Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The view from up here is undeniably captivating. A wide angle perspective over the rolling hills and coloured rooftops of the quiet district, naturally guiding the gaze to the shore serrated with the city’s skyscrapers, and further on the horizon, the sea line. Naturally appealing, naturally worth the money invested.

It will also naturally make the occasional guests drool with envy. And perhaps these guests won’t be so occasional, not in the first months at the very least. No doubt the owners will boast of their new home ad infinitum, lining up housewarming parties until the end of the year, barely blushing to the compliments they’ll be showered with, storing the gifts in their two-car garage, just so they can say they don’t have enough room after all, and have to park their luxurious electric cars in the front yard for new arriving guests to admire.

A two-hundred square metre design for a two-storey house in the hills of Busan, and yet not enough room. Jungkook can already hear it. 

A two-hundred square metre house with two large bay windows facing west and south, taking up more than half a wall each and meeting in the corner. The eco-friendly intentions are always welcome to hear of course: more light and sun warmth in the winter, less relying on heating, in the hope of supposedly reducing its energy consumption, which are certainly laudable ideas. Just unrealistic when there’s a whole floor to heat up anyway, with few heat sources coming from below and above. It’s not like a flat in an apartment block. And what about the heat in the summer? Jungkook had asked. Busan, no matter the breezes coming from the sea, can be such a stifling city.

They’ll put the AC on. Obviously. Ecology, my ass. 

Perhaps if they grow a few trees, the kind that grows fast while not forming too thick a foliage to prevent the sun rays from filtering through and also still providing some light shade — Jungkook is already picturing a dogwood tree, graphic and elegant, or a tulip tree, tall and colourful, subtly shifting with the seasons, both allowing the sun to play hide and seek with their lithe branches and the sea breeze. Cherry blossoms are also a safe bet, the main problem being what people generally admire them for: their bloom doesn't last long. The dogwood tree will take time to grow but nature works wonders when handled with patience. So either species, planted as an isolated subject, could add so much warmth and movement to this modern and monochromatic house, made of angles and straight lines only. He would then add some ornamental flowers to break the monolithic and barren aspect of the outside, like pink gaura: elegant, ethereal, poetic. Argentinian vervain would look lovely too. Both would definitely add some lightness to the ensemble.

They've been lucky to find and be able to afford some green lawn, stretching over a steady flat ground. The possibilities of designing a garden leave Jungkook breathless with inspiration: equally graphic and modern like the house, or rather romantic, seemingly uncontrolled yet manicured, along 18th-century Britain vibes. Yes, that's what Jungkook would do, were his customers interested. 

But they're not. A design house is what made them open the door to their office. For the time being, it’s dandelions and buttercups only. Wild and common to some. Proud and rebellious to him. Always bright, even under the descending sun. 

Not that Jungkook doesn’t like the house—he’s the one who designed the plans. Now that he remembers it, he actually had added a tulip tree on the sketches, along with a Chinese maple, and a pond. They had not shown any interest in that part of the plans, like so many before them.

The Japanese knotweed growing everywhere around will give them hell.

“Jeon Jungkook-ssi? Are you sure there’s enough sockets over the running kitchen counter? I can only count eight.”

Jungkook holds in the annoyed sigh rising at the back of his throat and slowly averts his eyes from the view outside to consider the question, for the fourth time over the past month. And good fucking luck this summer.

“I think we’ve been over that point a couple times, haven’t we, hyung?” A little too harsh perhaps, because, rather than looking at the future owner, he looks to his Works Manager who has been following them around the house for the final check-ups and potential reservations. Min Yoongi’s patience is never at its best either when that final stage of the project arrives, but he has promised he’ll do better, only if Jungkook also makes an effort.

So for his sake, Jungkook schools his face, eventually turns his body fully to the customers and smiles politely, while Yoongi shuffles the booklet of the project detailing the requirements, a bit too forcefully. His response is flat and artificial to a fault, just as he is whenever he’s controlling himself, though only Jungkook would know this; and Namjoon.

“I see here that you wanted seven sockets. For the aesthetic and pragmatic aspects, we installed two sets of four on each corner over the counter. They’re discreet and there are enough of them for your soda stream, milling coffee machine, boiler, phone chargers, while making sure not to clutter the entire surface so it can stay pristine and tidy. Your quote. And because you said the utility room would be where you’ll store all the main appliances. That’s why we put eight here and nine there.”

“Oh? Okay… Thoughtful, I suppose.”

“Is there anything else?” Jungkook asks, mustering all the powers that be not to sound as stiff as he feels. The sun is setting and they’ve been reviewing everything from the ground to the non-existent attic for three hours. They’re typically the kind of people unbothered by staying in the same place for as long as their interest is aroused. Jungkook figures they’d enjoy nothing more than spending three hours in a museum, reading all the panels, discussing the art choices or the way people used to live. 

Now Jungkook would like to wrap it up, call it a day and treat his hyungs to a barbecue. Yoongi is thinking the same, he’d bet on it.

“Hmm, I think we said it all. Good job.”

One compliment at last. Not some heartfelt statement nor overflowing joy or anything, but still, given the amount of fuss they have been throwing at them since the project started, Jungkook takes it to heart; something both Yoongi and he have naturally needed to hear since they started working in this field, which is quite understandable if you ask them.

The truth is, they are starting to gain recognition and recommendation. This couple had been the third to ask for his architectural skills, following an article about the office’s latest achievement, the design of a trendy two-storey restaurant by the sea front, published on edgy designhouse.com last year. A much needed distraction from the regular housing estates or the interior design of stores they usually deal with. Jungkook’s father hadn’t believed such articles in niche web magazines could earn them that many eyeballs, but Namjoon had been adamant about accepting the opportunity, and rightly so. 

That restaurant project had been the highlight of Jungkook’s start in the family business, quite an achievement at such an early stage in his career, Namjoon had noted. Despite his father’s fair warning never to bite the hand that feeds you, Jungkook had kept an eager eye open to calls for projects. With Namjoon’s skills and convincing intelligence, they had won it and were given the chance to showcase their talents. 

When the owners had shared Jungkook’s excitement about keeping the age-old tree in the middle of the construction and making it part of the concept, Jungkook had felt like a child at Disneyland.

Hopefully, they’ll have more opportunities like this to come.

Just not another bland boring bulky house of cement, where there’s not even a beam or a floorboard in sight.

A success for sure, a considerable project no doubt, a hefty sum of money well-earned.

A bitter after-taste nevertheless. A disappointment of some sort. He can’t shake the feeling that, had his advice been heard, he would have magnified the outside too and made up for the dull contemporary choices of the clients. 

There's nothing that annoys him more than wasted chances.

Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

“We’re done here then,” says Yoongi, slamming shut the booklet and heading intently towards the bag he had left by the entrance. Our ways part here, that says—let’s go. Even though he knows it’s not exactly the end because his teams have to come back and make a few changes here and there, he doesn’t want to allow room for another discussion to start now.

Jungkook follows suit, concluding the transaction with the usual social niceties, guarantees and insurance policies, availability and response time of the office. He’s still at it on the threshold as he hears Yoongi ostensibly slamming the car doors and boot in the front yard below. One final bow and they’re off.

Thirty minutes later, the barbecue is smoking and the bottles of beer are already half empty as they wait for the meat and side dishes to finally arrive. Yoongi’s stomach has been grumbling the whole drive there, and it might still be wailing in starving agony as they wait, inhaling the fragrance of grilled beef and pork coming from the tables around them. The place might look to be on the rundown side of things, a cramped mishmash, and yet its success needs no further proof; it’s crowded, brimming with loud voices and laughter, warm with comfort and authentic food, a stark contrast from the place they’ve just left, though Jungkook doesn't feel particularly hungry tonight.

“What’s Joon doing?”

“I don’t know. Should be here soon.”

“I suggest we don’t wait for him and start eating. It’ll make him arrive faster,” Yoongi says, almost drooling over the dishes they’re served at last. “I swear to god my insides are shrinking on themselves like drying raisins.”

“You’ve just downed a bottle of beer, hyung.”

“Precisely to keep them hydrated.”

“If you say so…” Jungkook smiles with his teeth. He looks to the entrance door as it opens, but no Kim Namjoon. Jungkook lets his gaze leisurely scan the place, unaware that he’s still smiling, until he meets a girl’s eyes, looking back at him with intent. She’s sitting on her own a few feet away. There’s another plate in front of her, so she definitely hasn’t come alone. 

Jungkook discreetly looks over his shoulder and around to check if she’s really looking at him or beyond him. When it’s certain that he is the object of her examination, he puzzledly looks back at her, which she apparently finds amusing. She’s smiling fondly at him, with a little something else sparkling in her gaze that might have nothing to do with his cluelessness. Her demeanour and smile shift then, only a little, and Jungkook understands. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she looks shier, when actually coy would be a better word. 

This girl knows what she is doing, what she’s aiming for and she finds it entertaining.

Truth be told, Jungkook has always been amazed by how bold some people can be in public. He wonders if anybody else is seeing her, them, with their gazes locked like this. It is worth noting that he hasn’t looked away either. 

And yet, he’s the only one to startle when the girl’s friend comes back, laying a gentle hand over her shoulder and letting it slide along her arm and hand while retrieving his seat opposite her. Her boyfriend, explicitly so. Unbelievable , Jungkook wants to snort.

“Namjoon can't make it,” Yoongi mumbles from behind a mouthful, reading a text. “He says something came up.”

“What’s that?” Jungkook frowns.

“Damfino.” Yoongi finally swallows his bite and starts making another. That’s when Jungkook notices that his friend has already prepared two pieces for him and placed them over his rice. “Personal stuff, he says.”

“Shame.” Jungkook extracts his phone from the pocket of his pants and sees that he's received the same text.

Kim Namjoon

Sorry

Can't make it tonight 

Something came up

I have to deal with it asap

Me

You okay hyung?

What's up?

Kim Namjoon

The usual

My mom yk

Me

I'm sorry

Kim Namjoon

She'll be fine dw

Can I take the day off tomorrow?

Me

You have to ask my dad

Kim Namjoon

He already said yes 😂

Me

Why you asking me then 🙄

Kim Namjoon

Because you're just as much my boss too

I need to be in your good graces

Look at me sucking up to you 😝

Me

Lucky you're a family friend 🖕

😉

Take care of your mother

Send her my love

Kim Namjoon

Will do 🙏

Thanks

I know I’m lucky

Oh and congrats on wrapping up the hill house!

Have a toast on me.

Jungkook closes the messaging app with a soft chuckle. He doesn't know where he would be without Kim Namjoon. The long-term family friend, the pillar he and his family have been lucky to rely on whenever the going gets tough, showing unshakeable strength and fortitude, despite having his own plate to tend, a single mother with a severe respiratory disease. 

Namjoon rarely asks for favours and Jungkook already knows he'll do his best to make up for lost time, even when there's no time lost to begin with.

Still, his absence tonight already tastes bitter on Jungkook’s tongue and he hasn’t eaten anything yet. It’s always been the three of them to toast to another project wrapped up, no matter how boring.

Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

His appetite has not yet decided to show up tonight, and it seems that the dinner won’t last as long as when it’s the three of them. He may have some odd time and energy actually — besides some liquor — to spend at the late-night gym afterwards.

“Did he say sorry for interrupting your eye-fucking session?"

His moment of reminiscence shatters to give way to a strangled choke. “So this is what you think you saw, right? Not that deep, honestly.”

“That’s what’s funny with eye-fucking—it can’t be deep anyway.”  Yoongi chuckles. "Should totally count as safe sex, in my opinion.”

Once again, Jungkook takes it in stride, half-glad to see his gloomy train of thoughts diverted, half-leery.

He’s aware that the way he laughs at his friend’s joke is stagey, meant to acknowledge the emerging peak of the iceberg of innuendos while discreetly brushing away the potentially deeper ones. Or maybe it’s just an echo from Namjoon’s last texts in his mind. In any case, sex jokes always tend to make him tense and twist his guts every time they appear. He does try to discipline his light paranoia, mind you. Sometimes he genuinely wonders whether he's the only one to see implications when there’s none, at least none anybody should suspect. None he wants to make known. Even Namjoon is unaware and that says something.

He glances back to where the couple is sitting. Their hands are still locked together, fingers intertwined, drinking in each other’s features and words Jungkook cannot hear from here. He wished he could have a better look at what the boy looks like, but his profile is the only side he’ll get: lithe bodybuild under his shirt, delicate hands but strong knuckles, soft lines and round cheeks, thin and flawless neck over the unbuttoned collar. 

A restlessness he knows well has ignited in his lower belly. Curiosity. He's growing curious. He wants to see this face, the jaw, his eyes. He wants to see these collarbones under this collar. Collarbones titillate him best.

Turn around, boy. Bury the girl. 

Perhaps his appetite will not stay at half-mast after all.

"Hello, handsome. Long time, no see. How have you been?" The same multicoloured light beams criss-cross the room, too many to count inside such a small space, as if to leave no corner in the dark. The dark is for the back rooms, concealing what the rest of the city doesn’t want to see, what some customers are not all ready to acknowledge themselves. 

"Holding up well, I guess."

"Is that so? Holding it up until you miss it, right? Or until you miss me? I thought I'd never see you again." The host smiles and the pink beams enhance his perfect teeth and chiselled cheekbones. His make-up looks perfect. Everybody’s beautiful in this parallel plane and Jungkook can forget about the dark bags hanging low under his eyes. 

Even when seeing is allowed, everything is set to smooth the edges.

"I wish I could come more often..." 

"Ah, they all say that. But I’m sure there's some truth in it. Just not as much as you all let on.

"And what do you know?" Shiny skin, eyeshadow, meshy clothes are like warm magnets. Jungkook knows he can allow himself to be weak and tired here.

"Well, I believe you're holding up thanks to a wife at home, or a girlfriend who's only too happy to be fucked by you, to help you keep up appearances, unawares.” He curls up closer to Jungkook’s chest, teasing the buttons of his shirt. “Until it gets too dull for your fat dick and it starts cry-begging you for some strong thighs and tight ass. And it’s not the insane amount of time you spend at the gym to get this gorgeous body that’ll do the trick and numb it all. So here you come running. Pretending to have an afterwork meeting, even on a Saturday night, am I right?"

"Feeling chatty tonight, huh?"

"You're right. Less talk, more cock. Welcome back, baby."

Weekdays revolve around the same routine. They turn into themselves so steadily and inevitably that they seem to never pass the stage of being a copy of yesterday’s draft. 

Except on Mondays.

Except on those Mondays, following a weekend spent in the dark alleyways of the capital.

Those Mondays have a whole different taste to themselves. The air of Busan tastes different on Jungkook’s tongue whenever he exits his condo and heads towards his office.

Thirty-five minutes later, at the foot of the building, the taste still lingers on the threshold of his lips, but he knows it is only a matter of hours before it will lose its substance, under the relentless sanding of his workload.

Jungkook arrives at the office early before anybody else to have some quiet time to savour the last whiffs of the weekend. 

Also to peruse the mail, look into the ongoing projects and go over the briefs before their general assembly. A general assembly of four, but business runs better among long-trusted people, no matter how few of them, his father loves to remind them. 

The only person present before him lately is unfailably their new intern, hired to tend the desk in the reception lobby. He’s been here for six months and his diligence is mindblowing. He’s too young and inexperienced to be entrusted with the keys of the office but he’s already retrieved the mail from the mailboxes at the entrance of the building, and checked them. And he’s patiently waiting leaning against a wall, with a cup of coffee: his own. He has only very recently internalised that buying some for Jungkook is literally a waste, that it would inevitably spend the day on his desk, cold and bland, before finishing its course flushed down the drain once everybody had left.

“Morning, Woosung-ah. How was the weekend?” Jungkook asks, fishing for his keys inside his briefcase.

“Sajangnim.” He bows, still a bit too low to Jungkook’s liking. This guy is twenty-five. “Pretty quiet. But I don’t mind. I love quiet. You?”

“Well, same, actually.” Which cannot be farther from the truth. He’d driven to Seoul over the course of Saturday to visit one of those clubs in Itaewon he knows well, where he can see collarbones at will. Nobody has to know he can also touch them too, if he asks nicely. Nobody must know, nor get a chance to see how the adrenaline that had been pumping him up on Saturday is the same one that’s made him hungover on Sunday.

“You deserve it. You work so hard, Sajangnim.”

“When will you finally stop calling me that? I’m not your boss yet. I’m just four years older than you.” 

“Because I totally intend for you to become my boss one day, what else?” Woosung replies in a smile as he trots towards the elevator behind Jungkook with a light step. Woosung is like that. He’s not one to bend to people’s will and whims, but only reciprocates what he’s given: faultless dedication, respectful warmth and quiet intelligence. Jungkook has instantly seen that he likes it here and hopes to stay. It’s far too early to tell him, but Namjoon and he have already agreed on recruiting him once his internship is done and his exams passed. And if they’re on board, convincing his father shouldn’t be hard. 

“Not that much mail today,” he says during the ride up to the tenth floor. “The Lees’ bank is sending the statement of their last payment, the yearly property tax for the office, two leaflets from a builder company and a plumber and…those.”

His hesitation and uneasy tone attract Jungkook’s attention away from the property tax he’s perusing. From Woosung’s tight-lipped expression, he instantly knows what these stationary envelopes he’s passing over in both hands are about. Pastel colours, beautiful lettering on top, can only mean one thing, and before he can check himself, Jungkook grimaces his way to an annoyed face that has the intern stifle a smile.

Blind dates. Blind dates organised by his mother. He exhales like a boiler reaching boiling point, shoulders sagging at the bothersome prospect of wasting precious time. She’s been talking about it since he came back from the military four years ago. He had managed to keep himself off the hook for a whole year while he had signed up for a special course at the Architecture and Landscape Gardening School in Seoul, pretending he had twice dated there. He’s not particularly proud of this lie, but at least it had kept her out of his hair for a while.

He bided more time when he started working for the family firm, arguing that learning the ropes of the job, navigating the management side of the firm in order to take over after his father later, plus, improving the visibility and communication of their business were too time-consuming. Being the accountant of said family business, she had witnessed first hand her son’s long hours of working, the sleepless nights spent in the office redoing sketches and plans. She had had no choice but to let it slide again.

He should have foreseen that it could only be temporary and that she would strike back, sooner or later. 

The ping of the elevator acts as the signal for the final period to the subject for the day as Jungkook jams the envelopes inside his briefcase and marches out. Woosung stops by the front desk while Jungkook moves towards the far end of their premise, dangling his keys in his hand.

He frowns when he notices the door of his office already unlocked, slightly ajar, and pushes it wide open.

His back turned to the entrance, hands in his pockets, Kim Namjoon is standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking the neighbourhood. 

“Hyung? You already there? How come?”

He hadn’t expected to surprise and startle his friend and collaborator. If he’s standing here so early, it can’t be for any other reason than to meet Jungkook before anybody else. He had to be expecting him any minute. He must have been caught in a deep reverie then to jump like this at the sound of his voice, so unlike Namjoon. He’s not the kind to be caught off guard easily. Nor to look so sad and drawn, eyes red and shiny.

“Everything alright?” The moment the question is out, Jungkook cringes at how dumb it sounds. In living memory, it’s the first time he sees Namjoon so not alright.

“Your parents are on their way.” His voice is coarse and cracked. “They have something to tell you.”

“Something to tell me? What is it?”

“I can’t tell you. They insist on being the ones to.”

“But you know what it is about. They’ve informed you before informing me.” Namjoon swallows painfully, eyes downcast, and nods. “And you can’t tell me.” Namjoon nods again.

They wait in silence. What else can they do? But Jungkook hates it when he’s the one being left deliberately in the dark, like a child.

“Your mother’s okay?”

“Huh? Oh, yes, of course. She is.” He waves it off with a frown. “Just… yet another battery of examinations to take. The usual.” 

The building is still rather quiet at this hour of the morning, only the outside gets busier and busier as office workers mill out of the buses and the tram station below them. While Jungkook has grown accustomed and attached to the peace here before another hectic week kicks off, it now sounds eerie and full of glum expectation. The elevator then rings like an ominous sound of doom in what he usually sees as his safe space. Both turn to the door in sync to welcome Jungkook’s parents.

If Namjoon looks distressed, Jungkook’s mother looks like a striking statue of misery. Barely a muscle moves on her face but sure tears are streaming down her cheeks, soundlessly. Had anyone had their back turned to her, they wouldn’t be able to guess she was crying. One has to see it, see the tears smearing her foundation and mascara, or what’s left of it. She’s wiped off most of it by now. Her face is oddly the only part of her betraying her emotions, the rest of her body remains perfectly straight and stiff, as it usually is. 

His father is sombre, gravely so. Taking his bearings, clearing his throat, running a hand over his impeccable suit to even out any non-existent crease. Any other day, one would say he’d be preparing for an important meeting. His tired eyes can attest that the context is different. There again, only Jungkook can know that, and Namjoon obviously.

Jungkook’s heart is pumping adrenaline in dread, a second shot of adrenaline in less than two days.

“There’s no easy or good way to say this, Jungkook. We… Your mother and I received this by private delivery last night. We didn’t call you then. I suppose we needed some time to process the news. Don’t be too hard on us for not telling you sooner.”

He hands him a light grey letter with its anthracite envelope, his parents’ names and address typed up at the front.

An official letter from a notarial office in Paris, with its address on top and stamp at the bottom, informing them in French, with the translation written under each line — Jungkook recognizes Namjoon’s handwriting — of the late passing of Jeon Junghyun, aged thirty-three, in his home in the seventh district of Paris a week ago. The address is given and apparently everything has been taken care of for his family to take possession of what he left there, within a certain period of time before marketing authorization, since there’s no known nor designated heir. So everything goes back to the parents if they’re still alive.

Jungkook has to read it over and over several times before really grasping its meaning. After the fourth or fifth time, he wonders if this is akin to what people define as an out-of-body experience, a sensation of the ground vanishing under your feet, of the world tipping on its axis but nothing seems to move around. Nothing collapses, time doesn’t stop and yet, this is what it must feel like inside, a gaping vacuum, ingesting and mincing everything in its periphery.

Emptiness. Or a variation of emptiness perhaps. Where only an echo dwells.

For sure, the void is a relative idea. Even then, the echo in Jungkook’s ribcage sounds faint, faraway, yet insisting on being heard regardless.

As he takes a minute to pluck his inner self out, examine it in the light, it comes as a great shock to realise that he can’t see any difference from what he feels any other day. That is, nothing much. An ironically striking after effect of the revelation. An immaterial rippling wave of the news that his brain has had no trouble rationalising, the instant he read about it. 

His gaze absentmindedly sweeps over the space in front of him and lands on the designer display of petunias that Namjoon had offered him at the turn of spring, and the rest of the office disappears; his parents are blurry figures whose contours are dissolving in the washed-out background, in the grey sand grain of the paper under his fingertips; his heart and stomach are shrivelling to non-existence in their turn. 

It’s been long since he last felt out-of-place to the point of wanting to disappear too, far in the remote corners of a room. And the reawakening of the sensation is not helping him digest the news.

Of the fleeting memory of an elder brother he hasn’t seen in seven years, and whom he had untimely buried, it seems. It’s ironically nauseating.

“What should we do?” he asks. His own voice sounds disembodied and disconnected from himself. A lifeless shell whose soul hasn’t been heard of for some time; an articulated dummy with a pre-recorded device.

“There aren’t many options. Namjoon, have you looked into the address given?”

“Erm, No… I’m sorry, Abeonim, I haven’t... I guess we can search for it on the Internet,” he hastily says, grabbing his phone from inside his suit jacket.

“It’s okay. It’s a shock for all of us, you included. I haven’t forgotten.”

Jungkook stares at his father, looking inordinately sympathetic towards Namjoon. Like a father would look upon a bereaved son.

The elder son Jungkook's father had wished for, though he’s never admitted it out loud, but has shown it in ways that couldn't be interpreted otherwise, no matter how deserved these signs of affection and trust are.

Except that Jeon Taeho had once had an elder son, before Kim Namjoon showed up. 

And Jungkook had once had an elder brother, before Kim Namjoon showed up.

Someone to look up to, to turn to in times of wonder, to talk to.

As dramatic as it can sometimes be, life had it that this elder son used to be Kim Namjoon’s best friend. Both of the same age, neighbours who had gone to the same school, they had been thick as thieves, rivalling each other in sheer intelligence since their young teen years. Despite their social differences, Namjoon had always been welcome at the Jeons’. The invitations had never been requited but nobody had taken offence, as it showed honourable humility coming from Namjoon’s sick mother. Namjoon’s hard-work and intelligence had soon earned their father’s respect. Jungkook remembers how he had tried to fuel some competitiveness between Junghyun and Namjoon, but to no avail. Not only had it been pointless because Junghyun had been just as smart a kid as Namjoon was, but also because the friendship between the two ran so deep that they were immune to envying each other.

Everywhere one had gone, the other followed. Same sport and hobbies, same studies, same clubs, same degrees, same career. They had joined the army together too, and nobody had been surprised.

The only time they had gone their separate ways was when Junghyun had wanted to tour the world for a year after graduating high school. Namjoon couldn’t afford it and had to stay by his mother’s side at any rate. Jungkook had seen him juggle brilliant studies and menial jobs to care for them both, including giving high-schooler Jungkook himself after-school tutoring to make ends meet. 

And always this benevolent aura draping him, never an ounce of jealousy displayed despite staying behind while his best friend was having the time of his life. When asked about it by a young Jungkook (who had been very jealous for his part) he’d smile with his dimples out and reply that, had he had the money, he would have taken the same decision as Junghyun.

Jungkook is not the only one losing Junghyun for the second time. But this is the first time he realises that he feels very little pity for his relatives. 

With Namjoon, it’s different.

Junghyun has long been out of his life. Namjoon hasn’t.

Without Namjoon, Jungkook would be alone in this world, he figures.

“There’s no easy way,” his father repeats. “But we have to deal with this in the proper manner. To go there, settle everything, see if the estate and belongings, whatever and wherever they are, can be sold rapidly. I’m not going to lie and say I’m not surprised there’s something of that nature waiting. How long do you think it might take, Namjoon?”

“Erm, I don’t know. A whole week? Maybe more. I don’t know how the French administration works and —”

“And we don’t know what they actually mean when they say that everything has been taken care of. Of course. The only way to know is to go there. Your mother and I have discussed it and want to entrust you with this, Jungkook-ah.”

“Me? But Abeoji... I don’t… speak French...” is all he can manage to utter and, again, he wants to curse at himself. Doesn’t he have anything else to say other than mere practicalities? He’s barely listening to what his father is saying, his brain is malfunctioning, too busy trying to piece together hurried memories of their scarce time spent together before Junghyun had left the family six years ago while Jungkook was gone for his own military service. 

A cruel twist of events. He had joined the army right after his brother had come back. When he had come back in his turn twenty months later, Junghyun had disappeared without a trace. 

“Your English will do, I suppose.”

“But—”

“But you have three ongoing projects. And the Busan World Expo bid, we know. You won’t be away long. Let’s say a week then. I’m sure Namjoon can take care of them during your absence. We’ve never had much need of his proxy till now, but tough times call for tough measures, right? Perhaps he can put Woosung to some meaningful use. You’ll turn to me for important matters or decisions.”

He’s not going to deny that leaving the Busan Expo file beyond his watch for a week doesn’t sit well with him. The past month’s sleepless nights will not forgive him for marooning them on his desk while he ships himself away to the other side of the world. And yet, outrageously perhaps, these are not the questions Jungkook had wanted to breach, but rather whether they wish to come with him, all together, as a family, to see where Junghyun used to live, how he lived, what had happened to him, if a ceremony had been performed.

To remember him together?

This is the moment when Jungkook’s soul agrees to return to his body at last and helps him realise that his father hasn’t pronounced his brother’s name one single time. The pronoun ‘he’ alone hasn’t been used once. His tone is factual and cold, business-like, almost political. The only glimpse of turmoil that might slightly mislead anybody who knows Jeon Taeho are the dark circles under his eyes. 

His mother, as for her, hasn’t spoken a word, only wiped more tears from her cheeks, the long-standing noose around her instincts tightening at every extra teardrop. 

The silence is heavy with the lingering presence of someone whose name must remain unsaid, hovering over their heads, watching them from above perhaps or pulling them by the ankles to their personal hell cell. A first circle of regret, of missed opportunities, of failed attempts, to be tortured by the brutal reminder of their own inaction. The truth is that there’s nothing new here, nothing that should shake Jungkook to the core as it does now. 

Parents and son look at one another, uncomfortable and bereft, grabbing for some last-minute fleeting things to say and do, but coming up with nothing. 

“It’s settled then,” Jungkook’s father finally says, with a loud sigh. “Let’s try to work today. And do our best.

One cannot beat around the bush eternally, lest they beat themselves up. The deed is done, one final bow and the curtains fall.

Junghyun’s name has been forbidden since Jungkook came back from the military. To this date, Jungkook still doesn’t know what had induced such a ruthless sentence. The photos on the furniture had been changed, his bedroom transformed into a study, his clothes given away, his sport gear ditched. 

Had Jungkook minded the lingering presence dwelling among their walls back then? He did consider it, but hadn’t stayed long enough to disturb the dust (let alone help ghosts rise from said dust).

And yet, he can’t say he never saw the door of a thousand questions in front of him when he got back from the military. Everywhere he looked, it was there, substantial and taunting.

“You never asked.” Jungkook has to make the effort of telling himself that it’s Namjoon talking, not the door that has revealed itself again from behind the veil he had thrown over it many years ago. He has to convince himself that this is a statement, not a question addressed to him and the tone isn’t meant to be jarring, that it stings because it is true, no more no less. Just too late. 

Namjoon pauses to clean his glasses with his tie, looking outside again to the city unrolling its waves of concrete and glass. “You and I have always unconsciously known when some topics have to be dodged.”

“Last time I heard about him was during a phone call from my regiment. He wasn’t even there when I came back for my first leave.”

“He had been sick for some time, that’s why. Neurological issues, loss of balance and coordination. His eyesight had severely decreased. Getting back to a normal life and working were problematic, though not impossible. He needed time, adjustment and treatment.”

The next stupid thing to say would be to act surprised and demand why he didn’t know any of it. He knows better than to make a fool of himself. He should have asked.

He’s always been hopeless with social skills, resorting to well-rehearsed phrases that should pass as socially acceptable but due to some sick trick of fate, never work out well. Expressing himself has always been painful; to others surely but to himself as well, so much so that he’s often wished that aspect were the first thing the world would know about him, before deciding to engage with him at all.

Few have taken the risk, or what Jungkook himself considers as a risk. Min Yoongi, and Kim Namjoon. Is there anyone these two fear, anyway? He wonders. 

This is the moment when he feels it at last. It’s taking its time but it’s there: rancid, foetid, corrosive self-loathing

“By the time you came back, he was gone and declared persona non grata. But I can’t believe it was due to his illness. Your parents had been paying for his treatment. They wanted him to get better and pursue the career that was waiting for him. Something else happened, but even I don’t know what. He left without telling me.” He pauses. “I did try to ask your father once. I’m still waiting for his answer.”

What the fuck had made their family shatter like this is a question he's asked himself twice in his life, the second time being just now.

“Hyung, you should go. To Paris. You’re the one that should go.”

“You heard your father.”

“I’m sure I can convince him. You’re like family, and… you were his best friend.”

Namjoon forces a grateful smile, except that his dimples fail to bring the comfort Jungkook is used to finding in them this time. He hadn’t known it was possible but even they look forlorn.

“The price to pay to feel like you belong to a family, you wouldn’t believe,” Namjoon muses to himself, aloud. “Lives. Before, it was just my mother and I against the world. Then you all burst our small bubble like an earthquake, and there’s never been a single doubt in my mind that I’d follow you to the moon and back. Not a day has passed without Junghyun, you, your parents in my mind. The brothers I never got to have. The father I had lost.”

By the time he ends his sentence, his voice has lowered so that Jungkook has to step closer to hear him.

I missed him too is what Jungkook would have wanted to say, be it a whisper. But nothing passes the threshold of his lips. He wonders if he is scared: scared of his own voice? Probably. He already hates the tense he would have used, wondering why, why the present tense refuses to show up. Scared to be heard? Case in point: he hasn’t said anything and yet he looks up at the door, expecting his father to appear and yell at him.

He shakes his head at his paranoia. He should rather wonder if he means it, if he would have sounded convincing. Can he actually feel the power engulfed in such words? Words he never got to say, nor to write anywhere to anyone. Now is too late anyway. 

Have these long years of absence numbed his sense of brotherhood, his natural love for his brother? Namjoon’s right: he’s sometimes been aware of the ghost breathing down their necks. Sometimes. But never dared to address it. He’s never confronted his parents, together or alone, and demanded answers. 

His stomach churns and bile rises up his throat. 

“You’re the right person to go,” Namjoon eagerly interjects to reroute the conversation. “And the sooner you leave, the sooner you come back. Don’t worry about the beach house project. I know you absolutely want to design the gardens so I’ll safeguard it for you while you’re away.

Timeless -  Drunken Tiger, RM

It’s past five o’clock local time when Jungkook arrives at last to the seventh district of the French capital. His plane had landed two hours earlier and although the urge to head directly to his brother’s residence had been potent, he had eventually opted to stop by his hotel, shower and change, and swap his grimy travelling clothes for some jeans, a white tee and a black jacket. Black has always been his colour anyway. He had entertained the idea of having a short nap, but his nerves had decided otherwise. 

He’s been up for twenty-two hours, running almost alternatively on adrenaline and discomfort. And a bite or two on the plane. Knowing the time difference between Paris and Seoul, he had tried to sleep a little on the plane, but couldn’t. His mind had been reeling with a sour mixture of contrasting emotions, fighting for the privilege of the final blow that would make him puke his empty stomach out.

What with all the questions he had never asked, with all the souvenirs whose edges and details blur as they fly past the time zones and beating himself up for letting his parents get rid of them, guilt should have made him sick by now. 

And yet it has not been that ferocious yet, but rather biding its time, unhurried and confident in its overwhelming power, waiting for his denial to lose its breath first.

Because it’s too late, no matter what. He knows it. He got the message.

Can it please move on?

In the hours and night that had followed the news, in a desperate act of self-preservation perhaps, his mind has been striving to explain the hollow sensation in his chest out of which nothing resembling sadness seems to rise. 

He doesn’t know what makes him feel worse between what could well be interpreted as cowardice from the outside and the absence of grief he feels on the inside. 

What he’s sure of is that he wants this stomachache to stop.

Junghyun had been gone for too long; they had never been that close; he had never tried to contact Jungkook either, not even Namjoon and that says something, just another conclusive demonstration of that out-of-sight-out-of-mind thing. Not to mention that once he had come back from the military, Jungkook had had little time to adjust to this new order of things and was thrown head first into living up to their parents’ skyrocketing expectations now that Junghyun had left the place vacant. Considering how hard Jungkook had struggled in his studies, compared to his gifted older brother, needless to say that he had been granted little time to linger on past disputes or unsolved mysteries. He has been too busy for that.

But obviously, such excuses have side-effects. As a matter of fact, he feels even shittier after. Beyond this image of a cold-hearted brother, numb to sorrow but prone to rationalising his indifference, there’s also the image of an equally unbothered elder brother who couldn’t care less about the sibling he had left behind, which only enhances how worthless Jungkook must have been to Junghyun’s eyes.

A double-edged bitterness that could well appear as disbelief or anger in disguise, but which resolutely sends him into a timeless dimensional warp. So many years without notice, not even a call, nor a note and that’s all it takes for someone to vanish from his heart? Reason enough to be angry actually. As he lands half a world away, in a different timezone, in a timeless city, he hasn’t made up his mind as to how to feel.

And that after all action is one hell of a good painkiller, and a good way to avoid looking time in the eye.

Similarly, his parents can’t have gotten rid of everything related to Junghyun; believing this is too cruel to be true. They will all one day want to atone for their rejection. Just like him, they must be wondering how and where Junghyun’s body had been buried. Why are they keeping stubbornly quiet about it? Why hadn’t they told Jungkook anything? 

Why are they sending him there?

His frustration is as jet-lagged as he is and has him wondering what he might have done to them too to be left out.

Granted, they might not have had so many moments bonding as brothers, especially as they grew older. Jungkook had been just another regular teen: at times nosy enough to follow his brother everywhere, only to be gently kicked out; other times shy enough to keep to himself and complain whenever Junghyun invaded his personal space.

Still, he remembers soccer games on Sundays in the neighbourhood park, after school walks home, arcade games and ice-cream in the summer, movie nights at home in the winter. Nothing close to what movies would come up with but that’s all the wealth his memory has hoarded. 

But it feels like leafing through the pages of a book really fast. He's been racking his brain for bits of meaningful conversations, enlightening words of wisdom his brother might have shared with him, even a running joke between the two of them would have done the trick. God knows he's had time during the flight. But no; he's come up with nothing.

Not many words were exchanged back then, only the comfort that being of the same flesh and blood can sometimes evoke. Something Jungkook hasn’t felt in, well, ages, but that Namjoon had supplanted well enough.

His thoughts are a messy tangle of knots. He knows he must be hungry and tired, but these two sensations have been spurned to the farthest corners of his reason. He wants to see the place first. Then, perhaps he’ll feel able to eat and sleep.

The taxi leaves him at the entrance of rue Saint Dominique, as Jungkook had requested in rusty English. He’s tired and his lower eyelids feel heavy, but they’ve been back on alert when he realised where the taxi had been driving him, up the entire length of the Champ de Mars.

All across the expanse of the majestic park, people are enjoying the glorious warmth of a late afternoon of early May: young people lying down on the grass, children playing and running with dogs. All unknowing creatures sheltered by the timeless and graceful Eiffel Tower at the far end of the park, its steel dress blinding anyone daring to only glance at her.

This is where the taxi leaves him, at her feet, almost as a funny way to ask for rightful passage. 

Jungkook stands dumbfounded at the mouth of the street, with the tower itself standing tall and strong right behind him. His eyes shift from the street name on the wall to the address on the notarial letter to the Eiffel Tower back to the street and the letter and again.

Even in death, his brother still surprises him. As if he needed more questions he feels he won’t come close to getting answers any time soon. 

But what surprises him more is the fact that it makes him scoff. One out-of-place snort. He'd rather it be a smile though. Let's say the twitch at the corner of his mouth is an awkward smile then; the beginning of a smile, a smile that can connect him to his brother somehow. 

It can't look half as strange as the situation he's in, all things considered. 

He’s on his way to meet his brother again in a sense, and any discovery, any surprise should be worth all the miles he’s just covered. 

His heartbeat picks up its pace as he starts walking down the street.

He has planned to call on the solicitor tomorrow, see if he can arrange a meeting, and have a few names of people who knew Junghyun, who may have worked with him and where. He wonders if they got the mail he sent just before taking off, proofread by Namjoon, announcing his arrival. One other thing he’s been rehashing on the plane, praying to the skies around that they speak English too (but not better than him thank you).

From the outset, Junghyun must have been quite successful to be able to afford a flat right here. No need to know Paris to understand that. The street is narrow, yet classy. Lively, yet tidy. Typically what one would imagine from distant glamorous pictures of Paris. So quaint it'd almost look fake.

Four-story stout stone buildings with stores on the ground floor line both sides of the street, interrupted every now and then by a restaurant or a café and their wooden tables set out in the improvised terraces over the pavement, which loud passers-by do not lose time claiming for an early drink. Sunlight gently pours down into this urban gully, its force lessened by the declining hour, but bright enough to enhance the off-white walls and make the slate rooftops gleam luxuriously. A teasing city even in the late hours of the day.

He wishes he had come to visit and appreciate the surroundings in happier circumstances. This is going to ruin his first experience of Paris, provided there will be more to come, which is not sure at all. He discards the thought the next instant, recalling that he’s usually not fond of sightseeing anyway.

Disseminated boulangeries flood the area with flavours of pastries and bread, customers coming in and out, hugging their baguettes close, caught up in the microcosmos of their own lives, oblivious of the extra-terrestrial feeling gripping this yet other Asian tourist that they must take him for. 

Pharmacies, convenience stores, newsagents, more stores. Jungkook keeps on walking, eyes on the number above the sturdy wooden doors, never suspecting that the street could be so long.

He nevertheless takes his time walking the whole length in a poor attempt at calming down his nerves while also trying to conjure up an uncertain mental representation of his brother investing such a location, which doesn’t help him find inner peace. The weather is pleasant, luminous while cool amid the shade inside this narrow street, yet beads of sweat are trickling down his neck underneath his clothes. He entertains the idea of taking off his jacket, which would inevitably display his tattoo sleeve, but who would mind it here? 

But habits die hard, even more so in shame.

At last, the density of shops decreases the further he strolls away from the Eiffel Tower and white-stoned walls of apartment buildings and hôtels particuliers absorb the space. Jungkook’s throat is closing up.

131, rue Saint Dominique.  

A massive door of two carved panels of golden wood welcomes him first. Jungkook looks up to the top of the building and counts three storeys, the second harbouring a decent-sized balcony made in the original stone of the building, adorned with a flowery cast-iron railing. Ivy leaves, flowers. Delicate. Rich. 

Jeon Junghyun had lived on that floor.

From the way the street had curved at some points, Jungkook reckons that the view from the balcony must look out onto the Eiffel Tower, though only by leaning over the railing or craning his neck a little perhaps. Still, very rich.

He shakes his head a little to gain focus again and takes a deep breath, mustering the last dregs of his energy to face what’s awaiting him behind that gate. 

He punches in the code given to him in the letter, and a vintage creaky buzz rings. Jungkook has to push the thick door with his entire body to make it move.

He steps inside a deep dark and cool hall, a large stone staircase on the right, slightly curling to the first floor and then surely continuing to the second floor and upwards. Jungkook can see the course it runs from the way the ceiling is sloping.

The floor is made of old black and white cement tiles, positioned in diamonds all over the surface. It’s so quaint and classic at the same time from his perspective that he can’t help but linger to observe the details. Once his eyes have acclimated to the shade, he notices a large bay window at the far end, opening up onto a garden. From where he stands, he can only notice the green of a tree and bushes hugging the sides of a terrace, surely a shared yard for all the inhabitants of the apartments. 

So far, the place is incredible. Incredibly beautiful and promising. Like a present opened without knowing it was one, which increases the late elation tenfold, and makes the nostalgia of the realisation instantaneous.

His heart clenches painfully. If only he had reached out to his brother earlier, he could have gotten to know him better and not rely on snippets of their time as teenagers. Jungkook would have loved to learn about what he likes about this place; if he had known who used to live here before him; whether he had felt safe within walls that have survived time and turmoil; whether having his own piece of nature had made him tremble with silent joy and deep fulfillment.

Too late.

He decides to have a proper look at the garden later. Now that he has the code, he can come back to it whenever he wants, after all. 

He slowly climbs the stairs and peers through the bay window on the first floor over the garden, attracted by the wisteria in bloom running along it. Stunned for the second time in five minutes, he pauses to admire a spectacular willow tree standing on its edge. The majority of its branches jut out on this side of the property, but some are clearly overreaching to the other side of the brick wall border. Its roots have spurted, lifted and broken some tiles of the terrace, baring themselves to the public eye without a care in the world

Good luck with monitoring Nature . The tree has other plans and one will have to kill it before it stops. 

Five minutes in, and Jungkook loves the place already. Do they really have to sell it? he wonders.

When he finally reaches the second floor where two tall wooden entrance doors are, he heads to the one on the left and retrieves the key that had been sent with the letter.

The door is not locked, just shut closed.

He turns the round knob carefully, pushes the door open and goes in. 

Someone is vacuuming the place. 

The first thought that comes to his cottony mind, already overwhelmed with the amount of unexpected things it has had to process, is that someone might have somehow gotten access to the empty apartment and made themselves comfortable. Some people aren’t afraid of anything.

A cold shiver runs down his spine and his heartbeat picks up its pace. He should call the police right now and have those squatters thrown out immediately.

Or he should first get a look and try to talk it out. He takes out his phone and opens it directly to Google translate.

He cautiously walks in, not taking the time to admire the surroundings this time, and follows the noise. Past the entrance hall, he enters what appears to be the living room, a vast white room opening onto the balcony he had seen from outside.

A woman is bent forward, vacuum running full blast next to her, while she’s scraping something on the carpet situated in front of the sofa.

"Hello?" He tentatively croaks in an odd Frenglish accent, his voice hoarse like gravel from hours spent without use. Floorboards also creak under Jungkook’s feet. He clears his throat and tries again, louder.

She turns around, jumps in fright at the sight of the intruder. She seizes the vacuum tube against her body as if to protect it—or to use as a weapon, Jungkook isn’t sure.

“ C’est pour quoi? Vous êtes entré comment? ”

Jungkook types a few sentences on his app and plays the vocal translation, loud enough to be heard over the ruckus.

“ Je suis John Junk Cook. Je suis le frère du propriétaire .”

“ Monsieur Park? J’suis pas au courant. Il sait que vous êtes là?"  Jungkook sees her jut her chin out at him in defiance after each sentence. To think that he had been scared of an intruder a minute ago, while she must be the one scared out of her wits. 

As she turns off the vacuum, he tries the translator again to ask her if she lives here: “ Vivez-vous ici ?”

“ Moi? ” She snorts and looks quickly around. “ Ah non, pas vraiment. J’aimerais bien, remarquez. Non, je viens juste faire le ménage. Mé-nage!” Jungkook can see she articulates at the end, as if speaking slowly would make it easier to understand. Seriously. She adds movement to her words by showing the tube of the vacuum and uses it as it's supposed to be used, over the carpet.

Jungkook doesn’t understand shit; worse, he feels dumb. He tries in English. “I’m Jeon Junghyun’s brother. I’m here to take care of his belongings. After his passing.” 

Jeon Junghyun. Only now does Jungkook realise he's uttered his name at last, for the first time in seven years. How is that possible? It shouldn't feel so foreign on his tongue, even in the middle of another language. God, it has been so difficult to say it until now. So liberating somehow too. 

Trust life to throw him more hurdles to clear, be it even words.

“Bon, faut pas rester là, Monsieur. Vous avez qu’à l’attendre dehors, d'accord? Dans le jardin. De- hors. Attendre. Jardin. Jar-din.” Jungkook can see she’s repeating words and pointing at the direction behind him.

Attendre, attendre . What the hell does that mean? Jardin. Jardin . Like, garden? Does she want him to go to the garden? What for?

Jesus, he’s too tired for this shit. From the little he’s gathered, she doesn’t live here, which has to be a relief. She’s just meant to clean the place, nothing else. Somehow, she or the company she works for haven’t been informed that the owner of this apartment has passed away and her contract hasn't been terminated yet. One more thing Jungkook has to take care of.

So, better let her finish what she is doing and come back later. He nods in feigned understanding, mouths an ‘okay’, bows and leaves. On cue, she bows her head in response, although her wide eyes show nothing but sheer bewilderment.

He walks out in the expectant silence, shattered once at the door by a shrill "et fermez bien la porte, hein? Faudrait pas que le chat sorte !"

Whatever.

To Build A Home -The Cinematic Orchestra, Patrick Watson *

Jungkook descends the stairs again, even more befuddled than he had been five minutes ago, and directly heads to the back garden. He's actually happy to have the opportunity to see it and unwind a little in what he already imagines as an intimate paradise island. 

Past the glass doors, it isn't as wide as it lets on. A more or less semi-circular courtyard, tiled up to the edge of a low border of red bricks, echoing the walls cradling the area like a precious cast of jewels. 

The cast itself might not be in its prime, what with broken tiles, short sedums and lithe finger grass invading the cracks, gaps of bricks missing on the wall, but the jewels inside are wonderful. 

A thick two-coloured ivy is running along the wall, mingling with the wisteria, thus intimating the idea of a romantic freedom of movement. Nature owns the place and nobody's trying to stop it. Even the rusty off-white small steel table and chair underneath look so pretty despite the worrying colours around the joints.

Jungkook's gaze effortlessly follows the staging to the next large bush of peonies, taking their time to blossom. Teasing white buds leave him expectant, leaving the audience breathless with anticipation; they can turn entirely white, white with a pastel pink heart, or pastel pink and yellow, double flowers or not, fragrant or not. You never know at first sight with white peonies, and Jungkook wishes they would give away their secrets before he has to leave.

Hostas. Queen of Midnight. Euphorbias. Hydrangeas. Old Roses. Pittosporums.

The narcissuses have long faded, but the lilac blue irises are stealing the show, vying for prominence in this floral fashion show. The garden's fashionistas. That had been what one of his landscape gardening teachers used to call them, referring to their elegant poise and ethereal petals, standing proud over their blanket of clover, daisies and violets, under the withdrawing sunrays.

Jungkook looks up to the sky to get an idea of how much sun this patch of Nature actually gets, crammed like this in the middle of the buildings. 

The highest rays apparently; the place must be getting the supreme spotlight at noon for a couple of hours. 

The master at work however, has to be the willow tree and its long and ethereal dark-green leaves. Not as tall as it had looked from the first floor, a young subject but meant to grow more and more. It's not reached its full maturity yet but it will inevitably outgrow man's arrogant yet futile attempt to restrain it in an enclosed space, throw shade over everything around, and probably put them to ruin. Its branches are already pushing against the wall, the higher ones dropping over the other side. The ones on his side drowsily sway at the slightest draft of air and Jungkook's sensorial memory can already conjure up the heavenly sound they must make in the stillness of a summer evening. It must be extraordinary out here.

A teasing and insolent tree, but sophisticatedly so. 

Fluttering in the light breeze, sparkling silver-green leaves as the branches playfully evade the sun rays. 

Unless the ivy chokes it beforehand. Several vines are wrapping themselves around its bark and climbing upwards, rising from the ground where it also creeps and progresses among the other plants. Part of the ivy's charm is its resilient and untameable nature — oftentimes to the detriment of the other plants. 

For the time being, the entire scene is amazing. Any other day and location, Jungkook would have lambasted the lazy ones who would rather funnel their efforts into the buildings and interior design and forsake the outside. Gardening is like the recessive gene of many architects.

But he's got to admit it, the noticeable-yet-monitored 'négligé' aspect of this secret garden blows him away. It could well be something staged for an Instagram post or a time capsule dating from a century or two ago.

It feels like catching up with the past, resuming an activity one was in the middle of before being interrupted. Jungkook could admire it all day, from all the angles and the seasons.

He steps back, flattening himself all the way against the door to take a wide angle picture.

"Beautiful," he says.

A gentle caress against his ankle brings him back to the present. A fluffy cat with long tri-coloured fur is looking up at him with squinting eyes and a soft purr. A characteristic patch of black fur covers the left side of its face, from the eye to the nose, contributing to its cute, though a tad mischievous, attitude.

"Hey, where you from?" The cat curls and curves around his legs even more, audibly purring and raucously meowing. He squats down to pet it, over the fur, round the collar and between the ears. "So, how should I talk to you? French? English? Korean?" No matter, since he's doing what the cat was precisely asking for judging by the way it arches its back, then lies down to show its white belly to rub. "Aren't you the real owner of this place…” He pauses, falling back into a forlorn solemnity. “We never had a pet at home. I remember I wished we had a dog."

The cat grabs his hand and wrist with its four paws and fangs in a flash, claws and teeth digging in just enough to make Jungkook wince and understand the threat.

"But cats are cool too."

A door slamming shut behind them startles them both, and the cat jolts up. Footsteps hurry on the stone stairs. Light pours in the dark hall as the front door opens. Craning his neck to peer inside, Jungkook has just enough time to glimpse the retreating figure of the cleaning lady before the door swings back into place heavily with a dull thump.

The coast is clear.

He climbs back up to the apartment in a hurry, two stairs at a time, without really knowing why, fearing someone or something might forestall him again, jinx the moment. 

The cat is faster than him and slithers inside as he opens the door and locks it again from the inside.

“Yah, yah, yah! What are you doing?” he whisper-shouts, still on alert for potential risks lurking round corners. He runs after her into what looks to be a storage room right next to the main entrance, and he sees the cat treating herself with some cat food ready on the floor.

“Wait. You live here?” 

He straightens up with a deep frown and looks around. A neat and tidy storage room, with food to survive an invasion, a rack full of wine bottles, a washing machine and drier piled up in a corner, a deep freezer. He steps out from a different opening into the kitchen. Both rooms together are larger than the room he used to have on campus.

A long plane of white granite running along an entire yellow wall adorned with contemporary art, whose movements he recognizes but cannot put a name to. Anthracite cupboards, black cooking range, smart appliances.

He turns around on his heels. The kitchen opens onto the main room by two wide passages, separated by a thick wall, on the visible side of which is a table counter and the other side…

A fireplace. A period fireplace, no less. Pink marble mantelpiece, adorned with a tall mirror in a gilded carved frame, bordered by two bone china vases. The reflection it sends back to him is distasteful though; the tired, underfed and pretty ghastly to be honest, features of a traveller who has never been so far away from home, and who couldn’t end up in a more foreign environment.

“The fuck is this?” Not the most eloquent, but hearing his voice out loud is the reassurance Jungkook needs to confirm his existence in these surroundings, that his senses and fatigue are not playing tricks on him, that his heart is still beating. 

He couldn’t say what stuns him the most if he tried.

It had escaped his notice when he had first stepped in earlier, but the encounter between period features and contemporary furniture is mindblowing. Lush off-white carpet placed in front of a double cognac-coloured leather sofa, curved glass coffee table and coordinated dinner table blend with the parquet in a herringbone pattern, mouldings on the white wall and ceiling (nothing fancy in the pattern but mouldings still) and wooden transom windows above the three bay windows. Three. Not one, nor two but three, all of them opening onto the balcony he had spotted from outside, large enough for a set of stylish outdoor seats, a coffee table and a few potted plants. Pink bay trees and sprouting agapanthuses.

Patches of colour highlight the ensemble inside. Pastels alternate with brighter shades in the cushions, the vases filled with flowers, one lacquered red chest of drawers opposite the windows and a couple of armchairs of finely sculpted wood, upholstered with modern fabric.

For a long minute, Jungkook believes this is the wrong place, that he’s in somebody else’s home and a shot of anxiety electrifies him. Then, he remembers the key. The key had been the right one

The cat pootles her way past him, licking her chops, jumps onto the sofa and purposefully settles onto one of the fluffiest cushions, the nearest to the window, as if it had been placed here for her to sprawl and for her long fur to fan around her shape.

Which it certainly had, there’s no other explanation.

Though the magnificence inside matches the one outside, Jungkook still cannot wrap his head around the idea that this is his brother’s personality on display. The scattered memories he had managed to recollect during the flight couldn’t have prepared him less for this, no matter how ambitious Junghyun might have been.

The level of estrangement is making Jungkook queasy. He wonders how many metaphorical feet deep he must have prematurely and unconsciously buried his brother, to recognise so little of him here.

Jungkook rubs his temples and takes a deep breath. Now he regrets not having taken some rest at the hotel and palliating his now-insistent jet lag. He’s been up for almost an entire day and his mind reels with such a truckload of information to process, taking care of the cat being the latest entry on the list, when the lock of the entrance door clicks open.

He jolts around in panic and sees a perfect stranger, definitely Asian, delicately placing his keys into a trinket bowl and his bag on the floor while taking off his shoes.

When he looks up, their eyes meet and he really sees him.

"Qui êtes-vous et qu'est-ce que vous faites chez moi ?" If he’s afraid, he doesn’t show it much beyond a clear tensing of the spine and the jaw. He doesn’t move but stays close to the door.

Black leather pants, matching with the lapels of a short tuxedo jacket and finger gloves, all black as well. As black as his hair and his eyes, enhanced by the impeccable smokey make-up. As impeccable as the way the long necklaces fall on his chest, right under an immaculate collar. Immaculate like his flawless porcelain skin and nude lipstick.

"Korean?" he tries, frowning.

Jungkook’s brain retrieves some motor skills, prompted by his mother tongue. He nods. " Oui . I mean, yes!"

"Who are you and how did you get in?"

"I can ask you the same questions. What are you doing here?"

"Excuse me? What do you mean, what am I doing here? This is my home!" 

His surprise equals his offence, whereas Jungkook’s survival instinct and genuine bewilderment at the situation finally kick in.

"Who are you?"

"I'm the one asking questions! Look, I don’t know why I bother, I'm calling the police!"

Police, a magic word of some sorts that spurs Jungkook into an inner panic. All he needs now is the police, right? 

He steps forward, hands up in front of him in a placating manner, startling the stranger who is already unlocking his phone  "No! Please don’t.” He closes his eyes and lets out a huge sigh. “I'm Jeon Jungkook and my hyung is… was Jeon Junghyun. I just arrived from Korea today to take care of my late brother's belongings. I was notified this was where he lived."

Phone in hand, the stranger is staring, dumbfounded, until his features visibly harden.

"If this is a joke, it's not funny."

"I haven't travelled half the globe for a joke," Jungkook quips, hands still raised. He’s literally sick and tired of being tossed around like a piece of junk.

"Your ID, send it sliding along the floor."

“Fan of crime dramas, I see?”

“For so many to show the same kind of scenes, there has to be some truth in them, doesn’t there?

Jungkook fumbles for his passport in his chest pocket and, while doing his best to keep his nerves in check, pushes for a more decent exchange. "All I’m asking is for you not to call the police. I'm not here to cause any trouble. I just….. Look, I don't understand where the mistake is, but there has to be one! I have a key and the code downstairs! Did you know my brother? I don't even know where his body lies. It’s hard enough as it is!" He couldn’t stop rambling if he wanted, as he always does when he gets worked up. He crouches to throw it as requested and breathes deeply in and out to calm down

"Hard enough, right?" The stranger snorts, also crouching to snatch up the small book. "The fucking nerve." He stands up again, opens it and quickly scans the information on it while lifting his phone to his ear. "You're not getting a single spoon outta here. Fair warning." His tone could cut glass, his eyes shredding Jungkook to pieces. 

Jungkook hears two rings before someone answers.

"Hey, baby. I’m home and I've got a situation here. Mind coming asap? Like, right now… Kinda, yeah. Like, your baby brother breaking into our home? How does that sound?"

Jungkook's riveted to the floorboards, stunned into silence again, incapable of comprehending what’s unfolding before his eyes. 

The luxurious surroundings, the manicured and polished but not any less hostile person standing defiantly in front of him, the phone call. 

From the start, nothing has added up to what he had expected.

"Yeah. It says, Jeon Jungkook, born in Busan on September 1st, 1997… Sure but… I doubt it…" He pauses again to consider Jungkook's face for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching hesitantly. "Honestly honey, I think I can recognise this sharp jaw and precious mouth among a thousand others." 

The call ends in the next instant. The stranger snaps his phone shut with a smug click of his leather-clad fingers, his eyes never leaving Jungkook.

"He's on his way."

"Who is?"

"Your ghost of Christmas past."

Chapter Text

A full minute of silence passes before Jungkook realises that neither of them has moved an inch: Jungkook’s still standing stock-still in the living-room, while the stranger is waiting by the entrance door, eyeing him with a relatable mixture of defiance and anxiety.

A stranger who might not be rightfully one given the context. Jungkook must look as much of a stranger.

A million thoughts fly away and ricochet off the walls of his mind like crazy tennis balls, bouncing to and fro, dodging his frantic grasping.

Ironically, the one thing he’s sure of is that he’s neither welcome, nor expected. And that the man is blocking the way out.

“I don’t understand,” Jungkook finally says, voice hoarse and quivering from the tension. “Where am I?”

“Oh no, you don’t! You don’t get to play that trick on me! You perfectly know where you are! You told me you have our key! And you haven’t told me how the hell you got hold of it!”

“Our key? Who lives here?” His voice rises out of his control, unheeding the man backing down further against the door. The confusion is getting overwhelming and pushing both their rationality to breaking point.

“Look, you’re in my home and I don’t know you. In the best case, that’s called trespassing. Worst case scenario, I'll call the police and sue you for breaking in. So, don’t you dare threaten me.”

“I’m the one threatening you?” Jungkook shouts; his eyebrows would fly off the roof if they could. This is insane.

The man startles at Jungkook’s outburst, eyes and mouth wide open in a voiceless scream. 

But he didn’t scream. He could have screamed. Jungkook would have gotten in serious trouble if he did. But he didn’t. Why he didn’t is the pointless question that assails him right now, quite an inopportune moment.

They stare at one another for a full minute, while Jungkook is regretting a couple of his life choices, namely the ones taken in the past forty-eight hours. The last thing he needs is to make this man his enemy.

And while he's busy chastising himself instead of looking for a way to solve what can be solved, the man holds out a soothing hand and conjures up what should be a soothing tone. It clearly lacks conviction and seriousness; the hand trembles and the voice cracks with sheer fear. But it's still so much better than what Jungkook can do anyway.

“Could you just… calm down and wait with me? He shouldn’t be long. I need answers as much as you do, believe me.”

Jungkook audibly sighs and gulps, supposedly to relieve his own agitation, though it unsurprisingly fails. Given the kafkian situation he’s in, asking him to calm down sounds like asking to memorise ten digits after pi. Still, Jungkook’s survival instinct must know what it needs as his demeanour shifts to, hopefully, match the man’s effort, though it stretches his meagre energy thin. “Who shouldn’t be long?”

“My husband. Jeon Junghyun. Your brother.”

Jungkook doesn’t know whether it is the order the words have been uttered in or the simple fact that his brother’s name has at last been said out loud that makes his mind eventually implode. The past two days had all been about Jeon Junghyun and yet nobody around him had ever wanted to pronounce his name entirely. 

All of them walking on eggshells, scared to wake up a resentful spirit. 

“Jeon Junghyun is my older brother….”

“I figured…”

“And he’s dead.”

“Who told you that?”

“We received a letter.”

“Who sent it?”

“I don’t know… A notarial office of sorts…” he frowns, irritation surging again at his own cluelessness.

“Can I see it?” He takes a few cautious steps towards Jungkook, hand still open in front of him as if offering a truce.

Jungkook considers the open palm advancing and wonders if he can actually move again, which inevitably makes the man stop in his tracks. When he looks up and meets his gaze again, something passes that wasn’t there before, a common loss for words and actions, a chance encounter in an imaginary no man’s land where unanswered questions lie inert. They seem to connect in this surreal state of bewilderment and a spring finally snaps.

Jungkook reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, extracts the rumpled letter he has read over and over again on the plane and hands it over, leaning forward for the man to take it rather than actually moving his feet to meet him.

He expects him to step back to where he used to be, by the front door, but he doesn’t. He stays there, past the threshold of the living-room, darting fleeting glances to Jungkook while trying to decipher what’s written among the creases of the paper. 

The moment might be as good as any to notice that the man is beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful. Though he may have other reasons not to be able to breathe properly, the near presence of the man is not helping. He’s still on his guard and for the first time since they met, Jungkook feels for him. He truly cannot blame him for what’s happening.

“Can I have my passport back?” he tries, exhaustion chasing all forms of struggle from his body.

The man hands it back to him without a fight either, his attention now fully on the text he’s reading.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Well, I—”

“I don’t know this… office? It’s certainly not ours, not the one we usually deal with. Where even is that address?” Delicate dark brows drawn tight, forehead furiously furrowed, he flips the letter to see if its blank back could provide any further information, but it only increases his agitation. “I don’t understand...”

“That makes two o—”

Running footsteps clacking on the stone stairs outside startle them both. They turn to the entrance door right when it bursts open.

“Oh my god.” Wide eyes, slackened jaw, breath caught in his throat — a maelstrom of disbelief invading these features, as if Jungkook was seeing himself in a mirror. Minus the enthusiasm… “Oh my god, Jimin! It’s him! He… He came! My dongsaeng! Jimin, my dongsaeng came to me!”

By the end of his sentence, the newcomer is out of breath, eyes blinking fast, bending over to recover when an irrepressible surge of strangled joy makes him cough and gasp.

Jungkook watches, dumbfounded and mind blank, unable to comprehend what’s unravelling in front of him: the cat scurries by his ankles, with a series of loud mews, equally curious and excited about the situation while Jimin darts to that man’s aid, helping him crouch and get his breath back. But he has other ideas.

"Yaong, look who's here!" He grabs the cat by its front legs, making it scream, but that doesn't seem to deter him. He lifts it up against him, grabs it by the body and throws it in the air with glee. "Jungkook is here! He's here to see me!" He catches the cat and is about to throw it again when he bends his knees, apparently for more leverage. Jimin tries to step in the middle and grab the cat, but his voice is lost amidst the cat's screams and Jeon Junghyun's laughter.

Jeon Junghyun. 

Jungkook’s inner chaos suddenly owns its name. It permeates his extrareality.

“Stop!” 

Jungkook’s voice had oddly resonated and it takes him some time to regain some focus to understand that Jimin and he had shouted at the same time. 

The cat drops on the floor, safe and solid on her legs and, though he doesn’t avert his eyes from his brother, Jungkook notices Jimin going after her as she bolts to the dark confines of the storage room.

Junghyun’s elated expression slips at once, only his wild eyes remain, transfixed on Jungkook and Jungkook only. 

Crazy, bloodshot eyes of someone who looks so exhausted that the reasons must go beyond a simple lack of sleep. They look unnatural on that ash-grey face, the cheeks sunken to the bone, the hair wiry and thinning across his still flawless and open forehead and behind his ears, making them stand out and breaking the memory of balanced and handsome features.

His large body also shows a lack of strength and balance as he struggles to stand still. His chest heaving makes him sway slightly, as if his feet could not find a firm footing on the perfectly level ground. He hasn't lost his stature, though, and still holds himself with dignity and elegance, enhanced by the fine suit he's wearing, made of rich linen and perfectly tailored to his figure. He oozes money, like everything around him. It still can't hide how skinny he is, bony, blue-stained and deformed hands sticking out of his sleeves like oddities, but at least it helps him carry himself and feel whole. Proud.

There’s pride glinting in those orbs. A contrasting level of pride and relish, holding a meaning and purpose that Jungkook doesn’t comprehend either. 

His heaving has finally been reduced to a manageable level and the way he runs a hand through his dark hair feels like the two moments had to be synchronised for the next to happen. In the same way, he slowly puts both hands into his pants pockets and looks directly at Jungkook. "Jungkook-ie. Welcome to Paris. There are things we must discuss.”

Out of the blue, Jungkook’s hit with a piercing stab of anger in his chest when hearing his name. He can’t believe he’s here either, as a matter of fact. He can’t believe what he sees, who he sees, this person he thought he’d never see again.

All the questions from earlier dissolve like in an acid tank. His anger flares up as his brother’s composure calms down. His fists ache as they close up tight, his nails digging into his flesh deep enough to leave marks. His jaw hurts under the pressure of his grinding teeth.

From the corner of his eyes, Jimin has reappeared, approaching slowly. Now Junghyun is the one blocking the way.

The second hit comes, brutal and unforgiving. This is Jeon Junghyun. The one and only, in the flesh. Scrawny and sickly, but his charisma intact.

How…

“Jungkook-ie…” 

The tone might suddenly be more cautious, but it’s not enough. Too many ' hows' are jamming Jungkook’s psyche.

In a few long strides, Jungkook heads for the door, startling Junghyun when he bumps into his shoulder, hard enough to make him lose his already fragile composure and let him pass. He doesn't look back and doesn't stop when he hears his name behind him as he opens the door and runs to the stairs.

"Jeon Jungkook!"

A scream is usually enough to prove that you're breathing. And alive.

Then let them cry. Let them cry their heart out until it breaks, for all that Jungkook really cares about. He's been deceived in the sickest way possible, losing his appetite to guilt and remorse, hurting his spleen to illegitimate nostalgia, squeezing his heart to a sickening end. For what?

To serve as a foil to someone's wild sense of drama, deceitful and insensitive? To a larger-than-life Jack in the Box erupting with his wicked smile plastered over his overgrown and ridiculous head, taunting his shocked face and trembling frame with the recorded laughter rising from the bottom of the box.

Jungkook doesn't care that the sunlight is fading as the sun sets behind the buildings. He walks back the way he came, long strides following one another in a steady rhythm to help him keep his own balance and not give in to the raging tremors that shake his entire body.

If he stops, he'll collapse.

"Jungkook!"

He's flown halfway around the world, worry and grief piercing his heart in many places, blood pouring through the holes and drowning all hypotheses of what could have happened to his older brother all these years. What could have happened to make him so estranged that his name was never spoken.

He had been alive, living the lush life in Paris, and he had never tried to reach him.

No address, no phone number, nothing.

Bile rises in his throat, but he stops himself from vomiting on time. The streets of this strange city might deserve him spewing his pain upon them, lest his rage go down the drain with the gross lumps of betrayal that float with it.

If only it could guarantee him the sleep of the dead during the fourteen-hour flight back home. Returning to South Korea somehow cleansed would be some consolation… 

“Jungkook, wait! I… I can explain!”

How original…

Junghyun's voice sounds closer than reasonable, considering the state of his health Jungkook has seen. He cannot help but look over his shoulder. His pace slows when he sees his brother running in a rather confused manner, his footing all wrong and his face red with exhaustion. They have barely covered a hundred metres or so.

A taxi drives by with a green light on its roof, and Jungkook greets it, standing on his toes in an ultimate effort to be heard, seen, saved.

If he had wanted to escape his brother's pointless pleas, this might not have been the wisest move, as it helps Junghyun cover the remaining distance and get into the taxi from the opposite door.

The car is ready to drive off once Jungkook hands him the card of his hotel with the address written upon it and buckles his seat belt, but a warning is still ringing inside the confined space. 

The driver says something in French to Junghyun, visibly reminding him to fasten his own belt too, as far as Jungkook can make out from the corner of his eye, which he complies with, all flustered and wide-eyed.

He then resolutely turns his head towards the line of buildings outside, determined to turn the thick stones to ashes with his gaze only. 

The ashes of his disappointment, of his grief, of his hopes. He had hoped of course. For some connection back, some traces of his brother remembering him.

A harsh honk behind him jolts him out of his hot pit of molten rage. He turns to look in the rear windshield and sees a line of cars standing by.

The taxi hasn't moved an inch. The alarm is still beeping on the driver's headset and he even turns around to talk to Junghyun, helping him with the seatbelt, not without difficulty as he is hindered by his own seat and the centre console.

Whether out of sheer reflex or because he has reached another level of annoyance, Jungkook jumps in and pushes all the hands away brusquely to get the damn anchor into the damn buckle, for God's sake.

He straightens up in his seat and crosses his arms against his chest, looking away.

“Thank you. These hands…. They’re useless today.”

The buildings finally pass, slowly at first, just long enough to get out of this narrow street. Then a wider avenue opens up in front of them, and the engine revs gently and accelerates.

"But it's not always like that....I mean...it's often like that.... But not as much as you'd think. Just .... Sometimes... But always annoying," he laughs. There's nothing funny about it, but Junghyun's laughter seems genuine, even if erratic. The sharp glint at the edges of the sound gets on Jungkook's nerves and makes him bristle at the inadmissible thought that he doesn't want to sit next to this person.

Repeating to himself that this person must be his long-lost older brother does not ease his discomfort. The determination to get out of the car cannot last long as it is already moving, replaced by the previous stubbornness to stare out and avoid his gaze until they reach his hotel to get his stuff back and fly out first thing.

“I’m… happy you came. That… This means so much… I didn’t… I mean, no. I was sure… you would… Jimin wasn’t, obviously. We mustn’t blame him. He doesn’t know you. I do…. I knew.  I knew I could… you know… count on you.”

Jungkook keeps on looking outside without seeing anything, his mind too occupied by the scattered, breathless speech coming from his left. The city buildings and gardens pass by in a blur, while his mind is still full of the man he just met trying to attract his attention. 

Junghyun is nothing like he used to be. Though the tone of his voice is unchanged, its power is nowhere near what Jungkook remembers. Even now, compared to the few words he uttered back in the apartment, high-pitched with a twisted sense of excitement, its power is fading, its clarity blurring. Even its volume is decreasing to a light mumbled murmur.

“I… have… so much to tell you. I…. We… We’ll talk… Later. And…”

And then only the staccato of the wheels over the cobbled streets fills their common space. Jungkook assumes that his brother has finally understood that making conversation won't make him yield. 

He had known his brother to be much more determined than that. Jungkook starts pondering the time Junghyun has tried to hold him back, and without looking at his watch lest the movement spark him off again, he figures that it cannot have exceeded ten minutes.

Somehow, the rhythmic lull and the setting sunlight darkening the stout facades of the city start unwinding a couple of knots that have been keeping his body so painfully tense, making his deep fatigue surge back. His head feels heavy, his shoulders ache after remaining so contracted, even his jaw cracks when a yawn becomes too strong to keep in.

Likewise, the need to shift his sitting position a little has become irrepressible. He remembers that the journey to his hotel is not as short as he had thought; time passes by faster when you’re alert. He tries to slightly lift his bottom up and sit weighing more on his thighs than on his sacrum. If he was sure it wouldn’t prompt a reaction from his brother, he’d gladly twist the bottom of his spine too and perhaps make it crack.

So many precautions ruined by the startling ringing tone of a phone, prompting him to turn to his brother, before he can check himself. The other truth is that he’s been curious to chance another glance at him. 

Junghyun is sleeping, eyes opening every now and then to the shrilling rings, but it seems to cost his body such an effort that his mind quickly relents. His head is hanging in front of him, lolling back and forth, both palms turned upwards on his lap.

Jungkook's body no longer hums with adrenaline, but rather trembles from the lack of it, as if he has spent all of his energy and is fumbling for more in the dark. The sight of Junghyun's limp body beside him doesn't help him feel better either. It fills the empty spaces with a strange mixture of suspicion, concern and something else he can’t quite place.

In the safety of his brother's unconsciousness, Jungkook lets his gaze linger. From the bony knees protruding from under the fabric of his pants, to the way his right little finger bends in pain, to the translucent skin of his neck, the hearing prosthesis, and the prematurely thinning hair on his neck. Seeing him earlier had been a shock, not only because he was supposed to be dead, but because he looked as if he had literally come back from the dead.

Watching his brother now, unguarded and unwell, stirs something deep within Jungkook. A slow, rampant feeling that twists around his ribs like a vine, locking his throat in a chokehold, speeding his heartbeat to a feverish pace. Pity. He never thought he would feel pity for his older brother.

His once radiant, capable brother has shrunk to a walking shell. The elegant suit that could have fooled him the first time no longer hides it.

What happened? He's dying to ask though unsure he can handle the answer. It’s too much for one day. He is supposed to be in the first or second stage of grief right now. After denial comes anger, right? Seems like everything is going as planned actually: he is angry alright — with his brother, with this whole situation.

Junghyun’s phone rings again, and again, refusing to be ignored. Angry vibrations echoing in the quiet cab from a pocket inside Junghyun’s suit. Jungkook’s thoughts drift to the man in the apartment, his brother’s husband apparently

Another revelation though it didn’t hit him in the face first, until now. Did his family cut ties with Junghyun because of this? Did they find out? Damn. It sounds so likely and chilling. Acknowledging such high probabilities hits home like a bucket of ice.

Shit. One revelation after another, punching him in the stomach until he can no longer keep standing. That must be what it feels like, to be knocked out.

Before he can process his thoughts, the taxi pulls over and the driver says something that Jungkook can only guess at. One look outside and he faintly recognises his hotel, not that he paid much attention when he arrived earlier.

Some quick thinking makes him ponder how to proceed. In other circumstances, he’d ask the taxi to wait and then drive him to the airport, but Junghyun’s jerking silhouette and waking groans spur him into action. He swipes his card to pay and scrambles out of the car, before Junghyun notices. 

He crosses the distance to the lobby of his nondescript hotel, mind blank but set on one idea only: leave. He goes for the stairs directly, focusing on the physical effort, hopefully pumping some energy back into himself, like a dynamo that’d help keep him going and ignore his grumbling stomach. His body is thrumming with something indescribable, an unpleasant undercurrent pulling him instead of pushing.

He hasn’t eaten or drunk anything for hours. A glass of water or two in his room might help tide him over until he reaches the airport. 

It takes him a few minutes to pack everything in his suitcase, squeeze it in, close it, and roll it out of the room. It doesn't take any longer to check out, under the receptionist’s bewildered eyes. Jungkook's mind is set on one of these weird zones where the existence and lack of rationality, which he is well accustomed to, drives him to a formidable level of avoidance.

It's one of those states where he becomes blind, deaf, indifferent, even immune to any source of input from the surrounding world. Sometimes a handicap, sometimes an opportunity. That's for him to decide.

Still, he's not as close to being in control as he thinks.

If he did control this, the taxi wouldn’t still be there outside.

With the door on his side still open.

With his brother still inside, peering at him with a tight-lipped smile.

“I assume you need a ride to the airport? Let me come with you. Please, Jungkook-ie. Grant me that.” 

Jungkook’s resolve falters. The fact that he’s physically a shadow of who he once was cannot have happened without bearing some consequences on his personality. The tired eyes, the ash-grey complexion have more stories to tell than meets the eye. Jungkook’s mind is not mushy to the point of ignorance. His heart twists painfully. The stone still painfully lodged inside his throat hasn’t moved an inch.

Nothing feels stranger than the sick appearance of familiarity, twisted and torn at the edges, dotted with yellowed and scarred dots everywhere. No foundation in the world, no matter how expensive and scientifically advanced it claims to be, could possibly conceal that. At best, it might fade them. A palimpsest of past experiences erased under another reality, in another time zone, on the other side of the world. 

But those few words do sound like his brother's, the way he would burrow through Jungkook's quiet emotions, gently cradle them and bring them from the dark depths of the unspoken to the light of their legitimate existence. He has the right to feel pity. Pity is not bad. It is a legitimate feeling and his brother is not only accepting it, he’s claiming it, shamelessly.

Besides, he does need a taxi.

He keeps up the act of the offended brother as he takes long strides towards the back of the car, mindlessly slamming his case inside the trunk. He sure hopes the heavy sigh of frustration hides the gravity-laden slump of his shoulders when he drops back onto the still-warm seat he had left barely ten minutes ago well. 

“ Aéroport Charles de Gaulle, s’il vous plaît ,” Junghyun says.

If the cold-shoulder had bored Junghyun into slumber on the way to the hotel, the ride to the airport is a whole other story, filled with chatter, a barrage of words that Jungkook struggles to tune out.

“... Great location you picked for your hotel. Easy access. Bypass just round the corner. Was it your idea? I wonder. Though not on the right side of the river for me, but…. Shame you won’t get to see the forest. It’s nice. Especially now. It’s not just Seoul that has a forest. Did you get to see it? In Seoul? Oh, that’s one tourist place, la Villette . Noisy kids all around. Exhausting….”

Jungkook exhales through his mouth hoping to calm his jackhammering heart, striving to zone out the voice that mercilessly sirens its way through his brain.

His anger simmers again, too fresh, too hot, mingling with a jumble of emotions. This is not how it should have happened.

“Oh, I remember that place! See on your side? Where we first settled. Couldn’t afford better. And we thought we’d made it, right? How did you find the flat by the way? Further north there’s that canal that sounded nice. Never went there though... Always working, Busy PJi. The energy it takes me to make him pause you wouldn’t believe.”

Jungkook exhales lengthily. His jaw clenches tauter. He shuts his eyes, still trying to block the flow bombarding his ears relentlessly.

“Not what I fancied showing you on your first visit but—”

"Stop it!" he yells, causing the driver to jump. He turns toward his brother, whose eyes widen before returning to their permanently half-closed exhaustion.

Both brothers stare at each other for long seconds, rhythmed by Jungkook's irritated breathing.

“You’re aware this is the one and only word you’ve said to me so far. Twice. Not that I don’t understand your anger. And I’m not gonna pretend I can salvage anything, nor even try catching up on lost time. But at least, I’m trying to make conversation here.”

That's exactly the point: talking to Jeon Junghyun, who was declared dead and buried a few days ago, still sounds so crazy that Jungkook can barely utter a word. 

Jungkook's mind spins as he faces the impossible truth before him at last. Just as he was feeling bad for struggling to mourn the loss of his elder brother, here he is now, confronted by the living embodiment of what has to be a ghost, a scenario so utterly beyond comprehension, that Jungkook doesn’t trust himself with words. It looks as if reality itself has shattered, leaving Jungkook grappling with the unsettling notion that perhaps his eyes are deceiving him, or worse yet, that his brother has orchestrated some twisted scheme to draw him back into his life.

This is wrong on so many levels he’s burning.

Better burning than listening to whatever his brother has to say.

Nothing, absolutely nothing can justify such a hideous trick. 

Faking one’s own death. 

Who in their right mind does that?

“I don’t want to talk,” is all he can blurt out. He turns back to stare out of the window.

“I figured,” Junghyun softly replies. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. The thing is, I can’t talk for too long. It exhausts me. But I’m happy sitting by your side, even if it is to drive you back to the airport after barely an hour. I’m too happy to see you.”

The day turns on itself, skewed, stretched, shaking in its outline. Although the rest of the ride is finally quiet and peaceful, the series of shocks take their toll. The silence only enhances the storm brewing inside him and spurs tears that have finally decided to show up. He gathers every ounce of energy he can find in every nook and cranny of his body to keep them from rising too high. His mouth trembles, so he closes it tightly.

For a few more miles. The airport is in sight. Just a few more miles.

When the taxi finally pulls up to the drop-off area of Charles de Gaulle airport, Jungkook barely waits for it to stop and opens the door to get out, as if another minute in this confined space would irreparably break him. Maybe it already has, but that is something he has twelve hours of flight time to examine. For now, he just wants to get out of here and regain the security of knowing that he's in complete control of what happens to him. He needs to find a plane back.

Passing through the sliding doors of the departure terminal feels like magic. Relief suddenly floods his veins, the liberating anticipation of finally returning home.

Karma has other plans, however, and his hopes are quickly dashed: no flights to Seoul scheduled for the coming hours.

He hurriedly navigates the bustling terminal, suitcase in tow, scanning the departure boards and company counters, seeking answers from airline representatives, only to be met with grim news of a ground crew strike. Now that they mention it, he notices the red banners plastered across several walls in the terminal, splashed with slogans in bold letters and signs he doesn't understand, but that look aggressive and vindictive enough to tell him something's up.

His frustration swells again as he grapples with the unsettling realisation that his plan has been abruptly shattered, that he is not only trapped in the frenetic chaos of the airport terminal, but also in a state of limbo, in a foreign country, for an uncertain duration, and with his only legitimate contact someone he doesn't know he can trust.

But Jungkook’s obstinate, that’s no news. So he wanders restlessly around the terminal, looking up at the boards in the futile hope that the situation cannot be that shitty and desperate, that a god-send fluke will solve it, that suddenly a direct flight for Seoul will pop up and the strike will end, because the demands will be met without negotiations needed. And all it will take is for Jungkook to sit at a café, order something to eat and drink at last, read through a few emails, all a set up to lure his brain.

Half an hour passes by with him doing nothing actually fruitful nor soothing, and unsurprisingly nothing has changed its course for him, not even the sun that is setting through the large glass walls of the airport.

When he steps outside, the evening air is still warm, carrying the remnants of the bright daylight and the promise of more for the next day. It would be pleasant if Jungkook wasn't so exhausted and depressed. Even putting one foot in front of the other is difficult. He stands in front of the sliding doors of the terminal and watches as the sky’s shades of Indian gold paint everything in broad strokes, strange faces coming and going, stranger still as they look at him standing in the middle of the way, making the doors open and close pointlessly behind him. Occasionally a gust of air catches in his jacket and hair and blows them away from him.

His hand gets clammy after holding his suitcase for so long. He rubs it dry against his jeans and wets his dried-up lips. That’s about all the actions he feels able to do for the moment, patiently waiting for his body to reboot and help him move.

As he scans the area forlornly, filled with stranded travellers like him, a now familiar silhouette catches his attention. 

Half sitting, half leaning over a low railing that separates the pedestrian zone from the taxi lanes, Junghyun is mindlessly scrolling through his phone.

Somehow feeling his younger brother's gaze on him, he turns around and smiles. Always the same tight-lipped smile he can't seem to shake, or maybe it's the only one he can give Jungkook under the circumstances. When they were younger, Junghyun used to smile a lot. Especially at Jungkook, even when he meant to berate him for lurking around his bedroom and stuff, or for wanting to tag along with Namjoon and him.

His heartstrings reverberate again, but he maintains his scowl as he slowly walks toward him.

“Ah, strikes. I wish you didn’t have to go through that. But that’s France for you…” Junghyun says with a shrug.

“How are you still here?” Jungkook flatly says.

Junghyun's smile pinches even more, as if mulling over the question. "That's the question, right?" He pauses again, looking up and down at his brother as if considering his next words and move. "You're tired, but all the hotels around here are either ridiculously expensive or ridiculously lousy. Or both.”

Junghyun raises an eyebrow as if expecting Jungkook to speak again, but Jungkook remains silent. 

“Wanna come along?" Junghyun asks, nodding in an undefined direction.

Jungkook’s grip on his suitcase tightens, the weight of the day pressing down on him. He knows he can't stay in the terminal forever, but the thought of relying on Junghyun still grates on his nerves. As much as he hates to admit it, the newfound spring in his brother’s voice and the sparkle in his eyes have already won over Jungkook's ruined resolve.

“I don’t have any other options, do I?”

Having shown an opening in his agreement to follow his brother, Jungkook had expected to be flooded with another endless monologue. His eyes feel like two lead weights, dragging his lids down. All he wants is to fall asleep to the regular purring of the car. Which may have happened, he realises, as a gentle hand shakes him awake

“We’re here,” Junghyun says. 

Here is where his own taxi had left him the first time, at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. Back to square one. Great.

He vaguely recognises the surroundings as he gets out of the car, although he can’t pinpoint the street to the apartment. Everything feels so foreign, apart from the towering monument, seemingly swaying and catching fire in the orange hues of the setting sun, welcoming him back with blinding darts of light depending on the angle he looks up at it. So he avoids it.

He tries to get his bearings, blinking the sleep away but failing. He’s far beyond tired by now.

His brother seems to have other plans. He leads him across the street to one of the numerous benches lining the gravel path running along the wide park stretching under the Eiffel Tower. He realises patience is not innate; it builds over time, requiring energy that he no longer has. This time, instead of losing it again, he sighs and follows like an articulated dummy. A dummy with a suitcase. 

He lets it roll without a care, bumping against the curb and the short flight of stairs up to the park level, lifting dust around its wheels on the path.

When he arrives, Junghyun is already seated right where the sunrays leisurely fall on the bench, eyes closed. The declining warmth paints his weak frame in gold, enhancing his frailty, shining over every imperfection and scar. He’s gathered that Junghyun wants to have that talk he’s been dying to have and has decided that the time is now, before Jungkook flies off.

Because this is what’s going to happen, regardless. First thing tomorrow, Jungkook will get in touch with an airline company to get the first flight back.

“Won’t you sit down?” he’s asked, still frozen on the spot, while Junghyun keeps his eyes closed. “I’m not going to bite you, or contaminate you if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Jungkook hesitates, huffing and looking around without a purpose. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he grumbles as he finally sits down.

“Why? I think it’s a fair thought. At one point, I wouldn’t have allowed you near me. Nor anyone.”

Junghyun is clearly fishing for his curiosity, throwing clues out for Jungkook to seize them on the fly. Question he’s dying to ask indeed, but holds back, unsure about where to start. 

So he stares ahead at the expanse of grass in front of him, slowly clearing out of people who had come to relax, families packing up varied items and toys, clusters of laughing friends who may have decided to continue their gathering elsewhere. They’re just fleeting figures to Jungkook, no more substantial than the one sitting next to him. 

At least, he’s not feeling their curious gaze drilling into the side of his face, unlike Junghyun’s penetrating gaze.

“You’ve grown up so well. Look at you. Working out, huh? You have to be working out. Started in the military, I bet. Of course, you did. That’s what they want: recruits pushing their limits. Bet you fit right in. When did I last see you? You were, what, twenty or something?”

“I was eighteen and you had left to tour the world,” Jungkook says, rubbing his hands together.

He’s still not looking at Junghyun but he can feel the smile in the reply that comes after a pause. “That’s right. You were eighteen. And for some incomprehensible reason, you were away when I got back.”

“Bold of you to assume I couldn’t travel on my own. Got an internship in the US over the summer break.”

Junghyun’s smile looks carved into stone. “Of course Father would do that for you. A great opportunity. Little did we know then that we wouldn’t meet for the next seven years.”

“And whose fault is that, I wonder...” It is odd, the satisfaction one can get from letting your resentment out. Short, petty phrases. No need for outbursts. It’s like adding oil to fire, creating flames that are strangely pleasant to watch.

“I know. My health has been such a burden for our family. No wonder Father and Mother burned the bridge. I didn't expect you would though.”

Obviously there's more than one issue hiding in here and Jungkook’s anger flares again at the next implication.

Junghyun’s set everything up: the news of his death, the legal letter, the probability that his parents wouldn’t come but he would, his shock, his anger, his dramatic reaction, why not the strikes at the airport, for fuck’s sake!

“I don’t even know where to begin,” Junghyun resumes, articulating slowly and intently. “Not that there is a long list of grievances. Nothing I can solve, I’m afraid. So here we are.”

Jungkook finally turns to him. “Dad can’t have given up on you because of sickness.” Whatever the sickness is, he wants to add. Besides, he can’t bury the empathy of being rejected for being gay.

“Look how Mother just disappeared from the subject. Funny.” He chuckles, but it falls short and bitter to Jungkook’s ears. “The hours I spent on the phone with her though! I tried, Jungkook-ah. Believe me, I tried. Gave guarantees that I could still be trusted. Namjoon did too.”

“Namjoon-hyung? He was there?”

“I’d be long dead, if not for Joonie. I mean for real, this time,” he chuckles again, but Jungkook’s still not laughing. “Meningitis. Pretty nasty. And super contagious. Namjoon found me. Or so I was told. I can’t remember anyway.”

“What do you mean he found you? Where?”

“Lying on the tiles in my spit and sweat. Thank God there were no cameras!”

“Like…. a seizure?” He has no idea what meningitis entails, but if what his brother has become is any evidence of the damage it can cause, it is pretty fucked up indeed.

“Everybody had left. It was just a few guys and me…. Nice guys…. That’s what pisses me off the most you know. I can’t remember his name, nor his face. That’s my nightmare… not remembering. Worse than… the coordination, the look, the… yeah, the rest.”

“Whose face? Namjoon-hyung’s? Where did it happen?”

“It was fine at first. Not the quarantine. That was hell. The isolation…. The treatment was okay. And I was determined. Father trusted me. He…. Such a fucking waste, Kook-ah. You look good… Better than I could ever hope… in my condition. He picked you then, right?”

The confusion thickens and a headache is slowly swelling inside Jungkook’s forehead. His already thin patience is declining as fast as the daylight, casting more shade over their attempt at meeting again. “You’re not telling me anything about what exactly happened! It’s so annoying!” By now he’s not angry so much as dismissive, and even that is not entirely intentional, just a testament to his exhaustion.

It’s Junghyun’s turn to look away in silence, away from his younger brother’s bloodshot eyes and questions. Now that Junghyun succeeded in breaking his last resistance and getting his attention, Jungkook wants his answers.

“Hyung, why am I here anyway? What do you want from me?”

“I’m tired, Jimin….” is the only cryptic answer he gets at first, as Junghyun leans forward, props both his elbows on his knees to cradle his face inside the palm of his hands, shutting his surroundings out.

“Ji…? Hyung, it’s me! Why did you make me come? Are you alright? Hyung! Jimin’s your hu… your husband, right? The one I met? Shall I call him?”

Seconds fly by when no more answers come from the very silent and static figure of his brother slumped over his own frame next to him. Jungkook can feel some late strollers’ stares. The lawn at the feet of the Tower has cleared but there’s still a certain amount of people hanging out in the paths, probably making plans before actually moving.

That’s what Jungkook needs to do, come up with a plan and move. 

“Hyung, where’s your phone?” He asks and gets up to rummage through his pockets. He finds the device without difficulty, unlocks the screen with a single swipe of Junghyun’s finger. No face ID, no pin, nothing. Strange, but convenient.

In a few clicks, he finds the number he wants. 

ICE Jimin Park.

“Dear God, Jeon Junghyun! You’ve got to fucking stop doing that!” Jimin’s yells make Jungkook startle, inching the phone away from his ears. “Answer when I call you! Where are you? Are you okay?”

“Hmm… It’s Jungkook actually. His brother?”

“Oh God! Is he okay? Where are you?”

“We… We’re not far actually. By the Eiffel Tower.”

“I’m coming! Where exactly ‘by the Tower’?” Jimin is audibly running, the sound of footsteps heard through the speaker.

“Erm, like, on your street’s side? There’s this… shop, I think a bakery, round the corner. We’re sitting on a bench and…” He hesitates, considering the crumpled figure of his brother in front of him. “And well, I don’t know how he is exactly. He said he was tired. Could be well asleep.”

“Is he holding his body up to some extent?”

“Well, yeah, kind of. I mean, he’s not fallen limp on the ground, if that’s what you mean. I mean, I would’ve asked for help if he had.” Duh .

“Don’t do anything then! Just wait for me!” The call ends abruptly.

Judging from his walk down the street earlier today, if Jimin’s running, he should be here very soon.

“Your husband’s coming. He’ll help me get you back home,” he says before thinking. It goes without saying that he’s not going to desert his sick brother now and that of course he’s going to help him get back to his home. Only then will he think about his next move.

His gaze tiredly finds itself staring around and rises along the lithe figure of the Eiffel Tower, following the intricate lace of iron beams criss-crossing up to the skies, huge rivets discernable from the distance holding the structure together through time and turmoil. Seeing it earlier today had been an extraordinary sight; a mythical being watching over its tiny subjects, connecting itself to them by a magical bond, protecting them.

In the course of a couple of hours, it has sinisterly lost its lustre. Now it’s the theatre of his brother’s sad state and his family’s disgrace, and Jungkook’s jealous that nothing has been watching over them, bonding them together with damn rivets or whatnot.

“Are you going to stand there long?” Junghyun eventually mumbles as he pushes up the heels of his hands to rub his eyes and leans back against the back of the bench.

His eyes are barely open as if opening them wider is painful, as if both brothers have finally found some sort of cynical synchronisation, their bodies and minds shutting down at the same time.

“Jeon Junghyun!”

Jimin spots them from across the street. Without hesitation, he darts across, forcing cars to stop abruptly, brakes screeching and horns blaring. Miraculously unscathed, he races toward them. Jungkook steps back just in time, allowing Jimin to kneel down in front of Junghyun.

Earlier today, even amidst his confusion, Jimin's beauty had struck him like a moment of clarity. Now, under the dim purple light, that impression deepens. Jimin, free of makeup, hair damp from a fresh shower whose coolness lingers despite his run, moves with a quiet, purposeful grace, tending to Junghyun with a care that feels almost sacred.

His former sharpness is softened by the concern in his eyes, the gentle way he handles Junghyun's frail form, trying to help him stand. There’s something undeniably captivating about him, something Jungkook can't ignore.

Their eyes meet. Jimin’s gaze, filled with worry and determination, holds Jungkook's. It’s a brief, quiet moment, almost comforting, and it tugs at Jungkook's heartstrings, setting them in motion again. It’s not just Jimin’s physical beauty; it’s the agency in his actions, the unspoken depth of his care. Amidst the chaos, this recognition feels like a gentle undercurrent.

“Can you help?” Jimin breaks the spell, his voice steady. He’s supporting Junghyun's left arm, but Junghyun is too weak to walk alone.

Jungkook quickly takes his brother's right side. If the reality of Junghyun’s worrying state of health hadn’t struck him before, the feeling of his bony arm around his neck sends chills down his spine. Even his sense of touch had memorised a stronger frame, heavier limbs. This foreign feeling seems so unfathomable that it’s scary. His eyes flicker back to Jimin. There’s no time for words, but the fleeting connection remains, an understanding of some sorts.

They gingerly make their way back to the apartment: Junghyun stumbling several times, throwing them all off balance, avoiding staring pedestrians, the sidewalk sometimes too narrow for the three of them and a suitcase side by side, forcing them to walk on the street and stop whenever a car drives by. The strain on their muscles doesn't ease until they reach the apartment, specifically Junghyun's bedroom — or rather, Junghyun and Jimin's bedroom.

“I’ll take it from here,” Jimin says as they help Junghyun finally lie on the bed with a plaintive murmur. “Thanks.”

“Sure. It’s...” Jungkook stammers. “I’ll be outside. If you need me. I mean...”

Back in the vast, elegant apartment, Jungkook couldn't feel more out of his depth.

Jimin returns from the bedroom and heads directly to the pantry, which he exits with two packets of instant noodles. He tosses them onto the kitchen counter with a heavy sigh. He pulls open a large drawer beneath the hotplate and retrieves two pans with a clatter that makes him wince. He pauses, glancing nervously towards the other side of the apartment. Jungkook, too exhausted to care, notices the hesitation but decides not to comment. He’s earned a break, he believes. And instant noodles.

Rather than hovering behind Jimin like the famished man that he actually is, he wanders around the living-room, under the scrutiny of the cat cosily settled on the cushion where he last saw it — her. At least, there’s one occupant in this household who seems to be recovering from her emotions. 

The French windows to the balcony are wide open, letting the nice warmth of May breeze in. He steps outside, his socked feet crunching on the fine mixed gravel. The upper floors of the Eiffel Tower are visible from above the roofs — a stunning view for sure. It is quiet on this side of the street, but the soft clamour of evening strollers rises from afar. Late shoppers are leisurely walking below.

He returns back inside with a smile he hopes is as genuine as possible. “Is it true what they say? French people getting their daily baguette under their arm and all?”

For all intents and purposes, he leans to stroke the cat’s head on his way in, making her startle a little. Jimin still has his back to him, silently waiting for the kettle to finish boiling, staring ahead.

“What’s her name again? The cat’s?” Jungkook tries again.

“Has he told you?” Jimin's voice is sharp, slicing through the silence without turning to face Jungkook. The tension in his jaw is palpable, as if he might start chewing glass at any moment. Jungkook wouldn’t be surprised if he did. “He’s dying.”

Jungkook blinks, taking a moment to process Jimin's words. He should feel shocked, but he's too drained. Instead, he's confused by Jimin’s lack of surprise at his reaction.

“Erm, for the reminder, we thought he was dead until I saw with my own eyes that he’s very much alive. I’m exhausted, so don’t blame me if I'm struggling to keep it together.”

Jimin's silence is more cutting than any words. He focuses on the task at hand, filling the pans with water and placing them on the hotplate, the process methodical and precise. Jungkook watches, feeling the weight of unspoken accusations.

“I did wonder…” Jungkook starts, but trails off, knowing it’s futile.

Jimin's jaw tenses but he remains silent, absently stirring the water as it heats up and emptying the contents of each packet. His shoulders slump slightly. The air between them is thick with unsaid things, the steam from the pans a stark counterpoint to the tension.

Jungkook remembers, a bit too late, that staying quiet is usually his best strategy. He needs sleep, for fuck’s sake. And he’s hungry. The sad excuse for a sandwich he had at the airport is long gone, his body demanding more.

A bowl of instant noodles, a good night’s sleep, and he’ll be off to the nearest hotel to deal with his brother from there.

He leans against the counter a few feet away, a supportive presence to the dismal situation they are both in, but hopefully not as invasive as his presence seems. The fact that he’s unwelcome is hard to ignore. He hears Jimin take out two bowls and pour the ingredients, grab chopsticks and spoons from another drawer and slide one set to Jungkook.

“The guest room is unavailable for the moment. Sorry about that. If you don’t mind the sofa… and Yaong.”

“Oh, right! No, of course not. It’s fine. I mean, I’m just so whacked I could sleep on the floor.” He chuckles a little but stops short when he finally understands that his efforts are wasted. 

Or maybe not quite — Jimin looks away the time of a sigh. When his gaze returns to Jungkook, it has lost its edge. As far as Jungkook can see, he's no better off than he himself is, and he seems as helpless as Jungkook feels. "I'll help Junghyun eat and then I'll bring you a pillow and some blankets. There are shutters on the window if you like the room dark.”

Jungkook doesn’t have time to nod before Jimin is making his way back to the bedroom. Now, it’s just him and the steaming bowl of noodles in a kitchen that suddenly looks too large for its purpose.

He washes his hands at the kitchen sink and dries them on his trousers after turning on himself twice in the hope of spotting a hand towel. He glances down at his rumpled clothes, feeling the grime of the eventful day clinging to his skin. A shower and a change of clothes suddenly sound like a lifeline. Maybe, just maybe, he could ask for a quick shower, when Jimin comes back. The thought of intruding more nags at him though. He’s already a burden. He grabs the bowl and heads to the sofa, next to the cat.

She reacts to his presence, lifting her head and looking at him as if to question his intentions in sitting there. "So? Do you think we can make a proper introduction, you and me? Hi, my name is Jeon Jungkook." He holds out his open hand, which the cat sniffs, ears flicking. "You must be Yaong, right? Pleased to meet you." Then he takes his bowl and begins to eat. The first mouthful feels like the monsoon over months of dry land. "I wish my first meal in France had been different, but who am I to complain..." he says, steering the ramen with his chopsticks. "So, Yaong-ssi. I know this is your favourite spot, but how do you feel about sharing it with a stray like me? Do you think we can get along well enough? I sure could use some kindness right now." He sighs and finishes his bowl in silence.

The need for a shower comes back to the forefront of his mind. He imagines the steam enveloping him, the water pounding against his tense muscles, the simple pleasure of clean clothes against his skin. Shall he wait for Jimin, or explore to find a bathroom by himself? He also wonders how Junghyun’s doing. 

He’s dying , Jimin had said.

He lies down on the sofa, resting his head on the armrest, right next to Yaong's pillow. She wastes no time in expressing her thoughts about the disturbance, obviously determined not to move or be moved.

For now, Jungkook will endure the discomfort, until Jimin comes back. As it happens, he falls asleep immediately.

Laggard -Shin Youme

He had hoped for some serenity; he finds it in this sunlit and deserted beach. 

Walking barefoot over the wet sand, cool, playful waves embracing his ankles every now and then, Jungkook’s soul feels at peace at last.

In the distance, a familiar figure seems to be looking at him — a dog they once had as children, their loyal and fun Bam, wagging his tail, waiting for him by a large stick. As Jungkook approaches, the sea's surface begins to ripple, the surf swelling around Bam. 

Suddenly, the sky darkens and the beach turns into a dense, eerie ash ground. The waves grow, becoming a turbulent storm, the wind picks up brutally right between Jungkook and Bam. He tries to call out, but his voice is smothered by the roaring water. The trees further up the shore dry up and die, their vibrant greens fading to grey. 

Bam is now in the middle of the surf, struggling to stay afloat as the waves rise higher and higher. Jungkook desperately runs to reach out, but Bam drifts further and further away as Jungkook struggles to advance in the water, clothes drenched. He looks down and realises his feet are sinking into the ground, which has turned into thick, viscous mud. The more he struggles, the deeper he sinks.

In the darkness, shadowy figures slither inside the tall waves. They have no distinct features, just hollow eyes that stare into his soul. One of them swims forward, its form shifting into a twisted version of Jimin, with eyes filled with sorrow and accusation.

"You let him drown," the figure howls, its voice distorted by the wall of water. "You didn't even try to save him."

Jungkook’s chest tightens with panic. He tries to move, but the mud holds him fast, pulling him down as the sea expands all around him, swallowing the shore to the horizon. The water now flows around him, cold and merciless, pulling at his legs, dragging him under. The shadowy waves come crashing in, the wind howls louder, both overlapping until everything is a deafening roar.

Just as the water engulfs him completely, he looks up to see Bam’s paw reaching out one last time, claws just out of reach.

Jungkook wakes with a start, his heart pounding and his body drenched in sweat. He sits up, gasping for breath, the nightmare’s grip still lingering in his mind. Yaong, disturbed by his sudden movement, meows softly from the floor where she has visibly fallen when he sat up. She jumps up again and aims to settle back on his lap. 

As Jungkook’s breathing steadies, he glances around, disoriented. The room is dimly lit by the moonlight filtering through the shutters, and it takes him some time to recollect his shambled lucidity to understand where he is. Paris. The luxurious apartment by the Eiffel Tower, the leather of the sofa sticking to the sweaty skin of his arms.. The light comforter draped over him has slid to the floor. Jimin must have covered him and closed the shutters that he doesn't remember touching. His bowl has also disappeared from the coffee table, replaced by a set of towels. Small acts of care that soothe his racing heart.

He wipes the sweat from his brow and lies back down, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. The room is quiet, save for the soft purring of the cat and some distant car sounds in the distance. He knows sleep will be hard to come by again.

He fumbles for his phone and finds it somewhere under him. Dead.

He makes to get up, clearly going against Yaong’s wishes. She grumbles as he delicately lifts her up to settle her back on top of the comforter. 

Still in yesterday's clothes, his mouth feels like sandpaper. The need for a shower feels vital by now, as if his body might suffer irreversible consequences if he doesn't cleanse himself soon. The sight of towels feels like tacit permission to make himself at home, or so he hopes. His carry-on suitcase, lonesome in a dark corner of the living room, looks like it’s waiting to be unpacked.

In the half-darkness, he fishes for his phone charger, realising then that it’s 3 a.m. He grabs clean, comfortable clothes, and his toilet bag — the new holy grail. The apartment is small, so one of the two doors at the back of the living room must lead to a bathroom. Bingo, the first door is the right one. One first good sign.

In contrast to the living room packed with features, the bathroom is bare, say minimalist, but spacious enough for two — not an insignificant detail in an apartment near the Eiffel Tower. It connects to another door, likely the master bedroom. Jungkook sheds his clothes like worn-out old skin and steps into the Italian shower.

Given the late hour (or early, depending on one’s point of view), he tries not to add a ruckus to the list of already tiresome events of the past day. He leaves the cleansing haven of the shower too quickly for his liking. The brief feeling of cleanliness is liberating, but fleeting.

Back into the dark living room, nothing looks the same, shadows of the furniture lurking in the corners, outlines of vague objects jutting out in the moonlight beams. Even the sofa which was supposed to offer itself as a safe place of rest looked like a monolithic menace, a barrier between him and a sort of no man’s land beyond. It doesn’t even feel the same now that Jungkook changed into cosy though wrinkled sweatpants and a t-shirt. Somehow, he feels more awake than ever, while the rest of the place is buried deep into slumber, disembodied and soulless. Yaong’s plaintive meows eerily disrupt the silence.

He finds her in front of the front door, looking up towards the knob, her message loud and clear.

"Yah," he whispers, crouching next to her. "You're going to wake everyone up." She starts walking around his ankles, rubbing against his legs, purring just as loudly. "Not exactly an hour to let a princess out, is it?" He strokes her long soft hair, her tail curling gracefully around his hand. Come to think of it, after an invigorating shower, he's well past the point of easily falling back asleep, so he might as well enjoy a moment out, too. “So, because you graciously let me share your bed, I agree to be your chaperone but this is a one time thing, okay?”

She blinks at him and meows in tiny tones, as if she understands that this devious deal is to be their little secret. A short-lived agreement, as she dashes out of his sight the moment he opens the door wide enough for her to slither out. "Yah!" he shouts in a whisper. "Yaong-ah! Wait!" He closes the door quietly so as not to make a sound and rushes down the stairs, nearly losing his slippers. "Shit! That little…”

When he reaches the ground floor, he finally catches up with her, waiting for him at the glass door to the garden, shamelessly judgemental at his tardiness. He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking an eyebrow.

“Needing me again perhaps?” She blinks noncommittally. He sighs and goes to open the door but stops right before pushing it. “We’ll have to work on your sense of responsibility, “ he says, wagging a finger at her while she circles his feet, purring madly. “Don’t think this means you can do whatever you like with me. I’m not that easy, okay?”

There again, as soon as there’s enough space, she trots outside.

“Yaong-ie?” 

She stops and looks to her right. “What are you doing here? Oh!”

Jimin is sitting on the ground against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. He’s still in the clothes Jungkook last saw him in, loose black pants, a sleeveless flowery top, bare feet, the moonlight draping over his delicate features — an ethereal vision.

“Erm, hi?” Jungkook stammers. He’d like to stop feeling awkward in Jimin’s presence, but the remnants of their previous tense exchange still cling to his soul. Jimin’s guarded demeanour is not helping him. “Sorry, I… I guess I’m too jet lagged to get some decent hours of sleep. And Yaong… like, this cat is sly! Are they all like this, for real? Where is she gone now?” 

Jimin nervously looks up to the window on the second floor. “Junghyun’s sleeping.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Sorry,” he replies in a lower volume, following Jimin’s look.

Another attempt at making light conversation that fails miserably. Jungkook hides his frustration in a look that could well be aimed at the cat, now vanished in the dark shrubs.

It’s a shame, he thinks, meeting Jimin here. This secluded garden had felt so welcoming yesterday, not only a hidden oasis amid the city but also amid the shitshow he got himself embroiled in.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asks Jimin nevertheless.

Jimin looks away, his posture stiffening slightly. “Yeah, something like that…” 

Jungkook approaches cautiously, trying to gauge Jimin’s mood. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just needed some air.”

Jimin’s gaze follows his movements from the corner of his eye. “It’s fine. It was one eventful day.”

Jungkook sits down against the wall too, leaving enough space to respect Jimin’s need for privacy. “Yeah, that it was.”

“How is Junghyun-hyung?” he asks after a minute of silence, his voice tentative.

Jimin sighs, the weight of his emotions evident. “He’s resting. Each day is… a struggle.”

There’s not much to reply to that except to nod in understanding, feeling the weight of his own apologies that have yet to come. But for some reason, he still cannot find it in him to express them; he needs more time to sort out his emotions.

The cool night air wraps around him like a soothing balm, sending pleasant goosebumps along his bare arms. Immediately, the chaotic noise of the day fades into a distant memory, replaced by the gentle symphony of nature, a tranquil island of solitude amidst the turbulence of his thoughts.

The wisteria vine cascades down above their heads, its delicate lavender blooms swaying gently in the breeze. The faint, sweet fragrance of the flowers mingles with the earthy scent of the soil, creating an intoxicating aroma that fills the air. The soft rustling of leaves of the young willow tree’s branches whisper secrets in the night, swaying gracefully as if in a slow, rhythmic dance.

The queen-of-midnight now stands in full bloom, its large white flowers glowing softly in the darkness. Jungkook imagines their delicate yet haunting fragrance, though he cannot smell them from this distance. He’s half-tempted to go and smell them, but for some reason, he doesn’t want to scare Jimin away.

“This garden is truly amazing,” he smiles. “I saw it for the first time yesterday when I arrived. But I’ve got to say, it’s a whole new show at this hour. I see why you like coming here at night.”

Jimin turns to him in a start. “I… I don’t usually come here at night. It’s just… Today was quite tough for me too.”

“Oh. Yeah. I mean, of course it was. I didn’t mean—” 

Jimin stands up, brushing dust off his pants. “I should get back inside.”

“Jimin-ssi. I—”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry,” Jimin hastily cuts him off. There’s no hint of annoyance in his voice, but the weariness of someone more tired than he shows. Jungkook lets it go, having sensed Jimin’s flight mode from the moment he stepped outside. 

“Wait. Yaong!” Jimin stops and turns around, eyes wide with another layer of worry.

“I’ll wait.” Jungkook hopes his smile is as reassuring as he thinks it is. Yaong better have his back. ”Don’t worry about it.”

“You will?” Jimin is looking at him, genuinely surprised.

“We’re currently trying to build a trusting relationship, she and I.” Jungkook shrugs. “I guess that’s what sharing a bed entails. I just hope she’s not leading me on.”

‘She might though,” Jimin says after a pause, the most relaxed Jungkook has seen him. If he let his imagination run wild, he’d say he saw the ghost of a smile flash across Jimin’s face.

Looking away before he loses himself in those pretty crescent eyes, Jungkook tsks, shaking his head. “I knew it…”

He can feel Jimin linger for a couple more seconds by the door. “Good night, Jungkook.”

His shoulders relax at last. “Good night.”

When he wakes up again, it is in the blinding light of the fully risen sun. Yaong is curled up next to him on the sofa, the warmth of her fur actually more pleasant than the harsh sunbeams beating through the window panes. He stretches and yawns, feeling a bit more rested, though the weight of the previous day still lingers.

He sits up and rubs his eyes when a sudden noise from inside the apartment jolts him awake. His heart skips a beat as he recognizes the voice — Junghyun, strong and urgent, annoyance clear in his tone.

"For God's sake, Jungkook! Always lazing around in bed! We got so much to do, get your ass up! Come on!"

Chapter Text

Alive - PVRIS, Gardin

It's way past ten o'clock in the morning when Jungkook is finally ready to follow Junghyun wherever he wants to take him in order to show him what he wants to show him.

If Jungkook had forgotten how impatient his older brother was, now he’s fully reminded of it, what with his nagging and pacing and scolding. The memories flood back like yet another torrent. So much for the peaceful awakening.

Okay, maybe he overslept a little. In his defence, he had gone back to bed — well, to the sofa — at five in the morning, after Her Royal Highness Yaong had calmly returned from her night-time stroll, not even surprised to see him still in the garden, sniffing the bushes or taking pictures of the Queens of Midnight.

A defence he should have chosen more wisely, as it starts Junghyun on a tirade against her and her annoying habits, irrationally nourished by Jimin's complacency towards her. Had it been him, he would have sent her back to the street where she belongs and if she bothers Jungkook at night, he shouldn't hesitate to kick her out. After all, the Jeons have always been dog people, right?

Jungkook should have kept his mouth shut, and he decides he will shut up about her in the future, if she were to become a topic of argument. Eager to see the rant die out, he doesn’t even mention meeting Jimin but concentrates on what is, in his humble opinion, the real reason behind his brother’s ire: his own tardiness.

So shut up he does, and hurries, and showers, and dresses, and follows him finally while tearing into two French croissants from a craft bag Junghyun had brought for him — a meagre breakfast compared to what he’s used to having back home. He feels bad for leaving the living-room in a mess but Junghyun wouldn’t wait for another minute.

A taxi picks them up again, because Junghyun wants to show Jungkook around, before they head for the restaurant he had managed to book. Finding a table there at the last minute is a miracle, he says. Junghyun looks as tired as he was yesterday, his dark circles even more prominent than before, and Jungkook wonders which one of them hasn’t had his fill of sleep. He also ponders whether this is not his general state of health that he sadly has to get used to, because despite the look of him, Junghyun is very chatty.

The car slaloms along the narrow cobbled streets. Any other day, Jungkook would have been excited to visit but honestly his mind is elsewhere, focused on the elephant in the room, seriously larger than the Louvre Pyramid. Determining in the next second that there might never be a good moment, he ponders his choice of words, looking outside the car window.

“So? What should I tell our parents?” It’s not half as convincing as he’d wanted it to be, but given his level of resentment yesterday, it’s not too bad.

Junghyun shrugs, eyes still looking ahead. “I’ve been dead to them for years, so what does it change?”

“I’m sure you don’t mean that…” he replies with a sigh, still avoiding looking at him.. “I’m sure they’d want to talk to you, to see you?” That’s what he feels compelled to say, but even he doesn’t half-believe it if he's being honest with himself.

“They know what happened to me. They were the ones who brought me back home from the military hospital. They remember what I was like back then. What they’d see here is worse. Making them go through that again would actually be cruel.”

The car switches lanes and turns round a maze of streets, skirting close to scooters and bikes who swim around in a crazy flow. Jungkook is no longer looking, too astounded at his brother’s fatalism. “Well, I don’t,” he blurts out, blinking the show away. “I don’t know what happened exactly. You told me you got meningitis during your military service, were left with a severe seizure before being cared for, then you disappeared. That’s it. What dots do you expect me to connect exactly?”

“I told you I don’t remember much. Look, we’re having another glorious day, perfect for some sightseeing. Can you just not rain on my parade this time and enjoy the day with me? Or is it too much to ask?”

The car stops in front of the large expanse of fine white gravel, shooting far away towards a rectangular courtyard surrounded by the largest wings Jungkook has ever seen in a building. Even from a distance, the Palais du Louvre looks majestic, and the Pyramid the perfect modern pendant to the classic façades. 

“I’m sure the architect in you can feel the honour of standing in front of such unparalleled performance. Only people like us can understand the universal significance of such beauty and craftsmanship.”

Given the amount of people queueing up to enter the building, they can’t be the only ones to be aware of this place of wonder. What saddens Jungkook right now is the feeling that he’s been robbed of the opportunity to appreciate it to its full extent.

“I wish I could lead you inside. There’s so much to see. But I can’t stand for too long and that kind of visit requires something like three or four hours! Seriously, who can stare at paintings that long when the outside is a showstopper in itself?”

The walk across the vast expanse of the Louvre is exhausting for Junghyun. He has to stop several times, leaning heavily on Jungkook's shoulders, his knees often buckling under the strain of the exercise on his wasted muscles. Despite his efforts to be helpful, Jungkook's constant suggestions to go back to the taxi waiting at the other end of the square only serve to irritate Junghyun, making him seem more like a nag than the caring brother he wants to be.

Eventually, they reach a bench, and Junghyun sinks onto it with a sigh of relief. “Just go,” he snaps at Jungkook, waving him away. “Get closer to the buildings and appreciate the privilege of witnessing these masterpieces of World Heritage. Don’t come back until you’ve taken it all in.”

Jungkook hesitates, watching Junghyun’s laboured breathing and the frustration etched on his face. He wants to argue, to insist on staying by his brother’s side, but he knows better. Instead, he nods and turns around towards the monument.

As he walks slowly towards the Pyramid, the Louvre's silent stone buildings stand in stark contrast to the modern, immaculate glass panels. The weight of the recent exchanges with his brother fades slightly with each step, the grandeur of the architecture and the serene atmosphere offering an unexpected comfort.

The crowd of tourists queuing up catches his eye but surprisingly, their presence, their chatter and excitement become part of the living tapestry of the place, their diverse languages blending into a gentle hum that complements the historical ambiance. There's a unique harmony in the scene.

Standing beneath the Pyramid, Jungkook looks up at the geometric patterns of glass and steel. The structure's precision and elegance resonate with him, the reflections of the intricate neoclassic façades draw his turbulent thoughts away. Here, amidst the intersection of history and modernity, he feels a momentary calm.

The noon light filtering through the glass creates a furtive play of shadows and reflections, a dance of time and design that captivates him. He lets his mind wander, imagining the stories these walls have witnessed, the countless visitors who have stood where he stands now, each with their own dreams, and burdens.

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, and lets the tranquillity wash over him. It's as if the place, with its timeless beauty, is whispering to him, reminding him that there is more to life than the struggles he faces. The silent stones and immaculate glass offer a silent promise of endurance and resilience. He could stay here for hours indeed, though he knows he can’t.

But when he opens his eyes, he feels a bit more centred, a bit more ready to face whatever comes next. He turns back towards Junghyun, now just a distant statue on the bench, and starts walking back, the solace of the moment giving him the strength he needs.

“Enough sightseeing for today,” his brother says, striving to stand up. “Had you woken up earlier, I would have shown you more, but there’s that table that awaits us, so... Help me, will you?"

They get back into the taxi, driving around slowly enough for Jungkook to admire the perspective between the immense courtyard, perfectly aligned with the Carrousel du Louvre, and the infinite gardens that disappear in the perspective. Too bad he cannot lose himself in them too.

"If you want to come back, I'll ask Jimin to show you the inside of the museum. I'm sure he can spare you some time."

"What does he do by the way?" He assumes Jimin is the only breadwinner of the household but doesn’t ask for confirmation.

"He's into fashion.”

“Wow. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I mean, we’re in Paris.”

But Junghyun is already shaking his head. “Come on, Jungkook-ah! Don't be so naive. You’re giving me that typical foreign point of view when I would’ve expected more critical expectations from you. Of course it’s not just lush and luxurious. More beast than beauty actually. Did you know this is how Jimin and I started together. Hard to believe, huh? So believe me when I say that I know what I’m talking about: a massive economic force and a cut-throat underworld that I happen to know from the inside.”

"You even married it," Jungkook says, smiling at his attempt to counterbalance his brother's tone, which he expects to be as light and teasing as he hopes.

"What do you mean?" Junghyun turns to him with a frown deep enough to kill his hope in a nanosecond.

Jungkook’s confused in his turn, his smile twisting in a questioning way. "Well, you're husbands... Aren't you?"

"Who told you that? Oh, Jimin did, didn't he?" he laughs. "Aish, I should have known. It's pathological at this stage."

His brother's sudden burst of laughter leaves Jungkook a bit stunned, as if there was some part of the joke that he missed, keeping him miserably out of the fun.

"We're not married, Jungkook. The only truth is that Jimin did ask me to marry him. In the corniest way possible, if you want to know. On top of the Eiffel Tower. Cheesy to a fault. Don't get me wrong, it was sweet. This place is romantic for a reason.”

Jungkook’s mind halted long before he could find any interest in the details. “You refused?” 

“No. I just couldn't give him an answer.”

“Wha— Why didn’t you?”

"I couldn't! How could I? I mean…” Junghyun wets his lips while considering his next words out of the window as they cross the river again. "Have you really seen him?" He pauses again and continues on a softer tone. "Have you seen me?” He sighs — a sigh from a deep hurting place. “Besides, Jimin was beginning to be known, sought after…”

Jungkook’s heart aches at the words, although he isn’t sure there might not be another reason. The thought that his brother passed on an incredibly lucky opportunity is hard to suppress. Not only does he live in a country where same-sex marriage is allowed, but also…well, Jimin is beautiful. 

But the weight of Junghyun’s seemingly simple questions are answer enough to Jungkook's curiosity, and another pang of guilt resonates in his chest, too loud for his own heart. Another one of those times when he has to channel his sighs so as not to be too audible and draw unnecessary attention.

He has had too many of those, a testament to the fact that he has not yet reached an acceptable level of comfort around his brother. No wonder, when he thinks about it.

"Let's meet him if you're interested in what he does. His workshop is not far from the restaurant, so…”

“Does he work for a famous brand?”

“Of course. He wouldn’t have lasted long without them. So, one or two make him work on specific commissions. Enough to keep him afloat. Jimin’s just a supplier for those maisons de haute couture , a supplier of an amazing kind, mind you. Until he’s crushed under their heels without a second thought. But he’ll explain that better than me.”

The taxi has wormed its way inside these one-way narrow streets again, dodging carefree passers-by who venture to walk on the road rather than on the sidewalk — or what is supposed to be a sidewalk. Geez, there’s hardly any room for even one person.

The outside of the building looks like any other in Paris and where Jungkook expected a window or something to peer inside, there’s nothing but a stone wall beside another of these heavy wooden doors similar to the one leading to their apartment. No plaque, nothing to inform people of the existence of a fashion hub here.

Whatever this workshop is about, it’s clearly not meant to be displayed in any way and the thrill of the mystery thickens in Jungkook’s chest. Ants of nervousness surge under his skin, invading every nook and crack of his body, sending his heart in overdrive. Not really a pleasant sensation, nor is it explainable, unless by the cold shoulder he’s gotten from Jimin since his arrival.

Junghyun rings twice. It takes some time before the door opens and reveals somebody who’s definitely not Jimin.

A muscular black man, dressed in a crisp and impeccable light blue jumpsuit, with an elaborate braided hairdo on top of his head, eyes them up and down in surprise.

“ Salut Elias ,” says Junghyun. “ Jimin est là? ”

“ Bonjour Junghyun. Jimin est là mais je suis désolé, il ne peut recevoir personne pour l’instant. Vous pouvez revenir plus tard ?”

“ Comment ça il peut pas nous voir? Dis-lui d’abord que je suis là .”

“ Même moi j’peux pas le déranger. Il est avec un gros client, là. ”

“ Et moi, je suis avec mon frère, Jungkook, qui a demandé expressément à voir son atelier avant de repartir en Corée. Il n’y aura pas d’autres occasions pour lui de revenir. ”

Obviously Jungkook doesn’t understand a single thing that’s being said, but recognises an antagonistic tone well enough. Hearing his name in the middle of it is uncomfortable enough too, and he tries to pacify his brother.

“Hyung, it’s okay if we can’t now. Let’s go eat. I’m actually super hungry.” Which is nothing but the truth.

“ Je lui dirais que vous êtes passés ,” the guy says, his voice tightening ever so slightly around a smile that could bite.

But Junghyun is not done yet apparently, and his voice rises noticeably, attracting people’s attention behind them. “Non, je veux que tu lui dises que je suis là. Je te rappelle que je ne peux pas attendre debout longtemps. Et après, on doit aller au Bouillon. J’ai réservé une table.”

Still, the man keeps his calm despite the defensive way in which he crosses his arms against his chest. “ Jimin est censé venir au resto avec vous? ” The tone has turned brisker to Jungkook’s ears. 

For the first time, Junghyun hesitates, but his tone matches the guy’s defiance. “ Non. Il mange jamais à midi. ”

The guy slightly shakes his head, clearly staring Junghyun down, no matter how tall he is. “De toute façon, il a pris ce rendez-vous super important. Et j’irais pas le déranger.”

“Et pourquoi je suis pas au courant de ce rendez-vous d’ailleurs?”

The man shrugs and it’s obvious to Jungkook that he won't help his brother for whatever it is they’re talking about . “Ch’ais pas, et j’vois pas ce que je peux y faire. ”

“ Tu veux pas ou tu peux pas ?” 

“ Les deux!” The man’s glare sharpens at Junghyun now and Jungkook would hide beneath a cobbled stone of the street if he could. “ Maintenant, si vous voulez bien m’excuser, on a encore du travail. ” The door closes in their faces and the humiliation is crawling under Jungkook’s skin like fugu.

They walk in silence along a couple of streets, Junghyun breathing in and out very loudly, losing his balance a couple of times and nearly falling if not for Jungkook catching him in time. Jungkook wants to hold him by the elbow while they walk, but Junghyun furiously jerks his arm away the first time he tries. At the second misstep, he finally complies, though reluctantly.

“I’m really sorry about that, Jungkook-ah.”

“It’s okay, hyung. No harm done.”

“That’s because you didn’t understand what he said! The verbal abuse was positively harmful!”

“Really? Like that, in the middle of the street? That’s insane!”

“That’s why people were staring! But it happened before, you know. But it was just me then. Now, Elias insulted me in front of you. I already told Jimin to get rid of him—” Junghyun pauses to catch his breath, the exhaustion digging deeper lines on his face, mingling with a vertiginous level of distress.

Jungkook makes him pause and lean against a wall at a wider expanse of the sidewalk. “Breathe, hyung. Breathe with me.”

“... But of course he wouldn’t listen!.....How? How is that….  Am I….. not important…… such an attitude…. from an employee…… in front of you?”

“Please, calm down.”

“See?….. you wonder why…. I rejected…. Love’s hard…. for the sick.”

Jungkook helps him onwards, supporting his brother as discreetly and gently as possible, right from behind, comforting Junghyun in his lead, in his position of the one who knows where they’re going. They pause several times but Junghyun still struggles to catch his breath.

Just from the touch by his elbow and the vibrations by his back, Jungkook can sense the particles of his brother’s frustration irradiating everywhere. 

The time spent dreading whether he’ll collapse passes ironically quickly and when they reach their destination, Jungkook is ready to continue for another mile.

Too concerned about his brother’s state, he doesn’t give any heed to the place they enter. Once inside though, it’s impossible to see anything else.

They are greeted by a surreal, enchanting scene: walls adorned with intricate wooden panels and ornate, swirling designs that echo the graceful curves of nature. Large windows framed with delicate ironwork allow natural light to flood the space, illuminating a rich green and gold colour palette that decorates the interior.

A quick strained effort towards the maître d’hotel and they’re seated at a small table by the window, Junghyun insisting that Jungkook get the chair that allows him to take in the place in its entirety. And what a view.

The tables, set with crisp white linens and gleaming glassware, are arranged thoughtfully across the warmly lit room. Plush chairs invite guests to settle in comfortably, while the soft murmur of conversation of already seated patrons mingles with the faint clinking of cutlery. The ambiance is both sophisticated and welcoming, enhanced by the vintage tiled floors and period artwork that adorns the walls.

Elegant light fixtures hang from the ceiling, casting a gentle glow that complements the restaurant's timeless charm. The entire atmosphere whispers of Parisian history and refined taste without a single doubt. Had Jungkook had to imagine something typically Parisian without having set foot there, he would have come up with something like this.

“Believe it or not….. Bouillon restaurants….like this one….. used to sell the cheapest….. Cuts of meat of the city….. to workers….drowned in a soup.” His breathing is still extremely laboured, as if nothing had helped and nothing will.

“They still sell soup….” he says, “I’ll take that…. but…” He makes a vague hand gesture towards Jungkook and he more or less understands that he can choose whatever he wants.

“Soup’s great! I’ll follow your lead then.” He smiles reassuringly. “This is magical, hyung. I didn’t know such a place actually existed."

Junghyun can no longer answer, but is content with a smile. His eyelids close dangerously and his whole demeanour falls as does his frame against the chair under its own weight.

Jungkook takes it upon himself to place the order in English and they wait in silence. With both elbows under his shoulders, he observes the room and the people, glancing at his brother every now and then, who tries to keep his eyes open. Jungkook is hungry, but not to the point of pushing his brother's body to its breaking point.

“Hyung, we could just go home and get takeaway if you’re too tired.”

“I…. I booked...”

The minutes stretch on and Jungkook's anxiety only grows. They are served and what he feared happens: Junghyun feels too weak to even lift his spoon.

He doesn't know if he should feel sad, shocked or angry. He wants to blame something or someone and the guy at Jimin's workshop might be the best option right now. Still, that won't help his brother eat, so he moves his chair next to him, his back to the room, and starts to feed him.

"Jimin... Too hot,” Junghyun whines.

Jungkook blows on the spoon between each mouthful. Doing his best not to spill any on his brother's neat suit, he rearranges his napkin and concentrates on his task, his own soup forgotten.

A waiter comes over to ask if they need any help, but Jungkook dismisses her without much of a word, too focused on what he is doing. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her take his plate away, but he says nothing.

He painfully goes through the process, his forearm a little cramped after a while, and he dabs the napkin against his brother's mouth and regains his seat. The same waiter reappears with his plate of soup again, steaming hot.

Not surprisingly, he's not really enjoying it (cauliflower?) He is too busy watching his brother slumber in front of him, his head resting on his upper chest.

He gently shakes him awake. “Hyung, we’re going home, okay? I’m calling a taxi.”

“No, Jimin… No.”

“Hyung, it’s me.”

Junghyun gets up gingerly as if he didn’t hear, supporting himself on the table, without looking at Jungkook who’s also trying to help him stand up. 

Once outside, Junghyun leans against the nearest wall, eyes still closed, and they wait. 

“Stay here,” Junghyun says when the taxi arrives.

“But, hyung, who —” He still doesn’t know how to argue against his brother. They’re too early in this reborn relationship to act comfortably around him, and being his dongsaeng is no help. It’s not hard to see that his brother needs physical aid every minute, but the way he lost his temper earlier seemed to have fatigued him even more and upsetting him further might ruin his efforts at the first kind of help.

Jimin might know what to do. He needs to have this conversation with him at some point today.

Hence why he lets his brother have his way this time and leaves him to take the taxi back home alone, but not without making Junghyun’s phone call him in order to get his number and promising himself he’ll do better next time, with more insight and information.

For another time too many, the city resolutely feels as foreign as ever. He’d like to adapt to it, but it seems Paris is undecided in letting him in. The brief time spent with his brother had been an unexpected, though fragile, lifeline, in this labyrinth of unfamiliar streets. Now, with his brother gone, back to the comfort of home, Jungkook feels adrift. Landmarks blur into a confusing maze, mirroring the disarray of his mind and soul. He stands alone, lost both in the city and within himself, the bustling energy of Paris only amplifying his isolation.

He starts walking up the street, looking into the various windows but never really paying attention. At each crossroads, he hesitates, looks around for some familiar sign but, seeing none because he didn’t pay attention earlier either, decides on a strategy — turning right every single time. A strategy that doesn’t make any more sense than deciding to turn left, but a strategy that gives him a sort of purpose, and the hope that at some point he’ll find some familiar sight. He tries to decipher the names on the street signs but to no avail.

He remembers the feeling of fulfilment and serenity that had filled his lungs and soul at the Louvre, a connection to the place and to a spirit so deep that he reckons it can't be the only occurrence in a city with certainly an equally astonishing amount of tradition and history in each of the streets he's walking now. Finally, he lifts his eyes and examines the façades, the intricate stone work around the windows, on top of the doors, on the balconies, and lets them say what they want to say, in a language he might understand better.

And it works. His helplessness subsides underneath his curiosity, and as his eyes lower down, he’s able to notice and appreciate his surroundings better.

Every now and then, some shop windows really attract his attention: elaborate pastries, antiques, tapestries, real estate. He peruses the adverts of accommodations to buy or rent, and makes a quick conversion of the prices to won in his mind, regardless of the details that he cannot understand anyway. That keeps him entertained for a moment, silently whistling in appreciation because, overall, the prices are lower than in Seoul. By all accounts, his brother’s apartment must have been extremely expensive, considering the location alone. Jimin must be doing better than what Junghyun had let on earlier. He ponders what they would be able to buy, whether they would sell it and, say, come back to Busan.

Eventually, he tears himself away from the adverts and continues walking, turning right a couple of times. He has no idea where he is, but one achievement he relishes is the ease this fancy strategy brings to his mind.

And it’s funny how by tricking his mind into a more open disposition, by shifting his perspectives, the world opens up and unveils merciful delights.

Wild flowers, shooting right from the concrete pavement: pink hollyhocks as high as humans if not more; purple morning glory mischievously entangled along lamp posts or railings;  red poppies chasing pavement cracks.

Once Jungkook has seen them, he sees them all, entertaining his sight as he keeps on strolling through this cosy district, at a more leisurely pace. A tourist-like pace, just without a guide map.

Wait. He has his phone with him, right? He might as well see how far he is from the apartment, though he never really had the intention of going there to disturb his brother’s vital need for rest.

He keeps on walking, slower still while he scrolls the map, looking up every so often to see where he’s going. It’s another one of these narrow cobbled streets where the pavement can barely hold one person, but straight enough to see far ahead.

He’s then some distance away when he sees him. Notwithstanding the pink outfit that cannot be missed even if you tried, nor the unmistakable trepidation pouring from his body language as he tries to get a call through, dialling and dialling but failing to get a response, Jimin is pacing up and down the narrow expanse of pavement, eyes focused and unfocused at the same time, oblivious of his surroundings and the passers-by who try to walk past him, left then right, then left again.

Jungkook watches him remain unawares as long as he can: the way his pink collared top shapes his slender silhouette, hugging firm pecs, then a lithe waist where loose pink pants hang straight down, accentuating the perfect curve of his back. His feet haven't stopped moving forward, and it doesn't take long before Jimin notices him, ends his ongoing conversation and hurries over to him.

“Where’s Junghyun? Why isn’t he with you?” His voice is sharp with anxiety.

Jungkook’s own voice, though, fails to kickstart. “Erm. Well, hyung went home to rest. Erm, he was exhausted and took a taxi. About twenty minutes ago,” he explains, his face flushing red.

“I’ve been trying to call him for that long, but he won’t answer.” Jimin complains, frowning deep, fingers anxiously fidgeting around his phone.

“Oh. Right. Would… would you like me to try? See if he’s fine?” Jungkook doesn’t wait for a reply and quickly opens his contacts. As he dials, he keeps his eyes on Jimin’s tense face, wishing he could erase that worry. Jimin’s eyes are too pretty to be tortured by concern.

Junghyun answers on the second ring, and Jungkook almost loses his words as he sees Jimin’s worry intensify instead of ease. “Erm, hyung, it’s me… I just wanted to check if you got home alright and… if you need anything.”

“I’m good, Kook-ah… don’t worry. Just keep… you know. Enjoy.” Junghyun’s voice is low and slurred, each word a struggle against his fatigue. 

“Tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t see you earlier.” Although the request is directed to Jungkook, Jimin’s mouth has invaded his space to say it close enough to the phone, making Jungkook’s eyes instinctively zero in on his lips and his heart choke. He’s wearing some light makeup, he notices, a perfect foundation casting sunlight in all the right places, a slight nude shade enhancing his cheeks and a thin eyeliner adding depth to his already graceful eyes.

"Oh, um, Jimin-ssi says he's—" The call ends abruptly, swallowing Jungkook's words with its finality and pushing Jimin's downcast face and tantalising perfume away from him. "He says he's fine..." Jungkook tells him without any conviction.

"I heard," Jimin says, absently nodding. Though as tense as before the call, his fingers have stopped fidgeting. Instead, his shoulders have slumped and his eyes have lost their focus, idly scanning the limited surroundings of the narrow street, the initial concern instantly replaced by weariness. "At least he answers your calls."

Behind those simple sentences and complex body language, there's a lot more meaning that goes back way before Jungkook's arrival, and if he felt like an intruder before, he's now mortified to find himself in the middle of some unresolved history between the couple.

"It's okay about before, you know. Of course you have commitments and stuff. Totally understandable. Junghyun-hyung was just super excited to show me what you do. Said it was incredible. He sounded super proud and I—"

"Did you tell him we met last night? In the garden?"

The question pops up out of nowhere, or at least way out of Jungkook’s range of current concerns, so far away that he himself hasn't really had time to think about last night's impromptu meeting. Jimin’s barely concealed strain in his voice and frown is indication enough that it matters to him. And if it matters to Jimin… "Huh? Oh, um, no, I didn't. I didn't have time to say a word this morning before he took me for a ride around town. Woke up confused. Had forgotten where I was, how I got there, and what language I was supposed to speak,” he jokes, making a face at his own helplessness.

But Jimin only nods, face back to being closed off.

“I talk too much. Sorry.” Jungkook pushes his hands into his jeans’ pockets and looks away, counting his options now. He needs to talk with Jimin no matter what.

“Do you expect me to react when I don’t see any reason to?” His tone is lighter though it doesn’t translate to his face, reminding Jungkook how hard it had been last night and how hard it might keep being if he’s meant to stay longer. Just as hard as to guess how long this ‘longer’ is. He’s supposed to fly back next Monday. Will he succeed in breaking the thick ice sheet before then?

He sighs audibly and doesn't want to hide it this time. “Nothing here has gone as expected since I landed. Not that I knew what to expect, but certainly not ….all this. Every single second spent here is miles away from what I could have expected and I'm just trying to work my confusion out the best I can.”

It’s like time has stopped on this thin strip of sidewalk, in this narrow street at the other end of the continent, the farthest Jungkook can go from home, and yet the closest too ironically. He’s hanging onto Jimin's facial expression like another lifeline in this foreign land. Now he’s expecting a reaction.

“So Junghyun wanted to show you my workshop, is that right?” he finally says, toeing some dirt on the ground in his turn.

“Yeah.” Jungkook wryly smiles, even though he welcomes the change of direction with open arms. Jimin’s intense presence by his side is harder to take in than he thought. “He got me pretty curious, saying that what you’re doing is groundbreaking. The talk of Paris.”

Ironically, this is the moment Jimin decides to smile. An attempt at a smile, a smile that looks more like a restrained smirk and that doesn’t sit exactly right. “Jungkook, I can show you if this is what Junghyun wanted. He certainly didn’t say all that and it’s fine, you know. No need to try that hard.”

Jungkook's shoulders tense again slightly, taken aback by Jimin's perceptive reaction. "Well, he kinda did..." he mumbles as they step through the door. They walk into a large passageway leading to a courtyard, and Jungkook, who generally boasts of being more of a pragmatist, is  now convinced that magic exists and Paris is full of it.

Tucked within the heart of this serene urban courtyard, a quaint garden oasis thrives against the backdrop of the pale, stone walls. The courtyard, framed by the building's geometric lines and symmetrical windows, features a charming cobblestone floor. In the centre stands a small, elegantly arranged garden bed, lush with verdant foliage: arum lilies enhanced by the various shades of green that burst from the plant leaves, creating a lively contrast to the soft beige of the surrounding walls. Towering above the vibrant greenery is a delicate, bare-branched tree, its limbs gently arching like an artful sculpture. The courtyard, bathed in natural light, exudes an inviting tranquillity, making it another hidden sanctuary amidst the bustling city, just like the one behind Jimin and Junghyun’s apartment.

Jimin circles the garden bed, barely noticing as Jungkook lingers to touch the leaves and admire the graphic tree. "I don’t know about groundbreaking, but one thing is certain," Jimin explains, his tone brisk. "You have to be open-minded. Anything related to fashion requires that as a foundational rule. Otherwise, we might as well stop here." 

He turns abruptly, his gaze meant to challenge but inevitably surprised by the sight of Jungkook playing with the dangling inflorescences of the tree, eyes and mouth open in wonder. He clears his throat loudly enough to catch Jungkook off guard. Jungkook  pulls his hand back as if he's been caught touching something he shouldn't. 

"Fashion isn't just about clothes or trends, it's about challenging norms and pushing boundaries. It's about expressing individuality, sometimes to the edge of comfort. The moment we stop being open to new ideas, we begin to stagnate, at best. I say this is the moment we actually fall off the cliff and die. If we can't embrace the unexpected and the unconventional, then we're not really in fashion.” Jimin pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in, eyes piercing into Jungkook’s, determined and fiery. "Can you handle all that?”

Stunned by Jimin's swift shift from dejection to determination, Jungkook wishes he could tell him how deeply he relates to those words, but instead, he stumbles onto words yet again. “Of course. I can handle it. I mean, I’m an architect myself, so yeah, going wild with designs is something I’m familiar with.”

“Are you?” Jimin’s eyes narrow slightly. “Have you ever willingly designed a building that goes against general expectations? And, more importantly, defended it in front of critics that want nothing more than to tear you to shreds?”

“Well, no. I mean, not yet. I might. I mean, I think I can," he says, trying to sound more confident than he feels. " I'm an architect, so pushing boundaries is part of what I do ." The words feel hollow even to himself, especially when he thinks of how long he's spent avoiding taking risks. The project for the World Expo committee has been his one shot at something different, and even that is still up in the air. His father had surprisingly given him free rein, and the initial response had been positive. Perhaps he should tell his brother about it, or even Jimin. Then again, maybe not. He can be superstitious sometimes. “So, yeah, fuck the shredders.” 

Jimin ventures a smirk, restrained but a smirk nevertheless. He isn’t buying it. " You sound like someone who’d rather play it safe." The sarcasm is sharp, but before Jungkook can respond, Jimin adds, “But I wish you well. Especially in South Korea.” 

Sure the words were polite, but there was an edge to them — something unsaid. Jungkook’s jaw tightens as he wonders what exactly Jimin meant by that.

Jimin turns sharply on his heel, moving with the fluidity and confidence of a dancer, the tension in his shoulders barely hidden under his calm exterior. Jungkook finds himself watching his back, feeling a mix of admiration, frustration, and something he can’t quite name.

As he passes through the granite glass doors, which give no hint of what's going on in this fashion den, already a long way from the sights at the back of this inner courtyard, Jungkook stands speechless on the landing. To say he hadn't expected this would be an understatement.

But what did he expect? After all, what does he know about fashion? He suspects it's nothing like what you see on the catwalk, which he's never really paid much attention to. He'd have no trouble imagining that backstage is just another form of chaos, one that's powdered but not as muted as one might imagine. Elegance has its dark side.

Maybe it's because of the contrast with his first impression of the apartment, where everything has a place that's duly studied and jealously maintained; with his impression of Jimin himself, always dressed up and sublimated by what he's wearing.

Or maybe it's because he thought he’d see models wearing clothes and not underwear. Is it really underwear, by the way, that this male mannequin is wearing? A veil of black lace covers his head, falling in delicate waves to the middle of his chest. The rest of the body is clad in a black corset suit, which covers a black mesh shirt with chamarré highlights, if Jungkook analyses what he sees protruding from the sleeves beneath the veil.

The mannequin is enthroned in the middle of the room, amid a pile of fabric scraps, each as black as the next. Three more colourful mannequins stand in a corner, near a white staircase with no railing, one wearing a crimson lace bodysuit, and just that. Definitely underwear. 

Banks and counters run along the wall to his left, also hidden under piles of fabric. Mainly lace too.

"Surprised, I see..."

“To say the least….”

"You can't say I didn't warn you..." Jimin says from behind the doll. He has managed to step onto the littered floor and scout out some kind of track. But Jungkook does not dare enter.

"You specialise in lace, I see."

"So far so good. Anything else?"

"You work alone?"

"No, I have an assistant. Elias went out for a late lunch. Our morning schedule has been a bit... disrupted."

"Is that the black man who... met us earlier?"

"That's him. An absolute prodigy. And my guardian angel as a side job.”

The challenge between the tall man and his brother flash back to the forefront of Jungkook's mind. Though he didn’t understand a thing from the exchange, the fact that Elias acted as a human rampart was clear enough, and he doesn’t know what to make of this idea. 

“So lace? For men?”

"Observant. You can come in, you know. There is no trap. I assure you, you'll come out of this place unharmed. Maybe not unchanged, but that's more up to you than I can say.

Another multi-layered remark that is meant to be more cutting than it actually feels, and Jungkook would laugh it off if it didn't feel like a trap. A place from which he won't come out as unscathed as promised.

He steps in cautiously, just as he remembers stepping into a minefield during his military service.

"Oh, wait, I see. Let me..." Jimin says, picking up a few handfuls of fabric from the floor to add to the already existing piles on a large design table nearby. "We're in the process of rearranging this room and turning it into our showroom. We just... didn't think we'd have to do it so quickly."

"Can I help you with... anything?" Jungkook asks shyly, bending down and grabbing some samples with much more care and hesitation than Jimin, to avoid tearing something by accident. How much do these pieces cost?

He takes a long look at the one piece he's holding, about a square metre of fine black lace, its fragile threads slipping through his fingers like a breath of air. The fabric is impossibly light, almost weightless, yet there is a complexity to its weave — intricate patterns of looping vines and flowers that seem to twist and spiral into each other, forming a labyrinth of design. The black thread shimmers subtly in the indirect light, a delicate contrast of matte and shine, as if the lace holds its own quiet mystery.

It is beautiful, yes, but there is something haunting about it too, in its fragility — like a fleeting moment captured in silk, too fragile to last. 

“This is the one,” Jimin says, from much closer than Jungkook had thought he’d be. He hadn’t heard him move to his side while he was observing — admiring — the piece.

“Excuse me?”

“This is the one we finally picked. For the mourning veil here.” Jimin points to the mannequin behind him. “This is the finest lace you’ll find around.”

Jimin gently slides his fingers under the sample while Jungkook’s still holding it. When their fingers gently brush, Jungkook startles and feels his cheek blush for reasons he won’t stop berating himself for later. He looks up to apologise but his words die on his tongue. Jimin’s face is so close he can make out light freckles on his nose despite the dim light. His eyes have not left the garment and they’re reverently smiling as he caresses the piece.

“This lace is extraordinary because it’s all made by hand. See how fine these threads are?” Jimin gestures, pointing out the impossibly thin silk strands Jungkook’s holding. “They’re silk, and each one has been meticulously woven together using a technique called bobbin lace. It’s done on a pillow, with dozens of tiny bobbins and pins, threading each one through the others like a puzzle. One wrong move and you can ruin the entire piece.”

The closer Jungkook looks, the more he does realise the precision and care that must have gone into creating something so delicate. The flower pattern is deceptively simple at first glance, but up close it reveals layer upon layer of detail —  tiny, barely visible knots holding the lace together. It feels like a fragile puzzle in his hands, where the slightest tug could unravel the entire design.

“Look at the pattern — it’s almost too detailed to see at first, but that’s what makes it special. This cannot be mass-produced. You see the picots — those tiny loops along the edges? That’s where the real artistry comes in. It takes absolute precision to make each one even and perfect, otherwise the whole design feels off-balance. And look at the way the floral pattern transitions — no harsh lines, just a natural flow, like it’s growing out of the fabric. That’s why it’s groundbreaking. It’s not just delicate — it’s alive.”

Without meaning to, Jungkook is breathing in Jimin’s perfume, and drinking his words. If his beauty was impossible to ignore, the passion that filters through as he explains his trade is compelling. Riveting. And he understands what he means as he glances again at the fabric. 

“I see what you mean. It looks delicate, but there’s strength in its construction, a resilience worked into its fibres.” As Jungkook holds it but looks back at Jimin, he can’t help but feel an additional weight take residence inside his ribcage. “It’s perfect.” 

“Yes. It is,” Jimin echoes with such a gentle smile that Jungkook’s breath hitches again at the back of his throat: Jimin’s eyes curve in half-moons for the first time since they met, silver earrings glittering with the movement. 

"Chrysanthemums."

"What?" He looks up at Jungkook in open surprise.

"The flowers. They're chrysanthemums."

"They are," Jimin confirms, even though his tone is rising. "These are flowers of mourning."

It’s Jungkook’s turn to smile knowingly. Maybe some cultural irony. "Of longevity, rather. Loyalty. Beauty too."

The moment lasts what it lasts, that is to say a few seconds before the spell breaks. 

When Jimin realises how close their faces are, the warmth evaporates from his features in a flash. They close off again as he takes a step back.

“This is genuine Calais-Caudry lace. You have to see them work these silk threads in their weavers In Calais. The craftsmanship of a hundred years has been dutifully knitted into this single piece.” His voice has lost its emotional quality, stifled by a colder professional tone, no doubt the tone Jimin uses when receiving a client: focused on facts, techniques, sources. But the passion and knowledge remain unmistakable. He watches him pick up another sample of the same piece as the one in Jungkook’s hand from the nearest counter. “I saw the design I had imagined come to life under their fingers. It took them five days to finish it.”

Jimin holds the lace up to the light, fingers splaying the delicate threads out. "This black... it’s not easy to achieve. Silk is tricky — requires just the right balance of dye, heat, and... patience." His voice trails off as he shifts the fabric, revealing subtle changes in the shade, deepening from charcoal to onyx, the faint sheen reflecting off the matte threads.

He starts again, more focused on the technical details, "We use a special dye, something that doesn’t weaken the silk. Otherwise, the fibres—"

Jungkook watches as Jimin’s fingers linger over the lace, the business-like tone beginning to crack. There’s a pause, long enough for Jungkook to feel the difference. He’s not interested in the science, the technical jargon — it’s Jimin’s connection to the fabric that pulls him in.

Jimin looks down at the lace again, his words softer now, less rehearsed. "It’s hard to explain, but..." he starts, almost to himself, "...there’s something about black. It’s bold, but subtle. It can say everything or nothing at all, depending on how you look at it. Like…" His sentence fades again, his gaze lingering on the fabric as if it holds more than just thread and dye.

“Is it far from here?”

Jimin looks back to Jungkook, frowning in confusion. “Is what far?” 

“Erm… the place you said. To supervise the process, I guess.” 

“Oh. Yes. Something like…over three hours?”

“I see. Like going from Busan to Seoul.”

Jimin frowns again at the names, as if they didn’t mean much to him, or at least that’s how Jungkook interprets it. “More or less… Calais is an authentic city.”

“Isn’t Paris authentic?”

“Perhaps I just mean different then…  Like, a nice change from here. I like going up there. I could watch them work the lace for hours. It’s really...” his gaze loses focus for the second time, extending beyond Jungkook as he seems to retrieve a fond memory.

“Relaxing?”

“Hypnotising.”

Another lull in the unperturbed silence of the room. It’s nice and unexpectedly restful, as if the tension Jungkook had once felt in Jimin’s presence had been delicately muffled in the layers of fabric around them. He could bathe in this newfound softness for hours too, but somehow he likes to have Jimin’s eyes on him. “Why lace for men though?”

“Why not.” As expected, Jimin’s gaze recentres. His voice is calm but firm, a challenging note leaving no doubt as to his readiness to fight for his convictions and trade, but not as biting as it once was. “Is masculinity reduced to a few attributes that delicacy and finesse cannot dress up?"

For a moment, Jungkook considers a deeper answer, something that might match the intensity of Jimin’s words and show him that he too can discuss serious matters . But he’s already captivated — not just by the lace, but by Jimin himself. The last thing he wants is for this second chance of a spell to break again. He smiles slightly, leaning into Jimin’s world without hesitation. After all, he’s the very embodiment of his words, a living statement. 

Letting his eyes roam over Jimin's exquisite silhouette is suddenly so tempting, even under Jimin's own eyes. To admire the way that pink top lovingly outlines his neck, shoulders, pecs, stomach and arms. Jungkook conjures up the vivid memory of watching him from a distance on the street earlier and fights this urge to do it again.

“Fair,” he simply says, a word holding more weight than anything he could elaborate on. He’s not just agreeing; he’s letting Jimin know he’s open to whatever comes next.

And so he does let Jimin undress him from head to toe with his intense gaze, lingering on every curve and line, wanting to unravel him. Jungkook would have gladly teased in response and made the moment last to enjoy it, had the circumstances been different. But of course this is definitely not the mood Jimin is going for and he cannot help feeling awkward at the thought of flirting with his brother’s boyfriend.

“We do have other interesting pieces,” Jimin resumes, unbothered by the effect he has on Jungkook. “The carmine lace bodysuit behind me? Another one of my favourite pieces. Under a dark satin suit for a daring night out, or even paired with white sweatpants for a casual twist. Versatile, bold. I think it’d do something for you. Would enhance your dark eyes and sharpen your statuesque cheekbones. Subtly manly.”

The truth is, Jungkook is enjoying Jimin’s attention.

“Well, not to question your expertise of course, but I like black clothes best.”

“I can see that. The typical kind of man who wants to be taken seriously but not noticed by any means.”

“Sorry?”

“You wear black because you think it’s safe, that it’ll help you blend in anywhere. But the truth is, if you look around you, nothing is really black — not even the night. It's just layers of hidden colours waiting to be seen. The only thing that truly blends in is someone who’s too afraid to let themselves be known.”

A loud creak interrupts the quiet. The door swings open, and a voice calls out in English, “I'm back, Jimin! I got you some — Oops. Oh. Hi… again…”

Jungkook blinks, startled by the sudden return of the real world, in the appearance of Jimin’s assistant, confidently stepping into the workshop as if he owned the place, with bags in hand, oblivious to the delicate dance happening between them — or just deliberately ignoring it.

“Désolé Jimin, mais y’avait plus de salade. Je t’ai pris un suédois au saumon, — le moins lourd que j’ai trouvé — et une salade de fruits.” He fully walks in, suspiciously side-eyeing Jungkook as he sets down the bags on a nearby chair. “Tout va bien?”

Jimin, unbothered, gently puts the lace down and offers the assistant a brief nod as he takes the excuse of a sandwich he’s been handed. “It’s fine,” he casually replies in English. The effort not to keep Jungkook isolated in the exchange doesn’t go unnoticed by either Jungkook or the assistant, but the moment has shifted nevertheless. The connection between them, the lingering atmosphere of the lace, fades slightly under the impact of the intrusion.

Jimin shifts slightly as his assistant starts tidying up to make room on the table. Without saying much more, Jimin gestures subtly toward the door leading to the courtyard. “I’ll show you out,” he tells Jungkook, his tone calm but still holding that unspoken edge between them.

Jungkook discreetly exhales, not quite disappointed but frustrated in a way he can't fully explain. For a moment, he had felt something — a sense of understanding, of falling into a rhythm that wasn’t his but felt right all the same. And now, it is gone.

As they step into the courtyard, the air feels cooler, the green square at its centre draws them in once again. It’s peaceful, but this time there’s a new sort of energy hanging between them, a thread left untied.

Jimin walks ahead, but his steps are slower. He doesn’t say much, picking at the thin slice of bread of the sandwich he hasn’t yet brought to his mouth. His powerful presence is still lingering in Jungkook’s mind as they move toward the exit.

Feeling no finality in the way Jimin stands at the still closed door, Jungkook lingers for a beat, his gaze drifting over the tree behind them, his mind still full of what happened inside and what awaits him — them — outside, something he is not so eager to find again, but knows he has to. 

"About my brother..." he starts and hesitates, not knowing how to switch from the kind of magic that happened inside to these more urgent matters. Jimin doesn't turn around immediately, but his posture has stiffened slightly, his shoulders are square. Both of them are preparing for the conversation they both know should be coming. 

“I told you.” There’s no malice in Jimin’s voice, but the bluntness of it cuts through the quiet courtyard.

“I know...” Jungkook slips his hands into his pockets as if trying to find something to hold onto. He’s never been good at facing these kinds of realities, but this one feels unavoidable. “I’d like to…you know… catch up… But it seems I can’t get a reasonable discussion out of him.”

Jimin studies him for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing Jungkook’s words. He doesn’t speak right away, but the tension in his posture begins to ease, just a fraction. “He’s absolutely over the moon to see you. It’s an old dream for him. You have to understand that he doesn’t want your moments together to be ruined.”

Jungkook nods several times in understanding. “I do. Of course I do. But everything is so… confusing.”

Jimin lets Jungkook’s distress fill the air between them as he tears off another tiny piece of bread and slowly chews, his movements precise, controlled, as if he's testing the food with every bite rather than actually eating. It barely put a dent in the sandwich, considering how little he has eaten.

“He’s… It’s complicated. His health has made his life hell and it’s... taken a toll on him. He doesn't always say what he needs. He doesn't always know what he needs.” He tears off another piece of food, rolling it between his fingers as if he was more interested in the texture than anything. “I've been doing what I can.”

Jungkook watches him, his mind trying to make sense of everything — of his brother’s illness, of Jimin’s quiet frustration, of the whole mess he’s just stumbled upon. Something clicks in his head, a realisation of some sorts that goes beyond Junghyun. It’s not just about his brother anymore, it’s about the strain the situation has put on everyone around him. And suddenly Jungkook’s need to help expands — to Junghyun, to Jimin.

He hesitates, searching for the right words again, feeling them burn at the back of his throat. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks, knowing that it is a ridiculously inappropriate question, that it’s miles away from conveying the intensity of what he wants to say and to do if given the opportunity.

Jimin’s lips press into a thin line, but there’s no argument in his eyes, just a quiet acceptance, as if he’s heard it all before. He doesn’t answer right away but glances down at the sandwich in his hand. With the other hand, he buzzes the heavy door open from a nearby switch and lets the noisy hum of the street come in. 

“Actually yes. I really can’t eat this, but I’d rather choke on it than go back to Elias with it half-eaten.”

Jungkook blinks, taken aback by the sudden shift but gets his bearings much faster this time. “It does look awful, I’ll give you that. What’s that yellow sticky stuff?”

“Supposed to be mayonnaise. I never got used to the bread here either.”

“So you’re basically asking me to help you bury the body of a sandwich…”

Jimin gives a small, crooked smile — barely there, but it’s something. “Of something criminal, believe me.”

The courtyard feels different from when he first entered it, as he exits it. Similarly, the outside no longer feels as alien as it was an hour ago. They don’t need to say much more before parting on a committed understanding, a sort of common ground.

Whatever the ground is, it certainly feels lighter under Jungkook's steps as he leaves Jimin's workshop. He's no wiser as to where the streets lead him, but the high he’s riding feels like a new purpose. And a lighter heart. And a smile that is hard to hide.

It takes him some distance and many turns before considering what to do with the sandwich. He chances a look behind him and chastises himself for being ridiculous — as if Jimin might appear by magic and scowl at him for entertaining the idea of eating his sandwich. He’s running on a quick breakfast and a soup for God's sake.

He bites into it earnestly but stops after a few munches, grimacing. Okay, so that sandwich is basically a crime.

His stomach is the only thing in his mind as he keeps eating it while also trying to distract it by looking at the stores along his walk. 

Ironically, this is where he notices the grocery store.

Clogs click, gears twist, and everything jolts into motion in his mind as his body moves on autopilot, stepping into the store without a second thought.

The fruit and vegetable aisle draws him in first. In a quick scan, he spots the basket by the entrance, grabs it, and starts filling it: yellow onions, spring onions, garlic, spinach, carrots, cucumbers, and sweet potatoes. His eyes scan the shelves. These peppers are huge — nothing smaller, really? Ah, zucchinis, perfect. Pink mushrooms? Why not. He needs scallions. Lots of scallions. No scallions. How is that even possible? Two apples — good enough. They’re not Nachi, but they’ll have to do.

Jungkook moves down the aisle, keeping his expectations in check. He knows he won't find the right noodles and sauces here, and the store itself isn’t exactly huge. Maybe a little honey? He picks up a jar and then stops at the display of ham. What kind is this? So many options — way too many. Ah, there it is: pork belly, a lifesaver. He adds a few chicken breasts and two thick steaks to the mix.

He stares at the register total, a mix of disbelief and frustration bubbling up. Jesus, how the hell does it cost that much? The basket isn’t even that heavy.

No bag either. He has to buy one. Fine, whatever.

Now he has to track down an Asian shop. Paris must have at least a few. He pulls out his phone, swapping Naver for Google Maps, praying for something nearby. K-Mart, bingo. And even a Korean cosmetics store around the corner — probably K-pop’s influence, he muses. He checks the route. Damn, an hour on foot. He hasn’t figured out the metro or the bus yet. Sure, he could, but if it takes as long as walking there, what’s the point?

A quick word with his phone's AI, and the best route pops up on the screen. He wonders why he doesn’t use it more often.

Thirty minutes, two subway transfers, and a few blocks later, Jungkook feels like he's stepped into heaven. Noodles, black bean paste, crispy nori, soy sauce, gochujang, pepper flakes, seaweed, sesame oil. Even ready-made kimchi. And soju — six euros a bottle? That’s fucking insane. But — oh yes — scallions! Finally. Baby bok choy gives him an idea. Maybe some frozen dumplings? Although, he doubts they’ll stay frozen till he gets back. But the real question is: tteokbokki or no tteokbokki?

He lingers in the aisles, half-looking for something, half-looking for nothing. Just soaking it all in, enjoying the nostalgia that fills him. He reads the labels leisurely, even though not all are in Korean. He circles back twice before deciding he’s done. Time to head back to the apartment. He isn’t finished with what he’s planning, and his whole body hums with an energy he hasn’t felt in a while.

As he leaves the store, he pauses by the door, hesitating. He looks around, unsure of where he is or how to get back. Fatigue starts to settle in — a familiar tension pulling at his neck and shoulders. He can feel the strain. The only thing keeping him going is that shot of adrenaline from being around Jimin.

With a few clicks, he pulls up the apartment address on Google Maps. He swallows the discouragement at just how far he’s wandered, and heads towards the nearest metro station.

Getting back to the Eiffel Tower area isn’t so hard after all. He raises his head to meet its towering form, feeling an odd sense of reassurance from it. It gives him just enough energy to walk up Rue Saint Dominique, push open the heavy door, and take the stairs two at a time.

“Yah, what are you doing here?” he calls out as he reaches the second floor. “Did Her Highness get locked out, by any chance?”

Yaong is waiting, giving him an unperturbed look — like it was always understood that he would show up, that he is late, and she is just biding her time.

He sighs. Since he’s got his own key, there’s no need to argue with her stare, nor with the insistent meows demanding food once he’s set the bags down on the kitchen counter. She’s making it clear, in her own way, that she’s got him wrapped around her tiny paw.

Jungkook shakes his head, smiling despite himself as he starts unpacking the bags, ready to keep moving, feeling strangely satisfied with how his day’s ending, compared to how it started.

“Hyung? I’m back,” he softly calls out, back in the hall, lest his brother is not woken up yet. He softly walks up to the main bedroom’s door, pauses when he hears the floorboards creak under his socked feet. The door is decidedly shut but he ventures to gently knock, an ear glued against it for some sound.

Several seconds pass while nothing happens behind the door. Junghyun is still sleeping and hasn't been woken up by Jungkook's arrival, which sounds positive enough to let him continue with his plan.

He’s managed to find everything he needs to make a Korean meal, a real dinner for the three of them: a way to repay them for his unannounced presence, and perhaps to surprise them — bring them a taste of home. He remembers how Jimin avoided it when he mentioned Busan, a memory too distant to feel its impact. Besides, Jungkook is good at cooking and is desperate to make himself useful to this struggling household.

His stomach grumbles at the thought. Lunch had been a disaster and the soup he had hastily gulped down is not even worth a mention in the margins. He’s ready for something more substantial, and if there’s something that will revive him, it’s a hearty meal, full of meat and spices and the fragrance of home. 

And what’s more comforting than a fragrant jjajangmyeon? He’ll prepare some ginger garlic noodle soup with the bok choy in case, since it’s come to his notice since he arrived that Junghyun mostly eats liquid dishes. He also plans to prepare Mayak eggs — easy lunch snacks, among other uses — and some kimchi fried rice because that’s the Life Savior™.

He discards his jacket, cleans his hands and opens the first drawers for saucers and pans, ideally a wok pan. 

He can’t say what he expected to find, and perhaps the perfectly neat and tidy way everything is arranged inside those drawers, is not what throws him off for a second.

He moves to the next cupboard and it’s more of the same: pots, pans, utensils. Pristine, sparkling. The kind of look things have when they’ve barely been used. No stains, no loose utensils clattering together. Just a few orderly things.

He frowns and pulls up the wok. It’s heavy in his hand, the sort of pan that should have seen years of use, with a thick and fragran patina at its bottom, but it looks almost brand new instead.

He opens another cupboard and finds well stocked plates, bowls and glasses, too many for two people, but all lined up as if put on display.

He glances around the kitchen and across the passageway into the living room, as if they might hold some answers to the questions he hasn't asked yet, but are swelling in his brain. The sofa that has become his bed, with his disorderly clothes scattered over the comforter, where Yaong is just sitting down and cleaning herself, looks like a sore spot in this tidy environment.

Nothing feels lived-in, as though everything is for show, an accumulation of props rather than an actual place of living. He vividly remembers how breathtaking it had been to step into this apartment the first time. 

Now, he realises it doesn’t make any sense, especially after having seen Jimin’s workshop, the floor strewn with random pieces of fabric.

For want of an explanation, Jungkook feels a pang in his chest, a pang of something like sympathy perhaps. Some sad sympathy for feeling out of place, a sentiment he recognises well.

If anything, it adds to the determination settling over him as he resumes his plan and starts gathering what he needs over the pristine kitchen counter. If Jimin and Junghyun haven’t had a proper meal in forever, then tonight they will.

He puts the rice cooker on and the gentle hum gives him a sense of purpose. In the middle of the utensils clanging, of the knife chopping the beef and the zucchinis, of the gentle boiling of the water, the sizzling of garlic and ginger in the pan, his tiredness begins to fade. 

This, he can do. 

He smiles to himself, a small, private smile. 

He feels grounded again, like he finally belongs.

If Jimin doesn't cook, Jungkook will. Maybe it's not just about paying him back. He's creating something here, creating a bridge, making this whole space feel more like a common ground where they can meet and feel welcome — that Jungkook is not just passing through, but that he’s here and ready to be part of whatever this strange situation is that they’re all in, and that Jimin can count on him.

He’s supervising several preparations at the same time and by the time he’s finished, stored, cleaned and tidied up everything, except the dishes that’ll need to be slowly heated up again tonight, Jungkook’s spent. Happy but spent.

He sluggishly joins Yaong on the sofa. He lifts her up in order to lie down, ignoring her protests. He stretches his entire being from the tips of his fingers behind him to his toes, making a few joints crack and exhaling a series of deep, contented sighs. Yaong’s still fidgeting on top of his chest, gently pawing her claws over his tee,  trying to find a proper way to settle down, when he's out like a light.

He wakes up to a much darker living room than when he had lain down, and with one less weight over his chest. He blinks the confusion away a bit faster than twenty-four hours ago and he can’t help taking this as a good sign. No such things as small victories. He doesn't remember looking at the time he lay down, but one thing is certain — he crashed for a long time. The light outside is waning and the sky is slowly taking on deeper shades of blue and purple. His phone reads seven o'clock in the evening. That can't be right; time doesn’t flow the same here.

He notices the French windows at the far end of the living room are ajar, and a soft voice drifts from the terrace.

He stretches lazily from head to toe, giving a good rubbing over his face and eye sockets, and he gingerly gets up, moving towards Jimin’s voice. 

Still no sign of his brother.

As he approaches, his steps falter as he sees Jimin’s reflection on one of the glass doors. He pauses, watching.

He’s sitting in one of the iron chairs by a table with Yaong contentedly perched on his lap. Her tail gently balancing against his thigh, she responds in soft meows at his cooing and soft words. He’s smiling with his crescent eyes again, his bare face naturally framed by dark, unruly hair.

Jungkook can no longer move, riveted to the ground and yet feeling weightless, as if something inside him had lifted at the sight. There’s something ethereal in the way Jimin looks, warm and unguarded, the affection between him and the cat so natural, so lighthearted. It leaves Jungkook standing there, breathless, caught under another spell — or the same spell as earlier, at the workshop. A spell he doesn’t want to see broken again.

Jimin’s spell.

Jungkook could watch him cuddle with Yaong for hours, making them last longer than sixty minutes, as long as he keeps smiling like he is now — like he’d been before, surrounded by something he feels comfortable with. Jungkook had been there and he saw how hard Jimin had been trying to welcome him. However, he’d managed to forget his presence for a merciful moment so that he could lose himself in his passion and smile — smile at the angels.

Of course, such a thought sends a pang through his chest. He wants Jimin to be happy and carefree while acknowledging his presence. It's bittersweet, but he wants to see it as the beginning of something.

Even though he doesn't want to move but continues to watch them unnoticed, he forces himself to cough a few times to signal his presence and watches as Jimin straightens up in his chair and his face closes again.

When he steps outside, Yaong greets him with a purring meow from Jimin's lap. She doesn't try to jump down and Jungkook can't blame her. He would do the same in her place.

"Found a better spot, I see?" he tells her, smiling knowingly.

He leans over the railing to look down at the street, then up at the Eiffel Tower rising above the rooftops in the distance. Give me strength , he thinks. "This jet lag is killing me. I'm sorry I wasn't awake when you got back."

"That's okay," he answers and picks at Yaong's hair.  "Did you see Junghyun earlier?"

"Um, no. Wasn't he resting?"

"How should I know? I got back an hour ago and he was gone."

"Was he? I didn't hear anything... Well, I mean... Should I call him?"

Jimin sighs, shaking his head in dejection as he carefully takes Yaong in his arms and stands up. Jungkook feels a sinking sense of failure, as if he had disappointed Jimin again.

“He should be eating something. We all should.”

“Ah, yes. I saw. Why did you do that? We don’t starve ourselves, you know.”

Jungkook frowns, caught off guard one time too many today. “I never thought that. I just wanted to help.”

“To help with what? You went out and bought all this stuff, but had you checked the pantry, you would’ve seen that we haven’t completely abandoned Korean cooking: we have noodles, sesame oil, soy sauce, ginger. Even kimchi. What were you thinking?"

It's Jungkook's turn to sag dejectedly. The loud sigh comes from a deep place of frustration, "Can't you just take it for what it is?"

"And what is that?" Jimin asks, eyes tired, but keeping Yaong securely in his arms, as if she is the object of the argument.

"Just a thank you for having me here, in the messiest way possible, and making myself a little useful. Pulling my weight, you know.” He pauses, voice growing tired too. “But tell you what, I get it. I overstepped. Overstepped and overstayed. So I'm going to sod myself off to a nearby hotel and figure out the rest from there. How does that sound?"

“Junghyun wouldn’t want that.”

“Something tells me my brother could use some peace in his own home.”

“You don’t understand. He wants you by his side.”

He’s dying.

“But you don’t,” Jungkook blurts before he can’t stop himself, eyes resolutely fixed on Jimin.

Jimin’s expression tightens and his voice stiffens distinctly. “In times like these, what I want doesn’t count.”

Jungkook’s mouth opens and closes. He wants to argue but words fail him, unable to follow the blazing pace of thoughts firing away in his mind at Jimin’s words. It bothers him so much it ignites something wild. “Well, it does count to me. What you want.”

Jimin’s eyes flicker and his grip around Yaong ironically tightens. Jungkook watches him gulp around something too hard and painful. The tension is vacillating. “At least, let me pay you back. Junghyun would also want that.” His tone is less defensive, quieter now.

Conversely, Jungkook’s voice has never been firmer in Jimin’s presence. “I don’t want to. I did that willingly, and it made me happy to do it.”

Jimin sighs again, a mix of frustration and something else crossing his features, something that could easily be perceived as exhaustion, but Jungkook gets the feeling there’s more to it. Eventually Jimin nods in surrender. “Junghyun will be happy too.”

That’s all it takes to summon the ghost of the festival: the front door opens with a clamour, and Yaong jumps out of Jimin’s arms in surprise.

“Ah, you’re… you’re both here! Fab—fantastic! Smells... s’good!”

Junghyun stumbles into the room, more like he’s being carried by the air than walking of his own accord. His hand clutches the frame of the doorway as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Despite the impeccable cut of his suit, it hangs loose on him, as though even fabric were reluctant to cling to his diminishing frame. His ashen complexion mirrors the exhaustion carved into his every feature — yet none of that dulls the radiance of the smile he’s beaming.

“Dear God, where have you been?” Jimin rushes to him, his hands already reaching to steady him. “You look—”

“Aish, give me a break, Jimin… Good, I’m good… And hungry. Who cooked? You, Jungkookie? Can’t be Jimin. Awesome! Let’s…. Wonderful day… great. I... I want... together.” His hand waves vaguely toward the table, his brow furrowing like he’s chasing coherence. “Eat. Speak.”

Jimin grabs his arm, his hand firm but trembling against Junghyun’s back. “We’ll eat, baby. Let me get you settled first.”

Junghyun shakes his head, sharp and adamant. “Now.” The single word cuts through the room like a whip, jolting Jungkook into action.

In the kitchen, Jungkook heats the jajangmyeon,the kimchi soup and the steamed black rice; he takes the cucumber salad and bean sprout salad from the fridge and quickly adds the marinated ribs to a spare pan. As he moves and monitors everything like a maestro, he notices that some slices of fried tofu and braised potatoes are missing from the airfryer. A smile flits across his face — a brief flicker of pride. Something flutters in his chest at the thought of Jimin licking his fingers after sneaking a few bites.

He glances toward the living room, catching a fleeting view of Jimin sitting beside his brother, his hand trying to touch Junghyun’s forehead. Junghyun jerks his head away, sighing.

“Let me get your blood pressure at least,” Jimin’s voice is soft but insistent. 

As soon as he’s gone, Junghyun slides down from the sofa to sit on the floor cross-legged, and extends his arms to pull the coffee table to him.

“Wait, hyung. Let me do that. Wanna eat from the floor? Like we do at home?”

Junghyun’s laughter bubbles up, wild and unsteady.  “ Yes! Like home… Smells good…” He inhales dramatically, his grin splitting wide. “Got soju?”

“Erm… yeah, actually,” Jungkook stammers. “But—”

“Awesome! Bring it on!” Junghyun nearly shouts, his voice crackling with laughter as his hands gesture wide. “Soju!”

Jimin comes back, hands full with the blood pressure monitor and packs of medicine. “Wait, what?”

"Pills... later. Not now."

“Love, you know they don’t work if you take them too late." Jimin’s voice is calm but firm while he wraps the sleeve of the monitor around Junghyun’s arm. "Please."

“Fuck, Jimin. Once! Fuckin’ once! Jungkook’s here.”

Jungkook is not sure it is his place to say anything, but adamant as he is to pull his weight, he’s going to try anyway. “Hyung, Jimin-ssi is right. It might not be wise.”  He dares not meet his brother’s gaze, pretending to be too busy setting the dishes on the table.

“Gangin’ up on me. Are you? I want… to celebrate. And Jimin is hyung. Not Jimin-ssi. Let’s drink!”

Jungkook lingers by the table, watching the tension play out between Jimin and Junghyun. Jimin stands at one end, shoulders sagging slightly, while Junghyun sits on the floor, grinning at the dishes. It’s a strange, almost theatrical tableau, and Jungkook feels like an unwilling spectator.

Jimin sighs, his tone calm as he eventually sits down. “What are we celebrating, then?”

“Just this. Together,” Junghyun says, his smile wide. “I’m happy.”

Jimin mirrors his smile as he sits down, pushing the medical material under the low table. “I can see that. Did something exciting happen this afternoon? You were gone when I got back.”

“I have work too… not just you.”

“What do you mean?” Jimin asks, his brow threatening to crease, though he keeps his tone light.

“I also meet important people,” Junghyun replies, his voice sharp enough to sting. He’s slowly regaining breath and his sentences sound less scattered.

“Yeah? Who did you meet?” Jimin’s tone remains steady, he even smiles at Junghyun, who’s meanwhile pettily avoiding his gaze, pretending to be busy with something else (namely, poking at the braised tofu with the tip of his chopsticks), behaviour that Jungkook’s memory instantly knows how to decipher. The older brother he remembers would do that regularly, making his resentment felt any occasion he could find, until Jungkook apologised for God knows what he had done wrong. He’s on a mission to settle scores here 

Junghyun doesn’t answer immediately, focusing instead on Jungkook. “Jungkookie, you worked hard. It’s fantastic!”

“Erm, thanks, but it’s nothing much really,” Jungkook replies as he sits down in his turn, his voice tentative. “Just trying to repay you a little.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, actually,” Jimin cuts in, his voice as measured as ever, ignoring Junghyun’s coldness. “Honey, this isn’t how we should welcome your dongsaeng. After all these years, and miles, he deserves some real rest, in a proper bed. Don’t you think?”

“He’s most welcome here,” Junghyun says, his grin vanishing.

“I’m not saying he isn’t. I'm just concerned about his comfort. There's this hotel Joonie-hyung went to last time he came. You know, down the street?”

"Joonie-hyung? Kim Namjoon-hyung?"

“He stays here,” Junghyun interrupts, his voice as sharp as glass. He keeps on poking hard on the cucumber salad. “I’ll never let you… throw him out.”

“That’s definitely not—”

“Shut up!” His chopsticks loudly clatter as he drops them.

Jimin exhales slowly, stands up and heads to the kitchen. He comes back with a spoon that he places next to Junghyun’s plate. “The sofa isn’t comfortable, is all I’m saying.”

“I took care of that,” Junghyun flatly says, eyeing the spoon like an offensive tool.

“What do you mean?”

“I ordered a bed. And some furniture. Today. Delivery’s tomorrow.”

“What?” Jimin’s voice wavers for the first time. “You ordered a whole bedroom?”

“Yes. Should arrive tomorrow morning.”

“Tom—” Jimin blinks, his mask slipping just enough to reveal the shock beneath. “Where are we going to put it?”

“Your yoga room.”

Jimin freezes, his expression unreadable for a moment too long. When he speaks, his voice is tighter than before. “My yoga room? You had it redone last year.”

“You’re not using it.”

“That’s not true, but… okay. I’ll find another place to do my yoga,” Jimin says after a beat, his calm facade cracking ever so slightly.

“Your studio’s large enough,” Junghyun says dismissively, picking out some rice, potatoes and braised tofu.

“The studio’s barely big enough now. We’re getting more and more orders. Soon, we might have to relocate to a bigger place altogether,” Jimin retorts, his tone cool but deliberate. “But sure, I’ll squeeze in somewhere else.”

Jungkook shifts uncomfortably, glancing between them. The tension is so thick he can practically feel it in the air

Junghyun raises his glass with a flourish, his voice cutting through the air. “A toast to my handsome little brother!”

He leans forward, grabbing the soju bottle to pour for himself, then Jungkook, and finally Jimin. The three of them down their glasses in unison, the ritual erasing the tension in the room for a fleeting moment. The familiar warmth of flavors from home envelopes them, grounding them in memories of simpler times.

Junghyun moans in delight, bite after bite, his face creasing in exaggerated appreciation — a dramatic quirk both brothers have always shared. Jungkook smiles despite himself, genuinely pleased to see his brother enjoying the food. But his attention drifts to Jimin, whose much milder, more restrained reaction needles at him.

Jungkook forces himself to focus on his plate, but his peripheral vision betrays him, catching the worry etched on Jimin’s face every time Junghyun pours another glass of soju or nearly chokes from overeager bites. Jimin’s quiet concern occupies his thoughts more than the meal itself.

“Love, easy on the soju. You promised.”

“Never did. I’m honouring Jungkook’s incredible feast. Unlike someone I know. You’re insulting him, Jimin-ah.”

“Huh? No, it’s fine! I know I tend to make it too spicy—”

“That’s not it, Kookie. Jimin would rather starve for his work.”

“That’s not true! Why are you saying that? ” Jimin replies, offence flushing his cheeks.

“Well, you shunned us for lunch.”

“I had no idea you two were coming,” he stoically replies, controlling his tone into a milder, softer level.  “Next time, just give me a heads-up, and I’ll try to join.”

“Sure. After you fire that watchdog of yours.”

“ Elias? He’s an excellent assistant. Creative, full of potential. I’d be an idiot to let him go.”

“See, Jungkookie? My opinion means nothing around here.”

“ I value your opinion, love. And I always come to you for advice when I need it. ”

“Oh, when you need it, right? How about telling me who you were meeting when we showed up? Can’t recall you mentioning that.”

“I did. Three weeks ago. I told you Dior was sending a representative for a potential partnership.”

“Nope. Don’t remember that. ”

Jungkook clears his throat, desperate to cut the tension crackling between them. “Wow, Dior, right? That’s amazing. Sounds out of this world!”

The effort is clumsy, but his voice steadies the room for a brief moment, the words pulling their attention toward him. Jimin offers Jungkook a small smile of gratitude, though the strain doesn’t leave his face. Junghyun, for his part, grins as if he hasn’t just turned the conversation into a battlefield.

“It does, doesn’t it? Did you know that Jimin and I made quite a lot of fashion covers back in the day?”

“ Not really covers. A few ads in fashion magazines, here and there .”

“What do you mean, ‘a few ads’? That’s just like you, Jimin. You never appreciate what you’ve accomplished. We were incredibly lucky, and we should be grateful — it’s how we got here, living in this exceptional apartment.” He gestures around with his full glass. “How do you like it, Kookie? Think the parents would approve?” he concludes, downing his glass.

“I’m sure they w—”

“Took me pains to find the right one. Not too far from Jimin’s studio, so he could walk there and come back to rest. Not that he ever does, but that was the idea. Then, of course, I had to find the right people to redo it. Lucky I could be there to supervise. But see the result? Right place, right people.”

“You did a great job, honey. We really are lucky.”

“I did all this for you. So you can live your fashion dream and design your own trend.”

“I know.”

“And I have to say, it’s incredible!” Jungkook eagerly chimes in.

“Of course, it is! You’d never dream of crashing in a lousy hotel after being here.”

“Oh, yeah, but I was talking about the clothes…”

Junghyun poses in the middle of another serving of soju, more intent on relinquishing the unfinished food for the transparent drink, emptying the bottle slowly but surely, by himself. “Oh, because you actually saw it?”

“Saw what?” Jungkook asks, suddenly confused at the tension directed at him.

“The collection?”

“I…”

“Jungkook visited the studio after you headed back home,” Jimin comments, preparing himself a small spoonful of rice with a little bit of spicy cucumber on top. “You were exhausted and told him to stay in town apparently. He just didn’t know where to go. I showed him a piece or two.”

“I have never seen anything like them. They’re so artistic, and yeah pioneering really.”

“So I’m the party clown that’s left out of the secret, right?” Junghyun says after downing his third — or was it already a fourth — shot of soju and slams it back onto the glass top of the table. “But it’s fine,” he adds hastily before either tries to protest. “I’m actually proud… my dongsaeng got this privilege. It only makes his presence more…valuable….here. Your insights are valued, Jungkookie. You’re an artist too if I recall: painting…. drawing…. playing music. Do you still sing? Jimin, you should cast him.”

“Hyung, that’s not…”

“Did you know I modelled, too?” Junghyun barrels on, ignoring Jungkook’s attempt to interject. “Years ago. Jimin and I… we may still have those…. magazine copies somewhere, don’t we?” His speech grows more sluggish, words starting to blur together. “You should show him, Jimin. And…. introduce him to Dior. Least you could do. Honour his food.”

Jimin places a hand over Junghyun’s arm as he reaches to pour another shot, his tone soft but firm. “Love, maybe eat a little more and drink a little less.”

Junghyun’s response is to keep pouring. He waves off Jimin’s concern with an unsteady hand, his grin fading into a pout. “I want him to model for you. He’s handsome.”

“He is,” Jimin replies diplomatically, barely sparing Jungkook a glance. “But he’s too strong. You know how it is.” Rising from his seat, he steps forward to help Junghyun stand. Jungkook follows suit, trying to ignore the heat rising to his cheeks from the unexpected compliment. “I think you should rest now.”

They move to lift Junghyun, each taking an arm, but the moment they try, he suddenly drops his full weight, bursting into uncontrollable laughter. His arms dangle uselessly as he looks up at Jimin with a lopsided smirk. “You don’t mind strong in... other circumstances.”

Jimin freezes, his grip on Junghyun’s arm slackening as an awkward flush spreads from his collarbones to his cheekbones. “Jeon Junghyun,” he hisses under his breath, his voice taut with embarrassment. “Enough.”

Junghyun only chuckles harder, turning to Jungkook. “Yah, Kookie, got any plans Friday night?”

“Jeon Junghyun! No!” Jimin snaps, letting go completely.

“What? He’s our guest,” Junghyun protests, the picture of mock innocence.

“I said no!” Jimin’s voice sharpens, his composure cracking.

“But it’s here! Whatsegonnado?”

“Then let’s cancel!” Jimin’s tone hardens further, the rare edge in his voice drawing Jungkook’s attention. “That’s where I draw the line, Jeon Junghyun.”

“Yah, yah, yah. Can someone explain what’s going on?” Jungkook finally pipes up, his confusion mingling with mounting discomfort.

Junghyun sighs dramatically, his laughter subsiding into a weak grin as he raises his arms in surrender. “Aish, you’re no fun. Fine, no cancelling. But no hotel for him either. That’s my line.”

Navigating the cramped space, Jungkook slides under his brother’s arm, careful to avoid a tumble onto the nearby sofa. “Mind asking my opinion on whatever it is you’re talking about? Since it sounds like it’s about me.”

Jimin doesn’t answer immediately, his lips pressed into a thin line as he steadies Junghyun from the other side. “I’ll explain later. Let’s just get him to bed.”

Saying they help Junghyun get to the bedroom wouldn’t quite capture the reality of the ordeal. They practically drag him across the hall, his feet barely lifting, his frame limp yet shaking with sporadic bouts of lingering laughter.  In between, he mutters slurred praises like, “Handsome dongsaeng,” “Good dongsaeng” and  “Chef Gukkie,” each one landing on Jungkook with a strange mix of pride and unease.

Jimin shoulders the door open, his movements smooth and precise — accustomed — but Jungkook hesitates. The threshold feels already too intimate, the room shrouded in utter darkness, with a sterile scent of medical fluids. He steps inside carefully, every movement deliberate, as though navigating a minefield — a habit from military training that comes unbidden. Thankfully, he doesn’t trip over anything.

The King-size bed looms in the dim light spilling from the hallway, its white sheets stark. Across the room, a mattress lies on the floor, barely visible in the gloom. Together, they maneuver Junghyun onto the bed, his weight sagging like a ragdoll.

“I’ll take it from here.” Jimin’s thin voice slices through the stillness like a muffled echo, carrying a firmness that leaves no room for protest. Jungkook hears rather than sees him busying himself: clothes rustle, pills clink in a container, vials shift softly in their place

Jungkook remains at the foot of the bed, awkward and unsure. The limp silhouette of his brother anchors him in place, though he can’t quite say why. Later, he’ll tell himself it was the shock of seeing Junghyun so motionless, so pale — just for a moment, he thought he might be dead until a faint snore broke the silence. Or maybe it was the fear of leaving and never seeing him again. Or the urge to help Jimin more, to shoulder even a fraction of the burden weighing on him. Perhaps it was the strange, selfish desire to stay in this room, this piece of their lives, and look for something — anything — that felt real in this impersonal apartment. He doesn’t even glimpse anything when Jimin moves to the bathroom, closing the door before flipping the switch, his silhouette erased by the returning darkness. Nor does he catch a clear view when Jimin returns, something nondescript in his hands.

It’s Jimin’s voice that finally pulls him out of his haze. “Thank you, Jungkook.”

The words land unexpectedly, carrying a weight he didn’t realize he was waiting for. Jimin’s gratitude — quiet, unassuming, sincere — is a kind of acknowledgment Jungkook hadn’t known he craved. It presses against the tightness in his chest, relieving that which has been wound too tightly since he first set foot in this city.

He doesn’t ask what Jimin is thanking him for. He doesn’t need to know. Instead, he takes it, holds it close, and leaves.

He could almost cry when he steps back into the now silent, deserted living room. The only sign of life is Yaong, blissfully oblivious, curled up on her new favorite spot (his pillow, no less) sleeping the sleep of the Just. He chastises himself for the wave of emotion rising in his chest, telling himself it’s irrational and out of place. As always when gripped with emotions he doesn’t immediately comprehend, he throws himself into action, a familiar escape from the unsettling topic of his feelings.

He busies himself cleaning, tidying, storing, washing — erasing every trace of the evening, every object that mars the curated perfection of this space. But with every dish, every plate, every glass he touches, he’s reminded of fragments of the night: snatches of conversation, fleeting expressions, the strangest undercurrent of tension he has ever felt at a dinner table. The past between Junghyun and Jimin surfaces in jagged edges — a history that, even beyond the illness, feels impossibly rocky and charged.

At the kitchen counter, he scrubs until his arm aches, wiping the surface clean, then wiping it again, as though the act might also cleanse his thoughts. Eventually, though, he stops. The room is spotless, and the distraction has petered out.

Jungkook moves back to the living room, but Jimin hasn’t returned. There will be no explanation for Friday, nor for anything. Yup, it seems he’s destined not to know the end of anything at all.

Now that they’ve mentioned it, Jungkook notices the neat stack of magazines under the console by the wall. He grabs the top one without much thought, letting himself fall back onto the sofa. The leather dips beneath him, creaking softly as he leans into its embrace.

I Found - Amber Run

He flips through the glossy pages aimlessly at first, his fingers moving without intention — until they stop.

A close-up photograph freezes him mid-motion. Jimin. Black hair in deliberate disarray frames his flawless face, like ink bleeding onto porcelain. Simple ear loops glint subtly, an intricate necklace lying lightly against his skin, drawing attention to his sharp, delicate features. Only the faint sheen of a rose gloss and the smoky allure of dark brown eyeshadow interrupt the purity of his expression. But his eyes — God, those eyes — pierce through the page, past Jungkook’s ribs, and straight to his chest, where the impact lingers.

The portrait is stark, unembellished, demanding nothing but pure, unbroken reverence for the perfection it radiates.

It takes Jungkook a considerable amount of willpower to turn the page. Not out of disinterest, but in the desperate hope of finding more.

His wish is granted. A sequence of photographs unfolds: Jimin reclined against cream sheets dressed in what still looks like a pattern for a black suit;  in a white suit, strewn with flowers, his gaze soft yet unreadable; seated in a chair, dressed in sleek black, exuding quiet elegance. Each shot reduces the clothes to mere props, subservient to Jimin’s inherent beauty and effortless grace. The details of the brand fade into irrelevance; Jungkook can’t bring himself to care.

It must have been the easiest photoshoot imaginable for the photographer. No adjustments necessary, no retakes. Just capture what’s already perfect.

And then, the final image.

Jungkook’s breath stutters.

Jimin stands poised in a light, double-breasted suit, its soft fabric tailored to perfection. He leans against the frame of what appears to be a car interior, his body angled just enough to tempt but not to fully reveal. His upward gaze is heavy-lidded, deceptively coy, a knowing challenge to the viewer: look into his eyes, if you dare — and not at the tempting parted lapel of his jacket, where collarbones emerge, flawless and bare.

Everything about the shot — the muted lighting, the soft play of highlights and shadows — conspires to undo him.

Jungkook stares, the page still between his fingers, unable to decide where his eyes should rest. Every detail pulls at him, and he feels like he’s losing himself in the folds of paper.

He shuts the magazine, his chest heaving. What the hell is this feeling?

He looks around, irrationally afraid that his thoughts and feelings might be conspicuous enough to attract attention. Sounds reach him from the bathroom behind him.  He pushes his frame deeper against the sofa to hide from sight (just in case) and lets his heart race to calm down, breathing in and out quietly through his nose.

He waits a while more, unmoving, until no sound from behind the bathroom door reaches his ears. Even then, he lingers, undisturbed by Yaong’s ritual grooming on his pyjama pants.

He puts the magazine neatly into its original place, making sure it looks as if nobody had touched it, then sits back and grabs his phone. Why hadn’t he started with that?

Pictures of Park Jimin swarm his search page in no time, some of the magazine pictures among them, but also more of him, either with this alluring mysterious aura in dimmed light and seemingly untidy apparel, or with this ethereal, untouched natural beauty.

Eyes staring ahead beyond the screen, his mind goes blank — as it often does when he’s had too much to take in, his mental space overfilled with impressions to sift, sort, and comprehend. When the surrounding silence finally thickens, refusing to be ignored, he shakes himself out of this state, rising slowly to head for a cleansing shower.

Gently, he tugs his pyjama pants from under Yaong, who watches him with her indignant, ‘Don’t you dare’ stare, mewing a protest that doesn’t faze him. He leaves the shirt behind as a compromise.

He taps lightly on the bathroom door and, when no response comes, opens it a crack, peering inside before he steps in. It’s tidy and uncluttered, even though Jimin used it just recently while Jungkook had been dozing. The towel on the nearby rack is still damp; small puddles dot the shower floor, though the glass enclosure has been carefully wiped clean with a squeegee.

Everything in its place, undisturbed, as if nobody has been living here, unless Jungkook touches, observes. Smells.

That perfume he knows. It’s subtle at first, a floral intrigue he encountered just today in a narrow alley, hidden in a quiet backyard, where no one could see. He can’t resist lifting the bottle from the sink, noting its simple, delicate form — neither masculine nor feminine, both refined and quietly seductive. Designed to be beautiful, even empty. And why not have it kept as a piece of a collection. 

Though what a pity an empty bottle would be.

He uncaps it, and instantly, the scent blooms. A sweetly rich cherry blossom unfurls, crisp and just a bit spicy, leading to something deeper and more complicated: a warmth that whispers of rose, grounded in amber’s softness. It recalls a flower bed, bare collarbones, smokey eye makeup, a heavy gaze seizing his soul. The fragrance drifts through him, catching his breath, stirring reactions he hadn’t expected. It’s entrancing and refined, much like the one who wears it.

Goosebumps rise across his skin, his senses awakening, grasping for something he’s been missing for so long — the warm touch of a skin he longs to caress, soft whimpers and languid sighs that effortlessly shape in his mind. His body shudders in anticipation of something that must never happen, and it only stokes his desire further. Just behind that connecting door, Jimin lies, caring, loving, thinking of Jungkook’s brother.

Blood pulses through him, hard and relentless. The temptation to give in, right here in the solitude of the bathroom, grips him — Jimin’s scent and image filling his senses, drowning him in fantasies he knows are forbidden. This is his brother’s boyfriend he’s aching for — his fiancé, no less — a man who has taken on his brother’s pain, and welcomed him in his home. And here he is, entertaining luscious fancies, selfishly wanting more.

Jungkook sets the bottle back down, careful to make no sound, while his hand instinctively presses against his hiccuping chest, then down to his stirring pelvis. He bites down on his lip, hard enough to hurt, trying to distract himself from the electric pulse firing through him. He loves this feeling, but hates himself for it. In the mirror’s reflection, he sees the disaster he’s become, breathless and despicable.

In frustration, he strips down quickly, ignoring the way his semi bounces, and steps into the shower. The water tap is already set much hotter than usual; shame he hasn't noticed in time — the scalding heat makes him jolt and step back in a panicked mix of crying and hissing. He might be here to chastise something in himself, but he’d rather deal with cold water. He twists the knob the other way, hard and final.

The icy blast shocks him too, tearing another cry from his gaping mouth. His skin prickles as goosebumps rise again in protest, body recoiling from the unexpected punishment. Nothing is fair in love and war; his senses betrayed him first, after all.

He fights to control himself against the cold spray, suppressing the urge to relieve himself under the cover of the water’s roar. Instead, he grabs the nearest bottle of shower gel and focuses on the mechanics of washing, clearing his mind of anything else.

It takes several minutes before he finally feels calm, drying off quickly with a crumpled towel and pulling on pyjama pants full of cat hair. He returns to the sofa, feeling strangely detached from himself. What happened in the bathroom cannot bode well.

Besides, he’s too awake now to just sleep it off or dismiss it with a casual, ‘Tomorrow is another day.’

Not to mention that he has to wrestle with a sleeping cat to reclaim his T-shirt and comforter. Yaong is draped over the fabric, curled up like an empress in repose, her head delicately resting on her front paws. The warm light from the nearby table lamp spills over her, setting her sleek fur on fire and highlighting the golden eyes that blink open as he approaches, enhanced by the black blotch on her snout. Her ears twitch, swivelling toward him at his every move.  

He circles the sofa with deliberate caution, gauging her mood. She tracks him without turning her head, watching from the corner of her eye, unmoving but undeniably alert. Provocative in her stillness.  

Jungkook lowers himself to sit beside her, their gazes locked in a silent standoff. Slowly, he extends a hand toward the covers. She watches. He closes his fingers around the edge of the blanket. She watches. A tentative tug. Still watching.  

Another pull. No reaction.  

He waits, weighing his options. A forceful yank would do the trick, but he knows better than to provoke her wrath. Instead, he considers a softer approach: gathering her in his arms, coaxing her with a cuddle and a gentle relocation to one of her cushions. But just as he’s formulating his plan, she breaks eye contact, her attention drawn elsewhere, toward a sound only she can hear.  

The soft creak of a floorboard in the entryway. Another.  

Jungkook stills, his focus shifting to the faint noise. Yaong springs down from her perch without warning, trotting off toward the source, nudging the living room door open with her paw. The front door creaks open, its hinges groaning under the slow motion. A moment later, it clicks shut with a quiet but resolute clank, the lock sliding back into place.  

Silence reclaims the room. He grabs his T-shirt, pulling it over his head in quick, irritated movements, before turning the light off, yanking the duvet around himself and lying down on the creaky leather of the sofa.  

Irritation gnaws at him for some reason, simmering low in his chest.  

He stares at the ceiling, his gaze following the erratic patterns of headlights reflected through the unshuttered window. The light from the nearest streetlamp cuts across them, forming a chaotic lattice of illumination that feels oddly fitting. He should close the shutters, but the thought of getting up again makes him groan inwardly. He’s already settled, and the idea of starting over feels like such a hassle. 

Sleep, though, refuses to come.  

Images from the evening flood his mind in fragments, vivid and inescapable. Junghyun’s sharp remarks, Jimin’s quiet patience. The tension that wrapped around the dinner table like barbed wire. Tiny toes peeking from loose pants. Crescent moon eyes softening. A crooked tooth beneath a shy smile. Charmingly imperfect.

And then the modelling photos from the magazine — contemplative, beautiful. Perfect.

It hits him hard. Again. His chest swells and aches and breathing fails him for a second.

“Shit.”  

He kicks off the blanket in frustration, swinging his legs over the edge of the sofa. Standing abruptly, he strides to the window, slamming the shutters closed with a thud that does nothing to stop the intrusive light bleeding through the cracks. What’s the fucking point?  

He lingers there for a moment, his forehead resting against the wooden panes. The night air, mild and inviting, seeps through the interstices. Only then does he fully register the sound of the front door he heard earlier. There’s no one else it could’ve been. Jimin, of course, slipping out quietly. And where else would he go in the middle of the night but to the back garden?  

Jungkook exhales sharply, the weight of the evening pressing down harder. Dinner had been a battlefield for Jimin and Junghyun, the push-and-pull relentless and exhausting to witness. Watching them play their roles — mouse to cat, fire to ice — left Jungkook drained, unsure where to look, what to say, or how to act.  

Their shared history sounds like a labyrinth of pain, heavy and complex, its twists and turns stretching far beyond Jungkook’s grasp. Skeletons crowd their closet, rattling louder with every exchanged glance. It doesn’t make Jungkook feel any less clueless, nor does it make him feel more at ease.  

Should he follow? Seize the opportunity to ask questions?

Jimin is out there, alone, likely soaking in the quiet, a respite from everything and everyone. If Jungkook were in his place, he’d crave the same. Would Jimin welcome his company?  

Would he welcome it knowing Jungkook’s heart beats louder under his attention?  

“He can’t know that, stupid.”

He turns away from the open balcony doors, leaving them ajar as the night air drifts in. Sliding his feet into his slippers, he begins his quiet descent toward the door, navigating the furniture with careful precision in the now denser darkness. He deliberately avoids turning on the lights, even though the likelihood of Junghyun catching a glimpse of him from his room is slim.  

Why he’s so intent on ensuring his brother remains unaware of this late-night meeting with Jimin is a question he doesn’t bother answering fully, even to himself. Half a mystery, half a personal secret he intends to keep buried.  

He slips out of the apartment with the same stealth Jimin had used earlier. Two men sneaking through the night, each hiding something, perhaps from themselves more than anything. Then again, maybe not. Jimin may have been aware that Jungkook was still awake, and expected Jungkook to follow. The possibility hovers in his mind, enticing yet dangerous. Though it assumes too much, doesn’t it?  

Damn the automated stair light. It blinks to life with a clinical brightness, shattering the illusion of secrecy. So much for slinking back unnoticed. Better get on with it now, he thinks, as he descends the steps and heads towards the back doors, heart hammering against his chest.

“Oh, hey,” Jungkook blurts, voice too loud, too abrupt for the quiet garden. “I didn’t know I’d find you here. I was, uh, looking for Yaong-ah everywhere.” Jimin turns to him, unflinching. Fat, fat lie. Fuck. “Okay, I’m lying. I heard you leave. She followed you, and I got worried.” A half-truth now. Better. Not great, but better.  

“Why worry if I’m with her? I’ll always bring her back, you know.”  

“Yeah, of course. I… I hadn’t thought of that.”  

Jimin’s gaze lingers, cutting through the feeble excuse, looking up at him like in the magazine though with no intent at seduction, but Jungkook’s already bewitched anyway. “But you expected to meet me, didn’t you?”  

Jungkook exhales sharply, deciding to drop the pretence. “As much as you expected me to notice you leave, I suppose. I wasn’t sleeping.” He shrugs, awkward but resolute. “Still, I certainly needed some air. Had to get out of that living room for a bit.” He thinks about sitting down next to Jimin, against the wall, under the wisteria, exactly where he found him yesterday, but decides to stand for a while and look ahead instead.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Jimin replies, his tone softer now. “You’d be more comfortable in a hotel than on that sofa. I never meant for it to sound like I was throwing you out.”  

Jungkook shakes his head quickly. “No worries. I got it. A hundred percent. Makes perfect sense. If you’ve got a good hotel in mind nearby, I’ll talk to Junghyun-hyung about it tomorrow.”  

A pause stretches between them. Then, quieter: “Don’t do that. Please. Not now. It’s too late.”  

Jungkook frowns, looking back at him from where he’s standing. “What do you mean?”  

Jimin hesitates, his voice turning fragile at the edges. “He’ll blame me for it. Endlessly.”  

A long, weighted silence settles. Finally, Jungkook breaks it. “Is he always like that?” 

Jimin looks away, his expression tightening. “No. Not always. But more and more often, I think. Or maybe it hasn’t changed. Maybe I’ve just started noticing more. Honestly, I don’t know. Don’t take anything I say as truth.”  

“But you’re the person who knows him best.”  

Jimin lets out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “No. I’m not. I don’t know him. Not really. How could I? How could anyone? How do you even begin to understand someone waiting for the end?” His voice cracks faintly. “God, he must be so, so scared.”  

Jungkook’s ribcage clenches, burning with shame at the mere memory of getting senselessly horny in such a context. What is he, a brainless teen?

He finally goes to sit down next to Jimin, his voice small when he replies. “Yet, he acts like he’s not.”  

“I know,” Jimin whispers. “He’s incredible that way. I’d be petrified. That’s why he keeps me at arm’s length, I think. To protect me.”  

Another pause falls, thick and heavy, as if the night itself holds its breath.  

“His brain is damaged. Irreversibly. It’s been like this ever since the first crisis, as it wasn’t treated in time. With meningitis, every minute counts. By the time they’d diagnosed it, the infection had already spread. Over the years, he’s fought through it all: head-splitting migraines, constant seizures, loss of concentration, problems with coordination. His eyesight and hearing are both in decline, too.”

Jungkook’s throat tightens as Jimin’s words sink in.

"And now an aneurysm." Jimin's voice rises at the end, as if he is not surprised by the cruel irony that the world keeps playing. “They diagnosed it three weeks ago.”

Aneurysm.

He might as well say he's got a gun to his head — it all amounts to the same thing.

“Have they been trying any treatments?” Jungkook ventures, scared to ask stupid questions.

“Of course,” Jimin replies simply, still rubbing Yaong’s belly on the ground. “Every morning, an ambulance drives him to the hospital for daily treatments and monitoring, but —” He pauses. “Let’s face it, the damage is too extensive. The pressure inside his brain makes surgery impossible.”

Jungkook’s eyes haven’t left Jimin’s perfect profile, watching his mouth move as he speaks the truth he’s been struggling to extract from his brother since he arrived. Somehow, shrouded in the semi-darkness of this peaceful haven, it doesn’t make the reality any softer, not after what he saw and heard tonight. At best, it looks and sounds like a conspiracy of some sorts, of two informants meeting dangerously in an unrealistic hide-out to share classified information but whose collaboration is key. 

Way to ease the feeling of guilt that has been gnawing Jungkook’s insides since his shower mishaps. It should make him feel worse and yet, it’s the idea of leaving Jimin’s side that does.

Hence he takes advantage of the silent pause to clear his mind, to sort the urgent from the unwanted and work up the nerve to ask, "Did they… give him a timeline?"

He expects some rebuttal, an expression of offence and shock at daring to voice the unspeakable. However, Jimin’s silence speaks volumes and is harder to take than he thought. 

“Well, they’re hesitant to put it in numbers for sure…” he replies, just as tonelessly as before. “But honestly… every day, he’s living on borrowed time.”

When he turns back to face the garden and lets his head fall against the wall behind him, he feels disconnected from the world. From the beginning, the idea of his brother's existence in such an environment has felt too extraordinary to be real. And just as he was succeeding in making some sense out of it all, bit by bit, the news he's just heard, even though it matches what he's seen with his own eyes, only adds to the sense of alienation, as if his brain and heart hadn't yet communicated.

The only thought that crosses his mind right now is that he got here in time to see his brother alive, but he might not see him again after he leaves for South Korea in a few days. It’ll feel like abandoning him again.

How will he live with this?

“Actually…” Jimin’s voice reaches him in a whisper, surprisingly quieter this time, but distracting enough to burst his bubble of spiralling thoughts in time before it smothers him. “I have a favour to ask you…”

He’d finally turned his head to look at Jungkook, while he had avoided it during the whole conversation. Despite the darkness, they’re close enough for Jungkook to see Jimin’s eyes, expectant and hesitant at the same time, vulnerable, as if asking him something felt braver than anything he’d ever done before.

For Jungkook, they are mirrors into his own soul, and although he should hate what he sees, he realises that he enjoys it, that he would succumb to their attraction and drown in it most willingly.

Jungkook feels the weight of it, the power of Jimin’s gaze slipping past all his defences, striking at something he’s come down here to see vanish. Part of him wants to look away, to break free from this pull that is not proper, yet he can’t. Instead, he lets himself feel it fully: the strange, fierce need to fall into this, to see where it might lead, despite everything he knows he shouldn’t feel.

Feeling suddenly neglected, Yaong meows softly and rubs her head fervently against their legs. But the sight of Jimin facing him is much more compelling.

“Do you think you could go to the clinic with him in the morning and be here when the nurses and doctor give him their conclusion of the test? I can’t free myself as often as I want, and I generally leave before he does. Not to mention that he never updates me on what is said....” Jungkook watches him wet his lips and swallow. “It’d be a relief to him. And to me.”

Jungkook feels a rush of nerves at the thought — he hardly speaks French, and his English might not cover all the medical specifics. But looking into Jimin’s earnest, pleading eyes, he can’t say no. “If it’ll help…” he begins, voice more resolute as he continues, “Yes, I’ll be there. No problem. I’ll gladly do it.”

“It’s nothing pleasant, believe me. But Junghyun will accept your presence better.” The shadow of a smile emerges but is instantly swallowed by the surroundings. Still, it’s another small victory for Jungkook — another notch to be added to today’s not-insignificant score of small mercies.

Neither of them moves or says anything else for a few more blessed minutes, both looking straight ahead at the dark expanse of the garden in front of them. Despite the night and the overgrown wisteria that shelters them, Jungkook feels as exposed as ever, certain that the erratic rhythm of his heart is loud enough to be heard for miles around, that Jimin can see and feel right through him. He expects him to call him out on his feelings, to protest against their unacceptable nature, to kick him out, disappointed and angry: You can’t fall for me. You just can’t . What about Junghyun?

The way he pictures it all happening in his mind, right here and now ruining this sacred peace, makes his blood boil and run like fire under his skin, everything very dramatic, yet very sensorial.

Jungkook’s thoughts are spiralling so wildly that Jimin’s voice cuts through them like a shockwave. He nearly jumps out of his skin when Jimin says softly, “I have another favour to ask of you.”

The words are hesitant, edged with caution. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Jimin continues, glancing at him nervously. “But I’d really appreciate it if you refused Junghyun’s offer to come to the party on Friday night.”

Jungkook blinks, thrown off guard by the sudden request.

“I know how that sounds,” Jimin adds quickly, swallowing hard. “It’s not— Please don’t take offence. I… I just think you’d have a better time elsewhere. I have a friend here, a dear friend, Korean too. He knows Paris at night like the back of his hand. The best bars, the best restaurants. You’d have a great time with him — better than… better than with us.”

Jimin’s voice wavers, and when Jungkook finally meets his gaze, he sees the raw vulnerability there—pleading eyes, almost glossy, as if holding back tears.

Jungkook answers before he can think better of it. “No problem.”

Jimin’s shoulders sag in visible relief, but the sight feels like a slap to Jungkook’s face. The weight of what just happened crashes down on him.

He wasn’t mistaken about Jimin’s expression earlier. That implosion of despair, that cracking of composure — it wasn’t a misunderstanding. He wasn’t welcome.

And yet, hearing Jimin’s plea had stirred something far deeper and more painful in him. He couldn’t refuse, not when Jimin looked like that, even if it left Jungkook reeling with the unmistakable truth:

He doesn’t belong here, and yet, he can’t blame Jimin for feeling this way towards him. But that’s the elephant in the room best left for another day, since Jimin gets up, dusting his pants off.

“I probably should be going. It’s been a long day.” He towers over Jungkook, a shy smile dancing on his tired face. “You probably should too, if you want to get up early. Don’t let Yaong-ie distract you. She’s a greedy princess.”

“Ah yeah, that she is,” he replies as calmly as his racing heart allows. “I guess that makes me the helpless prince charming…”

“Only if you find a dragon to slay,” Jimin plays along, lingering by the door.

“Does taming a cat count? Sounds epic enough,” Jungkook quips, looking at the blissfully sprawled-out Yaong. He chuckles. “But if I can manage her, I’ll count it as a win.”

"I hate to know that she's locked out at night, just as much as I hate not to let her live her life too. It’s been a dilemma ever since I got her. She's a bit of an adventurer and so trusting. She acts as if she owns the whole block but it’s just an act, really. She’s vulnerable.”

Jungkook nods, his gaze steady on Jimin’s, his voice low and intent. “I’m aware. I’ll be careful.”

The words hang between them, weighty, as though they’ve crossed into a territory neither expected. Their eyes stay locked, and it’s as if something unsaid — unnameable — passes from one to the other.

Jimin tilts his head ever so slightly. “Then, you’ll be worthy, brave knight.”

Yaong breaks the spell with an imperious meow, her golden eyes demanding attention.

Jimin chuckles, bending down once more to scratch her head, brushing Jungkook’s knuckles already nestled in the depths of her long fur The proximity of his crescent eyes, however tired, makes Jungkook’s heart skip a beat. “He’s yours now.” 

“Oh, and something else,” he adds as he straightens up. He meets Jungkook’s eyes, a dimmed halo surrounding his head for a brief moment. “Junghyun’s right. Hyung is fine.”

Yaong doesn’t follow him when he leaves, instead arching into Jungkook’s hand as he scratches her neck.

“Traitor,” Jungkook whispers with mock indignation, his fingers skimming over her soft fur. Then, as if confessing a secret, he murmurs, “You’re cute, Yaong-ah. But your owner is way cuter.”

The cat blinks lazily at him, as if in agreement.

Cr Magi

Chapter Text

If there’s such a thing as a sensory awakening, Jungkook could bottle this moment and sell it as a cautionary tale. Waking up with one’s skin glued to a leather sofa is bad enough, but add the sharp sting of claws to the chest and a screeching doorbell that drills straight into the skull, and the experience achieves a kind of grotesque perfection.

The doorbell shrieks again, relentless and almost vindictive.

Jungkook pushes himself upright, legs wobbling, wincing as he rubs the spot where Yaong’s claws had made their sudden, startled escape.

Who the hell dares to disturb anyone at… he squints at the oven clock… 9:30 a.m.?

Shit. It’s already that late?

A fresh wave of alarm washes over him.

Junghyun-hyung! When was he supposed to leave for the clinic?

And seriously, what kind of psycho gets their kicks from abusing a doorbell?

The honking of car horns joins the chaos outside, escalating his irritation. Fantastic.

“Yes!” he yells into the intercom, his voice hoarse. “What the hell?” He doesn't care if he’s yelling in English; Junghyun once told him most Parisians wouldn’t understand anyway.

The reply, however, comes in sharp, accented English: “Your bloody ambulance! Will you finally come down today? We’re blocking the whole street, in case you hadn’t noticed!”

An ambulance. Damn it.

“Just wait a second!” Jungkook releases the button before the paramedic can retort and bolts toward the main bedroom. “Hyung! Junghyun-hyung! The ambulance is here!” He stops at the door, forcing himself to breathe before knocking, trying to mask the edge of panic. “Hyung? Are you ready? They’re waiting. I’ll come with you,” he adds, sparing a glance at his sweatpants and crumpled T-shirt.

Too late to change. It’ll have to do.

“Hyung?” He knocks again, harder this time, the doorbell’s insistent wail fueling his urgency. When no answer comes, he hesitates only briefly before pushing the door open.

The room greets him with stale air, oppressive darkness, and the cloying scent of sweat, sleep, and disinfectant.

“Hyung?” he calls again, stepping inside, careful not to trip on anything unseen. The light spilling in from the hallway only highlights the stark white sheets on the King-size bed. It’s empty, as is the mattress on the floor beyond the bed.

A jolt of panic shoots through him.

He dashes across the room, into the bathroom, flinging open the door. Empty. He moves to the living room, the kitchen, checking every corner of the apartment.

Nothing.

His brother is nowhere to be found.

“Shit!” Jungkook groans, running both hands through his hair as the doorbell shrieks again, accompanied by more blaring horns.

Barefoot, he bolts out the apartment door, phone glued to one ear, takes the stairs two at a time, and buzzes the heavy entrance door open. Voicemail. The white ambulance with its glaring blue cross is still parked outside, the driver, dressed in a dark blue uniform, leaning against the side, radiating irritation.

“Are you finally ready?” the man snaps, arms crossed.

“That’s not me,” Jungkook blurts, raising one hand in surrender, while dialing his brother again. Voicemail.

The paramedic’s scowl deepens. “What do you mean, you’re not you?”

“I mean, I’m not the patient! You’re waiting for my brother,” Jungkook explains, trying to sound calm while his heart pounds. “Jeon Junghyun. He’s my brother.”

The driver exhales sharply, his frustration only marginally dampened by Jungkook’s frazzled state. “Where is he, then?”

“I… I don’t know. He’s supposed to be here, but he’s not.”

The man levels a withering glare at him, but his tone softens just enough to suggest pity. “Look, mate, we’ve waited long enough. If you see your brother, tell him we’re not coming back. We’ve got other patients to tend to.”

“Wait, what?” Jungkook rushes to the ambulance’s passenger window as the driver climbs back in. “You’re not coming back? What’s that supposed to mean?”

The window rolls down halfway, and the paramedic leans out. “It means your brother’s been jerking us around long enough, wasting our time and resources. And he won’t be getting his money back. You can tell him that, too.”

Before Jungkook can protest further, the ambulance pulls away, the driver’s words leaving a hollow pit in his chest. He barely has time to step back before the following parade of honking cars surges past.

He stands frozen on the curb, barefoot, bewildered, and somehow, more confused than ever.

When he steps back inside, the air feels as stifling as in the bedroom upstairs. His mind reels, tangled in indecision. What now? His feet falter at the threshold of the kitchen as he spots Yaong lounging serenely in a sunbeam spilling through the backyard’s glass doors. She stretches lazily, utterly indifferent to the turmoil in his chest.

The door. He must have left it ajar in his rush. Stupid .

He remembers Jimin’s voice, advising to never let her out if no one’s home to let her back in.

Right. He can’t leave her out if he needs to go out.

Does he even need to go out?

Where to?

The words of the paramedic echo. It means your brother’s been jerking us around long enough, wasting our time and resources.

Could that be true? Has his hyung forgotten his medical appointments? Many times? In a row? The thought feels impossible, but then again — Jimin. Jimin would have checked, surely, reminded him every day. He doesn’t know Jimin well, not yet, but it’s easy to picture him doing just that: meticulous, practical, tireless. Always stepping in where others might falter.

But what if this was one of those cracks even Jimin couldn’t patch?

Jungkook’s stomach churns as the truth gnaws at him.

He was supposed to be there today. To sit quietly and listen to the doctors' conclusions. To seize the opportunity to ask questions. To report back to Jimin, just as he personally asked him to do.

What could he possibly say to Jimin now?

A rumbling meow draws his gaze back to reality. Yaong, staring at him expectantly by the closed glass doors, her fluffy tail wagging in anticipation.

“Yah, Yaong-ah! Where do you think you’re going?” He heads to the door, steps surprisingly as resolute as his pulse.

Of course. He has to go to the clinic anyway.

The clinic is all clean lines and cold grandeur, where every surface gleams with an uninviting perfection. Polished floors stretch endlessly under soft, diffused lighting, throwing off just enough glare to make Jungkook squint. Walls of muted beige and off-white are punctuated by sleek digital panels flashing codes and directions, yet they seem to lead nowhere.

The corridors twist and branch with a logic only known to people working here, each intersection flanked by identical doors stamped with numbers and labels in a language he doesn’t speak. A set of large windows near the waiting area offers a view of the immaculately landscaped gardens outside, only to mock him with their natural clarity and order.

Phone in hand, camera set to his translation app, Jungkook trudges through the endless maze of corridors, each turn identical to the last. Twice already, he’s been redirected to different staff, all professional smiles and manicured softness sending him deeper to whatever Minotaur there is at the far end of this labyrinth.

Every faceless hallway feels like a personal affront, grinding on his nerves as frustration builds with every misstep. If they send him to the wrong floor again, he swears he’ll raise hell. What kind of place is this? Why isn’t everything as efficient as back home in South Korea?

At last, a reception desk materialises in the distance, like a mirage in this sterile desert. Fearful it might vanish, he quickens his steps, shouting, “Er… Hello!” while waving his free hand.

The receptionist, a young man with a taut smile that barely holds, looks up. “Can I help you?” he asks, his English strained but comprehensible.

“Yes, I’m Jeon Junghyun’s brother. Jeon Junghyun is one of your patients.” Jungkook’s own English isn’t perfect, but at least they’re an even match here.

“Are you sure you’re in the right department? What’s he treated for?”

“How would I know?” Jungkook snaps, then softens his tone, catching himself. “I mean… I don’t know. Look, you’re the third person to ask me that, and I can’t answer because I only found out my brother is sick two days ago. Please don’t send me away again. I really need your help.”

The receptionist pauses, his skeptical gaze softening as he considers Jungkook’s earnestness. “What’s his name again?”

“Jeon Junghyun.”

The man eyes Jungkook for a significant pause before sliding a scrap of paper across the counter. “I’m afraid you’ll have to write it down for me.”

Bless those Roman alphabet lessons in school.

The receptionist types with deliberate precision, his eyes darting between the paper and the screen. His mouse clicks fill the oppressive silence. When he leans on his desk, his palm cradling his chin, Jungkook watches his every facial expression nervously.

“O...kay.”

“Okay?” Jungkook straightens.

“Actually… no. It’s not okay.” The receptionist sighs and rubs his brow. “Look, my English is limited, but… Wait, how do I know he’s really your brother? I’m not supposed to disclose a patient’s information.”

Jungkook reins in his exasperation. Fair enough, he thinks, pulling out the documents he packed for situations like this.

“This is my birth certificate, and… here.” He hands over the family records written entirely in Korean, then places his phone on the counter with Papago’s translation tool ready. “This is our family registry. You can see our parents’ names here, my brother here, and me. And here’s my passport — it’s in English.”

The receptionist scans the documents with a skeptical but methodical eye. “And you say you didn’t know your brother was sick?”

“No.” Jungkook hesitates. “We… grew distant. But I’m staying with him now.”

“And he hasn’t told you anything about his condition?”

Jungkook braces himself against a sigh and types a few sentences into his app in Korean because he has no idea how to repeat in English what Jimin had told him. He plays the app’s answer (before realising he could have switched it to French rather than staying in English but oh well). “I know he had meningitis a long time ago. That it caused impairments. Headaches, hearing issues, vision problems, loss of coordination, extreme fatigue. He had a seizure not long ago, too.”

Jungkook presses pause, watching for any sign of confirmation, but the receptionist remains silent, his steady gaze urging Jungkook to continue.

“And… he’s dying,” Jungkook adds softly, reading the rest of the words on his screen with care. “I know about the…. an…eu…rysm too.”

The receptionist exhales, a slight nod acknowledging the gravity of the situation. “At least you’re aware of how serious this is. Could you convince him to come in for his treatment? We haven’t seen him in three weeks.”

“What?” Jungkook’s voice rises in disbelief.

“We’ve called him,” the receptionist says, scrolling through the file on his screen. “The doctor called him too. Emails were sent. No response. He did have a prescription — yes, it’s here — but it’s not enough. You know that, right? He needs proper care.”

“How often is he supposed to come?” Jungkook asks, his voice tight with unease.

“Every other day,” the receptionist replies, his tone clipped. “He needs alternating injections to stabilise his condition and manage the aneurysm. An ambulance is scheduled to pick him up and return him home each time. They’ve reported being stood up every single time for the past three weeks.”

“Yeah, I….” Jungkook swallows hard. “I ran into one of them earlier.”

“Really?” The man raises an eyebrow. “Then why didn’t your brother follow them?”

“He’d already left... I don’t know where he is.”

The receptionist lets out a pointed sigh, leaning over the counter slightly. “Look. I’m not sure how to put this, but your brother refusing treatment is sending a bad signal. Do you understand? It’s unreasonable, at the very least. While you’re here, you need to do something. This situation doesn’t look good. It really doesn’t.”

“I know! That’s why I’m here,” Jungkook snaps, his voice rising before he can stop himself. The reprimand stings, expanding the guilt already eating him alive. He knows he’s been careless, but he doesn’t need the reminder every occasion.

The receptionist doesn’t flinch. Instead, he clicks through the file on his screen, then steps away to retrieve something from the printer. The machine whirs and spits out a crisp sheet of paper, which the man stamps and signs before sliding it across the counter.

“This is the bill for the treatment: medication and transportation,” he explains evenly. “Even though your brother didn’t show up, the clinic had to prepare everything as scheduled. Some of the medications are expensive and have a limited storage life. That’s a double waste, but for your peace of mind, his insurance might cover a portion of it.”

When Jungkook sees the five digits at the foot of the bill, the breath is knocked clean out of him.

Fourteen thousand euros.

About twenty-one million won, his currency app converts for him.

Holy fuck .

Does he even have that much in his personal account? Certainly not. Maybe if he drained his savings. Fuck, fuck, fuck .

“Do you... Do you mind if I make a call?” he asks, voice thin and strangled by the strain of holding back the wildfire of panic that’s roaring in his chest.

He steps back, away from the piercing gaze of the receptionist, whose suspicion seems to grow by the second, and dials his brother’s number for what feels like the fiftieth time that morning.

Voicemail. Of course. Of fucking course .

Clutching his phone as though it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth, his thumb swipes across the screen, aimless and erratic, opening random apps without intention. His thoughts churn, loud and discordant, like a murder of ravens shrieking over a battlefield, pecking at the ruins of his hard-won independence and fragile pride.

Time seems to double back on itself, cruelly looping him into a decision he hasn’t yet made, until he finds himself turning around. His credit card feels weightless in his hand, but impossibly heavy as he places it on the counter and lets the receptionist’s mastered motions guide his own.

Just when he thought his spirits couldn't sink any lower, now that his account is empty, his willpower is melting like snow in the sun.  How can anyone be so heavy-stepped and feel so drained of everything? 

And it’s not even noon. 

The gardens of the clinic offer no clarity, only the illusion of serenity he can’t seem to grasp. He stands there, phone in hand, cycling between indecision and frustration.

When his phone rings, his brother’s name flashing on the screen, the surge of emotion is so sharp it nearly buckles his knees.

“Jungkook-ah. Ten calls in less than an hour? Are you crazy?”

“Wha—” Jungkook grips the phone tighter, nearly shaking with disbelief. Is he really the crazy one here? “Hyung. Where. The fuck. Have you been?”

“Yah! Who do you think you’re talking to like that?”

“I’m talking to my hyung, who’s supposed to lead by example!” Jungkook fires back, his words laced with venom he can’t hold back. “Do you have any idea wher—”

“And I’ve been doing just that! All my fucking, short life! Living my best to be an example, to be dependable. Someone you could look up to. Whose fault is it that I got sick as fuck? Mine? Yours?”

Jungkook exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose as his vision blurs with mounting fury. He forces his voice to stay even, though it’s taut with restraint. “Where are you?”

Junghyun’s voice barrels past the question, his tone escalating in anger. “I’ve been taking care of you! I’ve always thought about you, Jungkook! All this time! What about you? Where the fuck were you all these years?”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, the weight of each accusation pressing on him like lead.

“And you think you have the right to yell at me now? Where were you when I was drowning in hospital bills? When I was fighting to stay in our family business? To show that I could be trusted, that I wouldn’t let them down despite my illness? Or do you think it was easy for me to watch them sacrifice me for you, the golden youngest who got to follow his dreams without a care in the world? Do you know how it felt, Kook-ah? Do you?”

Jungkook opens his mouth, but no words come out.

“And now, now—” Junghyun’s voice cracks on the other end. Heavy breathing. Panting. For endless seconds. Still, Jungkook hasn’t found his voice back.

“Now that you’ve decided… to grace me with your presence again, you think…. you think you can barge into my life…. and tell me what to do? Shit….” Junghyun is panting more and more, and for some reason, Jungkook doesn’t have it in him to interrupt his brother’s indictment. “Where were you when it mattered?.... You’re so quick to judge….You didn’t even know I was sick until… two days ago! Two days, Kook!”

The words strike with precision, each blow landing squarely on every raw, tender bruise Jungkook has been hiding. He bites down on his pride, forcing himself to absorb the hits that feel earned, deserved even.

Junghyun’s voice cracks with raw anger, a toxic mix of truth and exaggeration that pins Jungkook to the spot, ready for his final disintegration.

“So be mad…. Be mad at me for not…. for not playing along with your fantasy…. perfect little brother swooping in…. save the day….. I don’t care… because…. news flash, Jungkook… you’re too late…. I haven’t waited for you….  I know what I have to do…. FYI… I have treatments! Can’t spend all my time with you!”

Junghyun's words crackle in Jungkook's ear, blowing over what might be the last embers of his soul, igniting a lingering flicker of realisation, the kind of seemingly harmless spark that could burn down an entire city.

“That’s … I’m calling…. Got a notification…. about your bedroom. Delivery should be today.... afternoon.”

But Jungkook’s mind has stalled, frozen somewhere earlier in the conversation, unable to make any sense of the words pouring inside his ears with the same venom.

Junghyun’s lying.

He has never gone to get his treatment.

“My… bedroom?” The word sounds foreign on his tongue, even more so in such surroundings.

“Yes, your bedroom! Because I care!” Junghyun replies, breathless yet adamant in his defensive insistence. “Can’t keep my dongsaeng sleeping on a sofa in my home. So I ordered… Latest innovation…. for your comfort. ”

“I…” He never said it wasn’t good enough, never complained, but is there a point in arguing now?  Is there any point in discussing anything when the cracks in his brother’s facade show through?

“Be there,” Junghyun continues relentlessly, as if daring Jungkook to protest. “Guide the delivery guys upstairs…. I’ll be back…. after chemo.”

The call ends abruptly,  the sharp click of disconnection louder than any reply Jungkook could have offered.

Which is just as well.

Jungkook’s voice is gone.

Once back at the apartment, it doesn't take him long (a few minutes walking up and down the living room) to realise that he has nothing to do here, waiting for hypothetical delivery men to arrive.

This realisation takes him less time than it did to get home from the clinic; now that he's rehashed the conversation with his brother and let his lashes bleed him in all the right places; now that his blood poisoned by guilt and remorse has had time to drain; now that the abuse and the lie have had their unexpected purging effect.

He’s had time to let his bitterness ferment and bring to the surface several snapshots of memories, carefully buried in places whose GPS coordinates would also seem forgotten, for want of a key. What a mistake.

It's true that the brain hasn't yet finished revealing its secrets, and perhaps in some cases this represents hope — this is certainly the case for Junghyun. For others, like Jungkook, it's hard to say.

But here he is, whether he likes it or not.

He doesn’t like it one bit. The sting bites, hurts and already festers.

A blistering summer Sunday. They were playing soccer against the eastern side of the neighbourhood — adults and teens mixed together. Jungkook was just twelve, eager and wide-eyed, desperate to prove himself. But he missed the final goal, and their team lost.

“It’s fine, Kook-ah. Everyone was counting on you and you froze. It happens. I told them so and of course they know it. They understand. You’ll do better next time, I’m sure.”

No he hadn’t. He hadn’t frozen, nor panicked as he heard later among jeers and laughs. And it had nothing to do with pressure, as Junghyun had been telling everyone and their mothers. 

But the rumour mill had done its deed and it took him years to shake off that sheepskin his brother had woven for him from his back.

“You’re too young to understand what you have, Jungkook-ie. Don’t feel bad about this school. You wouldn’t want to let Mom and Dad down by not living up to their expectations, right? I’m older, I can make better use of the opportunity.”

A prestigious opportunity that Jungkook would never get again until he proved himself after high school, thanks to some tutoring tailored by Kim Namjoon, while his older brother continued on his own.

And the unshakable feeling that Jungkook had actually let his family down by agreeing to this arrangement, added up to a few more memories of Junghyun taking the credit — not that he's entirely wrong to blame Jungkook for his years of avoidance.

There might be more meaning to that than meets the eye is all he can think about now.

Not an excuse though, true.

Shit, he’ll become insane if he stays here, going round in circles. 

His eyes pause and zoom in the pile of fashion magazines neatly stacked under the console, dart to Yaong unsuspectingly sleeping on top of his pajamas, then flash to the fridge where he had carefully stacked last night’s leftovers.

Never a good thing letting his thoughts bounce around and about on an empty stomach. Nor a good thing to have a meal alone with his thoughts. Right?

Right, Jeon Junghyun could take his high-tech mattresses and shove them. Jungkook isn’t about to stay here, stewing in his brother’s lies. Not today.

The Good Side - Troye Sivan

He hadn't exactly planned this, but he tells himself it's about duty. About keeping his word, going to the clinic and reporting back, even though Jungkook had failed half of that mission. 

Even though deep down, it isn't just that.

He exhales, glances down at the open food containers, placed between them, arranged on top of the cloth he had thought about taking at the last minute. A flimsy excuse to be here, but an excuse nonetheless. 

But worth every second spent going in circles in the middle of streets that look like any other, unable to remember his steps from the day before, only following his own determination, and avoiding obstacles.

He had expected some resistance, after showing up unannounced at his workshop, but Jimin had only cocked his head in wonder before stepping out with a quick word to Elias in French (who did send him a suspicious glance) and closing the door behind him.

It took Jungkook the entire walk to the southern tip of this small island in the middle of the Seine river to figure out what to say, and how.

How to say that his brother lied, that he hasn’t shown up for treatment in weeks, that Jungkook’s broke and furious and completely out of his depth? That the only thing grounding him right now is the irrepressible pull dragging him to Jimin?

As he unpacked the food he had prepared, laid it all on the clean cloth, dusted the seat before sitting down himself, dutifully avoiding Jimin’s gaze as though he were at fault somewhere down the line — which he kinda is — he had blurted out everything the nurse had told him, without trying to sugarcoat anything, because he knew Jimin wouldn’t want him to, nor to leave out any detail. 

He told him about getting up too late, about missing the ambulance, about paying for the treatment, about Junghyun making him feel like shit — which he deserved, granted.

Yeah, he said that too.

And Jimin had not commented.

In fact, he hasn’t said anything at all, ever since they’ve left the workshop. Oddly enough, Jungkook doesn’t feel bad about it. He’s felt far worse since stepping into this city. But telling Jimin everything that has happened today has come naturally, without even second-guessing his decision, as if that’s the least he owes him in return for his trust and promise to make things work between them — there’s nothing he wants more as of now.

Besides, Jimin’s silence is comforting, healing. He has accepted a few bites from Jungkook’s kimbap and egg rolls. He hesitated over the cold japchae and displayed a preference for the potato salad instead.

Now he’s turned his head towards the water and Junkook can’t get enough of the sight.

Jimin's three-quarter profile against the glittering expanse of the Seine in the midday sun is worth the knot in Jungkook’s chest, the flickering wire pulsing under his skin, and the butterflies fighting for blood. A whimsical draft of air playing with his dark hair only adds to this ethereal vision, sketching it in between reality and dream.

The delicate line of his neck diving under the rich collar of his shirt, the outline of his dark hair framing his left ear in a curve, the sparkling silver hoop earring sending sharp darts of blinding light into Jungkook’s consenting eyes.

Soft browns graciously envelop his peaceful body, harmoniously contrasting with his fair skin.  His right foot is balancing over the crossed legs, to a tune only Jimin can hear. His left arm lies relaxed along the back of the bench, cute fingers dangling idly and toying with Jungkook’s field of vision.

When he finally turns back around and faces Jungkook, Jimin startles ever so slightly at something only he can perceive. It never fails to make Jungkook’s heart jump to his throat when Jimin’s eyes land on him.

"Did you actually eat today, or did you just bring all this for me?" he finally says, eyeing the remaining food.

Jungkook huffs, caught off guard. "I might’ve skipped breakfast..."

Jimin sighs, shaking his head before nudging a piece of kimbap toward Jungkook with his chopsticks. "Then stop staring and eat."

It’s so unexpected and compromising that Jungkook freezes. His heart lurches, his stomach twists — not from hunger, but from the way Jimin looks at him, like he’s not difficult to read. Like it’s simple.

“Not fair,” Jungkook says, trying to laugh it off. Nothing’s simple here.

Jimin blinks at him, tilting his head slightly. "Not fair? How?"

Jungkook hesitates, then waves it off, flustered. "Forget it.” He grabs the kimbap with his fingers from between Jimin’s chopsticks and eats it all up.

Jimin doesn’t press, but something in his expression shifts — just slightly — and Jungkook feels so exposed that his jaw struggles to move and munch the food properly. He takes his time lest he suffocates, his mind reeling, scraping around for a way out.

Then, once the food is safely down his throat, from out of nowhere, he asks, "Busan… don’t you miss it?"

Jimin tilts his head again and Jungkook expects him to change topics — not just because he remembers he had avoided it before, but because there’s something cautious about himself, hesitant in the way he asks it now. Like the words taste unfamiliar even to him.

Yet, Jimin considers it. "I don’t know," he admits. "Sometimes I think I do. The smell of the ocean in the morning, the lights of Gwangan Bridge reflecting over the surface at night. But then I remember how much I wanted to leave. Home never really felt like home."

Jungkook studies him for a moment, torn between the pull to know more about Jimin and the prudence not to insist too much on what clearly is a touchy topic. Still, feeling unexpectedly bold, he asks, "How did you and my brother meet?"

A brief flicker in Jimin’s expression — something unreadable, but not necessarily closed off. He exhales slowly before saying, "On the street.”

Jungkook’s smile unexpectedly quirks up, “Oh, so it’s true when Junghyun-hyung says you two were scouted by a random agent in the street?”

"On the street, Jungkook." Jimin repeats, his eyes landing on Jungkook as softly as the stress on the preposition is heavy.

Jungkook swallows. Not that he’d expected an easy answer, but hearing this, out loud, makes his chest tighten.

“I’d been roaming the streets of Busan since the summer, while he arrived at the flophouse I occasionally went to right before winter. The kind of place where you woke up to someone else’s footsteps disappearing with your shoes.”

Jungkook doesn’t move, but something about the way Jimin says it — flat, like it’s just a fact — makes his stomach twist and almost reject the food he last had.

“We had each other’s backs instantly. Besides, he didn’t need as much medical care back then as he does today.”

“Our parents can't have rejected him for his condition then, right?”

“That much is obvious. Right?” Jimin replies instantly, a meaningful insistence on the last word and his eyes never leaving Jungkook.

“So he got caught…”

Jimin scoffs slightly, the corner of his mouth perking up wryly. “That's one way to put it… very criminal-coded, but hey, that's how the motherland sees it.”

He goes for one of the leftover bulgogi skewers, taking his time munching one piece at a time. He hasn't been eating much despite the profusion of leftovers Jungkook had prepared. Still, he’s glad to see Jimin eat, even a little.

“Caught in the act. Quite literally. With a fellow soldier he had met during enlistment. Double betrayal.”

“Homosexuality is not a crime in South Korea,” Jungkook hastily replies.

“I’m not talking about betraying the nation. Junghyun felt betrayed, including by the nation. We both did.” Jimin’s still looking at him, expression unreadable. “Photos were taken, sent to your father…The rest is worthy of being the next K-drama.”

Jungkook’s too dumbstruck to react. Minutes pass by and they’re still looking at each other, unmoving.

“Who took the photos?”

“As if we knew… Namjoon-hyung tried to trace them down, but…”

This is the second time he’s heard that name in the most improbable moments. Is it that improbable though? His brother and Namjoon had been best friends. “Kim Namjoon? You mean, my hyung’s childhood friend? He knew about this?”

"Of course. They’re best friends." Present tense, then. That should be comforting, but instead it only deepens Jungkook’s confusion. Just three days ago, Namjoon only told him that he never knew why his brother had disappeared. He did say that, didn’t he? Jungkook tries to remember Namjoon’s exact words, searching for something to ground himself, some confirmation that he hadn’t misunderstood it, or worse, invented it or misconstrued it.

Then again, none of the past three days has felt real…

"It’s hard, you know” Jimin’s soft voice pulls him back, “watching someone you care about make themselves unreachable."

Jungkook feels desperate for words, knowing that he won't find any good ones. What is there to say, apart from something dumb like ‘I know, right?’

Another beat of silence before Jimin adds, almost absently, "Maybe that’s why I wanted you to go with him today. Even if he pushes me away, I knew you’d have a way to reach him."

Jungkook frowns. "And what about you? Who reaches you?"

Jimin goes quiet for a long moment, then looks away with a half-smile. "I guess I just learned how to stand still and let time pass."

The words hit Jungkook a little too perfectly, threading into the mess of thoughts already tangled in his head. Before he can stop himself, he says, "I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, but… I want to."

Jimin looks at him for a long moment, then — finally, finally — gives him a small, genuine smile.

"There are worse things to want."

If Jungkook could have bottled up one moment of his stay in Paris, this one wouldn’t have even made the shortlist. But years later, when memories come back in the middle of the night, he’ll curse himself for not realising how perfect this fleeting moment of peace had been. He and Jimin, sitting on a wooden bench whose green paint had cracked and vanished in many spots, facing the glistening river in the middle of Paris with eyes riveted upon each other instead, connecting through something they didn’t even know back then, feeling so remote from everything evil and yet far closer to it than they thought.

Jimin’s the one to break the spell as he gets up, dusting some nonexistent food bits from his clothes. “I’ll have to head back to the studio.”

It takes a second longer for Jungkook to jump into action and start packing up. “Oh. Yeah, of course. I’ll walk you—”

“You don’t have to. I know my way.”

“I know, but—”

“You must have plans. So much architecture to admire, right?”

No. The word instinctively rises to his lips but he catches himself just in time. Jimin does have other plans apparently and Jungkook is not part of them. He remembers it had miffed him a bit and almost cancelled out the communion he thought he had felt just a moment earlier.

“I don’t have plans… And just because it’s my job doesn’t mean I want to be surrounded by it twenty-four seven,” he replies, trying to laugh his disappointment off. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, the Louvre is a masterpiece.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming...” Jimin says, helping him pack up.

“No, no buts. Just…. I like gardens best, actually.”

“Ah, I think you mentioned that once, didn’t you?” He pauses to look at Jungkook, a soft amusement dancing into his moon-eyes. “Well, I can’t let you miss the chance to see the Jardins des Tuileries, then. Walk toward the Louvre, walk in by the first entrance you see but instead of walking closer, turn away and head into the gardens. You can’t miss them.” He pauses, thinking as he hands him the food containers. “Hopefully, they’re just your style."

The only thing that Jungkook really registers is that Jimin is pointing in the opposite direction from where they came.

“I’ll see you tonight. You’ll tell me about them, okay?” he says, already turning away.

Jimin’s back is already disappearing among the trees behind them before Jungkook finds it in himself to nod and exhale sharply at the same time.

Frustration bubbles up from his toes to his head, making his body itch in an unpleasant way. He finishes packing with unconcealed irritation, blaming the food boxes for refusing to close properly, the bag for not wanting to cooperate and open wide enough for him to stack the boxes, and his own feet for actually turning the other way instead of following Jimin.

He doesn't want to go to the museum, he doesn't want to see these gardens and he doesn't want to go home to take care of the bedroom delivery. He knows he's being a little childish, but that's how he gets when something he's enjoying ends too soon.

Talking himself out of it by admitting that it would be worse to have nothing to say tonight, he throws the bag over his shoulder and walks on.

Good To be Alive - Pvris

He spends the whole walk remembering this moment with Jimin over and over again, engraving his gentle features, his short fingers, his melodic voice into his mind. He realises that the intensity of the past few days might be clouding his perceptions and he worries he won’t be able to tell the difference between wishful thinking and reality.

How could it be otherwise, when Junghyun himself initiates and fuels the confusion? Jimin hadn’t seemed surprised when he told him his brother had been skipping exams and treatment for weeks. He hadn’t commented on it either —  this memory tightens something in Jungkook’s chest.

Jimin had entrusted him with something, and Jungkook had been hoping it could be the foundation for trust to grow. Last night, in the backyard, Jungkook hadn’t given it much thought. Now he realises he had expected more. To understand his brother’s erratic behaviour, the consequences of his decisions. More of Jimin’s perspective, his experiences, feelings, plans. Get a pass into his inner thoughts. Foolish wish.

Jungkook walks with no real direction, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders tense against the warm afternoon evening air, instantly cooled under the shade of the high manicured hedges. The Jardins des Tuileries stretch around him, endless rows of hedges and symmetrical paths, unquestioned sculpted beauty. Many strollers wander around, in twos, threes, families with baby carriages, children making the compacted gravel paths shriek under their bikes. Everything is peace and leisure. He should find it calming. He usually would. But today every perfect line, every trimmed shrub feels suffocating, like walls closing in on him.

"There are worse things to want."

Jimin’s voice loops in his mind, threading itself through the rhythm of his steps, slipping under his skin. He hates how easily Jimin gets in his head — how effortlessly he disrupts Jungkook’s careful balance, turning certainty into questions, resistance into temptation.

The crunch of gravel beneath his feet keeps him grounded. But then, faint, just behind him, almost masked by the soft din of the voices around. Footsteps.

Jungkook stops. The sound stops too.

His pulse jumps, but when he turns, there’s nothing. Just the long, empty alleyway behind him, flanked by rows of neatly trimmed trees casting shadows too long to be real. 

A couple of young women appear from behind a hedge, deep in conversation.

Then, a child, holding a ball.

He exhales, shakes his head. Get a grip.

He walks faster now, eyes scanning the paths and enclosed spaces around. So much order, no room for originality. Just like home. Just like the life mapped out for him, the expectations he never asked for.

He should probably call home by the way, give them an update. 

And tell them what? How?

His hands curl into fists in his pockets. He doesn’t know what’s worse — the feeling of being monitored or the feeling of hiding.

Fuck, Jimin’s so hard to read. Everything he says carries multiple layers of meaning, several threads left dangling for Jungkook to grasp and untangle, until he finds the right one. How many tries does he have? He could well pull at each one, unravel them one by one. Or all at once and see what happens. He’s just so fucking tired of being left in the dark.

“ Salut, beau gosse. Ça va? ”

Jungkook looks up, only now realising he’s wandered deep into one of those enclosed squares of high hedges.

A young man stands before him, head tilted in mild curiosity, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“Are you okay?” he then asks in English, his accent similar to the nurse’s at the clinic. He looks about Jungkook’s age, dark-haired, slightly curly on the sides, and, not that Jungkook usually pays much attention to that sort of thing, but dressed in this effortlessly casual chic way that only the French seem to pull off (from his limited experience, at least).

What gets him is the realisation that this perfect stranger, in this perfect place, here and now, is the first to ask him if he’s alright. The first since he landed.

“My brother’s dying,” Jungkook blurts out in the bluntest English he knows. Way to introduce oneself.

The recoil is immediate and the stranger’s easy composure vanishes. “Oh wow, dude. Can’t say I expected that… Erm, I’m sorry?”

“And the only thing I can think of is his boyfriend.” Jungkook hears the words leave his mouth before he even processes them. He hadn’t planned on saying that, hadn’t planned on saying anything at all. Maybe he feels unable to handle pity right now. Maybe it’s this suffocating weight in his chest. Maybe it’s the fact that talking to a perfect stranger in a language that is not his own makes it easier. In any case, he doesn’t take it back.

“Oh?” The stranger’s eyes widen in comical surprise, then he grins, wide and easy. Jungkook exhales. Finally, someone easy to read. He hadn’t realised how much he needed that.

“He’s… everything. Intriguing, caring, talented, cute.” He pauses. “Hot.”

“Now, cute or hot?” 

“Both. Gives me whiplash.”

“Takes one to know one, I guess,” the man replies, giving Jungkook a slow, deliberate once-over. He glances around, then lowers his voice. “Erm. Look, there might be something I can do for you.”

Jungkook scoffs, more to relieve the remaining knots inside his chest than to appear mean to the man, who’s been nothing but patient. “Don’t mind me if I doubt that. I kinda hate myself right now.”

“Trust me, you’ll feel better after,” the man says, a knowing glint in his eyes. “If you’ll let me, of course.”

Jungkook cannot tell if it is the feeling of his brother's ominous death or the frustration of Jimin's confusing pull that leaves him no choice but to surrender to the natural course of things. Or perhaps it’s the stranger's comforting certainty that convinces him to let go and follow him behind the high hedges of privet, away from peeping Toms and innocent strollers with baby carriages. A certainty of the surface, ironically. Still, Jungkook gives in without a fight, lured away by the moment’s quiet charm and the lingering sensations of Jimin in his mind.

The stranger had actually advised him to close his eyes and imagine ' the brother's boyfriend ' instead. On his knees in front of Jungkook, the man makes his cock erect with a few movements of his wrists, coats it with a generous amount of spit, and swallows it whole, silently but with the most delighted eyes Jungkook has ever seen while receiving a blowjob.

Watching him enjoy it in such an environment certainly helps to blow Jungkook's mind. He's generous in the way he takes him, playful with Jungkook's tip and slit, bold with his fast pumping movements and twists. He acts fast without making it sloppy nor negligent. He seems eager to make Jungkook feel good and although Jungkook really wishes he could imagine Jimin there, with his plush lips and rosy cheeks getting redder by the second, for some reason he feels better that he can't.

The exciting fear of being seen at any moment is as distracting as the blowjob itself and Jungkook insists on keeping his eyes open. Staining Jimin's pure persona is unnecessary, his sin in these gardens is his only, with this stranger who’s now sucking his balls while pumping him with a relentless pace.

“Shibal…”

But then again, keeping his eyes open when pleasure swells and rises and floods him whole from toes to head is impossible. The electric shock, powerfully sweeping all the tension, frustration and weariness in its wake, feels liberating. 

Yet he stifles it in a strangled moan, which makes him cough awkwardly, almost causing the man to lose his balance as he drinks it all down, letting a few drops escape from the corners of his mouth. A pro in any case.

Jungkook barely has time to come down from his high before the stranger stands up again and rubs the lower half of his face with a tissue.

A smile, a wink, a pat on the shoulder and he's gone.

Jungkook hasn't zipped himself back up yet, nor gotten his breath back. He's thinking about saying something. Anything. Like maybe 'thank you'?

It takes the high to come down a few notches for him to realise the awkward situation he's still in — thank God no one's come his way yet.

He should feel blissed out, relaxed. But his heart keeps racing.

He hurries out of the secluded green spaces they had hidden in, slithering through the vegetal walls, glancing sideways like the criminal that he isn’t, fast walking back the way he came, the stout buildings of the museum guiding him out like a robust beacon from the distance. 

‘Caught in the act’. Jimin’s words resonate. ‘ Double betrayal’.

‘ Homosexuality is not a crime in South Korea ’. 

Yet every Korean gay person acts as if it were, himself included, afraid to be discovered, cast out. Forgotten. 

Dead to his loved ones.

Should he come out to his brother? To Jimin? To both of them? Would Jimin see through him regardless? Does he already read him like a book?

As he starts running out of the museum grounds in the general direction of the apartment, stale air finally escaping his confined lungs, expurgating what he has just said and done, he figures this is the least honesty he owes them.

Only if Jimin asks him about the gardens.

~~~

“.....no shame….. for real….. messing up with…”

“....What I thought….. right.”

“Right for whom, exactly?”

Distant voices filter through the thin surface layers of Jungkook’s consciousness, stirring him from a rare, blissful state of relaxation, one that he isn’t ready to leave yet. 

Some rest at last, uninterrupted by fits of wakefulness, bitter memories or nightmares. Mindblowing orgasms can do that to someone.

“For…..both….”

“Bullshit! You did it for your own sake. Have you ever thought about him?”

“…..Calm…...Don’t…. he deserves to know?”

One voice is mercilessly piercing through. The other is deliberate, softer, measured in his wording, though tinged with some quiet weariness. Just like Jungkook. He’s so tired. Tired of everything. 

He shifts and rolls away as far as possible from them, but the movement sends Yaong tumbling from his chest. She lands on his side in a flurry of indignant meows, joining her annoyance to the already toxic atmosphere.

“Well, now he does, right? With a shitty image of his hyung as a bonus, and I should be grateful? For fuck’s sake, Jimin!”

A beat of silence.

“Your nose... it’s bleeding again…”

A door slams open. Jungkook recognises it as the bathroom door leading to their bedroom. Drawers scrape open. Sharp clatter of objects inside mindlessly searched for.

“I wanted to tell him myself.”

“I don't know what to tell you. He asked, I answered. Why he didn’t ask Namjoon-hyung though—”

“He would have asked me, if you had let him!”

Jungkook grabs Yaong a bit too forcefully against his chest and buries his face in her fluffy fur. She whines but lets him, her tiny body vibrating in an odd mix of purring and irritation, like the Diva that she is.

If Jungkook ignores them, maybe it’ll go away. Maybe.

“After or before your death stunt?”

“Ah, I knew you’d hate me for that. As if you didn’t hate me enough.”

“I don’t hate you…” Jimin answers with enhanced weariness. “We already talked about that.”

Jungkook opens his eyes, heart hammering, and strains his ears towards the conversation through the wall. His entire body tenses to remain as immobile as possible lest he be seen, even through the walls. Yaong squirms in protest against his chest but he silently shushes her.  

“Hobi-hyung should be here soon by the way.” Jimin’s voice sounds clearer though distant, changing topics like nothing. He must still be in the bedroom. “I should wake him up—”

“I don’t want to see him!”

“Who? Hoseok-hyung or Jungkook?”

The sharp metallic sound of a drawer being violently closed resonates across the apartment.

“Oh, so that’s what it is, huh? Just because my dongsaeng’s here, you think you can get away with belittling me? Am I not pathetic enough for you? Look at me. Wishing me dead perhaps, Jimin?” Junghyun’s voice drips with venom.

Silence settles again, noticeably so.

“But then again, I’ve been paying for the treatment,” Jimin’s steady voice blankets everything within reach, without rising nor pushing. “The treatment you’re not taking.”

“The thing is, you wouldn’t be here without me, Jimin. You’d be nothing.”

The silence thickens and Jungkook forgets to breathe when Jimin continues after a meaningful pause, “Are you going to pay Jungkook back?”

The buzzing of the door shatters the expectant stillness like a harpy's cry, startling Yaong, drowning out Junghyun's answer (if it comes at all, which Jungkook isn't sure of) and paralysing Jungkook further. His grip tightens around the distressed cat, but she wriggles free and darts towards the pantry in a flash of fur.

Nobody in their right mind would keep the act of fake sleeping after such a ruckus. Instead, he remains where he is, eyes squeezed shut, feigning sleep despite the absurdity of it. His body and mind have collided in one last move of self-preservation that only they understand. He wouldn’t be surprised if someone told him he’s lost his senses.

Yet, his senses are far from being as dulled as he might want.

From behind his eyelids, every sound is magnified: Jimin's light footsteps padding down the corridor-hall, certainly to check the door camera; the distant buzz of the downstairs entrance opening; the heavy slam as it closes again; the sharp metallic clang of the front door latch clicking open. All of it floods his ears in crisp clarity. Then comes the rush of mineral cool air from the stone staircase, slipping in, invading every corner, sipping under his blanket, creeping from the tips of his toes up to the base of his spine.

He can’t disconnect, no matter how hard he tries. He is too aware, caught in the dizzying chasm of knowing and not knowing all at once.

A soft exchange of words drifts from the doorway, a familiarity and warmth attached to them that feel odd in this apartment. An amicable tone, light voices weaving naturally through pleasantries in Korean ( how have you been? It’s been too long ). A stranger’s voice (Hobi-hyung presumably?) The syllables land effortlessly in Jimin’s mouth, carrying nothing of the burden nor the contrition Jungkook has witnessed just before. 

A whole new atmosphere pours from the corridor-hall, something warm, something benevolent — a stark contrast to the usual stale air of this place. It’s the kind of warmth Jungkook associates with Namjoon’s steady presence or even Yoongi’s after a few beers over a late-night meal. Something grounding and safe.

The stranger’s laughter suddenly rings and radiates through the silence.

Yeah, something that definitely doesn’t belong here.

Jungkook turns around against the sofa’s backrest, sensing movement approaching.

"Jungkook-ie." Jimin's voice could lull him back to sleep instead of waking him up. The way he says his name, the endearment that lingers, could fuel sound sleep and sweet dreams for weeks to come. A gentle hand finding his shoulder, peeking out from under the blanket, the first and only contact ever with Jimin, offers a comfort he hasn't received since he arrived. “I need you to meet a dear friend.”

Jungkook groans before turning around, keeping up the act of a rough awakening, pouting just enough to make it believable as he rubs his not-very-sleepy eyes. “Yeah?”

“Oh my god, is that a puppy you adopted?” The stranger leans over him, voice drenched in amusement, arms extended over his knees as one would do over a crib or a litter of newborn animals. Whatever.

Jimin’s face radiates the same amusement, eyes crinkled in crescent moons. “This is Jung Hoseok, a good friend of mine. He’ll show you Paris nightlife tomorrow night.”

Jungkook finally stirs and sits up in an exaggerated stretch, raking his hair, rolling his shoulders, making his joints pop — maybe, just maybe flexing his muscles to make them bulge a little. For no reason.

Hoseok raises an eyebrow. “Oh, wow, a much bigger puppy than I thought. What are you? A Great Dane?”

“Jungkook is Junghyun’s younger brother. He’s an architect too, working for their family business.”

“A Busanista too then?”

“A Busanista all the way I gathered, yes.”

“I once was a choreographer trying to get K-pop dancing to become the new Parisian fad.”

A sharp snort sounds from behind Jungkook. No need to turn around. There’s only one person it could be. The shift is immediate, the air tightening, turning brittle.

“Such a sucker’s plan. It’s embarrassing.”

Jimin’s shiny smile fades away to this stone-cold face Jungkook has always known and grown accustomed to seeing. Hoseok, on the contrary, doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even acknowledge it. Just smiles.

“An avant-garde plan. I arrived too early to the market. The people here were not ready.”

“And rents for studios are too high for just a couple of attendees.”

”Ah, there’s no shame in abandoning a lost cause,” Hoseok carries on, undeterred by  Junghyun's jab, but rather maintaining eye contact and his light tone whatever it takes. “Especially if it becomes a question of survival.”

He turns to Jungkook then, his voice warm, unfazed. The kindness in it feels deliberate, a counterweight to the tension once again hovering in the room. “So now I’m Jimin’s yoga teacher.”

“Used to be,” Junghyun points out. “When a disciple outgrows the master, what’s the point?”

“But once a teacher, forever a teacher.” Hoseok grins, lazy but sharp, glancing back his way. “That comes with being a public figure, Junghyun-ah.”

“So tomorrow…” Jimin starts, and Jungkook seizes the opportunity to stand up and duck away from the middle of this standoff, almost shouldering into Hoseok on the way. He goes to the nearby console where he had plugged in his phone. Way past seven o’clock, damnit.

Hoseok turns around with a clap of his hands, a consistent habit he seems to have. “So, unless you have plans—”

“We do,” Junghyun interjects, dropping onto the sofa exactly where Jungkook’s head was just laying.

We do? Jungkook’s fingers falter on the phone screen. His grip tightens slightly, but he keeps his expression neutral, resisting the urge to whip around and show his surprise.

Junghyun is smiling at him, all ease and open arms, as if this has been the plan all along. “I haven’t seen you at all today. When I got back home, you were still out.” Jungkook chances a glance toward Jimin, who’s reading something on his own phone, brow deeply furrowed. “The mattress delivery showed up and found no one home. They left a note, saying they’ll come again tomorrow morning. Which is great because I planned something for the afternoon.”

“Where are you two going?”

“Ah, I wish you could join us, Jiminie, but I know you have a busy day tomorrow.”

“It’s just that you need to rest, and—”

“Stop worrying about me, love. I’ll make sure to be perfectly rested and fit for the party. You should also rest. I know I haven’t made your nights very peaceful lately.”

Jungkook stills. Jungkook noted the calculated pause after the word of endearment — a first since he arrived. His brother’s voice is gentle, almost fond, the kind of tone that should feel natural but somehow doesn’t. His mind scrambles for a memory of Junghyun speaking to Jimin like this before — perhaps once, but he doubts Jimin was around to hear it.

Less surprising is Jimin’s lack of reaction. “And the caterer said he’d be here at five.”

“We’ll be back by then.” Junghyun turns a practiced, innocent smile toward his brother. “Jungkook will help them set up everything while I rest.”

Jungkook’s nails press into the phone case. Had they still been in their teenage years, he’d scoff and tell Junghyun to get lost rather than rope him into setting up a party he’s clearly unwelcome at. But something in the way his brother is looking at him — so smug, so certain in the middle of company — grates at him more than usual. The words sit on the tip of his tongue, unspoken but burning.

Before he can let them slip, Hoseok claps again, commanding attention like he’s on stage. “How about I pick you up at six thirty then? Perfect time for an apéro on a terrace. Then dinner. Do you know there are very decent Korean BBQ restaurants in Paris? I guess you must be missing home.”

Jungkook exhales, his shoulders loosening despite himself. Damn, the guy knows how to shift a mood.

“I guess I don’t have much of a say here…”

“You’re right. Too early for a ‘thank-you-for-pulling-me-out-of-this-hell.’” Hoseok laughs, and claps, again . The sudden burst of energy startles everyone — Jimin included. “But don’t let me ruin a heartwarming family reunion.” His voice drips with good-humored sarcasm, but there’s a sharpness to it, an edge that doesn’t quite dull under his grin. “I almost envy you.” He turns to Jimin then, placing both hands on his shoulders with exaggerated solemnity, though his fond smile betrays the theatrics. “Jimin, buddy dear. Whenever you’re ready to show me this wonderful yoga room you’ve been gatekeeping. I want to be jealous. I really do.”

With another clap, he strides toward the door. “Okay, I’m off. Laters, losers.” Jimin follows and disappears with him for a moment.

Junghyun exhales sharply. “God, I hate that guy. He’s positively exhausting.”

His mouth settles back into a thin, tight line. A shame, Jungkook thinks. For a brief moment, the forced politeness had lifted, and something else — something almost light — had broken through the cracks. It wouldn’t have lasted, but for a second, the idea of an actual pleasant moment had felt within reach.

But Jungkook knows better now. He knows Junghyun didn’t mean a single word of what he told Jimin. Worse, he suspects there was something else buried beneath his words, something only Jimin would understand.

Junghyun turns toward the balcony, his reflection against the glass more ghostly than he actually looks, if that is even possible. He’s back to his statuesque eerie self, adorned in expensive denim and crisp whites in an elegant attempt to match his real age, and erase the sickly aura literally perspiring out of every pore, making him look not only ten years older but also on the brink of shattering. 

He closes his eyes, sighing deeply.  “Look, it’s not in my habit to leave you behind, Jungkook-ah. But perhaps Jimin's right.” When he opens them again, all the former combative stance has left them, replaced by powerless resignation and a tired smile, the corners of his mouth fighting the ingrained habit of pointing downwards: a match to his overall state, as if his soul cannot hold the pretence much longer and lets itself show for what it really is. A half-empty shell who cannot live without assistance. “Perhaps, you're not ready. He’s always been way more perceptive than me. And private. He hates it when outsiders mingle into our lives. Can’t blame him for being protective. But I’ll make it up to you. Tenfold. I promise.”

Jungkook gives a slight nod — not in agreement, just acknowledgment. “I’ll prepare dinner.”

Inspiration evades him. He leans on the kitchen counter, arms propped up, staring at the fridge like it holds answers. It doesn’t. His mind churns with bitterness, his stomach knots with nausea, but he’d rather puke his guts out than surrender this: cooking is the one thing that grants him control in this transitory life. He won’t give that up.

At some point, all this will end — it has to. His flight is on Tuesday, but it might as well be years from now. His foggy mind struggles to track the days he’s been here, hesitating more than once, thrown off by the wreckage of his sleep schedule.

Three days. Only three. It feels like a lifetime.

Jesus, his sense of time is completely fucked up.

And he hasn’t called home. Not once. Not even a text.

No one’s called him, either. Not even a text. 

As his mind drifts off, wondering whether he has any reason to be surprised, the water overflows the pan he’s been holding under the tap. Shit — get a grip.

Whatever time has passed, he needs comfort food. Something outrageously indulgent — tteokbokki, drowning in cheese, loaded with sausages.

The thought jolts him back to life. He opens and closes the fridge, tosses a rice cake package onto the counter. Pan on the stove. Water pouring. Knife against cutting board, green onions chopped, fish cakes sliced. He barely registers the front door clanging shut again. The room is otherwise silent, save for the rhythmic ASMR of chopping and clattering, returning some of his inner peace. 

“Can I help?” 

One look over his shoulder and Jimin’s there, standing, looking at the messy counter as if it’s some kind of puzzle to solve. An escape game in his own home.

“I’m good, thanks. Should be ready in ten or so,” he answers, his tone more clipped than he intended. 

While he doesn’t register Jimin’s reaction, his brother remains uncharacteristically silent behind him. He pictures him still sprawled over the sofa, just as he left him, watching him. Or maybe not watching at all, uninterested in what Jungkook is doing. That would be typical of him.

Whichever scenario, Jungkook’s hairs rise on his nape.

They settle around the small dining table, the air charged with something volatile. The plates are set, the tteokbokki steaming between them, rich with melted cheese. They each pick up the chopsticks Jimin had set, and before Jungkook can take his first bite, Junghyun clicks his tongue.

“Jesus, Kook-ah. What’s with the cheese porn? Someone’s feeling emotionally deprived, I see.” His voice is light, teasing, but a smile doesn’t reach Jungkook’s lips.

“It’s generous,” Jimin comments diplomatically, reaching for his glass of water.

“Hmm,” Junghyun hums, shifting his gaze to Jimin after his own first bite. “You won’t like it. You hate spicy food.”

Jungkook stares up in surprise at Jimin in the middle of a mouthful, threads of cheese hanging from his chopsticks. He’d never thought of asking, damnit.

“It’s fine, Junghyun,” Jimin replies, tone even, as if brushing past an old argument.

“What, you like that now?” Junghyun asks, eyebrows raised in mock surprise.

Jungkook watches as Jimin calmly lifts a piece of rice cake to his lips, chewing thoughtfully before offering a small nod. “Still not a fan. But I can make an effort from time to time.”

“Oh, can you?” Junghyun’s smile sharpens, his hand reaching out to brush the back of Jimin’s. “That’s great to hear.”

Jungkook feels something twist in his stomach — whether it’s from the food or something else, he isn’t sure. The exchange isn’t overtly hostile, not even tense, but there’s something Jungkook doesn’t like. Jimin is still Jimin, composed, understanding — ever the peacemaker.

And for the first time since he’d arrived, Jungkook wonders if Jimin even notices Junghyun’s antics anymore. Does he notice the way he watches Jimin with a look that either borders on spite or overflows with adoration, like now?

When Jungkook reaches out to serve his brother a glass of soju, Junghyun declines with a wave of the hand.

“You know,” he muses, “I was thinking… Tomorrow night, I’d like you to wear something from your latest collection.”

Jungkook, chewing a rice cake, slows his movements.

Jimin’s lips curve into something polite. “Oh?”

“I’ve only seen your sketches, never your final products. Knowing you, I’m sure you have something sleek, elegant — understated but striking.” Junghyun tilts his head, studying Jimin like a canvas he’s already painted. “Something very you.”

Jimin hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “I might...”

“I’d be very pleased,” Junghyun adds smoothly. “And I have something for you.” He sets down his chopsticks and reaches into his pocket, producing a small velvet box. When he flips it open, a silver necklace glints under the dining room light — a delicate yet substantial chain with a gold rose lock pendant, its polished surface catching every flicker of warmth from the light.

Jungkook stares at it. His grip tightens around his chopsticks. 

What happened between the bathroom talk and now? What did he miss that he shouldn’t have overheard anyway?

Jimin, to his credit, doesn’t react right away. “Junghyun…”

“Try it on,” Junghyun urges, already shifting forward, fingers brushing Jimin’s wrist as he nudges the box toward him. “I saw it and thought of you instantly. A little something to mark your success.” His smile is light, but there’s an edge beneath it, in the way he lingers too close.

Jimin takes the necklace carefully, weighing it in his palm. “It’s beautiful,” he admits. “But it’s—”

“Dior, yes.” Junghyun says simply. 

Jungkook doesn’t realize he’s gripping his chopsticks so hard his knuckles turn red. He busies himself with his food, eyes locked on his plate, but it’s no use. The atmosphere is closing in, pressing him to the periphery.

Junghyun isn’t even looking at him anymore.

Jungkook forces himself to take a bite, though he can barely taste anything past the quiet rage simmering beneath his ribs.

Jimin’s fingers ghost over the necklace’s lock before he finally exhales. “Alright, I’ll find something matching to wear.”

Junghyun leans back with a satisfied smile, finally picking up his chopsticks. “Perfect.”

Innerbloom - Rüfüs du Sol (Lane 8 Remix)

Of all the dinners he’s had in this apartment (and there haven’t been many), this one is by far the most pleasant, the smoothest. It’s also the one where Jungkook has felt the most invisible, the most unwanted. Perhaps that explains it, he muses.

This is what dinners must be like when he’s not around: Junghyun making Jimin talk about his day, about his inspiration, about his upcoming collaboration with Dior. An ordinary conversation between a couple. Nothing to feel bad about — except, perhaps, this nagging sense of intrusion.

The thought alone should not bother him as much as it does. He tells himself it’s normal, the course of a couple’s life, especially in a country that prides itself on its inclusivity and romance. He should be able to accept this, and should be able to rest.

His stomach, accustomed to high levels of pepper, churns and burns. A quiet rebellion. A way of telling him it isn’t buying it one bit. His brother’s toxicity has become too blatant.

Jungkook gets up more than once — drinking water, tossing and turning, peeling the sheets off his skin, then pulling them back again. Even Yaong gives up eventually, abandoning him for an upturned cushion on the floor, with this extraordinary if-I-fit-I-sit flair only cats have.

Welcome among the wretched souls stranded on these shores.

Junghyun had refused the soju, taken his medicine, let Jimin take his blood pressure, and retreated early to rest, without the slightest hint of resistance. Jimin had followed, urging Jungkook to leave the dishes. I’ll take care of it later.

Jimin never came back. And no sound has filtered from the master bedroom since. 

It’s been four hours.

This night could well be Jungkook’s night of waiting — of waiting for Jimin, right there, beyond a wall, a few meters away. The reality of it has never felt so stark. 

The hours bleed into one another, languorous and shapeless, broken only by the occasional passing car in the street below, its headlights feebly cutting through the shutters in thin, shifting stripes before fading away.

This stay in Paris, in this apartment, conjures a stripped-down quality to his life, a kindling starkness, without parents and friends and home, the familiar landmarks that make him who he is. And yet, this is the place where a part of who he is — a part he’s taken great care to hide— could feel safe if he dared expose it. Could exist. 

The irony.

A double irony actually. Despite the cold welcome, despite Jimin’s walls, it is in his presence that Jungkook feels most alive. More than in the company of his own flesh and blood.

The idea that Jimin might not come, which may have crossed his mind a couple of times (or more) parasitised by memories of his brother’s loving gestures and Jimin's responding warmth and crescent-moon eyes tonight, is simply too unbearable to consider. His heart clenches and aches and the burns intensify when the thought pops up. He fights it every time, refusing to give up on that haven he’s found.

So he waits. Waits for Jimin. Waits for their quality time in the back garden, where something else can exist only there. Where nothing wrong can happen.

Right?

For Jungkook, at least, innocence has long since sublimated into something else. Perhaps not as holy as one would hope — but rare. Precious. 

Another hour passes before a floorboard creaks in the entrance hall.

Jungkook freezes, ears straining. He waits for the slow, inevitable clang of the entrance door locking. No matter how carefully one maneuvers it, that old thing always makes noise.

But it doesn’t come.

Someone is there. He can feel it. A presence standing on the threshold of the living room.

His heartbeat stutters, then picks up speed. What if it’s his brother?

He turns slightly in his sleep, feigning a stir, then cracks one eye open. Just as a car passes by outside, its headlights sweep through the shutters, casting long, fleeting shadows across the room. 

His heart skips a beat.

In that brief glow, he sees him.

Jimin.

Standing at a safe distance. Watching him. Waiting.

Jungkook pushes the comforter aside and rises onto his elbows — silently admitting that he’s been waiting, too. That he’s ready to follow.

Jimin doesn’t say a word, only nods toward the front door.

This time, he isn’t going alone.

This time, they’re going together.

“So?”

“So what?”

“The Tuileries gardens? Near the Louvre? Were they worth your expert eyes?”

Jungkook gently snorts, picking nervously at weeds springing between the nearest tiles, coaxing the butterflies in his ribcage to calm down. 

There are so many topics Jungkook would have expected to arise, would have wished to talk about — the party’s arrangements, the bathroom talk, the dinner, his brother’s manipulative streak. But no. He had to bring the Tuileries up, didn’t he? 

 “I’m no expert…”

“Right, you’re no expert.” Jimin’s tone is teasing, unwavering. “Still, was it to your liking?”

Jungkook sighs. “I guess they were…”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

“Alright, they were nice.”

“Nice?”

“Yes, nice.”

“Just nice?”

“Okay, very nice.” Jungkook’s jaw aches from the irrepressible smile threatening to break through and prays that the warmth spreading on his face is invisible under the canopy of wisteria.

“I sense a but coming…” Jimin says, echoing a similar exchange from the morning. Jungkook can feel his gaze, insistent, unwavering, waiting for him to give in.

“No, no buts… They’re very orderly.”

“Well, that’s French landscape gardening for you.”

“I know, thanks.” Jungkook rolls his eyes in mock annoyance, but inside, he’s elated. This easy rhythm, this lightness — it’s been missing. Maybe the final wall between them is crumbling at last.

“Fine, let’s start over,” he concedes, turning to meet Jimin’s smug gaze, waiting to trap him in his web. “I enjoyed them. A lot. They’re bold, flamboyant, efficient in their own way.” He pauses to lick his lips, breathe out his racing heartbeat and ponder his next words. “Exactly what I imagined French landscape gardening to be like. And I’m grateful I got to experience it firsthand, so… thank you.”

“Now I’m convinced — you hated it.”

“Aish, I didn’t! ” He laughs. The last thing Jungkook wants is for Jimin to think his recommendation was poor, without spilling the tea. He values Jimin’s opinions too much, maybe more than he should.

Jimin’s smirk softens. “Then what do you mean by ‘orderly’ ?”

Jungkook exhales slowly again, choosing his words as he resumes randomly plucking at weeds. “Landscape gardening feels like a pact to me. A deeper one than the kind architecture makes.”

Jimin tilts his head. “A pact?”

“Yeah. Architects try to defy gravity, tame space, push materials to their limits. But in the end, it’s a fight against their own creations, their own legacy. Landscape gardening is different. It’s a pact between humankind and nature — on her terms. Nature doesn’t need us to thrive, whereas we forget we need her to live. Controlling it, like in the French style, feels like doing architecture all over again. I’d rather meet her halfway. Learn from her, follow her lead, let her show me the beauty she brings…” His eyes flicker around the backyard, taking in its wild edges, the stubborn vine on the willow tree, the proud Queens of Midnight and the good other flowers closed to sleep, the way the moonlight softens the untamed. “...just like this garden here.”

He lets the words settle between them, deliberate, watching for Jimin’s reaction.

Jimin hums, gaze drifting to the leaves swaying overhead. “So… you enjoy chaos?”

Jungkook stiffens.

“The opposite of order is not necessarily chaos. I mean, nothing’s chaotic here. Someone had to plant these flowers, to make the decisions, like which flower goes where. I just don't like stifling control,” he replies. “Not when it forces something into a shape it was never meant to take.” He watches Jimin carefully, hoping he understands — hoping he doesn’t. “Some things aren’t meant to be tamed.”

Jimin holds his gaze and is surprisingly the one to break it. The silence stretches.

Jungkook swallows, pulse quickening. He doesn’t know where this sudden boldness comes from, why the words feel so heavy with meaning, the memory of the Tuileries not leaving him. The symmetry of the hedges. The stranger on his knees. The way he ran before he could even take a breath.

And now, standing here, he wonders.

Jungkook grips the back of his neck, forcing a breath. “I mean… maybe it’s just preference.” He shrugs, forcing nonchalance. “Some people like neat, controlled spaces. Some prefer a little wildness.”

Jimin’s gaze flickers to him then, something unreadable in his eyes.

Jungkook swallows hard at the charged silence he didn’t expect to create. “Want me to show you?”

He gets up and walks over to the grassy part of the backyard, white socks drowning in the dark green sea of grass that hasn’t been cut for months. Jungkook exhales, glancing back at Jimin. 

There’s something expectant in the way he leans against the old stone wall, arms loosely wrapped around his knees, face hidden by the deep shadows of the wisteria but eyes resolutely riveted on Jungkook as if he’s waiting for a sign.

“Come,” Jungkook murmurs, extending a hand to him. 

Jimin looks at him with mild dread but eventually pushes himself up on his feet without protest as Jungkook leads him deeper into the small overgrown garden.

The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and something else — something rich, heady, on the verge of decay but still achingly beautiful. The Queens of Midnight are in bloom, their dark, velvety petals unfolding like whispers in the dark.

“These only bloom at night,” Jungkook says, reaching out to gently trace the curve of a petal. “Mysterious, fleeting… People say they symbolise things that thrive in secrecy.” He risks a glance at Jimin.

Jimin hums, crouching down brushing his fingers lightly against a cluster of violets near the ground. “And these? Violets.”

“Loyalty,” Jungkook replies automatically, then hesitates. “Humility. And…hidden love.”

Jimin’s hand stills, his expression unreadable. “Any flowers that mean forgiveness?” He asks, standing up again. His voice is quiet, almost lost to the hush of the garden at night. He’s not looking at Jungkook when he asks, and that makes it worse somehow.

Jungkook exhales slowly. He could name a few. White tulips, hyacinths, but the thought makes his stomach twist. He scans the garden, searching, though he already knows the answer. There are none.

No symbols of forgiveness. Not here.

He turns back to Jimin, who’s watching him now, expectant but guarded. He opens his mouth, then closes it. There’s nothing to give him. No simple answer. No quiet absolution waiting in the petals of some delicate bloom.

Jimin laughs, soft and humorless. “I should have figured.”

They move further in, past the Euphorbias — striking, yet toxic if handled carelessly. Past the Peonies, their buds still tightly wrapped, holding onto their secrets for just a little longer.

“Peonies mean healing,” Jungkook continues, his voice quieter now. “But also… shame. Depending on their colour.”

Jimin exhales a soft breath through his nose, lips pressed into a thin line. “Unbelievable that I’ve never paid attention to their colours. Knowing that I come here so often.” His gaze flickers to the vine snaking up the willow tree, its tendrils curling possessively around the gnarled bark.

Jungkook walks over to the tree. “Vines are persistent.” He watches the way this vine grips, clings, refuses to let go. 

“They say it’s resistant and everlasting,” Jimin provides. “I’ve used the pattern in my previous collection.”

“It doesn’t belong there, but it’ll never really stop growing. It adapts. But in the end, it’ll smother the young tree if nobody stops it.”

“You mean, kill it?”

“Ultimately, yes…Unless the tree outgrows it, but it’s unlikely. These trees grow slowly. Strong but slow.”

“How strong?”

“Massively so.” Jungkook lifts his head up from beneath the branches, the moonlight fluttering through. “That guy doesn't belong here either. Soon enough, the space will be too small for it. And the vine will be stronger faster.”

Jimin is silent for a long time, his fingers brushing absentmindedly over an old rose, its petals soft but edged with thorns. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, more tentative.

“So that’s the kind of garden you prefer?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer straight away even though the answer is obvious. Every flower, every tangled thing in this garden, reminds him of Jimin in some way — something wild but tamed, something growing where it shouldn’t, yet still breathtakingly beautiful.

“Yeah.” Jungkook exhales, shifting his gaze from the dark petals of the Queens of Midnight to Jimin. “A little bit of everything. Beautiful. Complicated. Inspiring. Aching to find its place and to bloom. A place someone could get lost in, if they’re not careful.”

He expects Jimin to walk away, to tell him he has to go back — that’s what Jungkook would do if he were in his place. He can’t believe he’s the one who said all this, but here he is. It feels as if the garden has his back, grounding him, offering him the legitimacy he’s been craving for days. 

Jimin doesn’t break eye contact this time.

“And you say you’re no expert, huh?” Jimin says, a content smile tugging at his lips.