chapter 12: The distance

The tour swept BTS into a whirlwind, a relentless storm of flights, stages, and cities that blurred into a kaleidoscope of lights and sound. The dorm, once a cramped haven of late-night talks and shared ramyeon, faded into memory as they traded it for hotel rooms and packed schedules, each day a new pin on a map—Tokyo, Bangkok, Los Angeles. Jungkook, seventeen and hardened by the grind, moved through it with a quiet intensity, his dark hair longer now, brushing his eyes as he stepped onto stages that dwarfed their trainee dreams. His voice rang out, strong and clear, his body a machine of muscle and will, but beneath the spotlight’s glare, exhaustion carved shadows into his face, a weariness that settled deep in his bones.

He was Jeon Jungkook, the silent pillar, the boy who’d poured his soul into this life, who thrived on the roar of crowds but retreated into himself when the lights dimmed. His sketchbook traveled with him, tucked in his bag, its pages a gallery of Taehyung—sharp grins, soft glances, moments captured in graphite when words failed. The tour was a triumph, each show a testament to their rise, but it stretched them thin, pulling them apart in ways Jungkook hadn’t expected. Taehyung’s warmth, once a constant at his side, felt distant now, scattered across hotel corridors and crowded vans, and Jungkook carried the ache of it like a weight he couldn’t name.

Taehyung, eighteen and radiant, shone brighter than ever under the tour’s glare. His dark waves bounced with every performance, his boxy grin flashing for thousands, his voice a deep thread that wove through their songs and steadied Jungkook’s highs. He was the spark, the one who thrived in chaos—laughing with fans at soundchecks, teasing Jimin backstage, his energy a flame that lit every room. But the tour’s pace fragmented them, splitting their time— Taehyung paired with Hoseok for press, Jungkook with Namjoon for interviews—and Jungkook felt the gap widen, a quiet void where Taehyung’s presence once filled his days.

They’d left Seoul weeks ago, the rainy van ride of Chapter 10 a fading memory, its warmth replaced by the sterile hum of hotel air conditioners and the buzz of jet lag. Jungkook sat now in a Los Angeles hotel room, the city sprawling beyond the window—a grid of lights twinkling against the night, so different from Seoul’s neon haze. The others were scattered—Jin and Yoongi napping, Hoseok and Jimin exploring, Namjoon writing—and Jungkook was alone, sprawled on the stiff bed, his phone glowing with unread messages. The tour was halfway done, each show a blur of adrenaline and applause, but tonight’s quiet gnawed at him, the distance from Taehyung sharper than the jet lag.

He flipped open his sketchbook, pencil in hand, and traced Taehyung’s face—messy hair, eyes crinkled mid-laugh, a moment from their last rehearsal, the heat of Chapter 11 still etched in his mind. The lines were rough, smudged with frustration, and he shaded harder, trying to capture the grin that had taunted him, the hand that had gripped his wrist. Taehyung’s absence ached, a hollow he hadn’t noticed until it grew—too many days of rushed hellos, too few nights of quiet talks. He missed the nudge of Taehyung’s elbow, the hum of his voice, the way he’d flop beside Jungkook and fill the silence with nonsense.

The door clicked, and Jungkook startled, shoving the sketchbook under the pillow as Taehyung stepped in, jacket slung over his shoulder, hair mussed from a late meeting. “Hey, Kookie,” he said, voice bright but tired, kicking off his shoes. “You’re still up?” His grin flashed, softer than usual, and Jungkook’s chest tightened, the ache flaring at the sight of him—real, close, after days of distance.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Jungkook mumbled, sitting up, his hands fidgeting with the blanket. Taehyung flopped onto the bed beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight, his shoulder brushing Jungkook’s in a way that felt both familiar and new. “Missed you out there,” Taehyung said, stretching out, his knee knocking Jungkook’s. “Been running around with Hobi-hyung all day.”

Jungkook nodded, throat tight, the words he wanted to say—I missed you too—stuck behind his teeth. “Yeah,” he managed, glancing at Taehyung—sweat-damp hair, eyes heavy with fatigue—and felt the gap between them, not physical now but something else, a stretch of time and space the tour had carved. Taehyung’s grin faded, his gaze sharpening as he studied Jungkook. “You okay?” he asked, softer, propping himself on an elbow. “You’ve been quiet lately. Even for you.”

“I’m fine,” Jungkook lied, avoiding his eyes, but Taehyung’s hand found his arm, warm and steady, squeezing once. “Liar,” he teased, echoing their old rhythm, and Jungkook’s resolve wavered, the ache spilling over. “It’s just… different,” he muttered, low, barely audible. “You’re always busy.”

Taehyung blinked, then grinned—small, real, crinkling his eyes. “Miss me, Kookie?” he asked, voice light but threaded with something deeper, and Jungkook’s ears burned, turning away. “Shut up,” he mumbled, but Taehyung shifted closer, his shoulder pressing harder, his warmth a balm Jungkook hadn’t known he needed. “I’ve missed you too,” Taehyung said, softer now, his hand lingering on Jungkook’s arm. “This tour’s crazy, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook breathed, meeting his gaze—dark, steady, a lifeline in the storm—and the distance shrank, not gone but bridged by the quiet between them. Taehyung flopped back, staring at the ceiling, his arm brushing Jungkook’s as he settled. “Tell me something,” he said, voice low. “Anything. Like old times.”

Jungkook hesitated, then lay back, their shoulders aligned, the bed a small world of their own. “I… drew you today,” he admitted, soft, the confession slipping out, and Taehyung turned his head, eyes glinting. “Yeah? What’d I look like?”

“Annoying,” Jungkook muttered, a smile tugging at his lips, and Taehyung laughed—deep, warm, filling the room. “Good,” he said, nudging Jungkook’s side. “Keep me in there.” His hand found Jungkook’s wrist, squeezing again, a touch that lingered, and Jungkook’s pulse quickened, the ache softening under the weight of it.

They talked, voices low—about the tour, the crowds, a fan who’d waved a drawing of them in Tokyo. Taehyung spun tales of backstage chaos, his laughter a rhythm Jungkook clung to, and Jungkook offered quiet replies, his guard slipping with every word. The city hummed beyond the window, the night stretching thin, and Taehyung’s breathing slowed, his head tilting closer, brushing Jungkook’s shoulder. “We’re good, right?” he murmured, half-asleep, and Jungkook nodded, throat tight. “Yeah,” he whispered, letting the warmth stay, letting Taehyung stay.

Taehyung drifted off, his hand still on Jungkook’s wrist, and Jungkook lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the distance a shadow that lingered but didn’t break them. He pulled the sketchbook out later, tracing Taehyung’s face—tired eyes, soft grin—a moment frozen in graphite, a tether to the boy beside him. The tour roared on, but here, in this quiet, they held fast, a bond stretched but unbroken, a promise Jungkook wasn’t ready to name.

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