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lovestrippedbare) wrote2019-01-04 06:14 pm
lovestrippedbare) wrote2019-01-04 06:14 pm
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When Jungkook makes his way home after dance practice with Jimin, he lingers for a few minutes on his doorstep, steeling his nerves and taking deep breaths. There's always a moment when the celebratory nature of the holidays fades, when all glance up and suddenly remember that they're still enshrouded in the washed out grays of winter. As nice as it can be to have a few more weeks' break from school, the time off class also means more time spent at home, where the restless energy starts to rise like the tide, until it feels like there isn't enough air left between four walls.
Out here, on the doorstep, Jungkook can still breathe.
He closes his eyes as he grabs the cold metal of the door handle, slides his key in the lock and turns it so slowly that it hardly clicks at all. Perhaps there's no real point in delaying the inevitable — however silently he enters the house, it's only a matter of time until he runs into his stepfather in the halls, or until the whole family is called to dinner at the table. Even if he slips in and out undetected, Jungkook knows that he can't escape notice. His parents always know if he's absent for the entirety of a morning, an afternoon. They always know if he ends up spending the night elsewhere; he can imagine the steps interrupted, a stern gaze cast at the space between his door and the carpet, at the absence of a glow far too early to be explained away by sleep.
Perhaps trying to hide the moments when he steps over the threshold just makes it worse. Like he's got something to hide.
Still, it's the only way to keep Jungkook's heart from beating into his neck, and he lets out a soft exhale through his nose upon seeing no one in the living room. No silhouette of a waiting father, nor the harried steps of a worried mother. It's probably fine. He told his mother that he was going to practice today.
It's probably fine.
Jungkook carefully places his shoes by the door, next to his brother's, makes sure he hasn't trailed any mess into the house before he pads further through its doors, starts to take the stairs up to his bedroom. He notices light streaming into the hall from the kitchen, and the distant sound of a knife against the chopping block relaxes his shoulders further still.
Everything's fine, and the smell of doenjang jjigae in the air is enough that Jungkook smiles to himself, one hand in his pocket as he turns the knob to his door, pushes it in—
—finds Yeongwook sprawled out on his bed. Slate gray sheets covered in overlapping sheets of paper, torn at the edges. Ripped from his sketchbooks.
"Hyung," he murmurs, instinctively closing the door behind him. Gaze shaken, shifting constantly from his brother's face to the strokes of graphite on paper. Yoongi's hands at the piano. The fan of his lashes. His lips.
Jungkook can't feel his face, suppresses a shiver that's too delayed to be explained away by the outdoor chill.
"Ah, Jungkookie," Yeongwook smiles, the soft curve of his lips belied by the dark, predatory gaze of his eyes. "Mom asked me to come up and tell you to help with the laundry today, since it's your turn. I didn't know when you'd be back, and I heard you were out today? With your friends? Thought it'd be too embarrassing to have your hyung text you out of nowhere in front of everyone, so I did you a favor, you know. Waiting for you to get back."
His mouth is dry. Jungkook nods clumsily, licking his lower lip. "That was really thoughtful of you, hyung, thank you. But you could have texted, I wouldn't mind."
Yeongwook laughs, soft chuckles like velvet buried in the back of his throat. "We never talk anymore, Jungkookie. Maybe your hyung just wanted a chance to spend some time with you before you ran off to your next party," he drawls, lifting himself off of the bed, taking a few steps closer. Jungkook licks his lip again and stands his ground.
If it weren't for the eyes, Jungkook might even believe him.
He refrains from flinching when Yeongwook holds out a hand, raised briefly in front of Jungkook's face before it suddenly drops down to Jungkook's side. Jungkook's breath hitches at the feel of a hand closing around his fingers, too warm, too sweaty to be familiar. "You haven't taken this thing off since Christmas," Yeongwook murmurs, pulling Jungkook's hand up in front of his eyes. Nudging at the silver band with his thumb.
Jungkook looks away, tries to let the weight of his arm pull his hand out of Yeongwook's grasp, but at the barest hint of movement, Yeongwook just holds on tighter.
"Is it from him?" Yeongwook asks, smile widening.
It strikes Jungkook, belatedly, that the worst part isn't being found out. Yeongwook has harbored suspicions for years, enough time for fear to gradually morph into disgust, and now to something else altogether, a weapon set in broadened shoulders and the growth of a few inches. If Yeongwook pushed Jungkook around, Jungkook could deal with thickened skin, knew how to relax his body just enough to prevent the worst of injuries. But as Jungkook's gaze skirts over to his bed, over countless images that he could never hope to explain away, he realizes what's worse this time.
Intimate moments, the most minute of details. On those pages are glimpses of Yoongi through Jungkook's eyes, moments that were never meant to be shared. Jungkook can feel the warmth creeping up his skin, settling heavy in his cheeks.
"Should've fucking known he was a—"
Whether or not the word meets the light of day, Jungkook doesn't know, focused only on the punch of breath from his brother's lungs as Jungkook's hands grab his shoulders and shove, hard. Yeongwook stumbles back, and suddenly the sharp edge of his gaze slices across his face in a smile. Jungkook tightens his hands in fists, wonders if this will be the first time he learns that it's okay to fight back, knees bent and body at ease. Suddenly, Yeongwook doesn't seem so large anymore, nor overbearing.
Yeongwook gets to his feet and Jungkook is ready, steps away from the wall to give himself space.
"Think dad knows?"
Jungkook's hands drop like leaden weights. His fingers release. There's a buzzing in his ears, incessant and numbing, and it dulls the sensation of his shoulder blades meeting the wall, an elbow in his side, knuckles against his ribcage, a blow to his sternum. The shove of a knee between his legs draws stars, but as Jungkook slides to the ground, all he can see are his mother's hands, warm and worn, rolling out circle after circle of dough.
That Yeongwook steps back now isn't a surprise; Jungkook has learned over the years that there's little that wears his malice away faster than surrender. He gasps, huddled over his knees, one hand crossed diagonally over his chest and hooked over the opposite shoulder.
He flinches at a sudden smack on the ground. A second later, Jungkook realizes that it's his wallet, emptied now of bills. Jungkook's breath shudders in his lungs, arms wrapping tight around his knees, the side of a palm pressed against his nose to stem the flow of tears. His gaze fixates on Yeongwook's ankles, watching as they make their way over to his bedroom door.
"Jungkookie," his hyung wheedles, too warm fingers suddenly threading through Jungkook's hair. "We should really talk more often, yeah?"
Weakly, Jungkook nods. Anything that gets Yeongwook out of the room.
He isn't sure how long he's been sitting on the ground, long after the click of the door, when the laundry machine starts to rumble in the distance.
Out here, on the doorstep, Jungkook can still breathe.
He closes his eyes as he grabs the cold metal of the door handle, slides his key in the lock and turns it so slowly that it hardly clicks at all. Perhaps there's no real point in delaying the inevitable — however silently he enters the house, it's only a matter of time until he runs into his stepfather in the halls, or until the whole family is called to dinner at the table. Even if he slips in and out undetected, Jungkook knows that he can't escape notice. His parents always know if he's absent for the entirety of a morning, an afternoon. They always know if he ends up spending the night elsewhere; he can imagine the steps interrupted, a stern gaze cast at the space between his door and the carpet, at the absence of a glow far too early to be explained away by sleep.
Perhaps trying to hide the moments when he steps over the threshold just makes it worse. Like he's got something to hide.
Still, it's the only way to keep Jungkook's heart from beating into his neck, and he lets out a soft exhale through his nose upon seeing no one in the living room. No silhouette of a waiting father, nor the harried steps of a worried mother. It's probably fine. He told his mother that he was going to practice today.
It's probably fine.
Jungkook carefully places his shoes by the door, next to his brother's, makes sure he hasn't trailed any mess into the house before he pads further through its doors, starts to take the stairs up to his bedroom. He notices light streaming into the hall from the kitchen, and the distant sound of a knife against the chopping block relaxes his shoulders further still.
Everything's fine, and the smell of doenjang jjigae in the air is enough that Jungkook smiles to himself, one hand in his pocket as he turns the knob to his door, pushes it in—
—finds Yeongwook sprawled out on his bed. Slate gray sheets covered in overlapping sheets of paper, torn at the edges. Ripped from his sketchbooks.
"Hyung," he murmurs, instinctively closing the door behind him. Gaze shaken, shifting constantly from his brother's face to the strokes of graphite on paper. Yoongi's hands at the piano. The fan of his lashes. His lips.
Jungkook can't feel his face, suppresses a shiver that's too delayed to be explained away by the outdoor chill.
"Ah, Jungkookie," Yeongwook smiles, the soft curve of his lips belied by the dark, predatory gaze of his eyes. "Mom asked me to come up and tell you to help with the laundry today, since it's your turn. I didn't know when you'd be back, and I heard you were out today? With your friends? Thought it'd be too embarrassing to have your hyung text you out of nowhere in front of everyone, so I did you a favor, you know. Waiting for you to get back."
His mouth is dry. Jungkook nods clumsily, licking his lower lip. "That was really thoughtful of you, hyung, thank you. But you could have texted, I wouldn't mind."
Yeongwook laughs, soft chuckles like velvet buried in the back of his throat. "We never talk anymore, Jungkookie. Maybe your hyung just wanted a chance to spend some time with you before you ran off to your next party," he drawls, lifting himself off of the bed, taking a few steps closer. Jungkook licks his lip again and stands his ground.
If it weren't for the eyes, Jungkook might even believe him.
He refrains from flinching when Yeongwook holds out a hand, raised briefly in front of Jungkook's face before it suddenly drops down to Jungkook's side. Jungkook's breath hitches at the feel of a hand closing around his fingers, too warm, too sweaty to be familiar. "You haven't taken this thing off since Christmas," Yeongwook murmurs, pulling Jungkook's hand up in front of his eyes. Nudging at the silver band with his thumb.
Jungkook looks away, tries to let the weight of his arm pull his hand out of Yeongwook's grasp, but at the barest hint of movement, Yeongwook just holds on tighter.
"Is it from him?" Yeongwook asks, smile widening.
It strikes Jungkook, belatedly, that the worst part isn't being found out. Yeongwook has harbored suspicions for years, enough time for fear to gradually morph into disgust, and now to something else altogether, a weapon set in broadened shoulders and the growth of a few inches. If Yeongwook pushed Jungkook around, Jungkook could deal with thickened skin, knew how to relax his body just enough to prevent the worst of injuries. But as Jungkook's gaze skirts over to his bed, over countless images that he could never hope to explain away, he realizes what's worse this time.
Intimate moments, the most minute of details. On those pages are glimpses of Yoongi through Jungkook's eyes, moments that were never meant to be shared. Jungkook can feel the warmth creeping up his skin, settling heavy in his cheeks.
"Should've fucking known he was a—"
Whether or not the word meets the light of day, Jungkook doesn't know, focused only on the punch of breath from his brother's lungs as Jungkook's hands grab his shoulders and shove, hard. Yeongwook stumbles back, and suddenly the sharp edge of his gaze slices across his face in a smile. Jungkook tightens his hands in fists, wonders if this will be the first time he learns that it's okay to fight back, knees bent and body at ease. Suddenly, Yeongwook doesn't seem so large anymore, nor overbearing.
Yeongwook gets to his feet and Jungkook is ready, steps away from the wall to give himself space.
"Think dad knows?"
Jungkook's hands drop like leaden weights. His fingers release. There's a buzzing in his ears, incessant and numbing, and it dulls the sensation of his shoulder blades meeting the wall, an elbow in his side, knuckles against his ribcage, a blow to his sternum. The shove of a knee between his legs draws stars, but as Jungkook slides to the ground, all he can see are his mother's hands, warm and worn, rolling out circle after circle of dough.
That Yeongwook steps back now isn't a surprise; Jungkook has learned over the years that there's little that wears his malice away faster than surrender. He gasps, huddled over his knees, one hand crossed diagonally over his chest and hooked over the opposite shoulder.
He flinches at a sudden smack on the ground. A second later, Jungkook realizes that it's his wallet, emptied now of bills. Jungkook's breath shudders in his lungs, arms wrapping tight around his knees, the side of a palm pressed against his nose to stem the flow of tears. His gaze fixates on Yeongwook's ankles, watching as they make their way over to his bedroom door.
"Jungkookie," his hyung wheedles, too warm fingers suddenly threading through Jungkook's hair. "We should really talk more often, yeah?"
Weakly, Jungkook nods. Anything that gets Yeongwook out of the room.
He isn't sure how long he's been sitting on the ground, long after the click of the door, when the laundry machine starts to rumble in the distance.