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when jungkook looks at his reflection he doesn’t see what he’s supposed to.
instead of himself, he sees overlapping rings as the sun casts a glint of something shimmering over the surface. his features are too soft around the edges to be him, they blur and ripple and crest. if he squints he can see once jagged rocks worn from the constant back and forth. he can see astral planes as pulverized mica is carried across his reflection.
the image reminds him of the universes and the stars within those universes and the light within those stars.
it’s the only place he can handle looking at himself. his face is distorted, and so it’s okay. it’s not him, not entirely.
jungkook leans away from the water for a moment.
nobody knows that he’s out here.
he had promised that he’d stop coming to the lake.
yoongi thought looking at himself in the water for fixated amounts of times was unhealthy for jungkook. the older had suggested he stop doing that first, said it’d help him establish a more positive mindset.
but yoongi doesn’t get it.
jungkook can’t stand himself at any other time, can’t hold eye contact with mirrored versions of himself if it’s too clear, too detailed, too honest.
yoongi called him beautiful once, hidden beneath pure white sheets and sunlight leaking from window panes, yoongi whispered it into his neck, and jungkook couldn’t breathe. it was supposed to be a happy morning, filled with drowsy kisses and tracing fingers and yoongi. just yoongi. it was supposed to be a safe morning, a morning when jungkook would only have to think about yoongi and love and the thud of the other’s heartbeat beneath his ear.
but then yoongi had muttered those two words to him, etched them into jungkook’s skin in twisted letters stained red.
red for love.
it was supposed to be red for love.
red with love.
red in love.
red love.
but it wasn’t.
and jungkook couldn’t breathe.
he looks back down at his contorted reflection, and he’s no longer himself.
he stretches his fingers out to the image.
closer.
closer.
and then they skim the streaming rivulets of water.
the water’s not as soft as it looks, presses against his fingertips like molded glass, like melted ice.
jungkook wishes it wasn’t so abrasive.
a lone tear stays down his cheek, trickles to the edge of his curved jaw, and is then pulled into the muddled blue beneath him.
more tears begin to fall, but it’s okay.
once his tears fade into the lake they’re no longer his anyway.
✵
the world outside his apartment is all harsh edges and pointed fragments.
the protruding bones of wrists and ankles passing by look like the pieces of a machine falling apart, all scrap metal and gears.
the tips of fingernails and bleached white teeth look like the ends of a knife, all rust and blood and blows right below his ribs.
the sharp lines of the concrete, the glass revolving doors, the airplanes cutting through the sky.
sometimes jungkook looks at these things and thinks he might just prick himself if he stares long enough.
and there are people, so many people, whose eyes always catch on jungkook for longer than they should. that alone is enough to make him bleed crescents into the closed palms of his hands.
they always stare. why do they have to look at him like that? like he’s something worth looking at.
it’s just not true.
it’s just not true.
jungkook’s not covering up today. he’s trying to be better about it, had left his face bare because yoongi saw him before he left this morning, and yoongi always frowns, always has this sad look on his face, this pleading look, this hopelessly desperate look.
because jungkook likes to wear shirts three sizes too big for him. he likes to wear sweaters with too much fabric, and he likes to wear hoodies that hide his entire face. he likes to wear outdated prescription specs and black face masks drawn all the way up to the bridge of his nose.
disguised by saying his body’s always cold, his vision’s getting blurrier, the fine dust’s getting worse.
it makes yoongi unhappy.
jungkook knows this. he knows he makes the other sad, so dreary blue crumbling on the edges ocean sad.
he thought he could do it, is the thing, jungkook thought he could make it through a day without hiding every part of himself away, thought he could do it for yoongi, could give the other something not to worry about.
but every person he passes lingers and every glance thrown his way hits like a dagger.
the story high planes of silver built up around him reflect sunlight, and if jungkook stares at it he sees spots. the windows decorating each building send back mirrors of incheon's streets and people and sharp angles.
jungkook wishes he was like that. he wishes the people who always looked at him wouldn’t see him and everything he is. he wishes he was a mirror. he wishes they’d only see themselves.
but they don’t.
they see him.
and it hurts.
✵
there’s the sound of heavy breathing when jungkook closes the door to his and yoongi’s apartment. it takes a moment for him to realize it’s his own breathing. he didn’t notice how bad it was getting. his mind was occupied with racing through vivid images of the world cut firm and rigid the entire walk home.
but he’s been surrounded by jagged things for so long, it only makes sense that he’d carry some of them with him. in his thoughts. in his heart. in his lungs.
his breathing’s heavy, too heavy, and it immediately draws yoongi into the kitchen where jungkook’s heaving fears and anxieties back out into the world.
yoongi’s expression falls when he sees the other pressed against the door. jungkook isn’t aware of him, though, eyes screwed shut because so many people had stared at him, had seen him, had looked at him as if he was something worth being looked at.
he couldn’t hide from it, had to swallow every glance and second take.
blood.
blood.
blood.
but never theirs. always his.
jungkook hears a gentle “hey” and then feels yoongi’s hand brushing his cheek.
“hyung, i-”
but yoongi’s shushing him, carefully wiping a few stray tears from jungkook’s face with his thumb.
jungkook slowly forces his eyes open, and there he is.
min yoongi.
the older’s crouched in front of him with a red striped sweater and shower-damp hair, and it finally feels bearable again, like the world’s been subdued into something more gentle, like the air’s been oxidized into something more breathable.
because min yoongi is soft, and when jungkook looks up over the other’s shoulder he remembers that their apartment is soft too, rounded on the edges, not so severe.
light seeps into the room through pastel linen curtains, and everything's doused in a subtle glow. it’s nothing like the blinding sunlight reflected off skyscrapers, nothing like the beams that leave jungkook’s vision deformed with spots of black.
no.
it’s much softer.
“hey,” yoongi says again, this time in a whisper. the syllable’s smoothed over like something eroded. he takes in everything jungkook is, all of his splattered guts out on the floor, all of his emotions and worries and beauty.
jungkook reaches out for the other and buries his face in yoongi’s neck, mostly because yoongi’s gentle and knows how to wrap his arms around jungkook in a way that isn’t suffocating. but also because he doesn’t want the other to see him.
it’s easier.
he’s been trying to be better, but it’s just so much easier like this.
“hey, baby. look at me.” and yoongi’s using that voice, the awfully delicate one he uses on the bad days that are worse than worse. “can you look at me?”
the younger lets out a mildly distressed sound, thin, almost unheard. but he lifts his head and peeks up at yoongi regardless
they stare at each other for a moment, and yoongi’s breathless. he’s always breathless.
because jungkook’s beautiful. anyone can see it. he’s absolutely gorgeous in every definition of the word, but yoongi doesn’t say it, wills himself to not even think it.
“you’re alright now.” yoongi smiles, and jungkook mirrors him out of habit. “it’s just me, see?”
jungkook’s face twists briefly, like he’s fighting something, and yoongi knows very well that the younger is. “they wouldn’t stop,” jungkook mutters.
yoongi’s used to those three words in whatever variation they take form. he knows jungkook, more than the younger knows himself sometimes. “they’re not here right now, though. it’s just me.” he replies. yoongi knows him, knows a lot of things actually: knows how to be caring and soft and gentle and sweet. “it’s just me,” he repeats.
“thank you,” jungkook replies after a long moment.
silence.
the hum of the heater turning on.
silence.
silence.
a hand cradling a face.
sunlight.
soft edges.
silence.
soft edges.
jungkook blinks up at yoongi. “i love you,” he says, the sentiment escaping his mouth as it often does with min yoongi.
however, yoongi doesn’t say it back. he knows it would be the wrong thing to say at a moment like this.
‘i love you’ is a two person phrase, but sometimes jungkook just wants it to be for one. sometimes jungkook doesn’t want to be himself, and yoongi saying ‘i love you’ back only makes it worse.
and so, instead, yoongi replies to the younger with, “you have so much inside of you.”
it’s something that comforts jungkook, the idea of having something else buried beneath his pointed jawline and wide eyes and red bitten lips. everything that people have only ever found beautiful about him—it’s comforting to think that there’s something more, whatever that something might be.
“let’s go to bed.” yoongi’s voice is a bit like honey, and when he speaks it always tastes sweet. “we can turn the lights off and pretend nothing else exists.”
jungkook lets himself be lead to their bedroom, his insides suddenly sticky with glucose. “will you be there?” he asks.
“be where?”
“in the nothing.”
“i’ll be there if you want me to be,” yoongi says because it’s one of those days.
the ones when jungkook could crack at any minute, but won’t because he doesn’t want anyone to see the brittleness beneath his skin.
yoongi wraps the younger up in white blankets that smell like pomegranates and citrus. he cards his hands through the other’s hair. it’s been getting longer.
jungkook doesn’t say a word the entire time.
it’s one of those days:
only 7 pm but already too much to handle, too long to be awake for.
jungkook turns under the blankets and reaches out for yoongi’s hand in the dark.
yoongi presses his lips featherlight to the younger’s knuckles, and jungkook flinches.
it’s one of those days.
✵
it started two years ago.
jungkook was at a house party his roommates dragged him to. they had abandoned him to makeout behind the kitchen island because the only time they could admit to their feelings was behind the excuse of alcohol and late nights, but it’s okay.
jungkook didn’t mind being alone.
he could manage.
he relocated himself to a wall in hopes of hiding in the outskirts of the party. he tried to avoid eye contact with people, but they still approached him. and since it was two years ago and jungkook was a freshman and he didn’t know how to turn people down, he let them approach him. let them trail their hands beneath his white sweater. let them drag fingernails through his unkempt black hair. let them litter kisses over his jaw and neck and face.
isn’t it odd that that’s how he came across min yoongi?
he saw min yoongi inbetween uncomfortable hands pushing strangers away and whispered rejections. jungkook spotted the other somewhere in the middle of apologies and pleading eyes and his muted ‘i’m sorry. i can’t. i’m sorry.’
min yoongi had been sitting on a sofa across the room watching him with a somber expression, but once they made eye contact the older blushed into something warm.
from the very start, min yoongi was a bit of a stunner, all collected thoughts and polite hands and soft smiles. later jungkook would learn that the soft smiles were reserved for pretty boys, sweet boys, lovely boys.
later jungkook would learn that the soft smiles were reserved for him.
he made out with a few more people that night, told himself it was the normal thing to do. they all approached him, a little drunk but happy and buzzed, and jungkook didn’t want to be a downer.
he let them steal a few kisses.
but it always felt like they were taking something more.
after he turned away, maybe, the seventh person, min yoongi made his way across the room and leaned against the wall next to jungkook. with his relaxed shoulders and crossed arms and careful eyes, he asked jungkook the question that had been sitting like poison in his mouth ever since he saw the other from the opposite side of the room. yoongi asked him if he liked it.
and jungkook may have teared up a little, not meaning to.
it was just so easy pretending to be what he was supposed to be.
for someone who’s been called beautiful for his whole entire life, he felt like he ought to be the type to sloppily makeout with everyone who asked him to.
it’d be a waste if he didn’t.
and if he gave into it then it became his choice, right? it became something in his own control. it wasn’t them stealing something from him because he was willingly giving it to them.
even if it felt wrong.
even if he didn’t want it.
but then min yoongi stood next to him, sent him a look that wasn’t soft or halfhearted but concerned and inquisitive. jungkook almost couldn’t bear it.
he nearly broke down, but min yoongi is kind. and min yoongi is understanding. and min yoongi just is.
and jungkook has admired it from the first moment he saw yoongi.
the way he is.
the way he exists.
later that night, when yoongi lead jungkook to the back porch of the party, they had sat side by side with nothing but the silence and the knowledge that jungkook made out with boys he didn’t like and that his lips tasted like cherries from girls he didn’t want to kiss.
min yoongi didn’t quite know what he was doing, but he had a way about himself that was undeniably certain, sure, confident.
it wasn’t that he had seen jungkook and was able to evaluate him, but that he had seen jungkook and was able to tell that something was wrong.
something was wrong in how jungkook let tongues lick the roof of his mouth as if it wasn’t his own mouth kissing the other. as if it wasn’t his teeth biting into bottom lips. or his nose brushing against cheeks. or his jaw being painted purple and blue. or his body being pressed against the wall.
or.
or.
or-
“i’m tired of being me,” jungkook had whispered into the quiet, eyes darting every which way. “can i be you for a bit?”
and yoongi didn’t quite understand at the time. he thought that, maybe, jungkook was just an intoxicated freshman who wanted to play a game.
jungkook wasn’t though, and yoongi grew to learn about the inner workings of the younger.
that night yoongi nodded his head in response to jungkook’s question, and almost instantly jungkook nodded back.
it was a game of mirroring for yoongi, an act of doing one thing and watching another person repeat it. the conceptual idea seemed innocent, lighthearted, a way to distract from the blasting trap music resonating inside the house.
but for jungkook it was so much more.
it was an opportunity to be someone else.
an opportunity to not be himself.
yoongi smiled at him that night, and, almost immediately, jungkook copied him.
it was the first time jungkook had smiled in five days.
✵
there’s a light above their bed.
it’s the first thing he sees when he wakes up, and what he sees is that:
somewhere in the cosmos there’s a universe, and inside that universe there’s a solar system, and in that solar system there’s a planet, and on that planet there’s a city, and in that city there’s an apartment, and in that apartment there’s a bed, and above that bed there’s a light.
and jungkook stares at it.
the light’s on.
yoongi must’ve gotten up at some point and turned it on.
jungkook doesn’t glance over to the other to check though, keeps his eyes on the light.
he knows yoongi’s there, can feel the other’s softs breaths against the crown of his head.
he stares at the light.
it’s bad for your vision—staring at bright things.
isn’t that a shame?
jungkook looks away from it and blinks a few times. in its absence a dark shadow is cast over his vision.
everything’s grown dim.
jungkook draws patterns on the ceiling with it. there’s a spot in the middle of his eyesight that’s darker than everything else, the spot where the light was when he stared at it.
he wishes it wasn’t like that.
he wishes eyes wouldn’t naturally adapt to the bright and lovely to the point that, when the light’s taken away, when the beauty’s taken away, only shadows fall where they once were.
beauty would be infinitely more beautiful if it didn’t exist so.
sometimes jungkook believes in this, but sometimes he doesn’t.
would beauty exist at all?
if it was like that, if the bright things kept their light forever, would they still be something worth looking at? looking for?
maybe.
maybe not.
there is a universe and there is a light in that universe.
a light right above jungkook and yoongi’s bed.
millions of universes and millions of stars and millions of planets and millions of cities and millions of apartments with lights on in the morning.
jungkook thinks that there’s another universe inside that light, thinks the answer to all of his troubles might be hidden in it.
if only he could study it a little longer.
if only there was more time before it made the rest of the world start to diminish.
he closes his eyes, shifts closer to yoongi, sinks deeper into the other’s arms.
yoongi watches jungkook the entire time.
he knows about jungkook’s whole ‘universe of the cosmos and a light in a sleepy apartment’ fixation.
and all yoongi can think about is how below that light there’s another universe too.
✵
yoongi’s actually the one who suggested covering up.
it was an offhand thing, a stray thought, a quiet proposition.
after the house party, they were drawn back to each other like the seasons.
summer meeting autumn.
autumn meeting winter.
winter meeting spring meeting summer again.
yoongi had given jungkook his phone number, and jungkook had sent him a ‘goodnight, hyung ^_^’ text that night.
yoongi’s a bit selfish.
he didn’t actively seek out jungkook, but if the younger ever needed anything, ever needed someone to be with, ever needed someone to talk to him, yoongi was always there.
always the first to knock on jungkook’s door.
the first to answer his texts.
the first to know about the bad days.
the first to see him on the bad days.
the first to hold him on the bad days.
and then the worse days.
and then the worst days.
he was the first person jungkook went to, and who was yoongi to not give jungkook everything he could? to not help jungkook however he could?
even if it meant suggesting that the younger start hiding himself away behind black face masks and hooded sweaters.
what was yoongi supposed to do when he found jungkook obsessively scratching red and white lines over his cheekbones and eyelids?
was he supposed to kiss the younger’s tears away and tell him things would be better in the morning?
because they never were.
jungkook would always wake up after episodes and sneak away to the lake where he’d stare at himself until he couldn’t recognize the face in the water.
yoongi was the one who suggested covering up.
to make it better.
to make it easier.
less people stare at jungkook when they can’t see his face, and so jungkook started dressing in layers and shadows.
and once he started, he just couldn’t find it in himself to stop.
it’s true that yoongi likes seeing jungkook’s face, but he likes it far better when the other’s comfortable in his own skin and not crumbling with every glance that lasts a few seconds too long.
sometimes jungkook would visit yoongi in his apartment, before they moved in together, sometimes jungkook would visit and his first instinct would be to take everything off. the glasses. the oversized sweater. the pleated fabric hiding his face.
it’s always made yoongi feel selfish.
even now.
because the thing about jeon jungkook is that he’s undeniably beautiful. irrevocably stunning. alluringly gorgeous.
to anyone and everyone.
every single person whose eyes land on him is enraptured, falls into an unconditional captivation of the boy.
the world is made of harsh edges and corners that feel like blades pressed against fingertips and scars slashed over nail beds. the world is this terribly jarring thing, and so beauty ought to be looked at, ought to be appreciated, ought to be admired. touched. kissed.
everyone who sees jeon jungkook falls in love with him.
even if it’s just a little bit.
a little falling’s never bad anyway.
everyone who sees jeon jungkook falls in love with him.
they say the surface isn’t everything, but humanity lives on the surface, and so big starry eyes and poised pretty pink lips leave even the cosmos in a jumble.
the universe never stood a chance.
everyone who see jeon jungkook falls in love with him.
sometimes yoongi thinks it’s sickeningly unfortunate, ironic in a twisted way, maybe even humorous if the situation didn’t devolve the way it has.
everyone who sees jeon jungkook falls in love with him.
everyone except himself.
✵
“do you want to talk about it?” yoongi asks.
jungkook’s hidden under the covers, white blankets pulled over his head as he buries his face in yoongi’s pillow. he’s holding yoongi’s hands, can see them beneath the sun filtered sheets.
he doesn’t say anything for awhile, just reattunes himself with the way yoongi’s hands look. they look the way they always look:
strong.
yoongi’s hands are hands that are strong. hands that build things. hands that write things. hands that cut tomatoes into thin slices. hands that carry cardboard boxes and paper bagged groceries.
hands that are bony. calloused. strong.
but also hands that are unbelievably gentle, pale porcelain fingers decorated with jaded silver rings and lilac veins meant to be traced.
at first jungkook classified hands as one of the sharp things in the universe, but over time he changed his mind about them. every now and then he discovers loopholes to his own visual fixations.
hands are one of them.
he doesn’t like wrists, doesn’t like the way they curve on the outer side as if the bones have fallen out of alignment.
but he likes hands.
they’re oddly shaped and move with no true accordance to anything else.
and fingers too—fingers are frail on the tips and symmetrically jut out at the knuckle and bend and curl and meet and touch and knock against each other.
jungkook likes hands and fingers and bones, and he probably likes yoongi’s the most of all.
he likes yoongi, loves him even, and jungkook hates that he has to remind himself of this.
with yoongi it’s different. it’s safe, and it doesn’t matter nearly as much as it feels like it does.
min yoongi is kind. min yoongi is gentle. min yoongi is careful.
“they were looking at me,” jungkook eventually lets out, breath fanning over yoongi’s palm.
the older doesn’t say anything in response, knows these sort of things are easier for jungkook if he waits until the end.
“i just don’t get it.” jungkook swallows. “when i first met you it wasn’t like this, but then you sat with me at that house party. you told me i didn’t have to do things i didn’t want to do.”
jungkook’s own fingers are intertwined with yoongi’s as he speaks.
yoongi can’t see it.
but he can feel it.
“it helped at first," jungkook continues. “i stopped forcing myself into things i didn’t want, but nothing else stopped. people still look at me, hyung.” and it’s hard to say, seems ridiculous to the younger, but jungkook keeps going because it’s the truth.
he’s afraid that if he doesn’t say it now the truth will never find another way out of him.
“people still look at me. for some reason i thought that if i rejected them it’d stop. i thought that the only reason they looked at me was because i let them, but they look at me anyway.”
jungkook’s words start coming out in a disarray. he takes a deep breath, blinks a few times, pulls the white sheets down from his face.
yoongi’s first instinct is to look at their hands.
not at jungkook.
not at his face.
or his wide eyes.
or lost expression.
not yet.
“they take so much, and now that i know that i don’t want them to, everything’s become worse. but they don’t stop, hyung.” jungkook’s voice cracks. “they don’t stop.”
in yoongi’s peripheral he can see jungkook’s head tilt up, and he knows that the younger’s looking at him, knows that it’s now okay to look back too.
he doesn’t though.
not yet.
“i don’t think it’s gotten worse,” is the first thing yoongi says because it’s true.
he’d rather jungkook stay hidden away in their apartment where he feels comfortable than have him surround himself with heads and bodies that only ever take from him, and maybe he’s selfish. maybe that’s all it is.
yoongi continues, “i think the situation’s just changed. if anything, i’d call it a step forward.” he traces his eyes from their hands and up jungkook’s arm to the soft bend of his elbow.
up and up and up.
jungkook’s eyes are imploring when yoongi finally meets them. wide and bright and curious and—
beautiful.
“you hate when i cover up, hyung.” the younger says, bottom lip full and pink and pouty.
yoongi struggles with words for a moment, tries to snap himself out of the trance jungkook always manages to catch him in. “only because—” you’re beautiful. “only because i know you do it for other people. you wouldn’t cover up if they didn’t stare. i wish they didn’t hurt you so much. i wish you wouldn’t hurt yourself so much.”
✵
yoongi fell for jungkook, and it shouldn’t have been that big of a deal because everyone did.
but yoongi didn’t just fall for the younger’s undeniable beauty.
he fell for everything else too.
and yoongi fell hard.
he found the other enthralling, was fascinated ever since he first visited jungkook’s apartment and found the younger’s walls covered in pictures of obscurities.
drainpipes. strangers on their phones. a bike tied to a fence in the middle of songdo central park.
jungkook had a specific name for that set of photos: the unnatural way of natural things.
he changed them out frequently, replacing the frames with, well, everything.
new things. old things. delicate things. heavy things. flimsy things. concrete things. smooth things. sharp things.
he had asked jungkook why he took so many photos, and the younger had shrugged it off saying he just liked the way things looked.
yoongi never really got it, even now he doesn’t.
jungkook’s a bit of an enigma, and yoongi falls in love with him.
someone may wonder what the difference is between yoongi’s love for jungkook and everyone else’s love for him is, and the answer’s quite simple.
he’s trying.
trying to figure jungkook out.
trying to understand what sets the younger off.
trying to learn how to help the other.
trying to find a way to be there for him.
being in love is a trying game. it isn’t a matter of things clicking and staying and loving. no, love is a trying game, but trying is not something that should obstruct love.
if it does then it is not love.
what does it mean to be there for someone?
it means to try.
being there for someone is a puzzle yoongi still hasn’t been able to solve, sometimes he can’t even place a single piece. everything’s broken into fragments, and the fragments are sometimes blackened out.
but he’s trying.
and if love is a trying game, then yoongi will play until he reaches the end.
or until jungkook doesn’t want him to anymore.
✵
their refrigerator makes a humming noise when it turns on, and it usually turns on when the door’s opened first thing in the morning.
jungkook can feel it vibrate against his palm.
he sets a glass on the counter along with a carton of milk.
yoongi has a thing for milk.
almond milk.
rice milk.
soy milk.
coconut milk.
never cow milk.
jungkook hasn’t asked about it, accepted it as just the way of the universe long ago. like how min yoongi reminds him of honey on the soft days, it’s just the way it is.
the empty glass on the counter is shaped like a fishbowl, and there’s a glint of light on it when jungkook spins the cup around. it casts something dreary and blurry onto the granite countertop, silhouettes and contours that wane and bend with the different angles.
jungkook stares.
he can’t not.
the refrigerator hums in the background. it’s a static sound, almost not there if jungkook doesn’t listen.
he can hear yoongi’s footsteps as he talks on the phone a room over.
hoseok had called earlier.
jungkook likes hoseok, hasn’t seen him in awhile.
he misses him.
✵
love has always been a weird word for them.
yoongi once told jungkook that he loved him, and it lead to one of jungkook’s worst episodes. he fell into near hysteria at the thought of min yoongi loving him.
he cried a lot then, almost suffocated himself beneath the pillows and sheets of yoongi’s bed.
that night he sat at the lake for hours, and when the sun rose again it seemed like the water was laughing at him and all of his tears and cries for something, anything, to make it go away, to make it change, to make it different, easier, better.
love?
love?
what even is love? jungkook had spat at his reflection.
sick and cold and nose running, he felt red with delirium and anger and frustration.
but not red with love.
if only.
back before they moved in together, yoongi made the mistake of telling jungkook he loved him.
everyday he’s with jeon jungkook he has to stop himself from saying it, from thinking it.
the deprivation leaves him with only one other option—expressing it every other way he can.
✵
+82 32 xxx xxxx
“it’s close to being developed. we just have to get the serotonin level right.”
“okay.”
“do you still want it for him?”
yoongi pauses, glances to the kitchen where jungkook’s staring at an empty glass.
in the end it won’t be his choice anyway, it’ll be up to jungkook.
and so he says, “i do.”
✵
jungkook would do anything for yoongi. that’s why the older’s especially careful with what he asks of the other because he knows jungkook will always put his heart before everything else, and he knows that hidden in the layers of jungkook’s heart is a boundless love. a frantic love. a type of love yoongi can’t comprehend. a type of love that made jungkook want to move in with yoongi within the first month of knowing each other.
and so yoongi is careful of what he asks of the other. he doesn’t want to use jungkook’s love to his advantage, doesn’t want to be selfish.
“would you like to go to seokjin’s tonight?” yoongi rests the palms of his hands on the counter in front of jungkook, arms relaxed.
out of habit, jungkook rests his own hands on the counter as well. he holds eye contact with yoongi.
yoongi’s one of the only people he can look in the eye these days.
“namjoon and hoseok are having a get together.”
jungkook swallows, but he doesn’t look away.
he hasn’t gone out to see his friends in a few months. it isn’t because he doesn’t like them. it’s just that—staying in with yoongi and watching studio ghibli films and making up stories about the stars and lights above beds is so much easier.
but yoongi wants to go out, wants to go to dinner at seokjin’s, and jungkook knows that yoongi wants him to go too.
jungkook really can’t argue, can’t find it within himself to. he’s just tired.
not tired of yoongi.
tired of himself.
yoongi wants to go out, and so jungkook agrees.
he doesn’t need much convincing.
he’ll go wherever yoongi goes.
✵
jeon jungkook thinks a lot about beauty and what it means to be beautiful.
he sees flickering streetlights and thinks of beauty.
he sees styrofoam cups with coffee stained residue and thinks of beauty.
he sees snow banks with cigarette ash and thinks of beauty.
he sees himself and thinks-
thinks-
thinks.
he thinks about it all as he waits for yoongi to tie his shoes.
✵
the dinner goes well, too well.
seokjin greets them at the door and smiles at jungkook as if jungkook hasn’t ignored him for the past five months.
namjoon’s a little more weary, asks if jungkook’s been alright to which jungkook can’t find any words to respond.
but yoongi’s good at talking to people, good at filling silences with something comfortable.
taehyung greets him in the kitchen with a smile that hurts, a smile jungkook hasn’t seen in a long time. and jimin hugs him when he sees jungkook, mutters something about missing him, about wanting to see him more often.
jimin gives strong hugs, the type that are tight enough to push everything inside of jungkook back into place. the type to remind jungkook that he’s a person, that he’s being hugged, that he’s him.
he’s not a stranger or a wavering mirror in the water.
he’s jeon jungkook, and he’s being hugged, and he’s being looked at it.
the dinner goes well, too well.
they all eat at a table with napkins the color of the sky’s reflection in the ocean. jungkook likes the way it looks. seokjin’s cups are all warped at the bottom, and it makes the alcohol look like something abstract.
everyone’s laughing and telling stories about university and chemistry labs and laughing some more.
jungkook doesn’t really listen, instead stares at taehyung’s silver necklace as it shifts against his tanned skin, at hoseok’s short trimmed fingernails as he holds chopsticks, at the indent in namjoon’s cheek as the older grins at something stupid.
no one asks him any questions. it’s as if they already know his answers, as if they already understand that jungkook’s prolonged absence hasn’t been on purpose.
everyone’s gentle and kind and jungkook feels guilty.
he hasn’t been avoiding them, but he hasn’t been putting any effort into seeing them, or, into them seeing him.
he pushes the guilt down though, smiles every time someone says something to him, smiles whenever yoongi looks at him to make sure he’s doing alright.
the dinner goes well, too well.
until yoongi excuses himself.
he leaves with namjoon to talk about something in the kitchen, and it’s only five minutes.
but it’s too long.
the focus of conversation is brought to him within 58 seconds, and jungkook used to be good at holding conversation, but now he’s hyper aware of all the eyes on him, and it feels like something sharp. like daggers and blood and wounds tearing through his insides.
everyone’s looking at him, something must’ve been said, but jungkook doesn’t know because he was too busy watching yoongi leave the room.
he stares at the others, tries not to think about it too much.
he searches for something to say, anything.
anything.
anything.
—jimin’s hair is dyed grey. jungkook notes that the roots are growing back.
it looks nice, and he animatedly says as much with a polite smile.
“your hair’s nice too, guk-ah.” jimin smiles. jungkook remembers to smile back.
they used to be good friends. it shouldn't be this hard, this mechanical, this forced.
“i like the way you parted it,” jimin adds. “it makes it easier to see your pretty face.”
and jimin means well, jungkook knows jimin means well, but the other’s words deform his thoughts into something maimed and contorted.
jungkook can’t help it, and his immediate response is to look down, to turn away from everyone, to hide somewhere they can’t find him. he brings a shaky hand up to his face, feels the soft skin against the pads of his fingers.
jungkook isn’t too sure what he looks like, hasn’t studied his face in a proper mirror in over a year.
yoongi got rid of them when they moved in together, said mirrors were part of the problem.
jungkook doesn’t know what he looks like, doesn’t know what they’re all staring at, doesn’t know what they’re all seeing.
he presses harder against his face.
maybe it’s a good thing, because jungkook used to hate what he saw in the mirror, used to despise the horrid thing that always stared back at him.
and he’s 21 years old, he should be able to handle it, should be over the self hatred phase, but he can’t stop the aggressive feeling that washes over him whenever he thinks about himself and how he’s a person and how people will always stare at him and how they’ll always make him bleed.
there is a universe and there is a light inside that universe, and jeon jungkook has stared at that light for so long that he doesn't even remember what he’s staring at.
jungkook digs his nails into his cheeks and drags them down. down. down. until he can feel the angry red lines burning.
and, god, he thinks, it’s uncontrollable sometimes. it gets out of hand. but, god, he doesn’t want to be himself, he wants to be somewhere else where he isn’t him. he wants to be somewhere else where the people who look his direction don’t see him.
yoongi’s only gone for five minutes, but it’s too long.
by the time yoongi gets back the conversation’s already changed to something else, and everyone’s moved on from jungkook, but jungkook’s still covering his face.
yoongi gently tugs his hands down, and everyone’s pretending not to watch.
pretending because they don’t want to be invasive, but they can’t not watch. questions and worries and concerns have been festering for months now.
because what happened to jeon jungkook? why has he fallen so deeply into his own sorrows? why has he sunk so deeply into a sea of despair?
he’s become one with the stormy blue waves by now.
what happened to him?
when jungkook’s hands reveal his face yoongi sees the scratches first, and behind the scratches he sees jungkook’s wide and panicked eyes.
what happened to him?
✵
yoongi takes him home.
he holds jungkook’s hand as they walk back to the apartment and jungkook’s quiet. yoongi thinks he might be crying, but he isn’t sure. it’s not a loud or obvious crying, but a quiet one of silent tears and muted whimpers.
it isn’t that yoongi’s used to it, but it’s not anything new.
their very relationship bloomed from this sort of thing: yoongi leading jungkook away from his troubles and bringing him somewhere else, somewhere more comfortable. bringing him home.
✵
the bad days are not all the same, but they have the tendency of following the same motions like a procedure yoongi’s written for the two of them. for jungkook.
step one: find a glass from the cabinet.
it’s important to get this right. it has to be one of the shorter glasses, the ones that are only a hand width tall.
step two: hold it beneath the faucet.
make sure it’s held near the bottom so your fingers curl around the edge, pointer finger resting on the brim.
step three: fill it with water.
but only two thirds of the way. not too much, and, most importantly, not too little.
step four: wait.
and it’s the hardest step for yoongi.
step four: wait.
step four: wait.
it’s never not painful.
he watches jungkook carefully, the younger’s hands fumbling with his own glass as he holds it bottom to top and fills it two thirds of the way with tap water.
when he’s caught up his eyes meet yoongi’s, and they’re bloodshot and teary and desperate.
yoongi didn’t always get it, didn’t always understand why it meant to much to jungkook, but it’s different now.
he may not understand the why, he may not understand the how, but he understands—understands that sometimes jungkook hates who he is.
being someone else makes it easier, and that’s all that really matters at this point.
yoongi brings the cup up to his bottom lip and tilts it.
jungkook does the same.
they’ve done it a hundred times before.
jeon jungkook copies min yoongi on the bad days. not because he wants to be the other, but because he doesn’t want to be himself.
✵
“i’m sorry, hyung. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sor-”
“jungkook.”
somewhere beneath the sheets, jungkook falls closer into yoongi. he shuts his eyes, tries to forget it all. tries to forget everything.
on the bad days, yoongi will say jungkook’s name, and it isn’t meant to hurt the younger. although, most of the time it does.
it’s an unintentional kind of hurting, and jungkook thinks that that’s the worst kind of hurting of all.
on the bad days, anything that reminds him of himself pivots to the edge of too much, and jungkook wishes he could eradicate every piece of himself from the earth. even his name. even the mere memory of him.
yoongi will say his name on the bad days though, will whisper it so very gently, and it’ll bring whatever jungkook’s thinking about to a halt.
maybe yoongi does it on purpose, jungkook doesn’t know, but the whisper of his name ceases his manic apologies.
the older guides his head back so their eyes meet, thumb light against his temple, mouth parted.
jungkook lets out a stuttered breath, and it’s a little choked. his eyes are closed in hesitancy, and he has to remind himself that it’s just yoongi looking at him. it’s just yoongi.
yoongi understands him.
yoongi wants to help him.
yoongi cares about him.
yoongi loves-
yoongi loves-
yoongi loves.
a forefinger lifts jungkook’s chin up and eyes meet eyes again.
unsaid words meet unsaid words.
yoongi brushes jungkook’s bottom lip and kisses him.
lips meet lips.
breaths meet breaths.
and suddenly there isn’t just a light above their bed.
there’s a light between them too, and it’s shining and growing and building.
it’s illuminating it all, from every thought to every blood vessel separating them.
everything’s out in the open. everything’s visible, and it isn’t something sharp or painful or haunting.
it’s beautiful.
✵
“i want to be better.” the words resonate in the quiet of their bedroom, moonlight barely visible through the old framed window on the opposite wall. “how do i be better?”
yoongi never quite knows how to answer these questions, but he tries to think about light and soft edges and how to be there for someone. “you’re doing well, guk-ah.”
“but how do i do better?”
jungkook has always been this way, always striving to be his best even when his best leaves him with bloodied fingerprints and torn flesh.
“i saw the way they all stared at me, hyung. jimin, taehyung, seokjin.” jungkook’s syllables are drawn out, as if forming them is harder than he expects. “it wasn’t how strangers stare at me. no, they stared at me like i was hurting them. i make them sad.” his words catch before he adds, “i make you sad.”
it isn’t something yoongi agrees with, but he folds his own thoughts over and focuses on the younger. “do you make yourself sad?”
and jungkook thinks about what it means to make others sad and what it means to be sad. “it’s not the same.”
“but do you?” yoongi notices jungkook’s eyes dart, a tick when he’s focusing on something, usually something visual, but the lights are off and so jungkook must be focusing on him. on yoongi.
once his thoughts are collected enough to be words, jungkook rushes out, “only because i know that it’s me who’s causing all of this.” it’s like a mechanical machine punching out words of code. except, the code isn’t as technical. it’s driven by years of self hatred and too many hours in front of the same reflection. “if only i could find a way to get it to stop. if only i could make everything less overwhelming. if only i could stop the bleeding.”
every plead begins to jumble together, and he fears he might work himself into another episode.
“if only i could. if only i could. if only-”
yoongi shushes him, cradles his head in his arms. “but, jungkook, you can do these things. eventually, with time.”
jungkook rests his cheek on yoongi’s shoulder and turns his head so his nose brushes the older’s neck. “i’m trying, hyung. i’m trying.” it’s whispered into yoongi’s skin, something that won’t ever be erased because words are sharp when they’re yelled, but words are also sharp when they’re said airily and thin. they’re just less blunt, the blade’s more fine, more precise.
i’m trying. jungkook could carve it into his own skin at this point.
love is a trying game, and maybe, one day, someone will tell the people that. maybe, one day, the world will understand love as something else, something asymmetric on the edges, something that isn’t always there the way we’re used to, something that comes like the tides—always drawing out and drawing back in.
you cannot oppose the tides, you cannot try to stop them, you can only go with them.
and there are some people who won’t give it a second thought, they’ll see their love cast offshore with the sea and the salt, and they’ll decide it’s too much.
but there are some people who will try. they’ll believe in the water and the moon and the gravitational pull. they’ll believe in their ability to touch the water as it rushes away from them and then ripples back in echoes.
they won’t try to hold it, won’t try to trap in between their fingers, because they understand what love is.
what does it mean to try?
what does it mean to love?
jungkook does a lot of thinking that night, as he does when he can’t sleep, and he can’t sleep often.
the light above their bed isn’t on, it’s galaxies aren’t intact, but jungkook still sees them, still pictures them in his mind.
what does it mean to love?
thinking about the universes and the scattered lights, he whispers to yoongi, “i love you like the stars in the sky.”
yoongi doesn’t say the sentiment back, is conditioned to keep those three words locked away like a flightless bird, even on the edge of drowsiness.
yoongi, half asleep and lethargic, mutters “but there’s only so many stars out there.”
jungkook grins anyway. he’s wide awake and rearranges yoongi’s arms around his waist, twists so he can see the older’s heavy lidded eyes and pursed lips.
even though yoongi doesn’t say it back, something jungkook knows is for his own sake, even though the older doesn’t say it, jungkook still thinks about it.
love.
what does it mean to love?
jungkook comes closer to an answer every day, every minute, every second he’s with min yoongi.
“they’re never the same stars, hyung,” jungkook whispers after awhile, but then, a little louder, he says, “they die and they’re reborn and they die again. it’s a never ending process. there may only be a finite amount of stars, but they’re never the same stars, hyung. they’re always changing, always finding different ways to exist, different ways to be.” jungkook pauses, considering his words before letting them out in a whisper again. “i love you like that.”
✵
the next morning, yoongi wakes up early and draws jungkook a bath.
the water’s warm and yoongi’s hands are warm too.
hair grown out a bit longer than usual, jungkook brushes the damp edges from his forehead, soap and bubbles swirled all around.
everything smells like honey, and everything feels like liquid sunlight.
when yoongi kisses him it tastes sweet.
✵
+82 32 xxx xxxx
“it should be all set. you can pick it up whenever.”
yoongi glances over to jungkook, who’s drying his hair with a white towel.
he loosens his grip on the phone. “i can pick it up today.”
“how’s he doing?”
“better.”
“are you sure you want to do this?”
“it’ll be his decision, it won’t be up to me.”
“hyung, you do know jungkook-”
“yeah.” yoongi’s in too deep though, the surface is above his head and he doesn’t know what else to do, how else to be there for the boy he loves, for the boy who loves him, for the boy who just can’t… “i know.”
✵
there’s a part of yoongi’s eye that turns down at an angle, giving an effect of sharpness. it’s right before the inner corner, fanned by pretty dark eyelashes.
jungkook has never classified yoongi as one of the things to make him bleed, but as the older stands opposite him with his lips pulled into a tight line, jungkook feels an urge to reach out and see what happens, see if the other draws blood too.
he doesn’t though, sits at the kitchen island with his hands in his lap, hair still damp from the bath, skin still soft from the soap, heart still warm from the honey.
“would you like to go to the park today?” yoongi asks, and his fingers are tapping against the counter offbeat. jungkook stares at yoongi’s hands and the way the knuckles bend the skin into different patterns stretched out like spiderwebs.
jungkook wonders what’s worrying yoongi. it’s evident in the older’s hands: the way his nail beds are picked at, the way his fingers don’t cease moving. something’s bothering him. something’s wrong.
sometimes jungkook’s visual fixations reveal to him more about the world than he’d like because it’s clear. it’s as clear as water on a calm summer day, yet he doesn’t ask about it.
because he loves yoongi, and he trusts yoongi, and he knows yoongi would tell him if it was something he’s supposed to know.
and so jungkook simply nods his head, face breaking into a bright sort of smile, “sure hyung.”
“i love you.” yoongi adds suddenly, seemingly detached from the sentiment. “i try not to say it,” he rushes, “but i just want to make sure you understand. you know that i love you, right?”
ah, jungkook thinks to himself. that must be it. that odd peculiarity he and yoongi avoid because jungkook’s not good with straightforward affection. those three words have been off limits for as long as yoongi’s known him.
it does twist something dreadful in the pit of his stomach, and jungkook gulps, but it doesn’t stop him from reaching out for yoongi this time, hands interwinding with other hands. “i know, hyung.” he whispers, and, for once, accepting it doesn’t feel like blood. “i love you too.”
yoongi looks up, then, eyes wide like the stars have fallen out of the sky and landed in their four room apartment.
and maybe they have.
maybe they’ve been there the whole time.
✵
street lamps litter songdo park. they map the waterways and paths as if it’s something uncharitable and hidden.
it’s not.
everything in songdo park is out in the open for the public, anyone can go to its rivers and walkways and lakes.
it doesn’t always feel that way though, and when yoongi pauses in front of the lake jungkook’s become unhealthily familiar with, jungkook feels like they’re someplace secret, someplace yoongi isn’t supposed to be, someplace jungkook doesn’t associate with the other.
if he closes his eyes he can picture himself in the late hours of the night staring at himself in the water, but when he opens them it’s light out, and there are people, so many people, ambling about around them, and yoongi’s holding his hand.
it’s the same place where jungkook picks himself apart, but it’s different in the day. it doesn’t seem as haunting, doesn’t feel like the shadows might eat him alive if he lets them, and most times he would let them.
but not right now, because right now it’s light out and yoongi’s with him and it’s different.
jungkook stops in front of the lake beside yoongi, but he does not fall to his knees or fixate on what stares back at him in the water. he simply nods his head in acknowledgement, like passing a stranger once friend on a sidewalk of an unnamed street in an unnamed town.
✵
hoseok meets them at a park bench with a glass vial in his hand. when yoongi takes it from him, hoseok sends a long look in jungkook’s direction.
jungkook smiles in response because it’s what he’s used to doing when his friends look at him like that. he doesn’t question the glass tube, doesn’t ask about what it is. such inquires don’t cross his mind.
he subconsciously accepts it as the way of the universe, much like how humans accept the things they don't understand simply because they don’t understand them.
jungkook tilts his head and blinks periodically to remind himself not to stare. he feels too animated as he does this, but it makes him look more human, makes him look less like someone whose brain works like an android—always targeting certain visuals and analyzing them until there’s nothing left.
he’s already done it to himself, to his very own reflection, and it’s made the world so ocean blue sad. it’s made the eyes of those who care about him burn with salt.
jungkook’s just trying to make up for it.
✵
there’s some sort of golden liquid in the glass vial.
jungkook doesn’t notice it until yoongi hands it to him.
“it’s supposed to help with the chemical imbalances in your brain.” it’s supposed to make you better.
jungkook stares at the liquid.
it looks like honey.
it looks like molasses.
it looks like poison.
“hoseok and namjoon have been working to develop this solution for you.”
jungkook hesitates, skeptical and unsure, but his heart’s set on doing it right, making up for all he’s been cut short of. “do you want me to drink it?”
“it’s up to you.”
“but do you want me to?”
the sun glares off of the lake behind yoongi, and jungkook closes his eyes so he can bring himself to look away from the lake and the light and the universes.
there is a lake and there is a light and there is a universe and there is min yoongi, but they’re never in the same order and they never fall into the right sequence.
yoongi’s voice cracks when he says, “it’s supposed to help you…” words have always been too sharp edged, “you’ve been trying to…” always cutting into and out of themselves, “it’ll show you that you have reasons you should…” always leaving wounds and bruises and blood in their wake.
yoongi’s fractures leave jungkook with open cuts. they’re unfinished and incomplete, but they’re enough for jungkook to bring the glass vial up to his lips.
there is a lake and there is a universe and there is min yoongi and there is a light, and jungkook’s just trying to put yoongi first.
he tilts the glass back until it’s empty.
it doesn’t taste like much.
it doesn’t taste like anything.
✵
it takes twelve minutes for them to walk to their apartment, and in those twelve minutes jungkook doesn’t notice any drastic changes.
yoongi’s hand still feel like a hand in his own, and the sun setting looks the way it always does.
except-
jungkook finds it all a little less blinding.
as the sun descends below the horizon, it doesn’t make his insides ache and it doesn’t leave him with blurry vision.
when jungkook looks away he notices a few things. actually, he notices the lack of a few things, a few certain things.
everything’s somehow softer.
the buildings are not sharpened infrastructures built to leave red.
and the traffic signs are not filed into blades.
and the people’s stares are not pointed into daggers.
everything’s softer.
for the first time, jungkook finds himself not thinking about blood.
✵
he lies next to yoongi in bed that night.
the older doesn’t say much, but jungkook can’t bring himself to wonder about it.
he’s too busy staring at the edge of the bedpost below their feet.
it looks less like something serrated, and more like something made of wood, more like something it’s supposed to be.
his eyes fall onto the light above their bed countless times, but with each glance it seems to diminish into something smaller and smaller.
it doesn’t take long before the light doesn’t have a universe in it anymore.
gradually, it becomes just a light, one yoongi had changed the bulbs out of a few months ago.
jungkook brings his hand up to touch his cheek.
it doesn’t burn and it doesn’t feel like blood.
it feels like skin.
it feels the way it’s supposed to.
it feels like a human jungkook’s never gotten the chance to know.
✵
two years ago, jungkook had changed, but the rest of his world did not.
min yoongi had sat beside him on a house party porch and cut words of change into his soul, and jungkook’s axis tilted.
after that first night, jungkook no longer let strangers paint him red in the form of bitten marks and popped blood vessels from lips and teeth.
he didn’t let strangers scrape lines down his back with manicured fingernails and leave his cheeks blushed from the heat and skin on skin.
after jeon jungkook met min yoongi, he didn’t let strangers paint him red.
yet, they still made him bleed anyway.
back then, jungkook had changed and his world did not.
now, however, now his world has changed, fully and completely.
jungkook wonders if he’s changed too, wonders if he’s different or if he’s still the same.
he wonders if it matters.
wonders and wonders and wonders.
the curiosity seeps into his brain, and then it’s suddenly something striking him in a way he can’t ignore, in a way he’s unfamiliar with, and the next thing he knows he’s stumbling into the bathroom, sheets and blankets kicked aside.
but when he turns the light on there’s no mirror on the wall. there’s no reflection to reveal what he looks like, to reveal what he’s become, and then suddenly the desire to know, to see, is unbearable.
jungkook nearly doubles over.
and that’s when his insides truly ache and his lungs constrict and his stomach twists.
it’s really no surprise that he collapses from the bathroom, tripping over his own feet as he turns the doorknob to get out of their apartment.
it’s really no surprise that he barrels through the midnight streets, pushing past invisible crowds of people that aren’t there anymore.
it’s really no surprise that he ends up at the lake, praying for something, anything, different to be there waiting for him.
✵
jeon jungkook has a visual fixation, and more often than not the things he’s drawn to become the things he hates.
it’s that way with sharp things, and it’s that way with himself.
but for some reason, it’s always been different at the lake, and maybe it’s because his reflection’s blurry or maybe it’s because the streetlights douse the lake in universes and stars or maybe it’s because the water travels in ripples like the love jungkook feels in his heart.
he disassociates at the lake’s edge on the bad nights, can’t see himself in the water, can’t identify it as himself. it’s too murky and impersonal.
yet, that night, when jungkook peers into the lake’s water, he doesn’t see the stars or the universes or the cosmos.
he sees himself.
and his reflection’s unbelievably clear in the water.
it’s all a little too clear.
he studies his face, loosens his jaw and watches the mirror of himself move accordingly.
indeed, it’s a marvelous sight.
jungkook hears something behind him, but he doesn’t look away.
he can’t look away.
why would he want to?
captivated and in awe, he stares at himself, jeon jungkook, with all his entirety and sharp edges and light and cheeks red from the cold.
he reaches a trembling hand out to the water, a hand out to himself.
closer.
closer.
and then he falls in.
✵
sharp things break.
soft things break too.
water’s both of these, and so it only makes sense that it breaks as well.
the surface shatters with the impact of his body, and jungkook isn’t sure if he breaks with it.
still lost in the mesmerizing hue of it all, he isn’t aware of anything else beyond the feeling of being enraptured and encompassed and embraced.
the sensation of being dragged and pulled surround him, and he can’t tell if it’s up or down, far or near, water or something else.
everything’s lost when he breaks the surface of the lake, and everything’s reformed too—like molecules rebuilding a more modern code for existence, like a waterfall parting to reveal a new world, like a metal cage crumbling apart to let the bird fly away.
jungkook’s thoughts are a mass of obscurities, as they usually are, but it never crosses his mind that he might drown.
in his thoughts, in the praise, in the clarity, there are many things to drown in in this world.
jeon jungkook.
he hears his name echo around him.
water refracts light and absorbs sound.
the call of his name seems to come from every direction, above, below, and all around.
jeon jungkook-
jeon jungkook-
jeon jungkook.
there are worse things to drown in.
✵
yoongi’s always been selfish when it comes to jungkook.
after it all, after everything he’s done, is it selfish that he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to be there for someone, even when he didn’t know how?
is it selfish?
to try to help someone.
to care about someone.
to follow someone out into the cosmos and drag them back to a world that’s only ever made them bleed.
to love someone like that.
is it selfish?
✵
historians don’t only leave out what was of narcissus before the lake and the water and the falling in, but they also leave out what was of him after.
they like to tell you that he dies in that lake—because they want to antagonize the story of narcissus.
to all that know the myth, narcissus drowns. he becomes one with the water. disappears. dissolves. his dead body blooms into what is now known as the narcissus flower, all yellow-white petals and stems to be forgotten with the seasons.
but that isn’t the story of narcissus.
not all of it.
when he falls into that lake he doesn’t drown, no. he’s pulled out by someone, someone who loves him. he doesn’t become one with the water.
he stays on the land and blooms into something else entirely.