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the hotel room door is open. just an inch, just a crack, resting against the doorjamb as though someone meant to let the door fall shut behind them but it didn’t quite get there. yoongi pauses with his room key in his hand, still raised to swipe against the lock, but—the door is open.
someone is inside.
he looks down the hallway—empty. he’s only been gone from his room for half an hour, having run down to his manager’s room to ask about something for their concert tomorrow, but he knows he definitely closed the door behind him on the way out. and he doubts that many hotel rooms get broken into it, but—safety. he thinks of safety. thinks of people who call themselves fans following them from hotel to hotel, trying to find a way to get close. yoongi’s fingers itch against his key.
then, from inside the room, muffled by the door, is a sharp exhale. an exhale he knows so well, is almost embarrassed to realize he knows so well. but it’s unmistakeable, the way his body has become attuned to that breathing, so much so that any suspicions or concerns about who could have broken into his room immediately melt into something like relief. something like… home.
when yoongi gently pushes open the door, there’s a lump in the middle of his bed, covered in the sheets and comforter. but this, too, yoongi knows—knows the shape, knows the peaceful rise and fall of it. knows the dark tuft of hair that peeks out from the top of the blankets, like a duckling has found refuge in yoongi’s mess. or maybe the duckling has just never left since the first time, so long ago—because this is normal. this is routine.
yoongi pockets his room key, slipping off his shoes as he lets the door shut properly behind him. when he rounds the bed and sits on the edge next to the lump, a soft grin plays on his lips. he reaches out, running his fingers through the unruly hair—finding warm skin, a forehead, an ear which he runs his thumb over.
jeongguk tilts his face up enough to peek at yoongi from the blanket he has pulled nearly to his nose, eyes pitiful. begging.
“i hope you know this could probably count as breaking and entering,” murmurs yoongi.
jeongguk makes a noise, pushing his head into yoongi’s hand in a clear asking for more. and yoongi gives. he always gives. “doesn’t count if i have a key,” jeongguk mumbles.
yoongi raises a brow. “and where did you find one of those?”
“manager-nim.”
yoongi knows, though, that even without a key, jeongguk would have found a way inside. normally, he waits for yoongi. normally, the soft knock comes late late late, when yoongi knows he should be sleeping but has found himself lost in scribbling out lyrics or trying to finish just the chorus, the hours slipping by too quickly. and the knock is never a question, because jeongguk knows as well as yoongi does that he will be let in. but it’s still a knock, still that uncertainty—yoongi has never turned him away. but jeongguk has always asked for permission.
it’s the first time jeongguk has found his way into yoongi’s hotel room without yoongi there to allow him access. maybe it’s a product of familiarity, of years that have allowed them such close comfort: jeongguk knows he’s allowed here. knows he belongs here. this hotel room is his as much as it is yoongi’s, his own bed left tucked and made, sheets pulled taut and pillows fluffed.
he used to make excuses for it—he was cold or couldn’t sleep alone. he had a question he needed yoongi to answer now, and then he’d simply decide it was better to stay. he was too tired. yoongi’s bed was bigger. it was shy and still is, sometimes, the way jeongguk awkwardly stands beside yoongi’s bed and waits for permission to crawl in, to curl himself around yoongi the way he does every time. for months, he would sit near the window or at the desk, doodling on the hotel-issued notepad as yoongi read in bed or scrolled on his phone, always sneaking glances when he thought yoongi wasn’t looking. he would always wait for the inevitable—for yoongi to put down his phone and turn off the lamp. to sigh a little, to mumble, are you coming or not?
and this—jeongguk being here, making a home out of yoongi’s room without even needing yoongi in it first—is such a stark contrast that it almost gives yoongi whiplash. reminds him of how far they’ve come since all of this started, and of the give and take that has mellowed into routine, clockwork. jeongguk never needed permission, but now he’s finally allowed himself to stop asking for it. he already knows the answer.
or—it’s something more. jeongguk is always so shy about asking for what he wants from yoongi, even if he knows that yoongi has never been able to deny him a single goddamn thing. it’s a joke between all of them often, the way yoongi’s infinite patience for jeongguk stretches out before them, the gentle way he allows jeongguk to push and pull, tease, exude the energy he so desperately needs to shed. but the patience is just as strong here, when jeongguk is soft and quiet and maybe a little afraid. he doesn’t know what he wants. yoongi is willing to find out together.
he cards his fingers through jeongguk’s hair again, watching the eyes that watch him. jeongguk’s knees are pressed to yoongi’s spine, constant grounding. “what’s wrong?” he asks, gentle gentle gentle.
jeongguk huffs, hiding his face in the pillow under his head. “nothing.”
“you usually wait for me.”
he thinks he sees jeongguk’s cheeks colour, but the lighting is dim, jeongguk is swathed in blankets that could make him warm, yoongi’s eyes are always playing tricks—“doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.”
yoongi grins at this—at jeongguk’s stubbornness, at his refusal to ask for help. and maybe nothing is wrong. but yoongi trusts himself more than that, trusts the things he knows about jeon jeongguk. just as he’s learned all of jeongguk’s habits and preferences, his learning styles and abilities both good and bad, he knows this, too. he knows the sound of jeongguk’s breathing. knows the shape of him. knows to trust the instinctual part of himself that has become attuned to jeongguk like a radio frequency, cultivated from years of living and working together.
he’s like that with all of them—they’ve lived in each other’s pockets for years now, spending almost every waking moment of their days together. but it’s different with jeongguk. yoongi would know him anywhere, would know this anywhere: jeongguk doesn’t want to admit something. doesn’t want to be the one to ask, just wants yoongi to offer. and yoongi will offer, always will—will give and give until jeongguk is too full of his love, and then will give even more. but there’s no use in pushing at a locked door.
so—“okay,” says yoongi, smoothing his hand over jeongguk’s forehead, tracing his eyebrows. “i’m going to read for a bit, then.” he waits for the whined protest, knowing that retracting his attention when jeongguk wants it most usually does the trick, pulls jeongguk out of his shell enough to swallow his pride and admit he wants that attention anyway—but jeongguk is silent, only shifting a little under the blankets.
yoongi lets him go, relocating to the desk to pull out the book he’s been reading. but he does little reading, too busy glancing over at the shape of jeongguk in his bed, under his covers. taking up yoongi’s space and taking up that space so well, like he’s merely always been a part of it. yoongi begins to think that maybe jeongguk is telling the truth—nothing is wrong. it’s just that jeongguk wants to be here, always does. at home, he so often flits between his hyungs, choosing to spend each night in someone else’s bed. but even then, he always comes back to yoongi.
on tour, in new and strange cities, it’s different. it’s just… yoongi. he used to think that jeongguk brought those home habits with him, bringing excuses to each of the others about being cold or wanting to talk to them before simply not leaving for the night. yoongi joked about it once, ages ago, bringing up to namjoon and hoseok how their rooms are, by design, the exact same as jeongguk’s in these hotels and his constant sleeping into their beds has to be both endearing and infuriating. they just stared at him, a bit. after bringing it up with seokjin, jimin, and taehyung, too, yoongi soon learned that although jeongguk might visit their hotel rooms occasionally, it’s only ever yoongi’s bed he falls into.
it was jimin who said it, months later—we all like to bring a bit of home with us when we go on tour. i guess for jeongguk, that bit of home is you, hyung.
to think all of this has become normal: jeongguk being here, jeongguk staying here. it used to terrify him, having jeongguk in his room—like a wild thing, like he had to work to get any of this right. he wanted jeongguk there, but wanted jeongguk to come back again, wanted jeongguk to feel like this could be his home if he so desired it. now, somehow, his hotel rooms never feel right until jeongguk knocks on that door.
and despite the difference of this, it makes sense, too. jeongguk should just be here. should just exist in yoongi’s space, because maybe it’s not yoongi’s hotel room anymore. maybe it’s theirs.
jeongguk lasts until yoongi concedes that he’s not getting any reading done and puts down his book, then going about his nighttime routine. when he finally pulls back the covers on his side of the bed (and how strange, he thinks, to have a side of the bed with jeongguk) and slips in, jeongguk immediately moves, rolling over until he bumps into yoongi.
and yoongi—yoongi is attuned to this, too, is familiar. he rearranges them until jeongguk is tucked into his chest, one hand smoothing down jeongguk’s spine as their limbs tangle together. it’s a silent plea for comfort, this overbearing something that yoongi knows has brought jeongguk here in the first place.
yoongi presses his cheek into the top of jeongguk’s head. murmurs, “still nothing wrong?”
“just tired, hyung,” says jeongguk. “always tired.”
“me too, guk-ah.”
“feel bad today.” jeongguk pushes his forehead against the side of yoongi’s neck and yoongi takes it for what it is: an asking for a hand in his hair, fingers over the shell of his ear, squeezing the back of his neck.
“what kind of bad?”
jeongguk hums. “homesick.”
we all like to bring a bit of home with us when we go on tour. i guess for jeongguk, that bit of home is you, hyung.
sometimes yoongi wonders at it—what home means for them. when they were much younger, jeongguk used to be homesick for busan, used to seek comfort in jimin for it. and yoongi knows that each of the others has a piece of home that jeongguk seeks in these times, because each of them has become a piece of jeongguk’s home in their own way. but their physical home is so far away now, on the other side of the world where the sun has already risen. sometimes yoongi gets homesick, too, for something that he can’t quite explain. homesick for a place that no longer exists or maybe never did, some other part of reality where he has a steady home at all.
so he gets it—gets this part of jeongguk that yearns for something he cannot name. gets, too, how yoongi might make it better, because jeongguk makes it better for yoongi. a bit of home—a bit of comfort, of familiarity. yoongi’s skin itches with it, the understanding that yoongi is what makes the bad feeling go away, or lessen, at least. he wonders about the opposite of homesickness.
“wanna talk about it?” asks yoongi, although he knows the answer is often no. that’s part of why they seek comfort in each other—they don’t need the words. yoongi is good with them, always has so many thoughts he wants to get out, but with jeongguk, he doesn’t need them. with jeongguk, it’s so easy to simply be, to exist together and know that it’s enough. if jeongguk wanted words, he might have gone to one of the others. but he came to yoongi. he always comes to yoongi.
so when jeongguk shakes his head, burrowing a little further into yoongi’s space, yoongi can only grin and press a kiss to the top of jeongguk’s head. “my big baby,” he sighs. “hyung’s got you.”
he feels the slow exhale jeongguk lets out, warm breath against the skin of his neck and collarbones. he slides his hand up jeongguk’s neck, curling into his hair, scratching there. the truth is—yoongi is homesick, too. yoongi feels bad, too, just a little. usually, he has enough to push it down or to cover it, but it’s so much harder when the distractions have ceased. but they’ll be better. maybe he needs this as much as jeongguk does, like maybe jeongguk knew anyway—showed up because somehow, he knew yoongi didn’t want to wait for him to show up later, to knock, to seek permission.
yoongi thinks, dangerously, that he likes this better: when jeongguk is simply here. thinks he could get used to this the way he’s gotten used to jeongguk’s hand curling around his under tables, his hair in yoongi’s face when he wakes up early in mornings, his lips dry against yoongi’s in the small, quiet moments, when they find just enough time for it. it’s always growing, becoming something more. maybe it was always going to lead here.
he tilts his head down as jeongguk moves away enough to look at him, foreheads brushing before their noses do, and then jeongguk ghosts his lips over yoongi’s. and yoongi grins into it, as he so often does, pressing his lips to jeongguk’s more firmly for just a moment.
“you could have just told me you wanted kisses and cuddles,” says yoongi. “didn’t have to break into my hotel room and be a lump in my bed.”
“i always want kisses and cuddles, hyung,” says jeongguk. “it should just be a given.”
yoongi kisses him again, the side of his mouth, the mole under his lip. jeongguk huffs again, saying, “your room is better than mine.”
“jeongguk, they’re literally the exact same.”
“but mine doesn’t have you in it.”
the bluntness of it makes yoongi’s cheeks heat, despite how often he’s heard words like that. they’re no strangers to admitting the truth, even if it might be difficult to put it into words sometimes. it’s easier this way: lingering touches, longing looks. hands, mouths. always mouths.
and still—“i could come to your room once in a while,” says yoongi.
“we could just ask to be put in the same room to begin with.”
yoongi grins, kissing the tip of jeongguk’s nose. “you like this too much,” he says. “sneaking into my room, taking up my bed. wouldn’t feel the same otherwise.”
jeongguk likes taking what’s yoongi’s and making it his. likes making it theirs. and yoongi gets that, too, how it feels to know that something has changed hands so both of them can hold it. maybe it’s why they steal each other’s clothes even if they could just buy more for themselves, why they do work in each other’s studios when they both have perfectly functioning ones of their own. it’s the principle of the thing, the warm blossom in his chest when he sees the way jeongguk lets him in, lets him cross all of those lines.
so jeongguk is always going to be allowed here, never needs to ask to be let in. but they go through the motions anyway, for that fleeting moment of triumph when yoongi opens the door to find jeongguk clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants, drying hair falling into his face, eyes wide and round, mumbling, can i, hyung? can i come in? and yoongi says, of course, guk-ah. always.
like always.
“tired, hyung,” mumbles jeongguk, sounding sleepy and almost far away.
“sleep, then,” says yoongi, stroking at jeongguk’s hair again. “big day tomorrow.” in less than twenty-four hours, they’ll be onstage for thousands of adoring fans, doing what they do best—but for now, it’s just jeongguk in yoongi’s hotel room, which feels as much of a home as being on stage does these days. jeongguk is likely still homesick, just as yoongi is, but this is what they do almost every night. it’s how they stay afloat, how they keep tumbling into new mornings with some hope. yoongi wouldn’t mind it for the rest of his life, wouldn’t mind the door always being ajar, wouldn’t mind always finding jeongguk in his bed when he comes home.
oh, it’s a terrifying thought. but this late at night, with jeongguk’s warm breath against his skin and such pretty, whispered words—it’s easy to hold. jeongguk always makes these feelings easy to hold.
“like you, hyung,” says jeongguk. “like you and your hotel room and your bed. makes me feel better.”
“like you, too, bun,” says yoongi, giving jeongguk a forehead kiss. “like you in my hotel room and my bed. stay?”
“yeah,” breathes jeongguk. “yeah, hyung.” and maybe that’s it, maybe that’s all there needs to be: these quiet reassurances, these whispered words. the knowledge that jeongguk will always find a way into yoongi’s hotel room and his bed the way he’s found a way into yoongi’s heart.
jeongguk will always knock, will always ask to be let in. yoongi will always let him. he’s never been so sure of anything.
yoongi kisses jeongguk’s forehead again, pulls him a little closer—his own little bit of home. or maybe not just a bit, not anymore. as he closes his eyes, lets jeongguk’s steady breathing and the rise and fall of his body next to yoongi’s lull him into sleep, he thinks—he doesn’t know what the opposite of homesickness is. but it probably feels a hell of a lot like this.