chapter 13 : Midnight call

The tour rolled on, a relentless machine that churned through cities and time zones, leaving BTS scattered across the globe like stars flung too far apart. Jungkook sat alone in a hotel room in Sydney, seventeen and worn thin, the city’s skyline a jagged silhouette beyond the window—harbor lights glinting off the water, a pale echo of Seoul’s neon sprawl. The room was sterile—white walls, stiff sheets, the hum of the air conditioner a dull drone that couldn’t drown out the quiet. His dark hair fell into his eyes, longer now, brushing his lashes as he slumped against the headboard, his phone glowing in his lap. The tour had stretched them to their limits—each show a triumph, each night a blur of exhaustion—and Jungkook felt it, a weariness that sank into his bones, heavier than the jet lag.

He was Jeon Jungkook, the quiet one, the boy who’d traded youth for this dream, whose voice and body had hardened into instruments of their rise. The stage was his battleground, each roar of the crowd a victory, but off it, he retreated—sketchbook in hand, thoughts locked tight. The tour’s pace had pulled them apart, Taehyung’s warmth a fleeting presence in crowded vans and rushed moments, and Jungkook carried the distance like a bruise, tender and growing. His bag sat by the bed, sketchbook tucked inside, its pages a gallery of Taehyung—grins, glances, a tether he clung to when the world felt too vast.

Taehyung was in Tokyo, a day ahead, his schedule split from Jungkook’s for a solo shoot—a rare fracture in their rhythm. Eighteen and luminous, he shone under the tour’s glare—dark waves styled for cameras, a boxy grin that lit up screens, a voice that wove through their songs and steadied Jungkook’s heart. He was the spark, the one who thrived in chaos, but the distance had stretched even him thin, his texts shorter, his calls rare. Jungkook missed him—missed the nudge of his elbow, the hum of his laughter, the way he’d flop beside him ji make the silence sing. The ache had sharpened since Los Angeles, since the quiet of Chapter 12, and tonight, it pressed against him, a weight he couldn’t shake.

The clock ticked past midnight, Sydney’s time lagging behind Tokyo’s, and Jungkook scrolled through his phone—fan posts, tour photos, a blurry shot of Taehyung waving from a stage. His thumb hovered over Taehyung’s name, a call he’d avoided, afraid of the quiet on the other end, afraid of the space that had grown between them. But the room was too still, the night too heavy, and he pressed it, heart thudding as the line rang—once, twice, a third time that stretched into eternity.

“Kookie?” Taehyung’s voice crackled through, sleepy but warm, cutting through the static, and Jungkook’s breath caught, relief flooding him. “Hey,” he said, soft, clutching the phone tighter. “Did I wake you?”

“Nah,” Taehyung lied, a yawn breaking through, and Jungkook could picture him—sprawled on a hotel bed, hair a mess, eyes half-closed. “Was just… resting. What’s up?” His tone was light, but there was a roughness to it, a fatigue that mirrored Jungkook’s, and the sound sank into him, a tether across the miles.

“Just… couldn’t sleep,” Jungkook said, leaning back, the headboard cool against his spine. “It’s quiet here.” The words felt small, inadequate, but Taehyung hummed, a low sound that vibrated through the line. “Yeah,” he said, softer. “Miss that dorm noise sometimes. Jin-hyung snoring, you sketching.”

Jungkook’s lips twitched, a faint smile breaking through. “You’re the noisy one,” he muttered, and Taehyung’s laugh—deep, real—filled the silence, a balm that eased the ache. “Guilty,” he said, and Jungkook could hear the grin, could see it in his mind—boxy, bright, crinkling his eyes. “What’re you doing, Kookie? Drawing me again?”

Jungkook’s ears burned, the sketchbook a guilty weight beside him. “Maybe,” he admitted, voice low, and Taehyung’s hum turned teasing. “Good. Better be my best angle.” The play was there, but his tone softened, a thread of something deeper weaving through, and Jungkook’s chest tightened, the distance shrinking with every word.

They talked, voices low—about the tour, the crowds, a fan who’d cried at Taehyung’s shoot today. “She gave me a letter,” Taehyung said, rustling paper on his end. “Said my voice helps her sleep. Weird, right?”

“Not weird,” Jungkook replied, soft, staring at the ceiling, the cracks faint in the dim light. “It’s… you.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “Helps me too.” The confession slipped out, raw and unguarded, and Taehyung went still, the line crackling with silence.

“Yeah?” Taehyung said finally, voice dropping low, a warmth that sank into Jungkook’s bones. “Good to know, Kookie.” His breath hitched, a sound Jungkook caught, and the air thickened, charged with something unspoken. “You okay over there?” Taehyung asked, softer now, and Jungkook swallowed, the ache spilling over.

“It’s… hard,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re so far.” The words hung there, bare and heavy, and Taehyung’s hum was gentle, steadying. “I’m right here,” he said, and Jungkook could hear the shift—fabric rustling, Taehyung sitting up, his voice closer now. “Miss you too, you know. Feels weird without you around.”

Jungkook’s heart thudded, loud in the quiet, and he clutched the phone, fingers trembling. “Yeah,” he breathed, and Taehyung’s laugh was soft, a sound that bridged the miles. “Tell me something,” he said, echoing their old nights. “What’s Sydney like?”

Jungkook glanced at the window, the city’s lights a distant glow. “Big,” he said, settling back. “Lots of water. Stars are different here.” He traced the ceiling with his eyes, imagining Taehyung listening, imagining him close. “What about Tokyo?”

“Busy,” Taehyung replied, voice low. “Lights everywhere. Ate ramen today—real stuff, not our packets.” He chuckled, and Jungkook smiled, small and real, the ache easing under the rhythm of his words. They talked on—about food, fans, a dog Taehyung saw that looked like Jungkook—and the night stretched, Sydney’s quiet blending with Tokyo’s hum.

“You sound tired,” Taehyung said after a while, his voice a murmur, and Jungkook nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see. “You too,” he said, and Taehyung’s hum was sleepy, warm. “Stay on,” he murmured. “Just… a bit longer.”

“Okay,” Jungkook whispered, sliding down the bed, the phone pressed to his ear. Taehyung’s breathing slowed, a steady rhythm that lulled him, and Jungkook closed his eyes, letting it carry him. The distance stayed, a shadow across the miles, but Taehyung’s voice held him, a tether in the dark—fragile, strong, a promise neither named.

He drifted, half-asleep, Taehyung’s soft hums fading into static, and when the call dropped—hours later, the line silent—Jungkook woke to the dawn, phone warm in his hand. He pulled the sketchbook out, tracing Taehyung’s face—tired eyes, gentle grin, a phone to his ear—and the lines were soft, steady, a moment captured in graphite. The tour roared on, cities apart, but the call lingered, a bridge rebuilt, a bond stretched but unbroken.

Back in Tokyo, Taehyung woke to a dead phone, Jungkook’s voice echoing in his mind, and he smiled—small, real—knowing the distance hurt him too, knowing they’d find their way back, step by step, note by note.

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