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“I think that furries deserve rights,” Taehyung says to Jeongguk, sucking obnoxiously on a piece of ice. His Starbucks Refresher had long since run out—they’d walked about a half mile away from the store, and in that time, he’d built two sand castles, thrown a ball of sand at Jeongguk, picked up a crab (named Joonie after their friend Namjoon, who loved crabs) who is currently sitting in his hair, drawn Fuck Hets in the wet beige sand, and to put the metaphorical cherry on top of the sundae, he’d realized that he was very much in love with his best friend.
All for a very eventful twenty minutes.
Jeongguk scoffs. “I think you’re crazy.”
“Just—just hear me out, yeah?” Taehyung says, hands out in some sort of placating manner. (Jeongguk doesn’t look anywhere near mollified.) “ Listen. Okay, so you’ve read the Warrior Cats series, right?”
“No?”
“The fuck you mean, you’ve never read the Warrior Cats series?” Taehyung asks, stopping dead in his tracks and looking at Jeongguk, dumbfounded. (If his heart skips a beat in his chest, that secret is his only to know.) “Dude, I gave you the first book for your tenth birthday.”
He remembers Barnes & Noble—shelves towering high over his head, impossibly tall, and the nice lady who’d found him the book when he’d asked. His mom had asked for it gift-wrapped, Taehyung had asked for Iron Man gift wrap because that was what Ggukkie liked, Eomma, please.
“Wait, really?”
“Don’t tell me you never read it,” Taehyung groans, spinning on the beach and spraying sand everywhere, “Gguk, I got Iron Man gift wrap just for you.”
Jeongguk looks morose. (His heart twinges.) “We’re going back, I’m driving us home, and you’re reading that stupid furry series to me, yeah?”
Oh.
“Yeah,” Taehyung says, flapping his hands. “You say that now and then by the time we get back to Starbucks, we’ll be talking about the effects of Karl Marx on the LGBTQ legalization in India.”®
“Namjoon-hyung’s rubbing off on me,” Jeongguk deflects, wringing his wrists. “You know how he is.”
“Yeah,” Taehyung says again. He spins again. Wet sand flies everywhere, splattering on Jeongguk’s flip flops and ankles.
I think I’m in love with you.
Jeon Jeongguk is very much in love with his best friend and is very much fucked.
He’s eighteen. Got college to think about, scholarships, applications, science fair— and this is a Very Not Good Idea. It was never a good idea to fall in love with his best friend, but here he is, an absolute idiot on Indialantic beach, wishing Taehyung wasn’t so lovable.
Kim Taehyung: the ripe old age of nineteen, manic pixie dream boy, published #1 New York Times Author (!!!!), living in the very small beach town of Melbourne, Florida. Bi bitch extraordinaire, and the exact reason Jeongguk hasn’t gone mad yet. The rest of their friends fled the city the moment they had their jobs, but Jeongguk’s still painfully eighteen, legally obliged to go to high school, was stuck. Taehyung, though, had seen through Jeongguk’s paper-thin excuses about oh you should go to New York with the rest of the hyungs, you know, and stayed.
That’s the thing about Taehyung—he stays. The solid rock to lean on, the shoulder to cry on, the Kleenex after a breakdown. The constant tide, receding and coming back, but there nonetheless.
And Jeon Jeongguk: 18, pan panicker, maybe-pediatrician, living in the neighborhood next to Taehyung’s apartment complex. He lives more at Taehyung’s apartment than he does at his house, has his favorite cereal in the pantry and oat milk in the fridge (he’s vegan, has been vegan for four years since Namjoon had told him that eating meat was a Bad Thing and you know, Namjoon has a crazy high IQ and is pretty much the next Einstein—he’d gotten an internship at the fucking UN, for god’s sake) and he has a set of drawers in Taehyung’s dresser and a designated foot of hanger space for his clothes.
And it’s as if Taehyung wanted Jeongguk to make his apartment a home too.
Okay, listen—Jeongguk never meant for him to fall in love . He thought he was gonna live a perfectly normal life when six-year-old Taehyung plopped down next to him in the Mustard Seedz daycare and promptly announced, “I’m your best friend now.”
Jeongguk had a toddler lisp and he merely nodded, a wordless yes.
And then the rest is history. Jeongguk and Taehyung had been as thick as thieves for the rest of their lives, and here they are, in Indialantic, on the beach, empty reusable Starbucks cups in their hands, and Jeongguk is so, so in love.
October and November pass without Taehyung saying a word about his crush to Jeongguk.
He wonders if Jeongguk’s noticed—his big doe eyes weren’t just for show; he sees all, says nothing about it. He’d make a damn good spy.
And then his birthday rolls around; he’s twenty. He’s finally lived two decades, one more year until he’s legal. (It’s not like he’s looking forward to legally drinking alcohol; that was a singular, one-time experience and he’s never touching beer ever again, thank you very much.)
But here’s the thing; Taehyung is like, whipped. This isn’t like the one time where he had a super-long crush on Yoongi, his editor, who lives in New York City, the Big Apple. (Taehyung was supposed to move there too, but, like, Jeongguk.) And Yoongi is happily settled with Namjoon and Jin—a professional chef; Jimin (a Broadway choreographer) and Hoseok—like his fiancé, a Broadway choreographer too—are both living in New York.
Taehyung’s supposed to be living in New York. Hell, he’s a #1 New York Times bestseller. His publishing company would happily pay for him to move; they’re pestering him every day with semi-polite emails to move, please, we’ll pay for your apartment if it comes down to it and he can’t deflect for much longer.
And he’s going to find a way to get over Jeongguk—highly unlikely, a voice in his head muses—one way or another. They can’t be together. He’s twenty, and even though Jeongguk’s eighteen, they’d get shit for it.
“Hyung?”
Taehyung looks over to Jeongguk, who’s got a (reusable, because what are they, savages?) cup of boba in his hand. It’s banana milk; because of course, he’s an absolute babe.
(God, this was horrible. Was this pedophilia—)
“Yeah, Gguk-ah?” Taehyung asks, a soft smile on his face. He’s so whipped. Jeongguk can probably tell that he’s got a crush, this is horrible, he’s probably all like, how am I supposed to break it to him
Wait. Holy shit.
What if Jeongguk had a boyfriend? Oh, that would suck. But Jeongguk would tell Taehyung about that kind of stuff, right? Right? But what if Jeongguk didn’t see Taehyung as his best friend anymore, what if, what if what if—
What if Jeongguk had a girlfriend? He was pan, but there aren’t a lot of options in a sleepy beach town, but. It’s Jeongguk he’s talking about here, Jeongguk the golden child, Jeongguk who won ISEF, Jeongguk who won first place in International FPS in eighth grade, it’s Jeongguk who managed to make a composition when he was in seventh grade using generic loops in GarageBand and managed to sell it to some producer for two thousand dollars.
This is Jeongguk, Taehyung’s known him forever, but now he feels that he might actually not know him as well as he thought.
“It’s New Year’s Eve,” Jeongguk murmurs, cuddling into Taehyung. They’re watching Kimi no Na Wa, as always. It’s a tradition between them. On their birthdays, they watch the favorite movie of the other. But something’s weird today. He’d noticed it when Taehyung had spaced out earlier that day, seen his spiral through his eyes.
He hadn’t mentioned it, of course, because it would’ve just made it worse. Jeongguk knows that Taehyung takes round, white pills every morning to help with the spiraling blech but he doesn’t mention it, because what kind of monster is he? Everyone has their problems.
And Jeongguk’s problem is that he’s so in love and to make things worse, he knows that Taehyung’s leaving. He knows, even though Taehyung tries to shelter him from the cruel reality, but come on. Jeongguk’s not a kid anymore. Eighteen. Adulthood.
Ish.
He’s not a kid anymore—he sees the emails that Taehyung frantically swipes off of his phone, that read We would like you to move up to New York, please and that’s definitely Not Good. He knows that Taehyung stayed back just for him and he knows that it can’t last forever. It’s never going to last forever.
They’ve lasted this long. Fourteen years. Maybe it’s time to give him up, Jeongguk’s had his time. Taehyung should move to New York, make glamorous new friends and catch up with their old ones. Jeongguk shouldn’t be the one dragging him down.
“Yeah, Gguk-ah,” Taehyung says, mouth pouted over the rim of a mug. No coffee, just hot chocolate. (With marshmallows.) “Thanks for noticing.”
“Hyung,” Jeongguk whines, taking a sip of his own hot chocolate (with vegan marshmallows, thank you very much) and hissing when it burns his tongue.
“Just watch the movie,” Taehyung whispers, nudging Jeongguk. “It’s been forever since we’ve watched your favorite, yeah?”
He’ll give him up. Taehyung’s done enough for Jeongguk, and it’s time that Jeongguk pays the favors back.
His phone buzzes. It feels like a premonition to something.
Gmail, the notification reads. From Min Yoongi.
Taehyung thinks he might be sick as he reads the email.
Taehyung,
I don’t want to do this, bub. You know how these white people are, they’re being extra pissy and demanding that you move up here. I’ll try to stall, but they’re getting impatient.
I’m sorry.
He knew it wasn’t going to last forever. But he thought it would’ve lasted a bit longer. How was he supposed to tell Jeongguk that he had to leave?
Taehyung was supposed to stay. He was supposed to be there for Jeongguk. He was supposed to be there, and now—
He can’t.
“He’s leaving.”
Jimin sounds morose over the phone, and Jeongguk can imagine it; him sitting on his couch with Tofu purring contentedly on his lap. Face screwed up in frustration, hand clenching the phone to his ear.
New Yorkian in every aspect of the words. It’s been two years—Jimin’s had enough time to adapt and change. Hell, he has a cat now. And he’s dating Hoseok. Lucky.
“When?” Jeongguk asks, sitting down on his bed. “Jimin-sshi, when?”
It’s when, not why, not how, not but he’s fine here. Jeongguk knows he’s dragging Taehyung down. Knows that he’s the annoying kid that keeps tagging along to everything that Taehyung does and that he’s going to be stuck in this tiny town with no hopes of getting out.
Jimin hums, annoyed. “Yah, you brat, how many times—whatever. I’m not going to do this today. Yoon-hyung told Hob-ah and Hob-ah told me that their company is hounding Tae to move up to NY. Hyung’s stalling as much as he can, you know. He’s trying. But they’re offering a ten percent raise if Tae moves, so.”
“Then he has to leave,” Jeongguk says. He feels a bit sick. He’s the one dragging Taehyung down, he’s the reason Taehyung isn’t making as much money as he should be. “Why is he staying?”
Jimin doesn’t say it. But Jeongguk knows.
Because of you.
“I’ll tell him. He has to leave, I can’t bear the thought of him having to stay.” Because of me. “Or you tell him, Jimin-ssi.”
A sigh. “I don’t want to hurt him by saying that, Jeongguk-ah. You know how he gets. He’ll see it as an almost insult, you know.”
“Yeah, Jimin-ssi,” Jeongguk says, hand slackening on his phone. His eyes sting with maybe tears. “I’ll tell him to leave. He has to.”
“You should—”
“I’m—”
Jeongguk stops. “You first, hyung.”
He doesn’t like the feeling of this. Jeongguk and him standing near his car in the Starbucks parking lot next to the beach, not having ordered their drinks yet. But Taehyung has an intrinsic feeling that something is so, so wrong.
“I’m leaving,” he says, the words dying softly when he speaks them out for the world to hear. The waves crash along the beach, loud and harsh. High tide.
The air stinks of seaweed; salty brine and fish. Normally, it smells like home; home on the beach, home on the sand, home on the ever-constant tide. And now it feels off.
“I know,” Jeongguk murmurs, looking down at the seashell-studded asphalt. “Jimin told me.”
Of course he did. Jimin always stuck his nose into everyone’s affairs. That was his trademark.
“Oh,” Taehyung says, silent. “I’m going next week. My apartment’s getting packed up right now.”
Why isn’t Jeongguk saying anything? He’s supposed to fight against it. He’s not supposed to want Taehyung to go. Right?
Right?
“That’s good,” Jeongguk says, albeit awkwardly, “At least you’ll finally be living in New York, yeah?”
Taehyung nods. He really wants to scream why aren’t you upset don’t you care about me don’t you love me aren’t I your best friend at Jeongguk. Why isn’t he saying anything? “Yeah,”
“I’m happy for you, hyung,” Jeongguk smiles, but Taehyung can see right through it. He isn’t happy; it causes a tiny stab of happiness in his heart when he notices it. “Really.”
They don’t go to the beach. They don’t go to Starbucks. But what they do is go right back to Jeongguk’s neighborhood and Taehyung drops him off, and goes to his half-bare apartment.
And he cries.
Taehyung leaves, quick as fall, and Jeongguk is left. All alone.
He gets over it soon enough. Throws himself into his college apps even more than before, dances his heart out at Naz’s small ballet studio and sings, sings sings in Marcus’s run-down studio. It’s not much—their town is a small one, made out of small buildings and small people with even smaller hearts.
Jeongguk sends so many different emails he creates a work email just to keep track of it. He knows that what his parents want is a pediatrician, a doctor. And he likes kids, so, might as well.
Thanks to his ferocity in making science fair projects, he’d managed to get a few scholarships from FIT for his premed, and so.
After Taehyung begins—the next forever in his life.
Moving to New York is an experience that he wishes he didn’t have to go through. It’s not bad—first class flight and seamless move, all paid for by his publisher. He doesn’t like it though.
But when he meets Jimin again, it’s so worth it.
“Taehyung-ah!”
He turns, nearly spilling his matcha latte in the process. In the doorway of a highly pretentious cafe stands Park Jimin, ethereal and soft and god, he’s missed him. Jimin rushes to Taehyung’s table, and then he stalls in front of him.
“Jiminie,” Taehyung gasps, throat tightening. “You’re here.”
“Hi, Taehyung-ah,” Jimin says, looking as if he was blinking back tears. Wow, he’d changed in those two years. There was highlighter on his cheekbones; eyeliner and mascara and the barest hint of eye shadow. Glamorous. Beautiful. New Yorkian. “I’ve missed you.”
Taehyung laughs, a thick, choked sound. A tear dribbles down his cheek. “I’ve missed you too, Jiminie.”
It happens gradually, slowly, like the low tide—you don’t even notice it receding, and then, bam. They stop talking all the time.
In his defense, Jeongguk is busy with school. Senior year is so important, and he has to graduate valedictorian. Well. He doesn’t have to, but you know. Save face and all of that jazz.
And Taehyung probably has his books to worry about, has publishing, has moving to worry about and how to fit in. Jimin’s probably helping, because Jimin always helps.
High school is a beast of its own accord—Jeongguk is a token teacher’s pet and he preens every time he gets a scrap of praise from them. He lives, works, probably will die for praise from his teachers.
He still talks to Yoongi and Jimin and Hoseok (Namjoon and Jin more than ever) but he just either forgets to reply to Taehyung’s texts or just doesn’t bother with it anymore. It’s slowly becoming the latter.
And Jeongguk wishes it wasn’t like that. Wishes he could’ve been better to Taehyung, wishes he hadn’t dragged him down to suffer. He’ll be happier in New York, without Jeongguk to annoy him.
Taehyung wonders when he had the time to stop talking to Jeongguk. Because the last time they’d said more than a
look at this meme lmaoooo
to each other was three weeks ago. Three whole weeks ago. If someone from the future had come up to him two months ago, told him that he was going to move up to New York and not talk to Jeongguk anymore, he would’ve laughed in their face.
Except it really happened, and now he doesn’t know how to fix it.
And here’s the thing: New York is like a different plane of existence. There’s no end to it—somebody’s awake even if it’s three in the afternoon or in the middle of the night. It’s buzzing, euphoric, wholly different from sleepy towns on the coastline. Taehyung loves it.
He likes being able to see his friends every day; Yoongi lazing around on his couch, yelling at him to finish outlining or editing or whatever, Holly prancing around his airy, blank studio apartment. Namjoon drops in when he can, hugs Taehyung and then they watch the news while Namjoon scowls at the politicians.
Seokjin bursts in at dinner time (has been doing so for the past two months that Taehyung has lived here, just to hang out with my favorite dongsaengie) , hands full more often than not with grocery bags (from Whole Foods, because obviously he’s a Chef with a capital C) and then he cooks. As if Taehyung didn’t take culinary as an elective for all of high school.
Hoseok and Jimin are a buy-one-get-one package—along with their cat, Tofu. Holly and Tofu are total lesbians but Namjoon seems to disagree, says it’s a platonic relationship as if Tofu doesn’t bump noses with Holly as a greeting every time they meet in Taehyung’s apartment. He has two spare rooms; one is his office slash art studio slash photography closet, and the other has a beautiful hardwood floor so both Hoseok and Jimin have taken to dancing in there all the time, but.
Taehyung’s saving that room for Jeongguk. Eventually. He wants it to be a surprise; he’ll fly down to Melbourne for Jeongguk’s graduation and then he’ll tell him to move up to New York with him and then they can be together again and he’ll fix all of this weird distance thing between them.
“I think I’m having a linguistic breakdown,” Jeongguk confesses to Namjoon, who laughs. “Don’t laugh, you ass, I have a problem.”
“To be honest,” Namjoon says, clearly amused, “I had one too at your age. What’s yours?”
“Jjigae is not stew.”
And Namjoon laughs again, full-bodied and raspy over the phone, “That was mine too. Care to explain?”
“Okay, so. Like you know how fromage is cheese and manzana is apple, right?”
“Yeah,” Namjoon says. Jeongguk can hear the faint undertones of tell me more in his voice.
“So manzana is the word for apple, because that’s what it is in Spanish. But like, jjigae in Korean doesn’t directly mean stew. You know? Like it’s the definition of stew but it’s not stew by—”
“This is going to take a while, isn’t it,” Namjoon cuts in, a chuckle behind his words. “Go on, bun.”
“Okay. So. You know that the literal equivalent of manzana is apple, because manzana is apple. The word manzana is for the fruit. But jjigae, it’s jjigae. There’s no good translation for it because there isn’t such a thing in English, yeah?”
“Like how the word for stew in Dravidian languages doesn’t really translate that well into English either?” Namjoon asks, countering Jeongguk’s question with one of his own. “Sambar, it’s not a stew, it’s sambar.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Jeongguk says as if he knows anything. Fuckin’ Namjoon and that big brain of his. “Like jjigae isn’t stew, it’s jjigae because there’s no other equivalent.”
Like he’s not anything but Jeongguk. It’s comforting.
“Thanks, hyung,” he says quietly, curling up under the sheets. “I was just—”
“It’s fine, bun,” Namjoon says. “Oh, by the way, Tae was wondering if you wanted him to visit. He’s been mad busy with his manuscript and all, you know…”
No, he doesn’t know. Taehyung hasn’t talked to him in a month. Why would Jeongguk know?
“Yeah, I guess.” It’s painfully rigid. Jeongguk wishes it wasn’t like that.
Which one of them had stopped talking first?
Taehyung publishes his third book: 4 o’clock and the witches that come with, and two days later, he gets a New York Times review.
A record for their publishing company. So, the first course of action that Yoongi can think up is to take him out to a bar (along with all of their colleagues and the Gang) and get him—and he quotes— ”Hella Fucking Drunk”.
First of all, Taehyung’s hardly legal. There’s still like 8-odd months until he turns twenty-one, and second of all, he hates alcohol. So he doesn’t really know if Yoongi’s plan is going to work all that much, but. A for effort?
“Tae-ah,” Seokjin coos when he walks into the bar, sliding into the already-crowded booth and squishing his cheeks together like he was a baby. “Congrats.”
He’s heard that word at least a thousand times today. Hasn’t heard the right Congrats yet—he wants to hear it from Jeongguk, but Jeongguk last replied to him four months ago, and who is he to disturb that silence?
“Thanks, hyung,” Taehyung says, painting a smile on his face. He just hopes it doesn’t look too bitter. “You know, you didn’t have to come.”
Seokjin scoffs. “Never. Joon-ah and Yoongi-chi are coming a bit later, they’re shopping for wine.”
Taehyung cringes, curling up into himself like a mimosa fern. “I’m underage.”
“It’s New York, Tae-ah,” Seokjin says blithely, patting his cheek absentmindedly. “Don’t worry, they’ll get some shitty sweet rosé for you. Expensive shitty sweet rosé for you.”
“Hyung—” Taehyung protests, but Seokjin cuts him off with a light glare.
“A gift, Tae. Accept it.”
He’s had enough of these gifts. Had enough of this fake pandering, the fake congratulations (at least his hyungs were real, as misplaced as their affection might be) the shallow obscenity of it all.
There’s one thing that he wants—Jeongguk to text him a hi, hyung . That’s it.
(Hell, he’d even stop writing forever if that happened.)
Jeongguk’s college years are, suffice to say, interesting. Medical marijuana is legalized throughout Florida, so his roommate takes full advantage of that.
Cameron wasn’t a bad influence, per se, but the day Jeongguk visited home with eight piercings (and four tattoos, two of which were done with a sewing needle and some ash) his parents had an actual breakdown. And besides, Jeongguk’s wanted those for years, and finally, he had enough money to go ahead and get them done.
So now he has a small moon under his left thumb (his first ever tattoo, stabbing ash into his skin in the dead of the night while Cameron blew pungent-smelling smoke out of his mouth, humming in appreciation when Jeongguk was done, and after that one, a tiny star on his knuckle. Both hurt like a bitch.
(But now Cameron thinks he’s metal because of that. And who is Jeongguk to disagree with him?)
His ‘official’ tattoos are a small eighth-note behind his ear and a heart on his shoulder. It’s a pun. Get it?
Jeongguk doesn’t let Cameron (who hails from Merrit Island, rich boy) drag his grades, down, because he has a scholarship , thank you very much Cameron Rivera, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t graduate valedictorian again.
And he does—gets into
So pre-med goes well. Taehyung stays safe in New York, and Jeongguk stays safe in Melbourne.
Three books become four, then five, then suddenly Taehyung’s published twelve of them. His studio isn’t blank white anymore; it’s bright, sunburst yellow and brilliant hues of purples and reds and blues. Namjoon gives him a pretentious bust of some old Greek guy and he puts it in the living room, with sunglasses on it. (He’s named Napoleon the Stoner.)
There are tapestries hung everywhere, and the impromptu dance studio gets lined with mirrors brought in by Hoseok and Jimin, who both grinned at Taehyung when they brought a U-Haul truck to his building and didn’t answer his myriad questions about what the fuck are you two doing.
But it’s slowly becoming home. Seokjin, as a housewarming present, had bought a whole fucking refridgerator into his apartment after he’d seen the one coming with the apartment that the previous owners had left behind. Yoongi gives him an IKEA bookshelf.
(And so what if he has a houseplant jungle in his kitchen.)
Writing is so much easier in his new apartment; there’s a steady white noise of cars honking and people screaming at each other that’s just so inspiring. It’s amazing.
Yoongi also thinks it’s “fuckin’ amazing” and always barges in, expecting him to be done with a chapter or a whole book. Just because Taehyung was inspired doesn’t mean he writes that much.
But there’s such an improvement since he moved here. He feels a tad bit guilty for feeling like that but—he’s lived in Melbourne for twelve years. He’s milked that tiny little beach town for all of the inspiration that it could provide.
“Tae-ah~” Yoongi calls, slamming the door open and striding triumphantly into his office. “Guess what.”
Taehyung squints. From where he’s slouched over his laptop, Yoongi looks impossibly tall, chest puffed up like a robin with pride. “What.”
“I got you another promotion,” Yoongi says, eyes curving in a smile. “You’re welcome.”
Taehyung would’ve smiled or had any other reaction than a frown if he was in a moderately good mood. But he is not. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Damn, you’re rude,” Yoongi says, affronted, moving over to look at Taehyung’s Macbook. “Increase your damn font size, Tae-ah, I can’t see a single thing.”
“‘Cause you’re blind,” Taehyung scoffs, but he still command-a’s and changes the 12-point font to 18. “Thanks, though.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Yoongi mumbles, stabbing at a sentence that Taehyung didn’t particularly like—but he wrote it at three a.m. and his sleep-deprivation drunk rambles always were points of genius later on. “Get rid of that. You’re welcome.”
“No,” Taehyung says, hugging his laptop screen and glaring at Yoongi. “That’s my favorite line, hyung.”
“Bullshit.”
Yoongi sighs, a loud, full sound. Taehyung knows that sigh. He’s frustrated.
“Let’s go get something to eat,” he says, slamming Taehyung’s laptop closed. “Your fridge’s empty.”
“Jin-hyung bought—”
“Jinnie brought you one Whole Foods bag last month. Come on, Tae-ah, let’s go grocery shopping and get some food.”
Jeongguk thinks that he’s supposed to be talking to Taehyung a little more than once every semester, but med school is kicking his ass, so, like. He’s got a semi-plausible excuse. Sort of.
Because he’s charmed all of his professors into giving him extra credit when he needs it, make-up tests if he gets anywhere below a ninety-five on anything. They give him an extra day to turn in work if he misses a day, because ah, Jeon, you come into class more than the professors to teach, you’re fine, don’t worry.
So med school is going well.
He’d managed to get a scholarship into Harvard (“Fucking hell, Jeon, that’s pretentious, you dick,” Cameron had said, looking over his shoulder to the acceptance email) and now he’s. He’s in Harvard.
For one thing, his parents are proud as hell, brag about him on KKTalk and on Facebook all the time. Jeongguk doesn’t have a Facebook account. His parents still haven’t realized that; they keep tagging a Jeon Jeongguk (who lives in Toronto, has a white wife and four kids, has been divorced two times and is fifty-two, totally their son) and no matter how many times Jeongguk has to tell them he doesn’t have a Facebook account to tag, they still do it.
Sometimes they also tag Taehyung in posts. Taehyung doesn’t have a Facebook either.
And Seokjin calls every week to check in and make sure that he hasn’t gotten scurvy yet— ”Eat your veggies, Jeon Jeongguk, goddamn, I’ll give you my Prime account to go to Whole Foods and get a damn discount”— and to see what’s up with him in Harvard. Namjoon calls every other day to make sure Jeongguk’s still sane. (He is.)
Yoongi calls when he can, talks to him about how Taehyung has a cat now; her name is Cocoa and how Cocoa mauls Taehyung’s houseplants and how Taehyung and Namjoon unironically get avocado toast just because it’s New York and just because he can.
Jimin FaceTimes him when he’s dancing, to make sure that you’re keeping fit, you little shit. Jeongguk sends him cheeky videos of hip rolls and him breakdancing. (Hoseok, at this point, steals Jimin’s phone and tells him your form is wrong you brat get it right before trying to seduce my fiancé dumbass.)
Things are going well, but he doesn’t have an excuse to tell Taehyung other than srry hyung homework and shit u know when he doesn’t talk for months.
Four years later:
People come up to him and ask him to sign their books now. He’s still not yet used to that. Because an author isn’t supposed to be a celebrity until they’re like, J.K. Rowling (fuck her) or like Tolkien or hell—Rick Riordan. Those are celebrity authors.
He’s a Korean immigrant still speaking with an accent (albeit slight) even after almost two decades of living in America. Hell, he’s bi. Nobody in America does this kind of stuff.
But here he is.
New York is in its perpetual loud state; honking cars and buzzing tourists. Taehyung loves it, except for when a rat skitters over his Versace (Versace!!!) shoes and shits on the toe. It was disgusting.
Taehyung runs into someone in his rampage, shouting a quick Sorry! over his shoulder. He’s got places to be, characters to kill, seeds to bury. Also: rose apple saplings that have to be planted within the hour, or they’ll die within their tiny Ziploc that the (quite dumb) employee put them in.
A bell rings.
“Hey,” someone calls from behind him, which Taehyung ignores completely, moving forward and taking broad steps towards his apartment. “Taehyung.”
Oh, come on.
Taehyung turns, bags whipping around him and smacking other pedestrians, who grumble and move away. And there—
Is Jeongguk. Jeongguk. As in Jeon Jeongguk; med student (??) and someone he hasn’t seen for the past eight years. Damn.
“Hyung,” is the first thing Jeongguk says to him, hugging him awkwardly with newly muscular arms. When did he have the time to work out in med school? “Hi.”
“Hi,” Taehyung says back, grinning stupidly. He’s missed this idiot. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too,” Jeongguk says, a soft smile on his face. His baby fat is long gone, almost as if someone took a chisel and sculpted him into someone entirely different. His brain tells him that this is Jeongguk, but this doesn’t look like nerdy Jeongguk with monthly breakouts because of stress and who screamed at the sight of a microwave. “Sorry I haven’t talked in a while—”
“—med school,” Taehyung finishes for him, raising his eyebrow. “What’re you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be doing finals or something?”
Jeongguk shrugs. “I finished them a month ago. Thinking about doing my residency here.”
Ah. So the gang’s gonna be all back together if he moves up here to New York. That’s. Totally cool.
Cool cool cool.
“Neat,” is all Taehyung says finally, after quietly making unintelligible sounds. “That’s cool. Have you seen the hyungs yet?”
“Nah,” Jeongguk says, looking a bit awkward. He rubs his arm— why is it so muscly, what the fuck, Jeon Jeongguk. “Just touched down a few hours ago. Didn’t expect to run into you.”
There it is; he didn’t want to meet Taehyung. (There’s a small voice that tells him that Jeongguk called out for him in the middle of the bustling sidewalk, called out loud enough for Taehyung to hear.)
“Ah,” Taehyung says, equally awkward. “You wanna crash at my place? I’ve got oat milk.”
Jeongguk smiles, the edges of his eyes crinkle and his absurdly cute bunny teeth show. “I’d love to.”