Introduction
Name : Kim Taehyung
Age : 27
Name : Jeongguk
Age : 23
Elder Twin
Name : Jungkook
Age : 23
Younger twin
Name : Jimin
Age : 27
Tae friend
Name : Yoongi
Age : 30
Twins elder brother
Name : Namjoon
Age : 28
Jimin brother
Name : Jin
Age : 31
Jeongguk and Jungkook friend
Name : Hobi
Age : 29
Friend of everyone
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One was punished for his sins and another one was praised for his good deeds.
Despite being blood related brothers, they were not typical siblings.
One hides his pain and another one hides his evilness.
Criticized by everyone but still holding into the string of hope that is fading slowly.
Praised by everyone but still it's not enough.
One wants to be loved and another wants to destroy his love.....
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Part I — Morning Light and Little Lies
The house smelled like toasted bread and coffee; sunlight leaned through the curtains in soft, lazy bars. Laughter threaded through the kitchen — an ordinary morning stitched together in ordinary ways. Mrs. Kim moved like she'd always known where everyone's hands should be; Jin was at the counter fussing with eggs as if they were precious things, Namjoon scrolling on his tablet between sips of tea, Yoongi half-asleep with a mug in his hand, Hobi turning the music up a little louder than anyone else thought was necessary.
At the center of it all, Taehyung and the twins moved like parts of a well-loved machine: one playful, one poised. Jungkook had bounced into the room with the kind of energy that swept dust from corners—bright grin, hair mussed, eyes laughing before he even spoke. Jeongguk came in behind him, calm and composed in that way that made people rack up compliments without trying. He had the grace of someone who was always noticed, and people noticed him.
The morning erupted in mock chaos when Jungkook, full of bratty mischief, chased Jimin around the table and sprayed him with the little spray bottle he used for plants. Jimin shrieked, laughing, and everyone joined in. Jungkook hid behind Tae's broad back and peered out with a grin that always begged for soft punishment. Tae patted him on the head, feigned sternness, then gave Jungkook the warmest, dorkiest smile anyone had ever seen. It made Jungkook melt, and Jungkook's melt was the sort of thing that showed everyone who watched that the world was set right.
But under that world set-right smile, there were fissures. Small at first—an offhand remark here, a slight there. Jeongguk answering a question better, Jeongguk praised for thoughtfulness, Jeongguk praised because he was quietly good at things people equated with worth. The household accepted this scale almost by habit: Jeongguk's composed competence and Jungkook's sunshine were different currencies, and the bank of affection paid out more often in one than the other.
Tae did not study those fissures that day. He saw Jungkook's smile and took it at face value. He saw Jeongguk's steady calm and felt comfortable with it. The smoke before a storm is often invisible if you don't know to look for it.
Part II — The Tilt
Days rolled into one another in a rhythm of rehearsals and work and small private rituals. Jeongguk was meticulous; teachers and elders praised him for being "mature beyond his years." He could explain complex things in a way that made people lean in and clap, and he did so with a modest nod, never flaunting the attention but never discouraging it either. Jungkook tripped over his own shoelaces and people laughed, the laughter warm and affectionate—but when the laughter faded, the weight of being "the second" sat heavy inside him like another person's coat.
They compared without malice sometimes; sometimes without thinking. Jeongguk was first in the exam results; Jungkook had come second but had the brighter smile when parents asked. Namjoon would say, casually, "Jeongguk handled the presentation like a pro," and Jin would add, "Jungkook, you light up the room though." Both were true, but one compliment stacked on top of the other, like bricks, built a small wall between them.
At dinner, Jungkook laughed and teased, but he took Jeongguk's praises in with a slow, quiet nod that hid the thud behind his ribs. He had learned early not to spill what he felt; smiles smoothed the corners of his despair so well no one believed they needed to pry. He learned a special kind of performance—the one where sadness is dressed up as cheerfulness, where hurt is tidied into jokes. It worked. The household never suspected anything deeper than the usual twin rivalry.
Others did.
Mrs. Kim's eyes lingered just a beat too long on Jungkook when he laughed. Jimin's teasing softened into real care sometimes—his hands would rest on Jungkook's shoulder a second longer. Yoongi's single look, curt and observant, took in Jungkook's smile and the thin traced shadow beneath it. Hobi made extra plates, and Jin would fold Jungkook's napkin with a little flourish just to make him beam. They were stitches; they would matter later.
Jeongguk's envy didn't arrive as thunder. It was a slow darkening at the edges—small words, a cool dismissal of Jungkook's efforts made in private, a folded remark about "always being second." In public he polished his image and let others applaud. Alone, he allowed himself the selfish thought that Tae should look at him first, laugh at his jokes, praise him for fixes he'd made. The thought poisoned him in secret.
Part III — Niceties and Cuts
Jeongguk's quiet manipulations found shape in tiny incidents. He criticized Jungkook's choices in ways that felt like concern but landed like control. He'd "helpfully" volunteer to take notes so Jungkook could "focus on being more outgoing" and find himself in public receiving a small round of praise for his maturity.
Jungkook accepted each thing with a smile. He masked the bruises with jokes. He let things slide because fights felt too exhausting. He smiled because it was simpler than explaining warmth measured in calories that no one seemed to have for him. To the world, he remained the effervescent twin. Behind closed doors he learned how to make his silence an invisible shield.
No one blamed Jeongguk outright. It was easy to see Jeongguk as the capable, the practical one. People loved both twins for different things. But love, when portioned unevenly again and again, can start to hollow people who take the lesser measure.
On a rainy afternoon when everyone else was out, Jungkook sat at the piano and let his fingers wander, making small songs that came from the places inside him he rarely visited. The notes were not honed; they were raw and honest. Tae wandered through the living room and heard it—the crackling urgency of Jungkook's music. He paused, listening to the ache in the melody, but he told himself Jungkook always played like this when he needed to be alone. He smiled to himself and left Jungkook to his music, assuming it was catharsis and nothing more.
Part IV — The Becoming Quiet
Change did not announce itself with fireworks. It folded in with the seasons.
After a particular family celebration—one where Jeongguk had been praised for his calm handling of a messy situation and Jungkook had been clapped for his charm—the twins retired later than usual. Jungkook laughed at the jokes, drank his orange juice, and smiled at Tae when he passed him the plate. The evening looked ordinary. But Jungkook came to the bedroom and sat on the floor by the window, knees hugged to his chest, as though the laughter had bounced off an invisible barrier and left his chest hollow.
From then on, Jungkook changed. Not drastically. He still cracked jokes in the daytime; his laughter still sparkled in the kitchen. But there were silences now where he might have filled in a song, where he might have leaned against Tae and offered his small, bright monologue about a silly dream. He answered less. He lingered at the edges of gatherings and watched more than he spoke. People called it "maturity" at first—"he's calming down, getting more grounded." Tae, busy, took those observations at face value. He liked the idea of Jungkook being "grounded." It made him think Jungkook was growing up, not shrinking.
Those who were closer saw different things. Jimin found Jungkook staring at a family photo with a long, unreadable look and asked if he was okay. Jungkook forced a smile and changed the subject. Yoongi noticed Jungkook's sleep patterns and quiet meals, Namjoon wrote little notes and left them on Jungkook's pillows—cheerful things, small mantras. Jin made a private joke only the twins would get and watched Jungkook respond through the smallest of smiles, a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
The more Jungkook retreated inward, the more his inner critic spoke—soft, venomous things. You're not enough. You're a burden. You're always second. The chorus grew louder at night, relentless. He started avoiding the mirror, because all it reflected were hollow smiles.
Part V — The Deepening
Months folded. Jungkook's withdrawal became a thinned thread that the family began to worry more about. He stopped volunteering for performances, citing tiredness. He said yes less often to invitations and began to spend hours in his room, the door closed, music whispering through it like a secret. When he ate, he often left pieces untouched; when he talked, he sometimes answered with a nod and returned to silence.
Nobody could put a finger on when it had become serious. It was easier to miss pain that was wrapped in mild manners. No drastic incident occurred—no obvious scar to hold up as proof. Instead, the pattern was a slow erosion that created a subtle but dangerous gap in Jungkook's days.
Jeongguk watched, and the bitterness in his chest changed. He felt triumphant in a cruel way: Jungkook was getting smaller. All this quiet confirmed, in his mind, that he—Jeongguk—was the one people turned to. It fed him, and with it came a cold confidence that made him less cautious, more cutting. He would make slightly cruel comments in the halls about Jungkook's "attention seeking" and receive nods of agreement from people who hadn't noticed the thinning smile. Jeongguk's arrogance hardened into entitlement.
It took a small, almost incidental act—a misplaced letter—to spark the commotion. One evening Namjoon sorted through mail and found a terse note from Jungkook's school counselor. It mentioned Jungkook's declining participation and a suggestion of support, gently worded. Namjoon, cautious and loving, brought it to Mrs. Kim. The two of them compared notes and found that there were other small signals: missed texts, unanswered calls from friends, a stack of untouched art supplies.
Once the note left the quiet of envelopes and reached the light of conversation, the house changed its volume. Words like "depression" and "support" began to circulate. Concerned looks spread on faces like ripples.
Tae, when he heard, frowned. He thought Jungkook was being quiet out of choice. He thought he knew Jungkook's moods well enough to wait for him to speak up. Tae assumed he would notice when Jungkook needed him; he had always assumed that. It was a comforting assumption. He did not know the depth of the hollowness that had been building inside Jungkook until others, not him, began to speak up.
Part VI — Worry and Friction
One afternoon, Jimin found Jungkook in the garden, hands clasped around a mug of cold tea. He sat beside him without comment, letting the air fill the silence. After a long time, Jungkook finally said, in a voice like paper, "I don't feel like I fit anywhere."
Jimin's arms tightened around him. "You fit with us. We love you."
Jungkook turned his face to the sky. "Do you? Do you really mean it? Or is it just… because I make people laugh?"
That night, Jimin and Mrs. Kim discussed it with Namjoon and Jin. Yoongi listened behind a closed door and his jaw clenched. Hobi wanted to march into Jungkook's room and drag him into the living room until he laughed again, as though laughter could be a bandage. Instead they started to talk quietly, to schedule, to plan interventions shaped by love.
Word reached Tae. He felt a discomfort like a splinter lodged somewhere he could not reach. "He's fine," he said at first, trying to reassure himself as much as others. "Maybe he's just tired. We've all been busy."
"Taehyung," Namjoon said, steady and gentle. "We're not accusing you of anything. We just… noticed things. He's pulled away."
Tae's chest tightened. He wanted to say he had been there; that he would have noticed. But the truth tasted like ash. He had not noticed. He had mistook retreat for growth. He had assumed his presence was enough. He told himself he had protected Jungkook by letting him be, but the truth was that he had left a gap and not filled it with his eyes.
Meanwhile, Jeongguk's reaction was not the one anyone expected. He seemed indifferent—too indifferent. He smiled his composed smile and answered questions about Jungkook with a careful lack of emotion that read to others as cold. That coldness stung like betrayal. Some people started to whisper that Jeongguk had been cruel to Jungkook, that perhaps he had pushed Jungkook too hard. The household's quiet consensus turned against Jeongguk: if one twin was falling, the other should be there to catch him.
Tension threaded through the house. Casual conversation felt like going through a field of glass—someone might upset something delicate. Jeongguk grew more defensive; his shoulders tightened into a fortress. He accused, quietly at first, Jungkook of "overreacting" when someone raised the idea of counselling. He implied Jungkook's sadness was dramatic. The implication spread like mildew, and people bristled.
"Jeongguk," Jin said one afternoon straight to his face, "do you understand what's happening to your brother?"
Jeongguk's eyes flashed. "I understand him better than you do. He's always been a drama-king; he needs people to make heroes of him."
"You'd rather make him smaller than help," Namjoon replied, controlled but sharp.
The argument was small and ugly in the kitchen, but it stained the air. Jeongguk retreated, and the house tilted. He resented being cornered; he resented the accusations. In his own mind he rationalized: if Jungkook had been stronger, none of this would have happened. The logic warped into blame.
Part VII — The Night Tae Finally Sees
Tae kept to himself, trying to balance. He busied himself more than usual, thinking action would feel like comfort—running errands, bringing Jungkook's favorite snacks, laughing loudly in the living room. Jungkook smiled and accepted snacks, but the smiles were like postcards—pretty from a distance, thin up close.
One night, Tae came home late and found the house unusually quiet. Lights were dim; Yoongi and Jin were in the studio, Hobi was getting coffee from the machine, and Namjoon and Jimin were whispering over a stack of papers. Tae trudged up the stairs and, on impulse, opened Jungkook's door.
Jungkook sat on the floor under the window. He had a lamp on, the light bathing his profile in a soft glow. He clutched a notebook full of scribbled lyrics and songs, words that trailed off abruptly on the page. Jungkook's face had no smile that night. It was hollowed in a way Tae had not seen before. The air tasted like the aftermath of a storm.
"Tae," Jungkook said without looking up. The use of his name—plain, unadorned—carved through Tae like a knife.
Tae sat down beside him, hands hovering, unsure. Jungkook finally lifted his eyes to Tae's. There were no jokes, no glitter. Just tiredness, and something deeper, raw and real. Tae's breath hitched.
"I thought you were okay," Tae whispered. The words were an admission and an accusation at once, because Tae was angry—not at Jungkook, but at himself.
Jungkook's voice was small. "I didn't want you to worry."
"You should have told me," Tae said. "You could have told me anything."
"I didn't want to make anyone… uncomfortable." Jungkook's fingers traced the margin of the notebook like a map. "I thought if I kept smiling, it would be better. For them."
Tae felt the world tilt. All the times he had assumed—not asked, not looked—crowded around him. He thought of all the little gestures he'd given (a pat on the head, a snack, a joke), and realized they had been inadequate. He thought of the nights Jungkook sat alone, of the way he now looked at the world from the inside out.
Tae didn't have a neat speech. He didn't have the right words in his pocket. He had something else: presence—unfettered, fumbling, and desperately sincere. He took Jungkook's hand. "You're not a burden," he said simply. "You never were."
Jungkook's breath shook. Tears, long suppressed and sudden, broke free. Tae, unused to being the first to notice this kind of pain, felt an urge to fix it, which made him clumsy. He wrapped his arms around Jungkook and stayed there while Jungkook cried into his shirt—soft, small sounds of a heart letting go of too much.
Part VIII — Confrontations and Confessions
The news of Tae's discovery spread through the household like a warm current: he had found Jungkook in tears and had stayed with him through the night. People rallied not out of sensationalism but out of protective love. They organized counsellors, set up schedules, and made lists of meals Jungkook liked. It felt like circling the wagons against a cold outside world.
Jeongguk reacted the only way he knew how—by trying to control the narrative. He insisted Jungkook only needed rest and that the situation was being sensationalized. The more people pressed, the more Jeongguk hardened, until Namjoon finally confronted him in private.
"Jeongguk," Namjoon said softly, "this isn't about winning admiration. It's about your brother. You can't push him away."
Jeongguk's voice was small for once. "I'm not pushing him away. He chooses to be small."
"No," Namjoon said, and he said it like a law. "You make him feel small sometimes. You need to see how your words land."
Jeongguk's jaw worked. For a moment there was shame there—small, scorched. For the first time someone put the responsibility of Jungkook's pain on him instead of on the world, and it pinched.
That pinch broke open something. Jeongguk found himself watching Tae with new eyes after that. Tae had always been gentle, and he had always been kind to Jungkook, but now, seeing Tae stay awake supporting Jungkook, Jeongguk felt a spasm of irrational jealousy. It finally hit him like a cold wave that he had been starving for the spotlight of Tae's affection, and that Tae gave his warmth freely to Jungkook. The thought was ugly; Jeongguk hid it in the well of complex feelings he could not translate into words.
It came to a head in the living room when Jeongguk and Tae's gazes crossed. Tae had spent the last nights sitting by Jungkook, sleeping on the couch, calling in extra help. Jeongguk watched, and anger rose—a raw, childlike possessiveness.
"You're making him needy," Jeongguk said one evening, blunt and bright, to Tae in a hallway that felt too narrow.
Tae froze. He looked at Jeongguk, tired truth in his face. "I'm making him feel safe."
"Why him?" Jeongguk asked, a whisper that wanted to be a shout. "Why not me?"
Tae's mouth parted like he might speak a thousand things. He looked from Jeongguk to the direction of Jungkook's room where faint light bled under the door. "Because he needed it first," Tae said. There was no triumph in his voice, only something like regret. "Because you didn't. Until now."
Jeongguk's eyes darkened and hardened. "I did." He lied not to Tae but to himself.
Part IX — Repairing Bridges
It doesn't happen all at once. Healing is granular and awkward, like learning to dance on two left feet. The household took steps—some small, some huge. They booked professional help for Jungkook. They started family check-ins where everyone had to say something real about their day. Jeongguk resisted at first, bristling at being put on the defensive. Then he began to see, in the counsellor's careful questions and the painful mirror of his brother's tears, how his words had landed.
It cracked something in Jeongguk—the part of him that mistakenly equated affection with worth. He hated how much he wanted Tae's attention. He hated how that hunger turned him cruel. But he also began to hate what the cruelty did to Jungkook. It was not a sudden epiphany; it was a slow, grinding realization, and that is often meritorious in its own small, hard way.
One late night, Jeongguk sat on the stairs and knocked on Jungkook's door like a small child. Jungkook opened it with sleepy eyes, hair messy, a look that still carried the residues of darkness but softened by time and care.
"Can I come in?" Jeongguk asked.
Jungkook's voice was small. "Okay."
They sat on the floor with their backs to the wall. Jeongguk's fingers intertwined nervously, words fumbling like shy birds. "I'm sorry," he said finally, and it came out raw. "For all the things I said. For making you feel small."
Jungkook blinked. "You… you don't have to—"
"I do," Jeongguk cut in. "Because you weren't being dramatic. You were suffering, and I wasn't there. I wanted the attention. I thought that if I made myself better, they'd see me. I didn't want to share Tae's praise, and I made you feel like that was your fault."
Jungkook's voice was small and wet with surprise. "I thought it was me. I thought I was… not enough. I thought if I stopped asking, people would stop being disappointed."
Jeongguk's shoulders sagged. He reached out and brushed Jungkook's hair back with a careful hand. "I'm sorry. I'll try. I don't know how to be sorry properly, but I'll try."
That trying turned into small habits—Jeongguk praising Jungkook openly for the things he used to let slide; Jeongguk joining Jungkook's late-night songwriting sessions and asking questions about lyrics, really listening. It was not overnight magic; it was the messy, honest labour of someone learning to be a better brother.
Part X — Tae's Confession
Tae watched all of it with a fear that softened into a fierce protectiveness. He had always loved Jungkook with a warmth that made people smile; he had never fathomed the depth of Jungkook's pain beneath the smile. Now he found himself doing things differently—not just gestures, but language. He said explicitly what others implied. He asked, "How are you?" and sat through the answers even when they were long and quiet. He apologized for not seeing sooner and meant it.
One evening after Jungkook had a therapy session and came down to the living room looking tired but peaceful, Tae took him on a walk to the small park behind their home. The air smelled of wet grass and jasmine.
The city murmured at a distance. Tae's heart thumped as if there were two lives inside his chest: one that kept steady and one that sprinted.
They sat on a bench, and Tae turned to Jungkook. He looked at him with the sort of careful intensity that says you are the only person in the world. "I didn't notice," Tae said. "I wanted to be the one who knew you first, but I wasn't. I thought your light was always on, and I mistook that for strength."
Jungkook's fingers curled around his jacket. "It's not your fault."
"No," Tae said. "But I should have known. I should have found you sooner."
Jungkook looked at him—up close this time—and the confession in Tae's eyes seemed to unnerve him in the gentlest way. "I thought no one would love me," Jungkook admitted, voice small. "I thought I wasn't useful. I thought… I was a burden."
Tae's breath hitched. He scooted closer and took Jungkook's hands. His fingers fit around Jungkook's like they were made for each other. Tae's voice was steady and clear. "You are not a burden. You are not less. I—" He swallowed. "I love you."
Jungkook looked as if someone had opened a window in his chest. It was a simple confession, but it carried all the gravity of a person being seen. Time seemed to stop for a second. Jungkook's tears glistened in the bench light.
"You love me?" Jungkook whispered.
"Yes." Tae smiled, the kind that felt like home. "I love you. Not because you make people laugh or because you're bright or anything like that—because you are you. Because your hands are warm and your songs are honest and your bad jokes are my favorite thing ever."
Jungkook laughed—a small helpless sound—and then he cried into Tae's shoulder. It wasn't immediate transformation; the weight didn't vanish because of a sentence. But the sentence was a scaffold. Jungkook began to understand that someone could love him not for what he did, but for he was.
Part XI — Becoming A Couple
They took it slow. Being a couple in the wake of pain required intentionality. They built rituals: breakfast made together, late-night confessions, small apologies when tempers flared. They learned how to speak about triggers and comfort strategies. Jungkook had therapy and medication when needed, and got steady support from family and friends. Jeongguk, learning to be better, gave space and shielded rather than sharpened.
There were setbacks. Some days were heavy; Jungkook had moments of panic and fear that returned uninvited. But the house was no longer an indifferent stage. It was a place of scaffolds: people who took turns holding him when he could not hold himself. Tae learned how to listen without always trying to fix.
Jungkook learned how to say what he needed even when it felt small.
Being together changed Tae, too. He found a clarity he had not expected—he became more patient, gentler, and more willing to see things he had once dismissed. Jeongguk began to respect Tae in new ways and unwound the jealousy into complicated gratitude. The family, once skittish and tenderly watchful, settled into a sturdier rhythm. They had weathered a fracture and were making a mosaic out of the pieces.
Part XII — Resolution and Dawn
Months later, the house had a different light. Jungkook's laugh returned, not to conceal but because joy had been relearned. He hummed songs while cooking; he nodded more readily to the small things in life. Jeongguk began to practice being vulnerable in private. He stopped measuring affection as if it were a finite resource he had to hoard. Namjoon and Jin and Jimin and Yoongi and Hobi offered patient company; they had learned how to hold space.
One crisp morning the family gathered in the garden—breakfast on the table, the kind of morning that smelled like possibility. Jungkook sat beside Tae, leaning into his side like a small, warm anchor. They held hands under the table and no one thought to make a joke about it. There was a soft, collective peace that came from the knowledge that they had been through sharp things and were standing.
Jeongguk, watching them, felt something like calm—no longer the hollow ache of envy but a tempered affection for what they were building. Maybe he would learn more. Maybe sometimes he would still want attention, and that was human. He had apologized properly; he would continue to prove himself.
Tae looked at Jungkook and whispered, "Good morning."
Jungkook's smile was whole. "Good morning, Tae."
Years later they would tell each other about how it all started with paint and laughter and a spray bottle and how the small things almost broke and remade them. They would remember the nights when silence meant danger and the mornings when presence meant everything.
In the end, Jungkook—who had once believed himself a burden—learned his worth through the patience of those who loved him, and Tae—who had hidden in the comfort of assumptions—learned the vigilance love sometimes requires. They became not perfect, but willing: willing to learn, to fail, to return, to stay.
The last image is simple: Jungkook, sunlight on his face, eyes unfurling into a smile that wasn't a mask but a reflection of a heart beginning to breathe again. Tae, beside him, steady and tender, watching, keeping watch with love that had been earned and chosen each day.