he talks like he writes.

in short sentences. never convoluted. straightforward, like if he isn't as blunt as he can be in the moment, he'll lose his opportunity to be honest. but it's not a desperate kind of honest. sometimes it's hurtful but he makes it seem like it's necessary, what he's saying. so he never speaks out of turn. only when he must say something, because he feels he must, or when he is directly spoken to. sometimes, he doesn't respond, and that says a lot, almost everything. everyone will understand.

he doesn't stutter. he's sure of what he says, and when he isn't, he takes pauses, long ones if he must, to carefully consider his next words. it doesn't matter if the person is waiting on his reply. it doesn't matter, because he captivates his audience, pulls them in until they're leaning on the edge of their imaginary seats, in their minds. (jungkook sees them, teetering, tipping. in his own mind, he can imagine it.) he might choose to not say anything, as if that is better than any words.

when he writes, it's as if he is writing a novel. or a short story, more like. with periods, and commas in their proper places. the like a great, famous writer would. jungkook doesn't know any, so he can't compare. so when yoongi speaks, he is reciting it, his short story, narrating, without the fluff, only the most important details to take you away. as if he can only fit everything he has to say in four pages, no more.

'how do you do that?' jungkook asks him once, sitting across him in their favourite cafe downtown (or maybe not their favourite, but the one they visit the most). he's carefully spooning foam out of his cafe mocha, his go-to drink when he isn't sure he really wants to drink or eat anything. the mugs they use here are so huge, he's sure he's not going to finish it.

yoongi scratches away at a notebook, furiously as he does, with a number two pencil whose eraser has been crushed to a pulp from overuse. he turns it over to use the eraser and grunts when scratches ruin the surface of the paper. jungkook doesn't try to peek and see what he's writing. yoongi would just put it away. his black coffee sits between them, the mug already half drained. he doesn't look up at him when he mutters, 'do what?'

'talk,' jungkook says, putting a spoonful of foam in his mouth and regretting it, 'like you're an expert.'

he scrunches his eyebrows, but doesn't look up. 'i'm not.' furious scribbles. sometimes, jungkook thinks he practices bending words, using them, carefully lays out definitions in his brain to know when to use them. scribble, scribble, the mad scratch of lead on paper. draft sentences.

'you are. like an oral shakespeare.' this time yoongi does flick his eyes his way, not for long, but his face transform with a grimace, like the comparison offends him where others would be flattered.

'definitely not. i speak nothing like that writes.' sometimes yoongi likes to slip in curses where he can, because he can. they never feel excessive, or exaggerated, unless he wants it to.

'but you're as good as him. with words. i'm not.' he thinks about that big final oral presentation he did a few weeks ago. he had practiced with his partner, over and over, repeated the words, the information he had to deliver like a mantra, prayers before bed, so that they could respect the thirty-minute time mark. and when they practiced, they were fine, he was fine. but then the audience expanded, grew in number, so many more eyes paying attention and not, listening to his every word, judging. he stumbled, stuttered, blanked, made up words, backtracked and said 'um' between every three words. they hit ten minutes, maybe, and the teacher had to ask questions to fill in an extra five minutes. he couldn't even answer them. his partner answered most of them. he had spent hours researching and still it felt like he knew nothing. just thinking about it makes heat rise on the back of his neck, embarrassment splotching his skin with flushed, red stains. he rubs his nape absently.

yoongi’s not looking at him again. 'they're just words, jungkook,' he says, makes it sound so easy, 'they're not scary.'

but they are. so scary. incredibly so. and for lack of a better word, he at them. completely.

he can't find anything to say to that but a mumbled, 'they are,' because - and he probably doesn't mean to (he literally asked) - he makes his insecurities seem so small, so easy to solve, like he should have found a solution already.

yoongi a sharp eyebrow without looking at him, and he knows it even if its hidden under his beanie. he lifts his mug and takes a kittenish sip of his mocha, slumping back into his seat. he chooses then to stop writing, releases a breath through his nose as his dark eyes bore into his, into him, through him, like he’s not really there but he sees him somehow. it makes jungkook feel small, smaller than his insecurities. he blows his fringe out of his face and it falls right back into place. yoongi’s lips stretch into a thin, tight-lipped smile. 'you're just fine when you talk to me.'

because you're yoongi, and he's known him for years now, since middle school, since he tutored him in english, and talking to yoongi is easy, has become easy, and is still sometimes really hard. 'i have to think really carefully about what to say to you.'

'yet stupid comes out of your mouth all the time.' he doesn't miss a beat, and then he looks back down at his notebook, blinks at it like he's seeing it for the first time. jungkook knows he's struggling, that's the only cue he gets that he does that - struggle with words. but he might have just lost his train of thought with him. it's comforting, and it almost makes him forget that that isn't what he's doing at all, comforting him. he kicks at his shin under the table and slump further into his seat.

'not helping.'

yoongi characteristically doesn't respond immediately. but jungkook can see the gears turning, quickly, in his head, behind his massive forehead. 'words aren't scary,' he repeats, 'if you pretend you know what you're saying. all the time.' jungkook stares at him, wonders, if he is, how hard it is to pretend. all the time. that you're good at something when you know you're not. like he's reading his mind, yoongi adds, 'it gets easier.'

'what does,' he asks, 'words?'

he puts the pencil to his paper again. scribble, scribble, scratch, scratch. 'pretending.'