jeon jυngĸooĸ

He knows what he'll find, but it doesn't stop Jungkook from looking anyway.

The days have long since lengthened, evenings no longer carrying the chill and bite of winter, but something about the light and the way smoke lingers in the air reminds Jungkook of it anyway — late November, hot packs crammed into generous pockets. He pulls the hoodie further down in front of his eyes, lets his hands hang heavily in his pockets, fingernails restlessly scraping against fingertips. His earbuds are crammed tight in his ears, but fail to block the rush of cars as they pass.

I can forgive and be forgiven by learning to heal with a heart wide open

It's past the season, but Jungkook's lips are still chapped, his teeth worrying at a loose piece of skin as he weaves through the streets. Now and again, the rush of wind directs his gaze over his shoulder; occasionally, a figure passes, but never the one Jungkook wants.

The light of the gas station has always been cold, no warm undertones as Jungkook approaches, only a soft blue that sears in his vision. Jungkook's lips quirk as he pulls out a hand, carefully considering the pallor of his expression in this light. Only when beams of light spread between his feet does Jungkook step quickly to the side, letting a car pass, watching as it comes to a stop before rushing inside the small mart attached to the station.

A soft chime sounds in the background as he steps inside.

He's not here to buy anything, but Jungkook picks up a chocolate bar anyway, the same brand Namjoon always had on hand when he visited. Lays it carefully on the counter, not sure if it's good luck or bad that the manager is handling the cash register right now. Jungkook bows his head, silently lays his cash on the tray, refuses a plastic bag. Only after he's pocketed the bar does he clear his throat, eyes wide while time remains suspended for a few moments.

"Kim Namjoon-ssi..."

Jungkook doesn't come around enough to be a familiar face, but understanding dawns on the manager's features anyway. Perhaps it's his age that has the manager breaking policy; perhaps the manager knows something more that Jungkook doesn't.

"Ah, yes. Kim Namjoon-ssi no longer works here."

It takes a while before Jungkook makes his way around the building, opting instead to sit on the raised step outside the shop entrance, breaking off pieces of chocolate and letting them slowly melt in his mouth. Only once the bar is gone does he step around back, until the building blocks off most of the surrounding light. He seeks out the stars as soon as his eyes adjust to the darkness, little more than pinpricks in an ocean of black.

They're not in the same positions as he remembers, but one of them shines brighter than the rest. Jungkook wonders if tonight, perhaps Namjoon is watching the night sky as well.

These are the moments when no one questions where Jungkook will be for the day — when he wakes up early in the morning, before the sunlight shines fully in the sky, and brings the large picnic basket out of the storage closet. On these mornings, he walks through his house with confidence, no fear of receiving negative looks or words from his stepfather or stepbrother. Few words are usually exchanged at all, save for soft murmurs and the brush of warm hands against his arms, Jungkook's mother often reminding him to bring items she's saved off to the side, offering him extra cash for the long bus ride.

A layer of pears and mandarins rests at the bottom of the basket, carefully wrapped in cloth to prevent bruising. On top, a paper plate with freshly heated mandu, a few holes poked in the plastic wrap to stop them from getting too soggy.

Most of the time, Jungkook brings seasonal flowers, whatever blooms brightest but carries a reasonable price tag — little thoughtful gestures that he can't be sure his father would have specifically appreciated, but that feel better than not making the effort at all. Today, the basket is full to nearly bursting instead with pink lilies, a few of the longer stems peeking out from under the cover.

He heads out of the house alone, smiling at the way the gray of the sky gives way to a soft blue. A few quick taps on his phone later, he's both sent a message to Yoongi and pulled up a playlist for the initial walk, cascading arpeggios setting the tone for the day as Jungkook shuffles quickly to the meeting point.

"You'll like him, right, dad?" he murmurs under his breath, shivering when a gust blows through the street.

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.

The sound of a rolling pin against the chopping board is gentler than that of a knife, the knocking less distinct, slightly less uniform. Even if it weren't for the steady beat, watching his mother's hands move back and forth, sometimes so fast that it's almost a blur, it lulls Jungkook into a sense of ease. A contentment of being. Occasionally, there's a pause as she reaches out for another handful of flour, sprinkling it across the bamboo. It's reminiscent of snow, Jungkook thinks, with the way it scatters and blankets the surface so gently.

He wonders whether or not they'll have snowfall for Christmas this year. It's never very likely, but perhaps he's been more hopeful than usual as of late.

"Jeon Jungkook," the gentle chide comes, one hand now removed from the rolling pin and waving in front of his line of sight. Jungkook glances up from where his chin's been resting against his palm, smiling as he meets his mother's gaze. "Didn't I say that if you wanted mandu for dinner, that you'd have to help your old mother in the kitchen? The filling won't taste as good if you don't keep stirring it."

His exhale comes on the edge of a laugh, and Jungkook straightens up immediately, taking the metal bowl and chopsticks in hand. Already, the air is permeated with a gentle spiciness, thinly chopped green onions and ginger punctuating the pink of the pork. Jungkook bites at his lower lip, forgoing proper form and holding both of his chopsticks against his palm, stirring vigorously with the clumsy clang of wood against metal.

As expected, his mother laughs. Sighs and shakes her head. "Really, this son of mine..."

For a while, there's little beyond the slightly mismatched beats of pin to board, sticks to bowl, interrupted at intervals by his mother's soft humming. Jungkook considers putting on the music sometimes, but finds that his mother's voice is what he loves most, especially when he doesn't draw her attention to it. A gentle quality that he'd never be able to capture in recording.

"Mom, I wanted to ask you," he murmurs, his arms slowly coming to a pause.

"Mmm?"

The words trip on his tongue. Jungkook's gaze lingers on the small little discs of dough his mother rolls out, each slightly imperfect, the edges curling like the petals of a flower. The longer he hesitates, the more his mother's gaze starts to flicker upwards, a touch of concern as she gazes upon her son.

"Jungkook-ah," she says, lifting a brow. "What is it?"

The silence in the air is deafening. Jungkook feels the pulse in his ears, the flush rising to his cheeks.

He's never considered confiding this — anything else, but not this — to his mother before. Love has always been a sacred pact within their family; every year, they visit his father's grave without fail. Every year, they take family photos. Every year, his mother stands watch for hours as she perfects the seaweed soup to be placed in front of his stepfather on his birthday, smiles as she watches him drink it from the side.

Whenever he crossed that line, Jungkook knew, there would be no stepping back. It formed the foundation upon which everything else sat. He wasn't about to stake a claim in a place where things felt impossible. Unrequited love was a kind better washed away over time, until a better love could be found.

He wouldn't bother his mother with such things. But that was then, and this is now.

There's a small knot in his chest, one that aches at random intervals, whenever the thought crosses. There are so many scenes that he's played out in his mind, so many smiles he's conjured, the happy press of creased lips against his cheek and small hands, never quite warm enough, surrounding his own. A small palm raised up and pressed to Yoongi's cheek. A quick padding of socks against the floor, guiding him inside. These are the pictures Jungkook draws in his mind when everything goes well, and his mother is the person he believes her to be.

"How would you feel if I started dating someone?"

She blinks in surprise; it's an expression Jungkook recognizes from the mirror, the way her lips part and her brows raise. The rolling pin is gently set flush against the board, turning just a touch before it's stopped by the log of dough. It's her hands that Jungkook watches, not quite meeting his mother's gaze until suddenly, those small hands are pressed up against his cheeks. They slip a little, flour trapped between palm and cheekbone.

"Aigoo, Jungkook-ah," she murmurs.

Oh, and her smile.

"Nothing would make me happier than having you find someone you love. And someone who loves you just as much as I do," she grins, wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes, a couple of soft pats that kick flour into the air.

His face is probably streaked with it now, and Jungkook laughs at the thought — at the warmth in the room, which he swears is brighter than it was a second before. He licks at his lower lip, slowly picking up the chopsticks again, sweeping them between the sticky rounds of ground pork. It isn't long before the air is filled once more with sounds of the pin rolling back and forth, the pause before the sweep of a disc to the side.

"I guess this is why our Jungkookie's been out a lot lately," she chuckles, shaking her head as her gaze lingers about her hands, fingers pulling at the dough with every roll. "You'll have to bring her here sometime and introduce her to your mother."

The knot tightens.

Because there is one image that Jungkook's mind keeps on coming back to, one that he can't erase from his mind. In that image, there are no blows. No bruises. No quick slap of a palm to his cheek, no hands shaking as they grip his shoulders. Hate is not an emotion that Jungkook's mother has in her heart, and sometimes Jungkook wonders if it'd be easier, if disdain for some part of his person might make it simpler to carve out that distance from her after graduation. No, she's never angry.

It's shame that Jungkook fears.

He ducks his head, smile forced on his lips. From her peripheral vision, she probably won't notice.

He 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.

Ever since starting high school, Jungkook finds himself constantly searching for more opportunities to escape the house after class. He doesn't hate being home — he couldn't, when his mother is always there to welcome him with an embrace for her youngest, the only son she's had since birth. But there are times when returning to his home feels suffocating. When his stepfather's eyes watch too closely, looking for any trace of a misstep. When his stepbrother's feet always seem to be in the wrong place, jutting out enough to send him stumbling down the stairs, or tripping into a wall.

Home is a place where he needs to tread carefully, where the line between a safe haven and bruising can be so hard to spot.

Jungkook takes his time gathering his books and workbooks, carefully slipping them into his backpack, making sure none of the pages crease. From one of his ears hangs an earbud, playing quiet piano melodies. The music is his shield as he pads quietly through the house, rummaging through the fridge and pantry, pulling out ingredients that shouldn't be missed. He's not taking any of the nice meat. It isn't that Jungkook doesn't want to bring the best for Hoseok, but there's only so much he feels that he can take when he doesn't contribute to the household income.

And he would never want to leave his parents with the impression that any of his friends are leeching off their generosity.

"Mom," he murmurs, peeking his head into the living room. Finding her seated alone on the recliner, Jungkook bounds forward with a brighter smile, quickly pressing a kiss to her cheek, skin soft and warm.

"Aigoo," she breathes, brightening immediately. Subconsciously, Jungkook raises the collar of his shirt higher over his neck, hiding a small bruise from where his hyung hit his collarbone. His mother's hands slide over either cheek, pushing them together. "Jungkook-ah, you finally have time for your mother?"

His chest squeezes. "I always have time for mom," he replies, stomach twisting with guilt. "But I was planning to have dinner at Hoseokie hyung's tonight. He's going to help me with my studies. I'm just bringing a few things for budae jjigae." Jungkook raises his hand, the plastic bag rustling.

Mother's lips freeze for a moment, then soften again into that same smile. "Ah, I see. Yes, Hoseok is so good to our Jungkook, helping you with your homework even when he's juggling a job with his own studies. Go, go. Say hello to him for me, and take some of the extra banchan in the fridge."

Jungkook quickly presses another kiss to his mother's cheek. There are more wrinkles there now, he thinks, than there were a couple of years ago. "I will. He loves your banchan, mom. He always says he can't thank you enough."

"Don't be ridiculous," she chuckles, patting his shoulder. "Go. Be back before it's too dark."

It's not a promise that will be easy to keep, Jungkook thinks to himself, frowning at the way the sun's already dipping below the horizon when he arrives at Hoseok's doorstep. But perhaps her words were more sentiment than true suggestion. He's not sure how much he'll really be missed, even if he returns after everyone else has gone to bed.

"Hyung," he calls softly to avoid disturbing the neighbors, his knuckles rapping gently on the door. "Hyung, it's Jungkook."