Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It was a Tuesday night, and the car was parked in front of Seokjin’s building. Namjoon and his band had gathered for another late-night practice. Normally, Seokjin wouldn’t have gone—he had a paper to prepare. He didn’t want to go. He was tired.

He went anyway.

There was something he couldn’t quite name, something that left him feeling uneasy every time Namjoon got ready for practice or came back from one, gnawing at him. It was there during rehearsals too, like tonight, when he couldn’t stop noticing how Namjoon and Jimin laughed during breaks, their heads almost touching as they leaned over the same sheet of music. No one else seemed to notice. He usually didn’t care—there had never been a time he would feel uneasy. Namjoon and he went a long way and Jimin was a nice guy, Seokjin really liked him. Beautiful eye smile, charisma and a flirt. They had met Jimin when the singer of their group moved away and recommended him to take his place. Jimin had the voice of an angel so they obviously kept him.

But now, in the car back at Seokjin’s, that weight had grown into a massive elephant filling the space between them. No one acknowledged it, but it was there. His hands felt restless. Something inevitable was going to happen anytime now.

Seokjin stared out the window, watching the streetlights blur past, trying to fill the silence. He could hear the hum of the car engine, Namjoon’s fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel. But neither of them spoke. The elephant demanded its place, and Namjoon seemed finally determined to face it. Seokjin would have dropped a comment by now, something to distract the conversation and keep avoiding. He did this almost every day by now. This time, he thought about it, what he could say, but the words didn’t come. He was so tired.

“Jin, starlight,  I’m sorry,” Namjoon began. Jin knew what was coming. But knowing wouldn’t make it easier. “I’m sorry. We’ve been through so much together, and I love you, you must know that.” He paused, searching Jin’s hand with his. “I’ve loved you from the start. It’s just…”

Seokjin closed his eyes, feeling the knot in his chest tighten. He knew he meant it and he didn’t want to hear what came next, but he knew he couldn’t stop it. Not forever.

“We were so young,” Namjoon continued, and Seokjin knew. “I’ve had other relationships, other experiences.” Their hands are still locked. But he could barely feel him. They were so close but so far. “I don’t want you to look back years from now and regret not having that.”

His thoughts began tumbling over each other, trying to come up with a different explanation for what he knew was about to happen. He reached for something—anything—that could ground him in the moment. Maybe he could avoid it again. Namjoon wouldn’t look at him. He hadn’t raised his eyes since he started speaking. Seokjin squeezed his hand, holding as much as he could. He really loves him.

“I don’t care about that.” Seokjin heard his own voice, but it barely felt like his. It was fragile, as if the weight of what was happening was crushing it. Damn it. “I don’t want to meet anyone else. I don’t need to meet anyone else.” His throat burned. The words felt like stones tearing through him, but they came out, one after another, because staying silent wasn’t an option. “Why are you doing this?”

He knew what was happening. He had known for weeks but had chosen to shut his eyes to it. It had always been easier to shut his eyes. If that meant Namjoon would stay, he would do it.

“Jin, listen…” Namjoon let out a long, heavy sigh, like he was in pain. The sound hit Seokjin like a cold punch to the gut. “It’s hard for me to say this. Believe me, it's so hard…”

“Don’t. Just don’t,” Seokjin interrupted, barely able to contain the urgency in his voice. Each word felt like running over broken glass. “Don’t speak for me. Only I can do that. Shit.” His head was beginning to throb. “But… if this is something you want, if it’s not something I did…” He swallowed hard. “Or something I can…” The nausea churned in his stomach, rising to his throat. “Then it’s different.” He was so pathetic.

He searched for Namjoon’s eyes, but he kept looking down, fixated on his hands. Seokjin gripped the edge of the seat, feeling a faint tingling in his fingers. Something in his chest started to tighten, as though each breath was smaller than the last. The engine kept running. Nothing else. No music, no words. Just a dull roar in Seokjin’s mind. And Namjoon, usually so full of words, suddenly had none.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Namjoon swallowed hard and let his head fall back against the headrest. “It’s hard. It’s not you… it’s me. I need… time,” he finally said.

Seokjin’s hands began to tremble. The truth was, Namjoon had a lot to deal with, but Seokjin wasn’t one of those things. Seokjin had always made sure to support him, so much that he often fell short at school, with his friends, with his family. Everything for Namjoon, everything because of Namjoon. Seokjin felt anger rising in his chest. “How much time?”

“I don’t know,” Namjoon said simply. He wasn’t going to say anything more. But Seokjin had a suspicion, a thorn that had been pricking at him more and more each day. He didn’t want to know. He really didn’t.

“I think... It’s because of- him.” Seokjin said anyway, the words dropping into the space between them like stones in a pond. They both knew who he was referring to. But Seokjin wouldn’t say his name. Whatever happened, he swore to himself he wouldn’t.

Namjoon reacted immediately, turning his head with an alarmed expression. “What? No! Of course not.” His voice was filled with denial, too quick, too firm. “Come on, starlight. It’s something else, and you know it. Your parents never accepted me. My friends didn’t get you. Your friends don´t get me. It’s my shitty job, the internship,  the band falling apart, everything…” Namjoon reached for Seokjin’s hand. “You don’t deserve to go through this.”

Son of a bitch.

Seokjin knew. They’d been together nine years, long enough to recognize every nuance in Namjoon’s voice. He knew when he was lying. This was a lie.

Seokjin felt the heat rising to his face. His chest was on fire, and the air barely entered his lungs. Each breath was a losing battle, but Namjoon didn’t see it. He didn’t even look at him. His thoughts made him dizzy. The gate to Seokjin’s building was just ahead, and he decided to focus on that.

“Fine.” His voice came out low, almost a whisper, as if the weight of the night had stolen the strength from his words. “Let’s take some time.”

Namjoon turned to him, stunned, but Seokjin didn’t wait for a response. Their hands came apart. He opened the car door and stepped out into the cold night. Each step toward the building was faster than the last until he was running.

By the time he reached his door, his hands were shaking so hard, he could barely turn the key. And when he finally did—when the door clicked shut behind him—his knees buckled. He didn’t mean to sink to the floor, but there he was. Curled up, lost, suffocating in the quiet.. Namjoon was his first love. And he had given up on Seokjin.

***

Min Yoongi, his childhood friend, had always insisted he had a good voice. It was Yoongi who first planted the idea in his head, who swore that Seokjin’s voice had something worth listening to. They had even worked on a few demos together, Yoongi producing while Seokjin sang whatever had been running through his best friend’s mind. That was why Seokjin had chosen to major in Audio Arts and Acoustics, because popularity had never been his forte, but for once, something felt natural and easy.

It was in college that he met Namjoon and Hoseok. With Namjoon, it had been something like love at first sight. That kind of ridiculous, storybook feeling he never thought would happen to him. They had been together ever since. And Hoseok—Hoseok had been his one true friend in the States, the only one who had ever made the loneliness feel bearable.

Seokjin had managed to carve out a somewhat stable life for himself. He had landed minor voice-over gigs, enough to keep himself afloat. His greatest achievement? Living in a neighborhood that wasn’t outright dangerous and affording a small room of his own. Hoseok lived right next door, and that alone made life more bearable. Hoseok was interning at a prestigious investment firm, which meant he was doing far better financially. A fact that Seokjin shamelessly took advantage of, preferring to shower in Hoseok’s apartment in the mornings rather than run up his own utility bills

One of those sleepless nights, his phone buzzed. A text from Yoongi. His name on the screen brought a fleeting warmth that disappeared almost as quickly as it came. Yoongi, his only long-time friend, who now lived in Seoul. Their friendship wasn’t one of daily calls or constant updates, but it was solid, built on shared moments of music and creativity.

Yoongi:
Hey. Got a job at a decent label. Decent enough, anyway.
They’ve got me making demo guides, and everyone they’ve sent me sucks. You’re the only one who can make this shit sound right.
Let me know when you’re free for a call.
Would be easier if you weren’t halfway across the world, but whatever. Just text me when you see this.

Seokjin glanced at the clock. Past three in the morning. That meant it was early evening in Seoul. He let the phone fall onto his chest and stared up at the ceiling, the glow of the screen illuminating the room in cold, artificial light.

It had been years since he’d last gone to Korea. He remembered winters in Daegu with fondness—the crisp air, the rarely snow-dusted streets, and the hearty food that warmed from the inside out. Nothing like the humid, stifling climate there. Or the flavorless, greasy meals he barely managed to eat these days. His appetite had left him the same night Namjoon did though.

Thinking of Namjoon sent a familiar pang through him, sharper than it should have been after weeks. Most of their mutual friends had gravitated toward Namjoon in the aftermath. That wasn’t surprising—Namjoon had always been the magnetic one. The one with many topics to talk to, with wisdom beyond his years. Only Hoseok could be neutral, but even if Hoseok wanted to stay in touch and talk to him Seokjin wasnt ready to talk, or to understand what was happening at all. He didnt want to cope.

Seokjin’s phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t Yoongi. It was a message from Daniel.

He didn’t need to open it to know what it said. Daniel had reached out before, offering unsolicited comfort cloaked in thinly veiled advances. You deserve better, Daniel’s messages would read, with just enough warmth to make Seokjin’s skin crawl.

Daniel had always been bold, even brushing Seokjin’s arm suggestively when they were still dating Namjoon, his coworker the same economy department where Namjoon worked. Not bad looking at all, too full on charisma and even more on himself. Seokjin had politely brushed it off then, too smitten with Namjoon to even entertain the idea. Now, the messages felt invasive, a reminder of things he didn’t want to think about.

He didn’t reply to Daniel. Or Yoongi. What could he say to Yoongi anyway? That he wasn’t capable of helping? That he couldn’t even pull himself out of his own misery long enough to be useful to someone else?

***

Professor Lee didn’t push. He never did. But one afternoon, after a recording session that Seokjin barely made it through, he mentioned a project, something big and overseas. A game adaptation with major backing, set to record in Seoul. He’d already given Seokjin’s name. “Think about it,” he’d said. Just that.

Lee had always been generous with his support—subtle, but consistent. Recommendations, introductions, quiet interventions that kept Seokjin afloat when things got rough. He wasn’t family. Not even a friend. But he’d seen something in Seokjin early on, and it wasn’t just technical skill. It was the way he could disappear into a character, make someone else’s words feel lived-in. And maybe, lately, that rawness had been bleeding through too much.

People were noticing. Not just Yoongi or Hoseok. Even people like Lee, who only saw him a few hours a week, could read the exhaustion behind his eyes. Seokjin hated that. Hated being so transparent.

But the offer was real. And it was something.

He didn’t want to go.

Seokjin showed up for the audition anyway. He didn’t feel ready, but then again, he hadn’t felt ready for much lately. Everything had become a struggle—dragging himself out of bed, going through the motions, pretending he was okay.

But not showing up would have been stupid. And as miserable as he felt, Seokjin wasn’t that stupid.

The project turned out to have a huge fandom, which explained the secrecy. Before he was even allowed to look at the script, they handed him a thick stack of non-disclosure agreements. He’d signed NDAs before, but this time, the pen felt heavier in his hand.

The game was big. Like professor Lee had said. The kind of title that fans obsessed over, the kind critics dissected. They wanted voices that sounded real, voices that matched the game’s Asian origins. The irony wasn’t lost on him—he’d spent years learning to smooth out his natural intonations, to sound polished and neutral. Now, they wanted him to undo all of that, to sound raw again. Local.

He almost laughed. Almost.

The recording room was cold—not freezing, just clinical. Designed for function, not comfort. The walls were lined with soundproof panels, and a Neumann microphone stood in front of him, gleaming under the dim overhead lights.

On the other side of the glass, three people sat at a long table, scribbling notes, their faces unreadable.

Seokjin adjusted the oversized headphones, took a deep breath. His fingers trembled slightly as they hovered over the script in front of him. Each line was marked with precise instructions:

Dramatic pause.

Increase intensity.

And his least favorite—genuine emotion.

Genuine. The word almost made him scoff. What did they know about what was genuine?

His job was to voice a brave, determined character. An antagonist.

“When you’re ready,” a voice crackled through the headset. Professional. Curt.

Seokjin swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. They wouldn’t let him read the script until ten minutes before. The words on the page seemed blurred, swallowed by echoes of his own thoughts.

The first line came out stiff. Controlled. Too controlled. He could hear it. They could hear it. But he couldn’t stop it.

Damn it.

He hated himself for it.

Stress felt heavy on his throat and mis hands were shaking so much he could barely hold the guide shits steady enough to read them.

He wasn’t sure why, or how, but as he read another line—a line about loss, about moving forward despite everything—something cracked.

His voice wavered, just slightly, at the end of the sentence. A hairline fracture, barely noticeable.

On the other side of the glass, the judges exchanged glances.

They didn’t say anything.

And maybe that was worse.

When it was over, they told him he’d hear back within 24 to 48 hours.

Thirty-six hours later, his phone rang.

Now, he was packing.

His flight to Korea was in six hours.

***

Memory

Seokjin was exhausted.

The first day of university had been… a lot. The kind of a lot that made him want to crawl under his covers and stay there indefinitely. He wasn’t new to being stared at, but being the odd Asian guy on campus came with a particular kind of scrutiny. Some of it was curiosity, some of it was the occasional microaggression, and some— ugh —felt vaguely fetishizing. He’d expected it, but that didn’t make it any less exhausting.

At least there was one silver lining: his roommate, Hoseok.

Hoseok was studying economics, but more importantly, he was nice. Not the fake, performative kind of nice either—his energy was warm and effortless, like a summer breeze. His smile was so wide and genuine that Seokjin trusted him immediately. 

“Come to the welcome party tonight,” Hoseok had insisted.

Seokjin groaned dramatically, flopping onto his bed. “Absolutely not.”

“I swear I’ll stick by your side all night.”

He regretted it immediately.

The party was loud, but conveniently out in the field. It smelled like sweat, alcohol, and cheap cologne. The lighting was dim, mostly lit because of the stars and the full moon, making it hard to tell who was who, but it didn’t matter. Seokjin already wanted to leave.

“I promise I’ll be by your side all night,” Hoseok repeated, as if reading his mind.

Seokjin sighed. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad—

And then it happened.

“Oh my God.”

“Hoseok, don’t.”

“OH MY GOD.”

“Hoseok, no —”

“That’s my song— hyung, I have to go .”

And just like that, Seokjin was abandoned.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, dumbfounded, watching Hoseok vanish into the crowd. He clearly saw that coming, and so he started to walk to the nearest corner to sit and enjoy watching a bunch of teenagers getting drunk. His kind of night. He found a really good bench and was fidgeting with his red cup when he felt a presence.

“You look like you need a rescue.”

Seokjin turned toward the voice, it was clearly his mother language and—oh.

The guy standing in front of him was tall, broad-shouldered, and had sharp, dragon-like eyes that somehow managed to be both intense and warm. He wore loose jeans, a simple black shirt, and an easy confidence that made him look like he belonged here. His hair was cut short, slightly tousled like he hadn’t bothered to style it but still somehow looked good .

“You’re Hoseok’s roommate, right?” the guy continued.

Seokjin blinked. “Uh. Yeah.”

“He told me to keep an eye on you.”

Of course, he did.

Seokjin sighed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his oversized pink hoodie, he felt weirdly self-conscious.

“I’m Namjoon, by the way.”

“Seokjin.”

Namjoon tilted his head slightly. “Not a big fan of parties?”

“ What gave it away ?” Seokjin deadpanned. Trying to sound confident.

Namjoon grinned. “You’re standing like you’re ready to make a run for it.”

Seokjin sighed dramatically. “If I wasn’t socially obligated to stay, I would’ve vanished ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Namjoon leaned casually against the wall, glancing at the crowd. “I was the same way my first year on the states.”

Something about that statement made Seokjin pause. He seemed confident and natural on this scene.

“You were?” He asked skeptical.

Namjoon nodded. “Felt like I was stuck out everywhere I went. Took me a while to realize that people don’t actually expect you to fit in right away. And even if they do, screw ‘em. You don’t owe anyone a performance.”

Seokjin stared at him. Maybe it wasn’t groundbreaking advice. But it was oddly reassuring.

“…That’s actually helpful,” he admitted.

Namjoon smirked. “Anytime. I’m full of wisdom.”

Seokjin huffed out a small laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing.

They talked about their studies, Namjoon was on economics just like Hoseok. The conversation drifted to music, something that made Namjoon’s entire face light up.

“I’m learning how to play the bass,” Namjoon admitted, pushing his glasses up his nose, only for them to slide right back down. “Still terrible at it, but I’m getting there.”

Seokjin perked up, tilting his head in interest. “Oh? Define ‘terrible.’ Like… ‘finger-crampingly slow’ terrible or ‘accidentally composed an avant-garde jazz piece by mistake’ terrible?”

Namjoon sighed dramatically. “A little of both. I tried to play ‘Come As You Are’ last week and somehow ended up with something awful..”

Seokjin snorted. “Yeah, sounds about right. The beginner's curse. You ever play video games?”

Namjoon blinked at the sudden shift. “Uh… sometimes?”

Seokjin grinned, rolling his red cup between his fingers. “It’s just like trying to beat a boss fight. At first, you die immediately. Then you die a little slower. Then, eventually, after yelling at the screen and almost hurling your controller, you survive long enough to land a hit. And before you know it, you’re winning.”

He looked at Namjoon for a beat. There was something about him, kindness, or that steady charisma that didn’t need to beg for attention. The kind of person who meant what he said. Passionate in that quiet, sincere way.

Seokjin smiled wider, leaning back a little, shoulders loose as he tilted his head just slightly. “You know… you should start a band.”

Namjoon choked on his drink. “I can’t even play a full song yet.”

“So?” Seokjin leaned back smugly. “You don’t have to be good to start. Besides, even if you suck, you can just surround yourself with people who suck slightly less, and together, you’ll suck collectively less over time.”

Namjoon blinked, processing the logic like a computer buffering. “We’d be, like… a mildly dysfunctional band.”

“Exactly!” Seokjin grinned picturing Namjoon on stage glowing like he was just right now. “You should do it.”

Namjoon hummed, running a hand through his dark hair, making it even messier than before. “I dunno…”

Seokjin nudged him playfully. “Come on, overthinking won’t make you better at it. Just do it. The worst that happens is you suck and have fun anyway.”

Namjoon exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You make it sound so simple.”

“That’s because it is simple.” Seokjin stretched his arms behind his head, satisfied with himself. 

This was good, he no longer regretted going out, because talking with Namjoon was nice. Then Seokjin glanced up at the sky through the open field. The moon was bright tonight, glowing against the deep indigo sky.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

Namjoon stared at him for a beat, then followed his gaze. “Yeah.”

Seokjin exhaled. “I’ve always liked the moon. It’s constant, no matter where you are. It changes, but it’s always there.”

Namjoon wasn’t looking at the moon anymore.

He was looking at him .

“You shine more than any star I’ve ever seen.”

Seokjin turned to him slowly.

There was a beat of silence.

Namjoon’s face went completely blank. Then, all at once, he turned beet red.

Seokjin burst out laughing, clutching his stomach. “Oh my God.”

Namjoon groaned, immediately covering his face. “Forget I said anything.”

“No, no—keep going. Tell me more about how I outshine celestial bodies.”

Namjoon groaned, dragging his hands over his face. “God, that was ridiculous. I can’t believe I said that. I’m so awkward.”

Seokjin wiped a tear from his eye, still grinning. “That was ridiculous indeed. But… thanks.”

Namjoon peeked at him through his fingers. “For what?”

“For trying to make me feel better.”

Before Namjoon could respond, Hoseok reappeared, looking way too pleased with himself.

“There you are! You guys having fun without me?” He looked like he ran a marathon but with a gleeful smile on his face.

Seokjin rolled his eyes. “You swore, you traitor.”

Hoseok grinned unapologetically. “Yeah, yeah. But I send Namjoonie did I not?  Anyway, let’s head back. My feet are dying.”

They started making their way out. The night air was crisp, cool against their skin.

At the entrance, just as they were about to part ways, Namjoon hesitated.

“Goodnight, Starlight.”

Seokjin’s breath caught.

He wasn’t sure why, but… he liked it.

***

He packed light: one suitcase, one backpack. But at the airport, as he waited for his flight, the weight of everything hit him.

The tightness in his chest. The shallow breaths.

He felt so lonely. He felt like a coward.

For weeks, he’d fought the urge to call, to text, to beg Namjoon to come back. But he hadn’t. He couldn’t. It wasn’t love anymore. It was madness.

No wonder Namjoon left him.

***

Two nights had gone when he remembered he needed to fill a request for the agency. 

He’d opened his laptop and it was logged into Namjoon’s account. It was an honest accident, and once he realized, his cursor hovered over the log-out button. But then stopped.

He shouldn’t have.

He did it anyway.

The conversation was there.

And just like that, his world tilted.

Jimin: You really should let yourself have more fun, hyung. Always so serious.
Namjoon: Someone has to be.
Jimin: True, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself. You’re always thinking five steps ahead. Maybe just… live in the moment a little?
Namjoon: You make it sound easy.
Jimin: Maybe it is. Maybe you just need someone to remind you.

Seokjin felt a prickling sensation crawl up his spine. Namjoon wasn’t supposed to be like this with anyone else. He wasn’t supposed to let someone else soften him like this.

Namjoon: I’m not taking your advice. You’re a bad influence.
Jimin: Maybe. But you’re still here, aren’t you? Talking to me
Namjoon: I guess I am.

Seokjin’s stomach twisted at the words. Jimin had always been flirtatious—he knew that. It was just part of who he was. But this… this felt different. It wasn’t just teasing banter. It wasn’t just harmless fun. 

Jimin: I’m just being honest, though. You looked serious tonight… but not in a bad way. You looked good. 
Namjoon: Ah, stop… I get shy.
Jimin: You’re terrible at taking compliments, hyung. But it’s cute when you try.
Namjoon: I'm not cute. You are.
Jimin: Hyung… you really think so?

The final blow. Seokjin felt his heart stop, even before the response came.

Namjoon: Of course I do. Everyone does.

Seokjin’s fingers trembled above the trackpad, but he couldn’t stop himself from reading. He couldn’t look away.

Jimin: Guess I’ll have to keep proving it.
Namjoon: The next stage will be huge. You better be ready to shine and impress them all.
Jimin: Don’t worry. I’ll be as bright as the sun. Who knows—next time you might end up calling me starlight.

It was a joke. A playful, flirty little joke. Seokjin knew that.

Namjoon: Don’t tempt me, starlight.

Everything froze. A hollow ringing filled Seokjin’s ears, his stomach caving in. His vision blurred for a second, but he kept staring at the screen, as if reading the words over and over would somehow change them. As if forcing himself to see the truth would make it hurt any less

July. The messages were from July..

They had broken up in mid-September.

His breaths quickened, shallow and uneven. His chest tightened, his lungs refusing to take in air. The buzzing started—low at first, then louder, a deafening hum in his ears. Words swirled in his mind, fragments of the conversation replaying like a broken record.

The nickname was the final blow.

The tightness in his chest cut the breath out of him. Couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

Frustration boiled over—he grabbed the laptop and hurled it against the wall.

The screen cracked. The casing shattered.

Good.

Like everything else.

***

The airport was packed. The hum of conversation, the overhead announcements, the hurried footsteps—it was all too much for a mind running on exhaustion and unresolved emotions.

No one had come to meet him.

Of course not.

He hadn’t asked anyone to.

Seokjin let out a slow breath and pulled out his phone. No signal. Roaming refused to connect. Fucking fantastic. He dragged himself toward a quiet corner, tapping into the airport’s free Wi-Fi with a resigned sigh.

It didn’t take long to find the last conversation Yoongi had sent him. The one he had deliberately ignored.

Seokjin:
Sorry for the radio silence.
But hey, looks like your wish came true.
Drop me your address.
And don’t tell me you’re asleep.

He hesitated before typing another message.

Taehyung.

The only other person he knew who lived in Seoul right now.

His cousin had always been a familiar presence during summer vacations, whether in Busan or the States. But living together? That was something else entirely. Would he even want him there? If not, well… Yoongi’s couch existed. Though Seokjin had serious doubts about how comfortable it would be, given the way Yoongi’s apartment was set up. He vaguely remembered Yoongi mentioning a roommate.

As expected, Yoongi answered first.

Yoongi:
Are you fucking serious?
I’m home.

Seokjin smirked, shaking his head before replying.

Seokjin:
Wow. No “I missed you”? No warm welcome?
Will I at least get a hug?

Yoongi:
Don’t push it.
(sends address)

Seokjin snorted faintly. Typical Yoongi—always curt in messages, his tone just shy of dismissive. Yet Yoongi was, without a doubt, the warmest person Seokjin knew. It was just that warmth was buried beneath layers and layers of sarcasm and bluntness. If you were lucky enough to dig through, there was something beautiful at the center.

Yoongi didn’t live in Gangnam, not exactly, but his apartment was nice. Small, cozy. When Seokjin entered, his eyes were immediately drawn to the massive, overstuffed couch dominating the living room. There was, of course, a piano—it made the space look even smaller—and a tall bookshelf overflowing with videogames and a three monitor ensemble over a studio table.

Yoongi, despite his earlier grumbling, greeted Seokjin with a stiff, awkward hug.

“Yoongi-ah, you haven’t changed a bit. Didn’t you take your vitamins or something?”

“Shut up, broad-shouldered giant.” Yoongi stepped back, giving him a once-over with a faint frown. “You, on the other hand, have changed. You’re thinner.”

The words landed like a soft blow, making Seokjin’s smile waver for just a second. He’d lost eighteen pounds in three weeks, but there was no way Yoongi could know. They hadn’t seen each other in months.

“I’ve always been thin,” Seokjin replied breezily, waving a hand. A half-truth, but it was all Yoongi would get. “You know what they say—cameras make you look bigger than you are.” He poked Yoongi’s stomach. “Besides, look who’s talking. You should eat something.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, clearly unconvinced but let it go.  “Fine. Let’s get japchae. You need to eat.”

“Ah, the great Min Yoongi feeding me? What an honor,” Seokjin quipped.

Yoongi muttered something about ungrateful hyungs but said nothing else.

As they walked, the cold air stung Seokjin’s face, but in a way, it was grounding. For the first time in days—weeks—he felt anchored to something. Maybe it was Yoongi’s steady presence beside him, the way he walked quietly, hands tucked deep into the oversized pockets of his hoodie, his breath visible in the crisp winter air.

They were an odd pair, always had been. Both introverts, both preferring the quiet, but their silences weren’t empty. If anything, they were filled with understanding, a language of glances and subtle gestures that only they seemed to comprehend. In high school, people used to joke that they communicated through telepathy. It was ridiculous, of course—there was no such thing. But even so, they often acted before asking. Yoongi would hand Seokjin a water bottle before he even realized he was thirsty. Seokjin would grab Yoongi’s coat when he inevitably forgot it. When one sighed, the other nodded before a single word was spoken.

It wasn’t telepathy. It was just understanding.

“It’s on me,” Yoongi said flatly as they sat at a small restaurant two blocks from Yoongi's apartment.

Seokjin arched an eyebrow. “Trying to bribe me into recording for free?” he teased, stirring his tea with slow, deliberate movements.

Yoongi’s lips twitched into what might have been a smile. “If it works.” His tone was as dry as the winter wind, but there was a flicker of something softer beneath it.

Eventually, Seokjin took a slow bite.

Not because he was hungry.

But because Yoongi was watching.

“So, what’s working for a record label like?”

“Like hell.” Yoongi grimaced before shifting into something more serious. Because when it came to music, Yoongi never joked.

“I’m producing demos for upcoming idols, but most of them struggle with the basics. Either they don’t have the ear or they just don’t understand the instructions. I need a reliable voice with good range to record the guide vocals, something clear and versatile enough for both male and female parts.”

Then, surprisingly, he smiled. “Your voice is exactly what I need.”

Seokjin blinked, caught off guard by the casual mention of something so significant. It warmed something in his chest—the way Yoongi spoke about him so matter-of-factly.

“Still can’t find anyone who can handle your temper?” he quipped, though there was a flicker of warmth in his voice.

Yoongi let out a quiet snort. “It’s not about that. It’s about trust. And talent. You’ve got both.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Seokjin replied, voice dry but tinged with amusement. 

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” Yoongi said simply, leaning back in his chair. “There’s a party tonight. Industry thing. My label’s hosting it.”

Seokjin frowned. “Why are you telling me this? You hate parties.”

“Because you’re coming.” Yoongi’s gaze was steady, unyielding. “You know, basic social skills.”

Seokjin chuckled humorlessly. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It’ll be good for you,” Yoongi insisted, his tone firm but not unkind.

Seokjin studied him for a long moment. Yoongi wasn’t the type to suggest outings without a reason. They were both introverts, naturally inclined to avoid people when given the choice. And yet, here he was, insisting.

Seokjin shifted slightly in his seat, fingers tapping lightly against the table. The silence stretched longer than was comfortably acceptable, even between them. But Yoongi was waiting for a response, poised to argue if necessary. Fine. Two could play that game. And if Seokjin was careful, he could kill two birds with one stone.

“I’m actually here for work, you know,” he added, as if the weight of his own existence in Korea needed justification. “A dubbing project.”

It was true, just not the whole truth.

Yoongi didn’t respond right away, but his gaze remained sharp, unreadable. He wasn’t entirely buying it.

Seokjin smirked. “There’s also going to be a party. In two weeks. And I have a plus one. If I go to yours, you have to come to mine.”

That made Yoongi grimace. 

“There better not be a dress code. I packed like I was fleeing the country.” Which was pretty much the truth.

Seokjin huffed a laugh, distractedly checking his phone. No signal. Right—he’d turned off roaming.

“Can I borrow your Wi-Fi for a second?” he asked, already pulling up his messages. “I’m still waiting on Taehyung.”

Yoongi slid the code across the table without a word. A few taps later, the message came through: a string of emojis and at least three exclamation marks. Taehyung, of course, was thrilled.

Seokjin couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips.

At least that was settled.

“I should head over and unpack before tonight,” he said quietly. “Then we can go.”

**

Taehyung did live in Gangnam.

The apartment code clicked, and Seokjin stepped inside, immediately met with absolute chaos. Art supplies were scattered across the tables, mismatched pillows were haphazardly tossed across the couch, and a collage of photographs hung on the wall in a way that couldn’t have been intentional. The space was loud, not in sound, but in presence—lived-in, messy, warm.

Seokjin barely had time to drop his bags before the bathroom door swung open with force, and out walked Taehyung—soaking wet, towel slung low around his waist, damp hair curling against his forehead. Droplets of water clung to his shoulders, trailing over smooth skin.

Seokjin was unbothered. Yoongi, however, flinched.

"Hyung!" Taehyung beamed, his wide, boxy smile breaking across his face. "You’re here early!"

His excitement was short-lived. His eyes flickered past Seokjin’s shoulder, locking onto Yoongi, and in a flustered panic, he tried to step forward—only for his foot to catch on the edge of the couch.

With a graceless yelp, he disappeared behind it.

Seokjin blinked. "...You okay down there?"

A muffled groan.

Yoongi, deadpan, crossed his arms. "Surprise."

"Hyung. I didn't know you were coming too!" Taehyung huffed, finally pulling himself upright, his cheeks pink.

Seokjin leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms with a knowing smirk. "Look at that. Flustering my cousin. I always knew you had a soft spot for younger guys, Yoongi-ah."

Yoongi’s glare was sharp enough to slice through steel. "Shut up and unpack."

But there was something. Something fleeting in the way his eyes flickered to Taehyung, in the way his fingers tightened ever so slightly around his phone. Seokjin caught it, but wisely said nothing.

Taehyung, ears burning, scrambled toward his bedroom. "I’ll... uh, I’ll get changed!"

Seokjin snorted, dropping onto the couch, making himself comfortable.

When Taehyung returned, now wearing a coffee-colored sweater and patterned trousers, Seokjin took a moment to really look at him.

His cousin had grown.

Not just physically, though that was obvious enough—but in presence. In confidence.

"You look good, Tae," Seokjin said warmly. "The genes in this family are no joke."

Yoongi, distractedly scrolling through his phone, muttered without looking up, "Stupid giant genes."

But Seokjin caught it again—that lingering glance. Too quick to confirm, but there.

He smirked. "Yah, Yoongi. He’s just a kid. Puberty’s rough for the Kims."

Yoongi shot him a side-eye of pure contempt.

Seokjin bit back a laugh.

Taehyung flopped onto a chair across from them, his mischievous grin firmly in place. The energy in the room lightened as they fell into easy conversation, but even as they talked, Seokjin’s mind drifted.

Memories.

Taehyung, six years old and crying inconsolably after losing the neighbor’s dog, face red and blotchy until they found it. The infamous grocery store incident where he tried tying his shoelaces, somehow tripped an elderly woman, and broke her arm. Or the time he accidentally evacuated an entire thirty-floor office building by pushing the emergency button, because—according to his six-year-old logic—it looked pushable. Seokjin had never seen a grown man cry until that day. The security guard’s sobs were forever burned into his memory.

Taehyung had a natural talent for attracting chaos.

And yet, his sincerity made it impossible not to forgive him.

Taehyung settled onto the couch, this time carefully, leaving a respectful distance between himself and Yoongi.

"Hyung, where’s Namjoonie hyung? Did he come too?"

The room froze.

Seokjin did too.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Yoongi’s sharp gaze flick toward him, expression unreadable. Carefully looking at him.

Taehyung’s question wasn’t malicious. He wasn’t prying.

But it cut through Seokjin like a blade.

His cousin and Namjoon had always gotten along—they had met when Taehyung visited the States, bonded too quickly over dumb memes and inside jokes Seokjin never understood. Namjoon had been patient with him, teaching him chords on the guitar, making space for him in conversations. Taehyung liked him.

What would he think if he knew?

If he knew everything?

Seokjin forced a smile. It felt wrong. Off.

"I wouldn’t know," he said evenly, keeping his gaze fixed on the window. The city lights flickered beyond the glass—something safer to focus on.

Taehyung tilted his head. "Why not? Don’t you two talk all the time?"

His stomach churned.

Seokjin rubbed his forearm absently, trying to distract from the itch—the weight—sitting heavy in his chest. He’d stayed quiet online, had made no dramatic announcements, had only removed a single relationship status. But the photos were still there.

There was no reason for Taehyung to think anything had changed. Because boyfriends talked all the time. They used to send messages—Good morning. How’s your day? Goodnight. Even when they were busy.

But that was then. Not now.

Seokjin inhaled.

"We’re… taking some time apart." The words were bitter on his tongue, like swallowing broken glass.

It was the first time he had said it out loud. Seokjin felt like ripping open a wound he had desperately been trying to ignore.

Taehyung blinked, processing but Yoongi moved first.

Stood abruptly and stretched his arms, too casual a bit too forced.

"Party starts soon," Yoongi announced, his voice slicing through the tension. "You should both get ready." Seokjin shot him a grateful glance. Bless Yoongi for knowing when to step in.

"Wait, what?" Taehyung asked, startled. "Did you—?"

"We should get going," Yoongi interrupted, brushing invisible dust off his pants.

The conversation was over. At least for now. But in the quiet seconds that followed, Seokjin knew.

This wasn’t the last time they’d talk about it. And next time… he might not have an answer.

***

Seokjin couldn’t shake the lingering unease from earlier.

Taehyung had been visibly caught off guard, his wide eyes flickering between concern and curiosity. Twice, he’d opened his mouth as if to ask something, only for Yoongi to effortlessly divert the conversation elsewhere. Clever.

For a while, Seokjin thought Yoongi was simply doing him a favor—steering Taehyung away from a topic he wasn’t ready to confront. But as their conversation drifted, he wondered. They were talking about Taehyung’s studies—art restoration, specifically. Their maternal grandmother had been his biggest inspiration. Seokjin remembered her fondly, too. She used to tell him he had a voice meant for the heavens and always reminded Taehyung that his way of seeing the world through art was a gift, not just a skill.

Yoongi, who rarely showed genuine interest in anything that wasn’t music, was listening intently. Asking questions, even. Maybe he wasn’t just running interference. Maybe he actually wanted to know more about Taehyung’s art.

They made a brief stop at Yoongi’s apartment.

"Just a minute. I need to download a file," Yoongi explained briefly, unlocking the door and disappearing into his room.

Seokjin and Taehyung remained in the entrance. Taehyung, still deeply engrossed in his phone, was furiously typing, his lips pursed in a slight pout.

Oh.

This was gold.

Seokjin smirked, side-eyeing his cousin. Someone was smitten.

His own phone was useless—no data, no Wi-Fi, no one to message even if he wanted to. He hadn’t turned on roaming because international charges were hell, and, more importantly, he was avoiding social media altogether.

Namjoon wasn’t much of a social media guy. But his bandmates were. Especially the lead singer.

Not worth the risk.

Instead, Seokjin let his gaze wander around the apartment. It was small, but comfortable—unmistakably Yoongi. His eyes landed on the piano in the corner—the same one Yoongi had learned to play on when they were kids. Then, the bookshelf caught his attention again.

Yoongi wasn’t allergic to video games, but he wasn’t exactly a gamer. And then, movement.

A quiet shift in the room. There was someone on the couch. The dim lighting and all-black outfit made him blend into the background, but now that Seokjin’s eyes had adjusted, he could make out his face.

Oh.

That had to be the roommate.

Something… Cookie? Yoongi had mentioned.

Younger than Yoongi. Definitely younger than Seokjin.

Taehyung, still locked in whatever digital war he was waging, hadn’t noticed a thing. Seokjin jabbed him in the ribs.

"Ow! Hyung!" Taehyung rubbed his side, scowling—only to blink in mild shock when he finally looked up and noticed the guy now standing from the couch.

His expression shifted instantly. He straightened, bowing politely.

Seokjin, ever smooth, followed suit. "Ah, good evening," he said, voice calm, easy. "I’m Seokjin, Yoongi’s friend."

Taehyung quickly followed. "Hello, good evening! I’m Taehyung, Seokjin-hyung’s cousin."

The roommate set his laptop aside and approached, bowing as well. "Nice to meet you both. I’m Jungkook, Yoongi-hyung’s roommate."

His tone was warm, effortlessly charismatic.

Seokjin gave him a once-over. Taller up close. His slightly oversized white shirt contrasted nicely against his fitted black pants, making him look both relaxed and put together. Muscular, but not bulky. More lean, sculpted strength than anything else. And young. Younger than Taehyung.

Seokjin suddenly felt like his very fashionable silver jacket might be trying too hard.

Jungkook adjusted the glasses perched on his nose, removing them to reveal warm, bambi-like eyes, framed by slightly tousled black hair. Seokjin felt his heartbeat pick up slightly. It was probably just nerves. Or exhaustion. Definitely jetlag.

Jungkook chirped, "Yoongi-hyung’s mentioned you before, Seokjin-nim."

Seokjin’s brows lifted in amusement. "Oh? No need for formalities, just call me hyung." Then, with a slight smirk, "Yoongi isn’t much of a talker. You two must have a pretty solid friendship."

Jungkook huffed a small, breathy laugh. "Well… that’s true," he admitted. "But to be fair, he was very drunk at the time. Mainly complaints about time zones and how his life would be easier if you were around."

Seokjin snorted. "Ah yes, Yoongi and flat-earthers—always complaining about time zones. And nothing about my nice personality? Some friend," he joked dryly, trying not to linger on the way Jungkook’s gaze softened at the remark.

Before Jungkook could respond, Taehyung perked up, catching onto the conversation.

"Wait, did hyung say anything about me?"

Jungkook hesitated. A small frown creased his forehead.

Seokjin worried for his cousin. It was unlikely Yoongi had ever mentioned Taehyung at all. It ws true taht they knew each other from the past, but Yoongi and Taehyung wern't exactly "friends".

Jungkook pursed his lips, seemingly about to confirm this suspicion, but then—his brows rose slightly, something flickering behind his eyes.

Then higher and higher.

Oh.

Jungkook’s pierced lips curled into something vaguely mischievous. He was about to say something. Something definitely fun, when—

"Kook."

Yoongi’s voice cut through the air like a blade. Jungkook glanced over.

Oh.

This was interesting.

A quick, silent exchange passed between them. Yoongi’s stare was a sharp clear warning one Seokjin recognized instantly. He suppressed the urge to laugh, watching Jungkook’s reaction with amusement. Jungkook turned back to Taehyung with a playful pop of his lips.

"Nope, sorry. Not a word."

Taehyung’s face fell slightly, but he shrugged it off, returning to his phone as if unaffected—though Seokjin didn’t miss the small pout.

Yoongi, still unamused, shrugged on his black leather jacket.

"Alright," he cut in. "If you’re done getting acquainted, we should go."

Seokjin sighed.

Of course, he’d landed in Korea on a Friday night. He should have seen this coming.

There was always a plan waiting to materialize when Yoongi was involved.

Apparently, Jungkook was coming along, too.

Jungkook worked at the same label as Yoongi, though in a different capacity as a junior composer.

The moment they stepped into the venue, a sleek bar nestled inside a shopping mall, rented out by the label to celebrate some new industry partnership, Jungkook was immediately swept into a tight-knit crowd.

Clearly, he was popular.

Yoongi, too, garnered attention, though his interactions were more straightforward. People approached him, offered compliments, then moved on. Some, however—both men and women—were far more forward, flirting under the guise of professional interest. They begged him to compose something for them, promising gratitude and collaboration in return, sometimes accompanied by a casual touch on his arm or shoulder.

Each time it happened, Taehyung took another measured sip of his drink.

Seokjin watched. Felt the shift in the air.

“Come on, Tae,” Seokjin murmured, placing a steadying hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Maybe don’t go too hard on the open bar.”

Taehyung hesitated before nodding and setting his glass down, though his expression remained tight.

“Hyung is really popular.”

“Well, he’s a talented man,” Seokjin replied in his best wise-mentor tone. “You can’t begrudge him for taking opportunities where they come. Tae, listen—as you get older, you’ll realize that every moment counts.” He sighed dramatically, like a disappointed sage. “And if it helps, I assure you, he doesn’t enjoy the attention. He’s a simple man, but this kind of spectacle is a necessary evil in our industry.”

Seokjin knew how to play his part.

Even if he wasn’t fond of these social environments, he could charm his way through them effortlessly when needed.

The more people welcomed him, the easier it became.

Yoongi, at least, didn’t let himself get dragged too far away. Despite the occasional attempt to monopolize his attention, he remained close, introducing them whenever possible.

Taehyung, to his delight, was recognized by a few industry figures—his social media presence had apparently gained traction. A well-dressed actor took an immediate interest in his photography, exchanging contact details for a potential shoot.

Yoongi, while polite, leaned in and murmured under his breath, "Never give out your personal number. Get a work phone. Take their contact instead."

Good advice.

Meanwhile, Seokjin found himself the subject of unsolicited attention.

A woman—older, impeccably dressed—cupped his face, cooing at him like he was some rare artifact.

"You have the face of a leading man," she declared.

Almost immediately, an older gentleman nodded sagely.

"If you sign with my company, I could have you debut by the end of the month."

It was… a lot.

Seokjin felt the beginnings of a headache, but he kept his expression composed.

He felt an instistent tap on his shoulder.

“Hyung.”

Taehyung was offering his phone to him.

“You have a call.”

“A call?” Seokjin frowned, taking Taehyung’s phone with mild confusion.

It was odd.

Why would someone reach him through his cousin?

He glanced at the screen and his breath caught.

An international number.

His stomach twisted.

“Starlight?”

His entire body seized.

The moment the voice filtered through the receiver, nausea curled hot and tight in his gut.

Somewhere in the background, someone had pulled Taehyung aside for a photo, laughter echoing in the distance. Seokjin barely registered it.

“Then you really are in Korea. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Say anything? Like what?

What a joke.

After everything, Namjoon had the audacity to expect courtesy?

Seokjin’s grip tightened around the phone.

His throat locked up, caught between rage and disbelief.

There was a pause before Namjoon spoke again, his voice calm, almost amused.

"Are you at a party? It sounds loud. Ah, I see. I was at a gathering too, with the band, but I heard you traveled..."

Seokjin struggled to form words, his voice barely above a whisper.

"How… how did you—?" His mind raced. "This number… why?"

His breath came shallow, his vision narrowing.

He felt a firm squeeze on his shoulder.

Seokjin blinked, suddenly aware there were hands gripping his arms.

And a pair of wide eyes were focused, full of concern as he studied Seokjin’s face.

Jungkook.

"...Are you okay?"

Seokjin exhaled shakily, shaking his head just enough for Jungkook to see.

Jungkook’s lips parted slightly in surprise, his brows furrowing before he nodded.

Without a word, he maneuvered them through the crowd, guiding Seokjin toward the exit, where the air was cool and quiet.

Seokjin pressed the phone to his ear again.

Namjoon was still on the line.

“Starlight? Are you there?”

Jungkook lingered close enough to offer support, but not intruding.

Seokjin drew in a breath, steadied himself.

And then, voice firm, he said—

“Fuck you.”

His voice cracked at the end.

Damn it.

“Starlight? What— You’ve never—”

Stronger this time, Seokjin cut him off.

"Shit. Don’t call this number again. Leave me alone and never—" his breath trembled, but he pushed through.

"Never call me ‘Starlight’ again."

And he hung up.

The distant thump of music still pulsed from inside the venue, muffled beneath the steady pounding of his own heartbeat.

As his breathing evened out, the world slowly came back into focus.

Jungkook was still there. Mouth agape.

Seokjin swallowed as the shame crept in.

"...I'm sorry," he muttered, voice hoarse. "You shouldn’t have seen that."

Jungkook blinked, snapping out of his thoughts.

"Don’t apologize. Really.” His voice was soft. “I get it.”

Seokjin exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. His head throbbed—a mixture of exhaustion, frustration, and the lingering sting of Namjoon’s voice in his ear.

“I should just take a taxi home,” he muttered, voice low. “Can you let Yoongi and Taehyung know I left early?”

He thumbed through Taehyung’s phone, scrolling fruitlessly for a ride-hailing app that, predictably, wasn’t there.

Jungkook was quiet for a moment. Then, lips pressed together in thought, he pulled out his own phone.

“No need,” he said simply, already opening an app. “I’ll call one for you.”

Seokjin sighed, fingers tightening around the phone. “Damn it. Tae doesn’t even have Uber?”

Jungkook huffed out a small laugh, glancing at him with something close to amusement.

“There’s no Uber here,” he said, voice edged with quiet fondness. “But don’t worry.”

A cab slowed to a stop almost immediately, its neon roof light flickering.

Seokjin hesitated.

“I don’t have any Korean cash on me,” he admitted, shifting his weight, reluctant.

He waved it off, already digging into his leather wallet with one hand while the other casually flicked his lighter open. A spark. A flicker of orange.

His cigarette lit with a slow inhale. A small ember glowed at the tip, casting a faint, warm light against his face in the dim street.

With his free hand, he pulled out a few bills and handed them over without a second thought.

“I got it.”

Seokjin felt something tighten in his chest.

Still, he took the bill, mumbling, “I’ll pay you back.”

Jungkook exhaled a slow stream of smoke, tilting his head slightly. “If you want.”

The cab driver impatiently tapped the meter, and Seokjin moved to climb in but then he paused.

Jungkook was still standing there, unmoving, cigarette dangling from his fingers, watching him.

Seokjin met his gaze.

“…You want to get in?”

Jungkook blinked, lips parting slightly in surprise. Between his fingers, the cigarette lingered, smoke curling lazily into the night air. He took one last slow drag, then flicked it to the pavement, pressing the ember out beneath his boot and then he took it from the floor.

Seokjin scooted over as Junkook slid into the taxi beside him.