jeon jΟ
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lovestrippedbare) wrote2019-06-27 08:22 pm
lovestrippedbare) wrote2019-06-27 08:22 pm
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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."
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."