Chapter Text

Act 2: 하

The first thing he finds is his camera, a silver Canon DSLR from his tenth birthday. His fingers still as he reaches where it always sits, in the third shelf from the top in the corner of his room. Jungkook scoffs, bitter, and wills his hand to stop shaking. How is he supposed to burn this when he doesn’t even have the heart to pick it up?

He bites his tongue, and snatches it, grip so tight that Jungkook wonders if it might crumble into dust before he even has the chance to place it in the fire. 

Yoongi dropped him off at home not too long ago and Jungkook had wordlessly slipped out of the car. That was probably the last time they’d see each other and Jungkook had left with a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. Not only did he fuck it up for himself, but he’d ruined a precious experience for Yoongi too. He brings his hands up to his face, screwing his eyes shut until he sees black. 

God, he’s such an awful person. 

In truth, he wasn’t able to bring himself to say goodbye because he hadn’t wanted it to be a goodbye. This wasn’t how they were supposed to part, at least not in Jungkook’s hopelessly optimistic fantasies. He couldn’t let that be their last encounter, but at the same time, he had no idea where to proceed from here. How was Jungkook supposed to salvage something like this, especially when he couldn’t even do the one thing Yoongi asked of him?

Yet why was he so reluctant to do it? For fear of Yoongi? For fear of rejection? No, he doubted those were the reasons. Jungkook had long accepted his feelings would never be returned and it had never inhibited his relationship with Yoongi. 

So what was it now? What was he so scared of? What was holding him back from getting the damn words out?

“What are you doing?”

Jungkook’s so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn’t even hear her coming. Keeping his cool, he continues to pick off his first IU album. “Gathering my valuables.”

He doesn’t see her expression. “To take?”

Jungkook laughs, arid and pathetic. “Don’t be ridiculous, eomma.” He went for harsh but his voice cracks, and he’s not sure how much longer he can hold this up. 

He turns away from his shelf, and sees his mother touching a frame on his wall. It’s the only family photo he has in his room, and it’s his favorite one of them all. Jungkook remembers the moment all too clearly. They’d gone on a trip to Ilsan and during the hike, Jungkook had insisted they take a picture together and set the camera on a tree branch. The image captures all of their looks of horror when the camera slipped just as the shutter went off. 

His throat closes in on itself. Oh God. 

“Eomma.” His voice cuts through the air the same way a pebble breaks through still water. It’s unnatural, disruptive, and causes his mother’s head to turn so sharply, she might pull a muscle. “What’s collision theory?”

Her boy stands in front of her, the hem of his rolled up jeans damp and feet crusted with sand. Only part of him is physically a mess but a mother’s eyes will always see more. “Collision theory?” She repeats, taking a careful step towards him. 

But before she can get any further, Jungkook shoots forwards, wraps his arms around her and squeezes. Her body stiffens, then immediately relaxes before returning the embrace. She grabs his shoulder, and then runs a hand soothingly through his hair.

He’s too old for this, he thinks as he cries his heart out. He’s way too old for this but still — 

He will never have the chance again.   

“Oh, baby,” she mutters, feeling him shake into her chest. She doesn’t have to feel them to know her shirt is going to be left damp. “What happened?”

“I screwed up, eomma,” Jungkook sobs, gripping the back of her clothes even tighter. “I’m so- I’m so scared, and I don’t even know why.”

It’s instinct, the way she can immediately tell that this might not have to do with the end of everything at all. This is something different, she decides, pulling back and guiding Jungkook to his bed. He sniffles, tears shiny against his cheek and eyes red and downcast. 

“Did something happen with Yoongi?” Too tired to even be shocked his mother knows, he nods, defeated. “Can you tell me what happened, then?”

There’s a lengthy pause, and Jungkook’s almost afraid he won’t be able to get the words out again. But no. This is his mother. He knows her. She’s changed his diapers since before he could remember, and she knows his mannerisms and tastes before he ever knew himself. 

“He took me to the beach,” confesses Jungkook, nails digging into his palms. “And then we yelled into the ocean, because that was on his bucket list.” His mother gently unfolds his fingers. “We screamed about so much and so little,” he whispers, voice wavering. “And when it was time to go, I tried to stop him because- because I didn’t want him to leave.”

“And did he leave?”

Jungkook shakes his head. Maybe that’s what makes this part of the story so depressing, so pathetic. That even after all of that, Yoongi had never left him. “No. He just stood there, while I held onto his arm.” Jungkook shudders, and his mother holds his hand. “And he knew—just knew—like all the times you do, and he asked me to say it.”

His mother doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask him to elaborate on exactly what “it” is. She just waits, squeezing her son’s hands. They’re so warm, Jungkook thinks belatedly. I’ll miss this. I’ll miss this more than I’ll ever remember. 

“And- And I couldn’t,” Jungkook whimpers out finally, pulling his palms to his eyes and wiping furiously. “I couldn’t and he asked me over and over again and I just- couldn’t say the words.” He turns to his mother, swollen and wide-eyed. “Why couldn’t I say them, eomma?”

“Sometimes,” she begins gently, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and tugging him close. “Our mind knows and our heart knows,” she explains, tapping the respective parts before resting on his cheek. “But our mouths decide against it.”

Jungkook stares, eyes burning again. “In the end,” he says softly, gripping his sandy pants, “I couldn’t say anything at all. And hyung just- hyung looked so sad.” Jungkook wilts at the memory of Yoongi’s defeated expression. “And when I thought he wouldn’t say anything more, he asked me if I knew what collision theory was.”

He expects his mother to look perplexed, mirroring his own expression when he first heard the words but then she gapes. Her lips are parted slightly and she appears dazed, if anything. And then she smiles, so, so softly. 

.

“Okay,” she says eventually. Her brows are relaxed but her eyes are conflicted. “Okay. Yoongi, he-” she chuckles a little bit, and then flops her back onto the bed. “I can’t tell if your hyung is a bastard or you just…” When Jungkook peers curiously at her, she just pats the empty space next to her and Jungkook joins her, still confused. 

“Eomma?” He starts cautiously, but she just presses a finger to her lips. 

“I’m going to tell you a story about when I was young.” She closes her eyes, and from this angle, lashes touching her cheek and purple light adding a glow to her features, Jungkook wonders what his mother’s childhood was once like. “Back when I was scrawny and stupid and a coward. So pay attention, okay?”

“I can’t imagine that,” Jungkook admits quietly. His mother scrawny and stupid and a coward? No. In his eyes, she’s always been beautiful, strong and brave, and he can’t fathom her any other way. He’s scared to imagine her any other way. 

“It’s true,” she chuckles. “People are a collection of everything they’ve been through, Jungkook.”

Jungkook swallows down the tickle in his throat. Is that why he’s so weak? Because he hasn’t experienced anything yet, has never been through the hardships and pains that his mother and father and brother and Yoongi went through? 

“In any case,” his mother continues, fiddling with her dress. “I was once pretty foolish. And I had a best friend named Ara.”

Ara? He’s never heard his mother mention that name before. In truth, he doesn’t know much about his mother’s youth at all. 

“Ara and I first became friends in primary school, and from then on, we were inseparable. We picked flowers and weeds from the neighborhood lot together, studied together on the floor of her tiny room, and of course, went to school together, and popped into each other’s classroom during lunch break.” It all sounds so… ordinary, but the expression on his mother’s face, even with closed eyes, carries such a wistful air. 

“We’d spent over half our lives together by the time we were sixteen,” his mother confesses, her fingers still amidst a lock of hair. “I thought we’d spend the rest of it, too, but at one point, we slowly started drifting apart.”

And again, it feels like such an unremarkable thing to describe, but the way his mother enunciates each word sounds like they’re dripping with a kind of sorrow Jungkook’s never even heard of. What must that feel like? What kind of memory must that be, for Jungkook to be able to feel it through mere words years later?

“It happened quite gradually,” she says. “Little changes to our daily routine, like not showing up during break or spending after school hours with other girls. She came over less often, and we’d no longer take the bus home. These things weren’t even all that important, but it still hurt me. After all, what could I even do? What could I even say? It was her life to live, not mine.”

Jungkook knows that feeling all too well. Those stupid bouts of jealousy when Yoongi’d bailed on him with Jimin. How even with the end of the world in tow, Yoongi’s final concerns were of Jimin. The undeniable feeling of inferiority, and how nothing he could ever do would make it up.  

“Ara didn’t even seem to notice, that was the funny thing,” his mother chuckles, bitter. “When we’d see each other again, she never acted like anything was wrong, like she hadn’t drawn a line between us and that it was something I might never be able to cross.” 

His mother’s hurt sinks into him like glass into skin. “The divide became more and more evident, and eventually, I stopped making an effort, too. It made me so sad at the time, and even now.”

“Why, eomma?” Jungkook finally asks as they drift in silence for a moment too long. “Why did she do that?”

His mother hums. It sounds pained. “I don’t know,” she confesses, finally opening her eyes and briefly, Jungkook wonders if his mother is magic. “I don’t know, because I never asked.”

The answer is far too simple and far too telling all at once. 

“Collision theory is used in chemistry,” his mother explains abruptly. She seems caught in the same daze she was before beginning her story, and Jungkook is startled to hear the words again. “It’s based on the assumption that in order for a reaction to occur, particles must come together, or collide.” She sighs, and then sits up, Jungkook following suit. “Except. Except that the particles colliding have to possess a certain amount of internal energy, in order to meet the activation energy of the reaction, and thus cause chemical change.”

Jungkook’s head is spinning. There’s so much he’s missing here. “Eomma…” he tries feebly. His mother finally looks him in the eye. Her expression is stern. 

“I don’t know why Ara decided to leave me, or move on, or what really happened between us. I don’t know because I never asked her.” His mother pauses, fingers tight around the fabric of her dress. “I think I was a little scared of the answer, or maybe I was just not brave enough to confront her. But it haunts me forever because I know that I could’ve asked, and that I would’ve felt better instead of wallowing in regrets.” She reaches to brush back Jungkook’s tousled hair. “At this point, I don’t even want to know why she did it, or why things unfolded the way they did. At this point, all I wish was that I had asked.”

Something sparks in him, but he hesitates. “Why?”

“Because sometimes we must be selfish, Jungkook,” she admits softly, chewing on her lower lip. She looks so sad, and Jungkook wants nothing more than to wipe it from her face. “Sometimes we must do things even if they’ll never make a difference in the long run. Sometimes, it’s not about the answer that you’ll receive or the things that you’ll hear.” She cups both of Jungkook’s cheeks, eyes roaring with ferocity and affection, and presses her forehead to his. “Because perhaps what we crave isn’t always for the space in our chest to be filled, but for the weight of that emptiness to be gone.”

Oh. Oh. His mother swipes a thumb below his eyes, and it’s only then that Jungkook realizes he’s been crying. 

“In your case, there is no long run,” his mother says, a little bitter, angry for him. “I know you may feel like it’s overwhelming and terrifying, but Jungkook, there is no reason for you to be afraid, not when there’s not even a reaction yet. You’ll never know how Yoongi will react, until you choose to collide with him, with just the right amount of energy.” 

“Eomma,” he whimpers, crumpling, head hanging low. 

“In the end,” she continues, still patting his head, “it doesn’t matter what Yoongi says, how Yoongi reacts, how Yoongi feels. That’s not the point.” She taps his chest, right at the base of his sternum, and she must feel his heart threatening to explode. “The point is how you feel. And I promise you, that you’ll feel so much better when you get the words out.”

She makes it all sound so simple, like all his fears were so foolish. The sudden revelations make him dizzy. “I’m so stupid.”

“Yes, baby, you are,” she laughs into his hair. “And that’s okay since we all are, all throughout our lives, without a single exception.”

Except his mother. She is too wise to have been stupid a day beyond twenty. He knows she is greater than that, even if she herself will not believe it. 

His mother hums a bit to herself. “Your hyung is a smart person, but that was a rather cryptic way of putting things. I wonder what would’ve happened if you hadn’t gotten the hint.”

“If I didn’t,” Jungkook says slowly, “then I probably don’t deserve to confront him.”

Air hisses through her teeth, akin to a whistle. “Yoongi sure is something.”

“I’ve always thought he reminded me of you.” 

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Definitely a good thing.”

“I’ll take your word for it then. I always did like Yoongi.” 

So do I. 

“Jungkook, can I ask you something?” Suddenly, his mother straightens, locking eyes with him and chewing on her lips. Her relaxed manner has abruptly given way, as if she just came to an epiphany. 

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to complicate- it’s just that…” She seems nervous, hesitant, and Jungkook tilts his head. “What you’re feeling right now… is it really…?” 

His mother seems so torn, brows furrowed in clear uncertainty. “Eomma?” 

Then the expression drops, swiftly coiling into a forced smile. “Never mind. I realized it’s not important.” Her uneasiness disappears just as hastily as it came, and Jungkook frowns. What was that? “Anyway, what were you up to before I came?”

“I was gathering my valuables,” Jungkook admits, standing from the bed so he doesn’t have to look at his mother’s face as he says the words. He still doesn’t know what that brief crack was supposed to mean. “So that I can burn all of them.”

“What?”

“I want to burn everything, because I want to be the one who takes everything from myself,” he whispers, a little too darkly. “I won’t let anyone else take it from me.” Jungkook realizes it a little too late, how he’s been preaching that all day, but never had the heart to do it where it really mattered. Yoongi must think him a hypocrite. 

“It’s bad for the environment.”

Jungkook turns back, startled. "What?”

His mother’s leaning against her palms on his bed, a small twinkle in her eyes and a smaller smile on her face. “Burning things. It would be bad for the environment.”

He snorts. “Eomma, there’ll be no environment tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she emphasizes, standing. “Not today. And if the earth can feel a little better before everything goes to shit, it should have the chance.”

Jungkook blinks, mouth dropping open. His mother doesn’t curse. “I’m sorry,” he says instead, and this time, his mother looks startled. “I can’t truly get rid of some of them without burning them.” He clenches his hands into fists, stubborn. 

“Alright,” she relents, frown easing, and stops at his doorway. “We can burn them then.”

“‘We’?” 

“Yes, ‘we’.” She smiles. “It’s an interesting idea. I’ll go get your father and brother.”

.

When Jungkook had first conceived this idea on the spot, he’d never imagined it could be done with his family watching, let alone partaking. But as they all carry out their most prized possessions, looking like they’re undergoing some sort of ironic, hysteric move, Jungkook thinks it could not be more right. 

Perhaps the most fascinating thing about the experience is how his family procures objects he’s never seen before. His father produces a black metal picture frame, a muddy baseball with numerous illegible signatures, and the pen that’s always tucked in his breast pocket when he goes to work. The highlight is when he pulls out a pair of dress shoes from a paper bag that has his mother bursting with indignation at the sight. 

Junghyun has a much larger collection. He carries with him a hand-sculpted penguin ceramic, a viola case, and a tiny ziploc bag of helicopter seeds. In his free hand, he’s shoved more belongings to add to his pile, including an unmarked CD, a plastic bumblebee keychain, and his sketchbook that means more than life to him. When he catches Jungkook staring a beat too long at it, slack-jawed, he smiles wanly. 

And his mother, for all her enthusiasm for the idea, only carries three objects. Jungkook barely notices the thin silver watch that doesn’t seem to be ticking anymore, and stares with wonder at a brown leather journal. But it’s a little metal box with a lock around it that has his curiosity exploding from the pipes. 

True to his list from the other day, Jungkook brought all that he wanted. The silver Canon sits comfortably on top of an aged yellow bunny toy. Beneath both of them is a folio of music sheets, Jungkook’s very first IU album, wiped free of all dust, and leaning against it is the glass painting of roses that the family bought in Mapo. From the depths of nowhere, Jungkok’s also discovered half a ticket to the first movie Yoongi took him to. It was something he used to regard with misery, but now he looms over it fiercely, determined to make up for all those days of wallowing. 

Once everyone has put their things down, they look to Jungkook expectantly. “Can I ask, before we begin, why you wanted to do this, Jungkook?” Unusually, his father is the one to ask. “Your mother insisted we do this, but I’d… I’d like to know why.”

A couple days ago, Jungkook thinks he would’ve been mortified if his parents asked him questions like this. If parents ever saw the strange doodles in his sketchbook or when they heard him staying out late with Yoongi, and asked why, truthfully, Jungkook wouldn’t be able to answer. Was it masochism? Stupidity? 

“Autonomy,” he says firmly, fingers grazing the ears of his stuffed animal. He looks up and smiles, slightly embarrassed by their curious gazes. “If we’re all going to die with no choice, wouldn’t it be better if we could get rid of the things we value most by our own hands?”

“That’s…”

That’s the exact reaction Yoongi had.  

“It’s also—” he clears his throat. “This showed me I should probably practice what I preach, in more ways than the obvious.” Jungkook exchanges a glance with his mother, and smiles at the twinkle in her eye. 

For a moment, there’s silence. “You’ve grown up.” Surprisingly, of all the people to say that, it’s his brother, only a mere three years older than him. But Jungkook’s always felt Junghyun grew up way too quickly, like Yoongi and Jimin and Taehyung and all the other people Jungkook spent his entire life looking up to. He spent his entire life looking up a couple centimeters, and then all of a sudden they were kilometers high as Jungkook stood rooted in the same place. 

So no, Jungkook really hasn’t grown up. He smiles wearily at Junghyun but doesn’t say anything. When would I have had the time?

“So how are we going to do this?”

If it were just him, Jungkook would’ve tearfully thrown everything down into a bonfire of sorts, and then regretfully tossed a match into them. He knows there are certain belongings that can’t be destroyed by merely smashing, and even less by burning. Some could be in ashes and Jungkook would still hold them close to his heart. 

Still, he wasn’t able to ignore his mother’s wishes entirely, and produces a baseball bat from Junghyun’s closet. When his brother frowns in recognition, Jungkook hides his smile. “First, we’ll smash them. At least, whatever can be broken. Then we’ll pile everything up and burn them.” He falters, selfishness writhing forward. “But before that, you have to say a few words about each item.”

It’s cheesy, really, and he cringes when he says the words. Jungkook doesn’t particularly want to share what some of these objects mean to him, but his curiosity outweighs his own mortification. Besides, maybe it’ll help, getting some of the words out, just as his mother said. 

Junghyun looks most irritated by this new set of instructions. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

Jungkook laughs, knot in his chest loosening a bit. “Then, let’s get started?”

“I’ll go first,” his father interrupts, marching forward with his items in hand. Jungkook’s surprised, but steps aside to allow his father. 

He pulls up the baseball first. “It’s not signed by anyone famous,” he confesses, sheepish but fond. “It’s signed by some of my childhood friends, ones I grew up and went to school with.” Then he picks up the metal frame, and the picture slotted inside is a group wedding photo. “And here they are.” It’s a bit faded and the faces aren’t the clearest but Jungkook can make out the grins on both the bride and groom’s face. It’s his parents, and they’re surrounded by their friends, squashed together into a silly group photo. 

“This pen is from my father,” he confesses, holding it up. It’s gold plated against a black frame, and the way his father holds it is almost reverent. “It was…” His father clears his throat, glancing at Jungkook with weariness. “It was supposed to be a gift for your graduation,” his father says and Jungkook stares back, holding his breath. “I’m sorry I could never give it to you.” He turns away before anyone can say anything on the matter. 

“And this”—he holds up the dress shoes, and Jungkook’s mother splutters—“these are the pair of shoes I wore on my very first proper date with your mother.” He smiles at her with such unadulterated tenderness, but she’s flushed, indignant. “We went to a fancy dinner and we had a dance and a couple drinks. She stepped on these shoes God knows how many times, all before throwing up on them when the night ended.”

Jungkook and his brother promptly burst into laughter at the unexpected revelation. “You—” His mother’s voice is shrill but she’s clearly more embarrassed than angry. She swats her husband’s head and he ducks, grinning cheekily. 

“Threw up on them?” Junghyun snickers, not even having the decency to look sorry for his mother. “Eomma, that’s pretty sad.”

“Don’t remind me,” she groans, combing her hair back with her fingers. “It was mortifying when it happened, and your father refuses to ever let it go. Why would you tell the kids—argh!”

“Don’t worry, eomma,” Jungkook pats her arm reassuringly, smirk still on his face. “It happens to the best of us.”

“Well, that’s it for me,” his father quickly retreats, placing all the belongings on the ground. He stares at them, long and hard, as the nature of this activity returns to him. Jungkook stares grimly, but hands him the baseball bat. 

It takes a second for his father to accept it, but when he swings back, the bat lands hard on the picture frame. The glass shatters on impact and the frame surrounding it dents. He adds a couple more for good measure, then attempts the pen, which is far more difficult. But he does it, with more fervor and resolve than Jungkook expects. 

His father hands the bat back without a word, eyes cast straight forward, and Jungkook thinks that even if he didn’t show it on his face, the trembling of his hands gives it away. 

“I’ll go next,” Junghyun announces before Jungkook offers himself up. 

His brother is much more curt about it, even though he has more. “My penguin sculpture,” he holds it up. “I made it in middle school. There’s also my sketchbook, which just has a bunch of drawings over the years.” Junghyun doesn’t open it and Jungkook doesn’t insist otherwise; he wasn’t going to open his own either. He fishes out a bracelet that Jungkook didn’t see earlier and his eyes soften. “This is from a good friend.” Then he pulls up the worn-down bumblebee keychain and the preserved helicopter seeds. “These are both from you,” he points at Jungkook. 

“Me?” Jungkook furrows his brows. He can’t recall ever giving Junghyun something like that. 

“You probably wouldn’t remember,” Junghyun dismisses with a wave of his hand, but when he glances at the two items in his hand, his expression is almost fond. His brother, Jungkook realizes then, is probably more sentimental than Jungkook ever thought to give him credit for. “You gave me the keychain for my seventh birthday, and the seeds, well, I’m not sure when they’re from. But you were really proud of yourself for collecting so many and I couldn’t say no to them.” 

Junghyun’s smirk is soft and Jungkook’s chest feels like thick syrup. “Hyung…” 

“My graduation video, and all the shenanigans me and my friends did afterwards,” Junghyun continues smoothly, holding up the CD, and then the viola. “And this, well, I think is self-explanatory.” He gently uncases it from the cover, swallowing heavily before placing it down with the rest of his belongings. 

Junghyun has no reservations smashing his belongings, or so it seems. He very visibly hesitates in front of the instrument, but eventually the bat goes down on that too. Yet still, his lips are pursed when he hands the bat back to Jungkook and then goes to transfer the remains of his belongings into the cylinder. 

“I’m going,” Jungkook decides, smiling apologetically at his mother. But he has to do this now before his conviction weakens. He has to get through this, if he wants to be ready for tomorrow. 

“The glass painting,” he lifts it up, and it’s never felt heavier in his hands. “It’s a personal favorite of mine, though I don’t really know why. Then there’s the album, of course. It was the first one I’d bought with my own money.” Jungkook grabs the stuffed animal and it feels warm, like it did all the nights he slept with it. “You got me this bunny, hyung, from a claw machine. I don’t know if you remember.” But his brother nods in remembrance and Jungkook smiles. “These are sheet music of my favorite songs.” He doesn’t divulge that they’re also some of the first he learned with Yoongi. “This is from the time I went to the movies… with Yoongi hyung. And this,” he reaches for the camera, and this has to be the most precious item on his list. “This might be pretty obvious.”

His hands shake when he puts down the Canon, and for a brief second, Jungkook regrets this decision altogether. In his head, this sounded all noble and worthwhile and deep. Now he just wants to cry as his fingers curl around the baseball bat. 

But in less than twenty four hours, all of this would be gone anyway. Obliterated into a million pieces and never to be in existence again. What did he have to lose? Yet what reassures him most are the people standing around him. The biggest consolation of them all was his family, who’d clearly struggled with this but completed it nonetheless. 

It’s unfair, truly, how things could sound so sensible in your head yet when the time came, that wouldn’t make a difference at all. 

The bat comes down on his camera first and it feels like Jungkook’s soul is being crushed. He wants to stop, to cry out, but he’s not allowed to do that, not when his father and brother gritted their teeth and endured it. 

Then it’s the painting, which immediately runs a jagged crack through it by the first hit. By the second, it breaks completely, petals of the roses flying in all different directions that Jungkook’s surprised he hasn’t gotten injured yet. 

Once he’s finished, his heartbeat is racing and he drops the baseball bat to the ground, dazed, like his actions finally caught up to his brain. But he walks aside after picking up the pieces of his soul, and lets his mother take the stage. 

His mother seems to be the most calm out of all of them. She’s got that impassive face again, the one that wasn’t affected by a cracked sky, like even the gods couldn’t touch her. Distantly, his father’s claims of no one ever comparing to her could be understood. 

“I have three items,” she says, far too cheerfully and unperturbed. “My diary, Ara’s watch, and a collection of… things.”

“Things?” His father repeats.

She starts with that, because everyone’s inquisitiveness must be showing on their face. His mother draws out a small key from her pocket then uses it to open the chest. “Letters.” She holds those up first. “From your father, from my family, from friends. I won’t be reading them out loud, so don’t ask.” She sends a sharp glare to her eldest son who closes his parted mouth. 

It’s disappointing Jungkook will never know the contents but they’re personal, as they should be. People carry a lot more than what they’ve been through, and it comes in more than one form. 

“Notes exchanged in class,” his mother lists thoughtlessly, “bracelets and rings. Pins and tickets. Some other meaningful junk whose meanings I’ve forgotten.” The box shuts with a click, all elaboration closing with it. 

“This is from Ara, a former best friend of mine.” His mother looks wistfully at the accessory, despite its lack of functionality. “She had it sent to me, among other things, shortly before she passed.”

Jungkook freezes. He had not heard that part of the story. When? he wants to demand, even though it’s not his place. How?

“And this, contrary to public opinion, is not a diary. It’s more… a book of quotes. Of sorts.” When everyone throws her confused stares, she sighs and elaborates by flipping through the pages. Jungkook catches sight of calligraphy and various hand-written sentences from countless languages. “I’ve had it since I was young, and I still fill it in now.”

“What’s your most recent one?” Jungkook finds himself asking. 

His mother obliges, and turns toward the last filled in page. Per aspera ad astra. Fitting, really. 

She is quick with the bat and quick to dump her remains into the cylinder, as if they meant nothing at all. Jungkook smothers his consternation, making sure it doesn’t reach his face where his mother can see. Was she forcing down her emotions, the one thing she asked Jungkook not to, or does his mother truly feel apathetic towards her most valuable belongings? Jungkook doesn’t want to hear the answer to either. 

He peers inside the metal container, and it’s like staring down a waste bin. He doesn’t linger too long, just in case he finds one of his own items. Instead, Jungkook digs into his pockets and produces a lighter. It’s white, with the initials Y. K. written with permanent marker. 

“Any last words?” Jungkook flicks the lighter, flame dancing eagerly. 

“You sound like a villain when you say that.”

Jungkook snorts. “Thanks for that, hyung.”

When there’s no objection, he drops the lighter in and slowly, their little bonfire crackles to life. It swallows up the pages of all their papers, licks around the edges of the glass shards. Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly, the atmosphere doesn’t feel as elegiac as Jungkook anticipated when it actually happens. After a couple minutes, the entire family’s already forgotten what went in there, too distracted by the mesmerizing amber glow that’s keeping them warm. 

“Did you forget something, appa?” Jungkook points at a bag that’s sitting at his father’s feet. 

“Oh, no. They’re… sparklers,” his father says, uncovering it sheepishly. “I brought them down for fun, but I didn’t realize they might be hard to see with… all the light.”

“Let’s light them anyway.” Junghyun shrugs, snatching the box from his father. “What have we got to lose?”

Jungkook smiles thinly. It seems everyone in his family had gotten the memo except him. 

So that’s what they do, looking considerably absurd if anyone were to catch them in the act. A family of four, sitting around a makeshift fire pit that’s burning everything they hold dear, all while flying through a box of fireworks. 

What a sight. 

Jungkook’s sure there’s worse happening somewhere around the world. Right now, though, he was content, full belly and warm surroundings. Because for all the chances the fake star in the sky extinguished, it presented a fair amount of opportunities that would have otherwise never existed. 

.

He wakes up early the next morning as well, but the feeling is entirely different from the day before. Jungkook has a general idea of how he’d like today to go, and if things go in his favor, he’d ideally be able to patch up his falling-out with Yoongi before everything went to shit. 

Ideally, of course. 

That was all before he realized that in order to go through with a single one of his plans, he’d need a means of transportations. And while Jungkook was well aware that all types of social construct were no longer respected, he wasn’t exactly keen on breaking the law. The world may be hurling towards an ineluctable end, but Jungkook certainly didn’t want to expedite his death by driving with no zero knowledge of how a vehicle functions. 

That’s how he finds himself pacing outside his brother’s bedroom at five in the morning, fingers on the cusp of rapping the door. God, what if Junghyun has other plans? What if he thinks this is a waste of time but can’t say no because of the current circumstances? What if he—

“Stop. Pacing.” The door swings open and Jungkook flinches. “What is it?”

“Um.”

“Jungkook,” his brother runs his fingers through his hair, knocking his glasses askew as he does. “I’m sure you’ve heard it a million times already but stop wasting time. Spit it out already. What do you need?”

“I need a favor,” Jungkook blurts, sobered by his brother’s candor. “Would you be able to drive me somewhere?”

“Where?”

“Um. The flower shop and back. I can manage the rest.”

“Okay.”

Jungkook blinks. “Just like that?”

“Hell, Jungkook, would you rather I refuse?” His brother pushes past him and makes a beeline for the bathroom. “I’ll be ready in ten.” The door slams before Jungkook could jump with glee and sing his thanks. 

“So why do you need to go to a flower shop?” Junghyun wrinkles his nose fifteen minutes later, idly sipping on a strawberry banana smoothie Jungkook hurried to make, his free hand on the steering wheel. 

“Hyung, please tell me what could a person possibly do at a flower shop other than buy flowers?”

“I asked for an answer, not attitude,” Junghyun snaps back with a huff. “And of course I know that, you brat, but what business do you have at a flower shop?”

“To get flowers.” Jungkook winces when he gets a sharp flick on his temple, knowing full well he deserved that. “I need to say a few things,” he finally admits, scowling at his brother. “Some things can be said easier through flowers.”

It must be an acceptable response because his brother doesn’t push it anymore, just continues driving without a word and occasionally reaching for his drink. 

Hoseok is there at the front counter when Jungkook gets there, waving when he sees Jungkook. There’s absolutely no one around. For a moment, Jungkook hesitates, caught in the memory of yesterday and Yoongi and the all-but-tearful farewell he and Hoseok had exchanged. But this isn’t about Yoongi. At least, not directly. So he marches up to the counter with an air of determination. 

“Um. I’d like to get flowers,” he manages eloquently, cringing outwardly as soon as the words leave his lips. 

“I would hope so,” replies Hoseok, lips quirking into a smirk. “Can’t imagine getting much else here.”

“Sorry,” Jungkook murmurs, hastily correcting himself. He feels the tips of his ears getting warm. “I’d like to get two bouquets. Small ones. One with pink and red roses, and another with daffodils.”

“Interesting selection, Jungkook,” Hoseok comments, drumming his fingers on the table. Jungkook’s surprised he remembers his name. “Though I’m afraid we’re out of red roses. They’re quite popular, you see?”

“You have the pink ones, though?” When Hoseok shoots him a thumbs up, he nods, smiling tentatively. “Then just those, please.”

“Wonderful. You’re lucky we still have a couple daffodils left,” Hoseok says, reaching all over the place and constructing the arrangement faster than Jungkook’s eyes can follow. “I thought Yoongi would’ve sure swept the stock yesterday.”

“Ah. Right.”

“Have you…” Hoseok clears his throat, eyes trained on his flowers. “Have you seen him?”

Jungkook swallows thickly. “Not since yesterday evening. Though I’m trying to catch him again, just before…”

“I see.” Hoseok places the first of the two bouquets onto the table. It’s a simple collection of pink roses with gypsophila and snapdragons littered between. The look on his face is indecipherable. “What do you plan on doing today?” 

“Confessing to him.”

Hoseok freezes, fingers around the stalks, and belatedly, Jungkook registers what he just said. But he makes no move to correct himself, even if the words sidled out without notice. It was true, wasn’t it? What good would it do to lie on their final day?

“You’re… planning on confessing to him?”

“It’s overdue,” Jungkook acknowledges, probably more to himself than anyone else. His voice is surprisingly stable. “Very overdue.”

“But is it true?”

That takes him aback. “What?”

“Is it true ?” Hoseok repeats, as if it clarifies anything. Jungkook frowns. “Do you actually like him?”

“Of course.” Jungkook’s not sure what he’s missing here, but the heat from his ears travels down the rest of his face. He has a sneaking suspicion it isn’t because of mortification. “Why wouldn’t I? Yoongi hyung… I’m- I’m in love with him.” It’s strange, hearing the words out in the open for the first time. In his head, it’s been something along the lines of a fantasy, a certitude he could never muster the courage to say aloud. Out loud… it feels real. 

“In love.” Hoseok’s voice sounds… strange. If Jungkook didn’t know any better, he’d think it sounds like disbelief. “Do you seriously think…?”

“Do I seriously think what?” Jungkook scowls, unable to help his irritation. This was the second time he’d been asked half-questions and it was starting to gnaw at him uncomfortably. Coming from a stranger, it only affronted him more. 

“You like Yoongi,” states Hoseok, brows furrowed into something too condescending for Jungkook to ignore. “That much is clear. But to go so far as to say…” He shakes his head ever so lightly, lips pursed. He places the bouquet down, yellow and white ginestra accenting six large daffodils, simple and modest. “What do you even like about Yoongi? What would you even know?” 

Oh, how different this guy was when Yoongi wasn’t there. Jungkook slaps a couple bills onto the counter, scowling, and snatches both of his bouquets. It almost pissed him off how beautiful they are. “Keep the change,” he grits out coldly, then marches out before he says something he regrets. 

His brother is leaning against the car when he returns. “Got everything you needed?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook says slowly, glancing down at his two bouquets. Maybe more than I ever asked for. “I did. Thanks. Are you sure you don’t want anything?” He doesn’t particularly want to go back there, but the arrangements were nice, and exactly what he wanted. 

Something flashes across Junghyun’s face, a little bit longing and torment, but he shakes his head, turning back to the car door. “No. I’m good. But do you… do you mind if we make a pitstop somewhere? I promise it won’t take long.” It looks like a reckless decision, something rash and off the top of his head, but Jungkook’s not going to tell his brother how pellucid he appears. He just nods, masking his smile behind a cough.  

They end up stopping in an apartment complex, not far from their own. Ordinary. So ordinary. But the way his brother’s feet tap incessantly against the car floor and his anxious texting is a clear giveaway. “Who are you waiting for?” Jungkook asks. 

His brother doesn’t respond for a long moment, long enough for Jungkook to debate whether he was plainly ignoring him or hadn’t heard. He’s about to repeat the question, but Junghyun cuts him off. “A girl.”

“A lover?”

“I love her,” Junghyun says, and something in his tone punches Jungkook in the gut. His gaze is only out the window, but it feels much further. “But she isn’t my lover.”

“She… doesn’t like you back?”

And it’s Junghyun’s bewilderment that throws Jungkook off. “No,” says his brother, brows pinched. “She does love me back.”

“What? How is that…?”

“Jungkook.” Junghyun is staring at him, both bemused and vexed. “Surely you know that people can love one another without it being romantic.”

Well. Jungkook ducks his head down and away from his brother’s disappointed line of sight. Of course he knows that. He’s not… an idiot. He’s about to grumble out a defensive retort when the car door swings open and his brother sprints across the road, into the open arms of a young woman. 

Jungkook’s never seen her before, not that he expected to recognize her. He doesn’t think he’d even pay attention to something like that right now, because even more unfamiliar is the unrestrained fondness on his brother’s face as his arms cling tenderly around his girl’s back. It feels like a slap in the face to Jungkook, because how do you manage to feel all that and still…

They exchange some words, and then some tears. He’s seen so much of that, done so much of it, that Jungkook’s almost sick at the tracks running down the girl’s cheeks. She’s looking back at his brother with that same unbridled affection, and God, Jungkook feels so lonely. 

He lets his head rest back and he stares at the roof of the car, unable to watch the pair any longer. He’s envious, plainly put, a bitter emotion he won’t deny, not when it’s swelling up in his chest at an alarming rate. What must that feel like? What must it feel like to love, and be loved in return, without restriction and without question?

Jungkook sits there for far too long, eyes glazing over as he stares into the dark gray upholstery. Spite was truly an awful feeling. 

When his brother comes back, Jungkook finally peeks over. Junghyun’s face is flushed pink, and he carries the eyes of someone who could never have enough. Longing, Jungkook wants to say, maybe yearning, but it’s a bit more than that. More tangible. More like an ache. 

“Good talk?” Jungkook croaks out, then hastily clears his throat. 

“You could say that,” Junghyun murmurs, and Jungkook notices that he’s clutching a pink ribbon around his fist. “I… thanks for letting me stop by.”

You needed that, Jungkook broods. I think you would’ve done it regardless of whether I agreed or not. 

Jungkook fiddles with his shirt. “What did you talk about?”

The car rumbles along the road for a while before his brother speaks. “Our very first meeting.” Junghyun chuckles, and it’s not a real one. It’s choking at the edges, ready to burst. “Ridiculous, isn’t it? After all the hugging and crying, all she could do was talk about the first time we ever met, just as we were last about to see each other.”

Jungkook can’t let his brother crumble like this, and hurries to distract him. “When did you first meet?”

“When we were eight.”

“That long ago?” The timespan takes Jungkook off guard. “How come I’ve never seen her?”

Junghyun shrugs. “I guess the timing was never right. She’s come home a couple times. You were always out, maybe with Yoongi. Who knows?”

“Maybe,” he says slowly, still a little stricken. “That’s… cool. How did you first meet?”

“She pushed me.” Junghyun takes a sip of his smoothie which has probably gone lukewarm. “We were in the park and she pushed me and started yelling at me for reasons I could never remember. And since then, we fought long and hard, picking on each other and testing each others’ nerves.” He bites his lip. “And today, right now, she tells me that she’d pushed me thinking I was her brother, and then had gotten so embarrassed over it that she just made up something random to shout at me for.”

He snorts and his brother grins. “That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s what I said.” Junghyun looks pleased with himself. “But then she told me she was glad she did it. Because in truth, our juvenile rivalry was fun. And even though we’d mess around with each other all the time, we were still friends, and my friendship with her was something I thought I’d never forget.”

“Why the past tense?”

“Huh?”

“Why the past tense?” Jungkook repeats, frowning. “It’s not like you plan on forgetting her now of all times.”

Junghyun flusters, then laughs out his embarrassment. “I guess you’re right about that. I won’t forget her,” his brother corrects, his hold on the pink ribbon still firm. “I won’t ever forget.”

And that’s enough for Jungkook. 

Don’t forget, hyung. He lets his head rest against the window, glass fogging up with every exhale. His chest aches. We don’t have much time left to remember. 

.

Jungkook manages to slip past the living room and into his bedroom without his parents noticing. They’ve been chattering in the kitchen like they do every other morning and Jungkook still can’t fathom how they pull off the pretense of normalcy. Jungkook’s just been scraping by to keep his emotions from overflowing. He places the bouquets on his desk and hopes they don’t wilt by the time he presents them. 

By some implicit understanding, everyone congregates in the kitchen where his mother’s served one final breakfast. “Big day,” she says with a bitter smile that makes Jungkook feel nauseous. “Eat well.” 

Junghyun must feel the same, because he puts his spoon down. “Eomma.” Jungkook can hear him swallow. “Eomma, you haven’t once cried.”

She blinks back at him, pausing before her soup. “Do you want me to?”

“No!” Junghyun says instantly, then groans, brushing his hair back with his palm. “God, no, eomma, just— how?”

She chews her food much too slowly before she answers. “Maybe the shock’s just boiled over,” their mother shrugs, voice hard. “Maybe I just don’t care anymore. It wouldn’t be—” She stiffens before sighing. “Baby, I don’t know. Call it a coping mechanism, or maybe I’m just plain tired.”

“Eomma…”

“People deal with things differently,” she says, eyes cast down at her food. “You like to do things, to distract yourself from the problem at hand. You get that from your father. Jungkook likes to bottle things up until he can’t feel them anymore. And I guess I just take it at face value and move on.”

Jungkook shudders, food feeling like rocks down his esophagus. He glances at his brother, who looks as though he’s been slapped. He might as well have been. 

For all the things Jungkook’s learned about his mother over the course of his life, none of it compared to the facets she revealed in the past three days. He wasn’t the only one taking it with difficulty. His father’s lips are pressed into a thin line, knuckles white around his spoon. 

“I’m your mother,” she elaborates quietly. “You would be surprised by the things I notice.”

But it was more than just being their mother. More to do with her as a person. Her uncanny levels of empathy were tantamount to the inability to explain the abrupt appearance of the meteor in their atmosphere. Things that couldn’t be understood, and things you simply accept without question. 

Breakfast finishes in silence, and Jungkook pretends not to notice the trembling hands Junghyun hid beneath the table. 

It’s a bit awkward after that, not because of the conversation, but because everyone loiters around aimlessly. Jungkook hovers over the piano, eyes flickering between the members of his family. His father’s back at the balcony and his mother’s pacing between the kitchen and living room. Junghyun’s the only one who takes a seat, hands in his head. 

The black and white keys are chilly under his fingers, and Jungkook brushes over them without actually playing. No. He can’t. His mother notices his hesitation. Of course she does. “You know,” his mother stops him with a hand on his shoulder, “you didn’t play me that song yesterday.”

“Huh?”

“The song you learnt with Yoongi,” she reminds him gently, and only then does Jungkook remember his promise. “You told me you’d play it for me.”

“I did,” Jungkook says blandly, stomach twisting already. Privately, he’d been hoping it slipped his mother’s mind, but now there was no getting out of this one. “I’ll… play.” He trickles back over to the piano, fingers grazing over the keys hesitantly before he sits. 

“You don’t have to play if you don’t want to.” Jungkook looks back, and there’s a tiny frown etched between her brows. Junghyun still hasn’t looked up.

“It’s not about not playing,” confesses Jungkook. In truth, I’m more afraid to hear it. “I told you I would play it. I’m just… not sure if you’ll like it.”

“What’s it called?”

He turns away before he can see his mother’s expression. “The end of the world.” 

“The end—what?”

“The end of the world,” Jungkook repeats after swallowing, hoping the lump in his voice doesn’t show. “Don’t ask. It’s a sick coincidence, but that’s what Yoongi hyung happened to be composing at the time. And… here we are.” He doesn’t wait for another comment, just sinks his hands into the cold keys and plays.

It sounds different again. It sounds clumsy, of course, because Jungkook’s fingers are nowhere near as precise and skilled as Yoongi’s. He’s definitely fucking up the dynamics since he can’t remember how they fall, and the melody slips with his fingers when he plays a wrong note.

There’s a touch of familiarity to it at times, and in other moments, it feels entirely alien. Jungkook wonders if he’s heard it in passing, in the delicate tunes Yoongi hums when he thinks no one is listening, or in the echoes outside the music room before Jungkook enters. It makes him uncomfortable, how it races through him with the pretense of omniscience yet knowing nothing at all.  

It doesn’t sound pretty or ugly or good or horrendous. It doesn’t sound like Yoongi. Hell, it doesn’t even sound like Jungkook. It sounds like nothing and everything, up until it’s very last note, leaving Jungkook shaking but not in tears. No more tears. 

“Jungkook…” His mother’s reaction is belated, as if he’s rendered her speechless. “You should tell Yoongi he’s an incredible composer.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him that,” Jungkook snickers, then freezes when the implication behind her words catch up. His head snaps back, dismayed, and his mother chuckles huskily. “Eomma…”

“It’s alright,” she says before he has the chance to explain himself. “This is what you want to do. This is something you have to do. I’m not going to ask you to stay home.”

Oh. 

She’s insane. Jungkook’s not sure whether to be grateful or overcome with terror. Maybe both, because his mother’s never been short of either, especially not in recent days. Perhaps this is what his father had been talking about. 

Jungkook sprints into his room and snatches the bouquet from its resting spot. He rushes back to his mother, arms behind his back.

“Eomma,” Jungkook swallows, then thrusts the roses at his mother. “These are for you.”

He’ll never forget the overwhelmed look on his mother’s face, creased with affection and the tiniest bit of fear. She grasps the undertones, of course she does, and brings a hand to caress his cheek. “Thank you.” It’s sincere, heartfelt, and lets a bit of his mother’s unmasked love seep through. 

Junghyun is the first to crack. 

It takes several seconds for Jungkook to realize that the sporadic sniffling comes from his brother.

He should’ve known, given all the signs. For him, every tear is worth it. He has so much to mourn; people, places, things, a future, and all in enormity. He could be angry and frustrated, upset without any remorse. Jungkook’s throat burns as he remembers the girl from earlier. 

But knowing all that doesn’t change the fact that Jungkook has no idea what to do. It hasn’t even hit him yet, and he’s never been good at consolation in the slightest. He watches, miserable, as his brother sobs into his fingers. 

His mother sighs, face warm and worn, standing in front of Junghyun’s hunched frame before pulling her eldest boy towards her. Jungkook’s stomach clenches. It’s a disorienting recreation of Jungkook and Yoongi not an hour after the news; the universe is laughing at him once again. 

His father’s hand finds his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly around his deltoid. His father has always been a man of few words and more grins, so when he sees his father smiling down at him, he leans into the touch. “Thank you,” he whispers, eyes still fighting hard against the burning. “Thank you for everything.”

“Thank you too,” his father replies, and Jungkook’s unable to see his face. “Thank you for being my son.”

The building shakes, and the moment breaks, just like that. Jungkook realizes it must be starting. He trudges over to the balcony windows and watches the shattering sky. 

He feels his brother stand beside him, and his mother throws an arm across his shoulders. His father hovers behind all of them and they just watch in silence at the devastating view. 

The sky has transfigured from lilac-tinted blue to a richer violet, and the chunks of the asteroid have started breaking off in their atmosphere into deathly shooting stars. Parts of their neighborhood are starting to lose shape as they’re torn down by falling rocks, rendering the skyline Jungkook’s always known to be unfamiliar. 

Jungkook steps back first, shaking and with wobbly knees, and he’s immediately met with arms to hold him up. So warm. So, so warm. 

God. He has to get out of this house before the sheer love in it kills him, before the damn meteor outside, before he can say anything to Yoongi. 

The first to call him out on it, by some miracle, is his brother. “Leave,” he croaks out, “get the hell out of here.”

“What?”

“We all know you have places to be, Jungkook,” his father says gently. “Your mother is right. We will not force you to stay.”

“I can’t just…” Jungkook mutters, trailing off, but his heart had been set on the decision for too long now. “That wouldn’t be…”

“Don’t be an idiot,” snaps Junghyun, and Jungkook flinches even though there’s no bite in his voice at all. “Get out of here, Jungkook. I’ll miss you.”

Jungkook crumbles, and he turns away from their glossy eyes to control his own conviction. He can’t be wavering now. Not now.  

“Are you…”

“We are quite sure,” his mother smiles, and Jungkook thinks he’s going to burst into tears on the spot. Instead he throws his arms around his family, nails digging into their arms, resolute and unmoving for one last time. 

At the door, after he’s picked up his daffodils, his father claps him on the back, easing into a gentle hug. Junghyun is fierce, grabbing him tightly, resting their foreheads together for a brief second and Jungkook is left with a ghost of a “good luck”. His mother presses a kiss to his hair, murmuring an “I love you” before she releases. 

“Goodbye.” Jungkook closes the door behind him, water gathering in his eyes. He blinks them away, leaving the comfort of home to walk into a storm. 

.

Jungkook is at the school gates when he gets a phone call. Frankly, he doesn’t want to pick up. It’s another distraction, and he’s too close to his goal to afford something like that. But the caller ID is Seokjin, and Jungkook is not so cruel a bastard that he’ll leave him hanging.

“Hello, hyung.”

“Hey.” Seokjin’s voice sounds hoarse and unfamiliar. “This is probably… cutting it close, isn’t it?”

A laugh betrays him as he plods down the path. “For sure. So what would you like to say, hyung?”

“I spoke with some people I should’ve spoken to a long time ago,” Seokjin announces, and he should be pleased, proud of himself, but the tone of his voice is defeated. “My parents. My brother. My friends.” There’s a slight pause, and Jungkook can hear the smirk through the speaker. “Namjoon.”

Jungkook snorts. “I still can’t believe you stole someone’s identity.”

“If it makes anything better, I had permission.” Jungkook can imagine that nonchalant grin, cheeky and all-knowing. “But the point is, I was able to do a lot of things, and I owe that to you.”

“Don’t burden me with that, hyung,” groans Jungkook, pushing open the front doors. They feel heavier than ever. “I barely know what I’m doing myself, and I was certainly in no place to inspire anyone else.”

“You’d be surprised, whether it was unintentional or not,” Seokjin sighs, voice crackling a bit. “But I don’t want to take too much of your time. It sounds like you’re not home.”

“No.” His jaw clenches, trying to banish the thought of home from his mind before he crumples. “I’m not. In fact, I’m somewhere I hate so, so much.”

But Seokjin doesn’t question him, and thank God because Jungkook doesn’t have it in him to explain. “I’m sure you’re there for a reason,” Seokjin says instead, soft, “and I wish you the best of luck.”

“Thanks,” he responds feebly, startling when a thrum of vibrations runs through the ground. He freezes mid-step and wills his voice steady. “You- you too. Goodbye, hyung.”

“Goodbye, Jungkook. Thank you for everything.” The line goes dead and Jungkook shoves the phone back into his pocket, biting hard on his bottom lip. 

The school is deserted. As it should be, Jungkook thinks bitterly, but then remembers that Yoongi had to be here. No where else. Maybe it was a gut feeling or maybe it was a wild guess. Or maybe it was that bizarre coincidence that had been following Jungkook around for the past few days. Either way, he wasn’t going to complain so long as he found Yoongi. 

For the first time since the meteor started approaching, the sky finally takes on a warm color. It’s close, Jungkook can tell, and not just because of the reports of large chunks crashing into the earth. The change in hue is a clear warning, like the flashing lights of sirens or the aposematic nature of prey. Last chance, it taunts and Jungkook grinds his teeth. 

Jungkook has hated school for as long as he can remember. The endless droning of lectures and the solitary lunch times. The jeering they thought he couldn’t hear, and his stolen belongings that no one ever owned up to. He never counted Yoongi and the music room, because that was always after. It would be an insult to group Yoongi together with something he loathed. 

He wishes those feelings would have faded into nothingness, drifted away with the weight of other things. But the sight of the building, standing so proud and unmoving feels like mockery, and Jungkook can’t believe he’s decided to spend his last moments in this hellhole. Oh, the things he’d do for Yoongi. 

He can’t forgive this place, with its endless hallways and sliding doors. He can’t forgive the memories that trail after him when he steps foot inside. He can’t forgive how much this place stole from him, and how much it ground itself into Jungkook’s head when he never wanted it to at all. 

But that’s what memories were. Uninvited intruders, meant to remind you of all you had and all you didn’t. Because for every good one, there’d always be something that could invoke shivers up your spine.

Jungkook shakes his head. Never mind that. This final stretch should be happy. That’s what he convinces himself as he trudges forward, heading towards the last hallway of the building. That positivity is what urged him away from the solace of home.

That’s why he almost collapses into hysterics when he sees Jimin. 

Jimin is with Taehyung, fingers intertwined between them and heads bent low as they whisper something to one another. Jungkook’s fingers ball into a fist. Of course they’re with each other. Even before, they’d been attached at the hip; it was no wonder they were together now, when they had nothing to lose. 

Jungkook briefly considers edging away, slipping into another hallway before one of them does something horrendous like call Jungkook out. And it’s too late because that’s exactly what Taehyung does, and like the idiot he’s always been, Jungkook just freezes. 

“Jungkook!” Taehyung calls, a grin blooming on his face before jogging over with Jimin. Jungkook tries a wave in return, hoping his wince doesn’t creep through his smile. “I didn’t think I’d get the chance to see you!”

He says it like he’s happy to see Jungkook, which would be ridiculous. No one’s ever happy to see Jungkook outside his family, outside Yoongi. 

“I know,” Jungkook agrees, hoping his voice doesn’t sound too bitter. “I didn’t expect to see you guys here either.”

“We’ve had some of our best memories here,” Taehyung admits softly, lightly squeezing Jimin’s hand, and he gets a fond smile in return. Jungkook’s chest burns crimson. “We thought it was only fitting that we finish here.”

Jungkook could never relate to that. Jimin must know that too because his brows furrow, concerned. Jungkook notices his eyes flicker towards the flowers in his hand. “What about you, Jungkook? What brings you here?”

He doesn’t want to reply, then very quickly realizes he doesn’t have to. There is something suffused in Jimin’s expression, something he wishes he didn’t recognize, that causes Jungkook to stiffen. “He confessed, didn’t he?”

Jimin’s hunched posture immediately straightens, rigid. “What?”

“Yoongi hyung.” Jungkook doesn’t know why he’s even bothering to elucidate when he already knows the answer. His voice sinks, defeated. “He confessed to you, didn’t he?”

“He… did.” Jimin’s lips are tight, thin. “How did you know?”

Would Jimin believe him if he said that he just did? There was never rhyme or rhythm when it came to Yoongi, not in his music nor in his actions. “It doesn’t matter,” Jungkook brushes it off, and Taehyung’s frown sharpens. “What did you say?”

“What did I say?” Jimin repeats. Jungkook doesn’t know why he’s wasting time, asking apparent questions like this, but he can’t seem to help himself. He has to hear it out loud. Make it real. “I… couldn’t say anything, really. But hyung said- hyung said that was okay.” Jimin swallows audibly, and they all ignore the way the ground rumbles. “He said he didn’t want me to do anything, that he just wanted to say it. That his confession was selfish, and after, he just looked so relieved. ”

Jimin’s gaze is turned towards the floor, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Taehyung rubs his shoulders comfortingly, and Jungkook swallows the lump in his throat. “Makes sense,” he says quietly, and Jimin’s face flashes into confusion. Before Jimin can demand anything, Jungkook nods. “Well, I have some things to do, and I’m sure you do too.” Another quake, and Jungkook steadies himself with a touch to the wall. “Don’t want to waste anyone else’s time.”

He leaves before they can stop him, before any of their faces can burn into his memory. He doesn’t stop when he hears his name, feet moving quickly towards the farthermost wing in the school. 

While Jungkook was never jealous of Jimin, he always resented him. Yoongi could be painfully obvious at times, and Jimin was equally painfully ignorant. It was frustrating seeing Jimin the object of all of Yoongi’s subtle affections, when all Jimin did was brush aside all of Yoongi’s perfections. Jungkook always felt it was such a waste— of time, of energy, of feelings. How could Jimin have never seen all that Yoongi was? How could he never appreciate it?

Jungkook never had his suspicions that Yoongi wouldn’t confess. His hyung wasn’t like him, riddled with doubts and overwhelm. He always put his mind to things and saw them through, just like his music. Yoongi would tell stories of how he’d get told off for his melodies, his ornaments, how unfaithful he was to the originals, how insubordinate his compositions were. Yet despite all of it, he’d play anyway, because that’s what he felt was right. 

Jungkook has only ever dreamed of that kind of courage.   

In the end, he realized, much of his fears were unwarranted. He’d been deluded by his own self, forced into the impression that there was only one reason to say things out loud. Jungkook had always thought it was for others, but the answer had been far simpler than that. 

An idiot. He was truly an idiot. 

How many other hints had Yoongi dropped for him to miss? How many other ruined opportunities? How long had Yoongi known, and still stayed ?

The west-most wing of the school has one lone hallway for any of the arts. Just past the stairs, there was the band room, the general music room, the art room, the dance room. So many options, yet all deserted save for the few times Jungkook and Yoongi would sneak in to play a piano that definitely needed tuning. 

Jungkook stares longingly at the hallway that leads to the music room, and all the seemingly aeonic evenings that were all but magic. Then he swallows, and bolts up the stairs to the roof. 

.

The sky has finally burst into flames. 

Streaks of orange and gold whiz by in a sky of purples and pinks and scarlets, like some sort of twisted kaleidoscope. For a second, Jungkook freezes, panting heavily and caught in the absurd beauty of it all. 

He very quickly snaps out of it and searches the rooftop for his goal. And of course, Yoongi is there, looking at it all too calmly, too disposed. Jungkook approaches cautiously, but there is no more hesitation in his movements. He doesn’t have time like that to waste, just like his father said. 

“You found me,” Yoongi murmurs, still facing the edge. His mint hair seems to glow ethereally in the face of the violet sky. He turns back and his lips are in a thin line, but his eyes are welcoming. Jungkook almost collapses in relief. “I can’t say I’m too surprised about that.”

“Was I always so obvious?” Jungkook snickers, but his heart is in his throat. 

Yoongi hesitates, a bit taken aback by the steady reply. “In a certain sense, yes,” he admits. “Other times, it was impossible to get a read on you.”

“Why?” Jungkook has known forever that he’s shit at hiding most things, and he’d always assumed that Yoongi had found him transparent. 

“You were obvious up to a certain point, Jungkook,” Yoongi says slowly, careful with his words. “But when it came to the heart of the matter, I wasn’t sure if you really…”

His heart pulses in his ears, drowning out the destruction around them. He’s heard this in parts too many times today. “Really what?”

“If you really liked me.” 

It feels like a blow to the head, leaving him light-headed and loose-legged all at once. Jungkook grits his teeth. It was absurd. How could any of them question Jungkook’s silly smiles, his unwavering adoration, his unadulterated love?

Maybe because it goes both ways. His mother’s voice will lecture him till the very end. Maybe because you never said anything.

Jungkook doesn’t know what to say in response, his thoughts swirling into a hurricane, and his fingers tighten around the flowers behind his back. 

“Hyung… I…” Something crashes in the distance, and a car alarm goes off. God, for all his talks of making things right, were words bound to fail him after all?

But Yoongi is kind, patient, just as considerate as he was whenever they played the piano. “Do you have something to say to me, Jungkook?”

Jungkook swallows. “I do.”

He takes a deep breath, but doesn’t reveal the flowers from his back. “Thank you.”

Yoongi’s face freezes, warm expression caught in bewilderment. “What?”

“Thank you, hyung,” Jungkook says slowly, taking careful steps forward. Up closer, he can confirm that Yoongi certainly hadn’t anticipated these words. “For all these years. All those days. All the unintentional piano lessons. Just… all the time you spent with me.”

Yoongi undergoes an array of emotions in a flash, and Jungkook can barely catch some of them. Confusion, pity, and just plain fear. “You…”

“I know that’s not what you wanted to hear,” Jungkook admits, smiling softly to himself. It’s only fitting, he thinks, that he’d only have the upper hand against Yoongi in their final moments. “But this is something far more overdue.”

“What happened to you?” Yoongi demands quietly, and something crashes into the earth. The building shakes a little, but Jungkook’s never felt more steady in his life. Yoongi’s question burns onto him fiercer than the asteroid launching into the atmosphere. 

“All this happened, I suppose,” he gestures vaguely, a little amused. “But I mostly had some sense knocked into me from a very wise person. She also told me to tell you that you were an incredible composer.”

“A very wise person, huh?” Yes. Of course his mother was. Jungkook imagines her now, probably gazing at the sky hand in hand with his father, telling him how beautiful life was. He would probably tell her she was beautiful. Probably. Now he’ll never know. 

Jungkook shakes his head, throat thick. No time to think of that now. 

“In any case, the thing is, hyung, it was never a matter of me not realizing my feelings,” confesses Jungkook, glancing at his feet. “And it was never because I was scared of your reaction.”

Just like he suspected, Yoongi’s brows furrow. “Then what…?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jungkook says, chuckling bitterly to himself. He takes another step closer and he is face to face with Yoongi. “What matters is that I’m here, and I’ve gotten over myself. I owe both myself and you a couple words.”

It is possible, Jungkook knows, maybe has always known, to never be lovelorn even when redamancy can’t be achieved. Something that magnanimous was only possible because it was Yoongi. 

Jungkook pulls out the daffodils from behind his back and watches as Yoongi’s face crumples. He falters for a second, but offers up a smile and is relieved when that, even if other things aren’t, is reciprocated. Still, it’s strange to see Yoongi’s face on the cusp of collapsing. Yoongi has always been so resilient, indestructible, yet to see him on the verge of breaking down because of Jungkook… he doesn’t know how to feel. 

But he perseveres, because this is something he thought he’d never dare do. This is the moment Yoongi had wanted to see. This is what he needed for himself.

Say it.

Say it.

“I’m in love with you, hyung.” 

The words tumble out the same way the rocks falling around them do, without care, without fear. They fall like the second sun he resents with all his heart but knows is inevitable. Something in Jungkook’s chest loosens, and absolves from his body completely. He remembers his mother’s words and smiles. 

Something collides. Rock to earth. Thoughts to words. Jungkook to Yoongi. 

“I’m in love with you.”

He never hears the response. But he catches a glimmer of a smile on Yoongi’s lips, and in that brief moment before the world explodes, Jeon Jungkook can say he had no regrets.