Work Text:
When Yoongi plods into the office to get, first, and foremost, an iced americano strong enough to make him alive to the world and keep him that way, and secondly, his concert outfits solidified and sized up just right and ready for his first ever solo tour starting in three weeks, he does not expect Jeongguk to be there, nor does he expect him to stay for the duration of his entire styling.
Nor does he expect him, from his sprawled position on the floor, because he’s always perching that lithe little body in odd places even when there’s a perfectly good chair nearby, to say, “hyung, you know, everyone’s going to look at you and wish they could get their hands on you.”
Jeongguk says it matter-of-factly. Yoongi, despite the surrounding clatter from the staff with their clothing racks and suitcases full of designer sneakers, and despite the trainees upstairs thumping away their choreography in their non-designer sneakers, does not, for even a second, think he has misheard him.
“I like those pants,” Jeongguk says, like he did not already say as much in just a few more words.
Jeongguk is blunt lately. Has been more and more brazen with each passing day, and it tracks, considering the increasingly lewd photos that Yoongi has been sending to his phone– the same phone that Jeongguk now pulls out from somewhere behind him and scrolls on, like he’s absentminded and impatient and has nothing better to do. Like he isn’t a few taps of his fingertips away from revisiting those photos and viewing them right here in their shared place of work, like the body of the person in the very photos isn’t standing right in front of him modeling clothing. Like he hasn’t been sending Yoongi pictures right back, always with his flashlight on, illuminating the scene of the crime, perpetually punctual and within two minutes of Yoongi’s texts, never longer– and always showing off his abs– his perfect, perfect fucking abs– that are always stained with streaks of undeniable evidence by the time they’re done chatting. Jizz, that is; ejaculation– Jeongguk’s own come, brought on undeniably from what they’ve said to each other, sent to each other– the crime itself–
Sexting. That is what they have been doing, for about close to five months now. They have not once spoken aloud about it.
“There’s hearts on the butt,” Yoongi says, and points at the swooping embroidery of the back pockets of his jeans. As if he isn’t certain that’s the exact reason Jeongguk must approve. As if he wants Jeongguk to know, in case he somehow missed them when Yoongi had turned around the first three times.
He turns around once more. Jeongguk nods thoughtfully.
“There are,” he says, sounding appreciative.
Yoongi does not use emojis too often, except for when his and Jeongguk’s text conversations come to a lull. It is implicit, saying something without saying much at all, simply a way to keep the conversation going, and sometimes he chooses them at random, just to have something to send (though not in the same way that Hoseok experiments with his smiley usage; Yoongi is fairly certain Hoseok has a hidden glossary somewhere with made-up meanings of all his Internet lingo, and he thinks he would like a copy himself just so that he could properly decipher the messages he gets for all their merit and veritas.)
Jeongguk and his texting, though– it doesn’t take much to get the conversation started, and maybe Yoongi should feel lucky because Jeongguk is a busy man, what with his own solo promotions just around the corner and his multiple phones blowing up with emails and alerts from the hottest American producers at all hours of the day. And it doesn’t take much to end the conversation either, to close the metaphorical curtain of their multiple meta-trysts and return to normal– as normal as Yoongi can be after he has seen the dark patch of Jeongguk’s sweetly trimmed pubic hair and the soft, sated curve of his cock slouched through it.
–Or worse, when Yoongi has sent a photo of his own crotch– and he hasn’t been shaving much lately, hasn’t even really been trimming, what with this air of abstinence he’s unintentionally taken on in his life lately, sans these exchanges with none other than the youngest fellow member of his decade-old band and one of his closest friends, most trusted mentees, etcetera, etcetera, Yoongi could go on and on about how fucked all of this is–
But somehow, despite it all, he’s feeling fine about it. Really, actually, he really is– and he’d tell anyone who asked him, except there’s nobody who would, because no one has even the slightest idea.
No one knows. No one is going to know. (If he tells Namjoon, he’ll tell Seokjin; if he tells Taehyung, he’ll tell Jimin; if he tells Hoseok, he’ll talk to Jeongguk about it after a couple drinks and a meaningless vow to Yoongi that he can trust him and his mouth is sealed and really, Hoseok should get some duct tape, his mouth is that very, very sealed.)
So when they’re done, the process is simple. Yoongi sends Jeongguk some stupid emoji that he doesn’t think is particularly funny, but it earns an overflow of “ㅋ” characters on his screen in return, and then they end up talking about something else so quickly and so easily that Yoongi doesn’t really find the time to overthink any of it– not even how his knuckles might have looked knobby and unsexy in that one hasty snapshot she sent while he was jerking himself off, or how Jeongguk could probably catch the bite of his teeth on his lower lip in the two second video he sent when he was– once again– jerking himself off. He hasn’t really gotten too creative. Hasn’t shown Jeongguk much variety, hasn’t given him anything new to work with, not in months.
Months. Three and a half months, to be exact. That’s how long this has been going on, and yet once a week, without fail, if not more often, Jeongguk will text him. One time, they even called, but Yoongi was tipsy and Jeongguk was drunk and Yoongi didn’t let himself come, not for real, until the dial tone had beeped in his ear, loud and grating and rushing along with all the blood in his body heading south.
Three months, and yet they have not talked about it once. Not even a little bit.
Sometimes, Jeongguk forgets.
Life is busy and the promotions are never ending and everything that happens is already gone and in the past before he even has time to process that it’s in the future, much less that it’s today. He is usually jet-lagged, and when he isn’t, it feels so abnormal that he convinces himself he is. He never eats dinner at the right times. He is often sleeping when the sun is rising, getting up for the day once it is dusk. Last week when Namjoon saw him, he had ruffled his hair, getting longer by the day, and said in maybe the most earnest voice Jeongguk had ever heard, “I know you don’t need to hear this, but keep your head on straight.” Like he wasn’t so worried that Jeongguk would get thrown off-kilter after all these years of being a pro at this tightrope walk of a career, but rather that he thought someone might come out from nowhere and shove him off balance.
But: “Jeonggukie’s unbreakable,” Namjoon told the staff who was picking up his lunch, and Jeongguk, pretending to be out of earshot, blushed crimson anyway, felt that familiar giddiness of praise rise up in his chest like he’d just drank a whole bottle of champagne, and he hurried off to the studio to work on his next demo. He’d been holed up in there for the next six hours, then went home to sleep, do a livestream, eat cold noodles, and head back to the studio. Like clockwork, and that giddy feeling faded only a little with time and exhaustion and early mornings spent hunched over his notebook.
So sometimes, Jeongguk forgets. Now, with Yoongi standing in front of him and modeling ripped jeans, is not one of those times.
“I like those pants,” Jeongguk says.
“I gathered that.” Yoongi doesn’t mean to roll his eyes. He does, just a little bit, and then puts one hand on his hip to do this frankly adorable, almost dainty model pose, the same one he’s done for the past hour and a half, starting as a joke but shapeshifting into something genuine, humorous, maybe even worthwhile when Jeongguk cackles and claps from his point of observation. Jeongguk has done that every time Yoongi has done so much as swap out the rings on his fingers. They are hardly noticeable, nearly identical, and yet Jeongguk “oohs” and “aahs” like the one millimeter difference between the metal bands is making a significant difference in the overall aura of Yoongi’s outfit.
“I like them. I love them,” Jeongguk says, and he’s growing more emphatic now. Whatever noises had been coming from his phone a moment ago have stopped: text notifications, maybe a video from Taehyung, an automated YouTube Short populating in his queue. Yoongi’s back is still to the mirror, his head turned over his shoulders to check the way the hems sit around his heels, whether they tuck under the polyurethane of his sneaker soles. He doesn’t see Jeongguk when he gets up– he’s a blur of movement, faint, in Yoongi’s peripheral, but he’s always kind of moving, especially lately– and when Yoongi shifts his chin forward, Jeongguk is right there. Right in front of him. Close.
He flinches.
“Sorry,” Jeongguk says, but he's busy staring at Yoongi’s pants instead of his face. Grinning, looking pleased and attentive, eyes wide and glued onto Yoongi’s waistline like he’s never seen him wear jeans in the past thirteen years that they’ve known each other. His lips are pursed like he’s thinking, like it matters so very much to him what Yoongi wears for his encore stages in the states, like he will be there to see it, and Yoongi is trying not to follow that train of thought through to its conclusion, trying not to think of anything except the fact that Jeongguk is here now, with his hands reaching out to hold onto the sides of Yoongi’s knees, pawing at the holes of his jeans– and there’s a lot of them– with his long, narrow, dancer fingers. Those tattoos stare up at him, damning.
“Jeongguk-ah,” Yoongi says.
“I really like these,” Jeongguk says.
Yoongi's thumbs twitch in his pockets. His mouth is dry.
Jeongguk’s phone is connected to the aux, and whatever album he’s put on for them is on its second rotation by now. It’s something lowkey, subtle, easy on the mind. Not the horn-heavy bossa nova Taehyung likes to burst Yoongi’s eardrums out with, each song ten or more minutes long, or the American showtunes Jimin has stumbled upon and repeatedly pretends it is his first time listening to.
“You gonna keep shaving your legs?”
“Ah, you know,” Yoongi starts, because he doesn’t have much more to say, and he is acutely aware of how much he wants Jeongguk to start touching him, and anyways, he knows Jeongguk does know. He has walked in hotel bathrooms to find Jeongguk sat the shower ledges, going at his own leg hair with a concentrated expression and a razor stolen from Seokjin, more times than he can count.
“You’re gonna look so good on stage in this.”
Yoongi makes a noncommittal noise in response. More of a hum than anything. Bordering on a grunt. Words feel hard right now.
“You’re gonna look so good no matter what. Gonna do so good, make us so proud. Make me proud, right, hyung?”
“Ah,” Yoongi says. “Jeongguk-ah.”
“What?” Jeongguk answers. That same quippy edge is there, teasing, but all the same, the mood has softened. Almost sweetly, Jeongguk drawls, “gonna cry on me?”
Yoongi scoffs. He surprises both of them when he says, “do you wanna cut the bullshit, sweetheart, and get me off already?”
It is a command, yet it is mind-numbingly gently. He can see the exact moment that Jeongguk loses his shit, completely thrown off-guard.
“Hyung,” Jeongguk gasps. His expression is– not quite scandalized. Stunned, yes– but eager, more than anything. Yoongi stares at him– or rather, at the top of his head, because looking into those big bright eyes, especially in a moment like this, feels too much like staring into the sun. Jeongguk basks in his gaze all the same.
Yoongi nudges at Jeongguk’s temple with his palm. Jeongguk reels– and maybe he shouldn’t, because they have been far more direct with each other in other ways lately, for so long now, just not with actual spoken words, not in the same room, not face-to-face– but Yoongi sees it. And then Jeongguk, never made of anything but pure godsent whiplash, opens his pretty little mouth, pokes his tongue at his lip ring, and says, “I can suck your dick and make you cry.”
It is Yoongi’s turn to be eager. He doesn’t show it. He flicks Jeongguk’s forehead, and Jeongguk is giggling. Gripping onto Yoongi’s bare knees too, with his palms warm on the crevice where his leg bends, and that’s– distracting. Very distracting.
“No,” Jeongguk agrees. “You’re right. I’m not gonna make you cry. No sad feelings, not now, hyung.” He bends and presses his mouth to Yoongi’s thigh. He kisses him, and Yoongi does not mean to hold his breath but he finds that he is doing it anyway. “Not in the sexy ripped heart-butt pants.”
Yoongi’s exhale is more of a laugh than anything. Jeongguk’s hands pull away and he brushes his hair back, out of his line of sight, away from his eyebrows so Yoongi can see the way they bunch up into his pale, smooth forehead. He always looks like he’s angry whenever he’s particularly pleased.
“Jeongguk-ah, we can’t do this here,” Yoongi tells him. Only when Jeongguk’s mouth is back on his thigh, inching upwards and teasing with those hands at his belt buckle, has he remembered where they are– on both company grounds and company time.
Jeongguk’s forehead lines vanish. Real worry makes itself visible on his cherubic face, but then it’s gone in a second. “Okay,” he says. He kisses Yoongi’s knee once more, like it is typical, like he has done it a million times. He stands up.
“Come over later?” He asks. “I already finished recording this morning. I can cook for you.”
“Okay,” Yoongi says.
“You did your laundry.”
It is the first thing Yoongi notices when he walks through Jeongguk’s front door. The air is warm and smells like lavender and clean linen.
“I told you, I was free all day,” Jeongguk says. He walks towards the kitchen, his back turned. Yoongi chews his lip, does not say it aloud but thinks that if he were in Jeongguk’s position, he would not have accomplished anything even remotely successful in the past six hours. Lord knows what outfits he’s landed on for tour; he asked Mujin for a rain check, to meet up again in a few days. He blamed the weather, said his allergies were acting up from the cold, came up with some bullshit lie that worked. Friday, he thinks they decided on; he’ll have to try everything on again.
“Impressed you could concentrate,” Yoongi says. It is meant to be flirty. Meant to bare his soul a little bit too, to admit that he was thinking about Jeongguk, about them, about this. He is not sure it lands.
“Hyung, you know I’m very good at concentrating.” Jeongguk rises up on his tiptoes to take down a pot from the top shelf of his cabinet. “At least, when it’s important.”
Jeongguk brushes past him when he heads over to the stove. Lingering, intentional. Gives Yoongi a once-over, as if he is waiting for him to follow him over.
Okay, Yoongi thinks, so it landed.
And yet, it is so easy when they talk. The evening feels steady, unchanging, like nothing special at all even though Yoongi swears his thighs still tingle from the ghost of Jeongguk’s touch; he keeps staring at his lips, like he is not fully convinced that the words repeating over and over in his mind, a memory from the afternoon, did indeed come from this same mouth in front of him. Jeongguk’s hands shake, just the tiniest bit, when he clinks his glass of beer with Yoongi’s. Yoongi could chalk it up to hunger or too much caffeine, but he knows better.
Jeongguk is beautiful when he drinks. The long column of his neck, his Adams apple bobbing with each sip– Yoongi has seen it before, but never quite like this.
He thinks of saying, “you got whiskey for an Irish bomb? Remember Malta?” But he does not want to remember Malta, not right now. Because an Irish bomb equaled friendship, he used to say, and they are not friends, not in the way they were back then. Jeongguk’s leg brushes up against his under the table. Yoongi almost drops his chopsticks, plays it off. Jeongguk pretends not to notice. Pretends not to smile about it.
They are not friends, not at all. Not anymore. At least, not right now.
“You leave soon,” Jeongguk says, once Yoongi has forced himself to eat– and not because Jeongguk’s food isn’t delicious, but rather because he is not particularly interested in anything except for the way Jeongguk is licking his lips and groaning a little, like he’s really, really goddamn satisfied.
And he does that a lot. It’s nothing new. Jeongguk grew up around six other boys, around Yoongi himself who will be the first to admit he never learned to chew with his mouth shut– and Taehyung, who never cared much to keep himself quiet when he was groping at his ballsack in the shower– whether alone or with Jimin in there with him, hissing at him to be quiet or they’ll get caught, oblivious to the volume of his own screeching. And Namjoon always whistled in the morning when other people were sleeping. Hoseok danced everywhere he went, even when he was just walking– something about the rhythm of his always trendy sneakers bringing a beat with him wherever he went. Seokjin never muted his video games, and his reactions to losing were often far too similar to that of the resident couple’s noises during those jointly scheduled showers (that Seokjin succinctly and unsuccessfully attempted to ban due to how they were interrupting his video games.)
Jeongguk grew up surrounded by love, a little bit overflowing around the edges. Yoongi can’t imagine him any other way.
“Don’t leave, hyung,” says Jeongguk. He is pretending to weep, coming over to put his body flush to Yoongi’s, shoulder to shoulder until he bends and his head is nearly in Yoongi’s lap. He is wracking with fake shivers and initiating so much physical contact all at once and for a moment, all humor and pent-up boners put aside, Yoongi cannot help but think of the inevitable: after five months of tour and one measly month of rest, he will be confined to almost two full years of office work. Jeongguk will be confined to solely physical work for just as much time. He will not see him, not really, not in the way that he is used to (almost every day), until nearly twenty one months later. Almost two years.
Jeongguk must feel him swallow, must feel the ridges of his ribs tense up under the hold of his palms. Yoongi’s t-shirt is old, somewhat faded. He should have worn something nicer. He put in effort for this, he did; he spent over half an hour looking in the mirror and poking concealer into his pores, into the bags under his eyes, while Jeongguk puttered around his apartment and found time to do laundry.
“I should have worn something better,” Yoongi says. It is a murmur; he did not intend to say it out loud until the words were already past his lips and he could not take them back.
“It’s not a fashion show,” Jeongguk answers. Clever, with his eyes bright. More unreadable than before, but still bright.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Well, it was a fashion show earlier. And you were killing it.”
“Sure, Jeongguk-ah-”
“You were, you’re going to destroy the hearts of everyone when you get on that stage, like-” He mimics some superhero, pretending to slash with their sword. Yoongi searches in the corners of his brain for a comic book comparison.
“Ah, yeah,” Yoongi says, “just like-”
Jeongguk interrupts him. “I mean, don’t worry about it though. Really. I mean, clothes aren’t so important when I’m only going to get you naked, anyway.”
Yoongi forgets every protagonist he has ever known.
“Jeongguk-ah,” Yoongi says, after the silence between them has gone on for too long.
“Hyung.”
“Jeongguk-ah.” He sounds stern. He is not sure what for. He came here for the same reasons Jeongguk invited him.
“You don’t wanna?”
“No, I- shit. Yes, I do. Of course I do. You know I do, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Jeongguk looks like a kicked puppy. The worst thing Yoongi has ever seen. His chin quivers. Yoongi wants to destroy everything in the world that has ever made him feel even moderately un-okay, including himself.
“I mean- I would be here no matter what. It’s not- that’s not the only reason I’m here. Of course, you know that. What I mean is- ah, shit, it’s, uh…”
He only realizes he has his hands on Jeongguk’s cheeks, framing his face and plumping up those seraph-sweet cheeks of his, when Jeongguk’s hands touch his own hips. The weight of his palms jostle him to life. He stares at Jeongguk’s mouth, at the freckle below the swell of his bottom lip.
“Jeongguk-ah, we’re a little overdue, aren’t we?”
The silver of his piercing sparkles in the low light, a reflection from whatever Jeongguk has playing on the television. Whatever it is, it’s on mute. Yoongi hasn’t turned away from Jeongguk to look at it even once so far.
“You should kiss me, hyung,” Jeongguk says. Yoongi considers it a massive feat of endurance that he does not immediately do as he is asked.
“Yeah? You want me to?”
“I’ve wanted you to,” Jeongguk gasps. “For so long.” His eyes flutter closed, like he is done waiting, like the sooner he gets himself ready to be kissed, the sooner Yoongi will kiss him. It’s good logic, Yoongi thinks. He bends forward.
Yoongi has not kissed someone in so long. He has not kissed anyone he cares about, anyone he felt more than a passing spark for in– at least a year. Maybe two.
“How long?” Yoongi asks when he pulls away. He is not expecting an answer, not really; it is more an excuse to brush his lips against Jeongguk’s in a different way, to pull in a breath of air, to change the angle and let his tongue slide against Jeongguk’s lips. “How long have you wanted me to?”
“Too long.” It is not exactly an answer, but Yoongi does not exactly care, because Jeongguk is kissing him again, initiating it this time with his thumbs squeezing at Yoongi’s hips and crushing him painstakingly closer.
Jeongguk’s words echo in his mind as they kiss. As Jeongguk shrugs Yoongi out of his t-shirt, his jeans, his sweater and his socks– when Jeongguk pulls back, panting and licking his lips and exposing that one long, tattooed arm in its weaving path out from underneath his tank top– and Yoongi remembers when Jeongguk had been drafting the vision for that sleeve, then put it into work, then drafted it again and started all over– he had found it hard to imagine Jeongguk as anything other than what he already was. Now, Yoongi can barely imagine him as anything besides what he has become.
“Too long,” Jeongguk had said, and his tone had a drawl to it that Yoongi does not think he has ever really heard before. It is not reminiscent of anyone else, not even Seokjin when he gets woken up from a nap or Namjoon when he is halfway on a sugar high, halfway-in-the-zone in his studio and incapable of hearing, much less listening to, anyone other than his own track and his own beats until he gets the bass pitch just right. It is not at all like Taehyung, when Yoongi hears him on the phone with his sister, deep in his dialect and begging her to not get the same Chuseok present for their samcheon because Taehyung is shit out of other ideas. It is not like Hoseok, when he comes back from his dick appointments with someone that no one, not even Jimin, can get him to reveal the identity of, and he is grinning and nonchalant and flushed all the way to his neck, even as he gets to stretching on the bare space of the practice stage and becomes icy-hot focused, single-minded in the most admirable of ways; Yoongi can never focus quite like him.
It is all Jeongguk. A whole new raspy, unbridled, trait that is all his own, something so downright independently sexy to the point where Yoongi feels a little lightheaded, a little sick and twisted up inside, like he has been lifted up real high and dropped low all at once, some kind of new Lotte World attraction twirling up his insides while his feet stay planted on the ground. An entirely new side of Jeongguk unlocked, or at least existing out of view from Yoongi– until now– and how long could Yoongi have known about this, how long could they have been doing this–
They have collapsed haphazardly onto the couch. Yoongi’s back hurts from how he lies, from how he fell against the armrest, but he will not register the ache until the morning. Jeongguk’s cock is still tucked away in his boxers. Yoongi reaches for it.
“No,” Jeongguk says. “Let me…just, can you let me? Please.”
“Okay,” Yoongi says, and everything inside of him feels like it is burning and alight when Jeongguk bends to his knees on the floor of his own apartment and pulls the hem of Yoongi’s briefs down. He is not gentle, not slow, but he does not scratch him with his nails. Yoongi is not sure if he wishes that he would. He is not sure he can make heads or tails of this, beyond the wanting in the peach-pit hot hole of his stomach, beyond the ways he spreads his legs for Jeongguk, lets him settle in between his knees.
“Just wanna do this for you.”
“Okay,” Yoongi says. Because really, that is all there is to say.
He does attempt to make a comment about Jeongguk being sexy, because really, it needs to be said. It dies somewhere between Jeongguk’s mouth pursing around the very tip of Yoongi’s cockhead and the brush of Jeongguk’s hair against his thighs. His hair is getting long.
Pretty. Yoongi’s next objective when he finds the strength to open his mouth will be to call him pretty. Jeongguk has always responded well to that, even long before Yoongi ever let him get acquainted with the size and shape of his shaft, even just over video camera.
Jeongguk’s tongue scrapes along his hip bone. A feverish kiss that is more so for him to catch his breath than anything, but Yoongi relishes it. Then Jeongguk’s hands are on his asscheeks, his firm fingertips pressing him down and holding him open on the sheets, fresh out the dryer and warm under Yoongi’s knees– and Yoongi hadn’t realized Jeongguk had put it over the couch, had prepared for this, had expected the pair of them to not even be able to make it to the bedroom–
And then Jeongguk’s cheek is flush to his thigh when Yoongi is pushing him down, palm on the back of his head followed by his fingers sweeping his hair away from his forehead. A kiss after a shove of sorts, slowing him down, steadying him.
“Easy,” Yoongi says. He is only chiding a little bit. “You want to fuck?”
Jeongguk’s eyes widen, comically big. He keeps his face pressed to Yoongi’s thigh, really because he has no choice considering how Yoongi’s fingers are still carding through his hair, and says, “you want me to do it?”
Sweet Jeongguk: always selfless, always so willing to give. Yoongi releases him. A hard breath forces its way out of his chest with the way Jeongguk immediately lunges for his cock again, just to lap at the tip, to purse his mouth at the drops of precum and really suction his tongue at it, like he missed it in the few seconds he was away. Like he was just roaring to go while Yoongi had him pinned, like a dog held back from a bone.
“I want whatever you want,” Yoongi says. It is true. Jeongguk could stop this, could say it’s enough, Yoongi would quit and never allow himself to dream of it again. But, based on the way Jeongguk’s head falls back to Yoongi’s thigh, grounding himself once more, Yoongi imagines he is far from stopping.
“Can we go to the bed?” Jeongguk asks.
“You put the sheets out here for nothing?” Yoongi teases, but he is already on his feet, already following Jeongguk into the direction of his room. It smells like rosewood and mint, and the air is cooler than the living room had been. The shades are drawn tight.
“Wanna see you better,” Jeongguk says, laying down and pulling Yoongi with him. His hands clasp at the inner seam of both of Yoongi’s elbows. Yoongi does not say that he should maybe turn on a light if he wants to see him. Maybe it is better, easier, in the dark. Less of a real thing, or at least more like a virtual thing, like they had been doing before.
But then Jeongguk is rolling over, getting up and turning on these galaxy lights from somewhere under his bed, inviting this soft whirring noise and a fluorescent glow of sparkles and shimmers across his ceiling– and Yoongi remembers Jeongguk is just a boy. He is holding lube and two condoms, presumptuous. Yoongi does not know where he got it from, did not see the mad dash to the bedside table to retrieve them. He seems so proud of himself.
Yoongi loves this boy. It is maybe not the way he should love him, and certainly not the way that his parents love each other, or the way that Jimin and Taehyung love each other, or the way that Hoseok and his newest situationship love each other, but he loves him. It is swelling and glowing in his chest and just as bright as the fake moon projected on the ceiling of Jeongguk’s apartment– his apartment that he would never be in if it weren’t for Yoongi. For the seven of them and their strange, magical, spectacle of triumph. For a little bit of luck, or maybe just a lot of hard work, and Yoongi’s jailbroken GarageBand software.
“You should have brought those pants,” Jeongguk says. His cheeks are raised up high, dimpling with a smile. Yoongi aches to kiss them.
“They’re in my bag,” Yoongi answers.
Jeongguk gapes at him. “Really?!”
“No.”
Jeongguk mutters under his breath. Listens to Yoongi laugh until he laughs too, and then he is rolling Yoongi over, onto his back, saying, “listen, I’ve been patient, but I really, really want this now.”
“And what is this, exactly?” Yoongi asks, like his forearms aren’t already steady beneath his shoulder blades, his ass poised and perched up high and waiting.
Jeongguk’s hand smooths down the curve of his crack, along the soft inner flesh parallel to his perineum.
“Can I?” he asks. It is so gentle, so cautious that Yoongi almost wants to ask if it is his first time. He knows the answer to that, though.
“Go on,” Yoongi tells him, and reaches back for his hand until Jeongguk takes it, squeezes, a nice little tender moment, and then Yoongi rises up to his knees and coaxes Jeongguk’s hand right where he wants it, for a different little tender thing.
“You prepped,” Jeongguk says.
“I don’t know why you’re surprised.”
“Well- I didn’t know-”
“You knew,” Yoongi says, breathy. Jeongguk’s fingers prod featherlight at his hole. “You knew, you knew. Eventually, sooner or later, Jeongguk-ah, you knew, right?”
Yoongi is bullshitting. He did not even know himself. Still, as he lets his head drop to Jeongguk’s pillow, as he lets his body go lax from the adjustment of pressure, the steady pace of Jeongguk’s easing fingers, he thinks he has spoken the truth. Sooner or later– Yoongi does not want to think of the later, of Jeongguk fresh out of his service, a chip finally cleared from both of their shoulders– and maybe it’d take them ‘til they were both in their thirties ‘til they lost it and gave in, making out backstage before some charity show and then never speaking of it again– or maybe Jeongguk would have a girlfriend, or maybe even a wife, because of course he would, but Yoongi would be there and eventually the liquor or the stress or just the proximity, the prevalence of the questions unanswered, would get to them, and they would talk about it. Would do something about it, finally after waiting so long, and Yoongi can imagine it, can see all the various ways it could play out.
He doesn’t like any of it. He likes this: right now, with Jeongguk’s solid weight and serene warmth swaying into him, with his fingers pressing up nice against his prostate, all this guilty, relieved pressure boiling in Yoongi’s stomach from it, while Jeongguk says, “I’m so glad we finally get to do this.”
“Me too,” Yoongi says, because he is incapable of being dishonest when Jeongguk is fingerfucking him so delicately, and also because he does not see the point in being purposefully obtuse anymore. But, just to be sexy, he quickly says, “so, you would’ve let me top you?”
“Still would,” Jeongguk answers. He does not miss a beat. He pulls back, makes Yoongi whine at the loss of contact. It is enough to make Yoongi consider reaching back and shoving his own fingers inside, just to keep the feeling alive, but Jeongguk is fiddling around with something from behind him, ripping into something, and he is pressing the tip of his very cock at Yoongi’s asshole, saying, “maybe in the morning? If you stay?”
Yoongi’s eyes roll. “Shit,” he says, and it is both about the way that Jeongguk speaks and the way that he slides into him. Really, Yoongi is the one doing the work, guiding his hips back, pulling his center of gravity with him and aligning his core and all that shit, working hard to rock back into Jeongguk’s angled crotch to meet him just right.
It goes on for about two minutes before Yoongi realizes he is doing all the work. Jeongguk is kneeling, his hands rising and falling across Yoongi’s back, touching him like he’s mapping something out. When Yoongi turns his head to look at him, it punches something deeper inside of him, makes his breaths come out sharper. Maybe it’s the sight of Jeongguk, his jaw set, shoulders clenching, the fast flurry of his cock blurring in Yoongi’s peripheral.
“Jeongguk-ah,” Yoongi says.
“Hyung,” Jeongguk answers. It seems as much of an acknowledgement as he can muster. But he must get the hint– he leans forward, a jack-rabbit pulse of his hips making something in Yoongi clench and shudder, making the air in the room get hotter, more humid–
“You sound good,” Yoongi says. He has to say it twice; his voice gets too mumbled from the fabric of the pillow on Jeongguk’s next stroke in. He is going harder now, pushing even closer to the very thing that makes Yoongi see stars. His biceps burn from his grip on the bed sheets.
Jeongguk makes a sound of confusion, or maybe just another moan. It doesn’t matter if he didn’t hear Yoongi. He answers in kind; everything he does sounds good, from the whines lifting out of that gorgeous vocal box of his to the slick slaps of skin on skin in the way he fucks.
They are fucking, Yoongi thinks incredulously. Finally, finally, and all of this– well, it makes the phone sex shit pale in comparison, miraculously so.
“You’re good, knew you would be,” Yoongi will tell him in the morning, when they are showering (separately, not together, because Jeongguk likes the water far too hot for Yoongi’s tastes, he’d learned this an eternity ago when they were bruised-kneed trainees, Yoongi will wait his turn to not scald to death, thank you very much) and Yoongi has got his chance to get his teeth on Jeongguk’s asscheeks and spread him open for his own cock this time.
“Yeah,” Jeongguk will say, smug. His waist will be scratched with red from the imprint of Yoongi’s fingertips. It’s always easier for Yoongi to be gentle when he’s bottoming, somehow. Something about dominance coming easier to him when he lets the other person think they’ve won, or at least take the physical lead. Trickery, maybe, some form of deceit, or maybe Yoongi is making excuses for the fact of the matter, for the way he likes to put his head back sometimes and really let it happen– really let himself stop and feel, turn his brain off for a minute. Or maybe he will just just look at Jeongguk for too long. He will see the press of his cheek into his own palm while his eyes flutter shut and Yoongi will let the heat of his open hole swallow him right up, down to the very base of his cock, warm and wet like hot tea, like bath water– like something Yoongi can’t even think of, can’t even find a comparison– and that’s why he leaves the sex songs to Namjoon. Yoongi can’t be poetic about it, not when it’s so slippery and falling out of his grasp like this, fleeting and gone and then just a hazy memory. Jeongguk will ride him like he has done it before, like it is not the first time.
But now, with Yoongi on his hands and knees, with his heart pounding in his throat, Jeongguk is the one to fuck him.
“You’ll miss me?“ he asks. Yoongi does not realize, not right away, that Jeongguk is talking to him. He still sounds a bit like he is grunting, making noises just for himself. He is accentuating his words with punches of his hips, and it is the first time he has done something even moderately braggadocious, even a tiny bit of a turn-off.
The press of Jeongguk’s cock is so nice right where Yoongi needs it, so he doesn’t pay much mind.
“Of course I will,” he says. He does not hope that Jeongguk does not say more about it– about what they have been dancing around: of the knowledge of what’s to come, of being apart– and not just from each other, but from everyone, from the seven of them as a whole. Seokjin has already been gone for two months. It is ripping a fresh kind of wound in Yoongi’s chest every damn day.
Yoongi does not hope that Jeongguk does not say more about it because even if he does, Yoongi has nothing more to say. He cannot pretend he does. He laugh it off and he cannot make light of it and he cannot act as if it is not happening, as if it is not destined to happen, not doomed to play out its course.
“It’ll be over someday,” is what he has told Jeongguk before– and Seokjin, and Hoseok, and Namjoon and Jimin and Taehyung. It is the truth. It is not a truth that Yoongi likes.
“You’re so tight,” Jeongguk says. He is reaching for the nape of Yoongi’s neck, to tangle his fingers in his hair. He is growing it out; he is thankful for it. “I’m close, hyung.”
“Alright. Go on, then. Me too.”
When Yoongi comes, he is not surprised, but he also is not sure how it has happened so fast. Or maybe so slow– he could not report how long they’ve been at this, how long Jeongguk has been nudging his cock into him at this good, patient pace, if someone were to come in the room and quiz him. Jeongguk’s breath is on his neck, his hand reaching around for Yoongi’s crotch, getting the pads of his fingers all briefly acquainted with his balls. When Yoongi comes, it is with Jeongguk’s cock softening inside of him, with Jeongguk saying something he cannot decipher in his ear, and Yoongi smiles. Lets go and lets his body shudder and lets Jeongguk witness it for the first time beyond the pixels of a cell phone screen.
Jeongguk is cuddly after sex. Shameless, like he doesn’t have to think about it.
“You hungry?” he asks. “I can cook. I can, I don’t mind.”
“No,” Yoongi answers, because when he gets fucked out like this he finds it hard to remember the other things he needs to do with his body.
“No? You sure?”
“Yeah. Make me a big breakfast in the morning.”
Yoongi does not have to turn his head to see that Jeongguk is smiling something victorious.
“Can I get you anything, though?”
“No, I’m good.” Yoongi pauses, stares for a long time at the flickers of multi-colored light projected on Jeongguk's ceiling. “I’m going to fall asleep soon, though. It’s relaxing in here.”
Jeongguk makes a quiet noise of agreement. He is silent for a long time until he gets up, reaches for his water bottle, and then lays back down.
“In the future, what will things be like?” he asks.
Between us, Yoongi reads between the lines.
“You know I can’t answer that,” Yoongi says. He is not scolding.
“I know, but try,” Jeongguk says. He sounds so eager, so young, like he’s asking Yoongi to imagine dragons or a world without ganjang and what kind of recipes would they have to invent, hyung, what would they do about bulgogi or japchae or ganjang-gejang. He is perpetually young, never aging in quite the same way that Yoongi or the others are. When Yoongi moves his shoulder the wrong way, he cracks down to his bone marrow. Jeongguk could go for a half marathon right now without a minute of stretching and come back ready to go to Itaewon for drinks.
“What do you think? What do you imagine they’ll be like?” Jeongguk rustles from beside him. He has flipped himself over.
He opens his mouth for the real question: “or, what do you want?”
“I don’t know,” Yoongi says. It is not a lie. “A lot can change in twenty one months.”
They could top the Billboard charts while they’re away. They could finally win a Grammy. They could go bankrupt. They could go to war. Jeongguk could meet someone. Yoongi could meet someone. Everyone that listens to their music could decide to stop.
“A lot can stay the same, too,” Jeongguk says.
(The next time they meet in the studio, it’s for a quick intermission of schedules for probiotic smoothies and a run down of the new office layout. Intern offices getting moved around or something. Jimin is there too, double-cupping a latte and a strawberry shake, sucking eagerly and making eyes down the hallway, which lets Yoongi know that Taehyung must be here too. When his own drink gets snatched out of his hand seconds later, his suspicions are confirmed.
“There’s avocado in that,” Yoongi says. He waits for Taehyung’s face to twist up in disgust, and greedily takes his cup back when it happens.
“No, there’s not,” Taehyung protests, but the bridge of his nose is still wrinkled.
“No, I lied. But come on, I want this to myself. Get your own drink. Hyung will show you where he got it, but get your own.”
Jeongguk laughs. From somewhere behind them, Yoongi can hear the familiar ding of the elevator– going up.
“Incapable of sharing, hyung,” Jimin says, which is an outright lie and he knows it. “Evil.” His chin finds its familiar perch on Taehyung’s shoulder and he says, “here,” lifting his own drink to his best friend’s lips.
The straw is big. There’s a joke to be made with it, something about girth, about Taehyung having good lips for it, and Yoongi doesn’t hear it, doesn’t make it out before the two of them are doubled over in laughter. Jeongguk joins in.
Yoongi is still not entirely awake. He does not mind being left out of whatever this is. But then Jeongguk meets his eyes, gives him a slow, barely there smirk, and it is– something different than ever before. Different, even from how he had looked at Yoongi when he had squeezed him at his hips and slotted open his legs and put his cock right inside of him last week. This is something else, entirely.
Yoongi doesn’t have time to figure out what it is now. Won’t have time in the upcoming months either, once he’s off drinking whiskey under stage lights and figuring out how to exist on stage as one person without trying to do enough for seven. He won’t have time even when Jeongguk comes through and sings on that same stage with him, ad-libs all his rap lines and eases some of that weight for just a few minutes of run time – but at some point, he will. And whatever it will be, it will be, but for now–
Yoongi grins back. Purses his lips over his own straw and sucks. Watches Jeongguk go red and turn away and start teasing Jimin about something new, never losing that smirk on his face the whole while.)