Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

jungkook recalls the day he met seokjin.

it was cold but not very much so, not so cold that jungkook had to cover himself up completely. it felt a little warm but not too warm, not so much that he couldn’t let himself take a layer off or two. jungkook had woken up that day and gotten ready for school - socks on his feet, pants ironed, shirt hanging off his shoulders a size too big (a size that could only be a hand me downs) and it was a bright morning. outside, he could see the clouds float by like little tufts plucked from the universe.

he has his umbrella.

it’s not a regular umbrella that’s good for wind and snow and rain. it’s a little paper umbrella that’s dyed a dark navy blue, an almost indigo, a little shadow. jungkook keeps it with him at all times when he’s outside. that day - yes, he had his umbrella, too, like always. it wasn’t raining, nor was it windy, but jungkook had it nonetheless.

the sun - that’s why, he remembers, the sun. it was a bright, sunny day, the day he met seokjin. jungkook had his umbrella up so he wouldn’t sunburn. for other reasons, too, like watching the little tassel tied around his umbrella spike shudder down with every movement of its spine, twirling around in his hands. quietly walking down his street in his school uniform and his bag, jungkook supposed that maybe he would look weird with his umbrella - but no one really seemed to care. it was almost as if he was invisible.

he had passed by a little convenience store. the smells of baked sweet buns and afternoon tea that the old men shared sitting on the rickety chairs outside made jungkook want to make some of those himself, but he didn’t have the money - nor time - to do that. instead, he had continued walking on, but right next to the convenience store - was an odd little white fence.

he didn’t know how to feel about that. although this part of seoul is a lot calmer, less busy, less urban than the other parts, you don’t really see fences. other than that - well, has jungkook ever seen this house before? he doesn’t think so. he doesn’t think he’s ever seen this house, and jungkook always takes this route home every day. on the days he has money (not this day) he goes into the convenience store and buys a sweet bun, but if he doesn’t (like this day) then he walks by looking at the empty plot of land next to the seven eleven with a frown on his face and a thought to buy sweet buns the next day.

there is a house next to the seven eleven, not an empty plot of land.

he had paused. walked across the street to stop in front of the fenced house, stared at its old-korean architecture with its swooping rice paper windows and wooden doors. he had turned to look at the old men sitting in front of the seven eleven, smoking and laughing, but they did not see jungkook.

and the fence was open. for some, some odd reason - he felt. he felt a little tug, like had just had to walk in. like there was something waiting for him in that house. so jungkook opens the fence door and stumbles a little on his way in. down on the ground is a paved pathway made of stones, like you would see in an imperial garden, grass so lusciously green it feels like another dream world. pockets of wildflowers grow from in between. jungkook watches the yellow blossoms sway even when there’s no wind.

he closes the fence door behind him, slowly walks up to the door. he wonders when this house was built - it looks like it’s been here for a long, long time. there’s almost no sign of newness. the walls are crumbling, the rice paper neat but dusty, and the weeds have grown so much that it’s only an indication of time; moss covers little cracks on the stairway.

so jungkook knocks on the door.

no one answers, which is disappointing. he truly thought that maybe someone would. what would he say if someone answered the door, though? he’s not too sure. he’s not too sure what he would say at all. jungkook has had trouble saying things in general to most people he knows - forget new people. flushing and feeling that flush rise from the back of his neck to his ears, jungkook steps away from the front door to hurry home - and it opens.

just by itself, as if a gust of wind has gently coerced the knob to turn, the door to creak wide open.

it’s dark inside. jungkook doesn’t know why he should enter, perhaps knows almost logically that he shouldn’t - what good comes of an empty house? - but he enters anyway. whispers, “sorry for the intrusion,” and leads himself inside. he closes his umbrella as soon as he’s there, taking a moment to look all around the room. it’s a nice, korean-architecture inspired place. jungkook pulls off his outside shoes to stand there in his socks. there’s a sweet scent of oranges and something else -

suddenly, all the lights filter on, blinding him for a moment. jungkook yelps and covers his eyes with his forearm, bringing up his umbrella sideways like a long jabbing lance, cringing away from the light. when he blinks and shuffles a bit to stand straight again, he sees someone standing so close to him that their noses could be touching.

“oh my god,” jungkook yells, scrambling back a little at what is the worst jump-scare of his life. he’s not even afraid of stuff in video games and movies, why is he afraid of this? but there had been no shadow, not a single footstep, to accompany this stranger’s movements.

“oh, hello,” the figure says in a musical voice. he’s got platinum blonde hair and an earring glinting in one ear, dangling down toward his shoulder. other than that, he’s in a maroon v-neck and black jeans, striped socks covering up his feet. “you’re new!”

“oh, um, is this your house?” after seeing how non-threatening the other is, jungkook composes himself and finds his voice once more. he places a couple of fingers to the base of his throat and makes a little ahem sound. after that, he helps himself up and dusts off his shirt, making sure that his umbrella hasn’t crinkled in any way. the stranger - well, isn’t jungkook the stranger here, actually? - blinks at him. he has unfairly good skin, jungkook notes a little sullenly.

“not really,” the other admits, his hands clasped behind his back. “i only live here because i work for the person who actually owns this place. you know?”

“i - i don’t,” jungkook stammers, hands gripping tightly to the wooden carvings of the handle. “i - um. i should go now.”

“don’t go so soon!” another voice, much deeper than the one in front of him, speaks right in jungkook’s ear. he’s sure he would have fallen down again if it weren’t for a broad hand holding onto his shoulder. the guy that pops up behind him is handsome, with evenly proportioned features and a silver-grayish tone to his hair that doesn’t match his maroon shirt at all. there’s a dangling earring in his left ear. it jingles when he moves. “hey, i’m taehyung!”

“i’m jimin,” maroon shirt says, and reaches out to shove taehyung a bit. “hey, come on, tae - don’t be too clingy! don’t you see how confused he is?”

“oops, sorry,” taehyung apologizes, patting jungkook on the head like he’s some kind of stray puppy. with another grin, he situates himself by jimin’s side. they automatically fall into some kind of skinship, wrapping their arms around each other’s waists. “are you hungry?”

“well, i - “ jungkook had eaten snacks in his last period of class, but he finds that he’s a bit thirsty. “well, i guess i could use something to drink?”

“sounds great!” jimin gives a little clap. “come follow us, i’ll make some tea for you.”

jungkook isn’t too sure why he’s following two strangers into a strange house as soon as he’s met them, but his throat feels parched and he isn’t scared, per say. beside the little fright, jungkook feels more like he should be seeing taehyung and jimin on a park bench in the middle of a sunny day rather than in an empty house.

the more he walks into the home, however, the more he realizes just how not empty it is. the first area - the greeting area - is wide and long. the farther jungkook goes, the more he starts to see the following: hanging tapestries on the wall, different ornamental plates lining up little wooden shelves, a couple of plants hanging here and there on the window sills. thick carpets made of wool and silk cover the floor in a multitude of patterns and colors, the fabric wiggling in between jungkook’s toes and under his heel softly. some of them are so lovely - like the one carpet around a meter per side with a picture of a bubbling lake. jungkook holds his umbrella closer to himself to prevent it from ruining anything on the ground.

jimin leads him to a corner where there is a big, plush couch and a sleek wooden table; when jungkook turns around, the door is only a couple of meters away; all the space that he had previously thought was empty is now filled with all the knick-knacks that he had painstakingly taken note of while walking. he’s not too sure what has just happened. in way, it feels like he’s made some long journey to get to a destination that had never been too far away in the first place.

“sit down and relax,” taehyung tells him, grinning. jimin’s already disappeared; jungkook hears the sound of things clicking around in the kitchen. “you came here to see the wishkeeper, right?”

“i,” jungkook starts; he isn’t sure why he came in here in the first place.

“don’t worry! jimin’s getting us tea, and when hyung comes, everything will be alright.” he kneels down next to jungkook, hanging over the edge of the couch’s armrest. jungkook leans back a little, a slight bit intimidated. “what’s that in your hand?”

“this?” he holds up his paper umbrella, which has yet to receive any rips or tears. it’s still in wonderful condition, the color still a deep, dark blue. jungkook runs his fingers over its edges and fondly says, “this is my umbrella.”

“it’s beautiful,” taehyung comments in a low voice. “did you buy that yourself, or?”

“i got it as a gift,” jungkook replies, but strangely, he can’t remember who had given it to him. just that - once, a long time ago - someone had given it to him.

he holds onto the wooden handle, glad that after years of use it still hasn’t lost it’s quality. jungkook can’t remember when he had started taking his umbrella to school, only that he’s had it for so long. sometimes it feels impossible for his fingers to not have themselves wrapped around it’s handle, or the little ribbon tied around his wrist.

“it’s not raining outside, though, is it?”

“no,” jungkook says. “i - “

jimin returns with the tea. they’re in tiny wooden cups, settled on a tray filled with small snacks and a pot of tea resting on the edge. there’s also some sugar in a small glass with a spoon sticking off the top, and a couple of fruits in a bowl. jimin sets it down in front of jungkook on the table and smiles sheepishly, going, “we don’t have a lot of cookies - sorry about that! hyung said he would go buy more, since he’s not too good at baking, but what can you do? he always forgets.”

“no, it’s okay,” jungkook rushes to answer, and pauses. he rolls up his sleeves so they won’t be ruined. “thank you for the tea.”

“it’s no problem!” jimin smiles, but there’s only two cups on the tray; neither jimin nor taehyung are reaching forward to take any.

he bites into a dry cookie, feeling it roll around on his tongue. jungkook washes it down with the tea, a sweet and almost savory flavor hitting the back of his tongue like honey. it’s golden and clear. staring down at it in surprise, he pitches it forward to drink another sip, pleased by it’s warmth.

“um,” jungkook’s eyes flicker to the cup. “are you not going to...?”

“i don’t like tea,” both jimin and taehyung say simultaneously.

they smile and look at each other with a strange little twinkle in their irises, as if sharing a secret by the power of their stare alone. it makes jungkook feel a little bit out of place when they do so, but he finds it fascinating at the same time. it’s almost as if they’re on an entirely different plane. certainly, the way they look and hold themselves is different from what jungkook has seen from anyone. his days are swelteringly blurry, almost like a fever dream, and even with the oddness of this little house - nothing has felt as clear as this moment has for a long time.

while jungkook holds out his hands to ask for another cup of tea, a new voice joins the fray; “do we have a customer?”

“hyung!” jimin turns to the door where the voice had come from; standing at the edge of the door is a tall, handsome man. in a button up shirt and slacks, he looks more like an office worker than a wishkeeper. at least, that’s who jungkook assumes he is. the pale pink of his shirt offsets an otherworldly mien. jungkook can’t help but stare for a moment or two.

the wishkeeper smiles at him graciously. maybe he knows how beautiful he is, jungkook thinks. people who know how beautiful they are use that beauty a lot. jungkook runs his hands over the edge of his umbrella as he sits, feeling the familiar edges and grooves.

“hello,” jungkook says quietly. jimin and taehyung have moved to the side wordlessly, their feet sliding over the hardwood floor with ease. “nice to meet you. i’m – “

the wishkeeper puts up a hand. “don’t tell me. names have power, you know? you don’t want to give yours away so easily.”

jungkook has never thought about it that way. the wishkeeper sits across from him and takes a sip from the other cup. on his ring finger is a beautiful silver ring, or rather, two rings attached by a chain to make up a single ring. the chain bends and jingles with each movement of the wishkeeper’s fingers. in the middle of the band is a glittering silver star.

“i’m sure that you know by now that i’m the wishkeeper,” the other says, “and that this is my shop.”

“it’s pretty,” jungkook says.

a genuine smile grows on the wishkeeper’s face. “i’m glad you think so. not a lot of people see things as they are, so it’s nice to see someone who does.”

something about – about the way he puts those words, the way they drop from his mouth; they move from the edge of his mouth to crawl up jungkook’s spine. he leans back, close enough to sink into the couch, to disappear. perhaps that’s what jungkook has always been aiming for – to, in some way, disappear.

“what do you sell at this shop?”

“wishes, of course,” the wishkeeper raises his tea cup. his ring glints in the light.

that puzzles jungkook. “but how can you sell wishes?”

“well,” the wishkeeper takes a biscuit from the plate and bites into it gently. jungkook finds it odd how he doesn’t seem to have a single blemish on his face; the skin of his cheeks and forehead is completely smooth. jungkook’s fingers itch to reach up and touch the little scar on his right cheek, an embellishment, a reminder of imperfection. “everything in the world has a price, yeah? when we wish on a star, what do you think happens?”

“nothing, maybe,” jungkook replies. “you look up at a star and wish for something, but it’s like saying your hopes and dreams out loud. it doesn’t really do anything.”

the wishkeeper points a finger at him. “good. that’s because nothing does happen. wishes from stars require payment, just like how everything else in this world requires payment. you can’t get something from nothing; wishes, too, can’t help but follow this rule. that’s why i am here – to facilitate the process. a mediator, you could say.”

“a mediator,” jungkook repeats. “so you grant wishes?”

“precisely. i grant them, keep them, and figure them out. it’s difficult to accurately consider the value of a wish, after all, and sometimes things can get muddled up in between. it’s an important job, i like to think.”

“it sounds important.” jungkook has never heard of someone being a wishkeeper before. his mind spins, turning into different loops, catching on the tail end of comets and stars. maybe wishkeepers take all those wishes and dreams to the end of the earth where no one can see them again. maybe those wishes and dreams are stuck, up in the universe, where everything seems to fade in and out. jungkook just can’t tell.

the wishkeeper finishes his tea. jungkook’s is still half full – and half cold. he can’t seem to remember what it tasted like while hot. jungkook thinks it’s a bit of a shame. he liked that tea. the wishkeeper pours himself another cup, stem of the teapot clinking pleasantly against white china.

“so,” he starts, “should we talk about your wish?”

“my wish?”

“yes,” the wishkeeper cocks his head to the side. “if you can see this shop, then something must have brought you here. that something is your wish.” he spreads his hands out. with a handsome smile, he says, “would you like me to grant it?”

jungkook’s wish. that’s an odd thing to think about, really, because – well, he has a lot of things that he wants, but nothing that he necessarily wishes for. he wants his apartment building to stop being so cold after nine pm; wants his ramen to stay warm three minutes after opening it; wants to stop seeing red lines and barely-there hazes. he wants a lot of things, but – maybe –

his hands tighten over the wooden handle of his umbrella. it’s easy it keep it over his head, to keep everything out of the way. sometimes he sleeps at night with his fingers tracing over each delicate pattern, staring at blue-indigo and wondering if it would ever fade, hearing the charms tinkle. sometimes, sometimes, sometimes. jungkook doesn’t remember when he had gotten his umbrella, just that at some point, there had been jungkook – and there had been jungkook with this, the departing memory of his parents. there’s certainly no separating them anymore. if he doesn’t have his umbrella – well, - well.

maybe that’s what he wishes for; to be able to not see. not see the hazes, people shaped-smoke, red lines crisscrossing. running everywhere. wishes to not see fate, not see death, not see –

is that what he really wants?

jungkook looks up, blinking a little bit out of his daze. “i don’t…really know what i want.”

“that’s okay,” the wishkeeper says easily. “take your time.”

“sometimes i want to not see things,” jungkook says half a heartbeat later. the windows rattle a little – wind moving tree branches against the edge of thin glass. “all the spirits. the red lines. sometimes – “ fate feels cruel, jungkook wants to say. fate feels mean. fate feels all together unfair. “i’m not sure. other times, i want to remember.”

“wanting is not the same as wishing.”

“isn’t it?” jungkook asks, words disappearing into the silence as soon as they drop from his mouth. he leans back.

“what are you scared of the most, jungkook?”

“i don’t know,” jungkook says. “being alone, maybe?”

the wishkeeper smiles. “then i think you know your own wish. would you like me to grant it?” his eyes, brown and backlit with bright knowledge, expectation, flicker briefly down to where jungkook’s hands rest on his umbrella. “would you like to know the price?”

oh.

“no, thank you,” jungkook says quietly, blinking. it’s almost as if the world has slowly begun to filter in properly; sounds, feeling, everything.

the wishkeeper gives him an odd little look. the shadows creep in from the edge of his vision, and jungkook quenches the queer desire to open his umbrella up in the room. bad luck, he thinks. but from his periphery, he sees them slinking on the ground, hiding something behind their shrouded darkness. jimin and taehyung are nowhere to be seen. taking a sip of his tea, the wishkeeper asks again, “would you like me to grant your wish?”

and again, jungkook says, “no, thank you.”

perhaps the wishkeeper doesn’t get people like jungkook often – people with wishes, wants and desires, that they don’t want to come true. jungkook thinks about the nature of stars, falling from the planes of nothingness to dive headfirst into spectacularism, to die out fizzling. to see the remains of light after millions of years. jungkook is at the receiving end of an already finished story. what he wants isn’t something that someone else can grant.

the wishkeeper’s china cup clinks against his saucer. it’s already done. jungkook has yet to finish his own.

“would you like me to grant your wish?” he asks, again, eyes imploringly brown. wide. perfect mouth pulled down past a smile to an upside down frown, querying, trying to figure out this child that has wandered into the wooden floors of his magical home. jungkook feels vibrations underneath his feet, almost like the shop is talking to him, almost like someone is trying to get his attention. it feels a little cold, a hand around the nape of his neck, a whispering promise. he remembers – bad luck. sometimes his life feels like the end of a receiving story, a punchline, a long rambling eulogy.

“no, thank you.”

jungkook prefers the known to the unknown. he likes his neatly packaged compartments and his willful recklessness of the world. sometimes he forgets which one is which.

the wishkeeper sets his teacup back on the tray. after a moment, his smile turns into something genuine. it transforms every inch of his face – from the mysterious, enigmatic perfection of his eyes nose mouth to a softer, younger – youthful – expression. like something has pulled a veil away from his eyes. “guess i can’t help you any, huh?”

“that price isn’t something i’m willing to pay,” jungkook says.

“hm,” the wishkeeper smooths down the fabric of his pants, taking a moment to himself. “the price, huh?”

there’s that odd little pause again. jungkook takes a moment to look around; sun filters through the windows once more, the shadows from before dissolving beneath the floorboards. jungkook stares at the artifacts on the wall, the rice paper doors, the soft tinkle of wind chimes. “there’s something off about this house,” he starts. “i could never see it before today, and i always walk this way. i feel like i would have noticed it.”

“only people with wishes can see this house,” the wishkeeper says. “the way you can see spirits, jungkook.”

startled, jungkook’s grip around his umbrella tightens. he turns to the wishkeeper, attention focused on the way he smiles almost mischievously. “how do you know that?”

“this is made of some strong magic.” he motions to the umbrella in jungkook’s hands. “i could feel it the moment you stepped foot inside this house. it protects you from the spirits, doesn’t it? makes it so that you can’t see them, and they can’t see you? that’s a very powerful ability to have. to be invisible.”

“yeah,” jungkook whispers. he blinks rapidly, warmth pooling onto his face. “i don’t – i don’t remember my parents.”

patiently, the wishkeeper waits for jungkook’s wants.

“their faces, i mean. i know their names, but their faces – i don’t have pictures of them, just an old feeling, maybe.” like a hand stroking his face, a cool illumination, a shadow and a bright light in the distant fog of his memory. “they’ve been gone since i was a kid. i think this is the only thing i have from them,” he admits, “although i can’t remember how or why. but it’s always helped.”

“i’m sorry they’re gone,” the wishkeeper says, voice sorrowful. “i’m sorry they’re lost to you.”

“it’s okay,” jungkook replies, something building up at the back of his throat. really, maybe, his one true fear is – being lonely. yes, that must be the feeling. perhaps the umbrella is like holding his mother or father’s hand, even if for a moment, in spirit. “um. i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to cry.”

“never apologize for showing emotion,” he chides, reaching into his breast pocket to take out a handkerchief. it’s black with a silver hem. jungkook wipes his dewy eyes with it ungracefully. when he hands it back, his hands brush against the wishkeeper’s by accident. “you know, i think i have something that might cheer you up.”

the wishkeeper rises and heads to one of the doors silently, his feet barely making a sound across the floor. jungkook pushes at his dry cheeks and at the aching, vulnerable corners of his eyes, wishing that he wouldn’t cry anymore. the words remain at the back of his tongue, clogged up in his throat. he wants to go home and sleep everything away until it feels like a dream again.

the wishkeeper comes back with a small silver box. there’s no way that the sunlight can reach them from here – they’re sitting too far away, jungkook thinks – but somehow it glimmers even with the shadows, a prism of colors glinting off its surface with every sleight of hand. he can’t help but follow the movement of its light with every little breath. jungkook shuffles back to the edge of the sofa, pressed against the back of the seat. almost as a response to him, the wishkeeper leans forward. the teacups rattle.

“this is for you,” he says.

jungkook’s eyes flicker down to the ethereal box, then back up to the smiling face of the wishkeeper. “everything has a price,” the words echo in his head. “you can’t get something for nothing.”

what is your price? jungkook wants to ask.

but the wishkeeper doesn’t look phased. in fact – he smiles wider, that same odd smile of a wishkeeper rather than a human being. jungkook’s fingers curl. he’s hyper aware of every little movement, every little breath, every little second of time sluggishly passing by.

“you already paid the price,” the wishkeeper tells him gently. he holds it out until jungkook raises his hands, all polite form and hesitation, to receive it.

“what did i pay?” he asks, because he can’t remember giving anything up. maybe that’s what he had lost in the first place.

instead of responding, the wishkeeper silently waits for him to open the gift. jungkook slides the top of the box off, fingers placed over the edge of its the box’s sides ever so softly. as if he’s touching a priceless relic, he sets aside the cap and dips his fingers into its contents. he comes out with a glittering silver chain; at the end, a small pendant-like structure in the shape of a crescent moon. as it spins in his fingers, jungkook is enthralled by the way its studded aquamarines and sapphires glitter, dark and light blue, like the pulling waves of an endless, jeweled ocean.

“for your umbrella,” the wishkeeper nods his head toward jungkook’s lap. he startles; for a moment, lost in the flickering lights of an imagined world, jungkook had lost his sight. “you put it on at the end. a cute charm, isn’t it?”

“thank you,” he says, gripping it in between his fingers. it feels warm, like the metal has been out in the sun for a while to warm. with fumbling fingers, jungkook attaches the little charm underneath the watchful eye of the wishkeeper. “i still don’t know what i paid.”

“you never finished your tea,” he reminds instead, taking the teapot and filling up both their cups. “would you like a biscuit?”

steam rises from his cup. jungkook reaches out, fingers still tingling, to wrap them around the edge of dainty porcelain. “that’s okay.” he takes a sip, warmth moving down his throat with alarming ease. jungkook’s face flushes with the change in temperature; his toes curl into his socks. he thinks about how nice it would go with things at home – the sparseness of his apartment, the empty kitchen, the way his hand shake to fill up something that can never be not empty -

“do you like it?”

“yes,” he says honestly.

“well,” the wishkeeper smiles, taking another sip of his own, “if you worked for me, then you could have this kind of tea all the time.”

“oh,” jungkook says faintly, and when the wishkeeper’s eyes glitter like diamonds, like ethereal silver and a daunting yet alluring light, jungkook finds that it finally clicks. “is that it?”

the wishkeeper laughs. “my name is seokjin.”

“jungkook,” he says. “but you knew that, huh?”

seokjin smiles.

/

jungkook recalls the day he met seokjin quite clearly. he wishes he hadn’t.

“can i quit,” he says, unimpressed, while looking down at the mess in front of him. jimin is sprawled across the floor with all of the soju bottles he had downed yesterday; jungkook counts about ten of them, all lined up one after another next to his side. jimin is sleeping curled into a fetal position, snoring a bit. it would be cute if it didn’t make jungkook want to punch something. preferably jimin.

“you’re under contract,” taehyung reminds him cheerfully. he picks up the bottles and hands them to jungkook, who sighs and places them on the side to take to the convenience store later to trade in for some pocket change. “besides, he was holding back this time. one of the greatest pleasures in life – “

jungkook gives him a flat look and one raised eyebrow. taehyung sticks his tongue out and goes to help jimin up, patting him insistently on the shoulder and making sure that his neck isn’t cramped.

it’s nothing new to jungkook, who has been working here on the odd end of five years now. he’s twenty three now and looking at a future of a somewhat comfortable life working in the wish shop. he always has enough food to eat and enough company to get him by, even if that company drives him insane. he doesn’t go out often, but he doesn’t necessarily consider that as something lacking. having finished his college years in anonymity, jungkook likes where he is: just in the middle of everything, letting life slip him by. he’s the type of face that you tend to forget, slipping in between the crowd. he likes it that way.

seokjin comes in a moment later, in his luxurious robe and a pair of old sweatpants. it’s a strange mix of extra and comfortable that seokjin seems to be composed of. while jungkook has changed throughout the years – growing taller, filling out a little, a healthy flush making a permanent appearance on his cheeks - seokjin doesn’t look like he’s aged at all. jungkook isn’t sure if he’s one of those people that simply don’t age or if he’s actually immortal, but jungkook wouldn’t put both past him. he’s seen seokjin’s skin care routine – more so, he’s gone out more times than he can count to supplement seokjin’s skin care routine. jungkook knows way more about fruits with antioxidant properties than he wants to.

it’s a nice, mildly quaint life. he likes the fact that he can do what he wants and that food is pretty much free, that there’s always something to do for him to go outside, that he can live as he wants without worry. jungkook has never had grandeur ideas about fame or success – he prefers contentment.

and yet.

“hyung, are there any orders this time?” he calls out, a little bit distracted.

seokjin, taehyung, and jimin have never outright stated their ages to him, but jungkook can just tell that they’re all older than him. something about the way they talk, once in a while: mouths curling, eyes turning dark, looking off at the horizon. seeing something that jungkook has no hope of seeing, at least not now. staring at endlessness. jungkook? he’s not the type of person to push things that are none of his business. so – so he ignores, observes and casts into little boxes, and lets the memories live in compartments.

“not really,” taehyung says, appearing next to him in the kitchen. “seokjin just said you had to make biscuits for tea today. we’re having visitors.”

“how much?”

“enough for one person,” taehyung picks up one of jungkook’s copper bowls where he usually makes meringue. “he wants the chocolate coated ones. bought you another kilo of cooking chocolate; it’s in the pantry.”

“oh, thanks.”

jungkook sets his stuff down in the corner, leaving his umbrella in a little hook reserved just for him on the far end of the wall. no one really comes into the kitchen besides him and seokjin, and seokjin would never touch his things without his permission. jungkook has never seen jimin or taehyung try to bug him, either. despite how affectionate they are, they never give jungkook more than he can take.

with his usual light feet, taehyung leaves the nearest vicinity as jungkook disappears into his own head. he gets like this in the morning, when the sky is the brightest blue or the cloudiest grey. when he can stick himself in his own head and let his hands do the work, moving endlessly without a second thought. jungkook settles into – the sound of the light ghosting across wooden window frames, his bracelets clinking against marble, his feet moving across the clean floor. he had cleaned that floor. jungkook’s thoughts loop together like this in endless infinity.

he works, first, on getting butter and sugar and vanilla together, mixing them all in a bowl until they’re well incorporated. it takes a bit of elbow grease, but with some patience and his favorite lo-fi album playing through his headphones, the time passes by in a wink. when he has most of the shortbread cookie dough all set up and ready to chill for a couple hours, jungkook tugs off his headphones and lets them rest on a clean patch of the tabletop. his hands are covered in flour dust, caked in between his fingernails and in all the crevices of his hands. he sets his headphones down for a second, standing in front of the window, closing his eyes toward the sunlight.

the sound of windchimes makes it enjoyable, at least. jungkook looks on fondly at the one outside of the kitchen window; a present from taehyung and jimin for his eighteenth birthday. it’s decked in glittering stars and feathers, swinging gently from side to side with the wind, dark blue glass contracting light ever so often to make pretty shapes across his skin.

jimin bounds in a moment later, stealing jungkook’s attention away. decked in a dark red shirt and a pair of comfortable looking gym pants, jimin would pass as a college student if it weren’t for the smoothness of his skin and the strange light that sometimes hides behind his irises. with a smile, he goes, “how’s my favorite baker doing today?”

“i’m the only baker you know,” he replies mildly. “and i learned more on the job.”

“that’s the greatest thing about our jungkookie,” taehyung says solemnly while walking in, “his adaptability. great on transcripts.”

“it’s your réseumé, idiot,” jimin says fondly.

jungkook shakes his head. “are you here for cookies? because i didn’t make them yet; you have to wait a couple hours.”

“i want lemon bars.” jimin hoists himself on top of the counter, crossing his legs on the edge. with a cheeky smile and a poke at taehyung’s forehead that sends him reeling back comically, he’s not even super focused on half of what he’s spouting off. “and a fruit tart. and mochi, can you make strawberry ice cream mochi?”

“green tea is superior.”

“is not, take that back.”

“sorry, i’m not a fan of lying to myself.”

“you tacky asshole – “

“multi-colored bitch.”

groaning, jungkook rubs his hands over his face. “can you please stop flirting for 0.2 seconds? or at least do it in front of seokjin-hyung instead of me?”

“where’s the fun in that?” jimin scoffs. “seokjin hyung would just join in. we want a reaction.”

taehyung, instead of following like he usually would, goes over to dip his nasty finger in jungkook’s bowl of ganache. jungkook smacks the edge of the table, startling his very much older hyung. “don’t put your crusty finger in there! people are going to eat that!”

“i’m magical,” taehyung says with a hefty blob of chocolate in his mouth and smeared on his lower lip. “they should be grateful i gave them some of my magic. want any?” he wiggles his eyebrows at jimin.

“are you trying to tell me your spit is magical?”

taehyung wiggles his fingers.

jungkook is a half-step away from kicking them both out – it’s not that he cares so much about them bothering him, but he needs to finish this batch of cookies. it’s the only thing he has to do today, and jungkook won’t take for granted a day where he has pretty much one order to fill in and nothing else. usually he’s in there for a good portion of the morning standing in front of his old oven, peering through the dark tinted glass and wondering if it’s worth keeping whatever baked good he’d put in for another five minutes knowing the hot spot in the far right corner. one thing to make for the day? jungkook is counting his blessings.

jimin slaps taehyung’s hand away. they get into some sort of squabble that only the both of them can understand; jungkook is left wandering around, fixing up stuff that he sees out of place before settling into a corner chair to play on his phone. it’s warm and nice outside, and the air slowly starts to sink with the smell of vanilla. jimin and taehyung will be brought back soon, no doubt.

jungkook spots a pot of rice sitting on the counter. seokjin’s cooking is a part of him that he never leaves behind closed doors, unlike the rest of his life. jungkook sees the ghost of his hands working across the granite, mouth moving as he says something or the other to jungkook, who regards those memories as endless loops of the same audio. what changes – seokjin’s shirt, his robe, the shape of the sun against the moon, jimin’s smiles, taehyung’s voice, and nothing else in between.

sometimes it happens like this: jungkook will see the way people are connected, the way they leave things behind. he’ll be staring off into the distance and counting his breaths and wondering why his heart seems to bump so oddly, pressing fingers against his breastbone, and then his fingers with slip away from his umbrella – long enough for jungkook to be wary of it, long enough for jungkook to remember – and then he’ll see it all. sounds rush out and bleed beneath his feet; heavy, heavy thumping, like drum rolls, like meteors falling to earth.

it doesn’t happen often in the wish shop, but it still – happens.

jungkook presses his mouth closed, tilts his head to the side. his fingers curl over the edge of his knees where he sits. there’s enough sun to make him comfortably warm, but not too much. he blinks and everything returns to normal speed.

his biscuits are done. he finishes them up and sets them on the side on a nice crystal tray (in all honesty, it’s kind of garish) before heading out into the main room. his bare feet against the wood feels a little sacrilegious – seokjin wears socks – but he doesn’t stop himself from doing it anyway. there’s no use wondering after things that could be better.

seokjin rests on the sofa, lounging easily against the back with a glass of wine in one hand and a book in the other, stretching his legs out so that they’re over the table. it’s so stereotypical of him jungkook wants to throw himself in front of a train.

“what a wine dad,” jimin mutters, snickering when seokjin turns to glare at him. “what, is that your second bottle already?”

“you’re literally one to talk,” he retorts. “who was it that broke into my liquor cabinet last night? taehyung?”

“i thought i locked the liquor cabinet,” jungkook mumbles to himself, recalling the six locks he had placed on it last night. they were good locks too, the most expensive ones he could find at the hardware store.

seokjin and jimin turn to him as one, vastly unimpressed.

“well fine then,” he sulks, flopping down on the couch across from seokjin. jungkook can clearly remember a similar memory – both of them on this couch, seokjin’s hands ghosting over his as he’s given some kind of present. the glint of blue gems. jungkook leans back so that he’s resting entirely on the couch, pulling his knees up to his chest. “you can’t blame me for making bad decisions, then.”

“i never blame you for my bad drinking decisions,” seokjin says mildly, and jimin sticks out his tongue at jungkook to show how not hungover he is anymore. “my other bad decisions, however; those are all on you. wearing pink in early summer?”

“pink is a summer color!”

“not coral,” seokjin shakes his head, looking back at his book. “this summer’s pink was mauve.”

“mauve isn’t pink – “

jungkook groans and puts his palms over his eyes. “i’m going to quit.”

“okay.” seokjin takes a sip of his wine. it’s the middle of the day, jungkook thinks.

jungkook turns to face them as soon as jimin cocks his head to the side, a strange expression flitting across his face. he blinks; turns to the door, looking far beyond jungkook. seokjin doesn’t follow his line of sight, but his fingers pause in turning another fragile page. jungkook feels it like this, sometimes. where the air will chill, moving down from the ceiling to the under, shadows gathering at his peripheral. he can’t see them face to face, but – seokjin does, taehyung and jimin do. jungkook holds his breath, not willing to be the first one to move. somewhere a clock ticks, ticks, ticks, and jimin is still – looking. waiting. his eyes are bright and focused.

and then he says, “our guest is here.”

seokjin hums, and then closes his book. he tips back his wine glass until every last drop is swallowed, moving down his throat, and jungkook’s fingers hum with energy. when he’s done, he sets it down on the coffee table in front of him, reaching up to move a bit of his hair to the side. not that he needs to – it falls back into place, immaculate.

“taehyung and jimin,” he says, “get the door. jungkook, can you get the biscuits for us?”

wordlessly, jungkook stands up and heads back to the kitchen, where he’s left them to cool. he has yet to put them in the chocolate, but he knows that seokjin’s way of dismissing him had been to get him to move, finish up his job. where once he would have rushed to finish up the order – there’s been many a time he’s been told to bring out his pastries while a customer is here, only to see that there’s still a hour left of baking – now jungkook simply takes his time, fingers flitting over every small detail, breath held with every miniscule movement. better perfect than early. all in due time, he tells himself.

the door opens with a soft, silent bell. jungkook starts to bring the bowl of chocolate to the counter, ready to dip the biscuits in. he would usually leave them in the fridge to cool for an hour or two, but by the time he has fifteen of them dipped in, taehyung wordlessly walks into the kitchen and runs his fingers along the edge of the tray. white mist moves from his fingertips to sizzle across the edge of the metal. the chocolate solidifies, and jungkook pauses.

“you should take them out now,” taehyung suggests gently, stealing one of the undecorated biscuits for himself. his eyes follow jungkook as he gathers up the tray and makes his way out the door.

jimin’s already served tea; jungkook sees two steaming cups sitting on the coffee table. seokjin is sipping genially from his, smile put perfectly in place, a reflection of the glittering movement past their guest. and their guest –

a young woman sits on the other side, on the opposite couch. she’s dressed in a tan trench coat, her hair in curls and pinned to the side. she drinks her tea with vigor, knuckles red and raw. when jungkook comes in with his silent feet, her concentration breaks for a moment. she looks startled to see him. they always do.

“i brought some refreshments,” he says quietly, setting them down on the table next to the tea.

“thank you, jungkook.” seokjin presses a warm hand to his wrist before he turns to leave to the other parts of the wish shop. it’s a familiar feeling, seokjin’s fingers curled over the delicate skin of his wrist. almost like he’s checking jungkook’s pulse. no one else ever notices. “please, miss, have one.”

as jungkook slides the door behind him, he hears her voice go, “oh, these are my favorite!”

/

he’s doing inventory when one of them find him again. jungkook’s surrounded by clutter and endlessness, leaning against the edge of a bamboo bookshelf to keep himself propped up. over the years jungkook has managed to memorize at least half of the things that end up in this room, either lining the walls or hiding in dark corners. some of them disappear, some of them pop up out of nowhere. jungkook can never be sure of what he has to keep track of, but after a couple months, he’s learned that it’s useless trying to keep up with everything. it’s more useful to take things as they come.

there’s a particularly bad stain on a china vase that he’s attempting to rub off when jimin finds in his little corner, feet tucked underneath his legs. using an old handkerchief and some soapy water, jungkook has been scrubbing for the last ten minutes in an attempt to get this thing squeaky clean. he doesn’t know why he cares, but – but something tells him that this has to be clean. jungkook is not one to ignore what he can’t hear.

“oh, it looks like you’re busy,” jimin comments, stepping into jungkook’s bubble. he has his hands shoved casually into his pockets. he and taehyung never touch anything. “is that new?”

“who knows,” jungkook says. “i found it next to the emerald box.” the emerald box is a garish jewelry box that’s embedded with the ugliest cut emerald ever. the jeweler who had the original vision must have wanted to ambitiously make it into a heart, perhaps, but his hands were too unskilled to follow up with his ideas; the gemstone has been cut unevenly, it’s shine a liquid dust, and it’s placed halfway in the top of a bronze lid with the other half poking out.

the vase in his hands is nicer to look at objectively. with painted lotus patterns delicately creeping along its edge, it doesn’t make jungkook want to buy a pair of sunglasses to shield his eyes. from the ugly, of course. it would be a lovely piece if he could get that dumb little black smudge off.

“seokjin-hyung says thank you for the biscuits.” jimin scuffs the floor a little, kicking up a cloud of dust from nowhere. jungkook doesn’t understand; they’re on carpet. it dissipates with a cloud of glitter. “they were perfect.”

“oh,” he hums. well, that’s nothing less than what jungkook had expected. it’s an odd little talent that he has among many, the ability to just tell what people want. it makes him wonder – if seokjin had seen it in him, waiting underneath his skin, brimming like a filled pot. if he saw the way jungkook saw things.

the thing about seokjin is that – even when he’s been completely clear and honest, jungkook has no idea what he’s trying to say. similar to the way jungkook can tell what baked good someone wants at any given time, seokjin seems to know intimate details about people’s lives that they keep buried deep between the locked cages of their ribs. odd little talents.

“you’ve been here for hours,” jimin tsks, tone soft. he reaches down to push aside the cloth of jungkook’s shirt, worriedly going, “you’ve gotten paler, you know.”

jungkook spends nearly all of his waking moments here, in the wish shop. there’s not much left for him to do in the outside, where people seem to miss him in minute blinks. time can pass by so slowly. jungkook’s vigorous rubbing slows a little.

“seokjin-hyung wants you to pack up some biscuits for our guest.”

jungkook sets the vase aside where he had found it, turning it aside so that the smudge can’t be seen at first glance. he leaves his cleaning supplies on the floor to come back to later. “okay; did he say how many?” jungkook wipes his hands on the edge of his shirt, distracted.

“no, he didn’t.” jimin takes a steady glance at the trinkets jungkook left behind before following after, closing the door behind him gently.

it’s still daylight when jungkook comes to the front of the shop, but he feels as if it’s been ages. his wrists ache, a deep set pain from inside his bones. with a surprised frown, jungkook rubs the skin of his wrist as he heads to where seokjin and their guest is sitting. the lady in the coat stares down at her lap, a little listless.

jungkook’s step falters halfway through. “miss, are you…”

“give her a moment,” seokjin cuts in. he motions to the silver tray in front of them, mostly full. “could you pack these up? use the plain red ribbon, jungkook.”

“we don’t use red ribbons, hyung,” jungkook reminds him, taking care to lower his voice. “we don’t own any.”

for a moment, seokjin seems to freeze. he doesn’t look like he’s even breathing. utter stillness.

jungkook feels shivers up his spine, goosebumps rising on the flesh of his arms. and then, “oh, yes, you’re right. we don’t have red thread. could you use the pink, then?”

the lady in the coat blinks; jungkook hadn’t realized she wasn’t until he’s faced with her fluttering lashes, mouth pursed in an soft ‘o’ shape. her fingers curl into a tight fist in her lap, but she isn’t angry – just… sad. the corners of her mouth pull up. “that’s what i have to give up, huh?”

jungkook reaches forward to take the silver tray, cleaning up all the china cups at the same time. they rattle. seokjin’s eyes feel like liquid mercury.

“do you think the price is worth it?”

“yes,” she says almost immediately. and then, “yes, i – i think i do.”

jungkook leaves to pack up the biscuits.

/

seokjin always asks them – do you think the price is worth it? it’s not a way to keep the metaphorical spiritual police off their backs, so to say, but it’s there to assuage guilt. seokjin looks into the eyes so hollow they’re carved out, heart and lungs and organs bloody and bare, but he still looks. jungkook isn’t sure how long he’s been looking. sometimes it honestly feels like forever, sometimes it feels like just a day. jungkook wonders how easy it is to get lost in a darkness that feels so absolute it’s unimaginable to live without it.

what jungkook learns is – in between living for the honest and honestly living, some people will stare at the price of their desires and decide whether or not it’s really what they want, weigh the positives and the negatives of their choice in a fleeting lifespan. they never say no thank you. they’re never jungkook.

and so each person’s wish is granted. jungkook sees seokjin’s hands weave magic, plucking out wishes from the threads of limbo, in between stars that settle on the earth, waiting for the moment they can return. he’s a weaver, seokjin; good with his hands. his hands are broad and his fingers slender, no calluses, no scars. smooth. jungkook stares at the burn marks and scars on his own, the scabs in between his fingers, and wonders if he will ever create.

the price is always worth it.

the lady in the trench coat leaves. she’s left a hairpin behind, a beautiful bronze thing that had been in her hair. it has opals studded on the edge, tiny ones, artfully placed. seokjin motions for jungkook to pick it up and put it away, which he does. another thing added to inventory. he places it next to the emerald box. it’s a little sad, he thinks, to see all that glitters shrouded in a dusty room, never to see the light. jungkook lingers for a moment longer before closing the door and heading back to the front.

seokjin, strangely enough, is still sitting on the first couch, pouring himself another glass of wine. red spills a little bit on the coffee table, but jungkook doesn’t berate him for it. he gets rid of the other tea cups that are on the table. they clink as he sets them in the kitchen.

there’s always something off about seokjin after wishes. almost like he’s giving a part of himself away.

jungkook doesn’t really ask about what he does, or even how he does it. he’s content with this much – at least, that’s what he tells himself. contentment with eating the same things everyday, sleeping in till noon, dreaming as far as the horizon can go. jungkook likes seeing the stars.

he settles down next to seokjin, pulling the robe thrown carelessly over the arm of the sofa into his lap. a soft, silk thing with no ornamentations but all the pizazz. “what did she wish for?”

for a while, seokjin doesn’t answer him. he sips more of his wine and hums to himself. the book left on the coffee table is forgotten; jungkook’s eyes skip across the cover, reading, a day to remember. there is no author, just a picture of a sunset over a wide, open beach. when he finally gets an answer, jungkook isn’t expecting it. “the things people always wish for, i guess.”

“i thought you were the wishkeeper,” jungkook says, voice no higher than a whisper.

“sometimes i feel like a prison guard,” seokjin sighs. jungkook – is not sure what that means.

he’s always liked what seokjin does. granting wishes. giving wishes. taking the deepest parts of someone, even the bad parts, and making them come true. it may seem awful when said out loud, but there’s something comforting about the thought, the idea of a wishkeeper, of its existence. that someone out there cares enough about your deepest wants to see through every selfless veneer to shape them into reality.

sometimes jungkook wants to ask: can i do the same thing? can i look into the openness of the night and see what you do – the possibilities, the foreverness of more, can i see into nothing and get something back? or is there dust hidden in space, in between breaths of air, the things that i – we – you – can’t see? jungkook’s fingers curl. he thinks about questions and how easy it is to search for their answers, wonders why they get clogged up in his throat so vindictively, and wonders about the work of a wishkeeper.

“doesn’t seem like it pays a lot,” he jokes, and seokjin turns to him, eyes calmer. here. “i mean. how much does hyung get paid, anyways?”

“i accept your love and adoration as payment,” he says solemnly, reaching forward and – tipping some of the wine over onto the couch. “oops.”

jungkook’s temper doesn’t spike often, but – “i cleaned that yesterday, what the fuck.” technically the stains aren’t supposed to be out yet, either. he had used one of those deep cleanse things that would need an entire night to settle in before he could dampen it with water and soap, and seokjin had just – why is this a monologue in his head, again?

“i needed two days to clean that, at least,” jungkook groans.

“i pay you in housing and company.” seokjin moves away slightly. he’d been sitting on the old stain the entire time. jungkook wants to strangle him, older or not. “and protection, don’t forget protection, listen here i can use a knife – “ jungkook lunges at him, ready to at least shake his brains out, but seokjin manages to slip away as he always does. it’s the reason why jungkook isn’t afraid to put his entire body toward one hit at seokjin. just one. the other always manages, without fail, to elude his fists. seokjin’s friendly punches hurt like a bitch, though.

“let me just hit you once, hyung. i’ll be satisfied with once,” jungkook promises.

seokjin sniffs. “i’m older than you, brat. should you really be trying to hit me?”

“if you’re older then act like it,” he adds underneath his breath, “fucking five year old.”

that gets a sharp slap on the back of the head. jungkook yelps. “excuse me, i don’t deserve this kind of treatment! do you even know about labor union laws? is this how you treat all your employees?”

“only the bratty ones,” seokjin snarks back, looking mighty pleased with himself. he grabs what’s left of the glass of wine by the stem and downs it again. almost magically, jimin appears beside them with the actual bottle, pouring another glass for their esteemed boss. jungkook feels a vein throb at his forehead.

taehyung comes up beside him to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. abruptly tired, jungkook sags underneath the touch, feeling all the fight leave him in one fell swoop. his back hurts, and there’s a bit of a migraine rising from the nape of his neck. he’s thankful that taehyung is there for him sometimes; he and jimin can be serious when the situation calls for it. seokjin can, too, but it seems like there are very few situations that can get him to be as serious as jungkook wants him to be.

that is, until taehyung goes, “you need to clean that up by tomorrow, jungkookie.”

jungkook reaches up to hold his hand, smiling politely, before throwing him over his shoulder.

taehyung lands on the couch with a resounding crash, bemoaning his sudden vertigo. jungkook not-so-gently stomps back to the kitchen. moving past them reminds him of a great many things he needs to complete before the day is up: the tins and pans cluttered on the counter, the sink full of dishes, the groceries piled on the small table that need to be put away, a streaked floor that has to be mopped and swept. jungkook ignores all his duties and responsibilities to grasp the bronze latch of the only door to the backyard, throwing it open and stepping outside in nothing but his socks. it’s not as satisfying as a door with a hinge, since it’s a sliding door, but the moment that he steps foot outside, the mess of exhaustion and movement in him settles. he slides the door shut behind him.

his umbrella is still inside; the dark blue peeks at him like a promise through the closed window into the kitchen. jungkook reaches over to gently touch the ends of his favorite wind chime, listening to it ring with the slightest brush of his fingers.

jungkook loves seokjin’s garden the most. it’s something special, he wants to say, to write in words bleeding black across parchment. he doesn’t know how long the garden has existed, or even how it came to be – looking at the horizon, it seems endless. jungkook is not sure where the boundaries are; what lies beyond unseen fences. if he turns to the right, he can see the illusion of their neighbors with their tiny, packed backyards; trash littered, weed infested.

jungkook looks down at the garden in front of him, letting out a breath that feels more like a sigh. the spaces in front of him seem endless, spiraling down into meandering trails and thick brush. there’s a small archway over a lovely koi pond, dark blue and black waters reflecting the sky. lilies and other water plants crawl up the sides, bursting in everlasting color, and tiny gold and orange fish dart through the water. the ripples their bodies make through the edges is how jungkook can usually tell where they are, counting each wave as they appear and disappear.

he sits down cross-legged in the middle of the bridge, leaning forward until his forehead touches one of the bars underneath the banister. it’s painted a deep maroon. jungkook thinks: all that’s missing is an arch. a doorway.

it’s crossed his mind, once in a while, to enter the dense forest that seokjin seems to keep in his wish shop. jungkook’s gone there before in taehyung and jimin’s presence, tagging along as those two picked up ingredients or flowers or herbs growing along different edges of the greenery. never by himself. never trusting anything else but his own gut instinct.

jungkook is awful with directions.

he breathes in, then out. the air is heavy with jasmine and other floral scents, tickling his nose pleasantly. his fingers have calluses embedded deep into his skin, through every crack and crevice. flour underneath his fingernails. scars.

“they wanted to apologize,” he hears seokjin say, voice distant. there’s a shuffle of – wood against stone, movement. notes of a wind chime. something tingling along jungkook’s spine. his steps are fleet footed and light, like they always have been. seokjin walks like he’s gracefully dancing across water. jungkook doesn’t have to see it to know he’s there. “so did i.”

he inhales. exhales. breath tumbles from his lips and empties into the spaces between them, disappearing into the atmosphere. when he blinks and looks back up at seokjin, the other is dressed without his silk robe in a comfortable looking button down and a pair of slacks. he settles himself next to jungkook, also sitting cross legged, feet bare. jungkook tries not to look at his ankles, because – gosh, aren’t ankles just so weird? feet are weird. toes are weird. he wiggles his toes, encased in warm socks.

“it’s okay,” he says, because he always says it’s okay.

seokjin hums, a small smile pulling up the corners of his face. he’s staring out at the pond, leaning back on the heels of his palms to feel the sun on his face.

it’s odd, jungkook thinks, how he’s never seen – not a speck, not a hint – of any horrid weather. no, in seokjin’s house, in his shop, it is always beautiful. the clouds are always white, the sky is always blue. when it rains it never floods and when it snows it does so tastefully, tufts of heaven sent down from above. it’s never too warm. never too unbearingly cold. the water burbles on with its soft nature song, crooning a tale of nostalgia to jungkook with each long minute.

sometimes he thinks he can understand them - the creatures, the plants, the sounds. if he closes his eyes and thinks about their music, how they make melodies in his dreams, he can justify to himself – yes, this is music. yes, this is what i’m hearing.

seokjin is still and quiet. jungkook finally turns to face him, resting the side of his cheek atop his raised knees.

“sometimes we don’t remember how it feels like,” seokjin begins, tilting his head to the side. sunlight shines off the beautiful curves of his cheek. flawless. immaculate. to be human, he doesn’t say. “we didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. i didn’t mean it.”

“i know, hyung.” jungkook’s voice is no louder than a whisper. he gets annoyed – yes, he knows – sometimes it feels like it’s suffocating – yes, he knows – but it always dips out of him in the end. like he’s rushing water toward a small cavern with no escape, no place to go.

“still,” seokjin smiles, a bit sad, a bit wistful. “come here.” he holds his hand out for jungkook to take, and – he goes. easily, maybe too easily, curling into seokjin’s side.

he’s always carried around the scent of – incense, dark black tea leaves, something heady and seductive. but jungkook doesn’t care for the winking sultriness of it, only recognizes it as something familiar – something like a place to rest – and with it brings a sense of security, a lulling ease. he knows this. he knows seokjin, knows how to be treated in the confines of his home, knows how he can just be without shades or barriers, without restraints and care. and that, in itself, is familiar.

jungkook leans his head onto the side of seokjin’s neck, finding it easy to just curl up there for a moment. sometimes the elder gives him whiplash; acting like a child one moment and then an old geezer the next. jungkook can’t say that it doesn’t keep him on his toes, doesn’t perk him up once in a while. he can join in on seokjin’s antics just as easily if it doesn’t mean more work for him to do in the long run.

“those two are cleaning it up now,” seokjin hums. “i told them to. no magic, just their own hands.”

jungkook snorts. “if anything, you should be the one cleaning it up. it was your mess.”

“we’re a family, jungkookie,” he scoffs, “my mess is everyone’s mess.”

“unbelievable,” jungkook says, but he’s laughing. it bubbles up in him, soft and bright, climbing up on his ribs and slipping back down into his lungs. seokjin’s smile turns satisfied just by the satisfied quirk of his mouth, the upward tilt of his brow. when it settles once more, sinking like a stone to the bottom of jungkook’s ocean stomach, it feels less like a weight and more like a pop. a little smidgeon of reality.

“have you been practicing the guitar?” seokjin asks, looking a bit more interested. “it’s back at your apartment, right? you said you were going to play us a song.”

“maybe,” is his evasive answer. he thinks about: prickled fingers, scars on his hands. cuts at the corners, calluses forming at his fingertips. he doesn’t have pretty hands, just working ones. that should be just enough, jungkook thinks. seokjin, taehyung, jimin – they all know how much jungkook sinks himself into music, how in depth it feels with the 1-2 major chord of his heart.

a soft breeze blows through their hair, like a gentle whisper from mother nature. jungkook revels in it for a moment, closing his eyes against the spirits. when he opens them again, lashes fluttering a beat too late, seokjin’s face expresses – something odd. jungkook can sometimes catch him doing it; a look so quiet and wistful, counting the blocks in between their steps, the molecules of air resting in rows from jungkook’s elbow to seokjin’s knee. then, as abruptly as it comes it smooths out, only existing in jungkook’s memory.

“well,” seokjin considers, “we’d love to hear you sing. whenever you’re ready.”

“i wrote a bunch of songs,” jungkook says needlessly. words pile up at the backburner of his chest, pressing down like acid reflux. like he can’t help but bring them out. “they’re. well, they’re not the best, but. i like to think they’re pretty okay.”

seokjin chuckles. “i’m sure they’re great.”

“you haven’t even heard them yet.”

“but one day i will,” he says, “and i know that when i do, they’ll be great.”

a bloom of warmth unfurls in him. jungkook likes this, needs this: the familiarity of seokjin, the essence of him, the sound of his voice. this sense of – yes, i belong here – the feeling of – here you are, your family – and it’s hard to believe that most of his life, he hasn’t known the people that he does now. hard to believe someone can mean so much to him in the span of seconds.

jungkook pulls away from seokjin, his limbs free floating and his mind skipping on a high. he starts humming something underneath his breath. a moment later seokjin joins in, catching onto jungkook’s unspoken melody. they watch many things – the pond ripples, the brush of the forest, the shadows of the clouds, all hiding in plain sight.

jungkook never wished to meet seokjin, but it had certainly been what he needed.

/

some days the orders come in one at a time, all of them one after the other. he wants to try and pick them apart with his fingers, writing them down in his scrawled, loopy handwriting wherever he can; on the doors, on the whiteboard pinned on the fridge, on the soft skin between his wrist bone and his pinky finger. anywhere jungkook can find the space, feel the weight of words on his body.

he runs around from the living room to the bedrooms and every place in between, keeping a keen eye out for everything he needs. it’s one of those days where the wish shop likes fucking with them, moving around every single room and switching jungkook’s silicone baking sheets with curry packets and week old oyster sauce that has been left out for a while. looking at the way the sofas are turned upside down, jungkook groans and rubs the edge of his forehead.

jimin steps over the disassembled table with relative ease, wearing a big white sweater with crayons printed across the front. his silver earrings glint in the light. “yeah, this place is in a shitty mood today. touchy.”

the wish shop sends something zooming through the air. jungkook jumps back with a minor scream, his shoulders rising in a defensive position. he moves his hands in front of his body instinctively, smacking his hip against the bottom edge of a standing mirror that just so happens to be next to him. when he gives jimin an incredulous look that can’t quite express how he feels, the other has already shifted to the side with a cheerful whistle. a knife, freshly embedded into the wall (so much so that jungkook can still see it vibrate) had just narrowly missed them both.

“what did i do,” jungkook groans, rubbing his hip and dragging another hand down his face. “no, really, what did i do to deserve this? is this because i didn’t clean up the bathroom that one time last week? no way was i going to deal with taehyung’s shit.” after a moment, he adds, “literally.”

“like i said,” jimin grimaces, “touchy.”

“where’s seokjin?”

grabbing the handle of the knife, jimin removes it from the wall with one fluid move. “believe it or not, the shop is angrier with taehyung than it is with me. or seokjin.” the blade twirls between his fingers. jimin shouldn’t be able to make a kitchen knife look cool, jungkook frowns. “it only ever likes you.”

“gee, i wonder why,” he says loftily. it’s not like he’s not the one wiping down the counters and serving tea and making biscuits all the damn time, or taking care of the garden when the others don’t (which is. all the time.), or giving somewhat of a shit about the place. hell, he probably cares more about the place than his own apartment. jungkook likes to live, thank you, and he’s sure that some sort of magical natural selection (ie their current situation) will make sure he prevails over other magical beings with an allergy toward cleaning products.

“it’s because taehyung was poking around the relics,” jimin admits, “and now the shop is throwing a fit.”

“i thought seokjin told him not to touch those?”

jimin raises an eyebrow. jungkook sighs so hard in exasperation that it almost comes out of his nose.

he picks up everything he can with whatever strength he has, dumping it all on the other side of the room. then he starts to get to work on righting the furniture. after a moment, when he notices that there’s no other hand to help him pick up the other side, jungkook wipes his palms on the seat of his jeans and goes, “well, hyung, aren’t you going to help me?”

jimin is staring down at the knife, a frown marring his face. his eyes are hooded. jungkook can’t understand why – it’s just another kitchen knife. after a moment, charged and ringing with silence, jimin blinks and sets the knife down gently on the floor, in the corner, in plain sight.

“yeah, let’s get going.” he takes long strides to match jungkook’s pace at the other end of the room, and by the time that they’ve finished getting most things in order – jimin using his magic to set their coffee table back upright – jungkook is sweating and hoping for something to just kill him. the roof could cave in; he wouldn’t mind. for a moment his mind goes toward saying the magic words – i wish – but he stops himself at the last moment.

groaning, he settles back into the cushions, his muscles aching with the movement. jimin shuffles a bit, hidden away from jungkook’s gaze, before the soft slide of a door tells jungkook that he’s gone somewhere else for the moment.

it’s a nice way to just relax, jungkook thinks. he feels tired enough that the buzz of need to do something isn’t so persistent; there’s a sweet wind coming in from the west window; he feels a little bit like he’s accomplished something. done something. even if it’s just setting things back in order.

the moment abruptly disappears as soon as seokjin comes by, ‘tsk’ing at something. he hears taehyung distantly whining about something – is that jimin with him? probably. jungkook isn’t too sure what’s happened, but he’s not entirely sold on figuring it out.

seokjin smacks his calf.

“this is my sitting place,” he says when jungkook moves his arm to look at him. “shoo. my butt imprint is here.”

“i don’t see your name on it,” he replies pointedly, digging his butt into the cushions for good measure. seokjin purses his lips.

the next thing jungkook knows, the other is sitting on his legs, purposefully moving all of his weight onto jungkook. swearing, the younger shoots up and tries to kick seokjin away, but it’s no use. the other is definitely using magic, that cheater, his fingers sparking a little as he crosses his arms leisurely and checks his nails.

“hyung, you’re so -so much.” jungkook smacks his elbow, hoping that it’ll get his attention.

“this is quite the comfortable cushion,” seokjin says loudly, getting comfortable on jungkook’s numb knees. “i think i’ll stay here for the rest of that day.”

“i have work to do! work that you gave me!”

louder, seokjin goes, “gosh, the cushion even talks.”

jimin heads in, going, “jungkookie, you got a package! it’s from that lady who got to take her favorite biscuits home yesterday – what the fuck is going on?”

“seems kinky,” he hears taehyung go. jungkook doesn’t need to see him to know that he’s wiggling his eyebrows.

“punishment,” seokjin says, and if he thinks hard enough, jungkook can imagine him sipping a cup of tea. it only makes him want to punch seokjin harder. just once.

it only gets worse when jimin and taehyung decide they want to join in on adding to jungkook’s suffering, diving onto the couch with a yell. the wind gets knocked out of him when jimin’s elbow digs into his ribs and taehyung falls on top of jimin, effectively trapping him underneath their stupid heavy bodies with just enough space to breathe and move his arms around indignantly.

seokjin is chortling, his voice pitching high into the laugh that they all affectionately recognize. taehyung reaches over to squeeze jungkook’s cheeks lovingly. “you’re so adorable, gguk.”

jungkook’s urge to throw them all off of him takes a sharp incline. with a burst of strength (of unknown origins) he turns around so all of them are slipping off onto the floor. it comes and goes like an adrenaline rush, pumping jungkook’s veins full of a jackrabbiting fire before it dies down almost immediately. he huffs in disappointment before yelping as the trajectory of his body takes him tumbling on top of the three of them on the mat. he feels like the youngest in a litter of puppies.

he’s also sure that he’s knocked his noggin somewhere. the back of his neck hurts. “i hate you guys,” he moans, giving up and letting his face fall into someone’s chest. by the scent, it’s probably taehyung. only taehyung would wear cologne that smells like blackberries. “the worst friends ever. negative 100 out of 10, wouldn’t recommend, 0 stars on steam.”

“we don’t have internet connection in this room,” jimin reminds him. “it’s all the way in our bedrooms. so even if you wanted – “

“i think, my dear jimin,” taehyung begins, his voice louder in jungkook’s ear due to their proximity, “this is what the millennials call a meme.”

seokjin snorts.

jungkook kicks taehyung in the shin. “can you stop trying to chokehold me? i can’t get any air like this.”

“you must be drowning in my sea of chest hair,” taehyung says proudly.

jimin mutters, “you mean all three of them?”

“interesting how you knew there’s only three,” seokjin adds amiably. “quite interesting inde – ow!”

jungkook snickers. serves him right.

instead of rolling over and getting up to do what he has to – baking, to be specific, and maybe starting one of the books he found in jimin’s room, and setting up something for tomorrow – he sinks into taehyung’s comfortable weight and closes his eyes.

it’s nice, relaxing like this. none of them bother to say anything, which jungkook is glad for. it would have – broken it, he thinks, shattered the gentle movement of breath escaping from their containers, fabric under fingers, the sound of heart – beat beat beat. and it’s so, so very easy to leave it like that, to settle in with the sounds and the sights sparking blue and gold behind his eyelids, heaving exhales littering his body. jungkook just finds it – easy, yes, like this. to sink in. and when he closes his eyes, it’s just as easy to not open them again.

when jungkook does pull away from taehyung and sits up, he’s a little ruffled, a button print against his cheek. it’s been ages, he thinks, but when he turns to the clock no time has passed. seokjin is sleeping, eyes closed, jimin curled up onto his side. taehyung’s hand loosely grasps the back of jungkook’s shirt. he peels his fingers away, settling them in front of his chest, gently moving his head up a little on a rumpled silk robe (sorry, seokjin) to make sure he can breathe okay.

carefully, quietly, he toes around them – jabs his foot against the table, of fucking course – and limps out toward the kitchen. at the black, ornate clock on the wall, jungkook allows himself a moment of reprieve before blinking, tilting his head to the side. the second hand starts moving. the earth beneath his feet begins to shift.

seokjin will still have his ass if he doesn’t get to work, though. jungkook rolls up his sleeves, washes his face in the kitchen sink, and does as he’s always apt to do: dive right in.

the hours tick by. they’ve always been sort of weird inside the wish shop. like – one day, he knows where he is, but the next – is it the next day? is it the next hour? jungkook is never quite sure. time passes like skipping stones, moving from one end of the ocean to the other. he knows that it’s there, can see the movement on the surface, but it doesn’t feel real. feels sort of like he’s watching from beyond a glass panel, counting each skip. each hour.

his fingers hurt by the end of it. his wrist aches like a bitch, pulling at his elbow and the soft skin of his inner wrist, which means that he’s most certainly overworked something, but – but. he has an apple pie in the oven and chocolate croissants ready to bake and he’s. it feels. nice.

like something is waiting.

jungkook goes back to check on seokjin, jimin, and taehyung, but they have yet to wake up or show any sign of consciousness. it’s a little worrying, to be honest, but they don’t look or seem any different; bodies all easy and still, relaxed in dreamland. jungkook kind of wants to let them be. it’s true that even with all the time he’s spent here, a sight like this hasn’t been all too common. to be vulnerable. to be open. it’s a statement, an aperture of trust; don’t hurt me.

so jungkook digs through one of the closets for a throw blanket and settles it over all of three of them. even in summer, the night times can bring a bit of a chill, and it’s quickly approaching evening.

straightening, jungkook frowns. when he bakes, there’s always a customer. yet – they’re reaching the end of their day, and there’s been no one in yet to speak with seokjin. this has never happened before. it leaves him lagging at the end, a couple of ellipses, wondering how the next sentence should start.

the wish shop finishes it for him. the door squeaks open, chimes ringing, and jungkook startles away from the sleeping figures on the floor.

someone else stumbles in – a man, he can parse out – groaning and shutting the door quickly behind him, rushing to peek out the window next to the front door to observe something far out of jungkook’s sight. his heart rate ricochets up, unsure of what to do. what does he do? seokjin has always, always been awake.

jungkook hurriedly tries to nudge him with his foot, but seokjin doesn’t wake, eyelids gently closed, looking like a beautiful portrait. jungkook represses the urge to draw a mustache across his face in black marker.

he makes an aborted movement to try and move toward the kitchen, maybe to hide out until the mysterious guy leaves, but then he remembers the three idiots sleeping at his feet. forget sleeping, he thinks to himself, a tad bit depressed, they’re practically unconscious. if he catches any of them drinking before they’ve slept, even jimin, jungkook is going to tear this shop down floorboard by floorboard.

in his minute hesitation, he doesn’t notice the figure turn around at that exact moment, also freezing in place. his forehead is covered by a windswept mess of dark brown hair, strong brows rising in surprise, dark eyes peeking through his fringe. jungkook certainly doesn’t let out a strange sound akin to a mouse. no, that’s – that’s –

“oh man,” the stranger blurts out, holding his hands up for jungkook to see his palms, wrapped in bandages. “listen, i promise i’m not a burglar or a thief or anything shady – i was running from these guys, and they were like – okay, that probably sounds really shady but – i’m from this underground dancing ring, right, and i just got the wrong people mad – shit this is really not what i want to say – i’m not a bad person,” he spews out in one breath, leaving jungkook staring wide eyed at him. “this doesn’t look good for me right now. i wouldn’t even blame you if you called the police, honestly.” a pause. “but please don’t, i’m literally fucking broke, man.”

“uh,” jungkook starts, before even that gets interrupted by the sound of a very high pitched rumbling.

the stranger’s face takes on a dark shade of red that jungkook hadn’t thought was plausible for a human being.

“this has just been nominated for the top ten worst moments of my life,” he mutters, putting his face in his hands and refusing to look at jungkook. this, of all things, calms the nerves bouncing around wildly across jungkook’s arms in the form of goosebumps. he presses a hand against his sternum and thanks every star when it starts to return to normal. “this is worse than when i accidentally pantsed myself first day of high school. someone, lord, god and all spirits above, please shoot me with lightning.”

oh, jeez. it’s another dramatic one. jungkook coughs a little to get his attention; the stranger’s head shoots up, a look of panic clear across his eyes.

“listen, i know what i said earlier – completely valid, by the way – but i really can’t afford to – “

“are you hungry?” jungkook asks quietly.

“ – i’m already trying to make ends meet and living on my best friend’s couch isn’t the best – what?”

jungkook tries to repress a smile. the stranger is a bit cute, with his wide eyes and his heart shaped mouth. “i asked if you were hungry. your stomach was growling earlier. that was you, right?”

“yeah,” he says faintly, still staring at jungkook.

a flush rises to his face, unbidden, at the other’s intense gaze of surprise. he scratches the edge of his burning cheek and points to the direction of the kitchen, going, “do you like sweets?”

the stranger follows him to the kitchen, not even mentioning the three sleeping men haphazardly lying across each other on the floor. taehyung’s already kicked his part of the blanket off, favoring cuddling seokjin like an octopus. jungkook leads the stranger aside from their strange unconscious antics and to the open door of the kitchen. a gust of fresh air hits him in the face as he slides the door open; a moment later, the scent of baked goods shadow it.

“feel free to sit wherever you want,” he motions to one of the chairs that taehyung or jimin like to take when they’re bothering him, or when jungkook wants to watch seokjin cook.

the stranger is quite responsive, following everything that jungkook says. jungkook takes the pie out of the oven, not completely sure what had come over him to make the lattice work as intricate as he had, and waits five minutes for it to cool down. he cleans up a bunch of pots and pans that had been soaking in the sink when he hears the stranger finally find his voice.

“so,” the other starts, cautious, but not quite unable to keep the bewildered confusion from lacing his tone, “do you always invite people who burst into your home for cookies and tea?”

“yeah,” jungkook hums.

“oh.”

he waits. something tells him that’s not the end of it.

“is this not odd to you? this is incredibly odd to me. i don’t even know your name. what’s going on.”

jungkook takes a moment to wipe his soapy hands with a checkered dish rag. he sets out a clean white dessert plate, the ones they use instead of the fine china the guests usually get served.

“i’m jungkook,” he says, a bit hesitant. turning slightly to reveal dark, curious eyes, he goes, “are you homeless?”

“what?” the other splutters, “no, i’m – why would you think that?”

“you said you were living on your friend’s couch.”

“i’m – “ he coughs. “i’m his roommate. i may have been. exaggerating a little?”

“oh,” jungkook says, “i’m glad you’re not homeless.”

“um, thanks?” the guy gives him an odd look as jungkook sets down a plate of steaming apple pie in front of him; it’s part confusion and part curiosity. jungkook soaks it and lets it sit at the base of his stomach. it’s been so long since he’s talked to someone other than taehyung, jimin, or seokjin; he’s not sure if he’s pulling it off quite as well as he’d like to think.

he motions at the plate, pushing it toward the other. it’s a big slice, too. bigger than he’d ever cut for any of his dumb hyungs. “go ahead,” he starts, and then tilts his head to the side. an unspoken question.

“i’m hoseok,” says the-stranger-now-hoseok, before taking a fork and digging in. as soon as he takes a bite, astonishment climbs up his features too quick for him to hide it. it then melts away into something warmer, softer, turning the hard line of his jaw and the intense look of his eyes into a gentler, warmer color. “is this apple pie? apple pie is my favorite.”

“oh,” jungkook says, and something clicks.

hoseok eats like he’s been running for a long time; hungry enough for it to claw at his stomach, forcing him to dig in a little deeper, eat without really tasting, shoveling it down his mouth. as soon as he gets something close to full, however, he – calms down a little. moves slower, takes smaller bites, waits a bit before trying to cross the finish line. jungkook doesn’t take any for himself, not now that he knows apple pie is hoseok’s favorite.

there had been something jungkook hadn’t noticed before, something that appears halfway through hoseok taking another bite of cinnamon-apple goodness. a little ring of red, tired around his pinky finger, flickering in and out of existence. jungkook thinks – about his umbrella, about the shop, and then about the thin thread of red that connects jimin and taehyung’s fingers, so faint that sometimes it sinks into nonexistence. the red thread, still flickering. jungkook tries not to stare.

oh, it’s been a while.

hoseok eventually notices – how can he not? jungkook’s eyes are constantly fixated on his fingers, even when he’s trying his best not to, but. it’s been months, days bleeding into weeks, hours and years since he’s had to face people that were not wish shop people. people who are actual people. jungkook’s fingers curl at the edge of his shirt, wrinkling it and wringing it whenever he can.

“um,” hoseok starts when he’s a bit more toward the end of his meal. “sorry, i must look like a complete pig. i – did you – “

“it’s okay,” jungkook shakes his head. “i’m glad you like it!”

hoseok pauses, smiling a bit hesitantly. “did you make it? it’s really good. amazing, actually.”

“i did. baked it this morning.”

“oh, i. i feel bad, probably shouldn’t have eaten that – “

“no, it’s okay,” jungkook smiles, “i probably wouldn’t have finished it anyway. i’m glad someone gets to enjoy it.”

briefly, hoseok’s eyes flicker toward the door, where seokjin and the others are still sleeping. “will they…”

jungkook snorts. “forget about them. i always end up baking something new every day, so they’ll get something tomorrow.”

that startles a laugh out of hoseok. “oh well – alright, then.”

jungkook isn’t sure how to do this. he’s never actually stuck around when seokjin sits down with his customers, with their guests. only people with wishes can see the wish shop, strong, willful wishes – so something about hoseok must be wanting something else. seokjin is a master of carefully extracting those wants out, digging deep with his hands from each tethered rib to get into the meat of it: what do you desire the most?

jungkook? jungkook makes them their favorite pastries.

he has no idea what he’s doing, or even why. something about – the wishes of stars, yes, the movement of maybes, the possibility of a dream come true. but jungkook is the only one who has ever declined seokjin’s offer to make his desires reality. perhaps he’s the only one who has ever realized that sometimes, wishes have prices that are too great to give.

hoseok continues eating comfortably, but jungkook has no idea what to tell him. he wants desperately for seokjin to wake up, but the word wish is sacred in this temple, and if he uses it unwisely, it’ll be a backlash for him and him only.

so jungkook keeps quiet and thinks about where they are; where, out of a thousand places that the both of them could be in, somehow he and hoseok and in each other’s space.

his plate eventually finishes, scraped clean. jungkook blinks down at it, takes it to the sink, and – “i’m still really freaked out, you know.”

same, jungkook thinks.

“well, you’re sure acting fine.”

swearing, jungkook drops the plate into the sink with a disturbingly loud clang. he winces. prays to every deity that seokjin’s whatever-old plates didn’t crack, break, or be otherwise scratched and therefore harmed in any way. longingly staring at the door to where seokjin is, jungkook tugs a bit at his bangs in slight frustration.

“sorry,” hoseok adds, a little bit quieter, sheepish.

“no, it’s okay,” jungkook sighs. “the thing is – thing is, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t meant to be here. so why would i worry?” the pie is for hoseok. jungkook’s fingers have never been wrong.

this doesn’t make as much sense to hoseok, which is understandable. he picks at the edge of his cuffed sleeve, aviator jacket settling nicely over his shoulders. he’s a rugged but kind type of handsome, with strong, dark brows but a sweet curve of the mouth. the lines around them tell jungkook that he’s not one to avoid laughter when it comes, sweet and bubbly, rising in him like music. jungkook sits down across from him once more, careful not to place his gaze at the flickering red string popping in and out of existence on his finger.

“i’m… i don’t understand,” he says honestly.

“i know,” jungkook groans, because – “i don’t usually do this. seokjin-hyung does, but he’s not even awake, and for some reason he’s not – “ ends in a disgruntled note. there’s no other way to explain what he means, the incessant need of if seokjin is here, then everything is okay. if seokjin is here. he should have added: if seokjin is awake, everything will fall into place.

jungkook only has fumbling, scar-soft hands, his thrumming guitar strings, his kneaded knuckles. he doesn’t have much else. he’s got no magic, not the star shine dust of seokjin’s knowing words or the electric sizzle of jimin’s lightning or taehyung’s calm quiet of shadows. jungkook has his hands, and his voice, and his sight. that’s all.

he realizes, a beat too late, that he might be in over his head.

but hoseok is staring at him with a mixture of depleted confusion and a sense of sated comfort, sinking back into his chair before straightening, as if he has to remind himself. jungkook wants to give him more than just that. so he bustles up his courage and says, “do you have a wish?”

hoseok blinks. “a – a wish?”

“everyone has a wish,” jungkook says. “something they want. this shop sells wishes.”

“how can a shop sell wishes?”

and suddenly, something else clicks.

jungkook remembers the sounds of an age old conversation, perhaps still haunting the halls of this very shop, lingering in the corners. yes, he can almost imagine – the sound of seokjin’s melodic but graceful tone, the taste of a dark tea, his umbrella resting under trembling fingers in his lap. “everything in the world has a price. when we wish on a star, what do you think happens?”

hoseok blinks, like he’s never thought about it before. that’s the great thing about being in the shop; it forces you to sit down and think. not just about the now, but about the before, about the what ifs. in between all the cracks in the ceiling and the sliding bamboo doors, every hairsbreadth of space, there is something magical waiting to be found. some of them – fallen wishes, created by eons-ago dust, formed by the last few stars falling from the edge of the universe. the thing is, the shop is a wish made by a small little boy and his big little dreams, grasping straws and dreams and everything in between over a long horizon.

“hoseok-ssi,” jungkook goes, “what do you want?”

the thing is – the thing is, jungkook is no wishkeeper.

hoseok says nothing for a long moment. his eyes are unfocused, contemplating. jungkook gives him that, his own heart rising to his throat.

“i don’t know what i want,” he replies softly. “i don’t…”

it’s an echo. jungkook smiles the best he can, even though it must seem a little weak, too. “everyone has a wish. that’s what brings them here, after all.”

hoseok shuffles, hands pressed together, wringing his fingers into each other. he wants something, yes, and he knows what he wants, yes, but he doesn’t want it to come true. jungkook recognizes the signs of it – the meaning of it – and his breath catches. oh. oh no.

“i don’t know what i want,” hoseok says again, but it sounds less convincing. less sure.

and jungkook – “good, because i can’t grant it for you,” he admits. “i’m not the shopkeeper. i literally just bake. and clean.” he holds up his hands in a parody of ta-daa!, wiggling all his fingers for extra emphasis. hoseok looks like jungkook has just smacked him across the face.

“are you serious?” he gapes. “i thought some serious mystical bullshit was about to take place. like fog rolling in, the room turning upside down, someone throwing a bathroom toilet at me. that kinda thing. you lead me on!”

“well, everything i said was true,” jungkook huffs, crossing his arms. he’s trying hard not to smile; hoseok’s funny when he’s all worked up. “this is  a wish shop. i didn’t freak out seeing you here because only people who have wishes they want granted can see the shop at all. the fact that you even got in, despite running from some thugs – “

“they aren’t thugs exactly – “

“ – means that you have something you want,” jungkook finishes. “and everything does have a price.” a little embarrassed, he cocks his head to the side. “i just can’t tell you what that price is. i don’t know how to.”

it’s like someone has stuck a wound into the flesh of their silence; the tension bleeds out almost immediately. hoseok is more open, friendly, even by the simple curve of his shoulders, in the way that he talks to jungkook. no more secrets, no more what ifs. jungkook knows that they still linger, hiding at the back of their memories, but. for now.

“it’s okay,” hoseok mumbles, rubbing the side of his face. a red flush rises from his neck to overtake his ears and a good portion of his nose, blotchy and deep. “it’s just. what i want – what i want is probably something i can’t get. so it’s okay, really. you don’t have to grant my wish or whatever.” he smiles – one jungkook hasn’t ever seen before, not on himself or anyone else he’s ever known. “i’m happy.”

and he is. that’s the thing – he’s happy with what he has, what he is. it smooths every sharp, distinct line of him – happiness. it blurs the bright colors of him into something mellow – happiness. it turns the flickering red string on his finger into something substantial, so vibrant it’s nearly blinding – happiness.

oh, jungkook thinks, and wonders how it must feel.

he stands up and starts to pack the rest of the apple pie for hoseok, because – what else does he have to do? this is the end of their meeting, isn’t it? there is a wish. it hasn’t been granted, but seokjin had never forced their guests to make a wish. always asked, would you like me to grant it? asked, do you think the price is worth it? and most of them – did. but most of them don’t have the kind of smile hoseok does.

hoseok watches him in confusion, holding his hands open immediately as soon as jungkook packages up the rest of the apple pie in a small green box. “this is – “

“for you,” jungkook shakes his head when the other opens his mouth to try and give it back. “it was always yours,” he says simply.

hoseok leaves as quickly as he had come, a whirlwind moving outside of the wish shop. seokjin, taehyung, and jimin are still sleeping where jungkook has left them. when the door shuts behind hoseok, jungkook peeks through the window to watch his figure disappear down the straight.

“what are you planning?” he whispers, curtains falling past his fingers to hide what’s inside the wish shop once more. jungkook leans his forehead against the wall. something is starting, he thinks.

and if that was for hoseok –

he turns to the kitchen, at the luminous glow of the sun setting flooding through the windows and spilling over into this room like rambunctious children. at the other end of the kitchen, where he’s left a metal cooling rack up, the last batch of croissants rest. if the pie was for hoseok – then who is this for?

/

seokjin doesn’t know about it. well, jungkook assumes seokjin doesn’t know about it, but seokjin usually knows about everything, so if he has the chance to rub some type of inane knowledge in jungkook’s face – or let him get the full brunt of his disapproving eyes and his carefully crafted words of wisdom – he won’t pass up a chance to do so. it’s been a week since hoseok’s visit. the croissants are kept in a little bakery box in the corner of the room waiting to be taken, and seokjin still hasn’t said a word.

it sets jungkook on edge.

he won’t lie, it’s a little unsettling. to see seokjin act as though nothing is wrong, going by his day without a care in the world. he hums in the mornings when the garden is waking; picks out another silk robe from his treasure trove of favorites stashed in the back of his ornate, ancient korean styled room; and drinks all the 1802 bottles of wine when he thinks jungkook isn’t looking. they’re all from 1802. jungkook doesn’t know how he doesn’t have any year other than 1802. he supposes that there would have been some acknowledgement of that odd day, where seokjin had fallen deep under in a way unknown to jungkook of all the days he’s worked at the wish shop, but there’s nothing. absolutely nothing.

jungkook steps outside his apartment building and takes in a deep, shuddering breath, the easy air of mid summer flooding through his lungs. it sticks to his skin like heat, prickling at the slightly sweating nape of his neck. jungkook is grateful for the shade his umbrella provides. the charms linked at the ferrule clink with every step, providing a soft ambience to jungkook’s wanderings. he has no work today. seokjin does this sometimes – calls for a day off, shutting down everything about the wish shop with no aforementioned planning.

sometimes jungkook questions it. like the weekend of christmas, when wishes usually ran abundant, beating fruitfully in chests like dilated hearts; or the new year, a moment of fleeting celebration, a wish to remember the past and have it thick and heady in between one’s fingers before it leaves for another horizon. perhaps that’s why seokjin closes down on those days; nothing brings people to their innermost desires until the event of a loss. and once the trembling moment is over, when the smoke clears from their gazes, suddenly they realize that this is not what they want after all – that, for a moment, it had seemed too good to be true. and it was.

but today? today, jungkook can’t figure out why seokjin would close down shop.

he knows jimin and taehyung must be down, curled up somewhere inside the shop, sleeping soundly. their magic feeds off of the leylines, the ground well of salt and stardust, soaking it up through their fingertips. yes, jimin must be curled by the hammock in the far side of the garden, and taehyung the corner of his room where pillows are strewn all across the edge of a window, where he prefers. their favorite hiding places. hibernating places. jungkook’s fingers tighten around the handle of his umbrella.

underneath its cool shade, he feels less like a being walking the earth and more like a spirit himself. it’s hard to find jungkook in a crowd. it’s hard to remember his features when one tries to look hard enough at him. he has nothing to do on days like these, his hands aching, his fingers always fidgeting, his feet moving from one destination to the next. as if searching for something that has yet to exist.

and so – since he has nothing else to do, since here’s not much left except the state of his own affairs and the curve of the horizon from his ever changing viewpoint, jungkook settles for his second best pair of sneakers, stashes a couple of snacks in a small leather backpack, and heads outside. he’s freshly showered with his lemon scented shampoo and body wash, spritzed with light floral perfume, aided so heavily by the presence of scent that he’s sure if anyone were to recall the distant shape of his body, it would be through the impression of orange blossoms and lemongrass.

seoul is still quite beautiful, even if jungkook doesn’t spend his time here anymore. while it’s not his memory – for how little of that he has – there’s still an odd, sprawling beauty to it. city beauty. stacked up on top of one another, moving with one heaving inhale, as if she is an entity all her own. her pulse, the moving subways beneath the ground, roaring louder like a dragon’s flight. her lights, spread ever so evenly, skipping across shapes and sounds to treat the view with a spectacular blend of luminescence. her people, resting in the street and sleeping in their lofts and skipping over cracks on the sidewalks and going to school and returning from work and buying cigarettes at the convenience store and living in her magic, surviving on her ever giving love, sustaining themselves on the blood of her streets.

jungkook can’t recall what his favorite childhood memory is.

there are gaps in his recollection that mimic the effect of cracks in a sidewalk. with seokjin, it’s easy to forget emptiness when he feels so full. temporary fullness, while temporary, is still better than nothing. jungkook hates days off. all he has left is the hesitation of his fingers around a childhood relic, his feet in the current of a moving crowd. here, it’s easy to be nobody. and he’s already nobody.

in the corner of his eye, something red catches his attention.

jungkook knows about it, the red threads. it’s impossible not to. he sees them curling around fingertips or curved on wrists, sometimes on necks, sometimes on ankles. some part of them that beats so rapidly for the intent of another. jungkook wonders, sometimes, about the thread around jimin and taehyung’s fingers, sometimes wonders about a world where there is someone whose heart beats at the same tandem as yours. jungkook has always been able to see them, the way he’s able to see a lot of things. even with his umbrella, this is one thing that has never left his line of vision.

a little girl no older than six years old is holding hands with another little girl, both of them laughing and tumbling down the street with their parents following after them, fond smiles on their faces. yes, the red is so bright because it’s already formed. looping between their wrists, moving from one pulse to another, tangling them for an age. they disappear from a crowd and jungkook loses sight of their color.

it’s too early for this, he thinks to himself, raising a hand to rub one eye. he only wanted to get some milk from the convenience store.

heading in the right direction, he vouches to himself that he won’t waste his time trying to seek out the threads with his eyes. the more you look for them, the more they appear. jungkook wants to get back to his house so he can continue to watch rewatch clannad and cry for a couple hours.

the convenience store down the road from his apartment is a bit far, but it certainly is the nicest one he’s seen around. it’s neither filthy nor smelly, missing the absent scent of waste and urine from the corners that most hole in the wall places have in his neighborhood. jungkook hops on the first step inside the convenience store and heads inside, closing his umbrella and letting it hang on his wrist. over the years, it’s become a reassuring weight.

the older man at the front gives him a smile, waving genially. jungkook curls his fingers back in response before heading straight for the cold drinks, already prepared for all the things he wants to get. milk is there first, obviously, but then a couple of other things head there as well – juice, some bread, a couple of snacks that he picks up on the side. he can’t watch clannad without ice cream. he wants to rewatch fullmetal alchemist later and that’s going to need a whole lot of comfort food, including the package of chocolate chip wafers sitting high on the shelf.

do they have this in strawberry? he’s been on a weird strawberry mood lately, having bought strawberry milk instead of his regular banana (not that he doesn’t have banana milk at home, he just. wants strawberry nowadays for some reason). jungkook looks over the tin a couple times, figuring that he can just ask the older man behind the register. not really paying attention to where he’s going, jungkook doesn’t take enough care in watching his step, so it’s all together unsurprising when he bumps into another body with surprising force.

“oh, i’m sorry – “ he pulls back sharply, holding the wafer tin to his body so that its sharp edges don’t dig into someone’s skin, stumbling back a little. what he doesn’t expect is for the other to swear and bump into a showing stand of water bottles, knocking a whole row over.

“oh, damn,” the other goes, groaning. “i’m sorry about that,” he goes, turning to jungkook first before turning to the manager of the convenience store. “i’ll clean it up, i promise.”

jungkook doesn’t know what the manager’s answer is, but it doesn’t look like a big deal. even still, the guilt bubbles up inside him quick and fast. “i bumped into you first,” he says firmly, putting the wafer tin aside and leaning over to help the other pick up the water bottles and return them to their brethren. “it’s really my fault, don’t worry about it. i’ll clean this up.”

“no, no, it’s all good,” the other laughs; he has dimples when he smiles, glasses falling slightly forward on the bridge of a button nose. “it was half my fault, too – i was on my phone. typical millennial shit, huh?” his pace calms down a bit, making sure that each bottle is placed evenly in their own little rows. jungkook finishes up the end of it, wiping his hands of the condensation that’s left on his fingers. “thanks!”

“no problem,” he says, smiling and stepping back. “sorry about that again.”

the other waves a hand in the air, his expression telling jungkook that it’s really nothing worth worrying over. as they part ways, jungkook heads to the counter and begins to take out all his purchases, setting them up one by one on the counter for the manager to swipe him through. they make small conversation, talking about the weather and the reason why jungkook had created an accident in his store – they don’t have strawberry wafers anyways – before he’s given a plastic bag full of his goodies. with a wave, jungkook takes his receipt and heads outside, casually looking through the list of things that he’s bought, opening up his umbrella in the meantime before heading out into the sun.

he’s about a street away from the convenience store when he notices that he had been scanned for the milk twice, paying more than usual. with a groan, jungkook stops in the middle of the sidewalk, double checking the end price with his phone. this is the second time this has happened this month, but it’s not like he can fault the ahjussi at the counter for making mistakes – his vision isn’t the best. it takes a bit of maneuvering, but jungkook manages to stuff the receipt in his pocket, making sure that the bag slides down his arm toward his elbow so he can turn quickly run back to the store –

when again, in the same hour nonetheless, jungkook crashes into someone.

this time is a lot more painful. he feels his nose ache as he rebounds back a little, and he steps on his right foot in such a way that a zing of pain shoots up his ankle and leg; his grocery bang bumps harshly into his hip. in that moment of sudden, unexpected pain, jungkook’s fingers loosen over the handle of his umbrella.

“oh, no – “ the shout rips free from his throat despite himself, watching with wide eyes as his umbrella, light as it is, is picked up by the wind.

“fuck, i’m so sorry again – “ it’s the guy from the convenience store, hurriedly pushing his glasses onto his face. “i was running and – “

“my umbrella!” jungkook doesn’t really care about the injury done to his body; all that matters is the floating curve of blue in the air, going further and further away from him, already across the street. he makes an aborted, quick movement to run after it, adrenaline already pumping heavy in his veins and adding onto his panic, but a hand on his arm roughly drags him back. a car zooms past, so close jungkook feels the movement of air against his cheek.

“whoa, don’t kill yourself,” the guy says sharply, making sure that he’s back on the sidewalk. “i’m sorry about your stuff, but running out onto the street – “

horrifyingly enough, something sharp and burning starts prickling behind his eyes. “my umbrella is all the way over there, i have to go get it – i have to go – “ but there’s too much traffic going on in front of him, cars and trucks moving side to side in each direction, and jungkook’s mind can’t separate the difference between moving on the crosswalk or not.

“are you okay? i’m really sorry, i can try to help – “

jungkook pulls away from the stranger, wiping at his eyes to get rid of whatever moisture is already there. “it’s okay,” he says, even though his voice is high strung and it’s most definitely not okay. “i need to go get that back, it’s fine, i just need to – “ he attempts to move forward again, but is forced back by the sound of a truck passing through.

the guy stands there, lingering, and jungkook wants to scream a little. “if there’s any way i can help, “ but his eyes are flickering to the sidewalk, and for the first time jungkook notices that he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, almost as if nervous. he needs to go somewhere.

“no,” jungkook says, unable to keep the misery out of his voice. “it’s okay. just…”

he turns back to the direction that his umbrella had been lost in, blinking a little, lost. the characteristic midnight, deep blue that he’s used to has all but disappeared in the grey backdrop; jungkook looks around endlessly, desperately, for any sign of it. he feels – naked without it, as if someone has stripped away every outer layer of himself.

and then, on the opposite side of the crosswalk, underneath the burning sun; drowning out every color in shades of ringing grey, is a man. he’s holding onto jungkook’s umbrella, held straight over his head. jungkook can only see the bottom half of his face, pale fingers curled over the handle, silver glinting. dark jeans and a washed out white shirt, a bulky aviator jacket and combat boots. the stranger who had bumped into him twice now follows his line of sight and goes, one more time, so faintly it sounds of periphery: “i’m so, so sorry again, but i have to go.” his footsteps fade into background noise in jungkook’s head.

everything else drowns out. the sound of rushing vehicles, his labored breathing, people walking and talking and moving in the streets. all he can see is the figure across the street, holding onto his umbrella, silver charms tied across the ferrule glinting in the sunlight.

and then the edge of his umbrella tips up.

he has dark eyes, jungkook thinks. they look endless, even from this distance. dark.

jungkook blinks and the sound comes rushing back in. it starts with: the sound of someone’s high pitched chatter, so close it could be right next to his ear, and when jungkook turns to face it automatically there’s a body of water forming different shapes while arguing with a wind spirit, her hair sparking energy all around her.

oh no, he thinks faintly.

those spirits are fine. those spirits are always fine – they never really bother him, the ones that embody nature. it’s the other spirits that he has to be careful about, the ones that come from story books and oral poems, the ones that reside in imagination before forming themselves with the threads of reality. jungkook feels his body temperature drop. his palms sweat. he turns to the side, alone on the sidewalk, with dark shadows creeping up in the distance.

they always come for him.

long as he can remember, they have always tried to get at him. walking to school in the mornings had been a special type of hell, running away with his flightiest foot to grasp only a bit more space, a bit more time. spending days at the shrines and temples, bathing his hands in holy water, learning how to make charms with fingers so inept they clumsily spilled over ink bottles in their attempt to press eternal patterns onto his skin. jungkook’s clothes smelled of incense for years. he had blinked in the eye of those faces, gruesome but some kind but even more frightening, all of them wanting him for one reason or another.

and now they’re back, and it’s jarring, it’s terrifying, he can’t seem to even think –

jungkook stumbles back, a programmed response, but the shadows – the spirits of the dead, the will-never-live – never reach him. darkness bleeds into his vision; it’s not quite as bright anymore; and he takes a moment to orient himself once more, pressing a hand to his sternum to forcefully calm himself.

“that was a close call,” a smooth, low voice says. “i’ve never seen those fuckers move so fast.”

it had only been a couple minutes, jungkook thinks numbly, without his umbrella.

“hey, are you there?”

jungkook startles, turning around while still trying to keep himself in the comfortable shade. it’s quite a tight fit. “i’m – how did you – “

the other raises an eyebrow. he has midnight black hair, offsetting his pale skin quite nicely. “it was flying around. i caught it before it could end up in the river or something.”

there’s not much jewelry on him; a couple of earrings, a lone silver band on his finger. jungkook’s eyes flicker down to the most interesting part of him, a thick black thread tied firmly around his wrist. it leads to nowhere, the second oddest thing about it. jungkook has never seen a thread that did not stand stark against skin, or one that did not lead anywhere, winding down an endless path. this man has neither. his thread is like a bracelet, firmly set across his wrist.

jungkook abruptly remembers his earlier words.

“you can see them too?” he breathes, reaching forward to take the handle of the umbrella with his own hands. “the spirits?”

“i mean,” the man begins, but as soon as he lets go, the umbrella moving into jungkook’s hands – he disappears.

oh, he thinks, standing dumbly in place.

taking a moment to gape at his shoes, jungkook swallows and goes, “do you know the wish shop? i’ll be waiting there.” there’s no indication that the man wants to talk to him, or even stick around after doing something nice for jungkook – perhaps on a whim, perhaps just because – but jungkook still hopes. he feels it at his feet and moving from his lips. a sign of something, anything.

there’s a whisper in the air, like a breeze. for a moment, he thinks that it’s a trick of the wind – of spirits – but then when it settles down, nothing else comes after. the world is still.

jungkook turns on his heel and heads toward the wish shop.

/

seokjin’s door is always open, even on his days off. jungkook pushes through a second late, closing his umbrella in one smooth motion the way he’s familiar with, stacking it inside a rack meant for him and him alone. jungkook leans against the doorframe to take off his shoes, hopping one foot at the time.

“you kinda look like a bunny,” the slowly-familiar-unfamiliar voice says. “especially when you’re hopping around like that. mostly because you’re hopping around like that.”

never one to not be easily startled, jungkook loses his grip and stumbles down to the floor, landing on his tailbone harshly. wincing, he reaches around to rub the small of his back.

the man who had caught his umbrella waits at the walkway to the door, shoving his hands in his pockets. jungkook takes a moment to restrain the urge to childishly demand to be helped up, at least, but then figures he’s helped jungkook enough for one day. and – and if he’s here, but not here when his umbrella is up –

“what kind of spirit are you?” the words tumble over jungkook’s lips without his permission. he winces at how rough they sound, how demanding. fumbling, he goes, “i mean, you’re no malicious spirit like the others, or any type of nature spirit…” in fact, he looks quite human. jungkook is a bit suspicious. “are you a ghost?”

the other man purses his lips. “i’m not a ghost.”

“at least you found the wish shop,” jungkook says. “i was hoping you would…”

he cocks his head to the side. “everyone knows where the wish shop is,” he agrees, “if nothing else but to avoid it.”

spirits don’t like the wish shop. it’s made of something else, something other. like a delicate balance in between, cosmic gases and the intangible. seokjin has tried to explain it to him before, but jungkook thinks that this is one of those things that he just can’t understand. they’re one of those things that you have to know. he wants to know. he thinks he sort of does, maybe.

“but you’re still here,” jungkook starts, moving a little so that he’s sitting cross-legged in front of the doorway.

“i am,” the man says. “are you going to invite me in?”

jungkook opens his mouth to say – well, he’s not too sure what he’s going to say, is he? something like you may have saved me but that doesn’t mean this is how i save you or i don’t fall for tricks like that or the shop would eat you alive, take you into its belly, and never let you go, but he doesn’t get the chance to say anything. before jungkook can utter a single word, seokjin’s voice is coming from the back, expectant, sharp even when amused.

“nice try, yoongi, but i’ll be the only one inviting you in for any time in the foreseeable future.” he sidles up to stand behind jungkook, both hands casually on his hips, stretching out his back like he’s woken up from a catnap. this is the seokjin jungkook is more comfortable with; comfortable confidence, smooth lines of a perfect mask, a wishkeeper rather than a person.

“hyung,” the man – named yoongi – greets. he crosses his arms and the corner of his mouth twitches. jungkook feels like there’s another conversation here that he’s not privy to. “nice to see you again. you called?”

“i called many times. you’re the one who made me leave a bunch of voicemails.”

“cell service in the otherworld is shitty,” yoongi shrugs, all what can you do? jungkook can’t help himself; he giggles a little at yoongi’s blasé tone, knowing that seokjin is trying his very hardest not to punch something with a fist made of bronze spikes. it had been one of his long, detailed ramblings on a drunk saturday night.

“come in,” he goes, a bit grudgingly. “jungkook, since you’re here, why don’t you get up off the floor and make us some snacks?”

“oh,” he blinks, and remembers: he’s not supposed to be here, is he?

yoongi steps into the wish shop. a strange undercurrent runs through jungkook’s veins – it feels like a shudder. he leans against the wall for a moment, frowning. are you okay? he wants to ask, whispering the words like prayers into the rice paper walls, but the wish shop would not answer. a shudder, a slight hesitation, and that’s all jungkook gets until it falls quiet once more.

he shuts the front door, heading straight for the kitchen right after.

it’s just – it’s just. yoongi isn’t a guest. he isn’t a customer. he has no wishes. he’s here to see seokjin, but all the people who had seen seokjin previously were people who did not know his name. yoongi? yoongi is different. he’s a spirit, a part of the otherworld, and the wish shop feels his presence consciously. jungkook’s fingers curl where he rests them on the marble countertop. he doesn’t know what to make.

in the end he settles for creating some quick meringue cookies, whipping them up in half an hour and placing them inside the oven to bake for another hour or so. he doesn’t dare go out to see if seokjin and yoongi are still there, conversing, their words so low jungkook can’t even pretend to overhear.

it’s strange that neither jimin nor taehyung are here either, but. they must be doing what they do when seokjin gives them the day off. jungkook sits himself down at the table in the kitchen, an edge of nervousness running up his spine. he fidgets while glancing over at the door, wondering if it would be worth it to take a look.

by the time he convinces himself that nothing will happen to him – that he had to go eventually to give them their biscuits – jungkook has already worked himself into standing and fixing his appearance. he almost wishes he had his umbrella, even though he would never need it inside the wish shop.

the door creaks when he slides it open; the space where seokjin usually entertains his guests is cluttered, but empty. neither he nor yoongi are there, lingering. jungkook keeps his hand on the door, breath catching in his throat. where are they? he wants to whisper. where did they go? but no one would answer him.

it’s like everyone in the wish shop has suddenly disappeared, crumbled into dust. jungkook doesn’t know what to make of it. it feels – much like that first day, much like being led in a trance to a world he’s never known. except this time – this time, it leaves him with icy fingers clawing up his spine rather than the warm lure of come here, come here. come here. jungkook listens. he steps back into the kitchen and closes the door.

yoongi had to be invited in, he remembers.

when the cookies are done, jungkook leaves them on a serving plate and sets them aside. he waits for seokjin’s voice to call him in, but there’s still no sound. instead, jungkook traces the patterns of light from the kitchen window, the tiles on the floor, trying to bring so many things back in.

it doesn’t work. his mind spins in circles all the way ‘till seokjin’s voice calls out, “jungkook?”

he brings the snacks in, awkward in his own body, his feet feeling like lead. yoongi is standing leisurely next to seokjin, but his eyes are alert. they follow jungkook’s hands as he sets down the platter. seokjin raises a hand to stop him as he’s about to leave.

“no, sit,” he goes, smiling that odd smile he had once upon a time ago.

jungkook sits. it’s not his seokjin that is here, not entirely. they have always been mindful of each other, but if there is anything jungkook has learned from taehyung and jimin, it’s that everything has its own place. so he sits. sinks.

“what’s going on?” yoongi looks much more cautious now. his shoulders are tensed up. he looks nothing like the other spirits and creatures of the otherworld; whether they be somewhat human like the residents of the wish shop or take form in any other way, like most spirits tend to do. yoongi looks like one of those thugs that you would see around the street corner, the very ones your parents would warn you about. perhaps it’s not about the way he dresses, but the look in his eye – a glint that can’t be mistaken, a bloodthirst that feels so deep and intense it’s intimidating. yoongi means what he says. he’ll do what he has to.

seokjin simply hums, unaffected the way jungkook is. he even waves yoongi down similarly, urging him to sit. he takes the first seat next to jungkook. they must look ridiculous, or like schoolchildren being scolded. “good, good. i wanted to go through some introductions since you two have never met before; jungkook, this is min yoongi. he works errands for me in the otherworld. yoongi, this is jeon jungkook; he works errands for me in the mortal world.”

“errands,” jungkook repeats, “you make me do housework – “

at the same time, yoongi goes, “you treat me like a fucking bloodhound, hyung. what do you mean, errands – “ and they both stop short, voices clambering over each other. jungkook steals a wide eyed glance at yoongi, who is baffled and intrigued.

“i love serendipity,” seokjin says, grinning widely. “hey, look, you two have something in common!”

it feels a little silly at first, but jungkook goes, “do you also have the strange urge to punch him sometimes?”

yoongi’s mouth twitches. “every day of my otherlife.”

“hey,” seokjin clicks his tongue, “you two love me. i’m the apple of both your eyes. the best thing that’s ever happened to you!”

yoongi looks like he wants to shove an apple down seokjin’s eye.

jungkook coughs, grabbing both of their attention. “it’s nice to meet you, min yoongi. have you been working for seokjin long?” and then, realizing that the he has not yet talked about their incident in the morning, goes, “thank you for earlier, by the way.”

“it’s been too long,” he replies vaguely, before going, “the umbrella, right? you’re one of those – “

seokjin clears his throat. jungkook glances in between them, but yoongi doesn’t bat an eyelash. “shut the fuck up, hyung.”

“disrespectful.”

“where are the trouble twins?” he asks instead, looking around briefly. “i don’t see them anywhere. usually they’re bouncing around when i come.”

“they’re sleeping,” jungkook says, and seokjin tilts his head to the side, considering this answer. yoongi doesn’t question the knowledge, but jungkook knows that seokjin will – will ask how he’s come to know that. jungkook plays with his fingers.

“he’s never around when i visit,” yoongi says. “jungkook, i mean. why’s that, hyung?”

the days off. the closings of his shop. anxiety builds in the pit of jungkook’s stomach.

seokjin doesn’t reply for a while. it’s actually quite unsettling, having his bright, all knowing eyes on the both of them. jungkook wants to look away, unable to keep eye contact for longer than a few seconds, but yoongi seems to be holding his own. finally, seokjin goes, “well, there’s something i need to talk to you both about. jungkook?”

“yes?”

seokjin’s voice is kind. “there’s still croissants in the bakery box, isn’t there?”

jungkook stills.

“why does this matter?” yoongi’s agitated, as told by the roughness of his voice. “i just came to give you the report about the dragons, i honestly need to go back and sleep for a couple hours – “

“hyung,” jungkook breathes out, a flush rises to his cheeks, “i promise i wasn’t – i wasn’t trying to grant any wishes, i just. he came into the shop and i had no idea what to do. you didn’t wake up, and i couldn’t get you to…i’m sorry.”

yoongi’s words die off, leaving a heavy silence in the air. he turns to stare at jungkook; his gaze burns holes through the side of his head.

“i’m not worried about that,” seokjin says, reassuring, reaching forward to pat jungkook’s knee. “it’s okay, gguk. really. i don’t mind that at all. yes, i was kept asleep, but you know – the wish shop does what it wants, and if it told me to sleep, then i am no one to go against its wishes. so i slept. you know how it is.”

jungkook feels so relieved he could cry. he doesn’t, though. keeps it in with a good amount of grace, even though there’s quite an urge to do so. he feels tears wetting his lower lash line.

“things always happen for a reason,” he continues. “there’s no such thing as coincidence; only fate.”

yes, only fate. jungkook sees red threads and connections, spirits, everything that you’re not supposed to see. he’s not too sure why. vaguely, he thinks: what price have i paid? what have others? jungkook knows that this – this is not the end of it all. there must be something more to the reason of his ability, and that reason has brought him here, literally tugging him in by his hands to leave him at seokjin’s front door. that’s not a coincidence.

“just so you know,” yoongi begins, “i have a date with my couch. i’ve been on my feet for a while, hyung; i just want to sleep.”

seokjin leans back, smiles. it’s not the wishkeeper’s smile; it’s seokjin, all crinkled eyes, all white teeth. “i have one last job for you, yoongi, and trust me – you don’t want to give this one up. jungkook? want to explain yoongi’s next job to him?”

for a moment, jungkook gapes, unsure of what to say. he thinks about – a brown box, still smelling sweet, freshly baked and warm. a person like that, who loves the simple things, don’t they deserve to be happy too?

“we’re going to make someone’s wish come true,” he says, and seokjin laughs.