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“Look at the stars / Look how they shine for you / and everything you do / Yeah, they were all yellow / I came along / I wrote a song for you / and all the things you do / and it was called Yellow / So then I took my turn / Oh, what a thing to have done / and it was all yellow.”
Yellow – Coldplay
Jeon Jungkook could feel the salt in his lungs, tickling his nose on every inhale, the air alive with sea and sun. A rogue seagull trailed off with a piece of bread as an older couple waddled past it, and Jungkook sat on the bench late Sunday, just when the sun would hit the water and drown itself in the pastels of the sky. He tapped the end of his pencil once, twice on the page and marked where the horizon would begin with his cheap charcoal, letting his skin crawl with how the tool scraped against rigid paper.
Golden Gardens was often alight in the sunset colors, all popsicle shades, just out of Jungkook’s reach as an artist, but close enough that he could just begin to capture them before they slipped into the inky star-blotted night. He flexed his legs beneath the bench to put feeling back into them, fidgeting when it was mostly unsuccessful, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Seattle was temperate. That was what he’d told his parents (Yeah, mom, temperate.) As in: Gray. Gray buildings and gray sidewalks, gray mountains and clouds and people. The temperature was never above 75 in the short-lived August when he’d moved into the foreign student dorm, never below 55 now that the leaves had begun to bruise and bend beneath Autumns heavy thumb.
Sometimes, when his professor left a clouded window open, Jungkook could smell the salty air as it drifted upon lazy breezes. More often than not, Jungkook tolerated. He tolerated the giant spiders he found in the community showers (They’re called Daddy Long Legs in English, Kook. They don’t bite.) He tolerated the city bus and its rotten air, gaseous and bloated, bumpy all the way until he could jump off, sneakers slapping pavement, sneakers squishing on manicured lawns, sneakers sinking into sand— it wasn’t the same. Not really. Busan was his home, full of yellowed sands and crystalline waters, crabs and fish darting close enough to grab. The murky waters here flowed current to current, slimy seaweed strands sticking between Jungkook’s toes until he shivered with the ugly sensation of it.
The seagull gave a scratchy squawk until Jungkook threw it another crumb, sticking his hand in the small bread bag after looking left and right for other offending birds, tossing just the smallest amount to avoid a potential bread-massacre. It stayed, the gull, and Jungkook swept a black curved line on his sketch pad to capture the slope of its feathery head as the sun dipped lower and lower.
Jungkook never stayed to see the stars. The paper tore beneath his fingers easily, a clean cut, and Jungkook stood to place it where he’d been sitting the last hour or so. The bench had a name engraved, in loving memory of Marianna, so he left the paper there; in loving memory. He licked his lips as the shadows of the trees grew longer. Eventually, the dusk would swallow the park until it was only cold, cold sand and sea and maybe high school kids drinking near the bonfires behind their parent’s back. And Jungkook would be at home, beneath his covers, dreaming of the time he almost caught a silver crab beneath a barnacle-ridden rock.
Kim Namjoon was never going to drink again. His cheek squished on his hand as he watched the old wood of the bar wall shift around and bubble like stew. His professor was chatting up a blonde at the counter, the bartender discreetly rolling his eyes as he cracked another line. Namjoon scrunched his nose, laughing at himself when he remembered he hadn’t worn glasses in years. Across from him, Yoongi was staring longingly into his whiskey, the lights of the bar casting a purplish shadow beneath his fringe and into his eyes. If they’d been born to space, Namjoon supposed, Yoongi would be a streaking comet, too bright, so consumed with his own flight to watch as he pummeled into planets and stars.
“You’re bright.” Namjoon slurred, lifting his head enough to spit the words at his friend. Yoongi downed his drink, face distorted in the glass.
“You’re drunk.”
“We’re all bright, hyung.”
Life was nothing but a menagerie of those bright specs Namjoon studied for hours at a time, forgetting to eat or drink until his stomach was screaming. His parents, his friends— he glanced to the bar counter— Professors, and acquaintances. People Namjoon gravitated around but never once made contact with. He was so grateful. An asteroid belt circled a planet, separate but together, and Namjoon wondered how it felt to be part of something that had no responsibility like that. A grouping, a movement, a cause, what it must feel like to be free and centered, and surrounded by so many of those just like you.
Yoongi cocked his head, his eyes sharp. “How deep in there are you, Joonie?”
He was deep. Namjoon threw a smile on, his body swaying with the force of it. A black hole swallowed everything. Even light.
At their apartment, Namjoon watched himself in the bathroom mirror as he brushed his teeth, watched how the overhead lights bubbled in his irises, felt how deep he could breathe air into his lungs, how yellow the bulb of his bedside lamp colored the room, how sure he was that his feet were upon the ground, panda socks wiggling with his toes.
Even at work the next Sunday evening, Namjoon was stuck on asteroids and black holes, how the two were extreme opposites. He talked to himself for the most part (Namjoon, seriously, it’s space. Rocks and bigger rocks. Metaphorically, it’s not that deep.) until he was so pent up with ideas that he had to walk along the sun-warmed concrete barefoot after-hours, scouring the pier and park, waiting for that ache in his chest and stomach to abide.
It was ironic that he worked at the diner so late into the night that, often, all that was left for him at Golden Gardens were empty benches, distant bonfires, and the promise that the sand would never burn the soles of his feet. He missed it, though. The burning. It had grounded him, kept him from roaming into the bitter tendrils of space. He stopped, watching an obsidian wave crash against a rock like an embrace until the white of the water was calm again. Something rattled, or whispered, or shook lightly and Namjoon caught it, thumb instantly stained black with the deep charcoal slashed onto the page. Even through the monotone he could see the sunset, imagine how the colors would burst forth and stain the bench and tree beside him. It moved him. The first house his parents had bought in Ballard had let so much of the sunset in that the dining room would grow supernova, the cantaloupe color hitting first the hardwood and then the delicate table where his mother had accidentally scratched the surface with a knife.
The drawing rested on his desk for three weeks until it had to be moved to make room for more. Like treasure, Namjoon found a picture each night on his Sunday shift. A different medium for each, sometimes so full of color that his throat would ache dully and he knew somewhere, as he would tell Yoongi one clouded moon-less evening (Namjoon-ah, you need to get your head checked out.) there was an artist somewhere swallowing the sunset, wearing the planets on their sleeves like old, lifeless hearts, breath colder than space, but throat warmed with the sun’s rays.
Jungkook saw Busan alight in Seattle Gray. The sun set backwards, rising in the West until muted tangerine and fuchsia brought life back into the dead water. It was so close to his bare toes that he could almost feel the wet before it struck him, always pulling away before a single drop could rest. The city loomed behind him, he could feel the strength of the buildings, and yet knew there was nobody within them. The empty levels of concrete and dust gave him shivers, feeling as if he were looking within his own chest.
Something popped, and Jungkook fell sideways out of the soft library chair, book slapping him in the face as it fell spine-up below him. He scrambled to right himself, head smacking on the underside of the study desk as he straightened back up. From his nook, he could see a shelf leaning just slightly and a man below it, pushing to right it, face panic-stricken. Jungkook hardly thought before he was helping move the bookshelf, flashing the stranger a small grin without really looking him in the eye.
“Thank you.”
“Sure.”
The stranger cleared his throat. “I’m kind of clumsy.”
Jungkook shrugged, staring at his shoulder, the gentle slope it ran from his neck down, collarbone poking out from his shirt as it caught in his backpack strap. He was all gentle greens and blues, skin tan. “That’s okay.”
The stranger paused. “Are you a Freshman?”
“No. I’m on exchange.” Jungkook managed to glance at his eyes, then back and away but appreciating how warm they were, cinnamon and honey. Jungkook put a hand out, lulled by those kind eyes, by those broad shoulders. “My name’s Jungkook.”
Shifting, the man shook, his palm soft. “You’re Korean? I’m Namjoon.”
Jungkook looked up again, surprised. “Yeah,” He swallowed, momentarily distracted by the deep dimples pressed into Namjoon’s cheeks and the way his eyes scrunched endearingly.
So they collided.
Weekdays were suddenly occupied for Jungkook. Between their hectic schedules and studying, there were boba smoothies, the science center & blue cotton candy, leaves that crunched beneath worn Converse shoes and loneliness alleviated. Namjoon’s favorite traditional samgyupsal in Korea town and maybe more than one bottle of soju. Jungkook tried not to jiggle his leg when Namjoon popped his neck or rolled his shoulders or sucked his teeth or laughed big, full-chested and warm. Jungkook preferred the warm slide of alcohol down his throat to the insufferable burning in his breast more often than not. He also preferred Namjoon’s sheets, how they smelled like rain on daffodils and felt cool and soft pressed between his thighs.
Often, Namjoon would tell Jungkook about planets. How he feared them most days, and appreciated them on his days off. Planets with nothing, planets raining diamonds, planets dying, planets being swallowed alive by black holes (Hyung, we won’t be swallowed, right?). Namjoon grinned wide, cheeks flushed red. That night, when the ajumma had given them a free bottle of soju each, and the busses stopped running too close to dawn, Jungkook could think of nothing more terrifying than an end made of warped gravity and weight. Something so powerful it could devour the colors of the sunset with one inhale. Namjoon watched Jungkook’s eyes in the low citrine lamplight, his pupils wide and glassy with drink. “No, Kook-ah, we won’t be swallowed tonight.”
Jungkook was so swept with how Namjoon felt like autumn and spring, how he smelled the same way his dreams tasted in the mornings, how he could be so, so, so close. If he wanted to, he could reach out and just touch—
His index finger ran from Namjoon’s eyebrow to the tip of his nose, tracing the way his warm skin felt and lined itself so expertly down his face. Something hard and deep but shallow all at once leapt in his chest. His heart cresting as it set below his ribs, colors threatening to burst forth from his irises, a million words and options so far out of reach— Namjoon, the astronaut, floating in his sea of rocking stars. Eyes closed, lips parted and warm breath fanning over Jungkook’s knuckles like a winter quilt.
Jungkook swallowed hard, pulled back his hand, whispered an apology, closed his eyes, kept the colors from bursting out of every pore.
Namjoon’s mirror was dirty, the boy in his bed curled around his pillow in the corner of his eye, he was breathing shallow. His face burned where the line had been traced down his nose— So close to his lips that he thought he might combust.
Asteroids and black holes.
Jungkook was maybe neither. He was full of light, long-ago light decided in the blink of an eye by the vast emptiness before there was anything to name. Namjoon splashed freezing water on his face, gripping the edge of the sink.
A star. He was a star.
Jungkook stopped painting the sunset.
That is, he stopped just painting the sunset. From his place on the lime swingset, with just the salty wind in his hair and something warm buzzing in his chest, the colors weren’t the same. Where once saccharine magenta’s bled into orange aflame, now all he could see was poppy red and the lavender-pink that took hold of the clouds. He consistently forgot charcoal at his watercolor-stained desk, only finding pastels and bright chalks every time he opened his bag at Golden Gardens.
His sketches had exploded. It was all Jungkook could do to keep them under control as the paintbrush moved almost on its own across the page. Even at home between his classes, Jungkook would find himself unable to focus on worksheets and vocabulary— instead, he would furiously sketch for hours at a time. It was always a different part of him. The way his eyes scrunched when he laughed, alcohol sparkling over his lips before being licked away, eyebrows cocked in the middle of a joke, hair fixed, hair combed, hair mussed, hair bed-messy.
Jungkook drew back the pastel he’d been using on the flimsy sketchbook paper, sucking air hard into his lungs as he took in the vibrant peach-pink image he hadn’t meant to draw.
Namjoon laughing, head thrown back and hair pushed up off his forehead, shirt loose around his collarbones, the shadows made of red-scale.
So Jungkook had stopped painting one sunset, and started painting his own.
It was late. Past somebody’s bedtime, but Namjoon hadn’t wanted to go home, and Jungkook hadn’t wanted to leave him. Midterms wound down, soju cups filled up. A necessary cycle. Jungkook held Namjoon up from around his shoulders as they stumbled back into the apartment, his roommate long-gone for the weekend, yellow-bulbed lights off and windows quiet. Namjoon’s head lolled onto his chest, mumbling, warm to the touch. They dropped onto the couch.
“You’re not th’ stars,” Namjoon whisper-sighed onto his neck, the smell of alcohol washing over Jungkook. He wiggled, but Namjoon’s arms just tightened around his waist, fingers lacing together. He spoke again, the words far too quiet.
“What? Hyung?”
Namjoon’s eyes half-opened, his lips parting as he chuckled. “You’re’s starlight,” He slurred. “Surrounded with a… a… celestial radiance, y’know? Irradiated so thatcha glow from here—” He stroked up Jungkook’s ribs, moving to his neck with slow, warm fingertips, Jungkook shivering into the touch. He landed at his lips, eyes fixed there, watery. “…to here.” He whispered.
They stared at one another, Namjoon’s finger staying pressed to Jungkook’s bottom lip. He could feel Namjoon’s grip around his back, the heat from his face, the peeking of his teeth behind his bottom lip. So he leaned. Maybe fell. Namjoon was soft and wet, the way his lips fit perfectly with Jungkook’s made his skin crawl pleasantly and there was lavender-pink clouds in his chest that glowed from the inside-out or maybe the outside-in, or reflected on the sea of his soul.
When they pulled apart, Namjoon was sobered, his lips red with kissing. “They shine for and around you, Kook-ah.”
Namjoon watched him sleep, watched his chest rise and fall, swept his bangs away from his cheek, curled his finger around the shell of Jungkook’s ear so softly that it could’ve been imagined.
“Hyung,” Namjoon froze, his chest weighing heavy, heat crawling up his neck as clouds dipped across the sun and shaded the room grey. Jungkook opened his eyes, shifting his head on the pillow with sleep still playing on his features. “Where did you get the sunsets?”
Namjoon’s desk was scattered in the sketches, each more vibrant than the last until his eyes rested on the latest that he’d found last week, colored completely in peach tones with just white chalk to show everything else. They looked poetic there, in their mess of rainbows, at least ten sunsets sprawled. He smiled and pinched Jungkook’s ear playfully.
“My artist,” He grinned mischievously. “I kept finding them after work, so I collected them. I think I’m in love with the artist.”
Jungkook’s breath caught in his throat and he turned suddenly onto his side, ignoring Namjoon’s satisfied laughter.
“Aw, Kook-ah, don’t be jealous, they’re just—”
“I made them for you.”
The clouds lifted from the sun outside, and Jungkook’s freckled skin glowed deeply, a halo around his head as Namjoon’s mouth opened and then closed again, eyebrows furrowing deeply.
“You wh—”
“I didn’t… I didn’t know it at first. I was…” (So surrounded by Seattle Gray I couldn’t breathe.) “You’re my sunset. Without you, how could I even begin to see color? How could the color bleed raw on the page, unfurl themselves like they have? It’s overwhelming—” Jungkook’s eyes flooded with tears and Namjoon was quick to brush them away, ignoring how his own burned.
“My artist,” Namjoon whispered, pulling Jungkook deep onto the warm skin of his chest as Seattle Gray lifted outside into something like sunshine,
to sunset
and then, billions of stars and asteroid belts and black holes, onwards.