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Some mornings, his eyelids would flutter like moth wings, over whichever butterfly-dreams he'd been dreaming seconds before he opens his eyes and looks at Jungkook, like Jungkook is the only person he'd ever want to see first thing in the morning. And it's true. Jungkook used to grip at the strands of reality stuck to Jimin's forehead before swooping down for a good morning kiss, but he's stopped trying long ago.
Realities are overrated when Jimin is around.
If Jungkook were anywhere near as good as Yoongi at taking pictures, he doesn't think he'd ever stop taking pictures of Jimin, everything that Jimin does, all of his delicate, delicious little idiosyncrasies.
Breakfast is lips over coffee mugs, the prints left there like tiny footprints of breath, signs of life everywhere, skidding down the skin of shoulders, the warm of cheeks, Jungkook's lips leaving their own trails, well traversed for sure, across the maps of Jimin's neck, fingers skimming over his hips and waist. Jungkook's eyes linger on the place where Jimin's lips had been on their matching mugs, reaches over and presses his own lips to the mark, tasting Jimin with a light grin.
"You have your own mug," Jimin says, pouting. Lips, again, and Jungkook's answer is to lean over the counter and kiss them.
The post-breakfast lull is spent in the texture of Jimin's voice, sweet and thick and lovely, running over Jungkook's minds in rivulets and streams, Jungkook not entirely opposed to the concept of lying down, closing his eyes, and holding his breath till he drowns in it. Jimin reads out loud from the paper, putting on voices and sometimes, Jungkook would wrap his arms around Jimin's waist and dig his nose into the nape of Jimin's neck to take a breath, the first breath he's breathed in properly of Jimin since getting out of bed.
Jimin smells like summer rain (freshly fluffed feathers that flicker over flower petals, dew drops still glistening from the hours before the sun had cleared the horizon enough to sing the day awake); Jimin smells like autumn warmth (in the briskness of breaths breathed in tandem to footsteps that fall with purpose and secrets and wandering minds and straight-set eyes and the heat that comes from beneath scarves wrapped over faces longing to be held and touched and kissed).
There's a little crook to Jimin's front teeth--it tastes like rightness and home (the smooth-soft-hard-sweet-sour trickling across Jungkook's lips; not waterfalls but falls of something, maybe fall, or falling, or fell-ed like Jungkook feels with Jimin's smiles against his lips) whenever Jungkook runs his tongue along the back of Jimin's teeth when they kiss, long and proper, like Jungkook likes, with both his palms cupping Jimin's cheeks, like the world is resting between his hands and he can't get enough, pulling Jimin in till he's giggling, pulling away with his hands on Jungkook's chest.
"Needy today?"
"Just love you," Jungkook says, but the just is never just.
"Just?" Jimin asks, quirking an eyebrow. Jungkook follows it with his eyes, his soul hitched on the arch, the rise and fall, tides and winds and seasons sweeping through him till he can bring himself to train his eyes back onto Jimin's eyes, as dark and deep as the oceans might seem, and then some more, and then some more.
"Love you," Jungkook finishes with a grin, and he sways with his arms still around Jimin, humming something that he might have heard once upon a time. Once upon a daydream's high, or the tail-end of a lullaby, or a truth that tried too hard to be a lie--those always taste the sweetest.
"Love you more," Jimin smiles as he sways and sways, body so in sync with Jungkook's they might as well never be separate, and nowadays, they rarely are.
Jungkook presses notes of songs, fragments of lyrics, into Jimin as they spin and sway and swing through the kitchen into the living room, the day wrapping itself around the bubble of them, soaked in wistful silence, white noise shielding black holes who drink in the light like Jungkook drinks Jimin in, heedless and never satisfied.
Selfish, Jungkook had once said.
Jimin shook his head--there's a rainbow fish inside your chest. Not selfish.
How do you know? Jungkook asked.
You taste like the rainbow sometimes.
They dance to the music of their shared silence, the strings of their bodies singing out, ringing against each other, muscles to muscles to tendons to skin against skin over hearts and souls and fingers dancing like they're dancing. Like they're dancing in the laughter that might or might not be rain, summer or spring, or first snow and the last low before the dip of the song ends and it rises again for the crescendo.
Can't have a rainbow without the rain first. Jungkook laced their fingers then; it was raining outside.
Jimin grinned. Then does that make me the rain?
Sometimes.
Afternoons are latte-dipped, cream-mixed, sugar-sipped in plans of the future that pave golden roads straight to sunset.
"Let's get married," Jungkook says.
"Are you proposing?" Jimin asks.
"Would you say yes?"
"If you're asking."
"I am."
"If I would say yes, or if you're proposing?"
"Yes," Jungkook says, a wide smile stretching across his face and Jimin swats at his chest in the little space left between them. They've somehow danced the day away.
"Yes," Jimin repeats, and Jungkook blinks.
Jimin looks like the first spark to a fire that might never burn out, the wick to a candle that keeps the darkness at bay, dripping warm, melting into Jungkook when Jungkook pulls him in closer.
"Will you really?"
Jimin doesn't wait. "Yes."
And suddenly, this morning is no longer a some mornings. This morning is this morning, like every morning before this was that morning, and every one after--those.
That morning, back then, Jungkook tried to count all the things that make Jimin the way he is and lost count just short of perfect. This morning, Jungkook decides he can't count that high. Those mornings, the ones to come, he decides he might just spend the rest of his life trying.
For Jimin, with Jimin, he can count to forever, and keep on going.