Speeding Into Trouble || Taekook

17

Jeongguk sat on the floor of his room, legs stretched out in front of him, back against his bed.

His helmet lay discarded to the side, the glossy black surface catching the soft glow of the ceiling light. He stared at it, the silence in the room pressing heavily on him.

“This is so fucking stupid,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

It had been a week—a whole damn week—and Jeongguk still didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to do.

He’d thought ignoring it might work, thought the gnawing guilt would eventually fade. But it hadn’t. If anything, it had only gotten worse.

He hated this. Hated the twisting knot in his stomach, the way the words seemed to choke him every time he even thought about saying them out loud.

Apologies weren’t his thing. They never had been. He could charm his way out of most situations, deflect with a smirk or a sharp comment, but this? This wasn’t something he could talk his way out of.

“I’m only doing this because Yoongi won’t let it go,” he said aloud, as if trying to convince himself. His voice was sharp, but there was a trace of uncertainty buried beneath it.

“If I don’t, he’s gonna nag me to death. And I don’t need that shit right now.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers threading through his hair.

“It’s not like I even care. I mean, it’s Taehyung. He’ll get over it. He’s probably already over it.” The words felt hollow even as he said them, and he grimaced, as if the taste of the lie lingered in his mouth.

He sat up straighter, shaking his head. “Okay. Just... say something basic. Nothing too dramatic. You’re not here to win an Oscar, Jeongguk.” He cleared his throat, trying to muster up the words.

“Taehyung, uh... about that night... I was—no, I might’ve been... out of line. I didn’t mean it like that. Not really.”

He groaned, slumping forward again. “God, I sound like an idiot.”

For a moment, he considered just forgetting the whole thing. What did it even matter? He didn’t owe Taehyung anything. He didn’t owe anyone anything. But then Yoongi’s voice echoed in his head, sharp and unyielding: “Fix it, Jeongguk. I mean it.”

“Fucking Yoongi,” Jeongguk muttered, grabbing his helmet and pushing himself to his feet. “This is your fault.”

As he slid the helmet on, he caught his reflection in the mirror. His jaw tightened as he stared at himself, the guilt he refused to name flickering briefly in his dark eyes.

“It’s not about him,” he muttered under his breath, as if the words would make it true. “It’s about Yoongi. That’s all. I’m doing this to shut him up.”

But even as he stepped out of the room, helmet in hand, the weight in his chest remained.

_____

Jeongguk sat on his bike outside the school wall, the engine silent beneath him. His head rested against the handlebars, his shoulders hunched as he stared at the cracked asphalt below.

He’d thought the ride would clear his head, but it hadn’t. The memory of that night clung to him, vivid and unrelenting. The words he’d hurled at Taehyung played on repeat, each one sharper than the last.

“No wonder your father beat the shit out of you...”

His fists clenched at the memory, his nails digging into his palms. What the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t even know why he said what he said—why it had come out the way it did.