Any relief that comes from Yoongi's answer is fleeting. Alcohol makes it difficult and too easy to focus all at once, dizzy from the happiness of knowing that Yoongi's been looking forward to tomorrow, and lost in the quick motion of a tongue passing over flushed lips. His body feels uncomfortably warm — blood pounding in his ears, over the sound of the music, the thrum of the bass.

He needs to move. Shift. Do anything to relieve the tension in his body, to ignore the building pressure of denim pressed against his thigh, his legs splayed awkwardly over the cushions. He needs to move so that Yoongi won't notice, won't pull back in disgust when he realizes how sullied Jungkook's affections are. Jungkook hangs his head, the edge of a gasp on his lips. Calm down.

"Me too," he admits.

Think of anything else. Anything else.

Of the look that's passed over his father's eyes, both wary and furious, a constant threat whenever Jungkook sits across from him at the dinner table. Of the taunts from his brother, fingers dragging over his sketchbook, tearing the paper clear across the face he's taken such care to craft.

Jungkook looks up with a smile, quiet surrender as he reaches for his hyung's free hand and gives it a squeeze. "Want to dance, hyung?"