Chapter Text

Act 1: 상

“You’re late.”

Yoongi’s accusation resounds in the air the second Jungkook steps into the room, and he frowns, glancing at his watch. 

“I said I’d be here by three-ten. It’s four past three.”

“Our meeting time is three.”

Jungkook blinks. “That’s why I texted and said I’d be late. That’s why I said three-ten.”

Yoongi only sighs, like Jungkook’s the one who’s missing the point. He clicks his tongue exasperatingly, and swings around to sit properly on the piano. “Never mind. Come on.”

Jungkook snorts under his breath as he kicks aside stray boxes and places his belongings next to Yoongi’s. How does Jungkook, given all the moods his hyung oscillates between, still manage to like Yoongi?

Maybe it’s the little things, like how despite his show of irritation, he scooches over on the bench to make room for Jungkook anyway. “What do you want to hear today?” Yoongi taps the folders in front of them, each with a variety of compositions. Some are classics, some are piano covers, while others are just Yoongi’s, melodies scribbled onto staff paper that only Yoongi can decipher. He keeps saying he’ll clean them up one day but Jungkook’s given up, resorting to learning by ear whenever Yoongi played.

Some days, Jungkook will browse through the vast collection, scrounging for something that Min Yoongi can transform, or Min Yoongi finds difficult. But today, Jungkook leans back and lets his eyes close. “Whatever you’d like,” he responds. Although his hyung could manipulate other compositions on the piano like no other person Jungkook’s ever seen, he’s always felt that Yoongi’s best playings were of what he wanted to play in that specific moment. 

Yoongi looks faintly amused, peering at him like he’s debating something. But eventually he leans forward, lets a breath ease through his lips, and plays. 

The first thing Jungkook recognizes is that this isn’t something he’s heard before. He ransacks his brain for possible composers, from the greatest minds of the eighteenth century, to the obscure ones from the late twentieth. But once Yoongi’s a minute in, Jungkook can safely say that this sound doesn’t belong to any of them. With the liberties that are taken with the melodies, without heed to any compositional rule or rhyme, he’s sure this song is entirely Yoongi’s. 

There’s always a sense of unpredictability in Yoongi’s playing, whether the piece is his own or not. No single playing is similar, each riddled with their own moods and quirks, with raised tempos and alternating dynamics. It’s an experience, each listening, and can never fully be described in words. 

Today, both the playing and the song run in minds of their own. The fugue is developed in all different manners, the voices rising in fortissimo and collapsing just as suddenly, before being picked up in a mellow crescendo several bars later. It is unrestrained and fierce, with mordents at the most unexpected parts, dramatic in its own right. It isn’t passion or anger, or an emotion Jungkook can describe, but just as vibrant and powerful. It’s a memory never experienced, both fresh and nostalgic and evocative all at once. 

Yoongi liked to tell him, sometimes, that musicians were monsters and music was the only way they knew to speak, to scream. That statement had troubled Jungkook then, yet today he understands the sentiment. But what are you trying to scream, hyung? Jungkook catches himself brooding desperately, mesmerized by the way Yoongi’s fingers sink into the keys. 

“What was it?” He demands as soon as Yoongi finishes, wide-eyed and bristling. “What was that?” He’s always been able to pinpoint the root of Yoongi’s songs but this one has him overflowing with curiosity. 

“What do you think?”

“I don’t- I don’t know,” Jungkook confesses, voice a little strained as he struggles to capture the words. “It was beautiful, but almost… haunted. In pain, but in relief.”

Yoongi’s fingers brush over the keys without hitting any. “It was the end of the world.”

“What?”

He hears a hum as Yoongi bends forward, already scavenging for his next song. “The end of the world. Haunting but beautiful.”

“That’s…” Jungkook furrows his brows. “It didn’t sound very…”

“Complete?” Jungkook nods, and Yoongi relaxes his shoulders, leaning back. “That’s because it isn’t. It’s unfinished, because that’s how the end of the world would be too.” 

“Why… why would the end of the world be unfinished?”

Yoongi only tilts his head, peering at Jungkook curiously. Then, he smiles. “That’s for you to figure out.”

“That’s scary.”

“I suppose,” Yoongi shrugs, and then pauses before his next piece. “Let’s say the world were to end tomorrow.”

Jungkook blanches. “Why would you say that, hyung?”

“Hypothetically.”

“...hypothetically.”

“Alright. Let’s say that hypothetically, the world were to end tomorrow.” Yoongi’s gaze is unnerving, searching but soft. “Would you be able to die with no regrets?”

Jungkook scoffs, and then fingers through the folders to select another song, ignoring Yoongi’s selection entirely. “I think you already know the answer to that, hyung.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“Is there anyone who has no regrets when they die?”

Yoongi lifts a thoughtful shoulder, lips pursed. “I’d like to think there are few people in the world privileged enough to do so.”

“Lucky bastards.”

Yoongi snorts, a sharp and melodic laugh. “Lucky bastards, indeed.” He raises his brows. “You never answered the question.”

Jungkook slouches, and the piece between his fingers slips away, the pages floating all the way across the room. He sighs before standing to pick them up. “No, hyung, of course- of course the answer is that I couldn’t.”

“What are you keeping bottled inside?” Jungkook freezes, fingers clenching around the sheet of paper. He hoped his hyung would’ve had the decency not to ask, even if Jungkook would never answer the question. 

“Lots of things,” Jungkook answers vaguely, still turned away so he can’t see the expression on Yoongi’s face. Apologizing for all the times Junghyun took the blame for me, and wishing I’d listened to eomma and taken piano lessons when she’d offered. He swallows and walks back. Wishing I had the guts to hit the other kids back in middle school, and studying harder because I’d been too lazy the time of. 

He stares right back at Yoongi, whose piercing gaze always seems to decipher everything Jungkook’s thinking. So Jungkook dares him to. 

Telling you, hyung, that I’m terribly in love with you. 

He’ll never say that, though.

“For a lot of them,” he keeps his eyes trained on Yoongi’s, unwilling to break the contact, because this is the closest he’ll ever come to confessing. Pathetic. “It’s too late.”

At that, Yoongi frowns. “It’s never too late for anything.”

Sometimes, Jungkook swears that Yoongi knows but it just hangs in the air between the both of them, the elephant in the room. It exists like breathing in air, unconscious and never acknowledged, a thankless task. “That can’t be true.”

“In some cases, probably.” Yoongi reaches out and takes the sheets from Jungkook, arranging them on the rack. “But in more situations than we’d expect, it may be late for one person, but not the other. That opportunity should not be wasted.” And he doesn’t let Jungkook follow that up with any remark, just begins to play like he’d said nothing provoking at all. 

What’s that supposed to mean? Jungkook wants to ask, but, like most things regarding Yoongi, he keeps it trapped down his throat and swallows it back to his chest. 

When Yoongi finishes the piece, Jungkook hovers over a key. “If hypothetically the world were to end tomorrow, what would you do differently, hyung?” 

Yoongi blinks. “That’s… vague.”

“I’d start by not going to school,” Jungkook chuckles to himself, but it sounds mildly choked. “Eat a big, big breakfast with my family that my mom made. I’d like to host a small pity party for myself, go to the store and buy confetti, and make some good chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. Just eat it out at the apartment playground.”

A fraction of a smile teases Yoongi’s lips. “You think you’re capable of baking?”

“Well, on a day like that, I would certainly try!” Jungkook responds indignantly. 

Yoongi snorts, shuffling his notes into a single stack. “You’re so sentimental.”

“Then I think I’d find all my favorite stuff. My camera, the plushie my brother won me from the claw machine, the first album I bought with my own money, the glass painting from Mapo. Other stuff too, probably; I’d have to go look for them.”

“And?”

“I’d burn it all.”

His hyung freezes. “That’s… why?”

Jungkook shrugs. “To get some sort of independence. Autonomy, I guess. I want to decide how my favorite things get taken away from me. Not mother nature.”

“You…” Yoongi looks mildly amused and… alarmed, biting back a smile.  

“What would you do, hyung?”

Yoongi leans back, palms pressing into the back of the bench and he stares off into the ceiling. “I’d wake up late and brush my teeth. Drink some orange juice right after to see if it’s really such a weird feeling as they say.” Jungkook snickers. “Maybe I’d go to your pity party as the only guest and steal some cake. I’d never refuse free cake. Then I’d drag you with me to the beach.”

“Why the beach?”

“Because the ocean is scary,” shrugs Yoongi. He holds a finger over middle C and it echoes into the room. “But how scary could the ocean possibly be when you’re aware of your impending death?” 

“That’s morbid.”

“I’d tell the ocean to go fuck itself and then drive back to the music room.” He gestures around them, to the dusty, pale blue room that’s been their special hideout for so long. “And I’d let you play by my side, just once.”

“And then?”

“We’d go our separate ways to make sure we wouldn’t have any regrets.”

“I wouldn’t mind spending my last moments with you,” Jungkook says, but it comes out as: “What would you do, hyung?”

“I’d tell my parents some things, tell my brother I’d miss him. I’d go to the store and buy the halmeoni down the road a couple of daffodils for the ones the little kids keep knocking over. She’s always so proud of those daffodils.” There is a ghost of a smile on Yoongi’s face; Jungkook forgets how to breathe.

I’m in love with you. 

The words make him feel a million different things. 

The way Yoongi looks at Jimin makes him feel a million more.

“And I’d tell Jimin I love him.” 

.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t know about it. 

At one point, he didn’t and it was fine, all rainbows and sparkles clouding his vision. He’d take the little moments by Yoongi’s side and cherish them, letting the fantasies in his head stay fantasies in his head. And then he’d found out, but it was still fine. Nothing changed. It wasn’t as though Jungkook ever planned on acting on those feelings, ever expected something in return, so why did it matter who Yoongi liked? It wasn’t as though Jungkook could do anything about it, so he’d gathered up his feelings, held them close, and just coped. 

Redamancy was overrated and unconditional love, although always painted pitiful, is still the greatest thing you can offer a person. It is also the most terrifying thing you can pledge yourself to but that… is not for this story.

In any case, Jungkook already knows the truth. So he smiles wearily, because it was still fine. He thinks Yoongi notices, because Yoongi is like his mother, will always find the truth where it doesn’t exist. But Yoongi doesn’t say anything. 

Secretly, selfishly, he’s tempted to say: well, at least the world isn’t ending tomorrow. 

At least it isn’t. 

It isn’t, so you’ll never have to tell Jimin. 

“That’s nice,” Jungkook says pathetically, because that’s all he amounts to these days. Pathetic. He hopes he answered quick enough, and kept the rancor out of his voice. “I hope you’ll get to do those things regardless.” Except the last one. 

Yoongi laughs, and Jungkook feels the tension oozing out of himself. It’s unfair of him to think like that, really. Horribly childish. 

Yoongi cuts through his thoughts. “What do you want to play?”

“Me?” Jungkook gapes at the offer. He doesn’t usually get this opportunity, and for good reason, too. “Hyung, you know my abilities are subpar at best.”

“That wasn’t the question,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, tugging Jungkook by the elbow as he unsubtly tries to scoot away. “It was what you wanted to play, not whether you’re good at playing.”

His entire mind goes blank and conveniently, Jungkook can’t think of a single song at the moment. “Um.” He manages eloquently, grazing over Yoongi’s folders for a burst of inspiration. “Your end of the world song,” he finally blurts, then winces at the selection. It wasn’t as though he disliked the song but… it was disquieting. 

“Really.” The question sounds like a statement, and Yoongi has a brow arched, skeptical. 

No backing out now. “Really.”

Silence. Then, “Okay.”

And that is how the rest of the evening flies, with Jungkook learning a piece he’s terrified of and letting Yoongi hammer the melody into his amateur fingers. Yoongi is patient like always, kind as he points out Jungkook’s incorrect fingering and notes. He can be snappy and curt but beneath it all is consideration, both to teach and to stay. It is difficult, learning a piece by ear and memory since Yoongi doesn’t have it written, but Jungkook’s never had the skill to sight read. So he lets the music wash over them like the ocean Yoongi is scared of, and hopes he’ll be able to scream all that Yoongi wishes to say in his own rendition.

The sun has not yet set when they finish, even though it nears seven. As they gather their belongings, Jungkook’s surprised to see that his muted phone has silenced countless notifications. From his mother, his brother, his father. There are news notifications, emergency alerts with flashing signs. Something in his gut clenches, and Jungkook takes a peek outside. What he finds has him frozen. 

“Ready to go?” Yoongi calls but Jungkook can’t hear him. His eyes are glued on the ocean sky that envelopes the outside. “Jungkook?”

“Hyung.” That’s all he can produce, but Yoongi seems to get the hint enough. He walks over, about to question again, when he sees for himself. 

The sky is blue, yes, but the sky is also green. The sky is unnatural, and there is no sign of evening gold or orange, no creamy pinks or purples, only a vivid, undeniable aquamarine that is as blinding as the gem. 

Jungkook doesn’t wait when he pushes open the door and hastens down the hallway towards the exits. He can hear Yoongi shouting after him, his voice somewhere underwater and muffled, telling him to wait, but he can’t, he can’t, he has to see this for himself, see whether it’s—

Oh. 

On a typical evening, the sun sets. The sun sets and the sky fades from blue to yellow to orange, with rays of golden light sneaking in through closed blinds. The sun creeps away, and night falls to navy skies littered with endless stars and a single moon. 

Right now, the sun is gone. The sun has long gone and set, if Jungkook’s making sense of whatever’s unfolding in front of him, but the sky is still blue like never seen before. It is rich with color, a spark here and there, with teal bursting at the seams. It is like the ocean and the forest threw up into the sky, and is a sickening combination of disturbing and peaceful to look at.

Hysterically, the only thing Jungkook can think of is Yoongi’s song. 

Behind him, the door finally opens and Yoongi comes to stand by him, panting. He looks like he’s about to say something, but all words on his tongue dissipate as his gaze turns up, and they both stare at the sky for a prolonged moment. 

Jungkook blinks, then laughs. Laughs for a good, long minute before Yoongi harshly shakes his shoulders, fingers digging into muscle in an effort to snap him out of the daze. He guides Jungkook aside, towards the school courtyard and seats him onto a bench. He doesn’t settle down next to Jungkook, just turns away and continues to stare at the blooming, churning firmament that’s transpired over them. 

“So this is how the world ends.” 

Jungkook snorts, surprised he isn’t choking on his words yet. “Is that what we’re calling this?”

“That’s what everyone’s calling this,” Yoongi responds solemnly, and then lifts the phone in his hand. “I assume I’m not the only one being bombarded with messages.”

Jungkook freezes, then reaches into his pocket but doesn’t turn on his phone. He doesn’t… want to look at that right now. That would make this all too real. “This is…” 

This is absurd. 

This can’t be real. 

This only happens in the movies. In books. In fiction. This is too ironic, not after they just played that song. This… 

It’s so stupid. He cradles his temple, elbows resting on his knees, and stares at the ground, wishing he could stop the heartbeat rumbling in his ears. So stupid. More stupid than the way Jungkook’s heart trembles at every endearing thing Yoongi does. His fingers shake and he squeezes them into fists, tight enough to feel the nails puncture his palms. Then, very slowly, when he feels like the thundering in his head has mellowed out, he allows himself to gaze up at the sky once more. It’s… 

Devastatingly beautiful. 

The sob comes before he even has the time to disguise it, and once it’s out, Jungkook supposes there’s no point in hiding his feelings anymore. The tears stream down his face, no matter how many times he tries to convince himself they’re unnecessary. Why are you crying, Jeon Jungkook? Why? The view in front of him—a mint-haired Yoongi with his hands shoved deep in pockets, glowing in an aquamarine halo, standing in front of an ocean-bursting sky—is nothing short of breathtaking. So why, why does it hurt so much to keep his eyes trained on this sight?

Yoongi steps closer, but makes no move to shake Jungkook out of it. Instead, he places a cautious hand on the back of Jungkook’s neck and pulls the younger’s face to his body. 

“I could lie and say it’s okay,” begins Yoongi hesitantly, “but I doubt that’s true for any of us, isn’t it?” It’s rhetorical, at least Jungkook hopes it is, since he knows nothing’s leaving his mouth except a sob. “But at the very least, it’s okay for you to let it all out. The sooner…” he pauses, but still pats Jungkook. “The sooner we accept this, the better it’ll be for us.”

Jungkook pulls away raging, gaze hard. “How am I supposed to accept this?” How can you ask me to accept my death? Our deaths?

“I never said you had to,” Yoongi says quietly, tugging Jungkook back into his embrace. He is warm, like home. Home. “It would just make things easier.”

Jungkook’s heart explodes. Min Yoongi, how can you always be so—

Say it.

Say it. 

He doesn’t. 

“I don’t want to accept this,” Jungkook’s cries are stifled into Yoongi’s jacket. He will leave tear stains all over it, he knows. “I don’t- it’s unfair. This is too unfair.”

“Yeah, it is,” concurs Yoongi, fingers sliding up through Jungkook’s hair. “What with how ironic it is, too.”

Mockery, it seems. That’s what their entire evening with the piano was. A slap in the face by the universe. A sign, an omen. It’s only fitting to laugh, Jungkook thinks desperately, yet at times like this, I can only cry. 

“Let’s go home, Jungkook.” Yoongi finally says and Jungkook pulls away, his discomfiture settling in far too late. “We have people waiting for us. And…” He falters, but offers a lackluster smile anyway. “We have a long day tomorrow, don’t we?”

It takes a second for the words to parse, and then it all comes crashing. He’d said chocolate cake. A pity party. His camera. The plushie. Ha.

But Jungkook nods, head hanging low, sky brilliant as ever. 

.

The buses aren’t running anymore. 

By the time he and Yoongi make it to their neighborhood, the sun has— no, it hasn’t set. And it’s not a real sun. It’s an imposter, one that gives the same light but is falling towards the planet at an alarmingly fast rate. The streets are still well-lit in blazing cerulean, and Jungkook hates the feeling entirely. He’d call it eerie if it were any other color, but it’s still aquamarine blue and it’s undeniably beautiful. He sighs to himself as he trudges up the stairs. Even an hour later, seeing it in all its grandeur, it’s too soon to sink in.

His father is the one who opens the door, wide-eyed before sinking into relief. He throws his arms around Jungkook who stands there limply for a second too long before he returns it, the back of his eyes already burning again. 

“Are you okay?” He asks quietly, and Jungkook merely shakes his head, his face pressed into his father’s shoulder. He’d been proud of his recent growth spurt, but now he feels so inexplicably small again. 

“No,” he murmurs, “but Yoongi hyung was with me.”

“That’s good,” his father says, pulling away. There is no watery smile on his lips, no reassuring words, no giving it easy. His boys are too old now to hold back, and a part of Jungkook wishes he was a bit younger with no knowledge of the world. He wants things a bit easy now, to be fooled with tales of magic and sparkles, but it’s not an option. 

His mother comes rushing next, flinging her arms around her boy far tighter than his father had. Unlike his father, she doesn’t say anything. Jungkook’s always thought Yoongi was a bit like her, because she knows the things he does not say. 

“What about hyung?” He asks when he steps away, searching for any sign of his brother. 

“He…” His mother hesitates, lips pursed. “He won’t be coming home tonight.”

His eyes widen. “But today—”

“No ‘buts’, Jungkook,” she says firmly, guiding him over to the dining table. “That is what he chose. I will not stop him, not after a day like today. He told me he’d be back tomorrow morning, and we shall see him then.” 

His mother is too generous. That’s what Jungkook’s always thought. Generous with her kindness, her wisdom, her words. But if she chooses to be lenient with Junghyun, Jungkook’s sure it’s for good reason. He nods, and then takes a seat where dinner’s been served. 

Jungkook’s never had a meal so fulfilling before, and he makes sure to tell his mother that as he snarfs down handmade dumplings. She smiles. “What were you up to today?”

“Same old,” he shrugs, mildly troubled by how normal the conversation began. “I was with Yoongi hyung when…” He still can’t bring himself to say it, and just swallows his food instead. “We were playing piano. He taught me a new piece.”

“Oh yeah? What was the song?”

“An original,” Jungkook says curtly, eyes trained on his rice. 

“You’ll have to play it for me some time.”

“Eomma, I don’t even know—” He cuts himself off. “Nevermind. I’ll play it tomorrow, then, once I come home.”

“Going somewhere?” Her eyes twinkle. “Hopefully not school.”

“No, definitely not school,” Jungkook admits, laughing, and hears his father snicker. “Just some things I need to do. I’ll be home by… evening.” His curfew had always been sunset. 

“Alright.” His mother relents, much too easily than she’s ever done before. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

“I just have one request,” he blurts as the thought rises to the front of his mind. Jungkook curls his toes, and feels the back of his neck growing warm. “Would you- would you be able to make a big breakfast tomorrow morning? I want… galbitang.”

There’s that feeling again, like he’s five and tiny and peering up at his parents with round doe eyes. Before he knew the world was originally black and white. Before he knew that a special group of people paint it in color for the rest. 

“Of course,” his mother obliges, and she’s looking at him with warm eyes, a stern face, the same one his father gave him earlier. Jungkook shivers. 

After dinner, he sneaks over to the balcony where his father stands, arms crossed behind his back and gazing wistfully at a sky burning bright without a sun. It looks just, if not more magnificent than the sun, but Jungkook can’t miss the way no heat tinges his skin. However beautiful it is, there is no warmth. 

“Interesting, isn’t it?” His father comments quietly, and Jungkook shudders as a breeze passes by them. “I never thought a day like this would come in my life.”

“Me neither,” echoes Jungkook, and it is only then his father turns to him, lips curled downwards and eyes heavy, sad. 

“How are you taking it? Truly?”

“Truly? Truly, it’s terrifying,” Jungkook manages through his hysteria. “I still don’t think it’s hit me that this is all real. That it’s not some elaborate joke. I’m scared it won’t register until it’s actually happened, when it’s too late.”

“I wish I could tell you something,” his father confesses. “Something to make it a little easier. But this is an experience where age won’t make a difference. I don’t… I guess, the truth is that we’re all a bit terrified.”

And oh. He’s been reading this wrong all along. Jungkook thinks back to the grim faces on his parents’ faces when he walked in, and the bitter feeling brewing in his stomach when they made no move to offer comfort. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that they might not know how. 

“That’s… sorry,” he whispers, clasping his hands tightly in front of him. “I didn’t think- I just assumed since you’re older…”

“People can be older and none the wiser.” But he has a ruminant expression on his face. “Not your mother, though.”

Jungkook grins. That intrigues him. “Eomma? Why not? Just because she’s got a couple years on you?”

“Your mother is the bravest person I know,” his father says slowly, and Jungkook’s smile fades at the gravity in his tone. “I doubt I will meet anyone that compares to her, in more ways than one.”

He meets Jungkook’s eyes, a faint smile on his lips. His voice is hushed. “I don’t come close to her in the slightest, but let me tell you this.” He places a gentle hand on Jungkook’s shoulder, but the grip feels heavy, painful. Jungkook’s throat is thick. “If there’s ever a situation where you shouldn’t think about, and can be as rash and reckless as you wish, it is this. You don’t have the time to wait, the time to think. This is what it is, and this is what it’s come to. The sooner you accept that, the more pleasant our final days will be.”

He knows his father has good intentions, yet it doesn’t stop the tears from falling. Jungkook rubs his eyes furiously as they burn without end and his father observes, his hand holding Jungkook’s shoulder and doing nothing more. 

He goes to sleep immediately after, earlier than he’s ever crawled into bed before. It’s sort of difficult, when the sky is still glittering with light and night never falls at all. Jungkook spends thirty minutes pasting newspaper sheets and construction paper against windows so the rays don't sneak through. It’s funny how much he misses the darkness. 

He doesn’t dare search for any of his most prized possessions, even though they’re strewn in shelves and cupboards and drawers around him. Not because it’s a task saved for tomorrow, but because he’s not sure he’ll be able to go through with his plans once he sees them. 

He slips on the headphones of iPod and it’s laughable, how the first thing to play is Nocturne in E Flat. The universe was surely laughing at him, without a doubt. But he lets it play and snuggles into the covers, hoping it could offer him the night that no longer existed. 

He thinks of the day he has ahead of him, of pity parties and oceans and original songs that make him want to cry. 

He thinks of the small vanilla birthday cake that’s in the fridge, and prays his brother gets home safely. 

.

Jungkook’s always been an inconsistent sleeper, but it’s quite safe to say his sleep schedule is in total ruins when he wakes up at four in the morning. Well. Time was always just a social construct. 

Curiosity urges him to peek through his makeshift blackout blinds, just to confirm whether the previous day had really occurred and wasn’t some far-fetched, hyper-realistic dream. When Jungkook looks, he’s nearly blinded by the sight, and blinks furiously to relieve his eyes, shocked by the intensity. So it really did happen, huh? he finds himself thinking bitterly, desperately. It’s still disconcerting but Jungkook supposes he’s got to accept it now, just like Yoongi said. Trying to deny this sort of reality would only hurt himself more than he already had. 

The rest of the household is asleep, and when Jungkook carefully peeks in his brother’s room, he’s disappointed to see the sheets tucked in, pillows fluffed, unused. He tries not to overthink it. 

It’s only after he dresses himself up, makes his way down the stairs and towards the grocery store does it register what a truly idiotic idea this is. There’s no guarantee he’ll find the ingredients he’s scrounging for, let alone mix them together to make something edible. There’s also the fact that the grocery store might not even be open; after all, who’d want to work a shift after the… news?

But the store is open, much to Jungkook’s enormous shock. He stands there, just past the opened doors for a good several minutes, peeking at the half-asleep cashier at the only open register. Jungkook swallows. Here goes nothing.

He’s been to this store several times with his mother over the years, holding her hand as she skillfully navigated through the aisles to pick up what she wanted. Jungkook has planned this out nowhere near as well as she ever did and stumbles through the rows, glimpsing at the section labels more often than he should while following a recipe he’d pulled from the internet

After thirty minutes of running into absolutely no one, Jungkook dumps his basket onto the conveyor belt. The cashier blinks out of his daze, gives Jungkook a long, scrutinizing look before scanning the items. He is pretty, not Yoongi-pretty but supermodel-pretty, a face that could be working somewhere calibers above. It dawns on Jungkook that he could be anywhere else, because what are jobs and money and laws when the sky is a kaleidoscope for another day before it explodes? 

“You baking something?” The man asks, snapping Jungkook out of his thoughts.

“Oh, yeah. Chocolate cake.” He scratches the back of his neck. “At least, that’s what I’m aiming for.”

A smile teases the corner of the cashier’s lips. “First time?”

“First and last,” Jungkook nods, surprised by his resigned tone. Has it really come to this? Was he seriously going through with this?

The man inclines, understanding. “Well, it’s not too difficult. I’m sure you’ll be fine.” 

When Jungkook hands over his money, the cashier appears confused. But when Jungkook shows no sign of relenting, he takes the bills and hands him his change back. 

It still bothers Jungkook. “Why are you here?” He blurts before he can help himself. 

Unfazed, the young man answers without even looking. “Because I want to.” 

“Why do you want to?”

The cashier thrusts the bag into Jungkook’s chest with a little too much intensity but there’s not an ounce of aggression in his eyes. “Because there’s no other place I have to be right now.” 

But how can that be true? Jungkook wants to ask, but stops himself before he does, heart caught in his throat. Perhaps… perhaps not everyone was blessed with a home to return to like he was. 

Jungkook fumbles with his belongings, dumping his loose change into the plastic bag. He searches for a name tag on the man’s vest and it reads Kim Namjoon in plain black lettering. “Then would you like to come and bake my cake with me, Namjoon-ssi?”

The young man blinks. 

There’s a terrible stretch of silence. A tube light flickers but Jungkook maintains his stare, feet curling inside his shoes. He’s mildly prepared for a flat out refusal but Namjoon’s lips twitch. “Why are you making a cake for yourself?” 

“I’m hosting a pity party.” Jungkook can’t understand for the life of him where the shameless steadiness in his voice comes from. “It’s… on a bucket list of sorts. I’m not great at baking and you seem to be experienced…”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow. “Are you inviting a random stranger to bake a cake with you?”

When Jungkook smiles at him, thin and waned, he feels like he’s gained several years. “Are we really in a position to be worrying about strangers?”

The man freezes, fingers hovering over a piece of gum. He raises his eyes to meet Jungkook’s unwavering gaze. “Are you sure about this?”

“Not really,” Jungkook confesses, because he’s seriously inviting a person he’s never seen in his life before to his house. “You could be a burglar or a murderer or something”—Namjoon snorts—”but I just- I don’t think we have much to lose here.”  

There’s another long moment of consideration, but then his stranger smiles. It’s a bit of longing and a bit of pity, but it’s genuine nevertheless. “Alright,” Namjoon agrees softly. “If it’s okay with you.”

As it so stands, Jungkook overestimates himself. It’s easy inviting a random person over to bake a cake with you, but it’s hard keeping them entertained. For the first few minutes of their walk home, it is helplessly silent and Jungkook struggles to pick up conversation again. But Jungkook’s awkward blubbering seems to have taken to Namjoon warmly, and by the time they’ve made it to their flat, Namjoon’s ruffling his hair and Jungkook’s calling him hyung.

If only he knew it were this easy to make friends before. 

Or maybe it’s because they’re in this sort of situation that it’s easy to make friends. 

Maybe Jungkook’s just doomed forever to be lonely. 

When they get to the apartment, Jungkook notices two things: his parents are still asleep and his brother has still not returned. His parents seemed to have taken one from Jungkook’s book because the balcony doors have the curtains tucked tight to block out the light. 

Quietly, the two of them head to the kitchen and begin their work. Jungkook is very quickly told that his knowledge of baking is abysmal. It’s bad enough that he doesn’t know where the flour is, but Namjoon is wide-eyed with disbelief when Jungkook says he’s not sure whether they own an oven or not. 

Eventually, after wasting nearly a half hour, Jungkook manages to procure everything they need and they finally get started. It takes them another hour to just mix the ingredients, because obviously Jungkook doesn’t have a hand mixer.

Jungkook hears footsteps at six in the morning when they’re sliding in two cake pans into the convection oven. He pauses mid-giggle to see his mother, leaning against the doorway and smiling at the flour dusting him and Namjoon’s face. 

“Who’s this? A friend?” His mother asks, a twinkle in her eye. She doesn’t look confused or upset, as most people would be in this sort of situation, but oddly entertained. 

Jungkook glances at Namjoon. “A friend made today still counts as a friend, right?”

“That’s up to you,” she smiles, then nods in response to Namjoon’s deep bow. “Baking something?”

“Chocolate cake.”

She inclines approvingly. “Tell me once you’re done and cleaned up, and I’ll start on breakfast.”

Once his mother leaves, Namjoon mutters sotto voce, “Your mother seems… too used to this kind of situation.” He peers inquisitively at Jungkook. “Do you bring home strangers a lot?”

“Of course not!” Jungkook hisses back, shrill. “But my mother has been handling this entire thing way differently than I expected. She’s… I don’t know.” He changes the topic because in all honesty, he can’t answer Namjoon’s tacit question. “Anyway, stay for breakfast. Eomma makes really good galbitang.”

The words are teasing the edge of an order, a plea. Jungkook is pleasantly surprised by the response. “Only if she lets me help her.” 

Their cake is to sit in the oven for twenty minutes so they retreat to the living room, where his mother is curled onto the sitting chair, a book in her lap. She’s directed it towards the balcony windows whose blinds have been opened. The colors are different this time around, dancing around an emerald tone as the sun peeks toward the horizon, few rays of its typical orange and gold to be seen. 

“You know,” Namjoon says quietly, “I always imagined the sky to be burning red on a day like this.”

“Me too,” his mother agrees, finally glancing up from her book. He’s never seen his mother read before, not that it was a bad thing. The light catches her perfectly, and her brown eyes seem to glow amber. “But instead it just looks pretty. Like we’re silly for being scared.”

And that’s… that’s too accurate to what Jungkook’s been feeling that he actually flinches. It’s funny how mere appearance can alter a person’s entire viewpoint of a situation. 

“Let’s go work on the frosting,” he mumbles to Namjoon and hurries to the kitchen before anyone can say anything else. 

Namjoon has worked wonders with the cake, adding in his own secret ingredients that he promised would give them the best result, and he applies the same expertise towards the buttercream. He’s the one who reminds Jungkook that no, you can’t soften butter in the microwave like you did for the cake, and that a little bit of vanilla extract and espresso powder will give it more depth. Jungkook knows better than to question his orders and complies happily to all of them. When they’re done putting together the frosting, Namjoon leans back on the counter, and crosses his arms. “Okay, so what’s your deal, really?”

“Huh?”

“What’s your deal?” Namjoon repeats, gesturing too broadly at the entire kitchen. “Talking to a guy that could be totally strange, paying for your groceries at a time like this, inviting me to bake a chocolate cake, looking both depressed and oddly composed while the sky is breaking apart? What’s with you? What’s”—he gesticulates again, this time specifically at Jungkook—”got you all riled up?”

Riled up. Well, that’s one way of putting it. Jungkook chuckles ungracefully, and pauses his wiping the countertop with the dishrag. “Would you believe that yesterday, just hours before I found out, I was sitting with a friend who was teaching me a song on piano that he called ‘the end of the world’?” Namjoon's snicker segues into blank incredulity. He rubbernecks when he realizes Jungkook is entirely staid. “We were talking about what we’d do if the world would end, and regrets, and playing a song, and as soon as we finished, we found out about… this.”

“That doesn’t even sound real.”

“It’s a lot to process, when you’re the victim of a sick coincidence like that,” Jungkook says shakily, turning his attention towards the cakes in the oven. “It’s mostly because of that whole thing that I feel so weird about this. I don’t even know how my hyung, the one who wrote the piece, is taking this.” He lifts a shoulder. “But my father told me that this isn’t the time to wallow over things like this. There is no time, period. So I’m going to try and fulfill the list me and my hyung made yesterday, because at least I have something to do. You weren’t really included in my plans, but the more the merrier, right?” He tries to angle something more uplifting, but it just feels hollow. 

“That’s… certainly a strange experience,” Namjoon says after an extended silence. “But it’s cool, what you’re doing. It’s a bucket list of sorts, isn’t it? I never even thought about something like that.”

“To be honest, neither did we,” Jungkook laughs. “But it is what it is.”

“It all still sounds surreal,” Namjoon sounds a bit tense, frenzy. “Not just your freaky coincidence, but just this entire thing. I feel like it’s a bit impossible to accept this situation in full.”

“You’re not the only one,” Jungkook chuckles, voice shaking. He wonders if it sounds a bit like hysteria, because it very well could be. “I feel like I’m just running in circles. Can you believe that we’re going to die in another twenty four hours? Millions of species, millennia worth of civilization, destroyed by some stupid rock?”

“The dinosaurs did go out like that,” Namjoon supplies unhelpfully, and Jungkook laughs against his will. 

“It’s far too late for any existential crisis,” he admits, running his free hand through his hair, “but it’s a bit frustrating; what was the whole point of this planet, of being here, if we were all just meant to die?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that question.”

“No, I don’t suppose anyone could.” Jungkook’s mouth twists. “Tell me this, then. Why did you decide to work at a grocery store on a day like today?”

“The truth is, I just didn’t know what to do.” He sounds wistful. “When I got there, though, I got a bit curious. It became a question ‘Would anyone actually come?’”

“Did they?”

“You’d be surprised,” confesses Namjoon, looking a bit lost, in disbelief. “People staggered in at all different times. It was partially the reason I wasn’t so surprised to see you. I was only a bit thrown off because you were baking a cake.”

“I bet that was a bit strange, wasn’t it?”

But Namjoon doesn’t laugh the way he expects him to. He tilts his head, a little absorbed. “Probably not for the reasons you’re thinking of.” Jungkook would push more, but the oven just so conveniently dings then and the conversation halts.

Namjoon sticks a toothpick in and it comes out dry, which is what’s supposed to happen so that’s a good sign. Jungkook lets Namjoon do the difficult stuff of getting the trays out of the heat. “When can we frost it?” Jungkook asks earnestly, leering greedily between the chocolate frosting and the freshly made cake. He reaches out to poke the tin and Namjoon slaps his hand away. 

“Not yet,” he instructs, “we have to wait for the cake to cool completely or the frosting will slide right off.”

“Right. I knew that.”

“We could make simple syrup while we wait.”

“Simple what?”

Ten minutes later, Jungkook’s sitting with a bowl of sugar syrup that Namjoon says is for the cakes. He stares, wide-eyed, amazed that there was such a detailed process behind baking and wondering what the hell he would’ve done if he hadn’t met Namjoon. 

Jungkook lets his mother know the kitchen is free when they begin assembling. She peers curiously, amused, as Namjoon teaches Jungkook how to slice off the domed ends and instructs him to gently pour their syrup over the cakes, because they don’t have a pastry brush. 

Their finished product is rusty, with frosting smeared unevenly since they don’t have the right spatula and scrapers for it, but Namjoon says it looks good regardless. He nods approvingly. “As good as a professional,” he comments and Jungkook glows. 

As soon as they’re finished though, Namjoon heads right back into the kitchen and offers up his services to Jungkook’s mother. She’s clearly surprised but agrees nonetheless and Jungkook watches with unconcealed shock as Namjoon expertly dices radish and onion and garlic up in record time. His mother voices his queries. “Are you some sort of cooking geek, Namjoon?” His mother teases gently. “Your skills are that of a professional.”

But Namjoon only smiles enigmatically, ducking his head. “Something like that.”

Since Jungkook had requested an especially big breakfast, his mother goes all out with the banchan. She and Namjoon work together to put together stir-fried and steamed vegetables, rolled omelettes, fishcakes, and the whole works. All the while, Jungkook just watches from the dining table, entranced by the efficiency. Cooking was certainly an art. 

Jungkook plays piano, just for a little bit, while the smell of homemade food wafts throughout the rest of the room. He tries starting Yoongi’s song but it just doesn’t come out. He knows it, at least the most of it, but his fingers refuse to move past the first few measures and he rewinds to something simpler instead. 

His father wakes at around eight. Jungkook sees him take a peek into Junghyun’s bedroom, and doesn’t miss the flash of disappointment across his father’s face. Jungkook hates it. He’ll definitely give his brother a piece of his mind when he comes home, for worrying their parents like that. 

“Smells good,” his father sniffs appreciatively as Jungkook gives up with the keys. When he peeks at the kitchen, he blinks. “Who’s that?”

“Um. A friend I made this morning. He’s been a great help with my chocolate cake.”

“Chocolate cake.”

“Yes.”

His father blinks again, but a smile peeks through his confusion. “Alright then. Let’s go set the table for five.”

Jungkook’s in the middle of moving dishes over to the dining table when the doorbell rings. His father, just like yesterday, is the first to meet it. Junghyun stands there, eyes cast down, clutching his backpack and mud-sodden shoes. He glances up when he’s met with silence. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Thank you for coming,” his father says instead, and Junghyun stares, stunned before he walks inside. He must be surprised by the warm atmosphere in the house because he gawks, looking at the setup and the people. 

“You should get changed,” his mother says with a bright smile. “Wash up a little, and then come eat.”

“Alright,” his brother agrees, still appearing a bit dazed, and stalks into his room. 

Namjoon seems a bit lost at the strange tension that’s drifted across the room. “Is that…” 

“My brother,” Jungkook explains quietly, staring at his feet. “He didn’t come home yesterday. Yesterday was his twentieth birthday.”

“Oh.” There’s not much to say about it, really, other than the fact that it was sad. He turned twenty yesterday. He was excited about it. He’d gotten into a good university and celebrated a happy graduation and was prepared to party with his friends. He had so much to look forward to. On the other hand, there’s Jungkook, with a whole life in front of him, but absolutely nothing propelling him forward at all. 

Except maybe now there was a bucket list. 

All thanks to Yoongi. 

Jungkook expected their breakfast to be eaten in silence but Namjoon doesn’t seem keen on letting that happen. While Jungkook and his brother awkwardly shovel in the best meal of their entire lives, their parents and Namjoon chatter amicably. He must be a people person, Jungkook decides, surprised he hadn’t noticed sooner. But it’s still a bit strange how such a charismatic person had nowhere else to be. 

“Who is he?” Junghyun whispers to him as Jungkook indulges himself into a second helping of stew. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“I met him at the grocery store this morning,” Jungkook says, biting into a piece of kimchi. He looked lonely, Jungkook wants to say, but would that be hypocritical? I only called him over because I was lonely. “So I invited him to bake a cake with me.”

His brother considers him, wrinkling his nose. “Why were you baking a cake?”

“Because I wanted to.” Jungkook replies nonchalantly. “What about you? Why didn’t you come home last night?”

He’d expected his brother to throw his own retort back at him but Junghyun doesn’t respond. Jungkook knows he’s effectively pushed him into a corner, but he doesn’t want to press it. That’s mean of him, even if he hated the look on his father’s face from earlier.

There’s a faintly bitter air between him and his brother but otherwise, Jungkook’s never felt so joyous at the dinner table. Maybe it’s Namjoon and his inviting countenance. Maybe it’s his mother, who’s smiling face never once dwindles and never seems disingenuous. Or maybe it’s just all of them, in this particular moment, and together, that creates the temporary magic. It’s one of those things that are fleeting and exclusive to the present, a charm that’ll be lost in memories. 

Jungkook breathes it all in and smiles back, ignoring the tension in his curled up toes and the burning in the back of his eyes. 

.

It’s a miracle, truly, how they managed to bring the cake all the way downstairs without a dent or a smudge. But they did, and now Jungkook sits at the bench across the playground, under a sky with two suns. 

They all thanked their mother, and Namjoon too, for the delicious breakfast before they announced they’d be heading out for a bit. Jungkook hadn’t specified what they were going to do, and the entire family had been a bit perplexed when they said they were going to eat the cake outside, but left them to it. 

Namjoon had been a bit surprised when Jungkook said he didn’t want to decorate it. He’d suggested several ways to elevate it, and talked about a ganache drip or piping flowers onto the border but Jungkook decided to leave it as is. Something about the simplicity of it, with the unclean borders gave it a rustic edge. Or so Namjoon said. 

In any case, the cake stands between Namjoon and him, and Jungkook has no idea how to proceed. 

“Oh my God,” he wails, cheeks flushing. “In my head, I had no idea how embarrassing this would be.”

“It’s not embarrassing,” Namjoon coaxes. When Jungkook shoots him a look of disbelief, he chuckles, then tilts his head. “Okay, maybe a little bit. But you worked hard on this cake and it looks delicious. Let’s not have it go to waste.”

“You mean you worked hard on this cake,” Jungkook corrects, still mortified. He glances anxiously around them, but the area is generally deserted. Just like an apocalypse. He nearly laughs when he remembers this is an apocalypse. “I just stood there and watched you show off your expertise.”

Namjoon laughs, but his expression is serious. “No,” he insists, gesturing at the dessert. It really did look good. “I told you what to do, if anything. You’re the one that put in the work, so stop whining and let’s do this already.” Jungkook cringes when Namjoon gestures at the confetti cannon he bought this morning. 

“Well, not yet. We still have to wait for Yoongi hyung.” When Namjoon raises an eyebrow, he elaborates. “The hyung who wrote the song.”

As if on cue, Jungkook hears his phone buzz. He smiles at the message, and then punches in his location. Jungkook thought he’d feel his chagrin sink in more when Yoongi showed up, but surprisingly doesn’t. Instead he bravely waves, and feels a pathetic gratification settle when he gets one back. 

“Well, this is disappointing for a party,” Yoongi comments as he surveys the surroundings. “No streamers, no decorations, no drinks.”

“He did buy confetti,” Namjoon supplies and Yoongi hums in approval, before nodding his head at Jungkook’s guest. 

“Min Yoongi,” he introduces, then points a thumb in Jungkook’s direction. “This kid’s unpaid babysitter and piano teacher. Also a sort-of friend.”

“Kim Namjoon,” responds Namjoon, grinning. “Also this kid’s sort-of friend.”

“That cake looks too good to be true, Jeon Jungkook,” Yoongi peers at it with wide eyes. “Don’t tell me you made it.”

“This hyung can vouch for me,” Jungkook puffs his chest. “He’s the reason the kitchen didn’t catch on fire and the fact that it’s edible.”

Yoongi snorts, then grabs a confetti cannon. “Well then, let’s get started.”

Jungkook follows, but in truth, he’s not sure what to do. After several moments of staring at the cake, he casts his eyes up, frowning. “What exactly are we supposed to do?”

Namjoon snickers and Yoongi sighs. “Honestly, I’m not sure either. But you’re the one who suggested it.”

“This isn’t really a pity party anymore,” Jungkook decides, brows furrowed. “I’m not really wallowing in self-pity anymore.”

To his surprise, the look on Yoongi’s face softens. “That’s good,” he tousles his hair. Then without warning, he pops the confetti, causing both Namjoon and Jungkook to jump. “Let’s eat then.”

After the first wobbly slice, Jungkook lets Namjoon cut the rest of it into clean even slices. Yoongi takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, and shakes his head. “Jungkook,” he says seriously, “there’s no way you made this cake.”

“I did!”

“But it’s too good!”

Namjoon laughs at the juvenile conversation. “I can seriously assure you that he did make it, and nearly all of it was by himself. Baking gets a rep of being hard but it’s really not that difficult when you realize it’s just following steps.”

Yoongi’s stare is accusatory. “Only someone who’s good in the kitchen would say that.”

“He helped eomma make the craziest breakfast ever.”

“I knew it.”

The cake is spectacular, and even though Namjoon spends the latter half specifically describing their entire process and that it was really Jungkook who did the work, Jungkook knows that Namjoon deserves a large portion of credit. He’s sure anything he did by himself would’ve ended up burnt and he would’ve been drowning in self-pity more than before, furious at the world for screwing him over. And while he hadn’t had the most optimistic intentions when proposing this event, he’s glad it ended up the way it did. 

Namjoon and Yoongi get along better than Jungkook anticipated. Maybe it’s Namjoon’s friendly pretty face that’s eager to keep conversation up or the fact that Yoongi is showing a new side of sociability Jungkook’s never seen before. How is this supposed to be the end of the world? For something that’s always described as chaotic, in the moment, Jungkook doesn’t feel tense in the slightest. 

The sun joins the blue-burning meteor in the sky and the atmosphere returns to the blinding aquamarine from yesterday afternoon. It’s strange; yesterday it emerged like a star and today it looms over like a monster, hurling towards them at speeds Jungkook can’t comprehend. Hurling towards them just slow enough that they have a little more than a day on this planet. 

The cake is a hit, and he has no doubt that after he drops it off with his family, it’ll be as good as gone so he eats as much as he can. He wonders what’ll happen to the birthday cake that’s still sitting in their fridge. It’s vanilla cake with strawberry cream, Junghyun’s favorite. 

“I’ll wait for you here,” Yoongi says when they begin packing up their things. 

It’s only when they’re on the steps back up when Namjoon clears his throat. “You’re heading out after this, right?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook nods. “With Yoongi hyung. You’re free to come along.”

“Oh, no, I’ve intruded enough for today,” Namjoon declines with a shake of his head. “I was actually going to tell you that I…” He trails off, and then stops altogether. Jungkook pauses mid-step and turns. “Before that, I have something to tell you, Jungkook.”

“Yeah, hyung?”

“So my name’s not really ‘Kim Namjoon’,” Namjoon—or whoever the hell his stranger really was—confesses in a rush, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s my friend, and he’s the one who actually works at the grocery store. I just took his shift because I…”

Jungkook freezes, jaw going slack. “You… what?”

“My name’s actually Kim Seokjin,” Namjoon— Seokjin —says sheepishly. “I’m a, um, chef. A pâtissier to be exact.” The word rolls smoothly off his tongue, without a trace of any accent. “I took Namjoon’s shift because I wanted to… escape reality, I guess, though it sounds a bit cheesy when I put it like that.”

“Your name’s not Namjoon.”

“No.”

“You’re a professional chef.”

“Well, technically yes, but I specialize in desserts—”

“And you wanted to escape reality?” Jungkook studies him, wide-eyed. “Are you depressed? Or are you famous? Or is it both? Don’t tell me you’re a chaebol.” When Seokjin winces, Jungkook knows he’s hit the nail on the head by some sheer luck. “You don’t have to tell me,” he adds quickly when Seokjin seems torn, “but I hope you found what you were looking for when you decided to take the graveyard shift at a grocery store a day before the world ends.” He offers a smirk, hoping his tease is clear. 

Seokjin blinks, and then bursts into the warm laughter that lit up the room during breakfast. Jungkook smiles back. 

“I did,” admits Seokjin, glancing at his feet. “And I owe it all to you. Thank you for showing up when you did, and letting me bake with you.” He tilts his head, a bit thoughtful, distant. “I think… maybe I have someplace to be.”

“I’m glad. Now I’ve had two coincidences that are too untimely to be true recently,” Jungkook murmurs to himself. “Just my luck to learn a song about the end of the world before it happens, and run into a professional pastry chef before I baked a cake.”

“Life sure has its way of doing things, doesn’t it?” 

“It does,” Jungkook agrees, “and I’m quite happy with this one.”

Seokjin looks like how he did when Jungkook first asked him if he’d anywhere to be, a little sad and a little exhausted. But there’s an open smile this time, several hours later. It doesn’t take much, in these sorts of conditions, to elicit some change. 

“I guess I’ll see you—” Seokjin pauses, then clears his throat before correcting himself. “Good luck.” 

“You too, hyung. And thank you.” He hesitates. “Call me tomorrow, so we can have one final goodbye.”

When Seokjin disappears around the edge of the apartments, Jungkook kicks a stone away, laughing to himself. “…I should’ve seen the chef one coming.”

.

Jungkook balks at the silver Sedan that looks far too old to be in driving condition. 

“I didn’t know you could drive. Let alone that.”

“I didn’t know you talked to random strangers, let alone make friends with them.”

“I don’t,” Jungkook says defensively, chagrined. “Today was just a one-time thing.”

“Well, I hope you learned something, then,” Yoongi replies, voice hushed and eyes boring too deeply at Jungkook to mean anything good. Jungkook shivers. “All it really takes is just reaching out with a little bit of meaning to cause a reaction.”

It’s a typical Yoongi comment, forthright and aggressive yet laced with some underlying intention that Jungkook always seemed to miss. He nods without saying anything, and gets into the passenger seat. 

It’s… strange seeing Yoongi drive. It makes him look his age, something that Jungkook’s rarely considered over the years. It makes Jungkook feel awfully small. 

“How was your orange juice?”

“As expected.”

“Which was?”

“Cold.” Yoongi grimaces, and Jungkook grins. “And terribly bitter.”

“So where are we going?” Jungkook asks, letting his fingers catch the breeze through the window. “The beach?”

“Eventually,” Yoongi hums, fiddling with the stereo that refuses to cooperate. He sighs and gives up. “I wanted to buy the flowers first, and then finish playing the song. Then we’ll go to the ocean.”

Jungkook’s rarely seen other people since the beginning of this whole mess, but at the flower shop, there are several individuals gazing at the plants with a look of longing and a florist manning the register.  

Jungkook feels the strange urge to talk to one of them but Yoongi marches right up to the potted plants. When he catches sight of the bright yellow flowers, he grabs several pots and orders Jungkook to as well. They end up carrying eight pots and bringing them straight to the cashier. The young man looks amused at the sight, and addresses Yoongi too familiarly. “Finally planning on confessing?”

Jungkook flinches, even though the statement’s not meant for him. His hyung merely rolls his eyes. “They’re not for me, Hoseok, they’re for the halmeoni who gets her daffodils trampled on all the time.”

“Ah,” the florist, Hoseok, nods, pursing his lips. “Who’s your friend?”

“I’m Jungkook,” he introduces himself before Yoongi can get a word in. “I’m just here as manpower,” he teases lightly, and feels satisfied when Hoseok gives him a laugh. 

He places their large order into more manageable cardboard boxes when Yoongi pipes up. “How are the sunflowers doing?” 

“The sunflowers?” The young man continues organizing their pots without paying heed to Yoongi. “What kind of question is th—” Then his eyes widen, alarmed.

“Did you not look?”

“Of course I looked,” Hoseok snaps, then sighs. “It just- slipped my mind.” His gaze turns towards the customers in the shop. “Today just felt… awfully normal.”

“Well, how were they?”

“You’d be surprised,” says Hoseok softly. “Their routine didn’t change at all. They rose when it came from the east, and wilted when it set in the west. By morning, they were ready to begin the cycle again. It was almost as if they didn’t care.”

Yoongi glances outside, and lets air hiss between his teeth. “It seems for them, there’s only one sun.”

The pragmatics of their conversation sink in a beat later and Jungkook blinks in awe. Only one sun. 

Hoseok slides the boxes over and stares dubiously at Yoongi when he hands money over. Jungkook grins when he accepts it. “Where are you headed next?”

“To drop these off,” Yoongi huffs at the weight before handing one to Jungkook. “We’ll go and play piano a bit after, and then we’re off to the beach.”

In the past few hours, Jungkook has grown to appreciate how no one questions anything anymore, but even behind that blanket of warmth, it scares him a little, how easily people are discarding their lives. A part of him has come to accept it, but a fragment of him deep inside still can’t let it go. 

“Well, goodbye then, Yoongi,” Hoseok says as Yoongi turns away, and that’s all it takes for his hyung to freeze, realization sinking in. He carefully lowers the pots to the ground before throwing himself onto the florist and giving him a fierce hug. Jungkook’s throat swells, hurts. He feels like an intruder as he watches two friends embrace for the last time. 

They deposit the flowers in the back of the vehicle and Jungkook keeps his head low, hands clasped tightly.

“He always used to say ‘see you later’,” Yoongi starts abruptly, quietly. When Jungkook looks over, his eyes are trained straight at the road, fingers taut around the steering wheel. “It really threw me off, hearing him say ‘goodbye’.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Strange, isn’t it?” Yoongi finally relaxes a bit, resting an elbow on his door. “Have you gotten around to accepting this clusterfuck?”

“Sort of,” Jungkook admits, shrugging. “Feeling better than yesterday.”

“I can see a bit of that,” Yoongi peeks over, a smirk quirking at his lips. “You from yesterday certainly wouldn’t have gone up to random strangers and invited them to your house.”

“Would you let it go already?!” 

“I’m expecting a lot from you today.” 

“Well, that’s not burdensome at all.”

“I’m serious, Jungkook.” And he is, the teasing lilt gone from his voice. “I’ve always felt like you bottle up more than you’re willing to say out loud. I don’t know what’s stopping you, especially now.”

The thing is, Jungkook feels the same. For every uncharacteristic action he takes, a part of him still stands rooted in the past. He can’t deny the fear that’s coiling around his chest tighter with each word he never would’ve said any other day. He has no idea where it comes from, doesn’t know why it even exists, but all he knows is that he can’t get rid of it. And it seems to restrain him most when he’s around Yoongi. 

Because he should probably reply to Yoongi. Reassure him that it won’t happen. That he’ll be able to leave with regrets. 

But is that really true?

Yoongi lives on the other side of town where the streets are littered less with tall apartments and more tight suburban alleyways with stacks of houses on top of stores. The halmeoni in question resides on the ground floor, manning a corner store with her son. That’s where Yoongi takes him, each with a box of daffodils in hand. 

She looks like every other grandmother Jungkook knows, with lines carved into her face and hair more silver than black. But her face is open, warm, and when she waves, Jungkook can’t help but be drawn towards the genial nature. 

“Daffodils,” she observes when Yoongi places the box at her feet. “Why so many, Yoongi?”

“Why not?” Yoongi shrugs simply in return. “Now where do you want me to put them?”

“You shouldn’t have,” she shakes her head, reaching up to pat Yoongi’s head. The smile that blooms on Yoongi’s face is worth seeing. Like always. “What’s the use of them now?”

“Never mind that, halmeoni,” Yoongi waves it off with his hand. “The point is, your flowers were getting ruined.” Jungkook joins him as he arranges the pots right along the edge of the store. “And now you have more. That’s all there is to it.”

“You’re too kind, Yoongi,” she says softly, eyes leaden with affection. She glances down at Jungkook. “You’re all too young.”

“Age doesn’t make a difference in this sort of situation, halmeoni,” Jungkook interrupts quietly, then belatedly wonders if that’s rude. “That’s what my father said.”

Her face wilts when she hears that. “I suppose he’s right. It’s still a shame, though.”

“We’ll be going now,” Yoongi announces when the last of the plants are out of the box and Jungkook surveys their work. They look pretty, offering a little bit more light to a world bursting at the seams with it. “Thank you for everything, halmeoni.” The thanks probably has more meaning than Jungkook will ever know. Yoongi bows deeply, hands clasped at the base of his stomach. 

“It was my pleasure,” is the solemn reply, and Yoongi turns away without saying more. He likes to leave in silence, Jungkook’s noticed, and he doesn’t like to have the last word. 

When they get back in the car, Yoongi sits there for a long moment, engine on and hands gripping the steering wheel and jaw clenched. 

“You okay, hyung?” Jungkook asks hesitantly, nails digging into his palms. 

“Just a moment,” responds Yoongi stiffly, and Jungkook thinks the tension only increases tenfold. He’s never been good at this comfort thing, and that’s something he could never learn from Yoongi and his typically taciturn attitude. But Yoongi was subtle with his kindness, always actions over words, so Jungkook reaches into his pocket where he’d snuck in his iPod and offers an earbud to Yoongi. 

His hyung blinks, staring mulishly at the proposal. But he picks it up and sticks it into his ear, just as the opening notes for Consolation begin. 

Jungkook has always thought it to be a sort of companion piece to Nocturne, probably why he likes it so much. It’s a lament of sorts, sentimental and mellow. It doesn’t have the usual twists Liszt likes to creep into his works and is sorrowful, straightforward, simple. Jungkook can’t think of a song more suitable than this. 

When it ends, Yoongi is the first to pull out the earbud. “Thank you,” he murmurs and drives away without any more closure. 

The school’s music room has always suffocated Jungkook with anticipation. He’d always been giddy with excitement, thrilled at the prospect that Yoongi would save him his personal time just to do something as menial as play a couple songs for him. They’d been the highlights of Jungkook’s days for the longest time, up till yesterday. Yet today, the thought of it has him nauseous to his toes and he’s surprised his entire breakfast doesn’t come regurgitating out when the car stops in front of the building. 

The walk down the halls is dreadful and Jungkook freezes in the doorway when Yoongi pushes it open. They’d only been here yesterday but in Jungkook’s head, it’s been several lifetimes since they’ve stood in front of that piano. Jungkook shudders, unable to reach out and touch the instrument.

“Oh God,” he murmurs, choked, and ducks his head to control the burning in his throat. Yoongi’s fingers wrap around his shoulder and the urge to cry only deepens. 

“Take your time,” Yoongi says, hushed, as he slides into the stool. He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Take all the time you need.”

And then he plays, magical and nostalgic, in flight and in flames, all while Jungkook cries. He cries loudly, squatting with his hands in his face but Yoongi’s music is considerate enough to drown his sobs out. 

It hurts. 

It hurts in ways Jungkook doesn’t expect, reaching down his throat and snaking around his lungs and his heart, stirring up his stomach to induce the impulse to throw up his insides. See, that’s the thing people never really talk about for a heartbreak of any kind. How it hurts physically, how your ears ring from the thundering of your heartbeat, how every sense simultaneously diminishes and explodes. How all air is stripped from your body, how your chest is so tight that you can’t think to breathe.

It hurts, and all Jungkook can do about it is cry. 

And through every moment of it, Yoongi never stops playing, and yet, that’s not why he loves Yoongi.

He loves Yoongi because he keeps playing, even when Jungkook’s tears stop flowing and he finally rises, wiping the remains on the sleeve of his jacket. He keeps playing even when Jungkook takes a seat next to him, eyes remaining closed and fingers dancing and saying nothing. Jungkook swallows the familiar wave of emotions down, just like always.  

Say it. 

Say it. 

He doesn’t. 

It feels like another century when Yoongi pauses briefly, glancing at Jungkook’s tear-stained face before diving into the end of the world song. 

Just like all of Yoongi’s playings, it sounds different from yesterday’s version. It sounds more mournful, loaded with grievance and longing. Yet still, it leaves a residue of hope onto Jungkook, of naivete and yearning. How do you do it, hyung? How do you cling onto the beauty in the blue instead of the obvious terror?

When he finishes in that same incomplete tone, Yoongi scoots over.  “Your turn.”

An order, not a request. Jungkook knows, he knows, Yoongi won’t let him leave this room until Jungkook learns this piece. 

His fingers move before his thoughts can interfere, and Jungkook clears his head to let only the music in. He plays, fumbling with his fingering and playing wrong notes, but he keeps going regardless. 

“If you hit a wrong note,” Jungkook remembers Yoongi quoting, “then make it right by what you play afterwards.”

When Jungkook finishes, he looks at Yoongi, searching for any reaction. He expects disappointment, criticism. He doesn’t anticipate a smile that makes his heart lurch. 

“That was beautiful,” sighs Yoongi, sincere, then leans back on his palms, eyes closed. “Play it again.”

So he does, because he’s only ever been a fool in the face of Yoongi’s raw countenance. He plays it again and again, and each time it sounds different, with the mistakes falling at different points and making up the dynamics as he feels. His fingers sink into the keys with vigor during one rendition, furious and fierce, then soften to the gentleness of ocean waves in another. 

Jungkook does whatever the fuck he wants to Yoongi’s end of the world, and Yoongi lets it happen, all while a smile plays at his face. And Jungkook, Jungkook has always done and will do anything to see that genuine expression. 

“Hyung, that was awful,” Jungkook says when he finally gives up, fingers sore and robotic. “I can’t believe you liked that.”

“It wasn’t about your playing, you brat,” Yoongi grins, tousling Jungkook’s hair. He’s relaxed, so at ease that Jungkook can’t believe he didn’t notice how tense his hyung was all day. “It was you.”

Jungkook’s insides feel like syrup again. God, he’s such a fool for Min Yoongi. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” There’s that smile again, the one that could move mountains and part seas and destroy asteroids from space if it truly wished. “You can fumble over the notes and mess up the trills and turns but it’s… fun watching you play when you like something. And I’m glad you’ve gotten over your fear of this song.”

“I wasn’t- it wasn’t a fear,” mumbles Jungkook, face flushing so quickly he swears he’ll go dizzy. “I just- it took me off guard, even before all of”—he gesticulates arbitrarily—“ this. ”

“Regardless of that,” Yoongi thumps his back, “your playing was very nice.”

A compliment. From Min Yoongi. He quickly ducks his head, fighting the more telling blush. “Thank you, hyung.”  

“Then I guess it’s time for our last stop of the day, right?” Yoongi stands, and the space next to Jungkook immediately removes itself of all warmth, leaving it hollow. Jungkook stares briefly at the empty seat before looking up to meet Yoongi’s eyes. “Let’s go to the ocean, yeah?”

“Yeah. Right.” Jungkook pulls away from the murky brown piano, a sudden wave of grief crashing into him. “I’m going to miss this place.”

He hadn’t meant to say it, because if he did, he would’ve been recounting everything that he was going to miss. The arcade he and Junghyun sneak out to when they saved enough allowance. The sketchbook that felt like a second heart. The peaceful moments when he sits besides Yoongi and lets him play. 

His mother’s cooking. His father’s stories. Kim Seokjin, Junghyun, his parents. 

Yoongi. 

Jungkook hadn’t meant to say it for fear of the pain that would follow, but startles himself when it never comes. 

“Me too,” Yoongi admits, voice more tender than he’d ever disclose. “We had a good run in here.”

Jungkook lets his fingers linger a bit longer on the keys, then the cover. Then they’re out of the room and Jungkook can only mourn how in the end, a person will always be cursed with memories, to remind themselves how they’ve been and how they could be, but never how they are. 

.

For some reason, Jungkook had thought the seaside would be crowded. But it’s deserted, just like most places Jungkook’s seen today and he cannot fathom why. Where would you go? Where is there to run?

“It looks like a true apocalypse,” Jungkook mutters dryly, kicking the sand as it curls around his feet. His shoes hang from his fingers. He should’ve left them in the car. “Though, I guess it is a true apocalypse.”

“It’s a shame,” says Yoongi, a bit too mournfully for Jungkook’s liking. “It’s beautiful.”

“You need to stop saying that.”

“What? Calling it as it is?” He snickers, maybe to himself, maybe at Jungkook. “It’s high time you accept that perhaps, inevitably, there will be beauty in terrible things.”

God. Only Yoongi could make the most depressing things sound breathtaking, in more ways than one. 

Jungkook stays silent up until they stand in front of the waves, just far enough so the water doesn’t lick their feet. “So.” 

“So.”

“This one’s you, hyung,” Jungkook holds his hands up, backing away a couple steps. “Do what you must.”

It’s fun seeing Yoongi flustered, like he hadn’t really anticipated it to be so strange to do. It’s just like Jungkook’s pity party, and the mortification that sunk in the moment of. But unlike Jungkook, Yoongi’s resolve is greater and it only takes him a second for him to wade in. Then he shouts, “Go fuck yourself!”

It’s got to be the most embarrassing thing that Yoongi’s ever deigned to do and even Jungkook can’t stop his cringing, but after that, he laughs. He laughs from the root of the stomach, diaphragm sucked in so much that it hurts and tears creeping out from the corner of his eyes. He’s laughing so hard that he isn’t prepared when Yoongi takes him by the arm and drags him to the water. 

The water’s cold without freezing and Jungkook yelps when it brushes his calves, just reaching the jeans he’d folded up. “Hey!”

“That’s what you get for laughing,” Yoongi snarls, no heat in his voice, shoving Jungkook further in and nearly stumbling in the process. 

“Because it was funny!” Jungkook protests, laughs crawling up again, but Yoongi grins back. 

He brings his hands to his mouth, and squats, ready to shout again. “Hey ocean, I’m not scared of you!”

“Yeah!” Jungkook yells half-heartedly in faux support, but his conviction somehow deepens. “We’re not scared!” He points to the second sun in the sky. “You’re nowhere near as scary as that!”

And then they’re uselessly kicking at the waves, as if by some miracle trying to intimidate the ocean into withdrawing. Of course it doesn’t work, and Jungkook only wobbles around until Yoongi catches him by the arm. The sand rushes away from his ankle as the water recedes, and brings a chill every time it comes rising back. 

Over the course of the day, the sky has lost some of the green undertones that emerged the day before. Now the blue turns deep, rich, and royal in color, tints of purple lining the edges of the few clouds in the sky. The sun is near the end of its descent once more, yet behind the blaze of a falling star, none of its warmth can be seen at all.  

But I can feel it, Jungkook thinks, even when Yoongi unfairly sends a cold spray towards him. I can feel it, and that’s all that matters. 

They’re screaming, shouting, yelling out obscenities and curses against the rock in the sky and the ocean and space and their impending death. Jungkook says it’s unfair, that this is a scam and he wants his money back. Yoongi thinks that the timing was cruel, not when they have so much to look forward to and so much to do. They both think it’s even worse that it happened right after their song. They throw water at one another, pant legs soaked and sleeves of their jackets damp, sand in their hands and between their toes. 

Jungkook doesn’t know how long it’s been until they flop onto the sand side by side, chests heaving and cheeks bright. Yoongi’s mint hair is a mess, some locks sticky with sweat and seawater while the others are wind-swept. He is what’s beautiful in this desolate world they’ve come to live in; he is the only reason Jungkook doesn’t disagree completely every time he calls this apocalypse breathtaking. 

Yoongi turns towards him and Jungkook’s throat catches. This close, he can see the faint freckles dotting Yoongi’s cheeks, behind the pink flush. Then he smiles, gums flashing and eyes crinkling just so, and pathetically, Jungkook thinks he could die a bit happier now that he’s seen this up close. 

The thing is, it was never painful loving Yoongi. Lonely, perhaps, scary even, but it never hurt the way it should. It never struck him like all the stories warned and never left him feeling achingly despondent. There were endless times where he’d get jealous and upset, where he wished his feelings were returned, but he’d never mourned upon the fact. He’d simply accepted it and cherished whatever else Yoongi offered to him with open arms. 

Loving Yoongi was fun, in its roots, if you stripped away the side effects and consequences. No one else could make Jungkook feel giddy and silly, and no one else could provide a smidgen of the joy Jungkook felt when he was around his hyung. Yoongi whisked him worlds away in the short time they had at the music room, and showed him emotions he’d never explored in a medium that didn’t use words to speak. 

Because love unrequited is still love, Jungkook knows, and in all its simplicity and bare bones, the truth untold is that truly loving someone can never hurt. It could only ever bring pain if it was riddled with regrets and Jungkook is certain that he could never regret loving Yoongi.

So Jungkook smiles back, and the grin on Yoongi’s face only grows. “Feeling better?”

“I’ve been feeling great all day,” Jungkook says, and he finds himself mostly believing it. 

They lay there for several long minutes, facing each other without shying away, until their breathing returns to normal. The sun kisses the horizon now, still blue creeping purple as it slinks away behind the ocean.

“Alright,” Yoongi announces as he sits up and Jungkook’s heart stops. “I think it’s time we go.” He stands and offers a hand for Jungkook, one he accepts without thinking. 

It’s funny, maybe terrifying, how it’s those six words that finally make Jungkook think, oh, the world is really going to end, isn’t it?

He moves before he can stop himself and the second Yoongi turns to head back, Jungkook’s fingers are clutching onto his jacket sleeve. He can feel Yoongi pause, glance back, but he doesn’t perk up to see it. His eyes are cast down, staring at dark patches on Yoongi’s jeans and the sand stuck on his feet. 

“What are you doing?”

His voice isn’t harsh, like Jungkook anticipated. Instead, there’s an undertone of exhaustion within it, and that scares Jungkook more. Any words that were waiting on his tongue—and there were none —die immediately. 

“Well?” Yoongi presses, and Jungkook finally peers up. Yoongi’s face is as weary as his voice, and the long, withering look he’s giving him almost causes Jungkook to flinch. When Jungkook makes no move to answer, Yoongi tries shaking off the grip, but Jungkook can’t have that. He holds on tighter, the back of his eyes beginning to burn. 

The ocean breeze flits around them, cold and messy and unyielding. Neither of them move. Jungkook is trying so very hard to will his throat to work but nothing happens. He’s entirely frozen in place, words no longer in his control and only working limbs that answer to one command. 

“Jungkook,” Yoongi finally tries after several minutes of no movement, no attempt. “I need you to say something.” 

But he can’t. Panic brews at the base of his stomach and he can feel his lower lip tremble. He can’t and he’s trying so hard but nothing’s working and what if Yoongi just doesn’t care about Jungkook’s feelings— 

“Say it.”

Jungkook stiffens, staring back at Yoongi’s stern face with wide eyes. Yoongi’s brows furrow into a frown. It’s an order now, a command, just like the one in the music room. And although Jungkook has never intentionally disobeyed Yoongi before, he thinks this might be the first, whether Jungkook wants it to be or not.

“Say it.” He says it with more intent this time, more forceful, eyes burning into Jungkook’s with more heat than the true sun. It’s funny, how this is the situation in which he can’t break eye contact with his hyung. Gone are the sounds of the ocean, the wind, the piano, the music. His own heart is the only thing he can comprehend right now, pounding with an intensity that’s on the cusp of shattering. 

“I can’t,” he finally chokes out, raspy. The tears in his eyes have pooled up now, threatening to overflow. 

And the expression on Yoongi’s face isn’t even one of anger. The corners of his lips are turned down and he sighs, defeated. If there’s anything Jungkook hates to see on his hyung’s face, it’s disappointment, stoned with frustration and loss. Yoongi has been let down far too many times in his life; Jungkook can’t add to that number. 

“Jungkook,” Yoongi says softly, a crooked smile on his lips. He pushes away Jungkook’s wrist, forcing the arm clinging to him to fall. This time, Jungkook doesn’t think he deserves to hold on. Maybe he never did. “Have you heard of collision theory?”

The question is so sudden, so out of the blue, that Jungkook can only blink, mind stolid. “Collision theory?” He croaks out as warmth disappears from his fingers. Warmth he may never feel again, just as he feared when the sun set. 

It’s clear he’s asking for elaboration, but Yoongi’s dry smile only lingers. He turns away and Jungkook knows he’s ruined everything for good now. It’s laughable, really. Jungkook must be the only person in the world who destroyed a relationship before he could even confess, because he couldn’t confess. He follows Yoongi without a word, curling into himself when they sit in the car. 

The ride back home is silent, and Jungkook squeezes back the tears in his eyes, just as he does the words in his heart.