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Their relationship with Yoongi ends the way it began—painfully, that is. Bitterly. Agonizingly. With a flash, a laser show, and singing fountains laced with rotavirus in the technical water.
Jungkook would love to smash his own face in, but Yoongi wouldn’t feel it, and the pain would transfer to someone else—someone innocent, cursed only by their existence and unfortunately fate. Slamming Yoongi’s face into a wall isn’t an option either: not because Jungkook pities Yoongi’s potential soulmate—probably just as much of a bastard as he is, since only a complete scumbag could fit into every crevice of Yoongi’s soul—but because Jungkook still loves him and doesn’t want to hurt him. Or rather, he does want to. He just can’t.
He’s always been too soft.
People took advantage of that.
In kindergarten, they’d snatch his toys without asking and steal his scooter from the playground. In school, they’d pass his full test papers down the rows. On the streets, they’d bum his entire pack of cigarettes and never return his lighters. He even considered quitting basketball when he accidentally split Yoongi’s lip during their first game, playing for opposing teams.
Spitting blood and frothy saliva, Yoongi convinced Jungkook not to quit.
“You’re good at it,” he said, flecks of pain landing on Jungkook’s new sneakers. Yoongi’s hair was bleached by the sun and nine-percent peroxide. His smile was feline, his hands were massive, but his soul… His soul was small and ugly.
Blood splattered the pristine white jersey with the bright orange number 3.
Jungkook stayed in basketball. Yoongi stayed in his heart.
The brown stains never came out of the jersey.
Jungkook took. Jungkook was falling asleep wearing this stupid jersey.
They wandered a lot, killing time on city streets. Yoongi taught him how to smoke properly, exhale through his nose, fake passes in games, kiss, jerk off, get fake phone numbers, and hide his location.
He introduced Jungkook to the dark web, the underground, stoicism, self-harm—all in chronological order, lazily ruffling Jungkook’s hair and warming his rough fingers in dark waves.
Yoongi dragged him to concerts in dingy basement bars, occasionally treating him to beer while sipping a screwdriver himself, as was his style. He skipped practices, got into street fights, carried brass knuckles in his pocket, and kept little rocks wrapped in bright candy wrappers.
Yoongi’s knuckles were always bruised, his lips chapped, his cuticles torn. He didn’t sleep for days and drank too much coffee. Jungkook probably wanted to save him, but Yoongi didn’t want to be saved.
He talked about flying to Chicago, opening a Chinese noodle shop, and using only a flip phone instead of his barely functional, duct-taped iPhone.
“We’d go broke on theater tickets,” Jungkook said, transferring vegetables from his plate to Yoongi’s. They slipped from his metal chopsticks halfway and plopped onto the wooden table at Auntie Lu’s diner. “Chicago’s the city of premieres. You never can’t miss a single one.”
“Nah, I’d save my money for something worthwhile,” Yoongi said, sipping lemonade through a straw, ignoring his food until it cooled and formed a greasy film.
If the place had paper straws, Yoongi would leave. If they had plastic ones, he’d chew them up and spit, cursing the scratched tongue like it was poison.
He said he wants to start a family one day. In Chicago. Have enough kids for a basketball team. Jungkook sighed, “Five was a lot”. Yoongi shrugged his thin shoulders and said, “Maybe”.
Jungkook pitied Yoongi’s soulmate, but he pitied himself more.
Loving Yoongi meant constant pain. For him, it was emotional; for the unknown, fated one, it was physical too. Yoongi was all jagged edges, chips, broken fangs bitten into bone, and scars from those same fangs. A uroboros, devouring itself. A dog that caught its own tail.
Their world was built on pain. You couldn’t find love without knowing pain, and love was the foundation of everything.
“God, he’s so fucking annoying,” Yoongi said, pulling coins from his hoodie and tossing them into a fountain.
“What happened?” Jungkook buzzed, thinking Yoongi still owed him twenty bucks from last week.
“My soulmate. I think he’s got braces,” Yoongi said. Kiss-swollen tongue pressing against lower teeth. Perfectly straight. Jungkook hadn’t been to a dentist since he was twelve, when his mom dragged him for a routine checkup. “I can feel his teeth shifting even in my sleep.”
The fountains sang.
Jungkook stayed silent.
Yoongi kept tossing treasures into the water for kids to find.
“They treated his cavities without anesthesia, then pulled his wisdom teeth, and now this,” Yoongi said, the corner of his chapped mouth twitching. “I think it’s revenge. The ugly, petty kind.”
So Yoongi knew exactly what he was doing to himself and kept hurting himself on purpose.
Yoongi liked rough sex. He was totally enjoying himself on being fucked without lube and took Jungkook the same way—no prep, just searing palms melting skin, hardening nipples, tickling nostrils. Yoongi dodged kisses but left marks—purple marks trailing from neck to spine, lingering like hernias, aching like cysts. His shoulder blades bore raw skin, his knees ground to pulp on tile.
Yoongi taught him to come from choking with a lemon slice clamped between his lips.
Jungkook was soft from his ears to his fingertips: taut muscles turned to jelly, then hardened again when he remembered they existed. His soul was the same.
Jungkook didn’t know he had one until it hurt unbearably or felt impossibly good—often, those two sensations intertwined, inseparable as sisters.
“I’ll find him and kill him,” Yoongi said, playing darts with a set of kitchen knives. Practicing to hit a headshot.
“Painkillers maybe?” Jungkook lay naked on the couch, draped in a thin blanket riddled with cigarette burn holes.
“They don’t help.”
Yoongi’s face was always focused, sad, and pale, even when he grinned drunkenly or lost control in a fight. Early crow’s feet creased the corners of his eyes, and acne scars dotted his forehead, hidden by a jagged fringe.
When Jungkook looked at him, he searched for flaws. When he found them, he tried not to love them. When he failed, he ignored them.
“Don’t you feel sorry for him?” Jungkook asked, lazily picking at his cuticles. “You know, your…”
“Fate?” Yoongi cut in. Soulmate. No, just a soul, not fate. So easy to discard. “Nah, I don’t. I’ll find him, kill him, and then…”
“Come back to me?” Jungkook smirked, cracking a scab on his lip.
Blood spurted.
Jungkook felt no pain.
Someone else took it.
Yoongi bit his lip. “Soulmates are only about pain. I wish we could share all feelings, not just this shit. Maybe then I wouldn’t want to—” Die? ”Do this shit.” And he gripped the knife.
The blade sank into an old scar.
*
That summer clung to his hair with a death grip. It stuck to the lightened hairs on his arms and burned the tanned skin of his nose.
Jungkook packed his things, hopped on a morning bus, plugged in his earbuds, and after fifty-three unanswered texts to Yoongi, he was in the next town over. His aunt’s dog greeted him with a familiar bark, the trees with the usual rustle of endless canopies.
to: piece of me
hey
how you doing?
did you sleep well?
what is on your plate today?
already miss you
Soft light spilled across the gravel path.
to: piece of me
hope I don’t get stuck here too long
from: piece of me
luv u
“Hey!” someone waved a slender hand from the depths of the garden.
First came rubber boots with frog patterns, then a straw hat hiding a wide smile with colorful metal braces.
“You look like a Christmas ornament,” Jungkook said, dropping his gym bag and rushing into Hoseok’s arms, nearly knocking him over. “Or a disco ball.”
“Thanks. And you look like a thundercloud. New vibe? Suits you. I remember when…”
“It wasn’t a compliment,” Jungkook interrupted. If he didn’t cut Hoseok off, his cousin could talk straight through winter.
They hugged until their arms went numb. Jungkook kept thinking his phone was buzzing like an earthquake in his pocket.
to: piece of me
my cousin’s still a total loser
no decent food in this house
just mash and oatmeal
auntie’s obsessed with healthy eating now, lmao
Jungkook had the best time of his life there. Like any city kid, he found peace in quiet, modest streets, the silence of colorful stone houses with fenced yards, his aunt’s garden, and the bright stars overhead. He naively thought small places raised small people, incapable of cruelty.
He knew Yoongi grew up by the coast.
The sea washes wounds, toughens, sharpens stones.
to: piece of me
you’d like it here
from: piece of me
why
to: piece of me
because I like it
it’s quiet, calm, gentle
I could live in a village forever
from: piece of me
got it
Hoseok poured tea with crushed red berries into cups: he burned himself on the enamel kettle’s metal handle a few times, blew on his fingertips, and rinsed them in cold water.
“So, spill it, how are you holding up?” They sat at a round table. “Your mom said you went punk. Guess she wasn’t lying.”
His cousin slid a bowl of candies toward Jungkook, “They’re old, sorry, we don’t eat that stuff anymore, you know,” and pointed to his braces. Getting braces in your mid-twenties seemed dumb to Jungkook; living with your mom after failing on stage was even dumber. He didn’t judge Hoseok, no, just didn’t vibe with his life choices.
“I met someone,” Jungkook said, unwrapping a candy. It reminded him of a colorful pebble. Pebbles reminded him of Yoongi and his heart.
“Already?” Hoseok raised a brow.
“It’s not too soon,” Jungkook huffed. “I’m sixteen.”
“How old is he?”
Jungkook looked down: “Twenty-two. But he says I’m mature for my age. He’s against prejudices anyway—age is just a number.”
“And jail’s just a room,” Hoseok chuckled. “Is he good? Does he take care of you? Does he hurt you?”
“No, he doesn’t.”
Because he hurts someone else.
They went swimming every day, lounged in the sun, rinsed off with a hose, and ate apples. Jungkook quickly traded heavy boots for flip-flops from a kiosk, city etiquette for stealing plums from over fences, and his phone for nights under mosquito hums and local kids’ laughter.
The small world amused Jungkook. Almost everyone in the village was tied by soulmate bonds. They knew each other from diapers, unbothered by the unspoken or untamed. Pain, to them, seemed like just a sound, a triviality.
Sometimes Jungkook felt a jab under his right rib. He thought pain was a motor. A means to get what you wanted. The pain of wounded pride birthed achievers who could eclipse the sun. The pain of boredom led to friendship. Physical pain to love, and emotional pain…
to: piece of me
hey
how are you doing? what’s up?
you’re not texting me at all
miss you
“You know soulmates are about healing pain, right?” Hoseok asked as they sorted cherries for jam. Rotten ones went to the trash, pretty ones to their mouths, and the average ones to the pot.
“Soulmates are only about pain. If we could share all feelings, I’d think differently,” Jungkook said, watching cherry juice drip down Hoseok’s hands, staining his lifeline.
Yoongi had a scar there.
“The universe isn’t perfect, but even it has balance.”
Yesterday, Jungkook woke to excruciating pain in his shoulder. His skin burned like a thousand needles were piercing it. His eyes stung, his palms sweated. A tattoo. No anesthetic.
At that moment, he started to understand Yoongi’s murder fantasies a little.
“You feel pain because of one person, and only they can heal it,” Hoseok continued. His bright red hair gleamed under the midday sun. In the village, people like him were called freaks. “Romantic, right? You’re the disease, but also the cure.”
“Anyone ever healed you?”
“Fresh air and silence heal me. They’re healing you too, see?”
And what does that mean?
to: piece of me
what does that mean?
why are you ignoring me?
what the hell, Yoongi?
to: piece of me
I miss you
please text me
to: piece of me
what, you're in jail for murder or something?
did you find him?
to: piece of me
where are you?
to: piece of me
are you alive?
*
to: Scumbag
Hey. You don’t know me, but I know enough about you. You’re a vile, rotten soul, and I’m writing to tell you that. I hope your dick falls off. Jungkook came here in an awful state because of you. You did this to him.
from: Scumbag
what r u on about, who t u
to: Scumbag
There wasn’t an inch of him untouched. What did you do to him? Why’s he covered in bruises? Why the hell are you even hanging out with a sixteen-year-old?
from: Scumbag
he 16?
to: Scumbag
If you show up near him again, I swear, best case you end up in jail, worst case in a grave. Your choice. Good luck.
*
Yoongi came for him at the end of the week. Well, “came” is generous—he picked Jungkook up at the bus stop after Jungkook called him fifteen times and threatened to kill himself if Yoongi didn’t show.
Jungkook wasn’t sure the manipulation would work, but it went better than expected.
A couple of hours and one smashed jar of jam later, Yoongi stood before him. Disheveled, in a not-so-fresh shirt. Jungkook wanted to introduce him to his aunt; Yoongi wisely declined, grabbed Jungkook’s bag, and slung it over his bony shoulder.
A hickey bloomed on his neck. He didn’t even try to hide it.
They broke up by the end of the ride.
*
Rose-colored glasses always shatter inward.
Jungkook didn’t know a soul could hurt so much. So much it felt physical, like a mob had kicked him senseless, and then a kindly doctor stitched his face with a rusty needle.
He opened Instagram for the first time that summer, and the app kindly served him recommendations based on his friends’ likes. Ass, thighs, navels, collarbone hickeys, ass, ass, ankles, slutty fake blowjob poses, ass, ass, ass, whores, whores, whores. Punk garbage. Ass. Bar check-ins. Ass. Tattoos. Ass.
Redheaded sluts with drying cum on heart-shaped lips.
“So while I was texting you,” Jungkook said as villages blurred past the window, “you were calmly cheating on me?”
“What?”
“This,” Jungkook shoved his phone at him, “your likes. My entire feed is your trash.”
“I’ve always liked that stuff, don’t talk nonsense. Why the hell are you starting with accusations when we haven’t seen each other in almost a month? Chill,” Yoongi said. Jungkook’s lips trembled. “Chill. We’re not even dating for you to mess with my head like this, okay?”
Something in him had changed.
Yoongi was a pain. He never was a destruction.
“What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?”
“What’s wrong with you ?”
The phone ended up under a boot, as if the lifeless device was to blame for all their troubles, not the Min sitting in front of him. Yoongi didn’t apologize, but Jungkook forgave him.
He’d always been soft.
They got off at the final stop. And got back together there too.
*
If you keep cutting the same scar, it’ll eventually turn into a keloid. A thin white line, like a thread, will spread across the skin, a reminder of a ravine, frozen in crimson connective tissue. The spot loses sensation—pour boiling water on it, not a single nerve will fire.
That’s what happens to Jungkook.
He feels nothing when Yoongi kisses their new mutual friend right in front of him—though at first, he’s even glad they have someone in common. Nothing when they don’t speak for days after. Nothing when they make up and wreck the couch in the process. Nothing when Yoongi, in a drunken rage, hurls a glass at him because Jungkook stopped him from bashing his head into a wall. Nothing when his mom asks why he’s spending more and more time on the streets. Nothing when blood trickles down his temple after Yoongi’s aim proves true. Nothing when he sleeps with someone who isn’t Yoongi for the first time. Nothing when he flunks his exams. Nothing when he drinks until he pukes. Still nothing at all when Yoongi sobs on his lap: When will you leave me, Jungkook? Dump me, dump me. I’m pathetic, you don’t need me. I hurt you. Dump me. Go.
He pushes Jungkook away again and again.
“Fine,” Jungkook agrees. Ten kilos lighter, nursing an ulcer, with twenty shitty tattoos.
It was… that easy?
Stepping outside, he sees rain brewing. The clouds swell, and his mom’s probably reported him missing since he hasn’t been home in weeks. Yeah, he’ll need to swing by the police station. The clinic—to check for STDs. The village—to soothe his nerves.
He lights a cigarette.
And suddenly feels something.
Pain.
Bright, clear, like an orgasm. Like a singing fountain with rotavirus in the technical water.
His soulmate bumped their elbow.
*
Namjoon is tall and clumsy. A bit like a bear. When he smiles, dimples carve his cheeks, and his eyes turn to slits. He hides his shaved nape under a beanie and won’t admit he shaved it on a bet.
Jungkook’s heart doesn’t embrace or reject him, but it creaks with such an ugly sound it blocks his ears, like a guitar’s wail. Jungkook hasn’t hung with punks in two years, but he still can’t stand off-key notes, colored hair, heavy steps, or drunken shrieks. He still plays basketball, smokes, and rides buses without paying—some habits don’t change because they become part of you. Jungkook’s fine with that.
Namjoon shares his notes, piles extra meat onto Jungkook’s sesame leaf, asks about his day, and listens politely when Jungkook speaks. Namjoon dreams of Los Angeles and its streets, bright day and night, full of homeless people and filth.
After Yoongi, Jungkook fell in love twelve more times. Always with jerks. But at least they had the guts to end things without drama or tears. And without pubic lice. And without complete, utter chaos. He falls hard the thirteenth time—unlucky number, unlucky love—straight for Namjoon. His nails are trimmed, his shoes clean, no Instagram. Why the hell does he need Los Angeles? They’d eat him alive the second he got there.
Pecked to death by locals and outsiders, like a turkey.
They talk a lot. Drink in group hangouts when the stars align and Namjoon’s strict hall monitors let him out into the world.
Namjoon seems to have no red flags. Except one. His red flag is named Kim Taehyung.
Kim Taehyung is a capital-D Dick.
“…and he’s got a great dick too,” Taehyung says, sprawled across a bench in the university cafeteria. His long legs in scuffed shoes take up the whole seat.
“You checked?” Jungkook’s stuck on a gum-and-snot-covered chair.
“Just look at him,” Taehyung pulls his legs back as Namjoon returns with a tray piled high with food. “A guy like that can’t have a bad dick. Right? Sit.” Namjoon sits in the cleared spot. “Wanna tie you up, Joonie, drive you to the countryside, break your legs, fuck you, and lock you in a bunker. How’s that for a weekend plan? You in?” Namjoon ignores the crude jokes.
He lets Taehyung steal his banana pudding, lets him scan him with a gaze, and lets him drown him in a wave of nonsense.
Taehyung once told Jungkook that he’s actually super shy. He was bullied in school, so he decided to become a playboy when he escaped his village. He talks about dicks because his own never grew. Don’t look at me like that, we’ve known each other since we were kids and showered together a thousand times.
Jungkook thinks it’s funny: life changes, life’s multifaceted.
Yesterday, Jungkook was in a grimy bar with his junkie friend, who’s probably dead now. Today, he’s chasing academic heights. Three days ago, his cousin was in a sitcom, two days ago in porn, yesterday back with his mom, and today he’s brewing coffee in Business Bay. An hour ago, Taehyung was getting pissed off for his weird smile; a second ago, he’s a tall heartthrob with inky lilies on his shoulder.
And Namjoon…
“When I was in school, I was… I don’t know, normal, I guess,” and that’s where his stories end.
Namjoon keeps Jungkook at arm’s length. Guards his hearth from the wind.
They go to museums, theaters, and tours. “They” being Namjoon, Jungkook, his unwanted love, and Kim Taehyung. Taehyung pelts popcorn at anyone talking during movies, argues with tour guides about dates, and thinks the Mona Lisa is “just a chick without eyebrows.” He’s right in some ways, but mostly wrong. Taehyung’s squeamish, cautious attitude.
He burns but never gets burned. Always touches, never lets himself be touched. Always talks, never listens.
Doesn’t share cigarettes. Wipes bottle rims before drinking. Wears fake Rolexes and pristine suits.
Jungkook wonders who broke him.
*
Snow falls thick as they pile onto a bus with their crew. Hoseok hugs a backpack stuffed with beet chips and salted almonds for his mom; Namjoon buries himself in earbuds and a book; Taehyung slumps on his shoulder, lazily tracing the patterns on Namjoon’s Christmas sweater. Jungkook sits across from them next to his cousin, and they talk about nothing and everything the whole ride.
Namjoon looks up from his book twice: once when Taehyung falls asleep, to adjust his head; once when Taehyung wakes, to say he snores like an elephant. “I learned it from you. And you’re uncomfortable, Joonie, where’s your chub?” Taehyung grumbles back, shooting Jungkook a sly glance.
Jungkook doesn’t know why.
His cheek stings like it’s caught in wool, and his neck aches.
The house greets them with silence and a not-so-pretty drinking session to kill it. Auntie fusses, cooking noodles, constantly dropping pots and bowls.
“Let me help,” Hoseok laughs, tucking his red bangs under a headband. “I’m a pro at this. Could open my own noodle shop.”
“Yeah, and pop out five kids with that attitude, mommy,” Taehyung mocks, earning a flick to the nose. Pepper tickles Jungkook’s nose. He sneezes until tears stream, until the tickle fades.
“Enough for a basketball team or to kick your ass behind the corner,” Hoseok says as steam swirls under the ceiling and chimes on Christmas ornaments.
Namjoon tinkers with a radio: found a soldering iron somewhere, now he’s heating circuits, tightening nuts and bolts, humming softly. Jungkook doesn’t know the song. He’s got duct tape wrapped around his finger like a ring. Namjoon does too, to avoid burns—a trick he learned from his dad, Taehyung said. His dad’s the handiest guy alive, I’d let him have me.
“Too bad he wouldn’t touch you,” Namjoon mutters.
“Unlike your mom.”
“I’ll tell her you said that. No more cookies for you.”
“Hey,” Taehyung drapes himself over Namjoon’s back.
“Hey,” Namjoon echoes, exhaling a laugh.
That’s what tenderness looks like, maybe.
Taehyung’s jokes miss the mark, his laughter too. He doesn’t know when to shut up. Doesn’t know how to greet or start a conversation without offending. Doesn’t know what to do with his hands when idle. Doesn’t know how to look people in the eye. He was definitely bullied in school—Namjoon wasn’t lying.
The drinking session’s ugly, though hilarious. Taehyung spills noodles on his beige pants; Hoseok tries to outdrink his own mom; Auntie offers Taehyung Hoseok’s old unicorn pajamas. Jungkook warms his hands on a mug of mulled wine and quietly gets drunk: bites his lips, wants to smash his head on ice—same as every time he drinks, but he’s used to it. Min Yoongi will sit inside him and ache for a long time. Probably forever.
“I think I drank too much,” Namjoon admits between laughter and music. “I’m terrible at holding my liquor.”
“Me too,” Jungkook whispers. “Wanna step out?”
Snow pricks their cheeks. The silent night blankets the tiny town, and Jungkook thinks they’re tiny too, him and Namjoon, though Namjoon’s two meters tall and probably a hundred and ten kilos of muscle.
“Jimin would love it here,” Namjoon says, sitting on a rickety, frozen bench.
“Why?” Jungkook hears the name for the first time. Jimin . Sweet, soft. Not for Namjoon’s lips, no.
“Because I love it. It’s quiet, calm, gentle,” Namjoon says, puffs of vapor spilling from his mouth.
Jungkook wants to kiss him so badly.
“Does anything hurt?” Jungkook asks softly, leaning his shoulder against Namjoon’s. He’s warm now, but tomorrow he’ll be cold. He’s happy now, but tomorrow he’ll be ashamed. Life changes, but pain stays permanent.
“Sometimes. Like everyone.”
“Want me to heal you?”
And he kisses him.
Kisses. Kisses. Kisses.
A disgusting drinking session.
to: Min
come get me
come get me come get me take me out of here
I fucked up ok I need you to come get me
from: Min
who are you
to: Min
it’s jungkook
just get me I’ll explain later
please get me
Namjoon doesn’t push him away.
He makes it worse. He kisses back, then goes inside and plays cards with Taehyung.
from: Min
uh
to: Min
there’s a million ways to kill a man
to: Min
you and your knife chose the kindest one
come get me I’ll introduce you to your soulmate
just come
luv u
*
Blood. Guts. Meat.
If you can’t write “love” without typos, you don’t love anyone or anything. Jungkook doesn’t sleep that night, waiting until late dawn when the gate finally creaks.
Yoongi… alive and well. His cheeks flushed from the cold and a fast ride. He takes off his motorcycle helmet, and Jungkook barely recognizes him in his groggy state, too healthy, too calm. He brought candy, cigarettes, and himself.
“Where’s the knife?” Jungkook laughs, letting him in, not even sure why he texted in a panic.
He wanted to show Min the redheaded whore who ruined their relationship with one Instagram like, in person. Wanted to show there’s no healing. Only pain. Wanted revenge. Wanted to watch someone else’s drama to forget his own.
“What damn knife?” Yoongi says, kicking off his shoes. His socks are intact. Even clean. “I was in rehab for a year and a half, and, by the way, I came to apologize. I was wrong. I acted like shit. I’m sorry .”
There’s a million ways to kill a man.
Min and his knife were humane. Min and his “sorry” years later are the cruelest of all.