Work Text:
one. the emperor of the heart
sweltering, the afternoon heat descends upon them.
the studio brims over with unspoken sentences and dust motes suspended in the air, the gentle sweep of yoongi’s paintbrush the only sound in their shared silence. jeongguk reclines upon the leather chaise, velvet cascading from the robes on his broad shoulders. the fabric ripples along the toned planes of his body, a teasing hint of skin peeking out underneath the golden collar.
yoongi is not painting. yoongi drags the brush absentmindedly along the canvas, hungry eyes devouring every inch of the beauty before him. his brush skitters off the edge of the easel and he gasps, crimson flooding his cheeks in waves.
“if i didn’t know better, i’d say you lost focus for a second there,” jeongguk tosses his head back. his movements are luxuriating, teasing, sending shivers down yoongi’s spine. “but that’s impossible, isn’t it? min yoongi wouldn’t be distracted by anything while he paints. your pieces are always immaculately perfect, aren’t they?”
aren’t they? on days like this, yoongi isn’t sure he can capture anything close to perfection. because jeongguk embodies it, sits in his smug smirk, revelling in the knowledge that they are playing a dangerous game here and that yoongi is losing.
“you flatter me, jeongguk,” yoongi answers after a beat of hesitation. jeongguk means nothing to him. he clears his mind, reminds himself (as he has done time and again) that jeongguk is nameless, another one of his models, a human figure to study and portray. sweat beads on his forehead. “my pieces are detailed, because i want to take in everything i paint. i want to immortalise the sights i see. i want them to be mine.”
the phrase rings differently in both of their heads — mine, yours, ours — but hangs on the edges of their lips. they cannot verbalise it.
“well, maybe the subject is willing to be yours, if you want them to be, of course.”
jeongguk yawns, a glimpse of sharp white teeth, the teeth of a predator waiting to pounce on its prey. yoongi’s hand trembles as he locks his jaw tightly, squeezing out another bead of paint. black, scorched across the palette. the colour of jeongguk’s irises — teasing, inviting, a black hole waiting to suck him in.
“you know you can’t say things like that, gukkie.” yoongi lets the nickname slip, his trump card, and the corners of his lips twitch as he sees jeongguk’s eyes, blown wide like a terrified baby deer caught in the headlights of an incoming car. “you know what happens when you become mine.”
in response, jeongguk leans back, exposing the fair skin on his neck, the cloth barely slipping off his shoulders to give yoongi just that hint of a prelude.
yoongi hisses, lowly, and directs his gaze steadfastly on his painting, refusing to glance up anymore.
...
the edges of yoongi’s teeth catch on his lip as he regards jeongguk, who’s playing with an idle tassel along the hem of his robe in boredom. the contours of jeongguk’s face seem all too youthful in the glow of the sunset streaming through yoongi’s stained-glass windows, and for a moment yoongi forgets how to breathe, forgets his name, because the world revolves around jeongguk and he is a mere ornament in jeongguk’s universe.
“god, it’s burning hot in here. why am i even wearing this heavy robe, yoongi?” jeongguk’s voice has always been fascinating to yoongi, a mixture of childlike innocence and the burgeoning swell of manhood. “tell me, what ‘deep themes’,” jeongguk airquotes the phrase playfully, and yoongi raises his eyes to the ceiling, “are you trying to convey through this new piece? it’s a bit different from the portraits you’ve attempted before.”
“you wouldn’t get it, so i won’t bother explaining,” yoongi attempts to brush the question away, because he’s scared — scared of whether the answer would bring poison tattoos scorching across his skin, scared of whether this is the moment he falls in love, or whether he has already (deep down, the answer plagues him in the form of a rapid staccato heartbeat whenever jeongguk smiles). “and as for the robe, i gave it to you because it looks pretty on you.”
it isn’t a lie. the silken robe does hug jeongguk’s figure rather snugly.
“try me,” jeongguk shrugs, picking at a stray thread lying on his robes. “as models, we’re never told anything beyond the basic concepts of what we’re supposed to act like, and i think someone should change that. i think the model and artist should merge their insights about their work. in essence, they should be one.”
jeongguk always manages to slip in subtle hints and teasing endearments, deftly, in the midst of his speech. yoongi is less articulate. jeongguk pulls him in like a helpless papery moth to a flame. yoongi hates and loves it in equal measure. mulling it over, yoongi decides to humor him — nobody’s taken such interest in his works before.
“well, if you insist on knowing, my planned trio of paintings attempts to mimic the concept of love.”
yoongi begins, earning a light laugh from jeongguk, the sound of windchimes and clear skies.
“mimic?” jeongguk’s tone is laced with hints of disappointment, chastising and a little hurt. yoongi swallows, pressing his lips together tightly, knowing what will follow. “i thought you wouldn’t have to mimic it, yoongi, my angel. aren’t you more than intimate with that concept already—”
“keep your voice down, will you?” yoongi hisses, alarm flooding his tone. jeongguk merely shrugs, kicking his feet up leisurely on the elegant gold handles of the leather chaise. earning a long-suffering sigh from yoongi.
forging on, yoongi continues, “the painting i’m working on right now is titled the emperor of the heart. the chaise, blood-red, to symbolise the heart. you, representing the emperor, the conqueror and the one who reigns upon this beating chamber of emotion.”
“fitting,” jeongguk snickers, rather derisively. yoongi chooses, wisely, not to reply to that. “well, yoongi, i must say you’re doing a beautiful job. thank you for picking me to model for you on this very specific series of paintings. i’ll make sure they turn out successful, don’t you worry.”
does he hear mocking in jeongguk’s tone? the slant of jeongguk’s eyes seem to carry taunts in them, and yoongi wants nothing than ever to rush over, to hold jeongguk in his arms and weave him tapestries to confess his love.
but he cannot.
…
the sunset comes into being as an amalgamation of colours across the sky, in the cusp of time before the world comes to a standstill.
under the embrace of the sun, yoongi stares morosely at his painting. he wants it to be perfect — because jeongguk is the definition of it. it’s his first jeongguk-focused series, the spotlight purely on the boy who has modelled for him through two long, arduous years, the boy whose beauty graced his mortal eyes once in the back alley of an apothecary for anti-love amulets.
how ironic, yoongi recalls. that place was precisely where he’d felt this sudden rush of warmth into his chest, spreading to the tips of his fingers and toes. only when his feet are propelling him forward, pleadingly soliciting jeongguk’s name, does he realise what his heart is yearning for.
(is this love? is this the emotion they’ve banned and branded with the slow rise of death in the pigmentation of their skin? is this sensation of fresh, new air consuming him, synonymous to the feeling that they have punished to coexist with poison?)
(if so, there is something wrong with the world.)
yoongi knows that the painting still remains flawed. jeongguk’s fingers are so slender and beautiful in reality, whilst yoongi’s rendering is crude, rough, the paint still in the process of drying, lacking the smooth suppleness of jeongguk’s skin. his lips are the cherry-red of innocence and desire intertwined, twin petals resting serenely on the surface of a calm pond, and yet again yoongi fails to capture the very human softness of their texture.
“jeongguk, what if —” he tries to verbalise it and fails miserably. jeongguk’s gaze jerks up to meet his, inquisitiveness flooding his eyes, and yoongi wants to protect that naivety, he does.
“you can ask me whatever is on your mind, yoongi,” jeongguk states calmly, seeing yoongi falter visibly. “i promise i will help you to the best of my abilities, because i would do anything for you. this studio, this space is our little secret. whatever happens here, stays here.”
how do these sweet sentiments slip so easily out of jeongguk’s lips? does he not smell the rising danger in the air, nearing that inevitable tipping point where they both crash and burn?
yoongi moves wordlessly. his feet are silent, padding on the paint-stained floor. jeongguk swallows as he nears him, his adam’s apple bobbing visibly as yoongi inches closer. all at once yoongi’s hand is hovering over jeongguk’s fingers, a question and a fear coexisting in his eyes.
“do you— can i—”
“oh, to hell with it, it’s not like touch is banned as well,” jeongguk raises his gaze to the ceiling almost irritably and reaches out to grab yoongi’s hand. his hold on yoongi is harsh at first, but then he softens as he reads the naked terror in yoongi’s expression. “it’s okay. take it easy. you want to paint me, you have to get a feeling for the subject. nothing you’re doing is against the rules here. there will be no retribution.”
there will be no retribution. a part of yoongi wants desperately, deeply, to believe him.
so he trails his fingers tentatively across jeongguk’s hand, and then the supple curve of his waist, taking in the delicate smoothness he has craved for what seems like millennia to him. slowly but surely, he gets drunk on the heady scent of jeongguk’s vanilla and honey, the sweet, almost cloying aroma invading his senses.
jeongguk stays perfectly still as yoongi’s touch traces upwards to the nape of his neck, and subtle goosebumps form on his skin — the beginnings of a well-hidden desire finally surfacing to the fore, the reason why they abstained from closeness for such a long time.
(how could there still be no poison? because yoongi’s heart knocks insistently and loudly on the prison bars of his ribcage, the longing song of love.)
in the face of this acceptance, yoongi grows bold. he reaches for jeongguk’s collarbone and now he knows he can’t possibly paint jeongguk in his full glory, such is the beauty of his body’s curves and arches. jeongguk is the vessel of a god among men. jeongguk’s breath hitches as yoongi cups his cheek, thumb brushing lightly across his lips.
(so tender. so warm.)
“yoongi, please, my angel,” it’s a breathy whisper, so that nobody but yoongi hears, “can you—”
pain explodes across yoongi’s wrist, for the first time ever. it seems late coming, with all the hysteria bubbling up in yoongi’s chest whenever he lays eyes on jeongguk, in blatant affection. yoongi digs his nails into the flesh of his palm, clenching his fist to suppress the scream that is rising up from inside him — he cannot let jeongguk know the extent of his pain. the burn scorching his skin is inhuman. it smarts of warning signs and flames razing a wasteland, the wasteland of his heart that dared to dream, dared to love —
“yoongi! yoongi, you okay?” jeongguk’s panicked voice breaks through the haze of torment clouding his senses, “did it happen? you just drew away so quickly.”
yoongi comes to. his hand is suspended in the air, wrist thankfully hidden from jeongguk’s line of sight as the toxins snake across the underbelly of his arm, the place where his flesh is the most tender. jeongguk’s eyes are a doe’s eyes, wide, innocent, trusting. staring blankly into their depths, yoongi knows he can’t subject jeongguk to the realisation of the toxins’ power.
“i’m fine, jeongguk. nothing happened,” yoongi grits out, steeling his mind against the chokehold that the tattoos have put him in (which is irreversible, because he loves jeongguk, he knows now). “i’ve gotten enough for my art, anyway. i’ll be able to fill in the gaps in my painting. no worries.”
his tone, a notch stiffer than usual, makes jeongguk wince as he returns to his reclining position on the chaise. but soon the professional, regal look enters jeongguk’s eyes again and yoongi picks up his paintbrush, relieved. his first brushstroke is coupled with bitter agony slashing across his nerves, the movement of his arm triggering the tattoos, but yoongi paints on with a renewed ferocity.
if this gradual poisoning, is what will happen every time his heart thumps a little quicker for jeongguk, if this torment is what will happen to jeongguk as well — yoongi would rather cut this off earlier.
he can bear the pain, but he does not wish jeongguk to.
...
two. the dereliction of warmth
jeongguk sways on his feet.
the lights of the studio are low, dimmed, flickering in tandem with the irregularity of jeongguk’s heartbeat. this time he’s clad in simple garments — a white shirt, ripped open at the edges to create the illusion (or is it reality?) of poverty (a poverty of emotion, of need and want and most of all love). he’s sporting cargo pants, deliberately frayed at the seams, and he’s slumped against the wall in a defeated position, to mimic the persona of someone who has lost everything.
the previous painting, the emperor of the heart, has been completed and stowed neatly at a side, and jeongguk marvels at yoongi’s meticulous technique. the current piece is to be a counterpart, a direct contrast to the last — titled the dereliction of warmth. an excess of love, juxtaposed with a lack of it.
yoongi’s head jerks up at the sudden movement. today yoongi appears even more ethereal than usual, the dappled sunlight playing on the lukewarm, chocolate curls of his hair and rendering jeongguk speechless.
“are you alright?” yoongi’s voice, gentle and haunting, cuts through jeongguk’s core in a fiery arc and settles at the pit of his stomach, a weight for him to bear. “you seem a little dizzy. have we been working on this one for too long? we can rest for a while if you want to.”
no, jeongguk wants to tell yoongi, wants to whisper it seductively until shivers run up yoongi’s spine, wants to scream it to the heavens until they crack and split open. no, it is because of you, because you are so delectable while shrouded in shadow, because i feel you caressing me with your eyes, languidly undressing me beneath the strokes of your paintbrush. and i am a weak man, yoongi, one touch of yours and i will crumble.
instead, what tumbles out of his lips is, “yoongi, why do they punish us for love?”
it’s the most vulnerable, raw thing that’s ever escaped out of him, and a sob follows, an aching sound that makes yoongi freeze in his careful brushwork. the fear emanating from jeongguk’s expression is all too palpable as he realises just what he’s said.
yoongi keeps his reaction neutral, dips a paintbrush into water and observes as the red ink spreads, skimming across the surface. he deliberates over a few possible answers before he settles on one, one that won’t endanger the two of them.
“because love is pain.”
love is pain, yoongi muses as he sketches the curve of jeongguk’s jawline and pretends that the loving strokes of the pencil are an extension of the tips of his fingers. somewhere on his ankle, hidden deftly underneath his artist’s apron, toxins explode across yoongi’s skin and creep upward, the pain overtaking his senses in a split second.
yellow spots dance across his eyes.
yoongi inhales, shuddering, and jeongguk notices. he must know, because jeongguk’s eyes are slashed with pain himself, and yoongi sees the beginnings of poison inch across jeongguk’s wrist, though the younger says nothing. he wonders what jeongguk’s tattoos are of.
jeongguk’s tattoos — what does yoongi love? the dimples on jeongguk’s cheeks as he throws his head back and laughs. the low humming of jeongguk’s voice when sometimes, in between paintings, he grows bored — the music like golden honey filling the air. for yoongi loves the curves and dips of jeongguk’s body, a temple he can only worship from afar, a mirage he can never reach. it will hurt him. it will hurt them.
yoongi wishes he could disappear.
…
the day that jeongguk snaps is a day like any other, except for the fact that their meeting is unscheduled, jeongguk dashing into yoongi’s studio at the crack of dawn. there’s a subtle wildness in jeongguk’s eyes as he explains the sudden intrusion — “couldn’t get to sleep last night, was up thinking,” he tells yoongi, massaging a kink out of his shoulder, “and i just had the strongest urge to come see you.”
“well, i’m happy that you thought of me,” yoongi tries his best to reply noncommittally, messing around with the colours on his painting palette. the tones of the dereliction of warmth are rather unchanging, and yoongi mixes the desired shade with a quick expert eye. “you sure are a sweet-talker, aren’t you. go rest on that spare seat by the window for a while, i’m almost done preparing.”
“no.” it’s the first time that jeongguk’s openly defied what yoongi says, and yoongi’s lips part in confusion. he whips his head up from his work to regard jeongguk with sudden interest. jeongguk’s jaw is set, seemingly psyching himself up to do something reckless, or momentous, or both. “i want to talk to you, yoongi. please. please promise me you’ll listen to me, and not cut me off even if you’re afraid of what i’m saying.”
it’s the rather shaky voice with which jeongguk breathes please that does it for yoongi. he nods.
“honestly, i’m tired,” jeongguk begins, heaviness weighing his shoulders down. yoongi furrows his eyebrows. “what i’m tired of is all this unnecessary pretence and stepping carefully around each other like we’re treading on eggshells, which is absurd because love shouldn’t be banned!”
jeongguk’s voice rises in volume with each emphatic statement and shock flashes in yoongi’s eyes. paranoid, he darts his head from left to right to confirm that they are the only ones in yoongi’s studio. he tries to shush jeongguk, but jeongguk’s on a roll. his eyes are gleaming with a long-buried determination, his hands gesturing emphatically in an effort to convince yoongi.
“think about it. why should such a pure emotion be outlawed and the offenders punished by a slow death through poison tattoos? the only explanation is that they fear love.” jeongguk’s tone turns triumphant, as if he’s discovered the key to the universe, and yoongi finds it equally adorable and overly optimistic. “they’re scared of how powerful love can be, so they try to curb it before it happens by subjecting us to pain. but they can’t win, if two people —” here, jeongguk stares intensely at yoongi — “both love each other deeply.”
“jeongguk, be careful!” yoongi hushes him in a flurry of panic, “i don’t want us to be in danger!”
he takes jeongguk by the shoulders, shakes the younger rather vigorously. jeongguk startles.
“i’m just saying,” his tone changes abruptly to one of hurt defensiveness, causing yoongi’s chest to constrict. “no need to get all forceful with me.”
“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, gukkie,” yoongi apologises, and he sees jeongguk melt a little, the nickname a constant reminder of their closeness. “i’m just too scared of the potential consequences that this may bring. i don’t want us to be ruined because of the tattoos. we would lose everything, and i would lose you.”
jeongguk’s eyes soften. his hands come up to catch yoongi by the waist. he holds yoongi tenderly, cautiously, like yoongi is a fragile glass sculpture and jeongguk its maker. his thumb brushes over the sliver of tantalising, exposed skin near yoongi’s waistband, sending warmth cascading from the delicate touch, a thousand comforts all at once.
“you love me, right?”
the question, so bold, overly raw, blisters out in the open. yoongi balks, feeling hotness pierce his eyes and he digs his nails, half-moon imprints, into the flesh of his palm.
“you know what you mean to me, gukkie. we don’t need to push this over the edge.”
“there is no edge!” jeongguk chokes out the words, fiercely this time, “there is only love, and more love, and us. the ones helplessly drowning in this sea of love. it is endless, and it will be a part of our hearts for as long as we are together. now say it, yoongi. i want to hear you say it. because if you love me, we will never lose anything. we will go against whatever they throw at us, together.”
silence. yoongi’s throat feels clogged, dirty somehow, with words that fight to be released from their bindings. but yoongi clenches his jaw at the thought of him and jeongguk both succumbing to eternal pain because of one confession of love — the warnings they have been given spiral in his mind.
then he sees it, as he lifts his chin slightly to gaze in jeongguk’s desperate eyes. vulnerability, brimming beneath jeongguk’s painstakingly constructed mask of confidence, coupled with a burning need to know that he can trust yoongi to stay with him.
jeongguk is afraid.
yoongi wants to protect him.
so yoongi inhales, deeply, and answers, “yes. i love you, jeon jeongguk.”
simple. the three words are so devastatingly simple once they have slipped out of yoongi’s lips, and the words taste like cotton candy and air — lightness — as they mingle with the bright evening sun. jeongguk stumbles on his feet a little, disbelief, surprise, happiness rushing through him — then he’s surging forward, a tidal wave of relief and passion.
yoongi’s canvas clatters to the floor as jeongguk crushes yoongi into a searing, bruising kiss.
they come together, with all the strength of their pent-up longing. yoongi nibbles at the edge of jeongguk’s lips, and drinks in the taste of honey, the nectar of the gods — because jeongguk, his beloved, is not of this world. jeongguk presses in hungrily, entangles his strong fingers in yoongi’s hair — marvelling at how messy it is, their union, and yet how right it feels. their foreheads bump, accidentally at first, and then with all the gentleness of flower petals brushing against each other, the cautious warmth of one seeking the touch of home.
jeongguk presses heated butterfly kisses along the curve of yoongi’s jaw, the side of his neck and the graceful dip of his collarbone, and yoongi closes his eyes. he wonders. wonders why he allowed himself to suffer for such a long time.
because the ban on love is wrong. the poison tattoos are wrong.
love is not pain. the lack of love is pain.
after what seems like a millisecond, or eternity, the poison tattoos bloom on their skin. the places jeongguk has touched so reverently begin to be stained with toxins. yoongi hisses as the markings brand him, severely, torments him until pinpricks of hot tears rise in his rapidly blinking eyes and he holds back a helpless scream. jeongguk chokes out a sob as the tattoos cut open the bottom of his lip, a gash splitting his skin, right where yoongi affectionately made his own mark.
as the pain ravages their senses, jeongguk clutches on to yoongi’s hand, their fingers intertwined in a protest against the inevitable.
yoongi recalls a time, months ago — an idle, beautiful sunday afternoon. jeongguk had caught a tiny butterfly that wandered into yoongi’s studio, cradling it gently in his cupped palms, a giddy smile spreading across his rosy cheeks as he admired the butterfly’s iridescent wings. yoongi gazed at him, and as he sketched the contours of jeongguk’s smile, he let out an indulgent chuckle.
jeongguk had glanced at yoongi, mildly surprised.
“why are you laughing, yoongi? wait — are you sketching me? no, i look so tired today, please don’t!”
“to answer your question, yes, i’m sketching you because you’re adorable with that butterfly. as for why i’m laughing — well, you’re happy. your happiness is my happiness, gukkie.”
now, as the poison tattoos chafe at their skin, yoongi takes jeongguk into his arms. he lays his head on jeongguk’s shoulder, dampness soaking through the cloth of his tattered shirt. he feels, somehow, like they are the last two survivors in an apocalyptic world and they have the weight of humanity (their hidden love) on their backs.
jeongguk’s eyes are deep pools of tranquility. they are calm, accepting, as yoongi tightens his grasp and lifts jeongguk’s hand to his lips, pressing a feather-light kiss to jeongguk’s downy skin. yoongi sees jeongguk swallow anxiously, so he reassures the younger, tender warmth in his voice.
“there’s no need to worry. remember how i once said your happiness is my happiness?”
jeongguk nods fervently, a pink flush rising on his cheeks. yoongi finds the colour absolutely delectable.
“your pain will also be my pain.”
the gentle thumb that yoongi rubs over jeongguk’s knuckles is a secret sign — togetherness.
...
love, yoongi realises through the lazy trickle of time, is beautiful.
the mornings begin with jeongguk. jeongguk sneaking into his studio earlier than their assigned slot and pressing open-mouthed kisses on the exposed back of yoongi’s neck, nosing playfully into yoongi’s hair and giggling as the movement sends goosebumps skittering across yoongi’s skin. jeongguk applying soothing salve to yoongi’s tattoos as they bloom, the smooth brush of jeongguk’s cautious fingers counteracting the effect of the toxins.
the nights end with jeongguk. jeongguk peering at yoongi’s almost-complete dereliction of warmth and his playful protest, “i’m definitely way more handsome than that, my love,” earning an exasperated twitch of yoongi’s lips as he rests his forehead on jeongguk’s, a few seconds before the tattoos take their toll on them.
they call each other that now. my love, whispered, fleeting. my love, the tips of their fingers meeting in a kiss, surreptitious, in a deserted alley. my love, muttered, hushed, to trick the poison into not detecting their true relationship. my love, no longer just yoongi and jeongguk , but yoongiandjeongguk.
love, yoongi comes to learn, can somehow heal the pain that it brings.
...
but love can also drive rifts between them.
there are days, days that exponentially multiply, days that are so wracked in agony that yoongi can do nothing but lie flat, spread-eagled on his rickety bed. the softest pillows transform into rocks that chafe at his inflamed skin. the toxins cause hallucinations, echoes of an alternate world where jeongguk storms into yoongi’s bedroom and flings harsh words at him, torrents of accusations. yoongi knows it’s the poison tricking him into changing his mind. sometimes, he weakens and tears flood his pillow.
one afternoon, the sun punishes their skin with fire and fury. jeongguk complains of a heatstroke. yoongi fetches him some cool, crisp water. jeongguk leans back on a wooden chair, and rips his sweat-soaked shirt off in one fluid motion, exposing his toned, muscular body. yoongi isn’t quite sure how it happens, but the next second he’s crashing forward, toppling, pressing needy, heated kisses along jeongguk’s exposed chest. a consuming emotion he later names desire rushes heavily through his veins. he loses himself, lets his hands roam all over jeongguk’s body, sighs spilling from his love-bitten lips.
then jeongguk lets out a piercing, heartrending cry that stabs yoongi through the heart. he collapses, and yoongi barely manages to catch him as they sink to the ground.
“help, yoongi — oh my god, it hurts, i’m dying! — help!”
jeongguk writhes on the floor as tattoos sweep across his skin in a many-armed fury. yoongi, gasping and sobbing, can only fumble for the pain relief ointment and rub it hastily into jeongguk’s skin — which only seems to worsen the torture as jeongguk yells, first loudly then as choking whimpers.
“jeongguk, gukkie, hold on for me. please, please stay with me, i love you,” yoongi repeats frantically, shoulders shaking from exertion and despondence.
“don’t — don’t say it!” jeongguk all but howls, his grip vice-like on yoongi’s forearm, his face contorted into a grimace that causes yoongi to be beside himself with grief. “when you say the words it hurts even more! i think they can detect emotion! i think they know what we feel!”
yoongi buries his face in his hands and emits a silent scream.
they lie there for a while, two men broken by affliction.
yoongi, frantic tears leaking through the cracks between his fingers, is steeped in guilt and regret. when he is home he will perch on the edge of his bed and throw a resentful punch into the wall, the plaster cracking like dry earth beneath his rage-filled hands. he will question whether it was his lust for jeongguk that made jeongguk go through that sudden bout of pain. he will curse himself for saying the three trigger words that worsened jeongguk’s condition. he will think it is his fault.
jeongguk, exhausted from the earlier ordeal, is fighting off the residues of the toxins that have now settled in his body. when he is wrapped in his bedsheets, a cocoon from the harshness of the world, he will wonder whether everything is worth it, why he has to be the one being punished for yoongi’s mistakes. he will stare at the waning moon, inhaling and exhaling with difficulty, and nod off, exhaustion descending upon him like a dense, cruel fog. gripped by poison-induced hallucinations of yoongi leaving him, yoongi blaming him for their predicament, he will think it is futile.
they swore that they would share each other’s pain. but at times, doubts scratch at their minds like famished rats gnawing at their last meal, determined to finish them off.
in the midst of their uncertainty, the poison tattoos flourish.
…
the day the fireworks go off in celebration of anti-valentine’s day, jeongguk and yoongi are cuddled up, swathed in a warm cotton blanket near the hearth in yoongi’s home. jeongguk’s breaths grow slower and deeper, the fire seeping into him and sending him off into a dreamy sleep. his head rests comfortably on yoongi’s lap, the tousled curls of his hair framing his delicate ears. yoongi marvels at how young jeongguk seems in the flickering light, his cheeks dusted with the colour of roses and sunrises.
yoongi reaches out and caresses jeongguk quietly, brushing away a few strands of stray hair from his eyes. jeongguk’s lashes flutter, a sweet smile curving his lips as somewhere, in dreamland, he senses the grounding brush of yoongi’s fingers, contentment descending upon them.
then the unthinkable happens. toxins slash open the pads of yoongi’s fingertips, just as they streak across jeongguk’s skin, his temples, his forehead, everywhere yoongi has touched.
jeongguk wakes up in a cold sweat, jolting out of yoongi’s arms and clutching his face in agony.
“what happened again?” he questions yoongi dully, when the worst of the pain has passed and the tattoos settle into discernible patterns marring his face. they are tattoos of a paintbrush, paint splatters, to represent yoongi’s love for art, but they are twisted and disfigured. “did you say or do anything?”
“i just touched your face,” yoongi stutters, detecting a note of defensiveness in his own voice (to mask the remorse settling in, the unnerving feeling that he is in the wrong). “i didn’t do anything beyond that. i don’t know why the attacks are getting more frequent.”
jeongguk gets up wordlessly, and pads off in search of the soothing ointment he always brings with him. yoongi sees his shadow disappear into the hallway, a nameless barrier surging up between them. doubts and responsibilities weigh them down, rocks tied to their helpless feet as they flounder for air. it’s a matter of time before they break — whether only one of them does, or they fall together, yoongi isn’t sure anymore.
“i’m sorry,” yoongi says to the space that jeongguk has just vacated. “i love you.”
…
it’s one thing to bear the poison and the delusions it conjures.
it’s another thing entirely to walk on the streets, with the imprints of their love exposed to the sun, bared for the cynical world to see.
one evening, yoongi sifts through exotic pigments at an art supplies stall while jeongguk shuffles uncertainly behind him, his face half shrouded by a dark hood to prevent his tattoos from being glimpsed. yoongi marvels at a rare shade of neon green, eagerly trying it out on the canvas the seller gives him. he’s so caught up in picking colors that he tunes out the world around him, only hearing the hushed conversation behind him when it’s too late.
“ah, i could recognise you anywhere, jeongguk-ssi! say, why did you fly solo? i thought our modelling company was treating you quite well, the pay was pretty solid.” a man’s low, deep voice, unknown to yoongi, his tone one of bright recognition and interest.
“right, i guess it was,” jeongguk’s reply is swift, brief, and he tugs insistently at the hem of yoongi’s sleeve, signalling him of the danger and urging him to quickly buy what he came for. “i wanted to focus on one particular modelling job, so that’s why i left the company.”
“what job is that?” the man is seemingly relentless with his questions. “we’ve always wondered where you went. and what’re you wearing that creepy hood for? i haven’t seen your face in ages, c’mon—”
“hey, no — take your hands off!”
jeongguk gasps, fear flooding his voice, and yoongi whips around just in time to witness the man fling jeongguk’s hood from his head. jeongguk’s face is marred with the blatant paintbrush and paint tattoo, his skin ruined from the blackening of the toxins in his system. yet as the man’s eyes rove over jeongguk’s features in abject horror, jeongguk lifts his chin almost regally, defiantly, staring straight into the man’s scrutiny, as if he’s presenting the man with a challenge.
“well, you got what you wanted. this is me.”
jeongguk offers, and blinks his large doe eyes as the man stumbles back in revulsion. sunlight dances over the rafters of the stall and illuminates jeongguk’s hair, a halo fit for an angel. jeongguk holds his head high until the man clears his throat, and rasps out the words stuck in his mind —
“you’re in love? how could you, jeongguk-ssi? that’s against all the rules! that’s shameful!”
the man’s nose wrinkles in distaste as he glances around frantically, as if searching for an answer. jeongguk clenches his fist by his side, shoulders shaking with fury as he struggles to keep the perfunctory, polite smile on his face. indignation surges into yoongi’s chest as he slips his hand into jeongguk’s, offering a brief comfort, then squares up to the man, a warning flashing in his eyes.
“whoever you are, you have no business calling him shameful.” yoongi speaks calmly, but there’s a veiled threat in the timbre of his voice and the firm set of his shoulders as he steps forward, shielding jeongguk from the man’s view. jeongguk shrinks gratefully behind yoongi’s coat, scared fingers scrunching up the fabric and releasing it again. “please keep your nose in your own affairs next time, and avoid insulting others — it isn’t your place to do so.”
at yoongi’s sudden outburst, the man balks. sizing up his adversary, he rakes a judgmental stare up and down yoongi’s body. his gaze halts on the canvasses and paintbrushes that yoongi’s carrying in his hands, and the paint stain that yoongi accidentally daubed on the back of his wrist. a light comes into the man’s eyes, understanding dawning upon him.
“oh! so this —” the man points an accusing finger at yoongi, his tone triumphant and gloating, “this man is the person you’re in love with! there’s no need to hide, that paintbrush tattoo says it all — wow, the two of you — i’m sure you think you’re brave, aren’t you? forcing us to look at those monstrosities. rein yourselves in, and get some help, for god’s sake.”
the rapid-fire words, harsh and brutal, strike both yoongi and jeongguk in the core. yoongi feels jeongguk trembling behind him, his forehead pressed into the back of yoongi’s coat, distressed, seeking yoongi’s warmth and solace. yoongi’s mouth opens and closes ineffectively. he tries to piece together the words needed to salvage their dignity, scathing remarks about how powerful their love for each other is, but comes up empty-handed (even if he waxed poetic on the beauty of love, they would just be shunned — is this their eternal fate? to be mocked, and fail to defend themselves?)
so yoongi panics, and uses the first and only solution he has on his mind.
“you’re sorely mistaken,” yoongi chides, tucking jeongguk safely into his embrace with a firm hand. “jeongguk here is just my cousin, and nothing more than that. you jumped to conclusions only because you saw me buying art supplies, which is a very crude thing to do. now please leave us alone, you’ve shaken jeongguk up enough.”
“cousin, my foot.” the man spits at yoongi’s feet, menace glittering in his dark, beady eyes. “that’s what all of them say nowadays to cover up their mistakes. you are a coward, and the two of you are an abomination.”
fortunately, that last taunt is where the man leaves it at, and he sweeps away, casting a last, baleful look at yoongi and jeongguk before he strides away purposefully. once yoongi’s certain that the man is too far away to see them, he immediately turns to jeongguk, who is huddled in his arms, worryingly silent. anxious, yoongi peers at jeongguk’s face, still masked partially by the hood.
“gukkie, you okay? i’m so sorry you had to bump into him, and that he said such hurtful words to attack us. but we’re safe now — his opinion’s invalid. he’s a jealous, jaded person.”
“hmm.” jeongguk murmurs, eyes distant. “you sure his opinion’s completely invalid? whatever, let’s get ourselves back to the studio. we’ve spent enough time out here, wasting our energy on trying to win battles that can’t ever be won.”
to yoongi’s astonishment and utter dismay, jeongguk slips out of yoongi’s grasp, turns on his heel and walks off into the distance.
…
the fifth month, day 8145 — heat and dust obscure the sky.
i know it was a survival instinct, for him to deny the truth of our relationship. i know how absurd it is for me to be disappointed that he didn’t own up to being my lover, because maybe it would have gotten us killed.
at the same time, i feel so insecure, like a ship that’s slipped its moorings, unable to find its anchor home.
because if he had said that he was in love with me, i would have risen proudly by his side and revealed our love to the world, even at the risk of hate and public scrutiny. love conquers all.
now, i don’t know whether i can trust him to hold on anymore.
…
these days, yoongi’s work on the dereliction of warmth and his formal modelling sessions with jeongguk (besides the spare time they spend together, which slowly dwindles) transform into a quiet and rather subdued affair. jeongguk seems distant, eyes drifting and unfocused, only jolting when yoongi calls his name. jeongguk’s name — the syllables sound foreign, piecing them together becoming a laborious effort that saps up all of yoongi’s energy. something in the air has shifted, a negative charge that separates him and jeongguk on two ends of an unbreachable gulf.
yoongi tries to reach out, but jeongguk shrinks away from him.
“it’s nothing,” jeongguk snaps, one evening when yoongi ventures timidly to pat his shoulder. jeongguk always seems to be snapping at him these days. “i’m feeling just fine, yoongi. why don’t you stop worrying and continue working on the painting? also, don’t touch my arm there — the tattoos on that part of my skin got worse, and i didn’t think that was possible.”
derisive. jeongguk’s tone sounds derisive, and interlaced with an underlying bitterness — resentment? yoongi wonders, unsure of anything at this stage.
jeongguk returns to his earlier position, and yoongi reaches out for the handle of a large fan brush to blend in the murky background of the painting. when his fingers wrap around it, it is accompanied by trembling hands and a bite of his lip, hard, so hard it draws blood — an iron tang fills his mouth with the metallic taste of suppressed pain, because the toxins have gradually been eating into his arm, affecting his ability to paint, and he finds that he can no longer hold a paintbrush well anymore.
the fan brush almost slips from his grasp as he begins flicking it weakly across the canvas. intently focused on the punishing task before him, yoongi trains his eyes on the painting. it is not until he hears a muted thud that he glances up from his work.
his horrified gaze lands on jeongguk, crumpled in a heap on the hard floorboards of his studio. jeongguk’s breaths are shallow and quick as he lifts a wandering, disoriented hand to his forehead. yoongi rushes over, heart caught in his throat as he screams jeongguk’s name, gukkie, jeongguk, my love, what’s happening — oh god, do i have to call the medics? can you hear me? can you breathe? what’s wrong?
then the truth sinks in, as yoongi kneels down beside jeongguk’s barely conscious form and lifts up the torn sleeve of his white shirt. the tattoos. they have spread along the entirety of jeongguk’s arm, writhing like many-tailed snakes, with a renewed vigour and a malicious determination to kill.
…
“we need to talk about this.”
“yoongi, for the last time, i’m okay. also, i can do this myself, i don’t need help.” jeongguk insists. his teeth are gritted, jaw clenched as yoongi applies a salve to his arm whilst binding it up with bandages. his hand clutches momentarily on the back of yoongi’s, the touch chiding. “go and rest, will you? you’ve been watching over me for so long, it’s not like i’m suddenly going to collapse again.”
but who knows? yoongi tries to tamp down the wave of frustration rising in his chest. jeongguk is young, inexperienced, a fledgling bird tossed out into the open, vicious world that is against him. while his first instinct is to protect, jeongguk’s first instinct is to muster his strength, to try and reassure yoongi that he’s capable of defending himself. of defending them.
“you’re hurt, severely,” yoongi tries to be the voice of reason, as jeongguk takes the bandage and starts winding it along his arm by himself. “we’re both so injured, gukkie. you know the toxins might just kill us one day if we keep carrying on like this, right? it pains me to see you suffer.”
jeongguk shrugs, the corners of his mouth downturned.
“i mean, i feel the same way. the tattoos affect both of us. we’re braving this at the same time, so that’s why we’re relying on each other to get through this blasted — curse thing.”
yoongi’s chest feels heavy, so heavy, a nameless weight settling on him and refusing to let go. he scoots over to jeongguk’s side, and motions for the younger to lie down, close to him. jeongguk reclines, buries his head in yoongi’s crumpled shirt and yoongi cradles jeongguk in his arms, his heart shattering into a million pieces as his mind runs through what he’s about to say.
“gukkie, you know i love you, right?”
yoongi murmurs, the downy softness of jeongguk’s hair tickling his chest. jeongguk shifts restlessly in his embrace, giving two firm, small nods as indication that he’s listening. his fingers thread through yoongi’s, feather-light gentleness.
“then please, please hear me out. these months we’ve spent together are some of the best i’ve ever had in my lifetime. but what if it’s becoming too much? i can’t stand it when you’re hurting in front of me, because of me. it’s like i caused your torture with my own bare hands and it wrecks me, it does. so what if we just took a break, spent some time away from—”
jeongguk jolts up from his spot on yoongi’s lap, his gaze abruptly turning incensed, burning with a dark flame as he stares disbelievingly at yoongi.
“oh, no.” jeongguk shakes his head slowly, dully, as if it isn’t sinking in for him, his eyes glittering with a clear warning and what seems like the onslaught of unshed tears. “no. you weren’t just about to say that. tell me you weren’t, yoongi! tell me you want to stay by my side, because isn’t that clear enough? only when we are together can we have the strength to fight against the forces that want to break us apart!”
jeongguk’s voice grows increasingly agitated with each word that thuds out of his lips, like he’s frantically reining yoongi back in, his hand gestures becoming erratic as he flails for anything to hold on, a sliver of yoongi’s last shred of hope. but yoongi’s expression is steely, controlled, as he meets jeongguk’s eyes.
“when we’re together, things only get worse, gukkie. whenever i say i love you, or touch you, or try to be anywhere near you, your condition just gets even more severe. i don’t know—” yoongi falters in the middle of his speech, because he sees jeongguk dash the back of his hand quickly over his face, brushing away the tears that are beginning to fall like helpless droplets of rain from jeongguk’s brimming eyes. yoongi’s breath catches. he inches forward, reaching out for jeongguk’s palm, his face contorting as jeongguk breaks down into choked, stilted sobs. “gukkie, please, don’t cry —”
“don’t call me that.” jeongguk jerks away harshly, leaving yoongi’s hand grasping at thin air. “don’t you dare touch me, min yoongi.”
yoongi draws away brokenly. the atmosphere stagnates, yoongi’s stomach roiling with the bitterness of desperation and heartbreak intertwined. jeongguk wipes away his tears furiously, and speaks, his tone low and dangerous and jagged, cut into pieces by his despair.
"you said you hate to see me suffer, yes? how’s this for you — i’m suffering more than i ever will right now, because you went and told me to give up on fighting for us. that in itself hurts a lot more than any poison tattoo ever can, because you matter so much to me. or should i say, you used to.”
yoongi covers his face with his hands. he can’t breathe, the air around him pressing relentlessly into his windpipe until he sees a whirlwind of black and red and pain, utter agony, jeongguk’s scathing voice speaking truths that he doesn’t want to hear anymore. hot tears build up in his eyes and threaten to spill over in a torrent of weakness.
he hears the scrape of jeongguk’s boots on the floor as the younger rises slowly from his seat beside yoongi.
“please don’t hate me,” is the only thing yoongi can think of to say, as jeongguk towers in front of yoongi, his fists clenched, mixed emotions simmering in his lithe frame. “i don’t know what else to do.”
“no, you’re very mistaken. i don’t hate you.” jeongguk replies, his voice becoming vacant and detached, almost devoid of feeling. somehow this change hurts yoongi more than any barbed words or insults jeongguk can throw at him. “i’m just disappointed in you.”
jeongguk shoulders his duffel bag, turning away from yoongi. his receding footsteps are firm, resigned, ringing out much too loudly in the silence that envelops the room. the studio door slams behind jeongguk’s back with a firm finality, the sound echoing and reverberating cruelly in the now-empty space.
finally, yoongi collapses on the floor of his studio. he curls in on himself, sobbing with abandon as hot tears spill over his flushed cheeks. impossibly, in the midst of his grief, he feels a stabbing pain on his palm — the very palm he had ruffled jeongguk’s hair with. he raises his palm to his face, incredulous, watching the toxins trace upwards into a pattern — a whorl, a loop, a straight-edged line cutting through.
when the tattoo stops spreading, he cannot help it anymore; he laughs a wry laugh, dry, derisive.
the tattoo is in the shape of yoongi’s smile.
“you know which part of you is my favourite? the corners of your lips.”
yoongi lies supine on the wooden floor and inhales the taste of regret.
…
three. the separation
please come back, scrawled on a fading piece of parchment and stuffed hastily into an envelope, delivered by courier to jeongguk’s hands. he paces the length of his room as he rereads the note, writing pressed on it with an insistent force. i’m sorry. i need you. i was cowardly — i wanted to protect you from the danger, from the suffering. please understand why i had to say what i did.
jeongguk sets a lighter to the paper and watches as it ignites, the fire licking over his first and last glimpse of yoongi’s handwriting. he becomes unsure of anything at all — whether yoongi means what he wrote, whether the dullness knocking insistently at his chest is a remainder of how hurt he was by yoongi’s rejection. he wants nothing but to forget.
above all, the pain cripples him. water is his enemy now, the nights where he crumples in a heap whilst the shower runs above him, eating into his skin and bone. jeongguk takes comfort in applying soothing balm to the tattoos, marveling at the cruel, twisted beauty of the marks.
flowers, intertwined with thorned vines.
clouds drifting across a sky, a wispy sunset.
eyes, sparkling and gentle, that resemble jeongguk’s own.
when jeongguk goes to sleep, he dreams of art. of yoongi’s paintings, the care and comfort of each flick of his brush against the canvas. he dreams of yoongi’s voice whispering impossible sentiments in his ears, and wakes up in a cold sweat, the tattoos throbbing and sending toxins into his skin as he shifts in the isolation of his bed. he dreams of everything, and nothing all at once.
…
yoongi cannot paint anymore.
he has lost all sense of time and space, the surroundings around him reduced to a monochrome mess of dullness. he exists in the vacuum of his mind, his brush only able to carve out the same image over and over again — jeongguk. jeongguk’s slender fingers and large, calloused palms. jeongguk’s hair, windswept and carelessly tousled, but pristine, the dark locks fit to crown a king.
it has been exactly 102 hours since they last parted, but it feels more like 10 thousand, 10 million, eternity. he stares at the blank canvas propped up beside the other two finished works of art, and thinks he will title it a world without love. because a world without jeongguk is the pure alabaster of an empty canvas, a world where nothing exists and everything is erased. a world without jeongguk is a world without colour, without inspiration, and least of all love.
please come back, a plea that was never answered.
…
yoongi sends more missives.
the first ten or so are fervent apologies, overflowing with hope and remorse and yearning. i know what i’ve said, and what i’ve done — pushing you away because i was scared of the emotions blooming between us — i know that is unforgivable. attempt number eleven, he encloses a miniature drawing, a sketch of jeongguk’s lips and the angular sweep of his jaw. attempt number twenty includes a bunch of roses, red as the crimson sunset, the flaming rays that slash open the heavens and send open wounds streaking across layered clouds.
from the thirtieth onwards, yoongi begins to grow despondent. the letters manifest as anger, indignation, sometimes even outright dejection. he loses focus — who is he writing for at this stage? does jeongguk even read his letters? — and he stops caring. remember the time i touched you and i was scorched in pain? i forged on, because i want to stay close to you. how many times will i have to repent before you grant me your forgiveness? do i deserve this silence?
attempt thirty-five. yoongi is in a drunken stupor, liquor chasing him into a boldness of fire and fury. he brings out a piece of parchment, stares at his tattoos, and sketches every single one of them in uncanny detail. an imprint of defiance — this is what you did to me.
attempt fifty. please. a single word drenched with yoongi’s tears.
attempt sixty. the sun reminds me of you. beautiful, and deadly.
attempt sixty-four. did you know that i woke up and realised — i’ve started to forget your smile?
...
jeongguk receives more missives.
the first ten or so, he reads, and adorns with his heartfelt tears. in the dead of night, he clutches the letters to his chest, bundled up and tied neatly with frayed string, and imagines an alternate world where he could embrace yoongi in such a way, in a beautiful, tangled mess of limbs and hearts and foreheads and wrists. but then jeongguk wakes up to toxins slicing into his chest and he screams, the reverberations filling his too-cramped room.
with the twentieth letter comes a twilight where he almost pitches himself off the balcony in longing and despair intertwined. red roses, the forbidden signal of love — it almost breaks his resolve and urges him to return to yoongi’s side where he rightfully belongs.
but jeongguk chooses another day’s worth of solitude, because if the tattoos hurt this much when he isn’t with yoongi, he does not wish for them both to suffer more if they reunited.
so when yoongi’s thirtieth attempt arrives, jeongguk stops reading. he throws each carefully crafted letter into the crackling fireplace that he stokes every evening. he tries to wipe his mind of yoongi, but it is futile. the more he attempts to divert his attention, the more he remembers yoongi. the kind downward slant of yoongi’s almond eyes, yoongi’s gummy smile of adoration, yoongi’s soft, small hands slotting in his grasp perfectly. yoongi, or rather the mirage of what he was (is) to jeongguk, staunchly refuses to leave him.
he cannot forget yoongi.
and with every recollection, jeongguk’s poison tattoos multiply.
...
on the eve of attempt seventy, yoongi dips his quill in ink, and shakes the excess off. he lets the tip of the quill linger on the paper, the ink spreading out like a many-armed spider. then he freezes, time jolting to a standstill as the low lamplight hits the skin of his wrist — or rather, the pristine, pale white underbelly of his arm.
his tattoos have disappeared. there is no trace of the markings that caused him to suffer so deeply.
yoongi steals out into the night. the local library is stuffed with ancient writings, so it takes a while for him to reach the section on love and its repercussions. he finds the manual on the poison tattoos, and flips through the pages feverishly, trying to search for an explanation.
then he sees it. one line, gleaming prominently on the page, spelling out the reason for his salvation and the solution to their pain —
Article XII of The Ban on Love:
When love ceases to be, the poison tattoos disappear.
it is quite fitting, yoongi supposes, and most possibly the reason jeongguk has been avoiding him all this time. jeongguk’s tattoos must have disappeared, and he must not want to rekindle the pain by returning to yoongi’s side, even if it meant prolonging yoongi’s own suffering. yoongi’s chest tightens as he realises jeongguk has possibly forgotten him.
maybe it is the best for both of them.
yoongi resolves to follow jeongguk’s example, bitter and tired of pining. neutralising the tattoos isn’t easy. but over time, he discovers that instead of emptiness, blankness, there is another more powerful weapon against love, one that will ensure the toxins are removed from his skin.
an emotion that guarantees yoongi freedom from love.
hatred.
...
four. the sacrifice of love
a strange change comes upon yoongi.
he returns to his long-abandoned studio, and paints with a renewed ferocity. the paintings are one and the same. he fills the nooks and crannies of each new canvas with black acrylic, black unfolding and cinching onto the cloth like the dawning of night on the heavens. once the canvas is filled with the hue of nothingness, he drenches his paintbrush with crimson paint, the colour of infernal pain, and splatters it furiously, hand trembling with anger, onto the darkness.
then he stitches the splatters together with spiderwebs of gold paint, glimmering with a taunting seductiveness against the remnants of his wrath.
this is all he does every day. he paints one of these per session, and the rest of his time he spends cross-legged, staring out of the damp windows of the studio. he sits serenely, gazing outwards, often fixating on a far point in the distance. once, a mailman knocked on the window to deliver some letters — but the glazed vacuity of yoongi’s eyes and the lifelessness of his pose sent the mailman scurrying away, terrified.
he learns the art of hatred, slowly but surely. the art of channelling his sorrow and disappointment and distress into one single entity, a hardened rock stuck in his sternum, forever to last. the tattoos gleam and fade and vanish, to the point where he loses them all, to the void from which they came — to the place where yoongi’s heart used to beat.
yoongi gives up on jeongguk, entirely, and lets the ghost of his emotions wither away.
...
the dark sky weighs upon him, a shadow possessing his deepest insecurities. yoongi drifts aimlessly around his studio, hunting for a fan brush that he’s misplaced earlier. he isn’t sure whether the world is falling apart around him, or if he’s just been careless and forgetful. the former isn’t completely implausible, given the way that yoongi views the world now — dilapidated, fraying at the seams, just like his mind and body.
in his reverie, he doesn’t notice a shadow flitting tentatively outside the door of his studio, pacing back and forth as if in deep thought. yoongi is still searching for the fan brush. he isn’t sure if he’ll ever find it. just as he gives up and starts painting with one of his spare fan brushes, the studio door flings open and slams dramatically on its hinges.
yoongi lifts his sunken gaze from the canvas he’s meticulously covering in black, alarmed by the sudden noise. a man draped in a hood enters the studio silently, closing the door behind him as he lets himself in.
“what — who —” yoongi mutters, scrambling up unsteadily as the intruder steps forward and lifts his dark hood from his head, exposing his features, and yoongi stumbles. his eyes must be deceiving him, because the person standing before him would never arrive at his studio like this, out of the blue; because his appearance stirs up unwanted emotions that yoongi thought were long-buried in the chasm of his heart, because he missed him (he does, still, in some way) — “jeon jeongguk?”
jeongguk — a face he has not set eyes on since three, four months ago — jeongguk’s hair has grown unruly and matted, curls haphazardly framing his sallow cheeks, and the set of his lips is thin, rugged, worn by the onslaught of time. as yoongi stares, shellshocked, at this man he never expected to set eyes on again for the rest of his lifetime, jeongguk meets yoongi’s eyes . a sudden rush of colour and vibrancy and energy surges into his gaze, all too prominent as he softens and crumples, taking yoongi in from head to toe.
“oh, yoongi,” jeongguk breathes wonderingly, hands clasped together in a gesture of peace, of suppliance. yoongi rubs a hand across his eyes, still half-convinced that jeongguk is a hallucination, a side effect of the poison tattoos, even though all of them have disappeared from yoongi’s skin. “yoongi, my sweet angel, i’m so sorry for everything. i’m sorry for ignoring you, for staying away for so long — i was hurt, and angry at first, and i just couldn’t think straight.”
jeongguk comes closer, his duffel bag slipping off his shoulder and thudding on the floor as his hands come up to catch yoongi by the wrists, sliding gracefully down to interlace with yoongi’s fingers. yoongi stares back, his throat choked up with a thousand words and none all at once, as jeongguk’s voice becomes deeper, sincerity and sadness overflowing from every syllable.
“after you told me what was on your mind, i started thinking about what you said. you were right, in a sense. that’s why i decided not to come back, because the times when you were with me, we were both in so much pain. over the months, i tried to distance myself from you, believing that if i didn’t reply or return to your side, everything would cease and become less painful again. but do you know what i realised?”
jeongguk rubs his thumb across yoongi’s knuckles and yoongi knows that he should logically feel a swell of warmth in his chest, from how tender jeongguk’s motions are, but he tastes the tang of emptiness on his lips and thinks, subdued, i’ve lost everything, haven’t i?
“i realised that we’re in pain because of each other, but we’re in more pain without each other.”
yoongi’s breath stills, his lips parting quietly and his mind reeling. jeongguk nods, not taking his eyes off yoongi. his starry irises hold all the gleaming constellations of the sky, begging yoongi to listen to him. so yoongi scrabbles inside himself for the last remnants of emotion buried deep inside him, the last shrapnels of love that he might have stored inside him, ready for this last moment of reunion.
he comes up empty-handed, and he lowers his lashes, fearful that jeongguk will see the truth reflected in his treacherous eyes.
“so that’s why,” jeongguk murmurs quietly, “i’m here, now, standing in front of you, asking for your forgiveness and love. i didn’t come earlier, because i was afraid that i’d hurt you even more with my presence, with the sudden appearance of someone you must have given up on. but my angel, i simply cannot bring myself to forget you, and the poison tattoos have given me the punishment i deserve for remembering you, all throughout our separation.”
“the — the tattoos?” yoongi rasps out, his eyes widening. he had believed jeongguk’s tattoos disappeared, much like his did when he thought he would never cross paths with jeongguk again. it was the reason he started conditioning himself to hate instead of love, because he believed jeongguk stayed away to prevent the tattoos from returning. “your tattoos — they’re still there?”
“of course they are, yoongi, they can’t go away,” jeongguk chuckles lightly, frowning at yoongi in confusion. “they won’t go away because we love each other, and that’s what causes them to bloom, yes?”
yoongi feels the world collapse around him. everything is muted, all at once. his body seems suspended in the segment of time when jeongguk told him the poison tattoos are still on jeongguk’s skin.
the truth sounds, a death knell in the back of yoongi’s mind as his hands grow clammy within jeongguk’s affectionate grasp. jeongguk’s fingers curl and uncurl around his with the delicacy of petals folding and unfolding. the truth ruins yoongi bit by bit by bit as he pieces everything together.
jeongguk doesn’t know about the rule. the rule where tattoos disappear when love ends.
jeongguk kept on loving yoongi from afar, despite their separation, and his tattoos continued to pain him while yoongi’s tattoos faded, under the hatred that he forced himself to feel.
too late yoongi registers that he has been frozen in place for too long. dejection seeps into jeongguk’s expression as he takes in yoongi’s silence, the air growing unusually thick with words unsaid.
“i know that you might not be able to forgive me right now, or find the right words to tell me what you’re feeling, but,” jeongguk takes a deep, shaky breath, and forges on with a renewed determination, “nevertheless, i want you to finish your trio of paintings about love. without me, you won’t be able to, because i’m the subject of them — and i know how much this series means to you. so i’ll tell you what you can paint for your last artwork.”
“what — my art?” yoongi struggles to get a sense of jeongguk’s cryptic words, against the throes of guilt and anxiety coalescing into a firm chokehold on his senses. “what do you mean by that, jeongguk?”
“you used to call me gukkie.”
jeongguk chuckles. his laugh is bright and delicate, and jeongguk says the phrase like it’s a mere observation, his tone mild and controlled. but the statement punches yoongi in the gut, gives him aching regret and lingering sadness. as if in answer to yoongi’s question, jeongguk strides over to the spot he usually resides in when yoongi paints him. jeongguk pulls the fraying edges of his white shirt over his head, straining with difficulty as he divests himself of his clothing, exposing his bare back to yoongi’s scrutiny.
when he takes in the sight, yoongi has to stifle the guttural, animal noise that threatens to escape out of his throat. he stuffs his fist in his mouth, violently, to muffle his choked scream — all of yoongi’s senses are rebelling against him, demanding him to wake up from the hallucinations because this isn’t possible. what he’s seeing cannot be real.
jeongguk smiles wanly as he glances over his shoulder, almost ethereal in the harsh studio lights that sink into his porcelain skin. his skin that is now utterly destroyed.
the entirety of jeongguk’s back is covered in newly formed poison tattoos.
outlines of envelopes and scrawled letters. to represent the missives that yoongi sent but jeongguk burned.
red roses with thorns. for the roses that yoongi had gifted him, alongside the twentieth letter he sent.
teardrops. all the tears that they had shed for each other during their separation.
“this is me.” jeongguk states blandly, and yoongi hears the faint echoes of pride and defiance singing in his trembling voice, just like all those months ago when he stood up to his old friend, his marks of love bared for all the world to see. “it worsened when you left, because the more we were apart, the more i missed you. craved your touch. loved you, from afar. so here we are, my angel.”
yoongi chokes on air. he inhales, opens his mouth, desperately trying to tell jeongguk the truth — that he hasn’t been faithful, that he has lost all his tattoos to the hatred he imposed upon himself. but all that comes out of his lips is a dry cough, a strangled noise of unhappiness, which jeongguk doesn’t hear. the younger is still speaking emphatically, eyes imploring yoongi to accept his offer.
“show them the face of true love, yoongi, and we will laugh together as we watch them recoil from it. i want them to know how we braved fire and brimstone to stay with each other despite the odds mounted against us. and what better way to do it than this?”
jeongguk lifts a placating hand in front of him. the simple gesture is so regal and commanding that yoongi stumbles on his feet, a relentless turmoil of emotions assailing him — who is jeongguk at this stage? is he the love of his life, or the bane of his existence?
“paint me, yoongi. paint all my tattoos in their barest, most raw form. immortalise our love.”
…
epilogue. a month later
jeongguk wakes up in the middle of the night, his throat parched, as if a fire is scorching it into a wasteland of barren terrain. he rolls out of bed, pads to the mini-kitchen and fills his cup with water, downing the liquid in a single gulp. moonlight reflects off the transparent cup as he pads softly back to the bedroom, setting the cup on the nightstand and lifting the covers softly so as not to disturb his companion.
yoongi, steeped in deep slumber, stirs a bit as jeongguk slides under the covers beside him again. the returning, familiar scent and the dip of the mattress beneath jeongguk causes a contented sigh to escape out of yoongi’s lips. he unconsciously shifts closer to jeongguk, seeking out his warmth.
jeongguk rests on his side and gazes half-fondly, half-piercingly at yoongi’s sleeping form. his hair is soft, tousled, and jeongguk reaches over to tenderly brush a strand of hair that’s wandered to cover yoongi’s fluttering eyelids. touch no longer triggers the poison tattoos as much as before. not when almost every inch of their bodies are swathed in bandages, which somehow prevents the tattoos from spreading, jeongguk has discovered. it allows for a vast realm of intimacy, a thing foreign and new to both of them.
there is a sliver of exposed skin on yoongi’s neck. jeongguk moves to cover it up with yoongi’s neck bandage, but halts suddenly as his eyes alight on the painting lying serenely in the back of the room. a portrayal of jeongguk lounging casually on a grand leather chaise, a shadow of jeongguk’s former beauty.
the emperor of the heart.
yoongi had kept the first two paintings, lying ineffectively in their shared apartment. what he did with the third, which he ended up titling the sacrifice of love, jeongguk has no idea. it’s possibly in the attic, that raw, graphic painting of jeongguk’s back tattoos. some days yoongi retreats into that dark, damp space and bitter crying drifts down from the rafters. he wonders if yoongi is crying from remorse over the memory of that painting, or from the regret of not having enough bravery to exhibit the paintings.
jeongguk wouldn’t have minded if those works catapulted yoongi to fame, despite what happened during the third painting. he has forgiven yoongi, for the momentary break in his resolve; he knows that his love for yoongi will transcend anything. the doubts that yoongi had, the slight spell of hatred yoongi harboured towards jeongguk — all that fades in the face of love.
when yoongi put down his brush after painting the sacrifice of love and confessed, in halting sobs, that he had forced himself to hate jeongguk because that was the only way for him to survive — yes, a part of jeongguk had withered inside, but he understood. he forced a smile. he told yoongi that love would always prevail, and that he didn’t hold it against yoongi.
(but does he truly forgive him?)
jeongguk’s finger stills, shaking, uncertain, suspended in time above that exposed patch of yoongi’s skin. he recalls how much the tattoos hurt when he was lying in bed, writhing and twisting, whilst yoongi’s tattoos calmly disappeared into nothingness. he wonders why it was so easy for yoongi to fall into the pattern of hating him instead of loving him, because jeongguk cannot imagine ever hating a person he loves.
(or can he?)
jeongguk lifts the bandage covering yoongi’s neck. he tells himself it’s just to check whether yoongi’s tattoos are still there, to check if they’ve suddenly disappeared overnight. he trusts yoongi’s murmurs of love and the endearments he whispers into the shell of jeongguk’s ear, but he can’t help but carry some lingering seeds of doubt. then the first inky smears of the tattoos peek out from beneath the bandage and jeongguk breathes in relief again — of course yoongi still loves him. of course the tattoos are still there.
(a memory, flashing unbidden into his mind. he strips himself of his shirt, baring his tattoo-stained back for yoongi to see the proof of his love. yoongi’s broken cries as he falls to his knees in front of jeongguk and tells him, “i’m sorry, i have to say this because you deserve to know — i stopped loving you when you were gone, but i want to learn to love you again.” the initial fury, white and blinding, but then an eerie calm, like sea waves lapping on an empty shoreline. his response, “i forgive you. love conquers all.”)
jeongguk’s fingertips brush accidentally (on purpose) along yoongi’s skin.
the effect is instantaneous. poison tendrils bloom from the spot jeongguk touched and crisscross with the existing tattoos, intertwining into an intricate spiderweb of love. yoongi gasps in pain and his eyes fly open, startled, his face terrified as the tender skin on his neck gets marred once again.
“gukkie — gukkie, it happened again — did your finger slip while you were —”
yoongi is incoherent, face twisted; even though they’ve trained themselves against the agony of the tattoos, there are still times where they are vulnerable. jeongguk takes yoongi into his arms, making sure to only touch the bandages that surround his skin, and presses a light kiss to the circular bandage on yoongi’s temple. yoongi shudders in his embrace, clinging on to jeongguk like a drowning man clutching at his last piece of driftwood.
“you’re okay, my angel,” jeongguk whispers. “i wasn’t careful enough while fixing the bandage on your neck. i’m here for you, alright?” a wry smile crosses his face as yoongi nods, sleepily, already drifting off again. he loops a possessive arm around yoongi’s waist, eyes unblinking as he watches his lover sink into dreamland once more. “i’ll be here for you, always.”
jeongguk wonders if that one fleeting touch hurt yoongi as much as yoongi hurt him, when he broke their trust and stopped loving him.
he wonders what love is, in the end. whether it truly conquers all.