Chapter 6: Late night talks

The post-debut whirlwind had settled into a rhythm, a relentless hum of schedules that blurred days into nights—rehearsals bleeding into interviews, photoshoots fading into van rides back to the dorm. The stage lights still lingered in Jungkook’s mind, their heat a memory that clung to his skin, but the adrenaline of that first night had dulled, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that settled in his joints. Seventeen now, he moved through it all with a quiet resolve, his dark hair longer, brushing his eyes as he slumped against the dorm’s couch, the fabric worn soft under years of use. His voice had grown stronger, his frame harder, but beneath it, he was still the boy who sketched to steady himself, who felt the weight of every cheer and every critique.

Taehyung thrived in the chaos, eighteen and radiant, his energy a spark that kept them all alight. His dark waves were tousled from a day of styling, his boxy grin flashing in every frame the cameras caught, but it was his voice—deep, soulful—that wove through their songs, grounding Jungkook when the spotlight burned too bright. He was everywhere—laughing with Hoseok, teasing Jimin, his presence a constant thread in the group’s tapestry—but tonight, he was here, sprawled on the floor beside the couch, a water bottle rolling between his fingers. The dorm was quiet, the others scattered—Jin cooking late, Namjoon lost in lyrics—and the city hummed beyond the window, Seoul’s lights a distant glow against the dark.

“You look dead,” Taehyung said, tilting his head to peer up at Jungkook, his voice cutting through the stillness with a teasing lilt. Jungkook huffed, sinking deeper into the cushions, his legs dangling over the armrest. “Feel dead,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. The day had been brutal—dance practice until his calves screamed, vocals until his throat scratched raw—and sleep felt like a distant promise.

Taehyung chuckled, low and warm, rolling onto his side to face him fully. “You’re too dramatic, Kookie,” he said, but his eyes softened, tracing the shadows under Jungkook’s gaze. He sat up, cross-legged now, his knee brushing the couch’s edge. “Talk to me. What’s in that head of yours?” His tone was light, but there was a weight to it, an invitation Jungkook couldn’t ignore.

Jungkook hesitated, staring at the ceiling, the faint cracks spidering across the plaster. Taehyung had a way of pulling things out of him—words he didn’t plan, thoughts he kept locked tight. “Just… tired,” he said finally, voice low. “It’s a lot. The stage, the fans, everything.” He paused, then added, quieter, “What if I can’t keep up?”

Taehyung’s grin faded, replaced by something gentler, more real. He shifted closer, propping an elbow on the couch, his chin in his hand. “You’re keeping up fine,” he said, steady. “Better than fine. You hear them out there? They love you.” His fingers tapped Jungkook’s knee, a light, grounding touch. “And you’ve got us. Me.”

Jungkook’s chest tightened, a warmth flickering beneath the exhaustion. He glanced at Taehyung, meeting his eyes—dark, earnest, catching the dim light—and felt the words shift, heavy with something he couldn’t name. “Yeah,” he said, soft. “You’re good at this. The whole… idol thing.”

Taehyung laughed, a burst of sound that filled the room, and flopped back onto the floor, arms spread wide. “I fake it half the time,” he admitted, staring at the ceiling. “But it’s fun, right? The screaming, the lights. Makes me feel alive.” He tilted his head, grinning up at Jungkook. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

Jungkook nodded, slow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes. When I don’t mess up.”

“You don’t mess up,” Taehyung said, sitting up again, closer now, his shoulder brushing Jungkook’s leg. “You’re too hard on yourself, like always.” His voice softened, and he reached out, flicking Jungkook’s forehead lightly. “Let yourself enjoy it, Kookie. We made it.”

Jungkook swatted his hand away, ears red, but the smile stayed, small and real. “Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You’re… you.” He gestured vaguely, encompassing Taehyung’s ease, his light, the way he carried the chaos like it was nothing.

Taehyung’s grin turned sly, but his eyes held something deeper. “And you’re you,” he said, leaning in, his breath warm against Jungkook’s knee. “That’s why it works.” He held Jungkook’s gaze a beat too long, the air thickening, then pulled back, sprawling out again. “Ask me something now. Fair’s fair.”

Jungkook blinked, caught off guard, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Okay. Uh… what do you think about? When it’s late like this?”

Taehyung hummed, thoughtful, his fingers tracing patterns on the floor. “Lots of stuff,” he said, voice dropping low. “Music. The future. Us.” He glanced up, quick and fleeting, then away. “Sometimes I wonder what happens next, you know? After all this.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched, the ‘us’ lingering in his mind. “Yeah,” he said, quiet. “Me too.” The dorm was still, the night pressing in, and he felt the weight of it—their dream unfolding, the unknown stretching ahead. “You think we’ll be okay?”

Taehyung sat up, close again, his hand finding Jungkook’s wrist, squeezing once—a warm, firm press that steadied him. “Yeah,” he said, sure. “We’ve got each other, right?” His grin returned, softer now, and Jungkook nodded, the ache in his chest easing.

They stayed like that, talking into the dark—about stages, fears, silly dreams of flying or owning dogs. Taehyung’s voice wove through the night, low and steady, and Jungkook let it pull him in, the exhaustion fading under the warmth. When Taehyung finally yawned, stretching out on the floor, he patted Jungkook’s leg. “Sleep, Kookie,” he murmured, eyes half-closed. “I’m right here.”

Jungkook slid down, curling onto the couch, the blanket pulled tight. Taehyung’s breathing evened out below, a soft rhythm, and Jungkook watched him in the dimness—messy hair, peaceful grin—a tether in the storm. The ache stayed, quiet but growing, and he closed his eyes, letting Taehyung’s presence carry him into sleep.

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