Work Text:
namjoon is just a kid who lives in time rather than space; homeless, you may say, with nothing to his name and nothing to leave behind but the clothes on his back and the boy holding his hand.
taehyung is the boy and to him, taehyung isn’t just a kid. to him, taehyung is a supernova, or a phoenix born out of ashes, meant to fly and soar the skies forever, and if forever were to ever come to an end, then the boy was to go out with an earth-quaking, glass-shattering, sky-crashing —
bang.
this is taehyung, and the day he goes out will be the last day the sun will set. and namjoon will be gone, too, leaving nothing behind but the clothes on his back, and the world will be gone, too, leaving nothing behind but the shadow of two boys holding hands.
the boy holding his hand tugs at it, and smiles at him when their eyes meet. there’s a cut on his lip and a bruise on his cheek, and — neath the moonlight, namjoon can see it — a glint of potential in his eyes.
(bang, there it goes. all that potential, all that life.)
namjoon sees it when they are in a different world; a world where the grass whispers kisses around his bare ankles, and the cold breeze fills him up and wraps itself around him, weeping wishes onto his skin.
the sun dusts taehyung with constellations of freckles, little promises all over his cheeks and face, and when he takes off his shirt, the bruises, the freckles, and the dark moles merge together and blend, creating brand new worlds and entire galaxies on his flesh.
(the stars never really seemed out of reach, anyway.)
namjoon asks if he could trace the constellations with his blue pen.
“only if you let me do yours in return.”
when it’s taehyung’s turn, he doesn’t draw on namjoon. he writes. namjoon asks him to read it aloud, but taehyung sits in front of him and recites.
it’s beautiful and long, but taehyung’s mouth is a distraction that prevents him from listening. how can he listen when all this potential is spilling?
(how can he listen when all he sees is a beautiful mouth, constellations on cheeks, and tired eyes?)
he sees it; taehyung has potential.
(in this different world where boys get to be boys, taehyung writes poetry and lyrics, and namjoon knows it. in a different world where boys get to grow and become men, everyone knows it.)
namjoon sees it again underneath the fluttering glow of a neon light, flickering like the wings of a butterfly, hanging across the alley where he stands with taehyung, a soldier ready for a battle he believes in; an aerosol can in one hand and his own beating heart in the other. taehyung’s fingers — slim, skilled, sensitive — clutch the can tightly as he flicks his wrist; not with the wariness of a soldier, but with the ease of an artist
taehyung hums along to the flicker of the neon lights, the flutter of namjoon’s heart, the hiss of the aerosol can, and it’s —
unsteady, unstable, unreliable.
but all namjoon sees is potential.
“it’s a good idea to do layers,” taehyung explains. and, as usual, potential spills from his mouth when he opens it.
it hurts, like the butterfly in namjoon’s chest is trying to scratch her way out, like he’s stuck inside the neon, slowly suffocating. seeing taehyung stand there hurts, his skin and the leather adorning it glow in the neon, his wrist flicks with ease, and he talks — he talks like he knows, like he reads, like he creates.
(in a different world, namjoon will be paying to hear taehyung talk about art — abstract art and graffiti. taehyung will stand on a pedestal, and he will be listened to.)
(in a different world, taehyung isn’t a starving artist waiting to die before his potential is finally seen.)
(and in a very different world, taehyung is a deity whom artists burn their painting and chug on their paint for.)
taehyung has potential.
namjoon sees it when it is the last thing he wants to see. he sees it when his back slams against the wall, when taehyung’s fist slam against his teeth, when he tastes the blood and the metal and the salt—
he sees it.
“do you know what he says about you?” taehyung hisses. it reminds namjoon of the way aerosol cans hiss. “do you?”
namjoon sees it; the potential.
“he says you’re a faggot, a disappointment, a fucked up mistake—“
namjoon sees it; another punch coming.
“you’re the reason he wants to fucking—“
taehyung’s fast, but namjoon’s faster. taehyung’s fast, but he’s crying, he’s screaming, he’s hurting —
namjoon catches his clenches fist, mid-air, and pulls taehyung against him.
“let me go,” taehyung says, and namjoon sees it; the lie.
taehyung wriggles, he kicks, he screams, he yells — namjoon holds him tighter, tight enough to feel the pain and the tears slip through the thin cotton and onto his thick skin. “i fucking hate you.”
he keeps holding him, and whispers, “you don’t.”
“i fucking hate him,” taehyung says, giving up. “i hope he dies.”
“i know,” and it’s over. it’s gone as fast as it came, but namjoon can still see it: the potential.
“why didn’t you let me do it,” he cries, “why? why, why, why—“
he keeps holding him until he’s alright.
“joon? i— i’m sorry.”
he knows. he’s sorry, too.
”i’m okay now,” he whispers, minutes or years later, “i promise. i’m sorry.”
(in another world, taehyung is an actor.)
namjoon sees it at 3 a.m., when taehyung and his little sister come knocking at his door and — “i’m sorry,” he says again, because he’s always sorry for not being able to uphold the pretence of being okay.
(and it hurts, because what doesn’t hurt when it comes to him? but it hurts, seeing someone with potential to be big end up so small)
“i’m so sorry,” he says again, and his little sister echoes it, her voice as soft as a shy child’s, as hoarse as a woman who screamed her soul out. “your phone is off and it’s so late, i didn’t know where—“
namjoon lets them in. he doesn’t let taehyung apologise again.
taehyung’s sister doesn’t need to be asked twice to stay in namjoon’s room, but she does ask namjoon twice and thrice and four times to look after her brother. “i heard bone break,” she says. “he says he’s fine but i swear i heard bone break.”
taehyung’s fine, and he’s still fine a couple hours later. he knows how to uphold the pretence of being okay. he has the potential to be a good actor.
his sister is asleep in namjoon’s bed. taehyung’s wide awake in namjoon’s arms. he says he’s fine. namjoon doesn’t press. instead, he offers a late night ride, and taehyung says yes, and then they’re in the car, driving on the highway —
and it’s silent, but it’s loud. it’s the air flowing through the four open windows, the wheels grinding against the asphalt. it’s the thoughts, the screaming thoughts — what happened? and will she be fine, alone? and taehyung, taehyung, taehyung,
then taehyung turns on the radio, and it becomes louder. then taehyung turns it off, and it’s still loud. then taehyung sings a different song, and, because his ribs ache, it suddenly becomes quiet again — background noises, faded and weak in comparison to taehyung’s voice —
and namjoon sees it. he sees freedom.
then he sees it again; the potential.
he sees it in taehyung’s voice, as he stares into the empty horizon, the streetlights passing by begging for a glance. taehyung sounds like he’s begging for a glance — so namjoon gives him a glance, and prays that the world will someday give him a chance.
(in another world, taehyung has a chance.)
it’s beautiful, his voice. it’s the intervals between the streetlights, it’s the purple-orange shades in the horizon. taehyung sings, and it’s a song namjoon can’t recognise. his ribs ache, too.
“you’re my best friend and we’re dancing in a world alone,” taehyung sings, and namjoon can feel the weigh of his stare, asking shamelessly for another glance —
but then taehyung sings, and namjoon knows that it’s not the right verse. “we’ve both got a million bad habits to kick, not sleeping is one. we’re biting our nails, you’re biting my lip..”
namjoon refuses to give him a glance. namjoon refuses to give himself a chance. taehyung goes on. “.. i’m biting my tongue.”
it’s beautiful, his voice. namjoon can taste the pain in taehyung’s ribs and behind them, a sorrow that has made a home of his heart; he can tell that the raspiness and hoarseness isn’t an artistic choice. it hurts when he says, “we should go back.”
(he almost says, home. he almost says, we should go back home.)
“yeah,” taehyung breathes, then starts singing a different song.
(in a different world, taehyung has a chance. in a different world, taehyung sings his soul out, and namjoon knows his voice sounds more beautiful when his rib isn’t fractured, or when his throat isn’t scratched.)
namjoon sees it on the river bank while brushing his lips against the edge of his notebook, letting the dry skin catch on the sharp angle and licking the blood when it comes out.
taehyung lies a few feet away from him, basking in the dying sun, his bare upper-body a map of glistening water and goosebumps, his lower body clad in loose briefs that stick to his thighs uncomfortably and —
“hey.” taehyung interrupts and for a moment, namjoon thinks taehyung sees it; namjoon’s longing; his yearning. taehyung doesn’t, because he goes on and asks, “are you writing about the moon again?”
“no.” how can he write about the moon when the sun’s still alive, in her last minutes, and the moon is barely visible behind the cottony clouds? how can he write about the moon when all he can think of is running his fingertips across skin that glows bright and soft?
“write about me, then.”
he does. he writes about him, instead, and then he sees it; the inspiration.
taehyung is his muse.
(and, potentially, in another world where there are pictures: pictures of taehyung’s skin glowing in the cotton-faded moonlight and sunset golden hues, pictures of his hair sticking to the nape of his neck, pictures of the wet cotton stuck to the insides of his thighs—)
(potentially, in another world where there are pictures: pictures of kim taehyung all over the internet, paintings of him sold for the highest prices at art exhibits, a model fit for catwalks and stages alike, taehyung isn’t just namjoon’s muse. taehyung is a muse.)
namjoon sees a pile of wasted potential in his mirror.
when he first meets taehyung, he sees potential, and he feels faith. it is hard not to believe in someone like taehyung; a beautiful boy with a beautiful mind.
it’s impossible to look at taehyung and not see someone who has and will always be able to defy the odds.
(but later on, namjoon gets to see what’s underneath the beauty and the brilliance and the glowing skin. he sees the pain. he sees the insecurity. he sees the anger. he sees the unfairness of the world. he sees a boy just like him.)
he sees it; potential wasted because it was born in a world that never invests in boys like them.
taehyung goes out with a bang!
but it’s not what namjoon has always expected.
(in a different world, maybe it is. but in this world, it hurts. and taehyung, as always, is sorry.)