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Jungkook wants to wake up. Except that the faint morning light falling delicately on his skin tells him that he already is, awake, but something makes him feel like he’s still dreaming. Or dreaming anew because he wasn’t able to last night, the dark dark around him and, mostly, inside him, chasing everything else away. It’s cold, that defeating dark, all winter and sharp ice scratching his delicate skin. He blinks, slowly, trying to recollect why he’s in this unfamiliar familiar room. Not his room, not his bed, not his own warmth the one he feels.
Then it hits him, ice under his feet breaking abruptly, no warning, and he falls into deep waters, drowning into that glacial dark. Yoongi. It’s Yoongi’s room, Yoongi’s bed, Yoongi’s warmth, Yoongi sleeping next to him but also miles miles miles away, unreachable. They’re two different worlds, his pricking darkness and Yoongi’s distant warmth.
It takes his mind go back to the night before, the two of them sitting on Yoongi’s couch, limbs all entangled and unrecognizable under the blanket, watching Patema Inverted. It’s sad. The anime. Yoongi complained the whole time, like his soft person was personally being hurt by the melancholy enrolling on the television screen, like all his mellow edges were being hardened by such sorrow. Jungkook. Jungkook is sad too, that’s why he wanted to watch Patema Inverted, heart stuck in his throat, pearls of tears creeping shy at the corners of his eyes. This anime makes me emotional, he said, he meant This makes me think of you, of us, but couldn’t get it out.
He rolls in the bed, eyes desperately searching for his medicine and poison, facing Yoongi, watching him sleep. It was late when the credits had started rolling on the screen, so Yoongi had told him to stay. Jungkook didn’t say no, he never does to him, never could. Jungkook wants to stay. He wants. Wants to reach out, cold cold fingertips to brush the strands of hair away from his closed eyes, long eyelashes bothered. Wants to get close, close close close so close he fades into him, becomes him. Wants to know. Know if Yoongi’s fingers taste like the bitter black coffee he drinks far too often, blood somehow still sweet and terribly terribly gentle despite all that bitter caffeine. Know how his voice would taste on his tongue, how the words would roll from Yoongi’s tongue to his own and then hide somewhere in the back of his throat when he swallows them. Know how can love ache so much. Jungkook feels it everywhere, this love as deep as the dark, as if he had it tattooed on every inch of his skin, ink on paper veins. Sometimes, when he’s around Yoongi, Jungkook fumbles with the hems of his sleeves, trying to hide his skin, ridiculously fearing that Yoongi would look at it and actually read all the love his body carries.
-
“Love doesn’t hurt,” Namjoon had said once. They had been on the couch of their shared apartment, both reading but somehow keeping each other company for once that Jungkook was at his apartment and not at Yoongi’s. Something in his stomach had twisted painfully, making him want to run away or to throw up, feelings all riling up and choking him. He had raised his head reluctantly, hoping Namjoon couldn’t see the fear swirling right behind hid pupils.
“Why are you suddenly saying this?” he had asked and oh. Oh, his voice had sounded so small, tones all vulnerable and snowflake fragile, instants away from breaking. Namjoon had pretend to not notice, all kinds of compassion plastered on his face and Jungkook had felt a tiny bit pathetic.
“Why don’t you confess to Yoongi hyung?” Was it really that obvious? He feared it, having his impeding feelings so easily at display.
“What should I confess?” he had asked in a vain attempt to run away from himself.
“It hurts me, to see you this sad. Sometimes when you aren’t pretending to be okay I can see it, all that pain strangling you. I’m sure hyung sees it too, he just doesn’t want to pressure you to talk about it. You should tell him though, that you’re sad because you’re in love with him.”
Jungkook had thought about it. He sincerely had. He had considered opening his rib cage and taking his small small heart in his shaking hands, considered handing it to Yoongi, considered telling him Hyung, I love you so much it makes my bones fragile and aching. But then he considered the following. Yoongi ripping his eyes away, gaze everywhere but on his bleeding feelings, rejecting him. Jungkook knew that he might have fallen in love even more then, because he could almost heart the words spilling from the other’s sorry lips. Yoongi talks like measures every word before taking it out, like he creates each of them somewhere in the pits of his soft soul so that when he speaks they don’t hurt anyone. That’s how he would reject Jungkook, all gentle and kind and caring and making it all so so worse, because it was exactly that, his pure tenderness, that had made the boy fall for him.
-
They had been friends for some months, after Namjoon introduced them, one being his roommate and the other one a friend from a shared class in college. Thinking back, Jungkook’s cheeks taint themselves of cherry blossoms, remembering how Yoongi had smiled at him for the first time with his gums showing and his eyes crinkling and everything around him shining of a faint golden light like a halo.
They had become friends soon and Jungkook had started going at his place, innocent desire for company. One day Jungkook had opened the apartment door (“Hyung, why do you never lock it? It’s dangerous.” “I leave it open for you.”) and unceremoniously plopped himself on the couch in the living room, his features all distorted from the stress. Yoongi had vaguely asked what was the problem and Jungkook had vaguely replied saying it was schoolbefore taking out his textbooks from the backpack and sinking into them.
Quiet had fallen all over the room like a careful veil, minutes had faded into hours, the pink and blue hues of the afternoon had faded into a black and white evening. He hadn’t realized, eyes all focused on understanding what exactly were his notes saying, how much time had passed, how the buildings outlines were becoming blurry because of the dark. With the exams soon all his mind could register was studying studying studying. You don’t need your mind to fall in love though. Yoongi had silently existed around him all day, concerned but not daring to disturb. When the sky outside had completely morphed into an ink painting, stars prickling the canvas, Yoongi had broken the silence and, with the most tender tender tender hands, Jungkook’s heart. He had sat down next to Jungkook, putting a bowl of hot ramen on top of the messy coffee table. And then he had put his tender hands around Jungkook’s heart and whispered to it. Yoongi had suddenly taken the notes out of the boy’s hands, earning a confused doe eyed stare from the other. He had put the papers down and then hugged Jungkook.
“You’ve worked hard today, I’m proud of you. Rest now.” Words. Then a kiss, soft, on the top of Jungkook’s head. Yoongi exists like this. With his soul peaking on the surface, all of his soft and gentle edges whispering kind nothings. Yoongi exists like the world doesn’t hurt or maybe like he wants to take all the pain of the world to himself, to chew on it and swallow it down and keep it away from the ones he loves. Yoongi exists to love, to take care, but he does it silently, like he’s afraid he could pain someone by loving too loudly. Yoongi exists like he’s cherry blossoms, falling with no sound, swirling midair, caressing and blushing. Yoongi exists like he’s rainy autumn days spent in bed, like he’s piano notes dancing alongside your heartbeat, like he’s strawberries eaten in the wrong season, like he’s love.
And Jungkook’s heart had whispered back, Thank you, I love you, without permission. It was impossible then to get rid of that thought, the whole world suddenly spinning faster and faster, physics laws stopping to work, everything ceasing to make sense. Everything was suddenly Yoongi and it was I love you, hyung. It felt a bit like breaking then, the realization and the immediately following one, that he Yoongi would have never felt the same way.
For Jungkook, falling in love had felt like having his heart broken.
-
Jungkook wants to fall asleep. Because Yoongi suddenly opens his eyes, heavy and veiled by traces of sleep, and Jungkook’s heart still in his chest. He wants to fall asleep so he can dream of a love that doesn’t taste like the bitter coffee Yoongi loves so much, that doesn’t sound like bees buzzing incessantly in his lungs, that doesn’t sound like an old out of tune piano forgotten in a corner of the room.
They’re both awake though, eyes sinking deep into each other’s, warm bodies just a few breaths apart. For a while everything is silent and immobile, a photograph, a Sunday evening that feels so long that time stops existing, a confession burning. Burning his eyelids, every single one of his eyelashes, his moles like little fires igniting his whole skin, body on fire. Jungkook wants. He wants to cry, wants to tell, wants to run away and to run in, to hide and to scream, to kiss and to love, love love love.
Yoongi’s face is unreadable. Heartbreaking features still entangled with recent sleep, softness carefully engraved in the soft curve of his pouty lips, in his button nose, in his cupid bow, in his warm chestnut eyes. For countlessheartbeats he just watches, looks like he’s trying to take in everything that Jungkook is and to put it somewhere inside of himself.
And then he does that and Jungkook breaks, thinks he’s done, pieces of his soul scattered to the wind to carry them away. Yoongi doesn’t actually do anything, but they had learned to read each other. Jungkook sees the expression in the other’s eyes and hears his own heart beating in all the wrong ways, blood suddenly going the wrong direction. He knows, he thinks. He’s going to ask me to leave, to go away. Hyung, I wanna stay. I wanna stay in this bed, in your house, in your heart, don’t get rid of me.
“My heart is very weak, Kookie. If I keep waking up to you so close I’m afraid I’ll kiss you one day,” Yoongi whispers instead. A timid shade of pink runs across his face, settles on his cheeks, on the tip of his nose, peaches against the pale of his skin. His voice is just as timid, words gentle but scared, oh so scared it looks like he regrets them the moment after. He sees all the feelings Jungkook has been praying away suddenly spill everywhere, the bed stained, the room full, but he can’t read them. Misunderstands.
“Hyung?” It’s breathless. Yoongi wants to cry, but smiles anyway.
“I’m sorry, Jungkookie. It’s okay if you don’t want to see me anymore now, but I had to tell you. I like you. I’m sorry.” Jungkook wants to smile, but he cries anyway. It’s a single tear, his whole soul entrapped into it. Yoongi sees it and wants to wipe it away, hates himself for making the boy cry, for talking, for being too frightened to reach out, for a lot of things really. He doesn’t hate himself for being in love though. Yoongi can be content like this, soul and heart achingly chained with rose thorns, just knowing Jungkook exists. His love doesn’t hurt. Yoongi loves like he exits, gentle and caring and careful. Yoongi loves too much and sinks into it until he’s drowning deep into the abyss, smiling because it’s okay. Yoongi loves with his fingertips, with his veins, with his whispers, with his thoughts, with his everything, thinking it’s never enough. And then he thinks that, if Jungkook has to leave, he has to leave knowing.
“I like it when you laugh so happy that you scrunch your nose and look like a baby bun, it makes me want to make you laugh more, to make you happy even if I have to be sad myself. I like it when you get excited and start jumping in place, with your hands clapping like a kid, it makes me want to rip all the pretty things from this world and give them all to you only. I like it when you say my name, it makes me shiver, makes me want to entrap the sound and eat it. I like it when you hum absentmindedly next to me while I cook, with your voice that sounds like angels’ whispers, it makes me want to compose a song that tastes the same way your voice taste, all sugary and honey-like. I like it when you play with my fingers, when you touch my palms, your touch so warm it makes me want to beg you to put your hands on my heart and make it beat slower, to stop it even. I’d let you stop it. My heart, I mean.” When Yoongi stops he’s out of breathe and out of the world, he feels like floating on the border between reality and the realm of dreams. When Yoongi stops Jungkook is crying, tears flowing in a melody of words, every drop a little confession, a little unvoiced pain that doesn’t taste of pain anymore. It takes one more word to wake Jungkook up. “Sorry.”
“Hyung.” Yoongi smiles, the corners of his lips crying.
“I know you don’t feel the same. It’s okay Kookie, hyung understands.”
“Hyung,” he starts. When the spell finally leaves his lips, it’s honey dripping. “I love you.” Yoongi stills, his smile falters and then falls, breaking like dandelion on a windy spring day. Misunderstands again.
“I know. I know Kookie, you’re a good friend.”
“Hyung.” A pause. A deep breath. Then, the entirety of his existence put into five words. “I’m in love with you.”
Yoongi believes. He believes in a lot of things, all secretly secured in the back of his mind, away from other people’s judgment. He believes in magic. Not the one with wands and spells and objects moving on their own. He believes in quieter, more subtle forms of magic: the sound of raindrops dancing waltzes on the glass of the window, the way his soul harmonizes peacefully with his favorite song, the warmth of Jungkook existing prettily next to him. Yet, he can’t believe what he just heard.
“Jungkookie? Baby, please don’t play like this, it hurts.” And oh. He hadn’t meant to call him like that, the petname escaping and stumbling and caressing the boy, the petname he had tried so hard to bite back until his lips were bleeding.
Jungkook has never believed in magic. But the way all of that blinding and raging and torturing pain just vanishes, it must be magic.
“Again,” he whispers. He forgets what he wanted to say, forgets a bit how to breathe, how to blink, forgets to remind his heart to beat. Again, say that again, please. Hyung, again.
“Baby?” It breaks something, winter ice melting.
“Hyung, I love you so much. Say it again, that. Again. Hyung, hyung I love you. Again.” Jungkook feels feverish, skin threatening to set him on fire, to set the whole bed on fire, trapping them both under the warmth, under a love that’s gently consuming. Nothing coherent comes to his mind, thoughts a chaos of nothings, scattered words jumping around but unable to form decent sentences.
Tentative, heart ready to burst, Yoongi finally finally reaches out. His touch is feathers and cotton candy and warm summer nights. He cups Jungkook’s jaw, caresses his cheek, fingertips gentle and gentle and gentle and so loving that it makes Jungkook’s heart ache again, again, anew. The sweetest pain, all honey and raspberries and peach tea and YoongiYoongiYoongi.
“I love you too, baby.” Jungkook starts to shake, feverish body on fire in all the right ways. And Yoongi stop thinking so much, stops worrying so much, stops praying so quietly, and tries more. His thumb brushes Jungkook’s lips, sets on the bottom one, lingers for a few heartbeats too much, for a few not enough heartbeats. Jungkook wants to know, so he does. He kisses Yoongi’s fingertip. Tastes like coffee, he thinks. The thought swirls in air and then disappears, too fragile. Jungkook shifts and kisses the palm of Yoongi’s hand. And then Yoongi is shaking too.
“Can hyung kiss you?” It comes out breathless.
“Please.” It’s the only thing Jungkook’s soaring mind can come up with, but it’s enough.
Yoongi closes the distance, centimeters eaten away, thrown around, and kisses him. Yoongi kisses Jungkook. Yoongi tastes like gentleness and kindness, like strawberries with sugar on top, like the hue of shy pink that tinges the sky during a sunset, like dried flowers found in old books, like love. Yoongi kisses Jungkook the same way he loves him, with his soul and heart worn on his sleeve, bleeding careful and praying and wanting, wanting wanting wanting carefully, softly. He kisses him like he’s his favorite song, like he’s his favorite sweater, like he’s his favorite memory.
Jungkook tastes like youth and peace, like fresh fresh blueberries, like a vinyl record played from another room, like the hours of the night when they bleed timid into the morning, like love. Jungkook kisses Yoongi the same way he loves him, shy and prickling and burning and wanting wanting wanting, edges all blurry, everything on fire. He kisses him like he’s a dream that’s going to disappear soon, like he’s a dream and he doesn’t want to wake up, like he wants to sink in and drown drown drown deep in a love that doesn’t hurt anymore, that never did.