Chapter Text
there is a boy lying on jungkook's couch.
a man, sleeping with such a calm look on his face, hands tucked between his knees, chest rising and falling gently. he’s sweet, jungkook can't deny that. but he has broken into jungkook's new apartment, and he can't deny that, too.
jungkook doesn’t panic. the stranger doesn’t seem to be wielding any type of weapon. he’s small, too. jungkook must have at least 3 inches and 20 pounds on him. so—no harm there. he’s probably lost. most definitely a neighbor. this building might be old but it’s safe, jungkook’s sure. there are security guards in the entry, and rent isn’t cheap. jungkook walks towards the couch, thinking to himself, it’s just a drunk college kid, coming home from the club, maybe it was a themed party, he’s dressed like elvis, ‘s alright, i’m cool, gotta check the locks though, gotta—
jungkook touches his jacket, and his hand travels right through.
like the sunlight diving into still water.
jungkook screams.
the kind of scream that scratches the back of your throat a bit. but he doesn’t stop, and it’s something out of a horror movie. everyone’s gonna think there’s someone getting brutally murdered, and there might as well be. the stranger doesn’t wake up immediately. just stirs slowly awake as if jungkook’s despair is some sort of reverse lullaby. the boy—what even is he— opens his eyes, and that’s when jungkook comes to his senses. the paralysis goes away and he runs to the kitchen, runs for all the life he’s got.
once he’s there, he starts rummaging through the drawers, glancing at the hallway and wondering how come his kitchen doesn’t have a door. there’s barely anything in the cupboard, no knifes or scissors or corkscrews; most of jungkook’s things are still all boxed up. he gives up, takes the frying pan he used for breakfast. that’ll have to do.
jungkook walks, rapunzel-like, towards the living room—tries to remember getting hit by a car, or a bus, or even a bike, on his way home from work. that would explain things. that would—
the hallucination is sitting on the couch, looking very polite, hands resting on his knees, staring straight at jungkook, who just stands still, very much unlike someone who’s fearing for their welfare. jungkook doesn’t do or say anything. instead, he takes a better look at what the guy is wearing: white t-shirt, super skinny jeans, a leather jacket. he’s got rings on most fingers and combat boots. his hair is bleached and slicked back.
“what the fuck,” jungkook manages to say. his voice is molasses. “what the fuck. who are you?” but that doesn’t seem appropriate, so: “what are you?”
jungkook thinks the trespasser would be offended by the question. instead, he looks relieved.
“you can see me, right?” he says, smiling a little. he runs a hand through his hair, which he can touch just fine, so why can’t jungkook? maybe he’s the problem. the boy smiles wider, gums showing, shakes his head, continues: “i haven’t passed on or whatever the fuck we do in the end. you’re alive, right? you—“
“of course i can see you,” jungkook interrupts. he holds the pan a little harder, knuckles going all white. he doesn’t say he’s alive. “what’re you doing here? why can't i touch you? why are you dressed like that,” jungkook almost chokes on the questions.
“so curious, handsome,” the boy says, as if flirting. really, if this weren’t a life and death situation, jungkook would think it was charming. “i live here. i have lived here since—well. since i died.”
he says it so naturally. like it’s an absolute truth. something you’d learn in high school: we’re all made of atoms, and oh, dead people might be found napping on your new, italian couch.
ghosts were supposed to be scarier, weren’t they?
jungkook wonders if it’s a prank. maybe a welcome-to-the-building sort of thing. but that wouldn’t explain how jungkook couldn’t touch him. wouldn’t explain—
the toy bunny that was in one of jungkook’s boxes starts levitating. jungkook shrieks.
“died? i'm gonna be sick,” says jungkook. he drops the pan, sits down on the floor, just in case he ends up fainting. the bunny starts doing a little dance right in front of him. jungkook grabs him by the ears. “stop that. what the fuck.”
“yeah, died. some decades ago. that's why—“ he gestures to his clothes. “yeah. this is so weird,” the dead guy sits down. he’s all the way across the room, but jungkook thinks he can feel something cold coming from him. like crisp, winter air. he smiles, then, all gummy, looking almost content: “no one could ever see me before. but you can.”
“okay,” jungkook says. he decides to ignore all the things torpedoing through his brain. decides to compartmentalize, like he used to do in physics class and hospital rooms. “and you think that's a good thing?”
“i'm kinda lonely all the time,” he sounds so sad. then he perks up, smiling again: ”i’m min yoongi, by the way. think you should know since we're going to be flat mates and hopefully friends!”
jungkook feels sorry. if he’s not lying, that means min yoongi has spent 60 to 70 years alone (judging by his clothes, jungkook thinks he’s from the 50’s), and that’s just no good. jungkook feels sorry, but—he doesn’t want that burden. ghost stories never end well.
“jeon jungkook.” they can’t even shake hands. “you really can't leave?”
“nope,” yoongi says. he gets up, and the frying pan follows. it starts spinning in the air. “i would if i knew how to. trust me.”
min yoongi walks, then, straight through jungkook’s coffee table.
and that’s what breaks him.
“i gotta be alone for a while,” jungkook says, feeling the taste of bile, hot in his mouth. he swallows it down. “please don’t come after me.”
jungkook doesn’t wait for an answer. doesn’t wait for another object to move in a strange way. he runs to the bathroom, slams the door, locks it, kneels. throws up for what feels like an hour. afterwards, as he’s hunched over the sink brushing his teeth, jungkook tries to rationalize:
- jungkook's not a ghost helper or whatever they’re called, the people who guide ghosts to heaven or else. he’s never seen a ghost before, that’s for sure, in all 29 years of his life. so—yoongi’s just a fluke. jungkook’s just unlucky.
- yoongi’s definitely dead. he has probably died right here, in this house, maybe in the very room jungkook sleeps in.
- jungkook is scared, but that’s just because it’s fitting.
- yoongi has the saddest face he’s ever seen. like the library of alexandria, like losing a lover in war, like dying in the summer.
- yoongi is not dangerous, and that’s the thing jungkook's most sure of.
—
jungkook comes out of the bathroom three hours later. because he’s so hungry, his stomach is in pain. because he’s feeling bad for yoongi, all alone out there. is he worrying about jungkook packing his things and leaving? jungkook’s not doing that, anyhow: he can’t stop thinking of yoongi’s inconsolable eyes. how must it feel like to be seen, finally, then not be seen anymore? jungkook isn’t gonna let that happen. he’s kind. he’s got a tender heart, that’s what hoseok used to tell him.
when jungkook gets to the living room, he’s feeling very wretched, and the place is an absolute mess. not that it wasn’t, before. jungkook finished moving quite late in the last night; didn’t have time to unpack anything but clean sheets and a change of clothes. there were boxes everywhere, sellotaped neatly and labeled with jungkook’s handwriting.
yoongi’s sitting criss-cross on the floor, pulling out things out from a box tagged as childhood.
his hands don’t move.
“hey,” jungkook says, careful, trying not to startle his guest, as if jungkook’s the haunt.
“well, hello,” says yoongi, nonchalant. he’s flipping through the pages of a coloring book, full of leopards and elephants and meerkats—jungkook was obsessed with wild life when he was around seven.
“have you been going through my stuff?” jungkook asks. there’re about four more boxes open. jungkook’s designer things are piled up in the conner. he doesn’t even get mad. how long it’s been since yoongi saw nice clothing?
“yeah,” yoongi says. he looks embarrassed, but his cheeks don’t blush. “sorry. i thought i’d have time to clean it all up before you came back. y’know, don’t like pranking people until i know if they’re assholes or not,” yoongi’s mouth is mischievous—a cheshire cat. “don’t worry. you seem to be a good person,” jungkook smiles at that.
“you prank people?” he asks.
“yes? what else is there to do in the afterlife?” yoongi says. jungkook wants to asks what kind of stunts he’s pulled. wants to asks about the reactions, if anyone's left running and never came back. wants to ask everything, wants yoongi to tell him everything. he’s about to, when yoongi continues, “you can see me, anyway, so it wouldn’t be as fun,” then, there’s that hopeful little thing again: “you can see me.”
“i can see you,” jungkook replies. yoongi smiles again, and it’s lovely. he’s handsome, jungkook thinks. must have been a heartbreaker. jungkook pictures yoongi—breathing, flushed yoongi—standing in one of those american type of diners.
yoongi, looking like a rockstar.
jungkook takes a framed picture, from the very bottom of the box. new years, 2002. his mom looks so young, in her low-rise jeans. jungkook’s eyes are the size of the moon. he’s holding a popsicle in one of his hands, a star-shaped ballon in the other.
“that’s so cute,” yoongi says, peering at the picture. he chews on his bottom lip, looks thoughtful, asks: “what year is it, anyway? 2018?”
“2022,” jungkook replies.
“oh. ’s been too long,” yoongi says. jungkook thinks of summer days, those wonderful days that end in a hot minute. thinks of going through the slow, dreadful passing of time while being horribly stuck in place. “last time someone lived here was in 2014. this old man. sweet, but kind of boring, since i couldn’t mess with him.”
“yeah,” says jungkook. “the guy i rented it from said it had been empty for quite a while. said it used to be his father’s.”
“he died,” yoongi says. his voice doesn’t waver when talking about death, jungkook notices. of course it doesn’t. “had a heart attack, or something. the neighbor called the police. i guess it was starting to smell,” yoongi looks down at his thin wrists, twists the ring he’s got on his thumb,“his son came a while later to get his things.”
“that’s horrible, yoongi,” jungkook doesn’t know how he should address him—yoongi looks a little younger than him, early twenties, probably, but that might just be the genetic lottery. he wants to ask how old yoongi was when he died, but that would be too delicate, too soon. so, he asks instead, “how come he’s not here, too?”
yoongi’s reply comes quick, and his voice is sadder than ever:
“he must have lived a full, happy life. no bucket-list, no regrets,” that’s what breaking hearts must sound like, “no business down here, no more.”
jungkook doesn’t know what to say. it’s easy when someone who’s alive tells you they haven’t lived, not really. you say, you’ve still got time, even if they don't. it’s human nature. jungkook isn’t superstitious, but he has a hunch lying to the dead is just no good.
they stay silent for a while. jungkook’s stomach growls—jungkook had forgotten how hungry he was. he mumbles a quiet be right back to yoongi, goes to the kitchen, makes ramen. he considers eating it right there, but comes to the conclusion it’d be way more rude than just doing it in front of yoongi.
(can ghosts taste things, after all? isn’t that too carnal? jungkook believes it’s unlikely, but then again, yoongi was sleeping on his couch.)
(he thinks, then, of holding a bone in front of a starving dog, but by that time he’s already sitting on the living room’s floor).
“so, what’s this old rag?” yoongi asks, when jungkook’s halfway done. a bloody, frayed handkerchief is hovering over yoongi’s lap. the sight of it makes jungkook gag a little.
“just that: an old rag,” jungkook says.
yoongi seems satisfied with the answer. he turns his attention to one of the coloring books again. not long after, jungkook finishes eating. he starts making a list of things to ask yoongi. maybe start with something small, harmless, like his favorite music, favorite movies. maybe—
“it’s not just that. you wouldn't have kept it,” yoongi says. jungkook looks at him, attentively. the leather of his jacket looks soft; like something he wears all the time. used to wear all the time. “i might have died long ago, but i still remember what it's like to be human. to hold onto useless things just because they have memories in them.”
jungkook could be evasive. could say, it’s really nothing, just garbage, now tell me about you, i wanna know. but yoongi doesn’t deserve that. and, after all, it’s not a sob story—jungkook’s got no reason to hide.
“yeah, you're right,” jungkook confesses. “there is a memory in this.”
“well,” says yoongi, looking smug. “would you tell me, then? it was lonely here. i've been missing memories.”
“alright. i’ll tell you,” jungkook sighs, grabs a pillow, gets comfortable, “even nowadays—“
1993 - 2007, A DIRTY BLUE HANDKERCHIEF, PARK JIMIN
when jungkook thinks of jimin, he thinks of blood.
not in the morbid, vampire coffins and spider webs sort of way. it's more like blood is vital to human life kind of way. just like memories are. because jimin is there, in jungkook's very first memory: chubby-cheeked and bright-eyed, cake icing all over his lips. jungkook was two, he thinks. it's all very hazy, but he remembers this: the balloons glued to the ceiling, the familiar voice of his mom, the birthday candles he was afraid of. mostly—jimin. jimin stealing the only strawberry of jungkook's piece of cake and making him bawl his eyes out.
when jungkook reminisces about the first years of his life, jimin's name shows up like the lettering of a roadside diner, in a curly writing, some of the lamps dead. the remaining lights are so dimmed he can barely catch sight of them, not as he drives by a hundred miles per hour, at night.
(jimin is: a missed opportunity—but that's for later.)
after that one afternoon of the stolen fruit, jungkook grows up. he turns three, four, five, starts to experience things he will remember more clearly in the faraway future. jimin—doesn't go away. he stays there, in almost every recollection jungkook has of his early years, like a sleep blanket or a teddy bear. it's not really surprising, that they become the best of friends. their families are neighbors, the moms get together nearly every afternoon and the dads go fishing every sunday. the windows of their rooms are in front of each other, four meters apart.
the years pass, and they go like this:
they're six and eight, and jungkook tosses hard candies on the glass of jimin's window, a little before midnight, because he wants to know if jimin would like to come over and play in the seesaw tomorrow morning. jimin rubs his sleepy eyes with his tiny fists, tells jungkook that he could've waited until the next day to ask instead of wasting sweets, and jungkook gets sad, meaningless anger spreading through every ounce of him.
he shuts the window as harshly as he can and goes back to bed, whispering to his plush bunny how mean jimin is. but the morning comes and it's jimin who wakes him, a smile on his face and a gameboy in his hands, telling jungkook to get up so they can eat the rainbow kind of cereal for breakfast while watching cartoons, and then go play outside.
jungkook wraps his frail arms around jimin's torso and says he's sorry for all the nasty things he told cooky about in the night before.
they're seven and nine, and jimin tries to teach jungkook how to ride a bike with no training wheels. it's easy to convince jungkook that it's time to let go of them, since they make it all so easy—and jungkook doesn't like easy. he likes challenges. but—it turns out to be way more difficult than jungkook expected. it makes him angry, sad: telling jimin to let go of the handlebars, because he's sure he can do it alone this time, only to start trembling and losing balance the moment he no longer has jimin's support.
seven-year-old jungkook doesn't understand. up until now, he's been fairly successful at everything new he's tried. jungkook is young, and he's aware that he doesn't know much about the world yet, but he does know this: he learns fast. it bothers him, a lot. it turns him into a crying mess with scraped-up knees, but—after three afternoons of practice, he's the best there is. jimin helps jungkook get up every single time he falls, soothes the scratches of his legs and wipes the tears of his face. when jungkook does a lap around the block, completely alone, without falling once, jimin looks at him with such a proud glint in his eyes.
jungkook wants to make jimin proud of him over and over again.
they're nine and eleven, and the mean boys from their neighborhood begin to pick on jungkook for his new glasses, which are big and round and thick-rimmed. they tell him he looks like baby bambi right before he loses his mom, and jungkook hates that. he doesn't want to be bambi. he wants to be another animal, one that is a lot cooler, like a lion or a leopard. he doesn't want to be weak.
jungkook tries to ignore them at first, and he succeeds at it. but one early evening one of the brats calls jungkook names, very rude ones, while jimin is close to him. jungkook watches as if he's an extra in a movie as jimin gets red in the face, stands up, runs over to the receding figure of the boy and punches him in the back. jungkook walks back home with broken glasses—jimin with a purple eye and an enemy. when it's late and he's trying to sleep, jungkook sobs into his pillow because he doesn't want jimin to get hurt because of him ever again.
jungkook wants to learn how to protect jimin, too.
they're twelve and fourteen, and jimin gets a girlfriend—says he met her in the pool club, when he went around looking for sunscreen to borrow and she was the only one who brought a tube with her. they spent all afternoon talking under the shade of a tree, and she was nice and funny and an year older and had a blonde streak in her hair. jimin asked her if she wanted to go swimming, and she said she couldn't be under the sun or else she'd burn to death, and that's when jimin decided he was in love and asked her for a kiss.
then—she kissed him. she kissed him and her lips tasted of strawberries and something else jimin couldn't quite name. jungkook hears the story in exaggerated details as they eat melting ice-cream, sitting on the sidewalk. the way jimin describes her makes her sound like a vampire and—jungkook is not a vampire. he's just jungkook. instead of chocolate on his tongue, jungkook gets the bitter aftertaste that having a stake dug deep into the heart would leave in the mouth. because when jimin talks about this girl, his voice gets very soft and melodic like wind chimes, and jungkook wants to throw up.
jimin is dating, he's dating, looking so happy and radiant, and jungkook can't help but wonder what it'd be like. not to have a girlfriend. to have jimin.
jimin is like blood—a very important part of the beginnings of jungkook's life.
because of one summer afternoon, though, jungkook starts to liken jimin to blood in the literal, crimson red sort of way. it all happens in jimin's backyard, when jungkook is fourteen, sitting on the tire swing that is probably older than jungkook himself, and—
"hyung," says jungkook, voice more whine than anything else. "push me harder. what are those muscles for?"
"this thing is old," jimin warns, voice quiet. his hands rest palm-down on jungkook's shoulder blades, pushing him forward slowly, with the carefulness jimin always carries around like an amulet. "i think the ropes will tear."
jungkook frowns. he's not that heavy. the ropes are not that worn. there's something lighting up like a candle in the most stubborn corner of jungkook's heart.
"you'll catch me if they do, okay? now go. make me go all the way 'round," it's funny, jungkook thinks. he doesn't need jimin to push him. he's tall enough to reach the ground, almost as tall as jimin is. but still—when they were little kids jimin would do this all the time. push jungkook as hard as his little hands could. he would giggle, all soft and warm, when the tire made a particularly large angle with the tree.
jungkook misses it. he wants to get that feeling again, the tiny sparks of adrenaline flickering down his spine, telling him, you can do anything you want, jungkook-ah.
"no. i can't do it," jimin says, letting go of jungkook completely, walking around till they're face to face. jungkook pouts, and jimin smiles his cherry popsicle smile, the red and sweet kinda smile, and—jungkook is enamored.
"you can't?" asks jungkook. then, he puts The Face on, the slightly furrowed brows and the smirk on his lips spelling out challenge. "thought you were strong."
"shut up," jimin blurts, face flushed, and jungkook gets a fluttery feeling right very close to his left lung. jimin walks away again, getting back to where he was before, closed fists punching lightly up an down jungkook's backbone. "i'll do anything but i won't push you harder."
anything.
anything?
jungkook gets the urge to ask something, then. because it's the middle of the afternoon and he's been out under the summer sun for too many hours and his brain is probably turning into mush inside his skull. or maybe it's because he's fourteen and in like for the fist time and simply stupid.
so—he does ask:
"yeah? would you kiss me?"
there's the force of a race horse being pressed against jungkook's back and—before he can process it, he's flying. not quite, but—suddenly, there is no more tire under his thighs, no more rope under his hands. there's a push on jungkook's body, the movement violent as he falls knees-first, face-second on the concrete, like he was pulled by the earth's core.
jungkook coughs and groans and tastes metal. he sits up, legs feeling like jelly due to the shock. he can hear jimin's mellow, worried voice stuttering out apologies. jungkook brings his hand to his nose and—yeah. something is not right. he watches through blurry teary eyes as jimin kneels in front of him, chanting sorry like a prayer. jungkook wants to tell him that it's okay, that he's not hurt, but he's momentarily forgotten how to speak and he's kind of really hurt.
he doesn't have to say anything, though. because, as sudden as falling was, jungkook feels soft hands cupping his scratched face. feels gentle thumbs trying to dry his tears, to erase the red of his nosebleed. feels—
jimin's lips, right over jungkook's bloody mouth.
“and?” yoongi asks, looking expectantly at jungkook.
“and what?” jungkook says.
“is that it? the story can't just finish there, with a metallic kiss,” yoongi looks disappointed. but a little more alive, too. as if there’s blood on his cheeks. as if jungkook’s life force has managed to seep into him. anyway. jungkook must be imagining it.
“yeah, but it does end there,” jungkook insists, “it lasted two seconds, i don't know if it can be considered a kiss,” it can’t. but for a whole year, jungkook had considered it a romance movie kind of deal. “jimin took me to his house and tried to patch me up. he wrapped this handkerchief around my knee that just wouldn't stop bleeding and stuck band-aids all over my face and—then i went home. night came. summer ended.”
yoongi nods. he was probably expecting a big novel. for jungkook to say oh! twelve years later we got married in june, or something like that.
“what happened after summer?” yoongi’s eyes are unyielding.
“jimin started high school and we drifted apart. there's really nothing much to be said,” jungkook sighs. it doesn’t even hurt, talking about it now. but back then… back then jungkook sulked for what felt like forever. until he turned fifteen. until he met—
“so, you never fell in love with him,” yoongi looks so small.
“no. but i would have.”
“that’s sad,” yoongi says.
that makes jungkook want to cry. he wants to tell yoongi, no, it’s really not that sad, really not the worst—jungkook just yawns.
“look, i’m going to bed,” jungkook stands up. grabs his empty ramen cup, looks around at the mess. at the couch yoongi seemed fond of. “you’ll be okay, right?”
“right,” yoongi says. jungkook thinks he’s lying. “i’ll clean this up.”
“you don’t have—“
“don’t worry. i can’t sleep much, anyways.”
jungkook can’t think of anything nice to say—all that comes up in his mind are death-related questions, and that would be cruel. so he nods timidly, goes to his bedroom, leaves yoongi alone.
later, when jungkook is clean and warm and hiding under his duvet, he almost panics again. instead, jungkook turns over, hugs himself, shoves everything into a make-believe chest and buries it six feet under. he dreams of jimin’s lips on his, like the freezing touch of a popsicle. dreams of unbearable loneliness—of yoongi, unnoticed in a busy street, yelling desperately at the passers-by, over and over: how do i get out of here?