#parental neglect and rejection | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

taegularities · 10 months

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colour me in: blue | jjk (m)

Summary: Everything glows blue. The walls in the club; the vibrant lights at the bar; the tattoo on Jungkook’s arm. Your goddamn heart.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: fwb/f2l, fake dating; angst, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: the aftermath of exhibition night…, more pining, jung mf hoseok, tearrrrs, parental issues, neglect, a heartbreaking past tbh, mention of a physical fight, mention of infidelity and lies (not between oc and jk), y’all.. let’s reveal jk’s secret 😁, more tears, insecurities, heartbreak, rejection, communication?!, alcohol – lots of it, a night out, jimin and eun <3, hangover, a lot of apologies, these two are EXTREMELY cute.. otp vibes, sunsets, jk is so broken y’all, showering together </3, explicit sexual content: reconciliation smut !!!!!!, kissing, fingering, oral (f. receiving), impatient sex, lube, unprotected sex, so much kissing, mid-sex convos, mid-sex tears, multiple orgasms, bit of teasing, aftercare; the ending <3 ➳ word count: 30.4k i hate myself ➳ a/n: i’d been waiting for this chapter for so long, and ngl it might be one of my favourites so far. i wrote parts of it like 2 years ago, and both then and now, i kinda maybe perhaps cried my eyes out? lol but no, this part truly means a lot to me… you’ll see why 🥺 thank you for making this so much better in the very last moment @missgeniality, you’re the best fr <3 i hope you guys like it; do interact with me and lmk what you think. it makes my day 🎨🤍 ➳ listen to: only love (acoustic) by pvris | full collaborative playlist 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

You wake up in a different bedroom than your own.

When your eyes open to the ceiling, you don’t see fake stars glued to it. The noises tolling through the open window resemble the city, not your quiet neighbourhood.

And the scent is different, too. Despite its familiarity, you want to go home.

Bed, empty; you’re alone. Though tidy and lovely, the room suffocates you — which is strange, considering the pleasant, tickling September air against your skin.

But your chest still constricts. Too tight.

You get up rubbing between your clavicles; something you’ve been doing quite a lot these days. Whenever the ache beneath the spot becomes too apparent, your fingers attempt to massage it away.

Sometimes it works, but today you’re way too tense to calm your tiresome heartbeat.

On your feet, you crack your joints. You squint an eye shut when the sunlight hits your face, yawning before you trudge over to the window lazily. Warm palms press against the cold windowsill, and you take in the morning breeze.

There’s a white butterfly fluttering around a couple feet from you, flying aimlessly yet free. Those little things don’t spend their lives caught up in complex emotions. They pollinate plants and go about their day.

In some way, you envy them.

You stretch a finger towards it; you’re sure it won’t bite. Too far away and too careless. But watching the rapid dance of its wings, basking in the last of summer — you find solace in it.

“You’re awake,” you hear a voice from behind.

Your hand falls, your body flinching, and you turn to your host before pushing your back against the uncomfortable windowsill.

“Just woke up.”

“Heard you. Here.” Eun walks closer to you; fingers wrapped around a glass of water, she holds it towards you. “How do you feel?”

Well.

How does one feel after bailing on an almost-lover and escaping to the best friend like a lost deer?

Fabulous.

You rub your eyes before grasping the glass, watching Eun plop down onto the edge of her bed as you answer, “Glad it’s the weekend.”

“Yeah, right? I’m still enjoying some time before classes start,” Eun shifts on the bed before crossing her legs, patting the spot next to her as an invitation to you. You take it. “But even Tae only has off on the weekends, so I get bored.”

“Are you meeting him today?”

“Nah. Tomorrow, maybe. He’s with his family today.”

“So a boring Saturday incoming, isn’t it?”

“No, I’ve plans… it’s not that bad. And I also keep myself busy daydreaming about the end of the semester.”

You mouth a long yeees, tugging your lips to a proud smile, and then say, “Right. Someone’s graduating, huh?”

“Just a little more, baby,” she says, lifting both fists into the air in celebration. “And then I’ll be busy enough to not constantly wait for the weekends. I’ll be as busy as you guys.”

She’s sweet, you think. Consistently optimistic, living in the present. Past and future mistakes or worries reside far in the back of her mind; a stark contrast to you.

But maybe that’s why you complement each other so well.

“You’ll be even busier,” you assure.

She nods and hums when you do, letting a couple seconds pass. One of her legs stretches and dangles off the bed, her voice calmer when she asks, “Uhm. Since we were talking about Tae — I heard you guys visited an apartment yesterday.”

You gnaw on your lip.

Yes you did.

A pleasant experience, though usually not that big of a deal — but considering the nature of your conversations and the state of your heart, Taehyung’s words keep rotating in your head.

Because he’s still waiting for you.

In a way, his reassurances led you to the big halls and paintings of dried flowers that evening. And consequently, that’s why, in theory, you’re here now, too.

Everything leads back to him and to the current heartache, doesn’t it?

“Yeah,” you simply answer.

“How was it?” she asks, nudging your shoulder as if to wake you. To make you speak up. “Are you gonna take it?

“Yeah, I might.”

“Good!” When you look at her, the smirk on her visage is mischievous. Glinting eyes stare ahead, her tone malicious when she states, “My god, your parents must be so pissed.”

Right… but.

“They don’t know yet,” you reveal, immediately catching her gaze. Or a glare, is more like it. It flashes over her features, but then subsides when you guarantee, “But they will soon enough. And we shall see what their reaction’s gonna be then.”

Not that you can’t imagine. And not that their anger will deter you.

You’re done; and it’s enough.

You still tip-toe around them, residing between the four walls you’ve always known. And you won’t let anything slip until you’ve finalised everything — you’d be damned if they tried to gaslight you again.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Eun says. It’s not the first time you’re hearing this.

Last night she told you that, too, albeit softer, with her arms around you and a cheek against your hair. You weren’t crying but exhausted. Your soul felt numb to the core, tear ducts stubborn.

But your heart was treacherous, and Eun was holding it together, squeezing it along with your body.

The moments just don’t get easier — and even now, you miss him enough to feel the stupid, sickening feeling in your guts.

“Anyway,” she announces, leaning forward, the back of her hand feather lightly slapping your bicep. “What are your plans for today? No sulking, right?”

You roll your eyes. She and Jimin are quite literally the only ones allowed to mock you when caught in absolute heartbreak.

Annoying little brats.

“No, dumbass,” you tell her. Gazing at her like that, you know she feels at ease under your playful insults. Absolute silence is worse. “I’ve a few things to do.” You count them down on your fingers. “Gotta go home. Shower and change. And then see how that lunch thing turns out—”

“Wait, you’re still going?”

Her eyebrows rise; yours furrow. You pull out the purest, most innocent of looks, shrugging a shoulder as you justify, “He’s been asking me. I promised I’d make time today.”

“No, just,” she shakes her head in absolute judgement, light frustration in her voice, “why are you forcing yourself to that? I mean, you obviously hate being in that dilemma.”

“I—”

“No. Babe, you know I’m right, and I just…” Her voice drops, utter worry lacing her words. She sighs, head angling. “All I’ve been seeing in your expressions since you came through my door last night is regret.”

The conversation is soft-spoken now. Its tenderness is eerie somehow; maybe it’d be easier if someone shook you awake, smacked you back into reality.

Because you’re still in that odd… daze.

To your brain, yesterday evening was an illusion.

His red, swollen eyes; the barely touching fingers on his painting; the way to his home and his touch. So close; so wanting.

And then his confessions and offers — the proof that you were never the only one falling so painfully hard is real, but your mind deems it a fantasy.

Perhaps because Jungkook and all he evoked never quite felt real to you, either. Like a fairytale, too good to be true.

Hurts. Fucking hurts.

You gulp. “It’s hard to shove it away entirely.”

“I know,” Eun confirms, “so maybe you should’ve stayed the night.”

She’s not saying it to guilt-trip you, you know — but to lead you to the right path. To make things good again, to steer towards your happiness when you, at the moment, cannot.

Eun has always had a good judgemental sense. She makes a dozen mistakes and she’s not perfect, but she knows people. Knows how to read them and how to interpret them.

Maybe that’s why she chose to study law.

“But to do what?” you still ask. “We would’ve talked about the same things as before. Would’ve kissed again… slept together. Just to fall more in love with him like the idiot that I am while he still won’t open up. He just— he’ll keep me at an arm’s length.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, it’s his right to remain silent anyway, but…” She smacks her lips, pondering her words. “Allowing him to fight might be a good first step. I think he’s already trying a lot, you know? Like to keep you close.”

You hate that she makes sense. But you’re not trying to force him to anything anyway — this very distance has a different reason. And you’re fighting to live through it as quickly as possible.

“He just can’t get over his pain,” Eun concludes, swaying her leg, looking at it. “He might be scared.”

“I know that he is,” you confirm immediately. “Just. There was barely any time to think or to take in his change of mind. I need to figure a few things out before we can possibly think about more.”

“As long as you don’t stand in your own way. It’s okay, take your time.”

Time is smothering you, though. The more of it passes, the uneasier you get.

The more he seems to be slipping through your fingers. The more you’re fading for him.

And none of you wants this outcome.

After the hurdles you jumped over and ran around, falling a couple times and getting away with still healing bruises, you don’t want this to end like this. The anticipation kept building — only to finish in a disheartening low?

No.

But…

The path to a better moment is painful; too much thinking involved. But careful consideration is necessary.

You let out a groan-like sound, quiet but glum. Eun observes you attentively; watches your face falter more by the second when you choke out a statement.

“I don’t want to let him go.”

Your words are barely a whisper; more a monologue. A reminder to yourself that your desires are the same but the situation is complex; yet solvable — and you hope that if you say this often enough, he and you might not have to stay trapped in this double mill after all.

“Then don’t,” Eun says, her voice and gestures calm, as if it’s the easiest thing to do. “Just wait it out until you’re sure how to go about this.”

“Yeah.”

She presses into your shoulder once. Her suggestions seem easy enough, but she understands the drama thoroughly. One to watch you swim through all the emotions, she’s done her best to keep you from drowning.

Even now.

“Hey,” she says, letting you go. “Jimin and I are going out today. And you’re joining us.”

The smile around your lips is inevitable. Your go-to method after and during heartbreak; a remedy you find in each other and dark bars.

Maybe they were going to celebrate the weekend anyway — or maybe, they organised this for you.

“Am I?” you ask.

“Yes, you are.” Her nod is resolute — no chance to argue. “Pregaming at eight here, and then we leave.”

“Hm. I just—”

“It’s Saturday, babe,” she interrupts. There are little flames in her eyes; a passionate urge to distract you from your situation. “You can’t lock yourself in and pout. Unless you’re staying over at Hoseok’s.”

If you could, you’d laugh. That never occurred to you.

But instead you’re speechless for a moment. It’s a lunch date; you thoroughly hope he isn’t expecting you to stay.

“Oh my god,” Eun murmurs into the silence, rigorously dramatic. “Are you?”

“No!” You hesitate. Voice a vocal here, an uncertain hum there. “I mean, I don’t know, okay? Just. Let me go through today and I’ll let you know.”

“I’m suspicious about this, but… okay.” She presses against the mattress, lifting herself up with a grunt. Her eyes fall to the open window, squinting one shut, blinded by the yellow, bright sunlight. “Just take care of yourself.”

You follow her gaze. The butterfly is sitting on the window frame now. Still and serene; you wonder what it’s seeing or thinking.

Eun nods towards it, delighted by the rare sight. You imagine the lack of greenery around here doesn’t allow a lot of glimpses of nature as it leaves and breathes.

You expect a compliment, a description of the wings; but instead, Eun only says, “Butterflies symbolise hope, did you know?”

“Stay the night.”

You wanted to. Every cell and every tiny piece of you reacted.

Whatever power he practised over you, your body was gravitating towards him; as though he was holding an invisible rope, tugging you in. A desperate attempt to connect hearts and find the happy ever after you’ve sought your entire life.

But this wasn’t going to end well. And it wasn’t how you needed it to progress.

After tonight, you might still have ended up empty-handed; together, but surrounded by the same secrecy as before. Because yes — the option to go back to how things were was there.

And then?

What if he exploded at another inconvenience? You figured his unspoken trauma had a connection to his insecurities. But he wouldn’t talk about it. So what if he left again, made you leave again one day?

Communication was always part of the problem; despite the silent understanding between the two of you, none of you can read each other’s mind after all.

And you needed time to sleep over this — to process his change of mind and to ask yourself how to approach this. You didn’t want to push him away anymore. You just…

Needed a moment to clear your head.

And whatever might have happened now, would have been a burst of emotions. An impulsive explosion; thoughts jumbled up and your chest restricted.

“I…” you started, letting your feet carry you closer to him. He was holding his breath, you think — hoping for you to accept his offer, but waiting for rejection. “I feel overwhelmed.”

That’s when his chest sank again. His hot breath fell against your cheek when you tumbled close enough; his scent was enticing, hard to resist.

“I understand,” he said. As you looked up in doubt, eyebrows knitted together, he repeated, “I do. I really do.”

The sincerity and vulnerability in his voice matched the sentiments behind your chest. You searched his eyes, finding a depth of understanding that resonated with them; the glimmer of hope replaced your fading uncertainty.

But — you still needed to be transparent. More than this, you needed him to know what you wanted.

So you whispered, “I don’t want this to end.”

“It won’t.”

His response was unwavering, delivered with a gentle conviction that draped over you like a soothing blanket. No matter how hidden he kept his stricken heart, you knew he wasn’t lying to you.

It wasn’t over. It’d never be.

“Will you wait for me?” you asked; your palm shot up to his chest, more floating over his shirt than ever touching it. “I just need to think a bit. Come to terms with this change and…” You shook your head a little, shrugging. “Stomach all of this.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want to go with you now and then wake up and still crave those… explanations you’ve stuffed in there.” You pressed against his chest softly; right above his heart. “Just—”

“I’ll wait,” he interjected. Inked, long fingers wrapped around your wrist, lifting them off his pecs, “For as long as I need to. Okay?”

You liked to think by now that Jungkook would’ve waded through knee-deep oceans to reach you. He was as deserted on his little island as you were on your own; and he was ready to wait things out until you’d finally swim over, chiming the rescue sirens from afar.

The devotion was written in his eyes, as clear as day. Never more transparent.

He wouldn’t stop burning you inside out.

“Thank you, Kook,” is, however, all you said.

“If you need anything. Or want to talk or just… hit up a friend,” a sharp jab to your heart, “I’m here.”

But comfort, too.

True warmth.

You couldn’t help but smile at least a little; he’d always be one mere call away, and you appreciated that.

“Hey…” you mumbled, staring down at the wrist he still held, only gradually weakening his grip around it. “Have you always been so sweet?”

Amidst the tension and the tender dialogue, your question caught him off guard. He sucked in air and let it out in a subtle chuckle. And then, thoughts organised, he said, “Only to girls whom I tattooed on myself.”

You laughed.

The sound of it was bittersweet — because he didn’t just symbolise you on his skin. To him, it was you, fully and undoubtedly. Immortalised, a pleasant blue, spelling your name.

The closer tonight’s farewell snuck, the more your smile fell.

He saw the change in expression, and momentarily promised, “I’ll take some time to do some thinking, too. But it'll be okay. I promise it is.”

And that was it.

You didn’t follow up with another answer; he didn’t prod further.

What he ended the evening with was a movement towards you. A sweetness that spoke volumes, gaze locked with yours until his lips were close enough to brush against your forehead.

The lingering touch conveyed a myriad of emotions within the tiniest of seconds. And in another fleeting moment, you felt the affection against your skin, soft and reaching deep within.

An indelible mark of unyielding fondness.

And then, he nodded, turned and walked away.

“I know.”

Zara sounds tired on the other side of the device. You imagine the pad of her thumb against her lower lip, a signature stress move. She’s had a hell of a week from what you’ve heard.

Fall is approaching; the collection is changing.

Dealing with the tumult you’ve witnessed throughout this week and with your demanding ass must be weighing her down.

“It’ll just take a bit before I can give you more info on thi—,” she starts, but you immediately interrupt, shaking a hand in front of your body that she cannot see.

“Please don’t worry. You have your hands full.”

“Yeah. Yeah, no, I can do this for you, though. No worries.”

An angel on Earth.

Since her burst of tough love some time ago, you haven’t directed your anger and sorrow towards her anymore. She’s just another innocent victim to capitalism; trying to survive, giving her best.

Helping you out.

“Don’t worry, either,” you assure. Your gaze lifts from the keys in your hand to the door in front of you. You’ve been standing on this porch for a couple minutes now. “We have time. September has just begun.”

“I’ll try to let you know before the press conference next week, okay? When we’re not stressed as all hell anymore.”

“Can imagine. Yeah, that’s fine. Enjoy your weekend, though.”

Another tired, “You too,” and then she’s gone.

The call cuts, your screen still lit. You gape at it, skipping the hundredth heartbeat today when you see another notification.

Jungkook [3:28PM]: hope u got home well last night. i was thinking of u

You ignore the heat in your face, the sick, fucked up feeling in your guts. Your knees don’t buckle because you don’t let them, and you immediately lock your phone.

Out of sight, out of mind, they say.

He fills up yours, though.

You draw a breath through your nose until your chest hurts, stuffing your phone into your bag, and then hold up an insecure, tightly clenched fist to the door.

You’re not going to knock; you need to ring the bell. But your nerves require the moon-shaped scars in your palm — you press in until your jaw doesn’t clench anymore, and then push against the bell.

It takes a couple of seconds.

And then, a sweet, welcoming smile greets you.

He’s wearing wide pants, cosy cotton. Dark hair parted in the middle, ruffled up; he must have carded his fingers through them a literal second ago.

You wonder what his parents think of that oversized, vibrant shirt, hip-hop-styled. You know yours would get a stroke if you walked around like this — and you know they’d throw out most of their opinions about him if they saw him.

But you don’t mind. He still looks gorgeous, a truly well-sculpted man. And you appreciate the freedom Jung Hoseok portrays.

A bird; optimistic, doesn’t keep his wings shut.

He stretches out his arms, inviting you into a hug. You can’t foresee how this afternoon might turn out, but you want to embrace his warmth. He’s genuine, and he means the tenderness.

You trudge forwards and into his arms, letting him sway you for a moment, and then lean back with a timid smile. Seeking your gaze, he laughs a little, and when you find the mole above his upper lip, he says, “Hey there.”

Sincere. Sweet.

Men are conflicting.

You wrap your fingers around your purse’s straps, and he gestures you inside, welcoming you into his suburban home.

Smalltalk proceeds smoothly as he leads you into the living room, over the staircase, through the hallway. When you walk past the prestigious bathroom you already know, he ignores it — it’s as much of a detail for him as your piano room to you.

Always there.

But to you, this very bathroom evokes a dozen memories, no matter how obscene. It’s prominent and aching, intense and vivid.

You shut your eyes, forgetting to open them for two seconds, shaking the craze off your mind. Hoseok’s voice is pleasant and civil, lovely to listen to as he opens the door to his room and you follow blindly.

But once he’s shut the door and starts tidying up a little, you ask, “Are we staying here?”

Pure eyes look up at you. He looks around his spacious room, his stare suddenly slightly guilt-stricken, and answers, “My parents are having lunch downstairs soon, and I figured we might not wanna sit among them.”

“Oh?”

You don’t mind staying here, you really don’t. You’ve seen this room before; curled up and cuddled up on this bed once or twice.

He’s just so sweet.

You chuckle, surprised by the sound as he inquires, “Do you uh— do you want to? Are you hungry? We can go and have lunch with them, no problem.”

“Oh, it’s fine. We can eat here, too,” you tell him, walking across the room to take a seat on his tiny couch.

He has a freaking couch in his room.

You know him enough to understand that he’s humble — for someone who owns this much money, yet spends his days behind a cash register at the movies, he must be.

But he has never been afraid to embrace his lifestyle, either. He basks in both worlds.

And that’s what you’ve always somehow done differently, you guess. Your room is simple; moderately decorated, dirty old stars on your ceiling.

It makes you think — the first time Jungkook ever entered your room, he seemed surprised. Didn’t expect the lack of luxury.

You gulp.

Everywhere — he’s everywhere. Even in a stranger’s fucking house.

Ghosting.

“I’m not that hungry yet, though,” you tell him, “we can just chill for a bit.”

“I’m fine with anything,” Hoseok promises, falling next to you on the beige couch. You think you’ve kissed him here before, too. “Lemme know when you want to eat, though. Cook is about to make some fresh lunch.”

You nod. You’ll need his and your time here. For what you’ve settled on in your mind, you’ll need a moment to open up. Just a few more minutes to swallow the fear and guilt before spitting it all out.

“Okay.”

“So,” he asks, grabbing the remote control on the tiny coffee table in front of you. He fumbles with it, opening YouTube on his smart TV, and asks, “How are you these days?”

“I’m okay.”

Shot out like a bullet. But he catches your insincerity; and you sigh.

Him noticing has never been a problem, but his reactions have been.

“You look so down, though,” he says.

“Yeah, just… stressed.”

“You can talk to me anytime if you want, you know?” Yeah. So far so good. But. “Maybe we can figure out what the problem is.”

There it is.

Another attempt towards fixation. The same reminder of the internal construction site.

“I mean,” you start, “the problem has always been stress. And you know, parents with their dozen demands and all.”

“…It sucks that they still make you feel that way.”

“Yeah, well,” you lift a hand to your face, rubbing your cheek and down to your chin. “It’s okay.”

“I don’t know. Is it really?”

His tone is soft and his eyes observant. Like he’s searching for something. A glimmer of hope… a path he could lead you onto. Expecting a bright light at the end of it.

Magic, perhaps. Automatic, easy healing.

Some people find their remedy this fast. But you’re working towards it slowly and in your own ways. Late, but you are.

That one man currently floating through your mind is part of it, but he never tried to be. And perhaps that’s exactly why he is.

It’s lovely to know that someone sees you as you, a whole piece with all the bruises on your heart and mind. Unpleasant but a firm part of you.

“Don’t remind me,” you say.

Hoseok, previously hunched over a little, leans back, letting the remote fall into the corner of the couch. He tuts before his heart-shaped lips press into a tight line, and you’re ready to digress before he speaks up again.

“Hey, is there not a way to tell them off or something?”

“I’ve tried,” you answer, patience rolling off of you gradually, “I’m still trying other ways.”

“I hope they work. Though I do think talking to them again cou—”

“Hoseok.” The word is formal and curt, monotone and menacing. It shuts him up immediately. “It’s fine.”

The way his shoulders sag is telling; you feel relieved but bad, too. More when he barely nods, leaning back, and mutters a small, soft, “Sorry.”

But Hoseok isn’t one to dwell — or at least, he returns to his usual self insanely fast, charming and humorous.

The awkward silence remains for a couple minutes, but as you dive into harmless conversations again, Hoseok sits up properly and states, “This feels so different from freshman year. But it also doesn’t.”

You lift your eyes off the TV, a neutral but confused blinking accompanying your question, “What do you mean?”

“I mean… we were all wide-eyed and clueless back then,” he turns the volume down before he lets the hand with the remote control dangle between his legs. “Would prioritise college parties and be late to classes. And fuck up exams.”

His shoulders move to a shrug, eyes gesturing through his room, “And now we’re here as graduates. Full ass adults and all. Times have just changed, so,” he looks back at you, “you being here feels different from how it did when I talked to you first, too.”

Yeah. Because your surroundings and your life and your goals all changed.

Hoseok is right, you used to be wide-eyed and clueless. Living through every day as a growing kid, just out of teenagehood, getting used to college life.

He was a bit older than you, having worked under his family for a couple years before starting college; it’s why you collided during freshman year at all.

Back then, you were still enthusiastic about the change in view. You were younger, so your parents didn’t demand much just yet. They’d let you study, albeit still being a pain in the ass every now and then.

You used to think that was what a family consisted of. Ups and downs, occasional pressure and busy parents who’d hardly find time for a healthy interaction.

And then, you started slacking off, taking time off college, and — finally, this caught their attention. Scoldings about putting your career on the line led to a dozen arguments, and the comfort of your house and your room turned into a nightmare.

Since you first got to know Hoseok, every little bit of you has changed. Of course he’d notice that over time.

“Did we talk at a party? For the first time?” you ask.

You mostly remember the few get-togethers you had with him. The conversations and that one night that brought this very attachment upon him. But you can’t recall the beginnings.

He can.

“Nah. Pretty sure we didn’t. I think we met at some study group that a mutual friend put together.”

“Riiight.”

“But I did notice you properly at those parties. Those… terrible dance moves.”

A faux, sudden gasp escapes your mouth, eyes stretching; and then, you laugh. You hit his shoulder lightly, pressing your knuckles in, and in defence, he persists, “I’m kidding! You were just fine.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying! Wouldn’t have looked for so long if you weren’t.”

Your cheeks grow hot. Even then, you saw his smile from afar. One of the prettiest, gentlest beams you’d ever seen.

“Well,” you say, “I guess that’s better than terrible.”

Hoseok waits, the firm amusement glued to his face. Then, he reveals, “I knew you’d caught me staring, by the way. But you weren’t creeped out. Even terribly kind when I approached you later that night.”

“Honestly, I probably thought you were looking through the crowd.”

A beat passes, and then you snicker; he understands the playful lie, holding your gaze, and says, “I’m glad I was subtle then.”

“For some time, yeah. Not so when you kissed me.”

Shit.

Should you be saying this? Or thinking of this? Isn’t it highly unnecessary, considering your current state of your feelings, and the current state of his?

Ready to recede, you open your mouth, but he beats you to whatever bullshit you would’ve added, “Busted. Caught your attention, though.”

“Yeah. Caught yours, too,” you respond, looking down; just away from him. “Guess terrible dance moves do that to onlookers.”

Hoseok chuckles.

His shoulders always rise when he giggles. The back of his hand covers his mouth, though you still see the mole right over his heart-shaped upper lip. It grabs your focus for a moment long enough for him to notice.

The sweet, empathic eyes drop to your smile as his laughter subsides, a couple last remnants of it tumbling out before he’s pulling a deep breath through his open mouth. His chest falls slowly; the tilt of his head is sickening.

Despite how your silence shoves the sounds of the TV into the foreground again, they still dim and fade as you observe his movements.

As if in slow motion, he pushes forward. The fist that presses into the couch guides him as his body nears yours; and you, feeling the immediate spinning of your thoughts, remain frozen at your spot.

You know what he’ll do — or what he’ll try to do.

You wish you could give in. Accept this vastly different reality, one that’s probably canon in another universe.

If there was a way to fill his tender heart instead of breaking it, you would.

As his lips draw closer, you awake — just a little, your body dodges the upcoming touch, nearing the armrest so slowly that you barely notice. But once again, he does.

Because instead of kissing you, he halts mere inches from your mouth. All the longing and affection he kept stored the last months morph into an aching realisation, and when his eyes open and dart up to yours, you feel a piece of you crumble.

“Hm,” he voices. You still feel his breath. And then, the gentlest touch on the tip of your nose. When he draws back once and for all, he asks, “You don’t want this, right? You’ve never wanted it.”

This time, it’s not a tactic to remind you of all the guilt and pain you carry. Or an unintentional slip up that tries to assure you that he can take care of you.

It’s a genuine question — seeking finality.

So you hold his stare, stabilising your voice before you finally declare, “No.”

You don’t know if it would’ve hurt less if he was surprised.

But he’s not. His muscles, despite the slightest flinch of his eyebrows, don’t buckle. He remains in the same state of quiet disappointment, as if he waited for you to finally drop the bomb.

Even last time you rejected his advances, you gave him a sliver of hope. Wasn’t that what led you here? Because you remember what you said.

Maybe one day. But not now.

So you owe this conclusion to him. Adding to your culpability, this was long overdue.

He says, “I understand.” Shifts back a little more, establishing a safe distance between you. Then, he deduces, “But you seem to have other reasons now, too.”

His words cut you like a knife.

Maybe the intensity of your heartache, showcasing enough for him to recognise, is the ultimate proof of where you truly belong. Though you know that one neither needs to be smart nor observant to understand that home is somewhere else; definitely not here.

You look at him wordlessly, shifting your pupils to your lap as you hear him ask, “At the movies back then, something happened, didn’t it?”

You can’t answer. You want to — but some stupid clump is blocking your throat.

So he speaks on, “I remember seeing the two of you at last year’s New Eve’s party. I thought you were hooking up or something.” You were, stupidly enough. “But I never thought it was this serious.”

Your response is quick.

“It wasn’t back then.”

Again, he makes, “Hmmm. So, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I need to be.”

“Giving it a go?”

“Maybe. We’ll see how things turn out. There are issues and they’re… fresh,” you answer. You fully expect another interview, another attempt at therapy.

But none of it ever comes.

Instead, for perhaps the first time since you ignited this little episode years ago, he remains neutral. Nods, telling you after a brief press of his lips, “I can imagine what they are. I feel like my parents wouldn’t react much differently.”

Hmm…

Maybe there’s a world out there, in a different universe, where you never met Jeon Jungkook. Maybe you found peace with and in Jung Hoseok; understood his life, his joys and his pains.

There might be a reality in which you’re wrapped in his arms, right here where you’re seated, unbothered by his attempts to cure you. Maybe you dig them there.

But that world differs vastly from yours — and in this life, you’ll endure the pang of pushing him away. He’ll endure the heartbreak of not being the one and knowing all about it.

Here where you live, you look into eyes that are slowly acknowledging the situation. Patient and understanding; and his little promise matches his tender heart when he says, “If there’s anything, ever at all, know I’m here. You’re…”

Previously leaned back, he dares a movement towards you. The long, slender fingers reach to your curled hand, opening your palm to hold it and finish, “You’re my friend.”

Your throat constricts. He cares, you know. He will never badmouth you; he’ll keep you in his memory fondly. And that makes it hurt a bit more.

“I hope things work out for you. I mean, way smoother than with me,” you tell him. Hoseok looks down, smiles, and then looks up with an angled head again. “You’re a good person, and you deserve it.”

He exhales through his nose. One side of his lips tugs to a smile, but the downcast eyes and slanting inner eyebrows still reveal his dejection. The kind of expression that’ll change to full blown disappointment once you leave.

Pushing forward, he closes the distance between you. More and more of it vanishes, nearly gone as his lips draw in, and you think he’s about to try one last thing, ready to dodge when—

You feel the gentlest press against your cheek instead. It’s a fleeting, respectful touch, barely there. As if he’s keeping you clean for someone else; someone you really want.

When he pulls back again, his smile is wider, tiny dimples above it, and he says, “You’re a good person, too. Like, an amazing one. And I hope you know, because I know everyone around you does.”

You appreciate him. You really do.

Destined to be together in a different world or not — as you absorb his words and lock the bittersweet warmth in your heart, you think…

There’s beauty in persevering a temporary bond, cherishing it and etching it in the memories of this world — even when paths sometimes diverge.

Jungkook [9:13PM]: hey btw.. I’m sorry i asked last night. i probably stressed u out and that’s like.. the last thing i wanna do. please take ur time, just… know i mean it when i say I’m sorry

The notification lit up your phone half an hour ago, and your eyes have been glued to it.

Until now, that is.

You can’t keep walking without looking straight ahead; you might fall and die before you get the chance to reply to whatever tumult he causes.

The urgency in his words, hiding between the lines, makes you dissolve. The call symbol is still on the right corner of the screen, and his messages tempt you thoroughly — as though they’re pointing to the symbol directly.

Trying to make you give in.

But you tell yourself it’s okay for him to wait a little — you will call. You will have that last conversation, either leading to utopia or ruins.

At least now, however, you can’t.

You avert your eyes from the device, clutching it tight as you put your arms around your body. The position fucks with your balance, and your heels don’t help.

But at least this is keeping you warm. Your arms are covered in goosebumps, though the reasoning is quite hard to decipher.

Jumping out of the chat and back into the real world, you squint into the night. The bar sign glows from afar; the minutes you’ve walked from where you parked your car seem endless.

As the sole sober person, you insisted on driving — you didn’t accept the liquid Eun offered to you at her place, and you’re determined to keep all booze away from you tonight. You’re already lightheaded enough.

But whether you’ll succeed is a different story.

Jimin and Eun aren’t as clear headed as you — tipsy and chatty, they combat all boredom as they wade through one random subject after another.

When the muffled background conversation becomes clearer to you, they’re conversing about something entirely new. You hear Eun say, “And that’s why San Junipero is the best Black Mirror episode.”

Jimin disagrees.

“Not saying your points aren’t valid, but you know… Shut Up and Dance.”

“Yeah, right, but you gotta admit that—”

“I know,” Jimin waves her off, finishing her statement as if he’s memorised it, “nothing beats the 80s nostalgia and the prospect of love after death, etcetera. And I agree!” He raises a hand to shut her up when she attempts another argument. “I agree. Just. You know.”

You have no clue what she knows, or what he means. He doesn’t give another reason for his thinking, and it seems that Eun doesn’t need one. And as you prepare for the next topic, you understand why.

“There we go,” she says, pointing up at the neon board that reads the ultra-standard name of the club. “Let’s fuck things up, y’all.”

“You guys better not have the police come over,” you tell them, amused when four eyes roll at your warning.

“Excuse me,” Jimin says, opening the door to the place — the music already chimes through, quieter in the small hallway. “We’ve never had security escort us out, unlike someone else here.”

What?

Wait.

It takes a second. Then, another. And then you realise—

He’s right. They’ve never had any issues in this regard; you, however, were thrown out of a club not too long ago, along with another, angered man by your side…

That time when you were dancing in each other’s arms right before you left the place. Or when you drove home right after, skin against skin in the dark of your roo—

Stop.

Not now. Not tonight.

It’s okay. It’ll be fine — in your little group, you never tend to be unhinged. And Jeon Jungkook isn’t here.

Focus on your triggered friends.

But their vexation isn’t directed at you anymore; Eun pushes at Jimin’s chest, leaning into him as you steer towards the glass door leading inside. Tells him, “You’re the biggest jerk ever.”

And that’s all.

You blend out their words.

You focus on how the club looks. You’ve never been here before, but according to Jimin and his research skills, they have tremendous cocktails and actual, good music here.

But the first thing you notice isn’t how crowded the club is, or how enjoyable the remix chiming through the speakers is. You see the colour.

All of the room is blue. The walls, the illumination, people’s skin in the glowing light.

It’s kind of pretty — but it blinds you, too. Makes you want to blend it out.

You search the big room for a cosy corner; a dark table serving as a respite from the pulsating energy of the dancefloor and the flashing lights.

The vibrant atmosphere is still palpable when you settle in the back of the club, but at least you can engage in a more intimate conversation, away from the crowd.

And it hurts your eyes less, though you still keep peering around.

Somewhere in the middle of the club, lit by different other colours than blue, party-goers adjust to the rhythm. Some bodies move fluently on the dancefloor; others are swaying, eyes closed, clearly locked in another dimension.

Every now and then, you spot tipsy couples. Arms slung around shoulders, hands touching waists, ghosting over casual shirts or glittery dresses or the dance partners’ asses.

Even in the dark, you see their smiles and lips mouthing lyrics. Tilted heads, desiring eyes. They’re…

Incredibly tale telling signs of affection or lust. Such a standard for such an outing. But they remind you of something.

Someone.

Back when you danced with him. Body against body, his touch burning you through the fabric of your clothes, lips drawing closer yet interrupted by the world you’ve always fled.

Was it the night you graduated? The night the sparks flickered most dangerously?

Wasn’t it just a few days before he left for his hometown, clearing so many questions you’d so idiotically hidden in your heart?

Unwillingly, nearly acting automatically, your eyes drift to your phone. Fingers sneak to the screen, ignoring the incessant shouting in your head, and when you unlock it, the message is still there.

Fuck.

You feel sick.

Ignore, ignore, ignore.

When your gaze wanders through the room and settles on the blue bar, Eun seems to catch your change in attention. Despite the firm decision you vowed upon at her place, she asks, “Want some drinks?”

You probably shouldn’t. You drove here. But your head feels heavy with overthinking; and you can’t get him out of your mind.

Because.

You still hear the words he said to you yesterday. Stay the night. You smell his scent, always the same and always a remedy.

And you feel his touch on you; months ago when you shivered under it on the dancefloor. Or the first embrace when he came back to you after weeks of vacation. Or last night — when his fingers brushed your cheek.

Something in you is changing. A brewing storm, right in the core of your stomach, building up to rain.

“You know what?” You sit up in your seat, slamming a hand onto the table. The sound drowns beneath the other noises. “Maybe I can do a bit.”

But your definition of a bit turns out quite wrong anyway.

Because when you summon the waiter, you order a couple shots. Eun goes for a drink you don’t hear; but when it arrives, you decode it as a bottle of Bourbon. And Jimin asks for a fancy Mojito.

You share most of the stuff; you down your shots while the bottle pops open, moving to sips of the sweet potion. Indulge in conversations, stare at your phone once again.

Message still not gone. You ignore it. Continue swallowing away mindlessly until the effect starts kicking in.

You know you’re overdoing it.

But… It helps.

Your head gradually becomes dizzy, and your friends are so much funnier than you already deem them. Suddenly, you are having genuine fun, phone stuffed in your purse and nearly forgotten.

The bar seemingly far away — it looked way nearer before — whispers your name when the shots kick in, and you excuse yourself swiftly, without any resistance. Your smile is probably a delight to your equally gone friends; they won’t protest against a single of your choices tonight.

Your mind oscillates when you sway to the bar; it’s less dark here. The blue wakes you up a little, separating the eyelids already heavy with exhaustion.

But there’s this guy behind the counter. A typical bartender, wiping glasses clean. His movements are smooth; he’s not paying any attention to you.

To him, this is a daily routine. The way his head rocks to the music, wrist snapping around the glass, and an optimistic attitude that glows brighter than the fluorescent light.

And then, he looks up.

His hair is long, half of it bound to a bun at the back of his head. His lips are pink and full when he smiles at you, tattooed arms leaning against the counter as he says, “Having a good time tonight?”

You throw a smile back along with your hair, turning on the stool and immediately stopping once it affects your stomach. You hold onto the edge of the counter, stabilising yourself.

“How’d you guess?” you ask.

“You’re glowing. And I saw you come in. Looked pretty different then.”

“Ah. So you just observe every guest in here?”

“Not every guest,” he admits, squinting one eye shut, “just those who clearly don’t want to be here. And then I watch their mood change.”

You click your tongue. That obvious, yeah?

Or maybe it wasn’t that serious. You remember coming in without a sense of direction, merely adjusting to the lights and colours. Trying to navigate to a free corner to seat your drunk friends at.

Perhaps this is his go-to conversation starter. People like sensitive shit, don’t they? Pick-up lines are outdated and uncreative.

And as much as you hate yourself for admitting it — just for a moment, casting around for distraction, you take it.

“You know what else could change my mood?” you try. You see the sparkle in his eyes bit by bit, picturing what he must be expecting. But you take it slow — put your chin in your palm as you tell the stranger, “A strawberry daiquiri.”

“You haven’t had enough?”

“Hey,” you warn playfully, pointing a sharp finger at the man’s sharp jaw. “My decision.”

“I mean… Alright then,” he says.

He adheres to your wishes immediately, expertly slicing ripe strawberries as he combines them with rum. The actions are timed just right; the moment passes as it always does. But to you, time strangely stretches.

His voice is a little muffled as he squeezes lime juice, adding a syrup in a shaker filled with ice, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. But I would suggest you go home after that one.”

How sweet.

You wonder if the cocktail, confidently shaken, flavours melded together, tastes sweet, too. Your ears are clogged up now; your focus remains on the vibrant pink concoction.

The bartender strains the mixture into a chilled glass, pushing it towards you.

And the moment he lets his arm drop, you sight the one art piece you didn’t detect before. Right under the bend of his elbow, red, soft petals of a blooming flower spread on his skin.

You shiver.

“I can take you home if you want. I should be done in a bit.”

Okay. Now this is a cliché line, isn’t it? It makes you uncomfortable.

You inhale the aroma of your drink; the tangy taste refreshes and simultaneously fogs up your mind. Your answer is brief, “I brought my car.”

“But you won’t be driving it.”

Well. “No, I… I won’t be.”

“So think about it,” he offers again, “I promise I won’t poison you.”

You tilt your head, staring into the depths of the bright booze. Cocktails are not an issue; you can take more than that. But the shots and whiskey the waiter brought were probably a bad idea.

And you feel it now.

Feel the sorrow return in full intensity. God, is it worse this time? Because it’s tying up your chest to the point of breathlessness.

You say, “Huh… Someone who does that would say that.”

And the stranger, amused, agrees, “True, too.”

He waits. Waits a little longer. Your eyes start drooping when someone else’s picture flashes through your mind, rushing by fast. A fleeting orange-blue on his arm, star-ridden eyes.

Brighter than the lights here, darker than the colours.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

You need him out of your goddamn mind. Would slamming a hand against your temples help? Would it look stupid? You don’t know, you just need a way out of here, but you—

“Hey, are you okay?” the man asks, conveniently turning his arm, the flower on full display.

This is a sick and twisted joke by the universe, you’re sure.

“Yeah, just. Drank too much.”

“Figured. I shouldn’t have mixed you a cocktail if—”

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

It’s a mantra to yourself, more than anything. But he doesn’t buy it — honestly, would anyone? You hear it when he asks with suspicion in his tone, “Really?”

“Yeah, my friends are—”

You look back to your table, but it’s empty. Jimin is probably in the bathroom or something; but a couple feet from your spot, in some corner, you recognise Eun. She’s on her phone, cutting the call the moment she detects you; continues waving before trudging towards you.

The guy behind the counter returns to his duties, serving other people with wary eyes on you. You appreciate the care; but he’s suffocating you for reasons he’s not quite responsible for.

“Your friend?” he asks calmly.

And you answer as relaxed as you manage with a wildly pumping heart, “Yeah.”

“Hi,” the friend in question immediately greets, plumping down on a stool next to you. She doesn’t see your state yet, focusing on your new friend, probably proud of you. “I’m Eun.”

“I’m Sanghoon.” Ah. A name to the stranger. His heavy, strong hand shakes Eun’s, and he asks without hesitation, “Are you guys alright?”

You know Eun hasn’t been for a moment. But she seems to be faring better than you, controlling her alcohol consumption. She didn’t throw in just whatever, like you.

She shrugs a shoulder, furrowing her eyebrows as she looks at you, “Yeah, I’d say so. Right?” Then, back at him. “We haven’t had so much fun in a while.”

“Right,” you agree, though already halfway off your seat. This is enough. “Hey, I’ll catch some fresh air, yeah?”

“Shall I come with you?”

Her reaction is as sweet as frustrating. Shit, you shouldn’t be this distraught.

“No,” you answer, shaking your head. Stepping away, “No, stay here. Take care of Jimin.”

“‘Kay. Don’t be long then.”

One last nod. Heels carry you away from the crowd. Everything is too damn blue in here.

The door to the exit opens, the air of the new season medicine to your lungs. But as it clears your head just a little, memories tumble in. And in the middle of the late night, standing on a semi-empty pedestrian street, after days and weeks—

You finally break down.

The late summer night, preparing for fall, has a tinge of cold in it now.

You can’t quite pinpoint whether you’re imagining the sudden drop in temperature or not — because the dresses around you are still skimpy. Jackets missing.

People are fanning air into their flushed, euphoric faces. Couples pass your rocking body, their arms tangled, and the mere idea of love knocks you out of breath so badly that standing proves impossible.

You take a seat at the edge of the pavement, aggressively sniffling, angling your legs and pulling them in with a probably childish pout.

You shouldn’t feel the envious sting at other people’s happiness.

But it’s there.

So prominent when that one guy leans into his girl, pressing his smile into her cheeks. His arm wrapped around her waist, his steps synchronised with hers.

They’re one of the first you see. And then, suddenly, they’re everywhere.

The silent, fragile ornament beneath your chest rages. The tears you secured behind your eyelids blur your sight, escaping and escaping, collecting at your chin. Your ornament’s splinters make your chest bleed.

You keep glaring at the rush of couples. Wonder whether your and his steps were ever this synchronised, too.

Fuck.

The hand clutching your phone loosens around the device, and in a reckless moment of courage, you scroll down your list of contacts before the phone’s pressed against your ear.

Suddenly, the bell is chiming. For an eternity, it seems; he’s taking his time picking up again.

He must be occupied with his painting, preparing for more showcases. Dirty, coloured fingers might be seeking a cloth to wipe them clean, wondering who must be calling so late at night. Though—

Right. It is late at night.

He might just be sleeping.

And once he does take your call, your theory proves accurate immediately.

For the tiniest moments, you wonder what he might be thinking. What your name flashing on his screen might have ignited in him, and if he’s aching as much as you are.

When his voice echoes through, fatigued and hoarse, your internal questions stop. His tone is laced with a hint of worry that he’s never hidden from you.

“Hey,” he greets, painfully tender. He clears his throat and then adds a little, “Hi.”

And then he pauses.

He doesn’t ask why you’re disturbing him at this time, doesn’t sound mad or irritated. Even half asleep, he’s soft and patient; waiting for you to pour out your heart in a moment.

Waits ten seconds more.

Ten seconds sound short in theory, but when they’re filled with a silence loud enough to shatter your eardrums, the increasing heartbeat is natural.

So how did you live with this pace for all those weeks? Thousands of sets of ten seconds.

To not fuel his worries further, you speak up, “I was…”

Behind the sorrow, there’s unbridled anger in your chest. Not at him, neither at yourself. It’s the emotions riling you up.

“I was thinking of you,” you admit, lifting the back of your hand to your cheek. You push it into your skin, soaking in the drying tears. “Wanted to know if… if you were, too.”

“…I was asleep.”

That’s what he says.

But you hear the truth in his voice. The attempt to hurt you just a little less, to decrease the longing and pain. It’s bold of him to lie once again, you think.

And you’ll act like you’re not hearing the yearning in his voice. Like you don’t know that he was probably dreaming of you the way you dream of him. Neither of you needs a waking moment to think of the other.

He steadies his voice; the fact that he needs to reveals the effect of the past weeks. Their destructive intensity resides in you, too, stupidly slipping out when you let out a long, shaky sigh.

Stuttering a little as you admit, “This is fucking hard.”

The background noises catch your attention when he doesn’t answer, only to fade back in one rapid second when he finally answers, “It is.”

His words, quiet, hesitant and sharp as a razorblade, cut you into petite pieces. There must be a way to assemble them.

It’s the hurt in them. The silent ache, the present tense.

It’s the fact that your hearts and minds never really separated since you shared that first kiss in the rain — probably way before that.

Since you realised how tight the grip of his palm around your entire being is. Since you found serenity in him. Saw him sleeping next to you; woke up in his arms; walked away with his red-rimmed eyes engraved in your mind.

The grief that accompanies all your confessions makes them so much harder to bear. And you don’t know what more to say.

But instead, it’s him who opts for the next question, though you’re certain he knows the answer already, “Were you crying?” Pause. “…You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, staring at your feet. Those heels are killing you. “In my defence, it was Jimin and Eun’s idea.”

Jungkook doesn’t like it when you drink alone; and the fact that you aren’t must relieve him.

But it’s not enough for him to lean back, you suppose.

Because you soon hear groaning and shifting. He hasn’t left the call, because you recognise the rustling of clothes and chiming of keys. He doesn’t let his presence known now aside from the occasional sounds.

You use the silence to add, braver than ever, “We shouldn’t have been in a position where we still need to… think what to make of us.”

A whispered call of your name shoots back, like he’s warning you to push this thought aside. To him, your state must be all that matters now. But the hushed word spurs on your hurt further.

Your intoxicated brain fabricates idiotic thoughts and pushes them to your tongue before you spit—

“I thought I meant more to you than this.”

All strings break, because he inhales a deep breath — it sounds like a sharp hiss through the phone, and you squint your eyes shut at the sound, dropping your head lower when he says, “You did. You do.”

You like to think you weren’t a fleeting experience that’d slip out of his memory just like that. But it’s hard when those drunk, heightened feelings drown you like that.

It’s so odd.

You’re confident he wants you one minute. And then doubt everything the other.

“I do…” you repeat, less as a question, more as a reassurance to yourself.

“Where are you?” Jungkook asks. He sighs, shutting a door, and when he adds another question, his words are reverberating off the walls of his hallway. “Where are Jimin and Eun?”

“Inside. Drunk… Having fun.”

“Send me the address and I’ll pick you guys up.”

Chivalrous acts have always been a part of him. They were probably one of the reasons you fell for him. Behind the façade of the campus crush jumping from bedroom to bedroom hid a gentle soul that kept trying to open up to you.

You saw every piece of that caring being that night on the roof. And he hasn’t changed.

That’s why you still stick to this shit like glue.

It’s a shame; somewhat unbelievable that you lost it. And that you lost it because of such stupid, stupid reasons.

“I don’t wanna burden you,” you say, but somewhere veiled inside bubbles the desire to see him again. “And you don’t have a car.”

But he’ll act on the firm decision he’s settled on, you know. Despite the fact that he said he’d wait, he’s still on his way. And you don’t want him to turn back.

Maybe you’re selfish. Maybe he is, too.

“You have one, right? Did you come in your car?” You nod, realising late that he’s not seeing it, and only humming when he calls your name again. Then, “Send me the address.”

You do, waiting a second, and he states, “That’s ten minutes from my place. Gonna take a cab and be right there.”

Dammit. Your heart is pounding.

You’ll see him again?

As the line cuts, you pull your legs in closer, fingers fiddling with the straps of your heel to free your feet of their confines.

The sigh of satisfaction when the pain becomes duller is telling. A half-smile creeps upon your face, and you press your cheek against your knee, holding the heels.

You wish you could take off the metaphorical ones digging into your heart, too. And then you laugh.

God, you’re drunk.

The world is spinning a little, an unshed tear swimming in the corner of your eye. The lights and voices are dimmer now.

For fuck’s sake — what kind of hell has Jungkook thrown you into? Why is everything so dark and gloomy and grey when it should be vibrant and neon?

He’s an artist, right? He didn’t need to colour your guts and heart and mind and dreams in black and white.

Goddamn it.

“Damn you, Jeon,” you whisper, sniffling.

You’re shivering from the chill gust, your waterline burning. Your body is still, unmoving and anticipating.

Only…

Only flinching when you register the excruciating warmth of his palm.

The heat he emanates, the solace and affection, tied into one single unit — you feel it the moment it touches your cheek carefully, lightly. A thumb strokes the apple of it, a body suddenly kneeling in front of you.

You look up with drooping eyelids. Furrowed eyebrows and dropped corners of your lips inhabit all the melancholy you can’t contain anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he only mumbles before he leaves your cheek cold, letting the back of his hand brush your face instead. He’s soft and cautious; like you’re one of his clay sculptures. “I’m so sorry.”

His eyes hold your gaze intently, like he’s studying you. Exploring your soul, attempting to find words that might be appropriate enough after all those weeks of loneliness.

Something about him looks unreal.

“They’re inside?” he then questions, offering his hand subtly.

For a second, you ogle at the open palm. You want to turn it around, admire his tattoos once more. Want to see if he’s actually here and you didn’t imagine the phone call.

But instead, you shake the urge off, pulling yourself together.

With a slow blink, you nod, allowing him to pull you to your feet. Your wobbly legs nearly destroy your balance, your feet back in your heels but threatening to slip out.

“Take them off and hold onto me,” he says; waits until your shoes are off again and he can carry them. Wraps an arm around your torso and demands, “Lead me to your car and give me the keys.”

You sigh. The constant instructions are too much. The noises are too much.

And when you throw another glance to the bar entrance — it’s too much, too.

Everything is just so damn blue.

The lights when someone opens the door and floods out. The tattoo on Jungkook’s arm, floating in front of your body in case you fall forwards. Your fucking heart.

You want to hear other things from him than those caring commands. This is so stupid. So exhausting.

With all energy gone, you tumble to your car, parked somewhere two minutes from here. Around the corner, you think — you hope profoundly you’re taking him to the right place. But when Jungkook presses the button of the car key and the tail lights of your car blink, you shrink in relief.

He steadies you once more, leading you to the passenger seat and lets you settle. Puts your seatbelt on. And then tells you quietly, “Stay here. I’ll just go and find those two. Okay?”

You don’t respond with more than a nod, still finding the situation oddly unreal. As though he’s a figment of your imagination and not really here; as though you’re forging a conversation and actually talking to yourself.

But then he says something again, fuelling your lovesick insanity when he places his hand under your ear. He makes you look at him, and desperately pleads, “Say okay. Please.”

“Yeah… okay,” you give in, watching him nod before he closes the door and vanishes back into the stupid club.

Stilettos discarded under your seat, you wiggle your toes repeatedly, ridding your poor feet from the pain as you wait.

You’re not quite sure whether thirty seconds or twenty minutes have passed when the door of the backseat opens again and everyone you cherish stumbles in safe and sound.

When you look back, Jungkook’s lips are pressed into a line, the last string of patience holding his sanity together as he properly shoves your friends inside with a shake of his head.

You don’t think Jimin or Eun are quite as drunk as you — you remember them controlling their intake a lot more than you did. And different from you, they ate at Eun’s.

But they definitely don't look like they could drive home or be trusted to take a cab alone either.

Jungkook rounds the car and enters the vehicle in a rush, brushing fingers through his dark hair as his eyes scan your forms and he asks into the round, “Are you guys okay?” He helped all three of you to buckle up, but still, he adds, “Do not move from your spots.”

Jimin laughs. He throws your purse to the front seat and into your lap, and then leans back. You catch his stare shift to Jungkook in the rearview mirror; his eyes glint with a hint of light anger and mock.

There’s protectiveness towards you that you decipher; resentment towards the man you fell for.

Jungkook sees it, too, but averts his gaze. Asks for the addresses and then starts the engine with a gulp.

Eun and Jimin live close to each other, but with a fairly big distance to you or Jungkook. Which means… there’s enough time for awkward grilling and skilled dodging of questions.

“Hate to say it so blatantly, but. I can’t believe,” Eun starts, leaning forward as her arm settles on Jungkook’s headrest, “your ex is bringing us home.”

Your ex.

As if the realisation of lonely nights and silence wasn’t enough. You barely hear your voice these days, because he’s not here to talk to you. Are official terms and labels the last thing left to let you topple towards acceptance?

No. Only that you’re not quite accepting it yet. Because you agreed that it’s not the end, right?

“Right, especially if it was him we were trying to get away from,” Jimin blurts, and your fingers twitch.

Was that the intention?

You might be hazy and intoxicated, only barely able to form coherent thoughts. But you’re sure you’ll remember to kill him once you wake up. Throbbing headache or not – your friends are being jerks, and they’ll pay for their stupidity.

“Shut up,” you say a little too loud, annoyed and irritated by the screaming street lights. At least they’re not blue anymore. “Just seriously, shut the hell up.”

“I just don’t appreciate… this,” Eun starts, falling back into her seat with a roll of her eyes. She doesn’t mean the ride, but the situation. “Like… coming back like it meant nothing.”

Eun is usually the patient one. Just this morning, she was the one to suggest giving yourself time. To think it through and not stand in your own way.

You know she meant it — and even though it doesn’t surprise you, you suppose she had hidden some vexation from you, too.

A few torturous seconds pass and neither of you dares to voice a single word. You look at Jungkook with caution in your eyes, realising that yes, he’s focusing on the road, but the gears in his brain are whirring.

You see it in the numbness in his gaze. It’s dark, devoid of his usual stars, a black hole consuming light and everything else in its periphery.

You see it in the clench of his jaw. The paling knuckles around the steering wheel. The way he relaxes his grip around it when he calms down.

He looks different from when you first met him.

Hell, he looks different from when he parted from you yesterday.

In the darkness of the night, you can’t see much of his face, but you still recognise that the usual bubbly sparkle is missing. No trace of his humour shimmers in his features, and he looks bothered, distressed.

“I called him,” you mutter, not quite averting your gaze just yet. He meets your tired eyes for just a moment, quiet despair swimming in his countenance. “He came because I called him.”

“Girl.”

It’s Jimin’s scolding. He’s less patient with the situation, clicking his tongue once before he falls silent, staring out of the window as city lights pass by. Eun cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything much anymore.

And you — you keep looking at your own personal light. Or the one that used to be yours.

The beat of your heart keeps fluctuating — from a steady, calm rhythm to a stagnant, wild fear. If the circumstances allowed, you’d trace the moles on his face and the curve of his lips. You’d lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth.

But.

“Okay,” he speaks up once he pulls into a parking lot, undoing his belt as he looks straight at Jimin, “let’s bring you home.”

As the men exit the car and approach the building, one more act of gallantry, your eyes travel to their bodies. You observe their lax movements, though one of Jungkook’s hands isn’t buried in his pockets, ready to catch Jimin if need be.

They walk silently until they reach the entrance — and then, something happens.

Their mouths move. They… seem civil with each other.

“Are they… talking?” Eun asks, surprised, squinting her eyes.

She’s right.

Under the gold of the entrance light, Jimin tilts and shakes his head, flashing a tender smile as he speaks. You don’t know what he’s saying to Jungkook, but you see the younger man’s head fall.

He listens to whatever Jimin has to tell him; as your best friend, you reckon it’s the same old song. Probably that Jungkook shouldn’t have broken you. That it was unfair and that you were missing him and that he should’ve fought for you.

The usual things.

But what you don’t expect is Jungkook’s non-verbal answer. With an equally lovely smile, he shrugs his shoulders, and the beam doesn’t even falter when Jimin hits Jungkook’s chest gently, proceeds to pat his shoulder and walks in eventually.

And just like that, it’s over. You blink.

“The heck was that?” Eun questions, but her curiosity fades all too soon when she yawns and closes her eyes again, arms crossed.

You don’t know what it was — but you do wish you knew.

The procedure repeats when Jungkook drives to Eun’s place and accompanies her to her door, too, silently this time, only leaving when she has disappeared inside.

Despite your astounding perseverance to keep your eyes open during the entire car ride, you feel them shutting once you get off the highway. The area you live in is peaceful; but the streets make you uneasy.

When Jungkook parks and nudges your shoulder gently, assuring you’re awake, your body feels weightless, your head heavy.

You’re sure you’ve never felt this exhausted before, and if it was up to you, you’d probably sleep right here, in the comfort of your car, surrounded by his scent. In this uncomfortable, dumb dress that you found in the depths of your large closet.

The engine dies, your door opens. Hands unbuckle your belt and hoist you up from your seat. It happens in the blink of an eye, though your eyelids have long fluttered shut — but when you open them, you’re standing in front of your porch.

Unsteady legs, heavy and aching, keep you on your feet, solely because his arm is curled around your waist.

The seething touch is firm and determined, probably leaving scars, and you wrap your own arm around his torso. Crumpling up his white shirt before you look into his face.

Bad decision.

In a moment of already lingering weakness, your knees turn into putty.

Because he’s staring right back at you; his eyes are big and troubled. Warm fingers tuck your hair behind your ears, nodding as if to reassure that everything’s okay.

“How do you feel?”

A familiar breath grazes your face when he utters his question, blinking slowly as he guides you to your house in alert. Walking with his arms around your body is easier; keeps you balanced and somewhat sober.

Maybe it’d be the same if you weren’t mad drunk.

“I’m okay,” you answer, unzipping your purse with one hand before you lift it to his chest, “thank you for doing this, Kook.”

He distracts himself by searching for your keys immediately, hiding how many wires the nickname diffuses in his brain. Hastily, he unlocks the door and steps into the dead silent house.

The light he switches on guides you through the enormous living room and up the stairs; only for another pair of steps to join your nightly stroll. In the middle of the hallway, you dully hear her voice.

She’s asking what’s going on. Jungkook doesn’t bother explaining to your mother. Instead, he pulls you closer into him, protective and urgent; his voice is kind and mannered when he asks, “May I?”

Whatever opinion your mother harbours about you, you cannot imagine that it’ll improve anytime soon. You must look like a mess. And you can barely walk.

But for now, she grants her permission. Jungkook, daringly, asks if she’d be able to bring a simple sandwich to your room as he guides you there; you truly wonder whether she will.

Next thing you know, you’re entering your bedroom, still blinking from the bright light downstairs. This time, he leaves the room dark, relying on the moon’s glow.

The room is suffocating and way too warm. You tug at the straps of your dress with an uneasy expression, dropping when Jungkook sets you down on the edge of the bed.

He notices, opening the window before he falls to his knees in front of you and asks, “Is it okay if I help you shower?”

You want to smile, fall back into old habits and remark something snarky and teasing. But he’s looking up at you earnestly, not a single trace of a hidden intention in his pupils. Genuine worry coats his voice, lips pouting, and you notice just now how messy his hair is.

And he’s wearing joggers. Truly rushed to you.

“Is it okay for you?” you question back, fully aware that intimacy of any kind might be the last thing on his mind.

“I just need you to feel better.”

You nibble at your lower lip, and he traces the motion before his eyes flit back to yours. You wait a small moment, and then nod, whispering a simple, “Okay.”

He freezes at his spot; you wonder why. It was his question after all.

Typical.

Even in the time you spent together, you more often than not wondered what went through his head.

Theoretically, the answer you gave isn’t devastating or gut-wrenching in any sense. And it didn’t hit him unexpectedly.

Looking at you like this, a fatigued head lolling to the side and shoulders slouched, you were going to agree anyway.

Jungkook merely freezes because of the light tenderness in the single word you mumbled. It lifts a bunch of the heaviness weighing down his chest.

Because it’s the same tiny voice you’d use when you persuaded him to stay a little longer. The same pleading tone when you’d beg him to watch another movie before going to bed.

The one he heard in the mornings when you were still tired, and the one you’d use as you drifted into sleep. You’d mutter your words in this very voice, half-aware of what you’d be saying, slitting and healing his heart.

He’s dreamed of it, gentle and innocent; heard it in the sheer vastness of his room. It reverberated beneath his chest, crept its way into his memory with each stroke of his pencil on a paper or canvas.

It’s what he remembered until he thought he’d imagined it.

A day. A week. A month.

Time heals all wounds, but he doesn’t think it’ll stitch up his own if he stays away any longer.

He heaves a deep breath, controlling his shaky chest. He can’t quite swallow the tight knot in his throat and can’t untangle the tied-up tongue. Gawking at you with whatever his eyes are revealing to you.

But then, the tumult inside rises alarmingly, suddenly aware of the moment again. Because you raise a hand, balancing yourself with your palm against his chest, attempting to stand.

And before he can say anything else, he breathes once more, counting one heartbeat before he curses, “Fuck.” The dark ocean in his gaze glitters with unshed tears, and he leans in, cups your face with one hand and says, “I miss you, angel.”

And that’s all he gives you for now.

Maybe it’s all you need for now, too.

Because he sees the way his confession cuts your air supply, rendering you speechless. He doesn’t let you respond anyway, because a moment later, he says, “Here,” wrists lightly in his grip, he pulls your arms to his shoulders, “wrap your arms around me to stand.”

You do. He can’t say what you’re thinking, because you’re barely looking at him. You get to your feet, whining a bit when he puts his hand to the small of your back, pressing you against him until you’re stabilised.

And then, one arm around your waist, letting you walk slowly and dragging you to the bathroom.

“Can you undress?” he asks. “It’s okay to keep your underwear on.”

You nod feebly, starting to awkwardly fumble with the hem of your dress. He turns around immediately, listening to your quiet grunts. Using the time to take off his own shirt and joggers.

And while he feels inappropriate enough, you still mutter, “I won’t keep my underwear on. I’m home… It’s uncomfortable.”

When he turns, you’re still in your bra and panties, like you’re waiting for permission. Your hand is rubbing your forehead.

Is your head hurting badly? He wishes he could take some of the pain. You look so miserable.

He nods. “Whatever you like. I won’t look.”

“You’ve seen me so many times,” you say, eventually working on the remaining pieces, and once stripped, tumbling to the shower. You whisper, “I don’t mind.”

“Okay.”

“Take off yours, too… You can’t go home like this.”

He doesn’t intend to leave yet. But he doesn’t know what you’ll allow. So perhaps you’re right.

It takes another minute of toying with clothes and adjusting the shower water until he’s stepped in with you. He’s seen this bathroom a dozen times, but the volume of it surprises him every time.

There’s a bathtub on one side, a shower on the other. Way more luxurious than your entire room.

He goes for the shower. There’s no time to bathe; you need nutrition and sleep.

Gently, he tugs you to the ground, watching you sigh in relief when the cold marble floor combats the heat of your body. Minutes pass silently as he washes your hair and cleans you up.

You’re drowsy, slipping away. His touch on your skin isn’t aggressive; even when he works on your make up, fighting with its remnants as well as he knows how to, he’s kind to your body. Perhaps he just knows your lazy routine by now.

Face masks or cleansers might be missing, but this is better than nothing.

“Jungkook?” you mumble in the middle of it all, as if to check whether it’s actually him sitting in front of you.

He looks up; your eyes are closed. He wipes back his wet hair to no avail. The shower slips it back into his eyes. Carefully, he answers, “Yeah?”

“What did Jimin say?”

Huh?

“What?”

You puff out some air, unintentionally blowing water drops into his direction. You ask, “Can we get up? I’m… am falling asleep.”

He grants you the wish immediately, your question floating through his mind. He knows what you’re referring to, but he’s scared to admit all your friend told him. But you don’t ask again.

Instead, you drift closer to his soaked body, holding onto his bicep. For a minute, you stand there unmoving, only daring to close the distance between your forehead and his shoulder.

Jungkook’s courageous hand comes to rest on your naked back, pulling you in ever-so-slightly, and he asks, “Are you feeling sick? Need to throw up?”

But you shake your head, “Not yet at least.”

“Glad you’re okay.”

Your body screams for sleep, but somehow, your voice is clearer now. He wishes he could look into your eyes and see the same, sober affection he used to. Not that—

That melancholic yearning when you look at him again, splitting him in half. You’re still so beautiful like this. The same pursed lips and the same warm skin. That purity in your gaze, though tinged with sadness now.

If the moment and your words weren’t so tainted, he might’ve been able to coax a little smile out of you.

But they are.

Because you ask, “Are you real?”

You’re right. Tonight feels like an illusion to him, too. A cruelly tender one that his brain pieced together to pull him deeper into his suffering. You weren’t by his side for weeks.

Insufferably far away. And he hated it.

Hated it when he left you standing in the alley. Despised it when you didn’t show up to the showcase; it was a pleasant day, but inside his apartment, there was constant rain.

Or when you finally did come. Looking like you actually missed him. Hurting his chest; he could hear his heartbeat in his ears all evening.

More in your car, and the worst when you prepared to leave. The intense pain when you gave him his present, igniting hope and then shoving it away when you decided you wouldn’t stay.

The days passed in a blur. Whenever you were there, you still weren’t there.

And now, you suddenly are.

Just like that.

“I’m here,” Jungkook answers, hesitating, doubting reality as much as you. “I’m real.”

His hand wanders up to your shoulder blades. No matter how soothing the shower, the urge to pull you in is unbearable.

He wants to lift your worries and stay right here as you so cautiously ask, “Are you… still gonna be here tomorrow?”

“Do you… do you want me to be?” You nod lightly with a falling head, though dejected, half-lidded eyes stare at him again a moment later. You’ve always been impossible to resist. “Then I can stay.”

Pause. Then another question, your voice drowning in the sound of the shower, “And then?”

And then…

He doesn’t know. If there was a way to foresee the future or anticipate what the two of you will be deciding on, he’d probably spill it right now. Bask in the comfort or burn through the heartbreak.

But there isn’t. Not yet.

And when he’s unable to answer, all you say is, “Okay.”

Jungkook gulps. Closes his eyes, nibbling his lip; and then, he turns the shower off, wrapping you and himself in a towel and walking the short way back to your bed.

There’s a little snack on your bedside table when you return — a sandwich.

Once again, you nearly reckon you’re imagining things; did your mother really do that for you? Maybe, despite all the feuds, she cares after all.

For a minute or two, you forget you’re tired, because you’re starving more. The only aspect of your being keeping you from eagerly swallowing the sandwich is your dizziness. Your head is in chaos. You barely know what you’re saying.

Incoherently mumbling things now and then, hoping it’s nothing dumb.

Dressed and neatly tucked in your blanket, back pressed against the headboard, you hum in approval. Your head is spinning, but you’re content for the moment. But when Jungkook speaks again, you feel a wave of shame wash over you.

“What did you drink?” he asks. “You’re… in such a bad state.”

Uhm…

You remember the cocktail. Some shots? Something more. Definitely more than you should’ve had — perhaps you should thank the deities above that you’re still alive.

“Was being dumb,” you manage to say. Words are exhausting right now. “I’m better now.”

“Still not feeling sick, yeah?”

Another slight shake of your head. “Mh-mh.”

Jungkook is sitting in front of you, as if watching over you. As if to rush to the bathroom with you should your stomach strike. He’s just looking. Legs crossed, singular wet strands dangling in his eyes.

You bite away at the second triangle of your improvised meal; your throat grows drier again. Plate in your lap, you reach for the glass of water, gulping down two thankful sips before your focus drifts.

Away from the food, onto his knees. You unfocus when you stare too long, and Jungkook’s back straightens, eyes seeking your gaze. But before he can ask, you repeat, “What did Jimin say to you?”

Right…

His fingers curl around the hem of the thin blanket. You appreciate his presence, be it to stay the night or to wait for you to fall asleep. But the conversation between the men was odd and rare, and your curious mind, amidst all the tumult, decides to concentrate on that suspicious little interaction.

You mention how you’re talking about the moment Jungkook brought Jimin to his door, waiting until he responds, “He said he’s growing fond of me.”

You finish your food, and Jungkook reaches for it immediately. He bends forward with a groan, placing it next to you on the bedside table, but you don’t see it. You’ve closed your eyes, slowly, lazily chewing away.

But you still manage a little, “Really?”

Half-aware, you move your toes, fluttering your eyelids open to see the motion in the movement of your blanket. You listen to the song of the chirping nightlife, focused on anything but what this situation means for you.

You’re scared of what might await you when you wake up tomorrow.

Which is probably why you addressed something entirely else.

“Yeah,” Jungkook says, “he uhm…”

He’s hesitating. Weird. If you could think, you’d dissect that pause; but right now, you can’t figure out what’s floating in that mind of his.

It takes a moment, stretching endlessly, until he’s talking again. He sounds so vulnerable when he admits, “He appreciated that I was there. And said that despite everything, he has some trust in me? I dunno what he meant but—”

“I think I do?” You rub your eyes and then your neck, slowly slipping down the bed and against his knees. “Knew he’d grow fond of you because,” stalling for a second, attempting to stretch your legs until Jungkook moves, “he knows how fond I am of you.”

Hm. You say it casually, but it’s crazy how deep its meaning is.

When the strings break, they do so suddenly.

The moment you utter the last words, you recognise the truth behind them.

You are fond of him; provided that fondness is a word impactful enough. At least it’s effective enough for you to choke up. The last pronoun you mumble comes out broken.

Your eyes feel damp somehow, all of a sudden vulnerable. You blink the misery away.

He puts a hand on your leg, squeezing for a second. His expressions shatter when he sees you like this. There’s a thick clump in his throat, restricting his speech. And your voice grows quieter, torn when you ask—

“Did you forget how fond I am of you?”

Those are dangerous questions you ask. Ones he knows the answers to; answers that you might still be too gone to accept.

“No—”

“But that was such a dumb decision you took,” you interrupt.

You don’t sound as mad as you could be, but it’s like your emotions are building up to it.

You’re patient, or perhaps just weary when you babble, “A man shouldn’t be allowed to break up with his girl after a confession in the rain. Yeah, I still think about it, you know?”

He didn’t doubt or question it, but you scoff in sudden mock. The sound makes him back away a little before he’s shifting closer again. Looking for forgiveness silently.

“You delivered this big speech,” you say, “and made those…” You shake your head, spitting the words like a curse. “Stupid emotions grow and then made me leave because of such stupid reasons.”

Okay.

Perhaps you are still filled with anger. It bubbles somewhere underneath all the sadness, hiding and now jumping out in its full glory.

And unfortunately for you, you’re in no shape to curb your words.

So you continue, “I always told you I don’t give a fuck what others think.”

His doe eyes don’t shut you up anymore, despite the insane amount of affection he portrays… the amount of care…

Not even when he slips under the blanket with you, attempting to tame the situation, and says, “Hey, hey. We can talk about it tomorrow, I promise. Sleep on it.”

“Just because you think I dunno what I’m saying.”

Which you probably don’t. And you easily give into his gestures, letting him help you settle, allowing your head to hit the pillow.

But in your misty head, what you’re saying is making perfect sense — so you don’t stop.

“You knew I didn’t give a fuck. You knew my parents are no exception to that.” You try to push against his chest once more as he adjusts the blanket around your body, pulling it half off of him. “But…”

Strength leaves your palm, your wrist weak when you stop pushing him away. Your damp tresses tangle up; they’ll be a mess tomorrow. His cover his eyes, but the parted lips and fidgeting hands tell you enough.

Limbs trembling. Much like yours. Sensitivity pushes tears to your eyes, but you blink them away, only finishing with a, “But you still left.”

An inked hand crawls to your elbow, seeking your touch as he whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m so—”

“And you didn’t ever come back. Those weeks felt like a fucking eternity… thought you moved on. And then the dumb invitation to your showcase, I—”

You instantly feel bad. The exhibition wasn’t dumb and his invitation was sincere. Maybe you’re truly more unguarded right now, prone to guilt. But this feels awful.

“I wanted to come back,” he interrupts, swallowing, pushing half his body up by his elbow. He looks defeated. “I wanted to. Just not like… this.”

He waits. You grit your teeth. Breathing out through the nose, not resisting this time when he moves closer.

“I didn’t move on. I couldn’t stop thinking about yo—”

“Are you lying?” you interrupt. You suggest it softly, but his breath still hitches. Is he tearing up? Because you know you are. “You must be lying, because you told me to leave like it was nothing and—”

“Ang—”

No. Not that word.

In truth, you know his plea meant something to him. Back at his place when he froze you on your spot and threw you out. You saw the tears and heard the trembling voice.

That’s your overthinking, little brain. It gaslit you into thinking that this might be the truth, blending out all logic and facts you witnessed weeks ago.

His light grip around you turns firm, attempting to pull you into a hug and out of this craze. But you can barely think. You just know you can’t hear the word he attempted to whisper.

“You’re a goddamn liar, Jungkook. You didn’t even stay as you always promised you would.”

The dozen times he asked you today whether you’re okay?

The answer is that you’re not.

Whatever you might claim and however much you might drink, the gaping hole in your heart does not feel okay. The empty room, the anger that he brought, the madness and downward spiral — none of it is okay.

Jungkook doesn’t notice that you’re crying until his shirt feels warm and wet. Your fingers curl harder into the white fabric, and your shoulders start shaking silently.

He moves his hand to the back of your head, and the moment his warmth burns your scalp, you let out a quivering breath. And then back to the hushed crying.

Your chest hurts. Your forehead pushes further into his chest, legs carefully angling until you’re half in foetal position. Jungkook probably doesn’t know what to do with you.

He just holds you. Sniffles into your hair. You can’t hear him crying, but someone who veils his feelings so incessantly might have perfected the craft of keeping himself quiet.

Which… Makes you hurt more.

“I hate this,” you say. The heat in your face is unbearable; you’re starting to break a sweat again. “I hated this so much.”

The lonely nights and the hollow days. The colourless world, wretched without him. And it—

“It hurts,” you whine.

“I’m sorry.” Jungkook doesn’t let go when you shiver and doesn’t let go as you ruin his shirt. He repeats, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

And that’s how the rest of the intoxicated, regretful conversation passes. In tears and pleas, in confessions and apologies. Anger subsiding, sadness growing.

You’re not in the state of mind to discuss the issues at hand. He knows, and you know. So you keep crying. And he keeps sniffling.

You don’t look at him and he doesn’t tell you to.

Instead, you stain his clothes until your mind shuts down; sobs decrease in frequency and volume. And when you finally calm down, slipping away bit by bit, he pushes your legs down.

Pulls your hands off his shirt, placing your arm around his waist. Shifts closer slowly until you’re nestled in his embrace.

And then, he says,

“It hurts me, too.”

Your palm grazes cold sheets when you drift out of dreamland.

The emptiness is the first thing you notice, only interrupted by the incessant pounding of your head. And then, you realise the silence. The lack of bird songs; the missing breaths next to you.

Despite the fiery pain, your body shoots up like fireworks. The dizzy motion allows you one single glance through your room, and you register another form, seated at the edge of the bed, drawing closer.

It takes a moment until you can see him clearly. You hold your head in place, calming the pulsing in your head. You press against your forehead, breathing in, and by the time it gets better, you feel fingers around your wrist.

Jungkook pulls your hand to your lap, and asks, “Are you okay?”

You open your eyes carefully, patiently. They’re heavy with sleep; you don’t dare to nod just yet. Humming, you find his gaze.

His eyes are spread wide, the touch around your wrist moving up to your own digits. He holds them lightly, a thumb rubbing over your knuckles.

You answer, “I really am not sure. Got a bomb ass headache fucking up my brain.”

“Hmm,” he says, attempting to remove his hand from yours, but you immediately grab it again.

You hear it when he holds his breath, and hear it when he pushes it out a couple seconds later.

He finishes, “You shouldn’t have gotten up so fast.”

“Yeah, I…” Your throat is dry as hell. Is there still some water on the bedside table? You look back; spot a new glass. “I thought you left.”

“You asked me to stay.”

Did he stay because you asked? Is he still here because you did? Does he want to leave?

“If you want to, you can go ho—”

You start the sentence, but he’s quick to interrupt; eagerness slips through, “No. I want to stay, too. At least for a bit… Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” You gulp, raining onto the desert in your throat. “More than okay.” A pause. And then, “What were you doing?”

“Woke up and couldn’t sleep for a while. But,” another hand lifts, fixing the stray strands of your hair. You lean into the touch. “You should. It’s just 7AM.”

“I think I will, yeah…”

“Good.”

“And you?” His eyes are killing you. The affection you trigger with your care; the calm, sweet worry about you. “Come to sleep, too.”

“I will, I will. Just. Lay down a bit more, okay?”

You wait for another second, staring into sunlit pupils. Pure honey in the bright light. This must be the quietest moment you’ve had in the last few weeks.

But the heartache is still overwhelming. The unspoken words and the deeply rooted desire… it all hurts far more than your head.

You shift back on the bed, and he moves with you. You tell him about the painkiller in your first drawer, and he fetches it quickly, lets you gulp it down with the glass of water.

Then, helps you lay back down. Frees your forehead off your hair, pulls the thin blanket over your body. His motions are serene, but they stop the moment you whisper—

“Don’t leave, okay? Please.”

Your closed eyes are difficult to open now. If you could, you’d stare up and gauge his reaction, see what his gaze reveals.

But you can’t; sleep weighs you down. All you hear is a promise.

“I won’t. Not yet.”

And that’s enough for now. You’ll hold onto it.

Painkiller magic helps decrease the constant spinning of your head. You notice the effect the moment you awake once more; the time on your phone screen is clear when you look at it with one squinty eye.

11AM.

You stare up to the ceiling, chest rising heavily, morphing into a languid yawn. You’re alone on the bed again, but you're not fearful anymore, as you were a couple hours ago.

Because when you move your head to the right, you see him in front of your vanity instead of at your actual work desk.

He doesn’t turn around at your wake-up-noises, fully immersed in whatever he’s doing. You see the focus carved between his eyebrows in the vanity mirror, hair uncombed and messy.

His lips pout a little, diligent hands busy and productive. You know even from here and despite the restricted view that he’s drawing. It’s always been an escape and timekiller for him.

You get up with a groan, sitting at the edge of the bed. Your body feels like someone tore it to pieces, limbs detached. But it could be worse — you bet you wouldn’t have been able to stand at 7AM.

But this time, your muscles are gentler. You stand, slowly getting to your feet, and move towards your desk. Grab a chair, moving in his direction and seating yourself next to him.

He looks up the moment you place the chair next to his, letting his pencil drop on the paper. Instinctively, his hands reach out to you, ready to catch you if needed.

Every little movement lights up your heart. You’ve always known how much he cares, but the tender worries he constantly showcases pierce your soul. And you think — you don’t want to sit here.

You want to sink back into your mattress… but with him.

“Good morning,” you mumble.

“Morning. I uh,” he reaches to a plate, covered by a napkin. You didn’t see it until now. “I brought us a light breakfast. Your cook allowed me to.”

When he removes the napkin, you spot another sandwich and the effort behind it — neither thin nor dry. Rich in ingredients and still soft when you touch it. Better than last night's piece.

You ignore the ache that accompanies that realisation.

He must’ve woken up not long ago.

“And… my parents?” you ask.

“Your dad… he walked past.”

“…And?”

“Nothing.” Jungkook rubs the nape of his neck. Holds the forget-me-nots into your face unintentionally. “He… he said thank you. For bringing you home.”

Did your mother tell him about this? Did she also mention how none of it was Jungkook’s fault? Because that’s what you initially expected her to do. You remember her gaze last night, no matter how drowsy you were.

“Okay. Good,” you pull the plate towards you, biting in immediately. Starving, nibbling at the bread, gulping it down. Then, you say, “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, just. For all that. You didn’t have to stay, but you did.”

His expression changes. Shit. Did you say something wrong?

You stop eating, observing his movements. Watch his head drop, his voice weak when he starts, “I…”

The gears in his head are whirring; you see the focus in his eyes, the strength it costs him to keep himself together. From what, though?

“Jungkook—”

“There was no way I was going to leave.” It’s not what he needed to say. But you’re done pushing… and somewhere in your guts, you feel that he’s close to breaking anyway. “And I’ll stay for as long as you want me to.”

Then.

Is a lifetime too much?

“Okay… thank you, Kook.” Your pupils flit to the paper laid out in front of him. He might’ve found it in one of the desk drawers; chequered, filled with details. “Can I watch?”

“Hm?”

“Can I watch you draw?”

He follows your gaze, opening the folded arms to allow a better view at the piece. You lean in, and immediately feel the shy uncertainty in his little, “Uhm…”

Because it’s a sketch of your room. Rough, but gorgeous. Somehow, he managed to shade the sketch in a way that it makes sense — the sunlight and the bed and the cupboards and… your sleeping form.

You stare. And stare a little longer. Register every little detail.

Even in the hours that you don’t communicate, you roam his mind. Even without the interaction the two of you crave, you’re eternalised in his thoughts, in his fingers, in his drawings.

You puff out a breath; maybe you’re oversensitive, but you want to cry again.

But you don’t. Instead, you look up at him, noticing his timid expression as he says, “You can watch if you don’t find that boring.”

If he knew how down bad you are. You could watch him breathe and live wordlessly; he won’t bore you.

“I like watching the picture come alive. And I think I can learn a bit, seeing you do it…”

“I don’t know how good of a teacher I’d be, but,” you see the outline of his chest through his shirt when he raises it for a breath, picking the pencil back up, “feel free to learn.”

And you do. Not just about his techniques.

They’re baffling and fascinating; soft, smooth movements. The way each stroke and line form an object inspires you.

But you also learn once again that this is truly its own world to him. He basks in it, is good at it; the passion and love for it unveil in each of his motions. Gentle and attentive.

And you feel selfish — because you do want a hundred more showcases for him.

But.

In this very moment, staring at the drawing of yourself, laying on the bed he held you in last night — right now, you want to gatekeep all of it. All of him.

You don’t know when it happens; but sometime as his mouth parts, your attention moves to his face. To the side profile, the mole on his neck, the curve of his lips.

The urge to reach out and press yours onto his—

“Thank you,” you spit. He looks at you. “For including me in your painting. And for exhibiting it. It came out so beautifully.”

“You really think that?”

As if you didn’t assure it to him a couple times the night you saw it. As if you didn’t think of it as you drifted into sleep, saw it in your dreams and the moment you opened your eyes at Eun's.

“I do,” you promise, “you have a true talent, you really do.”

Blood immediately fills his cheeks; a rosy colour dusts them. The smile is adorable.

“Thank you. I really needed you to like it, you know?”

He says it so casually; like it doesn’t set your heart ablaze. You nod to his statement, a silent response; and then you try, “Can I ask something very selfish?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead keeps looking at you, awaiting the question until you pop it, “Do you think you’ll ever paint the original? The… like, the one you intended.”

The question surprises him. You don’t think he’s thought of the original outline in a while, because he looks straight ahead, right into his reflection and thinks for a moment.

One of his shoulders rises, arms folded in front of his chest. He tells you, “It’d take a while, but,” his eyes drift back to yours, “maybe one day I could, yeah.”

You take a big, chunky bite of your sandwich, mouth full as you say, “I’d love to see it.”

The picture pulls a hint of a chuckle out of him. You’re devouring the breakfast, done in a minute; so he questions, “Do you want more? How do you feel in general?”

“My head still feels a bit heavy. The food helped… mouth was dry. But I’ll eat more later.”

“Drink a bit more and go to bed, yeah?”

You tongue at your molars, swallowing the very rest of your meal.

Conveniently, you took tomorrow morning off. You were going to take care of a couple apartment-things and then drive over to work at noon. In theory, you would’ve used the late evening today to go through stuff Zara gave you for the seasonal launch.

But considering your current situation and Jungkook’s presence, you don’t think you’ll get much done. And you won’t send him away.

Yet, you feel bad.

“Today’s gonna be incredibly unproductive the—”

“Hey. It’s fine to be a sloth at times.” He pauses, holds his breath, as if replaying a memory. A click of his tongue precedes his words before he voices, “And you were so… out of it yesterday. You need this, I think.”

You gulp.

Goddamn, how embarrassing were you?

“Was it… so bad?” you ask.

And he doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Yeah.”

A hand on your knee, then on your cheek. Naked skin under the shower, fingers in your hair. Tears and clogged up throats, strong arms around you.

You haven’t forgotten all of it. Just some of the dumb shit you probably told him.

“I think I remember most of it,” you say; relief spreads across his visage. “But— did I say something very stupid?”

“No.” The answer shoots out of him like a lightning bolt, but then he hesitates. Worries his lip before he says, “You were just. Crying quite a bit.”

Yeah, you know about that. And instinct tells you it wasn’t the last time this weekend.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“Nah. Don’t think about it, baby.”

Your muscles become rigid. You didn’t think you’d hear that again — or was it just an illusion?

You don’t know. But you need to move your limbs ASAP.

And it seems he notices the Freudian slip, because he’s clearing his throat a second after, turning to another reassurance, “Please sleep some, okay?”

But you don’t want to treat this like an awkward get-together anymore.

You’re drowning in fucking love with him; he must be, too. Right? By now, there is no way he isn't.

You don’t know. But it’d be cruel of him not to be.

So you break the bars of your cage, done hiding your sober mind from him, and ask, “…Can you come with me?”

Again. You don't want your bed empty.

You notice the vulnerability in your voice; it’s unintended and a little bit awkward. But he doesn’t feel the same embarrassment towards it. Only pushes the chair back, nodding, and says, “Yeah. Of course I can.”

And much as last night, the weight of the world vanishes from your shoulders. His arms are solacing and never lose their effect. Fingers comb through your knotted, tied up hair, and slow down time.

At least you can surrender to the tranquillity for the moment. You might feel bad for another nap, but sleep and his arms embrace you featherlightly.

As consciousness returns, you awake to his attentive voice. Your eyes open to his face lingering above yours. He can’t lean back more than this, because you’re clutching his ruined shirt again.

His breath falls against your cheeks as he stares at you, calling your name, and when your eyelids stretch wide enough, he asks, “Are you hungry?”

You are. As much as you’re nervous.

You get up, looking at your pillow with one eye squinted shut. Seems like you drooled onto the fabric…

He doesn’t seem like he saw it; or he doesn’t care. You nod, and then look at his crumpled up shirt, purling, “Hey… do you wanna keep running around in that?”

“Huh?” He stares down, detecting the miserable state of his clothing. Flattens it with a large hand and assures, “No worries. It’s fine. I’ll probably…”

He pauses, but you know what he wants to say.

He’ll probably leave soon. But you don’t want that. And he doesn’t want it.

Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t speak on and replaced his words with a slight smile instead.

You say, “I should still have one or two of your shirts here.” Embarrassed, your eyes flit to your wardrobe; you scratch your scalp in distraction. “Uhm. From when you’d stay over.”

Which he didn’t do often. Perhaps less than a handful of times. You preferred the peace at his place; still do.

But the times he did stay, leaving back clothes that you promised to give away to wash, remained here after the two of you broke apart. He’d bring extra pieces, readying himself for work the next day.

Convenient.

Jungkook follows your gaze; from the corner of your eyes, you see the cherry blossom dust on his cheeks as he answers, “Right. Yeah… I’ll get one. Joggers are fine, though.”

You only nod.

Wait for him to change, looking away to grant him privacy despite the adventures you’ve lived through; despite the bare skin last night; despite the warmth you shared under the sheets a couple minutes ago.

And once he’s dressed in a fresh dark red shirt, you descend to the kitchen together. Dinner must’ve just passed, because the ground floor is empty, but the aroma of food still fills the air.

The atmosphere is cosier here this time; maybe because of him.

Wordlessly side by side, you savour the meal, exchanging soft glances and gentle smiles. Unusually timid, you keep your stare fixated on the food most of the time, and only properly look up when you’re done.

For a brief second, the world beyond the window catches your attention. The scene is picturesque. Bathed in warm sunlight. As the allure of the outdoors beckons, a thought takes shape in your mind — and somehow, he knows to read it effortlessly.

“Do you wanna go for a walk?”

Maybe he’s yearning for the same breeze as you. His eyes reflect your wish, and strangely, it makes a hint of excitement bubble in your stomach; half hopefully, half sweetly, you ask, “Can we?”

“I was gonna suggest it anyway. If you hadn’t been hungry, I would’ve asked right away.”

“That’d be nice.”

Outside, the sun is going down. You wonder.

Every time you saw the stars and the moon appear, the world threw you into another beautiful development with him. The night before he left to vacation. The rain in the neighbouring town.

The moment in the alley.

Could this be another one?

It’s evening again.

Barely twenty-four hours ago, you were getting ready for the get-together at Eun’s. The minutes are passing slower today, not as rushed as yesterday when you were fumbling, gathering your things and preparing your lightly packed purse.

And today, the scenery has fully changed.

The neighbourhood is quiet; a stark, satisfying contrast to the bustling, blue club.

People are probably resting today. Sometimes, you forget that it’s a regular Sunday and that the world, slightly tilted, fully functioning, keeps spinning. That for some people, this is just another day of the week, a routine they have gotten used to.

But you live in a succession of unique hours. His presence lingers around you, unspoken words floating, postponed by your state and his care.

The fresh air feels nice, though. It helps clear your head.

“It’s been a while since I walked up this street,” you say.

You’re looking at your shoes, dodging the light of the descending sun. It’s a bright hour, forcing your gaze away — from the star, and simultaneously from him. So you don’t see his expression when you hear him say, “Really?”

“Yeah, I just,” you stare over your shoulder, pointing with a thumb, “usually drive up that road to our house and go home and… That’s it. Haven’t gone uphill the last couple of months.”

Jungkook hums, stuffs his right hand in his joggers. The other sways next to his body, dangerously close to your own. You try not to focus on it, but then again, it’s him — in truth, you’re focusing on all of him every damn moment.

“But it’s pretty,” he says, “a proper suburban neighbourhood.”

That’s not quite true. Hoseok, for example, lives in a proper suburban neighbourhood. Yours just pretends that it’s one; still in the city, with a tiny bit of greenery.

Not limited to wealthy families, but certainly a standard for them. It reminds you of your privileges and luxuries. Again of Jung Hoseok and his lifestyle. Of how yesterday played out with him and of the reason why it did.

The very reason you’re trying not to touch so desperately now. And in this idyllic world that you live in, Jungkook is like a pleasant disruption.

A break in your reality that separates you from all cruelty.

When he leaves the bustling city behind and nestles into your embrace, here in your quiet world, does he feel the same?

“Yeah,” you say, a careful attempt at coaxing out an answer, “it must feel different for you. No excessive traffic at night and all.”

But Jungkook shrugs one shoulder, arguing, “I mean… I am a country boy. This,” he looks around, a quick glance to the gorgeous, white fence on the right, “is nothing.”

A silent, subtle trigger makes you halt in your steps.

The movement is sudden; it takes one or two more of his steps until he notices. His head is lowered, the back of his forefinger brushing against his nose. When he turns to you, eyebrows raised in question, he looks…

So pure.

Soft, like a lost fawn. You wish longing was the only emotion swimming in your waterline. If you could, you’d eliminate the pain that so sneakily adds itself to the mix, because—

His statement is nothing special. Another reminder of where he’s physically home; a place you still haven’t seen. But it still awakens a memory you just found a while ago.

Wasn’t this one of the first things he ever said to you?

Back when he, unafraid of the roof and the height, basked in the beauty of the stars, because he grew up just like that. Giving you a very first chance to submit to a fear and try something new — the first of many things that would follow.

Your country boy.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

You relax the creases on your forehead, gulping, wetting your dry throat. The breath you draw is deep and your words genuine when you answer, “Nothing. I’m just glad you’re here.”

He doesn’t answer, but his stare is telling.

One of a deeply desiring lover, sighing a breath that whispers a tiny little, “When did you become all I see?”

Your heart flutters; your stomach twists. Those deeply rooted feelings are now part of you, although emerging for the first time in weeks. They replace the usually awfully present sorrow; refreshing and as sweet as the fading summer when he comes closer.

Just one step. A tender movement. Fingers float towards yours, brushing just lightly, his voice kind of weak when he asks, “Can I… Can I hold your hand?”

More air sucked in. You think it rained a little when you napped, some of the ground still wet, and the post-drizzle air moves the strands hanging into your face. You look down, observing the lightly moving digits.

You’re scared he’ll move away. An inch or a foot or several miles again.

So you nod immediately, relieved when the same, soft artist palm that carries your heart grips yours. The touch is gentle and cautious, as if he’s testing the waters. But your willingness is encouraging; the hand presses harder into yours.

He feels warm; keeps the touch against yours as he nods towards the rest of the path, tugging at your arm. And when you start walking; when your skin starts feeling a little sweaty; when you gradually get used to it — he never lets go.

Instead, he wraps his fingers tighter around yours; you dare an inch closer to his body, closer to the sunset with each step.

The walk is wordless for a while. Your eyes and body feel heavy like that, anticipating what’s to come and what you’re trudging towards. Not in a physical sense — you see the playground already.

But on the basis of your relationship.

And you’re scared. Hopeful. Unsure.

When you arrive at the playground-field-mix, you ask, “Rest here?”

“We can. Might be better than heading back immediately.”

You nod, eyes flitting across the place. There’s a seesaw. A merry-go-round, a slide and a sandpit. The latter still looks a little wet from where you stand, affected by the rain.

But the only bench under the tree seems a safe haven for now, so you pull him towards it with a gentle, “Come. We can wait for the sun to set and then go back.”

He agrees.

As the golden warm sun moves towards the horizon, you find solace on the rustic wooden bench. You leave a gap of a couple inches, providing a comfortable distance in case things become awkward.

And for the following seconds and minutes, you let your senses live. You recognise the scent of wildflowers that the breeze carries to you, hearing the faint melody of birds. The view stretching in front of you invokes a sense of tranquillity in you.

In the stillness of the evening, you count the numerous colours nature paints for you, awestruck and at peace as you say, “It’s so pretty.”

Jungkook looks at you just briefly; he doesn’t answer, but he smiles a bit, nodding slowly before his eyes wander back to the scenery.

Far away, the field ends and gives way to a tiny forest that you never truly dared to call a forest. A ten minute walk and you’d step out to another neighbourhood.

You’ve tried before, back when you were younger — the small buildings with its apartments didn’t resemble the fairy tale you thought you’d walk into.

But this very view, with this very person… something about it is uniquely magical after all. Who cares about what hides behind the canopy of trees and dirty ground?

Jungkook doesn’t know about the city behind it — so you’ll pretend you don’t either.

The sun is charging toward the trees, the atmosphere blurry. Surprisingly, the playground is entirely empty today; evokes a sense of peace in you.

And you can’t help but wonder—

“Are you liking it here?” you ask.

When he looks at you, he blinks an eye shut. His face is half turned to the sun, his skin as golden as he’s always been. Brown eyes like gems. Or honey.

Liquid jewels morphing into honey.

Lips slightly parted and lopsided.

His hand is still holding yours when he says, “It reminds me of home.”

You smile, matching the subtle tug of his lips; jesting, “Oh, so it does come close to your beloved countryside, huh?”

“I mean, it’s gorgeous.”

For a moment, you feel proud for the serenity you awaken; that must be how he felt anytime you confessed the constant comfort he provided. And for that moment, time holds its breath — because his gaze lingers on you.

Eyes fill with a mixture of longing and tenderness. In that stillness, you sense his unspoken desire and combine it with yours, erasing everything that exists outside these fields, the forest, the playground and you.

And once he finds his voice again, tiny and laced with hope, he only starts with a, “Hey…”

And you respond with a simple, “Yeah?”

And he — he pushes forward with the courage you haven’t quite found since you got sober again. An ultimate suggestion that your story hasn’t ended yet as he inquires, “Can I show them to you one day? The fields back home.”

The burn in your throat is uncomfortable. A day ago, your tear ducts were still striking, and today, they want to activate every other minute.

His expression mirrors yours. When you draw closer, you see it clearer. And when you place a trembling hand on his cheek, he looks pained. His chin quivers, but he doesn’t cry.

Not even when your shaky voice responds, “I’d love that.”

He's still the world when you float another inch closer. Interrupted by nothing but the wind as the tips of your noses suddenly touch. Your mouth brushes against his plush, rosy lips. Hydrated and soft, a true magnet.

But you never kiss.

Only circle around the same thought over and over again. That—

You were wrong.

No matter what world and universe, you’d meet him in all of them.

In each life and in every century. Any other man or not — you’ll always return to this very goddamn, constant warmth you’ve learned to cherish.

Because fuck — it’s him. It’ll never stop being him.

Feeble in his hold, your head drops. Down to his chest, resting there; the gesture from back home copy pasted, but with freer, less constricted lungs.

“Thank you,” you mumble against his shirt, moving your head to push your cheek against him. A hand moves to your back. Stays there. “For suggesting this. I feel better.”

His breath skims your scalp, lips in your hair when he says, “Of course.”

Sideways, you stare up into the crimson sky. You barely see much of the yellow circle anymore, nearly fully descended; you wonder if you could spot hints of the moon if you looked into the other cardinal direction.

For now, you keep your eyes locked on the high grass flickering in the wind. A gorgeous 90s aesthetic; resembling some nostalgic cartoon. The breeze softens every inch of you; you want to remain in that moment for a bit longer.

Curious, you ask, “Is the countryside as unreal as it looks on TV?”

You feel the nod, feel the vibrations of his words from his chest right against your ear, “There’s some magic to it. My dad used to bring me to these places, and I’d think the same.”

When he draws a breath, you know he isn’t done. So you wait. And…

“But that’s why it hurts today, too.”

…What?

Jungkook’s mind is an enigma.

The way back, you think about his words and the dejected tone in his voice. You want to dig, want to decode his secrets. Because you have never gotten this close to his innermost thoughts.

If you asked now, would you stress him out and push him away? Or would you enable communication?

You don’t know.

And there’s not another second to figure it out.

The moment your bedroom door closes behind you and the keys sound against your desk, you hear the dead silence.

Not that you spoke excessively before — you have spent the entire night and most of the day asleep or in quiet comfort. But now, something shifts.

A hand wraps around your bicep, pulling you back before you can settle. Your back clashes against his chest, and you gasp, quickly moving your head to look at him.

His face and head are sunken, long curtains of hair covering his eyes. The fingers clutching your arm let go, brushing up to your shoulder; pushing the fabric off of it.

Your breath hitches when his hits your skin. His lips hover above your shoulder, next to your neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You close your eyes, but you know he’s looking at you by the way you feel his mouth close to your jaw.

He’s slow. Careful. A little lost and quiet when he confesses, “Been thinking all goddamn night and day and… What am I gonna do once I leave?”

“Why—”

“Sit at home and think of this? I’ve been doing that for fucking weeks.”

“You… you didn’t have to.”

“Yeah. I know.” His face drops a bit more. When his lips touch your bare shoulder, you shiver. “Now that I know, I'm not sure what to fucking do once I leave.”

“Kook…”

He repeats, “I can’t think clearly, y’know? Been thinking of you all. The. Fucking. Time.”

Each word is punctuated by a soft kiss on your skin. His arm wraps around your body, and you hold onto it, pushing yourself back harder. He’s so warm against you.

God, you need this. But you can’t think either.

“Then,” you throw your head back, against him when his breath and pecks wander to the spot under your ear. You sigh. “Don’t leave. Why do you think you need to?”

You don’t really get an answer to it — perhaps because there is none. Maybe because he knows you’re right.

Instead, he moves a hand under your jaw, lifting your head again when it falls, whispering hot against your ear and cheek, “Can I?”

Not leave.

This.

“May I?”

Fuck, you’d be stupid to say no.

Because this is what you dreamed of. In the deepest nights, alone in this room, you desired him.

You tug at his arm until he loosens it. His lips disappear from your skin, only to align with yours when you turn around in his light grip. Body enveloped, a palm on your cheek, he stares at you.

Like he forgot what you looked like; drinking in every feature and mole.

And then, you move in.

He follows.

Eyes fall close, your lungs shutting down. His fingers move from your cheek to your hair, the gentlest push against the back of your head as—

Your lips finally collide.

And the touch sucks all air out of your lungs.

His mouth gauges your reaction for a miniscule moment, unmoving. A storm of thoughts whirls in your head, suddenly a gapless knot without an end or a beginning.

But when you initiate the slightest motion, his thumb journeys back to your lower lip. The way it always used to, the way you hoped it would again. And once the sounds of a gentle kiss fill the silent room, the quietest and briefest of moans sneaks into the mix.

His, not yours.

Like he’s sighing in relief. And you understand.

His lips are velvety, a brush of petals against you. The delicate, familiar vulnerability is addictive; no matter how hard your body begs for air, you can’t draw back. The other pole of the magnet, reflexively pushed into him.

His tongue danced the same way in your dreams; every moment you were apart and kept yourself afloat with a thousand what-ifs. This very night was one of them. But whatever your mind conjured didn’t compare to the electric tingles coursing through your limbs.

And he’s trying his best to make you remember. All of the touches you almost forgot are firmly cementing themselves in your memories. The wet muscle seeking yours, the steady rhythm, the constant give and take.

Hot breaths mingle into the mix of sounds, turning feverish. He pulls at your lips, and then angles his head to the other side, simultaneously initiating a step forward and forcing you backward.

You make out until you tumble back awkwardly, steps on the floor soon muted by the soft carpet in front of your bed. A second later, the back of your knees hits the feathery mattress, forcing you down.

You bounce back up once, but Jungkook stills your body, keenly leaning down to kiss you again. Deeper, but for the briefest of moments, not joining you on the bed but moving to your neck with a bent back.

One kiss. One little, “Don’t know what to do first.”

And what he settles on is to separate your bodies rather than connecting them more.

Soft fires burn in his eyes as he straightens his back, hovers above you. And every moment that passes increases your impatience. Sitting here, watching is taking a toll on you.

All those weeks of staying apart turn more agonising by the moment; intense when he peels his shirt off his body slowly. His eyes don’t move from your face. They just keep darting between your pupils and lips.

So you try, “Can you kiss me again?”

Because you can still taste the bittersweet affection, seeping hot through his tongue. But he doesn’t give into your everlingering wish, not even after all this time. The desire collecting in his eyes reveals that he wants to, but you think his intentions lay elsewhere for now.

So you accept defeat.

Instead, you follow suit, slowly revealing the curves and lines of your body, nothing on your upper body but your t-shirt bra. The hunger in his gaze matches yours, because the chiselled, sculpted contours he sports shut down your mind.

He comes back to your skin one more time, planting soft, dizzying kisses to your shoulder, tracing a trail of sensations down your arm and your sides. And the rush of desire worsens when he drops to his knees.

Because you know what’s next. And it accelerates your heartbeat.

When he doesn’t do or say anything, only fixating big, dazed, yearning eyes on you, you push your fingers through his dark mane; the motion must be soothing him, because he closes his eyes in peace.

You ask, “Everything okay?”

“Mhm,” he hums, leaning into your touch, still too far away. His voice is husky with want. “Yeah.”

“You stopped.”

“I’m just,” you feel the gentlest peck against your wrist, barely there before he looks at you again, “taking this in.”

And you let him. Do the same.

In the remaining glow, lit by the streetlamps and moon outside, you see goosebumps decorating his neck; his breaths are heavier now.

“And… how does it feel?” you ask, dragging your nails across his scalp lightly.

“Like I was away for ages,” fingers touch your ankle, moving up your leg and to your thigh, “but also like I never left.”

His knees drag over the carpet, hands flat against your sides and hips until they reach the hem of your shorts. Warm kisses suddenly spread along your legs as he pulls the piece of clothing down.

“And I missed this,” he says; he sounds incredibly fucked out, “the way you feel. And the way you sound. Like…”

Another French kiss against your thigh, harder this time, and you whimper, throwing your head back, “Like this.”

God, you love this.

You love looking at him.

How the streaks of light filters through the sheer curtains you priorly closed, hitting parts of him. How you see the dilated pupils whenever he opens his eyes. His soft but sharp features brushing along your naked skin.

The only other touch distracting you from his lost gaze is the one baring you further, pushing down your shorts and panties until you’re exposed to him.

Despite the familiarity, you feel timid. Does he still see what he used to? Does he still like it just as much?

“Jungkook.”

The call of his name is aimless; you can barely hear it over your pounding heartbeat. Maybe he feels the pounding, too. Because he reaches to your stomach and up your tits, sneaking a hand over your mound to squeeze it and retract it again immediately.

“Yes,” he still answers.

The air is thick around you, suffocating. Like the summer’s heat is still lingering.

His hands tremble when he caresses the flesh of your legs; a sweet touch that keeps travelling up and down, triggering a shiver down your spine. He waits a moment and then repeats, “Yes? Baby.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you want to say?”

“I don’t know.” Your head is blanking; and you guess he’s liking it, because when you look at him, the lightest smile tugs at his lips. You reach forward. “Just.”

You’re seeking a kiss, attempting to rid him off his joggers, but he pulls back. Touches your knee and says, “Wait. Lemme just…”

You understand immediately.

The moment the panties are off your legs, too, resting next to the carpet, you get that he wants to see and hear you first. So you let him. After all these months, you know his routine.

And you know it’s always a reward.

You allow him to part your legs, aiding him as you spread them until your joints ache. And he reacts quickly.

He ogles at your core, then to your face, then back down. The tantalising lick of his lips is telling, and for a moment, the desiring part in you wishes you hadn’t seen it. Because it affects you down there. Tremendously so.

More when he lifts a finger and gently presses down onto your engorged clit. You can’t see what you look like there, but he seems mesmerised by it. Heaves a long breath when you react to the circling motion.

Overwhelmed, you nearly close your legs, but he shakes his head, inching closer until his head peaks from between your thighs. Pushes them apart again, and pleads, “Please don’t. I missed this so much.”

“I’m…”

“I know.” More kisses towards your cunt, nose almost buried in your pelvis. “I can see how sensitive you are.” And you see how bad he wants you; his eyes are sensual beyond belief. “So am I.”

You know. You see the bulge from up here, big and growing under his joggers.

And something about it wakes you up. Because you can’t believe it.

Can’t believe that this is happening again. That in a few minutes, he’ll be buried inside you, pouring everything he couldn’t for so long into you. You’re vexed by the wait; want him close.

Want to drown in the gesture of him losing himself in you; the thought of affection turns the caterpillars in your stomach to vibrant butterflies.

Because god… he really wants you like that. He still does. It hasn’t changed.

“Okay,” he whispers, adjusting a little more. You feel the breath against your dampness. “We can use that sensitivity. Talk to me, okay?”

“…Okay.”

“This.” He starts with a fleeting kiss on your clit. She reacts. But she wants more. “How does that feel?”

“Too less…”

“Yeah? Tell me what to do.”

“Huh?”

Talk? You can barely think.

“I want to hear you,” Jungkook explains, “God, I’ve wanted to for weeks.” The pad of his thumb pushes down to your entrance, prodding. You whimper. ”Tell me.”

“I…” You’re trying. You really are; but you’re breathless. “Can you… tongue?”

“How?”

“Tip of the tongue. Lightly over here.”

You place a finger on each side of your nub, lifting it for him. And he obliges. With a foggy head, he closes the distance, perfectly placing his lips around the spot.

One gentle suck, giving you a taste of what’s to come. Then he pulls back. Kisses up and down your inner thighs, dragging his tongue around the outside of your clit. Teasing you, not quite taking the plunge.

And then…

The flat of his tongue over the clit, licking just once before he changes his strategy. Tells you, “Keep your fingers like that.” Around the bud, lifting it, he means. “You tell me if anything I do is uncomfortable, yeah?”

You nod immediately. You missed this level of trust and communication so much. The way he cares for you.

“Good,” he says, “not hurting you tonight.”

The last syllable turns into an inaudible whisper. He licks and kisses your sensitivity and then moves his face to the side just a little.

The approach he tackles is new to you, too… You don’t think anyone has ever done it before and you wonder why he kept it to himself for so long.

Because when he comes in again, he doesn’t make his way up and down your tiny clit, but traces his tongue side to side instead.

It drives you insane.

The possibility of discomfort fully eliminated, all you feel are sparks. Fireworks about to be lit. He puts a finger between your entrance and your ass, as if he’s preparing for further stimulation.

But for now, he doesn’t go in just yet.

Instead, he experiments. Keeps going with the side-to-side motions, pausing only to dot kisses onto your bundle of nerves. The alternation makes your legs vibrate, your upper body uneasy and your tongue restless.

And when he finally does add a single finger into the mix, pushing in delicately, smoothly, you spit, “Kook. Kook.”

Telling signs of the approaching orgasm. The insanity. The call of his name grows louder by the second until it sounds like unintelligible whining.

And he doesn’t stop. All he does, fuelling your pleasure some more, is look up to you. Hooded eyes, sex-drunk, falling close again so slowly that you see them rolling back into his head.

He’s devouring you gently. Savouring your taste.

“Jungkook!” Your body flinches, winding when he massages your insides; eager with his thick finger, spurred on by your reaction. “Please—”

What are you begging for? It’s always the same with him. You cry tears of sins. Plead and whimper and demand more.

You try your best to keep yourself in this position, but your arms are giving in. All your limbs are quivering, in fact, and in a moment of weakness, you choke out, “My legs are falling asleep.”

He stops. His eyes are unbearably big, his lips shimmering.

When his warmth leaves, you properly realise how wet you are.

“Okay.” He nods, grabbing your calves and putting your legs onto his shoulders. “Here. Better?”

“A little.”

“It’ll be over soon.”

You push yourself forward a little, giving the unoccupied arm holding your weight a break. You entangle your fingers with his hair, using them as leverage as he dives back in. Kissing you harder but not harsher somehow.

Eyes drop close, and he holds your wrist. Your entire pussy is soaked; your touch around your clit keeps slipping until you finally let go.

He’s indulged in his actions either way.

Until you admit, “I don’t want to come like this.”

“…What?”

“So sensitive. I’m scared I might hurt you.”

His eyebrows knit together. “Hurt me how, baby?”

“Head between legs…” you nod towards his face, still keeping your sentences fragmented, “I’m… moving so much.”

“I’ll hold you then,” more kisses to your skin, to your knees, up and down, “as I always do. It’ll be fine, yes?”

You gulp. You’re on fire; a mess.

He tries again, “Is that okay? I can stop.”

No. You’re a mess, but you trust him, too.

So you shake your head, taking a deep breath and say, “No… keep going.”

“Okay.”

And you guess it wasn’t a bad idea after all to listen to him.

Because his tongue keeps up its work so beautifully, striding across your pussy, accompanied by the constant push and pull of his finger. The nutty spot inside you is familiar to him, and he uses his knowledge about it to his and your advantage.

Tickles it until your eyes roll back, building up to an almost painful moment and then ending it with a release of endless endorphins.

It’s been so long. You forgot what he’s able to do to you.

The tingling pleasure is intense. Your control over yourself vanishes, your body soon slump, and the electrifying shock wanders through your entire body. Down your legs and to your toes. Euphoria.

“Good?”

Gosh.

He always asks that as if your reactions aren’t proof of his prowess. You’ve thought it once and you’ll think it a million more times.

You missed this. You missed this. Youmissedthis.

“Yeah,” you assure, grabbing the hand on your leg, “but I need you up here now.”

He smiles against your leg when he peppers more quick kisses onto it, obsessed with it tonight; but then he gradually moves up the way he lowered himself before. First your hip, then your tummy.

Hooks a finger into your bra and pulls for a moment before he comes up to settle his lips between yours again. Caging you in between his arms.

You reach to his joggers, palming the erection, and once again, he immediately pulls back. You want to stare up in frustration, want to voice your disapprovement.

But then you notice that he’s suffering just as much as you, because he slides down the joggers and boxers fast. Rushed, hastily, until the thick, large length springs out.

Fuck.

So big. So inviting.

Thickly and angrily veined, curved and unbelievably hard.

He huffs out a breath as his fist wraps around himself, stroking to make it even firmer. You want to do things to him. So many of them.

So you shift on the bed, barely sitting on it anymore; but to your surprise, he rejects the offer. He does that sometimes, you’ve noticed. And you might also know why.

“It’s okay not to,” he promises.

“I want to.”

“It’s fine. I just,” he takes in your gaping mouth, understands that he ignites the same in you as you do in him. He sighs; then confirms your theory, “I don’t want to wait anymore, but… next time, I’ll let you.”

You pause. Blink.

Fear spreads in your body but then loses its battle against hope. A butterfly.

And quietly, expectantly, you ask, “Will there be a next time?”

“If you want that.”

What does he think? You sigh in disbelief; implying, You must know the answer to this.

But he adds, “Angel.” He kneels again, lifting a hand to your face. Pushes your hair aside. “I’ve done my thinking. I don’t know if you’d called if you hadn’t been… the way you were last night. But I’m done thinking.”

You stare at him with utter, soft hunger in your eyes. The world split you apart for so long… maybe you weren’t supposed to almost poison yourself, but maybe it was the right thing to call him after all.

For a second, you ponder, swallowing hard, and take in the stars in his eyes.

The tenderness and the eternity. The vast galaxy, moving with you as its middle point.

No one will make you feel the way he does. And no one will understand and appreciate you as he does. You don’t want to let this go.

You can’t let this go.

Your throat constricts when he smiles. The gesture is so reassuring. Uplifting and encouraging; he’s always done that. And somewhere in the depths of your mind, you remember him once saying—

“The reason I give you a smile to cheer you up is because you do it, too. And I always hope that it affects you just as much, you know?”

Every little movement, every breath affected you.

If he knew. Maybe… maybe you should tell him.

“This helps, Kook,” you say, touching the corner of his lips, “whenever you smile to lift my mood? I don’t think I ever told you but… it helps.”

“I…” He didn’t expect it; but it casts a glow on his face. “Good. That’s so good to know.”

You can’t stop the build up of those annoying tears; they don’t drop out of your eyes, but they dim your sight.

He notices, grazing your dry cheek with his thumb, as if ready to wipe the tears, should they fall. But when they don’t, he moves his head to kiss the palm on his own face, eventually getting to his feet.

You sniffle, pushing air through your rounded mouth, matching his beam when he crawls onto the bed, slowly asking, “Hey… do you still have that lube?”

“Yeah. Drawer, as always.”

One at his place, one at yours. For restless moments like these.

He moves past you on the mattress, rummaging your drawer until he’s found the bottle. You move up the bed as he quickly covers his cock in the slippery gel, discarding your bra, anticipating him until he’s found his way back between your legs.

You’re still more or less at the edge of the bed, a long way to go to the headboard. But he doesn’t mind — not yet at least.

It doesn’t deter him from gripping the length at the base, guiding it to your overflowing cunt until you feel the head parting your folds. Your walls already tighten, and he hasn’t intruded yet at all.

But when he does, a new set of fireworks explodes. Partly due to how full he makes you feel; how the tip alone stretches you thoroughly, no gap in between. And partly due to the low choked up groans he lets out.

Your newly bared body is practising its effect on you, you know it. He looks like he’s close to eating you alive. Unfocused.

His control nearly falters; you see his body sway, enamoured by the wet warmth. Perhaps it’s worse than you thought — because he never bottoms out, pulling back again, and you ask, “What are you doi—”

But by then, he’s already repositioned himself, dropping his body low. Half his weight falls onto you, hands stopping the descent and soon sneaking to your hair.

Your words are cut out of the blue; the mouth meeting yours draws a gasp out of you before you succumb to the feeling.

Skin prickling, you swirl his tongue around his. His taste, intoxicating, leaves you craving more without vanishing at all. You’re spiralling; more so now that the distance has faded.

Truly gone. The miles between you, endless as you lay right here, curled up and trapped in uncomfortable, troubled dreams.

He’s here again. Fuck.

You can’t believe it.

Synchronised breaths, inhaling each other. Time as it becomes irrelevant standing still. Him and you in a naked embrace, leaning into each other, souls intertwined. The undoubtable bond.

A testament for all you hid inside your hearts, now bursting.

You can believe none of it.

His arms push under your body and raise it off the bed, lifting you upward until your legs don’t dangle anymore, lying comfortably on the mattress.

Though not for long, because you wrap them around him as an immediate reflex, closer until you’re pulling him back down to you.

His cock prods your entrance, yet never enough to push in. So you shoot up your hip a little, silently begging for his touch, only noticing the wordless affair when something dawns on you.

You were apart for weeks.

You barely heard of him. Didn’t ask about his life. Didn’t know what he’d been doing besides all the exhibition preparation.

Your heart stops in the middle of everything, a fearful shiver running through you before the beat picks up again and accelerates until it rings in your ears. You’re scared to ask. But you probably must.

So you start carefully, feeling the clump in your throat as you ask, “Jungkook… Is it okay for us to…?”

It might be a shameless question. But you can’t know what happened in the time he wasn’t part of your life.

He understands. Widens his eyes, slightly hurt, slightly disappointed. Parts his lips, and you expect the worst. Almost take your question back.

But then he promises, “Yeah. Yeah, of course. I didn’t.” You look at him like a lost bunny. And again, firmer, he assures, “I didn’t do anything. Just you, love.”

…Wait.

One single word; and it crushes you. Splinters your soul and puts it back together.

Overwhelmed, is all you can think of.

And you want to cry again. Maybe you are. You think you are.

Goddamn.

“Okay,” you whisper, shaky inhale in, wobbly exhale out, “me too.”

Another elevating smile. He brushes your hair back, freeing your temples off your tears; doesn’t address them as he brings the tip of his nose close to yours and asks, “But you’re still on your pill, yeah?”

You only nod.

“Okay… Okay.”

And then, he eases you into it. Rubs his cock up and down the waterfall downstairs, and then pushes in head-first. Literally.

You gasp when he grants you more this time. Shoves himself in to the hilt, balls touching your ass. Nails dig into his bicep as you hold on, trying to control your breathing.

“I forgot about that,” you tell him.

His voice is constrained, and it requires all his strength to ask, “About what?”

“How big you are. Almost forgot.”

He laughs a little, bunny teeth adorable before his expression changes. Suddenly, he looks worried, priorly squinting eyes huge again, and inquires, “Do I pull back?”

“Don’t you dare. Stay right here.”

The smile returns. So, so soft; like a bed of feathers.

“I’m right here.”

The answer shoots out of him instinctively, but it affects you to your bones. Enough with the distance.

You tug him in, pushing at the back of his neck, into another bewildering kiss.

It ignites a flame in you hotter than any other before. Could eradicate the world; his weapon against you. And it consumes you. Glows blue around your heart instead of fiery red.

The stars on your ceiling blear when he buries his face in your neck and then moves it down to your clavicles, never settling on one spot for too long. Kisses the curves of your tits.

Bodies pressed together, you grip his tresses, trying your absolute hardest to fuse your souls into one as he fucks into you.

It’s like there’s a technique to his movements. So steady and deliberate. Controlled. Out and deeply inside again, smoothly flowing motions of his hips. Rhythmic.

Once again, out of nowhere, he whispers, “I’m here.”

Then, he stalls. Basks in your taste, proud when you arch your back; you guide each other by instinct.

And then, a reversed, “You’re here.”

He’s lost in how you feel; you think he’s more so talking to himself than to you. Dizzyingly gentle for now, but a bit more desperate with each stroke. Heavy grunts, forlorn whispered calls of your name.

It’s a sacred moment; time doesn’t move. Only the two of you.

Only his hands when he holds your face and pulls back, whispers of breath and sighs of pleasure as he propels back in. Your walls wrap around him like they belong there, adjusting to his circumference.

Each gesture builds upon the last; your body feels more tense than ever as he hammers into you balls deep, pulsating, twitching.

His thrusts only slow down, albeit still hard, when his hands charge for your wrists, manhandling them above your head. He locks them in the tight grip of his tattooed fingers, expecting the whines and cries that follow.

And as he penetrates you deep, lips against your cheek, he whispers, “Missed those sounds so much.” Looks up at you; for the millionth time, parts your lips with a thumb. “And this. Missed this, too.”

Fingers move to your chin, holding it. The cock, enveloped by your clenching walls, jerks inside you, filling you up to the brim. The jabs feel thrilling to your nerves… you must be wounding his back again.

Did he miss that, too?

“You might… think I’m kidding,” he murmurs, “but I thought of you all the goddamn time.”

“Me too,” you push out, “I… I’ve always wanted you.” It takes utmost strength to speak. Does he even understand what you’re saying? “Please… you can’t go, Jungkook—”

He can’t. He can’t.

He must know.

His pupils are restless, the big palm under your ear warm. His thumb keeps your lips apart, and when his flickering astral gems still and dive into your own eyes, he looks… different.

Like he’s seeing you for the first time.

Breathing him in befuddles your mind when he leans into you; worse when he whispers two soft words, “Never again.”

And you hold onto them. Unable to answer, processing every syllable; but holding onto them nevertheless.

And that’s it.

The next few minutes transpire as muted as the rest of the night did. Sensual and sweet, gazes locked on each other as if you’re scared to look away.

And when you reach the pinnacle of your earth-shattering desire, the room starts spinning. His thrusts become a little messier, pelvis rubbing over your clit; and he huffs and puffs, gasping for air, connecting sweaty foreheads.

You see the stars you missed so dearly. Floating behind your eyelids, separating your back from the bed; he holds your waist, steadying you, fucking you through your climax. Groaning as loud as you when your pussy tightens and unclenches.

He keeps his eyes on you until it doesn’t work anymore; and once your bodies have melded into one blissful unity, your palpitating cunt, still winding down, coaxes a high out of him that etches itself into your memory immediately.

Deep, low, so, so sloppy. Vocal. Your name, over and over again, spilling rope after rope.

And once he’s done, sudden, uncontrolled shoves later, his body remains there.

Sweaty and seething hot, catching his breath. He’s all out of air; and so are you.

He pulls out when his cock softens; quickly, with wobbly legs leaving the bed and steering towards the vanity and some Kleenex. You smile when he nearly falls, but then melt when he works on the mess. Cleans you up.

Silently, your souls soar when you meet in a blissful embrace; time slowly resumes its steady march. Leaves you in the afterglow of the intimacy.

As you lay intertwined afterwards, your bodies are still not calm. And for a few minutes, you don’t dare to say a word.

All you think of is the perpetuity you seek. The building sentiments and every little touch the two of you deserve; no power out there is allowed to sunder this anymore. This is it, right?

This is how things are supposed to end. And how they’re supposed to begin.

The ridges of his muscles mesmerise you.

You’re not seeing any of him for the first time; but the moment feels serene and new anyway. Like surviving a desert dehydrated for long enough, only to stumble upon an oasis, hoping the water is not a delusion.

His lips are in your hair, arms around your body as your fingers trace his chest. You graze his abs, down to his pelvis, further down until he stops you there.

The digits priorly holding your body pull your hand up by your wrist, gently placing it back above his heart as he says, “If it was up to me, I’d never stop. But too tired, baby.”

“Me too. I wasn’t going to.” You pause. Then, you look into his face, gaze drifting to the arm tucked under his head; admiring the bicep. Carefully, you ask, “You’d never stop?”

He lets out a teeny tiny laugh. His eyes open to your wide ones, and he moves, gently pushing most of your body off his own.

You fall on your back as he explains, “If you asked me? I’d keep you under me every moment of the day.” With some leftover energy, he cages you in, palms pressing into the mattress on either side. He drops low, kisses your nose. “Like this.”

Your fingers sneak to his neck, covering his mole, and you pull him in instinctively. But his direction changes midway, your eyes closing, mouth sighing when he kisses your cheek. Then your lips for an ephemeral moment.

“Would keep touching you,” he elaborates, “my gorgeous baby. If we weren’t so tired, I’d…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence; only kisses you once more, body against hot body. Yours flutters as much as your heart when you hug him close. Burying your hands in long, dark curls, the quietest of moans escaping when his lips press occasional kisses against your neck.

The touch is unreal. Not because it’s your first time indulging in it, but because your mattress remained so cold the last couple weeks. You were scared it’d stay like that.

“I didn’t think that’d happen again,” you admit. Silence follows; and then another question, “Did you?”

His hair tickles your neck when he shakes his head, speaking against your skin, “Hope was sparse.”

“Yeah.”

His lips pucker against you; he’s not kissing you, but he wants to touch you. Wants to keep feeling you.

This is what you feared the night you stood in front of his complex. When big eyes stared back at you, a birthday sketchbook tucked under his arm.

The reason you didn’t give in was because you knew you’d end up further in love, naked, stating affection and making promises, but remaining silent afterwards. The heatwave of the moment has cooled down; now is the time to truly speak up, isn’t it?

So you use the vulnerability of the both of you. You’re as fragile as glass, but maybe it’s still better to not procrastinate the question anymore.

“Kook.” A low hum. He must be dozing off. “What does that mean for us?”

Or maybe not. Because he sounds certain and firm, soft as he stills your heart and answers—

“I’ll be yours if you want me to.”

You take a breather.

It’s what you’ve always wished for. The weeks of grief are proof for that.

“I want to,” you assure, “but…”

The but makes him tense. Venous hands dig harder into the mattress, and the petal-soft pecks disappear. You understand the fear; it must be worse than waking up to the empty bed this morning.

So you rush, “But just. Try to… lift the secrets between us?”

He understands. And he doesn’t answer. Instead, he does something worse — rolls off of you.

Back in his prior position, arm under his head, he stares up to the ceiling. His jaw is sharp when he clenches it, pupils looking from one star to the other.

You lift your upper body, covering your chest with the white blanket. Your heart starts racing, euphoria suddenly dwindling when you try again.

“If you want us to be with each other fully, you need to open up, Jungkook.” No reaction. You suck air through your teeth until it sounds like sharp hissing. “Kook. Please… no overthinking. At least at some point.”

He gulps.

You do your best to keep yourself from whining. Only inquire with the tiniest sliver of frustration in your voice, “What’s wrong, Jungkook?”

“I…”

He doesn’t say much but shakes his head. The tip of his tongue runs over his upper lip, eyes avoiding you diligently. And you, left with another cracked piece of your heart, nod.

Give up. Sniffle without tears in your eyes. You look away, reaching for your glass, swallowing a couple drops before handing it to him. He grips it slowly, silently. Places it on his stomach, gaze glued to anything but you.

Fuck.

Picking up and putting on your clothes, you exhale. One last shake of your head, because this seems incredibly pointless. It’s going nowhere; never has.

So you stand, bare feet slowly carrying you to the vanity. His sketch from before and the pencil still lay the way they did before, but you avert your eyes immediately. Seeking your hairbrush, you attempt to vacate your mind.

And for just the tiniest of seconds, it works, albeit only because of the obstinate knots in your mane. You don’t look back and you don’t hear a word. Instead, you focus on the last few strands.

Not on what his silence means. Or on how much he might trust you. Not on how you thought something changed and then—

“I was… twelve back then.”

Paralyzed. That’s how you feel when you hear it.

You’ve been seeking the truth for ages now. The reason he stubbornly remained quiet, the secrets he hid from you. You barely realise what this grand moment means to you.

And your disbelief showcases in the wide eyes when you turn around, uttering a little, “What?”

“You want to know what’s wrong.” He throws a lopsided smirk, nearly sarcastic. “There’s so much wrong with me.”

You’ve stopped breathing. You only notice when your lungs burn in pain, awaken when his stare falls away. As if to prepare himself, he scans the room in thought, and you understand just a couple seconds in that he’s looking for his stuff, too.

He searches for it at the foot of the bed, next to the pillow and then on the ground. You see them on the carpet; way too far out of his reach.

Giving up, he breathes a sigh, sitting up with dejection in his movements. He’s already exhausted; like the weight of his inner tumult weighed him down for over a decade and is now tumbling back because he initiated the conversation about it.

You watch with a still body for a moment or two longer, see his large hands rub his face and then fall to his thighs. Slowly, you walk to the carpet, picking up the shirt and joggers, hand them to him and take a seat in front of him as he covers his body.

You wait half a minute. And then a couple seconds longer.

Then, you grab a nervous hand, halting his fumbling. He’s worrying his lower lip, so you reach for it, releasing it before you say, “It’s okay.”

Two words, but they seem to hit a spot. Because his shoulders slump; sadness mixing with affection and taking over his entire face.

You keep eye contact, revealing a smidge of a smile. He draws a deep breath, though it doesn’t quite ease the heaving of his chest.

And then, he finally tells you, “I was twelve, I think. My uh… My Dad had this cousin he was close to. Deji. I mean, they weren’t closely related, but she didn’t live far from us and she’d always been like a younger sister to him.”

You nod; he clears his throat. Still unsure, but continuing, “He’d somehow always been adamant on being the first to know if she ever found someone she liked. He felt responsible for her. And she didn’t have any siblings.”

The past tense keeps you stiff. You’re on alert, trying to pick out the peak of the story ahead of time. But his entire feeble being demands patience. So you swallow the knot and listen.

Only nod.

“But then, surprisingly, it was him who introduced someone to her.” Jungkook shrugs his shoulders, eyes firmly cemented on your hand. “Some handsome guy with a good, steady income. And she liked him. Immediately enamoured and all. We all loved him, really.”

He stops. As if he’s dwelling in a memory. Clenches his jaw, barely blinking now.

You brush a thumb against a vein on the back of his hand, moving an inch closer, and ask, “Then?”

“My Dad had a very close relationship with her parents, too. They were like his own parents, considering he lost his early. So they were important to him and they trusted him.”

“Right.”

“And then one day, a friend and I went to the movie theatre together. We saw that damn guy there,” he points haphazardly with his free, flat palm, as if the scene is playing out right in front of him. “But he wasn’t there with my aunt but with another girl.”

Shit.

Oh shit.

You know where this is going. But you still don’t understand Jungkook’s role in this. Or how it turned nightmarish enough to affect him for the rest of his young adult life.

Patience.

Jungkook’s tone changes. From desolate and quiet to more irritated; you detect a bit of heat in his words, though still collected, “He had the decency to not be kissing her or anything, but. It was more than clear that they weren’t just acquaintances either.”

A shake of his head. You feel an ache in your heart, scared of whatever he’s about to reveal.

“Man was stupid for that because our town isn’t as big as he thought. He was new, a friend of my Dad’s friend. And Deji, his fiancée, was gonna go to the city with him.” He looks through your room. “A city like this one. It’s easier here to stay undetected. Especially by kids.”

By kids?

Wha—

“And we, nothing but kids either, saw him clear as day. And I, as stupid as I was, confronted him. Just a child asking who that lady was and whatnot. He told me she was a friend and no one important, but I knew. He promised she wasn’t worth telling anyone about.”

A classic panicked reaction. An attempt to pacify an honest near-teenager who would mumble in agreement, turning his big eyes away and forgetting every second of the evening.

But you guess Jungkook didn’t quite fall for it.

You ask, “But you did tell someone?”

He nods. More transparent shame washes over him now, and once again, he lets his head drop, hair falling into his eyes. Ruefully this time. Tell tale signs of regret.

“I told my mom. And my brother. Then my mother told my father, and they both went and confronted Deji. Didn’t want to at first, but they knew they had to.”

Curses swirl through your head. His voice isn’t trembling just yet; quiet but steady. He’s narrating the incident as casually as he can, but his words are bad. Escalating bit by bit.

“And she…” you start. You press harder into his hand until he grimaces, but he doesn’t complain once.

“She was devastated,” he speaks on, painting his words with the subtlest laugh. It’s insincere; it worries you. “Her guy said he was going to leave that woman that night. The dumbest excuse ever. But even if true, my aunt told him she couldn’t possibly continue, because how could she trust him in marriage if she couldn’t now?”

“That’s… incredibly valid,” you agree. It feels strange to you to interject; like your voice doesn’t belong in this narrative. But it seems to encourage him — your interruptions must be giving him a sense of trust. “He sounds so— so horrible.”

Jungkook puffs out a breath, raising both eyebrows, “Well. He didn’t really stop there.”

“Oh…”

“A couple days later I overheard her telling my parents that she’d found that woman because she was, idiotically enough, ready to give him another chance. But that stranger revealed how she didn’t have a clue about Deji, and that he never gave any hints on a break up.”

You’re baffled beyond belief. You want to laugh at the absurdity; it’s a badly written drama script.

Carefully, you seek his eyes, and when he lifts his chin to meet your gaze, you crumble immediately. All of his countenance is filled with despondency.

Jungkook wants to turn back time so badly. Wants to set things right. You see it — see it in every tiny star in his pupils.

“That asshole was deceiving both of them,” he says. You blink, looking at the sheets, then out of the window, then back at him. “But things were okay in my family at first because no one was at fault but that guy. Things didn’t escalate until my aunt’s behaviour changed, like… overnight.”

The weight of his thoughts is heavy on him; you see his brain working at full intensity. But now that he’s started, he doesn’t stop anymore.

“She stopped talking. Was really vibrant and lively before, but withdrew herself after that. Wouldn’t eat, stared into nothing. People would talk about her and she wouldn’t realise. And then her parents shut mine off, too.”

God.

Despite the ache you’ve dove through in the last few weeks, you can’t imagine how such trauma alters the chemistry of the mind. The sea of inner turmoil; being detached from the world; all chatter fading into an indistinguishable buzz.

How can a single person cause such pain? And then expand it to others; how come he separated a once loving family?

“Why did they?” you wonder.

“Because my father had brought that upon them.” You try to make sense of it as he speaks; process each word he utters. “He thought he could be her mentor or her friend, but… he was overzealous, and— according to them, he ended up doing more harm than good. Said they could’ve handled it just fine without his interference.”

The way the world works is wild; the way things play out and conclude is insane to you. The flutter of a butterfly wing that causes a tsunami.

You understand the unintended consequences. You know his father wasn’t at fault, but then you remember the quiet mumble in the park before. The implication that thinking back to him hurts; the story isn’t over, is it?

But you still try, “Your father meant well.”

You hope to provide some reassurance in the midst of the ache, well aware that none of it will mend the broken pieces or erase the inflicted pain just yet.

“He did,” Jungkook confirms, “but they didn’t see that. And they couldn’t handle the fact that my aunt’s mental health deteriorated like that and destroyed her home. They said a lot of things to Dad that he couldn’t really stomach either.”

“And…”

Somewhere deep down, you’re already putting the puzzle pieces together. But assuming disrupts the smooth communication, so you attempt transparency, asking, “How did it affect you? How did you come into play again?”

“I mean… in the end, it all came down to me,” he confides. “My Dad let it out on me, because I was the one who’d seen it, and I was the one who couldn’t keep my mouth shut. So mentally… he cut me off. Only my mother and brother stuck by my side.”

Shit. Shit shit.

Parental issues? Him too?

“All those trips and conversations and the things he taught me. He stopped all of it. I even remember the day when…” You see that it hurts him physically. His muscles are tense. “We had this talent show in middle school. I knew he preferred my brother by then but…”

He smirks. “But I thought he knew how important it was to me. I practised really long for it, too, you know? He didn’t show up. And then, at my graduation… he only came when I’d already gotten my certificate. No field trips anymore. Bunch of these things over the years, and nothing ever changed back anymore.”

There it is. The heaviness in his voice, tinged with cruel memories. These things leave an indelible scar. Perhaps that’s why he barely ever mentions his father.

And suddenly… you feel bad, too.

You did the same to him. When he invited you to the showcase, the first big event in his career, you neglected him.

Your heart shrinks. His stupid reasons to be insecure and leave you weren’t so stupid after all.

Maybe you should stop him. And you try.

“Kook.” For the first time in minutes, you release the grip around his hand, instead reaching to his jaw, holding it carefully. “Do you want to pause here?”

But to your surprise, he declines your offer immediately. Looks at you with a dropping chest, wetting his lips before he admits, “You’re right, you know? You deserve to know. Of all people, you do.”

You stare. Nod, offering a silent gesture of support, and then wait. A sign for him to continue.

“I was the one who’d unknowingly dragged everyone into that shit when they could’ve had a happy marriage.” You momentarily shake your head in disagreement. “No, I… I mean it. I could’ve believed that he was gonna leave that woman eventually.”

Pause.

Then, “I thought I’d done something wrong.”

The burden is crushing him; you nearly see its force. His back keeps arching more, head between his shoulders. You straighten your own stance, moving on the bed and mumble, “Hey.”

He looks up.

“It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong. And it’s over, yeah? You’re not there, but here with me. Look.” You shift until your knees touch, palm rising to press against his chest. “You’re okay here.”

The state of his eyes changes. Previously dry and composed, they shimmer now. The corner of his lips convulses, only tamed when he inhales again.

You’re hurting — and can barely imagine his own pain.

You budge a little more, dropping your fingers to his legs. You tug until he opens them, and then close the distance until your own legs have settled on each of his sides, trapping him in.

The change locks his eyes on yours. Initial surprise overcome, unmistakable devotion spreads over his features. He doesn’t touch you for a moment, probably still uncertain about what he’s allowed to do.

But when you cup his face, pecking the mole under his mouth, he comes to life again. You feel the tremble when he touches your hips, brushing over the edge of your panties.

“They can do nothing to you,” you assure.

Quick tears build in his eyes, but he blinks them away rapidly, voice breaking when he starts, “Just…” He sniffles. “There’s so much, you know? That guy, he came to our house some time later. Like, a month, maybe?”

He isn’t done, so you listen. Encourage him with empathic nods, hands travelling to the nape of his neck. Your fingertips skim the hair there and his scalp.

“He was drunk and so angry at me. Fully ready to deck me. I was twelve… but my brother barged in. Got away with a little bruise but nothing bigger happened.” Whenever he finishes a sentence, the volume of his voice goes down. He takes a breath after each. “We were the talk of the neighbourhood for days.”

You can only stare, absorbing the depth of trauma etched in his words.

You listen. Nod. Tilt your head. Repeat.

“And… Nara was there that day. Spent it with me.”

Her name sends a wave of shock through your body, only briefly. Maybe you associated it with your own insecurities too much; but the reaction subsides as quickly as it came.

Things have changed. You take a breath.

“Honestly… for a while she was the only one who knew,” he adds, “not because I wanted her to know, but because she witnessed it all. She saw the aggression and how drunk he was. And saw the wound on my brother. Everything.”

The magnitude of his fears and scars is immense. They still linger. You expected his inner chaos to be wild, but you didn’t think it’d reach this far.

You press into his scalp just a bit, conveying that you’re still here.

“That shit affected me so much that I told myself it’d be the easiest to keep my mouth shut, no matter what. Especially if it can prevent bigger tragedies. Because frankly… I shouldn’t have spilled it back then.”

“Jungkook,” you opt to argue, moving in. You’re half on his lap now. “He fucking sucks for making you think that being truthful is something bad. Like, repeat your words in your head. No, seriously,” when he drops his head, you lift it again, “he would’ve ruined her life.”

“But… It's so easy to lose someone when you open up. It fucking scares me — and it’s never scared me as much as with you.”

You silence. With you?

“…I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be, because,” he mutters, red rimmed eyes dropping to your neck, “doesn’t it prove how much you mean to me?”

“How?”

“Because if I'd told you how much you mean to me or how much those paparazzi affect me… Or that your parents hurt me, I would’ve ruined another home. Another life, like last fucking time. Even when mad, they at least talk to you, you know?”

Oh.

God.

His hands aren’t on your hips anymore. At some point, they wandered to your back, and now they’re pulling you close until your breasts almost touch his chest. The reality of his feelings seems to dawn harder on him.

Because he’s uneasy against you.

And this time, tears do fall.

In tiny drops, trailing down his cheeks. The back of his hand leaves your back for just a moment, mopping away the liquid.

Jeon Jungkook…

“Oh, baby,” you coo, additionally swabbing at his tears. You’re ignoring yours. “You weren’t ruining a thing for me.”

And he couldn’t have anyway. One cannot break what’s already in pieces.

“No, I couldn’t do that to you. Every time I thought of opening up to you, I was transported back to that fucking scene when I was twelve and literally saw two families break. I sank every time you asked me to tell you.”

His digits shoot up to your damp face, holding it firmly, like you might vanish if he let go. “Angel.” Your tears shower down your cheeks; his words are strangled. “I would do anything for you. But you were already hurting.”

You keep shaking your head, the movement slowed down by his grip. You’re scared. So fucking scared he might leave again.

But instead he pulls your forehead to his slowly. Salty grief brushes against each other, woe becoming one; he’s crying freely, openly as he argues, “And you kept spiralling because of me and I just— did not want to hurt another person so fucking important to me, and—”

His hiccups interrupt his words. Button nose red, heavy emotions in every teardrop.

…You’ve never seen him like that.

It makes your heart pulverise until your already abundant tears fall as hard as his; the pain is overwhelming.

But somewhere, there is relief. Comfort. Trust.

You dry his face one more time, and then pull his hand from your cheek. You wrap your fingers around his, waiting for him to reciprocate the touch.

This time, your palm doesn’t hold drying forget-me-nots, or any flowers at all. The warmth reminds of remembrance and promises tonight.

“You never made my life worse, you know?” you explain. “You made me realise that I had actual options, because I thought I was trapped.”

He’s clutching your fingers, almost falling into you. And when he keeps swaying, you release his hand and pull him to your chest. His tears dampen your shirt.

And his speech is muffled, “I should’ve told you. Wouldn’t have hurt you so much. I just don’t know, I— I don’t know if he’s ever gonna forgive me, just— I fucked things up.”

“You didn’t. He will, Kook. If not, I will make sure he does, I prom—”

His words overlap with yours. He’s nearly hysterical, “I was so fucking scared of ruining your life, because I— I thought I’ve done it before. I wish I’d just told you, I just—”

“It’s okay.”

“I can’t do it again.”

“You won’t have to. I won’t go away. But,” you raise his head carefully. His eyes are swollen… You might be looking similar. “I’ll move out and live a better life, okay?”

He looks at you for a moment. Angles his head so sweetly that it aches, pout pointing downwards.

You nod a little and then say, “And that’s because of you. I wouldn’t have fucking realised and would’ve lived on like some… some robot if it wasn’t for you. Okay?”

In the time you have gotten to know him, found home in him and rejected someone else, you’ve learned a thing or two.

Like.

That love isn’t just about falling. And it’s not a linear process, starting with rising emotions and ending in infinite happiness. There are knots and bends and a million curves. Hurdles that throw you a step back.

Love isn’t just about rainbows but compromise and trust and the willingness to hold on.

And about constant yearning.

Of which he gives as much as he takes. Because—

“I don’t know how the fuck to spend my days without you.”

You answer, “…Then don’t. I will never be what Deji suffered through. And I’m not your Dad’s anger, okay? We can move on, so don’t leave—”

“I won’t.” You’re flush against him when he wraps his arms around you, lips close to yours. “I’m not letting go again. Never fucking letting you go again.”

You keep your arms slung around him, and he buries his face in your shirt. You don’t think any embrace has ever connected you like this before — because you hold each other until you’re welded together.

Fingers in each other’s hair, bodies hot.

And that’s it, you think. The beginning of the end.

Sweet and tender. Freeing your mind and easing the gloom in your heart.

“Angel… I’ll be,” Jungkook starts against the fabric of your clothing, “so goddamn annoying.”

You sniffle, your voice still shaking, “Hm?”

“I’ll annoy the fuck out of you when we’re together.”

Together.

He says it through tears, like a whiny child, and you can’t help but laugh. The combination of amusement and relieving, affectionate reconciliation floods through your body like a current.

Overwhelmed in the best way, you don’t know what to do with yourself. And maybe you don’t need to know just yet. Maybe this is enough for now.

“Please do,” you beg. “Do your worst.”

“You’re the only one who won’t kill me for it.”

“That’s right. So you better not try it with anyone else.”

It’s a dumb joke, but he claws his fingers into your shirt, holds his hand over your chest. Joins your broken chuckles as he promises—

“Why anyone else… if there’s you?”

happy early birthday to anon, ily <3 tbh, i might rewrite the smut one day, but other than that, i kinda do like how this chapter turned out !! i cried a bunch writing it :’) but things are gonna get better. hope you guys stick around despite the end of the heavy angst arc 🥺 there’s more heartbreak ahead, but in a different form, and generally, their storyline is about to be super exciting from now on!! you shall see!! :D

what do we think of this one, though? how did we react to the big big reveal :’)

whether new or old reader, please let me know what you think!! feedback really means so much and makes it a lot more motivating to work on stuff!! all those 30k words required so much brainpower lol so truly, come and like, reblog (on desktop, ideally, bc tumblr might crush otherwise), comment and most of all, send an ask, like spam me y’all fr fr 🥺 tysm for all the support on this baby so far. i love you endlessly <3

also.. pssst. upcoming? mondaytuesdaywednesdaythursdayfridaysaturdaysunday…

#jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jeongguk smut #bts smut #jungkook angst #jungkook x reader #bts x reader #bts x you #bts imagines #jungkook scenarios #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #jungkook imagines #jungkook fanfic #bts angst #jeon jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook series

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hellfire--cult · 4 months

Text

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

wc: 10.1k

HEAVY TRIGGER WARNINGS: +18, suicide attempt, reader is suicidal, PAS (Physician Assisted Suicide), neglectful parents, weed and alcohol, feelings of loneliness, hurt/comfort (?), fluff, kissing, some mentions of nausea, smut implication, angst. So much angst.

Plot: Eddie was new to the group, and he connected with you after an unfortunate event. You were excited to finally put an end to your suffering, of all those years of feeling nothing, and you had made a list of things to do before going.

a/n: I cannot stress this enough, please, do not read if this will be triggering for you. If you read PAST the warnings, it is your own responsibility, and I will not hold myself accountable for it.

This is somewhat inspired by the movie and book Me Before You. So yeah, have fun.

Always reblog your artists, likes don't do much.

Please, Trust Me

Eddie came into the group a little bit late, so to speak.

He was assigned to do a project alongside Steve Harrington in Psychology class. College was just something Eddie wanted to focus on studying since he had a reputation of repeating his senior year two times in a row, but Steve was friendly. Eddie, well, he didn’t realize how badly he needed social interaction until then.

So Steve introduced him to his group. Robin Buckley, Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers, and you. Now, Eddie got to know everyone, except yourself. As Nancy put it, you were in many extracurricular classes, so your time was limited. Eddie, of course, understood, but he also felt you were scared of him somehow. You always averted your gaze from him in the little moments you spent together, so he gave up on trying to talk further with you.

Holidays were approaching, and Eddie had the opportunity that his uncle was leaving the nice house he finally got to purchase near lover’s lake in Hawkins, his hometown, so he thought it would be a great idea to invite everyone over… Well, not everyone.

Since he thought you were scared of him, he believed the invitation would be rejected, but everyone else agreed to come over to his place. It was just a two-hour drive, and he couldn’t wait to get drunk and high with everyone else.

Robin told him that you didn’t have time anyway to assist, seeing that you were going to visit your mother for Christmas, so Eddie’s guilt vanished completely. He felt horrible for not inviting you, that’s why he asked Robin to ask you about your plans for Christmas.

So off they went, having a great time by the lake, drinking beer, eating grilled burgers and sausages, and then on Christmas night, the fireworks went off, and everyone was already drunk by that time, messaging loved ones and wishing them great holidays.

The next day, you called Robin, wishing her a happy Christmas. Eddie was packing the suitcase to go back to Indianapolis, when he overheard Robin tell you that they were spending New years there too, completely surprising him. He expected to return on the 26th, but he was excited to spend more time with his friends. Once again, you told Robin that it was fine since you were still at your mom’s.

And so, new years went by. Now on the 2nd of January, they all finally returned completely drained from all the alcohol and food, but still with smiles on their faces. Robin then turned to Eddie with an innocent smile on her face as she sat on the passenger’s seat.

“Eds, can you drive me to Y/N’s place? I want to show her the rocks we picked up at the lake, and I will likely stay the night at her apartment.” She batted her eyelashes at him and he rolled his own eyes.

“Okay, let’s take you to the rich girl’s place.” You explained to the group that you weren’t good with a roommate, so you rented a place near the campus to live in until your studies finished. Eddie realized you weren’t a middle-class person just by knowing that, and he doesn’t know why you would choose a college like this one instead of Harvard or something like that, as rich people do in movies.

Robin met you thanks to you being signed up to tutor her in a particular class she was struggling with. She and you immediately clicked, despite you acting a bit shy and reserved at first, as if not trusting Robin at all, like a scared animal in the wild meeting another species.

Once they arrived at your apartment complex, Robin once more looked at Eddie with a pouty lip.

“And help me with my bag? My shoulders hurt from swimming all week…” And once more, Eddie rolled his eyes, sighing as the two of them got out of his van and he went to the back to get hold of her bag, swinging it over his shoulder.

“You can just say you are lazy as fuck Buckley.” She giggled at his response and they both walked into the reception, calling the elevator to go up to your floor. Once they were at your door, Robin knocked a few times, only to be met with no response. Her smile faded slightly and she tried again, and once more, met with silence.

“Maybe she didn’t return from her mom’s.” And she bent down to look under your mat, finding the spare key. You told her she was welcome at any time, to simply look under the mat for the key and make herself comfortable, knowing Robin likes some quiet away from the dorms now and then.

She opened the door–

“Hey, you–”

And she and Eddie immediately winced at the strong smell of unwashed dishes or something of the sort.

“Jesus Christ, what is that smell? Did she forget to wash the dishes before leaving?” Eddie replied, looking over at the kitchen counter, his eyes furrowing together as he looked at a particular tray that was filled with gingerbread men cookies. They were all with a bit of fungus, and one had been bitten, one of its arms missing.

Robin closed the door behind her as she looked around, finding that there were bottles of different alcoholic beverages on the sink, a cup of ramen noodles on the coffee table in front of the TV, half-eaten, and then she spotted the small Christmas tree in the corner of the room.

She remembers how excited you were, buying your tree, telling her that you never had the chance of decorating one before because it wasn’t truly celebrated in your household. Dread immediately invaded her as she remembered that, slowly walking towards it and Eddie following behind, dropping Robin’s bag to the floor.

Robin gasped as she kneeled to the floor, finding different presents under the tree, one for each person in the group, including Eddie. His heart plummeted to the floor as Robin showed him the small present, and you didn’t even know what he liked, yet you bought something for him.

Robin then turned while getting up, looking towards the door of your bedroom that was shut. She rushed towards it and she felt her heart starting to want to come out of her mouth as she swung it open as quickly as she could.

And there you were, in your bed, resting, and Robin felt herself breathe in relief, but Eddie didn’t. Not when he noticed the bottle of wine next to you, on your nightstand.

“Maybe she didn’t think she was gonna go to her mom’s and she forgot about the cookies.” Robin said as if almost trying to convince herself. Trying to make a reasonable explanation other than the most horrible one that she could think of because of course, she doubted it when you said you were visiting your mom.

Because you mentioned to her that you two weren’t close.

Eddie slowly walked towards you, not caring about the smell that lingered in your room, knowing that you probably hadn’t showered or cleaned the place in a while. He looked down on you, tilting his head. You had the blankets all over you while you rested on your belly, eyes completely closed.

He raised a hand towards your face, under your nose, and his breathing stopped. Your breaths were slow, not even deep, and you were drooling, all over your pillow. He grabbed onto the edge of the blanket and Robin moved to stop him, yet he yanked it off.

“Robin… call 911.”

But Robin was frozen as she looked at your frame, her lip starting to shake as she inspected your right hand. A hand that was holding something that looked empty. Something that she saw was half full the last time she came over.

That orange flask that contained your sedatives.

And you chugged them down with alcohol.

Steve was rubbing Robin’s back as she sobbed into her hands, hunched over the chair of the waiting room. Eddie was on her other side, his leg bouncing up and down as he bit his nails. One day he was laughing with everyone and now he is waiting for some good news regarding your health, someone he barely knows, yet he is worried shitless for.

Loud heels were heard across the hallway, a woman in her late 40’s, wearing designer clothes, looking rather stern as she got closer to the door of the room you are in. Her arms are crossed as she stands next to it, tapping her heel on the floor, catching the attention of the three people sitting on the chairs.

“Excuse me?” Robin’s weak voice called out and the lady snapped her head towards her with an eyebrow raised up.

“Yes?”

“Who are you?”

“I am this girl’s mother. Who are you?”

And the three friends froze in their seats. It was your mother. The person you supposedly spent the holidays with, yet, she didn’t look concerned for you, but rather she looked angry, or disappointed.

“We– We’re her friends.” Robin replied with a small voice, because could she even say that? Do you deserve someone like her as a friend? Even as a partner? Someone who forgets what you told them almost a year ago? The woman scoffed, shaking her head.

“Friends? That is surprising. Were you there when she did this?” Her voice was cold, and anger started filling inside of Eddie’s chest. Why is she acting this way when her child is inside that room, fighting for her life? A life she almost took herself?

“N-No, we found her like that…” Robin looked back down again and Eddie could only look at her wrecked face with pity, yet, he could not comfort her.

“I see. Did the doctor come out or something yet? I have somewhere to be, and I cannot waste my time on this. Not again.”

And the three sitting people shot up from their seats, all with alarmed looks on their faces.

“I’m sorry… again?” Robin asked, the answer scaring her yet she needed to know what it meant. She needed to know if she was an even more horrible person than she was ten seconds ago. Your mother scoffed, shaking her head again and Eddie’s hands turned into fists.

“It’s the third time. I already sent her to a psychiatrist, a mental hospital, and therapists, and yet she still tries. That girl has everything, and yet she always craves attention this way. I’m sick of it.”

And Robin wanted to puke, right then and there, while Steve looked at Eddie with tear-filled eyes and the metalhead could see how bad his friend felt. How evil he must feel. Steve gulped and looked back at your mother, clearing his throat to be able to talk.

“W-Why would she do this?” And your mother scoffed, looking for her phone in her purse as she talked.

“Just because I forgot about the holidays and her birthday. I already sent her a message apologizing and telling her she could ask for anything she wanted, but she went and did this.”

And Robin froze.

Birthday.

December 28th.

Your birthday.

And she couldn’t handle it anymore, yanking herself away from Steve to rush towards the toilet. Steve called out to her, rushing to her aid as tears rolled down his cheeks and Eddie was frozen in place.

Not only did you spend the holidays alone, but you also spent your birthday by yourself, while they were all having fun in Hawkins, shooting fireworks and drinking alcohol to their heart's content. And you were alone, with a bottle of wine and instant noodles.

He was about to talk to your mother, about to insult her, to drag her on the floor, but the opening of the door in front of him made him stop in his tracks as the doctor walked out with a board in his hand.

“Okay, so, we got her blood cleaned up. It’s good that you caught her at such an early stage. Her vital signs look stable now, but she will have to stay here for a few days, two tops, so we can monitor her a bit more.” Your mother cleared her throat and the doctor looked up at her with a tilt of his head.

“So, she’s okay.” And there was such coldness in your mother’s voice that Eddie felt his vile rising in his throat. The doctor only sighed, taking his glasses off.

“She is, but we cannot overlook a suicide attempt. Does she have anyone to talk to? Maybe I can give you brochures for–”

“I already sent her to an institution once, but it didn't work. That child is an attention seeker, pay it no mind.”

Eddie’s eyes were burning in anger at her words and the doctor looked as surprised and hurt as he did. He cannot bear to hear your mother’s words any longer, so little care, with lack of empathy and lack of love. He wondered how many things you endured with a woman like this in your life, and honestly, he was afraid of finding out.

“W-Well, since you’re the mother, maybe you should–”

“She is a grown woman now. She can make her own decisions as you can see. I shall not worry about her anymore.” And just like that, the heels echoed in the hallway once more and Eddie’s eyes were wide as he looked at her retreating figure. A mother leaving her child after they tried to end their life, like no care in the world, as if she hadn’t given them their life to begin with.

Three times? Three times she did this? Walking away from you? How could she call you an attention seeker? How could she even acknowledge something like that when you were screaming for help?

“Ahem.”

Eddie blinked as he looked towards the doctor who had a confused yet pained look on his face.

“She is awake if you want to see her. I assume you are a friend of hers?”

Is he? He is not a friend, but you cannot be alone, not here, not right now. Robin is probably trying to breathe while Steve is comforting her, but maybe… Eddie knows you probably don’t want to see them either. None of that group. So he gave the doctor a nod, and he slowly opened the door of the white room.

His eyes scanned it, and finally, they landed on you. Your arms were connected to an IV and a blood transfusion bag, the heart rate monitor beeping right next to you as your back rested against the pillows, letting you sit on the bed. You looked emotionless. Eyes empty. Hand on each side of your body and Eddie knew your mind, your feelings, were completely shut off.

He gulped with nerves and the door closed behind him, making him wince, but it alarmed you that someone came into the room, making you look up. Your eyes twitched in surprise, yet if you were, you didn’t express it, nor show it.

“I guess you’re the one that found me?” Your voice was empty, with no tone, as if it were a recording or an AI robot. Eddie slowly nodded as he took a few steps toward the chair that was on the other side of the bed.

“Robin and I found you.” You gave a slow nod, looking back down to your lap. He didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know anything about you but he feels like he should have. He cleared his throat to continue talking. “I, uh, liked the necklace you got me. Pretty metal.” He winced at his words because it was something he shouldn’t have brought up at all.

Your eyes raised to meet his, another nod going towards his way, diverting your eyes back to your lap. He looked around for a second, the nerves all over his body. He was almost trembling with the need to talk to you, but what can he say? What could be something you want to hear right now? And coming from him?

“Ask away.” He startled at your voice, jumping on his seat as he looked at you once more.

“What?”

“I know you want to ask. And maybe you can also help me by telling the rest about it and how I am not going to talk to them again.” You were still not looking at him and he cleared his throat as he felt his mouth going dry, but now he knew you weren’t going to talk to the others about this. The relationship is already broken inside of you.

“I– Okay, um… I guess the first question is, why?” He slowly asked, afraid of even being able to talk to you about this, but sometimes they say that a stranger is the best listener, and maybe Eddie was just that.

“Why… Only child, homeschooled all my life so no interaction whatsoever with the world, absent mother, holidays and birthdays by myself, father was never found. Need to say more?”

And shit, Eddie was not expecting that at all. You had been miserable from the very beginning, unwanted by your own mother, and now he realized how horrible you must have felt with the whole group. Your first ever friends and they forgot every single detail of you. How you never spent a holiday with people, and was so excited you even baked cookies to share and bought presents for a gift exchange, your first ever most likely, only to never happen.

And now, he realized that… His other friends do not deserve any kind of pity, or forgiveness.

“Okay, then… Why were you scared of me?” At his question, your eyebrow raised up, and turned your head to look at him.

“Is that what you thought?” You asked with complete confusion in her tone. He looked at you with his own frown, tilting his head.

“Well yeah, you avoided me like the plague…” And you looked up at the ceiling, closing your eyes, and shaking your head with a sigh.

“No. I don’t trust people easily as you can see.” You looked down at your lap once again and he wanted to sigh a little bit in relief at that, knowing that his clothes or his whole demeanor didn’t actually scare her. She was just shy and probably nervous.

“Right… Um, Robin and Steve are here as well, do you want me to–”

“No. I don’t want to see them.” And your words spoke for your pain, and Eddie was not going to argue against it. They honestly didn’t deserve your forgiveness or kindness, that much he knew, but he also felt guilty. Really guilty.

“I– I am sorry… I didn’t invite you because I really thought you hated me– and I took everyone away, I didn’t know any of this, I am so sorry if I knew–”

“You weren’t the one who forgot. You don’t know me, but they did.” He gave you a nod in understanding, yet the guilt is still lingering in his stomach. He cleared his throat and he wanted to ease the tension for you, to relieve the somber moment that filled the room.

“So uh, you knew I liked Metallica huh? Is it because of the hundreds of shirts that I own?” Your eyebrow raised at him and you turned to face him while he gave you a cheeky smile of his own. You squinted slightly at him, but a small tug on the corner of your lips gave you away.

“Well yeah, all the times I’ve seen you it was either Metallica or Black Sabbath. It had to be one of the two.”

“What if I only liked their logos, huh?” At that, you rolled your eyes at him, but he kept making jokes at you, and a giggle here and there could be heard in the room.

Robin and Steve were hearing the both of you outside your room. They looked at each other for a minute before hesitantly walking away. Robin turned her head at almost every step, wanting to barge into the room to hug you, to say she was sorry. But she knew it meant nothing, not anymore, and not ever again.

What she did, what they did, cannot be fixed.

Eddie was lounging with his headphones on as he listened to music while resting against a tree trunk. He was bobbing his head as he wrote some lyrics on the notebook he had over his leg. For the past three days, he hasn’t heard of you. He tried visiting you yesterday only to find out you were discharged and he felt too embarrassed to just go to your apartment.

He had also distanced himself from the group. It didn’t sit right to be with people who could easily forget about something so important like a birthday. You didn’t have any social media, so the least they could do is put the birthday in their own cell phones, like Eddie did as soon as he left the hospital.

It’s not like he didn’t talk to them, he just made excuses when they asked to hang out with him. He just couldn’t shake off the bad vibes from it all.

He looked up from his lap only for his eyes to bulge out of his skull as he saw you almost prancing in happiness while walking through campus. That’s a good sign, isn’t it? He immediately put his notebook into his backpack and pulled his headphones down, resting them around his neck. He got up, almost tripping as he did so, as he rushed towards you.

“Hey! Hey!” He yelled at you to catch your attention as he got closer. You turned to face him, still with a wide smile on your face.

“Hi, Eddie.” You were smiling, that’s good, that’s really good. He was almost breathing heavily from the run he just did. He wasn’t athletic and the smoking surely doesn’t do him any good.

“Yeah– I just– give me a minute.” He huffed as he tried taking a deep breath in, and you giggled motioning to him to sit on a bench near the both of you. You sat down as soon as he plopped down, taking another huff of air as he turned his head to look at you. “So, what got you all smiley?”

“Well, I just dropped out of college!” You announced with a smile and jazz hands, startling Eddie completely. His face was contorted in confusion and wonder.

“What? Why? You didn’t like what you were studying?” You shook your head as you looked at the horizon, not anything in particular.

“It’s just pointless now.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m going to California in three months.” Your head turned to look at him still with a smile on your face. “I’ve been offered P.A.S.”

He frowned, not knowing what those syllables meant at all. He tried putting them together in his head but nothing was coming up.

“What’s that?”

And Eddie didn’t know why you opened up to him with that. He didn’t know why he didn’t care that you did. He didn’t know why this relationship between the two of you evolved in this manner, as quickly as it did… but he never expected to hear the response you gave him.

“Physician Assisted Suicide.”

And now, Eddie knew that term, and his eyes bulged out of his skull. You were… offered that? How can that happen? You had no health issues to go through something like that, so why would you consider that? Why would the doctors even consider that for you? His heart was just hammering in his chest as dread invaded his gut.

“W-What? Why– how?” He was speechless, not really knowing what he was asking or what he wanted to know at this point. He felt his gut turning at the information like he couldn’t believe someone as young as yourself could even consider that way out.

“Well, it was due to all my medical records, be it psychological and physical. My mindset never changed.” Your gaze turned from him to nothingness once more. “I go, get help, only to get out and for everything to be the same. It never changes, because it was never me who had to change.”

Eddie slowly blinked at your wording and his eyes drifted to the sky as his thoughts raced through his mind. Can he even talk you out of this? How can he even do that? You seem happy, way too happy with this solution… You were excited.

“You’re not… scared?”

“No. Not at all. I am ready to go. My heart can barely handle it anymore.” And Eddie’s eyes turned towards the profile of your face. You had made your decision clear, and he wouldn’t be able to stop you now. No one can. The group was no longer part of your life, your mother didn’t care about your decision so it seems… and he is no one to stop you.

“Alright… You– um, what are you gonna do until… you know, then?” He asked and you smiled at him, grabbing your backpack to take out your notebook, and flipping a page to show him a list, which made him frown in confusion.

“These are things I never tried because the opportunity never presented itself. Before, I didn’t know–” You cut your voice short at what you were about to say, and then you continued. “Now that I know when it’s gonna happen, I don’t want to go with any regrets.”

Eddie looked at the list, and he couldn’t believe… how trivial some of these things were.

- Go to an amusement park

- Smoke a cigarette

- Buy a Barbie Dreamhouse

- Eat a cake for breakfast

- Get high

And then he saw more complicated ones.

- Go skydiving

- Learn to drive (or attempt)

- Try to skateboard

- Ride on a jet ski

- Attempt to make a rainbow cake

And so many more. You had filled an entire page with things you wanted to do and he looked up at you to see you looking up at the sky with a smile on your lips.

“I think I should get the Barbie Dreamhouse first. Oh, maybe get some alcohol, I never got fully drunk, but maybe tonight I can since I don’t have to wake up early anymore–” And you went on with your plans and Eddie was just staring at you as the thoughts ran through his brain.

Everyone else was walking all around the two of you, and nobody knew that you were going to die in three months. No one knew you had made an entire bucket list with things to do before going. No one knew about this decision of yours, and he wasn’t going to let you be alone in this. He doesn’t want you to live these last few weeks with no one at your side.

“You know, or I can make one of your wishes on the list come true.” Your head snapped towards him with a surprised look on your face.

“Oh, what?” And a smirk formed on Eddie’s lips.

“Getting high.”

“Did you prepare the pan?”

“Uh…”

“Eddie!”

He immediately rushed to grab onto the pan as he burst into giggles thanks to the weed in his system. The munchies came to life with you two after smoking a whole joint from Eddie’s stash. You had the open bag of pizza rolls in your hands, the oven already turned on as you waited for Eddie to put some oil spray on the pan.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just– I was stuck looking at the wall.” He simply replied to you, making you burst into laughter, trying not to let the pizza rolls fall to the ground. He followed you with chuckles as he sprayed the pan and handed it to you so you could throw the pizza rolls on it and then begin cooking them in the oven.

You were relaxed, that much Eddie knew, and he was smiling as you tip-toed in a dance towards your couch, plopping down. He followed soon after, sitting next to you. You giggled as you stared at the ceiling.

“I feel like I’m on a cloud.” Eddie stared at your profile for a while before he began talking once more.

“I wanna help.”

“Hmm?” You turned to face him still with a dopey smile on your face.

“I want to help you complete some things on your list.”

And your smile fell as if becoming sober out of nowhere. Eddie then gulped but his resolution was already said and you moved uncomfortably in your place.

“You don’t have to pity me. I can do these–”

“No, you can’t. Learning to drive a car? How do you plan to do that?” At that, you opened and closed your mouth many times and then cleared your throat.

“An instructor!” Eddie rolled his eyes at that, and put his hand up, his fingers up.

“Getting drunk, you need supervision.” He put a finger down. “Going to a concert, you’re gonna get squashed.” He put another one down. “Playing Mortal Kombat, you need an enemy.” He put another and then you stopped him completely, shoving his hand down.

“Okay, okay, okay! I see your stupid point.” You sighed as you threw your head back against the headrest of the couch, looking at your ceiling. He knew you were overthinking it, but he honestly wanted to help you in any way he could.

“C’mon, there are a few things in your list I am dying to try too. Like– Eating Argentinian food. I never tried that shit, I bet it’s fucking delicious.” You giggled at his expression and then nodded at him.

“Okay, fine. You can help. You will also help me bake that stupid rainbow cake I always wanted to try.” He laughed at that with a shake of his head.

“Another thing I never did in my life was bake. It’s gonna be a journey. Do you have insurance here? We might burn it all down.” At that you punched his shoulder lightly, causing him to laugh it out followed by your giggle.

And what a journey it was gonna be.

“Seriously, YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO GET ME INTO THIS TOO!” Eddie almost screamed as he looked out the window of the helicopter with a frightened look on his face. Harnesses were all around his body, a man behind him strapping himself closer to Eddie’s back.

You were in front of him, holding your laughter as you held onto a handle on the side of the big machine that was now miles and miles above the ground. The helmets on both of your heads almost crushed your skulls but the protection was needed. Another man was strapping himself to you behind your back.

“Oh come on! You wanted to try new things!” You yelled at him so he could hear you over the loud sound of the helicopter.

“Yes! BUT NOT SKYDIVING! I WAS HAPPY TO WAIT FOR YOU WITH EARTH BENEATH MY FEET!” He yelled back and you were trying really hard to contain your laughter. Suddenly the big door next to the both of you slid open and the wind immediately pushed your body and Eddie’s back from the force but the guys remained still as they held onto the handles above the door.

“You guys ready!?” The one behind you asked and Eddie rolled his eyes behind the goggles.

“DO I HAVE A FUCKING CHOICE?”

“Nope.” The guy behind him said before jumping out with no warning, dragging Eddie with him, and then the guy strapped to you followed close behind. You were screaming your lungs out, and Eddie was shrieking. The adrenaline of falling was making him feel butterflies in his belly, almost making him feel sick.

He can hear you closer now and he raised his head to see you in front of him with your arms splayed out and reaching out for him. He could hear your laughter through your screaming and he reached out, fighting the strong wind, to finally lock his hands with yours as you two were freefalling towards the ground.

He couldn’t help but smile and cheer out from how extreme the whole situation was. He didn’t know how you weren’t hungover, you had gotten yourself as drunk as possible yesterday night while dancing to his music. He showed you how to headbang properly, and he took care of you when you started letting the contents out in the toilet.

He held your hands as tightly as possible, your fingers intertwined with his, as you both yelled with excitement and fear as you plummeted down and down. You only separated when the men behind your backs tapped on your sides so they could pull the parachute open.

Your bodies jerked as you started floating in the sky, and Eddie was left laughing as you both glided downwards towards the ground again. He could see the entire city and the fields as you both kept coming down. He turned his head to see you laughing as well, your head looking up at the sky in bliss and he felt his heart tug on him slightly.

Once you two touched earth again, Eddie let the air out of his lungs with relief and the guy behind him unstrapped himself so Eddie could catch a proper breath, taking the goggles and helmet off. You followed a few seconds later, walking towards him with a smile on your face and taking your goggles off.

“It wasn’t so bad, was it?” You were breathing heavily and he scoffed at you with a shake of his head, flicking his fingers on your forehead.

“I won’t let you drag me into something like this ever again.”

You laughed at him and you both walked back to Eddie’s van after you paid for the experience. You didn’t let Eddie pay at all, since you dragged him into it. He was going to invite you for dinner though, and you wanted McDonalds, so he was driving back towards town as you two talked in the van.

“So, you never told me about your parents.” You blurted out, catching him by surprise, but you were indeed right. He gripped his steering wheel a little tighter, but he kept a small smile on his face.

“Oh, where to begin? My mother died when I was young and my Father was… very abusive, and often dragged me into stealing with him. He got caught and he’s been in jail for a while now, he’s charged with robbery and homicide attempt.” He took a big gulp in as he kept driving, not used to letting people into his life in this way. “But, my uncle Wayne took me in at fifteen. He is the father figure my father failed to be.”

You were silent as you listened to him. He didn’t hear anything from you so he turned to face you, only to see you looking at him with tears running down your cheeks. He wondered what was going on in your head at that point. He was about to ask you what was wrong and you sniffled, wiping the tears away with the back of your hand.

“I’m– sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.” You said regretfully and he instantly shook his head.

“No, no… don’t worry. I’m past it.” He was worried about what you were thinking about at the moment since you remained silent for a while.

“I’m a little jealous to be honest… You had someone that…” And he waited for you to continue, but when you didn’t, he pressed forward.

“Someone that what?”

“Wanted you.”

And his heart broke at that, immediately so, and he knew his eyes started burning from the incoming tears and he shook his head to keep focused on driving. You didn’t need him to cry, you didn’t need that.

But should he tell you what he thinks? Should he tell you what has been on his mind for the past month that he helped you tick things off your list?

“I–”

“Oh! Before I forget–” You looked through your purse, pulling out your phone as you started scrolling, and he frowned as he tried to look at what you were doing and then back at the road. You giggled and moved away so he couldn’t see. “No peeking!”

“Oh come on, you can’t just do that and not expect me to be anxious!” He laughed as he kept his gaze on the road and then he saw light in his peripheral vision and he looked quickly to see you were showing your phone to him. He switched from the road and to your phone but he couldn’t quite read it. “What’s that?”

“You know how one of the things was to go to a concert?” He nodded and you giggled, putting your phone down again. “I got us two tickets to go see Megadeth!”

His jaw could just fall from his skull at this point as he tried to focus on driving and not the shock from those news. Did you say Megadeth? Are you serious? Eddie has been dying to see them live but when he got into the virtual line they got sold out in just a few seconds.

“What?!” He yelled and you kicked your feet on your seat as you stared down at the phone. He was speechless, a smile spreading on his face, only for it to fall back down. “Wait, do you even LIKE Megadeth!?”

“Well, I haven’t heard much, BUT YOU LIKE THEM, and I assumed that we should go to a concert we both can enjoy. I doubt you want to go to a Taylor Swift concert.” You replied with a wiggle of your eyebrows only for him to scoff.

“Taylor Swift has some sick songs. But– Yes, I do prefer Megadeth sweetheart.” He smiled widely at you and then looked back at the road, cheering as he hit the steering wheel with excitement. “Fuck yeah!”

You were laughing on the passenger’s seat and Eddie was smiling all the while as realization started to dawn on him that… he may like something more than Megadeth’s music.

It was a special kind of tune.

“Seriously, how long are you gonna take darling, we had to go like yesterday!” Eddie yelled with a pissed-off tone as he paced in your living room.

“It’s my first time wearing something like this, it needs to be perfect!” He heard you yell from the bathroom and he sighed, but a smile was splayed on his lips. He was looking out the window as he waited for you in his Megadeth tank top with a black leather jacket on top. He heard the bathroom click open and he sighed in relief, turning around with a roll of his eyes.

“Finally–” And his breath was knocked out of his lungs. Your hair was messy, completely batted, wearing heavy black makeup on your eyes, strong lipstick on your lips, a black top with a black long-sleeved fishnet shirt on top, and then black leather pants below. You gave him a twirl and wiggled your eyebrows at him.

“So!? I had to look at a tutorial on YouTube to get this done, but I think I did pretty good–”

“You look beautiful.” And it was natural. It came out without doubt, without him thinking too much about it, and you were shocked, yet, he noticed how you diverted your gaze away from him, and he chuckled at how embarrassed you got from a compliment regarding your physique.

“I– uh, it isn’t weird?” You asked and Eddie knew you felt a little self-conscious of how different you looked. But you were indeed beautiful, this just enhanced it in ways he didn’t think could be possible and he felt his knees bending for you.

“It isn’t darling…”

There was a moment of silence between the two of you and Eddie could only stare at you as he walked closer to your frame. He saw how your shoulders went up and down a littler harder than before, signaling him that you were taking deeper breaths, maybe from nervousness, he didn’t know.

“Um–”

“Sweetheart…” You finally looked at him and he smiled, rolling his eyes. “Can we please go now!?”

And you giggled at him, the tension leaving the both of you as you made your way out to head to his van.

The ride to the stadium was filled with music, mostly Megadeth which you started listening to since you showed Eddie the tickets three weeks ago. Today signaled the second month of you two completing your bucket list.

One more month to go.

And the concert was filled with screams and laughter from your part, Eddie protecting you from the people pushing against you, but you didn’t care, experiencing your first concert ever, and you wanted to share it with him. This was your first and last concert, and you decided it was gonna be Megadeth, for his taste.

“That was AWESOME! My neck needs ice from all the headbanging though.” You sighed as you two got back into the van after almost three hours of jumping around. Your make up was smudged, your hair looked a little sweaty, and your lipstick had washed away from the sweat, yet, you looked as beautiful as you did hours ago. Even before the makeup. Maybe even more.

“Hey, you were great for your first metal concert.” You giggled at his words and gave him a nod.

“I am a natural.” You smiled at him and he just kept staring at you, licking his lips as he looked down and then moved his whole body in order to face you. The nerves were almost killing him as he tried to formulate the following words.

“I uh– I can help you cross another thing off your list.” You tilted your head in question and you pulled out your notebook from the bag you left in the van with your bucket list and then a green highlighter.

“What is it?” You smiled at him as you handed them to him and he scanned the whole list, looking for that one thing and when he spotted it, he felt his heart in his throat as he slowly showed it to you, pointing at the line.

Have the first kiss

You blinked once, twice, and then looked up at him with a confused frown in your eyebrows. He gulped loudly and he might have overstepped it, but he still waited for your response and he could see the incoming tears in your eyes as he felt his hands becoming sweaty.

“You– You don’t have to do that… I– You don’t have to do something you don’t want to–”

“I want to. I really want to.”

He could see that you were nervous, looking everywhere but his face. You didn’t reject him. You were worried that he didn’t want to do this and felt pressured because of your list, and that was far from the truth.

“I– How does this go?” And he wanted to smile at your innocence, but he felt sadness that you never experienced any kind of physical interaction in all your life. But he smiled anyway, in order to calm your nerves down. He raised his hand towards your cheek once you moved to face him in the passenger seat. Your breathing hitched at his touch, finally looking at him, directly into his brown eyes.

“Just close your eyes. You can tell me to stop whenever, I won’t pressure you, sweetness.”

And his voice was soft, and caring, his thumb smoothing your cheek in circles and when he saw you close your eyes, he took a deep breath in as he slowly leaned in. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, the blood rushing to his head at a quick pace, but he had to focus. He knew his face was flushed, but he couldn’t help it.

He could smell your perfume still, despite all the jumping, all the sweat, it was still lingering on your body. He finally closed the gap between the two of you in a soft peck on the lips, staying there for two seconds before pulling away as a chill ran down his spine. He wanted to dive into it, take your lips completely, but he didn’t want to overstep. He opened his mouth to ask if you were okay, only to be surprised by your hands grasping his face, pulling him towards your mouth again.

He gasped into the kiss, and he took it as a sign that you wanted to know more, experience more, learn more. So he kissed back, his hand moving towards the back of your head in order to push you further into him as you two hovered over the console. He started to move his lips, slowly, and he felt you follow him, hesitant at first, maybe doubting what you were doing.

He was having a hard time focusing on not letting his instincts take over, a very horrible time. This was a bad idea. This was a terrible fucking idea and he knew it, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to be the one to give this to you, because if someone else did… he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He didn’t want anyone close to you, not like this.

He felt your hands moving to the back of his head, your fingers digging into his curls, and he held a groan in, trying to not let it show how carnal he was becoming. He was nervous but he wanted to see if you wanted to take it even further, so he poked his tongue out, licking your bottom lip tentatively.

He heard a gasp coming from you and he noticed that you didn’t get the idea of what he wanted to do, so he tried again, licking in between your bottom and top lip. You seemed to know what part comes next, so you slowly opened your mouth, and he met his tongue with yours, earning another gasp of surprise.

He wanted to know what thoughts were running in your mind right now as he kissed you. Did you feel the heat rising? Did you feel scared like he does? Did you feel happy? Confused? Nervous? What is going on in that head of yours?

He didn’t want to break it apart, he really didn’t, but it’s been minutes, and he didn’t want to overdo it at all, and he can’t hide his real feelings for much longer. He slowly pulled away from you, the smack of lips separating and vibrating all over the van. You two were breathing heavily as you stared into each other’s eyes.

“So? How was that for a first kiss?” He asked breathlessly and he could see something in your eyes that he couldn’t quite describe. It was a mixture of emotions, not one in particular, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. He was still holding onto your face, waiting on your response.

“It–” You opened your mouth to say something, only to shut it seconds after, and then a smirk appeared on your lips, pulling away from him to sit straight in the passenger seat. “I don’t know Munson, got nothing to compare it to.”

His mouth fell open, a laugh escaping his lips as he poked the side of your body, making a giggle escape your lips, flinching away from him as he kept poking you repeatedly.

Yeah… your laugh was better than any song out there.

Five days.

Five days and you were leaving.

And it’s not like you were going to come back. You weren’t going to in any shape or form.

Eddie was lounging on your couch as you put things in cardboard boxes. Things you wanted to donate since you weren’t going to need them any longer. He closed his eyes tightly, his heart aching and wanting to stop you, to yell at you that you didn’t have to do this, not anymore.

“Okay, I think I’m done for today. You sure you don’t want any of this?” You asked him and he felt as if a knife was stabbed into his throat. He wanted to cry like he had been doing alone at night whenever he went to bed. Sleepless nights were plagued by the thought of not seeing you anymore, of not being able to hug you, of not being able ever to cuddle you like he wanted.

“Yeah, pretty sure.” He didn’t want to sound bitter or angry, but he couldn’t hide it. You didn’t acknowledge it of course, so you shrugged, closing the box and standing up from the floor before heading to your room.

He stared at your open door, needing to hype himself up. If it’s not now, he won’t have the chance to do it again. He needs to kiss you once more, he needs to hold you close, he needs to show his feelings through actions.

So he stood up and slowly walked towards your room. You were cleaning up your closet, looking through your shirts. He watched you move through your room, and he looked over to your desk, seeing the almost completed bucket list. Some were just impossible to complete, like riding a kangaroo, but there was a particular one that he wanted to fulfill, and not because it was on the list.

If this was the only chance he could do it, he would take it. You noticed his presence when you turned around with a shirt on your hand and saw him looking at your notebook. You tilted your head to the side as his fingers trailed one particular line that was yet to be highlighted.

“Eds? What’s wrong?” Your voice held worry as you put the shirt back in the closet and Eddie turned his head up to look at you. He turned to close the door behind him, to face you again, taking a few steps forward to stand in front of you.

“I saw one more thing on the list… a thing I want too.” His voice was small, lacking confidence, filled with nerves, but he needed this. He needed you. He hoped he wasn’t getting this wrong, because ever since that kiss the two of you stole glances from one another, laughter as friends turned into flushed giggles.

“And what is that?” You asked with a frown on your eyebrows, in question. He wrapped an arm around your waist, flushing your body to his, his breath most likely hitting your face as he felt your shoulders move even quicker than before, signaling him you were taking fast breaths.

“Do you trust me on this?” You stared up into his eyes for a full five seconds before slowly nodding at him. He lifted his other hand to cup your face in his palm, and he leaned down to take your lips with his.

Electricity ran through his body, and he wanted to smile, he wanted to cry, he wanted to yell, he wanted to rip and break the walls, he needed to destroy something, he needed to hug someone, he needed comfort but he also needed the rage.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding onto him as your lips moved together, soon tongues intertwining as the seconds passed, and your breathing turned jagged as you pulled away for some air. Eddie leaned down to kiss your jaw, startling you, to then move downwards towards your neck, planting soft kisses onto your skin.

A gasp escaped your lips at the sudden sensation, new, raw, and Eddie felt you shiver under his touch, but instead, you were gripping his shoulders in order to pull him closer as the hand that was on your waist started sneaking under the hem of your shirt so he could touch your skin.

“Eddie…” It was a partial moan, but he took it as a green light, moving you towards the bed so he could lay you down but before he crawled on top of you he took the chance to take his jacket off, throwing it across the room, not caring where it landed.

If this was going to be the only time to have you like this, he would make sure to make you feel like the most adored person in the world. He will make sure of it. Even as your moans filled the room, he couldn’t help but want to record them, knowing he won’t ever hear them again.

And that line was highlighted in green when you both woke up the next morning.

Make love

He didn’t want to look at you.

He couldn’t.

The sun was shining through your curtains as you walked around the apartment with the small carry-on waiting for you at the front door. The past few days the two of you dipped into the sheets, all day, cooking when necessary only to return to bed.

He really wanted to cry and yell, and he almost left in the middle of the night in order to not see this day. In order to just run away from the fact this was your last hour with him, and you had asked him to take you to the airport. He can ditch you, tell you he wasn’t going to do it, that you could get a cab.

But he couldn’t do it. His heart was ripping out of his chest at every step you took in your apartment, the seconds ticking closer and closer to the departure of your plane. A plane with no return at all. A one way ticket.

He looked around your apartment, and boxes of stuff that you wanted to donate surrounded him, as well as bags of your clothes. You told Eddie that he was the only one in your will. That fact broke him to the core, knowing that you were leaving everything to him, but the only thing he wanted was you, and you were going to leave him.

He didn’t want your pans, your apartment, your cutlery, your game consoles, or TVs. He wanted you, and only you. He didn’t notice that his tears were falling down his face as the lump in his throat became bigger and harder to swallow at every gulp he tried to take.

“Okay, I think I’m–” You stopped on your tracks when you saw his profile, noticing the tears, your eyes widening as you approached him, your hands cupping his cheeks for him to look at you. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re leaving me.” He wasn’t going to hold back his feelings anymore. He showed you through his actions, but he never said them out loud, and the least he can do is let you know this.

“What–”

“I love you.” Your eyes widened and your mouth hung open at his confession, but Eddie didn’t stop talking. “You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and fuck, you need to know how much I fucking want you.”

You were stunned into the ground and that’s when Eddie turned to look at you, only to see tears running down your face as you covered your mouth, taking steps away from him.

“You– You can’t say that to me, not now. Please– Please– not now.” You were choking into your sobs as he stood in front of you, coughing to be able to speak.

“I– I want you to stay… Please, don’t take that flight… I beg of you, please, stay with me…” His lip was trembling as he felt nausea fill his stomach, taking a few steps towards you as the crying finally was heard through the apartment.

“I– I don’t need your pity! I– I am happy I am doing this! You’re lying in order for me to stay, and I’m not going to buy it!” You yelled through your sobs, and Eddie felt his chest ripping open at your thoughts.

“I am not lying! I am in love with you! Why can’t you believe that!?” He was screaming now, trying to get his point across but you also didn’t back down, yelling back to him with the same confusion, with the same anger, with the same sadness.

“Because how can I trust that!? How can I trust you!?” And Eddie grabbed you onto your shoulders, squeezing you tightly in order for you to look at him and not run away. His eyes were on fire as he gazed at you through his tears.

“Trust me just like you trusted me to hold your hair back when you got too drunk and you were in the toilet! Trust me just like you trusted me to teach you how to drive! Trust me just like you trusted me to protect you in your first night club outing! Trust me just like you trusted me when I made love to you!”

And the screaming ceased, eyes locked into one another’s, tears still streaming down, never stopping, heavy breathing trembling against every wall. You were shaking under his touch, your lips trembling as your hands shook on your sides while he still gripped onto your shoulders. You opened your mouth to talk once more, your voice small, broken.

“You… One day you will get tired of me, but you will feel bad for leaving me, so you won’t… I can’t– I can’t chain you like that–” Your voice was breaking his heart, even more than before, and he shook his hair desperately as he let go of your shoulders so he could grab your hands and hold them with his, getting closer to you.

“No, no… I won’t ever get tired of you… Not you, not in a million years…”

“Eds…”

“Please… Please don’t go… Please, trust me.”

You sobbed a gulp of air and you raised in order to give him a soft kiss on the lips. His breathing hitched at it, but kissed you back, dread filling his core, every vein, every blood cell instantly freezing at what the future will hold, of what this kiss meant. You pulled away with a small smile on your face. Small, authentic, yet sad.

“I love you, Eddie… I’m sorry…”

And your flight took off that day.

“Mr. Munson…”

“Mr. Munson!”

Eddie jolted in his seat as he put his wallet down to look up at his group of students. Gregory was raising his hand and Eddie pointed at him so he knew he was acknowledged.

“Sorry, I got lost in my thoughts. What’s wrong Mr. Gill?” He asked and his student asked something about the textbook they were all reading. His college students. He began explaining the paragraph that seemed like a puzzle to students from the book “Down the Rabbit Hole”.

He graduated in Psychology three years ago. He was offered a job as a professor in the same college he graduated from, and he was more than happy to pass his knowledge to other students to help them understand how the brain works, and the many branches that can come out of it after every single situation in life. Traumatic or not.

Once his students went back to reading, he grabbed onto his wallet again, looking inside to see a picture of you and him, completing one of your bucket list’s objectives.

Go to an amusement park and get pictures taken in a photo booth.

He chuckled as he remembered that outing, how you had screamed at your first ride on a roller coaster.

He became friends with Steve once again but was still not fond of the rest of the group. The only reason he got close to Steve again was because he was also a teacher in the same college. He was a professor in physical trauma, so, in their breaks, they would smoke together as they walked through campus.

The bell rang and it was time for him to finally head home after a long day of having four classes in the day. He grabbed his suitcase, hoping no student would stop him on his way out and gladly it never happened. His hair is still the same length, but he is always using a ponytail or a bun on his head.

He has heard rumors that people always gossip about him, asking if he was single, or what was his life like outside college. He shrugged the comments away as they weren’t important at all. He just came to work and that’s it.

He got into his car, a black jeep he saved a year for in order to buy it. He missed the van, but he had to upgrade it once and for all. His van was a little old so replacement parts were a bitch to get. He turned on his car and then started his drive back to his home, a two-story house. It wasn’t big or luxurious, but it was his home.

He sighed in relief as he opened the door, throwing his suitcase on the couch after slamming the door closed. He cracked his neck a few times before taking his blazer off and then his tie, unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt and opening the cuffs at the end of the sleeves. He groaned with satisfaction as he sniffed the air.

He smiled as he walked towards his kitchen, leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his teeth showing into a massive grin.

“Hi baby.” You smiled widely at him as you took the pan out of the oven, filled with cookies that were freshly baked. He walked towards you, his hand stretching out in order to grab a cookie, only for it to get slapped away by you. “They’re hot!”

“I am strong, I can handle a little bit of burning.” He grinned down at you, leaning down to give you a soft kiss on the lips in greeting. “Were my princesses hungry for cookies?”

“Are you talking to me or…” He chuckled at the pout on your face and he bent down to kiss the big bump on your belly, standing up straight later on, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close to him.

“Those two are my princesses, you, my love, are my queen.” You rolled your eyes at his antics but you giggled either way. He gave you a smooch on the cheek, making you laugh, trying to push him away. He spotted something on the kitchen counter, pulling away from kissing you and getting the item in his hand.

“Oh! Yeah, Chrissy gifted that! She said–” Eddie laughed as he looked at you and then putting the two pink pacifiers that you can put flavored ice in so they can chew and help with the heat.

“Another gift!? Damn, she really wants to be the godmother of one of our princesses huh.” You pushed onto his shoulder with a pout on your bottom lip.

“Hey, she is going to be the best aunt.” Eddie nodded at that and he really wasn’t angry at Chrissy. You met her after you moved out of your apartment to go to Eddie’s. She was moving in at the same time you were, and you two helped each other in bringing the boxes in.

Yes, your flight took off that day… Without you in it.

You stayed with him, wrapped in his arms as you cried, not being able to stop as your feelings confused you, scared you, your mind a jumbled mess but Eddie held you through it. Eddie wasn’t going to let you go, never, and he promised it, over and over again into your ear, hoping it stuck to your brain.

“Oh no baby, I don’t doubt that.” He smiled at you as you started taking the cookies off the tray, taking care of your hands so that you don’t burn yourself. Eddie just stared at you with adoration in his eyes, as if you held the entire world in your hand, and you did. You are his world. You are everything.

You turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow in question, wondering if he was scheming something that you didn’t know about.

“Now, what is going on in that mind of yours Munson?” He found it ironic that you can easily ask that question to him when he wanted to ask that to you many times before. He smiled at you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, his hands resting below your bump, holding onto it as he felt his two daughters moving inside of you.

“I just love you Mrs. Munson…” You turned your head to give him a soft kiss on the cheek, before focusing once again on the cookies.

“And I love you.”

After a moment of silence, he pressed a soft kiss on the side of your neck, surprising you, yet a giggle escaped your throat.

“Thank you.” That confused you, turning your head to look at him and he was already smiling fondly at you.

“For what?”

“For trusting me.”

The end.

a/n: this story explores the idea of death, the idea of being ready to receive it with open arms, with a rational head. But it also explores the fact that things get better if you meet the right people. It might not be now, it might not be tomorrow. It might take years for you to do so, and people in your life will come and go.

But there will always be that one person. And that is all you will ever need.

Taglist of people I mentioned this to: @littlesubbyflower @munson-blurbs @andvys

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