Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7758562.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      방탄소년단_|_Bangtan_Boys_|_BTS
  Relationship:
      Jeon_Jungkook/Park_Jimin, Jeon_Jungkook_&_Park_Jimin, Jung_Hoseok_|_J-
      Hope/Min_Yoongi_|_Suga, Kim_Taehyung_|_V/Min_Yoongi_|_Suga
  Character:
      Jeon_Jungkook, Park_Jimin_(BTS), Jung_Hoseok_|_J-Hope, Kim_Taehyung_|_V,
      Min_Yoongi_|_Suga
  Additional Tags:
      Consensual_Underage_Sex, Teacher-Student_Relationship, Art_Student_Jimin,
      Top_Jungkook, Bottom_Jimin, Rough_Sex, Rough_Kissing, let's_just_face_it
      everything_is_rough_with_Jikook, Internalized_Homophobia, Blow_Jobs,
      Pain, Anal_Sex, Anal_Fingering, Crossdressing, Gender_Issues, Adolescent
      Sexuality, Sexuality_Crisis, Fuckbuddies
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-13 Completed: 2017-01-14 Chapters: 11/11 Words: 73544
****** Mr. Jeon ******
by Kookie_andCream
Summary
     Jimin is a high school art student who seriously needs to start
     figuring himself out. Jungkook is his science teacher, and he makes
     Jimin question way too many things about himself—and his
     sexuality—than he's comfortable with.
Notes
     Yes the word count is way under what I normally write per chapter,
     but...! I actually have an outline and it's scheduled to go until
     about Chapter 5 so far, and I'm still expanding it!
     It's narrated from Jimin's point of view if you don't realize that
     right away, and Jungkook is a few years older than Jimin, who's a
     high school student.
     So yeah!
***** Here He Comes *****
It’s raining when I meet him.
It’s always raining when things happen.
I slump over my desk in class and watch the raindrops beat themselves against
the window. They slide slowly down the glass, and I think about how much I feel
like doing the same. It’s the first day of school, the last lesson of the day,
and I already feel knackered.
I heard a new teacher is coming, and that he or she’ll be teaching us. I don’t
know who the teacher is, and I don’t care. The new students are sitting too
straight and too attentive in their seats, eyes wide and disorientated like
puppies, but I’m bored. I’ve been here since middle school. I’ve seen it all
before.
The bell rings, and right on the dot, I hear a murmured word of thanks and the
class door opens. The students are all here already, but the teacher is just
arriving. I feel cynical and sarcastic today—probably the rain taking its
effect on me—so I roll my eyes at the ceiling at how the teacher is probably
some sleazy, old slacker and stare bitterly out the window, not looking at the
teacher.
I have no reason to be pessimistic, really. I’m just being a teenager. It’s
what we do.
“Hey, guys.”
I really don’t want to, but I have to look at the teacher this time, in
astonishment. The voice is young, slightly husky, male. It belongs in a Kpop
song, an OST of some kind. It’s too beautiful for this classroom.
And so is he.
My eyes fasten immediately to his face, like everyone else’s. He has hair so
black it looks like it’s been dyed, falling in soft waves over his forehead.
His eyebrows are strong, dark but not bushy, and as I make my way down his
face, his doe eyes reel me in like a hook. His eyes are dark, perfect, framed
by long lashes and idol-fitting double eyelids. I slide down the planes of his
cheekbones, past a long, straight nose which should be classified a national
monument for its perfect planes and ridges, and settle on a small, pouted
mouth, lips curved and plump and pink. The artist in me stirs, pushing my
cynicism aside and clamoring to draw him. To capture him forever, lock him
within the confines of paper and graphite where I can study him like he should
be studied.
He says, “My name is Jeon Jungkook, but you can call me Mr. Jeon.”
There it is again. My heart stutters, trips over itself. The part of me which
loves any and all beauty, whether it be to the eyes or ears, tears itself apart
as it tries to remember that voice, to lock it in my memory forever. It’s the
kind of voice you want your children to fall asleep to. The kind of voice you
expect to hear when you’re on the threshold of heaven, and you’re still raw and
hurting from losing your grip on life, but that voice makes you believe that it
doesn’t matter anymore.
He laughs softly, hesitantly, and something inside me dies. “It might seem
strange to you to call me Mr. Jeon—I’m only a few years older than you. But for
the sake of professionalism, please try.”
I can’t call him Mr. Jeon, at least not in my head. My trained artist’s eye
notes the slightly downturned corners of his mouth—remnants of baby fat on his
cheeks which have nearly melted—and I think that he looks about the same age as
me.
His gaze flicks over all of us individually, and he blinks at my orange hair.
I’m grateful now for the fact that I dyed it that color instead of the generic
brown everyone else went for. Something hopeful inside for me waits for his
eyes to slip down to rest on my face, but it never happens. His gaze moves on,
and I feel...crestfallen.
He’s goes on. “Anyway, all of you know that I’ll be your science teacher this
semester. So…” He folds his hands in front of him, and it’s meant to be a meek
gesture, but he radiates authority, despite his age. He leans back on the
table, and my hungry eyes follow him, tracking his fluid, easy movements and
dying to memorize them with a pencil and my sketchbook. He smiles a little,
hesitantly. I see he has bunny front teeth, lending his face a youthful touch,
and I can feel myself spiralling already. “Don’t go too hard on me, okay?”
~
I slip into the drama room, eyes too wide, mind racing with how Jungkook’s face
would look on paper. How I would shade the space below his high cheekbones
slightly, but let light glance off his skin beside his mouth to show the slight
curve. How I’d draw his mouth slowly, savoring it, drawing the upper lip the
way I normally would, but then I’d give a generous, luscious curve for his
lower lip, darken a shadow below it to make sure it stuck out a little. I don’t
see the people around me as I stare blindly ahead, drowning in accents and
shadows and pencil making love to paper.
I’m pulled out of my daydreams by someone nudging me insistently. I turn, like
a robot, and look vacantly at Hoseok.
“Come on, Jimin,” he hisses. “Your head’s in the clouds. We’re talking about
the play we’re putting on. This is important.”
I shake myself out of my own mind. I already couldn’t pay attention in
Jungkook’s class while he established ground rules for his class. I can’t conk
out in drama, too.
I catch Mrs. Kinsey saying, “So this year, you guys’ll be coming up with the
plot for the play yourselves.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
She glances at me. “I understand this is new. But I want you to be able to come
up with the storyline yourself. You’ll be holding your own character tryouts,
everything. All I’ll do is sit back and supervise.
This is just perfect, I think. Something else to distract me.
~
Nearing the end of the drama club meeting, I’ve forgotten all my qualms. I’m
excited. The story we’ve come up with is daring, pushing the definition of
appropriate...and I’ve been elected as the lead.
But I have to make sure. I can think of many situations where people wouldn’t
like it, and I have to be sure that I won’t be deflated like a balloon if it
gets refused.
“Mrs. Kinsey…” I say carefully. “Are you sure we can make the plot anything?”
“Yes. I want you to have utter freedom of expression.”
My stomach is nervous, roiling with possibilities. This could be controversial,
and I love it. “Anything?”
~
“How was school, honey?” my mom calls up the stairs as I rush up after dinner.
She forgot to squeeze it in between worrying about the Zika virus and the state
of the government these days.
“Fine,” I say distractedly, rushing to my door before she can catch me and
interrogate me about every detail. My mom has anxiety, but she won’t get it
diagnosed. I’m sure she should be on meds.
I shut the door and reach my bag in two large strides, pulling my sketchbook
and pencils out. I sit at my desk, and I let the walls I’ve been struggling to
keep up all day long crumble. My mind is flooded with memories of black hair,
smooth skin, perfect lips. Before I have time to think about it, my pencil has
met the paper and lines of gray are being left in the wake of the pencil lead:
a dark right eyebrow, the way I always start drawing people.
The eyebrow is finished, and I move to the right eye, carefully tracing the
curve down to every single crease and eyelash. This is important. The eye is
one of the defining features of the face. I think I have the upper curve as
good as it’ll get, so I fill in the lower line, making sure to add the slight
fatty deposits beneath the eye.
The other eye is filled in, perfectly symmetrical to the right for once, and I
pause. I’m actually out of breath. It’s a race against my memory. I can feel
the tiny details slipping away from me: the shine of light on the tip of his
nose, the planes of his cheekbones, the shape of his nostrils. The things we
never think about but which make people’s faces real. His eyes are staring at
me, out of the page, and my fingers tremble.
The nose goes down next. My hand slips just as I finish the last stroke, and I
rub at it impatiently. I hate erasing my lines. It smudges the paper, however
miniscule, and that one little darkening where that shouldn’t be one can
transform an entire visage from perfect to slightly off.
And here’s the most important part. The part which has really been hovering at
the forefront of my memory the whole day, begging the loudest to be drawn. His
mouth. I almost feel like closing my eyes to truly enjoy the tip of the pencil
lead gliding over the paper and transporting him out of my head and into my
sketchbook, where he’ll be safe, where he’ll be kept. But that would spoil it,
so I don’t. I force them to stay open as the curves and dips of his lips form
on the page, beauty streaming from the tip of my pencil lead in ribbons of
gray.
I add the shadow beneath his lips, and then the lines of his face take
shape—the bump of his cheekbones, the narrowing of his cheeks, the point of his
chin. The line of the right side of his face melds seamlessly into the line of
the left, gray merging into gray, and I close my eyes and breathe. When I open
them, Jungkook is there, looking at me from the paper, and I find that I’ve
made his lips part slightly, his eyelids lower a little, his nostrils flare to
a tiny degree. I can dissect it all I want and it’ll never mean anything by the
individual details, but I’ve made him look...aroused. Seductive. Tempting.
My own lips part, and I suck in a ragged breath. I can’t believe I did this. I
can’t believe I let suggestion seep into the dark irises of his eyes,
lusciousness shine on the curve of his lips. This isn’t how I’m supposed to
draw people. I’m supposed to draw him from an objective point of view, just so
I can remember the beauty which I was treated to for a brief moment.
But he still looks beautiful to me like this. He tugs at my heartstrings even
more, with sin written into every line of his face and decadence resting
between his lips.
It frightens me.
~
In the middle of the night, it's hardly a memory, but I stumble out of bed and
pull out my sketchbook. I stare long and hard at Jungkook’s face. Something’s
missing.
When it finally hits me, it's so obvious that I want to kick myself. His hair.
I haven't drawn his hair.
I fumble for my pencils in the faint light of the streetlamp filtering in
through my window and place the tip on the paper, poised to let the first
fluffy wave take life. But then I hesitate.
I think about the play, about the character I'm playing. Then I think about
Jungkook.
Why not? I think. My sketchbook is the one place where I can truly be myself.
Where I don't have to slot in a filter.
I carefully, carefully sketch the first waves, the shape of his hair, but I
don't stop there. I draw dark locks tumbling past his jaw and over his
shoulders, waves and curls and feminine beauty. And I sleep knowing that he's
complete, now.
~
I put off thinking about it for the whole of the next school day. But when I
slink into class and listen to the bell ring and Jungkook still doesn’t appear,
I’m swamped by a surprising, crashing wave of guilt.
Maybe he knows, I think. Maybe he knows I drew him like that and now he thinks
I’m disgusting and he refuses to teach me.
A moment later, I dismiss it. Of course he doesn’t know. There’s no way he
could have found out.
But when we wait a whole hour and the bell rings and he still doesn’t come, I
find that my hands are shaking.
~
I push Jungkook out of my head with some effort in drama. We're having a
discussion about what our character roles will entail, and I need to be
involved—I’m the lead, and I've been elected unofficial leader as a result.
“So, Soohyun, you're going to have to learn how to cry on demand if you really
want to make your role real,” I say, ticking off an imaginary checklist. “And
you, Hoseok, see if you can dig up any—”
“Jimin,” Hoseok interrupts me hesitantly.
I pause. “Yes?”
“You know…for your role…you're gonna have to wear a dress. A few dresses,” he
says haltingly.
I nod briskly. I’ve thought about it. “Yes.”
“And you'll have to…pretend to be a…” he trails off tentatively. “Walk like
one, and all that. And if we plan to include the scene at the party where
you're pretending to be the cousin, then you'll have to kiss—”
“Yes,” I cut him off. “I know.”
He glances back at Mrs. Kinsey. “I was just making sure…are you prepared to do
that?”
“Yes,” I say unfalteringly, looking him straight in the eye. “I am.”
~
The next day, Jungkook comes to class with the headmistress, a tiny woman with
silver hair in a severe bun. She nods briskly at me, and I fidget uneasily. He
mumbles apologies and thanks, and when she leaves, he turns back to us with an
embarrassed look on his face.
He clears his throat. “Ah, sorry about yesterday,” he says, his voice low and
chastised. “This is a big campus, and I'm new, and I…got lost.”
The girls giggle and twist their hair and say it's nothing. He smiles shyly and
gratefully at them, and I feel a twinge of disgust. He's our teacher. Are they
above nothing?
“So…” his eyes scan the room. I physically feel it when his eyes land on me.
“Jimin, I have to talk to you after class.”
I let out a small, startled “me?”
He nods. Then he turns back to the class and starts talking about the
lithosphere and hydrosphere and atmosphere and biosphere, and I dig my nails
into the table in nervousness and fear.
He knows, he knows, he knows,a tiny, hateful voice sings in my head.
~
I practically tremble in fear when the bell rings and students start filtering
out of the class. It's the last class of the day, so I have some time before
drama club meetings, which I have every day, but I wish that drama would start
straight away so I could use it as an excuse.
He takes his time, greeting the students at the door, bending to pick up the
odd piece of litter and giving me a view of his long legs, clad in dark
trousers. I watch him adjust a table, clutching the sides of my own in terror,
mind frantically spinning with excuses. It’s just—you’re really beautiful. And
I'm an art student, so I just really wanted to draw you. I didn't mean
anything, you're just really...really…
Special.
He walks to the table in front of me and sits backwards on the chair so his
legs are splayed around the back of it. The fabric strains over his spread
thighs. He gives me a reassuring smile. “There's no need to look so terrified.”
I want to disappear into the floor, die from embarrassment. He knows, and all
because I let myself think that way.
“The headmistress notified me that”—oh God even the headmistress knows—“you've
done this before.”
No, I haven't, I swear I haven't!
“With other new teachers.”
No! Never!
“So she said it shouldn't be a problem if you act as my guide around campus,”
he finishes.
I blink. “What?”
He smiles. “Yeah. Guide me.”
I slowly release my white-knuckled grip on the table. “Really?” I say
hopefully. It's not what I thought?
He nods. “You don't even have to leave class. Just give me your number so I can
text you if I have anything to ask. If you don't mind?”
I swallow and accept the universe’s gracious act of saving my ass. “S-sure.”
His smile catches me completely unawares. A grin splits his face in half, his
eyes crinkle into slits, and I’m whacked full in the face by the glory of his
adorable, adorable bunny teeth. “Yay,” he says happily, seeming for a moment
like a little kid.
I’m so screwed,I think helplessly.
                               A Few Weeks Later
The woman is tall and slender. Her dark hair tumbles in soft locks over her
shoulders and halfway down her back, and the fabric of her dress flows with the
texture of fine cloth. Lace decorates the cuffs and bodice of her gown. An
elegant hat rests on her head.
But there's something...something differentabout her. Her shoulders are a
little too broad, her waist and hips are too narrow, and her legs are too short
in proportion to her body and long torso to be feminine. If one’s gaze rests on
her face, turned to look over her shoulder in an expression of sweet innocence
beneath the delicate brim of her hat, one would realize that her cheekbones are
a little too wide and her lips a little too thin to be completely female.
I pepper freckles across the stretch of her cheekbones, my pencil dotting the
paper with tiny pinpricks of gray. Jungkook says something, probably about how
we should be taking notes, but I'm too distracted by making the lady sashaying
across the blue lines of my science notebook in the elegance of deviation as
perfect as possible to write anything.
I hear footsteps tapping closer, the heels of Jungkook’s shoes on the floor,
and I stretch, nonchalantly covering the lady with my forearms in the process.
Jungkook pauses momentarily next to me, then moves on.
A few careful strokes and dashes later, she's perfect. I've managed to render
her perfectly on the page of my science notebook, and I trace the pencilled
edges with my finger, glowing with the satisfaction of a well-executed doodle.
Just on time, the bell rings.
My gaze lingers on her face before I reluctantly close my science notebook. I
eventually pack my things and make to stand, but Jungkook calls, “Hold on,
Jimin.”
I pause. “Yes, Mr. Jeon?”
He walks over. He doesn't sit down, but looks down at me disapprovingly, arms
folded. I shrink a little. “You...have been slacking.”
“I—what?”
“Your grades have been dropping. Drastically.” His full mouth tightens. “I'm
lenient with everyone as it is, but you can only take it so far before I have
to take action.”
“Huh?” I say, perplexed.
“You failed your last—not one, not two,” he says with a raised eyebrow, “but
three—tests.”
“Oh,” I say slowly.
He frowns. “The school handbook states that at this point, your after school
activity privileges are to be revoked and you have to spend that time with me
instead.”
My mouth drops open, aghast. No drama? He's going to stop me from going to
drama?
I can't take that.
“But”—he holds up a finger—“I won't do that. Because I know you're a good
student, and you have it in you to ace all your classes. But you've been
distracted.”
I say nothing.
“So I've decided that you have to come to my house for tutoring lessons.”
My stomach flips sickeningly. Tutoring lessons?
“After school,” he continues, catching my eye. “Every weekday.”
“But—but—I have drama,” I stammer. “I can't—drama is the most important thing
in my life right now. We're doing a play, and I'm the lead, and I'm the leader
of the cast too, so I have to be there.”
He stares at me for a long time. I squirm and look away, feeling like a
butterfly pinned to a board.
“Alright,” he says at last. “After drama, you're coming to my house. And we're
having a tutoring lesson.”
I bite my lip.
                              About An Hour Later
I check my phone again, then look up at the house in front of me. This has got
to be the address he texted me. I’ve heard before that teachers have a low
salary and can’t usually afford houses, but...it matches the address.
I heft my backpack and walk up to the front door, hesitating with my hand over
the doorbell. Instead of ringing it, I text him:
I’m outside your door
The reply is quick.
Hold on, I just got out of the shower.
I blink. Is that something you would normally tell someone? I wonder. I mean, I
probably wouldn’t tell someone I barely know that I just got out of the shower,
but...we know each other, don’t we? Sort of? Professionally?
It sounds so...intimate.
The door opens before my train of thought can continue on winding through the
strange and unexplored Great Plains equivalent of my mind. Jungkook is standing
there in a black V-neck and black jeans, towelling his hair off with a small
towel. He nods at me and gives me a small smile, and I follow him into his
house hesitantly when he turns and walks in, head tilted slightly to make the
drying of his hair easier. I spot a shoe rack by the side of the entryway and
quickly toe my shoes off, noting his bare feet.
“Where do you want to do this?” he asks. I jump. I’m too busy looking around.
His house is messy, stuff scattered everywhere, on the couches, spilling off
shelves randomly placed all over, and occasionally askew on the floor. But it’s
nice, under the debris. The furniture matches, and the rooms follow a calming
color scheme of tan and white and warm, dark brown wood.
“Um…” I begin uncertainly. “Like...somewhere with space? Without stuff
everywhere?”
“Oh.” He laughs lowly. “Sorry. Ever since my mom passed, there hasn’t been
anyone to tidy up the place. I just put stuff wherever I see a clear area.” He
kicks a cushion out of the way. “I mean, it’s clean, but...you know. Typical
single guy house.”
Single. That word echoes in my head. Single, single, single.
What the hell?I think after.
I mean, he’s a good-looking guy, I argue with myself. How could someone as
handsome as him not have a girlfriend?
Or boyfriend,a small voice which I usually ignore chimes in.
I reel to a mental roadblock. Hold up, hold up. You’re not supposed to be
thinking that way—number one, he’s a guy, and you’re straight, number two, he’s
your teacher, gross, and number three, it’s none of your business.
But... The voice sings. But, but, but. When have you ever cared about what your
business was and wasn’t?
I scowl. Shut up.
“Jimin,” Jungkook says patiently, and I realize I’ve been standing still and
staring at him for a good minute. I avert my gaze awkwardly.
“Um…” I scramble for something. “Seriously, anywhere is fine. Anywhere which
has space.”
“My bedroom has space,” he says.
I stare at him. “What?”
“I said, my bedroom has space,” he enunciated slowly and clearly. “If my
bedroom’s okay with you.”
“Sure, yeah,” I mutter, and I follow him up the stairs, shouldering my bag just
for something to do. His long legs tense and relax rhythmically in front of me
as he climbs the stairs. He hardly looks any older than I am,I mentally muse,
not for the first time.
He opens a door, and then we’re in his bedroom. I glance at the bed—simple, a
queen bed with white sheets and a padded cloth headboard and no legs—and then
at a wooden desk pushed up against the wall underneath a window with a
cushioned swivel chair. “I’ll be right back,” he says after a moment, and he
disappears back out the door.
I walk slowly in, feeling like an intruder. It smells like Jungkook—clean
sheets and fresh laundry. I sink down in the swivel chair and unzip my bag,
pulling books out and placing them on the desk.
Jungkook walks back in through the door with another swivel chair, carrying it
easily. I tell myself it’s for the sake of satisfying artistic curiosity as I
watch the muscles in his arms ripple when he sets it down beside mine. He even
somehow managed to bring along a jug of water with two glasses, which are set
on the table.
He sits down. “Okay, let’s get started. Take out your homework.”
I oblige. The sheets of paper rustle when I put them on the desk.
He squints at my small, cramped handwriting. “You’ve already done a little of
it?”
“Just, uh…” I glance at the paper while I get out a pencil and eraser. “Just
scattered questions. Ones I know.”
I pick up on his skeptical expression.
“Or ones I thinkI know,” I correct.
“This one isn’t right,” he says, pointing at a question. “Number 4. The base
elements which all the other elements are derived from in some way are hydrogen
and helium, not hydrogen and oxygen. That’s water you’re thinking about. H2o.”
“What—?” I read it over again. “Oops.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “We took notes on this. Didn’t you take notes?”
I purse my lips. “Um. Yes. Sure.”
He gives me that disappointed ahjumma look.
“Okay, fine, maybe I didn’t take all of them,” I amend hurriedly. No aloofness
can withstand the disappointed ahjumma look. “But I got, like, the essence…”
He sighs. “Just...never mind. Correct it, okay? And remember—hydrogen and
helium. Created when stars go supernova.”
I dutifully erase it and scribble ‘helium’ in the place of ‘oxygen’.
“Okay, now you’re done with that, this one—number 7—don’t you remember we had
an entire class discussion about this? The spheres are the biosphere,
lithosphere, atmosphere, and hydrosphere.”
“Riiiiiight.”
“Now tell me which is which.”
“What?”’
“What area does the lithosphere cover?”
“Oh, that, um, see…”
And so it goes on for about half an hour. By the end of it, I’ve learned more
than I have in the past month. Jungkook rubs at his eyes and says we can take a
break, and I stand up gratefully. I’ve been dying to go to the bathroom.
“Mr. Jeon, where’s the bathroom?” I ask him.
“Down the hall. Turn left, it’s the second door on your right.”
I walk to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I do my business, then go
to wash my hands. I check my reflection in the mirror, brushing a few strands
of my bangs into place, when a sudden thought occurs to me: I wonder if he has
condoms.
I recoil from the thought, but I’m suddenly curious. I bet he has. He’s got to
have some. Everyone has sex.
But he said he was single.
Doesn’t mean he can’t bring girls home.
Suddenly, an image of Jungkook putting on a condom flashes into my head, and
then him holding some faceless, whimpering girl down on his bed. I try to push
them away, but they keep coming: Jungkook’s lips colliding with another pair,
his slim-fingered hands pinning a pair of wrists to the white sheets of his bed
obviously made for two, his long legs sliding along feminine ones.
He seems to me like the kind to be rough during sex.
No, no, stop, stop, I think desperately. This is ridiculous. He’s just Mr.
Jeon. What could possibly make you think he even has sex at all?
He has a double bed, my mind shoots back at me. Why would he need a double bed
if he didn’t share it?
I uneasily shake the thoughts out of my head, but I open the medicine cabinet
behind the mirror nonetheless.
Some aspirin. A few Panadol. An electric razor and a can of shaving cream. No
condoms. Or lube.
I close the cabinet feeling mildly disappointed.
~
When I walk back into his bedroom, my heart nearly leaps out of my chest.
My bag is sagging open, and he’s flipping through my sketchbook with interest,
eyes large and interested. He makes appreciative noises, oblivious to me,
standing stock still with horror in the doorway.
A single thought burns bright in my mind. He can’t see it.
“Mr. Jeon,” I mean to shout, but it comes out a whisper.
He looks up in mild surprise. “Oh. I’m sorry, do you mind? Your drawings are
really good. You’re very skilled.”
“No, you can’t see them,” I croak hoarsely, and I force myself to take a step
forward. “They’re private.”
“Why, what don’t you—” he begins.
Then a lot of things happen at once. He turns the page and I see the edge of a
dark wave of hair, and it spurs me into action. I burst into motion, flying
across the room in a huge stride with hands outstretched to snatch the
sketchbook out of his hands. The paper is peeled back as if in slow motion, and
I see his eyes widen.
And then I’m standing over him with my arms hanging limply at my sides, heart
sinking with dread, and he’s staring at himself, looking out at him from the
page.
“—want...me...to see,” he finishes slowly.
“It’s...private,” I stammer lamely, and I feel like crying. “You aren’t
supposed to s-see it.”
“But…” He looks up at me, perplexed. “It’s...me. With long hair. Like a girl.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re supposed to see it,” I snap, and I grab the
sketchbook, yanking it out of his grip and hugging it tightly to my chest like
I can push all its secrets back into it. “I told you not to. You invaded my
privacy!”
“I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s distracted. “I just—you know you can talk to me
about anything, right?”
“You just proved I can’t,” I growl, angry all of a sudden.
He winces. “I—you—are you…?” He breaks off, voice trailing in implication.
My heart sinks lower. I know what he’s talking about, but I’m not, I’m not, I’m
not. I’m not what the little kids called me when I kissed a boy in
kindergarten. I’m not what my mother has always been afraid of me becoming. I’m
not the reason my father left.
I’m not anyone’s business.
I turn abruptly, and, blinking back tears, I leave the house.
***** Lili *****
Chapter Summary
     “Jimin,” he says softly, and he pulls me close, making me trip on my
     heels slightly and fall into his chest. My hands spread across his
     warm chest and grip the fine cotton of his shirt. He brushes his lips
     over mine, but then he moves away, hovering them over my ear, and
     Jungkook whispers, “You know this isn’t real.”
Chapter Notes
     Another kinda short chapter! Whee!!!
     You guys seem to like Jimin's strange personality so far, so good
     news: it's just gonna get more and more weird as he discovers
     himself. We all go through a stage where we decide who we are, what
     our identity is, and I'm trying to portray Jimin undergoing that
     phase as accurately as possible.
     I hope you enjoy figuring Jimin out with me. No one really knows what
     he's like, least of all himself.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The moment I step into my class, I feel my cheeks burning, my face hot and
prickly and ashamed. I keep my head down as I walk to my table, and I don’t
raise my head to look at Jungkook, taking notes like a diligent little
schoolboy so I’ll have no reason to talk to him. I know I can’t avoid
confrontation forever—I still have that tutoring session with him after
school—but I’m determined to put it off as long as possible.
~
“The Danish Girl,” Mrs. Kinsey says delightedly, eyes shining. “Your play’s
based on The Danish Girl. The movie about the transvestite woman. Played by
Eddie Redmayne. It got him an Oscar.”
“Yes,” I say slowly. Her enthusiasm is encouraging so far. “That one.”
“And you’re the lead? Lili Elbe?”
“Yes, I’m the lead.”
I wait for her to call me gay, to call me deviant, to tell me I’m kicking up
trouble. But instead, she pulls me into a hug.
“Oh, Jimin,” she says. “I’m so proud of you.”
~
It feels like the walk of doom when I climb the steps to Jungkook’s front door.
I ring the doorbell this time, after a good length of time considering turning
and leaving and forgetting about the tutoring sessions.
The door opens immediately. “Jimin,” he says straight away. He looks worried
and regretful. “I’m sorry, I was making assumptions, I didn’t mean anything by
it—I shouldn’t have looked at your sketchbook without your permission—it was
such an insensitive move, I don’t have anything to say to justify my behavior,
I—”
“It’s okay,” I find myself saying, because he looks truly remorseful. “It’s
fine.”
He stops mid-tangent. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats again, hesitantly, probably just for good measure.
“It’s fine,” I answer. I smile wanly at him. “Now let’s get started.”
~
“I can’t believe how good you are at this,” Hoseok says in amazement as he
watches me walk the length of the drama room, hips swaying and head tilted at a
slight angle, my lips pursed slightly and my eyelids hooded. I can feel myself
slipping into the mind of a woman, of Lili, and I love being someone else. I
was born for this role. I glance over at him, letting my bangs fall into my
eyes and my lips part slightly.
He passes a hand over his eyes. “Shit, I can’t—I can’t watch this. It’s like
you’re not even Jimin anymore.”
I walk over to him and kneel delicately on the floor beside where he’s sitting
cross-legged, hands on my thighs, imagining skirts billowing around me as I
sink to the ground. “I’m not,” I say, letting my voice lilt, high and soft and
sweet. “My name is Lili.”
“Okay, you’ve proved your point. You can do it,” he mutters, still covering his
eyes. “Now bring Jimin back.”
I let Lili slip away from me, and I pull my legs out from under me, roping an
arm around my knees and hugging them to my chest. “How was it?”
“That was—shit, that was amazing,” he says hesitantly, looking out at me
cautiously. “It’s like you turn into a different person. Like you’re—like
you’re actually Lili.”
I smile. “Isn’t that the point of acting?”
                                  That Night
“Mom!” I fight to keep my voice down, counting off on my fingers. “Number one,
Mr. Jeon is not a serial killer. Number two, he is not going to hurt me. Number
three, all he’s gonna do is tutor me!”
“But why do you need tutoring?” She moans, wringing her hands. “I told you to
prepare for class, I told you to read the chapters—but did you listen to me?
No, and now you’re taking advantage of this strange man and going to his house
because you need”—she takes a deep, panicky breath, saying the word like an
abomination—“ tutoring—”
“This is ridiculous.” I shake my head. “You’re being crazy! He’s my teacher,
for God’s sake! He’s not some creepy old man who dresses up as a clown and
kidnaps children and kills them and buries their remains beneath his house!”
“I’m not letting you go.” She shakes her head, too fast, too hard. “No, no,
no…”
“Have you taken your meds?”
“I don’t need that rubbish!”
“Mom, you are overreacting. He’s a nice man who just wants to helpme! Heard of
it?”
“How old is he?”
“He’s just out of university! Only a few years older than me!”
“You know why people like him end up in schools? Because they’re messed up in
the head and they can’t find a job, so they get work as a teacher polluting the
minds of our youth.”
“Don’t say our youth. No one says our youth. Also, that is bullshit!”
“Did you hear about that Stanford student who killed someone or something?”
“Jungk—Mr. Jeon didn’t go to Stanford,” I say, exasperated.
“Even worse, then! If Stanford took that psycho in, imagine what the other
universities have lurking in their classrooms!”
“This is bullshit, okay? Complete and utter insanity! I actually want to get
better, and you don’t want me to go to tutoring lessons! He’s nice enough to
offer them for free. Because he actually wants to helpme.”
“You are not going.”
“I’m eighteen. I make my own decisions!”
“Not as long as you live under my roof!”
I scrub a hand through my hair, pulling hard until I feel the sting at the
roots and gritting my teeth hard. “This is bullshit. Call him, okay? Call him
and talk to him!”
“You have his number?”
“Of course I have his number! I was guiding him around for like a month!”
“How come I didn’t know about this? What else aren’t you telling me about?”
I resist the urge to punch something, yanking out my phone and stabbing his
number into the keypad. “Call. Him.”
She argues, but I turn away from her. He picks up on about the third ring.
“Jimin?”
“Hi, Mr. Jeon, I’m sorry but my mom has some questions she needs to ask you,” I
say quickly, praying that the gods will forgive me for basically throwing him
to the wolves. “So, um, bye!”
“What—” he begins, but I shove the phone at my mother and she takes it, holding
it to her ear and tapping her foot with a frown on her face.
“Hello? Is this Jimin’s teacher?”
Some indistinct sound from the phone.
Put it on speaker,I mouth at her, and she does. “Jimin tells me you’re giving
him tutoring lessons?”
“That’s correct.”
“And why are you giving him these tutoring lessons?”
“His grades were dropping. So far, they’ve evened out, but I have to get them
back up again.”
“Are these lessons really necessary?”
“Yes, actually. The school handbook dictates that he should have been barred
from participating in any clubs or other afterschool activities and been
required to spend the time in Study Hall with me instead, but I think this
arrangement, where he can still attend drama club meetings, would sit better
with him.”
“Barred? It’s that bad?”
“Not...bad. He’s just...a little off his game.”
She glares at me. “I’d like to meet you.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible right now,” he responds smoothly, and he
actually sounds apologetic. “But FaceTime exists.”
There’s a brief moment while my mom scowls fiercely and pretends to know what
FaceTime is.
“It’s that thing, mom,” I say in exasperation. “Where you can video call
someone.”
“Oh. I knew—I knew that.” She clears her throat. “Do I Fa-FaceTime you, or…?”
“No, I can do it,” he says hurriedly, and a little discordant note of suspicion
twangs in my head. “I’ll just hang up now and call you in a moment.”
The line goes dead. My mother glares at me and opens her mouth to say
something, but then the phone rings with a FaceTime call. She picks up.
Jungkook’s face fills the screen. My suspicion sensors immediately go on
overload. His hair is mussed, black feathery bangs falling haphazardly into his
eyes, instead of being neatly combed and parted at the side like it is for
school, and he’s blinking a little too fast. I can see the edge of his bed
behind him, and I can only see until a little below his neck, but he looks like
he’s not wearing a shirt.
What was he doing?
My mother launches right into it. “How old are you?”
“I’m 22,” Jungkook says, glancing over his shoulder distractedly.
“And why aren’t you in college right now?”
“My mom was supporting me through college, but she passed away. Heart attack.
And my dad left when I was 10. So I have to pay my own way through college, and
I took a job as a teacher for that purpose.”
I wish he wouldn’t speak like a teacher all the time, I think. It makes him
sound so removed from the rest of us.
“Oh.” My mom seems momentarily thrown. “I’m...sorry for your loss…?”
He seems to understand that she’s asking for his name after a moment of
blinking disorientedly at the screen. “Oh—Jungkook.”
“Jungkook,” my mom says experimentally. “What were you majoring in?”
“Biological sciences. Hence the fact that I’m a science teacher.”
“And when are you planning to resume your studies?”
“I’d say at the start of the next year of college, but by the way things are—”
“Jungkook?”
My head snaps up. The voice came from his end. And it was female. My mom hasn’t
seemed to notice.
Jungkook’s head whips aside. “I’m sorry, this is kind of a bad time,” he says
loudly. “Could I—”
“Jungkook, who are you talking to?” The voice is clearer now, definitely
feminine, like it’s coming closer. I see a pale, bare leg slide off his bed,
and I suddenly feel sick to my stomach.
“What? I didn’t catch that,” my mom says, frowning.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Park,” Jungkook says politely, albeit in a rushed way,
“but I really have to go.”
“That’s fine,” she says slowly.
“Um. Goodbye.” And then there’s a scuffle and the screen goes black, but I hear
Jungkook’s voice saying indistinctly, “Jinri—” before the call is ended.
I want to throw up.
My mother turns to me, frowning. “Did you hear another voice speaking? I
couldn’t hear what it said.”
My mouth opens and closes like a fish.
“Probably the neighbors,” she dismisses, and then she continues briskly on.
“Well, he seems like a polite young man. Now I’ve sort of met him, I think it
would be fine to continue with your tutoring lessons.”
“Was that so bad?” I say, exasperated.
~
The dresses rustle as I tiptoe back to my room with them folded over my arm. I
glance around cautiously and then I dart into my room, closing the door and
turning the knob before locking it so the click can’t be heard.
I flick on the lights and waste no time pulling off my clothes, thanking the
universe for the fact that my mother is a tall woman. I throw them onto my bed,
and then select a dress out of the pile of my mom’s, choosing a dark blue,
simple summer dress with thin shoulder straps and a narrow corded belt around
the waist. Pale pink cherry blossoms are peppered across it. I quickly wriggle
into it, grateful for the fact that it’s sleeveless so I won’t have to
potentially rip it with my broad shoulders.
Then I can feel the fabric rustling around about my mid thigh, and it’s a
little tight at the waist and of course it’s loose at the chest, but I rush to
the full-length mirror I have set into my cupboard door. I just stand there and
stare at myself.
I don’t look like a girl. Of course I don’t. I look like a man wearing a dress.
But I take a deep breath and think of Lili, and she slips into my head, telling
me to turn and let the hem whisper over my legs. If I hold a lungful of air in,
my chest expands and my waist tightens a little, and I straighten my back,
letting my spine curve inwards. I walk experimentally up and down my room. It
feels funny, air between my legs like that, but I think I can get used to it.
I feel my mouth twitching, and there’s nobody watching, so I grin. I laugh and
make a little a leap, pointing my toes and arching my feet, and I can do this.
I can pretend to be a woman—I can bea woman—in front of the whole school.
The feminine aspect isn’t the reason I like it. I like it because I’m being
someone else, because I’m honoring the name of Lili Elbe, a brilliant woman who
died too soon, to fast, but lived long enough to burn a path for everyone else
who wanted to escape themselves. I want to escape too. That’s all I want.
My heart beats fast with the thrill of pushing the definitions of propriety, of
doing something most would call wrong,of being set to scorch an impression in
the minds of everyone who watches the play in a few months. Of being wrong just
by existing, a dissonant twang in the melody of normality.
I love this.
I shake my hair into my eyes, looking at the world through a film of orange
hair. I giggle, watching my teeth sink into my lip when I bite it.
The next dress is strapless, white, and the hem trails along the floor as I
walk. It’s an evening gown, but it looks like a wedding dress. I grab a
forgotten party hat off my desk and hold it in both hands.
Suddenly, I’m holding a bouquet of flowers, and long hair is whispering over my
bare shoulders. A thin layer of white lace, a veil, separates me from the rest
of the world. My heels sink into the carpet as I walk down the aisle between
the pews, glowing with pride and beauty. This is my day. The day people prepare
for their entire life.
A broad-shouldered figure stands at the altar, wearing a black suit, black
bowtie, and crisp white shirt. His face is indistinct, but his long fingers
curl over my french-manicured ones when I reach him. His grip is firm and
reassuring. He rubs his thumb across the back of my knuckles.
I take a deep breath and face the priest, breasts swelling against the bodice
of my gown.
But—breasts? I don’t have breasts. I’m Jimin, art student, drama club member,
and I’m not—
No. This is myday. Reality will not have a say here.
I smile at the priest. He’s already asked the man next to me, taller, broader,
maler, so he turns to me next. “Do you, Park Jimin, take…” his next words are
indistinct, but I know it’s alright to say yes.
I smile wider. “I do.”
“You may now kiss the bride,” the priest says, and I turn to the groom. Slim
fingers brush over my cheeks, my lips, and then they’re taking hold of my veil
and pushing it off my head.
I stare, wide-eyed, at the groom. He’s so beautiful, so perfect. He’s
everything I ever wanted, dreaming of the man I was going to marry when I was a
little girl.
No, I wasn’t a little girl! I was a little boy, and I grew up in Busan, South
Korea, and when I was in kindergarten, I kissed my best friend and made him cry
and made my father grow blooms of bruises on my cheek with the love of his
fist. And then my mother started crying, and I hated myself for making everyone
cry or leave, and I shouted at my father in my little-boy voice to go away,
because he’d hurt my mother. And he did. He walked out the door, and he never
came back, and I—
No, no! I am a woman, I have always been a woman, I have always deserved the
man looking into my eyes!
“Jimin,” he says softly, and he pulls me close, making me trip on my heels
slightly and fall into his chest. My hands spread across his warm chest and
grip the fine cotton of his shirt. He brushes his lips over mine, but then he
moves away, hovering them over my ear, and Jungkook whispers, “You know this
isn’t real.”
The daydream shatters.
My mother is pounding on my door. “Jimin, why is this door locked? You know we
have no closed doors in this house!”
I dig my nails into my palms, easily finding the scratch marks which are always
there because they’re never given the chance to heal and using the pain to
ground me. “Must have been the wind,” I say, teeth gritted in an effort to keep
from screaming at her to leave me alone for once in my goddamn life.
“What are you doing? Unlock this door!”
Bitch,I think hatefully, but I push the thought away, because she’s the one who
stayed with me after everyone left me because I kissed a boy and that was
wrong. “I’m changing.” I hear a disgusted snort because she didn’t get her way,
but at least her footsteps are receding.
I glance at the mirror, and I freeze, because I completely forgot I was wearing
a dress. It feels so wrong suddenly, like there’s pure, unadulterated sin
clawing at my insides, and I tear the dress off, shame burning in my cheeks and
trembling my hands like twigs in a gale.
As the dress falls off my body, the fit all wrong, with no curves to fill out
the parts which swell, I expose my male body bit my bit, the muscle in my arms
and the ridges of my faint abs and the bulge at my crotch. Frustration rises in
me like a poison and I fling the dress away from me into a corner of my
bedroom.
I sink down onto my bed in just my boxers, shaking, with my head in my hands.
I’ll never be a woman, I think bleakly. I’ll never be free.
~
The next time I wear a dress is in front of the whole of the drama club.
I take a deep, nervous breath as I peek out of the curtain of the dressing
room, trying not to let the anxiety wash over me. I grip the skirt of the long
pink evening dress Hoseok brought for me and steel myself to walk out.
It’s now or never.
Lili takes her place in my mind and tells me how to walk, and I sway my hips as
I walk out of the cubicle, head held high. All conversation dies down as they
stare at me, walking slowly and delicately towards the crowd of cross-legged
people at the other end of the room.
I stop in the middle of the room and curtsey, then smile and twirl, my skirts
billowing around me. When I come to a stop, everyone’s eyes are still riveted
on me.
Lili is shrinking away from their shocked stares. I try to pull her back, to
tell her it’s okay, these are my friends, but she shakes her head and refuses,
retreating into the shadows of my mind. Without her guidance, my spine slumps,
my shoulders sag forward, and my head tips down. “That was horrible, wasn’t
it,” I mutter to the floor.
When I’m only met with silence, my hands clench into fists and I walk angrily
back to the dressing room, my arms swinging and my shoulders hunched. I never
noticed how starkly differently men and women walk until I had to portray both
of them. “It’s fine. There’s still time to change it.”
“Jimin,” Hoseok calls when I’m nearly there.
I stop and turn. “What?” I say, my voice coming out curt and terse.
“You were…” he hesitates. He’s become the others’ unofficial spokesperson. “You
were awesome. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. There is literally no
one better I can think of for this role. You’re great at it.”
Lili uncovers her eyes slowly. I ask tentatively, “Really?”
“Yes,” he says, in dawning awe. “It’s like...it’s like you were born for this
role.”
I look away.
Chapter End Notes
     My mom is actually like this.
     Just so you know.
***** The Right to Love *****
Chapter Notes
     So, long-ish chapter.
     Things pick up in the next one, if you know what I mean.
“Jungkook.”
He looks up from where he’s marking my work. “Yes?”
“I...I have to ask you something.” I fidget with my pencil, nervous butterflies
dancing in my belly. My swivel chair creaks as it spins.
“Anything,” he says, so readily, and my stomach flips.
“Do you remember...that day...when my mom FaceTimed you?”
There’s a split second while a strange expression crosses his face. But then
it’s gone, smoothed over, and he says evenly, “Yes.”
“I’m sorry, I know this isn’t appropriate, and it’s not my place, but…” I drop
the pencil because of my shaking hands, but I don’t retrieve it, instead
twisting my fingers together and avoiding his eyes. “Did you...have a girl in
your bed?”
A long silence.
Finally, it’s too much to bear. I look up, and his face is still as stone. Is
he angry, is he shocked, is he afraid, what? I scream in my head. Say
something!
At last, he sighs, breaking the silence. “I have a life too, you know.”
“Oh, okay, I’m sorry, I just wanted to know—I mean, I didn’t, like, want to
know, but it was just kinda bothering me and I know it’s none of my business
and I’m sorry just forget about it—” I say in a rush,  words stumbling over
each other. I want to die from embarrassment. Who wantsto be confronted about
their sexual activity? “I’m sorry I’m sorry just ignore me I’m being—”
“No, stop,” he says, and I shut up. He purses his plump lips. “It’s fine of you
to ask. It wasn’t a...good time, and I shouldn’t have agreed to FaceTime.”
I gnaw on my lip. He looks at my teeth worrying away at it, but he doesn’t say
anything about it.
“I...you have to understand that I’m only a few years older than you,” he
continues. “I’m basically still a teenager. You know what it feels like. I
still have the same needs and desires.”
I grip my hands hard to keep from shaking. Desires. My heart is beating a mile
a minute and I’m almost trembling from mortification and nerves, and my stomach
is doing that funny thing where it flips like a pancake every few seconds. Why
does he dothis to me?
“But to answer your question, yes, it was a woman,” he says slowly. The
awkwardness in the air is so heavy it’s palpable. “Not...my girlfriend. I don’t
have...a girlfriend.”
What does he expect me to do with this information?
“She’s just some girl I met,” he goes on uncomfortably. “Like, you know—”
“It’s okay, seriously, Mr. Jeon,” I cut in hurriedly, using the formal,
professional salutation like a barrier between us. “You don’t have to explain
yourself. It was a stupid question. Everyone, um...everyone has sex.”
He looks at me strangely. “Do you?”
I choke while my stomach does a magnificent routine worthy of a diving
procedure at the Olympics.
Jungkook looks like he majorly regrets it. “I’m sorry, now I’m overstepping my
boundaries—just...just…” he reaches out and awkwardly pats my knee. I’m
suddenly hyperaware of the fact that my legs have fallen open in his direction,
and I snap them closed. “Um...be safe, yeah?”
I don’t know what to do. What do you even do when you caught your teacher with
a girl and he tells you to use condoms? “Okay…?”
He withdraws his hand slowly, bringing it to his mouth and biting the skin over
his knuckle. “Right.” I watch his teeth snag the skin. “Right.” He moves
abruptly, pulling the sheet of homework towards himself. “Are you done with
question 28?”
                          Several Weeks Later: Friday
It’s like he’s built for sex, I think as Jungkook bends over to pick up a pen
from his low bedside table and the denim of his jeans strains in a valiant
effort to cover his thighs. He straightens up again, and the light from behind
him clearly outlines the silhouette of his torso, shining through his
practically transparent white button down shirt. His chest is broad, tapering
to a narrow waist. Everything he does screams sex, sex, sex. The way he moves.
His voice. His body.
Jungkook says something indistinct, but it doesn’t reach me. I trace the lines
of his body with my eyes. God, I want to draw him, I think. Properly, not from
memory. He looks like he has muscle under his clothes. I want to show how they
ripple, how they move, how they bulge when he flexes them.
I want to show him bare.
Nude.
That strange, uncharacteristic thought jolts me out of my absorption. I realize
I’ve been staring, and I force myself to look at his face. A strange expression
crosses it.
“I was just saying…” he says after a moment, “that your grades are picking up
again. Soon, we won’t have to do these tutoring sessions anymore.”
“I…” He's kidding, right? “What?”
“We won't have to continue these anymore. In fact, I think this can be the last
lesson.”
“Really?” It comes out...disappointed.
“Yes.” He doesn't seem to notice my heart sinking to the ground. I've actually
come to enjoy meeting him at his house, and to look forward to the lessons.
“You'll like having more free time since I won't be stealing it anymore.”
“You're not...you're not stealing it,” I say softly.
He waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, come on. No one likes tutoring sessions.”
But I like you. I just manage to stop my pathetic response before it rolls off
the tip of my tongue. I realize, suddenly, that I've stopped putting up a
filter when I'm talking to him. I talk to him like an equal now. Like a friend.
He looks at me for a moment, then he smiles a little sadly. “You know, I’ll
miss—”
He's cut off mid-sentence by his phone ringing. He picks it up, glances at it,
and frowns. “It's your mom.”
Oh God, what now? I think in horror. Is she calling to give me a lecture on
washing my hands after I go to the bathroom or not to step in puddles because
then I’ll get leptospirosis?
He starts saying “Hel—” but he's cut off by a frantic blare of my mom’s voice
from the phone. He winces and pulls away, putting it on speaker.
“—Jiminie that Grand-Aunt Park just died, and they want to bury her right away
so I have to be there,” she says in a rush. “And I would feel much safer if he
were in your house, Jungkook, and I don't mean to presume, but this is a family
emergency so would you mind if he stayed in your house for a night or two? She
lived all the way in Seoul and I've already packed my bags, she fell in the
bathtub, poor woman, they should really make bathtubs non-slip these days, I
read an article about it—do you know how many elderly suffer from accidents in
the bathroom? In my opinion, the—”
I make frantic throat-slitting and cut-off movements at Jungkook. My mom is
nervous-talking. He has to stop her ranting before she reaches stage two:
nervous, panicky tears.
He nods in understanding, then says loudly so his voice will carry over hers,
“I don't mind at all, Mrs. Park.”
She pauses. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, it's no trouble at all.”
“Oh, thank you! But you must know, he has a slight lactose intolerance, and
under no circumstances let him out in the rain or in a pool without a sinus
rinse. His supplements are back at home, but I suppose he'll have to do
without—and, oh, he has eczema on his—”
“I’ll be fine,” I say loudly before my mom can say something embarrassing.
Jungkook shoots me a questioning look. “There’s no need to worry, Mrs. Park.
I’ll take care of him. At any rate, he’s 18. He can take care of himself.”
I hear a shaky breath. “You don’t know about the time he was seven and I let
him go on a school trip to the aquarium, and he ate—”
“I understand your concern, but it was over a decade ago,” he says smoothly.
He’s playing his cards right, I think. Mature talk soothes her anxiety.“Jimin
will be completely alright. It would be best if you trusted me, or it would be
stressing you the whole way to Seoul.”
“Okay. Okay.” A few deep breaths. “I have to go now, my flight is boarding. Be
safe, Jimin! Can he hear me?”
“I can hear you, mom.”
“Don’t do anything silly!”
“I’m 18, mom!”
“No drinking! Or drugs!”
“Look, Mr. Jeon is going to be taking care of me, and if you keep on with this
you’re going to miss your flight.”
“Please don’t trouble Mr. Jeon. He’s a very nice young man.”
I look over at Jungkook, who looks slightly smug. “I’m sure he is. Bye, mom.
Have a safe trip.”
“Bye,” she says reluctantly, and I press the disconnect button before she can
change her mind.
I turn to Jungkook and exhale. “That was so much more worry and stress than was
needed.”
“Is she like that all the time?” Jungkook asks, not unkindly.
“Yes.”
He raises his eyebrows. He looks genuinely sorry for me. “Really.”
“Yes. Hey, are you sure you’re fine with taking me in?” I fidget with my
fingers. “It’s such a burden. If you want, I can just tell her I stayed with
you while I actually stay in my house.”
“No, no. Lying to moms never works.” He flaps his hand dismissively. “You’re
staying here.”
“Are you serious? I'm 18. I'm an adult.”
“Yes, but your mom asked me to, and I have a responsibility to carry out her
wishes.”
“But it's ridiculous. I'll be staying in your house and eating your food and
breathing your air.”
“It's not myair.” He sounds amused.
“But still! It's your space!”
“It's fine, honestly. I can give you the spare bedroom. The one my mother used
to have.”
“But—”
“No arguing,” he says, and I shut up at the steel in his voice. “You're staying
here.”
I pout sullenly.
“There's no need to look like you swallowed something unpleasant.”
“What do you even do on your Friday nights, anyway?” I ask.
“Marking tests, sometimes. But I didn't give any tests this week, so I
think...movie night.”
I look up hopefully.
~
“No,” I whimper. “No, no, please no…”
The chair rises slowly, the hands of the cloth-covered figure tied by the
wrists to it curling into fists.
“No, don't,” I whisper. “Please, don't—”
The cloth flies off in a blur of white, and I shout in terror, my head whipping
aside and eyes screwing shut as I bury my face into the couch cushions beside
Jungkook’s arm. Over the screams and crashing sounds coming from the TV, I feel
Jungkook chuckle softly, letting me curl up against his arm and hide in his
warm, softener-y scent. I'm shaking, whimpering nonsense.
“No more,” I moan. “Turn it off, turn it off, turn it—”
He moves to reach for the remote, and the horrific screaming stops abruptly
when he pauses it. “It's just The Conjuring. It's nothing much.”
“Get it off the screen,” I say in a shaky voice.
I hear him press a few buttons on the remote.
“Is it safe?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
I raise my head—and am met with the screeching close-up face of the nun on
Jungkook’s TV screen. I scream and fall back into the cushions, squeezing my
eyes shut and trembling in terror. Jungkook laughs and presses another button.
“Okay, it's really off now.”
“I don't believe you,” I whimper, punching his arm weakly. The muscle doesn't
flinch at all under my knuckles.
“It really is. Check.”
I slowly, cautiously look up, hand over my eyes, and spread my fingers. The
screen is, to my immense relief, indeed blank.
“I hate you,” I wail, trying to calm my shaking body and hammering heart. “This
isn't taking care of me! That movie isn't appropriate!”
“What happened to being an adult, responsible 18 year old?”
“I don’t like horror movies,” I whimper. “You shouldn't have even suggested
it.”
“How would I know you'd scream like a girl?” He teases.
“I do not!” I protest indignantly.
“You did. Your voice pitched up whole octaves.”
“It's not my fault you put on The Conjuring, Jung—” I break off halfway through
my whimpered rant. Suddenly, I notice how I'm nearly clutching in his arm, and
how I'm so close to him I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. I
shuffle away from him on the couch, staring at the floor. “Mr. Jeon.”
I glance timidly up, and he looks regretful. My mind starts wandering before he
says in a hurt, kicked-puppy voice, “You finished all the popcorn.”
My head whips to the empty bowl in my lap, cheeks reddening at the fact that
I’d thought it was something else. “It's penance for letting me watch that
horrible movie!”
He rolls his eyes playfully. “So delicate.”
I make an indecipherable, complaining sound and stand up, my knees shaking.
“I'm going to my room. I need to practice my script.”
“Oh yeah. You're a drama student.”
“Yes.” I take a brave step forward—and promptly stub my toe squarely on the leg
of the coffee table.
Concern flashes briefly over Jungkook's face while I make a pained grimace, but
by the time I'm hopping around and holding my foot, it’s disappeared. “Do you
need me to carry you to the bedroom, princess?”
“You're so mean,” I moaned. “I wouldn't have agreed to stay here if I’d known
you were this mean.”
He stares philosophically into the distance, a little smile on his lips. “They
only like the bad boys, anyway.”
I harrumph. “Call yourself a bad boy all you want. It doesn’t change the fact
that you’re mean.”
In a flash, he’s grabbed my wrist, and then I’m thrown bodily onto the couch
and his weight is pinning me to the cushions. He leans in close, mouth
stretched wide in a grin, and I shrink back. “Say that again.”
“Get off, you’re heavy—ow, ow, you’re kneeing me in the stomach!”
Thankfully, he shifts a little so he’s straddling my legs instead. The muscle
of his thighs flexes over and against mine, our flesh molding to fit each
other, and the feeling is so, so strange, because I’ve never had anyone sit on
me like this. I’ve never had anyone make such a possessive gesture towards me.
“Say that again.”
“What?!” I’m panicking. Too close. Too close! He’s invading my personal space
and only coming closer, and he still has a firm grip on my wrists.
A wicked smile bares his teeth at me. Right at that moment, he doesn’t seem
like a very professional superior. “Bad boy.”
“Bad boy, bad boy—now get off!” I squirm when Jungkook only presses up closer,
edging his face up so close to mine I can feel his breath on my face. He’s so
warm, his heart beating against my crazily thudding one and his hair brushing
my forehead. I hear his lips part slightly, the wet smacking sound of his mouth
opening deafeningly soft in its suggestiveness. “What is this, some weird kind
of kink? You’re harassing a minor!”
The smile slides off his face, and then his weight on my body eases and he’s
sitting on the other couch, face carefully blank. “I’m sorry.”
I’m still slumped against the cushions and partially in shock. I didn’t mean
what I’d said, not really. Because I’d kind of liked his warmth seeping into my
skin and his fingers encircling my wrists and his body pressed up and on top of
mine—
No.No.
I rise abruptly, feeling cold and empty and too light in a bad way now I don’t
have his weight on me. “I have to practice my script.”
He’s staring at the far wall, the grin he had a few seconds ago a forgotten
memory. “Yeah.”
“I’ll be in my room.” I wait.
“Yeah.” He shifts his gaze to vacantly examine the popcorn bowl.
I open my mouth to say something else, but decide against it and climb the
stairs to my room. It’s only when I’m inside that I halt, a thought striking me
like a bolt of lightning.
Was he flirting with me?
~
Lili walks across the room, and I follow, hips swaying gently and toes slightly
pointed. She pauses, and I do too, using the high, delicate voice Hoseok was so
amazed at to deliver my line: “This is me, Gerda. Lili. The man you used to
know, Einar, he doesn’t exist anymore. He never really has.”
We’ve practiced it so many times that I can hear Soohyun’s tearful voice in my
head. I don’t—I’m sorry, Lili, but right now, I need Einar. I need my husband.
I tighten my lips, genuine pain blooming in my chest. “Einar isn’t here. Einar
isn’t coming back.”
You can’t do this! Soohyun screams. You don’t have the right to run away from
our marriage like this! I married Einar. I need Einar. You can’t slip into Lili
and expect me to just take it! I have been nothing but supportive, but I want
my husband!
“Einar—doesn’t—exist anymore!” I whip around abruptly. “Why won’t you
understand, Gerda? Einar is a thing of the past. Being a man is a thing of the
past. I am tired of hiding, tired of watching women walk by in their pretty
dresses and wondering why I admire their gowns more than I admire them. This is
menow. This is—”
I freeze. Jungkook is leaning against the doorway and watching me. It’s like a
bucket of cold water has been poured on my head, a chill leeching into my bones
and permeating my heart. “You’re not supposed to listen. The play’s meant to be
a surprise.”
“You’re a very good actor, just as good as you are at drawing,” he says softly,
and I’m horribly reminded of that whole episode where he saw my sketchbook, and
which he hasn’t brought up—until today. “Or should I say actress?”
“It isn’t what it looks like.” I stumble over my words. “I’m—I’m playing a man
who transitions into a woman. It’s based on The Danish Girl.”
“It’s fine. You’re very good at it.” He pushes away from the doorway. “I’ll
leave you to it now. If there’s anything you need, let me know.”
“Actually—” I call after his retreating back. But when he stops, I immediately
regret it.
“What?”
“I...just...there’s a dance scene,” I say haltingly. “At the party. Where
Lili—that’s my character as a woman—dances with a man.”
“And…?”
“I haven’t had anyone to practice with.” I bite my lip. “I mean, it’s kind of
awkward...asking someone to dance like that.”
“I’ll do it,” he says readily, and he turns, coming back in. My heart leaps
into my throat when he shuts the door behind him.
“But why? You don’t have to,” I say, my mouth dry.
“Think of it as penance for The Conjuring.”
“Okay, fine,” I relent, telling myself I didn’t give in too quickly. I reach
for my phone. “I’m sorry, the song we chose is kinda cheesy.”
He smiles faintly. “What is it?”
“It’s”—I wince—“‘I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You’.”
He grins. “Okay, that ischeesy.”
I make a face at him. “Hoseok insisted. He said it would be hilarious to watch
me dance to that. Unfortunately, everyone agreed. So with a vote of about 30 to
1, although they said my vote didn’t count, we decided on that song.”
He mouth twitches, obviously trying not to laugh.
“It’s not the original, though. It’s the Haley Reinhart cover.”
“Why the cover?” He steps closer to me and reaches for my hand, interlacing our
fingers and bringing it to shoulder level.
I tense up, forgetting how to speak for a moment. “Um, they s-said it was less
cheerful,” I stammered, “and cheerful isn’t what we’re g-going for.”
He looks down, lashes dark against his cheekbones, and I feel a hand slide
around my body to clasp my waist. His fingers flex slightly, and butterflies
leap into my stomach. I can’t look down, so I stare just to the right of his
head instead, mouth tight and body uncomfortable and taut.
He shrugs slightly. “Come on.”
I stare at him blankly.
“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he says patiently, and I jolt into motion,
cupping his shoulder awkwardly.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“It’s fine,” he says graciously, and he reaches out to press play.
The first eight notes of the piano swirl around us, and I try to relax, letting
the music wash over me. Jungkook starts swaying slowly, and the song’s so slow
that I hardly even have to move. I unconsciously lean into him, but I don’t
notice until my head’s nearly touching his chin. Then I freeze, but I don’t
pull away, because this is kind of nice. And I don’t want to think about it and
ruin the moment.
Wise men say
Only fools rush in
“I didn’t mean what I said,” I say softly. “About you being mean. You’re
actually really nice.”
But I can’t help falling in love with you
I feel his chuckle more than I hear it, vibrating from his chest against mine.
“Thank you.”
“I’m serious. You just kinda like to tease.”
Shall I stay?
“Don’t we all?”
Would it be a sin
“Hmm.” I’m silent for a while. “Wanna play Awkward Truth or Dare?”
If I can’t help falling in love with you?
“What’s that?”
“It’s where we ask the most awkward questions we can think of to each other, or
give the most awkward dares.”
Like a river flows
“I don’t think that quite goes with the mood of the song.”
Surely to the sea
“Yeah, but why not?”
Darling, so it goes
He smiles. After a while, he says simply, “Okay.”
Some things are meant to be
“You go first.”
Take my hand
He thinks for a while. “Most embarrassing moment.”
Take my whole life, too
“Ah, you’re going easy on me,” I say, smiling. “Kindergarten. My pants ripped
while I was planting flowers. I had to walk around all day like that.”
“You sure it wasn’t that day with the sketchbook?”
I glance up sharply.
For I can’t help falling in love with you
“Why do you say that?” I say stiffly.
Like a river flows
“I just—” he hesitates. “Nevermind. Stupid question.”
Surely to the sea
“No, I should—I should explain.” I take a deep breath and steel myself. “I
just...wanted to draw you. So I did. And the long hair—we’d just come up with
the idea for the play, so I was all hyped about it, and I just drew it on you.”
Darling, so it goes
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” His hand absentmindedly moves closer to the small of
my back. “You don’t have to explain.”
Some things are meant to be
“My turn.” I don’t hesitate—I’ve already thought of it. “First kiss. When was
it?”
Take my hand
“Okay, you might not believe this, but…” he grins sheepishly. “Fifth grade.”
“What?” He’s right. I don’t believe him.
Take my whole life, too
“She kinda attacked me. I didn’t kiss her. She basically jumped on me and
grabbed my face and just smashed her face into mine. Of course, as fifth
graders, no one knew how to kiss.”
For I can’t help falling in love with you
“Playboy.” I laugh.
“She attacked me!” He says petulantly. “I was small and chubby and helpless,
and she attacked me!”
“I bet you were cute.”
For I can’t help falling in love with you
“I was.” He says proudly. “I was the cutest little mochi in Korea. I am
stillthe cutest little mochi in Korea.”
“Really.” I squeeze his bicep slightly.
“Okay, fine, maybe not anymore.”
I laugh.
It's a while before he realizes and says, “The song’s over.”
“I know.”
I don't want to, but I reluctantly let go of his shoulder, and his hand slips
from around my waist after a pause, long fingers trailing across my stomach and
leaving burning, tingly trails through the thin material of my shirt. Our hands
are the last to pull apart, his grip gradually loosening until there aren't
fingers between mine anymore.
I don't know what to do with my hands without him holding them. The spaces
between them feel like they’re there to be filled, now.
“Thank you,” I say awkwardly. Now the music has stopped, my inhibitions are
back in place, my walls hastily pushed back up.
“It's fine.” He lingers, although some part of me tells me this is the point
where he should be leaving. He says hesitantly, “I have something—I have
something I want to give you.”
My heart starts pounding again.
He crosses the room to the closet in the corner and opens it. He reaches in and
takes a dress on a hanger out. He turns and gives me a glimpse of it, and I
catch my breath, because it’s spectacular.
It’s made out of a vivid, crimson chiffon, with a small sash waist, broad
shoulders, a deep, round neckline, and short sleeves. The velvet is trimmed
with beige lace edging the cascades of the skirt and around the bodice. The
sleeves and skirt are layer upon layer of delicate cloth rippling and rustling
over each other, and the entire dress is like a work of art in itself.
Jungkook clears his throat. “I was just wondering...whether this would be of
any use,” he says haltingly. “Because if I’m not mistaken, this dress is from
the 1910’s. It’s my great grandma’s. And isn’t the Danish Girl set in the
1910’s or something?”
I swoop closer, rubbing the material between my fingertips reverently. “It’s
beautiful,” I breathe.
He smiles. “I’m glad you like it.”
I look up at him. “Why are you showing it to me?”
“I want you to take it.” At my shocked glance, he adds, “It’s not like I’m
doing anything with it, anyway.”
“Oh.” I can’t believe my luck. This was just the sort of dress we were looking
for. “Thank you.”
“Glad to be of any help.”
“I should—I should try it on,” I say hesitantly.
Jungkook nods. “Yeah.”
I wait, but he doesn’t seem to get the message. I open my mouth to ask him to
leave the room, but I stop before I get the words out. We’re both men, anyway.
It’s fine if I change in front of him.
So I take the dress from him and drape it over the end of the bed, then slowly,
falteringly bring my hands to the hem of my shirt. Jungkook startles when I
pull it over my head and looks at the door, panic rapidly spreading across his
face. It’s obvious that he didn’t think I was going to start changing right in
front of him.
But, like me, it seems like he’d rather not say anything for fear of making the
situation even more awkward than it is. So he stands there, hands folded
awkwardly in front of him, and finds other places to look besides me.
I’m grateful for that. I’m not ashamed of my body, but I hate people’s eyes on
me.
I toss my shirt on the bed, then angle my body away from him slightly when I
get to the button of my jeans. My hands fumble and slip over the cool metal,
but I finally get it out of the hole after an embarrassingly long time of
battling with it.
I hurriedly toe my jeans down, momentarily cursing my thick thighs when they
get stuck. And then I’m just standing in my boxers and Jungkook is literally a
few feet away from me, and I shouldn’t do it, but I glance at Jungkook. He was
previously examining the wood grain of the cabinet with great interest, but I
can feel his eyes running up and down my body now, lingering on my thighs, a
rapt expression on his face. I shiver when I feel his gaze skimming over my
crotch, and that alerts him to the fact that he’s been caught out. His eyes
dart to mine and he flushes guiltily, head whipping away to stare at the wall
while his cheeks redden.
I turn to the dress, feeling bizarrely pleased with myself rather than shy that
I caused the tinge of pink in Jungkook’s cheeks. I lift it up carefully, then
pull it over my head, eventually winning a brief struggle between my shoulders
and the small waist.
It smells musty, and there’s a second of panic while I can’t breathe because of
the chiffon in my face. Then my head is through the neckline and the dress is
falling into place over my body. It fits perfectly.
I pivot around slowly, arms held away from my sides like a penguin, and face
Jungkook. His eyes widen as he takes me in.
“It—it fits,” he says in disbelief.
“Yeah.” I turn, letting the skirt flutter. “How do I look?”
“Beautiful,” he says, and his voice is so honest it makes my heart twinge. He
steps closer, and suddenly, there's a hand on my face—his hand—and his knuckles
are brushing feather-light over my cheek. He smiles faintly. “You're
beautiful.”
My lips part when his fingers touch the skin next to the corner of my mouth,
drawing a ragged breath into my lungs. My body is straining towards him, and I
ache, I physically ache, to reach up and press his hand closer to my face,
interlace my fingers with his, suck his fingertips into my mouth, anything more
than what we have now. Something dark curls in my belly, and yearnings I
haven't let myself feel for years, desires which have only grown and blackened
as I grew older, flash behind my eyelids.
A body. Two bodies. Two bodies, legs tangled and breath mingling, flat chests
pressed to each other, lips desperately seeking each other out in the hunger
for acceptance, for intimacy. For needing to be able to be who you are in a
world which tells you you can’t be.
Having someone to sit next to, to share earphones with. Someone with short hair
and broad shoulders and a deep laugh, listening to Take Me to Church while it’s
raining outside. About how we were born sick, but it doesn't matter what they
whisper about us in the hallways as long as we have each other.
About how much it hurts to be told you have the right to freedom, you have the
right to religion...but you don’t have the right to love.
It feels wrong. It’s the reason my father left. It's the reason my best friend
left. It's the reason everyone leaves me, in the end. The reason I can never be
perfect enough for the world, because however much I stitch my scars back
together, I’ll always have that crack, that fault line, that fatal flaw
preventing me from becoming a good person in the eyes of God and society.
The reason that when I was a little boy and prayed for the other kids to stop
calling me names because I'd kissed a boy and it’d felt like the most right
thing I’d ever done in my life of five years, no one had ever answered.
I step back. His hand slides off my cheek. “I'm not gay,” I say shakily, and it
feels like I'm tearing myself apart, but it's okay. The pain is okay, because
this is the right thing to do. “I know it seems like I am, but...I’m not.
Because—because—being gay is wrong. It's against nature and it isn't—”
He cuts me off. His face has gone still, unreadable. Unreachable. “Are you
saying that because you have to or because you mean it?”
“I—I—” I steel myself. “I mean it.” I ignore the tremor in my voice.
“No, I don't think you do.” He steps closer, and I shrink back. This is the
point where he would usually move back, would usually apologize, because
Jungkook respects my boundaries. Jungkook never pushes. But he isn't. He's
looming over me and only coming closer, dominance to my submission. “I think
you’re parroting what someone has told you. I think you know as well as I do
that it kills you to pretend you're something you're not.”
“I'm not—” I falter when he raises an eyebrow. “I’m not—”
“Let me give you the best advice I'll ever give you, and possibly anyone else,
as a teacher,” he interrupts, raising a finger. I feel like his eyes are
stripping me down to nothing. “Never ever be afraid to be who you are.”
My lips part. “Mr...Jeon?”
He finally moves back, and relief crashes over me like a bucket of ice water.
“Please,” he says softly, “call me Jungkook.”
I'm speechless.
“Goodnight, Jimin.” He turns and starts making his way out.
“Goodnight,” I finally manage. Only when he's out of sight and earshot do I
whisper, “Jungkook.”
~
It's 1:42 a.m.
It's 1:42 a.m, and I still can't fall asleep.
I went to sleep at about 11 after going over my lines one last time. But I'm
not tired. My head is spinning with possibilities I don't want to entertain,
new pathways Jungkook’s words revealed. I’m not tired at all.
In the end, I decide to go to the bathroom. I sort of have to go, so maybe
it'll tire myself out enough to be able to get some shut-eye.
I stumble out of my room and down the hall, trying to remember the route
Jungkook showed me. I eventually find the bathroom and do my business, wash my
hands, and turn off the light, blinking when the darkness slots like a veil
over my eyes. I can't see anything.
I feel blindly along the wall, unable to find the light switch, and I nearly
fall when my hand meets thin air. A doorway. I stagger through it, stubbing my
toe painfully on a bedpost, and roll in gratefully, spread-eagling smack in the
center and rejoicing in the fact that I have an empty queen bed all to myself.
Except...I don't.
I roll straight into a warm body, and I flinch when my arm meets soft, bare
flesh. I hear a confused grunt, and that mass of warmth turns on its side.
My eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness, but they might as well have
not, because I don't believe them. They see fine, wavy black hair, plump lips,
blearily blinking large eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Jungkook asks, voice rough with sleep.
“I'm sorry, I found the wrong room,” I stammer, my face hot with mortification.
He's not even wearing anything that I can see! I could have lived my whole life
without knowing that Jungkook sleeps practically naked! “I'll—I'll go, I'll get
back to my room—”
“No.” A hand flashes out and grips my arm. “Don't go.”
My heart starts pounding.
***** Born Sick *****
Chapter Notes
     Whoo it's finally here everyone. Here you go.
     Much thanks to mmerrrr, who kept my mood up throughout the battle of
     the writing process against writer's block and unholy amounts of
     homework. I love you senpaiiiiiiii! <3
It’s the witching hour.
It’s about 2 a.m., and the streets of Seoul are as quiet as they’ll ever
get—that is, not very quiet at all. Cars flash in streaks of light from
headlamps along the wide highways, and the lights are still on in many of the
corporate buildings, hotel signs glowing with color. If you were to walk into
the smaller back alleys of Seoul, tucked away in between the buildings so Seoul
won’t have to acknowledge her disobedient children who have grown up without
her knowing, you’d find strip clubs and brothels and adult stores—women rubbing
themselves against strangers for a dollar, moans too loud to carry over the
sounds of slapping skin in dark backrooms, lips which aren’t kissed enough and
bodies which aren’t rested enough.
Even here, in this sprawling, unabashed proliferance of sin, you would still
find it hard to discover somewhere women have no place. These places are not
signboarded. They are not flaunted. They are not advertised on posters or
plastered on advertisement boards. They only exist in whispers until you
actually get there, through the tiny side door in the deserted niche between
the two buildings you’d never been quite sure about the purpose of, and into
the small room with comfortable couches and a bar, with tall barstools off the
ground and soft murmurs and drinks held too close to your body.
People call these gay bars. But these aren’t what the name suggests—akin to
their loud, neon counterparts, with women who aren’t wearing enough and men who
drink too much and shout too raucously. These are quiet places, places of
meeting, places of being able to share your sorrow at always having to hide who
you are except in these small, dimly lit rooms. And maybe, if you’re lucky,
you’ll get to take someone home with you, and you’ll get to enjoy the pleasure
you were taught can’t be afforded you for a brief moment before you lose him
and it’s just you against the world again.
These places didn’t even have to be built or don’t even have to exist for the
purpose of creating kinship, or more, between two damned souls. Its occupants
don’t even have to be aware of it. As long as the people inside accept each
other completely for who they are, the building shifts, nods, accepts its title
of temporary refuge from the harshness and cruelty of the world.
We zoom out, step back, and focus on another, much different area of Seoul, a
quiet neighborhood with nary even a stray dog trotting along the sidewalk. The
streetlamp in front of a particular house flickers to life for a few minutes
about once every hour, but for the most part, it is dark, the filaments of its
bulb burnt through by a recent thunderstorm. As a result, shadow reigns in the
house it is meant to illuminate, too.
And that shadow is what caused a lost boy who’s afraid to look at himself in
the mirror for fear of what he’d see to stumble into the wrong bedroom, to fall
into the bed of the only man who’d never tried to make him change except in the
way of acceptance. Who’d looked at him, and seen him for who he was, even if
the boy himself didn’t know it, and said, “Never be afraid to be who you are.”
That boy is me.
I lay on my side in the bed of the most beautiful man I’ve ever met or seen or
talked to or known, both inside and out, and he lies on his side too. We’re
facing each other.
“I couldn't sleep,” I say hesitantly, apologetically. “So I went to the
bathroom. And I couldn't really see anything, so I...got the wrong room.”
“It's okay,” he says. He looks more vulnerable like this, mussed with sleep and
softened by darkness. “I couldn't really sleep either.”
“I thought I woke you up.”
“Nahhhh. I was just on...hibernate. Not really sleep.” He blinks. “Actually,
that doesn't make sense.” He groans, throwing a forearm over his face. The
blanket slides down his chest, revealing smooth skin and defined muscles. I
flush and look away. “I'm not functioning properly, sorry. I probably couldn't
even tell you the difference between an equal-area projection map and a conic
projection map right now.”
“Um…” I laugh nervously. “Riiiiiiight. Because I always knew that all the time,
anyway.”
He lifts his arm slightly. “Do I detect sarcasm? I’m not in the right state of
mind to deal with sarcasm right now. It's just gonna be lost on me.”
I sigh. “Just go to sleep, okay? I'll leave.”
“Nah, tomorrow’s Sunday. I'll be fine.” He squints groggily at me.
“Like...coffee...exists.”
I stifle a laugh. “You’re not speaking like a teacher at all.”
He whines and bats blearily at my arm. “I'm sleepy! I have an excuse.”
I grin at him.
“I'll give you detention,” he threatens.
“Okay.” I yank the blanket off his body, just realizing what a mistake it is
after it’s slid off his body. He's only wearing black boxers, straining against
his thick, bare thighs. His body is muscular, toned, muscles defined and ridged
in the barely-there light. It's cold, so I see him flinch when his smooth, pale
skin is exposed. But the worst part—the worst part—is that his nipples are
obviously, definitely erect at the cold.
I want to touch him so badly, I ache.
He whines again, curling up into a fetal position. I'm treated to a tantalizing
view of the muscles in his broad back rippling, shoulder blades shifting under
unblemished skin. “Give it back,” he moans, making a weak grab for it. I hold
it out of his reach. “It's cold!”
“I'll give it back to you when you take back that offer of detention,” I say
sweetly.
He growls, and then suddenly, he wraps his body around mine, legs locking
around my hips and arms clamping down on my shoulders. I squeal and wriggle to
get out, but he’s effectively immobilized me. He easily reaches around me and
grabs the edge of the blanket back, pulling it over us.
But he doesn't move away. Instead, he clings tighter to my body, wrapping his
arms and legs around me and burying his head in my shoulder. His soft hair
tickles my chin. His skin is warm, so warm, and smooth, and he's touching me in
so many places and I can feel something soft against my leg where his boxers
are, the softest part of his body, and it's driving me insane and I can't think
straight right now.
“Mr. J—Jungkook, what are you doing?” I stay stock still, frozen. My heart
rejoices secretly at the fact that I can call him by his first name now.
“You're warmer than the blanket,” he murmurs into my skin, lashes fluttering
against the side of my neck. I tip my head back unconsciously. “Do you mind?”
He smells so good. Better than anything I've ever smelled. Which is creepy,
probably, but I almost want to lower my head into his hair and sniff.
“No?” I squeak.
“Okay.” He rearranges himself so his head is on the pillow, a little higher up
than mine, and now our hips are pressed together and his body is so hard but
soft at the same time. His arms flex over my waist, hugging me tightly to his
body. I'm determinedly thinking of old people and broccoli, because I don't
think even Jungkook would forgive me if I get hard while he's this close to me
and I can actually feelhim pressed right up against me, soft and heavy and
thick by the way he feels.
Oh my god.
“Hey,” he mumbles.
“What?”
“Wanna continue Awkward Truth or Dare?”
“Yeah, why not.”
“I'll go.” He snuggles closer to me. “I'll just launch straight into it. Do you
like dressing up as a girl?”
He's so direct, straightforward, that I'm rendered speechless. “What?”
He looks owlishly at me through his long lashes. “I know you heard me.”
“I…like it,” I say hesitantly, not seeing the point in lying. He'd see right
through me anyway. “But not because I wanna be transgender or anything.
Because...I like being someone else.”
He just watches me, and I feel like he's pulling the truth out with a hook even
though I've already put it on the table.
“My turn,” I say, to break the silence.
“Hm.”
“Have you ever dealt with any homosexual students?”
“Short answer: no.”
“Oh.”
“Have you ever thought about kissing a boy?” He says immediately, eyes suddenly
alert, clear of the daze of sleep.
“Yes,” I say slowly. “I—have—actually. In kindergarten.”
His eyes widen slightly in surprise. “Really?”
“He was my best friend.” I avoid looking at him. “I did it because I loved
him—as, as a friend—and I knew that when you love someone, you kiss them. And
I...did.” I bite my lip. “Anyway, everything was fine until he went back and
told his mom. And then she screamed at him and he started crying, and he got
transferred to another school, and I got called to the principal’s office, and
the kids started calling me names. And my dad heard about it and...left.”
Jungkook is silent, but he wraps his legs around me a little tighter.
“Have youever kissed a boy?” I ask falteringly.
“No.”
My heart falls.
“But that doesn't mean that won't change.”
I glance back at him, astonished, and his eyes are daring me. Daring me to take
the leap, drop the pretense, bare my heart for the world to see.
But maybe the world doesn't have to, not quite yet. Maybe just Jungkook’s
enough.
 
It's awkward, and it's weird and completely on impulse, and I honestly can’t
even believe I ever plucked up the courage to do it, but I lean my head
forward, pressing my mouth to his. It lasts barely a second while I exalt and
my senses short-circuit as they wail for mercy because this is honestly too
much, too perfect—his lips are so soft, so plump, so perfect, if I close my
eyes I can feel his eyelashes on my cheeks, oh my god he's so close I will
never get enough of this, my heart’s trying to strain out of my chest and wrap
itself around him too—
And then he's pushing me away, hands on my chest, and his legs are sliding from
around my body and he's moving away and withdrawing, and my heart is lying in
pieces on the floor because I offered it to him and he rejected it.
“What are you doing?” He says tensely.
“I—I kissed you,” I say, feeling the hope drain out of me.
“I know that,” he barks. “Why?”
I flinch at the force in his words. “I—you—you told me to be myself—to be true
to myself—”
“That doesn't mean you're supposed to kissme! I'm your teacher, Jimin, this
isn't appropriate—” he sees the shattered look on my face and softens his
voice. “This isn't—this isn't right.”
“You're homophobic?” I whisper, because I read the situation completely wrong
and now our relationship is in pieces.
“No, I'm not. I support LGBTQ+ people completely. But I'm your teacher.”
“We only have a two year age gap!” I hate how needy, how whiny I sound right
now.
“I know that, you think I don't want—” he stops himself, breathing heavily, but
it's enough to give me hope. “Stop. Don't go there.”
I slowly wrap my body around him the way he had a minute ago, arms clasping
over his back, and I press another kiss to his neck experimentally. Some
stubble rasps under my lips, and his skin is soft, dipping at the pressure. He
jolts, and I hear a moan rise up in his throat, but he stops it before it can
escape.
“Stop, Jimin.” His voice vibrates through his throat and into my lips, and I
feel drunk with possibility. “Stop this, I don't—”
I lick his neck, and the breath leaves him in a gasp. He pushes me away again,
hands firm on my chest. “I said stop!” But his voice is high, too high, and I
know he likes it. His pulse beat under my lips too fast, too quick, and his
hands curled into fists for the briefest moment before I was pushed away.
“No,” I say simply. I press forward again and fit my lips to his, mouthing
clumsily at them. He doesn’t respond at all, but I can feel the tension
radiating from him in waves, his body taut as a tightrope. I tilt my head and
open my mouth slightly, and when I suck his lower lip into my mouth and he lets
me, showing no reaction at all, I wonder whether there’s more to kissing than
this.
“You’re not doing it right,” he says suddenly into my mouth.
I pull back. “I—what?”
“I said, you’re not doing it right,” he says impatiently, and he shoves me,
hard, so my back lands on the mattress with the breath knocked out of me. Then
he climbs on top of me, knees on either side of my hips, and leans down,
catching my face and crashing his lips bruisingly against my mouth.
I gasp, trying to get my breath back, but he’s not letting me. He’s not gentle
at all, nails digging into my cheek and teeth clashing with my lips hard enough
to bruise, tongue forcing itself into my mouth and exploring. “Jungkook—” I
whimper, but it’s lost in the wet strings of spit hanging between our mouths
and the way he tangles his fingers in my hair, harsh and demanding, pulling
hard enough that my scalp stings.
It isn’t anything like what I’d imagined my first kiss would be. His lips are
moving faster and more deftly than my inexperienced, fumbling ones, his long
fingers taking hold of my chin and impatiently guiding my mouth back to the
right place whenever it slips to the corner of his mouth. But it’s even better
than I imagined, because he’s straining closer to me even though we’re pressed
so close I can’t tell the difference between my body and his anymore. He’s
opening my mouth wider with his tongue although I’ve already parted my lips for
him. He wantsme, and his need is palpable, pulsing through his heartbeats and
thickening the air like cream. His hands are everywhere, moving under my shirt
and spreading over my stomach, curling around the nape of my neck, running up
my thighs.
There’s no evolutionary reason for lips to be soft, is there? I think
deliriously, drunk on his kisses and his touch. It’s not like it helps us to
eat. So that means they’re soft so they feel good when they’re kissed, which
means technically, humans evolved for kissing...
For the first time I can remember, I am wanted. There is a man desperate to get
close to me, to kiss me, to touch me, and he’s giving up his distance and
risking his career for it.
It’s the most bizarre kind of power.
Suddenly, it hits me that he’s kissing me, and that means I can touch him now.
I can touch him now. So I lift a tentative hand and run them over his sides,
down his ribs and waist. It’s amazing. His skin is smooth and warm and muscle
flexes under my fingertips (who the hell even has muscle on their sides?), and
his body’s pressing me into the mattress, and I’m touching him, and he’s
letting me touch him.
When I brush my hands over his stomach, I know it’s too much the second I feel
his abs twitch under my palm. He tenses for a brief moment before he grabs my
wrists, pinning them to the mattress. I whine in indignation, because I wanted
to touch him and what’s wrong with touching? But then his grip tightens around
my wrist warningly, and the restraint sends lust panging through my body. I
shut up and let him hold me down, because I think being touched by him is
better than touching him for now.
Someone wants me. Finally, finally, someone wants me.
When I think I’ll suffocate or combust if he doesn’t give me a second to
breathe, he pulls back, messy and with a dark fire burning in his eyes I’ve
ever seen before. “This,” he pants, and my body throbs with need. “This is what
it’s like to be with me. I’m not gentle. I won’t slow down. So if you don’t
want it, say it now before I hurt you in a way you didn’t ask for.”
“I want it,” I say breathlessly, without hesitation. “I want it, Jungkook.”
Something in his expression changes, and then there are hands in my hair again,
there are lips on mine again, there are teeth digging into my flesh again. He’s
all-consuming, stealing my breath and my sanity and my heart, and I clutch back
at him helplessly, trying to kiss back as he kisses me, devours me, yanking on
my hair and abusing my scalp. He pulls my lip into his mouth and bites down,
hard, and I sob, but I like it. I love it. This is what a twisted part of me
has always wanted—to be manhandled, to not be treated like I would break. To
have an insistent body on top of me and nails scratching my scalp and more
teeth than lips.
“Fuck,” he growls, and I moan at that dark, dirty curse word dripping from his
mouth. “Why’re you so—fuck.”
His mouth leaves mine, and I take a startled breath when he nips at my earlobe.
Honestly, it’s just an ear. It’s possibly the most unsexy thing in the world.
But his breath is ghosting over it and his lips are sucking wetly on the skin
behind my ear now, and I really don’t know where he learned that this would
feel so good, and from whom, but my erection for one doesn’t care.
I wish I could brand this into my mind and remember every detail forever. How
he’s so close to me I can feel every line of his body against mine, how his
hair’s brushing my cheek, how his mouth’s so wet and hot and perfect that I
would give up ever feeling anything else if I could feel it for the rest of
eternity instead. How he’s making these moist smacking sounds which really
aren’t necessary every time his mouth pulls away from my skin only to attack it
again with new fervor, but I don’t care even if he’s playing it up, because
who’s complaining?
I feel his tongue dragging a wet path down my jaw. When he reaches my neck, he
clamps his teeth around the skin, leaving a necklace of bite marks around the
base of my throat. Then he goes back over them and sucks them, looking up for
my reaction. My eyes fall shut at the feeling of his tongue on my skin, my back
arching to get closer to him. I shudder in pleasure at the thought that
there’ll be marks on my skin when he’s done. That I’m marked property now.
He does that thing where he looks like he’s biting a chunk out of my neck, but
it’s really the most gentle thing he’s done since this whole thing started. His
teeth are mostly out of the way, and his tongue is laving up and down my skin,
soft and hot and moist. I strain closer to him.
And then he bites harshly down on my neck, right over my jugular, and my eyes
fly open at the sudden, harsh pain, a sharp contrast to his previous relatively
gentle treatment. My nails dig into his back as I stifle my moan, and he grunts
in pain.
“Sorry,” I manage. “Sorry, I—ah!”
He grinds the heel of his hand into my groin, and my hips snap upward, bucking
towards his touch, towards the illicit pleasure of having another man touch me
like that. Of course he’d know the right way to go about it, a faraway part of
my mind says. He’s probably done it to himself a million times.“Don't
apologize,” he breathes into my collarbone. “Don't ever apologize.”
“Do that again,” I whimper, dragging him down with my arms twined around his
neck. “Please.”
“I can do better than that.” He grins, and his mouth moves away from my neck,
dropping kisses all over my chest. His hand slides around my thigh, first
dancing around my inner thigh and then kneading my ass firmly with his large
hands. I moan, because no one’s ever done that before, and he's really just
squeezing my butt and when it's put that way, it doesn't sound like much, but
it feels strange and new and good, so I don't complain.
And then his lips are on my stomach, and a sudden thought erupts into my head.
Is he going to… He nips at my faint happy trail, and my body arches off the
bed, reflexively pressing itself closer to his soft, soft lips. Is he really
going to...to give me a—?
Then suddenly, there's a finger hooking into my waistband and yanking it down
my legs, and I panic, pressing my legs tightly together and darting my hands
down to cover myself. Jungkook jolts, looking up. “What is it?”
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“I thought—” He glances at my obvious hard-on. “I thought it would be okay.”
“I—just—this is all new,” I say softly. “So maybe you could warn me before you
pull something like that?”
“Okay.” With a completely straight face, he recites, “Park Jimin, I would like
to blow you until you literally cannot remember your own name. Do you consent?”
I flush from head to toe. How can he just say that?
His hand moves to cover mine, squeezing gently. His touch is warm and
reassuring. “You know you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
“Don’t be nice,” I say critically. “It doesn’t suit you.”
He grins. “Does that mean…?”
I slowly pull my hands away.
Jungkook bites his lip, trying not to look too victorious, but reaches out and
wraps his hand around my cock. I bite my lip, feeling it twitch in interest
when his thumb unknowingly rubs over a sensitive spot. He looks up at me and
says, “I’ve done this before.”
“Okay,” I say in a strained voice, feeling the ridiculous urge to flash him a
thumbs-up.
“So you’ll probably like this.”
“That’s very nice.”
“Yeah.” He pauses and frowns slightly, as if wondering where all his smoothness
went. “I...just wanted to get that out of the way.”
I wonder what he wants me to say, but then he lowers his head and sucks me into
his mouth, and I can’t find it in myself to care anymore. I close my eyes and
try not to thrust upward, moaning helplessly, as I slide smoothly down his
throat, impossibly deep. He’s watching me unblinkingly. How is he not choking?
My nails dig into my thighs when he swallows, sharp crescents of pain dwarfed
by the pleasure of being surrounded by constriction in the best way possible,
and he gently guides them to his hair. I pull harshly on the strands, and his
eyes flutter. With a start, I realize he’s taken me down all the way, and he’s
still somehow managing to breathe.
He stretches his tongue out to lick at the seam between my balls. I hear myself
make a broken, agonized sound, and I can’t take it anymore—I jerk my hips up
into his mouth, and I slide impossibly deeper, raw pleasure constricting and
fluttering around the most sensitive part of me. He does gag this time as my
length slips too far.
There’s a sorrythreatening to slip out from my mouth, but then I remember what
he said about not apologizing. Instead, I thrust my hips upward again, further
into the blissful, tight heat, and he chokes. He stares at me incredulously.
“What is it?” I breathe, because this is new, this is different, this is
exciting. “Do you have a problem with being submissive, Kookie?”
His eyes widen momentarily in shock. And then he blushes and lowers his head
again, dutifully hollowing his cheeks and sucking. I grit my teeth, trying to
keep another whimper from tripping out of my throat as ecstasy rushes to my
groin, and he pulls off to press openmouthed kisses to the sides, tongue out
like a kitten to trace the vein.
“Do you like this?” he murmurs, vibrations sending a new wave of shivery
ecstasy running through my body.
“Yes.” I try to make it not sound like a desperate moan. I’m not entirely
successful.
He smiles. “Good.”
I’m suddenly made aware of my impending orgasm around the corner when he dips
his tongue into the slit. It’s been building behind my back while I was
unaware, and I try to push it down, but the pleasure rises afresh, threatening
to engulf me. My balls are tight and heavy and I’m so hard it hurts, and my
body is aching with how aroused I am, and I’m so close to coming I can taste
it.
My release is right there.But he’s only been sucking me off for like two
minutes and I heard somewhere that it’s not good form to cum straight away.
Oh, who the fuck even cares anymore?
“Kookie,” I murmur, pulling on his hair to catch his attention. He doesn’t
protest at the use of nickname. I make a mental note to call him that more
often, as long as I could just cum already.“Kookie, I’m gonna cum soon.”
“Mm-hmm,” he hums around me, and the vibrations nearly tip me over the edge,
the clenching getting impossibly, agonizingly tight. I bite down hard on my
lip, just managing to hold on.
It’s too much when he digs the tip of his tongue into the slit again. With a
broken moan I really don’t want to call a scream but wouldn’t be entirely
telling the truth if I don’t, ecstasy explodes through my body and down his
throat in streaks of white. Vaguely, I register my hips snapping, forcing more
pleasure out. It seems involuntary at this point. He closes his eyes, throat
working as he swallows, and some of it gets caught in his eyelashes. It’s the
prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Ah,” I whimper when he sucks as hard as he can, giving it all he’s got, and a
fresh spurt of cum trickles down his throat. “Oh, God.” It’s amazing, it’s
wonderful, it’s heaven and paradise and the high of ecstasy. It’s the relief of
having all the blood and muscle tension concentrated in one place suddenly
dissipated, resolved, just like that, in a burst and a rush and a fucking
detonation. I don’t care at all that I’m gay in that moment, because I’m
obviously, definitely gay. Who’s straight and cums so hard from a blowjob from
another guy that he can’t even think properly? All I care about is that there’s
a beautiful man with his lips wrapped around my dick, and I just came, and I
think I can die in peace.
He pulls off after about a minute, leaving me to tremble through the
aftershocks, eyes closed and chest rising and falling erratically, body
tingling with the lingering buzz of feeling what heaven’s like. I can’t think.
I can barely do anything beyond breathe, and so I close my eyes, trying to hold
onto the feeling of what it feels like for someone else to help you towards
orgasm.
A warm body curls up beside me, and a mouth edges up close to my ear,
breathing, “Hey, how long is your refractory period?”
“R-refractory period?” I gasp, head spinning and drowsiness threatening to pull
me under. “Like...how long it takes me to cum again after I just came?”
“Yeah.”
“Like...like...15 minutes?”
Jungkook looks impressed.
“I’m a teenager,” I mumble. “I’m special.”
“Fifteen minutes it is.” He drapes his leg over mine, purposefully grinding his
pelvis into my thigh, and something hard twitches against my thigh. “I’m
waiting.”
                            Like Ten Minutes Later
“I don’t like this,” I whimper as something cold, foreign, probingfeels around
inside me. “Jungkook. I really don’t like this.”
“It’ll feel great in a second. As soon as I find it—yours isn’t in the same
place as mine.” His finger thrusts in at a different angle and I wince. I don’t
really know what he’s looking for, but I don’t think he’d give me a straight
answer if I asked.
“How would you know?” I whine.
“Because I finger myself,” he says casually, and I choke. “Don’t you?”
“No! Never!” My mind is suddenly flooded with images of Jungkook sitting on his
bed, legs spread, fingers working inside himself as he does his stuff with
whatever that elusive spot he’s currently looking for is. Or in the shower, leg
propped up on the wall, hair falling into his eyes, fingers slick with lube or
spit...or, oh God, does he have a butt plug? Has he come to school with a butt
plug in, teaching the class, teaching me, and I didn’t notice at all? Or a
dildo. A long length of silicon disappearing into his body, into a bodily
crevice(I can’t say it), probably colored some lurid shade, sliding smoothly in
and out…
I squeeze my eyes shut to dispel the images as my cock twitches against my
stomach. Then I remember there’s no point trying to force them away anymore now
Jungkook’s actually behind me with his fingers up my ass. Which reminds me—I
feel like an idiot in this position, on my knees and elbows, ass up in the air
and face awkwardly close to the mattress. It looks like I’m frozen in the
middle of faceplanting.
“Jungkook—” I begin again, all set to expound upon how it isn’t a personal
insult if he can’t find what he’s looking for—maybe I don’t have one, maybe it
isn’t working, maybe I misplaced it???
He grunts in frustration, thrusting his fingers in deeper than they’ve went
before, and everything happens at once. His very fingertips brush the surface
of a glorious spot inside me, pleasure sparks and licks through my body like a
lightning bolt, and my spine arches and a cry falls out of my mouth. Jungkook
grins, nose scrunched up in concentration, and curls his fingers, hitting it
dead on. I sob, really falling face first onto the bed this time, as my body is
racked by convulsions of what seems like pure light and my hips reflexively
jerk back onto his fingers.
“F-fuck,” I hiss. Jungkook places a steadying hand on my back and fucks his
fingers in deeper, slowly learning how to hit it more accurately. “What is
that, Jungkook, what—ah!”
“Prostate,” he says shortly. “It’s called a prostate.” Then his teacher mode
seems to kick in, and his eyes glaze over as he quotes from somewhere, probably
WebMD. “The prostate is a walnut-sized gland located between the bladder and
the penis which secretes fluid that nourishes and protects sperm. During
ejaculation, the—”
“Jungkook,” I gasp.
“Hmm?”
“I’m sorry. But I don’t care.”
“Oh.” He seems to deflate a little.
“But I dothink showing me what it does would be a better way to teach me than
just telling me.”
He grins.
                                A Minute Later
“Are you sure I’m, I’m prepped?” I stammer, eyeing the hugeness standing
stiffly between his legs nervously. “Was, like, three fingers enough, or—”
“You’re nervous-talking,” he says patiently. “Quit. The nervous-talking.”
“Sorry, I...I get it from my mom.” But it doesn’t change the fact that Jungkook
is looming over me, supporting himself on his hands and knees, and I’m lying on
my back and trying to disappear, and his cock is hugeand it’s going to be
inside me in like 30 seconds. I’m on the verge of panic.
Something in the back of my head wonders whether the bigger his cock is, the
better it’ll feel inside me, but my dislike of new things far outweighs the
prospect of added pleasure.
“Hey.” He brushes the back of his hand down the side of my face. I lean into
his touch, closing my eyes. I’m embarrassing him. I’m being a nuisance. Any
minute now he’ll give up because I’m being such a pest…”Again, you don’t have
to do this if you don’t want to.” When I glance at his flushed, lube-slick,
fully erect cock, he pauses and adds, “Although I would very much like it if
you did. And you’ll be okay.”
“But what if I, like, tear or something?” I whisper fearfully. “Like...it’s
against nature, nothing’s supposed to go up there—”
For a second, I’m afraid he’s gonna get angry, but then he smiles patiently and
says, “Look, we were built for pleasure. Otherwise sex wouldn’t be pleasurable,
and men wouldn’t have prostates which can be stimulated and lead to orgasm. And
you won’t tear. It’s not like giving birth. I’ve fingered myself on no prep and
no lube at all before, and the only effect it had was that I couldn’t walk
properly for a few days after.”
My heart breaks a little, because he’s being so patient, so nice. He’s
explaining everything although it probably kills him to do so. “O-okay.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” He asks, brow furrowed in concern.
“It’s—it’s your virginity. And you’re only eighteen.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Hoseok lost his virginity when he was fourteen.”
“Yeah, but I’m two years older than you.”
“...to a twenty-year-old woman.”
“Oh.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” I take a deep breath, gripping his biceps firmly for
grounding. “You can do it. It’s okay.”
“Are you…” he sees the annoyed look on my face and cuts himself off. “Okay,
okay.” He positions himself, then says, “This...might hurt.”
I’m not going to describe what it feels like going in. I just squeeze my eyes
shut and pretend I’m somewhere else while I’m slowly stretched open, and I
hardly notice at all until Jungkook releases a heavy exhalation and I open my
eyes to find that his face is contorted in pleasure and his teeth are digging
into his lower lip, and he’s bottomed out. I can’t believe it. I didn’t know I
had the capacity. If he keeps still, I feel the sting around the rim most, and
I can’t really feel anything inside. I’m used to pain, I think.
He pulls out and eases back in, unable to withhold a sort of broken exhalation/
gasp. My immediate reaction to him sliding in is that I want it out, because,
well—isn’t that our immediate reaction to feeling full down there, usually? But
the sounds he’s making make it worth it, all the helpless gasps and the
occasional moan he tries to stifle. He looks like he’s falling apart, barely
holding himself together above me. So I stay put, letting him do what he wants
with me, because this is power. This is power, raw and demanding—as bizarre as
it sounds, having Jungkook take pleasure from my body makes me feel like I
matter. Like I’m important. Like I’m needed.
And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.
It takes a few experimental thrusts before he manages to grit out, “Okay? Does
it hurt?”
“Not really,” I say.
He looks down at me. “Wait a minute.”
“What?”
“Just...wait a minute.” He tries different speeds, different angles, but
nothing really happens. He catches my neutral expression and decides, catching
hold of my knees and hitching my legs up onto his shoulders. Then he snaps his
hips, forcing himself in deep and fast, and I scream, because I’m still
unaccustomed to the feeling of deriving pleasure from having something up my
ass being thrusted against like that, and that sounds like the worst,
cringiest, new-gay-virgin thing to say, but it's true.
He grins, bangs matted with sweat, and it should be gross but it isn’t. I’m
pulling him closer, suddenly forgetting all about how I wanted him out of me a
few moments ago. I just want ecstasy which comes in lightning strikes and not
rolling waves, pleasure which picks me up and throws me against the wall,
starbursts of white behind my eyelids and my heart going supernova.
He rolls his hips again, and I whimper when he hits it more accurately this
time. I realize that we’re actually having sex now. We’re not experimenting,
not exploring, not poking around, not prepping—we’re actually having sex, and
I’m losing my virginity, and I’m losing it to a man. I’m having something
inside me before being inside someone, which makes no sense, but it seems like
an epiphany to me.
What do you do when you’ve lived up to the quiet, unsaid expectations of
everyone who’s ever known you, the expectations which dictate that you’re
flawed, you’re sick, you’re intrinsically wrong? What do you do when you’re not
just living amongst the sin, you’re participating in it, encouraging it, taking
pleasure in it?
You lie back and try not to moan loud enough to wake the neighbors, and thank
whoever created Jungkook that they gave him good aim and made him well-endowed.
I yank him down, and he understands. It’s weird and it makes me literally fold
in half, my knees touching my own shoulders as well as his, but what’s the
point of flexibility if not for this? Our mouths meet in more a clash of
tongues and teeth and lips than a kiss, and it’s perfect. His tongue makes its
way into my mouth, dragging wetly over the mess of teeth and spit. I could cry
with how right this feels. How it feels to have a dream you haven’t even been
letting yourself dream come true in the best way possible.
His hand slips into the space between our bodies, brushing briefly over my abs
before curling around my cock. I cry out into his mouth when he starts jerking
me off with quick, sharp tugs in time with his thrusts, hand slipping with
precum. He eventually breaks away and just leans his forehead against mine,
still getting me off, because we’re too sweaty and he’s panting too hard and
I’m moaning too much to even bother with trying to have a proper kiss.
“It’s my first time,” he mutters into the space between our lips, filled with
hot breath and desperate, unintelligible groans. “My first time with a guy.”
“It doesn’t feel like it,” I say with some effort, managing to cobble together
a coherent sentence out of the wreck of my voice, and he smiles shyly for a
moment before his thumb brushes over my slit and I clench around him and he
lets out a sharp gasp.
“I like you,” I blurt out.
He doesn’t pause what he’s doing, but he stares at me, weighing my words. Then
he smirks his customary smirk. “A bit late for that, don’t you think?” He
tightens his grip, and my back arches off the bed.
“Jungkook,” I stutter out. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” His smile slides off. “I like you too. If it…” His smirk returns. “If
it wasn’t obvious already.”
“Okay,” I say stupidly, blushing, because did I just make the first confession
of my life?“Um. That’s good.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Just...shut up, okay? Before you say something
embarrassing.”
I whine and clench around him purposefully, relishing the way his face slackens
and he grunts, but I know he’s just teasing. “You shut up.”
He smiles fondly, and the next kiss is surprisingly sweet, surprisingly chaste.
There isn’t even a single tongue involved. Just lips, moving slowly and
unhurriedly for once, eyes closed and tentative hearts spreading their wings.
I murmur his name into the space between our lips, and he smiles widely like
it’s the best thing he’d ever heard. He murmurs something back, and I don’t
even mind that I can’t hear it, because it feels right pressed against my lips
like that.
I forget where I am, what I’m doing except kissing him. I don’t worry that I
came too early when the tightening in my stomach becomes too much and I splash
streaks of white over his hand and our stomachs. I feel myself clenching around
him, and he tries to hold it back, but it doesn’t work: a small sob slips into
my mouth like a pearl, an admonishment of him giving up in the best way
possible, and a rush of warmth inside me and a few flicks of his wrist later,
he’s pulled out and we’re lying next to each other on the bed. I reach out for
him, feeling for the warmth of his body, and he pulls me against his chest.
We’re sated, happy. The wild galloping of my heart is gradually slowing down.
He presses his lips to the top of my head, and I snuggle closer to him,
thinking that this is true intimacy: breathing a person’s smell in and falling
asleep wrapped up in him. To know that there’s finally someone who accepts me.
To know that for now, we are truly one flesh.
I rest my ear against his chest and listen to his heart slow down, thudding
against my ear. His chest rises and falls slowly. A hand comes up and strokes
my hair absentmindedly.
“Jimin,” he says softly, voice low and husky. “You’re gay.”
I close my eyes for a long time, then open them. “Yes.” It’s quiet, but it’s
there.
He doesn’t say anything. His hand moves through my hair gently, strands sliding
smoothly between his fingers.
“I...thank you,” I say finally, after a long moment. “For showing me that.”
He presses another kiss to my hair by way of answer. His hand cards through my
hair.
I close my eyes.
***** No Feelings Guaranteed *****
Chapter Summary
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Chapter Notes
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The first thing I think when I wake up is not mine.
I turn my head aside into a pillow which seems a little too soft to be my own,
rubbing my nose into the pillowcase. Someone else’s smell. Someone else’s
scent, wafting through the air every time I shift and the blankets rustle,
laying in wait to rush into my nose in the creases of the sheets, embedded too
deep in the bed to get rid of.
The most inherent, basic way of marking something as your own: with scent. Of
marking someoneas your own.
Me.
I jolt upright, eyes wide, looking around the room. It’s not mine. It doesn’t
have my cluttered desk, my carelessly strewn piles of clothes, my silly star-
covered blanket. It’s tidy, clean, the curtains drawn back and the sheets no-
nonsense white. The bed is a queen bed, two pillows to my own bed’s one. It
looks like my mom’s bedroom. It’s an adult’sbedroom, not a teenager’s.
Not mine.
My hands fly to my chest, patting myself down in disbelief. I’m naked. I’m not
wearing anything and sitting up in a strange, unknown bed. The situation is so
discordant and unusual that my brain short-circuits, the singular purpose of
getting myself out of it shining bright in my mind and overriding all other
distress and panic.
I scramble out of bed, wrapping the blanket around me like a cocoon just in
case whoever owns this bed decides to pop in, and speed-waddle to a dark wood
closet. I almost try to swing it open the way my own closet does before I
realize it’s not my own closet, and it has a sliding door. I actually let out a
panicked sob, wrenching the door open and wincing at the sharp, cracking thud
it makes when it slams into the other side.
What I see inside are not my clothes. Dress shirts and dark trousers have been
hung in one side, coats and slacks and sensible, toned down, dark colors. It
all looks so professional. It’s nice, but it’s not what I’m looking for. The
other side is creepily uniform. White shirts and blue jeans, a pair of scuffed
Timberlands and a pile of dark beanies on a shelf above it. It has such a
chilling effect that I stand stock still. What strikes me the most is how
familiar the whole wardrobe is, but I can’t place it. It’s frightening, how I’m
missing a huge chunk of memory which my mind is screaming at me is fundamental
to escaping my current situation. I eventually shake my head and rummage
through the identical white shirts, roughly 20 of them (who has 20 white
shirts? my mind screams, not helping me at all. It’s doing the equivalent of
that scene in the cartoon where all the little Spongebobs in Spongebob’s head
go crazy and start throwing up papers and burning them. I chuckle deliriously
at the image. Serial killers, that’s who! Serial killers who need a new white
shirt for every time they kill someone and they get blood on the current white
shirt!).
Suddenly, a jarring stab of familiarity pierces my eyes. I slowly push the
shirts aside and reach in, drawing out a neatly folded pile. A hoodie, shorts,
and even slightly worn blue boxers with embarrassing red hearts printed on
them, completely out of tune with the other clothes in the closet. And the
reason behind that is that they’re my clothes.
A serial killer stripped me and folded my clothes in a pile in his creepy
closet which obviously indicates mental illness!
It’s almost too much for me. My knees buckle and the blanket pools around my
ankles as I let it drop, sagging against the closet. It takes a moment later
for me to steel myself, get my shit together (at least for now), and throw my
clothes on. At least they don’t smell like the bed, like the closet, like
someone who is not me.
I tiptoe out the door and down the hall, in the direction my instincts are
telling me the front door is. I suddenly realize that disconcertingly, I know
where everything is; the bathroom, the bedrooms, the kitchen—which I’ll have to
pass through on my way to the front door. I sneak as fast as I can to the
kitchen door, which is slightly ajar, and freeze when I smell sizzling bacon in
a pan.
There’s a shirtless man in the kitchen, head lowered, with a messy black
bedhead and broad shoulders, black boxers slung low on narrow hips. His thick
thighs strain ridiculously against them. I ogle his ass for a while before I
suck in a sharp breath, realizing that this is the serial killer. And you under
no circumstances ogle a serial killer’s ass.
The muscles in Hot Serial Killer’s back flex as he lifts the pan, tossing the
bacon. The tantalizing smell wafts over to me, and my stomach rumbles
embarrassingly loudly. I dart hastily back behind the doorframe, but Hot Serial
Killer has already spun around, too fast for me. I catch sight of his face as
my legs reflexively carry me through the kitchen, sprinting for the other
doorway, a last, desperate attempt to run, and my mind makes the connection.
It’s Jungkook.
What the fuck—?!
A split second later, an arm ropes around my waist, forcing me to a jerking
halt. Jungkook’s bicep flexes against my chest. “Jimin, what are you doing? Why
are you running?” His voice is rough from sleep, confused. My heart wails for
mercy as a tuft of mussed black hair falls into his eyes. “Don’t leave yet. I
made us breakfast.”
“B-breakfast, Mr. Jeon?” I stammer. I see his eyebrows draw together in
confusion at Mr. Jeon. “Why?”
He stares at me like I’m an idiot.
And it all comes rushing back to me. Running my hands over his body, biting his
lips, moans in the dark. His mouth on me, his breath on my skin, him insideme.
Holy shit.
“We had sex?”  I scream.
“What, shh…” He glances out the window, an expression of panic crossing his
face. “Don’t scream it out to the neighbors, I live in a quiet neighborhood and
sound carries—”
“We had sex!” I yell. “Oh my God, we had sex!” My brain has had a blackout, a
power outage, and this is all that’s registering.
“Yes, we did, okay? Now could you just—”
No, I will not just! We had sex!” I shout.
“Okay!” He shouts back.
“Oh my God,” I mumble, and I crumple to the floor, curling into a ball,
Jungkook’s arm sliding off me. He stands over me and looks down, perplexed. “Oh
my God. I’m not a virgin anymore. I’m a minor. We’ve probably violated a
million laws.”
He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Um, yeah. About that.”
I look up and wait for him to rip his face off and turn into that monster from
Predator, because my day honestly could not get any weirder.
He takes his time, selecting two plates from the rack and forking the eggs and
bacon onto them. He places forks and knives on them and sets them down on the
table. Methodical and careful, except that he’s only wearing boxers.
“Why are you wearing boxers?” I ask, pulling myself up with the counter and
sitting down at the table, unable to resist the lure of eggs and bacon.
“Because I like wearing boxers.” He raises an eyebrow at me, like this is some
inherent logic only an idiot wouldn’t understand. I dutifully shut up, sitting
obediently while he slides my plate in front of me.
“Eat up,” he orders.
How do I refuse a voice like that? I pick up my fork and try not to shovel the
food tooquickly in my mouth. “What about that?” I ask.
He sits down across from me after pulling a different, mismatched stool from
the counter to the table. He’s used to eating alone, my mind chirps helpfully.
That’s why he only has one chair at the table. The one you’re sitting on.
It makes him taller than me, serving to make me feel even more like a child. He
doesn’t eat, instead opting to steeple his fingers. He sighs heavily.
That’s never a good sign.
“Jimin,” he says gravely. He leans forward, and I try not be too distracted by
the mouthwatering sight of his biceps flexing and his abs tensing. I slowly
push a rasher of bacon into my mouth, eyes glued to him in rapt attention.
“Jimin,” he begins again. “You have to know that—that this can’t continue.”
I freeze.
“I’m...a teacher, and we should have maintained a professional relationship
from the beginning,” he goes on uncomfortably. “I treated you, a minor,
inappropriately when I should have demonstrated more restraint. I know it’s
probably too late to fix this, but...this can’t go on.”
My head is reeling. I just found out I had sex with my teacher, and if my
memory is to be trusted, it was the best fucking half hour of my life. And now
the same teacher is telling me we can’t have sex anymore. In his boxers. As if
he’s deliberately mocking me, like you had this body for one night. Now you can
look all you want, but you aren’t having it anymore.
Never again.
“But…” I stammer pathetically, my heart feeling like it’s slowly being crushed.
“But...you said...you didn’t care. Right? You wanted to make it work. We can—we
can hide it. You’re only two years older than me.”
He stares at me, gaze measured, and I hate our situation suddenly, hate that
he’s in a position to look at me like that. Like I’m too young to understand.
Like I haven’t been dealt enough of life and experience to make my own decision
on this. Like he’s the adult, and I’m the child, when I know he’s human too,
know it by how he clung to me and begged me not to go last night. By how he
wants a body next to him all the same, wants someone to hold all the same,
wants  that warmth in his chest all the same.
I wonder what happened to him to make him distance himself like this.
“Are you shitting me?” I say softly. “Are you being serious? That was just a
one night stand to you?”
He finally drops his gaze, looking at the table. “It wasn’t a one night stand,”
he says, voice strained, “because it never should have happened. It wasn’t
anything. It was a mistake.”
I stand up, the chair legs screeching on the floor. He winces. “A mistake?” I
yell. “A mistake? You’re honestly telling me that after we fucked for half an
hour? After I fell asleep with you holding me? After you let me believe that
you feel the same way I do about you?”
He swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“No,” I spit. “Sorry doesn’t cut it.”
I turn and make to leave.
“Jimin,” he calls after me, and his voice is desperate. “Stop. Don’t leave.”
“I am not staying here and letting you call—call me a m-mistake.” I want to say
us. But there is no us. My voice cracked before I could say it, and I blink at
the tears pricking at my eyes, at the painful thickness in my throat. I look
around blindly for my backpack, remembering that it’s up in the spare bedroom
and gritting my teeth at my stupidity. I’ll have to leave without it.
The chair legs scrape against the floor as he stands up. “At least let me drive
you home,” he pleads. “Please. It’s too far to walk.”
“Now you care what happens to me?” I turn on him. “Now you care what happens to
me, when you don’t give a shit about how I feel?” My voice hiccups. It’s
awfully pathetic. “Well, news flash, it doesn’t work that way! You don’t sleep
with someone and then tell them they were a mistake and then offer to drive
them home! You don’t getto—”
But my words are lost in the ringing of his phone, vibrating insistently on the
table.
Our heads snap towards it. It inches closer to the edge, and Jungkook snatches
it just before it falls.
He looks down at the screen, then back up at me. “It's your mom.”
I offer him nothing.
He slides his finger across the screen and taps the button for loudspeaker
slowly. “Hello?”
“Jimin?” She shrills. “Jimin, are you there?”
I grit my teeth, her voice instantly abrasive to my already irritated state.
“Yes.”
“What are you doing? Are you free? Have you had breakfast?”
“I've had breakfast, mom—”
“I'm coming to pick you up now. I hope you sent me the right address.”
I texted her before the movie, before the dress, before Jungkook...I exhale
slowly. “Okay.”
“Get your things.”
“Okay.”
“I'm coming!”
“Yeah.”
Jungkook hangs up.
We look at each other.
I swallow and turn robotically around. “I don't want to continue the tutoring
lessons.”
“I think that would be for the best.” His words ring with finality.
I run up the stairs and try not to cry.
~
I stare at the small, red letter inked in the corner of the top page. It's only
five letters away from the one I want, but it's so much more devastating.
In Jungkook’s neat, careful hand is printed a tiny red F. It seems to radiate
his disapproval and disappointment through the page.
This is the third test I've failed in a month. I'm in for it now.
As expected, after I've stood up and shouldered my hurriedly packed bag once
the bell rings, Jungkook’s deep, breathy voice calls, “Jimin, don’t go just
get.”
I slowly sit back down. I study my desk, chipped and gouged from me picking at
it with my nails while Jungkook was teaching. I didn't want to listen to him
talk and teach normally, like he hadn't come into my life and made me realize a
part of myself I had always hated and tried to ignore, then stepped back out of
it and kicked dust over it.
Like he hadn't told me I was a mistake and then proceeded to drive me home in
silence when my mother failed to show up, the awkwardness and tension so thick
in the air I could have sliced it with a knife and served it for dinner.
When Jungkook's polished, sensible black loafers come into view, I stand up and
move to another table, sitting on the desk.
I don't want to be that close to him.
I look up, and his eyes are wounded, making my own heart stumble. But I push it
down and look away, keeping my face still as stone. It isn't hard these days to
numb myself.
He doesn't come closer, instead sitting down on my desk and seeming to sag. He
twists his hands in his lap.
“I don't want what happened between us to jeopardize your grades,” he begins,
voice loud and echoing in the quiet room.
I don't say anything. He thinks this is for him? It isn't. It's because there's
no point making an effort and feigning interest in a class which only ever drew
my attention because of the man standing in the front of the classroom.
“And...you're failing this class,” he says. “You're not doing well. I don't
want to have to push you into tutoring lessons again, and we both know why. So
that means you have to improve your grades by your own efforts.”
I stare at the wall. The silence stretches on for a number of minutes,
intolerable and clearly agonizing for Jungkook. I'm used to it. I draw it
around me like a cloak and let myself fade.
Jungkook isn't having any of it. After interminable minutes have been lost to
the desert of awkwardness, he bursts out in frustration, “Is this an attention
thing? Are you failing this class on purpose so I'll have to keep coming back
to you?”
I turn my dead gaze on him. “No,” I say, my voice a quiet, hoarse whisper from
disuse. “It's because I have no shits left to give.”
“Okay, think of it this way.” He almost glares at me, like this is some kind of
competition. He's wearing a dark blue dress shirt and fitted black trousers
today, I notice. They silhouette his body perfectly. “You fail this class, you
have to take it again. You have to see me over and over for years. So just pass
the class! That's all you need to do!”
“It's not my fault you teach the most fucking boring subject in the history of
school.”
“In my defense, bullshit, that's math.” I'm a little surprised. It's the first
time he's sworn in front of me. He must really hate math. “Second, everyclass
is the most fucking boring subject if you don't put in an effort!”
The swear words sound so natural on his tongue, sliding off dirty and dark. I
wonder what else would.
"Why bother?" I stare disinterestedly at him. It's the longest conversation
I've had with anyone since The Incident.
“It would be so much easier for everyone if you just passed. How hard is
passing? Even if you’d studied for literally five minutes you would have
passed…” He runs his hand through his hair in distress, and I realize that he
actually cares. “Do you have no motivation at all?”
“No, actually.” I inspect my nails.
“Okay, what about every A grade is a...I don’t know, a homework assignment you
don’t need to do.” He glares at me. “Not that you do them anyway.”
“Exactly.”
“What do you want?” He looks so frustrated.
“I don’t want anything from you. Not anymore.”
His eyes slide over to me slowly. “Wait…”
I look at him impassively. After he’s stared at me for five minutes and
successfully creeped me out, I say reluctantly, like an admission of defeat,
“What?”
He comes slowly closer. I shift uneasily and move to get up again, but he moves
so close that there’s no way out except overthe table and off the other side,
and I don’t want to show that I care so much that I would be willing to leap
over a desk to get away from him. So I stay where I am, leaning back awkwardly
as he leans in.
“I know what you want,” he says, a small smile dancing around his lips.
“No, you don’t. I don’t want anything. Just to not have to care about fucking
Science. So move, will you—”
He places his large hands on my knees, and I freeze, shutting up immediately.
“I know what you want,” he repeats.
“Stop,” I saw, squirming. He slides his hand up my thigh, and I gasp as
something dark leaps in my stomach, and I hate it, hate that he still makes me
feel this way. “What are you doing, get away—” I push at his chest, my fingers
slipping over the thin material covering his warm skin. I don’t want to pull
them away.
“I’m giving you a taste,” he breathes across my lips, that’s how close he is,
“of your reward every time you get an A grade. And if you don’t get any A
grades...well, I don’t suppose there’s anything that can be done about that.”
“What reward? What—” It clicks.
Holy shit.
I falter, then lash out, “But you were going on about how our relationship is
illegal and shit! What happened to “inappropriate treatment” of a minor and how
we should have maintained a professional relationship and all that—”
“Your grades are more important than the law,” he says smoothly.
“What the fuck? Who the fuck says that?”
“Me. Now shut up.”
“No, I—”
He takes my chin and kisses me roughly.
And I shut up. Because I forgot how it felt like, how it felt to be kissed like
I mattered, like someone’s life depended on it, with Jungkook’s body moving
between my legs and his hips pressed against my inner thighs. I pull him closer
by his shirtfront, nearly moaning when he leans further into me. Our chests are
pressed to each other and our lips are moving as fervently as if they’d never
stopped, and it’s so hot and fast and I think I could just let him fuck me
right here on the table.
And then I remember this can’t continue, I shouldn’t have, you’re a mistake. I
remember crying alone on the bathroom floor and feeling like I was carrying the
weight of the world on my shoulders, and hating myself because this was all my
own fault, falling for him was my own fault. It’s a stupid teacher crush, and
I’ve let it grow and magnify until it seems like so much more.
I don’t want to let him hurt me anymore.
I shove him away. My hands slip on his shirtfront and my body is shaking with
how hard it is to turn my head away, away from his lips, searching, seeking,
wanting, but he stumbles away all the same, catching the edge of the table for
balance.
“What’s wrong?” He looks confused, and his hair is mussed, his eyes bright and
his skin flushed. He’s so beautiful I barely restrain myself from flinging
myself bodily at him and pulling him down and begging him to have his way with
me.
“No!” I find myself yelling. “Don’t you darekiss me after what you said!”
“I—”
“This can’t happen,” I say, trembling. “This doesn’t happen! You said it
yourself!”
“If you hate me so much,” he says softly, “then this doesn’t have to mean
anything. Just think of it as a business transaction. Sex for a good grade.”
I gape at him. “I don’t want sex.”
“I think you do, actually.” He steps closer again, and he tips my chin up, my
lips so close to his I achefor him. “So how does this sound? You get an A, you
get sex. Hmm?”
His voice is velvety, seductive, filled with a suggestion too strong for me to
resist.
My mouth is dry. “No feelings? No turn-downs?”
“No.” I physically feel his eyes slipping down my face and resting on my lips,
light as a feather but heavy with implication. “No feelings.”
Deep down, I know what I feel for him is more than lust. That reducing our
relationship to this, fucking on a table every time I get a good grade on a
test, is worse than not having any at all.
But we humans take what we can have.
I loop my arms around his neck and pull him close. He smiles against my mouth
when our lips meet, and I tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling as hard as I
can, because who knows if this is the last time I’ll get to do it?
His hair is just as soft as I remember. My heart beats just as fast when he
trails his fingers over my windpipe, kissing me softly and slowly with his eyes
closed as if this means something.
He pushes me into the table, spreading my legs wider every time he nudges
closer. At the moment I let him slip his tongue into my mouth, our crotches rub
against each other and my stomach wrenches at the friction. I give his hair an
especially hard yank, and he groans into my mouth. His hand kneads my thigh,
long fingers sinking into my flesh, and then all of a sudden his hands have
slipped underneath my knees and he’s pulling our bodies flush against each
other.
Our hips collide, the impact and friction sweetly addicting, and everything
changes with that single action. My lip stings when teeth clamp down onto it,
but I don’t care. It’s worth it for the darker than dark pleasure which blooms
in my stomach at the pain.
I’ve never been this aroused in my life.
Jungkook’s fingers undo my zipper, pulling my jeans down my legs. I thank
whatever higher powers that exist that I didn’t choose to wear skinny jeans
today.
I curse my small hands when they fumble at his slacks. His mouth opens in a
silent gasp when my fingers brush the hardness straining against the front of
his trousers, and I feel his cock twitch against my hand through two layers of
cloth and cotton.
Oh.
He laughs softly when I growl in frustration, batting my hands gently aside to
pull the zip down himself. I catch a glimpse of black boxers.
He’s alwaysfucking wearing black boxers.
I struggle valiantly with the buttons of his shirt until I can rip them off his
shoulders and it falls to the floor. I almost feel bad about getting it dirty
until Jungkook rubs his bare chest against my shirtless one like a cat. My
already frazzled mind short-circuits.
He flips me around so my butt is pressed to the dip of his crotch, attaching
his lips to my neck and sucking. I moan desperately, grinding my hips back and
trying to touch him, but he catches my wrists and pins them to the table.
I whine. “I wanna touch you!” I pull at my wrists. “Let me go!”
“Maybe when you get an A,” he suggests sweetly, doing something sinful to my
neck with his tongue.
“But—”
“Hush.” His fingers curl around my wrists as he nips at my skin chidingly. “I
still have time to change my mind and deem this arrangement inappropriate, you
know.”
I shut up.
I hear the rustle as he tugs his boxers down, and I think longingly of the
waistband digging into his thick thighs, wishing I could see them, wishing I
could touch them and squeeze them. His lashes flutter against my jaw as he
works his way down my neck.
“Wait—lube,” I gasp out.
“Ah.” He looks around, and I hear the whispering of satin before a length of
cool cloth slips over my eyes. I blink frantically and look around,
disorientated now my sight has been taken away.
“Jungkook?” I say uncertainly when his fingers tying a knot at the back of my
head and the warmth behind me and encircling my wrists leave. “What did you
do?”
“I’m getting lube.” I hear his desk drawer open.
“So why can’t I see?”
“I don’t want you to.” The desk drawer closes and his heels tap against the
floor as he walks back. I realize for the first time how much more amplified my
sensitivity to hearing and touch is without my sight. The desk feels like it
stretches on for miles beneath my fingertips, and my head turns at the tiniest
sound. I feel defenseless and vulnerable bent over the desk like this, feeling
a bit of a fool.
I reach up to touch the satin binding my eyes. It feels as if it narrows as my
hand moves to the left of my head. “Is this...your tie?”
“Yes.” I almost sigh in relief when his familiar warmth presses against my back
again. “Actually, I think I’ll leave the blindfold on.” His hands hold my
wrists down again. “I like it.”
“No sight ortouch?” I ask hopelessly.
“No. But maybe next time.” He leans down to breathe the words into my ear. “If
there is a next time. It’s all up to you, Jimin.”
I hear the click of what I presume to be the lube bottle opening, and something
cold is smeared against me. I whimper as his fingers run over my opening,
hating how much I want this and loving it a little bit too.
And then his finger slips inside, probing at me, and when he finds my sweet
spot in a record five seconds and my cry rings throughout the classroom, I
can’t believe he still remembers.
“So tight.” He laughs softly. “You haven’t even touched yourself.”
“No,” I force out. “I’m a g-good boy.”
“A good boy who lets his teacher finger him in his classroom?”
I bite my lip.
A few minutes later, Jungkook is three fingers in, and I’m pushing my hips back
against him, soft moans filling the classroom. Jungkook scissors his fingers
one last time and then pulls them out. I feel strange and empty.
He pushes in.
My mind goes blank for a while, but when I come to Jungkook’s hips are snapping
into mine and pleasure is crackling through my body in shocks. My cock drips
precum onto the desk, smearing over Jungkook’s hand when he tugs at my length
with quick, precise pulls. It’s too much. Of course it’s too much. My body
isn’t used to taking pleasure, and my orgasm is approaching far too fast to not
be embarrassing.
Jungkook doesn’t seem to care. He mouths at every available patch of skin he
can reach, my ears and my neck and my shoulder, and the combination of him
inside me and around me and on me is too much.
I squeeze my eyes shut, teetering on what I always imagine to be the very peak
of a tall, tall spire where I could go either way: fall backwards into
mundanity or plummet forward into release.
My foot slips. And I plunge into the void of white light, of pleasure whirling
and dancing and screaming through my unused body, ecstasy so bright and
beautiful it’s incomprehensible. The relief is so immense it’s nearly equal to
the release.
I muffle my pathetic, whimpering moans on my arm, feeling my skin break and not
caring when Jungkook bites down hard on my shoulder. He groans as warmth rushes
into me and his hips jerk, forcing himself as deep as he can go.
And then he turns me around, kissing me hard, more us panting into each other’s
mouths and our lips colliding bruisingly than a kiss. Our softening cocks rub
against each other as he pulls me closer. His hand is sticky.
It’s really gross and disgusting and I feel like I could use a shower or ten.
But it’s amazing, it’s mind-numbingly amazing, and even if I know it isn’t
perfect and probably never will be, I’m grateful for what I have.
Jungkook licks over the bite mark on my shoulder until my blood has stopped
trickling. “Think about that A, okay?” he breathes as I mouth fervently at his
neck. “Then maybe this won’t be the last time.”
I say nothing, sucking harder on his Adam’s apple.
~
I don’t have to be told the next time. I studied the entire night, so late that
I could barely stay awake through the test, but when I receive the paper graded
with an A, I have to stop myself from dancing in excitement.
I stay back after class in a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. Jungkook
takes his time, collecting the papers he instructed the students to leave on
the desks, purposely leaving mine for last. He raises his eyebrow at the A, as
if he didn’t already know.
“An A, I see,” he says.
“Yes,” I say nervously.
“I suppose a reward is in order?” He puts my test in the pile of papers and
sets it on another table.
“Y-yes?”
He smiles.
And he sits in my lap.
He sits in my lap.
He swings his long legs over my body and sinks down, straddling my legs, the
movement graceful and fluid and coordinated, and the weight of him on my thighs
is reassuring and nerve-wracking at the same time. His hands come up to cradle
my face.
“I see our arrangement is working, then?” He adjusts his hips. I shudder.
“Maybe.” I look at him hopefully. “I studied this time.”
“Progress.” He cups my cheek, stroking his thumb over it. I part my lips,
waiting for a kiss. He complies, leaning down to press his mouth to mine, and I
wonder how long we’ll be able to kiss softly and gently like this.
The answer is: not long.
He lets me touch him this time. My hands flutter nervously over his body,
dealing glancing, hesitant but eager touches to his biceps and stomach and
thighs. The backs of my hands brush over his nipples, and there’s a brief
second while it occurs to me how sensitive his are before he growls and his
teeth sink into my lip reflexively. I welcome the delicious pain, welcome the
sting I have inversely come to associate with pleasure, and let him force his
tongue into my mouth.
It’s too much for him when he shrugs off his shirt and I immediately start
sucking on his nipples, enjoying the way he writhes and moans below me while
his nipples harden beneath my tongue. He ends up taking me against the
classroom door, rushed and hurried and desperate, lips seeking and teeth biting
and hands roaming.
I cum hard onto our stomachs, my scream distant to my ears, and consider how
much our relationship has depreciated.
Because, in a way, it’s more than what we had...but it’s hardly anything too.
~
I miraculously become a stellar student, and in the space of two months,
Jungkook manages to fuck me on every available surface in his classroom: on his
desk, against the wall, against the window where everyone could see me if they
looked up. It’s always rushed, quick for fear of being caught, and it’s
arousing but saddening too. I wish that for once, not all of our meetings would
feel like one night stands, insignificant and meaningless, affectionless.
But they are, really. I just don’t want to accept it.
I stagger home from school exhausted, sated with pleasure but tired enough to
sleep forever too, and fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow, my body
a map of bite marks and bruises. I never pay attention to anything except
tests, when I study all night long no matter how hard and rough Jungkook fucked
me that day.
My mom is worried. I tell her I’m going to the gym. She thinks I’m overdoing
it.
I don’t ever talk to Jungkook about what was between us before this
arrangement. We don’t really talk, period. I just get an A and he fucks me and
I cum so hard I feel like I won’t have any left to cum ever again.
That’s it.
And I hate it.
I hate it so much.
Chapter End Notes
     Now imagine me in that scene from Suicide Squad where the Joker is
     lying in a circle of guns and knives and baby clothes and cackling,
     but instead of guns and knives and baby clothes it's Jungkook
     merchandise.
     That.
     That is where I am right now.
***** Freshman, Fresh Start *****
Chapter Notes
     I know there's lots of change in this chapter. Try to keep track of
     things.
     With love,
     Author-nim
See the end of the chapter for more notes
What do you think about me?
I don’t know what you think about me
I know I’m weird but does that have to matter
In the grand scheme of things does that honestly have to matter?
 
I doodle in my Math notebook, the margins already filled with a black mass of
words. My fingers have been itchy and jumpy all week. I’ve been yearning to
draw, aching to draw, but I don’t have my sketchbook and I refuse to draw
anywhere else except if it’s a doodle. So now I’m reduced to writing shitty
song lyrics when I know my hands weren’t created for writing, they were created
for drawing, the worship of life, of art, of being.
My sketchbook is still in Jungkook’s house. I don’t know what he does with it.
I don’t even know if he knows my bag is still there, filled with my school
stuff like my pencil case and markers and pens, but most importantly, my
sketchbook.
I should ask him for it. But I don’t really have the courage to talk to him. I
know how ridiculous it sounds, that we fuck every time I get back a test, and,
recently, quizzes—we’ll take any excuse—but it’s hard to ask about a sketchbook
when I’m being shoved into a wall with a mouth sucking at my throat.
We never talk.
Sometimes I consider asking him to cut things off, that I can pass his course
without his special brand of motivation. Because sometimes the lack of intimacy
is too much for me. We fuck more than ever, but we don’t kiss for no reason, we
don’t talk about mundane things, we don’t do couple things like hold hands
during sex or give each other soft looks or whatever the fuck. And I know it’s
stupid, wishing for these things, because our relationship is just sex. We’re
basically just sex buddies. It’s pathetic and sad and useless to want more.
But did telling anyone that a relationship is pathetic and sad and useless ever
stop them?
The main problem is that Jungkook is great at sex, he’s a fucking god, and I
can’t bring myself to give up a great orgasm every week just because my stupid
heart skips a beat every time I see him smile and I know he doesn’t care about
me beyond wanting my body. I can’t bring myself to tell him that this has to
stop, because it’s hurting me, it’s making me feel hollow and empty, like a
coconut shell scraped clean of its flesh.
But I can’t. Because sometimes it’s worth bearing the ache for affection for
the way he kisses me sometimes, softly and gently, holding my face like I’m
something precious. Like I’m something fragile, something which can be broken.
Like I’m not broken already.
~
I don’t understand why Jungkook asks me to stay back after class today. We
haven’t had a test or even a quiz recently. But I stay anyway, leg jiggling up
and down nervously, and wonder what he has to say to me this time.
Jungkook sits on the desk opposite from me. “There’s something I have to tell
you.”
Oh, great. My mind says in a monotone. This again. The imaginary Jimin in my
head shakes his orange bangs out of his eyes and stands by the wall, hand
poised over the emergency button. Stations ready, officer!he yells.
Jungkook takes a deep breath. “I’m leaving.”
Imaginary Jimin whacks the button with gusto, screeching with glee and running
in circles. He collapses on the floor and makes imaginary snow angels as my
heart rate picks up in panic and my mind whirls with confusion. “What?”
He sighs. “I’m leaving Busan. I’m going to a university. This is a great
opportunity for me, and I can’t turn it down.”
“You’re leaving me,” I say dumbly, hardly hearing myself over the crackling of
burning documents in my mind and the sound of my heart tearing itself to
shreds. He just keepsfinding more and more ways to hurt me.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice distant as Imaginary Jimin’s laughter increases
hysterically in pitch. “But it’s necessary.”
He takes my hands. My heart stumbles and wheezes, hands on its knees,
complaining that it’s too old at its ripe old age of 18 years for this shit as
Jungkook rubs his thumbs over my knuckles. “Please understand,” he pleads.
“It’s fine,” I say, lost and sweating nervously at the feeling of his fingers
wrapped around mine, his thumb running over the back of my hand. Why couldn’t
he decide to break out the boyfriend shit beforehe told me he was leaving?
“When—when are you leaving?”
“I leave this weekend.”
I choke, doubling over and coughing. “What?” I gasp.
“I know I should have told you sooner,” he says uncomfortably. He actually
sounds like he regrets it. “But I’ve only known for a week. I should have told
you immediately, but I kept putting it off.”
“Today’s Friday,” I say in disbelief.
“Yes.” He looks at me sadly. As if this isn’t all his fault.
“So this is goodbye?” The shock isn’t hitting me yet. I couldn’t be this calm,
this numb. Later I’ll be distraught.
“I think so.” He slowly slides off his desk and opens his arms. “I’m...sorry. I
really am.”
I hop off my desk ungracefully and barrel into his arms, throwing my own around
him and squeezing. I bury my face in his chest and try to memorize his smell,
his smell which puts me at peace and sets me on edge at the same time. It
occurs belatedly to me that this is the first time we’ve really hugged for the
sake of hugging. We’ve kissed, we’ve fucked, but we’ve never hugged.
I’ve been told before that I’m extremely huggable. I’m grateful for it as
Jungkook squeezes back, patting my back and letting me rest my head on his
shoulder. He kisses me on the cheek as we pull back. Not on the lips.
The lack of sexuality is reassuring after so much of it. Finally, we have
intimacy.
Finally, when he’s leaving.
“You still have my number, right?” he says falteringly, as if I would delete it
and didn’t randomly unlock my phone and stare at it under the table during
Math, wishing I could call him and tell him everything about my messed-up
feelings for him. How I feel like we’re connected, but our relationship’s
become like tangled fishing line: useless and headed in the wrong direction.
“Yes,” I say in a small voice.
“I’ll call you.” He takes my hands and grips them tight like he doesn’t want to
let go. “Or...or you could call me.”
“Okay.” I nod furiously, hoping four isn’t too many nods, isn’t too desperate.
“I’ll see you again.” He hesitates.
There it is. The void. The abyss. The canyon which yawns between us and begs to
be filled with those three words. I love you . Those words I know neither of us
feel are merited by our relationship which metastasized like cancer rather than
blossomed and then came to an abrupt, screeching stop. The messy, ragged
incision of an inexperienced surgeon. I can see the lopsided and uneven row of
stitches which we’ll call healing and recovery already.
“I’ll see you,” I repeat after him, after too long has passed and we are both
painfully aware of what has not been said.
He lets go of my hands slowly, slowly. I reel, feeling unsteady and untethered
and unmoored without him, too light and dreading with the knowledge that what
if this is the last time I’ll ever touch him?
This isn’t enough. This will never be enough. But I have to take it and be
quiet, because it would only make the separation grislier and more painful if I
said anything more.
I am choking. Choking on the air, heavy and clogged with words unsaid. Choking
on my tongue, screaming at me to just let it speak . Choking on my cowardice
and my inability to stand up for myself after so fucking long.
“I’m sorry,” he says for the thousandth time. His face is reluctant. Resigned.
I turn and run out of the room. There are more graceful and more controlled
last impressions to leave Jungkook with, but who cares if I’m never going to
see the man I love again and I can’t even say it?
~
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
I stare at the desk. It’s the only way I have to keep myself from falling
apart, now when all my worries have come to a boiling point and my demons are
screaming at me that they were right all along.
“Jimin, I asked you a question.”
I look up at the bitter old face of the headmistress, severe cheekbones
protruding and her tight gray bun pulling at her hairline. Tiny oval glasses
are perched on the end of her nose, and a string of pearls have been clasped
around her wrinkled, unevenly powdered neck. She doesn’t glare at me. She just
looks disgusted.
“Yes,” I say in a whisper, just to buy time. “I know.”
“Don’t be insolent, young man!”
“I’m not trying to be.” I dig my fingernails into my palms.
“You know the rules. Teacher-student relationships in the manner reported by my
informant, especiallybetween two men, are absolutely forbidden.”
Strangely, my mind is completely quiet, eerily calm. Everyone seems to have
given up since Jungkook left a month ago.
“I don’t understand why you have a problem with the fact that we’re both male.”
Of course I understand why. She was a former nun before she became a
headmistress.
She should have stayed in the convent.
“Relationships between members of the same sex are unnatural in nature and in
the eyes of God.” Her already thin lips nearly disappear, pressed together so
tightly they turn white. The wrinkles at the corners of her mouth grow deeper.
Her eyes bug out as if the fact that she even has to explain this is atrocious,
and simply being in my presence is a sin.
Yeah, whatever.
“Do I have to call your mother to explain this to you?” Her lips are on the
very edge of a sneer.
“No.” Dread settles in my stomach. “Don’t.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She steeples her fingers. “I already have.”
“Well then,” I say, voice turning bitter. She’s such a bitch. “I suppose you
just called me in here for tea and pleasantries?”
“I don’t know what you believe, young man,” she spits like an insult, “but if
you choose to wallow in sin, then that’s your choice. But regardless of faith
or religion, teacher-student relationships are wrong. I’ll have to report your
Mr. Jeon to the authorities.”
“He’s only two years my senior. And please don’t.” Resentment churns in my
stomach at the fact that I have to use ‘please’ with her. “I forced myself on
him. He didn’t approach me.”
“My informant told me he kissed you on the cheek.”
I wish she would stop saying “my informant” like a character in a bad spy
movie.
“I led him on. He wasn’t responsible for his actions.”
“Allow me to remind you who is the minor and who is the adult in this
situation.” She catches my angry expression. “That’s right. Mr. Jeon is the
adult. You are the minor, and I think in this situation, it is you who was not
responsible for your actions and he who should have nipped it in the bud and
cut things off early, before—before all this happened.”
“Just don’t report him.” My head’s spinning; I can feel a headache coming on.
“I’ll take all the blame.”
“Taking all the blame will not help. It is my responsibility to notify the
appropriate authorities of his actions.”
“What do you want me to do?” I can feel the anger rising in me now. Just
because she hasn’t ever had a relationship because she’s old and wrinkled and
more bitter than bile, I have to suffer because I actually had one. “What is
the point of this session?”
“To make you realize that your actions are wrong.” Her glare drills into me.
I sigh. “Look, he’s left already. Obviously, this isn’t going to happen again.
I’m leaving in a few weeks too for college. Why not just drop the issue and
forget about the whole thing?”
“Let me think.” She raises a pencilled eyebrow. “No.”
Fucking bitch.
~
“You’re gay?!” My mom screams hysterically.
“Yes, actually.” I slump lower in the car seat.
“And you hidit from me?”
“I knew this was gonna be the consequence. So yes.”
“You can’t hide things like that from your mother.” Her voice quivers.
“This is who I am. You don’t like who I am. So I don’t tell you. Less people
get hurt that way.”
“You’re my son!”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“This is all I’ve ever been afraid of,” she says quietly.
“What? That I’ll actually grow up and become my own person? That I won’t always
fit in the baby shoes you force me into?” I set my jaw, grit my teeth. “I
cannot be a carbon copy of the person you want me to be. You’ll never accept
that? Fine! I knew that all along anyway. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“You always have to fight, don’t you? You always have to be independent.”
“You suffocate me.” All my indignation and anger is boiling to the surface now,
bubbling and simmering and overflowing. “You choke me. You never let go of
anything. I’d never spent a night away from you except that night at
Jungkook’s. How do you expect me to take care of myself when I’m in college?”
“Jungkook.” I look over at her; she is blinking quickly. “You went and had—had
relations with Jungkook.”
I say nothing.
“I trusted him. I let you stay in his house for a night.” Her lips thin as it
occurs to her. “I suppose—”
“It never went beyond a kiss,” I lie hurriedly.
She blinks away tears. “I didn’t know you’d—you’d turn out like this.”
“And it’s such a disgrace to have a gay son?”
“I just—I didn’t expect this.”
“Don’t lie.”
“So you have the right to lie directly to me for 18 years?” she replies
tiredly. “But I can’t try to soften the blow?”
I remain silent.
Why does she have to leave me guilty every single time?
~
Universities.
Finding a university is a fucking nutjob.
I run my hand through my hair for the millionth time and squint at the computer
screen, my contacts out and my glasses slipping down my nose. I was hoping they
would help me channel smart-kid-looking-for-a-good-university vibes.
They aren’t helping for shit.
“Ivy League?” I mutter incredulously to myself. I giggle derisively. “I’m
probably not even leaving Korea. Do they have Asian Ivy Leagues?” I click
around for a moment. “No, but it says here NUS is good.”
I look down at the piece of scrap paper I’m using to keep track of my
university applications. Towards the top, it’s organized and distinctly
productive: the emulation of an intelligent teenager looking for a good
college. Towards the bottom, it starts looking more and more like a masterpiece
by the Joker, scattered, disjointed phrases and random stupid acronyms I was
coming up with for imaginary universities scattered generously over it before
ending in a frustrated black cloud of doodles.
“How high do I have to aim?” I mumble. I glare at the paper. “Global Cyber
University? School of Performance Arts High School? Are those too much for a
self-respecting artsy kid trying to make a future for himself?”
I don’t consider it talking to myself if there isn’t anyone else around. I
consider it talking to the Jimin in my head. He isn’t being very helpful,
sitting down on a crate of memories of the last meeting between me, my mom, and
the headmistress. The lid rattles, and a snippet of the headmistress’ voice
drifts out. "For the sake of his future, I’ll keep this quiet. But if this
happens in university and I have to appear in court, no one can stop me from
telling the truth.”
Imaginary Jimin scowls and readjusts his ass, muffling her. She has no place in
my university applications.
A no-nonsense advert pops up on my computer screen. I see serious-looking men
and women tipping chemicals into a beaker, a lecturer addressing a packed
class, a girl with long dark hair tied up into a messy bun drawing an
immaculate sketch of a tiger with a look of immense concentration on her face.
I scratch my head. “...Seoul University?” I say slowly.
~
I tap my foot nervously. First day, Imaginary Jimin screams. Ohmygod. First
day. New kids everywhere. Old kids eyeing me. I feel so self-conscious. Is that
guy wearing a penguin onesie? Yes, that guy is wearing a penguin onesie.
I stare at him as he goes past. He sips from the cup of coffee he’s holding and
winks at me. I blush.
He’s staring at me. Did I make a good impression? Imaginary Jimin cranes his
head. He’s kinda—wait, where’s the tour guide? The tour guide’s a student,
right? Is the tour guide gonna be a guy? I hope he’s a guy. I could do with a
guy.
Shut up,I mentally hiss at him.
You could use a guy too,he says.
Why do you have to be so gay? I look around anxiously and pick at the bottom of
my grey sweater. You’re such a diva. Blue and white Seoul National University
banners flutter from the buildings along with the slogan Welcome, new kids! I
watch two girls spot each other, drop their bags, and run towards each other,
screeching and hugging tightly. A group of boys meet each other and slap hands,
doing a complicated handshake and guffawing at the end. I glance around at the
fearful huddle of new kids I am a part of, milling around in the shadow of a
huge, long building with grass growing on its roof.
The whole campus of Seoul University is beautiful, or as beautiful as can be in
the middle of a city. There are grass and trees growing everywhere, and
fountains and water-centered sculptures like small pools with artistic stone
benches are scattered throughout campus. I couldn’t believe it when I read the
acceptance letter. Seoul University is widely considered the most prestigious
university in Korea. I’m not the kind of person who gets into the most
prestigious university in Korea.
Admittedly, their arts program isn’t as large or renowned as their language,
literature, and histories program—all the humanities—but it’s still something.
This place is unbelievable. It’s huge, so huge that I’ll probably never get to
even see every student on campus. Everyone’s either extremely busy, extremely
laid-back, or extremely eccentric. Weaving between the crowd of hurrying
students pushing their glasses up their noses while balancing thick portfolios
are two grinning jocks carrying a pane of glass with scribbled mathematical
equations on them. Some ways behind them, a shirtless, stocky, built guy in
shorts fights to push through the mass of people and yells profanities at them.
It’s a sunny day. But it’s nothing compared to our tour guide when he finally
arrives.
A boy with messy bangs which can’t quite seem to decide whether they’re parted
at the middle or not runs out of the building behind us, pulling on a shirt. At
first, I think he’s just another one of the crazy students generously
distributed throughout the campus, but he starts walking towards us with a huge
face-splitting grin on his face and I begin to have second thoughts.
The shirt falls about his waist as he reaches us. I catch a glimpse of a flat,
tanned stomach above the waistband of his grey sweats. “Hello, new kids!” he
yells at all of us. We turn around, astonished and self-conscious. “I know you
probably think I’m late. But I’m not! It’s just that you guys are all new and
you’re early to everything, so I seem like I’m late although I’m perfectly on
time.”
I see someone glance at their watch, but I have a hunch that this strange,
demented boy is right.
“My name is Kim Taehyung!” He waves at all of us even though he’s only about a
foot away. “Hi.”
After a moment, a mumbled chorus of “hi”s echoes back from the new kids.
“This enthusiasm. I love it.” He beams. I could almost think that he isn’t
being sarcastic by how genuine he sounds. “This building you see behind you is
the agriculture building.” He waves at it, an extravagant flinging out of his
arm which nearly whacks a girl passing by and startles a flock of pigeons a
yard away. “And you know why I came out of it? Because I’m an agriculture
student!”
We are shocked by this revelation. Utterly shocked.
“I know, right!” He smiles. “I’m from Daegu, and I worked on my grandma's farm
as a kid. I liked it. So I became an agriculture major. Let’s start walking!”
He sets off, his walk bouncy, a spring in his step, and we hurry to follow. I
curse myself when I nearly trip over my own feet. Imaginary Jimin has faded
into the background, but I can tell he is watching Taehyung, measuring him.
“This building is the Jeong Building.” He waves at a building to our left. “So
named the Jeong Building because a parent named Jeong had an affair with a
professor, and to cover it up he paid for the building to be built."
We stare at him.
“I’m just kidding.” He laughs. “Mr. Jeong is the Mathematics professor. Don’t
fuck up with him. He will kill you with calculus. Also, this building is really
just known as the Math Building, but no one likes that boring-ass name so we
all call it the Jeong Building. Y’all should too.”
I wonder why the university let this psychopath out of the asylum to become a
tour guide.
“That cluster of buildings over there are the language and literature
buildings. Our program offers Korean language and history—that’s the biggest
building—but there’s also Chinese, English, French, German, and Hispanic, for
some reason. I know a bunch of Hispanic majors. I don’t know why they majored
in it. But they’re nice kids, nice kids. A little strange, but nice.”
Pot calling the kettle black, I think, unconsciously echoing a favorite saying
of my mom’s.
He goes on telling us about the history of the campus, and I learn that the
university recently celebrated their 70th anniversary while he dances up and
down the path pointing out buildings. He’s a maniac, but he radiates an
infectious warmth and happiness. He seems to know everyone. Everyone slaps him
on the back or waves at him or yells a greeting, and he has grins for every
single one of them.
He makes bad puns. He laughs at his own jokes. But he’s genuinely likeable. He
doesn’t seem to try to be funny, and he eventually manages to draw us out of
our stew of self-consciousness and make us laugh.
He ends the tour at the dorms, a more quiet area of the campus. “The frats and
sororities aren’t here, so there isn’t any partying going on here.” He winks.
“Although you can still attend them if you want.”
The crowd gets smaller and smaller as we progress towards the end. Finally,
it’s just him and I left as we walk towards the very last building, a quiet
little building surrounded by greenery and smooth lawns closest to the hills
surrounding the dorm area. He grins at me. “It’s just you and me, I guess.”
“Yeah,” I say. I would be nervous, being alone with a practical stranger like
this, but he puts me at ease for some reason. Taehyung is the sort of person
everyone just clicks with immediately after meeting. It’s like I was born
knowing him already. He’s just so upfront, straightforward, putting all of
himself on the table and being honest, that it’s nigh on impossible to harbor
any doubts about him.
“I’m guessing you’re headed to the Choi dorm?” He nods at the building we’re
walking towards.
“Yep.”
“Hey, that’s the same dorm as me. Coincidence.” He smiles. “What’s your room
number? I’ll take you there, maybe introduce you to some people.”
“535.”
“Fifth floor, hmm?” He scratches his jaw. “Hey, I think I know your roommate.”
“Really?” I ask with trepidation. It’s one of the things I’m most nervous about
going to university. Me and my fucking social anxiety. “Is he, um, nice?”
“Nice?” He looks thoughtful. “Um…”
Well. Things are looking up.
“I guess you could say so,” he says eventually. “When you get to know him. But
he just clams up if you’re a stranger. He’s just really shy. It took me a lot
of prodding and work to get close to him.” His eyes light up as something
occurs to him. “Also, I’m your neighbor!”
“Wait, seriously? Are you kidding?” I can’t believe my luck.
“No kidding. I live in 534.” He beams. “It’s gonna be so fun.” He slings his
arm around my shoulders. “I’m gonna have so much fun with you, neighbor.”
He tilts his head at me. “Hey, I don’t even know your name!” He pouts.
“Oh, I’m Park Jimin.” I consider sticking out my hand, but it seems stupid when
his arm is slung around my shoulder and we’re walking so close together we’re
staggering like drunkards. “Art major.”
“Art, eh? We’ll get along so well.” He grins. “He’s a science major. Biological
sciences.”
“Ah.”
“He’s bi.”
I startle. “I—um—bi?”
“Yes. Thought you should know.”
“But—I—” I stammer, heart rate speeding up and blood rushing to my face.
“Doesn’t that make it awkward because we’re both guys sharing a room and—and—?”
“Nah, he’s really chill. I mean, he’s bi, but he’s like…” Taehyung gestures
expansively with the arm not slung around me. “He’s like an asexual bi.”
I stare at him uncomprehendingly.
“You know. He doesn’t sleep around. He’s a pretty private person, but I’m 99%
sure he hasn’t hooked up with anyone since he got here.” He raises his
eyebrows. “Everyone’s on him. Boys and girls. But he just turns them down.”
I stare at him, wide-eyed.
“I mean, he’s hot. I’m straight, but even I can see that. And I showered with
him before, cos, like, there were no stalls left beside that one and neither of
us could wait, so I’m just saying, like, y’know…” he coughs. “Like...he’s not
wanting for much in the south of things, y’know?”
My face is on fire.
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s taken a vow of celibacy or something. Yeah, maybe
that’s it!” His eyes light up. “He doesn’t wear a virginity ring or anything.
And he doesn’t have a weird birthmark or something—I checked. So it’s gotta be
that!”
“You ch-checked,” I manage.
“I mean, he didn’t know I was doing it. But I did. Just to be sure.” He lifts a
finger gravely as he pushes open the glass doors to the dorm and punches the
button for the lift. “You, my friend, need to know something. I am extremely
straight. I am straighter than a ruler. I have never had a gay thought in my
head and I’ve never even fingered myself.” I choke. “But your roommate is the
kind of guy who turns lesser straight guys gay.”
“Shit,” I mutter quietly under my breath.
“Why?” He unhooks his arm from around my shoulders to shove his foot in between
the lift doors, which are about to close.
“I—um—no reason,” I bluff. “Just, like, there’s gonna be people at our room all
the time. And I don’t want that. I’m shy.”
Taehyung side-eyes me for a good minute. Finally, he says triumphantly, “You’re
gay, aren’t you?”
“What?” I say, caught off guard.
“You’re gay.” He points at me. I shrink from his finger. “I see it in your
eyes."
“I—” I bite my lip. “Yes.”
“Man!” He slaps me on the back. “That’s great! You and your roommate are gonna
get along so well!”
He pauses and thinks. “Or, like, not. Maybe. I don’t know. Your roommate’s
kinda strange.” He brightens. “But nice! And hot. Definitely.”
I’m not gonna last the semester.
~
My mysterious roommate doesn’t show up even after I’ve unpacked all my stuff
and put them in their appropriate places. His things are all unpacked already
on the right side of the room, although it looks more like he unzipped his
suitcase and upended it all over the floor. I keep to my side, not letting a
hair over onto his side, although I kinda wanna go through his stuff like the
personal boundary-disrespecting, poorly-social skilled creep I am.
The only personality I’ve seen of him is a neatly handwritten Post-it I found
stuck to the door which said:
Hello, Roommate,
Please take off your shoes and put them next to the door when you enter the
room.
Thank you.
The fact that it reads more like those cards you find on bedside tables in
hotel rooms telling you to place them on your bed if you need the sheets
changed than something a university student would write slightly bothers me.
The writing is orderly, more rounded than pointed, and not slanted in any
particular direction. It’s in such a straight line that I could probably draw a
line underneath it with a ruler, and it wouldn’t stray an iota from the line.
I do what the note says. I don’t want to make my intimidatingly hot, well-
endowed, virginal bi roommate angry.
I don’t know where the bathroom and showers are. I could technically go next
door to ask Taehyung, but I don’t wanna bother him. I don’t have his number, so
I can’t text him. I’ll ask him for it next time.
Thankfully, I don’t have to pee, but I feel kinda gross hopping into bed
without showering.
I look around fearfully and gauge the possibility of my roommate materializing
while I’m changing, then pull on more comfortable sleeping clothes quickly and
flip the light switch off. I scramble into bed.
I find that I’m tired and nod off pretty quickly.
~
Light from the hallway floods into the room, glaring against the backs of my
eyelids, and I wake up. My eyes don’t open. I keep them closed as I hear
someone sniffle softly.
My roommate.
I’m suddenly scared. Is he going to rape me? Is he going to murder me? Worse
than all of those—is he going to try to talk to me?
There’s a click as he closes the door, plunging the room back into darkness,
then silence for a while. Then very, very quietly, with the distinct sound of
someone tiptoeing and doing a very good job of it, too, I sense him moving
towards the dresser on his side of the room.
The door opens with hardly a squeak and the sound of cloth rustling reaches my
ears. He must be changing, I realize in sudden mortification. My hot bi
roommate is changing a few feet away from me!
I wanna look so freaking bad.
The dresser door closes, and then there’s a loud rustle as a body gets under
the sheets. There’s more rustling as he adjusts himself, then it stops and he
whispers, “Hi.”
The voice is instantly familiar, but I can’t place it. It’s nice and sounds
like it belongs to a good-looking guy—sometimes you can tell just by the voice.
It seems to pick me up and caress me, calm me the way a mug of hot chocolate on
a cold day would.
I frown and almost open my mouth, then remember I’m supposed to be asleep. But
he said hi! I can’t just leave my hot bi roommate hanging like that!
After the silence has dragged on awkwardly long, it finally seems to hit him.
“Shit, I’m talking to myself,” he mutters. “You’re asleep.”
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that. I’m asleep.
“And I’m still—I’m still talking to myself.” He sounds resigned. “God, I’m such
a dork.”
He sighs. “I should shut up.” He sighs again. “Yeah. I should really shut up.”
Silence for a while. I think he’s fallen asleep until he speaks.
“Goodnight, roommate,” he says softly. “I know you can’t hear me, but
goodnight.”
Goodnight, roommate, I repeat after him silently in my head. I know you can’t
hear me, but goodnight.
He doesn’t sound scary.
He sounds nice.
And derpy.
And weird, in a good way.
And, above all…above all…
Familiar.
~
I wake up at what seems like around 8, gentle morning sunlight filtering in
through the window above my head. The sluggish thought that my first class is
at 8:15 jostles its way to the forefront of my sleep-muddled brain.
I practically leap out of bed, throwing the sheets back and landing unsteadily
on my feet. I run my hands through my tangled bedhead, no longer orange and now
brown, muttering, “Shit, shit, shit. Shit!”
I look around. To my disappointment and also relief, my roommate is nowhere to
be seen. His bed is empty, the covers thrown back. I dare to invade his side of
the room to touch his bed like the creep I am. It’s still warm.
I spread my hand and sink it into his mattress, then the guilt hits me and I
sprint back to my side of the room.
“Class,” I mutter. I throw open my dresser and spend three agonized moments
deciding what will make the best, least needy and pathetic first impression,
acutely aware of the sands of time slipping into the bottom half of the
hourglass, and finally select a hoodie, plain white shirt, and skinny jeans. I
manage to put in my contacts without a mirror (in my opinion, a superhuman feat
few are capable of), snatch up my bag, and dash to my first class.
~
“I can't believe you haven't met your roommate yet.” Taehyung frowns at me, his
chin propped on his hand, sipping from his Starbucks cup of pumpkin spice latte
(“hands-down the best drink in Starbucks history”). “How is that possible? That
takes serious coordination.”
“Maybe he's avoiding me.” I move the straw around listlessly in my boring
chocolate cream chip frappe which screams lack of personality.
“Maybe,” he says. “But if he is, he isn't doing it because you're some horrible
person. It's just because he's shy and too afraid to meet you.” He snorts.
“It's kinda sad. He came in the middle of the school year a while ago, so he
basically slept in a broom closet, but he didn't have to share with anyone.
This will be the first time he's had a roommate.” He reaches for my phone.
“Hey, unlock this for me. I wanna put in my number.”
I type it in distractedly. “I'm afraid of meeting him, too.”
He groans loudly. Several people look around. “Don't tell me.” He shakes his
head. “You're one of those cripplingly shy, socially anxious people too?” He
throws up his hands. “The world has to come out of its shell.”
“Quiet down,” I hiss. “Everyone’s socially anxious. It’s not my fault you’re
the most extroverted people person on campus.”
“I’m calling him.” He hands my phone back to me and takes out his own phone,
unlocking it to punch in a number. I catch a glimpse of his lock screen: a
puppy wearing a flower crown. “This is ridiculous. You’ve been roommates for
two days and you haven’t even met each other yet.” He shakes his head. “You two
are lucky you have me to take matters into my own hands and initiate social
interaction."
“Don’t call him!” I make a desperate grab for the phone. Taehyung nimbly
snatches it out of my reach (damn him and his lanky height and his long arms).
“I’m not ready!”
“You’re gonna be living with the guy for at least a year,” he says with the
martyred voice only those who believe they're doing something for the greater
good can pull off. “It’s now or never.”
“No, Taehyung—!”
“Hey, man!” Taehyung cuts me off, a smile spreading across his face. I
practically leap across the table, reaching for the phone in a last attempt,
but he smoothly pulls it away. “Can you come to Starbucks? There’s someone here
I want you to meet.”
He listens. “No, it’s not a girl I wanna set you up with.”
I drop my head into my hands.
“It’s not a guy, either. I mean, sort of. Maybe you’ll like him and you’ll hit
things off and you’ll break your “I’m-a-pure-little-celibate-virgin” vow—”
I hear audible, loud denial.
“Okay, okay, fine. Maybe you won’t. Be that way. Keep your fine little ass
untouched as snow if you like.”
More angry denial this time. Taehyung winces.
“No one said you were a virgin anyway! Not with that ass!” He yells into his
phone. Several people look in our direction and I feel that acute kind of
embarrassment you can only feel for other people who are completely oblivious
to it. “Look, can we have this argument about the state of your virginity some
other time? That isn’t the reason I want you to meet this guy. Although it
would be nice if you hooked up. You’re so cranky all the time. You just
seriously need to get laid.”
“No!” I shout at him.
“Okay, okay, fine. You’re coming, right? You’re coming?” He nods to himself.
“We’ll wait.”
He hangs up and beams at me.
I begin, “You are the most embarrassing little—”
He holds up his hand loftily. “No need to thank me. He’ll be here in a minute.”
~
A minute passes by while Taehyung chatters at me about the prevalence of farmed
turkeys in America by state and I get increasingly horrifying visions of some
terrifyingly hot Goliath kicking down the door to Starbucks and booming, “Fee
fi fo fum, I smell the blood of a small gay man!”
~
Taehyung looks down at his phone when it beeps. “He’s here.” He looks up at me
and grins. “He’s here!”
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and look around nervously. “W-where?”
“He said he just walked in.”
My head snaps towards the entrance. It’s deserted.
“He can’t find us.” Taehyung starts typing, his thumbs a blur of motion on the
keypad. “This place is crowded.”
I resist the urge to hunker down and hide under the table. “Can he see us? Can
he see me?”
“Stop being so scared.” Taehyung puts the phone down and looks around. He
grins, then stands up and waves to be seen above a cluster of giggling freshmen
girls. “I see him.”
My heart rate picks up.
The girls gasp, then all move in unison to block the only available passage to
our table. They seem to bunch around an indistinct figure, who ineffectively
tries to get through them. He’s wearing a red jacket and—leather pants? Who
wears leather pants?
A girl shifts, and his below-the-waist area is revealed. His pants cling to
every line of his body, allowing me a tantalizing glimpse of full, curved,
muscular thighs and a rounded ass. I swallow. Shit. His hips turn. I see the
front. Shiiiiit.
Taehyung sighs and begins the complicated, delicate process of untangling his
long legs from underneath the table. “Those freshmen girls. They’re piranhas.
They haven’t learned that he won’t hook up with anyone yet.” He succeeds,
lifting his leg over the stool and starting over. “Excuse me while I rescue
him.”
I watch, wide-eyed, as Taehyung reaches into the slowly growing mob of girls
and draws out a red jacket-clad elbow. “Come on, girls, make way. The man’s
trying to get through.”
The crowd reluctantly parts under Taehyung’s insistence. My resolve
disintegrates in an instant and I stare at my feet, ducking my head down,
following a pair of scuffed Timberlands as they shuffle towards me. I fight the
urge to follow his legs up, up, up and ogle him and drool.
“Guys,” Taehyung says patiently like a kindergarten teacher introducing two shy
children, “look at each other. It’s not polite to avoid eye contact.”
I don’t look up.
Taehyung sighs extravagantly and forces my roommate into the seat Taehyung just
vacated. "Talk to each other. Say hi.”
A pause.
“Hi,” the man across from me mutters.
My head snaps up automatically. That voice.
The man I least expected to see stares back at me from across the table, shock
dawning on his face.
Taehyung blinks. “What are you two staring at each other for?” He shakes our
shoulders gently. “Say something.”
How can I say something? How can I say something when I can feelthe world I
carefully built up to escape my past crumbling around me?
"You," I say, horrified, when I get my voice back.
“You,” he echoes. His voice is beautiful even filled with terror. He is still
beautiful even with his face slack with shock and his eyes filled with
something akin to panic.
“You two know each other?” Taehyung scratches the back of his neck. “Well, for
what it’s worth…” He claps us both on the back. “Jimin, meet Jungkook.” He
beams. “Your roommate.”
Chapter End Notes
     I just want you guys to know something.
     I'm thirteen. Maybe that matters to you and maybe it doesn't.
     I'd like to say that I'm sorry to mmerrrr. I lied about my age. I'll
     be fourteen in March. I'm currently an eighth grader.
     I'm sorry. I have no excuses beyond that I was afraid to be judged.
     Aren't we all?
***** All Proud *****
Chapter Notes
     I'm sooooooooo sorry for the delay in the arrival of this chapter.
     You know. Personal shit and all.
“I never asked you how the play went.”
I look over at Jungkook lying on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling. The
covers are pulled up to his chin as if he’s a child. He grips the edge of the
blanket.
“What?” I ask, thrown off.
“The play you said was going to be based on The Danish Girl.” He turns his
head, blinks slowly at me. He’s sleepy. He’s cute when he’s sleepy.
Irresistibly soft and confused. “You never told me how it went.”
“I just met you this afternoon. How could I have had a chance to tell you
between explaining this whole mess to Tae?”
Taehyung sat in our bedroom for twenty minutes, open-mouthed, listening to us
tell him how we know each other before leaving the room while tossing “You two
have a mountain of shit to sort out” over his shoulder.
We then proceeded to awkwardly avoid each other’s eyes for five minutes before
Jungkook announced that he was going to shower and that I should too. We
silently walked down the hallway, near each other but not together. We showered
in the cubicles at either end of the room.
When I emerged from my cubicle, Jungkook had already gone. So I left too,
feeling terribly alone as I walked uncertainly down the long hallway back to
our room, a horrible cold spreading through my chest as I clutched my towel to
myself as if it could protect me.
I opened the door, forgetting that it wasn’t just my room anymore and perhaps I
should have knocked. It didn’t matter, though; he’d already changed. All I
could see of him was a Jungkook-shaped lump cocooned in the covers, turned on
its side away from my bed.
I got into bed carefully, trying not to make too much noise. I didn’t know
whether he was already asleep.
Jungkook left a little nightlight on between our beds, plugged into the wall
socket above our shared compact bedside table. It’s strangely personal: it’s
shaped like Iron Man’s heart, casting a soft light which is just enough to see
him by and break the pitch black darkness which was present yesterday night.
His socks, spilling out of his scuffed Timberlands by the door, are also Iron
Man patterned.
I didn’t know he was a fan of Iron Man.
I don’t know a lot of things about him.
“The play was okay,” I respond, almost in a whisper. Memories flash into my
head, memories of suddenly feeling ashamed in a dress without him in the crowd,
of the shocked stares as I walked up on stage, hips swaying and movements
delicate, of Lili shrinking back from the spotlight trained on me and the lines
flying out of my head when I needed them most.
And then of the uproarious applause at the end. At the small audience shouting
for an encore and the soft material of the dress Jungkook had given me—the
dress I wore for the final scene, the one where Lili died and the tears were
too real for me, too easy to let trickle out—swishing around my ankles. Of
staring at my feet and wondering at how pretty they looked in women’s shoes,
relishing the rush of victory as I watched the headmistress sniff and furiously
dab at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.
Memories of the shattered look in my mother’s eyes when I emerged from behind
the curtain in a dress. Memories of folding the dress after the play carefully,
pressing it to my nose to try and capture Jungkook’s smell and getting only the
smell of mothballs instead, of crying into the lace while I knelt on the ground
and the ice gripped my heart because I was alone, alone, alone. Memories of
thinking of how many tears Jungkook’s mother, the last woman who had worn the
same dress I held, had shed over her son, whether she’d cried the same way I
could hear my mother crying in her bedroom. Memories of pushing the dress into
the back of my closet and knowing that I would never dress as a woman again.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” He sighs. “The university, it...told me it wasn’t
sure it would have a space for me if I didn’t enter right then and there. And
I’d saved up enough money, so I wanted to use it for what it was meant
for—paying my college fees—before I spent it on something stupid like a trip to
Lotto World or something.”
I stifle a bitter little laugh. “Lotto World?”
“I’m only 20. I’m still a kid.” He catches my eye. “Hey. Jimin. I’m really
sorry that I missed the play and left you like that.”
“It’s okay.” But it’s not, it’s not, it’s not. It’s not okay because we spent
all that time apart and all our ease and familiarity was lost in that gap, in
that black hole of pain and loneliness, in that void of separation.
“I know it’s not.” He sighs again. “‘It’s okay’ is what people say when it’s
not.”
I remain silent.
“Look, I…we never really knew each other.” He fiddles with the blanket, long
fingers pulling at a thread. “I feel like we rushed into things and went and
built an unstable relationship completely on mutual lust.”
I bite my lip. I know what’s coming.
“And a relationship can’t just be sex, right?” He falters. “I
mean...relationships purely founded on sex can’t stand. Sex concerns the body,
and the body is temporary. The body fades.”
“Please don’t get all Mr. Jeon on me again,” I mutter. “You’re a college kid.
God. Start speaking like one.”
“Okay. Sorry.” He laughs a little, a laugh which starts out too strained and
peters out too fast. “What I’m trying to get at is that what we had
before...wasn’t really healthy. That arrangement we had with the tests and the
sex and everything.”
I open my mouth. I close it when I realize I have nothing to say.
“I’m just going to be honest with you. Yes, I cared about your grades. But I
cared about getting into your pants t...too.” He swallows, the gulp audible.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s oka—it’s alright.” My nails dig crescents into my palms underneath the
blanket. “I felt like that too.”
“I manipulated you.” The silence between his words is deafening.
“It’s fine. We’re past it.”
“I still wanna have a relationship with you.” His sheets rustle as he turns on
his side so he can look me straight in the eye. “But...let’s not rush into
things. Let’s be friends first, yeah?” His eyes are wide, pleading. He actually
wants this, I realize. “Maybe it can end in a relationship. But before all
that, let’s get to know each other.”
My pounding heart speaks louder than any words I can ever yell.
“Jimin, please.” My fists clench harder and I gasp softly at the pain. “I want
a chance to make up for my mistakes. To...to be your friend. I need to pay my
penance for when you needed someone and I wasn’t that someone.”
Relationships start out pretty, I think. The pink within the white icing, the
chiming of silver bells, the shine of light on bands of gold. The hesitation.
The hope.
“Please say something.”
And then the crumble, the fall. When he doesn’t hold your hand, when he doesn’t
close his eyes while he kisses you, when you’re crying and he doesn’t come to
tell you it’s all going to be okay.
Jungkook’s mouth opens. Then his lips press together. I can feel it, can feel
the missed opportunity, the lingering stab of regret, the “too late”.
He left me.
Because the college offered an opening.
He left me.
Because he had to.
He left me.
Because—
He left me. He left me. He left me.
He left me.
“If that’s the way you feel…” He waits for me to say something, to cut him off.
To finish his line. When I don’t, he continues, voice stiff and hurt, cracking
in its effort to stay stable, “I’ll never bring this up again.”
He begins to turn on his other side.
No. I’m losing him again. I’m losing him again, only this time I’m opening the
door for him to step out of my life.
I can’t let him do that again.
“We can be friends,” I say falteringly. I’m afraid he doesn’t hear.
Thank God he does.
He pauses. His lips part as he looks back at me. “We...can?”
And the hope in his voice is too much. My paper walls quietly, quietly fall to
the ground.
“Yes,” I say, the word thick and heavy on my tongue with its meaning, with the
permanence of confirmation.
He blinks quickly. His smile spreads across his face uncertainly, unsure
whether to lean its weight on hope but not quite caring whether it will
collapse.
“Okay.”
We look at each other from across a void which suddenly seems not so difficult
to bridge, after all.
~
“You guys all okay?” Taehyung looks between us with concern. “You guys
straightened all your shit out?”
We nod. I watch worriedly as he nearly walks backwards into a girl balancing a
mug of coffee and a stack of textbooks, sidestepping at the last moment. That
is Taehyung: a catastrophe always on the edge of realization.
“Good.” He nods slowly. “Good.” Then he finds his smile again, briefly blinding
us with its brilliance. “In that case, let’s go. Mr. Jeong awaits.”
We groan and trudge towards the Jeong Building. I sneak a glance at Jungkook
and am horrified to find that he’s already looking at me.
But instead of looking away, he smiles. I stumble and nearly drop my Math
textbook, and he takes it from me, adding it to the stack of his.
I determinedly ignore the butterflies in my stomach while the blush rises on my
cheeks and wonder whether I’ll be lucky enough to fall in love again.
~
This time when I push open the door to our room, feeling foolish about knocking
on my own door and so neglecting to, Jungkook is sitting cross-legged in bed on
top of the covers, wearing shorts and one of his oversized t-shirts. He holds
something in his lap, and he looks up hopefully when I enter.
Familiarity settles on me like a shroud as I stare at the thin, rectangular
spiral-bound book.
“I thought you might want this.” He hesitates, then holds it out. “I kept it.
You left it at my house, remember?”
I step slowly forward and sink down onto the edge of his bed. I reach out, and
he hands it to me.
I slowly flip through my sketchbook, his blanket rustling under me as I pull my
legs up. My drawings are all there, untouched and unsmudged, just as I left
them: drawings for Art, drawings of hands, drawings of animals, drawings of
cutleries, of shadows, and that drawing of Jungkook with the long hair.
As I flip to that page, I freeze and look up at Jungkook.
He notices and smiles softly. “It’s okay. I understand now.”
I hesitate. And then I flip past it.
There are more drawings of Jungkook in varying size and detail. A rough sketch
of Jungkook standing at the front of the class and pointing at the whiteboard.
A detailed, full-page study of him grading tests, accurate down to the shine of
light streaming in from the window on his black hair and the loose curl of his
fingers holding the pen. Just his head and neck, his bangs brushing his
eyebrows, his eyes creased in a laugh.
And, most embarrassing of all, the page I try to flip past as quickly as
possible so he won’t notice. But he’s watching me with an eagle-eyed stare, and
he puts out his hand to stop me.
We both stare at the drawing taking up the whole page. It’s a chibi, obviously
Jungkook, wearing droopy black bunny ears and curled up in a teacup. The tag of
a teabag hangs out of it, and Jungkook’s small hands are bunched into tiny
fists below his shut, sleeping eyes.
I glance at Jungkook. His lips are lifted up at the corners with amusement.
“What is this?” He points at the chibi. “This is cute. I’m not that cute.”
“You are,” I mumble, blushing furiously.
“This is so sweet,” he says, a small smile dancing around his mouth. “You
should publish these or something. You’re talented.”
“Ew, don’t say that.” I wrinkle my nose. “It makes me sound like a stalker.”
“Maybe.” He does a cheesy gesture, winking and pointing at me with both hands.
“But you’re my stalker.”
I groan loudly and shut the sketchbook, making to rise from his bed, but he
puts a hand on my forearm. I look down at him. He asks, “Is there more?”
“I’m not gonna show you and feed your ego,” I mutter, yanking my arm away.
“No, it’s fine.” He grins at me. “When did you even do these? In class?”
“Under the desk,” I say reluctantly.
“That’s why you weren’t paying attention?” He raises his eyebrow and looks at
me sternly.
“God, who even cares?” I roll my eyes. “You aren’t my teacher anymore.”
“You’re right.” His expression changes, and he lifts his hand off my forearm. I
wish he would put it back. I liked the weight of it. He pulls it into his lap
and twists it with his other hand, looking away. “It’s all behind us now.”
“Yes,” I say softly, the drawings in the sketchbook in my hands feeling
suddenly like betrayal, like hope pounded and crushed and turned into something
bitter, like disappointment itself. “It is.”
~
“Have you heard?” Taehyung comes barrelling into our room with the force of a
bullet train, leaping onto my bed and making extravagant snow angels in my
sheets. I watch in despair as my carefully made masterpiece is ruined by two
enthusiastic pairs of arms and legs. "Seoul University is sponsoring an all-
expenses-paid trip to America so anyone who likes can take part in the Pride
parade."
"What?" Jungkook sits up straight, swiveling his desk chair around and briefly
abandoning his feverish studying to stare at Taehyung in confusion. "What's a
Pride parade?"
Taehyung's jaw drops. He claps a hand to his heart dramatically. Should have
been a drama major or something, I think. "You're bi," he says in mounting
horror, "but you don't know what Pride is?"
"I don't either," I say. "Why, is it some kind of queer appreciation thing?"
"You two," Taehyung says, jumping off my bed and savagely rummaging in his bag
for his laptop. "You two are the saddest, saddestqueer people ever."
~
A minute later, we're huddled around his laptop on Jungkook's bed, I trying not
to think about the fact that it's the first time in months that I've been in
the same bed as Jungkook, Jungkook casually lounging so he's the furthest
possible distance from me, and Taehyung obliviously clicking away on his laptop
into Google Images.
We gawk at the pictures of colorful parades of rainbow flags, American sun and
freedom, people of the same gender kissing and holding hands and smiling at
each other, some with babies and children between them. I squint at the images.
There's hundredsof people. This isn't some small organization thing that a
bunch of furtive, half-closeted gays are holding; this is a huge, well-planned
event attended and celebrated by tons of people and known of by even more.
There's even a video of the Try Guys attending it.
“Pride is like this event in the US to celebrate LGBTQ+ peoples of all races
and cultures.” Taehyung waves his hands animatedly. “It’s usually a march, and
there’s flags and drag queens and just general pride. That’s why it’s called
pride: pride for who we are, whether queer or straight or just us.”
Jungkook hums thoughtfully, studying a picture of a drag queen posing next to a
woman. “I suppose this event can’t be held in Korea?”
“Well, no, because we’re so damn homophobic.” He flings out his arms at the
computer screen. “But Seoul University isn’t! They want to create a wholesome
and healthy learning environment for everyone, whether gay or straight or bi or
anything else. That’s why they’re sponsoring this trip to the US just so we can
march in the parade! They want to show that they welcome and give equal
opportunities to all, and to give us a chance to express and celebrate our
individuality.”
Jungkook looks greatly moved. Taehyung looks emotional.
“So, what do you say?” He flings his arms around both of us. “I’m going. March
with me?”
Jungkook and I exchange looks.
Hell, who am I to refuse Eugene Lee Yang?
Just like that, the decision is made.
“Count me in,” I say, holding Jungkook’s eyes. He looks taken aback.
Taehyung is overjoyed. He yanks me into a hug, squeezing the life out of me and
enthusiastically patting my back. My mouth accidentally collides with the curve
of his neck and shoulder. He doesn’t seem to notice as my lips brush his skin.
“I knew you had it in you, you sad, shy, poorly-socially skilled gay, you,” he
says, muffled.
When we pull back, we both look expectantly at Jungkook.
“What?” He looks caught off guard.
“Are you coming?” Taehyung flings himself into Jungkook’s lap, straddling him
and wrapping his arms around Jungkook’s neck. I’m unused to such a casual
invasion and disregard of personal space, and I sit awkwardly off to the side
as Taehyung rests his forehead against Jungkook’s. Jungkook flushes, Taehyung
smiling hopefully at him. “Please come.”
For a moment, I can’t decide whether I’m more jealous of Taehyung or Jungkook.
“I’ll come,” Jungkook says reluctantly. “Or you two will manage to strangle
yourselves with a rainbow flag or something.”
“Great.” Taehyung grins. “Great."
~
I push open the door to the principal of Seoul University’s office, heart
pounding like crazy in my chest and my body shaking. There are students in the
university whom the principal has never called on. There are some whose names
he will never know or remember. But for some reason, he called me in my first
semester.
He looks up and smiles. Warm, friendly. White hair and the appropriate number
of wrinkles, but what Taehyung would describe as “happy” wrinkles: crow’s feet
around his eyes and laugh lines around his mouth, not forehead lines and
creases between his eyebrows like the last headmistress I dealt with.
“Mr. Park.” He waves toward the chair across from him. He’s sitting behind his
desk. “Please, sit.”
I sit, clutching the armrests.
~
Taehyung and Jungkook are waiting for me when I emerge from the office, pale
and unsteady and uncertain of what just happened.
Taehyung grabs my arm. “What happened?”
Jungkook brushes his hair out of his eyes and looks up from his phone,
switching it off expectantly.
“I think…” I sway a little. “I think the principal just asked me to design a
Seoul University flag to carry at Pride.”
“What?” Even Taehyung looks shocked.
I blink hard. “I don’t know. Something like that.”
“Seriously?” he screeches. He hugs me, as always gleeful to take the
opportunity for a hug. “This is awesome!”
Jungkook looks torn for a while between a hug or something else, then settles
for an awkward, impersonal pat on the back.
I consider asking for a hug, but I don’t think he’s much of a hug person.
~
Right from the outset, I know exactly what to do.
I fill my newly-returned sketchbook with page after page of potential designs,
all orbiting around a central idea: two linked hands, obviously male, above a
pair of definitely female linked hands.
I put hair ties and bracelets around the wrists of the women and paint their
nails with rainbow and glitter. For the men, I pencil in callouses and rough
knuckles.
I bestow short, bitten-down nails on the smaller hand: the sign of worry, of
fretting. Long, slender fingers slowly take shape on the other, with smooth
almond-shaped nails clipped just before a mother would tell their owner to cut
them.
As an afterthought, I add smudges of red pen ink.
I work late into the night, the bitten-down nails of my left hand tapping
incessantly on the tabletop, my mind full of memories of the hands of the man
sleeping behind me.
~
Taehyung skips down the ramp connecting the airplane to Los Angeles
International Airport, LAX for short, gasping and running back to run his
fingers over the walls and press his face to the windows. Jungkook and I follow
more blearily behind. The 11 hour flight appears to have sapped us of our
energy and somehow miraculously transferred it to Taehyung.
Taehyung proudly declared as we were filling our luggage bags that he was only
packing pride-related shirts. He’s currently wearing one which simply says
‘hella straight’. It used to be white, but he splashed it with paint because he
wanted it to be “happier”.
Jungkook rubs at his face and scowls. “That canned air ruined my skin.”
I sniff. “My skin feels dry, too.”
“Oh, shut up,” Taehyung says without malice, coming back to shake our shoulders
and jump up and down. “We’re in America! The land of freedom!” He steps back
and looks into the distance, wiping his hand as if across an imaginary screen.
“Look at the opportunity.”
Jungkook yawns. I rub at my sore neck. I slept on it wrong.
Taehyung huffs. “You two better be a hell of a lot more cheerful after a
night’s sleep in the hotel, or I’m leaving you in the room and going to Pride
alone.”
~
The Pride parade is, frankly, unbelievable.
The large group of Seoul University students who came to Pride spill onto the
streets of LA hyped and energetic, encased in a protective, comforting bubble
of Korean chatter against the American-accented English world around us.
Taehyung is the most hyper I’ve ever seen him and even Jungkook is upbeat,
wearing a plain white tank top we took hours to persuade him to wear, along
with pretty much everyone else who came on the trip. (“You’re in America. Be
liberal! Show off your arms!”)
He has nice arms. The tank top hangs off his shoulders, exposing his sculpted
biceps and his sides about halfway down his torso. I physically have to tear my
gaze away from him and concentrate on getting the flag unpacked.
There’s a huge commotion while the students cluster around the flag I designed
and unroll it, oohing and aahing as it unfurls in the wind. The linked pairs of
hands painted on the cloth ripple on the wind above the words 서울대학교: Seoul
University. The glittery rainbow paint I painstakingly dabbed on the women’s
nails glimmer in the bright sunshine below the pair of male hands, the whole
thing set against a background of rainbow paint I spent ages blending and
mixing to achieve just the right look of carelessly beautiful harmony.
Jocks I’ve never talked to before clap me on the back and congratulate me,
bonded to me by our common nationality and camaraderie in this unfamiliar world
of blonde hair and blue eyes. It’s all good, and for a moment, I’m glowy and
warm with the satisfaction of achievement and a job well done. I push the flag
at Jungkook, telling him to carry it, and consider it my reward to watch his
muscles flex as he hoists it.
We set out into the thick of the parade, bumping shoulders with drag queens in
high heels and gaudy wigs and men in thongs. Some students look scandalized,
unused to the American freedom and liberty, but others laugh and take it in
stride. We even encounter a drag queen who speaks Korean and manages to
convince a bunch of guys to put on tiny black boxers with “Pride” splashed in
rainbow colors on the front.
I huddle under the flag with Jungkook, laughing and cheering as an energetic
song blasts from a radio somewhere and people start dancing as we go along. The
flag tips haphazardly, and I grab the pole to steady it. Jungkook moves his
hand at the same time and covers mine by accident. We look at each other.
We are surrounded by people, loud and raucous and colorful, some speaking our
language, some not, all proud. Elbows and shoulders bump us as they go by, and
a man shoots past on a skateboard festooned with rainbow scarves. But under the
shelter of the rippling flag, the sun shining through the rainbow-splashed
cloth and dappling a myriad of colors on the road, we are in our own world.
Jungkook smiles. He doesn’t move his hand.
I clutch harder at the pole as he glides his thumb over my knuckles, once,
twice, three times, and on the fourth he leans in to kiss me. His lips move
over mine as the crowd surges and leaps around us in celebration of who we are,
who we want to be, who we become; an entirely different kind of grace.
Beneath the rippling flag, painted in the colors of freedom and acceptance, our
lips moving against each other, we are whole, sinless, perfect.
Beautiful.
~
“Why did I have to hear from Yoojung and not you two that you had a kiss worthy
of The Notebook under the flag at the Pride parade?” Taehyung appears out of
nowhere, sits himself on the bench across from us in the dining hall, and
glares accusingly at us.
I can’t help it; I glance at Jungkook. His face has gone completely still.
“What kiss?” I ask, choosing to take the ‘feign confusion’ route.
Taehyung scowls, affronted. “Don’t you dare lie. Someone got a photo of you.
You’re on the school website, for pity’s sake.”
Not that the ‘feign confusion’ route ever worked.
“What?” I screech, throwing myself out of my bench and practically across the
table, snatching Taehyung’s brandished phone as if someone leaked my sex tape.
We and Jungkook are there, holding the rainbow Seoul University flag I designed
together, eyes closed and lips meeting, my face tipped up towards his to
compensate for my shorter height. It’s there, plain as day, on Taehyung’s phone
screen, on the school website, and all the blood in my body is rushing towards
my cheeks and I think I’m going to faint.
Jungkook looks at the phone screen, bites into an apple, and says nothing.
“It wasn’t—I didn’t—” I stammer.
“Photographic evidence,” Taehyung insists.
“But we—”
“It was just the heat of the moment,” Jungkook speaks up. My head whips around
and I stare at him. He meets Taehyung’s gaze, expression neutral and
unaffected. “That’s all.”
Taehyung glances suspiciously at me. “Really.”
“Yeah,” Jungkook says for me.
I press my lips together. I can feel the opportunity slipping away, the magic
of that moment diffused by indifference.
It’s happening again.
“Jimin?” Taehyung looks at me, brow furrowed.
I bite my lip.
I look at Jungkook. He won’t look at me. He picks at the edges of the table.
I look at Taehyung and swallow the painful lump of hope lodged in my throat.
“Yes,” I manage, and it feels like I’m tearing myself apart, hurting myself
without laying a finger on a blade. “Heat of the moment.”
~
“I’m going to be gone tomorrow night.”
“What?” I look over at the bed on the other side of the room. Jungkook’s voice
comes from the blanketed human-shaped lump turned on its side on it.
“My biological sciences class is taking an overnight trip.”
“Oh,” I say lamely, although I can’t take the idea of being alone and having to
face that empty bed and realize that I feel exactly just as alone whether or
not Jungkook is there.
“I know you’ll hate being alone,” Jungkook says, to my surprise. “So I enlisted
Taehyung to take my place.”
“Okay.”
The silence stretches on and on.
And on.
~
Taehyung brings alcohol.
Lots of alcohol.
He comes in toting a six-pack of beer cans, immediately beginning to chatter,
then finishes it and goes out to bring in another one. He remembers to ask me
this time whether I want any, but I can see him getting drunker and drunker and
I want to be sober enough to stop him if he decides to skinny-dip in the
university pool, so I don’t accept the offer.
“You and Jungkook…” he squints at the can. He isn’t drunk enough to begin
slurring yet, but I can see his senses getting dulled. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean? Nothing’s going on.” I shift nervously on my bed. We’re both
sitting on it. Taehyung has begun to lean against me.
“That’s a lie, Jiminnie. I saw that kiss. If I put it on a movie poster, people
would pay to see that movie.” He’s had just enough alcohol to remove the little
tact he already has, but not enough to make it easy for me to throw him off
track.
Damn.
“There’s just a lot of unresolved shit going on, okay? Nothing much. We just
have to figure it out.” It’s not like he’s going to remember any of this
anyway, so I might as well be honest.
“You’ll figure it out, Jiminnie.” Taehyung pats my cheek. “Jungkookie’s a good
boy. Doesn’t sleep around. Probably hasn’t had sex with anything but his hand
for the past few months.”
I choke.
“Everyone has needs. I’m sure he’s jerked himself off in the shower a few
times.” Taehyung smiles lazily. “He’s difficult to understand. He’s one of
those people who can just keep surprising you as the days pass by. One of those
people you can never really get to know. He isn’t open like me.”
“Not many people are,” I say with some difficulty.
“Exactly. They all should be. It would make everything so much easier. There’s
really not much else it takes to get someone to fall for you, you know? You
just have to show them you like them. Treat them as well as you value them.”
Taehyung waves his beer can sagely. “If they aren’t right for you, and they
reject you, fine, fuck them, drink a bit and have a few hangovers and cry it
all out, get it out of your system. But if they’re right for you...then your
relationship will grow with more than twice less anxiety and pressure.”
Taehyung gives surprisingly good advice on the road to drunkenness.
“Is that what you use to catch all the girls, Taehyung?” I tease.
He smiles lopsidedly. “Shh.” He holds a finger to his lips, taking a swig from
the can. “Don’t tell my secrets.”
The playful grin slides off my face. “He’s just...he could have anyone in the
university if he wanted, you know? It’s become a saying in the university, for
God’s sake. ‘I love you so much I wouldn’t even fuck Jungkook if he asked’.
Everyone wants to get into his pants. But he just walks past it all. Why? I
just wanna know why.”
Taehyung’s silent for a bit. “I think...he’s doing it for someone in his past.
Personal reasons.” He looks at me. “You know when after a really bad breakup,
you’re so traumatized that you just don’t even look at girls the same way for
months after? Or guys for you. I think it’s like that. He’s just not
interested.”
Taehyung falls against me. “I wonder whom he’s doing it for, hmm?” he asks, no
malice in his voice.
I shake my head. “I think it’s just that none of them meet his standards, or
something like that.”
“No,” Taehyung says softly. “I don’t think so.”
~
I stare at my hands a few nights later, turning them over and over, examining
the white spots on my nails and wondering what the hell just happened.
The principal called me into his office. Again. He told me about how pleased he
was with the flag I’d designed, and then after that I remember something
indistinct about a few art students being selected to display their work at the
Seoul Museum of Art and that he was, after all, extremely impressed with the
skill I had shown so far and that talent was a rare commodity and not to be
wasted…
“Jungkook,” I call.
His chair creaks as he swivels around to face me. “Yes?”
“Tell me the principal didn’t just tell me that he wants me to do a bunch of
sketches and paintings to be displayed in Seoul Museum of Art."

"Wait, what?" Jungkook comes over to stare at me. His hair is wet from a recent
shower, I notice. "Didn't G-Dragon have an art exhibition there or something?"

"Exactly." I run a hand through my hair. "The principal, he was like, 'You have
talent and I liked the flag you designed for Pride and you've been selected as
one of the lucky students who are going to showcase an exhibition of their
works at the Seoul Museum of Art in a few months. Congratulations! Now get out
of my office because I have to do some work."
"You're having an art exhibition of your work in a few months?" Jungkook seems
to be encountering some difficulty catching on. "Like, your paintings and
drawings and all? And you can decide the topic?"

"Well, he was like, 'Since you've demonstrated your expertise at showcasing
same-sex love, you'd be sure to do well if you went for the same topic'. But I
think ultimately he said that it was up to me."
"But this is amazing, what the hell?" Jungkook actually looks happy for me.
"You're gonna have an art exhibition!"

"Yeah," I say, the magnitude of that fact just beginning to dawn on me. "Yeah."


"Oh my god, this is great! I'm so happy for you!"

I smile modestly.
He grins. “This is really—wow.” He shakes his head. “I feel like a proud
teacher.”
“You are. Or were, until a while ago.”
He sighs. And then he hugs me, completely unexpectedly.
He leans down and pulls me close, and I make a muffled oofof surprise. His
hands spread across my back.
He pulls back and smiles at me. “Proud of you.”
I think he might kiss me again. I can remember it, can feel it, can see it
happening. But he draws back, the heat of his body falling away, and I realize
how much further I have to left to struggle before we are where we were before.
How long before I give up?
***** None of Your Bismuth *****
Chapter Notes
     Little nugget of useless information: the periodic table symbol for
     Bismuth is Bi, which is maybe why Jungkook relates to it so much.
     And Google Image it. It's insanely pretty.
     I wrote this entire mess in one night from about 10 p.m. to 5 a.m. in
     the morning, please don't judge me ㅠㅠ
“Party,”Taehyung insists, leaning into my space and shaking me by the
shoulders, speaking slowly and clearly as if I'm a zombie in addition to being
handicapped. “Meet...people. Get...drunk...until cannot...remember...own name.
Like...normal...people.”
“What’s wrong with you? Get off!” I shove irritably at him, my Art History
textbooks open on the bed in front of me. Surrealism is characterized by the
unrealistic fusion of fantasy with reality, often done in a dreamlike,
indistinct fashion; a famous example is the painting of melting clocks,
entitled...
Taehyung, undeterred, goes bounding over to Jungkook’s bed instead, where he 's
been barricading himself from the outside world in an impressive pillow-and-
blanket fort. Feverish mutterings about the atomic composition of bismuth and
other appropriately science-y things far too practical for me occasionally
drift out towards my ears, making me unconsciously write gibberish in my notes
such as the fact that cubism is the study of the subduction zones at convergent
boundaries where oceanic crust meets continental crust due to its higher
density and form deep-ocean angles for which it is famed.
“Kookie,” Taehyung wheedles, “don’t you want to go to a party?”
“No. I’m studying. Strike-slip faults are often preceded by—”
“But…party! You could get drunk! Make a fool of yourself and watch other people
make fools of themselves and forget it all the next day because you’re too
fucking hungover! That’s always fun, right?”
“No. I don’t know about you, Taehyung, but permanent liver damage and vomiting
in someone else’s toilet is not my idea of fun. In the occurrence of reverse
faults, the hanging wall block slides up the foot block,”he intones
determinedly. “These can be observed in—”
“How about getting high?” Taehyung coaxes. “Passing around a joint and giggling
at the smoke?”
“Drugs,” Jungkook says scathingly, “cause great damage to the general wellbeing
and health of the body in addition to helping write a collaborative story of
mistakes and regrets, in other words known as the story of your life. When
bells begin to ring and hanging objects visibly shift, the intensity of the
earthquake would be rated on the Mercalli scale as—”
“Ouch. Look, say you got drunk or high enough and you met this girl or guy
who’s also drunk or high enough and with some luck—hell, you don’t need it, not
with your face—you’d get laid!”
“No.”Jungkook casts a nervous glance in my direction. It’s furtive, quick,
checking to see my reaction, whether I care. I slap an indifferent expression
on my face and chew my bottom lip as I go over my notes, frowning and hoping
it’s a good look on me, muttering in a hopefully convincing voice about the
changes in the color of azurite-based paint over time and how they’re linked to
the slight greenish appearance in the painted skies of old paintings.
“Oh, come on, Jungkook,” Taehyung says, exasperated. “Just follow me to the
damn party. They’ll be queuing up for you to fuck them. Wear your leather pants
and Jimin’ll come along, too.”
I bore a hole into my notes with a studious, pained glare worthy of the X-men,
resolutely not looking up and acknowledging that I can hear him.
I hear the thud of Jungkook giving up and closing his textbook with a sigh.
“Having sex isn’t all there is to life, Taehyung.”
“Of course you can say that, when you’ve practically been a nun for half a year
and they still haven’t given up on getting into your pants!” Taehyung says
furiously. “Jimin, are you alright? You’re grimacing. You look like you’re in
pain.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sleeping around—just—isn’t—important to me.”
“You say that,” Taehyung says darkly, “because everyone wants you and you get
to turn them down.”
“There are more important things than worldly pleasure. Studying. Success.
Happiness.”
“Sex makes you happy!”
“It’s not all that makes you happy.”
“Just come?” Taehyung switches tack quickly, realizing that wheedling isn’t
going to persuade him, and sags against Jungkook’s body, clutching at his shirt
and pleading with his eyes. “Please? It would look so pathetic if I came to the
party alone.”
“Go with your roommate.”
“Number one, Yoongi’s a murderous, cold-hearted old man, number two, he’s
already going with his boyfriend, and number three, even if he weren’t he’d
probably kill me on the way there.” Taehyung looks thoughtful. “Or aggressively
fuck me in the car until we never get there if he finally gets all the hints
I’ve been dropping and I wear that choker.”
“What the hell, I thought you were straight as a ruler?” I jump in
disbelievingly, unable to ignore this new landmine of information.
“Ah, but see…no one is straight as a ruler,per se. The definition of straight
as a ruleris extremely subjective. And everyone has that one person you’d
forget your established sexuality for, you know…?” Taehyung says dreamily.
“No,” I say flatly. “I can’t think of a single girl I’d fantasize about fucking
in a car with.”
“Well, he stopped dying his hair, okay? He looks really, really good with black
hair. And I’m not saying I’m gay, but if he pushed me into the wall and started
kissing me I wouldn’t try very hard to stop him, ya know?” Taehyung turns his
hands palms up as if he can’t help circumstances and smiles vaguely at the
ceiling.
“You didn’t turn gay for me,” Jungkook says, slightly offended. “We showered
together and you saw me naked and all. How come you didn’t turn gay for me but
you turn gay for that twink?”
“Okay, first, dude. Not everyone is slavering after your dick. Accept it.”
Jungkook splutters in indignation as Taehyung ticks off on his fingers. “Number
two, maybe I’m into twinks. Maybe you’re too muscular for my taste. And maybe
I’m just not gay at all.”
“You just said that you’d let him fuck you into a car seat,” I say slowly to
Taehyung to let it sink in past his boy-crush (I know girl-crushes are a thing,
are boy-crushes?). “If you didn’t know that already, this is not normal
straight man behavior.”
He shrugs. “Meh. Who likes labels anyway.”
“I like labels,” Jungkook pipes up. “They make me feel secure.”
Taehyung glares at him. “You are a science nerd,”he says icily, “who wore a
shirt which said that it was nobody’s bismuth whether you’re straight or gay to
the Pride parade.”
He looks offended. “I like bismuth. It’s pretty.”
“You are derailing me,” Taehyung’s voice rises dramatically, “from the point!
The point is, accompany me to this party!”
“I’ve said it already and I’ll say it again,” Jungkook responds smoothly, “no.”
“If Jimin comes, he’ll get laid,” Taehyung says defiantly.
I jolt. “What? No! I’m not going! And I’m not s-sleeping with anyone!”
“Jungkook,” Taehyung says, ignoring me, “think of how much of a pushover Jimin
is and how high the chances that I’ll persuade him to come to the party are,
and add that to the possibility of his drink being spiked with GHB and him
contracting some kind of horrific sexual disease.”
“I’m not a pushover,” I say, hurt, but Jungkook is drawing himself
threateningly up to his full sitting height, his head poking over the top of
the pillow fort walls to glare in cold, judgmental fury at all of us.
“The majority of sexual diseases are contracted at parties under the influence
of alcohol or drugs, mainly as a result of unprotected sex,” he hisses. “Are
you really going to drag Jimin into that kind of…of…squalor?”
“Wow, squalor. Vocabulary word. Don’t get all SAT prep on me.” Taehyung holds
up his hands, impressed. “Look, you know Jimin’s gonna come. He can’t withstand
me for more than a day, and I have two. He either gets too annoyed or too
sympathetic. So wouldn’t you really rather be there to protect him from
herpes?”
Jungkook gives him a look frigid enough to freeze fire. Taehyung smiles back at
him, completely unperturbed.
“Whatever. Fine. I’ll come.” He retreats slowly back into his pillow fort,
somehow managing to make it look threatening. “But I swear to God if you slip
me a weed burger or some shit and I get high and do some stupid shit, I will
wring your neck in front of the whole school.”
I hear him open his textbook and begin muttering vengefully about the
differences between P and S waves.
Taehyung turns to me, smiling brightly. “Business as usual, then.”
~
The party is loud. The first thing I think is that the ugly music is booming,
seeming to rattle the windowpanes in their frames, hurting my ears and clanging
painfully against my brain. I huddle closer to Jungkook, the tallest, broadest,
most familiar body around, hunkering down instinctively as if he can protect me
from the raucous laughter and scattered beer bottles and groping hands.
Taehyung’s face lights up as he sees someone he knows—these are his kind of
people—and melts into the crowd, leaving us alone.
“I don’t wanna be here,” I say immediately to Jungkook.
“I know,” he says, freezing a passing jock with a glare. “I don’t like it
either.”
“Can we go somewhere the music isn’t so loud?”
“Yeah…basement?”
“Do they have a basement? Or is that only a John Green thing?”
“What John Green thing? In which of his books did he mention a basement?”
“I don’t know, the typical romance-novel den of iniquity and making out.
Upstairs then?”
“Yeah. Stairs are over there.”
We fight our way through the crowd, Jungkook straight-arming or elbowing people
aside and I mostly following in his wake, but an arm appears out of nowhere,
roping around my shoulders and pulling me back. Jungkook turns as I give a
frightened squeak, eyes narrowed, but he sees it’s Taehyung and relaxes
slightly. “Taehyung?”
“We’re playing Spin the Bottle, wanna join?” he asks excitedly.
Dread trickles down my spine like ice-cold water. Kissing complete strangers?
Who could potentially have herpes?No thanks. I shake my head.
“Oh, come on, Jimin,” he persuades. “It’ll be fun. You could lose your
virginity.”
“I already lost it to Jungkook,” I say, then clap my hand over my mouth as I
realize what I just said. Jungkook gives me a strange, slightly alarmed look.
“Eh, I knew that.” Taehyung waves his hand dismissively. “But, see, you could
lose it to someone else.”
“That’s not how virginity works, Taehyung. I don’t think you got the memo.”
“I don’t care. You’re playing!” He drags me through the crowd to a circle of
cross-legged people in the sitting room, and Jungkook, scowling, has no choice
but to follow.
Taehyung pokes a few people with his foot to get them to make a space for us,
and we sit down on the carpet, Jungkook and I reluctantly and Taehyung
smilingly. People greet Taehyung and quite a few look eager at the sight of
Jungkook, mostly girls, but their gazes slide right over me. I don’t know
whether to be grateful or hurt.
It starts quickly, unceremoniously, a slightly spotty guy reaching out to spin
a beer bottle. It doesn’t turn for too long because the friction from the
carpet slows it down, and I nearly get a heart attack as it slows to a stop
somewhere in between Taehyung at me at the prospect of having to kiss someone.
But it’s eventually decided by common agreement that the bottle is closer to
Taehyung, and he leans across, grinning, to kiss a blonde girl quickly on the
lips. She smiles at Taehyung as they draw back, and a guy next to her frowns,
putting his arm around her waist protectively.
The next few spins land nowhere near me, and I my attention drifts as people I
don’t know give each other quick, dry, sometimes awkward pecks, hands not quite
sure where to go and eyes not quite sure where to look. The bottle veers far
off center so that even people sitting next to each other are made to kiss,
something which wouldn’t be possible if it were truly in the middle of the
circle. I see quite a lot of bias, people waggling feet casually at just the
right time so the neck of the bottle catches on their toes and stops,
withdrawing their feet immediately so no one sees. There’s leering and teasing
and slightly slurred egging on as people take swigs from their beer cans.
Then suddenly the bottle slows agonizingly as it spins past me, slows, slows,
slows, catching on the carpet…slows some more…and stops in between Jungkook and
a girl across from him.
Jungkook looks at the bottle, then at the girl on the other hand. She’s thin,
pretty, I suppose, in a bland, generic sort of way, her hair ironed stick-
straight and conditioned shiny, twisted around her finger if a hot guy walks
past. Her pink lip gloss glints in the overhead lighting. I’m pretty sure she’s
on the cheerleading squad.
She smiles coyly at Jungkook, but Jungkook’s face has gone still as stone.
Once people have realized what’s happened, they start cheering and calling out.
“Come on, then, Jungkook, put on a good show!” “Haven’t seen those lips in
action since you enrolled, mate!” They obviously haven’t checked the school
website,I think in sinking embarrassment. “Make this one to remember!”
Jungkook looks around at all the people calling out with the same blank
expression on his face. A small crowd not playing the game has gathered around
to watch, beers in hand. The girl leans forward eagerly, her short skirt
lifting and her tight shirt straining over her visibly overlarge balcony bra,
her pink-painted nails tapping on the carpet in anticipation.
Jungkook meets her eyes. No, don’t,I think desperately. If you remember what
went between us at all, don’t do it, don’t kiss her, for my sake, please…
He leans forward.
What makes it worse is that Jungkook kisses her with his whole mouth, with his
lips, his tongue, his teeth. He tilts his head and closes his eyes, holding her
jaw, and I watch their mouths open and move against each other, tongues meeting
wetly, with a sick feeling in my stomach. She gasps breathlessly and moves
closer, her breasts pressed obscenely against his chest, arms around his neck.
Their mouths make a little smacking noise as they finally pull apart, the girl
looking dazed and disappointed.
Everyone’s eyes are on Jungkook as he presses his lips together and licks at
the pink lip gloss smeared over his mouth. “Strawberry,” he says, and there’s a
moment of silence before everyone laughs.
I stare hard at him, willing him to look at me, willing him to see how
disgusting and wrong that looked on my face, but he stares right past me as I
didn’t exist. I see him surreptitiously wipe a hand across the back of his
mouth, the back of his hand coming away shiny with pink lip gloss.
I feel nauseous.
I’m too absorbed in myself to notice the girl he kissed tipping forward on her
knees, her long, shaped, and buffed nails clinking on the glass as she spins
the bottle. Now thoroughly off center and coupled with the unsteadiness of her
shaking hands, it veers in our direction, where I’m still trying to catch
Jungkook’s eye and Jungkook is so casually not seeing me that neither of us
notice the bottle pointing perfectly horizontal between us.
Jungkook is the first to notice as an odd silence falls over the watching
crowd. He looks around, then down at the bottle, a small frown creasing the
skin between his eyebrows at its position. He looks at the spotty guy who
started off the game, presumably the host, in confusion.
“Well…” the guy says slowly, “the bottle’s obviously pointing between you and
him, and there’s no reason for a respin…”
I finally realize what’s happening and look at the bottle. It registers
belatedly and accompanied by mounting horror in my jealousy-befuddled brain
that I’ll have to do this, if they make me do this I’ll have to kiss Jungkook
in front of all these people.
“Kiss him,” a girl says loudly, earnestly. The girls on the outside are
practically standing on their tiptoes, craning forward to get a better look.
“Yeah, kiss him,” one of them echoes. It runs around the room like a rumor we
are helpless to quash, a mantra of mutiny and excited rebellion, and in moments
the chant of “Kiss him! Kiss him!” is ringing loud around the room and more
people are coming to watch.
I look around helplessly, face flaming as hot as a boiling kettle while
Jungkook struggles to keep his expression under control. I can’t help it—the
memories of how those plush lips felt against mine, soft at times and
bruisingly hard at others, wandering all over my body and fitting themselves
around me, jolt into my mind and I tip towards him almost unconsciously the way
we do when we want someone badly but cannot say it, like a flower turning its
face towards sunlight. A brief, vague memory of the Pride parade flits into my
head, an iridescent butterfly, pretty, soft lips and rainbow touches painted
onto its wings.
Jungkook finally looks at me, really looks at me for the first time since the
parade. I swallow, and his eyes drop down, follow the progress of my Adam’s
apple. I feel the flush race up my neck, competing with my thudding heartbeat.
He leans into me. My eyes are closed before our lips touch. He barely brushes
my mouth, then pulls away hesitantly, and my heart breaks while I wonder
whether that is all I’ll get. Then his lips come back, pressing firmly against
mine, my body crying out with relief at how perfect it feels to have his mouth
on mine like it should be. His large hand covers mine where it lies curled and
trembling in my lap, and the other comes up to my face, smoothing his thumb
over my jaw. His eyes have closed at some point. His lashes flutter once
against my cheekbones, light as a brush of wings.
He moves closer, tilting his head to the side, kissing me a little harder now.
He bites down on my lower lip and I forget that there are people watching at
all in the confused rush of pain and pleasure, gasp needily into his mouth
because I couldn’t survive much longer without this, I couldn’t look at him any
longer without wanting this. He tugs at it a little. My lips part, and I feel
his tongue delve into my mouth, swiping over my teeth and my own tongue. He
sighs softly as if he missed me as much as I missed him. His thumb keeps
tracing those maddening, sweet circles on my jaw, the other rubbing over my
knuckles and melting me into putty.
It’s all coming back in dizzying clarity. That first time, that first taste of
the innocence to be found in sin, darkness, and skin in the unmapped,
terrifying world of his bed. Finding out that he curses sometimes when he
comes, that he likes winding his fingers in my hair and pulling until my head
is tipped back so he can lean down and bite at my throat. Wrapping myself in
his body afterwards like a blanket, exhausted and satisfied in a way in a way
I’d never been before, in a way only he could make me, fingers tangled in his
soft, soft hair and lips still sleepily trying to find each other. And the
second time, and the third, and the fourth, and the fifth, and all the rest in
his classroom, feeling more and more desperate and hungry for him the emptier
he made me feel, stripped of emotion as we fucked like animals on the desks and
against the walls and on the bare floor, moans and grunts bouncing off the
windows where anyone could see us if they looked in. Letting him kiss me harder
and harder and yanking at his hair until I nearly pulled it out at the roots so
he would bite down on my skin until he drew blood, hoping it would make me feel
something. The way I shivered when I found the angry scratches down my thighs
later, the finger marks around my wrists, the bruises he’d sucked into my neck
while I begged for more, the bite marks on my skin he’d left while he called me
a slut and worse things and I’d whimpered and took it all in until I couldn’t
take anymore. The way it feels to be crying alone on the bathroom floor because
your heart is being ripped out of you and you’re telling the man who does it to
pull harder.
I find it all again in the drag of his tongue over mine, the memories all
rushing back and making my head spin, making my stomach lurch with longing and
pain. Making me wish I could tangle my hands in his hair right now, push us
down and roll us over so I can feel his weight on top of me again, just for one
last time. Making me wish I could still kiss his lips raw and swollen without
questioning whether I can.
And then I taste it, lurking in the crease between his lower lip and teeth.
Strawberry. Artificial, sweet, sticky strawberry, even tasting as pink as her
nails and clothes. The remnants of the last girl he kissed.
It forces me back to reality in an instant, and my eyes fly open, my panicked
mind registering the fact that his hands are in my hair, tugging the way they
used to, a burst of pleasure with every sting, and everyone is staring at us in
shock and the music has stopped and there’s a hardness growing in my jeans and
no, I’m not ready for this, not yet, not here, not now.
I push him away, hands shoving at his chest, and he goes tumbling backwards
more out of shock than anything. He catches himself on his elbows, looking at
me with his eyes dark and his pupils dilated and his lips kissed swollen. He’s
not allowed to look at me like that, not while we’re here and he’s still okay
with kissing girls and people who are not me and we haven’t even talked about
all the shit which went on between us.
“Taehyung,” I stammer, looking at him desperately, breaking the shocked silence
which has settled over everyone like a shroud. His eyes are wide, and he looks
just as floored as everyone else, his mouth hanging slightly open. “Taehyung, I
wanna leave. Go back to the dorms.”
He jolts into action. “Yeah…yeah,” he mumbles, blushing and looking away from
me and Jungkook. He leaps to his feet. “I’ll take you back. Come on.”
I stand as well, and we file wordlessly out the door, trailed by Jungkook.
Every single one of the partygoers watches us go, none of them quite knowing
what to say.
The door shuts behind us, and Jungkook immediately goes tearing off at a run,
long legs swallowing the tarmac as he seems to fly away from us. From me,I
think with a pang. “Jungkook!” Taehyung shouts as he disappears around the
corner. “Jungkook, where’re you—ah, never mind.” He curses as he vanishes from
view. “He’s probably running all the way back to the dorms by himself. It’s the
sort of thing he’d do.”
We walk in thick silence a little while from the house where the party was held
and get into Taehyung’s car (“bought second-hand with student loans and hungry
nights”). The doors slam shut and Taehyung starts up the engine, but we don’t
move.
Taehyung sighs heavily, dropping his hands from the wheel and abandoning the
pretence of driving. “What was that in there?” he asks, staring straight ahead
and not looking at me. “What was that fucking kiss?”
“Was it that bad?” I say quietly.
“Yes, it was that bad.” Taehyung meets my eyes, his own wide and angry. “It was
that bad because you both individually tell me you don’t have any feelings for
each other anymore and you don’t even say anything to each other even though
you live together but at the first game of Spin the Bottle you kiss like you’re
going to have sex on the fucking floor right in front of us and you’ve been
through a fucking war together.”
I wince. “Look, I—”
“And you know why this bothers me so much? You know why this makes me so angry?
Because you two are my best friends but you’re tearing each other and
yourselves apart because you won’t fucking admit that you need each other.”
Taehyung throws his hands up. “You talked for a bit a while back, that stuff
about being friends before lovers, but you two know as well as I do that it’s
just an excuse to avoid confronting your feelings. What are you scared of? What
are you scared of, godammit? Even a blind person could see that you two still
want each other. But you don’t talk, no. I have to conduct negotiations as if
you don’t speak the same fucking language because you both are too emotionally
constipated to look each other in the eye!”
I sit quietly, taken aback and guilty at this deluge of ranting. It’s the
angriest I’ve ever seen him.
“I am not”—he shakes his finger at me, breathing heavily through his
nose—“going to be the conduit to the fucked-up circuit of your love lives
anymore. When we get back to your room, I don’t care if Jungkook’s run to North
Korea to star in The Interview,but I’m going to drag him back here and you two
are going to fucking talk. Without me.By yourselves.Like mature adults.”
I bite my lip.
“Do you understand me?” he barks.
“Yes,” I say quietly.
We drive back in silence, Taehyung fuming in the driver’s seat all the way. He
punches the elevator button unnecessarily hard and throws open the door to our
room. The blanketed lump in Jungkook’s bed startles awake as the door bangs on
the wall behind it.
“You!” Taehyung shouts. “Wake up!”
Jungkook hastily throws the covers off of himself and sits up straight, looking
apprehensive and just as fearful as I am at the fury in Taehyung’s voice.
“You two are going to talk,” Taehyung hisses. “And you’re going to sort all
your shit out, once and for all.And I don’t care if one of you really needs to
pee or is having a major life crisis, I’m not letting you out of this room
until you two’ve talked out all your shit. All your shit.”
We quiver, terrified.
Taehyung spears us each with a scathing look, then turns and leaves, slamming
the door behind him. Some plaster dust falls from the ceiling.
A long moment of unsure silence.
I walk slowly towards my bed and sit down. The bed springs creak as my weight
sinks down on them. We avoid each other’s eyes.
“I don’t hear any talking!” Taehyung yells menacingly through the door.
“I’m sorry,” Jungkook bursts out hastily to me, evidently spurred on by the
mental image of Taehyung coming in and screaming at us about poor social
skills. “That I did that.”
“It’s not your fault,” I mumble. “The bottle pointed that way.”
“But I could’ve just…pecked you or something. I didn’t have to kiss you like
that.”
I raise my eyes to meet his. “You kissed that girl like that,” I say, faintly
accusingly, although I know he didn’t kiss her as thoroughly. He didn’t end
with his hands tangled in her hair and their hands clasped in her lap like age-
long lovers.
He sighs. “But…that didn’t really matter. I didn’t know her.”
“Sure looked like you did,” I say unintentionally viciously.
“I don’t want to just start arguing again, Jimin,” he says, sounding pained.
“Every time we try to talk to each other about something important, we just
argue.”
“Maybe Taehyung’s wrong, then. We shouldn’t be together if we’re always
arguing. It means we don’t get along.”
“We don’t argue because we don’t get along. We argue because we know the other
won’t take an insult lying down and arguing is a diversion.” He sighs again.
“Look, Jimin, I…I still…” he breaks off and tries again. “I still…have…I still
want to be with you.”
My heart soars.
“But after last time…after the fiasco that was the last time we tried to make
things work and failed spectacularly…I doubt that we can keep a relationship
going without it turning toxic.”
And plummets.
“So that’s why I haven’t talked about this with you, although I shouldn’t be
making excuses. I’m afraid…that you’ll tell me you feel the same way, and we’ll
get together, and then we’ll slowly turn into more fuckbuddies than friends,
even.”
“But we never really had a chance to know each other as equals,” I protest.
“You were always the teacher and I was always the student and you always knew
better. You can’t build a relationship on that.”
“But what bothers me is that we didn’t even try.” His voice is desolate. “I
shut you down right after that first night and then—your grades started
dropping, and I came up with that stupid system where every A is a fuck because
I was so desperate to have somethingwith you but I couldn’t have it because you
were a student and I was your teacher, and then we hardly talked because we
were too busy fucking every time we were alone. I saw how much it was hurting
you.” He hesitates. “That’s why…I didn’t tell you about the University of
Seoul’s offer to take me earlier. I’d known about a month before I told you,
but I didn’t want to tell you, because I was afraid you’d find a way to
convince me to stay and hurt yourself even more in the process. We were getting
too attached to each other’s bodies. We weren’t really seeing each other as
people.And I see that mistake now, and I guess we could avoid it by just
talking more, but it’s so easy to fall into the trenches dug by past mistakes,
you know?” He exhales. “It’s so easy to travel the path you walked before to a
bad end.”
I gnaw on my lip. “Jungkook, don’t misunderstand me. I wanna…try again.”
“Okay.”
“But I’m kind of afraid that we’ll fall back into our old patterns too,” I say
softly. “Because what we had was killing me. It wasn’t enough of what I needed
and too much of what I wanted. For both of us. And that’s never a good thing.”
We’re quiet for a while.
“But can’t we try?” Jungkook’s voice cracks at the end. He’s the most desperate
I’ve ever seen him. “We won’t know whether we’re too broken to fix until we
try. How will we know we’re beyond repair if we never try?”
“I’m just so tired of getting hurt,” I say quietly. “I can’t…I can’t put myself
out there like other people, put a sign on me that says ‘come break my heart
and I’ll forgive you for it’. I’m not like that.”
More silence.
Jungkook doesn’t say anything; instead, he gets up, walking over to my bed, and
sits down next to me. He’s still wearing the  black wide-collared shirt which
bares his collarbones and the skinny jeans from the party. I lean into him
unconsciously, and he reaches out and pulls my hand into his lap, rubs his
thumb over the knuckles like he did while he was kissing me. It makes my
insides feel like jelly, and I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling an
irrational, idiotic grin.
“Please?” he asks softly.
His thumb stills and he squeezes my hand, my heart squeezing along with it.
I bite my lip harder, wondering whether I’m making a mistake, then nod.
His smile starts out small first, as if he doesn’t quite believe me and I’m
setting him up for disappointment. When I don’t yell “April Fool’s” or whatever
he was expecting, his grin breaks out in its full glory, bursting with relief,
his nose scrunching up and his eyes crinkling into slits the way they only do
when he forgets to keep them open (he thinks he looks better that way) because
he’s too happy.
And I realize, even as I muse inwardly about how his smiles can be translated
into how happy he is, that I doknow him. Only someone who knows him would be
able to tell you that Jungkook collects perfumes—regardless of whether they’re
men’s or women’s—and hides them under his bed—he thinks I don’t know. Only
someone who knows him would know that his favorite smell is soap and that he
thinks soap should be made into a perfume. Only someone who knows him would
know that he sings and dances in the shower because he likes it but is too
embarrassed to do it in public. Only someone who knows him would know that he
considers it partially his fault his mother died and still rips himself apart
about it sometimes even though the doctors told him that she died in her sleep
and there’s nothing he would have been able to do for her anyway.
I smile hesitantly back at him.
Moments later, we’re kissing. I don’t know how we got there and I don’t know
where we’re headed, but Jungkook’s hands are gentle on my jaw again and his
lips are moving softly against mine like the definition of tenderness itself
and I could cry with how gentle he’s being.
I let myself go limp under his weight, tip backwards so we end up with his body
pressing on top of mine, that wonderful weight bearing me down into the
mattress, heart thumping over mine the way I like it. My hands tangled in his
hair the way I like it.
He shifts, and his thick, thick thigh presses hard against the heaviness
between my legs which hasn’t really went away since the party, and I grind back
automatically at the instant throb of pleasure. The tone of our kisses changes
abruptly, completely. Now we are back to where we left off at the party, our
fingers pulling at strands of hair and Jungkook’s thigh rubbing purposefully
against me, licking into each other’s mouths and trying to burn the feeling of
this moment into our memories in case it’s snatched away from us again.
But it isn’t. This time we’re alone, and the throb in between my legs grows
wonderfully pleasurable as I hump his thigh sloppily, shamelessly, pressing
small moans into his mouth like presents.
He moves away from my mouth, kissing at my neck the way I imagine heaven to
feel like, holding my hair in his left hand to keep my head steady and deftly
undoing the zipper of my jeans one-handed with his right. He tugs at the
waistband of my jeans, managing to yank them down my hips once I lift them. The
pressure on my hard-on eases, and my mind explodes at the thin layer of cloth
separating it and Jungkook’s skin, only that thin layer of cloth between me and
ecstasy. I toe off my jeans and kick them away impatiently, hook my finger into
my briefs before Jungkook mumbles “wait” into my pulse point, making me shiver
and stop. He takes his time, kissing down my sternum and pressing his face into
my stomach, licking and nipping at my faint abs, and then finally his teeth
close over the waistband. I sigh as he pulls my briefs away and deposits them
over the edge of the bed.
He’s a horrible tease. He presses his lips to my inner thighs, kisses my legs,
anything but putting his mouth to the leaking, neglected cock an inch from his
nose. “Jungkook,” I finally growl as he nips at the inside of my knee. “Please
get a move on.”
He smiles against my skin and moves his mouth obediently northward, blowing hot
air over the flushed tip before enveloping my length in his mouth. I moan and
shut my eyes, because I want to savor this moment, remember it forever, the
soft, wet silk of the inside of his mouth and throat and the tiny shivers of
ecstasy travelling through my length whenever he hums or makes a sound.
He’s let go of my hair long ago, so he rests his hands on my hips now, kneading
them gently as he takes me all the way in until his nose touches my lower
stomach without a single choke or gag. I blush as I watch myself disappear down
his throat, sucked into perfection as whole and complete as sin can be.
He swallows once, causing me to writhe, then looks up through his eyelashes at
me and blinks innocently.
It’s too much. The eye contact sends throbbing, hot need crackling through
everything below my navel, and my hips thrust upwards reflexively, the feeling
of my length sliding deeper down his throat like the descent into madness and
hell itself.
“Jungkook,” I gasp. “Jungkook, moan for me.”
He obeys, a beautiful, low groan vibrating through his throat and into my body
in the best way possible, the sound like pure sex itself. I feel dizzy,
drugged, and my hips snap quickly as Jungkook moans again, fluttering his
lashes and swallowing at the same time for the effect.
“Oh,” I whimper breathlessly, grabbing fistfuls of the bed sheets as Jungkook
bobs up and down on my cock, lips and tongue dragging agonizingly over the
shaft every time he moves. “Oh, oh, oh.”
I’m half-afraid he won’t let me come, but he lets me, sucking me off until the
very last minute when I pull out and white ribbons of my cum splash onto his
face without warning, sticking in his eyelashes and glistening on his parted
lips and cheeks. He gazes up at me, completely unfazed by the fact that he just
received the same treatment as a porn star in a bukkake film, and extremely
slowly and deliberately licks it off his lips. He can’t blink properly; the
globs of white stuck in his eyelashes try their best to gum his eyes shut.
It’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
“Oh my God,” I pant, and I pull his body up, back to my lips. I can taste my
own cum in his mouth.
“Have you got lube?” I mumble, body trembling slightly as he licks stripes up
and down my neck greedily. “Please tell me you have lube.”
“Of course I have lube. I wouldn’t call myself gay otherwise.” He looks away
from me for a while to reach over the side of the bed and rummage in his
discarded pants pockets. He comes up with a small, discreet bottle, the clear
liquid inside sloshing around as he uncaps it and pours a generous measure onto
his palm.
“You’re clean?” I ask, staring up at the ceiling.
“Yes. You?”
“I’ve never had sex with anyone but you. So if you’re clean, then I’m clean.”
“Good. Because I forgot to bring condoms.”
“Such a well-prepared gay you are.”
“I know. I’m proud of myself.” He sets the vial of lube on the nightstand, done
coating his fingers in the slick stuff, some of which drips off and onto my
stomach. I shiver. It’s cold.
He bends and licks it off my skin. His mouth is much warmer.
“It’s not flavored, is it?” I ask him.
“No.”
“Good,” I say, relieved.
He doesn’t stop kissing my stomach, pressing his lips all over as if determined
to not miss one square millimeter of skin. It distracts me, and I hardly notice
when his cold fingers nudge against me until the first one slides in.
“A-ah.” I arch my back a little in discomfort. “Cold.”
“I’m sorry.” He kisses my belly more firmly like an apology or a consolation.
“It’ll get warmer. I promise.”
He finds my prostate after hardly a minute. I shouldn’t be surprised he
remembers where it is. His fingers thrust in and then curl, hitting it dead-on,
and my body tenses in a scream.
Jungkook startles.
“I’m s-sorry.” I blush in embarrassment. “I haven’t been touched in months. You
can’t blame me.”
The truth is that I’ve tried. But my stubby fingers aren’t long enough to reach
my prostate whereas Jungkook’s reach it easily, giving rise to many sleepless
nights of sexual frustration. I even found myself staring wistfully at
Taehyung’s almost abnormally large hands once, wishing I could borrow them for
the night. Shit was getting serious.
He bites back a smile and nips lightly at my neck, making me yelp. “So
innocent.”
I decide not to respond, closing my eyes and concentrating on muffling my moans
in my fist or forearm as Jungkook’s fingers scissor and curl inside me
languidly. The whole party already saw us kissing. I don’t want the whole dorm
knowing we’re having sex.
He knows I’ve had enough of fingering once I start restlessly pushing my hips
down, longing for more girth, more length. He pulls them out and wipes them
carelessly on the sheets—I’ll have to wash them—and kneels, slicking himself
up, somehow managing to have discarded his clothes without my noticing. I prop
myself up and try not to stare, then remember that I can now and openly ogle
him. Jungkook doesn’t have one of those terrifying porn-worthy monster dicks,
but he doesn’t have an awkwardly small one either. Ever since that night, I’ve
found myself measuring all dicks I see in porn or in the communal showers
against his, as if his has become the benchmark for good and self-respecting
cocks.
But I honestly don’t think there’s a better combination of features possible.
He’s long and thick, with a slight upwards curve and a red flush when he’s
turned on. I like the way he fits in my hand and mouth, warm and heavy and
throbbing.
Jungkook looks up, capping the vial of lube and replacing it on the nighstand,
abs tensing beautifully as he leans over. “Why are you staring at me?”
I blink at him. “Is that honestly even a question?”
He looks down at himself and smirks. “No.” He clambers back over me. “If I
could fuck myself, I’d fuck myself. You’re a lucky man.”
“Just masturbate and stop inflating your ego, ugh.”
“You wanna watch?”
I can feel myself blushing, warmth racing up my neck and cheeks as I stare
fixedly at a point above his shoulder. He laughs. “I didn’t mean it, don’t take
it so seriously. But if you actually wanna, then I’m up for it—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I mumble, cheeks flaming. “I’m not into voyeuristic
kink.”
“You never know until you try.” I stare at him, infuriated and embarrassed at
the same time, and he winks, lining himself up.
I can’t describe what it feels like to be full again after a month of never
quite being fulfilled. Jungkook grins as he slides in, panting, “You’d be
tighter if you hadn’t been fingering yourself while I couldn’t step in.”
“Shut up.”
“How many fingers did you get in?”
“Shut up!”
He chuckles and pulls out smoothly, thrusting in again, my stomach giving that
wonderful little lurch it makes when he hits my prostate. I reach for something
to take my frustrations out on and find his biceps, raking my nails down the
muscles harshly as he thrusts in again. He smiles down at me, eyes dark, not
trying to stop me. He likes the pain.
We’re both such twisted little motherfuckers.
“Kitten’s got claws,” he says softly as he rolls his hips a little faster,
trying to taunt me. But I’m too lost in the way he fills me up to care too much
about what he says to me, biting down hard on my lip to stifle a half-whimper.
He bends down, burying his face in the crook of my neck and pressing his lips
to it. He bites at the thin, sensitive skin, and I moan, loud in the relatively
quiet room. I tip my head back without needing to be asked so he can access
more skin, body overloaded with sensation as his hips jerk inside me and his
teeth nip at my earlobe…
Jungkook reaches down to wrap his right hand around my cock and jerk me off
with quick, sharp tugs, the way I like it. I whimper, screwing my eyes shut and
moving my hips so that my cock is caught between our stomachs and his hand,
smearing precum on all of it. It’s embarrassing but also oddly heartwarming the
way he rediscovers all my old triggers, like spreading his hand over my stomach
and pushing down for the pressure. It’s all about pressure in the end,I think
deliriously as Jungkook’s hips slam into mine, the sound of skin on skin
obscenely ringing throughout the room. He thumbs at the slit of my cock, and I
cry out. Pressure on my stomach, pressure on me, pressure there, right there…
He digs his thumbnail hard into the slit of my cock at the same moment he bites
down on my nipple. He remembers that I get off on pain, and he’s not wrong—my
hips jerk convulsively, and stars explode behind my eyelids and between my legs
as sticky white wetness spurts onto our stomachs. He’s hitting my prostate
again and again and again, and it’s all becoming too much, too painful, I’m
going to scream soon if the overstimulation doesn’t stop—
And then Jungkook moans, deep and broken, into my neck and a flood of warmth
surges inside me and my thighs twitch from the sensation. Relief crashes over
me when Jungkook’s hips slow, going from sharp thrusts to slow rolls as he
sighs into my skin, eventually pulling out completely and nearly falling off
the cramped single bed as he tries to lie next to me.
“Lie on top of me,” he grumbles, and I do, resting my head on his chest and
listening to his heartbeat as my own slows. It’s sweaty and messy and probably
will be disgusting in the sensible light of day when we wake up tomorrow, but
we’re not thinking about it. We’re thinking about being together regardless of
discomfort, which probably means great things in other situations but in this
one means me sleeping on top of Jungkook like a koala and half-suffocating him
so we can share a tiny single bed.
It’s not much. But it’s a start.
***** Global Joy Index *****
Chapter Notes
     Okay, wow, I'm really on a roll here. I've probably updated more in
     this week only than I usually do in a month.
     So anyway, the reason behind it is that it's fall break, meaning a
     lot of late mornings and late nights! I do my best brainstorming
     while I'm still in the process of waking up, and I do my best writing
     when it's nighttime, usually at some unholy hour like 4 a.m., meaning
     that my waking hours right now are very suited to writing. I also
     have tons of time to work in the day, so that's great.
     There is sort of smut in this chapter??? I don't know. It's told in
     second person. You'll get to it later.
     I'm sorry if this chapter is shit ㅠㅠ I basically wrote it in a day
     and I'm still not really sure what's going on.
     So, yay! Happy happy happy.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The door to our room creaks open. My room greets me, sunlight pouring through
the open window and onto my bed, the covers hastily thrown back. I shake the
excess water out of my recently washed and wet hair and walk to the cupboard,
folding my towel and putting it in. I sit down on the bed briefly, reaching for
my comb.
But something plows into me before I can touch it, knocking me flat on my back.
The warm something curls up against my side, wrapping its limbs around me like
some kind of immobilizing vine, and a face is thrust into the crook of my neck.
It breathes in deeply. “Soap,” Jungkook sighs in satisfaction. “Beautiful,
beautiful soap.”
“Urgh, Jungkook, get off,” I protest, shoving at him. He digs his face in
deeper in reply. “You don’t just go up to people sniffing them like a dog or
something.”
He grumbles vaguely. “You smell good.”
“Go shower and sniff yourself or something! I have an Art Theory class to get
to in ten minutes!”
“Stop overreacting and cuddle with me.”
I fall silent, letting him breathe me in and nose his way into my hair. It’s
nice. He’s warm, not unpleasantly, and his skin is smooth as it slides slowly
over mine. He rests his chin on top of my head. I close my eyes for a moment
and wonder whether this will become a regular part of my life: curling up with
Jungkook in bed like it’s nothing, my head tucked beneath his chin and his legs
flung carelessly over mine.
And Taehyung barrels in, a whirlwind, a hurricane, a disaster, throwing himself
onto our peaceful, calm cuddle and destroying it utterly. I yelp in pain as his
elbow collides with my stomach and his knee squashes my bladder painfully, and
Jungkook grimaces as he half-lands on his hip. Taehyung buries his face in my
pillow, forcing us apart, whimpering.
“Taehyung, what the fuck?” Jungkook says irritably.
“I can’t ever go back to my room again,” Taehyung moans, and I notice the deep
red flush of shame staining his neck and cheeks. “I’ll have to live with you
guys.”
“Not so fast, José,” I say hastily, visualizing Taehyung jumping into our beds
and trying to lecture us on penguins and sharing his theories about undersea
aliens of the deep and their sinister conspiracies to take over planet Earth.
“What happened?”
“I was halfway to a lecture when I remembered that I’d forgotten my textbook,”
Taehyung erupts in a rush. “And all my notes are in my textbook, and I’d
already forgotten it like three times and if I did one more time I’d fail my
finals, so I ran like fuck back to my room to get it. And I opened the door
and”—Taehyung gulps—“Yoongi was there with his boyfriend, what’s his name,
Hosung? Hoseok? Hoseok, yeah—and they were f-fucking—”
Jungkook groans and covers his eyes. Meanwhile, I think, Hoseok? That rings a
bell.
I frown and try to place the name while Taehyung plows on. “And I just wanted
to run at first! But the thing is I really fucking needed that textbook and it
was just inside the door, if I was quiet enough they wouldn’t even know I was
there! So I just looked away and tiptoed there, and my fingers had nearly
touched the fucking thing when”—Taehyung shudders—“Yoongi came, I think, and I
looked up because I’m a stupid, thirsty little bitch, and he’d tipped his head
back and he was looking straight at me.” He covers his face in mortification. “
Straight. At. Me. And he knew I was there but he didn’t even say anything, they
went right on at it, and I was gonna fucking die of embarrassment—so I
hightailed it out of there and came straight here, because no way am I going to
a lecture on the grazing habits of bison in Arizona when I just had to see
that—”
“Does this explain why you have a semi pressed against my thigh right now?”
Jungkook says icily.
“Yes,” he moans. “It was just so fucking hot,I don’t think his boyfriend knew I
was there but Yoongi sure as hell did, he just looked straight at me with his
mouth open and his eyes down at fucking half-mast a-and…” Taehyung screams into
the pillow. “I can never fucking look him in the eye again.”
“Taehyung,” I say patiently, “will you just sort out your feelings for Yoongi?
Because they don’t sound straight at all.”
“I don’t l-like him,” he groans into my pillow. “He’s just really fucking hot.”
Jungkook and I share a look over his head.
“Tae, it sounds to me like you have a severe case of The Bi,” Jungkook says
gravely. I nod sagely. “I know these things. I’ve been there.”
Taehyung shakes his head furiously. “I’m not bi, I’m not. I just need to fuck
him really, really good once or twice and then I can forget all about him, I
swear, I promise…”
He trails off, still mumbling into the pillow. It sounds like he’s trying to
convince himself more than us.
Jungkook sighs. “Let me give you some of your own advice: you have a mountain
of shit to sort out.”
Taehyung shakes his head feverishly. “He’s just so…”—he screams into the pillow
in place of a suitable adjective—“and I can’t—”
The door opens abruptly and Yoongi appears in the doorway, casting his eyes
coolly around the room until they land on Taehyung. Taehyung scrambles off us
hurriedly, snatching a pillow and pulling it into his lap to cover his half-
boner and pressing himself against the headboard with a flush burning on his
cheeks.
Yoongi’s black hair is messy, his cheeks glowing, his fly undone. His eyes are
still dark and his lips still swollen. He smirks at Taehyung and drops a heavy
textbook with a picture of rolling fields on the cover on the end of the bed.
Taehyung flinches away from the thud, eyes glued in half-horror to Yoongi, his
gaze raking up and down his body greedily despite himself in the fervor of
queer people everywhere trying to convince themselves they’re straight but who
can’t help checking a fine body out anyway. “Thought you might want this,”
Yoongi says, smirking, and then he closes the door.
Taehyung sags and presses the pillow to his mouth, screwing his eyes shut and
muffling a scream in it. He goes on until he runs out of air, and then goes
limp, curling in on himself and sobbing, “It’s like he’s doing it on purpose.
It’s like he—” he gasps for breath, “it’s like he knows.”
“Because it wasn’t so obvious already,” I mumble to myself.
~
It only gets worse from there. We tail Taehyung, exasperated and fed-up, as he
takes long, roundabout, looping trails through campus just to avoid the
possibility of seeing Yoongi. He seems to have memorized Yoongi’s timetable
just so he can know where to be and where not to be, hastening around a corner
and out of sight at the first hint of black hair and pale skin and skinny
jeans.
“How are you managing to live with him?” Jungkook grumbles as we pick our way
through the abandoned field of weeds behind the architecture building. “You
can’t even face him for five seconds.”
Taehyung gnaws on his lip, glancing around nervously as if Yoongi might leap
out from behind the lovegrass. “I time it so I’m in bed and asleep by the time
he turns up, or the other way round. Usually the other way around because I
never get there early enough.”
I eye the bruised dark circles under Taehyung’s eyes. “Have you honestly been
staying up late just to avoid looking him in the eye?”
“You don’t understand,” he wails. “I watched him have sex!You don’t just bounce
back from something like that! There’s—there’s—post-traumatic stress disorder
and all involved!”
“Porn is watching people have sex,” I mutter. “You don’t have a problem with
porn.”
“My roommateis not usually involved in porn,” Taehyung says scathingly. “My
fucking hotroommate. You’d fly off the handle if you saw Jungkook acting in
straight porn.”
“Fair point,” I say, glaring at Jungkook as he stares wistfully as a girl in a
miniskirt and crop top sashays past the medical college in the distance.
“Jungkook, friendly reminder, you’re dating me, not that bra top.”
“PTSD is usually diagnosed in war victims, Taehyung,” Jungkook says hastily to
divert my attention, head whipping back to us quickly. I scowl at him. “Stop
being such a coward and man up.”
“Not yet,” he says desperately. “I’ll be ready in a few days. But not yet.”
We sigh heavily.
~
“Oh my gosh, guys, you know what—” Taehyung opens the door one sunny weekend
and walks straight into our room without knocking, already talking as he
crosses the threshold. He stops and stares. “What gay-ass shit is this?”
Jungkook and I don’t bother looking up. We’ve moved the bedside table in
between our beds and pushed our single beds together to make a twin bed. I took
the right side and Jungkook the left. I’m reading a paperback (Harry
Potter—Jungkook teased me relentlessly) and Jungkook is scrolling through his
phone, and I’m leaning against his shoulder. Our legs are flung over each
other. Our hands rest, intertwined, in a chance pool of sunlight on the cover
like its private little spotlight.
“We pushed our beds together,” I say, turning a page. “There wasn’t enough
space and one of us kept falling off, so we just saved ourselves the bother.”
“You should stop walking in on us like that,” Jungkook says absentmindedly, not
bothering to pull out his earphones. “We could be having sex or something.”
Taehyung groans loudly and turns, pretending to walk back out. “This is so
domestic I wanna throw up.”
“We put up with your mooning around about Yoongi. You put up with us.”
“That reminds me,” Taehyung says, veering back into our room and kicking the
door shut behind him, revulsion forgotten in a wave of scandalized indignation.
“You know what I found in our drawer? You know what I touched?”
Jungkook scrolls down his phone screen. I turn another page.
Taehyung throws himself dramatically into the swivel chair at our desk. “A
dildo,”Taehyung whispers, banging his fist on the table at every word to
emphasize the point. “A...fucking...dildo!”
“Not literally?” I ask worriedly, looking up from my book. Sex toys are
serious.
“What?” Jungkook asks, just tugging out his earphones as he sees that I’m
showing interest and deduces that it must be important enough to cut Zion. T
off.
“So I’m on my phone and lying in bed, right, and he is too.” He pushes his hair
back from his forehead in agitation, messing it up further. “And I’m all comfy
and all, so I open my drawer and reach for my earphones, but instead I pull out
a fucking dildo.”
I drop my head into my hands.
“It was light purple,” Taehyung says bleakly. “Like...like...that.” He points
at my sweater.
“My grandma gave me this sweater,” I say desolately, knowing that he’s forever
ruined it for me. “My grandma. Who has three cats and knits me socks for
Christmas.”
“And I was just sitting there and staring at it for a good minute with my mouth
hanging open, because a purple silicon dick is sure as hell not what you expect
when reaching for your earphones,” Taehyung says, horrified, completely
ignoring me. “And then Yoongi finally notices, and he says casually, ‘Oh, I
must have put it in the wrong drawer in the dark.’ And he took it from me and
opened the bottom drawer, his, to put it in its right place—and he has a
fucking stash, I swear to God. He’s like a drug dealer, a pimp, but for gay
stuff. There was another dildo and condoms and”—he shudders—“flavored lube
along with normal, and there were fucking handcuffs and a blindfold in there
and some shit I didn’t even recognize.”He screws his eyes shut and clutches at
Jungkook’s arm. “I’m scarred. I’m scarred for life. I can never look at
strawberries the same way again.”
Me neither,I think, thinking of Spin the Bottle and someone else’s lip gloss in
Jungkook’s mouth.
“I’m pretty sure he’s just riling you up, Tae,” Jungkook says, frowning at him.
“And you’re only playing along by getting flustered.”
“Strawberry lube,Jungkook!” Taehyung says desperately.
“I know, but...you just have to ignore it.”
Taehyung remains in a tortured silence for a while, then he bursts out, “He’s a
bottom, you know that? I thought he’d top, but he’s a bottom.”
“Tae,” I say, pained, “we could have lived our whole lives up into old age
without knowing that.”
Taehyung covers his face and groans. Then he emerges suddenly, eyes bright with
a manic light. “Do you think he likes me?” he says hopefully.
I sigh mightily. “Look, neither of us know him—”
“I know, but, but, do his feet point at me when he’s sitting down and
everything, does he look at me when he thinks I don’t know—”
“Tae—”
“Because I don’t think I would mind,” he says breathlessly, eyes shining with
the soft glow of the utterly lovestruck. “If he did.”
I pray silently to the god of bi people to help him see the light. The rainbow-
colored light.
“And you’re not bi, are you?” Jungkook says sarcastically.
“Oh, no,” Taehyung says dreamily, tracing Yoongi’s name on the table with his
chin resting on his palm.
“Just making sure,” Jungkook says, exasperation clear in his voice.
Taehyung’s obvious denial isn’t caused by homophobia, as mine was; he doesn’t
harbor any enmity towards queer people—he regards us as the “sparkly glittery
unicorns of humanity” (in his own words). But sometimes it’s hard to accept
difficult truths about ourselves. The mind is tricky, intelligent; it can
convince itself of anything.
Taehyung draws a heart around Yoongi’s name.
~
“I can’t believe we say we’re dating,” Jungkook says stiffly, looking like he’s
been going over this in his head for a long time and rehearsed it, “but we’ve
never been on a date.”
I look up from my phone, startled. “Huh?”
“We’ve never been anywhere together! We’ve never done mushy stuff like going to
the carnival holding hands and sharing cotton candy and then I win a giant
teddy bear at one of the games and I give it to you and you hug it and cherish
it and keep it forever, and when I go off to war and never come back you’ll cry
into its curly fur!”
“What?” I ask, completely lost. “What war?”
“The devastating war with North Korea which breaks out in 2020! The one I die
heroically at and never come back to you because of, giving rise to a tragic
epic teaching about our love to future generations!”
“What war? There’s no war.”
“You’re missing the point,” Jungkook says, agonized. “We’ve never been on a
date.”
“Oh, that.” I put down my phone. “I’ll go on a date with you.”
Jungkook deflates, mouth open, ready to wax poetic about the heartbreaking,
tear-jerking movie inspired by our love story which earns more money than Train
to Busan and which makes sniffling ajummas all over Korea dab at their eyes
with lacy handkerchiefs. “You will?”
“Yes.” I shake my head at him, a little annoyed. “You could have just asked.You
didn’t have to come up with all that crap about North Korea.”
“I was afraid you’d refuse,” Jungkook mumbles, now looking like a shamefaced
schoolboy who’s just asked someone out on a first date and been called out for
overdoing it.
“Why would I refuse? That’s ridiculous.”
He pushes his chair closer to me, edging his face up against mine. “So you’ll
go with me?” he asks hopefully. “We can do gooey romantic stuff like hold hands
under the table and stare into each other’s eyes over a candlelit dinner?”
I sigh. “Yes.”
He looks like he’s ready to get up and start gambolling around like a lamb in a
meadow in The Sound of Music.
“You,” I say in exasperation as does a small dance of victory, “are an idiot.”
“Youridiot,” he sings joyfully, picking up my textbook and clutching it
emotionally to his heart.
~
“Why are you taking me here? It looks way too expensive.”
I’ve left the campus for the first time since arriving. Jungkook’s taken me to
a fancy Italian restaurant five minutes’ walk from campus. He wasn’t kidding;
the tables actually are candlelit, with white tablecloths and waiters
recommending wines to people and soft piano music in the background. The
lighting is soft and dim, and it so stereotypically screams first date that I’m
not sure whether to cringe or melt that he brought me here.
Once I heard it was fine dining, I rummaged in my cupboard for a dress shirt
and forced Jungkook into one too. He whined and complained, but I insisted that
if we were gonna do this whole The Fault in Our Stars first-date thing, we were
doing it in style. No way in hell are we gonna half-ass it.
So we’re here now, I in a hurriedly ironed white button-down shirt and
trousers, Jungkook looking possibly more delicious than the gourmet pizza being
served at the next table in a dress shirt and slacks which show off his body,
but not toomuch. I peruse the menu with the appropriate dignity while Jungkook
slouches in his chair and looks awkward.
I tried to get him to comb his hair, but he drew the line at that.
“You parted it every single day when you were Mr. Jeon!” I said crossly.
“Neatly and at the side and shit! Why can’t you do it now?”
“Number one, I was your teacher then, I had to look the job and shit. Number
two, I’m still Mr. Jeon. Mr. Jeon at heart is not some prippy-proper Percy
Weasley who parts his hair until you can see the comb lines.”
I gasped. “You haveread Harry Potter!”
“So what if I have?”
“You said it was wishy-washy!”I hiss in an undertone, afraid to insult my
fictional best friends, clapping a hand to my heart.
“Well, I was a wishy-washy kid.”
“Hypocrite!”
He stuck his tongue out at me. Infuriatingly.
“What is this?” Jungkook mutters now, brandishing the menu at me. “Look at
this, look at this. Escargot? What’s that?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s snails.”
“Snails? Are these people so fancy that chicken’s too lowly for them and they
have to go digging around in the garden instead?” He spots the price, raises
his eyebrows, and whistles. “Whoo, that is a lot of zeroes. No snails for you,
Jimin.”
“Why? I can have snails if I want.”
“Not on my wallet’s watch.”
“Your wallet…? You’re not paying for me.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.I can pay for myself.”
“You can. But you’re not.”
I brandish the menu threateningly. “Don’t be a little bitch.”
“I’m trying to be Ansel Elgort here! Let me be Augustus!’
“No.”
“Look, look. I’m cut out for this role.” He passes the menu in front of his
face, then flips his hair at me, faking an American accent: “‘It would be a
privilege to have my heart broken by you.’”
I gasp. “You’ve read The Fault in Our Stars too!And you—you teased me while I
cried!”
“‘That’s the thing about pain. It demands to be felt.’”
“You can quote from it!” I gasp.
“‘My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations.’” Jungkook leans
back in his chair with a little satisfied smile on his face.
“‘Without pain, how could we know joy?’ Also, you are a liar.”
“‘I’m on a roller coaster that only goes up, my friend.’”
“You’re too smooth for this world.”
“‘The world is not a wish granting factory.’”
“Stahp.”
He holds up a finger. “‘Some infinities are bigger than other infinities. And
Jimin, my love, I cannot tell you how thankful I am for our little infinity.’”
He pauses to let the magnitude of the quote sink in. “‘You gave me forever
within the numbered days, and I’m grateful.’”
“That’s the longest quote yet.”
“‘I fell in love the way you fall asleep.’” He smiles slowly, devastatingly.
“Slowly and then all at once.”
“Oh my God, stop.”
“‘Okay,’” he says simply, grinning.
I fall silent for a moment to appreciate the utter genius of that last end
statement.
“You.” I point at him. “You have just won this game of quote tennis in the best
fucking way possible.”
“I’m amazing.”
“I know.”
We order and the food comes. The food is perfect, seeming to dissolve in my
mouth, coming in those tiny little delicate portions only extremely
sophisticated restaurants can pull off. Jungkook demolishes a whole pizza by
himself and still somehow has space for pasta afterwards. We bicker amiably,
talking around our forks.
Jungkook reaches over and takes my hand halfway through the dinner. I freeze,
the words I was saying flying out of my head, then force myself to continue,
because some things are too perfect to draw attention to.
“A-and then he told me,” I stammer, finding it hard to think with Jungkook
rubbing his thumb over my knuckles.“‘You don’t’—oh my God. Jungkook. Look
there. There.”
“Where?”
“There.In the corner.” I point frantically. “It’s him! What’s he doing here?”
Sitting slightly slouched on the piano seat, his fingers descending on the keys
as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, looking for the life of him
like a pale apparition amongst the gentle murmurs, is none other than Yoongi.
He’s wearing a cream sweater with a collar poking out of it, his lips pouted
slightly, hair falling into his eyes a little, and his head bobbing in time to
the music, and he’s pulling off the exact look which sends Taehyung into
ecstatic transports of wailing, helpless joy.
“Should we tell Taehyung?” I say immediately.
Jungkook looks less enthusiastic. “And disrupt our wonderful, quiet, peaceful
dinner which could have been written by John Green himself?”
“JeonGreen.” I wait for him to get the joke. “Geddit? Geddit?”
“Oh my God, that was horrible.”
“He’d want to know, though,” I persist. “He’d kill us if he found out that we
went on a date and Yoongi was literally sitting feet away from us.”
Jungkook sighs. “Okay, fine. We’re nearly done, anyway. By the time Taehyung
gets here, we’ll have finished our food and the restaurant won’t be able to
kick us out for disrupting the peace.”
“I’ll text him.” I pull out my phone.
 
To Taehyung | 21:06
Code red, come to Luigi’s
 
The reply is almost immediate.
 
From Taehyung | 21:06
What’s code red
Where’s Luigi’s
 
To Taehyung | 21:07
Guldang road, about 5 mins from campus if you walk
If you’re busy then you don’t have to come, it’s not an emergency
 
From Taehyung | 21:07
Nah just some girl with her hand down my pants
But you typed code red and I told her maybe later
What’s code red?!!?!!?!?
 
To Taehyung | 21:07
Calm the fuck down
It’s just that Yoongi’s here and he’s playing piano and I thought you should
know
But you don’t seem to wanna be told because I got text-shouted at for my
troubles so fine be that way
 
From Taehyung | 21:07
WHAT
YOONGI?
MIN YOONGI?
MY BABY
MY PRECIOUS
MY BEAUTIFUL ADORABLE PUPPY WUPPY
 
To Taehyung | 21:07
Number one ew
Number two hurry up he might be leaving soon
 
From Taehyung | 21:07
Okay okay I got this shit
Lemme find my lucky underwear
 
To Taehyung | 21:07
Tae what the fuck
 
From Taehyung | 21:07
I’m kidding
I’m keying Guldang Road into Google Maps DON’T LEAVE IF YOONGI TRIES TO LEAVE
MAKE A SONG REQUEST SO HE CAN’T
 
To Taehyung | 21:07
He’s not going anywhere Jesus he just started a new song
 
From Taehyung | 21:07
MY TALENTED BABY
IS HE GOOD
 
To Taehyung | 21:08
He’s pretty damn good we thought it was a recording
 
From Taehyung | 21:08
MY BSBY
BANY*
BABYTY**
BABY***
I’M RYNNINH IM ON MU WAY
IM TRYMA TYPE ITS HATD
 
To Taehyung | 21:08
If you’re coming already then Jungkook and I will leave
We’re nearly done with dinner
 
From Taehyung | 21:08
NO STAY
PROTECT MY PRECIOUS
 
To Taehyung | 21:08
You’re creepy as fuck you know that
 
From Taehyung | 21:08
HA
HAHAHA
HAHA
 
To Taehyung | 21:09
Are you here yet
 
From Taehyung | 21:09
GOOGLE MAPS TELLS ME I’M TWO STREETS AWAY
BUT I’M COMING FOR HIM
 
To Taehyung | 21:09
Tidy yourself up a little before you come in this place is fancy and fine
dining and shit
Also I think your caps lock is on by accident
 
From Taehyung | 21:09
IT’S NOT
 
To Taehyung | 21:09
Ok…
 
From Taehyung | 21:09
WHAT DOES LUIGI’S LOOK LIKE
TELL ME JIMIN-AH
 
To Taehyung | 21:09
It’s painted red and green and white and it has a giant sign in front which
says Luigi’s Fine Dining
Hard to miss
 
From Taehyung | 21:10
I THINK I’M CLOSE
I THINK I SEE IT
 
A streak of motion blurs by the shop window. Some people murmur in confusion
and turn to look. I lean back in my chair to peer out the window.
 
To Taehyung | 21:10
Are you wearing a white long-sleeved shirt which has sorta artistic holes cut
in it and ripped jeans
And is your hair in a half-ponytail for some reason
 
From Taehyung | 21:10
IT IS?
OH
DID I PASS YOU GUYS
 
To Taehyung | 21:10
Yes
 
From Taehyung | 21:10
OKAY I FIXED MY HAIR AND I LOOK PRESENTABLE
I’M COMING
 
“Taehyung’s here,” I murmur warningly to Jungkook as he settles the bill. He
looks up just at the moment that the door flies open dramatically to reveal
Taehyung silhouetted impressively against the street outside, gasping from his
flat-out run here, his hair mussed and dishevelled, candlelight shining on the
sweat coating his skin. Everyone looks up except Yoongi, who remains absorbed
in his music and doesn’t miss a beat.
Taehyung pulls a chair noisily up to our table, breathing hard, and throws
himself down into the seat. His eyes rove over the restaurant and find Yoongi
in seconds. Waiters hover around him, asking rather nervously at the manic,
obsessed gleam in his eyes, “Will you be having anything, sir?”
“No, I came for him,” Taehyung pants, waving a hand at Yoongi.
“The...pianist, sir?”
“That’s right.” He beams and nods.
They disperse uncertainly.
“Why didn’t you guys tell me he was here earlier?” Taehyung hisses, leaning
forward with his hands flat on the table, grabbing my glass and finishing my
wine in a single gulp. His eyes never leave Yoongi. “I could’ve gotten here so
much faster.”
“What’re you planning to do now you’re here, anyway?” Jungkook asks irritably.
“He has a boyfriend, remember?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Taehyung says. “I just ran here when I
heard he was here.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“I know,” he says desperately. “But what else can I do?”
“Confess?” I suggest.
“Confess what?”
“That you have a gigantic crush on him.”
“I do nothave a crush on him,” Taehyung says longsufferingly.
“You do, Taehyung. Admit it,” Jungkook says.
“No.” Taehyung sighs longingly as he watches Yoongi. “Oh, what I would give to
be able to pull at his earrings with my teeth.”
“Yes.”
“N-no is he leaving?”
We look up. Yoongi has indeed gotten up. The piano music has stopped, and
people applaud as he makes a small bow. He closes the grand piano and walks
down from the stage, hails a waiter, and hands him something. Taehyung cranes
his neck to see. “What’s he doing?”
The waiter nods, albeit in confusion, and Yoongi leaves, not looking once at
us. The door shuts behind him and Taehyung deflates visibly.
“I lost him,” he mumbles. “I had one chance and I l-lost him…”
He buries his head in his hands dramatically.
Suddenly, the waiter materializes at his elbow, bearing a tray with a slip of
paper on it. “For you, sir,” he says uncertainly to Taehyung.
“What?” he mumbles.
“From the...from the pianist.”
Taehyung perks up with impressive celerity. It’s like watching a time-lapse of
those tall, thin, wavy balloon-men things being reinflated at high speed. He
snatches the slip of paper off the waiter’s tray and scans it over and over
again disbelievingly, light brightening his dead eyes the way it would a dying
man’s when he finds out the doctors made an incorrect diagnosis and he has a
lifetime left to live.
“He gave me…” Taehyung quavers. “He gave me…”
“His love?” I say curiously.
“His number?” Jungkook asks.
“His address?”
“His secrets?”
“What is it, man, spit it out!”
“He gave me his Snapchat username,” Taehyung says joyfully, holding up the
paper and looking as if a miracle has occurred to him. “His Snapchat! @agustd!”
We sigh.
“This is a miracle! A breakthrough!” His eyes sparkle with tears.
“Taehyung,” Jungkook says, “you are a sad, sad person.”
“A sad, sad person with Yoongi’s Snapchat username,” he says defiantly. “And
that’s all I need in life.”
~
“Jimin, we have a mission,” Jungkook says, determination clear in his voice. He
spins my swivel chair around to face him and stares into my face gravely.
I don’t like the resolute look in his eyes. “What is it?” I say warily.
“We’re going to find this Hoseok character and ask him what Yoongi’s all
about.”
“What? Why?”
He looks at me as if I’m stupid. “To help Tae, of course.”
“But Hoseok’s his boyfriend.How would asking him about Yoongi help anything?”
“The man can’t be stupid. Yoongi’s obviously leading Tae on—he’s practically
got a leash around his neck. Hoseok has to be in on the plan.”
“What plan? What plan?We’re not in the Avengers, Jungkook! We’re in college!”
“It doesn’t matter,” he insists, face almost scarily determined. “I’m doing
this shit to help Tae and return the favor he did by bringing us together. And
you’re helping me.”
“But—” I begin weakly.
“Please?” he asks, eyebrows drawing together and luscious lips pouting. His
eyes widen pleadingly.
My heart melts like chocolate in the sun.
“Oh, fine,” I mutter. “Fine. We’ll go find Hoseok.”
Jungkook grins. “Let’s do this shit.”
~
It’s quite easy to find Hoseok. He’s surrounded by a group of popular kids, the
noisiest and friendliest and most outgoing, but he’s the loudest out of all of
them, sitting right in the middle of the crowd like the inverse eye of the
storm. I hover, uncertain, at the edges of the crowd, but Jungkook pushes right
in, saying to Hoseok, “Could we talk to you in private?”
Again, he seems infuriatingly familiar, his face and voice and screaming laugh
hovering at the edge of my memory. What is it?
His smile doesn’t falter. “Sure.”
He waves his friends away, and they slowly disperse. I come timidly forward and
join Jungkook, who’s sitting across from him at the table and fixing him with
an interrogative eye.
“Your name’s Hoseok?”
He beams like that’s the best compliment Jungkook could give him, not noticing
me. “Yep. Jung Hoseok.”
“Okay, I’m Jungkook, he’s Jimin, we’re roommates and we’re also friends of
Taehyung’s—you know Taehyung, right?”
“Yep.”
“—and that’s all you need to know about us right now. We have some questions to
ask you,” Jungkook says briskly.
Hoseok blinks. “Um, okay?”
“Good. Who is Min Yoongi to you?” Jungkook asks smoothly.
“Wait, just making sure we have the same Min Yoongi...skinny, pale, really
black hair, kinda triangular eyes, grumpy, sarcastic, about so tall?” He holds
up a hand at roughly Yoongi’s height.
“Yes.”
“We’re...something like friends with benefits.”
Jungkook frowns, caught off guard. “Friends with benefits? I thought you were
boyfriends.”
“Nahhhhh.” He flaps a hand dismissively. “We’re fuckbuddies. Nothing more.”
“Seriously? He’s really nothing more to you than a fuckbuddy?”
“Yep.” Hoseok smiles vaguely, apparently not perturbed in the least that he’s
being interrogated by two perfect strangers about his love and sex life. “We
met at a party. And we ended up in a room. And things just kinda continued from
there.”
Jungkook narrows his eyes at him. Hoseok grins amiably, asking without malice,
“Why, you planning to make a move on Yoongi? Because if you are, then by all
means. Full steam ahead.”
“Um...not us. But someone else might be interested.” Jungkook glances at me.
“So, dude, you’d seriously be okay if Yoongi started dating someone?”
“Yeah, I’d be really happy for him. I mean, I think we both hoped we could be
that person...you know? That person you click with. But we’re not...we’re not
right for each other that way.” He smiles a little ruefully and shrugs. “And
you can only be fuckbuddies for so long, you know?”
I look at Jungkook. “We know.”
We lean a little closer together unconsciously.
“We don’t really need each other. Not in a bad way,” Hoseok says, shrugging,
“but we don’t depend on each other. So I don’t think it would hurt if one of us
actually got into a serious relationship and cut things off.” He waves his
hands. “So sure. Tell your friend he’s welcome to try if Yoongi will have him.”
Jungkook nods. “Alright. Thanks.” He makes to stand up.
“Hold on,” Hoseok says, and Jungkook looks questioningly at him. “Is this guy
Taehyung?”
I blink, flabbergasted. How did he know?
“Um…” Jungkook says uncertainly, and I feel like we’re all in middle school
again.
“I won’t tell Yoongi. I wouldn’t steal the fun from them like that,” Hoseok
says seriously.
Jungkook weighs his chances and relents. “Yeah. We’re like his closest friends,
and we’re pretty sure he likes Yoongi, but he doesn’t wanna admit it to
himself.”
“Ah.” Hoseok smiles a little bitterly. “He still in the denial stage?”
“Yeah.” We all share a look, all silently stating I’ve been there.
“Well, he’s got a reputation for being straight as a ruler, so...I guess it’d
be hard for him to own up to it,” Hoseok muses eventually.
Jungkook sighs. “We’ve been trying to get him to realize it. But he thinks it’s
normal to want Yoongi to fuck him into the mattress and still be straight.”
Hoseok chuckles softly. “I don’t think that’s gonna happen. Yoongi’s a bottom
through and through.”
Jungkook winces. “We know that. Taehyung saw you two.”
Hoseok doesn’t look offended, only amused. “On purpose or by accident?”
“Um...a bit of both.”
He bites back a smile.
“And he found your dildo.”
“Which one?”
“The...light purple one?”
“Oh, that’s Yoongi’s.”
“Well, we really should get going,” I say hastily, before Hoseok can divulge
any more information which makes my ears want to wither and drop off. “Thank
you for your time and patience, Hoseok.”
“Eh, it’s fine. Always happy to help someone out.”
"Wait a minute!" I say suddenly. "I know you!"
Hoseok startles and glances at me, his eyes widening. "Whaddya know! I know you
too!"
"Hoseok? Jung Hoseok?"
"And Park Jimin! Our Danish girl!"
Jungkook looks uncomprehendingly between the two of us.
"We were in high school together," I say incredulously. "How the hell did you
end up here, dude?"
"I'm in the drama program, man. It's awesome. I couldn't believe I was
accepted."
"This is crazy! How in the world have you been here this whole time and we
haven't met?"
"I don't know, man. This university's a huge place."
"This is amazing! I thought I'd never see any of you again when I left!"
Hoseok winces sympathetically. "I bet you didn't wanna. That headmistress, she
gave you a hell of a hard time, didn't she?"
I blink, taken aback. "What? People knew?"
"Yeah, it got out that you and that science teacher, what was his name, you had
a thing, she went batshit crazy, but then again she lost her marbles a long
time ago anyway..." Hoseok's eyes wander over to Jungkook, and he nearly falls
off his bench. "Holy shit, what the hell! It's you!"
"Yes," Jungkook says frigidly.
"You're the science teacher? You're Mr. Jeon? Jimin's illicit lover?"
"Yes," he says, even more coldly.
"I'm sorry I didn't recognize you, dude. I wasn't taking any of your classes."
"Hoseok," I jump in, "people knew?"
"Yeah, yeah. People knew. I mean, not to be assholes, but we all kind of
suspected that you were gay, after...the play and all. We all felt really sorry
for you, having to face up to that old-fashioned bitch."
"Wait," Jungkook says, frowning. "Jimin, what is this? You got into trouble
because of me? Because of us?"
"Yeah, someone saw us. Right when you left. When you kissed me." I frown, then
realize. "Oh my God, I never told you. I just realize now."
"It's a fucking small world, man." Then Hoseok's eyes widen. "Oh, wait, sorry,
Mr. Jeon—oh, crap, you're not a teacher anymore. This is really weird." He
chuckles, then stops dead. "Wait. You're not. Right?"
"No. I'm a student."
He sighs in relief. "All good, then. Jimin, it was great to see you. Really. We
should meet up again."
"Yeah," I say, watching Jungkook struggle to comprehend this, feeling like the
world has just tipped a new friend into my path. "We should."
 
~
“Taehyung, the coast is clear.”
“What?” He looks up from his textbook, blinking muzzily, his heavy, overlarge
glasses sliding down his nose.
“You can date Yoongi. Hoseok isn’t his boyfriend.”
He sighs and pulls out his earphones. “I never said I wanted to date—” Then he
stops dead. He catapults towards me, grabbing at my shirt eagerly and shaking
me by the shoulders. “What did you just say? Did you just say Hoseok isn’t his
boyfriend?”
“They’re only fuckbuddies,” Jungkook says.
A big, goofy grin spreads across Taehyung’s face, then freezes. “Wait, how do
you know this?”
“We asked him.”
He frowns as he tries to process this. Then his face darkens with mortified
fury and he starts pummelling us with his fists. “You—traitors!” he yells,
enraged.
We scramble away to protect ourselves, ducking behind the shelves in the
library. Taehyung pursues us, brandishing rolled-up sheets of test papers and
whacking us wherever he can reach us. “It was for your own good!” I yelp as the
rolled-up paper of revenge descends on my body. “You were moping around and
denying it! Now you can finally go date him and have a gooey June wedding!”
Several people turn curiously as we sprint out of the library, Taehyung chasing
us in incandescent, vindictive rage with his ridiculous baggy old-grandpa pants
flapping in the wind (“sometimes, comfort must be prioritized over fashion”).
“You fucking embarrassing pieces of wet lettuce!” He bellows, dealing a painful
thwack to Jungkook with the papers. “Now everyone believes a lie!”
“Only because you’re chasing us through the campus and yelling it out, you
idiot!”
“It doesn’t matter that I’m yelling it out, you told Hoseok and he’s like the
most fucking popular kid in the entire college and he’s Yoongi’s fuckbuddy, how
is Yoongi not going to find out, you fucking, fucking assholes—”
“Don’t kill us!” Jungkook shouts as he cower behind a fountain, blows raining
down on our bodies, panting and trying to shield ourselves from Taehyung. But
Taehyung seems to be running on the limitless energy of embarrassed fury and
hits us as hard with the papers as he can while we struggle for breath. “We had
to do something, Taehyung!”
“You—didn’t! You meddled in my business!”he screams savagely, and then all the
fight seems to drain out of him and he sinks down onto the edge of the
fountain, sobbing into his hands with the shame of a middle schooler whose
crush has found out they like them. “He knows,” Taehyung mumbles hopelessly.
“He knows, he knows, he knows.”
We pick ourselves up cautiously, afraid of being hit again. But Taehyung drops
the test papers, which flutter forlornly in the wind, and buries his face in
his arms.
We approach warily. I touch Taehyung on the shoulder. He doesn’t lash out or
raise his head.
“Taetae?” Jungkook asks, a little worry seeping into his voice. Taehyung
springs to his feet, keeping his face downturned and not looking at us, and
turns and flees.
I watch him swipe at his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, guilt suddenly
churning in my gut. “Do you think we did the right thing?” I ask Jungkook,
feeling horrible, because he actually looks like he’s crying.
Jungkook stares after him. He doesn’t reply.
~
We don’t talk to Taehyung for the rest of the day.
Jungkook and I for the most part are silent. As if Taehyung is responsible for
the world’s inflow of happiness and the global joy index just collapses if he’s
down, it starts to rain, heavy drops pummelling the window during lectures and
assaulting us as we hurry in between classes without umbrellas and sheltering
under hoodies instead because we’re college students and we have none of our
shit together. The wind blows something awful, blowing our umbrellas inside out
whenever we doremember them and ruining them, snatching papers from our hands
and blowing them into puddles, where they become soaked and sodden, and
thwacking tree branches into our faces as we walk.
I remember a thought I had so, so long ago, back when it all began. It’s always
raining when things happen.
We feel like shit. I can’t laugh at anything without Taehyung’s tearstained
cheeks flashing in my mind, and I do everything listlessly, without enjoyment.
Jungkook looks like he feels the same.
We both feel like we murdered something precious.
~
We sit alone in a cafe on campus the next day, realizing in Taehyung’s absence
that we haven’t bothered to make many friends besides him. Jungkook pushes his
food around his plate and I poke moodily at my bagel. Neither of us feel like
eating.
The door opens, and we look up. Taehyung walks in and straight towards us,
looking pale and shaken.
The moment he comes within earshot, I stand, the guilt washing over me anew.
“Taehyung, we’re sorry,” I say immediately. “We acted without your permission
and I can see that we really hurt you, and—”
“Taehyung, we feel terrible and we’d like to apologize—”
“What are you two talking about? What the fuck are you apologizingfor?”
Taehyung interrupts, and I realize suddenly that he looks nervous,
apprehensive, and excited all at the same time as well as pale and shaken. I
didn’t know one face had the capacity to express all that emotion until now.
“Sit down.”
We sit anxiously.
“You two,” Taehyung says in a low voice, “are the best friends in the whole
world.”
“What?” Jungkook asks, taken aback.
“So I went back crying to my room—don’t interrupt, I’m getting to it,” he says
at our guilty expressions, “and I walked in, and Yoongi’s bed was gone. And for
one terrible and relieved moment, I thought, Great, he’s moved out because of
those two idiots. Now I don’t have to face him. I said don’t interrupt,” he
warns as Jungkook opens his mouth. “So I sat down on my bed for a long time
just thinking about nothing, and right after I’d finally stopped crying and
accepted that my life was gonna be shit from that moment on, Yoongi walked in.
He told me that his bed was getting repaired because it collapsed—yes,
collapsed,” he says at our bewildered expressions, “and so he had to share
mine. And I just—I just blacked out there. Because he was sharing my bed and I
couldn’t take that.My brain was shorting out.”
He pauses for breath.
“So we get ready for bed, shower, we all smell of soap, clean, nice, lah dee
da.” Jungkook looks longing. “And we get into bed and at first we’re at
opposite ends, but then Yoongi complains that I’m stealing the blanket and he’s
cold, and I said no, I’m not stealing the blanket, it’s just not wide enough,
and he said fine and he fucking snuggled up to me.”
He catches our expressions. “I know. It was like every clichéd fanfiction I’d
ever read. But anyway he came really close and kind of wrapped himself around
me, and it felt like hugging a teddy bear, but a living, breathing teddy bear,
and he was so insanely warmand I was just going crazy. And you know what I
focused on? He had no boobs.”
We blink.
“I have no idea why, but it just kept coming back to me that he had no boobs,
and I’d never held a person in bed before who didn’t have boobs, and the fact
that I was a holding a flat-chested person and his stomach was pressed against
my stomach and his cheek was on my chest and I could feel his heartbeat and he
could probably feel mine too and I was sort of getting hard in my pants just
hit me so damn hard. And we just stayed there, like, I dunno breathingfor a
while, and then he said, just out of the blue, ‘Kiss my neck.”
We blink again.
“I know it was just so!!! Unexpected! And I was like ‘what’ and he said ‘kiss
my neck’ again, and his face was just so casual, and I guess he said it because
he heard it from Hoseok who heard it from you—”
“Tae, Hoseok didn’t tell—”
“Shut up, I’m telling a story! This is my moment! So anyway he said ‘kiss my
neck’, and I think my brain didn’t even have time to process it before I just
automatically leaned down and kissed his neck, and it was just...oh.” He
shivers a little, hugging his elbows and rocking back and forth. “It was
perfect. I mean, it’s great kissing someone, but it’s even better when you’ve
visualized it over and over again, you know? It was completely mind-blowing. I
could feel his pulse beating and his skin was really soft and warm and he
sighed and pulled me closer, and I didn’t stop. My stomach felt like there was
a hook tugging at it, but I didn’t stop. I worked my way all over his neck and
I was moving up to his mouth, but then he said, ‘Bite me.’
“And I don’t even know what I was thinking at that point. He told me to and I
just did it, and I kind of tasted his skin because it was b-between my teeth.
It tasted...not...like...skin. I mean, like skin but at the same time like the
best things you’ve ever eaten, all at once. Like sweet things. Like spun
sugar.”
Taehyung’s expression is faraway, dreamy. Soft.
“He asked me to bite harder and suck, and I did, and he moaned,and then it all
sort of hit me. What I was doing. I was hard in my pants already and he was
sort of grinding against me, and I was kissing at his neck, and I just hadn’t
planned any of it at all. I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know what I
was doing. I didn’t know where it was going.
“So I stopped and said, ‘But I don’t want to hurt you. And I don’t like you.’
“And he looked at me strangely, his eyes sort of glittery, and said, ‘But you
wantme, don’t you?’
“And when I didn’t answer he whispered, ‘I want you to hurt me. I want you to
make me remember. Leave marks on me so that everyone will know what we did.’ He
pulled me closer and whispered in my ear, ‘Bruise me.’
“I just...broke.” Taehyung gesticulates wildly. “I kissed him really hard and
it felt amazing, it felt perfect, it felt like the most beautiful moment in
life. I think he was bleeding, or one of us, or both, but he sighed like the
pain was all he’d ever wanted. He let me roll us over so he was under me, and
I...my instincts just took over, and I got carried away and I...well, look.”
Taehyung looks at something past us, voice desolate. “That happened.”
We turn. Yoongi has walked into the cafe, wearing a huge black sweater far too
big for him with a stretched collar. My eyes are immediately drawn to the
purple bruises littered all over his neck, some even scattered on his
collarbones, blooming flowers on his pale skin. He wears them proudly, without
shame, like medals. People stare at his neck, and he raises his chin to show
them off more.
“Holy shit, Taehyung,” Jungkook says under his breath. “You weren’t kidding
when you said you got carried away.”
He spots Taehyung and comes over, and without warning, he bends down and kisses
him. His long, pale fingers tip Taehyung’s chin up, and Taehyung scrabbles
desperately for Yoongi’s sweater and pulls him closer by his shirtfront. They
kiss openly for a few seconds as if they need each other to breathe, watched
wide-eyed by the whole cafe, and then they finally break away, Taehyung
gasping, Yoongi smirking and calm and composed.
“Do you like me now, Taehyung?” Yoongi asks softly.
They look beautiful together, I realize suddenly, Yoongi leaning down and
Taehyung looking up into his face with his heart laid out in his eyes.
“Yes,” Taehyung whispers.
Yoongi smiles genuinely, not a smirk or a sneer, but a smile. His fingers slip
from Taehyung’s chin and he walks out of the cafe briskly.
Every single person in the cafe stares at Taehyung, who looks as if he can’t
believe what’s just happened himself. I feel the strangest urge to cry.
“Everyone,” Taehyung says suddenly, standing up and spreading his arms. His
eyes shine. “I have an important announcement to make! I’m bi!”
Someone whoops, and people start cheering just like that, most of them people
none of us have even spoken to before and some we’ve never seen. Everyone’s
clapping, Jungkook and I loudest of all, smiling like our faces are going to
split. Taehyung’s grinning giddily, he can’t seem to stop grinning, and he bows
before sitting back down. We hug him tight, yelling and shouting happy nonsense
at him. We radiate pure, unadulterated joy, hugging in a cafe with our hearts
on our sleeves, Taehyung’s lips just-kissed and our hearts just-touched. We
don’t care that Hoseok never really told Yoongi, and this is all a happy
coincidence. We don’t care that Taehyung still has so much more to discover
about himself on the road to peace. We are happy, and we are together, and we
are here. And that is all that matters.
There is nothing quite like the happiness we feel for our friends.
Chapter End Notes
     For those of you who are confused cos he wasn't really clear, yes,
     Yoongi and Taehyung had sex. Yes, Taehyung topped and Yoongi is sort
     of a power bottom. Yes, it was amazing.
     Other than that, it's none of your bismuth.
     ;-)
***** Human *****
Chapter Notes
     Listen to this while you read.
     Allman Brown & Liz Lawrence - Sons and Daughters // Official Video:
     https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eru8DlHoOFM
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Stop...squirming,” I say in frustration as I try to fasten the bow tie around
Jungkook’s neck. “Jungkook, I’ll never get this bow tie on if you keep trying
to pry it off!”
“I don’t want a bow tie,” he whines. “I look better in neckties. Bow ties are
fugly with a capital fug.”
“Don’t you dare quote The Interviewat me,” I threaten, struggling to tuck the
collar of his white dress shirt over it. “As your boyfriend, I’m telling you
that you look better in bowties and that’s that.”
“Why can’t I just wear a hoodie?” he moans as I finally manage to fasten it.
“You are not wearing a hoodie to my first ever art exhibition. In the Seoul
Museum of Art.”
He grumbles, but lets me force his arms into the sleeve of a blue suit jacket.
“You’re mean.”
“And I’m also your boyfriend. Shut up.”
“Yoongi wouldn’t make Taehyung wear a suit.”
“I’m not Yoongi. I’m Jimin. If you want Yoongi, dump me and marry his skinny
ass instead.”
“But I like your ass.” Jungkook shuffles closer and squeezes it. It should be
gross. It isn’t.
“Thank you,” I say graciously, patting down his jacket.
“Jimin…” he says hesitantly, “how come you never told me you got in trouble in
school after I left? Because of...of us?”
I pause, and the smile slides off my face. “It just slipped my mind.”
“But it’s important,” Jungkook says, eyebrows creased in the middle in worry.
“You got in trouble? What happened? What did they do to you?”
“Well, the headmistress used to be a nun, so of course I got tons of shit cos
some arse saw you kissing me and went and tattled. My mom was called, she found
out I was gay, went a bit hysteric. Typical. There was a while when the
headmistress threatened to report you, you know...for having improper relations
with a student.”
Jungkook closes his eyes, pained. “I was right. What we had would have ruined
my career.” He opens them. “But she didn’t really report me, right? Otherwise
I’d have heard.”
“No, she didn’t.” I straighten his cuffs unnecessarily, just for something to
do with my hands. “I managed to convince her to shut up. For the sake of your
future and job prospects, you know?”
Jungkook exhales in relief, but he still looks guilty.
“My mom flew off the handle. Started blaming you, started blaming me, started
blaming everyone...she got ultra-paranoid for the time I was still at home
cooped up with her, before I was accepted into Seoul University. I think she
found my sketchbook. She’d randomly burst into my room to spy on me and poke
around and demand what I was doing, wouldn’t let me lock any doors even when I
was in the bathroom, forced me to take the password off my computer so she
could pry around and put SafeMode on it. Which was stupid, of course. I didn’t
watch porn or anything, even if I did SafeMode can be avoided by opening
another browser or incognito mode, she didn’t know what she was doing in the
first place because I refused to help her with the tech because that would be
like giving her the rope to strangle me with, and it’s not like installing
SafeMode would change who I was.” My voice is bitter. “She thought that it was
her fault, you know? Thought that it was because she wasn’t strict enough with
me that I’ve turned out the way I am. That I’m gay.”
Jungkook gnaws his lip.
“I can’t tell you how relieved I was when I was accepted into Seoul University.
I just wanted to get out from under her suffocation. I just wanted to escape. I
swear to God, it was one of the happiest days of my life when I could pack my
bags and leave my fucking miserable life and that goddamn house behind.”
I take a lint roller and start savagely swiping it over his jacket with more
force than is necessary. “I didn’t really have many close friends beside you,
and you’d left. You know I’m—you know I was shy. Am still shy. I didn’t really
know anyone, and no one really knew me. Not that they wanted to.” My voice is
resigned to being the outcast, the scar healed over and scabbed by now. “But
people were supportive. They clapped me on the back. Made an extra effort to
include me in things. I was like a symbol of rebellion for a while. Busan’s
very own Katniss Everdeen.” I sigh. “Anyway, I left, and it’s all behind me
now. My mother tried to call for a few weeks, but I didn’t pick up. It’s not
worth the pain.”
“She left voicemail a bunch of times and it was just what I’d expected.
Yelling, screaming, a bit of crying and breaking down, good for the effect, you
know—about how I was a smart boy who’d gotten misled, how I was on the wrong
path, deviant, broken, wrong—” My words become steadily faster, closer
together, spilling out in a rush. I can’t breathe. This has been bottled up for
so long, simmering and fermenting and becoming more twisted inside me the
longer it grows, like a plant which thrives in the dark, and now there’s a lump
in my throat and a cold pain in my chest and I won’t cry, I can’t cry, I won’t—
“how I had talent but I was using it unhealthily—”
Jungkook catches my hand holding the lint roller, which has nearly broken in
two with the force I’m using to practically pummel it against his clothes. My
hand is shaking, and my knuckles are white with how tightly I’m gripping the
handle. I think the inside of my cheek is bleeding. I’ve been biting it.
“Jimin,” he says softly.
“I’m sorry.” I set the lint roller down and laugh shakily, a dry, strangled
exhalation which sounds more like a pathetic, broken sob. “You don’t need to
hear all this, I’m just v-venting…”
His eyes are full of pain as he looks at me, shaking and broken and so
irrefutably damagedthat it doesn’t take a blind man to see that my cuts still
haven’t healed, that the bruises the noose left around my neck still haven’t
faded. That I’ll drag the burdens of past behind me forever on a chain, clawing
down the insides of my heart and making me hollow, hollow, hollow.
“I’msorry,” he says, this beautiful, wonderful man in front of me holding my
hands, apologizing. Why is he apologizing? He didn’t do this to me. He didn’t
slash these scars into my heart. “I’m sorry for what happened to you.”
I slump against him. He holds me up.
~
“Does my hair look okay? Does my hair look okay?” I pat it down worriedly, then
am struck by the horrible thought that maybe it looks tooneat and shake it out
vigorously to make it look artistically untidy.
“You look fine,” Jungkook says, exasperated. “Can we, like, enter your own art
exhibition now?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” I take deep breaths. “I can do this. G-dragon did it. But I’m not
G-dragon. I’m not G-dragon.”I clutch at Jungkook’s arm, trying not to
hyperventilate.
“G-dragon’s G-dragon and you’re you,” Jungkook says matter-of-factly, dragging
me towards the entrance of the Seoul Museum of Art. “Leave it that way.”
“What if people recognize me?” I say, horrified. “And...and... ask me about the
artworks?”
“They wouldn’t,” Jungkook says sarcastically, propelling me towards the
automatic glass double doors, which slide open to reveal a tiered spiral
gallery in white to draw attention to the exhibits. A sign points us towards
our destination, panic filling me at the sight of my own name on it. This is
happening. “You know, it being all your artwork. I couldn’t imagine anyone
wanting to speak to you about your own artwork.”
“I can’t do this,” I whimper, my heels squeaking on the floor as Jungkook pulls
me determinedly through the doorway. I glimpse a familiar sight: the rainbow
flag I designed for the Pride parade, hanging over the doorway and rippling
slightly in the draft from the air-conditioning. “Oh my God. Take me away.”
“Jimin,” Jungkook says, stopping and grabbing me by the shoulders, “this is
your exhibit. You’re strong. You can do this. You will not chicken out and make
me have worn this bow tie for nothing.”
“There’s so many people,” I moan pathetically, glimpsing a crowd of people
milling around past the doorway and inspecting the exhibits: paintings,
sketches, done in watercolor and oil paint and charcoal and pencil. All of
which I recognize, all of which I’ve put my heart and love into. It’s like
seeing my children mounted on a wall with spotlights casting illumination on
them, except...less disturbed than it sounds.
“That’s good,”Jungkook says firmly. “People know you. People admire your work.”
He takes my hand, clasping it tightly. “We can do this.”
I bite my lip hard. And I nod.
We walk in, Jungkook’s thumb a calming, familiar presence rubbing circles into
my knuckles, grounding me from turning and fleeing. I feel myself start to
relax. These are my paintings. These are my sketches. These are the contents of
my mind and heart, commissioned on canvas and paper in paint and graphite.
These are my refuges.
A gallery attendant hurries up to me, pushing a wireless microphone into my
hand and saying briskly, “Mr. Park, you’re here. If you would proceed to the
stage to make an opening speech officially kicking off the event?”
“Opening speech?” I say, panicking. “What opening—”
“Brilliant,” she says, and she hustles me over to a raised platform. Jungkook
trails idly behind us. “Tap the mic for attention.”
I stumble on the steps, and I feel horribly alone standing up on the stage.
People are turning, looking at me expectantly.
I tap the mic, my hands shaking. “H-hello, everyone.”
Everyone’s looking at me now. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. Snakes of
anxiety are writhing in my stomach, obstructing my throat, tying my tongue.
“Um…”
People are shifting, beginning to look bored. I’m panicking. This is a
disaster.
And then soft footsteps sound on the steps, and someone walks across the stage
to me. They sling an arm easily around my waist, pulling me against a broad
chest smelling of familiar softener and soap. Jungkook smiles out at the crowd.
They eye him with renewed interest, a few of the women clearing their throats
delicately and adjusting their clothes.
Strength fills me like a mugful of hot chocolate on a cold day. My pounding
heart slows, and my white-knuckled grip relaxes on the mic. I lean into
Jungkook. I can breathe again.
“A few months ago, I was just a student,” I find myself saying. “Fresh out of
high school, just accepted into Seoul University. A nervous boy talented with a
brush. Alone and not quite sure where he stood in the world. Why he mattered.”
Jungkook’s warmth seeps into my back and into my heart. It flutters.
“The principal of Seoul University was kind enough to offer me opportunities to
expand my talents, get myself known. He commissioned the flag you see hanging
over the entrance from me, which was flown at the Pride parade in America a
group of university students attended a few months back. He arranged this
exhibition.” I swallow. “But...no one can stand alone. We need support the way
a building needs its foundations. And my support is this man you see standing
beside me.”
Their gazes flick to Jungkook. I feel immensely relieved as their weight is
lifted from me.
“This exhibition couldn’t be made possible without him standing behind me and
chasing away my demons, holding my hand, protecting me from the dark when my
fears come too close.” Jungkook’s hand tightens on my waist. “We’ve had our
troubles—still do have our troubles, to be honest”—the crowd laughs—“but I need
him. He’s been my friend, companion, and boyfriend, and I love him.”
The crowd goes “awww”, and I flush.
“Thank you and please enjoy the exhibition,” I finish. “Thank you once again
for attending.”
The applause is the loudest I’ve ever received, and I descend from the stage
with Jungkook holding tightly to my hand, muttering, “Thank you.”
He leans down and presses his lips briefly to my forehead.
We weave through the crowd, hand in hand, glancing at the exhibits although I
know them all down to the last line and smudge. I stop at one trace my fingers
idly over the bumps and furrows of the paint on a large, square canvas: two
men, shirtless, the painting revealing their bodies down to the tops of their
shoulders, one looking sideways with his face revealed in profile at another
with familiar, fine black hair. Jungkook narrows his eyes at the one whose face
is hidden, then says critically to me, “My parting goes back further.”
“Gah.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Details.”
“Sirs!” Someone barks, and we turn to see a guard making a beeline for us, club
tucked into his belt. “Please do not touch the—”
He catches sight of my face and makes an impressive double-take. “Oh, Mr. Park,
sir,” he mumbles hastily under his breath, backtracking speedily. “Of course
you can touch the exhibits, seeing as you—seeing as you made them, haha…”
He disappears from view.
A woman with a fur stole around her neck looks away from a sketch of shadowy
woods with a boy sitting alone on a tree stump in the middle at the noise and
sees me. She frowns and looks down at a brochure. With a jolt of panic, I
remember that my face is printed on it—in color—and quickly turn my face away,
dragging Jungkook by the hand down another aisle. “Let’s just go this way,
shall we…?”
“Jimin,” Jungkook says in exasperation as I tug him along to hide behind a wall
in front of a painting of a pulsing, rainbow heart dripping blood which pools
convincingly in the frame—I took a risk and painted vivid red drops of blood on
the frame itself, which had to be relatively smooth in order for it to work. It
seems to have turned out alright—people look taken aback, but then pleased,
even looking around for guards and then reaching furtively out to touch the
blood to see whether it’s real. “Jimin, you know you have to talk to people at
somepoint, right?”
“I know, just...I’ll talk once I get my bearings,” I say nervously, peering
around the corner. “Oh God.” The blood drains out of my face, and I jump back
around the corner and start shaking Jungkook by the shoulders. “Critics!They
must have arrived after the opening speech, I didn’t spot them in the crowd—”
“Critics?”
“The gallery people warned me,” I mumble under my breath, darting fervent
glances towards the group of people: a tall, skinny woman, a short, stout man,
and two severe-looking old men who could be twins, all carrying little
notebooks, inspecting the exhibits critically, and scribbling in the notebooks.
“They told me there’d be critics, but I didn’t know they’d look so
professional…” I spot one of the severe men raise his eyebrow at my charcoal
sketch and am flooded with panic. “Jungkook, do you think you could do me a
favor and go over to see what score that guy gave me?”
Jungkook nods. “Wait here.”
I hide behind a wall, attracting curious glances from passersby, trying not to
faint as Jungkook casually walks behind them and pretends to crane his head to
look at my sketch. And then he comes back, strolling unconcernedly.
“He scribbled something which looked like 3.5/5,” he tells me.
“3.5!” I say indignantly. “Honestly! I couldn’t get the charcoal out of my
hands for days after I finished that—”
“But the woman gave you 4.5,” Jungkook says consolingly.
“Oh.” The indignation leaves me and I preen slightly. “4.5. Well.”
“Hold on, I think I can manage those old dudes too before they get suspicious.”
Jungkook walks off and looks over their shoulders again, and one of them turns,
asking Jungkook something sharply.
I panic, butterflies going crazy in my stomach. He’s been caught out! I’ll get
shit reviews! All will be lost!
After a minute or so of talking, Jungkook comes back looking rather pleased
with himself.
“What did you say?” I ask anxiously, panicking. “What happened?”
“Well,the old guy asked me whether I had a problem, and I said no, I was just
looking at the sketch, and I was very proud of Jimin for what he’d
accomplished. And they asked me whether I meant you, the person who’d made the
exhibits, and I said yes. And they asked me whether I knew you personally—I
think they recognized me from some of the exhibits—and I said that you were my
boyfriend.” He shrugs. “They definitely missed the opening.”
“And?” I ask, feeling a pleased thrill at the thought that Jungkook said it so
casually, as if being his boyfriend isn’t the best, most amazing, phenomenal
thing in the whole world. As if it doesn’t give me a rush headier than a
bouquet of weed and cocaine and heroin and ecstasy all together, headier than a
million people at my exhibition. It’s not one thing, it’s all these little
things: waking up next to him, holding his hand, sharing food, a constant
friend and lover by my side all the time. And great sex. Did I mention the
great sex?
“Well, he didn’t say anything, but he cancelled out the 3.5 and changed it to
4.5.”
“Oh, I could hug you,” I say, relief flooding me. “Actually, I amgonna hug
you.” I throw my arms promptly around him.
He squeezes me tight briefly before I feel his body tense. I look up, and he’s
frowning. “Jimin...who’s that? She looks familiar.”
I turn. There’s a bedraggled woman with frizzy hair staring at a pencil sketch
of Jungkook sitting up in two single beds pushed together to form a twin bed,
shirtless, the covers bunched around his waist. He’s laughing, half holding his
hand up to try and cover his face. The sketch doesn’t reveal it, but he’s naked
under there. Perfectly, perfectly bare.
I remember the day I made it. I woke up earlier than Jungkook, body loose and
pleasantly wrung out from a night with him, and I sat in our desk chair, just
watching him. Admiring the play of sunlight on his skin as he stirred, the
white sheets against his body. The beauty he represented for me, of freedom and
acceptance and love.
The urge to draw him took me all over again, and I reached for my sketchbook,
pulling out my pencil. I’d just set the tip to paper when he shifted and
yawned, sitting up, blinking groggily.
The sunlight hit his hair, sparking along the ends, turning it to liquid fire.
It dappled his shoulders and melted along his biceps, danced along his
eyelashes as he raised his face, eyes closed, and my pencil just started moving
with me barely even noticing. His body quickly took shape on the paper, the
curve of his shoulders and the slump of his long arms, and the pencil scratched
softly on it before he opened one eye and asked, “Are you drawing me?”
I giggled and went right on at it.
“No,” he groaned, trying to get up and falling into bed. “Don’t, my hair’s a
mess and I’m not wearing anything.”
“I’m the only person who has to know that,” I said, filling in the outline of
his slightly spread legs under the sheets.
“Is this going up in the exhibition?”
“It could.”
He smiled a little. “Don’t,” he whined, half-laughing. “I look like shit.”
“You look beautiful,” I said honestly.
He narrowed his eyes. “Trying to..” he yawned, “f-flatter me…”
I laughed, pencil racing to captured the crinkle of his eyes and his bunny
teeth. The face of the man I loved so much.
But now this woman’s here, staring at the sketch I put all my time and love
into like it’s an abomination, and it just makes me so angry for some reason. I
take a few large strides towards her, beginning, “Madam—”
My own mother turns her vacant eyes on me.
I stumble back. Jungkook catches me around the elbows, and her dead, dead eyes
slide over to him.
“Jimin,” she croaks, voice hoarse from disuse.
“Mom?” I whisper.
She takes a step towards me. “You sent a text,” she says uncertainly. “Invited
me to come.”
“I did,” I say falteringly. “But I didn’t expect you to...come all the way up
from Busan…”
“Of course I’d come for my son.” She stares at Jungkook, then glances at the
sketch. “I suppose you’re Jungkook’s boyfriend now, then?”
I hate the disdain in her voice. At her familiar bitter, spiteful tones, it all
comes rushing back to me: the horrible, horrible years spent in the closet,
hiding from myself, afraid to look in the mirror for fear of what I’d see in
myself. WhoI’d see in myself. A life of doors I wasn’t allowed to open, paths I
wasn’t allowed to go down, questions I wasn’t allowed to ask.
“Yes,” I say frigidly. “If you have a problem with that, I don’t care. This is
my life now. You have no place and no say in it.”
She swallows audibly. Jungkook’s hand tightens on my arm, but I ignore him.
“I want to meet you,” she says, her voice pleading. “After this. I want to talk
to you.”
“For what?” I say angrily. “To shout at me again? About how shameful it is to
have a gay son who’s actually happy with who he is?”
Some people look around as my voice gets louder.
“I just want to talk,” she says, voice small.
“Well, I don’t want to listen to you if all you have to say to me is what a
disgrace I am.” My voice rings through the quiet gallery, made ever louder by
how much lower hers is.
“Jimin,” Jungkook says softly.
“Please,” she says quietly. “Is it too much to ask to know my own son?”
My nose stings, and my vision goes blurry. I look away and blink quickly,
feeling my lip curl.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m walking out if you start telling me I’m a mistake.
Again.”
I turn and walk away.
~
“Jimin,” Jungkook says softly as soon as we’re out of earshot, people staring
after us and my mother back to staring hopelessly at the sketch of Jungkook in
bed, “that wasn’t necessary.”
“What?” I ask furiously, rounding on him.
“I know that your mother riles you up,” he says quietly, “but there was no need
to be so...to be so unkind.”
“Unkind?” I laugh, my voice too high and too strained. “Unkind? Compared to the
way she treated me after you left? She treated me like a criminal.”
“I get that, but she was only trying to act in your best interests—”
“She has no idea of my best interests,” I say savagely. “She doesn’t know me.
She only knows the Jimin she wants me to be. The straight Jimin, who grows up
respecting his mother and has no desires of his own and marries a nice
Christian girl and has a good, God-fearing, Christ-loving son and daughter she
can read Bible passages to.”
“Jimin—”
“Don’t lecture me,” I say angrily. “Don’t be another of those people who tell
me I can’t be who I am.”
“I have never not accepted you for who you are,” Jungkook says, voice suddenly
angry. “I have never done anything but encourage you to embrace who you are.
And now you accuse me of stifling you like so many others have?”
“I didn’t—”
“I understand that you’re hurt. I understand that you’re angry, and hurt and
angry people don’t always mean what they say,” he says, dangerously soft. “But
don’t chase away the one person who has stayed with you throughout the whole
thing or at least triedto.”
I clench my jaw and swallow my pride. Because there’s regret twinging in my
chest now, and Jungkook looks angry and hurt, and it’s because of methat
there’s a frown on his face.
“I’m sorry,” I force out.
“Don’t say sorry.” He stares off into the distance. “‘Sorry’ is only a word
which makes us more resentful.”
~
“Do you want me to be with you?” Jungkook asks quietly as we exit the museum,
the exhibition over, and see my mother standing on the steps, looking lost.
“No,” I say. “I...I have to do this alone.”
Jungkook nods. His hand slips from around my waist, and he walks away.
Some demons must be faced alone.
I walk down the steps, and we stand facing each other for a moment, I wary and
her looking sad at what I’ve become. The world stops turning, and the wind dies
down. Time hangs in the balance. “Mother,” I say finally.
“Jimin,” she says, taking me in, taking in how much I’ve changed. How I’m no
longer skinny but now I’m slender, how I’ve filled out and the stress lines
around my mouth have disappeared to be replaced with faint laugh lines around
my eyes. How I don’t walk like a monster’s going to jump out from around the
corner now. How I can stand alone and not look pathetic.
“What do you want to talk to me about?” I say, trying to keep my voice devoid
of emotion.
“I…” she glances at the museum. “That exhibition. Some of those men...they were
Jungkook, weren’t they?”
“Yes,” I say, my heart sinking, because I actually allowed myself to hope. I
actually allowed myself to hope, for a moment, that this wouldn’t be about
that.
“I heard your speech,” she says. The words hang in the air for a long time
while she looks at me like a kitten in a box caught in the rain. Like something
to be pitied.
“Good,” I say, voice uncharacteristically hard. “I meant every word of it.”
She lets out a sigh. “But...when did all this happen? When was he your ‘support
the way a building needs its foundations’? When was he your ‘friend and
companion’? And when did he become your boyfriend? When did you decide you love
him?” Her voice is disgusted, her face faintly revolted. I want to wipe it off
her face.
“Jungkook attends Seoul University,” I say, grimly satisfied at the taken aback
expression on her face. “As a student. We reunited, and after a while, we
realized we’re in love. So we’re boyfriends. Boyfriends who love each other.”
“But you...you’re kidding. Right?”
I stare at her. “Why would I kid?” I say after a long time. “All those
paintings and sketches there dedicated to him? If that isn’t love, what is? Why
would I joke about something this important?”
“You don’t love him,” she says dismissively, and rage surges in me, pure, hot
anger. As if she knows.As if she ever knew me. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Don’t you dare speak to me like a child,” I say, teeth gritted.
“You can’t love him. You just met.”
“How would you know?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice down. “He’s helped me
heal. He’s held my hand and comforted me. He’s done all those things I said he
did in my speech. He’s been honest and he’s been good to me, and I value that.
I love him for it. I don’t doubt that he loves me back.”
“Well, then, you’re not thinking straight, because two men can’t love each
other.”
Just like that, the fury crashes over me, and my voice rises.
“What...would...you...know?”I shout. “What would you know about us? You haven’t
known a thing about us, and you still don’t. You were too absorbed in all the
things about me that disappointed you to notice that I’d found someone to love
and cherish and who loves and cherishes me. You,” I say, voice deadly, “are not
a part of this relationship.”
“I didn’t raise you to turn out like this,” she says, frowning, as if I’m
deliberately throwing a wrench in the works. As if she has any power to dictate
who I am.
“I don’t care,” I say loudly, voice too high. “It doesn’t matter what you
raised me to be. This is who I am and what you think of it will not sway me.”
“I forbid it,” she says, drawing herself up.
“You forbid it?” I shout. “Really? You think you can just barge into my life
and say that?” A sharp pain appears in my throat as a lump fills it, and I know
I’m beginning to cry. I’ve always been an angry crier. The line between fury
and sorrow has always been indistinct to me. “For years I’ve suffered under the
yoke of your restrictions and rules, and it’s not happening anymore. I’m an
adult now. I’m even earning money of my own—the proceeds from this exhibition
go to me. I don’t have to listen to you anymore. I’m free.”
“You’re still my son, and I’m still your mother. Even if you moved halfway
across the world, I’d still have a say in your life.”
“No,” I say, the tears threatening to spill over at the sheer unfairness of it.
I’ve worked and worked and sweat blood and tears and still she’s trying to make
me into who she wants me to be? “No! You have no say, no say at all. I’m free
from you. And you can delude yourself as long as you want into thinking
forbidding me from having a relationship with Jungkook and being happy is going
to have any effect, but it’s not. I make my own rules. I make my own life.” I
blink the blurring screen angrily out of my eyes, and the first tear rolls down
my cheek, followed by another, and another. I don’t care. Let her see. Let her
see how much she’s hurt me.
She stares at the tears streaking my cheeks. Her expression is faintly
surprised. No doubt she thinks that men are strong, men are supposed to protect
people, that men don’t cry. She doesn’t understand me. Her incomprehension and
disconnection is visible on her face. “You’re not listening to me.”
“Of course I’m not listening to you!” I yell. “When have you e-ever listened to
me? When have you ever stopped and listened to what I have to say?” I break off
in an ugly sob, a hiccup. “You have never for one moment of my life stopped to
look past all the things you’re disappointed about in me and actually tried to
get to know me. You’ve tried, I’ll give you that. But you never wanted the
results. You just wanted to force me into the baby shoes you set out for me.”
“I never—I never forced you into anything—”
“This is rich!” I shout at the night sky. “This is just—completely unexpected.
When have you ever forced me into anything?” I sniff loudly, swipe at my eyes.
“Let’s see. When I wanted to dress up as a girl for Halloween when I was seven,
seven, and you wouldn’t let me. When I wanted to go on every single
fuckingschool trip which has ever been held and you made me stay at home and
look at the pictures of my classmates having fun without me. When I finally
found someone who loved me for who I was in Jungkook and you had to take that
away from me too!”
“I didn’t take him away from you! He left!”
“And good thing he did too. You agreed with that headmistress. You agreed with
that bitch and sat silently while she picked apart my life and sneered at me
for our relationship because it was deviant.” It’s hard to see now past the
tears, hard to talk past my blocked nose. “If Jungkook had stayed, you wouldn’t
have hesitated to report him. You would have thrown him straight to the crows
without a second thought. Why? Because he’d made an effort. He’d made an effort
to teach me the best lesson any teacher has ever taught me: that you should
never be ashamed of who you are and you should never hate yourself for being
someone you can’t change.”
“So if you were an axe murderer, you expect me to tell you good, carry on with
what you’re doing?” she says quietly. “You expect me to pat you on the back for
being unafraid, proud, even, of being wrong in the head?”
“I am not,” I scream, “wrong in the head! Am I killing anyone? Am I murdering
anyone? No! I’m minding my own business, I’m trying to make a life for myself,
I’m trying to find happiness and make peace with my past. I’m trying, I swear
to God I’m t-trying.” I break off in a sob. “But no.You can’t leave good enough
alone, can you? You have to come here and force yourself back into my life
again. You have to stamp all over Jungkook when he’s the only person who’s ever
loved me for who I am.” I smile, a twisted, broken kind of smile. “He loves me.
And I don’t care what you think. But that’s the best thing in the world to me.
It’s a miracle and a blessing which trumps any ever performed by your precious
Lord.”
“I love you,” she says. “I have always loved you and I still do. I stayed with
you when your father left. I tried to make you feel better, I tried to fix
you—”
“I am not something to be fixed,” I say in a whisper. “There is nothing wrong
with me. The only thing wrong with me is the scars my past has left on me.”
“You cannot accuse me of not loving you,” she says as if I’d never said
anything.
“I know you love me,” I say. “I love you too. Yes, hard to believe, isn’t it,
that we’re here now and we’re arguing and we’re telling each other that we love
each other? But we don’t always have to like the people we love.”
“I—how can you say I don’t like you, you’re my son, of course I like you—”
“No. You don’t. If you accepted me for who I am, you wouldn’t fly all the way
across Korea so you could tell me how much of me needs to be fixed.”
“I flew here because I wanted to see you.”
“You wanted to see me so you could tell me how far I’ve strayed from the path
you expected me to follow.”
“No. I flew here because you’re my son and I’m—” she breaks off, searching for
words. “I’m—”
“You’re what? What’re you gonna say? That you’re proud of me?” My derisive
laugh rings unnaturally across the night. “You’re not proud of me. You despise
my work and the message I spread. You hate the fact that I’m not in a church
somewhere, homeless, penniless because the Lorddisfavors me, repenting and
praying for forgiveness of my sins and hoping that you’ll forgive me for being
such a bad son.”
“I don’t want you to be homeless and penniless. I want you to succeed. I love
you and I want you to succeed.”
“You can say that you love me all you want. I can say I love you all I want. It
won’t change the fact that it’s true. Because it is. I do love you. I love you
as much I love Jungkook, maybe more. Because you raised me and you stayed with
me, and I am grateful.” I sniff. “But you’re still trying to change me
according to who you want me to be. And I hate that.” I turn away. “This has
went on long enough.”
“No, Jimin, I—” She reaches out and grasps my sleeve pleadingly. “Please,
Jimin, this has all came out so wrong. Let me understand you. Help me
understand you.”
For a moment, I waver. Is it possible? Is it really possible that one day my
mother will invite me and Jungkook over for Thanksgiving dinner, and we can
continue our relationship with her consent, and we can all be happy together
and my scars will heal?
Try, the stars above me beg as the world spins dizzyingly, the night sky
gliding in and out of focus. For the sake of loving each other despite
ourselves and righting past wrongs, at least try. Try to wipe the slate clean
and rekindle the pure, good, hateless love of mother and son which once existed
between you.
No, a voice whispers in my head, more sinister, more oily. It isn’t possible.
She’s lived too long to consider herself anything but always right. You can’t
change her mind whatever you do, Jimin, and it would save you both so much pain
and bitterness if you just gave up and walked away now. If you just gave up and
walked away.
Just walk away.
“No,” I tell my mother. “I won’t.”
And I walk away, leaving her standing alone on the steps.
~
The house is still and silent when Jimin’s mother unlocks the door and lets
herself in.
There are photos of Jimin everywhere—on the walls, on side tables. Slowly, as
she passes, she takes them down. She unhooks the hanging pictures and picks up
the standing ones and puts them into drawers, slides them shut so they’re out
of sight. It’s clear he doesn’t want to be her son anymore, so she won’t force
him to stay.
She makes her way through the house until every last picture of Jimin, marks of
her pride, evidence of how much she loves her son, is removed, strange spots
empty of dust or wear in the shapes of their frames on the walls and tables.
Then she makes her way, eyes vacant and staring, to the bathroom.
She fills a glass with water, sets it on the sink, and opens the medicine
cabinet. She picks up the bottle of sleeping pills that her doctor gave her a
while back because of her insomnia and shakes it. The pills rattle. Definitely
enough.
She picks up the glass of water and carries the glass and the pills upstairs,
where she walks down the hall until she finds the blue door. She opens it, and
Jimin’s room greets her eyes.
She hasn’t disturbed it since he left. There’s dust on most of the surfaces,
but it’s untouched, a magazine blown open by the draft as he shut the door for
the final time laying on his desk, the pages flapping as she opens the door.
She sits on his bed, the frame creaking slightly, and sets the glass down. She
uncaps the bottle of pills and, handful by handful, tips the pills into her
mouth, washing them down with the water. When the bottle is empty, she exhales,
truly calm for the first time in her life. She lies down on Jimin’s bed,
pulling the covers over her, and waits. Sleep is already tugging at her
eyelids.
Finally, she is completely calm, with a direction in life, and she knows
exactly what she has to do. She knows exactly what her purpose is.
To her, it all makes sense. Jimin is the only purpose left in her life now, has
always been the only purpose. She exists to care for him and make him happy.
It's always been that way. But now, it's clear that he doesn't want her to be
his mother. That he doesn't want to be her son.
But what he doesn't understand is that as long as she lives, she'll always be
his mother, and he'll always be her son. There's no changing that. It's an
irrefutable, inevitable truth. She seems to cause him pain just by existing.
And she doesn't want that, doesn't want her beautiful, wonderful son to hurt
anymore than he already has.
That Jungkook character seems to make him happy. If only they could just be
friends.
So the answer she has arrived at is to simply stop existing.
But no. She can’t go just yet. At the last moment, she realizes that there’s a
picture of Jimin still standing on the bedside table, taken just before he
left. He’s lying on his back on grass, laughing, looking happy. He’s drawn
patterns on the frame. Pretty, colorful swirls. Jimin. Her artistic son.
She forces her sluggish arm to reach out and inch its way towards the picture.
With a massive effort, her nearly-lifeless fingers tip the picture down so that
it lies face down on the table and Jimin can’t see her. She smiles faintly. She
doesn’t want Jimin, her son, her angel, her beautiful baby boy, to see this.
Her hand is still resting on the picture when she closes her eyes for the last
time.
~
I’m laughing. I’m laughing, because Jungkook is tickling me; he’s got me curled
up on our conjoined bed, his chest warm on my back and his fingers relentless
on my sides.
“Stop,” I gasp, tears streaming from my eyes. “Stop, I can’t breathe.”
I’ve finally managed to take my mind off what happened outside the museum. My
mother’s my mother. She’ll bounce back. I know it.
My phone rings suddenly, vibrating madly. Jungkook stops tickling me to reach
out and grab it right before it falls off the edge of the table. He looks at
the screen, then hands it to me, saying, “Unknown number.”
I take it from him, and, still, laughing, say, “Hello?”
I listen.
Jungkook starts looking worried when the smile slips off my face.
“What?” I whisper, clutching the phone so hard the screen will surely break.
Jungkook frowns.
The phone slips from my hand and falls on the bed.
~
I open the door of my old room slowly. The police are swarming around like
ants, wearing gloves, poking around and picking apart my room. Someone seals an
empty pill bottle in a ziplock bag. Another inspects a drained glass.
Jungkook wasn’t allowed in. I’m alone, and I feel weak and unsteady, the word
suicide ringing like bells in my ears.
Someone walks up to me and says, “You’re Park Jimin?”
I make the tiniest of nods.
They hand me a framed picture with their gloved hands. “She was touching this
when she died,” they say, without emotion. Impersonally. “It was face down. All
the other pictures of you in the house have been taken down and put in drawers.
We presume she did it before her death.”
Then they’re gone, and I’m holding the picture in my hands, alone in this room
full of people.
It’s a photo of me. It was taken by my mother at the carnival last summer,
before I left for Seoul University—I was actually enjoying myself, and it was a
rare moment while I laughed. I’m lying on my back on the grass, my arms half-
flung over my eyes. I’m happy. It was a good photo, so I printed it out and
framed it and placed it on my bedside table.
She was touching this when she died.
The grief hits me with the force of a bullet train. I said all those horrible
things to her, and I never had the time to take them back. I never had the time
to apologize. I never had the time to tell her that I love her despite how she
hurts me, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, because we both hurt each other, and
sometimes I’m sure I hurt her more than she hurt me, and I know that she loves
me. I know that she did everything she did out of love.
I know that she never really meant to hurt me.
My hands shake, they shake terribly, and the picture drops, the glass front
shattering. I run out of my room, run away from my mistakes, my past. My
regrets.
I can’t breathe no matter how much air I gulp into my lungs. I can’t stop
crying no matter how hard I breathe. I can’t escape no matter how fast and far
I run. Because how do you apologize to someone who’s gone, gone forever? How do
you tell them you’re sorry that you were their life’s purpose, and they poured
all their love and care into you, but you turned on them and said they had no
place in your life, in the life they’d created?
How do you apologize for putting their face on your demons when you know the
demons really came from yourself?
~
The funeral is terrible.
They say that funerals are for the living. But all I want, all I wish, is to be
in the casket which is being lowered into the ground instead of my mother. For
her to be in my place, living her life, instead of floating through oblivion
because her son is a disappointment.
Jungkook came with me. He’s beside me now, dressed all in black. His eyes are
as red-rimmed and bloodshot as mine are. He held me while I cried and cried
with me. And when you’re crying, what you want isn’t someone to comfort you and
lie and tell you it’s going to be okay. When you cry, what you want is someone
to cry with you. To stand as testimony that the world is cruel, the world hurts
us, but at least there are others to hurt with you.
He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Once the people have left and the casket is six feet under, her body returned
to the earth, I ask Jungkook dully, “What do we do now?”
“What do you mean?” he asks tiredly. Neither of us have gotten much sleep.
I turn to him. “You know this isn’t what she wanted,” I say softly. “She died
because of us. She committed suicide because of us. Carrying on like how we are
now, it would be—it would be an insult to her memory.”
“Are you suggesting we break up because that’s what she wanted?” he asks,
equally as quietly. There’s a hush over the graveyard we do not have the
authority to break.
“Do you think that’s what we should do?” I whisper. “In her memory?”
He looks at me for a long time. His eyes are heartbroken.
“Jimin,” he says, taking my hands. “Please understand me when I say...if we
were to always honor the dead, the living would have no lives of their own. It
doesn’t make sense to mourn a death with further separation. Thatwould be a
true insult to her memory.”
I close my eyes. “I just...I don’t know what to do. I said I didn’t need her.
But I was wrong. I was so wrong.”
“You may never make your peace with your mother, Jimin,” he says softly. “But I
don’t think that separating is what should be done to make that peace. Pain and
death is ugly. It isn’t neat. It isn’t an equation with an answer. So it’s up
to us to make our own answers.”
He squeezes my hands. “Listen to your heart. Listen to yourself. Not your
grief, not your anger, not your regret...but yourself.Think about what feels
right with you. If you want to leave me, I’ll leave you. It’ll hurt me, but
I’ll honor your decision.” He takes a breath. “But if you stay, then I promise
I’ll love you forever. I’ll stay with you, I’ll cry with you, I’ll grow old
with you, and I’ll heal your scars the best I can, even the ones which can’t be
healed. I’ll hold your heart and you’ll hold mine, and we’ll love each other.”
He looks into my eyes, the burden of the world contained in them. “I love you,
Jimin, more than I’ve ever loved anything. And all I want is for you to allow
me to. Forever.”
My eyes fill with tears.
I nod. I just nod. Because not everything has to be a beautiful quote. Some
things need to be ugly. Some things need to hurt. Some things need to be
simple. Or we wouldn’t have the honor of calling ourselves human.
He squeezes my hands, and we walk out of the graveyard together. It begins to
rain, drops pattering slowly on the leaves of trees and then harder, faster. We
hardly notice, leaning against each other, supporting each other, depending on
each other. We are all the refuge we need.
It’s always raining when things happen.
Chapter End Notes
     This will be the last and final chapter of Mr. Jeon.
     I cannot express how much I love all of you who have left comments
     and kudos and subscribed and bookmarked. Even those of you who
     haven't done any of these things, but have followed this fic
     faithfully, or those of you who have read even one word of it—I love
     every single one of you. You've been my companions on this wonderful
     journey, and I love you all. Thank you for having patience with me,
     and pointing out inconsistencies, and laughing with me, and screaming
     with me, and crying with me.
     We are all brothers and sisters under the roof of the ARMY fandom,
     and I am proud to call myself an ARMY.
     I love you.
     ***
     I understand that some of you have requested an epilogue, but I'm
     afraid that it might be some time before I'm able to write again due
     to personal encumbrances. I most probably won't be able to answer
     your messages and comments, either. I'm sorry for that.
     Dear mother of mine, if you're reading this, I hope you're proud of
     the daughter you've suffocated.
     I ended it this way for you. But you refuse to read the one thing I'm
     proud of, the one thing which has managed to grow as a fundamental
     part of me without your poison, and for that I'm sorry. Because now
     you can't say I didn't try to reach out to you. Now the fragile
     bridge which has crossed the canyon of difference separating us has
     finally crumbled. I'm sorry that we're so different that you have to
     read my messages to other people to find out who I am. But you have
     no one to blame but yourself here.
     You can send me to counseling all you want, and I can smile and act
     as if your hate for who I am doesn't affect me, but you cannot make
     me renounce the one thing I am proud of.
     Because I am proud of this. It's the only thing I am actually,
     genuinely proud of, and you can't ruin that for me.
***** Epilogue *****
Chapter Notes
     As thanks for 20,000 hits, here is, at last, the epilogue.
     I'm sorry if it's crappy. It's been a while since I came back to Mr.
     Jeon and I've kind of lost touch with the story. But I felt like I
     needed to write this. Just to tie up the loose ends a little more
     securely than they needed to be tied.
     I love you. As always.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“We’re gonna be late!” I scream at Taehyung and Yoongi through their room door.
The dorm building’s practically empty—why? Because everyone’s already left for
the graduation ceremony and we’re the only four suckers who aren’t there
yet.“What in the name of Jesus and Mary are you doing?”
“These graduation gowns!” Taehyung’s muffled yell carries to Jungkook and I
through the door. “I can’t...find...the fucking...opening!”
“It’s here, you idiot,” says Yoongi’s irritable voice. “Here. Here.Look at me.”
“That’s not the neck, it’s a sleeve!”
“It is not a sleeve. You’re just getting yourself more tangled up.”
“Tae—” I begin threateningly. “If you don’t get that graduation gown on in one
minute,we’re taking Yoongi and leaving without you.”
“I’ve nearly got him into it, if he would just stop...struggling…”
Half a minute later, Taehyung bursts out of the room, looking triumphant, the
graduation cap tipped at a haphazard angle on his newly-dyed blonde hair.
Yoongi trails him out, his gown trailing on the floor, looking sulky. His thin
frame looks like it’s drowning in the mass of black fabric.
“Finally!” I gasp. “Let’s go, they’ve probably given our diplomas away by now…”
We hurry down the corridor, Taehyung leading the way with his black sleeves
flapping like some over-enthusiastic phantom, I behind him trying to catch up
on my short legs, and Yoongi and Jungkook lagging behind, scrolling through
their respective SNS account feeds.
“What...are...you...doing?”I scream at them. “Hurry up!”
They break into reluctant runs too, looking grumpy as they tuck their phones
into their pockets under their robes, Jungkook adjusting his cap and brushing
his hair so it falls just right into his eyes. Yoongi looks awkward running in
the gown—his cap keeps falling into his eyes, and he frequently trips on the
trailing hem. Yoongi’s body was not built for running. The fact that his gown
is obviously too big for him doesn’t help.
Jungkook catches up easily, only needing to walk briskly with his long legs to
keep pace with my short ones. I’m panting, but he’s pulled out his phone again.
I snatch it away. “We are graduating,” I gasp murderously, “and you...you…” I
look down. “Check Instagram?”
He shrugs.
We finally make it to the hall, Yoongi stumbling on the steps as his robes get
in the way and Taehyung pulling him excitedly up by the hand. We slip in
through the double doors and cluster somewhere in the back, Yoongi and I
doubled over and panting but Taehyung and Jungkook calm and infuriatingly fit
as always.
They’re already in the I’s. “Im Yoo-ah,” booms over the microphone, and people
clap. “Im Ryeosung.”
“It’ll be the J’s next,” I whisper to Jungkook. “The Jeons. That’s you.”
“Jang Hyemi.” A pause. “Jang Hyeokjin.” Another pause. “Jang Jiwoo…”
“Jeon, Jeon, Jeon…” I whisper. “Come on, Jeon…”
“Jeon Jihyun,” the speaker says, and I jump up and down in excitement. “Jeon
Junghyun...Jeon Jungkook.”
I clap louder than anyone as Jungkook ascends the stage, bowing and smiling as
he accepts his degree. He joins the line of Jeons and smiles down at me.
Yoongi trips as he goes up on stage. It would be funny if I hadn’t done the
same thing.
~
Skip. Trip. Stumble. A month flashes by. Our unlikely quartet leave university,
look at houses, settle down. Our scene opens in front of an almost sickeningly
suburban semi-detached house, in a gated community, perfect green lawns in
front. All four of our main characters are there—Yoongi and Taehyung carrying
their stuff into the left side, and Jimin and Jungkook bickering amiably as
Jungkook only lets Jimin carry light things, like lamps, and carries the heavy
things by himself. Jimin is annoyed at himself for enjoying the way his
boyfriend’s muscles flex as he hefts a box out of the car trunk.
~
“Jungkook, gimme the box.” I try to pull it from him.
“No.” He dances out of my reach, running across the lawn.
“But it’s heavy!”I wail after him. “You’ll get backache!”
“I’m 24, Jimin, not 84!” He kicks the door of the house open and walks sideways
so he can fit the box.
“I wanted to hire movers, butno, you’re a big man and you have to do it all by
yourself…” I run after him, the plug of the lamp trailing on the grass, fussing
over the door. “Oh, Jungkook, you left a boot mark...and the door was such a
nice, clean white too…”
Meanwhile, Yoongi struggles with a large box which contains his desktop
computer. Taehyung, already juggling another few boxes with mugs and plates and
other horrifyingly domestic things, tries to help him. “Yoongi, careful, you’ll
drop it…”
“I’ll be fine, just get into the house before you smash our dishes.”
“But it’s slipping.”
Yoongi catches it deftly with his knee just in time. “Nope.”
“Careful, the mouse is trailing on the ground...”
“What?”
“Don’t trip—!”
Yoongi’s heel catches on the cable, and he tips forward into Taehyung. Taehyung
holds the box of porcelain high above his head as they both go down like
sinking ships, wincing as Yoongi’s box digs into his stomach.
They lay there, panting, for a while, Taehyung carefully, carefully setting
down the thankfully unharmed box of porcelain on the grass and Yoongi
stretching out his tired, skinny arms.
“Oi.” Yoongi pokes Taehyung in the stomach. “Get up.”
“I can’t, you’re lying on me.”
“Fine. Then we’ll lie here for a bit.”
Yoongi rolls off him, and they lay on their backs on the grass, watching Jimin
fuss over Jungkook as he balances a TV on his stomach all by himself.
“This is weird, isn’t it?” Yoongi says. “I never thought I’d find someone in
university. I thought I’d be one of those kids who grow up to be bad eggs, with
drinking and drug problems, DJing in a club in my free time, unable to settle
down.” He waves his hand at the quiet houses, filled with happy families whom
have never heard the word ‘dysfunctional’ applied to them in their lives.
“Not...here. Moving into a blue house with white trim and a grey roof in a
quiet, respectable suburban neighborhood.”
“I never thought I’d be here either,” Taehyung says softly. “But here I am.”
“It...kind of scares me,” Yoongi says hesitantly. “Settling down. All this tame
domestic stuff. Building a life for myself. With you. With us.”
They look at each other.
“It’s okay,” Taehyung says softly. “It kind of frightens me too, you know? That
my college days are over. That I have to find a job and I’ll be getting fat
soon and we’ll have to worry about bills and taxes. But…” he reaches over and
takes Yoongi’s hand. “We’ll find out how to turn this boring-ness into an
adventure. We won’t decay. We’ll grow better with age.
Like...like...fermentation. Like...kimchi.”
There is a brief silence while they fully appreciate this simile.
“I don’t wanna be like kimchi,” Yoongi says eventually. “Kimchi kinda stinks.”
“Cheese.”
“Cheese stinks too.”
“Yogurt.”
“I don’t like yogurt.”
“Like Jungkook.”
“What?”
“Have you seenhis childhood pictures? Puberty hit that man like a bullet
train.”
Yoongi casts about in his memory for the time Jungkook reluctantly showed them
the grainy images, photos of a short-ish boy with a nose too big for his face
and a horrible sort of bowl haircut which couldn’t decide whether it was long
or short. “Okay. Fair enough. We’ll be like Jungkook. Getting hotter as he
ages.”
“We’ll be like Jungkook,” Taehyung agrees.
They watch Jungkook stride out of his side of the semi-d and wipe the sweat off
his face with his shirt. It lifts, revealing a glimpse of perfect abs, a faint
line of hair running from his navel to down below his waistband. They think
they see a curtain twitch across the road and the face of a teenage girl with
an expression which is far more interested than it should be.
“Jungkook’s kinda hot, isn’t he?” Taehyung says offhandedly.
“He’s pretty damn hot.”
Jungkook growls in frustration and tears the sweat-soaked shirt off entirely,
tossing it to Jimin. He picks up a box, and the muscles in his arms flex. The
girl presses her rapt face to the window, eyes wide.
“Jimin’s a lucky man,” Taehyung says distractedly, eyes following the waistband
of Jungkook’s sweatpants as it slips down his hips and reveals the top of his
boxers. They’re black. Taehyung props himself up on his elbows to get a better
look as Jungkook leans down to pick up something which has fallen and the
muscles in his back ripple and bunch mesmerizingly.
Yoongi narrows his eyes and yanks him back down.
~
A year passes them by. The laugh lines around Jimin’s eyes and mouth get a tiny
bit deeper, and Jungkook’s shoulders get annoyingly broader. Yoongi stays the
same—small, skinny, and sulky, but with a soft spot for Taehyung. Taehyung
loses not a single iota of his hyperactivity.
Jungkook finds a job as a scientist in a lab for a medicine company developing
drugs to combat diseases caused by protozoa more effectively. Sometimes he
lectures at Seoul University. Taehyung works for the same company, but in a
different lab whose aim is to increase the immunity of cattle against worm
infections. Jimin is noticed and taken on by a company, who hires a manager for
him and sets up art exhibitions for his work. Yoongi, a music major, starts
rapping for a living in the underground and fulfils his mental image of himself
as a DJ in Pulse, a queer club, on the weekends. He boasts that he has the
least boring job out of all of them.
The four of them have barbecues on their shared lawn on Sunday nights. Jungkook
cooks. Jimin fusses. Taehyung tells animated stories and makes Yoongi smile
grudgingly. None of them quite know how they got from their respective Point
A’s to their Point B’s as they are now—together. Coexisting.
They are happy. They can feel their youth passing them by in a last feeble
flutter of faded butterfly wings, but they are happy.
~
“Jungkook.” I leap onto our bed.
“What.” Jungkook yawns and sits up.
“Let’s go on a honeymoon.”
Jungkook freezes. “Honeymoon?”
“Yes.”
“But...we’re not married,” Jungkook says uncertainly.
“Does that matter?” I bounce excitedly on the mattress (AeroBed®, memory foam
to alleviate back pain and set the spine in its proper position, 30% off from
Bed, Bath, and Beyond; I am disgusted at myself for remembering this), kneeling
in front of him. “Can’t we have a honeymoon anyway?”
“Shouldn’t we save that for when we are married?” Jungkook asks.
I pause.
For the first time, it hits me that I’m living with Jungkook in the same house,
and we’re a couple, and we picked curtains out together at Ikea, and we’re
practically partners already. And the next logical step in this situation would
be getting married.
The song rings in my head. First comes love —we’ve got that down pat— then
comes marriage…
Then comes a baby in a baby carriage.
I reel. No. No kids. No way in hell am I ever going to be ready for kids and
think about adoption or surrogate mothers. I’m only 22, for God’s sake.
Jungkook’s watching me intently. I get the feeling that he knows exactly what
I’m thinking. We know each other inside out by now, after five years of living
together, four in the dorms and now one in our house.
“Jimin…” he says softly, “do you want to get married?”
I bite my lip. “I...I don’t know. I’m only 22. And you’re only 25. Most Koreans
only get married at around 30.”
“Do you want us to be the Koreans who lower that average?”
I watch him, openmouthed.
He smiles slowly and reaches out to take my hands. “Marry me, Jimin. Marry me
and be my spring, summer, autumn, winter. Marry me and grow old with me. Stay
with me. If you’ll have me.”
“I—I don’t know what to say,” I stammer. “M-marriage?”
His eyes are soft. “We don’t have to get married right away. We can get married
when we’re 30, 40, 50. Just say you’ll stay with me and love me forever. Just
say yes.”
I look at him. At this beautiful man, sitting up in our bed, the covers down to
his waist, the morning sunlight caught in his hair. All the love in the world
melted in his eyes. And I wonder what I did to deserve him.
“Yes,” I whisper. “My God, yes.”
He smiles.
We kiss, Jungkook pulling me down in the white sheets of the bed I thought we’d
never share, smiling into my mouth. I giggle as his body covers mine. It’s
brilliant. It’s beautiful. It’s the perfection I never thought we’d have.
The moment is spoiled when the phone rings.
I look up, my reverie broken, at my phone, which is vibrating and has nearly
fallen off the edge of the bedside table. Jungkook looks less than happy at the
interruption, but I reach out to catch the phone before it falls and look at
the caller ID.
“It’s Yoongi,” I say to Jungkook.
His expression changes to one of faint worry. “Oh, no, what is it now? Has
Taehyung set fire to something again?”
“I’m gonna pick up,” I decide, telling myself that there will be an unlimited
number of days to make up for the look of disappointment on Jungkook’s face.
“It could be an emergency.”
I slide my finger across the screen and place it against my ear. “Hello?”
“I would like you two to cut the fluff,” Yoongi growls down the line. “I can
feel it. The fluff coming from your side of the house is so overwhelming that
it’s spilling into our side like cotton candy.”
Yoongi has developed an uncanny ability to sense whenever Jungkook and I are
being, as he calls it, ‘unreasonably fluffy’. I’m about 90% sure this is a
fanfiction reference. It’s the weirdest sixth sense I’ve ever heard of.
“We weren’t being fluffy,” I say, glancing at Jungkook.
The phone is practically freezing with the silent chill of undiluted Yoongi
doubt emanating down the line. Even Jungkook looks skeptical.
“Alright, alright, we were,” I amend hastily. “But that’s none of your
business.”
“I pride myself on my ability to disrupt your fluff before you become lethally
stereotypical,” Yoongi says bluntly. “If that’s all, then I’ll be going now.”
“Wait,” I blurt out, no time to confirm it with Jungkook beforehand, because I
have to get it out of me. “Wait. Jungkook and I are—Jungkook proposed. To me.”
There is a silence. I panic for a brief moment, wondering if I’ve struck Yoongi
dead with the sheer force of his exasperation at our never-ending, perpetual
gooeyness.
“Yoongi?” I ask, clutching my phone fearfully.
“Well,” he says finally, voice characteristically grumpy but sounding as if he
expected it as well, “well, shit. Congratulations, you two disgusting lovebirds
I unfortunately call my friends.”
“What is it?” Taehyung’s voice reaches me, muffled, over the phone line. “What
are you congratulating them for?”
“They’re getting married,” Yoongi says, not bothering to cover the speaker.
There is another moment of quiet. And then an agitated, crazed screeching
engulfs the line as Taehyung presumably wrestles the phone away from Yoongi so
he can scream excitedly into it. I wince and hold it away from my ear.
“You two!” he yells. “You two are disgusting! But I love it! I loveit!”
The faint sound of Yoongi’s grumbling filters through Taehyung’s ecstatic
babbling: “I’m wiping away a tear.”
~
The sun rises and the sun sets, and the sun rises and the sun sets. Clouds whip
over the sky in a blur of dazzling white, overcast grey, and pink and orange-
tinged dusk. The seasons change, tipping from spring to hot, sweltering,
stifling summer, and Jungkook and Jimin decide it’s time.
Not to marry. They’ve agreed that they’ll marry when they feel like it, when
the time is right, whether it be in ten years or twenty or thirty; and now is
not the right time. They are happy, satisfied with how they are now, in an easy
love free of the strain of official bonds of betrothal, and they see no need to
make their love sacrosanct at the altar just yet. There is no rush. They fulfil
all the conditions of marriage as they are now, anyway.
No. They believe that a honeymoon has been due for a while now. They don’t
think they need to be married to merit a honeymoon. If anything, they just feel
in need of a vacation, one last fling before they settle down and accept the
mundane satisfactions of adult life and the loss, the inevitable slipping away,
of their youth.
Taehyung and Yoongi are in on the plan. They’ve agreed to pool all their money
for the best end-of-youth holiday, the best going-out-with-a-bang vacation,
that the world has ever seen.
~
“Yoongi, surely you don’t see the sense in this,” Jungkook appeals desperately
as a standing fan whirs behind them in an attempt to chase away the sticky
summer heat. Taehyung sighs heavily and wipes the sweat off his forehead.
“We’re going on vacation to escape the heat of the summer. And they want to go
to Malaysia?”
“I don’t see a problem,” Yoongi says coolly.
“Malaysia’s a tropical country! Look, look, have you seen this?” Jungkook
scrolls agitatedly through the pictures of sunny beaches and sea with water so
blue and clear it blends with the sky on the laptop screen on the table in
front of him. “Look at that sand! The sun’s so bright the sand reflects it! How
hot would that sand be?”
“But look,” I say dreamily, shaking sweat out of my hair. “It’s beautiful.And
it’s so close to Korea. It’s only 9 hours if you take Malaysia Airlines to fly
from Seoul to...to…” I squint at the screen. “Lang...Langkawi.”
“9 hours?” Jungkook says faintly, his abysmal math skills simply giving up as
they attempt to calculate the toll the cost of a nine-hour flight would take on
our wallets.
“Including transit in Kua...Kuala Lum...pur!” Taehyung says brightly,
attempting to pronounce the name of the capital city of Malaysia and doing an
acceptable job.
“But we can’t speak Malay,” Jungkook argues hopelessly, knowing the argument is
mostly over. “How will we communicate?”
“Well, it says here that Malaysians are the best English speakers in Asia,
better even than Singaporeans,” I say, peering at the screen through my glasses
as I type in a few words. “So that’s good.”
“Yes, but you see, we can’t speak English either,” Jungkook says scathingly.
“At least we understand a little,” Taehyung says consolingly. “We understand
more English than Malay, anyway.” He pats Jungkook on the back as he visibly
gives up, shoulders slumping in defeat. “It’ll be great! Just let Jimin make
all the arrangements.”
I smile and begin typing, scanning the screen. “The Datai is just beautiful,”I
gush. “The price isn’t so beautiful, but for this...private beach
villas...quiet stretches of pristine beach...we wouldn’t be able to get
anything like this in Korea for triple the price.”
“What’s the price?” Jungkook mumbles dispiritedly, that bit the only one which
has gotten through to him.
I tell him.
He starts beating his head slowly on the table.
~
A woman greets us in Malay as we walk into the hotel. Hoseok asked whether he
could come at the last minute, so he’s here too; he managed to get a high-
paying job as a music producer, so he paid for a villa all to himself. The five
of us huddle closely together as we advance inside, looking around with wide
eyes, a little cluster of Korean amongst the luxurious Malaysian-ness.
Taehyung’s wearing a tank top, Hoseok’s in skinny black jeans, a white shirt,
and large sunglasses, and Yoongi’s clad in a black shirt with a stretched
neckline; Jungkook’s also wearing a tank top, but I’m wearing a sweater. I’m
regretting it terribly—large fans whir in the high ceiling far above me, but
it’s still hot and humid, and the heat is just bearable only if you’re wearing
a short-sleeved or sleeveless thin shirt. Inside my thick, fluffy sweater, I’m
sweating like mad.
We smile politely at the lady. Hoseok’s large sunglasses slide down his nose
bridge, slicked with sweat; he pushes them back up. The lady’s wearing a kind
of national costume the stewardesses on the airplane were wearing too—I think
they’re called kebaya.They consist of a long-ish buttoned top nipped in at the
waist with long sleeves and a long skirt. I don’t know how she isn’t collapsing
from the heat. Jungkook’s looking faint even in his tank top, and Yoongi’s
sheltering from the sun under a huge hat, taking it off to wipe at his forehead
every now and then.
The woman directs the men carrying our luggage from the taxi in a tongue-
twisting jumble of foreign words. We tried to take the luggage from him
ourselves, but they shook their heads with a flood of Malay and pressed glasses
of chilled nutmeg juice into our hands instead. The men nod and heft our bags
higher, all wiry muscle and thin, determined sweaty faces.
Taehyung babbles randomly at the woman in Korean as we’re herded towards the
check-in counter by a small crowd of Malaysian hotel staff anxious to help us.
She looks bewildered, but nods politely and widens her eyes the way you would
listen to the meaningless chatter of babies just learning to speak. Taehyung
doesn’t seem to notice (as he doesn’t most things).
The atmosphere is unbelievably nice once you get over the heat, which I haven’t
yet succeeded in accomplishing; it’s like every Chuseok dinner I’ve ever
attended—people fussing over us and refusing to let us do anything by
ourselves, pointing us where we need to go, accompanying us everywhere.
Jungkook seems a little miffed. As the biggest of us all, he’s appointed
himself official caretaker, shepherding us through numerous unfamiliar airports
and flights and eyeing up strangers with suspicion, and he’s visibly reluctant
and a little offended to let other people take over us.
“You know English?” The woman says in slightly accented English now, probably
just to be nice.
Hoseok jumps in. This is his moment. “Aaahmmm, we know some, some,” he says in
a bad American accent, drawling the vowels too long, screwing up his face in
what I suppose he thinks is an apologetic expression and holding his thumb and
forefinger a centimeter apart. “But we Korean, you know? Our Korean
more...better...than English.”
His bad accent confuses them. The woman nods uncertainly and rattles off a
chain of English words too advanced for us to understand. I underestimated the
English skills of these Malaysians. It’s our turn to smile in puzzlement now.
“Aah...not that much,” Hoseok says apologetically.
They all frown and nod sympathetically, eager to be concerned at someone else’s
problems. They look at Hoseok as if he can unravel his Korean-shrouded
mysteries if they look worried enough.
We reach the check-in counter, and Jungkook steps forward to manage
proceedings, leaving Taehyung, Hoseok, Yoongi, and I in a frightened, uncertain
crowd in the middle of the polished wood floor. An intimidating, curved sort of
sword which has ripples in the blade has been framed and hung behind the
counter on a background of intricate, delicate wood carvings. Seeing that we’ve
finished our nutmeg juice, they take the empty glasses from us and hand us
cold, damp towels along with a sticky glutinous kind of pastry which is white
on top and green on the bottom. Yoongi examines it uncertainly. Taehyung prods
it. It jiggles.
Hoseok takes a bite out of it and makes an appreciative noise. “This tastes
really good,” he says in Korean.
The hotel staff look pleased that we like it. Once Jungkook returns, we’ve
already been loaded down with a few trays of mysterious food which is almost
ridiculously delicious. A Chinese lady leads us to our beach villas as we stuff
ourselves.
We’re rather taken aback at the materialization of the Chinese staff member—we
weren’t expecting there to be any nationalities so close to Korea in Malaysia.
We look around at the corners as if half-expecting some Japanese to appear too.
In our scattered knowledge of Chinese, the lady manages to give us a sort-of
tour of the hotel as we proceed towards the beach villas, explaining to us with
the aid of miming as best as she can that Malaysia is a multicultural country
and Chinese people make up one of its three main races—Malay, Chinese, and
Indian. Hoseok acts as translator, but he often translates wrongly since his
grasp of Mandarin is fiddly at best, himself.
We arrive at the villas by walking across a stretch of beach, our feet sinking
into the fine, white sand, which does its best to make its way into our flip-
flops and grate against our feet. We take our flip-flops off and walk with our
bare feet instead. The sand feels like velvet slinking between our toes. The
sun is setting, so the sand is only faintly warm from the afternoon sun.
The staff leave us to explore once we reach the beach villas. We bow profusely
to them, Korean manners too ingrained to ignore even in a foreign country,
respect so instinctive that it’s almost compulsive, and they bow back, looking
extremely confused.
As they walk away, we hear them mutter amongst themselves, throwing curious
glances back at us. I can’t blame them—Taehyung is prancing around the beach,
pretending to fence with one of the shorter palm trees with his flip-flop, and
Hoseok has whipped off his sunglasses in a dramatic movement, looking out to
sea heroically while Yoongi narrows his eyes distrustfully at the evening sun
from under his sunhat. Jungkook sighs as he watches them, probably wondering,
like me, how we landed ourselves with these monkeys on our honeymoon.
We disperse among the three beach villas we booked, Hoseok taking the one
furthest from us, on the left, Yoongi and Taehyung taking the one in the
middle, and us taking the remaining one on the right. It’s beautiful. The
villas are very open-air, with those delicate wooden frames everywhere,
everything which isn’t wooden colored white instead, like the bedsheets and
filmy curtains. It gives off a very natural feel. I can’t believe accomodation
this nice was priced that low. For the same price in Korea, you’d maybe be able
to afford a motel room, but never something this effortlessly fancy and
luxurious.
I throw myself onto the white bed. I can see the bathtub and bathroom from
here, which is a little weird, because the wood-themed bathroom has large
doorways open to the outside which allow a view in. But we’re so isolated out
here, and it’s so peaceful, that I’m not worried about any peeping Toms.
“Jungkook, I’m exhausted. It’s just so hot.” I reach weakly for my luggage bag
and unzip it, yanking my sweater off my head and rifling through my bag for
something cooler. Jungkook sits next to me and kisses the sweat off my neck. I
wave him away. “Ew, don’t. I’m gross and sweaty.”
“Let’s watch the sunset,” he says softly. “And then take a bath.” He jerks his
head at the bathtub, which doesn’t look very conventional. It’s a different
shape, and doesn’t look as dull as normal bathtubs. The taps aren’t attached to
the tub but jut out of a wooden pillar next to it, because why not. Fancy.
“You wanna do all that sickeningly romantic stuff?” I ask, looking up at him
and smiling.
“Yeah.” He touches his nose to mine, grinning. “We’re on honeymoon. There is
literally no better time to do all that sickeningly romantic stuff.” He catches
my eye. “We only get one chance—this chance—so we might as well get it all out
now before we drive Yoongi to madness.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
~
A few minutes later, we sit on the balcony of our room, watching the sun set
over the sea in a brilliant explosion of orange and pink and dark blue. It’s
cooler now that it’s dusk, but in no means chilly—it’s bearably warm. There’s a
slight cool breeze blowing off the sea. I’m still not used to the humidity
here—the air feels like it clings to me, as if it doesn’t want to let me go.
As the last sliver of sun disappears over the line of the sea, the last flicker
of liquid fire, I look sideways at our neighboring villa, Taehyung and
Yoongi’s. The curtains are drawn, fluttering in the breeze, but they’re thin
and the lights are on inside, so I can see their silhouettes. Faint strains of
piano music drift towards us on the wind. It makes sense—Yoongi’s silhouette is
sitting at what looks like a piano. He must have been overjoyed to find it.
He’s composed a whole song about his first piano which is entitled “First
Love”. I thought it’d be about Taehyung or something, but it’s not. It’s about
a brown piano in the corner of his childhood home.
It’s kind of heartwarming. Taehyung hugged Yoongi after we finished listening
to it. Yoongi is a grumpy bear of a human being and all, but I have a feeling
that he has a soft spot for embarrassingly cute things like cuddling and hugs
and teddy bears.
I should know. Taehyung got him a gigantic bear for Valentine’s Day. To my
knowledge, it currently resides on their bed. Who knows what kind of kinky
activity it’s seen by now.
Taehyung’s lanky silhouette approaches and slings his arms around him from
behind. The piano music fades, and Yoongi turns his head to kiss him.
I smile faintly. They argue good-heartedly, but they love each other. They
couldn’t survive without each other.
“How did we get here, Jungkook?” I ask softly. “You were a teacher, and I was
your student, and Yoongi was just a roommate who made Taehyung terrified of his
feelings. Imagine if things had went just a little bit differently. The four of
us would never have met. We’d never live in two semi-d’s next to each other. We
wouldn’t be where we are now. And my mom…” Everything seems to dim a little.
“My mom would still be alive.”
Jungkook bites his lip. “Jimin…some miracles can’t happen without losses.”
“You can say all that philosophical stuff,” I say quietly, “but the fact is
that my mom is dead but I’m happy without her.”
He looks at me. “Do you feel guilty for that?”
“I don’t. My line of thought is, and I feel terrible for it—” I take a ragged
breath. “She was gonna die anyway. She was gonna be bitter until the end. If it
weren’t me being gay, she’d find something else to nitpick. And people like her
can’t be changed, so why feel guilty for being happy?” But—” I sigh. “What if
she could be changed? What if she could have been happy with us in the world as
we are—together and happy as well? She never got a chance to change, and we
never gave her a chance to, either. What I mean is—what if all this could exist
and be happening”—I wave my hand around—“with her still alive?”
“We don’t know that,” he says. “We’ll never know because it didn’t happen that
way.”
I cast my eyes down, at my flip-flopped feet and the sand caked in the soles.
“I just can’t stop thinking if it could have been if we’d only given it a
chance to.”
“Jimin—” Jungkook pulls himself up in his chair and adopts a genteel
expression, one I recognize as the science teacher-Jungkook expression. I heave
another sigh. It appeared before he lectured me about throwing away organic
waste when it could be turned into compost. It appeared before he lectured me
about biting my nails, a habit I’ve never been able to shake off. “Do you
believe in the theory of multiple universes?”
“Um…” I eye him warily, trying to gauge how long-winded this lecture will be.
“Which one?”
“The multiverse theory, or an amalgamation of the words ‘multiple’ and
‘universe’.” He looks pensively out to sea. I settle myself in for the
ride—once he starts using words like ‘amalgamation’, I know it’s going to be
the equivalent of a science test you didn’t study for which is meant to be
taken by people with a PhD in physics. “The theory is that because there are an
infinite number of possibilities but a finite number of ways particles of
matter can be arranged, logically, arrangements of particles of matter will
start repeating. You, Jimin, are an arrangement of particles of matter. I am an
arrangement of particles of matter. Your mother was an arrangement of particles
of matter. This entire world is just one long, convoluted arrangement of
particles of matter all smashed together and coexisting.” He looks at me
expectantly. “With me so far?”
I nod distractedly. He lost me at ‘finite ways’.
“The point beyond where light stops in space-time can well be considered
another universe, containing the repetitions of the particles of matter in our
world as we know it. That means that there’s another you. That means that
there’s another me. That means that there’s another version of your mom who
could still be alive. And not just one other versions of us—infinite other
versions, different in either tiny ways or big ones.”
I try to remember whether I booked us for breakfast the next day as I watch the
waves lapping up against the shore.
“If the multiverse theory indeed rings true, that means that a new universe
forms as a ‘split’ of ours whenever we make a decision. That means that this
morning, if you chose between wearing a blue shirt or a red shirt but wore the
blue one, there is a universe containing a version of you who chose to wear the
red one. It can be small differences like that, hardly perceptible.” He
steeples his fingers. “Or it can be bigger ones. Like one where your mother
decided not to kill herself and now lives happily in the knowledge that you are
happy and happily gay as well.”
I blink at him. This sounds important.
“Briefly summarized, this means that there is a universe out there somewhere
where your mother is still alive and happy, and we are too. Together.” He
stares at me intensely. I shift uneasily. Science teacher-Jungkook will never
stop making me feel like I’m a middle-schooler who accidentally walked into an
AP class and is now expected to understand the materials being taught. “Does
that make you feel any better?”
I try to remember what he was saying. “That somewhere out there, my mother
might still be alive?”
“Yes.”
I sigh. “I don’t know. If anything, I’m jealous of the Jimin who lives in that
universe. That Jimin is one lucky asshole.”
“He has me every night.” Jungkook stares thoughtfully out to sea, and I know
that science teacher-Jungkook has gone. “So I guess you could say he’s a lucky
asshole.”
“Gah, you arse.” I shove him.
He smirks. “You mean dick.”
I drop my head in my hands. “Who did I agree to live together with?” I say to
the sand. “What pig am I on honeymoon with?”
“Seriously, though,” he says, sobering up. “The point of all that was that we
can’t do anything with the lot we’re given in life. Maybe you regret a decision
you made. But what happened is that you made that decision. And since we can’t
press rewind and go back and change what happened, you might as well have never
been faced with any choice at all. Not in this universe.”
I look at him. “So somewhere out there,” I say, “there’s a Jimin who isn’t here
right now and never got an opportunity to be an artist and never met you?”
“But in that universe,” he says softly, “his mother might still be dead. We can
never say that our decisions directly influence the lives of other people.
There are just so many factors. And the truth is, simply put, that we’re just
not that important.”
I trace down his face with an artist’s eye, following the curve of the jaw I’ve
sketched out so many times, memorizing the shape of the doe eyes I’ve already
committed to memory. “We’re not important at all,” I say. “You’re right. But we
do what we can with the universe of little importance we have anyway.”
He smiles. “Our little infinity.”
I stand up. “Let’s go inside,” I tell him, sliding my fingers in between his.
“And stop thinking about all this complicated physics stuff.”
He stands up as well, following me in. “Don’t you find science teacher-Jungkook
sexy?”
“Sure, Jungkook. Particles of matter are real sexy.”
“I’m made out of particles of matter. So they are.”
“Shut up. If you piss me off too much, I’ll replace your shampoo with hair
dye.”
He turns white. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“For all your talk about multiverses, you still can’t tell the difference
between shampoo and hair dye.”
“Science teacher-Jungkook is too sexy to worry about things like shampoo
replaced with hair dye!” he blusters. “Science teacher-Jungkook only lectures
and amplifies his sexiness!”
“Science teacher-Jungkook also gave his boarding pass and passport to Jimin. So
if Jimin so wishes, Jimin can leave science teacher-Jungkook and his
overwhelming sexiness behind in Malaysia.”
“You’re mean,” he whines.
“I know.” I push him down on the bed and straddle him. “But that’s why you love
me.”
“Yeah,” he says, fingers dancing up my hips. “That’s why I love you.”
The waves lap against the sand as we fall against each other, bearing witness
to our universe, however little of importance it is.
~
“Jimin—” The door of our villa slams open and someone barrels in. “Jimin, when
is breakfast, we’re both—”
There is a silence. And then someone stumbles out of the villa, wailing about
the state of his eyes, making enough racket to rouse a cemetery.
I sit up groggily, opening my eyes. Jungkook pulls me back down.
“I told you they’d be naked,” Yoongi says, eyes covered with a pale hand. “I
told you you shouldn’t just walk in.”
“My eyes,” Taehyung moans, banging his head against the trunk of a coconut
tree.
“Aw, nasty,” Hoseok says, back turned to us resolutely. “But we’re hungry,
Jimin, and we want breakfast.”
“God, you guys are worse than little kids,” I grumble, sitting up and letting
Jungkook’s arm slide off. “Breakfast is at 9 to 10.”
“Like two hormonal teenagers,” Yoongi grumbles indistinctly in the background.
The three of them are ranged outside our villa, Hoseok sitting on the steps
with his back turned to us, Yoongi with his eyes shut, and Taehyung apparently
trying to cleanse his eyes with seawater. “Could hear you two from our villa.”
“Sound carries, okay?” I say defensively. “And it’s our honeymoon, we have the
right to—”
“It’s 9:45,” Hoseok says offhandedly.
There is a silence. And then I whip around to face Jungkook, shaking him awake,
screeching, “We have 15 minutes left to get to breakfast and eat and you just
lie there like a log?!”
Jungkook springs out of bed, hands in a defensive stance, blanket clutched
protectively to his chest. “What is it?” he asks, glaring around at the room.
“Who’s been assassinated?”
“There are 15 minutes left to eat breakfast!” I yell frantically.
He blinks slowly at me. And then he starts getting back into bed.
“Don’t you dare!” I yank him back up and push him towards our luggage bag. “Put
some clothes on so we can leave!”
He rummages woozily through his bag while I grab the blanket off the bed and
wrap it around my waist. I stand on the steps. “Someone get Taehyung out of the
sea!” I scream. “Hoseok, stop trying to climb the coconut tree! Yoongi, as the
only other sane person here, run to the breakfast hall and tell them we’re
coming!”
Yoongi sets off grumpily, skinny legs sinking awkwardly in the sand as if he’s
forgotten how to run, and Hoseok slides down the trunk and goes to bring
Taehyung back to shore. Taehyung cackles at the sky, arms spread, and expounds
upon the fragile state of his innocence.
“This is graduation all over again,” I say desperately, hurrying to my luggage
bag.
~
The vacation is short, but they make all they can out of it. Hoseok mistakes a
snake for a garden hose and picks it up, screaming his head off when he
realizes what it is and flinging it at Taehyung. Taehyung accidentally uproots
a coconut tree from the sand, causing it to fall against Jimin and Jungkook’s
villa (“They never tell you in the movies that when you punch a tree it’ll fall
over! Kung Fu Panda never outlined the dangers!”) Yoongi grumbles his way
through the days, forcing them to make an hour-long trip into town to buy
sunscreen when his runs out. Jimin’s flip-flops are swept out by the tide and
he swims out to rescue them, only to be rendered unable to come back and
stranded thirty meters away from shore. Jungkook dives in and rescues him
heroically, water streaming off his muscles and soaked, transparent muscle tee
sticking to his abs, causing all the female staff of the hotel to suddenly
begin to show much more interest in him. Hoseok begins sleeping with his head
under a pillow to block out the loud, enthusiastic sounds from the other two
villas.
It’s not much, this little infinity. But it’s all they have.
~
It’s the last day of the vacation. And as Koreans naturally do to celebrate
anything of even middling importance, we get our hands on as much alcohol as we
can and we drink it.
Jungkook drunk is a beautiful thing. He gets all soft and fuzzy, his edges a
little blurred, and his walls crash quietly down to the earth. He does have a
tendency to deliver lectures about how layers of sedimentary rock can be
studied to determine age, but the best thing of all is that he starts singing.
Most drunk people sing almost comically off-tune, always a beat behind the
tempo, but Jungkook has a wonderful voice. He starts singing Paper Hearts by
Tori Kelly, reducing Taehyung, Yoongi, and Hoseok to a sobbing, drunken group
of men clinging to each other on our couch. Some hotel staff come out to
investigate the noise, and within an hour, we have most of the hotel including
the guests in our villa, listening to Jungkook sing.
The guests think Jungkook was hired to give a live performance. I’m pretty sure
the hotel staff think Jungkook has been possessed by a spirit which makes him
sing in English. But no one can stop listening as Jungkook stands on our bed
and sings into a beer bottle, voice ebbing and flowing over us.
“I hate this part, paper hearts, and I’ll hold a piece of yours,” he sings in
perfect English, pulling me up onto the bed with him, and I giggle and lean
against him. On the couch, Taehyung, Yoongi, and Hoseok sob harder, shoulders
shaking as they take swigs from their bottles.
“I love how breathy your voice gets when you’re drunk,” I whisper against his
chest.
“I live through pictures as if I was right there by your side,” he sings, “but
you’ll be good without me and if I could just give it some time…” he smiles at
me. “We’ll be alright.”
“One day I’m gonna record you singing,” I promise, giggling drunkenly, “and I’m
gonna post it to YouTube. And you’ll get scouted by a company and you’ll become
a Kpop star.”
“I don’t need to be scouted to be a star, baby,” he whispers, pulling me close.
I laugh. “You’re so damn cheesy.”
He grins and puts down the beer bottle on the bedside table, then takes my hand
and holds it at shoulder level and puts another on my waist. He wants to dance
with me on the bed.
The memory rises in me, memories of a broken, lost boy who saw more than he
should in his teacher, who wanted more than he could have, dancing to I Can’t
Help Falling in Love with You in someone else’s dress.
He switches songs. “Please don’t see just a boy caught up in dreams and
fantasies,” he sings softly. “Please see me reaching out for someone I can’t
see…”
“You need to get drunk more often,” I tell him. “Once we get home, I’m buying
enough alcohol to fill all our cupboards.”
He laughs, a boyish giggle. It’s the cutest sound I’ve ever heard. “Take my
hand, let’s see where we wake up tomorrow,” he sings, voice curling up like a
question at the end of the last word. “Best laid plans sometimes are just a one
night stand…”
“Are they?” I sway with him, resting my head on his shoulder.
“I’ll be damned, Cupid’s demanding back his arrow…so let’s get drunk on our
tears, and God—”
I think I’m crying a bit now. At the word ‘drunk’, Taehyung, Yoongi, and Hoseok
raise their bottles and whoop, wiping at their eyes.
“Tell us the reason youth is wasted on the young…” Jungkook spins me around,
catching me deftly when I stumble against his chest. “It’s hunting season and
the lambs are on the run…”
“Yeah?” I whisper, looking up into his eyes, which have become soft and
shining. Alcohol brings out the worst in some people, but in Jungkook, it
strips him of his defenses.
“Searching for meaning…but are we all lost stars trying to light up the dark?”
He stops singing, and everyone in the villa starts whooping and clapping.
Jungkook giggles again, trying to bow and tripping over himself when the
mattress dips. But I can still hear the song continuing.
Who are we? Just a speck of dust within the galaxy?
“Our galaxy,” I say softly, held by the man I love. “Our galaxy and only ours.”
~
We pile into the rental car, all the female staff in the hotel lined up and
watching Jungkook go with starry eyes. As we pull away and the hotel fades into
the distance, I turn back in the seat and watch it recede—it might well be the
cemetery of our youth, and I want to remember it.
I sink down in the seat, feeling overwhelmingly sad suddenly. I feel outdated.
Like our prime has passed us by and left us behind exhausted with nothing but
scars and memories to show for it.
We’re so temporary. We’re never ready to let go of what can no longer be ours,
but we always want what is just out of our reach.
“What’s wrong?” Jungkook asks, squeezing my hand.
I look at him, and I feel a little better. At least wherever I’m going, however
much I fade, he’ll be there with me. Holding my hand through whatever more life
can throw at us—whether they be blessings or storms.
“Thank you,” I say to him, thinking about how lucky I am that the one person
who’s right for me exists here, in my universe, next to me. In our infinity of
infinities. And how I can never thank him enough for being there.
“Why are you thanking me?” he asks softly. “For all the science-y things I
know, I think I’ll never understand you.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I smile a little. “That’s life. We live in the mess of
everything we don’t understand, but we dance through the dust and ashes of it
all anyway.”
He smiles, his mouth quirking up at one corner and then the other, as if the
happiness hasn’t quite gotten through to him yet. And his eyes—his eyes are
beautiful, full of the love of infinities, full of the happiness of doomed men
being told that they can live. They can live.
“Say anymore,” Yoongi grumbles from the front seat, breaking the moment like
someone wading through a still pool of water, “and I will actually throw up.
This honeymoon was a terrible idea. I’m sick of your everlastingly gooey love.”
“I wish we’d brought a webcam,” Taehyung sniffs, squashed into the car door
beside Jungkook. “The video would have been priceless. Think of it. We could
have uploaded it to YouTube and advertised it as the video which would make
anyone believe in true love.”
“I don’t believe in true love,” Hoseok says absentmindedly from the driver’s
seat.
“It’s because you’re driving and you can’t see them,” Taehyung says, wiping at
his eyes. “And you haven’t found anyone to love yet.”
Hoseok snorts. “I’ve found plenty to love. Music. Food.”
“I mean like a—” Something occurs to Taehyung. “Oh my God, I just realized that
we’ve never asked you whether you’re gay or straight.”
“I’m straight,” Hoseok says, looking in the driver’s mirror. “You didn’t think
that just because I’m surrounded by all this gayness that I’d catch the
gayness, did you?”
“You just haven’t found a girl to love,” Taehyung finishes. “But once you do,
you’ll never be the same.”
He laughs. “I’m not thinking of settling down anytime soon, maybe ever. My life
has no room for a girl in it. Only music.” He pauses. “Also, Jungkook, you’re a
really good singer. Seriously. Like, I wouldn’t mind collaborating with you to
produce a song.”
Jungkook freezes, a deer caught in the headlights. “When…when did you hear me
sing?”
“Last night,” he says. “You were singing into a beer bottle. Everyone in the
hotel came down to your villa to listen. If I remember correctly, you were
dancing with Jimin on the bed. It was beautiful.”
Jungkook’s eyes go wide, and then he slumps down in his seat, groaning. “Oh,
God, I can’t even remember. I must have been so drunk that I was—”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “You reached the stage where you talked about radiometric
rock dating with that gooey look of tender love in your eyes.”
“Why didn’t you stop me?” he asks in a tortured whisper.
I hit him. “You’re good at singing! You have a beautiful voice! The moment we
get back home, I’m gonna buy as much alcohol as I can get and stuff you with it
whenever I want a live performance.”
“Consider it, Jungkook,” Hoseok says. “The collab. We could actually make money
from it.”
“I’m too old for it,” he mumbles.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re 24. And besides—” I squeeze his hand. “You’ll
never be too old for me.”
The sound of our youth passing us by, it turns out, is the sound of Yoongi
groaning.
~
“Come on, Jimin,” Jungkook calls. “The gate’s open.”
I turn back again, handle of my luggage bag in hand, casting a last, sweeping
glance over the airport. Outside, it’s evening, the sun setting over the
runway, planes taking off soundlessly from the asphalt. Those chunky little
vehicles you only see in airports trundle up and down busily, luggage piled on
them. This might be the last vacation we’ll have for a while. This might be the
last place we’ll step foot in outside Korea for years and years.
I can’t see into the future. Will Jungkook and I fight? Will one of us lose a
job? Will Hoseok find love? How will we pay the bills if taxes go up? Will one
of us move away? Will we even stay friends?
Before, it used to trouble me—thinking about the future, thinking about aging,
thinking about our inevitable end approaching closer and closer and everything
which still stands between us and oblivion. All the uncertainty of what’s to
come. All the possible ways things could go wrong.
But now, I realize, it doesn’t anymore. I’ve let it go. I welcome the
uncertainty. I don’t feel guilty or wary for being happy. And though I’ve made
mistakes, mistakes which could have been avoided, I don’t tear myself up
because I made them anymore.
Because the point is that…no one can tell you what the point is. We create our
own meaning. We find our own purposes. We dance and spin through our sins and
blessings, laughing all the way, learning to live in the broken beauty of our
world. No one can tell you what you should be doing. No one can tell you who or
what you should be. Because the truth is that no one really knows. Everyone is
just as lost as you are, and that doesn’t have to be something painful.
I believe, somewhere, that my mother is happy. And I believe, now, that I have
a chance at happiness, even as my youth leaves me behind.
And I won’t let it go.
“Let’s go home,” I whisper, reaching down and taking Jungkook’s hand.
Chapter End Notes
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