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𝕨𝕙𝕠 𝕒𝕞 𝕚

He chose to keep his family name, and maybe that's when it all began to fall apart.

Jungkook never saw his family as broken. It was smaller than most, many years spent with only his mom for company, but small wasn't the same as broken, and he never wanted for love. But his mother wanted more for him. Her Jungkook, he was so smart and hard-working, but she couldn't afford to send him to the best schools. Couldn't be a father in that traditional sense — the one who's supposed to prepare him for the day that he will enlist and truly become a man.

He was happy for her when she met his new father. Their wedding day was beautiful, two families becoming a whole, gaining a father and a brother in a single breath. A new house, a new neighborhood. When they offered to add him to the family registry, the decision wasn't an easy one. But something felt wrong about the act of erasing his birth father — his dad — and leaving no trace that he had ever been.

So Jeon Jungkook remained standing, just in time for pieces of him to splinter off. The first time father slapped him for talking back. The first time his brother punched him under the guise of a hug. He refuses to leave, though. Maybe if he tries hard enough to hold everything together, it will still paint the picture of what his mother wished for him.

Family Members:
Lee Kwang (이광/利光) — stepfather
Lee Yeongwook (이영욱/利嬴旭) — older stepbrother
Han Gayeong (한가영/韓佳映) — mother
Jeon Jinho (전진호/田豪金) — father

181127: Text — Underwear Exchange
181127: Text — Jin's Surprise Party
181203: Text — Last-Minute Planning
181203: Text — Underwear Exchange?
181204: Nightmares and Flashbacks
181204: Getting a Cake
181204: Birthday Surprise
181205: Dating Announcement
181208: Text — For Taehyung's Birthday
181211: Text — Butt Blows Up Twitter
181213: Text — Chicken Before Yaja
181214: Text — Anyone Seen Namjoon and Tae?
181214: Text — Dinner Tonight?
181218: Text — Can't Cook Jungkook
181220: About Dating
181222: Text — Lotte World
181229: Text — Taehyungie's Birthday
181230: Happy Birthday, Taehyungie!
190104: Think Dad Knows?
190124: Text — Group Dinner Plans
190131: Text — We Did Mischief!
190205: Text — Hoseok in the Hospital
190208: Maknae Line Cuddles
190218: Text — Happy Birthday, Hoseokie!
190222: Text — Shared Birthdays
190305: Text — Issue an Apology
190414: Text — Propose a Game
190516: Confirming Namjoon's Departure
190627: You Left Me
190725: Easier to be Angry
190901: Just Like Your Father
190902: Text — I Don't Want It
190903: Text — I Know This Isn't Your Number
190912: Hyung's Birthday
191225: Text — I Wish I Knew Why You Left
200101: Happy New Year
200214: About Moving On
210411: Just One Step
210509: Text — Is This Thing On?
210511: Text — I Found Jimin
210515: Text — The More Eyes the Better
210522: Do You Still Want to Live?
210529: Shades of Red
210601: Waking Up
210602: Coping with Pain
210604-05: Remembering to Breathe
210606-07: I'm Heejin

𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕖𝕠𝕜

When Jungkook learned that Hoseok had no mother of his own, his first impulse was to share his own, who always had more than enough love to spare. Over time, Hoseok became the older brother Jungkook wishes he had, rather than the one who lives with him in the house.

181123: Budae Jjigae
181123: Raiding the Parks' Liquor Cabinet
181223: At the Dance Studio
190204: Text — Drop Off Mandu
190209: Beach Getaway
190209: Text — About Jimin
190225: Text — Not Always an Angel
190311: Comforting the Bruised
190402: Text — Craving Odeng
190617: Text — Heard from Yoongi?
190628: Text — What's Going On?
190628: About Yoongi's Departure
190720: Text — About the School Thing
200901: Text — Happy Birthday, Kookie
210503: Text — There Was a Fire
210510: Text — Don't Apologize, Hyung
210510: Visiting Hours
210523-24: Text — Kookie, You Busy?

𝕛𝕚𝕞𝕚𝕟

Around Jimin, walls are few and far between. In many ways, Jimin is Jungkook's closest confidante, his smile and welcoming nature helping to coax even the most buried insecurities out from Jungkook. It's only when wounds are finally aired that they can start to heal.

181123: Raiding the Parks' Liquor Cabinet
181124: Call — Not Normal
181128: Text — Unliking Someone
181130: Text — Having a Crisis
181201: Dancing Lesson
181201: Text — We Kissed
181205: Text — So Much to Tell
181209: Text — Are You in Love?
181210: Text — Up For Dance?
181211: Incheon Getaway
181211: Text — Reminds Me of You
181212: Text — Talking Sexy
181214: Text — So Pissed
181215: Text — Are You Mad?
181217: Dance, Interrupted
181218: Text — Jiminie Hyung is Worried
181219: Text — Sorry About Yesterday
181222: Text — My Favorite Kookie
181223: Trip to Hwaseong
181223: Text — Didn't Mean To
181225: Text — Merry Christmas!
181229: Text — Picked Out a Cake?
190103: Text — Am I a Tease?
190104: Text — Wanna Go to the Studio?
190114: Text — Free Tomorrow?
190115: Amateur Photoshoot
190117: Text — Don't Hate Me
190118: Text — Song for You
190123: Text — Bikes by the Han?
190209: Text — Love Reciprocated
190215: Text — Confession Response
190215: Soju and Confessions
190225: Text — Our Trips Together
190228: Text — They're Good Hands
190311: Comforting the Bruised
190618-21: Text — The Classroom Thing
190622: Text — It'll Be Fine Soon
190623: Text — Any Luck Today?
190625: Text — Got His Phone Back
190627: Text — Figure More Stuff Out
190629: Text — What Do You Need?
190629: Consolation
191225: Text — Rain
210415: Text — Just Hang On
210517: Do You Want to Talk to Me?
210522: Are You Following Me?

𝕟𝕒𝕞𝕛𝕠𝕠𝕟

The older brother that Jungkook looks up to the most while chasing after adulthood, as brilliant as the stars above, though sometimes also as distant as the stars. When Jungkook needs someone reliable and grounding, Namjoon is the first he turns to, for that touch of perspective he never seems to manage on his own.

181124: Visiting Hyung at Work
181130: Text — Thank You, Hyung
181203: Text — Cola-Flavored Lollipops
181211: Text — Animal-Shaped Food
181213: Text — Lovey Stuff
181214: Text — Are You Around?
181215: Text — How Are You?
181215: Healing Time
181216: Text — Not Perfect Yet
181217: Text — Saw Your Tweet
181219: Text — Poem Exchange
190107: Text — Pop Quiz on Jimin!
190114: Text — Dinner Invite
190114: Kalguksu and Forests
190123: Text — First Tag
190125: Text — Influenced Music Taste
190209: Text — Chat Tomorrow?
190210: About the Matter of Love
190215: Text — Father Stable?
190221: Text — Honey Tea
190225: Text — Real Ninja
190227: Text — Four Words for Love
190311: His Jaw Hurts
190312: Text — Graduate Sooner
190513: Want to Wish
190516: Text — I Wish You'd Said
190628-29: When Will You be Back?
190720: Text — Going to Stanford
190901: Text — Is it Selfish?
190912: Text — Happy Birthday
191225: Text — Atheist Christmas Carol
210415: Reunion
210415: Text — Music Exchange
210415: Text — Hyung's Still Got It
210502: You Have a Fever
210503: Text — Hope You're Okay
210506: Text — I'd Like Hyung's Company
210511: Text — I'm Not That Smart
051221: Text — It's a Good Name
210516: Text — That Was Supposed to be For
210516: Too Much to Drink
210517: Text — What Would Namjoon Do?
210523: Text — I Really Wanna Talk About It
210528: Text — You Can Come Back Now
210531: Text — Kookie, Where Did You Go?
210602: Text — What Am I Missing?
210606: Asking After Jungkook
210611: Text — The Smartest Hyung

𝕤𝕖𝕠𝕜𝕛𝕚𝕟

If there is a single member of the group that Jungkook sees as holding them all together, it's Jin. Radiating with warmth and love and always eager to drop everything to help his little brothers, Jin represents comfort to Jungkook. A steady presence who will never let those he loves fall.

181117: Dinner at Jin's
181125: Guitar in the Classroom
181201: Hiding Bruises
181201: Text — Makeup Holding Up?
181204: Birthday Surprise
181210: Text — Bodyfriend's Body Heat
181211: Text — Kkotgetang
181214: Text — How Are You Doing?
181216: Text — Too Much Bread
181216: Checking Up on Hyung
181226: Text — Personal Question
190119: Text — Gift Ideas
190210: Text — Ominous Dreams
190225: Text — Never Taking This Off
190311: Comforting the Bruised
190518: Text — Please Stay
191225: Text — The Magic of Christmas Time
210413: Text — Hyung's Back?

𝕥𝕒𝕖𝕙𝕪𝕦𝕟𝕘

The first of the boys Jungkook met, one who invited him into the fold, and the closest to Jungkook in age. While Taehyung often slips in and out without warning, there's something that makes Jungkook think that at the end of the day, even if everyone else scatters, Taehyung will be the one who'll find a way back to Jungkook's world.

170904: First Meeting
170918: Intro to Mischief
181117: Dinner at Jin's
181123: Raiding the Parks' Liquor Cabinet
181127: Text — Liking People
181129: Text — Reduce Swelling
181130: Text — "Sick" Day
181204: Text — When Did It Happen?
181206: Text — Ppoppos Hurt My Heart
181209: First Piano Lesson
181209: Text — About Noona
181210: Text — Jimin Breaking Up?
181210: Text — Did You See Him?
181212: Text — Wake You Up
181214: Text — Don't Give a Shit
181215: Text — Let's Not Fight
181217: Text — I Miss You
181217: Meetup in Jongno
181218: Text — Thanks for Last Night
181225: Text — Merry Christmas!
190106: Text — You've Been Practicing
190117: Text — Weird Questions
190117: Call — About Kissing
190118: Text — You Didn't Text Me!
190122: Text — Let's Go Out
190131: Text — Tiger & Bunny
190131: Call — Tiger & Bunny
190214: Text — Is Boyeon In?
190216: New Cans of Paint and Soju
190223: Text — Went Out Last Night
190225: Text — What is this Thing?
190226: Text — It's Just Twitter
190226: Text — Wide-Eyed Innocence
190228: Text — So Weird Question
190912: Text — Don't Ask Where
200221: Text — Wanna Go Out
200515: Text — It's So Smooth
210412: Text — What the Fuck
210412: Two Fucking Years
210509: Text — Trains Stopped Running
210509: Text — You Get Back?
210512: Hottest Hobos in Town
210513: Text — I Miss Staying Out All Night
210514: Ah, He Likes You
210515: A Cake for Jimin
210518: Text — Better On You
210526: Text — Never Pass Up Smooches
210611: Text — I'll Bring You Meat

𝕪𝕠𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕚

From the moment Jungkook first heard the gentle chords echoing in the classroom, he fell, and he hasn't stopped falling since. Yoongi is Jungkook's harbor from the storm, his soulmate and life partner, and there is nothing that Jungkook wouldn't do in the effort to make Yoongi safe and happy.

181117: Dinner at Jin's
181123: Raiding the Parks' Liquor Cabinet
181124: Christmas Shopping
181129: Text — Someone Else
181130: Text — One of the Others?
181202: Long-Awaited Confessions
181203: Text — Practicing?
181206: Text — Naked With Me
181207: Text — Eyes On Your Notes
181208: Finding Blows Past
181210: Text — Tying You Up
181210: Text — With Jimin Yet?
181211: Text — iloveyou.mp3
181212: Text — Where Should We Meet?
181214: Text — Am I Unreasonable?
181214: Arrest Fallout
181215: First Date at the Zoo
181217: Text — Love Your Bias
181218: Text — I'm All Yours
181219: About 'Someone Else'
181220: Text — Mom Assumed
181222: Text — Wanna Cuddle
181223: Text — Shopping Tomorrow?
181224: Text — Merry Christmas
181225: The First Christmas
181227: Text — What Are You Up To?
181230: Text — Take That Next Step
181231: Welcoming the New Year
190102: Text — Cook Dinner Together?
190106: Text — What Should We Make?
190106: About Yeongwook
190107: Text — I Miss You
190114: Text — I'm Coming Over Tonight
190117: Text — Meeting the Parents
190118: Visiting the Parents
190128: Text — 'Mostly' Accurate?
190204: Text — Happy New Year
190211: Text — Valentine's Plans
190214: Text — Break for Kisses
190222: Text — I Missed You
190222: Been a Bad Day
190225: Text — Public Service Announcement
190226: Text — If Mint Makes a Return
190228: Text — This is So Novel
190309: Birthday in Busan
190516: Text — Everything Okay?
190615: Expulsion
190615-23: Text — Silence
190625: Let's Run Away
190627: Text — Say Something
190630: Text — Already Been Five Days
190717: Text — Just Call Me?
190901: Text — It Won't Come True
190902: Text — I Really Thought
191225: Text — The Day
200101: Text — Don't Let This Be the Year
210407: You Missed Me?
210408: The Morning After
210408: Text — I'll Surprise You
210408-10: Missed Connections
210411: Can I See You?
210415: Text — Piggyback Optional but Recommended
210502: I'm Not Good Company Today
210502: You Promised
210503: Should Have Let Me Go
210515: Text — I Want a Cat
210515: Text — Gonna Kiss You Senseless
210516: Text — I'll be at His Train Car
210516: Too Much to Drink
210522: Text — I Abandoned Him Too
210523-27: Text — You Still Coming Over Tonight?
210608: Yoongi-ah, It's Me
210611: Sorry It Took Me So Long
210830: A Proposal

It takes a day before Jungkook works up the courage to ask Heejin for help. They meet up for breakfast, Jungkook wheeling out of his room before his mother can arrive in the morning, doing his best to keep up with Heejin as she rolls her IV drip along. The chair isn't high enough for him to see everything, but Heejin carefully reads out every dish on offer, adding her own commentary about the freshness of the ingredients, the spiciness of the jjigae. Jungkook returns the favor by balancing both of their trays on his lap as they make their way back to the table.

She's polishing off a cup of pudding when Jungkook asks if she has a phone, his words quiet and jumbled.

He's barely finished his sentence when she reaches into her pocket and pulls her phone out, almost shoves it under his nose with a smile.

"Just return it to me when you're done."

Jungkook doesn't pull the phone out from under his pillow until the sun's long since set and his mother's left for the day. A nurse comes around to turn off the light in his room, murmurs soft encouragement for him to sleep soon, leaves before he even has a chance to nod in her direction. He tries to turn onto his side, winces when his muscles protest, and sighs as he sinks back against the pillows, shoulders flat against the mattress.

Heejin's home screen is cluttered with countless apps, but Jungkook pulls up the text messages, worrying at his lower lip as he types in Yoongi's number.

It's June 8th. Over two weeks since Yoongi heard from him last.

Is he still checking his phone?

The sensation of heat trickling down his cheek jolts Jungkook back to attention, pulling a sharp intake of breath between his teeth. He rubs stubbornly at his cheek with the heel of a palm before he wraps both hands around Heejin's phone, tapping a quick message. Hitting send before he has the time to overthink.

yoongi-ah
it's me

i'm sorry, Jungkook types, before he quickly hits backspace.

i love you.

The pain starts to weave the waking and dreaming hours together. There are times when he can hear his mother's voice, thin and reedy, pleading for them to raise the medication back up. Jungkook's never sure if they do. Sometimes, he hears whispers, cutting through the room no matter how well the doctors and nurses try to keep discussions hushed. Murmurs about how he needs to wean off the medication, how he needs to be awake. How much longer the recovery will be, if they don't start to reduce the dependencies now.

His mother's voice is always loudest, demanding and firm. No, she will not let them torture her son.

For all the strength in her tone, all Jungkook hears is fear.

But it's fine. The more cover she offers, the more shelter he takes. The pain recedes most during the dreams where he walks the edges of the high-rise rooftops, twilight painting the sky in blues and indigo. What he remembers most well is the way the wind brushed against his sleeves, that he could close his eyes and hear the flapping of a sailboat drifting off to sea. Sometimes, he jumps — no, jump is too inelegant of a word. It's little more than an extra step beyond the edge, the start to a rush of air around his body. He always thought it'd be louder than this, that his heart would rush, but he finds it calm and soothing instead.

Until the pain hits, and he's awake again. Pale room, pale light. Small hands clasped around his own. Sometimes she's awake, and other times her head rests against the blankets. Sometimes, he wakes up with her fingers carding through his hair. Once, she smiles and brushes her hand against his chin, saying that he should never let his beard grow so long again — but he sees the shine in her eyes, and they look sad.

One night, he goes to sleep with a sharp pain in his side, and it isn't long before the fire behind his eyes shifts into the splatter of blood, heat and cold warring in his abdomen, and the face he sees—

—doesn't surprise him.

He wakes up crying that time, because he's starting to remember the faces he wants to see by the bedside, because every sleep feels like a sleep too long without them. Crying is the only way that he can communicate. It brings the nurses over to his bedside, adjusting his meds, checking vitals and sometimes they ask him questions that he tries to answer with a series of blinks, but even that's hard to keep straight when the nurses change their shifts.

As the physical pain continues to subside, it's replaced with the awareness of all that's missing.

Somehow, that's worse.

As he regains consciousness, the first thing that he sees is fire. Not the quick, flickering hunger of a flame, but instead the glow from behind his eyelids, shifting from red to orange, warm and comforting. It's tempting to stay right there. His lids are so heavy, his arms are sore, a bone-deep fatigue of the sort that Jungkook isn't sure he's ever felt before. But as easy as it might be to bathe in that light, what pulls him out are the sounds. A steady beep, and a heavy whir of air — stronger than the air purifier that he kept on in his room, louder than the air conditioning unit even in the thick of summer. Both of them have a rhythm, but they don't line up, and the dissonance grates on his nerves before long.

That's when he notices the pain.

Normally, he might gasp, but — something stops him. There's something pressing against his nose, and his throat, and it itches and everything's sore. Jungkook tries to lift a hand, finds he can't. Maybe it's still too heavy, but at least he finds himself able to open his eyes again, squinting at the sudden shift from the warmth behind his eyelids to the pale, empty blue of fluorescent lighting.

Hospital.

"Jungkook-ah."

A voice. His mother's? Jungkook can't move his head, but his gaze skirts to the side, where his mother sits by the edge of the bed. Were her hands always that small? They're wrapped around his own now, though Jungkook finds it hard to distinguish the touch from all the other aches, pains, and pokes.

She explains as much as she can. That he's in the hospital, that he was in an accident. Hit and run, they're pretty sure, based on some skid marks on the road and the type of trauma he's sustained. Jungkook blinks, and he remembers the moon, full and round and heavy in the sky — no, in the ocean — no, he can't remember where, only that it was a warm yellow, and that he watched it until everything else faded to black.

He's half-listening. Some of the details don't communicate as much as the others. The first thing that he notices are his hands, the way his fingernails are too long, the way his skin is cracked and red, and Jungkook's never been particularly vain, but they don't feel like his hands, the hands he uses to pull imagination from paper, to play the ivory keys, to trace along the contours of Yoongi's cheek.

(Yoongi, he thinks to himself. Yoongi must be worried.)

Underneath the layering of his mother's hands, Jungkook notices terrycloth restraints around his wrists. They look slightly pink. You pulled at them, even when you were unconscious, his mother says, and Jungkook winces when he tests their give. They tell him to stop. The restraints need to be there, they say, because they don't know what he'll do in his sleep.

Sleep sounds kinder than this. Jungkook nearly chokes when he tries to speak, realizes there's a tube that runs down his throat. That there are straps holding it to his mouth. Another, in his nose. More that he notices slipping out from under the sheets, collecting — he doesn't want to know.

Don't move too much, they tell him. There will be time for that later.

Jungkook shakes his head as much as the restraints will allow, because it hurts, it hurts more with every passing second, and it's hard to think. There's something missing, an ache that buries past the physical pain, but he finds that he can no longer place his finger on it, and all he wants is to sleep again.

There's a man who steps in, his expression calmer than Jungkook's mother, knowing in a way that even mother's intuition can't manage.

"That's enough for today," he says quietly with a smile. "You can sleep now, Jungkook-ssi."

He drifts back into darkness, gentle like the setting of the sun.

In his dreams, Jungkook sees—

—soft vermilion that clings stubbornly to the side of the sink, lonely droplets of water that escape as soon as they've found one another, swirling down towards the drain. The water is deceptively cold for the color, enough so that he hesitates to dip his head any further underneath the faucet, but the acrid scent of the dye urges him on. The fumes leave him a little lightheaded, a little dizzy. Or perhaps that's more the result of the entire world turning itself upside-down as he gasps and lifts his head up again, the water warmer somehow as it trickles down the back of his neck and seeps into his shirt. A pair of hands approach with a towel, warm and fluffy like it's just come from the dryer, and it envelops him in darkness and warmth until he's ready with a smile. His eyes cling to the shadows for a moment longer, letting the sounds of trickling water linger in his ears, until he blinks those eyes open and glances in the mirror, smiling as he sees the strands of—

—amber, though they're dark at the roots now. He would have been self-conscious about it, once. Style had always been a point of pride, a way of making noise without sound, not that they ever noticed. Not that anyone notices these days. Against the backdrop of whites and pale blues, his hair should stand out, but what doesn't blend in with the surroundings tends to get shunned. Maybe that's why he doesn't ask, anymore, for the clothes or the dyes that used to be so central to feeling human. Not that it's their intention to remove that humanity from him. He watches, every time they draw his bath. Some of the nurses skate their fingertips over the surface of the water, a perfect break of tension that ripples to the edges of the tub in concentric circles. Others slip their hands right under the faucet, spraying water everywhere; it soaks into their scrubs, fabric darkening before his eyes, and they laugh and apologize, but he knows it's all in an effort to coax a smile onto his lips. Sometimes, it works. Once, he wears the expression only to distract, as his hand slips into a pocket and finds the lighter. As he sinks into the water, he feels his former self washing away; his last remnant, a handwritten note from days (weeks? months?) ago, flickers brightly under the flame until it reduces to—

—cinders that he quickly stamps out with his heel, grinding into the dirt until they glow a dim scarlet. There are days when the smoke is all that carries him out of the car, though sometimes he wonders if it's necessary when there isn't anything on the metal floor to catch fire anyway. Still, he leaves the space of the four walls, cringes through the echo of each step, the way the metal buckles. He never notices the sound when the others are around, drowned out by laughter and smiles that shine more brightly than the stars. The thought is enough that he reaches for his phone, watches the dial spin as he turns it on. Most days, he's diligent about keeping his phone plugged in while at work, charging the battery enough to last through the long nights. Somehow, today, he forgot. Or perhaps it's his subconscious that kept him away, eyes now widening as he sees a flurry of notifications pass over his screen. The names aren't the ones he hoped to see, so he presses the side button, the screen quickly—

—unlocking, a smear of crimson over the glass in the shape of his password. He wants to wipe it away, but his sleeves are a deeper color still, and his fingers are shaking. He nearly drops the phone, biting down nervously on his lower lip as he holds the phone up to his ear, worrying at a small flap of loose skin with his teeth. He tugs it too hard, a sharp pain shooting from where tongue makes contact to the split. The call is directed straight to voicemail, the recording warm and familiar, both everything he wants and not nearly enough. His fingers release then, phone falling to the floor with a clatter, and though his hands won't hold still, he presses them insistently to the open wound. He can still feel a rise and fall of breath underneath his palms, even as the color seeps between his fingers; he presses harder until the flow stems and a steady beat flutters—

—high in the sky, an endless line of cardinal red pennants. He hasn't learned all of the rules of the game; for all that it claims the name 'football,' it doesn't seem like feet often play much into the equation, so often hidden underneath shoulder pads and bodies piling one on top of the other. There's an absurdity to how it looks that makes me laugh, high and unreserved. He laughs in spite of the strange looks he gets, the irritated grunts from observers packed in too close, because when the athletes pile on top of each other, it's a different series of boys that he imagines. This would be their favorite part of the game, he thinks, one leaping on top of the other until they're a mess of tangled limbs and groans from the unfortunate few at the bottom. He laughs, because if there's one thing that he can lay claim to here across the ocean, when there's so much else he's left behind, is freedom. He reaches in his lap for a hot dog, long since grown cold but when he takes a bite, it's still savory with the tang of—

—ketchup squirts over his sleeve, and there's a flurry of apologies from the harried parents, but he laughs it off, tells them to pay it no mind. This is why, he explains, all of them wear bright red uniforms — even though he's pretty sure that someone else told him once that they chose the color because it whets the appetite, because it's bright and cheery, lifts the mood of the restaurant. Personally, he's always been skeptical of such claims. What really seems to make a difference in how much people eat — and more importantly, how well — is the brightness of a smile, the cheer in his voice as he greets the newest customer. He wipes his shirt off with a rag, but only after he's distributed the menus, walking back to the kitchen and taking a moment behind the counter. He sighs, takes a moment to release the ache in his cheeks, gaze fixed on the line cooks as they flip burgers, an occasional drop of grease causing—

—flames to rise high, crackling and consuming everything they touch, enveloping everything in—

—shades of red.

The first thing Jungkook notices is, where there should be darkness: light.

And in that moment, time takes a different form — no longer dictated by the pulse that runs through his veins, but instead caught in the chaos of sound, the screech of tires like a scream through the night, metal crunching against the soft cushion of muscle.

Everything passes—
—it should be in the blink of an eye, but his eyes see—
—too much, the air between his body and the ground, and it feels like he's floating, and he watches from the perspective of crumbled asphalt as his body descends to meet the earth, and where Jungkook should feel a jolt, his eyes only see limbs thrown around like ribbons whipping through the air.

Then the movement stops. In the stillness, Jungkook knows that the ground is still underneath his body, though he feels none of it. There's only an indescribable weight that presses from all sides, coaxes his eyes to a close, weighs down on him like a thick, woollen blanket, muffling the sounds. He can't breathe. Can't open his mouth to speak, can't open his eyes to see, and the emptiness in his lungs begins to burn. (Is that crackling in the air, or is it just in his memories? Jungkook yells through the flames, but again the words don't come.)

But then the ground moves—
—or is it his body? Skin scraping against the jagged earth, and suddenly it hurts, ice cold through his nerves and Jungkook bites down on his tongue, tastes something metallic on his lips but doesn't feel any of it, nothing to cut through the pain, and that's when his eyes open and catch—
—a bright light, blurred as it encompasses his field of view.

It hangs in the air, and Jungkook blinks, trying to clear the blur from his eyes, like rotating through the settings of his lens. Slowly, it takes shape: the moon, luminous and heavy, swimming in the deep blue ocean of the sky, with streaks of yellow and white up above. The stretch of sky is too vast, stars blurring in his vision until they're little more than ripples in the water, and Jungkook can feel their chill washing over him in waves. Whether he's shaking or shivering, he can't tell the difference.

Someone approaches: a pair of shoes firmly attached to the ceiling while Jungkook feels still unmoored. He tries to move his lips, but feels little more than a soft pulse. His throat is parched.

As the man crouches, lifting himself above the limitless expanse of the sky, Jungkook watches the light of the moon start to fade. Through a soft hiss and the chirping of cicadas, words softly break through the noise. The soft familiarity of the voice draws him closer to sleep.

"...more painful to live than to die. Do you still want to live?"

One week later, everything still feels surreal.

When Namjoon first left town, time began to behave differently. Each day creeped by, the grief of one blending into the next. As the autumn days began to burn away at the foliage, yellow darkening to red and finally reaching a brittle brown, so too did the warmth seem to depart from Jungkook's surroundings. Yoongi left, then Seokjin. Jimin vanished. Even Hoseok and Taehyung didn't seem to have much time for Jungkook anymore once they'd graduated, leaving Jungkook alone at school, with each day melding into the next.

Jungkook became accustomed to that version of time — slow, thick, suffocating. Locked in those days, Jungkook was convinced that he'd never escape. He would only ever know solitude. Isolation.

And then they came back. One by one, his friends began to trickle back into his life, jolting the sluggish train back up to speed. When Jungkook awakes, it's with his phone in his hand, text messages still open to convince himself that this is real.

If it weren't for his phone, nothing else would convince him of it. He still slips silently out from the house, sits on the same line to school, sits in the same chair, leaves those same gates.

Swipes past his lock screen.

That's real.

He remembers discussing it with Yoongi, before. How sometimes, the heavier days left them feeling fatigued to the bone, wishing for solace — to sleep and simply vanish from existence. In their conversations, the focus tended to be on Yoongi, who felt those moments more acutely and more often, but Jungkook knew the feeling as well as he did his own reflection. How there were times, under his stepfather's hands, that Jungkook wished the blows would fall a little harder. Sharper. That they would bring a peaceful darkness, and remove from Jungkook the burden of needing to get up the next day, to continue as if nothing were wrong. To go through the motions of living when he had no desire to look further down the line.

But his stepfather doesn't hit him anymore, and in the absence, Jungkook wonders if there was a part of him that wanted such treatment all along. If a part of him invited it, as he wants to tonight.

The streets echo with a chorus of voices, laughter and harried yells, a population making the most of the twilight hours of their weekend. Jungkook slumps into a seat on the first train that arrives at the station, staring down the too-bright car and watching the handles sway back and forth with the rattling, once a comforting motion, and now too jarring and brusque. He leaves when it gets to be too much. Lets the flow of passengers guide him back out onto the street, where the acrid scent of nicotine hits his nose, the sharp and sickly sweet smell of soju, and even that hurts for reasons Jungkook refuses to let himself dwell on.

It doesn't take long to get what he wants. A couple of bumped shoulders, a clumsy foot thrown out against a shin. Nothing so extreme that an apology wouldn't suffice, but he keeps his expression sullen, nonchalant, and the bait is too easy for the thugs to take. The blows are familiar. Knuckles, elbows, occasionally a knee or two, but Jungkook's been here so many times before that this is nothing, he doesn't even feel the pain, and he laughs because he's right. Because all the times before where he's had to reassure his friends, he's been right all along. It doesn't hurt. Is that all?

They stop because — sirens. Far off enough in the distance that Jungkook knows no one will come looking for them, not here in this tiny alley, when there's so much more for the officers to patrol. He tastes metallic on his tongue, the warmth pooling in his cheek a sharp contrast with the cool metal behind his back, and he leans, until the top of his head presses against the store shutter. Glances up towards the sky, and finds only darkness, not even the North Star to guide the way.

A tangled clump of grass blows down the street, wrinkled and twisted, too limp for the green color of the blades. Jungkook chuckles, and every time he inhales, the knife slices through his stomach again.

No, the North Star has to be — somewhere. Jungkook grits his teeth as he picks himself up off the ground, hands closed into fists. The few who pass him by give him a wide berth. The corners of his lips sting, hot, pulsing.

He finds not the highest point in the city, but it's still enough — he can make do with the glittering lights below in lieu of the hidden stars above. A small guardrail by the side takes Jungkook higher still, his arms outstretched, fingers weaving through the billowing wind. This is, Jungkook thinks, the closest he can ever come to touching the stars, and he stares for an extended moment, wondering what colors he'd paint the sky, if he could. If anything could come close to the beauty of the city, the city he's always tried so hard to escape.

He's taken a train across the country, half a day away, and yet he's never felt so separate from Seoul as he does now. No matter how bright the lights are below, it's the darkness that envelops him now, comforting and all-encompassing. No matter how far his hands reach, all he can grasp is night.

With that realization, the fear fades. Jungkook stumbles, and in that moment of lost balance, it feels like he's about to fly.

Jungkook closes his eyes, letting the wind rush against his sleeves and the howl of the air quiet his thoughts. No need for the past, nor the future — only now.

Just one step forward.

It takes a while before Jungkook decides on exactly what to bring to Yoongi's place. He already feels a little foolish, having overlooked the fact that Yoongi surely doesn't have the same luxury of time that they did before — that they probably should have been more mindful of even then, as hindsight tells them now. Even if Yoongi doesn't live in a place that requires rent, it's clear that he still needs to work enough to pay for food and drink, and perhaps for shelter as well on nights that aren't as forgiving in climate. There probably aren't many jobs so willing to part with money when their employee doesn't have a permanent address.

The thought halts Jungkook's hand as he reaches out towards the store shelves. To bring too much now might only make Yoongi feel worse about his position, and Jungkook needs to be thoughtful with what exactly he brings, at that. Nothing too perishable. Maybe something warm, Jungkook thinks, that can heat up with a bit of water from an electric kettle.

A few bowls of ramyeon, various flavors. Several rolls of kimbap that Jungkook tells himself he'll partake of equally, so that Yoongi feels less burdened. Chips, chocolate, banana milk and soda. Next time, he'll bring something a little healthier, but for now, Jungkook's primary objective is to check out as quickly as possible, rushing on his way to Yoongi's place, even though he's already gotten the warning that Yoongi might not show up until well after dark.

No matter. By the time he shows up at the building, Jungkook seats himself on an abandoned plastic crate, sipping at his carton of milk while he opens up his textbooks, using the remaining light from the day to get started on his homework. For once, it feels like the effort won't be in vain.

Just three more months and he'll have graduated, and this won't be a dance that there's any more need to play.

The last time Jungkook had touched the keys of a piano was well over a year ago. Pianos were temperamental instruments, in a way. Even if the strings were perfectly tuned, the music would not come without the right touch; a piano would easily reject anyone who abused its keys, rough and tinny to the ear.

For months, Jungkook had pleaded with the little piano in the back of their classroom, stumbling over chords and measures that were once so familiar. He knew he was pressing all of the correct keys in the right time, in the right order, but there was a certain dissonance to the sound, vibration cutting deep into the jaw. But never once did Jungkook lose patience with the instrument; it wasn't the piano's fault, after all. Day after day, he carefully shut the lid. Week after week, he would wipe away the dust which had settled over the weekend.

In many ways, the piano and Yoongi were one. Inseparable. And so Jungkook felt that he could not leave it, not over the summer, not even when his absences became obvious to the teacher, and the classroom the first place they would search.

He had come on his birthday, the bench creaking slightly under his weight, though he could not bring himself to touch the keys that day. Instead, he waited until the last stream of light failed to stream through the dirty panes of glass.

But the last time was after that, when Jungkook had worn his teacher's patience too thin. The first hit knocked him to the ground. And finally, the second hit landed, as it should have all those months ago. A third, a fourth — just as Jungkook had always suspected, not a single one hurt.

I was right. You shouldn't have protected me. And where are you now?

The last time was over a year ago, and now Jungkook stands in front of a small music store, staring at the silhouette of a piano tucked away in the back. Years ago, they had talked about visiting a shop. Talked about making the rounds to hear each piano's unique tone, talked about finally getting a chance to feel what it was like to press the keys of a grand. How they would be dressed up, but only a touch more than usual — showing their aspirations without getting ahead of themselves.

They never made it.

It's been years, long enough that there are days when Jungkook almost forgets. Days when he wakes up, and all that lies in wait is the monotony of his alarm's buzzing, the ache of his shoulders as he hefts his backpack. But then, his thumb brushes against the band still worn around his pinky finger.

There are days when Jungkook almost forgets, but most days are more of a mix between fear and anger, different shades of grief that all leave Jungkook struggling to breathe. What drove him away from the piano was guilt, but what keeps him from coming back is the growing sense of futility.

He can't visit his father's grave for fear that Yoongi might be waiting there too.

Anger wins today's tug of war when Jungkook's gaze drops, finding a rock by the sidewalk — or maybe it's a piece of concrete from all the construction in the area, Jungkook isn't sure and he doesn't care. All he knows is that the surface is rough, digging against his palm as he picks it up, tossing it a couple of times in the air before throwing all his force into a throw.

The glass cracks, and then it shatters, spilling across the pavement and glittering under the streetlights. (Jungkook remembers — splintered glass, bright green; Taehyung wasn't aiming at the street, not really.)

Eventually, when the tinny alarm doesn't draw any flashing lights or police sirens, Jungkook climbs over the window's ledge. Walks towards the back of the store and lets his hands act for him — gripping the familiar edge of a piano bench, the legs shuddering as they drag against the carpet. Even now, he lifts the lid carefully, exposing polished lengths of black and white; his fingers stop trembling the moment the tips rest against the keys.

This time, when Jungkook pleads with the piano, it answers. Soft and solemn, Jungkook leans in, eyes sliding to a close as he seeks out the melody, plaintive treble keys bright against the reassurance of the bass' rolling chords. Pathétique leads Jungkook with its steady rhythm, serene until it's suddenly not — until it chases after bright optimism, and Jungkook's fingers stumble.

And he can't continue.

It's the first time that he strikes the piano without precision, standing suddenly from the bench as his palm slams down, fingers stretching over the octave, notes clashing into noise.

Regret spills forth immediately, breath punched from Jungkook's lungs as he sits back down, the bench letting out a low groan under his weight.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, sniffing and letting out a slow exhale. "You didn't deserve..."

He tries again from the top, but this playthrough lacks any of the calm from the first, fingers getting ahead of Jungkook's mind, falling into muscle memory. But muscle memory captures so much more than the perfect performances — it also takes every repeated mistake and etches it into the brain, taking it from misstep to flaw.

Jungkook flinches when he hits the wrong key, chord still pressed in his left hand.

reasons why min yoongi is worth loving

1. his music makes me want to live

Things have been tense. Jungkook knows that he should have been expecting it — there's only so long that either of them can stave off the dark days, and Jungkook's found that it's often better to face it head-on than to try and delay the inevitable. But between a harried schedule and the vain desire to keep Yoongi's birthday a light and happy one, Jungkook's procrastinated. Too many evenings where they eat in relative silence, and too many nights spent drifting in and out of sleep, only to find that Yoongi's body is tense in his arms.

It's just hard to make time.

He's running late in getting back to the workroom thanks to a study session gone late. Maybe Jungkook had a beer or two while he was at it, too, to help shrug off the tightness in his shoulders, to help him breathe a little more easily. He'd meant to let Yoongi know, but as he makes his way back to the workroom, footsteps echoing in the empty street, Jungkook realizes that it's been a couple of hours since he texted Yoongi last.

Five minutes away.

Jungkook winces, hoping that it's better late than never, and he sighs between his teeth as he swipes on his phone, finding Nayoung's number. He licks his lips nervously, holding the phone to his ear, keeping his voice slightly elevated so that Yoongi can hear Jungkook's approach, even as he stalls outside their door.

"I told you, I'm not — no, I'm not staying late next time. No, Nayoungie. I don't care how high of a grade I get on that essay, it's not worth hauling my ass across town in the middle of the — no, I told you, I stay with my fiancé over the weekends," Jungkook protests, shaking his head as he slips inside, coughing a laugh. "...what do you mean, my imaginary — just 'cause you haven't met 'em doesn't mean. Yah, fuck off. I'm hanging up."

There's a box of chocolates that rests on Jungkook's bed. It's not the only one that was pushed into his hands today, but it was the only one that came with no expectations, no need for an answer.

Jungkook barely remembered the girl by name, but she had noticed him long ago, she said. Had noticed that everything about his demeanor had changed so sharply compared to the previous year, but that as much as anyone wanted to help, there was never really an opportune time to step so clumsily into someone else's life. She was not a friend. No confidante. And she held no illusions otherwise. Valentine's Day provided convenient cover, and if there was any type of soft entreaty in her eyes, she did not put it into so many words — only expressed a desire to see him smile again, to break past whatever it was that bound him back.

He can't remember whether or not he ever thanked her. Next month, Jungkook supposes, he'll have to try.

The mattress dips underneath his weight, legs crossed on the sheets, dragging wrinkles from the fabric as he hunches over the box. Stares at the phone in his hand, then lifts it to his ear, never turning the screen on.

"Min-ah," he says to the empty air, fingers tracing along the edge of the thin ribbon wrapped around the box. "If I were a braver person, what would I do? I'm not good with my words, but I bet you know that there's more going on than I ever put in those texts. I'm so afraid of saying something that'll push you away for good. And then sometimes I think, I must have done that already. Because it's been so long..."

He heaves an exhale; his chest hurts. Jungkook rubs stubbornly at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Even if there's no one around to witness him now, he can't help but feel a sense of shame. He feels too much. And hasn't that always been his failing?

"You know, we made a lot of plans. And I guess it probably hurts as much for you as it does me to know that some of them can't happen the way we wanted, but... it's not all or nothing, you know? I meant it, when I said we should just go and. As long as we had each other, we'd be happy." Jungkook huffs a small laugh. "I want to be so angry with you. Sometimes, I almost think that I am. Maybe it's pathetic of me that I'm not.

"I should let you go, right? I'm starting to forget things. The way your hands looked on the piano. The sound of your voice when you're half-asleep. When I see you in my dreams, it always feels like you're getting further and further away. You've probably moved on, and I'm just... hanging onto the past."

A smile pulls at Jungkook's lips, strained and stiff, as he lowers the phone from his ear, still as silent and dark as it was before.

Slowly, he tugs at the ribbon on the box.

"Ah, hyung... happy new year!"

The smile wavers on Jungkook's lips as he sits on his usual perch, legs dangling over the edge of the building, streaks of rust from the fire escape lingering on his jeans. Winter has always felt like the season that suited the group most, conjuring memories of parties, of feet slapping against wet sand as they scattered across the beach.

Today, the chill is about the only thing that makes Jungkook feel alive, a shiver running down to his bones.

His words die out for too long, silence hanging with his clouded breath in the air. He'll have to rerecord this message, and he's not sure if he feels guilty about it, for lying through his teeth. Or if he can still convince himself that it's the only thing to do, letting Namjoon believe that all is well, to keep any further burden off of his shoulders.

"You know," he laughs, and already the sound of it feels thin and broken. "I don't know why I called you, hyung. You're probably busy, and... maybe calling you is just. Making you sad about things you left behind, and that's the last thing I want to do, when you've already got so much..." The words trail off. Another stretch of silence.

He's really on a roll.

"But I can't call Jin hyung, you know, because he's got school and it's such a good — it's Stanford, which is one of the top American universities, so I don't want to distract him, or. I mean, he hasn't been calling as much anyway, so I figure he's... he's probably doing fine, and I don't want to drag him down.

"And Jimin hyung, he got sick. I thought about telling you, but he's been sick and no one's really seen him since September, and I know that maybe you'd be the best person to talk to about it but it's, it's too much like what happened to your dad, maybe. I don't know. I don't even know what he's sick with, or what your dad has, but even just... months at the hospital, and now his family's not around and we don't, we don't know what to do about it, and. I mean, you're not picking up anyway.

"Hoseok hyung and Tae, without Jimin around, you can't even imagine. Fuck, I couldn't even — I stopped going to the burger place as much because it's hard, it's hard to see Hoseok hyung in pain and. Tae's lost... he's lost everyone, hasn't he? He loved you, he hasn't been the same since you left. Wow, now I really can't send this message, because that's just the worst, right? You told me back then, that you didn't want to know."

Jungkook pauses, lets his breath out slowly. His cheeks are warm, though the trails his tears leave are quickly starting to freeze. The contrast is jarring.

"I can't call Yoongi either, and I don't know what's worse. That he won't pick up, or that I'm afraid of what happens if he does."

Only when the mailbox interrupts, letting Jungkook know that he's run out of time, does he jolt back to attention. He listens passively to the listed options before quickly erasing the message and hanging up. His skin is burned pink where his fingers have worked a hole into his jeans, and Jungkook stares briefly at the color, tearing further at the fabric, ripping the hole until it stretches from one side to the other.

He makes his way to the top of the building to be closer to the stars. But now that he's here, Jungkook realizes his mistake.

There's too much light in the streets. Even from above, he can hear the rush of every car as it zooms by, the puttering of scooters as they work on delivering dinner to their destination. Even the ghostly echo of voices piercing in the night. Jungkook came here to be closer to the stars, but he finds himself staring at the city underneath his feet instead, legs dangling off the side of the building. He has a few cuts and scrapes on his hands from climbing up the fire escape — he's not meant to be up here, but Jungkook's learned too much from Taehyung by now to be kept out. Besides, he can't imagine having this conversation with his feet on the ground, walking about with the rest of the crowd.

He smiles as he presses the phone to his ear, though it's hard. His muscles are stiff from disuse. But Jungkook has learned from the few months he's watched Hoseok at the restaurant, knows now that the smiles people wear can translate to their voices, even when they don't feel genuine. It's better than nothing.

It's better than being honest.

"Did you think I'd forget?" Jungkook asks, when the phone takes him to voicemail. Closes his eyes, and imagines Namjoon huffing a small laugh, standing off to the side of a gas station, neglecting his duties for only a moment. "Hyung."

The silence breaks the illusion. Just a little.

Jungkook huffs a small laugh, staring down at his toes. The one solace in reaching out to Namjoon is knowing that if Namjoon isn't with them, then he must not be alone. Namjoon chose to follow his family, and Jungkook can't find it in himself to begrudge that. "You probably have other people there," he murmurs, musing at the way Boyeon's face seems to have faded over time. Not Namjoon's, though. "But you've got people here too. At least one of us has to sing right?"

It's months off yet, but Jungkook swears that he can feel the whistle of winter in the wind. The way it makes his throat feel rough, and a little dry. He clears his throat, checks his smile. "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you," he sings, half breath and half melody. "Happy birthday, Namjoonie hyung. Happy birthday to you."

He wonders if the phone will pick up the sounds of life below him, the sudden honk from a distance. Maybe that's part of the present — a little touch of Seoul.

Only after he hangs up does Jungkook relieve himself of the burden, cheeks trembling as his lips thin. He had thought about gathering the others, as he had every month before, whenever there was a birthday to celebrate. But to gather over someone absent feels too ominous, somehow. Still, Jungkook hopes he's not the only one to sing, and hopes that there might at least be a word from his hyung tomorrow, or the day after. Something to express the gratitude Jungkook's sure Namjoon will feel.

When he gets to his feet, Jungkook hesitates, letting one shoe hover over the edge. A hand follows, fingers weaving through the void. He grasps at the lights he sees shining below, and he feels nothing. Glances up at the sky above, and sees nothing. The quick shift of perspective leaves Jungkook dizzy for a moment, his balance pitching forward, and when Jungkook catches himself and stumbles back, regret immediately settles in his stomach.

It would have been kinder to let himself fall, free from the burden of choice. Just an accident.

It could happen to anyone.

But with the edge now an arm's length away, Jungkook finds himself rooted, immobile. He lingers there for a few minutes longer before turning around, heading back in the direction from which he came.

You're just like your father.

The sentence was a familiar one. His mother always did say that Jungkook's looks took more after his father's than they did her own, and Jungkook had reason to believe it. On difficult days, he knew it to be true when he went out with his family, never quite matching the way they carried themselves. Strangers would remark, never realizing the effect such statements would have, that this son didn't seem to take exactly after either mother or father. Sometimes, Jungkook's mother would rush forth to point out a couple of little details — the shape of Jungkook's mouth, the curve of their cheeks.

But Jungkook didn't mind. In some ways, it was comforting to have something indelible and tangible to hold onto, a legacy left behind by a father he forgot more of, day by day. At least when he looked in the mirror, no matter how forced the expression, he could see a bit of his father smiling back at him.

Yet though the words were familiar, they rang differently that time, muttered after Jungkook declined to join for dinner for what must have been the dozenth time in the past month. Hagwon was good for that much. The length of Jungkook's daily classes gave him an excuse to escape the silence of his room, walls too dark and confining. When he did finally return, it was often to do little more than shower and slip under the sheets, waiting to see if sleep took hold.

He ate less. Rarely smiled.

It was surprising to Jungkook that his mother rarely tried to comfort him.

Why aren't you eating, Jungkook-ah?

Ah, I was... thinking about Namjoon hyung.

Mm, yes. I'd heard from the ladies in the neighborhood, that the Kims moved away. Well, that's too bad, but — it would have happened sooner or later, with everyone heading off to university. Don't trouble yourself too much.

The reflection in the mirror looked less like his father with each passing day.

Jungkook rifled through photo albums, his fingers lingering over each picture, so many them showing a child wrapped warmly in the much larger arms of his father. Smiles so bright that one could almost hear the laughter.

Slipping one out of the album, wrapped in its plastic sleeve, Jungkook went into the bathroom and carefully balanced it on the corner of the mirror. He stretched his lips, stiff and chapped, until they matched the shape of his father's smile. The wrinkles that formed at the corners of his eyes were right; the slope of his nose matched. Yet Jungkook couldn't make himself resemble that man.

Tell me the truth. Is there something going on with a girl? ...You know, when I said you could date, I never meant that you should let it interfere with your studies. There isn't a single person in the world who's worth risking your own future for. Take it from me, Jungkook-ah. Listen to your mother.

Mom...

There will be others, okay? Stop thinking about it. The more you think about it, the longer it'll take to move on.

There was one picture that gave him pause. Where the arms around the child were that of his mother, not his father. It was hard to pinpoint exactly why this threw off the balance in the image — after all, Jungkook remembered plenty of times when his mother was the one to hold his hand, the one to carry him during trips to the store.

But something didn't sit right. Something about the slope of his shoulders, perhaps.

It looked like Jungkook's reflection in the mirror.

Sometimes the world feels so heavy.

You think I've never felt that way myself? But I've learned that you always find a way. If you love your mother, you'll realize that you're strong enough to handle this.

You're not going to class today, either?

Where were you? Do you know how late it is? If your father weren't already asleep...

The rattle of his bedroom door makes Jungkook jump, hands scrambling to slip his phone underneath the pillow. Not minutes ago, he sent a message to Yoongi. One of many, though perhaps one of a few that spoke his truth, gentle though he tried to keep the words.

He knew, as the date approached his birthday, that to hope for Yoongi's return would be foolish. No arbitrary date would suddenly right their future, and too long had passed without a word for a sudden reappearance to fit into the narrative. But hope is as difficult an emotion to abandon as it is to maintain, and so Jungkook's hand never left his phone over the course of the day, waiting for it to vibrate. Checking every time the screen lit up. A reunion was too much to ask, but perhaps a word, even if only written on the screen.

In the days leading up, Jungkook was careful not to mention that dream to anyone, lest it prevent his wish from coming true. Maybe that silence was why when the door creaks, Jungkook's gaze flickers up immediately, lips parting. Searching for a flash of blond hair.

Instead, his mother steps inside, a small box in her hands.

"Mom..."

There had been cake. Forced smiles that were easy to expose with a glance, though perhaps in photos, it was harder to tell. But for the first birthday in years that Jungkook had spent the majority of at home, it was a somber affair, and his mother's expression reflects that now. The mattress sinks slightly under her weight, an arm's distance between them.

"I had planned on waiting until your twentieth birthday for this," she confesses, gaze flickering up to meet Jungkook's. Soft skin on soft palms, cold to the reach, clasp around his wrist to press the box into his hands. "But with the way things have been with you lately, your mother thought, it's important to warn you away from your father's mistakes."

He doesn't understand. Sits under the weight of her gaze for a few moments more, before carefully lifting the lid on the plain wooden box. A pile of envelopes sit inside, postmarked, his name written in the center.

"Your father didn't die in a car accident, Jungkook. He left and abandoned his family."

Jungkook lifts the first envelope. The second bears the same handwriting, written to the same address. The postmark, again, reads late August.

"There was no excuse for it. He had a wife and son that needed him, and a steady job that wanted him, and yet it wasn't enough. Said he felt empty. It didn't matter that there were people depending on him. He left, because none of that mattered enough to him to stay."

The envelopes stop before ever reading their current address.

"That's..." Jungkook isn't sure that he's breathing, his chest feels so tight. "The altar in the house, the grave — we've visited. Every year."

His mother smiles, tight-lipped, hands folded neatly on her lap. "What do you think the neighbors would have said if they'd known? The world is hard enough for a widow. How would it ever smile favorably upon a wife who could not keep her husband?"

The words are distant. Calculating. Incongruous with the image Jungkook's held of his mother, the shades with which he paints her on the canvas. (No, maybe it's not such a stretch. Lately, after all...)

Jungkook's fingers bleed white where they grip the box.

"I assume he's passed away by now, as I haven't heard from your grandparents in years, and the letters stopped coming. Or maybe they gave up on him, too." She heaves a breath, a few strands of hair falling out of place. "Just let this be a lesson, Jungkook. Don't sit in your sadness. Otherwise you'll become just like him."

She spits the words at the direction of the box, and it slips from Jungkook's fingers, hands retracting as if burned. The contents spill over his sheets, the lips of each envelope reaching aimlessly in the air. Only when he feels the mattress lift back up from under her weight does Jungkook's gaze reach for his mother.

Does she still have his grandparents' contact information?

He doesn't remember how to write his father's name in hanja.

Did she try to reach out to him? Find him?

Instead, his voice finds—

"Does he know?"

For a second, surprise settles on his mother's features. She turns, gazes through the door in the direction of her bedroom, and the sudden relief in her shoulders is palpable.

"He does. I had to tell him, before we were married." She turns to him with a smile, and it's — it's wrong, it doesn't fit, and yet there's no denying that there's something genuine there. "That's why I keep telling you, Jungkook-ah. He's good to you. He took you in when even your own father wouldn't."

Minutes later, and Jungkook doesn't remember how she leaves. Doesn't remember if the door clicked, or creaked, or if there were any retreating footsteps. His ears won't stop buzzing.

Carefully, he reaches for the first letter.

It would be easier to be angry.

The thoughts are there, the right words take shape in his mind. Questions, mostly. Wondering how this plan was ever supposed to work — how Jungkook could be expected to focus on the words on the page, how his pencil is supposed to find the right strokes, how he was ever supposed to listen to teacher's lessons — when his mind won't stop occupying itself with images of Yoongi. Of a form slumped against the cold concrete of pillars, holding up the bridges that connect their city. Of footsteps down an alley, bright and distinct against the muffled laughter and the sharp scent of alcohol. Of train cars swaying, left and right, keeping time with the music he loves so well, though there aren't any keys to mete out the melody.

It would be easier to be angry, because none of this is going to work. Homework assignments missed, test sections left blank.

A month is plenty of time to deal damage. They knew this. Learned how distant graduation really was when staring across the broad expanse of the principal's desk, impassive gaze and soft sneer behind smeared spectacles.

The only reason why Jungkook's father doesn't leave bruises this time is because his son puts up no resistance, weight muffled as his shoulders meet the wall, head turning easily with the slaps against his cheek. Funny, how he learns only now, when it's too late to apply the knowledge. When it's too late to reverse all the times they learned a new shade of violet, too late to undo all the times spring flourished across Jungkook's skin in soft greens and yellows.

It would be easier to be angry, but Jungkook finds himself the recipient of wrath instead, papers snapping against the polished surface of his bedroom desk. He lifts his gaze, chin too weighted to follow.

"Jeon Jungkook," she says, voice sharp with disbelief. "Yah. What is this? These grades — you practically failed your end of year exams."

How can I be expected to focus?

"You think I haven't noticed? You think I haven't heard from your teachers — the classes you've skipped, the times you've left yaja early. Your father works too hard putting food on this table, saving up for your education, for you to wallow in whatever it is that's going on in head," she insists, slapping the papers against the desk a few more times. Jungkook doesn't flinch.

"We've signed you up for hagwon this summer. And you'll stop staying out so late with those troublemaker friends of yours."

The papers slide neatly onto his lap, red characters scattered among the black. The door slams behind him, curtains shivering in its wake.

It would be easier to be angry, but Jungkook finds that he feels nothing at all.

Though it's tempting, Jungkook doesn't open the envelope immediately when his mother goes through the mail, separating it into a small pile for each addressee. Privacy has no guarantee in this house; only by pretending not to care, pretending not to notice that this particular letter has no stamp, that it's written in Yoongi's hand, can Jungkook try to ward off any extra attention.

His heart hammers throughout dinner, and it's a wonder that his hands don't shake as they grip his chopsticks. This might be the last meal that he has with his family in a long while, but Jungkook finds that it's hard to taste any of it, or to keep up with the small talk his mother encourages. At least that much doesn't draw suspicion. Jungkook is rarely talkative when both father and brother are present at the table, and with the end of the school year approaching, it's natural to play everything off as the stress of final exams.

Even when he tries to help his mother clear the table, offering to help wash the dishes with her, she waves him quickly aside. "No, go study," she insists, nudging him with her shoulder. "Good grades will mean more than all of the clean dishes in the world."

So he goes, and there isn't even space enough in his mind for guilt as he locks the bedroom door behind him, turning on his speakers and filing the room with bright, vibrant polonaises.

The letter seems surprisingly thin for the content Jungkook anticipates. But perhaps there isn't much that needs to be said — they'll need to bring their money, forms of identification, likely a few changes of clothes. Even with the high summer heat approaching, Jungkook's already pulled his winter coats out of his closet, knowing that there may be more than one chilly night for which their clothes are their only shelter. For now, he leaves the duffel bag underneath his bed, hands gripping the envelope tightly.

He sinks himself slowly onto the mattress, pulling his phone out of his pocket. It strikes him, briefly, that arranging it all over a call might have been easier. But maybe there are reasons. Maybe Yoongi's concerned about being overheard.

Jungkook carefully slides a finger under the lip of the envelope, tears it open.

It starts off all wrong.

Ends all wrong.

"Pick up," he mutters to himself, phone pressed tight against cheek and ear, fingers gripping the edges tight. "Pick up, Yoongi. You have to pick up. You can't — pick the fuck up."

The number you dialed is not available at this time.

"Yoongi-ah!"

Please leave a message...

The tone sounds, and for a second all Jungkook can do is stare, his breath wavering against the receiver.

"You left me," Jungkook stammers, eyes wide, tears already spilling over and seeping into the denim of his jeans. "...yah. You can't do this to me. You can't just leave, you can't — this isn't your choice to make, you can't do this without talking to me! You promised we would—"

—would what? Figure it out? But Yoongi never promised — Jungkook never made him promise — to figure it out together.

Jungkook grips the sheets of his bed until his knuckles turn bone white.

"...please," he whispers, voice cracking. "Just talk to me. Don't shut me out like this."

There was a time when their classroom was the safest destination Jungkook could think of. A place of solace, a refuge that he could retreat to when the other pressures of the day were too much. When Jungkook closes his eyes and conjures up images of happiness, there are many that come to mind — with his fingers gently stroking ivory keys in a quiet living room, the steady sound of a knife against a chopping block, the sight of weathered hands kneading dough. The whisper of tangled limbs sliding between sheets, the rush of breath through parted lips.

But the classroom was the first, the place where Jungkook first found a family that was all his own.

And there gets to be a point when it's all too much, when being told to stay away feels like it's carving out another empty space in Jungkook's heart. He knows that time is already working against them; it'll be a mere matter of months until some of them are away at university, when the sheer pressure of class and location will keep them apart. Losing time even before then feels cruel.

It starts off as a simple request to visit the bathroom. A chance to get away from the day's inspection, the endless recitation of lines, and to breathe. But when Jungkook needs to take a right, he continues walking straight, his eyes impossibly wide and his feet picking up the pace as he rushes down the hall and down a flight of stairs, weaving around the quietest aisles until he finds himself standing in front of the well-worn classroom door. The handle is rusty, and the chilly draft from inside almost whistles through the gap under the door.

But with it comes music, and Jungkook's expression finally relaxes into a smile.

He doesn't say a word as he slips through the door, shutting it with a gentle click behind him. Before the teacher learned of this space, Jungkook might have simply made his way over to Yoongi's side, freely interrupting whatever piece he was working on. These days, to even finish a score feels like a luxury, and so Jungkook carefully tiptoes around the room, lifting a couple of desks and pushing them together.

Jungkook suppresses a shiver, the cold of the desktop seeping through his school uniform, before stretching himself out over the desks with a content smile.

At least for today, he thinks, the classroom is their safe space again.

The hospital becomes less suffocating once Jungkook is moved out of critical care. The nurses have more time, now that patients aren't constantly coding around him, and there's something gentler about the way that they speak to him. Or maybe that's his imagination. The first nurses that took care of him weren't unkind — far from it — but there was a steeliness to their care, as though they felt it might impart some motivation to Jungkook himself.

In some ways, it feels like they did.

It only takes a day before the hospital gives Jungkook a wheelchair, releasing him from the confinement of being constantly trapped in bed. His mother is quick to make use of it, pushing him into the bathroom for a shower, scrubbing him despite his best protests. It's nothing she hasn't seen before, she insists, but something about it brings a heated flush to Jungkook's cheeks anyway as he sits, huddled on top of the stool carefully placed under the steady stream of water. Thankfully, she wears a bathing suit the entire time. And Jungkook has to admit, when he emerges clean save for the scraggly beard clinging to his chin, somehow he feels more human.

Food comes next. Jungkook's mother wheels him to the nearest Caffé Bene in the hospital, where he lingers and closes his eyes, simply reveling in the scent of freshly ground beans. Five minutes is all she feels comfortable giving him — long enough for her to pick up her online order and wheel them back around — but there's a certain sense of normalcy as Jungkook's gaze skirts over the long queue of people, some in scrubs, others dressed in civilian wear. Friends and family, surely. His hands toy with the blanket draped over his knees, working at the fabric, stretching it.

It's too soon for Jungkook to be sharing her drink, but his mother gives him a sip nonetheless. Mocha with a shot of hazelnut syrup and extra whipped cream.

(He's sick to his stomach not five minutes later.)

They ease him back onto solid foods. Jello, popsicles, juk. After that, it's not long before he starts regaining his strength. Even the smallest of milestones feel like feats of Herculean strength. As soon as Jungkook manages to switch from wheelchair to toilet unaided, he kicks his mother out of the bathroom, takes so long of a shower that he swears he'll use up all of the hot water. (He doesn't, but his fingers end up pretty pruney.)

When he sleeps, Jungkook sweats enough to soak through the sheets. They tell him that he's still feverish, that it might be a good idea to slow down, but the thought of holding himself back is enough to make him feel claustrophobic. He still doesn't know exactly how many days he's been in the hospital, but he's nervous to find out. It can't be two years, at least. The scene outside the window still looks like late spring, and whenever the medication starts to wear, the pain is too fresh for Jungkook to believe he's been in the hospital for that long.

The nightmares persist as well; Jungkook tells no one. When his mother shakes him away, tells him that he's been tossing and turning, Jungkook excuses it by reminding her of the pain. He figures the two might be related, anyway.

His first visit with the physical therapist is the hardest. Even trying to brace weight on his legs, even trying to stretch them straight — all of it triggers enough pain that the sweat beads on Jungkook's brow. When he glances in the mirror, his face is as pale as a sheet.

They wheel him to the cafeteria afterwards, trying to temper the disappointment with some ice cream, as though he might be mollified as easily as a child. Jungkook smiles, promises that he'll be fine, that his mother will be coming to visit soon anyway. The nurses in the hospital are busy, juggling far too many tasks to pay any individual patient their undivided attention, so it's not long before he's on his own. He doesn't wait for his mother before he starts to wheel himself back in the direction of his room.

He makes it about halfway before he stops, just at the end of one of the hospital's longer corridors. His room is near the end of the hallway, down a stretch that would have taken him no more than a few seconds before, but now his arms are nearly shaking at the sight alone. It strikes him that he can't remember how long the hall was when the seven of them were here last, racing to get Jimin out of the hospital.

Jungkook bites on his lower lip, tilts his head down. His hands grip the wheels of the chair, and he starts to push — harder — faster — but even as he starts to hurtle down the length of the hall, it doesn't feel fast enough.

That's when he spots her. A thin girl, straggly hair tied back in a neat ponytail, one hand clasped tightly around the pole of an IV drip. She holds out a hand, and Jungkook scrambles to find the brakes on his chair. Fails to do so, but slides naturally to a stop in front of her anyway.

Her lips curl into a smile, and she lowers her hand, palm faced to the side.

"I'm Heejin."

jeon jυngĸooĸ

Sticky: 𝕙𝕠𝕨'𝕤 𝕞𝕪 𝕕𝕣𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘?

Sticky: 𝕤𝕠𝕟𝕒𝕥𝕒

𝕣𝕦𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕠

𝕟𝕠𝕔𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕟𝕖

𝕔𝕒𝕧𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕒

𝕤𝕠𝕘𝕟𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕠

𝕠𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕚𝕠

𝕒 𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕦𝕥𝕒

𝕕𝕚𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕦𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕠

𝕒 𝕡𝕚𝕒𝕔𝕖𝕣𝕖

𝕞𝕠𝕕𝕦𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖𝕓𝕠𝕠𝕜

𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕣𝕖𝕚𝕤𝕖

𝕡𝕚𝕦 𝕡𝕚𝕒𝕟𝕠

𝕧𝕚𝕧𝕒𝕔𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕞𝕠

𝕤𝕦𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕠

𝕔𝕠𝕟 𝕞𝕠𝕥𝕠

𝕡𝕚𝕒𝕟𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕞𝕠

𝕒𝕔𝕔𝕖𝕝𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕠

𝕡𝕚𝕫𝕫𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕠

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