Fuck The Whole Thing Made The Kiss So Sad If Anything - Tumblr Posts

sleepwalking ● 10 | jjk

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers

warnings: explicit language, mentions of blood (just a nosebleed friends), suggestive themes, lovesick characters, SLOW BURN

words: 8k

read from the beginning ○ masterlist

chapter 10 ► don’t try to fight the storm, you’ll tumble overboard, tides will bring me back to you

That night, Jungkook realised he had a new pre-concert tradition: tossing and turning in his bunk on the tour bus.

And it wasn’t the upcoming performance that was keeping him awake. It was the fact that he’d almost kissed you not even two hours ago, and now you were lying metres away from him in your own bunk.

He thought he was insane, the way he could identify your breathing. Although to be fair, that was mostly because Hoseok sighed and moved his limbs back and forth, Taehyung and Luna stayed up whispering into all kinds of hours of the night, and Yoongi just plain snored (despite always claiming otherwise) – you were easy enough for him to differentiate.

But he couldn’t tell if you were asleep or not.

You weren’t—obviously—but, unlike him, you forced yourself not to focus on how close he was. Forced yourself not to hear the soft creaking that was caused by him, evidently still awake, but trying not to be.

It was almost ironic how aware you were of each other, how your minds were thinking the same thing, but your bodies were resisting it.

A part of you wanted to get up. Wanted to walk up to him and ask point-blank, “what the fuck was that?”. But you stayed still, your fists clenched, and eyes stubbornly squeezed shut.

Maybe you didn’t ask because you didn’t know what you expected to hear in response.

Similarly, Jungkook tortured himself with the possibility of simply explaining himself to you. Although he wasn’t sure what he would say. Why didn't he kiss you? Would it really have been so terrible?

But it would have. He knew that. He found himself unable to kiss you because he knew his friends would assume he’d done it to win the bet.

He exhaled deeply and Hoseok—in his bunk, right in front of Jungkook—turned to his other side and stretched his leg out, dangling it over the edge of the bed.

Maybe he should just tell his friends that the bet was off. And if they didn’t agree, maybe he should kick them off the tour. They’d go home. He probably wouldn’t see them again.

But then, would he have anything left?

As his eyes drifted to your bunk again, he swallowed and tossed away the pillow from under his head, resting on the bare mattress instead. He hoped he could at least get a few minutes of sleep.

In the morning, he’d try to focus on other things. It might not work for very long, but he could at least try. He could start by showing the lyrics he’d been working on to Namjoon.

After finishing your phone call with the label executives in Rated Riot’s dressing room during the band’s soundcheck before the Oslo show (Jett Records were thrilled now that the tour was nearly sold out), you were surprised when you turned around and saw Yoongi.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, checking the time on your phone. “Didn’t the soundcheck—”

“Came for a bottle of water, but overheard your call,” he explained, lifting the bottle in his hand. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s perfect, actually,” you replied, looking down to slip your phone into your pocket. “I was on the phone with a few execs.”

When you looked up, Yoongi had a very specific comment about that.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“I’m—oh.” You felt it immediately after his words registered—a thick, uncomfortable warmth under your nose. You raised your hand and instinctively threw your head back. “Oh, shit.”

Yoongi jumped to grab the box of tissues off the table. He ripped open the package and handed you one.

“Here.” He lead you to the couch at the back of the room. “I’ve heard you’re not supposed to tilt your head back when you—sit down.”

You wiped your philtrum and pressed the tissue tightly to your nose to stop the bleeding.

“You heard right. It’s a reflex,” you said, allowing him to help you lower yourself on the couch. “I’m fine, though, it’s—I used to get nosebleeds all the time in school. It’s nothing.”

He still looked worried as he sat down next to you.

“I think you’re overworking yourself,” he said. “Are you sleeping?”

The question you’d asked every member of Rated Riot almost every day made you snort.

“I’m sleeping, Yoongi,” you said. “Don’t worry about me.”

“You were saying that someone from the label called you? Everything alright?”

“Mmhmm.” You nodded and immediately froze as you realised that moving your head wasn’t good for the bleeding. “They’re very pleased. I’m afraid you’ll only be able to rest for a few weeks once the tour wraps up. They want a new record as soon as you’re home.”

“That’s fine,” he said, waving a hand to dismiss your concern. “We’re musicians, it’s what we do.”

“You’ve been working without breaks, though. I’m a little worried.”

“Said our manager, while literally having a nosebleed.”

You looked away and insisted, dignified, “I’m fine.”

“So are we,” he said. “We’re used to this.”

You didn’t doubt it. The four of them lived and breathed music, so they obviously didn’t mind being constantly surrounded by it. Especially Yoongi. You knew he was in another band before, but he didn’t talk much about his time before Rated Riot. And you never asked, although you were certainly curious—not only as his friend, but as his manager, too. The vocalist from Yoongi’s old band had an extraordinary voice, she could have added a unique layer to Rated Riot’s new album. You wondered if he was still in touch with her.

“I thought we’d agreed on putting out EPs for now, though?” Yoongi said, distracting you from your thoughts.

“Yeah, uh, they’re fine with everything,” you said, pulling the tissue away. The bleeding had stopped, which was a relief because you didn’t have time to be stuck here for half an hour with a nose stuffed with tissues. “They’re simple people: the more shows you sell out, the more lenient they become.”

Yoongi chuckled and got up to bring you a fresh tissue. Then he returned to the table by the door and put his bottle down.

He appeared to be hesitating. You waited for a few seconds until he turned around, and you could see right away that he still had more to say, but it was taking him some time to find the words.

“There’s something else I wanted to mention to you,” he said after a minute, confirming your thoughts. “But maybe now isn’t the right—”

“I’m fine,” you repeated. His hesitation made you nervous. “What is it?”

“Did you know Jungkook was working on some music?” Yoongi asked. His expression resembled that of a disappointed teacher, and you were surprised to find yourself in the role of the student.

“Yeah, he, uh, mentioned it the other night,” you replied.

You got up to throw away the tissues and kept your gaze on the floor. The memory of last night and everything you and Jungkook had talked about, or, rather, not talked about, was still fresh in your mind. You were almost afraid that the night sky from yesterday would be reflected in your eyes when you looked up.

“Did he say what it was?” Yoongi asked.

Awkwardly, you replied, “not, um—not in detail.”

“Well, he played a quick demo to Namjoon and me earlier today. And it’s good stuff,” he said with a deep exhale that forced his shoulders to hunch and made him appear very small. His otherwise strong and commanding presence contradicted this appearance very much. He continued, “it’s just… it’s more Cigarettes After Sex than Architects. Not to mention, Reconnaissance. Or, you know, any other band that we usually get inspiration from.”

You nearly flinched at the mention of Reconnaissance and crossed your arms over your chest to play it off.

It made sense for Yoongi to be unsettled by this; he was responsible for a lot of Rated Riot’s music and was one of the main influencers of the band’s sound.

What didn’t make sense, however, was why he was talking to you about it.

“Did you tell him that?” you asked.

“I told him to keep working on it,” he said. “He said he recorded it on his phone as soon as he woke up because he came up with the lyrics very late at night. And we—well, I don’t want to discourage him.”

“Right,” you nodded, thinking that perhaps it was just Yoongi himself who needed encouragement, which was why he came to you. You tried to get him to elaborate, “so, you think he’s deviating from Rated Riot’s normal sound?”

“Not… deviating, exactly,” he said, reaching for something behind his neck—perhaps to adjust a bothersome label on his leather jacket, or maybe just to scratch an unreachable itch somewhere deep inside his skin. “We’re versatile, I like to think. Definitely not restricted to a certain genre and nothing else. But, well, if our new record’s going to be a heartbreak anthem, then I’m afraid all the effort we’re putting into making this tour a success could be in vain.”

You were surprised. But not about the fact that Jungkook was, apparently, working on songs about heartbreak (your mind decided to compartmentalise this information and deal with it later; maybe when you were alone in your bunk on the bus). No, you were surprised that Yoongi was so adamantly opposed to it.

“You have a few songs that are, on a certain level, about heartbreak,” you reminded him. “They didn’t do so bad.”

That was gentle. The songs were a success for a non-pop band that was just starting out. Even some mainstream radio stations picked up some songs, although they were never included in regular rotation. But that was understandable, and it was still good enough for the time being.

“Yeah, I don’t mean that they wouldn’t do well. But a whole album? You know? A whole album full of nothing, but heartbreak?” Yoongi continued, his voice showing first glimpses of agitation. You watched him, squinting slightly as you tried to find what to say. He paced back and forth by the tables as he explained, “I mean, intense emotion is fine. It’s appreciated. We work with it every time we’re in the studio. But there are only so many metaphors for getting your heart ripped out.”

Your eyes widened at the intense words—there was heartbreak, and then there was a ripped-out heart—but you hoped Yoongi didn’t catch it—he did—as you cleared your throat and composed yourself as much as possible before speaking.

“Was that…” you tried, your voice weak, “what his new song was about?”

“Not yet, because he only had one verse,” Yoongi admitted. He stopped pacing and began to watch you. You thought you had gotten used to him, but now you felt intimidated again, almost like the first time you’d met. “But he’s headed there.”

You were at a very awkward loss for words, so you only hummed and nodded lightly.

Yoongi continued in response to your silence, “he once told me that he texts someone else about his lyrics. Maybe not in this case, but perhaps he’s shown something else to, um... to this person?”

You lifted your eyebrows, not catching the insinuation. “Someone else is helping him?”

Yoongi seemed taken aback by your reaction.

“Oh, you didn’t—I was hoping that person was you. But you didn’t know?” he asked. There was a sharp edge in his voice that made you look down.

“No,” you admitted. You thought that was obvious, given your confusion about the specifics of this particular song. If you didn’t know about this one, why would you know what else he was working on?

And you felt irrational guilt at Yoongi’s question—or, rather, at the unintentional accusation in his tone—as you realised that despite your attempts, you didn’t really know everything that went on with the band.

“Okay. I guess that makes sense,” Yoongi said, needing a moment to compose himself. He was convinced that you were the one who reviewed Jungkook’s lyrics, but he could see now that it was unlikely. He couldn’t imagine you approving of the pain that Jungkook’s latest lyrics were so full of, not even for the greater good of the band.

But Yoongi couldn’t guess who else this person could be, because it wasn’t him or Hoseok, and it wasn’t Namjoon, either—none of the usual Rated Riot’s lyricists.

“Regardless,” Yoongi said. “That person could have influence over what he writes next.”

“And you don’t know who it is?” you clarified.

“I have no clue. He never told me.”

You hesitated before suggesting, “I-I guess I could ask him.”

That seemed to be what Yoongi was hoping for.

“Yeah, you should do that,” he said in a tone that he, once again, didn’t control very well. “Ask him what they think of his lyrics. Or, actually, maybe you should find that person yourself. I don’t know why Jungkook is being so secretive about it, anyway. It has to be someone on the label, don’t you think? Someone you would know.”

Yoongi didn’t intend to imply that you weren’t doing your job properly, but he could tell from your reaction that he may have done that. More careful now, he cleared his throat.

“Ah. I don’t know,” he continued, his voice gentler. He wasn’t angry or disappointed. Just anxious, he supposed, and his anxiety didn’t always translate into amiable words. “I mean, it’s great what he’s doing. I’m happy that he writes. But he puts a lot of pressure on himself. He feels a lot, even if he doesn’t always show it.”

“Yeah,” you agreed.

“Yeah,” he echoed. “So, I don’t want it to overwhelm him to the point where he’s blind to everything but the mess inside of him.”

Truthfully, Yoongi didn’t know how to approach Jungkook about this, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it outright. It was a flaw he knew he had—which was more of an undeveloped skill than a flaw—but he preferred to be upfront. He didn’t think he was good at soothing someone’s feelings; he preferred to solve problems.

However, with Jungkook, being straightforward could feel like pouring salt on an open wound. Yoongi’s tendency to be blunt wasn’t suitable for everyone, and he didn’t want to make it worse for the younger member.

He suspected you’d be better at talking to him, and you understood that without Yoongi needing to ask you directly.

“I—yeah,” you said. “Thank you for coming to me. I’ll ask him.”

“Okay, thank you,” he said. Then, he quickly realised what he was saying—perhaps because of the solemn look on your face—and added, “oh, but don’t think it’s because you’ve known him the longest. Well, that should help. But, really, it’s just because you’re good at that. Talking. Just listening. I’m sure the other members would probably ask you to talk to me if I was the one in—um, in a crisis.”

You smiled at the mild word, but there was a sharp spasm in your chest—Nick’s offer to work with Reconnaissance—that made you avoid Yoongi’s gaze when he praised your communication skills.

“Thank you for saying that,” you replied.

He should have given himself more credit. He was clearly capable of saying the right thing at the right time. And your gratitude was the reason why you didn’t think now was the time to bring up Reconnaissance. Maybe that time would never come, and Nick’s offer would just pass. You hoped it would.

“Yeah,” Yoongi said, looking away. He picked up his water bottle again and reached for the door. “I’ll go back. You get some rest, okay? Don’t go looking for him right away. Do it when you’re feeling better.”

You nodded and watched him leave. Alone in the changing room, you swallowed the emotions that had been building up inside you and tried to figure out your next steps.

Deciding to focus on one of your roles – the present manager, not the manager-who-might-quit-but-probably-won’t, and certainly not the ex-girlfriend (although this role gained weird prominence in Europe) – you planned to find Jungkook after the show and talk to him.

About what Yoongi said. Not about anything else.

But as you left the dressing room to find Seokjin and Jimin, you realised that everything in your life was intertwined anyway, and you didn’t know if it would be possible to keep those two roles separate.

After the concert, you found Jungkook in the smoking area with his friends. They looked like you walked in carrying a pot of gold for the four of them. Except Minjun, who appeared almost wounded when he noticed you.

You did a double-take when you saw his reaction, thinking you had misunderstood. But he developed a sudden interest in the pavement tiles, so you couldn’t really look at him.

However, you didn’t want to worry about that when you were so close to Sid—and, therefore, on the edge of having to endure listening to his voice—so you ignored Minjun’s evasive gaze, and asked for a minute alone with Jungkook. Not only did you need to talk to him, but they were also smoking together right after Jungkook performed an 18-song set, so you had to split them up.

Feigning nonchalance, his three friends excused themselves. You turned around just in time to see them wiggling their eyebrows suggestively at Jungkook.

You chose to ignore their antics once more and noticed Jungkook doing the same as he put out his cigarette without lifting his gaze.

“I had an interesting conversation today,” you said as soon as the venue door closed, leaving you and Jungkook alone in the back of the building.

He had been worried when you asked for a minute alone and the first sense of awkwardness was starting to poke at his mind, but now that you had gotten straight to the point, he felt himself relax. Whatever it was that you wanted to talk to him about, it probably wasn’t as bad as what he’d been dreading.

“Hmm? With whom?” he asked.

“Yoongi,” you said. “He kind of scolded me a little, I think.”

Snickering, Jungkook nodded. Yoongi was the designated disciplinarian in the band. A role he did not accept, but enacted, nevertheless.

“Figures,” he remarked. “About what?”

You crossed your arms, still unaccustomed to the chilly wind, and shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

“Uh, apparently, you’re writing ballads?” you said.

Jungkook needed a second. “You got scolded because I’m writing ballads?”

“He doesn’t want your next record to be a ‘heartbreak anthem’,” you explained. “That’s a direct quote, by the way.”

If the night wasn’t so dark—the glow from the exit sign behind Jungkook wasn’t providing any actual light whatsoever—you would have noticed how he paled after hearing this.

He didn’t know how much Yoongi had told you, and he shouldn’t have been embarrassed in any case—if his lyrics became a song, he’d have to sing it not only in front of you, but in front of thousands of people.

But for some reason, the idea of a large crowd intimidated him less. So, he felt like he needed to do damage control for the one listener he was worried about.

“Oh,” he began slowly. “Well, it definitely won’t be. I’m just… doodling. I don’t know.”

That was a weak excuse. You both knew that if he shared his lyrics with anyone, whether it was Yoongi, or one of the producers—usually Namjoon—that meant he believed he had something worth sharing. He’d never show his “doodles” to anyone. He couldn’t look at some of them himself.

“It’s not just doodling,” you said. “Yoongi thinks it’s good. He just doesn’t want the whole record to be filled with similar slow-tempo songs.”

“Who said anything about slow-tempo?” he asked, even more surprised because he was fairly certain he had made it clear to the two boys that he didn’t have a definite melody yet. “We create music for people to scream along to.”

You smiled. That was a very simple way to put it.

“Well, Yoongi implied that the way you sang sounded kind of—”

“It’s just a demo,” he said. “I’m working on the melody.”

That was fair enough, and you nodded. “Okay.”

He watched you until your eyes moved to his. Suddenly scared, he looked away and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Unlike you, he wasn’t cold. Just overwhelmed by everything the two of you were not saying to each other right now.

“Yoongi also mentioned that there’s someone else you send your lyrics to,” you said—asked, maybe; you weren’t sure what you were hoping he’d say.

Jungkook looked startled. “He—what did he say?”

The demanding tone in his voice caught you off-guard.

“Uh, I’m not sure,” you said. “He doesn’t know who’s helping you and h-he just wants to—”

“He doesn’t need to know,” he interrupted, his voice firm. Evidently, this was not a discussion he wanted to have. “There’s no one helping me.”

Really, all this did was make you more curious about what was going on. A part of you wondered if the alleged love of his life in Paris was a real person, after all.

“Why does he think that there is, though?” you pushed.

“Because it’s—it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head, arms crossed and body turned away from you. “I just have someone who looks through the lyrics for me. That’s all.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A friend that I haven’t met?”

“You…” he hesitated. “You’ve met.”

It was possible, and far more likely, you supposed, that this person really was one of the producers at the label. Perhaps someone currently working with a different band, hence the secrecy.

“Okay,” you said, deciding to let it go. He was resisting your questions far too intensely. If Yoongi wanted to know more, he could put on his armour and go to battle himself. “Well, what do they think of your lyrics?”

“My lyrics are fine,” he said curtly. Then, in an eager attempt to change the topic, he asked, “why did Yoongi talk to you about my song in any case?”

“He’s concerned,” you replied.

“About what?”

“About your feelings,” you said, simplifying it so much that you didn’t blame Jungkook for rolling his eyes.

“Because we’re men and we don’t talk about our feelings,” he deadpanned.

“It’s not that. He just didn't know how to...” you faltered. “Well, I wanted to remind you that, uh, no matter what, if there’s something bothering you—even if you don’t want to talk to me about it, you can—”

The “no matter what” was what made him groan, cutting you off. The implication in your words was clear as the memory of the two of you in the bar last night flashed back through his mind.

But it was the insinuation that he’d want to talk to someone other than you that made him pull his hands out of his pockets in agitation.

“I wrote one song!” he declared, his voice gaining volume. Really, this wasn’t even what he was angry about. “Why are you acting like I’m standing on some ledge, about to jump?”

Unfazed by his reaction, you explained calmly, “Yoongi seemed to think you were headed straight down.”

He snickered sarcastically. “Ah. Hopeful for me, isn’t he? Is Namjoon coming to talk to you about his concern for me next? Did they decide to let you know about it, so you’d somehow end my pain and I’d start writing about love, and sunshine, and all the other joys of life instead?”

Truthfully, you hadn’t even considered that possibility. You assumed the rest of the band respected you too much to even mention your relationship with Jungkook, let alone suggest that you could influence him so much that he’d start writing about love instead of heartbreak.

And now you were the one whose skin prickled with shock.

“He—well, Yoongi didn’t say it like—did you, um—”

“If you’re worried that I told them what my songs are about,” Jungkook cut in, ending your near-panicked stuttering, “then I don’t think I have to tell them anything. I’m pretty sure they know enough.”

“No, I…” you began, but claiming that you weren’t worried about that was a lie. You tried again, “I didn’t talk to Namjoon at all. And as for Yoongi—I-I don’t think he was worried about the topic of your lyrics. Not exactly. He just wanted to make sure you’re okay. That’s why he came to me. So I’d check up on you.”

The more you repeated your reasoning, the clearer it became to him that you were just trying to convince yourself. He believed that you were running away from the blatant fact that he was writing about you, and that had to be the reason why Yoongi wanted to talk to you.

Jungkook couldn’t help but snort, mumbling a cynical, “funny.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“Just the way you believe the explanations that you prefer,” he said, an almost hostile glint in his eyes, “instead of the ones that are actually more plausible.”

He was blind to the possibility that his own assumptions could have been wrong, but his words were too unexpected for you to point that out.

Surprised by the accusation, you leaned back so far that you almost tumbled backwards. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t get offended,” he said. He had already stopped talking about his lyrics and Yoongi’s reasoning for talking to you. “I sometimes do it, too. It’s just that, what I prefer to believe is, clearly, different from you.”

You guessed that this wasn’t about your conversation with Yoongi. That this was actually about last night and many nights before.

But you didn’t want to be the one to remind him that he was the reason why you left the bar yesterday. He was the one who ended the conversation on the bridge. He was the one who lied to you about Paris.

If anyone had the right to raise their voice, it was you.

You pursed your lips and regarded him for a few seconds before asking, “is there something you want to talk to me about?”

He looked away. “Later.”

“Later?” You scowled. “When?”

“When the time is right,” he answered, not trying to be ominous but coming off that way anyway.

“When the—okay.” You dropped your hands to your sides and brushed your fingers against your thighs as you looked at the parking lot on your left. “Why don’t you channel this drama into songwriting? Despite Yoongi’s concern, he’s happy you’re writing. And proud.”

Your gentle delivery touched him more than he’d anticipated, and he blinked, turning to look at you with unexpected warmth in his gaze.

He asked softly, “he said that?”

“He didn’t have to,” you said. “But maybe that’s another thing I choose to believe because that’s what I prefer.”

He exhaled and closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“And I didn’t take anything from it, just that you have a point,” you said, bringing your tongue over your lips as you tried to focus on being less petty and more professional. “I have to go back now. But maybe—if whatever you want to talk to me about needs a specific timing, then—”

“I’ll come find you,” he finished.

You watched him for a silent minute while last night played back in your mind in excruciating reverse.

“I was going to say,” you replied, “that perhaps it’d be better if you didn’t.”

He did not seem disturbed by this. “I know.”

“Y-you know what?”

“That you would think that.”

Offended once more—largely because it seemed like you didn’t have to speak at all, he could tell what you were going to say anyway—you clicked your tongue.

“Okay,” you said. “In that case—”

“I’m still going to find you,” he cut in.

You were glaring now. “And if I’m not there when you come looking for me?”

Simply, he said, “I’ll make sure you are.”

“Okay. That’s really—no, you know what?” you paused before the irritation could get the best of you. Maybe the two of you should talk, you figured. To prevent this from escalating and then abruptly stopping. “Fine. Find me. We’ll talk.”

“Okay,” he said.

You nodded. “Until the time is right then.”

You smiled a little as you said this—you weren’t trying to, but the phrase sounded far too ridiculous—and Jungkook felt his shoulders relax.

He smiled back—not because he was trying to, either, but if you smiled, his reflexes moved before he could control them—and nodded back. “Until then.”

Since the flight to Amsterdam was tomorrow morning, you had to spend another night on the bus. Equipped with chamomile tea and a face mask, you dreaded another sleepless night, but the silence of the truck stop at nearly three in the morning along with the peacefulness inside of the bus as the exhausted band slept, felt comforting.

Considering how little sleep you got the night before, you began to doze off almost as soon as you washed your face and retreated to your bunk. But then a familiar sound of agitated shuffling brought you back to full consciousness.

You listened for a moment, confirming that it was indeed Jungkook who was beside himself again, when suddenly, he spoke into the darkness of the bus, “are you awake?”

Even though he didn’t address you directly, you knew the question was meant for you.

You cleared your throat before whispering, “yeah.” And, because he didn’t say anything else for a while, you added, “why are you awake?”

“I can’t sleep,” he whispered back. “What about you?”

“Me neither, I guess,” you replied, your breathing slowing as your brain alternated between being acutely aware of him and dozing off. “What’s on your mind?”

He didn’t respond and after waiting for a minute, you assumed he ended up falling asleep after all.

But a moment later, you heard the soft squeak of feet against the bus floor, and felt the mattress shift as Jungkook climbed into the bunk next to you. He moved swiftly, catching you so off-guard that you just watched him with helpless eyes as he drew the curtains on your bunk.

You were both completely covered by the darkness, but you could still see his silhouette as he lied down next to you and did not speak.

Different rules applied to conversations at night, you supposed. And your mind functioned differently, too—because you should have asked him what he was doing. Should have clarified if he hadn’t gone out of his mind. Should have explained the possible repercussions of his actions (namely, a bruised ass after you kicked him off the bunk).

Instead, you stayed still.

And it was very strange to sense him here, to feel his warmth, but lie here frozen, too scared to accidentally touch him and find out that he wasn’t really here, that you had just fallen asleep without realising.

But he was here, and you were both, more or less, awake.

And this was what he wanted – to feel safe in the darkness of your bunk, so far away from the bet that he could easily pretend he’d never made it.

“Is this when the time is right?” you asked finally, a teasing tone in your quiet voice. “3 AM?”

“Yes,” he replied, relieved that you greeted him with a joke, and not a kick in the shins.

He hadn’t actually planned it this way. And he wasn’t entirely sure what brought him to your bunk tonight, in particular—maybe your encouraging words about his writing? The tension as you avoided talking about last night?

Or maybe it was just you, always lingering in the corners of his mind. You were present in every one of his memories, no matter how obscure or distant it was. Even before he met you, your absence was noticeable, and it was so significant that he could never overlook it.

Ah. He’d sense the gap in his memory and think of you right away. This was two months before I met you.

He couldn’t escape you and, frankly, he’d given up trying.

He realised he couldn’t control himself any longer. Whatever had been building up inside of him for the past few days had now gotten complete control over him.

The two of you were separated from the rest of the bus by a curtain—like a little private haven in the midst of a larger world—and once your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you felt your breath catch in your throat.

Your gaze drifted out of focus as you strained to keep your eyes locked on his. It would have been so much easier to just glance down, to trace the lines of his nose and cheeks, down to his lips. It would have been easier to reach out and feel him here, to physically make sure this wasn’t a nightmare where he found you just before the whole world collapsed.

But you knew how inappropriate this was and how many lines this crossed: no one else in Rated Riot could just climb into your bunk and lie down next to you like this. It was unheard of, just like the almost-kiss at the bar last night.

As though the two of you were sharing the same memory in real-time, Jungkook spoke up, “I’m sorry.”

Breathless, you asked—not for the first time, “for what?”

“Lots of things,” he replied, his words barely audible, yet very loud when he was so close to you. “But mostly about what happened at the bar the other night.”

“Nothing happened at the bar,” you whispered back.

You heard him swallow before he spoke again. “That’s what I’m sorry about.”

You turned onto your back, creating more distance. Asking him to leave, somehow, didn’t seem to appear in your mind as an option.

“You don’t need to apologise for things that don’t happen,” you said in a very official voice. Hearing it unsettled him. “It’s, um—it’s actually good that nothing happened. Late-night drinking and a busy schedule don’t mix well.”

He noticed that you were drifting back to your professional role, that he’d lost the element of surprise.

Looking down, he admitted, “last night wasn’t… a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.”

You didn’t look at him no matter how much you wanted to. “No?”

“No,” he confirmed. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“I don’t know,” you said, adamantly staring at the ceiling of your bunk as you felt his eyes return to your face. “It’s hard to tell with you.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t want to make assumptions in case I’m believing what I prefer to—”

He sighed, interrupting you. “Everyone does that. I didn’t mean to imply it’s just you. I’m just… I wish you saw things from my perspective.”

“Yeah.” You played with your fingers, intertwining your hands and resting them on your stomach. “That would be easier.”

“But you know me better than anyone,” he said, “so I think you’ve earned the right to make assumptions about me.”

You shook your head gently against the pillow. “You wouldn’t like my assumptions.”

“Try me.”

Finally, you turned your head to look at him. The brightness of his eyes in the dark corner of the bus made you waver slightly, already in the process of looking away, but you licked your lips and composed yourself.

“Okay,” you said. “Well, I assume there’s an external force that’s causing you to do whatever you’re doing, or feel whatever you think you’re feeling. That’s why you keep these secrets. Why you’re so selective about what you tell me. And it’s why you keep, uh, doing something and then stopping yourself.”

Jungkook felt a freezing wave wash over him. “W-what do you mean? What external force?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, sounding genuine. “Maybe it’s what I said before. A different continent, being away from home.”

He was so certain you’d tell him you knew about the bet that he exhaled in immense relief when you didn’t.

“I told you it’s not that,” he said, feeling a rush of happiness—undeserved, but irresistible—that you didn’t know.

You insisted, “right, but it is. Here, you’re doing—we’re both doing things we wouldn’t do back home.”

“Maybe it’s just that here, I have the chance to do the things I wouldn’t be able to do back home,” he argued kindly—like an adult with a toddler who was upset that the sun went down at night, not realising that their own perception of the world could not change the way the world actually was.

Oddly enough, it didn’t feel patronising. You’d thought you were figuring out what was going on with him when, deep down, you—sort of—already knew. You just tried to find an explanation that you preferred –  just as he’d said before.

“It’s just…” you started, hesitating. “Whatever we do here, it will still have consequences back home, you know? It’s not a What-Happens-in-Vegas sort of thing. Not with us.”

“I know,” he said again, and then, most dangerously, he admitted, “and I’m hoping for that.”

“You—you keep changing your mind,” you reminded him, watching the ceiling of your bunk because you couldn’t watch him. “Stopping when it feels like—”

“I know,” he whispered.

“I don’t understand.”

“I… I don’t entirely understand it, either,” he said. “I guess I’m scared of… well, everything.”

“Hmm.” You swallowed. And because this was vulnerable to admit and you hated yourself for feeling this way, you continued, but only in a tentative whisper, “to me, it feels like you know it’s a mistake. Like you regret your actions when you—”

“The only thing I regret is—” he cut himself off, suddenly losing courage. He inhaled and tried again, “what I regret is stopping. I regret not doing what every piece of me wanted to do at that moment. In Stockholm. And in Oslo.”

Quietly, you suggested, “it’s probably the rational part of you that holds you back.”

“You’re my rational part,” he countered. “And I keep coming back to you no matter how hard I try to stay away. I keep crossing the line, I guess.”

You turned to him. “I keep letting you cross it.”

He nodded, his eyes on you. “I know.”

You didn’t know what to say because the pounding in your chest was suffocating. As if your heart had expanded and decided you no longer needed lungs.

Then, Jungkook said into the silence, “I—I wasn’t lying when I took you to Kihyun’s wedding in hopes of getting back together with the love of my life, you know.”

You closed your eyes and exhaled pleadingly, “Jungkook…”

“What?” he asked, a mix of desperation and eagerness in his voice.

You turned to your side, so you were fully facing him, and rested your head on the back of your hand as you watched him for a minute.

Neither of you spoke. You were both waiting.

“I know,” you finally began, “that I have to be the responsible person in a lot of situations with you.” You paused, looking down briefly to gather your thoughts. “But I can’t do it like this. So, please, don’t put me in a position where I have to make the choice that would be best for us. Best for the band. Because I’m not sure I will.”

You were asking him for something, and both of you quickly realised that it wasn’t a request to stop. To pull away. To leave.

“The best choice,” he said, “isn’t always the more responsible one.”

“It usually is.”

Repeating your previous words, he said, “not with us.”

You bit your lower lip as you struggled to formulate a response, let alone a coherent thought.

“You… you’re making me feel overwhelmed,” you finally said, expressing the only thing you were certain of.

“How so?” he asked.

“I forget everything,” you said. “Especially the fact that morning will come and there will be questions about why you’re here and not in your own bunk.”

Jungkook swallowed, the realisation dawning on him.

“You care what other people will think,” he said.

“I have to,” you replied somewhat sadly. It was precisely this sadness that gave him hope and courage to respond.

“I understand,” he said. “I can go.”

You clenched your jaw.

“You should,” you said.

His eyes remained locked on yours. “Do you want me to?”

Your voice was barely audible when you responded, “no.”

Jungkook took a shaky breath. His body shuffled closer. You felt his warmth, felt his thigh touch yours.

 “I… I’ll ask you again,” he said, inhaling deeply after every second word, and inching closer to you each time his chest rose. “Don’t think as our manager. Just for five minutes. Five minutes that won’t mean anything once they’re over.”

You gave a small shake of your head. “What’s the point, then?”

“I just have to know what it’d be like if we were us again,” he said. “Even if only for five minutes.”

You closed your eyes again. You knew it wasn’t that simple. You couldn’t just shut everything off for five minutes and then go back to the way things were as if nothing happened—it was absurd to even think that was possible.

But you nodded, exhaling softly as you looked at him again. The hopeful glint in his eye was still visible, even in the darkness of your bunk.

“Okay,” you breathed.

The bus was silent, amplifying the sound of his pulse in his ears as he reached for you, softly touching your cheek with the tips of his fingers.

All this time, you had been so close to him, yet he did not touch you. It felt like he had to make up for it now as he caressed the side of your face, almost in disbelief that you weren’t just a manifestation of every peaceful dream he’d ever had. That somehow, just by being, you perfectly captured everything he wanted. Everything he needed.

You inhaled his familiar scent – your bunk so full of it that you were positively drowning in him and not trying to stay afloat at all – as your eyes fluttered close. The rest of the world faded away as you felt his breath on your face for just a second, his lips hovering over yours, touching them, but not quite.

A quiet whimper broke off a much deeper whine inside of you and found its way past your lips as you parted them. Your lower lip brushed against his in a moment so charged with invisible power—some innate electricity—that you felt his body twitch against yours.

And then finally, he pressed his lips to yours.

The softness of his lips brought back something that you’d buried deep within; something that came awake late at night in the form of dreams so intense that you’d need a moment in the morning to realise it had only been a dream.

It felt like it now.

Except, as you reached out a hand to touch his chest, he was here.

His lips gently moved against yours as he tilted your face to kiss you harder. His lip ring felt cold against your lower lip, but his embrace was warm and eager. You were breathless, your mind was swimming in memories, but you were not asleep.

He was here, he was here, he was here.

He was here and he felt you move closer, your hand sliding down his chest, pausing momentarily as if frightened by the rapid beating under your fingertips. He exhaled against your mouth, pulling away for less than a second to take a new breath—he only had five minutes with you, he did not have the luxury to breathe anything but you right now. Then, he connected your lips again, his tongue finding yours as deepened the kiss.

The space in your bunk had always felt cramped—every morning, you’d wake up with bruises on your limbs—but now it seemed so impossibly vast, and he couldn’t pull you close enough.

His kiss was as intoxicating as it was sobering, an oxymoron of an embrace. No matter how overwhelmed, how utterly dizzy, light, or heavy it made you feel, you kissed him back.

Your fingers got lost in his hair as he gently pushed your shoulder, rolling you over to your back. He hovered above you, resting one elbow on the mattress and holding your face with his other hand. His thigh came to rest between your legs and your small yelp of surprise at the sudden change of position barely made any sound before his lips were on yours again, gentle and rushing. If anyone asked if he missed you, he could never find adequate words, so he poured all his feelings into this kiss.

The familiarity of his mouth against yours and the taste of his tongue in your mouth caused the back of your neck to prickle with nostalgia for the missing years and eagerness for more. Eagerness for a future that you couldn’t have because you’d promised each other five minutes.

Granted, it was difficult to gauge how much time had passed, as neither of you cared enough to open your eyes, comfortable in the private bubble of darkness.

Your bodies were so accustomed to one another that you did not need to see to know where to touch. Your hands wandered freely across the old paths, drawing over the blurred lines of the maps on each other’s skin.

You learned to ignore the ache in your lungs, because the ache in your chest was stronger. It gripped your heart with claws so deep that it drew blood every time you considered pulling away.

The warmth of his mouth contrasted with the coldness of his fingertips as he gently traced them over the side of your face, neck, shoulders, and over to your hips. His hand slipped under your loose t-shirt, drawing tentative symbols over the parts of your skin that he could reach without pulling his lips away from yours.

He thought he had suffocated a long time ago as the pulse in his ears was replaced by the sound of your mouths moving against each other in a perfectly balanced rhythm—as if you practised every day. As if the four-year intermission had never existed.  

Jungkook felt no sense of being alive, there was no room for it. All he felt was you. And if this was what death felt like, he was perfectly fine with being buried six feet deep like this.

Then – a bump somewhere on the bus jolted you both back to reality.

You both stilled, listening for any signs of movement to confirm that you weren’t the only ones awake. But there was nothing.

Your eyes met in the darkness, and you pulled away, his taste lingering on your lips. You thought you could see him more clearly than before, despite it still being pitch-black in your bunk.

“I think we’ve gone over five minutes,” you whispered, running your tongue over your slightly swollen lips.

“Give me a few extra seconds,” he whispered and leaned in to press another kiss, his tongue meeting yours against your lower lip. A smile stretched on your face as he whispered against your lips, “I’ve waited four years for this.”

You exhaled, your body trembling under him. “This might be the worst thing I’ve agreed to do with you.”

He smiled and reminded you, “you came to Paris with me on a whim.”

“That didn’t take me weeks to recover from,” you said quietly.

He remained mere inches away and his kisses turned into gentle brushes of his cheek against yours. Both of your chests kept rising, then falling—meeting each other, then separating again in a dramatic parallel of your lives—as you tried to catch your breath.

“But this will?” he asked.

“It will.”

Pulling away to look at you, he said, “lucky.”

“How is that lucky?” you asked.

He kissed you once more. There was a certain melancholy in his smile when he pulled away.

“At least you’ll recover,” he said.

You swallowed and opened your eyes, painfully aware of his close proximity and the forbidden nature of it all.

“You will, too,” you said, almost hunching over from the sudden pain in your chest as he sat down next to you. “Five minutes that mean nothing once they’re over, remember?”

You spoke softly, almost apologetically, but what hurt the most was the absence of regret in your voice.

At least, if you regretted what had happened, he would know that it was over for good.

“Right.” He nodded, avoiding your gaze and struggling to get to his feet, because every single fibre of his being pulled him to you. “I’m—I’ll go. You can tell Yoongi not to worry, by the way. I have five minutes of what-might-have-been to write about.”

“You—”

“I’m just kidding,” he said, shooting you a grin.

Before you could notice how sad his eyes looked despite the smile, he leaned in to kiss you goodbye. Funnily enough, this was the kiss that you would spend the whole night thinking about: how natural, familiar, and necessary it had felt.

“These five minutes are between us,” he reiterated for your benefit. “We’ll never speak of it again.”

He pulled back the curtain of your bunk and glanced around to make sure everyone else was asleep. Suddenly, you touched his shoulder and he turned to you again, unsure if your touch was real or just his wishful thinking.

“F-for what it’s worth,” you said, “I really hope there’s an alternative universe where this could work. And not just for five minutes.”

Jungkook thought this could work in this universe, too, but he nodded, hung his head, and quietly climbed out of your bunk, leaving your curtain open as he returned to his own bed.

He hadn’t realised how cold it was on the bus.

chapter title credits: bring me the horizon, “deathbeds”

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