Work Text:
I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
from the earth lives dimly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.
- Pablo Neruda, One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII
~ꕤ~
The norebang machine hums to a still, silence settling over the three of them like a mellow springtime breeze, and Jungkook leaps to his feet, waving his mic in the air. “Ninety-eight!” he declares triumphantly, running up to the set and kissing the screen, and then he rushes back to the two of them, palm outstretched and wide grin lighting up his face from ear to ear. “Pay up, losers,” he sings, waving his hand around in front of them, and they both groan as they fish their wallets out, reluctantly giving him the money he’s been promised. “You’re getting takeout for us tomorrow,” comes Taehyung’s voice, fond, and Jungkook smiles at him mischievously for a while, devilry in the slope of his mouth. “Nah, Hyung, I’m rich now. We going steak tomorrow, babes!” he says, and Jimin laughs as he rises to his feet, letting the other two file out of their little booth before him, dragging his feet on the ground.
.
.
.
It’s Tuesday.
Paintbrushes line the floor by the couch, stray daubs of colour here, there and everywhere, getting in the way of everything. Twisted tubes and palettes, an old beret nobody wears anymore, bowls of paint water on the floor, in front of the easel, cloth and oil, rags to test colour on. Taehyung sits chewing on a brush, frowning up at his work – a diary sits open next to him, cross-legged on the floor, and sketch-pens and highlighters, pencils and paint lie scattered around, as though he were a solitary flower blooming in a field of coloured grass. A croissant and a cup of herbal tea, both long gone cold, sit on his other side, promptly forgotten as soon as they had arrived, and the afternoon rolls by in a blur, bathing him in sunshine, the gold of the nectarine he has been painting with smeared onto his fingers, his face, the tip of his nose. Taehyung paints till he can’t anymore – and when he paints again, he paints of love.
.
.
.
It’s Tuesday.
The shop is quiet. There are the regular orders and the stray individual that wanders in, kids on their way to school, hopping over to gift their moms, the hopeful lover, the grieving and the broken-hearted. Namjoon comes by with the delivery bottles, smiling, as he does always, before he touches his cap and takes his leave, and Jimin bends over the counter as he works, the silence comfortable and welcomed as he presses this bunch’s flowers together into a piece of untainted fabric, preserving them for the next batch of perfumes. He presses and pours, labels and marks, and then he picks up his sprinkler and walks over to the aisles, bending over each bloomed blossom till freshly-sprayed water sparkles in crystal drops over each unfurled petal like the first of the morning dew. He waters and showers, airs and dusts, makes bouquets and perfumes, for the buttonhole and the bride, smiles and advises, creates and takes apart – and in every wristlet of love he makes, the flowers falling over each other in shy remembrance and soulful joy, he sees the love he feels himself.
.
.
.
It’s Tuesday.
The bakery is busy. Jungkook bends over the dough, sprinkling the little blocks of cheese they’re adding to this week’s batch of experimental bread the way Seokjin hyung and Yoongi hyung had told him to, and then he kneads it all together, making sure it’s done to perfection before he puts it to home in the oven. Over by the coffee machine, a young girl comes to place her order, and he tightens his apron around his waist as he walks over to note it down, smiling as he assures her it would take no time at all. His piercings, in the ears and new ones in an eyebrow and his bottom lip, catch the sunlight as he works, making his way through the metal machinery to walk all the paths he knows, to the kitchen and the sink and the cash register and the oven, and every now and then he pores over a recipe he found on the internet – one for icing red and blue and a cake that, if baked to perfection, was known to win hearts all over the globe. He studies and bakes, works and undertakes, serves coffee and croissants and chocolate and club sandwiches; but the cake he works for is one of love, and that’s the one he’ll be baking for home.
.
.
.
It’s Tuesday night. A month past the new year.
Taehyung is on the balcony, sipping his tea and looking at the Christmas lights they still haven’t taken down.
We could leave the Christmas lights up till January,
This is our place, we make the rules –
So they do. And he did.
He still has a paintbrush stuck behind his ear, but he doesn’t know it.
The doorbell rings and he walks back inside to answer it, setting his mug of tea down onto the centre table in the living room as he does, feeling the slow, familiar beat of his heart quieten to a pleasant thrum within as he turns the doorknob, and then Jungkook walks in.
He shakes the snow out of his hair and the sleeves of his jacket, making it look like the sugar plum princess had sprinkled all her little crystal cubes on their doormat, and turns to kiss Taehyung, hand on his cheek turning sticky with the paint left behind.
“You have paint on your face, silly.”
“I know. It’s on purpose.”
“Feisty.”
“Indeed.”
“Did you finish your painting?”
“Nah, I couldn’t. Needed you guys here with me. How you expect me to work without my muses I don’t understand…”
“You need the quiet, Tae…”
“But I need you guys more.”
A laugh, another kiss, pressed to his other, unpainted cheek this time. “You’re such a dork,” smiles Jungkook, now walking inside. He takes off his jacket and slides down onto the sofa, putting his cold feet up onto the table by the couch. “Jiminie hyung not back home yet?”
“No, darling. It’s just you and me.”
“He’ll be home soon, I expect.”
“Yeah. Did you eat?”
“A little,” and his voice is fond, belied with so much love that just… falls onto Taehyung like a wave of the sea, gently crashing all around him. “I tried a couple of the cakes I’m experimenting with.”
“And were they any good?’
“They could be better,” says Jungkook, reaching up to pull Taehyung down with him onto the sofa. “I’m trying to make them perfect.”
“Whatever you make is perfect, Jungkook-ah,” murmurs Taehyung softly, hand coming up to cradle his cheek. It’s still cold, and Taehyung’s fingers roam on the blushing skin, reaching into the hair above his ear and stroking lightly.
Jungkook leans into the touch and closes his eyes. “Missed you guys,” he says quietly. “Didn’t wanna spend too much time away.”
“We’re always here, baby…”
And then the doorbell rings again and Jimin walks in, a veritable rosy apple swaddled in warmth.
“Hi, loves.”
“Ah, Jimin-ah. You’re just in time for dinner, Kookie’s just back, too. I made you guys’ favourite!”
“Oh, Tae, you didn’t have to…”
“I did. I was sitting here bored anyway. Come kiss us now...”
“But I’m all dirty from outside…”
“It doesn’t matter. You know neither of us care...”
“No one ever says no to kisses!” pipes up Jungkook mischievously, smiling up at his Jiminie hyung from his place on the couch – and really, why did it matter if their Christmas lights were still up? They didn’t shine bright enough as the fire that glowed eternally within the three of them anyway.
.
.
.
They cuddle into bed together, fresh from their nightly showers and smelling like Jimin’s blossoms.
“Progress check?” one of them asks.
“I’m failing art history.”
“My dough won’t settle the way I want it to.”
“I think Namjoon hyung is dating that happy-looking friend of his. I definitely saw a hickey on his neck this morning...”
“What?!”
“Hoseok, I think he said his name was…”
“Oh, my God, we have to make them cake!” exclaims Jungkook excitedly. “Aww, Namjoonie hyung, I’m so proud of him… haven’t seen him in so long, too...”
“I think he has far more important things to do than sit around and watch you ogle at his thighs, Kook-ah…”
“And I think you’re just being over-protective, Jimin-ssi, even though you have no reason to be. I love you two only, you know that, right?”
“Oh, calm down, now,” insists Taehyung loudly, pulling the both of them in close. “Let’s not quibble, I’m tired. What movie are we watching tonight?”
“Love Actually!”
“The Notebook!”
“You’re both denied. It’s Doctor Strange, or no cuddles until next week.”
A cacophony of voices raised in outrage. Pillows plummeted, hair tousled, laughter, cheeks flushed rosy with life. At some point into the movie, Jimin falls asleep, head lolling onto Taehyung’s shoulder. The other two look at one another, so, so fond, and switch their laptop off before they settle into bed.
.
.
.
I love you like this for I know no other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.