Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Taehyung pukes again. This time, it feels like the universe is wringing his guts out through his throat.

His stomach clenches in unnatural ways, squeezing out nothing but sour spit and acid, and god, it burns— burns like someone poured battery acid down his esophagus and lit a match just for fun.

Behind him, Jimin sits cross-legged on the cold bathroom tiles, probably numb by now, rubbing small tired circles into Taehyung’s back with the kind of patience that only comes from genuine worry disguised as annoyance.

“Fourteen,” Jimin mutters like he’s keeping score in some sick game, his voice edged.

“We’re on number fourteen. Do I win something if you throw up once more? Like a stuffed animal or a keychain?”

“Shut up,” Taehyung croaks, breath hitching like he’s been chain-smoking for decades—he’s never even touched a cigarette.

“No but really,” Jimin continues, hand never stopping those gentle circles that feel like the only thing keeping Taehyung tethered to the world, “I feel like I should win something. Like a punch card— ‘10 pukes equals one free mental breakdown.’ I’m almost there.”

Taehyung spits into the bowl again, a wet, disgusting sound echoing in the small space. He tries to speak, ends up coughing instead—a rattling shake that makes it feel like something inside him has come loose.

His eyes sting—strain, almost-tears, the too-bright  lights drilling into his skull.

His guts feel like someone stabbed him with a rusty knife and twisted. His head pounds with a dull, persistent ache, and all he wants is to press his forehead against something cold and never move again.

He's hot and cold all at once—sweating through his shirt while his fingertips feel like ice.

“Okay,” Jimin sighs, voice dropping into that softer tone he uses when he’s trying to hide panic.

“I let you gaslight me the first five times—told myself it was just bad takeout or stress or whatever bullshit excuse you threw at me. Then I let you fake smile your way through the next seven because you’re good at that, aren’t you? That ‘I’m fine’ act with the bright eyes and shoulder shrug.

But no. Fourteen? Absolutely fucking not. You’re going to the doctor, and I don’t care if I have to drag you there myself.”

“I just need to rest,” Taehyung mumbles, wiping his mouth with a towel. His lips are cracked and dry, like he’s been wandering through a desert. The towel smells like fabric softener and something else— normal , which feels almost foreign against his skin.

“Rest?” Jimin barks a sharp laugh. “You’ve only been resting, Tae. You’ve been horizontal for two straight weeks unless you’re crawling to this toilet to play exorcist. That’s not rest, that’s hibernation—and bears do it better.”

Taehyung doesn’t answer. What is there to say? Jimin’s right, and they both know it. Admitting it would mean admitting something is really wrong.

He just breathes, slow and careful, trying to find a rhythm that doesn’t hurt.

His face looks gray in the mirror—not the moody aesthetic kind, but the scary kind. The kind that makes people ask “Are you okay?” in that tone that already knows the answer.

Jimin watches him in the mirror too. Taehyung sees the worry in the tight set of his jaw, the way his brows draw together like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that’s missing half the pieces.

“Do you want me to call your mom?”

It hits like a slap. Taehyung glares weakly. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Then get dressed.” Jimin stands, knees cracking like he’s ninety instead of twenty-seven. “And don’t give me that look. I’m not asking anymore.”

“It’s probably food poisoning,” Taehyung offers, though he hears how pathetic it sounds—thin and desperate, like a lie even he doesn’t believe.

“Cool. Let the doctor say that,” Jimin shoots back, arms crossed. “I’m not gonna lose my best friend to discount sushi and pride. That’s the stupidest obituary I’ve ever heard.”

Taehyung sits still. Something tightens in his chest—heavy and unfamiliar. His thigh won’t stop trembling, a quiet shake like his body is trying to say something he doesn’t want to hear.

His chest feels like it’s holding something in—too heavy for his ribs to contain, something sharp and dark and final.

Jimin sighs again and crouches in front of him, making himself small, like he always does when he’s about to say something important.

“Look,” he says, voice so gentle it almost cracks something open inside Taehyung, “I’m not saying you’re dying or whatever. You’re probably not.

 But your body’s trying to tell you something—and it’s not whispering anymore, Tae. It’s screaming. And I’m not gonna wait until it starts using smoke signals.”

Taehyung closes his eyes. Everything's loud in his head but weirdly quiet too—like he's underwater, listening to his heartbeat echo in his ears.
The silence stretches between them, full of everything they’re not saying, all the fears they haven’t named.

“…Okay,” he says after a moment, and the word feels heavy on his tongue.

“Yeah?” Jimin’s voice is so hopeful it hurts.

“Yeah.”

Jimin grins—that annoying grin that means he’s won but is trying not to gloat. “Sick. I’m driving, because you look too tragic to take public transport. We'd probably get arrested for public indecency or something.”

“Can I at least puke once more so you get your reward card?” Taehyung asks, the ghost of a smile flickering—his first in days.

Jimin grabs the towel and throws it at him, and for a moment, everything feels almost normal again.

The car smells like cold A/C and leftover fries from last night—that greasy, comforting scent that usually makes Taehyung's mouth water. Now, it just makes his stomach churn.

Jimin’s playlist is on shuffle—some indie rock song with too many guitars—but neither of them is listening. It’s just background noise.

Jimin keeps glancing over—quick little looks he thinks are subtle but aren’t. Taehyung can feel every one like a physical touch.

Slumped in the passenger seat, Taehyung presses his face against the cool window, watching the city blur in streaks of grey and brown.

His reflection in the glass is ghostly—pale, hollow-eyed. When did he start looking like this? When did the person in the mirror become someone he didn’t recognize?

“You good?” Jimin asks, trying to sound casual. One hand on the wheel, the other drumming nervously on his thigh.

Taehyung doesn’t answer. Can’t. He’s not sure what good even means anymore. Is anyone ever really good? The question feels too big, too complicated, so he just lets it hang there.

Jimin snorts. “Don’t ghost me now, bro. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know this is how it starts. The sick friend goes quiet, then boom—zombie apocalypse.”

Still nothing from Taehyung, who’s drifting in and out like he’s floating on an invisible current. His eyelids heavy. His breathing shallow.

Jimin glances again—and something tightens in his chest.

Taehyung’s not just quiet. He’s gone . Completely. His face slack, mouth slightly open.

That’s not tired. That’s not normal.

“Taehyung,” Jimin says louder, reaching over to shake his shoulder—more urgent than gentle. “Hey. Don’t do this to me.”

No response. Not even an eyelid twitch. Taehyung’s breathing is there—but soft. Too soft. Like he’s barely holding on by a thread.

“Yah, Taehyung-ah,” Jimin tries again, voice cracking now with panic. “Don’t fuck with me right now. Wake up. This isn’t funny.”

Still nothing. Taehyung’s head lolls to the side like a broken doll, lashes fluttering but not opening.

Jimin’s panic hits fast—sharp, cold, like ice in his bloodstream.

“Shit,” he mutters, swerving the car to the shoulder, hands shaking too hard to grip the wheel properly. “Fuck, okay—fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He slams the car into park and unbuckles them both, fingers fumbling like he’s forgotten how seatbelts work.

He leans over, tapping Taehyung’s cheek—desperation rising. His skin is burning to the touch. Fever-hot. Dangerous .

“Tae, wake up, please,” he whispers, voice small and scared, like a child lost in a department store. “If this is a prank I will choke you with your own Birkenstocks, but please , just wake up.”

Taehyung’s head shifts—but it’s just gravity. No real motion. And panic claws up Jimin’s throat like something alive.

He grabs his phone, thumb smashing the screen. He opens the group call, hits everyone—Namjoon, Jungkook, Hoseok, Yoongi and Jin—because he can’t do this alone.

The ringtone hums. Jimin keeps one hand clutched around Taehyung’s wrist, checking for a pulse.

It’s there— barely. Weak and fluttery, fragile as butterfly wings.

Namjoon answers first, voice sleep-rough. “Jimin? What’s—”

“Taehyung passed out,” Jimin says, no preamble, his voice shaking. “We were going to the clinic but I’m taking him to the ER now. He hasn’t eaten in days, he’s been throwing up constantly, and now—he’s just not waking up, hyung. He’s not waking up.”

Silence.

Then Jungkook’s voice cuts in, high and scared: “What the fuck?! Is he breathing? Is he—”

“Where are you?” Hoseok interrupts, his voice sharp, all control and action.

“Near Seongdong Bridge. I’m about ten minutes from Hanuel General.”

“I’m coming,” Jungkook says immediately. Jimin hears keys jingle, footsteps. “I’m already nearby. I’ll meet you there.”

“Wait—he passed out ?” Namjoon repeats, like confirming it will make it less real.

“Yeah,” Jimin mutters, wiping sweat off his upper lip. Salt and fear sting his tongue. “Yeah. He was quiet one second, and then just—gone. And his head—he’s burning. Like actually on fire from the inside.”

“I’ll call ahead to the hospital,” Namjoon says finally, his voice steady in that way that means he’s forcing himself to be calm for everyone else’s sake. “Make sure they know you’re coming. They’ll be ready.”

Jimin nods, even though no one can see him. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

He looks back at Taehyung, still unconscious—mouth slightly open, head tipped back like he’s surrendered to something bigger than himself.

Jimin’s heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his teeth. His hands shake as he ends the call and throws the car into gear.

He drives faster than he should, but he doesn’t care. Taehyung is dying in the seat next to him, and normal rules don’t apply anymore.

“Come on, Tae,” he mutters, flicking his eyes between the road and Taehyung. “Don’t make me start praying. You know I suck at that.”

Taehyung wakes to cold air conditioning and the distant whir of traffic. For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is—what’s real and what’s fever-dream.

His throat feels like sandpaper, raw and scratchy. His head spins and tilts like he’s on a ship in rough seas.

“Whoa—hey, hey. You’re up.”  Jimin’s voice, tight with relief and leftover panic, cuts through the haze. Taehyung blinks slowly, eyebrows twitching as he tries to focus on the blurry figure beside him.

“Shit, you scared me,” Jimin says, and there’s an edge to his voice—raw, vulnerable. “You can’t just pass out like that. There are better ways to ask for attention, you know. Like interpretive dance. Or setting something on fire.”

Taehyung groans softly, shifting just a little—and even that feels like too much effort. “Where… are we…”

“Almost there. Three minutes from the hospital.” Jimin’s got one hand on the wheel, the other gripping Taehyung’s wrist like an anchor. His thumb rubs anxious circles into the bone, like he’s mapping Taehyung’s pulse with muscle memory.

“Hospital?” Taehyung mumbles, voice hollow and distant. “No, I don’t—I don’t want to go. They smell weird. The lights are too bright, and—”

“Too bad,” Jimin snaps, voice cracking with fear. “You don’t get a vote anymore. You blacked out in my car, and I’m done letting you decide things while looking like a Victorian ghost child who died of consumption.”

Taehyung lets out the softest laugh—breathy, faint, like dandelion seeds floating away. “You’re so dramatic…”

“Bro, you literally fainted in my passenger seat. That’s not drama, that’s trauma. I’m gonna need therapy after this.”

The rest blurs like watercolors in rain—sliding glass doors whooshing open, the cold touch of hands lifting him from a wheelchair he doesn’t remember sitting in, questions asked in muffled voices he can’t understand.

Someone tries to pull off his hoodie and he flinches, instinctive and sharp—his skin too sensitive, like every nerve ending is exposed.

“Easy,” a nurse murmurs, calm as still water. Years of experience folded into her voice.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. We’re just going to get you comfortable, alright? Make you feel better.”

They lay him on a hospital bed—too firm, too narrow. The lights above are too white , too harsh. He squints and turns his head, trying to escape the brightness that makes his skull feel like it’s splitting.

Jimin’s beside him—stiff, arms crossed like he's holding himself together through sheer will. 

When Taehyung glances at him, really looks, Jimin exhales through his nose—relieved but still pissed, still scared.

“You had me sprinting through a red light, you idiot,” he mutters, voice laced with affection—the kind that only comes from loving someone too much. “I almost cried. In public. Do you know how embarrassing that would’ve been? Don’t do that again.”

Taehyung hums sleepily, eyelids already drooping. “Sorry…”

“I’ll forgive you if you stop acting like you’re fine when you’re clearly not ,” Jimin says, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead—his fingers gentle, like handling something breakable.

A nurse leans over with a soft smile. “You’re Kim Taehyung, right?”

He nods faintly. The motion makes his head spin.

“We’re going to hook you up to an IV,” she says, voice calm and explanatory. “You’re extremely dehydrated, and your blood pressure’s a little low. Nothing too scary, but we want to get fluids in, make you feel better. Once you’re more stable, we’ll run some tests—bloodwork, maybe imaging. Nothing painful. We just want to be sure we know what we’re dealing with, okay?”

Taehyung hums again, and the needle pinches when it goes in—sharp, immediate. He winces, pulling slightly away.

“There we go,” the nurse murmurs, taping it down with practiced ease. “You’re gonna feel better soon, I promise.”

“He’s been throwing up for more than a week,” Jimin says quickly, stepping closer, his voice edged with urgency. “Barely eating. And the fainting? That’s new. He was fine until two weeks ago, and then suddenly he’s just—like this.”

The doctor nods, scribbling on his chart. “Thanks. That’s helpful. Based on his vitals, nothing looks immediately dangerous, but we understand the concern. Could be viral, stress-related, or something else. We’ll run a full workup just to be safe.”

Jimin exhales for the first time in what feels like hours, his shoulders finally easing.

The doctor offers Taehyung a small, kind smile. “Don’t worry, okay? You’re in good hands now.”

Taehyung swallows thickly, throat raw from vomiting. His fingers twitch on the blanket, reaching—searching—and Jimin catches his hand instinctively, curling his fingers around Taehyung’s like it's second nature.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Taehyung mumbles, small and guilty.

“Too late,” Jimin mutters, but squeezes his hand—tight, warm, steady. “But you’re here now. We’re gonna figure this out.”

The room isn’t cold, but Taehyung is—like his body’s forgotten how to regulate itself. His fingertips tingle with pins and needles. The IV tape itches. His mouth feels like a desert, dry and rough.

He wants to complain, but he doesn’t have the strength.

His eyes are barely open, heavy-lidded with exhaustion, when the door swings—

And it’s him.

His breath catches—literally catches —in his throat, and he chokes on it a little, chest clenching tight.

Jungkook.

Jungkook, stepping through the door, hoodie bunched at the wrists, hair a mess like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop.

 His face is twisted with worry, fear… and something else. Something softer Taehyung can’t quite name.

Namjoon follows behind, slower, more composed—but Taehyung doesn’t really see him.

All his focus is on the boy with the wide eyes and the trembling mouth.

Without thinking—like a fool, like always when it comes to Jungkook—Taehyung lifts his IV-hand slightly. The movement is clumsy, fingers spreading just a little.

Look, the gesture says. Look what they did to me. I'm scared. Make it better.

The tape tugs when he moves, pulling at his skin and making him wince. God, he hates this—hospitals, needles, procedures.

And Jungkook knows this. Knows about his stupid phobia. Knows Taehyung once cried getting a flu shot at twenty-two.

“Fuck,” Jungkook whispers, already rushing to the bed before Taehyung can blink—fluid and fast, like it costs him nothing.

“Hyung…”

He sits beside him— not awkwardly hovering—but right on the bed, like he belongs there. Like he’s the one allowed to be close.

Taehyung blinks slowly, jaw slack with exhaustion—and maybe relief, or longing, or both.

He could cry. Not because of being sick, but because of this boy —this beautiful, soft-hearted boy who dropped everything to come.

“You okay?” Jungkook asks softly, brushing Taehyung’s bangs from his forehead, fingers warm and gentle.

It’s so familiar—something he’s done a thousand times—and it makes Taehyung’s chest ache with the weight of everything unsaid.

“No,” Taehyung mutters honestly, too tired to lie. “They stabbed me.”

Jungkook lets out a soft, breathy laugh. “I can see that.”

“Hurts,” Taehyung adds, voice small. Childish. He knows he sounds ridiculous, but he can’t stop. The IV throbs with every heartbeat.

“I know it does,” Jungkook says, and his voice is so gentle it makes Taehyung’s throat close.

“I told them not to stab you unless I was around. Apparently, they didn’t listen.”

Taehyung huffs, pouting without meaning to. His lip juts out in that way Jimin always rolls his eyes at.

But Jungkook just looks at him—soft and tender—like Taehyung is something precious.

He's so pretty like this, Jungkook is. Messy and worried and soft-spoken, all his usual cockiness melted down into pure concern.

Taehyung wants to reach up and touch his face, trace the line of his jaw and the curve of his mouth, but he’s too tired, too weak—so his fingers just twitch against the blanket, like they're reaching for something they can’t quite grasp.

“You passed out,” Jungkook says after a moment, quieter now, his thumb brushing under Taehyung’s eye like he’s checking for fever—or exhaustion.

“Scared the hell out of everyone. Jimin was practically hyperventilating.”

“Scared Jimin more,” Taehyung mumbles, because it’s easier than admitting how scared he was.

“Yeah, because he thought you died,” Jungkook replies, and there’s something almost accusatory in his voice—like Taehyung had no right to scare them like that.

Taehyung lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment, too heavy to keep open. Jungkook’s presence is warm and grounding, like a blanket pulled over his frayed nerves. One of Jungkook’s hands presses gently over his chest, right above his heart, as if checking it’s still beating—making sure he's still here.

“You didn’t have to come,” Taehyung whispers, even though having him here makes everything a little less terrifying.

“I wanted to,” Jungkook says, simple, obvious. “You’re not allowed to be in hospitals without me. That’s like, a rule.”

“That’s not a real rule,” Taehyung protests, weakly.

“Should be,” Jungkook mutters, his fingers shifting to trace over the back of Taehyung’s hand, skimming along his knuckles and wrist like they belong there.

Silence settles, warm and full. The IV drip ticks faintly, and Taehyung starts counting the seconds between drops, letting it ground him.

He wants to cry—not from pain or fear, but from how much he wants this boy. From the quiet ache of loving Jungkook in a way he’s never been brave enough to say aloud.

“You’re warm,” he mumbles instead. “Stay?” The word slips out unguarded, soft and full of need.

“Always,” Jungkook says without missing a beat. He settles onto the bed like he’s prepared to stay forever.

“Mr. Kim, we’ll need a bit more blood for the tests,” a nurse says, her voice all syrupy calm, the practiced tone that’s supposed to soothe but only raises Taehyung’s anxiety.

Taehyung goes rigid, eyes wide with betrayal as he slowly turns his head to Jungkook.

“ Again? ” he croaks, horrified. “You said one tube. You lied to me. You’re all liars. ”

“It’s just one more vial,” the nurse reassures patiently, like she’s done this dance before. “We didn’t get quite enough the first time.”

“One?” Taehyung accuses, his voice cracking. “ That’s what you said last time. ‘Just one little poke.’ You lied. And I’m sick. That’s not fair.”

“She’s not lying, love,” Jimin calls from behind the curtain, barely hiding his laughter. “You’re just being dramatic. Like, Oscar-level dramatic.”

“I’m sick! ” Taehyung yells back, indignant. “You can’t bully the sick! It’s against the Geneva Convention or something!”

Jungkook snorts, pressing the back of his hand over his mouth to hide the grin, but his shoulders are shaking. Taehyung sees it—sees that even his supposed emotional support animal is laughing at him.

“I’m going to die,” he mutters, glaring at the nurse like she’s a medieval executioner. “This is it. Tell my dog I loved him. Tell him I’m sorry I never taught him to shake.”

Namjoon coughs suspiciously on the other side of the room, and it sounds way too much like a laugh. Taehyung sends him a glare that could shatter glass.

“Hyung,” Jungkook leans in, voice low and amused. “It’s a little poke. You’ve had mosquito bites worse than this.”

“Easy for you to say,” Taehyung pouts, clutching Jungkook’s sleeve like it’s the only thing tethering him to this earth. “You have no empathy. I’m a delicate flower and you’re all crushing my petals. ”

Jungkook doesn’t tease. He doesn’t pull away. He lets Taehyung drag him closer, lets him bury his face in his shoulder, one arm wrapping around him in a quiet shield of comfort.

“You want me to look away?” he murmurs, breath brushing warm against Taehyung’s ear.

“No,” Taehyung mumbles into his neck. “I want you to suffer with me. Emotional support suffering. ”

“Done,” Jungkook answers, holding him tighter.

The nurse approaches with the needle, and Taehyung shoves his face deeper into Jungkook’s neck, like if he can’t see it, it can’t hurt him. “Don’t let them touch me,” he pleads, voice muffled.

“You already have a needle in your hand,” Jungkook points out, trying not to laugh. “This is literally nothing compared to that.”

“This is everything ,” Taehyung insists—and he’s so serious, so genuinely distressed, that Jungkook’s heart squeezes in quiet affection.

The needle slides in—quick, practiced—and Taehyung whimpers . Like, actual whimpering. Like they’re performing battlefield surgery without anesthesia.

“Oh my God,” Jimin groans from the other side of the curtain. “You are not giving birth. It’s a blood draw. Calm down.”

“Don’t talk to me,” Taehyung snaps, his eyes still shut tight, face buried in Jungkook’s shoulder. “You didn’t hold my hand when I needed you. Real friends know these things without being asked.”

“You didn’t ask ,” Jimin says flatly.

“ Real friends know without asking. ”

Jungkook gently rubs the back of Taehyung’s neck in slow, grounding strokes as the vial fills with blood—dark and steady like it’s stealing all his secrets,

 “Almost done, hyungie,” he murmurs, voice warm and soft in a way he only uses for moments like this, when Taehyung’s trying so hard to be brave it hurts to watch.

Taehyung hums, lashes damp against his cheeks. “You said that five years ago. When I got my first shot.”

“You lived then, too.”

“You lied then, too.”

The nurse finally finishes, expertly taping gauze to his arm. She smiles, clearly used to full-grown men reverting to kindergarten the moment a needle appears.

 “All done, sweetheart.”

Taehyung cracks one eye open, still cautious. Jungkook’s face is right there, close enough their foreheads brush when he leans in. “You survived,” Jungkook whispers, and there’s so much fondness in his voice it makes Taehyung’s chest do something fluttery and embarrassing. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I need a lollipop,” Taehyung deadpans.

“You need therapy,” Jungkook replies, without missing a beat.

“ And a lollipop.”

The curtain pulls back. Namjoon and Jimin step inside, matching grins plastered on their smug faces like they’ve just won a bet.

“You want a medal for that performance?” Jimin asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I want you gone ,” Taehyung retorts, then reaches for Jungkook again like he’s been through war. “Carry me to my grave.”

“You’re literally in a hospital bed.”

“Then wheel me there. I’m too weak to walk.”

It’s a regular Tuesday.

He’s working. Or pretending to. Same difference. His screen is a sea of open tabs—emails, spreadsheets, a lo-fi playlist looping for hours because clicking ‘next’ feels like a chore. His body’s here. His mind, less so.

The call comes at 3:42 PM .

He’ll remember that forever, the way trauma makes you catalog weird, useless details like timestamps and coffee temperatures. It’s an unknown number, Seoul prefix. Nothing about it feels urgent.

He answers lazily, barely glancing at the screen. “Hello?” His brain’s still tangled in some quarterly report about logistics and budget breakdowns.

“Mr. Kim Taehyung?”

A woman’s voice—soft, polite, too polite.

He sits up straighter.

“Yes?”

“This is Dr. Choi from Hanuel General Hospital. Do you… do you have a minute to talk?”

There it is .

That tone . The careful softness. The kind of voice that signals you’re about to hear something you don’t want to hear .

His entire body stills, muscles coiling tight with a reflexive kind of dread.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, throat suddenly dry. “What’s up?”

She pauses.

And in that pause, he feels it—like a slow-motion glass tipping toward the edge of a counter. “Are you somewhere you can sit down?” she asks gently.

And that’s it. That’s the sentence that shatters the floor beneath his feet.

Nothing good ever starts with that sentence.

Taehyung blinks at his computer screen—at the blinking cursor in a sentence about budget allocations—and pushes back from the desk. His knees hit the underside hard enough to bruise, but he barely feels it.

“Yeah,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like his voice anymore. “I’m sitting.”

Another pause. Longer this time. And then—

"I'm so sorry to have to tell you this over the phone, but your scans came back from last week," she says, each word careful and measured, like she's walking barefoot across broken glass. 

"The PET scan showed late-stage metastasis. It's in your lungs, your lymph nodes, your spine. The cancer is quite aggressive, I'm afraid."

The room goes quiet.

Not metaphorically— actually quiet. Heavy. Dense. Even the lo-fi playlist seems to fade, like the universe itself has stopped making sound.

Taehyung doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. He just sits there, staring at his computer screen, the words hitting him like they’re in a language he doesn’t speak.

Dr. Choi continues. Still professional, still composed, but there’s something human edging into her voice now. Something that makes it worse.

"It’s stage four carcinoma. We're still running tests to determine the primary site, but at this level of progression... there’s no curative treatment available."

The words are underwater. Distant. Like she’s reciting from a script, lines from a tragic play he never auditioned for.

Taehyung swallows. His mouth tastes like ash and pennies. "There’s… there’s nothing?" he manages, voice cracking mid-sentence.

"We can start palliative care immediately," she says, her voice gentler now, like she’s trying to pad the fall. "We can manage your symptoms. Some chemotherapy might slow things down—buy you time. But… Taehyung-ssi… we're not talking years."

He nods, even though she can’t see him. An automatic movement. His body responding on muscle memory while his mind tries to catch up.

"How long?" he asks, and it sounds so small.

"It’s hard to say. A few months, maybe couple. Could be shorter. Could be longer if treatment helps and we get lucky. I'm so, so sorry."

He hums.

Just hums.

Because what else is there to say to that?

His fingers are shaking now. It’s stupid and annoying because he’s not crying—so why is his body betraying him?

He fumbles the phone onto speaker and sets it down, hand no longer steady enough to hold it.

She’s still talking—something about follow-ups, more tests, a counselor who specializes in terminal diagnoses. But her voice is far away now. Faded. Like background noise.

Because Taehyung is staring at a cursor blinking in the middle of an email about spreadsheets.

Five minutes ago, he was worried about budget allocations and whether he’d have time to grab lunch.

Now he’s dying.

That’s funny, isn’t it?

Not ha ha funny. Just cosmically fucked-up funny.

He doesn’t cry. He thinks he should. Isn’t that what people do? Break down? Scream? Sob into their hands?

But all he feels is blank . Hollow. Like his soul slipped out when she said the word metastasis and never came back.

The call ends. He’s not sure if he hung up or she did.

He sits there. In the silence. Listening to the AC hum and traffic blur outside the window. The lo-fi playlist loops back to the beginning, soft piano chords like nothing has changed.

Eventually, he stands.

His legs feel foreign, unsteady. Like he's relearning how to walk. He leaves his office—past coworkers still typing, still joking, still alive —without his bag, without logging out. Just… walks.

Outside, it’s disgustingly beautiful. Spring-sweet air, golden hour sun, the kind of afternoon that belongs to first dates and picnic days. Not… this.

He stands in it, blinking, like maybe the sun will scald the diagnosis away. It doesn’t.

He starts walking.

Not home.

Not anywhere that makes sense.

Just away .

And he keeps walking.

And walking.

And then—rain.

No warning. No thunder. Just the sky opening up.

The kind of rain that doesn’t cleanse. The kind that soaks you fast and mean. It clings. It clutches. It invades.

Taehyung doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. The hoodie he wore that morning turns into a second skin, drenched and suffocating. His hair drips. His clothes stick. Water rolls down his face like tears he still hasn’t cried.

He stands there. On a street corner. Soaked. Blank. Waiting for the world to notice he’s dying.

It doesn’t.

The world moves on—umbrellas opening, cars honking, people living.

His mouth tastes like metal now.

There’s a strange ringing in his ears.

He realizes he forgot to eat.

But he doesn’t feel hunger.

He doesn’t feel anything .

He just thinks—

Twenty-seven years.

That’s all he’s had lived. Twenty-seven years of breathing, existing, taking up space. And now he’s going to die, and what does he have to show for it?

Nothing that mattered. Nothing that left a mark. Nothing that made the world any better for having him in it.

He wasn’t the golden boy his parents wanted. Not the perfect son who called every Sunday, sent flowers on birthdays, made them proud at family dinners. He gave them hell in high school—dyed his hair black when they told him to study, got a lip piercing just to piss them off, skipped dinners for friends who probably don’t even remember his name now.

He always meant to fix things. Call more. Visit more. Be the son they deserved.

He just thought there’d be time.

But he was a good friend. That much he clings to—like it might be enough to justify his whole life. If he dies tomorrow, people will cry. 

Jimin will sob into Namjoon’s shoulder until he can't see straight. Yoongi will smoke through the grief and pretend he isn’t breaking. Hoseok will scream at the sky until it echoes back.

They’ll hurt—because he showed up. Even when he had nothing to give, he gave what he could. He listened. He stayed. He held hands through heartbreak and disappointment and every small, quiet tragedy.

But still—

He didn’t live . Not the way he imagined he would when he was older, when he had more time .

He never took that backpacking trip through Europe. Never learned guitar, even after buying one off Craigslist and letting it gather dust in his closet. Never opened that cozy little café he used to dream about—plants hanging from the ceiling, exposed brick, poetry in the air.

And love ?

He laughs, and it comes out bitter, swallowed by the sound of rain on pavement.

Sure—hookups. Plenty. Late nights with strangers who liked the way he looked in low lighting, who touched him like they were trying to forget their own loneliness.

A few lovers, too. People who stayed for weeks or months. Who said they cared. Maybe they even meant it. Until they didn’t.

No one stayed. No one loved him the way he wanted— deeply , messily , enough to mean something . No one ever looked at him like, this is it. This is home.

Except—

Jungkook.

The one constant in every fantasy, every never-was, every almost.

That pretty-faced, tattooed idiot with arms like marble and a heart made of clouds. Who laughs like it’s breathing.

 Who cries at sad movies. Who says I love you to his friends like it’s nothing—because to him, it isn't .

Taehyung has been in love with him for years. Not a wildfire kind of love. Not the kind that devours. But the slow kind.

The quiet ache that lives in the spaces between words. The one that becomes part of your bones.

He never told him. Not really.

He just stayed. Smiled too much. Teased him about his thighs and oversized hoodies. Let their hands linger when they touched. Let their shoulders bump and pretended it was casual.

He kept waiting—for Jungkook to turn, to see, to understand what all those small moments meant.

But Jungkook never did. He’s sweet. Oblivious. And he loves everyone the same way he loves Taehyung—casual, warm, without weight.

And now?

Now there’s no time left to wait for someday .

No time to be brave.

No time for maybes.

Taehyung wipes his face with the back of his hand, but everything’s already soaked. His lips are trembling, and he’s not sure if it’s the cold or the way his chest feels like it’s splitting open—slow, agonizing. Like grief is blooming inside him one petal at a time.

Maybe he’ll just keep walking. Until his feet forget where they were going.

Or maybe… he’ll go home.

Pretend it never happened.

At least for tonight.

The apartment door closes behind him with a soft click that seems too loud in the silence.

No lights on—he forgot to leave any this morning. No music playing—he never bothers when he's alone. No heater running—he’s been trying to save money on utilities, and now the irony of that hits like a physical blow.

He doesn’t change out of his wet clothes. Doesn’t grab a towel for his dripping hair. Doesn’t even turn on the lights.

He just walks into the living room, leaving wet footprints on the wooden floor, and sits heavily on the edge of the couch.

The rain-soaked hoodie clings to his arms like a second skin, and his jeans are heavy and uncomfortable. His fingertips are numb from the cold, and his lips won’t stop trembling no matter how hard he tries.

And then— He breaks.

Just his shoulders starting to shake, quiet and helpless. Little gasps slipping out despite his best efforts.

 Eyes squeezed shut so tight it hurts. He folds forward, palms pressed to his face like he could hold himself together if he just tried hard enough.

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair that he was just starting to feel like maybe, possibly, he had time to figure things out. That maybe there was more waiting—more experiences, more love, more chances to become who he was supposed to be.

That maybe he could still travel, still learn, still create something that mattered. That maybe he could still find someone to love him the way he wanted to be loved. That maybe he could still be someone worth remembering.

And now— Now he's going to die.
Not someday. Not eventually.

Soon.

He lets himself cry then, really cry, for the first time since he was a kid. Not for long—ten, maybe fifteen minutes—but long enough that his throat aches and his breath comes out in those uneven gasps that feel too loud in the quiet apartment.

Then he breathes in, deep and crooked, still a little wet around the edges. His face is hot and raw, eyes swollen, but he wipes it with the damp sleeve of his hoodie and tries to pull himself back together.

“Please,” he whispers to the empty room, to the ceiling, to the universe. “I don’t want to die yet. I’m not ready.”

But there’s no answer. No miracle.

So he wipes his face again, pulls out his phone with trembling fingers, and types:

[🐯 group chat]
hey… any of you free tonight? feel like making dinner. come over if you can. 7?

No explanation. No cheerful punctuation. No please come , even though that’s what he’s thinking.

They’ll come anyway. They always do.

He puts the phone down. Pushes himself off the couch with legs that feel too heavy. Shoulders still curved inward like he's bracing for another blow. Head foggy. But his feet move on instinct, toward the kitchen.

He rolls his sleeves up. The wet fabric sticks and pulls at his skin. He turns on the stove. The blue flame flickers to life, and something about it makes him feel slightly more human.

He starts cooking everything he knows they love.

Soy-marinated beef for Jimin, who always complains no one makes it like his mom but eats three servings anyway.

Japchae for Namjoon, who pretends he doesn’t have a sweet tooth but always sneaks seconds.

Sweet rolled omelette for Jungkook, who loves it too much but gets shy about it, like enjoying soft things is a weakness.

Grilled vegetables the way Hoseok likes them—extra sesame oil, no garlic.

He cooks slowly, carefully, like every dish is a love letter written in salt and steam. Like the food has to be perfect, because it matters. Because maybe it’s the last thing he’ll ever make for them.

Maybe they won’t remember the exact taste. But maybe they’ll remember this night. The feeling of being cared for. Fed. Loved. Maybe that will be enough.

He tastes the soup. Adds more salt. Wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Keeps going. Because this is the only way he knows how to say “I love you” without saying it.

He has something to tell them tonight. Something that will change everything.
That will turn their worry into grief. Their affection into something desperate and finite.

But first—
He wants to give them this. One more normal night.

One more meal.
One more moment before it all falls apart.

Dinner’s at 7.
And after that, he’ll find the words.

By 6:58 PM, the table looks like something from a magazine about the perfect dinner party.

Steam rising from multiple dishes, creating this warm, fragrant cloud that makes the whole apartment smell like home.

 Chopsticks laid out in neat pairs, cloth napkins folded simply beside each plate because he remembers Jimin once saying that paper napkins make him feel like he's eating fast food. Cans of beer chilling in the fridge, condensation already forming on the metal, and an array of side dishes arranged in little mismatched bowls that he's collected over the years—some from his mother, some bought on impulse, some gifts from friends who know he likes to cook.

Taehyung stands in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, still wearing his damp clothes from earlier, wiping his hands on a clean towel and staring at the spread like he doesn't quite believe he created all of this. 

It looks warm and inviting and abundant, like it came from someone who had all the time in the world and nothing but love to pour into every dish.

The doorbell rings, sharp and sudden in the quiet apartment, and he takes a deep breath that doesn't quite fill his lungs properly. Then he walks to the door and opens it with a smile that he forces so well it almost feels genuine.

"Yahhh, look at this chef!" Jimin says first, stepping into the apartment with his arms spread wide like he's presenting Taehyung to an invisible audience.

"Is this feast for us, or are you catering someone's wedding? Should I leave a tip?"

"I already hate you," Taehyung mutters, but he's still smiling as he steps back to let him in, because this is exactly the kind of ridiculous entrance he expected from Jimin.

Namjoon follows close behind, cradling a bottle of wine that he probably grabbed from the convenience store on his way over, the kind of mid-range red that's decent enough to bring to dinner but not so expensive that he'd feel bad if no one drinks it.

"You cooked this much food? What's the occasion? Did you get a promotion or something?"

"No occasion," Taehyung lies smoothly, turning away so Namjoon can't see his face. "I just got bored this afternoon. And maybe a little sentimental."

"Uh oh," Jimin says, already making his way toward the kitchen like he's following the scent of food. 

"He's gonna confess something tonight. Did you finally kill that Choi who plays music too loud?"

"Not yet," Taehyung replies, and the joke feels hollow in his mouth because he's thinking about all the things he'll never get to do now, all the small revenges and petty complaints that seemed so important yesterday.

Hoseok shows up exactly three minutes later, loud and dramatic as always, his voice carrying down the hallway before he even reaches the door. 

"Is there actual meat in there, or am I gonna have to cry into my rice again?"

"There's meat!" Taehyung calls back, and he's laughing despite everything, because Hoseok's energy is infectious and familiar and exactly what he needs right now.

Even Jungkook comes, and that surprises him a little because Jungkook has been busy with work lately, pulling long hours and falling asleep on his couch most nights.

 But he shows up anyway, a little late, wearing an oversized hoodie with his hair pushed back like he didn't bother checking the mirror before leaving his apartment.

He walks in quietly, the way he always does, with that soft smile that makes Taehyung's chest do stupid things. 

His eyes scan the room automatically, taking in the setup and the food and the other guys already settling in, but then they land on Taehyung and stay there for just a moment too long.

"You look tired," he says, and it's not a complaint or a criticism, just an observation delivered with the kind of gentle concern that makes Taehyung want to cry all over again.

"Cooking is exhausting," Taehyung replies, which isn't exactly a lie but isn't the whole truth either.

But he's smiling anyway, because they're all here. They dropped whatever they were doing and came to his apartment on a Tuesday night because he asked them to, and they're joking around and complaining about each other and filling his space with noise and warmth and life.

"Bro, this omelette?" Hoseok says around a mouthful of food, his eyes wide with genuine surprise. "What the actual hell did you put in this?"

"Milk," Taehyung says, settling into his own chair and picking up his chopsticks.

"I knew it. Only complete psychopaths put milk in eggs. But it’s fucking tasty."

"Shut up and eat it."

The table comes alive with conversation and laughter and the comfortable chaos that happens when people who love each other gather around food. Jimin is laughing so hard at something Namjoon said that he nearly chokes on his rice, which makes everyone else laugh harder. 

Namjoon is trying to explain some philosophical theory about flavor profiles that no one is really listening to but everyone is nodding along with anyway. Hoseok keeps clinking his beer can against Jungkook's until they're both giggling like children.

And Taehyung just watches.

His chopsticks are resting in his hand, forgotten, and his eyes are soft and sad and memorizing every detail. The way Jimin's nose crinkles when he laughs too hard. 

The way Namjoon gestures with his hands when he gets excited about something. The way Hoseok's whole face lights up when he tastes something he likes. The way Jungkook keeps glancing at him between bites, like he's checking to make sure he's okay.

For a while—just a little while—it feels like nothing is wrong. Like maybe there really is time, endless amounts of it, stretching out ahead of them.

 Like maybe this night can go on forever and he'll never have to say what he's planning to say, never have to watch their faces change when they understand what he's telling them.

He refills everyone's soup bowls when they get low, wiping the sides clean before handing them over because presentation matters—because taking care of people is a form of love.

He keeps smiling and laughing and participating in the conversation, and somewhere between watching Jungkook lick soup off his thumb and seeing Jimin wipe kimchi sauce off Hoseok's cheek with his napkin, Taehyung thinks—

God, I'm going to miss this so much. I'm going to miss them more than I can possibly imagine.

But he lets himself laugh along with them anyway. Just one more time. Just for tonight.

He'll tell them after the food is gone, after the noise dies down and they're all full and relaxed and happy. After they've had one last good memory of him that isn't completely saturated with grief and fear and the terrible weight of knowing.

Let them be happy a little while longer.

The plates are mostly cleared now, scraped clean and stacked in a neat pile beside the sink.

Jin showed up somewhere between the main course and dessert, letting himself in with his key like he always does.

 "I swear to God, Tae," he mutters, peering into the rice cooker to see how much is left, "you made enough food to feed an entire wedding reception."

"Did you expect anything less?" Hoseok says, stretching dramatically in his chair. "This is Taehyung we're talking about. The man has never understood the concept of portion control."

Taehyung doesn't argue, doesn't defend himself, doesn't make the usual jokes about how they're all bottomless pits who could eat their weight in food.

 He's too tired for banter—but not the good kind of tired that comes from physical exertion or a long day of productivity.

This is the bone-deep, soul-heavy kind of tired that comes when your brain won't stop spinning and your body just can't keep up anymore.

 When you've been holding yourself together through sheer force of will, and the adrenaline is finally wearing off, leaving you hollow and shaky and ready to collapse.

He's slouched on the couch now, his body curved inward like he's trying to make himself smaller, eyes half-closed and unfocused. The others have migrated to the living room too, settling into their usual spots with the easy familiarity of people who've been friends for years.

Jungkook is beside him, close enough that Taehyung can feel the warmth radiating from his body, but they're not touching. Not yet.

And Taehyung is so tired, so wrung out from holding himself together all evening, that he just lets himself tip sideways.

His head falls soft against Jungkook's shoulder, and for a moment everything goes still. He can feel Jungkook's body tense slightly, surprised by the sudden contact, but then he relaxes, and then—

A hand comes up around him, instinctive and gentle. Jungkook's palm settles against his upper arm, fingers curling slightly, and the pressure is warm and steady and exactly what Taehyung needs. Like an anchor. Like a promise that says I'm here, I've got you, you're not alone.

"You okay, hyung?" Jungkook murmurs, his voice low and private, meant just for Taehyung's ears.

Taehyung makes a small sound that might be agreement, might be exhaustion, might be the beginning of another breakdown. "Mm."

"You sure? You've been quiet all night."

"Mm. Can't I just stick to my maknae for a bit?" he mumbles, and his words are slightly slurred with tiredness and something deeper than that. "Is that not allowed?"

Jungkook huffs out a quiet breath that might be a laugh, might be fondness, might be something else entirely. His thumb starts moving in small circles against Taehyung's sleeve, unconscious and soothing. "You can do whatever you want, hyung. Always."

Taehyung doesn't answer because he doesn't trust his voice right now, doesn't trust what might come out if he opens his mouth. He just breathes in slowly, trying to memorize every detail of this moment.

The weight of Jungkook's shoulder against his cheek. The way he smells like clean laundry and that expensive shampoo he uses and something uniquely him that Taehyung has never been able to identify. The quiet, steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the fabric of his hoodie.

He doesn't know if he'll ever get to feel this again. Doesn't know if he'll ever get this close to Jungkook again without it breaking both of them into pieces.

So he just sits there, soaking it in, letting himself have this one perfect moment before that.

Eventually, he pulls back.

The others are mostly done now.

They’re happy, and Taehyung can feel it in the way their laughter comes easy, in the way they lean into each other without thinking, in the way the apartment feels alive and safe and exactly like home should feel. 

They’re warm, nestled together in this bubble of ordinary joy that he’s about to shatter completely, and the weight of what he’s carrying sits heavy in his chest like a stone he can’t swallow.

He doesn’t want to ruin it—god, he really doesn’t want to be the one to break this perfect moment where everything feels right with the world. 

But he has to, because keeping it inside is killing him faster than the cancer ever could, and he’s already dying, so what’s the point of protecting them from the truth when the truth is going to destroy them anyway?

His throat feels tight when he clears it, and he doesn’t stand because standing would make this feel too formal, too much like a speech, too much like goodbye.

 Instead, he just sits up straighter, spine pressing against the back of the couch, and says it—quiet, but clear enough that they’ll all hear him over Hoseok’s animated storytelling—

“Can everyone sit down for a second?”

Jimin blinks, and there’s something careful in his voice when he says, “Uh oh. Is this an intervention?” Like he’s trying to keep the lightness going, trying to joke his way out of whatever’s coming because deep down he already knows it’s not going to be good.

“Shut up,” Taehyung says, and it comes out softer than he intended—fond and tired and heavy with everything he’s about to lay on them.

Everyone’s eyes are on him now, and the weight of their attention feels like being under a microscope—like being pinned down by the intensity of their love and concern. 

His fingers twist together in his lap, knuckles white with the effort of holding himself together, and his lips part like he’s going to speak but then close again, because the words are too big, too terrible, too real once they’re out in the world.

He breathes in once, slow and deliberate, filling his lungs with air that tastes like home and safety and everything he’s about to lose. Out again, and it shakes a little on the exhale.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” he says, and it sounds so inadequate, so small for something that’s going to change everything—but it’s all he has.

Taehyung sits forward a little, elbows on knees, fingers twisted in front of him like he’s praying or trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will.

 He doesn’t look at any of them directly because he can’t bear to see the concern in their eyes, the way they’re all leaning forward slightly like they want to catch him if he falls. Instead, he stares at the floor between his feet, at the worn carpet that’s seen so many of their gatherings—so many late nights and early mornings and everything in between.

“Okay,” he says softly, and his lips quirk up in what might be a smile if it wasn’t so sad, so resigned. “So… don’t freak out, yeah?”

Jin snorts, and there’s relief in the sound, like maybe this won’t be as bad as the buildup suggested. “Solid start.”

“Hyung, let him talk,” Namjoon mutters, but his voice is gentle—protective in that way he gets when he’s trying to shield them all from hurt.

Taehyung lets out a tiny huff that’s not quite a laugh, not quite anything really—just air escaping from lungs that feel too tight. He scratches at the inside of his wrist, a nervous habit he’s had since they were kids, and the familiar motion grounds him just enough to find his words.

“I went to the hospital last week,” he says, and he keeps his voice casual, conversational, like he’s talking about the weather or what he had for breakfast—because if he lets any real emotion into it, he’ll break down completely.

 “Remember that food poisoning scare?”

Jimin makes a face, and there’s already something sharp in his expression, some instinct telling him this story isn’t going where he wants it to go. “Yeah? You passed out and made me cry, asshole.”

"Yeah. That." Taehyung hums, tongue pressing against his cheek in that thoughtful way he does when he's trying to figure out how to say something difficult. "Turns out it wasn't food poisoning."

The silence that follows is deafening—thick and heavy and full of all the things they're afraid to think.

He picks at a loose thread on his pants, needing something to do with his hands because they're shaking and he doesn't want them to see how scared he is.

"So... they did tests. Scans. Blood work. Stuff I didn’t even know existed. Stuff that sounds like science fiction when the nurses explain it to you in voices that are too kind, too careful. And then, like, a week later—"

He makes a small explosion motion with his fingers, the gesture almost childlike in its simplicity. "Bam."

He blinks, and there's something distant in his eyes, like he's seeing something they can't see—remembering something they weren’t there for.

"I got a call. From the doc."

Jungkook shifts beside him, body going still in that particular way that means he's listening with everything he has, and Taehyung can feel the intensity of his attention like heat against his skin.
Everyone's watching now, but no one interrupts, no one breathes, no one moves—because they all know that whatever comes next is going to change everything.

Taehyung breathes in, and it’s not deep—his lungs feel too small, too tight—but it’s enough air to keep going. Enough oxygen to push the words out even though they feel like they're tearing his throat apart.

"Apparently I’m dying."

He says it so soft, so casual, like he’s commenting on the weather or mentioning he needs to pick up milk from the store. Jimin blinks, and the sound is almost audible in the silence.

Taehyung nods a little to himself, some internal conversation playing out behind his eyes.

"Stage four cancer. It's all over, I guess—spine, lungs, liver, places I can’t even pronounce. I didn’t ask too many questions because honestly, I wasn’t really listening after the first few words. You know how it is when someone tells you something so impossible that your brain just... stops processing?"

The silence is deafening now, so complete that he can hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the distant sound of traffic outside, the way someone’s breathing has gone shallow and quick.

He tries to smile, and for a moment it almost works, almost looks real—but then it crumbles at the edges like it's made of sand.

"There’s no cure. Nothing they can do, really. No magic bullet, no experimental treatment, no miracle surgery. Just... time. Could be a few months if I’m lucky. Could be less if I’m not. They were very careful not to promise me anything. Very professional about the whole thing."

He finally looks up, and his eyes are shiny with unshed tears—not crying, but full. Like he already did that part earlier, in some hospital bathroom or in his car in the parking lot. What’s left now is just the residue of grief, the aftermath of accepting the unacceptable.

"I didn’t want to tell you like this," he adds, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Over dinner, with empty plates and the smell of home cooking still in the air. Like some sad goodbye letter you write but never send. But I also didn’t want to wait. Didn’t want to pretend everything was normal when it’s not, when it’s never going to be normal again.
And I didn’t want to lie to you. Couldn’t keep looking at your faces and pretending I wasn’t keeping this secret that’s eating me alive."

The reaction is immediate and devastating.

Jin’s face freezes like someone just slapped him, all expression draining away until he looks like a statue.

Hoseok’s already covering his mouth with both hands, eyes wide and disbelieving, and Taehyung can see the exact moment when the words hit him—when his face crumples like paper.

Namjoon’s knuckles are white where they’re gripping the edge of the couch, and there’s something broken in his expression, something that looks like he’s trying to solve a problem that has no solution.

Jimin’s lips are shaking, trembling like he’s cold, and there are tears already starting to spill over his cheeks even though he’s not making any sound. Yoongi is quiet.

And Jungkook—
Jungkook hasn’t moved. Hasn’t even breathed, as far as Taehyung can tell. Just sitting there like he’s been carved from stone. Like if he stays perfectly still, then maybe none of this will be real.

Taehyung shifts his eyes to him last—saves him for last, because looking at Jungkook hurts the most. Because Jungkook is the one he’s going to miss the most. The one he’s been in love with for so long that he can’t remember what it felt like before.

"I'm okay right now," he says, and his voice is gentle, careful—like he's trying to comfort them even though he's the one who's dying.

"Like... not in pain yet. Just tired. All the time. That bone-deep exhaustion that sleep doesn't fix. But I'm okay. I'm still me. I'm still here."

He shrugs, and it’s such a normal gesture, so typically him, that it somehow makes everything worse.

"I just didn’t want to keep it from you guys. Couldn't keep pretending when all I wanted was to be honest with you—to have whatever time we have left be real."

There’s a pause, and in it, he can hear the sound of someone crying, someone trying not to cry, someone's breath hitching in their chest.

And then he adds, even quieter, voice barely audible but somehow carrying all the weight in the world,

"I love you. All of you. You’re... everything to me. You're my family. My home. My whole world. You're the reason I'm not more scared than I am."

He’s still smiling—barely. Just the ghost of an expression that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but tries to offer them something. Some small comfort in the middle of their devastation.

And then he goes quiet again, settles back into the couch like maybe that’s all he had to give tonight—like he’s emptied himself out, and now there’s nothing left but the waiting.

Jimin lets out a sharp laugh. 

Everyone's eyes snap to him because there’s something wrong with the sound. Something that doesn’t belong in this moment where the world has just shifted on its axis and nothing will ever be the same again.

He’s smiling. Actually smiling . And laughing even though it’s not funny at all—like his body doesn’t know what else to do with the information just dropped in his lap like a bomb with the pin already pulled.

Taehyung watches him and thinks about how people break in different ways. How some people scream.

Some go quiet. Some laugh when they should be crying.
And Jimin has always been the one who feels everything too much, too fast, too deep.

"What?" Jimin says, and his breath catches on the word like it's stuck in his throat.

"What do you mean you're dying? No—shut up. That's not—"

His voice cracks right down the middle, splitting like dry wood, and Taehyung sees the exact moment the reality starts to seep in through the cracks of denial.

"No, you’re not," Jimin continues, blinking rapidly now, swiping at his eyes like he can push the tears back in before anyone notices.

"What the fuck are you saying? You’re not dying, that’s insane—you literally made us dinner tonight! Who the hell makes japchae and then says ‘by the way, I’m dying’ like it’s casual conversation?"

The silence stretches between them like a rubber band about to snap.

And Taehyung thinks about how he practiced this moment in his head a hundred times, how he thought he’d be ready for their reactions—but nothing could have prepared him for the way Jimin’s face is crumpling in real time.

For how his friend is fighting against the truth with every breath in his body.

Jimin keeps going, his voice rising just slightly—climbing toward hysteria.

"Tae, come on, no. This is not funny. You’re gonna be fine. They said something wrong, that doctor’s wrong—you’ll go to another one, I’ll come with you, we’ll sue them or something—"

His laugh dies in his throat like a bird hitting a window—sudden and final. His hand lifts again, wiping at his cheeks like he didn’t realize he was crying until the tears reached his mouth.

Taehyung’s chest tightens. This is exactly what he was afraid of—this breaking. This desperate scrambling for hope where there isn’t any.

"Don’t look at me like that," Jimin mutters suddenly.

And there’s something raw and pleading in his voice that makes Taehyung’s heart twist.

"Stop looking at me like that, Tae. Say it was a joke. Say you’re fucking with us. You always do this shit—"

"I’m not," Taehyung says quietly.

Even as the words leave his mouth, he knows they’re the ones that will break everything beyond repair.

The ones that take this moment from maybe-not-real to absolutely-definitely-happening.

That’s what shatters it. The last thin thread of hope Jimin was clinging to—gone.

He makes a choked noise, the sound of someone drowning, and covers his face with both hands.

His shoulders start shaking almost instantly like he’s coming apart at the seams.

He turns his face into Namjoon’s arm, like if he hides hard enough—presses himself small enough into someone else’s warmth—maybe it won’t be true.

And the thing is, Taehyung thinks as he watches his friend fall apart—
That’s what shatters the rest of them too.

Like dominoes, one by one, until nothing is left standing.

Hoseok makes a small sound—barely a whimper—pressing his hand to his mouth like he’s trying to hold his heart in.

Jin’s blinking too fast, frozen like he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to hold someone or walk out or pretend this isn’t happening.

Namjoon pulls Jimin in tighter, whispering something into his hair that Taehyung can’t hear, but his own eyes are glassy too—reflecting the kitchen light like still water. Yoongi has silent tears dripping down his face.

And Jungkook— Jungkook still hasn’t spoken.
Still hasn’t moved.

Taehyung can feel him there beside him on the couch like a statue.
His hand’s in a fist now, knuckles white from the force of holding on, eyes locked on Taehyung like he’s trying to see through him.

Like he’s waiting for the punchline. Waiting for the part where Taehyung laughs and says gotcha , and everything goes back to normal.

But it doesn’t come.

And Taehyung thinks maybe this is the cruelest part of all— The way they’re all looking at him like he has the power to take it back.

Like he chose this.
Like he’s doing it on purpose, just to watch them hurt.

So they all just sit there in the quiet, surrounded by empty plates and half-full cups and the scent of dinner that suddenly feels too heavy to breathe. Too much like normal life when nothing will ever be normal again.

And Taehyung just keeps sitting—still and quiet and hollow—watching them fall apart with tears in his eyes but none on his cheeks.

He already cried earlier, alone in his bathroom.  Now he just feels empty. Scraped clean from the inside out.

The crying quiets eventually. Not gone, just softer—like a storm passing over.

Jimin's still tucked into Namjoon's chest, sniffling quietly, while Hoseok wipes his eyes with his sleeve. Jin rubs small circles on Jimin’s back.

No one’s talking. The silence feels fragile—like speaking might break something that can't be fixed.

Taehyung exhales.

And then—
He laughs. Just a tiny, breathy one that doesn’t match the mood at all.

He can feel them all looking at him like he’s lost his mind. And maybe he has.

Maybe dying does that to you.

Maybe it makes you reckless in ways you never thought possible.

“God, this is gonna sound crazy,” he says suddenly, voice trembling—but it doesn’t stop.
There’s a strange freedom in having nothing left to lose.

The worst thing that could happen is already happening. So what’s one more confession?

He turns his head slightly. Looks at Jungkook.

And the words come out clear, sharp, alive . Things he had felt for years but never spoken. Might as well say it today, he was gonna die anyway.
“I’ve been in love with you.”

The silence turns sharp again—cutting.

Even Jimin lifts his head from Namjoon’s chest to stare. And Taehyung doesn’t look away. He can’t .

Because he’s been looking away for four years and he’s tired of it. Tired of hiding. Tired of pretending his heart doesn’t race every time Jungkook smiles at him.

“I’ve been in love with you for four fucking years, Jungkook,” he continues, voice barely holding together—but more him than anything he’s said all night.

There’s something liberating in it. Letting the words that have lived like a stone in his chest finally find air.

He lets out a half-laugh, eyes glossy. “I didn’t say anything ‘cause it felt stupid. ‘Cause you never gave any signs. And I didn’t want to lose you. But now? Now I’m gonna die, and I’m still scared. Can you believe that?”

Jungkook’s staring at him. Still frozen.

Taehyung sees the shock written across his face like headlines. Sees the way his lips part like he wants to speak but doesn’t have the words.

Part of him wants to stop. Wants to take it back.

But the bigger part— The part that's carried this love like a secret illness— Needs to keep going.

“I love your stupid hair,” he says, voice wobbling but pushing forward with the determination of a man sprinting toward the end of something.

“I love how you pout when you’re concentrating. How you get that little crease between your eyebrows like you’re trying to solve world hunger.

I love how you laugh at your own jokes before anyone else can—like joy just bubbles out of you before you can stop it.”

His throat tightens, but he keeps going .

“I love the way you touch people. Gentle. Like you’re scared to break them. I love that you’re so soft under all those muscles and tattoos and piercings—you act like you’re cool, but you cried watching that Pixar short about the dumpling. Remember that?”

Jungkook still doesn’t speak. But something shifts in his eyes. Recognition. Heartbreak. Both.

Taehyung presses forward, voice smaller now—more fragile.

“You make people feel safe without even trying. You made me feel safe. And I wanted to tell you every goddamn day. But I didn’t. Because I thought there’d be time. Because I thought we had forever. And now—”

His voice breaks. Cracks wide open. And the words come out in pieces.

“Now there isn’t.”

And maybe that’s when Jungkook moves.

When the spell of shock finally breaks and he can’t sit still anymore. Can’t pretend. Can’t not touch him.

No words. Just movement.

He leans in—arms wrapping around Taehyung and pulling him in like he needs to.

Like they could mold into each other and maybe that would be enough to keep Taehyung alive.

Taehyung lets himself fall into it.

Face pressing into Jungkook’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him—cologne and clean laundry and something only Taehyung has ever noticed.

This —this is what peace feels like. This moment of being held by the person you love when the world is ending.

Jungkook doesn’t speak.

But Taehyung feels it. The trembling in his hands. The hitch in his breathing. The warmth of his cheek resting against Taehyung’s head, damp with tears he didn’t know he was crying.

And then— A kiss.

Pressed to the crown of Taehyung’s head. Soft and precious and perfect.

A whisper so faint it might not be real.

“…hyung.”

That’s it.

Nothing else.

Just two boys sitting on a couch. One dying. One breaking. Both clinging to a love that’s always been there, but never spoken— Not until now. Not until it was almost too late.

He's crying before he knows he's crying, tears streaming down his face like rain on windows, and his voice climbs too fast, too high, reaching toward hysteria. 

"You're fine, please just—please just say it was a bad test or something, you got the wrong report, they mixed up the files, please."

His chest starts shaking with the force of his sobs, and Hoseok tries to move toward him but Jimin turns away, fists balled up, face blotchy and red with the kind of crying that leaves you raw and empty.

 "I can't, hyung, I can't handle this, you can't say that to me and expect me to just—just accept it, like it's normal, like people our age are supposed to die."

"I love you," he says again, just because he can, just because the words feel good in his mouth now that they're not a secret anymore, and he watches Jungkook's eyes widen like he's just been slapped across the face.

"I've loved you for four years," he continues, and his voice is steadier now, more sure, like he's finally found his footing on ground that's been shifting beneath him for months.

 "Quietly, dumbly, stupidly, you didn't notice, or maybe you did, I don't know, I was just too scared to say anything, scared it'd ruin us, scared you'd look at me differently, scared I'd lose the only piece of you I was allowed to have."

He laughs, just once, short and bitter.

 "It's funny, right? How you can love someone so much and still pretend you don't? How you can live with someone being right there, right next to you, and still feel like they're a million miles away?"

"I just didn't want to die without saying it," he admits, and his voice is small now, vulnerable in a way that makes him feel like he's standing naked in front of everyone he cares about.

 "I didn't want to go without you knowing that you were loved, that you mattered, that you were the best part of my life even when I was too much of a coward to tell you."

Taehyung folds into him like he was made to fit there, hands bunching in the front of Jungkook's hoodie, his face pressing into his chest where he can hear the rapid beating of his heart, and Jungkook holds him so tight he can barely breathe, but he needs it, needs to feel like he's not disappearing already, like he's still here, still real, still worthy of being held.

No one says a word, even Jimin curled up in Namjoon's lap just watches, because this is Taehyung's moment, his chance to be loved the way he's always wanted to be loved, and maybe that's enough, maybe that's all anyone can ask for in the end.

Eventually, slowly, the room starts to move again, life resuming its forward motion even when it feels like it should stop, should pause out of respect for the magnitude of what's just happened.

 Namjoon gathers Jimin to his feet with gentle hands, Jin grabs his jacket in silence, and Hoseok starts helping Yoongi open the door, but Jimin cries again, protests with the desperation of someone who knows that leaving means accepting reality.

"I'll stay, please, just let me stay," he begs, voice breaking on every word, and Taehyung's heart breaks a little more because he knows this is hard for all of them, knows they're all processing this in their own ways, all trying to figure out how to love someone who's leaving.

But Yoongi's already walking over.

"Come on," he says, and there's something infinitely kind in the way he says it, like he's not just talking to Jimin but to all of them, like he's saying it's okay to need space, it's okay to not know how to handle this.

"I need to—" Jimin starts, but Yoongi cuts him off with a shake of his head.

"You need to breathe," he says, voice low and final, and Taehyung thinks about how Yoongi always knows exactly what to say, how he's the one who holds them all together when everything falls apart.

 "You can come back tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day until—" He stops himself, but they all know what he was going to say.

Jimin sobs again, ugly and raw, the kind of crying that leaves you empty and aching, and he hugs Taehyung so tight it hurts, his face pressed against his shoulder like he's trying to absorb him, to carry a piece of him wherever he goes.

 "You're not allowed to leave me yet, okay? Not yet, we still have things to do, places to go, you promised we'd take that trip to Japan, remember? You promised."

Taehyung just holds him, lets him cry against his shoulder, and thinks about promises and how fragile they are, how easily they can be broken by things beyond your control, but he doesn't say that because what would be the point, because hope is all any of them have left now.

And then, one by one, they leave, each goodbye feeling like a small death, the door closing softly behind them until it's just Taehyung and Jungkook left on the couch, still beside each other, still breathing the same air, still alive in this moment even though tomorrow is uncertain, even though everything has changed and nothing will ever be the same again.

And Taehyung doesn't say anything, just sits there feeling the weight of Jungkook's presence beside him, feeling grateful for this moment, for this chance to be known and loved and held, even if it's too late, even if it's not enough, even if it's just the beginning of goodbye.

Because he doesn't have to anymore, because the weight of pretending has finally lifted from his shoulders like a stone he's been carrying for years without realizing how heavy it was, and now that it's gone, now that the words are out there floating between them in the dim light of his apartment, Jungkook is still holding his hand with fingers that feel warm and real and steady against his palm.

And he hasn't let go, not even when the silence stretched long enough to feel uncomfortable, not even when Taehyung's breathing started to hitch in that way that usually means he's about to fall apart, because maybe Jungkook knows, maybe he's always known, that sometimes the only thing you can do for someone you love is just stay exactly where you are and refuse to move.

The silence holds them both, wrapping around them like a blanket that's not quite warm enough, and Taehyung's fingers twitch against Jungkook's palm, just once, just enough to remind them both that he's real, that this is real, that the words the doctor said into his phone three hours ago weren't just some terrible dream he's going to wake up from.

Then—

"I don't want to die."

It comes out like a whisper at first, barely there, so soft that for a moment Jungkook thinks maybe he imagined it, but the moment the words leave Taehyung's mouth, something cracks open inside him, wide and unstoppable and raw, like a dam that's been holding back an ocean and finally gives way.

"I don't want to die," he says again, this time louder, shakier, his breath hitching on the words like they're cutting his throat on the way out.

 "Fuck, I don't—I don't want this, I'm not ready, I'm not fucking ready for any of this."

Jungkook pulls him in tighter, arms tightening around his waist, one hand sliding up to the back of his neck where his hair is still damp with sweat from the panic that hit him when he first hung up the phone, and his voice comes out rough and broken when he tries to say something, anything. 

"Tae—"

"I just confessed today," Taehyung cries, voice breaking completely now, shattering into pieces that cut through the quiet air between them. 

"Today, Jungkook, I said I loved you today, and that's so fucking stupid because I wasted four years, four entire years pretending I was fine, pretending I didn't need you, pretending I could just be your friend forever and be happy with that when I knew, I've always known, that I loved you more than I've ever loved anything in my entire life, and now I'm just—now it's gone, now it's all gone."

He's crying now, really crying.

"I don't want to die," Taehyung says again, over and over like a prayer, like if he says it enough times maybe the universe will listen and change its mind.

 "I don't want to stop being here, I don't want to stop existing, I want to wake up tomorrow and eat breakfast and complain about my hair being stupid and text Jimin dumb shit that makes him laugh and bother you at midnight when I can't sleep, I want all of it, still, I want everything I've always wanted and more, I want so much more."

Jungkook doesn't say anything because he can't, because his throat is tight and thick like something is stuck in it, something painful and rising too fast, and he knows that if he opens his mouth right now only broken sounds will come out, so instead he just holds him, just tightens his arms around Taehyung's shaking body and tries to pour everything he can't say into the way he touches him.

One arm around Taehyung's middle, holding him against his chest like he can somehow absorb all the fear and pain and unfairness of it, and the other curled around his head, hand cradling his nape like he might fall apart completely if Jungkook lets go for even a second.

 Jungkook's cheek is pressed into Taehyung's hair, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo mixed with salt and panic, and his hoodie's already damp from where the tears have soaked through the fabric.

"I just said it," Taehyung chokes out again, voice muffled against Jungkook's chest but still so clear, still so devastating. "I just told you I love you, I finally said the words out loud after all this time, and what was the point if I'm just gonna leave now? Why would God let me love someone this much, let me feel this much, just to take it away before I even got to really have it?"

"Don't," Jungkook says, voice breaking on the single word, cracking right down the middle. "Don't talk like that, please don't—"

But Taehyung just cries harder, sobs hitting in waves now, chest heaving with the weight of finally letting go, of finally saying all the things he's been holding inside for so long that they've become part of him, carved into his bones and wrapped around his heart like thorns.

"I wanted to love you for real," he says through the tears, words coming out in gasps between sobs.

 "I wanted a life with you, I wanted—fuck—I wanted something, anything, I wanted to wake up next to you and fight about stupid things and make up with kisses and hold your hand in public and call you mine, I wanted to be loved back, even just a little, just enough to believe I existed for something, that I mattered to someone the way you matter to me."

"You are," Jungkook says, hand shaking as he runs it through Taehyung's hair, fingers gentle and desperate and trying so hard to be steady.

 "You are, hyung, you're loved, you're so fucking loved, more than you know, more than I ever told you, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I waited so long to say it back."

His own voice cracks then, breaks completely, and he blinks hard but the tears come anyway, sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto Taehyung's shoulder where they mix with the ones already there, and for a moment they're both just crying, both holding onto each other like they're drowning and this is the only thing keeping them afloat.

"You're not going anywhere tonight, okay?" Jungkook whispers, voice rough and wet and fierce with the kind of love that feels like it could move mountains if it had to. 

"You're here, you're with me, you're safe right now, and that's all we need to think about, just breathe, okay? Just breathe and stay with me, stay right here with me."

Taehyung nods against him, but he's still shaking, still crying, still spilling every bit of fear he's been carrying since the call, and the words don't stop for a while, they just keep coming, messy and repeating and rambling, full of shattered pieces he doesn't know how to fit together anymore, pieces of dreams he thought he had more time for and futures that feel like they're slipping through his fingers like sand.

And Jungkook—Jungkook stays through all of it, crying with him, whispering "I've got you" over and over like a promise, like a vow, like the only prayer he knows how to say, until the shaking slows and Taehyung's breaths come easier and the weight of being held becomes stronger than the weight of being afraid.

The crying slows, eventually, the way storms always do, gradually and then all at once, and Taehyung's sobs soften into hiccups, little broken sounds that fade in and out like waves hitting a quiet shore, and his eyes are red and raw and swollen, but he's not shaking anymore, he's just there, folded into Jungkook's arms like something precious, like something breakable that finally stopped resisting being held.

Jungkook keeps his hand in Taehyung's hair, fingertips warm and slow against his scalp, stroking gently, over and over, like he's soothing a wild thing into rest, like he's trying to memorize the feeling of being able to comfort him this way, and when he speaks, his voice is low but steady, sure in a way that cuts through the lingering fear.

"I'm moving in," he says suddenly, and Taehyung doesn't lift his head, just shifts slightly in his hold, turning his face so his cheek is pressed against Jungkook's chest where he can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong and real.

"Tomorrow morning," Jungkook says again, and there's something in his voice that sounds like a decision being made, like a line being drawn in the sand. "First thing, I'm packing up my stuff and coming here, I'm not asking, I'm telling you, this is what's happening."

Taehyung sniffs, voice muffled against the fabric of Jungkook's hoodie, small and tired and still a little broken. "Why?"

"Because," Jungkook breathes, holding him tighter, arms tightening around him like he's trying to hold all the pieces of him together, "you're not doing any of this alone, not for a single day, not for a single moment, I don't care how messy it gets, I don't care how scared you are, I don't care if you push me away or try to protect me or think you're being a burden, because you're not, you're everything, and if you fall, I fall, that's it, that's how this works now."

Taehyung's fingers clutch the front of Jungkook's shirt, knuckles tight and white with the force of holding on, and he doesn't respond, doesn't say anything, just breathes against him and lets himself be held like he's finally learning how to accept love when it's offered freely.

"You're handing in your resignation too," Jungkook adds, softer now, gentler, like he's trying to be careful with how he says it. "You're not working anymore, that's not your job now, that's not what you need to be worrying about."

"What is?" Taehyung murmurs, and his voice sounds so small, so young, like a child asking what they're supposed to do when the world doesn't make sense anymore.

"Living," Jungkook says simply, and he pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, red to red, swollen and honest and no one's hiding anymore, no one's pretending this is anything other than what it is.

"Tomorrow morning," he continues slowly, like a vow, like a promise he's making to both of them, "we're making a bucket list, a real one, all the dumb shit you've never done, all the quiet things you wanted, all the big dreams and small moments, anything, everything, we're writing it down and we're gonna do every single one, got it?"

Taehyung's lip trembles again, but this time it's not just from sadness, there's something else there too, something that might be hope, might be possibility, might be the first glimpse of what it could look like to live in the time they have instead of dying in the time they don't.

"Hot air balloon?" he whispers, and there's something almost shy about the way he says it, like he's afraid to want things, afraid to ask for more time to want them in.

"Done," Jungkook says immediately, without hesitation, like he's already making plans in his head.

"Road trip?" Taehyung asks, voice getting a little stronger, a little more real.

"Every weekend," Jungkook promises, and he means it, he means all of it.

"Watch the stars from a rooftop?"

"I'll find the rooftop," Jungkook says, and he reaches out, cups Taehyung's cheek, wipes under his eye with his thumb where new tears are starting to fall, but these ones are different, these ones are softer, warmer, maybe even a little bit hopeful.

Taehyung's face breaks into something halfway between a sob and a smile, something beautiful and heartbreaking and alive, and Jungkook thinks maybe this is what love looks like when it's not hiding anymore, when it's not waiting for the right time or the perfect moment, when it's just here, present, refusing to be anything other than exactly what it is.

"You're not dying yet," Jungkook says quietly, voice steady and sure and full of the kind of love that doesn't give up, that doesn't back down, that fights for every moment it can get. "And I'm not wasting another second pretending this is anything but our life now, our real life, the one we get to live together."

Taehyung doesn't say anything, can't say anything, just nods and lets the tears fall and maybe, for the first time since the phone call, allows himself to believe that maybe dying isn't the only thing that's going to happen to him, maybe living is going to happen too.

Then, slowly, like his body finally gives up trying to hold itself together, like it finally trusts that this—this—is the safest place left in the world, he lays his head down onto Jungkook's lap and lets himself be small, lets himself be held, lets himself be loved in the way he's always wanted to be loved but never thought he deserved.

Jungkook brushes his fingers through his hair, gentle and slow and constant, and the room is dark except for the hallway light spilling in, casting everything in soft shadows that feel more like comfort than darkness, and they stay like that until Taehyung's breathing evens out, until the tension leaves his shoulders, until he falls asleep like that—silent, still a little sniffly, but breathing easy for once, for the first time in hours.

Jungkook keeps stroking his hair, watching the rise and fall of his chest, memorizing the way he looks peaceful like this, and only when he's sure Taehyung is fully asleep, only when he's certain that nothing he does will wake him up, only then do the tears return, soft and silent and full of everything he couldn't say while Taehyung needed him to be strong.

He presses the back of his hand to his face and lets them fall, because he's terrified, because he wants to scream, because the love of his life is slowly slipping through his fingers and all he can do is try to hold tighter, love louder, make every moment count in ways he should have been doing all along but was too scared, too careful, too worried about ruining what they had to fight for what they could have.

But he doesn't sob, doesn't shake, doesn't let the fear take over completely, because Taehyung needs him now, needs him to be steady and present and here, so he wipes his face and stays still and holds him and watches over the boy he should have loved louder, sooner, harder, but who he's here for now, who he's not leaving, who he's going to love with everything he has for as long as he's allowed to, and maybe that will be enough, maybe that will be everything.