chapter 15: Breaking point

The tour roared on, a beast that devoured time and distance, leaving BTS battered but unbroken as they landed in Manila, the final leg before a break. Jungkook stood alone in a hotel room, seventeen and teetering, the city’s chaos a faint hum beyond the window—streetlights flickering through a haze of humidity, horns swallowed by the night. The room was a prison—white walls, a bed too big, the air conditioner’s hum a relentless buzz that clawed at his frayed nerves. His dark hair, damp from a shower, clung to his forehead, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion that went beyond the physical, a weight that pressed against his chest and sharpened the ache he’d carried since Singapore.

He was Jeon Jungkook, the quiet one, the boy who’d forged himself into a pillar of their rise, his voice a lifeline, his body a machine of will. The stage was his sanctuary, each cheer a balm, but off it, he was unraveling—sketchbook his only anchor, its pages a gallery of Taehyung that held him together when the world tilted. The fight in Chapter 14 had cracked something open, a wound that bled jealousy and fear, and the days since had been a tightrope—rehearsals tense, Taehyung’s warmth close but guarded, a distance Jungkook couldn’t bridge. He feared it, the pull toward Taehyung, the way it grew fiercer, a truth he couldn’t face.

Taehyung was floors below, rooming with Hoseok, his laughter a faint echo Jungkook caught in passing—eighteen and radiant, his dark waves tousled, his grin a light that pierced the tour’s grind. He was the spark, the one who held them up, but the fight had shifted him—his teasing softer, his glances longer, a quiet that mirrored Jungkook’s own. The tour had stretched them thin, but the call from Sydney, the closeness in Los Angeles, the heat in the practice room—they’d woven a thread that held, frayed but strong, until Singapore snapped it, leaving Jungkook adrift.

Tonight, the dorm was empty, the others out—Jimin and Hoseok at a late dinner, Jin and Yoongi sleeping, Namjoon writing—and Jungkook paced, barefoot on the carpet, his phone dark, his sketchbook open on the bed. He’d drawn Taehyung again—sharp jaw, eyes narrowed from the fight, a tension etched in graphite—and the lines were harsh, smudged with a frustration he couldn’t shake. The fight replayed—You’re always with him, Taehyung’s grip, You’re different—and Jungkook’s chest tightened, fear coiling around the ache, a realization he couldn’t outrun.

He loved him. The thought hit like a punch, raw and real, and Jungkook sank onto the bed, hands trembling, the sketchbook sliding to the floor. He loved Taehyung—not as a friend, not as a brother, but something deeper, something that scared him senseless. The sketches, the jealousy, the way Taehyung’s touch lingered—it wasn’t just need, it was want, a pull that had grown from their first dance, their first laugh, into this—a breaking point he couldn’t cross.

The door clicked, and Jungkook startled, shoving the sketchbook under the pillow as Taehyung stepped in, jacket off, hair mussed, his grin soft but tired. “Hey, Kookie,” he said, voice warm, dropping his bag. “Thought you’d be asleep.” Jungkook’s heart raced, the realization a roar in his ears, and he stood, too fast, hands clenched. “Why’re you here?” he asked, voice rough, and Taehyung’s brow furrowed, stepping closer.

“Checking on you,” Taehyung said, simple, his eyes searching Jungkook’s face. “You’ve been off since… you know.” The fight hung between them, unspoken, and Jungkook turned away, chest heaving, fear clawing at him. “I’m fine,” he lied, but Taehyung’s hand found his arm, warm and steady, pulling him back. “No, you’re not,” he said, firm but soft, and Jungkook’s resolve shattered, the truth spilling out.

“I can’t do this,” he said, voice breaking, stepping back, the wall cool against his spine. “You—being around you—it’s too much.” Taehyung’s eyes widened, confusion shifting to something deeper, and he stepped closer, closing the gap. “What’s too much?” he asked, voice low, his warmth a blade against Jungkook’s skin.

“You don’t get it,” Jungkook said, hands trembling, tears pricking his eyes. “I’m scared, Tae. Of this—of us.” The confession hung there, raw and bare, and Taehyung’s breath hitched, realization dawning. “Scared of what?” he asked, softer now, his hand sliding to Jungkook’s wrist, holding tight.

“Of losing you,” Jungkook whispered, voice cracking, and Taehyung’s grip tightened, his eyes dark and steady. “You’re not losing me,” he said, sure, stepping closer, their chests brushing. “I’m right here.” His thumb brushed Jungkook’s wrist, a quiet promise, and Jungkook’s fear broke, the ache spilling over into something vast, something he couldn’t hold back.

They stood there, the room shrinking, the tour’s chaos a distant hum, and Taehyung’s hand stayed, a tether Jungkook clung to, teetering on the edge of a truth he wasn’t ready to name aloud

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