Chapter 8: stage shadows

The concert hall thrummed with life, a pulsing sea of light sticks and voices that swelled into a roar as BTS took the stage. The air was electric, heavy with anticipation, the spotlights casting sharp beams that danced across the polished floor. Jungkook stood near the edge, seventeen and taut with energy, his dark hair damp with sweat, mic gripped tight in his hand. The crowd’s screams washed over him, a tidal wave of sound that vibrated through his chest, and he exhaled, steadying himself. He’d grown into this—his voice a honed blade, his movements precise—but the thrill still raced through him, a mix of nerves and fire that lit his eyes.

Taehyung was beside him, eighteen and radiant, his dark waves styled loose, a grin flashing as he waved to the fans. His voice rolled out, deep and soulful, weaving through the opening track, and his presence was magnetic—every sway of his hips, every note a pull that drew the crowd in. He thrived here, in the chaos of lights and sound, his warmth a beacon Jungkook couldn’t look away from. They’d come far from the practice room, from late-night talks and sketches, but on stage, their rhythm was unspoken, a thread that tied them together through every beat.

The setlist flowed, songs blending into a blur of motion and harmony, and the energy peaked with a high note Jungkook hit flawlessly, his voice soaring over Taehyung’s low counterpoint. The crowd erupted, a chant of names rising—Jungkook, Taehyung, BTS—and as the song faded, Taehyung spun toward him, sweat glistening on his brow, eyes alight with something wild. He closed the distance, hand brushing Jungkook’s arm as he leaned in, voice low under the noise. “Nailed it, Kookie,” he said, breath warm against Jungkook’s ear, and Jungkook’s pulse spiked, a jolt he masked with a nod.

Then it happened—a moment unplanned, unscripted. The next song kicked in, a slower track, and Taehyung stayed close, their shoulders brushing as they moved. Jungkook reached for his mic stand, but Taehyung’s hand grazed his, fingers curling briefly around Jungkook’s wrist before sliding away—a fleeting touch, gone in a blink, but the crowd caught it. A ripple of gasps and squeals surged through the audience, light sticks waving frantically, and Jungkook’s ears burned, his focus wavering. Taehyung grinned, oblivious or unbothered, stepping back to belt his line, but Jungkook felt the weight of it, the eyes on them, the moment etched into the night.

The song ended, lights dimming, and they stood side by side, breaths heaving, the crowd’s cheers a deafening pulse. Taehyung’s hand found Jungkook’s back again—steady, warm, a quiet anchor—and Jungkook leaned into it, just for a second, before the stage plunged into dark. Backstage was chaos—staff bustling, the others laughing, adrenaline thick in the air—but Taehyung lingered near, his grin softer now. “They’re loud tonight,” he said, nudging Jungkook as they grabbed water bottles, his shoulder brushing Jungkook’s again.

“Yeah,” Jungkook mumbled, gulping water to cool the heat in his face, the memory of Taehyung’s touch replaying in his mind. He glanced at him—messy hair, flushed cheeks, eyes still bright—and felt that ache, sharper now, a pull he couldn’t shake. The others swept them into the post-show rush—Hoseok recounting a near-slip, Jimin teasing Jin—but Jungkook stayed quiet, the moment lingering like a shadow.

Later, in the dorm, the buzz of the concert followed them home. The others sprawled out, scrolling phones, but Jungkook slipped to his bunk, sketchbook in hand. He drew the stage—seven figures, lights blazing—but his pencil lingered on Taehyung, tracing the curve of his arm, the tilt of his head. The touch replayed—fingers on his wrist, breath on his ear—and his chest tightened, a warmth he couldn’t name.

Taehyung flopped onto the bunk beside him, phone glowing, oblivious to Jungkook’s flush as he shoved it under his nose. “Look at this,” he said, voice bright, scrolling through fan posts. Photos flooded the screen—blurry shots of the stage, Taehyung’s hand on Jungkook’s wrist, captions screaming Taekook in bold. “They’re calling it a thing now,” he laughed, low and warm, leaning closer, his elbow brushing Jungkook’s. “Guess we’re famous for it.”

Jungkook’s heart thudded, face heating as he pushed the phone away. “It’s dumb,” he muttered, but his voice wavered, and Taehyung’s grin turned sly, eyes glinting. “You’re blushing,” he teased, poking Jungkook’s cheek, and Jungkook swatted him, ears red. “Shut up, hyung.”

Taehyung laughed, sprawling out, his head tilting to rest near Jungkook’s shoulder. “They’re not wrong, though,” he said, quieter now, scrolling again. “We’re good together.” His tone was casual, but his eyes flicked to Jungkook, holding his gaze a beat too long, and the air thickened, charged with something unspoken. Jungkook swallowed, clutching the sketchbook tighter. “Yeah,” he said, soft, barely audible over the dorm’s hum. “We are.”

Taehyung’s grin softened, and he nudged Jungkook’s leg with his own, a light, familiar touch. “You were amazing out there,” he said, voice low, and Jungkook ducked his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “You too,” he mumbled, and Taehyung’s hand brushed his arm again—brief, warm—before he rolled away, staring at the ceiling.

The dorm settled, the others’ chatter fading, and Jungkook flipped the sketchbook open later, alone, tracing Taehyung’s wrist, the moment frozen in graphite. The fans had named it—Taekook—but to him, it was more, a shadow stretching between them, growing sharper with every touch, every glance. He closed the book, heart steady but heavy, and Taehyung’s breathing evened out across the room, a quiet rhythm that lulled him to sleep, the ache a companion he couldn’t outrun

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