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Dec. 4th, 2018 03:04 amHe wakes in the middle of the night with a start, with a rush of breath where he had been expecting a blow.
His dreams come and go as the tide, gradually rising, ignorant of any attempts to stem or divert. The pattern always follows lived experience — the way a suitcase slams against the wall by the front entrance, the skew of shoes haphazardly discarded by the door. There are always signs. Reasons for Jungkook to shrink, keeping his gaze carefully pointed away until he's addressed, taking the extra step to turn a knob so that the door doesn't click.
Sometimes, it's silence that saves him, even as it presses like a vice around the throat.
And yet there's a certain relief too that comes whenever his phone vibrates. His father's entreaties are the only ones that aren't signaled with a song or chime, rattling against the flat of his desk with urgency. Jungkook never hesitates to brush the lock screen away, falling back into practiced routines.
A quick reply, but never in the first five minutes, lest that show he's on his phone too often.
Respect written in the small strokes on the digital screen.
He tries not to make plans too far in advance for this reason, never knowing when the next request will come, knowing that forgiveness for absence is always repaid in kind later. Packs his backpack as soon as the last bell sounds. There are countless excuses that he's gathered over time, carefully shuffling between them to avoid drawing suspicion; sometimes, Jungkook thinks that there must be someone who's noticed by now, but if they do, it's never with more than a sympathetic glance.
It was stupid to take a different path home, a luxury of time he couldn't afford.
You're late.
It's never worth it.
Well, I'm home now, aren't I?
A sharp clap buzzes in the air, heard as much as felt, ringing in the ears and rising warmth on the skin. The knock of a head meeting the wall — he'll excuse it as having tripped over the step by the front door, like he always does, twice a month like clockwork. His arms always pull around his face; pain is no object when his sides and stomach are so easily hidden under shirts and fabric. He's not sure if it angers his father — maybe it does, not having the choice, but in a way father always acquiesces, painting purple blooms across shrinking shoulders.
The entire process starts and ends in relief, as tides recede for another week. Two, if he's lucky.
Jungkook's eyes rove around the room, the fall of its shadows not yet familiar, and with a shock of warmth by his side. A sharp blue glow fills the room, two phones on the nightstand.
The light isn't from his, this time.
He holds air in his lungs, heart thundering in his throat, until the dizziness abates and his vision settles on the rise and fall of Yoongi's back. It might be seconds, minutes — Jungkook doesn't know how much time passes before he finally shifts, no longer wary of a touch, and slips his arm around Yoongi's waist and brings himself flush.
Lets the steady tempo of Yoongi's breath lull him back to sleep.
His dreams come and go as the tide, gradually rising, ignorant of any attempts to stem or divert. The pattern always follows lived experience — the way a suitcase slams against the wall by the front entrance, the skew of shoes haphazardly discarded by the door. There are always signs. Reasons for Jungkook to shrink, keeping his gaze carefully pointed away until he's addressed, taking the extra step to turn a knob so that the door doesn't click.
Sometimes, it's silence that saves him, even as it presses like a vice around the throat.
And yet there's a certain relief too that comes whenever his phone vibrates. His father's entreaties are the only ones that aren't signaled with a song or chime, rattling against the flat of his desk with urgency. Jungkook never hesitates to brush the lock screen away, falling back into practiced routines.
A quick reply, but never in the first five minutes, lest that show he's on his phone too often.
Respect written in the small strokes on the digital screen.
He tries not to make plans too far in advance for this reason, never knowing when the next request will come, knowing that forgiveness for absence is always repaid in kind later. Packs his backpack as soon as the last bell sounds. There are countless excuses that he's gathered over time, carefully shuffling between them to avoid drawing suspicion; sometimes, Jungkook thinks that there must be someone who's noticed by now, but if they do, it's never with more than a sympathetic glance.
It was stupid to take a different path home, a luxury of time he couldn't afford.
You're late.
It's never worth it.
Well, I'm home now, aren't I?
A sharp clap buzzes in the air, heard as much as felt, ringing in the ears and rising warmth on the skin. The knock of a head meeting the wall — he'll excuse it as having tripped over the step by the front door, like he always does, twice a month like clockwork. His arms always pull around his face; pain is no object when his sides and stomach are so easily hidden under shirts and fabric. He's not sure if it angers his father — maybe it does, not having the choice, but in a way father always acquiesces, painting purple blooms across shrinking shoulders.
The entire process starts and ends in relief, as tides recede for another week. Two, if he's lucky.
Jungkook's eyes rove around the room, the fall of its shadows not yet familiar, and with a shock of warmth by his side. A sharp blue glow fills the room, two phones on the nightstand.
The light isn't from his, this time.
He holds air in his lungs, heart thundering in his throat, until the dizziness abates and his vision settles on the rise and fall of Yoongi's back. It might be seconds, minutes — Jungkook doesn't know how much time passes before he finally shifts, no longer wary of a touch, and slips his arm around Yoongi's waist and brings himself flush.
Lets the steady tempo of Yoongi's breath lull him back to sleep.