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Sometimes Jungkook wondered if he wasn't completely out of his mind to try something like this. These times tended to be when he was about elbow deep in paint, all the blues and greens and yellows — so many yellows, pale like the last vestiges of sunrise, dark and rich like gold dropping from some ancient monarch's fingertips — when he was so tired he couldn't see straight, when his hands ached like they might never feel regular again.
It'll be worth it, the voice whispered in the back of his head. It sounded a little like himself, only better. Voice lilting low and confident. Something about it a little bit crazed, a little bit more intense than he ever really felt comfortable being.
But that was probably fine.
He'd always done well listening to the voice, figured he'd do well now. It was just that he had to finish it. Just that it was taking years and sometimes he couldn't see what he was trying to create. All there was was the paint.
And those times, when the hour crept later and later and a headache bloomed at the front of his mind and his hands shook like all they could make were mistakes. Those times, Namjoon slid up behind him like he knew, because he always knew, and pressed tired kisses to his shoulder and his neck, careful to avoid any flecks of paint that still might be wet.
"Five more minutes," Jungkook mumbled, squinting at the color on his brush, trying to discern if it was blue enough. He felt a little bad, not being quite ready to give up yet, despite the hour.
"Okay," Namjoon said, like he didn't mind either way. He seemed content to hold him, to settle in behind him and to rub his nose on Jungkook's shoulder and yawn sleepy kisses against the side of his face.
Jungkook hummed. "That tickles," he said, reaching back to pat fondly at his boyfriend.
"Good," Namjoon said, sweet and teasing, smiling by the way his voice sounded.
It was cute, he was cute and Jungkook was in love and it'd all be worth it, soon.
-
"Are you nervous?" Namjoon asked, over his shoulder.
He was nervous enough for the both of them, channeling it by wandering around the kitchen, picking things up and putting them back down, putting potholders away and straightening towels. He'd gotten ready ages ago, the way he did when he wasn't sure what else to do with himself. A baby blue dress shirt, pressed and steamed as best either of them could, beneath a a darker blue striped sweater, glasses cleaned and perched on his nose, hair tousled carefully off his forehead.
He looked gorgeous and put together and as professory as ever for about a minute and a half, immediately shoving the sleeves up to his elbows, fiddling with the hem of his sweater.
Jungkook sighed and reached his arms out for him. "Of course I'm nervous, why are you nervous?" he asked as Namjoon crossed the room to him.
"I — ?" Namjoon started like he was about to argue then thought better of it. "I didn't think I was," he admitted. His eyes opened a little wider, head cocking to the side, considering.
Jungkook busied himself with straightening the hem of his sweater, pushing the sleeves up in a way that looked a little more artful and on purpose. Namjoon reached up and tugged at one of the thick hoops in Jungkook's ear, to tease him a little for straightening his appearance, but half the fun of doing things in public was the looks they got. Namjoon in prim office wear, handsome and studious, Jungkook with tattoos painted up and down his arms, metal thick in his ears and dotting his face.
Jungkook just wanted them to look like themselves.
"This is big for you," Namjoon said after a moment. "I'm just excited to see the completed show. All put together."
"And?" Jungkook asked, frowning. Namjoon had seem most of it already, had even helped him organize it. If it were truly what he was wound so tightly about, Jungkook would be supremely confused.
"And," Namjoon said, grinning a little sheepishly. Ah, here it was. "I really wish you hadn't kept that painting with my dick in it as one of the point pieces."
"It's not your dick," Jungkook scoffed, withdrawing his hands from Namjoon's clothing and taking a step back to observe his handy work. Shirt shifted into something that looked more casual and less haphazard, hair tidied but not overly styled.
"Just because you didn't include the freckle, doesn't make it not blatantly and exactly my penis."
Jungkook giggled and trotted off towards the bathroom to shave. "Okay, true."
-
It was probably not in the best form to show up thirty minutes late to one's own gallery opening, even if it was something of a power move. But he was an artist through and through and wasn't completely sure he'd ever been on time to anything in his entire life.
But he'd set it up with the lovely curator earlier that morning, flirting just a little bit as Namjoon rolled his eyes. He had a lot of faith in her, with her mane of red hair she took in and out of a messy bun several times over the course of their conversation and her horn rimmed glasses she alternated between perched on the tip of her nose and tucked into the neck of her lacy blouse. She'd assured them that things would be set up and ready for people, whether or not he deigned to show up at all. They'd assured her that there was no way that that would happen, but she'd just shrugged nonchalantly like it had happened plenty of times before.
They walked around to the back so as to not attract attention and as they stomped through the gravel at the edges of the parking lot, Jungkook slipped his hand into Namjoon's without saying anything. But he didn't need to, Namjoon squeezed his fingers anyway. Tugged him a little closer as they approached the back door and kissed him softly on the cheek.
"Ugh," Jungkook said, grinning.
"I know," Namjoon said, smiling softly back at him. "I'm the worst." And then, "Are you ready?"
Jungkook shook his head, quick and clipped. He didn't think he'd ever be ready. That was part of why it had taken him so long to get dressed, switching between two different nearly identical loose black shirts more times than he really wanted to admit. Cramming his feet into a pair of old boots instead of the dress shoes he'd told himself he was going to wear on the way out the door because at least that felt comfortable.
"Okay," Namjoon said. He was pretty out here in the half-light, dimples sinking kindly into his cheeks, glasses casting an odd little shadow across his nose. He waited a moment, just looking at Jungkook, just letting him be. Watched as he took a deep breath and then another.
They could voices filtering out into the night, the quiet murmur of a show they weren't expecting. Jungkook knew what it would feel like when he opened the door, knew people would be looking for him, knew the sort of things he'd have to say and the sort of pictures people would want to take.
He knew it had to happen, but, well ... He loved Namjoon for a lot of reasons, ones he'd admit and profess to anyone who asked him and ones he kept to himself, tucked in against his chest, but most of all right that second because he gave him the space to take one more minute just now.
"How about now?" Namjoon asked, same soft voice.
And he wasn't, not really. Figured he wouldn't ever really be ready for what was on the other side of the door, but he nodded anyway and pushed open the door.
-
Jungkook had been doing art for as long as he could remember. Splattering things with paint and tearing things apart and sculpting things with mud and sticks and leaving them out on the sidewalk to give his neighbors something interesting to look at. He'd always been a little bit different than other artists, a little less worried about how straight his lines were and a little bit more focused on what he was saying with the way he pieced things together.
He'd had his first art show while still in school. Let his towering creations speak for themselves with their ugly swirls and brooding stares, let his walls of angry text engulf the space, things just a little bit creepy, a little bit wrong, a little bit loud.
He was hated as often as he was loved, and for every journalist recognizing his genius there was a critic claiming that what he was doing wasn't even art. Wasn't even worth looking at or spending any time in. Figured that if he wasn't doing anything traditional then they could claim it was terrible without giving him a chance.
So he — he took two years off and did something he knew would make them look.
Jungkook walked quietly into the gallery, to this art show that equal parts himself and not himself. To this selection of paintings he'd poured over, classic scenes and selections. He'd given them as much life as he could muster, a flicker of a smirk here, a hint of something alluded to in the background of another. Namjoon's painted face, painted body, in as many paintings as he could fit it in, staring benignly back at him. A comforting force to saturate this thing that felt so far from himself.
"Ugh," Namjoon said softly beside him.
"It's not your dick," Jungkook whispered to him.
"It's definitely my dick," Namjoon whispered back. Jungkook giggled a little and Namjoon reached over and squeezed at his arm. "I'm going to go swipe some hors d'oeuvres."
"Good luck, have fun," Jungkook said, and Namjoon grinned at him and then was gone.
In a minute, he'd go talk to the group of reporters milling near the entrance, and then in another couple he'd go check in with the curator, and then casually go bump into the pair of artists he recognized over in the corner. But for a minute, a moment, he just stood in the back and looked around. Let himself just feel it, this space he'd created from nothing but paint and canvas. Let the murmuring wash over him like a blanket. Take in the way the light reflected off the paintings and back into the space.
Let himself be quiet and feel that soft little flicker of being almost proud bloom in his chest for as long as he needed.