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i. Mauerbauer Traurigkeit
It was chilly, mildly windy at most. Clouds had begun to roll over, covering the sun and casting the entirety of the city in this murky, muted grey color. The only sounds being the soft rain hitting Jungkook’s clear umbrella, the passerbys whipping past them to find shelter, and Hoseok’s beating heart.
It was then that Hoseok officially decided that he hated the rain.
A chill licks up Hoseok’s spine, turns into a dull ache as he watches Jungkook’s face shift from realization, to utter heartbreak. His wide, deer-like eyes are filled with such painful sorrow and it hurts. It makes Hoseok want to turn back time and try again, gather his words from the thick air and swallow them back down again. In this moment, Hoseok feels nothing more than utterly helpless. The weight of the devastation settling on his shoulders, weighing him down like an anchor on a chain.
“What do you mean?” Jungkook asks, his voice broken. It all becomes too real, hauntingly so as Hoseok licks his chapped lips. He licks them, opening his mouth to respond but closing it right after. For once, the usually talkative man is at a loss for words. He doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore, what his original plan was, but he feels awful.
Jungkook’s hold on the handle of his umbrella tightens, perfectly dry from the rain that increasingly becomes more violent. Hoseok stands helplessly across from him, getting soaked down to the bone. He shivers, hugging his arms around himself, blinking out the wet, honeycomb brown hair that settles inside his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” is all Hoseok manages to croak out. He flinches at the scoff that escapes Jungkook’s throat, feeling absolutely ridiculous. He’s telling the truth, yet the words sit on his tongue like bitter lies. They roll off his tongue like liquid imprecations, making his mouth feel as though it was filled with acid.
“You’re not—” Jungkook begins, his anger now becoming more woefully real. “You can’t just say that.” It’s such a harsh demand, a loud plead. A clap of thunder can be heard dropping from the clouds Hoseok’s unable to hear it, the ringing in his ears too strong.
He attempts to try again, shrugging. He spares a glance at Jungkook and regrets it immediately. His otherwise soft eyes now hardened. Malice, hurt, untrustworthiness swimming around them like Koi Fish in a pond.
“I know. I know I can’t fix this, I’m—” He licks his lips, feeling the peeling skin, the slight sting. “I just can’t—I just can’t do it, Jungkook. I wanted to, I really wanted to so fucking bad but I—” Hoseok looks at him helplessly, like a drenched puppy. Jungkook looks at him as if he set the entire city on fire.
“You what, Hoseok?” Jungkook hisses, cutting him off. His knuckles turn white around the handle of his umbrella, the rain pouring down unforgivingly. Hoseok feels as though he deserves it, deserves the terrible weather and the beautiful man that’s adjacent from him spitting expletives at him. He deserves it all, and he’s willing to take it with the grace of a ballerina.
“I just—”
“What happened to you?” It’s said with such morose confusion, almost disgust. “We were fine, we were great. We were—we were so fucking good and you tell me all of a sudden that you can’t—can’t do it?” He’s on the verge of yelling now, tip toeing on the very fine edge. Hoseok shrinks back, feeling too small against Jungkook’s big presence.
He was always loud, even when he was quiet. He was boisterous and fun, the small light in an otherwise caliginous world. He always had a joke to crack, always had a shoulder to cry on, always had a bunny-smile on his face but now—
Hoseok selfishly took that all away from him, and he doesn’t know if he could ever give it back.
“What can’t you do? Tell me, Hoseok. Please, I’m begging. I’m begging you to just—to just tell me what’s going on,” Jungkook bargains, stepping closer, Hoseok steps back. “We can work it out I’m sure of it. I just—I need you to talk to me, please? Hoseok, please, just talk to me.” His voice is so raw, breaking, on the cliff of crying. Hoseok’s stunned into silence, too overwhelmed to speak.
“I just can’t do it, Jungkook,” he admits pitifully. His voice is so small, so quiet, barely above a squeak. “I can’t love you anymore.”
It’s as if the world stops. Hoseok’s heart beats harder than before.
“You can’t—” Hoseok sees a single tear slip down the high of his cheekbone, though Hoseok wants to think that it’s rain. “You don’t love me anymore?” He asks, tilting his head to the side. His bold eyebrows are pinched together, eyelashes so long and glistening with unshed tears.
Hoseok can only offer him a weak nod.
“I—” Jungkook starts, the anger beginning to rise once again. “I gave you everything.”
“I know and I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re fucking sorry!” Jungkook screams, “Because you’re not! You’ve never been sorry!” Hoseok feels as though he’s been stabbed, spit on, taunted for his wounds. “I gave you everything I could ever fucking give you and—and you’re telling me you don’t love me anymore—can’t love me anymore?!” He booms, voice louder than the thunder, more terrifying than the lightning. “I tried my best to give you so much, Hoseok. I gave you whatever I fucking could and you—you just took it. You took it and won’t ever give it back.”
It’s the painful truth, the ugly truth. Hoseok nods his head slowly, testing the rough waters. He continues to hug himself, shrugging underneath the heavy drops of rain. He’s drenched at this point, quivering like a leaf on a pine tree.
“Why won’t you say anything?” Jungkook demands, “why won’t you fucking answer me?!”
“Because it’s fucking true!” Hoseok yells back. He’s never screamed at Jungkook, not even once. Even when they had their petty arguments that lasted for days, he’s never once raised his voice. His eyes are filled with some kind of desperation, a fickle feeling that he can’t exactly place his finger on. He doesn’t want to. Hoseok says, “because I know I can’t give you everything back and it hurts! It fucking hurts, Jungkook. Knowing that you have all this love for me and I can’t—I don’t feel the same way. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt the same way and I’m—I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you. Like I wanted to.”
The words drop on Jungkook like a bombshell, suffocating him and tearing at his skin. The rain grows more intense, as if it’s screaming at Hoseok. It’s so loud, the wind whipping his hair around and whistling high in his ear.
Hoseok realizes a bit too late, that, just because he thinks he deserves this, doesn’t mean that Jungkook does as well.
Jungkook; the one with the soft eyes and the even softer lips, the one that always carried an umbrella even when the chance of rain was zero-percent. Jungkook; that one sophomore with the contagious laugh, the one who always bought people coffee even when they didn’t ask.
Jungkook; the one that loved Hoseok so intensely, so loudly. The one that Hoseok couldn’t love back.
“You never loved me,” Jungkook says as if it’s some dawning realization. He laughs bitterly, devoid of all humor, dry. He keeps laughing until he’s doubling over, tears of upsetting despondency streaming down his face like a raging waterfall. He then straightens up, regains his composure quickly. He wipes at his eyes with his free hand, the other holding onto the umbrella handle with a vice.
“You never loved me. You sat there, said you loved me knowing it was nothing more than a lie in your heart,” Jungkook snaps. It makes Hoseok flinch, closes his eyes, wishes for it all to be over, for Jungkook to take his heartbreak and run. “You lied to me for—for so long. You sat there and looked me in the eyes and lied to me. You fucking—” Jungkook shakes his head in disbelief, scoffing, huffing out am earnest laugh.
“Fuck you, Jung Hoseok,” Jungkook spits. Hoseok deserves it, he deserves it all. He deserves the way Jungkook is staring at him with such hatred, such vengeful resentment. He deserves the way Jungkook continues to curse at him, scream at him, accuse him of never loving him when that wasn’t the case at all.
Hoseok’s love was always silent, silent enough to kill. Hoseok’s love was something you didn’t even know you had until it’s too late.
Hoseok loved Jungkook and it almost felt like watching an entire forest burn. It was overwhelming, clouded Hoseok’s mind, stayed with him like a nagging voice and told him to do better.
Hoseok, no matter how hard he tried, couldn’t do better.
“I’m sorry,” Hoseok says. Jungkook opens his mouth but Hoseok cuts him off quickly. Says, “I’m sorry that I couldn’t ever give you what you wanted. I’m—I’m sick of always having to say sorry. I couldn’t—It’s not fair to you, Jungkook. I’m sorry for not being able to do what I’ve always wanted to do.” Jungkook looks at him, stares at him. And, if Hoseok looks hard enough, he can see that same look Jungkook gave him when they first met.
Shy, almost clumsy puppy like. Asking if he could borrow a pen in the middle of a lecture, pink lips pouted. He had a face you couldn’t say no to, a face you wanted to shower with unconditional love. When he gave Jungkook his pen, their hands brushed and Hoseok was certain he could see stars. He gave Hoseok that signature bunny-toothed smile; big teeth and inverted crescent shaped eyes. He was so bright, almost like a star. The sun in the middle of a rainshower.
Jungkook only nods silently, grip loosening on his umbrella as the rain continues to pour down. It hits the darkened pavement heavily, sounding like miniature snare drums. It pounds against Hoseok’s head, makes him feel so, so cold. He continues to shiver, wanting nothing more than to curl underneath Jungkook’s umbrella. He wants to say sorry, continue saying it. He wants to assure Jungkook that it’ll all be okay but he can’t, he can’t ever do that. He was never able to.
Telling Jungkook it would all be okay would feel like lying, it would be lying.
Hoseok hates lying to Jungkook.
Jungkook opens his mouth to say something, closes it, makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. He only sighs, looking down at his black boot clad feet. He taps his foot against the pavement, waiting for something, anything to come. After realizing that he’s waiting for nothing, that it was all in vain, he walks past Hoseok. Brushes past him with nothing more than a saddenned glance; eyes heavy with tears, the rims stained red.
And as Hoseok stands there, alone, without an umbrella, in the middle of a bustling city, he realizes something a bit too late.
Whenever it rained, Jungkook always had an umbrella.
Pink hair is the first thing Hoseok thinks when he sees Jimin.
Before, roughly a week ago, it was a bleach blonde. ’It’s for the valley girl aesthetic, Hoseokie. I’m moving to Cali one day, don’t you know?’ he said when Hoseok confronted him about the color. But now it’s nothing more than a bubblegum monstrosity atop his head. But, if Hoseok were being honest, he’d say that only Jimin could pull off such a color.
The hair bounces on his head as he charges towards Hoseok. Once he reaches him, he throws his arms around his neck and suffocates him in a bone-crushing hug. Hoseok weakly wraps his arms around Jimin’s thin waist, breathing in that vanilla perfume he loves to use so much. When he pulls away, he sees that soft, barely there smile that Jimin always gives him. It’s heart warming, to say the least. It makes him feel good inside. Less bleak, more alive.
“What happened to that ’valley girl aesthetic’?” Hoseok asks, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his grey sweatpants. Jimin shrugs his thin shoulders, running a hand a few times through his candy pink hair. He hums as if he’s thinking about it, clicking his tongue.
“Got bored of it, California sucks, anyway,” he speaks. Hoseok laughs at how enigmatic his way of thinking is, but he never complains.
Jimin’s been his friend for roughly two years. They met during one of Jimin’s dance classes, Hoseok was the teacher’s assistant and fucked up the mixing of the music. Jimin had yelled at him the entire class, making his ears ring afterwards. But, the next day, Jimin decided to apologize to Hoseok with a dime bag and a cappuccino that tasted like wet cardboard. They’ve been friends ever since.
“Never understood why you wanted to go there, anyway,” Hoseok hums. They begin to walk in the direction of the campus’ cafe. It’s a quaint building, designed and based after the zodiac signs. It holds roughly fifty people. But for some reason, Hoseok always feels like it's on the verge of over-capacity.
Jimin wraps an arm around Hoseok’s shoulders, pulls him down so that they’re around the same height. The sudden move makes Hoseok’s back crack, it earns him a teasing remark from Jimin. He laughs it off, says something about how not everybody is as flexible as the nimble dancer.
As they continue walking, Jimin takes it upon himself to fulfill the daily task of talking Hoseok’s ear off. Hoseok’s never been much of a small talk kind of guy, just adds his two-cents and calls it a day. Though, with Jimin, it’s easy to dive into a deep conversation, resurfacing only a few hours later. They talk about the weather, their upcoming midterms, what shapes they see in the bright blue sky. It’s all lighthearted and fun, homely. ”It’s calming," Hoseok thinks, heart-shaped smile planting itself right on his rosy pink lips.
“It’s annoying, actually,” Jimin says during an in-depth conversation about how his dance partner, a guy named Taehyung, can go fuck himself. “I’m like: ’we should change this into a glissade, not a pirouette.’ But then he’s all like: ’I think we should keep it a Pirouette, because, like, they’re totally emotional’ or some bullshit like that.” Jimin mock shivers, pulling a deep chuckle from Hoseok. His arm tightens around his shoulders as his irritation rises, scowl on an otherwise pretty face.
“Like, I barely know the guy, he’s barely been in this class for like—what—a few weeks? And he’s already trying to change the entire routine like he knows something. Like, dude, come on. I’ve been doing this since I was like, five years old. I think I know if a Glissade works better than a Pirouette at this point.” Hoseok only nods silently, back beginning to ache due to the slouch.
“Yeah of course, Gatorade and Powerade, I know all about that,” he says. It earns him a playful slap to the cheek and an equally as playful glare from Jimin.
“How am I supposed to rant about my problems if you don’t even listen,” Jimin complains. It’s dramatic, paired with the tilt of his head. “Like, this guy is totally ruining my chances at a successful dance career and you’re all like—”
And suddenly, Jimin sounds like he’s underwater. Suddenly, he’s shivering under the heavy pour of rain.
It’s been two months, and it still hurts like it’s the very first day.
Jungkook hasn’t changed.
His hair is still at that floppy length, though, a little longer now. It bounces with each step, black boots slamming against the ground heavily. His eyes are still round, still remind Hoseok of the one’s on a deer. He’s wearing an oversized grey pullover, baggy black pants to match. Around his shoulders is his backpack that Hoseok always told him was too small, too rustic to actually be of use. He’s walking with someone, Hoseok doesn’t know his name but he’s a psychology major. He has deep dimples and such golden skin. Silvery-brown hair and thick rimmed glasses.
Jungkook looks at him as if he gave him the world. Like he hand-crafted it and gave it to Jungkook with that dimpled smile on a silver platter.
Hoseok heart burns with something foreign, something unfamiliar. It claws at his chest, nestles in between his ribcage, makes him hurt. Suddenly he feels too cold, feels like he’s freezing to death. He can feel the ghost of rain on his skin, wet hair falling into his eyes, chapped lips stinging with each lick of his tongue.
Hoseok feels like he’s drowning.
He grips Jimin’s wrist tightly, yanking him to the side behind a campus store. Jimin makes a sound of confusion, eyes wide. His irises are laced with slight fear, a mix of emotions that Hoseok’s not interested in deciphering. He peaks over the corner of the campus store wall, watching as Jungkook and dimple-guy continue to walk their way.
Jimin peaks over the corner too, and Hoseok can almost feel the scorching hot glare settle in the side of his head. Jungkook and dimple-guy walk into the same cafe that was their previous destination, now completely out of sight.
Hoseok lets out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes as he wills the dull throbbing in his temples away. He pulls away from the wall, hands shaking in tight fists. When he opens his eyes, Jimin is staring at him with a look that Hoseok can only place as disappointment. Something pangs in his chest, something that leaves a foul taste in the back of his throat. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it immediately. He looks like a fish out of water as Jimin’s glare hardens.
“Why won’t you just talk to him?” Jimin asks, arms crossed. For once, Hoseok’s at a loss for words. He exhales through his nose, trying to gather together a coherent thought amidst a mind full of jumbled ones. It makes his head spin, makes him dizzy enough to have to slump against the brick wall of the campus store.
“I can’t,” Hoseok admits finally. His hands continue to shake even when he presses them between the wall and his back. His shoulders are squared, eyebrows pulled together into an expression of balking. “I just—I can’t talk to him. Not now.”
“Then when, Hoseok?!” Jimin snaps. He’s never seen Jimin this angry, this disappointed. His eyes are a vengeful wave of anger and sheer disappointment. It makes Hoseok feel small, makes his hands shake even more. He inhales shakily, exhales through his mouth.
“I just—”
“He’s hurting,” Jimin proclaims. “He’s hurting, waiting for you to come back to him and fucking explain this shit to him but you just—you just won’t do that! How long will it be before you decide to man the fuck up and confront him? He’s fucking—” Jimin breaks off at the end, his eyes narrowing into something disapproving. “He’s so fucking sad, Hoseok.”
“I know that, Jimin. I fucking know,” he says. It’s said with such robust finality that it makes Jimin flinch. His hands continue to shake, his chest hot with unshed anger and things he won’t ever be able to say. “It pains me to know that he’s probably still sad. It kills me knowing that I can’t fix it—He doesn’t want to see me, Jimin. He hates me and I can’t do anything about it and I’m—” Hoseok cuts himself off, feeling the stinging of tears behind his eyes. He blinks them away, forcing himself to keep his composure.
The rain in his ears is too loud, his throat is beginning to hurt from breathing in too deeply, trying to keep himself afloat. It all hurts too much, makes his mind hazy and his vision blur.
Hoseok wishes he had an umbrella.
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Jimin spits. It’s said with such definitive maliciousness that it makes Hoseok cower into the wall further. Jimin points an accusing finger at him, jabbing it into his chest. “You’re doing this to him. You’re being so fucking mean to him, leading him on like this. He wants closure, not a fucking kiss and a promise that it’ll get better. Fucking closure, Hoseok. It’s something so fucking easy yet you—” Jimin glares up at him and Hoseok believes he deserves it. Deserves the humiliation, the harsh wake up call. “You won’t be a decent person and give him that.”
Hoseok can only nod in response, his mouth too dry to respond. Thunder clouds clap in his mind, makes the throbbing of his temples too painful, too obvious. He runs a hand through his wavy hair, squeezes it into a tight fist to make it stop shaking.
“I know what I did is fucked up, I know that. I can’t take anything I said back, I can’t—can’t do that to him,” Hoseok finally relents. Jimin nods stiffly from in front of him, raising an eyebrow as if to urge him to continue. “But he looked—” He waves his hands around, “he looked like he was moving on. I can’t stunt his progress.”
“Why are you deciding for him?!” Jimin shouts, throwing his hands up in what seems to be defeat. He steps closer to Hoseok, eyes narrowed into impossibly small slits. “You can’t just decide what is and isn’t best for him. That’s why your relationship fucking failed in the first place, because you kept deciding for him!” Jimin’s heaving, breath heavy against Hoseok’s face. And the truth hurts, always has and probably always will.
It sits on his shoulders like a ton of bricks, drags him down like a puddle of quicksand.
“I know,” Hoseok replies. It’s so weak, barely audible. Jimin’s eyes soften, his arms lowering. He begins to open his mouth but Hoseok stops him with a shake of his head. “I know. But I can’t—it hurts, Jimin.” It sounds like a plea, a desperate cry for help.
His head drops as the first tear threatens to pool over. Jimin tugs him into a tender hug, a delicate hand running up and down the length of his back. Hoseok just stands there limply, helpless as he tries his best to force the burning tears away. Jimin’s chin is digging painfully into the crook of his neck, his hair smelling like cheap cherry shampoo.
“I know it does,” he soothes, “I know it hurts, Seoksie.” His tone is so delicate, so quiet. The wind rages in Hoseok’s mind, the whistling loud in his ears as he clings onto Jimin as if he’s the only thing grounding him. His body is small against Hoseok’s chest, soft hands dancing along his back in an attempt to calm him.
“I want it to stop hurting,” he feebly sobs, voice coming out raspy and broken. “Why won’t it—why won’t it stop hurting.” He asks to no one in particular. His blunt nails dig into the fabric of Jimin’s shirt, wrinkling it under his harsh grasp.
“You have to talk to him,” Jimin reasons, his hand creeping up his nape and settling on the top of his head. He runs his fingers through Hoseok’s honey brown hair, dancing expertly between the strands. “You have to talk to him. Soon.”
“I know,” Hoseok repeats, sounding defeated. His eyes train on the ground beneath him, on the sliver of sun that makes its way behind the campus store. “I know I do.”
Jimin’s hands continue to mess with the strands of hair that lay flat against his head. And for once, Hoseok wishes it was someone else.
In the midst of his pre-midterm, almost zombie haze, Hoseok makes the rash decision to rearrange all the furniture in his small, one room apartment. He pushes the couch underneath the window, moves the microwave to the living room for shits and giggles, tries to fit his bed into the kitchen. It’s a feeble attempt to try and feel normal again, to try and lighten his mood after almost four days of Jungkook-based sulking.
He’s in the middle of rummaging through his closet, throwing out clothes and miscellaneous items, until he comes across a small cardboard box. It has his name scrawled on the lid in that messy handwriting he’s too accustomed to. The edges of the box are beginning to rip, giving the entire thing a rustic vibe to it. He shakes the box, hearing something hard bang around on the inside of it.
He lifts the lid cautiously, peering down to see the little rectangular object. It’s a black cassette tape, a thin strip of masking tape on the front of it. On the surface of the tape, in bright, red letters reads:
’The Story of Us (how I fell for you).’
Hoseok’s heart leaps up into his throat, almost makes him choke. He takes the small cassette with shaky, careful hands. He brings it close to his face, examining the condition of the tape. The writing is slightly smudged, the tape peeling off around the edges. But it’s so uniquely Jungkook, such a painful reminder of what they had and what they could have been.
And then the rain came.
He scavenges deeper into his closet, searching for the cassette tape player he knows he has around here somewhere. When he doesn’t find it, he clutches the small tape in his quivering hands. He then moves to his bedside table, rummaging through the spare condoms and bags of stale chips until he finds what he’s looking for.
It’s a small cassette player, a sleek black. It’s chipped a little in the corner but it works just the same as a brand new one. He turns it upside down, seeing the initials on the underside; ’JJK + JHS.’
He inserts the cassette tape, hesitating before pressing the play button. The button glares up at him, dares him to push, taunting him like he’s some sort of coward. In more ways than one, he is.
“It’s just a mixtape,” Hoseok tries to tell himself, attempting to calm his breathing. “It’s just a mix of some stupid songs, doesn’t fucking matter. Just play the thing.”
After his small pep-talk, he presses the play button. It’s harsh, more forceful than he intended but it doesn’t matter. The mixtape makes a weird sound before actually spitting out the music. The song starts with a soft piano, the quiet chimes of what Hoseok thinks to be windpipes. Then, the husky, deep voice of Elvis Presley begins to bleed through the speakers of the cassette player.
It makes Hoseok’s heart shatter into a million places. It makes the storm that’s taken over his mind rage on, vicious and unforgiving. His vision begins to blur due to the hefty tears that threaten to spill from his tear ducts. He wipes at his eyes feverishly, a wet patch forming on the sleeve of his dark grey long sleeved shirt.
He skips the song, holding his breath as he waits for the next one to start.
He’s immediately encompassed by the sound of a whining guitar, a pleasant chorus of women cooing at him. Then, the painfully vintage voice of Paul Anka takes a hold of his ears and he feels like crying all over again. He wipes at his nose, blinking furiously to keep the tears at bay. His eyelashes are wet, sticking together with each desperate blink.
He realizes that Jungkook’s love was so violent, so heavy. It was something that was almost suffocating, but pleasant. It was overwhelming in the way it gave you such intense pleasure. He loved so much even when he didn’t have any left to give.
He misses Jungkook’s weird fascination with old music, misses the way he would dance around in Hoseok’s apartment in nothing more than boxers and Hoseok’s hoodie singing along to songs that were long forgotten by the masses. He misses the way Jungkook would tie his hair up into little ponytails when it got too long. He misses when Jungkook would wake him up by shoving burnt bacon into his mouth.
He presses the next button, ignores the rain.
This song is much slower, more somber than the others. It begins with a haunting melody from a guitar, the faint shaking of maracas. The man’s voice suddenly flows out of the cassette tape like smooth honey. The lyrics spilling from his lips as if it were second nature.
”What if it rained? We didn’t care. She said someday soon the sun was gonna shine.”
Hoseok’s breath catches in the middle of his throat. He swallows it down, his chest beginning to rise and fall quickly. The song is so sweet, so intimate. Paul McCartney’s voice is a soothing drawl, deep and coming straight from his chest.
He presses stop on the cassette player, yanking out the tape with haste. He tosses the player into his bedside table, covering it with the condoms and various chip bags so that he didn’t have to look it in the face anymore. He grabs the box from where he left it on his closet floor, dropping the cassette into it. He smacks the lid back of, shoving the box into the depths of his closet. He covers the box with old clothes for good measure, stumbling away from it as if it physically hurt him.
He trips over a discarded pair of pants, they tangle around his ankles and causes him to tumble to the ground. He falls flat on his ass, pain lurching up his tailbone. He winces, rubbing his lower back.
He sits there for what feels like hours, in nothing but silence. He sits criss-cross now, hands laying relaxed and open in his lap. His head craned downwards, staring at his reddened palms. They won’t stop shaking, won’t ever stop shaking. He feels something heinous lick up his chest, a dull buzz in the back of his mind. Suddenly, it’s getting hard to breathe. It’s too hot in his room, the storm is too loud. The thunder roars, the lightning bathes his brain in nothing but a blinding white.
It’s raining and he doesn’t have an umbrella.
He wheezes, trying his best to stand. His knees give out, tumbling back down to his previous sitting position. He brings his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them tightly. He buries his face into them, trying his best to get his breathing back on track. But, every breath feels like pins and needles and it fucking hurts.
He begins to rock back and forth, counting down from ten. He attempts to regulate his breathing again, gasping for air as if he didn’t have any to begin with. Small tears fall from the corners of his eyes and he feels something close to hopeless. The rain doesn’t stop, soaking his brain until it’s nothing more than an overworked mass of thunder and lightning.
It’s raining harder now, and he still doesn’t have an umbrella.
After a few minutes of rocking back and forth and gulping down air, the buzzing in Hoseok’s mind begins to halt. The clouds begin to clear, now only a stagnant grey. The rain has lightened into a light, barely there drizzle. The wind a soft howl.
He lifts his head, his eyes burning at the sudden light of his bedroom. He lets out a shaky breath, struggling to stand. He wavers on his feet, leaning on the nearby wall for support. He blinks away the remaining tears that have survived his blinking attack, wiping at his nose with his sleeve.
He moves to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror as he splashes cold water onto his face. It brings him back down to reality, grounds him, makes his situation more real than what it actually is. He spares a glance at his reflection, cringing at his current appearance. His eyes are swollen due to the heavy crying, eye bags making themselves known underneath. His cheeks and nose are stained a deep red, bottom lip adorned with a small cut due to the harsh biting of his teeth.
He pats his face down with a spare towel, throwing it somewhere random. He stalks out of the bathroom, shoulders slumped and brain nothing more than subdued white noise.
He walks over to his couch that’s situated underneath the window, a strip of golden sunlight basking down on it as if it were some sort of spotlight. He sits at the edge, digging his feet into the ripped cushion.
The voice of Paul McCartney swims around in his head, circles him like a predatory shark. His eyes slip shut, the abyss of unconsciousness welcoming him with open arms.
He dreams of meadows submerged in water, a deer amongst the swaying tulips.
“Wow, you look like shit.” Is the first thing Yoongi says when Hoseok enters his studio.
He only offers him a lazy glare, too tired to retort with something equally as shady. He plops himself down in the swivel chair, slumping deeper into it. It’s not exactly comfortable, mostly just hard black plastic with a small pillow digging into his lower back.
Yoongi’s immersed in whatever he’s working on. His fingers glide against the keyboard and Medipad with expertise, a crease in the middle of his eyebrows showing just how concentrated he is. Hoseok looks at him with a slothful kind of interest, eyes barely open as he watches him rearrange tracks and edit his current project.
“What’re you working on?” Hoseok slurs, voice deep and hoarse due to lack of use. Yoongi grunts in response, shrugging one shoulder before turning his chair around to look at him. Yoongi’s only clad in a black shirt and matching basketball shorts. His blonde hair sits in messy clumps on top of his head, his skin pale, eyes small and sharp.
“Something for class, not that important,” he dismisses. He pulls his legs up before crossing them underneath him, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palms. “Let’s talk about you, though. Why do you look like you just crawled out of your grave?” Yoongi asks, never one to beat around the bush. Hoseok’s gotten so used to it that his blunt insults barely have that sting anymore.
“Oh you know, wallowing in self pity. Only have about three dollars in my bank account. Probably have bedbugs, the usual, you know?” It’s said with such harsh sarcasm that Yoongi’s forced to raise a dark eyebrow. He hums, that deep garble that crawls from the back of his throat and tumbles from his thin, pouty lips.
“Of course, the usual. This isn’t Jungkook related at all?” He tilts his head to the side, both eyebrows raised now, almost kissing his hairline. He wants to deny the claim, tell Yoongi to fuck off and then leave. But he can’t, mostly due to the fact that it’s the volatile truth that Hoseok’s been trying to ignore for three days now.
“No, it isn’t,” he lies. He’s been doing that a lot lately, enough to be considered a second language. A bunch of ’Yes I’m fine. Yes, I’ve gotten enough sleep. No, nothing’s happened,’ with only skeptical glances and hushed agreeances in return.
Suddenly, Yoongi punches him hard in the shoulder. His sharp knuckles dig into the joint, causing Hoseok to wince and make a strangled noise of pain. He rubs the spot, staring at Yoongi as if he’s just grown two heads.
“For lying to me,” Yoongi says bluntly. He then shrugs, turning his chair around before returning to his work. He quickly saves the project, closing the window and turning the monitor off. He then turns back around to Hoseok, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest as if he’s waiting for something. “Tell me what’s up. It’s always a Jungkook thing, when has it not been a Jungkook thing?”
“When I stubbed my toe on my coffee table and called you crying about it.”
“Yes,” Yoongi begins. Says, “then you went on a rant about how Jungkook would always console you when you stubbed your toe on immobile pieces of furniture. Admit it, Seok, it’s a Jungkook thing.”
Hoseok glowers at him, not because he’s mad at Yoongi, but because he’s mad at the fact that he’s right.
“It’s a Jungkook thing,” Hoseok finally admits. Yoongi groans in relief, urging him to continue with the slight nod of his head. “He looked—I don’t know. Jimin told me that he was sad. But—I saw him the other day with some guy and he—”
“The guy’s Namjoon,” Yoongi interrupts, eyes bored. “But anyways, continue.”
Hoseok stares at him for a while before continuing his explanation. “He looked happy, you know? Genuinely happy, like he moved on or something. I don’t want to talk to him ‘cause I don’t want to ruin his happiness, be selfish like I’ve always been.” He rests his elbows on his knees, his cheeks resting in his palms, pulling at the skin. “I feel like I’d fuck up his progress if I tried to talk to him now.”
“You’re right, you would,” Yoongi says. Hoseok splutters, eyebrows pinched together as he begins to interject. “But it wouldn’t hurt to try. It’s been, what, two months now? He needs that closure, man. He’s waited long enough. Maybe it’s selfish, maybe it’ll make him spiral, but at least you did it and you can now sleep at night,” Yoongi advises, as if it’s the easiest task in the world.
“You say it like it’s easy. Like I can just walk up to him and not—” He trails off, eyes lowering to now focus on a discarded Cheetos bag on the ground. “Not feel that hurt again. Like I can look at him without seeing that—that look he gave me when I said I didn’t love him anymore.”
Yoongi stays silent, doesn’t bother to speak for a long time. Hoseok stays silent as well, focuses on keeping his breathing at bay and the sound of rain at the volume of a low hum. Yoongi then raises his hand, rubs his finger against his chin, deep in thought. A crease forms in between his strong eyebrows as he does so, lips quirked to the side, jaw clenched.
“You can’t just run from something because it hurts,” Yoongi says. It’s so cryptic, almost prophetic that Hoseok initially doesn’t understand. “You’re both hurting, sad, depressed, whatever the fuck. But—it’s—if you keep going on like this, it won’t ever get fixed. It’ll only get worse, then you’ll both be fucked.” And Yoongi has a point, so Hoseok doesn’t argue.
“In my opinion, I think you’re being a little bitch about it. You broke up with him out of the blue and now you’re crying about it. So, obviously, it wasn’t the best choice. It seemed like it was in the moment because—” He flings his hand around in some elaborate motion. Then, “because you’re a dumbass. Maybe even a piece of shit, but that’s not for me to decide. I’m giving you my complete, unbiased opinion right now.”
Hoseok nods slowly, exhaling through his nose. He spares a glance at Yoongi, sees those sharp eyes staring right back at him. They’re filled with something that Hoseok can’t exactly place. But, then again, Yoongi has always been hard to read. Brooding, near mysterious.
“Okay,” Hoseok sighs after a beat of silence. Yoongi perks up, leaning in closer. “I get it. I get that I’m doing this all wrong but it’s—it’s deeper than me just breaking up with him ‘cause I felt like it. It’s more like—like—”
“You were scared.”
Hoseok’s train of thought comes to a screeching thought. The rain in his mind silences, the wind stopping abruptly enough to give Hoseok whiplash. It’s then that he realizes that he didn’t break up with Jungkook because he didn’t love him anymore, because he couldn’t give him everything he wanted.
It was because Hoseok was scared of loving him too much.
“Yeah,” he replies. “I was scared of loving him—getting my heart broken and all that shit.”
Yoongi only hums in response, tapping his blunt nails against the arm of his chair. He works his bottom lip in between his rows of teeth, eyebrows scrunched together, forming a deep frown. Hoseok stays silent, guides his attention to the sound of rain hitting a window, leaves getting rustled by the light winds of summer.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Yoongi sighs, dropping his head. He then picks it back up, resting his cheek into his palm. His facial expression is akin to nonchalance, dripping with disinterest. But Hoseok knows that Yoongi’s invested, that he wants to help. “You shouldn’t be scared of loving Jungkook, you should be scared about what you’d do if you didn’t have it anymore.
And Hoseok’s right, so he doesn’t argue.
As the rain grows heavier, the winds whipping his brain around as if it were weightless, Hoseok contemplates the possibility that if he just had an umbrella, this would have all gone differently. He would’ve been happy, held in Jungkook’s arms securely with blandishments whispered into his ear.
But now, Hoseok is stuck chasing rain.
ii. Sonder
The campus cafe is filled to the brim with overworked zombies disguised as college students. Everyone stuck in the post-midterm haze, trying their best to regain their strength. The cafe smells of cheap coffee with a hint of mint, the sun shining into the quaint space, giving it a flattering ambience of peace, warm serenity.
Hoseok sits at a table near the back of the cafe, cappuccino that tastes like wet cardboard sitting lukewarm on the surface. He has his face buried into a textbook about music theory that, in Hoseok’s opinion, is completely useless for him. His laptop sits half open on the tabletop, feet planted on the edge of the chair as he attempts to retain the information the tiny text is offering him.
He hears the bell over the door chime, hears a familiar voice that makes the harsh rain reappear in his head again. He snaps his head up, staring at his profile. Jungkook’s clad in a beanie, silky black hair peaking out from underneath the elastic. His oversized black shirt falls off his broad shoulders, revealing a defined collarbone underneath. His pants, as Hoseok expected, are baggy black joggers tucked into the tops of his chunky black boots. Next to him stands Namjoon, in all his dimpled, five-foot-eleven glory. His hair instead of that silver-brown, is now a platinum blonde. He’s wearing nothing more than a white hoodie paired with grey sweatpants, a backpack hanging lazily over his wide shoulders.
Hoseok watches them order, ducking his head down behind his book as they walk towards the back of the cafe and find a table. He strains his ears best he can, trying his best to listen in on the conversation, but they’re sitting too far away. He hears their order being called, watching as Jungkook gets up to collect the two drinks.
Jungkook passes by him on his trek back to his seat. Their eyes lock, and Hoseok feels as though he’s had all of his breath forcefully pushed out of him. His eyes are still just as wide, still just as sparkly. A calm wave of brown amidst Hoseok’s chaotic storm of black.
Jungkook breaks the stare first, rushing over to where Namjoon sits. He gives him his coffee, offers him a shy smile. He says something about needing to leave, hastily making his way out of the cafe.
Hoseok throws all of his things into his bag, ignoring the lukewarm coffee as he jogs to catch up with Jungkook. The sun beats down on him, making Jungkook’s hair look like shiny ink. His skin has tanned a little bit, his build a bit bulkier than what Hoseok remembers. He catches up to him easily, carefully grabbing his shoulder, tugging him backwards.
Jungkook whips around, looking like he’s about to punch Hoseok directly in the face. Hoseok’s eyes widen as he removes his hand, raising his hands in surrender. Jungkook continues to stare him down with that same ruthless hate, the kind that makes Hoseok feel as though he’s being burned alive.
“What?” Jungkook spits, snarling. Hoseok’s at a loss for words, trying to rack his brain for something that wouldn’t add to Jungkook’s already dangerous amount of anger. He stutters for a bit, slowly lowering his hands, fidgeting with the edge of his pullover.
“I just—” He starts, searching Jungkook’s eyes for that same hesitant love he had all those months ago. “How are you?” He asks dumbly, mentally slapping himself for asking such a generic question. It’s as if his brain betrayed him, taking away his entire vocabulary and left only those three words.
“I was—am fine,” he insists. He shifts on his feet, throwing Hoseok a skeptical look. Hoseok feels small next to Jungkook; his presence is so big, so overwhelming. While Hoseok’s is forgettable, barely there.
“That’s good,” Hoseok assures him. “I’m fine too. Doing fine, good.”
“I didn’t ask,” Jungkook states. Hoseok feels stupid, a light flush spreading across the expanse of his cheeks and nose.
“I—I know, I just thought you’d be interested. Or whatever. I guess you’re not which is—which is fine. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, you know?” Hoseok rambles, stammering on every other word. Jungkook looks down at Hoseok with that same confused expression, that same hurt puppy look that Hoseok can’t stand.
That rain hasn’t gone away.
“You don’t get to make sure I’m okay anymore,” Jungkook sneers. Hoseok flinches, nodding his head.
“I know. I was just—”
“You know what,” Jungkook announces, stepping closer to Hoseok. “Fuck you. You ignore my calls for nearly three months, then decide out of no where you want to check up on me? After I was convinced you fucking hated me, that I did something wrong? You want to waltz back into my life like nothing fucking happenend and then—then—” His voice breaks, cracking painfully. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard to Hoseok, fills him with despair, something close to sorrow. “Pretend like you care about me?”
“I’m not pretending!” Hoseok professes, his voice raising. “I was never—I’ve always cared about you. I’ll always—always care about you, Jungkook.” Hoseok says this with such tenderness laced in his words, an overwhelming amount of genuine care that it makes his own head spin.
“Stop—you can’t fucking say that anymore!” Jungkook yells.
“But I’m going to say it anyway because I want you to know that I still fucking love you!”
The rain in Hoseok’s mind is louder than before, the wind fast enough to give him a serious case of whiplash. The whistling is loud in his ears, causing them to ring. The thudding of the raindrops making a despondent throb lick up the back of his head. Jungkook stares at him in disbelief, eyes wide with something Hoseok can’t exactly place. It’s frustrating, standing in silence, letting the sentence hang in the air.
“You don’t,” Jungkook says. His voice is so small, so hurt. It makes Hoseok’s heart chest twist, constricting to the point that he can barely breathe. “You don’t love me anymore—you can’t just say that. Make me believe you never loved me and then—” He sniffs, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “You’re an asshole, Hoseok.”
“I know but it’s—” The rain is loud enough to make it impossible for him to hear his own words. “I’ve never—I never wanted to hurt you. I don’t want to—” I can’t stand the fucking rain. “I can’t sit by and let myself—let myself watch you suffer every fucking day. I can’t do that! It fucking hurts, Jungkook. I can’t fucking take the pain anymore, I don’t want to feel it anymore!”
“That’s not my fucking fault! That’s not my fucking responsibility!” Jungkook yells, voice cracking at the end due to the volume.
“I know that!” Hoseok snaps, voice strained. “I fucking know that and that’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m talking to you. I’m—I’m trying to tell you that it’s my fault. It was never yours. And I’m sorry, Jungkook. I’m so fucking sorry that I made you think it was your fault. I’m sorry that I—that I ignored your calls, avoided you for months, told you to fuck off. I’m so fucking sorry for everything that I did to you and I’m trying—trying to fucking fix it because it—” The words get caught in his throat, refusing to spill over. He makes a small sound of frustration, running a shaking hand through his hair.
“I know. It fucking sucks, right?” Jungkook mocks, tilting his head to the side. “It sucks to be left in the dark, sucks to feel like everything’s your fault and that nothing you do, nothing you could try to do, will ever fix it. That’s what you were going to say, right?” Hoseok opens his mouth to object, but Jungkook beats him to it. “You know how it feels and now you can’t fucking stand it. You can’t stand the feeling of everything crashing and burning around you and now you want to fix it. You don’t want to fix it because you love me,” Jungkook jeers, “You want to fix it because you’re selfish. Because you’re the only person in the world that fucking deserves to be loved.”
“Jungkook you know that’s—” Hoseok begins, getting cut off by Jungkook throwing his cup on the ground. It explodes into a puddle of light brown, the puddle creeping up to Hoseok’s shoes.
“Then what the fuck do you mean, Hoseok?!” He screams, eyes ablaze with fury. Or, maybe it was frustration disguised by a thin veil of resentment. “Tell me, tell me right now what the fuck you’re trying to say. Because you’re spewing nothing but bullshit. Nothing but shit I should’ve been told nearly three fucking months ago!”
“You won’t let me fucking talk—”
“Because it’s nothing worth listening to!” Jungkook states, loud and clear. Hoseok takes a step back, the ringing in his ears and the throbbing of his head growing to be too much. “You keep telling me the same shit over and over. But guess what, Hoseok? I’m fucking happy. I’m fucking happy with where I am, with where I’m standing and with what I’m doing. But you—” He jabs Hoseok in the chest, staring in his eyes, gaze hard and relentless. “You will never be where I am because you’ll be too busy wallowing in self pity and wondering: ‘Where the fuck did I go wrong?’”
And when Jungkook walks away this time, he doesn’t offer him one last glance. He just leaves Hoseok with a spilled latte, and a sinking feeling in his chest telling him that Jungkook was right.
There are days that are good, there are days that are bad, and then there are days that leave you spiralling into an endless pit of bad decisions and awful, drunk sex.
Hoseok’s in the midst of taking his clothes off, head swimming with disgust forcibly turned into desire, that he decides the girl underneath him isn’t good enough. And in all honesty, probably won’t ever be good enough.
She lays under him, clad in only her underwear, gazing up at Hoseok with a gaze that’s nothing more than white, hot desire. For some reason, unbeknownst to him, it kind of makes him feel like shit. In the middle of undoing his jeans, he zips them right back up, offering the girl nothing more than a half assed apology.
She’s outraged, rightfully so, especially when the good part was just around the corner. But looking at her left a foul taste in his mouth he just couldn’t cope with. He didn’t want to wake up the next morning hungover with another mistake under his belt; he considers this self care.
He stumbles out of the bedroom, the base of whatever song was playing pounding in his ears loud enough to leave him deaf. He grips onto the wall for support, struggling to make it down the stairs without tripping and breaking every bone in his body. He burps under his breath, hiccuping directly after. He thinks he might puke, but decides that if he does, it’s probably for the best.
He makes it to the kitchen somehow in one piece, bleary eyes scanning the countertop for any kind of bottle of alcohol that looks to be strong. He finds a bottle of an unmarked, clear liquid. He twists the cap off, bringing the opening to his lips before gulping down a significant amount. It makes his mouth taste like shit directly after, makes the nausea in his stomach increase tenfold. He slams the bottle down onto the counter, making his way through the kitchen and out into the main area.
The living room, Hoseok assumes it to be, smells like sweat and regret. Nameless dancing bodies bumping into him as he tries his best to make it to the front door. Someone tries to grind up against him on his way out, earning the stranger a drunken shove in return. He finally makes it outside, circling the house until he’s in the backyard. He leans his hand on the brick wall, doubling over to empty the contents of his stomach.
He clutches his abdomen as he does, tears threatening to spill as the vomit just keeps coming. Once he’s sure he’s done, he wipes the sick off with his hand, flicking it off into a random bush. He then pats around his pants, looking for his phone. Once he locates it in his back pocket, he fumbles with it before unlocking it. He goes to the phone app (after much trial and error), clicking the contact that sits all the way at the bottom.
”Hello?” Jungkook answers after the fourth ring, voice thick with sleep. Hoseok almost wants to cry, thinking he wouldn’t pick up at all.
“Jungkook? Jungkookie? Kookie?” Hoseok babbles, listing off every possible nickname he can think of for the younger man. “Are you—do you have a car?” He asks, hiccuping. “I need a car—I need you to b-bring your car and give it to me,” he slurs. His eyes are half-lidded, phone clutched loosely in his hand, dangerously close to being dropped on the ground.
”The fuck—are you drunk right now? Hoseok?” Hoseok hears the rustles of sheets, guesses it’s Jungkook sitting up in his bed. He then hears a thud, probably him tripping while trying to put on a pair of pants, and then the jingle of keys.
“Yeah, ‘lil bit,” Hoseok admits, hiccuping again. “Went to this party and got crazy. Almost fucked a girl, and, like, couldn’t do it ‘cause she didn’t look like you.” He slumps against the wall, sinking down until he’s seated on damp grass. “You’d be—like, the prettiest girl at the party, Jungkookie. You’d have like long hair and—” Another hiccup, “and pretty legs.”
He hears Jungkook scoff on the other end, hears a door open and slams shut, and then the revv of an engine. ”How flattering, knowing that I’m known for my legs. Hey, listen, Seoksie? Can you tell me where you are right now?” He requests, the nickname almost makes Hoseok burst into a fit of sobs.
“I’m at—at Jackson Wang’s party. You know him, right? Super short guy. Has like, I dunno, he’s Chinese?” Hoseok tries his best to describe. He feels a sigh on the other end, a soft chuckle following shortly after.
”Okay, just, don’t move, alright? Stay where you are, I’ll come and pick you up.” Hoseok promises that he’s not going anywhere, hanging up. He rests his head against the hard brick of the house wall, staring at the twinkling stars that turn his skin into an almost dark blue color.
After ten minutes of waiting and trying to count every blade of grass on the ground, he hears footsteps approach him. He looks up, seeing Jungkook’s face. The sight alone almost makes Hoseok want to cry all over again, a dopey smile planting itself on his lips. Hoseok takes Jungkook’s hand, wobbling when he’s finally able to stand. He leans into Jungkook’s side, his skin warm against Hoseok.
“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Jungkook mutters, shoving him into the passenger seat of his car. He rounds the car and gets into the driver’s seat, starting the car and pulling off. He drives at a leisure speed, one hand on the wheel and the other resting dangerously close to Hoseok’s thigh.
“I know,” Hoseok whines, squirming around in his seat. He then reaches for his seatbelt, seeing that Jungkook’s already buckled himself in. He secures himself, turning over to look at Jungkook’s side profile. He notices how big his nose is, how pouty his petal pink lips are, how his hair is kind of messy due to his interrupted slumber.
“You’re so pretty,” Hoseok slurs, hand reaching out to grip onto Jungkook’s. Jungkook flinches, but doesn’t move the hand away. “You’re so pretty and I feel so bad. ‘Cause—’cause I fucked you over and you don’t—” His voice begins to crack, his hand gripping tighter. “You don’t like me back. But, like, it’s okay. I get it, y-you know? I get why you don’t like me anymore. I kinda don’t like myself anymore, either,” he drunkenly admits. He sees Jungkook’s face fall and suddenly he’s filled with a sick feeling, like he just fucked everything up for the umpteenth time.
“I know,” Jungkook whispers. His voice is so soft, so light. “We’ll talk tomorrow, when you’re sober.” There’s an ’I promise’ in there somewhere, but Hoseok doesn’t push further.
He hums, nodding his head His eyes flutter closed, letting the sounds of the rumbling engine begin to lull him to sleep. His hand still grips Jungkook’s, and Jungkook still lets him.
“Tell me you love me,” he whispers, tentative. “Tell me you love me, like this is the old times.”
Jungkook’s silent for a while, his attention solely on driving. He can feel his fingers begin to wrap around his, shy at first. But soon the grip is confident, a secure hold that makes Hoseok’s heart flip.
“I never stopped,” Jungkook says. “I don’t think I could ever stop.”
And before Hoseok falls asleep, he notices that there’s no rain when Jungkook’s around.
Hoseok wakes up in a bed that’s not his and with a headache strong enough to crack his skull in half.
He sits up quickly, the speed causing his vision to double temporarily and his head to spin. He flops back down onto the plush pillows, sighing a breath of relief. But then, he realizes that he’s not in his bed. Or his apartment, for that matter.
He sits up again, slower this time. He looks around the interior wildly, yanking the sheets off of himself to make sure he’s still dressed. Once he sees that he's only missing his pants, and that his boxers are still securely on his legs, he calms down temporarily.
But then, again, he realizes that he doesn’t know where the fuck he is. He carefully gets out of the bed, making sure to not make any sudden movements unless he wants to puke everywhere. He walks out of the bedroom, pattering down the hallway.
During his trek down the hallway, he passes a photo sitting in a frame that’s way too big for it. He pauses, stepping closer until he’s eye level with the glass.
It’s a picture of him and Jungkook during Jimin’s birthday party. Hoseok has cake smeared over his nose and Jungkook’s looking at Hoseok like he stole all the stars in the sky for him.
Oh.
He’s in Jungkook’s apartment.
It’s then that he realizes the soft clattering of pots and pans coming from the front of the apartment. He follows the noise, walking out into the open plan living room. He sees Jungkook behind the kitchen counter cooking what Hoseok assumes to be breakfast. He’s only wearing an oversized white shirt and grey sweatpants, his hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. He turns around, startling slightly at the sight of Hoseok. He offers him a timid smile, Hoseok’s too stunned to return it.
He sits on a stool at the kitchen counter, his feet brushing the floor. He leans his arms on the countertop, looking at Jungkook and trying to figure out what he’s cooking. It doesn’t look to be anything more than french toast and horribly scrambled eggs. But, considering the intensity of his stomach rumbles, he knows he won’t complain.
Jungkook turns around, pan in hand. He slides the eggs onto a plate next to the toast, setting the plate in front of Hoseok. Hoseok silently thanks him, taking the fork that Jungkook offers him. He begins to eat, the air around them painfully awkward, maybe even uncomfortable.
“You had a rough night,” Jungkook begins. His voice is tender, much softer in contrast to the harsh tone he used with Hoseok just a few days ago. “Pretty sure you traumatized my toilet.”
“You can’t traumatize inanimate objects,” Hoseok snorts, shoving eggs into his mouth. He glances up at Jungkook, those intense, sparkly eyes staring right at him.
“I know, it was a joke.” Hoseok only nods, finishing the food on his plate rather quickly. He pushes the porcelain object to the side, folding his hands on top of the granite countertop.
“I’m sorry,” Hoseok says. Jungkook looks like he’s about to interject but Hoseok stops him. “I need—I just need you to listen to me,” Hoseok requests, though it comes out as a weak plea. Jungkook nods, shifting his weight between his feet. He leans his arms on the counter, folding them together.
“I’m—I’m really fucking sorry,” he begins with. “I’m so—I’m so fucking stupid. I couldn’t—I was just scared, Jungkook. Okay? I was scared. It was never your fault, it was—it was mine. I was just so selfish and making decisions for you and I—” He lets out a shaky breath, his hands beginning to shake. He can hear the beginnings of rain, feels the warm wind.
“I just—I was afraid of loving you too much, too hard. I was so scared that you’d—you’d leave me or something. I was scared of getting my heart broken and I know that’s it’s—” He waves his hand around, “Really fucking stupid of me to think that but I fucking—it’s hard to open up. I don’t know—know how to do it. But you—” You make the rain go away. “You made me so happy. I was so, so happy to be with you. And then—then I had to take it away because I—” He trails off, shrugging. “Because it was too real, it was too fucking real and I was so scared that you’d leave me. I didn’t want you to fucking leave me, Jungkook.”
Hoseok then realizes that the look in Jungkook’s eyes is something a little like empathy, a little like understanding.
“And I’m sorry, okay? I’m so fucking sorry for making the executive decision to end it. I never—I never thought about what you wanted, I never really did. I just—I want to make sure that you’re happy and you—” He wipes at his eyes, the smell of french toast and eggs infiltrating his nose. “And that you can love me again.”
They both don’t move to say anything, just staring at the countertop in complete silence. The winds are harsher now, the rain thudding against the window as if it’s trying to break in. Hoseok’s hands continue to shake, folded into tight fists.
Suddenly the front of his shirt is gripped firmly by Jungkook. He’s pulled over the counter, lips crashing onto his in a kiss that’s more hungry than it is tender. It’s filled with so much need, so much unshed emotion that Hoseok’s head spins from the sheer passion of it. He exhales through his nose, lets Jungkook lick up into his mouth. His hands scramble to grip the fabric of Jungkook’s shirt, fisting it in between his quivering hands.
He feels Jungkook’s bangs tickle the bridge of his nose, feels his hands shake with the steel grip he has on Hoseok’s shirt. It’s needy, starved, almost.
They pull away with swollen lips and glossed over eyes. Jungkook has that bunny-toothed smile, those sparkling deer-like eyes that Hoseok had always admired. The rain has turned into sunshine, the wind into a soft breeze.
Jungkook lets go of Hoseok’s shirt, Hoseok doing the same. His hand rests on the cold counter, Jungkook’s hand finding his, squeezing it. There’s a promise somewhere in there, a silent reassurance.
“I never stopped loving you,” Jungkook tells him. It’s sweet, filled with the kind of truth that’s sweet and makes Hoseok’s heart fill with warmth. “I don’t think I could ever stop loving you.”
And as Hoseok looks into those wide brown eyes, looks at that bunny-toothed smile and reciprocates with an equally as big heart-shaped one, Hoseok realizes that he never stopped either.
iii. Liberosis
“Hoseok, there’s literally no fucking reason for you to own about thirty fucking ’Bruh’ buttons at the same time,” Jungkook says, exasperated. Hoseok walks beside him, hand clamped in his. He rolls his eyes, groaning.
“That’s because you don’t see the vision, you dickhead,” he begins to explain though he’s sure Jungkook’s not listening. “Pretty sure if I owned thirty of those buttons, I’d never have to encounter another awkward conversation again. Like, say Jimin’s talking about Taehyung again; I’d just press the button and then I’d get out of it!” He exclaims, watching as Jungkook pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.
“That’s not how it works.”
“That’s how it’ll work when I have thirty ’Bruh’ buttons, watch.”
They walk into the campus cafe, hands still clasped together. They go to the counter and order their drinks, argue about who pays (Jungkook ends up paying), and walk to the back of the establishment to find a table. Hoseok places his bag on the ground, Jungkook hanging his around the back of his seat.
“Did you start studying for that test you have?” Jungkook asks, reaching behind him to unzip his bag and take out his laptop. He places it on the table, opening it before typing it away. Hoseok lounges in his chair, one arm thrown over the back and his legs crossed. His phone is held lazily in his hand, scrolling through his Twitter timeline with a bored expression.
“Oh—no I didn’t start studying,” he admits. He ignores the disapproving glance Jungkook throws his way. Says, “it’s not like it’s an important test. I mean, nobody gives a fuck about Mozart and Beethoven anymore. They’re super old white guys who are, like, dead and stuff.”
“Super old white guys who will help you get your degree.”
“Since when do you care about studying?” Hoseok tests. He adds, “I remember one time you missed, like, three of your fucking classes because you decided to play Overwatch Comp. Not only that, but you didn’t bother to shower, either.”
Jungkook looks at him helplessly over the top of his laptop. Hoseok looks right back at him, only offering him a shrug in response. “Sorry buddy, should’ve thought about how I’d one-hundred percent use that against you in the future.”
Jungkook then slumps over, hiding himself behind his laptop screen. He mutters something under his breath, looking at Hoseok before spitting out a weak: “Asshole.”
“You are what you eat. You made out with the beast, now sleep with it.”
“That’s not how the saying goes, literally at all.”
“So? That’s how it goes in my head, so that’s how it will go. If you have a problem with it take it up with, like, God or something. Not me, I don’t make the rules.”
“You just made a rule. Just now, you made a rule.”
“Sucks to suck,” is all Hoseok says before the two plunge into silence.
Their orders are called shortly after, Hoseok’s chair screeching underneath him as he pushes it back and moves to retrieve their drinks. The cups are hot in his hands, steam creating intricate swirls and shapes from the small hole it emerges from. He returns to their table, handing Jungkook his coffee. He holds his in his hand, taking a reluctant sip. His face scrunches into one of disgust once he realizes that, yes, the coffee still tastes like wet cardboard.
“Hey,” Jungkook suddenly says. Hoseok looks up at him over the rim of his cup, eyebrow quirked. “I just—” He sighs, closing his laptop only halfway. He leans on the table, blunt fingernails tapping against the polished wood. “I’m just happy that you, you know, talked to me. You—you never gave up and I’m—” He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m grateful for that.”
“Oh,” is all Hoseok manages to say, stunned into a short silence. He then offers Jungkook a sheepish smile, lowering his head. “That’s—I shouldn’t say your welcome, that’d make me look cocky. I’m just—thank you for giving me another chance.” And he means it, the sweet truth.
Jungkook nods, the two diving back into their comfortable silence. After a few minutes, the soft sound of rain hitting the glass of a window. Hoseok turns his head to see the grey clouds rolling in, the edges of the sun peeking from behind them. The rain begins to strengthen, thunder clapping overhead.
“Shit, we didn’t take my car,” Jungkook curses. He shoves his stuff into his bag, throwing it over his shoulder. “Come on, I have class in like fifty minutes and I’m not going to it absolutely soaked.” Jungkook holds out his hand, Hoseok taking it graciously. He throws his own bag over his shoulders, gripping on the straps as Jungkook pulls him behind him out of the cafe.
They immediately get pelted with fat raindrops. The rain makes their hair stick to their foreheads, their clothes feel ten pounds heavier. But, while they’re running on the sidewalk, trying their best to get back to their respective apartments, there’s light laughter between them.
“I told you we should’ve taken your car!” Hoseok yells over the sound of heavy rain, “But you wanted to be stubborn. So, here we are, wet with barely any time to change clothes!”
“We’d have time if you stopped complaining and ran faster!” Jungkook yells back, though, it’s lighthearted. Their hands remain clasped together as they continue their journey through the rain.
As if by a miracle, the sun peeks out from behind the clouds. The rain then subdues into a steady drizzle, a rainbow being formed over the expanse of the bustling city. Hoseok lifts his eyes, watching the sky as he continues to follow Jungkook blindly. Jungkook’s hand is so warm in his, his eyes sparkling and so, so wide.
“Would you look at that,” Hoseok speaks, slowing his pace. Jungkook makes a sound of frustration, reluctantly slowing down too. He slows until he’s next to Hoseok, running his thumb over Hoseok’s knuckles. “It’s a sun shower.”
Jungkook nods, flicking his drenched hair out of his face. He squints as he watches the sun shine over the city, watches as the rain falls from the sky and hits the pavement below them.
“Yeah it is,” he replies. He almost says it in a dreamy sort of tone, as if he’s imagining the occurrence. Hoseok feels Jungkook’s eyes on the side of his face, basking in the feels of small raindrops hitting his cheeks and rolling off onto his shoulders.
“It’s kinda like us,” Hoseok admits. Jungkook raises an eyebrow, watches as Hoseok turns his head and looks at him with a smile bright enough to blind. “You know, it was raining hard and then somehow the sun comes out. Think that explains our relationship pretty well.”
Jungkook snorts, tugging Hoseok closer so that he can wrap his arm securely around his shoulders. “You’re so cheesy, man,” he teases. Hoseok huddles closer to him, resting his head on Jungkook’s shoulder. He breathes in, smells that familiar scent of his minty cologne, his shampoo that Hoseok swears he bought in the women’s section. He watches as Jungkook cups some of the rain in his hand, flinging it towards Hoseok. Then, suddenly, they’re having a water fight with the raindrops.
Hoseok flicks some water into Jungkook’s face, causing Jungkook to scream dramatically. Jungkook puts Hoseok into a tight chokehold, swinging them around in the middle of the sidewalk. They’re laughing, having fun, enjoying each other’s company amidst the weather.
“You know,” Jungkook starts. He’s let Hoseok out of the chokehold by now, walking down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, swinging their hands in between them. “When I first met you I thought you were so cool,” he admits. “You had this crazy red hair and I thought that was bomb as fuck. Then you moved out of the lecture and I was so sad. Then we met at Jimin’s party and it’s like—” He shrugs, thumbs running along Hoseok’s knuckles once more. “Like it’s destiny or something. I don’t really believe in the soulmates concept, but, like, it’d make sense for us—I think.”
“You think we’re soulmates?” Hoseok asks absentmindedly, kicking random pebbles on the sidewalk as he walks. Jungkook nods from beside him, wet hair flopping back into his eyes.
“I mean, if I believed in soulmates I’d think we were. Like, it’s cool that after basically hating each other we ended up back together again. I mean, like, if you were anyone else I’d probably have beaten the shit out of you by now,” he snorts. Hoseok only hums, squeezing Jungkook’s hand a little tighter.
The rain continues, the warm breeze touseling their clothes.
“You almost did, multiple times,” Hoseok informs him. Jungkook sighs and Hoseok can tell that he’s pouting. He smiles, shy and filled with adoration. “But it’s fine, I would’ve beat my ass too.”
“Hoseok—” Jungkook starts, a slight shake to his voice. Hoseok turns to look at him, it’s only then that Hoseok realizes how beautiful he is in the rain. He offers him a small, encouraging smile, urging him with supportive eyes to continue. “You said you were scared—are you still scared?” He asks, going silent after.
Hoseok thinks about it for a minute, really thinks. He works his bottom lip in between his rows of teeth, picking at the chapped skin the rests on his pink bottom lip.
Hoseok’s scared of many things: Heights, the end of the world, being held at gunpoint, jail, frogs (though that one’s a secret). He’s also scared of losing his friends, scared of losing that spark. He’s scared of letting everyone down, of disappointing everyone around him. Fear is a fickle word, sometimes it’s even subjective. It’s hard to say exactly what he’s afraid of, but Hoseok can say with finality, that he’s not afraid of losing Jungkook.
“No, I don’t think I am, Jungkook.” And it’s the truth. It’s a truth that’s sweeter than honey, rolls off of his tongue like it’s his second language. It’s a truth that he’ll hold onto and stand by forever, until the end of time.
“Oh, okay,” is all he says. Then, it’s silent, save for the sound of rain hitting the ground and the rare occasion where a taxi honks its horn obnoxiously. It’s a soft silence, a comfortable one. One that leaves a giddy feeling in Hoseok’s chest and the tips of his fingers tingling. It’s almost like an adrenaline rush, being loved by Jungkook so loudly, so boldly, without any hint of shame.
Hoseok then stops walking, holding onto Jungkook’s hand. Jungkook turns around, eyebrows furrowed together. He then tugs on Jungkook’s hand, pulling him closer. Jungkook stops until he’s toe-to-toe with Hoseok, arm wrapped securely around his waist. Hoseok smiles up at him, rain pelting his hair in a steady rhythm.
“Wanna know something?” Hoseok asks, soft. Jungkook raises an eyebrow, letting go of Hoseok’s hand to caress his cheek. He leans in closer, lips only a centimeter away. Hair tickles the bridge of Hoseok’s nose, breath fanning across his lips.
“What?” He murmurs, voice dropping an active lower. Hoseok’s smile only widens, hands coming up to wrap loosely around Jungkook’s neck.
“You should’ve brought your umbrella.”
Their lips meet and it’s so soft, so tender. In the middle of the rain, Hoseok decides that wherever Jungkook goes, he’ll follow.