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“Hey, kid.”
Jungkook glances up from where he’s editing on Photoshop, brows lifted, half in annoyance and the other in mild fondness. “I would remind you that I’m not a kid anymore but I suppose it wouldn’t make a difference.”
Min Yoongi is the owner of their studio, and Jungkook remembers the day they had met, mid-summer, sleeves rolled up in a last ditch attempt to stave off the heat and hands wrapped desperately around an iced Americano as he sat in the coffee shop, waiting for Yoongi to show up.
They’d shook hands, and despite only having known each other for two hours, Yoongi had recognized the flickering burn in Jungkook's eyes in parallel to his own. This was how their little start-up came to be.
It wasn’t easy with only the two of them taking on freelance tasks, assignments that ranged from architectural projects to product photography, but Jungkook would like to build on the fact that they’d managed to survive, and that five months into their project, they have a studio, albeit modest, but close to a second home.
Yoongi fixes him with a cool stare, decidedly unamused with the sass. “I’ve been telling you to go home for the past three hours.”
“It’s fine if you leave first, I can lock up.”
“I know that, but I think you should give yourself a break sometimes. We’ve made it this far, it’s all right to cut yourself some slack.” Yoongi walks past him to the mini pantry, ruffling Jungkook's hair as he goes (“Will you ever stop this!”).
Jungkook hums, scrolling his crosshair across the pixelated canvas as he thinks about home. “It’s just… I don’t like going home.”
Going home to an empty apartment, his mind echoes back at him.
Yoongi sighs, but places a hand on Jungkook's shoulder before reminding him to lock up as promised.
The door to the studio opens and closes, and Jungkook realizes, as he does every day, that no matter he is, it always feels like there’s an empty space.
It’s the mailbox that Jungkook first checks when he gets home, turning the little key that he’d spent nearly twenty seconds trying to find in his apocalypse of a backpack, pulling down the small latch and peering into the box.
There’s an envelope, and Jungkook laughs, brightening up a little as he slides it out.
Later, when he lifts the flap, a postcard falls out, the Eiffel Tower standing tall and heavily edited in the foreground, with a random couple holding hands in front of it and trust Taehyung to choose the most clichéd of postcards, Jesus Christ.
“I miss you, my star” is written at the back in Taehyung's distinct doctor’s scrawl, a chicken scratch that Jungkook struggles to decipher, only to feel his cheeks warm when he finally makes out the words.
