing reflex in Taehyung’s hips against the
mattress.

“Are you sore?” Jungkook’s asking and then, then Taehyung has to bite his lip because he is slipping
that very same finger in, inside of him, and Taehyung’s still stretched from having his cock – it’s
easy, but he feels the drag of it so enunciated inside of him.

He holds his elbows, tight, hard, knuckles going white with the strength of his grip as his head
droops between his sinking shoulders. He withholds a sound, tries a scold, but Jungkook is speaking
again.

“You’d feel so good like this, lying down,” he murmurs. “So tight.”

Taehyung tries to ignore the snap of his own hips, the grind against the surface underneath him,
where is so tightly pressed. “I’m working,” he grinds through teeth, strives for an almost threatening
pointedness.

Then Jungkook’s voice sounds different. “Did you end shit with him?”

And Jungkook is dragging his finger around him, so slow, leisurely, trying to reach again that spot
that would make him keen. His ass looks so good, the skin there as pretty as on the rest of him, and
Jungkook is still behind the idea that the mark of his fingertips would look marvelous on top of it,
maybe even the ink of his name.

Jungkook presses his finger into him harder, a punishment for evoking such a ridiculous thought in
him. Jungkook used to be rational, once.

Taehyung bites back grunts, bites back any acknowledgement his body is starting to crave for him to
rut into the bed like a fucking teenager. “With him?” he’s asking into his own chest.

“With Bogum, Taehyung,” Jungkook presses the finger right into that spot as his voice snaps.

Taehyung grunts. This is unfair. He cannot be trying to have a conversation like this while he moves
that finger inside of him, that cold finger teasing at his rim every time he thrusts lazy, but sure, and
Taehyung is so, so focused on keeping his hips still. “Why do you even care?”

Jungkook’s jaw ticks, dark eyes layer and glint dangerously over Taehyung’s back, at all that skin
there, that pretty, untouched skin. “I like having things to myself,” he says, pulls his finger back out
and slams it in, rough. “I like it when you’re tight.”

Taehyung’s shoulders quiver. He tries to steady his breath. “I’m not a thing.” He’s spiteful in the
way he pulls the words out through his teeth, and he knows it, he means it.
“I know.” Jungkook works that fingers against him in more ways than one. “Doesn’t mean I want to
share.”

Taehyung cries out with the next thrust and it is not of his volition, but he’s sensitive, so sensitive and
the mattress pressed like this into his cock feels good, but he thinks he has himself restrained. His
head rolls into his shoulder. “You’re so spoiled, Jungkook.”

“Yeah?” Jungkook’s brows lift as he fucks his finger into him. “Who’s getting spoiled now?”

Anything would be spoiling to him, Taehyung does not know luxury, though he is much too
beautiful to live in oblivion of what luxury is. He could be one himself, with the way he looks, so
irreversibly ethereal. Anyone can look good if they have enough money for it, Jungkook has
realized, but Taehyung looks better without it. He wonders just how beautiful he can be made with
pretty clothes and shiny jewelry. He’d fit it so well, he thinks. He’s the prettiest thing Jungkook’s
ever seen and he’s Jungkook’s to fuck.

The thought is striking for Jungkook, because it forces the reality of the fact, he’s fucked him
already, done him once, and now twice, and he’s sticking around, and he’s never fucked the same
person twice, only Julia, only his girlfriend. The only one he lies around nearly naked with after,
rehabilitating before fucking again. He knows by the way Taehyung ruts into the bed that he’d let
him have another go, and he wants another go, and he needs to get the fuck out.

He’s slipping his finger out of him. He’s getting on his feet.

Taehyung turns his head over his shoulder, his eyes are wide, questioning, brows furrowed.
“Jungkook?” he’s saying, saying his name and it’s with a palpable curious vulnerability that almost
makes Jungkook climb back into the bed. But he can’t, for the sake of them both.

Because as much as he should not want to climb back in that bed, Taehyung should not want him to,
either.

Taehyung is sitting up, letting the shirt fall down, cover him. “Jungkook, what—"

“I came down from the coke, okay?” Jungkook interjects. He bends, takes his shirt, slips it over his
shoulders. He’s running a hand through his hair, strands still sweated from how hard he’d fucked
Taehyung. “I’m going.”
And Taehyung just stares, stares with those eyes so wide and vulnerable until they are not, until they
darken, they narrow, and he bends, grips his underwear. He’s pulling it over those long legs.
“Yeah,” he says, brusque, embittered, “you know go.” He’s slipping his pants on as well and then
he’s standing up to do them properly, to do the zip and the button, and because he is a man, he is as
tall as Jungkook, the glare is right into his eyes. His voice is calm, yet it drips venom as he tongues
overs his lips. “You should really fucking go. Reminded me I wanted to make use of the empty
house to get Bogum to come over.”

“Taehyung,” Jungkook tries, does not know what he tries. Maybe it’s intended as a warning, but
maybe it is something else.

“Bye.” Taehyung is saying and this time his voice cracks, grows louder, before Jungkook can figure
out what his intention is when he calls his name. He starts to walk, circle past him, but he stops in
front of him, so unbearably close to him. “But before you go, thanks for opening me up for him,
wouldn’t wanna waste time.”

Jungkook’s tongue clicks. He mirrors that bitterness, those beginning nuances of rage. “You’re
growing a fucking mouth, aren’t you?”

Taehyung’s brows lift, nostrils flare. “Needs to be big enough for you to fuck it on a whim, doesn’t
it?” And he continues to walk, but he’s stopped again, this time by Jungkook, by that perpetually
searing hand latching over his forearm, fingers digging so hard into flesh, as hard as they had been
pressing inside of him.

He pulls him back, seeks his eyes out, captures them and there is something uncharacteristically
genuine, almost begging in the way he pronounces his next question with the frustration of
something nearly desperate. “What do you want from me, Taehyung?”

He asks because he’s already told Taehyung he should want nothing, expect nothing.

He should, they both should, so Jungkook does not know what it is that washes over him, so cold
and vivid, when Taehyung looks at him dead in the eyes, swears, “You already gave me all I wanted
from you. You reach my prostate quite well.” He frees his arm and Jungkook lets him, snaps his
fingers into a fist once they’re not around him anymore. “Now you can let yourself out.”

Taehyung walks away, goes in another room in this house that is familiar to him, this space that is
his. The door slams shut, and it rings in Jungkook’s ears as much as words do. He leaves. He lets
himself out.
Chapter End Notes

it's a little different, still my type of length, took long because I had the busiest week of
my life, so it may need to be revisited and heavily edited. despite that, I hope you are
still able to enjoy; I love all discussion this story provokes, it's very inspiring, makes the
hours I spend writing seem worthwhile, love all the support, and even enjoy
(appreciate?) reading the somewhat critical comments, so thank you everyone who is
involved

ps I know that's not how overwatch works but I don't have time for field research on
video games so assume it does
 Chapter 15
Chapter Summary

im very consistent with this 17k worth of shit I don't know why its not planned

Chapter Notes

10 k of those were in one seating so beware its a product of a 14 hour sit down, I might
edit later on, been very busy lately, but I wanted to get it out, so here goes

A part of Taehyung expects that Jungkook’s absence will be repeated, but that part is proven wrong.
Jungkook is there. He sits across from Min Yoongi on table sixteen and they have a slow, but
flowing conversation, interrupted only by their own intended pauses.

Yoongi sits incredibly straight on the chair for his usual habits, seems to have actual control of his
spine for the time being. Taehyung knows they are in no need of menus, but he is obliged to bring
them out anyway and he does. He walks over with indignation that he hopes he represses into
professional indifference.

The first to notice his approach is Yoongi and he does it with a tilt of his head, a lazy nod in
acknowledgment. “Kim,” he drawls out. His eyes skim across Taehyung and it makes him slightly
nervous. His gaze is heavy and previously he has not deigned to be so attentive of his presence, nor
greet him by his name. “Heard you’re pretty gay now,” he says, and though he seems completely
unmoved, he adds a dull, irony clad, “Congratulations.” He watches Taehyung’s mouth open and
then shut, notices his eyes narrow. Yoongi’s head cocks. “Wonder if your sister knows.”

Taehyung swallows, lips thin. He notices from the corner of his eye, Jungkook’s head shifts to him,
though he cannot know with what expression the other skids his gaze across the bop of his throat as
he refuses to return the look. His heart thuds angrily in his chest, a heated adrenaline coursing
through his blood at the last sentence, and he struggles to ignore it. “Would you like to look at the
menus or will you just have drinks?” he speaks tightly.
Yoongi’s brows lift into his hair. He adjusts on the chair, brings his face close to Taehyung. “You
know,” he begins, utterly conversational, tone light, “She’s been doing me a real good service as of
late.” He pauses and with the same casualness, states, “Looks really nice bent over.”

Taehyung has to gnaw at his own lip in an effort not to snap. His finger taps at the menu, eyes dart to
Jungkook, Jungkook who slides his own back to him for the merest moment before he takes them
away. His finger taps at the menu. His mouth parts, and he means to speak, but Yoongi is
interrupting again. Taehyung is unsure he has even heard that much from him before.

“Though she’d probably look better sprawled open.”

Taehyung’s finger stills at the menu. His mouth snaps shut, teeth knocking together, his jaw ticking.
Something flashes in his eye. He can feel his ears buzz with it, but then the sound sizzles, stops, and
is replaced with the familiarity of Jungkook’s bored voice.

“He’ll have the Piña Colada,” his words ring firmly. “I’ll have a diet coke.”

Taehyung’s eyes bore into Jungkook’s for the short moment he allows them to. He lets his jaw
loosen, skids his tongue at his lower lip and tilts his head at Yoongi to give him a chance to deny it.
He simply leans his elbows on the table, lifts a hand and makes a twirling motion with a single finger
in the air. “Make sure you get me one of those funny straws.”

Taehyung nods, barely shifts his head with it, abandons all professional politeness and swiftly just
leaves. He leaves, and he goes into Rouge, long legs taking quick steps. He lets the door fall shut so
frustratingly slowly because of its mechanism behind him and he moves to the bar, throws the menus
on top.

“Piña Colada and a diet coke for table sixteen,” he nods at Minho. “I’m taking my lunch break
early.”

He does not wait for a response and barely awards Bogum with one when he wheezes past him as he
works the coffee machine and asks him if he is okay. Taehyung is okay. He tells himself that as he
storms into the back corridor and runs fingers of both hands through his hair, gathers the strands from
his forehead and back and pulls, squeezes.

He breathes, he tries to breathe. He hates this, hates how powerless he is, how he is uncapable of
protecting his own sister for the sake of his job. He knows what Ji-woo would say, ignore it, she
would. But Ji-woo is mature, and Taehyung just wants to spit in Yoongi’s fucking funny straw.

He is having a fit. He is having a fit and Jungkook walks in and it is the last thing he wants.

“Taehyung,” Jungkook sneaks behind his back, startles him into spinning to face him. Taehyung
watches with narrow eyes as Jungkook shuts the door on the dreadfully wrong side of it.

Taehyung steps back. “I have nothing to say you,” he says with the temper of his fit, pulling his
hands away from his hair and letting them hang by his sides, fingers clenching together.

“Tae,” Jungkook tries again as he moves towards him and Taehyung knows him by now, his body
knows he will reach for his hand before he consciously does and he pulls it away, lifts it into the air,
brusque.

He seethes, eyes as challenging as his words, “You don’t want to be seen with someone pretty gay,
do you?”

Jungkook’s gaze traces behind the hand his instinctively reaches for as his fingers close around
nothing. He does not attempt again, lets his shoulders droop with the promise he won’t touch. He
sighs with it, with his next words, which he says low with the connotation of privacy. “Listen,” he
begins, and Taehyung rolls his eyes at the pure demandingness of the word. “Before you pull
something stupid and get him angry,Yoongi would never tell your sister.” And he hesitates.
“About,” and he takes his gaze away for a moment, looks at the floor, runs his tongue across his
lips, “about Bogum and you.” His eyes are back on Taehyung, and there is nothing to tell, he thinks,
but he won’t let him know that. “Neither would he touch her. That wasn’t for your sake. It was for
mine.”

Taehyung does not understand what that means, does not know if Jungkook’s word can be taken as
true, but he likes to pretend he doesn’t care. He likes to think maybe this has tired him out too much
to care. It is tiring, it’s exhausting. He crosses his arms across his chest, does not let his expression
soften, though he feels the fatigue of it all seep into his voice. “How come even when something is
done for your sake, I am the one who takes it up the ass?”

Jungkook’s face sets now, features tighten as his eyes seal onto Taehyung with something achingly
familiar. “You kissed a man in public.” He is abundant in accusation as he takes a step forward. “It’s
on you being this fucking careless.”
Taehyung scoffs first and defends second, with a necessary amount of vehemence. “He doesn’t
know how Richhood works,” his teeth snap. “But he won’t do it in public anymore.”

Jungkook is taking another step, but Taehyung is past the time in which he would have responded
with a step back. So Jungkook steers close, closer, brows raising in his hair and eyes widening on his
face in a pattern that almost carries the implication of offense. “In public?”

Taehyung takes his eyes away, snaps them up at the ceiling as he inhales sharply through his nose,
begs the frustration away. He hates this jealousy that Jungkook has, this jealousy that is such a
double-bladed knife, such a teasing liar, tricks Taehyung into the illusion of Jungkook potentially
caring, then swiftly taking it away with the reminder he is possessive by nature and nurture, likes to
have his things to himself.

“I don’t even owe you an answer to this,” Taehyung says as he brings his head down, shakes hair
out of his eyes.

Jungkook’s tongue pokes into his cheek, stretched skin and flesh. He pauses. He tries for neutral, but
it comes out tight. “Are you actually fucking him?”

Taehyung blinks. “He’s better for me than you are.” He knows it’s ambiguous, knows it leaves all
the room for assumption and with the bitterness he says it with he feels a part of him does it on
purpose.

The other’s jaw ticks, once. “Better?”

There is something typically condescending in the single word, in the arch of his eyebrow under his
bangs that fuels Taehyung’s spitefulness. “Yeah,” his mouth curls, but it’s not a smile and it’s not a
scowl, just an expression. “He fucks me better.” And Ji-woo may be mature, but he certainly is not.

Jungkook’s eyes flash and jaw snaps again, but it’s momentary. He is still, apparently calm, though
something else entirely radiates off of him and between their rigid bodies. He keeps his voice
composed, low. “That fucking mouth on you, Taehyung,” he says, gaze shifting leisurely low on
Taehyung’s face as his own lips slightly part.

Taehyung’s head cocks, own eyes lowering to observe the tongue that slithers across the relief of
Jungkook’s teeth. “What about it?” he questions a little challenging and a little absent.
Jungkook takes a single step and leans, lips coming closer to his ear though his body remains at some
distance. “Honestly? I wanna fuck it till you gag.”

Taehyung feels something cold cascade down the line of his spine and it is almost entirely irritation.
He wants to curse him out, but he also doesn’t want to waste more words on him, not today. He does
not deserve his mouth. So, what Taehyung attempts with a labored exhale is a sidestep, but
Jungkook mirrors it. He holds the silent promise not to touch, keeps his hands to himself, but still gets
in his way and remains stoic and stubborn even with the chilly glare that almost automatically comes
his way.

“Where are you going?” Jungkook demands, voice laced with something not entirely nameable. It
does not sit well with him that Taehyung works with Bogum, not at all, wonders how long
Taehyung will be mad at him if he gets the prick fired.

“Unlike you, Jungkook,” Taehyung grinds out, “I need to actually work to have money.” He tries to
step around him again, but the other is in front of him again, proximity between them somehow
increasing. With their height so similar they’re face to face, eye to eye, glare to glare.

Jungkook’s tongue clicks and he hisses, ironic, through closed teeth, an imitation of sympathy that is
borderline bitchy. It somehow suits him and doesn’t. “Yeah,” he cocks his head. “Must suck to know
I can hire your ass full time for me to fuck and you wouldn’t have to wash a dish in your life again.”
His voice is icily low, almost murmuring, soothing, but the meaning of the words is vicious, sharp,
sharp enough to puncture to Taehyung’s own composure.

He tries to mirror the calm with which he’s spoken to helplessly, but he’s almost growling. “My ass
is not for sale,” he says with his chest, through his teeth. Their eyes are locked together with a
connection that is almost palpable, a current of animosity transpiring vivid from pupil to pupil.

Jungkook’s words are still more of a whisper, but they feel like a snarl. “That’s a different song
you’re singing now.”

Taehyung never sold his ass, never his mouth, never let anything inside of himself for money and he
wouldn’t. Still, the reminder of what he did do for money rings with hurt. Shame swallows his first
attempt to speak, but the memory of Woojin’s smile invigorates his second.

“Old song’s forgotten now. Just like you can forget about my ass.”
Jungkook fakes a chortle, short and ringing and it irks at every inch of Taehyung’s skin. His face is
close when eyes narrow and words travel from mouth to mouth in a tone that is almost threatening in
its nature of a promise. “I make you hard, Taehyung,” he says, enunciates, makes sure every syllable
is felt, “I always make you hard.”

Taehyung nods his head, the upper part of his mouth, teeth bared, hovers over his lower lip as he lets
out a breath of a snort. “Yeah?” his lip twitches. “Is that it?” He challenges. “I can jerk off my own
cock.”

He can, he does it, and it doesn’t matter he thinks about Jungkook when he’s at it. His face will fade
away, eventually, it will. Every person who is not in his family does, sometimes his family as well.

Jungkook’s eyes dart across his face. “You can pretend it’s the same all you want, but you said it
yourself.” There’s something dauntingly piercing to his stare, “I’m incomparable,” he spells it out
with his mouth, says it so slow and pointed, Taehyung almost flinches. Neither of them knows when
their mirrored breathing patterns escalated as they did, but chests rise and fall too heavy for the
simplicity of conversation. Next sentence practically peels off of his tongue, hangs accusatory and
smug, “You wantme.”

Not an inch of them touches, but Taehyung feels Jungkook’s presence burn into his body.

“Yeah?” he cocks his head. “I do,” he admits, takes a step closer, one that almost eradicates the
distance, almost. He admits it loud and clear and indulges in the way Jungkook’s eyes fall to his lips
as he does it. He admits it because it is the one thing he can afford that Jungkook can’t. “Probably as
much as you want me,” He tells him and nearly smirks with the way the other’s eyes snap back to
him. Before he allows a response, he steps back again, two steps this time, away from him. “I’ve got
to work, Jungkook,” he shakes hair out of his eyes. “Get Julia to get you off. I heard she’s back from
Paris.” This time when he sidesteps him, Jungkook allows it. “See if that’s the same.”

He allows him to step away, but he spins with the movement as well, just as Taehyung is about to
reach the door. “Haven’t fucked Julia in a while, Taehyung.”

And Taehyung pauses.

“Why?” he asks because for a moment it is the only word he knows. He doesn’t understand why
Jungkook would tell him this, why he hasn’t fucked Julia in a while, and why something warm and
stupid washes over his bones when he hears it.
Taehyung’s left shoulder is aligned with Jungkook’s right one, but he watches them both as he
shrugs. “Doesn’t feel fair to her.”

Taehyung bristles but his tone is biting, “What?” He shakes his head with unadulterated
disbelief.“You’re suddenly all righteous. You cheat on her all the time.”

Jungkook turns to him fully, and it is back on, he’s stepping towards him and the whispered tone of
the conversation drops as his voice raises, “And what do you think you know about my
relationship?” His arms lift in the air as he pauses, gives him a small door for an answer, but
Taehyung doesn’t take it. “Julia fucks other people as well. She knows about the other girls,
Taehyung.” His arms fall and so does his voice. “She doesn’t know about you.”

You, he says in a manner that is coated with pure blame, some underlying anger.

Taehyung blinks, once, twice, his head retracting back. “Well, there’s nothing to know about me, is
there?” He’s saying, and he aims for the door again, but Jungkook’s fast, fingers wrapping around
his wrist and pulling him close, tries for the nth time to manhandle him into place.

“Taehyung,” he starts, and his mouth remains opened, but words don’t fall, because Taehyung is
rippinghis hand away brusquely, he’s stepping back. He’s raising his own voice now.

“Stop,” he fills with all his frustration from Saturday on, releases it in a single word that makes his
deep voice twist ugly, before he gets ahold of it, “hogging me around like this, thinking I can never
do it back.”

Taehyung pauses not for the sake of Jungkook, but for himself. His chest expands and retracts angry
and fueled by that very same frustration. He stares at Jungkook hard and harsh as the other swallows
down his previous thought and licks at his lips, face minutely blanking.

He doesn’t speak, so Taehyung does, charged with exasperation. “I’m a man, Jungkook,” He tells
him, pokes his own chest, once twice, three times, four. “Just because I don’t bash people’s skulls in
does not mean I’m not a fucking man.”

Jungkook still just stares, with eyes so full and empty at the same time, eyes that seal so bold and
calm onto Taehyung as he barely catches his breath, taken by nothing but emotion. He can’t look at
them, they’re engrained in his brain enough, he sees them sometimes when he closes his own. “I am
a man and you like to fuck me,” Taehyung announces with finality. “That’s the fucking tea.”
Taehyung leaves after that and Jungkook just watches. He goes in the toilet, washes his hands and
wipes them on his trousers when Yoongi can see him. He sits and he watches, and it only takes
Bogum a few minutes to make Taehyung smile and maybe it is not enough for Jungkook to know he
only needs a few minutes to make Taehyung come, because he cannot watch that smile, however
innocent it is.

Taehyung taps his fingers on the kitchen table as Ji-woo murmurs under her nose, says numbers. Her
eyes are wide and wild as they look over all the papers strewn across the surface.

He’s done with his part of the pile, props himself up on an elbow, chin held in his palm and he
watches her, looks on as she fervently sorts through bills and numbers as she insists she’ll help,
though he’ll just do it quicker on his own. He looks at all the passion she’s ready to pour into this
family.

And he says, “Ji-woo.”

“I’ll do it, Tae. Shut up.”

“Okay,” Taehyung nods. “But that’s not it.”

Her focus remains on paper. “What is then?”

He hesitates. “Why did you drop the Jeon’s weeklies?”

Her head snaps, eyes locking on him as wide as they were on the bills. She opens her mouth, closes
it, looks down again. “I told you, Tae,” she says, she lies, “Timetabling.”

“Noona,” Taehyung calls and she allows their gazes to meet again, simply has to with the way he
reaches a palm over her hand and closes it gently around. “It’s you. You don’t have to lie to me.”

Ji-woo’s eyes search his, find only softness. She sighs, breathes, takes her hand away and relaxes
back into her chair. “Fine,” she says. “Get some soju, make sure Woo’s asleep and we’ll talk.”

She promises and Ji-woo always keeps her promises.

Jungkook’s shirt sweats into his skin when the elevator arrives on his floor. He’s managed to get his
breath under control now, though he’s not done this for a while, almost forgotten how much he loves
the high and pain of a good run, having abandoned most cardio for the sake of strength. He wipes at
his forehead, walks through the hallway, his shoes dirtying the marble, the parquet flooring of the
living room. He steps into the kitchen, reaches directly for the fridge.

He doesn’t notice her behind the island until he gulps down half a gallon of water and shuts the door.
When the fridge closes, however, for a moment his heart drops, his face blanks. When he can feel his
blood pump again, it’s quick, hot, runs through his veins with the nature of sheer panic.

He doesn’t remember crouching, dropping to the floor, only feels his bare knees against the cold
tiles. His fingers reach for her cheek, he tries to be gentle, tries to be soft as he pushes hair away to
look at her face, but his hand trembles a little bit and he doesn’t know if he should be allowed to
touch her. “Clo” his voice shakes more. “Clo, Clo are you okay?” He’s frantic and he know it, tries
to repress it into calm – she does not need him frantic, does not need him scared. He can’t be scared.
“Can you look at me? Did you take anything?”

Her lower spine is pressed into the door of a counter, but the rest of it is curled, arms wrapped around
her slim legs as she props her forehead on her knees, hair falling over and closing her off from view.

She lifts it easily and he can breathe again as she relaxes it back onto the counter. Strands fall across
and away from her face and he can see her eyes now, but maybe he preferred it when she couldn’t.
They’re empty. Her lower lip is cracked in the middle and saliva has gathered at the corner of her
mouth.
Somewhere in the room her phone starts to ring, buzzes with a vibration in the rhythm with which
her ringtone breaks through the silence.

Jungkook ignores it.

“No, I didn’t,” she shakes her head lightly. Her voice is as vacant as her face as she looks away from
her brother, lets her head roll and fall away on one side, eyes choosing the floor. “They’re going on
vacation now. He doesn’t want to see me.”

Her phone stops ringing, but then it starts again. The buzz of it sounds angry, but not as furious as
the blood that makes Jungkook’s ears ring as the panic resurfaces again, slams like a wave, wet and
powerful.

“What did he do to you, Clo?” he asks, begs, says, he doesn’t know what he does, but he knows she
won’t answer, not to this. She would never give Jungkook a detail, never, because Jungkook cannot
handle knowing without acting. But Jungkook has seen the pattern as well, he realizes their father
only travels when he is swarmed by rare occurrence of guilt. Inducing guilt in his father is only
achieved by his own greatest transgressions, and Jungkook does not want to imagine what he did
that he cannot bare to look at his daughter. So, he closes his eyes, squeezes them shut until all he sees
is black and not that red that tries to lens his pupils, opens them, new question on his lips. “Why?”

He searches her for an answer, fingers still on her cheek, lost in her hair. His thumb instinctively pats
over her cheekbone, under her eyes, and she flinches away from it. He retracts his hand, presses his
palm into his knee. She’s looking at nothing but the pattern on their Italian tiling when she says,
“There are rumors about me and Jin.”

Jungkook’s tongue licks at his lips as he sucks air, looks away for a moment, to contain his own self.
He’d warned her about this, about being with Seokjin, but this is not the point. He stares at her again
and wonders if his gaze can communicate half of his conviction. “There won’t be any tomorrow,
okay?” he promises eyes searching her face as she rolls her head again, allows her eyes to fall on
him. “Do you hear me? Anyone who speaks your name and his in the same sentence will get their
own shit fed to them, get their mouths too stuffed to speak, okay?”

Her eyes are wet, but she doesn’t cry.

Her phone starts ringing again and he hadn’t even noticed the silence.
Clo Eun nods her chin at the kitchen island. “Get it to stop ringing,” she asks, voice atypically weak,
a variation of her speech very few people would recognize as hers, but Jungkook would know it in
his sleep.

“Okay,” Jungkook says, once, nods. “Okay,” he says a second time as he realizes he has not actually
moved. He gets on his feet, straightens, reaches for the phone.

He only means to look at it to click it shut on the screen, because he does not trust his thumb with the
button on the side. It is not intention to look, but his eyes find the name, seal on it, and he feels his
fingers stop trembling. He stills. He recognizes a Japanese area code and he recognizes the name.

“It’s Namjoon,” Jungkook tells her, voice void, as he lets the call end on its own. “I thought you said
you didn’t,” and he looks at her now, “you didn’t talk to him anymore.”

He tries hard to keep any judgment out of his voice, any anger. He knows nothing he says, neither
the manner with which he does it, though, can fool Clo Eun into not seeing through his demeanor
and into what lies beneath.

“I don’t,” she answers. “I called him now.”

Jungkook does not skip a beat. “Why?” He’s brusque, no matter how much he tries to stifle it.

There is onething to Clo’s eyes now. They’re tired as she looks up, at him. She shakes her head in an
answer to an unspoken question. “It’s not drugs, Kook,” she promises. “If I wanted drugs, I’d call
Kai.” Her lids screw shut, and she breathes. She seems to need the darkness as she speaks next. “I
want a friend, Jungkook. He’s the only friend I ever had.”

Jungkook’s stomach feels curiously hollow. He knows this, knows no girl in their surroundings
would want to be friends with someone as apparently perfect as Jeon Clo Eun. He swallows. “What
about,” he licks his lips, hesitates, “what about Seokjin?”

“He loves me, Kook,” she tells him, and she opens her eyes to try with them to convey something
she cannot with simply words, because she knows he doesn’t understand what she means when she
says this, he can’t, not yet, and his chest feels hollow, too. So does his head. “It makes him selfish.”

What about me, he wants to say, but he doesn’t.

He walks over to her, squats down, levels his eyes with hers. “Okay,” He rests the phone on her
knee, and she flinches away from that touch, too. It makes him pause, brief, before he nods, “okay, if
you want to talk to him, I’ll leave, let you call him in private.”

And he leaves the device on the Italian tiles next to her and makes to stand, but suddenly he has two
hands, ten fingers, clutching to his forearm, squeezing into flesh. “No,” Clo says. The naked
desperation of the word tugs at him. It hurts. “No don’t leave. Stay.” She repeats, “Stay.” And then
with their eyes connecting she mumbles, “Please.”

Jungkook swallows, shakes her grip off of his arm. He turns, stands next to the counter and slides
down until he’s on the tile as well, back propped like hers. He reeks of sweat and so does she, and
they stay like that for a while.

Jimin works the bar tonight, but Taehyung is not here for him, though does lean on the top and
indulges him in distracting chatter between clients as he waits for Bogum to come.

He’d texted him some ten minutes ago to apologize for his lateness, promised his presence in about
half an hour or so, but Taehyung doesn’t mind waiting. Not when he’s at the Ozone and Jimin is
working the bar.

He sips on a Piña Colada, in a club, which is borderline ridiculous, but he’d had such a craving when
Jimin had offered to get something for him on the house, he just couldn’t resist. Jimin has no funny
straws tonight, so he has to settle for a regular one.

It is a Thursday, an off night for many of the typical Richhood residents, because it’s DJ night at
Octagon and they move there, though it’s much harder to do lines in the bathroom. He’s glanced at a
certain designated booth several times from the corner of his eye, when Jimin gets busy, and it’s
empty. His Piña Coladas are safe.

“Sorry I can’t pay too much attention to you, baby,” Jimin tells him as he pretends to wipe at the bar
top near him.
Taehyung sucks on the last bit of his cocktail until it slurps. “It’s fine,” he releases the straw after he
chews on it a little bit. “Bogumie hyung is coming in a bit. He’ll keep me company.”

Jimin selects a spot and pretends there is something there that is particularly nasty to clean as he
scrubs. “Keep forgetting you now have more than one friend.”

Taehyung narrows his eyes at Jimin, bites at the straw again and uses his mouth to point the other
end of it towards Jimin’s comfortably awaiting ear.

“He’s my only friend actually,” Taehyung says as he perches one foot onto the foot rail. He smiles.
“Unless you get me another cocktail.”

Jimin’s brows raise as he scrubs vehemently. “You’d sell yourself for a Piña Colada, huh?” he
smirks.

Taehyung tries to shoot him with whatever remaining liquid he can gather from his drained glass. His
teeth release the straw. “You’d sell yourself for less.”

Jimin most eloquently flips him off and leaves him to tend to his bar, but he does sneak by to
wordlessly place another Piña Colada in front of him. Taehyung relaxes his elbows onto the bar top,
now atypically clean, and wraps his lips around his straw, sipping happily. Yoongi’s a bitch but he
has nice taste for cocktails.

He does not expect hands on his hips, certainly not a body pressing against his back, and it nearly
makes him splutter when he feels him, rhythm of his heart speeding, goes sporadic, and he knows
just who is behind him, just by the way his skin immediately tingles, his mind snaps alert and awake.

The press of it is familiar, he knows it, his body knows it, that treacherously addictive heat that he
loathes with how much he sometimes craves, is palpable as crevices are filled and forgotten with the
way he molds into him. Taehyung straightens up, spine goes rigid.

Bodies here are close, lights are dim, music is loud, much too loud, for anyone to really care about a
back pressed into a chest. Space is naturally scarce, the nature of the Ozone, but Taehyung’s heart
tremors, skin ablaze. His eyes widen with the surprise of it, the unexpectedness. It’s an off night,
Julia’s not here, Yoongi’s not, Hoseok’s not. Jungkook’s not supposed to be here either.
But there he is, body molding so illicitly into Taehyung’s and then his mouth is by his ear. He can
feel his breath and it almost makes him lose his.

“There you are,” Jungkook exhales, lips brushing the sensitive shell.

Taehyung’s eyes dart to Jimin, the palpitations of his heart begging for him to be busy and he is.

He angles his head different and the next exhale hits his cheek. “Me?” his lips part, lids blink. He
wants to spin, look at him, does not like this disarming proximity, the sensation of Jungkook against
him is a weakness he has learned to know, but not accept. The corner of his eye almost catches his
face, but he scares it tilts their lips too close together when he feels him on his tongue through the gap
of his mouth and he takes his head away.

“You,” Jungkook confirms, still so close to his ear. “I’ve been looking for you,” he says, voice
rushed. There’s a tinge of the beginnings of something desperate that makes Taehyung furrow his
brows in confusion, induced along with the meaning of what he says. Looking for him. He gulps,
waits for some kind of explanation and it comes with his next hurried breath, a lick of his lips that
moistens the lobe of Taehyung’s ear and it almost coerces him into a flinch. “Come with me to the
back room.”

“What?” Taehyung breathes before he thinks, moving instinctively in a fidgeting motion that he
instantly regrets, because all it does is make him feel Jungkook. He retracts forward again, tries to
take his body away from the sensation of the touch. He hisses, “I can’t.” And then,“I won’t.” He
tries to look at him again, glare at him, but it is futile, so he channels all the animosity he can muster
in his tone of voice, “I’m not your fucking booty call.”

A hand squeezes on his hip. “Yeah?” Jungkook’s head tilts, breath falls on his neck, and then hands
are falling over him as well, fingers gliding over his thighs and Taehyung has nowhere to run. “I
don’t even have your number,” Jungkook tells him with a frustration of something private, and
maybe he really did look for him. His palm fits over the pocket of his jeans that bulges with the shape
of his phone. His fingers slide upwards, contact pointed and unnecessary and then his hand is
slipping into the tight denim. Taehyung gasps with it, with the surprise and the feel of it alike, but as
soon as hot fingers touch him like this, they disappear, taking the device along with them.

He raises the phone on the bar top, lets Taehyung watch through gritted teeth as he opens his
password-less screen and types his number in as if he has every right to, dials himself and hangs up
once the call goes through.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung attempts to filter his name with a warning and some distaste, and he
manages, but Jungkook simply doesn’t care.

He says nothing to acknowledge Taehyung’s weakly attempted protestation, the elbow that tries to
poke back into his ribs, as he simply maneuvers himself more comfortably behind him, locks the
phone and slips it back into his pocket. He does it slow and pointed, a manner that is very much
unnecessary and it elicits a small disgruntled sound from Taehyung’s prying lips, a sound that
escalates when Jungkook’s hand does not leave, not immediately, it soothes over the fabric once the
device is securely in, presses his thumb on top to slide it in fully, while the rest of his fingers twist,
make a detour, grazing near his zip, tips coercing tingles as Taehyung’s hips instinctively retract from
the unexpected touch, away from the digits and into Jungkook’s own.

“Come with me,” Jungkook is demanding in his ear again when he takes his hand away, puts it on
the bar top instead, caging him in and Taehyung already has nowhere to go to.

His eyes drift back to Jimin, still as wide. Jimin’s busy. “If you don’t move,” Taehyung says, speaks
through teeth, as he grits them, thinks – he tries to, it’s hard when Jungkook’s touch so easily stirs his
body awake and wanting, but he ignores that, ignores the peculiar charge of Jungkook’s voice when
he demands almost frantic, “someone will see.”

The one hand that remains scorching onto Taehyung’s hip layers over the bone and squeezes in
indication as he urges, “So,” he pauses, shifts closer as Taehyung moves towards the bar, refuses to
let him escape so easily, “come with me.”

“Shit,” Taehyung curses when he feels Jungkook’s thigh attempt to slither in between his legs, the
relief of his crotch rubbing into the flesh of one of his cheeks. “The fuck is up with you?” he snaps, a
little breathier than he intends, than he likes, careful gaze seeking Jimin again, though his lids begin
to droop, then narrow.

Jungkook’s sighing in his ear, the pointed exhale of it ruffling Taehyung’s hair, chills over the
sensitive skin of his neck. “I need to not think, okay?” he tells him at the brink of frustration. “Just
come with me,” it’s almost a plea, almost a demand, but whatever the nature of it, it holds some sort
of hurried desperation that just barely skims the edges of the whole conversation.

Taehyung absolutely abhors the part of him that allows him to be slightly worried.

“Jungkook, I—”
“Just come, Taehyung,” Jungkook murmurs and another thing Taehyung loathes to the bone is he
still feels it in his knees when he says his name like this, so close, half a breath, half a word. “I need
this. Need you.”

“Shit,” Taehyung curses again the sound of the two words in combination disarming him more than
the feel of his muscled thigh between his legs and his body on his. He spins now, presses his elbow
into Jungkook’s chest and pushes him enough to allow himself to turn in his grasp. His arm slides
across, fingers and palm spread opened to replace on his chest and he can feel him breathe, feel his
heart beat. “Fine.”

Fine, he says, because his worry escalates, because Jungkook would never be saying that if he
himself were fine and by the bar top in the Ozone while Jimin works is certainly not the place to deal
with that.

Fine, he says, meets Jungkook’s eyes and then he has fingers latching tight around his wrist that
hovers over Jungkook’s chest. He pulls him away and Taehyung follows, blind to the sight of Jimin
turning just then, trailing his eyes behind them as he trails behind Jungkook.

Passing through a crowd is easier when you have Jeon Jungkook pulling you along and Taehyung’s
heart beats with the twofold nervousness of possible observing eyes and the anxiety of what is to
come. The digits burn into his wrist, harder than they need be when he follows so pliantly. Taehyung
tries to promise himself he’ll get Jungkook to talk, not fuck, but he knows that’s naïve with the way
Jungkook seems desperate.

The room he takes him to is the one Julia used to tell him about her request that first time, seems so
long ago now, so surreal that there was a time in which Jungkook had only touched him twice,
hadn’t been inside of him at all. The door is barely shut when Taehyung’s back is on it, pressed
against it, tight and flush.

Jungkook’s eyes stare into his, a distance between their chest as a powerful arm settles stretched next
to his head, but there’s no space between Jungkook’s thigh and his legs as he pushes against him,
muscle of it nestling comfortably in between his and Taehyung almost forgets his resolve to attempt
to speak with the way it rubs right against him. It’s barely a moment of breathing and exchanged
glances, Jungkook’s set almost into a glare, puncturing, dark and compelling, then he’s taking it
away, lids falling shut as he leans and tilts, goes immediately for his neck.

Before lips can touch his skin, Taehyung’s palm is back on his chest. He presses onto him firm and
pushes until he straightens, eyes open, now definitely set into a glare, hard and heated, but he doesn’t
press back, allows Taehyung to move him away and only asks the question with that fierce stare.
“Are you high?” Taehyung says, his own eyes darting all across his face for the signs of it. Lights are
dim, shining neon purple in the hues of the Ozone, and he can’t tell if his pupils are wide, if he
sweats.

“Yeah,” Jungkook breathes, adjusts his thigh closer to him, his knee fully sliding between
Taehyung’s legs and pressing into the door until it physically can’t come closer. It’s warm against
him, thick, and he has to strive to keep himself still. “What does it matter?” he says, quick and rough.

Jungkook isn’t high. There is not a bit of his mind that is clouded by a substance. He may not feel
sober,but it’s not drugs. But Taehyung doesn’t have to know that.

He attempts to lean again, but Taehyung’s hand is surprisingly persistent on his chest. “I don’t think I
wanna do this with you if you’re high.”

Jungkook’s sighing, eyes are rolling, the breath of his exhale hitting tingling lips as he presses closer,
thigh digging into him. “Doesn’t matter, Tae,” Jungkook shakes his head as he practically murmurs
over the dulled sound of music, free hand sauntering just over his hip and pressing into the flesh
above it, fingers squeezing, indicative and enticing as he coaxes him closer in the rhythm with which
he presses further against him. “I want you,” he tells him, sure and demanding, and God, for a
moment Jungkook thinks maybe he is high, and at the same time Taehyung’s wondering if he can
get high on the sound of this, “Doesn’t change anything. I’ll remember it tomorrow.”

It’s the third time he leans to the side and Taehyung’s fist clenches over his chest and soon it’s
trapped against his chest as well, because this time he gets close, so close, lips hovering over his jaw
when Taehyung’s eyes first screw shut. His whole face contorts with it, with the effort to push him
away again, and when he says his name it rings like a plea, the same way Jungkook’s had a few
moments ago. “Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s eyes cascade over that face from the side as the features of it twist as if this is somehow
painful. “Please,” Jungkook murmurs and he knows it betrays a vulnerability he’s later going to hate,
but he needs to shut off everything that goes inside his brain and the only way he knows how to do
that is to get inside of Taehyung because then he can think of absolutely nothing else but the
exhilarating feel of it. “I want you so much,” he confesses, adopts the assumption he’s high, feels like
it, and just spills, presses against him, his chest into his closed fist, those clenching pretty fingers, and
his thigh between his legs, “Just thinking about you makes me hard, Tae.” Taehyung’s teeth suck his
lip into his mouth and Jungkook watches, sees the full pillow of it disappear, go white, he glances
down, takes in his collarbones, his throat. He speaks, “Your lips, your skin, your ass, the face you
make when you come, god, you get ten times prettier.” He layers his own lips over the bone of his
jaw. “So handsome.”

Taehyung’s fingers close around the fabric of his shirt. “Jungkook —” he attempts the beginning of
coherent speech, but Jungkook is adjusting his thigh again and it shifts against him in a delicious
friction he can hardly fight against, and he pauses, swears, “I, fuck.”
“Can you feel me?” Jungkook utters in his ear and it feels to him borderline dirty, what with the way
he can actually feel him, growing harder against the bone of his hip, the way Taehyung can feel
himself as well, length of him pressed against Jungkook’s fucking thigh. “I feel you,” Jungkook tells
him and he knows, Taehyung knows, because he’s getting regrettably hard, and with the way the
muscle rubs against him it is beyond his control.

“Jungkook, please,” Taehyung says because the configuration of those two words are all the
eloquence he’s capable of, fingers twitching with their hold of the shirt. He presses his knuckles into
it, attempts a weak push, and the other actually leans back with it, and he hisses. He can breathe.

For about a moment.

Because next moment he is sighing a sentence that almost makes Taehyung convulse. “I wanna suck
your cock.”

His eyes snap open, wide and disbelieving, search Jungkook’s face, looking for any sign that this is
some elaborate, cruel joke, but he sees none, only nuances of determination. He begs Jungkook
doesn’t feel him twitch. “Fuck, what?”

“I want to, pretty boy,” Jungkook says, licks his lips lewd and provocative and Taehyung’s gaze is
helplessly drawn to it, “Will you let me?”

Taehyung’s eyes narrow with all that is left from his dwindling resolve. He gives his best to be firm,
then, to be petty, “That’s pretty gay, don’t you think?” he bites, his grip loosening on Jungkook’s
shirt before fingers clench tighter into the fabric.

Jungkook’s eyes seem liquid, dripping poisonous lust that seeps from his to Taehyung’s with the
way he stares with such confidence, whispers shameless and breathy, “I’m pretty gay for you if you
haven’t noticed.” Those eyes flash, he leans. His breath hovers over Taehyung’s parted mouth, gaze
studying the whole of his face as Taehyung just watches those deadly eyes. “And now,” Jungkook’s
lips open, tongue grazes over before his teeth clasp, and he speaks with almost whiny conviction, “I
want to suck your cock.”

Taehyung blinks. His mouth opens and then closes, and all his fingers can do is squeeze. His mind
goes blank with the prospect of it, the idea, and it still rings to him as a joke, a joke that makes all his
blood pump faster. That should be it, though, he’s allowed himself to be turned on by Jungkook,
admitted it, accepted it. He has not allowed himself to care about what alters his demeanor to the
extent he would actually speak that previous sentence, that one that goes through ears to his brain
and roots, readying for continuous obsession once he’s at liberty to think.

Silence stretches, so Jungkook moves, angles his head so he can speak by his cheek, lips brushing
into the skin as his thigh presses against him, makes him squirm. Taehyung feels the ridiculous need
to grind into it, the friction teases into insufferable frustration, but his voice is even worse when he
murmurs, “Don’t you want me to get on my knees for you?” Taehyung’s head falls back, hits the
door, eyes screwed shut. This is some contemporary fucked up form of torture, must be, and he
cannot take it. “I’ve never been on my knees for anyone else.”

He hates he’s shown enough of himself to give Jungkook leverage to know exactly what to say
because the last of his words make him crumble, when he puts it like that.

Jeon Jungkook. On his knees. For Kim Taehyung.

“Yeah,” Taehyung sighs as his teeth unlatch in a deep exhale. He has not yet allowed himself to
agree, breathes the word only half in response, and half gets it coaxed out of him under the
ministrations of Jungkook’s leg between his, so subtly on him, yet the tension of it is ridiculous as it
brushes Taehyung firmly. He knows at this point his own hips are not entirely still. “Shit,” he spits
and it’s for himself as much as it is for Jungkook, but then his eyes are cracking open and he nods as
he swallows, “Yeah.” He meets his eyes, a final chance for him to pull out of this fucking joke.
“Yes,” he hisses.

Jungkook’s thigh grinds into him along with fingers squeezing his waist at the final sound and he
grunts with it, cannot help himself. Lethal stare does not leave his as he leans, forward this time, so
close he can feel his hair brush on his forehead, and Taehyung’s heart skips a stupid beat. He looks
into his face, breathes into his lips, though he’s panting more than breathing. He’s so close, he can
feel him on his tongue again, his exhales more leveled than Taehyung’s own, but loaded
nevertheless. Jungkook’s eyes dart to his parted mouth, swiftly jump to his own and Taehyung
grows hopeful.

It’s in less than a moment that Jungkook has his tongue in the crevice between his collarbones, eyes
shutting and leaving. Taehyung’s next breath is a sigh as he relaxes his head back on the door again,
screwing his own lids shut. He’s stupid, Taehyung is so fucking stupid.

Jungkook’s fingers squeeze into his waist one last time, bring him close, before they lift along with
his other hand, move towards the collar of Taehyung’s shirt, pop the first button. Taehyung’s own
arm is in the way, he moves it, hesitates with what to do with it, but Jungkook’s teeth nip lightly at
the skin he reveals, and he instinctively latches onto his waist, fingers digging there.
Jungkook is quick but not hasty with the way he works his button, mouths over every new patch of
dark skin he reveals as he goes down the length of Taehyung’s front and soon, he has to bent, taking
his thigh away, which coerces an embarrassing whine out of Taehyung’s lips. He sinks his teeth into
the bottom one. His hand falls off Jungkook’s waist as his shirt is almost undone and his fingers are
pulling it out of his jeans, then circling around to hold his own waist, now sliding across bare,
sensitive skin, carrying with themselves a certain current that makes him fidget, almost flinch away
from the touch, but the other does not allow it, holds him firmly.

Taehyung is not built like Jungkook and he knows it; his stomach is flat, but soft, fleshy, yet not an
ounce of insecurity he silently anticipates washes over him as Jungkook’s tongue dips, mouths very
gently over his belly button and Taehyung gets the urge to hold his hair. He gets increasingly
sensitive the lower Jungkook sinks, his stomach retracting with sudden, sighed breaths and then,
without taking his lips away, Jungkook gets careful and slow on his knees.

The fabric of his own jeans is not meant for the stained floor of the back room of a club, even if it is
the Ozone. Taehyung’s jeans are worn out, imitation denim, faded, hand me downs from Namjoon,
almost ripped in places. He can be on his knees. Jungkook’s are brand, expensive, raw De Nîmes;
they’re new. He has no place on his knees.

Taehyung lifts his head off the door, tilts it down, his lids lowered but eyes hazy with fascination. He
thinks he might be dreaming, because the reality of this is certainly dubious, Jungkook on his knees,
for him. He glances up as he senses him look, gaze still as puncturing and callous, still can be
attributed a very Jeon authority, yet his mouth hovers over the bulge in Taehyung’s jeans, breath
there labored and teasing, and he's on his knees.

Jungkook brings his hands forward, does not separate them from his skin for even a moment before
he has the nimble fingers at the front, popping the button, pulling down the zipper. Taehyung can’t
take it, knocks his head back again, shuts his eyes. There is something so conceptually and
physically overwhelming about Jungkook on his knees.

“Want my shirt off?” Jungkook asks, staring up at him, and Taehyung nods, too readily. He hears the
shuffle of the fabric as he sheds himself off it, but his eyes keep screwed shut.

“Won’t you look at me?” Jungkook’s saying and his voice resonates innocent yet still ridiculously
composed, only falters at the end. Taehyung adjusts his chin, separates his lids, takes him in again,
heart racing angry and dangerous. Jungkook teases, “I know you like to look.”

It’s granted he does, this is how all this began. If it weren’t for Taehyung’s curious, wandering eyes,
Jungkook would now not be on his knees for him. Jungkook is on his knees for him.
Taehyung breathes, slicks his lips, then he forgets how to breathe again for a moment, because
Jungkook’s hand is dipping, fingers wrapping around the length of him, and taking him out of his
pants.

“Do you want me to look?” Taehyung mumbles.

Jungkook’s response is a hum that borders on the imitation of a moan and Taehyung wants to hear it
again. His mouth nearly dries as he watches Jungkook lick a stripe down the length of his palm,
never separating his eyes, before he wraps it around Taehyung, leisurely pumping his fist over him as
if every touch doesn’t make Taehyung lose his mind.

It’s a struggle for Taehyung to keep his head straight, gaze tilted, but Jungkook’s question holds an
underlying challenge and he takes it, always does.

Jungkook’s hand is almost lazy with the way it fists over him, a fucking tease, of course he is, breath
layering over sensitive skin as he pants, lips so close to the tip that Taehyung has to withhold a hiss,
eyes morphing almost into a glare as he stares down. “Don’t know how to do this for you, Tae,”
Jungkook speaks over him and Taehyung is about ready to die, the sigh of his voice hitting him
warm and powerful, and maybe Taehyung is not prepared to have his actual mouth on him, though
at this point he’s almost trembling with the need of it. “You have to tell me what feels good.”

Taehyung’s eyes narrow, teeth grit as he continues this slow, elaborate torture. “Thought you could
do everything,” he hisses at him, voice screwed with the tension of waiting for this, brimming with
arousal, and a certain animosity towards the ploy of it.

Jungkook’s lids blink, so slow. “So much I can’t do,” he sighs words that are not part of this
conversation, words that make Taehyung skip a breath. Jungkook does not allow a moment to pass
after the slip of something so peculiarly genuine, wraps his mouth around Taehyung’s tip, and he’s
gasping, teeth falling over his lips. He tilts his head back, eyes screwing shut for a bare moment
before he forces them open again, looks down, stares down.

Fingers hold him at the base as lips stretch over him. Jungkook is careful as he sinks his mouth down
further, then up, again, perpetuating an eye contact that is as beguiling as the warm sensation of his
lips, his tongue, the heat of his cheeks on the inside.

Taehyung struggles to breathe evenly, to look as Jungkook’s lips reach his fingers and then move
back. He does it slow and methodical once, twice, three times, before he speeds it up, does it faster,
more confident. He does not take him all in, does not attempt to. Taehyung can feel the back of his
mouth at some of the bobs of his head, knows any further would probably make him gag.
His fingers give in, lift to his head and tread in his hair, squeeze, just a bit. He needs something to
hold onto to fucking survive this. Taehyung has only ever had one person suck his cock before in his
life and it was nothing like this, not nearly as exhilarating and mind numbing.

There is some subtle hesitance to Jungkook’s movements at first, atypical and somehow reassuring,
but it disappears with the clench of Taehyung’s fingers in his hair.

Jungkook’s free hand slides to the hem of Taehyung’s jeans, tugs at it, pulls them down until they are
at his thighs, and he follows with his underwear as well, fingers gripping onto the fabric and yanking
them downwards, before he reaches up, palms at the bare skin of his ass, the tips of his digits pointed
towards the line between his cheeks.

The hand at his cock grips him firmer and he pulls his lips away, saliva stretching and Taehyung’s
hissing. The sight of it is borderline unbearable. There is something so obscene about a man on his
knees, a line of spit connecting his mouth to Taehyung’s length and all Taehyung can think about is
how he wants to shove it back in, ininin. Jungkook’s hand fists over him, pumps as the fingers of his
other one dip, brush over him and he flinches.

Taehyung’s digits squeeze into Jungkook’s hair, questioning and begging alike, because he needs to
get his mouth back on him, right now.

“Can I?” Jungkook says, a finger slipping indicatively between his cheeks and Taehyung’s breath
stirs.

“Yes,” he hisses, hand tugging and releasing onto the strands he grips. He knows what this implies,
means he’ll fuck him after, and it is exactly what Taehyung wants, but first he needs to get his cock
back in his mouth.

Jungkook’s hand leaves his ass, the other pauses on his length as he reserves all his concentration to
bring his fingers to his mouth. Taehyung’s fingers tighten so harsh into his hair when he makes him
watch, sucks on digits instead of on his cock, holds his gaze firm and unwavering as he gets them
slick for him. Taehyung has his teeth on his lip, almost drawing blood, jaw clenching with the clasp
of it.

He teases short, but it is enough to drive Taehyung insane. He takes his fingers out of his mouth and
as it gapes to allow them to leave, he replaces it back on his cock without closing it once and
Taehyung sighs, lids fluttering and falling shut for a weak moment of indulgence as the sensation
returns. Jungkook’s hand circles him again, as his mouth swallows him, tongue flattening below and
pressing upwards into the length, cheeks sucking him in.

The tip of a single finger hovers over Taehyung, presses lightly as his palm flattens over his cheek
again, skin so warm it burns. Taehyung grunts at the sensation of it, upper lip curling, exposes his
teeth. His eyes squeeze shut again – he can’t take it, not with the overwhelming combination of a
warm mouth and thick finger.

He swallows, tries hard to relax in the feel of it, the stretch of it. It still burns slightly, no matter how
slow Jungkook is, how careful. It is impossible to register discomfort, however, as it such a struggle
for Taehyung to compose his visceral urge to snap his hips forward. He forgets to care about
looking, as much as he somewhat twistedly basks in the sight of it, he cannot handle it, seeing and
feeling this all the same, not when the finger presses in to a knuckle.

Jungkook’s mouth pleases, his finger teases, and Taehyung is all lost. The digit drawls in and out
slow but certain.

“Fuck,” Taehyung hisses. “Jungkook,” he pants. He hates how whenever he has Jungkook on him
in any sort of way he is so tangibly aware it is exactly him that touches him, himhimhim, Jeon
Jungkook. It’s all that goes through his head, that very fact, as he can hardly process actual sensation,
just falls into it, moans with it, gives into it, insatiable.

Jungkook acknowledges with a hum that triggers a shimmer in Taehyung’s hips, nudging forward
and Jungkook strains with it a little, half a choke. His finger shoves harder into Taehyung in response
and he grits his teeth, tries to stay still.

A second finger prods at him and he keens. It hurts, then it feels good, then it hurts again, and then it
hurts so good. He knows the discomfort of the stretch, but the drag of Jungkook’s skin inside of him
is delicious enough to make it worth it, only interrupted by the colder sensation of that ring.

“If you don’t stop,” Taehyung says, tries to, eyes cracking. It’s breathy and weak and filled with all
the lewdness of getting his cock sucked and ass fingered in the back room of a club, “I’m gonna
come.”

Jungkook’s eyes are dangerous when he swallows around him, once, twice, head bobbing before he
pops out with a wet sound. Taehyung throbs at the loss of it, though Jungkook’s fist layers over,
languorous yet firm, two fingers pressing hard inside of him and stilling.
“I think there might be some lube in this room,” he rasps, his tone of voice wonderfully fucked out
and Taehyung cannot believe he finds something like a sore throat hot, but he does, makes him
twitch in his hold.

He ignores the fact of his words, though he would very much love to shove it into Jimin’s face that
those rooms are designated exactly for fucking.

He doesn’t think when he speaks, just basks in the pressure of Jungkook’s fingers inside of him.
“No,” he sighs, almost hurried, nearly desperate, and maybe he is on the verge of it, pulses with the
need of some release now that Jungkook’s hand pauses on him as well. “I don’t need it, I like it
when you hurt me.”

He says it thoughtless, quick and honest, but his skin burns with the confession, not as much as
Jungkook’s eyes do, dark and scalding. They narrow almost glaringly, and then that gaze nears, he
stands. Taehyung hopelessly follows the stare that so compellingly summons his attention until its but
a breath away.

Jungkook’s fingers draw back, still as the tips pause at entrance and Taehyung mulls on his lip, can’t
think, can’t bring himself to ask him to shove them in, like his body implores him to do. “What else
do you like?” Jungkook speaks rough and raw, and it hits Taehyung’s mouth. He’s so close again.

He attempts speech, but the fingers prod back in, tips slipping both at the same time and instead, he’s
whining, his hand that fell out of Jungkook’s hair with his repositioning now clutching helpless to his
bicep, just above the elbow.

“Do you like it when I tell you what to do?” Jungkook whispers, demands, and Taehyung,
Taehyung shakes his head no, though the gulp of his throat feels like a yes.

Jungkook’s free hand grips into Taehyung’s own elbow, spins him with just that hold, firm and
quick, shoves his front into the door. Taehyung’s cheek presses into it, he grunts. He releases his
hold, and Taehyung watches him from the side as his gaze drops down, takes him all in, eyes as bold
and ruthless as ever. His hand palms over his cheek again, pulls at it slightly as the fingers of his
other one push in. Taehyung screws his lids shut, cannot take the scrutiny of this. Jungkook’s
fucking filthy.

His voice sounds in his ear. “Do you like it when I feel you up?”
Taehyung shakes his head again, bites his lip.

Jungkook’s brows crease, eyes venturing to his face. “No?” His fingers shove in hard, gets him
flinching, moaning.

“Do you like this?” Jungkook’s hand draws back, lands on his cheek, light, but ringing, unexpected
and it elicits a gasp.

Taehyung’s eyes snap open, and fuck him, “Fuck you,” he says, he grunts. He shoves at him, though
he misses his fingers as soon as they leave him. He spins around, shoves him again. “Fuck you,” he
repeats. “You shouldn’t get to even touch me.”

“Please,” Jungkook huffs, teeth baring. “You crave it.”

“Yeah?” It’s the final shove that has Jungkook on the leather couch. He adjusts back onto it, glares
up at Taehyung as he leans onto it comfortably, legs spreading and elbows propping as it were his
decision to sit. “And you don’t?”

Jungkook’s tongue pokes into his cheek, jaw slackens, and Taehyung tries not to follow the motion
of his hand as it travels to his bulge, adjusts him in his jeans. “I can deal.”

Taehyung looks down, eyes shimmer, something very petulant and something very rebellious in the
way they glint, the way he repeatedly nods, small shakes off his head, the way his nostrils almost
flare. “Okay,” he nods, he breathes. Then he kicks his shoes off, shoves his pants down, his
underwear, glad Namjoon was a size above him and jeans fall without resistance, kicks them to the
side. If Jungkook is surprised he doesn’t wear socks, it’s not the place to comment as Taehyung
stands just in his parted shirt. “Okay, then you’re not permitted to touch.”

Jungkook’s eyes narrow, they glower, but he feigns casual as he shrugs, another challenge. “Okay,”
he says, tongue layering over his lips.

Taehyung’s head cocks. “Okay.” It’s the final okay before, invigorated by an unhealthy mixture of
petulance and frustration, he takes that one step necessary, gets both his knees on the couch on the
sides of Jungkook’s thighs and kneels.

Jungkook’s eyes go wide, so wide, and Taehyung is almost smirking at the shock of it, that he allows
for a few moments, but it is enough for Taehyung to know. Jungkook shifts into a glare, scoots his
hips back into the couch, teeth over his mouth. His gaze darts everywhere, almost frantic, but he
manages to somehow keep it subdued. He swallows. “What are you doing, Taehyung?”

The slight panic that laces his tone is satisfying to Taehyung, feeds him, as he stares at him, forces an
innocence into the look that he does not feel with his next intention. He says nothing when he opens
his mouth, swallows around his own fingers, thrusts them into his mouth, once, twice, just like
Jungkook had been bobbing on his cock a moment ago and then he reaches back, raises on his
knees, and slowly sinks them inside of himself.

He prefers Jungkook’s. They’re thicker, and though Taehyung’s are longer, he loves the stretch. But
Jungkook’s expression is worth it as he fills himself up, parts his lips and moans a moan he does not
entirely feel. He keeps his fingers still, instead moves his hips down, his thighs brushing Jungkook’s.

Jungkook’s features twist, and Taehyung recognizes anger. He props his free hand up, places it on
Jungkook’s shoulder and digs his fingers in, uses it as leverage to move himself more efficiently, and
Jungkook just about loses it.

He can’t just watch him from so close, feels every inch of his body, the heat of him, he’s never had
him so naked, so close, face to face, features contorting with lustrous pleasure. It infuriates him, he
infuriates him, puts on a show, exaggerates each motion of his hips, each gasp that leaves his lips.
He’s so beautiful from so close. Jungkook keeps hoping that if he stares long enough, close enough,
he’ll see some imperfection, but he doesn’t. He sees a mole on his nose, but he finds it kind of
fucking cute, sees the lids of eyes are different, but it just makes him all the more unique, and
Jungkook kind of wants to fucking pound him until he cries.

“Let me,” he says, moves his hand before he thinks, squeezes it around his hip.

But Taehyung shoves it with his elbow. “No,” he fucking pouts.

Jungkook’s eyes narrow. “Fine,” he’s saying. Fucking fine. He takes the hand back to himself, over
his jeans, pops the button open, shoves the zipper down. Taehyung’s gaze seals onto the motion as
he pulls himself out, wraps his palm over himself and jerks.

He stares until he doesn’t, returns his eyes to Jungkook’s just in time as Jungkook murmurs.
“Wouldn’t that feel better inside you?”
Taehyung’s begrudging, but honest, hisses, “Yes,” yet still rocks his hips on his own, makes no
indication of anything else. Their eyes lock in a challenge. Taehyung wants to get him to beg as
much as Jungkook wants it, too. They touch themselves in a similar rhythm, both so frustratingly
slow, but they’re distracted now.

Taehyung’s distracted, because Jungkook’s face is so close. His eyes soften on him, he knows it,
feels it as he takes him in, guard slowly slipping as he studies it. His hard eyes give as well as
Taehyung’s gaze loses its spite, lips part. He can feel him breathing, both from his chest, his mouth,
his parted mouth on which his stare latches and does not let go for a moment too long. His lids blink,
pupils seek Jungkook’s again and he does not find that previous challenging determination as
Taehyung’s hips almost still and he’s taking his fingers out, resting his hand on Jungkook’s thigh
instead. No, there is something very different, very new, and it’s a bigger liar than Jungkook’s
jealousy because it tricks Taehyung into leaning down.

He does, tilts his head, leans down, heart palpitating with a dangerous urgency, slamming in his chest
as if trying to escape, and it beats harder and harder, so angry against the cage of his ribs, but then it
pauses, stops for a moment with the taste of disappointment that is so spoiled and deflating on his
tongue it almost reaches his eyes.

Jungkook pulls away, looks to the side, Taehyung’s lips nearing his cheek before he stops himself,
moves back. He blinks, he’s blinking. He wants to curse. He wants to get off him, but he can’t bring
himself to acknowledge a kiss matters so much.

“Tae, don’t,” Jungkook’s saying as he twists away, the cruelty of what his motion feels like to
Taehyung masked over by a scathing softness.

Taehyung’s hand squeezes into his thigh. “Why?” he asks, eyes seeking Jungkook’s, but he won’t
let him have them. “Why not?” he demands. “You had your mouth on my cock and you still won’t
put it on my own.”

Jungkook huffs a breath, shakes his head. He has his hand on Taehyung’s waist, but his eyes
somewhere on the length of the couch. “Just drop it, okay?” he dismisses, pushes on his waist toward
the pillows of the couch in indication. “Get on your knees.”

“No,” Taehyung stays firm, and he pauses, pauses for what he means to say next, begins to speak
one sentence, but stops, changes and hopes defeat does not shine through his voice. “I want to ride
you,” he whispers to him instead, squeezes his hand onto his shoulder before he lets it drop, fingers
gliding across his chest before he wraps them around his cock lightly, “Let me.”
Jungkook’s eyes replace back to him, to the motion of his hand, though Taehyung stares at his face,
so closed off as if it is that same day that Julia first asked him. He shifts a bit, gets his wallet out from
his pocket with the hand that does not hold onto Taehyung’s waist. “I prefer doing the fucking,” he
tells him through teeth as he uses them to rip the condom open.

Taehyung takes it from him as Jungkook reaches down.

“You let Julia ride you,” Taehyung murmurs as he rolls the condom on him. He grips onto him after,
adjusts his hips over it. God, Taehyung falters. He underestimated how close he must get to him like
this for this work, and he has to pause, exhale. He bats his lids, looks into Jungkook’s eyes. “Is it
because I’m a boy?” he says, lines himself up, he speaks through a grunt as he slowly sinks down.
“I’ll still be a boy no matter in what position you fuck me.”

The stretch of it hurts, Taehyung can’t take it with his eyes opened. They screw shut as his mouth
parts, a silent, prolonged moan that is mixture of burning satisfaction and bittersweet pain. He sees
black, dark, it’s all he sees, he does not get to see Jungkook’s face, only hears him when he says, “I
know. You’ll still be Taehyung.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung’s eyes part and he feels his thighs against the back of his. “Yeah, I’ll still be
Taehyung.”

And then he moves. He starts slows, so very slow. He’d only had two fingers inside of him, only spit
and a lubed-up condom, and it hurts, but he’s too fucking tense to wait, just wants to give into what
this is, a fuck, just a good fuck. He squeezes his fingers into Jungkook’s shoulder and rocks onto
him, at first only grinding.

Jungkook isn’t looking at him. No, he’s staring at that damned cushion of that damned couch and
Taehyung hates it. His own eyes are rooted onto Jungkook’s face, on the muscle, bone of his jaw,
the creases in his brows, his lips, hissing when Taehyung moves against him.

He brings his mouth to his ear, breathes. “Didn’t you want to see my face?” He gets ten times
prettier, he’d told him just moments before, so handsome.

“Shit,” Jungkook curses, head shaking, and then both his hands are on Taehyung’s hips, squeeze so
hard, almost punishing, eyes on him. “yes, but not from so close, no,” and as his gaze filters over his
face, he repeats, “no.”
Taehyung moves on him, breathes. He shakes his head and he himself does not know what he means
when words first leave him. “I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers.

Jungkook’s fingers squeeze, “You’re doing fucking amazing.”

Sex, okay, he accepts it, they’re talking about sex. Taehyung just does what feels natural, what feels
nice. He tries to angle himself so that he reaches into him the way he usually does, speeds up, moves
quicker. He lifts himself more, rather than just grind, and sinks back on, grunts with it, moans with it.
“I’ve never done this,” he gasps as Jungkook’s fingers dig into him harder, his hips slamming up.

“No?” Jungkook’s brows arches, the tension from before dissipating into something entirely sexual
as they both try to fuck it into such. He thrusts up into him, fucks into him as Taehyung grinds down.
“Don’t ride Bogum, do you?”

Taehyung’s hand squeezes into one shoulder as the elbow of his other arm stretches over the other.
He bites on his lip as hips slap up into him but releases it with a whine. The rhythm escalates so well,
he fills him up so good, slams inside so relentless and quick, “No, Jungkook,” Taehyung shakes his
head, fucked into honesty, a part of him craves to disclose this to Jungkook, the same part that made
his heart skip a beat when Jungkook told him he hadn’t fucked Julia for a while. “Only you, you’re
the only one who’s been inside of me.”

Jungkook’s hips abandon the rhythm they have found for a single, hard shove before they fall into it
again. “Yeah?” He says, shakes sweating strands of hair away from his eyes to stare into
Taehyung’s. “Only one,” he repeats, savors the truth of it on his tongue.

Taehyung grits his teeth around a moan. He nods. “Yes.”

Jungkook fucks into him hard after that, Taehyung slams right back. They fit well, do this well,
sweat and fuck each other. There’s some impeccable intimacy about fucking like this, facing each
other, seeing faces and staring into eyes the whole time. Taehyung can feel his breath on his mouth,
see every crease of his features, every indication of pleasure from this spelled out on his face. He
can’t hide, not this, not now, not when he is allowed to look, when he forgets what line of
perspiration is his and which is Jungkook’s.

They fuck like this until Jungkook wraps his hand around Taehyung’s cock, pumps him and tells
him to come until he’s spilling, some on his chest and some on Taehyung’s own.
He moans with it, tilts his head back, shapes Jungkook’s name on his mouth, loses vision with the
pressure of it, and he is not even fucking done, when he’s in the air, Jungkook holding on the
underside of his thighs as if he weighs nothing and then his back is slammed onto that couch.

Jungkook’s hands leave his thighs, grip onto his wrists instead as he shoves them off of him onto the
cushion and he holds them there as he fucks him with abandon. He slams into him senseless, rough,
Taehyung’s back is arching off the cushion, chest pressing into Jungkook. He feels like he could
come again, knows he can’t, but he’s gasping with it. He has the urge to wrap his legs around his
waist, but if Jungkook won’t even let him touch his shoulders he doubts he’ll allow that.

Jungkook does not know what comes over him when he flips him, fucks a boy missionary. He used
to like fucking Julia like this so he could watch the pleasure he gives overtake her features, got off on
the fact he made her get off, but he doesn’t now. No, he buries his head in Taehyung’s neck as he
fucks him, because he can’t look at him, not at his face, certainly not at his eyes, not like this.

He fucks him until he comes, hard. His teeth sink into Taehyung’s shoulder to silence Taehyung’s
name.

He stays like that until he can breathe. Then he gets off of him completely. Taehyung flinches at the
absence, feels the residual pain he’s grown accustomed to as he’s no longer soothed by the fill.
Jungkook doesn’t look at Taehyung as he gets rid of the condom and Taehyung doesn’t look at him
as he gets his underwear and jeans back on. Gets his shoes, ties the laces off one that has gone awry
clumsily.

He doesn’t until his hand comes into view, expensive watch and stupid finger on it, a bunch of tissue
in the fingers as they reach over him. Taehyung trails his eyes to his as he takes it, wipes the come
off his chest, as Jungkook slips his arms into his shirt.

He might have said thank you, but he doesn’t because it is at that point the door opens.

Jungkook’s and Taehyung’s head whip to it with a similar urgency, eyes of them both of them
bulging, but not as wide as Bogum’s who simply gapes, paused at the door.

It’s painfully obvious what they did, utterly undeniable. The room reeks of sex, hair of them both is a
mess, Jungkook’s from Taehyung gripping it as he swallowed around his cock and Taehyung’s from
those final moments on the couch, both stuck with the sweat of it. Their shirts are parted, breathing
labored and Taehyung still has a tissue with his fucking come on it.
He only remembers to dispose of it when Jungkook lunges.

“Jimin said—"

“Close the fucking door,” Jungkook’s seething, but he’s not giving Bogum the chance to actually do
it before he slams it shut, and has him against it, forearm pressing into the length of his chest.

“Jungkook—” Taehyung tries, lifts off the couch hurriedly, throwing the tissue in the trash nearby,
that holds so much evidence of this happening,

“Get fucking dressed, Taehyung,” Jungkook practically barks at him as he shoves into Bogum once
with his arm before he drops it. He doesn’t step back and Bogum doesn’t move, either, simply stares,
eyes wide and vulnerable, throat bobbing with an uncomfortable swallow around nothing.
Jungkook’s fingers fall to his buttons but his eyes remain on him, fierce and unrelenting, the way he
looks at the people he fights. “If you tell anyone about this, I will rip your tongue out of your throat
and blame it on Kai. Won’t fucking be able to speak a sound ever again.”

Bogum says nothing, just stares, eyes filtering over to Taehyung, who struggles with the buttons of
his own shirt.

Jungkook’s palm slams next to his head and it rings, draws his attention back. “He can’t help you.
He means nothing to me.”

Jungkook sees him glance behind his back again, back at Taehyung, and Jungkook is jealous, so
fucking jealous of this right, because he cannot afford it now, can't look back, can’t see Taehyung’s
face. He breathes, shakes his head, looks down at his feet. He tongues at his lips, straightens, grips at
Bogum’s forearm and pulls him away, shoves him over to Taehyung before he opens the door,
leaves.

Taehyung takes a moment of clear, cutting hesitance, before he goes after him.

“Taehyung,” Bogum’s fingers latch on his wrist. He says nothing more, but the gaze is clear, are you
serious?

It’s the very same question that rings in his head repeatedly when he frees his hand. “I’ll talk to you
later. I promise.”
He only manages to catch up to Jungkook outside of the club. It’s too late for lines. It’s empty, the
street is completely empty and Jungkook has all the room to yell at him.

“What the fuck are you doing, Taehyung?”

“Jungkook—” he tries as Jungkook spins to him, gives him his wide eyes, arms opening wide as
well, lifting in the air with the surprise of his presence. His nostrils flare, chest expand and fall. He
looks as angry as Taehyung feels.

“I just said,” Jungkook punctuates, slow and though teeth, taking unconscious, harrowing steps
towards him, looks right into his eyes from as close as when they were fucking, when he spells it out
for him, “you mean nothing to me.”

“I know,” Taehyung breathes. “I know you said that to him. I heard it.”

Jungkook’s pausing. He bites his lip, shakes his head, and looks away for a moment, looks at a lamp
post, then at the starless sky. He breathes through his nose, looks back at him. “Taehyung—”

“Bogum won’t tell,” Taehyung spits out before he can say whatever it is he wants to. “Okay? That’s
all I came to say, Jungkook. Don’t do something stupid, because Bogum won’t tell.”

Jungkook’s eyes are all over him, his face, his body, his own eyes; they stop there, root. “That’s all
you came to say?”

“Yes.” Taehyung nods, swallows.

Jungkook nods back. “Okay,” and it is when Taehyung angles his body back towards the club that
he continues speaking. “Wanna get out of here?”

Taehyung’s head shoots back, neck almost snaps with the brusqueness of its motion. It’s his turn to
study him now, eyes skim all across, dart to each and every inch of him for the sign of what he does
not know. But Jungkook does not falter, does not say anything more. He just waits.
And Taehyung nods.

When Jungkook takes him to the Executive Tower a few blocks away, Taehyung turns back. When
he shuts off his protests and takes him to the roof, however, he is in awe. He refuses to sit on the
edge like Jungkook does, even watching the other dangle his legs off gives him anxiety that he
doesn’t voice. Heights makes him nervous, but that is just another thing he can’t let Jeon Jungkook
know.

But by the way Jeon Jungkook smirks, he probably guesses.

“Fine, don’t sit,” he rolls his eyes, as Taehyung pauses at the hatch door. “Just come closer for a
minute, see the view.”

Taehyung’s steps are hesitant, but he does, begrudgingly walks over to where Jungkook sits.
Jungkook’s eyes sleaze over him when his hand trembles to reach for the edge, but he allows it, lets
him take his time. When Taehyung finally has the confidence to stand near enough to see, he
certainly doesn’t regret it. It’s fucking beautiful.

And compared to everything in his life, it’s so pleasingly silent.

Jungkook’s voice has a calming quality to it now, as he speaks in a manner that does not disturb the
setting. “You can see almost all of Seoul,” he says.

“You can see all of Gangnam,” Taehyung notes, for the first time when Jungkook’s around eyes not
entirely reserved for him, because they venture fascinated all across. “All of Richhood.”

“Yes, that fucking shithole." Jungkook nods. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Taehyung layers his eyes over Jungkook now. “Sadly,” he says. Jungkook hums at this and if he
feels his gaze on him, he doesn’t indicate it.

He only turns his head to him after a moment. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit?” he arches his
brows, that smirk from a little while before reappears as he adds, “I’ll catch you if you start to fall.”
“I don’t trust you,” Taehyung tells him, voice low. He does want to climb on, though, give himself
the extra height to take in the view.

He places his hands on the roof edge and they tremble when he attempts to lift himself up enough to
get his legs up. Jungkook’s fingers wrap against his wrist and hold it down, stable, until he manages,
releases it immediately after his ass is on top, and answers, “Good call.”

Taehyung keeps his knees to himself, sits as close to the roof as the space would allow him and
wraps his arms around his legs, peaking over. He does not like the proximity he subconsciously
chooses to Jungkook, but he does prefer having him closer just in case he does topple over.

His heart beats a bit sporadically in his chest. They’re silent and he takes his phone out of his jeans,
texts Bogum to ask him if he wants him to come back tonight or he doesn’t want to see him before
he puts it away.

Less than another minute passes when Jungkook reaches his arm forward, one finger pointed. “That
thing there above the very lit one is my apartment.”

Taehyung looks on. He can see from here he indicates a penthouse, two floors probably, and as dark
as the sky. No one’s home.

“Your apartment,” Taehyung chews a bit on his mouth. He hesitates, keeps his eyes on that
apartment. “My sister told me about what happened.”

Jungkook’s hand drops in his lap, heavy. His gaze is rooted on that building as well. He’s lived there
his entire life in that apartment his father bought. His father who tried to hurt Taehyung’s sister. His
father who hurts his own sister all the time. “Yeah?” he asks. He sinks his teeth into his lip.

“Yes,” Taehyung says. He has the urge to look at him, but something makes him hold back, feels
peculiarly as if he would intrude on some privacy if he does in that moment. “Thank you.”

Jungkook sucks in a breath so sharp Taehyung almost feels it himself, and he looks away from that
apartment, looks to the other side, brings his knee up and rests his cheek on it, takes away the mere
chance for Taehyung to look.

“You know,” he mumbles in his own knee and Taehyung doesn’t know if he is even meant to hear,
“one time my mom threatened to leave my father and he went all soft and manipulative on her. I
don’t think he’s ready to face the public embarrassment of a divorce, of failure.” He pauses, he gulps.
His voice has never been as soft, his words never as harrowing, “He said he did not hit as hard as his
own father did.”

Jungkook does not know completely what fully compels him to say this. He does know, however, he
had no one else he can say it to. Yoongi, Hoseok, Julia. They all know his father sucks. None of
them know he hits. And Ji-woo does. Taehyung does.

He turns his face on the other cheek, and Taehyung feels it, turns as well, meets his eyes. They
glimmer. His voice barely sounds, “I don’t want to become that, Tae.”

Taehyung’s knees fall apart, legs dangle off the edge as he turns as much of his body towards him as
he can, and he speaks before he thinks. “You won’t,” he promises with palpable conviction.
Jungkook’s brows raise a bit, he lifts his head, rests it on his chin instead and he watches Taehyung’s
eyes as he shakes his head and keeps talking.“Like, don’t get me wrong, you’re a fucking ass,
Jungkook,” he says animatedly, nodding with it. “A condescending, entitled, sort of selfish fucking
ass,” he lists, “but you’re nothing like your father.”

Jungkook drops his knees as well, straightens. He looks away, looks ahead, back at that apartment.
Taehyung watches his tongue coat his lips, his lids blink. “I’m a lot like my father.”

Taehyung shakes his head, “No,” he isn’t, Taehyung really believes he isn’t. “You’re rich and young
and it makes you kind of dumb, kind of shameless.” Jungkook is shameless and Jungkook is stupid
in a way that has nothing to do with intelligence. So is Taehyung. “And I’m poor and young and it
makes me kind of dumb, kind of shameless.”

Jungkook looks at him. His legs dangle and swing back and forth like that of a child and they are
young, so fucking young, maybe it’s a good enough excuse for now to make the mistakes that they
do, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s time they grow up and stop, but on that rooftop, there is room for one
more and Taehyung stares at Jungkook as he makes it. As he admits, “And you make me kind of
dumb and kind of shameless as well.”

Jungkook blinks over glistening eyes, they shine from the wind, and it’s ridiculous how Taehyung
wants to kiss him more now than when he was just about to sit on his cock.

Taehyung looks away, down at his lap. “It happens to young people,” he whispers, more to himself
than to Jungkook, but he hears it as well.
“It happens to sad people,” Jungkook says before his posture changes, voice does as well. He
spreads his knees open a bit more, relaxes back onto his wrists. “Your brother is in Japan.”

“What?” he asks in a single sharp breath, brows furrowing and he’s sure he heard wrong, he must
have.

Japan, Taehyung's brain speeds, Japan is so close, yet so fucking far away.

“At least calls from a Kyoto area code,” Jungkook elaborates as much and Taehyung’s heart beats
faster. Questions ring through his mind, though he’s unsure whether he wants them answered, knows
Jungkook is not the person to ask. When Jungkook pauses he knows he’s said as much as he has to
offer. He speaks again, but it’s distinctively different. “When Clo OD’d for the first time, he was the
one to sell it to her.”

Taehyung doesn’t look at him, he can’t. He knows Clo Eun takes drugs, everyone does. He knows
his brother used to sell them, everyone does. But the fact she overdosed, not once at that, it hits him
more than he expects. Taehyung cannot imagine Ji-woo so close to gone, the mere thought of it,
hypothetical as it is, breaks his heart a little. He realizes he will never find it in himself to blame
Namjoon for this, he still cannot blame him for leaving, but he imagines Jungkook would, anything
so that he doesn’t blame Clo Eun, anything to escape his own guilt.

Because if something like that happens to Ji-woo he would never be able to forgive himself for it, for
not shielding her better.

“I never hated him cause he was poor, I hated him cause of that,” Jungkook says and it feels soft,
feels like a confession, though his voice rings as it normally does, peculiarly melodic, but firm. “The
only thing I knew of your family was him and that your father is a con man, fools expensive women
into making him an expensive man.” He turns his head to him, his eyes coating over Taehyung.
“And then the way that you were looking at my girlfriend.”

With Jungkook’s eyes so scorching on him, he turns to look back and makes another mistake. “I was
never looking at Julia,” he confesses. He glances away before he even finishes the sentence, does not
want to see Jungkook’s face when it sinks in.

Jungkook says nothing about it and Taehyung doesn’t know if he appreciates it or hates it, though he
does suppose his words mean nothing that begs a response. They mean nothing at all, just that his
eyes wandered over one rich kid in a hollow curiosity and not another. The silence stretches.
Then Jungkook gets on his feet on the fucking edge and Taehyung almost has a heart attack with it.

“Get the fuck down,” he’s saying, rushed, eyes wide as they turn to look up at him.

“Relax,” Jungkook smirks, casually fucking hops off the edge and onto the roof as if he didn’t just
risk his life. “Wanna see what an actual TV looks like?”

“What?” Taehyung asks, drawing his knees back onto the surface and scooting back. Suddenly a
wind blows at him from the side that Jungkook kept warm and the anxiety of sitting like this washes
over him again in a wave. He turns his body back to face the other, face the roof, face safety.

“My parents are out of town,” Jungkook tells him. “I say we go play something on an actual TV.”

Taehyung’s eyes widen as he processes the suggestion, his parents out of town, actual TV, Jeon
Jungkook is inviting him to his goddamn penthouse apartment. Taehyung has never in his life set
foot in a Richhood apartment, not for the lack of ridiculous irony-fueled stories of riches and glory
he’s heard from his sister. Taehyung’s hand reaches back, stretches and he says with all the
incredulity he feels as he points to Jeon Jungkook’s fucking penthouse. “In there?”

“Yes,” Jungkook says, crossing his arms, “I saw the Kim residence. Tit for tat.”

“The Kim residence,” Taehyung begins as he props his hands on the surface, eyes the floor beneath
him cautiously as begins to carefully scoot, “is largely unimpressive, and you were hardly invited.”

Jungkook’s arms uncross as he watches him struggle and he takes a subconscious step forward but
pauses when Taehyung manages to jump down the small distance off the edge. “I liked it,” he tells
him.

Taehyung shifts his gaze to him. “You said it was a shithole,” he deadpans. “Multiple times.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue. “Well, it kind of is, but the residents are welcoming.”
Taehyung shakes his head, huffs in disbelief. Jeon Jungkook is the weirdest fucking person he
knows. “What about Clo Eun?” he asks.

The other shrugs as if it doesn’t matter if she just comes home and sees him playing games with a
Kim on his couch in their living room. Or gaming room, they might have a gaming room. Taehyung
wonders if people have gaming rooms, sometimes they do in movies. “We’re worse off if she catches
us here,” Jungkook tells him, taking steps backwards towards the door hatch as if Taehyung has
already agreed. “That’s her roof.”

Jungkook spins with it, makes to leave and Taehyung checks his phone to see it notification-less
before he follows.

Living a walking distance away from the Ozone is freakish enough, but what Taehyung certainly
isn’t ready for is that the hallway, without any exaggeration, is made out of marble. White, glaring,
beautiful marble.

The apartment is marvelous, and Taehyung is afraid to walk on it with his dirty shoes.

Jungkook saunters in with confidence, and for the first time, he actually does own the place.
Taehyung trails behind, feels uncomfortable being there on his own.

The room he takes him to is architecturally impressive, though the interior design falls a bit heavy.
He lives for decoration, but art pieces clash, some appear tasteless in their surroundings, though on
their own they’re certainly credible. The modern art does not surprise him, people with penthouses
seem to love it, but some items astound him. An incredibly well-made impressionist imitation hangs
over a digital fireplace and his eyes root there as Jungkook walks over to it.

“Didn’t think I’d see Renoir at the Jeons,” Taehyung notes as Jungkook’s hands lift the frame.

“A Reno-what did you say?” Jungkook huffs, gets something from underneath.

“The artist,” Taehyung juts his chin up as Jungkook settles the painting back into place and adjusts
the frame.

“Is it good like that?”

“A little to the right,” Taehyung makes a motion with his fingers. “Someone must have a penchant
for art.”

“No,” Jungkook shakes his head. “A penchant for price tags.”

“Ah,” Taehyung nods to himself. “That would explain it. What’s that?”

“Key to the consoles,” Jungkook explains, snorts. “Father actually thinks I don’t know where it is.”
He walks over to a TV cupboard that has some authentic vintage look to it on a background of
contemporary pieces of furniture, squats down and uses the key to open it. “Do you like art?”

Taehyung shrugs. “Some.”

They go to a different room that combines a living room and a dining room. It lacks the attempt of
artistry of the previous one, and although it still intertwines vintage and modern it is much more
tastefully done.

“A designer did the whole place,” Jungkook says as he sees Taehyung look. “But my dad went after
in his drinking room and added shit and fucked it a bit.”

“It’s beautiful,” Taehyung confesses genuinely.

“I’ll let the designer know.”

It’s beautiful, but it is sterile, and Taehyung knows what Jungkook meant now when he’d called his
house homely.

Jungkook falls back into a couch with a controller once he sets it up and pats the cushion next to him.
“Don’t be shy now, pretty boy, let’s play.”

“I’m not shy,”Taehyung bites, sits down where Jungkook had indicated, though it’s a little close.
Jungkook snorts. “Okay.”

Taehyung picks up a controller. “You’re a bitch.” The game loads, his eyes go wide. “What are
those fucking graphics?”

“Told you yours wasn’t an actual TV,” Jungkook says and he almost breathes a laugh with it, and it
makes Taehyung feel a bit funny. “Bet it’s older than my dad’s antique dinner table.”

“Fuck you, let’s play.”

They do play, play for nearly an hour with Jungkook making comments every now and then that
make Taehyung flip him off or tell him to fuck off. They play and Taehyung loses mostly and
blames it on Jungkook distracting him with the shit he spews, and he complains, says his name,
drawls it out, long and petulant.

“Jungkook,”he’s grumbling, body angling towards his as he stretches with the sound of it after he
loses, again, because Jungkook won’t stop talking about how he would be better at folding socks
than Taehyung is at gaming, which is completely false.

“You’re so fucking whiny,” Jungkook says, his tone light with it as he turns to smirk at him, and
Taehyung has enough of it, throws the controller to the couch and instead grabs an elongated
decorative pillow that he simply slams into the side of Jungkook’s head.

Jungkook nearly gasps. “I can’t believe you just—You little bitch.” Taehyung cannot believe it
either, because he just hit Jeon fucking Jungkook, no matter it was with a pillow, he hit him, and oh
god, he hit Jungkook.

“Come here,” Jungkook mutters under his breath, grasps at the pillow and tugs at it, but Taehyung
grips harder. It’s the only soft thing there for him to protect his body with and he wraps his whole
arms around it, presses it into his chest.

“No,” he says, holding tight, his back almost on the cushion now as he pulls back, but Jungkook tugs
and it simply isn’t fair how much muscle mass he has on him. Taehyung has to use his whole entire
body to fight just two arms. He actually lifts his legs up, presses the feet of them onto Jungkook’s
thigh and pushes like this, but Jungkook deals with that quick and unproblematic, simply grabs his
ankles and spreads them apart.
Taehyung uses the advantage of his hands leaving the pillow to deliver another hopefully disarming
hit to the head, but all it manages to do is dishevel his hair and aggravate him further. He grabs onto
the pillow again, tugs so firm and quick it slips right through Taehyung’s thin fingers and he almost
shrieks as his body loses the soft protection.

Jungkook is on him then. Taehyung tries to shield his face, crosses his forearms in front of it but
Jungkook just circles his fingers around his wrists, presses them into the cushion.

Taehyung doesn’t laugh, but his chest and throat feel like he has, and he has only a bit of a hard time
catching his breath as they settle, he gets forced to settle. He stares up and Jungkook looks down,
eyes supposedly glaring, but mostly they crease and glint with some silent entertainment, the corners
of his lips setting up. Their bodies don’t touch too much, but he is technically between his legs,
above him, holding him down.

Jungkook’s gaze lifts, his eyes darting up at something in the room, then down again, up again, and
Taehyung tries to tilt his head to follow, but all he sees is the arm of the couch, so he glances at
Jungkook instead.

“What?” he asks, brows furrowing a bit.

Jungkook looks down, his teeth tease his lower lip at just one end of his mouth. Something very
childishly naughty takes over his expression, a certain mischief in his eyes, his eyebrows, the curve
of his cheek. He hesitates, adjusts himself a little over Taehyung, the thumbs of his hands making
circles over the apples of Taehyung’s palms and it makes the skin there tingle. “Kind of want to fuck
you on my dad’s antique dinner table.”

Taehyung’s heart tremors, speeds, though it has still not entirely calmed from the exertion of trying to
fight Jeon Jungkook. He kind of wants to get fucked on his dad’s antique dinner table as well, wants
to get fucked over every piece of furniture his father prizes. His lips draw downwards, and he most
animatedly contemplates. “Well,” he clicks his tongue, “that can be arranged.”

And then finally, he does, he does laugh. It’s short, very short, but it makes all his teeth show and his
eyes crease, and Jungkook hinders for a moment, before a small chuckle that bundles the skin above
his nose escapes him as well.

“Bend me over?” Taehyung suggests and it's only half a joke as he lifts a brow, bites his lip.
Laughter swiftly disappears when Jungkook accepts the preposition, yanks him up and takes him to
the table, Taehyung’s phone slipping from his pocket somewhere between the cushions. Despite the
atmosphere with which it starts, Jungkook fucks him like he always does, hard and rough and
passionate, presses his bare chest into the surface of it before he pulls him up by the hair, fists over
his cock and commands in his ear.

“Come on it,” and Taehyung does, cries out, and spills all over with all the overwhelming pleasure of
a Jungkook-induced orgasm and some other eerie satisfaction.

Taehyung remains by the table, fists pressed into it as he tries to recover, tries to catch his fucking
breath as Jungkook saunters over to the couch to struggle to find his. “Want to play another first-
shooter?” Jungkook asks through a pant and then he jumps a bit, squirms. Taehyung looks behind
his shoulder, cracks a smile at his obvious discomfort. “Jesus,” Jungkook exclaims as he lifts off a bit
and pats the cushion beneath him until he finds the culprit. “That vibrated right in my ass.”

Taehyung turns fully, cocks his head at him as he runs hands though his hair, which, thanks to
Jungkook’s incessant tugging, is in complete disarray. “Are you saying that to me?” he asks,
incredulous, because quite frankly after the pounding his ass just took, once again, courtesy of
Jungkook, he has not right to comment.

Jungkook’s eyes dart to him warningly before they return to the device as he turns it over in his hand,
grumbles. “Well, it’s your fucking phone.” His thumb clicks on the side button with a pace that
seems instinctive when you grab on a phone and his gaze falls down. His face changes. His voice
drops. “Bogum wants you to go back.”

Taehyung pauses in his stride to the return to the couch, hand halting in his hair. “What?” he says
dumbly.

Jungkook’s eyes return to his. “Bogum,” he says, slowly, enunciates. He gets on his feet, stretches
the phone out towards Taehyung’s chest, but he doesn’t immediately take it. “Wants you to go back
to the Ozone.”

“Oh,” Taehyung’s fingers wrap around the phone. “Well, I – have to.”

Jungkook looks away with the motion of an eye roll. “You don’t have to, Tae,” he says and there is
something bitter on his tongue that Taehyung tastes on his own. “But you will.”
Jungkook brushes past him and Taehyung spins with it as well, scoffs. “Isn’t this the part where one
of us leaves, anyway?”

“I guess it is,” Jungkook says, bends down, picks up his own shirt and Taehyung’s. He stretches the
fabric towards him.

“Jungkook—”

“It certainly isn’t the part when you explain yourself to me like you’re my fucking girlfriend,
Taehyung,” Jungkook interrupts, voice curling angrier and louder. It shuts Taehyung up. “Just
leave.”

Taehyung swallows. “Okay.” He has to. He made plans with Bogum, he has to. Staying here is
dangerous anyway, for many reasons. “Okay.” He puts his shirt on, texts Bogum back, thank you, he
says, though a big part of him wishes Bogum took longer to forgive.

He leaves and Clo is with Jin, who loves her, and she won’t come back tonight and Jungkook’s all
alone in this big ass fucking designer penthouse.
 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes

hey, this was one of the most difficult chapters to write, but it's done and its ridiculously
long, it could be its own fic

people have been incredible about this, I had actual fan art (@verriesandcream) made
and a playlist made, and a few have reached out specifically to talk to me about it and it
is such a wonderful feeling, so I would like to say thank you

ps fuck you afnan

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The words come with the impact of Bogum turning the chair around and slamming it onto the table
top a little too hard as the two of them close down Rouge together. “So,” he begins and maybe
attempts some nonchalance, maybe he sees no point, but either way the result is a palpable tightness
as it leaves his throat, palms propped on the table and eyes fixed on Taehyung, “You tell me not to
kiss you in public, yet you fuck him in the back of a club.”

Taehyung is wiping at a table with a cloth, usually something he half asses at this point of the day,
worn out and without the motivation of the scrutiny of a supervisor, but now he scrubs steadfastly,
his attention aimed at the circular motions of his hand, thin bones protruding. “The room has a lock,”
is what he says, unsubstantially, swallowing down some distaste that rises on his tongue.

This conversation that he knew was impending had been successfully avoided back at the Ozone, as
it is rare that at the hour he returned there one would be able to hear their own thoughts, let alone
participate in a conversation that is layered with as much grudges and tension as this one would be.
In all honesty, Taehyung has absolutely no desire to take part in it, not only at the end of a day which
he spent licking asses of Richhood residents, so he is naturally not in the brightest of moods, but at
all. Jeon Jungkook is not something he verbally addresses for a reason, and quite frankly, he would
like to keep it that way.

But the way Bogum narrows his eyes, in some ill-placed determination that is a borderline waste of
his time, tells him that it’s a discussion he will unfortunately pursue. His tone is challenging,
accusatory,as his gaze follows the illogical trajectory of Taehyung switching to a table much further
away. “Jimin has a key and he saw you.”
Taehyung lifts his eyes up, once. Blinks. “No one asked you to turn that key.” He bends to the table
and scrubs. He’s a little sore in the ass. Every instinct he has pushes him to snap at Bogum for
meddling, but he swallows down a natural harshness that resides just behind his gritting teeth. He
knows he’s earned that unspoken accusation that underlies the words that Bogum does say.

Bogum who now straightens up and crosses his arms. Bogum who deadpans, “The door wasn’t
locked.”

“It –" Taehyung stands fully as well, the beginnings of that snap that so naggingly threatens to
escape, but he ravishes his mind for the memory of a turned lock and he comes up short and so does
his breath with his sigh as he brings a hand across his face, kneads his palm and fingers over his
eyes, his forehead, “shit.”

They’re dumb. Jungkook and him, they’re dumb as fuck, Jungkook had him pressed against that
door as he sucked him off yet neither of them bothered to lock it.

“Does Jimin,” Taehyung gulps, releases his face for the sake of looking at Bogum, voice smaller
than before, “did you, did you tell him?”

His gaze must sufficiently translate his worry because Bogum’s eyes soften. “No,” he shakes his
head.

Taehyung nods, gnaws a bit on his lips and returns back to scrubbing. “Thanks,” he says to the table.

And then as Taehyung converts from one table to another and Bogum follows with unyielding eyes,
a frustration fills his voice, a frustration that raises it to something Taehyung hasn’t heard before from
him. “You said you weren’t gay, Taehyung.”

He had, to get Bogum to stop kissing him, not because it was true. Taehyung shrugs, attention zeroes
in on a particular table he figures needs a good scrub, and he starts on it. “It was easier,” he says low,
says it like a confession and it is.

Bogum’s hands fists and the knuckles of them crack when they press into the table he is by as he
leans, body poised with that perpetuated rigidity of accusation. “Is that how it is for you?” His tongue
is sharp as it moves in his mouth, brows raising, for his own sake of expression as Taehyung is
simply not looking at him. His head cocks, words grow sardonic, “Choose to lie to save yourself
trouble?”
Taehyung settles his gaze over him now, eyes in the midst of a blankness and a glare. He aims for
pointedness, “I don’t owe you anything, Bogum.”

Bogum’s fists readjust on top of the table and another knuckle cracks. “I’m not saying you need to
somehow repay me. I’m saying it’s a choice you made.” It’s with an ambiance of disappointment that
Bogum speaks that truth and Taehyung can only think maybe he should have got to know him better
before he decided to like some made up version of himself -- a concoction of his looks, a very slight
circumstantial bit of his actual personality, and some other traits he conjured up. Liking this imagined
self of him, apparently, is some cause of expectation Taehyung cannot meet and doesn’t want to. He
isn’t good with expectations when it doesn’t come to bringing home a salary and putting dinner on
the table.

Taehyung says nothing.

Bogum sighs and turns away for a moment, his chin on his shoulder and teeth worried into his lip.
Maybe he considers giving up on this, but then he sucks in air and he turns back. There is palpable
hesitation in his intention as his eyes drift between Taehyung’s hands and his face. “What are you
doing with him, anyway?”

“Erm—” Taehyung begins and something lodges in his throat, so he has to clear it. He plays with the
cloth in his hands, before he brings one up, scratches the skin behind his ear, “Sex.”

Bogum’s brows furrow. “That’s it?”

Eyes fix on him again, hard. “I meant it,” Taehyung makes sure to enunciate, “I don’t owe you
anything.” He circles past him, bents and appears on the other side of the bar.

Bogum turns with him, the poise of his body dropping as his hands are now behind him, front
exposed and bent back. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

Taehyung pauses at the coffee machine. His eyes bat at him again, cautious more so than glaring,
though a certain hardness is permanent in their energy. He returns them to the machine he means to
clean. “Sorry,” he says, he mumbles, tongue coursing over his lower lip.

Bogum lifts off of the table, strides over, his palms falling on the other side of the bar top that
separates them. Still, he’s close, and he looks at Taehyung different now, looks with some imploring
pity that is a stem of his voice as well, “He’s a piece of shit, Taehyung.”

Taehyung’s next gaze is sharp and instinctive. “You don’t know him.” He hates the tone of his own
voice, curled with ambiguous animosity.

It makes Bogum draw back, almost reflexively, almost in recoil, but then he fires back, “Do you?”
Taehyung meets that question with the glare of his previous statement, but he replaces it back on the
coffee machine when his mouth parts, but words don’t fall.

Bogum gives him time to respond, to say anything, but Taehyung is silent. It hits him then and there
how much he would like to avoid that conversation most purely because it is one he has not yet had
with himself. He strives hard to ignore thoughts about Jungkook that are not entirely sexual, but it
has been getting harder and harder; it verges on impossible.

Bogum nods at his silence as if it is a claim. “You like him,” he states blankly. His arms lift off the
bar top and cross with the step he takes backwards.

“I—” Taehyung attempts, tries a denial, but it doesn’t pull through his lips. He huffs a breath out, a
breath that almost forces itself out of him and he slaps the cloth down in front of himself, leaning,
facing his feet. “I don’t, I don’t know, never liked anyone before.” He runs a hand through his hair,
“I just,” he hesitates, then he whispers, “I want him.” He lifts the cloth again, starts wiping gingerly
around the machine.

A silence stretches and it is too long and too short all the same. “Want him how?”

Taehyung’s hand halts before it continues with new vigor. “Lots of ways.” He mutters, he’s
muttering words that are confessions to himself as much as they are to Bogum.

Bogum’s next sentence comes soft and Taehyung knows he does not intend them to be cutting, only
truthful, but the effect of it is just the same, “Ways in which Julia already has him?”

“No,” Taehyung says suddenly, he says sharply, in an exhale. But then he pauses, leans on his palms
and tries to breathe and think, but his elbows give, and he drops on them, body folding over and
palms opening to accommodate his face as he buries it in them. “Jesus, I’m fucked.”

Bogum watches him and his lips crack open, fall shut again as Taehyung straightens, wipes
habitually across his mouth and resumes his cleaning. His expression closes off as effectively as
Jungkook’s would. As he stares at him communicate with just the straightening of his eyebrows and
the neutrality of his eyes that this short pseudo outburst would be his only acknowledgment of the
previous fact, Bogum cannot help but think maybe Taehyung and Jungkook are more alike than he
had realized.

He certainly doesn’t know both of them, as much as he does not know Jeon Jungkook, he has no
idea who Kim Taehyung is either. He takes another step back, relaxes onto the table. His head
shakes with a sigh, and he says soft and disappointed with the memory of Taehyung wiping his own
come off of his chest. “You told me you hadn’t even kissed a guy before.”

“I hadn’t,” Taehyung’s voice pulls through his lips tightly as he moves to wipe at a side of the coffee
machine that effectively hides his face. The features of his expression disappear, but those of his
words tug loud and clear with a hesitant but layered hurt. “He doesn’t -- we don’t… kiss.”

The pity seeps back into Bogum’s voice and Taehyung thinks maybe if he wipes hard enough he can
push the coffee machine over and break it into pieces. “He doesn’t kiss you?”

Taehyung wipes at it veraciously for a moment more before he simply throws the rag over his
shoulder, dirtying his white shirt. “I don’t want him to kiss me,” he says, he lies, “It’s just sex.
Machine’s done.” And he’s almost at the door of the kitchen when Bogum’s voice reaches him.

“You’re gonna get yourself hurt, Tae.”

Taehyung pauses and a sentence lingers on his throat but it’s short and maybe Bogum doesn’t even
notice. “I have the keys. You can go if you want.”

Taehyung has never been more honest than in that fleeting moment on the rooftop when he’d said
that Jungkook makes him kind of dumb and kind of shameless, except of course that the dumb part
isn’t ‘kind of’ -- it’s supremely. Because it demands a new, out of the ordinary level of stupidity
combined with his borderline toxic curiosity to pull the type of pure shit he does.
When he gets off two stops too early on the subway to walk around, clear his head, he is very aware
he will cross by the part of town that Kai’s older brother resides in to live in a suburbia house
reminiscent of a mansion and commit consistent tax evasion effortlessly. When he sees Jungkook in
the area, he is very conscious the only possible place where he could be going in this neighborhood
would be somehow related to him. And it is with that clear knowledge that he makes the turn away
from the path that leads to his own home and traces after Jungkook’s own footsteps.

He stands out, Taehyung thinks as he strides from a distance. The surroundings are not a background
for his clothes, for his stance, not a background that fits. Taehyung is much more suited for a space
like this yet as he trudges after, he gulps down the knowledge they are heading to a destination at
which he does not belong.

Taehyung hears voices that make him slow his step, voices that increase in decibel and then
completely still after a sharp order of shut up, as Jungkook turns a certain corner. A corner Taehyung
does not dare follow behind as Jungkook’s steps echo along the cement for a few moments and then
stop.

Taehyung presses his shoulder against the wall behind which Jungkook disappeared and commits his
greatest folly of the day, he glances over it. He sees Jungkook now slightly sideways and closer, but
it is not that which makes a lump settle in his throat and his skin and ears tingle and warm with the
realization of utter stupidity. Because Kai’s brother, Sooho,is there, of course he is, what other
business would Jungkook have around here. Taehyung curses his never-ending curiosity, curses
Jungkook for choosing exactly this day for making this visit. Sooho leans on a brick wall and has
two other people in vicinity, a considerably large male with hair styled to accommodate the tattoo
that swears his dedication to Kai on the side of his head and a much lankier individual who has his
etched into his bicep.

With Jungkook’s approach, Sooho pushes off the brick wall he leans on and the two others present
are at his sides with the immediacy of practice. “Well, well, well,” he speaks, a smirk curling on his
features as his eyes scan Jungkook from his head to the toe of his overpriced shoes, “what deigns
walk here?” He meets his gaze. “What do you want, Jeon?”

Jungkook retains that picture-perfect neutrality that used to be the constant mind-numbingly
frustrating ambiance of his each and every interaction with Taehyung, an impartial languor that
borders on offensive with the way it almost makes him seem bored in a condescending fashion. “Just
a few words and I leave you to your circle jerk.”

The burly man with a questionable hairstyle who takes Sooho’s right hand side falls a step forward
with the poise of threat, the muscles in his jaw playing with his growl of, “Careful.”

Sooho presses the length of his arm against the unfamiliar person’s ribcage and pushes him back with
the dynamic of transparent authority. “Leave it.”

Jungkook eyes the person who now stares at him with his teeth bared almost animalistic before he
returns his cold attention to Sooho. “You’re Clo Eun’s contact, no?” He cocks his head. “I want you
to stop selling to her for a few weeks.”

Sooho cocks his head, layers his eyes over him calculatingly again and ponders. He speaks slow
when he does, “Kai is the one who takes in such requests, Jeon.”

Jungkook hums and Taehyung thinks the lanky person’s head twitches in his direction so he slams
his back against the building, presses his palm against his own mouth and nose, heartbeat escalating
in his chest. “Thought you were part of headquarters as well,” Jungkook drawls and Taehyung
cannot see him, but imagines he perpetuates his attitude visibly as his voice does. “Excuse me for
overestimating you.”

He hears the huff of a laugh that is glaringly forced. “Backhanded compliments will get you nowhere
with me.”

Taehyung slowly removes the hand from his mouth. He breathes deliberate and hard just to test it. “I
know,” Jungkook says. “That’s not what I offer. I’ll pay you more.”

“She pays better,” Sooho is replying and Taehyung can practically hear the teasing self-satisfaction
drip from the uttered words and he hates how he wants to know Jungkook’s reaction to that, hates
how he gets brave thinking that in their dick-measuring contest they’d be too focused on each other,
absolutely abhors it, because it is that which triggers him to peak again.

It’s a mistake. It’s a numbingly stupid mistake. As soon as his eyes find the men, those of the lanky
individual are immediately sealed onto him in a bilious glare. “The fuck you spying on?” he spits and
it thunders in Taehyung’s ears, makes blood rush so worryingly in his veins and then everyone is
turning, everyone is watchingand Jungkook’s bored eyes fix on him for a moment before they
double in alarming recognition.

Taehyung means to turn back away but he forgets how to. Paranoia freezes and so does the
indecipherable widening of Jungkook’s fucking eyes.

He stutters a pronoun, but that is about it that he manages before Sooho steps to one side to get a
better look at him over Jungkook’s shoulder and his eyes narrow, but smirk widens. “Isn’t that
Joon’s little brother?” he questions and the slight excited entertainment that laces in his voice with it
rings warningly to Taehyung. Sooho prods at the burly guy’s shoulder. “Hey, bring little Kim over
here for me,” he instructs, and the larger person is immediately moving.

Taehyung contemplates the extent of moronism that running away would constitute but he has no
time to consider, in truth, because he’s barely managed to process his own fear, thumping heart and
widening eyes, when he’s got rough fingers wrapping around his elbow and tugging him mercilessly
where the others stand and watch. He finds a safe space, at first, in focusing his wide eyes to
Jungkook’s own, however, as for Jungkook it settles in just whohe is, his gaze narrows and obtains
its piercing, glaring animosity, as it trails over Taehyung, as it drops somewhat threateningly to the
hand that jostles him forward. When Taehyung looks away from that it is almost with shame purely
because it is a suitable and immediate response to how Jungkook’s glare holds almost an accusation.

An accusation is, frankly, what Taehyung deserves, as he gets himself into this. He should know
better than to venture into this territory, better than to follow Jeon Jungkook.

Sooho’s eyes layer over him as well, slither across him with some eerie satisfaction that sneaks into
the smirk that stretches over his lips as well. “What you looking at, little Kim?” He jeers.

Taehyung deems it safer to avoid Jungkook’s scolding, scorching eyes. He glances at his feet
instead, evasive of all stares fixed at him which are those of all men that surround him, all of whom
are in a certain way dangerous. He replies small and careful, “I was just walking home.”

The lanky one cocks his head at him, gaze studying him with some peculiar determination before he
smacks his lips and speaks, “That’s the waiter one, right?” His brows lift. “Heard he never minds his
own business.”

The fingers around his elbow tighten before they release him and the person next to him snickers,
“Which one of them does?”

Sooho nods his head, eyes rolling at some sub textual conversation the three of them lead. “Joon sure
didn’t.” His tongue ghosts over his lips and there is something recognizably menacing in the way he
now roams his gaze over the intruder. “He minded Kai’s, and Kai never liked that.”

“You think he knows where Joon went?” The lanky one perks up.

Sooho snorts at the suggestion, his shoulders lifting in a shrug. “Probably,” he says, his mouth
curling in some exaggerated disgust. “Remember how tragic Joon was?” He pauses, then
pronounces with scornful irony, “Family oriented, fucking endearing.”

“Maybe if we send greetings by this one,” burly guy says as he lifts his hand up, slaps Taehyung
between the shoulder blades, once, twice, and he flinches with each touch, “he’ll suddenly appear,”
he concludes and with that he repositions his fingers, lets them circle around the back of his neck,
making the skin under them crawl.

Taehyung does best to avoid Jungkook’s eyes, but he cannot ignore his voice when he seethes,
“Don’t fucking touch him.”

Attention drifts momentarily away from Taehyung and to Jungkook who now has those obsidian
eyes rooted onto the man besides Taehyung. He is discernibly composed in his overall demeanor, as
he always fucking is, but a tension comprises his countenance, the tightness of his jaw and the
belligerence of his glare.

“What’d you say?” The burly guys ask with the beginnings of violence laced in his voice as he takes
half a step forward in Jungkook’s direction, his hand dropping off of Taehyung, maybe for the
purpose to draw a fist, maybe that lethal gaze has its wanted effect.

“I said,” Jungkook begins most evenly, but the underlying tone of his cold calm elicits a shiver down
the line of Taehyung’s spine, “don’t touch him,” he angles his body completely towards the guy
now, but he does not mimic that step, simply cocks his head, “but what I meant was if you touch
him, I’ll position your spine so that you can permanently perform auto fellatio.”

Taehyung’s heart pumps blood at an alarming rate. It pumps with some fear, but it pumps with some
peculiar excited flattery as well. He does not mean to be a reason for Jungkook’s composure to slip,
not in circumstances like this, and he also doesn’t see why he would be, but the shift in his glare is
obvious. The insouciance dwindles.

Before the person whose fists visibly tighten with the effect of Jungkook’s threat has the chance to
reply with what Taehyung can only guess would not rival in color, Sooho is huffing out a laugh,
summoning attention to himself, “You come to me to ask a favor and you threaten my men because
of a Kim?”

Taehyung is used to that spitefulness accompanying the sound of his name. He is used to being the
one to respond to it. His lips gape, strive to struggle aloud another half assed justification for his
presence, more so for Jungkook’s sake than for Sooho’s, “I—”
He doesn’t manage, however. Jungkook interjects with a growl, a warning shift of his stare in his
direction, “Taehyung, shut up.” He returns to Sooho next, with his address, speaks with more
aggravation than his Jeon-typical calm, “He’s got nothing to do with Namjoon.”

Sooho cocks his head. “So, I suppose you have nothing to do with Clo Eun?”

As Jungkook begins to speak, the lanky guy interrupts with a jut of his chin in the direction of
Taehyung. “Why protect the boy, Jeon? Your sister fucking him as well?”

Sooho’s mouth curls at that, a bristle of laughter leaving his throat. “Probably, less people out there
that she doesn’t fuck than that she does.” He stands straight, so straight, pushes comparatively
unimpressive chest out like a peacock its feathers and cackles, eyes so bold as they focus on
Jungkook, “Wouldn’t be surprised if she even fucks you.”

Taehyung’s eyes skid towards Jungkook wearily, he half expects an outburst, but the most he gets is
a tick in his jaw, before his tongue cracks out and he almost speaks through a smirk of his own.
“You’d like to watch that wouldn’t you, a cuckold pervert like yourself.” Sooho’s eyes flash with the
taunt and Taehyung suspects Jungkook strikes a nerve he’s dangerously aware of. “Always dreamed
of sucking your own brother’s cock.”

Sooho looks away then, teeth capturing his lip, his knee bouncing along with his foot and Taehyung
can practically feel him trying to remain calm before his eyes find his. Gaze layers over his face and
suddenly he’s speaking again, voice verging on an anger that transpires in the way his body now
seems restless as much as it drips from his tongue. “You know you talk about cock sucking so much
today, I can’t help but want to fuck little Kim’s mouth,” Taehyung’s eyes narrow with the offense of
it though it is not something he hears for the first time, not with the way he looks and the position
he’s in, as they trail after a hand that lifts to reach for him, “look at those lips.”

The impact is barely there for Taehyung, goes through one ear and leaves through the other. It’s an
empty statement coming from someone like Sooho, but for Jungkook maybe it’s not. He moves so
fast Taehyung barely sees it, but in the moment that follows his shoulder lines in front of Taehyung
and his skin slaps against Sooho’s fingers latching around his wrist with a tightness that is visibly
painful as they sink into the flesh of it before he manages to reach Taehyung.

“Told you not to fucking touch him,” Jungkook says, nearly growls, eyes dangerously fixed on the
side of Sooho’s head as his own slither to him slowly, shift to him with an offended vengeance at the
interruption of his intentions.
“What are you gonna do?” Sooho snickers as he rips his arm off of Jungkook’s hold and shifts
forward with a step, impeccably slow and reeking of impending violence. His teeth bare, chin juts,
“Box me to death?”

As Jungkook’s arm falls back from the hold, Taehyung’s hands instinctively wrap around his
forearm and he tugs at it as lightly as his own consternation allows him. “Jungkook,” he mumbles to
him in some attempt of privacy though a part of him knows it’s useless for him to plead, “let’s just
go.”

It registers with Taehyung that as indestructible as Jungkook seems to him, as much as an unfailing
winner he is on the Ring, Sooho is right to tease the boxing like that, cannot rival the cruelty of a
street fight with someone who works for Kai, who’s related to Kai. He’s outnumbered as well,
because Taehyung knows damn well he himself would be useless in this. If anything, he’s be a
limitation.

Sooho’s smirk stretches so menacingly on his face. “Bet it’ll teach Joonie not to leave Kai hanging if
he gets thaton tape.”

Jungkook ignores Taehyung, glowers at Sooho. “I honestly advise you to shut the fuck up.”

“I’d rather find creative ways to shut him up. If he’s half the slut his sister is, he’s gonna fucking love
it, won’t you little Kim?” He tilts his head at this, looking behind Jungkook’s shoulder and right at
Taehyung. His eye drops in a wink and his hand reaches again, aims for Taehyung’s hair and it is at
this point that Jungkook flips the fuck out.

He punches Sooho right in the head before any of them register it. He strikes back, but Jungkook is
faster, brings his knee up in his stomach, elbow at the back of his neck when he folds over.

There’s three of them, three, is what runs with alarm through Taehyung’s mind as he watches on
with wide, horrified eyes, and what the fuck is he thinking.

It is straight up luck they make a mistake.

Their mistake is in the lanky fuck. He is admittedly defenseless against Jungkook and his size and
life on the street has probably taught him the instinct of seeking a weapon, so that is what he does,
picks up the closest object in vicinity which is reminiscent of a metal pipe. Distracted by Sooho,
Jungkook fails to notice it, until it is bashing against the side of his head.
Taehyung’s throat rips with his attempt of a warning. “Jungkook,” he yells, tries to step forward, to
meddle, as is his job as a Kim, though he has no place in this, cannot help him in any way, but the
need to try is striking in his chest, his mind, his knees and arms as they move on their own, until he
has hands wrapping around him, burly guy pulling him back.

Jungkook hisses with the pain of it, head knocks back and Taehyung’s heart hammers, ears buzz, as
the wound shapes so immediately, skin breaking. But it is that fucking pipe that saves him against the
number advantage, because at his next swing, Jungkook wraps his hand against it. He doesn’t box,
no, he kicks his leg out, Louis Vuitton raising to where lanky guy’s chest meet his stomach and he
delivers a strike powerful enough to sneak the breath out of him. He releases the pipe as he doubles
over, folds into himself and presses his arms instinctively layering over his stomach. Jungkook slams
the pipe across his back and he topples to his knees. The next time he meets the sole of Jungkook’s
shoe it comes right for his face.

Sooho’s on his feet again, but the pipe is on his head, knocking him right back down. He hits him so
hard Taehyung wonders how it doesn’t crack him open, maybe it does.

Jungkook turns next, fixing his glare over the person who holds Taehyung. He raises the pipe, eyes
flashing dark and animalistic. “You hit him,” he spells out in a vicious snarl that is still somehow
chillingly calm in the way it is so low and guttural, “this goes through your fucking skull.”

“Fuck this,” burly guy says, pushes Taehyung forward and away from himself and moves towards
Sooho instead, falling on his knees beside him, shaking him by the shoulder.

Taehyung stares down with horror at the bleeding mess that is his head. Fuck, his mind screams,fuck
fuck fuck. Knocking out Kai’s brother is bad, very fucking bad.

Fingers wrap around his wrist. They tug at him, but he finds it hard to separate his eyes from the
damage done. “Come on, Taehyung,” Jungkook urges through teeth, his own eyes rooted into the
side of his face. “Walk with me, Tae.”

He tugs him again and this time it is hard enough to make him stutter a step, another, before he turns,
and he walks.
It is risky to take him to his house, but Jungkook is fucking bleeding, wound open and glaring and it
is deep enough for him to get infected if he doesn’t do anything about it all too soon, so in his head
there is no other practical option.

It is sort of his fault that Jungkook got hit over the head with a metal pipe anyway. Were he to finally
mind his own fucking business for once, this predicament would have been avoided, and though
Jungkook could not have acted in the most testosterone fueled way possible and swung like this, he
does feel marginally guilty for causing this.

They barely say anything on the way to his house after Taehyung announces he needs to clean the
wound and Jungkook begrudgingly agrees.

Taehyung leads him to the upstairs bathroom, pushes him indicatively towards the edge of the tub.

“Sit,” he mutters as he crouches down to the cupboard below the sink and starts rummaging for what
he needs.

Jungkook does, he sits with no verbal protest, but a little bit of an all-important stare that Taehyung
blatantly ignores. His knees almost press against Taehyung with how tiny the bathroom is, and
maybe he should have thought it through prior to forcing him in the room, but as of late thinking
hasn’t been Taehyung’s strongest suit.

The question comes, of course it does, and it stifles Taehyung’s clumsy rummaging for a brief
moment. “What were you even doing there?” There is some underlying exasperation in his tone of
voice that makes Taehyung’s rummaging even clumsier.

“I saw you,” he replies simply as he pushes some rolls of toilet paper to the side, and the small bottles
he is looking for peek at him from behind.

Jungkook’s eyes narrow at him slightly, brows furrow together. “You followed me?” he points out
loud and clear and it rings around the tiles of the bathroom.

Taehyung pulls out some cotton, the bottle of saline and stands up for a moment to wash his hands.
“Maybe,” he shrugs, avoids Jungkook’s eyes before he wipes himself on a towel and wets some
cotton. He drops down again, settling on his knees beside him.

Jungkook sighs, head shaking. “Your curiosity, Kim Taehyung,” he shifts a bit as he pauses, adjusts
on the edge of the tub, “is going to get you in some serious fucking trouble.”

Taehyung folds the cotton wool over, moistens it all well, but so that it doesn’t drip. Most
importantly, he keeps ignoring him until he feels cold fingers wrap around his jaw and tug at him
roughly, forcing his attention on Jungkook. Dark eyes capture his as he almost gasps with the rapid,
unexpected sensation of his touch, a curious mixture of gentle and rough and maybe Jungkook is just
that, but he’s scowling at him now. “Don’t do that again, okay?” His jaw presses, and Taehyung
tries to take his gaze away, pull his head back, but those fingers tighten on the bone of his chin, keep
him in place. “Hey, stay away from anything and everything that has to do with Kai, Taehyung. I
mean it.”

This time when Taehyung tugs away, Jungkook lets him as he feels his hand raise to push him by the
wrist. “You’re not my father,” he mutters, straightens as much as he can on his knees to gain height
and wiggles closer to Jungkook, eyes squinting at the wound. “Can you lean a bit?”

He leans. “If you minded your own business, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

If Taehyung minded his own business, the only conversation they would have ever had would be
Jungkook ordering cocktails and diet coke.

Taehyung’s eyes narrow as his hand raises. “Well, did you have to fucking hit, Jungkook?”

“I was defending your honor,” Jungkook grits out, ironic, as he hisses when Taehyung presses
against the wound. He is careful with the moistened cotton, wants to get any potential debris and dirt
out from it before he calms it with saline.

He taps at it gently, speaks brusquely. “You don’t need to defend my honor I’m not your fucking
girlfriend.” Jungkook hisses again and maybe Taehyung presses a bit too hard. He feels him pull
away, eyes coating over him, up and down, careful and pointed at the bold reference and Taehyung
meets their accusation, brazen.

Taehyung lifts his hand gingerly towards him after a moment of this, and Jungkook leans into the
touch.
“My girlfriend has no honor,” he mutters and partially it feels like a joke.

“Yeah?” Taehyung’s brows raise. “Neither do you.”

Jungkook makes some noise with his throat, but other than that gives no verbal reply. His eyes are on
Taehyung, though, watching as the tip of his tongue pokes out between pretty lips as he narrows his
features in concentration.

Taehyung speaks as carefully as he works the cotton over the side of Jungkook’s cheek to clean
some of the dripping blood. “Why do you let Julia fuck other people?”

Jungkook’s pausing, eyes still unyieldingly trailing after Taehyung as he folds on his legs, sitting
down on his feet to get a new piece of cotton wool. “She loves me,” Jungkook says simply as
Taehyung lifts up and reaches to the sink without getting of his knees, “other guys don’t matter, it
just matters how I react to them.”

Taehyung squeezes the wool lightly so that it doesn’t drip. With his next blink his eyes are meeting
Jungkook’s. His voice is low and measured, almost shy, “It seemed to bother you with me.”

Jungkook’s eyes narrow, head cocking just as Taehyung attempts to reach for the side of it again.
“She was interested in you,” he declares, and his tone curls with the notion of anger, though whether
it is pointed at him or not, Taehyung does not know.

Taehyung slides his gaze to Jungkook’s in question as he lifts the cotton indicatively, and Jungkook
seems to hesitate, rolls his eyes with it and there is an almost sigh at his lips as they part with a wet
sound, but he leans. The moist cotton is back on him, tapping softly around the edges of the wound –
there’s still some dirt gathered there where the skin reliefs.

“And she lets you fuck other girls...” Taehyung trails off as he folds on his knees again. He stares
after his own hand as he disposes of this piece of cotton before he gets another one. Then his eyes
get brave, they zero in on Jungkook’s, Jungkook’s who do not leave him once. “Because you love
her,” he finishes, says it as if it is as simple as Jungkook’s previous declaration suggests it is, though
it tugs at him different, so different, in his chest and in his throat. It’s weird how he can feel words,
feels them all over, on his knees, and his thighs, on his palms and his eyes.

It’s ridiculous, really, him sitting there healing his wounds while making his own.
Jungkook’s eyes morph, allow some tension to dissipate from their perpetual hardness and suddenly
they’re just eyes, just soft pretty eyes, not an intense challenge, not a double-bladed tool for
seduction. They’re just eyes. “I do love her,” he says, and Taehyung sees his tongue when his mouth
parts. Jungkook’s head bows down. He wraps two fingers around the ring with his family crest, slips
it off, before he rolls it on. “Known her since I was a kid. I don’t remember not knowing her. I love
her.”

Taehyung nods with a swallow of nothing but saliva, and he tears his eyes away, lets Jungkook be
the only one who watches that ring. He doesn’t know why Jungkook chooses to say this, what he
means entirely when he does, but he does know it stifles some of the unease that envelops him, for
one reason or another, all not ones he wants to actively entertain. He gets the saline instead, carefully
moistens the piece of cotton wool with it.

Jungkook’s attention gravitates to him again when he straightens on his knees and reaches for him
again. He curls a brow as he leans into the touch without verbal or physical instruction this time.
“You sure you know how to do this?” he questions.

“Yeah,” Taehyung says as he works around the wound first, eyes staring at it now that it is clean of
dirt and, honestly, that pipe must have fucking hurt. “Woo’s a kid,” he offers, his tongue poking out
to the side of his mouth, “kids get a lot of fucking cuts.”

Taehyung taps into the wound itself and the other flinches, head retracting away from him. “Mm,”
Jungkook groans softly, “ouch.”

Taehyung’s free hand wraps around the underside of Jungkook’s elbow and he pulls him towards
himself, not really considering his actions as much as simply doing what feels entirely natural. “Stop
being a bitch about it,” he hisses as he touches the cotton to the wound again, this time slower. His
fingers loosen but remain gingerly draped around his arm.

The touch of the tip of his fingers is teasingly soft over Jungkook’s skin. “Being a bitch?” he
grumbles, feigning a glare in his direction as much as their positions would allow them. “I saved your
fucking ass.”

It is true. People like Kai rarely speak just to speak. If Jungkook weren’t there he would not be
surprised if he was used as a doll to get at Namjoon. They would not have batted an eyelid forcing
him on his knees and taping him with a cock in his mouth, not at all for the purpose of sex or
pleasure, entirely for its correlation with humiliation.

Taehyung huffs. “You’re just doing yourself a favor saving my ass,” he says as he lowers his hand to
explore the wound, make sure there aren’t any residual particles of cotton left in there. He clicks his
tongue. “Can’t live without it.”

As Taehyung lowers back to sit on his feet, Jungkook’s head cocks and even with that gaping
wound he smirks, frustratingly devilish. “Does your ass want to make it up to me for getting my
pretty face ruined?”

Taehyung’s eyes dull as he scoffs at him. “I’m the pretty one,” he reminds him, though he is well
aware Jungkook is terribly and undeservingly handsome, even with his head cracked opened. He
disposes of the cotton in the bin, speaks through it, “Ji-woo might come home soon.” He wonders
when it became a discussable topic, them having sex, something Jungkook allows himself to suggest
so blatantly and casually, and as much as he would love to take him up on the offer to let his ass
proclaim its undisputable gratitude, it’s risky enough that he lead him to the house. “Will you let me
patch it up?”

“No,” Jungkook’s brows furrow as he adjusts on the tub again, spreads his knees open. “That’s
enough,” he dismisses, and though Taehyung feels it would be much better to put something over the
wound, he says nothing more. “What would she do, you think, if she knew about me?”

Taehyung heaves a breath as he ponders. Exhales, “I don’t think she’d mind me fucking guys.” He
drapes his elbow over Jungkook’s knee because it’s so close to his face and the floor is not exactly
comfortable. He leans his head onto that raised arm, his face so casually nearing the inside of
Jungkook’s thigh. “But she’d mind me fucking you.”

Jungkook nods, his brows raise up. Figures, the motion of them says. The leg that Taehyung doesn’t
use as a hanger for his body bounces a tiny bit. “But she doesn’t know about the guy thing either?”

Guy thing, gay thing. Taehyung’s fingers find a lose string on his t shirt and he bows his head down
to look at them play with it. “I don’t need another adjective to my Kim, Jungkook, and she doesn’t
need it either.” He lifts his head up, meets his eyes. “They already call me a cocksucker in the
metaphorical sense, don’t need them to know I actually get off on it.” He shifts a bit on his knees,
grumbles under his breath. “But she’d never admit it, probably invite him over for fucking dinner or
something.”

“Him,” Jungkook chews over, lids lowering a bit as he watches Taehyung adjust between his legs.
He likes him in that position, he thinks, does not like the suggestion of the conversation. “Bogum?”
he names, and the single word lingers bilious on his tongue.

There is something challenging in Jungkook’s eyes, and Taehyung does not understand why
Jungkook’s brain keeps twisting to overestimate what he and Bogum have, and though it gives him
an advantage in this foolish game they keep restlessly and instinctually playing, in moments like this
he feels the peculiar compulsion to reassure him Bogum means nothing. “Well,” Taehyung shrugs as
he glances down at the string of his shirt again. “Anyone but you, really.”

Jungkook’s free leg continually bounces. He looks at it, focuses his pupils on the motion of his knee
instead of on Taehyung’s face. He speaks low. “Why did you text him while you were with me?”

Taehyung’s head jerks up, eyes falling over Jungkook’s disengaged face. “What?” he pipes, almost
reflexively.

His head turns, eyes flash at Taehyung under those heavy, lowered lids. “He more fun than I am?”
It’s biting and it’s caustic. It laces with a curious disbelief, one that is almost offended, and it layers
the glint in his eyes as well, and Taehyung’s looking away again.

His eyes choose his own fingers, this time on the other hand, the one that droops off of Jungkook’s
knee and his following breath hits the inside of his thigh, almost makes him flinch with it. Taehyung
murmurs when he speaks, spreading his palm open and exploring it closely as if he sees it for the
very first time. “He doesn’t treat me like shit,” he confesses. It is a fact that Taehyung acknowledges
to himself as rarely as he can, that Jungkook consistently dismisses him like he’s nothing, acts
sometimes as if he is just a Kim.

It’s not like anyone has ever done much better for him, though Bogum might. But he doesn’t want
Bogum.

Jungkook murmurs as privately and intimately as Taehyung had, breathes it as much as a confession,
“I wasn’t treating you like shit that night.”

He hadn’t. After he’d called him nothing, that is, he’d taken him to that roof, then to his home,
played video games with him, given him a goddamn brilliant orgasm and then proceeded to suggest
more video games before he’d seen that text, which’d made him flip the switch.

“Yeah?” Taehyung cocks his head as he lifts off Jungkook’s knee and shuffles a bit forward on his
own, already between Jungkook’s parted legs now getting dangerously close to him. He follows him
with his eyes, a slight tilt of his eyebrows, but remains silent, lets him come nearer, spreads his legs
wider to accommodate him better as he reaches. Taehyung angles the elbow that droops off of him
differently, allows the length of his arm to stretch over Jungkook’s sinewy thigh, savors how hard the
muscle feels underneath his tentative touch. “If you’d asked, I would have stayed.”
“I can’t ask you that,” Jungkook whispers low, distracted enough to be genuine when Taehyung
touches him like this and maybe it is what he aims for.

Taehyung looks away from him, stares at his own fingers, stirs the conversation away from this.
“You know, you’re sort of okay when I’m making you come,” he tells him.

Jungkook’s other leg stirs, stops its bouncing. His gaze slides over Taehyung’s face before it studies
carefully across the touch. His fingers are light on him, but the feel of them is intense, he’s so
tangibly aware of the way they hover over him, the way they barely make contact, and nevertheless
raise the skin underneath the layer of his pants awake and hot. Those thin, pretty digits glide over a
part of him that is sensitive, rarely touched, the flesh of his inner thigh in scathing proximity to his
crotch.

He swallows down air and replaces his stare to Taehyung again, forces his intent of a warning within
it as he allows his eyes to hood over and barely glare. If he plans on starting something, then he
better be ready to finish.

“Maybe I should…” Taehyung adjusts better on his knees, sits on them straight and Jungkook cannot
help but wonder how his ass looks from behind, must be supple as fuck. His hand curls, twists, palm
cups over the whole of his thigh as long fingers reach forward, almost grazing his crotch. “You really
did talk a lot about cock sucking today,” Taehyung shrugs, tries to appear fucking innocent as he
glides those goddamn fingers across him, as he sneaks the tip of his pink tongue over his bottom lip,
“kind of want to now.”

He’s anything but innocent, those lips sit there, do nothing, just shape words, but they are utterly
irresistible and Jungkook wondered at what point he transitioned back into his pre-teen stage when
he got erections at the mere thought of something sexual. He scoots on the tub, narrows his eyes
down at him. “After the shit I went through to prove you’re not a cock sucker, you want to suck
cock?”

The edges of Taehyung’s lips arch downwards, he scowls. “Don’t want to suck cock,” he pouts, his
hand shifts that one bit over and his fingers are now making a very direct but insufficient contact with
his crotch, tease right over the shape of him, which nearly twitches under the ministration.
Taehyung’s lids bat, lashes peculiarly full and then his gaze, glinting and explicit, filters over to
Jungkook’s. “I wanna suck your cock.”

“Mine?” Jungkook begins calm, finishes grunting as Taehyung closes his hand over his length above
the fabric of his pants, and his legs embarrassingly spaz to the sides. It’s subtle, he doesn’t even
know if Taehyung himself notices, but he does, notices himself slip from control at something as
simple as a warm palm above layers of clothes.

Taehyung’s tongue coats over his lower lip, gets it wet and glistening. “Yeah.” His fingers tighten
over Jungkook’s cock as his eyes droop to it with salacious languor. He studies the motion of his
own hand, takes in the look and feel of him hardening with the effect of his touch, a little high on the
pride that tangibly surfaces, teases over his skin in tingles, over his heart in a more excited beat, over
his own cock as blood rushes to it.

“So,” Jungkook begins, slightly breathy but firm, his hips readjusting barely visibly at the edge of the
tub. He arches his neck back, looks at Taehyung over the relief of his shapely jaw. “I was right to
defend you, you’re not a slut.”

Taehyung squeezes around him, glances up at him, at the sharp structures of his face, the gracious tilt
of his neck, and he confesses, “Just for you.”

Jungkook’s eyes narrow, lips curl offensively. When Taehyung attempts to take that deceptively pure
gaze away again, his hand reaches on its own accord, fingers slipping in his impossibly soft hair,
tightening roughly between strands. He tugs, merciless, makes sure those coy eyes are on his own.
“That fucking mouth, Taehyung,” Jungkook growls at him, glancing at that mouth in question,
watches it part as the boy dares to smirk, positively devilish.

“Yeah,” he kneads his hand over him, teases his teeth over the lower pillow of his lips without
actually applying pressure, “what about it?”

Jungkook’s voice rings guttural, that constant anger that filters all their interactions tangling into the
sound of it as he instructs. “Put it to good use.”

Taehyung has his cock in his mouth in moments, undoes his pants with both hands, kind of clumsy
with the plain hunger of it, dips those long fingers in his Armani fucking underwear and pulls him
out. He doesn’t tease now, simply wraps his lips around him, hand around the base.

Jungkook struggles to breathe, struggles not to jerk his hips into the delicious heat of his mouth as he
sighs with the feel of it, eyes falling shut and head fully arching back now. He doesn’t expect him to
get into it as quick, loses his mind with it.

Taehyung pulls away with a wet sound, and Jungkook’s eyes immediately part, seal onto him as he
speaks, breath falling over the sensitive head as he holds him close, pumps him lazy but firm. “Is this
good enough?” he murmurs, and it nearly makes Jungkook shiver. His tongue pokes out, circles
around the head and fuck, that boy is a quick learner, sucks cock for the second time and does it like
he does it for a living, or maybe it just feels so because it’s him, “To pay you back for the macho
heroism?”

Jungkook stares down at him, looks at him, at fucking Kim Taehyung and he says, through a heaved
breath, “Anything you do is good enough.”

Taehyung’s lips curl beautifully before he sinks down on him again, bobs his head and Jungkook lets
him, allows his own pace, own rhythm. He lifts off, traces his tongue evenly across the underside, his
eyes dropping to study his own actions. His lips smack shut at the end. He blinks up. “You think I
can make you come fast enough?” He barely says it and his mouth is on his cock again, sinking as
low as he can before he reaches the limit of the back of his throat.

Jungkook grunts. “You have no fucking choice at this point,” his hips thrust a slight bit towards him
and maybe, just maybe, he does it on purpose. Taehyung’s nearly choking, free hand flies up,
presses into his inner thigh again, eyes refocusing up, one hot glare landing onto another. “Dare to
pull away and I’m bending you over that sink, don’t care who comes home.”

Taehyung’s eyes narrow some more, but he looks down, keeps his mouth moving.

He’s slow with it, almost lazy; there’s something curiously comfortable about this and it certainly
isn’t the edge of the tub digging into Jungkook’s ass or the fact that Taehyung’s knees are probably
bruising on those tiles, no, it’s something familiar, and though Jungkook cannot discern what it is, he
is aware it is dangerous, for him and Taehyung both.

His fingers tighten on Taehyung’s hair and he tugs at the strands. “Look at me,” he tries to say, and it
leaves his mouth a groan. Taehyung is obedient, blinks up, and his eyes seem bigger like this, glisten
with the pressure and stretch of having a cock in his mouth, peeking through his bangs. Jungkook’s
teeth fall over his lips, dig into them hard as he tries to catch his breath. His next sentence comes a
hiss, “You’re so fucking hot.”

Taehyung moans around his cock, squirms on top of his own feet, and Jungkook almost comes with
it. His eyes are beguiling, he’s a fuckingminx, that’s what he is by definition, so titillating and simply
erotic in the way he looks. His pure eroticism incongruous with the background. He kneels on the
floor in a toilet in one of the poorest neighborhoods of Seoul, yet he looks like he’s paid for,
expensive, so beautifully salacious, like he’s made for this, but he’s not, absolutely isn’t. He can sink
into this, this raw sexuality, but he can slip out of it just as easily. There is still that deceptive
innocence in his eye as it glints with the true nature of this, of a full clothed, hurried blowjob because
the both of them are apparently constantly ready to sneak in an orgasm in each of their interactions,
dismiss the effect of the rest of it, of Taehyung saying he would have stayed that other night if
Jungkook had asked, of Jungkook hinting on the nature of the love he feels for his girlfriend.

Jungkook lets him suck him off, groaning with it, cursing through teeth, until he can’t take it
anymore. His fingers tighten in his hair again, and he’s whispering under his breath. “Pull away,” he
orders, and Taehyung does, lowers himself around him as much as he can take before he gets his
mouth off of him entirely, saliva stretching between his cock and his lips, full and wet with this. He
holds his hair and pulls him back. He looks straight into his eyes, hooded and gone, heavy and so
wondrously sensual, and he presses the head of his cock on the tips of his parted lips, jerks his own
length as he finishes himself off. His own mouth parts, helpless breathy sounds leaving as he comes,
coats his lips, his cheeks, his chin, comes on his face as Taehyung gapes his lips some more, lets as
much of it as possible fall on his tongue. “—Ah,” Jungkook groans, spent, loses grip of his hair to
place his thumb and forefinger on his chin instead, twists his face up, “fits you so well, pretty boy.”

It does, he looks beautiful like this as well. Jungkook wants badly the thoughts running through his
head to be that he looks like a goddamn cum dump for him, that he looks cheap, covered with
fucking semen. But he still seems too expensive for Jungkook to afford to have, still is so utterly
ethereal.

Jungkook’s thumb moves up, presses into the soft pillow of his lower lip and Taehyung closes his
mouth around it, very lightly sucking over it as he swallows down whatever went onto his tongue
and Jungkook thinks he might get hard again just from this.

Taehyung fucking moansaround it, adjusts on his thighs, his hips thrusting lightly into nothing and
Jungkook’s eyes fall down to the motion of that, lips twisting with the satisfaction he’s got him hard
enough to grind into air.

He cocks his head, smirks at him almost cruelly. “You horny now?” he teases, shifts his leg, brings
his knee up and ever so slightly presses the sole of his shoe into the bulge at Taehyung’s front. The
boy keens, teeth clamping together as Jungkook removes his thumb from in between. His knees fall
apart, thighs stretching to the sides, and it exposes him more, gives Jungkook more space to apply
pressure and he gingerly does.

Taehyung’s fingers wrap around his calf, his ankle, cling to it with the beginnings of desperation.
“Jungkook,” he whines, eyes screwing shut.

Jungkook breathes, “Bet I could make you come with just my foot.”

And Jungkook himself just came, got what he could from this, from him, yet he already has fucking
images of Taehyung humping his Louis Vuittons. He wonders if he can get him to do it, just as he
sits like this, fingers digging into his leg.

Taehyung’s eyes part and his teeth are pressed so hard together Jungkook worries if he’s in pain,
begins to pull his foot back, but his fingers tighten, and he stays put. “Ji-woo will get home soon,” he
sighs, exhales with a struggle.

Jungkook leans forward, grips at his chin again. “I just need a couple of minutes.”

And their eyes tangle again, tangle as always, connecting almost physically, and Taehyung is just
about ready to agree to anything that Jungkook wants to do to him, when he hears the very
distinguishable sound of a door opening and slamming shut right after.

“Tae?” Ji-woo’s voice sounds over along with her steps and those of Woojin as well, both painfully
familiar to Taehyung, he can recognize them in his sleep, in this house with paper thin walls, paper
thin floors, paper thin everything. “Tae, you don’t have to cook tonight,” Ji-woo keeps speaking,
because she knows no matter in which corner of the house he is, he’ll hear.

“Shit,” Taehyung curses under his breath, tries, and fails, to get on his feet, eyes widening in the
sheer panic of this, his heart hammering. “Shit, shit, shit.” He lifts off almost successfully, using
Jungkook’s thighs to get himself up. He presses his palms in his chest. “Get in the tub.”

Jungkook’s eyes bulge, his nostrils as well. “In the tub?” he whispers sharply, in the midst of tucking
his dick back in his pants. “What will I do in the fucking tub, Taehyung?”

“Just get in,” Taehyung glowers, gives him another shove and Jungkook half falls in, glares, but as
Ji-woo’s voice rings again, he gets in completely and Taehyung pulls the shower sheet before he
turns to the sink, runs it, wipes the goddamn come off his face, wonders very briefly if it could
potentially be good for his skin.

“Taehyung, what the fuck are you doing?” Ji-woo shouts at the clutter of Jungkook falling in the tub.
Her steps sound and with each distinctive sound of her climbing the stairs, his heartbeat escalates.

“I’m wondering the same thing,” Jungkook grumbles low from the bath tub.

Taehyung straightens up from throwing water in his face, hisses, “Shut the fuck up.”
He’s barely finished speaking when the door opens and she checks, she always checks, and
Taehyung knows that, so he most logically shoves Jeon Jungkook in his tub and hides him there.

“Oh, noona, hi,” Taehyung says, greets most innocently as he glances at her over his shoulder,
pretends he isn’t refusing to angle his body towards her to hide his erection.

Her eyes scan over him skeptically, brows calculatingly furrowed. “Hey,” she says, “what was that?”

Taehyung scrubs at his hands, looks at them. “What was what?” he asks.

There’s a moment of silence and Taehyung is afraid she’ll hear Jungkook breathing. “I thought I
heard something,” she tells him, and Taehyung just shrugs, shakes his head. “Okay, well, you don’t
have to cook tonight. Woo and I brought over some take out.”

“Perfect,” Taehyung says, turns his head to her once again to stretch his lips in a forced smile.

“Okay,” she nods, “see you downstairs in a bit. Hurry, though, I’m hungry.”

She leaves then and doesn’t even fully close the door and his teeth clench.

He lets the sink run for sound as he turns to Jungkook. “You cook?” his brows perk up.

“Shut up,” Taehyung breathes, an almost chuckle dying on his lips as he shakes his head, back and
forth, a small air of disbelief. He whispers, “Window at the end of the corridor? You’re leaving
though there.”

Jungkook uses the edges of the tub to push himself up, face comes closer to Taehyung than he
expects, and he steps back, and how the fuck can a little proximity still fluster him when he sucked
his cock some five minutes ago will always remain unbeknownst to him.

“What?” Jungkook hisses, stepping out.

“There’s a dumpster underneath, you can make the jump. I have, Namjoon has, Ji-woo has.” He
cocks his head, mumbles hurriedly, “Pretty sure Woojin will be making it by next year.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “Fucking fine,” he breathes, cannot believe he will be sneaking out of
windows for Kim Taehyung. He takes one step to the side, before his eyes focus better on his face.
He lifts his hand, his thumb briefly wiping at the corner of Taehyung’s mouth. “Still have come,” he
murmurs when Taehyung flinches.

“Well, whose fault is that?”

“Hey,” Jungkook drops his hand, “it was your idea to suck my cock.”

Taehyung sighs, concedes, “Okay, okay.” He taps at his elbow, ushers him, “Leave now.”

“Okay,” Jungkook nods, has the weirdest fucking urge to peck him, which, thankfully, makes him
leave faster. He gets a scratch on his shoes when he lands on the dumpster and lets Taehyung deal
with his boner on a family dinner, as much as the Kims can have family dinners.

The Jeons certainly should not be having family dinners, but days roll and the weekly one comes. A
slight hope raises in Jungkook that their father would not actually have the audacity to return as early
and the reoccurring reincarnation of torture dungeons on their antique table would be omitted from
pulling at his nerves, for once, but that is wishful thinking and he knows it.

The pattern is repeated. The Jeons around the dinner table with clinking silverware, their mother
smiling wide and clowny, potentially dozed on a bit too much prescription meds and the elder Jeon at
the head of the table, where he belongs. Jungkook sips on his wine, surprised at how he almost feels
giddy every time their father rests his bare skin and Rolex watch on the surface which had days ago
been soaked with a mixture of Taehyung’s come and sweat after he’d fucked him on it.

It is with a glowering satisfaction that Jungkook wonders, how would his father react were he to
know his plate is right on the surface a Kim’s hips had desperately grinded into while his one and
only son, pride and joy of stereotypical masculinity, fruit of his bigoted loins, had pounded him and
fucking loved it.

Fuck, he’d loved it so much, it’s hard for him not to pop a boner at the memory, though the fact their
father would so calmly sit at the same table with his sister without as much as a word of apology,
does fairly well at stifling any imagery of sex that materializes in his head.

“Where’d you get that fucking thing on your head?” his father grumbles roughly through his
swallow of a large piece of bread, bread he puts directly on the table that has the memory of
Taehyung soaked into it, not even on the placemat.

Jungkook lowers his glass, finds Clo’s eyes on his own and readjusts, stares down at his food. She’s
said nothing, hasn’t even looked at their father, just sits calm and refuses to eat, in a silence that cuts
him, she’s lost her attitude even, her will for pettiness, and though this is no matter to be petty about,
it is hertechnique to shrink it to such unimportance to compartmentalize into something she can live
with.

“Kai’s big brother got me with a pipe,” he says, sees no point in the details it was one of Sooho’s
minions and not the man himself and shoves some beef in his mouth.

His father’s eyes shoot over to him as Clo’s own narrow. “What business do you have with Kai?”
his father grunts with a distaste he makes sure is obvious.

Jungkook’s head cocks and without an ounce of emotion and an abundance of bitterness, he speaks,
“Buying some quality opiates, so I can sit through dinner with you.” He juts his chin across the table
from himself, “Got the idea from mom.”

His mother’s smile thins, lines, her eyes flashing in a warning and as it is etiquette that at least one
person on the table smiles like an idiot for no apparent reason, Jungkook does, winks at his mother
and grins wide and clear and as fake as she had.

His father’s voice is a little above a hiss, poisonous and disdainful as he glares at his son. “You
appear here after you’ve been pounded like a little bitchand you dare be disrespectful to me.” He
raises a finger in the air, a warning, wrist probably heavy from that watch that he prizes more than his
children. His tone attains that soundthat used to give him shivers years ago. “Watch your tongue,
boy.”
It doesn’t anymore, not when it is directed at him. Jungkook presses both his wrists into the edge of
the table, leans towards his father from his right side where he puts him, and he seethes, “Or what?”
his eyebrows shoot up, animating his disrespect as much as he can with facial features because words
are simply not enough. “Gonna bash me in for symmetry?”

His father’s mouth parts and his tongue shows and Jungkook is giddy in his expectation of what is to
come, fucking begs him to hit him, but his mother’s shrill voice is what fills the air next, disengaging
them from the battle they fight with only their eyes, “The one time I ask for civility,” she takes in a
breath as she manages to interject, “is these dinners. Please.”

Jungkook replaces his stare to her, drifts his pupils across her face, her pleading face, and leans back
into his chair.

Their father leans back as well, but with the motion of exaggerated martyrdom, he fishes his custom
made lighter out of his pocket and presses a cigarette to his mouth. “Apologize to your mother,” he
instructs with the first exhale.

Jungkook blinks at him, once, twice, rolls his eyes and refocuses them on his mother again. She
stares at him with the plea of expectation, with the beg for peace, and he hates how her gaze
reverberates with some uncommon emotion. He shifts on his chair with the naked discomfort of it,
pokes his tongue into his cheek and brings his attention down to the food in front of him. “I’m
sorry,” he mutters.

A silence stretches. No one eats for a moment, all they hear is the sound of their father exhaling
smoke. Then Clo Eun lifts her sticks, pokes into her food and eyes trail after her with wonder. She
picks up some rice and actually puts it in her mouth, chews on it.

Jungkook and his mother both follow, until he makes the mistake of resting his hand on the table. His
father sucks on the bud of the cigarette, exhales a cloud and through it lowers his hand, chooses a
spot where Jungkook’s thumb meets his hand and the meat is most fleshy and, merciless and simple,
presses the lit fag into it, rotates it well and thorough, taps it into the skin a couple of times, just like
he would with an ashtray and then flicks it out and onto the floor.

Jungkook’s teeth grit, press tight the moment he feels the burn of the touch. It hurts, and his features
twist with it momentarily before he tries to relax them, refuses to make a single sound in
acknowledgment of this as it happens, takes it. When the cigarette lands on the floor, he shifts his
eyes to the red, angry skin, to see the center of it peeled, pink and yellow meat underneath as a
crimson circle forms around.
Jungkook says nothing, no one says anything. He lifts some more food to his mouth with his left
hand, before he calmly places the chopsticks on the table, stands up and leaves.

He goes into his room, slams the door shut and gets on the sheets of his bed, shoes and all, he doesn’t
care, he’s not sleeping there tonight. He doesn’t know whereyet, but it is certainly not there.
Yoongi’s, Julia’s, Hoseok’s. He gets his phone out, toys with it on the surface of his chest, flips it
around in his fingers, unlocks it once, locks it again, and he does that two times before he finally
types.

Can I see you, he enters in and as soon as he sees the way the words appear on his screen, he deletes
it, replaces it with wanna do something? His thumb hovers over the send for a moment too long, but
he sighs and he presses into it, watches the blue line of it traveling fill up, up, completely, and it
disappears, it’s sent.

He locks the phone and throws it onto his chest, face down, chooses to stare at the ceiling instead.
He half doesn’t expect a reply, certainly doesn’t think it would come as quick as it does.

Tae

What

Jungkook adjusts on the bed, presses his back against the bed post as types with one hand, still hurts
to move the thumb of the other, fuck>?

Taehyung replies quick and Jungkook smirks, how tempting

gonna pretend you don’t want to again?

Tae

keep up the arrogance, really gets me hard

I know it does

Tae

fuck you

other way round pretty boy

Tae

not tonight

No? gonna finger yourself thinking about me instead of letting me fuck you

Jungkook doesn’t know what he expects as a reply, but certainly not what he gets, the idea of which
nearly makes him half hard.

Tae

Mm might slip a finger

doesn’t mean i’ll be thinking about you tho

Say whatever you want you and I both know you’re just trying to rile me up so I’ll fuck you hard
when you finally let me

Tae

who says you’ll get to fuck me anytime soon?

why punish yourself?

Tae

not fucking you is a punishment now?

precisely

I know you like pretending you don’t want me

but I can have you under me, moaning my name like a little bitch in the matter of minutes

Tae

wanna prove it?

just tell me where

Tae

come over?

Perfect, Jungkook types in and tries not to think about the fact this will be the third time he goes over
to his house.

Tae

Back door

didn’t know there was another option with you

Tae

Youre not funny

“Jungkook,” his eyes lift off the flashing screen, smile he hadn’t even realized had formed on his face
disappearing into thin air as he finds his sister hesitant at the door. “Do you, uhm, want something for
the burn?”

“No,” he says, throws his feet on the ground and stands. “I’m leaving, anyway,” he tells her as he
paces to the door.

“Julia?” she asks as he gets his wallet out, checks it for a condom.

“No,” he says, final and dismissive and his phone dings with a notification.

Tae

hurry or I start without you

do that and youre not walking for a week

Tae
doesnt sound too bad

but who will bring tou diet cokes

Jungkook rolls his eyes at the screen, does not omit a small smile that has Clo Eun’s stare fixed on
him with furrowed brows.

“I’ll see you, Clo,” he says, as he puts his phone into his back pocket, “Call me if you need me
tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nods, but thinks as he watches him leave, that he is certainly not taking any calls tonight.

Taehyung has barely opened the door for him when Jungkook has him front sealed against a counter,
mouthing at his neck and pressing his hips into his ass. “Ji-woo’s out,” Taehyung manages through a
grunt as Jungkook slides his body against his, fitting himself over him deliciously, “but Woojin is
asleep, so we’ve got to be quiet.”

Jungkook exhales into his neck, lips gliding pressureless across the skin as he speaks, “Well, that’s
up to you, isn’t it, pretty boy?” he teases as if they aren’t both vocal with each other, his hand
venturing dangerously to the front of Taehyung’s pajama pants, which, if he weren’t so horny he
would have commented on.

“Not here,” Taehyung grits out as he tries to spin in his grasp, pressing a palm into his stomach and
pushing him back. Jungkook’s arm automatically slithers around his waist, keeping him close and
pressed into the counter even if he allows him to turn and face him, Taehyung’s palm sliding up on
him and resting on his chest. “Upstairs,” he mutters to him, his other hand curling around his bicep,
“I need lube, still a bit sore from you.”

Jungkook’s free hand ventures downwards, positions itself possessively over his ass, “Lube’s not
gonna help you with how fucking hard to get you were playing.”

“Oh?” Taehyung’s brows raise challengingly as his fingers squeeze into him, rough with promise.
Jungkook’s eyes fall over his face, sporadic and suggestive, voice is a whisper of a breath across his
skin, his lips, “Gonna fuck you till you cry, Tae,” he says it so soft it almost loses its meaning, but
every inch of Taehyung is stirring to life.

“If you wake my brother up, you’re never fucking me again,” Taehyung proclaims as he wraps his
hand around Jungkook’s own, his palm and his fingers, not exactly holding his hand, but holding his
hand, nevertheless, and pulls him up towards what used to be his father’s bedroom.

It’s an empty threat, and Jungkook does make him cry, only a little bit, partially because he tries so
hard to stay silent as he pounds him from behind, his face buried in the pillow.

“Can’t fucking move,” Taehyung whines, twisting his head to lay sideways on the pillow to give
himself space to breathe. He pulls at the wet sheet underneath him, pushes it off the bed and flops
down, curling his arm around the second pillow.

Jungkook has one knee on the bed behind him, watching him wiggle to comfort as he tugs himself
into his underwear, ass still looking inviting under his t-shirt though he just fucked him to half-
consciousness. “You asked for it,” Jungkook smirks as he does his belt. He feels almost as exhausted
as Taehyung looks, would very much love to plop onto a soft surface and nod off.

He collapses next to him, as far away as the bed permits, just until his breath evens.

“I’m not complaining,” Taehyung mutters through a groan, his hands tightening over his pillow as he
brings it a little underneath him. He’s positive he cannot feel his limbs. He angles his chin down,
nestles carefully into the pillow and he opens his eyes to glance at Jungkook’s profile, darting across
slow and lazy; he’s too fucked out to care about staring. “Subway doesn’t open for another couple of
hours,” he says half into the pillow, looks on as Jungkook’s eyes blink once and pupils replace to
meet his from the corners, head still facing up. “You can stay here for a bit if you want, but I gotta
warn you I’ll probably hug you.”

Jungkook’s brows raise, the tip of his mouth almost does too, the hint of it twisting into his cheek
stifled in the very last moment. “Hug me?” he questions. He officially fucked Taehyung into
nonsense.

Taehyung stretches his legs out, spreads them a bit, then a lot and Jungkook just has to wonder how
he sleeps on his tiny bunk bed if he so naturally takes up this amount of space. “I hug things in my
sleep,” Taehyung grumbles softly as his arms let a bit loose of the pillow, he’s wrapped them around.
“It’s not of my own volition, it just happens.”

Jungkook adjusts his head, almost tilts it towards him, eyes dragging all over his face, pressed half
into the pillow. Taehyung’s cheeks appear fuller like this and he is not as orthodox in his beauty, but
still somehow undeniably stunning. “You hug in your sleep?” Jungkook huffs out.

His shoulders curl together lightly into response. “It helps me,” he whispers softly. “Basically no
matter what I do, we’d end up like…” and he dismisses the pillow, shifts into a single full roll over
the surface and droops his arm across Jungkook’s chest, face pressing into his shoulder, as his fingers
fall loose over the other, his knee raises over Jungkook’s own a bit, and apparently the position is
complete, because he takes a breath, washes his eyes across his face and exhales, “this.”

Jungkook doesn’t like cuddling, always sleeps on his back, simply does not have the habit of turning
towards Julia in his sleep, and quite honestly, body heat bothers him excessively when he tries to
sleep. But Taehyung’s not hot, he’s just warm and the touch is just short of overwhelming, but not
necessarily in an unpleasant way. No, on the contrary, there is something marginally comfortable in
the weight carefully distributed over him, just enough to hint at closeness, but not too much to be
heavy or imposing.

And it brings Taehyung close, brings his face close, his breath close, his skin close. There is
something gingerly intimate in the way he laces himself over him, body limp and fragile from what
they previously did, chest still rising and falling in a pattern that reminds him of it, perspiration still
making the scant t shirt cling to him. His eyes felt intense from the small distance of the pillow, now
they are nearly unbearable.

Jungkook looks down at him, at where he fits himself into the gap of his shoulder and neck, and he’s
staring up, eyes darting easily across the features of his face, and it takes him a moment, but
Jungkook bats his at the ceiling again.

“Whatever,” he murmurs, shifts, and Taehyung takes the hint, rolls onto his back, and Jungkook
ignores how he misses the weight and warmth of his limbs over him. He sits up. “I’m not staying.
I’ve got my car.”

Taehyung’s arms find the pillow again and he pulls it to himself as Jungkook stands. Pillow feels soft
compared to him, too soft, dips so easily and he has to fold it in half. “Mmm,” Taehyung mutters
lazily, trying to regain comfort, “keep forgetting people have cars.”

Jungkook looks back at him as he does the buttons of his shirt, wonders just how it is possible for
something so granted for him to be so foreign for Taehyung. He replaces his eyes to his fingers as
they work.

“I think you fucked me to sleep,” Taehyung confesses as his own lids fall shut, too heavy to keep up,
limbs too limp to move with the precision required to properly function.

Jungkook walks around the bed, leans to the bedside table closest to Taehyung to gather his
disregarded wallet. “Just go to sleep then,” he tells him.

“No,” Taehyung shakes his head, basically just rubs his chin against the pillow as he nestles into it
even more comfortably. “I need to get to my room. Noona can’t find me here.”

Jungkook pauses by the side of him, slips his wallet into his pocket and looks down. “Get the fuck
up then.”

“Can’t,” Taehyung sighs. “You need to carry me,” he announces.

Jungkook snorts, lips tilting without his permission as stares down at his body curling into itself. He’s
light enough, Jungkook imagines it would be quite easy for him to either scoop him up or throw him
over his shoulder, but he is definitely not fucking carrying him to bed, especially after sex. “You a
princess now?” he snickers.

Taehyung’s eyes crack opened and meet Jungkook’s waiting ones. He grins, cheeky. “A prince,” he
corrects.

Jungkook shakes his head, blinks away from him. “You’re such a fucking baby, Tae.”

He walks around the bed and Taehyung rolls himself around to follow him with lazy eyes, ends up
on his back, knees raising and spreading a bit. His arms lift off the pillow, stretch backwards and it
lifts the hem of his t-shirt, silky, dark thighs exposed.

“What sort of car is it?” He asks through a yawn that makes Jungkook want to yawn as well.

“Wanna see it?” he offers, pausing at the foot of the bed. He tries to hold his eyes on his face, really
does, but he keeps stretching with his yawns and it just exposes more and more of him.
“Mm,” Taehyung whines, after he closes his mouth, smacks his lips, once, twice, “too lazy, not
worth it.”

Jungkook cocks his head. “Would it be worth it if I gave you a ride?” He has no exact motivation
behind the offer, just kind of wants to show Taehyung his car, because Taehyung doesn’t have one
of his own.

“Depends on the ride,” Taehyung grins. “My ass still hurts from last one you gave me.”

Jungkook’s eyes roll most naturally, and he gives up on keeping his lips still, allows them to twitch.
“Around the block, Tae.”

He breathes out and it’s a downright fucking moan, and then he stretches some more, hands raising
far above his head, sleeves of that oversized shirt rolling down, hem shifting up, so much soft,
glistening skin exposed, and he is borderline soft porn, could probably make money looking like this,
enticing. “So, that’s a hard no to carrying me?”

Jungkook’s teeth clench. He simply must be doing this on purpose, so simple, yet so hot. He’s that
dangerous mixture again, deceptive innocence and subtle eroticism. His knees spread a bit wider as
his foot slides across the mattress and Jungkook could so easily see himself between his legs, no
matter how sore he is.

He leans a bit forward, slaps the flesh of his calf. “Get the fuck up, in that position you’re just asking
to be fucked again.”

“Ouch,” Taehyung pulls his legs back. “Unnecessary.”

“Wanna see my car or not?”

“Yeah.”

“Then get that ass up.”

“Fine,” Taehyung whines, pushes himself up on his wrists, “Let me just get some clothes on.”

Jungkook bends, grabs his pajama pants and chucks them at him. “Come on.”

“Well, this is fucking beautiful,” Taehyung exclaims, in much visible awe, as he slides his cartoon
character pajama pants across the leather seat of Jungkook’s SUV. His eyes are wide, words are
rushed, and he bounces a bit as he clicks his seatbelt.

Jungkook shakes his head, adjusts on his seat. “Can’t believe you’re getting that excited over a car.”

“Hey,” Taehyung turns and glares, “you got excited over sock folding, let me be.” He’d glare at him
longer, but he is too busy studying the interior. He cannot tell for sure, but he would guess the
display in the front is larger than their TV.

Jungkook cocks his head, starts the car. “You’ve already used the sock folding thing, you need to
freshen up your repertoire.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes and when he feels the car purr to life, he refocuses his attention on Jungkook
again. “Put your seatbelt on.”

“I’m just taking you around the block,” Jungkook says.

“Okay,” Taehyung nods, once, twice, three times. “Now put your seat belt on.”

“Jesus, you’re annoying,” is what Jungkook breathes as he slides the seatbelt over his chest and
clicks it.

It’s nothing o’clock and streets are empty, especially void of cars in this part of town and there is
something incredibly relaxing in purposeless driving that Jungkook often forgets about because
where he lives it’s always busy, busy, busy. “You know,” he says, taking Taehyung’s attention
away from the display for a moment, where he explores with utter fascination a three-dimensional
satellite map of the area, “this is my in-city car, I can show you my out of city one sometime, you’ll
love it.”

Taehyung’s brows furrow, voice expresses his wonder perfectly. “You got a specific car you drive
out of the city?”

Jungkook shrugs, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping gingerly on the hand rest. With cars
thinking so much for their own, he really only has use of one hand, could do whatever with the
second one, could in practice, use it to still the bouncing of Taehyung’s thigh, up and down, purely
because it is distracting. “This is too heavy for highways.”

Taehyung bristles, shakes his head to himself. “Rich asshole,” he mutters, though it doesn’t hold the
anger any of the words should have in connotation in the context of the mouth of a Kim.

Jungkook takes a turn, and it is not in the direction of his house.

There’s a silence and it is curiously comfortable as Taehyung stares off the window at everything
beside them pass in a flash. His voice is shy, soft, his voice is careful, and he stares at Jungkook in
the reflection of that window instead of looking at him directly. “Why me and not Julia?”

“What?” Jungkook asks, almost sharp, yet still doesn’t damage the ambiance that has taken over.

Taehyung’s arms cross, tongue skidding over his lips. He turns his head to him. “Tonight,” he
stresses. “Why me?”

Jungkook’s eyes narrow at the street. “Your ass is tighter,” he dismisses.

Taehyung exhales, heavy, gulps nothing, and turns to the window again, trying this time, to avoid
the reflection he sees. His teeth sink into his lip, harder than he intends. He blinks much more than he
needs to. His fingers cling to his own elbows. And he says nothing.

Jungkook glances at him from the side, waits for him to say something, anything, some remark, get
offensive or get defensive. He doesn’t; he just keeps staring from that window, away from Jungkook,
and Jungkook is the one to speak. He mirrors the softness and it is not because he chooses it, but
because his voice naturally seeps into it. “You distract me better,” he tells him and seals his eyes onto
the street as he feels his gaze return to him. “You’re not…” he roams his mind, what is he not, what
is he, “Richhood,” he settles. It’s largely unsatisfactory, but it’s all he can think of that he is willing to
say. Then his voice picks up again, speaks through a breathed chuckle, “You get fascinated by
fucking cars.”

Taehyung huffs out, an almost laugh breaking past his lips as he looks way, looks down at
Jungkook’s fingers which rest between them. “You’re a bitch, Kook,” he tells him as his smile
begins to dissipate, eyes darting across Jungkook’s hand.

He does not realize the name falls through – it feels too natural to say for him to pay any actual
attention, but Jungkook’s chest fill up with too much air. He releases it, skims his gaze across
Taehyung briefly, softly, before he returns it to the road.

Taehyung’s own lifts up, just in time, studies his profile. “Is it your dad?” he whispers carefully,
barely parts his lips with the question.

He stares at the tightening of his jaw, the pull in the muscle at the edge of it. “It’s always my dad,” he
sighs.

Taehyung nods, hesitates, tonguing at his lips, “Is it that on your hand?”

Jungkook’s eyes dart to his and then immediately back at the road. “What?”

“The burn.”

“You noticed a burn on my hand?” his brows raise; he keeps his gaze religiously sealed ahead.

Taehyung feels himself leaning towards him a bit, settles back against the seat, forces himself to. His
mouth parts and some words are on his tongue, but he swallows them, replaces them with a small
smile. “You use those hands to fuck me,” he tells him. “I’m very attentive of them.”

Jungkook says nothing, absolutely nothing, and Taehyung’s eyes fall over that glaring wound again,
evidence of just who his father is, what a sociopathic piece of shit. Taehyung’s own father has many
vices, many, but he’d never lay a hand on them, never judge them. Taehyung’s father is poor and
desperate, but he is not a cruel man.
His fingers act on their own accord, lift off his lap and grace across the hand rest before the tip of one
brushes gingerly over Jungkook’s warm skin, a small distance away from the burn mark. Jungkook’s
own digits twitch at the contact, concentration falling as his gaze drifts to look at his own fingers
gather instinctively into a fist on the rest. “Does it hurt?” Taehyung’s whispering as he touches his
wrist instead, barely, but tangibly, makes a small pattern that alone elicits gooseflesh before he
retracts it.

Jungkook wonders if it wasn’t a reflex for his own hand to curl into a fist, would have Taehyung’s
lingered.

“Yes,” Jungkook confesses. He stops the car before Taehyung can reply. “Got a license?”

Taehyung’s brows furrow in confusion, shoulders lifting, but he answers. “Yeah, Namjoon insisted I
got one for emergencies. Why?”

Jungkook’s head cocks, just one corner of his lips curving subtly into his cheek. “Wanna drive us to
your house?”

Taehyung’s eyes widen, all of his teeth, every single one of his fucking shiny teeth appears with his
smile. “Fuck yes.” He is already pulling his seatbelt off.

Taehyung is not ready for the actual onslaught of a desire to put rat poison in the elder Jeon’s
champagne when he caters at another overly prestigious event. He lingers by the table that holds the
glasses, the ones he is now assigned the job to distribute, out of sight of the pricks in suits and
dresses, and debates if he is immature enough to actually feel satisfaction from spitting in a drink.

After short but worthwhile consideration, he decides he very much is. He wraps his fingers around
the stem of a crystal glass, brings it up to his lips, gathering as much saliva as he can on his tongue
before he quietly lets it dribble from his mouth and mix into the bubbly liquid.
He is beyond startled when a voice, in retrospect admittedly entertained and painfully familiar, rings
in his ears from behind him. “What are you doing?”

He nearly loses hold of the glass, spins around with a widened gaze, thrumming heart, and an almost
seizure of his rotating body. He does not expect any of the guests in this corridor, they have no
business there, but here he is, Jungkook, in all his expensive, over-priced, tight-pressed, waistline-
emphasizing clothed glory. He’s incredibly fancy, every bit of him luxurious, looks terribly different
to that guy who let him drive his car, but he smirks the same, glances at Taehyung the same, as he
leans fingers spread out opened on the table beside them and awaits a reply.

“I, erm—” Taehyung hesitates, shrugs, “this is for your dad, actually.”

Jungkook’s brows raise. “Oh, yeah?” Taehyung’s heart races with the possibility he’s overstepping a
boundary or two and his eyes are completely stolen and captivated by Jungkook’s incessant stare as
he moves. He reaches a hand, carefully wraps his fingers around Taehyung’s, every digit gliding soft
but firm over his own, and still keeps his stare perpetual and demanding on his as he leans down,
leads both their hands up and spits into the drink as well. “Now it’s better,” Jungkook concludes as
he straightens, lets go completely of Taehyung’s hand.

“Perfect,” Taehyung grins, puts the glass on the trey he’s left on the table, a distinctive distance away
from the others.

“You didn’t tell me you were catering,” Jungkook tells him, as if between them there is room for the
fulfillment of such expectations, of letting each other know of their whereabouts in advance.

For a moment Taehyung pretends, there could be, cocks his head at Jungkook, borders on playful,
“You didn’t tell me you were attending.

Jungkook scoffs. “Please,” he says with the pretense of an all-importance that he usually prefers to
naturally radiate. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world. I’m Jeon Jungkook.”

His tongue drips irony and Taehyung lets his next exhale hint at laughter, shakes his head to himself
and angles the front of his body to the table, piling as many champagne glasses as his trey can
comfortably hold. He does not like the spike in his heart and breath when the hand Jungkook has
propped on the table nears him, when his body closes in from his right, a little from behind, tilts into
him, not touching him, but coming near, the heat of it reverberating into Taehyung – its natural pull
immediately rising some repressed instinct for Taehyung to draw closer, to press into him, fit into the
hardness of the lines of his now so familiar body.
They are in public and, though they are in a corridor that is kept from view and not an inch of them
touches, it is much too inappropriate for someone of Jungkook’s status to breathe in such proximity
to a waiter, unless, of course, he is a female with a short skirt and pinchable buttocks, which is almost
entirely factually false. This is either brave or stupid, or both, and it is not something either of them
can afford, but as Taehyung feels his piercing eyes slide over the side of his face, he cannot find it in
himself to tell him to be careful, simply focuses his power – his weakness – on leveling his breath
and waiting. His own eyes lift off of the glasses, scan with panic over the guests for anyone missing,
fall furtively onto Jungkook’s father as Jungkook murmurs to him.

“Tell me you’re bored, and you can slip off,” he says, and it carries the vibe of a plea, sends shivers
all across the back of Taehyung’s neck, which feels peculiarly wet and hot.

He shakes his head, whispers back, “I’m working.”

“Well,” Jungkook begins and presses into his side before he pulls away and lingers from the
dangerously nothing of a distance still, “one of the very important guests requires your personal
service.”

Taehyung glances at him briefly. “Speak to my manager.”

Jungkook shrugs. “Okay,” he says, begins to side step him, and Taehyung spins immediately, both
hands wrapping around his wrist and pulling him back, before he realizes that he is touching and lets
go.

“Don’t you dare,” he warns, flashing a short glare in Jungkook’s direction as he settles on his other
side now before he returns his stare to the table, angles his whole body that way. He takes a moment,
hesitates, puts a glass on the trey that doesn’t really fit, not with the way he positions it. He speaks to
the trey, speaks low and reluctant, “I really don’t want to go to that room, anyway, Kook.”

Jungkook’s eyes watch him put that glass on the trey and off of it again and again, as he refuses to
return his gaze back on him, studies the nothingness on his profile, his features uncommunicative but
soft, genuine. Jungkook doesn’t want to take him to that room. “Not that room,” he promises. “My
place.” Taehyung’s eyes do turn to him now, shining with the alarm he’s earned with the preposition,
but Jungkook shakes his head. “They’re all going to the Jungs after.” That solidifies them four hours,
at least.

Taehyung knows it’s stupid how desperately he wants to be able to just agree, how much he savors
every time they consciously plan to be together and it doesn’t just happen, how he wishes to just
drop the stupid champagne and go to his apartment again, judge a bit more of the art, fuck him on
another possession his father prices, then maybe play a couple video games, pry into his life and let
him pry into his, just for a moment, just subtly, then turn it into sex again if it needs be, for now. He
knows it’s stupid, but he does. He wants to go so bad he almost feels it physically and not in the
shape of a hard on, which he would begrudgingly accept. No, it is something else entirely.

And Taehyung has never had feelings for anyone before, but he supposes maybe this is it, what this
unpractical curse constitutes, this giddy, jittery thing that roams his stomach at the prospect Jungkook
wants to spend time with him, fuck him and not just anybody else.

But what he says is, “I can’t just leave,” and he turns back to the treys.

Jungkook exhales with his cheeks, looks away. “Fine,” he says, and Taehyung tries to swallow
down the plain, raw deflation when he pulls back, steps away. He looks at him one last time, “I want
red wine, by the way.”

Taehyung nods, trails his eyes behind him once Jungkook spins and takes his own away. He sighs,
shakes his head to himself, puts the glass onto the trey successfully this time. He captures the trey
with both hands, goes around tables, bowing and repeating, complimentary champagne, at each one
as he has been instructed. When he passes by Jungkook’s he attempts eye contact, but he’s got his
attention firmly at his phone, and maybe he’s texting Julia, passes begrudgingly through Taehyung’s
head and his gaze sets into a short glare, before he leaves, goes to get his wine, like the good waiter
he is.

He registers the order, gets the glass and strolls back, follows every and each etiquette except for the
fact he oozes bitterness. “Your wine,” he says with all the professionalism he can muster.

He knows something is off the moment Jungkook opens his mouth to say thank you, because
Jungkook never fucking says thank you, especially not in front of his father, but the next moment, he
spins, knocks the glass right off the tip of the table and the liquid, crimson and poignant, spills all
over Taehyung’s white shirt.

“Shit,” Jungkook mutters as if there is an ounce of this that isn’t on fucking purpose as Taehyung’s
hand reaches instinctively, fingers closing around the glass before it falls and breaks. His mouth
gapes with a repressed gasp, body retracting as his arms lift into the air. He blinks once at nothing
and a second time at Jungkook, eyes bulging and glaring before he has the hands of his supervisor
wrapping around his shoulder and pushing him away with a plethora of apologies.
“Jesus, Kim.” He leads him towards that same corridor. He runs a hand over his face, wraps two
fingers around his nose and looks at Taehyung as if he is a walking disaster, which, in this context,
he supposes he is. “You can’t work like this.” He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “I’ve got no
shirt replacement.”

Taehyung’s mouth parts and he’s began the excuse already when a voice interjects from the side and
Taehyung jerks his head with the most scorching glare his eyes are physically capable of.

“This was completely my fault,” Jungkook speaks, so respectful, and fake, with his eyes all wide and
innocent, “I apologize. I am utterly embarrassed by my own clumsiness.”

“Oh, no, no.” The supervisor spins and bows as Jungkook approaches. “Please. That’s absolutely
fine. It happens, especially in this business.”

When Jungkook stills beside them and waits, discomfort covers every feature of his supervisor so
visibly its almost comical. He switches his attention between Taehyung and Jungkook for a bit,
mouth gaping with some words he cannot speak, he can’t exactly shout at him in front of Jeon
Jungkook, unless the guest initiates it himself.

“Just,” he hesitates, turns to Taehyung, “just, get out of sight for the guests okay, you only get half
commission for this.” He bows to Jungkook again, breathes a few apologies, and excuses himself,
walks off to the room he is meant to be supervising, and leaves Jungkook alone with Taehyung’s
glare.

He lifts his brows up, dares to be suggestive. “Can you leave now?”

Taehyung shakes his head, breathes, and turns. He walks and Jungkook follows. “You’re the biggest
bitch I know.”

“I’ll compensate you.” Jungkook says, as he slips his blazer off of his shoulders, drapes it wordlessly
over Taehyung’s to cover his wet shirt. “Promise.”

Taehyung pulls at the edges of the blazer to cover him better. It’s windy outside as they step out and
it’s cold with the thin fabric over him so drained. He doesn’t verbally acknowledge the gesture
because he doesn’t want to hear the excuse Jungkook has for it. “Couldn’t you have waited until
after the event.”
“Apartment is free now.” Jungkook shrugs. “If you want the hotel room, though, just say the word.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Taehyung walks easily, remembers the direction towards Jungkook’s home.

“Don’t have any games there, anyway, so your ass would suffer more.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes. “You’re such a spoiled brat, honestly.”

“We’ve established that,” Jungkook acknowledges, nods. He turns to Taehyung, eyes skimming him
from the side, his face, his body. “You deserve a little spoiling as well, you know, doesn’t suit you,
this waiter thing.”

Taehyung returns the look. “What suits me?” He cocks his head. “Being bent over?”

Jungkook’s lips curve on one side, an easy smirk captures his features. “Only if it’s for me.”

Taehyung shakes his head, scoffs in a feigned disbelief though he almost expects the words even
before they leave his mouth. He turns back to him, asks, “How’d you explain your disappearance
anyway?”

Jungkook looks at the street instead. “Parents still accept I’m being a prick over getting used like an
ashtray, so I can venture off undisturbed.” He kicks at a stone that is in the way of his Hugo Boss’s.
“Daddy dearest gets nervous when he leaves obvious marks.”

Taehyung takes his eyes away. Maybe he should have really put rat’s poison in that drink.

He’s braver walking into that apartment this time, knows his way towards the room he expects
they’ll be in. “By the way, I choose the game because you’re a prick and cost me vital money,” He
informs him, removing the blazer from his shoulders and dropping it onto the couch.

“Whatever you say,” Jungkook tells him as he wraps his fingers around his wrist, pulls him away
from the couch and towards some other corridor, “but come here a sec.” He drops his arm after he’s
made his indication clear, turns and walks and Taehyung follows.
“Is that your room?” Taehyung asks, eyes bulging and roaming around the big, monochromatic
space he saunters into, fits the entirety of the house, spacious, contemporary and depressingly sterile.

“Yeah,” Jungkook hums as he slides the door of a closet that takes up an entire wall, height and
width. It’s strictly enormous.

“That’s a lot of fucking fake plants,” Taehyung notes as he walks into the room. He’d feel more
uncomfortable, he figures, if there was any sign of Jungkook in that room, but it could easily be that
suite in the hotel, no stickers, no pictures, no scratches on the furniture, no character, only one thing
stands out, a single camera that lies on a white desk, pushed against big windows with the drapes
closed shut.

“My mom insists on them,” Jungkook says. “Come here,” he instructs softly, though he doesn’t wait
for Taehyung to follow through, reaches for his arm again and pulls him over. He stutters in his step,
takes his eyes away from that camera, but falls into place beside him, gaze now shifting towards the
items neatly placed into the closet, mostly in the same hues as the room, but a few colors sticking out,
pretty, fabrics upon fabrics and his fingers itch to touch.

Jungkook releases him, waves his hand in front of the opened door instead. “Choose one as a
payback for ruining yours and for you only getting half commission because of me.”

Taehyung’s eyes shoot to his, wide, brows raising. “Are you serious?”

He nods. “I’m not even aware of most of them, honestly. Anything you want, it’s yours.”

This is stupid, too, stupid that his eyes linger on Jungkook’s face for a lot longer than he means for
them. That such a warm feeling spreads inside of him because of a shirt, an article of clothing that
genuinely cannot mean anything to him, to Jungkook, he has so many, endless. Taehyung has so
few, even less that belong to him and aren’t hand me downs from Namjoon. He loves clothes much
more than he can afford, settles for what he can get his hands on.

He forces his eyes on the closet and it is easier than he expects. They roam with utter fascination over
every fabric, every color that stands out. He is afraid to touch, maybe he’ll ruin something. He
washed his hands at the hotel, but still, he doesn’t know. He reaches out, gingerly runs the tips of his
fingers over the sleeve of one shirt and when no prints are left, he lets his hand get braver, catch more
firmly onto the fabrics. What makes this difficult is the fact Jungkook remains by his side,
scrutinizing his every move, eyes ghosting over his face as avidly as Taehyung’s dart across the
clothes.

He wraps his hand with little pressure around the sleeve of a satin fabric.

“I like this,” he says softly, biting his lower lip as he turns to Jungkook for approval.

Jungkook hums, glances at the shirt before he returns his gaze to Taehyung. “That’s a pajama top,”
he tells him with a small scrunch of his eyebrows.

Taehyung lets go of the sleeve. “I like it,” he shrugs, a little shy.

Jungkook looks at him for a moment more before he reaches into the closet, strips the shirt off of the
hanger. He extends it before him, glances over it. “Clo got it for me,” he tells him, “I wore it once to
please her, not even sure it’s been washed.”

“Don’t care,” Taehyung shrugs again as he watches Jungkook leave it on the bed. If anything, it’ll
smell like him for a bit before he washes it.

“Do you want the bottoms as well?” Jungkook asks him as he steps before him again. “They’re a
pair, after all,” he tells him when Taehyung stares at him a bit blankly.

Taehyung swallows, nods. Jungkook is a little close. Then Jungkook is a lot close; it makes speaking
hard, thinking harder. He’s used to sexual proximity by now, but this is different, still makes his
stomach do flips. He doesn’t know if Jungkook will ever not make him some kind of tangibly
nervous. Eustress, he thinks it is, may be, each part of his body is aware and awake, but it’s not with
discomfort, just with abundant sensation, sensitivity to touch, to breaths, and glances and words. His
hands lift up, and Taehyung’s chest recedes, falls back into him before it extends again, as
Jungkook’s fingers reach for his neck.

Taehyung stays still, motionless, with pulsing heart, and unsteady breath as the fingers touch his tie,
start on the knot, careful and slow.

“You really are tragic at this,” Jungkook mumbles softly, his eyes straying away from the motion of
his fingers to catch Taehyung’s which are locked on his.
Taehyung doesn’t know why he whispers, but it doesn’t feel right not to, even if they are in a huge,
empty apartment, with no one and nothing to hide from. “Maybe you should just teach me how to do
that at some point,” he says, his ears filled with the pattern of his own breathing, mingling with
Jungkook’s.

Jungkook breathes calmer, and as his eyes replace back on the knot as it is undone. He says, “No.”

He lets the tie fall on the floor, starts on his buttons.

Taehyung’s head tilts ever so slightly to one side. “No?”

Jungkook pushes the drained shirt off of his shoulders without touching his skin, raises his eyes to
him again, confesses, “Then you won’t need me to do it for you.”

Taehyung’s next exhale lodges in his throat and stirs, stays, but thankfully Jungkook doesn’t see,
because he pulls away, lifts the shirt Taehyung chose off the bed and hands it to him, eyes sealing
onto his body, studying every bit of naked skin, skimming past ribs and nipples, the emphatic dip of
his clavicles, the surprising softness of his stomach.

Taehyung stretches his arms through the sleeves, indulges in the way the fabric feels against him, so
very real and luxurious. He allows it to hang off of his shoulders, doesn’t bother with the buttons as
he runs his fingers across the side of it, feels its silky texture.

“Fits you better,” Jungkook tells him.

Taehyung’s eyes lift up from the trail they follow of his own fingers, capture Jungkook’s for a
moment. “Does it?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. Jungkook is well aware Taehyung probably has a lot of potential to do with
numbers, would probably make a wonderful architect if he is as dedicated to it as he is to his family,
but he cannot ignore thinking he could easily be a model as well. He’s truly ethereal, makes that silly
pajama top appear out of a magazine.

His eyes continuously roam over him, and he cannot help himself, takes a step forward, slides the
palm of his hand under the fabric of the open shirt and a little above his hip, into the soft flesh of his
waistline. He twists his fingers into him indicatively, teases him into falling a step forward.
“You like my body, yeah?” he whispers to him, something Taehyung has told him before, places his
other hand on him as well and holds him like this. “I like yours, too.”

Taehyung’s eyes drop to Jungkook’s parted mouth, as breath teases past it and into Taehyung’s own.
“You like mine, too?” he mumbles softly, gaze slightly wide, gaze slightly vulnerable. His hands
adjust their hold on him, on his bare skin, palms and fingers feel lethal, scorching.

“Yes,” Jungkook exhales.

“Not just my ass?” Taehyung asks, eyes searching his face for a small moment, darting across every
familiar feature before they fall back onto his lips.

“No,” Jungkook shakes his head, squeezes into his sides in a way that brings him closer. “No. I love
your ass, but I like your whole body.” His stare falls, lids batting slow and somehow gentle, “Like
your chest,” he whispers, and he steps a bit close, “your stomach, your shoulders.” He lists and
Taehyung watches his lips form every word of it, from such painful, delicate proximity, he feels
every syllable form on his own lips, the vibration and exhale of their speech palpable enough, close
enough for the sensitive skin on them to tingle with each sound. “Like your cock.”

Taehyung nods, he’s nodding, such small bobs of his head and his eyes lift as his licks over the
pillow of his lower lip, follow Jungkook’s as they watch the motion of his tongue.

Taehyung doesn’t know which breath is his and which is Jungkook’s. Taehyung doesn’t know why
his heart beats like this.

“You like my mouth?” he’s saying, he’s begging.

This time Jungkook nods, Jungkook snakes his tongue across his lips. “Yeah.”

He’s close, he’s so close. Taehyung can see every single detail on his face, every imperfection, that
scar on his cheek, that freckle on his nose, he can count his lashes if his wished, those lashes that
droop low as his lids almost touch. He’s so close that Taehyung cannot look anymore, can almost
feel him, can almost sense his lips on his own. His every exhale is inhaled from him, they share their
breath. Taehyung’s head tilts, he can’t look. He closes his eyes.
And suddenly he’s cold. He’s freezing.

“Good for fucking,” Jungkook says, dismisses, shoulder brushing into him as he sidesteps him, goes
to a different part of the closet.

Taehyung’s eyes open – they sting – lips closing, thin, shut, pressing together until they go white and
disappear, and he angles his body after him as he releases them. His tongue runs over his mouth
different now, runs quick before it presses into the edge and he lets himself scoff with his whole
entire body, his shoulders and his chest and his eyes as he seals them onto Jungkook, as merciless as
he is.

He isn’t cold, next, he’s on fire. “Why?” he asks, he demands, he compels.

Jungkook turns to him, just from the side, eyes snapping, teeth snapping as if each feature of his face
alone blames him for having the mere audacity to speak that word. “What?” he challenges.

Taehyung turns his whole entire body to him now, not just a shoulder and he does not let his eyes
waver as he speaks, hates the way his voice trembles slightly at some sounds, “Why don’t you want
to kiss me, Jungkook?”

“Taehyung,” Jungkook glowers, chest rising, falling deeply. He’s angry. What fucking right does he
have to be angry? “Drop it,” he commands, like he had last time.

He means to look away, but Taehyung says one word that summons his attention. “No,” he says
firm. “Why do you want to fuck me but not kiss me, Jungkook?”

Jungkook exhales, breathes so uneven, takes a single step towards him. “Sex,” he stresses, nostrils
bulging, eyes glaring, “Sex is different. I fuck you to make myself come. Kissing is for—”

“What?” Taehyung interjects sharply, with the way he steps forward he almost charges and for the
first time Jungkook is the one to take a step back. “Intimacy?” he names, dark eyebrows shooting up.
He pauses, he waits, then he nearly yells, “Don’t you think being inside of me is intimate, Jungkook?

Jungkook doesn’t like to think of it like that, like being inside of him. It’s sex, it’s pleasure. He’s
shoved his cock in a lot of people, a lot of girls, doesn’t really think of what it constitutes rather than
an orgasm. Inside inside inside, it rings in his head more powerful than he expects.
He angles his body fully to him now, teeth clenching. “Stop,” he grits out, both hands raising, fingers
spread, tense, until they curl into fists as he pleads, “saying my name like that.”

“Like what?” Taehyung snarls.

Jungkook’s teeth bare, fingers keep tightening, curling into those fists close to Taehyung’s head,
“Like fucking…” he tries, he growls, but he can’t find anything, “stop,” he begs, before he lowers
his arms, turns away, walks.

“Why?” Taehyung demands, walking right after. Jungkook doesn’t turn, doesn’t fucking
acknowledge him, and Taehyung reaches out, wraps his long fingers around his forearm, repeats,
lower, more desperate, voice still so loathsomely uneven, he repeats, “Jungkook.”

And Jungkook flips around and Taehyung only manages to see those lethal eyes once before they
shut close and his lips are on his.

Taehyung’s heart might as well burst through his chest.

Taehyung’s eyes fall shut, he cannot breathe, his breath is stolen away, swallowed by Jungkook as
he kisses him, kisses him hard. Hands are on his neck, holding him tight, holding him rough, but his
lips are worse, punishing on his, moving from the moment they touch, wrap around his upper one,
then lower, open, as his teeth replace them instead, press hard onto the pillow of his lip and sink,
draw blood.

He pulls away, pushes him away, opens his eyes. They’re raw dark, so wide and so angry as he
stares right at Taehyung’s, breath as heavy as his, chest rises and falls, rises and falls, as if he’s
running, as if he’s fighting.

“There,” Jungkook’s voice roars. “Are you fucking happy now?”

And he still breathes like this. And Taehyung cannot say anything, cannot think anything, and
Jungkook’s eyes fall on the trickle of blood that rolls down his chin, up to his own, down again, up
again,downagainupagindownagainupagain.
And he’s on him. One arm snakes across his waist, the hand of the other wraps around the back of
his nape, fingers threading through hair and he kisses him, tilts his head, presses his nose into his
cheek and kisses him.

He still kisses him hard, but he kisses him careful, swallows the blood and runs his tongue over his
lip soothing, moves his lips over his, and they’re soft, so soft.

Taehyung’s hand is on his shoulder, for leverage, he doesn’t know if he can hold himself up on his
own, and his eyes screw shut so tight, all features on his face do, as if he’s in pain, and maybe he is.
He doesn’t know what he feels, just knows he does, he feels, so much, it’s so overwhelming, it
swallows him whole, and he cannot breathe, but he is ready to sacrifice breath for this, any day, any
time, any moment.

Jungkook presses himself into him, draws him closer, fills every crevice in between their bodies. He
kisses him.

He kisses him.

Why has he never kissed him before?

He parts his mouth, Taehyung parts his own. They breathe each other in, tongues tangling and the
moment they touch, they grow desperate.

It happens so quick. Jungkook can’t fucking stop.

His hands are all over him, appetitive, taking. And Taehyung’s are as well, feel all over his back, his
arms, his neck, his shoulders. Jungkook kisses with abandon, wet and rough and desperate. He
kisses voracious. He sighs into his mouth, forehead creasing, kisses him again, again, again.

Taehyung’s blood rushes, heart hammers. His mind has never been as blank.

Jungkook pushes at him, one step, two steps, three steps. He pushes him onto his bed, a bed that has
only ever had him and Julia on it and hates to separate his mouth from his even for a second. He
climbs onto him, puts all his weight on him, kisses him.
Taehyung’s legs spread, fit Jungkook in between them. He’s never had him so close on the front, but
he does now, every inch of them touches, every single, and he wants more, wants him naked.

He feels him so well, his body, warm, hard, fits just right against him. He is hardening against him,
Taehyung can feel his own length on his, as it brushes. The sensation is new, curiously exquisite
with the background of all they have done to each other, with each other, something so intimately
erotic in the fact they feel the same, rubbing together, hips pressing, Jungkook sighing into
Taehyung’s mouth, Taehyung moaning into Jungkook’s.

They grind on each other like fucking teenagers, but it’s okay, because they never got to do this, no,
they set unspoken rules for everything, always controlled their desperation, put limits on the
expression of their want, but neither of them can now, neither of them wants to and they let
themselves feel each other as feels right, even if it’s eager, a little horny, even if it’s messy, like
they’re doing this for the first time, for the last time alike.

Jungkook pushes at Taehyung’s shirt as Taehyung works the buttons of Jungkook’s own, his pants,
shoes, socks, everything. They strip each other off, every single article of clothing, which they never
do, never, because it’s easier to leave when they have less clothes to replace. But they strip each
other bare.

Jungkook leaves him for a moment and Taehyung whines, clings onto his arm as he gets something
from his drawer, gets a bottle of something that can function as lube.

“What do I mean to you?” Jungkook says as he lies on him, as he kisses him.

“What?” Taehyung asks against his lips, only separates them long enough to breathe the word before
he pushes against them again, finds his tongue with his own.

Jungkook pulls away, lips hovering and eyes parting, eyes capturing his, “What am I to you, Tae?”
And it sounds like he’s in fucking pain and it hurts Taehyung, but he shakes his head, wraps his
fingers in the strands of his hair and reassures him.

“Nothing,” he says, it breaks off from him more difficult than he expects, “You’re nothing,” he tells
his lips, “I promise.” He kisses him.

“Promise?” Jungkook closes his eyes again, kisses him.

“Yes,” Taehyung lies.

Jungkook slips a finger inside of him and Taehyung’s face contorts with the pain of it, but
Jungkook’s mouth is on him, soothes him with an open-mouthed kiss, as his licks between his lips,
spreads him with the kiss as much as he is with his fingers. Taehyung’s hips push into him, he moans
as Jungkook slips a second finger in, works him open, so good to him with his fingers, though quick,
hungry.

Taehyung wants more. His fingers cling to his biceps. “Jungkook,” he whines to him as he pulls
away for the breath of a moment, “Fuck me.”

Jungkook’s off him again, opening that drawer.

“Fuck,” he curses, runs his fingers through his hair that’s a mess from Taehyung’s own desperate
hands. “Don’t have any condoms Tae, used them all on you."

“Don’t care,” Taehyung says, pressing his fingers into himself with one hand to open himself faster,
tugging on Jungkook with the other, “fuck me.”

He pulls him in, and he does it because he trusts him, knows that if Jungkook had any reason to
worry about this, he’d tell him, doesn’t want a fucking condom even if Jungkook has one. And
Jungkook does this, because he has never done it before, doesn’t trust Julia enough to fuck her
without a condom, but he knows Taehyung doesn’t let anyone else inside of him.

Jungkook’s body slides over his, fits into him again. He strokes himself, lubes himself, as Taehyung
spreads his legs for him, Jungkook’s free hand wrapping around a silky thigh, as he lines himself up,
lies over him, fully, as fully as their bodies allow him. He presses into him, presses slow and
Taehyung’s fingers squeeze into his arms, his teeth bite a little at his own lips and a little at his.

“So tight,” Jungkook grunts as he pushes in, as Taehyung bottoms out. He feels so exquisite, skin on
skin, so hot, so wet. Jungkook could come from just this, from fitting himself snugly inside of
Taehyung, fucking him bare.

“Yeah?” Taehyung sighs, captures his eyes for just a moment before he has to squeeze them shut
from the pressure, whispers against his lips, “Cause you’re the only person who gets to fuck me.”
“Yeah. Fuck,” he curses, draws his hips back, hand digging almost painfully into his thigh, “You’re
mine.” It falls through his lips and though he hopes his immediate hard thrust inside of him can erase
it, it’s between them, between their mouths, as Jungkook lets him swallow the sound of his words
before he kisses him again. He shouldn’t be saying this not when he himself belongs to someone
else. Not at all, not to Kim Taehyung.

He is, though. Taehyung doesn’t want to let Jungkook know just how much he has him. He doesn’t
let anyone else touch him, but even if he did, no one else would be able to dishevel him like this, ruin
him like this, claim him without even trying

Jungkook fucks him hard. It’s not as fast as it usually is, thrusts into him measured and deep and he
has him a mess underneath him, but he’s a mess as well, so it’s only fair.

He wants him, wants him so much, he craves him, on his back below him, underneath him as he
fucks him into the mattress. He’s never fucked him like this before, only ever had him for a moment
on his back in the Ozone, but it’s different now. Taehyung’s wrapped around him, his legs lock
around his waist, draw him in with every thrust, Jungkook’s hand digging into the flesh of his thigh,
pulling him closer as if it is possible. Taehyung's hands are on his bare back, feeling the muscles shift
with exertion, then they are in his hair, tugging at strands, then on his back again and Jungkook
thrusts his hips right into a spot that makes him keen and his dull nails dig into his skin.

Jungkook’s never fucked him raw, never fucked anyone raw, but he never wants anyone else like
this, anyway, doesn’t believe anyone else like this.

“Kiss me,” Taehyung moans into his mouth.

“I am,” Jungkook breathes, lips gliding pressureless over Taehyung’s own.

Taehyung begs, “More,” tugs his head down.

He kisses him until he cannot breathe, then pulls away, looks down at his face, at his eyes, that are so
bold and genuine as they meet his.

Jungkook fights carelessly in a ring with no rules, no weight categories, he fights men, large and
vicious, with nothing to lose. When he was seven, he saw his father hit his sister for the first time and
he bit his arm and when his father tuned on him, he stood and watched and took it. When they were
sixteen, Clo overdosed for the first time and he was the only one who knew, the one who took care
of her until their aunt showed up. But Jungkook has never felt so irrationally scared in his entire life.

Taehyung’s cock rubs into Jungkook’s hard stomach, into his own. He doesn’t need to be touched to
come. Not when Jungkook fucks him so well, bare inside of him, raw, skin on his. Not when
Jungkook kisses him. Not when Jungkook looks into his eyes.

He moans his name shameless when he comes, comes harder than he remembers he ever has; he’s
almost fucking crying. He doesn’t care, doesn’t remember ever feeling anything as intense in the
entirety of his life.

“Taehyung,” Jungkook’s groaning, “Fuck.”

He feels his hips pull away, wraps his legs around him tighter, “Come inside of me,” he whispers,
breathless.

Jungkook does, his name on his mouth again, a broken moan. His hips stutter, arch into him, slam
into him, and he takes it, takes it as he does, comes inside of him, lets Taehyung watch his face
contort with the pleasure of it, allows him to see how he relinquishes absolute control of every each
feature.

Jungkook does nothing but breathe over him as he stills above him, lets go of his thigh to hold
himself on his elbows. He tries to catch his breath, fails at it. He draws his hips back, attempts to,
knows he’s made a mess inside of Taehyung, that he needs to pull away, but he doesn't get to.

“Don’t leave,” Taehyung moans, voice embarrassingly desperate, and he clings onto him, tightens
his legs around his waist as much as he can, squeezes him into place, before he realizes what he’s
doing, relaxes his hold. He glances up into his eyes, and he’s afraid to do this now, after this, after
they're done, after Jungkook's come, but when he does, when he manages, it’s not scary, not scary at
all. Jungkook’s eyes are soft. “Please, no yet. Just, just give me a moment.”

Taehyung’s legs are trembling around his waist, whole body shaking underneath him, Jungkook
holding him is keeping him together and he simply cannot leave him, not yet.

“Okay,” Jungkook says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He leans down and presses his lips into his lightly, gingerly, before his mouth parts, tongue tastes
 Taehyung’s lips before it graces his teeth, sinks into his mouth. They kiss slow, a little wet, they kiss
so honest.

Taehyung knows he can’t stay. They’ve made a mess of each other, of sex, such a mess. He knows
they only have hours, that he needs to get the fuck out of there before his parents come home, that
the sooner he leaves the better, but he ignores this for now, runs his fingers over Jungkook’s back
and kisses him again just because he can.

Chapter End Notes

this is fairly intense, I think, hope you enjoyed for now

 Chapter 17
Chapter Summary

basically shit happens

Chapter Notes

sorry for taking so long but its been hard to write it and I have been incredibly nervous
to post, rewriting parts, wondering if I should write it like this at all, but it was my
original idea and im going with it

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Taehyung had been honest. It takes him exactly a moment of dozing off for him to wrap himself
around Jungkook. He does almost precisely the same as he’d shown him, strewns his arm across his
chest until his hand falls over his shoulder, one leg nesting in between Jungkook’s when he bends
the knee of his right one. His stomach presses into his side, his whole entire body seals onto him.

Jungkook doesn’t know how his arm ends up under Taehyung’s neck, wrapping behind him, fingers
reaching over and dancing along the skin stretched over his bicep, small hairs rising there in the wake
of his digits. He looks down at him, at the way he so naturally fits himself over him without speaking
a word, just making some soft sounds, easy and somehow blithe, as he turned into the sheets when
he felt Jungkook lying back down into them and simply, so simple, slips around him.

He wonders if he is asleep, if it is possible for him to fall asleep next to him, because Jungkook
himself has a hard time sleeping next to people, though he imagines it would be quite easy to shut his
eyes now. Taehyung won’t hurt him, even if he hurts himself through him.

Jungkook’s fingers lift off of the shapeless pattern they’re making on his arm and slip into his hair,
strands soft, some a bit perspired. They weave through, moving absolutely on their own accord. He
just looks at them, feels them, has no control over them, he has no control over anything, if he did, he
wouldn’t let Taehyung lay like this in his arms. Or if he did, he’d live in a world where Taehyung
lying in his arms would be okay.

He lets this be, lets this be until he can’t anymore.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been of just that when he speaks, could be minutes, could have been
an hour or more. “Tae,” he says, murmurs, soft and careful. If he is asleep, he doesn’t want to scare
him. He brushes a strand over his forehead gently.

Taehyung places a hot, a scorching palm that makes his heart race, just above it, just on his chest,
fingers so casual spread around his nipple. Taehyung touches him in a way that is intimate and
familiar in a way that is not even slightly sexual. He almost has to look away when Taehyung tilts his
head up, eyes fluttering opened as they meet his, chin a little above his hand, again on Jungkook’s
chest. He’s all over Jungkook. “I need to go, don’t I?” he whispers as soft as Jungkook had, because
Taehyung hopes if he says it low enough it will erase the truth of it.

He doesn’t want to leave. This is foreign to Taehyung. He’s only familiar with pillows, doesn’t even
hug his own sister, not anymore, not since Namjoon left, just rarely, so rarely. Touch that is in
anyway affectionate is simply a ghost in his life, but this is so surprisingly easy. He’s touched
Jungkook so much, touched him everywhere and he’s touched every inch of him back, he knows the
heat of his body, fits into it almost magnetically at this point, enjoys the soft skin, soothing fingers,
and hard muscle, juxtaposed in a way that promises (lies) of intimacy and security, draws Taehyung
in and traps him and he allows himself, or forgets how not to, to feel safe for those short moments.

Though he’s in a lion’s den, the apartment of the fucking Jeons. He’s anything but safe and he needs
to fucking go.

Jungkook doesn’t formulate it into words, just pauses and nods and Taehyung’s head faces down
again, tilts onto his chest and drops, takes his eyes away, face away. And Jungkook is thankful
because it makes standing up easier. He unfolds his arm from under him, scoots down the mattress
and sits at the edge where he finds some of his clothes disregarded.

Taehyung watches him from the second he has to hold his own head up, from the second his legs are
forced to untangle from in between his. He turns on his back, props himself up on his elbows and
tries with all he can manage to be casual about this, even if he has to speak to Jungkook’s back as he
slips on trousers.

“Which station is closer, do you think?” he asks mostly for the sake of speaking, of having
something in the air between them, and because last time he’d left this apartment he’d walked over to
the station closest to the Ozone before he figured there might be a closer one. Not that he minds
walking. He minds Jungkook turning his back to him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jungkook says as he lifts off of the bed, walks over to a different section of the
closet and picks out a black t-shirt from there. “I’m driving you,” he announces as he slips it on over
his head, body now only sideways to Taehyung’s. He can see some of his face, though he cannot see
much on it.
Taehyung scoots to the edge as well, gets ahold of the shirt, Jungkook’s pajama shirt that he throws
over his own shoulders, does the buttons. “You don’t have to,” he says, looking down at his own
fingers as they do the shirt, when a fabric hits over them.

“I’m driving you,” Jungkook declares conclusively as Taehyung wraps his hands around what he’d
thrown at him to discover it is the bottoms to the shirt he’s wearing. The corner of his lips threatens to
twist, but he stops it in time, pushes it down.

“Okay,” he tells him because he has little else to say that he can afford to and gets his own trousers
on. He worries his lip between his teeth, eyes venturing around the room as he does his fly. “What’s
with the camera?”

Jungkook angles his body away. “I used to take pictures, sometimes.”

“Used to?” Taehyung’s brows furrow.

“Yeah.”

“Of?”

“Stuff,” he offers nothing more as he shrugs, and Taehyung doesn’t feel in place to ask for more, so
he shuts up.

Things, Jungkook thinks, beautiful things, and if that camera wasn’t there because he was getting
ready to throw it away, if he still had it in him, maybe he’d take a picture of Taehyung. It’s stupid,
that’s maybe the stupidest thing he’d thought in the last hour and his mind has been an absolute pile
of shit for the time being.

“Come on,” he says, he leaves.

The car ride is silent. Jungkook asks him to wait in front of the building and goes to the garage
himself. He debates for a little bit whether he should get his out of city car now, but he knows he’d
be tempted to take him out on the highway with it, he knows himself, so he picks him up with his
SUV and Taehyung keeps his pajama bottoms in his lap together with his hands.
Jungkook looks at the road, straight through the windshield, and Taehyung does too. This time
Jungkook doesn’t keep his hand between them, wraps them both around the wheel and drums his
fingers on his own thigh at traffic lights.

It’s late and traffic is scarce, but Jungkook drives slowly, still reaches quickly. Too quickly.

Taehyung looks through the window at the glaring door of his house, runs his tongue across his lips.
He stares down at his fingers clutching the fabric that belongs to Jungkook in his lap, swallows down
a building bump of hesitation and when he snaps his head to Jungkook, he catches his eyes for the
bare moment that takes the other to look away, back to the windshield.

His thumb hits repeatedly onto the steering wheel.

“Do you want to come in?” Taehyung breathes out, knows his voice fades at the end, but he sighs
with it, closes his lips once and opens them to speak with new confidence, new nonchalance. He
shrugs. “I don’t really have any parents right now, so.”

This is normal, he’s invited him to his house before, this is normal. Taehyung feels an almost
ridiculous fear of separating from him tonight, is overwhelmed by some dread he cannot fully
formulate in his own head, but the tension of it layers in his heart and over his skin.

Jungkook keeps looking forward, and Taehyung absolutely abhors it. He’s not fucking driving and
he deserves to be looked in the goddamned eyes, but the side of his head is what he gets. He sees the
tick of his jaw and it’s such a familiar sight, he doesn’t know why it’s worse to witness each time.
“Ji-Woo,” is the single word Jungkook says as if it means everything and anything.

Taehyung rotates in the seat as he undoes his belt, starts speaking with more animation than he
means, more hope, “Well, she—"

“No, Tae,” Jungkook cuts him off, brushes him off, and his eyes are fluttering to him now, once,
twice with hesitant miniscule tilts of his head, but he helplessly ends up staring at the front in the end.
His tongue pokes at his cheek and Taehyung watches as the skin and flesh of it expand under the
ministration with his own chest expanding with the rising breath of frustration.

Taehyung speaks in a way that is indisputably shy, disproportionate in nature with consideration of
what they are, but he can’t force himself to be firm, not when he is still vulnerable and inundated
from all that happened that night, though he is unsure he can process it, he’ll ever be able to process
it. He looks a bit down, a bit at the hand rest between them before his eyes dart up and he talks, small
and soft but uninterrupted and sure. “Can I kiss you at least?”

Jungkook turns to him now, turns to him fully, face reticent except his eyes. They wander across his
face, so quick and so hesitant, though Taehyung’s own are unwavering, on his. He’s shy, but he’s
determined, and his heart hammers. Jungkook’s rejected a kiss time and time again, but this feels
different. The rejection of it would hit differently as well, he knows, he’s sure. He blinks. Jungkook
blinks.

Taehyung is holding his fucking breath and he is waiting for the sheer, cutting deflation of the first
no to escalate with the second into pure, empty hurt. He’s ready, but he’s also not, cannot possibly
be, as suspense stretches vivid in his bones, and he sighs with the silence, with the way Jungkook
just stares. He starts to turn, doesn’t really need to hear the rejection itself; his hand is almost at the
handle when Jungkook’s is in his hair.

He tugs him close, over that hand rest, whispers, “Come here,” just before his eyes fully close and
his lips touch his own.

Taehyung’s heart stills, then races. His own hand weaves over Jungkook’s neck, his thumb brushing
that muscle in his jaw that always ticks like this. His head tilts, and he melts into him, parts his lips
for him, finds his tongue with his. Taehyung’s mouth opens easily, pliantly, when prompted. He
doesn’t kiss him slow, but he doesn’t kiss him fast. His fingers are curled in his hair where they hold
him, they’re tight. They hold him roughly, but he kisses him gently, as gently as Jungkook is capable
of, with the way he seeps some frustration from his mouth into his.

He can feel him breathe and he can feel his lips move, can feel his cheek brush his when his head
tilts a certain way and he cannot believe he’s allowed to do this now, though he asks,but Jungkook
doesn’t say no. He kisses him deep, and it’s short, too short. The pace of the kiss slows, and
Taehyung is pulling away.

He pulls back, but not far, still feels Jungkook’s breath on his lips, flutters his eyes opened, careful.
He darts his gaze all across his face, takes in every detail. Jungkook’s own eyes part, they part
slower. They look at each other now, breathe a common air. They pause. Taehyung’s hand falls
down his shoulder, his arm but Jungkook’s stays in place, grips into his hair until it squeezes so hard.

It squeezes hard, but his lips land on his harder, his eyes screwing shut as he draws him closer again.
He kisses him with his mouth shut, presses against him hard. Taehyung’s fingers clench around his
elbow, eyes widen and then fall closed, not before they take in the way Jungkook’s forehead creases,
his eyebrows furrow.
Jungkook kisses him almost painfully. Then his mouth parts and his body surges forward, pulls
Taehyung closer by his hair. He breathes him in before he fully kisses him, tongues tangling together
as their lips open into each other. They move faster now, heads tilting and mouths intertwining in all
ways that feel possible. Some underlying passion that is wistfully desperate practically swallows the
way Jungkook holds onto him, the way he moves his tongue between their mouths and his mouth
over his, the way Taehyung reciprocates it fully.

His heart thumps barbaric against his chest as Jungkook takes like this, takes everything he so
willingly offers. His lips are soft, unfairly so, the kiss is not, not anymore. It’s hungry, ravenous and
starved, though they kissed so many times tonight, kissed more than Taehyung has ever kissed in his
life, but somehow, it’s not enough.

He can’t imagine it will ever be enough, not with the way it makes his blood run different. He
presses into Jungkook, mouth appetitive, some visceral quality in the way they coalesce into each
other through their lips.

It slows. They slow, but they don’t stop. Taehyung’s want, the want that seems to always wake with
Jungkook’s touch, shifts into savoring. He basks in it when their lips separate for breaths of moments
and then link again, because there is some teasing, cruel feeling that spawns a fear into him, a fear
that this is too good to last, that Jungkook cannot be like that. The way his fingers cling so harshly to
his hair feels so frighteningly like a goodbye. Taehyung pours his need for it to be a start and not an
end into the way he kisses him.

Jungkook tastes so distinctly like Jungkook.

It slows until once again, it stops. Their lips part and Jungkook’s fingers grow weak in his hair. This
time Jungkook opens his eyes to stare at the hand rest between them instead, not at his face as
Taehyung’s own beg, futile. Jungkook presses his lips to his one final time, short, too short for a
response. It’s not a peck, but it’s not a kiss. And then his fingers leave completely. The palm of his
hand slithers to his neck, to his arm, then departs from his body entirely as he sits back, presses his
back into the seat with an exhale.

Taehyung’s body stays tilted to his for a while and he waits, but he doesn’t know what he’s waiting
for.

Jungkook doesn’t look at him.

“So,” Taehyung hesitates, hand on the handle again, “I’ll see you?”

Jungkook doesn’t look at him.

He lets the hopeful sentence linger between them for a while. His tongue runs over his mouth. He
nods.

But he doesn’t look at him.

Taehyung doesn’t say anything else as he opens the door with a look over his shoulder. He doesn’t
speak the word goodbye because he doesn’t want to. He walks to his house, pauses at the door, tilts
his head towards the car one final time before he goes in and sees his sister sleeping on the couch
without a blanket.

Jungkook doesn’t look at him.

He doesn’t look until he hears the door shut and then his whole body turns, eyes watching that door
as if he can see through it somehow. His fingers wrap around the steering wheel and hold it as tight
as they had clutched on Taehyung’s hair. He exhales, deeply, presses his forehead into the wheel
stays like this for minutes, glaring at his knees. Then he drives to Yoongi’s house.

“Jungkook,” he hears the voice of his sister as he rubs a towel into his hair, drying what he can of it,
so he doesn’t drip in her room.

He lowers the towel, looks at her slowly sit up on her bed. It’s 6 pm and she’s just waking up, but
that’s fine, that’s okay, as long as she still has the will to wake up, he’ll take anything. “Hey,” he
says to her, voice naturally low when he sees her like that. Her fists raise, rub over her eyes as if they
can erase the darkened circles that patch on her pale skin underneath. “Sorry I used your bathroom, I
broke the tap on my shower.”
Clo’s lips curl softly at the edges, drowsy as she props herself on her hands as she sits on the
mattress, legs curled into her. “It’s fine,” she tells him, clears her throat after she hears her own voice.

He nods, turns to walk away, but her voice stops him. “Jungkook,” she calls, almost gingerly, and
it’s unlike her, but he credits it to the fact she’s just gained consciousness. “I spoke to Kai.”

Jungkook’s shoulders and back visibly tighten with the tension of the simple statement, and he turns,
sideways, fits his eyes over her. He tries hard not to narrow them, but it is simply automatic at the
mention of the name, especially at his own sister’s lips. “Why?” he asks, and it involuntarily escalates
into demand. “Why did you speak to fucking Kai?”

Clo Eun gives him a moment, only blinks at him until she sees his shoulders relax, if only a little.
“He called me,” she says, keeps her speech fully informative and void of any other emotion, though
there is some cautious hesitation at the tip of her lips that rings atypical. “He apologizes for his
brother’s behavior.”

Jungkook’s tongue coats over his lips, eyes scanning his sister carefully. “Apology accepted,” he
nods and begins to turn, wants to end the conversation at that.

But Clo’s voice rings loud and clear behind him, “Sooho told him, Jungkook.” She pauses, watches
the tension in the muscles of his back return so obvious and sudden. He doesn’t turn to her this time,
keeps his body angled away, face towards the door. “He told him what happened.”

He does turn now, turns fully and laces his forearms together, folding them before his chest, water
trickling down. His eyes harden, his voice is scathing, but not to her, not to Clo. “And what exactly,”
his tongue pokes to his cheek, “did Sooho say?”

She takes a beat. “You protected Kim Taehyung,” she declares. She pronounces it simply, but there
are too many things on her lips that she does not yet utter.

Jungkook shrugs. “Technically,” he says. He roots his eyes to her, makes sure to never look away,
barely blinks, because he knows her; she’ll interpret something as trivial as the dart of his eye to the
corner of the room as a weakness. He says nothing else.

But Clo shifts on the bed. She’s awake now. She stands, barefoot like him, in a dress she wore the
previous night to the Ozone. Her own arms fold over as her eyes return the look, firm and pointed.
“Why would you fight Kai’s brother over a fucking Kim, Jungkook?”
Jungkook’s head cocks and he does what he does best, answers an attack with an attack. “So rich
coming from you.”

Clo’s tongue smacks against the roof of her mouth. “It’s richer reaching people’s ears,” she tells him,
speaks so quick and then so slow, enunciates every syllable as it drags with the effect of its full
significance from her mouth. “If Kai speaks about it, everyone does.”

Jungkook’s hands fall to the sides, chest exposed. “He was getting shit on because of your fucking
Namjoon, okay?” he speaks, brusque, and regrets it, forces his voice into apparent softness, into a
neutrality he used to survive on that lately seems so hard to front. “He didn’t deserve it.”

His sister’s initial reply is a scoff. Her eyes roll and return to him dull. “Since when do you care
whether a waiter deserves a beating or not?”

Jungkook’s careful. He hates how much he has to think, before he speaks, doesn’t tend to. “That’s
what you would have wanted, isn’t it?” he asks, shifts on his feet.

“Me,” she emphasizes, “Not you. You don’t owe Namjoon anything.” Her eyes dart across him with
a challenge and then her teeth grit. “And I wouldn’t have hit.”

Jungkook shrugs again. “I warned him first. He was being disrespectful.” He says as if it justifies
nearly cracking his skull with a pipe. “Sooho,” Jungkook pronounces slowly, his brows raise, mouth
cracks opened with the half-smirk of some petulant, overly testosteronal cockiness, “needs to know
his fucking place.”

Clo Eun swallows down one response, aims to be careful. “Okay,” she speaks slowly, nods her
agreement. “But it is Kai’s fucking job to keep him in his place. Not yours.” Her eyes flash as her
head now shakes. “Not over Kim Taehyung.”

Jungkook lets out a huff of a breath, nearly a chuckle. “He was being a piece of shit.” He spreads his
arms out, “I’d do it again.” Especially, he thinks, over Kim Taehyung.

He begins to turn again, as this conversation is, on his part, finalized, and he does not want to have
Clo Eun probing more, asking more questions. “Jungkook,” she stops him again. There is something
new to her voice, a halting pointedness, borders on sternness. She has no use of his alpha male
attitude and neither does he, there is no one in this room to whom he has anything to prove. “If Kai is
talking about it,” she says and her tone lilts slower, more careful. Her tongue pokes out with the
tension of hesitation and it bothers Jungkook how much it is unlike her, how it’s contained within a
stifled worry. “It could reach our father,” she breathes out with finality.

Jungkook searches her eyes for a moment and then he does what he promised himself he wouldn’t:
he looks away. His eyes find a fake plant in her room and he wonders how even it, made out of
plastic, seems like it’s dying in this apartment, leaves flopping down. He doesn’t know what to say to
this, hates how his sister speaks with such implication and he has to repress his instinct to be a prick,
because with her it will be nothing but counterproductive, so he swallows it down.

“Okay,” he says finally, and maybe, it means nothing. He spins, walks to the door.

“I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing, Jungkook,” she murmurs to his back and it almost
makes him shiver.

He leaves her room with too many thoughts running through his head, too many and too
overwhelming for him to open the door to his own room and find his girlfriend lounging on his bed
as if she belongs there, on her side, head propped on one hand as she scrolls on her phone with the
other.

She’s lucky his maid has changed the sheets.

Her eyes do not even shift to him as he shuts the door behind himself. He walks into the room and as
he nears, she does look up, blinks up with the expectation of approach, but he pauses at the foot of
his bed, does not edge closer. “What are you doing here?” he asks, arms folding over.

She flutters her lashes much slower than need be. “I let myself in since you don’t invite me,” she
shrugs, and since she has no pockets in the dress she’s wearing, she slides her fingers across her
chest and slips them, lazy and suggestive, into the fabric of her bra, and lifts up what she aims for
with thin, manicured fingers. “You gave me a key.”

Jungkook breathes out and it’s almost a scoff as he turns, begins to walk over his closet. He certainly
is not the mood for her on his bed with the ideas that are an onslaught in his mind after his sister so
blatantly charges them at him. Her eyes trail after him as he gives her his back, sliding over the skin
of it.

She straightens slightly on the bed, extends her whole arm to prop herself up. Her eyes narrow as
they scan over him. Her voice is so dull it isn’t. “You have marks on your back,” she announces.

“What?” he says, turns, hides his back from her view.

“You fucked someone in a position that allowed them to touch your fucking back,” she seethes
almost, now, getting on both her knees on his bed as she folds her arms forward.

Jungkook says nothing, shakes his head and walks over to his laundry basket to drop the towel he
used on his head there.

It’s a mistake because it gives her another view of his back and her eyes seal onto the skin, nearly
burn through it with the way she so boldly stares. “The bitch must really do something about her
nails.”

It’s a mistake because it gives her the chance to wrap her fingers around his wrist as he returns, and
she tugs him to herself, in front of her, and he stands much taller in front of the bed then she does on
her knees on the mattress, but the power of her glare feels towering. “Who was she?”

Jungkook’s silent and she doesn’t wait for long. “Huh?” she cocks her head, spits vituperatively.
“Did you gaze down in her fucking eyes?”

He says nothing, says nothing again, because he did, stared down in Taehyung’s eyes as he fucked
him, right on this bed at which she kneels, stared down as he came and as he dug those marks into
his back, not because his nails are sharp like Julia’s but because he squeezed so hard, he left a print.
Her own nails now dig into the skin of his wrist to secure his attention on her. “Who was it,
Jungkook?”

They never do this, never speak about the other people they fuck unless it’s a part of a game, a bet, a
who scores first. They never mean to hurt each other. And Jungkook knows, he knows the truth of
this would hurt her, he didn’t only fuck someone, right on that bed, he fucked a boy, a boy he’s slept
with again and again, and wants to sleep with again and again. A boy’s he’s taken a pipe to the head
for, who healed his wound, who kissed him, who he kissed.

I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing, Jungkook.

He doesn’t. He has absolutely no fucking idea what he’s doing, why he’d doing it, what he expects
to happen. Nothing more can happen, all that is allowed between them has already been, and more,
so much more. It can’t be like this, shouldn’t be like this. If Julia knows, if his father knows, a pipe to
the head would be equal to an orgasm compared to what he’ll be put through. What Taehyung will
be put through.

Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck.

His ears are ringing and Julia’s speaking. “Why haven’t you fucked me since—”

His voice booms, scathes. “Stop fucking talking,” he says between a shout and a hiss and he presses
his teeth together tight to keep himself quiet, stares at her, searches her eyes, her face, watches as her
lips seal shut and she looks at him, bratty and pissed.

“Yeah?” she whines as she releases his wrist and draws back, presses both her elbows onto the bed
and slithers her body across it until her spine curls against the sheets. Her eyes are dead on his,
blinking titillating, as she slowly, teasingly, presses the foot of one leg down and then the other, far
enough for Jungkook to have perfect view of what’s in between. She spreads her legs for him, and
he perpetuates the stare into her eyes as she challenges, as she attempts to seduce, “Drop that towel
and fuck me and maybe I will.”

Three days. It’s been three days since Jungkook had Taehyung on that bed, the marks on his back
still there to prove it. Three days since he’d spread his own legs for Jungkook and Jungkook fucked
him as he kissed him until he let him fucking cuddle him, played with his hair as he did.

On this very bed. And now Julia is on it, with her knees wide opened.

“Close your legs,” Jungkook tells her, his eyes not departing from her own once and he realizes it’s
easy; there is not an ounce of temptation in him to cast his gaze downwards, to touch her. “I’m not in
the mood.”

She scoffs, gaining more height on her elbows as her knees press into each other. “When were you
last in the mood, Jungkook?” She scoots until she is on her hands and when he does nothing but look
away, but start to walk towards his closet again, she gets on her knees again, slithers her hand across
him, from his chest, to his neck, and cups him there, holds him there. “Want me to get on all fours,”
she says and it’s a question, a genuine question, if he says yes, and an attack, a challenge if the
answer is no, “let you do me up the ass?” Her eyes search his face, darting all across with some
budding desperation that makes guilt rise baleful in his chest, his stomach. Her tongue runs quick
across her lips, she’s losing the lustrousness, edging on anxiety, “I know you like it.”
“I told you to shut up,” he tells her, speaks it softly, asks it as a favor for the both of them as he uses
the back of his hand to prompt hers off of his body.

Julia’s whole entire face falls, drops, every feature of hers loses its resilience of a protective front of
cold salaciousness and seeps into his largest weakness. Her face becomes genuine and he looks
away. Her voice is soft, “Can I kiss you at least?”

The question rings familiar, so familiar. It’s so different falling from his lips. It’s so ironic that when
Julia says it all he can think about is how he wants to kiss him again.

Jungkook shakes his head, can feel her breath on his lips with the way she stands on her knees, so he
pulls away, steps back. “Not now, Juls.”

He doesn’t see her eyes when she sits back on her calves, when she wraps her arms around herself
protectively. He does hear her voice, however, as he drops his towel and slips on underwear. Her
voice is so small it’s almost unrecognizable for Seung Julia. She’s as scared of vulnerability as he is,
yet it oozes as she asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jungkook says, rushes out through his teeth with a breath as he pulls on a pair of dark
jeans. He puts all his clothes on facing the closet until he has no more excuse to look away and he
turns.

She looks smaller than usual, sitting back on her calves, her spine curling forward. She always has
the posture of a lady, keeps her shoulders straight, but now they slump. She seeks his eyes, licks her
lips, and tells him, “I love you, Jungkook.”

And he takes a step towards her, brushes his thumb on her cheek briefly, but she curls into it almost
immediately. “I love you, too,” he whispers.

She pauses, blinks up at him. She tries again, “I’m in love with you.”

Jungkook smiles because he has nothing else to do. He touches her cheek again, cups it with his
whole hand. “I said Yoongi I’d meet him at seven.” He glides his thumb across the soft skin of her
face. “Come along.”
And then he drops his hand, steps away to put away his other towel as well and his forced smile
leaves his face.

“Hey, Tae, can you pass me that?” Jimin asks as he stands in front of the mirror, rearranging his
currently pinkish hair, estimating where the best space for him to part his bangs is for the night. One
of his arms stretches out behind him, a single finger loosely rising as his wrist wiggles in the direction
of a can of something that’s been thrown on the couch next to the handle at which Taehyung props
himself.

Taehyung hears the mumble of words but doesn’t necessarily register them. His head is tilted down,
the screen of his phone glaring in his face in the dimmer light of the back rooms of the Ozone with
his attention sealed onto it. His thumbs type, a message to his sister that has no other substance than
him checking whether he has service and not just Wi-fi.

When it goes through, he closes the tab and opens Seung Julia’s public Instagram, but her last upload
is from Paris, and she has added no story in the last twenty-four hours. She had one yesterday,
cocktails at some roof terrace, positioned at the edge in front of a sunset, but that was it. The cocktails
were four, not two. It’s unlikely it was a date. The day before that she had a mirror selfie with a
Gucci shopping bag. He viewed both from his sister’s phone.

Bogum’s eyes dart over him from where he leans on the door and when he realizes Jimin’s request
went through one of Taehyung’s ears and then escaped right through the other, he pushes off, grabs
the can and presses it into Jimin’s extended hand which automatically grips onto it.

“Thanks, Tae—oh, hyung,” Jimin turns, just his head as he nods his gratitude, then his body twists
more when he finds Bogum next to him. “Hey, Taehyung,” Jimin calls as he sprays some product in
his hair. When Taehyung’s only reply is a hum as he’s checking to see if Clo Eun still has hers on
private, he chucks the can at him and it bounces off his shoulder and onto the floor.

“Aish,” Taehyung’s eyes dart to him for a brief but pointed moment. “The fuck was that for, Jimin-
ah?” He prolongs offended, but then his eyes are back on the device in his hand and Jimin folds his
arms over, keeps his stare to him as Taehyung is simply not the type to zombie away on his phone
like this. He’s had a decent phone for a while – paid by Namjoon’s drug money, but Taehyung does
the bills for it himself – however he has never had too much of interest in what it’s appstore offers.
“Are you alright?” Jimin asks, head tilting to the side as he steps closer, tries to get a view of just
what could be so engrossing that Taehyung would ignore him. “You’ve been too absent minded
even for your standards.”

Taehyung’s thumb clicks the side of his phone shut and he slips it furtively into the pocket of his
sweatshirt along with his hand as it wraps around it and holds it in case it vibrates.

“Yeah I’m fine,” he says, stretches his lips at Jimin, his knee bouncing up and down repetitively.

He’s not fine. It’s been five days since he has last seen Jungkook. He’s not counting, he just knows
it. In those five days Jungkook has not set foot in Rouge, nor at the Ozone, at least while Taehyung
has been there. It gives him a strange taste in his mouth, a curious sensation in his stomach and were
he to pinpoint it, he’d say anxiety.

He’s anxious, constantly anxious. When he’s at Rouge, he’s turning his head like a meerkat standing
post. A newcomer appears and his eyes seal on them, but it’s never Jungkook. He clings to his phone
as well, in case he texts again, because texting is easier and maybe he’ll settle for that. He doesn’t.
Taehyung’s palm squeezes into the device. It’s fine, he promises himself. He’d disappeared for a
week when they first had sex, then when he reappeared it became easier.

His knee bounces more. It was easier waiting last time, though, so much easier. There was never this
unsettling fear to perpetuate his thoughts and his teeth as they dig in his mouth, his legs sporadic and
restless, his stomach randomly feeling empty when he wastes too much time mulling over it. It’s
weird. It is overwhelmingly similar to when Namjoon first up and left, the never-ending question of
why and until when.

Jimin takes a couple of steps closer to him when he tilts his head down, looks at his own lap. Small
fingers tap under his jaw lightly, once, twice, and he lifts up under their gentle instruction to stare into
Jimin’s eyes. “You sure?” he asks him gingerly and there is a flash of concern and Taehyung must
really seem out of it for Jimin to show the notion of worry.

“Yeah,” Taehyung nods, tries to smile again and this time there is something marginally genuine in
the stretch of his lips at the unexpected hint of affection. Jimin and Ji-woo and everybody, they have
always been stronger than him.

“Okay, Taehyungie,” he tells him and attempts to boop his nose, but Taehyung expertly moves
away. “First drink is on me, mkay?”
Taehyung’s teeth show now as he perks up. “Anything I want?”

“Anything you want, just tell Baek, he’s on bar tonight. I’m dancing.” Jimin pulls away, turns
around. “Gotta go now, boys. You staying or leaving?”

Taehyung gets on his feet. “Think I want my free drink now before you conveniently forget.”

Jimin flashes an innocent smile behind his shoulder as he opens the door. “Don’t know what you’re
talking about,” he shrugs, hand at the door. “See you when I get off.” He exits and leaves the door
open for them.

Taehyung shakes his head, the smile remaining on his face although it grows small. He steps towards
the door as well, but then the door moves, almost shuts, but not completely. Bogum stands before
him.

“Tae,” he begins and when Taehyung’s eyes fix over him, he pauses, gulps. “Are, erm, are you sure
you’re alright?”

Taehyung lets out a breath of laughter, shrugs it off. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be alright? I was, I was
just distracted before—”

Bogum interjects, “Is it him?”

Taehyung pauses with their eyes in line, then shakes his head down. “No. No, it’s nothing.” He
takes a step forward. “Can we go dance now?”

Bogum takes a step forward as well, palms lifting almost defensively in front of him, but not
touching Taehyung. “Listen,” he begins almost with a sigh, “I know you feel like you can’t speak to
Jimin about it and I came across…” he hesitates, lips puckering, “judgmental about it.” Taehyung’s
eyes slide over to him again as he gives his sentence another moment. “But if you ever – ever need to
just talk about it, you know, get it out.” His arms pan out, fall to the sides. “I already know the worst
of it, don’t I?”

The other studies him carefully, gaze exploring his welcoming, open face, and maybe Bogum really
isn’t fit for Richhood. Taehyung’s tongue cascades over his bottom lip. He nods. “Okay,” he says,
“Maybe. Some time.” Never is what he thinks as he takes a step back to allow Bogum to move away
from the door. “Can we go dance now?” he repeats and this time Bogum nods, and they do. Lying is
easy.

Taehyung doesn’t really dance, though, no, he latches onto the bar, orders a double vodka for his
free drink, though he tends not to drink the particular spirit clear, and seals his eyes onto the Booth.
Everyone is there, Hoseok has Yoongi’s leg strewn against his lap as he speaks to a girl. Yoongi’s
back is propped onto Clo Eun’s shoulder as she roots her eyes on her phone, and damn if she likes
her phone thatmuch, maybe she should unprivate her fucking Instagram account. Seokjin is not
there, but he comes about in an hour or so of Taehyung glaring at the table and Clo forgets she has a
phone. Julia is there as well, speaking mostly to some girl who looks strikingly like her, clothes, hair
and makeup. Everyone is there, but Jeon Jungkook.

Taehyung is too distracted by his glaring observation, he barely notices when a shoulder brushes
against him as some person reaches over him to wrap fingers around a colorful drink. He means to
move away, make some space, be a good member of society, but does not once think to actually look
at the person. Not until they speak.

“Kim Taehyung, aren’t you?” The person, the man, says as he sucks on a straw and Taehyung’s
attention replaces on him with alarmed immediacy, though he is mostly residually pissed off.

“Yeah,” he shouts back with a nod, not caring at this point how many people know him just because
of his name, but then for the brief moment Taehyung does look at him, just before he manages to go
back to his original area of study, his eyes zero in on the tattoo around his neck.

Taehyung’s gaze roots to him next, darting up to his face as he tries to force some recognition, but
fails. He doesn’t need to, no because as soon as the guy sees his eyes widen, his lips curl cruel, and
he introduces himself. “Nice to meet you,” he says, briefly touches his waist in gesture before he
angles his body away. “I’m Kai.” Taehyung’s eyes blink. Kai, but Kai is banned from the Ozone.
But Kai wouldn’t care. Whether the person is really who he introduces himself to be or not, his eyes
scan over Taehyung with a scrutiny that makes his heart tremor, especially as he takes in the tattoo of
affiliation curl with the movement of his neck; it almost comes alive. Lips stretch a final time as all
Taehyung does is stare. “See you around,” are his final words, and they ring ominous in Taehyung’s
ears.
It’s on day six in the morning that Jungkook receives the first text.

Yoongi, Hoseok and himself are inside because the sun is bad at that part of the afternoon and they
cannot afford to expose their skin to it. Jungkook lounges on a leather couch that annoys him when
he moves, but he’s much too lazy to join them because he has to stand for it. They’ve got notes of
pounds that Yoongi won recently on poker night and some won contribution from Hoseok spread
around on a pin wall. They’ve each got a number of darts in their hands. Whoever scores the largest
sum gets to keep all of it.

Jungkook doesn’t follow the game. He is too distracted by the variety of fishes that swim in the
illuminated wall-sized tank that separates two parts of the room they’re in. Kim Ji-Woo seems to be
taking good care of it even if the decorations and species inside of it are probably the same worth as
her house.

“You know,” Yoongi begins as he aims, tongue stuck out in concentration, “Kai asked me about
Julia on poker night.” He throws and scores a ten-pound note, mouth curling downwards in a scowl
as he eyes the number under the sharp end of his dart.

Jungkook’s eyes slide away from the enormous fish tank and towards Yoongi, who has his back to
him, currently watching Hoseok as he takes his turn, feet spreading apart as he raises his hand to
target. Jungkook’s eyes narrow, voice leaves him condescending when he is not even trying, “What
did he say?”

Yoongi curls just his neck, gives him just his face. “Asks if she’ll be free anytime soon.”

Jungkook scoffs, already has words on his tongue when his phone vibrates and lights up from where
he has it on the glass table in front of him and his eyes drift to it instinctively. He’s opened his mouth
to retaliate but his gaze captures the name that pops on his screen and it falls back shut. His teeth sink
into his lower lip, as he contemplates.

Voices pass over his head, but his eyes remain rooted on that screen as it shuts off and then lights up
again as it does with iMessages, nagging at him, screaming at him, and he can’t resist, hand reaching
forwards.

“Oh,” Hoseok’s head cocks as he watches Yoongi put one foot in front of the other, readying to
shoot, his hand bouncing back and forth as he estimates, “he cares about relationship status now.” He
humors, the irony so palpable as it drips from his mouth and into Yoongi’s ears. His next words are a
snarl, “Big jump from not caring about consciousness.”

Tae

where have you been?

Yoongi shoots and narrowly misses a fifty for a twenty. “He sells roofies,” he rolls his eyes and they
land on Hoseok “Doesn’t use them.”

Jungkook’s thumb taps onto the screen but when the keyboard appears his fingers hover pointlessly
over letters and he types nothing, closes the screen and presses a fist to his mouth.

“How is that any fucking better?” Hoseok’s eyes narrow and he shifts to him fully, arms folding in
front of his chest. “He probably doesn’t need to cause he threatens his girls out of a job if they don’t
give him the occasional suck. When are you going to stop hanging out with the little bitch?”

Yoongi holds his elbow, raises his hand up and twists his fist as his eyes find his fingernails. “It’s
called networking,” he claims, voice mostly bored, though Hoseok knows well enough what his
disinterest means: discomfort.

Hoseok scoffs, angles his body away, though he remains close to his friend. He throws his dart in the
air, it spins, he catches it and lands it perfectly onto a hundred-pound note. “Networking my ass,” he
turns to him again, gaze holds an obvious mockery in which underlies concern. “It’s called one step
closer to heroin.”

If Kai is talking about it, Jungkook’s mind chides, it could reach our father.

He pulls right, deletes the notification from his screen, clicks the phone shut and replaces it back on
the table, this time facing down the glass.

He throws his legs on the floor, stands. He takes Yoongi’s last dart from his fingers, looks in his
eyes. “Julia isn’t free. In fact, since Kai likes filming stuff so much, tell him he can subscribe to our
upcoming porn collection.” He shifts forward. “If I now hit more than you collectively did on your
last three turns, you give me your last purchase,” he says, cocks his head to see Yoongi nod and then
lands his dart right underneath Hoseok’s last one.
It’s been a week when he receives the other texts. This time the sun is setting, and they allow
themselves to sunbathe on Yoongi’s terrace. Julia lies next to him, their chaise lounges separated by a
table that has their cocktails on it and Yoongi’s snuff kit. Clo Eun puts a towel on the edge and lies
there, at the very end and Jungkook imagines the calm position would give Taehyung anxiety. He
remembers how he trembled when he climbed at the edge of the rooftop of the Empire Tower,
Jungkook’s fingers wrapped around his wrist to keep him more stoic.

Yoongi’s head rests on Hoseok’s shoulder in the hot tub. Every now and then Hoseok gives it a
shake to check he’s awake and they slip into a mumbled conversation, the only two speaking for
now.

Jungkook is scrolling on his phone mindlessly, barely paying attention as he props it up on his
stomach. That’s when the notification drops down from the top of the screen.

The name glares, makes his chest rise once more than it needs to simply breathe, a hitch and a stutter.

Tae

are you gonna ignore me now?

Jungkook reads it, clicks it shut and relaxes it on his stomach, hands cupping over it.

It vibrates again after a few minutes and he promises himself he won’t look. The resolve fails so
quick it’s embarrassing even only in the confines of his own mind.

Tae

i wont kiss you again

okay?
Jungkook clicks the phone shut again, slams it against his chest. His head falls back into the chaise
longue. He closes his eyes. And that’s not the fucking problem – that he kissed him, it’s not. The
fucking problem is that Jungkook wants to kiss him again, wants to see him, fuck him, yes, that too,
but not only that, just wants to see him. He misses him and it’s ridiculous and with each stupid
message he misses him more. But he can’t have Julia suspecting, Clo suspecting, Yoongi suspecting,
Kai talking. He can’t because this is Richhood.

Clo must read minds, Clo must be reading his fucking mind, and honestly his is so loud he wouldn’t
be surprised if she does hear it. His mind is screaming, and theyare twins, maybe they do have some
sort of twisted telepathy because right then at that moment she decides to engage.

“Did you hear Kai was in the Ozone two nights ago?” Her voice comes lazy from where she lies on
the edge, her knee pulled up and the calf of the other resting on top, bouncing gently.

Jungkook’s phone is vibrating again, on his chest, and his ears are buzzing with it.

Kai in the Ozone. He certainly didn’t go there for the music and some good time and with a person
like him there are rarely ever coincidences if at all. There is absolutely no chance he didn’t go there
for a purpose and Jungkook doesn’t like Kai wandering in into his territory without him knowing his
aims.

There’s too much Kai in his life right now, way too much Kai. Kai’s presence always makes him
nervous, one of those few things that are completely out of Jungkook’s control and he hates it,
though he is currently lying by three lines spread of his product.

This time he lasts even less before he checks his phone and Taehyung’s name flashes on it again.

just don’t fucking avoid me

He reads it, he reads it and he can imagine him saying it, half angry, half soft, similarly to the way
he’d asked him if he could kiss him, can imagine his dark brows drawing together and making a
small line crease in his forehead.

“He was where?” Hoseok chimes, borderline offended. “The fuck was he doing in the Ozone?”
Jungkook hears more than sees her shoulders shrug. Her sunglasses cover almost the entirety of her
face and he cannot make use of her features. He straightens on one of his shoulders on the chaise
lounge.

He does another line.

“Find out,” Jungkook says as he knocks his head back, voice coming out rough.

Hoseok turns to him. “What?”

Jungkook presses a single finger against his nostril. “Yoongi hyung or Clo, one of you find out what
he was doing at the Ozone.”

Jungkook wants to explain the beat of his heart with the cocaine.

He gets up because he cannot lie down anymore, feels he has the energy to run all across Gangnam,
maybe all across to Kai, ask him personally what the fuck his business was in the Ozone.

“Why haven’t youbeen in the Ozone this week at all?” Clo Eun asks him later as they put clothes on
to move there and he says no. Her eyes feel worse when his heart beats with the rhythm of quality,
pure cocaine, Kai’s cocaine that Yoongi gave to him.

And Jungkook knows if he sees Taehyung, if he looks at his face as he asks him not to ignore him,
he’ll cave. Been there, done that, he’ll cave. And if Taehyung approaches him, and Taehyung will
approach him, Jungkook will probably fucking kiss him or some dumb inexcusable shit like that. If
Taehyung asks, and he asks, always does, how the fuck is he so brave? How the fuck is he so
stupid? His mind races so much. He needs Taehyung to not approach him, never approach him.

Jungkook hates Kai, but he’s never had cocaine that’s cleared his mind like this.

“You know what?” Jungkook cocks his head. His mouth feels like a desert, he needs to down some
pink cocktail that Hoseok made for Yoongi at the bar. “I’ll come.”
She looks a bit like him, Ji-woo does. She’s here, which means Taehyung’s home. Someone must be
with Woojin. She looks a bit like him and she’s pretty, but she’s not beautiful. She has a body that
Jungkook would have probably convinced himself he’d been interested in some time ago, her clothes
fit her well even if the material shines cheap from all the way across from where he watches. She’s
thicker than Julia, probably doesn’t do half the drugs his girlfriend does.

She is near the bar, cannot afford a reservation most probably and her friends and her share one of
those vodka bottle and juice bottle deals and he wonders if it is enough to get her even tipsy. No one
from his group can be affected by that amount of alcohol especially if they plan on mixing it with
juice and sucking sips from it all night to keep their place at the bar.

“Jungkook,” his own sister says, her fingers wrapping around his wrist when he lifts off his seat in
the booth. He angles his head towards her, gives her his eyes when she asks for them, his pupils
dilated and the white all red. She only pronounces that, his name, but her fingers twist and cling
around his bone and skin in a silent consideration, a warning. “You’ve done enough.”

Jungkook shakes her hand off and steps off the booth. Julia’s not here. Julia went home. And it’s
perfect, this is perfect.

He walks over to the bathroom, not giving much of a fuck who he bumps into. He’s well aware he’s
been high for too long, perpetuates his own high with alcohol that slows the effect of coke wearing
out, leaves it in his blood for longer. He knows his body cannot keep up with the euphoria for this
long and has started to tumble into that half-pleasure, half-panic, the one that makes his thoughts
worst, most frightening.

He still buzzes with the high of it, still feels so good, incredible. He doesn’t know with what his heart
beats so strenuously, with the pleasure that runs through his blood and clots in certain places, or the
panic of his unbidden thoughts, that feel so easy to shrug off with one step and then with the next
they completely overwhelm every synapse in his brain.

He snorts on the counter and rolls it up a tube with a money note, straightens the line of the powder
with it as well, because Yoongi took too much convincing last time and he has no room for
persuasion. Cannot waste it on his friends. He lifts up the packet, darts his pupils over it as he taps it
with his nail to roughly estimate how many lines he has in it. His eyes have a hard time focusing, so
he rolls them, slips the powder in his back pocket.
He walks after he leaves the bathroom. He presses a hand to the back of his neck, stretches it out,
feels a bit like his head might drop off his shoulders, but at least he feels that. He feels nothing in his
mouth, doesn’t know if his tongue is still there, but then he speaks and sounds come out, so
everything is okay. His tongue is there, behind his teeth, ready to be unleashed as he walks directly
to his target.

He touches her waist first, touches it lightly and then removes his hand immediately, simply gathers
her attention, but does not aim for disrespect, though with the way she’s dressed, the way she dances,
the way her eyes slide over to him as she turns, lips curled, maybe disrespect is what she expects. He
doubts her being a Kim she has ever received much else.

Her smile closes off a little when her eyes shine with recognition. She bows at him, “Jungkook-nim,”
she greets.

“No need,” he says. She’s older than him, he hasn’t earned this with anything. He doesn’t think she
hears him, so he simply shakes his head. He eases into it, wraps his fingers gingerly around her
elbow to see if she will pull away but she doesn’t, so he leans down, speaks in her ear. “Hope
Yoongi’s treating you better.”

She smells different to Taehyung, more of perfume, sweeter, but there is a familiarity that he
processes, even in that state of mind, that comes from the peculiarly welcoming scent of the Kim
Residence, a bit like laundry, a bit like real plants.

“That’s not really difficult,” she speaks back in his ear. “Is it?” She smirks and he moves his hand to
her waist again, lightly. She allows it.

“Guess not,” he cocks his head. “But he’s messier.”

She laughs. Her teeth are quite white, but not as whitened as most people here have them. They
don’t hurt his eyes in the flashes of the Ozone. “I’d take a mess any day.” She closes her mouth and
her next smile is close-lipped. It’s fond. “You should see my brothers.”

There had been a bit of a mess in her house, he thinks retrospectively, all times he’d been over, but it
had been a comfortable sort of chaos, much unlike Jungkook’s own apartment’s perfect order and
glistening cleanliness.
He’s seen more of her brother than she will ever know, and he doesn’t want to think about that. He’s
seen every inch of him, touched it as well, most probably. He sees him sometimes when he closes his
eyes. He doesn’t want to think about that.

It’s hard, hard when she brings him up, hard when her lips almost stretch as square as his when she
smiles. Almost, it’s not enough. Not his smile. Jungkook has earned that smile a couple of times
now.

He asks her to dance and hopes it gives him an excuse not to look at her face.

“Why me?” she asks, though she’s smiling.

He shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he lies.

She agrees and he knows it is partially because of his name, the wallet that comes with it, partially
because of the favor he did her, and partially because he’s good at this, always has been. He’s
attractive and arrogant enough to know how to ask to receive, who and when.

She gives him her back, and he has her hands on her hips. She’s the one to press back into him first
and he allows it. He screws his eyes shut because the lights in the Ozone are too glaring, epileptic.
He screws his eyes shut because he thinks his head pulses less when he doesn’t see, maybe it erases
the facts of his actions.

He’s doing everyone a favor. A favor. Himself and him, both. Neither of them can afford this to
escalate any further, and it’s already too deep. His fucking texts are proof of it. The resilience he
needs to muster to not answer and go fuck him and kiss him and then talk to him about their life and
youth and another good for nothing topic he cannot afford to think about and let him cuddle him like
they’re playing at fucking boyfriend and girlfriend or some other ridiculous, borderline delirious shit.

He presses his lips into his sister’s neck when he feels her movements become pointed, and he
whispers, “I doubt you want to go mine.”

“Yeah,” she turns in his grasp and smiles, her eyebrows lifting, teasing. “Wanna see how the Kims
live, Jeon?”

He’s been to every room in her house except hers. He’s even been in the tiny, square by square room
under their stairs in which they do their laundry.

“Lead the way,” he says, and his heart beats so fast from the coke.

Taehyung lies in his top bunk, Woojin soundly asleep underneath. His face is illuminated by his
phone almost religiously at this point, his thumb hovering over a pinkish circle, as Julia has a new
story and he desperately wants to watch it, but he doesn’t want to do it from his account. It’s Ji-
woo’s turn to go out, however, and he has absolutely no idea when she would be back, probably in
the morning. He doesn’t know if he can sleep without watching it. He’s tried putting his phone away
and sleeping three times by now, but when all is dark, he starts thinking, gets restless. He shuffles so
much in his bed, more than usual. He’s not comfortable on his left side and on his right one. Not on
his tummy either.

He watches videos instead. Lies on his back, sticks his one working headphone in his ear and simply
watches anything that would distract him. He doesn’t want to know how much mindless footage he’s
watched, roughly put as mostly he spaces out with his eyes rooted to the screen, the past few days,
but anything is better than simply actively obsessing over the fact Jungkook won’t answer one
fucking text.

He needs time, Taehyung thinks. It’s Jungkook, he won’t just come to terms with whatever the fuck
it is they did overnight. He refused to kiss him for so long and then he did. Taehyung knows it’s
scary, he’s scared, too, scared absolutely shitless. And if he could just see him.

He hears the door open and he perks up, maybe it was boring tonight and Ji-woo’s friends and she
came over, got some much cheaper vodka from the corner store to finish and he can sneak
downstairs, mug some off of them, pretend to flirt and get his hands on her phone.

But if it was them, he’d already be hearing voices. He doesn’t, hears just two pairs of footsteps, the
sound of keys dropping on the table and then a chair scraping, the table scraping as well.
Commotion, breathing, and oh, he realizes with a pink heat sneaking up his neck and ears, she is
with a man.

It happens sometimes, she brings the guys over sometimes, and as long as he’s got headphones and
Woojin’s asleep it’s all good. But only one of his handphones works because headphones are a piece
of shit scam, and as he hears the much recognizable sound of them make their ways up the stairs, he
begins to protectively wrap the pillow around his ears, fists pressing over with awaiting horror.
He already knew this was going to be another long night, but he wasn’t exactly prepared for this.

Even with the shield of the pillow he can hear distinctively the shift of fabric of dropping clothes, of
a belt, of a body falling into the springs of his sister’s ancient bed.

“Not gonna lie,” his sister is saying, breathless, and he wants to barf, “been thinking about this
before.”

The man doesn’t respond but a different sound comes, and she moans after it. Taehyung presses the
pillow onto his ears harder.

Muffled sounds continue and then another body joins on the spring, a pause, and he hears a grunt, a
breath.

And then Taehyung’s spine runs cold.

Because Taehyung can recognize the way Jungkook breathes during sex even through the wall.

He’s delusional, he thinks. Delusional, he’s starting to hallucinate him at this point, because he
wouldn’t, Jungkook wouldn’t—

“Ugh, Jungkook.”

Taehyung forgets how to breathe.

Taehyung feels pathetic. Absolutely, utterly, and completely pathetic. It downs on him, it downs on
him so slow and yet so sudden. It downs on him, but at the same time it doesn’t, because he simply
cannot wrap his mind around it, cannot comprehend it, as his mouth drops on its own accord into
nothing. He’s thoughtless, for a dull, numb range of moments he just listens, hopes desperately he
has heard wrong, that this is a nightmare he’s having because of the sheer amount of time he has
spent rewinding and rewinding every each second of his last interaction with Jungkook. He hopes
until he’s hopeless. He knows how Jungkook sounds, has it engrained in his skull, written on patches
of his skin where his lips hovered as he breathed into him, moved into him.
And maybe Jungkook wouldn’t, but Jeon Jungkook certainly would.

He registers with squashing, destructive finality that This, this is how he hears of Jungkook after one
week of his complete disappearance, fucking his sister through a wall.

Taehyung straightens on his bed, a motion he doesn’t think about, just does. They’re getting into it
now, getting into it and with the one handphone in and the pillow over his ears he can still hear.

He has been victim to Jungkook's cruelty time and time again, but it is all marked trivial by
Taehyung's rationale as he presses his hands over that pillow on his ears with all his physical and
mental might to try to numb the sounds, those petrifying fucking sounds, coming through the paper
thin good for nothing walls of this collapsing house and his collapsing heart.

It is excruciating in more ways than he has known before. Taehyung is not as strong as Ji-woo and
Jimin and everyone, slightly unfit himself for the world he is thrust in. He’s been hurt before.
Namjoon hurt him. His father sometimes hurts him. Jungkook repeatedly hurt him. But this pain is
new. It is round and overwhelming, coming from up and down and below and inside.

It is his sister in the room next to his, wailing and moaning and screeching and meowing and making
all sounds nameable in the history of humanity and every each one, each syllable that forms
Jungkook’s name pierces through his skin and his bones and his blood and his heart.

She’s not actually, not loud, doesn’t even border on it, but it feels like it, when her voice forms his
name.

It is a new kind of hurt, a consuming, blinding, vengeful hurt. Taehyung has never wanted to hurt
someone as badly as he now hopes he could hurt Jungkook. But he can’t, he knows he can't.
Jungkook simply doesn't care enough to suffer so much on account of Taehyung and he is right
there, one wall away proving that fact in the cruelest, crudest way possible and that just pinches at
Taehyung’s hurt even more if there even is room for more pain.

He’s not going to cry. He presses his head as hard against the wall as it would, tries to hurt himself
through it. He wants to feel, wants to feel something very, very physical, something entirely physical
because that he knows how to deal it, it’s bearable and it seems to have an end. He screws his eyes
shut. He’s not going to fucking cry.
Taehyung has to leave. He has nowhere to go, but he has to leave. And not just this house, not just
now. He has to leave Jungkook for once and for all and rid him, the spoiled emotionally unavailable
prick, of the continuous torturous joy of allowing him to play him like a pianist the keys, making
every sound he willed him to make and be bending and straining under his fingers. This is it. It is
done, over and done and for good.

Taehyung is done.

He doesn’t understand how he forgot how this started, that Jungkook shoved money at him the first
time he sucked his cock, that he has him in his life because he lost a bet, that Jungkook doesn’t kiss
him in his bed and speak to him on rooftops, he doesn’t let him drive his car and gift him his pajama
top, the one he is currently wearing. No, Jungkook’s cruel, he’s Jeon Jungkook, his father’s son and
he was fucking born to hurt.

He made it so easy to forget.

First floor, Taehyung thinks. First floor is better. He gets off his bunk, gets downstairs. The steps he
takes are mostly a blur, but he doesn’t cry. His hands grip onto the kitchen sink, tight, maybe that can
hurt him as well, maybe he can hold hard enough. His knuckles turn white, the length of his digits
twists unnaturally with the way he clings onto the rusty metal. His shoulders hunch together, curl so
uncomfortably and he wonders if he can snap them if he bends low enough.

He can still hear.

He turns the sink on. Turns both the hot water and cold water tap as much as they would give, the
streak the hardest it can go, and he doesn’t care about the price. Let Ji-woo fucking pay the water.

He cups his hands under the water, feels the burn of the hot as it overwhelms the cold. He allows it,
before he bends his body more, gathers the water that has pulled in his palms and throws it in his
face, runs his fingers over it in the aftermath, feels it all wet and hot. He throws water again, but his
elbows tremble when his hands don’t hold onto anything and he gets it all over him, drips down his
neck and chest and it’s uncomfortable, but he cannot find it in himself to give a fuck.

He presses his palms onto the two sides of the sink to stop the way his elbows shake. He screws his
eyes shut again, head tilted down. He tries to breathe, slow, inhale, exhale. This shouldn’t matter,
shouldn’t matter at all. He should have kept in mind that Jungkook is a piece of shit. He’s angry at
Jungkook for being who he is and he’s angry at himself for being so gullible, for forgetting so easily,
thinking that some conversion, some smiles, and a kiss would change anything.
He rubs the heel of his palm over one of his eyes. His breath evens, and he feels a calmer hurt, not
the rage from a moment before. It felt so real. I’m not going anywhere, he’d told him, and Taehyung
had fucking believed him. It sounded so honest, so genuine.

He doesn’t know for how long he’s stood there when he hears footsteps. He’s turned the water
down, poured himself a glass to try to swallow, and his skin has dried. He hears the sound of a belt
buckling. It’s over he knows, lasts so short, an hour at most and even that’s an exaggeration, because
he’s currently incapable of judgement of something as trivial and senseless as minutes, and he
wonders how something like that, something that cannot even fill an hour can do so much damage. It
took less than a minute actually, to reach its full impact. Less than a second.

He hears the steps fall down the stairs, and he stills, shoulders and back straightening with the rigidity
of an animal growing instinctively aware of a predator, and he’s not breathing again, stilling his
breath in case it betrays. He’s freezing, frozen. He tries to move, but he can’t. He wants to get away.
He knows well enough both how his sister walks and how Jungkook does to be sure it is him.

The shower starts. Ji-Woo is showering, always does on nights like this.

He doesn’t want to see him. It’s ridiculous, he spent a whole weak desperately seeking even a
glimpse of him and now he dreads the very possibility.

He gives the stairs his back, begs desperately that Jungkook would have the common decency to not
approach him after this, just leave.

He is aware of his house, how it sounds, can judge by the creak of the stairs how he walks, that he
skips the third one like Taehyung told him to some time ago, when he reaches the last one. That he
halts there. Taehyung stands with every hair on his body awake, lower lip sucked into his mouth as
his mind still chants with the promise he won’t cry. He made it so far and he won’t lose now.

The pause of Jungkook at the stairs is tangible, creates some trajectory of tension from the shape of
his body to that of Taehyung. He is as unready to see him as well. The sight of Taehyung’s back
curled over his kitchen sink is strangely startling for him, almost sobering, eyes stretching even wider
than they are from everything that spoils his blood so.

He is wearing his shirt.

He hasn’t seen him in a week, a whole damn week and he missed him.

He doesn’t have any particular aim when his lips part and pronounce, “Taehyung.” That, just that.

Hearing his voice, now, hearing it raspy from fucking, hurts, and Taehyung’s compelled. He breathes
through his nose, sharp, lifts off the sink and turns but as soon as his eyes find him there, a bit
disheveled with his shirt parted, such a familiar sight with him, for him, but now it wasn’t. He tears
his gaze away and starts walking, he wants to get out, outoutout. He wipes at his mouth with the
back of his hand, strides towards the living room, legs carrying him with no conscious instruction just
the pure need of him to not be in Jungkook’s presence.

He’s almost flying past him when Jungkook moves, taking the final step necessary for them to be on
one ground and he’s reaching forward, fingers, too nimble, wrapping around his elbow as he tries to
run away from this. “Taehyung,” he calls again, tries to pull him back towards him and Taehyung
doesn’t know with what fucking audacity.

He spins back, finds his face with his eyes so wide and vulnerable, forehead creased, and he circles
his elbow around, frees himself with the brusqueness of his motion and pushes Jungkook’s palm
away before it can squeeze around him again. “Don’t touch me,” he says, he warns, and he can’t
recognize his own voice, and neither can Jungkook.

He’s walking backwards now, steps slow and careful, avoiding a trip, but he doesn’t want to lose
Jungkook from sight now, in case he tries to touch him again. The sensation of it almost makes bile
rise in his throat. He doesn’t even know how he manages to look at him, but once his eyes land on
him more permanently it’s more difficult to blink away – it’s like a car crash happens right before
him as he finds his face, his own eyes, so dilated and corners slightly red.

He’s walking backwards and Jungkook moves with the same pace, as slow, as careful, towards him,
like a predator, prey. There’s something marginally cruel about the way he watches him. His eyes are
nothing, speak of nothing. None of the features of his face tell anything to Taehyung and it makes his
heart drop even lower in his stomach.

“Why?” Jungkook asks, the question almost an exhale from his lips as he unfailingly mirrors
Taehyung’s gait, following him predatory with eyes sharp but drunk. He asks it as if that wasn’t the
point of all this, to lose his privileges over touching Taehyung.

Taehyung’s voice twists, and if it had the power he tries to summon with it, it would have been a
screech, but he can’t find it. It chokes out from his throat. “What do you mean why?”
Jungkook’s hand reaches to him again when he is forcefully stilled by the end of his couch. “Come
here,” he says, and there is something torturously soft about it, there is an actual expectation in the
stretch of his fingers and Taehyung almost trips trying to avoid it, body uncoordinated and clumsy
with the way he’s shaking, the way his whole entire consciousness is reserved for Jungkook.

“No,” Taehyung shakes his head, small, repetitive shakes that he cannot help as he stumbles to get
further away from him, walking between the couch and the coffee table now and almost walks into a
cable of a charging joystick. “Shut the fuck up,” he’s saying, snarling, eyes on Jungkook, darting and
searching so desperate for some explanation, but blind to anything, really, with the way they have to
blink so often. “You’re fucking high,” he’s barking, announcing it because it’s the only thing he
knows of him, the one thing he can truly detect in his eyes, but that’s not an explanation, nor an
excuse, it’s nothing, just a fact. He sees his hand lift again and he’s almost bellowing then, “I said
don’t touch me.” He begs, “Leave.”

Jungkook almost feels sober, must be, must be coming down because the way the residual euphoria
trickles down and disappears and so suddenly replaces with an emptiness, the crash of the
comedown, the anxiety of it, but maybe that’s just all Taehyung’s eyes. “Taehyung,” it seems to be
the only word he knows at that moment. He speaks it so differently to the other’s hoarse tremble. He
speaks it plain for the first syllable and with the edge of alerted panic at the second. The name curves
on his tongue as Taehyung’s resolve to keep him away grows more vivid with his movement and his
voice, with the contortion of his features.

Taehyung’s voice leaves his lips so fast and raw, it almost makes his tongue twist. He speaks with
his throat. “Take all your shit and leave,” he demands, his glare more scathing in the way that it is
vulnerable, naked, than as the intent it has directed on Jungkook. “Leave here,” he lists, “Leave me.
Leave my life.”

Jungkook tries again with some firmness that feels throaty as well, something rustic and paranoid in
the edges of his name, which he says again and again, though he doesn’t know what he wants of it,
“Taehyung—"

“Here take this,” Taehyung interjects with an uneven sputter, as he bends to the device his controller
is connected to, the PlayStation they played together on, ripping the cables off of it roughly, and he
thrusts it at him, but it ends up on the couch. “I bought it with your money,” he declares. “Take this
as well.” And he strips off the shirt of his shoulder, Jungkook’s fucking shirt that he has been
wearing this whole entire week, because it fucking smelled like him and he wanted to keep it around,
a reminder of him, but now he just wants to forget. He looks straight into his eyes as he takes it off so
rough and shaky, he rips a single button. He presses it into Jungkook’s chest and Jungkook curls his
arm over the fabric only in attempt to put his hand over Taehyung’s, but it slips right through his
fingers. “Take everything,” Taehyung’s almost yelling at this point, his voice bouncing off of walls
and straight into Jungkook’s ears, distorted with something that makes his heart race in a way very
different than coke does. He feels a panic much more real than that induced by the comedown of
drugs. “I don’t care,” Taehyung’s shrugging, eyes darting all across and he bends again, grips at an
object and chucks it at Jungkook. “Take my fucking little brother’s toy car,” Jungkook loses his eyes
for the moment it takes him to move out of the way then he captures them again to witness a new
vehemence. “Everything,” Taehyung says and his voice cracks at the end, arms spreading out before
they drop to his sides. The next sentence is weaker, almost a plea. “Take everything and go away.”

Jungkook drops the shirt on the couch, frees his hand. He wants to touch him. He wants to calm him.
“Tae, come—"

“Don’t,” Taehyung takes a step back,“call me that.”

Jungkook follows that step, chases him mindlessly, and he reaches for him and manages, because
Taehyung has nowhere else to go. He pulls him to himself by the wrist and their chests almost touch.
“Why—?”

“I said don’t touch me,” Taehyung warns, ripping his wrist away from his hold and wrapping his
own hand around it, scrubbing his finger along the skin to wash away the memory of his touch of it,
but Jungkook worries he held him too tightly and he’s trying to soothe pain, and his forehead creases
with the thought. “I don’t want to ever see you again, Jungkook,” Taehyung declares and this time
it’s from so close, Jungkook can see every feature on his face so well, so clearly. Every feature spells
a feeling, an abundance of them swallowing his face, and Jungkook’s own resolve is fading. He
should be pushing him away, that was the point of it: make sure Taehyung never approaches him
again, but he wants to pull him closer, tell him he is sorry, that he didn’t mean to do this, that he did
he did it for them.“Go away,” Taehyung whispers and the breath of it hits Jungkook’s chest with the
way he angles his face and it’s worse when he whispers.

“Tae…”

Taehyung looks up, fists curling, and he pushes at Jungkook’s chest lightly with his next words. “Go
away,” he says more firmly and Jungkook’s fingers are wrapping around his wrists again.

He tugs him closer, tugs him so they almost touch, and he swallows, starts again, tries to be even,
tries to be hard. “Why are you so hurt, Tae?” He isn’t supposed to be; he’s supposed to hate him,
yes, but he’s not supposed to hurt, to have his eyes glaze over like that, glisten. To have his voice
twist in his throat.

It’s cruel. It’s so cruel that he would ask him, and all Taehyung can say as his eyes narrow almost
into slits at him is, “Fuck you.” He says it so slow, enunciates every letter as deep and drawled as he
can.
“I thought you didn’t —"

“Fuckyou,” Taehyung spells out even slower, emotion dripping from his tongue and even with
Jungkook’s hands holding his wrists he presses fistx into his chest, with each curse he speaks,
“Fuckyoufuckyoufuck you,” he glares at him.“I despise you,” his mouth curls around it so
definitive, so certain, so hurt. “Leave.”

Jungkook doesn’t understand. He’s spent his whole entire life being flipped out, being told to fuck
off, because Jungkook is a Jeon, a Taunting Twin, he’s always in it for the taunt. The effect of
others’ hate on him is usually a smirk, neutrality at best. He’s never been particularly bothered doing
this, consciously earning hatred. He doesn’t understand why each fist that Taehyung lays on his
chest, each half blow, feels like it penetrates through his skin and strikes at his insides. He can’t
comprehend why he wants to ask Taehyung to take the declaration back, tell him that he doesn’t,
doesn’t despise him.

And he’s angry, Jungkook’s angry, because this was not how it was supposed to work. It was meant
to be easy, like ripping off a fucking band aid, gone and forgotten in a moment. And it’s all
Taehyung’s fucking fault because he cannot watch him get hurt.

Jungkook’s fingers squeeze around him harder and this time when he pulls him, they do touch,
bodies lining up. He crashes into him, hard and scorching, the sensation of him so familiar and easy,
but not like this, not now. This time the dig of his digits around his wrists is painful, but not as
painful as that of his eyes as they narrow back, as they glare and study into his own, pupils aligning,
hard and unforgiving. “You said I meant nothing to you, Tae, you promised.”

Taehyung’s jaw slackens, teeth grinding together and simply glowers for the next moment. He
breathes through widened nostrils, curls his tongue over his top teeth and then, then he snarls, so
slow and so pointed. “Well, I fucking lied.”

He rips his wrists from Jungkook’s hold and he lets him because for a moment he loses the strength
in his fingers and that to look at his face.

Taehyung steps back. “You knew I was lying,” he tells him and it’s calm and eerie, but it still
trembles, coarse from his throat. “You asked me to lie.”

He steps back more, away from in between the table and the couch where he is essentially trapped
with Jungkook so close. He walks back and he walks forth and a hand laces in his hair, pulls at the
strands as he watches his feet move and when Jungkook says nothing, his head snaps back to him,
eyes zeroing in, voice high again, voice mad again. “What was this?” his arms raise and then fall,
slam limp into his sides. “Final fucking level?” he questions, and that anger dwindles, it replaces with
helplessness and Jungkook wants the anger back. “The final boss?” His head cocks. “Bang the Kim
sister?”

Jungkook’s eyes spring to his. He breathes, “What?”

Taehyung swallows, arms wrapping together before his chest, palms pressing into his ribs as he
effectively hides as much of his bare body as he can. “Who won this time, huh?” his chin juts with
accusation, eyes flashing. “You or Julia?”

Jungkook’s body turns to him entirely and he wants to touch him again, promise him that it wasn’t
like this but there is a couch between them, and he can’t. “Taehyung—” he tries to say, his own eyes
losing every ounce of hardness as he looks at him like that.

Taehyung interrupts. “Was it a bet as well?” the crack of his voice is different now, comes from his
chest and his throat and he chokes on it, needs to pause, to gulp. “Make me—” he hesitates, brows
shifting together, forehead creasing as he tries to gather words, but fails, because he cannot say this,
“make me fucking…” he tries again, but he cannot finish the sentence, there is a confession in the
continuation of it that he simply can’t speak, that Jungkook doesn’t deserve to hear and that he
shouldn’t be feeling, “And then just—” he gesticulates helplessly and then, then a tear sneaks past
the rim of his eye and rolls down half of his cheek before he wipes it away with his whole hand.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, looks away.

He wasn’t supposed to cry, especially not in front of him. And he’s not crying, he’s not. It’s just a
tear, just one, he wipes it off and sucks it up.

Jungkook blinks, lips parting. A tear. There’s a fucking tear. Shit. What did he do, whatdidhedo?
what the Fuck Did He Do? He doesn’t know if Taehyung hates him, but he sure as fuck hates
himself.

Jungkook looks at the way his features twist, and he wants to take back time. He wanted Taehyung
to hate him, needed it, at least he thought so, but he cannot take this, cannot have him look at him like
that. His eyes are ruinous and ruined, ruinous in that they’re ruined. And he caused this. His heart
beats angry with the fact of this, he’s responsible.

And he wanted Taehyung to hate him, but he never wanted him to feel like a bet, like a game.
Taehyung has probably never in his life felt up to his true, whole worth, because he’s a Kim.
“Tae—” Jungkook tries again, tries in a whisper, but he’s interrupted by Taehyung’s sharp intake of
breath.

“You wanted to prove I don’t mean shit to you?” he speaks, and as he speaks, he walks, walks
towards the door. “Congratu-fucking-lations,” he says as he pauses beside it, looks at Jungkook’s
eyes for the final time that night before he continues, “Mission complete.” He glances down then,
glances down as he pulls at the handle and pulls the door open. “Now leave.” He nods to the door,
speaks with a mixture of certainty and defeat and looks at the floor. “I’m done.”

Jungkook looks at the parts of his face that Taehyung allows him to see. He’s beautiful when he’s
like that as well, sadness sits tragically gorgeous on his face, but Jungkook wants it gone. He’d rather
have him hideous than sad, though he knows that can’t be. He can’t be certain for how long he
lingers, until he walks and when he first pauses before Taehyung it is not to leave. It’s to speak.

He raises his hand tries to touch his face, but Taehyung twists away, doesn’t allow it.

His hand falls limp by his side and he watches Taehyung’s throat curl with his swallow. Jungkook ‘s
teeth sink in his lip and he can’t find words.

He reaches for the handle and watches Taehyung’s own fingers disappear from it as if the touch
would burn him and it’s what Jungkook wants. He closes the door on his own when he leaves, so
Taehyung doesn’t have to.

Taehyung lingers by the door longer than he wills himself to before he walks into the kitchen and
rummages. Soju, there’s just fucking soju and he wants something stronger, so he fucks it, pours
himself a cold glass of water and slumps into a chair, elbow pressing into the table and hand
immediately raising to accommodate his forehead.

His eyes screw shut again and down drips the second and final tear he will allow over the likes of
Jeon Jungkook.

It’s a fucking joke that Taehyung has only been allowed a couple of minutes before the shower stops
and Ji-Woo, inevitably, appears, pauses at half the stairs in her towel only to be able to look at him
on the kitchen chair.

“Taehyung, did I hear yelling?”

Taehyung is gulping down water when she speaks, needs to, because his throat feels so fucking dry
and he hopes the force of the water and his swallow will take down the lump that builds and holds
strenuously in his trachea. He sets the glass down as carefully as he can muster, stares at the sink
when he speaks. “Did he kiss you?” His voice comes rough and tight, lump still trapped there.

Ji-Woo’s brows fold together in a triangle, one of her hands on the railing and another clutching on
her towel. “What?”

Taehyung’s tongue runs over his lips and he turns, looks at her. “Jungkook,” he details, blinks, “Did
he kiss you?”

“Oh,” her brows fall apart as she clears her throat, readjusts her towel. “You saw him?”

Taehyung sighs through his nose, closes his eyes for longer than he needs for it to be simply a blink.
She only notices now that they glisten and swim. “Can you just fucking tell me if he kissed you?” he
asks, some exasperation intertwining with his tongue as he does.

Ji-Woo shakes her head, taking a step down towards him. She’s barefoot, but he worries her. “No,
he didn’t,” she answers, “I don’t—Tae, are you alright?” The chair scrapes as Taehyung stands as he
turns to the back door and takes a few steps. “Taehyung, where are you going?”

Nowhere. He stops, one hand on his waist, the other cups his mouth. And he turns, walks back,
walks to the bottom of the stairs. He drops his hand, reveals his face and looks at her, fully, eyes
reddened and unblinking.

“Why did you fuck him?” it lingers, simple and hurried.

Ji-Woo takes another step. “You mean Jungkook?” she asks and there is a tinge of familiarity in the
way she speaks it that tugs offensively at Taehyung in the gut.

Taehyung’s eyes close again and his breath is sharp. “Don’t say his name,” he begs her before he
can look at her again.

“Taehyung—” she begins with another step, but he interrupts.

“Why him?” he demands, “Why did you have to fuck him?”

“Why are you so upset, Taehyung?” her voice raises a bit, her arms crossing before her chest now
and she slips into defensive at his particular emphasis. “He’s hot,” she shrugs, “he’s a Jeon,” another
roll of her shoulders and she is so casual, he wants to throw the glass of water at something more and
more with each evidence of indifference that fluctuates between her body language and the way she
so carelessly speaks. “And he was a good fuck, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Taehyung chortles and his lips curl almost ugly with the way he smiles with utter bitterness, “I
know he’s a good fucking fuck,” he declares, his teeth snapping together unintentionally with the
pace with which he speaks,“I’ve been fucking him for weeks.”

He enjoys the damage that it does on her face too much to regret it. She blinks, lips parting, some
incomprehensive sound coming in between them. Her eyes fix over Taehyung, wide and pointedly
confused, stretched to their brims so much it grows past perplexity and akin to horror. He can see her
mouth open further and maybe she wants to say something, but for a long while she can’t. Her neck
pulls back, head retracting as if someone was physically reaching for her.

She blinks once and her head starts to shake. “Taehyung,” she says, voice hesitating uneven, “if
that’s some sort of a joke,” she speaks with warning, “It’s not fucking funny.” She falls another step
forward.

“Not a joke.” Taehyung clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, shakes his head and cocks it,
almost puts it on his shoulder. His eyes narrow. He parts his lips and scrutinizes over his sister with
some forced, sarcastic calculation. Then he strikes crudely, “You know I’ve been wondering, is there
anyone you wouldn’t fucking sleep with?”

Her voice is a breath. “What?” she whispers, and Taehyung doesn’t know why a cruel pleasure
twists inside of him when he witnesses her features pull with the beginnings of bewildered hurt.

“I mean,” Taehyung stresses, lips puckering and pulling down in some deliberately dubious
consideration. “Why do you have to be such a slut?”

Ji-Woo hugs the towel around herself as her brother watches with merciless eyes from below.
“Taehyung,” she shakes her head weakly, “that’s unfair.”
 Taehyung laughs sudden and it’s not more than an exhale of it before he’s speaking, “Life’s fucking
unfair, isn’t it?” He throws his hands into the air and keeps watching her, keeps at it, gaze relentless
but wrists twitching.

She’s saying nothing, says absolutely nothing. She has hardly moved since Taehyung’s confession
and now she seems to have completely lost the function of speaking, because all he sees her do is
breath and swallow and look at him with eyes that hold much, but he’s seeing red, doesn’t really
know what it is her eyes try to convey.

He stares at her until he can’t anymore. His hands drop, hit over the fabric of his pants and he looks
at his feet. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, starting to move, getting his sweatshirt off the counter where he
left it when he first got home. “I didn’t—you’re not a, you’re not,” he shakes his head conclusively.
“I just, just can’t hear your voice right now.” He shrugs the fabric on his shoulders and does the zip.

He can’t because it’s her fucking voice that sounded so blood curling in his ears through the wall. It’s
not her fault, he knows, it’s unfair, she’s right, because it’s not her fault, but it’s still her voice.
Taehyung shouldn’t be as affected by this as he is, shouldn’t flinch at the mere voice of his sister; this
should be nothing, absolutely nothing. But he’s never felt anything for anyone like this and never
had it blown apart so cruelly and he doesn’t really know what to do with himself. He feels something
very akin to a loss. He’d gotten used to there always being a prospective next interaction with
Jungkook, they’d gone as far as to start making goddamn plans with those fucking text messages,
and there is something empty in the fact that’s gone. And what will happen to the time Jungkook
used to occupy his mind and his time, what will happen next time he inevitably comes to Rouge, and
Taehyung has to see him, serve him?

He can’t be having these thoughts, can’t be thinkingat all. It makes the lump slowly start to build
again.

“I’m staying at Jimin’s,” he announces, starts walking, gets some slip-ons at the door he’s not even
sure are his.

Ji-Woo speaks now, but still doesn’t move to stop him. “Taehyung,” she says, “it’s late. The subway
is not working.”

“I’ll walk,” he says and she’s in a towel, can’t chase him and has to watch him slam that door and
disappear.

Chapter End Notes

okay, this is a necessary evil
 Chapter 18
Chapter Notes

beware this isn't edited but I need to sleep

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Do you want coke?” Hoseok asks.

“No,” Jungkook says, sunglasses on, eyes staring up at the circular shape of the sun protected and
emphasized by a cloud in the sky.

Hoseok’s head cocks. “A cocktail?” He says as he slurps on his very own, the foam of it filtering
almost disgusting as it travels through his straw and to his tentatively arched down lips, a scowl that
is mostly evidence of his calculation as he studies Jungkook than anything else.

“No,” Jungkook replies. His thumbs tangle together as he rests his fingers on his chest, palms almost
touching.

He releases the straw. “Are you becoming a monk?”

Jungkook’s head tilts slightly to look at where Hoseok hovers over him, sat on the table between the
chaise lounges, hunched over in his bathing suit. “No,” Jungkook says, and the fact his eyes remain
under those sunglasses and he can’t see him is only a tad frustrating. He sucks on his straw again.

“Do you know a word different to no?”

Jungkook faces the sky again, “No.”

“Jungkook,” Yoongi moves, readjusting a little, on the chaise longue on the other side of Hoseok’s
ass. “You haven’t had an emotion the past three days,” he announces. “The fuck is up with your
moody ass? Suck it up and have a Piña Colada.”

“I don’t want a Piña Colada,” he replies simply.

Hoseok straightens up a bit, twists at the waist and raises his eyebrows at Yoongi when he finds him
with his stare. “I think he’s not drinking again. How long do you think that will last?” He raises the
hand that doesn’t hold his drink, opens his palm and spreads his five fingers opened. “Five days?
Six?”

“Hobi,” Yoongi pronounces slowly as he peels his own sunglasses down his face, positions them
right above his lips. “Why don’t you make one of your Piña Coladas and if he doesn’t want it, I’ll
sacrifice myself and have it.”

Jungkook listens with one ear as Hoseok narrows his eyes and begins bickering with Yoongi over
his laziness and continuous lying down pose, claiming he has doesn’t spend more than an hour a day
on his feet, but he hardly processes what they speak about because he keeps thinking about the
fucking Piña Colada and how badly he doesn’t want it.

He thinks about the amounts of times he’d sworn himself off of substances, that he’d failed. Himself
and Hoseok, they do this from time to time, say they’ll quit, Hoseok generally after Yoongi has a
breakdown. Jungkook, generally.

Because he doesn’t like who people are on substances, the decisions they make. He doesn’t like that
his father makes the decision to hit his sister, that his sister makes the decision to swallow another
pill, that Yoongi makes the decision to mix his pills with a cocktail until he passes out, that his
mother makes the decision she wants to be even number and submerge in a surrealistic world trapped
in her brain, that he decided he wanted Taehyung to hate him.

Jungkook lifts his phone up, stares at the glaring screen where it’s opened, perpetually opened at the
messages with him, stares at the last message, the one he sent.

can I talk to you?

He’s not replying. Of course, he’s not replying. Jungkook clicks his phone shut and he doesn’t look
at it, but he still sees it. He still sees his face, still sees that fucking tear roll down it. He’s been sober
for three days, but he doesn’t feel like it, feels like he’s having a three-day hangover. His head hurts,
almost permanently, and he needs to take some of his mother’s valium before he goes to sleep, in his
bed.

He sleeps there the first night, but the second he can’t because he lies down in the exact position in
which he was when Taehyung wrapped himself around him on instinct and then he can’t get it out of
his head that it will probably never happen again. He cannot comprehend how he can possibly miss
something that only happened one and a half times, barely fucking happened, but he does, so he
takes another Valium and goes to Yoongi’s and asks him his opinion on some topic that interests him
and listens to his voice until he falls asleep.

On the third night he goes directly there, and he doesn’t take any pills. Yoongi asks Hoseok over and
they speak to each other quietly while Jungkook pretends to sleep until he falls asleep.

It’s hard not to think when his eyes close and he’s alone and he absolutely abhors thinking.

He’s never had such an urge, such a need to speak to someone. It is almost physically palpable, sits
at the top of his chest, how much he wants to explain, even though he can’t. He does something he’s
never done, only ever heard about, preplans what he could prospectively say if Taehyung did give
him the chance to speak in his mind when he lies and listens to the murmur of conversation.

Nothing that he comes up with sounds enough, not in any of the hypothetical situations that his mind
projects for him does Taehyung not look at him the way he did when he asked him if he was just
another bet and there is something exhausting enough about that on the third night that he doesn’t
need the Valium, even if it eases the fact he hasn’t been close to a substance since he came down
from it that night.

Jungkook checks his phone again as Hoseok, despite his complaints towards Yoongi’s laziness, lifts
up and strides over to the bar to make another proportionally incorrect Piña Colada for him.
Taehyung has not responded to his text, just like he didn’t respond to his.

“What’d you got on that phone, Kook?” Yoongi’s voice carries over in a drawl. He’s watching him
as Jungkook clicks it shut and presses it into his stomach.

“Nothing,” he says. He readjusts a little on the chaise longue and his phone buzzes, hand flies
towards it but as soon as his eyes widen, they hood over, pissed. It’s just an Instagram notification
and he thought he stopped those. One of Yoongi’s brows raises, but he says nothing. Jungkook lifts
an arm, fits his fingers over his forehead to push back hair. “Kai still won’t say more?”
Yoongi blinks away. “Nope, just says he was checking something.”

“Okay,” Jungkook says, but it’s not okay, not okay at all.

“You coming to the Ozone tonight?”

“No,” Jungkook replies, quick and easy.

Yoongi sighs with his whole upper body. “You’re coming on Saturday, though.”

“Why?”

Yoongi tilts his head to him again. “Don’t you think it will be a little suspicious if you skipped your
own birthday?”

Jungkook has never in the entirety of his life cared about anything less than he does about his
birthday. He wonders briefly, foolishly, if Taehyung would care it’s his birthday. It’s a pathetic thing
to latch on, but it passes through his head and he cannot help it. He has a whim, a stupid, ridiculous
whim, to see him on his birthday, but he doesn’t know if he can look at him in the eyes.

“Okay,” Jungkook says.

Hoseok returns with the Piña Colada and him and Yoongi fall into a conversation and Jungkook
closes his eyes and cups his palm over his phone.

Taehyung really doesn’t understand why it’s the fourth time he’s done one problem and still cannot
figure out the sine of a fucking angle. He needs to have those ready as soon as possible. It’s almost
September and he has his exam ridiculously soon. He has completely submerged himself in
preparing for it, but there is such a frustrating disbalance in the effort and time he puts into it and the
fruition and productivity.
Not getting distracted every few minutes has proven impossible, but he grits his teeth and tries again.
Numbers, numbers, numbers, that’s all he has space for in his head, right now, all. It is his only
focus. It’s a lie, blatant to the point that it is ridiculous, but he likes to tell it to himself again and
again.

“Tae,” Jimin says as he steps over his legs where he sits with the pair of them extended on the carpet
of his apartment. “You working today or not?” he asks as he grips a light jacket that hangs by his
door and shrugs it on his shoulders.

Taehyung releases the pencil he holds between his teeth as he looks down at the shape on his paper
which he swears made more sense a minute ago. “Do I have a choice?”

Jimin fixes his eyes over the trail of saliva that follows from the tip of Taehyung’s chewed on pencil
to his mouth. “You’re disgusting,” he scrunches his nose up.

Taehyung folds one leg at the knee, props his folder on it. “You think I can get a job at the Ozone
with you?” he asks, eyes finding Jimin. “It doesn’t clash with my shifts.”

Jimin fixes his arms through the sleeves better. “And you’ll sleep when?” He cocks his head.
“You’ve been doing nothing but math for the past four days. You need a fucking break.” He doesn’t
sleep much anyways, and it would probably be better if he made money out of it instead of just the
headaches he deals with now.

Taehyung shrugs, taps the pencil on his lower lip. “I like math.”

Jimin scoffs. “No, you don’t. No one likes math. You like art and buildings and shit like that.”

“Yes,” he nods in response, sighs, “and my exam is coming up and I want to make as much money
as possible before in case I do get in and have to go to actual school from October.”

“It’s just an evening school.”

Taehyung clicks his tongue, flashes him a pouty, short glare. “More than you can fucking say.”
Jimin is bubbly. Jimin speaks a lot and most of what he spills out of his mouth is meaningless shit
and Taehyung has learned to appreciate this immensely. Shortly, Jimin is distracting.

“I gotta chip in for double rent now,” Taehyung teases when Jimin responds with a finger.

He tilts his head down to do the zip of his jacket but does lift his eyes to properly convey his
annoyance, lids slightly lowered, gaze dulled. “Taehyung,” he begins with a sternness that doesn’t fit
him, “I told you, if you try to pay me, I will annihilate you.” He pauses when the other shakes his
head and returns his eyes to the paper in front of him. He’s careful when he speaks next. “But I do
think you should go back home.”

Taehyung halts as he adjusts the folder to properly fit in the junction of his lap and thigh. His eyes
remain fixed on the diagrams as he hears Jimin open the door. “Soon,” he says, his tongue flashing
over his lips. “I will.” And because he feels the trickle of tension slide across his back, stem
dangerously in his stomach and he knows it’s a dangerous path for his mind to trail on, being in any
way serious about anything other than his prospect of going to school, he bristles a chuckle that is
half forced, “Though I much prefer the location here.”

He expects a laugh and a goodbye and the door to be shut. It’s not what he gets. Instead it’s a voice
that is startlingly familiar and the trickle that had started to form blossoms and attacks, spreads all
over his spine and grows quick in his stomach.

“Is that true?” his sister says and his eyes, wide, are on her before it fully registers with him he’ll see
her standing at the doorframe. “You’ll come home?”

Taehyung’s teeth clench, face turning away as he flips the folder carelessly off of his body and gets
on his feet. “Oh, fuck off, Jimin,” he glares at him first, because he knows this is his doing, as Jimin
steps away completely unsurprised by her appearance, moving away to allow her to step in. “I will
actually end you,” he threatens, not entirely emptily as he folds his arms over his chest.

“Sorry,” Jimin throws behind his shoulder, stepping past the threshold. “Bye.” He doesn’t shut the
door behind him as he disappears, because Ji-woo lingers. She hasn’t fully stepped in and maybe it is
with effect of the way Taehyung’s eyes almost pulse with warning.

He stares the utter description of pissed behind his friend before the glare replaces on his sister. His
voice travels soft, “What do you want?”
Taehyung hates how in every moment he has dealt with this, he comes off defeated.

Ji-woo steps in, closes the door, and it’s final, they’ll have to speak. “To talk to you.”

His sigh is immediate, his eyes prying away as they stare dumbly at a wall. He has the urge to walk,
to move, pace, but Jimin’s apartment takes about three full steps to cross and it’s pointless. “Listen,”
he brings his gaze back to her, “if you want to apologize to me or some shit, don’t.” His head shakes.
“Because I’m not mad at you, you just,” he swallows, the lids of his eyes fluttering helplessly before
he glances at the floor instead., “just remind me—"

She takes a step and it takes actual exertion for him to not step back. “I just want you to be able to
talk to me, Tae,” she tells him, pleads with him almost, “I want you home. Woojin—"

He looks again, meets her gaze and settles the warning in his again. “Don’t work me through
Woojin. I’ll come home, soon, but don’t guilt trip me through our brother.”

“Taehyung,” she exhales and there is something notably tired about it. This is the third time she’s
attempted to speak to him since he left that night and it’s exhausting for her, because he says exactly
half a sentence about how he’s not mad before he shuts her off completely. So, she has to ask Jimin
to help her trap him, has to shoot as soon as she gets the chance. “Why would you be sad over Jeon
Jungkook?” Her shoulders raise and fall, her pupils darting over his face with a pity that makes him
look away again.

He doesn’t like the sound of his name. Especially when she’s the one to speak it.

He taps a finger over his elbow as he squeezes into it harder than he needs to. He takes his time to
formulate the question, to convince himself there is actually any point in asking. His voice is small
because with the wording that tips at his tongue he knows he ventures a territory that scares him, but
he cannot avoid it, “Have you ever actually cared about any of the people you’ve slept with?”

She stares. “No,” she confesses.

Taehyung blinks up. “Don’t know how to explain that to you then.” He meets her eyes and he can’t
take that fucking pity that resides so palpably in the way her eyes hood, so he spins, walks, goes to
the part of the room that’s separated as a kitchen and stands behind a counter to stay further away
from how she looks at him.
She looks to the side as he does, but her chin angles towards him again with the pace of
determination. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks first, but then she doesn’t let him answer before
she speaks what really matters,says it with the due beginnings of disgust.“Why him?”

Taehyung presses his fingers into the counter and stares at them. “Because you’re asking me why
him,”he replies.

“Yeah,” Ji-woo nods, merciless as she steps forward, “and maybe I have good reason to, he slept
with me,” she’s at the other end of the counter when she hesitates, when she sees the way he almost
physically reacts, flinches, as the fact of it leaves her lips. “Although,” she clears her throat, and an
awkwardness takes over her voice when she attempts to speak as he attempts not to think.“he, um
mostly took care of me. He didn’t—“

Taehyung’s head shoots up, tongue sharp. “I really, really don’t give a fuck what type of sex you
had,” he grits his teeth. “Please,” he asks in a voice that morphs the notion of pity in her eyes into a
wave of it, “please don’t speak to me about that. I just want to fucking forget it.”

She allows him the pause she feels he needs before she breathes in. “And him?”

He hesitates with a pause that he instigates on his own. “What about him?”

This time she doesn’t even skip a beat. “Do you want to forget him?”

His mouth opens, but he doesn’t immediately speak. Yes, the answer is indisputably yes. He wants
to forget him so much he sometimes wishes he never passed his eyes over him. At the same time
something pathetically foolish in him wants to cling to the memory of his experience. He has never
had anything like Jungkook, anything as exhilarating and charging, anything he’s wanted so much,
that has made him feel so much.

“Yes,” he says finally and truthfully, “but I can’t, yet.” He looks at her with a heaviness she barely
recognizes in him and then he straightens up from the counter, folds his arms again, chooses a tile to
watch now. “Listen just, give me a few more days, okay? I’ll come home.”

Ji-woo’s head shakes at the nth time he so brusquely takes his eyes away from her. It’s frustrating.
It’s so unbearably frustrating for her that he does this, that he chooses to stay at Jimin’s because of
Jeon fucking Jungkook, because it’s her that should come first, her and Woojin, and though he still
does what he’s promised for the household, he can’t simply avoid her. “I don’t understand why you
can’t look at me because of a boy, Taehyung,” she spills, “It’s just a guy, just sex. Everyone sleeps
with everyone in Richhood.”

She gets what she wants now. He looks. He glares. “I don’t,” he says, and it sits on his tongue to call
her a slut again, but he won’t because he knows she’s right, partially. “I was just sleeping with him,”
he confesses because it’s true. Ever since Jungkook asked him to not touch Bogum anymore he
hasn’t as much as looked at someone else. He never wanted to.

Ji-woo’s lips curl in disbelief at her exhale of a quick, surprised laughter. You can’t be serious,that
laughter says, and it prickles at the back of his neck. “You can’t be loyal to or expect loyalty from
anyone that isn’t in our family, Tae,” she states, conclusive and pointed. “I thought you knew that.”

He looks away again, small shakes of his head as his tongue pokes out. “You know,” he tells her,
“that mindset exactly is why there is no use in you asking me why.” There isn’t absolutely any point
because Ji-woo is exactly what he yearns to be: impartial, rid of any expectations of the people she’s
with. He always promises himself he’s that, too, doesn’t want people to expect anything from him
and to expect anything from people. He doesn’t know how his exception to that rule became the least
reliable person in Richhood. “I was—” he struggles to get out and he doesn’t mean to say it, not
really, but it rips from his throat. “I was fucking ready to be loyal to him. Okay?”

“Taehyung,” she says, says as if she scolds and pleads alike and she’s the one leaning on the counter
now. “He has a girlfriend,” she breathes, her eyes desperate on him, because he tries to understand,
she does. “He’s been with her since they were thirteen. They’ve probably figured out a wedding
date. Where do you think you fit in that?”

He feels stupid when he speaks, but his reply is automatic. “He isn’t in love with her.”

It means so much to him and nothing to her. She asks so quickly. “So?” She asks as if it’s obvious.
“You think their parents are in love with each other?”

Taehyung’s just blinking for a moment. “I—"

She interjects, speaking quick. “His father was ready to hitme, an outsider, a woman.” The
implication resonates loud and clear, imagine what he must do to them, who owe him something,and
Taehyung knows. He’s seen it, saw the mark of the cigarette, as he circled his finger around it.
“Even if Jungkook ever had the intention to be with you, which I doubt, do you think he could
afford it?” she pauses, but she doesn’t expect an answer. “He’d have to give up on everything, his
family, probably his friends, his reputation, his settled future. He relies on his father’s money for
everything. The only money he makes on his own he does with boxing and he probably spends it all
on drugs.” She speaks so quick and so sure and he wishes to press his palms over his ears again.
“He’s going to inherit his father’s business because that’s what he’s been preparing for his entire life
just like his father did from his own, marry Julia, they’ll forever be the epitome of the ultimate
Richhood couple and have some Richhood material children.” Taehyung blinks. His eyes feel bitter.
Her voice sounds so bitter. “Where do you think you fit in Jeon Jungkook’sworld? The best you
could have gotten out of that is what, him occasionally fucking you cause he can barely get it up for
girls? Is that what you want for yourself? To be a Jeon’s fucktoy?”

Taehyung sucks his lower lip in his mouth, and he moves. He’s blinking so much, staring at the
floor. It pinches at his eyes, and he cannot look at her. He doesn’t need to hear this. He’s over and
done with Jungkook, but he doesn’t need to hear this.

He wasn’t his fucktoy, he knows that. Jungkook always took care of him, sexually, too, got on his
knees for him and the second time they kissed, the last time they kissed, there was nothing sexual
about it, nothing to do with fucking.

“If anything,” she’s still speaking and he hears it through buzzing ears as he bends, gathers the
papers from the floor and pushes them in a bag, “he did you a favor.” He shoves them in, shoves
them in so brusque he wonders how the cheap material doesn’t fall apart under his motions. He
presses the back of his palm into one of his eyes almost painfully, stifles the bitterness. He does it for
the other, too, straightens and slings the bag over his shoulder. He can do more problems in his
break. “Tae,” Ji-woo calls after him, but he doesn’t say anything, just walks, gets his own jacket off
the hanger. “Tae,” she tries again, “I’m only telling you this because I care about you.”

He knows. A part of him does, at least. But that part is buried so deep he can barely find it, because
all that sounds repetitive in his ears is now, he did you a favor, a fucking favor. He blinks again.
He’ll marry Julia.

He will. He probably will. Taehyung doesn’t know how the fuck that hadn’t registered in his brain
before. Whatever he and Jungkook were, no matter how colossal it felt for him, was objectively
nothing. He was never brave enough to entertain the concept of future because in any way that is
reasonable, Jungkook’s future and his were undeniably apart. Taehyung had grown so accustomed
to only thinking about a day in advance when it came to him. Will I get to see him tomorrow, and
that was it, all it could ever extended to.

Taehyung supposes it had to end. Sooner rather than later. But it didn’t have to end like this.

And he didn’twant it to end.

“I have to go work,” he tells her. “I’ll come home in a few days.”

Her lips part. “Taehyung.

He looks at her, actually does, a final glance just before he exits and leaves her in Jimin’s empty
apartment. “Don’t talk to me about him and we’re good, okay?”

It’s unfair, most simply put, that when Taehyung wanted desperately to see him, he didn’t have to
right to, because he couldn’t force Jungkook to be anywhere. Now Jungkook sends just a couple of
texts that he can ignore before he appears in a place from which Taehyung cannot escape. Jungkook
comes to Rouge.

He sees him and he has the urge to fucking quit. He won’t, he can’t. He’s stuck and it does nothing
for the way his heart drops right in his stomach when his eyes catch that first glimpse.

He knows Jungkook will follow as soon as he gets the chance. He’s alone, he came absolutely alone,
and he came specifically for this and Taehyung knows it. It scares him, scares him the way his heart
beats so hurried and worrying because if the mere sight of him hits so physically, how will he act
when he approaches.

Taehyung goes to that hallway on his own because he cannot prolong the dread of waiting for him,
cannot deal with the way he startles when someone passes too close to his back and he worries he
decided to start this in public. He goes pointless into that hallway and has to wait for less than a
minute when the door swings.

Taehyung stands as close to the opposing wall as he can without pressing himself into it. There is
something trapping, in that hallway, something suffocating, and he struggles with one breath,
especially with the way his back is so close to a border, and when Jungkook steps in and pauses very
briefly before he closes the door, Taehyung feels the room swallows him.
He stares at his shoes not at his eyes, though he can sense Jungkook’s own fix unbearably on him,
palpable on the side of his face, which feels slightly as if it burns. His very presence in the same
room holds something overwhelming that is not entirely unpleasant, but so tangible it makes
Taehyung feel it on his skin.

When the door closes Jungkook doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t move, does not come closer, just
stares at him. And it’s been barely a moment, but Taehyung cannot take it as it rolls so timeless and
slow, and he clings to himself, crosses his arms, and lifts his eyes. They radiate to his face with a
magnetic pull, but as soon as he recognizes the other’s they shift to look at the space behind him.

Taehyung blinks. His eyes feel wetter than he likes. “You disappeared before when I wanted you
here and now what,” he shrugs meaningless and speaks with a rough accusation; his voice is almost
foreign to his own ears when it twists unexpectedly, but he manages to waver it to something he is
comfortable with, a flatness that still blames, “you come to laugh in my face?”

“No,” Jungkook says with his whole body, moves an instinctive step forward as he repeats, “no.”
His head shakes and Taehyung can judge that from how he watches the air behind him, but he
cannot see his expression, the way his brows fold and forehead creases, “I want to talk.”

He wants to speak to him, sober, he wants to explain. He just wants to see him.

Taehyung almost steps back as he closes in, but he manages to halt him in his approach with the
impact of his flinch at something as mere as the suggestion of proximity. Jungkook has to struggle to
stay in place, but he wants to give him that, space. “I’ve nothing to say to you,” Taehyung tells him,
head tilting down, finds his shoes. There is something small in his voice as he does, a weakness.

He does, though, he has so much to say to him.

Jungkook fails. He steps forward. “Tae,” he says with one step, his eyes searching for his face,
asking his to meet his own, but he refuses. “Taehyung,” he calls with his second step and with his
voice, Jungkook’s voice, saying his name, and Taehyung presses his lids closed, tight, before he can
look at the floor again, “Won’t you look at me?” Jungkook asks, speaks with a torturous softness; it
barely carries between them, a murmur at best.

Taehyung feels the cement of the wall behind him with his back, but still does not press into it fully.
“No,” he shakes his head, mirroring the soft tone, but his isn’t gentle, isn’t careful. It’s frail. “I don’t
want to see you,” he whispers back to him and when Jungkook takes another step, when he comes
into his space, when he reaches for him, he flinches again, flinches away and recoils into himself
more. “Don’t want you to touch me,” he tells him, his tongue running across his lower lip to bring
some moisture to his drying mouth as he watches Jungkook’s hand hover between them briefly
before it falls next to his brand belt.

The logo glares at him and he glares back at it.

He feels the small shakes of Jungkook’s head, feels his breath on his cheek, as he nears, comes so
impossibly close, so arrogantly close. He has no right. “You don’t mean that, Tae,” Jungkook
murmurs and something rises in Taehyung’s stomach. He’s watching his neck now, watches the skin
stretch and twist with the motion of him speaking, of telling him so soft and intimate, “I want you.”

Taehyung flinches again, head falling back onto the wall. His eyes screw shut, and he curses,
“Fuck.” He pleads, “Don’t.” He promises, “I don’t care.”

Jungkook edges closer, and he doesn’t touch him, but his body is so close it radiates pure
Jungkook,and Taehyung doesn’t know if he can take the way it almost brushes against him, the way
he can smell him. “You want me, too,” he says, and his lips are almost at his ear and Taehyung’s
eyes peel open.

He looks at him, finally does, stares right into the abyss of Jungkook’s cursed eyes. “I don’t,” he says
and his teeth clash with it. “I mean I do, but I won’t,” he promises them both and with each syllable
his voice grows stronger, ravenous for conviction. “I’ll stop,” he vows. “I can fucking—cleanse
myself off of you.” He looks at him all over, at his shoes, his trousers, the logo at his belt. He can
clean himself from that, from all of it, and it is fucking poison. It reeks onto him. He pushes him
away. “Don’t stay so close to me,” he warns, because Jungkook tries to trick him again, lie to him
again, with that numbing proximity.

“Tae—” Jungkook tries as he falls the step back, but Taehyung’s eyes are too hot on him.

“What did you think was gonna happen?” he asks with some rapid fierceness that draws from his
chest. He does have something to say to him, to scream to him, so much. And it drips. His head tilts,
he’s the one to step closer now, but his back is away from the wall. “You act a bit seductive,” his
eyes narrow, “offer some sexual favor and I’ll be back at your beck and call distracting you from
your abusive father with my tight ass?”

Roles reverse and Jungkook gapes simply for a moment, mouth parted before his eyes fall to the
ground. No matter who looks away, they cannot look at each other in the eyes. “You always —”
Taehyung’s teeth almost bare as he snarls, “I always what?” He blinks at him. That thing, that thing
that rises in his stomach like this escalates, fills him to the brim. “Forgive you?” his brows raise, with
challenge. He pauses, very brief, but it lingers somehow. He nods to himself, to Jungkook as well,
his tongue clicks on the roof of his mouth and he speaks bitterly. “Yeah, I guess that’s my fault.”
Jungkook looks at him and this time their gazes hold prolonged. There’s a heaviness in both, but a
different kind, unnamable kind. Taehyung shakes his head. “Not this time, though.”

Jungkook is silent. He’s silent and every truth that rises in Taehyung’s throat drips from him. His
voice is honest and raw, leaves his mouth as if doesn’t reach his lips, just spills straight from his
chest, through his trachea.

“I’m not an emotional punch back for you to channel your frustration over your inability to protect
your sister from your father, okay?” he tells him with that voice, strikes low with what he says, but
he can hardly find it in himself to care, not when he now has the audacity to look at him right in the
eyes.

It’s so frustrating, so fucking frustrating, because Taehyung feels something whenever those eyes are
on him, especially when they look at him like that, with some apparent genuineness, when they are
mostly so soft, almost asking him of something unspoken just with them, just like that, looking silent,
rattling.

His voice is still so overwhelmingly soft. He’s gentle as he speaks. As raw and naked and throaty as
Taehyung is, Jungkook is as careful, soft, almost timid. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, he
swears, and it’s the bare truth. It was never his intention, but it is the result and it’s so unexpectedly
haunting. Jungkook has never known how to deal with such human guilt.

Taehyung’s face contorts, his brows narrowing together, his expression grows pained again, so
similar to how he was looking that night, and Jungkook can barely stand to look at him, but it’s
harder for him to speak to him with words, so he tries to do it with his eyes.

“Why then?” Taehyung asks, a vulnerability seeping through as his voice drops. He has been asking
himself that again and again for days, he has lost sleep over it, zoned out because of it, pressed his
forehead to the shower wall, squeezed his eyes shut and ran cold water over himself to drive it out of
his mind, then hot water, scorching water, burn it away from his skin, but he can’t. It’s almost all he
can think about, because there must be a reason. “Why did you do it then?”

“For the both of us,” Jungkook says once, loud and quick this time as it tears out of him with a small
step forward that he charges. He presses fingers into his own chest, his eyes darting all across
Taehyung’s face, trying to convince him. “You and I,” he begins, head shaking, “we’re getting too
deep into,” he hesitates, “into that,”he says, into each other, he means, but he cannot speak it aloud
and he sees the miniscule change in Taehyung’s face when he calls them a that. “I thought—” his
hands drop, loose by his body. Everything he had planned that he wanted to say to him slips from his
mind. He has so much to say, and suddenly, forgets what he meant to promise and what he meant to
explain. When he speaks, he’s begrudgingly settling for words, “I didn’t want anyone to
dosomething to you.”

Taehyung blinks. Taehyung almost wants to laugh. He stares and hardly manages to process what
Jungkook tries to imply when the breath of disbelief has escaped his mouth, following an almost
offended scoff. “Do you actually believe this?” he asks, because he himself does not trust his ears,
half expects Jungkook to suddenly erupt in laughter and tell him it’s all a big joke, but his eyes still
hold that unbearable genuineness, still dart all over him as if they’re speaking to him. Taehyung talks
brusquely as the realization settles, “You actually fucking think you did this in any way for me?”

Jungkook’s mouth drops open, and he’s about to confess to him that yes, it was Taehyung running
through his head through all of this, every single moment, and he still is, but he can’t because
Taehyung interrupts.

Because Taehyung still hears Ji-woo’s words, still knows there is a cold, harsh truth to them. Jeon
Jungkook has too much to lose to be with Kim Taehyung. “You did this for yourself,” Taehyung
steps forward and his face twists almost ugly, every feature narrowing as his eyes try to squeeze
together to stay dry and he’s digging a finger in his chest. “Yourself, yourself, yourself,” he says it as
if it’s a curse, and Jungkook simply takes it, lets that digit dig repeated and rapid into him until the
hand it stretches from folds and a fist rests exhaustedly against him, Taehyung’s face relaxing. He
speaks much calmer, but somehow Jungkook feels it more striking and sharper than that finger. “And
you did this to hurt me.”

Jungkook shakes his head. No, he didn’t. He fucking didn’t. His hand wraps around Taehyung’s
wrist, the one that almost presses into his chest. He clings onto him and Taehyung lets him even if
the skin burns. “I didn’t,” he implores with his eyes now, but his words remain unfailingly hesitant.
They trap in his throat once, stumble on his tongue before they fall, and they are so frustratingly
unsatisfactory even to his own ears. “I didn’t know another way to—to keep you away.”

He feels Taehyung’s fist clench tighter against him. “To keep me away?” it slips from him
incredulous as he stares with painful eyes. “So,” he rips his hand from Jungkook’s hold and presses it
to his hip, wipes his wrist into the fabric there to clean the memory of the touch from the way his skin
pulses. His head cocks, and he speaks bitter, “to sum up, you did this to me cause you don’t want me
around, but you’re too fucking horny to stay away from me yourself?”

His brows raise and his eyes and tongue feel to Jungkook like prickly daggers. He has had Taehyung
angry so many times, but it’s so different when he mixes it with hurt. It still spills from him in waves,
his animosity is wounded and Jungkook swallows his own words, because they sound stupid in his
mouth.

“You’re cruel,” Taehyung tells him, still speaks with that icy calmness that tells Jungkook he
believes in what he says, “you’re a cruel person.”

And he tries to leave. There is something very conclusive about his last statement, so simple and so
true. He’s cruel to Taehyung, and he’s cruel to himself. Taehyung’s attempt to side step him and
leave, again, and he hasn’t properly seen him in so long, hasn’t touched him at all, triggers
something not entirely conscious and he spins with him, and just as Taehyung opens the door, he
slams it shut. He presses his hands around him, essentially traps him against that door, but keeps his
distance, and the other keeps his back to him.

If that’s all he deserves, Jungkook speaks to his hair.

“Taehyung, I made a mistake,” he admits. A mistake, that’s what it fucking was. He never wanted to
do this. He never wanted to hurt him, never wanted to lose him in a way that feels so permanent and
rightful.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Taehyung tells the door. “It was a decision.” Because if Jungkook had the
mind-numbingly stupid justification that he should do this to keep Taehyung away, to end things
between them, then a decision is exactly what it was.

“I was drunk,” Jungkook says, and speaking to the back of his head is easier, because he doesn’t lose
all sense at the sight of the moisture that layers his eyes, “and on coke, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I
wouldn’t touch anyone else sober. I don’t want to.”

He’s confessing now, confessing things that he promised himself he would to him. He’s wanted to
tell him, had the urge to ever since he kissed him and told him he was his when he was inside of him,
that he doesn’t want anyone else, that he is more than enough.

But Taehyung’s head is shaking. “This means nothing to me,” he tells him, though it’s not entirely
true and he imagines how purely exhilarating it would have been to hear those words before. It still
is, but it’s not pure, it’s stained by bitterness.

Then he turns in Jungkook’s trap and his eyes are fierce again. “You know what it feels like?” he
raises his brows as he asks, laced with irony and still that inundating hurt. “Feels like you made a
fucking list of what would hurt me most and settled for the one that would feel fucking worst.” He
tells him and Jungkook wishes he would turn away again. He can barely stand to look at him. “You
did that intentionally to fucking hurt me,” he continues. His arms lift in the air and almost touch
Jungkook’s, but he’s careful. “Just to prove something? Because of a kiss?” He pauses after he says
it, because that’s it. That’s what started it, lips touching lips. Taehyung waited so long for something
so simple and when he did get it, it felt so worth it, but then Jungkook had to tear it all apart. “What
next, hm?” Taehyung’s arms fold now and he steps towards him. “Say you do want me,” he begins
as if it is hypothetical when Jungkook has never been more regretfully sure. “Say I want you back,”
he continues as if it is hypothetical when he has never been more regretfully sure. Taehyung shrugs
and his shoulders fall from it, brusque. “What are you going to do if you accidentally laugh at a joke
I make?” his head cocks. “Dig up my mom’s body so that you can fuck her?”

Jungkook’s arms drop from around him, and he’s stepping back, running a hand through his hair. “It
wasn’t just the kiss, Tae.” He tells him first. “That wasn’t a kiss,”he tells him next, head shaking.

And Taehyung’s voice finally raises, booms around the hallways. “What was it then, Jungkook?” He
knows it wasn’t a goddamn kiss. “What was it?” He steps forward and Jungkook steps back. He
knows what it was, to him, but he wants to hear him say it, and with the way his eyes are for a
moment he dares to hope maybe he would. “Tell me what is was.”

Taehyung is growing so frustrated again, because Jungkook cannot just hint at acknowledgment and
then back away, not when Taehyung deigns to speak to him. And a part of Taehyung is so desperate
for Jungkook to tell him, it wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just a kiss.

But he still just stares. His mouth parts and his chest lifts and it almost seems like he will speak, but
his chest recede with a heavy exhale and Taehyung no longer cares for that side of him that thinks
Jungkook’s genuine eyes deserve a chance to talk, because his lips never will.

“Fuck you,” Taehyung tells him for making him think he will actually say something that matters.
“Find someone else to experiment on your homosexuality with.” This is tiring. It’s draining and
Taehyung tries to reach for the door again, but Jungkook presses a hand in his shoulder to keep him
from facing away and drops it immediately.

“It’s not about sex,” Jungkook swears. He hates he allows Taehyung to think he is just an
experiment, a game, a bet. But it’s all his instincts force him to reduce him to. “It’s about you.”

“Me?” Taehyung repeats with a nod, two, three. “Okay,” and he faces him fully again, sardonically
challenges. “Let’s talk about me. You say you want me?” he looks right into his eyes. “How do you
want me?” As a fucktoy, Ji-woo’s words ring, that’s all he can be to him. “What do you want from
me?” To occasionally fuck him because he can’t get it up for girls. Taehyung knows he made
himself easy, he’s perfectly aware of that. “To be at your beck and call for when you want a fuck?”
Jungkook opens his mouth to speak, but Taehyung isn’t done yet. He raises his brows and then tilts
his head, elaborates harshly. “From me that is not from my sister.”

Jungkook’s lips fall shut. His voice still sounds so agonizingly raw. And Jungkook’s attempt at a
response is stifled by the unadulterated onslaught of regret that courses through him as it hits him so
suddenly that actions persevere. Sex usually doesn’t. It happens and it’s over. Meaningless things
dwindle and fade and Kim Ji-woo is meaningless to him, separated from the fact of Taehyung and
she was supposed to dwindle and fade. But she won’t. Taehyung has to live with the memory of it,
and Jungkook has to, too, because it will always be what lost him Taehyung and Taehyung could
never dwindle and fade.

And what does Jungkook want from him? What can he afford to ask of him? Nothing more than
what they already had, not now, and he remembers the storm that was his mind before he did what
he did. He’s started to forget with his obsession to undo, to take it all back, so Taehyung doesn’t hate
him. So Taehyung wants to touch him again, not even sex, just to fucking touch him without wiping
his hand afterwards as if his touch contaminates.

If anything, he did you a favor, his mind screams at him as it downs on him Jungkook won’t ask.
And maybe he did. “You know what?” Taehyung starts, chin jutting as he looks at him. “Thank
you,” he says and the other’s face twists with confusion, brows furrowing and his eyes molding with
perplexity, darting from one of Taehyung’s to the other, from one different lid to the other as they
show when they lower, hood over a soft glare, because he can’t keep them up. He’s exhausted.
“Thank you for opening my eyes I was starting to forget what you are.” Jungkook’s brows straighten
so immediate with the impact of his words, neck drawing slightly back, he’s almost flinching, too.
“You’re disgusting.”

Taehyung pulls away from the door again. He really wants to leave. He can’t do this anymore, can’t
look at him, but Jungkook’s fingers curl gently around his elbow. “Tae,” he whispers, and with the
motion of Taehyung walking forward to give himself enough room to open the door it comes too
close, to the side of his head.

Taehyung keeps his body away but turns his face to him. He’s so tired and Jungkook’s expression is
so soft and unfamiliar from this distance, but every feature that molds it is, imprinted in his mind. “I
just wanted to see you last week,” he tells him with the memory of it, of the frustration of not even
being able to see that face, of him convincing himself that Jungkook just needed time to come to
terms with it all and come back to him. “I just wanted to kiss you,” Taehyung confesses as his eyes
fall over his lips.

Jungkook’s reply is so immediate, breathy and instinctive as he moves to him. “You can kiss me,” he
exhales. Please, kiss me, he thinks, but Taehyung is taking his eyes away, lips away, face away,
looking at a nothing in the end of the hallway.
“I don’t want to anymore,” he lies, and Jungkook’s whole entire face falls. It’s a lie, because he’s not
there yet, but he will be. The goddamn permission, the offer tugs at him, because why did it have to
take this for Jungkook to so readily allow him that. Why couldn’t he just—?

Taehyung inhales sharply through his nose, moves his own hand down the length of his arm until it
chases away Jungkook’s touch and he looks at him from the corner of his eye, speaks more firmly.
“If you went through all this trouble to make me stay away from you, the least you could do is stay
away from me.”

Jungkook steps away when Taehyung’s shoulder brushes past him and he begins to spin for the door
for the nth time and he can tell he doesn’t have the energy for more, so he will let him go, he will.

“I just—” he starts, and it dies.

Taehyung gives him his eyes for a final time. “You just what?” he asks and it’s not even bitter
anymore. Just empty.

Jungkook shakes his head, teeth sinking into his lip as he looks away, but then draws his eyes to him
again, right to his own. “It wasn’t a game and it wasn’t a bet, okay?” he promises because he needs
him to know. “It was just you, I just wanted you,” he steps back, to give him room to open the door.
“I want you,” he says it simple and short. He doesn’t know what that I want you has become for
them, what it has grown to mean. It’s the only thing they’re brave enough to confess to each other,
even if it never only means sex, hardly means sex at all.

He doesn’t expect Taehyung to stay, and he doesn’t. He blinks at him a final time and he leaves.

Jungkook spends as little time in Kai’s territory as possible, but with his absolute refusal to elaborate
on his intentions, going to his club feels necessary. He needs something to do as well, lying around
feels ironically tiring. He works out more than he ever has, previously, but Yoongi claims he cannot
find him an opponent, currently, so the best he can beat is air.

And he has a repressed compulsion to hit, hit something hard enough to make his own knuckles
bleed, but he has never been one to punch walls, and he’s not about to start now. He’d much prefer
to try to break a jaw. A bottle of Valium pills clutters in his pocket; he just likes to hear the sound. He
hasn’t taken any in the past three days, but it calms him to know he could, if it got too much, if he
wanted something to calm his nerves.

Partially, he walks into Kai’s club, so different in the daylight, with a promise to himself to remain
calm no matter how much the bastard attempts to provoke him. But there is some underlying urge
that prickles at his knuckles and he closes his fist over the bottle of pills to make them stop cluttering
with his pace, some twisted and frustrated hope Kai will give an excuse enough to swing.

He’s never punched a wall, and he’s never punched Kai. But he’s always wanted to punch Kai,
that’s the difference.

He sees him and his blood curls and sears where it moves beneath his skin, rapid in his veins. It
churns more than usual at the sight of his back as he props himself at the bar, looks down at a folder,
does goddamn paperwork to pretend he’s an upstanding member of society, because Jungkook very
desperately wants to blame him and his incessantly running mouth for the actions he himself took,
blame anything and anyone until he doesn’t have to live by the trickle of clashing pills in his pocket
to be able to sleep.

Kai hears the steps of his approach, and Kai turns. The smirk is so immediate on his self-satisfied
face that Jungkook wonders if he will even need words to trigger him to swing. He despises him
with every fiber of his being, but as soon as Jungkook thinks the word despise his shoulders slump a
tiny bit, his gait loses the underlying attack, and he wishes coke did more for memory loss because
he cannot stop replaying in his head Taehyung so clearly and firmly declaring he hates him.

“Oi, birthday boy,” Kai drops the pen he holds and lets it roll a little on the bar as he turns fully,
gives Jungkook his full, undivided, very much patronizing attention. Jungkook feels that fucking
snake around his neck smirks and its eyes glint as much as the person on whose skin it resides so
taunting, the resemblance of their eyes striking. Kai’s head cocks as Jungkook nears him across the
empty dance floor, his tongue poking out quick and subconscious to lick at the corner where his lips
meet, that fucking tick he’s had for the past three years. “Came to make a wish?”

Jungkook stops at a reasonable enough distance, too far to sporadically hit him. He crosses his arms,
while Kai stands exposed, casual yet declaratively possessive, both elbows propped on the bar
behind him. “Came to find out what the fuck you were doing at the Ozone,” Jungkook tells him.
There was never any use in going around circles with Kai.

Kai’s smirk twitches. He tongues at the corner of his lips again. “Checking to see if anything
changed,” he says with all the cockiness akin to Jungkook, “since I’m planning on making my return
soon.”
Jungkook scoffs, a brow lifting up as he folds his arms. “You delusional now, Kai?” Every
interaction with him feels like a confrontation.

Kai huffs the shortest laughter and even that rings with condescension. “No,” he shakes his head,
“but you must be,” his head straightens now and the snake at his neck stares at Jungkook, “if you
thought you could fuck a boy and it wouldn’t reach me.”

Jungkook’s eyes drop to the floor minutely before they fix over him again. “That’s just a fucking
assumption,” he says, airy, still tries to perpetuate some laughter in his own voice, deem the
assumption ridiculous.

“Is it?” Kai’s brows perch higher on his forehead. “Then how come whenever the two of you cross
paths you suddenly disappear?” He watches Jungkook as it settles for him that Kai did some digging,
this isn’t solely based on Jungkook hitting his brother over him; he’s always had eyes everywhere.
“Bathrooms, social gatherings, yours and Julia’s back room of the Ozone,” he lists so sure, “You’re
fucking him, Jungkook.” The tongue pokes at the edge of his slow smirk. “Can’t fool me.”

“He fucks me,” Jungkook lies. It’s the first thing he thinks to say as he watches the glint in Kai’s
cruel eyes. Taehyung may be right, Jungkook is cruel, but Kai is Kai. “I’m the one who takes it up
the ass,” he emphasizes, “so if you have anything to do, do it to me.”

Kai shakes his head. “I couldn’t give less of a shit about your sexual orientation,” he pushes off the
bar, steps towards Jungkook with a wide gait that is almost playful, makes himself all the more
comfortable and probable to hit. “But I bet your daddy does,” he smirks so wide, cocks his head
again. “So, if you don’t want him knowing his son is a goddamn pillow biter, and for a Kim
nonetheless,” Jungkook presses his teeth together, clenches them as he strives to perpetuate the
indifference on his face, “I would like you to undo those strings you pulled, so I can sell in the
Ozone again.”

Jungkook watches that tongue poke out to the corner of his lips and his own mirrors, coats the
surfaces of his own, as he considers. “Okay,” he says, and Kai’s brows strike up again, a small
surprise, but there is no other way out of him, and Clo and Yoongi find ways to buy off of him,
anyway. “Okay,” Jungkook repeats. “No roofies,” he details, firm. “And just,” he hesitates, hates he
would do it in front of someone like Kai, “keep himout of it.” He worries how much of a risk it is
posing specifically that instruction, as he knows the way Kai works, will probably focus exactly
onthat, but the two of them for the lack of any other civility have always been good with terms and
conditions. “We’re not like that anymore, so there’s no point getting him involved.”

He almost hits him then and there. “Aww,” Kai prolongs, a feigned expression of compassion
coating all the features around the smug curve of his lips,“did your boyfriend break up with you,
Jungkookie?” he speaks as if he’s talking to a child that just lost its toy, sickly sweet. “And right
before your birthday.” He straightens his head just to cock it to the other side. “Hmm,” it vibrates
from his chest and Jungkook is so aware he won’t like the next ounce of shit that leaves his mouth,
“Does that mean he’s free now?”

He doesn’t want to be too defensive, he doesn’t because it can potentially simply make him a target,
but with aggression Jungkook is impulsive and he’s taking a step forward that by itself is a warning,
his arms unfolding and a finger in Kai’s face. “If you fucking—” he grits out, but Kai interjects.

“Relax,” he drawls. “I don’t bend over for anyone,” he tells him and Jungkook wonders if he sounds
like that much of a piece of shit from the side. Kai purses his lips, looks up as if in some deep,
important thought. “Though if I can get him to spread them…” he trails and Jungkook wants to bash
his face onto the surface of his won

He nearly grows, but it’s has its residual hints of being measured, from when Jungkook knew what
composure was, “Kai.”

“He looked quite pretty that night in the Ozone.”

Jungkook takes another step and he’s in his face. “If you wanna get back in there,” he close to
seethes, “Stay the fuck away from him.” He darts his eyes across his expression, notices the snake
shift with his swallow. If Kai pisses him off, he stands no chance against Jungkook, physically. He
has no concept of technique and with no weapons lying around, he’d give him a pounding harder
than any of those he’s given to Taehyung. He adds, “And from Clo.”

Kai’s mouth thins as he studies the rancor from so close. It takes him a moment, but speaks again,
just firm now, any teasing mockery escapes him, and he speaks like Jeon Jungkook is meant to be
spoken to. He speaks carefully. “I’m the one making the ultimatums, Jungkook,” he tells him and
himself. “You have nothing over me right now.” His tongue darts, pokes into the corner of his lips.
“And it pisses you off that you can’t add Yoongi to that instruction, doesn’t it?” He twists his voice,
his words, but Jungkook’s face remains reticent, safe for his continuously tightened jaw. “Because I
don’t need to go to Yoongi. He comes to me.”He speaks with enmity now, and Jungkook knows if
Kai drops the tone of the taunt, he’s nervous.“Bet I can get the same treatment from that pretty
twink.”

Nothing over me, he says, and Jungkook wants to fucking laugh. He edges closer. “Stay away from
him,” he commands, because Kai does not deserve to as much as look in Taehyung’s direction, let
alone call him a name. “Because no matter who you tell about who I fuck, nothing’s gonna change
the fact, you, me and Namjoon all know it was your product with which those girls were roofied.”
It wasn’t him who did it, Jungkook knows that, Namjoon knows that, and Kai knows it, too, but all
the evidence would point to him.

Kai’s eyes narrow. “I fall, you fall.”

Their gazes cross so similar in nature. Jungkook speaks to him slow and deep. He pronounces every
word so clear and chilling. “You can sell again in the Ozone, but if you go anywhere near him or my
sister and that includes fucking calling her, Byung Chul learns what happened to his daughter.” He
pulls away, walks backwards as Kai glares after him. “Namjoon may not be here,” Jungkook says
finally, “but I still have his statement signed.”

He spins and gives him his back, crosses the dance floor towards the exit.

“Happy fucking birthday,” Kai yells after him and Jungkook acknowledges it with his middle finger
up.

Taehyung is there. It’s the first thing Jungkook notices when he sits in the booth. He’s late, but he’s
paying, so anyone hardly cares. Yoongi has his eyes on Hoseok whose back is pressed on his
shoulder, but has an unknown girl in his lap, her lips on his neck, so it takes him a minute to notice.
He moves his attention to him when he does see him, glancing between the edge of the booth at
which he sits and the other end which hosts his girlfriend, who had intentionally left space for him.

Her eyes are on him, too, staring straight and questionable, and when he doesn’t return the look, she
swallows, one of her lids faltering. She looks around almost awkwardly, searching for prying eyes,
to see if anyone has witnessed the humiliation of a lack of acknowledgement, before she fixes the
fallen strap of her dress and downs a shot.

Jungkook sits two people away from Yoongi, unreachable.

Someone saunters in front of him, blocks his view of Taehyung as he greets him, arms opening and
slapping his hand with his. Jungkook returns the gesture, cups his hand around the guy’s own and
squeezes, listening to his congratulations with inexpressive nods, but that’s not new.
What’s new is he doesn’t have Julia in his lap, just has his attention behind the person. Other people
greet him, but he’s dismissive, even for himself. Typically, he’d be drunk or high, or something that
makes him the least bit more agreeable to people who want to tell him cheers, to give him a reason to
drink more.

He’s sober. He has a drink in front of him just to have it, but he doesn’t sip it once, slips some of it
onto the floor that has enough liquid spilled on it to stick already.

Julia waits for him, too prideful to go to him herself in front of so many people. But he doesn’t come.
Because at one point Jimin leaves and Taehyung is solely and only with Park Bogum.

Jungkook doesn’t drink, but Taehyung almost drinks for the both of them and it shows, in the very
way he tries to dance, he smiles, but not at people, up at the ceiling, throws his head back. He drinks
more than he can pay for and Jungkook knows that feeling of when you pass too many drinks to
care, though it could never matter to him. Jungkook tugs a waiter that only works their table by the
wrist, as if he orders, and he says he’ll pay for him, for half, because Taehyung doesn’t need to
notice or to know.

Taehyung dances with Bogum, he dances against Bogum, almost dances on him, and Jungkook
knows what that is, merely a distraction, but still it gets to him, bothers him, because he doesn’t
know how distracted Taehyung is willing to get, what extents he would go to, especially when his
judgement is clouded, because he drinks, and he keeps drinking, and Jungkook doesn’t like the
decisions people make on substances. He hates them.

Taehyung has not looked at him once that night, until he does, and it all stops. He stills.

Taehyung has grown used to not seeing Jungkook in the Ozone. He hasn’t been there in so long. But
then he’s there and he looks at him, once, on a whim, and he finds it so hard to look away.
Intoxication, he kept thinking, would make it easier, but it doesn’t. It’s supposed to make it all blurry,
and make it spin, and it does, but that holds true for everything except Jeon Jungkook’s face.

He stops dancing and their eyes lock and it’s such a tiny moment in time, so far from enough, when
Bogum leans and says something in his ear, and Taehyung rips his gaze away. Whatever Bogum
asks, Taehyung nods, and he takes him by the fucking hand, and they start making their way through
the people, leaving their glasses on the bar top.

Jungkook’s eyes trail helpless and unbidden after them, sealed onto the back of Taehyung’s head.
His hand tightens around his glass, fingers squeezing around it hard enough for him to worry the
crystal will snap. He begs himself to look away, he wants to look away. Taehyung wants him to stay
away, and he should, that was the purpose of all of this, free them of each other, but he doesn’t want
to, and Bogum is taking him to the fucking bathroom and Jungkook is on his feet.

He reaches easier than them, quicker than them.

They’re talking when he opens the door, but stop when he comes in. They face each other propped
against the dark marbled counters of the sinks, where Taehyung’s hips pressed that first time
Jungkook touched him, when they were there because of Bogum again, when Taehyung had told
him he didn’t want him. It’s still true, Jungkook knows, it must be.

He is too close to him.

Taehyung turns half his body to look, his legs losing footing for a mere moment and Jungkook
almost reaches to straighten him, but Bogum has his arm on his shoulder first, quick, because of how
close he stands.

“Jungkook?” Taehyung’s brows furrow. For a moment he had thought he had imagined him, but
there he fucking is. Always is everywhere, except when he wants him there, then he’s not, he’s only
in his mind, inebriating him more than all the alcohol he consumed tonight.

Bogum’s eyes fix on him as well, narrow, but Jungkook drops the door shut. He ignores him, steps
towards Taehyung.

“Taehyung,” he speaks. He’s never been sober in this bathroom. It seems so fucking bright. “Can I
talk to you?”

Taehyung shifts to fold his arms and Jungkook wants to thank him because it almost inconspicuously
shakes Bogum’s hand off of him. “Oh?” he’s bitter again, there’s something brave and full in his
chest as he glares at him now. “Cause our last excuse of a conversation went so well?” he bites
sardonic.

Jungkook shakes his head, taking another step, and he’s almost as close now, because Taehyung is
moving away from Bogum as well, his body spinning to line his chest with Jungkook’s and it’s so
obviously unconscious, and the very fact of it sparks things in Jungkook he cannot explain, nor
define. “Just for a few minutes, Tae,” he promises.
Taehyung’s mouth parts, but another voice sounds. “Taehyung,” and two heads snap to Bogum. Just
like Jungkook hadn’t been looking at Bogum, he has his eyes reserved for Taehyung. “Don’t
fucking go.”

Jungkook’s eyes narrow at him. “He’s drunk,” he states, loud and short.

Bogum’s attention turns to him slow and he speaks, empathic. “Exactly,” his teeth sound with it.

Jungkook wants to scoff. “Yes, exactly.” His body angles away from Taehyung, he gives his
shoulder to his chest and faces Bogum, the other almost remaining behind his back. “So keep your
fucking hands off of him.”

“Jungkook,” Taehyung tries, and it almost gives him shivers, how close to his nape his voice sounds.

Some guy none of them recognizes comes in and as he opens the door the music sounds louder. He
pays attention only to the urinal which he stumbles to.

Bogum doesn’t care. “Why don’t you look after your girlfriend?” he speaks through the sound of the
guy undoing his zip. “He is not yours.”

Jungkook eyes the guy briefly, before his glare returns hostile on Bogum. He doesn’t care either.
“You wanna take advantage,” he mocks, cruel, through the sound of the guy pissing, “be his fucking
rebound?” Jungkook stresses the word spiting, because he cannot let anyone in this room even the
guy who pisses out an ocean believe that Bogum could be anything else to Taehyung.

The guy zips his pants up. He leaves in the middle of Bogum’s brave, stupid declaration. “I want to
treat him right.”

Jungkook scoffs, his shoulders shaking with the exhale of laughter the sound of it constitutes and he
steps forward again, Taehyung remaining completely behind his back. “You’re not treating him any
way cause you’re not fucking touching him.”

“That’s his choice,” Bogum says quick.

“And he doesn’t want you,” Jungkook says quicker.

Bogum’s brows lift. “Oh yeah?” He challenges. “And he wants you?” He asks with such self-
satisfied irony, and Jungkook supposes he deserves it, but it makes him angry.

Mostly he’s angry a week ago he could have easily said, yes, he wants him, Taehyung wants him
back. But he lost the privilege of doing that. He can’t have him anymore. It’s a realization that rises
in his mind and blood and chest several times a day, but now he has to glare at the face of man who
is allowed to touch him when it swallows him, and Jungkook’s seething, “You really have no mercy
for your own fucking face, do you?” He takes a step forward, threatening, and he didn’t make his
knuckles bleed on Kai’s skull, but maybe he will on Bogum’s.

“Jungkook,” he hears Taehyung’s voice. He feels his hand, the touch on his shoulder so tentative,
but the sensation of it extends and runs down the line of his spine. The muscles of his back tighten
under the light brush of fingers, shoulders curling back, arching into it so instinctively. “Stop.”

Jungkook knows no matter what he says aloud, he won’t make his knuckles bleed on Bogum’s skull,
not with Taehyung behind him.

“How is he any of your business?” Bogum’s still speaking, still demanding.

“He’s my business,” Jungkook begins and to his sense, it needs no continuation, full stop, Taehyung
is his business, Taehyung is his, but that’s stupid, that’s wrong. Taehyung can barely stand to look at
him. So, he finishes,“if you’re taking him to a fucking bathroom when he’s drunk.”

Bogum’s chest fills with a short laughter. “You’re such a saint, aren’t you?”

Jungkook’s head twitches in one direction as he clicks his tongue. “Never said I was,” he says, “but I
bet it’s all that’s running through your do-gooder head.” He tilts his head back, gives him the sharp
angle of his chin as he stares at him with all the disdain of a Jeon. “You really wanted to save him
from me, didn’t you? Play fucking hero.”

Taehyung’s fingers tighten on him, fold over in the fabric of his shirt and it is an actual touch. He
tenses. He cannot believe how quick he’s redeveloped this unbearable sensitivity to Taehyung, but
maybe he was never used to the exhilaration of having his hands on him. He simply knows to
appreciate it more now. “Jungkook.”
The other is pausing this time, his eyes narrow more, Jungkook struck a nerve, but he won’t
acknowledge it, and they all know it.“He didn’t need me,” Bogum shakes his head. “He’s come to
his senses, I hear.”

“Come to his senses?” Jungkook’s next step is instinctive, but he only manages half of it before
Taehyung’s hand squeezes indicatively and he draws back again. “Try me more,” he dares, “I beg
you.”

Bogum’s chin juts, but his fingers are twitching, his eyes darting to the hand on Jungkook’s shoulder.
“Your fist your only argument?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “No,” he tells him, “But I don’t owe you anything else.”

Bogum takes a step forward, too and a part of Jungkook feels like he wants to make him hit him,
here, in front of Taehyung, but whatever he means to say, or do, is cut off, falls short. “Jungkook,”
Taehyung’s voice sounds firm from behind him. “I’ll come.”

Jungkook spins just as Bogum tries to catch a glimpse of him, bending to the side.

“What?”

“What?”

Taehyung’s hand drops from his shoulder when he has his attention now on him, eyes immediately
losing the power of their glare and widening soft and wonderous as they find his face, as they search
for his own. Taehyung awards him that, glances at him, but his own eyes are hard. “This is your
fucking birthday present,” he tells him, and Jungkook’s heart feels like it skips a beat. He knows.He
cares. Jungkook’s chest expands with something indecipherable and he can say nothing, just darts
his eyes across his face. His mouth opens to release whatever it is that fills his chest like this and the
shape his lips form as they part are almost a smile.

But Taehyung takes his eyes away so quick. He turns to Bogum. “I’ll see what he wants, and I’ll
come back,” he tells him over Jungkook’s shoulder, and Bogum hesitates, but nods.
Jungkook’s chest empties as sudden as it had filled. There is some striking deflation in the
understanding between them. Because it is supposed to be him and Taehyung understanding each
other over protective shoulders, them against people, against his dad, against Bogum, against his
friends, against his sister, Taehyung’s sister.

Taehyung’s fucking sister.

“Where?” Taehyung asks him, but he never returns his eyes to his.

Jungkook’s tongue pokes in his cheek. “The room,” he says.

They walk towards it almost separately with the distance Taehyung keeps.

They’ve been in that room twice before this. They’ve had sex on that couch Jungkook stands closer
to as Taehyung stills almost at the door.

He looks at him and he speaks, short and firm. He has his eyes on him, but they are clouded over by
the glisten of alcohol, pupils dilated before they can accustom to the lightness of the room compared
to the darkness of the Ozone. “What do you want?” Taehyung asks.

Jungkook’s teeth fall over his lower lip, chew into it. He hadn’t really thought this far ahead, just
didn’t want Taehyung drunk with Bogum in the bathroom of a club, not today, not on his birthday
and not so soon. He wants to be the type of person to allow Taehyung to move on, but he isn’t, not
yet and not like this, not rebounding at the first chance he gets with someone who has been hitting on
him for a while, someone who previously kissed him, and who works with him. Not while
Jungkook’s watching.

“Just—” He begins, and he steps forward. His voice has lost the animosity of speaking to Bogum
and it rings almost vulnerable with the edge of hesitance that coats it. “Not him,” he says gingerly,
“just not in front of me,” he continues because he doesn’t want to ask him to never be with anyone
else, no matter how much he doesn’t want him to be with anyone else.

But it’s wrong. He phrases it so wrong, because it makes Taehyung’s blood boil. His nostrils flare
and his eyes widen so much, he’s never seen rage form so quickly on his face, but he’s drunk,
inhibitions lowered, and the feeling simply overtakes.
“Are you fucking serious?” He says and it is on a border of a hiss and a yell. “Not in front of you,”
his voice is offended and scathing, and so is his face, features narrow with animated disgust, lines of
it creasing and it’s agonizing to merely look.“You fucked my sister, Jungkook,” he pronounces so
loud and so clear and Jungkook almost takes a step back from how he sounds. “In my house, while I
was there, while I listened.” Taehyung takes a step forward this time, the contortion of his face
relaxing, but it doesn’t make his expression easier to look at – it’s still a concoction of emotion. “You
don’t have the right to ask me that. You don’t have the right to ask me anything,” he exhales.

Jungkook has words in his throat, but they can’t reach his tongue and lips no matter how much time
Taehyung gives him, staring at him with a challenging expectation. This is the part where Jungkook
defends himself. But he has nothing to say in his defense.

Taehyung looks away with a breath that he swallows before he returns his eyes to him, as punishing
as before if not even more. “It’s fucking pathetic you saying this, you know?” the words tumble out
of his mouth with the hurried slur of alcohol. He takes another step forward. “Because how would it
have been it was fucking reversed, hm?” He’s walking still, so slow, but sure, he’s getting closer, his
eyes are getting closer and they are worse from such a proximity. He can see the glint in them like
this. “Would you have enjoyed it if I’d let him pound me as hard as you pounded my sister?”
Taehyung bites with teeth clashing awkwardly together and Jungkook replaces his gaze to the floor,
“Would you have wanted to listen to it? Listen to me say his name, while he says mine?”

He has to stifle a flinch. “Stop,” he begs. He doesn’t want to imagine it, it makes his skin crawl.

And Taehyung listened.

“You want me to stop?” his voice trembles, and it sounds wet, somehow. He steps forward some
more and leans, tries to catch Jungkook’s eyes, because he wants to look at them, needs to. They are
as petrifying as always, but the quality of it is different. It’s naked and it invigorates him to speak
more. “You think I didn’t want you to stop when I could hear you breathing while you were with
her?”

Jungkook’s head snaps up and he gives him the eyes he asks for and he’s closer than expected. “It
wasn’t about her,” he promises. That wasn’t sex, it was nothing, not like it would be for Taehyung if
he was with Bogum. “There wasn’t a moment that was for her.” He searches his face, and he strives
to gather his thoughts, explain, because he doubts Taehyung would give another chance, he’s having
a second one already, and he’s failing. He didn’t even deserve one.

“Yeah?” Taehyung snaps. “Let’s break even, then. I’ll fuck your sister.” He claps his hands together.
“No, better yet let’s get Clo Eun a strap on, let her do me up the ass. You can watch. I’ll pay for the
fucking popcorn.”
“Taehyung,” Jungkook says, pauses. He struggles, “If someone found out—"

“What?” Taehyung’s teeth clasp and Jungkook hears it even with the dull sound of the music with
how close he is. “If someone found out what?” He darts his eyes between his, from the right to the
left. “They’d beat the shit out of me?” he raises his brows, his shoulders, then he lets them fall,
slump. “I’d take it,” he tells him, he means it. “Any fucking day I’d take it over what you did.”

Getting hit lasts moments. Physical pain is fucking child play. Taehyung steps away from him. He
paces. His eyes sting again, because he’sthinking again, he’s reminded again. And that’s exactly why
he’d prefer a pipe to his own head than this. He doesn’t know how long this will last. It will stop, at
some point, it has to, but not yet. It’s still so raw and poignant, still makes him almost physically ill,
and he’s so desperate to feel something else, anything that isn’t this somehow hollow pain, a
deflation that makes him feel as if his organs have evaporated and he’s empty inside, and he doesn’t
know if he can be full again. He hates how much it just forces into his mind an idea of pointlessness,
because he was never one to consciously look for a point, in anything, just wanted to keep going,
make his little brother happy. He never had a point, so he doesn’t understand why it feels like he lost
it. It’s numb. And numbness never felt so overwhelming.

“You know what?” he says into Jungkook’s blatant inability to answer as he pauses in his gait and
turns to him. “Hit me.”

Jungkook’s eyes fly to him. “What?” he asks blankly. He blinks.

“Come on.” Taehyung is moving towards him again. “Hit me,” he challenges and his lips curl back
with it, bare his teeth. “I’m a faggot, aren’t I?” His head cocks, eyes are destructive. He starts with
such irony, “I have feelings for you,” he licks his lips with it as he says it and Jungkook wants to
look away from him, but he can’t; he wants to hear him say it again, but he doesn’t want to hear him
say it like that, “and that makes me a faggot and your dad would want you to beat me up, right?” his
brows perch up. Then he’s nearly yelling. “Be a good boy, do as your fucking dad wants, as Kai
would want, and Yoongi and all your fucking friends.”

Jungkook can just look, he can hardly speak. He shakes his head. He won’t hit him, he’d never hit
him.

“That’s why you did it, right?” He leans his body to the side with his next harrowing step. He can
almost feel him breathe now. “You were scared they were going to hurt me, so you protected me.”
He twists the word so much, forces it to sound as ridiculous in Jungkook’s ears as it feels to him. His
next sentence, so loud and clear and almost sober makes Jungkook flinch. “Why’d you have to rip
my heart out while you were fucking at it?”
Jungkook shakes his head again. He didn’t mean to do that, he never wanted to do that. He can’t
believe he did that. He never wants to see his face like this, eyes like this, hear his voice twist and
break like this.

“Hit me,” Taehyung steps forward when Jungkook says nothing, pushes at his chest. He’s saying
nothing, and Taehyung has never wanted to provoke anyone more, anything more. He just wants to
feel something different than this and he wants to hate Jungkook more. He doesn’t want to feel
anything else when he looks into his eyes and sees the shakes of his head. Just blind hatred. “Come
on,” he pushes at him again, “I’m not a girl just hit me,” he begs, “hit me like you want to hit your
dad but you never will cause you don’t have the balls.”

At his next push, Jungkook has his wrists in his hands, he pulls him against him. “I don’t want to
fucking hit you,” he grinds out, forcing his eyes on his because if he can’t trust his words it’s all he
has left.

Taehyung stops. He stares back at him and stops. For a moment he looks at him like he always did,
vulnerable and wondrous, darting his eyes all over his face, like he’s seeing him for the first time
now and never wants to stop seeing. His mouth parts with small exhales of heavy breaths that make
his chest rise and fall uneven. And for a fleeting moment Jungkook allows himself to think maybe
it’s over. Maybe Taehyung will hear him, maybe he’ll forgive him.

But then his eyes narrow. “Well fuck me then,” he says with that same torturous voice and
Jungkook’s blood runs cold. “That’s what you want, don’t you? To fuck me?” he asks sharp and
takes a step forward and Jungkook has to take one back.

“Tae—”

“You fucked me,” Taehyung enunciates, and it pierces right through Jungkook. “Fucked me over
real good, you want to keep at it? Come on then, fuck me, fuck me better.” He keeps getting nearer
closer, voice taunting, and Jungkook recognizes a bit of himself in it, sans the underlying trigger of
clouding emotion. “It’s why you brought me here last time.” With the last pace, Jungkook loses
footing, falls back onto the couch, the exact couch he fucked him on.

He looks up at him as Taehyung towers over. “It’s not about this.”

He’s drunk, Jungkook thinks. He’s drunk and he doesn’t mean any of this and he isn’t like this. This
is not Taehyung.
“Not about this?” he leers, mouth contorting, and he stands between his legs. “What is it about then,
Jungkook?” his head cocks. “You want my mouth, is that it? I keep forgetting I’m just a warm mouth
for you to fuck, isn’t that what you said at the hotel?” His voice spirals to unrecognizable dimensions
for him. He sounds so different. He’s drunk. Jungkook thinks.

But that’s not it. It’s not alcohol. It’s hurt. It’s pure, unadulterated hurt that makes him like this, that
changes him like this, and it’s all Jungkook’s fucking fault.

At the hotel, he says, so long ago. Jungkook’s almost forgotten he ever said this because he can’t
even imagine meaning it, but Taehyung hasn’t, and Taehyung won’t. How many times did
Jungkook hurt him and not fucking notice? Something in his stomach twists. How did this happen?
His own mind screams, how the fuck did this happen? Why does it hurt so much that hehurts?

Taehyung is bold when he’s hurt. He props one knee at the side of Jungkook’s thigh, tilts his chin
down with his head tilted and he’s almost pouting in a pretense, but his eyes are still traitorously
harsh. “Won’t you fuck me, Kook, hm?”

Jungkook closes his legs slightly, pulls his thigh away from the pressure Taehyung’s own slightly
applies, because it burns too much even through clothing. He swallows something bitter on his
tongue before he shakes his head. “No,” he says.

He’d never touch him when he’s so drunk and hurt and drunk on hurt.

“Why not?” Taehyung says and then his other knee is on the couch and he’s lowering himself on
Jungkook. “You can take me raw,” he tells him in a rough exhale, borderline salacious, as he moves
into him slowly, his face still towering, but now from so close. He stares at the mole on his nose. “I
never fucked anyone but you,” he says stronger, more angry than sexual, more honest, and his lips
are almost at his mouth.

Jungkook presses his back into the couch, tries to pull away, look at the side, but Taehyung lifts his
hand up, presses it into his jaw and cheek and makes him face him. “Tae—" he tries, but his breath
stirs and halts when Taehyung leans to the side of his head he’s not touching, and he hovers his lips
over his jaw.

“What?” he breathes onto his skin before he presses his lips onto there firmer, almost a kiss, but he
doesn’t move them like this, doesn’t apply pressure, just parts them and mouths gingerly over him.

Jungkook can’t breathe and Taehyung’s moving his body forward, pressing onto him until they’re
flush, until he’s on him. He settles over him, but doesn’t still his hips, still adjusts and it teases into
Jungkook. His teeth ghost over the skin of his neck, just under his jaw, press there gently.

Jungkook’s hands find his hips and squeeze in warning. “Get off me, Tae,” he says, tries to be firm,
but Taehyung moves and his voice strains.

“Why?” He straightens from the ministrations on his neck, gazes down into his eyes again and the
torture of it is so much worse than the touch of his lips, those same lips that now almost brush against
his, while his thumb glides softly over his cheek and his jaw. He whispers right into his mouth, “I
thought you said you wanted me.”

The discrepancy between the way he touches him so sensually and gently and the intent of what he
says and what he does is almost unrecognizable in Taehyung. It’s almost cruel, and Taehyung isn’t
this.

This shouldn’t be like this, Jungkook thinks.

He says it. “Not like this,” he whispers back into his mouth with a shake of his head, his eyes falling
over his lips briefly as they breathe into him. He doesn’t know which exhale is his and which is
Taehyung’s.

“Not like this?” Taehyung moves, his body grinds, and Jungkook’s fingers squeeze into him to try to
keep him still. “Didn’t know there was another way?” he keeps talking, murmuring so intimate and
private, right into his parted mouth as he stares right into his naked eyes.

He relaxes the elbow of his free arm onto Jungkook’s shoulder, curls the forearm back on the line of
his back, traps him like this and angles his lower body with a roll of it, so that Jungkook can feel the
heat of him against him.

He can’t look at him, but he’s too close to look away from, so he closes his eyes. “No,” he says and
feels those pressureless lips against the muttered word.

“No?” Taehyung asks, lower body still moving, rotating into him lewd and rude and Jungkook can
hardly think. “You want to,” Taehyung’s saying and it’s getting almost whiny against his mouth, his
brows furrowing as he presses himself firmer and digs his fingers into the skin of his cheek. “I can
feel you, you’re getting hard for me,” he says it with a whimper, his voice thinning and reaching
higher, as if he himself is turned on, as if he himself is desperate for something.

It’s true. He’s not hard, yet, but his body is starting to react, always reacts to Taehyung. But there is
nothing sexual about this, not a bit of it has to do with sex, not for him and not for Taehyung either.
Because this is not an advance, it’s an attack.

A part of Taehyung expects Jungkook to flip him on that couch and fuck him like he asks him to. A
part of him needs it, needs it because nothing will perpetuate his hate towards him more than that. He
wants Jungkook to take advantage of this, of him, prove him for once and for all he is a piece of shit
and this is all just sex.

But he doesn’t. He opens his eyes, looks straight at him and he says, “No.”

Taehyung’s teeth press together. “Come on, Jeon,” he dares, he challenges. His fingers release his
face, and his hand is wrapping around Jungkook’s own, squeezing against it and bringing it back,
pressing the palm into his ass and layering his own over it. “I’m horny and I want you to do me.” He
pulls his head back, and Jungkook almost trails his lips after his. “Isn’t that how this works?”

“You’re drunk,” Jungkook says. He can taste it on his breath, and he can see it in his eyes.

Taehyung scoffs. “You were on drugs half the time.” He moves over him again, leans forward,
presses the hand he keeps onto him harder against himself. “Fuck me,” his voice has lost all breathy
seductiveness. It’s rough, commanding and desperate in a way that is not at all sexual.

He’s just desperate because he’s losing moves, can’t think of anything else and Jungkook still says
no, still won’t give him the proof he needs that he does not deserve an ounce of his attention, never
did, that he’s just a piece of shit, and this was all just sex to him.

Jungkook tries to slide his hand from underneath and pull it away. Taehyung catches his wrist in the
air when it slips from underneath his palm and clings onto it there. “You’ll regret it,” Jungkook’s
eyes dart between his.

Taehyung’s dart between his own. They narrow. He’s speaking harder again, honest again. He’s
speaking with the rawness of hurt again as his face twists. “Like you didn’t fucking regret it every
time you touched me,” he almost spits it with the way he says it so sharply.

He lets his arm loose and then Jungkook is the one catching his wrist, holding their hands together in
the air around his body.

“I don’t,” Jungkook speaks before he thinks; it’s an instinct, telling him this. “I don’t regret you.”

Taehyung stills in his lap, and for the second time that night he actually recognizes Taehyung’s eyes
when they look down at him. For a moment they just stare at each other with only the sound of the
dull music and their breathing filling the room. For the second time Jungkook thinks maybe he’ll be
allowed to say more.

For the second time it’s gone in a flash.

Taehyung charges again, moves again. “Get your fingers inside of me then,” he speaks in his neck.
Taehyung’s lips are there again, coating over a vein, with his teeth and his tongue, because he can’t
look at Jungkook’s lying eyes anymore. They’re soft and open, and he simply can’t.

“No, Tae.” Jungkook holds their hands firm in the air when Taehyung tried to push them back
towards himself. He’s still stronger than him, physically, though he feels so incredibly weak in that
moment.

“Why not?” Taehyung’s teeth nip at the skin of his neck. “Come on. We can do it without your
fingers if you want, tear me open why don’t you?” He pecks at a vein. “Bet it’ll hurt.” His body
moves so familiar into him. “Want you to hurt me, Kook,” he exhales. “Isn’t that what you want as
well?”

“No,” Jungkook shakes his head and Taehyung’s lips fall away. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Never
again. He never wants to hurt him again.

Taehyung pulls his head up from the crevice of his neck, pulls it in a motion that allows his breath to
layer over the skin of his jaw and cheek and lips. He’s so close once more. “You won’t fuck me?” he
asks and it’s softer. It’s calmer. It doesn’t seem as much as a challenge, just a question.

Jungkook swallows down nothing. He answers with the same loss of vigor, shakes his head slow
and gentle, tells him as softly, “No.”
Taehyung’s tongue layers over his bottom lip as his lids lower, pupils flashing towards Jungkook’s
mouth. He heaves a breath, lets it out, and darts his eyes upwards again, meet Jungkook’s, which just
wait for his patiently. Taehyung swallows, too, gulps. He adjusts on his lap, sits back, thighs on
thighs, leaves room between them. He heaves a breath and with the end of it he asks, “Would you
kiss me?”

Jungkook pauses, for a moment even his chest stills in the wake of his breath. He stares at him, tries
to see what this is, if this is a game, but Taehyung’s brows just furrow on his forehead and his eyes
just glitter so pretty, so hesitant as they glance between his mouth and his own gaze, not the boldness
from before. So Jungkook can’t reject him now, not for this. He breathes, “Yes.”

Taehyung’s lids flutter as he stares down and there is a moment, two, of just that, just staring. Then
Taehyung bents down and kisses him, kisses him like he wished to be kissed all those times.

He presses his lips onto Jungkook’s, settles his upper one between his and applies little pressure, only
once. He waits a second, almost pulls away, then he does it again, kisses him so lightly it’s barely a
kiss. The third contact of his lips is longer, firmer, wetter and when he goes to take that away too for
another fleeting moment, Jungkook chases after, wraps his own lips against his lower and tries to
press into him quicker, firmer. It’s instinctual for him to try to take from that kiss, to domineer into it,
but as soon as his back moves forward from the couch, he loses contact completely.

Their eyes open and meet simultaneously when Taehyung frees his hand from his own and presses it
into his chest, pushes back, separates their mouths with a wet sound. “My pace,” he whispers against
him in warning as he slides his hand up and cups it against his neck. “This is for me,”he insists.

Jungkook stares into him, breathes as if he has run a mile and nods. Then he relaxes back onto the
couch, folds his second hand over Taehyung’s hip, too, ginger and light, and he waits.

Taehyung takes his time to lean back down. At first when he does Jungkook tries to reach forward
and he has to retract, pulls away. Their eyes study each other in a silent repeat of that same
conversation and Jungkook presses his lips together and stills against the couch. In another moment
Taehyung’s eyes flutter closed and his lips are back on him.

He kisses him so slow and experimental, as if he kisses for the very first time. He kisses him like he
deserved to be kissed all those times, and he kisses him simply for the sake of kissing. It’s almost
chaste and it’s loud, but then Taehyung breathes sharply through his nose, and his hand tightens
around Jungkook’s nape, head tilting and his mouth opens against his.
The pace almost doesn’t change. It’s faster, but it’s still slow. Jungkook’s patient, takes anything that
Taehyung gives, though his fingers tighten irreversibly on his hips when he feels his tongue slide
against his. There’s something incredibly warm about just kissing Taehyung, something that excites
the hairs on his skin, something that makes his heart race.

His face tilts, and he kisses him deeper and one of Jungkook’s hands slides slow and careful on his
back, palm open. He moves closer and they almost touch again, Taehyung’s body arching under the
palm of that hand. He kisses him with his forehead creased and his brows furrowed. It hurts to kiss
Jungkook. And it hurts to kiss Taehyung.

Taehyung wants to take from this what he deserves, want to kiss him as he’s always wanted to, but
he knows any kiss with him is all he wants. He doesn’t want him to be gentle, or chaste. He just
wants it to be him. And Taehyung hates him, he absolutely abhors him, because he wants this so
much, loves this so much, wants to be able to kiss Jungkook and touch Jungkook and be with
Jungkook, but he can’t, because he had to rip it away, take it from him.

And another wet sound separates them with that thought, Taehyung’s hand sharper and quicker this
time when he presses into him and pushes him away. He draws a distance between them this time, a
real distance, half an arm’s length and he’s saying, “Enough.”

Jungkook follows his hand without question and sits back, opens his eyes. He looks at him.

Taehyung’s eyes are so obviously searching his, but he doesn’t know he’s looking for. Neither of
them does. His voice is small when he speaks, thumb patting subconsciously over layers of clothing
and it almost makes Jungkook shiver. “Was it that hard?” His brows raise and they fall, and he looks
so utterly defeated it dishevels Jungkook in ways he didn’t know he could be. “That was all I wanted
from you,” Taehyung says, “all.” And then he shakes his head with finality, speaks firmer, louder.
“Now I want nothing.”

He feels him get up, he senses the way he starts to lift off of his thighs, and he reacts on impulse.

Jungkook’s hands settle firmer over his hips and squeezes, holds him in place, as he voices shameless
and desperate. “Tae, don’t leave.” He’d told him once, when he was patching him up in his
bathroom, he’d told him if he’d asked him to stay, he would have, so he tries it. He thought he
couldn’t. He thought they didn’t extend to this, but he’d do anything now, because he knows
Taehyung won’t give him another chance to speak. Once was a stretch, two times more than
anything he deserves. A third is a delusion, especially with how conclusive his declaration of
nothing rings in his ears.
“Itwas hard. I’m sorry, but it was one of the hardest things I ever did,” he pauses. His head shakes,
“I’m so sorry.”

Taehyung’s face relaxes and blanks. “I didn’t know you were capable of saying sorry,” he tells him,
and it strikes Jungkook that it is the first time he’s said it after what he did. He has it in his mind so
much, sorry, sorry, sorry, so fucking sorry, he never realized he never had it on his mouth.

“I am,” he says. “I’m sorry, Tae.” He thinks he’ll say it as many times as he’s willing to hear it.

He doesn’t know what he expects. What he gets is nothing. Taehyung looks away. He looks at the
ceiling. “Get your hands off of me, Jungkook.”

He hesitates, but he does. He lets him go and he watches him leave, watches him probably get back
to Bogum. Jungkook can’t watch him go back to Bogum. Jungkook doesn’t give a fuck about his
birthday. He goes home.

Taehyung doesn’t go back to Bogum. He goes to his house, his own house, where Ji-woo and
Woojin sleep. He strips himself off and turns the shower on cold. He presses his forearm onto the
tile, presses his forehead against it, screws his eyes shut and jerks himself off with his teeth bruising
his swollen lips. He falls asleep easy, he’s tired, exhausted.

Jungkook has his arms stretched over the counter top in his kitchen island and he wills himself to do
anything, to move, but he can’t. No, all he can do is think.
Because this is it. That was it. He’s not getting another chance. He lost Taehyung.

And when Jungkook gets the urge to cry, it is not only over the fact that he lost Taehyung. No, he
wants to cry about all the things that went through his life that turned him into the type of person who
would take the steps necessary to lose Taehyung. He wants to cry over all the choices he made that
resulted in this. And Jungkook has not cried sober since that one time he bit his father and he turned
on him. He has a lot of choices to regret, and not much else. He doesn’t have much else.

He doesn’t have Julia because Julia has never had him, not like she’s meant to. He loves Clo most,
but Clo probably loves Jin more, after everything they’ve been through. He certainly deserves it
more. And Clo and Jin, they’ve been through a lot, but they’ve always had a balance. Neither of
them is a perfect person. Jin used to sleep with older women and whisper to them they were beautiful
for money and Clo has always tried to nullify her own experiences at home with substances and
promiscuity. Though they have been unfair to others, they have always been fair to each other.

Jungkook was never fair to Taehyung. Jungkook went head first into this with the belief he was
dealing with a Kim, someone who was intrinsically below him, he went into this with the firm
conviction wanting a boy, at least for him, was entirely wrong. He went into this blaming Taehyung
for being beautiful, for being enticing, for being provocative, when he was doing virtually nothing,
just being himself. He went into this playing a game. And it is not just how Jungkook ended things
that was unfair to Taehyung. Every single thing he did, from how it started, to how it unfolded, to
how it ended, none of it was what Taehyung deserves even if he himself has been continuously
walked over enough to allow it.

He doesn’t treat me like shit, he’d told him. Thank you for opening my eyes, he’d told him.

The tear rolls down half of his cheek and falls on the counter, when the door opens. For a moment
his heart races, blood sears, hand immediately pressing into his eyes to chase any moisture way, as he
spins, presses his back into the counter again. But it’s okay, it’s nothing. It’s Clo Eun.

Her own eyes are bloodshot and it’s weird she’s here, weird she wasn’t at his birthday. He never saw
her, but she doesn’t give him even half a chance to ask before she’s in front of him, hurrying, her
eyes widening.

“Jungkook,” she says, and she tries to find his eyes, concern vivid in hers, but he folds over almost,
bends his head down, looks at the floor.
“I fucked it up, Clo,” it spills out of him, quick and irrational. “I fucked up.”

Her hands are on his arms, as he lifts up his own, tries to hide his face away from her. “It’s okay,
Jungkookie,” she promises, but her voice holds a panic. She hasn’t seen him like this since they were
children. Few things hurt Jungkook. He’s spent his life making sure of that.

He just shakes his head and when he does attempt to speak, he almost chokes on the lump of his
attempting not to cry.

Clo’s fingers squeeze into his arms and she tries to find his, reassuring. “It’s not unmanly to cry,
Jungkook.”

His eyes snap up and meet hers just as bloodshot. And he takes a moment of looking at her like this,
the face of his sister, Clo Eun. He trusts so little people, but he trusts her. So, he lets it all go. “I
reckon it’s not unmanly to fuck boys either, is it?” It stings on his tongue to say it, feels awkward
when she takes her hands away from his. But she doesn’t look at him different. If there is any
surprise, it’s not at the fact of it. It’s that he’s admitting it. “It’s not unmanly to cry over boys?”

“Taehyung?” she asks, slow and hesitant. She’s careful; he’s fragile.

And there is absolutely no use in denying it. He knows she knew. “I hurt him,” he confesses, and it
tugs at something within him just to say it aloud. “I hurt him a lot. I always hurt people, but—”

“Sh,” she soothes, steps closer and wipes a tear that drips down his chin when he tries to speak so
quick and so honest. “Jungkook.” Her hand falls on his shoulder, fingers there digging a shape. “The
amount of times Jin and I have hurt each other, and we still love—”

“I fucked his sister,” he interrupts in a flash, and her mouth shuts loud and clashing. He lets it rest
between them. He says, “In his house. I made sure he heard.”

He looks down and this time it’s not to hide tears. It’s because he can’t take the way her face
changes.

“Jungkook…” she trails.

“I thought,” he’s stuttering.It’s hard to cry. He doesn’t know how to breathe and cry at the same
time. “I thought if he hated me, no one would ever find out and we’d both just get out this, scathe
free, get back to our lives, he hated me before, why couldn’t he just hate me again.” He gulps,
presses back harder against that counter top. “I wasn’t thinking,” he whispers.

Clo listens to this, listens tentative and attentive but she shakes her head. “If you expect me to excuse
this,” she tells him. “I won’t.”

She won’t. He knows she won’t, but he also knows she’ll understand, because Jungkook and Clo,
they always do this, self-sabotage at the first notion of something good and genuine in their lives,
probably because they don’t think they deserve it, probably because it feels too good to be true,
probably because they’re afraid of losing it, of it being ripped away from them, so they take it away
themselves.

“I don’t,” he shakes his head, looks at her again. “I don’t expect that from you.”

“Then you shouldn’t expect it from him either.”

He shakes his head more, faster and deeper. “I don’t,” he confesses that, too. He doesn’t expect that
from Taehyung. “I don’t think I would feel the way I feel about him if I expected him to excuse
this.”

He glances down again, stares at his feet. “I don’t deserve him,” he says in a voice so small, his own
sister barely recognizes him, “do I?”

She’s shaking her head, even if he isn’t looking. “I can’t tell you what you deserve, Kook,” she tells
him. “But he doesn’t deserve this.”

He replies quick and short, a single breath “I know.”

He stares at the marble tiles beneath his brand shoes. He doesn’t even know what fucking brand he’s
wearing today, his mother bought them for his birthday. And his head snaps up again. “Why am I
like this?” He asks her, but he also doesn’t. He just says it, gets it out from inside of him. “Why
couldn’t I just pull him to the side tell him, hey, Tae ,you know I think maybe we should be more
careful, yeah? Not just fucking...” it’s getting harder to say instead of easier. He can’t admit it any
more. “He said I ripped his heart out, he looked at me like—I couldn’t recognize him today he was,
acting like, like one of us.”
He doesn’t like to think he could have broken him, changed him. Taehyung doesn’t need to change,
he needs to stay exactly like he is.

Clo’s hand squeezes into a tense muscle of his shoulder. Every muscle in his body brims with
tension. “You always want to protect people,” she tells him; she’s been on the other end of it so
much, from that first time he bit their father’s arm, “but you never know how to do it.”

Jungkook’s sighing. His head is shaking. He knows this, but he also knows it is ridiculous of him to
think this was in any way protection. “You know,” he looks at her and his eyes are almost dry again.
“I kept thinking the world is screwing me over when it comes to him, but it’s all fucking me, isn’t
it?”

“Jungkook—”

“I’m hurting Julia as well,” he interrupts. It doesn’t matter how she tries to calm him, what she tries to
make him believe, though Jungkook and her, they’ve always been merciless with each other.

Clo sighs, too, her shoulders falling. “At least do for her what you didn’t do for him,” she offers.
“Speak to her.”

“I should,” he nods. “I should tell her.” He looks away, looks at something and nothing behind her.
“I’m not made to love her.”

Clo pauses. “You’re gay,” she says.

He adjusts on his feet, shifts, glances down at them first. “I don’t know what I am.” He tells her as he
looks up. “But I—” it traps in his throat as it tries to leave, but he clears it, fights it, and he forces it
out. “He means something to me,” he says, “He means a lot to me. And I ruined it.”

Clo’s tongue darts on her lips. She gives him a moment, hesitates, “Does he—” she’s almost
stuttering, too. She’s never seen Jungkook like that. “Does he really mean a lot?”

He looks away, stares at an unmoving clock on the wall. It’s just there because it’s pretty. “More
than I can take, apparently,” he spits bitterly, bitter at himself, angry with himself.
“Have you told him that?” she questions.

And he has to shake his head. “Never,” he tells her. “I couldn’t.”

“Stay away from him, Jungkook. If you care, just leave him alone.” She chases after his gaze for
affirmation, but he won’t let her have it, so she speaks again, draws his attention to her. “Promise
me?”

He looks now. “I will,” he nods. He sucks in a breath, releases it. His head is pulsing, and he wishes
he head valium on him, but Clo Eun is better. “I know it’s,” he glances at his fingers, “it’s good that I
pushed him away, that he won’t be around me anymore because I will just fuck him up more. I just
wish I hadn’t… done it like this,” he meets her eyes, “I just wish I hadn’t hurt him.”

To him the concept of sexual loyalty is foreign. Julia and he, they have always agreed sex with other
people means nothing, but that is no excuse, none, not even the start of an excuse. Because he could
take Julia fucking someone else, but the mere thought of Taehyung with someone else tears him
apart. He can’t imagine how it would have felt.

The notorious Jeon Jungkook never thought he could feel enough that by breaking a heart he could
break his own.

“I don’t want to be a taunting twin anymore, Clo.” He says and he reaches forward, wraps his arms
around her and hers instinctively follow. “Can we be something else?”

“You know Jungkookie,” she pats a hand at his hair, “you’re the person in this world I love the most,
okay? We can be whatever you want. You and me.”

Jungkook pulls away, looks at her. You and me. They haven’t said that to each other in so long.

“I don’t think I deserve you either,” he confesses that, too, because he absolutely doesn’t.

“Too bad because you’ll always have me.” Her lips twist at the tips. She’s almost smiling, and he
would, too, but he doesn’t have the energy. Her own dies on her face when she looks at his
expression. She blinks. “Do you want to tell me what happened with you and him?”
 He takes a moment, he needs a moment. It’s scary. It’s all so fucking scary to say aloud because it
makes it all true, and he’s just a coward, nothing more. He scares easy. But he swallows it down. He
nods, “Yes.”

And as Jungkook pours himself a glass of water before he begins to speak, she fishes her phone
briefly out of her pocket. She types a single text.

Your brother is sad.

Chapter End Notes

this is getting much more attention than I expected, so thank you all for the feedback, I
know it takes weird turns, but I never thought it would have to cater to many tastes; I
seriously advise if the tags are not for you, don't read

I still really appreciate all the feedback and support

 Chapter 19
Chapter Summary

long talks and bad things

Chapter Notes

sorry for taking so long, writer's block and being busier than usual is a bad combination;
thanks for all the support and comments, some people comment 'I don't know if you'll
see this' like I don't read every comment twice, I do and I really enjoy it

“Are you mad?” Taehyung asks, carefully twirling the straw around blocks of ice in his glass. He
doesn’t exactly want to look at Bogum behind the bar. He readjusts slightly on the barstool. He’s
never sat at Rouge as a customer before, but the only other place he can go is home, and he prefers
trying things for the first time.

“No, I’m not mad,” he tells him, preparing another drink for someone outside as Minho comes in
with orders. It’s late and few people are at Rouge at this time of the day for drinks, mostly for food,
so Taehyung is the only one sat at a barstool, which he deeply appreciates. “Don’t really think I
expected much else.” Taehyung feels his eyes on him but keeps his own on the path he makes with
the straw around the ice. “You always go to him, don’t you?”

Taehyung sighs. “That was the last time,” Taehyung says, he hopes. “I’m done with him. But
Bogum.” He blinks up this time, feels like he owes him a look in the eye. “If I am in any way with
you right now, it will probably be because of him.”

Probably, he says, to be soft on the truth. The current truth is he cannot separate kissing, touching,
fucking from Jungkook. He can’t separate feelings from Jungkook. If he lets someone touch him, he
knows if he closes his eyes, he’d probably see Jungkook’s on the back of his lids when he sinks into
darkness.

Bogum gets the plate placed at the counter through the gap leading through to the kitchen, hands it to
Minho and waits for him to be at a certain distance before he glances back at him. “Listen,
Taehyung,” He comes closer, stops right before him. “I like you, but I don’t like you enough to get
myself hurt over it, yet, okay?” His brows lift up and his eyes become searching, so Taehyung drops
his own back to the ice.
“Okay,” he says, tongue running over his lower lip. His arms cross, shoulders folding together as he
leans forward on the bar top. “I just felt you should,” he hesitates, “you should know.”

Bogum leans down, tries to seek his eyes, but Taehyung is simply too focused on that ice. “And I
just feel you should try something healthy, with a guy,” he pauses, cocks his head, and straightens up
when he realizes he won’t get the attention he subtly bargains for. “With me,” he finishes tentatively.
“Slow,” he promises.

Taehyung’s mouth parts, but he says nothing for a moment, glances at the side. He shrugs. “I don’t
know,” he shakes his head. “It’s—” he struggles. “Soon,” he settles for it, but it is not the only reason
he doesn’t want to try with Bogum. He doesn’t want to try anything with anyone right now. He only
wants to learn not to think about Jungkook.

Bogum breathes, pushes away and gets an order from Minho. “I told you he’d hurt you,” he says
without looking back at Taehyung as he does, simply starts making another drink, clinks the ice too
loud in the glass.

Taehyung’s fingers circle around his own glass. He lifts it up, drinks from its tip instead of from the
straw, throws his head back with it. It makes it easier to dawn it quicker. “Yeah,” he says simply as
slams the glass down harder than he means to.

It’s the most useless thing to hear, the most frustrating to listen to. I told you so. Taehyung didn’t
need to be told anything. He knew it perfectly well.

“How did he do it?” Bogum asks, close by as he pours a draft beer.

Taehyung’s heart does a thing, a small, striking convulsion that it does unfailingly at the memory of
what Jungkook did. He swallows it down. “I really don’t want to talk about it,” he says, confesses.
He doesn’t want to talk, think. He just wants to drink.

Someone, someone who is getting much too close speaks from the side, interjects careful but
confident in the conversation as if they have the right to. “You sure?” a woman’s voice rings and it
makes Taehyung almost flinch. He snaps his head in its direction, eyes fix over the newcomer and
the sight of it is foreign. He doesn’t think he’s seen Jeon Clo Eun in Rouge before, for whatever
reason.
“For fuck’s sake,” Taehyung’s breathing out, air trapping in his lungs minutely and angrily before it
departs from his nose and the stool shakes with his attempt to get up.

But Clo Eun is just like her brother. She has her hand on his wrist, the one he rests on the bar top to
balance himself as he stands, and she holds him indicative and bold.

“Wait,” she says, drifts her eyes to his when he turns to glare from the first look he pays to her hand
on his. “You get to set the boundaries,” she promises, voice simple and genuine. “Just for a minute,”
she says, and it grows softer with the sound of it. He blinks and she does, too, and he looks away
next, climbs back onto the stool with a nervous poke at his lips with his tongue. He sets his gaze
forward, face so pointedly pissed, and he is, he’s pissed. Because he wants nothing to do with
Jungkook and Clo Eun has everything to do with him.

She climbs on the bar stool next to him. “I’ll have what he’s having,” she nods at Bogum. “And you
can get him another one.”

Bogum glances at him with his head once again cocked, a silent question and he hesitates, but he
nods. If he’s about to speak to a Jeon, he could certainly use the encouragement of more alcohol.

Clo Eun’s knees are directed to him instead of to the bar. His bounce unstoppably. “You like him?”
she says, voice low as she juts her chin to Bogum when he moves away to make drinks.

Taehyung wants to scoff. “What,” he begins, teeth almost clanking. He speaks with an animosity that
he directs at Jungkook, not at her, and he hates how he can just tell by the way she stares at him that
there is nothing casual in her presence, her approach. He can tell she knows more than she did last
time she layered her eyes over him. So, he does not shy away from assuming, “did he send you to
find out if I’m hooking up with Bogum now or something?”

“No,” Clo Eun shakes her head. He hates how softly she speaks. Clo Eun is supposed to be cruel.
She’s supposed to be an utmost bitch. That’s what rumors have her pegged as. But Jungkook loves
her, he remembers, loves her more than anything, and maybe, maybe she isn’t. “He doesn’t know
I’m here.”

He is not necessarily skeptical of the claim, because frankly, messengers have never been
Jungkook’s style around him.
Taehyung wonders at this point, how many people know he slept with Jungkook. How many people
know, and they are okay, Taehyung has not had his skull bashed into anything. And Clo Eun speaks
as if she is much more okay than Ji-woo is. She speaks a lot calmer, a lot softer. She speaks more
careful. She doesn’t tell him he is a fuck toy.

Still, Taehyung can only border on civil with the way he speaks to her. He doesn’t want anything
Jungkook related around himself and she feels like a projection of him, sitting there with tranquil, but
calculating eyes. “What do you want then?”

Bogum places their drinks before them and lingers, but Clo Eun’s eyes shift to him, brows dart and
for a second, she does seem like the bitch he is promised. Bogum glances at Taehyung, but his own
attention remains studious at Clo Eun’s expression, her features commanding, silent and authoritative
so much alike her brother’s. Bogum steps away with a shake of his head and her countenance
relaxes, bitchiness evaporates.

She returns to him. “To see how you were,” she says, pauses. She breathes in harder and he deems it
hesitation, but her lids bat only once before she is back on him. “I know your own sister can’t be too
easy to look at right now.”

He blinks. His knees still their bouncing on the stool for the moment it takes him to breathe out,
“You know?” a surprise narrowing his brows together. Then, they’re bouncing again, bouncing
quicker. His fingers wrap around the glass again, his tongue and throat itch to drown it.

She nods. “He told me,” it somehow comes out even softer. “Everything,” she adds, and he
wonders what everything means. Wonders if she knows how Jungkook was with him the first week
of this and then how he was the last, how he refused to kiss him, and then how he refused to stop.
How he looks at him, with those eyes.

Those eyes.

Taehyung stares into hers. “You’re not too easy to look at either,” he confesses, his voice slipping
low and powerless. He loses any sign of enmity. “Your eyes are almost his,” he tells her, but the key
word is almost. She’s not him.

He blinks forward, tips his head, the glass. He drinks. No one will ever be him. “You wanted to see
how I was?” he sets the glass down and looks at her again. His knees still, this time for good. “I’m
fucking miserable,” he tells her. “You can report that to him if it makes him happy.”
She shakes her head quicker, her body inching forward, folding over to get closer to him. “That
wouldn’t make him happy, Taehyung,” she says, uses his name as if she knows him, and he realizes
it doesn’t seem that foreign leaving her mouth. He feels like he knows her as well, vicariously
through how much Jungkook has spoken of her, he senses he has the right to speak to her by name
as well. “He doesn’t—"

“Honestly,” Taehyung interrupts, lifting a palm in the air to ask her to shut the fuck up, because he
can’t take this. “I don’t care. I don’t want to hear about him or talk about him, see him or speak to
him.” He shakes his head and promises everyone for the nth time, “I’m done with him.”

More importantly he promises himself.

Her mouth lingers opened, but then her lips touch. “Okay,” her head turns away. She sips on her
drink for the first time since it’s put in front of her. She swallows. “Okay, if you’re really done, if you
have no intention of ever giving him a chance, can I ask you to stay away from him?” She finishes
with her eyes gingerly setting over him again and he simply gapes for a moment.

His lips part. “Me?” it rings loud, almost screeches. He doesn’t like several parts of that sentence. He
likes none of it, in fact. He doesn’t like that if, the fact she leaves room for distrust in his previous
promise that he is so desperately set on keeping, the fact she puts it as giving him a chance, as if there
is a prospect for this, as if there is some formulation in what a chance would be, as if what he and
Jungkook had could in any way be put into frames, as if it could be repeated in another chance. It
couldn’t because there is no definition to what a chance of them would constitute. They were nothing
concrete. It was a continuous progression, no moment was ever the same between them, every word
propelled into another, every moment escalated, no two interactions the same, and they reached their
boiling point, they boiled, and it is Taehyung who got burned. Burned so bad.

It built up until it reached that scorching climax and he wonders what the climax was, the kiss or the
result of it. He supposes both are climaxes of different stories.

“I know it sounds so hypocritic for me to ask youthis,” she starts quick as he blinks with the
suggestion of incredulity. It’s not hypocritic what he has in mind. It’s ridiculous. “But I think a part
of him hopes you’ll forgive, and I just want him to move on, okay?”

Taehyung’s next breath’s a laugh that is so humorless and forced it hurts his throat with the bitterness
it relinquishes down the length of it. “That I’ll forgive?”

It’s ridiculous. This is all ridiculous. His eyes appear glassy when they bulge at her.
“I know you kissed him on our birthday,” she tells him, and Taehyung looks away, stares forward.
That kiss was a mistake and he knew it as he leaned down and as he placed his lips on his. That kiss
was a mistake, but Jungkook owes him so many kisses, and he felt it was his right to take it.
Taehyung says nothing and she speaks to the side of his head. “You’re not like us, Taehyung. I
know you don’t want to play games with him, especially ones that have no end.” She pauses for a
moment, chooses her words. “Leave him alone,” she asks him, and he doesn’t like the suggestion of
it, but her words are so tentatively spoken, he finds it hard to be anything but defensive.

“He came to me,” he says, turning to her, poking his own finger into his chest. “I don’t want him
near me anyway.”

She stares at his eyes, and he really hates how similarly penetrative they feel. “I really hope one day
you can say that and mean it.” She tells him still as soft, but it offends him how she assumes. Mostly
it irks at him how she’s right. He’s not genuine when he says it. What he does want is to not want
him near him, but that will take time. He looks away and he knows the fact of it is a communication
of affirmation to her dreaded assumption, but he can’t be bothered pretending. “He’s going to stay
away from you now, he promised.”

His eyes snap to her again and he tries so hard to ignore that pang that worries his chest. “He is?” he
means to say aloud, clear and simply informative, but he whispers instead. He searches her face for
the indication that it is a joke, a test of some sort. She’s testing him for disappointment and she’s
doing it marvelously, because it spreads to his every bone and blood cell like wildfire.

“Yeah,” she nods. Brilliant, he thinks, that’s what this should be, brilliant. This is what he wants; it
should make forgetting him that much easier. Taehyung will stay away, and he will stay away, too,
and they will have no excuse to see each other, absolutely none. He’ll be out of his life, for good.
“As long as that’s what you want,” Clo Eun adds, and yes, the rumors are true, she is cruel, though
she might not even realize it.

He swallows. “It is,” he says. He’s lying. It seems like he’s constantly lying.

“Okay,” she tells him again. “I know you don’t want to play games,” she tells him again, as if that is
what him being near Jungkook again will constitute. She’s right, he doesn’t want to play any games
with him, other than maybe Overwatch or some other first-person shooter. “Don’t want to challenge
him, don’t want to push to see how far he would bend,” she continues and she’s still right. He wants
none of that, just wants to see his other car and teach him how to fold socks and the only challenge
he wants to pose is to push to see for how long he would allow him to use him as a pillow. “That’s
him, not you.” Don’t reverse your roles, he hears, although she doesn’t formulate it into words, saves
him the accusation it would form if she did, as she has no right to make it. Move on from them.
“Is that him?” Taehyung asks and watches her brows furrow.

“Hm?” she asks.

Taehyung looks away, stares at his fingers as he plays with them. “Is he like that?” he questions. One
of his knees begins that bouncing again. “At times,” he licks at his lip, begins with a struggle, he
speaks without thinking, because a silly part of him thinks Jungkook is not that either. “Sometimes
he seemed like,” he trails off because he doesn’t know what he aims for, doesn’t make sense to have
that conversation anyway, not with Clo Eun, who certainly knows a different Jungkook to everyone
else, “he seemed different.”

Clo Eun doesn’t reply and he doesn’t give her time to do it; he does not want to hear what she thinks
of this hopeful, stupid sentence. He turns to her. “Are you going to tell him you talked to me?” he
certainly does not want the vulnerability of his somehowwretchedly perpetuated opinion that
Jungkook is not a complete sadistic piece of shit to reach him. He doesn’t understand why there is
still this fleeting defensiveness of Jungkook’s character whenever someone else makes implications
about him, even if it is his sister, who he feels by the fact she is there, by what she asks of him,
reciprocates the love Jungkook irrevocably and unconditionally feels for her full heartedly.

Her head tilts gently. “Do you want me to?”

He shakes his own. “No.”

She swallows her lower lip into her mouth briefly and releases it quickly, mirrors the small shake.
“Then no.”

Taehyung’s following nod is the only thank you he is capable of giving her, tightens his hand around
the glass and raises it to his mouth to give himself something to do with it, a reason to look away
from her again. He holds the glass to his lips as he speaks. “He hurt me,” he confesses into the liquid
and the ice of it, the exhale of the words fogging the surface of the glass on the inside.

Clo Eun nods, her lips pressing together tightly, a line forming on her face. She’s pale. It’s tanning
season, but her face is almost paper white, except for dark circles resting beneath her eyes. He has to
wonder why she doesn’t hide them. He’d expect from a Jeon to want to shield their imperfections.
“So,” she cocks her head, “you want to hurt him back?”

Taehyung brings the glass lower, coats his tongue over his upper lip that has the sugary remains of a
gin and tonic irritating the skin there. “Is it,” he gulps down nothing, not gin and not tonic, just
swallows the fact of his words, “is it bad that I don’t?” He turns to her again. “I don’t like the idea of
him hurting,” he speaks softly, yet so palpably regretfully. He regrets that this is true, but it is. He
knows that kiss was a mistake simply because he could feel it hurt them both.

Clo Eun is the one to take her eyes away, blinks to look at Bogum hand a plate to Minho. She can’t
look at him much more, cannot look at what her brother lost, what he could have had. “If it means
anything,” she says and then her gaze falls to her lap. “I don’t think he wanted to hurt you.”

He can’t hear this again, doesn’t want to hear it again. It doesn’t hurt any less when it’s not from his
lips. Taehyung shakes his head, looks away, too. His teeth sink into his lip, chide at what he feels so
tangibly; he’s not made any progress, it seems. It’s been days since he last saw Jungkook, almost two
weeks since it happened and it still pains him as if it’s a fresh wound when he focuses on it too
much, still makes his lips twist and his brows still furrow. It still forces words he doesn’t want to say
outside of his throat, still makes him ask himself at least once every hour, what he now says aloud,
“What did he want then?”

Jungkook’s answer to that question was simply not enough, and he was too angry to hear it. He
doubts any explanation provided could be.

Clo Eun shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she speaks with compassion, but he supposes it is better
than his own sister’s pity. “To push you away,” she shrugs.

Taehyung does not intend to slam the glass on the bar top, but liquid does spring and spill from it
when he returns it brusquely to the surface. “Why?” he demands, because Jungkook never truly told
him that either. They were getting too deep, the words ring angry in Taehyung’s memory, the
excuses do. He didn’t want someone to hurt him.

What’s that? What fucking good isthat?

Clo Eun doesn’t say that, doesn’t tell him it was some ill placed attempt at protection. She says
something else. She presses her forearm into the length of the bar top and leans, tries to find his eyes,
his face. She looks at him, does something that is so typical of her brother and she tries to promise
him truth through her eyes, because maybe her words don’t hold a lot of worth. “Cause you scare
him,” she tells him, voice low, breathed and private. Her eyes briefly cascade towards Bogum almost
cautiously before they return. Her head shakes. “He doesn’t like being scared, he doesn’t know how
to handle it.”

Taehyung regards her silently, shortly. He gives her what she wants, his eyes, but when she speaks
and she reeks of this insolent genuineness, he blinks away. Scared, she says, and Taehyung’s teeth
press together, as if Taehyung does not have fear etched into his every bone. Jungkook fucking
terrifies him. Nothing is as frightening to Taehyung as what he feels for Jungkook, what he wants
from him. He’s scared of who Jungkook is and who he is around Jungkook. He’s scared of ways he
wants him and scared of the ways he could have him. He’s absolutely terrified. But he didn’t sleep
with his fucking sister.

It registers with her quite quickly that she won’t receive a verbal response. Her voice falls soft and
airy and she starts to speak smooth, almost like she tells a tale. She speaks quiet and intimate to him,
only to him, a story only for his ears. “You know,” she begins gingerly, “when my dad hit me the
first time,” Taehyung’s eyes jump to hers with alarm at the way she professes it so factual and
shameless and she gulps around the statement, nods small and quick, “I know you know.” She
pauses until he looks to the bottles at the back of the bar again. It’s easier for the both of them if he
does. It sinks to him then, Jungkook really did tell her a lot, about them, spoke to her of some
conversations they had, of things he confessed to him. “When he hit me the first time, Kookie bit him
to distract him.” She swallows, waits. “And when he hit me the second time, he was so drunk that
Jungkook was too scared to do anything. He felt helpless, I think.” The last pause was for the sake of
Taehyung. This one is for her own. “But he was a lot more scared to face me after that because he
was ashamed he didn’t protect me. He spent a week at Yoongi’s house. He can’t handle scared, not
like this, not of people he cares about.”

Every word she says makes him feel nothing but blind rage. Taehyung is angry. Taehyung is so
fucking angry because she makes it easy to remember why he jumps to defend Jungkook’s character
so readily and easily. He’s angry all over again, because Jungkook had to go and entirely ruin
himself for Taehyung, when Taehyung had been dumb enough to look at Bogum when he called
him a piece of shit, tell him, you don’t know him, because Taehyung stupidly believed in him.

She makes him remember why he did. But he can’t forget why he doesn’t anymore, not when it
comes to himself, and it wages a storm in his head until he can feel the veins in it pulse. Maybe he
drank too much gin and not enough water.

“And I’m not saying this because I’m asking you to forgive him,” she’s still speaking and it’s making
him angrier. “I wouldn’t ask you that. I’m saying this because I think you have the right to know that
he cares about you,” she concludes, and it makes him the angriest.

Taehyung does stand up then, makes the stool scar the floor, the legs of it screeching as angry as him
along the floor. He thought it was hard hearing from his sister that Jungkook couldn’t care about him,
but it is dimensionally more painful hearing from his own that he does.

“If he wanted to push me away,” Taehyung speaks as he watches her pull money out of a brand
purse she wears, “he did it.” Taehyung presses his hand into his back pocket, fishes out some pitiful
notes of money. She says his name imploringly when his intention registers with her. “If he wanted
to hurt me,” he glares. “He did that, too,” his teeth smack together with his own conclusion. He
slams the money onto the bar top. “And I can pay for my own drink,” he tells her and before she can
properly stand up, reply, he leaves.

Dealing with siblings, Taehyung thinks, is more exhausting than he could imagine. And when he
mulls over his imagination, he figures it must be playing tricks on him, because what he sees when
he nears the step of his back door, certainly could not be reality, no, he’s officially gone insane.

Because life simply can’t be that much of an asshole as to have Namjoon sat at that step, not tonight,
not now. He’s still swallowing down residual feelings from one conversation with a sibling tonight,
he certainly cannot deal with another. He’s not in the right mind to process that Namjoon is there, on
his doorstep, on their doorstep. Maybe someone slipped something in his drink and he’s
hallucinating. Wouldn’t be atypical of Richhood.

He hasn’t seen him in months,and his hair is slightly different, but the sight of him on that step is not
unfamiliar. On the contrary, he’s witnessed it time and time again, he’s sat next to him on that step,
when their mother died, every single time their father leaves, they sit on that step and they talk.

It fills his chest with something, looking at Namjoon sitting there, and it is marginally warm, but
above that it is still that sizzling anger from before. Taehyung has never been as continuously angry
in his life, but he thinks it might be all he is these days, sporadically, indisputably angry. He’s angry
at Jungkook, at Ji-woo, at Clo Eun, at himself, and now, now he’s angry at Namjoon. Has been
repressedly so since the moment he realized he wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

He figures it is better for him to be angry than sad. He can deal with anger better.

Deals with it now as he stops dead in the track of his walk and simply stares, tries for maybe a
minute to establish whether what he is seeing is part of the material world. At the halt of his
approach, Namjoon’s eyes lift, fall onto him. He says nothing, watches him as if he’s as shocked to
see him as he is, and that somehow makes Taehyung angrier.

He looks and suddenly he stands, he’s up, taller than Taehyung, his hyung, his big brother, big
brother who left him.
“What are you doing here?” Taehyung asks. For all these months he’s been questioning why
Namjoon left, but now as he looks at his eyes, all he can ask him is why he’s back.

Namjoon’s lips twitch, a small smile colors his features, but it doesn’t reach his eyes and it dwindles
slowly from his face. He’s awkward. “The door was locked,” he says, rubs a hand behind his neck
as he points the other to the door and then drops it loose by his body, shuffling against the fabric of
jeans Taehyung hasn’t seen before. “I don’t have a key anymore.”

Taehyung’s arm lock together. He does not intend the way his voice raises. “I don’t mean on the
fucking back step, Namjoon.”

It’s foreign on his tongue to address his brother and he never thought that could be.

Namjoon’s pause is long and he allows his face to completely drop the façade of that forced, dumb
smile. He glances at him briefly before he chooses his feet, watches them shift his whole weight.
“Your brother’s sad,” he says.

Taehyung blinks, perplexed. His brows move close together. “What?”

Namjoon kicks at a stone that rests beneath him with shoes that Taehyung hasn’t seen either and he
supposes that drug money serves to do much more when they don’t have to take care of rent and
feed a family. He looks up. “That’s the text I got from fucking Jeon Clo Eun in relation to you, Tae.”

Taehyung blinks again and fuck, he’d thought the only place Jungkook had left tonight was in his
mind, not on his mouth, thought he was done with that, and he doesn’t think he can take the Jeons
and Namjoon in the same sentence.

Fuck this, he thinks, shakes his head, and he saunters in his house, stepping around Namjoon and
pushing the key only he has out of the two of them in the lock. Anger makes him slower and
clumsier, but he can’t help it.

Namjoon turns after him, speaks as he fiddles with the lock with the growing frustration of his own
clumsiness. He hates how goddamn dumb emotions are at time, how anger makes you angrier. “Can
I come in?

Taehyung turns only his head to him as he finally works the door opened. “It’s your house as much
as its mine, isn’t?” he asks palpably sardonic and crosses over the threshold.

“I know,” Namjoon says as he looks after him, follows him with a gaze as he walks in with
confidence and comfort, throws his keys on top of the counter in the kitchen with the motion of
habit. He steps over the threshold, too. “I just thought—"

Taehyung spins. “Thought what?” he cuts him off, still so very bitter. “That you’d lost your right to
freely roam when you up and left us?”

Namjoon steps forward, door falls shut behind him. “Taehyung—” he attempts, he tries. He speaks
so levelled, so unbearably mature, like always, the actual man of the house, the reasonable one,
resourceful one, the one who wanted to keep everyone out of his shit, yet he left and practically
buried them with it.

“And you come back because of a text?” his forehead creases with the question, eyes too as his lids
narrow, but it’s hardly a glare. It’s much worse.

He lets him have this outburst, pauses in hopes to give him a moment to relax. “It’s Clo Eun,” he
says, stepping to him again as if proximity will make him more rational. “Texting me.” His hands
cling to his own chest. “About you, Tae, being sad.” It does seem as surreal as his voice suggests it is
and Taehyung wonders if that is enough to shock him into coming back, he wonders how he would
feel knowing Jeon Jungkook pounded him on his bed. “What the fuck do you have to do with Clo
Eun?”

Taehyung takes a breath through his nose, meets his eyes. “I am,” he states, “I am sad,” he confesses,
head shaking, “but I don’t know if I trust you to tell you why.”

He doesn’t know if he trusts him in this house at all, because if Woojin, who’s likely asleep upstairs,
sees, he’ll get his hopes up, hopes that he’ll stay like he does every time their father comes home, and
he can’t have that. And Taehyung does not know how he feels about Namjoon standing there, in
their kitchen, at all.

Frankly, he wants to hit him.

He doesn’t, though. Settles for unleashing that anger on him instead. “Why did you leave
Namjoon?” he asks, nearly yells. He takes a step forward and his voice comes through his teeth,
fueled by more emotion than he likes to have, than it’s healthy to have, than Kims are allowed to
display, “Why did you fucking leave me?”
Namjoon takes his eyes off of him as the question rings so loud and clear and scathing. He looks at
those new shoes again. Taehyung recognizes shame when he sees it, but he hardly cares. He’s had it
with people thinking regret could seal wounds.

“We had to readjust everything,” Taehyung begins as Namjoon faces those shoes he couldn’t have
bought if he’d stayed. “Every way in which we cope, had to do a goddamn Kim residence paradigm
shift to do without the money you were bringing in, to find a summer long kindergarten for Woojin
because both Ji and I work days cause we don’t sell fucking drugs,” he’s afraid in the back of his
mind he might wake up Woojin with a yell, so he sinks into a hiss.

“What about,” Namjoon lifts his head almost, looks back down, and then on the second attempt he
manages to meet his eyes. He licks his lips, “What about dad?”

Taehyung bristles with the complete absence of humor and the very pointed presence of scorn.
“What about dad?” he bites. “He’s on another con mission again, Joon,” he tells him. His arms lift
and fall weightless to his own worn out jeans with his next emphasized shrug. “Who knows how far
he went this time to find a woman who doesn’t know he’s a fucking Kim and what that means for
him.”

Namjoon’s mouth parts, but then it closes shut, and he takes his eyes across the kitchen, studies every
bit of it that is the same, except for that stove that sits awry and shiny, and Taehyung shifts to look at
it too. He wishes he could pry it out of where it was installed, wonders if he should satisfy
Namjoon’s obvious curiosity and tell him how he bought it.

He turns to him again at the silence. “You gave no warning, hyung,” he sucks in a breath through his
nose, “no warning. One day you were dreaming about escaping this place like you always do and
the next you were fucking gone.”

There is something terribly desolate in Taehyung’s eyes when he stares at his brother. Namjoon can
hardly respond.

“And now you come back because Clo texted you?”

Taehyung is unaware he gives bits and pieces away simply by the way he so comfortably and
familiarly calls her Clo, but it’s what Jungkook always calls her; he’s used to it.
Namjoon shakes his head repeatedly, comes closer. “I came back because of what she texted me,
Taehyung.” He promises him now, speaks firmly almost like he does when he scolds him, it’s his
way of instilling his opinion as true. “I came back for you.”

Taehyung’s mouth parts with his scoff, his tongue poking at the edge of where his lips meet. He
nods, he’s nodding. “Do you know why she texted you?” He asks and it almost starts calm, but it
escalates into the danger of waking up Woojin again. “Do you know how much I needed you, these
past two weeks. Cause we?” His brows raise, his fingers showing Namjoon first and himself second.
“We’re Kims,” he says, “and we’ve only ever had each other, and I lost Ji-woo, I lost her, and I had
no one.” Words trap in his throat as he tries to get them out, the realization of it etching in his mind
as he has to speak aloud. He pauses to swallow, but it doesn’t get the bitter taste off his tongue, and it
shows in his next sentence, “I got my heart broken and I had no one.”

Namjoon has always been the type of person who has a lot to say. He’s stifled into silence now, and
Taehyung cannot judge what goes on through his head as he does nothing but stare, and he realizes
he has a hard time pinpointing what goes through his too when he confesses of his broken heart.
What he does know is he cannot be the one to break the silence again, not after his last proclamation.
He’s honest when he says he doesn’t know if he trusts Namjoon to tell him why he’s sad anymore,
doesn’t want to disclose of a part of himself so vulnerably intimate and he wonders where along the
way his brother became such a familiar stranger in his head.

“What do you mean lost Ji-woo?” Namjoon chooses to ask, does not comment on that last sentence
that seems more torn out of his chest than said. He shakes his head. “You can’t lose Ji-woo?”

Taehyung blinks. His voice has lost all its power, but it’s still scathing when he looks away and
murmurs more to himself. “Yeah, I thought I couldn’t lose you either.”

Namjoon’s lips part and he edges closer, almost reaches for him and Taehyung knows he’ll speak
this time, but he isn’t sure he wants to hear what he has to say, not yet. “You know what?” He
interrupts, hands lifting up, palms spreading opened in defense. “I can’t,” he shakes his head, takes
steps back. “I can’t do this right now. I’m going to bed.”

He leaves like that, goes upstairs and what can Namjoon do but let him as he turns and walks away.
He tells him he’s leaving at least. Namjoon had not had the same courtesy.

What’s utterly and frustratingly ridiculous, however, is that he wants to call fucking Jungkook, or
text him, or see him. He wants to tell him about this, and it’s absurd, but he has the very clear
impulse to do it. He has the inkling Jungkook would understand. He’s always felt the two of them
are quite similar when it comes to their siblings, besides he’s the only person outside of Ji-woo who
he’s spoken to about Namjoon before. And he hates him all over again because he really had to go
and ruin himself for Taehyung and ruin every single thing he’d confined in him and vice versa.
Taehyung cannot separate him from what he did.

If this had happened before he would have slept with him as an excuse to see him, then either just
used the distraction from his presence, or talked. He’s said little to him about Namjoon, shouted
about him in that hallway in Rouge, but by the way he was with him on the rooftop when he told
him he was in Japan, Taehyung knew little had to be said for him to get it. From the few interactions
he has now had with his sister, though, Taehyung understands why it would be so easy for Jungkook
to almost so un-Jeon-ly empathize with him on this. Clo Eun, Taehyung thinks, reminds him of
Namjoon. And considering who their father is, he supposes the twins can’t help but love each other
the way they do. The way he loves his own siblings.

He texts Jimin instead, and Jimin asks him if he wants to come over after he finishes at the Ozone,
but Taehyung says no, can’t keep running away from how it is at his own home, because if he
doesn’t have that, he has absolutely nothing left.

Namjoon sleeps on the couch that night and when Taehyung wakes up, he realizes he’s the last one
to do so. Namjoon is making breakfast and Woojin has seen him and Ji-woo has too, and both eat his
food as if he didn’t disappear for months.

Woojin is ecstatic.

Ji-woo is not. Taehyung wants desperately to know her opinion on the sudden return, as
uninformative as his rapid departure, but he still can’t talk to her. He’d asked her not to speak about
Jungkook, but they have stopped speaking altogether. Her voice makes him flinch and her eyes feel
judgmental.

Namjoon sees him first when he pauses at the bottom of the steps. “Tae,” he says, a smile that makes
a dimple on his cheek subsiding as he watches him. “Do you want breakfast?”

Ji-woo turns, Woojin turns. Three pairs of eyes layer over him. “I have work,” he says. He leaves.
Jungkook, as promised, doesn’t come to Rouge. He hasn’t seen him since the twins’ birthday.

He sees Namjoon again that same night. He’s sat at the kitchen table that Taehyung has to pass by.
Ji-woo is picking up Woojin from a friend’s house and Taehyung knows that, knows they are alone.
He doesn’t hesitate at the bottom of stairs this time, attempts to pace right past him as he aims for the
back door, but of course nothing is as easy.

“Where are you going, Taehyung?” Namjoon asks, so ironically brotherly.

He feels like a petty teenager again, but he doesn’t really care. “Out,” he says simply, through an eye
roll, for which he specifically turns, pays him more mind than he means to.

Namjoon’s got his goddamn glasses on, a book in front of him, but he isn’t reading. They make him
look older. “Does out constitute drinking?”

Taehyung’s brows raise as he shrugs his shoulders, arms folding together. “What the fuck else would
I be doing out?”

Namjoon takes those glasses off, but before he can start looking his age, he starts speaking through
his ass. “Then I guess you’re staying in.”

Taehyung almost chokes on his snort. “What?” He bristles, lips twisting comically to the sides, a
contorted smirk twitching at his features.

It’s as if the attitude completely escapes Namjoon; he ignores it wholeheartedly and answers as if
Taehyung wasn’t taking this as some sort of a joke, but was genuinely asking him a question,
seeking information. “One thing I’ve learned for substances,” he says as he stands up, “you do them
when you’re happy, you do them when you’re with people, fuck, you do them even cause of peer
pressure, but never,” he moves around the kitchen with familiarity, opens the cupboard that holds
their glasses, “ever, do them cause you’re sad.”

Taehyung watches him take the glasses out, pour water from the sink in one and then the other.
“What, you’re gonna play my father now?”

Namjoon moves towards the table again, sets both glasses there and with the ring of them meeting
the wood, he states, “I’m your hyung.”

His brother’s head cocks, the smirk only dying at one side of his mouth, but staying strong and bitter
at the other, “Conveniently now you are.”
He doesn’t know if his goal is to aggravate Namjoon with the near brattiness, but had it been, he
would have miserably failed, because Namjoon remains absolutely unbothered. Ever so calmly, he
pulls the chair right back, doesn’t even scrape the floor with the motion, and simply sits back in his
place. “Come here now.”

“What?” Taehyung says again with a twitching eyebrow, almost as ironic.

Namjoon speaks as he closes the book conclusively and moves it aside as if it’s a given Taehyung
will come. “If it’s easier for you to talk with a glass in hand, pretend that’s alcohol.” He pushes the
second glass closer to where Taehyung stubbornly stands and his eyes trail over.

“With the amount of chemistry in pipes in this neighborhood it might as well be.”

Eyes lift to his, “Taehyung.”

“Who said I wanted to talk to you?” he asks, louder, clearer, and much, much more honest than his
previous play at snarkiness, his arms falling apart from their hold to lift to the air around him, and he
feels like such a child.

“You need to talk to someone,” Namjoon says and Taehyung really doesn’t see how they gossip
about him sticking his nose in everything and anything when Jeon Clo Eun herself has so colossally
failed to mind her own business.

He breathes through his nose. “I’ll talk to Jimin,” he tells him, but he won’t, he can’t.

And Namjoon knows it. “Jimin doesn’t like talking, does he?” he asks, brows shifting quizzically
towards his hair.

Taehyung looks away. “He doesn’t.” He looks back. “But he’d do it for me.” Taehyung only says it
to say it, but a part of him does think there is truth to it, no matter what silent arrangement they have
to mutually not care about anything that actually matters, if Taehyung really needed it, Jimin would
be there, in one way or another.

Namjoon’s fingers wrap around the bottom of the glass, and maybe it does help with honesty. He
speaks more softly than before. “You always liked to talk to me, Taehyung,” he says.
“Yeah,” his brother nods, accuses in earnest, “Cause you always pretended to be the wise big
brother,” he steps closer, leans over the table, fingers digging onto the surface, “but then you
abandoned me and who do you think I had to talk to about that?”

Namjoon looks away again then, and Taehyung thinks he has him falling back into that reticence of
the discomfort of shame, but he just pulls his book back, shrugs. “Fine.”

Taehyung’s brows shoot up and he doesn’t like how his voice is pitched. “Fine?”

“Can’t force you, can I?” He opens his book again and looks at it but doesn’t even think to put his
glasses back on and it’s all a fucking ploy that tugs so accurately at Taehyung’s very last nerve.

“Okay,” Taehyung pulls the chair in front of him back and his does scrape against the floor. He falls
into it. “Let’s talk,” he says with hurried, angry eagerness, drops his forearms onto the table and
tangles his fingers together like a schoolchild. “Why did you leave?”

Namjoon looks up. “Taehyung—

“You said you wanted to talk.” Taehyung interrupts as he notices his tone drifts and trails. He
reaches forward, picks his ass off the chair briefly and takes the book right between his fingers, slams
it shut as he sits back down. “Talk.”

Namjoon stares at the table. He’s quiet for so long and Taehyung realizes he can feel himself
breathing, harder and louder than he wants to. It takes about a minute for him to roll his eyes, to
snicker once and shake his head, to start to stand back up, but at the first notion of his chair scraping,
Namjoon is speaking. “Taehyung,” he starts heavy, hand falling over his brother’s forearm to keep
him in place. He’s looking at him again, eyes darting from one of his to the other. “I could be traced
to what happened to Byung-Chul’s daughter and her friends.”

“What?” Taehyung’s breathing out in a hiss, his arm almost instinctively retracting back from
underneath Namjoon’s and into his chest.

Namjoon’s palms open, fingers spreading in defense and reason and he starts quickly. “I don’t have
anything to do with it,” he says, imploring and with a promise and Taehyung relaxes into the chair,
so Namjoon does, too. “Several people could be linked to it, though, and we all know poor boy was
gonna get it worst.”
Taehyung’s eyes dart across Namjoon’s face. He’s never been one to lie, just hide the truth.
Taehyung is the one who tells most lies, and he only sees signs of genuineness on Namjoon’s
creased forehead and wide eyes. He drops his hands to the table again, narrows his own. “And you
couldn’t fucking say anything?”

“The fewer people know the better,” is his immediate answer and here he goes again, shielding him
from truth, and maybe himself as well, because it does seem reasonable now with Taehyung’s
experience with Sooho and his people, as he does suppose from what Jungkook had said about his
brother mixing with bad people that Kai plays a role in this. Kai always plays a role. It was certainly
safer for Namjoon Taehyung being oblivious in that moment with Sooho, though it was definitely
safest that Jungkook was there.

He chooses not to ask. He doesn’t want to know, not now.

And this conversation is truly not about this, either. Because Namjoon came all the way from Japan
because of that text and he is most definitely not going to be satiated without an interrogation.

He begins lightly, carefully. “You’re not involved with her, are you?” he asks, eyes fixing over
Taehyung.

But he ignores that. He wraps his fingers around the bottom of the alcohol-free glass and stares at
them. “Why?” His shoulders shrug on their own accord. “Would it be that bad,” he blinks up, looks
up, “to be involved with a Jeon?”

Namjoon’s eyes drown him with a sudden onslaught of compassion at what the question suggests
and he’s back to staring at his hands. “She loves Jin, Tae.”

“I know,” Taehyung nods, bites briefly at his lip, releases it for something much more spiteful. “And
she’s a Jeon.”

Namjoon cocks his head, shakes it. “Yeah, she’s a Jeon, so what?” Taehyung’s gaze darts upwards,
searches his face for the indication it’s a joke, because yes, he’s been absent for months, but he
couldn’t have forgotten what that name means. “We’re Kims,” Namjoon continues with only factors
of earnestness, “are we actually the leeches they say we are?” He pauses and Taehyung realizes, he
cannot fully grasp what Taehyung means. A Jeon can be different to what they are portrayed as by
perpetual gossip, yes. But a Jeon can’t be gay. “She’s still one of the most honest, good, and caring
people I’ve met in the entirety of my life, in and out of Richhood. Just because she carries her
father’s name—"

“What about Jungkook?” Taehyung interrupts.

Namjoon blinks. “What?

“You know him, too, right?” Taehyung speaks, leaning back into the chair and further away from
him. His arms fold over his chest, tightly.

His bother hesitates, “Jungkook and I,” he trails almost awkward, searches for the way to put it, and
finishes with a brief shake of his head, “we don’t get along.”

“Yeah?” Taehyung’s tongue slicks his bottom lip. His head tilts. “I probably wouldn’t get along with
you either if you’d sold Ji-woo enough drugs for her to almost kill herself,” it shines through his
voice that his bitterness has not completely died down along with a silly grudge of defensiveness
over what in his head labels as Jungkook’s sister.

Namjoon’s eyes flash, lids pulling to their corners in enunciated surprise. “How do you—” He
stammers, interrupts himself, head shaking again, this time slow and continuous. “Taehyung, what
the fuck have got yourself into?”

“Just,” Taehyung starts, refocuses on the table again; it’s much easier to look at old wood and
cigarette burns that go back to before their mother’s death than Namjoon’s expressive, caring eyes,
which he hasn’t seen in so fucking long, “just what do you think about him?”

For a moment he says nothing, simply stares at his younger brother, but then he’s leaning back again.
“Well, from what I know. Clo and him?” his brows raise, and Taehyung should have guessed his
area of expertise in this would have revolved around his twin. “They’d die for each other.”

Taehyung knows that’s a bold statement, but a true statement. Still, his chest fills with indignation
and so do his words, “You think he’d die for anyone other than himself?”

He’s still not looking up, choosing the table, and Namjoon is still staring and pausing as if he means
to read his mind before he settles for an answer. The silences unnerve Taehyung, but then Namjoon
is speaking. “Jungkook,” he says, “I think rarely loves but when he does, it’s with a passion, and he
certainly loves her.”
Taehyung’s fingers twitch over each other where he holds them on his elbows. For some reason, his
heart also does. It twitches; it tugs. He says nothing. He has nothing to say. His eyes focus on a
single cigarette burn so hard, his vision blurs.

Namjoon’s still talking and it makes his ears ring. “Sometimes I feel like he loves, hates or doesn’t
care at all, I don’t think there’s an in between for him,” he speaks so conversationally, can never
guess that Taehyung feels every word. Jungkook for him is just Clo Eun’s brother. Jungkook for
Taehyung is—he doesn’t know what he is.

“When he hates, he hates,” Namjoon continues as Taehyung’s lids bat quick and repetitive to try to
clear the stinging blur of his eyes, “when he loves, he loves.”

He finally talks. “He must really hate me then,” he says, simple and empty. There’s a fullness to the
void in his words that skips past Namjoon, for now.

He’s still so obliviously casual. “He hates all Kims,” he nearly chuckles. “He thinks he does.”

Taehyung blinks so fucking much. His fingers and palms raise, tighten over his biceps instead, he
squeezes. “Yeah,” he manages barely, and angles his head away from Namjoon, stares towards the
door. His teeth sink into his lip, bite on it as hard as the pressure his fingers exert, digging almost
painfully into his own flesh.

The effect of his almost chuckle that resides on his lips in the form of a curve dies on Namjoon’s
mouth as he observes his brother. “Taehyung,” he calls, and his voice rings more careful now. “Did
you get in his way somehow or—"

“You could say that, I suppose.” He tilts his head down now, stares at his lap, anywhere but at
Namjoon’s eyes, because if he does, Namjoon will see his, and he can’t let that happen.

“Taehyung,” Namjoon says that, only that, only his name, but it is Namjoon that says it, his hyung,
his family, the one who made it all easy, his father’s departures, his mother’s death, poverty. He only
says his name, but he asks so many questions, pries so much out of Taehyung, who is so constantly
on the verge, of what he does not know, but he is, and it spills.

He does look at his eyes. “I slept with him,” he says, confesses. “Several times,” he adds. “I was
sleeping with him.”
“What?” Namjoon breathes, brows furrowed, but eyes wide. “With Jungkook?” he’s lost his voice it
seems, can only speak with air, gaze darting all across Taehyung’s face. His mouth parts futile,
closes. Then it does again, and he finds sound and firmness, but it’s still a clumsy stammer of speech.
“You, you slept with Jungkook?”

Taehyung nods. “Yes.”

Namjoon leans on the table, extents his body forward, fingers spreading and tapping on top of the
surface as if to test the physicality of the statement. “As in sex?”

Taehyung breathes through his nose, his shoulders, which he only now realizes are curled into him
with tension, slump low. “No, we had pajama parties,” he rolls his eyes, but they end back at
Namjoon. “We fucked, Namjoon.”

He leans back into the chair, arms dropping off the table. “You’re gay?” it’s a bit of a question and a
bit of an exclamation.

Taehyung sighs, his own arms unfolding and spreading over the table. “I don’t know.” He shakes his
head, touching the tips of his fingers together and stares at the motion while Namjoon still stares at
him. “Maybe a little bi,” he shrugs, “but I like guys.” He pauses, thinks. “I prefer guys. I prefer him.”

The current status of his sexual orientation is way too much Jeon Jungkook for him to be able to
soberly rationalize whether he doesn’t like girls at all. He doesn’t want to necessarily label himself,
anyway; he had, and he had been wrong. If he wants someone, he wants them, simple as that.

Namjoon’s back presses fully into the back of his chair. “Wow,” he chokes out in a startled breath,
looking away from Taehyung and blinking at the distance, at nothing. “I never expected Jungkook to
touch a man.” He glances at Taehyung, at the way his eyes fall to his lap and leans forward again,
starts speaking with his hands, gestures loud and emphasized. “Like, even if he wanted to, I’d expect
him to be the type to remain in the closet for the whole of his life.”

His brother’s head shakes. He speaks under his breath. “He probably will.”

“What?” Namjoon’s brows furrow. His voice is atypically high, nearly squeaks. Taehyung can read
his discomfort, but he’s glad at the size and nature of it, more colored with surprise than with
judgement. He can take surprise.
“He got rid of me,” Taehyung says as simply as he can.

“Rid of you?” His perplexity grows, creases his forehead more, purses his lips.

It feels so incredibly silent to Taehyung when he speaks next. The space is quiet, the kitchen, where
he stood to wait it all out as it happened, is mute, and his voice rings so loud, ricochets off the walls
and back to his ears, he hears it again, and it guts him all over again. “He slept with Ji-woo,” he tells.
“Here,” his eyes look up, glare at the ceiling that holds their upstairs. “While I listened.”

Taehyung’s teeth worry his lower lip, his upper lip, he bites at them, squeezes at himself again. He’s
blinking too much again. His chest raises and falls and Namjoon can only watch.

He’s stumped. “I—” he begins, but it dries on his tongue and he doesn’t finish.

Helpless. That’s howTaehyung supposes Namjoon feels. It’s the way he himself felt when Jungkook
told him his sister had had a panic attack at the couch a few meters away. “You don’t have to say
anything about that,” Taehyung sucks in a breath through his nose, but he’s still staring up, upupup,
helps everything go down his throat. “I don’t want to think about that.”

“Taehyung,” Namjoon is saying after a moment. “I get you were… sleeping with him,” Taehyung’s
lids squeeze together, and they don’t part again, not for a while. “Were you,” he hesitates; Taehyung
can hear his feet shuffling underneath the table, “do you care about him?”

His head drops back, he’s facing his brother again. His eyes open and he stares once again at that
worried compassion in Namjoon’s familiar foreign eyes. A moment passes of just that. And he
breaks. “So fucking much,” he rasps, throaty, and his elbows dig into the table, fingers clutching at
his hair, palms rubbing into his expression to hide it from Namjoon.

Namjoon’s hand reaches forward instinctively. He feels fingers at his elbow. “Taehyung.”

He pulls at strands harder. “I’ve never cared about anyone like this, Namjoon, I don’t know what to
do.”

Fingers wrap ginger and futile around his forearm. “Tae,” Namjoon murmurs so softly, and
Taehyung hates he’s in a state where all those fucking siblings need to be careful with him. He hates
he’s fragile, but he appreciates it anyway, prefers it to Ji-woo.

He pulls his arms back, releases his face, and hurts his brother with the way his eyes bulge and
glisten. “And he tells me he fucking wants me after that, tells me he’s sorry.” He wants to laugh, but
he doesn’t have it in him. His eyes suddenly crease, lids almost touching and his whole countenance
contorts with it. His head shakes with every following confession that he absolutely detests. “And I
want to be with him,” he says, because it’s true, gets those urges to call him and to see him, so
inappropriate and common, “but he’s so fucked up, he is going to drain me, drain every last bit of me
if I am and I don’t think I’m ready to give up on myself to be with him no matter how much I –“ he
pauses, searches his mind, “feel for him.”

“He wants you?” Namjoon asks because he doesn’t know what that means, but Taehyung doesn’t
either, so he just says what he does know.

“He said he never wanted to hurt me, that he was drunk and on coke, that he would never touch
anyone else sober,” he recites with sardonic disbelief. “That he thought he was protecting me by
pushing me away.”

Namjoon is stunned into silence once again. He cannot imagine Jeon Jungkook speaking any of
those words.

Taehyung’s calmer now. He’s too exhausted to prolong any outburst. He rests his arms by their
length on the table. His stomach feels terribly hollow. “Being with him, I think would be masochism,
but being without him and watching him from the side when he tells me he wants me feels like it too
and I really don’t know what to do.”

He doesn’t know if he asks for advice or just speaks, because Namjoon is the first person who
actually offers, sits there and listens. He lets him speak. Partially, it feels like a lie what he says,
because he is so very convinced that he only wants to forget Jeon Jungkook. But partially, it feels
like he is voicing truth for the first time.

“Clo talked to me,” Taehyung says as he looks up, meets Namjoon’s eyes again. He surprises
himself with how suddenly calm and measured he gets to be now, post the small, yet powerful
breakdown, almost feels himself rational. Almost. “She said he promised to stay away now, as long
as that’s what I want, so it’s up to me really.”

Namjoon heaves a breath. “And what do you want?”

“What do I want?” Taehyung blinks. His lips purse, head shakes, and he runs a hand across his face,
forehead, left eye, left cheek. “To turn back time and erase what he did,” he says. “How do you
forgive that, Namjoon?” it’s rhetorical, really is. It’s simple—you don’t. But Taehyung’s eyes search
his as if they hold an actual answer.

Namjoon’s head turns back and forth. “I don’t know, Tae,” he says, “I don’t know. But if you ever
want to try, it’s up to you, okay? No one can decide for you if he’s worth the try. Not me, and not Ji-
woo and not anyone else.” Taehyung wonders briefly how the interactions between Namjoon and
their sister played out ever since his return, but he doesn’t care enough to ask.

And Taehyung supposes Namjoon only says that, that there is even room for an attempt, because he
doesn’t know the whole story, doesn’t know how it all started, with money and Julia and honest
perversion, that Jungkook refused to even kiss him for so, so long. Taehyung’s shoulders fold up and
fall, heavy. “He’s fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon nods in a breath. “Fucked up people tend to get you fucked up in them, too.” He
reaches forward again, touches his forearm and Taehyung’s eyes draw to the sensation, but he allows
it this time. “But you know, Tae.” He pauses until he has his gaze fixed on his. “It might seem
impossible to you now to think of someone else like that. Time does heal everything. You can fall in
love again, maybe not as hard, but better.”

Taehyung’s mouth parts. “Love?” he says the word as if it comes from a foreign language. He
almost thinks he doesn’t say it correctly with the way it feels on his tongue.

“Aren’t you in love with him?”

“I’ve never—" he’s never thought about it like that, never been brave enough to truly attempt to
conceptualize what it was that drew him so unforgivably back to him, only ever thought about
intensity, undefinable intensity, but he never tried to put in a spectrum, because it was never really
very definable to him what he felt for Jeon Jungkook. It was always supposed to be nothing. He
hesitates, looks down at the table where he twirls his fingers together. “He treated me like shit like
sixty or seventy percent of the time.”

Namjoon’s sighing with repeated shakes of his head that reminds Taehyung it’s still probably hard
for him to believe any of this is reality. “It’s Jungkook,” he almost gasps it, “with a boy.” He pauses.
“I’m surprised he didn’t treat you like shit a hundred percent of the time.” He tries to find his eyes
again, says with that ever-returning softness, “I’m surprised you stayed around him for long enough
for this to happen.”
Taehyung tongues at his lips. They feel impossibly dry. “He got better as time passed,” a small laugh
chokes out of him, “not the best.”

No matter how hard Namjoon tries to meet his eyes, he refuses. There is some shame in the fact of it,
the fact he stayed for that long, kept going back to him. He looks at the shelves, at the dishes that are
left to dry. “Why do you care about him then?”

His lips purse, shoulders lift and slump. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

This has always been so taboo to address, even in his own head. He’s curious and attracted, and
that’s all he’s cared to admit, but then Namjoon finally finds his eyes as they pass across shifting
from the sink to the fridge and he’s speaking, airy, comes to his own ears as if he is submerged
underwater.

“He’s interesting,” he starts, and his hands move nervously on the table with every word, wiping
from one end to the other. “Challenging. When I’m around him, it feels…” his hands lift off and cup
air as he tries to formulate it in his mind, but he miserably fails, so he drops them heavy on the
surface, “I can’t even tell you how it feels, I don’t know if there’s a word for it.” He pauses, thinks,
shrugs. “He can be funny,” he admits, begrudgingly, “he’s smart, talented, honestly, brilliant at times,
when he fights, it’s fascinating to watch and I fucking hate violence. He cares about his sister as
much as I care about you, and Woojin, and Ji-woo. And um,” he’s stopping again and breathes a
short sound, reminiscent of a laugh, through his nostrils with a brief motion of his head, “did you
know he likes video games? And he let me drive his car, and he doesn’t want to become his father,
and sometimes he makes me feel, I don’t know, like I have more worth.”

“Worth?” Namjoon’s gaping. “Taehyung, you have worthwithout—”

“I know,” he interjects, meets his eyes just to promise it is true, like Clo Eun and Jungkook do. “I
know. But Jeon Jungkook wantsme, me,” he presses his fingers to his chest,“a Kim,” and that’s step
one for him, that’s when it was all okay, bearable, but then it wasn’t, because, “He thinks I’m pretty,
he tells me I’m pretty, I’m handsome, so much, tells me pretty clothes fit me, his clothes fit me, that
being a waiter doesn’t, that I distract him better than Julia, and when he started treating me different,
when he started treating me decent there was something… special that he was different for me, you
know.” He meets his eyes wide, asks him to understand, but then he’s dropping the hope in a
moment, shakes his head, and glances down at the table. “I don’t know. It’s stupid. I’m stupid.”
Namjoon’s head tilts, his voice reaches its softest. “You’re not stupid, Tae.”

But Taehyung doesn’t believe him. He can’t, not when his fingers are making a rapid pattern around
a burn on the table and he’s shyly admitting, “I really like kissing him.”

To give himself something to do he raises the glass in front of him to his lips, downs it all in one go.
Namjoon’s mouth parts, but he doesn’t know if he wants to hear what he has to say. He needs to
snap out of it.

So, he places the glass back down. “The sex helps as well,” he says, lips almost curling with the way
Namjoon’s face changes. “A lot,” he speaks with an unnecessary motion of his tongue, nods his
head for emphasis.

Namjoon’s look is of pure horror. “Jesus Christ, Taehyung.”

Taehyung’s lips do curl, and he stands up, moves to pour himself another glass. “By the way,” he
says with the beginnings of a smirk and he thinks that is the first time he has had anything even
remotely resembling a smile on his face in a while, “he fucked me on your bed.”

Somehow, somehow Namjoon appears even more horrified at that as he tracks Taehyung with his
eyes. His jaw drops, then teeth clack together when he speaks, “On my bed?”

Taehyung turns the tap but doesn’t really look at his hand holding the glass under the running water,
because he would much rather take in Namjoon’s comical expression. “Pounded me so hard on it.”

Namjoon’s the one running hands through his hair now, head shaking. “I’ve never wanted you to
shut up more.”

“Thought you wanted to talk?” Taehyung quips, head tilting.

He’s back to squeaky, hands falling apart from his face and hanging open beside him in the air, “Not
about where you fuck.”

Taehyung shuts the water off. “Wanna talk about how?” he suggests, brings the glass up to his lips,
but doesn’t tilt it until he makes sure to inform him, “There’s a lot to tell there.”

Namjoon shakes his head, threatens. “I’ll go back to Japan if you don’t shut up.”

Taehyung gulps in the water as the small smile disappears, and he’s looking down. He says nothing
of Japan, doesn’t indicate he knew already that Namjoon was there.

He watches the edges of his glass, asks, “Are you going to stay?” He wants him to stay. Namjoon
has always made hard moments easy. He wants him to stay.

“I don’t know,” he gathers his hands in his lap, shakes his head differently now. “Don’t know if I
can.” Taehyung nods, brings the glass back to his mouth. “But I don’t want to leave you, Tae. Not
now.” He pauses, looks down and takes a short, loud breath before his eyes lift up, “What if—"

That is when his phone rings.

Namjoon rolls his eyes, sighs, but he moves forward on the chair and fishes it out of his pocket. He
stares at the screen, before he glances at Taehyung who already has his expectantly fixed on him.
“It’s Clo,” Namjoon tells him.

Taehyung’s heart skips a beat. “Pick up.” He readjusts on his feet.

“Are you sure?”

He sets the glass down. “Pick up,” he says more firmly.

Namjoon nods, whispers an okay beneath his breath and this time the chair does scrape as he stands.
He presses the device to his ear. “Hey,” he greets calmly, but then his eyes are widening, “What,” he
turns, gives Taehyung his back, hides his expression, but Taehyung already knowssomething is
wrong, because that is not Clo Eun’s voice on the other end of that phone call. “What?” he asks
again. “Hey, slow down, slow down.” With every word he says, Taehyung’s own heart beats more
rapid. His fingers tighten around the glass on the counter. “I don’t understand—” Namjoon’s voice is
worried, and then he says, “Jungkook, calm down,” and Taehyung’s heart nearly bursts out.“Okay.
Did you call your aunt? Okay. Okay.” Taehyung’s walking towards him, he wants to hear more of
the other person other than an unintelligible muffle. “I’m in Korea. I’m home. I’ll come.”
Namjoon is hanging up, moving immediately. He presses the phone back in his pants, walks for
keys, walks for a jacket. And Taehyung follows suit.

“What?” He’s asking. There’s panic in his voice. He’s scared all over again. “Jungkook? Did
Jungkook call you?” Namjoon just keeps walking,ignores him,and Taehyung remembers he wanted
to hit him yesterday. “Namjoon,” he demands, hand reaching for his shoulder and coercing him to
spin. “Fucking answer me.” He’s finally stopped that incessant walking. “Why did Jungkook call
you?” Taehyung presses, “Why did he have to calm down, what’s wrong, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t like Namjoon’s eyes. Doesn’t like his face at all, every feature tugging with concern.
“Clo’s bad,” he tells him. “Clo’s really bad,” his head shakes. “He doesn’t know what to do.”

Taehyung doesn’t think. “I’m coming,” he says.

Namjoon shakes his head harder. “Taehyung, don’t—"

But Taehyung is determined, grasps at the keys that hang loosely in Namjoon’s hand. “I said I’m
coming,” he repeats, and he’s out the door before Namjoon can say much else.

They both know the way up to the Jeons’ penthouse. The door is open. They both know the way to
the corridor which hosts the rooms of the twins. Namjoon is boldly hurrying towards Clo Eun’s
while Taehyung falls in step slightly, his heart beating nervous, eyes coating over the lightly cracked
door of Jungkook’s.

He shakes his head, ushers forward, turns over the frame of Clo Eun’s room and stops there, hand
clinging to the wood until his knuckles are white. Namjoon walks towards the en-suite bathroom and
Taehyung can see, he watches Jungkook on the floor of it at an angle, sees only part of Clo Eun’s
back which Jungkook’s hand is wrapped around.
Jungkook’s eyes snap to Namjoon at the sound of his approach. Taehyung has never seen his eyes
like this, and it makes him want to squeeze his own shut. “Kim,” Jungkook is speaking, voice a
demanding exhale, edging so terrifyingly on desperate. Taehyung’s heart drops to his stomach, then
the length of his thigh, and to the bottom of his feet. “I—I,” he’s stuttering, trying to get all words out
quickly, but it makes his tongue clumsy and he needs to pause and swallow. “I think I made her
throw up most of them, tried to count in her vomit, but I don’t know. I don’t know, and she’s still not
coming about.”

Taehyung’s ears buzz. It resonates like a dream, like a nightmare.

“Okay,” Namjoon breathes, and he squats down next to him. “What did she take, do you know what
she took?”

Jungkook is shaking his head. “Some of my mother’s prescription pills, but she takes off the labels,
so Clo doesn’t know which is which. I don’t know which is which, Kim. I don’t know what to do.”
He’s still shaking his head, so vigorously back and forth, and then his whole body is rocking with it,
and so does his sister’s in his arms.

“Is she breathing?” Namjoon’s asking. His own voice shakes, breaks, but compared to Jungkook, he
is almost calm.

Taehyung’s frozen at that door.

“Yes,” Jungkook exhales, nodding now. “She’s breathing, she is, barely so.” His hand runs soothing
down her back, so incongruous with the way his body shakes. “Can you help her?” he asks with his
voice almost strong. “I don’t know how to help her,” he says with his voice weak.

“Give her to me.”

“No.”

“Jungkook,” Namjoon grips at his shoulder, stares right in his eyes. “She might need CPR. And I
need to keep her awake and upright if she comes to, and you’re fucking shaking, okay?” He
squeezes at him. “Just, just wait outside, close the door and calm the fuck down. You’re no use to
her like this.”
It’s a short moment, but it feels long, until Jungkook’s nodding and transferring her to Namjoon. He
stands, looks wobbly on his feet and Taehyung is immediately releasing the doorframe, falling in
steps towards him. He doesn’t see him until he closes the door. Then he looks up and Taehyung is
frozen all over again.

“Taehyung,” Jungkook whispers, shaky, and that’s all he says, not a syllable more.

“I—” he’s stammering as well, “I came with Namjoon.”

Jungkook stares at him with wide, glistening eyes. His pupils are almost as large as when he’s on
coke, but the misfocus of them is different. They blur over with a wet glint, and he blinks. He doesn’t
answer. He presses his back to the wall next to the door and slides down until his ass hits the floor.

Taehyung hesitates. He’s very slow, very careful as he moves, and Jungkook’s eyes lift from the
floor, follow him as he walks, as he lowers himself in front of him, some distance apart, mirroring his
position, lifting knees up as he presses his back into the edge of Clo Eun’s bed.

Jungkook watches him until he settles, until it’s obvious he’s there to stay. Then he replaces his stare
to the carpet between his feet. His eyes are enormous and though they stare so firmly, they stare at
nothing. He’s barely blinking. Taehyung cannot look away.

He hears water running.

He hears Jungkook speaking. “I’m gonna get her out of here,” he promises, head shaking. Taehyung
doesn’t know if he is even meant to hear, if Jungkook even fully registers he is in the room, but next
he blinks up next, finds Taehyung’s eyes and speaks to them with harrowing conviction. “As soon as
I can, I’m getting her out of here.”

Taehyung’s brows furrow. He doesn’t know what that means, so he doesn’t know what to say, how
to say it. Before he’s properly thinking, his lips are moving on their own. “You’re going to leave?”
He hates the way his voice lilts with panic.

Jungkook’s head shakes. “I’m going to come back,” he says, voice still so very breathy. “My place is
here. Hers isn’t,” he tells him. He almost sounds like Jungkook now. His chest almost raises and
sinks calm enough to let his words fill with his voice and not just with his exhales. His eyes fall so
dead on his, and they, like his sound, are almost his again, almost recognizable, remind Taehyung of
how he looked at him at the roof and that last time at the Ozone. “Nor is yours.”
Taehyung’s arms are wrapping around his knees, and he squeezes himself tightly. His teeth sink
almost painfully in his lip and he tries not to say anything, but he is spluttering out. “How is yours
here?” he asks, there is something almost offended to the sound of it, to the lines of his forehead and
the narrowing of his eyelids.

Jungkook’s head won’t stop fucking shaking. “I’m spoiled rotten, Tae,” he says, and with the way
he’s looking at him, Taehyung almost wants to look away, but he can’t. “You’re not.”

Taehyung’s arms fall apart, hands stretching out with opened palms into the air for moments before
they drop to the soft carpet. “You’ve started to,” he tells him, speaks eager to get it all out, as quick
as possible to have Jungkook hear it and understand it, because he can think Jungkook is a piece of
shit all he wants—Jungkook hurt him, and he’s entirely entitled to that, but if Jungkook goes down
that road, he is just going to get worse. “You’ve started to, but you’re still not rotten all the way,
Jungkook.”

Jungkook looks at him with his eyes still as wide, but then his lids lower, weaken, and he chooses
the floor instead, glances at Taehyung’s fingers treading through the carpet. “You seriously need to
get yourself out of here if you think that.” His voice matches his eyes, weak and low.

Taehyung stares at him unfailingly and he desperately wants to reassure him that’s not true, but it
lodges in his throat. So, he settles for something else, something he is brave enough to say that would
secure his place here. “I can’t leave Woojin,” he tells him, head shaking.

Jungkook brings his eyes back up to him and then he’s speaking with more power, with that same
urgency that Taehyung held a moment ago, trying to get across what he means to say, as quick and
as pointed as possible. Jungkook speaks to him as if he really wants him to leave. “Woojin’s young,”
he says to him. “He still has the chance to stay away from all this in the first place. You don’t,” he
shakes his head, presses it back onto the wall as if he can’t hold it up on his own. “Richhood would
just fucking finish you.”

Taehyung sucks in a breath, runs a palm over his mouth, wipes at it and keeps his fingers there,
cupping the bottom of his face. He only talks when he thinks he’s sure his voice would come out
leveled, but he fails. It’s frail. “Then why would you stay?”

“Taehyung,” his name sounds gentle falling from his lips, but his next words come rough and raw
and bitter, “I’m part of it.”
Taehyung’s head sways back forth. “You’re not,” he says, and he’s almost angry again. Something
is rising in his stomach and then his chest and it is warm and cold at the very same time, like water
that is so scorching it feels freezing to the touch. “You’re a product of it.”

Jungkook’s laugh is wet. “Yeah?” his head cocks and every feature on his face twists painful and
pained. His chin juts towards him. “Look at you, Tae,” he says, and his voice builds with every
syllable, raises, pitches. It grows demanding, but it is not pointed at Taehyung, “Look at what I did to
you.” It builds and then it drops, cracks and breaks uneven, forehead touching to his knees as his
eyes screw shut and Taehyung is almost thankful he takes them away. “And look at my sister,” he
says in a broken, contorted tone.

He breathes, heaves through his nose, loud and ugly, and then he is picking his head up again, eyes
misfocused when they take Taehyung’s face, with his parted lips and sympathetic eyes. “I,” he
nearly sniffs the word out, “you know I thought if I told Sooho not to sell her now, it would be okay.
She would get over it without drugs. I didn’t know what else I could have done, but she still,” he
isn’t looking at Taehyung anymore, probably not even talking to him at this point. His mannerisms
are jerky, his eyes stare into a distant nothing. “She looked so exhausted, even on our birthday,” his
head shakes, “her eyes were red, she didn’t show up, but I just, I was so focused on myself I didn’t
even—” he chokes on it, “I was so fucking selfish, fucking obsessed with myself.” His head falls
back down, knocks into his kneecaps. “I could have stopped her.”

Taehyung doesn’t know at what point he gets on his knees, when he starts crawling, only knows he
shuffles on the soft carpet until he is in front of him. “Jungkook,” he calls, and the name trembles on
his tongue, he spreads it out, licks across his lips, and tries again, but Jungkook isn’t paying attention.
His hands lift, palm cupping at his knees and he tries to pry them apart. “It’s not your fault,” he says,
his head shaking and eyes begging for him to meet his, but he refuses.

Jungkook is many things, Taehyung thinks, many horrible, destructive things. But Jungkook is not a
bad brother. This is the one thing he is certain in. Jungkook is not a bad brother, and this could never
be his fault.

“Hey,” Taehyung calls, louder, pushes at his forehead as his knees fall apart and he crawls closer, so
he won’t be able to squeeze them back shut without him in between. His head raises, but he still tries
to stir it away, and Taehyung’s fingers venture instinctive, palm releases his knee and slides over his
jaw and his cheek. His long digits take so much of his face and they dig in, flesh of it molding under
the pattern they make as they hold him. “Jungkook, look at me,” Taehyung pleads. “Listen to me,”
he’s almost yelling at him, but he can’t tell. His eyes are red when finally has no option but to look at
him and he can see them glisten, but he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t let himself cry and Taehyung almost
wants to cry at the fact of it. “This wasn’t your fucking fault,” he yells. His thumb pads softly over
his cheekbone, makes a soothing circle over the skin. His head shakes. “This wasn’t your fault,” he
whispers.
He’s looking at those crimson, piercing eyes until he can’t anymore, and he releases his face, wraps
his arm around his neck instead, twists it at the elbow and shuffles even closer in between his spread
knees, presses the bodies of them both to each other because Jungkook doesn’t dare move when
Taehyung is touching him, and he has to do it for both of them. He tugs Jungkook’s head into his
neck and buries his own in his own arm around his shoulders, squeezes his eyes shut and squeezes
him close.

Taehyung hugs him. It’s not something he’s done in a while, so drastically different in nature to the
way he wraps himself around him in bed. He hasn’t done it in so long, and it feels foreign, but
somehow it is the only thing he thinks to do. He wraps himself around him firm and tight as much as
kneeling in between his spread knees would allow him and he just sits like this, feels his breath on
his neck. He raises his other hand up, cups it over his head, make sure to show him he’s allowed this,
allowed to keep his head there, for now, because Jungkook is so hesitant, doesn’t touch him, doesn’t
reciprocate this at all.

It’s just Taehyung holding him.

But then it isn’t. Jungkook’s arms raise, both circling around his waist, wrap around him and pull
him in tighter. He feels his nose as his face readjusts in his neck. There’s a blink. He senses his
lashes, and it’s silent but wet. It is singular, he knows he blinks once and then squeezes his eyes shut,
like he has his own. He smells like sweat and Jungkook and he is almost boiling to the touch,
suffocating, but Taehyung doesn’t want to let go.

And it is that fact that makes him pull away.

He retracts his arms, places his hands at his shoulders and pushes him lightly, carefully, until arms are
unlocking from behind his back and falling futile to side. Taehyung sits back on his calves, briefly,
before he is getting up, getting on his feet, and stepping away from in between Jungkook’s. He
stands up and he wipes the back of his hand on his eyes, his nose, his mouth, wipes it all away
almost awkwardly, and he’s walking back, keeps his hand there again.

Jungkook’s eyes seal onto him, trail after his every step as he moves away, walks. He turns, gives
him his back. “Can you—”Jungkook starts, but stops, takes his eyes off of him and instead looks at
his fingers as they move to fix the sleeve of some brand sweatshirt he’s wearing, he clears his throat,
“Can you stay?” and when Taehyung spins back at the question his eyes dart to his again with
compulsion he can’t control. “Just for a little while,” he asks. “Can you?”

And Taehyung wasn’t planning on leaving, not yet, but he supposes his sudden pacing must seem
that way to Jungkook. And he wants to say yes, he’s not going anywhere, but he doesn’t like what a
promise like that would entail, so he says neither yes nor no. He shakes his head. “Jungkook,” he
begins, tongue running quick across his lips as his eyes briefly take to the corners of this room, just as
full of fake plants. “This,” he says. “This doesn’t mean anything,” he pauses, “for us.”

“I know,” Jungkook promises. He nods. “I know it doesn’t.”

Taehyung nods, too. “Okay,” he sighs. “Okay.” He folds his arms before his chest, pauses where he
had previously stood, near Clo Eun’s bed, a safe distance away from hugging Jungkook and he
slides back down, sits on the carpet.

It’s silent for a moment, only the sound of running water coming through the door of the bathroom,
the surface at which Taehyung’s eyes root. It feels longer than it truly is.

When Jungkook speaks next, it’s so light and small at first Taehyung thinks he imagines it.

“I miss you,” Jungkook murmurs, and Taehyung blinks away from the door and at him.

His lower lip falls into his mouth and then drops out. His brows draw closer above the crease of his
eyes. He pauses, and it stretches. “I miss you, too,” he tells him in a whisper that matches his.

Jungkook’s head shakes. “You hate me,” he speaks, still in the same soft, disheartening manner.

This time there is no pause. “No,” Taehyung says, “I don’t.” He exhales through his nose, then takes
a deep breath through his mouth, fills his chest full. “And if I ever leave, Jungkook,” he continues,
“you’re leaving, too.”

Jungkook’s forehead lines, eyes narrow and as his lips begin to form words, the front door opens and
shuts, and footsteps sound through the apartment.

Jungkook’s getting on his feet, using the wall to prop himself up as quickly as possible, and
Taehyung is following suit, pressing his palm into the bed and standing up. His heart hammers and
his eyes turn wide at the door, but then people pile in and he is almost relieved.

Hoseok and Yoongi don’t seem to even notice him as they step towards Jungkook, asking him if
he’s okay, both of them in swimming trunks, and Hoseok without even a shirt.
Julia, however, sees him. She stops in her tracks, pauses at the door. “Taehyung,” she says, simple
and short, and her voice rings too loud within the walls of the room.

The others turn to him as well, pairs of eyes fixing over. Hoseok is confused. Yoongi is glaring.

Taehyung, however, looks at Julia. He hasn’t seen her from so close in a long while, and for some
reason the sight of her now makes him have to swallow down guilt. “I came with Namjoon,” he
supplies, though he doesn’t know if it means anything to her.

Yoongi’s brows furrow at that as well, perplexity coloring his features, too, and his head turns to find
Jungkook. “Namjoon?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Jungkook nods, his chin indicatively turning towards the door. “He’s here. Last call in her
phone,” he explains, and it is something Taehyung had been meaning to ask as well, why it was
Namjoon who he called first, and there it is, simple as that. Jungkook returns his head to them. “Kai
can’t know,” he stresses. “Namjoon’s with her.” And then he’s looking behind their shoulder and in
between them before his eyes fall on them again. “Where’s Seokjin?”

“He’ll come.” Hoseok is nodding, hand raises and squeezes into Jungkook’s shoulder. “I’m sure he
will.”

Jungkook blinks, nods, eyes dropping at his feet.

Yoongi takes a step forward. “Can I-?”

“Please,” Jungkook interrupts, glancing now at him, and takes a step to the side, so his body is no
longer in the way to the door to the bathroom.

Taehyung feels like an intruder. Here he is in between people who understand each other with half
nods and only semblances of words and sentences in such a vulnerable moment. And no one called
him. Clo Eun is his sister and their friend, and Taehyung is no one, absolutely nobody. And Julia’s
eyes on him are so fucking suffocating. “I’ll leave,” he announces and he’s walking.

It is silent when he does. He can hear the dull sound of his footsteps on the carpet, and he watches
that, looks at his feet, and he can see Julia’s move as she steps away to make room for him to leave
through the door. She steps into the room and he is about to go out of it, as it all should be, as is right,
because she is Jungkook’s girlfriend and he is just a nobody in this. Just a Kim.

But he stops at the sound of a voice.

“I want you to stay,” his voice says, and he stops dead.

He still watches the floor. He can’t look at anything else, certainly not at Julia in that moment.
Something washes over his back something cold and warm at the same time, trickles over his spine,
and he almost shivers. And with everything that’s happened lately he can’t believe this is what seems
most surreal, that Jeon Jungkook would tell him he wants him there, to stay, now, in front of Julia, in
front of Yoongi, and in front of Hoseok.

When Taehyung musters up the bravery to slowly turn his head and look at him, ask him with his
eyes alone if this is all some kind of a joke, Hoseok is the only one who seems surprised. Julia is
glaring at her feet, at the carpet, but there isn’t a shred of shock. Yoongi looks at him as Jungkook
used to always look at him, indifferent and almost lazy.

Jungkook is, of course, the worst to look at. His eyes are soft, and they look merciless and
inexcusable straight at Taehyung from in between shoulders as he stands so close to his girlfriend.

Taehyung turns his head to the door again, bites at his lower lip as his upper one tugs up at the
corners of his teeth. He’s contemplating, not entirely sure he is about to leave, but when he takes a
step forward, another voice sounds.

“Taehyung,” Fucking Min Yoongi says his name. They’re all saying his name now, Jungkook, and
Julia and Yoongi. No one calls him Kim anymore. “Please,” Yoongi says and Taehyung takes that
step back, turns his body halfway to look at him. “Just for a little while.”

The pause is pregnant. The request lingers, but Taehyung’s nodding again.

“I’ll stay until Namjoon has to leave,” he tells them all because that makes most sense, and he
glances at Julia, but she is looking at Yoongi now, won’t return it.

Yoongi nods and that is it. He seems to forget about Taehyung, replaces his attention to Jungkook.
He speaks to him differently, speaks to him softer. “I’ll go see her now, okay?”

“Okay,” Jungkook exhales and finally he takes his own eyes off of Taehyung.

Hoseok’s hand skids across Yoongi’s back, starts low and edges up and between his shoulder
blades. “Do you want me to come with you?” he asks, lowering his head a little to be able to talk to
him more privately, look at his eyes.

He shakes his head. “No,” he tells him, fingers closing over the bicep of the arm that touches him
and squeezing lightly in silent reassurance. “The fewer people the better,” he reasons. “You go to
their mother’s cabinet, try to see what’s missing and how much of it. They’ll need to know what she
took.”

Hoseok says okay, looks at Jungkook for permission and he awards him it with a small nod. Yoongi
opens the door to the bathroom gently and closes it behind him even gentler. Hoseok walks past
Taehyung, briefly fixing his eyes over him with a palpable curiosity.

When he steps past him and out of the room, it leaves him alone with Jungkook and Julia.

He hasn’t been in a room alone with Jungkook and Julia since that last time in the Executive Tower,
but everything between them has so colossally shifted that it is the furthest thing away from his
memory. Still, he feels a growing discomfort within himself, something hollow in his stomach,
because he no longer feels he can say anything to Jungkook, can go closer to him, can touch him. He
hardly feels he can look at him.

Especially when Julia starts walking. She looks up from her feet and takes careful steps towards him,
eyes fixing over him. Taehyung’s gaze darts up at the motion of her moving. His lips part on their
own and suddenly, he can’t not look at her walk up to him.

“Hey, Kook,” she calls to him softly. “Jungkook.” Her eyes seek his from underneath as she stops
right before him, the tips of her shoes almost touching his. Both her hands crowd his face, slip over
his cheeks, one exactly where Taehyung's had been, but it’s smaller, can’t hold his whole jaw and
cheek like his own had. Taehyung watches their eyes meet “She’s going to be okay. She always is.”

Taehyung remembers he used to be able to look at Jungkook with Julia. He used to be used to the
sight, but now it seems awry, and he cannot exactly stand it. He thinks jealousy should be completely
absent for a situation like this, and maybe it is, maybe that’s not what this feeling that waves inside
him is; it could be something else entirely, but for whatever reason it burns at him and he is speaking
before he has fully made the decision. “Okay,” he breathes, sighs, runs a hand through his hair and
shakes it off of his forehead. “I thought I that I could, but I can’t. I’m going.”

Jungkook grips at Julia’s hands, cups them gently with his own, and he lowers them from his face.
He looks past her shoulder and at him. “Tae,” he calls imploringly, but doesn’t say anything else and
he doesn’t really get the chance to, because Julia is freeing her hands from his and turning her head
to him.

“He broke up with me.”

Taehyung blinks. His heart skips a beat. His eyes peel and they blink from her to him and he’s
looking at him too until the moment their eyes lock and he’s looking away, whole head tilting at the
floor and he sees his bottom lip tuck underneath his teeth.

“He broke up with me,” she repeats and Taehyung’s head shifts to her. “I’m just being his friend,”
she tells him, “like I’ve been the last fifteen years, so,” and he sees Seung Julia hesitate, her hand
raises, gestures with her fingers spread at a nothing in the room, “so just, sit down or something, and
stay here.” She meets his eyes, “Please.”

Taehyung doesn’t sit, but he doesn’t leave either. He stands speechless in the doorway and Julia only
breaks eye contact with him, replaces his eyes to the carpet as well, when the door of the bathroom
cracks opened.

Yoongi steps out first, goes immediately to Jungkook, but Namjoon appears as well. He finds
Taehyung with his gaze, walks towards him.

“Jungkook,” Yoongi is addressing quietly, “remember what we talked about?” His brows raise.
“Last time.”

Julia stands beside Jungkook, close enough to feel her presence, but she doesn’t touch him.

“Yeah,” Jungkook nods somehow absently and as Yoongi’s eyes fix over him more incessant and
demanding, he moves his head firmer. His throat clears. “Yes,” he answers.

“And?”
Jungkook falls silent and Namjoon reaches Taehyung then. He presses his hands into the fronts of
Taehyung’s elbows and pushes him, walks him backwards towards the door, but Taehyung seals his
heels into the carpet after the first successful step he forces out of him, tilts his head to look over
Namjoon’s shoulder and at the others’ exchange.

There is something tangibly tense in Jungkook’s silence. And then something even tenser in his
question, “Can you drive?”

Yoongi nods. “Of course,” he says and Jungkook is disappearing into the bathroom with him
following there. Julia stops at the door, but Namjoon is pushing him away.

“Taehyung,” he calls, a weak attempt to get his attention, because Taehyung is nearly standing at his
fucking toes to try to look past him.

“What?” he says, momentary darting his eyes to Namjoon, a small attempt on his part to make them
linger, and focus, but he fails and tries to stare futile at the bathroom, but the angle is awful, and
Julia’s body is in the way. “What’s going on?”

Namjoon grips at his elbows firmer. “Taehyung,” he stresses and he’s almost managed to push him
into the hallway now. “Let’s go home.”

Taehyung turns to him when he completely pushes the door out of sight. “But where are
they going?” he demands, teeth clanking with how he urges the questions out of his mouth, and
Namjoon is as ever so frustratingly calm, just taking him away, without explaining why, he never
does explain why, and Taehyung is in a marble hallway now. “What’s happening?”

Namjoon speaks so levelled, drastically juxtaposed to the way Taehyung’s voice increasingly curls
with the onset of panic. He doesn’t know anything, and it scares him, and Namjoon is pushing him
away more, and he hasn’t even had the chance to tell Jungkook he’ll go. “They’re going to take her
to a hospital,” he finally gives him a semblance of an explanation, the only way to attempt to calm
him down.

Taehyung’s eyes snap to his. “What?” he chokes out.

Namjoon’s fingers squeeze and he bends the short amount necessary to find his gaze, stares at him
beneath furrowed brows. “She needs to stay there for a little while.”
“What?” Taehyung says again, blinking sporadically, “But, But Yoongi takes as much drugs as her
if not fucking more?” he tries to reason. He tries to, really does, because if they take Clo Eun away,
Jungkook will be alone, completely alone in this apartment with that father of his. And
Taehyung knows Yoongi and Hoseok don’t know the full story, don’t know he hits, he puts
cigarettes out on them when it’s convenient. And whatever they know about Jungkook and
Taehyung, it’s not enough. They know nothing. Only Clo Eun does.

“Yoongi,” Namjoon presses, his teeth grinding together as his voice sinks low, whispers,“has never
been on the verge of killing himself, Taehyung.” He tells him and it shuts his mouth off, shuts his
brain off as well. He just stares at Namjoon, waits for him to make it all better. “She’s a danger to
herself. She can no longer judge her own limits,” he mumbles to him calmly. “Let’s go home,
Taehyung.”

“But I—” he wanted him to stay. Jungkook asked him to stay and if Namjoon keeps pushing him, he
won’t even get to say goodbye, won’t get to tell him he would, for this. Julia can be his friend, and
maybe, maybe for this he can be, too.

“He has his friends,” Namjoon says louder, firmer. “This isn’t about the two of you.” He knows it
isn’t. There isn’t a the two of them right now, but there is a Jungkook, blaming himself, asking him
to stay. “Let’s go,” Namjoon gives a final push and Taehyung spins, walks down the marble hallway
and back to the subway.
 Chapter 20
Chapter Notes

also I wrote a one shot for Yoongi and Hoseok as I mentioned on my twitter if anyone
hasn't seen that yet and is interested

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Tae—” Namjoon tries, again, but Taehyung’s eyes are riveted on the outlines of their house, his
stride towards it as determined and as pointed as he can muster.

“Taehyung,” he calls, uses his big brother voice on him, gets it deeper, yet louder. He matches his
pace perfectly, and when yet again he receives silence and a clenched back, he picks up his speed,
wraps fingers around his elbow, pulls him back. “Listen, if you have something brewing, get it out
here where we can’t wake up Woo.”

He turns only because the force of the pull is unexpected. His glare is fixed before he’s even caught
his eyes. When he does, when he glances back at Namjoon’s expression, his almost softens. He
breathes, pupils darting to the corners of his eyes, as his tongue tugs into his cheek in sync. He does
look to him again, tries not too be too brusque, when he jerks his elbow back, when he speaks.

“Why didn’t you let me at least say fucking bye?” He shouldn’t care, not as much as he does. The
anger that so constantly sizzles at his skin is so frustratingly frustrating.

Namjoon goes softer on him, speaks quiet, head shaking as if he had no other choice but to tell him
exactly what to do. “Tae, it wasn’t the place.”

Taehyung’s chest burst with a singular sardonic bristle. His arms fold, eyes roll, almost beyond his
control and the mere way he talks sounds like a scoff, “You come in here after months and tell me
what place is for what?”

“Taehyung,” Namjoon presses. He tries to be firmer. He’s different than just a couple of hours ago,
his voice strains more, and his patience wears thin on his tongue and attitude and Taehyung does
know it wasn’t an easy night for him either, even if he doesn’t precisely what went on in that
bathroom. “I’m your brother,” he insists as if it still means anything.
Taehyung scratches at his eyebrow, head shaking continuously. “It seems the only things you’re
good for, my brother, are all related to drugs.”

Namjoon’s arms raise, gesture wildly with the evidence of his own frustration. “It was better for
you to go—"

“Yeah,” Taehyung interjects, presses an open palm into his chest. “Please,” his tongue clicks with it,
drained in bitterness, “tell me it was for my protection. Last time someone did that for me it went
really well.”

Namjoon takes a step forward to match the one he takes backwards, body angling to the door. “Tae
—”

His arms lift, bent at the elbows, palms spread in defeat. “Good fucking night,” he tells him, decides
to end this for now, as, although few people seem to understand, he is very much entitled to making
decisions for himself.

They’re exhausted, and this is meaningless. Taehyung does not like how he’s acting, but his
inhibitions are lowered enough, he’s drained, for him to not have any control of it, and he simply
needs this day to just finish.

He has his palm on the door, when Namjoon tries again, but he’s too tired to make him stay,
“Taehyung.”

He opens the door, but turns to him to raise his brows, “Don’t you think its past my bedtime,
hyung?”

Taehyung always used to look too much. Overthinking was never really that problematic for him, but
lately he simply can’t shut his mind of. Not at home, not at work, not when he does math problems
and not when he practices shading. He can’t help wondering what Jungkook will do this fucking
time. He wonders if he’s going to get drunk and on coke and pull some dumb shit that will be
destructive both for him and for people around him.
He wonders that night, barely gets a blink of sleep, tosses and turns, and he wonders the morning
before his afternoon shift as he gives his best to focus on pyramid design and perspective but
sketches a shadow on the wrong side, and he wonders when he goes to work and slams his hip on
the edge of a table that has clients on it, and their drinks spill from the impact. He loses a tip.

He contemplates texting him the following night, but he gives up on it quick. He hears Ji-woo and
Namjoon argue numbly through the floor boards, and he presses his back on the wall, props his
sketchbook on his legs and practices shading with both headphones in his ears even if only one
works. His exam is in two days.

Hearsay at Taehyung’s tables in Rouge claims Jeon Clo Eun is at a musical competition in Austria,
and her parents travel with her to offer support. Jungkook stays home, perhaps because his semester
starts too soon for Europe travelling. But Jungkook doesn’t come to Rouge, doesn’t go to the Ozone.
Taehyung wonders where the Jeons have really gone to cover for Clo Eun’s admission, but mostly
their absence nags at him with the implication that Jungkook is entirely alone when he is at home.

Seung Julia does come to Rouge. She doesn’t typically get anything to go, doesn’t have much
responsibility in the summer, nowhere to hurry to, but she clicks her heels to the counter in Rouge,
an exaggerated hat and oversized sunglasses on even inside, and she orders an Ice Americano to take
away.

Taehyung bows slightly when the person in front of whom he is placing a drink thanks him, but his
eyes are forever fixed on that unavoidable hat. He presses his tray to the side of his body, tries to
make his shift in direction to the counter as nonchalant as it could be. He catches her as she presses
her customized credit card to the POS terminal.

He gets his tray on the counter, doesn’t angle his body to hers. “Hey.”

Her head turns to him sharply. Her tongue is sharper. “Don’t.”

“Julia, I—”

“Taehyung,” she interjects, “I will be civil to you if we run across each other. But frankly, I’d prefer
to avoid you as much as humanly possible. Okay?” Her lips stretch in a single, tight smile that
disappears in less than a moment. She moves along to the pick-up spot and Taehyung tries hard to be
subtle when he follows, pulling his tray along.
“I just,” he hesitates, eyes shifting to Minho, hopes the grinding of beans and machines would be
loud enough to cover his voice. “I just wanted to ask how he was,” he shrugs in a hopeless attempt to
make this casual.

Her head tilts back, ever so gracious, even in her bitterness she knows to be gallant. She laughs
briefly at the ceiling, and it rings pretty, before she turns to him, lowers her sunglasses from her face
to regard him with permeating eyes, and he wonders what intimidates him more, his reflection in the
cover of her Gucci's or the glint in her gaze. Her grin is scathing. “You saw it fit to ask me how the
man I love who realized he doesn’t love me because of you is?” her head shakes, grin dwindling
until her lips are just crimson outlines of her white teeth that part a little helpless. She turns to the
counter. “I don’t want to see your pretty face, pretty boy.”

It takes Taehyung a moment. Guilt churns at him, though that remaining anger screams that she
brought him into this. He can’t tell her that, not here and not now. He’s angry at her, too, angry
exactly because of that fact, it was her who started it all, her and her whims. He might have had his
eyes on Jungkook before, but Jungkook himself barely acknowledged his existence, before she
brought him to his attention.

He doesn’t say all that. He simply glances at the floor, whispers, “He does love you.”

“I know he does,” she tells him, silent, “But not the way I want him to.” She shakes her head and
he’s struck quiet again. And he can’t find it in himself to tell her anything of what sparks in his head,
because losing Jungkook after barely a month and some pathetic weeks breaks him, and he can’t
imagine what it would be like to lose him after having him for years.

“Was it him?” Julia asks, her manicure tapping into the counter.

Taehyung looks at her plainly. “What?”

“This whole time,” her fingers tap quicker, and she turns her face to his, “were you looking at him?”

He blinks, mouth swallowing his bottom lip. He glances away. He nods. “Yeah,” he admits.

She nods, too, nods slow and long and to herself. “So,” she hesitates, eyes rolling down the length of
him in a curious exploration, as if she sees him for the first time, “it’s mutual?” her gaze raises, blinks
at him. “This thing between you? You’re like that, too.”
“I—” his brows narrow together; he blinks, head shaking, helpless, “I don’t know what he told you.”

Minho places the drink on the counter. “Ice Americano.”

Julia wraps her fingers around it, slides her sunglasses back on, shrugs, and she leaves.

People never knock on the door of the Jeons’ penthouse in Gangnam. First of all, because there is a
bell attached to a system for atypical spontaneous visits, and second of all, because no one ever
comes unannounced. Especially when Jungkook is home alone. He tends to be the visitor, not the
visitee, considering he likes to spend time he would classify as enjoyable as far away from this
apartment as possible. He most certainly doesn’t want Hoseok and Yoongi around, associated with
his life at home, prying into his life at home.

He doesn’t imagine it could be somebody else, but he can hardly imagine it can be them either. He
already turned down going to the event they are at tonight, no matter how much they claim it would
be a distraction. Standing in as the only representative of the Jeons tonight in front of Byung-Chul
and other of his father’s associates is not the type of distraction he wants.

He places his book down and stands. His feet feel cold on the marble.

He opens the door, and he barely has time to distrust his eyes and breathe out, when he has
something shoving in his stomach.

“Taehyung,” he nearly marvels.

“Here,” he hears the word brusquely spoken, and has a box pressed into his ribs. Taehyung’s tongue
turns quick in his mouth as he speaks to him, every word cut short with urgency, as Jungkook stands,
gawking, “I brought your shirts and pants since you refused to take them.”

He doesn’t know if Taehyung means to step past the threshold and walk further into the corridor, or
he does it out of necessity to move, but he’s walking, makes Jungkook’s body twist with him as he
instinctively clutches the small carton box to himself after the other releases it.
“Taehyung,” he tries to catch his attention again as he lets the door go, hears it click shut, autolock,
but Taehyung has barely ended his last sentence before he starts a new one.

“I would have brought the console as well,” he explains nearly frantic, arms twisting with
unnecessary gestures. He shrugs, shakes his head, “But Woojin loves it too much.”

Taehyung is pacing further into the apartment, and Jungkook still cannot figure out if that is
intentional or he is simply at a complete loss at what to do with himself.

“I also bought a stove,” he continues, just as rapid, “but I can’t exactly give you that, can I?”

“Taehyung,” Jungkook tries again.

He’s crossed the threshold of the open door to the living space, when he seems to understand he is
walking, and he spins, faces the exit again, and, consequently, Jungkook.

“What?” he asks with his pause, arms folding as his body closes off slightly as soon as he registers
he’s so deep into the apartment, eyes landing on Jungkook first, before they shift to sporadically drift
across the room, stop at the dinner table, and then move on to Jungkook again.

Jungkook, who is moving. He bends slightly, places the box on a soft surface by the door he’s
positive no one has ever actually sat on, despite the fact he has no plans of keeping its contents.
Taehyung is taking them right back to his house, and if he doesn’t want to touch them, that’s fine, he
can throw them away, lock them away, but Jungkook simply can’t have them anymore.

He straightens, locks his arms in front of his body as well. “Why are you here?” he asks him,
because he knows by the fact Taehyung is in the living room and not in the elevator already that he
doesn’t simply want to return a couple of shirts and some pants.

Taehyung breathes, maybe for the first time since he has arrived. His lips part, but he says nothing,
instead runs a pink tongue over the surface and pauses. His fingers clutch to the elbows of his own
arms and his eyes blink away once again, choose a fake orchid that is potted by the door.

Taehyung doesn’t answer right away, because his mind is so full it’s blank. His exam is tomorrow
morning, but he cannot fucking concentrate and quite frankly, he has no fucking idea what he is
doing whatsoever.

He’s worried. He’s worried Jungkook will do something dumb and then regret it. He’s worried
Jungkook will turn to substances. He’s worried Jungkook is lonely without Clo Eun around. He is
utterly and selflessly worried about him.

But he doesn’t say that, because he doesn’t like what the pure, unadulterated worry could
insinuate. So, he makes this about himself, on an instinct.

“Why did you break up with Julia now?” he asks him, not simply because he doesn’t want to confess
his concern, but also because it’s another burdening, burning question that refuses to stop torturing
him. “Why now?” he insists, slides his eyes back up to Jungkook’s boldly, and traps his.

Jungkook hesitates. “I—” he starts empty. He,he, yes, he, this is about his actions, his responsibility.
But he can hardly explain them to himself let alone to Taehyung. “I thought I owed her the truth.”

He thinks it’s the right thing to say, the most honest one, nevertheless, but maybe it isn’t because
Taehyung’s eyes narrow. He splutters, “Oh, she gets the special treatment,” his voice cuts cold, “a
shred of actual decency.”

Jungkook isn’t familiar with forgiveness. He doesn’t know how to give it, and he doesn’t know how
to ask for it, either.

He hardly knows how to communicate any of what he feels. Hobi and Yoongi don’t talk about
feelings. Julia, he thinks, he had afraid of even attempting to save herself from the humiliation of
getting perpetually shut down. Were he better, he thinks, maybe Taehyung wouldn’t feel the need to
stand 10 feet apart from him to speak. And he wants to try, for him, he wants to; as much as he owed
Julia the truth, he owes him a proper apology. But words fail him. “Taehyung, I wish I had done that
for you. I—”

Taehyung’s head shakes. “I don’t think I believe you.”

And that’s where Jungkook falls short. He is completely inadequate at making him believe. His skills
with people, albeit ostensibly impeccable, rely on something terribly more superficial. He speaks
instinctually to him. “I don’t lie to you, Tae,” and he feels it is true. He was bad for him, bad with
him, but he rarely ever lied to him. He implores with his eyes, but his voice grows weak,
automatically as he confesses something that his brain screams in recognition of vulnerability. “Only
when I said you meant nothing to me.”

Taehyung stares at him for a long moment with his lids losing their tightness. His gaze retains a
certain deceiving softness right before he pries it away, and shakes his head again, but different,
harsher. “Fuck you,” he says, half through his nose, a breath that is disbelieving and offended.

Jungkook doesn’t know what else to say to him. His head is a storm of words, but none are on his
tongue, none tie together well enough to make sense, to fit what he wants to convey to him, and he
abhors every moment that passes in his silence, but he would rather that than saying something that
would hurt him again.

He is silent for long enough that Taehyung’s foot twitches, steps, and Jungkook’s stomach drops
with a sudden fear he will leave. For whatever reason, Taehyung is there, and they are both
comparatively calm and completely sober, for the first time since the night he fucked it all up, and
Taehyung is giving him a chance to actually speak to him, but he’s as always royally fucking it all
up.

Jungkook’s arms unfold instinctually, body poising; he knows he’ll reach for him, has the bad habit
of speaking with his body, but Taehyung’s foot retracts back, and he angles himself to him. “You
know if you mean it,” he starts, chest pulling back and falling with his exhale, “why don’t you give
me that decency now, okay?” His lips press together, curl downwards. The very way he asks it, with
a pulse of his head downwards, with clear cut skepticism, drips with doubt. “What’s the truth,
Jungkook?

Jungkook’s lids flutter. For a moment, he’s glancing away, tongue coating over his lips with
reluctance. “Taehyung—”

“Just tell me what you told her.” Taehyung’s shoulders curl and then fall. “There’s one truth, isn’t
there?”

Jungkook’s eyes blink back to him. Maybe it should be that simple.

“I told her I fucked you,” he tells him. Taehyung’s lips straighten, eyes relax and Jungkook watches
his throat bob as he gulps. “I told her I kept thinking about you when it came to sex. I told her you
sucked me off, and I liked it, and I told her one time after my fight I didn’t bend a random girl over. I
bent you over. She slapped me, asked me if those were your nails denting my back. I told her yes.
She asked me if it was all sex for me.” Jungkook pauses, his pupils darting between Taehyung’s. “I
told her no.”
Taehyung takes his eyes away, drops them to his shoes. He doesn’t say anything to this.

And now that Jungkook has started talking it feels harder for him to stop, but his tongue is getting
clumsy. “She told me to go fuck myself. I told her I did, fucked myself over, fucked you over. Told
her she didn’t have to worry about dealing with it, because you want nothing to do with me
anymore. She, erm, she asked if I wanted anything to do with—with you, and I, I told her, I told her
yes. But I—”

His speech stammers and halts, and Taehyung is looking at him again, but now he is the one looking
at shoes. Taehyung is wearing Converse that maybe once used to be white. “But you what?”

“I—You deserve different,” Jungkook glances up, catches his eyes and steals them for himself.
There is nothing explicit in the way Taehyung stares at him, nothing definable. It’s so plain, but yet
it’s overwhelmed and overwhelming, and it simply pries words of Jungkook’s mouth, not ones that
he has offered to Julia. They are just for Taehyung. “The truth is, Taehyung, that, you deserve
something, someone,” he corrects himself, eyes jerking away for a bare moment, because it tugs at
his guts awry to admit it; he can separate knowing from feeling, but the fact he knows Taehyung
deserves someone else, does not erase the blinding possessiveness he feels over him, does nothing
for the fact he wants him for himself. “Deserve someone,” he tries again, “who isn’t…” he swallows,
“scared—to kiss you.” He pauses. It’s ridiculous—he’s scared of the word scared. He licks his lips.
“Who stays with you after he fucks you, who doesn’t talk down on you. Someone who lets you
fucking cuddle them, and, uhm, who treats you like an equal, someone who doesn’t,” he looks to the
side, to a fake orchid, “doesn’t tell you they can buy you. And—yeah.”

“And yeah?” Taehyung’s head cocks, brows furrow. “That’s it?”

“No,” Jungkook shakes his head, “more,” he tells him, “someone who talks to you, listens to you.”
His eyes jump back to him. He is bad with words, so bad, always used them as a weapon, never for
expression. “Taehyung, more, just, just more.”

Taehyung’s eyes on him feel blank. They’re wide, bare, and when he moves a bit, they almost seem
glossy, but there is some unbearable frustration brewing in Jungkook, because he cannot tell what
they express. He used to be such an open book, but now a spiteful numbness seems to have etched
into his features, and only the tremble of his voice gives away affect, “What if I want that someone to
be you?”

Jungkook barely hears it, but his heart jumps, body moves. He’s taking a step.“Taehyung, I want it
–”
But he’s taking a step back, solidifying that distance between them, and no matter how many times
and in how many places Jungkook had been punched, it never felt this breathless. “Don’t come near
me,” he says, somewhere between a warning and a plea, and Jungkook’s feet become one with the
floor, stomach dropping.

His eyes are changing, morphing on his face and as they become easier to read, they become so
much more difficult to bear. He can’t get used to seeing such untainted pain. “I want it to be you, but
it shouldn’t be you,” Taehyung bites out, words tumbling out of his mouth, forceful, because his
voice slightly fails him. “It can’t be you, you don’t know how to.”

Knowledge and feeling start that war inside of him again, and he very well knows that Taehyung is
right. No one ever taught him that, he could never promise that – it’s not in his nature, not in his
nurture – but feeling pushes him forward, puts words on his tongue. “I can try—” he starts, and
Taehyung isn’t moving away this time, but it is his voice that rings around stiflingly.

“I’m not an experiment,” he declares, teeth clashing with the end of it. Jungkook stops and as
Taehyung stares at him, the pain gets tainted by a glare. “I can’t do trial and error with you. Your
errors are fucking…” he looks at him, looks at him all over, from his feet to his head. “They’re
destructive,” he finishes softer.

It’s enough of a scathing fact for knowledge to hold him in place again. He looks away.

Silent stretches, but it short before Taehyung’s voice fills his ears again. “Why have you stopped
coming to Rouge, to the Ozone, even before,” his tongue pokes out, coats at his lips with slight
hesitation that shows in his rolling shoulders as well, “before Clo?”

Jungkook’s eyes dart to him again. “Isn’t it easier for you,” he almost stops there but doesn’t, “to not
think about me, when you don’t see me?”

Taehyung’s lips purse, pull down at the edges. His head shakes. “No, it isn’t,” he tells him and if
Jungkook knew a bit more about feelings, maybe he could define what it is that swallowed him up.
“Clo said you promised to stay away.”

He nods. “I did.”

He takes a moment longer to speak again. His face relaxes, features slipping into nothingness. “How
is she?” he asks him.

“Angry,” Jungkook says, honestly, because he truly has no reason or desire to lie to him. “But
better.”

Taehyung’s eyes find the orchid. He speaks quieter when he ventures, “And you?”

Jungkook breathes in. “I’m reading,” his gaze instinctually gestures to the case book that lies
haphazardly across the couch. “Semester’s starting soon.”

Eyes slide back to him. “That’s not an answer.”

“What do you want me to say to you?” Jungkook’s arms fold across his chest, protectively, shoulders
lifting before they fall helpless.

Taehyung’s lids lower halfway over his pupils. His head shakes, and Jungkook thinks he hears him
mutter nothing, but he isn’t sure. He does hear his deep exhale, does witness him look away, cannot
miss his announcement of, “I’ll go.”

He’s walking as soon as he’s said it, and Jungkook hardly has the nerve to stop him. He trails a
glance behind him, centers between his shoulder blades and looks at him leave him again, and he has
half a mind to ask him to stay, but if he didn’t stay when Clo was half-dead, he certainly isn’t staying
now.

“Tae.”

He pauses, turns slightly to look at him over his shoulder. “What?”

Stay.

“Take that box,” Jungkook tells him after a beat. “Burn it if you want,” he speaks as he moves back
to where he sat on the couch, “but take it.”
Taehyung says nothing, and Jungkook only listens to him leave, doesn’t watch it, because he’s afraid
he might call out to him again, but once he hears the door click shut again, he glances up, finds the
box gone.

“Taehyung,” Namjoon appears in the doorway of the room they are supposed to share. But he still
sleeps on the couch despite Woojin’s attempts at persuasion, and Taehyung has a hard time figuring
out for whose sake he’s truly doing it.

He darts his eyes to him in acknowledgment as he stands in front of the opened closet, staring into
the mirror on the back of its door, trying and failing to properly fold the fabric of his tie on top of his
uniform. He is utterly hopeless at this.

“How was the exam?” he hears Namjoon ask as he keeps a certain distance, steps into the room,
eyes scanning over furniture littered with stickers, gaze falling onto his bed.

Taehyung doesn’t look at that bed, doesn’t like to. “Good,” he says, scarcely, but he finds some
stickers lined around the mirror, stickers he and Namjoon put there together, and his shoulders slump
a little. “Surprisingly good actually,” he elaborates. “I don’t wanna jinx it, but I think it went well.”

Namjoon pauses. “I’m glad.”

“Yes,” Taehyung darts his eyes to him again, “Listen, I have like, twenty minutes before I absolutely
have to leave for my shift, so—”

“I need to talk to you,” he interjects, firmer.

His brother turns to him fully. It looks so natural and yet paradoxically awry to have Namjoon stand
next to his own bed. Taehyung folds his arms, brows draw upwards. “About?”
Namjoon fills his chest with nothing but air, Taehyung sees it pile underneath with the raise of his
ribcage. His tongue briefly taps at his lips, and his gaze strays, but then it is back on him, and it is
wide and honest. “I can’t stay here, Taehyung. And I want to talk to you about that. I’ve spoken to
Ji, I need to talk to you, too.” He pauses, allows him a moment to protest, but Taehyung just watches
with the cover of blankness. “I need to talk to you about Japan.”

There is something he doesn’t like about the way Namjoon approaches this. It feels heavy, strained.
It feels loaded, with more. He gulps down the raise of unease, presses his fingers tighter into his
forearms, and nods. “Okay.”

As much as Jungkook had not expected to see Taehyung when he answered the door the previous
night after that incessant knocking, nothing compares to his shock, when he simply opens the door,
to go out himself – Hoseok and Yoongi are waiting for him, though they are very much enough for
each other – and sees him standing in front of it in his uniform.

He looks as shocked to see him as Jungkook himself feels, lips immediately parting uselessly, not a
sound coming out, not even a stutter. His eyes seal onto Jungkook. They are wide for a moment,
then lids lower as his lips join again, and his pupils roll over him slowly, just looking, taking, and he
is completely and utterly silent with his scrutiny, not even attempting to justify his presence. He just
stands there.

Jungkook considers hallucination as an option. Maybe he has started seeing apparitions of Taehyung.
With the amount of drugs he’s done in his short life, and the seemingly timeless hours he spends
thinking about him, conjuring excuses to speak to him, he wouldn’t be surprised if he started seeing
him with his eyes opened as well, not just in his imagination when he lowers them shut.

But he looks so fucking real, smells real. He can recognize the scent of his fruity, cheap shampoo,
the hints of sweat that waitressing even in late summer under the sun with a shirt forced on is bound
to cause. And he feels real, because Jungkook gets that, that thing in his stomach and on top of his
skin, that thing that only the very material Taehyung can entice from him.

“Taehyung,” he says, when he simply stands there, looking at every bit of him as if he’s trying to
memorize him. His own voice wavers when he tries to even it, comes out breathy, “What are you
doing here again?”

His eyes dart up, focus on his and he tries to judge by his pupils if he’s alright. It’s always the first
thought with Jungkook, look at the pupils. And Taehyung has his eyes wide, exposing the whole of
his irises, but other than some urgency in the way they dart so wildly, there is nothing concerning in
them. In his mouth, however, there is, as words that leave it push Jungkook back to contemplating if
he’s a hallucination.

“I wanted to see you,” he mumbles, syllables falling hurried.

Jungkook’s brows furrow. He does not like the way his heart speeds up, slave to a single nothing of
a sentence. “You wanted to see me?” he repeats, and as he discards thoughts of dreaming and
hallucination, because it simply cannot feel so real, he swallows down the bitter prospect that this is
some torturous shape of revenge. He’s playing with him, and Jungkook is not ready to play, he can’t,
not with Clo in the hospital and not with the way his heart races in his chest.

Taehyung’s eyes drop to his shoes before they lift up again, meet his. “Are you going out?”

He’s playing with him, must be. But he’s here. “No,” Jungkook shakes his head, opens the door
wider. “I don’t have to.”

Taehyung’s own head shakes as it angles to the floor, more sporadic, repetitive, as if he’s mumbling
to himself as a tongue teases past his lips. “You’re obviously going out. I—”

Jungkook doesn’t know if he’s authorized to touch him, but his hand reaches out instinctive, fingers
are light and merely suggestive on his elbow as his mouth parts. “Shut up and come in.” He tugs him
in and releases him before he’s had the time to think about it, shuts the door pointedly behind him.

He looks at him stand in front of his closed door, for the second night in a roll. It gnaws on him that
he is there. He probably shouldn’t be, and that urgency with which he speaks to him both today and
yesterday is undoubtedly concerning, but Jungkook is much too selfish to tell him to go home.

“Okay,” Taehyung mutters after a moment of already standing in the apartment, eyes still sealed onto
him so peculiarly.

Jungkook walks to the living room, presses his phone to the charger again, if he’s not going to go
out, and turns. Taehyung still stands at the doorway in his marble corridor.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Jungkook asks, returning that study from head to toe. He’s
acting weird. He’s acting fucking weird and it makes him uneasy.

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. He walks. He comes closer, distance closing much more than
Jungkook expects it to. And when Taehyung seems to stop the proximity is enough for Jungkook to
feel the need to pull away. He lowers himself, sits on his couch, and Taehyung’s eyes follow the
motion.

They’ve sat on this couch before. Taehyung hit him with a pillow on this couch. He smiled at him on
it.

He eyes the couch for more than a casual moment before he sits. His stare roots to the TV in front of
them, so uselessly huge.

“Tae,” Jungkook tries gently when the other still says nothing, head cocking to try to study his face.
“Is something wrong?”

There’s something borderline eerie about his presence there. His eyes dart to him first, almost
cautiously, from the very corners, before they bolt down almost shyly. His mouth opens and closes
once before he properly speaks to him.

“I just,” he shifts on the couch with a heaving breath, exhales. His body angles towards Jungkook,
the first motion subtle, but the second pointed, and he scoots closer. His eyes blink, lids flutter pretty
and with their next trepidation he’s looking at him. “You haven’t touched me in so long.”

Jungkook feels a physical tug in his gut. His eyes switch between his so rapid, and the whisper of his
next breathless attempt of a word sounds as urgent as Taehyung previously did, “What?”

“You haven’t,” Taehyung murmurs to him and he shifts closer still, and touches his knee to his, but
then that is nothing, because his arms are raising and his hands ever so lightly try at his shoulders
before his palms sink, layer, slide slow and tentative and almost ghostly over his chest. He follows
the motion of it with his own eyes briefly before he bats them up again, catches Jungkook’s own so
ruthlessly. “I miss it.”
Jungkook’s heart swells under the sensation of Taehyung’s warm palm. His touch is fiery, he grows
so immediately and irrevocably aware of it. “Taehyung,” he speaks with bidden alarm, continues
after he gulps down the syllables of his name on his lips, breathes with disbelief, “are you hearing
yourself?”

He must be playing with him, absolutely must be, and Jungkook never took him for someone like
this. His heart palpitates under the dubious instruction of the panic of that thought, because no matter
the rationality behind it, there is the hope Taehyung merely wants this that is also at fault for the way
the organ hammers.

There is something about that urgency in Taehyung’s eyes that keeps the flame of that hope alive,
about the way he scans him so closely.

“Maybe,” Taehyung scoots again, tonguing at his lips as his gaze falls to Jungkook’s own, mouth
parting to mirror the gap in his, which he needs to simply breathe. “Maybe just touch me again,” his
eyes shift back up, drop back down, “just once.”

He offers himself for the second time since Jungkook screwed it all up, but it’s so different to the time
in the Ozone he demanded of him to fuck him. He’s not obscene. He’s gentle, hesitant, stuttering.
His hands are wonderous across his chest, palms ghosting over his nipples, and Jungkook can’t take
it.

“No,” he says firmly, shakes his head, hands raising. He closes his digits around his wrists, and he
means to pull them away, really does.

But Taehyung’s fingers clench onto his shirt, take the fabric with it, and his eyes open so wide, he
doesn’t think he’s ever seen them so white. A layer of something wet that coats them as he stretches
them so much makes them glint with a curious innocence, and the combination of them like this, so
vulnerable, with the airy, soft fear of his next question is nearly deadly to Jungkook, “You don’t
want me?”

Fuck.

Want him? Jungkook wants to laugh. He fucking craves him. There’s a difference between wanting
and craving. Wanting is so simple, he wants so many things. Craving, on the other hand. The craving
hangs at your fingertips, creates an illusion of touch, of scent, of taste. The craving is such an explicit
desire, so palpable, so impossible to ignore, it’s a trick of an almost, a nearly, almost feel him, nearly
taste him. And Jungkook craves him and craving hurts.
But because craving is so damnably particular, craving dwindles with time. Time kills the
explicitness of such detailed, summonable memories, or at least makes them harder to obtain, and
Jungkook knows doing this will just reignite everything he craves to do to him, like this, and it will
be starting all over again. It will be him looking at Taehyung close the door to his house after he
dropped him off when he fucked him in his bed. It will be him trying to stay away in every way
imaginable, not because he wants to, not anymore, not this time, but because Taehyung says this is
once, and he’ll be back to stuffing himself with anything that promises ignorance all over again.

And he won’t stay away. He’s selfish. He’s a spoiled, selfish, brat. If Taehyung gives him a finger,
he’ll try to bite his whole hand.

So, Jungkook shakes his head to his vulnerable eyes, tightens his own fingers on his wrists. “Not if
it’s once.”

Taehyung’s moving closer, his lips are moving closer. He can truly almost taste him. His mouth is
right there, red and beautiful, and Jungkook still wonders how he had the willpower not to kiss him
for so long. He should have kissed him at the start, or he shouldn’t have kissed him at all, but now
the desire to kiss him is not a wanting, it’s a craving, and his hold on his wrists turns almost bruising.

“You said you thought staying away kept me from thinking of you, yeah?” Taehyung’s tongue runs
over his lips, and the miniature layer of saliva that remains in its wake makes them glisten so alluring.
Jungkook stares at his eyes instead, tries to figure out what the fuck is going on, but he fails,
miserably. “Wanna help me?” The exhale teases over his lips, “Help me get you out of my head, out
of my system.” And his fingers release his shirt with it, spread on him again, the tips of one hand
reaching the bare skin of his neck, nearly makes him shiver.

Jungkook’s hands push now, pry his fingers off of him and he presses his knuckles into Taehyung’s
own chest when he does because that is all the space between them allows, barely enough to fit their
hands. “This,” Jungkook stresses, teeth pressing together with the internal exertion not fucking
kissing him demands of him; he shakes his head, “won’t help you.”

Taehyung’s fingers coil into fists in Jungkook’s firm grip, go white with the pressure, skin stretching
tensely over his knuckles. “How would you know better than me?” he asks, and the question falls
hard, eyes dig into his harder, but then he’s whispering again, almost lifting off the couch as leans
above their hands, “Just once, final time.”

Jungkook pats his thumbs over his knuckles once before the presses them firmly over his fingers.
“I’m not good with moderation, Taehyung,” he tells him, searches his eyes, brows furrowed. “I can’t
just touch you and—” he shakes his head, looks all over him, every inch of him, he shakes his head,
“stop.”
Taehyung’s teeth align tightly, eyes rooting onto his so pointed, and he nearly sounds like he’s
begging, speaks so slow to him, every word enunciated as it escapes between the press of his teeth,
“I need to get you out my head.”

The other sighs, nostril’s enlarging with it, and he’s prying his hands to the sides, holds them in the
air around them, frees the space between their chests and uses the angling to press him firmly back
on his ass on the couch, so he isn’t leaning towards him anymore. “Is that why you have me in your
head,” he demands, louder than he means to, but he’s fucking sizzling with this. “Sex?” He bites the
word out like it’s offensive, searches his eyes. A moment passes, two, and his voice loses all
hardness as he stares at him, eyes soften before he even realizes he has them narrowed. “It’s not why
I have you in mine.”

Taehyung’s own lids relax, shift, and he blinks, once at Jungkook, and then a second time, away, to
his lap. The determination slips easily from his expression, lips press together lightly. He wiggles his
wrists, and Jungkook lets them go. He watches him rub his own fingers where his had been, and
then he shifts entirely, scoots away from him and angles his knees forward. He stares at his digits
wipe at his skin.

Jungkook keeps his stare helplessly to him even when Taehyung turns so fully away, even if he
remains in his seat. He watches his own wrists with lost eyes, his lips almost pouting. There is
something shy and there is something sad about the way he proceeds to hold himself as they simply
breathe in the silence, let the tension of this attempt dissipate into the air.

He takes his eyes all across him, gauges him. He wants desperately to ask him what that was, why
that was, now that he seems calmer, but there is something marginally shameful in the shyness with
which he twitches his wrists between his fingers and can only manage to keep his stare at his lap, so
Jungkook lets it all go, but still cannot rip his gaze, so incessant on him. It coats over the darker layer
of fabric laying on top of his white shirt, and he almost wants to laugh, cocks his head, sighs at the
mess of it.

“I—” Taehyung begins as the release of breath reaches him and he turns his head to him, sharply, but
then, whatever it is he means to say, slips from his lips, his mind, and his brows draw together at the
expression on Jungkook’s face, staring just below his chin, so reminiscent of fondness. “What?” he
asks, confusion shining through.

Jungkook shakes his head, clicks his tongue at the roof of his mouth. “That tie, Tae,” he exhales,
blinks up to him.

Taehyung’s chin draws back, folds in his neck and he tries to look down at his own mess of a knot.
His lips part softly, almost tug at the corners. When he meets his eyes again, there is something
Jungkook wishes to read as relief in them. “I came from work,” he says, the hurried pace lost in his
voice. He only speaks now. “Had an evening shift.”

Jungkook nods, shifts a bit in his seat. “Do you want me to teach you,” he asks him, soft and
tentative, “how to do it properly?” His eyes slide over his, down through the length of his neck and
indicatively at the clumsy knot of his tie.

For a moment Taehyung only bats his lashes. His brows draw together when he questions in return,
“Do you want to?”

He shakes his head, but he says, “I probably should.”

Their voices have slipped to something unnecessarily intimate. They whisper. There is no one there,
they’re all alone in the huge penthouse, but they speak to each other in breaths.

He sees his throat move when he swallows. “Okay,” he nods to him, lips barely parting with the
word, but then they remain like this, slightly opened with small exhales escaping in between. Each of
his breaths is so very distinct to Jungkook in the silence of the rest of the apartment, accompanied by
the emphasized motion of his chest raising and falling.

“Come here,” he whispers to him, because he can’t be the one to approach him, needs him to do it, to
come closer, and Taehyung does. He angles his knees to him again, shifts closer. Jungkook raises his
hands cautiously. His eyes fall to his own fingers, root there and he needs to do this completely right
on the first try. He undoes Taehyung’s pitiful attempt of a knot, glances up at him briefly, but almost
fails to stare back down when he meets his eyes. “Look now,” he instructs him and starts moving his
digits over him. It would be easier to put it on his own neck, show him there, but he won’t get an
excuse to brush his fingers on him, sit close enough to feel him breathe.

He does it slow and meticulous, murmurs an instruction or two under his nose, but Taehyung has his
eyes more on his face than he does on his hands. They study the concentration in his own, drop to
the tongue that sits between his teeth, visible between the frames of his parted lips “And you tug
here,” he says, “and you’re done,” he glances up, lashes blink, and their gazes find each other again,
unfailingly.

Taehyung shakes his head lightly. “I don’t think I got it,” he tells him, voice still just above a
whisper.
Jungkook’s fingers are still on him, on his tie, his eyes sealed onto his faultless face, and he can’t
help himself, isn’t thinking, when his thumb reaches up, brushes so quick and momentary across his
chin, close to the corner of his lips, but he takes it away as soon as he feels his skin. “That’s okay,”
he mumbles with the motion of the subtle touch, before he gets his hands back in his own lap, traps
them between his thighs to hold them still.

He can’t keep his eyes at bay, though. Not when Taehyung’s tongue pokes out, skims across his lips
reluctantly, and he blinks, looks away from Jungkook entirely, but his body remains tilted towards
him.

“You know,” he starts speaking, hesitance cutting through his sentence, but he breathes and
continues, “the first time we had sex,” he says and blinks up again, continues to detail a reminder as
if Jungkook could ever forget, “In the showers after your fight.”

“I know,” Jungkook nods, sinks his teeth briefly in the flesh of his mouth to feel that instead of the
peculiar anticipation that spreads through his body.

It makes Taehyung pause for a moment, but then he nods, too, and he continues, “You told me
there,” he tongues at his lips again, “that you wanted to ruin me.”

“What?” Jungkook breathes out sharply, eyes on him, as his body so instinctively charges towards
his.

He did. He knows he did. He’d forgotten he’d spoken those exact words, but it spirals so vivid in his
brain when Taehyung says it, when he begins to explain.

“You asked me how it felt,” he begins, “and, and I said it hurt, and you said good, that you wanted it
to, wanted to ruin me,” Jungkook’s mouth opens, head shaking, but Taehyung keeps speaking,
incessant and louder, wants to get this out, “and I keep thinking,” he presses, pins his eyes down to
his fingers because he can hardly look at him as he confesses that in case his eyes betray there is a
truth to it, “you orchestrated this whole thing,” he exhales, “that it was all one big game and you
won.”

“No,” Jungkook shakes his head. His hands don’t listen to him anymore, his palm latches onto his
knee, cups around it and squeezes, tries to speak with his body again, promise honesty, but he takes
it away the second Taehyung’s gaze shoots to it, widens. He leans, bends at the waist as he attempts
to catch his lowered eyes. “Taehyung, no,” He swears once he manages to find them. “I didn’t mean
that, I hardly remember saying that.”
He knows why he said it, said it because he was fucking angry at him, because he couldn’t hold back
from touching him. It was mostly aimed at himself, that teasing rage, but he channeled it at him,
because he needed someone to blame, and who else than Taehyung, who was so unbearably
irresistible. But he doesn’t blame him anymore, doesn’t want not to want him.

Taehyung takes his eyes away once again when Jungkook straightens. “I remember every word
you’ve said to me.”

Jungkook’s gaze softens, head tilts when it grows heavy to keep it straight. “Tae—”

“I’ve been watching you for years,” he stares at his fingers, sees them twirl around distractedly in his
lap. “I don’t know why,” he shrugs his shoulders quickly, “but I have. You’ve always been most
fascinating to me, out of all of Richhood. Maybe it was attraction, I don’t know. I’ve always paid
attention to you, and I guess I wanted you to pay attention to me, too.” His eyes get brave. They
blink at Jungkook. “I could count the words you’d said to me on my fingers before that.”

Jungkook squeezes the cushion of the back of his couch with one of his hands to stifle his urge to
reach for him.

“Taehyung,” Jungkook starts, tongue poking at his cheek before he manages to fully speak. “When I
agreed to do the bet with Julia, I knew she’d choose you. If she’d picked someone else, I probably
would have found a way to call it off.” He sees Taehyung’s eyes dart between his, lids falling over
them much more than they need to. He sees his brows shift together, sees the crease in his forehead
under the strands of his hair. Jungkook tells him in a breath, “I think I might have wanted an excuse
to pay attention to you.”

Taehyung shakes his head at him, his voice trembles with warning, “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Jungkook promises. “I’m not saying it was the type of attention you wanted from
me. I wanted to play, yes, back at the very start I did.” He did. Jungkook likes playing with pretty
things, and Taehyung was fucking beautiful and a goddamn Kim and was constantly looking, and he
had all the incentive he needed to play. “But I told you before and I’m telling you now. It wasn’t a
game. I wanted you. I didn’t want to want you, but I did.”

Taehyung’s phone buzzes. He doesn’t move, stares at him, at Jungkook. It’s a long moment, but it
passes quickly, and his lips part, and maybe he’ll speak.
His phone buzzes again, and his mouth closes. He sighs, looks away, readjusts on the couch to take
it out of his pocket. Jungkook breathes through his nose, looks away. His teeth clench together, jaw
ticking with the ministration of it, but he says nothing.

Taehyung’s screen shines in his face. He clicks his tongue, seemingly annoyed. “Fuck,” he mutters,
pulls his thumb across whatever message he got and types a reply.

“What’s wrong?” Jungkook drifts his eyes back to him, lowers the arm he’s extended to the back of
the couch back at his side.

“Nothing,” Taehyung says as he sends the message. “It’s stupid.” His eyes roll.

“Okay,” Jungkook nods. He closes his mouth for about a moment, but then it opens on its own
accord. “Tell me.”

Taehyung blinks up at him, sighs as he puts his phone away. “Namjoon, Woojin and I were
supposed to have movie night, see the new Avengers, but they’ve started without me, because Woo
has to go to bed soon.”

Jungkook thinks he can offer to drive him so that he doesn’t miss much of the movie. But it’s not
what he says. He shrugs instead, hesitates instead, suggests instead. “We can watch it.”

“What?” Taehyung seems to do a double take, eyes darting over Jungkook as if the proposition is
absolutely ludicrous and maybe it is.

He shrugs again, juts his chin in the direction of the huge flat screen that stands impressive a few feet
away from them. “Not to brag,” he says, forces his voice into something casual, which is everything
they’re not, “but my TV is better.”

Taehyung’s eyes layer over him with warning. “Jungkook,” he pronounces simply.

And Jungkook shakes his head, drops that forced nonchalance and instead speaks soft but genuine,
his eyes holding Taehyung’s. “It’s just a movie.”
Taehyung’s gaze narrows slightly, darts across him with pointed skepticism. “Do you even know
who the Avengers are?”

Jungkook’s lids lower at him first, before he sighs, relaxes his head back and lets it dangle tired from
his neck. He talks to the ceiling. “I can’t believe you genuinely still think my life just consists of
glaring, boxing, and doing drugs.”

“Alright then,” Taehyung challenges, his voice filling with something firmer. “Who’s your favorite
Avenger?”

Jungkook straightens his head, glances in his eyes and answers without skipping a beat. “Iron man.”

He doesn’t expect the other to scoff, to roll his eyes. “Of course,” he says, head shaking repetitively.

“What do you mean of course?” Jungkook cocks his head at him.

“Rich and foul mouthed with narcissistic tendencies?” Taehyung’s brows shift up, disappear
underneath his hair. “It was either him or the Hulk.”

Jungkook scoffs, too, breathes out offended, but the corner of his mouth is helplessly twitching.
“Okay…”

Taehyung taps a finger on his own chin, shrugs. “Maybe Thor as well, you know, since you think
you're an actual God.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Jungkook rolls his eyes. He speaks to him pointedly, defends his superhero
opinions, “I like him, cause he’s just human and is still a fucking Avenger.”

“Yes,” Taehyung says, bounces his brows back up in clear cut irony, with a quick, sarcastic nod,
“right.”

“Shut up,” Jungkook huffs. This feels so surprisingly easy.

“Why,” Taehyung’s head cocks, “you gonna go Hulk mode?”

“Okay,” Jungkook breathes out, nods affirmatively to himself, “I’m playing the movie, that might
actually shut you up.”

Taehyung nods, too, glances to him, eyes prolongedly skimming across his face, and he gulps
nothing. His voice recedes back to soft, and so does his gaze, and after a moment he tells him,
“Okay.”

Jungkook doesn’t know why a word as simple as this startles him, but it does. He blinks. “Really?”
he searches his eyes, tries to establish if this was just a slip, if he’s about to leave.

But Taehyung’s head shifts down again shortly. “Yeah,” he breathes out with his tongue coating
somewhat reluctantly over his lips. His shoulders lift and curl. “It’s just a movie,” he says softly,
looks away from Jungkook.

And he doesn’t question it again, because he doesn’t want Taehyung changing his mind. He gets up
for the remote and Taehyung shifts on the couch until he’s propping his elbow at the handle at one
end and Jungkook very well knows it’s not for comfort. He wants to be as far away from him as
possible. He gnaws at his lips, but he won’t say anything. When he slumps back into the couch, he
gives him the courtesy of sitting at the other end, but he lifts his legs up, turns. He folds them at the
knees, so they don’t reach close to him, props a hand to hold his neck up, arm twisted at the elbow,
and he lays himself back on the cushions.

Taehyung’s eyes dart to him, skim over the position, but he seems to be satisfied by the knees raised
protectively as a barrier between them, and he looks back at the TV.

Jungkook pays for the movie because it’s too new to be added to any of the streaming services he
subscribes to, and Taehyung snorts at that, but says nothing,

The movie starts and Jungkook only then allows himself to glimpse at Taehyung in between his
knees. He has his eyes fixed on the screen with interest, but his lids droop low and in barely a minute
he’s yawning. Jungkook has to stifle a yawn himself, doesn’t want to make it terribly obvious that
he’s staring.

“You’re tired,” he says aloud, though he means it to be just a thought.

Taehyung nods. “Had my geometry exam today,” he tells him, “and then work.”

“You had the exam today?” Jungkook’s brows shoot up. There is some very uncalled for excitement
in his voice; he doesn’t understand what summons such a bewildered, genuine interest in a fucking
geometry exam, but he opens and closes his knees repetitively and stares at Taehyung’s profile.
“How did it go?”

“I did everything,” he starts distractedly, eyes still on the screen. “I was afraid my time would run
out, cause I would get unconcentrated or something, but I solved every problem. Now I just have to
hope they’re correct.”

“When do results come out?”

“In like, three days.”

“That’s quick.”

“Yeah.”

He wants to tell him he’ll get in, but it’s a stupid thing to say, and not something he can promise, so
he just keeps his mouth shut and turns to the movie. He’s wanted to see it for a while, and perhaps it
is a much better distraction than going to events. Following the plot does a good job of stifling
incessant thoughts of regret and guilt that he practically incarcerated his sister, almost as well as
working out does. Taehyung’s presence does, too. When he doesn’t focus on the movie, he focuses
on him, steals glances of him yawning, stretching, reacting to certain things, his eyes growing
curiously big and his lips parting, forming a circular shape.

He manages to sit through about half an hour from the movie, before his lids seems to grow too
heavy to hold up. His head tilts to one side, his breath evens, and Jungkook doesn’t want to wake
him. He sits upright for several moments before his body starts to drift down towards Jungkook’s
knees.

Taehyung moves a lot in his sleep, Jungkook has realized by now, and his body naturally seeks the
comfort of lying down. He lowers his knees, lines his legs forward and allows Taehyung to fully
spread out on the couch. Half of his body ends up tilted on top of Jungkook’s, and as much as he
doesn’t want to, he attempts to slide away. The second he moves underneath him, however,
Taehyung’s arm circles over one shoulder and his neck, and he grunts a soft a whine, moves even
more of himself over him.

His cheek is completely on Jungkook’s chest, head raises and falls with the motion of his breaths,
which ruffle the top of his soft, light hair. His weight is so tangible on top of him, warm. The smell of
Taehyung is poignant in his nose, and no matter how much he wills himself to, he doesn’t push him
away. He lets him sleep. He’s tired.

Taehyung wrapped around him with his head on his chest has somehow grown familiar to him. It’s a
calming familiarity, and though at the initial motion of him settling himself on top of him, his heart
races with the panic that there is something forbidden about allowing him this, once its beat soothes,
the weight on him grows relaxing. He’s asleep. Taehyung is unconscious and he won’t know any of
this, so Jungkook lets himself be indulgent for a moment. He raises his hand, touches his hair, pushes
some of it away from his forehead where it rests just beneath his chin.

He touches the skin of his face, briefly, just barely permits his thumb to brush his slightly parted lips,
feels the tip of his thumb tingle, before he lowers his hand, cups it around the small of his back and
rests it there.

His breath morphing into him so leveled and relaxed reminds Jungkook he’s tired as well. The
rhythm of it makes him go helplessly drowsy. And with Taehyung asleep on him with a movie
playing in the background, he feels the biggest amount of regret he ever did for pushing him away.
It’s not that he can’t have sex, it’s that he can’t have this from him that suddenly strikes him,
swallows him, with guilt. He’s never had this. Julia never cared about movies, never cared of
superheroes. Her body was never this heavy, didn’t drape over with such security and warmth, and
she never did fit herself so incessantly on him, he never had the urge to allow it, and she never had
the audacity to try it. And she never made him feel that thing, that terribly unfamiliar sensation in his
stomach and on his skin and pulsing in his chest.

He doesn’t want to allow himself to fall asleep, and he doesn’t expect himself to. It’s hard for him,
not impossible, but certainly hard, without valium or the voices of his friends, but he can’t help it. It
catches him off guard. His eyes close and his breath evens with Taehyung’s.

He’s only startled awake when he hears a sharp intake of breath on top of him.

Taehyung’s eyes open, lids blinking lazy, once, twice, three times, before his pupils can actually
focus on anything and he can call himself into consciousness. His back tenses and relaxes with
wakefulness, a soft grunt leaving his lips, and he tightens his whole grip around whatever he’s
wrapped himself this time. He’s comfortable and warm, even feels his chest perspires a bit from a
very tangible heat. He readjusts himself, draws closer. There is a heaviness wrapped around him, that
drapes secure and warms his back as well. His neck twists on its own, buries his nose instinctively in
a hardness he feels below him, and he breathes it in. It’s familiar and pleasant, and he’s so very
comfortable until his brain nearly spasms with the realization of what that familiarity describes.

His lids pull back to their sockets, he sucks a sharp breath through his nose, and he pulls his arm
back from where it wraps, instead presses a palm into hard chest and lifts himself up, eyes staring
down wide at Jungkook’s face, so very close to his.

The arm that slides across his back flexes, its hand clings to his waist, subconsciously, just as
Taehyung attempts to stand, and Jungkook’s eyes are darting opened and immediately staring into
his.

Taehyung doesn’t give him time to fully wake. His knees are in between his legs, and Jungkook’s
arm is wrapped around him and he cannot stay like this, can’t take it. His heart hammers, and he tries
to haul himself up again. “I have to go,” he whispers to him with urgency.

His attempt fails. Jungkook’s hand wraps around the wrist he uses to prop himself up and presses it
firmly down on his chest, holds him there even if that scorching arm around his waist does him the
favor of removing itself.

“No, wait,” Jungkook’s fingers squeeze around it, a silent question along with his spoken words.
“You can stay over,” he offers, eyes rooting into his. “Just, just sleep,” he says, and his mouth parts
to yawn, and Taehyung has to get the fuck out of there. “It’s late.”

“No,” Taehyung shakes his head rapidly. “I can’t.”

He sits back on his calves, pulls himself away from him, but Jungkook follows. The hand that
doesn’t hold Taehyung’s wrist props back into the cushion of the couch and he lifts himself up, goes
close again, the thumb of his occupied hand, venturing a pattern over Taehyung’s skin.

“You can sleep in a different room to me, you don’t have to—”

Taehyung tugs his hand away as soon as he feels the skin tingle under the touch, presses it
protectively into his own chest. “I said no, Jungkook,” he tells him firmly, sharply, eyes almost
glaring.

Jungkook gazes at him for a moment, two. He blinks. He sighs, looks away, the hand that now
remains useless rubs into his eyes, still tired from sleep before he drops it into his lap. “Then let me
drive you at least,” he says. “It is late.”

He stares back at him, slipping into a tense silence of contemplation. This is dangerous; he knows
that, but it gives Jungkook the opportunity to get out of this apartment and he did ruin his plans for
the night. He swallows, looks down. “Okay,” he tells him, and he gets himself up and away from
him, tries very hard to stand without leaning on his legs that stretch around him.

“Now?” Jungkook asks from the couch.

The movie’s over and there are automatic pictures bouncing around the screen.

“Yes,” Taehyung nods.

Jungkook grunts, rubs into his eyes some more, and stands. “Fine,” he mumbles. He takes his phone
from the charger, his car keys from the table. He’s wordless and Taehyung is as well, simply trails
his gaze across him as he moves. “Come on,” he tells him, head nodding towards the door.

They get into the elevator and Jungkook presses a P that asks of him to present some sort of a chip as
well, takes him to the parking with him this time. He doesn’t speak to him, and he stares forward. He
still appears drowsy, and it makes him look somehow softer, and Taehyung has to internally chide at
himself not to look every time he yawns or rubs at his eyes.

He follows him to his familiar SUV. A car parked next to it, steals his glance. It’s low to the ground,
long, and absolutely black. It shines pretty, clean, and leave it Jeon Jungkook to have a fucking
Aston Martin. Taehyung wants to touch it, but it glistens too much for him to try, and he supposes
this is one of those things that pushed Jungkook to the decision to fuck his sister.

“This is my other car,” Jungkook tells him when he notices the stare he has on it. He misinterprets
that unfailing glance for curiosity. “We can take it if you want,” he offers as he sees Taehyung look
at it unblinkingly, but his eyes are rooted on it not because he’s terribly fascinated that he has a
supercar right in front of him, though that holds true for a couple of moments when he first notices it.
But it drifts into something else, the longing fixation onto it does, because it’s just a reminder that
Jungkook could never sacrifice a luxury like this for Taehyung, and he knows damn well his father
wouldn’t let him keep them both.

He pries his eyes away from it. “Isn’t it not for out of city?” he asks.
Jungkook watches him carefully, watches him observe the car, and watches him look away from it.
“We can go out of city,” he suggests, so very quietly, and Taehyung’s eyes dart up, meet his.

“Where?” he asks.

Jungkook’s shoulders twist, head shakes. “I don’t know.”

Taehyung’s next breath is a sigh and he’s looking away again. “Just take me home.”

Sitting in the SUV is familiar. He stares ahead, looks blankly at the road. He says nothing and neither
does Jungkook for the length of the drive, which at this hour at this time of the week is short. Traffic
is scarce, and Jungkook’s foot seems to press hard into the pedal.

Taehyung doesn’t know why he doesn’t get out of the car immediately when Jungkook pulls up in
front of his house. He doesn’t know why he gives him enough time to look at him, to hesitate. He
gives him enough time to lick at his lips, to shift in his seat, to start speaking.

“Can I—” he begins, but Taehyung doesn’t make the same mistake of letting him finish.

“No,” he says firmly, and although he feels the other’s burning gaze seal onto him, he keeps his eyes
straight on the street before him. His belt is still clicked into place, and he doesn’t know why.

Jungkook pauses, lips thinning. “You don’t even know what I want,” his head shakes as he whispers
softly to his profile. But he does, he knows very damn well, and it makes his breath stutter for a
moment, makes him focus on the empty street in front of them even more because he knows seeing
him and saying no would rival impossibility.

So, Taehyung still doesn’t look. “You can’t kiss me,” he simply says and Jungkook blinks, takes his
eyes away. He rotates his body to the front again, fully, presses his elbow by the window of the car
and props his head on it, as far away from Taehyung as it would go. He hears him gulp and he hears
the length and depth of the breath he next takes.

But he is still not taking his seatbelt off.

“Tomorrow, I…” he starts, but it falls flat on his tongue. He clears his throat and starts again. “Ji-woo
and Namjoon won’t be home, so I,” he hesitates, drops his head down to momentarily stare at his
lap, “I have to take care of Woojin.”

Jungkook’s head shakes, the breath labored as it leaves through his nose, mouth pressed enough to
sharpen the line of his jaw. “Why are you telling me this?” he glances at him again, eyes sliding over.
He’s tired.

For the first time, Taehyung looks at him, too. When his head angles away from his lap, his gaze
finds him and lips part. “I won’t,” he starts, stops, starts again. “I won’t come,” he blinks, eyes dart
all across his face, every feature. “You’ll be alone.”

Jungkook’s shoulders shift, he shrugs. His knuckles wipe across the window of his car, up and down
and up and down. “I can go to Yoongi’s,” he tells him.

The reply is automatic. “Or you can come over.”

Jungkook’s brows furrow. He pauses, and his knuckles still as well. His own eyes study Taehyung
drop to his lips and his nose and then to his eyes, too, and he waits for him to take it back, but he
doesn’t. “You’d want me in your house again?” he asks, voice ghostly as it leaves his mouth,
breathless with disbelief.

Taehyung’s head shakes slowly. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

Jungkook’s teeth graze over his mouth, sink. “Is that why you come?” he asks, head cocking.
“Yesterday and tonight?”

Taehyung blinks. “I don’t want you to be alone,” he repeats.

And Jungkook is looking away. His jaw pulls tightly at the edge, a muscle flexing and relaxing as his
eyes blink at the road. “Don’t come to me because you feel like you have to,” he tells him, and
Taehyung has the urge to deny it, but he won’t. He wants to see him, it’s simple as that, especially
tonight, he felt like he needed to see him, after he spoke to Namjoon. “I’m not alone.”

Taehyung breathes in. He’s the one looking at his profile now, before his eyes fall on the hand that
rests between them, at the leather rest. He hesitates, but he reaches. He’s careful, only extends one
finger as he brushes at the skin above the scar of the cigarette burn. Jungkook’s hand twitches, digits
instinctively rolling into a fist, but he doesn’t take it away. He lets him touch, glances at him from the
corner of his eyes. “Yoongi and Hoseok,” Taehyung begins, studying the motion of his own finger
as it circles around the redness of the skin. He wonders if it will be there forever, a reminder. “They
don’t know about this, do they?” he asks, blinks up.

Jungkook takes a moment, and when he speaks it’s low, but it’s honest. “No.”

Taehyung’s tongue runs over his lower lip quickly, soothes it before he bites it with reluctance. “And
they don’t know about me.”

Jungkook’s head shakes. “Not really,” he says, “just,” his shoulders lift, fall, “assumptions.”

Taehyung nods, removes his fingers from his hand, and, finally, he takes that seatbelt off. The sound
of it snapping back into place is loud in the confines of the car. “I’ll be home tomorrow,” he meets
his eyes. “You know. Back door.”

Jungkook nods. “I know,” he tells him, and once again Taehyung leaves.

Taehyung shuts the door behind himself. He needs a breather. Woojin is still playing inside, though
he is instructed to go to bed after one final game, doesn’t much miss his presence for the moment as
Taehyung had been honest – the boy loves the console enough for it to be borderline worrying – and
he allows himself to sit on his and Namjoon’s step at the back door of their house.

He’s pitifully disappointed. He knows he didn’t tell Jungkook an hour, and with that he doomed
himself to an endless night of blind anticipation. It should be a relief that he hasn’t shown up.
Taehyung is trudging along a dangerous, backward path with those nightly meetings, but he has the
ridiculous need to know he’s okay.

While he can.

But realistically, Jungkook has no reason to be there. He knows he won’t get sex out of him, knows
Taehyung’s little brother will be there, so he can hardly even get him alone. So, why would
Jungkook come?

Taehyung swallows down the saliva that gathers on his tongue.

There is no moon, currently, it hides behind a cloud, but it’s warm, so he sits in his black shorts,
black t-shirt, blends easily with the darkness of the night and he doesn’t mind. The air is fresh despite
the heat and the late hour makes it even more refreshing in comparison to the last heat waves before
the onset of fall, and Taehyung likes very much that he can simply sit on that step. It means more to
him than he has previously realized. Since yesterday everything around the house feels like it does.

He is scared of how physically his body reacts to the sound of footsteps. His heart thumps aware in
his chest and a tingle skids across different spots of his skin. He feels it at the back of his neck,
somehow cold and wet. He senses it as borderline suspenseful and when a figure so molding with
the darkness appears, his stomach hollows.

There is something peculiar in seeing Jungkook dressed so casually. He wears a simple dark
sweatshirt and he could almost fit the background of the neighborhood if it wasn’t for a small, almost
negligible label that spells Balenciaga at the right side of his chest.

Taehyung blinks at the outlines of his body, and then he finally feels what he has been trying to
summon in himself for the entirety of the night. He feels relief. Jungkook is there.

His eyes layer over him, skid all across where he pauses just a couple of feet away from him. He
drags his gaze from his shoes through his body and ends at his own eyes. “You’re here,” he exhales,
and he knows it probably betrays his now fulfilled hope that he would come.
“Yeah,” Jungkook nods. He stares back down at Taehyung for a couple of moments before he
glances at the empty space next to him. He doesn’t sit at the center of that step. Taehyung is used to
having Namjoon next to him on it, and, instinctively, he’s left room for him. When he notices
Jungkook stare, he juts his chin, nods as well. And Jungkook sits just when a cloud moves slightly to
reveal the corner of the moon. “I’m sorry it’s late,” Jungkook says, “I had to talk to my aunt.”

“It’s not late,” Taehyung shakes his head. “Why your aunt?”

There is something about moonlight, Taehyung thinks, that propels him into soft honesty, and maybe
it does so for Jungkook as well. There is something about him tonight, something about him ever
since he signed his sister in the hospital, something calmer, and Taehyung thinks it might be
exhaustion.

Jungkook shakes some hair from his face, fixes it with a hand. He brings his knees up closer to
himself as Taehyung sits, but while with every inch of the moon that shows that illuminates the two
of them sitting on that step, blending with darkness, Taehyung looks at him more and more closely,
Jungkook simply stares ahead. “Remember on the roof when I told you my father thought it was an
excuse that his own father hit harder?”

Taehyung nods. “Yeah,” he mumbles to him. He wasn’t lying. He believes he genuinely remembers
every word Jungkook has said to him, certainly every sentence that was reminiscent of a confession,
every one that allowed him to peek a little deeper in his life and what made him this.

He’s sighing. There are dark circles under his eyes and Taehyung wonders if they show because the
moon makes him that much paler in the background of the night. “My aunt is my father’s sister. She
had to live with my father and grandfather both.” He shrugs. “She’s the only one who knows what to
say to Clo, really.”

Taehyung is nodding again. He does imagine the helplessness he would feel at the inability to
properly convey sympathy for something like this, because most of what floods his mind is
questions, and he is quite certain Clo Eun would not want to answer them. He supposes it’s best to
have someone who has the replies all ready, could help her best, someone who has gone through it
and escaped from it. “How does it feel,” he licks his lips briefly, “the apartment without her?”

Jungkook glances up at the moon. “Empty,” he says, and then he stares at his feet, “but it’s the best
for her,” he voices, and Taehyung thinks those words of reassurance are mostly for his own sake.
“That way she can get rid of all this. Who knows,” his brows shift up and his lips stretch briefly into
one of those smiles that are just bundles of nerves breaking out before they completely thin, press
together. “She might actually be able to pursue what she wants.”
He can’t stop himself. “Which is?” he’s asking. He hasn’t stopped looking at Jungkook, but
Jungkook hasn’t looked at him once, and he wants to know why.

“Fashion,” he says, still choosing to keep his eyes on his feet as he shuffled them in front of himself.
“But not like wearing it. Making it.”

Taehyung wraps his arms around his knees, presses his cheek to them as well, head tilted towards
him. The moon has now completely escaped from that cloud and it shines bright down on them; it
feels just a couple of days of being full. “Thought you all considered that industry a cheat,”
Taehyung tells him. Everything that involves models and actors has always been talked down on by
clients in Rouge. “Not very Richhood.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook nods. “It’s why she can’t afford my father knowing she even breathes around
Seokjin,” he says, and he lowers his head again. Taehyung’s fingers tap on his kneecap. Occupation,
then, is enough to cause a restriction from the elder Jeon. Taehyung does wonder, as the both of
them fall quiet after the words are spoken, can’t help but imagine, how gruesome of a scene it would
be if their father ever knew about him. Jungkook breathes loudly, legs shuffle again. His voice is
firmer when he next talks, lighter. “Hoseok and Yoongi fit the stereotype much more,” he tells him.
“They wanna finish their Management and Marketing thing and buy the Ozone together, and maybe
a hotel.” His fingers spread, palms opened, and he makes a lined pattern through the air with his
hands. “Property owners,” he announces, “that’s what the dream has always been. Much more
Richhood, isn’t it?” His lips twitch. “Even if Hoseok wants to tend to the bar himself.”

He’s almost waffling, and the more words leave his mouth, the more that Taehyung senses his voice
is dry, throat constrained as sounds depart from it in halves. He was with Clo before he came here.

“And you?” Taehyung asks him, head lifting from his knees, eyes still sealed onto him. He seems to
need to talk right now, and that’s okay. Taehyung still has so many questions he wants to ask the
Jeon Jungkook he has always watched. “What do you want to do?”

His forearms fall, land on top of his own knees. “I’ll finish my degree to have it on paper,” he starts,
his tongue darting quickly over his upper lip, pauses at the corner of his mouth. He gestures with his
head, tilts it briefly to one shoulder as he shrugs only it; it’s obvious, he means, it’s a given. “And
start in the law firm on the corporate wing until the Jeon in the partnership stands for me and not for
my father.”

Taehyung looks closely enough to see the short, miniscule moment in which his jaw tenses. He
lowers his own knees, exposes more of his body to the moon. “I didn’t ask what you were going to
do,” he tells him softly. “I asked what you wanted to do.”
He watches him blink. His lids fall over his eyes and open, once, twice. He opens his mouth, then it
closes, and he breathes through his nose, he sighs. His head shakes when his neck cranes down.
“Honestly,” his shoulders, lift palms open again. “I don’t know.” His shoulders fall. “Never really
had a dream, you know,” he confesses, and Taehyung has the urge to shift closer, but he wouldn’t.
“I used to like to take pictures, but I don’t want to spend my life taking pictures. I like boxing, but I
don’t want to spend my life boxing, not illegally anyway.”

Taehyung’s lips part and only a whisper seems to fit the privacy of what he asks him. “There’s
nothing that you think you’ll want for the rest of your life?”

And for the first time that night Jungkook looks at him. His head raises and tilts, and his eyes catch
onto his. The moon makes them glint, a circle of light sits just at the corner of his pupils, stands out
from the background of dark irises, like the moon glares down from the sky. Those eyes glisten as
they layer over him, as they dart across, look at his arms, his neck, his lips, his nose, and his eyes
again. They rest there, capture his own stare. Jungkook’s lips close to allow him to swallow nothing.
Taehyung watches his throat.

His eyes feel so heavy, so damn heavy he actually feels their weight in his own chest, and this time
he is looking away.

Jungkook follows, stares in front of himself again, at the back of another house in this neighborhood
he should have no reason to be in. “I don’t know,” he says, “You?”

And Taehyung himself has so many dreams, because when you can’t have nothing, you’re bold
enough to wish for everything. He has gone through so many, ever since he was a child, but they
shape through the years.

“I want to have an atelier for all sorts of art and that includes clothes, by the way,” he says, pointedly,
because clothes are art, and in another world maybe he and Clo Eun could cross paths. He rests his
hands back, leans on them, and stares at the moon. “But I also don’t mind the architecture. I love it,
actually.” He shrugs. “Much more prospective. And I think I could be good at it.”

He feels his eyes on him again, senses with the corner of his own when he turns his head, when he
looks at him look to the moon.

“You could,” he hears him say. He pauses. “An atelier would fit you.”
Fit him, Taehyung doesn’t like the sound of that, and at the same time he loves it.

He draws a breath, curls his head downwards. “What types of things did you like to take pictures
of?”

Jungkook’s lips pull. He shrugs. “Beautiful.”

Taehyung’s eyes roll on instinct. “Well, that’s elaborate,” he glances at him and with that very same
instinct, he lightly nudges his shoulder with his before he draws back. “Come on, I need to know if
they would fit my atelier.”

The only thing less likely, Taehyung figures as he says it, than him opening an atelier, is him sharing
any minuscule part of his future with Jungkook. It feels constricting in his chest to think it, but the
moon sucks it out of his lips.

He’s still hesitant, takes him a moment, but he tells him. “I mostly took pictures of Clo, Julia,
Yoongi, and Hobi.”

Taehyung’s brows raise, fall. “Why’d you stop?” He imagines if Jungkook still allowed himself to
have passions like this, he could potentially be less angry with life. He’s also as ever unfailingly
curious. He doesn’t know what else would let him pry as much into that life that he has always
observed and wondered about than those pictures that exist, somewhere. He doesn’t think the two of
them have enough time left for him to convince him to show them.

“I don’t know,” Jungkook shrugs. “I only did it when we were teens. They all seemed most beautiful
smiling, and I don’t think they’ve been doing that too much lately.” His head angles down again. He
shakes it, runs a hand through strands of his hair. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just don’t, like,” he
straightens, rolls his shoulders again, “get the urge to anymore,” he finishes, and his eyes end on
Taehyung again.

“Yeah?” he breathes, looks at him, too. He thinks he understands, the way he says urge. There is
something about art that has to do with the urge to create. It’s why he’d pick simply drawing over
perfecting figures and shading for architecture any day.

“Yeah,” Jungkook mirrors that breath that escaped Taehyung’s lips. “Well, except I kind of wanted
to take a picture of you.”
Taehyung’s mouth parts, and he’s looking away. A sensation spreads through him so immediate, and
though it is a mixture of many things, most palpably recognizable for him sits that familiar all-
encompassing anger.

“Wanna go in?” he asks, speaks with his voice leveled much above the intimate whisper they had
unwittingly set to fit the ambiance of the moon and the night. He’s already on his feet, doesn’t wait
for an answer. “I cooked,” he tells him.

Jungkook follows when Taehyung touches the handle. “You cooked?” he raises a brow behind him,
fills his tone in to fit with Taehyung, but he doesn’t end there. He adds, “I’ve been wanting to try
your cooking since that time we almost got caught in your bathroom upstairs.”

And Taehyung is so, so very angry. He presses his teeth together, heart pulses in his chest, and he
means to turn back, means to say don’t, because he can’t do this, cannot remind him.

He has halfway turned on his feet when he hears the thump of running, so familiar he’d recognize in
this sleep.

“Taetae,” Woojin pauses further than he would usually, his eyes rooting onto the person next to his
brother as soon as he notices and whatever he means to say falls on his lips. He seals them shut,
shyly, stares at him for a couple of moments, before he turns his head down to blink at the floor.

Jungkook’s brows shoot up, a small curve shaping at the corner of his lips. He glances at the short
boy briefly before he arches those brows at Taehyung, his head tilting.

“Woojin?” Taehyung genuinely wants to be surprised when he sees him, but unfortunately, he can
only narrow his eyes with annoyance. “I thought I told you to go to bed.”

He should have actually given that console to Jungkook, he doesn’t need his little brother becoming
a zombie, but he’s safely on his way there.

He thinks blinking and opening his eyes overly wide as he bats his lids across would somehow
placate Taehyung’s annoyance. “I just wanted to play another game, Taetae,” he whines, chews a bit
on his lip as he stares back at the ground, placing two hands one in front of the other, one still
clutching a controller, a depiction so perfect of shame Taehyung just knows he feels none of it. “I’m
sorry,” he pouts a pout that would never work on Ji-woo, but it never fails to soften up Taehyung,
and he’s already sighing when Woojin has the bravery to ask. “Who’s that?”

And right at that moment Taehyung realizes how much that feels like two words clashing. He
glances up at Jungkook and waits for apprehension to wave over him, a fear of introducing a Jeon to
his little brother, because he is all he and Ji swear to protect him from. But it doesn’t come. He
remembers there was a time when Taehyung dreaded even speaking his little brother’s name in front
of anyone he associated with Richhood, but now there he is, Richhood incorporated smiling down at
Kim Woojin and Taehyung does not feel even an ounce of what he expects.

He doesn’t trust Jungkook, he doesn’t even want to think that, but really, in this, he does. He knows
he poses no harm to Woojin, knows even if he’s a Kim, he won’t treat him badly.

It’s not striking to Taehyung that he is introducing Woojin to a Jeon as he feels it should. It’s
wondrous to him that he is unveiling, even after all this, yet another page in his life to Jungkook. He
already knows the rest of his family and now from this moment on, he’ll have met them all. He’s
introducing him to his little brother.

He turns back to Woojin. “That’s Jungkook,” he tells him simply. And because Balenciaga means
absolutely nothing to an almost seven-year-old, so he doesn’t have to be a Jeon today. He can just be
Jungkook.

Woojin blinks at him. “Why is he here?”

Trust the little kids to ask the worst questions. Taehyung can certainly not formulate into words why
Jungkook is there. He cannot fully explain why he asked him to come, and he can definitely not
know why did show up. He hesitates, tongue pokes at his lips. He’s cautious when he speaks.
“Cause he’s…” he trails at his mouth with reluctance, arms folding before his chest, and finally,
finally, he finishes, “friend.”

He hears Jungkook make a sound that is dangerously reminiscent of a snort as soon as the word
leaves his lips and he doesn’t shun him off a glare, irises chiding and warning in the corner of his
eyes, and Jungkook’s face straightens, lower lip disappearing into his mouth.

“Go play one final level of whatever you’re playing and go to bed, okay?” Taehyung instructs.
Woojin is quick to nod. But before he runs of again, he turns fully to Jungkook.

He still keeps his hands modestly placed in front of himself, one holding the controller. “I’m
Woojin,” he says, bows down.

Jungkook bows, too, for a fucking six-year-old. “Nice to meet you, Woojin,” he says, lips stretching,
and Woojin absolutely beams before he spins and disappears. Taehyung hears him jump on the
couch and he wants to yell at him that he’ll break it and he’ll have to replace it himself, but he knows
it’s useless, so he lets him be.

And besides he has to deal with Jungkook now, whose eyes are sliding to him, and whose brows
perch high on his forehead. “I’m your friend?” he asks, mouth twisting with the cautious beginnings
of a smirk, and it does sound as ridiculous as the incredulity in his voice suggests, but there is no
word to describe what Jungkook is to him and for the sake of Woojin’s innocence, he settles for
friend. They’re nothing more right then, anyway; they can’t be. “Taetae?” Jungkook still teases, and
there is something mildly refreshing about that, although he is inevitably careful, modest and leveled,
and not completely Jungkook, and it hurts all over again that he ruined himself for Taehyung, even in
something as simple as the fact that he has to hold back in the most elementary interaction.

Still Taehyung rolls his eyes. He glares. “Shut the fuck up,” he tells him, and he walks, moves
towards the stove he bought by having sex with his girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend now. “Come tell
me if you’d eat this,” Taehyung instructs, lifts off the cap of the pot.

Jungkook follows. “I’ll eat anything,” he says, comes close. It’s necessary, the kitchen does not
allow much space, and Taehyung asks him to come, but he still feels his body tense with his
approaching. “I’m starving.”

Jungkook’s eyes fall to the shift of his feet on the floor when he walks over and he angles his body
differently, doesn’t go behind Taehyung to peak over at what he shows him, but across from him,
and it does allow for some distance between their chests, does not demand for Jungkook to press his
front over Taehyung’s back like his initial suggestion would. Maybe he is thankful. He glances at
him. “It has carbs.”

It’s Jungkook’s turn to return a halfhearted glare before he drops his attention to the contents of the
pot. Taehyung tries to gauge Jungkook’s reaction to the food, but in typical Jungkook fashion, his
expression betrays nothing.

“I’ve fucked any and all diet at this point,” Jungkook tells him, hand pressing into the counter.

“Really?” Taehyung asks, eyes darting to him. “Have you been eating?” It’s dumb, but now that he
considers it, he’s concerned about that as well. His parents are gone, his sister is gone, and has he
been fucking eating.
Jungkook’s head cocks at him and his mouth parts, but he’s interrupted by footsteps.

Woojin arrives once again. “Taetae,” he says.

He takes his eyes off of Jungkook, glances at his brother. “What now, Woo?”

He smiles, rocks a tiny bit on his heels, and Taehyung just knows the little brat thinks he’s the cutest.
“Wanna play Overwatch with me?” he bats his lashes, and he grins wide enough for his dimple, as
deep as Namjoon’s to show on his cheek.

Taehyung starts to speak, but Jungkook’s quicker. “Overwatch?” his brows shoot up and he stares at
Taehyung with his eyes suddenly considerably larger. “Can I play?” he asks, and he nearly sounds
excited, and Taehyung can only blink for a moment. He thought he was only dealing with one child
for the night.

His next exhale holds some laughter, shoulders shrugging. “Sure,” he tells him, lips twitching. “If
Woojin doesn’t mind.”

“I don’t,” Woojin chirps immediately, bouncing higher on his heels.

Taehyung shrugs when the both of them look at him as if for permission. “Okay then,” he says,
gestures with his hands.

Jungkook pushes away from the counter starts to walk behind Woojin as he leads away from the
kitchen and into the living space. “Must be so tiring playing with your brother,” he tells him, his
voice a tiny bit tweaked when addresses Woojin so directly. “He fucking sucks at it.”

Taehyung had just started turning to the food when it reaches his ears. He spins after, yells out,
“Hey, don’t say fuck in front of him.”

Jungkook pauses in his stride, turns to him with his eyes still so wide. “Well, don’t repeat it,” he
warns him. “It slipped.”
Taehyung simply shakes his head. “Shut up and go play with my brother, silently,” he stresses,
gestures to the pot,“while I get us food.”

Taehyung leads into the kitchen, carrying the glasses, and Jungkook follows with the dishes.

“I can’t believe,” he begins, putting then in the sink and Jungkook does it as well, brings their bodies
closer still, but Taehyung is still having too hard of a time contemplating the night to really pay
attention to this; he turns to him, “a Kim is going to grow up thinking Jeon Jungkook is cool.”

Jungkook played fucking video games with Woojin, won some of the rounds, impressing him
thoroughly, and then let him have the rest. When Taehyung first told him to go to bed, he joined him
in whining incessantly until he let him do one final game. He made his little brother laugh. He ate the
food Taehyung gave him, with no complaints it wasn’t from grade level restaurants with gluten-free,
fat free, overpriced, brand products. He simply ate it, nodded to himself as he did, slurped down
everything that Taehyung put in his plate. And he proceeded to make Woojin laugh some more in
between bites.

And all Taehyung could do was sit there and fucking gawk.

When they finally sent him to bed, Taehyung started gathering dishes, and wordlessly, he helped.

And now he stands in the kitchen before him and shrugs after he straightens from putting the dishes
in the sink, as if he isn’t being fucking weird. “Yeah, who knew one of the Kim siblings could
actually stand me?”

Taehyung stares at him, tries and fails to conceptualize Jeon Jungkook helping him with the
housework, let alone deal with the fact of witnessing it. It makes his voice pitch, makes his
gesticulations unnecessarily emphasized. “It’s just so fucking alternative universe, you,” his brows
shoot up,“playing games with a kid, even letting him win. I—” he glances away, eyes the dishes so
neatly stacked in the dishes, and his teeth sink into his lower lip. His head shakes, “What are you
doing, Jungkook?”
He looks at him as if this is all normal, shrugs, as if everything is just chill. “What do you mean?”

Taehyung bristles, air escaping sudden and powerful from his mouth. “You’re playing games,
putting away dishes, you’re…” his chin moves back and forth, “what are you doing? Why are you
even here?”

Taehyung’s forceful, but Jungkook’s careful. “You asked me to come.”

“And you came?” Taehyung’s shoulders fold, fall.

Jungkook is the one to scoff half with laughter now. His tongue pokes into the side of his chin, his
own head shaking as if it is Taehyung being ridiculous. He’s almost rolling his eyes, but whatever
motion his irises, too, they end up on his, so pointed and piercing. “Any fucking chance to be around
you, I’d take.”

Taehyung’s lips part. He gapes. “What?” he breathes.

Jungkook stares at him with his eyes hard for a moment more, before a sigh falls through his mouth
and he is stepping closer. “Tae,” he says, voice so much softer, voice like it was before on the
doorstep when they whispered to the moon. “I know I can’t make it up to you,” he tells him, and he
stops where their feet almost touch, “for what I did, but I want to be around you, okay?” he has his
eyes in a trap, and they are same height, both standing straight and those eyes are so dreadfully
unavoidable, right in front of him. Taehyung’s hand lies limp by his body, but then he feels a finger,
a single finger, brush it, ever so gently, the tip runs across the skin of his palm, and his own digits
twitch, coil into a fist that aims to chase the touch away, but it just raises, trails subtly over his wrist
and it nearly makes him tremble. It’s so feathery, so small, and it elicits tingles on the surface that it
barely caresses. “And you can have me in any way that you want,” his speech rivals the kiss of his
touch, so tenderly scathing. “Any,” he repeats. “If you want me as a fucking baby sitter, you’ll have
me as a fucking baby sitter.”

He is helplessly searching his face, loathes every feature that appears so strikingly genuine, and it hits
him like a bullet that this was a mistake. He thought he could handle him, thought he could simply
distract him while Clo Eun’s in rehab, thought he could see him some last couple of times, and
maybe, perhaps, they could say to each other what hasn’t been said. But he’s failing.

He can take Jungkook talking about sex, can take him telling him he wants him, coaxing him into
admitting he wants him, too. But he can’t take this.
Taehyung’s forehead creases, brows furrow, and he keeps darting his gaze all across his painfully
familiar face. He has studied every line of it by now. “Why?”

“Cause,” Jungkook says, his shoulders curl. He doesn’t seem to know either. His finger runs across
his wrist down to his own, the nail scraping over skin teasing it awake. “Cause it’s you.”

Taehyung’s eyes screw shut. He takes his arm away, puts it behind his own back.

Aren’t you in love with him? Taehyung really fucking hates that question. Namjoon should not have
asked that fucking question. He himself would have never assumed that he was stupid enough for
this, never been bold enough to consider he could feel something like that at all for someone outside
his immediate family, sans Jimin.

But now that Namjoon puts a fucking word in his mind, he cannot stop thinking it. Taehyung knows
of a few extremities that are absolutely given, and love and hate are certainly dominant. He thought
himself entirely capable of hatred when it came to Richhood. He never thought he’d have to consider
the other end of the spectrum, but the feeling that spreads through him like wildfire is way too
intense, too overwhelming and numbing not to be an extreme.

It hurts too much not to be an extreme.

He opens his eyes again. “You said you didn’t want to hurt me.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen, dart so desperate between his. “I don’t,” he promises. “I don’t.”

He is glaring at him. His eyes are fiery and deadly, he glares. He accuses, “Then why are you
fucking doing it again?”

“How?” his voice scrapes past his teeth. “Taehyung, I—

He’s nearly yelling. “Why did it take thatfor you to—” He heaves a breath and stops himself. He
damn well knows the answer to this. It’s not a question really. It’s a curse, a swear. It’s anger, all
over again. He looks away, stares at his dishes. He speaks much calmer now, though he feels none
of it. “Namjoon wants me to go with him to Japan.”
Jungkook’s next breath is a sharp hiss of, “What?”

His next thought is a storm. He feels actual panic rise in his chest.

“You heard me,” Taehyung says simply, eyes darting to his again, and yes, he did, but maybe he
heard wrong.Maybe Taehyung forgot to add, for a couple of days, maybe he didn’t say anything
about himself at all. Maybe that sentence had entirely to do with Namjoon, with goddamn fucking
Kim Namjoon.

“What about Woojin?” he asks, latches on the one thing he knows Taehyung refuses to leave behind,
because he knows he can’t fucking say, what about me, “and, and Ji-woo?”

Taehyung’s fingers slip to the edge of the counter behind him. He squeezes, knuckles going white
with exertion, and he speaks so calmly, as if this is a discussion and not the beginning of a
confrontation. “They’re gonna move to an apartment,” he explains with monotony and Jungkook
knows those words are recited, put in his mouth. “We don’t need to pay for a house that can host all
of us and our parents when no one lives here.”

What about me, his ears ring, what about me, I’m alone. But he desperately doesn’t want to be his
father, doesn’t want to add manipulative self-victimization to the list of ways he’s attempted to play
him.

“What about architecture?” He says.

Taehyung isn’t looking in his eyes when he explains. “There’s a similar thing there, I just need to
push back semesters—

But Jungkook isn’t listening. He goes deaf to his words the second he realizes he has a reply ready at
his lips, because his ears are still ringing and so is his brain.

His brain that has wheels turning, spinning, setting in place. Oh.

“Is that why you wanted to sleep with me last night?” He can’t hide the layer of disgust that coats the
question as he asks it, face turning, blood churning.
And Taehyung’s lips don’t answer, but his eyes do. They bounce to his, widen, and one hand
releases the counter, grasps at his shoulder. “Jungkook—"

Jungkook’s head shakes, gaze darts all across him, begs any feature of his face to show him he is
wrong, Taehyung just missed him, Taehyung just wanted him. But it downs on him that he is right,
and disappointment cuts sharp like a shard of glass. “You weren’t going to tell me, were you?”
Jungkook accuses, steps away and Taehyung’s arm drops.

He doesn’t touch him again, but he follows. “I’m telling you now.”

And okay, if he wants proximity in this, Jungkook will let him have it. He steps back towards him,
hates, absolutely hates that he can’t use his height as intimidating with him, because there he is, tall,
broad shouldered, a man. He has words, all he has are words, and he knows how to use them to hurt
others, but he doesn’t know how to use them to tell him he hurts him. And he goes primal, raises his
voice, stares right at his fucking eyes, and he demands, “Was that going to be my goodbye?” He
stands near enough to feel him, so that Taehyung feels him. “A literal fuck youfor farewell?”

“Hey,” Taehyung mirrors, picks up pace, he presses a finger in his chest, hard, and digs his eyes
harder in his own, “You fucking told me to leave,” he accuses, voice just along the edges of breaking
but holding up when he keeps it so loud, “You put the idea in my head.”

Jungkook doesn’t mean to yell at him, but his eyes and finger pry it out of him. “And what was your
answer to fucking that, Taehyung?” his chest heaves with the question and he has to grind his teeth
together tightly to stifle anything else that could slide in between them.

He has the audacity to think the explicit reminder but not to say it, if you leave, I leave. And what
happened to that, was good was fucking saying that?

Taehyung seems to lower on his heels, some confrontation dropping from his stance as his finger
retracts from Jungkook’s chest, and he draws back. His eyes are searching, darting boisterous
between Jungkook’s, and while his voice softens, his expression doesn’t. “I thought that was what
you wanted,” he’s nearly whispering now.

Jungkook’s not. He wants to laugh. He scoffs with his whole chest. “What I wanted,” he bristles out,
callous. “That had nothing to do with what I want.” His feet shuffle forward one step, and Taehyung
has nowhere to go; this kitchen is so fucking small. There is less than an inch between their eyes. He
tried to be careful with him, tried so fucking hard, but he’s rough and raw when he speaks, when he
leaves him nowhere to go. “If it had even the barest bit, I would have had you all to my fucking
self.”

If it were up to him, really, he’d fuck him to sleep every night, be the one to wake him up in the
morning, buy him a fucking art atelier and probably keep him in there most of the time, because more
often than not he looks like fucking art himself.

Taehyung’s hand instinctively raises, palm pressing in between his shoulder and his chest to keep
him at a certain distance. His fingers curl over, nails dig above his clavicle and he arches his back,
finds the only space between them he can. His head shakes. “You have no right to be angry at me,”
he says, voice tight, but low, the tremble in it negligible for what it could have been.

Jungkook wants to tell him that yes, he does. That what he did ruined everything they had before,
but it didn’t erase it, that if he was going to leave, he needed to at least say something, owed him as
much, that he couldn’t simply show at his door, get himself some closure with a quick fuck, and not
even tell him why. But in the context of him claiming he wants him all to himself, he shakes his
head, too, pokes his tongue in his cheek and glances away. He says, “I know.”

Taehyung’s hand edges higher, clutches to him different, lighter, but it doesn’t let go. “I haven’t
decided yet.”

Jungkook huffs, a sardonic half laugh. “You’ve clearly thought out the logistics,” he says. And he
blinks, he forces himself to look at him again, to swallow down everything that he so instinctually
wants to say to him, wants to swallow down the voice of his father hanging at the back of his throat
that floods him with ideas he is entitled to having him here, to being angry, to offering to buy him
that fucking atelier and locking him there. “It would be good for you,” he tells him instead. He raises
a hand and pushes away a single strand of hair that gets in his eye and moves with the flutter of his
lids. Taehyung doesn’t flinch, but he barely gives him time to. The touch is so quick it feels
imagined. His hand drops. “Getting out of here.”

He sees the lump go down his throat, notices him swallow, notices the way his eyes still can’t rest,
explore every bit of his face. Taehyung nods. “Probably. “

“So,” Jungkook puts a fist on the counter behind him, squeezes his fingers together to hold back
from touching him again. “I wouldn’t get to be around you,” he voices. He knows it, but hearing it
feels different, more real. “In any way.”

He hadn’t gone mad and imagined that Taehyung would still want to see him like this, just the two of
them, after his sister got out. But he did think he’d see him in Rouge, in the Ozone. That maybe they
could do this in reverse.

Taehyung’s palm presses harder into his shoulder. “No.”

His jaw ticks. He nods. “Can you,” his tongue runs across his lips, “can you tell me? When you
make a decision?”

Taehyung’s eyes are dancing between his, the features softening as Jungkook’s voice does. His hand
holds onto him, but it doesn’t push; it clings. Jungkook really has to wonder how he has witnessed
people dresses in the most fascinating clothes, styled by artists, so expensive, every bit of them
touched and altered to be at their best, and yet Taehyung just stands there in a black t-shirt that has a
whole by the shoulder, with his face bare and soft, and he’s the most beautiful person he has seen.

“Okay,” Taehyung says, and the first time he does, his lips shape the word, but no sound escapes, so
he closes his mouth, summons his voice and tries again, tries firmer. “Okay.”

Jungkook’s fist tightens on that counter. The urges to touch him grows, just his cheek, or his lips, just
for a moment, while he still can, while he’s still here. “Are you going to forget about me?”

“That’s the plan,” he tells him, just above a whisper, and Jungkook feels a spark inside him.

He can’t. It’s not fair. Because Jungkook will think about him every time he goes to Rouge, every
time he goes to that fucking hotel, every time he lays in his own bed. It’s not fair because Jungkook
won’t get to forget, and he doesn’t want to. He spent a lot of time thinking he wants Taehyung to
had never happened to him, but that’s a delusion. He doesn’t want to forget. He regrets a lot of what
happened with him, but he doesn’t regret him.

He wants him.

His hand is restless at the counter until it’s squeezing at his waist. It surges through him, powerful
and monstrous, the audacity to touch. He buries his fingers in his flesh, tugs at him, as he presses
himself forward, and with the curl of Taehyung’s back he can press himself entirely to him. His
whole body lines, chests touch. He doesn’t know if his fingers hurt, can’t take control of his own
grip. He pulls him close and presses closer, head moving, so his lips hover by his ear, and he’s
hissing.
 “I should have fucked you then,” he gets it out, raw and gruff and forceful, tugs at him again with
the words that follow, “fucked you so you never stop feeling me inside you.”

Taehyung’s hand tightens, head turns. He gives him the side of his face, gives him his cheek, eyes
press shut and so do his teeth. “Jungkook, don’t,” his voice strains out. Jungkook thinks he can feel
his heart hammer against him with the way he holds him to himself.

He blinks. His eyes ravage his face, take it all in, the furrow of every feature. He blinks. His fingers
unlatch from his waist, release him. He pulls them away, doesn’t even return them to the counter
behind him. He keeps his hands to himself, draws them back and hanging by his own thighs. He
moves his whole body, feet shuffling backwards. “I’m sorry.”

Taehyung’s eyes part again, lids flutter, and he turns to him tentative. He layers his gaze over
Jungkook, careful and slow. “I’m sorry, too,” he tells him.

It doesn’t mean anything, doesn’t change anything, but Jungkook nods. He’s taken away his right to
do anything else all on his own. He’s silent as he gazes at him, wonders if his face could ever fade
from his memory, and he really wishes he had taken that picture.

He’s looking back at him, as quiet, but his mouth parts, air brushes over Jungkook’s own when he
breathes, and it draws his attention down, eyes dropping to skim across the shape of his lips.

Taehyung’s hand moves, cups over his neck instead, long fingers curling across, gentle and subtle,
and Jungkook feels the skin there raise awake. He wonders when the last time he’ll see him will be.
Whether it will be today, tomorrow, or next week. He wonders why there has to be a last time. He
doesn’t want there to be a last time, ever.

Maybe Taehyung will stay. It will be good for him to go, he reminds himself, to leave. He doesn’t
want him to leave him.

His thumb moves, pads across his neck, and he’s speaking as softly as that finger soothes, “You can
—“

The touch disappears as quick as lightning when the door opens. Jungkook doesn’t want to angle his
body away, he wants to keep looking at him, wants to hear him finish that sentence, wants to kiss
him.
But he’s lost him already. Taehyung’s eyes settle wide over the door, which doesn’t shut again. So,
he bends, he turns.

He doesn’t have a choice, the voice that speaks through teeth clenched tight addresses him.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” Kim Ji-woo says as Jungkook turns his body halfway.

She lingers in the doorway with Namjoon towering behind her. She has her hand on the knob,
squeezing it tightly, and her eyes give meaning to the fear of looks being able to kill.

Jungkook glances back at Taehyung, but he has his stare now fixed at his feet. He seals his eyes on
him when he informs her, “Leaving.”

“Good,” Ji-woo stresses. She lets go of the knob, pushes at the door with her whole hand to open it
wider. “And you’re not fucking coming back.”

Namjoon takes a step towards his sister, tries to touch at her arm, voice low and private when he calls
her by name. “Ji-woo,” he tries. It’s fruitless. She shakes the attempt off.”

Jungkook’s pausing. He doesn’t want to fight her. “That’s his call,” he says, fists curling to keep his
tone even. He’s turning his whole body away now, towards her.

Taehyung remains behind his back. He raises his eyes when he senses the shift, runs them across his
back, his neck, his hair. They fall on his hands, he sees his thumbs snaking in and out of in between
his clenched fists.

His sister scoffs, and his gaze jumps to her over Jungkook’s shoulder, which he hides behind. “He
certainly doesn’t want you here.”

“Yeah?” Jungkook’s head cocks, irony laces through. His voice is hard but subdued. He knows
what Jungkook is capable of, and that is not it. “Try talking to him for once.”

Ji-woo is walking. She charges through the room and when Namjoon tries to reach for her again, she
brushes him off without a second glance. “Don’t you dare patronize me about him.”
He sees Jungkook’s shoulders raise and fall with the deepness of his following breath, and he knows
he already has his mouth opened when he takes a step forward himself, steps closer behind his back.
“Hey,” he draws her attention to himself, his hand raising subtly, palm cupping over the elbow of
Jungkook’s arm, squeezing into it momentarily. “I asked him to come.”

Her glare turns to him. “What?” her teeth clash with the end of the word. “There’s enough shit in our
house without Jeon Jungkook here, Taehyung.”

He opens his mouth, but Jungkook’s first.

“Don’t worry,” Jungkook says. “I’m going.” He pushes Taehyung’s hand off of himself with his free
one, starts walking, as Ji-woo gestures to the door, her lips pulling in a callous smile.

Taehyung’s hand trails after him when he moves and he tries to close it around him again, but fingers
clutch at air. “Jungkook.”

He’s stepping after him, too, and he spins, stops him. He touches his arm instead, just briefly scrapes
his fingers over it. “I don’t know if I’ll be home tomorrow night,” he tells him, only speaks to him.
“If you want to see me, just call me, okay?” his finger touch more firmly, for a moment, and then
they disappear completely.

Taehyung swallows, nods. “Okay.”

Jungkook leaves after that and Ji-woo is the one to shut the door behind him. She’s turning towards
Taehyung the second she has secured it closed, her arms raising in the space around her.

“Call him?” her voice raises.“Have you gone mad? Taehyung, have you gone absolutely insane?”

He shakes his head. “No,” he tells her simply. He rubs a hand into the back of his own neck, arm
stretching, twisting at the elbow. He turns away from her, turns to the sink. He wants to do the dishes
and go to sleep.

“Then why the fuck was Jeon Jungkook in our house again?”
 Taehyung drops his arm. He sucks in a breath, releases it slowly. “Because I wanted him to be.”

She’s taking a moment, and he doesn’t see her, but he can see her pace. “Namjoon’s right,” she
starts. “You should go to Japan. That boy’s fucked reason out of you.”

“Hey—” Namjoon tries, but Taehyung is spinning.

“Listen,” he stresses, voice raising to match hers. “I’m going through a hard time. I’m not acting
rational a hundred percent of the time. That’s what happens with people who are not entirely devoid
of emotions.”

He sees her mouth part, gape, and Namjoon is trying again.

“Taehyung,” he says this time.

But their sister is just short of shouting. “Namjoon, stay out of it.”

“There’s nothing to stay out of,” Taehyung says, head shaking. He turns to sink again, presses his
hands into the edge. “I’ll do the dishes. You go to bed.”

He starts the water. He doesn’t know for how long the two stand there and watch him scrape cutlery
in silence, but eventually, they leave.

Chapter End Notes

thank you for all the comments, lots of love

 Chapter 21
Chapter Notes

I am now a changed person, I type as someone who has officially been to a bts concert.
I would like to thank my mom for buying me the ticket.

also, thanks for the comments, I love love love reviews, especially long ones, I have
seen a few people apologising for leaving longer reviews, when I absolutely live for
them

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Are you going to call him?”

Taehyung knows very well it’s his big brother sneaking up on him as he sits on that very same step
he shared with Jungkook last night, yet instinctively he still cranes his head, twists his whole body at
the waist and peaks up at his approaching form. He meets his eyes momentarily before he shifts
forward again, pressing his elbows to his spread thighs. He spins the phone between his fingers.

It feels heavy in his hands.

“I don’t know,” he says. He sighs. A moment passes before he can hear Namjoon close the door,
before he can sense him step forward and lower himself on the step next to him. He simply sits,
remains silent, while Taehyung internally begs for advice, and in a minute, he drops his head
between his shoulders, shakes it. “I know nothing,” he confesses. He wipes at his mouth and nose
louder than he means when he straightens, looks ahead at the back of a house that falls apart as much
as theirs does. “I’ve never been this confused my whole life.”

Namjoon takes this is in silently as well, simply listens, and it gives Taehyung the courage to speak
even the last of his thoughts. His head snaps to his bother. “Ji-woo is right, isn’t she?” he says, eyes
searching into Namjoon’s profile, before he turns to him, mouth parting and his own gaze studious
and quick in reciprocation. “He’s fucked reason out of me,” Taehyung finishes brusquely, sucking
his lips in after the last exhale of a word.

He’s got a bandana tied around his forehead, pushes his hair back and it exposes his face fully, every
bit of his expression, every glint of moisture that layers his wide eyes.
“No,” Namjoon starts, “Taehyung, you’re not—”

But Namjoon doesn’t know enough to reassure him, really, so Taehyung impulsively tells him. He
pulls his head away again. “I asked him to sleep with me the other day,” he admits.

There’s a pause. There’s hesitance. He deserves the way his brother’s mouth lingers loosely opened
before it releases a sharp, perplexed, “What?” and he knows it.

Taehyung stares at his phone as it spins between his fingers, bounces his thighs, opened and closed,
the fabric of his shorts dancing around. He’s incapable of stillness. “When you offered Japan,” he
begins, sucks in a breath, “I panicked. I thought I would never get to see him again because he
promised to stay away from me, and after work I went straight to his apartment and spent the first
fifteen minutes of my stay there thinking it’s a good idea to try to get him to fuck me one last time,”
he gets it one batch, low and bitter under his nose. Half of it rivals nothing but a mumble, and it bears
too much humiliation for him to attempt to do more. He drops his head between his knees once more,
shakes it to try to jolt away shame. He drops the phone on the soft dirt beneath him, presses fingers
and palms into his face, rubs the digits firm into his eyes, but they can wipe nothing away. “Thank
fucking god he said no.”

He doesn't know what would have been harder to look at if he'd said yes, his reflection or
Jungkook's eyes.

He knows Namjoon stares. He can feel it, whether the tension he feels on the curl of his spine and
the back of his neck is imagined or real, he knows that his brother’s eyes are rooted on him. “Oh,” he
hears him exclaim.

Taehyung almost wants to laugh. His body folds over more, hands rub up from his face and slide
angry and punishing into strands of his hair. “Can’t even believe it, can you?” his chest rattles with a
single false chuckle. He glares into the phone on the ground when he shakes his head again. “It was
so fucking dumb of me.”

“People do dumb things when they’re in love,” Namjoon’s saying soft and so quick it seems to fall
out of his mouth instinctive.

“Don’t,” Taehyung’s cutting him off, sharp and begging,his palms releasing his hair for a moment as
his fingers simply stretch into the air, useless and frustrated,“say that word to me again.” His voice
drops, he speaks softer, he whispers, “I’m not in love with him,” he shakes his head. “I don’t want to
be.” Then he breathes and his eyes screw shut almost painful. “How do I get it to stop?”

He doesn’t know if he finds the hand that cups at his back a little beneath his shoulder blade as
reassuring as it aims to be. He almost flinches away. Namjoon hasn’t touched him like this since he
came back, and it is so overwhelmingly brotherly. The hand drifts up and falls down smoothly. “It’s
why you need time away from all this,” he speaks as careful as he touches.

Taehyung drops his arms forwards and they hang limp but straight in between his legs, stretched
fully past his knees. He lifts his head as much as he has the will to, shakes it. “I don’t want to run
away.”

Namjoon shifts closer, fingers pause on his back. “It’s not running,” he tells him.

Taehyung’s gaze shifts forward again, shoulders shrugging and carrying Namjoon’s touch with it. “It
feels like it,” he says, tongue running swiftly over his upper teeth as his jaw hangs loose with his
exhale of a chortle. “Feels like I’d be running away from Ji-woo and Woojin, Julia, and,” he pauses;
he swallows, “and Jungkook.” He faces his brother again now, grows simultaneously demanding
and imploring in his speech. “Why do we always run away, Namjoon?” He lists, “You, our dad. Our
mom.” His eyes dart between the other’s. “Is that what we do? Is that what the Kims do? They run
away.” He blinks and it changes his whole entire face. “How do I tell Woojin I have to go,
Namjoon?” he asks him and a part of him begs for an answer, because he would like to think he has
the option, but most of him knows it is rhetorical. His eyes are bulging. “How?” Namjoon’s hand
slides down, falls off of him entirely. “Because I’m never going to just leave him like you did
without saying anything.”

Taehyung’s eyes pry away. “I don’t want to start a new life. I want to fix my old one.”

Namjoon’s sigh is heavy, but his impending silence is heavier. Taehyung cannot help the accusation
that lingers in the back of his expression. He imagines everything would have been different, had
Namjoon never left. “I can’t stay,” he says now as well, says he will leave again, and though
Taehyung knows this, it tugs at his gut to hear it. “Can’t even go somewhere where Kai has eyes.”

“Why?” he insists with his teeth.

He receives what he supposes he will. Namjoon turns away. “Don’t get involved in this.”

The urge to laugh sits so permanent on top of his chest. He only allows himself the huff of one
sardonic breath. The silence stretches and then he asks, “Is Jungkook involved?”

“No,” Namjoon answers firm enough for him to be convincing and Taehyung has to stifle any
external hint of relief. “He’s aware but not involved,” his brother elaborates. Taehyung nods, though
it takes Namjoon a minute more to turn to him. They sit in silence on that step for the time being, and
though there is nothing more familiar than this, the comfort, although still present, is not the same it
used to be.

“Are you going to call him?” Namjoon asks when he finally turns, when he studies his little brother’s
profile.

Taehyung’s eyes jerk down to his phone. “No,” he swallows. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he
admits. “It’s not really fair to him, is it?” He has this as consideration in the back of his head not
because he believes Jungkook deserves him to be fair to him, but simply because he does not like the
repercussions of being unfair. He doesn’t want to be a cause for any of what he himself currently
feels.

“What?” Namjoon reads in the edge of his voice. “You don’t want to stoop to his level?”

Taehyung reaches in between his legs, distractedly wipes at a little dirt that clings to his phone case.
“He’s been good lately,” he says, “careful.” He instinctively presses the side of the screen and it
lights up, his background and the time staring at him. “I’m scared it will last only as long as his
sadness does.” He sighs in the end of the mumbled statement and before Namjoon has the chance to
conjure up an answer, he stands. “I’m going to go see if Woojin wants to play with anything that
isn’t the console.”

He doesn’t like her eyes. He doesn’t like how something glossy so obviously swims in them, doesn’t
like how the lids of them seem to droop and hold them more closed than her usually calculative,
permeating stare. Half of the game are the eyes. Both himself and his sister have always made too
much use of the simplicity of their gazes. They’re an asset and a weapon and he doesn’t like how
hers seem weak.

The circles under them have always been there. She does nothing to camouflage them in the hospital.
She has no makeup on, no sunglasses, and her hair isn’t done. It almost looks frizzy, so opposed to
its typical sleekness. Her skin looks even paler with the white, loose clothes they’ve put on her, and
in comparison to all the girls he witnesses in the end of tanning season, her skin almost appears
ghostly, the contrast of it sharp with the dark hair that frames her face.

“Are you eating well?” he hates to nag, and this is the third time he asks her, but it slips through his
lips because of the way the bone at her wrist bulges.

A warmth spreads through him when her eyes retain some of their sharpness. “Yes.”

“Sleeping?” he presses.

Clo Eun’s slim arms fall before her chest. “Jungkook,” she says, and though her voice is dry, her
tone is very much her. “I’m not a child.”

“Okay,” he concedes, shuffles in his seat across from her on the round white table where they ask
him to sit if he wants to see her. Everything around them blares in such bilious bright blinding white.
“How are you?”

She lifts her shoulders. “Not much to do around here.” And she lets them drop heavy. “I’m bored as
fuck.”

His hand taps at the surface and he regrets it because it draws her attention to their motion. Her
weary eyes seal onto the ring that adorns his finger, the crest in it expensive and glaring, and he
instinctively coils all digits into a fist, takes it away and presses it into his thigh. “Are you still mad at
me?”

Her gaze flashes back to him. “I’m not mad at you,” she says almost as if she sighs. “I’m mostly mad
around you.” Her head shakes and so does her stare, it colors around the room, takes in surroundings
that she has been confined to for every breath she took in the last week. “I probably would have
done the same for you,” she tells him before she pointedly looks. “Though you would have been
mad at me.”

There is some underlying appreciation in her last words, softly spoken, and though it is undeniably
frustrating to feel as imprisoned as she has vocally protested she does, he knows she recognizes this
as a gesture and not as punishment.
Jungkook’s head cocks. “The first time you woke up you yelled for a good half an hour.” As soon as
she could find her voice, she had been tearing her throat in attempt to tell him she is fine, and he
needs to take her back, back home, she can sleep it off; she had pipes to her veins, sucking off
whatever she had poisoned herself with. He remembers her fingers wrapping around the string,
aiming to rip it off. Jungkook stood and watched, hollow to the core as Yoongi spoke to her softly
and cupped his hand around hers to stop her.

She scoffs, lifts her hand up and curls it at the wrist, presses her forefinger to her thumb to blink at
her naked nails. She does not address the first time, speaks of the second. “They wanted me to go to
group therapy.” Her palm smacks loudly into the table. Her brows tease into her forehead. “I’m
pretty sure I can catch something just by sitting in that room.”

His eyes roll. “This is a private institution, Clo.” He raises his brows. “They are attentive to
hygiene.”

She blinks in time with a motion of her head forward that by itself is inquisitive. “And I’m attentive
to my senses and they do not wish to be exposed to group therapy.”

Jungkook’s arms fold over. His lips twitch. “You sound a lot better,” he confesses.

Her nose scrunches, mouth parts. She looks positively obnoxious, a picture-perfect bitch. He adores
her. “Disgust would do that to you.”

A single breath of laughter shakes his shoulders. “I’m glad you have the will to be disgusted,” he
nods, bows his head a little to depict his appreciation that she is adding new variations to the
emotions she displays in front of him since he signed his name on her admission papers.

She blinks. Her face straightens, the over emphasized prissiness falling from her features. Her lips
press together before a tongue escapes between them, coats over. Her mouth looks a little white as
well, a little too dry. He can see it peel at the side. “Jungkook,” she starts, voice heavier than
previously and his eyes pull to hers. “I’m sorry I put you through this.”

His hand is instinctual where it falls over hers on that white table, his body folding on the chair to
lean closer to her. “It’s not your fault,” his gaze searches her face. “Alright?” His lips smack, brows
perch upwards. “I’ve told you once and I’m telling you again, don’t ever fucking apologize to me
about any of this.”
Her stare is short, but it cuts deep before she sneaks her hand from underneath his and blinks away.
She folds her arms into herself, crosses her legs too, and he can feel her calf bounce under the table.
“Have you seen Jin?”

Jungkook relaxes back into his chair, but there is nothing calm about his eyes, about his words, “He
still hasn’t come?”

Clo’s calf bounces higher. “No.”

Air leaves through his nose and he shifts on the chair, looks away to hide the press of his teeth, but
she still sees the clench at the side of his jaw, the muscle where it meets his neck furtively ticking,
pointed and angry. “I’m going to beat that motherfucker up,” he declares.

“Jungkook.”

“I’m serious,” he vows, nostrils flaring slightly as he returns his attention to her sharply, voice
building up with the conclusions of his promise, “he will never be able to work with his face again.”

His sister’s head cocks. “Easy on the violence,” she clicks her tongue. She nods, her subdued eyes
falling to the grown. “He’ll come,” she says, quiet and sure. He doesn’t know how she is so sure, he
always makes her so sure, she always believes in him, and in the end he always comes.

Jungkook’s jaw unhinges. He hesitates, glances to the side. He studies the white walls with the green
pictures, so many pictures and they are all so green. His tongue washes the threat away from his lips
and he speaks with her softness. “Taehyung has.”

She perks up. “What?”

“He came over,” Jungkook explains. “Twice.” He taps his fingers on his thigh now. “Asked me to
his one time.”

There isn’t a single picture that doesn’t have the color green.

“Well, that’s—” she stops herself. She blinks confused, maybe tries to read his face for an answer,
but he can’t even give himself one. He hardly knows what Taehyung truly wants from him. “Maybe
he wants to try.”

“No,” Jungkook’s head shakes and he returns his gaze to her finally, can only hold it for a moment
before he drops it to her bouncing calf. “He wants to say bye.” He slides the ring off of his finger,
spins it in between the tips of digits distractedly as they rest on his thigh. “Namjoon asked him to go
to Japan with him.” He blinks, he’s blinking. “He’s going to leave me.”

Me, he says, as if they have each other to leave, when they're nothing.

It feels heavy to say, heavier than it would have been a few days prior when his hope had been
utterly driven away from his mind. Then Taehyung knocked on his door, and then Taehyung took
his clothes back as he asked. Then Taehyung fell asleep on him and asked him to his house,
introduced him to his baby brother and let him share their dinner.

His eyes feel bitter. His voice feels strained. His words surge out of his throat when his gaze raises
up again. “Clo, I don’t want him to leave.” He doesn’t slide the ring back on his finger, he clings
onto it with his palm as he fists over his thigh. “I want him to stay,” he confesses. And he fruitlessly
asks, “How do I make him stay?”

Her lips part, and her mouth hangs open loose. She has nothing to say to this and he knows it, yet
she still tries. “You can talk to him,” her shoulders shrug useless as her words offer, futile.

“And say what?” His own shoulders raise, and they fall. He presses back his back into the chair,
slides the ring back on his finger where it should be. “Stay with me so I can occasionally see you
behind my father’s back? Behind almost everyone’s back?”

He shakes his head to himself, drops his eyes to the floor, to his shoes. He’s casual today, just
Versace Chain Reaction sneakers; he can truly afford to buy everything with a price tag right now. “I
can’t,” he says, and swallows what raises in his throat, “I can’t ask him to, I have nothing to offer
him.”

Her calf stills. Her legs untangle and he feels her lean, draw closer. “Well, what do you want from
him?” she asks.

For a moment, he blanks. In the next, he says, “Him.”

His sister blinks, confused. “What?”

“Him,” he repeats, eyes jumping to hers. “All of him. Every bit of him.”

Jungkook knows it’s a flaw of his to be consuming of what he wants, to be all or nothing. He knows
this, but it does nothing to change who he is, only sparks in him the idea to try to stifle and control,
not unleash as primal as he always has.

Clo Eun’s mouth opens and maybe it is to reprimand, but he cannot know. A knock sounds and the
person doesn’t have the decency to wait before he parts the door, leans his head through it.

“You have another visitor,” he informs with a gulp as two pairs of Jeons’ eyes fall onto him part
glaring.

“Who?” she asks.

“Kim Namjoon.”

Jungkook’s phone screen reflects the endless shit he scrolls through between the frames of the
sunglasses Julia bought for him from Paris. He adjusts on his feet, presses his back more comfortably
on the side of his SUV, parked, only slightly illegally right in front of the door of the center.

When he hears it open and close, he clicks his phone shut, slides it in his pocket.

“You should be careful where you go out,” he says as he straightens, gaze moving over Taehyung’s
big brother underneath the dark rims of his glasses.

Namjoon pauses just before the entrance, not a step more. “I wanted to see her,” he tells him.
Jungkook’s head cocks. He’s silent for a moment longer than he originally intends to be. He glances
away, taps a palm on his car. “Want me to drive you to yours?”

The other’s arms fold, eyes dart curious and with attempted calculation over Jungkook, but there is
nothing to study there. Namjoon’s careful. “Taehyung’s not there,” he notes.

Jungkook nods. He knows. It’s Thursday, it’s afternoon. “Yes,” he says, “he’s at work.” He slips a
hand in his pocket, fishes out the keys to his car. “Want me to drive you to yours?” he repeats.

Namjoon walks down the three short steps slowly with his eyes still sizing Jungkook up. It’s
borderline annoying how cautious he is of him. His eyebrows raise up. He’s almost challenging.
“You’re planning on intentionally crashing?”

Jungkook snorts, eyes rolling underneath his glasses as he moves to slide into the car seat. “Like I’d
crash my car to get rid of you.”He beckons with his head.“Get in.”

Kim Namjoon, of course, has only barely clicked his seatbelt in place when he most boldly
addresses. Jungkook would like to be surprised. “You know,” he starts as Jungkook pulls out and
gets on the road, eyes on the street, and from the side now, Namjoon has view of them beneath the
shades, “of all people I thought I’d have to pity once you realized you and Julia were just playing
house, I never thought it’d be my little brother.”

Pity, he says, and Jungkook has the instantaneous urge to snap, to belittle, to tell him people around
him are the once who have to fear Kai just by association. They are worth of pity; he’s only good for
drugs. He presses his teeth into his tongue. What he did to Taehyung is entirely worth of pity.

“Believe me,” he starts to say, “I never expected this either.” Who could have when put into words it
sounds like a joke? Jeon Jungkook and Kim Taehyung. He shakes his head. “Never wanted it. Life
would be much easier if I could just be in love with Julia.”

He feels Namjoon’s eyes on the side of his face, but he has to keep his on the road. “Yeah,”
Namjoon nods, and something soft and bitter laces through. “Figured you’d want that.”

Jungkook’s jaw presses. His eyes dart across the traffic before him. So many cars at this time of the
day. His gaze briefly jerks to Namjoon from the very corner. “Not exactly,” he mumbles mostly,
speaks privately to him of this.
Brows raise. “Meaning?” the other’s asking.

Jungkook’s pausing. He’s thinking. But then he’s shaking his head. “I don’t want that,” he
confesses, his foot on the break as he stops at a red light. His eyes are free now, but they keep on the
road. He takes the glasses off, cases them underneath the hand rest. “I never would have wished for
your brother to start with, but I don’t want to not want him now. I don’t want to erase experiencing
him.” He stops, uses one hand to tug at his seatbelt, loosen it a bit. He feels as if it presses into him
too tightly. It cuts through his chest. “I’ve never had this before,” he breathes.

The light hits green. They’re moving.

Namjoon’s still cautious. “What if you could have that with Julia?”

Jungkook’s face contorts, though he doesn’t know if Namjoon sees. It’s an instinct, brows furrow
and nose scrunches. “No,” he shakes his head. There is something borderline offensive about the
question as it strikes him. “No, it isn’t a thing that there is to have, with someone. It’s,” he hesitates,
tongue pokes out to stroke over his lips, but he gulps nothing and says what he thinks. “It’s him.
He’s what’s different.”

He feels him nod more than sees him. Namjoon takes a moment before he speaks. “Yeah,” he says,
“My brother is kind of cool, isn’t he?”

Jungkook glances at him with a brow slightly raised, eyes blinking with their due confusion. He
doesn’t understand why Kim Namjoon isn’t cursing him out like his sister did. “Yes,” he turns back
to the road. His tongue clicks, head cocks. “Though, I think I can appreciate him in several more
ways than you, not gonna lie.”

Namjoon’s next intake of breath is so sharp it’s almost comical. His hand lifts, palm and fingers
stretched flat and preventative into the air. “Do not even start,” he says, his voice as fueled by drama
as his manners. “I don’t want to hear that again.”

Jungkook’s brows pop up again. His mouth twitches. “Again?”

Namjoon’s hand drops on the leather rest with a loud, almost painful smack. He turns to Jungkook
with his whole head, nostrils a little flared and eyes wider than they need be. “You think he’d miss
the opportunity to tell me you fucked on my bed?”
Jungkook sincerely doubts he has laughed in Kim Namjoon’s presence in his life. But the chuckle is
forced out of his chest as it sinks to him just why Namjoon is so dramatic about this. “Oh,” he says,
his teeth pressing into his lower lip to stifle and tame that smile that attempts to stretch; it tries so hard
to grow because of the memory of it and the fact that Taehyung spoke about it, and he simply can’t
afford to smile at this, “that was a fun time.”

“Don’t make me call Ji to punch you,” Namjoon warns.

Jungkook shakes his head. “I’m not talking about fucking him,” he explains as he takes a turn, but he
can’t help it, he mentions, “although that was very fun.”

It had been, immensely so, Taehyung had taken him so well, with the lube and on all fours.

“Jungkook—” Namjoon starts, but the other’s sighing.

“Relax,” he brushes off, head shaking, that’s not what he means. “The whole day was kind of fun,”
he shrugs, focuses very much on the street ahead of him, teeth teasing over the pillow of his lip. He
feels eerily shy, speaking of it like this. He feels like a fucking teenager. Taehyung does make him
feel like a teenager a lot, horny and silly and confused and scared. He shrugs again, shrugs it all off.
“I think that was when I had to admit to myself it wasn’t just sex, like,” his hand lifts off the wheel,
palm gesturing unnecessarily through the air. “I knew it before but that day he left me no choice.”

Namjoon does him the courtesy of letting him deal with that confession in silence, but maybe it’s
bad, because Jungkook starts thinking. He thinks about the fact he had went to him not expecting
sex, the fact he for some reason didn’t feel uncomfortable when he spoke to him of Clo’s panic
attack, the fact he suddenly grew curious of laundry, and the fact it was not an instinct for him to
leave after he fucked him. Other words sneak up on him as well, thanks for opening me for him, he
remembers, the thunder of jealousy erupting in his chest at the prospect. “You know he can be sassy
as fuck, your brother that is,” Jungkook glances at Namjoon, eyes blinking to him and then away.

That particular day, he went off.

The other snorts. “Oh, yeah,” he snickers with small repetitive juts of his head back and forth,
“believe me, I know.”

Jungkook’s eyes dart to him again. He nods, lips gingerly twisting before they straighten, pressed
together tightly. His fingers drum on the wheel, and then he’s exploring traffic when he doesn’t need
to, bending forward to look at an empty street to keep himself in motion in some comical attempt to
hide his hesitance. “Has he,” he starts, “erm,” he can’t believe he’s asking Kim Namjoon this, “has
he spoken to you about another guy?” he gets it out, finally, quick and smooth.

He senses Namjoon’s attention on him, but he still refuses to return it. “No,” he hears and his chest,
full of that reluctance to speak, empty with a breath of relief. “I don’t think he has.”

Jungkook’s palm tightens against the wheel, adjusting against it as his fingers curl around its handle
and squeeze. “There’s this Bogum character,” he says, then his teeth press, muscle of his jaw
straining at the very edge where it meets his neck. “He’s kissed him a few times I’m not sure how
many,” he tells him, and he has to physically swallow down the bitterness with which his mouth fills
as he speaks the fact of it.

Namjoon’s head cocks, brows shuffling upwards into his hair in surprise. “You’re jealous?” he asks,
and there is something borderline reminiscent of laughter in there and Jungkook’s hand tightens
more.

He hardly stifles a scoff. His lids fall and lift heavy, eyes rolling underneath, but not pointed,
instinctual. “Of course, I’m jealous,” his tongue tugs into a fold of his cheek before it quickly kicks in
his mouth. “He’s kissed him,” he repeats, not as a means to inform Namjoon of it, but because it
tumbles out of his mouth on its own, empty, yet so loaded. “And—” his lips linger open, tongue
presses into the roof of his mouth. It falls shut. He swallows, “He can do better than me.”

He feels Namjoon’s head turn away, gaze falls to the streets. “That’s true,” he concedes with a
singular jut of his head to the side.

Jungkook’s glare on him is mostly out of habit. It’s short before he refocuses it on the road ahead.
“They work together,” he continues. “They see each other. They have to.”

He sees him every single working day, spends time with him, and probably with every minute that
passes he is more and more assured of the simple fact that Bogum would treat him better.

Namjoon is watching him. He knows it, feels it. The older studies his profile silent and soft. His
mouth parts and his head shakes. His voice is as soft as his gaze, and it sounds very much like a
confession. “He hasn’t spoken to me about him.”
Jungkook’s knuckles whiten. “Yet.”

“He’s only ever mentioned you, Jungkook,” Namjoon insists at the prolonged jealousy, the sourness
that spikes his words in some primitive possessive instinct that clouds his judgement and sharpens his
aggression. He hardens his own voice, tells him very truthfully, “He said you broke his heart.”

It’s a very short sentence, yet it manages to drown any and all petty jealousy that threatens to take
over his tongue. It’s drowned and replaced with the striking cold water of guilt. He said that to him
as well, Taehyung did, he yelled, screamed a pitch that made his blood curl, why did you have to rip
my heart out why you were at it?

“For what it’s worth,” he starts, chest expanding and falling, heavy with something almost physically
under his sternum. “I really thought I was doing us both a favor, saving us from each other, you
know,” he says, and he says with all the honesty that he can muster. Namjoon is so much easier to
speak to than Taehyung. He can think around him, doesn’t have to deal with his hurt, doesn’t feel the
nagging, hardly resistible impulse to reach out and touch him. He gets to stare at the road, and he gets
to be honest albeit stupid. “Ripping off the band aid for both of us,” his shoulders droop slightly. He
feels smaller in his seat. “I never considered whether he could forgive me after, because I never
thought he would have to, never thought I’d want to ask him to. I thought it would be all over and it
would just remain a summer indiscretion.”

Namjoon does scoff, eyes shooting to him, slightly dull. “You thought my brother would be an
indiscretion?” He pronounces it as if it is offensive, and it is, to attempt to reduce him to this.

But he’s Jeon Jungkook. His glance towards him is short and pointed. “You know me,” he says as
his eyes return to the road. “Don’t act surprised.”

Namjoon looks ahead, too. “Don’t know if I know you,” he tells him. “You seem kind of different.”

A breath leaves him slow and long. He turns to the side, to the window of his car, darkened on the
outside. He looks at nothing, his tongue escaping his mouth, coating over his lips when his foot
presses into the break lightly. “My sisters in the hospital, Kim,” he says silently. His voice is full, not
a whisper, but it carries just barely above it. “I lost Taehyung. I hurt Julia.” He shakes his head, his
hand raising and trudging tightly through strands. He squeezes into them, muffles in a disbelief as if it
strikes him all over again just as he sits in his car at a stop light with a Kim in his passenger seat.
“Clo’s in the fucking hospital.”

Namjoon turns to blink at him for a moment or two, before he shakes his own head as well, tonguing
the corner of his lips in such tangible reluctance. It takes a final sigh for him to start talking, but he’s
staring out the car window now, too. “I don’t know if you lost Taehyung.”

Jungkook’s mind makes him want to laugh. His heart, however, tremors different for a bare moment
in his chest. He tries hard to evade bitterness, tries to speak only with neutral civility he deems
Namjoon deserves from him. “You’re taking him away, aren’t you?”

“He told you?” Namjoon asks, voice arches with the pitch of surprise. “He hasn’t said yes.”

Yes, he’d said that to him, too. He hasn’t decided, yet, but it doesn’t matter, absolutely doesn’t, to the
question of whether he’s lost Taehyung or not, it’s simply irrelevant where Taehyung is
geographically. He presses the accelerator. “He couldn’t ever be the same with me,” he shakes his
head. “Even if he stays, even if he somehow lets me touch him again, even if he keeps talking to me
after Clo gets out,” he lists all those ifs, so many uncertainties, “it will always have happened. He
won’t forget it,” Jungkook’s voice cuts, he’s speeding, but the traffic barely allows it and he has to
stop again, “and neither will I.”

At that Namjoon shrugs. “Well, I’m fucking glad it won’t ever be the same,” he tells him so simply.
He turns to him just in time Jungkook’s eyes slide to him with slim notions of anger. “I hear you
treated him like shit.”

It takes that sentence for the anger to grow tenfold, but it’s not at Namjoon now, not at all.
Jungkook’s teeth grind together, head whips to the road ahead. “Yeah,” he says and it lodges in his
throat. “You heard right.”

He doesn’t know when they reach the Kim residence as he had so eloquently titled it, but it no longer
feels odd to pull up in front of that useless front door.

Namjoon speaks through the sound of his seatbelt snapping back in place. “Thanks for letting me see
her.”

“She wanted to see you,” he replies with utter honesty. “I’m trying to respect my sister’s wishes, you
know.”

The other’s eyes flash, but there’s nothing in them. “Don’t get petty.”

His hand is at the door. His fingers press into the handle and tug it.
“Namjoon,” he calls out; it seems to be beyond his control, but when Namjoon halts, when he turns
and looks with expectation, he surprises himself that he speaks. He shakes his head, mumbles to him
with a soft promise, but it’s firm, it’s true, “I’m not going to treat him like shit if he stays.”

Namjoon’s eyes dart between his, his lips thin as they press together. “I’m afraid of that, too.”

Jungkook blinks, once, twice, his brows furrow and crease his forehead. “What?”

Namjoon sighs and tugs at the handle until the door opens fully. His eyes close as he looks away
from Jungkook, looks to his own house where his brother will be in a few hours. “He’s only going to
bite onto you more, but he’s always going to be a secret if he’s with you, isn’t he?” He glances at the
other a final time, taps at the exclusive leather of the hand rest between them with his palm. “Thanks
for the ride, Jungkook.” His head cocks. “Nice car. Must be worth a lot.”

He has a chance to speak, but he doesn’t know what to say. He drives away.

It has been a while since he’s seen him at Rouge and at the first moment when he lifts up his head as
he senses with his peripheral vision a customer approaches when he works the counter on his
morning shift, Taehyung has to do a double take to ensure he is not imaging things.

“Jungkook,” he says empty sans the sneak of surprise when the other pauses just before the counter,
as if he’s just the next client, there to order.

Taehyung knows his eyes are wide and his lips shape a circle over nothing. He knows he was doing
something with the pen he taps at the notepad prior to his appearance, but for the life of him he
cannot remember what it was he wanted to write down.

“Hey,” Jungkook greets, head nodding slightly in acknowledgement. “Double espresso to go,” he
orders. He looks as important as ever, has a shirt pressed tight and dress pants on, gone is the
Jungkook with the simple hoodie. The watch on his arm glares at Taehyung and he even has a strap
to a briefcase draped across his shoulders.
Taehyung blinks. He twists the pen with in his fingers, gesticulates his perplexity with the notepad
that is now useless in his hand. “You came for coffee?” he specifies, brows raising on his forehead.

“Yes.” Jungkook confirms, coming closer still. He presses his elbows into the countertop, arms
twisting and fingers gingerly tapping over his biceps. “Also,” he clears his throat, raises one hand
and briefly scratches behind his ear with his forefinger. “You didn’t call,” he finishes softly as his
palm drops back to his forearm.

Taehyung nods, his face relaxing. “I didn’t,” he tells him, and he dismisses the pen and the notepad
on the counter to start up the machine. It’s barely been used today, needs to heat up again.

“You didn’t want to see me?” Jungkook asks, somehow ginger in the way he speaks the question,
his eyes trailing behind Taehyung as he moves away from directly in front of him to make him the
coffee that is such an excuse of an excuse to see him now.

Taehyung works the machine with his stare on it mostly, but the tone of his voice draws his attention.
He glances at him from the corner of his eyes, his head tilted slightly downward as he’s supposed to
watch the movement of his fingers. His lids flutter, and his gaze falls back to beans and hot water. He
confesses to him what he feels right at that very moment, with Jungkook’s eyes on him and his own
yearning to bat back to him and study every feature of his face. “Seeing you confuses me.”

Jungkook doesn’t reply right away. He doesn’t reply to this at all. He hears the shuffling of his
movements after a short sigh. His elbows lift from the counter. He undoes the button of his briefcase.
“I wanted to give you something,” he mumbles as he moves.

Taehyung’s eyes turn back to him the moment he hears an object slide across the countertop,
Jungkook’s hand extending to him. He lets the machine fill the take away cup he puts below it,
grasps at the object and lifts it to his face. “This?” he questions, brows raising. It’s a game for console
that he doesn’t recognize himself, the price tag at its corner clumsily but sufficiently scratched off.

Jungkook’s nodding. “Woojin mentioned it the other day,” he provides as if it is explanation enough,
as if it’s enough for Woojin to mention something to earn it. Why does Jungkook even keep note of
what the youngest Kim says? Taehyung’s heart thumps weird in his chest. He stares at the back of
the game before he presses it back on the counter, slides it towards him.

“Jungkook,” he blinks to his eyes, his own wide and stern, “I’m not going to take more things from
you.” He shakes his head, gaze falling back to that simple object in between them because seeing
him confuses him.

Jungkook presses his fingers over his, stops him, and Taehyung’s glance jumps up, startled from the
curtain of the simple touch. “It’s not for you, is it?” Jungkook tilts his head, eyes now darting
between Taehyung’s when he’s finally captured them, even for a moment. “It’s for your little
brother,” he says softly, urges with a jut of his chin towards the game, “so shut up and take it.”

Taehyung’s grumbling a, “Fine,” a moment later, without actual consideration put into it. He slides
his hand from beneath his, drags the game along with it. Touching is worse than seeing. He puts the
box behind the counter, moves away. He’s only made one espresso and Jungkook ordered a double,
though he highly doubts he cares.

A moment passes in silence. The muffle of the rest of the clients speaking is worryingly
unintelligible. It seems Taehyung’s ears have sharpened and focused only on every sound that
Jungkook utters.

“I could show him how to play,” he is suggesting quietly.

Taehyung keeps his eyes on the coffee. It’s so unfair how he’s swarmed with something entirely
warm. He shakes his head. “He’s pretty good at figuring those things out for himself,” he dismisses.
His eyes do not resist, they bounce to Jungkook just in time to see his lip tug into his mouth, his lids
lowering to the counter. He nods, fingers massaging into his palm, a loose fist forming. Taehyung
hadn’t planned on telling him the small truth that sneaks past his teeth without permission the
moment he sees his face, “He asked me about you.”

His lids peel back quickly, pupils jumping to his. His fingers still. “He did?”

“Yeah,” Taehyung nods, a small twitch at the edge of his lips, because his little brother actually does
currently think Jeon Jungkook is cool.“You’ve got yourself a fan.”

“First one around your house,” Jungkook mutters. “Everyone else thinks I’m shit, apparently.”

“Jungkook.” Taehyung glances up at him as he speaks. This is the slowest coffee made in the history
of Rouge. “Ji-woo hates you cause you hurt me, she hates you cause you used her to hurt me, and
she hates you cause your last name is Jeon,” he lists before he returns his attention to where it needs
to be. “You tick all the boxes, really. “
A trey slaps onto the counter a little louder than necessary. When Taehyung’s gaze draws up again, it
meets Bogum’s eyes from across the counter. “I thought you were done with him,” he speaks to him
directly, a small indicative nod of his head towards Jungkook, who stands by his side, though he
does not in any way address him.

Jungkook, of course, does address him, most pointedly and bitterly at that. “Not that it’s any of your
fucking business,” he slips so easily into a haughty animosity, teeth pressing together between
syllables as his body angles towards the waiter, “but I was just buying coffee.”

Bogum turns to him then, whips his head around, scoffs. “Incidentally,” he nearly snickers the word
out, “when he works the counter.”

Jungkook’s head shakes, once, twice, many times, fingers running through his orderly hair. “Jesus
fucking Christ,” he mutters, before his eyes zero into Taehyung. “How do you take everyone treating
you like a goddamn child?” he asks, voice loud enough to attract attention, but he doesn’t stop,
simply turns back to Bogum, seeps unadulterated aggression in the mere way he speaks, “He has a
mouth—"

“Yes,” Taehyung presses, and two sets of eyes turn to him. “I do,” he looks at Jungkook, head
tilting. “Okay? I have a mouth. I can speak for myself.” His pause is purposeful; he waits for
Jungkook’s guard to shift, for the borderline threat to slip and drop, and it takes a moment, but
Jungkook’s lids drape shut as if it causes physical exhaustion to stop this, and he turns his entire body
to the counter again, isolating his stance from Bogum.

Taehyung replaces his eyes to the other man. “I’m just making him coffee,” he tells him.

Bogum’s guard takes longer. In a moment, he concedes, nods. “Okay then,” he says, slips his trey
away from the counter. “Are we still on for tonight?”

The chuckle that leaves Jungkook’s mouth is brusque and poignantly cold. His fingers tap into the
counter, quick and punishing. Taehyung’s eyes slip cautiously to him to see him looking away with
the corner of his eyes, looking at nothing. His tongue pokes angry into the flesh of his cheek and his
knee, raised at the foot rail, bounces his whole body into motion.

“Yes,” Taehyung says slowly, and Bogum smiles. He walks away with content that Taehyung didn’t
want to give him, not for this.
He’s barely out of earshot when Jungkook’s eyes land on Taehyung with a stifling glare.

“Still on for tonight?” he questions pressingly, each element of each word tumbling out of his lips
with pure poison.

Taehyung’s head shakes. “It’s not like—” he tries, he starts.

But Jungkook’s straightening up, his hands and arms leaving the counter. “You’re leading me on,”
he accuses, cutting him off, short, so plain and simple.

It makes Taehyung’s tongue twist. His teeth clasp when his mouth squeezes shut. “What?” His
brows fold. “No, I’m not,” he refuses sharply, his own eyes wide with the confusion of the claim, but
the glint of a glare forming, nevertheless.

“Yeah?” Jungkook’s head cocks, sardonic. His mouth lingers opened with the formation of the
word; his face is borderline bitchy. He grips onto the edge, fingers squeeze and then he starts, voice
full and angry. “Leave me, Jungkook, touch me, Jungkook. If I leave, you leave. I’m going to
fucking Japan.” His fingers dig harder into impenetrable material and Taehyung’s eyes helplessly
draw to them whitening with pressure. He can’t look into Jungkook’s eyes. He wonders if Jungkook
tries to pour all his violence into that single grip, so it doesn’t slam onto Taehyung himself. “Sound
fucking familiar?” His voice is hard, lingers between them and Taehyung’s saying nothing.
Jungkook’s body leans, face lowering as he tries to ask Taehyung for his eyes, but he refuses to give
them. He hisses, “And now you’re going out with him?”

Taehyung sighs, looks away shortly. “Do you really want to talk about this now?” he asks, “Here?”
he stresses, his eyes darting all across Rouge. They’re people there.

“No,” Jungkook shakes his head, his fingers loosening a bit, “but I want you to admit it to yourself,
because when I was doing it to you, I at least acknowledged it.”

And Taehyung’s snickering now. “You think it’s comparable?” he glares, both of his hands gripping
onto the counter, elbows straight arms extended. He won’t be surprised if he gives Jungkook cold
coffee at this rate.

Taehyung does suppose, somewhere in the back of his head, where he doesn’t care to currently
delve in, there is room for comparison. Jungkook jerking him in the beginning around was purely
nasty, it was borderline cruel, however, disconnected.But Taehyung’s back and forth comes at a time
where both of them are much more vulnerable. Jungkook played at egos and last names and
Taehyung plays at emotions.

But he doesn’t do it intentionally, there’s a difference.

He simply has no idea what he’s fucking doing.

“Not that I owe you an explanation,” he starts, speaks slow and clear and tries not to shy away from
Jungkook’s stare anymore, “but I’m going out with him and Jimin and he said that just to be an ass.”
He tells him the complete truth, shakes his head, dismisses, “I have no interest in him.”

Jungkook’s eyes are hard, as ever. Taehyung doesn’t think he will ever be entirely and completely
used to the magnitude of the effect those eyes have on him. But he can get used to dealing with it.

“You feel like you do, don’t you?” Jungkook’s chin juts, challenges, arms folding bold before his
chest.

Taehyung blinks. “Like I do what?” he asks.

It’s simple, yet excruciatingly slow. “You feel like you owe me an explanation.”

He blinks again, his head pulling back. Fuck, is his very first most eloquent thought. Fuck, because
it’s true. Fuck, because it made him uncomfortable to say yes to another man in front of Jungkook,
felt inappropriate. Fuck, because after Bogum left his immediate instinct was to reassure Jungkook
that it was not like that. Fuck, because Jungkook’s jealousy was the easiest to tug at when this was
just starting, only testimony to his mutual affect, but he doesn’t want to make Jungkook jealous.
Fuck, because Taehyung still feels an indecipherable, illogical loyalty to this boy, as if they owe each
other something, when he repeatedly pronounces what they have as over.

Taehyung looks away. He wraps his fingers around the carton cup, places over it a small cap and
puts it on the counter that is meant only for payment.

“Your coffee,” he says.

Jungkook stares at him for a moment too long not to be with an intention. He sighs shortly, slips a
hand into his pocket and fishes out a wallet. He takes out notes, glances up. He extends his hand and
Taehyung does as well, but just before he manages to close his fingers around the money, they
disappear. “You going to the Ozone?” Jungkook asks.

Taehyung fixes his eyes over him. His teeth press. “Yeah,” he says, honest.

Jungkook slips the money into his hand easily. “See you there, then.”

“Jungkook,” Taehyung tries as the other simply wraps his fingers around the cooling coffee.

“You’re not getting drunk around his thirsty, petty ass alone,” he announces, unbothered, as he lifts
the cup, presses it immediately to his lips. He’s walking away, and Taehyung is stuck behind that
counter.

“Jungkook,” he stresses more, but the other simply waves the cup at him.

“Tell Woojin I said hi,” he says, last sentence he allows to be just private to the two of them before
he steps too far for Taehyung to speak without customers hearing.

He has to watch him leave, incapable of protest.

Jungkook hasn’t set foot in the Ozone since his and Clo’s birthday. As he fingers weary around a
glance of whisky that someone poured for him without explicit communication, he remembers why.

Not drinking or snorting is hard.

Not drinking or snorting in the Ozone is borderline fucking impossible.

He’s seen Taehyung, and Taehyung has seen him, and if it wasn’t for his concentration on just what
distance there is between him and Bogum, he might have been swinging the drink in his hand
already. I’m going with him and Jimin, Taehyung had said, but Jimin is working and although he did
stop by, shirtless and with glitter all over his taut body to deliver a smack right to Taehyung’s ass, for
the majority of the time he’s either dancing or flirting with clients.

Which, in turn, leaves Taehyung and Bogum alone. The older puts a drink in Taehyung’s hand and
when it finishes, he puts another. Taehyung drinks the second slowly, really slowly, and glances at
Jungkook with almost every miniscule sip he takes.

Jungkook drinks when someone at the table says cheers. He drinks every time Bogum tries to touch
Taehyung and he lets him.

They dance, but it isn’t anything explicit. They don’t distinctly dance together, and it’s a Friday. It’s
not the type night when two boys can afford it. The Richhood population is dense tonight. Yoongi
and Hoseok are there, Yoongi atypically aggressive with his approach to women, currently with a
hand up one’s skirt at their booth, his tongue down her throat. Hoseok, on the other hand, is
atypically timid. He has a girl on his hand, but he doesn’t touch. Mostly, he drinks.

Jungkook likes sitting at the edge of the booth, always has. He certainly does not appreciate a girl
snidely fitting herself next to him without seeking permission, nestling under the stretched arm he has
draped over the back of the seating. He recognizes her. She’s one of Julia’s pets that she takes along
to nights out and parties for company when Jungkook mixes too much with the guys. He cannot
pinpoint a name, he wonders between two, but he doesn’t give it much effort, simply stares at her for
a moment before he tries to look past her.

He can’t find Taehyung.

“I heard you broke up with Julia,” she’s leaning to him, yelling over the music.

He can’t find Taehyung nor Bogum.

“Yes,” he says, eyes searching the club.

He feels her shuffle closer. “Wanna try something new?”

“No,” he says, and now he does consider remembering her, purely for the sake of telling Julia she
went for him without batting an eye. He tries to see behind her head, but she moves with him and his
teeth press. “You’re blocking my view.”

She has the audacity to scoff. “Ass,” she says, but she doesn’t remove hers from his edge of the
booth from which he had previously so comfortably been looking at Taehyung.

He twists his head and there they are. Right below Jimin’s podium.

He finds Taehyung.

“Oh, how you’ve hurt my feelings now,” he drawls without affect, raises his glass to his lips
instinctually. He doesn’t want to drink. The burn of the whisky down his throat is so familiar and
hot. It’s so relieving. He should not be drinking.

The girl is rolling her eyes. He glances at her for a moment, briefly scans his gaze across her to
search for any distinctive feature he can use to identify her to Julia. He is well aware Richhood is just
short of being a snake layer, knows Julia herself has her tongue split in two, but he can’t have
someone so boldly going behind her back.

“Why do I bother?” she asks, whom, he does not know.

He shrugs. “It’s a mystery,” he confirms, eyes sealing onto Taehyung.

“You know,” the girls starts with him, her head cocking and he can tell by the initial pitch of her
voice that she is about to show horns, “I thought Julia was the only person who could stand your
cheating ass, but looks like even she’s better than that.” Her lips mold, twist, a smile on her face that
drips with liquid pettiness. “You’re gonna die alone,” is her conclusion.

His hand tightens around the glass, but he can’t let her see. His eyes are on Taehyung. He can’t let
him go out of sight again. He can’t lose him again.

“If not getting fucked makes you that bitter,” he speaks to her without shedding her actual attention.
“I could put in a word for you with Hoseok. He’s drunk enough not to have standards.”
The girl’s head shakes. She’s finally lifting off of his space. “I’m done.”

He shrugs, head tipping with the last gulps in his glass. “I never started.”

Taehyung realizes venturing off to the bathroom is practically inviting an approach, but he’s drinking
Coronas tonight and they do damage to his bladder. He turns Bogum down when he suggests to
come with. Going alone is an invitation, but going with him is borderline begging for confrontation,
considering just who he has to deal with.

He takes a piss with just one other guy in the bathroom with him, wipes some cold water across his
face from the sink. Friday nights at the Ozone are terribly crowded, heat colors his skin, his cheeks
slightly flushed. He runs fingers through his hair, wets strands as well, his digits parting it at the
forehead. He is almost at the door, surprised he is about to leave the bathroom with no intervention.

But then again, he thinks too early.

The second he opens the door and makes to step out he’s shoved back in. Hands grip at the folds of
his elbows, press him into the room until he is solidly in and then release him.

“Taehyung,” Jungkook says simply. Taehyung’s eyes go straight to his, fixing over his pupils.
They’re wide, but it could do with the change of lighting, still expanded in accommodation to the
darkness of the Ozone and receding now in the more lit bathroom.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung returns.

“Hey,” Jungkook exhales. He seems peculiarly out of breath as he speaks, his eyes darting all across
Taehyung, from his feet to his face. Taehyung made sure to give him no reason for interaction
tonight. He’s sober, he’s not letting Bogum touch him too much. Jungkook shouldn’t be there,
scrutinizing him all over, approaching him in a room that bears memories.
Every place around Richhood seems to, though. Jungkook is impossible to escape.

“Are you drunk?” he asks.

“I’m tipsy,” Jungkook corrects and his hands attempt to raise to Taehyung’s elbows again as he steps
forward, but Taehyung pulls back. “Listen.”

Taehyung’s arms fold before his chest. “You’re drunk,” he accuses, head shaking.

Jungkook’s tongue clicks, head nods. “If you say so,” he dismisses, his feet still paddling after
Taehyung as he attempts to step away until he has nowhere to go. His back presses into the counter
of the sink. How it is precisely the same sink Jungkook made him come on that one time is a mystery
to him. Jungkook halts, a step of space between them. He doesn’t draw too near and Taehyung’s
thankful. “Listen,” he repeats pressingly, and a slightly bit excited, and it’s curiously worrisome, “I
just had a brilliant idea.”

Taehyung’s brows shift together with pure skepticism etching into the features of his face. “Your
ideas tend to be a little less than brilliant when you’re drunk.”

“Tipsy,” Jungkook insists, teeth lining with the stress on the word.

Taehyung sighs a doubtful, “Okay.”

“Listen,” Jungkook demands for the third time, his voice almost hissing, but with his eyes wide and
tone light, he appears utterly harmless. Taehyung’s almost comfortable where he leans against the
sink. “You and I,” he gestures between them, “should go on a date.”

And, okay. Jungkook is never harmless. Taehyung’s heart clenches, he blinks, he blinks so much,
disbelief painting over as his jaw loosens, mouth cracking open. He gapes at him, waits for him to
laugh or something. He’s still blinking. “I’m sorry?” his voice pitches.

“A date,” Jungkook repeats with a nod as if Taehyung simply hadn’t heard. He stares into his eyes
with utmost conviction that his suggestion is sensible and Taehyung scoffs.
“Okay,” he starts, straightening from the sink counter. “You’re high,” he announces, head shaking as
he attempts to sidestep, “I’m not talking to you when you’re high.”

“No, I’m not, Taehyung,” Jungkook denies, his voice leveling more to his usual tone with him, and
he turns to follow the direction of Taehyung’s body, his fingers slipping around his elbow. He
squeezes into the bone of it once, asks him with the motion of it to stay and lets him go in case he
wants to leave. His gaze into Taehyung’s eyes is still wide, lids bearing their glossy surfaces. There
is something marginally desperate to the way they root into him, and Taehyung’s feet refuse to move.
“I want to be normal,” he says, pauses with the impact it seems to have on him to let it out. His eyes
search Taehyung’s face for a moment more, before his lips part and he keeps going, “I don’t want to
be a Taunting Twin, I don’t want to be a Jeon. I want to be normal and there is nothing more un-
Jeon-like than a fucking date.”

Taehyung returns the study, his eyes darting over him in search of honesty, and whether Jungkook
means it or not, right at that moment he seems to believe that he does. “Jungkook,” he starts, his own
voice softer than before, “you and I, we’re not normal,” he stresses. He does not like to see
Jungkook’s eyes desperate, hates to hear his voice twist like this, too, and that is what makes seeing
Jungkook so frustratingly confusing; any resolution he has, drops. “And I’m trying to go back to
staying away from you, not going on fucking dates with you.”

“Just once,” Jungkook promises, lifting a single finger up between their chests, “one date.”

Taehyung’s gaze drops to that digit. One, just one. His head shakes. “This is ridiculous, Jungkook,”
he says, because it is, “you said you were going to stay away, not ask me out like we’re in high
school.”

“Yes,” he confirms, a tiny bit of harshness sneaking in his voice; he’s sounding less high, more like
Jungkook with every past syllable, and it has to down on Taehyung that he is serious. He wants to
go on a goddamn date. “But then you gave me fucking whiplash, and now you might forever
disappear to another fucking country, so I’m taking my fucking chances.”

His teeth clasp together with the finality of what he says, and he speaks brusque enough for
Taehyung to be thrown off into a silence of his own. He blinks, turns away. It never gets any easier,
looking at Jungkook.

“One date, Taehyung,” he promises again into Taehyung’s reluctant quietness. He’s firm and
unwavering with the proposal, but the notion of harshness slips as ghostly from his intention as it had
appeared, the sound of his suggestion soft. “We’ll take the Aston and I’m getting you take away
from any restaurant you choose.”
Taehyung’s eyes roll back to him. “We’ve established you’re rich already, okay?” he says, because
this isn’t about his car or the food he can buy him, isn’t about the fact he has the means to satisfy his
brother’s every material whim.

Jungkook doesn’t speak when someone enters, pisses with his hand propped against the wall and
leaves without washing his hands.

The door shuts behind him and Jungkook’s voice sounds immediate and nearly imploring, yet it
holds the firmness of demand as well. “You have to fucking talk to me again before you leave,” he
says, his eyes relentless as they take Taehyung’s so boldly.

The other shifts on his feet, features narrowing on his face. “I have to?” he pronounces skeptically,
yet Jungkook doesn’t dither, doesn’t take it back.

“Yes,” he nods, convinced. “Please,” he adds. “One date. I’ve never been on a date.” His lids blink
pretty, and his eyes bore so unforgettable into Taehyung. “Be my first,” he asks him softly.

Taehyung isn’t surprised by the fact of what he says. Him and Julia do not exactly strike him as the
dates type of couple. Yet still as he mentions it, it makes his stomach flutter. He gets to be few of
Jungkook’s firsts, he’s done it all, and curiously, he wants to be. The first always lasts, in some shape
or other. He’s never been on a date as well, never in his life has he had anything remotely romantic.

Taehyung wants Jungkook to be his first date.

He blinks at him, pauses. “Ask me again tomorrow,” he says and after a few beats, Jungkook nods.

Taehyung returns to hardly drinking with Bogum and Jungkook slips back into his booth.
“Jesus, Kook,” Hoseok’s voice carries way too light and loud from where he lounges on the chaise
longue, parallel to Yoongi’s. “I don’t think I’ve seen you eat as much this in my life.”

Jungkook says nothing. He is too busy on the chair, gnawing down the gourmet burger he got for
himself. He has never before had burgers for breakfast, but walking over to Yoongi’s penthouse, his
nose caught a whiff of it from a boutique burger shop and he simply could not resist. His bowels
were screaming and turning in his stomach.

“Leave him,” Yoongi says as he lowers the pinkish cocktail from his lips, sucking his own down a
lot quicker than Hoseok’s identical drink. “I think he hasn’t had coke in too long.”

Hoseok drinks his cocktail with his left hand. Yoongi drinks his with his right. They both keep arms
on the hand rests between them, the length of their forearms pressed together, skin sweating and
sticky under the power of the sun, but neither seems bothered.

“And he’s still withdrawing?” Hobi’s brows raise above his sunglasses. “It’s coke,” he turns to
Yoongi.“The beauty of coke is the short withdrawal.”

“It has a short crash,” Yoongi speaks with another sip. “But with the amount and time he took it, it’s
going to take weeks for it to go extinct from—”

“Shut up with this,” Jungkook nearly growls, feral to finish his burger, but their constant narration
simply takes the pleasure out of eating. “It just makes my head hurt more,” he says as he lowers the
food on the table, settling it down for the first time since he bit into it. And it is only for the sake of
sparing them a full-on glare. The sun is too burning on his nape for him to be halfhearted with his
annoyance. “I’m not having withdrawal. I wasn’t fucking addicted. I have it under control.”

His last word sounds and then the shuffle of his wrapper does as he gets the burger safely between
his fingers yet again and lifts it to his mouth to once more meet it halfway with his readied, bared
teeth.

Yoongi clicks his tongue. “See, baby,” he turns to Hoseok, gesticulates towards Jungkook with his
almost empty cocktail glass, “irritability is usually a symptom,” he explains and Hoseok timidly nods
to show he follows with almost religious studious interest, “but we can’t exactly tell with our
Jungkookie,” Yoongi shakes his head, his forefinger raising from where it holds the glass to move
side to side in the air, “because he goes out of his way to be insufferable on day to day basis.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jungkook barely swallows. “I’m here.”

Hoseok readjusts himself, turns to almost lie on his side as he faces the other, fully immersed in his
nonsense. “What else then, doctor Min?”

Jungkook’s eyes roll. His voice whines, weary, “Don’t start with the fucking roleplay.”

Yoongi rests his glass down on the other hand rest, taps a finger on his chin and pitches his voice
purposefully, “Hasn’t he been more tired lately?”

“Why,” Hoseok entertains this with a smirk, “I think he has?”

“Fatigue,” Yoongi notes, nods.

“Withdrawal,” they both say at the same time, heads turning in unison to look at Jungkook.

Those two spend way too much goddamn time together. It’s truly borderline unhealthy. “You’re
actual fucking clowns,” Jungkook tells them, wipes at the grease on his mouth with a napkin.

“Mm,” Yoongi considers with a hum, his expression tentatively thoughtful. “Really irritable,” he
concludes.

Hoseok is nodding his avid agreement, “I think he’s in for a prescription, doctor.”

“You know what else is a symptom?” Yoongi speaks then, his voice dropping slightly, altering
barely distinct, but Jungkook notices,because he recognizes that slip, the smooth departure from
playfulness, sees the way he relaxes fully into the chaise longue as well. “Reduced sexual desire.”
He can practically feel his eyes from underneath his shades. “Haven’t fucked anyone for a while,
have you?”

Jungkook’s teeth grit. “Don’t,” he warns.

The other cocks his head, bold. “I don’t even know who you last fucked.”
“What?” he’s harsh, but he doesn’t care. Yoongi himself isn’t conspicuously harsh, but he is very
discreetly cruel. “You keep a list?”

The last person Jungkook was with was Kim Ji-woo, and it is likely one of the biggest mistakes of
his life, and he cannot be reminded of this because the memory of the contortion of Taehyung’s
features in the moments after takes a physical toll on his body.

Yoongi’s lips part, “Jungkook—"

“Don’t fucking start with this, hyung.” His eyes are as hard as his voice is cold. “I have also not
fought in a while and I’m really in the mood to break a nose.”

Hoseok straightens forward on the chaise longue, his own tongue callous with the tone he pours in
his voice, “Irritable doesn’t fucking cut it.”

“Enough, Hobi,” Yoongi intervenes before Jungkook can redirect, his palm fitting over Hoseok’s
where their arms rest together in between them. He reduces to cautious. Jungkook knows him as well
as he knows him in turn. He wanted to check for affect. He received; he’s done. He won’t press.

“He doesn’t have to fucking threaten you,” Hoseok turns to Yoongi, but he relaxes his back into the
chaise longue again despite the protest of his speech. Yoongi’s thumb grazes lightly over the
knuckles on his hand and Jungkook pretends he doesn’t notice. “I don’t give a fuck he’s PMSing.”

“I didn’t—” Jungkook starts, dumbly. He’d never threaten Yoongi. “It’s not about—” he tries again.
He really fucking sucks at apologies. It’s good neither of the people present would care to hear them.
They know he’s sorry without him having to explicitly say it. “Any hints from Kai?” he switches
direction. “About Namjoon?”

“None,” Yoongi shakes his head, answers without further commentary on what had transpired,
undoubtedly tense for what they can usually take. “But the sooner he leaves, the better.”

Jungkook nods, his fingers tapping over the device that feels heavy in his pocket.

Hoseok calls out. “Wanna get in?” His jaw jerks to the tub. “It’s the last of warm days. Might chill
you out a bit.”

“I’m good,” he replies. It’s late enough, he deems. He slips his phone from his pocket. His thumb
finds Taehyung’s name easily on the screen.

He sees his last messages unanswered and his finger hover over the keyboard hesitantly, screen
glaring into his face just as he glares down at Taehyung’s promise not to kiss him. He grits his teeth,
starts to type.

i’m asking again.

The seven minutes that take Taehyung to reply feel endlessly long.

Tae

you’re sober?

Jungkook blinks at the message.

its 11 am

Tae

so?

He wants to roll his eyes at the suspicion, but then again Hoseok and Yoongi both have cocktails
prepped, Yoongi’s naturally downed already, he notices now as he slides his gaze to them.

im sober yes

Tae

an hour

Jungkook’s heart pounds. Hope is such a dangerous thing.

what?

Tae

the date
 it lasts an hour

“I’m telling you his period is approaching,” Hoseok’s distinctive voice carries over the murmur of the
tub as him and Yoongi slip inside it with freshly made drinks. “The bastard’s fucking smilingnow.”

ill pick you up at 8?

The next message takes four minutes.

Tae

ok

He gets there at 7.54 and does a circle around the block with his car, pulls up in front of the door at
7.58.

He contemplates texting after a few minutes, but just then Taehyung appears from behind the house,
hands in the pockets of an old denim jacket Jungkook feels he has seen on Namjoon before. He
approaches the car swiftly, the steps he takes large, yet he keeps his gaze on the ground.

He’s quick, too quick, as if moving any slower would make all of this material, and he aims to
desperately avoid that. He only looks up when he has to open the door of the car.

“Hey,” he greets simply, eyeing the saloon of the car from where he stands outside of it. He makes
no immediate move to get in, only slides his gaze curiously across it, a gentle awe slipping into his
expression.
He doesn’t look different tonight, but his presence strikes Jungkook differently. He’s beautiful.

“Hey,” he greets in return, voice soft. He feels he can scare him away if he’s brusque. His house is
still so close and he refuses to get in the car. There is still a chance he changes his mind, turns back
and leaves him. “It’s okay,” Jungkook says lightly, “you won’t scratch it. Just get in.” Taehyung’s
eyes jerk up to his, meet them for the first time tonight. He nods, his throat moving with the
ministration of his swallow. He turns his head, spares his house a final glance behind his shoulder
and then gingerly lowers himself into the Aston. “I got us Shunmi, but if you want something else
—”

Jungkook starts the car before his seatbelt is even in place. He needs his house out of sight, out of
mind. It’s just them.

Taehyung fixes the strap of the belt along his chest, both his hands palming at it to adjust. He turns to
Jungkook, one of his dark brows arching up into his forehead. “You got Japanese?”

There’s an airy chuckle in his voice, but it’s got nothing to do with humor. Jungkook’s fingers rotate
around their clasp on the wheel. “Yeah,” he says, as he realizes that he did, in fact, get them
Japanese. His shoulders shrug. “We can pick up anything you want.”

“It’s okay,” Taehyung turns away, stares to the road as he realizes Jungkook is driving out of Seoul.
He prefers looking at street markings than the other man’s profile in the confines of this small car.
Space is tight, and he is close. He can distinctly smell the leather of the seats, but above it his nose
catches onto the pleasant, unobtrusive scent of Jungkook’s cologne. “I’m not about to throw away
food,” he tells him, legs adjusting in the long space before him. He has never ridden in a car as
elongated, low and spacious. The very position in which the seat of it reclines, with his knees raised
high feels rich. Jungkook’s hand slips suddenly between them and Taehyung’s head jerks to the
motion, instinctive, fearing of a touch, but he’s just wrapping his palm around a stick between them.
Taehyung purses his lips. “You got a manual?”

He’d guess a Jeon would be too lazy for gearbox transmissions.

Jungkook’s shoulders lift and fall. “I like switching gears on the highway,” he explains.

Taehyung scoffs, just a bit, tongue poking into the corner of his lips as he shakes his head for a
moment. “Of course, you do,” he says, folding his arms together before his chest as he turns his head
to gaze out of the window at the final buildings of Seoul. It strikes him he didn’t even ask where he’d
take him, simply got in the car and closed the door behind. “You’re such a man.”
“Hey, it accelerates faster,” Jungkook elaborates in an almost whiny justification and Taehyung has
the urge to peek at him, see his expression, but he keeps his eyes on the passing scenery.

“Sure does,” he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, nods. “Are we going somewhere or
just driving around,” he asks, stifles the twitch of his own lips as he realizes he can see Jungkook’s
reflection in the window as the sun recedes, “switching gears?”

He sees and hears the shift of his neck as he turns to him for a moment, eyeing him with lowered,
dulled lids before he returns his attention to the road ahead. “Going somewhere,” he tells him,
pauses. “Well,” his head cocks, he’s adding, “it’s kind of nowhere.” Taehyung loses against himself,
stares at his reflection in the window unfailingly. “There’s this one spot in Inwangsan mountain, you
can reach by car. It’s so desolate, but you can see all of Seoul.” Jungkook’s turning to glance at him
again and without a moment of hesitation as he spins, he catches his stare in the reflection.
Taehyung’s breath stills in his throat, an audible hitch and he blinks away, blinks to his lap. “Clo and
I used to go there all the time when I first got my car,” Jungkook mumbles softly to Taehyung’s own
reflection that now faces away. He blinks to the road. “It’s got the prettiest view of the Namsan
tower at night.”

Taehyung’s fingers toy with the hem of his jacket where he notices a small tear, he rubs his tips over
a loose string. “Clo and you?” he ventures faintly.

It doesn’t process in his head at all that they are on what Jungkook labels outwardly as a date. He’d
imagined, not entirely consciously because he’s never been naïve enough to dream of romance, that a
date would make him feel tingly in the stomach, a current on his skin. That a date would make him
feel warm with nerves, not entirely unpleasant, but poignant, nevertheless. A date would have
something hopeful resting in his chest, bubbling through his lips. He would nearly feel giddy, heady.

But a date cannot feel like this with Jungkook simply because he always feels like this with
Jungkook. He always hopes for more, for a better ending, always feels his skin tingle under his gaze,
always is aware and attentive of his very presence, of his every move, always gets curious urges and
whims, always swarms with nerves off all kinds, always something dubious resides in the air
between them.

“Yeah,” Jungkook says, nods.

Taehyung feels all this now, a teasing trickle of something in his chest and on his skin and on the
back of his head, down at his nape, at the idea that Jungkook will take him to a place he shares with
Clo.
He twirls his finger around the string of his jacket. “Ji-woo took me to Namsan once,” he says,
reciprocity of Jungkook’s memories nagging to slip past his lips. It’s not an instinct to exchange; it’s
an instinct to share that he doesn’t quite understand.

“She did?” the question leaves his throat tightly, the mention of his sister steering the tension in the
car.

Taehyung nods, his chin tucked in his neck. “I hardly remember it,” he confesses. Truthfully, the
memory is washed over and vague in his head, but it’s warm in his chest. “I was little,” he details on
impulse. “It was when my mother left my father after she found out about those women, well,” he
stops, corrects himself and looks up at the road, “woman. It was just the one at the time.” Jungkook’s
eyes dance to him, and he blinks once, returns the glance briefly before Jungkook has to redirect his
attention to driving. “She showed me a love lock our parents made there. You know they have those
love locks there all over.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jungkook nods. There is hardly any noise on the roads outside of Seoul. The only
sound is that of the car in motion, and it’s a quiet car, nearly soundless and it rides smoothly despite
how close it is to the ground. Jungkook doesn’t press the engine. He drives slowly, almost
offensively slowly considering the nature of the car, or perhaps it only seems like it to Taehyung.
Their voices carry gently in the space between them. Taehyung can’t decide if he’s whispering or
not, the line thin, but they slip into it naturally, though it coaxes an intimacy in ambiance of the car,
which Taehyung is afraid to have there. “You’ve never mentioned your mother before.”

Taehyung’s lips press together, form a thin line. He thinks. He speaks. “There’s nothing to say about
her,” he shakes his head. “She’s been dead for six years and before that I barely knew her. She was
only around the house when she was pregnant with Woowoo and she was considering coming back.
She died like,” he has to pause to tell him accurately, “six months after he was born.”

“Six months?” Jungkook’s voice raises with surprise, his eyes briefly darting towards Taehyung,
brows knotted together almost reminiscent of second hand concern. “How’d you take care of him?”

“Our dad,” he replies and Jungkook’s brows arch further, a nuance of skepticism sneaking into his
features. Taehyung presses his head back against the pillow of the seat. It’s more comfortable than
his couch. “He’s not a bad father,” he tells him something he truly believes, “as far as bad fathers
go,” he continues with a drop in his voice, the insinuation lingering between them, but he doesn’t
expand on it no matter how much he wants to. “It’s why Woojin hates it when he leaves,” Taehyung
says, head tilting back down to the loose string, mind venturing to the lines his brother makes in the
boards of his bed, so many of them now, probably the most they have ever been. “But he’ll come
back,” he adds, mostly for his own sake, unadulterated optimism slipping in his tone, small shakes of
his head accompanying the empty statement.
Jungkook’s silent for some time that follows, eyes on him, though he lets him have this moment to
himself, so palpably his own, and maybe his brother’s. He runs a tongue across his lips, cocks his
head. “Wanna come out?”

Taehyung’s head whips up, eyes wide. “What?”

“Get out of the car?” Jungkook gestures with his brows and chin. “I’ve parked.”

Taehyung’s gaze drifts, head turns as he glances out of the car and finds Jungkook’s words are true.
He didn’t even notice. “Oh,” he says.

Jungkook unclasps his seatbelt, lets it whir back into place, sliding across his palm. He stretches
back, gets a bag of take out from in between them and clicks his door opened. “Come on, Tae,” he
urges gently.

Taehyung’s chest raises, full of breath that fills his cheeks as well. He puffs it out, literally braces
himself, but he steps out of the car as well.

“Oh, wow.” It’s an instinct for his lips to shape it. He’s quiet with his fascination, doubts that
Jungkook even hears as he already strides forward right to the railing.

It truly is the middle of nowhere, pulled up in one of the rougher turns on the highway through the
mountain, high, but not high enough for the roads to be only reserved for hiking. There is an
extension of the road, ends with a railing just before the mountain dips and drops the hill, a security
measure for cars to take the sharp turn safely, and there is enough space for Jungkook to park.

Seoul is full of light. He can see the downtown from here, lit up beautiful enough for him to stutter a
wow in awe. Namsan tower stands tall and bright from across. Taehyung’s eyes helplessly seal onto
the enthralling colors that circle it like a ghostly aura all around.

It’s so quiet. The city looks so incredibly large, loud, alive. It is so bright and vibrant, as if it forbids
silence, permits only constant motion, vigor. But Taehyung can only hear the wind, so incongruously
whistling to accompany the sight of the screaming city. He doesn’t know if it makes him feel
disconnected or connected, somehow oxymoronically both at the very same time. He watches with
his lips slightly loose.
Jungkook turns when he senses him linger. “Come over here,” he suggests, arm extending to him,
and only know does Taehyung realize he has actually paced forward a bit. He can see the lights of
the city sparkle in the darkness of Jungkook’s eyes, and it makes it all the more harder to say no to
the hand he extends to him.

But Taehyung’s eyes suddenly drop, focus on the railing and what’s below it, the hill steep and so
tall. His throat bobs with a nervous swallow and he retracts from the hand defensively, arms tangling
together before his chest as his back arches with his recoil.

“I’m good here, thanks,” he nods to him, wary, the pitch in his voice immediately traitorous.

Jungkook’s hand drops to his thigh, palm smacks opened. “Are you scared of that as well?”

“It’s very simple,” Taehyung explains, cocking his head and nearing a scoff. “If it’s high, I’m
scared.”

“There’s a railing,” Jungkook tries, indicatively raising the bag with their food onto it.

Taehyung’s fingers coil around his elbows and grip, shift into them anxiously. “Still,” he presses his
teeth together.

Jungkook sighs, his free hand running across strands of his hair that just expose his forehead more,
accentuate the chisel of his features. He glances from the view to Taehyung and back and he reaches
again, taking a step towards him as his hand goes for his elbow, brushes against his own fingers.
“But it’s so fucking beautiful,” his digits latch around him and he gingerly tugs, “look.”

“Hey,” Taehyung unfolds his arms, brushes away Jungkook’s touch and steps back. “Don’t,” he
asks, voice fluctuating with apprehension. “I’m close enough to the edge.”

He would love to see the view from the very end of the hill, but he doesn’t trust himself he’ll look if
he moves any closer. His heart races at the very idea. He can’t.

Jungkook’s eyes capture his. From this angle, the lights of the city no longer catch at his irises, yet
still they seem to nearly sparkle, shine with something entirely theirs, a reflection of nothing. “I won’t
let you fall,” he promises in what feels to Taehyung like a whisper, his head shaking lightly, just
barely.

Taehyung’s lips have difficulty parting. “I don’t trust you,” he says.

He remembers the first few moments when it was dawning on him that it was Jungkook in the room
next to his, with his own sister. He remembers how it was his very first instinct to disbelieve, to be
absolutely sure it wasn’t him, to shake his head and deny, to think Jungkook wouldn’t. He
remembers trusting Jungkook won’t do it and that blind, lethal conviction breaking and dwindling to
ruins, that foolish expectation falling unfulfilled that was what felt so utterly excruciating.

Jungkook’s eyes seem to soften, but maybe it’s a trick of the curl of his head, the switch of the way
dim light falls onto their surface. His pupils dart between Taehyung’s, lips falling open just enough to
let a small breath cascade between them. His head drops.

“Okay,” he says, voice full again, normal. He raises the food, moves back towards the car. “Come
here then,” he beckons with a nod of his head, and then, most carelessly, he presses his palm into the
car and lowers his ass onto it, legs stretched before him.

Taehyung gapes, stare widening. “What?”

“Clo and I usually sit over there,” Jungkook points a finger to a sturdy rock, just outside the railing,
“but you’d be too fucking scared for that,” he summarizes quite accurately and takes the take out
boxes out of the bag as if he isn’t leaning with his whole ass and weight on a goddamn supercar.
“So, we’re sitting on the car.”

He extends one of the carton boxes to Taehyung and the other takes it, but shakes his head,
nevertheless. “Nuh-ah,” he says, “I’m not leaning on that car.”

“Lean,” Jungkook presses, propping his box on his thigh as he begins to open it. He raises his head
to him briefly, his palm indicatively on the space next to him. “It’s comfortable,” he promises,
already fixing the chopsticks between his fingers.

Taehyung proceeds to do the same, though it is largely unpractical to open a takeout carton box in
the air, standing up. “I’d rather lean down the hill.”
“Come on,” Jungkook’s fingers reach out, wrap around his slim wrist and tug. The action takes him
by surprise, and he loses footing, stumbling slightly, regaining balance much closer to Jungkook than
he would like, feeling his warm thigh press into him, “you’ve done more than lean on me before and
I’m much more expensive than the car.”

Taehyung shakes his head disapprovingly, tongue clicking, but he spins himself slightly and props
down on the car to evade the heat of Jungkook pressed up even at a patch of them meeting. “You’re
such a bitch,” he makes sure to inform him, though he needs his mouth free for a moment or two
because as he manages to open the box fully, a smell divine enough to make him salivate invades his
nostrils. “And you’re not actually.”

He stuffs his mouth with the first bite and has a hard time withholding an audible moan that threatens
to rise and escape, the taste every bit as exquisite as the scent promises.

“I beg to differ,” Jungkook says, gesticulating with his chopsticks in the air. “My insurance says
different,” he finishes matter-of-factly and shoves food in his mouth.

Taehyung swallows, his brows raising. “You have life insurance?” he speaks, incredulous. He uses
his own chopsticks to point down to the contents of his takeout box with eager shakes of his hand,
voice enthusiastic. “I don’t even know what that is, but it’s fucking delicious.”

“I know,” Jungkook muffles with his mouth full and Taehyung’s eyes shoot to him with a small
glare, an instinct to scold from his life with Woojin, but he figures it really isn’t the place or the
person. Still, Jungkook chews diligently into his food, gulps it down before he speaks next. “I’ve got
two,” he specifies. “You don’t?” And he shoves some more into his mouth.

“I can’t afford life insurance,” Taehyung spreads his arms out, some sauce falling from his chopsticks
and onto his pants, but they’re dark enough that no one would notice, “and I don’t plan on dying.”

Jungkook nods his head to the side as if to convey, fair enough, makes a sound with the back of his
throat to signify he’ll be speaking, but doesn’t actually start until all the contents of his mouth have
descended down his throat. “You know,” he starts, informatively, “life insurance has interest and if
you stay alive for a certain amount of time you can monetize your existence.”

Taehyung snorts. “That’s fucking ridiculous.”

Jungkook raises his hand, taps his knuckles on the side of his head. “It’s clever.”
Taehyung is practically inhaling the food that was given to him. “Thought you were too rich to try to
monetize your actual state of breathing,” he comments.

Jungkook shrugs. “Rich people need to stay rich,” he says and Taehyung figures that sentence might
as well be the motto of every single Richhood resident. All are willing to stay rich at the expense of
anything, at the expense of people like Taehyung and certainly at the expense of decency. “And you
think there is something my father won’t monetize?” he raises brows, shakes his head, “There’s
nothing sacred.”

Taehyung takes longer with his next turn in the conversation. He gnaws down on something
particularly delicious which he is entirely sure came from water, staring down into the contents of his
box. He hesitates, but strives to make his question casual by shoving something in his mouth right at
the second he finishes speaking, “Where are your parents now?”

The response surprisingly comes with no reluctance. It comes bitter, scoffing, but it comes immediate
and the ill taste of the tone carries indifferent to the two of them; Jungkook channels it into his stare
forward, into nothing, into Seoul, perhaps into Richhood, maybe to the luxurious penthouse he has
grown up in. “Our villa in Saipan,” he pronounces poisonous, “fucking chilling like it’s not their
fault Clo’s in rehab.” He stuffs his chopsticks into the food, places the carton on the lid of the car
behind him, and cups his palms to his face, wiping briefly at his features before he folds his arms
together. “He hit her again,” he says after a sigh, “that same day.” He doesn’t specify which, but
Taehyung knows by the twist in his voice he means the day of her overdose. He isn’t certain when
his gaze latches onto Jungkook’s profile, but it refuses to shift as he watches his expression mold
with the colors of the lights of Seoul. “Slapped her, in front of Seokjin.”

“What,” Taehyung quips and tries hard to lower the pitch of his surprise, placing his own food
behind him, “in front of him?”

The mention quite spectacularly sheds him of any and all appetite for food purchased with the money
of a Jeon.

“Yeah,” Jungkook exhales, tongue coating over his lower lip, quick and angry. “They got into a
fight after. Jin thinks it was the first time he laid a hand on her. She thinks he should stay out of it.”
As if Taehyung’s eyes are magnetic, Jungkook’s own turn, fall immediately onto his. “But she
doesn’t actually want him to,” he shakes his head, “not really.” His lips press together tightly, form a
single, flat line before he speaks again. “She only told me this yesterday.”

“Did he do anything to you?” Taehyung’s body adjusts on its own accord, hip pressing into the car
as he turns to Jungkook more, resting one palm on the lid to keep himself up. “When he found out
you admitted her?”

Eyes slip over him, study the stance he takes, drag across his body and dart curiously across his face.
It seems to take Jungkook a moment to realize Taehyung asked him an actual question. His answer
comes apparently honest, yet peculiarly distracted. “No, because I pitched him the Austria story.”

He still gazes at him like this, almost perplexed, almost in disbelief and Taehyung cannot help but
address, his own brows furrowing with his confusion. “What?” he asks.

Jungkook hesitates. “It’s just,” he starts, dropping his head down to the ground between them. “I’m
not used to talking about this to someone who isn’t Clo.”

Taehyung's lips press. Oh. “I’m not going to tell anyone,” he promises softly.

“I know,” Jungkook meets his eyes again. “I trust you,” he tells him, and Taehyung’s chest heave.

He pauses, licks at his lips with a crumbling hesitance as for a moment he glances away, eyes tear
through the distance. But then he gathers a breath, he straightens completely, on his feet, returning
his attention undiluted to Jungkook. “Maybe you should,” he says, and he tries to stifle the vigor in
his suggestion, but his tongue is forceful as he speaks. “Tell someone.”

Jungkook’s eyes mold as he shakes his head to a meaningless distance, staring at nothing, bouncing
rapidly between endless lights, expression contorts as if he has heard something entirely ridiculous.
“Who?” he almost fucking cackles with a pitch of hopeless hurt.

“An authority,” Taehyung can’t get it out of himself fast enough. “Jungkook,” he presses, taking an
involuntary step forward with the passion of his name, boring his eyes into his profile because it is all
he would give him. “This is abuse,” he stresses, studying every feature of his face for the merest sign
of a crack. “It’s punishable by law.”

But Jungkook is pressing his teeth, he’s shaking his head. “We’ll lose everything,” he says, nostrils
flaring slightly. His jaw lines and thickens. Taehyung counts his blinks and he knows they are more
than he needs. “He’s always,” he clears his throat, stresses, “always given us anything we’ve asked
for.” One of his hands escapes the confines of his crossed arms, lifts into the air and cuts through it
with gesture as he speaks. “He’s made sure we have the best of everything, education, clothes,
fucking cars. He puts the food on our table. There are worse fathers out there. And my mother
doesn’t work, she just smiles. If it weren’t for him—”
Taehyung doesn’t know just who Jungkook is trying to convince, for whose sake he’s spewing this
bullshit that he is absolutely certain his father does his best to instill as pure truth in his head. He tries
to make himself irreplaceable, tries to brainwash his children into false gratitude, a moderate
obedience that sates him in exchange for the car that Jungkook leans upon, the meal that he bought
for the both of them, the clothes that press into him and their useless labels.

His teeth grit. He is angry, furious, because Jeon Clo Eun is right. Jungkook is scared, and it is
partially what lead him into sleeping with his sister. And it leads him into being this person, this
person who can be inexcusably cruel, detached, who doesn’t dare bare himself in case someone
takes a swing at him.

“He’s buying your fucking silence,” Taehyung interrupts with the rage snidely fitting into the bash of
his tongue against his teeth. “None of that gives him the right to hit you, Jungkook,” he insists, gaze
still helplessly searching his face, though falling minutely on the skin of his hand that is angry and
scarred, used as an ashtray, “or to tell you who to fucking fall in love with based on what?” And
because Jungkook’s eyes jerk to him so wide and glossy, he adds. “Their job?”

He speaks about Seokjin and Clo. This is about Seokjin and Clo. Taehyung’s heart thunders in his
chest.

“I know,” Jungkook returns, less powerful, shakier. And Taehyung knows he does. He can’t not
know, after everything that happened between them, after what happened to Clo. He knows. His
heart thuds harder and then, in a moment, it thuds quicker. Because Jungkook starts with a but, a
fucking damnable, loathsome but. “But Clo and I?” he bores his eyes into Taehyung’s now, so wide
and so piercing. “Who are we without him? What do we have?” he asks as if he hopes for an answer
and then continues as if he’s forever damned to a lack of such, voice and eyes falling. “His name is
my past, my future, and my present. I’m a Jeon.”

Taehyung’s shoulders curl, his lips so quit to protest. “But—” he starts and he stops.

“But what, Tae?” Jungkook bristles with underlying exasperation, eyes ever so searching, begging
Taehyung to give him a sound answer, but so wholeheartedly doubting he can.

His shoulders slump futile.

The forcefulness leaks away from his tone and it drops, slipping into something gentle and pleading
on its own, his gaze softening as it studies every bit of the man before him as well. “You’re also
Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s eyes focus on one of Taehyung’s, then the other, his lips parted but quiet. His shoulders
shake with his rough chuckle. “What is that good enough for?”

Taehyung wonders if it is also their father that instilled that idea of worthlessness in the twins, just to
secure their natural tendency to self-sabotage to steal away any progress they could potentially make
into an area outside of confines he puts around them, protective and sure, until they recede to their
utter dependence on him. Drugs, attitude, and bad decisions, both of them have always been known
for pushing everyone and everything away. Previously, Taehyung himself was wired to think it was
result of their condescending entitlement and while he is still unready to shed the belief that plays a
role into how they act, he sees the layer of Jungkook, now peeled to the surface, that so blatantly
trusts he deserves little, he is little, behind that name that guards him that comes as a given.

“Well, that’s up to you isn’t it?” he tells him, because he is certain Jungkook doesn’t start and end at
Jeon. He wouldn’t have coaxed him into coming here exactly with his wish to rid himself of that
name for a moment if he was. “Taehyung means nothing, too, doesn’t it? I’m a nobody.” His
shoulders raise and fall again, his arms lifting a little into the air around him. “It only depends on me
if I ever make something of it.”

Jungkook shakes his head side to side. “It’s different,” he says.

Taehyung shakes his harder, more insistent. “No, it isn’t,” he swears. “If you boycott your father
now, you have as much as I do. Just because you’ve got one path paved for you, doesn’t mean you
can’t lay your own bricks for another.”

Jungkook tears his eyes away. He gazes at nothing, feet shuffling beneath him as he adjusts himself
on his car. “Wise man,” he speaks, terse but soft.

Taehyung’s hands drop, brush against the fabric of his clothes. “Namjoon’s been home for some
time now,” he says, all the intensity that had forcefully summoned itself dropping with Jungkook’s
subtle dismissal, “it’s rubbing off on me.”

The other is saying nothing, still staring ahead, his knees bouncing nervous and his tongue tucked in
his cheek, and Taehyung’s own unleashes once again. “You won’t do it, would you?” he asks and
tries to still the bitterness that sits so tangible at the end of his throat. “Won’t give up on your father?”
“For what, really?” Jungkook asks, voice bordering on straining as his eyes root still into the ground.
“It’s not like I have a dream of my own.”

And it’s not like he has Taehyung and it is not like he has any future worth the sacrifice.

“Funny,” Taehyung scoffs, humorless and almost petty, “never thought you’d be one to settle.”

Jungkook’s eyes do shoot to him then, the lids of them slightly narrowed, though the gaze lacks a
particular animosity. “That’s easy for you to think,” he speaks, coarser, “You have nothing to give
up on.”

Taehyung blinks. “Yeah?” his head cocks. He doesn’t have any money to lose, that’s true, doesn’t
have a promised future, doesn’t have a silver platter. He’s forceful but unbitter, his passion mostly
burns from his need to convince, not the need to accuse, yet he is past shying away from honesty.
“How about my sister because I won’t concede she’s right about you being a piece of shit?” he
speaks with his eyes as well, fixes them demanding onto Jungkook’s. “How about fucking self-
respect just to be around you and from the very start of this as well?”

It’s decision he makes, Taehyung knows, his responsibility, which makes it taste even more sour,
makes him have to scrub himself harder in the shower and sheds him the ability to look for long into
his own sister’s eyes. But he makes those decisions, and he knows this conversation is not about the
sacrifices that they have to make for them, because there is no them. This is about Jungkook, but
words still spill.

He had so much to swallow down to bear his presence, and he did. He has to now, too, but he’s
there, because Jungkook asked him to. And it is intrinsically selfish, in the end of the day, because
Taehyung wants to be with Jungkook. But it is him that makes those sacrifices necessary. Jungkook
sleeps with his sister and Jungkook used to treat him like shit.

And now he is the one who insists Taehyung has to speak to him before he leaves, and Taehyung
concedes, swallows some more shame that tastes bitter, and gets in his fucking expensive car.

“I—” Jungkook's lips gape.

“You tried to pay me the first time I touched you, Jungkook,” Taehyung says, voice coarse as it
escapes his throat. He still remembers, at that hotel, wanting him, thinking Jungkook wanted him,
too, for himself and then having money shoved in his chest without any warning.
“You freaked me the fuck out, Taehyung,” Jungkook’s voice raises. The narrow of his eyes spreads,
his lids pull back and he lets his eyes peel wide and glinting. “You were a boy,” he stresses, “you
were a Kim.”

“I still am,” he tells him, quiet.

Jungkook seems to be pulled on his feet not of his own volition, a force dragging him up and right
before Taehyung. “I don’t care about that anymore.”

He does that thing again, that thing where words seem to trap in his mind so he stares at him as if he
can tell him everything with his eyes.

Taehyung blinks away this time. “Why did you want me to come out here with you?” he asks softly,
tongue at his lips before it draws back heavy in his mouth.

He returns his eyes to him as moments pass in silence, finds his gaze gingerly scurrying over his face,
the power of his last statement slipping from his features to replace with caution, and Taehyung does
grow accusatory this time, because if he is going to be around Jungkook, then Jungkook should at
least act like fucking Jungkook.

“I’m not fragile,” he bites. “You can actually fucking speak to me. I know you’ve been holding back
with me.”

Jungkook’s lips smack, nose sniffs air, and he breathes, chin nodding with a jut, as if he’s bracing
himself for a fight. “Speak to you?”

“Yes,” Taehyung’s teeth press together.

Jungkook’s brows raise. “Want me to tell you what I think?”

“Please,” Taehyung jibes. “Be my guest.”

“The truth?” the other cocks his head.

He nods, inviting a fight. “For a fucking change.”

The pause is short. Taehyung almost expects to be cursed out. And then, his heart stops.

“I don’t want you to go to Japan.” It rings loud and clear in the silence and intimate privacy of the
mountain. It is just Taehyung and Jungkook, the city left behind, and every word comes spoken sure
and strong. Taehyung’s lips part, eyes softening, bewildered as they gaze into Jungkook’s stoic,
certain face. “Stay here,” he continues leveled, though pitched, though dancing with the chances of a
tremble. “With me.”

Taehyung’s lashes bat. He searches Jungkook’s face, inquisitive and borderline desperate. “What?”

He knows Jungkook doesn’t want him to go to Japan. Yet, he never expects for him to ask him to
stay. With him.

He waits for him to take it back, to switch fucking gears, since he likes it so much, to dismiss that one
silly demand.

He doesn’t. With his full chest, he repeats.“I want you to stay.” He gives him a beat, slicks his lips
with his tongue, and then he starts talking, starts spilling, hands uselessly moving next to his body
along with his words as he seeks the precise ones he needs. “I thought it made me a good person or
some shit to let you go, but you know what?” He raises his brows, raises his arms, drops them at the
same time with the impact of his sentence. “I’m not a good person,” he shrugs, “not a fucking
righteous one at least.” He stares at Taehyung shameless. “I want you here in Seoul.” All he spares
him is another brief pause. “And I don’t want to stay away from you, either. I don’t want anyone else
to touch you, I don’t want not to know where you are, what you’re doing, how you’re feeling,” he
lists, and Taehyung doesn’t know if he has lost his mind or Jungkook has lost his. “There are many
things I’m not fucking ready to give up on and you’re one of them.”

The fold of Taehyung’s arms loosens, but he does not untangle them completely. He shakes his head
dumbly, voice a mere exhale. “What are you—”

Jungkook takes a step forward when there are no steps to take between them. “Taehyung,” his
fingers wrap gingerly around his forearm, the touch barely there, yet as always utterly fiery, “you
scare the fuck out of me,” he says into his eyes, not for a moment allowing Taehyung’s to escape
their ceaseless, compulsion, “but what scares me more is no one will ever feel to me like you do.”
Taehyung’s heart pounds. It pounds so fast, rapid and dangerous against his ribcage. Feel, Jungkook
says, and he doesn’t know why a word as simple as this means so much to him. What does
Jungkook feel, he wants to ask, for him, how does he feel to him. “I don’t want to lose you,” he tells
him, voice receding to a whisper with how close he now stands, the breath of his words fanning over
Taehyung’s parted lips and coercing teasing tingles onto them. “Have I?” he darts his eyes down
once, glances at his mouth, then steals his gaze again. “Have I lost you?”

Taehyung’s forehead creases, countenance distorts as if he’s in physical pain. “I don’t know,” he
shakes his head, and he forces his voice into a whisper, too, to save it from cracking, but it trembles,
nonetheless.

“Tae,” fingers squeeze around him firmer, “do you want there to be a last time in which you see
me?”

“Jungkook,” Taehyung exhales, begs, and turns his head away, gives him his cheek, but the digits
release his arm, raise to his face. He presses just two fingers softly into his jaw, spins his head back.

“Just,” he swallows down. There seems to be a current of building frustration just on the tip of his
lips, of his fingers, to touch more, to say more, to take more. “Be honest,” he asks. “The truth, we
said,” he reminds him. “Do you want there to be a last time in which you see me?”

A breath escapes Taehyung’s nose and mouth with his sigh, pours straight into Jungkook’s. “No,” he
shakes his head lightly.

“You don’t want to leave Woojin,” Jungkook says and that’s not a question, but a reminder again.

“No,” he shakes his head firmer, quicker.

And Jungkook’s shaking his head, too, in toll with his. “You’ll lose more than you’ll win if you go
to Japan,” he promises him, the tips of his electric fingers still brushing gently into the skin of his
cheek. “You don’t even know where you’re going, what will you do in Japan?” his voice raises
slightly, shoulders folding, too, but he doesn’t move away from him, stands there, as close as he
would have him. “Where in Japan? Do you even know what fucking city?” something borderline
angry folds into the words as they leak, seamless and hurried. “What you’ll do there? Where you’ll
live there? Do you even speak the language?” he opens his mouth for more, but his eyes linger more
focused on Taehyung’s face and he presses it shut, tries again calmer. “You don’t, do you?”
He doesn’t. He puts all his trust in Namjoon for this, and sometimes he forgets in moments he
doesn’t trust Namjoon either. He thinks so much about escaping here, he barely acknowledges he
would be going somewhere.

The fingers move on his cheek, a thumb joining the two, and he cups gingerly at his chin. “If you’re
only going there to forget about me—” his eyes chase after every crease in his expression. “Do you
want to forget about me?” His chest fills and draws out, his exhale heavy, but soft and the words coat
all over Taehyung’s lips.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t say anything. He stands there, listening to his heart, his heart palpitating
and rushing blood into his ears, stifling every thought.

“Do you regret me?” Jungkook grips onto his chin firmer, head tilting slightly to draw closer without
touching him, though their foreheads almost brush.

He’s silent.

“Won’t you miss me?” he keeps asking and there is something sad in that question, something
genuine, as if Jungkook truly believes there is a marginal chance Taehyung can go to another
country, full of regret that he had him, and not miss him all the fucking time.

“I will,” it pries out of him. “I do.”

A hand slips around his waist, fingers curling familiar and gentle into the fold above his hip. “Stay,”
Jungkook implores and he almost feels his lips move against his.

He turns away, just slightly, just until they don’t share air. “I wanted you to stay so many times,” he
confesses in a quick murmur, a hand raising up and curling in a loose fist by his shoulder to keep
their chests from touching.

“This is different,” Jungkook shakes his head, hand falling from his face to cup around his nape,
fingers toying with some strands there, instinctive. “This is not about wondering whether I will see
you in the coming week. This is about knowing I won’t.”

“And stay why?” Taehyung lets a single breath of laughter as if it's all a joke, though really, he just
wants a reason. “So, we can go back to you fucking me when you want to?”
“Taehyung,” Jungkook tugs him closer despite that hand that rests between them. His eyes are so
perpetually unforgiving with their coercion, “you and I both know last time we were together like
that,” he pauses, he breathes; he speaks so slowly, so clearly, so emphatically, “I didn’t fuck you.”

What then, he yearns to ask him with the way the weight of that sentence, so plain in semantics, so
plain to anyone who isn’t them and wasn’t there, didn’t feel that first kiss, that second, that one just
before he promised he wasn’t going anywhere, makes him feel, what did you do to me then?

He wants to ask but he’s not brave enough because he only wants one answer.

Taehyung’s teeth snap. He remembers those moments so vividly and painfully. Happiness, he thinks,
is a very curious thing. It has nothing to do with smiles, nothing to do with laughter, and in that
moment when Jungkook kissed him and fucked him in his bed, he wasn’t smiling, not at all; he was
frightened and nervous, and it bordered on hurt. But weirdly, he was happy.

He nods bitter. “But you sure did fuck my sister a week after.”

Jungkook’s fingers tighten on his nape, thumb grazing there as if he aims to comfort. “There isn’t a
moment in which I don’t regret that,” he promises, head shaking.

His nose brushes his with one of the timid shakes. Breathlessness folds Taehyung's chest. Breathless,
he asks. “Why?”

“Why?” he mouths back.

“Yes,” he raises above the murmur of their exchange, demands, “I want you tell me why you regret
it.”

Jungkook pulls back to look at him and the fear that he will back away now washes colder than he
expects it, reminds him just why this is all so dangerous. But his eyes just search, and, in a moment,
he speaks, gentle and low, his voice deeper than it is with other people. “Because it hurt you,” he
tells him, features screwing as if the fact of it hurts in turn. His fingers bury in his hair, squeeze
around strands. “Because it took away my right to touch you,” his hand spreads on his waist, digits
extending as far as they would go, to take as much of his current permission to touch him as he can,
“to tell you you’re beautiful,” he murmurs and Taehyung’s eyes screw shut; he can’t feel, hear, and
see at the same time. But it does nothing, does absolutely fucking nothing, because in the next
moment he senses lips, the full pillows of familiar, sizzling lips, brush the bone of his cheek, so
unnaturally tender right beneath his sealed eye, “to do this,” he hums as he pulls away after a short,
light touch, “and this,” he adds, and presses his lips lower, in the center of his cheek now. It’s firmer
and it’s longer. But the graze of them lifts off and he whispers in a breath right against his skin, still
brushing as he speaks, “and most of all, this.”

Taehyung has time. He knows what he will do, and he has time to pull away. Jungkook lingers with
his lips by his cheek, gives him it.

He stays right where he is.

Jungkook presses his lips to his. He is tentative, slow, tangles his fingers more into strands of his hair,
and simply holds his lips against his, molds them together. He doesn’t move them for a long moment,
only keeps them there, motionless and light. Taehyung’s hand uncurls on his shoulder, digits fist into
his shirt. His heart is ramming at his chest now, mind is screaming, but the palpitation is too loud, and
he cannot hear. Jungkook's lips peck, once, the sound of a kiss so distinct, yet Taehyung can barely
feel it. It’s chaste, but it lingers. The next one comes sooner. His lips never leave entirely, just press
harder, just move.

He folds his lips against his upper one, kisses him there, then wraps them against the pillow of his
lower. Taehyung’s lips are as if frozen under the ministration, and Jungkook has to pry them gently
with a firmer kiss.

They part, allow Jungkook’s upper lip to hover between them, his breath coating over his chin.

It lasts a moment. Then, Taehyung’s lips move.

He kisses him back, lips tangling together, moving smooth as they part and meet. They’re slow in
one second, faster in the next. They only kiss each other on the lips, the sound of it wet in the silence.
Jungkook’s hand slides when he feels him return it, ventures to his back and spreads there, cups him
fully and presses him forward until his back has to arch to accommodate the hand he rests between
them that now almost painfully grasps onto Jungkook’s shoulder, the fabric of his shirt wrinkling
underneath.

Jungkook exhales into the motion of Taehyung’s lips, sighs into him and sinks into him with new
vigor. He wants to taste him. He probably tastes like Japanese, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He wants
him to part his mouth more and let him have a taste, but he’s not bold enough to try for this, doesn’t
want to scare him away, just wants to keep him against him for as long as he’d let him.
But then Taehyung sighs as well, so airy and gentle, with his distinct, deep voice, and it borders on a
moan, and Jungkook’s tongue teases over his lips, slides in between when he parts them to meet his.

He doesn’t mean for it to grow hungry, but it does. He is.

Jungkook’s head tilts around him, he locks their lips firmer and kisses into his mouth. His fingers are
desperate into the strands at his nape, the other hand attempting to press him, closer, closer, until
space feels like a figment of their imagination.

The hand drops low on his spine, the kiss grows more demanding.

Taehyung can’t breathe. He shouldn’t be doing this.

He always imagined a date should end with a kiss.

This is not a date. Jungkook and him, they can’t go on dates.

Jungkook’s lips separate from his only for his head to turn and for them to wrap into him more,
deeper. But Taehyung’s hand loosens on the shirt, presses into his shoulder with the heel of his palm
digging pointedly into his clavicle, eyes parting, but his lids are so heavy, he can only look at his
mouth, waiting to taste it again. “Stop,” he whispers against his lips.

Jungkook kisses him so briefly next, barely presses his lips against his before he draws back.
“Why?” he hums to him and then he kisses him firmer.

Taehyung’s lids flutter, but they don’t fully drop. His lips kiss him back once, treacherous, but the
next press of his lips is unreciprocated, and then the next. “Stop,” he asks again, mutters into his lips,
his brows creasing into it, as Jungkook keeps fucking kissing him. “Jungkook, stop,” he demands
firmer, presses his palm hard against his clavicle and pushes, and Jungkook’s stepping back,
allowing the push as far as it will take him, hands lifted up in the air, until he’s at an arm’s length
from him.

Taehyung drops his touch from him completely. His hand raises, the back of it pressing into his
mouth and wiping at his lips, as if he wants to get rid of the feel of the kiss on his lips.
Jungkook still feels him on his, he wants to savor, not erase. His face twists with the sight of
Taehyung rubbing his skin so rapidly against his mouth. He thinks his heart is in the heel of his foot.

He thinks. He speaks, “I did something wrong.”

He doesn’t realize he says it aloud until Taehyung’s eyes turn to him.

“I did something wrong,” he corrects, voice loud, breaking the tentative silence the desolation of the
place instills in them.

Jungkook’s head shakes. He tries to step towards him, but it’s a singular attempt; he cannot take the
deflation of watching him step back. “But you—”

“I need to think,” Taehyung cuts him off, because he does. He cannot simply ask him to stay, with
him, and then touch him, kiss him. He shakes his head, too. “And I have the bad habit of not being
able to do that when you touch me, it’s how we got into this shit.”

Jungkook keeps silent. He gives him this moment and only stares, sees his fingers drag across his
face, his chin, his lips, pull through strands of his hair. He’ll let him calm down, and then, then they
can talk.

Taehyung’s eyes seal onto him again. “Can you drive me home?”

His heart raises back to his chest just to slip into the other foot. “You gave me an hour,” Jungkook
says, words tumbling out of his mouth faster than he intends them to. “It hasn’t been an hour.”

Taehyung’s eyes soften. His hands drop from his head, fall heavy by his thighs, rocking slightly side
to side. “Jungkook,” he pleads to him only with his name, apologizes subtly in the very same breath.

Jungkook’s teeth press together. He breathes sharply through his nose and looks back to Seoul, to the
lights to which he has to drive him. He doesn’t want to be angry, he really doesn’t. His jaw tightens,
the edge of it ticking. He slips his tongue across his lips, gives himself a moment to calm down.
 He moves. He gets the back from their food, pushes the boxes inside with one motion and
straightens.

“Get in the car then,” he says, chin jutting to the Aston. He feels Taehyung’s eyes trail over him, but
he doesn’t return the stare. He slides into the driver seat, waits for the sound of Taehyung’s door
shutting and steers the car into gear.

The ride back is silent. It’s a heavy silence, tangible between them, the air tight and tense.
Taehyung’s lips part once, seal shut. He attempts it a second time. Jungkook speeds, and it makes
him slightly nervous considering his current mood, but he presses his teeth, keeps quiet.

Jungkook pulls up in front of his house a lot quicker than it had taken them to get to arrive first.
Taehyung’s lingering in his seat and he doesn’t know why. Jungkook’s saying nothing and really,
there’s nothing to say.

He slips the seat belt off, pulls the door open. He stands. He is just about to shut the door, when he
calls him.

“Taehyung,” he says, and he leans into the hand rest, eyes finding him for the first time since he
looked away in the mountain. He pauses with his hand on the door, fingers clinging onto the
material. He meets his gaze, waits. Jungkook’s tongue grazes his lips, a final slip of hesitation. “I’m
sorry I took so long to kiss you.”

He doesn’t know if he means tonight, if he means at all, he doesn’t know what Jungkook means.

Jungkook does. He means he kept wondering if his mistake was not kissing him at the start or kissing
him at all. He doesn’t anymore.

Taehyung only nods. He doesn’t speak. He shuts the door and he goes home. He once again so
terribly confused, his head a mess, his body a mess. He is a mess, and Namjoon is fucking right.
Taehyung is in love with him.

Chapter End Notes

thank you for reading and staying engaged through this mess
 Chapter 22
Chapter Summary

with the smallest things Taehyung learns what love is

Chapter Notes

this was supposed to be half a chapter, but it was soooooo long, so it's a whole chapter
now, hope you enjoy

With the smallest things, Taehyung learns what love is.

“You like that game, Woo?” Taehyung asks as he falls into the couch next to his brother easily with
the bowl of popcorn he promised the boy. Half remain seeded, unfortunately, but with their
microwave it’s tricky, it’s either that or coal. Taehyung sinks a palm into the bowl, grabs onto a
whole handful.

He is begrudgingly aware that the game on the pathetic screen is the one Jungkook purchased for his
brother. It’s something incredibly simple, and for someone as wealthy as him, it’s such a small
gesture, yet Taehyung stares at the tiny characters on his TV.

“Yes,” his brother chirps, his thumbs clicking at the controller. “Very much,” he nods; his legs
cannot even reach the end of the cushion. “I want to say thank you to Jungkook hyung.”

His name at Woojin’s lips is unfamiliar and more striking than it needs to be. He stretches forward,
places the bowl on the coffee table in front of them. He stuffs his mouth with airy popcorn, jaw
moving vigorous with the incentive to chew affect away.

“I can do that for you,” he swallows. “I’ll thank him.” Taehyung wipes his palm against his pants,
something he’d usually rather not do, but he’s strangely distracted.

Woojin turns to him with eyes wide and bright. “But he can come play and I can thank him,” he
suggests enthusiastically and Taehyung’s heart flutters. His memory is etched with the sight of
Jungkook’s face when he himself proposed to come teach him and Taehyung simply turned him
down. “I’ll let him use my character if he wants to,” his brother promises energetically, legs
bouncing a slight bit on the cushion. He has even paused his game for this negotiation.

Taehyung presses his elbows in the back of the couch, purses his lips with a cock of his head. “You
want to play with Jungkook?” he asks, concentrated on the mere way he pronounces his name as if
the way his lips shape it alone would confess to his six-year-old brother.

“Yes,” Woojin insists with a prolonged ardent, ‘s’.

Taehyung’s lips pull forward more before their tips curl downwards. He pouts. “Not with me?”

“No,” Woojin shakes his head, mouth mirroring Taehyung’s as his eyes widen. “I want to play with
you, hyung,” he promises hurriedly in defense, “but I want to play with him, too.”

Taehyung’s lips release, tilt more naturally at the edges, and the teasing slips from his voice, features
soften. “You like him?” he asks, quiet and curious, though he already knows the answer.

“Yes,” Woojin nods firm and deep, “he’s really cool and he’s really strong,” he announces, and
Taehyung cannot help but wonder whether Jungkook would care he’s influenced his little brother
into this opinion. He’d definitely use it as ammo against Taehyung himself, and this particular type
he doesn’t think he’d mind. “He lifted up the couch with one hand when I dropped my toy,” Woojin
continues, gesturing with his tiny arms a bountiful exaggeration of the motion that Jungkook needed
to make to slightly lift up the edge of their couch.

“Yes,” Taehyung professes, though honestly Woojin is so utterly fascinated with the bare minimum,
“Jungkookie is really strong, isn’t he?”

He is strong, Taehyung knows. Physically, he’s a master of his own body, he is impressive in his
strength. From the fights he’s watched, to the times he’d been on the end of his entitled manhandling
at the beginning of all this, he knows.

“He could lift you up, too, Taetae, I bet,” Woojin pronounces with a small assured nod.

Taehyung scoffs with his whole chest. “Listen,” he begins, brows raising up in his forehead that
creases with the offence, “I know I’ve put on some weight, but I’m still lighter than the couch,
Woo.”
“But he only lifted up the couch a little,” his brother says, and Taehyung’s lips press together, pull in
a smile. So, he does know Jungkook didn’t lift up the whole entire couch for his toy. “He could lift
you up and carry you like my character on the game carries the dead bodies.”

An urge to laugh sits at his sternum as he watches over his brother. “Okay, what is this game and
why does it have dead bodies?” his brows alone are chiding and inquisitive with the way he arches
them at him when he tilts his head down, but Woojin merely shrugs. Taehyung knows all of the
siblings he is the least intimidating. He shakes his head, glances away. “And Jungkook doesn’t want
to carry me around.”

It bothers him that Woojin so involuntarily and casually tugs at notes, fishes out memories. He hasn’t
even properly known Jungkook that long, yet in any conversation something would sneak up to
remind him with no warning whatsoever. He remembers that third time he’d had Jungkook over,
when the burn mark from his father’s cigarette was fresh and pulsing, meat underneath exposed, pink
and teary. He’d pressed his head in the pillow and let him take him as hard as he willed it, until he’d
drained every last bit of him, the final time he touched him before kissing him, just trudging along the
threshold of the danger of all this, but not stepping past it.

Taehyung had wanted to be carried.

“Why?”

Taehyung turns to him, the smile on his face a little tighter. “Because I’m not a princess,” he tells his
little brother.

Woojin’s lower lip tucks into his mouth and for a moment he seems to ponder deeply before he
concludes with another firm nod. “That’s fair.”

Laughter does bubble out of him this time. “What?” he asks through it. “You don’t think I deserve to
be carried?” he accuses with a feigned shock lacing through his voice as he presses a palm on top of
his chest, absolutely appalled.

“Well,” Woojin cocks his head, presses a tiny finger in the small dimple of his chin, “you should be
thankful you’re not a dead body,” he grins absolutely satisfied with himself and Taehyung’s on his
feet.
“You little…” he begins as he charges, wrapping his arms around Woojin’s waist and pressing his
stomach into his shoulder unexpectedly before he straightens up, the little boy dangling over his
back, hands flailing. His first instinct is a very pitched yelp, but it morphs into giggles fairly quickly
and Taehyung’s lungs brim with warmth. “See,” he tosses him into place at his shoulder, as Woojin
juggles between laughter and a whiny mantra of I’m sorry, Taetae’s,“I can carry you. Am I not
strong, too?” He bounces him a little again and it only coaxes a higher giggle out of him. “Hm? Do
you like Jungkook better than me now?”

“No,” he feels Woojin press his palms into his back, attempt to climb onto his spine. “I like you best
of all people, hyung,” he promises, and Taehyung just wiggles him on top of his shoulder more.

“You sure about that, brat?” He jostles the boy and attempts to be stern, but fondness sneaks
treacherous on his shoulder.

“Yes, Taetae, promise. I’m getting dizzy.” Taehyung tosses him a final time, before he returns him to
the couch, right into the sitting position he picked him up from, letting him bounce a little of the
cushion.

“You promise?” Taehyung crouches down in front of him, darts falsely stern eyes over his brother’s
beaming face, but with the more he stares at his smile, the more his own breaks out onto his face.

Woojin’s missing a tooth and his eyes almost disappear on his face when he fully grins, like Jimin’s,
and his cheeks are still so chubby, chubbier when his lips stretch like that. He has a dimple, deeper
than Namjoon’s and his skin grows slightly red from the laughter and the time he spent upside down.

He truly doesn’t understand how Namjoon left him. With the smallest things, Taehyung learns what
love is, and he certainly loves his little brother to death.

“Yes,” Woojin nods, confirms again, but just before Taehyung can pat his hair in praise, he
continues. “but he’s better at games and at lifting things,” he pauses, and with a small smile that
Taehyung just knows he stretches when he means to wreak havoc, he concludes, “You fucking
suck.”

Taehyung gasps, mouth falling opened as Woojin’s face gets redder, and he buries it in tiny palms.
“What did you just say?” he asks, own voice pitched higher, as he pries his hands away from his face
to look at him, this time with an actual attempt at a small glare. The boy allows him to take his arms,
blinks at him with his chin hidden in his chest, pouty and all so innocent. “You don’t use that word,
Woowoo,” Taehyung shakes his head, voice firm, before he aggressively boops his nose as
punishment.
“You use it,” Woojin proclaims, lifting his nose higher up in the air, arms folding together over his
small body. “It’s a free country,” he says, and Taehyung cannot help the short, snorted chuckle that
escapes him.

He shakes his head, pressing his palms onto his brother’s knees to hold himself crouching. “I don’t
know if it will be good for you to play with Jungkook if you already talk to me like this,” he tells
him.

“Why,” Woojin starts, his arms untangling with a small panic. His brows furrow, “don’t you like
Jungkook?”

Little kids always ask the most complicated questions.

“No, no,” Taehyung hurries to shake his head into the innocence of Woojin’s question. “He’s just,”
he tries once, fails, lips fall shut and he has to glance away, blinks towards the kitchen and thinks.
“He’s complicated,” he murmurs after a silent moment, returns his gaze, soft, to smile slightly at his
little brother.

His big eyes blink with insecure wonder. “But you like him?” he presses once more.

He doesn’t want to say no. He’s honest when he says complicated; it is, Jungkook is and this is, but
he frankly doesn’t want to bring the reasons behind it into his brother’s life. Ji-woo only knows the
bad sides of Jungkook, and maybe, Woojin should only know the good, for now.

Most of all, he doesn’t want to lie.

He so inadvertently makes his gut tug at him with such a simple question. Taehyung feels an
undecipherable type of anxiety raise his chest, which is blatantly ridiculous. It’s just Woojin, asking
questions. He’s as curious as Taehyung, doesn’t really care much for borders at this point in his life,
too early to know the dimensions of inappropriate extend past nudity and profanity.

Taehyung smacks his lips together, runs his tongue over the lower.

“Yes, Woo,” he says, voice dropping an octave, low, calm deepness coating it, “I like him,” he
confesses, palms tightening into Woojin’s knees with a reassurance that he mostly needs himself, and
as if compelled his tongue speaks more, eyes dart to the floor. “A lot,” he says, merely a whisper.

Were he not speaking to a six year old maybe he would have received the silence he intuitively asked
for, but he is, and it is not registering to Woojin just the weight of what Taehyung is saying. His
brother simply shuffles forward onto the couch, enthusiastically coming forth with more ideas, “Huh,
maybe you can invite him for a sleepover like I do with my friends.”

Taehyung’s chuckle is short, and he mostly lets it out for the idea of it, before he glances back up at
Woojin, lips pressed together tight. He wonders how much his brother can judge at this age, if he
knows Taehyung’s eyes are sad when they dart across him. “Jungkookie and I shouldn’t have
sleepovers, Woojin,” he tells him simply, head lightly shaking.

“Why not?” Woojin asks, whiny and a bit disgruntled. “He can sleep in Namjoon’s bed.”

“I think he’s done enough in my bed.”

Taehyung’s head shoots up. He doesn’t realize how he didn’t hear two people coming in from the
back door, whether it’s fault of the soundtrack of the video game Woojin has on pause or the thump
of his own heart in his chest that pumps loud blood in his ears, but it doesn’t matter. His heart beats
different when he sees his sister, wary and once more anxious. He pushes of the floor, straightens on
his feet, gaze sealed onto her and he cannot help but beg they heard little of this conversation.

She stands a few paces in front of Namjoon, her arms folded, and a gaze stern and cold enough for
Taehyung’s earlier attempts to seem absolutely comical. Her lips press together, but safe for her eyes
which are undeniably sharp, her features sit simple on her face, reticent and cool.

“Woojin,” she starts, and her voice is as cutting as her eyes, “isn’t it time for you to go to bed?”

He says nothing discernable, just a muffled groan, but he knows not to verbally go against their sister
when she uses that voice.

“Come on, Woo,” Namjoon steps forward, his hand outstretched and inviting. “I’ll tuck you in,” he
suggests as if it’s something they habitually do.

Woojin lifts off the couch, eyes the hand a little too pouty for Ji-woo’s current patience. “Can’t Tae
do it?” he asks, his head turning back as he blinks imploring at his other brother.

Taehyung means to agree. Ji-woo has other plans. “No, Woo,” she dismisses, short and firm. “I have
to speak to Tae,” she proclaims, and Taehyung’s attention shifts from where Woojin stole it back to
her.

“Come on,” Namjoon beckons softly, fingers and palm pulsing in the air with invitation until Woojin
slips his small hand in and lets him lead him upstairs.

“Oh,” Taehyung half scoffs, eyes narrowing slightly at his sister. “You’ll speak to me?” he coats
with a generous amount of irony, which to him, she only has coming. Her attempts at conversation
with Taehyung have been nothing but pathetic. Her attempts at listening – or lack thereof – even
more so.

She does not deign acknowledge Taehyung’s bitterness, instead directs to him her own. “You
introduced him to Woojin?” she questions, incredulous.

Him, she says, so judgmental and poisonous. Him, she says with enough disgust for Taehyung’s
eyes to narrow more, for his heart to drum, offended and defensive.

“Yes,” he answers, nearly hisses, teeth pressing together with the shameless finality of his response.

Her brows arch, head cocks. “Behind my back?” she pronounces, accusing.

He wants to scoff again. His shoulders lift, shrug. “Didn’t know I needed your authorization to
introduce people to my brother,” he doesn’t want to direct such animosity to his sister, never
imagined he would have to, but his instinct is to mirror.

And she speaks to him as if he is stupid, as if he is a child, and as if he has committed treason all the
same. “When it’s Jeon Jungkook you do.”

He releases a heaved sigh. “Enough with this Jeon thing already,” he demands, borders on desperate.
His mind swims with Jungkook pairing himself unfailingly to that cursed name and his blood churns
with the memory, and really the danger is in the smallest things, the smallest. “I’ll still get who you
mean if you say Jungkook. You know, it’s just the one,” he sasses, hands opening before his fingers
clap into his palms.
Ji-woo doesn’t much care for the attitude. She only straightens her head. “Don’t bring a Jeon to my
house.”

“Our house,” he corrects. He pays as much as she does. He glances away, shakes his head a little,
tongue poking in the corner of his mouth before he returns the gaze to her, insists simply, no anger,
no accusation, he just tells her, “He’s not going to do or say anything bad to Woojin.”

But she doesn’t listen.

“Yeah?” her chin juts, mouth parts, and she tucks her lip above her teeth. Her feet adjust. “Bet you
didn’t think he was going to sleep with me either,” her tongue whips, strikes.

His own mouth parts, loose. For a short moment, he’s crestfallen she’d use this against him. In every
moment that follows, he’s angry. “Why are you like this?” he asks, he almost shouts but doesn’t,
because the frustration of that question makes him want to rip strands out of his head. “Why do you
have to fucking bring that up?”

He hates that Jungkook did that. Hates, hates, hates. He doesn’t think he’s ever hated anything as
much as this, and in his angriest, most vulnerable moments, he forgets he hates the action and not the
people, not Jungkook and not Ji-woo. The memory is still physical. Still makes it hard to breathe,
especially when she uses it like that. On her mouth as a weapon, it holds more impact than when
Taehyung unintentionally and helplessly returns to it, when he reminded Jungkook himself the other
day. Jungkook’s fingers on his skin made it possible to breathe through the memory. His whisper of
regret almost made it easy.

Ji-woo offers no consolation. She hardens her eyes, sharpens her tongue. “It’s my fault for
mentioning it and not his for doing it?”

Taehyung shakes his head. “You know what your problem is?” he starts, and she beckons with her
chin shortly tilting to her neck, ironic, I’m all ears. She doesn’t really listen, but he tells her anyway.
“You don’t know anything about him other than his last name. You don’t know what went on
between us at all, and you don’t care to find out, yet you compare it to how he would treat our baby
brother,” he says, features contorting with a perplexed sadness he instinctively shows to her, because
it’s his sister, and she has always been at his side. “He’d never—”

“He’s a Jeon,” she interrupts, firm. “Why would I need to know anything else?”
Emotion is pried out of him when he doesn’t want it to be, but her stubbornness sucks it out of him in
waves of frustration. “Because I want you to,” he presses a forefinger into his chest, eyes wide.
“Okay?” his brows shoot up. “Because I care about him.”

He doesn’t expect her to reciprocate, but her throat strains with her response. “Well, you shouldn’t,”
she yells, her arms falling open, palms stretching into the air and her whole body shakes with the
wave of it.

“I shouldn’t?” he stresses, her choice of word etching into his brain.“Fucking why?”

Her chest heaves into a breath that she sucks long through her nose. “Because he’s rich,” she releases
with frustration. “He’s an ass,” she lists, “He’s everything we promised each other our brother won’t
be exposed to. He’s a Jeon.” His mouth opens so immediate when she says that fucking name again,
but she speaks more, and his teeth clank shut.“And he’s a man.”

He stares at her. Stares with his eyes more shocked than hurt, because he never expected this from
her. “A man?” he says, a spitefulness he can’t control oozing through. “What, it suddenly matters to
you what genitalia people I sleep with have?” he stops, stares some more, speaks again, speaks
harder, “I like it up the ass, so what? That only has to do with me. No one’s making you take it up
the ass.”

Her eyes swim with something. They’re no longer cold. They’re soft on him, vulnerable. He
recognizes his sister in those eyes, and he sees her take her time with this now. She says nothing
more of his gender, gnaws at her lips while he speaks, and he just knows had it been another man it
would not be like this. She’s so fucking desperate for it to not be Jeon Jungkook, that she’s pulling at
every pathetic card up her sleeve. She places a wrong one at the table and holds back with the next.

She’s silent for a couple of moments, speaks softer the next. “Taehyung, he hurt you.”

“You’re doing it, too,” Taehyung tells her. “And you’re fucking trying to.”

She breathes sharply, tries to harden her voice again, but it’s shakier now, trembles when it raises
higher. “Well, you’re doing it to me as well,” she accuses. “You’re supposed to be my
partner. We’re in this together,” she reminds him, says things they promised each other again and
again when Namjoon first left. “And we’re against people like him.”
“We don’t even know them, Ji-woo,” his own voice raises smoothly; his own claim is sure. “We
keep complaining they’ve labeled us as Kims and that’s enough for them to decide who we are, and
we’re doing the fucking same.”

Her head shakes. “They’re right about us, though, aren’t they?” she asks, shoulders lifting and falling
in a shrug that is almost defeated. “Namjoon’s a drug dealer who plays with the big guys and gets
burned. Our father is a con man. I’m a slut,” she lists as if it is all so simple. “And you can’t keep
your nose out of rich people’s business.”

Taehyung’s laugh is short, a single breath, his eyes charging away for a mere moment to roll. “You
trying to tell me each of us has one quality or…?” he trails. “Yes,” he says, does not shy away from
agreeing that yes, all she claims is true, and, “Yes, he did sleep with you,” it hurts that it is true, and
he hugs himself as he says it aloud, hands clinging to his arms, but it’s history now, part of who
Jungkook is, and he can't just ignore it. “The rumors about him have a lot of truth to them,” he
confirms. “You think that makes a whole person?” His shoulders shrug, too. “He boxes, he cheats,
he drinks, as people say he does." He finds her eyes; he shakes his head.” But he cares about his
sister a lot more than you care about me.”

It’s scary for Taehyung to think that Ji-woo cares more about what they built together and the words
they said to each other out of fear, that she cares more about this household functioning in a very,
very Kim way, that she sees him now as a partner in this more so than a brother. And he doesn’t
want to blame her because he knows she’s scared all the foundations they built will fall apart because
he cares about the wrong person, he knows she considers keeping this family going, feeding Woojin
every day, three times a day, as her top priority.

But he does. He blames her for not trying, not attempting to listen. Because Jungkook isn’t that. Jeon
Jungkook maybe yes, but Jungkook hides in the small things, in the layers. And just because
Taehyung allows himself to know this does not mean he forgets what this family means to him as
well.

“Taehyung—” she starts, but he’s interrupting.

He interrupts, because there is no other way to get her to shut up and listen. “And his sister is in the
hospital right now,” he tells her. “She OD’d,” for the next moment he gives her a chance to speak,
but she doesn’t. “And he has no one around him who knows why she felt the need to swallow as
many pills as she did. Only me.” He presses a curled fist to his chest now, taps it against it. “So, fuck
you,” he says but he’s calm, he doesn’t shout, doesn’t raise his voice; he’s so calm, “he can play a
fucking video game with our baby brother, it’s more attention than you’re ready to pay to him,
anyway.” He presses his fist back into the fold of his arm, where the inside of his elbow curls. “Can I
say goodnight to Woojin now?” his brows raise. “Do I need your permission for that as well?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply when he zooms past her and up the staircase, and she doesn’t attempt to
offer one either.

“Yeah,” Jungkook lets the door close behind them, Julia walking confident and comfortable into the
apartment before him, “a literal clone of you. Looked like she had something done to her lips.”

It is both familiar and so incredibly strange to have her strut her heels along the marble of his
hallway. He has had her there very few times since he fucked up things with Taehyung. Three, to be
precise. Once, in which he explained, tried to. Twice, when Clo OD’d. Third time, when she came
to pick up some handcuffs and make up she kept at his apartment.

They speak, but it’s rare. It’s weird. She avoids people, keeps her sunglasses on more than usual and
drinks a slightly bit more. Now exactly, she struts, hips shaking to the whisky cabinet in his father’s
drinking room, picks out his father’s crystal decanter, engraved with that very same crest that
Jungkook has forever carved on the ring of his finger, and easily unclogs it. Her manicure is perfect,
but her hand shakes a bit when she pours in her glass of choice.

“I think I know who you mean,” she says, keeping her back to him as he follows her into the room.
She raises the glass to her lips, tips it slightly. None of her perfect red lipstick stays on the surface.
She purses her mouth. “Macallan?” she asks, eyes falling to the amber liquid.

Jungkook folds his arms, standing a little before the painting that he now knows is Renoir. “Eighteen
years old,” he specifies.

“Only?” he imagines she perches a brow up in her forehead.

He nods, and she doesn’t see it, but she concludes. “So, he won’t miss it.” Her body turns now, eyes
fixing onto him as she presses her slim fingers to the intricate end table that holds his father’s most
cherished alcohol. “What were you doing in the Ozone?” she asks. “I thought you didn’t want to be
around that for until Clo gets out at least.”

Jungkook shrugs his shoulders. “It just happened.”

Her perfect lips curl so crookedly on her face, the crystal of the whisky held low below her chin as
her hands now raise, fold. “Taehyung was there,” she says, blinks. She sips.

As soon as Jungkook and Julia break up something between them snaps. A barrier falls and crumbles
to pieces. She isn’t cautious around him anymore. There are no more subjects taboo. As bold in
tongue as Yoongi is with him, she becomes. She no longer fears his rejection. She faces it every
minute of every hour. It’s a given. So, she’s brave with her observations, more meticulous than he
imagined he’d be if she ever let her tongue loose.

He nods. “He was,” he admits, plainly.

She nods as well, downs her glass. Pours another.

“You know,” she speaks as her eyes scrutinize the liquid as it slips into the glass, “In moments I’m
glad that it’s him.” She sniffs the air, wraps her palm and fingers loosely around the crystal glass and
turns back to Jungkook. “Always kept wondering what it was that I missed,” she tells him, voice
edging in its pitch, higher, almost giddy, and he recognizes it well enough, the slight panic of
something not going her way, the slight panic of affect, “that I couldn’t give you.” Her voice coats
with a quivering emotion, but she holds her glass straight and walks forward with the click of her
impossible heels. She swings the glass, gulps, and he watches. “Turns out it’s a penis.” Her eyes fall
back to him.

“Julia,” he starts, voice low and warning, but she interrupts with a cackle that seems to tear through
her throat.

“You don’t understand how fucking happy I am it’s not another woman,” she says through the
forced, nervous laughter. But then she shakes her head, then she says honest and firm. “I would have
never forgiven you if it had been a woman.” She sips, extends the glass to him as she grows closer.
“Whiskey?” she offers, nearly pressing her fingers into his chest.

“No,” Jungkook shakes his head, but he wraps his own fingers around the glass and takes it out of
her fingers, bending slightly at the knees to put it at a low table beside them.

Her digits curl together after as if they need to clutch at something. “You know what’s fucking
ironic, Jungkook?” her voice pitches and tips, a glint in her eyes as she forces them on him. He can
see her nails dig into her palm. “I remember after you both fucked me, I kept wondering if I could get
you two to touch each other,” she does not wait for his response. She never seems to stop speaking,
words pry from her throat like vomit, a string of sentences that get higher, shakier. “Thought it would
be hot. Is it? Is it hot, is that why you kept at it? How hot must it be for you to risk so much to fuck a
boy?”

Her voice breaks and so does her countenance, losing any firmness and contorting too ugly for her to
handle him looking at her, so he does her a favor, closes the space between them and wraps a single
arm around her slim shoulders, presses her head into him.

“Julia,” he glides a hand over her shoulder blade when he feels it tremble, curls his palm over her
bone and squeezes to steady her.

Her forehead presses into his clavicle, head shakes, once to the left, once to the right, a single time.
She breathes. “I love you,” she mumbles into his shirt. “Who the fuck is going to replace you now,
Jungkook?” she asks, for a moment there is anger, one of the hands that curl into fists, slamming next
to her head, but then it’s weak again. “You replaced me.”

Jungkook tightens his hand on her, grabs at both of her shoulders and pushes her back to find her
eyes. “I didn’t replace you,” he promises once she gives them. “He’s nothing like you. You are
irreplaceable to me, okay? Julia.” She’s glancing away, raising her hand, rubs one finger under her
nose, one under her eye, careful to keep all her make up in place. She cannot afford to look
distraught when he can see. She takes a step back, his hands falling away, and he straightens.
“You’re one of my best fucking friends,” he tells her as he watches her bend to the glass, raise it
again. “And I miss you.” She drinks. “Why have you stopped coming to Yoongi’s?”

“I don’t want to see you in front of people,” she says, keeps her body angled away from his now.
She sucks in the embarrassment from almost breaking down audibly. “Can’t have anyone see I’m
upset, can I?” she sips once more, but her gulps are smaller now. Her throat clears. “How is he?”

Jungkook blinks up from her glass to her profile. “Who?”

She swallows, but she hasn’t sipped again. “Taehyung,” she says.

He’s looking away. He glances at that painting behind which are the keys to the consoles. “I don’t
know.”

She eyes him as he hides his face, but her gaze slips before he could potentially return it. “He was
worried about you.”
“We don’t have to talk about him.”

“No, it’s—” she stops herself, hesitates. Her next breath is deeper. “If he’s going be a part of your
life, I better get used to it,” she pauses, drinks again. “Before I embarrass myself. More,” she adds
with some buried frustration.

Jungkook’s eyes return to her. “You still want to be a part of my life?”

This time, she meets them again. “You said it,” she shrugs, she’s softer. “You’re one of my best
fucking friends.” The edge of her lips tilts, then falls, then she speaks like herself again. “Also, the
friends I made through you are obviously lesser snakes than my own.” Her attention turns to the
liquid in her drink, which she slushes around as if the contents hold any interest. “You’re kind of a
package deal with Yoongi and Hoseok, and I can’t live without the shitheads, so.”

He stares at her, nods. He slips his hands in his pockets, squeezes them into fists there. “If it’s any
consolation,” he starts, trying to keep the tightness out of his voice, but it sneaks up on him, lodges
treacherous in his throat. “I don’t think he’ll be a part of my life.”

“It’s not a consolation,” she says, quick but quiet. Her head shakes and strands of her hair slip across
her face when she lifts it up to look at him again. “It would only be consolation to me if you
chose him not to be.” Her lower lip briefly tucks into her mouth as her eyes dart across his
expression, but in a moment her drink is more interesting once again. “And I can tell by your fucking
voice you want him.”

He doesn’t know what else to say to her, and he promised her truth from now on. So, he nods.
“Yes,” he replies, “I do.”

She nods, too. “Right,” she mumbles under her breath, tips her head back and swallows down the
rest of the liquid. He waits for her to pour down some more, but she leaves the glass empty. “Why
doesn’t he want you?” she ventures, curiosity slipping into the question, unadulterated. “He came to
me,” she says, for emphasis she adds, “had the fucking guts to come to me,” her eyes find him again,
“to ask how you were. He seemed like he cared.” Her voice drops slightly, and she studies him as if
she tries to read the answers on his face. “What did you do to him?” His gaze is sealing on that
fucking painting again. “Jungkook.”

He shakes his head. “I told you I fucked up.”

“Yeah,” her chin tilts “you told me you fucked up. You didn’t tell me how.”

“It’s—” his heart hammers, he wishes his own nails were longer, to break the skin as they dig into
palm punishingly. With the next motions of his head, hair falls across his forehead more, strands
move with the repetitive blinks of his lashes. “I fucked up, okay?”

Julia is silent. Then her voice is softer. “Don’t you owe me that at least?”

His eyes shoot to hers. Maybe she’s not curious. Maybe she’s worried, with the way her eyes layer
over him, the way they seem to raise from studying the restless ministrations of his hands in his
pockets, which he lied to himself were subtle. He owes her this, he figures. Not because she’s his ex.
But because she’s one of his best fucking friends.

“I, uh—” he struggles. This gets harder to confess. The guilt from having done it doesn’t lessen with
each day, it seems to magnify, instead, it seems to take more shape, grow more solid and permanent,
because it doesn’t pass away, he doesn’t forget. Taehyung doesn’t. Ji-woo doesn’t. No one forgets.
With each time he’s with Taehyung and things don’t go right, don’t go back, his need for them to
grows even more. With each time he gets to speak to him, he feels more and more helpless, because
nothing he says has the power to change anything. “We slept together this final time, but it was…”
he hesitates, he searches for a word, “different,” he settles, and the word as a word does not do it
justice, but perhaps she gets it. “And I got scared,” he admits, he shrugs, “ignored him for a week.
Then next time I made an appearance in his house, which he had allowed me into several times, it
was to fuck his sister in the room next to him,” he says it quick and sharp and cruel, because that’s
how it was, and it tastes so utterly nauseating on his tongue. “He listened.” His shoulders raise, fall,
dejected. “I made sure he’d listen.”

She stares at him. She stares at him for so fucking long and he can’t return it. He watches his feet. He
doesn’t even know what brand he’s wearing anymore. He doesn’t give a flying fuck.

It takes her more than a minute. But she says, nearly hisses, something vituperative in her tone of
voice. “You’re a fucking ass.”

He swallows. “I know.”

“Why?” she demands. It’s harsh. It’s almost hurt. He supposes if anyone other than Taehyung can
imagine what it felt like being on the other side of that wall, it is her.
Jungkook’s eyes fly to hers, wide. It’s an instinct of his to try to be defensive, “He scared the fuck out
of me.” He presses his fingers to his chest. “I’d never—"

“Never felt that way during sex?” she guesses. Guesses right. She nods, doesn’t shy away from his
eyes. “Yes,” she tells him, “it’s scary.” Her lips smack shut and so does his. Things really would be
much easier if she could get him to feel that way. But then he would have never known Taehyung.
“Did you say sorry?”

“Yes.”

She glances away and for a several moments more it’s silent again. “Are you alone?” she breaks it,
her arms folding in front of her. “Will your parents be away the whole time Clo Eun’s in rehab?”

“They’re in Korea already,” he tells her, “just not in Seoul. Byung-Chul wants my father on stand by
for some car company client, they’re selling their label. They’re staying like an hour away.”

He doesn’t comment on her first question, but she presses again, “But you’re alone here?” her brows
raise, eyes fixing over him once more. “Yoongi says you don’t sleep at his.”

He shrugs. “I was considering at first, but I stay here just in case.”

He forgets she no longer cares when his vagueness is pointed. She asks, “In case of what?”

Jungkook releases a breath through his nose, presses his teeth together, jaw pulling tighter, but he
promised her truth. “Tae came over,” he shrugs, “twice. He might—” he hesitates, his tongue
slipping out and coursing over his mouth, “feel like it again.”

Her brows perch higher. “Tae?”

“Taehyung.”

“Yeah,” she nods, her eyes growing harder. “I took a fucking guess.” It’s something so small that
gets her aggravated, a goddamn name, but Jungkook supposes the intricacies are in the small things.
Her red lips part and he sees the tip of her tongue layer over her teeth, the edges of her mouth tilting.
Her shoulders jolt briefly with the short, cold laughter that escapes her. “What has that boy done to
you?” Her head shakes and she looks away from him. She has to look away from him. “Waiting
around in case he shows up. Jesus,” she exclaims, and it seems to run over her whole body, from her
toes to her hair. She shakes her head once more. “You know, I need more time for this.”

He hears her walking, the sound of her heels so familiar on his floor, much before he sees it. “Julia,”
he calls, but she doesn’t turn, raises a dismissive hand.

“See you at Yoongi’s,” she waves her skinny fingers. “At some point. Tell Clo I miss her.”

Tae

my brother suggested I invite you to a sleepover

Jungkook

I sincerely hope you don’t mean namjoon

Tae

that would be an interesting turn

but no it’s your fan

Jungkook

are you inviting me to a sleep over?

Tae

No

but can you come play with him sometime

Jungkook

with him?

Tae
yes

Jungkook

yeah whenever before the semester starts

Tae

I got into that architecture thing

Jungkook

of course you did

proud of you pretty boy

looks like youre smart too

Tae

did you doubt?

Jungkook

no

Tae

really?

Jungkook

god gives and god takes

Ypu cant suck at games this much and not be good at math

Tae

bitch.

Jungkook

can I see you again?

not a date just

 see you

I won’t try to touch you

wont mention japan

Jungkook

sorry

Tae

when?

Jungkook

whevever

your call

Tae

what are you doing now?

Jungkook

Im at yoongis

you could come

Tae

uummmm
 Jungkook

they don’t bite

Tae

yoongi scares me

Jungkook

me too but hes harmless

Tae

and youll explain me how?

Jungkook

they wont ask questions

and if they do

Ill just

tell them

Tae

no

too richhood

Jungkook

Okay what about you come with me to the gym after?

Tae

the gym?

Jungkook

yes, my building

Tae

you got a private gym?

 Jungkook

did you doubt

Tae

no

Jungkook

So?

wont try anything I promise

No touching, no kissing

Tae

you know

you could come play with my brother now

he’s nagging

Jungkook

your sister?

Tae

out

“Joon,” Taehyung lingers at the staircase as he steps down, just above the faulty second step. He
slips his phone in the back pocket of his pants.

His brother lifts his head from the book he’s reading. That used to be a familiar sight, too. Namjoon
at the kitchen table, the ankle of one leg propped on top of the knee of the other, a book resting at
some angle on his lap or at the table, his glasses on. Namjoon is one of the few people Taehyung
knows that still reads. And that still chooses to sit at actual chairs. Taehyung himself always prefers
lounging, picks the couch. His spine curls a little every time he sits.

“Yeah,” Namjoon addresses, his eyes only slightly magnified beneath the lens of the glasses
adorning his face.

Taehyung trudges down the last two steps, nears the table. “Um,” he starts. It’s awkward. He pulls at
a chair near by him because when he stands he cannot help swinging slightly at his heels. The legs of
it scrape over lines in the flooring that have long ago been made. He plasters his ass on it, has to slip
his phone back out. He rests it on the table face down in case a message lights up the screen. “I
wasn’t with Jimin the other night,” he confesses.

Namjoon’s brows raise above the dark frames. It takes him about a second, which Taehyung
supposes he deliberately takes just to screw his forehead enough, to venture a guess. “Jungkook?”

Taehyung nods. “Yeah,” he pronounces softly, his eyes fixing over the device that sits on the table.
Jungkook, whom he is going to see again, just because he asked over a fucking text message. But
Taehyung wants to see him, all of him, now that he knows,now he doesn’t lie to himself, now that
there a label, a stamp on what he feels for him. His curiosity is once again a hazard. He wants to see
if he will look at him differently. He wants to see if he will feel differently. He can’t imagine it
possibly being more. “He took me out.”

His brother’s eyes lower, furrow. “Took you out?” He asks. “What, like, a date?”

“No,” Taehyung’s head shakes, because it didn’t feel like it, it was just another interaction with
Jungkook. “He just wanted to talk. It wasn’t. I mean, he wanted to call it that, but—“

“It’s okay,” Namjoon is kind enough to interrupt his stuttering, does not really need a specification,
and Taehyung is quite frankly glad. He has never been able to truly describe any of his interactions
with Jungkook, any of what the two of them were, and until recently, any of what he felt for him.
“You talked?”

Taehyung swallows nothing. “Yes,” He starts, “and um,” he hesitates, pokes a tongue to the side of
his cheek, but he continues, “we kissed.”

Namjoon’s head pulls back, chin tucking into his neck. “Oh.”

“It was just,” Taehyung tries to justify, for his own sake, because for some reason, he feels guilty, as
if the kiss was just a next sin, though when it started it felt nothing like it. Kissing Jungkook, he
thinks, could never feel wrong, “a short one, it was nothing.” His head shakes as he dismisses, and
his veins pulse with the pure dishonesty — every shift and press of his lips against his felt
exhilarating, so demanding,in a way he cannot properly formulate. It was not nothing. Yes, it was
small. A small thing, miniscule, tiny, lasted a little over a minute, how could it ever matter. Just
another one small thing in disguise in the construction of something so incomprehensibly huge, so
grandiose, so consuming.

It’s the small things, Taehyung learns, always the small things, lips on lips.

“Tae, are you…” Namjoon’s eyes seek around the features of his face, head shakes a little atypically
helpless at finding continuation, but finally he settles, “going somewhere with this or?”

Taehyung gulps once more, gives himself a second, then two, gives himself thirty. “Where would we
stay?” He asks suddenly, more forceful than he intends, his eyes sealing onto his brother. Every
single question that Jungkook asked him that night rams into his brain, channels from his heart to his
head like second blood running and he is scared. Scared of the unfamiliar, scared of leaving Woojin,
scared of the fact a decision is impending, scared of the fact he is so desperately clinging onto every
reason as to why he should not leave. “In Japan?”

Namjoon does not hide the perplexity that slips into the tug of his features at the change of a subject,
but he cocks his head, speaks informatively. “A small residential area near Kyoto,” he tells him, and
Taehyung remembers the mention of Kyoto both when Namjoon and him discussed previously and
when Jungkook told him for no reason other than his personal decision that he called from a Kyoto
area code on that rooftop. “But I have business in Kyoto mostly.”

Taehyung nods. He cannot stifle bitterness as it laces his tongue. “You sell there?” It’s not a
question, really, but he says it as if it is, simply because he wants the fact he will still live with drugs
if he were to leave this place pointed out, loud and clear.

Namjoon’s teeth tease over his bottom lip. He takes a moment. He nods. “Yeah.” He presses the tips
of his fingers on the frames of his glasses, strips them off of his face and folds them on the table next
to Taehyung’s phone. “And I’ve found two places that would be suitable for you to study,” he tells
him; he’s quick with it, slips some enthusiasm in his voice that feels uneasy to Taehyung. “You
could do a full-time course. You don’t have to immediately start working or you could do part-time. I
make enough money.” His lips pull to his cheeks, one dimple, so similar to Woojin’s, pulls at the left.

The chuckled breath seems to only pass through his chest. “Through drugs?”

“Well,” he nods, fingers toying restless with the glasses he means to leave at the table. “Yes.”
Taehyung glances away, tongue poking into his cheek. He cups his palms at his elbows and fixates
on the sink. “I don’t even know if I speak Japanese well enough for this.”

Namjoon’s knuckles knock repeatedly into the table. “You have a strong base,” he reassures, “you’ll
get it.”

He doesn’t mean to snap. “No, I’m not you,” he does as his eyes return to him, wider, teeth bashing,
“I can’t just get it.” His glance to him is short before he takes it away again, finds the sink. His
fingers squeeze into his elbows for a moment. “When would we have to leave?”

He knows Namjoon watches as his jaw sets, pulls. “The sooner the better.”

His heel lifts off the floor, toes press, and his knee starts to uncontrollably bounce, fingers tapping
restless. Stay, his ears ring. With me. His ears ring. The sound pauses, stills. He hears his own voice.
“Jungkook wants me to stay.”

“Of course, he does.”

He drags his eyes back to his brother. His own wait. “I want to stay, too,” he tells him, more honest
than he expects from himself, before he drops his gaze to the table, stare at his phone. “I don’t know
if I should,” his head shakes. Namjoon is saying nothing and he feels his ears might be at the verge
of buzzing again. “Ji-woo really hates the idea of me and him.”

Namjoon lets his glasses be, taps at the table instead. His chin nods. “Yeah, she does,” he
acknowledges, and Taehyung hates how he cannot judge anything by his voice.

“And you?” He cocks his head.

He shakes his head this time. “I don’t want to influence your decision.”

A breath leaves him, almost a scoff. “I can think, okay?” He says, fingers opening loose around his
elbows. “I just want my big brother’s opinion, that’s all.”

Namjoon’s teeth gnaw into the flesh of his lips again. He’s cautious. Namjoon is always cautious and
Taehyung is so jealous. He forgets cautious when he as much as thinks Jungkook. “Listen,” He
exhales. “I don’t know how much it hurt,” he says and unlike Ji-woo, he spares him, doesn’t spell it
out, and somehow like this Taehyung can take it because it sounds like a mistake and not like a
decision. “What he did. I can’t imagine it.” He stares into Taehyung’s eyes seemingly expecting a
permission to continue, only speaks again after observing a prolonged blink. “But I know some parts
of Jungkook, and I think if he accepts he cares about you, and I think he has, he will do his best to
never hurt you again,” he lets that linger, but it’s too damn short before his head shakes and he
continues softly, “But I’m not sure his best is good enough,” Taehyung’s eyes slip so discernibly
dejected to the objects on the table. Namjoon’s hand reaches but he doesn’t touch him. “Taehyung,
he is not about to tell his father about you.”

He’s scoffing, something vile and bilious raising in his chest, his throat, his mind. His head shakes,
vehement. “I don’t expect him to tell his father about me,” he says, a spitefulness undirected to his
brother. A while ago he believed he hated Jungkook. Now he knows he hates his father. “I don’t
want him to. The piece of shit will just hurt him if he does.”

“Okay,” Namjoon nods with a feeble tension, “you don’t expect that. But his father will expect
things from Jungkook,” he pauses, eyes linger on Taehyung as if he needs it, and he doesn’t because
he knows this, but he does, because it still feels so wrong. Namjoon’s head shakes. “And he can’t
simply say no.”

It’s a fact. No matter what Taehyung allows Jungkooknow. No matter what he allows himself to
do, there will always be a future, that does not in any way depend on him, them, Jungkook, as long
as he chooses to live the life that promises any security.

And he knows Jungkook has no plans on betraying that security of wealth, not now at least, not until
he has nothing to give up on it for. He wants desperately to find something to promise him instead,
but he can’t promise him himself, first because he simply cannot, second because of the fear if he
does, he will not be enough.

He can’t be enough. He can offer, what? Sex and conversation. He can offer himself. But that is
nothing. He cannot offer clothes, food, cars, cocktails, hotels, future.

Namjoon’s phone buzzes loud and he fishes it out of his pocket as if he’s been waiting. His eyes fall
on the screen that glares in his eyes.

“I have to do a run,” he says, digging his phone back into his pocket. It’s two models above
Taehyung’s. His eyes dart to his. “You’ll be good with Woo for now, right?”
Taehyung’s upper lip tips, brows tip. “You’re asking me that?” He asks with due incredulity.
Namjoon glances away, head tilting as he silently agrees it’s ridiculous for him to question
Taehyung’s capabilities with Woojin. “Isn’t it dangerous for you to run now?”

Namjoon shakes his head. “It’s just one guy,” he dismisses. “I trust him.” He taps his knuckles into
the table again, this time firmer. “Wanna leave more money before I leave this time around.”

“Hey,” he greets softly when Taehyung parts the back door.

Seeing him does feel marginally different. It’s once again, small, but certainly not negligible. Staring
at him in his doorway, would always make his heart race, but Taehyung thinks the pattern of the beat
is different now. It’s slower, but it’s harder.

“Hey,” he nods to him, eyes coating over as Jungkook returns it. They allow each other this silently,
without addressing it, taking the other in carefully, what they’re wearing, how their hair parts on their
foreheads, the circles under eyes. Taehyung, steps away, pauses his exploration and allows him to
close the door himself. “I’ll get Woo.”

Eyes dance over him. “Right away?” his voice lilts, a little sharp.

“Yeah,” Taehyung nods, lip folding into his mouth. His gaze on him feels slightly different, too, the
tiny charge of accusation that glints in his irises makes a rush course through him, some curious
guilt that pushes him to elaborate with a shrug he begs is casual. He releases his lip. “He keeps
nagging.”

“That’s why you asked me to come?”

Under his eyes, for the first few moments Taehyung feels as if he has lost all the progress he has
made since the first time Jungkook actually paid conscious attention to him. He remembers how
striking those piercing eyes had been when they had so unnaturally chosen his as a target. He
remembers how his mere stare was enough to overwhelm with its certain quality to make him
anxious and excited, to erase thought and raise goosebumps.
“Yeah,” Taehyung says, meeting the eyes that challenge him now, without even trying to. He is
scared looking at him so directly will let him read what his is thinking, allow him to perceive the
screaming mantra of confessions that buzz in his brain as he sees him for the first time since he
realizes. But though he feels like this is starting all over, he cannot let it show. He went a long
fucking way to let something as small as two blinking eyes drag him back to fearing the effect of a
stare. “I told you.”

Jungkook’s lips pull. They press together, form a line as he hovers near their kitchen table while
Taehyung lingers at the bottom of the stairs. “Okay,” he says. It’stight.

Taehyung’s eyes fall to Jungkook’s feet, raise to his face. “Thought you wanted to,” he starts, “you
said a few days ago—”

“I said okay,” Jungkook interrupts and Taehyung’s mouth snaps shut. He nods. He climbs up the
stairs, gets Woojin.

Taehyung has his legs crossed when he sits on the cupboard facing them. For the most part he tries to
look at his phone. For the most part, he fails.

“Story mode’s good, but versus is so underdeveloped, don’t you think?” Jungkook’s head shakes.
Woojin looks so ridiculously tiny on the couch next to him, but Jungkook turns to him, head cocking
and brows tilting with curiosity as if they are about to fall into a deep, profound discussion about
Assassin’s Creed.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung raises his eyes, forgets to pretend he isn’t paying attention. “He’s six.”

He receives dull, pointed looks from the both of them. “Well, he can still have an opinion,”
Jungkook tries to justify, fingers wrapped around his controller.

Woojin nods next to him, mirrors the tone of voice and the way Jungkook fucking sits on their
couch. “And I’m almost seven,” he protests, replacing his eyes from his brother to the man next to
him in a seeming search for accreditation.
He turns back to him, too. “Yeah?” he raises his brows; his voice doesn’t even change when he
speaks to him, he doesn’t baby him like most instinctually do, but it is softer, it’s a slightly bit more
careful. “Is it your birthday soon?”

His little brother starts to most enthusiastically nod, so Taehyung has to interrupt. “It’s in a month,”
he elaborates, resting his forearm on his knee, phone dangling useless and uninteresting from his
fingers, “it’s not that soon.”

Woojin’s lips pouts, his arms crossing brusque before his chest. “A month is soon, Taetae,” he
insists.

Jungkook angles his head back to him, corners of his lips quirking. “Yes, a month is soon, Taetae.”
A tension that had so tangibly forced itself between them when Taehyung first opened the door,
seems to dissipate in the presence of his little brother. The child’s innocence and ignorance does
magic to stifle the pressure of their eyes. He puts them both at ease. They have to behave, for him.

So, Taehyung lets the teasing slip, only sends a half-hearted glare to Jungkook. “I’ll kick you out.”

The corners of his lips only perk up at this, he spins back to his brother. “What do you want for your
birthday, Woowoo?”

It’s the first time he calls him that, Woowoo,and there is something horribly endearing. He doesn’t
know if he does it on purpose or if it just slips on instinct from hearing Taehyung address him like
this, but it sits surprisingly comfortable at him lips, which Taehyung cannot look away from now.
He’s warm. Small things make Taehyung learn so much.

He almost forgets to process the rest of the sentence, but then it downs on him. The softness of his
gaze that studies the pillows of Jungkook’s lips as they gently host his little brother’s name, morph
into a warning. “Jungkook, don’t,” he presses.

But Woojin is already dreaming aloud. He is still a child, still like Taehyung when he was little,
wishing a lot, wishing for everything. He doesn’t realize Jungkook can actually give him any single
thing that money can buy. “I want to be a part of the game.”

Jungkook’s head twists, lips pulling to the side in thought. “Well, that’s a little impossible,” he
comments then shrugs, “Could get you a VR set.”
Taehyung’s phone starts to buzz in his hand, and he spins it around, looks at Jimin’s familiar face.
“You’re not buying him anything,” he warns as he slips down from the cupboard, pressing his thumb
against the green circle on his screen as he moves to the kitchen. “Certainly not something
expensive.”

“Hey, Jimin,” he presses the phone to his ear, finds a counter to lean on.

“Hey, babe,” he greets, a faint sound of music coming from the other end, but his voice is loud and
clear through the speaker, “you busy?”

Taehyung cranes his body to the side, peeks through the empty doorframe to glance at his brother,
who now for some reason is handing Jungkook a pen. “I’m on Woojin duty,” he says as he
straightens.

“Oh, you get afternoon,” his friend acknowledges, “does that mean you’re free for evening?”

Taehyung hums, thinks. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Why are you asking?” he raises dark brows at nothing and no one.

He can hear Jimin roll his eyes on the other end. “Dancing tonight,” he tells him, “and need to
pretend to flirt with someone so that hag Sooyo would leave me alone.”

Taehyung slips a hand in his pocket, ankles crossing. He presses his lips tightly together as he
ravages his brain for a memory of her previous mention, until he takes a guess, goes for Jimin’s most
recent predator. “The golden tooth one?” he asks.

There is a click of a tongue. Distaste. It coats his voice as well. “Same.”

Taehyung’s lips curl now, edges curving into his cheeks. “She’s cute,” he teases.
“You’re cuter.”

Taehyung scoffs on his end, readjusts to lean more comfortably as he speaks with due upset. “Putting
me on a comparison scale with her is offensive to me.”

Jimin breathes a ringing laugh. “Whiny,” he comments.

“Always,” Taehyung promises.

“So,” Jimin delves back into the matter at hand. He can hear him walking, cars passing. “Will you
come?” He pauses for a moment, but before he hears an answer, he starts again. “Bring Bogum,
too,” he offers as if the proposition is meant to somehow appeal to Taehyung. He wonders if he does
make it look like he wants Bogum around him. He wants to peek at the living room again but holds
back. “Just don’t make it look like you’re with him.”

“I’m not with him,” Taehyung defends, a little too forceful than he intends, but pulls out of him
instinctive. He doesn’t want any confusion, anywhere, from anyone. He is not with Bogum.

“You know what I mean, Tae,” Jimin says lightly. “Boy wants you.”

Taehyung huffs a laugh. “He can want.”

Jimin’s laugh is longer. “You sound like me.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Subject to interpretation,” he dismisses. “Will you come?” he presses once more.

Taehyung doesn’t even think. “No,” he shakes his head. “I can’t tonight.”

He hears the impending groan on the other side, merciless to his ears. He pulls the device away
slightly, spares himself. “Why?” Jimin moans into his phone, vowels prolonged.

“Whiny,” Taehyung scolds.

“Always,” his friends teases, then he presses again, firmer now, “Why?”

Taehyung hums, mulls it over. “I have plans,” he says.

The scoff on the other side is immediate. The attitude is palpable even through the phone. “What
plans could you have that don’t feature me?”

Taehyung’s eyes dull as they glaze over the familiar furniture of his kitchen. “That one’s definitely
an insult.”

“It’s a question,” Jimin corrects.

It only serves to dull his expression further, but Jimin cannot see, so after a moment of glaring at
nothing, he speaks up. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Will you actually?” Distrust laces through, almost borders on irony.

“I don’t know,” Taehyung shrugs, and he thinks Jimin could perhaps hear it in the shuffle of his
clothing with the motion. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Listen,” Taehyung is sighing into his end, pushing away from the counter he leans on as he slips his
hand out of his pocket. He exchanges the phone from one palm into the other, presses it between his
cheek and shoulder next as he moves to the fridge. “Find yourself a nice girl to flirt with tonight,” he
instructs as he scans his eyes over the contents, slips out some juice, “preferably rich, and we’ll talk
tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Jimin says through the sound of Taehyung gulping. “But seriously, though, have you even
told Bogum you’re straight?”

Taehyung’s lips press. He wipes at them with the back of his palm. Straight. He wants to laugh.

“I said tomorrow.”

“You have plans?” Jungkook asks when he hears him walk back into the room without lifting up his
attention from something in his lap. Woojin is not there. Jungkook’s hand is making an almost
sporadic motion to where his eyes are sealed.

“Yes,” Taehyung says. “And don’t eavesdrop, it’s rude.” He slips his phone in his pocket, nears the
couch, but Jungkook still keeps stare into his lap, brows furrowed mildly.

“You were speaking loudly,” he defends without much passion and then his head tilts, eyes narrow
slightly at whatever he is hiding down there, almost judgmental. His tongue clicks. “What plans?”

Taehyung hesitates, tongue running across his lips once. He pauses further away than his curiosity
beckons him, too. He wants almost desperately at this point to take a peek at whatever Jungkook is
hiding on the other side of the back of that couch, but for what he says, he needs his distance.
“Wanna see your gym,” he tells him softly, and this time he manages to draw his attention, head
lifting and turning. “Can I?”

Jungkook’s expression is mild at best, not conveying much. His lips part slightly, eyes glide almost
cautious across Taehyung where he pauses. His lips touch. “Didn’t think you’d want to be alone
with me,” he tells him gently. When he turns his head back to his thighs, a faulty strand falls over his
lashes, but they don’t blink it away. His eyes gaze a little deflated downwards.

Taehyung’s head tilts, a small breath leaving his nose. He takes steps forward again, almost
compulsively. “Jungkook,” he calls, getting closer to the couch. He bends forward, leans his elbows
on the back of it, eyes drawn and stuck to the side of his profile, despite his surging interest to know
what rests in his lap so occupying of his attention. “I didn’t ask you here just because of my brother,”
he shakes his head, says it out loud, so it is explicit, even if they both know it is true without the
verbal mention, though Taehyung is afraid Jungkook’s conviction of such simple truths is starting to
fade, slip, doubt seeps in with Taehyung’s own uncertainty constantly a lodge between them, and
that question that nags at him which he asked, what is that good for. “You don’t believe that,”
Taehyung whispers with the shake of his head. Jungkook finally seems to blink. “Where is he?”
Taehyung asks, voice picking up again.
“Bathroom,” Jungkook answers and Taehyung’s eyes finally succumb to the the compulsion of his
curiosity. They dip down.

His head tilts, lids drawing closer as his brows furrow. It’s a piece of paper. “What’s this?” he asks,
putting more weight on his elbows as he shifts towards him with no conscious intention.

Jungkook presses a palm over it, fingers spreading to hide it.

It’s a drawing.

“That’s for him,” Jungkook insists, voice hurriedly defensive as his head turns brusquely to observe
Taehyung’s face as it nears.

He takes advantage by the shift of his attention. He’s taken by his face, and Taehyung’s hands are
free and unobserved. He reaches forward quickly, snatches the piece of paper from under his palm,
unexpectedness working in his favor, as he immediately moves back.

“Hey, the fuck are you doing?” Jungkook’s teeth press, the question almost a growl between them.

Taehyung presses the paper protectively into his chest, stepping backwards, eyes wide. “I want to
see.”

He figures the fact Jungkook is on the other side of the couch should be to his advantage, but of
course that’s wishful thinking with someone like him. He simply presses one palm into the back of it,
grips tight and then jumps faultless and easy on Taehyung’s side without as much as glancing away
from him in the process.

“It’s not for you,” Jungkook warns, low and deep, closing the small space of his small living room
that remains between them with a quick approach, footsteps wide.

Taehyung has nowhere to go, impulsively raises the hand that clutches at the drawing up in the air
when Jungkook reaches forward to grab at it. The paper slips right between his fingers, the sound of
it scraping carrying through the air as he stretches it up, and Jungkook’s empty fingers continue
forward missionless, pressing into Taehyung’s chest with a motion that brings him the one step back
necessary for his body to collide with the wall. The touch lasts less than a second, Jungkook’s hand
flying back as if Taehyung’s skin burns through his.

I won’t try to touch you, the message flashes visible in his mind, he can almost see it, no touching.
Taehyung wants to tell him it’s okay, he can touch him, lips part to try, but he doesn’t know how to
put it, what to say to him exactly, so he pretends that he isn’t overcome with a sudden, scathing
emptiness when the touch departs, only a lingering sensation left behind, the heat of Jungkook’s skin,
molding through his shirt and burning through his chest.

He closes his lips, raises his hand higher. “You’re not giving papers to my brother with no
supervision of the content.”

Jungkook’s palm lifts again, presses into the wall behind him as he uses it support himself, reaching
for the paper without allowing for any part of them to even brush. “Give it back, you’re gonna get it
all wrinkly.”

His attention is up on his target, but Taehyung’s is on him, eyes darting over the familiar features of
his face, as ever handsome, jaw pressing tight. He can sense the distinguishable scent of Jungkook
invading his nostrils. This sense he’s allowed, at least, he’s only deprived of touch, and he wants to
keep him close for longer.

“I just want to take a peek.”

“It’s not for you,” Jungkook’s eyes shift to his, half a glare running over him, and his hand seems to
still in the air. Maybe he just now realizes how little space there is between them.

He’s moving back, Taehyung can feel him moving back. There’s something physically cold about
his retraction, so Taehyung makes this childish, like it is supposed to be. “He’s going to let me see it,
anyway.”

“What if I ask him not to?” Jungkook challenges, borders on petulant as well as his fingers move
again, but Taehyung raises his other hand up, grasps onto the paper and switches arms.

He scoffs at the question. “He still prefers me to you, you’re not that cool,” he tells him and finally
pries his eyes away, glances at the paper. “What is it?” he says, lowers it down to the side where
Jungkook isn’t reaching for, and the other sighs, drops his arms altogether. “Did you just draw this?”
Taehyung’s voice peaks, brows jumping to his hair as Jungkook steps back once, allows him to
satiate his curiosity. His eyes dart all over the paper, it’s rough and there are hesitant lines
everywhere, but taken together they form a man, a strong, lithe man, dressed in a similar fashion to
the characters of the game the two were playing, but the face isn’t western, it’s familiar, though
sharper, a dimple popping in a cheek as the man smirks up at him with haughty eyes. “Is that him?”

Taehyung is impressed. Not only with the skill, the skill is there, undeniably. It’s just a simple, rough
sketch, but one can tell. His heart does not swell, however, with the fact that Jungkook reveals yet
another talent. No, it swells with reasons that Jungkook now lists almost meekly, almost
embarrassed.

“Yeah,” he nods, his arms crossing together before his chest, “he said he wanted to be in the game
and you’re not letting me buy him a VR set, so we’re settling.” Taehyung’s eyes cannot leave the
drawing, studying small details, that dimple, the smile so similar to Woojin’s. “Though if you’re gone
on his birthday, I’m buying him one, you have no more say.”

Taehyung’s eyes shoot to him, fascination clinging to his voice. He’s not actually listening to what
Jungkook is saying. “That’s actually fucking good,” he tells him before his attention returns to the
paper. “Why are you good at that as well?”

Jungkook’s arms untangle. He reaches for the paper again. “I don’t want you looking at it,”
Taehyung moves it away when his fingers almost clasp around. “Give it back.”

With his next attempt to pull it away, Taehyung presses his thumb too hard, actually wrinkles it a tiny
bit, so he shakes his head, stretches it forward to him.

“Fine.”

“Thank you,” he says tersely as he straightens the paper out between his thumbs, pats them over the
wrinkle that Taehyung regrets.

He doesn’t move back more, and Taehyung doesn’t remind him to, observes him from this
proximity, head tilting slightly as he darts his eyes curiously over his face, so attentive at
straightening it out. Taehyung locks his arms behind his back, palm on palm, pressing against the
wall. His teeth sink gently into his lower lip as he gazes at him with a reluctance, his head ticking.
The buzz in it feels like a clock, on a countdown, time coming down as with each second that
Jungkook still glides his fingers over that paper, it seems to run faster, Taehyung’s hesitance
evaporating.
The alarm is his voice. “You really like video games, don’t you?” he starts, bouncing off of his palm
on the wall and returning to it once more. Jungkook’s eyes shift, dart away from the paper and up
towards him, just in time to watch the bob of his throat as he swallows. “And like, the characters as
well, that Woojin would fit in so well with the rest.”

His head cocks. “Your point?” he asks, defensiveness already palpable.

But Taehyung started. He’ll finish. “More interesting than corporate law, aren’t they?”

The eyes that layer over him now feel sharper. His lids narrow and his teeth press together, gingerly
for now, but it does cause a tightness in his features. His voice holds a tangible warning. “I feel like
you’re at the beginning of chatting shit, so stop.”

“No, come on,” Taehyung lifts off the wall completely, takes a step closer, too close, “You were
trying to talk about an underdeveloped feature to a six-year-old, you drew a character so quickly,
you’re obviously interested.”

“Taehyung,” Jungkook’s eyes find his, hard, He spells out, slow and firm, “forget it.”

Taehyung has nothing to lose. “Why?” he demands.

“Because I said so,” Jungkook snaps, roughly, this time his teeth press together tightly, jaw ticking
with the pressure.

Taehyung’s chin tugs, head draws back as he stares over his features. “Sorry,” he bites sardonically,
“forgot about your heavy fucking word.”

He moves away, steps around him, a very sudden anger pulsing through him, not really at Jungkook,
more at him for hoping for a second, that he had found a loophole.

He hears him sigh, hears him turn after him, but he doesn’t reach for him, doesn’t dare to. “Listen,”
he says, and waits for Taehyung to turn on his own; he can almost feel his fingers wrapping around
his wrist, tugging him back into place, summoning his attention. Taehyung does turn, only half of his
body, but all of his head, gives him his eyes once more. “There’s no point in wanting even more
things that I can’t have, okay? Let it go.”
Taehyung’s lips part. They have almost shaped the word no, when the cheery sound of enthusiastic
footsteps interrupts him. Woojin advances energetically down the steps, skipping the second one, and
though there is already space between them, Taehyung retracts, takes a cautious step back, away
from the other man.

“Can we play one more game?” Woojin’s voice carries easily between them and the thread that
seems to connect their eyes snaps, breaks.

Jungkook is the first to look away, glances down at Taehyung’s little brother, “Yeah.”

They go back to the game and Taehyung goes back on his cupboard.

He doesn’t even pretend to be interested in his phone this time. His eyes bore into Jungkook until he
notices there is something more subdued about the way he acts with his brother. Dark eyes dart back,
snap to him and don’t yield until Taehyung looks away.

He raises his phone, slides the screen opened and starts mindlessly clicking on and closing apps,
holding his head in his palm, elbow pressed in the knee of his crossed legs.

He straightens up like an animal, instinctive when he hears the distinctive sound of the back door.
But he has lived in this house long enough to know its residents by the mere way they walk.
Namjoon appears at the doorway just as he slides off of the cupboard.

His older brother’s eyes seal on Jungkook, who is already looking up, staring at the sound of the
approach with expectation. Namjoon does nothing but this, draw his eyes all across him.

“Hey,” one of them says.

“Hey,” the other does, too, and Taehyung does not know who starts and who finishes, but Jungkook
goes back to the game and Namjoon slips in the kitchen with a small nod to Taehyung.

He doesn’t know if he is meant to follow, but he does.

Namjoon’s words are almost whispered when he turns back to him, catches his eyes carefully. “Ji-
woo’s gonna be back in an hour, maybe less.”

Taehyung nods, he remembers when her shifts end. “We’re leaving in a bit, anyway,” he dismisses.

“We?” Namjoon’s brows raise. “Both of you?” he specifies.

“Just…” Taehyung starts, shoulders folding together, he waits for that guilt to come, guilt that he
chooses to spend time with Jungkook, but he remembers the lilt of his voice when Taehyung told
him he’d get Woojin right away, and his guilt surges in a different direction. He lets his shoulders
fall, nods once more, “for a little while.”

Jungkook takes him to his building with the SUV. He doesn’t give the drawing to Woojin, and when
Taehyung asks why, he tells him it wasn’t finished. Taehyung thinks this is only half true, but he
says nothing of it.

The gym is two floors below his penthouse and has Jungkook’s name written on it like it it’s an
office. He opens the door with a keycard that he fishes out of his wallet, which Taehyung notices is
different than the one he used to see all the time, albeit quite similar. He remembers vaguely a year or
more ago, Ji-woo did mention a gym at the Jeons’ , had to clean it, too, for a while.

It’s not too huge, although considering it should only serve one person Taehyung does not see the
need for duplicate facilities. But he has two of everything, two ellipticals, two treadmills, two bench
presses, things that Taehyung cannot actually name. Cardio equipment is pressed up against a French
window that overlooks Richhood. The rest is mirrors. Mirrors, mirrors, everywhere, and Taehyung
cannot escape his own reflection, but worse than that he cannot escape the sight of Jungkook behind
him.

There’s a lot of grey, there’s a lot of silver, and then there in the middle there is red.

Taehyung’s eyes fall onto the punching bag with memories of Jungkook fighting flooding his mind.
Last time he saw Jungkook on the Ring was also the first time he fucked him.

He approaches the object, presses three fingers into it and attempts to swing it slightly, but it won’t
budge at such a simple touch.
“You practice boxing here?” he asks, fitting his palm over the surface, giving his eyes anything to
watch but those mirrors.

He supposes watching Jungkook fight would feel different now. The very thought disturbs his
stomach with an unnamable anxiety. He remembers how his heartbeat escalated each time his
opponent landed a punch at that last fight. The prospect fills his mouth with too much saliva, and he
has to swallow down. He wonders if Julia never went to those fight because she couldn’t watch him
get hurt. He kept thinking the Ring was simply beyond her, but Taehyung is once more struck by
such a small thing, a consideration that comes seemingly out of nowhere. All he sees is a punching
back, but suddenly he brims with apprehension.

His hand closes in a fist against the smooth surface. He doesn’t want anyone to hurt Jungkook, ever.

“Occasionally,” he says behind him and Taehyung’s eyes slide to those mirrors, watch him come
closer, yet keep a distance, “It’s easier with a partner.”

Taehyung pushes at the bag, lets it swing a little, turns to faces Jungkook. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he hums, then he moves away slightly, goes to a misshapen, quite modern shelf that hosts
numerous amounts of weights, but he chooses something red from there as well. He raises the boxing
gloves in the air. “Wanna try?”

“What?” Taehyung laughs, “Hit this?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Hit me.”

Taehyung’s face screws. “No.”

Jungkook arches a brow, head cocking. “I mean just my palm, Tae.” He darts eyes across him, keeps
them mostly at his face, then he drops the gloves. “You know what,” he starts as he approaches,
pauses at an arm’s reach. “Raise your hands, make fists.”

“What about gloves?” Taehyung asks as his fingers coil together, a tentative fist forming.
“They’ll just make your hands sweat. Your elbows are low,” Jungkook seems to act on an instinct
when he stretches one hand out, taps its palm at one of Taehyung’s elbows until he raises it higher.

“Raise your hands like this,” Jungkook instructs, parting his legs slightly as he positions his own
arms in proper guard before his body, a little tighter than he usually does it on the Ring, but now he
means to show, not to taunt. Taehyung does his best to mirror the stance, pulling his feet apart,
bending his knees slightly. He feels like a fool when he first tries, doesn’t factor in that he has to be
opposite to him, so he has to readjust, but Jungkook just waits. “Yeah,” he nods when Taehyung
finally stands in a way that remotely resembles him, though it feels awkward, unnatural. Jungkook
straightens slightly, reaches for him, fingers pressing very light and momentary into him to direct his
hands. “Keep this one close to the chin, this close to the head. Don’t spread your legs too much.”

Taehyung’s head tips. “Never expected to hear that from you.”

Jungkook’s eyes dart to him, lips twitch, but he doesn’t return a comment. He wraps his fingers
around Taehyung’s fist, pulls it forward slightly, “Not here,” he says as he readjusts, “here,” his
fingers tighten indicatively before he releases him, taps briefly at the side of his eyes, “you protect
here.”

Taehyung clicks his tongue. “My whole head is exposed.” He only protects his face like this, a little
of the side of his head, but everything else is open to attack.

“In boxing, the back of your head is off limits,” Jungkook explains as he presses one of his shoulders
back a bit, so the other will come forward. Taehyung allows his body to follow any indication the
other makes with the lightest touch of an instruction.

“Really?”

He nods. “Too big of a risk for concussions, vital things under that skull of yours,” he tells him, eyes
studying him to judge if his stance is proper. “Very few areas permitted in boxing,” he says, presses
the tip of his fingers into Taehyung, just below his stomach, just above his crotch, then he raises it up
and touches at his hairline, each brush of his finger so miniscule, ghostly. Jungkook refuses to really
touch him. “Here to here.”

“I’m pretty sure I saw you hit someone right about there,” Taehyung taps his palm against the back
of his head before he gathers it into a fist again.
“In the Ring we don’t do boxing, we do fighting,” he explains, and he has to reposition Taehyung’s
hand again, because he returns it different to his initial instruction. Just maybe he does it on purpose.
“You use the style of the game, but not the rules.” He meets his eyes briefly, but they hold something
significant, and Taehyung does remember Jungkook’s opponents having to be physically dragged
out the Ring, limp and lifeless, like the dead bodies on Woojin's game. He doesn’t think they permit
that in boxing, either. “Now, if you hit someone around here, the underside,” he taps his chin, his
jaw, “just right, you have a chance of knocking them out, even if your punch is flimsy, so always
protect the chin.” He glances at him pointed, then presses at the shoulder he has in the front once
more, “You can use your shoulder as well, tuck your chin in.”

He takes a step back, returns his hands to his own body, and ravages his eyes all across, from
Taehyung’s feet to his forehead. He says nothing, spreads his own legs just a bit and raises one hand.
“Hit my palm,” he tells him.

Taehyung hesitates, blinking over Jungkook’s expression, and he thinks he sees a slight nod, maybe
reassuring, maybe imagined. He pulls his fist back, refocuses his attention entirely on the spread palm
before him, and does his best to land a hit. Jungkook’s arm barely retracts from it, still hovering firm
and tense in the air. Taehyung would think he didn’t even hit him, but he heard it, skin on skin.

“Okay,” Jungkook says, “another thing. You’re only swinging with your arm.”

Taehyung’s brows furrow. He wants to straighten slightly, but he doesn’t know if he will get
properly in the position again, so he stays put. “Am I not supposed to?”

Jungkook’s head shakes, “Your arm is weak.”

Taehyung scoffs, and this time his guard does drop, fists fall to his thighs, “Well, I’m sorry I don’t
have your free time, Mr Muscle.”

“My arm is weak, too,” he says, unbothered, circling past Taehyung and towards the punching bag,
“in comparison to the potential of my body.” He gets so easily into a stance himself, bounces slightly
at his feet, and retracts his whole back when he swings, fist curling in the air. He does it again,
switches arms, hits once, twice. Taehyung just stares. There is something about it that just looks
incredibly correct. He has rarely seen Jungkook so concentrated, but then again, maybe he has. He
rarely seems to do anything, but when he finds a goal, he is so fascinatingly thorough. “You have to
jab with the strength of your whole upper body, okay? That’s why footwork is important, not just for
speed,” he tells him, bouncing slightly on his feet as he turns to him. “Try again.”
His palms raise and Taehyung swings. He wants to do well. Why, he does not even know, but the
need for it surges through him.

“Better,” Jungkook says when Taehyung’s fist retracts. “Angle your fist while you swing now.” He
does, tries to, does not hit him straight, but gains even more momentum by curling his hand while he
moves it through the air. He pulls his whole shoulder back, aims with it. “Good,” Jungkook praises,
and Taehyung has to keep his lips from curving. “Good,” he repeats. He feels warm. “Switch arms,
like I did before,” Jungkook instructs and raises both palms.

“Like this?” Taehyung asks, bounces on his feet as well and hits one palm then the other.

Jungkook’s tongue clicks, head juts. “Try again.”

“Better,” he breathes, a slight chuckle in his voice. His hands drop, eyes fall to Taehyung’s feet.
“You bounce too much.”

Taehyung straightens. “They do it in the movies,” he shrugs.

Jungkook shakes his head, mouth curving, eyes closing as he steps away. “Of course, they do,” he
says. “Feel free to punch anything you want while I work out.”

Taehyung angles his body after him, trails his eyes as he reaches a silver locker close by the door. “I
kind of wanna punch you now,” he tells him. It’s curiously charging, swinging your fist through the
air. He doesn’t necessarily want to hit Jungkook, certainly doesn’t want to hurt him, but perhaps he
wants his attention for a little while longer before he goes to what he actually came here to do.

“If you do it too much, I might have to punch back,” Jungkook warns, smirking eyes finding his in
the mirror.

“Okay, so I stick with the bag,” Taehyung nods, slaps his palm on the punching bag.

Jungkook chuckles. “Good thinking,” he says, opening the locker, and the door hides his reflection
in the mirror and now Taehyung only sees his back, and the lost of his eyes makes him feel braver.
“You know,” it pries out of him, “you seem to care about this, too.”

“What?” Jungkook asks, going through some fabrics.

“Boxing,” Taehyung says, shoulders shrugging. “Actual legal boxing, as a sport.”

Anything, his mind yells, anything that isn’t given to you on a silver platter, anything you want by
choice. Anything that doesn’t require your father.

“Taehyung,” he turns, eyes fall onto him sharp. Tongue is sharper. “Why are you on some fucking
mission to search for my passions today?” He asks, demands, head cocks then, and he seems to
speak even sharper, eyes hard as they dig into his from across the room. “I don’t have any.”

His eyes challenge for a moment and then he gives him his back again. For a second, Taehyung does
actually want to punch him, maybe it will finally earn his attention for long enough. He really is
thorough, Taehyung has to admit, and stubborn as a brick wall. When he decides to be a dick, he has
to be thorough as well.

Taehyung presses his lips together, watches his back move. Jungkook’s hands reach, fingers touch at
the hem of his shirt and Taehyung swallows nothing.

“You just gonna strip now?” he asks with a scoff.

Jungkook turns his body half to his, eyes darting over his scandalized expression. He does not only
strip. He looks at him, while he does it, wraps his fingers firmer in the fabric and drags it swiftly over
his head, Taehyung’s gaze trailing after the hem of it as every motion of it reveals more and more
skin, familiar, but forbidden.

“You’ve seen me naked, Taehyung,” he says simply as he throws the shirt carelessly in the locker,
moves his hands to his belt and starts on that, too.

The sound of it is so distinctive, triggers memories.

Taehyung forces his eyes up, does not want to watch his skin and bones move with the motion of
parting that belt, but there is nothing safe on that body. Jungkook today feels to Taehyung a lot like
Jungkook in the beginning, unreachable and exquisite, and flooding his mind with unbidden
thoughts. He feels somehow new to him, though it is all so unbearably familiar, at the same time,
exhilarating as if it is for the very first time, and familiar with the heaviness of memory. Just a tiny bit
overwhelming.

“Yeah, but that was different.”

“If you’re shy,” Jungkook says as he pulls down his zipper, “don’t look.”

Taehyung shakes his head. He slams his knuckles into the punching bag.

Jungkook takes off his watch, puts it in the locker. He takes off his ring, puts it there as well.

Taehyung loses interest in the punching bag quite quickly. He gets tired as well, doesn’t know how
Jungkook does it. He chooses a bench, sits on it, stares when he deems it safe, when Jungkook has
clothes on. But really it is never safe.

He puts on a black tank top and it is lycra, it clings. And he sweats. He starts off with cardio, jumps
rope, stretches, runs. Taehyung doesn’t even make the effort of pulling his phone out. He’s
entertained enough. The skin of his arms glistens, layers with sweat, highlights the relief of the
muscles that tense and stretch with the motions of his arms.

He’s wordless when he moves from cardio to strength training, and Taehyung’s attention is trailing.

Jungkook lays on the bench press, fits his fingers and palms comfortably around the metal barbell
that holds weights he previously had adjusted and lifts it easily. The muscles of sinewy arms bulge
with the exertion, but he makes it look effortless, pulsing the weight up in the air above him
repeatedly. His motions are smooth, there is no struggle as he charges it upwards, but with one of the
pulses, Taehyung hears him, a puff of breath that isn’t as rhythmic as the rest; it sounds more like a
hitch, a groan. He strains.

He is quiet when he works out. Taehyung knows of men that breathe loudly, growl animalistic
during weight training from when he accompanied Jimin to the gym several times each time
pretending to be his first, so he gets a first time free until they caught on and banned him. Jungkook
is so silent, until that groan, the hitch of his breath, audible and distracting in Taehyung’s ears. It
coaxes an onslaught of memories to barge in his head.
He speaks, he has to. “Woojin thinks you’re stronger than me,” he tells him, crossing his arms before
his chest as he lifts his chin a little higher in the air, blinking at him with a pretense of what he does
not even know, but anything that isn’t truly what is going on through his head.

“Well,” Jungkook fits the barbell back to its confines, the metal clinking loud as it falls into position.
He straightens onto the bench, stomach tensing with the motion. “I am stronger than you.”

Jungkook hasn’t cut his hair in a while, Taehyung notes now. It’s longer, currently in disarray, not
the way it is typically presentable, almost wavy as perspiration slips into the strands, the moisture
curling it around his face. It’s strangely pretty. His mouth parts, allows small puffs of air to leave as
his chest lift and fall with it. It is a consolation that he is, in fact, human. He’s tired, affected. He
sweats and his breathing picks up. What continually is bothersome to Taehyung is that this middle-
of-the-exercise weariness is attractive.

He cocks his head, juts his chin to the bench press. “I can lift that, too,” he announces, again leaning
on petulance to repress rising thoughts, to stifle a tension that tries to force itself into him with
childishness.

Jungkook arches a brow. “You think so?” he challenges. His lids fall slightly lower over his irises
when he breathes like this, makes those eyes appear heady, almost lewd.

“Yeah,” Taehyung nods, firm.

Jungkook swings one spread leg to join the other on one side of the bench press, lifts off. “Come
over here then,” he says. Taehyung takes a moment, gulps, but there is no room for hesitation now,
hesitation would be sucpicious. He gets up and walks over, and Jungkook uses the time to get a
bottle of water, sip on it. Taehyung doesn’t look. “Lie down,” Jungkook instructs as he closes the
cap, his voice more of an exhale.

Taehyung’s eyes slip to his as the words leave his mouth, but the other simply nods, indicative to the
bench press. Taehyung closes his lids for a bare moment, sucks in a breath to muster up courage and
follows, sits first, before he extends his body backwards, adjusting so he lies beneath the metal stick
that holds the weights.

Jungkook leaves the bottle on the floor beside them, steps behind the bench press, legs close to
Taehyung’s head, thighs close to Taehyung’s head, though they are securely hidden beneath loose
shorts. He lifts his hands up and Taehyung watches his ringless fingers tap gingerly into the metal
barbell. “I’m going to hold my hands under it in case you can’t lift it when you get it down, okay?”

“I—” Taehyung starts, raising his hands futile in the air.

Jungkook leans slightly over, glances down at him from between parted, wet strands. “I know, you
don’t trust me, but I promise, I won’t let it fall on you,” he tells him, his voice almost completely
even by now, any evidence of the workout Taehyung witnessed gone, but the sweat remains,
pressing his clothes tighter onto him.

“No,” Taehyung shakes his head. It’s true and he’s told him that, told him that when Jungkook
promised he won’t let him fall at the rooftop, told him that when Jungkook promised he won’t let
him fall at the hill, but coming from his own mouth it sounds wrong. “I was going to say I don’t
know how to hold it.”

Jungkook’s chest lifts and falls again, with a small, airy laugh. “Have you never worked out in your
life?”

Taehyung brings his arms down, curls them defensively over his chest. “I have neither the resources
for a gym membership nor a private gym,” he informs him, “I only do like squats and shit. Push-ups
sometimes.”

Jungkook’s elbows press into the barbell, he leans, the tips of his lips curling teasing into his cheeks.
“Yeah, I can tell about the squats.”

Taehyung feels vulnerable with the other hovering above him like that, pretty hair framing his face.
“Jungkook,” he warns, eyes flashing up. He’s on the verge of blushing, and, honestly, it’s his fault
entirely for letting his mind run.

“What?” Jungkook’s palms open in gesture, “It’s straight facts you got a nice ass, I’m just being
objective.”

“Jesus,” Taehyung exhales, sitting up on the bench.

He does not want any conversation venturing in such directions, but maybe it vibrates out of him that
he thinks about it, about the fact that Jungkook has a nice ass as well, nice hands, arms, abs, thighs,
lips, eyes, everything.
“What?” Jungkook says, less light, more firm. He hears him circle around to face him before he
actually sees him. “That’s what started it, wasn’t it?” he says as if it is simple, shoulders raising and
falling. “You like my body, I like yours,” he proclaims plainly, eyes still seemingly hooded, lids
lower, too low, heavy as they fold bold over Taehyung.

He gnaws teeth into his lip, shakes his head. “That was before.”

“Before?” Jungkook pronounces, brows bouncing up, and he doesn’t laugh, but with the way the
word gasps through his lips, he might as well have. “Feelings don’t erase the fact it’s physical, too,
Taehyung,” his voice rings heavy. His eyes are, as ever, worse. “This,” he nods at him, “us. It isn’t
about sex, but sex is a part of it, don’t forget. You want me.”

Taehyung knows this is his fault. Physical, Jungkook says. He should have guessed the two of them
could not separate physical from physical. In retrospect, he should have realized a place like this
would be dangerous, a place that would allow for any of Jungkook’s intrinsic primality to glimpse
through. A place that would remind Taehyung of his own.

But he rolls his eyes, he scoffs, he stands. “Still can’t step on fucking Earth, can you?”

“Me?” he tilts his head slightly, gaze dancing, daunting, over Taehyung. “You want to tell me, me,
sweaty,” he exhales the word, “breathing like this,” his lips part, his eyes pierce, “doesn’t remind you
of me pounding into you?” He says it so light, and Taehyung is burning. “A lot went on since this
began,” Jungkook’s head shakes, “but you can’t deny you kept coming back because you liked the
way I was touching you, liked even the sensation of me fucking pressing you into things, pushing
you up against walls, because you could feel me.”

Taehyung glares. “You’re right,” he nods, speaks tightly, “A lot went on since then.”

Jungkook’s tongue runs over lips, helplessly drags his attention towards the smooth motion, it seems
teasing, seems mocking. “Doesn’t change it,” he insists. “You like me and sex together. Still
remember how fascinated you were first time you got to watch me, didn’t look at girlfriend genuinely
once.”

Taehyung laughs. It’s true, but Taehyung laughs. It’s so true, that Taehyung has to laugh, to hide it.
“Fascinated?” Taehyung’s brows raise, “With you?” he chuckles, ironic, as he edges closer, feet
working on their own, pulled towards him like a magnet, in this confrontation. “You didn’t even
take off your shirt then, Jungkook,” his lips twitch, curl. “You were so scared of me looking.” He
cocks his head, “Suppose it’s cause it excited you more than your girlfriend did.”

“Still bitter over that?” Jungkook’s eyes color all across his features, each dart strikes a tension on his
expression, like laser beams attempting to puncture skin, get underneath. He’s already so deep under
it, it’s impossible to dig further. “Don’t really hide from you anymore,” his lips are curling once
more. He’s so obnoxiously cocky, fingers grasping at the hems of his shirt for the second time that
day and peeling the fabric off of him, languid and cruel. “You can watch me shirtless all you want,”
he speaks with a challenge, discarding the material to the side.

Taehyung does not give him the pleasure of looking.

“Yeah,” he says, “I watched. You paid me to. You’re the one who wanted me to touch myself
second time round,” he accuses, edging closer still, voice coiling around nuances he does not
voluntarily seep in; there is acrimony, but there is suggestion as well, in his eyes, too, and in those
steps he takes towards him. “Made up the whole thing of me setting the pace, to what? Have an
excuse to look at my pretty face while I stroke myself?”

To Taehyung this conversation feels like roleplay, release of the frustration that builds in both of
them from not touching each other for so fucking long, the energy of conversations they snuck in the
hallway of Rouge, in the back room at Rouge, the dance floor at the Ozone. And Jungkook plays
Jeon Jungkook, and Taehyung plays Kim Taehyung.

Until Jungkook says, “Yes.” Because Jeon Jungkook never would.

Taehyung blinks. “What?”

“Yeah, I wanted to see you,” he shakes his head, eyes unyielding. “Not denying it.”

It feels like game over, it feels like he’s honest, so Taehyung shakes his head, too. “You tell me you
won’t try anything, but you’re making this about sex.” He’s prying his eyes away, finally.

Jungkook’s own are unrelenting. “No, I’m not,” he presses. “This, Taehyung, is talking.”

Taehyung’s lips part, tongue glides slow over his upper teeth, as he stares up at the ceiling, head
shaking side to side. He turns to him. “Yeah?” he exhales, and his eyes do dart towards his bare skin
then. “Why are you shirtless, then?” he challenges, voice running lower, smoother on his tongue.
He’s close to him, he’s so close to him. There is space between their bodies, but their faces are so
close. Taehyung has a guess. He has a hope, he breathes, he’s bold. His hand shoots, fingers wrap
between his legs. He’s right. Head cocks, chin jerks. “Why are you getting hard?”

A subtle sound leaves Jungkook’s throat, seemingly not his lips, and Taehyung’s taking his hand
back, folding his arms together over his chest, digits squeezing at his elbows.

Jungkook huffs, tongue pokes into the flesh of his cheek. “You turn me on,” he tells him shameless,
slow. “I can be turned on around you without trying to bend you over.” Taehyung takes a step back,
eyes finding gym equipment. Jungkook follows, pupils sealed onto the side of his face that he allows
him to see. “I don’t know why you’re acting like you haven’t been making eyes at me since I first
broke a sweat,” he accuses. Taehyung’s teeth press together. Of fucking course, he knew. “Sex
started it, Taehyung. You can’t just fucking ignore it.”

“Julia started it,” he corrects with some vehemence, head snapping back to him. “And she asked me
to ignore her, so.”

“Julia was a catalyst; she wasn’t a reason,” Jungkook says, low, but steady, and it makes Taehyung’s
heart pound harder. “Why was I most interesting to you, Tae?” his feet adjust, body closing in.
“We’re all rich, all expensive,” he lists. “Why not Yoongi, why not Hoseok? Why not even Jin, he’s
a fucking model, he’s pretty as fuck.” Jungkook’s eyes pry into his, pupils layering all over his face,
somehow languid, yet quick, every single feature subjected to that scrutiny. “Doesn’t have my body,
though, does he?”

“I don’t know how attraction works, Jungkook,” Taehyung shakes his head, meets his eyes to stifle
his bold exploration. “If I did, I’d gladly redirect myself to Bogum, or Jimin and he doesn’t even like
fucking boys.”

Jungkook’s lips thin, feet readjust again. He steps back. “You’d do that?”

Taehyung doesn’t think. He’s frustrated. He just answers. “Any day,” he says, nearly growls. He can
handle them. He can never handle Jungkook.

He’s right. He can’t. Can’t deal with the way his heart escalates further when Jungkook takes
another step back, then drops his eyes, lids face the ground. He’s walking around him, to the bench
press again. “I wouldn’t,” he mumbles.
His voice changes so quickly, loses all the challenge from their previous dynamic, and slips into
something small, almost defeated, and it’s another small thing that to Taehyung is pure torture.

“Jungkook, I didn’t mean—” he tries, but he is sidestepping him already. Taehyung turns, eyes snap
after him, “Hey, fucking listen.”

Jungkook bends to the water again, looks at his fingers as he untaps it, but his mouth moves. “I know
they’d both be a lot easier to be with, don’t worry,” he tells him. He shrugs. “You don’t have to
explain yourself to me. I know I don’t deserve your explanations.”

Taehyung’s eyes coat over him as he tips his head back, drinks. He runs his gaze all over him, from
his head to his toes, and he doesn’t understand how he suddenly doesn’t care one bit about his bare
chest. “That word deserve, Jungkook,” he starts, lips parting, and he takes a moment to finish, drags
his eyes all over him again, head shaking. “You need to get it out of your mouth.”

Jungkook fixes the cap bag into place. His shoulders lift and fall with the small laugh that escapes
him, a snort, a snicker, as if what Taehyung suggests is ridiculous, and he wants to punch him again.

He says nothing for a moment, leans down to return the bottle to the floor. “Just lie down, would
you?” he asks as he moves behind the barbell as well. “You kind of killed the onset of my hard on
when you said Bogum, so we’re all good.”

Taehyung does move back to the bench, a laughter escaping him sooner than he expects after the
snap.

“Was that funny to you?” Jungkook asks as he peeks down at him when he slides into position.

“Yes,” Taehyung says, pressing his palms into his chest, “relatable, mostly,” he shrugs, lips curling.
“Bogum kind of kills my boners, too.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen, mouth parting. He blinks as if in fascination, shakes his head with
appreciation. “This is one of the three best things you’ve said in your life,” he proclaims.

Taehyung’s lips stretch more, pulling over his teeth, exposing them. His eyes crease with that smile.
Jungkook’s expression softens above him, a gentle curve of his own mouth as he gazes down at the
curl of Taehyung’s. “What are the other two?”
Jungkook leans on the barbell again, propping his chin on his hands. “Wanna guess?”

“Hmm,” Taehyung ponders, tapping his fingers at his chest. “I kind of want to suck your cock and,”
he roams his head for something exact that he could have begged Jungkook that would particularly
appeal to him; he settles for something simple, straight-forward and repetitive, “fuck me.”

Jungkook’s eyes dull as they watch him, “Who’s making it about sex now?”

“Isn’t it?” Taehyung pipes, lids pulling back to expose all of his eyes.

Jungkook’s head shakes on his hands. “No,” he tells him softly.

“Oh,” Taehyung exclaims as a memory returns to him sharply, “when I said bend me over when you
wanted to fuck me on your dad’s antique table?”

Jungkook’s grin breaks onto his face seemingly without his permission. He shakes his head more.
“Still sex, though that would have to make it in top five. But,” his lips line, though their edges still
curl, “no.”

Taehyung flattens his arms on his chest, speaks to him with a softness that mirrors that final no. “Tell
me then.”

“Although this might surprise you,” Jungkook talks as he straightens a little bit, picks his head up and
wraps his fingers around the barbell, doing a very unnecessary half push up as he grasps onto it, “I
was joking and I don’t actually keep a compilation of Taehyung’s best lines,” He moves closer once
more, presses his chest into the barbell and leans his head past it, as his voice drops, slips into
something more private. “but two that come at the top of my head are I was never looking at Julia
and you’re nothing like your father.”

Taehyung’s elbows dig into the bench. He raises on them slightly, but he’s careful, doesn’t get too
close. “You are nothing like him,” he murmurs to him, head shaking lightly, eyes coating over every
feature, studying him different now that he is upside down. He thinks he can recognize him in any
way by this point, pick out every little bit of him no matter how it is twisted, where it is put. “He hits
your sister, and he runs away,” his eyes fall on his lips; he wonders how they would feel upside
down, but he remembers to speak, “You fuck my sister and you, and you…” he trails, empty.
“And I?” he urges, expression twisting.

“You say sorry. You talk.” His eyes screw, brows screw, face screws.“I still can’t fucking believe
you actually talk.” He remembers that Jeon Jungkook from the hallway at Rogue, the back room at
Rouge, the dance floor at the Ozone. He didn’t know shit about him.

“What else can I do?” Jungkook whispers back. Taehyung’s eyes flutter, pupils still searching his
face as Jungkook returns it, thorough in this, too, taking in every bit of Taehyung's expression. “I’m
actually asking you, Tae. Tell me what else I can do, and I’ll do it.”

Taehyung’s heart swells. He wishes he knew.

He sinks down on his back again, straightens his elbows and reaches up for the barbell.

“Hold this so it doesn’t fall on me,” he asks him gingerly, naked eyes staring up, swimming.

Jungkook presses his teeth in his lower lip, straightens. “Yeah?” he nods. “You trust me for this?”

Taehyung pauses, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he tells him.

“Okay,” Jungkook breathes, eyes never losing sight of his as he rests his palms under the barbell.
Taehyung wraps his fingers around it, firm, tight, until it feels right. He forces a quick, puffed breath,
once, then pushes up. It’s heavy as fuck. His muscles strain tangibly, a pressure immediately settling
in his chest. For a moment he thinks if he lets it fall down, he won’t ever get it up again, but
Jungkook’s hands hover beneath his, guide him, and he isn’t scared. He folds his elbows, brings it
down until it almost touches his chest and then he pushes it up, a lot slower than Jungkook had,
struggle obvious and breath shallowing with the very first lift, but it’s going up, steady. “You’re
actually fucking doing it,” Jungkook exhales, a hint of a laugh in his voice. “You’re stronger than
you look, pretty boy.”

“Tell that to Woojin,” Taehyung strains out as Jungkook guides the barbell into place.

“I’ll make sure to mention it next time we run across each other in the Ozone.”
Taehyung slaps his palms over his chest once more; it raises and fall heavier. “You can come over
again, shithead. He actually really likes you for some reason.”

Jungkook’s mouth parts, but then his phone rings. He sighs, both his head and Taehyung’s turning to
the locker from where it buzzes. He taps a finger on the metal above Taehyung, a silent apology, a
subtle I'm here, before he moves towards it.

Taehyung sits up, eyes trailing behind him. He is looking down at the phone, debate clear in his face,
teeth pressing together.

“You can pick up,” Taehyung urges softly.

But Jungkook clicks the red circle, slips his phone in his pocket. “It’s just Yoongi,” he dismisses with
a shrug, stepping towards him again. “Saw enough of him today already.”

Taehyung’s eyes fall to the outline of the phone, then they dart up once more, cautious as they bore
into Jungkook’s. “Were you serious about telling him?” he asks, because that is just one of those
tiny, minuscule things that Jungkook says that make his heart thunder. “Them?” his brows shift up.

Taehyung is honest when he tells Namjoon he does not expect Jungkook to invite him over for
dinner or some shit, tell his father about him. He’d never ask him that. He’d likely never ask him to
admit Taehyung happened to him to anyone, and he isn’t. It’s Jungkook that suggests it, and it strips
Taehyung of the feeling he clings to something flimsy with this, promises him some sort of
permanence. Min Yoongi and Jung Hoseok and Jeon Jungkook have always been together. It’s
dangerously exhilarating for Taehyung to think he’d want to share him with them.

“He already knows something’s up,” Jungkook says, “Just doesn’t know what. Hoseok, though,” he
chuckles slightly to himself, “utterly clueless that boy.”

“Wouldn’t they,” Taehyung clears his throat, “I mean wouldn’t that change things between you?”

Wouldn’t they look at you different, he wants to ask. He supposes the mindset that boys being with
boys is wrong is instilled in all of them. Masculinity, he knows, is important in Richhood. Which, in
turn, makes it fragile.
But Jungkook does not hesitate when he shakes his head. “No,” he tells him. “I thought it would a
while ago. Now only thing I’m scared of is it could change things between them.”

Taehyung’s brows furrow. “What do you—” he tries to say, but Jungkook’s phone chimes again.
Taehyung’s chin jerks to it. “Seriously, pick up.”

Jungkook’s eyes roll, but he does fish it out of his shorts, giving Taehyung his back as he spins.
“Yeah,” he presses it to his ear, annoyance coating his voice.

Taehyung’s gaze drops to his own feet, an attempt to give this conversation privacy, which seems
impossible with all those mirrors around. Jungkook gives him his back, but if he chose to, he could
see his face from every angle in this room.

“Not exactly, but it’s okay,” Jungkook says into the speaker. “Taehyung,” he seems to answer after a
moment, and Taehyung’s eyes jump up at the motion. His back seems tenser than it did a moment
ago and when he compulsively glances to a mirror, he witnesses the press of his jaw. “Because,” he
says a little stubborn, a little biting.

His next breath completely steals Taehyung’s attention. “What?” he exhales sharply. His eyes widen
in the mirror, nostrils flare. Taehyung can see his the fingers of his free hand coil onto a fist. “What
did he say?” The question falls dark from his lips, nearly animalistic, a growl that once again reminds
Taehyung of when he only knew the upper, defensive layer of Jungkook, the one that so repeatedly
attempted to intimidate anyone into backing away. “Fuck,” his fingers release the fist, run into his
hair, digits clinging at strands. “That fucking,” he tries, the darkness still there, but at the last syllable
his voice cracks, and Taehyung’s hard drums. “Okay,” his eyes squeeze shut, “Okay.” He pulls at
his hair. “I’ll take care of it.” He doesn’t wait for a reply.

“Is something wrong?” Taehyung’s asking as soon as Jungkook’s hand falls to his thigh, fingers
clinging around the phone. “Jungkook,” he pronounces carefully when he receives no answer, and at
the sound of his name from Taehyung’s lips his whole face seems to change.

Features twist nearly ugly, screw together and his hand raises again, eyes open and he glares into the
ground as he charges the device in his hand at it, with a brusque, torn shout of, “Fuck.”

He launches it so hard, the screen snaps into pieces, shattered, sharp glasses swimming in its wake as
it slides smoothly across the clean surface of his private gym.
Taehyung doesn’t know when he gets on his feet, when he touches his arm. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
he tries to mumble gently, fingers tentative as they reach for him, but Jungkook is turning away
more, body curling into himself and he presses his hand into his face, fingers digging into his features
as Taehyung tries to take a glimpse. “Jungkook,” he tries again, his fingers pulsing onto him, a
single, soft squeeze into warm, familiar skin.

Jungkook’s hand falls from his face and he turns to him, forces his hand off of him. “Kai says at
poker one of his eyes saw someone who strikingly resembles Kim Namjoon by the subway
yesterday,” Jungkook bites out, each word bitter, each word wet as it is dragged painful from the
bottom of his throat. He spins away from Taehyung again, a continuous, compulsive mutter falling
through his lips, vindictive as he charges towards the lockers now. “Told him to be fucking careful,”
he curses, fist slamming onto it until it shakes. “Fuck,” he breathes; anger seems to actually drip from
him, ooze off of his body, vibrate after each swear, but Taehyung follows after him, nonetheless.
“That fucking, necrofucker,” he shouts, and, “and his whole fucking clique of sick fucking bastards,
fuck them, I’ll fucking end him, all of them, cockroach after cockroach, those fucking—”

“Jungkook,” Taehyung begs through slips of the cursed promises that fall heinous and ruthless from
his lips. “Jungkook,” he pleads, fingers reaching for his shoulder, “calm down.”

Jungkook’s eyes are feral when he spins to him, wide and red, full of blood. “Don’t you understand
he’s gonna fucking take you away now?” he can barely recognize his voice. It scrapes in the walls of
his throat, and Taehyung can almost feel his own tear and peel. He has to physically swallow. “Your
fucking brother is going to take you away.” Visceral eyes bounce from one of his to the other, and
there is nothing Taehyung seems to be able to say, and in one moment Jungkook is shouting, in the
other he is muttering, back pressing against the locker and he slides down, droning almost
unconsciously as he does, “Clo’s away and he’ll take you away and I’ll just eat my father’s food,
drink my father’s drinks and pretend everything’s okay for the rest of it all.”

Taehyung needs to gulp again, so that he can properly make his name out. “Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s head shakes; he blinks away. His eyes are wet. “You should go.”

“No,” Taehyung exhales, gaze sealed onto him, frozen onto him. He feels frozen on his feet as well,
fucking drilled into place, in the floor next to Jungkook.

Those eyes dart to him again, charge at him, like that phone to the ground and his tongue whips as
well. “Go,” he says forceful.

“No,” Taehyung shakes his head, “I don’t want to leave you.” He doesn’t just mean now. He means
never. He doesn’t want to leave. The sight of him on the floor like this, eyes like this, voice like this,
it makes his head throb, heart squeeze.

Jungkook’s voice is sharp, but it’s not cold. It’s raw and burning. “You’re just gonna fucking do that
anyway so just do both of us a favor and make it quicker.” His eyes scorch into his for a moment
after the words do, before he takes them away, digs them into the floor. Taehyung’s knees crack
when he bends, lowering himself before him, and Jungkook is shaking his head before he can even
fully squat. “Go,” he repeats, rough and heavy, arms wrapping around his legs, “I don’t want you to
fucking pity me.”

So wrapped up into himself, clinging to some defense, folded and pressed against the locker, Jeon
Jungkook seems so small.

And he loves him.

“Jungkook,” he whispers to him softly.

“Made my bed,” he continues, still so forceful, “gotta fucking lie in it now, don’t I?” His lids raise.
He blinks. His eyes turn to Taehyung again, but he can only skim past, takes them to the other side
of him instead. “Just leave, Tae, go tell your brother he has to get his ass out of here by the end of the
week.”

Taehyung straightens on his legs and Jungkook’s head follows the motion, eyes wide.

But Taehyung doesn’t go. He presses his back on the locker beside him, slides down until their
thighs press together, fully aligned.

“What are you doing?” Jungkook asks, a threat lingering behind the curve of his pitch.

“Sitting down,” Taehyung says simply.

“Taehyung,” Jungkook turns to him, now from so close, Taehyung think he can see the blood
vessels in his bulging eyes, the saliva that glistens on his bared, readied teeth. “I can’t look at your
face.”
“Don’t fucking look at it then, no one’s making you,” he snaps back, prying his own head away,
nodding forward, “Plenty of things to look at.”

He senses with his peripheral vision when Jungkook finally does turn as he asks, but Taehyung
knows all he finds is what he himself sees, the two of them pressed against each other, sitting on the
floor in all of those gigantic mirrors, even in the window. It's dark outside, and even the supposed
view of Richhood just holds their reflections together.

Taehyung tries to give them both a moment. Wants his breathing to calm down, wants his heart to
stop palpitating, but it only seems to grow more sporadic in the trap of his ribcage with every single
moment he doesn’t tell Jungkook the words that blare in his mind, scream in his mind.

“Jungkook,” he tries, fingers wrapping around his forearm. He wants to look at him, wants to see his
eyes. He wants to tell him.

Jungkook readjusts his arm, forces Taehyung’s fingers off of him. “Please, don’t,” he mumbles, head
pressing into the locker, eyes screwing shut.

“But I—”

“You’re making yourself harder to let go off with every fucking moment.” Jungkook’s head spins on
the locker, rolls to the other side, so far away from Taehyung when he can feel the length of their
bodies pressed together still. “Please fucking leave.”

“You’re hiding from me,” Taehyung whispers, his eyes frantic as they dash all over, but they get to
see nothing

He sees the back of his head. “Told you I didn’t want to look at your face.”

Taehyung’s voice hardens for the break of a moment. “I didn’t want to fucking look at yours, either.”

He hears the expel of a sigh. Jungkook is slow, turns to him in segments and Taehyung waits, allows
him to take his time, until he pauses, gazes forward into their reflections.
“Hey, look at me.” Taehyung’ hand ventures, dips over his arm and to his chin; he presses his fingers
to his jaw, his cheek, tilts it to himself, until they share breath and his eyes capture his, and he lets
him go, places his hand on his arm. Taehyung’s head shakes gingerly, a motion so small. He
whispers assuring, “I haven’t decided yet.”

He wants to tell him he won’t leave, wants to promise him he’ll stay, but this is not the moment to
make a decision like this, because once more Namjoon is right and people do dumb things when they
are in love. He’s afraid of making a promise he can’t keep, to Jungkook of all people. He’s afraid of
only feeding him what he would want to hear, because he is enveloped by a desperation to make
sure he’s okay.

And Taehyung remembers how it felt when Jungkook murmured in his mouth, I’m not going
anywhere, and then ruined it all. He’s not doing that to him, even if Jungkook doesn’t feel half of
what he feels for him.

“You’re going to have decide damn quickly now,” Jungkook tells him, voice almost levelled until it
dips, falls again. His hand raises, warm palm fits over Taehyung’s hand, fingers skidding across
before he cups over it fully. Taehyung’s eyes slip to that, too, lips parting. It’s such a small,
unforgiving gesture. He learns so much through the small things. “Please say bye if you go,”
Jungkook’s breath fans over his mouth and he glances up again, eyes finding his, “Proper bye,” he
whispers, “Please.”

Taehyung says nothing.He doesn't imagine he can say goodbye to him.

“Promise?” Jungkook’s brows lift, voice perks, prompts.

Taehyung breathes. “I promise.”

 Chapter 23
Chapter Summary

hmmm Idk what to say here, thought it would be 10k, but of course its not, enjoy

Taehyung stares at drawing all the way home. Give this to your brother, he’d said, don’t think your
sister would let me give it to him when it’s finished.

It’s rough. Such a rough sketch, but it is so distinguishably his little brother, Kim Woojin. Taehyung
has seen him grow up, but he is only six, still so little. Taehyung remembers at that age he still saw
his mother sometimes. But he hardly remembers when, what for, what she did, what she said, how
she was with him.

And what if Woojin forgets him?

You’d want to see Woojin without me there? Taehyung had asked.

Jungkook draws him quickly, but he draws him so distinctly as him. There is the very obvious hint of
talent in the rough strokes he made on the piece of paper, the flair to capture individual characteristics
of his face and put them down.

Well, he’d taken his time, yeah. I want him to have it.

Taehyung wants to give Jungkook more reasons to draw. He wants to give his brother more reasons
to smile. He wonders if he leaves and comes back, and he can’t not come back, will Jungkook have
drawn another picture, taken another photo, or will have just snorted more coke. He wonders how it
would feel, peeling those layers of Jungkook and then coming back to see them closed solid around
him. He wonders how it would feel sleeping in a room every night without Woojin underneath, on
the bunk below, without the sound of his breathing, the occasional soft snore.

He stares at that drawing, the eyes of the character almost disappear with the smile.
The smile so curiously alike Jimin’s. He wonders if Jimin would miss him. Jimin doesn’t like talking
about those things. Jimin won’t tell him, he’ll make it a joke. He’ll miss Jimin a lot.

He stares at it until he feels it stares back with accusation.

He promised he’d say goodbye if he left. He can’t say goodbye.

“Fuck this.”

“Namjoon,” he barges in, strides towards the couch, where his older brother is wrapped around a
plushie he uses for an extra pillow. “Namjoon,” Taehyung repeats more forceful when he doesn’t get
as much as a groan. He hovers above him, demands, “Get the fuck up.” This time he receives a
muffled sound, moaned into the neck of the plushie, but it’s not good enough and it sounds
suspiciously like protest, and Taehyung has no time for this. He grabs at Namjoon’s calf, both hands
firm around, and he gives a very brusque, surprisingly efficient tug.

Namjoon’s body is loose with sleep. It follows easy and unsuspecting, rolls once and topples
satisfyingly to the ground. The groan this time is enough. Especially as it follows with Namjoon
pushing up off the flooring, one wrist propping him up, the other rubbing at the beginning of his ass,
the end of his spine.

“That was highly unnecessary,” he comments, half opened eyes attempting to glare at Taehyung,
puffed up underneath and full of sleep. He has the lines of the fur of Woojin’s plushie printed into his
cheek.

Taehyung folds his arms across his chest, the one below helplessly clutching to the drawing hanging
safely from his fingers. “No,” he shakes his head, “it was highly necessary. I need to tell you
something.”

“Can’t it wait till morning?” Namjoon proceeds to groan and once he’s tended enough to the forming
bruise on his ass, he relaxes back onto the floor, not even attempting to climb back onto the couch for
the purposes of drifting off again. “I was asleep.”

Taehyung’s eyes dull, stare unrelenting onto him. “Namjoon, it’s not even fucking midnight, get
your lazy ass up.” He needs him to get up. Needs it now. His heart is thudding, drumming, numbing.
His head pulses. He needs him up.

“What do you want?” Namjoon whines, but he’s hauling himself up, hands grabbing onto the couch
and the coffee table.

Taehyung blinks. His knee is bouncing even when he’s standing. “Kai saw you.”

Namjoon’s eyes fire at him. “What?” he stutters it out, voice still gruff with sleep.

“Remember Min Yoongi?” Taehyung cocks his head as he waits for Namjoon to replace his ass
from the floor to the couch.

“Jungkook’s addict friend?”

“Same,” Taehyung nods, swallows down nothing. “Kai told him at poker night that an eye of his
saw you yesterday by the subway,” he tells him, says exactly what Jungkook did, in case there is any
room for hope he himself can’t grasp at. His nails dig in his arm.

Namjoon blinks at him once more before he lunges his eyes to the floor, neck snapping as he throws
his head down, sliding hands at the back his head, his neck. “Fuck,” he curses, somehow loud,
somehow breathy.

“Fuck indeed,” Taehyung’s teeth grit their frustration, so he doesn’t squeeze at the paper with his
fingers. “You need to get out of here,” he tells him, head shaking, “You need to get out of here fast.
You—”

Namjoon’s head lifts, arms fall on his thighs as he sits on the couch. “Relax.”

Taehyung’s eyes bulge. “The fuck should I relax for?” He splutters out, quick, feels spit leave his
mouth unintentional, but he doesn’t care.

“Kai won’t come for me this quickly,” he shakes his head, too. Taehyung does not like how calm he
is. While not entirely collected, he does not appear even half as unnerved as Taehyung is, Taehyung,
who can’t catch a coherent thought, it seems. “He doesn’t know what to do with me.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” His shoulders shrug, lips snarl at the lack of co-panicking. “He can
just get rid of you.”

It’s Kai.

“I don’t owe him just money,” Namjoon gazes at him, speaks leveled and soft, as if he tries to ease
Taehyung just with the smoothness of his voice, but it does nothing for him. “He wants something
from me, and he doesn’t know where I keep it. He can’t risk offing me before he finds out.”

Taehyung blinks. He’s blinking. He knows this is deeper than he is allowed to know the details of
and he knows it has to do with Byung-Chul’s daughter, but he’s pulling blanks right then. He
expresses what he knows. “Jungkook said—”

“Jungkook knows this as well,” Namjoon interrupts, tongue running across his lips. His hands press
into each other between his legs, palms lining. He intertwines his fingers together, pulls at them
tightly. “Bet he didn’t say I should pack my bags and leave tonight, did he?”

Taehyung rummages his brain. “No,” he shakes his head. “He said by the end of the week.”

Namjoon glances away from his brother, chooses the table in front of him and brings his hands up to
his face, lips pressing into his knuckles. “Yeah, I guess that would give him time,” he mutters, and
Taehyung feels he no longer speaks to him, but simply voices thoughts that venture across his mind.
Sleep seems gone from him, teeth pressed together, eyes blinking rapid. His mouth curls. “Fuck,” he
swears once more, head shaking on top of his hands, “I should have been more careful.”

“Yes, you should have been,” it flies unbidden and bitter out of Taehyung’s mouth. He doesn’t want
to be angry, but he is. He is angry, and worried, and scared, and his head is starting to hurt from
stifling it all down, from keeping it in a large, sour lump that lodges in his throat.

Namjoon breathes through his nostrils, releases his hands to pat a palm at the length of the back of
his neck. “Knew it was going to happen sooner or later,” he ducks out of its hold, gets on his feet. “I
left for a reason. Guess it’s time to do it again.” He steps, just for the sake of pacing a bit, subtly
restless just like Taehyung. His eyes are on the floor. “At least I’ll have you this time.”
Taehyung’s lips part. He says nothing.

They part a second time.

His voice sounds foreign to his own ears. He hears it more than says it.

“I’m not coming.”

Namjoon’s eyes flash. Head strikes up from the floor, gaze fixes over Taehyung. “What?”

“I’m not going to Japan,” Taehyung repeats. He attempts to sound firm, but he knows his voice
wavers. “I’m staying here.”

Namjoon’s next pace is pointed. He steps towards him, eyes studious. “Taehyung—”

There is some tangible variation of pity resting in that brotherly gaze, sympathetic and cautious, and
grown-up and mature, and thoughtful, and Taehyung’s tongue unleashes. “Did you know Woojin
started making lines for the days you were gone too, like the ones he carves for dad?” he asks and
shuts up. He shuts up and he stares. He waits for thoughtful, careful Namjoon to say something back,
but he doesn’t. Namjoon didn’t think of that, didn’t take care of that. “If I leave as well, he doesn’t
have any fucking bed boards left.” He shakes his head, lowers his voice. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Namjoon exhales through lips that remain parted as he keeps those eyes on his brother. “Taehyung,”
he starts, “you’ve been so confused lately…” he trails, head shaking with that all-consuming
sympathy that is hard for Taehyung to take.

“Yes,” he says, “because I—I had no idea what I was feeling.”

“You still don’t.”

“No,” he denies. He repeats, “No—When Clo texted you,” he runs a tongue over his mouth, feels
dry, “that I was sad, when she thought I needed you. That was before. It was true. I needed you,” he
remembers, the particular night Namjoon came back. It was still such an open wound then, he still
looked at Jungkook and saw what he did, and not who he is. It still happens, it will always happen,
glimpses of what he did, reminders, but it’s not him, not all of him, a part, yes, an action, cruel,
irresponsible, clouded, and more confused than Taehyung himself is, but just an action, nonetheless.
“But I don’t want to go to Japan. I don’t know why I should go to Japan, and I’m holding a fucking
miserable piece of paper in my hand that is reason enough for me to stay.”

He extends his arm to him, fingers trembling in the edge of the paper, but he holds it carefully. He
doesn’t want it wrinkled.

“What is it?” Namjoon takes it, gingerly pressing his fingers to the edges at first until Taehyung sees
he’ll handle with care and he lets it loose from his own. Namjoon’s neck tilts to it, eyes falling to the
character on the paper. “Is that Woojin?”

“Yeah,” Taehyung exhales. He sees it as well. It’s not just him. Jungkook really did capture the
features of their little brother in that simple drawing. Jungkook really looked at their little brother. He
remembered.

Namjoon’s eyes bounce to his. “Did Jungkook draw this?”

“Yes,” he nods, “he did.”

His brother falls silent, fingers stroking into that bit of the paper that Taehyung regretfully and
irreversibly wrinkled with his rough handling. But the rest of the drawing is intact and that is what’s
important.

“Namjoon,” Taehyung calls, gingerly, as he watches him watch it. “I know Ji-woo never has,” he
shakes his head, “but have you ever been in love?”

Taehyung, personally, has no fucking idea what being in love is, exactly, but he does feel that
Namjoon could only possibly understand why that piece of fucking paper is so important if he can at
least somewhat imagine the ridiculous, foolish intensity of what Taehyung feels.

He does not expect Namjoon’s eyes to soften as they stare at the picture, his fingers to grow more
careful as they soothe over the single wrinkle of the paper. He does not except a raw chuckle to
snark from his throat, past his lips, for them to curl into his cheeks with a curve that is too weak to be
happy. “I still am.”
He does not expect that. And at the same time, he does. Because when Taehyung speaks of
Jungkook, Ji-woo panics and Namjoon understands. When forgiveness lingers at his lips, Ji-woo
reminds him he hurt him, and Namjoon reminds him he’s not all black and white.

Taehyung’s surprise lasts a bare moment, short enough for him to blink, for him to notice how the
smile is too small to draw out a dimple, the lids are too low for his eyes to really see the drawing he
seems to stare at with such softness.

“With who?”

Namjoon’s slouching. His back curls forward, shoulders fall into each other. He extends the paper
back to Taehyung. “I bet you can take a guess,” he tells him, the smile curling louder, sadder. His
eyes dance to his. “They’re a difficult family to fall out of love with.”

Taehyung’s fingers latch around the paper on an instinct. His brows crease his forehead when they
narrow on each other. “You’re in love with Clo?”

Namjoon’s eyes fall away from his the moment her name leaves his mouth. “And she’s in love with
Seokjin,” he licks brief at his lips. He shrugs. “Sometimes it’s like this.”

“I didn’t know,” Taehyung shakes his head. He knew Namjoon cares about her a lot. It was hard for
him to suspect it was anything different. She’s beautiful, he knows. She’s special, she must be, with
how Jungkook cares about her himself. But Namjoon was so composed when she was limp and
drugged. He was so calm. He helped her so well. He tries to imagine Jungkook like this and it sets a
fire to his heart, to his head, to his bones and his breath. He could never truly help him in a moment
like this, he's too impulsive, too affected by every emotion Jungkook seems to display.

Namjoon sighs, and Taehyung wonders how he can still keep that small smile etched into his
features, too. “It starts to show less and less as you get used to it,” he tells him, a short shrug, humble
shrug. His lips pull straighter, gaze darting across cigarette burns on the coffee table from when their
mother used to live here. Taehyung rests the paper on top of them, his fingers too nervous to hold it.
“You know I thought after being away for so long in Japan, it would have disappeared?” he trails off
as a question, looking at his little brother. “Dwindled?” He shakes his head. “But I just got used to it.
They’re difficult to fall out of love with.”

He makes it look so embarrassingly easy. Taehyung almost wants to scoff. Just standing there,
admitting that he loves someone, a Jeon, even if she doesn’t love him back. Taehyung’s almost
envious. At the same time the very idea of Jungkook not wanting him gnaws at him from the inside,
and all envy dissipates.
And he figures, maybe it isn’t easy for Namjoon. Maybe it’s as heart wrenchingly difficult as it is for
Taehyung. He looks at his throat, and he watches him swallow, gulp it all down and muster up
strength. He watches his eyes as they need time to look around before they can find Taehyung’s. He
watches his lips that are on the margin of being bitter and being soft.

It’s not easy, but he does it anyway, tells him, anyway, because Taehyung asks, and because
Taehyung needs to hear it, and Taehyung isn’t thinking. He is speaking.

His eyes zero in on Namjoon, his lips open. He tells him.

“I love Jungkook.”

His heart seems to stop for a moment. Then it proceeds with newfound vigor, banging against his
chest. The words sound pleasurably foreign on his lips, unfamiliar but not unwelcome, accompanied
with a rush that is scary, yet exciting, just like it felt to kiss Jungkook for the first time.

Namjoon’s eyes stay on his. He lets the words linger, in the very living room in which Taehyung
threw Jungkook's shirt at him, ripped the PlayStation from its cables, threw the toy car at him, told
him to leave, told him he’s done. In the very living room in which Jungkook told Taehyung about his
sister the first time and drew Woojin a picture.

“I know,” Namjoon says.

Taehyung’s throat bobs. “I’ve never said it before,” he admits.

His brother nods. “Okay,” He eases into a step forward, searches his face. “Do you feel better now?”

He shakes his head. His eyes feel like they’re stinging. His lip feels like it wants to tremble. “I don’t
know,” he tells him. He loves him, but that doesn’t erase anything, not the fact he slept with his
sister, not the fact Clo’s in the hospital, not the fact he thinks Taehyung will leave and he asked him
to stay, not the way he looked so small against the lockers even after he showed him just how strong
he could be. “I want him to be okay and he isn’t.”

“Taehyung,” Namjoon calls him softly, his fingers squeezing into Taehyung’s bicep carefully.
“They’re not only difficult to fall out of love with. They’re difficult to love as well. It’s hard for them
to be okay.” His fingers tense. “You see what Clo does, you see what he does.”

“I think I fell in love with him after what he did.”

Namjoon’s brows furrow. “What?”

“Or at least,” Taehyung pokes his tongue at his lips; they feel dry, but his throat feels dry as well, the
lump in it is rising, “I fell in love with him more. Every time I’ve seen him since then, I think it—”
he fumbles with his thoughts, searches for a definition, an explanation, but there is word vomit in his
mind, that lump in his throat and it all threatens to spill, “grows. Shouldn’t it, shouldn’t it be
reversed? I—”

Namjoon’s hand tightens more around him, voice stern as Taehyung’s grows weaker, “Tae—”

It twists and breaks and it’s borderline pathetic how flimsy he sounds and how bitter his eyes feel. “I
really want him to be okay.”

“I know,” Namjoon says. In a moment he’s looking at his brother’s face, but then he feels he chokes,
and he’s looking at his shoulder, then at nothing. Namjoon cups the back of his head, presses him
forward until his forehead rests on his shoulder after the first and only sound of a broken sob.

Taehyung’s hands fly, grip at his shirt, fingers squeeze. He doesn’t touch him, just clings to the fabric
of his shirt and pulls it, holds it, as he screws his eyes shut and lets the lump fall in the shape of
words, sporadic and unhinged. “I want you to be okay, too, and I want Ji to be okay, and Clo as
well, but she is in the hospital, and why is everything wrong?” his chest heaves. His breath hitches
once, stutters, ribcage receding and expanding with no pattern. It feels like a cough. It feels like he
can hardly breathe. “Everything is wrong.”

Namjoon’s hand pats across his neck. “Taehyung,” he calls him soft.

He sniffs. “I want everything fixed. I want you to stay.”

“It will be,” Namjoon promises falsely, the palm soothing and unnerving all the same. “Everything is
going to be fine.”
Taehyung’s fingers squeeze one last time before he releases. But he keeps his head there for a little
while longer, his eyes shut, too, because he can feel how wet his lashes are. He doesn’t want to cry.
He’s not crying. “I’m so tired and Ji-woo hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Namjoon pulls back himself, attempts to find his eyes, one hand on his
shoulder now, but Taehyung’s hands lift, palms rub into the hollows of his eyes. “She doesn’t
understand you.”

“I don’t fucking understand me, either,” he confesses, palms digging into him hard as if he can press
hard enough for his eyes to swallow back the tears. “I’ve never been in love before. It fucks with my
head.”

“Yeah, it tends to.”

“She’ll never,” he sniffs through his nose, draws his palms down and looks at them, wet, too. He
wonders if his eyes are red. He can feel they swell, feel them puff. He can feel the tears dry into his
skin, except the ones that cling in drops to his lashes, “she’ll never be okay with it, will she?”

Namjoon’s head shakes. “I can’t tell you that.”

A new wave of something hits and Taehyung presses his fingers into his eyes this time. His head
shakes, too, vigorous. “He’s not a bad person.”

“I know,” Namjoon reassures.

Taehyung finally gives up. His hands fall. He lets Namjoon look. It’s just Namjoon. “I don’t think he
does. I don’t think anyone’s told him.” He pauses for a breath, his eyes shifting and lingering all
across his brother’s expression, as if he can read the answer to the question that impends to slip from
his lips. His eyes sting from the bitterness. He asks, “Does it start to hurt less?”

Namjoon stares at his eyes, speaks to him softly. “What?”

He takes his lip in his mouth. “Not being with Clo?”

Namjoon’s sigh is long. It’s heavy. His shoulders angle different and he shows once more, it isn’t
easy for him, isn’t easy at all. He blinks away. “At times it doesn’t hurt at all,” he says, but next his
head shakes and his eyes venture back to Taehyung. “But it’s different. She doesn’t want me. She is
with who she needs to be.”

Taehyung’s brows furrow. “He’s with no one.”

His lips press, pull to the sides, edge of them curling downwards as he dashes his eyes to the small
pout of his brother's mouth. “I don’t know how long It will take him to allow himself to be with
anyone else,” he tells him carefully.

Anyone else. Honest to god, it hadn’t even crossed Taehyung’s mind that in a post-Julia world, he
needed to consider that Jungkook might move on to someone else, that if Taehyung moves away, he
might not come back to Jungkook being a Jeon again, but to Jungkook having found someone else to
push him not to be a Jeon. That he knows what he lacked in Julia now, so he might find it
somewhere else. The jealousy that strikes him isn’t blinding, but it’s stifling. It’s there. He’s jealous
of some hypothetical non-person.He doesn’t want to wish him loneliness. He never would. He
realizes it is in his loneliest moments that Jungkook himself reaches for a substance, and he doesn’t
want that. But he cannot find it in himself to wish him someone else either.

Jungkook fooled him into forgetting he could possibly replace him. He always speaks as if Taehyung
is the only boy that he could want. But he isn’t. Jungkook is hard to love, but he is not hard to
want.Taehyung is aware he could easily get someone else, somebody he hasn’t hurt. He really
wishes he was mature enough to want that for him. To wish him a better start.

He’s not. He’s more alike Jungkook than he lets himself show, at moments. He’s immature and he’s
possessive. He doesn’t trust anyone else to properly know Jungkook, to always distinguish his family
name to him, to remind him he can break apart from it, to allow him to care for his sister more than
he cares for anyone else.

He doesn’t want Jungkook to be alone, but he doesn’t want Jungkook to be with somebody else
either.

His teeth gnaw almost angry into his lip. “He doesn’t need to be with anyone else,” he says. “He can
have me.”

Namjoon’s eyes worry over him. “Taehyung,” his voice rings with a distinct caution, though he
pronounces his name slow and tentative, “were you with him, when Yoongi told him?”

Taehyung releases his lip. “Yes.”

“He—” he hesitates, brow twisting, “He didn’t take it well?”

Taehyung’s head shakes, voice small, “No.”

“Sleep on it, Tae.”

He sighs. He is well aware of what Namjoon suggests; seeing Jungkook like that affects him, pulls
his feelings for him on the surface, strips them naked, bare, exposed and vulnerable. He knows this.
It is why he didn’t tell Jungkook he wanted to stay in that gym. But he sighs and he says, “I’m not
staying just for him. It’s just,” his shoulders slump. “He was the only thing I wanted to leave,” he
shakes head once more, “but I don’t want to leave him.”

Namjoon’s eyes slim. He licks a stripe across his lips. “This whole community’s dysfunctional.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung nods. “Most are. And I don’t want to leave Woowoo in it.”

“He’s got Ji-woo.”

“She’s going to teach him some things I don’t want him to think.” He blinks and one of those
gruesome tears escapes the brim of his eyes, slips down his cheek. He wipes at it with a finger.
“Fuck,” he curses, frustration palpable, bringing away his hand to stare at the unbidden moisture on
his skin. “The fuck is wrong with me?”

Namjoon’s stare slips over him, careful. “When did you last let yourself cry about this?”

Taehyung wipes at his eye with his whole hand, removes any residual wetness that has gathered
there. “When it happened,” he admits. He does not like the way Namjoon phrases it. Let yourself, he
says, and Taehyung is reminded of all the stupid urges he gets, the lumps, the bite in his eyes that he
has to blink away.
“Tae,” Namjoon says, head tilting to the side as he gazes at him softly, “don’t hold shit like that in.”

Taehyung huffs. “Ji-woo hasn’t cried in twelve years.”

Namjoon breathes slow and loud. He glances away, at nothing in particular. He tells him quietly, “Ji-
woo cried the night I came home.”

Taehyung’s lips seal. He stares at his brother, tries to judge by his expression if it is a lie, but he finds
no reason for it to be.

Namjoon’s hand raises, pats on the side of his shoulder.

“Sleep on it, Tae. Okay?” He tilts his brows at him, eyes glinting with something as they find his.
“That’s all I’m asking.”

They don’t say good morning to each other. Taehyung eats cereal at the table after Namjoon takes
Woojin to kindergarten. It’s safe, he assures him, sleep some more. Taehyung argues muffled into his
pillow for a few moments, but he lets him go. He couldn’t fall asleep last night, but he did manage to
drift off before Ji-woo came home.

Namjoon takes Woojin away before Taehyung can give him the drawing and it watches him now as
he eats, plastered onto the table in the kitchen.

He hears her walk down the steps, skip the third one, the weak one. They don’t say good morning to
each other. He keeps eating as she pours herself cereal as well, some skimmed milk.

She presses herself to the counter and eats standing up, the bowl fit in her fingers. But her eyes are
on the table.
“Is that Woojin?” she asks, curiosity curling her voice as her head tips slightly, lids squinting so she
can see better.

Taehyung nods. “Yeah.” He shoves the spoon in his mouth.

She pushes herself of the counter, draws closer to the table until her hips touch the edge. She tilts her
head down, eyes fitting over the paper as a negligible curve forms over her lips. “You haven’t drawn
something that isn’t a shape in so long. I forget—”

“I didn’t draw it,” Taehyung cuts her off, the sound of his spoon cluttering into the now empty bowl
ringing around them. His chair scrapes when he stands. “Jungkook did,” he tells her before he starts
the sink. “Woojin told him he wanted to be a part of the game.”

She says nothing. He dries his hands in the towel by the counter and leaves.

The solitude of his shower brims his head with as much thoughts as that of the night did. So, he
pushes it all away, screws his eyes shut, wraps a hand around himself. He tries not to think about
anything, just feel, just release a little of the tension that coils into the muscles of his body, but he
makes himself come to the thought of Jungkook at the gym, grabbing him back, fucking him against
one of those mirrors while he watches their bodies move together in all of the rest, especially in that
window that is meant to overlook Richhood, but it just reflects Jungkook pushing inside of him.

“Hi.” It feels stupid. It’s such a simple word, a dumb greeting. But it feels so stupid. He has nothing
else to say, though, as he stares at Taehyung linger in his doorstep. It doesn’t shock him anymore.
No, the sight is not necessarily a surprise. With itself, however, this time it carries a dread,
apprehension that makes him curiously aware of his bowels as if they move around in his stomach
like the snakes that wrap around Kai's throat.
“Hey,” Taehyung returns, eyes skimming across him. He looks at his feet, and he looks at his own
eyes, and he drags his gaze over everything in between.

Jungkook pushes the door more, steps away from the threshold with it and beckons with his chin. He
stares at Taehyung’s shoes as he seems to fidget in them before he takes the one step that takes him
inside the apartment. He follows him to the living room, a different common path for him than for
Julia.

Taehyung’s jeans are faded and too big for him, a light color. His t-shirt is loose on broad shoulders,
opened wide at his neck, narrow bones stretching enunciated underneath tan skin, clavicles meeting
pretty and sharp at the dip of a long throat. The sleeves are close to reaching his elbows and there is a
slight tear at the hem of one, just where the thread that finishes off is. Jungkook wonders if Taehyung
even knows this. His hair looks sleek, soft, as it falls over dark brows, some strands touching his
lashes. His fingers almost twitch with the urge to reach and brush some away, uncover more of his
face then lose themselves in silky threads.

He doesn’t touch him, though, and he keeps his distance, tips his head.

“Came to say goodbye?”

Taehyung feels Jungkook’s eyes on him. They pierce through him somehow heavier than other times
or maybe it is just his own intention that lingers in his chest, that sears his blood, which gives them
this unforgiving weight.

Jungkook says the word goodbye and Taehyung’s eyes narrow.

He folds his arms over. “What do you want from this goodbye?” he asks him.

Jungkook’s eyes narrow more. His lips pull back, teeth are shiny and white as they show for the
moments he takes to speak with animation. “I don’t want it.” His expression isn’t soft, but his voice
somehow is. His lids lower. His stare seems to linger everywhere tonight, at every bit of him. “Want
you to stay.”

Taehyung takes his eyes away, rolls them across the entirety of the room as his lips part without
having an actual intent of speaking. He tightens his arms where he clutches them in front of his chest.
“What do you expect from it then?” he rephrases as he catches his gaze once more. “What’s the point
of this?”
Jungkook darts his eyes, now only over the features of his face, his concentration sealing there. “I
just—” his tongue indents his cheek, a sight by now familiar to Taehyung. His hesitation pulls
between them. His shoulders fold together. “Something final?”

Taehyung’s brows shift. “Final?” he tastes it on his lips. This, this, whatever the fuck this is, them, it
does feel incredibly incomplete. It had a starting point. Several, Taehyung thinks, each one launching
something new, the first look, the first touch, the first night at the hotel, the first time he called him
Taehyung, and the first time he called him Tae. The first time they had sex and the first time they
kissed. Each of those is a beginning on its own. None of them have ends.

“Yeah?” Jungkook’s voice curls as he says it, his own brows shoot up slightly.

Taehyung’s lips press. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

Jungkook’s head shakes. “I don’t want it.”

It’s too late, Taehyung thinks. “I promised,” he tells him. He needs to learn to keep his promises.

“It—” Jungkook shifts on his feet. Maybe he wants to come closer. Taehyung wants him to come
closer. “It’s soon.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung nods. He tugs his lower lip over his teeth, breathes, exhales deeply only through
his mouth. “I think it’s too soon, too,” he confesses. It’s true. It’s the truth. It’s too soon for this. He
doubts he’s ready. However, his shoulders shrug. However, his eyes seal helpless onto him and he
wants him to come closer. “But what’s the point in waiting?”

Jungkook’s laugh is curt and sardonic. His hand raises, palm rubs into the back of his neck as his
eyes fall away, head tilting down. “You getting me out of the way, then?” he asks, fingers tight with
the pattern they squeeze at his nape.

“No,” Taehyung shakes his head. “You’re the one who wanted a goodbye,” he accuses.

“Yes,” Jungkook answers, eyes snapping up. It’s almost a hiss.

Taehyung doesn’t sound indifferent, but he doesn’t sound too attached, either, and it wages a storm
inside Jungkook’s chest.

“How does it go?” Taehyung’s asking. “For you,” he shrugs, “how does it go? Why did you want
it?”

He tries to stifle the anger. He can’t be angry with him. It’s better this way. It’s better with Taehyung
separated from this, then with Taehyung sad. Jungkook tries to swallow frustration. There is a lot he
wants to say to him, show to him, if this is final, if this is goodbye, if this is honestly his last chance.
So, he cannot afford to have his judgment clouded by anger. It happens to him, sometimes, happens
to him a lot. Anger turns him slightly cruel, and anger always lingers, appetitive to drive him to a
wrong decision.

Anger isn’t beckoned. It comes with no invitation. And Jungkook knows he isn’t special in that. No
one wants anger, even if they anticipate it. Just like he never wanted many of the things he feels
when he’s around him. It shouldn’t matter. He thinks. It should matter that he can press it back down
in his chest and his stomach, keep it away from his tongue, his lips, his feet and his fists.

He has other things he wants at his lips. He has no plan. He did not imagine this in his head. It is
enough he has to go through it once. He does not expect it so soon. Namjoon has time; Kai is known
to be careful. Kai is cruel and meticulous.

But Jungkook isn’t given time. He takes some now, after Taehyung asks, he pauses. But essentially,
he’s given no time. He isn’t prepared. He doesn’t think he could ever exactly be. So, he blurts,
honest, “I’m sorry.”

Taehyung’s head cocks, eyes slither over him. “You’re sorry?” he repeats.

Jungkook’s lips press together, the tip of his tongue trapped in between. “Yes,” he nods.

The other’s brows furrow. “That you asked me for this?” he specifies, the tip of his head growing
deeper.

“No,” it’s breathy. His step forward is unintentional, but he can’t exactly take it back. He lets it be
just one, just one step closer to him. “That you feel that you have to leave. I’m sorry for what I did.”
Taehyung’s lids lower, eyes soften. Apologies, he has learned from the several times he has heard
them from Jungkook’s lips, apologies go a long way, especially with someone like this, whose
behavior has always been unapologetic and unpunished. But apologies don’t erase anything.
“You’ve said sorry,” he mumbles, gaze drifting to the floor.

“No, I haven’t,” Jungkook’s head shakes and Taehyung is forced to look again, confused. “I said
sorry for a part of what I did,” Jungkook tells him as Taehyung’s eyes dart across. They appear
larger like this. His eyes are so big, perplexed. His eyes seem to glisten, and maybe it’s the light,
maybe it's not. They have this perpetual natural glow. “But I’m sorry for other things, too,”
Jungkook keeps talking. It is a war of who is less prepared for this. Neither wins, they both lose, but
Jungkook speaks anyway. “I’m sorry that I didn’t even use your name for I don’t know how long,”
he starts. Kim, it seems so far away now that he called him that, that he used to detach him from his
personality and attach him to his name, like he does to himself all the time. But it gives Taehyung
hope, because if he can do it for him, perhaps he’ll be able to do it for himself. “I’m sorry I kept
bringing up how much money you had as if it made you. I’m sorry I put Julia between us for so
long.” Taehyung’s lips part, neck cranes. He wants to tell him it’s okay, that was different. It hurt,
but it was different. Jungkook’s head shakes. “I’m sorry I tried to pay you the first time we were
alone," he tells him and Taehyung's lips press shut, "I’m sorry I kept leaving and then coming back,
expecting you to just—” he looks away, shoulders shrug, “yeah.” He runs out of words, perhaps, but
Taehyung is surprised he pulled that many out in the first place. Jungkook’s teeth worry over his
mouth before his head shoots back. “I am sorry I took so long to kiss you,” he says and maybe the
pause was to fill his voice again because it comes stronger. “I’m sorry I tried to push you away after
that. And I’m sorry about how I did it. And I’m sorry I never really said sorry.”

And that thing that Taehyung confessed to Namjoon that he hates, that he doesn’t understand, it
happens again. He thinks he falls in love with him one bit more.

He wonders if love can be even be measured. If it can be more or less, grow or dwindle. Or once
you love, you love, and it is why Namjoon cannot escape the clutches. It’s probably different for
different people. For him it grows. It grows powerfully and Taehyung wonders if it will have a peak,
or it will just continue on and on like this and with every time he looks at him, he will fall in love
more.

“This is supposed to be a goodbye,” Taehyung shakes his head, “you get nothing out of being
sorry.”

Jungkook’s eyes dart across him, the way they expand in toll with his nostrils after a short bristle, it’s
almost offended. “I don’t expect anything out of it. I just want you to know that I am.”

Taehyung blinks. The swallow feels constricting in his throat, so he clears it, adjusts his arms
together in front of his chest. He squeezes so hard into his elbows to remain like this. “That’s what
you wanted to do? For this goodbye?”

No, Jungkook thinks. Not really. It doesn’t feel enough. It doesn’t offer any closure, especially with
the way Taehyung remains: soft, but detached. He doesn’t know what he expected, but he hurts, and
Taehyung doesn’t seem to and though the last thing he wants is to hurt him, that just hurts more.
“Yes.”

Taehyung takes a step forward. “And what do I do?”

“You…” It’s stupid. What he wants is stupider than that godawful ‘hi’ he said to him. But he gulps it
down. He wants it. “You kiss me goodbye,” he says. He’s embarrassed. He didn’t know he had in
him to be like this, but he is. He licks his lips, glances to the floor. “Can you?”

“No.”

Jungkook’s head snaps to him. “Why?” it draws out of him before he can stop himself. He shouldn’t
expect Taehyung to agree, but he does. Taehyung doesn’t owe him this, but he wants to take it.
What’s more, he’d allowed himself to think Taehyung would want it, too. He made him wait for a
kiss for so long. Too long.

He watches lashes bash over glistening big eyes. He watches his tongue skim over a full bottom lip
before it pauses to rest hesitant in the corner. “You asked me to stay,” he says.

Jungkook’s heart escalates. He tries to calm it, keep his mind in control of his tongue and his body,
and not that drumming heart. Taehyung is doing nothing but recapping what happened. He nods,
pronounces slowly. “Yes, I did.”

Taehyung’s lips part and for a moment Jungkook only watches his tongue linger pressed over the
roof of his mouth as he is saying no words. His eyes are fitted to the floor. The inhale he takes is
sharp, but his eyes feel sharper when they blink up. “What if I do?”

Maybe he took this moment of reluctance to gather his voice. But he fails. There is an edge to that
voice. It quivers. It feels like it’s climbing.

What if. what if. What If. He says what if, but it doesn’t exactly seem to register with Jungkook’s
body if one can judge by the steps he takes towards him, the cruel bash of his blood as it pulses
through veins. “Tae…”

Taehyung’s voice climbs more and more, charges for that edge. “What happens if I stay?” it’s
asking, “What do you want from me in that case?”

“Anything,”Fuck. Jungkook is touching his face. He doesn’t even know when he reaches him. He
keeps his body away, but his hand raises, fingers brush across his cheek. It’s nothing solid. It’s a
ghostly touch, digits hovering over him more so than holding him. His eyes are wide, he’s trying to
speak through them once more, chin tilting into his neck. “Anything you want,” he tells him.
“Anything you’d give.” He hears the words after he says them, but he means them, so it’s okay. It’s
okay. He’s struggling to even his breath, but it’s fine. He sounds desperate, but that’s okay, too. He
is, so it’s fine. “Taehyung, are you serious?” he’s asking, “Are you staying?” He can’t seem to wrap
his head around it. “Is this hypothetical? Because if this is just scenarios—”

If it is, if Taehyung is playing at scenarios, what if this, what if that, Jungkook doesn’t think he can
take it. Not now. He’s always liked games, and he supposes he deserves for someone to play. back,
but he can’t take it. Not when the possibility of Taehyung staying feels so utterly exhilarating. It’s
physical. It pulls him forward to where he is almost touching him now, tips of his fingers
occasionally brushing into his cheek. It’s physical. It pulls words from his brain straight to his tongue.

Taehyung’s voice climbs some more. The palm of his hand is warm when he raises his hand. His
fingers fit around the wrist that hovers close to his jaw. “I’m serious.”

“I,” He steps closer. He steps closer. He feels stupid all over again, inadequate almost, and he’s
always hated inadequacy. His father would deem it laughable. He can’t find in himself to care. He
steps closer. “I’d do anything, okay?” His brows furrow as he searches his face, from so close.
Taehyung isn’t pulling away. He’s allowing him a proximity like this. He takes it. “I’ll kiss you all
you want,” he promises because he still hasn’t forgiven himself he said no to him so many times,
“kiss you anywhere you ask me to, kiss without you asking me to. Just…” there are no more steps to
take forward, it seems, “Stay,” he exhales. “Okay?” He hears himself soft in one moment,
demanding in the next. “What do you want?” he asks him. “What do you want? Tell me, Tae. I’ll
give it to you.”

Taehyung’s voice finally topples over that edge it threatens to. “Just…” His face morphs. Whatever
this fucking front is, it slips, falls, and his face changes, features screw, sharp, familiar features twist
and contort into an expression that speaks of difficulty, and it is in turn hard for Jungkook to look at
him like this, but it betrays an affect that makes Jungkook’s blood run hotter. His head tilts slightly,
cheek chasing after the heat of Jungkook’s palm, and he cups his face more boldly. “Just be with
me.”
“I am,” he says. “I am.” He promises. “I’m here, aren’t I?” His thumb grazes at his cheekbone; his
skin is so soft, immaculate and Jungkook’s calloused fingers probably should not be allowed to
touch. “I’m with you.”

Taehyung’s head straightens, lifts from his hold and his fingers tighten over his wrist, as if to make
sure he’s there. His thumb brushes across bone and skin. “I don’t—” his gaze coats over him, tongue
runs over his lips; he’s hesitant, almost scared. “I don’t mean just now, in the moment, Kook.”
Taehyung squeezes at his wrist again, fingers clutching for some security. “I mean.” He swallows,
eyes fall down to his chest before he chances them at his own. “Be with me. With me. Like, you and
I, together.”

Jungkook’s pulling his hand away and Taehyung’s fingers are forced to uncurl, hang loose in the air,
folded in the pattern of Jungkook's wrist. His brows furrow. “Be together?” he pronounces, tastes it
on his tongue, and it seems to taste ridiculous with the way it sounds from his lips. Something bilious
settles itself unforgivingly in Taehyung’s stomach at the sheer bewilderment that drafts through the
other’s features, his voice. “You want me to be your…” his eyes search as he takes a step back and
perhaps he waits for Taehyung to fill in, but Taehyung is just watching him with wide eyes, so he
does it himself in the end, “boyfriend?”

He doesn’t say it disgusted, but he says it so perplexed, and Taehyung’s chest feels empty all of a
sudden.

“I—"

Jungkook’s taking another step back and it feels like a punch to the gut. “Have you gone mad?” he
breathes.

Taehyung’s features twist. He shakes his head, wraps his arms around himself again, protective. “I
thought you said anything.”

“Anything,” Jungkook pronounces sharply, teeth clashing together, “that is fucking possible,
Taehyung.”

Taehyung’s eyes narrow. “This—” he says, “This is possible, Jungkook. You just. You’re just—"

“What?” Jungkook interrupts almost thunderous, but then his voice falls, drops. He presses a spread
palm to his chest. “I’m just what?” he urges, urges with his words and with his whole face, eyes
asking Taehyung, brows asking Taehyung, lips asking Taehyung. “Scared?” he guesses, he finishes.
It’s obvious. “Is that what you want to accuse me of being?” the question in itself borders an
accusation of its own. “Cause yes,” he says, fingers digging in his chest harder. “I’m scared,” he
confesses, a single almost unnoticeable quiver of his voice forcing itself into his words. He extends
his free arm backwards, points at the door to his fucking marble hallway. “Because if I walk in my
house and tell my father that I’m no longer with Julia cause I like fucking poor boys in the ass now,
he will not just disown me. He will probably goddamn kill me just in case it ever gets out, cause he’d
rather have a dead son than a gay son.”

His eyes feel penetrative as they dig into his. Taehyung would tell him he doesn’t want that, doesn’t
expect it. Not his father. But the deflation from Jungkook’s immediate reaction spirals into anger and
his lips seal shut. He waits, offers no reassurance to that, because he wants to see, see how it is for
Jungkook, what the fuck anything means to him.

Jungkook stares back into Taehyung’s silence, chest raise and fall, before his arm drops. His head
tilts. “Can’t we…” he slides over to him again, voice slips softer, his fingers prod gingerly into
Taehyung’s forearms which his keeps closed protective in front of himself, “can’t we just be like
before, but better, see each other, kiss each other, just be with each other, okay?” He searches his
eyes, “Not together?”

Taehyung untangles his arms, pries them away from his touch. His eyes narrow, he scoffs. He
wonders what that fucking word, together, means to him that it scares him so much. Taehyung
doesn’t want to goddamn marry him, doesn’t want Jungkook to tattoo on his forehead that they’re
together. He only wants his security, his word, he wants it explicit that Jungkook doesn’t have the
right to fuck someone else and justify it in his head that they are nothing exclusive, that Taehyung
doesn’t have the right to be hurt because he lied to him that they were nothing to each other. He
wants them together for them, not for an audience.

“And I suppose you wouldn’t want me to see, kiss and be with other people, would you?” he’s still
scoffing. It all sounds like one big angry, disbelieving scoff.

It’s more questioning his concept of what he wants from them than anything else, but Jungkook’s
features pull. “Do you want to be with other people?” he asks, voice smaller.

Taehyung’s eyes search his. “No,” he tells him, as firmly as he can. “Okay?” his brows lift. “Shit,
no.” He shakes his head, moves back, paces slightly through the room. “But I don’t want you to be
with other people, either. And you won’t ever fucking grant me that, will you?” he throws a hand in
his hair. “God,” he bents slightly to the floor, twists at the waist, and he laughs, because isn’t this
funny, isn’t this fucking hilarious, “you’ll probably be engaged to Julia in a few months.”

Anything, Jungkook says. Anything that wouldn’t require for him to drop his fucking Aston Martin,
Taehyung thinks.

“Julia and I are over, Tae,” Jungkook’s voice carries soft over to him, “You know that.”

Okay, one thing, he gave up one thing.

“Some other rich girl then,” Taehyung shrugs. “And I?” he presses his thumb in his chest, eyes
widening as he stares into his. “I will be stuck being your exclusive, dirty little secret. Probably
fucking cater your wedding. We can go for a quick romp before the ceremony.” He huffs, breathes
through his nose. He runs that one hand deep through his hair before he drops it by his thigh in
defeat. “If being a poor boy, if being a Kim has taught me anything, it’s self-preservation, Jungkook.
And being around you?” his brows lift. “It’s the fucking opposite.”

Namjoon, Ji-woo and him, the three of them have always known a lot about surviving, little about
living. And with Jungkook, Taehyung allows himself to live, at a cost, and maybe that is a mistake
considering just who they are.

He doesn’t really mean to sound final, doesn’t mean to seem like he’s going, because with or without
Jungkook, he’s staying in Seoul, and he needs to know whether this ends or begins, but Jungkook
misinterprets his step, fingers curl around his arm. He pulls him to himself. “Don’t fucking leave,” he
says and it’s breathy, it sounds like a please. “Hey,” he calls in an exhale, eyes studying each line of
his face. “You don’t have to worry about self-preservation, okay?” he nods to him, desperate. “Even
as my secret, I can buy you anything you want. I can buy you an atelier, I can—"

“I don’t care about money, Jungkook,” Taehyung interrupts, he’s almost yelling, “I care about you.
Obviously, we’re incompatible for this one,” he shakes his head, tells him softer.

Jungkook’s words are hurried, so hurried. “That’s not true, Tae. I—"

“You what?” he challenges. “You’re possessive over me, yeah?” his expression contorts, almost
offended, mostly pained. Jungkook can’t take it. “Over your things.” He can’t hear him calling
himself a thing, either, especially when he talks of his perception of him. “Rich and spoiled since
birth, right? You don’t want anyone playing with your toys.”

Jungkook’s fingers squeeze, his teeth grind together. “You’re not a toy to me, Taehyung,” his voice
tugs, layers with emotion, and he fucking hopes it registers with him. He thought Taehyung knew
that at least, he tried to tell him so many times.
“Fine,” his jaw slacks, teeth clashing together “But why is money so important to you?”

Jungkook swallows, tongue courses over his lip. His eyes dart to their corners for the breath of a
moment, before he chances a look back at him. “Money is what brought you to me, isn’t it?”

Taehyung’s always needed money. He’s always hated money. Right now, he loathes them.

“Julia needed to buy me, Jungkook,” Taehyung shakes his head, eyes coating over him, somehow
softer. “Not you. You’ve always had me for free. Now, too. There’s no use in trying to buy me
now.” He takes a step back and Jungkook doesn’t know what for, but he panics.

“You’re not walking away,” he tugs him back to himself, close, as close as he’ll have him. “Listen,
listen to me.” He slides his grip lower on his arm, from his elbow to just above his wrist and he
wraps as much as he can of his hand and fingers around him, holds him there, softly, lightly.
Taehyung doesn’t pull away, presses a fist to his chest to keep a distance, but he doesn’t pull away.
And Jungkook doesn’t know what Taehyung means by together, but he promises anything he can
give without losing his family. “I’ll be with you, okay, yours.”

Yours, he murmurs, and Taehyung’s heart flutters. Mine, he used to call him, but it never went both
ways. Taehyung was his and he was Julia’s. “You get rights over me,” Jungkook keeps speaking
and Taehyung’s fingers curl onto the shirt at his chest. He feels they are no longer there to keep him
away, but he isn’t sure yet. “All the fucking rights,” he promises, he lists, “to ask me where I am,
who I’m with, to call me, to text me, to kiss me whenever you want, to see me whenever you want,
to talk to me about whatever you want. Okay?” Taehyung senses fingers press into the shape of his
waist, insubstantial, careful, so he presses against them. They squeeze with almost ghostly pressure in
return. “It won’t be like before,” Jungkook shakes his head, the hand around his arm, falling lower.
The tips of his digits tease over his palm. “I’m not holding back from you, not giving you bits and
pieces, not pretending I don’t care.” His fingers slip some more, tentative as they tap at the gaps
between his. Taehyung’s own fingers part, and Jungkook’s hand falls into his fully, digits
intertwining, pressing their palms together. His thumb closes over the back of his hand, pats at his
knuckles and rests there. “You don’t have a public title or some shit, but you have me. All of me.”

Taehyung’s forehead creases and Jungkook wants to press his against him, straighten the lines out.
“All of you?” he repeats back to him, hungry for confirmation. It’s barely a breath and it’s just
against his lips, slipping in between them, in him, this particular promise a part of him now.

“Yeah, all of me,” he says again, and it falls easy from his mouth. He has always expected from
himself that a promise of dedication like this would feel like a sacrifice. He has always been reluctant
to give something like this to Julia, and in turn, she was as well. But it doesn’t. He doesn’t mind
giving Taehyung permission to have all of him, doesn’t mind talking to him about Clo, or his father,
doesn’t mind getting his texts, only sleeping with him. He’d warned him a while ago not to have any
expectations from him, but he wants Taehyung to expect things from him, to want things from him.

He tightens his fingers around his, holds his hand better. “I don’t want this out because I’m scared of
what it would do to the both of us. Not because I don’t want people to know, okay?” he pats his
thumb over his, tips his head closer. “I want them to. I just don’t trust them.”

The apartment is big, huge, enormous. They only need a tiny portion of it, really, to have this
murmured conversation.

Taehyung shakes his head, eyes charting all over his face, from so close, the closest he could be
without touching, and he wants him closer still. “I don’t expect you to tell people like your dad,
Jungkook,” he tells him now, when he is calmer, when he listens. “I just,” he fits his fingers harder
into his shirt, hesitates, but he speaks, “I want to know you won’t, like, go to the Ring and fuck
someone else after you fight. I don’t want to be constantly hiding this, just seeing you in back rooms
for quick fucks.”

They don’t shout at each other now, they talk. And it works, somehow it works.

“Hey,” he bends his head slightly, chases after his eyes when Taehyung attempts to glance at the
floor. He doesn’t let him, captures his eyes with his own and clutches onto them, wide and bare.
“Ever since the first time I touched you, I haven’t been with anyone else, except…you know.” His
lips pull tight, jaw ticks, and he doesn’t say it. It pangs with livid shame in his chest, and he keeps
going, gets past it. “Not even Julia,” he shakes his head. “I don’t want anyone else. Not after I fight,
not ever. I just want you,” He squeezes at his fingers and he squeezes at his waist. “And I’ll tell
Yoongi and Hoseok, and you can meet them and see Yoongi’s not scary,” he tells him. He has every
intention of fitting Taehyung into every area of his life in which he’s allowed to, not just bathrooms
and back rooms. “And Julia knows and Clo does.” He adjusts his feet in some blind effort to come
closer when he realizes it’s not entirely possible. “Everyone I trust,” he elaborates. “You’re not a
secret. You’re not dirty.”

Taehyung’s teeth work into his bottom lip. Jungkook has his eyes in a trap and he can’t look away.
He doesn’t want to. His eyes seem so painfully honest. Taehyung waits for the doubt. He waits for
his chest to sink with the fear he is lying. But words keep falling from Jungkook’s mouth, words he
wanted to hear, but never knew it precisely. And he believes him, mostly because Jungkook doesn’t
promise him some utopia, he promises what he can genuinely give. Taehyung wishes things were
different, that he could ask for more and that Jungkook could offer more. But for now, all he wants is
him, and he offers him that. He wants to take.

His big eyes blink. “And I get all of you?”

“Anything you want to take,” Jungkook starts, in a breath, a breath that swiftly finds itself mingling
with Taehyung’s own. His nose brushes his and his head tilts, gives him room to come closer, until
he can feel his blinks against his cheeks, “it’s yours.”

Jungkook doesn’t know if he’s allowed to kiss him, but with the way large eyes glisten at him and
full lips part, he can’t not. He’s so close. He’s so infuriatingly close, and their breath is already one,
so he figures it shouldn’t be a problem if he steals it away completely. Taehyung said no to a kiss
goodbye, but this is anything but. So, he takes a chance, he brushes his nose against his cheek and
presses his lips to his.

Taehyung sighs into him at the very first motion of his mouth against his. He sighs and his eyes fall
shut, his hand falling from in between them to null the distance from chest to chest. Jungkook doesn’t
have to probe like last time, doesn’t have to urge. Taehyung’s lips mold and move immediately with
his. His fingers fit around his waist as his mouth opens against him for a new taste, a new one, a new
one. Each feels new.

Jungkook’s tongue brushes against his bottom lip, touches the tip of Taehyung’s.

He feels his head shake.

“What are you doing to me, Jungkook?” he asks, and neither know whom precisely he asks, but the
words are there, between them, so Jungkook answers.

“I’m just kissing you, Tae,” he whispers in his lips, lets go of his hand to wrap it at his waist with the
other, pulling him closer.

“Why?” Taehyung questions, brows furrowing together over closed eyes, but it is not a protest. His
lips respond to every suggestion of Jungkook’s own.

He wants to know why this kiss feels so different. He wants to know if it is because he kisses him for
the first with the very clear knowledge in his mind that he is in love with him. He wants to know if it
is because of the things they said to each other. One way or another, he feels overwhelmingly secure
in this. Kissing Jungkook never felt wrong, but it always felt like a risk. It doesn’t anymore. It just
feels.

Jungkook’s lips press firmer against his. He pulls them away for a second, but still keeps close
enough for him to feel them move when he says, so simply, “Cause I want to.” He’s on him again,
head tilting, lips taking.

“I hate you,” Taehyung whispers in his mouth. “I hate you so much.”

He loves him, he screams in his head, he loves him so much.

“I know,” Jungkook murmurs right back, the vibration of his voice delicious on his chest and in his
lips, and Taehyung wonders if he knows of what he says or of what he thinks.

He wants the words in his mouth to be the same as the ones on his mind. He wants to tell him, but
he’s frightened it will only push him away. Steps, Taehyung promises himself, steps. They were
never ones to take steps, not as they should be, at least, but he’s terrified of terrifying Jungkook.

His lips feel too good on his own. They’re scalding, they burn, but it’s good. It’s mind numbingly
good. He forgets to think. He just kisses him back, kind of messy, kind of wet. Very honest. He
pours thoughts into his mouth, hopefully he does, pours himself into it.

And he touches him firmer. He grasps at his shirt, gives it a tug. He wants it off. He wants to feel his
skin. Jungkook’s arms don’t raise, he doesn’t assist him, and Taehyung’s impatient. His palms are
slipping underneath, gliding greedy along the smoothness of his back, fingers dipping in the line of
his spine, where he senses with the tips of his digits the definition of sensitive bone. He presses into
him, digs his fingers deep across the dents, while he slides his hands easy, almost lethargic. He wants
to feel every patch of skin, memorize how it feels under his own. He wants to be able to touch any
part of him and be able to tell, with his eyes closed, that it is Jungkook he’s touching.

“Tae,” Jungkook exhales through a kiss, as he feels the intent of Taehyung’s touch, his own hands
lingering at the top of his waist, tentative in the fold of it above his hips, over his clothes, “we don’t
have to,” he tells him. The next press of his lips onto his is close mouthed, a peck.

Taehyung shakes his head, opens his mouth against his, fits Jungkook’s bottom lip between his teeth
and tugs gently, his tongue sliding in with the gap he creates for himself, a groan elicited from the
other against him. His hands grasp at him firmer, pull him closer, fingers mold into his flesh, but it’s
still not enough. Taehyung wants Jungkook. “I want to,” he mumbles to him, hands curling over his
shoulder blades, “but I want it like—” he slides his palms lower, blinks his eyes open and all he can
see is Jungkook, “like last time.”
They could take it slow. It’s best to take it slow. But neither of them is really good at doing what’s
best. And Taehyung? Taehyung can’t tell him that he loves him. He’s scared just like he accuses the
other of being. So, he’ll show him. He’ll show him. That, he can do. They’ve always been better at
this. At expressing each other through something physical.

“Always,” Jungkook’s teeth pull back. They bare, skim across Taehyung’s lower lip and press, tug,
like a promise. He’s gentle. It’s pressure, not pain. His eyes are screwed shut so tightly, “Okay?” His
hands squeeze into his waist, “always like last time.” Jungkook’s forehead presses into his for a
moment, he shakes it. “Never treating you like you’re worthless again, okay?” He pulls him closer.
His hands still linger modest where he touches him, but he lines his body with his, the heat of the
press distinctive and familiar, but it’s been so long, and it feels new. He wants more. Jungkook’s lips
chase after his when he pulls back to breathe. “Never taking you for granted either.” His mouth
opens against him, “Not gonna treat you like a fucking hole.”

One of Taehyung’s hands sneaks from underneath his shirt, cradles at his chin, his neck. “Good,” he
kisses him, the sound of it loud in the room, the tip of one of his fingers prodding distractedly at the
lobe of his ear. “But don’t treat me like I’m gonna break, either.” He tilts his head, presses his lips
into the corner of his, before he pulls back slightly, lids lifting hooded over his eyes. “I won’t.”

Jungkook blinks his own eyes opened, stares into his. “Yeah, I know,” he raises one of his hands
too, pats a thumb brief on his cheek before he slides it into strands of his hair, tightens fingers as he
dives for another kiss. “You’re stronger than you look,” he murmurs into his lips before he seals
them together with his once more.

One hand in his hair, the other moves from his waist and the dip in his back and Taehyung’s body
curls against his. They fit, he thinks. His body lines with his so easily, so perfectly. He used to
believe he wanted to be the taller one, have someone small pressed against him, but now he figures
that wouldn’t be enough. He likes that Jungkook is as tall as him, as wide as him, as big as him, likes
that he is stronger than him, too. He loves how the press of him feels, how snugly they line with each
other, how his fingers grow either bolder or hungrier in his hair as they pull at threads when he
presses himself closer.

He likes how big the arm that drapes around him is. He likes that there is something about this, about
them, when they kiss each other like this, that feels very curiously equal. He feels similar to him, his
body is so similar to his, yet with such intricate differences, each so worthy of exploration.

He loves the slide of his tongue against his, loves parting his mouth to allow it, loves sneaking his
own into his in return. He loves that when he breathes in, he breathes in Jungkook. It’s the last of
warm days, and Jungkook sweats, and he smells a bit of it, but it’s faint. He smells musky, as always,
expensive, but Taehyung only cares because it is distinctly Jungkook.
He lives for the way they match, for the way Jungkook’s hunger for his pulses into his, grows into
his own. His lips grow more appetitive, and his hands seem to as well, but they are slightly hesitant.
The hand on his waist slides down a little and pauses, seems to wait for permission. So, Taehyung
lets go of his chin, reaches behind himself, fingers clutching at Jungkook's wrist and he pushes it
down.

Jungkook’s fingers curl against his ass and he kisses him harder, Taehyung’s lips opening in a tiny
gasp when he squeezes into him. Jungkook presses closer, bolder. He pulls once at his hair before he
slides his other hand down, too, fits it all across his back before he grasps at him with it, snug against
the curve of him. He layers his palms over both of his cheeks, feeling him, before he twists his
fingers below, bending his body slightly as he grabs at his thighs.

Taehyung gasps louder. The touches are indicative, but he is too lost in the kiss to really tell before
his feet lift off the floor. His head draws back with it, a miniature, momentary fear, before he wraps
his arms around Jungkook’s shoulders, his legs around his hips. Jungkook mouths at his jaw at the
separation, tongues at his throat, Taehyung has to exhale softly at the sensation, the other's lips hot as
they work on his neck.

Woojin is right. Jungkook lifts him so easily, hands hoisting him up in a position that is comfortable
for him to hold, before they fit at the crevices below the globe of his ass, clutch mostly at his thighs,
as he locks his legs around him. He presses him into his stomach like this, Taehyung has to spread
his legs, press his crotch into the lines of his abdominals, and he feels himself slide across the muscle
beneath his clothes when Jungkook readjusts him in his arms.

He can feel Jungkook, too, just where his legs spread, where the cheeks of his ass part. He wants to
feel more. He’s wanted him like this for so long. He never stopped wanting him like this, no matter
how begrudgingly and guiltily, if Taehyung thought about sex, his mind and body immediately
flooded, screamed Jungkook.

Jungkook carries him to him room, doesn’t need eyes. He knows this sterile fucking apartment like
the back of his hand. He keeps his attention entirely on Taehyung, on kissing him, his lips, the sharp
line of his jaw, his neck, his collar bones. He slides his tongue over crevices, presses open mouthed
kisses. But he doesn’t leave marks. He wants desperately to nip at his skin, claim him. His throat is
so long, his clavicle so pretty, and the tan skin over it all so smooth and begging for him to leave a
pattern behind, but he doesn’t.

He clutches at his thighs, squeezes into them. He’s skinny and light, but his thighs are broader than
any woman he’s been with, fuller, he absolutely loves them closed around his waist like this. He
feels him against his stomach. With the squeeze of Jungkook’s fingers against his flesh, he allows
himself a movement, grips onto his shoulders tighter and charts his hips subtly into his, sliding
himself across the muscles in his stomach, clenched tight to support his weight.
Jungkook’s lips helplessly curl into his neck at the motion. The small sound that escapes him when
he does it is so utterly delicious, and he wants to hear more. So, he’ll make him moan more.

He wants him as disheveled as he feels, head a mess, lips desperate, hands desperate. He wants to
touch,touchtouchtouch. Everywhere. Taehyung lets him, he allows him when he is scared to allow
himself, urges, and makes himself too irresistible not to touch.

He lowers him onto his bed and feels his lips on his. Taehyung kisses him, starved, kisses him so
open-mouthed and hungry it’s almost obscene, but Jungkook has his tongue chasing after his
immediately. His legs don’t uncoil from around him; he keeps him close, locked in, but he shifts
himself back on the bed a little to create space between them, just enough from his hands to trail from
his shoulders to the hem of his shirt, just above his belt. His shirt has buttons, but Taehyung doesn’t
seem to care. He pushes at it, wants it off.

Jungkook draws back, knows the shirt is fitted too right, tight and especially for him around his arms,
so he needs to undo the buttons, can’t just pull it over his head. He blinks at him, when he moves his
fingers rapid over the infuriating clothing, realizes he has the fucking honor of having him on his bed
for the second time. And last time? Last time he fucked up.

He won’t do it again. This time he is not fucking up. But as he looks at his lashes bat pretty over his
cheeks, his eyes glisten, hooded and sultry, his full lips, swollen from him, part and gasp for breaths.
He’s so fucking beautiful. Jungkook wonders if he even deserves a second chance to fuck up.

Taehyung’s eyes dance from where they stare at his fingers awaiting up to his own. They blink at
him. What’s wrong, they seem to ask as Jungkook’s fingers pause, where he’s on his knees between
his legs on that bed. He knows he doesn’t deserve a second chance.

“Are you sure?” Jungkook asks, chest raising and falling more rapid from using every spare breath
he has to give it to Taehyung, to kiss him.

Taehyung’s brows furrow. “Jungkook—"

“Are you sure you want me?” he blurts into his confusion.

“Yes,” Taehyung nods, sitting up more. “I told you,” he says softly, “I want to.”
Jungkook’s head shakes. “I don’t mean sex.” He has no doubt he wants to sleep with him. He feels it
in the way he kisses him, the way he touches him, the way he practically grinded on his stomach, the
way he looked at him the other day in the gym. “I mean me.”

Fuck, Taehyung’s eyes fall over him. He wants to tell him that he loves him so fucking much.

Taehyung presses a palm in the bed, raises up more as he scoots himself closer, legs parting as he
folds over to reach him. He clutches at the hem of his collar, pulls him down. “Of course, I want
you,” he kisses gingerly at his lips. “You can touch me,” he mumbles to him as he swipes his thumb
across his clavicle underneath before he fists fully at his shirt, pulls the sleeve brusquely off of his
shoulder. “Please touch me.”

Jungkook helps him shun the shirt entirely off of his shoulders. “Where?” he asks him as he kisses
him back, almost vicious, his hand raising to cup at his neck, fingers reaching below his jaw and
curling at the back, falling in with strands.

“Everywhere,” Taehyung returns the murmur, returns the kiss, just as appetitive. “I’m—” he
hesitates, laps at his own lips and his tongue touches Jungkook’s, so he kisses him again. “You get
all of me, too.”

“Fuck,” Jungkook breathes, presses his free fist into the mattress next to him and leans over him,
crawling closer as Taehyung relaxes back onto the bed. He’s kissing him with his lips, his tongue,
his teeth, small nips at his bottom lip.

Taehyung slides a hand across his chest. He’d wanted to touch him so badly the other day at the
gym, run his fingers all across his bare skin, feel the dips of his muscles. He rolls his palm against his
nipple, basks in the small sound that escapes his lips and falls into his. He moves his hand down,
glides a thumb across him experimentally, touch firmer and braver.

Jungkook lowers his body slightly, fits himself between his legs, until he’s lining up, until he can feel
the heat of him pressing against him. Taehyung’s moan is unsubtle when he feels him, snugly sliding
over the length of him, the shape of his arousal solid under unnecessary layers of clothing. His head
tilts back, lips separating from his for the bare moments it takes them to shape a sound in abandon.
Jungkook uses the moment their lips part to let go of his neck, not before he presses a kiss to the end
of his jaw, grip at the oversized t-shirt and lift it off of him.

He catches him at the waist next, pressing his lips back into his. Taehyung can’t get enough of that,
of just kissing him. He tastes so perfect – he has not definition for that perfection, cannot associate
the taste with anything else, but it is all he wants right now, and he opens his mouth, takes it in. They
kiss shirtless, hips tilting into each other as Taehyung’s legs spread more, beckon him to fit between
them further and he does. Taehyung grapples at his ass, pulls him into himself, coaxing a rut out of
his hips against him, grinding down as his own snap up, stutter into his. The sound of him gasping
against his lips, moaning against his lips is perpetual now. He’s completely lost himself in this and he
doesn’t hold back, doesn’t feel a need to.

He swears he could easily come like this, just kissing Jungkook, toying with his nipples and pulling
him between his legs. But he doesn’t want to, wants him inside of him.

“Jungkook,” he whines into his lips, fingers teasing at the hem of his pants, wanting to slide under,
feel the skin over the curve of his ass.

Jungkook hums against him, curls his hand over his waist and slides it over his stomach, palm
pressing down at his navel to separate their hips for a moment. His fingers sink lower, snap the
button of his jeans easily, pull the zipper down. He parts his pants but doesn’t touch him. Taehyung’s
hips jerk up, chase after his hand, but he’s flattening it against his stomach again.

“Jungkook,” he tries again, “it’s been so long… Just—”

“I know,” Jungkook kisses his cheek, his jaw, his neck. He teases his fingers over his underwear,
touches him, coaxes a whimper, before he grips at his jeans, tugs at them. “I’ll take care of you,
promise.”

Taehyung lifts his hips off the bed, helps him pull the jeans off of his legs. They’re big on him, come
down easy, and he kicks his shoes off. He palms at him over his underwear, cups his hand under his
balls, palm rotating before he grips firmer at his length. It has him keening.

Taehyung’s hands are ushering at Jungkook’s pants, undoing his belt, and he lets him. Taehyung
snaps it open, fingers trembling under the sensation of Jungkook touching him like this, but he wants
to feel more of him naked. He slides his hand under his pants, under his underwear, grips at his ass
and pulls him forward, lips finding his again.

Jungkook kisses him briefly before he’s pulling away, getting on his feet and away from Taehyung.
He doesn’t let him, clings to his bicep, locking his knees around him. “Jungkook—”
“Just getting you something, Tae,” he seals the words with a kiss and Taehyung parts his legs, lets
him.

He reappears in moments, just goes to his drawer. He throws the bottle he get on the sheets, slips
fingers into Taehyung’s underwear and slides it down over long legs, painfully slowly. Taehyung
has to bite his lips not to whine more.

“Keep your knees like that for me,” Jungkook instructs softly, coaxing his legs apart more with
gentle touches to his calves as he kneels between them on the mattress.

Taehyung does, he presses himself into the bed, opens his legs and looks as Jungkook’s eyes drop to
him exposed. They hood over, blink to him salacious and hungry, and Taehyung does feel a sort of
vulnerability, spread for him like that, but it only serves to turn him on more. The hand that clutches
at his waist, just over the curve of his ass where he folds his leg up, thumb pressing into his hipbone,
is rough. He jostles him into place, bringing his thighs closer to his calves, so his ass raises more. He
loves the grip of those fingers as it grows sure on his body.

Jungkook squeezes lube on his fingers, rubs a thumb into his digits to warm it up slightly before he
brings one closer, circles the tip tentatively around his rim. Taehyung’s hips jerk to him, beggingly,
teeth sinking into his lip. The finger probes once more over him before it sinks into him. Taehyung’s
body pulls back from it instinctively before he goes a little deeper and he relaxes into the touch,
hissing slightly, lips curling over his teeth, baring them.

“Fuck, so tight,” Jungkook groans out, head tilting as he shifts forward on his knees, observing his
finger tease at Taehyung. He moves it slowly inside of him, holding his waist with his free hand to
keep him from instinctively scurrying away. When he presses deep and Taehyung’s hips don’t
recede with a breath, he replaces the grip to his thigh, digits digging into the flesh until it molds with
the pattern of his hold of Jungkook. He presses so deep, slow and thorough, and Taehyung’s own
fingers clutch to the sheets, head tipping back into the mattress as his lids meet each other. “Have you
even touched yourself since you last had me?”

Jungkook watches him, watches the small, subconscious jerks of his hips, the exposed line of his
throat, which he wants to pepper with marks, the way his lips hopelessly open but say nothing, just
breathe. Sweat slips into the strands of his hair and they gather together in threads with the wetness,
curling slightly into waves from the moisture and it shows more of his forehead, more of his face.
Jungkook’s hard as fuck and the sight of him like that makes him twitch, but he could honestly do
this for hours.

“Not like this, no,” he shakes his head with an exhale.

A second finger prods at him and he stills his hips for a moment, Jungkook slides it in careful, and
his neck cranes more with his moan. Jungkook’s grip tightens into his thigh, pulls him closer and it
lines him on his fingers more.

Touching himself like this was firstly incredibly elaborate for him to so consciously pursue, and
secondly was directly begging for his brain to summon memories of Jungkook. So, he gave himself
time, for that, reduced sex to careless strokes under the shower that still, inadvertently, coerced him
into thinking of Jungkook. He slipped a finger, a curious finger, for some moments under the bash of
the water over his head, but it was never more than that.

Taehyung wishes he could take him without this. Wishes he could take him immediately, but ever
since he last had Jungkook inside him, he hasn’t even touched himself like this. He needs those
fingers. And they feel good, they feel amazing, but he wants Jungkook closer. He wants more of
him.

And he wants Jungkook to feel this, too.

Jungkook is patient, fucking him open carefully with those fingers, watching him with lewd, alluring
eyes that feel heavy, so heavy, as they drag from where digits disappear inside of him and over the
rest of him, the expanse of his thighs, the stretch of his stomach, the raise of his ribs with the sporadic
sighs of his chest. Jungkook is patient and Taehyung is not.

His hips are almost restless on the bed, but every time they shift into his fingers, Jungkook’s grip
grows tighter on his thigh, holding him in place as he works him to his pace. He presses a third finger
at him, Taehyung’s breath stilling. He sinks teeth more into his lip, holds like that for him, holds
docile as he presses inside of him, the stretch delicious, but the pressure so much. Taehyung’s hand
flies, unbidden, locks around Jungkook’s wrist, grasping onto it tightly as he rocks himself
experimentally against him. Jungkook lets him, for a couple thrusts, before he snaps his fingers inside
of him, listens to Taehyung whine with it.

The drag of calloused, thick fingers right against his skin is satisfying in most primitive, sexual way.
But Taehyung wants to feel more than that, more than the pleasure of something that is
unquestionably physically gratifying. He wants to share this with Jungkook, and he wants to touch
him. He wants him too close not to touch. He wants him inside of him, wants him on top of him,
wants him everywhere.

And maybe Jungkook himself isn’t as patient as he seems, if Taehyung can judge by how clumsily
he tugs his pants down with one hand, releases his thigh, shuns himself of the rest of his clothing and
then dips a palm in the mattress next to his head, coming closer. He keeps his fingers working him
open, but he slides his body against him, in between his legs, his length lining with his own, and he
breathes a labored exhale in his mouth just before he kisses him again.
Jungkook pries Taehyung's lip from in between his teeth with his own, rolls it in, before he sinks his
tongue in his mouth. Taehyung’s hand shifts from his wrist, slips from underneath Jungkook to allow
him to come as close as possible while he still stretches him with his fingers. He slides his hand up
his back, touches at his shoulder before he clenches it into his hair, tugging at strands helplessly
when he thrusts into him harder.

“You want a condom?” Jungkook breathes against him, pulls away slightly to look at him with the
question.

Taehyung’s fingers loosen in his hair as he blinks long lashes at him, toys lighter with the strands,
threads through gentler as he shakes his head. “No, wanna feel you.”

Jungkook’s next exhale hitches against him, brows furrowing as he darts his eyes all across his face,
some utterance of disbelief slipping into his features as he stares down at Taehyung. He looks almost
confused one second, almost angry the next. Taehyung’s fingers dig into his nape, questioning. His
head shakes lightly, briefly, “I fucking—” he starts, voice arching with something not necessarily
nameable, but brutish with emotion, nonetheless.

Taehyung’s lids peel back more over the orbs of glistening eyes when Jungkook cuts himself short.
He searches his face. “What?” he breathes. Whatever it is that Jungkook fucking—he wants to hear
it, he’s desperate to hear it.

Jungkook surges lower, moves his fingers more vigorous inside of him until Taehyung’s curiosity
morphs into panted moans. “I want you,” he murmurs in his mouth, kisses him wet.

Taehyung’s hips stutter, breath stutters, but words urge even, “Take me then.”

Jungkook’s groan is guttural. He slips one finger outside of him first, then the other two, wraps his
lubed digits around himself, touching Taehyung, too, where they press together, slide against each
other. He gives himself a tug before he adjusts himself on the mattress, moves his body lower. He
lines himself up, eyes blinking, glistening at Taehyung. His fingers are so soft in his hair. He seems
to ready himself, breathe. He grabs at his thigh, pulls him into him, and slides himself inside.

Taehyung’s head tips, falls back on the mattress, as the features of his face screw with the pressure,
swollen lips gasping so pretty, falling open wide and Jungkook can see his tongue pressing low at
the bottom of his mouth, eyes drifting shut. Jungkook is careful. Taehyung is tight. He thrusts slightly
when he is only halfway in before he moves his hips further, Taehyung’s legs spread so illicit around
him, for him. He takes advantage of his parted lips, opens his own against him as wide, distracting
him from the stretch by tangling his tongue with his, distracting himself from the need to ravage as he
kisses him most lasciviously. It’s almost vulgar how they kiss. He loves it.

Just as he loves how he fits inside of him. His fingers latch helplessly harder into his thigh, own
forehead screwing with the need to just fuck him. It’s been so long, so fucking long, and he feels his
skin, the actual texture of being inside of Taehyung, no fucking plastic or latex or anything between
them. He feels the heat of him, the snug fit of him, as he stretches around him, and he’s moving.

His hips draw back and push in, mouth parting against Taehyung and he’s not kissing him anymore,
just breathing into him. He starts slow, for the sake of them both, Taehyung falling into motion with
him. His fingers slip back into his hair, cling there tight, while his other hand sneaks over Jungkook’s
bicep that tenses with an effort to hold him up. Taehyung tugs at his elbow and Jungkook folds it,
falls over him so he no longer keeps him at an arm’s length above him. He’s almost fully pressed into
him now, and this, this is what Taehyung wants.

Jungkook’s fingers move down on his thigh, close around the crease of his ass, and he hauls his leg
up slightly until it closes around his waist, brings him closer as he fucks him.

“You feel so good,” he groans in his mouth, tells him as he rocks into him. He’s squeezing at the
junction of his ass and his thigh, the curve there so exquisite, and he fucking hopes his grip leaves
marks. He wants his fingers etched into his body, not bold enough to bite possession on his neck.

Taehyung perhaps attempts a word in return, but he can’t manage. His voice is a broken moan, and
Jungkook wants him closer, closer, but it’s not physically possible, not like this. So, he grips his ass
tighter, slides his fingers over the flesh of it until the tips of them almost touch where he fucks inside
of him and he straightens up, taking his body with him. Taehyung gasps, latching his leg firmer
around him, slides the hand that fingers at straining muscles and curls it around his shoulders, holding
onto him.

Jungkook sits back on his calves, Taehyung hoisted over his thighs, lips gaping as he sinks deeper
onto him like this. His own thighs twitch around him, the feel of it exhilarating. And it’s the closest
they can physically be.

Jungkook layers his eyes over his face, slightly above him like this, and he looks up as his lashes
flutter opened and he gazes at him, rocks against him. Taehyung curls his fingers over his shoulder
blade, grinds against him, fits himself more comfortably in his lap and raises slightly, sinks lower,
rides him. His hips chase after any sensation that rutting against his own would give. He fucks
himself onto him, sinks as deeply as he can, as fully as he can, wraps himself around him entirely.
He's given some control over his that he is not entirely ready to take, too lost to take, too hot.
He remembers when there was a time when Jungkook refused to be like that, look at him from so
closely when they fucked, let him ride him like this. He looks up at him now, lips parted and eyes
glinting and stares at him with a width to his eyes that is enough for Taehyung to be so utterly
overwhelmed. He tangles his fingers solid in his hair, pulls at him to show him he’s there, because
Jungkook is looking at him as if he’ll fucking disappear, slip away from him and leave, and he wants
to show him he’s there.

“I missed you,” Jungkook tells him, eyes darting all over.

Taehyung’s lips curl. “Missed my ass?” he teases, groans with the end of it, when Jungkook’s hips
snap up, almost punishing him for the question. He wraps an arm firmer at the bottom of his spine,
presses him further into him, traps his cock between them, brushing against his stomach with every
thrust and Taehyung doesn’t know whether he wants to grind down onto him or slide up more. He
brims with sensation.

“Missed you,” Jungkook whispers so genuine, presses a kiss, small and short to his shoulders, and
Taehyung’s features contort. He can’t do this.

“Get on top of me again,” he begs, seeking his mouth with his own, tilting his neck to capture it, and
he lets him.

He needs Jungkook to move into him, because he can’t. It’s too much. He wants him above him.

“Okay,” he speaks into his lips, straightening on his knees before he lowers him back onto the bed.
“I’ll do whatever you want me to,” he tells him hips gyrating into him with a soft motion before he
thrusts inside of him rougher, Taehyung’s fingers flexing into him, breath hitching.

He needs several moments to get accustomed to the new angle he fucks him at, the pressure
delicious, before he swallows down a throaty moan, confesses in his lips, “I want you to tell me what
to do.”

Jungkook’s next thrust is harder, hauls him upwards on the bed. “Yeah?” his brows perk.

“Yeah,” Taehyung nods, almost shy, but very honest, sliding his hand back over his arm.
Jungkook lowers himself onto him fully, his stomach brushing teasingly into Taehyung's cock. He
parts his mouth over his. “Say my name,” he tells him, snaps his hips inside of him harshly and earns
the moan of his name that helplessly falls from Taehyung’s lips.

He fucks him more and he’s disheveled. Taehyung is so utterly disheveled underneath him, but he
wants to ruin him some more, give him some more.

“Spread your legs,” he tells him next, uncoils the leg that wraps around him as he moves himself
back again, cock sliding out of him, catching briefly at the rim before he pulls himself out
completely, and Taehyung’s whimpering, fingers clutching into him.

“Jungkook,” he drones, voice twisting pretty with his name sitting so well on it, as he heaves his hips
up, jerking them into him, brushing into his stomach again, absolutely desperate, but he doesn’t care.
He wants him back inside, he’s squeezing around nothing with the desire to have him back in, ininin.

But Jungkook is pulling away, moving lower on the mattress. He presses his lips into his collarbones,
mouths at the definition there before he sinks lower, teases his teeth around a nipple briefly, coerces a
quick hiss that sneaks past. He keeps sinking lower, mouth relentless as it explores the length of his
body, each spot of his skin.

He presses a hand under his thigh, hauls it up until he has to bend it and press his foot in the mattress.
He gives him another jostle like this, pushes the thigh even further into him. “Get your knees like
that, okay?” he breathes into his skin, follows with a searing kiss over a dip between his ribs.

“What are you doing?” Taehyung asks, a slight alarm edging in his question at the direction of his
open-mouthed kisses, as he insists on keeping him spread out like that.

“Relax, put your hands back,” he instructs, fingers circling around his wrists as he presses them back
in the mattress indicatively, tensing his hold over him once in a silent warning to stay put before he
continues, kissing over his ribs, his stomach. His hand catches on his hip again, shuffles him closer
with a firm tug, Taehyung almost folding over. It raises him slightly off of the bed, his spine curling,
and he just knows where this is going as Jungkook’s tongue keeps lapping over and over, licking a
single stripe at the length of him pulsing against his stomach, a touch that makes him twitch.

“Jungkook,” he exhales, chest raising and falling. “You don’t have to,” he shakes his head weakly
against the mattress. He’s so gone in this, he is desperate for anything, but he can’t help feeling an
ounce of insecurity when Jungkook slips lower.
“Shh,” he breathes onto his navel, the exhale making him shiver. He kisses there, nips there. “Keep
your legs spread for me,” he commands softly, hands curling around his ankles and he forces them
into a place he seems fit. He bends lower still, presses a palm in his thigh to push it apart and he
fucking kisses him between the legs.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung hisses out, a whiny screech to the quiver of his voice as he straightens his
neck up a big, gazes at him there, longish hair in slight waves with perspiration. He shakes a strand
away as he senses his eyes, blinks at him from in between his spread thighs.

“No need to be shy,” Jungkook speaks into him, the vibration of his voice so exhilarating against
him, “you’re pretty here, too.”

Taehyung’s head falls back with a disheveled moan pried cruel from his lips. He’s sensitive and
stretched and begging, so on edge, and even the mere sensation of him speaking with his mouth this
close against him makes his thighs tremble.

“Fuck,” he groans.

Fuck, he’s fucked.

Jungkook’s lips press against him. His forearms wrap against Taehyung’s thighs, and he hoists him
closer still, mouths at him with no reservations, tongue slipping in easy with how stretched and
fucked out he is, and yes, Taehyung’s fucked.

He’s careful but not hesitant. He’s bold with the way he presses his mouth into him, tongue onto
him. He guides himself by what makes Taehyung's hips snap, what makes his teeth dig into his lips,
what makes that deep, beautiful voice of his go whiny.

He holds his thighs firmly, so he doesn’t fidget away, kisses him, tongues at him. Taehyung, had he
enough of a mind to piece together thoughts could have been self-conscious, about how he looks,
how he tastes. It’s such an intimate spot, but Jungkook’s touch is so sure, he’s humming against him,
and Taehyung feels nothing but blind pleasure. He feels himself grinding into him. He'd be
embarrassed, but it feels too fucking good. His tongue is sliding into him, almost thrusting into him,
more powerful than he could imagine it could be and he's not intentional when he works himself
against the sensation, grasped by an anomalistically human lust as he allows himself to undone like
this, under his touch, trusts only his touch to ruin him like this, so intimate and carnal. He gives
himself up to the sensation of his mouth against him, lips teasing, tongue prodding.
He knows it’s experimental as he laps against him, slips the muscle of his tongue inside him, no set
rhythm of anything, just testing out what he can do to him, how he can kiss, how he can use his
mouth on him there, how deep he can press, how much he can twirl, what reaction he can coax out
of him. And he has his back arching, head pressing back into the mattress.

Conceptually, if he can leave sensation for the bare moment to process the concept, merely
conceptually, it is elating that Jeon Jungkook is fucking eating him out.

He’s doing it well, at that, for as much as Taehyung can judge, seeing it is the first time anyone has
ever done something like that to him. He wants to look at him, the sight of him between his legs so
lewd and satisfying, and he glances a couple of times, but Jungkook seems to sense it, darts dark
eyes up to him again and he unfailingly ends up with his head slacking into the mattress, moans
sneaking past his lips.

Taehyung can barely take it. His toes are curling into the bed, veins on his neck straining. He buries
his fingers in his hair, tugs at it, pulls at it. “Jungkook,” he calls, wrapping his other hand around his
wraps and pulling him up. “Fuck me,” he pleads, because if he keeps this up, Taehyung is going to
come, and he wants Jungkook inside of him when he does.

Jungkook looks up at him, kisses him one last time just where he puckers before he lets him pull him
up. Taehyung parts his legs for him, sliding his feet lower on the mattress until Jungkook brings his
lips back to his own and he wraps his thighs around him.

He’s sliding back into him, fitting himself between his legs, so snug, and Taehyung’s hips are jerking
helplessly. He clenches around him, a deep sound elicited from his throat. The second Jungkook’s
stomach brushes into him, the second hard muscles presses into his cock, he’s spurting, lips gasping.
His neck cranes, legs trembling, and he’s coming. He's moaning with it, trashing with it, stimulated
so much by the tongue that lapped so hungry at him that the mere press of him back inside is pushing
him over the edge. He's fucking coming, cock twitching between them and he can barely process it,
entirely lost to the sensation of the pressure reaching such a tipping point, wrecking him. He doesn’t
expect it. He knows he’s sensitive as fuck, but he’s barely been touched. He takes it. He closes his
eyes, throws his head on the bed and he takes it even when Jungkook slides into him with clear
intention. He comes hard, so much harder than those petty, pathetic jerks in his showers. He comes
with Jungkook inside of him and he comes aware of it with every fibre of his body, ever muscle
clenching and releasing.

He hears Jungkook speaking before he brings himself back to earth, chest heaving so powerful with
the impact of this. Good, so fucking good. “Fuck, Tae, I—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, interrupts as he gasps for a breath, head shaking, and he pulls into him
more, because this isn’t about an orgasm; he wants Jungkook and he hasn’t had enough of
him. “Fuck me.”

He does. He glances at Taehyung, looks for a moment, and moves. He can’t not. He’s so hard he
hurts and although he wants to dedicate every moment of this to Taehyung, he needs to fuck him,
especially when Taehyung asks him to in that fucking fucked out voice.

He pulls his hips back, then pushes back in, hesitates once or twice, but Taehyung is wrapping
himself around him more, limbs all over, pulling him in with the heels of his feet, and he with the
coercion of his body, clingy and perfect when it drapes around him. He fucks him in earnest. He
grasps at his waist with one hand, presses the elbow of the other next to his and fucks him into his
mattress.

Taehyung squeezes into his shoulders, presses his teeth into his lips, body arching upwards, spine
curling against him. He’s taking him good, taking him hard, snapping his hips just right, angles them
differently and gyrates into a spot that makes him quiver, breath heaved against him, forehead held
against his shoulder as he moves.

Taehyung’s whimpering in his ear. He feels so much. He thinks he’s hard again, doesn’t know if he
ever softened, but he feels himself chase after something more with this. The sensation of Jungkook
pounding into him is more overwhelming than he remembers it being, and maybe he forgot, but
maybe this is different. He’s so intensely sensitive, and with every slam of him inside, he feels the
stinging shape of tears brim the corner of his eyes.

He snaps into him harder than the rhythm he fucks him in is and Taehyung’s legs tremble around
him. He cries out, voice verging with something unnameable but intensely desperate, broken.

Jungkook pulls his head back at the wrecked sound, stares down at him, searches the moisture that
gathers at his lashes.

He slows down inside of him upon the witness of those glinting tears, fingers squeezing into his side,
eyes darting over him with avid concern. “Am I hurting you?” he mumbles.

Taehyung digs his fingers into his shoulders, desperate. “Don’t stop, please,” he keens.

“I can—"
He stills his hips to let him breathe, but Taehyung’s own rotate into his as he does, lifts into him.
“Please, please, keep going.”

He’s sensitive, so fucking sensitive, but that’s it. It doesn’t hurt. It borders on it, it’s so much, but he
loves every minute of it. “Please,” he begs more, and Jungkook saunters a calculating gaze over him,
bites at his lip, before he moves again.

He moves relentless and Taehyung is whining a mantra of almost tortured ‘please’s and Jungkook
kisses him to swallow it from his lips. Taehyung is pulling him in, hands all over his shoulders, his
back, curling over his ass, palming at him there as he tugs him desperately inside of him.

“Want to feel you come inside me,” he’s moaning in between his lips and Jungkook is almost losing
it.

The sound of them fucking is so rudely distinctive. Skin slaps against skin. Gasps, moans, hitched
breaths, skin against skin, Jungkook’s hips against his ass, the lube squelching when he drives
himself into him. It’s a raw sound, vulnerable with how lost they both are, something erotically
naturalistic about it.

Taehyung’s so desperate and it rubs off on Jungkook hopelessly. He’s desperate for his desperation.
He fucks into him raw and passionate, thrusts growing sporadic. He has no control of this
whatsoever. He’s seeking sensation, chasing Taehyung, feels like this is the highest he has been,
high on the fact it is Taehyung with him, again. He thought he’d never have him again.

“You’re so fucking—” he gasps in his mouth, can’t finish, doesn’t know how to. He’s so fucking
what? Fucking everything. Fucking Taehyung. “Taehyung,” he groans to him, “Fuck, I—Fuck.”

“Yeah,” he returns, voice so lost. He’s moaning his name back to him, sounds that escape him
unintelligible.

Jungkook’s hands tightens on his waist, bruising, holds him down against the mattress and ravages
him, the fingers of his other one fisting into the sheets next to him.

“I can’t—”

“Jungkook,” he clutches onto him, moans into him, “come inside me.”
He holds him harder, fucks him harder, and he does as he asks. He’ll do everything he asks, keeps
going until he’s spurting inside of him, neck craning, head thrown back. Taehyung runs a calming
palm across his back, gets his other hand between them and pumps himself, the sensation of the other
pulsing inside of him pushing him to another edge, and he can barely touch himself without his hips
jerking sporadic, his cock twitching, but he’s coming more, or coming again, he doesn’t know, but he
feels himself about to burst as Jungkook slows his hips inside of him.

Taehyung’s legs are twitching as he does. His body seems to flinch with every sensation, small jerks.
He’s breathing so hard. He can barely breathe. He feels good, amazing, tired, but amazing. He’s
catching a breath, struggling to and running his hands all across Jungkook, every inch of his skin that
he can touch, running into his back, his shoulders, his hair. He’s arching his head up, kissing his
parted, panting lips. And he’s hardly coaxing a response from him, Jungkook still can’t fucking wrap
his mind around reality but he feels tiny pecks littering across his lips, fingers slipping calming in his
hair, and he does his best to answer to every press against his mouth.

He responds too late at the first few, so when he can finally breathe, he makes up for it, presses
Taehyung’s shoulder back into the mattress and captures his mouth, moaning with that kiss as well.
He’s getting his come all over himself like this, but it is impossible for him to care, just wants to kiss
him some more. He’s afraid of letting this be over, afraid that if he lets Taehyung go, he’ll change his
mind, so maybe they’ll have to stay like that forever, and that’s fucking fine with him.

He kisses him until his heart beat calms down, until Taehyung is tilting his head back slightly, trying
to catch a breath. He kisses his cheek then, his jaw, his neck, then simply presses his lips against him,
applying no pressure and rests himself there, head buried in the junction of his neck.

He is afraid, but the fingers that Taehyung runs through his hair calm him, put him at such illogical
ease. He simply lays himself on top of him, wraps his arms around him as much as he can, softening
inside of him. He draws his hips back, listens to Taehyung hiss as he slides out of him. He doesn’t
move away, though. He feels the wetness between them, but he doesn’t care.

He lies his head back down, lets him play with his hair.

“Mm,” he mumbles into his neck, “you smell like Taehyung.”

Taehyung lets out a soft laugh, short laugh. “I am Taehyung,” he tells him, feels the nuzzle of his
nose into his skin, feels his lips subtly press into him.

“I’m not sure I believe you,” Jungkook shakes his head, rests his chin on his shoulder to look at him.
Taehyung feels his eyes layer over, blinks down to meet them. “Why are you here?” he asks so quiet
he barely hears him, but he feels the vibration of his throat when he speaks, and he knows it isn’t
imagined.

Taehyung shakes his head back at him, swallows. He moves his fingers to his forehead, brushes his
hair away from his eyes before he slips back between strands. “I feel miserable when I’m not,” he
confesses softly, “I’ve started to lose sight of why I shouldn’t be.”

It’s true. It’s entirely true, and he says it, and the fact there is more to it does not make it false. He
knows he is additionally pushed by a fear, a fear that not getting a second chance will push Jungkook
back to his previous behavior. The way he was before, it always got him what he wanted. Cruel,
harsh, demanding and unforgiving, it always got him what he wanted. It got him Taehyung in the
first place, so he’s at fault for reinforcing that as well. But Jungkook is softer now, modest. He’s
more patient, lenient. He doesn’t only speak; he hears as well. Taehyung doesn’t want this to be the
Jungkook that gets nothing, has nothing, while the other had everything.

It’s almost selfless.

But at the same time, it’s so selfish, most primitively so. He feels miserable when he’s not with him.
He constantly feels like he is waiting for something, for time to move back in reverse and erase what
happened so he can touch him again without feeling guilty for wanting to, or for time to move
forward to a point where it doesn’t hurt anymore so he can touch him again without feeling guilty for
wanting to.

With Jungkook draped on top of him, warm and solid, he feels like he is waiting for nothing. He
feels like he’s there.

Jungkook’s chin lifts up off his chest. He moves on him. “Tae—”

“Started to,” Taehyung interrupts, fingers pausing in the motion they do in his hair, “Not lost it. I’m
only doing this once, Jungkook. If you hurt me again, like that, I’m gone.”

“I won’t,” Jungkook shakes his head, vehement, pulls himself upwards on his body. “I won’t,” he
feels the need to repeat, searches his eyes all over his face, so tranquil now, so pretty, features soft,
and he deserves to look like that all the time, not the way Jungkook had forced his features to twist.
“I still remember your fucking face, I— I don’t want you to ever look at me like that again. I don’t
want to hurt you. I never wanted to,” he denies passionate then rests his chin back down, speaks to
him softer, “I want to take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself,” he tells him, threading his fingers through his hair one last time before he
drops it onto the mattress, “though I suppose that kind of clashes with being here.”

Jungkook misses those fingers, but he lets them slip. “No, it doesn’t,” he shakes his head once more,
curling his hands into fists as they press into the mattress and he pushes himself up on them, molds
his lips against his once more. “I’ll prove to you it doesn’t.”

Jungkook’s eager with the kiss. Taehyung’s lazy, responds to him leisurely and comfortable.

“Okay,” he mumbles into his demanding mouth.

Jungkook lifts up more, feels the drip down his body and sighs. “I’ll clean you up,” he tells him.
“Can I do that for you, at least?”

“Mm, yeah,” Taehyung hums, his lids batting heavy and slow over his eyes. “Don’t think I can stand
just yet, anyway.”

Jungkook kisses his lips once more, his jaw once more, his neck once more and stands.

He picks his phone off the ground as he saunters to the bathroom, glances at the screen to check the
time. It unlocks as he looks at it, and he sees Yoongi’s name flash above some notifications from
Instagram.

Yoongi (priv)

Kai’s club

Brit fighter, pays in pounds. 7k

Jungkook cocks his head at the message, types as he wipes at his chest with toilet paper.
how about 10?

Though he had taken some time to respond, Yoongi’s answer comes immediate.

Yoongi (priv)

Wants to speak to you

Jungkook glances at the door parted, he can see Taehyung’s feet stretching over his bed from where
he stands. He still can't properly process Taehyung is bare in his bed, there, wants him back, offers to
have him back. He thinks he will have to wrap his mind around it anew every tingle time he looks at
him with the realisation that he is allowed to touch and to kiss.

im busy

Yoongi (priv)

Too busy for 10k pounds?

yes

Yoongi (priv)

Just come for half an hour shithead or they’ll call it off

Hyungsik wants him for 7 anywyay

im champ

Yoongi (priv)

Brits here for a week, wants it arranged today doesn’t give much of a fuck

get your ass here

He leaves it on read and walks back to his room, glances at Taehyung spread himself over the bed
and he cannot understand for the life of him how someone who takes up this much space usually
sleeps in a bunk bed.

His eyes are shut, though, his breaths are even. He looks asleep.

One hour, Jungkook thinks, ten grand in pounds.Ten grand of his own, own money, money with
which he can do as he wishes. He can buy Woojin a fucking VR set if he wants to. He can buy
Taehyung something pretty, to fit him.

“Hey, pretty boy,” he calls softly as he wipes come off of his chest and stomach. He only hums in
response, stretches himself more on the bed. “I have to get arrange my next fight with Yoongi.”

At that, he seems to have his attention. A hand reaches for him, pulls at his bicep, tugs him down and
Jungkook stumbles slightly. “No,” he whines, eyes still closed, and he yawns with his next attempt at
speech, “don’t leave.”

Jungkook yawns back as he watches him, chuckles slightly as he peels his hand off. “Sh,” he
whispers, crawling over him to answer, a weird urge to press his lips at his forehead; he doubts he’s
ever done that before in his life, “You’re asleep,” he mumbles into his skin. “You can sleep. I’ll be
an hour at most and I’m coming back, okay? You stay here.” He pauses over him, waits, but he
receives no response, and he prods at his shoulder slightly. “Is that okay?” he asks, and Taehyung is
only whistling a hum in response, breath evening even more, but Jungkook is not leaving without his
permission and knowledge. “Tae. Stay with me for a moment, “he shakes him a little. “If you want,
I’ll say no, and I’ll stay.”

Taehyung groans softly, parts his eyes lazily up at him, blinks. “An hour?” he asks.

Jungkook nods. “Tops.”

Taehyung breathes. “Go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely sure?”

“Go,” Taehyung whines, pushing his hand off of his shoulder, “you’re annoying me, I need a nap,
you exhausted me. I’ve never come twice.”
Jungkook’s lips curl a little at that, head cocking as he gazes down at him. He really wishes he
wasn’t the type of person to feel the tug of pride of that, but he is, and he wants to make him come so
many more times, watch him unravel.

“Okay,” he nods, straightening on his knees, “an hour. Take a nap.” He warns, “I hope you know
I’m waking you up when I come back.”

Taehyung nods sleepily. “Okay,” he murmurs, and his eyes almost fall back shut, Jungkook almost
completely steps away from the bed when he calls, “Wait.” Jungkook pauses, immediately turning
back to him, gaze questioning as Taehyung pushes himself up on one arm. “Come here,” he
whispers, uses his free hand to reach for him and as Jungkook follows right away, he slips his fingers
at the back of his neck. He presses his lips against him, once softer, just presses them there and
breathes him in, eyes falling shut, but then he kisses, moves against him. Jungkook tilts his head,
kisses him deeper. The sound wet around the room before Taehyung pulls back. He pats his palm
down to the beginning of his back. “I can do that whenever I want?” he asks, eyes glinting up, wide
and shining.

“Whenever you want,” Jungkook whispers back and he needs a couple of minutes to just watch him
lie back down with a newly stretched smile on his face. It’s a close-lipped smile and his eyes shut
again, too, but they smile too, the crests of them do. He looks so content and beautiful, and Jungkook
is taking the first t-shit he can see from his closet, shrugging jeans on, get to Kai and Yoongi faster
just so he can return.

He has his face set, inexpressive when he struts into the office of Kai’s club. Yoongi is sitting down,
talking to two Europeans, Kai perched up next to them, leaning casual on his desk next to his
translator.

“Jungkook,” he cocks his head, smiles, and Yoongi turns back at the address, peeks from his seat to
layer his eyes over Jungkook. “I’m surprised to see you here,” Kai continues and Jungkook simply
loathes how fucking smug he seems. It submerges him with apprehension, and he’s too fucked out to
hide it well. “Soohoo saw your boyfriend going to yours just a few hours ago.”

Yoongi’s brows lift, eyes part wider. Jungkook ignores him. He adjusts on his feet so his legs spread
more, makes himself look bigger and he closes his arms across his chest.
“Couldn’t care less what your brother thinks he sees,” he tells him simply before he angles his head
to the people sitting across from him, by their build it’s obvious who’s the boxer and he sizes him up,
jaw pulling tightly.

But Kai simply won’t let him. “You know,” he starts, picking up something useless from his desk to
twirl around his fingers, head tilting towards it, following the nonchalant motion, “he’s a vengeful
bastard, my brother, always complicates my relationships with my associates.”

Jungkook’s eyes slide back to him. The dread climbs, raises in his chest and catches at them fuller.
“The fuck are you trying to say, Kai?”

He lifts his gaze up, fits it so infuriating and haughty over Jungkook, so cold. “The latest thing I had
to discipline him for was going through my phone.”

Jungkook cocks his head, puffs a short, ironic laugh out of his lips. “I should give a shit about your
brother’s wandering hands?”

“You should,” Kai smirks wider, “It was to get your father’s number.”

Jungkook should have known. He should have. Kai does not simply offer a contact like this, who
pays this much, when their last interaction was so tight. He should have fucking known, and he
should have just got back into bed with Taehyung, wrapped his arms around him and stayed fucking
put. So, what he’s asleep? He could just fucking watch him sleep.

It downs on Jungkook, downs on him quick.

With the way he grew up, with the way he lives, with the way he makes mistakes, Jungkook thought
he knew all dimensions of human fear. He knows people sometimes say it’s cold. It’s not. It’s
freezing. His eyes stare wide at the smiling snake on Kai’s neck. And he freezes. His blood runs
cold, a chill runs across his nape, down his spine. For a moment his heart stills.

Then it pumps blood, such loud, screaming blood in his ears.

“Fuck,” his palm slaps awakening into his forehead. Yoongi stands, but he doesn't see, doesn't care.
“Fuck,” his fingers slide into his hair, pull.
His feet tug at him.

A hand stops him, digits frustrating around his elbow. “Jungkook, where are you going?” Yoongi’s
brows are shifting together, eyes searching over his expression, the panic on it susceptible. “We’ve
barely—”

“The fucker called my father,” Jungkook grinds out.

Kai’s eyes glint.

“So—”

“Yoongi,” Jungkook steps closer to him, hands curling over his own chest in fists. He tries to speak
to him, his eyes darting wide and wishfully explanatory over him. He tries to make him understand.
“My parents are a fucking hour away,” he tells him; he doesn’t skip a beat, doesn’t hesitate, just licks
a tongue over dry lips, “and Taehyung is naked and asleep in my bed.”

Yoongi’s brows straighten, head pulls back with a small tilt of his chin. “You are actually fucking
him?”

“Yes,” he says. “No,” he shakes his head, eyes fall shut as he breathes through nose. “I mean yes,”
he parts his lids, “I sleep with him, but it’s not—”

Yoongi’s hand squeezes into his elbow, draws his attention. He nods at him once, his blink too long
to be just that. “Okay,” he tells him. “Go,” fingers leave him and Jungkook does.

He gets the fuck out of there.

He doesn’t know what he will do once he gets there. He has no fucking idea, but his feet have a
mind of their own. His heart beats in his chest, thunders. He doesn’t know what he will do, but he’s
not losing Taehyung.
He just got him back. He’s not losing him again.

Taehyung hears the sound of the front door and his lips twitch in a soft smile. Until he hears two sets
of steps, one of which heels, and his heart fucking stops.
 Chapter 24
Chapter Notes

this is very unedited and will be for a day or two, I apologise

thank you for all the comments and feedback, means more than I can say x

Underwear. He needs underwear. The carpet is gentle on his knees as he scraps to the floor,
grappling at a discarded piece of fabric. He spins, drags it clumsy across the length of his legs, grabs
at a shirt, Jungkook’s shirt. He sees it first, first shield he sees, and he puts his arms through the
sleeves. No time for buttons.

His heart pounds.

The bed is fucking contemporary. There is barely enough room underneath to fit a mouse, but he
falls on his knees and elbows to check, nevertheless.

His heart pounds. He can hear those fucking heels click against the marble hallways.

The closet. The closet is too fucking full and too tidy for him to hide. Everything is made to fit
perfectly, to the brim and so well ordered, and whoever designed it apparently doesn’t know shit
about rich people. Always leave room for a badly placed lover in a compromising situation.

His heart pounds. The door is slightly opened, and he has to be quiet. He can feel his palms sweat,
his feet sweat into the carpet. His ass is on the bed, his head is turning everywhere, everywhere, ears
perched. They buzz. All his blood is in his head. The heels. He doesn’t know if he’s lost his ability to
pair sound with space. But he thinks they’re getting close. He thinks they’re getting so fucking close.

They stop. The heels stop, his head shoots up. His heart stops, too. He doesn’t remember ever being
this scared in the entirety of his life.

His palms grip tight at the sheets, his chest raises and falls, but his breath is quiet.

The eyes that stare back at him are tiny at first but as they fall over him, they grow as wide as his
own. Her hand rests at the handle and she stands still in the doorway, eyes darting all across
Taehyung as he sits at that bed. His head begs, an array of pleads, a hopeless stream through his
mind and maybe it reads in the glassy stare of his gaze, lids peeled back as his pupils sit restless at the
globes, yet absolutely pinned to the figure that lingers.

He’s seen her, seen her many times from a distance. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her eyes. It has
always been beyond her to deign to glance in his direction. He’s all she’s looking at now. She looks
at all of him, drapes her eyes from his feet, all through his naked legs, his stomach, his chest, and
then his own.

He knows how this looks. He knows this is painfully, painfully obvious. He knows she knows. Her
eyes are sealed onto him until they are not, until she turns them to the bathroom door. Once, then
twice, her chin nodding to it subtly too. His panic doesn’t allow him to follow the indication the first
time, but when she does it a second, more pressingly, he blinks. He understands.

Taehyung’s head turns to the bathroom. The door is slightly cracked. He can sneak in without
making a sound if he presses himself to the wall. He looks back at her, nods, moves to get on his
feet.

But the shadow that appears behind her, followed by a figure stops him dead in his tracks. He’s
barely lifted off the bed. Her eyes fall shut, an exhale departing through her nose. He doesn’t see
whether she opens her eyes again or keeps them squeezed together, so she doesn’t have to witness
this. Because Taehyung’s gaze jumps to the new figure, his heart jumps to his throat and now, now
he’s even more scared.

It’s Jeon. It’s Richhood personified, douchebaggary incarnated, cruelty on fucking legs, the human
form of privilege induced partial sociopathy. Taehyung doesn’t understand how he can hate someone
he has never spoken to as much as he does, but when he looks at him he sees Jungkook, sees him at
his lowest, hears the way he used to speak to him, sees the burn mark on his hand, the money he
shoved in his chest, hears the sound of him fucking his sister, sees him with his arms wrapped around
Clo Eun when she’s unconscious on the bathroom floor. Hatred strikes first. The fear comes second,
but it’s powerful, so fucking powerful. He lingers half lifted off the bed, immobilized. He feels his
limbs, but he doesn’t know if he can move them, his brain cannot send a command, because all he
can process is blind, cold, white fear. He doesn’t know how the simple shape of a person in a
doorway can be so utterly terrifying, but it is. It is.

He takes a step around his wife and Taehyung instinctively falls back to the bed. His mere steps are
eerie, frightening. They are slow, they ring around the room.

Taehyung is not ready to hear his voice, but no one gives a shit. He isn’t ready to face him at all, isn’t
ready for anything, and he’s never wanted Jungkook with him more, but still a part of him hopes he
never comes home. A part of him wants to put this all on pause so he can call him, tell him to stay the
fuck away from here.

His mother’s hand wraps further around the handle, squeezes.

Taehyung’s eyes seal onto his father now. He can’t look away as the man steps towards him, so slow
and torturous. His voice is worse. It drawls out, more controlled than he expects it considering the
state of his eyes, the eyes that glare under an arched nose as if he has found an offensively large
cockroach sneaking underneath the bed after he had thought he’d stomped it to death. He watches
him as if he got his shoe dirty but is still running around restless and invasive.

“And who the fuck would you be?” he pulls in between teeth that press together, daunting, and the
sound of it crawls wet over every inch of Taehyung’s skin.

Taehyung’s jaw unhinges. His tongue feels so heavy in his mouth. He doesn’t know if he can speak.
He tries, but it takes him time. “I—” he stutters out after a few moments.

“What’s your name, boy?” the man asks as he nears and Taehyung’s head tilts up, upper, following
his face as it gets closer, higher, bigger, more frightening. “Answer faster,”he instructs biting and
commanding. His voice is cold and hot at the same time, freezing and scorching.

“I’m—” he starts, he swallows. His elbows are trembling where they try to hold him up on the bed.
“My name’s Taehyung,” he gets out, gets it out clumsy and quivering, but he gets it out.

Jeon’s head tilts. He’s so close now, almost standing between his legs. He’s close enough to reach
out for him, to touch him if he suddenly decides. “As in Kim Taehyung?” he elaborates, his family
name as coated by disgust on his lips as it used to be on Jungkook’s.

“Ye-yes,” he swallows with his nod. He hates that he stutters so much, but at least he is pulling
words out. His heart thuds angry and afraid.

He closes in further on him, eyes forever fixated on his trembling target, even as he adjusts on his
feet, a small rotation around the part on the bed Taehyung clings to helplessly. “What are you, Kim
Taehyung, the gay one,” his brows fly, mouth curls, “doing in my son’s bed?”

There is an edge of calmness in his voice that rings painfully ominous to Taehyung. He can see in
the ferociousness of his eyes, in the coiling of his fingers, the thumb gliding across the ring with the
family crest, that he is anything butcalm. Yet, he does this, he teases tranquility, hints at conversation,
like a shark that circles its victim before it absolutely devours it.

“I—” he curls his fingers into the bedding because of his need to just hold onto something.He wants
to cling onto some hope, but currently he sees no room for such. He swallows, “He,” he tries, “I— I
was trying to,” he gulps once more. “He doesn’t know I’m here,” he shakes his head, eyes widening
in his attempt to plead his denial, “I was trying to—to get him to sleep with me,” he lies, shakes his
head again, shakes his head forever. “He doesn’t know I’m here, I swear.”

His father’s head tips, his tongue clicks. “No?”

Taehyung shakes his head still, growing more avid in his story as it unfolds in his head, lie upon lie
scattering out of his mouth, tumbling off his tongue in a clumsy attempt at protection. “No,” he
promises. He is almost certain he will get hit at this point, for admitting, well lying, he tried to seduce
his priced son, but he doesn’t care, “he, he hardly remembers my name, but I’ve been watching him
—”

When he interrupts, thunderous, it’s the first time anger slips into his voice as well as in every pattern
of his presence and it’s absolutely stifling. “Then why does the room reek of cum, Kim Taehyung?”

He presses his elbows down lower onto the bed, tries to make himself small as his speech does, fails.
His sentence cracks, “I don’t know.”

He feels his eyes sting, layer with bitter wetness out of this pure fear. They squint with the shake of
his head, the drop of his voice.

His neck cranes over him as he looms, voice booms, but it is so slow, each word so clearly
pronounced, etching them into Taehyung’s brain with their full meaning, their doubtlessly impending
consequences, “Did you fuck my son?”

His reply is immediate, pried out and automatic. “No, no, no,” he denies as a mantra, prays as a
mantra, with each word his head shaking.

His mother still has her eyes closed shut. He wants desperately to shut his own, too, perhaps he’s
dreaming. Maybe he’s having a nightmare. Maybe if he closes his eyes and opens them again, this
will all disappear. But he can’t look away.
“Are you lying to me?” He’s closer. “In myapartment?” He’s so close, touching his chest offended,
eyes ravenous with anger on him. He isn’t replying anymore; jaw is stuttering, and he just keeps
shaking his head. He couldn’t be closer. “Told J a while ago he should teach you some decency, but
maybe it should be me teaching you both.”

He expects it, yet it still takes him off guard. The ring getting closer and closer to his eyesight,
adorned over big, folded knuckles, it’s near, so near, he can no longer see it, it’s a blur. Then comes
the pain.

Jungkook has that same ring on his finger. Always, all the time, constantly. Taehyung feels it a lot.
He feels the cold silver when he touches him, feels it when his fingers are inside of him, catching at
his rim. Taehyung never thinks about the ring. It’s just something that’s there. It’s hot. Jewelry looks
good on Jungkook. The contrast of its coolness is thrilling inside of him.

He’s never felt it like this, up front, smashing into the cartilage of his nose and into his cheek. It’s
heavy, and cold, but he neglects the sensation of the chill because of the brutality of the punch. It’s a
punch. He hits him. Taehyung has never really been hit before. The brutality is more in the intention
than the physical pain, at first at least. It hurts. Undoubtedly, it does. His head flies back, turns away
and he sees exactly four small drops of blood splutter to the perfect Egyptian cotton of the sheets. He
watches the crimson with shock ridden eyes, darts them wildly over it.

He doesn’t turn his head back to his father. He can only stare at the fact of what’s happening staining
the sheets. He knows Jungkook’s father is abusive. He knows that. But hearing it and feeling it, it’s
entirely different things, and although he knew it, he doesn’t really. He has no idea how to handle it.
It comes with an abundant doze of humiliation. Being hit like this with an inability to return it. He
can’t do anything, at least in his own mind he can’; he’s not making the case worse both for himself
and Jungkook by acting out.

He’ll take it, he thinks. He should take it. It’s just physical, he thinks. It’s just a bit of pain.

Fingers marked by that beautiful, cruel ring grip tightly into the collar of the shirt thrown clumsily
over his shoulders. They dig into it rough. His tug is rougher. He pulls Taehyung forcefully towards
himself, raising him over the mattress as Taehyung’s own digits dig just as tightly into the blood-
stained sheets. It’s just four tiny drops. Four tiny drops, but in his head it feels like an ocean of
indication to who this person is.

He has no choice but to look at him. The tug is absolutely commanding, his head snaps to him, the
wildness still doting his eyes as they land on his face. Jungkook’s father is an attractive man, an
attractive man turned so utterly and hopelessly ugly by the cruelty drawn on his features.
“Wearing his shirt, I see,” his father’s eyes grow slimmer, turning into slits at his face as his head
cocks. His thumb swipes over the fabric of his collar with the same motion with which his tongue
coats over his lips, “bet you fucking love how expensiveit feels.” Fingers of his free hand curl over, a
promise sitting on the shape of the fist they form. “Tell me if it’s worth it later.”

Taehyung turns his head away on an instinct, eyes squeezing shut, teeth pressing together tight as he
tenses with expectation.

But nothing comes, except for a voice. It’s such a familiar voice. It’s the most familiar voice, and it
makes Taehyung’s face relax, lips parting and eyes reopening, staring wide at those four drops on the
white sheets. His heart pauses in the marathon it’s losing, then it speeds again, sprints.

He wants him there, but he wants him gone. He thought he couldn’t be more scared, but currently,
he is. He doesn’t know how he will react to this. Everything he did to Taehyung, he did it so his
father would never find out about him. When Jungkook himself is scared, he makes decisions that
hurt Taehyung. He doesn’t know what he expects him to do, but prospects raise a fear that is entirely
different to that of a fist.

He doesn’t fully understand the words that Jungkook says at first. But those words are tight. They’re
scared, teeth pressed, but above that they are demanding,fierceness lodged between the grinding
teeth of his command.

“Let go of him,” is what Jungkook says.

He’s breathless in the doorway, heart racing. His mother’s hands latch into his, keep him in place,
one arm stretched over his chest and stomach to prevent him from what his feet pull him to do. She
squeezes her fingers indicatively into him, digs her nails in, but his attention is reserved for his father.

His eyes are narrowed onto him, whole face molding into the glare that he seals onto him. He didn’t
know what he expected of himself when he came here, but the second his gaze lands on Taehyung
each and every instinct screams at him to do everything in his power to get him the fuck out of there.

His father straightens, his fingers still latched into the collar around Taehyung’s throat, but his body
angles differently.

“Look who it is,” he snarls, lips pulling cruelly downwards to his jaw. “If it isn’t my faggot son!”
There is an irony of a cheer in the exclamation as he layers his eyes over his son. His now gay son.

Jungkook’s heard that word many times. He’s used it many times, it’s always been thrown around.
And he thinks he isn’t allowed the privilege to be affected by it, always lived around people to whom
words mean nothing, actions mean little. Sex means nothing, but still love means less. And this time,
this time it is striking.

It’s striking not because it offends him, not because it means anything to him. It’s striking to him
because he knows right now, this, that word, is all he will be reduced to in his father’s head. Always
accompanying his name in there, a fucking seal of that word stamped onto his forehead when his
father looks at him, permanent label, a constant epithet. Two syllables that went meaningless in his
life for so long, two fucking syllables, from this point on will indubitably be what he is first and
foremost in his father’s eyes.

He’s been a lot to his father throughout the years. Useless. He’s been useless. Weak. A little bastard,
that’s what he called him when he bit him. A cocky son of a bitch. All those allowed for other things
to follow. He’s also been a good boy, with a good jab, the son of the family, the important one, a
track champion in high school, a scholarship holder. He’s been able to be those things
simultaneously to his father. One has managed to peak over the other.

He doubts anything would ever replace that label. He cares and he doesn’t. He’s hurt and he’s
happy. He’s hurt this is enough but he’s happy this is enough because it makes hating him that much
easier. At the same time it hurts it’s that easy to hate him.

It’s a forever spiral of dissonance, and it makes his head hurt, makes it harder to breathe. But he
hardly has time to think. His father’s proximity to Taehyung obliterates all thought. He needs to get
him out of here.

His fingers coil in tight, pulsing fists. His legs are begging him to move. “Fucking let go of him,” he
snarls right back, attempting a step forward, but his mother’s pleading hands won’t allow it.

“Jungkook,” she’s whispering to his shoulder, lips close there, attemptedly soothing as they brush
into his t shirt once. “Don’t make a scene,” she asks him quietly.

He doesn’t respect the privacy of that whisper, tries to charge forward again, jaw ticking as he glares
infinitely into his father, eyes darting towards Taehyung with a desperation to ask him if he is okay,
but his head is turned away. He’s not looking back. “I’ll make more than a fucking scene if he
doesn’t get the fuck away from him,” Jungkook swears and he will, he knows he will.
He is not letting his father touch Taehyung. It’s his fault. It’s Jungkook’s fault Taehyung was there,
alone. It’s Jungkook’s fault Taehyung was there at all. It’s his fault for asking him to stay here where
people like his father are threateningly near. His fault for being so selfish and wanting him when he
shouldn’t. But he is about to get one bit more, more selfish. He is about to do just whatever the fuck
he has always wanted to do.

“Why should I?” His father’s head cocks. His shoulders shrug in a challenge so lazy and casual
Jungkook can feel each and every of his veins inflate with the heat of blood surging in anger.

“If you don’t,” Jungkook warns, fingers fucking growing ticklish with his absolute desire to smack
the pretense nonchalance off of this man. He knows his father respectfully pulses with boiling anger.
He knows his father and his father knows him and this so quickly becomes a game. “You’ll get first-
hand experience of how I get my own money.”

His father scoffs, the challenge growing agitated as his father’s anger starts to peak into loss of
control. “You wouldn’t dare hit me,” he shakes his head and turns away from Jungkook, scorching,
raged eyes moving back to Taehyung, and Jungkook is about to topple over control as well because
he simply doesn’t have the right to look at him. “You never hit back, you’re not about to do it over a
fucking slut.”

His feet move forward instinctive, jaw twitching and his mother clings at him so desperate. “What
did you call him?” he snarls.

Name calling. The typical offensive of his father. He gets off on degradation, releases his anger with
it, too. Jungkook is so irrevocably and sadly used to it. He no longer reacts at his father’s tongue.
When it comes to him, but the fact of it is, Taehyung is there, and he is hearing this, and he doesn’t
want him to.

“Jungkook,” his mother squeezes at him, “please.”

“I’ll deal with you when I’m done with him.” He sees the back of his head as it cocks over
Taehyung. “Now—” he starts.

It’s then that Taehyung finally turns his head. It’s then when he looks at him and Jungkook’s eyes
drop from his father with the immediacy of his fluttering heart, falling to his own. He catches
Jungkook’s eyes and Jungkook sees. Sees the trickle of blood from his nose.
All the heat evaporates from inside of him. His face falls. His blood runs cold.

“Did you hit him?”

He hears himself ask it. He hears his voice, as cold as his blood. His eyes blink from Taehyung to his
father. There is something detaching in the coolness of his question, equally detaching in his gaze. It
snaps. Something snaps inside him and something snaps between them.

The ring feels heavier on his finger, weighing him down, pulling him to the ground, and under.

Taehyung is bleeding.

Taehyung is speaking. He hears his voice for the first time since he gets there. It calms him down for
a moment, makes his heart race worse when he sees the trickle fall over his lips as he parts them to
talk to him. “Jungkook, it’s okay.”

His lids bat down to the stain of Taehyung’s mouth. He wipes it off with the back of his hand and
Jungkook watches before eyes fly back to his father.

Next, he’s not cold. He’s hot, so fucking hot, boiling, burning. His teeth grind together, he watches
his father through the red of the blood that surges through him, the blood that coats Taehyung’s lips,
lips that are made for gentle conversations and kisses, not bleeding, and he is demanding, “Did you
fucking hit him?”

“Jungkook,don’t,” his mother is begging, but he’s pulling away from the hold of her arms.

He pushes him first, gets his fingers off of Taehyung and he doesn’t know what happens next, but his
father is on the floor and he is on top of him, knees digging in his ribcage to keep him down.

Jungkook never hits back. He never hits his father. When his father looks at him like this, the way he
was looking at him just now, he always forgets he’s not a little boy, having to fucking bite him to get
him away from his sister. He recedes mentally to that little boy. He’s scared,fear can be immobilizing
and when his father looks like that, it is. And he’s always wanted his father to forgive him. If he lets
him beat it out on him, take it out, he forgives next. There was never a point in hitting back. He was
never brave enough to hit back.

He doesn’t want forgiveness now because there’s nothing he is guilty of, not in front of him. In front
of Taehyung, yes, so many things. And he desperately does not want to add another one to the list.
He’s guilty of nothing now, nothing he needs to ask for forgiveness from his father, he’s done
nothing wrong. Taehyung is not something that’s wrong.

He sees red. He actually fucking sees red. His blood pulses in his ears. He’s lost his shit. The type of
violence he grows hungry for is nothing he has experienced before. It’s so different than when he is
on the Ring. This is pure aggression.

He hits him once and gets high on it. He hits him twice and he can’t fucking stop. Crashing his
knuckles into his face, no technique, no nothing, just rage. He used to think there was never any
point in hitting. But right now, he thinks there is no point in anything else. This is what his father
teaches him because this is what his father understands. If Jungkook says something, he won’t hear
it. If Jungkook breaks his jaw, he will have to fucking feel it.

“That cause of him?”

The question registers with him when he has his fist raised, lifted off. He thinks it is the exact
moment it dawns on him that it is his father he is bashing his knuckles in. He feels pain shoot through
his hand. The viciousness of his punch makes it careless, makes it hurt.

He layers his eyes down over him, over his father. And there is a moment in which his fist doesn’t
come down again with the sight of the blood that clothes his face, clods the breathing in his nostrils.

But then in the next he is slamming into him harder.

“No, that’s cause you’re a piece of shit,” his teeth grit and words land with the same brute force of
the punch. “That’s for every time you’ve hit my sister,” he’s yelling. He’s yelling and it tears his
throat out. He’s yelling and it rips straight from his lungs, or maybe his heart, maybe right now he
speaks and breathes with his heart. He’s yelling and his voice is booming and it’s making Taehyung
flinch, but he can’t notice because his eyes are forever fixed on the face underneath him. He wants to
watch him in pain.“My sister,” he raises somehow higher, “that’s for every time you’ve hit my
mother,” punch, “that’s for every time you’ve hit your daughter,” punch, “and for your wife.”
Punch. “And that’s for Taehyung,” a fucking punch,“and it’s all cause you’re never again fucking
touching a person I love.”
The sound of his fist smashing into his father’s face is duller than he expects. It’s such a dull sound,
more the sound of skin than anything else, of flesh. It sounds almost natural. It becomes so easy after
he loses sensation in his own hand, becomes the easiest thing ever when he thought it would all be so
hard, but he supposes, even in his drunk state of power and aggression, this is easy part of all this, the
part ruled by rage, not by reason, the part lead by a desire bred into him by that exact man that he
needs to punish.

“Jungkook,” he hears Taehyung, feels Taehyung’s hand touch at his arm, pull at him, “Jungkook,
stop.” His lips are close to his ear, mumbling into it, private, breath brushing chilling over the lobe of
it, over his neck, and he’s blinking. He turns to him. Taehyung is on his feet, jeans on, but undone,
pulled clumsy over his legs. As animalistically primal it feels to hit his own father, so does a rapid
desire to answer to Taehyung, so when Taehyung pulls, he raises lightly, when Taehyung whispers
to him and keeps stringing him along as he moves back he moves completely. “if you do more
damage, you’re going to regret it.”

“No, I’m not,” he snaps his head back to his father, glowers at him with a glinting, glaring gaze,
graceless gait, a growl, “I’m going to fucking bask in it.

Taehyung’s fingers are wiping at something at his chin and lips. They come back red. Splutters of his
father’s blood spurt up at Jungkook with the power of his hit.

Taehyung’s own heart is running miles. He is not exactly thinking, mainly acting. He doubts it’s
possible for him to actually process, but he doesn’t want blood on Jungkook’s face or his knuckles,
certainly not his father’s. He still cannot believe he hit him. For a moment there, when he was alone
with his parents, he almost feared Jungkook’s return would result in him hitting him, just to prove to
his father he’s loyal. But that’s not at all what’s happening, not at all.

Never again touching a person I love, it rings loud and clear and as angry as Jungkook had spit it
down at his father in his face, and he knows he means Clo and his mother and even himself, he
knows that, but it still makes his heart thump even faster, more dangerous in its palpitations against
his ribcage. He can just tell by the strain of his throat when his voice tears out of it, breaking and
heartbreaking, for how long he’s kept this in, drowned it down and let it surface in Jeon Jungkook, a
hurtful, hurt, entitled brat.

Taehyung is wiping away all of his father’s blood from his face with his own fingers, makes a mess
of himself, but he doesn’t much care.

Jungkook’s mother takes the handkerchief with their family crest out of her pocket, shakes it
graciously between her fingers, and goes to wipe the blood from his face, easily squatting down next
to him on her heels. She swipes the handkerchief twice before he gets on his elbows, pushes her
away and she stands, folds it and waits.
“I’m your fucking father boy,” he snarls from the floor.

Jungkook’s eyes glare into him one final time, voice rough and raw. “I’d much rather call him daddy,
not gonna lie.”

He turns to Taehyung next, entirely ignorant of his father’s reaction to what he says, of his father’s
glare and his attempts to lift off the ground without his wife’s assistance.

“I’m so sorry I left you,” he whispers to him, voice dwindling quiet, not because he doesn’t want his
parents to hear, but because this is private to Taehyung and to him. He swallows down the roughness
of his tone and mumbles to him soft, naked and honest. His eyes search the entirety of his face, any
sign of hurt over it, any sign of bruising, and sign of anything, his hands lifting to cup both his
cheeks when Taehyung tries to angle his chin down.

“I told you to go,” he’s murmuring back, face so intimately close to his, words slip from mouth to
mouth. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so near to him outside of just the two of them. Taehyung’s
own eyes are helplessly attempting to trail over to his parents in a silent warning, but Jungkook is
incessantly holding his attention to himself.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to in the first place,” he’s shaking his head, stepping even closer, eyes
slipping down over his nose, his lips.“You’re bleeding,” he says with a regretful alarm clouding his
tone, as a new trickle drips down the curve of above his mouth.

Jungkook’s palms move, his fingers lift, on his part the trickles of blood from his own face, but he is
also brushing the pads of his digits against his cheeks, his eyes, and only then does Taehyung realize
there are also rolling tears to dry away.

He shakes his head, swallows his bottom lip as his eyes in turn dart wild and wide over Jungkook’s
face, emotive and brimming with emotion, and Taehyung can barely take to gauge his features with
the way they now contort, crease with seamless feeling, so much of it on such a small, one singular
person. “It’s nothing,” he assures him with a whisper, his cheeks molding deeper with the palms of
his hands, the callous skin of them so familiar to the touch of the smoothness of his own.

Jungkook is in turn, shaking his own hand, blinking him in, taking him in. “I’m sorry he touched
you, okay?” He’s still buzzing with words, buzzing with regret and Taehyung’s lip falls out of his
mouth, quivers with the shake of the other’s voice. “I’m sorry he hurt you.”
Taehyung’s hands fall away, bury in the sides of Jungkook’s shirt and squeeze there, squeeze hard,
to throttle the shakes of his body with the exertion of holding onto something. “You hurt me,” it’s
bursting out of him, choking out of him, with the tremble of his lip, his own speech, because it
absolutely does not matter to him that his father hit him, “You hurt me more.”

His face is coming closer, the whisper of his voice a scattered brush across the heated skin of his
face. “I know,” Jungkook is sighing. He’s no longer wiping tears and blood away from him, just
gingerly holding his face between his palms, his thumb padding across the globe of his cheek and
down to the line of his jaw, taking in the contortion of Taehyung’s expression, breaking so severely
as the confession tears out of him, and Jungkook’s chest is heaving. “I know, pretty boy,” he tells
him, moving closer still. He wants to stop the quiver of his lip, he wants to turn back time; he’s never
wanted so many things utterly independent of him, completely separated from his personal
capabilities, and with holding Taehyung’s face comes an overwhelming helplessness that makes his
breathing recede, shallow. He’s desperate to express something, but he doesn’t know what, he has
no idea what, so he tries again with, “I’m sorry.” He’s sorry, but it’s not it, not that, when he looks at
Taehyung, it is certainly not just regret. It’s so much more. “Never doing it again,” he promises
shakes his head. So much more, so goddamn more. His chest is heaving, heart is wild, an imminent
build up forming and surging within him. He doesn’t realize it is it, until it tears out of him, stumbling
and unrestrained like everything he says that night, entirely true,nevertheless, like everything he says
that night. “I love you.”

Jungkook hears a cruel chortle, but he ignores it, pupils desperately darting all over Taehyung.

Taehyung’s own eyes widen, blink. His lips stop trembling in their need to part, jaw unhinging
loose. He thinks his mouth makes patterns that are an attempt at silent speech, but the first couple of
times he fails to summon his voice and with his struggle to articulate any thought and Jungkook has
to wonder who’s more shocked, himself or Taehyung.

In an exhale with searching eyes, he’s asking, “What?”

And Jungkook is himself shocked at what he says, but the harder his father’s cackle rings in his ears
and the more he stares into Taehyung’s eyes, the more he it hits him those are not just words. It’s a
realization pried from his lips and he blinks once, draws his head back, looks at him more, looks at
him clearer. “I love you,” he repeats, some perplexity brushing over his features as he speaks it, as
he believes it. His hand replaces, cups at Taehyung’s waist, tug him, as the fingers of his other slip
into his hair and grip. He barely realizes he’s speaking aloud when he repeats it once more, clearer
and firmer. “I’m in love with you.”

Taehyung’s features contort more, forehead creasing, “Jungkook,” he’s whispering, head shaking,
“shut up, your dad—” his eyes try to dart away from his, but Jungkook won’t let him, squeezes into
his hair. He wants Taehyung to believe him. He hates doing this now, but he doesn’t plan it, doesn’t
know it until then. It’s out now, out and it’s important that he knows it, that Taehyung does as well,
because he likes his money, likes his cars, likes his clothes, but he loves Taehyung. “You’ll lose
fucking everything,” Taehyung’s whispering, private, his fingers latching harder in the fabric of
Jungkook’s t-shirt, palms clinging almost painful into him.

Jungkook’s shaking his head, too, in sync with his. “Don’t care,” he promises him, and in the very
moment it is true. He is too blind with Taehyung to process consequence. He wants to kiss him, but
he doesn’t know if he will let him. “I’m not losing you,” he tells them both, himself and Taehyung,
and he tells his mother and father, and he tells everyone,“I just got you back,” he’s circling his arm
more around his waist, just keeping him there, wrapping himself around him, “I’m not losing you
again.”

The next chortle he cannot ignore. Loud and disgusting, it comes from his father, now shaky on his
feet, blood smeared but mostly wiped away from his face.

“Oh, look how he holds him!” He’s exclaiming cruel and sneering, eyes turning to his wife for a
moment to receive a small nod before he How fucking romantic!

Jungkook unwraps himself from Taehyung for the sole purpose of stepping in front of him, shoulder
ahead, protective, but he still curls his arm towards him, behind his own back, knocks his knuckles
into his elbow before he lowers his hand, trailing on the length of Taehyung’s forearm and finds his
fingers with his own, digits intertwining together until their palms line and press.

“Shut the fuck up,” he’s growling to his father, eyes immediately setting into a sizzling glare, so
different to the softness with which they had fallen onto Taehyung.

Shu the fuck up, he’s commanding, because he’s so fucking tired of hearing his voice, not only when
he speaks, when he thinks. He has it engrained in his fucking skull, but he will rip it all out, all the
words he’s tried to instill into him.

His father wipes a continuous strip of blood trailing from broken capillaries in his nose with the back
of his hand. “You love him, you say,” he pronounces sardonic, as if it is ridiculous, as if it is
hilarious. As is if it is offensive.

Jungkook’s feet are launching at him again, but Taehyung is pulling him back. “Yeah,” his teeth
clash, “I love him,” he’s back to torn yelling, and Taehyung is squeezing his fingers around his until
his voice lowers. “Fuckyou,” Jungkook says, impassioned, and with the rhythm of that fuck you, he
continues firm and pointed, “I love him.”
His father’s head cocks, eyes flash. “What now then, Kookie?” his voice twists with the tremble of
anger, every syllable of it malicious. Jungkook can see him try to be cruel rather than furious, but he
knows his very skin is burning with the chance to topple right off the thin edge into loss of control.
“What will you do now?” he insists, teeth bare, usually so white and polished, but now they’re
trimmed with watery blood, mixed with saliva. “Move to the United Gays of America and marry
him?” he sneers at him, laughs at him. “Are you gonna bear the children or is he or are you gonna
take fucking turns?”

Jungkook’s free hand squeezes into a fist, fingers pulling together. He doesn’t have a what now, he
doesn’t have anything, really, but nothing is better than this. “I don’t even wantto have children if I
have to give them your last name,” he snarls at him, forceful.

The tension must be a current on his body, must be palpable, vibrating on his skin and into
Taehyung’s. He’s moving closer to him, touching his chest to his back, mumbling in his ear,
“Jungkook.”

He turns to him briefly, lips brushing against the side of his cheek for a quick mutter. “Just hold my
hand,” he asks him softly, pulsing his fingers indicatively into his.

His father’s voice interrupts, forces them back into harsh reality. “You don’t want my name?” his
brows tweak, lips twist more. “You know he’s a little Kim slut, giving his ass for money. Don’t look
at me like that,” he juts his chin almost offended at the change of the affect in Jungkook’s restless
glare, “I can tell by the way he sits you fucked him, hard I have to give it to you.” He dares to look at
Taehyung as his head tilts down to the floor and Jungkook is moving his body even more in front of
him. He wants to hide him entirely from view, but he can’t, he’s too small to. “But do you think he’s
in your bed because of you?” his father scoffs with all his body, his chest and his shoulders and the
challenge of the question pierces right through Jungkook. He swallows as he listens, hopes his throat
does not betray the fact of it. “He’s there because of me,” his father lists, presses a ringed finger into
his chest as he insists, “my last name, my money. The bitch wouldn’t touch you if it weren’t for my
bank account.” He feels Taehyung’s nose bury in his shoulder blade, senses his lips press there,
assuring, but his father is ruthless. He is never done.“Tell me, son, have you ever given him money,
gifts, offered more?”

Taehyung lifts his mouth to the back of his neck, speaks there, his lips moving out of sight of his
father, but his mother watches them subtly form words that draw shivers, that bring small hairs to life.
“Jungkook, don’t listen to him.”

Jungkook squeezes into his fingers again. “Do you really think you raised me to be so easily
manipulated?” he forces his tongue to click against the roof of his mouth, tries to slip into the haughty
Jungkook of the early summer, but animosity is too layered on him, hurt and anger too much of a
mixture in his stomach, on his skin, in his head and his intention. “You disappoint me.”

“I thought I raised you to be a man,” his father pronounces with the sneer of such self-satisfaction,
Jungkook imagines he must really think he pours salt in a deep wound, but if manliness is bravery, if
manliness is courage, than telling Taehyung he loves him is probably the manliest thing he’s ever
done.“You’re just a fucking embarrassment.”

He ignores the pang. He doesn’t want the pang to be there, doesn’t want to care what adjectives his
father attaches to him. Objectively, his father is too much of an irrational, bigoted prick to deserve a
reaction to his opinion. But objectivity is hard to find when he physically feels it in his gut.

“You raised a coward and an addict is what you raised, you fucking piece of shit,” he growls at him,
the surface of his hurt is anger and for the first time he’s glad it is. “Your daughter is in rehab, does
that mean nothing to you?” he tells him nearly feral, responding to the tightening of Taehyung’s
fingers subtly behind his back. He breathes through his nose, a mimicry of some sardonic laughter.
“Obviously so much less than the fact I’m gay.”

His father’s head draws back visibly, teeth bare more, almost animalistic in his next reprimand,
“Don’t say that.”

“What?” Jungkook’s breath is of disbelief and of laughter still, prying more easily through his nostrils
at the appalled expression his father decays to; it’s honestly borderline funny how scared he is of the
word. “That I’m gay?” he tilts his head, nearly smirks when he watches him twitch. “Does
it embarrass you?”

His father looks on with almost gruesome disgust at the word, at the suggestion, stares at him for
long enough to determine he won’t back down, to realize he’s gaining an advantage with this, and
then he blinks away, he glances behind him, speaks suddenly calmer. “What if I offered to buy your
house for you?”

Jungkook swats his eyes over him, confused. “What?”

“I’m talking to Kim,” his father dismisses with a quick look. He takes a step, wobbles on his feet and
chooses to sit on the edge of the bed, head curling up to look at Taehyung peaking behind
Jungkook’s shoulder. “If you never touch my son again, I’ll buy your house for you. You never have
to pay rent again. I can even pay you a monthly allowance to stay away from him.”
Taehyung’s eyes grow wide at this. He feels the heat of Jungkook’s body pull away slightly as he
angles himself differently to gauge his reaction, gaze fixing onto his face, soft immediately but
narrowing with moments of silence. Taehyung’s lips part and gobble with wordlessness at nothing
but pure shock.

He hates Jungkook’s father. He absolutely despises him.

Jungkook’s body is pulling away further, fingers loosening around Taehyung’s until they’re brushing
knuckles, slipping away. His teeth press. “You’re fucking considering it,” he rumbles out of his
chest, voice a quiet growl as he attempts to make this accusation, or fear, private between them as
well.

Taehyung’s eyes jump to his wider. He’s misinterpreting his shock as hesitance. “No, I’m not,”
Taehyung shakes his head, slips his fingers forcefully back between Jungkook’s and squeezes,
turning to him entirely, speaking to him.“Are you fucking insane? I’m not fucking considering it, I
would never.”

He loves him, he loves him, he loves him. He wants to tell him he fucking loves him, couldn’t give a
damn about money, but not now, not here, he can barely say anything now and here, and although
his presence here stirs this storm up, this has little to do with him.

His father’s lips are curling. He’s observing with a brutal smirk slipping over his broken features. “Of
course, he’s considering,” he interrupts, but their eyes remained sealed together, unspoken promises
coursing from the gaze of one into that of the other. “The boy knows priorities unlike you.”

“I’m not,” Taehyung insists again with a bite, his fingers latching more secure around Jungkook’s
own, his thumb swiping a gentle pattern on the veins at the back of his skin, lowering his voice once
more as he promises him softly, “I’m not fucking considering.”

He’s addressing Jungkook and Jungkook only, but his father is boldly addressing him, “Don’t tell
me you’d pick my useless son before your family. You didn’t even tell him that you love him back.”

Jungkook’s head turns away, jaw slackens. Taehyung can see that familiar tick at the edge of it, just
below his teeth. He can imagine his teeth grind within the protection of the flesh of his cheeks, and
this time he does look at his father. He turns at him with venom in his eyes and dripping on his
tongue. “My family can survive without your fucking money, thank you very much.”
“How the tables have turned,” Jungkook is slipping away again, walking away, leaving his father
struggling to get on his feet as he steps into the marble hallway, hands cupping the back of his neck
as he ducks his head down, glimpses through fluttering eyelids at the precious stone beneath him.
“I’m the one that’s up for sale now.”

Taehyung trails behind, gripping at his elbow, spinning him to face him and he lets him, but his eyes
remain avoidant, buried in that floor, the truly useless floor. “Shut the fuck up,” he’s scolding him
almost, he wants to engrain this in his skull, “you’re not for fucking sale.”

He hears heels that make the hair on the back of his neck stand up again. He hears a voice behind
himself, but keeps his own attention centered on Jungkook, eyes seeking his as he keeps them hidden
away. “For you not. His father still puts a price on him.”

The fact of it feels somehow cold as it reaches Taehyung’s ears, as he leans slightly back away from
Jungkook when he straightens up and blinks behind his shoulder at his mother. It feels eerily wet. It
hits Taehyung then clean and clear that he always thought he himself was worth little as a Kim and
Jungkook always thought he was worth nothing but green notes as a Jeon. He struggles to assure
him that he means a

His mother’s voice is not a whisper, but it is low enough to only reach the confines of the hallway,
keep this to the privacy of the three of them. “You realize you’re no longer welcome here, if you’re
with him,” she says and Taehyung lifts his head slightly, turns. He gulps down nothing but
discomfort, attempts to move away, feeling awkward having this conversation whispered over his
shoulder.

Part of Jungkook’s answer is to get ahold of Taehyung’s hand again, fingers tangling together. With
him, he tells them both silently as he senses the curve of Taehyung’s body, the shuffling of his feet
almost clumsy across the floor, he’s with him. The other part is to cock his head, to scoff, “No shit.”

Taehyung is tugged into Jungkook’s side and he remains there under the silent instruction of his arm.

His mother’s eyes fold over where their shoulders brush, down to the length of their bodies, the two
almost molding together. Her lids bat at the intertwined fingers. Taehyung’s heart beats with
apprehension; it has been into sporadic, overwhelming overdrive since Jungkook’s lips spoke the
word love. He has no hope for taming it, even remotely.

She blinks up. “Go to your aunt,” she says, voice low.
Jungkook’s gaze darts, his words come forceful. “And you?”

Her voice does become a whisper then, almost sharp. “What about me?”

“You’re staying?” he pronounces incredulous.

Sentences slip between them quick and breathy and Taehyung almost fails to follow.

“Where else would I go?”

“Anywhere but here.”

“Your sister needs a home to come to.”

Jungkook’s teeth press then. His speech turns into a grow. “She’s not fucking coming here.”

His mother’s voice curls quicker on his lips, drags sharper, more brusque, though it lacks any
directional animosity. “And where is she going since you have it all figured out?”

Taehyung slips his gaze over to him, clinging onto his hand, scared in any moment the truth will fall
upon Jungkook and he will realize he has, in fact, absolutely nothing figured out. The fear of this
particular abyss of a future outside of the financial support of his father is precisely what has been
driving force in Jungkook’s cruelest decisions. The silence that follows, the emptiness of Jungkook’s
parted lips just makes the apprehension slip from the blood pumped by his heart into the marrow of
his blood, but he finds with quiet hope the determination of his eyes.

It takes a moment, but Jungkook speaks. “Seokjin has a loft all to himself a little outside of
Gangnam,” he informs with a nod that maybe serves more to assure him than anyone there. “He’d
want her there. If not, she goes to our aunt’s and I—I figure myself out.”

His mother’s lips press together, form a thin line underneath her close lidded exhale. “Jungkook,” she
starts, her voice holding enough warning for it to resonate almost like a threat, “remember Seokjin’s
father is an exception, not a rule. Don’t think you can succeed after getting disowned just because
you’re brave.”
Taehyung vaguely knows the story of Seokjin’s father. He does, however, know well that he was
disowned because of his determination to pursue a career. He had a future planned. Jungkook is
giving up on his silver platter to a dark, cold unknown.

It’s not what Jungkook says, though. No, he simply tells her, “Depends on what you think success
it.”

Taehyung wonders if Jungkook knows how hard he’s holding his hand.

His mother’s mouth thins more before she parts it. “Are you—”

She doesn’t stop speaking at the interruption of a voice. The mere steps on the marble are enough to
seal her lips shut.

He walks with a small limp, blood clothing in his left eye, yet still he carries himself with the
importance of a Jeon, still speaks as if he owns everyone and everything. “Get your whore out of my
apartment so I can speak to you,” he demands and even after so many years in Richhood Taehyung
feels minor discomfort at the easiness with which degradation slips from his lips.

Jungkook’s body surges forward, his eyes vituperative as he lunches, but Taehyung squeezes, pulls
him back, and he settles for a growl, “Fucking call him that again, I dare you. You won’t be able to
properly stand—"

There is not an ounce of emotion in his father’s voice. He doesn’t skip a beat, just interjects cold and
simple, “Then I’ll have something in common with your whore.”

His eyes flash. He’s pulling forward with naked teeth and Taehyung has to grip at his arm with both
hands, cupping one around his elbow to draw him back to himself, pulling his shoulder to his chest.
“Jungkook, stop,” he begs him, because he doesn’t want to see him like that again. The initial
punches were a release and they were a statement. Any more would just be him sinking to his level.

His mother is in front of him, too, her palms flattening where they can on him as she prods him back.
“Leave,” she says nearly weak with repetitive shakes of her head, though Jungkook is watching
above her, watching his father lean on the wall to support his footing and flash him red teeth in a
crooked smirk, “Just leave.”
He brings his gaze to her, the tick in his jaw as ever prominent. “I was planning on it,” he mutters,
bats his eyes behind her again. “Fuck you,” he proclaims loud, clear, so very well enunciated, and
lets go of Taehyung’s hand for a moment, glancing down at his fingers as he strips one off of that
cursed ring. He meets his father’s eyes a final time as he drops it to the floor, clashing metal with
marble, scaring the stone on the first impact before it rotates hesitant and falls flat.

He recaptures Taehyung’s hand, which meets him waiting in the air and walks once more to the
sound of an eerie cackle. That laughter is worse than anything Taehyung himself can imagine, but
Jungkook is tugging him forward, leaving it behind, even with his shoulders tense and the hair
awake on the back of his neck.

His mother follows Jungkook’s stride, calls his name, but he does not stop, doesn’t halt until the
door, until she does not only speak his name, but murmurs something else after.

“Jungkook, thank you.”

The pause in his pace is sudden, Taehyung’s chest crashing into his shoulder. He turns his head to
her, drags his eyes over her entire face before he speaks through a sigh that comes of nearly tired, a
new weight to the heaviness of his voice. “You should get the fuck out of here, mom.”

She shakes her head, glances at the floor once before she finds him again. “As long as you and Clo
Eun have somewhere to go, it’s okay.”

“He won’t stop hitting,” Jungkook says simply, informatively almost. Taehyung thinks he reads
mostly pity on him as he speaks to his mother, their connection appearing ocean’s apart to what ties
Jungkook and Clo.

Her lips press. “I’ve stopped bruising,” she says and when Jungkook’s mouth parts to attempt a reply
her eyes skim past him and to the boy he clings to with a hold that makes his veins bulge. She coats
her gaze over him, swallows. “You’re Kim Taehyung,” she says.

Taehyung instinctively looks to Jungkook first, a moment enough to see him turn to him, too, before
he nods. “Yes.”

Her lips twitch. The thin line of them curls for the briefest, weakest moment. It is a pathetic attempt
of the polite smile she is thought to form at introductions. “Sorry to meet you under such
circumstances,” she drags over her tongue, with some seeming difficulty.

The mention seems to ignite a new hurry into Jungkook. He’s tugging at Taehyung again, finding his
ear with his lips, clumsy, but he manages to mumble to him. “Come on, Tae,” his fingers pulse
between his. “Wanna get you out of here.”

Their goodbye is a nod. She slams the door hard and conclusive and Taehyung is sure his father
hears as well.

There is nothing where they are but windows, huge windows glaring with their reflection, more
marble and an elevator that will even more conclusive than that slammed door denounce Jungkook
from being Jeon Jungkook and he is aiming straight for it.

Taehyung is watching it in panic, his ears ringing with the slam of that door.

Get your whore out of my apartment so I can speak to you. His father had wanted them to speak.

He digs his heels in the floor. “Jungkook, if you walk out—”

But Jungkook is interrupting the alarm in his voice before he can even think it fully.

“Hey, hey, Tae,” he turns to him entirely, starts soft and careful. “You wanted to find me a passion
that will be worth getting out of here, right?” he gazes into his eyes, darts his own, searching almost
desperate beneath raised brows that crease his entire forehead. He only receives Taehyung gnawing
nervous on his bottom lip, so he jostles him slightly, urges. “Right?” He releases his lip, gulps, and
he nods, yes, fuck yes. The shake of his head releases a lock of hair that falls over his eyes, but he
has Jungkook’s fingers brushing it away, tucking it behind his ear before he even realizes, because
Jungkook doesn’t want any border between their eyes when he tells him, “You’re enough, okay?”
he squeezes his hand, “ And it’s enough that Clo won’t come back here. And it’s enough thatIwon’t.
Okay? Let’s get out of here.”
The subway stinks of sweat and beer and piss at this hour, at this time of the year. It’s nearly empty,
just Jungkook, Taehyung and the girl at the end who wears a face mask and eyes them suspiciously.

Taehyung has to wonder as he yet again stares at their reflection in the dark window, their shoulders
pressing together, entire side of their bodies lined, each inch touching, he has to wonder if Jungkook
has ever before been in the subway. Perhaps it is his first time and perhaps he has no concrete
direction

He angles his body to his. “You can come to my house.” His eyes blink at him, wide. “Come to my
house,” he urges firmer, voice piping up.

He doesn’t want to leave him alone. Not now. Not ever, really.

Jungkook’s palm slips over his leg, cups at his knee and squeezes. “I have to go to my aunt’s, Tae,”
he shakes his head, chin tilting into his neck as he stares into his lap.

In all honesty, he wants to go to Clo. He wants to talk to her; he wants to hug her. He wants to ask
her if she’s okay, if he did okay, if she’s mad at him, if he made a mistake deciding this for both of
them like this, to tell her it will be fine, it’s him and her together, to hear her say it back to him, assure
him. He wants to tell her he gets it now, gets why she always goes back to Seokjin, why she had to
call Namjoon and not him when she was at her most desperate. He wants to tell her he loves
Taehyung, he simply does, there is no other way to explain it, to label it. And he understands her one
bit more now. But he can’t visit during the night. Regulations don’t usually stop him. There’s always
enough money to annul any regulation, but he supposes he has to get used to not always buying
anything he wants now.

He turns to Taehyung when he feels his thumb brush gingerly over his own where he holds his leg.
He angles his hand differently when he senses his hesitance, presses his palm to his, lets him hold his
hand in the subway with another person there. The girl could be anyone. The girl could very well
know who Jungkook is, follow him on Instagram or some shit. He holds Taehyung’s hand.

“Make sure she’ll have me,” he elaborates to him, “that I’m not entirely homeless and explain shit to
her.” His fingers draw a pattern over Taehyung’s. “I’ll come see you tomorrow after your shift,” he
suggests, “can I?”

“Yeah,” Taehyung breathes with some eagerness, legs shuffling on the seat in some clumsy attempts
to get closer to him, swallows it, nods to him. “Yes.”
Jungkook nods back before his eyes hood, lids lower. He glances at the hands on Taehyung’s leg.
“Is your sister gonna be there?”

The other shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he tells him. If Jungkook can face his father with this,
Taehyung can face Ji-woo with anything. “I think she’s at work, but it doesn’t matter.” He studies
every inch of him, but he appears timidly inexpressive, gaze mostly facing downwards, chin tucked
in. His eyes seem bigger than ever when they blink down at his lap. There is something vulnerable in
the way his lids peel back to expose glassy surfaces, almost childish, not in a way that is petulant, but
a way that is small, a way that is nearly innocent, the curious scared wonder some children possess
when the world bewilders them too much when they see something new. “Jungkook,” Taehyung
calls him softly, observing him from a light distance, allowing him some breaths of space if he needs
them. “Are you—” okay, he wants to say, but it’s stupid, fucking ridiculous, of fucking course he’s
not okay. “How are you?”

His head lifts up, drifts forward, the back of it resting against the window behind them as he stares at
the one ahead, the two of them sitting together in the subway. “You know,” he starts, his tongue
coating over his lips, but Taehyung doesn’t know. “I’m—” he sighs, some frustration breathed
through his nostrils as sentences fail him. “I’m—I don’t know,” he shakes his head. “I don’t know
what I fucking did. I think I’m—” he searches for a word, eyes darting all over the subway as if it
will be spelled out somewhere there before finally the only answer he finds is Taehyung’s own
lingering gaze. “I think I am fucking relieved,” he tells him when their eyes lock, instinctive. He
stares at him for a moment more before he gives a sharp nod. “I am. Like, obviously I have no
fucking idea what I’ll do now,” he laughs humorless and scared and turns forward again, head
forever shaking, “but anything is better than thatfuckingapartment.”

Taehyung’s eyes skip wary to the girl in the end of the subway before he presses his jaw together,
turns to Jungkook next to him. “You’ll figure it out, okay?” he tells him, lips almost compulsively
meeting his shoulder where he kisses gently. “You can do anything,” he says, and he believes it,
slips his free hand around him and grabs at his jaw, fingers holding him carefully there before he
presses his mouth higher on his shoulder. “You’re so thorough,” he kisses the beginning of his neck,
“and talented,” he kisses him again, upper, “sport,” again, “art,” again. “You can do anything,” he
breathes to him, lips parted against the skin of his neck. “Anything.” He trails his mouth, hovers over
the line of his jaw. “You’re so impressive, so capable, you don’t need him, you don’t need your
father. I promise you, you don’t,” he mumbles against the skin of his cheek, eyes studying him for a
flinch, waiting for him to pull away, but he doesn’t. “And Jungkook,” he caresses with his thumb
over his jaw where he holds him, swats his tongue over his lips as he pulls back slightly, lids
fluttering. “About, about the things he said—about me.” Jungkook’s glances at him as his discomfort
grows palpable. “About money and gifts. You know that’s not true, right?” he begs with his gaze, “I
wasn’t considering anything. I would never—"

His eyes tear away. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay.” Taehyung is angling his face back at him. He very much would like to do this
some other way, perhaps he would like it to do at least half romantic, but that’s just a bit absurd.
There is nothing romantic whatsoever about him. It’s love, it’s not romance, Taehyung learns they
are two completely different entities and one can easily exist without the other. He supposes people
aim for both, should aim for both. He himself aims for Jungkook, and that in itself is perhaps absurd,
but he is incapable of judging that for himself.

So, finally, in a subway that reeks off of beer, piss and sweat, he tells him.“Jungkook, I love you.”
Jungkook tells him that first, Jungkook is not running away now, yet still as he says it his heart
hammers wild in his chest at the confession.

He doesn’t know what he expects of him now as he stares at him, as he blinks at him, but he doesn’t
expect him to tear his gaze away once more, settle it to his lap again. He does not expect a small
mumble which he feels at the palm of his hand where he cups the underside of his jaw. “You don’t
have to say it just because I did.”

Taehyung’s brows furrow, eyes screw together, worry over the side of his head as he chooses to give
that to him and jesus fuck that hurt.“Jungkook, look at me,” he asks, a tremor in his voice, an
incessant flutter to his eyelids as he tries to bring his attention back to himself. “Look at me, you
asshole,” his teeth press as he demands when Jungkook refuses to turn the first time, does the second
with the tug of his hand. He has his eyes then, he has them searching his and he is adamant on not
letting them go. “I love you,” he pronounces, slow and clear but with the quiver of perfect honesty.
“I fucking love you,” he repeats, his fingers curling over his jaw. Somehow it becomes easier and
easier to say. Somehow it becomes impossible not to say. “I was scared to tell you. I’ve been trying
to show you,” he darts his eyes between his, tells him softer. “I love you.” He shakes his head,
splutters, “Please, fucking believe me.”

Jungkook stares at him and he stares right back, relentless. He’s not backing down until he believes
him.

He hears his sharp inhale of breath first, almost a hiss, feels lips on his own second. Taehyung’s
brows jump, lids fold back, his eyes meeting that of the girl at the end of the subway with the tilt of
Jungkook’s head until he tilts it more and all he can see are his lashes, so he closes his eyes, kisses
him back.

It’s short, but lingering. It’s just lips nothing else, just lips folding together, lips kissing. For some
moments Jungkook just fits his bottom lip between Taehyung’s and rests it there, tastes his upper lip,
savors it, kisses it and pulls away.

Taehyung’s eyes flutter back open, their lashes brushing together before he finds his irises. “I’m
sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he shakes his head. He doesn’t care about the girl in the end of the subway. “I do love
you.”

Jungkook glances down at his lips, up at his eyes. “That’s why I’m sorry,” he whispers and steals
Taehyung’s response with another short kiss. “I have to get off here.”

Taehyung fumbles with something to say when the door opens and Jungkook stands. “Okay,” is all
he manages before the doors close and it’s just him and the girl at the end of the subway, Jungkook
looking on from the other side of the window until the train leaves, but he can’t see him because it’s
too light where Taehyung is, too dark where Jungkook is.

Taehyung stares at the ceiling.

Jungkook

You still awake?

He stares at the ceiling.

I love you. I’m in love with you.

Tae

Guess

Jungkook

Go to sleep Tae
He stares at the ceiling.

I love you. I’m in love with you.

Tae

Not until you tell me you’ve got a place to sleep

Jungkook

Talked to my aunt

I can stay here for now

I love you. I’m in love with you.

Tae

Mmm where

Jungkook

has a guest room, clos stayed before, good reviews

Go to sleep

He stares at the ceiling. Woojin moves in the bed beneath him.

I love you. I’m in love with you.

Tae

I can’t

I love you. I’m in love with you.

Jungkook
 Try

For me?

Want you awake tomorrow

Tae

I’ll see you?

Jungkook

You will

I love you. I’m in love with you.

The text comes when he’s fresh out of the shower after his shift, loose clothes on and a towel rubbed
in his hair. He chucks it at nothing, skips down the stairs and walks right past Namjoon, who, an
adult, is eating cereal standing up at 5 pm.

He ignores the question in his stare, then covers it completely, opening the back door in his face.
There he is. He’s there. He’s alright. One night down and he’s okay, looks good in his doorway as
Taehyung scans his eyes over him once, twice, make sure it’s really him and he’s in one piece,
focuses his attention on his face, searches for paleness, for dark circles under heavy lids, for bruises.
But he’s alright.

Taehyung’s lips quirk with his exhale. “Hey,” he greets softly.

“Hey,” Jungkook returns, reciprocates the scrutiny as he rolls his eyes all across Taehyung, squeakily
clean, fresh and smelling of fruit, hair curling in disarray as it is left to dry on its own, a little darker
than usual with the wetness still in it, and he looks absolutely beautiful, fucking typical, and it takes
Jungkook a moment to remember he is allowed to kiss him. Not only, but he is practically beckoning
him with the way he parts his lips, the way he layers his eyes over him as if he has waited all day to
see him.
Jungkook waited all day to see him.

Taehyung sees the focus of his pupils fall over his lips, reads the intention on his face as he steps past
the threshold and he tries to warn. “Jungkook—” he starts with a word but ends with a poorly hidden
moan as fingers fit over his waist and lips mold with his.

He’s surging forward to him, pushing him further back, stepping fully into the kitchen as he kisses
the frustration of his whole day into Taehyung, quick and demanding response, fueled more to pry
one out of him when the return of the affection is honest but timid. He waited all day to see him and
he wants a proper kiss.

Taehyung grips at his wrists by his waist, tries to squeeze around them in communication, but
Jungkook is too determined in his resolution.

He only perhaps realizes he should slow down when the door closes behind him on its own and he
hears a throat clear.

He opens his eyes with his lips still on Taehyung, turning only his pupils to the side to see the source,
but still reluctant to pull away completely. When he feels the squeeze of Taehyung’s digits and
makes eye contact with a full mouthed Namjoon, he finally steps back, hands jumping away from
Taehyung’s waist and raising defensively up. “Oh,” he exclaims as Namjoon chews with attitude,
“didn’t know he was here,” he says to Taehyung then turns to his brother, atypically sheepish,
“Sorry.”

Namjoon swallows. “It’s okay,” he says, dropping his spoon in the bowl with the clank, done with
his meal as he proceeds to walk around them and to the sink. “Guess I’m going to have to get used to
seeing you together,” he speaks, turns to them and answers into Jungkook’s raised eyebrows.
“Taehyung told me,” he says as he crosses his arms, leans more comfortably on the counter. “Not
gonna lie, thought it would seem weirder.”

“You um,” Jungkook hesitates as he angles himself to face Namjoon entirely, standing next to
Taehyung, a finger pointing between the two of them as he moves close enough for their shoulders
to brush, instinctive more than anything, their bodies seemingly magnetic; space is unnecessary, “you
okay with this?”

“Honestly?” Namjoon perks his brows, a small cock of his head before he shrugs. “I think you
should have whooped your father’s ass sooner.” His shrug deepens, his lips twitching slightly with
the beginning of a smile that he does not finish. “I’m okay with it, yeah,” he says, his eyes dancing
between the both of them as it is an answer that they both ask for.
Jungkook nods, an appreciative motion. He leans himself back on their kitchen table, arms spreading
to the sides, one stretching behind Taehyung, who follows the position, fits himself almost in the gap
under his shoulder.

Namjoon really believed it would seem weirder. They look good, though, they look natural. They
are natural. There is no discussion in this, no preplanning. It probably hasn’t been done before. Their
bodies just find ways to tug together, subtly enough yet feeling each other, fitting against each other.

“As ridiculous as this is in offer from a Kim to a Jeon,” Namjoon continues after he pauses for a
moment to quietly observe them. Taehyung’s hand falls on the table, too, slips towards Jungkook’s,
his fingers brushing his wrist. “Do you want any spare clothes?”

Jungkook shakes his head, his hand inching one bit closer to Taehyung’s and he raises his pointer
finger off of the table, circles a pattern with the tip of it over the vein that bulges on Jungkook’s wrist.
“My mother brought me a suitcase this morning. I’m good,” he nods his thanks.

Taehyung’s eyes jump to him. “You spoke to your mom again?”

“Speak is a generous word,” Jungkook turns to look at him, too, his voice seeming to drop an octave,
somehow deeper and calmer when he addresses Taehyung directly. “I’ll have to speak to Clo,
though, soon. Tell her.”

Taehyung’s body gravitates to his, closer still at the mention of his sister. “Yeah,” he mumbles,
briefly touching the tip of his chin to the edge of his shoulder.

Jungkook tongues at his lips. “Wanna come with me to the rehab center?”

Taehyung pulls his head back slightly, coats his eyes over the entirety of his face. “You want me to
come?” he ventures, genuinely surprised. His curiosity to the dynamic of the two of them rivals his
initial interest in Richhood, but he has learned not to pry. He’s never witnessed them together from
proximity, apart from the time he first watched Jungkook box and she came to announce she’d
practically arranged him a woman for the night.

“Yeah,” Jungkook nods, his body making a small rocking motion towards Taehyung’s, knocking
them together than apart. “She mentioned a couple of times she would have liked to get to know you
better if I hadn’t—” he admits, stops and swallows before he remembers there is a third person in the
room, eyes jumping to him briefly. “Namjoon likes you, apparently, gives good feedback.”

“Apparently,” Taehyung shrugs, a small curve at just one edge of his lips at the attempt at
lightheartedness. He wishes they could have more of that, just something normal, just some moments
that are normal, where the air isn’t heavy with their history, but how could that be when the heaviest
parts of their history date to the previous night. He needs Jungkook to initiate it and is glad he does.
Jungkook is the one who had his whole world crumble to pieces barely hours ago. “Yeah,” he nods,
“I’ll come.”

Jungkook nods back, the tiniest curl of his own lips for the breath of a moment before he turns to
Namjoon for longer. “You can visit her, too, you know,” he tells him, shrugs some nonchalance into
the conversation. “She wants to see you.”

Taehyung turns to his brother sharper than he intends just in time to see his eyes slip to his with a
silent warning.

“Erm,” Namjoon’s attention returns to Jungkook. “I tried to see her once more after we ran into each
other there. Ran into Seokjin this time,” he tells him, fingers tapping into the counter behind him as
his head ducks towards the floor. “He kind of told me to get lost.”

Jungkook’s brows furrow. “Weren’t you two friends?”

Namjoon raises his gaze, speaks tightly. “We had a misunderstanding.”

Jungkook cocks his head in direction of Taehyung’s and they almost touch. “You’re being
purposefully vague, so I’ll do you a favor and drop it.”

Namjoon’s brows fly up in surprise at the considerate announcement. “Thank you.”

Jungkook’s arm that is behind Taehyung moves, hand shuffling on the table and it comes closer to
him. He rests his fingers seemingly on the edge of a chair right by Taehyung’s waist, but his palm is
practically at his hip. His arm is wrapped around him, length of it shamelessly flush against the curve
of his back. “By the way,” he starts, still speaking to Namjoon, “I’m doing something about Kai.”

Namjoon readjusts almost fidgety against the counter, arms crossing tighter together. “What?” he
asks, skepticism layering his voice and his eyes as he narrows them slightly at Jungkook.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he admits, shoulders lifting in a quick shrug before he shakes
his head firmer. “But he’s the one who got my father home and I’m not letting him get away with
this,” Jungkook vows, determination filling his words. “He thinks I’ve gone soft and vulnerable
cause Clo’s in rehab, but I’m fucking him up for this.”

Taehyung knows him enough to sense the underlying anger both in the pattern with which he speaks
and the barely noticeable shifts in his body. He offers no words of his own to calm him, but he does
angle his back to press it more to the side of his chest, feels him answer the motion with one of his
own.

“He knows?” Namjoon asks.

Jungkook scoffs, eyes rolling as they shift to look at nothing concrete in the room, simply venturing
about in the repression of his annoyance. “Of course, he knows,” he confirms. “Half the people in
rehab, he’s sent them there. He’s practically friends with the staff, gives them that much clientele.”
He shakes his head with quick small thrusts as if to release himself from the frustration of his
comments and then presses his teeth together, jaw tight as he settles his attention once more on the
person opposite them. “Namjoon,” he starts, heavy, “is it here or is in Japan?”

Namjoon’s eyes pulse wider, lids opening and retracting as his gaze skips to Taehyung and returns
back to the other with an obvious warning. “Jungkook—"

Taehyung cranes his neck fully, blinking at Jungkook with furrowed brows. “Is what here?”

Jungkook reserves his attention stoic and pointed to his brother. “Tell me.”

Namjoon’s lips part for a moment, tongue lifting in his mouth, but he seems to switch direction. He
breathes. “It’s here,” he says with some finality, his teeth clanking when they meet.

Jungkook readjusts, feet shuffling as he straightens and unwraps himself from Taehyung to run both
hands through his hair. “You’re so fucking careless.”

“Is what here?” Taehyung repeats.

“Jungkook—" Namjoon stresses with caution.

“I’ll tell you later,” Jungkook dismisses with a promise, lips moving closer Taehyung’s ear where
they’re still almost huddled together by the table.

“You’re not telling him anything later,” Namjoon insists, straightening up from the counter and
nearing them both.

Jungkook’s eyes flash, tongue grows sharp. “He’s not a fucking child.”

“He’s—” Namjoon’s phone buzzes then, interrupts him and he fishes it out of his pocket hurried as if
he expects it. The screen beams at his face as he reads whatever message. “I have to go,” he
announces, slipping the device back in his jeans as he moves.

“Careful,” Jungkook warns when Namjoon moves.

“I know,” he nods with a brief gaze of acknowledgment as he whirls past them.

Taehyung straightens himself up from the table as Namjoon reaches the door, his hands thrown in
the air beside him as he trails his eyes annoyed after his brother. “You didn’t even wash your bowl. It
will fucking stick.”

Namjoon throws him a glance over his shoulder. “Wash it for me, yeah?”

Taehyung grunts after the slamming door, eyes rolling, but he moves towards the sink besides the
obvious frustration, starts it with a most petty sharp motion that has the potential to just about rip the
sensitive faucet.

Jungkook follows after, stepping into the space between the counters, hovering close to his back
before he tucks his chin over his shoulder that rattles with the motion of his scraping. “Leave it for
him to do when he gets back,” he mumbles, the vibration of his voice palpable where his jaw and
throat brush Taehyung.

“It’ll stick,” Taehyung complains, lower lip curling downwards in a small pout. “I’m done anyway,”
he announces, clicking the bowl into place beside the sink as he moves to wipe his hands with a
towel.

Jungkook moves back from him as Taehyung spins to face him, unwrapping the carelessly bundled
fabric with his fingers.

“Can’t you just get Kai arrested?” he asks, drying in between his fingers where a drowned cornflake
somehow sneaks. He’s sick and tired of all this, sick and tired. He just wants everything to be okay,
Namjoon to be home, Jungkook to be alright. “If Namjoon has something that Kai doesn’t want him
to, he can just give it to the police—”

Jungkook is shaking his head before Taehyung even has the chance to finish. “If Namjoon hands it
in this late, he’ll probably considered an accomplice,” he explains, pressing himself against the
counter opposite Taehyung. “Plus, your brother is not exactly the type of person that can just waltz
into a police station. If Kai goes down, Namjoon goes down with him. And Kai can get a better
lawyer, believe me. I’m currently in no position to help Namjoon.”

Taehyung thrusts the towel in the air, lets it spread opened with a frustrated motion. “If this is such a
domino situation then why the fuck is Kai after my brother?” he glances up as Jungkook’s eyes can
offer any answer, but he only meets a soft gaze. “Fuck, Kai always saves his ass from getting jailed.”

“Realistically, Namjoon is the one who has to worry for police. Kai is scared of Byung-Chul and
he’s right to be. Prison would be kind to him.”

Taehyung sighs, some defeat settling itself in his stomach and his mind as he falls short of
suggestions. He has nothing to offer to this; he’s not informed enough of the situation, anyway. He
rolls the towel in his hands, shakes it up to get it comfortable for him to fold, lets his mind wander
away from this, one abyss into another.

“You know,” he starts with a glimpse downwards, studies the motion of his hands as they
automatically fold the towel over and position it carefully back into its place at a handle of a drawer
beneath the sink. His teeth nibble almost shy onto his bottom lip, “you could, like,” he shrugs, “stay
here for a few days.”

Jungkook’s lids flutter with the jerky motions his eyes make all over Taehyung, a small sigh
sneaking past his lips. “Your sister would kick me the fuck out if I tried to linger and you know it.”
Taehyung steadies his fingers over the towel, pads them across unnecessarily. It’s just a towel and
he’s never been a perfectionist. “Okay, but—” he swallows, focuses his attention to his nails as he
mumbles, “I’ve never woken up next to you.”

Jungkook pulls himself straight on his feet with a fluid motion against the counter, takes a single step
towards him. “What?”

“Uhm,” Taehyung leans back against a counter now, gives himself some space as his eyes dart up,
meet his, “it’s stupid.”

It’s stupid, but it’s all he’d been thinking about that morning when he woke up in his bunk bed, alone
with Woojin’s whistling breath beneath him. A privilege of people that are together, he imagines, is
that they get to fall asleep with someone, wake up next to someone. Taehyung likes having someone
there when he sleeps. The few times he’s been allowed to wrap himself around Jungkook, he’d
found him incredibly comfortable for his slumbering tendencies, the heat of his body calming and
addictive. He wants that, wants it so much. It’s a simple thing to want, small, probably a nothing, but
it’s tiny, mundane things like this that forge a relationship, that outline what two people are to each
other, what they bring to the everyday of each other’s lives, and it is what they missed before, when
they snuck in fucks and pretended they didn’t care.

“No, tell me,” Jungkook beckons, voice gentle, eyes gentler.

Taehyung’s gaze dances over him before his chest lift with a single heavier breath and he speaks. “I
want to see what it’s like to fall asleep and wake up next to you, without fearing that you’ve left or
that I have to leave because someone will catch us. I just—” he glances down, shrugs as he looks at
the tiles of his own floor, dirty beyond cleaning and cheap. “I want to wake up next to you,” he
concludes it as simple as he thinks he is, a little above a whisper.

Jungkook’s eyes are restless on him in an endeavor to take him all in, his feet, his legs, his hands, his
chest, his face, every strand in his drying hair. He looks at him and he simply wonders what the fuck
it was he thought he felt for him before because right now it’s impossible for him not to know.

He breathes, exhales. “I swear you’ll be the fucking end of me one day.”

Taehyung’s lids flutter up, eyes meeting his, innocent and glowing. He seems to want to prove this.
He seems to want to end him then and there, because with a ponderous pucker of his lips, he’s
slipping into another conversation Jungkook doesn’t know entirely how to handle. “You know,” he
starts, thrusting hair away from his eyes with a quick motion of his head, “this kitchen is where I had
my first kiss with a man.” His eyes glint and it sits like a challenge on his tongue. Jungkook has to
readjust on his feet, shuffle to swallow a reaction, the heat that sparks so quick inside him
acknowledgeably petulant and he wants it gone, but Taehyung seems to want it there. He’s
sayingmore. “I was standing right here. Bogum was standing right where you are.”

The mention of his name finds that heat and bursts it into flames within his chest. “Oh?”

He repositions himself on his feet, does not want his shoes where Bogum’s once were.

“Yeah.”

Jungkook’s stepping forward, body edging closer to Taehyung’s. “He was here?” he pronounces
slowly, carefully, dares Taehyung to speak more of this.

And Taehyung takes it with a nod. “Yes.”

“He kissed you,” he continues with another step, voice slipping deeper.

Taehyung’s response is a little above nothing, but it seems somehow wicked. “He did.”

Jungkook’s head cocks as he stops before him, an inch apart. “How was it?” he bites, another
challenge from his eyes right to Taehyung’s.

Teeth tease at Taehyung’s bottom lip as he pauses for a moment, but when he does speak, voice
bordering on salacious with the way it slips and curls, it offers no consolation to Jungkook’s
wounding pride. “It was my first kiss with a man.”

His eyes narrow. He’s plain accusatory with his next question. “You liked it?”

Taehyung clicks his tongue as he releases his lips, presses it into the fold of his cheek as if he’s
thinking about it before he announces. “I didn’t dislike it.”

He dances between yes and no, but the room for a dance is enough to ignite the flames in his chest to
a brimming point until they’re spilling out of him.
“Bet I can replace that memory.”

“Wh—” he expects the lips and he doesn’t all the same. But Jungkook is sucking all words
Taehyung can think of right to his mouth. One hand is slipping in his hair, cupping behind his neck,
the other is gripping punishing into the side of his waist, fingers squeezing possessive and bold.
There is no reluctance to his touch, no caution and pauses like last time. He takes.He’s pushing him
against the counter, pressing himself flush against him and kissing him ardently, touch burning into
his body with the sizzling hunger with which he grabs at him.

Taehyung lets him swallow his words. They escape his mind nevertheless when he feels Jungkook
all over. He forgets himself, always does. Forgets Bogum as well, right away. This kiss is so
different, so much more scorching, so needy and passionate, but he forgets to compare, too. He
doesn’t need to compare. Jungkook is a stand-alone for him. He is enough.

“Bet I can make you forget about any and all men,” Jungkook tells him, his teeth pulling at his
bottom lip, a breathy determination in his voice as he presses himself impossibly closer.

He’s touching him until he’s eliciting whimpers, until Taehyung is challenging more. “Make me
then,” he urges hot against him and it has Jungkook pulling on his hair.

Jungkook is stripping himself off a shirt, because Taehyung likes his body, and his body is better
than Bogum’s. He’s stripping Taehyung of pants and underwear and hitching him on the counter,
right on the counter he says he was at when he had that first kiss.

“Jungkook, my sister sometimes eatshere,” he’s whining in his mouth, but his lips are nevertheless
answering any suggestive insinuation Jungkook’s make when they part against his. He’s still
wrapping his arm around his bare shoulders, spreading his legs to welcome him in between them.

He summons Jungkook’s primality with the challenge of what he’d said, and he has to bear the
consequences of it, wants to, needs to, to tear them both away from what happened the previous
night, to rip them away from Kai, from his sister, from Richhood, and just remind them that they
have this,each other.

So, Taehyung protests in words, but smiles in the kiss when Jungkook only prompts his legs further
apart with brave, bold hands, fits himself between him and whispers to his lips, “Don’t care.”
A quickie in the kitchen, with nearby baby oil and spit as lube, maybe inappropriate in the midst of
the storm they’re in, yet in terms of them somehow very, very fitting

Jungkook fucks him on the kitchen counter until his legs are shaking around him, slithers his mouth
over his neck and bites possession on the frail skin, because Taehyung is fucking asking for it. He’s
not tentative with him this time. There is not an ounce of hesitation to his touch. Taehyung agitates
him into this, and he slips into it easily, loses himself in being with him like that, the two falling into
some of the roots of how they began.

Distraction. Release of frustration. It’s what they were to each other, what they can still be for each
other if the other needs it, and they both need it now. It’s different. He’s rough with him, like he used
to be, but it is confined to sex. He soothes roughness with his lips. It’s different. He’s jealous for him,
territorial for him, like he used to be, but it is more envy than anything else, not borne out of
unbidden fear Taehyung will turn to Bogum to punish him for treating him like shit. It’s envy that he
wasn’t the one in the kitchen, kissing Taehyung. He wants to be Taehyung’s first kiss with a man,
regrets he did not experience it with him. He had the chance, so many opportunities to be that
memory for him, but he isn’t, because he’s a fucking coward.

Taehyung is his own first kiss with a man and there is something almost crudely exciting for him
hidden in that truth. He likes that for once there is something that he has only given to Taehyung and
to no one else. He’d give him more if he asked him to. He’d probably give him anything he asked
for.

Right now, he’s practically begging to just get fucked, hard. And he’s giving him just that.

For Taehyung this is exhilaratingly them. He loves the security of being able to do this, to just
abandon any and all control like they used to with the comfort of the knowledge that Jungkook
won’t leave after, to know that those are roles they are playing more so than who they are, to know
that he can kiss him.

He kisses him.

Just because he can, he kisses him.

He tangles his fingers in his hair and tugs his mouth away from his skin where it is appetitive in
leaving marks, scattering himself all across Taehyung, biting promises and pictures with his teeth. He
tangles fingers in his hair and pulls his mouth to his own, kisses him wet and sensual, tongues
chasing tongues as bodies seek sensation.
It’s exhilarating that Jungkook can be almost punishing with how he makes him come, push him
over an edge, overwhelming and unforgiving, yet still pour himself in his mouth with a kiss that
promises much more than the orgasm does.

Taehyung is wrapping himself around him more, arms around his shoulders, lips against his, and he’s
moaning for him, assuring him there is no one else, it’s him. It’s fast. It’s messy. It’s sweaty. There
are moments in which it hurts, the counter stiff, the thrusts punishing, the way they hold onto each
other almost bruising. Taehyung is not even sitting, he’s propped against the counter, angled and
clinging almost entirely onto Jungkook so that he can be inside him.

Taehyung can barely breathe when it’s over, exhausted. Drained, he’s drained, but he pulls more out
of Jungkook then he realizes when he predisposes him to such loss of control. He stripped him of the
pretense of collection and bared him to the vulnerability that has been constantly on the edge of
slipping recently. Because Jungkook’s fingers turn trembling in their hold of Taehyung, turn
desperate.

“This is all that happened in this kitchen. Okay?” he’s telling him, still inside him, a palm cupping
over one cheek as he brushes hair away to glimpse into his eyes. “This,” he insists, a quiver in his
voice as it topples passionate out of his mouth. “That’s what happened here,” he tells him, and
Taehyung knows it’s not the image of Taehyung kissing Bogum in this kitchen that bother’s
Jungkook. It’s the image of Taehyung hunched over the sink as Jungkook lingers on the first step. “I
kissed you,” Jungkook lists hands gentler than his voice, “I fucked you, and then I told you I loved
you.”

Taehyung’s eyes search his. He’ll never get used to the sound of that, to the way it makes his heart
race different than the most powerful orgasm can. “Did you?” he asks on the border of weakness,
Jungkook’s vulnerability somehow his own.

“Yes,” Jungkook nods, once, twice. Jungkook nods. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” It’s the first time they get to do it like this, say it complete privacy and exchange it,
share it, promise it. It’s easier than both of them expect. It’s thrillingly gratifying, to hear it and to say
it. It courses electric currents through Taehyung’s veins.

“This is the only thing that happened in this kitchen,” Jungkook repeats, pressing his lips to his for a
moment, “only thing that matters, okay? Only thing I mean.”
Taehyung cups his hand around his neck, rubs fingers against him in attempt to sooth. “Yeah,” he
says to his lips as Jungkook kisses him clumsy and loud. It’s the only thing that matters. He presses
his thumb at the edge of his jaw where it ticks when he’s angry and kisses him more. Jungkook is
inside him, yet he’s surging forward to get him closer. Taehyung cranes his neck, tilts back to let him
do this, kiss him as he wills it, and it’s perhaps the deepest he has kissed him yet.

“Yes,” Taehyung breathes firmer when their lips part for a moment but Jungkook just angles his
hand different and sinks into him, kissing him so honest it simply must look crude, sounds crude.
He’s cradling the back of his neck, holding him with eyes screwed shut and sealing each and every
apology with a kiss until he can’t any more, until he’s kissing his cheek instead, his jaw, his neck, his
shoulder.

He lets go of him, wraps his arms around his middle and holds him like this, burying his face in his
shoulder and his neck. His lips are wet against his skin, but his eyes are wetter, and it makes
Taehyung’s heart stop.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you, Tae,” he says in his neck, shoulders rippling with it, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Taehyung has seen Jungkook vulnerable, seen him hurt, seen so much of him already. He hasn’t yet
seen him truly cry,not even when they were outside Clo’s bathroom, and hecertainly hasn’t held him
crying in his arms. He knows everyone has a threshold, knows that Jungkook tries to hide how
scared he is of what he lost, how hurt he is they let him go, because no matter who his parents are, he
still must have harbored some desperate, stupid hope.

He knows everyone has a threshold, but he is not ready to witness Jungkook’s. It feels too much as if
he is tripping past his own.

“Hey,” he flattens a hand over his shoulder, smooths it down his back. “Hey,” he treads fingers
through strands of his hair, “It’s okay,” he’s whispering to him, afraid any harsher sound would
make it worse, afraid any harsher sound would betray the quiver in his own voice, the fact he has to
bite his lips between words to swallow down his own need to break, “I know, I know.”

Jungkook is shaking his head. He feels him blink and then follows the sensation of a single tear roll
down Taehyung’s neck and under the collar of his t-shirt. “I was so scared in the Ozone when I saw
you,” he continues and Taehyung knows he has his eyes opened against him, staring into nothing but
skin. “You were acting so—” he trails, can’t finish. “I was so scared I fucked you up. I don’t want
you to change.”

“I’m not,” Taehyung promises, palm patting a gentle pattern over the length of his spine. “You
didn’t. It’s okay.”

He sniffs, shakes his head more and announces suddenly louder, “I’ll change.”

“No, no, no,” Taehyung is shaking his own head now, some panic in his voice before he forces it off
of his lips when he presses them into the top of Jungkook’s head. “Hey,” he mumbles there once
more, “no changing,” he pleads. “Just some sides of you you need to control, okay?” he pauses, but
Jungkook only answers by tightening his arms around him. “No changing, please, no changing.” He
applies gentle pressure with his lips at the crown of his head, tells him once more, “I love you.”

He’ll tell him as many times as he’ll hear it.

“I don’t deserve you,” he mumbles it so softly, so snidely against his skin that Taehyung cannot help
but think he is not even meant to hear.

The fact it may be just this, just for Jungkook’s sake, just him reminding himself only hurts more.
Taehyung squeezes his fingers almost roughly in his hair. “Shut up, please.”

But he’s still talking, narrating into Taehyung’s chest. “And it was useless,” he says with a weak
shrug of his shoulders, voice pitching unfamiliar. “Hurting you was useless. I wanted to make it so
you would never have to see him. He would never have to see you. I didn’t want you to face him,”
he’s stopping. He’s gulping with difficulty, eyes blinking almost dry against Taehyung’s skin.
“Ididn’t want to face him,” he confesses finally, every weakness that would embarrass his father
bared to the surface of the broken voice he says it with.

They ask each other not to change, yet with every moment they change each other. Hurting people
changes them and Jungkook would be the first to know that.

Loving people changes them as well and Jungkook doesn’t know what changes him more, loving
Taehyung or Taehyung loving him.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung starts tentative, curling a single lock of his hair around a finger, “if you
hadn’t done what you did,” he swallows, “do you think you have walked out that door with me?”

He’s finally lifting his head up at the question, glassy, wide eyes charting almost startles up at
Taehyung. His lips part, empty air hitting over Taehyung’s mouth as Jungkook shakes his head with
a searching gaze. “I would have never let him hit you.”

“I know,” Taehyung assures him. “I know,” he repeats and he does, he knows, because he
remembers one of the first foundations of who Jungkook shaped to be in his eyes was built on the
fact he protected Ji-woo, a girl who was a nobody to him, from his father. “But you wouldn’t have
walked out on your family like that.”

Taehyung knows Jungkook would not have let him hit him. But he also knows if this had happened
before and Jungkook’s father had sauntered in with the words get your whore out of my apartment
so I can speak to you, Jungkook would have taken that chance.

Jungkook’s next breath is in nature reminiscent of laughter, in essence probably the weakest sound
he’s made yet. It comes through his nose and he presses his lips together, looks away from Taehyung
and stares instead into nothing at the blotched wall behind him. “I don’t have a family anymore,”

“Jungkook—”

He stands a bit straighter, tears drying on his face. Taehyung is surprised the fact he’s soft inside of
him does not feel weird. He doesn’t really want to pull away. “Did I ever have a family?”

“You do,” Taehyung promises, fingers still working soothing through his hair. “You have Yoongi
and Hoseok and Clo and Julia. And me. And even Namjoon,” he adds, a small shrug. “We don’t pay
as well, but—"

“Do you wanna meet them?” Jungkook interrupts, eyes returning to his as his tongue licks prickly
salt off of his swollen lips.

Taehyung’s fingers still in his hair. “I don’t know.”

“Yoongi’s really small up close, I promise,” Jungkook speaks, nearly eager and Taehyung is slightly
thrown off by the fact he sounds almost excited. He thought an introduction between them would be
a sacrifice on Jungkook’s part, yet it seems now like it is something he genuinely wants. “Not scary
at all,” he shakes his head, assuring. “Plus, I already told him, so—

“You told him?”

“Yeah.”

Taehyung presses his lips together, glances down between them, his shirt soaked with his come, a
great big barrier shaped underneath. “Wouldn’t it bother them?” he ventures as he slips his eyes back
up. “That I’m,” he shrugs, “you know.”

“You’re what?” Jungkook’s brows furrow. “A Kim?”

“A boy.”

Jungkook’s eyes soften, dart over him as he leans closer, wraps arms around him again. “They’re not
like my dad,” he promises gently. “They’re both reasonable,” he says. “Comparatively,” he adds.
“They wouldn’t care as long as it’s not—not them, you know?” he doesn’t know, he can’t know.
Jungkook barely knows himself. “And I don’t care if they do,” he decides with a small shake of his
head even if he is sure Yoongi will always understand. “I love that you’re a boy,” he tells him, eyes
falling over him, dragging across the entirety of his body, propped against the counter. “I love how
wide your shoulders are,” he lifts a finger, brushes the tip of it gently over his collarbone, “your
chest,” he continues, lets his hand slip down, cup briefly over his length before he curls it over a
thigh, “love your whole body.” He lifts his eyes back up again, meets his, “Love your face, you’re so
handsome. Love how you talk to me, love how you’re in this together with me, how you understand,
love who you are. Doesn’t really matter that you’re a boy, does it?” he concludes, slowly peaking to
the realization as he peaks, leaning until his lips brush over his. “You’re just Taehyung.”

The next kiss is slow, incompatible with the tremors of Taehyung’s heart.

Then it is none at all because the back door opens, Namjoon striding confidently in.

“Tae—” he starts calm, halfway in as Taehyung presses himself snider into Jungkook to hide as
much of himself as he can, gripping into Jungkook’s pants and pulling them up and over the globes
of his ass. It is when Namjoon thinks to lift his gaze up from his phone. “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,”
he throws his head back, halting in his step as if he is hit square in the face with medicine ball, palms
cupping over his eyes. “Does it have to be in the kitchen?”

“Uhm, Namjoon,” Jungkook clears his throat as Namjoon keeps standing there with his eyes
shielded from the view, “we’d gladly get decent and all, but I’m kind of inside your brother and we
didn’t exactly use a condom, so—"
“I do not need to hear this, see this,” Namjoon starts listing, screwing his eyes shut and extending his
arms forward to feel for the wall, speaking with a pitch Taehyung has never heard before from him.
“I do not need to know this. You have scarred me for life. This is lifelong damage you have caused. I
will never be able to feed myself again. I—” he’s got one foot on the first step when suddenly he’s
looking at them with both eyes wide open and Taehyung is shuffling his thighs, hiding where their
bodies meet, “why the fuck aren’t you wearing protection with my little brother?”

Taehyung groans, the position rather uncomfortable. “We’re kind of exclusive, Joon, and we don’t
really get pregnancy scares.”

Namjoon seems to think about it and Taehyung doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or yell at him.
“Right,” he nods suddenly, gets on the second step, stutters, “yeah, okay, yeah.”

“Mind the third step,” Jungkook calls out to him as Namjoon continues up, waving a finger back and
forth in the air for a reason unbeknownst to them.

Jungkook turns to him after his brother disappears up the stairs, eyes creasing and nose bundling with
a sudden burst of laughter tearing through them both. It’s short, but it’s enough, has a residual effect
on both their faces, a grin resting on Jungkook’s expression after the sound of it dwindles. It’s so
refreshing to see a smile on his face, hear his laugh even if just for a moment.

Taehyung hardly knows if he’s smiling at the situation or purely at Jungkook’s smile.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, pretty boy,” Jungkook prompts, finally slipping out of him. He helps
Taehyung slip out of the stained shirt in the small laundry room, speaks more when his head comes
back out after he removes the fabric.

“Do you want to come sleep at my aunts?”

Taehyung blinks, his hair all up in disarray from sex and static electricity alike. “What?” he breathes.

Jungkook smooths his hand over his head, brinks some of the strand hairs back into place. He
shrugs. “Ji-woo doesn’t want me here, we all know that. You want to wake up next to me,” he
shrugs, speaks as if there is only one obvious conclusion. “Come stay the night,” he suggests. “Just
this once. Woojin has one brother and one sister here already.”
Taehyung dabbles his eyes over his face. “I’m sore,” he tells him.

Jungkook’s head cocks. “Who the fuck said anything about sex?”

“So, essentially,” Taehyung crosses his arms, a small curve helplessly forming on his lips, “you’re
just inviting me for a sleepover.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook admits without skipping a beat, following his own fingers as they try make sense
of the mess of Taehyung’s hair.“You calm me down, Tae,” he says, voice soft. “Guess I wanna
wake up next to you, too.”

The apartment is nice. Small but nice, a lot homier than Taehyung expects from a Jeon. The kitchen
is in the living room which is another thing he finds atypical. And there are books, so many books.
The whole interior design of the place is based entirely on fitting as many shelves possible to store as
many books possible.

They arrive exactly three minutes before his aunt returns from work, clacking in heels, high enough
to be elegantly professional, not high enough to be fit for Richhood.

She knows to expect him. Jungkook texts her before they leave because Taehyung insists, yet when
she pauses behind the counter of her kitchen, Taehyung still hides himself slightly behind
Jungkook’s shoulder as they approach.

“Hello, boys,” she greets wondrously easily, uncapping a bottle of water as she does, and Taehyung
fails to see how she shares even the smallest bit of DNA with Jungkook’s father. “When’d you get
in?”

“Hey,” Jungkook greets, “Just now.”

When she raises the bottle to drink, her eyes saunter over Taehyung, hovering nervous, palms
rubbing together a little behind Jungkook’s shoulder.

“Introductions, Kookie?” she settles the bottle down, presses her palms in the countertop.

Jungkook turns slightly behind himself, locates where Taehyung hides and tugs him forward until
they stand together across from her counter island. “Tae, my aunt, Mei Su. Aunt Mei, that’s
Taehyung, my boyfriend.” Taehyung has his eyes politely and timidly fixed over Jungkook’s aunt,
nodding along in agreement until it hits him what Jungkook says.

He snaps his head to him, eyes wide, lips twitching and Jungkook doesn’t even seem to notice. He
stares ahead at his aunt, entirely ignorant to the rapid pink blush that for some reason spreads warm
over Taehyung’s neck and cheeks.

Getting caught naked on after fucking on a kitchen countertop doesn’t make him blush, apparently,
but the word boyfriend does.

“Ah,” she interrupts the threat of an onslaught of thoughts with an exclamation that drags his
attention to her, “good to finally meet the reason a Jeon does something smart at last.” She turns to
him fully, a smile tugging at her lips. “Hello,” she greets more officially, returning his bow with a
nod of her head. “He said a lot about you last night,” she tells him, eyes teasing over Jungkook for a
moment before they return to him, “but I doubt he’s said much about me.”

“Mei,” Jungkook warns, gets mercilessly ignored.

It only makes Taehyung’s blush deepen that Jungkook talked about him.

“Not really, no,” Taehyung shakes his head, truthful.

“It’s okay,” she dismisses, a small wave of a well-manicured hand. “I like being the least talked
about Jeon. Have you eaten boys?”

“Yes.

“Yeah.”
“Good,” she nods, “cause I don’t know how to cook to save my life,” she addresses them both
before she concentrates on Taehyung once more. “I hear you’re staying the night.”

Taehyung’s eyes dart to the side then ahead at her. He fumbles. “Jungkook said it’s okay, but—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupts, a smile breaking out once more. “If you’ll excuse me,” she straightens up
then, gathers her water bottle and points indicatively to a door on her right. “I want to lose the heels.
You can show him to your room, please,” she stresses as she begins to walk, “be quiet. I have an
early start tomorrow.”

Jungkook shakes his hand behind her at the insinuation before he sighs, taps two fingers at
Taehyung’s elbow. “Come on.”

The room is small, full of books, too, an open suitcase on the floor. Taehyung barely notices
anything, though, but Jungkook notices Taehyung is not entirely there with him.

“What?” he asks him, screwing his nose up slightly at Taehyung’s expression.

“What?” he counters, defensive.

Jungkook brings his brows together, studies him almost apprehensive. “What’s with the dumb grin?”

It only makes said dumb grin grow wider on his face. “You just called me your boyfriend,”
Taehyung tells him, almost teasing, almost childish.

“Ah,” Jungkook’s lips part, his head cocks as he seems to think back to his introduction. “Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Oh well,” he shrugs, circling one arm around Taehyung and tugging him closer, “slip of the tongue.
I take it right back.”
Being in a place where they haven’t been before, Taehyung thinks, a place that belongs to a woman
who has manages to slip herself away from Richhood, curiously makes it easier not to constantly
concentrate on the fact almost everything’s in ruins.

“No, don’t be a bitch,” Taehyung whines, clicking his tongue as he knocks a gentle fist against
Jungkook’s chest, pushing him away, but it only makes him wrap his other arm around him two.
Jungkook catches his own wrist behind Taehyung’s back, brings him closer like that.

“Mm,” he pecks him once, twice, “sorry, pretty boy.”

Taehyung flattens his palm against his shoulders instead, accepts he’s imprisoned between his arms.
He chooses to look at his fingers smoothing over there when he asks, quiet, “Am I your boyfriend?”

Jungkook tips his head, bends himself a little to wordlessly ask for his eyes and doesn’t speak until
he has them. “You’re whatever you want to me.”

It doesn’t matter anymore, really. He lost what he had to lose. A label means nothing to him, never
really did. He called Julia his girlfriend for years, but they were a little more than a front, outside of
being friends. Taehyung can call himself whatever he wants, and it won’t change the fact he’s with
him and him only. If a label makes him happy, he can have it.

“Then, I’m your boyfriend,” Taehyung beams, announces, taps Jungkook’s elbows to ask him to
release him and he does, watches him as he sits on the edge of the bed to shun himself of shoes.

“Okay then you’re my boyfriend,” Jungkook agrees, nodding as he cocks his head, a little smile
breaking on his face. “Am I your girlfriend?”

Taehyung looks up at him as he slips his thumb in the heel of his shoes and tugs down. “Do you
think that’s funny?” he flutters his lids at him pointedly.

“No,” Jungkook shakes his head, but the small smile remains on his face.

“Good call,” Taehyung says as he slips the second shoe off successfully, gathers them with his
fingers and stands to put them beside the door.
Jungkook’s body spins with him, eyes trailing behind his head, slipping a little lower when he bends
to leave the shoes on the floor. “Hey, boyfriend,” he calls.

“Okay, enough of that.”

“Okay, hey Tae.”

“Yes.” Taehyung straightens, turns to him fully.

“Can you fold my clothes?” Jungkook asks, almost sheepish. Almost. “Mei won’t do it for me.”

“I’m confused,” Taehyung starts, ironic, lacing his fingers together before his chest, “did by
boyfriend you mean cleaner or wife from a few decades ago?”

Jungkook clicks his tongue, letting his head fall back on his shoulders. “I don’t know how to
properly do it,” he whines, pointing at a few failed attempts in the open closet. “Everything I fold
takes so much space and gets all wrinkly.”

Taehyung glances at the closet, almost offensively smaller in comparison to his other one, where he
has practically ruined two beautiful shirts that are only meant for a hanger. He shakes his head,
presses two fingers between his brows. “You’re fucking useless.”

“Hey” he bristles, “if you want any advice on merging companies, I’d be happy to provide it to you.”

“Hm,” Taehyung taps sarcastic at his chin, perking his eyes up at the ceiling as he feigns deep
pondering. “Let me just decide which one of my independent labels I would like to merge.”

“I was thinking,” Jungkook starts, reaching forward in the small room and grasping at his forearm.
He tugs Taehyung easily to himself, not much resistance offered from the other side as he releases
him and instead slips his hand backwards, fingers teasing at the side of his waist before they drop,
curl suggestive at the globe of his ass. Taehyung really should not be allowed to bend over. It puts
too many ideas in Jungkook’s head. “You merge your lips with mine.”

Taehyung snorts. “That was borderline cringy,” he remarks, but when Jungkook makes a motion
with his wrist, makes him stutter forward, he meets his lips without protest.

“Borderline,”Jungkook stresses, emphasizes the importance of it with a firm squeeze of the flesh of
his ass that almost has him gasping. He takes advantage of the small gap between his lips, teases over
it with his tongue, touches his tip to his briefly before he kisses him fully.

Taehyung plans to allow it for a moment, does it for two or three because the heat of Jungkook’s
palm feels good and his mouth is instinctive when it chases after his. His first protest is barely such.
He’s still half kissing him when he speaks. “Your aunt’s here and I’m still recovering.”

“I’m just kissing you,” Jungkook argues, and, true to his word, kisses him.

“And fondling my ass,” Taehyung sighs against him. “You’re gonna get me hard.”

“If I do,” Jungkook solidifies with another squeeze, “I shall bear the consequences and suck you
off.”

Taehyung’s lips stretch helplessly. This is easy, he thinks, this is so fucking easy. “How responsible
of you!”

“You simply must be, in this business.”

“Mm okay,” he moans slightly against him, “teach me more about this business.”

“Gladly,” Jungkook nods, parting his lips more, head tilting to kiss him deeper.

He hates that knock, absolutely abhors it, mouth pausing open, tongue halfway into Taehyung’s
before he slips it back into his, pulling away with a reluctant sigh. He waits for his aunt to walk in
without giving her permission. He knows he will. He stares ahead with dull eyes, pointedly keeping
his hand on Taehyung’s ass to warn her she should be quick.

His eyes peel open more and his hand drops just when he sees her face. She has a very special
expression reserved for everyone who carries their last name.
“Jungkook,” she starts, eyes finding the floor, “your father is here.”

A pang of guilt hits him chilling and sudden when he follows her gaze down to her feet. He hates to
bring him back to her life. She cannot stand to see him.

And he doesn’t want him here, not where Mei is, not where Taehyung is.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung tries, just says his name. He has not much else to offer.

He shakes his head, stops him. “Stay here,” he asks, a lasting glance towards him before he walks to
the living room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Mei does not raise her head as she walks to her room. He doesn’t blame her, because there he
fucking is.

He stands behind the counter where Mei herself had stood, dressed to impress even though his eye is
swollen and bloodshot, upper lip cracked and bruised blue and big at one side. It doesn’t show in his
manners; doesn’t show in the way he looks at him from above his nose. Jungkook can tell by the
mere composure of his presence that he hasn’t been drinking. He almost wishes he had. Alcohol
makes him aggressive, but it also makes him stupid, makes him slow.

Jungkook considers pausing in front of the door, but he changes his mind quickly. He doesn’t want
to seem too protective of what’s behind it. He doesn’t want to seem scared. “What do you want?” he
demands as he nears him, stops on the other end of the counter, arms folding over tight.

He prays he can keep his voice straight throughout. He begs he doesn’t notice his throat when he
swallows impending tremors and ill tasting fear.

His father’s scrutiny feels worse than usual as perpetually critical, condescending eyes scan him all
over. “I have yet to publicly address this and inform my lawyers and Byung-Chul of my change of
inheritance,” he informs him, the detachment of his business relations seeming warm in comparison
to how he speaks to him now.

Jungkook shrugs. “So?”

“Jungkook,” his father starts with a heavy exhale, a crane of his neck as it this is an exhausting
burden to him, “your mother has reasoned with me, and as it is most sensible to avoid a scandal, I
have decided I will allow you to entertain your perversions in private and fuck boys.”

Jungkook’s eyes bulge, jaw unhinges and false loose. He had thought his father had ran out of things
to shock him. “Excuse me?” he breathes.

“It will not be the first time in history, won’t be the last,” his father narrates as if rehearsed. “Even the
ancient Greeks preferred their partners women, their bedmates boys. Sicknesses happen. We could
put you in therapy, when you’re ready.”

“Sicknesses?” Jungkook chortles, can’t help it. He must be joking. “Ancient Greeks?” he
pronounces just as incredulous, eyes searching his father’s face for any sign he suddenly decided
after years and years of nothing but coldness that he had some sense of humor. He knows it’s
hopeless. “Do you hear even half the shit that comes out your mouth?” he asks, voice pitching, but
he knows the reason he’s appalled slips right past his father, unnoticed and uncared for. “I’m gay,”
Jungkook says and he will say it again and again just to see the bastard visibly flinch. “Okay? I like
men. Not just as bed mates or whatever the fuck. I like men. And I don’t mean I just like ass, or dick.
I fucking likemen. I fucked Taehyung on your dinner table. And I jacked off to gay porn in your
fucking office. And I—"

“As I said,” his father interrupts the tirade, his eyes falling shut for a moment until Jungkook has
swallowed down the continuation of his sentence. “I will allow you to fuck boys.”

Fuck, he says, fuck, he insists. This is a kink to him, a perversion. This is sex to him, nothing more,
nothing less.

“I’m in love with him,” Jungkook presses, stresses, teeth knocking together, “not with his genitals.”

“See this is the problem,” his father breathes a sigh. “Him,” he pronounces in shockingly layered
disgust. “Those boys,” he continues as if he expects Jungkook to bend and agree in a minute or two,
already setting terms, “must be neutral to you. I will not stand for you fucking a boy you pretend to
love.”

“Pretend?” The word sits so horrible on his tongue.

“I have not raised you to fall in love, Jungkook. Both you and I know that.”

Jungkook shakes his head, tongue poking quick and brief at the side of his cheek, stretching the flesh
there before he speaks. “You haven’t raised me to properly communicate love. You can’t raise me to
an incapabilityof love, and thankfully being amputated of it is not genetic, cause otherwise I’d be
fucked with a shit like you as my father.”

“What kind of game do you think you’re playing with me, son?” His father sighs once more, presses
four spread fingers to his forehead. “Is this because of your sister?”

“No. I’m not playing a game.”

“Jungkook,” his father lowers his hand, looks straight into his eyes, “if you want my attention, this is
not the way to get it. Now, I want you to promise you will never see him again and come home with
me.”

“No,” Jungkook shakes his head, definite.

His father breaks, voice raising sudden and booming as the last of his feigned diplomacy slips and
gives way to his temperament. “Why would you throw away your life for a whore?”

“I’m not throwing away anything,” Jungkook says, speaks more heated than he initially wanted to,
but he can’t help it, doesn’t care. All his life he wanted to yell at him, so finally, he does. “I want
nothing to do with you. I want Clo out of that fucking apartment as well. And he’s not a whore. I
love him and he’s fucking mine.”

“Mine,” his father repeats, smacking his lips together, some cruel satisfaction settling into his tone as
he tastes the word on his tongue, lacking the charged vehemence with which Jungkook claims it on
his. “You’ve been repeating that word since you could speak, you know,” he tells him, eerily proud
as he taps his fingers on the countertop, the ring on one of them glaring at Jungkook. “Mine, mine,
mine.”

“He’s not yours, Jungkook,” his father shakes his head as he watches impact settle onto his son, eyes
slipping away from glaring into his and falling to the floor. “I raised you incapable of love and I
raised you impossible tolove. You’re a piece of shit, just like me,” he outlines, calm and clear.
Jungkook is staring at his feet, lips mouthing the word mine. He doesn’t see the switch of his
attention to the space behind him. “Whatever he feels for you, he’ll stop confusing it for love soon
enough,” he pauses, cocks his head and his next words force Jungkook’s eyes right back up. “Hello,
Kim Taehyung,” his father’s lips twist and Jungkook’s head spirals, gaze widening as he sees
Taehyung in the doorway. “Call me the first time he hits you. I want to be the first to know.”

“Don’t talk to him,” Jungkook growls, turning back to glare at his father. “Don’t fucking look at him.
Get the fuck out.”

“I’m leaving,” his father proclaims, Jungkook’s anger serving to calm his own. “I’ve said what I
said,” he says with finality, meeting his son’s eyes. “It’s a standing offer,” he details before his gaze
continues, moves over to Taehyung. “For both of you.”

Before Jungkook can bruise his other eye, he leaves.

Jungkook’s shoulders curl together, hunch as his head drops down between them, arms spread to the
side at the counter, back visibly tense even beneath the fabric of his shirt.

Taehyung takes a step towards him. “Jungkook,” he calls tentative as he approaches, if perhaps he
needs space.

But Jungkook is turning right back to him, walking over, distance closed in seconds, both hands
circling around the back of his neck as he locks his eyes with him, pointed. “I would never hit you,”
he tells him, voice full and hurried, voice terribly passionate, “I promise, Taehyung. I would never
fucking hit you.”

“I know,” Taehyung says, lifting one hand, wrapping the fingers of it around his wrist. He pats his
thumb over the end of his bone where it protrudes. “I know.”

“And I love you,” Jungkook keeps going, eyes boring into his. “I swear I do. I love you.”

“Listen,” Taehyung tries, calls. “Listen to me. He’s not saying that to make me doubt you,” he
shakes his head, “He’s saying it to make you doubt yourself, so I need you to fucking believe that
you deserve me, okay?”

“But I—"
“Jungkook,” Taehyung interjects before doubt makes its way between them. “Tell me,” he asks.
“Tell me,” he demands with a shaky swipe of his tongue over his lips, his own voice curling with
emotion, but he doesn’t want to let it slip. “I don’t want you pushing me away again because of
shit like this,” he reminds him, eyes blinking so much, too much. “Tell me. Just tell me.”

“I love you,” Jungkook starts, that part seemingly easy for him, surprisingly easy for him. Taehyung
never imagined a confession like this would slip so easy, so often from Jungkook’s lips, but he
supposes Namjoon’s right once more. When he hates, he hates. When he loves, he loves.

“Okay,” Taehyung nods, an urge for him to continue.

“You love me, too?” that comes much harder. It comes slower and it twists like a question.

“Yes, I love you.” Taehyung says it firmer. “And you deserve it, okay?” he insists. “Tell me.”

Jungkook’s eyes dart over his face, hands relaxing on the back of his neck, fingers drawing tentative
patterns. He gulps nothing before he speaks, but he speaks. “I deserve it.”

“Yeah, you do. Come to bed now,” he slips his hand into his, pulls him away. “Fuck him.”

“Fuck him.”
 Chapter 25
Chapter Summary

bit of a filler ngl

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“I’m so glad you bent me over that motherfucker’s antique table, you have no idea,” Taehyung
shakes his head as he unfastens the belt of his jeans. It comes surprisingly natural to him, stripping
with Jungkook in the room.

He wishes there was more he could do. He wishes he himself could profess an elaborate fuck you to
Jeon. He deserves it. Taehyung is not vengeful, not nasty. Although he is admittedly immature, spit-
in-your-drink, stick-your-tongue-out immature at moments, it does not tend to build to him actually
wanting to do any actual harm.

When Jungkook hurt him, he had so much opportunity to hurt him back. Bogum would have been
glad to participate, probably volunteered as main director. But it’s not him. It just isn’t. He never
wants to avenge something done to him. He does, however, feel his blood swirl with appetite for
hurting the guy for doing this to Jungkook. It’s the same type of protective defensiveness that courses
through him whenever people speak of his brothers or his sister.

“Fuck him,” Jungkook repeats, pacing in the small room. It allows exactly three wide steps before he
has to turn back, take them in the other direction. “Really fuck him,” he cups his hands at the back of
his head, shakes it. “I don’t—” he starts, pauses, in walking and talking both, then continues
speaking but drops the vehemence from his voice. “He’s not going to give me anything anymore.”

Taehyung folds his eyes over him, brows drawing closer as sympathy physically tugs at him, paints
on the features of his face. “I’m sorry—”

“No, Tae,” Jungkook drops his hands to the sides, peaks up, perks up, eyes meeting Taehyung’s
wide and there are the beginnings of curves on the edges of his lips. “He has nothing more to offer
me,” he speaks the revelation, which Taehyung would figure is conceptually terrifying to him with
suspicious exhilaration. “If I don’t give you up,” he starts, moves closer with a shaking head, “which
I’m not, he’s not giving me his partnership with Byung-Chul.”
“I—” Taehyung’s brows furrow further, eyes darting across the other’s features in sheer confusion,
“why do you sound excited?”

“Because that means I don’t need Byung-Chul anymore,” he tells him, the peculiar enthusiasm
building as he dismisses his entire preplanned future with one sentence and Taehyung has to wonder
if he has finally gone hysterical under the circumstances. “I don’t need to be civil with him. I don’t
need to reach him through the police anymore.”

Taehyung is blinking, shaking his head, searching it for clues, but he’s coming up short. “What do
you mean?”

Jungkook steps closer, his hand finding Taehyung’s elbow and cupping around it, mindless and
natural. “I mean Kai made a strategic mistake giving me nothing more to lose,” he tells him slower,
lowers his voice to a more careful whisper, although the eagerness of his realizations which
Taehyung still does not fully comprehend still marks its pitch. “I mean I think I can hand him to
Byung-Chul without your drug runner of a brother having to step foot in a police station. Byung-
Chul won’t give a flying fuck Namjoon’s hand prints are all across it. He’ll only care it has Kai’s
trademark.”

“What?” Taehyung asks as Jungkook’s thoughts slip into nonsense to him. “What? Slow down.”

He does. Slows down until he’s pausing entirely, licking at his lower lip and pulling away with a
shake of his head. “I don’t know if I should tell you.”

Taehyung breathes sharp through his nose, eyes dragging away from him to a corner of the room
before they return pointed. “I really am not a child,” he reminds him of his own words.

“Yes,” Jungkook nods, “but Namjoon has a point. You’re important to him and to me both, makes
you such a convenient target.”

“Not knowing what’s going on won’t save me, will it?” He lifts his shoulders, lifts his arms as he
challenges. What stopped Sooho from hurting him was a pipe to the head, not the fact he genuinely
knew nothing about Namjoon. “Just tell me,” he drops his shoulders down, “I want to know.”

Jungkook is looking away, pressing his teeth together slightly and Taehyung cannot properly judge if
it’s in determination or lack thereof. “But—”
“You’re important to me, too,” he interrupts before Jungkook can figure it out himself. “You and
Namjoon both,” he tells him, softer. “I want to know.”

The target is on his back by default, glaring red, hit here and you get all the points. Automatic
victory. Kai does not really care what he knows and what he doesn’t.

Jungkook’s eyes close as he draws a breath, briefly pinches at his nose before he looks again.
“Okay,” he sighs, nods to the bed and beckons with his head. “Sit,” he asks, and Taehyung does, sits
on the bed that is unmade, likely because Mei Su didn’t want to do that for him, too. Jungkook pulls
at the chair in front of the desk, settles it before the bed and lowers himself on it, legs spread, elbows
on his knees as he leans forward. The position alone floods Taehyung with apprehension. With
another breath Jungkook readies himself, starts with a question. “How much do you know about
what happened to Byung-Chul’s daughter and her friends?”

Taehyung shrugs. It’s one thing his ever-present curiosity could not fully cover. People love talking
about this, they do. And naturally, he’s listened in on countless conversations that mention it – the
bastard got what was coming to him, why did they use the girl, though, it’s horrendous, it’s justice,
it’s only fair, I’d like a round with her, too. All he ever heard was mindless assessments, adjectives
and opinions. No one ever truly knew the details.

“All they reported that was on the footage and their suspected motives,” Taehyung says, recites it
mostly how it came in the news. “A rival of Byung-Chul paid to have her brought to him, so he
could—” his tongue pokes at his lips as he struggles to put it sensibly even when there is no one
there to hear him, “he could rub it his face that he’s been with his daughter.”

Jungkook’s eyes flutter to the ground, then bounce back up. “You know there’s footage?”

“Yes.”

He straightens a bit on the chair, wipes his palms at his pants. “I don’t know how much of that was
on the news,” he shakes his head, eyes roam the ceiling for a moment or two. “I forget, I don’t think
they mention it all, but on that footage,” his eyes snap back to find Taehyung’s that are religiously
rooted to his, “there’s a bag,” he tells him slowly, voice low, “the bag that has the rest of the drugs,
the roofies they didn’t use, which have Kai’s trademark on it.”
Taehyung’s forehead creases, “Trademark?”

“Your brother does this as well with pills he sells,” Jungkook explains. “They mark them, put
signatures, claim their own product, basically, while promising a quality check.” Taehyung nods
even if the folds on his forehead increase, but Jungkook doesn’t drift away more, returns to the bag.
“The bag,” he says, “has unused roofies and the money Kai was supposed to get for providing them,
essentially all the evidence that leads to Kai.” He pauses, leans back completely on the chair. “In the
footage, someone hooded takes that bag.” His tongue dents his cheek before he rests it back in his
mouth, inhales and with the exhale tells him, “That someone is your brother.”

“What?” Taehyung exclaims. He expects it, somehow, and yet, he doesn’t. “Why would he--?”

“I’m telling you,” Jungkook interrupts, leaning forward again, his voice indicatively soft when he
interjects, a warning for him. He presses his palm over Taehyung’s knee, smooths it gently over the
inside of his thigh, intimate, but not sexual, not at all, and it makes such a familiar touch foreign. “I
don’t know why your brother was there that night,” Jungkook promises, catching his eyes, soothing
them with the energy of his. They pass sympathy between each other like a tennis ball. In a sudden
onslaught of a something Taehyung wishes he was someone else, but then he comes back to earth
when Jungkook’s fingers apply pressure on his thigh, a squeeze of reassurance, “but I do know he
called my sister after he left. And I do know he did not realize what was in the bag he took until later
when they released the news about it. He didn’t know it was happening while it happened. He only
thought he was stealing from Kai, not stealing evidence from a crime scene. He realized he needed to
get out of here when he saw what it was, because he knew he would be associated with it. And he
handed Clo a statement that confesses. Kai thinks I have it, it’s why he keeps off the Ozone.”

Jungkook is deliberately slow in his telling of the story, pauses often and makes sentences short, so
Taehyung can breathe in between, process in between, but with every full stop he raises hundreds of
question marks.

“Why would Kai be scared of a statement signed by my brother?” Taehyung starts there, perplexity
perpetually etched onto his features. “What worth is his word?”

“It describes exactly what the bag looked like, where it was at the time he took it, and how he was
dressed as he did it,” Jungkook explains, his fingers and palm finding a pattern over Taehyung’s leg.
“Details that you and I don’t know because it was not released to the public.”

Taehyung shakes his head, a surge of disappointment coursing through him. He spreads his legs
slightly, until Jungkook’s touch falls away, leans back, his hands pressing into the mattress as he
searches his eyes over Jungkook. “You knew all this, and you didn’t tell anyone—”
Jungkook sits up more, scoots to the edge of his seat, his knees fitting themselves between
Taehyung’s legs. “My father did not want me or Clo Eun speaking a word about this incident to
Byung-Chul,” he shakes his head, too, eyes staring wide into Taehyung’s, “ever.” He tongues at his
lips, blinks, once, twice, blinks much more than he needs to, mouth parting in palpable hesitation
before he speaks. “And all the evidence links to Kai. But it always seemed unfair to hand it in, cause
he didn’t do it.”

“What?” Taehyung cocks his head, sits straighter himself, presses his thighs into Jungkook’s. It’s
almost frightening how quickly he misses feeling him, how fast he regrets pulling away from his
touch. “You’re confusing me again.”

“Well, he did,” Jungkook drops his head between his shoulders, runs his hands through his hair
before he looks up again. “Technically, he was a part of it. He sold the drugs. It’s his product in that
bag, the money he made for it,” he elaborates, and then he stops, changes direction, head shaking,
“But he didn’t know what it was for. He did not touch Byung-Chul’s daughter. He had no direct
contact with the people who did it, either. It’s why Namjoon got to the bag first. They dropped off
the bag. Kai was supposed to pick it up. Namjoon wasn’t supposed to be there at all.”

“You told me you didn’t know enough to tell me anything about why Namjoon left,” Taehyung
says, attempts to cross his arms over his chest, but Jungkook captures the hand of one as he tries to
move it, grips it between his and brings it down in his lap, fingers of one wrapping around his wrist,
while those of the other slip over his palm.

“I didn’t know where he went, Tae,” he tells him softly, rubbing the tips of his fingers into the back
of his hand. “I found out on accident and I told you immediately after. And I didn’t know what he
was doing there, what he’s got to do with Kai, what he owes him, why he chose to steal from him,”
he explains truthfully, head shaking gingerly as he speaks. “I knew he was in a mess, and I told you
that. I didn’t lie to you,” he promises.

Taehyung’s eyes blink once at the floor, then up at him. He rubs the tips of his own fingers into his
hand, adjusts himself on the bed, sits closer to Jungkook, silent expression that he believes him, it’s
okay, it’s not that important. His sighs as the brief silence allows him to feel his exhaustion. Days
seem to be so long lately. He lifts his other hand, trails a bulging vein on Jungkook’s forearm with
his finger, soothes it over, gaze following the slow motion, watching as nearly invisible hairs stand
up in the wake of his digit.

“I want to give the bag to Byung-Chul.”

Taehyung’s eyes flash up, lids bearing them to their sockets. “What?” he exhales, a palpable panic
laced through the single word.
“Your brother gives it to me, and I give it to him. Namjoon is never mentioned. Police is never
involved. Byung-Chul takes care of Kai,” he lists as if Taehyung asked for the technicality of it all,
as if it is simple.

Jungkook is getting rash. It’s understandable, Taehyung thinks. He has virtually nothing now, at
least in his mind he doesn’t. He has nothing to lose, and, unlike him, vindictiveness to the brim of
him. He wants to punish Kai, Taehyung knows that. He’s desperate to do it, to punish anyone who
brought them to this, and it’s bound to make him irrational. Nothing makes you want to act as
demandingly as helplessness does.

Taehyung shakes his head, grips firmer at his hands and pulls them to his own lap, practically
tugging his attention to himself. “And you explain to Byung-Chul that you have the bag, how?”

“I’m saying I’m the one who took it,” he says readily, words energetically tumbling out of his mouth
as if he has it all figured out. “My father asked me not to give it to him not to risk him assuming I
was involved, which he did, technically. And like a good boy, I listened to my daddy, but I no longer
associate with him, because I love you, so there I am,” his shoulders, lift, shrug, fall, and he might as
well have clapped his hands together. Done and done.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung stresses, “he will be angry you hid this for so long.” He shakes his head.
“There is no way you get out of there scathe free.”

Jungkook sighs, leans back into the chair, his hands slipping from in between Taehyung’s and
Taehyung has to squeeze his owns into fists to resist chasing after. “Maybe he has me beaten up once
to teach me a lesson on manners,” Jungkook dismisses, his shrug casual, but his voice not, “I can
handle a beating.” His eyes fall away. “His people have hit me before.”

“What?” Taehyung asks sharply, his fingers curling together tighter.

Jungkook shakes his head with an exhale of humorless laughter. “My father wanted to save me from
them, play a hero.” He spells it out airy, with the incredulity it's due, eyes blinking up at the ceiling as
if it hits him then and there that it’s true. “People are cruel, and others have it worse,” Jungkook
shrugs and lets his gaze fall to his lap, his whole head tilting with it. “He’s kind and gentle in
comparison. He’s always worked with comparison, my father.” He blinks down. Taehyung knows
this already, partially. He’s honest when he tells Jungkook he remembers every word he’s said to
him. He remembers on that rooftop when he told him how his father thought it was an excuse his
own father was more brutal. “Who hits harder.”
Taehyung washes his eyes over him, his lip curling in on itself and he’s scooting over more, a
sudden urge to get closer, wrap himself around him arising chargingly within him. “I don’t want you
to give it to him,” he tells him, and he thinks Jungkook must feel him, because when Taehyung
extends a hand forward, Jungkook wraps his fingers around his wrist and pulls at him. He stands for
a moment, Jungkook presses his legs closer together, Taehyung’s inner thighs pressing on the outside
of his and he settles himself on Jungkook’s knees, his arm wrapping behind his neck when
Jungkook’s own comes to rest behind his back. “I don’t want anyone to hit you.”

“Tae,” Jungkook pats a palm over his spine as Taehyung glides one across his chest until his fingers
curl over his collar where fabric meets skin. “If I get rid of Kai, that means your brother gets to stay.
That means Kai is out of my hair. That means he never touches Yoongi again, never touches Clo,
never tries to work me through you,” Jungkook lists, searching his face. When he speaks now, the
whispers of his voice brush tangibly across his lips, “What’s a cracked rib compared to that?”

Taehyung drops his eyes to his fingers, watches them as they lift off his shirt and touch the heat of
his skin. “Maybe I can give the bag to him.”

“No,” Jungkook says, sharp, his hand pressing firmer into his back, a statement on its own. “You’re
staying out of all this.”

Taehyung looks up, eyes pleading, “But I—”

“No, Taehyung,” the other interrupts, meeting his gaze just to remind him how piercingly demanding
it can be, “I said no.”

Taehyung’s sighing, words scrambling out of his mouth before Jungkook can cut him off again. “But
I’ve never done anything illegal. I’m not in danger of the police,” he justifies imploringly. “Maybe I
can say I took the bag that night, but I didn’t know what it was because they never released that
information to the public and then I talked to you and I realized, so now I want to—”

“You’re staying out of this,” Jungkook presses, his teeth meeting each other, that familiar pull at his
jaw that Taehyung does not want to be a cause of ticking as he speaks with words that may as well
be set in stone. “Your name is staying out of this as well. You’ve never been to Kai’s club. You’ll
never go there, and you will never have even allegedly been there.”

The look in his eyes is as determined as his voice when he speaks. The short stare off is fruitless.
Taehyung knows he won’t win, not when it comes to Kai. He’s sighing, moving forward on
Jungkook’s lap, as the fight departs his face. He wraps his second arm around his neck as well, locks
his hand around his own wrist and lets them dangle from his shoulders. “You’ll get yourself hurt,” he
murmurs, apprehension layered in his chest just at the idea. He cannot imagine sitting somewhere,
waiting for Jungkook to return with God knows what injury, expected to be calm while his mind
swarms with visions of Jungkook deliberately letting himself get hurt.

“I’ll be careful,” Jungkook promises, fingers lifting. They brush a stray strand away from
Taehyung’s cheekbone, tug it behind his ear. Both of them could use a haircut really. It’s the last
thing on their minds.

“I don’t like this,” Taehyung shakes his head, breathes.

Jungkook’s lips curve a bit at the edges. The smile is soft, small, but irresistible. He’s never had this
sort of intimacy before. Having someone in his lap has always been erotic to him, each motion
heavily sexual in connotation, but as Taehyung shifts, it’s different. He just wants him close. He’s
never been able to have a conversation like this, completely and utterly honest, while being
physically affectionate at the same time. The heaviness and warmth of him makes it easier to speak.
He usually regrets oversharing, likes to keep things to himself, always has a what if in his head. What
if they tell someone, what if they use it against me? With Taehyung, he doesn’t. This is all genuine,
the worry that creases his features, the softness of his voice, the hands that wrap around him and the
security of the heaviness of his body on his own.

“It’ll be okay,” he promises him, pulsing his own arms around him, squeezing him between his
elbows to ask for his eyes without letting go of him. He tilts his head slightly, captures his gaze from
underneath, lets his smile spread. “You’ll patch me up again, yeah? Maybe I can get a happy end
again, like last time.”

Taehyung lets go of his own wrist to slap a hand on his chest. “It’s not funny.”

“Don’t get pouty,” Jungkook murmurs when he sees his bottom lip tug forward. He leans forward,
the inch it takes him, presses his mouth over the pout, kisses it gingerly. He doesn’t exactly know
how to do this, really, how to be his boyfriend, so he just lets himself follow every miniscule urge he
has for him. He wants to kiss his pout, so he does. “Let’s go to bed,” Jungkook suggests, lips
applying gentle pressure to his own. “Sleep on it, yeah?”

“Okay,” Taehyung nods, kisses him a tiny bit firmer.

Jungkook wraps his hands firmer around him, props them at the underside of his thighs and stands
for the one second it requires before he can lower him back on the bed instead of the chair. He
presses him to the mattress, lips almost automatically finding his.
“Not now,” Taehyung whispers in this kiss. He wonders how he grew so quickly accustomed to sex
starting with a kiss. He wonders how they could do this without kissing at all.

“I know,” Jungkook returns, kisses him a final time and lifts off the bed to get rid of his clothes. He
sheds his shirt, his pants, and Taehyung looks, shameless.

He watches him strip himself down to his underwear, reveal muscular thighs, shapely waist, relieved
stomach and chest. He strips himself to the notion of perfection he’s carved out of himself.
Physically, he honestly is spectacular, flawless, really, and Taehyung has all the right to look, to
touch if he wants to.

As Jungkook slips in next to him, however, shuffles himself to the inside of the bed, the part where it
presses to the wall, it is hard for Taehyung to forget Jungkook works so hard on himself because he
has so many expectations to live up to. He knows even with his physical appearance, he has always
tried to be satisfactory for his father, bulked up enough to have his arms heavy for fighting, legs
muscled for running, but never overly burly to still look decent in a smart suit.

He lies on his back and throws his arm behind Taehyung’s pillow almost expectantly, familiar with
the way Taehyung prefers to wrap himself around him, and Taehyung does, shifts closer and rests
his hand on his chest, his head on his arm.

“Jungkook?” he ventures carefully, smoothing his hand over the surfaces of his chest, warm and hard
underneath. He watches the motion of his own palm as it comfortably and familiarly slips over him,
until his arm is draping halfway around him.

“Yeah,” Jungkook blinks down at him, finds he can only see his eyelids from there, because he
chooses to stare at his hand.

“I’m sorry your father speaks to you like that because of me.”

Jungkook is sighing, he’s moving, slipping his arm more around his neck, his shoulders, tugging him
into himself more. “It’s not because of you,” he tells him. “He’s a fucking narcissistic piece of shit. I
don’t need him. I’ve saved enough from boxing to live for now. I’ll fight more, fight this Friday.” He
runs his palm over Taehyung’s bicep, tickles the tips of his fingers over the smooth skin there. “I’ll
figure shit out.”
“Still it must…” Taehyung glances up, dashes his eyes over Jungkook’s features as he struggles to
get out what he’s thinking, “It must—”

“Suck?” Jungkook tries.

It’s not the word he would have gone for. It’s excruciating in some ways, relieving in others. It is the
greyest thing it has happened in his life. It’s a perfect mixture of black and white, having no future,
but having Taehyung. Having no family but having freedom. Most broadly, it sucks.

“Yeah,” Taehyung nods on his shoulder. “He talks like you exist for reputation.”

“He sees me as reputation,” Jungkook shrugs, careful not to move too much. Taehyung looks
comfortable. “I was raised to be his reputation. Clo as well. He did a good job. All the rumors used
to say we’re perfect.”

Taehyung bites his lips lightly, angles his head down once more. “Well, you’re not,” he says with a
small tug at his lips. “You kind of suck.”

He does. Jeon Jungkook is as absolutely every single person on this planet flawed. Some parts of
him suck. Some parts of him suck so much they turn destructive, for him and for people around him.
And Taehyung thinks it will be good for him not to forget that, even if he makes it so easy. He also
likes to remind himself how much of that was a product of his home, how invalidation made him
cruel, cruelty crueler.

“Hey,” Jungkook jostles him a bit and Taehyung’s looking up.

“But you’re kind of cool, too,” he tells him, placing his hand higher on his chest, his whole head
tilting to see him better. They have a night lamp on beside them and it’s considerably dim, but it’s
enough to see his features, enough to meet his eyes. “Woojin thinks you’re superman or something,
and he’s never heard anything about your reputation. It’s all you.”

It’s all Jungkook outside of that home, and Taehyung needs to remind him that as well.

“And you?” Jungkook’s fingers drum over Taehyung’s arm and pause. His voice is small when he
asks, the vibration of his chest with the words subtle, yet tangible where his body presses into his.
Taehyung folds his fingers at the knuckles, draws a circle a little above his nipple, watches his chest
recede under the tingling sensation of such a fleeting, teasing touch. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he says, the
whisper of it carrying over the skin of his neck.

“Yeah,” Jungkook gulps, eyes blinking at the ceiling, then at Taehyung, “but—”

“But what?” Taehyung urges softly.

He takes a moment, lids fluttering over his eyes as he stares down at him. His voice loses all strength,
comes more of a sigh when he slowly, almost innocently requests in a murmur, “Can you tell me
again?”

He’s playing with his fingers at nothing, gaze falling away from Taehyung as he finishes speaking,
and Taehyung thinks he sees some heat slip over his neck and his cheeks, but he can’t be sure.

He taps at his chin, presses his elbow into the mattress and raises on it slightly to capture his eyes. “I
love you,” he tells him firmly. He doesn’t know how many times Jungkook has been told that before.
Perhaps he has already told him more times than he has collectively heard it previously and he’s
ready to tell him again and again. “Not cause you’re a Jeon,” he shakes his head, “Despite it.” He
presses his lips into his once, short, Jungkook’s hand instinctively cupping at his neck, before he
pulls away and lies on his chest again, allowing fingers to slip into his hair. “He’s kinda right,
though,” Taehyung acknowledges, glancing down at their bodies fitting together.

Jungkook’s fingers toy mindlessly with soft strands. "Who?”

“Your dad,” Taehyung says, his tongue darting at his lips, and as he feels Jungkook tense beneath
him, he continues before he can speak. “Where do we go from here?” He asks, shrugging. Every
motion of his body curls into Jungkook. “If we’re like that, we won’t ever get to, like,” he laps firmer
at his mouth in a brief hesitation, “get married, have kids, normal shit like that.”

He lets the insecurity of future hang between them because he can’t really not. He wants children,
he’s always wanted children. Jungkook’s father does have a point in the fact they don’t live in the
States or even in the West. They don’t live in a space that will allow them to be any more official
with each other than they already are, and there is not really anything they can do about it.

Jungkook swipes his thumb across Taehyung’s arm, cups his hand at his shoulder briefly, squeezes
once. His fingers curl over the skin, draw a pattern downwards on his bicep and then up again,
gentle and slow, the tips of his fingernails teasing.

“We have Woojin,” he tells him and it elicits the reaction he wants.

Taehyung’s shoulders fall looser into him, lose some tension. He laughs, briefly, his head tilting up to
once more meet Jungkook’s eyes. His laughter is quick, but the residue is a soft smile and it is
enough for now.

“What,” his lips spread, “you want to adopt him now?”

Jungkook shrugs, Taehyung’s body moving along with the motion. “Perhaps.”

Taehyung shakes his head with the smile growing smaller and more to himself with passing seconds.
He rests his chin on Jungkook’s chest when his lips fit into a line, curling himself more until he’s
mostly lying on his stomach, arm still draped across Jungkook’s own waist. “You wanna talk about
it?”

Jungkook adjusts his hold on Taehyung with the slight repositioning, trailing the fingers of his hand
to where his shoulder meets his back. “What?”

“Whatever,” Taehyung says. “Everything. Anything.” He pauses, swallows. “Your mom?”

He is characteristically curious about her. He knows she motioned for him to hide. He is certain,
absolutely certain if he had managed she would not have given him away. She brought Jungkook
clothes, nice ones at that if Taehyung can judge by the closet. Whether it is for endeavours to redeem
reputation or out of good will, she did it. She cares about Jungkook. It is slightly cold, the way she
does it, very distant, but still a mother’s care, there, palpable and honest, much more genuine than her
affiliation with his father.

Jungkook is sighing, shaking his head as his eyes find the ceiling. “I don’t even know what to think
about my mother,” he confesses in a breath that fills his cheeks.

Taehyung brings a hand from in between them to his chest, drafts distractedly to distract him,
pointless shapes on his clavicles and beneath. “Why did she marry him?” He wonders aloud.
“Hm?” Jungkook’s head rolls on the pillow. He blinks back to him.

“It’s just…” Taehyung hesitates, glancing to his finger, a single shrug as he tries to formulate exactly
what is going through his head. “In movies and books, like, you often see women – and men,
sometimes – married to these awful people and don’t you just wonder why, how did it start…” his
lids lift, peel back. He meets Jungkook’s eyes once more, asks, “Why did she marry him?”

“You asking if he used to be like me?” Jungkook returns and by how calmly he speaks it, Taehyung
almost doesn’t catch the insinuation of the words, “If he didn’t want to turn into his father?”

Taehyung raises his chin, head vehemently shaking, “No, I—”

“He was always his father,” Jungkook interjects, still calm but tangibly bitter. As his eyes drift back
to the ceiling again with the voicing of his thoughts, however, Taehyung knows the acerbity is not
directed at him. “She didn’t marry him for him. She married him because it was convenient and
financially promising.” He smacks his lips. “Prestige,” he pronounces caustic, borders on disgust.
“It’s such a ridiculous thing, prestige, isn’t it?”

Taehyung rests his chin on him once more, but as he feels he turns to look at him, he finds himself
lowering his lids to just stare at patches of skin. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. Perhaps it is, maybe yes,
ridiculous, but he has always been utterly and indisputably fascinated by prestige. “When you don’t
have it, you kind of want it. It looks good from the outside. You can’t help thinking, it just must be
better, must be amazing,” he speaks thoughts that have always been with him, that used to saunter
uninvited in his mind every time he looked at Jungkook. He correlated with utmost prestige in his
head before. He’s just Jungkook now, just Jungkook, yet so much more. “Beautiful skin, beautiful
clothes, beautiful hair, beautiful everything.”

“You’re beautiful, too,” Jungkook murmurs, adds to Taehyung’s list and he’s almost rolling his eyes
this time. That's not what he means.

“I look like a walking rag outside of work clothes,” he shakes his head, voice falling and drawling
out dull.

“Clothes don’t matter, Tae,” Jungkook says, lilting it with peculiar passion, his eyes catching at
Taehyung’s face as he turns towards him more, tries to seek out his own gaze to do this thing he
always does, speak through the ambiance of his stare.
But Taehyung is interrupting more ardently than he means to. “That’s easy to say when you don’t
only wear hand me downs.” He gives Jungkook what he wants, gives him his eyes to come through
with the words, but they are different to what Jungkook expects, more angry than insecure.
Taehyung darts them across Jungkook’s expression for a moment with his pause, chin lifted off his
chest before he shakes his head, glances down. “I don’t mean that the dream of my life is to have
pretty clothes,” he says calmer, but not exactly calm, articulate at best. “It’s not, not about the
clothes, but being constantly surrounded by people like you, constantly talked down by you, it just
—“ his fingers open in the air, grasp at nothing as he tries to explain to the last person he expects to
really understand. "I’ve always been taught to just bow my head down to those that have that
prestige. Say one thing wrong to you, lose my job. So I just let myself be a fucking doormat. Prestige
is power.”

There is silence for long enough for Taehyung to think this is futile. He doesn’t think Jungkook
won’t try to understand. He just thinks he couldn’t. Can’t understand never having anything because
you want to, only ever tings that you need. Counting sips on a night out, counting days until products
are about go bad so you can get them cheaper in the market. Flirting with people just for a few more
free sips of a drink, eyeing shiny things, thinking they won’t miss it. They won’t even notice.
Jungkook said it himself, when he gave Taehyung the shirt. I don’t even know I have it, he shrugged.
Shrugged. Taehyung is well aware of his every possession. It’s not difficult, he’s not bragging. He
has few things, fewer that are only his and the fewest that have only ever been his.

His thoughts might as well show on his face with the way Jungkook’s eyes mould as they take him
in, head tilting, brows creasing. Taehyung might be imaging it, but he thinks underneath him his
heart beats just the one bit harder than a moment.

“It is ridiculous, then,” Jungkook says. “That’s ridiculous,” he insists, eyes darting across
Taehyung’s features, guilt uncomfortably lodging in his throat. He remembers, he does, talking down
at him, unable to speak to him without a sufficient layer of condescension. “It made me believe I
could treat you like a doormat, too,” he says aloud, softly, his hand almost instinctive as he reaches
for him, brushes hair away from his forehead, sees more of his face.

He never did think being a waiter fit him. Though he does suppose, he is a waiter. It shouldn’t make
much a difference. Waiter or not, poor or not, Kim or not, he is still the same person.

“Yeah,” Taehyung mutters, settling his chin on top of Jungkook once more, letting one arm drape,
while the other he folds over in front of himself. “Guess I don’t blame your mother for wanting it.”

Jungkook’s brows shift closer as he looks at him, his fingers still sliding across strands. “You don’t
—“ he hesitates. That’s not longing in Taehyung’s voice, he promises himself, it isn’t. “That’s not
what you want, is it?” He asks, voice slightly shallow. “I’m not a stepping stone for you?”
Taehyung’s eyes narrow at him. He does not speak a response, just raises up once more to allow his
arm some mobility. He moves his hand forward, flicks mercilessly at the underside of Jungkook’s
chin.

His neck draws back away from the pinching sensation, face screwing almost comically, nose rising
higher, bundling. “What was that for?” He moans prolonged, voice atypically whiny.

Taehyung’s expression dulls as he stares at him rub his chin where it gets a tiny bit red from his nail.
“Every single time you say shit like that you get punished,” he explains loud and clear.

“Funny.” Jungkook opens his eyes once more, washes them over Taehyung as a small smirk twists
subtly at his lips. “Thought you’d want me to punish you.”

Taehyung scoffs demonstratively, rolling his eyes as theatrical as he can muster before he remarks
with a hidden smugness of his own, “You’re the one who wants to call me daddy.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue, head falling back on the pillow completely. “Oh, fuck off.”

Taehyung lets the entertainment from victory sit on his features for a moment longer before his
expression softens, fingers beginning another play at eliciting teasing distraction at Jungkook’s skin,
drawing patterns with a feathery touch. He’s only half reluctant to speak, moving his eyes down,
voice shy, “I do kind of like it when you’re rougher, though.”

The other is craning his neck once more, gaze finding Taehyung as his own hand begins a
gentle ministration where it slips over his back, just below his neck. “You do?”

Taehyung sends a pointed, short stare before he’s watching skin once more. “You know I do,” he
murmurs, spelling with his fingers the letters of his name a little to the side of Jungkook’s nipple as
he utters quiet confessions. “When it hurts a bit, when you tell me what to do, when you show me
what to do.” He glances up again, finger pausing. “But, in sex, you know. Just in sex.”

Jungkook does know those things. He used to almost use them against him, not consciously entirely,
not with the point to be against him, more so for himself, but he did know how to appeal to what he
liked. Problem is, he kept the hurt and roughness going outside of sex, too.
“Yeah,” he nods, resting the whole of his palm on his back to feel the warmth of his skin. “Just in
sex,” he promises. His teeth press into his lip, he pauses, then shrugs. “We have time, we can try
things, see what we like.”

Taehyung’s head cocks at this slightly, brows curling up to his hair. “You wanna try things?”

Jungkook makes a point to shrug once more to come with his nods. “Yeah, if you want to.”

“Have anything in mind?” Taehyung asks and for a moment Jungkook thinks he’s teasing, but he
realises it is genuine curiosity, a question fuelled solely by interest.

“I don’t know,” he says, eyes folding over Taehyung’s as he runs a single finger down following the
line of his spine, watching his back arch with it slightly. “Wanna explore this more, though, with
you,” he elaborates. “Used to be scared of liking it, but I used to be scared of many things.”

“I don’t scare you anymore?”

“You scare the fuck out of me, but not like before. Was afraid to want you then. I’m afraid to lose
you now.”

Jungkook says it through a yawn, voice small and drawled, but he means it all. He’s aware it’s
brutally ironic. He’s aware if he hadn’t been so scared to have him he wouldn’t have charged his
current fear of losing him with an array of mistakes. So he tries to be more honest with his fear,
perhaps that is step one.

“You’re sleepy,” Taehyung comments, his neck buzzing on Jungkook’s ribs as he speaks, warm
evidence he’s there, lets him feel his presence.

“Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night,” Jungkook stretches out into another yawn. It’s an
underestimation really. He barely caught a wink of it, his brain a beehive, his body restless.

Taehyung presses his lips to his skin, hot and soft against his chest. “Go to sleep,” he mutters into it,
the lids of his own eyes fluttering low.
“I can stay awake if you want to talk,” Jungkook shakes his head, but he feels his body grow heavier
on him with the idea of sleeping planting in his head, the need for it registering and hitting in a
sudden wave. He’s comfortable, and warm, and tired. He’s exhausted. His blinks are long, lips are
smacking, but he makes a point to open them every time. “Just make me coffee.”

“What I want is for you to sleep,” Taehyung whispers in his skin and well, he is not about to deny
Taehyung what he wants.

“Okay,” he says through another yawn, his head rolling on the pillow as he looks down at Taehyung
with his lids almost closed. “Not used to someone sleeping so close to me,” he notes aloud as he
realises it, the corner of his lip tugging too subtle for Taehyung to notice. “Julia never did it.”

“I can move—” Taehyung suggests, beginning to roll over and away, but Jungkook is grasping at his
bicep, agile and almost panicked, pulling him closer, draping his arm across his stomach.

“No, hug me,” he asks, shameless in his fatigue. Taehyung blinks at him almost startled as
Jungkook’s eyes drape shut, as his lips smack with content and his breathing shallows almost
immediately, chest lifting and falling rhythmic underneath him.

He watches him for a few more fleeting moments before he realises this isn’t stolen time anymore.
He can get this again and again. He can ask for this, and Jungkook won’t say no. Jungkook has one
hand on his back, another on his elbow. He’s here, they’re here, warm flesh with blood running
underneath.

Taehyung’s never slept with someone so close to him, either.

He wakes up barely minutes before Jungkook does, eyes blinking a sleepy haze away as his lips part
in a lazy yawn. He has adjusted very little throughout the night, and is not surprised. The grip
Jungkook has on him does not allow much movement. Taehyung lies in some timeless dimension,
cheek pressed into chest, head swimming with a lot of things and nothing all the same.

Timelessness only lasts minutes. Jungkook is stiffening, chest raising different. His eyes are fluttering
open, lids opening once, twice, before they part more permanently, pupils settling on Taehyung
through the small gaps the heavy lids allow.
“Good morning,” Taehyung says, not moving one inch.

“Mm,” Jungkook sighs, groggy, head rolling slightly on the pillow as he lifts his arms, stretches them
towards the wall behind him with a long lasting yawn and lets them drop, one snaking its way across
Taehyung’s shoulders. “Morning, pretty boy.”

Taehyung’s eyes part more at the greeting, lips curling as he lifts his cheek off his chest, presses his
chin to it instead. “Am I pretty in the morning, too?”

Jungkook clicks his tongue. “Stop fishing,” he groans, wiping the palm of his free hand into one of
his eyes and then the other before he blinks them open, meets Taehyung with his lip tugged forward,
curled down into his chin. “Don’t pout,” he groans stronger, bringing his hand forward to prod at his
lower lip, return it physically back to its usual position. “You’re ethereal.”

Taehyung chuckles, somewhat raspy. “Don’t overdo it,” he shakes his head, straightens up a tiny bit
to brush some hair away from his forehead. His voice is even deeper in the mornings, Jungkook
thinks, so levelled and calming, and he finds it hard not to fall back asleep. Taehyung feels around
the bed until he finds the bedside table, flips one of their phones around and reminds them both why
that can’t happen. “I have work in an hour,” he whines.

“I have to meet Yoongi,” Jungkook reminds himself, informs Taehyung.

He nods back to him, cocks a head, suggests. “Come to mine after my shift?”

“Okay,” Jungkook says, eyes darting across the features of his face, because no, he wasn’t overdoing
it, Taehyung is absolutely gorgeous in the mornings as well, even with lines of sleep crossing his
face, cheeks more puffed out and his hair in disarray. He starts to feel him pull away, start to get on
his knees to up and leave, so he tightens his arm around him, tugs him back down. “How is it?” He
asks.

“What?”

“Waking up next to me.”

Taehyung’s lips part in understanding, his gaze folding over Jungkook as he readjusts his elbows to
hold himself up. His smile is subtle, but it’s there. “You’re very comfortable,” he tells him, reaching
a hand up to move a strand away from his forehead.

“That’s it?” Jungkook’s head moves away from the touch, eyebrows shooting upwards. “I’m more
comfortable than your ancient bunk bed? That’s all you’ll give me?”

“Who’s fishing now?” Taehyung accuses, his expression dulling for barely a moment before he
rocks himself forward on his elbows, his arms pressed up against Jungkook, lips pressing to his,
short, too short. “It’s indescribable, okay?” He asks softer as he moves away, eyes fitting down over
Jungkook. “I couldn’t tell you if I tried.”

“You’re overdoing it.”

“I’m not,” he promises, kisses him once more, soft and slow and intimate before he’s pulling away,
crawling beneath his arm to sneak past its hold and getting on his. feet. “Wanna brush my teeth and I
have to leave.”

“And you say I’m useless,” Jungkook’s face scrunches as he wraps his whole hand around the fabric
of the tie, uses that grip to pull him forward as Taehyung makes pitiful attempts to do the knot in
front of the door. “Didn’t I teach you?” Jungkook scolds, eyes falling to his hands as he has to undo
the damage Taehyung has inflicted on the fabric.

“I told you I didn’t get it,” Taehyung moans, his knees shaking to convey his irritableness and his
rush. It’s Jungkook’s fault, really, he’s in such haste. The second Taehyung had managed to get on
his feet, he’d promptly tugged him back in bed and had his tongue in his mouth within the minute.

“Guess I’m gonna have to do it for you all the time, then,” Jungkook shrugs, doing the knot expertly,
eyes flashing up to tease at Taehyung.

It’s then that Mei Su’s clicking heels enter the room. She’s dressed smart, but not Richhood smart.
She’s a journalist, Jungkook tells Taehyung, another profession that is not up to par with Richhood
standards.
She sneaks a glance at them at the door as she strolls to the kitchen, pulls out a stovetop pot and some
ground coffee. “Never pictured you as such a good wife, Kookie,” she remarks, pouring water into
the pot.

Jungkook slides his eyes momentarily to her. “Fuck off.”

“Language,” she warns.

“Are you serious?” Jungkook groans, but she pretty much ignores him as she turns the stove on,
directs her attention more towards Taehyung.

“They still make waiters wear ties at Rouge?” She asks with a quirk of her eyebrow.

Taehyung’s lips jerk almost snide to their sides. He’s still not wearing his apron, so Jungkook even
spoke of his job to her. Taehyung blinks at him, raises his hands to his neck, fingers fixing the collar
of his own shirt. “Gotta look presentable for Jeons and the Jungs and the Mins and the Seungs,” he
lists with the small smile still on his features.

Jungkook grabs at his hands, lowers them between them. “Okay, we get it, pretty boy,” he nods,
forcedly bitter, “you can shut up now.”

“Speaking of presentation,” Mei Su joins again, her eyes rolling over Taehyung, or more particularly,
his neck, “want some foundation for those?” She offers, chin jutting in his direction.

Taehyung’s hand slips away from Jungkook’s, jumps instinctively to his neck where it rubs at the
skin as if it can erase the marks. “Could I get some?” He asks, the grin on his face morphing
sheepish.

Mei Su’s following smile reminds them both terribly much of Clo. She nods, moves to rummage
through a purse nearby and slips out a small bottle of product. She offers it to him, arm stretched.
“Keep it for today,” she says as he takes it. “I don’t think they appreciate hickeys at Rouge.”

“Thank you,” Taehyung says with a small bow. “And thank you for letting me stay here.”
“It’s okay,” she smiles.

Taehyung slips the foundation in the bag he has with him, turns to Jungkook who is still distractedly
playing with the fingers of the hand Taehyung did not rip out of his grip. “Gotta go,” he announces,
attempts to move away, but he tugged right back in.

“Hey,” Jungkook whines or warns, or both. He grasps at his tie again, yanks at it pointedly, and
leans, head tilting until his lips are covering Taehyung’s. He kisses him shortly, more for the idea of
kissing him goodbye than the actual feel of it, but Taehyung is startled nevertheless by how
atypically sweet it is. He parts his eyes that close on instinct, gaze searching, and he, of course, has to
smirk, has to speak. “Would you look at that,” he gloats, “I am a good wife.”

Taehyung shakes his head, pulls away. “See you after work?”

“Yeah.”

Taehyung waves his goodbye to Mei Su, nods once more in silent gratitude before he disappears
through the door. Jungkook’s eyes are curiously set on it until his aunt pulls him out of it.

“You suck at him like a vampire, don’t you?” She accuses, arms folding before her chest as she leans
a hip on one counter.

“They look good on him,” Jungkook declares, almost gruff, moving away from the door and more
into the room.

Mei Su sighs, her chest lifting with it as she trails her gaze after him. “Don’t be too possessive with
him, Jungkook,” she shakes her head, speaks soft but firm. “You don’t want him to feel like a
belonging.”

Jungkook’s eyes jump to hers. “He is mine,” he insists, pointed. He knows he’s not a possession.
He’s a man, but he’s his man and that is that. “I’d tattoo my name on his ass if he’d let me.”

“Jungkook.”
Jungkook’s lips part to snap, but he finds the words dying on his tongue. He stops at the counter
before her, glances down at the patterns on the tile of it. “I’m trying,” he promises, quieter, calmer.

Mei Su cocks her head, eyes skeptical but not distrusting necessarily as they layer over him. She tries
to speak to him without accusation, more so with reason, but Jungkook knows that’s a struggle for
her, too. She sees too much of his damned father in him every time she settles her eyes upon him.
“Even if you walk him to the door,” she shakes her head, “saying you’d brand him like livestock
doesn’t sound too much like trying to me.”

Jungkook sucks in a breath through his nose, head picking up as he glances to the side of the room,
skims across bookshelves to avoid looking at her. "There’s this guy at his work who wants him and
is incapable of taking hints.”

His aunt considers for a moment, then asks, “And do you think Taehyung wants him back?”

“Well,” Jungkook shrugs, “no—”

“Then?” She interjects, brows curling high on her forehead. “What, you don’t trust him?”

“Of course, I trust him,” he says in a flash, eyes shooting towards her defensive. His teeth layer
together, touch, press. “It’s that leech I don’t trust.”

“What does he matter?” Mei Su demands. “Taehyung can make decisions."

And he knows, he knows that. Knows damn well that Taehyung is an autonomous, thinking human
being, that he can make decisions on his own and that his mind can easily change. At any given
moment, he can realise his sister’s right, Jungkook’s father’s right: Jungkook is a piece of shit and
he’s proved it to him, especially to him, time and time again.

“Yeah,” Jungkook nods, his lower lip sucked into his mouth. He glances down, stares at his fingers
tap away at the surface of the countertop. “He can.”

Mei Su shifts slightly at her feet, head cocking as her eyes narrow at him with observation.
“Jungkook,” she prods carefully, “Are you alright?”
It takes a moment, takes two, but his gaze shoots back up to her.

“Would you forgive?” He asks, a new charge to his voice, emotion twisting it tangibly. His leg
bounces in place as he shifts his eyes from one of hers to the other, darts across her expressions
restless. "If someone did to you what I did to him,” he speaks it out, as concrete as he can put it — he
strays away from any detail, “would you forgive?”

“Jungkook,” she breathes out soft. She’s the one blinking away from him now.

“Be honest,” he demands, eyes opened to their fullest, tongue lapping at his lips. “You wouldn’t,
would you?” He shakes his head, at her, then to himself, then down at the floor, at his bouncing leg,
propping his other hand at the counter, too, to hold himself up.

“I’m a different person to him,” she stresses, head cocking more to try to ask for his eyes, mirroring
his position on the other end of the counter. “I like being on my own. You can’t just ask me that. It
has nothing—”

“He can do so much better than me,” Jungkook is interrupting again in a voice small enough that she
can easily assume the sentence serves more as a reminder for himself than as a confession to her. He
blinks down at his fingers, keeping his gaze away from hers as he lets the insecurity slip.

It makes it hard for her to see his father in him, hearing his voice like this, seeing the vulnerability
allowed thoughtless and genuine on his face and into the conversation. She sighs, her voice matching
his, slipping softer and tentative. She moves her hand so that he can see it on the counter, but doesn’t
touch him, just makes him aware of it. “You can’t change your past, Kookie,” she tells him.

His eyes flash up, lips part in process. “But I—”

“Do you regret leaving your father?” she stops him, asks firmly.

The shake of his head is immediate. “No, Mei.I—”

“Do you regret hurting Taehyung?” She asks just as sharp.

His mouth closes, lines. He gulps nothing but a lump in his throat. “Yes.”

“Let those answers dictate what you do in the future, then,” she tells him, straightening herself away
from the counter, arms locking together once more. “You think he deserves better?” She twists an
eyebrow and watches his mouth part, but promptly interrupts. “Be better. Don’t give him reasons to
look for someone else.”

Jungkook pauses again, mouth shutting for a moment before he speaks, “I’ve already given him
enough, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

Mei Su shifts her gaze away briefly, eyes finding her books, so many, dashing across titles. She
shakes her head. “This boy knows how to forgive, Jungkook.” Her eyes return to him. “You don’t.
Not even when it comes to yourself.”

Forgiving himself, he thinks, is just short of ridiculous. It’s easy for her to suggest, but she wasn’t
there, she didn’t see his face, didn’t hear the actual tear in his voice. She didn’t hear the words
Jungkook forced out of him. She doesn’t know how alike his father Jungkook really is. She mostly
knows the side of him that cares for his sister, so she allows him into her apartment, supports him
when it comes to Taehyung.

She doesn’t know how much he hurt him, really.

“He told me I ripped his heart out,” he mutters once, then louder, he repeats for them both to hear
and hopefully she can feel how much it hurts he hurt him, “Ripped his fucking heart out.”

Mei Su tightens her arms, recedes. She tilts her head gingerly to the side, the energy of her gaze
shifting slightly when she begins to speak to him in a leveled, careful voice. “He’s a smart one as
well,” she tells him, eyes narrowing with her consideration. “Your father knows you, he knows you
well, knows how you’re with Clo.” With Clo, she says, the only other person she’s absolutely sure
he loves. “You never try to push her away as much as when you regret you don’t protect her.” She is
tentative, but it feels naggingly like an accusation, still. His eyes fall away and for a moment so does
her voice. She’s pausing, watching him, the tick in his jaw, a squeeze of his fingers. She’s adding in
a breath, “You used to be a lot more openly closer when you were younger, you know.”

That much is true. Jungkook does know, of course he does. There was a time in which they weren’t
scared of affection. They didn’t flinch at each other’s touch if it got too gentle. With the years his
father tried to teach them that their love for each other made them vulnerable and touches became
scant, long conversations rare and hugs extinct. It did not erase their love for each other, never could,
but it made them hesitant in expressing it, especially Jungkook. Jungkook who loved her so much
but never showed it, never told her, because what sort of a person allows somebody that they love be
treated like the way their father treated her, for so fucking long. He simply didn't have the right.

“Yeah, I know,” he nods. “We’ve been better lately,” he tells her. They have, not entirely who they
were as children, but closer than before. Jungkook can’t help but think Seokjin and Taehyung both
play a role in this, remind them affection is not an expression of weakness, just an expression of love
which is not always an intrinsic vulnerability. “I miss her,” he thinks aloud.

Mei Su nods, eyes scanning over him. Her lids blink, head pulls up and she exhales, shakes off
thoughts about Clo Eun. She hates to think about where the girl is now, why she’s there. It brings
back memories in a scathing flash through her mind. “You were right, though,” she speaks, her
throat clearing as she attempts a gingerly smile. “He’s really pretty.”

Jungkook glances up, own lips twitching. “He’s beautiful,” he tells her, his nod small and almost
private, somehow. His shoulders lift and slump with a heavy expulsion of breath that follows from
his mouth, his nose. He laps his tongue across his lip, tilts his head, allows his eyes to wash bolder
over his aunt. His voice picks up, perks up, rings lighter and more typically melodic, the tension
slipping away. “You know for someone who’s sworn off human relationships you’re pretty good at
advice and shit.”

“Ah, well,” she smirks a smirk worthy of her last name, but it’s amused, not nasty. She shrugs.“The
coach doesn’t play.”

Jungkook huffs a short laughter, lets the smile still sits on his lips as he says, “I’m sorry I gave him
reason to come to your home.”

“It’s okay, Kookie,” she promises, glimpses down at her feet as she does.

“Did you ever—“ he pauses, shifts slightly on his feet, “were you ever like me and Clo? Were you
ever close?”

Her breath is sharp, her answer quick. “No,” she shakes her head. “Wish I could tell you there was
ever a good man somewhere inside your father, but I would be the last person to do it. The only man
I’ve hated more than him is my father.”
The coffee boils. She pours it in a thermos and leaves for work.

Jungkook picks him up from work. He doesn’t confer, just comes to Rouge a few minutes before his
shift ends and waits there. He doesn’t try to touch him, doesn’t pointedly approach him as he works
alongside Bogum. He just crosses his arms, leans on a post and waits.

There’s no point in it, really. He doesn’t have the rights to a car anymore. They have to take the
subway together, but it makes Taehyung embarrassingly giddy anyway. He’s been in the
neighbourhood. Yoongi lives a walking distance away from Rouge. So he thought, why not?

They walk together, but they don’t touch. They talk, he asks him how work was, seems suspiciously
energised, too. He makes a face when Taehyung tells him he promised Jimin he’d go to the Ozone
tonight, but only complains for a moment or two before he accepts Taehyung won’t get blackout
drunk and Bogum is not invited, not that it matters, Jungkook, but he is not, and he’s decided to go,
so he will.

They’re bickering about that in particular, he hasn’t even got round to asking him how it was with
Yoongi, when they enter the Kims’ Residence and are interrupted shortly by a very small, yet very
angry Woojin.

He appears in a flash at the sound of voices, a pout on his lips, his arms folded and his foot stomping.

“Taetae, where were you?” He demands halfway through Taehyung’s own sentence, glaring up at
his brother in a rather cute attempt at intimidation. “I had to sleep alone, and I didn’t even know.”

Taehyung crouches down on the kitchen tiles, levels himself with Woojin to make him feel taller. "I
just wanted to spend some time with Jungkook,” he explains, voice lilting with the specific tone he
always uses with his baby brother, especially when he’s apologetic. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” He
rubs a hand on his shoulder, hopeful to rub the pout away from his lips. “You and Ji-woo weren’t
home yet when I left.”

Woojin’s eyes flicker up to Jungkook hovering behind Taehyung, his lips twisted slightly, his
attention focused on the interaction between the youngest Kims. He glances back at his brother. “I
want to spend time with Jungkook hyung, too,” he huffs, not entirely accepting of the excuse as he
lifts his nose higher in the air. “You could take me with you.”

Taehyung hears Jungkook snort behind him and flashes a quick glare before he returns to Woojin,
head cocking as he searches for a way to properly say what he aims to. “I want to spend a different
type of time with him,” he tries.

Woojin’s pout grows accompanied with confusion. His brows, as dark and full as Taehyung’s own,
bundle together, forehead creasing. "Isn’t he your friend?” He asks, then proceeds to energetically
nod to himself, “I can be his friend.”

Taehyung tongues at his lips, hesitates as he rubs firmer into his shoulder. “Well, no, Woo,” he
shakes his head, “not exactly.” He pauses. He’s reluctant to label this for his brother, but he blinks,
delves in his mind for a rational reason not to do it, and falls short. So he says, “He’s my boyfriend.”

The little boy’s brows almost meet where they furrow. “Boyfriend?” He tests.

“Mhm,” Taehyung hums, squeezing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Woojin cocks his head, eyes squinting in suspicion. “Aren’t you supposed to have a girlfriend,
Taetae?”

Jungkook shrugs behind him, mutters as he knocks his knee into his back to grab his attention, "Told
you I was your girlfriend.”

Taehyung’s head whips back to him, eyes flashing in warning. “Hey, shut the fuck up.”

“Don’t say fuck in front of him.”

“Well, don’t repeat it.”

“Tae?” Woojin calls and Taehyung turns back, pulling his lips straight to conceal a small smile.
“No, Woo,” he tells him slowly, shaking his head. “You’re not supposed to have anything. Okay?”
He tips his brows, his chin, waits for him to lose some of the confusion from his features. “There
isn’t a rule about this,” he elaborates. He wonders when did the world manage to program a six year
old to think relationships were only valid between a man and a woman.

Woojin doesn’t fight him on this, though. No, he suddenly sticks his chest out, proud, a smug grin
shaping on his face as he promptly announces, “I have a girlfriend.”

Taehyung’s brows shoot up, head drawing back in exaggeratedly ponderous surprise as Jungkook
squats beside him, their knees touching. It’s Jungkook that challenges with a cock of his head, "Oh,
you do?”

“Yeah,” Woojin nods, his grin only widening to summon dimples as he gets Jungkook hyung’s
attention at his level now. “She’s from my kindergarten,” he proclaims sure and boastful.

“And how is she your girlfriend?” Jungkook enquires, tone slipping into something very matter-of-
factly. Taehyung looks at him through the corners of his eyes. He wonders how he can keep his face
straight.

“Well,” Woojin huffs in a breath, brief and thoughtful, before he continues, “she kisses only my
cheek from all the boys,” he tells Jungkook, smug and grinning. His eyes narrow slightly in the next
moment, and almost sceptically, he asks, “Do you kiss Taetae’s cheek?”

The obnoxious pride seems to rub off on Jungkook. His lips pull in a smirk, the lids of his own eyes
lowering slightly, brows shooting teasing in his forehead, “I kiss Taetae all over.”

Taehyung’s eyes bulge, his head spinning to him. "Jesus Christ, Jungkook.”

“I’m joking,” he mentions to Taehyung, acknowledging his wide stare with a shrug of his shoulders
that almost says, it was too convenient not to, before he turns to his brother, answers like a normal
person. “Yes, I kiss his cheek,” he nods, takes the liberty to show it as well. He props his hand on the
floor between them for balance and leans, eyes falling shut for a second as he smacks an
unnecessarily loud kiss on the skin of his cheek. “See,” he parts his lids, looks at Woojin as smug
and proud as the six-year-old is and Taehyung cannot help but shake his head, chuckle. “Can he be
my boyfriend?”
Woojin seems to consider for a moment, blinking between them. “If you’re nice to him,” he settles
finally with a nod to himself.

Jungkook quirks a brow. “Always?”

“Yes,” the boy confirms sternly.

Jungkook allows his forehead to crease, slips into whiny. "But sometimes he likes when I’m a rude
boy.“

“Okay,” Taehyung’s voice rings loud throughout the room and he grabs at him, pulls him up by the
arm and away from Woojin. “You’re officially not allowed to speak to my brother,” he warns, prods
a finger to his chest.

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jungkook says, sheepish, slipping his arms around his waist as if holding him
is an apology in itself, and maybe for someone like Jungkook it is. “No more references to that,” he
shakes his head.

Taehyung lifts his brows with a challenge, the finger on his chest turning into a palm, his hand
finding home on Jungkook instinctive. “You promise?”

“Yes,” Jungkook stresses, his arms tightening and then releasing around him. “I’ll be nice.”

Taehyung shakes his head some more. “Bitch,” he mutters and instead of getting offended, Jungkook
takes advantage of the hold he has on him, finds his lips with his eyes and tries to lean.

“Hey,” Taehyung exclaims in a hushed warning, finds more use of his hand to push him back away.

“What?” Jungkook asks, whole face creasing with sudden perplexity.

Taehyung’s teeth press together and he attempts to mutter in between them, his gaze darting
pointedly towards his little brother, who has already taken an interest in a toy truck halfway into the
living room. “Not in front of him.”
Jungkook’s eyes roll, face dulling, but with his sigh, he exhales a “Fine.” He runs his tongue across
his lips, tries his luck, “can I get a cheek?”

“Yeah,” Taehyung allows, turning his head slightly to give him a comfortable angle.

With the smack of lips on his skin, he also feels and hears a ringing smack on the left cheek of his
ass.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung nearly squeaks, scolding.

“Didn’t specify which cheek,” Jungkook defends with utmost conviction and a rather mischievous
shrug.

It’s Taehyung’s mistake to forget that Woojin’s presence automatically means someone else is home
as well.

“So what?” Her voice comes in a snicker from the top of the stairs and Taehyung feels Jungkook’s
arms unfold automatic from around him. Her hair is wet and her tone is bitter as she takes a step
down, towards them as they both tilt their heads to look at her approach, breaking away from each
other. “You’re officially together now or something?” She says scornful, says it as if it is somehow
comical to think.

“Um,” Taehyung swallows, eyes sealed onto her as she comes closer, “yeah.” He pauses, head
shaking, “And I know you don’t want me to be with a man—“

“Be with a man, Taehyung.” She interrupts as she skips the third step, gets on their level, arms
locking before her chest. “I don’t care if you’re with a man,” she tells him loud and clear, but he
knows for a fact it is not entirely true. “But I would recommend whatever you’re with, at least try to
make it marginally healthy.”

Taehyung scoffs. “What do you know about healthy?” He asks, not an attempt to dispute her in this,
exactly, but quite frankly, he stands behind the idea of don’t take criticism from someone you won’t
go to advice for and Ji-woo is the last person he would find himself consulting on anything to do
with sex and relationships, considering for her it is one and the same. He doesn’t want to call his
sister a slut, necessarily, but she would be the first to confess to it. Her closest contact with a
relationship has probably been spending the night instead of leaving the moment after everyone
present orgasms or pretends to.

“Taehyung,” Jungkook tries softly, standing near his back, his hand finding his forearm, “you can’t
exactly tell her she’s wrong.”

“Oh, you acknowledge it?” Ji-woo snorts, her shoulders bouncing slightly with it. “That just fixes
everything, doesn’t it?” She readjusts on her feet, tips her head to the side, eyes narrowing on
Jungkook now. “Hear your sister's in rehab,” she says and Taehyung feels the hand around him
squeeze into the flesh of his arm. “I’m sorry. I hope she gets better,” she continues, perhaps not
disingenuous in this, but it erases any potential intention when she turns to her brother next, “Wish
there was rehab for clinging onto people like him as well.”

Jungkook’s fingers fall away from his arm. Taehyung shakes his head, tells her calm but defensive.
“You don’t know him.”

“I know enough,” Ji-woo declares. “But it’s your decision. You want to completely drain yourself
emotionally?” She shrugs, cocks her head and purses her lips in mock contemplation. “Go ahead.”

She strolls out of the room into the living space, her voice shifting entirely when she calls over
Woojin. Taehyung watches her squat down herself, pretend to be fascinated by something he shows
her on the truck.

Jungkook’s watching, too. Taehyung tugs at his arm. “Come on, let’s go to my dad’s room."

He’s barely shut the door when Jungkook’s speaking. “Do you think she’s right?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Taehyung nods, prods his tongue at his lips as he tries to formulate his thoughts into words. “I
think we’re doing the best we can given our circumstances,” he shrugs, honest. “Was it fucked up
before you entirely fucked it up?” His arms raise in the air with the passion of the question and he
lets them drop, bouncing into his body. “Yeah, fuck yes. You crossed a line it opened both our eyes
and—“ he pauses. There’s a physical distance between them for this conversation, but their gazes
lock nevertheless. “Listen,” he sighs, puts it as simply as he can, “before, every time I let you be with
me I felt like shit afterwards. Now, I don’t. I don’t feel guilty being with you. I feel good and I love
you and that’s that.”

“Tae—“

“I’m not saying we should just forget everything. I couldn't if I tried. But, like, learn from it, yeah?
Learning’s better than regretting, you know.”

Regret’s really worthless without learning. Mei Su would agree.

“Jimin and Baek are parked and waiting,” Taehyung protests.

“But I want to make out.”

“We’ll make out tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he whines, disgruntled as Taehyung props a hand on his chest and pushes himself up.
Jungkook makes a small protest of his own, remaining on the bed as he continues to complain. “Why
did we have to watch a movie first, anyway? I didn’t even get what it was about except, you know,
arson.”

Taehyung opens the door to a half empty closet, steals a forgotten shirt from his father that is terribly
oversized on him and fixes his hair in the mirror on the door of the closet all the while flashing
Jungkook a semi-annoyed look. “It wasn’t about arson, and maybe you would have got a little bit
more if you didn’t try to feel me up the whole time.”

“You were distracting me. You should have paused the movie, let me feel you up in peace and then
we could have continued.”

Taehyung scoffs, undoing some of the top buttons on the shirt.“Excuse me for attempting to
understand the movie.”
“Listen, pretty boy,” Jungkook starts as he gets on his feet, tugs Taehyung towards himself by the
fabric of the shirt and starts doing the buttons again. “You can pretend you get something adapted
from Murakami all you want, but no one ever truly will.”

“What are you doing?” Taehyung’s forehead creases. “I don’t even have cleavage.”

“Yeah, but your collarbones are hot.”

“Jesus,” Taehyung rolls his eyes, undoes only some of the buttons again and picks up a nagging
phone. “I’m coming,” he stresses into the speaker.

“I’m not,” Jungkook shrugs, receives a scathing look.

“Hurry the fuck up, baby,” Jimin’s voice comes from the other side. “We’re in the middle of the
street.”

He hangs up with the instruction. Taehyung slips the phone in the pocket of his pants as Jungkook
glares at his buttons as if they will do themselves up under the look. “Let’s go. Jimin’s frightening
when he’s angry.”

Jungkook’s eyes bounce up when he gives up on the buttons. “Why does he call you baby?”

“I don’t know,” Taehyung swings the door opened, starts down the hallway and the stairs. “Been
calling me that for years.”

“He also spanks you from time to time, doesn’t he?” Jungkook asks as he skips the third step.

“Yes,” Taehyung gets his keys from the table, aims for the door.

“How delightful,” Jungkook remarks. “Could I get his phone number?”

“Jungkook,” Taehyung turns to him, his hand at the handle.

“I’m joking, Tae,” he tells him, voice layering softer, more genuine. “But I would like to, you know,
meet him at some point.” Taehyung’s mouth parts, eyes charting to the side for a moment, but
Jungkook interrupts before he can really say anything. “I’ll be nice, I promise. No interrogations
about his choice of pet names and wandering hands.”

Taehyung breathes a short laugh, head shaking. “You can meet him whenever you want.”

“Okay.”

Taehyung turns and starts through the yard, circling around the house to get to the street when a
September chill whistles through them. Jungkook feels gooseflesh raise on his naked arms, a thought
flashing in his mind.

“Shit,” he curses, “forgot my jacket.”

Taehyung turns to him with a look that’s almost offended. “How do you forget a Façonnable
jacket?”

Jungkook himself appears marginally confused. “I couldn’t give less of a fuck.”

The jacket is an early bird fall collection leather jacket that Julia got for him as a surprise gift when
she went to Paris for croissants. He was never even too good at pronouncing the French brands.

“Go get it,” Taehyung urges with another blow of the wind, “It’s cold.”

With the finish of his sentence, a car horn sounds startling from the street.

“No point in you waiting,” Jungkook tells him. "I’m taking the subway anyway.”

Taehyung seems like he’s about to protest, but the car sounds again. This time longer and he
flinches. “Okay, fine,” he says, taking a step towards Jungkook, hand going for his neck. He cups it
easily, meets his lips halfway.

“Have fun and be careful,” Jungkook tells him in between three short kisses.

“Yeah, yeah,” Taehyung waves it off. “I can text you when I get home if you want.”

“Yeah, do that,” he nods, presses his lips into his a final time under the melodic sound of another
prolonged car horn. “Bye now.”

“Bye.”

Jungkook walks back to the house, up the stairs, finds his disregarded jacket on the bed. He slips it
on his shoulders, arms easing through the sleeves. He fixes the cuffs as he walks down the stairs,
figures he really doesn’t give much of a fuck about the label on it. If it weren’t a gift from Julia, he’d
let Taehyung have it.

Maybe if he wins this Friday, when he wins this Friday, he can actually get him something of his
own entirely, not something that was once his father’s or Namjoon’s or Jungkook’s, something nice
that was only ever his.

But what? He humours for a moment the thought of asking Julia for advice. She’d probably slap him
again if he asks. He really, really wants Clo out of rehab already, can’t wait to visit her on Thursday.
She’ll help. Even from there, she’ll help. She pronounces brands as smoothly as Taehyung does.

He closes the back door, steps once more into the yard. He’s too much into his own head to really
notice the diminutive light that shines a few paces away from him. “You know if you care about him
and you agree with what I’m saying,” a voice starts, starling him for a moment. His eyes flash up as
he hears her approach, feet scrunching a few fallen leaves that have been blown to their yard. She
nears enough for the light coming from the kitchen to hit her. She’s wearing the denim jacket
Taehyung had on when he took him to the mountain and it makes him all the more want to get him
something for his own. She has a cigarette perched in her fingers which surprises him a bit. He
doesn’t think he’s seen her smoke before. It looks like she rolled it up on her own and she holds like
it’s something she is used to. “If you genuinely do,” she speaks after a short pause, “why don’t you
just,” she shrugs, “break up with him, let him go now before he bites onto you more?” Her gaze
challenges into his silence as she brings the cigarette to her lips, exhales her smoke to the side of
them.
She seems to wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. He is done trying to protect Taehyung
from himself without as much as talking to him about it. He did it once, hurt him more than he could
imagine, did it once and it is one of the biggest single regrets of his life.

“You’re not going to do it, right?” She continues, lips twitching as if the fact of it somehow satisfies
her, “Cause you’re selfish and you want someone to fuck, someone who apparently will forgive the
worst."

Jungkook shakes his head. “It’s not like that."

“You’re like that,” she says so quick it has to be reflex. “It can only be like that.”

Jungkook glances away for a moment, prods the muscle of his tongue into his cheek, sticks his hands
into the pockets of his jacket. Calm, he has to just stay fucking calm. “You said it before,” he returns
his eyes to her, “It’s his decision. If he wants me out of his life—"

“He’s not going to dump you,” she interrupts her own inhale on the butt of the cigarette to cut him
off. “He pities you too much.”

Calm.

“Pities me?” He tweaks a brow, cocks his head.

“Yes,” she replies merciless, “pities you,” she repeats, “and you’re just making yourself more and
more worth of his pity, tying him to yourself.”

His mouth twitches, fingers as well in his pockets and he coils them together, squeezes. “That’s what
you think I’m doing?”

She shrugs, smokes. “Even if it’s not the purpose, it’s the result.”

He glimpses at his feet for a moment. Pity. He never did think Taehyung could now be tied to him
out of pity. He runs his tongue across his bottom lip, meets her eyes again. “Why do you hate me so
much?”
She sucks on the last of her cigarette, lets it fall to the ground and stomps it as she moves a bit closer,
folding her arms together. “For a long time while Namjoon was gone Taehyung was literally all I
had,” she tells him as she nears, voice scathing. “And you and I both participated in hurting him.
Except I didn’t even fucking know. And now?” Her shoulders shrug and she untangles her arms,
raises them to the sides and then drops them In angered defeat. “He’d choose you over me any
fucking day.”

“First of all,” he shakes his head, holding her eyes as he speaks, “that’s not true.” He swallows. If
she thinks Taehyung wouldn’t go to any length for his family, then she’s seriously starting to lose
touch of who he really is. “Second of all, if you care about him,” he pauses, darts his gaze across her
set expression, “don’t ever make him feel like he has to choose. Can’t even begin to tell you how
fucking horrible it feels.”

He’s calm, as calm as he can be, but it only seems to draw more animosity from her.

“Yeah,” she breathes, prolongs sardonically with a petty nod of her head. “Namjoon told me what
you did. He worded it as if I should absolutely forgive anything you’ve done before because of it.”
She forces out a laugh, humourless and as chilly as the wind. “Can’t even hate you now without
being an ass."

“You could easily hate me without being an ass,” he tells her, knows perfectly well he’s far from the
innocent one in this. She has incentive enough to hate him, but she could try doing it without
comparing Taehyung’s attitude to him with his twin sister’s accidental near suicide. “You just need
to be an ass to me.”

The tip of her tongue touches the corner of her mouth, stretching her lower lip over her tongue. Her
eyes roll, head shakes once more. “Do you even remember how you spoke about him the first time
you ever mentioned him to me?”

He does. It was long ago, but he does. His curiosity towards Taehyung had just started to grow. He
thought he sensed his eyes too much on himself, not enough on Julia. He was starting to wonder,
almost hope, maybe Taehyung wanted him. It pissed him off and interested him all the same. He
wanted Taehyung to want him. He certainly wasn’t ready to think he could want him back at the
time.

“I,” he tries, first instinct to go into defensive, but he shifts. “Yes,” he says instead, admits it. “I
wouldn’t speak about him like that now.”
“About him, no, perhaps,” she entertains the prospect, although not with a lack of scepticism. “What
about other people? They’re still beneath you, aren’t they?”

Jungkook breathes through his nose, head shaking. His lips jerk to the sides. “You think I’m actually
dumb enough to believe people are beneath me? What do you think this is, fucking Harry Potter?”

He knows money makes a societal distinction between people, knows he could afford to get away
with a lot more than both Taehyung and Ji-woo could because he had money and status and they
didn’t. It’s straight facts. There is a distinguishable difference. He doesn’t, however, genuinely think
that in some way positions them beneath him in their quality as people.

Ji-woo shakes her head, her eyes narrowing still. “Don’t be the self-righteous one in this
conversation. It really doesn’t fit you,” she tells him, acid dripping on her tongue. She pauses for a
moment, skims her gaze all across him, sizes him up and starts again with all the moral haughtiness
she can muster, “How much into your regret do you think it expires, anyway?”

Jungkook blinks. “What?”

Her teeth bare in a huffing, short chuckle. “You can’t honestly try to tell me this whole you treating
him right thing doesn’t have an expiration date,” she tips her head, rocks once on her feet, “same as
that of your guilt.”

It stings. The question physically, tangibly stings. The prospect she might plant the seed of this
thought into Taehyung’s head as well is worse. The fact she has a point is the worst. His guilt makes
him careful, tentative, but this attitude won’t diminish, he promises himself. He won’t let it.

He narrows his eyes right back, cocks his head. He makes sure not to skip a fucking beat. “What if I
prove you wrong?”

It is a surprise to him and not at all at the same time, when her body relaxes a bit, and she only has
one last, vehement thing to say before she returns to her house and goes to check up on her little
brother. “I beg you, Jeon. Prove me wrong.”
Taehyung was never really a texter, but that is precisely what he finds himself doing as he sits on a
barstool. He’s been sipping on a cocktail Jimin got for him since the night started, not particularly
interested in getting drunk or being chatted up. When Jimin catches a break from orders, he does pay
attention to him, like he always does, but in between he is much more interested in the fact Jungkook
found a collection of Murakami short stories among the thousand books his aunt has and is sharing
his rather ridiculous interpretations with Taehyung through text.

He’s writing more than he is reading at this point, scandalised at every couple paragraphs. It’s
actually quite entertaining, looking at his reactions as he purposefully chooses to read it from a lens
that completely disregards the genre and pretends the author tried to sell it as actual realism.

Jungkook

why would you let a fucking crow decide if a sharpie cake is good

I’m now hungry for sharpie cakes

what are sharpie cakes?

Tae

They’re fictional

Jungkook

oh

any cake will do then

Taehyung shakes his head, smiles down at his phone. He knows him sneaking grins down at the
screen is suspicious behaviour to Jimin, but he doesn’t really care. If Jimin asks, he will tell him.

He wonders when the last time Jungkook had an actual cake was. After all, cakes are quite infused
with copious amounts of carbs. He soon stops wondering because as Jungkook flips through pages
and reaches a story Nausea 1979, which tells of a man who sleeps with his friends’ partners and
vomits every day for a year, he decides it’s appropriate to comment:
 Jungkook

lol imagine if you threw up for a whole year cause we fucked when Julia and I were dating

Tae

I genuinely think it’s time for you to go to sleep

Jungkook

not until I know you’re home

Taehyung finishes his cocktail and, Jimin justifies as this time he took so long to drink it, he gets a
second one for free. He just gives him a bottle of Soju this time around. It’s cheaper, he shrugs, and
it starts playing with his bladder.

He’s at the sink, washing his hands, doesn’t pay much mind to the door opening and someone else
entering until the person decides to speak.

“Well, hello there.”

Taehyung’s eyes lock with his in the mirror. The snake sits glaring on his neck. It’s the first time he
sees him in such distinctive lighting, but recognition flashes immediate to him.

And here he thought Jungkook was being ridiculous worrying if he will get home.

Taehyung stops the sink, heart racing in his chest, but he hides it, ducks his head down, turns, walks,
attempts to step around him, around fucking Kai. “Bye.”

“So soon,” Kai steps easily in his way, feigns a pout that sits almost comical on his face. “That’s
rude.”

“I’m done with the bathroom,” Taehyung says, stealing a pointed glance towards his eyes before he
tries to walk away once more.

Kai’s grip on his arm is instant, hard. He grasps a little beneath his shoulder, squeezes him into place,
the pout dropping scarily quick from his expression. It hardens, voice does as well, as he insists, “I’m
not done with you.”

“Don’t touch me,” Taehyung rips his arm away, steps back and when Kai follows with one pace
forward, he continues until his back presses in the damned counter of that sink. It’s not first time, but
this instant he wants with the core of his being to get the fuck away from there. His heart hammers
and this time he does look at Kai, seals his eyes onto him. He’s not losing that snake out of his sight.

“Feisty,” he comments, his brows quirking annoyingly casual. Taehyung supposes, though, scaring
people to dead is day to day activity for Kai. “Relax,” he raises palms in a peace offering that
Taehyung doesn’t trust one bit. “I just want to talk,” he reasons, head tilting and voice careful,
calming him like a hunter its prey if it gets too close, not to scare it away. “Although, I’ve always
wanted to play with something that belongs to Jungkook and Julia would never let me.”

Taehyung shakes his head, locks his hands on the edge of the counter and squeezes to keep himself
levelled. "You have less of a chance with me.”

“You sure?” He cocks his head.

“Yes,” Taehyung grits his teeth, grips tighter at the counter, channeling all his fear into that touch,
“fuck off now.”

“Aw, but why?” Kai circles closer, nears, raising a hand up towards his face, but Taehyung flinches
away and he lets it drop. “Why does Jungkook always get the prettiest toys?” He asks, smirks and
watches Taehyung with some personal expectation, but he could not give less of a shit for
entertaining his rhetorical musings. Flattery sits repulsively ill in his stomach when it drips from his
lips. “You not gonna defend yourself,” Kai challenges, “say you’re not just his toy.”

Taehyung pulses his fingers against the countertop. “I don’t care what you call me.”

Kai’s brows bounce upwards for a moment before his face sets once more, a nerve-racking smirk
deep on his features. “Mm,” he hums with a nod. “Okay. But see, I think it’s unfair he’s the only one
who gets a toy,” he says, and his hand ventures to his back pocket. Taehyung’s eyes trail after with
alarm. He gulps. Please don’t let it be a gun, he begs internally, please don’t let it be a fucking gun.
“I want to offer you one,” Kai surprises him. He raises no gun, no weapon. He raises something
small, in a transparent resealable package, something round and pink. He raises a pill.

Taehyung’s eyes pry away from it, land immediately back on Kai’s. He shakes his head. “I don’t
want it.”

“No?” Kai quips, his very expression mocking. “You don’t want to see what it feels like,” he
elaborates, slow and voice soft, teasing and alluring all the same, but it does nothing for Taehyung
other than creep the fuck out of him, “what Clo Eun sees in it, what Yoongi does,” he lists, shrugs,
“you know they are the two people in the world he probably loves the most.”

He doesn’t specify a he, but he doesn’t have to. Taehyung knows this is on account of Jungkook. He
cannot guess what he aims precisely with this.

“It’s not because of this,” Taehyung nearly hisses, his eyes sending a glare towards the pill perched
in his hand so comfortably. “It’s despite it.”

Kai’s chuckle is inhumanely cold to Taehyung’s ears. “Jungkook loves trouble, Kim Taehyung,” he
says, shaking his head slow and meticulous, as if with pity for a naive child. “Gets off on protecting
broken people to satiate his conscience for breaking others.”

Taehyung’s hands clench once more at the counter. He doesn’t care for Kai’s evaluations of
Jungkook. He doesn’t. “Stay away from him.”

He snorts this time. “You sound like him now,” he tips his head again, smirking at something private
to him. “You know it’s funny,” he adjusts on his feet slightly, eyes falling to Taehyung’s neck. He
did not bother bringing foundation to the Ozone. The sweat from the heat wipes the product away
and the hickeys sit as telling and pointed as the snake on Kai’s own. “He told me you’d dumped
him.”

“No,” Taehyung shakes his head, arching his neck the tiniest bit, not hiding from the judgmental
scrutiny of his gaze. “I’m his.”

“You’re his?” It pulls sudden, genuinely surprised from Kai’s throat, eyes opening wider before they
settle, his lips twitching. “He’s taught you well, hasn’t he?”
“Stay away from him.”

Kai sighs as if this is growing tedious for him. “See, I usually would,” he gestures with his hands,
hissing as if to denote a casually tricky situation, "but I feel like he doesn’t particularly like me now
that I technically outed him to his father, so you,” he raises his brows, “my darling, are a precaution.”

Taehyung’s not sure he wants to know what that means. “He’s not focused on you, Kai,” he tells
him. “He wants nothing from you. Just, reciprocate, yeah?” He speaks as if Kai is a person that can
be reasoned with. “Leave him alone.”

He cocks his head, the eyes of the snake on his head turn into slits with the folds of his skin. “How
do I know you’re not lying?”

“He’s got bigger problems, wouldn’t you guess?” Taehyung locks his arms before his chest.

“Tell you what,” Kai sighs, “I’ll cut you a deal.” He points his fingers briefly to Taehyung, draws
them back, textbook salesmen, out of a movie salesmen. “You prove to me you’re reliable, and I will
actually leave your boyfriend alone.”

Taehyung’s forehead creases, chin lifts up slightly as he looks upon him with due suspicion. “And
how do I do that?”

Kai raises the pill once more, dangles the package in front of his eyes, taps at it with a fingernail to
see it shake. “Keep a hold of that for me for 48 hours, and then come give it to me in my club.”

He’s too ready with the proposition. It makes Taehyung wary. The mention of his club makes it
worse, especially considering Jungkook doesn’t want him to even have allegedly been there.

“In your club?”

“Yeah.”

Taehyung eyes the dangling, dancing pill apprehensively. “And if I don’t?” His arms fold firmer,
slither against each other like the snake does on his neck with every motion of his head. “If I don’t
show up in 48 hours?”

“What?” He sneers near a cackle. “Did Jungkook forbid you to visit me?” The tilt of his head
deepens. The thin lipless line of the snake’s mouth seems to smile, too, mirroring him so perfect and
emotive. ”You got a set of rules like a good little toy?”

Taehyung hopes Kai doesn’t see the twitch of his fingers as they clutch at his arm. He knows
Jungkook well. “I just don’t think you’re reliable enough for me to step in your fucking layer, Kai.”

Kai dashes his eyes across him calculatingly for a few moments. He chooses to move away from
this, answers his question instead. “If you don’t come, then it’s like this conversation never
happened,” he promises, somehow calmer as he extends the packet once more towards Taehyung.
“Keep it,” he shrugs. “It’s a gift.”

He watches dripping malice as Taehyung’s fingers tap into his elbow with reluctance. They are
twitching to reach forward and take it. It will end this, he figures. Kai will have got what he wants
and he will get the fuck away from him. With a rash, optimistic motivation he snatches the packet
away, slips it in the pocket of his jeans.

Kai’s chuckle is short, a single huff. His smirk, however, lasts until he leaves. “And there’s lots
where it came from in case you come to like it,” he tells him. Taehyung’s phone chimes in his
pocket. He still hasn’t answered Jungkook’s message from before he went into the toilet. Kai’s eyes
fall to it, saunter up again. “Say hi to your brother for me, by the way. Long time no see.”

Taehyung’s brows furrow. “My brother?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Kai shakes his head, tongue clicking disappointed in his poisonous
mouth. “Jungkook’s never been into bimbos.”

“If you mean Woojin,” Taehyung starts levelled, careful, “I doubt he’d care. If you mean Namjoon,
he thought it would be saver if I didn’t know where he went.” He slides his eyes pointedly over Kai,
lets the fear seep through, allows himself to gulp, for him to watch the nervous bob of his throat. “I
see what he means how.”

Kai’s head tips back, neck baring and snake dancing with the shake of his throaty laughter. “Hate to
give it to Jungkook, but I’m right.” He straightens. “He’s always had good taste. Makes everything
so much more fun,” he says. It sounds like a warning. Taehyung thinks his eyes glint, but perhaps
it’s just the glare of artificial lighting. “I’ll see you around, Kim Taehyung.”

Taehyung stands alone in the bathroom, breathing heavier than he previously realised. The mere
sound of the next guy taking a leak rings ominous to him. He returns to his barstool, orders another
bottle of Soju which he actually pays for. He checks his texts. One complains about the raw vegan
cakes his aunt likes. The other one came several minutes after.

Jungkook

everything ok?

Taehyung stares at it for a couple of moments. He presses his thumb to the bubble that draws the
keyboard up.

Tae

Yes mother

Jungkook

daddy*

Tae

that would be me

“What,” she says when he walks in, eyes on his phone, “you not even gonna say hi to me anymore?”

He looks up, catches her sitting on the table. He has fear in his blood, alcohol in his blood. He cock
his head. “Not if you’re going to act like a bitch at any given opportunity.”

“I’m acting like a bitch because you’re making a mistake,” she says, chooses now to try to speak like
a person. He doesn’t understand why should make the effort to wait up for him to come home. She
hasn’t done that since he was eighteen.
“And you always have it right?” He snorts.

“Taehyung,” her fingers tap into the table. "I just care about you.”

“You saying Namjoon doesn’t?” He challenges. "Because Namjoon isn’t being a bitch.”

She sighs, her free hand raising, rubbing sleep away from her eyes. She’s wearing that shirt she
sleeps in and he wants to know why she’s awake, why she’s downstairs where he has to walk past
her. “The only reason why Namjoon is supportive is to justify the fact he’d jump Jungkook’s sister
who is just as fucked up as him at the first chance he gets.”

Taehyung’s head draws back, surprise paints on his face. “You know about this?”

“Mm, for two years,” she nods. He forgets sometimes that before Namjoon left the two of them were
the older ones, they were the closest ones. “And he still won’t let go of her and you’re digging
yourself the very same grave.”

Taehyung glances down, teeth worry into his lip. “It’s not the same,” he says, shakes his head. “He
loves me, too.”

“Loves you?” She nearly splutters, voice raising in humour laced disbelief.

Taehyung’s teeth grit. “Yes.”

“Too?” She presses, eyes widening as she leans slightly forward on the table, “You love him?”

His teeth grind. He nods. “I do.”

Her head shakes as her fingers catch at her forehead, eyes closing.

Taehyung has to look away. “You’re being a bitch again.”

Her hand falls on the table, draws his attention back as her digits tighten in a fist. “I just want to
understand why, Taehyung.” Her eyes dart between his, fall over the rest of his face, searching but
hopeless. “Why would you go back to the one person who’s probably hurt you the most in your
entire life?”

Taehyung’s lips press together. The thing is, love is not necessarily a thought process. There isn’t a
formula. It’s not like he sees this person and there is this checklist of things and he covers them,
check, check; you add this and that and you get love. Charm and humour, sprinkle good looks, and
you’re gone, gonegonegone. Add one to one and you get two. Math is simple and Taehyung’s good
with with numbers, but love is nowhere near that. It’s illogical, sometimes. Complicated, always.

So when someone asks him why, why do you love him, he can’t really answer. There is no clear cut
because. There are things he loves about him, but why he loves him with all that’s happened in their
past will forever be unanswerable.

Taehyung raises his shoulders, let them fall. He speaks to her with no charge, only speaks, softly,
calmly. He speaks almost tired. “He’s also the one thing I’ve wanted most in my life and we never
allow ourselves to want, let alone take what we want.”

Ji-woo’s face contorts, brows shift closer. “What?”

“We never make any choices do we, Ji?” He sighs, meets her eyes, “We always settle, whatever is
handed to us we take, breakfast, lunch, dinner, jobs, people. We always fucking settle,” he tells her,
draws a chair back, lets it scrape across the floor. It’s ruined, anyway. Everything in this house is
ruined. They settled for it as well. “Do you want to be a housemaid?” He asks, doesn’t wait, "No.
Do you know what you want to be, though?” He asks and this time he pauses, waits it out. He
watches her watch him until her gaze drops. “No,” he shakes her head, answers for them both. “You
never even ask yourself what you want because it seems ridiculous to imagine you can have it.”
Taehyung doesn’t want to be a waiter, either. He will try to be something else, though, he will. I’m a
girl, she’s always told him. It’d be a lot harder to just suddenly make something out of myself.
“We’re just fucking surviving at this point. I want to live. I want something hard to get, something I
have to work for and work with,” he lists, voice building as he alcohol unleashes his honesty. “I
don’t just want something that I like, that I’m okay with, something mediocre. I want something, at
least one thing I love that isn’t family, one thing I’m allowed to be passionate about, that I chose.”

He stares at her. She’s silent for longer this time. He thinks perhaps he gets to her. It’s drunken
foolery. She shakes her head, tells him no as she straightens up.

“And you choose him?” She asks. “You get excitement for the first time in your life and you call it
love, Taehyung,” she sighs. “He’ll always be Jeon Jungkook. You ask me not to separate him from
the Jungkook, I ask you not to separate him from the Jeon. It’s his instinct to hurt people.”
Taehyung’s lips part, but she doesn’t stop. “And the fact he does it because he himself is hurt is just a
fact, not an excuse. But you’ll excuse anything he does because he’s learned to tell you that he loves
you after and it will fucking ruin you.”

“It’s possible I'm making a mistake. It’s possible I'm not. Consequences are mine to deal with, not
yours. I can’t really know at this point. If I don’t try with him, though, I’ll spend my life wondering
what if.”

Something starting bad does not mean it’s going end bad. Takes work, though. He doesn’t only think
of Jungkook when it comes to this, thinks of their lives as a whole. He doesn’t want to end up how
he started. He puts his own value above this house in ruins, this life in settling. Being a waiter
doesn’t fit him.

“Of course you’re going to justify anything you fucking do. That’s how humans work. We can twist
anything,” she gives up, too. She stands, angles her head down at him. ”It’s your life. Fuck it up if
you want to. But I want him as little around Woojin as possible.”

Taehyung’s hands fly, one at the the table, one at the chair, body twisting after her, head shaking.
No, no, no. “Ji-woo, he’s always—“

"Woojin is my responsibility,” she interjects. “You’re not using my little brother as therapy for your
boyfriend. And I don’t him influencing him in any way.”

“Jungkook, think about it. I know when you left first it was under adrenaline fuelled circumstances,
you weren’t thinking clearly.”
“Mom—“

“Your father is offering you a chance to come back home.”

“Mom—“

A hushed whisper. “You could still see him in secret, like you used to. You just have to be more
careful.”

“Mom,” he presses vehement, interrupts her. “The more I think about it, the more I don’t want to go
to that apartment. And I’m not keeping him a secret, not getting myself a beard. He’s—no, just no.”

There’s a pause. “Okay.”

“Do you want to meet him?” Jungkook swallows air. “Properly.”

A moment. “No.”

“You’re not hanging up.”

“You aren’t, either,” she says and he has nothing to offer to that, so he waits for her to speak again.
“He’ll probably cut off your phone bill soon.”

"Hadn’t thought about that.”

“You haven’t thought about a lot of things, Jungkook. You think the hard part is over, but you have
a lot to learn.”

“I know.”

“Is it worth it, do you think?”

“Yeah. I’m ready to hang up now.”

“Okay.”

They stay on the phone a little while longer. She waits for him to do it. So he does.

Taehyung’s nervous and Jungkook telling him, don’t be nervous, doesn’t really make him any less
nervous. He’s not only meeting Min Yoongi and Jung Hoseok. He’s doing it in their territory.

He’s at Min Yoongi’s penthouse. He’s heard about it, but he’s never really seen it before. It’s one of
the top Richhood destinations that he never managed to secure himself a glimpse into. Hearing about
it is different than seeing. It’s an elaborate place, obviously designer place. It has a few bits more
character than Jungkook’s apartment.

It has a pool table, has a bar. The most gorgeous part of it is undoubtedly the terrace, huge and
infamous and with a sight stopping view. He’s heard a lot about it as well.

It’s also the one place in here he fears most. He sees them as they step towards it. They’re sitting on
an outdoor couch seat pressed up against the edge of the terrace behind a glass table, furniture
Taehyung has only seen in hotels and catalogues. Both of their heads rest back, Hoseok’s arm
stretched behind Yoongi and Yoongi’s resting on top of Hoseok’s.

Taehyung feels a bit like it’s his first day in school. He’s fumbling with his fingers, heart it
thundering and he walks a few paces behind Jungkook.

“Hello, Kookie,” Hoseok greets with a droning voice, eyes still fixed on the sky.

Jungkook has to clear his throat when they stop.

Their necks twist in sync, both pairs of eyes landing on Taehyung. Yoongi looks at him for about a
second before his gaze shifts to Hoseok, watches him as he straightens, sits up and forward with his
brows slightly perched.

“That’s Taehyung,” Jungkook says, stretches his arm behind him and pulls him a few paces forward
so he’s standing next to him.

“I’m aware,” Hoseok answers. “The fuck is he doing here?”

Jungkook seems to search for words, tongue pricking at his upper lip. “He’s with me.”

“Ooookay?” Hoseok prolongs, leaning his elbows on his knees as he bends forward, head tiling
quizzical. “I see that as well,” he informs him.

Jungkook breathes, glances to Yoongi for a moment then back to him. “I mean, with me,” he says
firmer, presses his hand to his chest. He’s my boyfriend.”

“Ha,” Hoseok exclaims, his palms slapping together where they hang between his spread thighs. He
looks to one side, then the other. He waits. No one says anything and his upper lip pulls back,
nostrils flare. “Is that a joke?” He asks, doesn’t stop, not for a second, demands more forceful, “What
sort of a joke is that, Jungkook?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “It’s not a joke,” he tells him calmly.

Hoseok gets on his feet. Yoongi sits on the seat behind him. “This isn’t funny,” Hoseok insists, eyes
fixated on Jungkook.

“Good,” he answers, “because it’s not a goddamn joke.”

Hoseok flips his eyes between them, stares at Jungkook, stares at Taehyung. He seems to still wait
for them to tell him it’s a prank. But it isn’t and he knows it. There was a reason Jungkook was
acting different, talking about nice asses, getting higher than Yoongi, a reason why he spoke more
often of the Kims, when more often to Rouge, why he is no longer with Julia, why Taehyung was
there when Clo OD’d and everyone asked him to stay.
“You’re gay?” He breathes, near a sneer, gaze still shifting between them. “You’re both just fucking
openly gay now all of a sudden?”

Jungkook presses his teeth together, looks at Yoongi for a moment again, then back to him. “It’s not
all of a sudden,” he pauses, exhales, “but yes.”

“So, so,” Hoseok tires to get words out, but they seem to tangle on his tongue and he raises his hands
in front of himself to articulate better, “you’re gay and in a fucking relationship?”

“Yes, hyung.”

He shifts his hands to the side. “And you going around telling fucking people about it?”

He interrupts himself even, throws his head back in a loud, short laugh.

“Hobi—“ Yoongi moves forward on the cushion of his seat.

“Is that why you broke up with Julia?” Hoseok snaps his head back to them. “You decided you were
gay?”

Jungkook’s jaw ticks. His eyes flash. “I didn’t decide anything, Hoseok.”

He isn’t listening, though, he’s waving arms through the air. “This is ridiculous. This is just—fucking
wow. I’m just.” He places his fingers to his eyes sockets, presses. “I— Fuck.” He shakes his head.
He walks away.

“Fuck,” Yoongi repeats, too, starts after him.

Taehyung feels worse than he felt on his first day at school, much, much worse. He turns to
Jungkook, fingers still tangled together.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“Didn’t do anything wrong,” Jungkook shakes his head. He wants to wipe the frown away from his
face, but he doesn’t touch him for now, just catches his eyes. “He’ll be fine, okay?"

Yoongi catches up with him at the bathroom door, hand wrapping gingerly around his elbow.
“Hey,” he calls.

“Don’t touch me,” Hoseok snaps, head turning back as he tears his arm away, glares. He glares until
Yoongi is glaring as well.

His eyes change, caution slipping out of them in seconds. “Fine,” his teeth last together. “I won’t
touch you,” he promises, voice hard, intention worse, “but if you say that exact sentence, the exact
one,” he stresses, “to either one of them, ever, I’ll fucking punch you.”

Hoseok blinks. He’s blinking. Yoongi’s angry with him. He told Yoongi not to touch him. “Yoongi,”
he tries, hand reaching, but he pulls away.

“Fucking coward,” he shakes his head.

“Yoongi.”

He shakes his head harder. “Pull yourself together and come meet the boy,” he tells him. “He’s a lot
better than the girls we fuck. Okay?” He doesn’t raise “You will either be a friend or get the fuck out
of my apartment.”

“Yoongi, I didn’t—“

“And you don’t have to worry about me touching you, I don’t want to anyway.”
“Don’t think we’ve ever officially met,” Yoongi returns to the terrace, plasters to his face a smile that
only gets this wide when he’s swallowed enough pills. He would shake his hand, but it’s too much.
He settles for a nod. “Min Yoongi,” he introduces himself.

Jungkook, he’s doing this for Jungkook. Jungkook who is standing right next to Taehyung, shoulder
to shoulder, watching him. He doesn’t know how to be nice, but he’ll do it, for Jungkook, the best he
can. Jungkook’s been through enough, he doesn’t need this, too, doesn’t need Hoseok having
fucking panic attacks in the bathroom at the discovery that homosexuality does exist, not only in the
west, not only with the poorer. Boys can be more than fucking friends.

He grits his teeth underneath his smile.

Taehyung nods back. “I’ve served you drinks,” he offers, shrugs.

“Yeah,” Yoongi nods once again. Nodding, it turns out, is a very easy semi-friendly activity. He
clears his throat, raises an arm, dunks it at the elbow to scratch behind his neck. “Feel like it’s
necessary to mention I don’t perv on you sister. I was just checking something.”

“Yeah?” Taehyung cocks his head. He remembers this as one of his very few interactions with
Yoongi, telling him that his sister looks nice bent over, Jungkook telling him later that it is not on
Taehyung’s account, but on his own. “And were you right?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Yoongi shrugs. “You’re welcome here, by the way,” he says as an
afterthought. He nods. He nods a lot, Taehyung thinks. “Though,” his eyes stray to Jungkook, the
smile on his face less full-toothed, more genuine now. “I suppose that won’t be my choice only
soon.” He nods once more, this time to Jungkook. “Have you told him yet?”

Taehyung turns to him, furrows his brows. “Told me what?”

Jungkook swings his hips a bit, knocks them into his from the side, just to touch him, no PDA, not
nothing, just a single touch. He smiles. “Found myself a more permanent home, pretty boy.”

Taehyung blinks, lips parting loose.

Yoongi speaks and his wide eyes shift to him. “Kind of lonely, this penthouse,” he tells him, but his
gaze is locked on Jungkook, a smile tucked into his cheeks. “Too big for just me, honestly. I’ve
offered before. Finally he has no choice.”

“Wait,” Taehyung’s nearly gasping, “really?” He’s grinning too and he doesn’t even fully know
why, but it’s all he knows how to do with his face now. He wants to hug him, a little bit, kiss him, a
lot, but it’s all too much, so he settles for smiling, blinking almost astonished towards him.

Jungkook tilts his head to Yoongi, glances at him with the corner of his eyes. “Everyone has a
roommate period, don’t they?”

“He stays here a lot anyway,” Yoongi adds. “Gonna start paying rent now.”

They hear steps and Taehyung grows glad he’s not hugging Jungkook, the smile halfway dying on
his face.

“Hobi,” Yoongi says instinctive when he sees him. He tries to swallow disappointment away at the
sight of him with a jacket, but it is too poisonous on his tongue.“You leaving?”

“Got chilly,” he shrugs. His hair is wet, pulled back, droplets of water still on his face. He pauses a
little further away than the rest of them, looking mostly at the floor. “Anyone want a cocktail?” He
asks, glances up at Taehyung.

He hesitates, turns slightly towards Jungkook for help. “Um.”

Hoseok’s eyes slip to the floor once more. “Got one that’s my own recipe, if you want,” he proposes
with another shrug. This one shrugs a lot. “Gotta warn you, though. It’s a little sweet. Yoongi has
taken to calling it Suga,” He looks up, meets Yoongi’s eyes, lip twitch for a moment, but fold back
in. “Gonna get it on a menu one day.”

Yoongi looks away first, glances at Taehyung instead. Hoseok’s eyes follow.

“Yeah,” he nods, too, then shrugs. They’re contagious. “Sure, yeah.”

“One for you, too,” he points to Yoongi, then turns to Jungkook, “and what do you want, Cuba
Libre with diet coke?” He guesses.

Jungkook shakes his head, which raises eyebrows. “Nah,” he says, “get me one of those as well.”
He rubs at the top of his stomach. “I’ve been craving something sweet since last night.”

Taehyung needs to hold back a snort.

“Coming right up,” Hoseok says, turns on his heel and disappears, but not before he steals another
glance at Yoongi, one that he himself doesn’t catch.

He’s refocusing on Taehyung once more.

“So, you wanna do architecture, I hear?” He settles back on a lounge chair in front of the glass table,
waits for Taehyung’s nod as he gestures towards another seat, offers it. “Tell me,” Yoongi starts,
“what do you think about my fish tank wall?”

Judging by Jungkook’s facepalm, this is a continuation of a conversation. Taehyung cocks his head,
ponders, “Well—“

It’s Ji-woo’s night out, so Taehyung asks Jungkook to come have dinner. Namjoon’s actually slipped
back into the old habit of cooking, so there’s food and it is likely that it is good.

They only stay for one drink at Yoongi’s. Hoseok doesn’t apologise, or say much until he asks
Yoongi if he’s taken anything.

“A few pick me up pills, that’s all.”

“A few?”

“Like,” he shrugs, “a couple.”

Yoongi talks a lot. He finishes his cocktail in minutes. It’s an admittedly good cocktail.

Woojin’s decided that in order to pay him back for abandoning him for a whole, long night,
Taehyung will host him in his lap for the duration of this dinner. Jungkook does not miss the
opportunity to tell him it’s his turn tomorrow, but both Namjoon and Taehyung send him a look and
it shuts him up.

It’s curiously natural to have dinner, just them. Taehyung allows himself to forget about the pill in his
pocket, the thoughts Ji-woo plants in him, fucking Kai, the fact the most random of Jungkook’s
behaviour is a result of the fact he is currently very much lost and his sister is in rehab.

An iPhone rings and three people put down their utensils. Jungkook raises a finger, finishes chewing.

“It’s me,” he says. “It’s Yoongi, probably about the fight.”

“Take it outside, would you?” Taehyung asks, nodding down at the boy in his lap. “Don’t want him
hearing, it’ll get him excited."

If he hears about Jungkook fighting, they’re never hearing the end of it.

Jungkook swallows, stands. “Of course.”

He picks up as he leaves, doesn’t completely shut the door as he goes into the yard.

“Gotta say, Joon,” Taehyung sighs with content. “I missed your cooking.”

Namjoon snorts. “You missed not having to do the cooking.”

Taehyung nods to the side, considers. “That, too. And not having to listen to people complain about
the cooking,” he adds.
 The door pulls and Taehyung raises his head to look. “That was quick,” he starts to say but someone
interrupts, someone who is definitely not Jungkook.

“Excuse me, why is there a guy in a Hugo Boss suit who very much resembles the Jeon twin in my
back yard?”

Taehyung’s eyes bulge. Namjoon’s food slips from his mouth. Woojin is jumping out of Taehyung’s
lap, little feet paddling excited towards the door.

“Dad?”

“Dad.”

“Dad!”

He knows the drill, spreads his arms and bends the one bit necessary for Woojin to comfortably jump
between them. He straightens on his feet, hugs the boy comfortably, while his hands settle on his
shoulders.

Woojin stretches the hugest grin and with his whole chest, he most proudly announces. “Jungkookie
is Taetae’s boyfriend.”

Said Jungkookie chooses that exact moment to enter.

Their father looks at him, brows flying to his hair. “He’s his what now?”

Namjoon falls limp back to his chair, stares ahead with his hand clutching to his hair. “I think I’m
having an aneurysm."

Chapter End Notes

never thought this would be so long, but its nearing an end, thank you for sticking with
it
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