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Taehyung felt as if he had just met a poem with legs when he stumbled upon Jungkook in one of the University's hallways. Those O shaped doe eyes looking at him with nothing but worriness, his cupid lips mouthing a Sorry, Mrs. Kim in the sweetest tone— it resonated similar to pure poetry breaking in his ears, tickling and awakening a different kind of happiness storaged silently for many years.
It replayed his most beloved memory.
Kim Taehyung is a writer who fell in love with words when he was only 9, after his school teacher said everyone in class would read a excerpt from the text written in their book /its subject was languages / and as soon as he finished his part, the boy cried with a huge smile drawn on his face.
At the age of 9, Taehyung got a sip of what loving felt like— he made an unbreakable deal with Eros since that afternoon.
However, the man needed to live 34 summers of his life to finally come across what his colleagues spent most of their time debating about: a perfect tome — a work so flawless that even if you read it over and over, you won't ever get tired of it, because it simply causes a delicious hurricane in your feelings.
It leaves you messy.
It revivals you.
It makes you feel alive.
Jungkook was Taehyung's perfect tome— a huddle of words, a sonnet he adored to be amazed by, the epitome of every single graceful metaphor collected in one being, the prettiest component of a slant rhyme that, even though wasn't meant to match well, sounded as pleasant as a Vivaldi's season for his senses.
Together they were a true rhyme, satisfying whoever reads them.
A fantasy world you don't want to leave.
Jungkook felt as if he had encountered the personification of a Hann Zatzka's painting— so filled with details, a soft, yet remarkable, pallette, strong features and imagination dripping from the man's edges. He couldn't restrain the shakiness of his hands; the desire to replicate that shining honey epidermis as a permanent scar on a canvas growing as the minutes of their first exchange of looks went by. Taehyung muttered a Are you okay? Then, the boy swore his sight swooned for a moment and when he opened his eyes, their surroundings were even more colorful than the usual.
It took him back to the excitement of breaking the virginity between his fingers and the paintbrush.
Jeon Jungkook is a 26 year old painter, who found his safe escape when he was 8 at his grandparents old barn, where the eldest Jeon used to vent through strokes and taught his grandson to do the same. Since that day, the raven haired boy got to know all the scenarios he could see and show in uncountable different ways, which is extremely fascinating.
Mentioned event represented the beginning of a graceful phenomenon: the brush transformed into an extension of his mind; His best friend; his lover— his oxygen .
No wonder why he fell so easily for Taehyung.
The older man was ART.
A Rare Turquoise.
An opaque hue that reminded him so much of Taehyung, maybe because it's settled betwixt blue and green. And, Jungkook felt like the Kim was settled betwixt melancholy and hope in his journey.
Taehyung was brave enough to go through Jungkook's walls. To sneak past his barbed wires. To decipher, untie his traumas and fight his worst monsters with the goal to reach his tiger lily flowery garden— deep down, he aimed to be loved .
So, the entire Solar System was aligned the moment those two singular souls met. A treasure for the universe's oak chest. The collision of Saturn and Mercury. The explosion of literary cosmical dust amidst screaming colors.
It was beautiful to witness the way they were mixed up so well. A sublime contemporary Art Gallery with dirty corners.
The aquarelle of white and red giving birth to pink— the color of love.
The 8th color of the board where Jungkook mixed paints.
The color he used for Taehyung's portrait.
The initial springs shared by them were tinted in pinkish tones, cherry blossom petals adorning their frame, the smell of fresh paint refreshing Jungkook's lungs and the taste of creativity making Taehyung drool.
Although, the honeymoon phase never lasts forever— Jungkook made Taehyung his temple, his mural, his sky, but they went to pieces ; grew mold; plunged.
There's always a stain of a wrong shade somewhere.
There's always a hidden typo.
For Jungkook, dating someone so much older and wiser than him wasn't an easy task.
Taehyung was eloquent, fancy, smart, academic, classical.
Sometimes, Jungkook would feel like a kid again listening to his parents talking, but being exiled from the conversation due to the fact that was "a chat for adults", which means he wouldn't understand .
In the case now, he would spend a lot of his day waiting by the door, while observing Taehyung reading, the latter's head mostly low and hardly ever up to meet his gaze.
Every morning, Jungkook would wake up earlier merely to look at Taehyung and savour the illusion of having their sights in sync. To watch him breathing . To feel their scents blending.
But, the latter's eyes were closed and his breath was intact , no longer cracking as it used to be when he left him breathless. — Jungkook is gouache, Taehyung is an oil paint; they can't be commixed: water and oil won't ever be homogeneous.
Jungkook longed for those almond colored pools suffocating him and pulling him to their bottom— he just wanted to drown there and don't emerge.
Their bed didn't feel like theirs anymore.
"Tae, I miss you."
"Jungkook baby, please, don't do this. Today was hectic and I'm tired. You already take so much space from me and time off my days. Let's just sleep."
The distance among them obligated Jungkook to notice everything Taehyung did and didn't do as a coping mechanism for how deeply he missed the other's presence.
A few months ago, Jungkook could say Taehyung was there . Completely and fully with him. Nevertheless, something changed and the balance of the couple's chiaroscuro was gone, there was no longer light, because it got covered. The shadows were too scarily humongous to allow the bright to glow.
A wall was tearing them apart— too tall for Jungkook to climb, too full of thorns that would most likely than not gash his skin and make him bleed.
Even though, Jungkook has been bleeding for a long time already.
Sat, Jungkook used his best colors for Taehyung's portraits— always making a good use of the greatest adjectives to correlate with his fiancé, whenever he talked to somebody else and the topic was How are you two doing?
After all, Taehyung is a marvelous man— only not marvelous for him. With him.
At home, Jungkook makes sure to leave everything as embellished as possible for once his lover comes back from work; fancy table organized, polished plates to reflect the man's brown pupils, tasty food that's flavored with the amount of adoration he has for Taehyung, the living room enchanted by a cozy cinnamon perfume— efforts he does waiting for a peck, a hug, a tender gaze, a Thank you.
I love you, for how long Jungkook hasn't heard that phrase escaping from Taehyung's throat? He doesn't even know anymore how it feels to be loved by the older.
Many times, the painter caught himself wondering if Taehyung started to just tolerate him, his painting tools, his favorite mahogany colored hoodie, his cold hands, his clothes inside their shared wardrobe, his cotton candy voice, his love— Jungkook became a mere side character not important enough to stay beside the protagonist in the latter's life story.
Maybe, Jungkook is nothing but hearts drawn in the byline, similar to the ones you draw nonchalantly during a boring class, not paying attention if it's symmetric or beautiful— your goal is to have a pastime, not a masterpiece.
Taehyung opens the door around 9pm, the keys movements are the single sound echoing through the rooms, used to be received by warm smiles and paint stains, he frowns— the whole place is deadly quiet. He then takes off his shoes, places his satchel on the counter and walks to the bedroom, not expecting to find Jungkook peeking at the opened window with 4 bags surrounding him; dainty tears rolling down the younger's cheeks, the window blowing his bangs as it would blow a delicate feather, he looks like a fallen broken angel: sad, but graceful as a Shakespearean verse.
"Jungkook, what's going on?" Taehyung approches him from behind and hears a bitter chuckle as Jungkook turns to face him; his knife-like orbs scaring the writer— the turnaround when the victim transmutes into the vilain, too poisoned and tired of being stepped on as an old carpet.
"That's the same thing I've been questioning myself during the past 2 years, Taehyung. What's going on? I guess you should answer me that", Jungkook goes 3 steps closer to the other man, close enough to sense his body temperature, far enough to see the invisible palisade separating them, "If this is all in my head, tell me now. Tell me I've got it wrong somehow, tell me you do still love me and you do still want me around, tell me our book won't have a sad ending, tell me we didn't turn black and white, tell me, Tae…"
The younger draws circles with the pad of his fingers on Taehyung's left cheek, "Tell me you've been celebrating my love, instead of tolerating it."
"I don't understand, what are you talking about?" Another set of sour laughs are released by Jungkook.
"Taehyung, we barely talk, you speak as if I'm child, too naive and breakable to acknowledge the world, you don't touch me anymore, you don't even look at me, you say every single time you're too exhausted, but guess what? I'm fucking tired of this situation too! Tired of waiting for you, tired of being here when you're God knows where, even when we're side by side, tired of worshipping you as a battle hero, tired of taking your indiscretions all in good fun, tired of feeling unwanted, tired of spending my days in and with a person who doesn't even bother to wish me a good morning, while you were out the building worlds where was I?" Jungkook runs his hands through his scalp; the lack of air squeezing his lungs, knot growing strong in his tummy, lips too dry and ready to crack open.
The dagger he had buried deep inside of his heart, for a very long while, is finally being taken out— he'll be able to breath without difficulty.
"I'm not a character you designed to be kept in a draft notebook for you to use it once you think it's convenient to add it in your storyline. I'm a human, Taehyung." The choking sobs causes his voice to be cut and Taehyung wipes the slop of Jungkook's pain from his eyes; encouraging him to continue.
"A human who's done of listening and never having the opportunity to be heard. I won't beg for footnotes, because I know I deserve to be cherished. I know I deserve more than 50 thousand words about me, because that's what you told me when we met. A perfect tome , remember?" Taehyung's sight falls blurred as Jungkook mentions that nickname.
Of course he remembers, how could a writer forget the most remarkable volume of his entire career?
"You said you would write an impressive universe to give a permanent house to our love and you really did, but I'd say instead of a romance, our genre turned into horror or drama and you know by heart I'm such a scaredy cat to bare with those themes", Jungkook rests his forehead on Taehyung's, "I love you, Tae, so damn much. Although, I need to be my priority and if it means losing the weight of you, of us I gained during our days together, believe me, I'll do it."
Taehyung regrets so badly what he did and the worst part is that he can't even tell why, when or how they faded to ashes.
People say we take for granted the precious stuff of our life until they're gone forever and what used to be a routine becomes a saudade — a cassete we watch to fool our brains and pretend the feeling of emptiness isn't torturing us.
Jungkook hides his face in the other's nape, inhaling as much as he can from that floral wooden scent he got so attached to, "I'm sorry, Jungkook", Taehyung takes a hold of his chin and clashes their lips savoring that wordless scream of help— the man known for mastering in wordplay is speechless .
Jungkook moans softly when a bite on his lower lip is felt, pushing Taehyung on the bed, entangling their legs, rubbing their most sensitive spots on one another, adjusting the rolls of his hips to hit perfectly and give the writer sparks; showing how wholeheartedly he's gonna miss him.
The kiss is sloppy, openmouthed, untidy and sinful , saliva oozing from their mouths to their necks, tongues meeting midair, sucking each other hungrily, dancing in a rhythm that goes from a waltz to a tango frantically; Taehyung guides Jungkook to meet harder his clothed crotch by gripping his buttocks and kneads the meaty part of the younger's ass, earning whimpers from him in response.
The rest of the night goes by their naked bodies and minds connected, no words, no thoughts, no further intentions, just two magnetics biding farewell, saying silent apologies and enjoying their last time as if it's the first— they made love, they fucked and they hurted in the same intensity.
It's 4am when Jungkook untagles himself from the warming chest he was relying on and gets up, shivering as the freezing air hugs his bare body; there's a single thing left he must do before he goes away definitely by the front door.
Jungkook grabs a canvas and everything he might use, placing the easel in front of Taehyung's bed— officially not theirs anymore.
Wine red is used in the background as a souvenir from their beginning , late night drinking Marchesi Antinori, but getting drunk in love, black is picked to darken the painting atmosphere, showing the grayish cloud above them, blue is used to draw his face, expressing the pain fulfilling him.
In no more than 40 minutes, the gift is done; Jungkook stares at it with watery globes, leaving it on the bedside table alongside a small note.
"Goodbye, Tae." Jungkook whispers barely audible, face puffy from the recent crying, gaters his belongings and gets out of the bedroom, of the house, of Taehyung's life.
When Taehyung wakes up the next noon, he sees the painting: a self-portrait of Jungkook, his traces portraying a ton of hurtful emotions as a portal— a portal to the deepest parts of his heart and it's clear he was severely wounded.
Realization, then, shakes him as an electric shock, Jungkook was gone , he made a mistake, he failed his opportunity to write their own bestseller.
Taehyung failed the deal he made with Eros.
He breathes deeply and takes in what's written in the tiny paper stapled behind the art piece with their engagement ring.
"You assumed I was fine, but I broke us and left us in ruins before I myself collapsed completely. I wish you all the best this world can give you. Be happy. Be careful. Live outside of the bubbles you create, there's a beautiful and unforgettable story waiting for you out there. Worship the love you receive while you have it. Speak your love. Express your love. Feel your love. Don't wait until you lose it to realize how precious it was. You'll be loved, you'll find happiness, not by my side, but you'll. Thanks to you I learned a lot, especially about myself and you deserve to love yourself as well. You're a good man, Tae. Please, don't make the same typo again, you're an amazing writer to misspell love two times."
A pause.
Taehyung's hands cover his mouth to hide the loud sob he emits— it's their last chapter, their epilogue.
"Lots of love, from your perfect tome."