Sometimes, Hoseok thinks that there are things he may have forgotten. Not on purpose, because he likes to think that he’s the sort to treasure every moment like a precious stone, locked away in the confines of his memory.

But there’s something he’s forgetting, he’s sure of it.

The boy has bright eyes. Earnest, the kind that crinkle up at the sides when he smiles.

Hoseok calls him Jungkook, and when Jungkook laughs, Hoseok forgets about everything else except the way his lips tug up at the sides, except the way Jungkook's smile feels against the skin of his shoulder.

“Hyung,” Jungkook likes to hold onto the back of Hoseok's shirt when he makes his coffee. “Will you be working till late tonight?”

“No, baby,” and Hoseok revels in Jungkook's smile, thrives on it. “I’ll be home for dinner.”

But when Hoseok opens the front door, it’s 02:52, the light is left on in the kitchen, the bowl of rice cold under the plastic cover.

Jungkook is asleep in a bed too big for two, limbs wrapped around Hoseok's pillow.

He’s got a class at ten, and Hoseok wishes, sometimes, that it isn’t so quiet in the mornings when he wakes up.

The television is humming low in the background, but the silence is still deafening. Hoseok watches another news report on the progress of inventing anti-radiation airplanes. “Success is within reach,” the news anchor says, and Hoseok feels the hope seeping into his skin.

Four years ago, radiation had formed a layer just beneath the Earth’s atmosphere. Overnight, thousands of people had been reported missing—planes land in airports that they’re not scheduled for arrival at, and no one could remember why they were there; doctors say it’s amnesia due to excessive radiation exposure.

Since then, all flight activity had been ceased. People travelled wherever they could by train or over the seas. The world slows down.

Four years ago, Hoseok had found himself in Paris, with only his name in his pocket.

The clock reads 08:21, and Hoseok drains the rest of his coffee, leaves the empty mug in the sink, then psyches himself up to battle the morning rush hour.

“Why didn’t you pursue dance?”

Jungkook has his head in Hoseok's lap, and he’s running his fingers through Jungkook's hair absentmindedly, his other hand resting on the younger’s stomach.

“Because,” Hoseok murmurs, gently tugging Jungkook up to pull him into his lap, cupping his face with his hands. “In my life, there were two options. To dance, or to love you.”

Jungkook smiles, small and unsure. “Oh.”

“I chose to love you.”

They always kiss this way. It’s a slow burn beneath Hoseok's skin as his fingers skitter down Jungkook's arms, their lips slotting together in a tight lock, and Hoseok doesn’t think that anything could fit better.

Jungkook is always soft skin and warm lips, he kisses Hoseok like he’s drunk on his presence alone, and Hoseok kisses Jungkook like he’s drowning.

Hoseok likes to think that they have no beginning and no end, limbs tangled with fire at their fingertips. When he presses into Jungkook, and the younger moans, low and throaty against Hoseok's shoulder, Hoseok likes to think that there is nothing else he could want more, than to hold Jungkook in his arms forever.

“I think I should quit college,” Jungkook says after that, his voice barely a whisper. “Get a job, help you out. You’re always tired.”

Hoseok brushes the bangs away from Jungkook's eyes and pulls him close enough to press kisses over his eyelids, chuckling lowly. “No,” he murmurs, and Jungkook frowns, “I can handle it, just focus on graduating and doing what you love.”

Jungkook mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t say “it’s all right”. Instead, Hoseok says, “sleep, love.”

Hoseok locks the studio up at six, limbs piled over with the sort of exhaustion that he’s grown to love, the sweat still drying over his skin.

One of his students call out to him, waves goodbye, and Hoseok flashes her a smile, waving back.

The apartment is quiet when he gets back again, and Hoseok stands at the doorway, staring into the dark, hands still on the knob.

When did he stop feeling like going home?

(When home stopped feeling like a home, but an empty shell with four walls.)

Hoseok steps in anyway, grits his teeth and flicks on the lights, muscles tensed and sprung as he brews his coffee, because there’s nowhere else that he can go.

(He thinks he feels phantom arms wrapping around his waist from the back, a smile against his shoulder and his thoughts drift back to the boy in his dreams.)

Jungkook watches Hoseok pack, holding out articles of clothing at intervals so Hoseok can stand back and stare, deciding how he should stuff the next shirt in without getting more creases in it than he’d like.

“I wish I could come along.”

Hoseok glances up, offering Jungkook a small, tired smile before reaching out to ruffle his hair. “I wish you could come along, too.”

“It’s hell week.” Jungkook sighs and pulls his legs up so he’s seated cross legged on the bed, exasperation evident on his features, only softening out when Hoseok scoots up next to him, smoothing over Jungkook's frown with his thumb. “I’ll miss you.”

“Just a week,” Hoseok gathers Jungkook against his chest and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I’ll take you around the world one day. You’ll have me all to yourself.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Jungkook lets Hoseok kiss him at the front door, with the cab waiting downstairs. He lets Hoseok pull him close for a wordless two minutes, and when Hoseok whispers, “I love you”, Jungkook echoes it right back.

“Wait for me,” Hoseok murmurs against Jungkook's temple, “I’ll be home soon.”

The first anti-radiation plane launches four years and eight months after the world bans all flight activity.

Hoseok waits with the rest of the universe with his breath catching in his throat, counting down the minutes until the prototype lands.

Next morning, Hoseok wakes up to hundreds of articles on his phone and the rush of success blasting from every news channel on the television. The prototype had been a success, and would be released for commercial use within the next few months.

Something stirs in Hoseok's chest, and for the first time in four years, Hoseok realizes what it is.

He’s homesick.

He’s homesick, but he has no idea (not the slightest clue) where home is.

So he watches himself through the reflection in his bathroom mirror as he brushes his teeth, and notices that there are lines at the sides of his eyes that probably used to wrinkle when he laughs until he cries.

Hoseok doesn’t remember the last time he laughed, but he remembers that he hadn’t been laughing alone (the boy has bright eyes. Earnest, the kind that crinkle up at the sides when he smiles).

He gets to his studio half an hour early.

“Hyung?”

Hoseok hums in reply, glancing back when Jungkook wraps his arms around him in a back hug, face pressed against his shirt.

“You know I’d do anything for you.”

“I know, baby.” Hoseok turns around so he’s leaning against the counter, arms looping loosely around the younger boy’s waist, a soft, fond smile on his lips. “I would do the same for you.”

Jungkook smiles that toothy smile of his, eyes pulling up into twin crescents. “If you disappeared one day, I would look for you. I’d travel across the world.”

“That’s never happening,” Hoseok cups Jungkook's face in his hands and laughs, leaning in to press their lips together.

They kiss quietly in the mild evening light filtering through the blinds and lazy Sunday lull, breaths hushed in their little apartment.

Jungkook is breathless when they pull apart, his lips swollen and flushed. “Why not?”

“Because,” Hoseok says, resting his forehead against Jungkook's, “I’m never going to disappear.”

There’s something about drifting through life with shackles around your ankles, and Hoseok would give anything to stop feeling as if he’s desperate when he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to be looking for.

Sometimes, Hoseok thinks that there are things he may have forgotten. Things that he wants to remember so badly that there’s a perpetual ache in his chest that rings all the way up to the confines of his skull and the tremble of his fingertips.

Hoseok wakes to the sound of frantic knocking on his front door, and he knows that maybe he’s supposed to be afraid, but the emotion has lost all effect by now.

Five years and ten months after the world ceases all flight activity, one year and two months after the world resumes it, Hoseok pads over to the front door and opens it.

There’s a man blocking the glare of the seven a.m. sun, and Hoseok has to squint, blink away the black dots to make more out of just his silhouette.

It hits him that the stranger is familiar, his hair a tousled mess, his features older, as if marred by the cruelty of the world. But his eyes remain the same, and Hoseok freefalls into the nostalgia headfirst in abandonment.

Because, right then, suddenly and all together, Hoseok remembers, his chest welling up with so much relief and anger that it burns at the backs of his eyes, spills over the crevices and streaks down his cheeks.

Hoseok reaches out, unsure, whispers, “Jungkook.”

And Jungkook finally breaks out of the confines of Hoseok's dreams, his arms solid and real around Hoseok's waist (his voice is what Hoseok had been searching for the whole time).

“Hyung.”