Jungkook is self-aware enough to know this is probably a bad idea. This, his hand creeping higher and higher on Minghao’s thigh under the table, their friends unable to tell the flush on Minghao’s face isn’t a result of the round of shots they ordered for the table. This, the press of his shoulder against Minghao’s in the taxi, just close enough for plausible deniability. This, Minghao in his bed, his hair now grown long and a bit shaggy, fanning out across Jungkook’s pillow, just begging to be touched.

They aren’t supposed to be doing this, is the thing. Not because it could ruin their friendship but because of—the other thing. The stolen glances and quiet kisses that turned into something more, into long, rambling FaceTimes that serve more as an excuse to see each others’ faces than anything else.

Or, well. Served. They’re on a break, at the moment. I need some space, Minghao had said. I love you too much, to let it end like this. Jungkook had agreed, at the time. He wonders what it means, that he can’t hold true to that.

It could be an olive branch, a bridged gap. The edges of a wound drawn together until new skin forms, until not even a scar remains to commemorate the break. If this was a drama, a story, this—Minghao’s hand gripping Jungkook’s shoulder so tightly Jungkook can practically see the bruise forming, Jungkook chanting Minghao’s name like a prayer, too far gone to remember how to say anything else—would be a turn of the page. A new chapter, one step closer to an and they lived happily ever after.

Instead, once they lay side-by-side on Jungkook’s bed, cheeks flushed and breath heavy, and Jungkook feels a warm glow of satisfaction that goes beyond the waves of pleasure that had crested at the control of Minghao’s careful, experienced hands, Minghao makes a small sound. It could be a cough. Were it anyone else, Jungkook would be able to write it off as just that. He knows Minghao too well, though, and so isn’t surprised when Minghao speaks.

“We shouldn’t have—,” Minghao says, too frustrated for complete sentences. “You—I told you that I wanted a break. This is not a break.”

“Does it have to be a break, though? If we can still do this—if it’s just like before—“

“It’s not just like before, Jungkook-ah. You know that.”

Too much lies unsaid between them, too many rough edges time away may have smoothed down into something more manageable, something fixable.

Jungkook has found he’s too impatient for that. I love you too much, he should have said, to let you get away, even for a little bit. How could I even pretend you’re not perfect for me?

Look at where that’s gotten him, though—Minghao’s hunched shoulders, cast into stark relief by the beam of moonlight shining through his bedroom window, the methodical way Minghao measures out his words, most careful when he has something he wants to ensure isn’t lost in translation.

“I’m going to call a taxi,” Minghao announces, crouching to pick up his shirt where it had landed on the floor in the hurried shedding of clothes and frantic kissing of only forty-five minutes before.

Jungkook can’t say no or stay, please. Once Minghao has made up his mind, it’s an uphill battle to convince him to reverse course. Jungkook could have done it, once. Could still try, might even succeed. But he doesn’t, only manages to croak out an “Okay. Let me pay for it, at least.”

Minghao sighs. Doesn’t disagree. When they were dating, dating for real, Jungkook remembers, they used to alternate—whose apartment they would meet up at, whose card would pay for the other’s taxi. Minghao’s acquiescence doesn’t feel like the victory Jungkook had wanted, in light of that.

If you guys break up, Mingyu had asked, upon learning of their relationship, words uncharacteristically guarded and careful, I don’t think—-I think you’re it, for Minghao. What will you do if it goes wrong? What are we supposed to do?

Jungkook, buoyant and euphoric with new love, had responded almost instantly. He’s it for me too, Mingyu-yah. You don’t even have to worry about that.

Now, Jungkook stands awkwardly in the doorway as Minghao leaves with only a small wave and a half-smile, somehow a stranger in his own home. He can practically feel it—the snapping of the olive branch, the widening of the gap, the wound not even scarring over but bursting open, red and raw. Even as Jungkook feels an ache in his chest, a sting in his eyes, he knows—he was the one to set the match, burning the bridge between them.