Work Text:
The heart is monologuing about hesitation and fulfillment
while behind the red brocade
the heart is drowning.
- Richard Siken -
☁
he wakes up, and he remembers.
jungkook just -
just remembers.
his wrists are bound and dirt is smeared across his cheek and his entire body absolutely aches , but he remembers . something in him has shifted, opened, clicked into place. jungkook doesn’t know what key unlocked the memories of his past life - the memories that were tucked away in the valves of his heart and the lining of his mind - but he lifts himself from the cot he lays on, blinks away the exhaustion that rattles through his bones, and breathes what feels like new air into his lungs.
when his eyes close, flashes of a life he lost erupt through him: a boxed smile and deep laughter, broad shoulders sturdy to hang on, wise words paired with clumsy actions, plump peach lips that press soft kisses everywhere they touch, a husky voice that asks for a hand to always be held, and the embodiment of sunshine’s easy reassurance.
daylight’s rays glimmering and refracting off the softly moving ripples of the lake where they lived, the practice of runes being drawn in the dirt of their garden, magic halos circling their wrists as they summoned rain from the sky and danced as it fell: togetherness.
jungkook remembers a past life, remembers a life that he needs to get back to, remembers that they don’t know he’s alive .
god, he didn’t know he was alive.
he’s covered in grime and the redness of his wrists from the thorned bonds flare pain up his skin and - and jungkook needs to leave.
so he does.
the shack in which he resides is left in the dust as he carefully stands, slamming the door open with his shoulder, and sprinting out. his footsteps hit the dusty path hard, each pound of his weight against the earth throbbing through him. his vision still spotted with memories, jungkook strives to focus his sight on the looming wall of stone before him. his chest heaves and heaves and heaves. energy stutters within him, pulsing with every breath but escaping with every step.
he glances back. he’s being followed now.
(jungkook is a thrall, one that can’t afford to be lost. which is why thorns were tied around his wrists and tightened until blood wept from his skin.)
but now, jungkook refuses to be caught.
one singular focus reigns over every movement: find them. find home.
there’s a fracture in the wall. it calls out to him like a nightbird wailing its song out to the moon come midnight. jungkook runs faster, runs harder, feels like screaming and screaming and screaming because he’s so close, and he knows he can make it.
he can make it he can make it he can make it.
freedom is right there .
and then he’s shoving himself through the fracture, barely big enough for his lithe frame to fit through, and with a yell, he’s stumbles outside, toes touching fresh grass and its welcoming softness.
run, run, run, something in him whispers.
so, he does.
jungkook runs.
jungkook remembers .
☁
he makes it to the forest, the wind whipping him across the face and rippling through his clothes. when his inhales stutter through him, the air is cool and fresh and it smells of petrichor and ferns and the mistiness that hovers over earth-held bodies of water.
if jungkook is still being chased, he doesn’t know it. all he can hear are the heaving gasps of breath that swell from him and the rustle of the tree branches as they brush one another with what jungkook can only imagine to be the utmost fondness. he thinks he remembers being touched like that - tall and gangly limbs crashing into his, gently teasing kisses pressed to the juncture of his collar as he rested his head in a bed of grass, fingers brushing his cheek like branches brushing one another: swaying with the wind but with sure and smitten touches, nevertheless.
his muscles burn, pain pain pain spreading through his limbs and diluting his focus. jungkook can almost feel his blood being stripped of oxygen, every cell that makes up this new body of his begging for him to rest, to take a moment and breathe.
(but no. not yet. not yet , he tells himself.)
there are three things he can feel right now, only two of which he can identify.
the first is the exhaustion from running. simple. plain. in loose, ripped clothing with sweat cascading down his face, jungkook is still running. this is the first thing he can feel.
the second is this fluttering thing that rumbles beneath his skin. this thing that yearns and hums with the beat of his heart. it tingles, this thing. it’s presence is delicate and weak, but it’s there, and as if hidden away for too long - like a conch in the bottom of a lake - it now rears its head. and jungkook can name it.
magic.
jungkook doesn’t know how or why, but now that he’s outside the wall and his frantic gasps for air are synonymous with the kisses of the breeze, he can feel it pushing and pulling against his soul like the moon does the tides. it’s weak, because he’s weak, and this form of his - reincarnated - is untrained and has been beaten, imprisoned, and living a lie for so long.
but it’s there. his magic, though faint and shivering with the acknowledgement of his previous life and of his previous death and of his new existence, is still there.
the third feeling - the third feeling is something he can’t put a name to. it’s this trembling thing that would wrack his body, were he not running. it’s this... this feeling that fills his thoughts if he dwells on it too much, and it consumes him from the inside out, twisting him something dark and broken.
there’s a name for it, jungkook knows, and it sits on the tip of his tongue. he just can’t remember it.
(of all the things he’s suddenly remembered, he can’t think of the name of a single emotion.)
before him, the world spins all of a sudden. the world spins, jungkook stumbles, and then jungkook spins too. the sun is bright, bouncing cocoa brown off his irises and alighting his skin gently, allowing the dirt and grime over his body recognition in the day’s shine. he’s fading out, it feels like. a hand raises to block the sunlight from his gaze, but the effort he’s absentmindedly making is a limp one.
jungkook only has a moment to think, wait, no, not now, wait, i haven’t found them yet, i haven’t -
his knees buckle beneath him.
collapsing down to the earth below, ears ringing and eyes spotting, jungkook lets out a noise of distress, of need.
and the feeling he can’t identify? it grows. the magic simmering within him? it sparks. the exhaustion weaving its way into his sight? it overcomes him.
jungkook’s eyes slip closed, body lax on the grass, and he dissolves into nothingness.
☁
“did i save her, tae? god, did i save her?” his breath rattles, blood dripping down the corner of his mouth. pain shoots through him like lightning strikes through a tree, but all he can think about is that blonde haired girl with the cutest curls and the most beautiful eyes. all he can think about is that girl screaming as the men from behind the walls tried to drag her away, drag her into captivity, and drag her into serfdom, “taehyung!!” he begs, “tell me she’s okay!!”
jungkook loses his breath saying this, and he tries to turn on his side, because a coughing fit is shaking his chest, and his whole body is on fire with trauma. he knows he’s bleeding, doesn’t know where and barely remembers why, but that doesn’t matter.
what matters is that that little girl is safe, and that he and the others won’t lose another villager or little one to the encroaching threat of the men from behind the walls.
“...me. gguk, look at me.”
blinking through the haziness in his vision, jungkook strives to make out the figure that hovers above him. something wet lands on his cheek, sliding down, and just from its touch, jungkook knows that it was a tear and that it belongs to taehyung.
“you saved her, gguk. she’s safe. they’re all safe thanks to you.”
“good,” jungkook whispers, a pained smile shaping his lips, “safe, good.”
a sound fills the air then, and there’s someone else by his side, running a hand through his hair, “you’re an idiot, gguk… you don’t do that! you don’t - “ sobs: the sounds jungkook hears are sobs.
it hurts to breathe. ah, there are arrows in his chest. that’s why. jungkook took arrows in the chest to save her. caught up with them, tugged her from their grasp, told her to run, turned around and - and took three arrows in the chest for his effort. but that was a mistake on their part. magic exploded from him, sparking on contact with the air’s energy interacting with the adrenaline that rushed from the blood spilling from his chest.
just like that, they fell. their raiding flags stuck in the ground and jungkook collapsed back upon the earth, gaze falling upon the blue, blue sky.
his eyes are drifting closed.
“SEOKJIN!” someone screams.
jungkook winces, coughs again, heaves for breath he knows he won’t get.
“don’t you fucking dare close your eyes,” a hand grasps his, the callouses over the fingertips that press into jungkook’s knuckles identifying the touch as yoongi’s. there’s a growl, furious and terrified, and it sharpens jungkook’s existence, magic seeping into his skin from the contact, “jeon jungkook, you better stay awake.”
he moans from the pain, from the hurt that strikes through him upon the magic that crawls along his body and strives to heal.
pounding footsteps against the earth. yoongi with dark hair and blood smeared across his cheek. the red, black patterned, and gold hemmed cloak slipping around his shoulders.
jungkook is slipping down down down into the dark again.
he’s shaken.
he jolts.
seokjin, namjoon, hoseok.
there are hands on him, fingers dancing around the arrows protruding from his chest and palms holding his shoulders tightly. there are lips too, lips pressing spells against his belly button, a light touch tracing runes over his hips.
the sky is pretty, jungkook sees.
not only that, but the bird that flits in the air above him, white and angel-like, is pretty too. jungkook sighs, feels his body retracting from the pain, numbing it all. his eyes follow the bird, the sun glancing silver of its wings as it twitters in the blue, blue sky. he knows what the bird’s presence means.
“i’m dying,” he whispers, not feeling much of anything anymore. some odd and eerie peace has drowned the hurt he felt, blanketing him.
seokjin shudders, his hands faltering from jungkook’s chest and his voice wavering, “no, no you’re not.”
“look.”
the six loves that surround him cast their gaze up to the sky, eyes catching immediately on the dove like creature that floats in the air. its shadow circles them, a regretful messenger of truth.
there’s renewed effort now, pain bursting through the numbness when namjoon pulls off his cloak and wraps the magic-infused fabric around the protrusion of the arrows, pushing down to try and stop the bleeding. jungkook almosts laughs, but he can’t move anymore, can only feel tears sliding down his cheeks and desperate touches trying to save him.
“let me fly,” his voice breaks, “i love you, unendingly. nothing will change that. not death. not anything… let me fly. let me go, hyungs.”
hoseok’s voice now, “no, no, no!!” the franticness of his voice pulses panic through jungkook, pulses fear through his veins.
with what magic he, himself, retains, jungkook calms himself, blinks.
“seok…”
“hyung…”
“tae…”
hands leave him, hesitantly.
jungkook’s head is lifted from the grass then, propped against someone’s thigh: jimin’s, he determines, “okay,” jimin whispers. hands comb through jungkook’s hair. blood and sweat is wiped from his face with soft fabric. everything stills except for the seven of them together, their magic permeating time’s construct, allowing them all a moment of ponderance, of acceptance.
“we love you,” namjoon whispers.
yoongi squeezes his hand, “we’re right here.”
now taehyung, tears staining jungkook’s skin as he nuzzles against his neck,“and we’re not going anywhere, ggukkie.”
“did so well, our bun,” cries hoseok, kissing his belly again, renewing the runes on his hips.
jimin keeps petting back his hair, sobbing quietly.
finally, seokjin. seokjin cups his cheek and shushes him quietly when unwilling noises of discomfort slip past his lips. his other hand tugs absentmindedly at the hood of his robe: rumpled beneath his head. “my baby. my baby, gguk. you’ll be okay. you’ll be just fine.”
jungkook knows they both know that he won’t.
the sentiment warms him, though, and maybe, he thinks, he will be okay. he’s dying, yes. but he’s dying surrounded by the loves of his life and the blessings of multiple mages and the warm promise of peace everafter. maybe, he thinks, he will be okay.
maybe...
he is okay.
his dying breath, “i love you.”
the last thing he sees: the blue, blue sky and the white, white bird crashing down to meet him.
then -
peace.
☁
nobody finds him.
jungkook wakes up, and jungkook finds himself curled up under a tree with bright green low hanging branches. he gets to his feet, pushing the dream (memory) to the back of his mind - unwilling to delve into the pain of that truth right now - and keeps running.
the lake.
the conch.
the cabin.
for a moment, just a moment, he stops and breathes. within himself, he searches, looking for that magic that so long ago sparked. jungkook finds it coiled and waiting in the center of his palms, the energy blocked from access. carefully and exhaustively, jungkook massages his hands until he feels the power in his palms move upward into his fingertips with the pressure he applies. it’s faint, this string of magic that jungkook pushes and pulls with his touch. but once it’s unblocked and once he can feel its feeble warmth rush through him, jungkook opens himself up to the world.
life pulses through him, from the grass beneath his feet, from the squirrels chirping in the trees, and from the lake -
from the lake’s waters pushing gently against the sands.
he disconnects from nature’s energy, snapping out of its hold and bursting forward. this time he doesn’t stop running until a shimmer of water greets his gaze and he steps into a patch of sunlight. there it is: the lake. it looks just as jungkook remembers it, glimmering in welcome and rippling with movement. jungkook can feel its gentle force calling him, pulling him forward.
chest heavy, jungkook takes a deep breath and stumbles forward. for a moment, he forgets that his wrists are bound together and he tries to pull them apart, only spreading pain up his arms instead; the thorns catch on his skin and are reluctant to let go.
the water is cool as he wades in. it’s relieving actually, lapping at his shins and caressing his knees as he steps and steps and steps until it feels right to stop.
silently, he begs.
he begs for the conch to still be there, and then he plunges his hands into the water, searching along the sand and the shells and the weeds that greet his fingertips. jungkook goes elbow deep, breaths becoming more ragged and panicked the longer his hands roam the lake floor without finding what he’s searching for. the weeds are slick, catch on his bonds and tug at them when he tries to pull away. the shells are all rough to the touch, having sat under the weight of sand and water for too long. it’s how jungkook can tell that nobody’s swam in it, that nobody’s drank from it or interfered with its properties. before he died, there were barely any weeds in the shallows because of how active the seven of them had been. before he died, all the shells were picked from the bottom and carefully arranged as a barrier of protection around the perimeter of the cabin: tucked into the dirt.
jungkook is nineteen years old: it’s been nineteen years since the depths of the lake have been stirred and its waters have been blessed by mage magic.
then, when he’s almost given up hope, his fingers run along the slope of something that’s been smoothened by use. heart skipping a beat, jungkook moves his touch upward, fingertips stuttering over raised ridges where the object widens.
tears come to his eyes.
he gathers the conch in his hands carefully and withdraws his hands from the water.
not only does the pearly sunset shell rest tellingly in his palm, but his right arm tingles with remembrance now, and jungkook looks over to find the inked designs of his previous life materializing over his skin. the tiger flower is the first thing that catches his gaze, the scrawl of please love me encasing it in dark lines. that was the last inking he’d ever had done: the tiger flower.
(jimin had designed it and yoongi had inked it onto his skin.)
after letting the water drain from the conch, jungkook - without any hesitation - takes a deep breath, closes his lips around the hollow, pointed tip, and blows.
a low smooth bellow leaves the conch with determination, a sound that echoes through jungkook’s thoughts after he stops.
with it, the air around jungkook vibrates incessantly and finally -
cracks.
☁
the change is a subtle one.
when he opens his eyes, there are clouds in the sky and mist hovers gently over the waters he’s half-submerged in. everything is much more gentle here, the lighting tinted softer whites and blues, while where he was before was vivid in pale yellows and bright greens. here the leaves are darker, and though the sun still shines, it’s blanketed in the thinnest layer of clouds. only a few times does it manage to peek out and refract off the lake’s surface.
jungkook is no longer where he was.
this realm is a reflection of the world: a realm of magic. the conch was the key to enter it. and it’s where jungkook’s home is, where -
the magic shop
- where the magic shop is.
live with us at the magic shop
jungkook shakes his head, trying to disperse the remembrances and recollections of the past. he can’t allow them to muddle his focus. not now. not yet. not until he finds them.
his hands are empty, inked arm still pinpricking with sensation. the conch has sunk back into the lake, once more snug in the sand on the other side. it’s only a key after all, and jungkook doesn’t need the key now that he’s let himself in.
not only that, but he’s on the other side of the lake now, facing the shore. the cold water chills his bones now, making the hairs on his arms stand on end. the air is abuzz with change, knowing there’s a new presence is its magic-laden realm, one that’s long been gone. time is stilled here. it doesn’t move. the sun still rises and sets, and the moon still arches over the night sky, but time doesn’t actually pass. the idea of it does, but this is a place of safe immortality.
so, if his loves are still here, and if jungkook’s death didn’t tear them apart, then they’ll be the same age they were nineteen years ago. jungkook is younger, softer, more innocent now. he was twenty two when he died. but he remembers, and he’s him again, no longer the jeon jungkook that was enslaved by the men behind the walls - of which names he does not know. he’s no longer the jungkook that cut his hands while putting up barbed wire to keep in the animals, no longer the jungkook who slept only a few hours each night before he had to get up and help the stonemason carry rocks to and from his workplace, and no longer the jungkook that was alone and isolated every day of his nineteen years of life.
now, he remembers.
finally, jungkook works up the nerve to wage through the water, the sand conforming to his weight. he makes it to the banks, everything in him shaking in anticipation. step, step, step. the grass has grown taller here, no longer kept in check, and everything smells new, smells like home, like magic. the branches of the trees are long and they hang low. jungkook has to dip his head beneath them and slip between towering shrubs.
then he sees the coiled tree, the leafless one with knots in its base and bark that’s sanded down to this creamy brown color: petrified.
it’s called the tree of yeong-won: the tree of forever.
jungkook feels a smile pull at his lips upon seeing it. mist curls around the tree tenderly, and it sends jungkook’s mind back to a simpler time, a time where he napped under it, rested his cheek against it while kissing namjoon softly.
despite the result of a spell gone wrong on jimin’s part, the tree stands tall and proud to this day. a protectorate of the realm and a landmark for jungkook.
he’s close now.
reminiscent, he approaches it, skipping his fingers along its bark. it gives off the scent of sandalwood, of sage too. sage. jungkook hums softly, fighting tears. sage is seokjin’s scent. seokjin’s been here recently.
need pulsing in him, pounding against his chest, jungkook rips himself from the tree of yeong-won. his feet carry him straight past it and to the right.
he’s close. he can sense it.
his legs burn and he’s pretty sure he’s more than close to passing out, but he’s almost there. he’s -
crying.
because there it is.
his cabin - their cabin, their home, their magic shop.
it’s not in the best shape. jungkook can tell that many storms have passed through, have beaten the walls of the place in and holes have been patched by new wood. he can tell that there’s mold on the roof, can see it growing on the edges of the structure. it’s rained a lot, that means. it also means that for nineteen years, his loves have never stopped grieving, and it affects them so much so that the sky grieves with them.
the sky is cloudy, the slightest bit dark.
now jungkook knows why that is.
his whole body wracks with silent sobs, because there’s a light in the window: a soft-toned white light.
jungkook feels like it’s calling him.
a step.
a step again.
the garden is still blooming, he notices, but the dirt that the blooming flowers are nestled in aren’t scattered with shells like they used to be. jungkook remembers tending to the flowers with hoseok, remembers wiping dirt on his hyung’s forehead in tease when they planted new seeds and spelled them to grow. and the flowers - they’re as pretty as they were before, but their essence isn’t as bright and beautiful as it was. a myriad of colors still litter the garden, the small wooden fence that taehyung built still protecting them from the outside and keeping them close to the house. there are tiny white meadowsweets for jimin, purple leather flowers for namjoon, a bright bush of larch for yoongi, vibrant yellow buttercups for hoseok, red lithe sheep sorrels for seokjin, curled magenta sweetshrubs for taehyung, and finally, pastel cream, lavender, sunset, and peach tiger flowers planted in the middle of all of them. surrounding the tiger flowers…
surrounding the tiger flowers are gentle white chrysanthemums: the flower of mourning. they encircle jungkook’s birth flower carefully - pretty and starlike petals fanning outward tenderly.
jungkook can’t breathe.
silent sobs are clogging his throat, and the sweetly smelling memorial breaks whatever steeliness jungkook had left in him.
there’s the door. he’s hovering before it now. all he has to do is knock. all jungkook has to do is knock. so why is it so hard to raise his hand and do it?
there’s a light on and the flowers are alive and the realm sings with his presence so why can’t he knock ?
footsteps.
a murmur of voices.
jungkook stands there dazed with tears and with this heaviness in his gut.
more footsteps.
a creak.
the door opens inward.
(turns out, jungkook didn’t need to knock.)
it reveals -
it reveals taehyung.
jungkook stops breathing, face wet from crying and mouth twisted in disbelief.
it’s like everything pauses. taehyung looks… he looks good. his hair is longer, black and set with curls that stop just above his eyes. and god, his eyes are the prettiest of browns, like cocoa beans and oak. the mole under his lip still sits there prettily, accentuating his features and begging to be kissed. his mouth is still tinted the softest of pinks, supple and downturned in stark and painful confusion. taehyung is wearing beige colors, just like jungkook. but he’s more put together, less dirty and not soaked with sweat or blood. his shirt is white, a wooly button up vest - tan - hugging his chest. it shows off his collarbone, where this black spread of viney tendrils are stained on his skin, climbing up his neck: magic sickness.
he carries a basket, straw-woven, and it’s filled halfway with ripe blackberries.
the basket slips from his hand, drops to the forest floor and spills the berries at their feet.
(jungkook still isn’t breathing. air won’t fill his chest, won’t permeate the stillness of the moment.)
then, the sky roars and starts downpouring, rain falling upon the cabin and jungkook and taehyung and the flowers. falling upon everything.
“tae, you okay?”
another presence now. a smaller figure comes in view of the door, approaches in concern. it’s yoongi. yoongi, whose face pales as soon as he catches sight of jungkook. yoongi, who stills in the doorway, eyes wide and mouth dropped open.
yoongi. stunning, silver haired with blonde highlights: yoongi, whose white collared shirt flutters around his lithe waist.
(remember that third feeling? the one that jungkook couldn’t put a name to before? he remembers what it is now: pure, unadulterated fear. and he knows what it is because it dissipates from him. it no longer adds to his violent trembling, because taehyung and yoongi are right in front of him. there’s no need to fear here, because he’s safe with them.
always has been safe with them.
fear doesn’t have a place in his heart here.)
“hyungs…” jungkook hears himself say. his lips turn up, the effort it takes to smile when every part of him hurts adding to the tears streaking down his face, “hyungs,” he repeats, letting it sink in. the rain has soaked him completely now, making his clothes a heavier weight to bear.
taehyung’s voice is deeper now, wavering with emotion, “jung… jungkook?” his eyes shimmer.
“tae,” he rasps. he looks to yoongi, then, melting upon seeing that he’s crying, “yoon - “
but he doesn’t get a chance to finish.
he’s safe, so his body and mind and heart and soul and magic all give beneath him. but welcoming arms catch him before he falls on the berries below: safe.
he found them.
he found them.
he found them.
☁
a hand pets back his hair, “how is he alive?”
“it’s been nineteen years,” a pause, “i’m gonna kill them for hurting him, i’m gonna fucking kill them all, seokjin.”
“yoongi, breathe. he - “
“look at his wrists,” a softer voice murmurs.
the hand in jungkook’s hair stills. his breath hitches, then evens out again.
“they’ll scar, but he’s okay, taehyung-ah.”
“jimin, i - “
“shh,” the strands of jungkook’s hair are gently combed through again, “even if namjoon’s drawn runes to make him sleep, his body will still fight it. he’s not used to resting like this.”
there’s a hum, “he needs it. needs the rest.”
“yeah.”
“our bun’s back with us,” incredulous.
there’s a shuffle, a soft cry followed by an endeared reassurement, “he’s back with us, hoseok. he’s alive. he’ll be okay.”
silence.
lips press to his temple, “sleep, love. rest. ignore us,” a thumb caresses his cheek, “sleep, our ggukkie-ah.”
so jungkook sleeps.
☁
slowly, jungkook comes to.
he’s warm and comfortable and -
and loved.
in this lifetime, he’s never felt so safe. he’s never felt so at home. it’s a different feeling after having been torn from it for nineteen years. now that it’s returned, jungkook feels good, feels the slightest bit of happiness filling his chest with a relieved breath. his lips part, tongue darting out to wet them as he lets out a long sigh. he’s…
oh...
oh, there are arms around him. a warm presence holds him from behind. a nose is buried in his hair, his back pressed against a strong chest, a body conforming to his own.
jungkook breathes in deeply and smells lavender and rosewood oils. there’s something cool running along the bare skin of his arms, a damp rag perhaps, soaked in the oils of comfort and protection. it contrasts nicely with the warmth, and the drag of the soft soaked fabric against him is lovely, if he’s being truly honest. it moves to his chest, up his neck, down his jaw, and then dabs the sweat from his forehead and wipes down the sides of his face, his cheeks, the curves of his ears. his skin lingers with the soft headiness of lavender and the tender strengthening of rosewood.
“baby?” the pet name is murmured into his hair quietly, worriedly, “you with us?”
the arm curled around his waist shifts. a soft touch draws circles around jungkook’s belly button.
again, the same fond tone, “gguk-baby?”
jungkook shifts, lets out a low and content noise from between his lips, not yet fully aware.
“that’s our jeongguk-ah,” the wash cloth retracts from his skin for a moment, “nineteen years later and he still wakes up slowly.”
unresponsive and barely understanding the words being said, jungkook hums weakly. then, there’s a touch to his forehead: what he can feel to be two fingertips pressing gently against the skin between his brows. some sort of - of spark is transferred, this overwhelming warmth that houses strength and love and endearment. magic revives in jungkook then, burns deliciously in his veins. the feeling flows through him as thick as molasses, allowing him to rise from the depths of sleep and break through the haze of exhaustion. the fingertips leave his forehead, and jungkook’s eyes shoot open, a sharp gasp of air filling his lungs.
seokjin hovers above him.
and seokjin is the first thing jungkook sees.
every inch of him feels soft and soothed, this vulnerability only comfortable because he’s safe. jungkook is safe and seokjin is smiling so sadly but so, so in love above him, and jungkook begins to cry again. the hold around him tightens, and something about the way he’s being held tells jungkook that it’s jimin who’s pressed against him and holding him tight.
“jin-hyung,” jungkook croaks out, voice weak from disuse, “hyungie.” weakly, he reaches out toward the man.
his hand is taken gently, knuckles kissed by plush lips, and seokjin sighs, relieved, before bending over to wrap up jungkook in his arms and pull him from jimin’s hold.
jungkook feels small, small and good as seokjin lifts him from the bed, one arm under his knees and the other around his shoulders. burying his face in seokjin’s neck, jungkook breathes the scent of sage and roses, letting seokjin fill his lungs with familiarity.
they don’t go anywhere. seokjin has only picked him up so that he can sit on the bed with jungkook still nestled upright in his arms.
when jungkook can finally break his gaze from his oldest hyung, his eyes land on namjoon leaning on the foot of the bed, smiling with eyes glistening. yoongi is at his side, a supportive arm around his waist, features softer than jungkook ever remembers. kneeling beside the bed is taehyung, face puffy and eyes red, but tender and beautiful nonetheless. hoseok is settled in the chair by the bedside table, hunched over so he can rest a hand on taehyung’s shoulder. and jimin... jimin’s fingers are interlocked with jungkook’s, the touch welcomed both ways.
“i found you,” whispers jungkook, “it took me nineteen years to remember, but - but i found you.”
“love,” hoseok smiles, catches his gaze, “love, you did so well.”
taehyung’s breath stutters. he reaches up carefully to rest a hand on jungkook’s thigh, “it’s been so long. we didn’t think - “ his voice falters.
but namjoon continues for him, voice a cadence that fills jungkook’s chest with butterflies, “we didn’t think we’d see you again.”
“but here you are,” yoongi rubs a hand up and down joon’s spine, hair disheveled, “with us. alive.”
“life wasn’t life without you,” hand squeezing his, jimin leans forward, presses a kiss to jungkook’s cheek with the utmost carefulness, as if too hard a touch and jungkook might disappear.
“our jungkook-ah would’ve walked to the ends of the earth to find us, wouldn’t he?” seokjin says, all too knowing, all too wise, voice happy but dampened with some unexplainable sadness.
jungkook nods, magic pulsing through him. he would’ve. but he didn’t have to. because, in a way, they waited for him. they guided him back. they were the moon in the sky and jungkook was a meteorite hurling toward their promising light.
“i found you. i remembered,” he repeats, heart aching with how much he missed them, with how bittersweet this moment is now that he’s with them.
“you did, baby,” seokjin whispers. and he dips his head, lips capturing jungkook’s smoothly, kissing him beyond tenderly. the kiss is chaste and short, but just as sweet, because jungkook never thought he’d taste honey on someone’s lips again; now he is. now he’s not alone. now he’s where he belongs.
now, he’s complete: jeon jungkook, fully and wholly.
the others consume him then, their arms and limbs wrapping him up in a blanket of love, comfort, and warmth. there are sniffles and tears and lots of crying as the seven of them dissolve into a puddle of togetherness on that small, not-made-for-seven-people bed. kisses are pressed to every part of jungkook that they can reach, praising his existence and his perseverance and his courage. jungkook sobs, and they sob with him. they cry against his hair and cry into his mouth and cry as they press their lips up the ridges of his spine.
they cry and cry and cry.
but it’s okay.
because, finally, jungkook is home.
the seven of them are home.
☁
I argue thee that love is life
and life hath immortality.
- Emily Dickinson -