Work Text:
March 2020
Seoul, South Korea
It’s not that Taehyung’s disappointed, not really.
At his feet, as if in response to his internal musings, Yeontan sends up a whimper.
“I’m not,” Taehyung insists. The little dog waggles at the sound of his voice, stretching tension into his leash as they wait for someone to answer the door.
The buzzer whirs instead, causing a little murf of anticipation from Yeontan. A blue-and-white image flickers onto the video panel, showing Seokjin’s mother on the other side of the door.
“Is that you, Taehyung-ah?” she sings.
“Yes, Eomeonim, it’s me and TanTan-ie,” he answers back.
In the video-screen, Eomma Kim adjusts her mask and gloves, and moves to unbolt the lock. Taehyung takes a moment to make sure his mask is secure as well, and when the door opens he takes a measured step back to observe the proper physical distance.
“Thank you so much, Eomeonim,” Taehyung gushes, instantly, bowing deeply as he passes her the handle of Yeontan’s leash. “We appreciate you so much as always—”
“—Pssh,” she interrupts. “You’re taking care of our Jinnie this weekend, and anyway it’s our pleasure. Tan-ah always entertains me.”
Yeontan squiggles at the mention of his name, but then he becomes too absorbed by the rows of shoes at the door to heed what the humans have to say.
“So, how did it go?” Seokjin’s Mom asks. She hovers in the doorway, giving Yeontan plenty of lead. It’s clear she wants to keep the conversation going, which Taehyung can understand. Like him, Ms. Kim is far more extroverted than both Seokjin and his father, so self-isolation has been a bit of a challenge. “What did the doctor say?”
“She made me promise to keep Seokjin in bed all weekend,” Taehyung confides.
“Oh?” Even with her mask on, Taehyung can tell by the crinkle of her eyes that she’s smirking.
Too late, he realizes how the sentence must sound, so he stammers out, “Uh, bedrest. She ordered him to bedrest...”
Ms. Kim reaches to brush his arm but then, remembering the rules of physical distancing, she merely waves. “I can see why Jinnie likes to kid with you,” she says. “Your forehead goes all pink.”
Taehyung laughs, a genuine, good laugh, and goes, “I’m sure that isn’t true.”
“Oh, do I lie now?” she shoots back. “Is my future son-in-law calling me a liar?”
“Eomma, no!” Taehyung says, covering his mouth even though his mask conceals his smile. “Ahh, I didn’t mean…”
Again she reaches for him, and again she sighs, and Taehyung gets it. Mr. Kim is in a mandatory quarantine in Germany; he won’t return home for another twelve days. Seokjung and Areum are in lockdown across town. He’s only seen his own parents via FaceTime since the quarantine began. Other than the strictly-regimented time he spends at the studio working with the members, this is the most social interaction he’s had since the end of February, and it’s being conducted in masks and gloves with a door half-shut between them.
“You doing okay?” Taehyung asks. “Do you need anything? Jinnie should be asleep another hour or so. I could run to the market for you, or the bookstore, or the cafe?”
She answers his questions with the smile in her eyes. “Thank you, but I’m okay. Our co-op delivered groceries yesterday. Now, if you could take my hair and get it cut for me,” she jokes. “ That would be wonderful.”
“Ah, same,” Taehyung tsks, fluffing his bushy hair, which he’d had permed back in November, but which has now, unfortunately, grown into a nest of snarly curls.
“Soon, everything will return to normal,” Ms. Kim assures him. Her eyes crinkle again. “Please tell our Jinnie we’re thinking of him—” Yeontan catches the scent of something and tugs at the leash to be led further inside. “—Wow, this one’s so insistent.”
“He is the boss of us,” Taehyung nods. He battles down the instinct to step in and hug her. So much of the spring has been an exercise in denial and restraint, and it’s not like he’s disappointed, but...
She reads his hesitation and gives him a bow instead. “Chin up, sweet boy,” she says. “We’ll get through this.”
“Yes, Eomeonim,” he says. “I’ll see you again on Sunday night.”
Ms. Kim waves. “Take your time,” she calls over her shoulder, “Tannie and I have some catching up to do.”
XXX
Seokjin feels like a sultan.
A mildly-injured, slightly-hungry, very drowsy sultan.
He wakes in a snuggle of downy-soft sheets in a bed piled deep with pillows. His duvet smells like magnolias, and feels like them, too, and the blackout curtains are parted to let in a slice of golden sunlight that illuminates the room to a perfect amber glow.
Though, maybe, he has to admit, that could be related to his pain medication, which leaves him feeling cheerfully floaty, like he’s on a raft or a magic carpet.
A sultan on a magic carpet…
He very much likes that idea.
Dimly, he hears the door open, hears Taehyung call out that he’s home.
With a pang of guilt, Seokjin realizes he didn’t know Taehyung had left. Then, disoriented, he tries to remember why.
Carefully, he adjusts among his pillows, gingerly keeping his knee slightly bent within its brace. He hisses as he anticipates pain, but it never comes, which is good. It will, later, but for now, he’s pleasantly sedated.
“Are you hungry?” Taehyung calls from their kitchen.
“Always,” Seokjin answers. His voice sounds croaky. He coughs to clear it.
Taehyung pads in with a cup of water. He kisses Seokjin’s forehead and gives the brace a quick inspection. “How do you feel?”
“Like a sultan,” Seokjin gushes.
Taehyung puffs with obvious pride. “Guess you don’t need your meds yet,” he says.
“Nope.” Seokjin angles up to kiss Taehyung, but kinda misses and bumps his nose instead.
“Ooh, drugged hyung is a fun hyung,” Taehyung chuckles. “Jieun-ssi delivered our groceries, so I’m going to make us some dinner, and then we’ll watch some Itaewon Class. How’s that sound?”
“Hmm, good,” Seokjin says. He aims again for Taehyung’s lips, this time mostly hitting the mark.
Taehyung brushes Seokjin’s sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “Your Eomma says hello,” he says.
Seokjin quirks his head to the side in an uncanny imitation of Yeontan.
“She’s looking after Tannie this weekend,” Taehyung says.
“Riiight.” Seokjin shakes his head. “I forgot. The, um… We were supposed to…?”
Taehyung nips a kiss to Seokjin’s nose. “The cherry blossoms,” he leads in.
“Ah, Busan,” Seokjin remembers. “We were gonna see the cherry blossoms while I recovered.”
“Well,” Taehyung says. “You can still recover.”
“Hmm, true.” Seokjin slumps into his pillow nest. “Did you say dinner?”
Taehyung brightens. “Yes, I’m cooking for us. This whole weekend, you don’t have to worry. I’ve got everything planned.”
Seokjin must make a face, because Taehyung balks with indignation.
“Don’t give me that look, you’ve taught me well.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Seokjin protests. “But I have the fire department on speed dial.”
“Yah!” Taehyung growls. “If you recall, you’re the one who almost burned the kitchen down.”
“Okay okay okay,” Seokjin laughs, holding up his hands. “I trust you.”
Taehyung juts his chin. “You better,” he says, and then he heads off to the kitchen.
XXX
“It’s not as good without garlic,” Taehyung decides as he samples his bowl of japchae.
Beside him, Seokjin messily slurps up a cascade of glass noodles. Chipmunking the mouthful, he mutters, “It’s fantastic, Taehyung-ah, I couldn’t even tell.”
“I used black pepper instead,” Taehyung explains.
Seokjin grins up at him. “You know how black pepper gets to work?”
“No, but I bet you’re gonna tell me.”
“A huchu train.” Seokjin covers his mouth in an effort to stifle his laughter and to keep from spewing his noodles.
“Remember when you said you were gonna stop telling Dad jokes?” Taehyung moans, but he’s laughing, too. He always laughs at Seokjin, even when he doesn’t want to.
“I did stop,” Seokjin says. “In public.” He thumbs a smudge of sauce from Taehyung’s chin. “Now I save all my jokes for you. And Jimin.”
“And Joon-hyung,” Taehyung says.
“Ah, true. Though he laughs so hard, I’m afraid he might rupture something,” Seokjin smiles. “For his sake, I should stop.”
“Oh, for his sake…”
On the TV, Park Seojoon stands on a bridge in Itaewon with Kim Da-mi, gazing out at Namsan Tower. Though it’s a place he and Seokjin have visited many times in the past, tonight it fills him with a stir of restless longing. Because even though it’s only a twenty-minute subway ride from Hannam to Noksapyeong, Namsan Tower might as well be in Venice or on the moon for as far away as it seems.
“The lighting on this show is really good,” Seokjin observes.
“It really is.” Taehyung feels surprised and mildly gratified that Seokjin noticed. He typically pays more attention to actors and dialogue than he does to sets or camera work.
“Bokeh, right?” Seokjin says, scooping up more noodles. “Isn’t that what you called it?”
Now Taehyung feels absurdly touched. “Wha—? You were listening to my random rambles about lighting techniques?”
“How are you surprised?” Seokjin drones. “Six years we’ve been together, you think I don’t listen to you?”
Taehyung bumps their shoulders together. “Sometimes you tune me out.”
“Sometimes you tell me the same story multiple times,” Seokjin says, his tone airy and light. “I listen to you. My Deja Vu.”
Taehyung grins. “Better Deja Vu than Jamais Vu.”
“Aw.” Seokjin pouts. “My VuVu.”
Taehyung pretends to retch, though inwardly, he loves it when Seokjin talks in that overly-playful aegyo way, which he reserves (mostly) for him.
Seokjin stretches, wincing at the stiffness in his knee.
Instantly alert, Taehyung asks, “Do you need your meds?”
He grimaces as he considers. “Hm, soon,” he decides.
Taehyung gestures to his bowl, “You done?”
“Almost,” Seokjin answers. He scrapes the remaining japchae dregs into his mouth, then lets Taehyung take his bowl and chopsticks.
It pleases him that Seokjin ate every bite. Just as it pleases him that Seokjin lets Taehyung help.
It’s not an easy thing for Seokjin. Over their six years together, it’s been a kind of tender injury, one that never fully heals and requires constant, vigilant care. Because Seokjin’s response to pain has always been to withdraw and assess in private, whereas Taehyung melts down the moment his emotions overwhelm him, often in public, which leaves him vulnerable and fully exposed. They've worked hard to meet in the middle, and now, it seems, they're putting what they've learned to the test.
As Taehyung rinses their dishes, he casts back to January, when he and Hoseok sat with Seokjin through the grueling orthopedic consultation. Each of them felt deeply concerned with what his injury would mean for their upcoming tour. The doctor suggested surgery. She outlined possible outcomes. She detailed timelines and prognoses. When she left them to discuss, Seokjin hadn’t asked if Taehyung would help him through recovery. The assumption that Taehyung would be there went unspoken.
When Hoseok left to break the news to the others, Taehyung and Seokjin went home and made a plan. Their schedule involved pre-tour surgery plus three weeks of light activity. They booked an AirBnB on the beach in Busan for the weekend following the procedure. That part, along with their tour, got bumped due to the quarantine. The surgery, however, proceeded as planned.
But even if their tour got skewered by a global pandemic, even if they spent their weekend at home instead of lazing on the beach in Busan, Taehyung feels proud of how far they’ve come. So he’s not really disappointed. In fact, he’s low-key grateful for the time that they’ve been given.
Taehyung returns to the bedroom. He gives Seokjin his medication, which kicks in before they finish their episode. Taehyung plumps the pillows around Seokjin's knee and goes to twitch their curtains closed.
Outside their window, aglow with dusky twilight, the blossom-laden branches of the cherry trees wave.
He longs to be among them, to breathe in the sweet fragrance of the hillside. He knows everyone in the city probably feels that same bone-deep ache, to be so close to such beauty and yet they're all unable to savor it.
With a sigh, Taehyung rakes the curtains shut. He goes to Seokjin’s bedside and stares down into his sleeping face.
He lacks the vocabulary to fully describe him. He always has and always will, because the proper language for him hasn’t been invented. The glossiest black feathers of a raven lacked the sheen of Seokjin’s hair. Moonlight proved inadequate in comparison to his skin. To his lips, even the cherry blossoms failed to measure. Taehyung knew he would spend his life trying to capture the poetry of his Seokjin, the man he loved, the man who loved him in return.
After six years together, their attraction had only deepened and grown more complex.
They would have other springs and other weekends in Busan. For now, he takes comfort in having Seokjin here all to himself.
XXX
Seokjin trembles awake to find Taehyung cross-legged in the bed beside him, his easel propped on a piece of cardboard, a constellation of paint drops dashing dangerously close to their 500-thread-count Egyptian-cotton sheets.
But when he grumbles something about how expensive the sheets are, Taehyung says, “Relax, hyung. I’m being careful.”
Not exactly soothed, Seokjin drags his med-clumsy body upright to peer at Taehyung’s canvas. He’s layered cerulean with dogwood pink, creating a seascape framed with cherry blossom trees, their black branches reaching for each other across the water.
The uncertain light of the room combined with his medication makes him feel all loose and boneless. “What happened to Itaewon Class?” Seokjin wonders.
“You fell asleep,” Taehyung says.
“Did Geunsu confess his feelings for Yiseo?”
“I didn’t watch it without you,” Taehyung chuckles.
Seokjin shifts about, struggling to get comfortable. He says, “Kim Donghee is cute.”
“Ugh, he looks like you,” Taehyung groans.
“That’s what I said. He’s cute.”
Taehyung reaches with his paintbrush to swipe a line of blue up Seokjin’s arm.
Seokjin meets his eye. “My lifeline,” he jokes.
Quickly, Taehyung sweeps his brush, transforming the line into infinity.
“Okay.” Seokjin purses his lips. “I’ll spend forever with you.”
“Oh yeah?” Taehyung licks his lips. He switches one brush for another. Then turning Seokjin’s arm, he begins to delicately brush pink and white petals on the back of Seokjin’s hand.
“Yah, you know what this leads to,” Seokjin warns, his voice sleep-gruff, the tone beneath it unmistakable.
“Not this weekend,” Taehyung says, nodding to Seokjin’s brace. He manages to keep his own voice steady as he continues to wreath Seokjin’s wrist in flowers. “I promised to keep you in bed and off your knees.”
Seokjin’s eyes tighten. “No one said anything about you being on your knees.”
Taehyung’s chin lifts. He returns to his first brush, dipping its tip in black. With agile strokes, he transforms Seokjin’s veins into an elegant network of branches.
“V,” Seokjin murmurs.
Taehyung continues his work.
“VV,” Seokjin insists. His breathing slows. His eyelids flutter. With his free hand he thumbs open the buttons of his pajama shirt, wrenching it back to expose the right half of his chest.
“Oh?” Taehyung breathes. “Really?”
Sucking air over his teeth, Seokjin goes, “We can buy more sheets.” He angles up, nipping a kiss to Taehyung’s lips. Taehyung shoves the easel back, pulling his palette across his knees. He blends scarlet with white and pink, then delights as the cool tip of the brush chases chills across Seokjin’s skin. He starts at his neck, dappling blooms along his clavicle, feathering them down to encircle his nipple, then tracing the sensitive expanse along his ribs. Here Taehyung moves with practiced deftness, knowing how ticklish Seokjin can be, and how quickly the mood could spoil if he applies too light a touch.
Seokjin’s fingers knead into the sheets. He exhales a soft moan as Taehyung brushes petals across his stomach, around his navel, and down his pelvic bone. Somehow, somehow, Taehyung manages to remember to breathe as he snags his round-tipped brush. With it, Taehyung sketches branches between clusters of blossoms, weaving them so they disappear beneath the soft-edged clouds of flowers. He works quickly, moving unconsciously to the rhythm of Seokjin’s breathing, switching to the fine-tipped brush to add freckles of pollen into the hearts of every bloom.
After several quiet minutes, Seokjin ponders, “What if this doesn’t wash off?”
“Then from now on, you’ll be a tree.”
“Will you climb me?”
Taehyung coughs a small laugh. “Not with your brace.”
“When it’s gone.”
“Absolutely,” Taehyung promises. “Every day.” He rocks to his heels to appraise his work, returning then with equal fervor to brush in highlights and shadow.
“I had hoped we’d be 90 before you’d have to give me a sponge bath,” Seokjin muses.
“Shhh,” Taehyung hisses. “A sexy sponge bath. With bubbles.”
Seokjin quivers with thinly-restrained laughter.
“Don’t.” Taehyung warns him. “Don’t say it.”
Seokjin holds up his hand. Taehyung catches it. Into his palm, he scrawls, Je t’aime.
Testing the pronunciation on his tongue, Seokjin asks, “What is it? What does it mean?”
“It’s French,” Taehyung explains. “It means, I love you.”
Seokjin brings his palm to his mouth to kiss Taehyung’s words.
“Hyung, I want to learn every language so I can say ‘I love you’ in every tongue.”
Seokjin hooks his arm around Taehyung, dragging him against his chest. “Yours is the only tongue that interests me.” He smears the paint between them in the places where they have yet begun to dry. There’s a look in Seokjin’s eyes, one that Taehyung knows all too well. It’s the look that disregards reason, the one that does not abide by rules. It’s the one that takes no prisoners and can convince Taehyung to do damn near anything that Seokjin wants.
“Hyung,” Taehyung hums.
“Put your mouth on me.” Seokjin licks the words into his ear. Then he draws back to gaze into Taehyung’s face, watching with pleasure as Taehyung first weighs out the possibilities, and then answers with an eager grin.
“We’ll be careful,” Seokjin tells him.
They clatter easel and palette to the floor, careless of the paint and Taehyung’s canvas. Taehyung has one flash of clear thought, and that’s how glad he is that they decided to let Seokjin’s Mom keep Yeontan, before tearing at the clothes and bedsheets, mindful still of Seokjin’s injury, careful as they arrange themselves, Taehyung above, Seokjin below.
Seokjin presses his mouth to Taehyung’s throat. “Je t’aime, my Vu.” He mutters the words into his skin. “My Lo-Ver. My heart.”
Taehyung can scarcely keep pace with the staccato of his breathing. But he manages, between kisses, to answer, “You are my Jwan, my red flower that blooms in spring.”
Then he slides back, lifting him to his lips, to fulfill Seokjin’s desire.
XXX
“My finest work of art,” Taehyung says, snapping frame after frame on his phone, “and no one will ever see it but me.”
Seokjin turns his head on the pillow, bringing his arm across his chest to add depth to the branches painted there. “And me,” he reminds him.
“And you,” Taehyung agrees. He feathers Seokjin’s hair back from his brow. They’re both naked now, both spent and blissfully groggy. He thinks a long, quiet while about how tender and attentive they both can be, even in the depths of their passion. Through grief and pain, injury and recovery, they always find each other.
Taehyung clicks a few more shots. He wishes he could use his Rangefinder, but film must be developed and without a proper darkroom, that’s one too many people peeking into their private lives.
On the heels of these thoughts, the world comes creeping back in: The reminder that they’re in self-isolation, that South Korea’s in quarantine, that their tour has been postponed, along with their Busan trip and all future romantic getaways. Taehyung knows this time won’t last forever. He knows life will soon come trickling in: a new album, Festa, enlistment, a wedding someday, another tour. For now, they will draw the curtains closed and quietly grow and heal.
“Jwan, hm?” Seokjin says at last. “What language is that?”
“Kurdish, I think?” Taehyung answers. “I picked it up on tour.”
“And you saved it until now?” Seokjin asks.
Taehyung turns the phone, passing it over to Seokjin. They lay together as Seokjin thumbs through the images, his free hand tracing lazy circles on Taehyung’s naked thigh.
“I forgot it,” Taehyung admits. “Until I saw you covered in flowers, and then I suddenly knew.”
“You and me,” Seokjin says. He pinches Taehyung’s chin, tipping his face down so he can kiss him. “We will always have flowers in the spring.”
“Always,” Taehyung agrees.