𝕤𝕠𝕘𝕟𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕠

[lovestrippedbare]

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.