Chapter Text
He closes his chest and opens it, offers himself up to the third and final ring of his cellphone, to the unstoppable pacing of his elongated limbs. Taehyung is a furious storm, half part raging against the sealed windows of a mother’s house, the other half crying with the lament of a day breaking. He hears the gruff of Jeongguk’s voice who says his name in wonder. He was supposed to pick Taehyung up, delayed himself with the moment’s traffic, has not gotten to the campus yet but will arrive quickly now that it’s been ten minutes since he left home.
“Jeongguk, I think I’m being followed.” The panic in his voice shreds every fallen leaf in half.
“What?”
“That man—the man that I was with. I got out of the campus and he was there and now I’m sure he’s following me.” Taehyung knows no pause and in that, his legs learn little of it as well.
“Where are you?”
He looks around at the premature nudity of every tree, at the lights that take the day to be too early to turn themselves on, at the street that harbors a petite amount of traffic, few witnesses that stand.
“About two streets left from the main entrance.”
“I’m coming to get you.” Jeongguk’s voice conjures up the possibility of paranoia, as if the echo of steps behind him is only winter playing its winter games, as if the familiarity of a distant face is only that—distant. Distant and wrong. “Is there a public place nearby? Somewhere there’s a lot of people?”
“There’s a fast food joint.” Relief swarms him when he sees bodies sitting outside. “A breakfast place.”
“Okay, what else?”
“It has a rabbit statue in the front.”
“Okay—okay, I know which one. Enter and wait for me. I’ll be quick.”
So Taehyung does, but not before watching Jaebeom’s reflection walking behind him in the entrance window. That slight glance clears his mind of any distress. Every shard of anxiety turns into a thin powder that crusts the edges of his vexation. He sits in a booth inside that faces the entrance. Jaebeom, who seems to have left his common sense at home, sits down across from him.
“What do you want?”
It only itches him, rough and bothersome on his back, stuck in a place where he cannot reach to scratch. The sliver of fear that introduced itself to him is now gone and with its dispatch comes a nasty irritation that angers each of his bones.
“I want you back,” Jaebeom says, and reaches for Taehyung’s hand on the table. The touch blisters and, immediately, he pulls away.
“I’m not gonna go back.”
“Taehyung, listen—“
“No, I won’t listen. We have nothing to say to each other. What happened between us is done.”
Taehyung thinks about Jeongguk’s face, the radiant whistle of his lips, and nothing is better than him. He thinks of how the touch is now gentle, less sinister, a reminder that love is grand and no longer a threat dangling from a bloody lip. Taehyung wakes up every day now to live, something he has learnt is vibrant and silly with warmth. He keeps himself whole rather than broken, he touches himself gently and portrays that softness to his lover, he reels in hope for the future because it is golden and filled with bright teeth. Taehyung no longer bleeds out, no longer fears the bed, no longer wishes to be held by arms that characterize themselves by their meanness. He just thinks about Jeongguk’s face, his pretty-boy limbs and the way they hold him like there is nothing to regret, like living is a competition and Taehyung keeps winning every day.
“I can get help,” Jaebeom says. “Things can be better.”
“I don’t want to be with you anymore,” he says. “I hated every second I was in that house. I can’t forgive what you did. I hate you. I hate everything about you. Even the fact that you’re here, trying to fix something unfixable. I hate that.”
“Tae, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Taehyung looks around at the few bodies that mind their own, how they don’t know his rage, how even Jaebeom, who sits so close to him, does not seem to know it either. “Just think about all the history we have together. All of our little moments. It wasn’t all bad.”
“It was all bad.” He emphasizes his tone in order to intimidate the shape that Jaebeom takes on. “It was all bad—how can you say it wasn’t? Right, because you weren’t the one getting beat. You were doing the beating.” And some days, when the cold is heavy, he still blames himself for all that bruising instead of the fists that caused them. “Must have felt good, right? To have all that power? Where is that now?” Taehyung stares him down, stares at the silence and faux vulnerability that is being expressed. He’s been trying to start anew but the scent of shit clings on the hardest. “I wasted my time on you,” he says, and means it more than anything.
“That’s how you see it? Wasted time?”
“That’s what it was.” Taehyung watches the entrance door, watches Jeongguk step through it in a rush as they lock eyes. “Goodbye.” He gets up from the table and walks to where his boy is.
“Taehyung, wait—”
Jaebeom gets up too, but stops his pace. The tension holds for seconds as they, although never meeting before, recognize something within each other. Taehyung has to press against Jeongguk’s chest in order to stop him from starting something out of instinct, something irrational and impulsive.
“No—no. We’re leaving,” Taehyung murmurs, grabs Jeongguk’s hand and exits.
The car is poorly parked and was left unlocked due to the anxiety of losing someone much too soon. Jeongguk didn’t know what to think so instead he thought of everything: a fight bursting through the walls, his own fist in his hand, Jaebeom’s blood on it too, except more decorative than useful. And it was just the idea of Taehyung being hurt in public by the hands of a used-to-be love and Jeongguk not getting there in time to stop it. That’s why he barged in, nearly panting out a lung.
“What did he want?” Jeongguk asks, the heater of the car warming up the frigidity of their hands.
“Can we just get out of here?”
There is a kind of surrender, something hesitant and small that clouds his judgement for a moment, and only for a moment does Taehyung think about the wretched fantasy that was once his. It inhaled all of his time, every beating thought to be the last, every kiss thought to live for millions of gentle years that won’t rot in the long-term. Now he sits with the scent of decay all over him and with the cruel reality that some things are just not so. When Jeongguk parks the car in front of the apartment building, he looks hard at the lines of Taehyung’s face and acknowledges his love, his impenetrable desire to care in the best way.
“Taehyung?” He asks, and wants to rid him of any distress but cannot find the how of it anywhere.
“He wanted me to go back to him.”
Taehyung pictures a love defunct and retches at its sound. He does not want to know it, no matter how gone it seems to be. Instead, he’ll pretend it never existed in the first place even though it is the tragic patchwork of his new desire. Even though it keeps barging in at night just to turn him in his sleep and leave him sour once waking.
“I won’t,” Taehyung says. “I care about you too much. I care about myself too much. It’s just hard to remember how long I suffered next to someone that in the end was worth nothing.”
Jeongguk watches him speak and wants to rid the pain that trickles down his words. He does not hesitate; his hand goes to sweep Taehyung’s hair away from his face.
“But you’re here. With me. And you’re better,” he says, the strands too soft on his fingers. “Sometimes people have to hurt in order to feel like they’ve accomplished something. And I think you’ve accomplished enough.”
He swills out the bad memories. Something about looking at him tears apathy into halves and Taehyung is finally able to remind himself that he is worthy of a warm heart.
“Thank you, Jeongguk. Thank you for fighting for me, for wanting me.” His words are effusive and take on no better shape than this. “I know it must have been hard on you,” he says, sick with lament. “Yeah, I made it really difficult for you.”
“But I have you now. Right now, I have you.” Jeongguk gets closer to him, leaves a soft kiss on his cheek, and murmurs the truth, “I just want you to stay with me. I want this thing to last.”
He got a good glimpse at the floor of his bedroom the other day whilst Taehyung was showering. There was a mess of clothing that belonged to the both of them, unknown if dirty, unknown if clean. Jeongguk then began to think about their relationship, and resonated with the fact that it left him warm with feeling. He has never been more satisfied with his life and blames Taehyung for the tickle that wraps around his belly. Theirs is not ephemeral. It will see the final sunset, the last heartbeat of the planet, the concluding kiss of the moon before it explodes into dust that glitters and gets mistaken for stars.
- - -
The day after the incident, Jeongguk spends it in an uncomfortable state, insecure within the breaches that seal him. He thinks it enough by the tenth hour of the morning. Jimin receives the call in the midst of completing his linework for a certain piece that is gulping down all the time it takes for him to live. He listens to the tone of Jeongguk’s voice, listens to his question and gives Jeongguk the man’s full name, mutters “Park Jaebeom” with enough tranquility to soothe his rage all the while understanding that a festering wound will finally reach the likes of healing.
In the meantime, for the next couple of days, Taehyung leaves the campus through the back gate, an empty place due to it’s swelling up with nasty traffic. The streets there are elaborate and merciless but Jeongguk refuses to have Taehyung once again encounter a ghost. So he insists on driving through there and Taehyung doesn’t mind the wait. Eventually, however, Jaebeom will give up his mindless search for Taehyung out on the front gate of the institution. One day, he will receive a visit from a man dressed in an expensive suit, decked with an earpiece and the great weight of abundant gym hours. He will introduce himself as the head of security for the Jeon family and advise Jaebeom to stay away from Seoul National University, as well as suspend his useless manhunt for Kim Taehyung or else he will find himself in a jobless situation with little to give to the world. Legal charges will be made and the only one that will come out losing is Jaebeom himself, therefore, the suggestion stands while sounding more like a threat than any other verbal cue.
It will take weeks for Jaebeom to give up. After having a black truck parked outside every day and the heavy insist of it following him everywhere. After he comes home from an unsuccessful search for Taehyung to vandalism. The small space will be turned upside down and the message will come across as something much more dangerous than menacing sentences. It will take weeks, but weeks come eventually and once they do, Jeongguk is notified about the instituted peace.
He wanted to go himself but feared the blood on his knuckles, the force of his body thrown against the man that has tormented Taehyung’s long enough. The moment he saw him sitting down, Jeonguk wanted to introduce his fist and leave it well acquainted with both sides of his face. And it scared him. He would have to tell Taehyung about it and, in that, would have to deal with the aftermath of the situation. This way is more subtle and Taehyung doesn’t have to know about how well Jeongguk has handled the problem. He finds a permanent warning much more effective than his lashing out, his episode, his hatred projected onto a body.
With the end of this hunt, the fall semester creeps up alongside it’s silly undoing. The heavy burden of finals strolls by too, and when finals near, there’s always something grand to be seen in the artistic fields. Taehyung gets graded based on the success of the winter show while Jeongguk gets assigned a themeless project in which he must spew up a grand presentation that caters to the likes of his photography teacher. Regardless of what she’s looking for (she was so specific on what she’d like to see that the project might as well have a theme implanted anyway), Taehyung has entranced Jeongguk to believe that he has reached the zenith of artistic influence. This new attachment will take center stage in his assignment. Aside from the shoot, he will have to write a paper describing the meaning behind the photographs and what exactly characterizes them in order to be called “art”. His head swarms with ideas and he makes sure to sit down and tell Taehyung all of it. There is heavy consent involved, especially since the plan is to familiarize himself with his digital camera even more and take it everywhere at any time. He will capture Taehyung in every habitat, in every state, during his morning and midnight smiles.
The first photo gets taken when the sun is freshly painted on the sky, yet it goes unnoticed due to winter’s heavy disaster. It is the weekend. Taehyung’s bare chest glows warm against the skin of Jeongguk’s arm, his hold tired and gentle. Jeongguk wakes up first. It takes a whole kingdom to get him to separate from the heat that bundles under the blankets, from the body that is always so welcomed, always so loved. He stares at Taehyung’s face, crowded with sleep and odd dreams about fountain pens and running a crazy path in the middle of an empty street. He looks like home, Jeongguk thinks, and with that rushes to the room at the end of the hallway, keeping his footsteps light, and grabs the camera he had chosen for the project.
When he enters the room again, Taehyung hasn’t moved. His face reads a timeline that is no longer from Earth, rather, something more fantastical and improved upon. Jeongguk takes at least twenty photos, all of them in different angles. There is a large slip of light from the curtains that swarms through the room and drags itself across Taehyung’s shoulder. With a particular shift of Jeongguk’s leg, Taehyung’s eyes flutter open and Jeongguk captures the first glance of the day within the realm of his camera lens.
“You’re starting already?” Taehyung smiles, rubs the sleep from his eyes and stares up at Jeongguk.
“It made sense.”
“Did they—” He yawns. “Did they come out good?”
“Yeah.”
Jeongguk lies back down next to him, his body immediately engulfed by the familiar warmth, and shows him the pictures in his camera.
“And you’ll use these?”
“I think I will. Unless you don’t want me to.”
“No, they’re good.” And he kisses Jeongguk’s cheek before slipping out of bed.
Taehyung has to go to work today because the noona at the foster home has to get some blood work done and doesn’t trust the receptionist enough to look after the children. That leaves Taehyung, who doesn’t hesitate to put himself up to the task of getting there early, making everyone breakfast and insist they wash up before continuing their day. He takes Jeongguk’s car since he doesn’t have anywhere to go to in this cold winter morning. It takes time, but the kids recognize the authority in Taehyung’s voice when he insists they play outside instead of keeping their brains attached to the internet. He even joins them in a game of kickball, which is short-lived once the noona comes home with a bag full of Onigiri for every head in the foster family, including Taehyung. He eats with a grin around the coffee table in the living room once Soobin starts to walk around asking for another while the one he just ate functions as decor on his round cheeks.
The next morning, before heading out to do groceries together, Jeongguk makes pancakes with coconut flour for breakfast. Taehyung watches the recipe come to life while sitting on the kitchen island, asking him how much flour goes in the mix, correcting Jeongguk’s mistake when he reaches for a second tablespoon of vanilla extract because he seemed to have forgotten all about the first one. He even has the first taste when Jeongguk drags a spoonful of the mixture towards his mouth. Taehyung insists it needs more sugar and Jeongguk, who is weakened by every request, fulfills them to the ultimate reach. The pancakes get layered neatly in a stack of four and Taehyung, who woke up with a stomach humming empty, takes his plate to the dining table alongside the big bottle of maple syrup.
In the midst of drowning his meal in sweetness, Jeongguk walks past him into the hallway in order to reach for his camera. Taehyung watches his body all the while cutting into his pancakes. He struggles. He struggles some more. In the end, he ends up ripping his stack into pieces and licking the syrup from his fingers. Jeongguk captures it all: the drip of sugar, the hungry mouth, the moment before the first bite. Taehyung looks up and Jeongguk is there staring straight at him.
“What?” He asks, unbothered by the heavy set of morning eyes.
“You look so comfortable.”
“I’m eating pancakes.” He presses his fingers together. They stick unconditionally and he begins to question his usage of his hands while he wipes them on a napkin.
“The point is to catch you during your most natural.”
At which Taehyung elongates his stare, captures his own image of a boy fresh from bed, hair tousled and face smoothed out by the soft touch of sleep. He shrugs his shoulders and continues eating but cannot help the warmth of his cheeks and the passing promise that he will never lose Jeongguk to anyone else.
Their attraction only pervades even more as the days walk on. It does not know a lesser self. Whenever Jeongguk comes home late, he speeds up the intricacy of his showers, dresses in the cleanest clothes, and snuggles up close to Taehyung’s tired body. He kisses his temple and sleeps to the scent that his shampoo allows, wondering about seeing him tomorrow, all bare-faced and hesitant to leave the bed at all. They go do laundry together at the bottom floor of the apartment complex and Jeongguk sits atop the washing machine while Taehyung asks himself if they really are using the best detergent or if the packaging is just marketing at its finest. It says wrinkle-free. It isn’t wrinkle-free. And now that the older woman that owns the Siamese cat downstairs has finished her laundry, Jeongguk grasps the opportunity to kiss the disappointment off Taehyung’s lips and bite at them playfully. He pulls him close in between his legs and tells him that he’ll iron the clothes himself just to keep that pout away from Taehyung’s face.
A tryst of kinds ensues when they’re both empty of responsibility and fall in need of a golden time. It is spent in the bathtub, the water sloshing out as they both sit their naked bodies down at each end, the bubbles tickling their necks as they feel hot all over. Taehyung cups the foam in his hands and blows, watching a hole form in the center and he wonders why all delicate things must break so easily. He wonders where the power of breaking so easily lies and answers his own question with silly responsibility.
Strength accumulates during the aftermath of breakage. The more aftermath, the more growth. Taehyung drops the foam from his hands and once again it is whole.
Jeongguk lies down with his head back, resting against a small towel he had draped over the edge of the tub. Their legs brush together underwater, the heat relaxing every hardened muscle, the company reminding him about the goodness of the hour.
“You know how the font in a dictionary is so small?” Taehyung asks, looks at his boy with soft eyes. “Like, really, really small? But everything in there is just so important because words and their coherent meanings are so valuable and it’s just a wonderful little book—the dictionary—but everything just gets received as squinting material.” Jeongguk nods, not understanding the passage of the conversation. “I think I’m like that: meaningful, but vaguely noticed. So vague that I’m left to gather dust in the back of a bookcase.”
“That’s not how I see you at all,” he says, slightly bothered by the fact that Taehyung thinks this way about himself. “If you were to be written out, you’d be a very bold cursive. And you’d take up the entire page.”
“What would I be saying?”
“Something about feeling good in the messes you make.”
“I don’t make messes.” He shakes his head, and feels the stubble on Jeongguk’s leg as he drags his fingers over the poorly-shaved skin.
“Taehyung, you sat down to write last week and your papers and pens are still on top of the dining table.”
“That’s just me being creative.”
“That’s you being loud. And bold.” Jeongguk looks at him, studies the valleys of his face and recognizes his beauty far too quickly. “That’s you telling me that you don’t want to be comfortable in the space, you want the space to be comfortable in you. And that’s why you thrive against being so everywhere.” He presses his legs close to Taehyung’s, the water slipping out of the edges just to leave them both alone and comfortable together. “You shouldn’t think so small about yourself.”
“Do you?”
“We all do.” Jeongguk gets on all fours, the water leaving quicker, something he’ll regret after their skin turns soggy and the clean-up starts calling his name. He sits back against Taehyung’s chest, holds his hands and studies each finger, each bone, each inch of golden skin. “Because we start that way. Small and helpless, and I guess as we grow, the doubt within us is just our beginnings refusing to let us go.”
The due date for finals creeps closer and with it comes midnight workings, power naps, and the desperate click of Jeongguk’s camera. He comes home from class around dinner time to find Taehyung reading because pleasure has been minimized to sound meek due to the tired drag of both their bodies. So Taehyung finds himself inside a good book to halt any feral behaviors and Jeongguk stares deeply at the look of concentration on his eyebrows. He sits with one leg tucked under himself, the softness of the couch leaving comfort for his back, and the scent of peppermint casts his body to a quiet place. It all ravages Jeongguk to a point of poison, therefore, he quietly reaches for his camera and takes several photographs. Taehyung tries to pretend there is no shutter from a distant place, but he loses all concentration in his reading. Instead, his heart races as Jeongguk inches closer and his mind swirls around the idea of finally having the boy’s body all to himself once again.
Jeongguk ends up turning in a collection of photographs alongside a paper that nears two thousand words. It pronounces the basis of the human body and the way that it yearns to be cherished. He names the piece Love, And Its Many Faces and writes about the little ways that attraction ensures its trap whenever, all of the time. It does so when bathing, eating, reading, getting dressed, or freshly allowing awareness of the morning. He edited the photographs to have less saturation, leaving a mellow mood and striking for a romantic atmosphere. It is one of the few projects that receive verification for being displayed in the school’s gallery because the model is so unexpectedly beautiful, the topic so unexpectedly brought up that it would leave the students that pass by the exhibit amazed at its presentation. Jung Eunbi, the leading student of the journalism department at school, asks him one day after leaving class if he would do an interview clarifying the accusations that have been brought up ever since the viewing of his final project for the semester. To which he replies, “There’s nothing to clarify. He and I are together, and that’s more than the public needs to know.”
- - -
Taehyung becomes the epiphany of overworking oneself until his bones turn into molasses and his complaining can be heard from miles tucked far away. It’s that time of year in which the holidays crowd his schedule, in which he must direct the winter show with enough fluidity to surprise a thickening crowd. The audience seems to grow annually which means that creativity seems to flourish with age. The fine arts department joins forces with the performing arts department to create several acts that would hopefully top last year’s exposition. During their last meeting, everyone got fixed up on a winter woods theme, filled with white elk, curious magic, and all of the fantastical things that roam inside a long lost forest. Taehyung, a vital addition to the stage crew, must get together with every single department chair and discuss everything, from the music to the thin sheets of dust that have collaborated atop the old costumes that are being considered for creative reuse. He simply has no time. Tomorrow, he must go shopping with the head of stagecraft only because his opinion has been valued ever since the first time he performed in front of his peers. The following week he must work with sound design and the film department just to figure out the quality of the footage and the cost of extra microphones. Which will all eventually leave a meeting with financials just to figure out a budget. The only thing not on his back is casting and choreography, two of the most vital roles which he entrusted to Yongsun because she carries a powerful judgement and used to practice ballet until an accident she suffered during her sophomore year.
It’s a lot of convincing himself that things will lack faults, and if they don’t then he’ll just have to edit his thought process and start feasting on the idea that imperfection is the best kind of perfection that can ever be offered up. So he stays up late, because aside from being an essential piece to the winter show, he is also a dedicated student that entrusts himself with finishing up annotating a script written by his professor, it being one of the most narcissistic assignments he has ever had to complete.
“Tell me, sir, what did you mean when you said so and so? And, also, may you allow my comment on your impeccable writing skills because if I say anything stating otherwise, I fear the curse of failing the class.”
Therefore, it is both a shocking and frustrating moment when Jeongguk enters through the door after his shift at the gallery, and instead of casually kissing the top of Taehyung’s head and leaving to change out of his suit, he lets his lips linger on the side of his neck and whispers sultrily in his ear:
“Come to bed with me.”
It is indeed unusual to have him be so horny during such late hours. He usually comes home tired and soft, baring hot chocolate from the nearest café now that winter has thrown its blanket. Not like this, raging against a despair that only Taehyung has the potion for.
“Why? Did something happen?” He asks, confused, shaking away Jeongguk’s lips on his neck, the skin cold with saliva.
“Something happened, yeah. Can you come?”
Taehyung looks at him seriously. “Guk.”
“Please, Tae.”
And the round begging in his voice brings Taehyung the colors of worry. He glances to his script, heavy with blue ink. His position on the couch begins to numb his legs. He attests for a slight intermission, therefore, gives Jeongguk what he’s wanting.
“Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”
He gets up and follows him to the bedroom, unsure about the current occurrences and stressed to find the hurried walk of his favorite boy. When the door closes, their lips tire out the space in between them and makes it disappear. Jeongguk kisses him with force, both hands resting on his cheeks, tongue sliding its way into Taehyung’s mouth. It could be soft. It could be the gentle step of butterflies on a window pane. But it’s not. It’s ragged and desperate and once Jeongguk disconnects to kiss his way down Taehyung’s neck, the elder speaks his protest.
“I don’t understand,” he says, but Jeongguk is on him again. Their lips soak in spit as Taehyung does his best to kiss back but his lack of comprehension gives for a wobbly adventure on the peak of Jeongguk’s mouth. Jeongguk's hands slide under his sweater and grip the skin of his back, warm and thick, a point of comfort the boy craves for. He feels his body, has missed his body, and Taehyung wants it but not with this muddled spark. "Jeongguk, I don't understand."
Jeongguk backs away to take off his jacket but the pause does not live long enough to be permanent. Again, he kisses him and nothing could ever amount to the feeling of Taehyung’s lips against his, to the taste of him, to the way his body screams safe for all of Jeongguk to hear. He grinds down against him and Taehyung feels his bulge through his slacks. He goes to bite and suck at the lobe of Taehyung’s ear and the desperation is evident but Taehyung will impede anything from walking without any declaration of truth.
"At three you're off me," he warns, but Jeongguk doesn’t stop sucking his way down Taehyung’s neck, the scent of his body wash swallowing him down in chunks. “ One,” Taehyung starts, and Jeongguk, terrified of the consequences settled in his tone, detaches himself completely. His breathing spans for ages, virile to the touch, reaches desperately for Taehyung once again but hesitates. He can cry his soul out for the sake of distress.
"I need you to sit down and explain this to me,” Taehyung says, licking at the wetness of his lips.
“I’m sorry,” Jeongguk says, rubs his forehead in frustration, regretting every moment now, regretting his force. “I’m sorry—that was—that wasn’t right.” He sits down on the bed and stares hard at the floor. “I’m so sorry, Taehyung.”
“What happened?” He crouches down in front of him and wipes the boy’s bangs away from his face. “Tell me what happened.”
It takes minutes for Jeongguk to spew out a coherent sentence. He keeps apologizing, mumbles out something along the lines of force and trauma and lament. Taehyung soothes him. He pets his cheek and tells him that it’s okay, that it wasn’t taken harshly; he just wants to know what caused such an outlash. Jeongguk tells him about the couple he saw in the midst of getting their nightly due of hot chocolate.
“I swear that he was touching her underneath the table. I saw his hand. He was touching her; he had to be.”
“Okay, and?”
“And all I kept thinking was how much I wanted to touch you. It’s been so long. We’ve been so busy. And I guess watching them triggered something in me. I couldn’t stop staring. I just want you. I want to make you feel good and I want everyone else to know about it.” He blushes a crimson color and sighs deeply. “I forgot the hot chocolate.”
“Jeongguk—”
"I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed so—so please." Jeongguk rubs his legs together and palms his crotch.
"I'm busy. You can do it by yourself." Taehyung destroys the diaphanous, is toned as strict and severe, unraveled and displays himself belly up to Jeongguk’s good service.
"No, no, I want you to do it. Please, Taehyung. I want to be inside you."
By this point, Taehyung has already given in fully but watching Jeongguk humiliate himself stris his dick in the best direction. So he keeps going, keeps himself harsh.
"I have a script to finish annotating.”
"Taehyung—"
"Should I annotate in here?"
Jeongguk stops, swallows thickly, almost moans at the idea that is being proposed.
"Do you want me to watch you get off?" Taehyung asks, his hand gripping Jeongguk’s hair and pulling his head back to get a good look at him.
Jeongguk licks his lips and nods. All he can do is nod. His words have left him embarrassed and ashamed and he cannot find himself to speak anymore. His blush is hot on his face and he feels dizzy with salacious desires.
"Do you think you can catch my attention?”
“I can do it.”
Taehyung brings his script into the room, brings his pen and his determination to hold still and annotate. To not watch. To not fall into the hole of temptation and allow Jeongguk any amount of eyesight. Little to his knowledge, his will is that of the speck of dust that wonders lost through the realm of a floor’s corner. Jeongguk is sedulous. He gives little mind to the light of the room, to the scent of the freshly washed sheets, all things that vividly engulf the mind if it were not hooked on the shape of a certain body. Taehyung’s figure calls out to him loudly and if he weren't such a novice he would happily respond in the best way. Jeongguk has walked this maze once or twice and still does not know how to grip its function. Taehyung is enigmatic and it is that, his mystery, that gets Jeongguk hard and throbbing, what almost has him spilling over the soft curves of his own build.
It’s an ostentatious display and nothing gets Taehyung more interested than his own desperate love, no matter how stolid he wishes to pass as. In the end, he deems Jeongguk meritorious for having lasted so long, having stroked his hard cock for endless minutes, moaning, his eyes never leaving the warm figure that sits on the loveseat across from him. Taehyung glances. Only glances. And at some point, within the sounds that leave Jeongguk’s trembling lips, within the desperate tugging, he throws his script to the floor and moves towards Jeongguk’s.
There is the strident fact that he is not alone in his need. Taehyung kisses him with passion spilling over twelve waterfalls, the time that overtakes the clock on the bedside table. They do their nastiest, strip quickly, and when Jeongguk makes a move to reach for condoms, Taehyung pulls his body back against him.
“Cum inside me,” he mutters against the skin of his temple, kisses him there, and licks the sweat off his neck.
Jeongguk is two fingers in when Taehyung decides to add his own. He likes to be stretched out, likes to huddle close against the shape of Jeongguk’s cock without pain, without effort. He is only here to give into the dirt of Jeongguk’s want, to humiliate him some more.
“Are you big enough? Can you do it?”
Jeongguk turns him around and bites at the small of Taehyung’s back.
“Let me fuck you, please,” he begs, has no problem begging and asking for what he wants. He has shriveled towards shameless and Taehyung smiles against the lack of indignity.
Jeongguk bites down on his ass cheek. He corners the skin in between his teeth because time has not been friendly and only now does it offer it’s hand. Taehyung moans alongside the pain. Jeongguk is quick to slip inside and the desperateness of his yearning overcrowds the bedroom. His thrusts are fast and rough, so rough that he has to hold onto Taehyung’s body and pull it up from his all-fours. Taehyung arches his back, moves his hips against each shove, and once his prostate is found his mouth dirties with fucks.
The long line of Taehyung’s thighs hammers against his, every thrust becoming something feral and divine. Taehyung moans out Jeongguk’s name and calls him a slut for wanting him so hard. For gripping him so hard. For fucking into him. Restless. Quick. Losing conscious of his breathing and immediately cumming, white dots and all as Jeongguk’s body becomes an earthquake on its knees.
The best time is unknown time. The best jerks are that of the hips. At least the temporary things happened. At least this moment feels opposed to that, almost as if their extacy will last even after the world explodes into vanishing. Even in this dark room that once, long ago, caused panic for discovering the truth of a body mishandled. Even on top of a blanket that one night knew crying as its strongest wetness.
Taehyung calls out to a god he doesn’t believe in. He circles his hips with Jeongguk’s dick still buried inside, searching for something that seems to be over.
“Make me cum, Jeongguk,” he demands. “Make me cum.”
Jeongguk ends up with Taehyung’s dick in his mouth, sucking and slurping, the saltiness of sweat gathering around his lips. He loves it. He tells Taehyung how much he loves it, and Taehyung thrusts deep into the heat before spilling all over inside. His cum drips down onto the bed sheets once Jeongguk opens his mouth to show Taehyung the immodest mess he’s made.
“Swallow it.”
The taste of salt and musk populates each darkened corner of his mouth. And he finds himself a new fixation, this one more red than any other color as his cheeks huddle close with heat while Taehyung wipes the spit from the corner of his mouth. Afterwards, whilst they’re in bed with the side lamp lit up, Jeongguk notices the squiggles of blue ink on Taehyung’s skin. His pen kept drying out whilst writing, therefore, he had to be quick when resuscitating it against the back of his hand. It happened often and Jeongguk kisses every stray mark, filled with confidence when met with the idea that, unlike the blue lines, he is permanent.
- - -
Taehyung is a part of each ocean, his waters aghast with living and everything he does comes out in rivulets of triumph and the yearning for more. Always wanting more, wanting most, and the moment he bows hand in hand with everyone else on stage, a standing ovation glittering in the spotlights, he knows that his victory has only just stepped on its beginning.
The whole event was consumed by thrift shopping, YouTube tutorials, and harsh decisions made with a soft welcome. Too much planning and funding went into it for it to not finish its clapping with broad success. There was a surplus of fairy lights that adjusted quickly to the environment, small trees were brought in for a large chunk of the performances, faux snow rained down as the dancers danced in transparent attire and antlers to mimic the graceful rarity of the white elk. The actors played out a scene centered around a winter fairy who fears the cold weather and the chorus sang Let It Snow but with a lovely piano performance and at a slower pace. Taehyung was asked by his professor to prepare a speech for opening night. In it, he thanked the audience for their support, mentioned the very tiring fact that the entire performance is student-based, how they each grinded hard into their time and dedication just to conquer up a presentation worth a plethora of applauses.
And now that the final show has wrung out its masses on the last stage of the winter nights, Jeongguk greets Taehyung in the back while he’s helping a dancer out of a costume whose zipper has gotten terribly stuck.
“I think we’re gonna have to take scissors to it, Momo.” He struggles once more, pushes down as hard as he can but to no avail. The dress seems to want to stay on.
“Aw, that’s a shame,” she says and walks away to find the wretched tool that will tear the fabric into unusable oblivion.
Instinct had flicked Jeongguk’s pulse on his way to the school’s theatre (its architecture mimicking Renaissance standards with its many columns and domes) and he stopped by the local florist to pick up something soft and whimsical for Taehyung to add onto his long lists of celebrations. He gives him a bouquet of White Camellias and at least fifty kisses on his cheek, huddles his body close and tells him how much he enjoyed every inch of the performances, knowing full well that his boy was a fundamental piece to the project itself. He doesn’t let him go for minutes, Taehyung having difficulty walking whilst Jeongguk’s arms hug his waist. And in the midst of the performers wiping away their makeup and slipping away from uncomfortable articles of clothing, Lee Hayi, the student in charge of the music department, brings in a bottle of sweetened red wine and several bordeaux glasses on a large platter. Kim Woosung and Choi Yuna follow with more glasses and a cake embellished with caramelized fruit and chunks of dark chocolate.
The toast, before anything, starts with thanking Taehyung who managed not to surpass the strict budget ensured by the wrath that is the financials office and who also directed the union of each branch (creative arts majors, theatre majors, dance majors, music majors, advertising majors, and even asked the psychology department’s help in ensuring all of the performers’ mental state throughout this very stressful period), all to settle upon a show that had the audience on their feet and collect enough money to surpass their expectations and donate to local non-profit organizations that the university sponsors.
The night ends up supplying a warmth that no one has heard of. They huddle close together underneath the blankets, the heater set on high, snow falling outside the window that keeps its curtains open on this cold night. The flowers sit jubilantly in a bouquet on top of the dining table. A piece of cake is tucked neatly inside the fridge. Something large and vibrant appears within both their bodies, like the wish on a stray eyelash, like the grand birth of a brand new sky.
- - -
On their three-hour-long trip to Daegu, Jeongguk refuses to drive during his second turn because the nerves keep biting into his cold skin. He tells Taehyung this and is assured that his parents will love him regardless of whether Jeongguk layers a scarf over his coat or not. He sits in the passenger seat listening to Taehyung talk about his family; the day his siblings were born, both births hectic and unexpected as Taehyung’s mother was sleeping before the pains deteriorated her body, one during an afternoon siesta and the other at night right after she had taken her blood pressure medication and drank her nightly dose of chamomile tea. He tells Jeongguk about the summers spent at the lake, how his father took charge and taught all three of his kids how to swim before heading off on unsuccessful but jubilant fishing trips. Jeongguk hears all about the wonders of Taehyung’s mother’s garden, how the neighbors are convinced that something is always growing there despite the stern climates that have engulfed Daegu. Tells him about all the times he was chased in the rain, sometimes by the meanness of older boys and other’s for a laugh from the girl that had confessed her love for him when he was just a kid.
When Taehyung gets home, he realizes that things are different even if the space hasn’t changed. His bedroom is still painted in that pale peach tone that resonates with every k-pop song he listened to on his radio during the boring splash of Saturday afternoons. The kitchen still smells of cinnamon, his mother’s favorite spice. The living room still pays homage to his dead grandparents by the drapage of his grandmother’s old quilt over the sofa and his grandfather’s box of Cuban tobacco displayed in a glass box, sealed in case the children become curious. Nothing has moved, not even the clock out in the front porch, which stopped working the day a bolt of lightning struck down on his mother’s garden, an odd connection that never will grant itself any meaning except for exerting just that: no meaning at all. Indeed, nothing has moved, which leads Taehyung to think that it is he who has been altered. Much older, much taller, much more understanding to his mother’s slow and gentle gestures and his father’s timid hand shaking at the sight of his grown up boy.
His mother kisses Jeongguk on the cheek the moment she sees him walk through the door, asks for his name and comments on the strength of it and then apologizes for sounding so silly with a hand softly pecked by flour.
“I’m baking the cake right now.”
It is two days before the New Year comes tumbling down from its high castle, the day Taehyung turns of age. Tradition was broken a while back but it picks itself up from the floor and dusts away the specks that have accumulated. Tradition calls for a three-layered cake with custard slabbed in-between, topped with whipped egg whites that get torched right after the strawberries, freshly bought (because the garden can’t always perform miracles, contrary to popular belief), are sliced like roses and used as elegant decor.
The hyungs get in touch with him together in a video call that Taehyung answers in the emptiness of his bedroom. They congratulate him and talk about the cruelties of the year and how they seemed to have survived every tumble. Jimin is missing from the group only because he managed to save enough money to go on a much-awaited trip to Europe. Right after the call with the hyungs, Jimin texts him to see if it’s a good time to talk. They chat about the art in the museums, how the architecture leaves everything in Seoul defenseless and meek, and the universal truths of the exhaustion that comes with tourism. Meanwhile, Jeongguk sits outside showing Taehyung’s parents his most recent photography adventures including the ones he took of Taehyung for his final project. At night, they all sing Happy Birthday to Taehyung and his father insists on getting the slice with the thickest slap of merengue despite there being two children at the table. The cake is irresistible, the flavor a flamboyant sailor on the tips of everyone’s tongue. Taehyung douses frosting on Jeongguk’s cheeks and then licks it off, giggles alongside the kids who are not old enough to understand completely, for Heeyoung slabs on a big chunk of the topping and demands Taehyung licks it off too. At some point, Taehyung’s mother collects the plates and Jeongguk stands up to offer his help. In the kitchen, he is asked to dry while she washes and after the mess sees calming, she pulls him close to her and thanks her for bringing her child back from wherever he went off too. She asks Jeongguk to take good care of Taehyung and if anything ever gets impossible, just think about how the next day is a new day and new days offer up much more possibilities than their counterparts.
“Is he your friend?” Taehyung’s younger brother whisper-yells at his direction while they sit at the dining table. Taehyung is left blank with an answer, unsure of what to tell an eleven-year-old boy on the prophesies of gay romance.
“They’re in love, Dohyun.” Taehyung’s dad says, at which he protests, whines out his father’s name and feels heat rising up to his neck.
“Is it okay if he’s a boy?” Heeyoung asks, her seven years of life apparent in the pitch of her voice.
“Yeah, is it?” Dohyun delivers the same question, equally confused.
“Of course it’s okay!” Their mother separates from Jeongguk, walks in between the chairs of both kids, and crouches down to their level. “Love is everywhere and anyone who is anyone deserves some of it!”
“Oh, I didn’t know that,” says Heeyoung,
“Do you think he’s handsome?” Taehyung’s mother’s points towards Jeongguk. The small child looks at him, smiles with teeth missing from their spots, and muffles her squeal against the fabric of her mother’s shirt. She finds him handsome, yes, and if she hadn’t just discovered that he belonged to her brother, she would’ve made Jeongguk promise to marry her on the spot.
(She wouldn’t; sometimes kids believe they’re bolder than what they actually are. It’s the missing teeth. She lacks bite and alongside the lack of heavy gnashing comes a miniature stream of bravery that knows no ones name at all).
The New Year is spent in the same climate it was born in, the weather stinging like an infected blister. Taehyung and Jeongguk drive to the store and buy ice skates for each member of the family and that same night, they all head out onto the local rink to show them off. The children are experts with ice, be it when making watermelon popsicles during the summer or chasing each other in freshly bought skates. Last year they were taught how to walk on the surface by their mother, a woman who worships the cold despite having no clue towards harshness. She likes to bundle herself up. She says that the warmth of a good scarf makes her feel good in her stretch marks, the only hindrance she worships because her children were all her gifts.
Jeongguk is not as good at it as Taehyung is, who races his siblings without a single stumble and dizzies himself when spinning at the very center of the rink. The other boy trips often but does not allow his body to fall, therefore, holds onto Taehyung’s sweater paw in the midst of performing an unstable ritual in his ice skates. Now, they sit on the sidelines, huddled close for the sake of discovering a heated touch, something to melt away their shiver. They watch the couples glide by, the children breaking their backs with every slip and laughing to themselves as they rise (because victory brings hoards of funny lips), and Taehyung’s parents who hold hands as they skate and remember the amount of trust that went into teaching their children a drastic waltz on ice that often ended up in tears and embarrassment.
“They’re so happy,” Jeongguk says, as Taehyung’s father kisses his mother on the head, her body several centimeters shorter than his.
“We’re happy too, right?” Taehyung asks, and watches his reflection in the dark of Jeongguk’s eyes. His incandescence is the warmest shade. It invites Jeongguk quite loudly. And in that, they kiss in public because their joy shames mountains and their love floods harder than all the oceans combined.
That night, when they get back to their hotel room after congratulating everyone at the rink once twelve o-clock struck the world, once the New Year hit its fist on a universal door and made its way through, they make sure to strip every layer off each other’s body in strict peace. The scarves slither their way off their necks. The gloves go, too, leave their hands soggy with the heat of the room. Then come the coats, which thunder heavy onto the floor. Then the sweaters, which leave their hair slightly more complicated right after their beanies were slid off. Their long-sleeves, their shoes, their socks, their pants, their briefs. And finally, Taehyung takes off Jeongguk’s t-shirt because the boy is far too sensitive towards frigid climates and decided to wear something under in hopes of ending in a thin layer of sweat. It yielded unsuccessful.
They kiss softly for they lack any other format of holding each other. Jeongguks sits on the bed. Taehyung pushes him down gently. They fall more faintly than any leaf ever can. Their chests press together in controlled breathing, their lips a fountain of want and satisfaction.
“I wanna try it,” Jeongguk murmurs, Taehyung’s mouth now on his ear, nibbling on the skin there. “Can we try it?”
“Try what?” He whispers.
“Fuck me.” The words leave the strange taste of embarrassment inside Jeongguk’s mouth but he stands by them, tall and lean with meaning. Taehyung goes to stare at him in the eyes just to find some kind of joke in them but all he discovers is a song of intent and lust.
“Jeongguk—”
“Please.”
“Out of courtesy?” Taehyung asks.
“Out of want.”
The first finger is the most uncomfortable, the lube overflowing and getting everywhere. The second makes Jeongguk grunt as Taehyung slips them in and out of him, stretching out his tight walls and giving Jeongguk a rest in between. The third finger makes him jolt, long and searching for something they find too easily. Jeongguk’s legs shake, his ass up in the air for Taehyung to memorize, his body clenching at the feeling of something penetrating. Finally, when Jeongguk’s asshole is all slick, Taehyung turns him around to face him and thrusts his length inside.
Easy.
Slow.
Jeongguk asks for more—for more—for more—
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It’s okay. I like it,” Jeongguk says, the pain picking away at uglier emotions.
Like the nerves he felt in the car ride to Daegu. Like the long-lost feeling of helplessness once he found out about Taehyung’s history, how little he could do, how small and impossible the situation welded against his bones. He was nothing once. He had no one but a ragged future that never was his. And now the pain he feels huddles close to his forgetting. Right now, soreness does not constitute hurt but the brilliance within the center of a light. He feels brilliant. He feels the heat and the sudden bursts of pleasure that grind against him, Taehyung’s neck bared on top of him to kiss, to bite, to mark once again, over and over. It is the scent of him that borrows Jeongguk’s cum, the heavy grinding, the fact that he is in love and slutty and in love with being slutty and messy and falling, falling, falling down a much awaited edge. Taehyung thrusts hard, deep, pumps the cum out of Jeongguk with his hand and does not stop until he himself is spilling, until he himself disembarks on the warmest orgasm that his life has ever given.
- - -
The future writes itself green, spends hours stretched over a typewriter just to have everyone tell it how envious they are of each word.
Jeongguk ends up finishing his business degree alongside spending endless hours with several cameras. He now owns three art galleries throughout South Korea, his work flooding corporations and magazines and hung up for the world to recognize as his own. Taehyung works directing plays down at the local theatre and gets casted for several performances on grander stages. He’s currently in the process of learning a script for a feature he’s doing in a popular romance drama. They come home tired and take vacations often to spend time together in a cabin Jeongguk owns out in the middle of nowhere. They throw themselves naked into the lake and rejoice in their happenings, in every drop of water that clings onto their skin, something they lick off once they get into the bedroom with their lack of drying. Nothing will ever dry. They will stay young and fall into even larger heaps of love, something that sees no end, no fault, no strain. They are easy together and their obstacles do not cloud their vision because they are ever so notoriously convinced that the world has hurt them just so they can hurt it back.