Chapter Text
Taehyung spends the first day of spring, cleaning out his closet.
It’s baffling, how much one person can own by the time they’re in their thirties. When Taehyung moved out of his parents house around a decade ago, he took most of his bedroom with him, unsure of what he’d need and what he’d want. There’s that apprehension after all. The longing for something familiar and comforting, something that might make you feel less strange and out-of-your skin two months down the line when you wake up in the middle of the night and the wall isn’t in the right place, the window’s not where it was. You realise that you’re not asleep in your childhood bedroom anymore. That you might never be again.
Moving out is different than moving to college. It’s the indefinite feeling of it, not wanting to leave something behind you might have forgotten you love. It’s hard to know what mementos you’ll still care about in a year or whether that sweater will still work with your wardrobe in three.
And before you know it, you’re thirty-two and your closet has become a problem.
He starts with three separate piles: things to keep, things to throw out and things to donate. Simple and effective. The sort of advice any book on home cleaning would dish out. But, very quickly, categories start getting blurred. There’s a ‘things to ask if any of my friends want’ pile. Then there’s a ‘things to reevaluate later when I see how much I’m keeping’ pile. He sees a t-shirt from college and thinks about the sweatpants he threw into the donate pile earlier. Starts rummaging through it again because, actually, maybe he should keep them, after all, and oh? Did he mean to throw this jacket in here? Tries to recall why he would, doesn’t he wear this all the time? He just wore it to his sister’s birthday—
Oh. Right, her twenty-first birthday. Five years ago.
Two hours later, Taehyung is standing over the entire content of his closet, piles upon piles overtaking the floor and bleeding into each other. Realizes it just sort of looks like he threw everything onto the ground. Probably should’ve used garbage bags.
He bends over to pick up a shirt he’s pretty sure started in the ‘donate’ pile and somehow weaved its way into the ‘let’s give it a trial run and see how much I wear it in a month’ pile, hooks a hanger through the neck and steps over the bundles to put it back on the rails. He’s pretty sure he’s got some trash bags in here, somewhere. Tucked into one of the drawers or—maybe in the storage baskets he hasn’t sorted through yet.
Taehyung takes a step back and the heel of his slipper knocks against something; a wilting cardboard box. He crouches down and has a closer look. On its side, in black, scratchy felt-tip pen it says “The Glory Days” in handwriting that isn’t his own.
He remembers he hadn’t found that very funny at the time, when everyone was kind enough to help him move house and Taehyung had sulked and moaned the entire day. He manages to crack a half-smile at it now, pushing the box further back inside. Just so he doesn’t trip on it. Just so it’s out of the way.
He sees the trash bags peeking out from underneath the set of drawers and stands again, tearing one off with a decided fwip.
Taehyung’s stomach growls by the time he’s tied the last knot. Piles assembled into bags, sorted vaguely into groups. He looks at the time, sees it’s nearly six already and curses to himself, glancing around him for his phone, patting his empty pockets down.
It’s under the sofa, he finds out after a prolonged search and he scoops it out, sitting back on his feet with a sigh. A message from Hyerim sits at the top of his notifications and Taehyung nearly jumps up until he reads:
Sorry 4 short notice, but can you get Eunjoo at seven, instead? :)
He melts, relieved and fires back a prompt reply as if he’d been sitting waiting by the door to go and collect his niece for the evening, like any good older brother. He nearly tosses his phone onto the bed before he remembers, right, he should probably actually eat first and, instead, orders from wherever’s quickest: a chicken place a few blocks away. Only because he’s got to leave so soon. It’s not something he does a lot, he tells himself, walking past the delivery boxes in the kitchen with his stuff-to-donate bags swinging from his hands.
Taehyung’s last place had a washer/dryer built in—but he finds he prefers this apartment’s laundry room downstairs. He’s only on the second floor and it’s worth it, he thinks as he bumps the door open with his shoulder, to make the five-minute trip if he doesn’t have to hear the drum banging against the sides of the machine for hours at a time.
There’s only one other person, currently; although Taehyung rarely sees anyone at all. They’ve got their hood up, phone in hand, scrolling, scrolling and Taehyung spares them a few glances as he dumps both bags into the machines.
The stranger grunts, dropping the phone out of view for a second while they peer at the machine in front of them, poking a few buttons. Looks at their screen again. Taehyung clears his throat.
“Do you—need some help with that?”
When they turn around, they’re taking out an earphone, giving Taehyung a puzzled look and, then, something friendly. Relieved.
His eyes crinkle at the sides when he smiles at him. Gentle, jovial, a little bit toothy, a little bit sheepish. The fluorescent lights of the room streaking something near-green across his skin but it’s not unflattering, not at all.
This stranger smiles at him and Taehyung’s heart rattles around like the drum of the washer/dryer in his last apartment.
“That would be amazing, thank you.” He lifts up his phone so Taehyung can see the screen. “I’ve been trying to google it, but this thing’s ancient.”
And it’s the way he says it, maybe: ancient. This man, stuck trying to search the web for a manual of a dryer from twenty years ago that he’s deemed prehistoric. Taehyung can’t help the laugh that escapes his throat.
“Don’t worry, it confused the hell outta me, at first, too,” he assures him, wandering over to the machine and fiddling with a couple buttons. Not entirely sure how the guy’s managed to put the thing into some sort of standstill. He flicks the power button, resetting it and points to the dial. “Just turn it to here—to be honest with you, I don’t know what it does. But it’s never failed me.”
The stranger nods, brows drawn like he’s committing it to memory with a mumbled, “Okay, okay.” And his finger fiddles with the rings in his lip, glinting under the light, a subconscious habit before he points, “How long does it…?”
“An hour, give or take. But nobody’ll be mad if you leave it sitting for a bit.”
He nods again, almost seems annoyed if Taehyung wasn’t pretty sure that it’s just how thoughtfulness looks on him.
“You just moved in?”
“Yeah, over a week ago,” he replies, brightens again. That smile on his face that seems to come so effortless and easy. “Been putting off laundry but I've ran out of socks, so, yanno…” He looks at the machine with a pitiful expression in the black, fleecy hoodie that swamps him, hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels, the rubber of his slides squeaking against the linoleum. Taehyung doesn’t really know what to make of him. This twenty-something guy that smells distinctly like cotton and what cleaning companies seem to think the ocean smells like. The lip-rings and the ancient and the gentle, easy-going way he speaks.
“You play?” Taehyung asks, pointing to the badge embroidered on his chest with a school crest on it, surrounded by Men’s Volleyball Association. The man puts his hand over it like he forgot it was there, surprised by it himself. He glances down, palm slowly inching away.
“Uhm. No,” he says. Looks back up, seems to think Taehyung’s gaze is too much, maybe, and his tongue flicks nervously over his piercings, dropping to stare at the dryer dial again. “Used to.”
Taehyung winces, thankful the guy isn’t looking at him. Feels a little funny hearing that. Used to. A tinge of sadness wells up inside him but, mostly, it’s understanding. The terrible kind, the one that’s only understanding because you’ve lived it, too.
He doesn’t really know what to say next. Can’t really say ‘oh, cool’ because he isn’t sure that it is. Taehyung tries to think what he’d want someone to say to him, but comes up short. Doesn’t know if he’d want to talk about it or not. He shifts his weight, lifting his leg, knee bending reflexively, as his mind wanders off.
Then, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Taehyung fishes it out and sees the cartoon mascot smiling at him beside the words ‘Your driver is on their way with your order!’ Starts to inch towards the door.
“I’m Taehyung, by the way,” he says and the man finally stops pulling at the hem of his hoodie to look up at him again.
He smiles but it’s not quite the same as before. Somehow, Taehyung feels guilty.
“Jungkook,” he answers back. Taehyung holds the door open for him, a silent offer.
“Nice to meet you, Jungkook.”
Some of that easy-goingness seeps back in.
When they’re both safely inside the elevator doors, Taehyung’s finger hovers over the buttons, glancing back at Jungkook.
“Which floor?”
“Oh, two, please.”
Taehyung presses it while he chuckles. “Me too—I’m B7.”
And then it’s Jungkook’s turn to laugh, pushing a hand through his hair when he puts his hood down, the strands that frame his face half-tucked behind his ears. “B4,” he replies. And a second later, “I suppose we’re neighbours, then.”
Taehyung steps back from the doors, crinkling the balled-up trash bags in his hand. “I suppose we are. I didn’t hear you move in.”
“It was pretty early in the morning,” Jungkook admits, tucking another strand of hair in, though it threatens to slip out again before he even says, “I didn’t have a ton of stuff to bring.”
And, once again, Taehyung isn’t sure what to make of it. It’s the middle of March, so it’s not a totally unusual time to move as a student—but it’s still probably a good few weeks into term, for him. Did he have shitty roommates? A bad break-up? Live on campus and then decide he wanted a quieter environment to work in? Taehyung thinks about his prickliness surrounding his sports team and wonders if he isn’t studying anymore, either. Dropped out or got kicked out or couldn’t meet the requirements of his scholarship.
Decides, in the end, it’s best just to keep his curiosity to himself.
“I was uh—I was gonna bring some food around, greet the neighbours,” he says, shy in the way that just comes with being young and unfamiliar with parts of life. “But I didn’t really know if people still did that.” He laughs and Taehyung does too, smiling as Jungkook adds, “Was also kind of worried people might taste it and think I was pranking them.”
“That bad, huh?”
Jungkook throws his head back with a sigh that isn’t as lamenting as it sounds. “I try—but all I make is chicken and rice, chicken and rice.” He shrugs, meets Taehyung’s eyes as the elevator stops. “I’ve been researching it, a little bit.”
“Researching,” Taehyung echoes as they step out, the coolness of the hallway making the hairs on his arms stand up. Jungkook rubs his nose with his index finger, giggling to himself.
“Okay, I watched like, two Youtube videos sitting in bed.” Tilts his head to the side, his hair falling in his eyes. “And then ordered ramen.”
Something in Taehyung spurs with the hypocritical need to scold him for it, but he manages to reel it in, knowing Jungkook would probably look at him like he was looking at some yapping old man.
“Well,” Taehyung says instead, “I barely see our neighbours. So, I wouldn’t worry about offending them, either way.”
Jungkook preens at this, his shoulders squaring back, chin tilted up, “Does that mean I’m your first neighbourly-neighbour?”
Taehyung stops too when Jungkook stops at his door—B4—and scratches a non-existent itch on the back of his neck. Feels some of that odd, youthful shyness he was observing earlier. Yadda-yadda life experience and something about coming across somebody that makes your fingers feel funny.
“Only if you bring over some of that delicious rice and chicken I heard you make.”
Jungkook laughs again and Taehyung thinks it feels like the ca-clunk! of the ball hitting square against his racket and slamming into the other side of the court.
Fifteen-love.
A good portion into Sing 2 (Taehyung’s yet to see the first one) and Eunjoo has lost focus on it completely, invested instead in using her sticker book of ‘cool sparkles ‘n’ stuff’ (as she had proudly put it) on Taehyung’s face.
“Am I pretty yet?” he asks, hands framing his face and pulling a goofy smile at his niece, who takes this question about as seriously as any four-year-old takes any question, peering at him with narrowed, critical eyes.
And, as insensitively as any four-year-old says anything at all, she tells him, “Nope.” And then she sticks another gem onto his cheek.
And it’s right as she’s pinning his hair back with some of her very own star-shaped hair clips, warning him 'dooon’t break them or else I’ll be so mad at you!' which Taehyung deems a perfectly fair reason to be mad at him, that there’s a quick knockknockknock at the door.
Taehyung looks at the clock hanging above the TV with a frown. It’s only eight-thirty, so Hyerim shouldn’t be done with her pilates class, yet. Especially not when the class got pushed back til seven-fifteen. Eunjoo looks towards the door, her little finger about to press another gem to her uncle’s forehead and when Taehyung moves she trots after him, gem ready and raring to go as soon as she gets the next opportunity.
Taehyung opens the door, hand reaching behind him to find Eunjoo’s head and guide her back a step—knowing she has a tendency to stand right behind him—and when the light illuminates Jungkook’s face, Taehyung isn’t sure if he really should be all that surprised, but his chest is light, anyhow.
“Hey there, B4.”
“Good evening, B7,” he replies, smile just as cheesy as Taehyung feels. He’s holding his laundry in one hand and, in the other, presented towards him is a little plastic tupperware box. “Here’s my thank-you gift, for earlier.”
Taehyung doesn’t know if helping work a dryer really earns him a thank-you gift, but he takes it happily. It’s not chicken and rice, by the looks of things. It’s chicken, rice and an abundance of vegetables. Taehyung could probably use the nutrients.
“I figured it was overdue as is—and I followed a tutorial, this time.”
He nods at him, a loose smile forming, “Looks amazing, thank you—”
The door creeps open a fraction more, and Eunjoo takes a peek at the stranger in the doorway from behind Taehyung’s hip. Jungkook’s eyes fill with delighted surprise, widening.
“Oh!” Immediately, Jungkook crouches to be eye level with Eunjoo, who—while generally good with meeting new people—seems somewhat shy in front of Jungkook, fidgeting with the gem stuck to her finger, now, looking back and forth between him and Taehyung. “Hey there.” Jungkook glances up at Taehyung from his place on the floor, a half-concealed tinge of relief to his expression. “I was wondering about the—” he circles his index finger around his own face, and Taehyung belatedly remembers what he looks like, right now, lips parting in surprise, “—but I figured it would be rude to ask. Considering, I just dropped in on you.”
He looks back at Eunjoo, who looks minorly peeved that he doesn’t seem to appreciate her handiwork.
“Now it makes sense, though.” He holds out a hand to her. She eyes it tepidly. “I’m Jungkook, nice to meet you.”
Eunjoo seems conflicted for a moment. On one hand, she isn’t totally sure she likes Jungkook very much. But, on the other, she’s always been told over and over again to treat everybody she meets fairly and nicely. Her eyes flick up to Taehyung. Probably decides that he’ll only tell her off if she isn’t nice and offers her index finger to Jungkook—the one that sparkles with the plastic gem on it.
“You want one?”
Jungkook drops his hand to look at hers. For a moment, Taehyung thinks he’s going to say no, but in the next, his whole face lights up.
“Absolutely.”
Eunjoo nods, courteous, and before either of them know it, she’s pulling on the leg of Jungkook’s pants, tugging him behind her and into the apartment. Jungkook lets out a gentle ‘woah’ as he stumbles to his feet and looks to Taehyung, eyes pleading for help while Taehyung steps after them, saying, “Hey—hold on, Eunjoo you shouldn’t—”
He looks to Jungkook. The stranger that maybe isn’t all that strange. Or maybe definitely is, but just in a totally opposite direction.
Taehyung sighs, drops to his knees beside her when she comes to a halt, one hand still bunched in Jungkook’s sweats and, gently, Taehyung removes her grip, trying to meet her eye although she is far more immersed in her sticker book, flipping through it to find something that seems appropriate.
“Eunjoo.” Finally, she turns to look at him, eyebrows raised. Sometimes Taehyung feels as if he’s looking at his younger self when he looks at her and it is as weird as it is heart-warming. “We don’t drag people places.” He swallows, suddenly feels like Jungkook’s presence is a whole lot more than it is. “And you shouldn’t invite people you don’t know inside.”
Eunjoo’s eyebrows plummet into a hard pinch, her eyes sharpening again. “You know him.”
“But you don’t,” he argues back, poking her nose with his finger and she recoils like she’s been attacked.
It’s probably the wrong time to point out that, actually, he doesn’t know Jungkook. He isn’t sure how to tackle the whole ‘you can’t talk to strangers but I can’ topic without it sounding like he’s just insulting her intelligence.
But, Eunjoo seems to think this over and finds a semblance of reasoning in it.
“Okayyy…” she says, slowly, glancing back down at her book before she asks, “But I can still give him a sticker?”
Taehyung turns to look up at Jungkook, making a tiny shrug that Eunjoo won’t see, and Jungkook beams. His face glows with it in the multi-coloured spotlights of the movie playing on in the background. Jungkook joins them on the floor, his feet tucked underneath him.
By the time the credits are rolling, Eunjoo has used up a good ten percent of her resources, some of the pages she flicks to near-barren. Completely unakin to Jungkook and Taehyung’s faces, naturally, which are stuck with so many gems and jewels that every time they look at each other, the light from the TV reflects off their faces and partially blinds the other one.
She flops down beside them, a gentle little sigh escaping her and she tosses the book somewhere to her side. “That was fun,”
Jungkook takes note of her own appearance and says, “Don’t you want any?”
Eunjoo scrunches her face up, staring at him like the idea itself is just totally silly.
“Nooo,” she says, “I don’t want to look silly.”
Something flickers over Jungkook’s face as he sits back, without a response. The realisation that he’s been played by a four-year-old for her entertainment. Taehyung, more than used to it, lets out a quiet chuckle. He pats Eunjoo’s shoulder. “You want to go grab your things before mom gets here?”
She tips her chin up. “No. Do you?”
Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “No.”
Her shoulders come down, a pout on her lips. “Fine,” she says, pushing herself to a stand. Her skirt swishes as she does and she pats it down, giving Taehyung a very formal nod. “I’ll go grab my things before mom gets here.”
She waltzes off down the hallway, and when Taehyung turns back it’s to Jungkook letting out a laugh as Taehyung shakes his head. They sparkle.
“That’s one hell of a character you’ve got there,” Jungkook tells him, a fondness to the words. Taehyung wonders if he has any younger siblings, any nieces or nephews. Cousins, even. Something about him tells Taehyung this isn’t his first time being made-over.
“Sure is,” Taehyung says. He looks towards the clock on the wall, the minute hand inching past the hour mark. “Her mom should be here in a minute.”
And Jungkook shifts beside him, knees pulling up to his chest. He sees his gaze flicker to his hands, back up to his face. Knows exactly what he’s asking before he asks it. “Is she…?”
“My niece,” Taehyung answers him, and Jungkook gives a big, loosened nod that goes on for a beat too long. “I babysit a couple nights a week.”
“Oh, cool. Okay, cool… and—” He pouts his lips, eyes on the ceiling suddenly as he wonders, “—is there anybody else? Like, roommates… um, partners…?”
“I live alone,” Taehyung answers, and when Jungkook looks as if that answer didn’t quite hit the nail on the head, he reiterates, “And I’m single.”
“Oh, cool! Okay, yeah, nice. Cool—well, no. Not cool. I guess, but like. Nice…?”
Taehyung stares at him. His sparkling face and the wide, nervous blink of his eyes. Pretty, he belatedly realises. And Taehyung isn’t convinced it’s just the stickers. And then he’s laughing, hand covering his mouth as he laughs and Jungkook looks as if he doesn’t quite know what he did but is glad he did it. He hugs his knees a little more, chin resting on them as he looks at Taehyung and smiles.
Things are simple, after that.
Every few days, Jungkook shows up at Taehyung’s door with a new recipe until, one day, Taehyung decides it’d only be fair to repay him.
“Hey, what’re you doing tomorrow night?” He asks one afternoon, when Jungkook’s posted up at his door again and the food’s long forgotten as part of the conversation. Jungkook’s wearing a shirt that sits against his chest nicely—clearly, the body of an athlete—and it’s getting warmer, these days: his sleeves are rolled up to reveal an arm covered in tattoos. Taehyung doesn’t find himself surprised by them. It suits him: his black-and-green hair and his piercings and his dark clothing. The wide variety of gothy-to-athleisure his shoe collection goes through and the way he’s always a different height because of them.
When he asks this, Jungkook’s eyes alight—and then so does his face. A warm blush builds on his skin and Taehyung knows it sounds like a date and he hadn’t meant it to, but it seems that Jungkook’s thinking the same thing. Taehyung stands with his arms crossed in a soft wool sweater that doesn’t stretch across his shoulders the way it used to, with Jungkook’s (significantly larger than usual) tupperware dinner in his hand and licks his bottom lip in a growing smile when he watches his neighbour fumble with his cool.
“I’m—yeah, like…” Jungkook clears his throat, readjusts his sleeves at his elbows. “Nothing. Nothing, actually. I’m free.”
“Are you? Cool.”
Jungkook laughs, immediately goes to push back his hair, other hand fanning out his shirt where it clings to his chest a little, playing things off as he mumbles, “Yeah, um…” He looks back to Taehyung. “Why?”
Taehyung, biting back a grin at Jungkook fidgets in front of him, shrugs. “I was wondering if you’d let me cook for you.” He nods behind him. “My place?”
“Oh! Oh, that would be awesome um, you cook?”
“Yep, used to have a nutritionist breathing down my neck all year long, so, forced to learn a thing or two.”
Jungkook looks intrigued by this, but it looks like the proposition itself outshines his curiosity for now. He clasps his hands in front of him, rocking on his heels again and says, “I’m looking forward to it. What time were you—?”
“Seven? Does that work for you?”
“Of course, uh huh! Seven, it is.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah, cool.”
“So—”
They say in unison, and Taehyung laughs into the curves of his knuckles as Jungkook’s mouth widens into that big toothy smile of his. Taehyung wiggles the tupperware at him, teasing, “You better have an appetite—I’ve got a lot of food to make up for.”
Jungkook flushes at this, maybe at the implication that he’s tried very hard to feed Taehyung these past few weeks and he certainly has. Sometimes, Taehyung’s gotten the inkling that he didn’t really have leftovers, didn’t actually make too much… maybe doubled the recipe on purpose, just by the way he said it once or twice. The telling way he runs his tongue over his lip-rings, the look of pure innocence and nonchalance on his face. Though, he always passed the thought off as wishful thinking.
Something leapt up in him today, however, to finally make that push.
“Seven,” Jungkook suddenly repeats, taking a step backwards like he’s making himself leave before they get stuck in some loop of yeah, cool, okay, nice. He shoots him a pair of finger guns, saying, “See you tomorrow then, Kim-ssi,” before his face scrunches up in regret, a hand over half his face and Taehyung doesn’t mean to laugh as much as he does, hand on his stomach, at Jungkook’s immediate embarrassment.
Ah, so cute—he thinks, but then it’s not just a thought and the words are tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them and Taehyung is the one that’s bright red. Jungkook freezes in his next backwards step to gape a little bit at him.
And then, he glows. The depths of his eyes shimmering at him and so unlike anything Taehyung’s ever witnessed in his well-travelled life. To have been all over and, somehow, this little phenomenon had been right here: like a mini meteor shower contained right inside his hallway and it winds him. He puts a hand on the door frame and lets out a shaky laugh.
“Yeah, cool—”
He manages to stop himself from adding the rest.
What is not so simple, however, is everything after that. And it’s exactly how Taehyung ends up standing in front of his closet with an eerily familiar setting: too close to six in the evening and his clothes strewn out all over the floor.
How casual is too casual? How smart is too smart? It’s not a date, he has to keep reminding himself. He shouldn’t be worrying even half as much as he is. But Taehyung just isn’t sure what the beige of his sweater says about him. What does the neckline say? Is a v-neck too ‘college professor?’ Is it too daring without a shirt underneath?
He shrugs the thing off, tosses it somewhere behind him and wrestles with the buttons of a floral shirt. No, no way—a shirt is definitely too smart. Taehyung glances over the knitwear pooled around his feet, stoops down and plucks out the cardigan he’d been wearing four minutes ago. Maybe this time, though, maybe—
How come every piece of knitwear he owns is beige, anyway? Does he really buy that many earth tones? Taehyung twists, glancing at himself in the mirror as if how his left shoulder looks in this outfit really even matters. Then, he slaps a hand over his face.
God, he hasn’t been this nervous since high school. The butterflies in his stomach, clenching his dad’s car keys too tight in his hand as he stood outside the home of a boy he’d met at his first local tournament.
The night had been a mess, too. Taehyung got food poisoning and spent half of it in the bathroom, a quarter of it apologizing and the last of it driving home in awkward silence.
He drops the other cardigan he’d been holding up to his chest. Maybe he should call and cancel.
…Call and cancel?!
Is he out of his mind? This is the first sign of goddamn life he’s shown in months. His friends didn’t even believe him when he’d declined the invite to hang out tonight—and it gave Taehyung a bitter reality check that he didn’t realise he needed.
(And he doesn’t have Jungkook’s number.)
By quarter past, Taehyung has hung most of his closet back in its rightful place and politely ignored the things that fell off their hangers two seconds later and the other pieces he toed through the door. He also managed three more outfit swaps and landed back at the beige college professor sweater that he decided was just casual enough and—when he rolls up his sleeves—a little bit sexy, too.
Not that he has any reason to be dressing sexily. Because it’s not a date.
In retrospect, he thinks as he shrugs on his coat, the cream pants are probably a mistake. Definitely waiting for a big glob of gochujang to drop on them but it’ll probably be—
He chucks his coat onto the back of the couch and jogs back into his bedroom.
And by quarter to seven, he’s actually on his way back to his building, groceries hung from either hand—just a few things he forgot to pick up earlier. Wine, beer in case Jungkook doesn’t drink wine. Tofu in case he’s vegan. Almond milk in case he’s lactose intolerant. Sorbet in case he’s vegan or lactose intolerant or both. He doesn’t have a plan for what happens if he’s keto. Figures he probably should’ve asked his dietary restrictions. Then, as he’s setting the bags down on his kitchen counter, remembers that he’s cooked for him numerous times and he probably could’ve figured it out from that.
Well, at the very least, Taehyung now has groceries for the next month. And, if he likes, the opportunity to try some new diets. He puts his hands on his hips, absentmindedly checking his appearance in the dull reflection of his refrigerator and, yes, actually, swapping the cream pants for his worn blue jeans was a good choice—and the dusty-pink shirt dresses it up nicely. Not too casual, not too fancy.
Just the right amount of sexy. An appropriate amount. For friends.
He isn’t sure when he started worrying about whether Jungkook thought he was attractive, Taehyung ponders as he begins to pack his shopping trip away. He’d answered the door to him in a whole array of questionable states over the past few weeks—sweatpants stained with the artistic stylings of a four-year-old, t-shirts that were long overdue a trip to the laundry room, bed hair sticking up in all directions from an embarrassingly deep afternoon nap. It never crossed his mind, then.
It’s a silly thing to even fuss over. Jungkook is beautiful—seriously beautiful—but, Christ, Taehyung’s got to have nearly a decade on him. He’s college-age. Time for exploration and meeting people and making some horrendous decisions related to your love life. Not going on a date with your thirty-year-old neighbour who spends his early retirement watching daytime television and taking a week to drink a bottle of wine.
And then, he thinks about how Jungkook had gotten when he’d asked him over tonight. The giggle, how he’d fidgeted and fumbled over his words and well…maybe… Taehyung catches his reflection in the microwave door—a goofy grin on his face—and recoils.
He’s so fucked.
Jungkook is standing in his doorway, picking at the cuff of his jacket: a stony-grey denim that looks like it might predate him. He looks up to meet Taehyung’s eyes and his shoulders shrug up a bit when he smiles.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” Taehyung says right back, hand sliding down the doorframe. He steps back to let Jungkook in whose attention immediately loops around the living room in wonder.
“Woah,” he mutters. Then, he turns to look over his shoulder at Taehyung as he closes the door. “You know, I didn’t notice last time ‘cause of Eunjoo assaulting my face with stickers—but you’ve got a lotta stuff.”
That’s one word for it. Taehyung follows Jungkook’s gaze: crossing over the cabinets and shelves filled—for the most part—with junk. Stuff. And not the good, sentimental kind. The type of junk you get from having no one around to tell you to throw it out. Taehyung finds himself frowning slightly. He had cleaned.
Immediately, though, the thought’s out of his head as Jungkook presents him with a bottle of prosecco, the gold foil glittering in his hand.
“Didn’t wanna show up empty-handed,” he says, rubbing his wrist absentmindedly when Taehyung takes it with a thanks.
“You didn’t have to—this is meant to be my thanks to you.”
Jungkook tips his chin up a little, with some of that boyish confidence he sometimes remembers he can swing around. “Yeah, well, I wanted to thank you for that, too.” And, a second later, “Didn’t know what you drink, though. I’ve got beers in my fridge.” He pauses. “And kombucha.”
Taehyung doesn’t realise he’s smiling so much until Jungkook’s looking at him funny.
“You know—” Jungkook starts. “That’s a nice shirt.”
He’s leaning his elbows on the counter as Taehyung hunts through his cupboards for his champagne glasses. Jungkook touches his own chest, eyes on Taehyung’s.
“And necklace. Really nice.”
Taehyung sets two flutes on the island counter, about to go hunting for a corkscrew—but he catches himself on that, looking down at the gold pendant sat under his collarbones.
“My lucky charm,” he says, after a second. “My hyungs got me it for my first tournament match.”
And scrambled to put enough together to get it, too. Taehyung still dreads to think how much it must’ve cost them—but he distinctly recalls the lead-up. When Namjoon no longer made the trip home every weekend from college because of ‘projects.’ Jimin doing double shifts at the restaurant he hated. Yoongi picking up a whole other job, for God’s sake and swearing it was only because of rent.
Jungkook watches him, his chin balanced on his fist.
“How’d the match go, then? Well?”
“Awfully,” Taehyung corrects with a laugh. His nerves were shot to all hell and he’d eaten himself sick, waiting for his turn. “They gave it to me after.”
Jungkook gives a soft ‘oh…’ still looking at the necklace. A half-cut smile forms on his lips—something in it Taehyung doesn’t have the context to pick out. “I could use one of those.” And then, “It’s a screw top, by the way.”
Taehyung stops, corkscrew in one hand and bottle in the other—he inspects the lid and, sure enough.
Half a bottle down and the pot is steadily boiling. Jungkook’s taken to sitting on the counter, now, and the heels of his boots clack against the sides as he swings his legs.
“No, that’s what I said—I mean, I have sunk a lot of money into some bad skins.”
Taehyung raises his glass, chiming, “Here, here.”
“But that shit was insane. I could buy food for a week with that kinda money.” A second passes, brief. “Still gonna get it though.”
“Naturally,” Taehyung agrees, chasing it with another sip.
Jungkook’s switched out for a beer. Allegedly, the fizz goes to his head and he might look a bit tipsy, in fact: a blush high on his cheeks, his head tilted slightly like it’s a bit heavier than usual. He sees Taehyung staring and his smile breaks wider.
“You know—never would’ve guessed you play games.”
Taehyung lifts his eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Like, you know—you’re…” Jungkook’s mouth opens and closes, gesturing to him in some vague motion.
“Old?”
“No!” he urges, but the curl to his lips says otherwise. Taehyung leans back against the counter, glass resting in the crook of his folded arms, too endeared to actually be offended by it.
“I was top ten in the server when you were missing your front teeth, kid.”
Jungkook shuts his mouth, then, his feet stilling against the counter with a last clunk. Something pulses in his expression that Taehyung doesn’t think he should read into. When Jungkook knocks his head back to down the rest of his beer, it’s with a smirk he thinks he’s hiding.
“Okay,” he says after a second too long, where Taehyung isn’t sure what to do with himself. “You’re not that old, anyways, I’d bet.”
“I’m thirty-two.”
Jungkook’s head shoots up, momentarily stunned. Taehyung thinks he looks a little like a deer, his eyes blown wide. Pretty.
“Oh.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“I mean—no, like.” He shrugs, looking down at his can. His finger flicks at the tab and it pings against the metal. “I’m twenty-four, soon, so—”
“How soon?” Taehyung asks, calling his bluff. Isn’t sure why Jungkook’s comparing their ages, really, in the first place.
Jungkook clears his throat—another ping — “Well, September.”
Taehyung chuckles, running his hand through his hair.
“And I’ll be thirty-three in December.”
Silence. Jungkook stares at him—doesn’t totally look like himself for a moment but it occurs to Taehyung that maybe he just doesn’t know all the ways he can look, yet.
“Right,” he relents, “so you’re old—”
“—Why did I invite you over again?” Taehyung says, but it’s with a smile. Jungkook shrugs, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. His feet kick against the counter again.
“Too late to take it back, now.”
Jungkook groans, one hand over his face and the other gripping the spoon with an iron fist.
“God,” he grumbles, “This is so good.”
Taehyung snorts, chewing through his mouthful. “You said that already,” he points out and slowly, the hand begins to slip down Jungkook’s face to meet his gaze.
“It just, ugh—it needs to be said.”
“It has been. By you. Several times.” He raises the chopsticks to his lips, then pauses. “I’m glad you like it, though. Been a while since I’ve cooked for someone.”
When they all had finally moved out, he and his friends used to have dinner at one of their houses every Friday night—but the busier Taehyung got, the more he travelled, the less and less frequent the nights became. He thinks about starting it up again, now and then, but he isn’t sure whether the reminder of how quickly the weeks pass him by would be as forgiving, nowadays.
This is a nice start, though, he decides, looking at the man in front of him.
Jungkook thumps his hand down onto the table, shovelling another spoonful into his mouth. He throws his head back again. “No, oh my god… you don’t get it.” Then his head’s back in his hand. Jungkook scowls when he eats, a petulant little pinch of his brows and Taehyung feels itchy thinking about how much it makes his heart warm. “Can’t believe you let me feed you broccoli—”
“I like broccoli!”
“—when you cook like this…”
And Taehyung can’t really help it, he reaches forward over the short space of the table, looping two fingers gently around Jungkook’s wrist, bringing his hand away from his face. Jungkook’s lips part, glossy with a tiny bit of oil. “Hey,” he says, shaking his arm a little. “I love your food. It’s very thoughtful of you. And broccoli is fantastic for your heart.”
Broccoli might be, but Taehyung isn’t as sure about the cardiovascular benefits of his neighbour.
“O-oh…” Jungkook mutters. He looks down at Taehyung’s thumb and middle finger fitting snugly around his wrist. Taehyung can feel his heartbeat knock against his fingertips. “Um, thank you, hyung.”
Light, happy warmth spreads in Taehyung’s chest and he lowers Jungkook’s arm back down to the table, pulling away with a grin.
“You’re welcome, Jungkook-ah.”
“Really? You were gonna be a lawyer?”
Taehyung snorts, his knees pulled up to his chest, feet half-over the couch cushion. Jungkook looks at him like he’s admitted he’s two-thirds reptilian. “That’s what the folks wanted, yeah.”
“But, how did you—like, why are you…?”
“Retired at thirty-two?”
Jungkook nods his head a few times, his eyes focused straight on him, interest rolling off him in waves. It’s a funny, unfiltered sort of boyish intrigue. Strange how Jungkook doesn’t seem to concern himself with hitting a nerve and even stranger how he hasn’t. Taehyung finds himself comfortable talking about this for once.
“Because it’s competitive: law school. So, I wanted to bulk up my application with extracurriculars. I was never keen on debate or drama or languages, but sports I knew. Stepped one foot onto the court and thought—oh, so this is where I’m meant to be.”
Taehyung still remembers it, clearer than he remembers eating breakfast this morning. The fill of adrenaline that had rushed over him, how firmly his feet sat against the asphalt. The weight of a racket in his hand. That ca-clunk! as it hit into the other side of the court.
Fifteen-love.
There’s some silly, dopey glint in his eyes because when he comes back to it, Jungkook looks like he’s witnessed a minor miracle.
His voice is small when he speaks next.
“What happened?”
And it feels less like ripping off a band-aid nowadays. Doesn’t feel like he’s snipping open the stitches of a fresh wound. Jungkook holds onto the pause with bated breath and Taehyung feels an odd compulsion wash over him. His hand settles over his knee, subconsciously.
“I pushed myself too hard. Didn’t listen to my coach or my PT. Tore a couple of ligaments—” his finger trails down his calf muscle, like he’s directing all the points of terrible, terrible impact. “Broke my knee, bad. They said I had a decent shot at recovery, but I was twenty-six. Didn’t take change too well, back then.” He sucks in a breath, hand closing to a fist around his knee again. “I didn’t even try. Couldn’t bring myself to go to the physio appointments.”
Couldn’t bring himself to do much at all, for a couple of months.
Jungkook sits with his chin settled on his knees, his mouth downturned, big sad eyes on him. It makes him look so much younger, somehow.
“But why?”
It’s a question he’d been asked a hundred times. By friends, families, reporters, his coach, his team, his peers, his fans. He finds he doesn’t really have an answer, still. Figures he probably never will.
“Some things you just... do. You don’t always think about it. And sometimes when you’ve done it, you can’t bear to go back on it. I was young, I had an ego that just couldn’t take the thought of returning to the court and not being as good as I’d left. Thought my whole world was ending, so—” he shrugs, but it’s with an ease that he’s taken years to build back up to. “I decided to quit before the headlines said I should.”
“That’s crazy!” Jungkook blurts out, and Taehyung giggles, a slow smile warming up on his face again.
“Yeah,” he says, “I know. I shouldn’t have let it go. Should’ve fought for it. That’s what you do when something means a lot to you.”
And Jungkook falls into the quiet then, his gaze casting off to the side, over the TV that’s playing the same five commercials every fifteen minutes. Taehyung really doesn’t need a garlic press as much as they think he does.
He can tell that Jungkook’s thinking about something important. Maybe that thing that means a lot to him —maybe about that little crest on the hoodie he wore the day they met that he hasn’t seen once since.
But Taehyung doesn’t think it’s his place to pry. He’s had years to come to terms with what he’s given up. Jungkook’s probably only had a few months. So, instead, Taehyung does what he would’ve wanted when his world was still crashing down. He taps Jungkook’s chin with his fingers, coaxing him to look at him.
“Hey—wanna play Halo?”
Jungkook perks up, sitting straight—“Two?”
Taehyung laughs. “Whatever you want, kid.”
Taehyung lets Jungkook take home more leftovers that he can probably eat and when he’s leaving him to the door, Jungkook fumbles with the container, tucking it under his arm and pulling out his phone with a, “Oh! Wait, wait—” his thumbs hover over the screen when he looks up. “What’s your socials?”
Taehyung blinks.
“I don’t have socials.”
“Oh,” Jungkook mutters. “...not even… like, Insta?”
He shakes his head. Then, with Jungkook’s bubble burst, chuckles and reaches for the phone, offering, “Do you want my number?”
Jungkook hands it to him, his nose scrunching with a grin. “Sure, yes!” Then, he steps closer, leaning over the device in Taehyung’s hands to navigate to his contacts. “Go ahead.” Taehyung can smell his shampoo and the perfume he sprays his clothes with in a sweet mix of oranges and almond and honey.
He types ‘B7 :)’ and Jungkook looks at it and frowns, fingers nudging Taehyung’s out of the way to retype, ‘Taehyungie hyung :)<3’ and when he glances up at him it’s with a giggle, eyes sparkling.
“Better.”
Taehyung hands him his phone back, heart beating faster.
Later that night, when Taehyung’s lying in bed, his phone lights up beside him and he rolls over onto his side to see a string of numbers pop up.
(unsaved contact)
had a great time tonight hyung!!! ty smmmm for the leftovers
i ate it all~ ( っ ˘ڡ˘ς)
its jk btw
Oh haha. I will have to make more next time.
I had a great time too
Taehyung pauses, fingers over the keyboard, thinking.
^_^
He falls asleep with his phone clutched to his chest and a smile on his face.
They text a lot, from then on. Taehyung had assumed Jungkook just wanted his contact for convenience—or to vaguely keep in touch on social media, if they stopped bumping into each other as frequently as they do—but it becomes more apparent each day that he just wanted a way to get to know him better.
They text about movies they’ve seen, their plans for the weekend, the recipes Jungkook wants to try, the new smoothie place that opened a few blocks away that they should visit. It becomes second nature, in a way, that when something unusual or notable or exciting happens, he sends a few words Jungkook’s way.
One afternoon, when they get to talking about a game they'd both played as kids, Taehyung offers to dig up his old Playstation, if Jungkook wants to come over later.
Jungkookie 💪🐰
ㅠㅠㅠㅠㅠ
ID LOVE TO
BUT IM GOING OUT TONIGHT
tomorrow tho ? ono
no problem :)
have fun kook-ah
Be safe !
And yes, tomorrow is good. I'll buy samgyeopsal.
Jungkookie 💪🐰
MY TUMMY IS RUMBLING ALR
thank you hyungieeee
i wish i hadnt agreed to tonight now lol
You'll have a good time!
I will still be here tomorrow haha
There's no rush.
Though, that doesn't mean Taehyung doesn't set his phone down with a pang of disappointment. But, no, it's good for Jungkook to go out with people his age—make some friends his age. He hasn't said anything, but Taehyung gets the feeling he doesn't have many of those. He knows he definitely isn't in college. Knows he works, but not where.
It makes him wonder who he's going out with tonight. Makes him sort of wish he asked to join.
But alas, having your decade-older neighbour tagging along to a club with your friends is probably a bit of a mood-killer.
So, Taehyung tucks his feet underneath him on the couch with the last third of a bottle of wine he opened six days ago and gears up to watch Pulp Fiction for the fiftieth time.
After that, he watches Happy Together and then he watches Breakfast at Tiffany's and he's just about to go to bed, couch cushions making an imprint on his face from where he's been smushed against them for the last seven hours and the credits already rolled-through when a knock sounds at his door.
Taehyung glances at the clock. It's quarter to one in the morning. Something a little bit uneasy settles over him. He doesn't move right away. And then it comes: another knock. More force this time, like they're banging half their arm against it too and Taehyung hoists himself upright, tucking his feet into his slippers as he toddles over to the doorway. He pops the light on, his limbs feeling heavy with sleep and alcohol and rubs his eyes as he opens the door.
And he isn’t sure what he expected, in hindsight, because it really only could’ve been an axe-murderer or him. And it’s funny how his stomach would’ve leapt either way.
Jungkook is standing in his doorway—and that’s the only glimpse Taehyung gets before he’s throwing his arms around him (and most of his weight, too) unsteady on his feet. Taehyung’s hands fly to his waist to hold him up and the smell of alcohol hits him all at once, potent and thick in the air. Jungkook’s face tucks into the crook of Taehyung’s neck and his face is hot against his skin.
“Woah, there, kid—what’s up?”
“Missed you, hyungie…” he mumbles into his neck. Taehyung sends a silent prayer above as he pulls Jungkook back a little bit, peering at his face. His eyes are painted with a smoke that makes the deep brown of his eyes look piercing, the faint trace of glitter on his cheeks. His lips are red, swollen, the silver rings either side glittering in the porchlight. There’s a darkening cluster of bruises on his neck. Taehyung swallows, following them down. His shirt is more unbuttoned than buttoned, exposing most of his chest and the ends are tucked into skin-tight jeans.
Above all, he is drunk. That much has been made very clear, and Taehyung squeezes his waist in his hands to get him to focus because Jungkook’s attention has gone straight to the way Taehyung’s shirt hangs off him, lying open, undone. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but he wishes he’d thrown on something else, now.
“Jungkook-ah—” he says firmly to wrestle with the man’s curiosity, “How did you get home?”
“Uber—” he says, and it’s funny the way the word comes out in two short, separate syllables like his tongue struggles with them. “Was gonna go home with this guy but I missed you.”
The correlation there is totally lost on him and Taehyung fumbles for words that don’t involve the man that left those hickies on his neck and how on earth Jungkook’s drunken brain bounced from that to him. And here he is at one in the morning on his doorstep, throwing himself at him and saying things he shouldn’t.
“Should we get you to bed?” he says at last because he needs to stop the man from doing anything that’ll mortify him tomorrow morning and the longer this conversation goes on, the more difficult that task becomes.
Jungkook squints at him, his arms sliding back towards himself, fingers settling over the back of Taehyung’s neck. It makes him break out in goosebumps.
“S’that an invitation?”
Taehyung snorts. “What?—” he starts, but Jungkook’s already got his hands on his shoulders, pushing him into his apartment. Taehyung lets him for a couple of steps, amused at his antics but, then, he takes Jungkook by the elbows, slowing him to a halt.
His skin is soft and warm in his hands with his sleeves rolled up and Jungkook breathes out, shaky, when he looks at him.
Taehyung twirls them around, directing his jelly-boned body to the couch, saying, “Okay, okay—you sit right there. I’m gonna get you some water, yeah?” Jungkook shifts to follow him but Taehyung taps his finger against his nose. He tries to look at his finger and it makes his eyes cross. “Don’t go anywhere, Kook-ah. Hyung’s gonna get you some water, okay? Water?”
At that, Jungkook bats his hand away, sitting back sulkily into the couch cushions. And, upset as he might be, he’s too moody to try and follow him again so Taehyung snatches the opportunity.
He sits down beside Jungkook a moment later, offering the glass in his hand, but Jungkook simply huffs, his arms crossed over his chest.
Taehyung sighs.
“You’re probably really dehydrated, Kookie.”
The nickname earns him a side-eye, his lips pressed together in a pout. Taehyung reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind Jungkook’s ear.
“Tell hyung what’s the matter.”
“M’not a kid,” he mumbles after a moment, cheeks pink.
“I didn’t say you were—you’ll just be a handful tomorrow if you have a hangover.” He lifts the glass to catch in his peripheral again. Jungkook dutifully ignores it.
“You’re talkin’ to me like I am.” A short pause, he meets Taehyung’s eye for half a second. “A kid.”
Taehyung’s face falls for a second before it softens. “It’s just a nickname, Jungkook,” he says, carefully. “Do you not like when I call you that?”
“I… no,” he starts before he cuts himself off. “I like it.” Taehyung fights off a smile. “It’s—just. I don’t want you to treat me like one.”
Taehyung doesn’t know if he means just now or if he always thinks he treats him like a kid. Taehyung doesn’t think he does—but they do say that a drunken confession is an honest one.
“Oh? My apologies, sir. ”
Jungkook doesn’t laugh, his shoulders only shrugging further. Taehyung sighs, reaches over to pat his thigh, reassuring.
“I don’t see you as a kid, Jungkook. I just think you’re sweet, and cute, so I like looking out for you. Do you want me to stop?”
And, then, it’s like nothing ever happened because Jungkook’s eyes go wide, urging, “You think I’m cute?”
Taehyung hesitates. “...Among other things?”
He reaches for the water with a little grin that makes him look kind of like the family bunny he’d had as a kid. Although, Mittens didn’t have quite the personality Jungkook has. Or opposable thumbs.
Taehyung watches him gulp back the water and when he’s done he takes the glass back out of his hands before he finds out if he’s a clumsy drunk.
“Ready for bed?”
And, relievingly, Jungkook nods with enthusiasm. A pretty little nod-nod.
“You wanna stay here?” Taehyung asks because, truthfully, he doesn’t want to have the awkward struggle of trying to get Jungkook’s keys out and trying to get him safe and sound in his bed when he’s never even been inside his apartment.
It’s also just a nice bonus that he knows he’s not causing mayhem somewhere else.
Jungkook’s mouth splits into a beam. He nods even faster—nod-nod-nod.
“I’ll get ya’ some blankets,” Taehyung says, getting to his feet again. Jungkook looks as if he’s about to get up too, and Taehyung reaches down to flick under his chin. “Stay,” he says, warningly.
… nod-nod.
Taehyung had forgotten about his recent spring cleaning, and the blankets hadn’t been in the cupboard he thought they would be. He paced around his bedroom for a minute, wondering what he could’ve done with them before he finally remembered: bottom drawer in his closet, of course.
When he hoists them back into the living room, Jungkook has been left to stew in his drunken sleepiness, those last couple shots probably sinking in now and his head is leant all the way back against the sofa.
As his gaze steadies on Taehyung, spotted behind the folds of cotton, his expression mellows into something a little awe-struck.
“Woah,” he murmurs, eyes following as Taehyung stands over him. “Hyung, you’re so pretty.”
Of all the things Taehyung expected him to say, it wasn’t that. He must be experiencing some of that alcohol-attraction. Taehyung laughs it off because he isn’t sure what else to do. He tugs on Jungkook’s ear, muttering, “Charmer.”
But then, Jungkook’s grabbing his arm, his grip a little hard. “No, really,” he insists. “So handsome. Woah, seriously—”
“Okay, okay—” Taehyung cuts in before he’s forced to listen to a rant eerily-similar to how Jungkook talks about his cooking. “Here, blankets.”
But, instead of taking them, Jungkook looks down at his shoes. Realising now, he supposes, that he’s just waltzed right into Taehyung’s apartment in them and it’s certainly not the first time, either. And then, Taehyung realises that it’s not just that: it’s also the fact that there’s FBI levels of security keeping his feet in them. Double-knotted laces, a multitude of straps and hooks that go beyond decoration. Taehyung can see Jungkook’s vision hazing over just looking at them.
He sighs, but it’s out of endearment, and he rounds the couch, dropping the blankets beside Jungkook before he’s kneeling on the floor in front of him.
“Let me,” he says and Jungkook watches, enthralled, as Taehyung carefully undoes the most overkill shoes he’s ever seen (something about them’s a little attractive on him, though) and he sets them over to the side of the chair, hoping Jungkook won’t trip on them if he gets up in the middle of the night.
Taehyung makes the mistake of glancing up when he’s done and his heart kicks when he meets Jungkook’s gaze: the TV light reflecting in them, luminescent and alive with heat. He’s looking at him like he’s lunch.
Jungkook’s hand settles on Taehyung’s cheek for a second, thumb stroking until he moves to cup his chin instead.
“So pretty, hyung,” he says under his breath. Sounds incredibly sober all of a sudden. Taehyung feels as if the floor’s fallen out from under him, stomach in knots. He knocks his hand away, standing up in one jolting motion.
“Lay down.”
He clicks his fingers at the couch. Jungkook—looking up at him now—doesn’t move right away. His gaze is still heavy, ignites at the command, full of things Taehyung can’t afford to entertain, but he does as he’s told a moment or two later, lying back against the cushions and letting Taehyung throw a blanket over him.
He leans down to tuck it a bit more securely into the crevices of the seat, just in case Jungkook has a tendency to toss and turn. The heat of Jungkook’s breaths hitting his face as he stares at him is only incredibly distracting.
And then, Jungkook groans a quiet ‘ugh .’
“Wanna kiss you, right now.”
Taehyung’s head snaps up, jaw hanging open. He stretches his mouth into an unnatural, strained smile, a few trickles of equally forced laughter making it out with it.
But Jungkook doesn’t seem to notice or doesn’t seem to care. He wriggles under the blanket, eyes cast up to the ceiling like he’s making some off-hand comment.
“Wanted to kiss you sooo bad that night I came over for dinner. Was so sad when I got home and you didn’t—” He throws himself dramatically against the couch cushions, the back of his hand draping over his forehead with a gasp. “Ah, I need you to kiss me so bad! I thought about it all night at the party, s’driving me crazy. Seriously. Crazy.”
Taehyung can feel his heartbeat in his throat, fingers shaking a bit as he steps back from the couch.
There’s no way any of this is happening. The guilt of hearing all these things that Sober Jungkook most likely definitely does not want him knowing washes over him all at once. Not that he’s serious. He can’t be serious.
Him? He wants to kiss him? When he could get anyone his own age that he wanted?
Fuck drunken truths. Drunk people don’t know anything, actually.
Somehow, Taehyung manages to form words that aren’t just a garble of syllables. He shoves his hands in his pockets to stop himself doing something stupid like reaching out to brush back Jungkook’s hair.
“You need a good night's sleep and a couple painkillers, Jungkook-ah.”
At being rejected for the umpteenth time inside ten minutes, Jungkook’s bottom lip juts out, looking up at him with big, mournful eyes.
“Don’t pout,” Taehyung chastises and instantly, his pout breaks into a tiny little grin. Something a little shy for somebody who’d been about to ravish him at the drop of a hat, just a few moments ago. Taehyung smiles. “Good boy.”
Delight fills his eyes, then. No heat, no intent, just a familiar kind of loveliness that he's come accustomed to with Jungkook.
“Night night, hyungie,” he says quietly, eyes already beginning to close and, for a second, Taehyung wishes he’d said something else on the off-chance that Jungkook remembers any of this in the morning. Something that might give him that hint that they might need.
Instead, he keeps his hands in his pockets and steps back, his stomach wrung in knots. “Goodnight, Kookie.”
Taehyung shuts the door to his bedroom and puts a hand to his chest, feels his heart thundering against the palm of his hand. Then, he thumps his forehead against the door with a groan.