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3:47 a.m.
A bundle of fur brushes up against Yoongi’s arm. His gaze is focused on the harsh, glaring red LEDs in his alarm clock. The incessant paranoia creeped up on him hours ago, before he even put his head down to sleep. He should have known that as soon as Jungkook left that it would be impossible to catch any substantial rest.
With Sugar, the sleeplessness becomes somewhat bearable. Even if she slept half the night away, curled up at the base of his spine for maximum warmth. Yoongi would be losing himself if it weren’t for her tiny, sweet body keeping him company.
Yoongi blinks at the alarm clock.
3:48 a.m.
Staring at the clock is useless, but he still does it because he got tired of gripping his PC mouse in one hand, clicking his night away as the blue light shone into his tired eyes. Catching up on his missed texts and voicemails did nothing to ease any of his domineering thoughts, either. In fact, the handle on his stability is gradually slipping from his control.
But. Yoongi places a hand on Sugar’s head, and tries not to think about the dangers of the night. The town they live in is small, relatively safer than most, and Jungkook is a strong man with years of training under his belt, but Yoongi continues to ask himself why he lets him go. Why does Jungkook endanger himself for the sake of others?
Every night he is scheduled to go for the night patrol, the paranoia worsens. The danger can still be lurking in the shadows. It can still catch Jungkook off-guard and take advantage of him in all the worst ways. Yoongi gets told he worries for nothing. That nothing ever happens in this small town for him to truly be in danger.
But Yoongi knows—he’s aware of which demons creep around, searching for boys like Jungkook to latch onto, unforgettable attempts to steal him away. He knows that Jungkook’s heart is so susceptible and beautiful and vulnerable that he can’t differentiate between what will hurt him and what won’t.
Not that Jungkook is naive. He carries around his own set of villains, tucked into the privacy of a journal he keeps not-so-secretly slipped under the mattress, sticking between the slats in their bed frame for easy access. Yoongi understands that in a practical sense Jungkook is just as safe without him as he is with him.
He checks the clock again.
4:01 a.m.
The night shift ends at four o’clock. It allows those offers a facade of quality sleep while the sun is still beyond the horizon. Where at least if they lay their heads on their pillows at four-thirty, they can get a few hours of socially acceptable sleep. Yoongi thinks that it’s utter bullshit because it wouldn’t matter what time they went home. No kind of quality sleep comes after midnight. It’s a false sense of security.
Yoongi gets out of bed and Sugar follows him out to the kitchen. He gives her a handful of food before he searches the fridge for something to set out for Jungkook. He’ll be hungry and tired. He’ll probably eat a snack before he showers, and promptly knock out in bed. Hopefully he’ll manage to dry his hair tonight.
There’s only leftovers, so Yoongi throws together something that looks like bibimbap and leaves it in a bowl for Jungkook on the table, then returns to bed. It’s just as cold as it was when he got up. In spite of the fact that Sugar has chosen to curl up against his spine once again. She tends to get more sleep than both of them combined.
He checks the clock again.
4:12 a.m.
Yoongi sighs as he stares at the wall. Just a few more minutes and Jungkook will walk through the front door.
He likes to come in quietly as if Yoongi will be fast asleep. Sometimes he is, but most times he’s in this exact position, blinking at the wall, waiting for sleep to finally consume him. It’s bothersome, playing this waiting game. Discomfort and tiredness rests deep in his bones and yet sometimes he feels like it’s been a game he’s played for all of his life.
Just as predicted, when Jungkook’s footfalls enter their home, it’s gentle. Yoongi can picture it; the cascading sigh that falls out of his lips as he tugs off his cap, the irritated huff at the fact that he must lean over and remove his boots with extra care. The way he will tiptoe into their bedroom and Yoongi will close his eyes to pretend he’s sleeping.
4:14 a.m.
Yoongi feels the exact moment Jungkook’s deft fingers brush his hair out of his face. This doesn’t always happen. Occasionally he will get a kiss left on his temple instead. Or just a hand squeezing his shoulder. Branded by the love that bleeds so openly out of Jungkook’s precious heart and into Yoongi’s clumsy hands.
Tonight, he gets a little more than he anticipated.
“Hyung.” Jungkook’s voice is like a lullaby. Sweet, gentle. Just the assurance that he’s safe eases the tendency to be wired. It doesn’t always work in his favor. “I know you’re awake, Yoongi-hyung. You’re very bad at pretending you’re asleep, you know. I can always tell.”
“I’m not pretending.” It’s a lie, Yoongi was pretending. He just knows that the idea of him being asleep will put Jungkook at ease. Even if that means faking it. He opens his eyes to watch a smile form on Jungkook’s face; tired, but loving. His badge glints in the faint moonlight shining through the window. “You’re home.”
“I don’t like that you wait for me.”
“It’s not intentional.” Another lie. Half a lie. “I just couldn’t sleep.” He shuts his eyes and the shadows shift behind his eyelids. Jungkook’s thumb strokes his cheekbone. He couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t get his brain to turn off no matter how hard he tried. “It’s alright. I had Sugar to keep me company.”
Jungkook’s laughter blankets him as his hand disappears and soon reappears on the small of his back, moving him aside to get to Sugar nestled between his body and the blanket. “She slept the whole time, didn’t she,” he mutters with another giggle, sweeter than any music note Yoongi could conjure on the piano. “Aish, such lazy cats, the pair of you. Nothing but lying around in bed.”
“Yah, who’re you calling lazy?” Yoongi asks with a soft kick to his thigh. “Last I checked, you’re right here with us when you’re not working.”
“Fair point,” Jungkook says as he strokes Yoongi’s hairline. “What’s on your mind, hyung?”
“Have you eaten?”
“Whether I’ve eaten or not is on your mind?”
Yes, but also no. Deflecting is easier than sharing. Jungkook always wants him to share.
“Let me get you some food,” Yoongi says, and only opens his eyes so he can start getting up.
4:25 a.m.
Only, Jungkook doesn’t let him. Instead he pulls Yoongi straight into his chest and restricts his movement with his arms secured around his waist, half-seated in his lap, head forced into the soft, sweet-smelling crook of his neck. Eucalyptus, somewhat mint. He smells nice. A little like fresh rainwater. Yoongi listens for the sound of raindrops pattering against the window; how didn’t he notice that before?
“You’re doing that thing again,” Jungkook murmurs.
Yoongi knows. He can’t bear it; pulls himself away and escapes Jungkook’s arms, chest hollowed out by loneliness as he slips away to the kitchen. The bowl he prepared is still sitting on the table with a spoon neatly placed beside it. Like a picture-perfect scene from a movie. One that he isn’t in. Why did he think that Jungkook being here could take the pain away? Why does it always feel so endless?
He reheats the food and brings it back to the table once it’s ready again. Jungkook takes a seat at the table and thanks him for the food; his voice has gone soft, sleepy. Painfully subdued. Yoongi knows he shouldn’t have pulled away. He shouldn’t have given himself up to his self-torture, but. But it’s so easy to sink underwater and stay there until he doesn’t even realize that he’s drowning.
4:41 a.m.
By the time Jungkook is finished eating, Yoongi is still wired. He got a can of beer from the fridge, condensation sliding off the edge of the can and onto his sweatpants. The rain has worsened outside, a creeping storm, crackling thunder, and sharp, bright lightning. Now that he’s noticed it, he can’t shake it away. The rain is lingering. Perhaps it’s what kept him up in the first place.
Dripping. Yoongi doesn’t know what’s making that noise. He can’t understand if it’s the rain rolling off the edge of the roof, of the condensation on his can of beer, or their neighbor’s leaky tap, or his tears as they roll down his cheeks and off the jut of his chin. It feels like nothing. It just feels like wetness on his cheeks and emptiness in his chest and heaviness in his head.
No more paranoia or sadness or fear or pain—just him. Just him suffering through this godforsaken nothing.
Even when Jungkook sits down beside him on the couch, beer gone, tears flowing, he doesn’t feel a thing. Sugar rubs along his socked feet and climbs up, stretching herself between him and Jungkook’s lap as a new resting place. Still nothing. Just a small, warm creature that finds comfort in him.
Why would anyone find comfort in him when he’s like this?
“Hyung,” Jungkook whispers. So, so soft; like waves upon a beach; like a diminuendo at the end of a score; like his voice on a rainy, humid night in their lonely, barren home. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”
It’s not that Yoongi wants this. He just doesn’t know how to stop it. Every time it happens, he forgets how he pulled himself out of it last time. And the time before that, and the time before that, and it just feels endless. A loop, a hamster wheel. Yoongi is trapped in a cycle he has no idea how to break.
“Can you at least look at me if you won’t talk?”
Jungkook’s voice cracks. He has the liberty of sounding the way he feels. It’s not so much jealousy that runs, briefly, over Yoongi’s spine, but the urge to do the same. To speak and sound broken, sound afraid, hurt, unloved. To pour his emotion and pain into something other than the pathetic music notes and lyrics scribbled all over his notebooks. Jungkook has his journal and Yoongi has his music.
“Hyung.” Jungkook sounds faraway. Muffled, underwater. But he’s right here. He’s sitting not even two inches away. “Yoongi-hyung.”
“I’m sorry,” Yoongi breathes. His head moves along to the hand on his cheek until he’s looking into Jungkook’s sorrowful eyes. “I’m so sorry, my love.”
Jungkook wipes his tears. He always does. “I’m here,” he says, and an arm soon slips around his waist, pulling him back into that eucalyptus-smell, head braced against his shoulder. “What kept you up tonight, hyung?”
Paranoia, sadness, fear, pain, hurt, grief—
“You’re okay,” Jungkook says and Yoongi just cries. “Oh, hyung. I’m here, okay? I’m here now.”
5:00 a.m.
It takes nineteen minutes for Yoongi to remember how to breathe without a hand on his chest, pressing it down, forcing his lungs to pump themselves with air. He feels weak, but fuller. The nothingness has faded into this dull ache in his chest and throat. It still doesn’t let him speak even when he opens his mouth to force the words out.
“It’s okay,” Jungkook says. His hands are brushing the hair off Yoongi’s sticky cheeks, voice trembling with each reassuring word he utters. “Come here. If you can’t talk, then don’t. It’s okay. Let’s go to bed.”
Yoongi crawls into his arms and sags. He falls into Jungkook’s touch creeping underneath his body weight, pulling their chests and hips flush. Yoongi clings to him as he’s lifted off the couch, resting his head on Jungkook’s shoulder. Two heartbeats pulse against his chest, intertwine, become one. He thinks there is no better place to be than with Jungkook when he’s like this. No one else who would carry the same amount of patience.
When his back hits the soft sheets of their bed, all Yoongi sees are Jungkook’s caring eyes, soft, looking with worry and hints of unease. His fingers come to rest beneath Yoongi’s chin, steadying him long enough for their lips to meet. For those short, few seconds where Jungkook is kissing him, Yoongi thinks he might be okay. He might not have to live through this infinite pain alone. Not the way he’s used to.
“Will you be okay if I take a shower?” Jungkook asks, stroking Yoongi’s jaw, the touch grounding, reawakening. Yoongi blinks a couple of times, then nods hesitantly. “Don’t wanna get in bed all gross. They put me on patrol so I’m really sweaty.” He pauses to laugh, his left palm still holding his body upright. “You sure?”
Yoongi’s sure.
5:36 a.m.
In reality, the time that it takes for Jungkook to shower is very short, only about ten or so minutes, but it feels like eternity. He emerges from the steamy bathroom with nothing but a loose pair of sweatpants on, black hair leaving drops of water running over his exposed chest and back. Yoongi can only stare at him from where he lies on his left side curled up in bed with Sugar tucked against his back once again. It really is her favorite spot.
“I’m back,” Jungkook declares, once his hair has been blow dried, diving right into the vacant space left for him in their bed. His right arm wiggles beneath Yoongi to pull him closer. “Did you miss me, hyung?”
Yoongi did. “No,” he mumbles, leaning his face into Jungkook’s fleshy neck, breathing in the new scent of his body wash. This is manlier, cinnamony and warm. Not overwhelming. Rather, it’s calming.
“Hm.” Jungkook kisses Yoongi’s neck a couple of times, then settles there. “Well, I missed you.”
“Of course you did.”
Sugar wiggles her way between them, settling with her head on Jungkook’s arm, the rest of her body half on Yoongi’s chest. “I guess you had Sugar to keep you company, hm?” Jungkook murmurs, using his free hand to stroke the top of her head. Yoongi watches the fondness grow in his eyes. “Are you still not tired?”
Yoongi shakes his head. It’s a curse, really, to still be so antsy after everything. After numbing himself out, after crying, after getting held by the man he loves. He wishes he could just get an ounce of sleep without feeling like he’s missing something.
“Insomnia’s a bitch,” Jungkook grumbles, and Yoongi smiles. “Holding my husband hostage. Let him goooo.”
“I love you,” Yoongi says. He sniffs. The thought settles. He means it with his whole heart. “I also think you’re an idiot.”
Jungkook pouts. “Am I a cute idiot, at least?”
“‘course,” Yoongi replies. He tucks Jungkook’s hair behind his ear, resting his hand on his cheek. The warmth makes his skin tingle. “I’m sorry. I’m such a mess sometimes.”
“Hm… it’s a good thing I like messes,” Jungkook teases with a quiet giggle, his legs shifting under the covers. It only takes a slight push of Yoongi’s knee for their limbs to tangle even further. “Do you think you could answer my question now? About what kept you up?”
Yoongi shuts his eyes and feels his body’s tension slip away. “It’s just hard to sleep when you’re not here,” he admits, breath shuddering, Sugar’s purrs rumbling against his sternum. “I hate the night shift.”
“Me too.” Jungkook slips a hand beneath Yoongi’s shirt, fingers gently scratching his skin, a soothing, relaxing motion. “You have no idea how much I hate the night shift. Feels endless.”
“I just…” Yoongi hiccups; his cheeks are wet again. When did that happen? “As it is, your job makes me worry. I get scared, and—” He hiccups again, breath caught thick in his lungs. “I just worry that if I sleep, then you… won’t… you won’t come back to me.” His chest hurts. The idea is crippling. “I need you to come back to me.”
“Hyung…”
“I’m sorry.”
With a painful cry, Yoongi sinks into Jungkook’s arms once again. His body is braced against Jungkook’s chest, face buried into his shoulder, the tears sticky on his cheeks and chin, dripping onto the fabric of their blanket. It’s persistent, this feeling. Relentless, pushing and pushing and pushing him until he’s tumbling off an edge he can’t get back up from. Stuck somewhere so fucking hopeless.
“I’m here, okay?” Jungkook asks, thumb stroking the tears away from his eyes, lips pressing loving, gentle kisses to the side of his head. Yoongi burrows deeper into him and chooses not to let go.
6:00 a.m.