Archive of Our Own ^beta

( mariposa )

for gloria.

in late october, the weather is always unpleasant.

something drips in a corner in the bathroom, a leak, the shower head, yoongi doesn’t know. he listens to it as if it is a beat of a song, his finger tapping on the sill alongside it. the glass on the window is cracked from his first attempt of opening it, so the city outside is out of focus if not for the space in between shards, where his smoke finds its way through, spiralling. yoongi breathes it out, his head resting on the glass, letting other sounds filter through — the noise of a siren, the slow moving cars that drive around looking for company, the faint, muffled noises from other apartments in that motel. he tosses his cigarette butt through the crack, and his finger slices, making him wince. he’s sucking at the blood as he leaves, nothing on him besides his phone and a loneliness that cripples his breathing, hiding within the layers of his windbreaker. 

outside, the sheet of rain is thin and cold. yoongi stops at a corner to light up another cigarette, tainted in neon magentas from the store front of young girls selling their bodies off to anonymous shoppers. yoongi raises a hand, recognising some of them, and they touch the glass in return, their eyes empty. it’s not them he needs, though. maybe it’d be easier if it were. yoongi walks, slowly, changing colours as the signs do, too, pulling a hood over his head when his hair starts getting too damp. it’s about three blocks away that he finds something that stirs him — a song, a voice. he stops, looking at the massage parlor sign, the plastic all dirty and filled with the remains of moths, and the bright red neon that blinks, just underneath it: live performance. there’s never a name for those  kinds of places. while seoul dresses itself in trendy cafés and perfect idols for the world to see, the ill-fitting and the forgotten are often left labeless in dark, grime-coloured neighbourhoods like cheongyangni. that voice though — it sounds as if it doesn’t belong to the dark. yoongi takes a last drag before he walks in, leaving another cigarette butt behind, and the cold, stale rain, and the smell of grease. inside, the air is stuffy, smokey, greasier, maybe. everything is red, the dim lights, the objects, the people. no one looks his way, aside from the bartender, only briefly. 

it’s almost four in the morning. there’s only a handful of people inside, it’s not like anyone cares. yoongi doesn’t look around, either, his attention robbed by the voice on the stage, and the man who owns it, his shirt unbuttoned, his hair tossed back messily, wet. he’s wearing body chains, thin, light-reflecting - they glint in reds, like everything else, but his skin is golden, covered in glitter. he doesn’t look real. the way he sings, like a siren — maybe he isn’t. yoongi follows too easily the movements of his fingers, the way they move over skin, over his microphone, how he rests his head against the pole, his throat pretty and unmarked. “what’s his name?” he aks, voice quiet, at the bartender behind him. 

“i don’t know,” the answer comes with a huff. “he doesn’t give it out for free.”

ah.

it’s like that, then. like the girls in window shops, but more private, hidden for only certain people to find. the song ends, and yoongi’s heart skips. it’s an achy inflection of muscles, and he feels lightheaded. “i’ll have your cheapest whiskey,” he says, then, glancing away for a moment, catching how the way chains look at hips, at how pants hang on bones. 

“if you buy something more expensive, i can ask him to take off a bit more,” the offer is said with a wolvish kind of smile. yoongi doesn’t have more than a few thousand won on him, not enough for anything of the sorts, barely enough to pay for another night at the motel. “his ass is nice, you won’t regret it.”

“— sure,” he replies weakly, and yoongi finds himself blushing for no reason, warm at all the wrong places. “yeah, whatever.”

the bartender winks at him before pouring, and he raises the hand that holds the already half empty bottle of johnnie walker, the blue label scratched. it appears more watery than it should be. it’s probably not even blue label. yoongi looks behind his shoulder at the stage again, where the lights have turned a deeper purple, and he sees when the boy offers a smile, running a hand through his hair before hopping off stage. he shrugs off the hands that touch him with a gentleness that doesn’t fit in that context. under the now yellowish lights of the bar, he looks almost surreal - yoongi swallows, eyes wandering around his face, the beauty mark under his bottom lip that contrasts against a piercing, the scar on his cheek, his eyes dressed in glitter. “hi,” that voice, though, that voice is enough, and it’s said close as the boy leans closer, smelling faintly of sweat, of shampoo, his breath sweet and alcoholic. yoongi thinks he can feel how warm he is. “— blue label chooses what i’ll lose next.”

“— i,” yoongi finds himself stammering, and he gestures, fingers getting caught in chains by mistake when he turns to face him fully. “anything, i— will you still sing?”

“if you want me to,” the words try to be sultry, but there’s a hint of surprise in his tone, and yoongi meets his eyes, wanting to see past the glitter on them. he sees himself reflected in black, golden-rimmed irises. “is that all you want?”

“yeah,” yoongi offers, huffing. “i don’t have the money for more.”

“right,” a nod follows, and yoongi’s fingers are still tugging on chains. he lets go after a moment. “right, i’ll — i’ll sing for you.”

it’s kind of a sad love song, muttered against a microphone that sometimes distorts sound, and yoongi forgets about the whiskey growing stale in his glass, forgets about the bartender’s voice behind him urging him to spend more, forgets of seoul and its unwelcoming streets, the loneliness that grows in the corners like sweet briar, the emptiness inside him. he’s all tangled in it, briar and loneliness alike, and he breathes slowly as he listens as that voice untangles him, as he watches as fabric gets lost, slowly, slowly, slowly, chains biting skin, stockings slightly ripped. before the song ends, yoongi downs his drink, and he leaves his loose change on the counter, and he  steps out into the cold, bracing for air. his lungs hurt, his throat does, too. the rain has become thicker now, almost frosty, alien even to late october. his mind spins with music. it’s been a while since he’s been this flustered. you went out looking for it, min yoongi , he voices in his head, pressing his palms over his ears. the song stopped, though, once he left. it stopped almost abruptly. yoongi feels jaded.

“you didn’t like it,” he hears it, somewhere behind him, and yoongi’s eyes open, blinking. their eyes meet when he turns. “and you’re missing two thousand won from your tab.”

“i don’t have it,” yoongi tells him, quietly. “— i’m sorry.”

“i thought you were a scouter,” a self-deprecating huff follows, and yoongi only then realises the boy in front of him is not wearing much— the oversized winter coat is thrown over the stockings and the sheer unbuttoned shirt. his boots look battered. “you only wanted a song.”

“i’m not.” to tame the uneasiness about him, yoongi moves to light another cigarette. his fingers feel cold, and the lighter takes too long to spark in the wet weather. when nothing is said, he asks, hopeful, maybe: “— do i have to pay to learn your name?”

“not when i’m off.”

“when will you be off?”

fingers touch him when his cigarette gets taken. yoongi watches the boy take a drag, and when he speaks the smoke rounds his vowels: “if no one picks me up, maybe in an hour.” 

“— right.”

“here,” the softness of the word contrasts with the harshness of their background. yoongi takes his cigarette back. a car drives by, the driver glancing their way, face hidden by a mask. it’s uncomfortable. “i have to go back in.” 

“take care,” and yoongi doesn’t know why he says it.

he doesn’t stay and wait— yoongi goes back to the motel and writes, instead, pours out the heaviness that voice gave him, his thoughts about that boy, he writes, and writes, until his pen runs out of ink. midnight, drunk, worn-out voice, two in the morning, have you ever loved before? fallen for someone at first sight, like the movies— it’s not good, it’s not love . yoongi closes his notebook, letting himself fall back on the harsh mattress. the song stays with him, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear that voice, and see those chains, and taste that whiskey. if he lets himself go, yoongi thinks he can feel the warmth of a body. 

///

“he took it from me, the money you didn’t have.”

in broad daylight, the white kind of the third of november, that voice is different. yoongi looks sideways, to the end of the aisle, his fingers still pressed over a package of ramen. there’s no red light there, no glitter— there’s a too-big hoodie, and messy, brown hair, and purple skin under pretty eyes. there’s still make up on him, though, and there’s a bruise on his neck. “i’m sorry,” yoongi offers, not knowing what else to say. 

“buy me food and we’re even.” 

he only nods, after a moment of hesitation, and he lets the boy take the ramen from him and walk to the microwave, brushing past him wordlessly. yoongi follows after a moment, slowly, almost fearful he won’t be there, that he’s a flicker of yoongi’s wishful thinking — he is, hunched over his preparation, mixing dehydrated vegetables and reddish flavoured powder into the bowl. “won’t you tell me your name?”

dark eyes meet his, and they narrow in distrust. they’re strangers, there’s no reason for them to exchange anything— but after a moment or so, the boy answers, his voice monotone: “jungkook.” no surname is offered. there aren’t surnames in a red light district, anyway. there is only the personality you give yourself and the smudge of a name you try not to share. “— why didn’t you wait that night?”

yoongi doesn’t say anything. he breathes out, walking towards the cashier again, and jungkook takes a hold of the strings of his apron, untying them when he passes next to him. yoongi ignores it, feeling wildly unfit. daylight isn’t kind to them, somehow— he can see too clearly that jungkook’s starving, and he himself is overworked and tired. “instead of stealing, i could pay for it,” yoongi says, then, after a while, the quietness of the store too telling. jungkook comes out from between the aisles. he doesn’t look sorry.

“— i didn’t get paid,” jungkook says, putting down the chocolate bar in front of yoongi. yoongi stares at him until jungkook huffs, pulling out a second one from another pocket. 

“why didn’t you get paid?”

“ah,” and jungkook shrugs. he looks young, right then— nibbling on the piercing at the corner of his mouth, in his big hoodie. he touches the counter nervously, fingers pulling at the packaging of the chocolate. “some nights i don’t want to take my clothes off.” he glances at yoongi for a second, and maybe jungkook wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. he looks aways, instead, swallowing. “can i have those, then?”

yoongi nods, and he asks, almost too softly: “— do you have a place to stay?”

“yeah,” jungkook offers him a smile, but it isn’t a real one. it looks like the one he had given him at the bar— the slight surprise to it, the faked flirting. “you ask a lot of questions.” then, pocketing the chocolates again, jungkook asks, sniffling, looking out of the convenience store window: “that night, would you have picked me up?”

yes .

“i don’t think i can afford that,” yoongi knows he flushes when he says it, but jungkook isn’t looking at him, anyway. “i liked— i liked the way you sang.” at this jungkook turns, facing him again. his eyes are slightly bigger, rounder. “that’s why i— that’s why i went in.”

“did you?”

“you sound good,” yoongi opens the cashier, and looks through the bills. he doesn’t think much when he takes out a couple, just enough for another meal, maybe. the weather is getting cold. jungkook is still staring. “i’ll put it back,” he shrugs, as if there needs to be an explanation for that action. there isn’t one— he takes money sometimes. the owner is too old to notice. 

“you’re really different, ahjussi,” jungkook huffs, taking the money. then, he adds, shrugging: “this would buy you a date if you want one.” yoongi swallows. buying love seems wrong, even there, even in their context. it’s not love, though. maybe it won’t ever be. “have you ever done it with a guy?”

yoongi doesn’t answer. his neck feels all too hot. he knows jungkook’s just teasing him, and he could either choose to let him or to cut him off completely. yoongi’s— yoongi’s lonely though. he’s all too lonely . “can i buy a song?”

“— a song?”

“yes,” they look at each other. jungkook’s feigned confidence has vanished. his face is only a sheet of surprise, a gap between his lips. yoongi doesn’t mean to look at them, so he quickly averts his eyes to the strands of brown hair coming out from under his hoodie. it curls backwards, a bit mussed. “yeah,” he repeats, blinking. “just a song.”

jungkook seems to shift uncomfortably, and he buries his hands into pockets. his eyes close. yoongi sighs, ready to tell him it was a mistake, that he doesn’t have to do anything, that— “ one day i’ll fly away ,” jungkook starts. he sings in english, his voice raspy and butter-like. yoongi sucks in air, throat dry. “ leave all this to yesterday. what more could your love do for me? when will love be through with me? ” his heart beats too fast, faster than it has done before— jungkook hums the melody, his eyebrows lifting, the corners of his mouth curling. “ why live life from dream to dream and dread the day dreaming ends— “

he’s still singing when yoongi reaches out, curving himself over the counter to touch the sides of jungkook’s face, and the remains of that song are pressed against yoongi’s mouth in a way all too sweet and all too tame. jungkook doesn’t pull away— his lips feel warm, soft if not for the metal of the ring. there’s no reason why he should be doing that, yoongi realises as he pulls back, heart skipping. there’s no excuse, either. jungkook presses his lips in a thin line before turning away and walking out of the store. he doesn’t look back. yoongi stares until he’s all gone.

///

he can’t find it—  yoongi can’t remember where that place was, where jungkook dances.

it’s like that dreary city would rather keep feeding off his loneliness until he withers completely. jungkook doesn’t come to the convenience store either. yoongi tries to write, but nothing comes out— he’s an empty vessel. he feels soulless, and guilty. he used to be able to make feelings into words, even the harsh ones, but his thoughts have been plagued by only one thing (the way jungkook’s mouth gapped, slightly, the way he leaned before pulling away) (and maybe they’re several things, several things ). when they meet again, it’s at the motel— the neons give the corridor an eerie, blue hue, and yoongi is all the way at the end of it, where he’s found the window opens fully, and he stands by it, watching the grey-coloured rain fall outside. it’s cold, and it’s a holiday. that part of the city is dark that night— the holidays aren’t for them, anyway. it’s for couples and well-adjusted families. those in the shadows remain in it while the fairy-lights flicker. he listens when a door opens and closes, a foot or two away. yoongi glances that way, exhaling smoke.

his heart stops beating for the whole of a second.

the first thing he notices is the bruise on jungkook’s face. they look at each other, and it’s uncomfortable. jungkook seems to hear something because he asks, looking at the door yoongi left ajar: “— is that your room?” yoongi can only nod, and he watches as jungkook crosses the corridor and goes in, nothing else said. yoongi takes a drag, confused, awkward, all wired— but then another man comes out, and he only looks at yoongi for a split of a second before he turns and leaves. he’s well dressed. the suit he’s wearing looks expensive and out of place there. his knuckles are red. yoongi rubs his eyes for a second, feeling damaged. then he flickers the ashes out of the window, and goes back into his room. 

jungkook’s standing by the window, his forehead to the glass. yoongi looks at him fully, at his clothes, how they’re wrinkle and not properly dressed, how he’s shivering. it doesn’t feel right to touch him. “you didn’t feel like taking off your clothes?” yoongi asks, softly. jungkook shakes his head, wordlessly. “— can i clean you up?”

“i guess,” jungkook mutters.

there’s nothing aside from soap and running water, but jungkook lets himself be taken by the hem of his sleeve into the bathroom, and the light keeps flickering on and off until it finally turns on properly. jungkook sits on the toilet, his shoulders slouching. yoongi sighs, grabbing a used towel, soaking it. “it may sting,” he says, quietly, as jungkook raises his chin at him. yoongi knows jungkook’s staring as if waiting for something else other than those words. he can’t bring himself to say them, though, so he works in silence for a while. once or twice jungkook winces. the cut is not deep, just skin that broke and bled. it’ll scab soon. yoongi raises his hand, then, his fingers want to touch the hair strands over jungkook’s eyes. they don’t, he doesn’t . “— i’m sorry.”

it comes out too low, almost inwardly. yoongi doesn’t know exactly what he’s apologising for. “i can buy you something to eat,” jungkook says after a moment. “to pay you back for this.”

“there’s no—“

“i stole his wallet,” jungkook shrugs, and he pulls out a leather wallet from the pocket of his jacket. it’s not the big hoodie from the other day, no, it’s his night time clothes — the jacket is leather, too, studded, and under the holes on his jeans, he’s wearing fishnets. a small huff follows, and a dull grin, and credit cards are tossed into the old, grimmy tub as jungkook digs for the bills, the thick stack of it. it’s more money than yoongi has had in months. “they have to pay in cash.” they look at each other. “come on, ahjussi.”

there’s a moment there, under the fluorescent lights, that yoongi almost gives in. almost . he doesn’t, though— he takes the wallet, instead, and the money, and jungkook lets him, watching as he collects the credit cards again, as he puts them back before walking out, opening the door of his room and tossing the wallet near the room jungkook came out from. it falls down on the ugly carpet, semi-opened. the elevator makes a noise down the corridor, and yoongi steps back in, locking the door. jungkook is at the bathroom’s threshold, then, his arms crossed. “he would have hurt you more,” it’s yoongi’s only reasoning. 

“he has a wife,” jungkook says, coldly. “it’s christmas and he’s buying me.”

“it doesn’t matter,” yoongi sighs. “just don’t put yourself in danger.”

“why do you even care?”

i don’t know , yoongi wants to say. he doesn’t know why he cares, why it bothers him that people might hurt jungkook, why it fills him up with complicated feelings when he thinks of the things jungkook does with men in bedrooms like that. it’s not jealousy, just— “because,” yoongi sniffles, taking a few steps towards the bed, his head hurting a bit. “i think you could make it out of here.”

he dares a glance back to jungkook. his narrow eyes have become softer. “— you’re strange, ahjussi,” jungkook huffs, and he walks closer, too, sitting at the edge of the bed. “you’re confusing me.” 

“i’m sorry,” yoongi flushes, slightly. jungkook looks up at him. 

“i’m used to it,” there’s a pause. yoongi sits down, too, some space between them, some quietness. the leaking in the bathroom has restarted, dripping, dripping, dripping. it’s only after a while that jungkook speaks again. his hand slides over the blanket, daring to touch yoongi's knuckles, pressing softly.  “— are you sorry for kissing me, too?”

“yes,” yoongi nods, sighing. “i did it without asking, it was— i shouldn’t have done it.”

“was it that bad?” jungkook lets out a small, breathy chuckle. 

“it wasn’t even— it wasn’t even a real kiss.”

“no,” yoongi feels when jungkook tugs on his hand, his fingers slightly cold. it makes him turn and it makes him look and he sucks in a breath when jungkook kisses him, fully this time around, their mouths slotting, their tongues touching— jungkook tastes like vodka, and maybe sour candy. the combination is odd, but then again everything about jungkook’s makings is. yoongi lets it happen, lets jungkook’s fingers press into the junction of his jawline with his ear, urging him closer and closer. it feels too good to be touched like that. still— it’s yoongi who pulls back, once again, and jungkook searches for him, their noses bumping. it makes jungkook huff, smiling. he asks, after a moment: “— was this one real?”

“i don’t know,” yoongi mutters, his eyes still seeing the corners red. “yeah.”

“i never let people kiss me,” jungkook tells him, but it comes out soft, as if he’s speaking to himself. he makes a distressed noise, falling back against the mattress, hiding his face on the palms of his head. “why do you have to look at me like that?”

there’s something wrong with his heart — it has swollen in his chest, and yoongi can’t seem to make it stop aching from it. he breathes out, then, and he lays next to jungkook, their sides together. the bed creaks. he swallows and it tastes like jungkook. “— i don’t know how i look at you.”

“like,” jungkook seems to shrug, and he folds his arms under his head. yoongi looks at him, and how he’s blushed, at his lips, how red they are, how glossy they look, somewhat wet still. “like i’m worthy of something.” then, before yoongi can say anything, jungkook turns his head, too, his hair falling over his eyes: “we could have taken that money.” for some reason that makes yoongi laugh, and jungkook’s eyes get smaller as he smiles. “— you look good when you laugh.”

it makes yoongi feel self-conscious, and he blinks, looking away, the laughter getting smaller. “i can,” he starts, unsure. “i can buy, i have some— some spare cash tonight.”

“ah,” jungkook hums. yoongi feels him move, but he gasps when jungkook rolls his body until he’s straddling his waist, and yoongi’s insides all fill up with heat at once. “then,” hands touch the skin under his shirt, gently, prying. “how do you want it?”

“no, i didn’t mean it like that, i,” yoongi shakes his head, his voice all small with shaky syllables. jungkook leans down, licking against yoongi’s mouth. heat allocate itself between yoongi’s lungs and between his legs and the weight of jungkook’s body over him doesn’t help. “you don’t have to.”

they look at each other. “you keep giving me things,” jungkook mumbles. “you keep being nice.”

“you don’t have to,” yoongi repeats, his face all flushed. “you can pay me back in another way.”

“i don’t have anything else to offer.”

“you do,” jungkook blinks, as if that affirmation doesn’t sound possible. yoongi feels smothered by him, suffocated on the faint sweet smell of his perfume. he wants to run away and he wants to bring jungkook closer. both of those needs stir his senses. “— you can sing the songs i write.” 

jungkook stares at him with something that looks too much like confusion. yoongi doesn’t know what to say, or what to do. he raises a hand, then, finally touches the hair at the back of jungkook’s neck, bringing him slightly closer, just enough. their noses brush, and jungkook’s pupils blow up. it’s a nice sight. “i don’t know what you see in me.”

“i hear you,” yoongi mutters. he’s infatuated, he knows. it’s blatant and obvious, and yes, he wants to feel jungkook against him like that but— “you sound beautiful.”

the flush of bright red that suddenly colours jungkook’s face almost matches the neon of the motel sign. he pulls himself up and away, looking confused and wide-eyed like a deer caught in headlights. then he smiles, touching his own hair. “you write songs, then?” the change of subject is loud. yoongi sits up again, nodding. “what are they about?”

“the city,” loneliness . “the people i meet.” you .

“can i read them?”

“maybe,” yoongi offers. “— are you hungry?”

for a second, he thinks jungkook will say no. “— i am.”

they don’t talk as yoongi gathers his things to leave. it’s cold, and neither of them is wearing enough clothing. the weather is miserable again, the dreary icy rain has returned, and yoongi can feel jungkook shiver as they finally find a stall still open, as they sit close together, enjoying the respite the greasy grill provides. he lets jungkook push one hand into his jacket pocket, the other pressed between jungkook’s ass and the plastic stool. “here,” yoongi says after a second, sighing, taking off his jacket entirely. jungkook holds it weakly, staring at him. “your lips are getting blue.”

“you could kiss them,” jungkook says. “maybe they’d turn purple.”

“that’s not how it works,” yoongi manages, even though the hollow of his cheeks fill up with warmth. jungkook seems to smile slightly, and he pours them both soju. maybe a kiss would feel hotter than the alcohol, but yoongi drinks it instead. 

“why are you here?” 

“with you?”

“no,” jungkook shakes his head, chewing slowly. “here— in the city. you don’t sound like you’re from here.”

“i’m not,” yoongi shrugs. “i came here because i thought,” saying it out loud feels suddenly stupid. “i write lyrics, and i thought i could—”

“make it,” jungkook completes, looking at him knowingly. “yeah.”

fame in that city feels too much like holding water in his hands, yoongi thinks. he tries, but it drips between the crevices of his fingers and it escapes him too easily. yoongi swallows, the food tasting ashy. at least it’s warm, like the fumes, like soju, like jungkook’s mouth felt like. “you’re not from here either,” he finds himself saying. “are you?”

“no,” jungkook huffs. a cold breeze makes yoongi shudder. jungkook looks at him for a moment, before pulling him closer, and the kiss on his neck makes yoongi feel all tepid all too fast. “better?” the soft question has yoongi nodding, sucking in his breath, finding hard to sit still. jungkook grins, and it’s pretty. then he looks away, picking up more food between his chopsticks. “i used to busk, i had a guitar,” yoongi waits. “i woke up one day and it was gone.”

“did you report it?”

that makes jungkook laugh. “no,” he says, flatly. “i didn’t want to explain where i was.” ah . “it doesn’t matter anymore, i’m,” jungkook’s still smiling, but it’s small and crooked now. “we’re invisible.” 

they are. yoongi knows it, he feels it in the way they’re both coloured like neon and the muted, stained walls of love motels. he doesn’t say anything else. jungkook doesn’t either. the warmth of the grill turns stale and meak after a while, as food ends. their cups are empty, and the bottles are, too.  it’s too late into the night, or maybe too early. yoongi doesn’t know anymore. “where do you live?” 

it takes a second too long for jungkook to reply. they’re walking aimlessly, now, having left the remains of their time behind, their steps too slow. “i don’t have a place to sleep tonight,” the answer is small. he’s still wearing yoongi’s jacket, and it looks too big on him, now.  “i usually crash at the bar if i don’t get — picked up or something.” jungkook glances his way, maybe nervously so, yoongi doesn’t know. “— unless you want to share your bed.”

yoongi thinks the city is quiet enough; they're the only ones there . “do you mind?”

he doesn’t pull away from the way jungkook touches his hand, holding weakly. “no.”

(

it’s only sleeping. yoongi lays awake, though, listening to jungkook breathe. there’s a song in it, too. when he stands up, the bed makes a soft sound, like a farewell. jungkook doesn’t wake, too tired, maybe, cold, perhaps. yoongi looks through his things to find his notebook. like the words written in sand where the waves are, i’m afraid you’ll disappear , he scribbles. how did someone like you come to me?  

yoongi inhales, feeling tired but sleepless. there’s always sleeplessness in seoul. it’s too bright and it’s too noisy and it’s too much. he looks back at the bed, at the way jungkook’s legs look, the fishnets pretty on skin, the way his spine is curved, and there are scratch marks on the sides of his ribs, fading, scabbed, from another bed, another night. yoongi both wants to heal them, and make them deeper. you take me away to the farthest place. he closes his eyes, letting his forehead touch the surface of his notebook, breathing against the page. he falls asleep like that, oxygen mingling with the words that belong to the boy on that bed. )

( when he wakes up, jungkook’s all but gone. )

///

this time, jungkook doesn’t acknowledge him. 

there’s no blue label on his tab, anyway. yoongi sits at the bar, messy-hearted, if anything, even if there’s no such a thing. jungkook makes him feel things that can’t be written, anyway. he dances — jungkook does. his clothes are tight, leathery, all straps and cropped silhouettes. the song plays, but yoongi’s mind is muted. white noise fills it, the distant clink of glasses, the soft buzz of conversation, the way jungkook’s breath seems strained. he knows why people want to take him out. he knows what they hope for, what they long for. he’s nothing but equal to the faceless bodies sitting around, gazing. jungkook smiles on the stage, hand sliding upwards his thigh, the movement languid and slow. yoongi blinks, his eyelids growing heavy. 

“are you his dealer?”

the question isn’t at him, but at the bartender, he realises faintly, and yoongi blinks, taking his eyes from the stage to the middle aged man standing close to him. he looks as if he has stepped out of another reality — his clothes are alright, his hair is parted well, his briefcase is resting at his feet, there’s a lanyard hiding under his pressed shirt. the bartender smiles all too sweetly. yoongi’s eyes narrow. “why do you want to know?”

“i can pay well,” the man shrugs, his eyes going back to follow jungkook’s movements on stage. he looks bewitched, and hungry, no, he looks — starved . yoongi feels sickly. “can he go for a while, though?” he lets out a huff. “i can always make him, it’s nice when they fight back—”

to be fair, yoongi barely understands what takes over him, but he shoves the man sideways, watching him lose balance and yell a what the fuck you shit grabbing about the stools, watching his expression change to one of surprise, then anger. it gets bloody as yoongi punches him, once, or twice, he doesn’t know, he just wants to see that face gone, gone, gone — someone holds his arms, and they’re strong enough he can’t move, and he’s dragged backwards and out of the bar and pushed onto the curb with a vicious push. his shoulder hurts, and he groans, his face against soot. yoongi blinks slowly, trying to breathe slowly. he doesn’t stand, not for a while. he feels like crying. 

“— that was stupid.”

it’s jungkook’s voice, and jungkook’s bare feet beside him, then. his stockings get wet on the dirty cement. yoongi doesn’t want to look at him, too ashamed, too angry, still. “it doesn’t matter,” he mutters, softly. “your feet will get cold.”

“fuck off,” jungkook huffs, but there’s some sort of a smile in his tone. he sits down, then. “— can you take me away?”

“i don’t have any money,” he finally looks at jungkook, at the dark glitter of his eyelids, at his hair, and yoongi’s jacket over his stage clothes. “don’t go with him.” their eyes meet when jungkook turns towards him. yoongi forces himself to sit up, wincing at the pain that shoots down his arm, swallowing a noise. jungkook reaches out, but doesn’t touch him. “i know it’s your job, but — don’t go with him.”

“you sound jealous.”

there’s a pause, and yoongi finds out he can’t deny it. he is jealous. he is jealous and he is lovesick and he is lonely and broken. “i’m sorry.”

“that night, you didn’t touch me,” it’s a strange sentence, and yoongi looks jungkook’s way, eyebrows arching. “i kept waiting for you to give in, i kept pushing to see if you’d be like the other ones,” yoongi flushes, but jungkook breathes out a chuckle. “i slept well for the first time in a long while.”

“you can go back there if you want,” yoongi offers. “you don’t have to, i mean, stay with them, you — you can fall asleep somewhere else.”

“i’ll smell like other people,” jungkook says, glancing at him. 

“i don’t care.”

jungkook stands then, after a moment. maybe he means to say something else, maybe yoongi ought to, as well, but neither does — jungkook leaves, and yoongi hides his face on his arms, and his mouth fills up with a foul kind of taste, and his heart feels all mangled. he isn’t entitled to anything — he isn’t entitled to jungkook’s body or his will or his presence. they’ve met a few times. kisses don’t mean anything. it isn’t love, it’s isn’t love, it isn’t love .

he drags himself to a nearby convenience store, and yoongi sits there, holding the warm coffee. he ran out of smokes. your song plays through the old speakers, the sound a little scratchy, the piano coming out all weird. seoul looks distorted through the stickers on the windows. he’s waiting, he knows, waiting for something, waiting for jungkook, waiting until it gets too late to wait. “they’re not coming,” yoongi thinks for a second that he’s said it out loud, but it was the teenage looking girl behind the cashier. he turns his head, and they stare at each other. “i’m just saying.”

“— what do you know?”

“not much,” she shrugs. “but i know that if you’ve waited this long, they won’t come.”

“it doesn’t matter,” yoongi huffs, looking away. “i’m not waiting for anyone.”

“maybe you should just go look for them instead of moping around,” her voice comes out with a sigh. 

she’s right, and no one comes— not jungkook, not someone else. the weather is too bad, the red light district is too dark. yoongi leaves the convenience store at a quarter past three, carrying a plastic bag with the food he intended to give to jungkook. a pair of cheap gloves. he looks up, to the deep indigo of the sky. there are no stars, only the lambent of the street lights. when he lowers his eyes, he sees jungkook. he has shoes on, at least. the light of the love motel turns him pink. yoongi realises he doesn’t know how old jungkook is, or what he likes, or how to make him happy— he knows so little, and yet his heart thumps harshly, suddenly all alight again.

“you told me i could sleep somewhere else,” jungkook shrugs. 

“yeah, i did.”

“so,” another shrug. yoongi takes a few steps closer, slowly because he thinks he might be imagining the boy waiting at that entrance. he isn’t — jungkook’s there, and the make up on his face is just slightly smudged, the glitter has spread out to his cheeks. “i’m here, and,” jungkook touches his own neck, then fishes out an old iphone from his pocket, the screen cracked. “— can i have your number?”

“are you asking me out?” yoongi asks, huffing, walking towards the glass  doors. “come on, it’s cold.”

“i’m asking you out,” jungkook voices, and yoongi stops one step ahead, turning to look at him. they stare at each other. that part of the city seems too grimmy for love confessions. it’s like love isn’t allowed there without getting dirty. yoongi has to remind himself that it isn’t love, though, it’s just— “take care of me.” he feels himself still. “i’ll sing for you.”

yoongi shifts on his feet, nervously, before putting down the plastic bags to go through them. jungkook looks confused as yoongi comes closer, as he touches cold fingers, and the gloves he’s bought fits jungkook well, the black wool matching his dark clothes. “yeah,” yoongi doesn’t know how to answer properly. jungkook holds against his hands, too, keeping him there. “i bought those for you, try not to lose them.”

“i won’t,” jungkook leans forward, and he brushes his lips against yoongi’s, tentatively enough, as if in question. yoongi nods, the movement small but enough — the kiss is nice, slow-paced, and yoongi sighs through it. jungkook tastes like sea water, and maybe bubble gum or mouthwash. it lingers on his tongue and on his teeth. “— hyung ,” it’s the first time jungkook calls him like that, and yoongi feels his insides flutter. “let’s go upstairs.”

they do. the room is still the same, it always is. the bed is undone, it’s been undone for days. a towel has left a damp spot on the mattress. there’s not heat and the crack on the window lets in the harsh, icy breeze. jungkook exhales as if he’s home, though, kicking his shoes off, stepping lightly onto the carpet. yoongi watches him from the door. “they’ve been turning off the hot water during the night,” he finds himself saying. “maybe wait until morning to shower.”

“no, i,” jungkook sniffles. “i want to feel clean.” he takes the damp towel, and he’s flushed as he steps inside the small bathroom, closing the door. yoongi doesn’t move for a while. when he does is to leave the food on the table with his notebooks, and to look through his things for maybe some forgotten cigarette. there aren’t any left, though. the water runs muffled, and yoongi fidgets. when jungkook steps out, some ten minutes later, he’s shivering, and his hair is dripping. he offers yoongi a crooked smile. “i guess you were right, the water was freezing.”

“take the blanket,” yoongi says, but he’s smiling a little, because jungkook looks— good, he looks soft . it’s not the warmest blanket, but jungkook wraps himself, sitting at the edge of the bed, exhaling slowly. yoongi takes the towel, starting to dry his hair with it the best he can. “— i never asked how old you were.”

“twenty,” jungkook looks up at him. “is it because i called you hyung?” yoongi gives him a half-shrug. “you’re not that much older, are you?”

“no,” yoongi replies. “i’m twenty-four.”

“ah,” and they’re quiet for a moment there. jungkook’s hair is still damp, but the towel is too wet to go on. “can i borrow some clothes?”

“i— my things aren’t here, i only sleep here when it gets cold,” he says, undressing his flannel shirt to give it to jungkook. “you can use the blanket, i don’t need it, i—“

jungkook stands, though, pushing the blanket away, and yoongi doesn’t mean to look down his body as he buttons up the flannel, the towel still over his hair. he doesn’t truly mean to look at the lines of his chest, at his navel, or down his thighs, and something all too hot fills him his insides. “i’m used to it,” jungkook says, and he sounds apologetic enough. “i didn’t mean to fluster you.”

“you didn’t fluster me,” yoongi clears his throat, stepping back. jungkook holds his wrist. “— we don’t have to.”

“i want to,” jungkook mumbles, bringing yoongi close, close enough he can wrap his arms around yoongi’s waist, resting his chin on yoongi’s shoulder. they’re still for a second. jungkook breathes out slowly. “thank you.”

“it’s nothing,” yoongi mutters, letting himself touch jungkook’s back.

“it’s more than what i usually get,” jungkook seems to chuckle. “you’re warm enough, i won’t be cold.”

maybe they should talk, or maybe they should step away from each other, but yoongi lets the night and jungkook take over him, lets a body against his own, feverish with loneliness, lets jungkook sniff at his neck, breathing softly, so close, so close. it’s nice, it’s so nice, and they keep each other warm, their breathing patterns similar. jungkook seems to fall asleep first, but it doesn’t take yoongi too long to follow, and he falls, entirely, in ways he only thought possible in song.

///

waking up to jungkook becomes somewhat of a routine.

sometimes yoongi will be in bed when jungkook steps into the room, late at night or early mornings, and more often than not he’ll shower, and when he doesn’t he sleeps at the edge of the bed, away, not allowing touch. yoongi wants to tell him it doesn’t matter, but the words never come out properly. other times — other times he doesn’t go there at all, and yoongi is left alone to be consumed by his thoughts, feeling his bile climb up his windpipe like poison. 

that day, though, it’s different — yoongi fell asleep before jungkook arrived, and so when he wakes up, he blinks slowly, recognising the warmth against his body and the way jungkook likes to press into him as if he’s smaller. it’s different because yoongi’s notebooks are tucked between them, jungkook’s fingers holding them weakly. yoongi swallows. his feelings, they’ve been on page for a while now. his loneliness, the way he’s touch-starved and cold, jungkook’s scent, jungkook’s presence, his body, his colours in the night  — they’re all there in lyrics, the good and the ugly and the sordid. he sits up, feeling disjointed, suddenly. jungkook seems to stir awake, but yoongi doesn’t look at him. jungkook sighs. “i was going to put them back, but i guess i fell asleep,” then, quietly: “— are you mad?”

“no,” he mutters, because it’s not anger he feels. he feels bare, instead. 

the mattress shifts slightly, as jungkook moves, and yoongi hears as pages are turned, slowly, softly, maybe. “ you’re so beautiful that i’m scared ,” he reads. yoongi closes his eyes, flushing. “i didn’t know you were in love with someone.” at this, yoongi blinks, turning his head to look at jungkook’s expression, at how he looks sleepy and unkempt and pretty. “the lyrics you write— i like them.”

“i’m not in love, i,” yoongi tries, but jungkook huffs, smiling.

“you scratched moth and called it butterfly ,” he asks, fingers tracing the words on the page, propped up on his elbow. “why?”

“because you’re—,” the pronoun comes out unhinged. yoongi breathes in, as jungkook finds his eyes. “because you aren’t a moth, i am.” 

this time, when jungkook kisses him, it isn’t slow and soft nor is it tentative— he pulls yoongi closer with urgency, and yoongi allows himself to be taken like his heart. jungkook smells like the type of cologne he doesn’t wear, someone else’s, but yoongi doesn’t mind, not then, not when the blankets are the only things keeping their legs from tangling. it’s jungkook who pushes his hands under yoongi’s shirt, tracing his spine and his ribs, nails grazing softly. yoongi shudders, the sensation good. “i want it,” jungkook mutters against him. “you— please,” it’s sex he means, and yoongi only nods, nothing but all too pliant. he feels inexperienced in jungkook’s arms, in the way he moves with such certainty, the way he kisses just where yoongi feels more tingly. jungkook isn’t wearing anything other than the flannel that he wears to sleep, and yoongi can feel him, his hips, his legs. the blanket is pushed away. yoongi swallows. 

“are you sure—?” he can’t help but ask, watching jungkook’s hooded eyes, the way he bites at his piercing. 

“i want to do it with someone i like, even if just once,” jungkook offers, his voice hoarse. yoongi stares at him, heart beating so heavily it’s hard to breathe. jungkook flushes, turning his head to the side to look away. “i don’t think anyone has ever looked at me like that.”

“— you like me?”

“yeah,” he makes a small noise when yoongi noses at his jawline, kissing the side of his neck. “we can talk about it later, not now, now i want something else.” he pulls yoongi closer, wrapping arms around his neck and shoulders, and it feels good to be held like that, to be wanted like that. “i’ll sing all your songs,” jungkook tells him against yoongi’s mouth, and yoongi huffs, nodding weakly. “just—“

yoongi doesn’t listen— his mind is buzzing and his ears are filled with the sound of his own heart beating and he wants to lick away the taste of anyone else off of jungkook’s body. it’s a vile thought, and he scolds himself as they kiss again, he’s not deserving of what jungkook is offering if those things are on his mind. “wait,” he asks, shivering all over, breathing heavily. “i need— i don’t want to be like them,” the words come out confusing, and he’s all flushed. “you’re free.”

“sex doesn’t make you like them,” jungkook says. “hyung,” he calls, all too softly, but yoongi feels all wrong all over, and he starts pulling back slightly. “don’t, please,” jungkook says, holding onto his wrists, against his neck. yoongi’s weak against those touches, and jungkook’s voice is hoarse and honey-coated: “we don’t need to go all the way, i just— i want you.”

“you don’t have to sing my songs, this isn’t,” yoongi sighs. “it’s not a transaction, i shouldn’t— i’m not entitled to you.”

“i know,” jungkook swallows. “— hyung,” he calls again. yoongi meets his eyes this time around, seeing them blown and needy, dark and murky like the night they met. “i’m falling for you.” yoongi’s heart does a thing that feels achy, and it thrums all through his body, the palpitations loud. jungkook looks away, embarrassed. “you feel like a home.” 

“i’m not,” yoongi tries, but he knows the ache in his heart is relief and need and love, maybe it’s love, too, the first strokes of it, blue-coloured. 

“that night, i heard bells,” jungkook continues, all red against the yellow-stained sheets. yoongi stares at him, not knowing what to say.  “i looked up and— you were there, and you,” a soft chuckle follows. “you only asked for a song.”

“i heard your voice from the street,” yoongi says, and his arms are strained from keeping himself up above jungkook. he exhales. “i want to stop talking now,” he confesses, and jungkook glances up at him again, just enough to understand, just before yoongi leans down, licking at his mouth, and jungkook’s lips gap, his tongue warm. yoongi can’t talk— if he starts, he’ll let everything spill in every synonym for longing the dictionary bears. maybe it isn’t love, but it’s something , it’s a pull on his heartstrings and a need to feel the scent of linen and shampoo on his pillowcases. “no, just you,” he mutters when jungkook touches the hem of his pants. 

he kisses shoulders and the length of collar bones, and he nibbles softly on nipples until jungkook’s toes are curling, his breathing sharp and unsteady. yoongi kisses over ribs and faded bruises, he leaves lovebites where it hurts, hearing jungkook moan, his head tossed back. he tugs the flannel shirt open to kiss down a navel and over hip bones, and jungkook’s all red between his legs, the colour of his skin pretty against it. he cries out weakly when yoongi licks against it, the patch of skin salty. “do it, please,” jungkook asks, and his legs are strong enough yoongi can’t hold his hips down. he gags a little, humming. the sound jungkook makes is throaty, a grunt of sorts that breaks into a low moan. “ ah— that, ah— “

he slows down, then. slows down enough jungkook starts begging softly, arms crossed over his face to hide. the chorus of please, hyung, please , has devastating effects under yoongi’s clothes. “does it feel good?” yoongi asks, pulling back slightly. jungkook pants.

“yeah, yeah— it does,” jungkook has bitten his bottom lip hard enough it’s slip, staining the silver of his piercing red, too. he’s all red. it’s a much warmer tone than they’re blueness. “i thought you were more prudish than this,” and at that he smiles. yoongi’s eyes narrow. “hyung looked too soft for— ahnghfuck ,” jungkook’s hips raise slightly again, and yoongi presses his eyes closed, his jaw aching. he lets his mouth gets fucked light that, as jungkook searches for heat, noises getting louder. “i want to come,” the words come out muffled. “ ah, please ,” yoongi lets him, holding against thighs, nails digging into skin as jungkook gasps, body convulsing in soft spasms. his legs fall spread apart, and his chest moves up and down rapidly. yoongi  swallows, pulling back. he feels sticky, maybe, but he likes the way jungkook responds to further stimulation, he likes how he jolts slightly when he licks downwards, and downwards— “not there, i— not now.” yoongi pulls away, cheeks flushing. 

“— right,” he mumbles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. he stare at jungkook’s body, his own a lit pyre, his face hidden. “you don’t have to hide.”

“i do,” jungkook breathes out. “wait,” he gasps when yoongi leans down again, licking wet skin, just barely. “rest— a bit.” it’ endearing how he loses the formal roundness of his syllables, sounding drowsy and all too pleased. yoongi nods, and he yawns as he sits on his legs, buttoning down the flannel again. it’s large enough it covers jungkook’s thighs. 

he only notices jungkook staring a minute or two later, as he’s lost in massaging calves, fingers pressing. “— too much?”

“no,” jungkook offers. “no, i like that,” the words come out small. yoongi sighs. “don’t you need to get off?”

“some other time,” yoongi gives him a half-shrug. the heat about his has cooled down a little, enough that it isn't bothersome. he lets go of jungkook’s legs, finally, crawling over him until he can slump to his side, looking up at the ceiling. jungkook turns his head towards him. the notebooks are still on the bed, witnesses to the way they touched. “i’ve been writing about you,” he admits, finally. “for a while now.”

“are you confessing after you gave me a blowjob?” jungkook chuckles, and yoongi snorts, joining him weakly. “hyung’s very romantic.”

he searches for jungkook’s hand, for some reason, their fingers holding. “— can you read sheet music?” the question is somewhat random, and it takes a moment until jungkook replies with a small no . yoongi pushes himself up and against the bed frame, letting go of jungkook’s hand to flip through them. “i’ll teach you.”

“can i shower first? i’m— sweaty,” jungkook mutters. yoongi nods, his cheeks flushing.

it’s easier to cool down when jungkook isn’t on his bed, easier to forget how he felt like even though his taste is all over yoongi’s mouth, still. he looks fresh when he steps out, their shared towel damp, his eyes less dark. the soft white light of january drifts in. it’s almost as if there aren’t any grime about them suddenly, and that room is warm. “sit close,” yoongi asks, softly. jungkook smiles as he does so, their arms pressing together. yoongi shows him the notebook. “you already sing well, it’ll be easy.”

“— why teach me?”

“because,” yoongi swallows. “i want to write for you.” he glances sideways at jungkook’s expression, the soft frown about him. “not as an exchange, just— i want to write you songs. maybe one day you can write them, too.”

“about love?”

“about you,” he offers. “me.” a pause follows. “this place and time.” jungkook huffs. “maybe love, too.”

“right,” jungkook’s smiling still. “then teach me,” yoongi nods, flipping the pages. “i want to learn how it is to sing about love.”

///

days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into a month, then another.

they exist in neon-coloured darkness, in noraebangs late at night, where they can kiss each other breathless while the instrumentals of bad pop songs play loudly around them. yoongi watches jungkook dance, and jungkook watches as yoongi scribbles words on paper. they let themselves explore hidden pathways in each other’s bodies when the red light district sleeps, daylight filtered in by moth-eaten silk curtains. it’s always slow and dragged out, the way that jungkook seems to like the most— his legs wrapped around yoongi’s hips, pressing him close, the almost unbearable heat tucked between them. yoongi thinks he’s never fucked like that, in a way where pleasure and numbness seem to mingle, leaving him lightheaded, breathing against jungkook’s neck, limbs all too heavy. “ ah ,” the moan is muffled against skin, and jungkook shudders. they stay like that for a little longer, enjoying the sensation that still lingers, the aftertaste in their mouths. jungkook snuggles, then, he often does. 

when yoongi speaks again, his voice comes out all breathy. “i— bought you something.”

jungkook raises his head, blinking, his eyes curious, suddenly. “food?”

“no,” yoongi sniffs, suddenly embarrassed. “it’s something else.”

they pull apart, bodies reacting slightly, and t-shirts are put over limbs, only because. yoongi’s fingers are somewhat trembling when he stands up, taking his pack of cigarettes. “my birthday won’t be until september,” jungkook says, and yoongi tries not to stare at the way he cleans himself up with a towel, tossing it sideways before covering his legs with one of yoongi’s old sweatpants. “— well?”

“we can take a shower and go,” yoongi offers the cigarette, smoke coming out of his nose. jungkook takes it, stepping close. 

“where are we going?”

“near hongdae.” jungkook’s expression changes to one of surprise, his eyebrows raising. “i know it’s far, but we can walk to the station, and—”

“hongdae,” the word is repeated slowly. jungkook rests his head against the glass. yoongi stares at him, and maybe his heart beats heavily, unsure, suddenly. “— can i even go there?”

ah, so that’s it . yoongi swallows, and he takes the cigarette and jungkook’s hand. “you can go anywhere,” he offers. jungkook smiles, his cheeks reddening. “wash my hair?”

“that’s hyung’s job,” jungkook chuckles, and he kisses the side of yoongi’s mouth as yoongi smiles through smoke. 

stepping out of that room, out of that district that seems to cling to them with vicious nails— it’s difficult. jungkook looks nervous, and he touches his hair, fixing it, and he looks down at his clothes, and at other people on the train. yoongi knows how he feels. the inferiority complex of those forgotten in darker places of the city. he holds jungkook’s hand, then, their fingers entwining. during the day, everything looks less overwhelming, though, and they walk through emptier streets, avoiding the avenues full of cafés and real-life people. yoongi buys jungkook ice-cream shaped like a rose. it’s a tourist trap and too expensive altogether, but jungkook kisses him tasting like strawberries and so it’s worth it. 

the small rented room is at a shorter, older building too far from the station. the trash bin in front of it is full. yoongi types the password to the door and they climb the stairs, and jungkook’s quiet, his fingers holding against the hem of yoongi’s jacket gently. “my older brother rented this place for me, some years ago, he— he’s been keeping it,” yoongi says, finally, in front of unit 901. he looks at jungkook. “i didn’t feel like i belonged to it.”

“— why?”

“i don’t know,” and he doesn’t, it’s true. he left a few things in the small unit over the years, some clothes, old notebooks he couldn’t carry anymore— but there was nothing there for him. “come in,” he sighs, unlocking the door. the hinges make a sound. the square unit is empty, if not for a small refrigerator turned off and a mattress on the floor. the carton boxes are scribbled and dusty. jungkook steps in carefully, looking around. his eyes fall on the guitar left by the window. it’s black, and the wood is slightly scratched at the corner. it’s not tuned. yoongi watches as jungkook walks towards it, smiling, touching the strings. “it’s for you— the guitar.”

at this, jungkook turns sharply, eyes wide. “— what?”

“i bought it, it’s used, but— i wanted you to have it,” he searches inside his pockets, and the door slides close behind him. “i put the pick in a necklace so you won’t lose it,” yoongi knows he’s flushed as he offers his open hand towards jungkook. jungkook looks too stiff. “you don’t have to accept it.”

“it’s not that,” jungkook seems to swallow, shifting on his weight. his fingers are still touching the strings, producing sound whenever he moves. “— what does it mean?”

what does it mean — he had asked himself that question, too, in nights where jungkook didn’t come back to the motel, and in nights that he did. what does the crack in his heart mean? what does the feeling of euphoria whenever jungkook climbs on the bed mean? why do all those songs mean? “it means that,” he starts, unsure. “i’m not a waste if i’m with you.” yoongi huffs, and he doesn’t know why his eyes get wet like that, blurring his vision. “that i’m— i’m not scared of being in the light if you’re there.”

jungkook walks close, then, taking the necklace. it’s a plastic pick on a cheap silvery band, but he holds it as if it’s precious. “what if i don’t belong to the light either?”

“you do,” yoongi lifts his hand, pushing jungkook’s hair away from his eyes. once yoongi thought seoul would consume him, would keep him faceless and nameless against the grit of a red light district— but then he heard jungkook sing. “i thought you’d like— busking again. if you want to. i thought we could,” he pauses, nervous, digging his nails into his clammy palms. “i thought we could move out of that room.”

“here?” jungkook blinks. yoongi only nods, watching him look around again, at the mattress, the old fridge, the dirty glass on the window. they can see seoul outside— the shorter buildings across the street, a small convenience store’s front, a balcony with flower pots hanging. someone’s dog is barking, and somewhere in the building, they can hear children. they’re remarkably common, those things, but they feel alien to both of them, and they make jungkook’s lips curl up, amused, maybe, happy, perhaps. 

he turns around, taking the guitar, and it’s out of tune, yoongi wants to say, but jungkook waves an impatient hand, the guitar pick pressing against the strings softly. and there’s no mountain too high , he sings, chuckling at the way the chords sound, and yoongi huffs out a chuckle, too, no river too wide, sing out this song and i’ll be there by your side . jungkook stops for a second, as if trying to remember how the song goes. storm clouds may gather, and stars may collide , but the words sort of drift, and he stops playing. “— i don’t know that one,” yoongi tells him, watching jungkook’s expression change.

“i wrote it,” jungkook clears his throat. “for you.”

yoongi’s heart throbs. “did you?” he asks, his voice low. jungkook shrugs, nodding. “— is there more?”

“yeah, there’s,” there’s a pause before jungkook adjusts his fingers on the correct chords, sighing, and he looks up at yoongi only for a split of a second before looking away. “— but i love you, i— i love you .” it comes out sort of crooked, his voice breaking. jungkook steals a nervous glance at yoongi. when he speaks again, it’s not singing, and his voice is soft: “i — do. love you, i mean. it’s— i’ve known it for a while.”

we are creatures of the underworld , jungkook had said one, slightly drunk, in one of the times he came home late and smelling like other people. he had kissed yoongi too gently. we can’t afford to fall in love . yoongi knew he was talking to himself, but it had hurt in a way that stung for days. it doesn’t sting anymore, though. “yeah,” his voice cracks. “— i’m in love with you, too.”

“i need to tune this guitar, then,” jungkook forcibly nods, swallowing, his face dashing red. “i need to—”

yoongi holds the guitar away as he kisses jungkook, his other hand curling on the back of his head, feeling the softness of damp strands of hair. jungkook’s tension seems to seep out, and they stagger backwards, pressing against the wall. the guitar hits it awkwardly, making a loud hollow sound. “shit,” yoongi says, worried, looking down at it. jungkook laughs. “don’t laugh, you’ll need it,” he says, but jungkook isn’t listening, kissing the side of his neck. “jungkook,” yoongi calls, softly. “— tune your guitar while i go back to pick up our stuff from the motel.”

“bring food,” jungkook mumbles, childishly. 

“i will.”

it’s almost strange to leave jungkook there, in a place where the sun drips in golden specs, differently than the murky colours of the love motel. they don’t have much— mostly everything fits inside a backpack, and yoongi steals the cheap toiletries on the way out of there. he walks by the bar jungkook would dance at (may still dance at, if he wants to, if he chooses to), looking at the sunlit exterior, so different from the redness that seems to come out of it at night. he sighs, walking away. he walks in the light, feeling jungkook’s scent all over him. yoongi’s heart flutters— butterflies, not moths, not anymore.