Archive of Our Own

Taehyung arrives with a storm warning in tow. Fitting, honestly.

Heavy raindrops pound against the glass, spreading into blurry splotches; the thundercloud hangs low, pressing down, breaking tree branches. Taehyung watches a figure swaying on the riverbank in sync with the line of trees, the oversized puffer jacket inflating and deflating like he’s breathing with his whole body. He keeps tugging a bright blue hat over his ears.

Taehyung thinks, what a sick idiot.

The door to the principal’s office creaks open, followed by the shuffle of footsteps. The sick idiot on the riverbank bolts after his hat flying off like a blue bug in the wind. “Taehyung,” his father hisses through gritted teeth, tugging at the edge of his jacket. Taehyung turns away from the window, even though he’s suddenly curious whether the sick idiot will catch his hat or not.

It happens quickly. Taehyung zones out most of the time, rubbing the loose threads sticking out of the holes in his jeans between his fingers, saying goodbye. Goodbye to the way the heavy, gilded metal pulls down on his earlobes, to the metallic ball that clinks against the edge of his teeth. Goodbye to all his rebellious trappings. The useless husk, shredding off. It doesn’t matter, as long as the giant, toothy maw inside his ribcage remains unchanged, its wet hungry tongue and sharp fangs.

“Taehyung,” his father hisses in his ear again.

“You’ll start classes tomorrow,” the principal says, tone weary. Behind him, in the corner, the pastor stands, drilling Taehyung with a condemning gaze. What a fucking hypocrisy. Taehyung doesn’t know much about the Bible, but he’s pretty sure there’s no verse that says, “The Lord opens His doors to all of his children, except for teenage wannabe punks with earrings and traces of black on their waterline that haven’t washed off.”

It’s fine. He smothered his rage a week ago. They get only an indifferent glance at the clasped hands sealing his fate.

His mother says, “Taehyung, please, let Him save you.”

His father says, “Don’t you dare get into trouble, little shit.”

The slam of the doors of their old, worn-out car cuts off Taehyung’s path back to a normal (relatively) life. He just snorts at his mother’s shoulders slumping with relief, and his father sprawling out in his seat, so fucking relaxed.

A shaft of bright sunlight pierces through the canvas of marble-gray sky. Taehyung mentally replies, Got something to say to me, big guy in the sky?

“Hi! Sorry I’m late!” he says, tugging off a massive hat knitted from chunky blue wool. Caught it. “Jeon Jungkook, school president.”

It’s impossible to hate him right away. Too damn cute.

He bows sharply, body snapping in half, the dark web of damp hair bouncing off his forehead. He breathes heavily, noisily. Must’ve run. His face spreads into a shy smile, cheeks wide and plump, stained with a windburned blush. He smiles so easily, as if it costs him nothing. A sick idiot, really.

Taehyung doesn’t bother asking why he was standing out in the rain and wind like a moron, just leans his shoulder against the doorframe of his new room, and indifferently grumples, “And?”

“And you’re Kim Taehyung, right? I hope you like it here. I’ll give you a quick tour.”

As if there’s anything to give a tour of. A shabby school building, a shabby church, a shabby dorm. Some storage sheds, outbuildings. All surrounded by wide, wild nothingness.

No, it doesn’t happen right away. Taehyung hates him a week later—when every brick in these rundown corridors has had time to whisper Jungkook’s name to him with boundless reverence. As if he’s the Son of God, not the one they sing hymns to every damn Sunday.

Jeon Jungkook. The golden boy, the pride of the school, the model of perfect righteousness. He’s standing outside Taehyung’s door the next morning with that flawless line of a smile, a crisp white collar on his shirt, and a blue tie snugly knotted under his chin. “I’ll show you around so you don’t get lost.”

Well, Taehyung’s been lost for a long time. He’s not about to let the Almighty put him on the righteous path—let alone some eighteen years old saint.

Taehyung quickly understands why everyone loves Jungkook. You can’t fight someone who turns the other cheek, who, moments after you hit them, helps you up, guides you. It disarms you, makes all your agitation deflate. In his old school, Jungkook would’ve been bullied anyway. Here, he’s the pastor’s son, the villages around are steeped in religion, narrow-minded, identical, and the will has been beaten out of the poor mama’s boys long before their first communion. Long before they got to be preached about love. And so, beneath the masks of piety, in each of their little hearts, simmers a hatred they’ll pass down to their children.

Taehyung might’ve pitied them if he didn’t despise them so much. A flock of sheep following their shepherd. And their shepherd isn’t God, but fear. Fear of not fitting in. Fear of being devoured, so they sharpen their fangs first. What binds a flock of people better than hypocrisy?

People like Jungkook are the ones Taehyung despises the most. Something gnaws at him, an itch he can’t scratch, whenever he hears his name. When he’s praised again, held up as an example. Taehyung wonders how much those miserable, stupid boys actually hate Jungkook too. How much it must itch inside them whenever they hear his name.

Still, he’d fuck him. Cute face, nice body.

What a waste.

“You didn’t get a prayer book yet? No worries, take mine, I’ve got two.”

Taehyung’s gaze drops to the hands holding the small black book, slightly worn, clearly well-used. The nails on those pale, thin fingers are bitten and ragged, with inflamed skin underneath, red and ugly, as if Jungkook gnaws them down to the flesh. Interesting.

Taehyung watches as Jungkook’s ragged, gnawed fingers tense up more in suspense with each passing second. Then he looks up at Jungkook’s face—a perfect mask of virtue, cold, emotionless politeness.

Maybe Jungkook will latch onto him in his desire to earn karma points or whatever the fuck he’s doing here, until he finally gives up, like the rest, scared off by sharp, irritated glances, bored by the lack of responses.

They’re two walls with no windows. A fake righteousness that won’t crack. A fake hostility—towards the whole fucking world. What does he expect? That they’ll be friends? Definitely not. For someone like Jungkook, Taehyung is a filthy smudge of grease on the clean shirt of his reputation. And he’s certainly not going to be another notch on Jungkook’s imaginary scoreboard of righteousness—hit a fucking thousand and enter the Kingdom of God.

It’s probably a wasted effort, and Taehyung is lazy, he’s in a lethargic daze for the next year, planning not to pay any extra attention to any of these pressed, pathetic mama’s boys, to lull the hungry maw that wants to crush and devour the whole world.

But still, when they round the corner into a dark, deserted pocket of the hallway, Taehyung grabs Jungkook by the collar and pins him to the wall, feeling something small and hard dig into his skin through the fabric. It's such a cheap, performative trick, but it gets the job done.

“Don’t you know why they transferred me here?”

The air catches in Jungkook’s throat. He painfully swallows it down, his Adam’s apple tugging at the skin, moving, eyes wide, frightened like a fawn’s. Blink, blink, blink—his long lashes flutter. He jerks his head—uncertain, fearful, keeping those big eyes locked on Taehyung’s face. Dark, so, so dark, as if the pupils have swallowed up the irises entirely.

Oh, he’d definitely fuck him. What a waste, what a waste.

“Then you’d better stay away from me, golden boy. You really don’t need any rumors, do you?”

Jungkook frowns slightly, displeasure, maybe even irritation, flickering across his face. In that moment, it strikes Taehyung as something remarkable—the way the perfect image of his shining face cracks with a small crevice between his brows. Then those brows arch—pitifully, sympathetically—and in a quiet, sweet voice, he says, “It’s okay, I don’t care about rumors. And you shouldn’t either.”

Of course, there’s always the option of hitting him. Aiming for that big nose awkwardly perched on his face or that cheekbone with a smear of blush. Maybe the crack would last longer, and through it, all the rot festering beneath that shiny armor might seep out. But it’s his first week, and he knows what his father is capable of.

A noisy puff of air escapes Jungkook’s chest as Taehyung releases him.

“You know, there’s no need for violence,” Jungkook says quietly, catching his breath. “We could just talk.”

Taehyung snorts with a lazy laugh. Damn, the boy definitely jerks off in front of the mirror.

“What, sweetheart, gonna rat me out?”

Jungkook averts his gaze and sighs with an inexplicable weariness. “I’m not going to report you.” He steps around Taehyung, ready to leave, but after a few steps, he turns to annoy the fuck out of him again. “If you need any help, you know where to find me.”

Yeah, Taehyung knows. In the front row of every class, in the church—right in the center of the choir, and worst of it all, in the room across from his.

It’s not like it’s hard to find him. You couldn’t lose him even if you tried.

Taehyung blames everything that happens in the following weeks on this. Or on boredom. Or on that pretty face.

And what happens is this: his eyes are drawn to Jungkook, to his blinding, radiant presence, no matter where he is.

In class, before history starts. When Jung Hoseok screeches out something dumb and ridiculous, and Jungkook’s laughter ripples through the rows of desks, reaching all the way to the back of the room and settling at Taehyung’s feet. His eyes turn into slits, his nose wrinkles, and his teeth suddenly take up half his face. A brief moment of freedom before he becomes the perfect student again—quiet, serious, always ready with the right answer for the teacher. Taehyung huffs and buries himself back in his sketchbook, continuing to scribble his stupid sketches with a black pen.

On the steps of the tiny white church, splattered with mud up to the middle of the walls from the endless rain bouncing off the dusty ground. Before the service, when Park Jimin stumbles and falls, and the boys’ laughter scratches Taehyung’s eardrums like nails on a chalkboard, making him pull his jacket tighter around himself. Jungkook doesn’t laugh. Jungkook—brows furrowed in concern, lips pressed into a thin line—rushes over to help.

In his own room, on the last Saturday of September. When Jungkook knocks on his door and says that, as school president, he’s required to do room inspections once a month. To make sure no one’s hiding anything illegal or something. He opens the closet, checks under the bed, moving slowly, allowing Taehyung to observe and analyze. Jungkook sees the sketches in the drawers, pauses, opens his mouth as if to say something, but doesn’t. Taehyung’s a little curious, though. What does he think of them? Do they seem disgusting or frightening to Jungkook? The only art Jungkook would probably appreciate are perfect bright landscapes and classical music. Oh, and religious icons. Of course, icons.

In the cafeteria, at lunch, when Jungkook lets him go ahead, allowing him to take the last chocolate donut. Taehyung doesn’t resist. He just silently suppresses the wave of irritation rising within him at yet another showy gesture of kindness. He takes the fucking donut. Jeon Jungkook’s tray is already piled high with everything possible. He always eats so much, with such enthusiasm and emotion. Bounces slightly in his seat, sways, frowns, and chews quickly, like a rabbit. It’s kind of funny. Before lunch, everyone stands, clasps their hands over their chests in prayer, and closes their eyes. Taehyung’s eyes remain open, tracking every movement of those pink, bitten lips and those furrowed in concentration brows. And Taehyung swears to himself that he’ll get to the bottom of it. Because Jungkook can’t be that fucking perfect. No one can be that perfect. Especially young boys. Young boys are the worst. Just look at Taehyung himself.

By the river. Again.

Taehyung drowns in a scratchy brown blanket and pushes himself outside right after the rain. To get some air or something. His boots immediately pick up clumps of mud mixed with dry leaves. The cold seeps in through every crack in his wool-polyester armor. Fuck, it’s not even November yet.

He loses himself among the trees, centuries-old sentinels that wall the school grounds. This fucking prison. Beyond the tree line, endless hills stretch out. The one where he pauses for a moment to catch his breath slopes down to the river. On the bank stands a dark figure in a black jacket—this time, without the ridiculous blue hat, his hair blowing wildly in all directions.

And that’s how Taehyung knows something is off.

Something deep and unsettling inside Jungkook. Something secret, something dirty. Because Jungkook loves to stand and watch the water flow. To lift his head to the sky sometimes. Because Jungkook has nails bitten down to the flesh and not a single real friend. Everyone admires him, sure, but from a distance. Are they afraid? Or is it Jungkook who keeps the walls up?

What does he say when he speaks to Him now? What secrets does he reveal? Does anyone else, besides Jungkook and God, know those secrets?

Taehyung itches to know too.

So he stands on the hill, freezing. Always cold, as if icy water pushes through his veins instead of blood, just like the water that flows and crashes against the rocks beneath Jungkook’s feet. He watches, waiting for a sign. A detail that disrupts the perfect picture. He slightly regrets not bringing a cigarette from his stash, but he only managed to hide two packs, and he needs to make them last as long as possible. In this fucking school, everything is so frozen and motionless in its sickening worthlessness, in its endlessly repeating cycle of routines and rituals, that it sometimes feels like forever.

A revelation doesn't happen. Jungkook just stands there. Walks along the riverbank. Tosses a few stones into the water. Looks up at the sky, talking to his god about something. A large gray bird flies over his head, and he turns his whole head like a kid to follow it.

He’s so boring from a distance. Not like up close, where every feature reveals something new to dissect. Where there’s still a long list of emotions Taehyung has yet to see on his face. Taehyung tucks his ice-cold hands tighter under the blanket and heads back.

The fact that it’s Jungkook who catches him smoking doesn’t surprise Taehyung. For three reasons. First, the universe is a bitch that loves irony. Second, the damp night air hums with the weight of something significant, clinging to Taehyung's skin along with the cold mist, the moment he steps outside.

And third… well. He followed him.

Or rather, the squares of orange light flickering in the dark, drawing him in like a beacon. Who could be in the church at this hour?

Of course, Jeon Jungkook.

Who the fuck else but Jeon Jungkook?

Watching him through the window, bowed in prayer, feels like an act of voyeurism. Something about his posture, maybe. He sits right on the floor, knee to knee, head hanging low in front of the large wooden cross with the crucified Christ. Wearing a huge blue sweater instead of his usual white crisp shirt, so old and stretched out that Jungkook looks like a broken lost soul, bowing his head before the pained face of God’s Son.

Taehyung sees Jungkook pray every day—before meals, during services. But never like this. Never kneeling on the cold floor in such raw despair, in such absolute surrender.

It feels so private, so vulnerable, that Taehyung wants to turn away, but he can’t, mesmerized, his gaze tracing the sorrowful arc of Jungkook's back.

People always have this dumb expression when they pray. Like art imitating life and life imitating art. No one knows how or when it started, but everyone knows you’re supposed to look fucking sad when you pray—the sadder you look, the stronger your faith.

Jungkook isn’t performing, isn’t trying to look sad. He is sad. He’s desperate.

From this angle, Taehyung can’t see his face clearly, but he can see the tightness of his clasped hands. How the faint lines on his usually smooth boyish skin stretch out like a web from the corners of his eyes. How, at some point, his shoulders, draped in blue, start to tremble.

Something anxious and restless stirs inside Taehyung, pressing on his guts. Cold creeps under his black leather jacket.

Fuck, why is it always so fucking cold in this forsaken place?

So he finally lights a cigarette; the metallic click of the Zippo echoes through the trees. The first drag doesn’t soothe him. The feeling grows, like dark water filling the cabin of a sinking ship. Taehyung names that feeling anger.

Anger that Jeon Jungkook truly seems to be exactly what he appears. That this isn’t some act. People aren’t supposed to be this pure. And yet, Jungkook—so fucking naive, so stupid—really is. Full of light.

Taehyung is filled with dark, dark water. It rises, pushing out the oxygen.

When Jungkook lowers his hands and slowly rises from his knees, Taehyung stays rooted, pinned by the image of Jungkook’s shoulders heaving, his hand wiping the moisture from his cheek with one rough swipe. As he starts to move, slightly swaying, only then does Taehyung jump back from the window, stepping further away, hoping to hide in the shadows of the trees. The cigarette glows like a firefly in the dark. He hides it behind his back because two packs are too few, and here, in this exile, time flows as slowly as frozen water.

The church doors open with a loud, unsettling creak, the darkness split by a shaft of warm light. A black silhouette of Jungkook’s thin body slices through the orange beam of light, cutting it in two, until it narrows, narrows, narrows, and—bam. The old doors close with a heavy, groaning sigh.

Jungkook takes a few steps forward. In the darkness, outlined by a thin line of orange, his profile looks sharp and dramatic. Not soft and round-cheeked like in daylight. Then suddenly, Jungkook lifts his head, freezes for a few moments, and starts sniffing the air, like a dog. His dark brows furrow.

“Is someone there?” he asks the darkness, voice worried but hushed, hesitant.

Taehyung holds his breath, feeling like a character in a horror movie, heart thudding in his chest with a thrill. It’s probably the church and the vibe of old, dusty Gothicness.

Then suddenly, Jungkook’s head snaps in his direction and freezes, alert.

Taehyung’s gut tightens. Breath catches in his throat.

He knows Jungkook can’t see him, but maybe he’s so corrupted and filthy that in this sacred place his eyes glow like a demon’s. Or like a vampire, ready to spring from the bushes and sink his fangs into the milky skin of Jungkook’s throat. That would be cool.

He wants to bare his teeth or laugh demonically or do something else to make Jeon Jungkook piss his perfectly ironed pants, but suddenly Jungkook whispers,

“Taehyung?”

His voice trembles, a ragged exhale cracking between Tae and Hyung, resonating through Taehyung’s body with a same nervous tremble. Or maybe it’s just the cold creeping under his jacket.

It's so fucking cold here.

“How do you know it’s me?” he asks, stepping forward. The cigarette still smolders behind his back. What a fucking waste.

Jungkook looks like the dumb heroine in a horror movie who, instead of running, just stands there, waiting to be attacked. Dry leaves crunch under the slow press of Taehyung’s Doc Martens. He moves closer.

“What are you doing here?” Jungkook asks, breathless.

“Lurking in the shadows,” Taehyung deadpans, stopping a meter away and tucking his left hand into the pocket of his leather jacket.

Jungkook’s eyes dart sharply to his right hand, hidden behind his back. “I smelled cigarettes, Taehyung.”

Well then. Taehyung brings his hand out from behind his back—the accumulated ash drops onto his cold fingers, a sudden warmth—and takes a drag. Bitter.

“You’re not allowed to smoke here,” Jungkook frowns.

“Really? I had no idea,” he replies, chin lifted, taking another drag. The smoke seeps through the misty droplets hanging in the air, glowing a soft orange.

“I’m serious,” Jungkook finally snaps out of his stupor, crossing his arms over his chest. His soft voice still carries traces of nervousness beneath it. “Not to mention how it’s bad for your lungs.”

Taehyung tilts his head to the side, letting a faint smile touch his lips. “Gonna report me, sweetheart?”

“No,” Jungkook says firmly, frowning deeper. “And don’t call me that.”

Taehyung takes another step forward, savoring the slow, deliberate crunch of leaves under his boots, breaking the crisp silence. “How do I know that, sweetheart?”

“What?” Jungkook leans back slightly, almost unnoticeably. Taehyung notices.

“How do I know you won’t rat me out?”

Jungkook's eyes are shadowed, but tiny flecks of starlight still flicker in the depths of his dark pupils as they nervously flit over Taehyung’s body. He shivers slightly, as if the cold is crawling under his clothes too, but he tries so, so hard to stay steady, keep his posture open and confident.

“I don’t want you to get expelled. Quite the opposite, I’d like you to open up to—to God,” he sighs, like he knows that Taehyung won’t understand. “to faith. That takes time for everyone.”

A mocking snort breaks through Taehyung's lips. Jungkook flinches slightly, recoiling. It’s hard to read his emotions in the dark.

“For fuck’s sake, you’re such a saint, aren’t you?” Taehyung drawls sarcastically.

Jungkook frowns, confused, opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, but the words never form because suddenly they’re bathed in light. Both of them snap their heads toward the small outbuilding where the guard usually sleeps.

“Shit,” Jungkook hisses, which, okay, unexpected, and Taehyung would focus on that more, but his body moves faster than his brain. He grabs Jungkook by the shoulder and quickly pulls him toward the trees, into the darkness. Jungkook doesn’t resist, stumbling slightly after him. Doesn’t resist when Taehyung pushes him against a thick tree trunk, holding him by the shoulders.

His ears tune to the sound of the guard rummaging in his shed, then the door opens, footsteps approach, muffled grumbling follows.

But his ears also pick up Jungkook’s ragged, rapid breathing. Taehyung can’t see his face, can’t see shit really. But he thinks he hears a heartbeat pounding. His own, Jungkook’s, who knows.

Jungkook smells of incense and wax. The scent is warm, like his body—Taehyung feels it with his cold hands, through the layers of his shirt and sweater.

Taehyung whispers, “Tell me your secret.”

“My secret?” Jungkook’s whisper is warm, too. It crushes against Taehyung’s face like a warm, damp cloud.

“So you’d know mine, and I’d know yours.”

A pause, filled with warmth and pulse. Thump-thump-thump under Taehyung’s fingers. Jungkook takes a deep, shaky breath. The shed door closes, and there’s even less light.

Taehyung still can’t see his face. He wonders if Jungkook can see his. Or maybe his eyes do actually glow in the dark, hungry and demonic. Or maybe Jungkook is so pure, so fucking spotless, that he feels Taehyung’s filth, his sickness, down to the fibers of his soul. Feels that he’s one step away from hell.

Taehyung steps closer, pressing his palms harder, relishing the sound of Jungkook’s breath catching in his throat.

Then suddenly Jungkook grabs his forearm and pushes him away—unexpectedly aggressive, unexpectedly strong, knocking his hands aside and slipping out of his grasp in one smooth motion.

His voice is surprisingly urgent, insistent. He says, “I have no secrets, Taehyung.”

In class, the teachers ignore his presence, as if they’re afraid of him. That’s fine by him. Perfect, actually. He sprawls across the back row like a lazy puddle, drifting out of reality and into a world that pours itself onto paper in dark, gloomy shadows. He snaps back though, whenever Jungkook answers the teachers’ questions. Always clear, precise, each word in its perfect place.

Taehyung hates perfect, clean things. Maybe because anything perfect is a lie. And he hates lies more than anything.

Jeon Jungkook, he’s sure, is woven from lies. Even if it’s beautiful.

It doesn’t matter. Taehyung has always been a patient watcher.

Sometimes—more often as time goes on—Jungkook catches his stare. Sometimes he holds it, expression unwavering, firm. Sometimes he frowns, like he wants to ask, but snaps out of it and looks away. Sometimes he smiles, as if with that stupid, hypocritical politeness says,

Hi.

His mother used to say that, as a child, he could sit for hours watching a bug crawl through the grass. Lie on the huge, old rug in his grandmother’s house, searching for shapes, faces, animals in the chaotic pattern of brown swirls.

His father used to say, “Stop fucking daydreaming. Do something useful for a change.”

His old friend Namjoon used to say that he likes that Taehyung is so calm and observant and that he zones out a lot. Taehyung snorted and asked why. Namjoon didn’t hear. He was already scribbling down some of his pointless, dumb metaphors in a notebook filled with song lyrics. Taehyung guesses it’s because they matched in this. They used to spend hours in the cold, old basement of Namjoon’s family house. Namjoon—on his music, Taehyung—on his sketches.

The losers in the communal shower of this fucking school on the edge of the world say, “What are you staring at, Kim?”

Taehyung surfaces from the steady lulling hum of water back into reality. His lips curl into a lazy smirk. “At your stupid, skinny ass, honey.”

Choi Minsun springs up, but Jung Hoseok’s hands clamp down on his shoulders, holding him back. “Calm down. Don’t react.”

“Then tell this— freak to stop staring,” Minsun spits out.

“What’s the matter?” Taehyung drawls. “Think I’m planning to fuck you? Don’t flatter yourself, shitface.”

Taehyung just wanted to wash his socks and warm up in the shower, and yeah, a homoerotic scuffle between half-naked, wet boys definitely sounds like something that would warm him up. But no. No, he can’t. This time, instead of an imaginary prison that kills individuality, his father might just find a way to put him in a real one.

“Knock it off,” Jung Hoseok hisses, pressing down harder on Minsun’s wet shoulders. They’re all bunched up against the wall. All of them—against Taehyung. Standing as if they’re ready for him to attack them all single-handedly. Taehyung wonders if they really believe in God. Do they imagine he’ll suddenly rip his skin open like a bag and let the devil out?

Probably, they’re just afraid he’ll drop his towel and flash them or something.

Taehyung turns and walks back to his room, wet and exhausted. Droplets stretch behind him on the dusty wooden floor, like he’s a drowned corpse crawling out of the lake.

The knock on the door comes twenty minutes later. Twenty minutes that Taehyung spent under his blanket, smiling, listening to the thuds and angry muttering from the other side of the paper-thin wall.

“Sweetheart,” Taehyung smirks as he opens the door.

Jungkook’s gaze immediately drops to his chest, and all the features of his frowning face jump in surprise. Fair enough. It’s not like Taehyung wanted to open the door wearing nothing but shorts. Not like he felt the need to put on more clothes just because Jungkook is a fucking prude. He hadn’t even thought about it. But now, Jungkook’s reaction is entertaining.

“Um… I wanted to talk to you. Hope it’s not too late?”

Taehyung studies him for a moment with a cool, indifferent stare, a contrast to the curiosity sparking inside him. How is Jungkook— the straight-laced, serious Jeon Jungkook—going to scold him?

He pushes the door open wider, letting Jungkook in, then turns back into the room. Soft, cautious footsteps rustle behind him, and the door clicks shut quietly.

Taehyung leans back against the desk, arms folding slowly across his chest—not even to look like some tough bastard, but simply because it’s cold. But if he wraps himself in that stupid, scratchy brown blanket, he’ll stop being a tough bastard altogether.

Jungkook hangs in the middle of Taehyung’s room like a misplaced piece of furniture that knows it’s misplaced. Black-and-white checkered pajama pants. A worn-out white t-shirt. A simple wooden cross hanging from a thin black cord around his neck. Blue slippers. He really likes blue, doesn’t he? His hands clench into fists. Unclench. He tries to shove them into his pants pockets, but his right fingers get tangled in his shirt. Taehyung fights the urge to smile.

“Minsun told me what happened,” Jungkook says with a sigh. His eyes don’t quite make it up to Taehyung’s face, hovering somewhere around his crossed arms, just below his nipples.

“And what did Minsun say happened?”

Jungkook takes a deep breath, then exhales loudly, the thin fabric of his t-shirt stretching over his chest.

It’s strange. Jungkook is always so composed, his posture straight, his voice steady. But now, in this small, enclosed space, alone with Taehyung, he looks like he wants to back into the corner and let the wall swallow him up.

Taehyung waits, unmoving. Feels the cold drops fall from his dump hair and sting his shoulders.

“Tell me,” Taehyung nudges.

Jungkook’s eyes flick up to Taehyung’s face for a second, and then he suddenly looks so embarrassed, so flustered that realization strikes Taehyung like a lightning bolt.

And then every cell in his body starts to spark.

Oh god.

How did he miss it?

“He said you were acting… inappropriately.”

There you are.

“Inappropriately how?”

“According to him…,” Jungkook mumbles carefully, “you were staring at them in the shower.”

There you are, sweetheart.

“According to him,” Taehyung echoes, his voice thick, sweet caramel.

“Yes. And… um…”

“Why so nervous? Think I’ll jump you too?”

Jungkook shakes his head like a scolded puppy, his brow furrowed, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I don’t think you’ll— jump me, Taehyung.”

There you are, golden boy. What a shame.

“No?”

“No.”

Taehyung chuckles softly, squeezing his arms tighter over his chest. Jungkook's gaze drops just slightly—then quickly flicks back up.

“So…” Jungkook drags out in that sweet, oh so sweet voice of his, “What’s your side of the story?”

“My side?”

Jungkook sighs, resigned, with nowhere left to dodge, “I mean… Were you staring?”

Well then, “You think just because I’m gay, I stare at every guy in this school?”

“No, no, that’s not what I think, I just… Sorry, I don’t mean to offend you.” It’s kind of cute—the way his cheeks turn even redder. It’s not the sight of a half-naked boy that throws him off, but the thought of having hurt someone’s feelings. “I just need to hear both sides and smooth out the conflict.”

“No, Jungkook, I don’t stare at just anyone.”

“I—” Jungkook starts immediately, but Taehyung cuts him off.

“Almost no one in this school is worth staring at.”

If Taehyung listens hard enough, he might hear it echoing inside Jungkook's skull,

Almost.

Almost.

Almost.

Almost.

The gears in Jungkook’s mind spin, churning out a million questions, judging by his furrowed brow and darting eyes. But he’s so smart; he has the best grades in math, after all. But he’s been catching Taehyung’s gaze more often as time goes by. Holding it, frowning, saying with his big eyes, hi.

Hi. I see you, hi.

The gears turn, then click into place, and understanding flashes across Jungkook’s face in raw, unmasked panic.

Taehyung tilts his head to the side, letting himself smile, “So no, I wasn’t staring at stupid Choi Minsun. He’s fucking ugly. Not my type at all. Get it, sweetheart?”

Jungkook gulps hard, the swallow catching halfway down.

If Taehyung listens hard enough, he might hear the sound of that perfect, polished armor cracking.

Jungkook’s eyes suddenly glisten with a thin layer of moisture, and his whole body sputters like an old engine with mismatched parts. His head gives a faint, dazed nod, glazed eyes flitting around, hands can’t decide if they want to be in his pockets or not, feet shuffle on the floor.

“Okay, um… I… Alright, I’ll go then.”

“Go then,” Taehyung nods, smiling a little.

Jungkook backs away a few steps, then pauses.

“You… Taehyung, you do realize they’ll probably take it to the principal?”

Taehyung’s gaze sweeps over his body, over his pretty face, caressing him with his eyes, making him just a bit more uneasy. The hungry maw inside him licks its lips.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll handle it.”

Taehyung wants to eat him.

There’s something beautiful in destruction. In the way a brand-new pair of Converse shoes gets roughed up. In covering a perfectly neat academic drawing with wild, dark strokes. In how splashes of purple and pink bloom on pale skin after sex. In how good boys go bad. Et cetera.

Jungkook looks like an angel. Sings like an angel.

The small, slightly crooked church, with its peeling paint, moldy corners, and cracked wooden pews lined up in a few rows, feels like the brightest, most sacred place on earth when Jungkook sings.

He stands in the center of their small choir, a round stained-glass window above him, and sometimes, when this damned wasteland tires of the rain and lets the sun come out, hitting at just the right angle, Jungkook gets lit up by colorful, dancing reflections. He then looks like he’s woven from magic.

Taehyung hides himself in the corner of the back row, and predictably, no one dares to sit beside him.

They all huddle closer to the front, drawn to the light coming from Jungkook and his sweet, airy voice. All these hypocrites, who ended up here by some unfortunate turn of fate, but somehow still believe, still reach for God when they hear Jungkook sing.

Taehyung reaches for Jungkook’s light too. Not to find faith, but to devour it. To sink his sharp, greedy teeth into it.

The other choir members sing along clumsily, barely keeping up, which isn’t surprising—there's not much to choose from in this small school. Taehyung wrinkles his nose. But then Jungkook’s voice rises, higher, pure and bright, and all the excess, all the bleating of these miserable sheep falls away into the background, and Taehyung closes his eyes. His fingers grip the fabric of his pants on his left thigh, scratching slightly with his untrimmed nails.

Then he opens his eyes again, because his eyes are greedy too.

Jungkook’s face is full of raw emotion, living every word. His cheeks are flushed, his left hand clenched into a fist, but he doesn’t let nerves hold him back. He sings with all his soul. His pure, bright soul. His eyes glisten with moisture, gazing up at the ceiling, to the one he’s singing for.

Look at me, Taehyung thinks. He moves his hand higher, brushing the palm against the folds gathered at the bend of his thigh.

Look at me.

Goosebumps crawl over his skin. Jungkook’s voice breaks on a high note.

And Taehyung, a filthy, low human, wonders what Jungkook's moans sound like. Do they break into high, ear-scratching notes? Are they quiet, breathless, airy, like when Jungkook speaks to him, when he’s especially nervous? Or maybe he makes no sound at all, muffling his whimpers with his palm when he touches himself, so his roommate won’t hear.

Look at me.

Jungkook closes his eyes, brows knit together in painful repentance.

Look at me, golden boy.

And when he opens them, he looks.

Looks straight into Taehyung’s eyes, and a broken breath escapes Taehyung's lips.

Does he have a big wooden cross hanging above his bed like in Taehyung's room? Does the small one around his neck choke him when he does it? Or does he take it off?

Taehyung slides his hand higher, pressing the edge of his palm against his swollen, throbbing cock through the fabric.

Jungkook looks straight into his eyes, and Taehyung wants to smile. He feels like he’s staining the pureness of Jungkook’s voice with his own self—his human, filthy self. He feels good.

Jungkook looks as if he knows. There’s a hint of unease in his expression, his brows tense. Taehyung wants Jungkook to look at him the way he looks upward when he tries to pierce through the ceiling and sing to God. He wants to break this out of Jungkook himself. To make him feel good, to earn it. He wants Jungkook to surrender it to him. To break willingly.

But isn’t he already breaking? Taehyung sees it in his face, troubled, lost in his own thoughts. What does he think about when he touches himself? Does he think of Taehyung?

But he doesn’t look away, does he? And Taehyung touches himself again. Just a little, just to tease. To stretch out the thrill, to savor the torment. It’s not really about pleasure. It’s just because he wants to. He wants to and he can. And he wants Jungkook to know. To look at him and know.

That when Taehyung touches himself, it’s him he’s thinking of.

“For everything in the world—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life—comes not from the Father but from the world,” the pastor’s voice echoes. Jungkook, behind him, lowers his eyes.

Does Jungkook know when he comes to his room for a routine inspection?

Taehyung, honestly, has been waiting for this moment. He thought about sketching Jungkook’s portrait—drawn in shadows, dark and unsettling strokes—and placing it on top of the other drawings in his drawer. He tried, but it didn’t work. His features kept coming out too clean, too perfect, traced with delicate, careful lines. There was an itching urge to outline his head with a perfect halo. He tried to draw his hands with bitten nails and inflamed skin clenched in repentance. Taehyung shoved the drawing to the very bottom.

Jungkook arrives in a plain white t-shirt, and Taehyung’s attention clings to three points: a) his eyes—of course, always the eyes first; b) the delicate, pale collarbones, the muscles of his neck stretching toward them like rays; c) the wooden cross hanging from a black cord between them.

Today, Jungkook comments on his sketches. His soft voice cuts through the silence so unexpectedly that Taehyung nearly flinches.

“You’re very talented.”

Taehyung glances at the paper on top of the pile in the open drawer. A nameless naked body, sketched in bold black strokes. His second choice after the portrait. But Jungkook doesn’t flinch, doesn’t take the bait. He just looks, maybe a bit thoughtfully. As if he, too, has a corner of his mind where he slips away from reality.

“Oh? Didn’t think it would be your thing.”

He stands, moving closer. Maybe to get a clearer look at the eyes hidden beneath strands of hair. To follow the path his gaze takes along the strokes.

“Why not?” Jungkook responds calmly.

“I don’t know. Isn’t it a bit vulgar?”

This makes Jungkook smile for some reason, “Michelangelo painted a lot of nudes too. But he also painted the Sistine Chapel.” Jungkook reaches toward the pile in the drawer, turning his head to look at Taehyung for the first time in a long while, “May I?”

“Sure,” Taehyung shrugs. He steps even closer; the zipper of his hoodie brushes against Jungkook’s lower back.

“Would you like to see it in person?”

Jungkook’s eyes land on the next sketch. Eyes, eyes, eyes—dark eyes, black shadows pouring from the pupils to the very edge of the page.

“See what?”

“The Sistine Chapel.”

“Of course,” fuck, they’re speaking so quietly. So quietly that goosebumps crawl up Taehyung’s neck. “Though I don’t think I’ll ever get the chance.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someday. Life is limitless and mysterious, isn’t it?” He nibbles his lower lip thoughtfully as Taehyung’s shoulder brushes against his. Today, he smells of flowers and some sort of spices. Taehyung likes it better than the scent of incense and wax. “This one is good.”

He turns to face Taehyung, not taking his eyes off the paper in his hand, just tilting it slightly to show which one he means. Taehyung glances down. A figure sinking into darkness. The figure doesn’t struggle, doesn’t resist. It simply falls into the depths, allowing it to swallow the body. Letting the cold, liquid darkness fill the lungs. He drew it a month ago, feeling particularly dramatic.

Taehyung wants to ask what exactly he likes about it, but his attention gets stuck on the moment when Jungkook finally realizes how close they’re standing. When his back tenses, his body freezes mid-motion. His breath catches in his throat. Taehyung notices. Taehyung notices everything. Taehyung is a good observer.

Jungkook’s eyes meet his. Big, frightened. Taehyung wants to ask what he’s afraid of. But Jungkook likely doesn’t know the answer himself. Taehyung knows better.

Of himself.

Taehyung has been there—in that dark corner of the mind that now grips Jungkook with sharp, unrelenting claws.

Jungkook’s gaze slides for a second to the cross hanging on the wall behind Taehyung. A reminder of God’s presence.

Taehyung looks at him calmly, steadily. Breathes evenly. He wants to be the claws that hold Jungkook in that dark corner. To be something so powerful, so tempting that it would corrupt his devotion.

Taehyung doesn’t care if God exists, but if He does, he hopes He’s watching. He hopes He sees how Jungkook's chest rises and falls with sharp breaths. How the consciousness in his pupils blurs and turns into stars. Cute. Taehyung wants to fuck him dumb. Maybe make him cry a little, so the stars shine even brighter. That would be so gorgeous.

“Thank you, Jungkook,” Taehyung whispers.

Jungkook jolts, taking a big breath as if surfacing from underwater. The smile he gives Taehyung is one none of his endless fans would believe.

On Monday, Taehyung lets him take the last chocolate donut. Jungkook’s smile is off again. It trembles at the corners as he looks at Taehyung with his big eyes, and thanks him, blushing. Taehyung likes this smile better.

Hours later, Jungkook gives him an apple. Says, “It’s from my aunt’s garden, have some.” It’s red and shiny, just like something out of a perfect picture. Taehyung says, “Thanks, sweetheart,” and Jungkook’s cheeks puff out. Red and shiny, just like something out of a perfect picture. He mutters for Taehyung to stop calling him that, hides his eyes, bites his lip. Taehyung wants to eat him.

The principal looks at him with a dark, piercing gaze, every part of his body—from the hands pressed hard against the desk to each feature on his wrinkled face—seeping with disgust.

“I let you come here in the middle of the year, but I won’t allow you to influence the other students. Do you understand?”

“I haven’t done anything,” Taehyung responds calmly.

He thinks about how naive Jungkook is. No one here is trying to put him on the right path or save him. It’s easier for everyone to wash their hands of him, like he’s some kind of plague. Well, nothing new. That’s all Taehyung has ever known.

The anger passed long ago. Time moves on. Water washes everything away, buries everything.

Jungkook sits beside him, and Taehyung instantly wants him closer, to feel his shoulder pressed against his own, to borrow even a bit of his warmth. But between them is his left hand, braced against the cold cement of the back steps leading to the dorm. He leans on it more, inching a little closer—toward the warmth bundled up in that familiar oversized black jacket. To feel Jungkook get nervous, to let it stroke Taehyung’s ego.

In Taehyung’s right hand is the red apple he has been carrying in his pocket all day. He holds it, already bitten, chewing the last bite slowly, not wanting to break the fragile stillness, the quiet, trembly tension that Jungkook brings with him. The way he fills the space around them with it.

Jungkook nervously fidgets with his fingers, eyes focused intently on them. They’re still gnawed and rough, with inflamed skin around the nails and dry cuticles. His face is half-hidden from Taehyung’s watchful gaze by black strands, slightly curly from the dampness, and Taehyung wishes he could reach out and tuck them behind Jungkook's ear. But for now, he just watches. Waits.

He thinks about what the pastor had said a few days ago. How sin begins with a small compromise that seems insignificant at first. Compromise feeds greater desire, and once desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin, and sin, once fully formed, brings forth death.

“You were with the principal, right?”

“Mhmm,” Taehyung hums.

Jungkook sighs and leans back slightly, turning more towards him. He places his hand next to Taehyung's. Their fingertips separated by the slightest distance of one accidental twitch, one careless exhale. One small, insignificant compromise.

“Are you okay?” Jungkook asks softly.

“Worried they’ll kick me out?”

Jungkook lowers his head even further, turning away with an awkward shrug. “I wouldn’t be happy if they did,” his voice is quiet, tentative.

Taehyung’s hand twitches involuntarily, or maybe it’s Jungkook’s hand, or maybe the wind blows, but suddenly, their pinkies touch. One tiny, barely-there point of warmth.

“Would you miss me?” Taehyung asks with a teasing smile.

Jungkook jerks his head up, eyes suddenly locking onto his. Blushing cheeks, wide, shining eyes, and a lock of hair, slightly curled from the humidity, trembling like a spring.

He goes still, like he’s afraid to move, his pupils darting across Taehyung’s face, searching for something. Well, there’s nothing to hide. Taehyung just looks back, steady. Just looks. It’s become a habit by now. Jungkook at the center of his vision.

Jungkook pulls his lower lip between his teeth, small dimples appearing on his cheeks. He gives a slight, shy shrug, “I’d like to see what you draw next.”

Taehyung breathes a low chuckle, shifting his pinkie a tiny bit closer. The point of warmth grows slightly bigger.

Does Jungkook, sweet, good Jungkook, have any idea of the nasty thoughts swirling in Taehyung’s head? How hungry he is? How much he wants to take a bite of that blinding, warm light?

What would Jungkook think if he knew?

Jungkook, so innocent, so pure, sighs sympathetically and says, “I wish you’d try to get along with the other guys. You don’t have to be so closed off. They’re good. Maybe they’d help you to find your place here.”

Taehyung scoffs but says nothing.

He wants Jungkook to know his thoughts—the ones that burn hot and bright in the darkness behind his eyelids when he touches himself at night. He wants Jungkook to like it. He wants it to leave a dirty smudge on the spotless, white canvas of his soul.

He wants, wants, wants.

He wants.

He takes another bite of the apple and asks Jungkook, “Want some?”

Jungkook stares at the crisp flesh for a few seconds. A droplet of juice trickles down Taehyung’s fingers. Then he nods and reaches out, but Taehyung is quicker.

He brings the apple to Jungkook’s pink, bitten, and chapped lips, the side he just bit into.

Jungkook looks at him with his big, wide eyes.

And bites.

Nothing happens. The heavens don’t collapse on them, God doesn’t punish Jungkook with a fall from grace. Maybe it’s because Taehyung is a shitty excuse for a snake. Lately, he’s begun to suspect that he’s been wrong all along, and it’s all the other way around. Jungkook is the one tempting, gently setting his traps until every inch of Taehyung’s mind is filled with him. He’s aware that it has become some kind of obsession by now.

Taehyung, ever hungry for warmth, lets it happen.

The next day, Jungkook steps out of his room just as Taehyung is stumbling out of his own. His eyes widen in a split-second flash of panic, but then he quickly regains control over his expression and gives a slight smile. It’s not the same smile from the first day. Not tight with false politeness, flat and soulless. Now there’s a certain nervousness to it—alongside the way Jungkook’s eyes dart around, unable to settle.

“Not running late today?” Jungkook asks, still wearing that half-smile, his tone bashful and soft. As if he wants to tease Taehyung but isn’t sure they’re quite there yet. Cute.

“Don’t get used to it,” Taehyung smiles.

Jungkook’s soft laugh skims over the bare parts of Taehyung’s skin, leaving behind faint traces of warmth.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Jungkook replies, suddenly grinning a little more boldly, a bit more playfully. Taehyung wants to eat him.

But instead, he forces his feet to move, because this awkward, bashful standoff, with Jungkook adjusting the straps of his backpack and Taehyung just standing there like a frozen idiot, is not his thing. He takes a step forward, intending to turn, but suddenly Jungkook steps forward too, and then again and again, until a second later, Taehyung’s entire field of vision is filled with Jungkook’s furrowed brows. And Jungkook’s hands are on Taehyung’s chest, and his brain doesn’t catch up to what’s happening before Jungkook tugs at his tie, leaning in slightly.

“You always do it wrong. I want to fix it all the time.”

Taehyung freezes, like a block of ice. But no. No. A cloud of warmth rises up his body, melting his insides, leaving only a hard, still shell.

Jungkook’s face tenses in concentration as his fingers move over his tie quickly, while Taehyung focuses on the way the hair on his bangs lightly sways under the pressure of his breath, while Jungkook’s breath brushes against his chin, a warm, damp cloud of air.

Then Jungkook’s eyes flicker up, meeting Taehyung’s, and the tension melts from his face into something timid and bashful. The inside of Taehyung’s mouth slicks. He doesn’t let a single muscle on his face move, but he knows how he looks. Like he’s about to swallow Jungkook whole.

Jungkook abruptly drops his gaze back to his fingers, propelling them to move, his cheeks red, shiny like the apple he shared with Taehyung yesterday. His lips press into a thin line, sink inward, his cheek hollowing as he bites it from the inside. As if he has no idea what to do with his face.

Taehyung’s fingers tremble with the urge to grab his waist, right where the pressed shirt tucks under the belt.

But he doesn’t dare move.

But Jungkook is already stepping back, biting his lip.

But it’s not time yet.

“Thanks,” Taehyung throws out, still steady and calm.

Jungkook stares at the floor, then back at Taehyung, then off to the side, as that awkward half-smile blooms on his face again.

“I should teach you sometime.”

“Sure,” Taehyung says with a lazy smile. “You know where to find me, sweetheart.”

And it’s not like Taehyung says it in any particular way, maybe it’s something about his voice, always smooth, viscous, and slow, adding the needed notes. But Jungkook’s mouth still falls open with a ragged breath, and skin on his neck stretches with the movement of his Adam’s apple.

Taehyung huffs, which induces Jungkook to take a step back, stutter out awkwardly, “Um… Sure,” then force a smile, muttering “See you,” and rush down the hallway.

Park Jimin holds an old Bible in his hands and recites, "Put to death, therefore, whatever belongs to your earthly nature: sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed, which is idolatry."

The teacher nods and asks for their interpretation of the verse. Jungkook is unusually silent, his gaze pressed against his desk. From this angle, Taehyung can't see his face, only the neatly trimmed back of his neck. The black cord of his cross caught on the collar of his shirt.

The window panes tremble with a nervous hum. The classroom is flooded in blue dusk, as if evening has already fallen. A dark cloud outside has swallowed the sky whole.

Taehyung doesn't listen to what the other students are saying. Something hypocritical, something stupid, probably. He's heard them whispering about girls. Sharing hushed stories about how far they’ve gotten, how big was the size of boobs they’ve been fortunate to hold. Pathetic losers. Does Jungkook hear them talk?

Is that verse spinning in his head now, like a pesky worm?

What haunts him more? These absurd lines, penned thousands of years ago, or his thoughts of Taehyung? Does he think about the warm, damp clouds of air between their faces? About the point of warmth between their pinkies? About the millions of possible points of warmth?

He won’t find answers, but still, he follows Jungkook to the river after class. To smoke. Stops on the hill, pulling the blanket's edges tighter around himself, but the relentless wind keeps lifting them, striking his body with a searing cold, and he barely catches the cigarette filter with his lips. He rushes to finish and hurry back to his room. Not that it's warm there. Nowhere here is fucking warm.

Jungkook stands by the riverbank, gripping his blue hat with both hands, hardly letting go. He barely moves, staring at the raging water that beats desperately against the rocks.

The sky is low, so low, dark, so dark. It presses down, squeezes the space even tighter, and the tension in the air grows heavier, thicker. A sudden clap of thunder breaks through the silence with relentless fury.

A storm is coming.

When the room suddenly plunges into darkness, Taehyung’s stomach tightens. His pencil drops onto the desk with a sharp clatter. Thunder follows, echoing right behind it, deep and forceful. It feels like the heavens have lowered so much they’re tearing open right above Taehyung’s head.

His hand reaches out, finding the sketch, the pencil, and pushes them aside. Taehyung sighs and makes his way to the bed, fingers grazing the furniture in the dark. He collapses onto it.

Peace doesn’t come. The rain pours down, the relentless fury of the heavens. The wind pounds against the windows, causing the glass to tremble, setting Taehyung’s nerves on edge. In the corridor, he hears footsteps, voices, someone saying the power is out because of the storm.

He had been drawing something naked again, something raw and hopeless. Drawing and wondering what Jungkook would say about it.

The knock on the door comes hours later. Taehyung isn’t surprised, as if he’d been expecting it. Waiting. Lying in bed, tracing his fingers lightly over his stomach.

Jungkook stands there, holding a candle close to his face. Says, “I’m scared of the storm.”

Oh, Jungkookie. Poor, poor Jungkookie. Another stain on his pure white soul—a lie. If you think about it, his soul should already be speckled with those stains. With how much he lies to himself.

Taehyung smiles and quietly steps aside to let Jungkook in. Jungkook’s in pale cotton pajamas, smelling like some flowers as his shoulder brushes against Taehyung’s. Fuck. God.

His hair, slightly damp and glistening, frames his face in a way that looks especially angelic. His cheeks are soft and round in the candle's orange glow, but when he tilts the flame just right, shadows carve his eyes into sharp, dramatic hollows, making them so dark, like they’re not afraid at all.

And inside Taehyung, somewhere behind his ribcage, sits a gaping toothy maw. A hungry tongue. Sharp fangs.

He wants. He wants.

Wants.

The thunder strikes their bodies with a desperate clang. The windows tremble in the wind. Taehyung’s fingertips tremble. Jungkook is trembling all over, like a tightly drawn string.

"Beautiful," he says, and that little word, exhaled from his lips, trembles too. He leans closer over the sketch on the table. Looks carefully.

Taehyung has forgotten what it was. Something naked, raw, hopeless. Nothing new. That’s all his sick soul can create. Naked, raw, hopeless.

He takes a step forward. Jungkook’s back is a wide shadow. His hair curls again into loose springs, glowing orange at the edges. Jungkook holds the candle in front of him, staring at the sketch. Pretending to stare at the sketch. Pretending not to notice how the distance between their bodies shrinks, pretending not to count each step.

In the dim light, Taehyung sees the cross hanging over his bed. He wonders if he should have taken it down. Would that have made it easier for Jungkook? For Taehyung, its presence makes everything nastier, sweeter. He’s selfish, greedy, nothing new.

"Why did you come, Jungkook?"

He stops just a step away. Sees Jungkook’s free hand grip the back of the chair, how the candlelight quivers under his heavy breath.

"I don’t know. Don’t know."

"It’s okay," Taehyung reassures. "Everything’s fine."

"Is it?" Jungkook whispers.

"It is," Taehyung murmurs. He places his hand on Jungkook’s waist. Feels his lungs, like sponges, slowly fill with air warmed by molten wax, by Jungkook. “Are you afraid?”

Inhale-exhale.

“Yes.”

Taehyung slowly slides his hand forward, brushing against the soft folds of Jungkook’s sleeve until he reaches his palm. He touches it lightly, only with the edge of his own, just above where Jungkook’s fingers grip the hard wax so tightly they’re about to snap it. He draws it closer, leans in, whispers,

"Blow it out."

Jungkook fails the first time. His breath is too shaky.

Then the room plunges into darkness again. It usually takes time for the other senses to sharpen, but Taehyung feels like he hears his heart pounding immediately, in that very second. He hears the air moving in and out of Jungkook’s nose, fast and frantic.

“No one will see anything in the dark,” Taehyung murmurs. Jungkook’s warmth draws even closer. The closer it gets, the hungrier Taehyung grows for that warmth. “Your God won’t see anything.”

Jungkook takes a sharp breath.

“Please, Taehyung, don’t talk about God,” he pleads, voice tinged with desperation.

Of course, do not take the Lord’s name in vain. Of course.

But God.

Oh God.

Taehyung wants to eat him.

It’s honestly kind of infuriating. As if Taehyung is some mistress. As if Jungkook is married to someone proper, someone righteous, someone he’d never be ashamed to display. And Taehyung, he’s just a fucking mistress. This thought annoys him, makes him squeeze Jungkook’s warm skin tighter. His other hand instinctively moves forward, grabbing him from the other side. Taehyung presses his nose into Jungkook’s hair—it carries traces of incense and wax, smells like a church, and it makes Taehyung angry. He wants Jungkook to smell like him. He wants Jungkook’s skin to get soaked with the scent of his skin, the scent of his sweat, his saliva, to be drenched in Taehyung. He’s so irritated and wants it so badly that he barely stops himself an inch from Jungkook’s ear to warn, “Gonna touch you. Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Jungkook inhales sharply, holding his breath. With the skin of his lips, thin and sensitive, Taehyung can feel the heat from Jungkook’s body. His ears must be red, flushed with blood. He must be red all over. Taehyung almost regrets not being able to see it.

The clock on Taehyung’s nightstand ticks loudly, mixing with the chaotic rhythm of their pulse. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

The windowpanes are still cracking under the force of the wind.

Jungkook’s response is so quiet, so choked, as if he’s still trying not to breathe, “You’re already touching me.”

Taehyung’s breath gets tangled in Jungkook’s hair, in the strands curling slightly near his ear, tickling Taehyung’s nose and upper lip.

“Do you want me to touch you more?”

Jungkook stays silent. That’s fine. Taehyung will give him time. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. The silence breaks with Jungkook’s breath, a little torn, a little nervous. Then an exhale. He’s still silent, so Taehyung decides to give him something to make him speak. His hand glides further, crumpling the soft cotton over Jungkook's stomach. Jungkook takes a sharp breath and holds it, making Taehyung’s hand sink slightly into his abdomen. The skin beneath the thin layer of fabric is taut and firm.

“Breathe,” Taehyung whispers, his lips brushing the edge of Jungkook's ear.

And Jungkook breathes. Oh how he fucking breathes. His breath is quick and frantic. Taehyung wants to move his hand higher, feel a scared little rabbit of his heart. But instead, he lets his fingers drift lower, small half-centimeter steps, finger by finger, nudging the fabric. Jungkook takes another deep inhale. So loud, so airy, even his breath carries that distinct sweetness of his voice. “Breathe, sweetheart. Breathe.”

“Okay,” Jungkook suddenly squeezes out, his small voice sending a warm rush through Taehyung’s body.

So damn good. Breathing on Taehyung's command. Taehyung wants to eat him.

“Has anyone touched you here?” Taehyung asks, letting his fingers dip lower for a moment. A little too sharply. Jungkook shudders.

“No.”

“Not even some girl?”

“No. Never. No one. Only me,” Jungkook confesses, his soft voice laces with some kind of desperation.

Taehyung's lips curl into a grin.

“Do you want me to touch you?”

“Yes,” Jungkook whispers. It sounds like a sob.

“Good. It's good. Just breathe, alright?”

Jungkook stays silent, but he breathes.

Taehyung steps a bit closer, chest pressing against Jungkook's shoulder blades. He keeps his lower body at a distance, not wanting to scare him. Not wanting to be too greedy, too hungry, despite the way his blood pulses warm, flowing down. His fingers find the hem of the fabric and slide underneath, slowly, cautiously, deliberately, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

And then he touches Jungkook’s stomach, and yes. His skin is so warm against Taehyung’s cold fingers, it almost burns. Finger by finger, he moves his hand more assertively, with more intent, until it rests fully on the smooth, hot surface.

Jungkook breathes. The skin under Taehyung's palm is alive and pulsing, rising and falling. Despite the fact that all of Jungkook’s body, caged by Taehyung's hands, is frozen in anticipation. Or fear. Probably both.

Jungkook breathes. One day he will scream on Taehyung's command, but today, this is enough.

It’s pathetic—it’s honestly outrageous, fucking disgusting—how much he wants him.

His want is a sharp claw ready to sink into the soft, warm flesh of Jungkook’s stomach.

Oh God.

Taehyung’s hand moves lower, the edge of his middle finger slipping under the waistband of Jungkook’s pajama pants—right as Jungkook takes a sudden, sharp inhale, his stomach caving in. He glides his hand sideways, brushing against the thin trail of hair beneath Jungkook’s navel. He presses harder, his lips grazing the edge of Jungkook’s ear, barely touching. Jungkook squirms a little and huffs, making Taehyung smile.

When Taehyung slowly pulls his hand back up to tease him a little, Jungkook suddenly grabs his forearm, stopping him.

Taehyung exhales a lazy chuckle against Jungkook's ear, “I’ll touch you, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”

“Sorry,” Jungkook whispers, releasing his arm.

Oh God. What the hell is Taehyung supposed to do with him?

It’s almost ironic how badly Taehyung has been wanting to smudge Jungkook’s angelic image, but all he wants to say to Jungkook now is how good he is.

To touch him the way he wants. What he came here for, so good, so clean, freshly washed, smelling of flowers, wearing just his pajamas with nothing underneath.

Taehyung pulls his hand out from under the shirt and presses it over Jungkook’s cock, above the fabric. The silence shatters with Jungkook's loud exhale as his shoulder blades shove against Taehyung’s chest, like a trapped animal. Taehyung catches him with his left arm, holding him still.

He squeezes his cock tighter, and yes, Jungkook is even warmer here, unbearably warm, and Taehyung is so fucking impatient, he almost immediately tightens his grip, moving his hand slightly upwards. A soft, airy ‘Hah’ escapes from Jungkook’s lips, a hot knife slicing into Taehyung's lower belly.

He spreads his fingers, one on each side of Jungkook’s length, tracing the outline upward. There’s a wet, sticky spot on the fabric, and Taehyung presses down on it, rubbing in circles. Jungkook’s breath catches in his throat, damp and fractured. He’s trembling all over like a leaf in the wind.

Taehyung cups him under the balls and grinds the heel of his hand into the length, dragging it up, drawing a muffled moan from Jungkook, as if he’s desperately trying to keep his mouth shut. For a moment, Taehyung imagines his face flushed with blood and shame, biting down on his lower lip, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt not to move. Not seeing Jungkook’s face suddenly feels unbearable. Nevermind. He'll endure it as long as he has the chance to feel the heat of Jungkook's firm, trembling body, every quiver, every breath.

God, how desperately his hips want to press against Jungkook's ass.

Taehyung releases him, and Jungkook stumbles forward, exhaling sharply, but then Taehyung brings his hands back, running them over his hips, hooking his thumbs under the waistband of Jungkook’s pants, easing them down. The skin over Jungkook’s hip bones is so soft and velvety that Taehyung feels an overwhelming urge to press his face there. Or bite it. Or something.

He wants to talk. To pour a flood of dirty words into Jungkook’s ear, to make him squirm, to tremble with shame, to remind him that he’s letting another boy touch him, and that his God sees everything, fucking everything, and maybe that shame would make everything sweeter, add more layers to what they’re doing, make Jungkook come harder. But he holds back.

He knows he needs to be methodical, quick—now that he’s gotten permission to really touch, hanging on the blurry boundaries.

And, to be honest, he’s a little afraid that if he gives Jungkook too much space to think about what they’re doing, he’ll chicken out and run away.

So he pulls the waistband down, tugging just enough to let Jungkook’s cock spring free, and leans back slightly, quickly bringing his hand to his mouth to lick it—tasting the salty tang of precum on his fingertip that soaked through the fabric—and lays his palm on Jungkook’s cock.

Jungkook gasps, his whole body jerking back as if all the air had been knocked out of him, then surging forward again into the circle of Taehyung’s fingers. Taehyung, hungry, greedy for the sounds Jungkook makes, the sounds that twist heat low in his belly, moves his hand right away. Down, brushing against coarse pubic hair. Up, feeling the slickness gather in the creases between his fingers.

Jungkook is still holding back, trying not to move, even though his lungs and heart are working overtime—Taehyung can feel the echo pushing against his own ribcage, hears Jungkook’s breath speeding up, catching in his throat over and over.

Taehyung squeezes the head of his cock, and yeah. Yeah. A full moan spills out of Jungkook. And Taehyung can’t help himself; he presses his own cock against Jungkook’s ass, letting himself breathe out a moan in response that gets caught, burning, between his open mouth and the soft space behind Jungkook’s ear.

And suddenly, Jungkook makes a choked, gurgling sound from deep in his throat and subtly pushes his hips back.

Fuck, Taehyung wants to lick him all over.

He skims his damp lips under Jungkook's ear, breathing out a warm sigh, then brushes his tongue lightly, tightening his grip on Jungkook’s cock, pumping faster. Jungkook lets out a half-moan, half-sob. And now, Taehyung likes it. The darkness. How Jungkook's strangled sounds wash over him, hitting all the tender places of his body.

He grinds his hips harder against Jungkook’s ass, a thought flashing in his mind about how they would feel in his palms. It's a little sad that the cock—the most sensitive part of the body—still can't quite feel all the necessary softness and firmness, roundness and hollowness.

“Fuck,” slips from Taehyung’s lips, trailing down along Jungkook's ear to his neck. Jungkook responds with another breathy gasp, and Taehyung’s hands, as desperate from hunger as all of him, push harder, molding Jungkook closer into his own body. More of their surfaces touching, more heat. He leans down, mouthing lower, along the curve of Jungkook’s hairline. His other hand, glued to the warmth of Jungkook’s firm belly, slides up, grasping him more tightly, more possessively. He traces the cavity in the center, from the belly up to the firm line between his chest muscles, then back down, flicking a thumb over his nipple.

Jungkook fucking whines, and Taehyung grinds against him harder, his hand moving faster over Jungkook’s cock, coaxing a few more soft ah-ah-ahs into darkness. And only then does it dawn on him.

“Jungkookie,” he murmurs, slowing his pace. “Did you take off your cross?”

Jungkook goes still, his rapid breaths suddenly sounding far too loud, exposed, stripped bare of the rustling of fabric. Taehyung’s hand continues its slow, deliberate rhythm over his length, adding dirty, squelching sounds to the silence, and Jungkook audibly shuts his mouth, licking his lips, exhaling shakily through his nose.

“What?”

The hungry animal inside Taehyung unleashes itself.

“Took off your cross. Came to me in the dark, lying about being scared of the storm. Do you think that changes anything?” His voice is rough and breathless, but it doesn’t erase the cold calm, the cruelty with which he speaks, nor the hunger itching in his chest. “Do you think that changes how much you want this?”

He gathers the sticky precum from the head of Jungkook’s cock with his thumb, spreading it along the length, pulsing and heavy in his hand. He tightens his fingers, moves his hand nice and easy, just right, exactly the way Jungkook wants.

A moan catches in Jungkook's throat, emerging as a muffled whimper.

Taehyung moves his hand steadily, smoothly, pressing down with every inch of his fingers, brushing his lips against Jungkook's ear, exhaling, “You wanted this so much that you just shamelessly came on your own.”

Jungkook trembles more violently. Whimpers when Taehyung speeds up. His body tenses further, jerking back with clumsy, erratic movements against the cage made of Taehyung’s body. He’s close.

Taehyung feels like he’s on the edge too. Like he’s been on the edge all this time. Pleasure gathers and pulls painfully at the base of his stomach, spilling down to his legs, making them unsteady, weak.

“Please, Taehyung” Jungkook gasps out suddenly, grabbing his forearm, and Taehyung doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but the pleasure surges closer to the edge. His hips move desperately, erratically, slamming against Jungkook’s ass. An ass that pushes back just as desperately.

Taehyung grabs the edge of Jungkook’s shirt with his free hand, crumpling the fabric and pulling it up. He whispers, “Hold it for me.”

And Jungkook—good boy, golden boy—grabs it with both hands, holding high. He leans back a little, almost as if he’s about to fall, and Taehyung wraps an arm around his waist, holding him tighter. His spit has long dried up, but Jungkook is so wet, fucking dripping, his precum mixing with sweat, making the slide easy, allowing Taehyung’s fist to move fast, effortlessly. The filthy rhythm of the wet sound makes Taehyung squeeze his eyes shut, letting out a strangled moan in sync with Jungkook’s.

Jungkook's body tightens like a string with every desperate thrust of his body. Taehyung presses his lips to the edge of his ear and rasps,

“It’s alright, baby. Yeah,” he pants. “Yeah, baby. Let it go.”

And Jungkook breaks apart into a mess of high, desperate ah-ah-ahs as Taehyung angles his cock against his stomach, feeling the hot, sticky wetness spill over his fingers. He bites down on the skin beneath Jungkook’s ear, guiding him through the orgasm with his hand, and his own breathing, mingled with Jungkook’s high moans, muffles in his ears like soft, pleasant cotton. He grinds harder, losing himself in the sensations, tensed by the warm, intimate pressure of the darkness. A note of desperate, pathetic whining rises up from his chest through his throat and out, out, because just a little more, just a bit longer, harder, but still not enough. Still not—

Taehyung’s attempt to keep things from getting too messy turns out to be in vain because, in his pathetic, animalistic chase for relief, he lets go of Jungkook’s spent, softening cock, releases his stomach, and with a hand slick with Jungkook’s cum, quickly pushes his own pants down. His fingers wrap around himself, and he hisses, then moans breathily. Jungkook’s cum makes the glide smooth, so fucking good. He pumps himself fast, bending forward, eyes squeezed shut, feeling that sweet boiling point rushing toward him. It only takes a few more pathetic seconds before shudders wrack through him, his moans joining the chaos of breaths and sighs, and he milks his own cum, mixing it with Jungkook's on his fingers.

The orgasm buckles his knees, and he reaches instinctively for Jungkook's waist, needing to hold on to something real, to anchor himself in reality, and in the blurry haze of pleasure, his hand bumps against something wet, sticky, and firm. He realizes it’s the cum on Jungkook’s stomach. Then he lifts his eyes, blinks away the daze, his vision adjusting to the darkness, and sees the gleam of Jungkook's wide eyes.

Jungkook stands facing him, still holding his shirt up with both hands, staring unblinkingly. His expression is caught between dread and awe. Then his gaze drops down to Taehyung’s softening, cum-covered cock.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Taehyung whispers, his voice a soft taunt. Jungkook flinches and looks back at his face, as if hypnotized. His large eyes tremble. “You okay?”

Taehyung’s thumb grazes over Jungkook’s hipbone in what should be a comforting gesture, but the sticky cum makes everything feel just nasty. Taehyung likes it even more this way—their filthiest, most intimate parts mixed together, marked on their bodies.

Jungkook, though, looks like he might either lunge at Taehyung or burst into tears. He seems lost, not knowing what to do. Frozen, like a cornered animal.

Then he gives a tiny nod. Taehyung softens his expression, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side.

He steps back just enough to peel off his shirt. It’s one of his favorites, but he suddenly doesn’t feel like leaving Jungkook’s side to find another. He quickly wipes his fingers on the hem, then turns the dirty part inward to keep the outer side clean, and moves closer to Jungkook. “Let me…”

Jungkook flinches at the first touch. He doesn’t move at all while Taehyung wipes his stomach, then goes lower, and Jungkook jerks, his whole body shuddering. Suddenly, he drops his hands, lets his shirt fall, and jumps back, crashing loudly against the chair.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles shakily, almost inaudibly, hurriedly pulling his pants up over the mess between his legs. He doesn’t look at Taehyung anymore. “I…”

Taehyung steps back, sighing. He tilts his head to the side, licking his dried lips, and huffs, “Want to run away, Jungkookie?”

Jungkook lifts his head just a little, his eyes settling somewhere around Taehyung’s chin. His face looks like it's about to crack and shatter into a million pieces. Taehyung steps aside, then back, and then a bit more to the side, “Go on then.”

And Jungkook finally meets his eyes, his gaze suddenly so bright, emotions spilling over the edges, and Taehyung can’t read a single one.

He drops his eyes. Jungkook runs away.

Taehyung bites his lip, his hands still sticky, hanging in midair, his heart drumming violently in his chest, his eyes locked on the barely visible outline of the door in the darkness. He bites down harder, but laughter slips out anyway, uncontrollable, disbelieving.

And so, he just laughs.

The heavens roar once more.

Man, what the fuck?

Taehyung walks out of his room the next morning, right at the same moment as Jungkook, because the universe is a bitch that loves irony, that’s already established. Today, this bitch seems to love Taehyung, too, because the panic on Jungkook’s face sends a wave of sticky satisfaction through his whole body, down to his toes.

Maybe he would comfort him. Tell him it’s alright. Tell him how good he is. Maybe he’d want that more than anything. To soothe him, to calm him down.

But Jungkook looks like he might fall apart, shatter into a million pieces if Taehyung dares to take even one step closer.

They stand there for a few moments, not saying a word. Jungkook clutches the straps of his backpack tightly. Strands of his dark brown hair, which—Taehyung knows now—smells like wax and incense, fall over his eyes. His pupils tremble. He looks like he might, maybe, want to comfort Taehyung, too. To say, I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that I’m so scared. I’m sorry that I used you.

But then Taehyung smiles, as if nothing happened, everything’s okay, of course okay, my hands weren’t in your pants last night, the soft skin on your stomach doesn’t still smell of me, God didn’t see, God didn’t see a thing.

Taehyung says, "Good morning."

They don’t speak for two weeks. Jungkook barely looks at him. The traces of warmth on Taehyung’s body slowly cool.

In history class, Taehyung notices a small red mark behind Jungkook’s ear, and it makes his lower abdomen flood with heat. He hopes Jungkook has noticed the mark too, that it gnaws at him, doesn’t let him forget, constantly reminds him of Taehyung.

The hunger doesn’t fade. Of course it doesn’t. Taehyung wasn’t stupid enough to think it would. He knew he’d end up craving more intensely, more desperately. And still did what he did.

He watches Jungkook again through the church window late at night. He feels even filthier, more sick than he did when he touched him. He shouldn't be here. It's too intimate.

The way Jungkook presses his knees hard against the cold floor, his back bending like he wants to curl up, like he wishes he was made of cloth and air and could just crumple into a tiny heap on the ground.

Taehyung's cheeks burn with shame. He feels sorry for Jungkook, truly sorry. The tears on Jungkook’s soft, candle-warmed cheeks are real. Taehyung did this to him.

He feels sorry, but something inside him painfully and pleasantly tugs at the thought that this is what Jungkook is so desperately trying to pray away. The invisible marks of Taehyung’s hands from his body. The traces of his own moans from his throat.

Please, Taehyung.

He’s sorry, so fucking sorry, but he carries this image back to his room, buries himself under the covers, breathes heavily, wetly, surrounded by the cage of tense, hot air. And imagines.

Imagines Jungkook on his knees before him. Him gagging a little but begging for more—of course he would, because he’s such a good boy, so eager to please. How he coughs a little, and tears run down his soft, rosy cheeks, glimmering in the orange light. How he lifts his big, puppy eyes and looks up at Taehyung with so much trust, so much devotion. His perfect, sweet face covered in cum, his knees red and raw, his voice moaning breathily—Taehyung knows exactly how it sounds now. He fucking knows.

Taehyung could never pray this away, even if he wanted to.

They don't speak for two weeks, but Taehyung keeps observing. He notices the unusual tension in Jungkook, the irritation simmering beneath the surface. How he smiles less and raises his voice more often.

Before history class, Park Jimin asks him if everything’s alright, and Jungkook forces a half-hearted smile that barely lifts the corners of his mouth. When Jimin reaches up to tousle his hair, like he always does, Jungkook suddenly grabs his wrist and snaps, “Stop it.”

His voice is firm, his brows knitted together, eyes dark and intense. Burning. Everyone turns to look at him, at his white-knuckled grip on Jimin’s arm.

A shiver licks up Taehyung’s spine.

And then, a few days later, their idiot classmates are whispering again. They talk about how Choi Jiyeon hides magazines with naked women, how he’ll soon get caught and kicked out. How Park Minsun took the virginity of some girl from his village and now brags about it to everyone. Shame, what a shame.

Jungkook turns around from his seat, his gaze fierce, truly angry, and hisses for them to stop gossiping.

“Don’t be hypocrites,” he says. “All of you have secrets.” And yes, yes. Who would know this better than Jungkook? He’s too soft, too kind, inspecting rooms half-heartedly, turning a blind eye to the whispers in the hallways and classrooms. “Mind your own business, for God’s sake.”

It’s strange to see him like this. Strange and beautiful.

Jungkook’s gaze, intense beneath his furrowed brows, suddenly locks onto Taehyung. Makes Taehyung wonder if he’s the cause of his sudden anger. But then Jungkook’s brows relax and curve in the opposite direction, and his face melts into something fragile and soft, and he suddenly looks like.

Like he’s longing.

And then, later, when he sings. He looks with sorrow, with some kind of regret—in those fleeting moments when their eyes meet, in the brief lines he sings in his angelic voice, just for Taehyung. He clenches his fists by his sides. Sings fervently, desperately. Burns. His hair glows with colorful reflections from the round stained glass window hanging right above him, right above his head. And if you came close and knelt before him, it might look like the colorful, glowing window is a halo around Jungkook’s head.

The hole in Taehyung's tongue is slowly closing up, and it annoys him. So he takes out a small box hidden in the bottom drawer of his desk under a pile of drawings. Jungkook never dared to reach the very bottom.

Inside are all his little treasures: cigarettes, a few pairs of earrings, black nail polish, eyeliner, and a barbell, which he takes out and cleans in the communal bathroom sink.

He looks at himself in a small mirror attached to the old wardrobe door as he puts it on. He isn’t even sure why. For some comfort, maybe. A glimpse of his old life, though it hasn’t much to miss. At least in this fucking school, he doesn’t have the suffocating presence of his parents. His father’s hands. But here, he can’t go wherever he wants, get lost among people. Here, his loneliness feels especially sharp, more acute.

He opens his mouth and looks at his reflection. The metal ball reflects light, pulling at the flesh with a familiar weight that feels almost comforting. His hair has grown longer, making him look softer. Maybe some eyeliner would help. He liked how it made him look—intimidating, untouchable. Invincible.

It’s always so fucking cloudy here, so the light from the window is dull, slightly blue. His face seems blue too.

He still applies some eyeliner on the waterline, just a little bit. Ruffles his hair. Yet he still doesn’t look intimidating. The eyeliner makes his eyes water, as it always does at first, and his face, bathed in blue, looks even worse than before.

He falls onto the bed, rubbing his eyes, sighing. Nudges the edge of his teeth with the ball of his piercing—again and again. He dozes off like that.

His dreams are also blue. Blue, blue, blue water.

Jungkook’s t-shirt is blue too when Taehyung, still half-asleep, body in reality but head and lungs still filled with water, opens the door.

“Hey,” Jungkook says. His cheeks are red. Like apples.

How does he glow like that in the dark? How is he so warm?

Taehyung wants to sink into him completely, dissolve in his warmth. He’s still not fully awake, it seems.

“Hi,” Taehyung rasps.

“Are you okay? I… I’m here for the inspection.”

Taehyung propels his legs to move, feeling the cold floor sting his feet. He rubs his eyes, trying to shake off the sleep. Jungkook’s footsteps are quiet, careful, but each one hits Taehyung’s skull like a bell. Jungkook opens the closet doors slowly, without any real effort. Just a formality.

It dawns on Taehyung that he didn’t have to come. No one would know if he skipped this room. He doesn’t let himself ponder what it means that he did come.

Jungkook turns to him, and Taehyung returns to reality enough to notice. The gnawed fingers on his right hand, which he fidgets with, twisting and turning. The jerkiness of his movements. The way his eyes won’t leave Taehyung’s face. Yes, he’s looking at him. Looking intensely, as if he can’t not look.

The breath that leaves Taehyung’s lips almost sounds like the word ‘finally.’

"Nothing ever changes in here," Jungkook smiles, corners of his mouth tight. Taehyung shrugs, his eyes greedily clinging to every feature on Jungkook’s face. “Are you preparing for exams?”

Taehyung wants to ask if Jungkook still feels the imprint of his hands on his body. If his mind is occupied by Taehyung and his hands during the moments he prays for forgiveness.

There’s so much Taehyung wants to say.

He says, "The program here isn’t too difficult."

Jungkook's eyes drop to his mouth. They widen slightly. He bites his lip and glances away, eyes wandering over the walls he’s already seen a thousand times.

"What?" Taehyung asks because he’s impatient. Because he’s spent all of his patience and careful charm over the past two weeks, and now he just needs to hear something, anything.

"You look— Your mouth… Um… The metal in your mouth."

Taehyung flicks his tongue along the inside of his mouth, feeling the ball of the piercing clink against his teeth. Fuck, he forgot to take it out.

"Have you never seen a piercing?"

Jungkook blushes again, embarrassed. His fingers clutch the hem of his shirt, twisting the fabric between his fingertips. Taehyung remembers about the smudged eyeliner around his eyes. He wonders if it makes him look even more frightening in Jungkook’s eyes. If Jungkook contrasts him with God, if he sees his face every time the Scripture warns about the devil's temptations.

"I’ve only seen it on TV," Jungkook mumbles uncertainly.

“Wanna take a closer look?” slips from Taehyung’s mouth before he can catch the words.

Jungkook gives a slight nod, suddenly looking like a curious child. It makes Taehyung want to grin.

He steps closer, his eyes glued to Jungkook’s, whose eyes, in turn, stay glued to Taehyung’s lips. Jungkook, it seems, doesn’t have time to think about what they did in this room two weeks ago, what the short distance between their bodies does to them, what it turns them into. He just nibbles his lower lip, looking a little excited, a little nervous.

Taehyung opens his mouth and slightly sticks out his tongue, brushing the tip against his lower lip. Jungkook automatically takes a step forward, bending closer to take a better look.

Taehyung doesn’t dare move. Even the air has frozen along his trachea and lungs, suspended. No. He won’t move a single muscle. Not one. Okay, that’s a lie. The one that’s placed in his chest is pounding madly, echoing in his ears, and it drives him a little wild because his heart is usually calm, so, so calm, like it’s not even there. He hopes Jungkook can’t hear it. Hopes he doesn’t get scared.

Jungkook's eyes flick up to meet his, and his expression becomes cloudy, vulnerable. Like he finally remembers. Like he notices how dark and hungry Taehyung’s eyes are, lined with black to make them even more unsettling.

But he keeps staring back.

Taehyung closes his mouth, quickly licking his lips, exhaling sharply, and whispers, “What do you think?”

Jungkook sucks his lower lip in, dimples forming on his cheeks. “It suits you,” he whispers. “All of this…” His burning, fascinated gaze sweeps over Taehyung’s face. “Suits you.”

Fuck.

“You can touch it if you want.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

Taehyung opens his mouth again, stepping even closer. And suddenly, they’re so close, and Jungkook reaches out with his index finger toward Taehyung’s mouth, and Taehyung feels like a living, breathing trap.

A warm, damp puff of air from Jungkook’s mouth hits Taehyung’s face as he touches the ball of the piercing with the tip of his finger. Taehyung barely feels the weight of the touch. Then Jungkook presses a bit more firmly, moving the piercing to the side.

And then his eyes are suddenly so dark—still a bit scared, of course. Covered with a thin, trembling sheen. And they’re staring into Taehyung’s.

The tip of Jungkook’s finger slips off the piercing onto Taehyung’s tongue, so lightly, almost as if by accident. His skin tastes salty.

Jungkook whispers, “Taehyung,” like he’s pleading, like it hurts.

Heat rushes down Taehyung’s spine, all the way down to his legs, which suddenly feel weak, barely able to hold him up.

And Taehyung closes his lips around Jungkook’s finger, and a faint, airy moan escapes Jungkook’s mouth.

Jungkook jerks back a bit, startled, and Taehyung’s hand instinctively reaches out, catching his waist. Then he drags his tongue along the finger, firm and slow, feeling the metal catch in the crease between the joints, and Jungkook’s eyes grow wilder, his breathing more frantic. His face still pleads for something, and Taehyung wants to know what. Wants Jungkook to ask for it so he can give him anything he wishes for.

Jungkook’s exhale is hot and trembling, and he catches it back with his lips, licking them briefly. His gaze darts between Taehyung’s mouth and his eyes. And Taehyung can’t help himself, he lightly bites the tip of Jungkook’s finger, and Jungkook jerks, then moans a little again, and yes. Yeah. Perfect.

Taehyung glances down briefly. Jungkook is visibly hard, cock straining the fabric of his cute plaid pajama pants. It looks so painful. Poor, poor boy.

Taehyung’s hands are itching with need. He grips Jungkook’s waist tighter, trying to squeeze out a single word, anything. One word, and he’ll make it easier, he’ll make it perfect.

And yes, yes. Jungkook looks down and then up again, eyes so bright, so vulnerable when he helplessly groans, “Please.”

And Taehyung immediately presses his palm against Jungkook’s cock. No teasing, no playing, just gripping with the right pressure to bring relief. Jungkook closes his eyes and moans—and Taehyung wasn’t prepared for the sight. It will haunt him. He wouldn’t be able to pray away this image from his mind, even if he became the most devoted believer, even if he attended every single mass.

Suddenly, Jungkook presses harder on Taehyung’s tongue, his gaze growing darker, more clouded, and he pushes his finger deeper. Taehyung’s insides coil, every nerve tense. His mouth opens as if he’s the one on the receiving end of pleasure, as if he can’t get enough air, releasing Jungkook’s finger soaked in his spit that stretches and stretches and stretches. Jungkook’s hand awkwardly hovers in the air for a moment, and Taehyung quickly, with a loud inhale, pulls his fingers back with his lips and tongue—this time, two. Because Jungkook is still staring at his mouth—fascinated, wild. As if the way Taehyung licks his fingers is driving him insane.

Jungkook looks so unraveled, breathless, fucking gorgeous, with the sun’s rays clinging to his hair. Fuck. Taehyung wants to drive him even wilder. Honestly, he wants to kiss him. He’s about to break, shit.

So instead, he drops to his knees—an alternative almost just as good. And immediately yanks down his pants along with his underwear. Jungkook groans, says, “Taehyung,” his voice desperate, lost.

And then Taehyung flicks his tongue over his swollen, red tip, and Jungkook keens.

Moans, “Oh God.”

And Taehyung would laugh, tease him, recite the second commandment, but his mouth is busy, his mouth is greedy, and it takes him in deeper.

Jungkook instinctively thrusts his hips into the heat of Taehyung's mouth, piercing his throat with a sting of pain, but Taehyung wants to fucking grin because, god, he’s the one doing this to Jungkook, isn’t he? Making him lose all the perfect composure. And he gets it, honestly. He himself is trying to tame the wild, perverted excitement that swells inside him, constantly reminding him that this is Jungkook’s first time. That every touch, every new sensation Taehyung gifts him, will stay with him as a permanent mark he can never wash away.

He grips Jungkook’s thighs, holding him in place, hearing Jungkook whisper quickly, “Sorry,” in that soft, sweet voice of his, and then breaking into moans again. High-pitched, ringing. Like when he reaches those high notes in church hymns.

Taehyung looks up and immediately meets Jungkook’s eyes—wild, so wide and wild, as if he’s completely lost, and he instantly moans, “Shit,” and Taehyung is ecstatic. He presses his right hand roughly against his own crotch to ease the ache and groans, sending vibrations through Jungkook’s length, down to his balls, and Jungkook’s eyes shut tight again, voice breaking into endless ah-ah-ahs.

The sunlight from the window halos Jungkook's head in gold. When did the sun even come out?

Taehyung slows down a bit, wanting to draw out the pleasure. He laps at Jungkook’s cock wetly, slowly, sucking his cheeks in, dragging his lips up along the hot, throbbing length. Then lets Jungkook’s cock slip from his mouth, nuzzling his face into the warm, soft skin near his hip bone, rasping out mockingly,

“Did your prayers work, Jungkookie?”

Jungkook groans, burying his fingers in Taehyung’s hair like he’s in pain. And Taehyung takes him back into his mouth, pressing the hard ball of his piercing against the flesh, sliding it along. And fuck. Fuck. He wants to spend more time on this. He wants to spend hours on this. Licking, caressing, worshiping this perfect boy. Golden boy.

Who, despite the restraint of Taehyung’s hands, still tries to thrust his cock into Taehyung’s mouth, as if he’s completely lost it. Taehyung speeds up, feeling the cock in his mouth swell even more. Then Jungkook suddenly warns, alarmed, "Taehyung— I—," and Taehyung just lifts his dark eyes, hoping to convey exactly what he wants.

Come on, sweetheart. Come for me.

And Jungkook looks into his eyes to the very last moment, thrusting sloppily. Taehyung allows it. Endures the burn, tries not to gag, but allows it. Saliva foams at the corners of his lips, squelching and squelching. It’s all so nasty. All for him. Jungkook's fingers tug his tangled hair, and Taehyung squeezes his own cock harder, moaning as his mouth fills with the bitter, thick cum.

And maybe the marks of Taehyung’s touch will remain on Jungkook’s body forever, but Taehyung too will be stuck with the way Jungkook sounds when he comes, the way he sobs a little wetly, moans his name, high-pitched. It will remain deeply, deeply etched inside his skull, in all that chaotic mass of gray messy stuff.

Shit. How the fuck did this happen? When?

Jungkook's cock slips out of his mouth with a loud, wet sound, and Taehyung licks his lips, swallowing, grimacing slightly. He lifts his ass off his heels, spreads his knees a bit, and pushes his hand past the waistband of his pajama pants, his underwear. His head is empty, like a bell with his own name echoing inside of it, hitting the walls—in Jungkook’s breathy, broken, watery voice.

He doesn’t need much; he’s almost at the edge, and honestly, he hopes to finish while Jungkook still hasn’t caught his breath and came to his senses, hasn’t pulled his pants up and covered the mess in front of Taehyung's eyes. Still a little hard red cock, smeared with cum and saliva, pubic hair at the base sticking with drops of white. So nasty. Just the way Taehyung likes it.

But then Jungkook suddenly drops to his knees in front of him, forcing Taehyung to look up and meet his large, wide eyes, parted lips from which the remnants of moans still pour. His face is flushed, shiny. His forehead is slightly damp from the sweat. He quickly licks his lips and asks, “Can I?”

God.

Oh God.

"What?" Taehyung rasps.

"Can I do it?" Jungkook's voice is so sweet, so fucking sweet, filled with a sudden determination.

Taehyung feels everything inside him trembling, aching, pulling. He nods, breathless, lets go of his cock, slides his pants and underwear down a bit, and waits. From the outside, it probably looks ridiculous, how they stand on their knees with pants down. But it feels incredible. When Jungkook touches his cock timidly, hesitantly, and Taehyung’s breath hitches, and it’s lava instead of air in his lungs, and Jungkook looks at him like a madman who realizes he’s going insane.

Taehyung is so wet, so damn dripping, that it's not even necessary, but he still grabs Jungkook by the wrist, pulls his hand to his mouth, never breaking eye contact; there's a burning desire in Jungkook's eyes that drives Taehyung nuts. And when Taehyung licks his palm with a broad, rough stroke, his rapid breath suddenly cuts off, and he grimaces as if it pains him, as if he’s overwhelmed by how much he likes it.

When Jungkook takes Taehyung’s cock in his hand more intently, he moans like he's the one being touched. He slides his hand down a bit, pulling back the foreskin, then up again, and Taehyung hisses through gritted teeth. Jungkook snaps his head up, like he’s fascinated by the sounds his touch draws from Taehyung.

“Yeah,” Taehyung breathes. “Yeah, sweetheart. Go on.”

Jungkook bites down on his lip, his breath still frantic. He tightens his grip, moves his hand more confidently, brows furrowing in that adorable way when he’s focused. Taehyung wants to eat him.

His eyelids grow heavy, but he doesn’t dare take his eyes off Jungkook. Off the raw intensity that seizes his face. Jungkook's hot palm drags slowly, deliberately, from the base where it brushes against his balls, all the way to the tip. It’s not quite the rhythm Taehyung needs, not his style, but the pleasure climbs so quickly, so tangibly, that he feels a bit pathetic. He barely needs anything to feel almost everything.

Jungkook's eyes glaze over with a moist sheen, almost as if he’s just as lost in it. They lock on Taehyung’s cock, on his own hand, flicking up every time Taehyung makes a sound. He frowns slightly, and his face reminds Taehyung of the expression he makes when solving problems in class. Determined and focused, with crimson-bitten lips and those stubborn, dark eyes.

“Good?” Jungkook suddenly breathes out, his intense eyes burning, piercing into Taehyung's face.

“Yeah. Good, sweetheart. It’s good,” a moan escapes his lips. He wraps his fingers around Jungkook’s, wet and slick with precum seeping between them, and squeezes tighter. “Yeah, yeah… Fuck— So good,” his voice breaks into a whine, and suddenly he slumps forward, pressing his forehead into Jungkook’s shoulder, into his radiant, infinite warmth. Helpless, pathetic before him.

“Yeah?” Jungkook moans right by his ear, his voice dripping with wild wonder.

“So good. Fuck… So good, baby.”

And Jungkook’s moans louder, hearing the last word. Taehyung thrusts his hips harder into the grip of Jungkook's fingers laced with his own fingers. Wet, sticky, dirty entanglement of their fingers. He grits his teeth because the urge to kiss Jungkook—wet, sticky, dirty—becomes unbearable. Jungkook's neck is so close, hot, with a pulse drumming beneath his skin. He could kiss it, bite it, mark it again.

“Shit,” he groans.

And then groans again as the wave of pleasure rises, ready to spill over.

“Yes, yes,” Jungkook chants like he’s possessed. His voice is thick, sugary, washing over Taehyung's skin with a hot vibration, rolling down his spine. His free hand tangles in Taehyung’s hair, gripping with some kind of desperation, pulling him closer.

“Fuck,” Taehyung groans once more, high and raw, and spills out into the tangle of their fingers as stars explode behind his eyelids.

He breathes. Breathes loudly, heavily. His face is hot and damp. The fabric against his forehead is rough. Hot, firm fingers twist in his hair again, and another hot moan ripples in his ear.

Jungkook is breathing too. Taehyung feels it with his whole body. Stars still flicker under his closed eyelids.

Taehyung pushes himself away from Jungkook, opening his eyes with some effort. There are stars too—in the eyes across from him. And Taehyung dies a little, to be honest. Jungkook is so damn beautiful. He still looks a little crazy, as if the energy is still crackling through his veins, refusing to dissipate. He’s never looked this beautiful before. Only when he sings, maybe.

Jungkook falls back on his heels, wide-eyed, his dirty hand frozen in mid-air. The corners of Taehyung's mouth tug up, he can't help it.

And then, suddenly.

Jungkook smiles back. It’s a small, hesitant thing. His head dips down, hiding his face in the tousled mess of his hair.

Taehyung quickly yanks off his shirt—fuck, again—and wipes his own hand first, then gently takes Jungkook’s wrist, carefully wiping each finger clean.

“Hey,” he whispers. Jungkook glances up at him. He doesn’t look scared. Just a little bashful—with those apple-red cheeks and darting eyes. A tiny, faint smile still hangs on his lips. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Jungkook nods, averting his gaze. His chest is still heaving with noisy breaths.

Taehyung wants to run his hand through his hair, brush it back. Maybe hug him. What a stupid thought.

Instead, he stands up, pulling his underwear and pants back up, wincing at the sticky, damp mess between his thighs. It takes Jungkook a few moments to do the same. He meets Taehyung's eyes only once before quickly looking away, mumbling, “I… I should probably…”

“Jungkook,” Taehyung says softly. And Jungkook looks at him again. So vulnerable. There’s still a gentle warmth glowing at the bottom of his eyes. And sadness. Taehyung softens his expression as much as he can and whispers, “It’s okay, sweetheart. Go on, clean yourself up.”

Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut tightly, and Taehyung wonders if he realizes how transparent and honest his face is. How every emotion is written all over it.

Jungkook walks away slowly at first, but then—closer to the door—almost breaks into a run.

The next day, Taehyung kneels before him again. Jungkook assists the pastor with communion. He's wearing a snow-white robe with golden patterns. Taehyung's knees hurt a little. He'll need to check later if there are bruises.

He opens his mouth obediently, never breaking eye contact with Jungkook as he offers a spoon with a piece of bread dipped in wine. The flesh of Christ.

He looks intently, persistently. His eyes ask,

Did you come here to pray yesterday? Did it help you want me any less? Did you manage to pray away the feeling of my tongue on your cock?

He takes the sour, wet piece of bread into his mouth. Jungkook’s hand trembles. And yes, yes. Taehyung was right. From this angle, the stained glass window does look like a halo around Jungkook's head.

Once, a long time ago, Taehyung and his old friend Namjoon used to dream about places where they could be free. Places they saw on TV. Filled with loud music bubbling with uncontrollable emotions, places swarming with a kaleidoscope of people. Places that would understand them, embrace them, let them get lost without feeling lost, places that felt like a home. At one point, Taehyung thought the closest thing to a home he’d ever had was Namjoon's family’s old basement. It was Namjoon who fed him these wild, reckless ideas, this fucking hopes. Fuck him, honestly.

This cold morning, when Taehyung gazes at Jungkook’s figure by the riverbank, his head fills with utter, devastating bullshit. His brain probably hasn’t woken up yet. But he imagines Jungkook in those places.

What if they had met in another world—the one from the TV? Taehyung imagines walking into a bar full of people like him. Sick sinners. Sinners drowning in love, celebrating love, dancing to songs about love. He imagines Jungkook standing on stage, singing. Maybe, in this other world, he has a piercing—one he’d only seen on TV before meeting Taehyung. He’d look so smoking hot with a lip piercing. Maybe his body is covered in black tattoos that contrast with his milky skin. Taehyung would draw designs for him—not with messy, heavy strokes, but with thin, delicate lines.

Jungkook stands on stage and sings about love. With the same passion he sings to God. Maybe, in this scenario, stolen from the TV, he sings to Taehyung. And his passion isn’t hidden in burning eyes or clenched fists at his sides—it flows freely from him, radiant and blinding, pouring from every muscle of his toned body, making the crowd sweat and melt together in love. Filling the bar with fiery energy. Maybe—no, definitely—he’d be so unrestrained, so captivating, so beautiful that he wouldn’t even look at Taehyung.

The worst part is that Taehyung would accept it. He’d surrender his greed, his selfish hunger, if he could just exchange this reality for the one that burns so stupidly, so vividly in his mind. This realization makes everything inside him tighten, like he’s a plastic cup filled with boiling water.

He takes another drag. Another drag that doesn’t warm him up. Only five cigarettes left, and he’s a complete idiot. How is he going to survive this winter?

Winter spreads its first frost over the dry grass. It takes everything in its icy grasp all at once, from the first weeks of December. Jungkook now wears not only his ridiculous blue hat but also a thick woolen scarf of the same shade.

The school grounds are empty and still, like the cold has frozen time itself. Taehyung's boots no longer sink into mud mixed with dry leaves but crunch over a layer of frost-covered ground.

Jungkook walks along the riverbank, taking slow steps, kicking small stones with his sneakers. Then suddenly, he lifts his head and looks directly at Taehyung. They’re far apart, and Jungkook’s eyes are just two small black dots under his hat's brim, but Taehyung knows he is looking right at his face.

It lasts a few seconds—an invisible thread between their eyes, quivering in the wind. Then, Jungkook raises a hand, waving. And Taehyung moves toward him. For the first time in three months, he goes down the hill, feeling as if he’s breaking through an invisible barrier, smashing it with his body.

Jungkook’s face peeks out from his scarf—red nose, bright eyes, the brushstrokes of red on his cheeks. He looks calm. Tilts his head to the side curiously, slipping his hands into his pockets. He says, “I had a feeling I could sense you.” His voice is muffled by the thick wool.

And Taehyung, honestly, is so tired. He doesn’t know if he’ll have the strength to make it through this winter. It’s all so cold, so still. Honesty spills out of him, unbidden, “I like watching you.”

Jungkook's cheeks lift. He smiles under the scarf. “Sounds incredibly boring.”

He turns, takes another step, and they start walking, their boots crunching over frost.

Honesty continues to pour out of him helplessly, “I always wonder what you’re thinking about when you’re out here.”

“Who says I’m thinking?” Jungkook shoots him a teasing look. “Maybe I’m just trying not to think. Maybe I’m just looking at the water.”

“At the water?”

Tell me. Tell me everything.

Baby.

“Yes, the water,” he sighs. “You know how I started believing?”

“Weren’t you born into it? Considering who your father is.”

“Well, that too, but… You’ll probably laugh, but back in middle school, I used to get into fights a lot.” And Taehyung does laugh. It bursts out of him, light and easy. “Everything seemed so chaotic and confusing. I had all this emotions, and I couldn’t figure out where I belonged.”

Taehyung gets it. Despite everything—despite the cold, despite the feeling that winter is impossible to endure—warmth spreads through his body. Nothing new. It’s Jungkook.

He says it just like that. Honestly, so fucking honestly, “I get it.”

Jungkook pulls the corners of his lips into a slight smile, licks his dry lips, and continues, “My aunt, my mom's sister, was always around. Her daughter started going to school and got bullied, and I… One day, I hit the kid who was bullying her so hard that his nose was bleeding. I mean… I wasn’t that strong or anything. He just fell and… It scared me so much.”

Jungkook kicks a pebble with his sneaker, keeps walking, and continues. “My parents were so disappointed. But my aunt… My aunt helped me turn to God. This river,” he lifts his head, looking into the distance where the river winds and disappears into the trees, “it goes on and on, all the way to our home. And she sat me down by it and said, ‘Look, the water is so wild when it crashes against the rocks. Water destroys, washes away the earth, floods. So powerful. But it also helps seeds break through the ground. It brings harvest, food, all that—you get it.” Taehyung nods, though Jungkook isn’t looking at him. “You probably think it's silly and childish, but… I think it's the same with how God made our souls. So complex and powerful, capable of so much harm, of violence, but also of love. Of loving passionately.”

No, Taehyung thinks. You are not water.

Water is cold and detached. Jungkook is warm. Like a blinding light. Like the orange flame of a candle. Like a campfire smelling of roasted marshmallows. Like the sun emerging after a rainstorm. A sun that, up close, is a giant ball of destructive, fiery lava.

He wishes Jungkook could see himself from the outside, just once, when he sings. Or when he lets himself get lost in pleasure.

“That’s why I come here when it all gets too much,” Jungkook says, suddenly sounding shy and embarassed. Taehyung turns his head to get a better look at his face: flushed cheeks and lips pressed into a self-conscious smile.

When Jungkook glances back at him, dimples appear on his cheeks again. “Your teeth are chattering,” he says, expression softening. “Why are you always so cold?”

He takes off his ridiculous blue hat and carefully pulls it over Taehyung’s head. He looks at his forehead with a concentrated expression, moving smoothly, breathing slowly, crushing warm, damp clouds over Taehyung’s lips. And then his eyes drop and meet Taehyung’s, and he gifts him that small smile. It feels like a gift. After all, Christmas is coming.

Taehyung wants to kiss him. That’s what would warm him up. Just a simple touch of those always bitten, always pink lips. He regrets not kissing him when he had the chance.

“Thanks for telling me,” Taehyung breathes out.

“You probably think it’s all just some bullshit, don’t you?” Jungkook smiles slyly, his hands slowly falling away from Taehyung’s face, one after the other. He turns to face the river.

Taehyung chuckles softly, moving to stand beside him. The river’s about to crust over with ice. His shoes are too thin; he can’t feel his toes anymore. But Jungkook’s body to his right, even from this distance, radiates a warmth, just barely perceptible. His hand is breath away from touching Taehyung’s. They’re so close. Mere inches of Jungkook-warmed air between them.

“Are you going home for the holidays?” Jungkook asks suddenly.

“No, I’m staying here.”

Jungkook’s shoulders sag with a sad sigh. He doesn’t ask why, and Taehyung is thankful for that.

Taehyung reaches out his pinky finger, barely brushing it over the warm skin of Jungkook’s pinky. He hears a quick, startled inhale to his right.

Then Jungkook meets him halfway, dragging his knuckle down the length of Taehyung’s pinky, a little awkwardly, with a tremble. He’s nervous.

Taehyung smiles to himself. His pinky trembles, sending vibrations up through his palm, radiating deep into his core, and then everything within him sweetly trembles.

Of course, all of this is just some bullshit. Taehyung couldn’t care less about the world, about what’s good, about the sprouts of plants or well-fed people. He wants to peer inside Jungkook and see the fire that he’s so desperately trying to bury deep, to keep contained. He wants to take him apart, open him up, let him release that blazing, molten core to the outside. Even if it means setting the world on fire.

It would be beautiful.

A week later, Taehyung hides under the edge of the roof by the back entrance of the dorm, smoking. Just three left. Suddenly, Jungkook emerges from the mist, as if magic had gathered from the air piece by piece and molded him. He’s panting like a tired dog and collides sideways with the wall beside Taehyung.

They don’t say a word. Taehyung just watches Jungkook, allowing the smoke to lazily drift from his frozen lips. Jungkook watches back, flush-cheeked, full of energy, like a burst of sunlight. He’s wrapped in a thick blue scarf. The hat is in Taehyung’s room.

The dry, gray dust is broken by the first drops of rain, fat and sticky. Taehyung leans his head back against the rough plaster of the wall. Jungkook mirrors him, tucking his hands deep into the pockets of his oversized black jacket. He’s so cute. Like a puppy. Taehyung wants to eat him.

“You remind me of water,” Jungkook whispers suddenly, lips barely moving. “Like the ocean or something. I’ve never seen the ocean in real life.”

The rain picks up its rhythm, thump-thump-thumping on the tiny patch of roof above them. Taehyung’s elbow starts to get wet. He’s never felt this warm before.

“Why?” Taehyung whispers, a barely visible breath of smoke into the damp air.

“You’re so calm, cold…” Jungkook pauses, then gives a small, sly smile, “Mysterious.” His eyes are so big, so bright. They burn. “And sometimes, you look at me like you’d swallow me whole. Like you’d drown me.”

The wall behind them grows damper by the second. The thump-thump-thump turns into a loud, steady hiss. The roof is old and riddled with holes, so drops occasionally break through into their small, sheltered, warm space.

“And it makes me want to…”

“What?” Taehyung urges.

A raindrop lands on Jungkook’s cheek and slowly rolls down. It looks like a tear.

“Sometimes I really want to let you.”

The next day, Jungkook leaves.

Taehyung curls up in his room, hidden under a blanket and layers of clothing, attempting to draw. Sometimes he wanders the empty hallways—to the bathroom, to the shower, to the cafeteria. He sees others like him, the discarded, the unwanted. In another reality, maybe he would’ve spoken to them, but here, they look at him as if he’s sprouting horns from his scalp. So, he silently tells them to go fuck themselves.

On Christmas morning, they gather the dozen or so of those unlucky, abandoned losers into the church. Taehyung spends the whole service staring at the large wooden cross with the crucified Jesus. He wonders if two weeks will be enough for the hungry claws he’s sunk into Jungkook to finally release him. Maybe Jungkook will pray away all that's happened completely. Maybe God will forgive him.

And Taehyung is such an idiot. He wanted to prove to the world that all people are rotten, corrupt and low. He wanted to drag the one person who was always above him, out of reach, down to his level. And even after having been at Taehyung's level, down below, it’ll take nothing for him to rise back up. While Taehyung just sinks further down.

He is suddenly so afraid, so desperately afraid, his eyes blur, and everything in his field of vision swims. He tries to swallow the knot in his throat, feels the dark water rising within him once more, threatening to drown him. And it isn’t anger. If only it was anger.

He catches the eye of the cook from the cafeteria—one of those left to look after them. She looks at him with fucking sympathy. She probably thinks these are tears of repentance.

Over the next few days, he draws and draws—everything in black, smudged, hopeless. Sleeps a lot. Sometimes he jerks off, burying himself under layers of clothes and blankets until it's unbearably hot and stuffy. Maybe he really is a monster, like everyone in this school seems to think. Jungkook reaches for the light so sincerely, and Taehyung wishes he could too, but he’s so afraid he isn’t capable of it that he devours everything bright and good within Jungkook because he doesn’t know how to feel it himself.

A week later, he smokes his last cigarette.

He stands by the riverbank, staring at the murky water, at the gray, bare trees. Everything is dirty and colorless, disgusting.

He thinks maybe...

Maybe...

Maybe the hunger in his chest isn’t about darkness and light, not about wanting to ruin, stain, break, or consume. Not even about lust. Not about the softness and warmth of human flesh.

Maybe, for as long as he can remember, ever since his mother started shaking her head in disappointment, and his father began leaving bruises on him, he's been hungry for love.

Three days before the end of the break, Taehyung pushes himself into the biting cold of the night, needing to stretch his legs. He considers going down to the river again, searching for the answers that Jungkook always seeks there, or simply losing himself among the trees, dissolving into the night like a piece of that same cold, vile darkness. But his eyes catch the orange squares cutting through the pitch-black, and Taehyung moves toward them, dragging his heavy, frozen feet. Maybe the answers will be clearer there. Maybe he too will feel the touch of… something.

The church’s door opens with a strained creak, and then, a moment later, a pathetic, hysterical joy twists in Taehyung’s chest.

Jungkook is kneeling in front of the wooden Jesus. In his black jacket, unzipped. The blue scarf is draped over the back of a pew. The blue hat rests on Taehyung’s head. He pulls it off with one hand, feeling how his hair sticks to his forehead, how his insides twist tight.

His steps are slow, uncertain—much like his heart. Frozen, scared to hope too soon. The old floor creaks under his boots.

Taehyung stops behind Jungkook's hunched back, feeling a small wave of irritation rising within because Jungkook shouldn’t be sitting like this, collapsed on the floor. He should be standing tall.

"I really do think I can feel you," Jungkook says quietly, without turning around.

And here, in this exact second, Taehyung's heart finally breaks into a ragged rhythm. So fucking pathetic, so weak.

"When did you come back?" His voice sounds like he’s struggling to breathe.

"This morning."

"Decided to talk to God first thing?"

"Something like that," Jungkook answers calmly, even a bit playfully.

Taehyung steps closer and touches the ends of Jungkook’s hair with his fingertips. Jungkook immediately leans back slightly, pressing his head into Taehyung’s palm, tangling strands of his soft hair around Taehyung's fingers, and Taehyung buries them deeper, more confidently.

"What are you talking about?"

Jungkook sighs, tipping his head back even more. Taehyung watches his eyes flutter shut as he exhales softly, like he’s tired. Like he needs a small, dark corner where he could hide from the whole world, from His eyes.

“I’m asking what could be so wrong about love. Isn’t that the whole point? To love? Isn’t it the main thing about commandments?”

How would Taehyung know? People steal for love, lie for love, make idols for love. People kill for love.

Taehyung wants to open himself like a toothy maw and rip his love from the fabric of the world, swallow it and hide it in his chest. It has a little to do with protection and a lot with greed. He’s a little doomed like this.

“And what does He say?”

Jungkook smiles, "He’s silent."

Taehyung slides his other hand under the collar of Jungkook’s sweater, soaking in the warmth that flows through the touch. He pushes Jungkook's head back even more, holding it at the nape, and Jungkook tilts back willingly, as if made of clay, as if made for Taehyung to move him.

He wants Him, if the fucker exists, to see it all. The pulse trembling beneath Taehyung’s fingertips, the way Jungkook’s Adam’s apple bumps into his palm, the way Jungkook exhales in a soft sigh, relieved, when Taehyung’s nails scrape gently at his scalp.

"Do you feel His love, Jungkook?" Taehyung grips a few strands stuck between his fingers and tugs, making Jungkook's eyes snap open. "Tell me. Do you feel His love right now, Jungkook?"

Jungkook gives a brief, almost imperceptible shake of his head as his eyes cloud with a trembling, watery sheen—big, trusting, and scared at the same time.

"Tell me."

"No," Jungkook breathes out shortly, with some effort. It sounds like a moan.

Taehyung smiles sadly, his hand gliding over Jungkook's cheek, tracing the line of his jaw, his ring finger resting on the pulse that flutters like a small frightened bird under his skin. His thumb traces the outline of Jungkook’s lips, the pad pressing into the mole just under his lower lip. His skin is so hot under Taehyung’s touch. Too hot.

He wants to say that it’s okay. That Taehyung sees every part of him and accepts them all, and he doesn’t need God for that. And if Jungkook ends up in hell, Taehyung could follow him there, never leaving him alone.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers, running his nails along Jungkook’s nape. “I think you’re burning up.” Jungkook frowns, making Taehyung chuckle. “No, not in the hellfire or anything.”

Jungkook huffs, “Not funny.”

Taehyung’s face breaks into a grin, like ice cracking. “Did you catch a cold or something?”

“Don’t know,” Jungkook rasps and then coughs immediately, almost on cue.

Taehyung strokes his soft, rosy cheek, running his fingers through his hair again. “Let’s get you to bed, okay?”

Jungkook's trusting eyes blink, a bit of moisture gathering in the corners. “Okay.”

Halfway there, as Taehyung wraps the scarf around Jungkook’s neck, he suddenly grabs his forearm, his wide, glistening eyes roaming over his face, and says, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t mean to hurt you.”

And it’s such a ridiculous statement that Taehyung wants to scoff, brush it off, protest. Because it’s him who’s stealing Jungkook away from God, making him knead the skin on his knees again and again, making him suffer, making him torn. But Jungkook looks in this particular way that forces him to reply just,

“I don’t mean to hurt you.”

Jungkook nods, gives him a small, sad smile, and zips up his jacket.

They slowly walk to the dorm in silence, their hands brushing against each other repeatedly, and Taehyung tries to swallow the urge to just hold his hand.

They go to Jungkook’s room because, as a president, he has a first aid kit. Taehyung finds some ibuprofen and gives it to Jungkook. His room looks just like Taehyung's—the same wooden cross above the bed, the same cracked furniture and peeling walls. The only difference is the stacks of books on his desk.

He watches Jungkook bundle himself up in the blanket, trying to suppress the sense of not belonging and, along with it, the burning question at the tip of his tongue. Why did Jungkook come back early?

“What did you do here?” Jungkook asks quietly.

And okay, okay. They’re talking. Taehyung can stay. He pulls a chair close to the bed and sits, his knees pressed against the mattress. He shrugs, “Mostly drawing.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jungkook hums, blinking slowly. “Will you show me?”

“Of course.”

The last thing he drew was Jungkook. Just the soft outlines of his face—nothing more was needed. He’ll show him; maybe it will help him in his silly little battle with God.

Eventually Jungkook frowns, throws off the blanket, flinging it around like a child, whining about being too hot, and Taehyung smiles, leaning his elbows on his knees, leaning closer, closer, to the warmth. Just to look. He doesn’t know. He’s pathetic and greedy. Fuck it.

Jungkook settles down, takes a deep breath, and seems content, blinking at Taehyung. An stupid, absurd image forms in Taehyung's head, of surrounding Jungkook with a shit ton of candles, bathing him in a soft orange glow like some deity.

And Jungkook reaches out to him—like a deity, and Taehyung leans in, allowing him to cup his cheek with his fingers—like a blessing. The filling of Taehyung’s head is a bit shaken and tangled after all these days.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” Jungkook whispers, his lips barely parting.

He looks a bit sad again. Taehyung presses his lips to the soft part of his palm. Smiles, “You must be pretty feverish, huh?”

Jungkook giggles, squinting his eyes, making the strings in Taehyung’s heart twitch miserably. Then, he suddenly gets that focused look on his face and reaches for Taehyung's ear, grabbing his earlobe. The pad of his thumb rests in the small hollow around the hole on the bottom.

“I’d like to see you wearing earrings.”

Taehyung holds back the urge to immediately jump up and grab his secret stash of jewelry.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Every part of Taehyung feels soft and mushy inside.

“I’d like to see you with earrings,” he says. “You’d look so pretty.”

Jungkook lowers his chin, tucking it into his sweater collar, smiling so shyly, so endearingly, his hand sliding down from Taehyung’s ear to his shoulder, elbow, palm.

“Wanna see?” Taehyung asks, needing to do something with his hands, with himself.

Jungkook nods, and Taehyung runs to his room. Well, not exactly runs, but his steps are quick, wide. Yeah, he’s an idiot.

When he returns with the box, Jungkook is sitting on the bed with his legs crossed in front of him, his hands tangled in his sweater, his white t-shirt crumpled and twisted on his body, hair sticking out in all directions. He blinks up at Taehyung, and Taehyung is fucking dying.

He picks out two pairs: silver hoops with tiny dangling beads and a bit smaller golden hoops with rhinestones attached.

He puts on the silver ones himself, his stomach filling with molten heat as Jungkook watches him with a smile. Jungkook shifts over a bit, and Taehyung sits beside him, the whole bed radiating warmth, enveloping Taehyung.

He holds the golden earrings up to Jungkook’s earlobes, holding his breath.

“Pretty?” Jungkook exhales, his eyes shining so vulnerably, so pleadingly.

“So damn pretty,” Taehyung whispers.

And fuck. Fuck, he wants to kiss him. He won’t cross that line first. Jungkook’s mouth speaks prayers, sips holy water, accepts the body of Christ at communion. It’s sacred. It’s all bullshit to Taehyung, of course, but somewhere in the past few months, everything turned upside down, and it’s funny. Really funny. How Taehyung wanted to be in God’s place, wanted Jungkook to worship, kneel before him, wanted to fill his thoughts and consume all his light. But it turned out the other way around. It turned out that Taehyung's knees feel weak and give out at just one look at him. Shit.

Jungkook suddenly leans into him, his eyes stopping their blinking, burying his face in the hollow between Taehyung’s neck and shoulder. He inches closer, burning Taehyung’s skin with his warm breath, and Taehyung immediately, automatically, grabs his back, pulling him even closer, and it’s so devastating—the way this want flows inside him, how it evaporates from Jungkook’s skin, and he’s so warm, so soft, and Taehyung wants to melt his whole body into him.

Jungkook rubs his cheek against Taehyung’s neck like a cat, hot breath fanning out, “Taehyung.”

Then again, “Taehyung.”

And Taehyung responds with his name, each exhale forming into it, and Jungkook whimpers softly, like it hurts him, like he’s completely lost in the darkness of his mind, like it’s swallowed him whole, and they cling to each other with desperation, with pain, with the remnants of loneliness being squeezed out of them with every press of skin against skin.

Jungkook falls back, and Taehyung falls with him, tangled in a mess of blankets, clothes, and warmth. He presses closer, rubbing his face into Jungkook’s soft, slightly sweaty hair, breathing in the scent of incense, wax, flowers.

“It’s not fair,” Jungkook whispers, voice angry and sad.

Taehyung stays silent. He feels the collar of his shirt stretching and pressing against his neck as Jungkook grips it in his fist. Feels the wetness on his neck. Jungkook’s heartbeat beats like crazy under his cheek.

So fucking warm.

The schoolyard is so thick with fog that Taehyung walks nearly blind, feeling as though he’s drowning, about to dissolve into the air like the dense, cold droplets of water around him. The way he stumbles through the mist, squinting at the blurred outlines of buildings—everything is white, gray, blending into a muddled soup—feels like a dream. He isn’t fully awake. It’s just that Jungkook wasn’t next to him, and the bed went cold.

He reaches the church, overflowing with uncontrollable rage, wanting to scream, to destroy, to tear everything apart. What a fucking hypocrisy. Of course, of course, Jungkook will fall to his knees before God and get purified, go on with his life—white, shining, as if nothing happened, as if he hadn’t left a gaping hole inside Taehyung.

But the church is empty. Cold. The fog seeps between the pews. Two small candles are burning out by the cross with Christ.

He heads to the hill behind the church, to the trees, touching their damp, frozen bark, looking down, but there’s nothing to see—just a huge pit of fog with the tops of trees sticking out. He steadies his breath.

If he goes down and Jungkook isn’t there, he might just completely fall apart.

His body flinches even before he hears the sound, and at first, he thinks it’s thunder again, but no. Someone is screaming.

“FUUCK!”

And Taehyung runs down, stumbling over stones and tree roots, his heart slamming against his ribcage, pushing him forward, closer.

“FUCK IT! FUCK!”

Taehyung runs. His cheeks get slapped by the cold air, his lungs fill with shards of ice, his legs tangling, growing heavy, like in a dream when you try to get somewhere but can’t. The blue hat glows in the mist like a lighthouse beacon.

“Jungkook!” he shouts.

Jungkook is holding a huge rock above his head and—smash! It crashes into the water, splashing mud everywhere. Then he bends down and picks up another rock, slamming it into the water like he’s punching someone’s face.

“Jungkook!” Taehyung shouts again. And Jungkook screams again, curses, and Taehyung is in shock, doesn’t understand anything.

He steps forward, and Jungkook turns, his face red, wet, contorted. He looks so furious, so shattered. “Fuck it!” he yells again, weaker now, voice breaking.

He stomps his foot, splashing more water, his pants dirty and wet, and Taehyung seems to have forgotten how to breathe. He steps closer, and Jungkook kicks a stone with his sneaker—it rolls and smacks against Taehyung’s leg, and it hurts, fuck.

“Fuck! Fuck you!” Jungkook yells, grimacing even more, furious, wild.

It's the most pathetic ‘fuck you’ Taehyung has ever heard. His heart pounds excitedly in his chest.

“Okay,” he nods, stunned. Takes another step forward.

“You fu— Fucking drive me crazy!” Jungkook shouts, so angry, so wound up.

Oh God.

Another step forward, and between them lies the greatest compromise, the point of no return. Jungkook grabs him aggressively by the shoulders, digging his fingers into his jacket, sweater, skin, soul. Then he slams his lips into Taehyung’s as hard as he can. It hurts.

Then, before Taehyung’s neurons can send a signal from his lips to his brain, Jungkook jerks back, squeezing his hands on his shoulders even harder. Taehyung’s lower lip stings—it feels like the dry, chapped skin has split. His field of vision is filled with a furious Jungkook. He doesn’t look like he just kissed him. No, he looks like Taehyung has done something outrageous. His eyes are angry, dark, wild. Burning.

So damn cute.

He suddenly punches him in the shoulder.

Taehyung grins like an idiot. His lip hurts, his shoulder hurts. Who cares.

“Stop smiling, you asshole!” Jungkook protests weakly and, a second later, crumples. His wet, red face twists, and Taehyung pulls him, crushes him against himself, and it doesn’t matter that he’s always cold, doesn’t matter.

“It’s so unfair!” Jungkook cries into his shoulder. “I don’t know what to do, Taehyung, I don’t know.”

Taehyung buries his fingers in his hair, pulls him closer, tighter, warmer, promises that everything will be okay.

“Fuck you,” Jungkook croaks in Taehyung’s ear, hitting his side with his fist weakly. Then he presses his wet, mud-stained hands to Taehyung’s cheeks, punching him with his lips again.

Taehyung wants to ea-

Taehyung wants to love him.

Taehyung kisses him properly when they are hidden away in the privacy of his room. In his hands, Jungkook is malleable again, like warm clay, pliant, soft. His breaths come in ragged bursts between the pressure of Taehyung’s lips.

Taehyung cups his cheeks, flicks his tongue over his lips, coaxing out a shaky exhale that allows him to lick in deeper, wetter. Jungkook’s hands fall to his waist, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, but he’s so tense that Taehyung forces himself to pull away from his lips to whisper, “Hey, sweetheart. Relax.”

“I’ve never…” Jungkook's grip on Taehyung's back loosens. Taehyung interrupts him, catching his lower lip between his lips, leaving a soft peck.

“Just relax.”

And Jungkook meets his eyes with a clouded gaze, his eyelashes clumped together from tears, breathing heavily like he’s surrendering, giving himself up completely. He leaves his lips slightly parted. Soft, pliant as Taehyung catches them again, firm and slow, giving Jungkook time to adjust. And when Jungkook opens his mouth wider, trying to respond, to keep up, he licks in, catching the tip of Jungkook’s tongue, and Jungkook gasps sharply, exhaling a hot, wet moan into Taehyung’s mouth. It’s a little messy, no rhythm, no synchronization. It’s absolutely perfect.

Taehyung’s hand pushes into the back of Jungkook’s neck, tilting his head to just the right angle, licking slowly, deliberately, letting Jungkook meet him halfway, and their tongues finally brush against each other in this perfect way, and Taehyung can’t help but moan himself. He pulls back from Jungkook for a moment—Jungkook’s lower lip stretches and bounces—and grins wide, breathless.

“Good?”

Jungkook smiles back, panting, his breath washing over Taehyung, “So good.”

And then he leans in himself, his fingertips digging into Taehyung’s shoulder—Taehyung feels every sweetly aching point of pressure—and catches Taehyung’s lower lip with his own, imitating him. Brushes under it lightly, weightlessly with the tip of his tongue.

He learns fast, starts moving, tilting his head just right, and there it is again—the perfect, wet glide of their tongues. Taehyung can’t help it, he pulls away again to look at him, all disheveled, lips swollen and wet, his pupils eclipsing his irises. He grins again like an idiot, wiping away a bit of spit dripping from the corner of Jungkook’s mouth with his thumb. He leaves his hand there, along the line of his jaw, pressing lightly. Almost dies from the way Jungkook opens his mouth wider under his touch. He dives in deeper, tangling Jungkook’s tongue with his own, and Jungkook suddenly lets out such a sweet, desperate whimper that Taehyung grins again, and Jungkook's lips hit his teeth, and it’s so fucking perfect.

Taehyung pushes himself against Jungkook’s hips in one swift move, and Jungkook gasps. Taehyung chuckles roughly into his mouth, nudging him toward the bed with his knee.

“Taehyung,” Jungkook moans.

“What?” he smiles into his lips.

“Touch me,” his voice is a soft plea.

“Yeah?”

“Please. Need it,” his voice turns more demanding.

Taehyung slides his smile down, down, down to Jungkook's neck, running his tongue wide along the curve. And Jungkook makes a sound in his throat—strange, new, amazing. He tenses up a little and seems to completely forget what he asked for.

"I want to touch you everywhere," Taehyung rasps into his ear.

Jungkook whimpers, "Do it, do it," clutching the edges of Taehyung's shirt and tugging at it. Taehyung pulls back a little, his hands lingering, running down Jungkook’s cheek, trailing to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair.

"Easy, sweetheart. Let me enjoy this."

Jungkook takes a shaky breath, licking his lips, letting out a small, "Mmkay."

Taehyung pulls at the hem of Jungkook’s shirt, and Jungkook obediently lifts his arms up. Something burns painfully low in Taehyung's belly as he sees the little cross falling against Jungkook's chest. He grips the fabric where it catches on Jungkook's nose, tugging it away so it slips off easily, and when Jungkook emerges from the shirt, he looks at Taehyung like he's seeing him for the first time in a long while. He smiles so brightly. Fuck.

Taehyung’s hand moves from his shoulder down, to his chest, to his ribs, to his stomach. Jungkook tenses up again, as if the touch is tickling him.

"Now you."

Taehyung lets Jungkook pull off his own shirt, and for a moment, they just gaze at each other. Jungkook is a bit bigger, more defined, and it drives Taehyung even crazier—the way he melts under his hands, lets himself be guided.

“So beautiful. Fuck, sweetheart.”

“You too, you too,” Jungkook breathes out eagerly, so damn cute. “Beautiful.”

Taehyung crashes his body against him, wrapping him in his arms, feeling how Jungkook's strong arms wrap him in return. He kisses along his neck again, licking, biting a little, pressing his smile into the hot skin when he feels Jungkook leave a small, feather-light kiss on his shoulder. Then another, and another. He shivers.

Taehyung’s hands drop to Jungkook's jeans, unbuttoning them. He thinks about looking into his eyes to be sure, to ask, but Jungkook’s hands suddenly also end up on his jeans, much more impatient, and it leaves Taehyung with no other choice. He has to crush his mouth against Jungkook's again, kiss him breathless, and he almost moans when he remembers that yes, yes, now they can kiss. Now they can do so many things.

They kick off their jeans and socks, laughing a bit when Jungkook’s sock gets stuck on his heel and he awkwardly hops around in place. Taehyung thinks he’s never felt this free before.

He slots their mouths again, intertwining tongues, pushing him closer to the bed. Jungkook’s knees hit the edge of the mattress. Then Taehyung pauses, whispering, "Hey, sweetheart."

"Hm?" Jungkook’s lips brush against his cheek.

Taehyung’s heart skips a beat.

"You can’t run away anymore."

Jungkook pulls back, looks him in the eye. He shakes his head quickly, so quickly, his hair flying around. He breathes out in a pained whisper, "I can't."

Taehyung looks into his eyes, glazed and wet. And yes, he still wants to fuck him dumb, make him cry a little. But not today. Another time.

"What do you want?" he rasps.

"Don’t know. To touch you. You to touch me."

Taehyung nods quickly, "Yeah, yeah..."

He kisses him again, wet and sloppy, letting him fall back, holding him to make the fall soft. He starts at his neck, running his lips along the throbbing pulse beneath the thin skin, capturing it with his lips, lightly tugging. Jungkook’s palms press into his shoulders, his hair a mess, fanning out on the white pillow around his head, lips redder than ever. Looking at Taehyung like he’s ready to be swallowed. Taehyung’s hands dig into his ribs, lips moving lower, smearing kisses, licking, smiling when he feels Jungkook arch, clumsily bucking his hips up. His briefs are wet in the front, leaving a sticky trail on Taehyung’s stomach.

And this is all just as he wanted—Jungkook spread out before him like a meal. Taehyung runs his tongue over his nipple, earning a soft whimper, tries to bite into his chest. His teeth just scratch the tender skin, sliding over the sweaty surface.

"Taehyung," Jungkook rasps above his head. Taehyung ignores him, and Jungkook grabs his hair, pulling hard, groaning in frustration.

"Jungkook?" Taehyung grins.

"Touch me, Taehyung."

"I’m already touching you," and yes, yes, his fingers press into both sides of Jungkook's waist, molding into his skin, like soft, wet clay.

"Taehyung," Jungkook complains, shifting impatiently under him, then thrusts his hips up again into Taehyung’s stomach.

Taehyung grabs his hip bones—thumbs sinking into those unbearably soft, hot hollows beneath them—and pushes him back into the bed. "Greedy, so greedy, Jungkookie," he tuts, moving one hand to the side until it presses against Jungkook’s hard cock, straining against his underwear. Wet, so wet. Dirty. Taehyung feels a bit sick from it, from his own filthy, twisted pleasure. From the fact that Jungkook is dripping like this because no one has ever touched him this way before. Jungkook groans, arches, pushing into his hand.

"If you wanted me to touch your dick, could’ve just asked," he says into Jungkook’s heaving chest, chuckling.

Jungkook whines, writhes, pulling his wet hair harder in frustration, hissing, "Taehyung."

Then Taehyung lifts his eyes to him, and Jungkook promptly goes quiet. His breath catches wetly in his throat. And Taehyung knows how he looks—like he’s about to swallow him whole.

He tilts his head to the side, keeping his piercing gaze locked on him, sliding his hand slowly, smoothly, rubbing him through the wet fabric, and it's a whole process. A whole process unfolding before Taehyung's eyes. How something inside Jungkook awakens, tears through the heaving chest, breaks through his lips in a soft whimper, how his brows knit together, how he bites his lip, trying to hold back. He looks at Taehyung like he’s made just for him, like he's completely at his mercy.

Taehyung slowly pulls down the waistband of his underwear. Jungkook is barely breathing. Fucking stunning.

Taehyung treats him to a few lazy strokes with the circle of his fingers—the glide is slick, wet—and brushes his thumb over the slit on the tip, where another bead of precum oozes out. He lowers his head and gathers its saltiness with his tongue, drawing a high, high moan from Jungkook’s lips, feeling his body tremble under his fingers. It’s a bit of a shame he hasn’t put his piercing on. But Jungkook is still panting, moaning, and Taehyung almost wants to rub himself against the bed like a dumb dog.

He spreads his free hand over Jungkook's thigh, feeling the muscles tense under his skin as he tries to thrust upward. The cock slips out of his mouth with a dirty, wet sound, and he looks up at Jungkook again, rasping, "Don’t move."

And Jungkook—sweet, sweet Jungkook with his bright, trusting eyes—doesn't move. He allows Taehyung to suck slowly, to savor, to listen to his quiet breaths, to clutch the hot warmth, the tension of his muscles with his hands, to feel the pulse with his lips.

He draws it out as long as he can. Until Jungkook suddenly pushes at his shoulder, sitting up, pushing Taehyung back to do the same. He murmurs,

"Want to kiss you,"

And Taehyung doesn’t even get the chance to melt from how soft yet demanding he says it because Jungkook is already pushing his tongue into his mouth, kissing him fast, thick, dirty, grabbing the back of his neck. And Taehyung lets Jungkook take whatever he wants, bends his neck under his fingers however he pleases. And when Jungkook bites down on his lower lip, he moans into his hot, wet mouth. Jungkook huffs a laugh in response, satisfied. Gorgeous.

Then Jungkook’s eager hand reaches into his underwear, making Taehyung hiss, rise onto his knees, and push him back down onto the bed. He keeps his gaze locked on Jungkook's eyes—eyes that make him question again if it’s not the other way around, if Jungkook isn't the tempting serpent in a lamb’s skin, as he pulls off his own underwear, tossing it aside.

Taehyung lies down on top of Jungkook, intertwining their legs, and the first contact of their cocks makes them both moan with hot breaths colliding between their lips. He starts moving, awkwardly grinding, and the pressure is so light, painfully lacking, but it still feels like he could come from just this. They’d have to keep going for a long time, dying from the aching, the impatience, the almost-there-but-not-quite—and it sounds like an incredible idea.

But still, he wraps his hand around both of them, rising up a bit, bending his knees, bracing himself with his elbow next to Jungkook's head. Buries his fingers in Jungkook’s hair, pulling his head back, guiding his lips to his own.

The kisses become even more frantic, uncoordinated. A mix of heavy breathing, spit, teeth, tongues, all smearing messily and roughly. But still, Taehyung loves it—the imperfection, the intimacy of this imperfection. The way Jungkook feeds him his moans, vibrating against his lips, on his tongue. How they shift in pitch when Taehyung squeezes tighter at the base or brushes over the tip of his cock.

When Taehyung squeezes them both especially hard, Jungkook whines, a sweet, aching sound. Thrusts into his fist harder, more clumsily, sliding along Taehyung's length, smearing the precum and spit Taehyung left there earlier.

Taehyung pulls away from his mouth, "You good?"

Jungkook nods, breathless. Thrusts more impatiently, more insistently, frowning in concentration.

Taehyung grins, "Oh yeah, you're good."

"Taehyung," Jungkook moans, clutching at his shoulders like he’s drowning.

Taehyung thrusts his hips harder, more persistently, pleasure knotting low in his belly, hot, boiling up, "Yes, baby… Yeah."

Maybe because he’s in control, because everything is set to his rhythm, Taehyung comes first. He bites into Jungkook's shoulder in desperation, his chest tearing with a whine, cum spilling over his fingers, and Jungkook's moans climb higher, higher, higher next to his ear, breaking into aching, eardrum-tingling notes.

He doesn’t let the wave die down, doesn’t let the lava cool, slips his cock out of his grip and takes Jungkook’s instead, pumping fast, slick, kissing, licking, pressing their bodies together, "Come on, baby. Come for me. Come on."

And Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut, moisture pooling at the corners of his eyes, whining desperately, bucking his hips hard, fast, fingers digging into Taehyung's shoulders. Then he tenses like a bowstring, his eyes wide open to the ceiling, and Taehyung runs his tongue over his open mouth, licking up another high-pitched moan, "That’s it, baby. Good, good," squeezing hot cum out, his fingers tight around the head, feeling it seep through the gaps.

The hungry animal in Taehyung's chest forces him to lean down, instantly pressing his tongue against Jungkook's chest, neck, mouth, soaking up Jungkook's sweat, the trembling of his body, his subsiding moans.

"Taehyung," Jungkook exhales breathlessly between his lips.

Taehyung lets go of his cock. With his hand braced on the bed beside Jungkook's head, he brushes back his damp hair to take in his wet, shining eyes, flushed cheeks, the imprint of raw pleasure on his face. So gorgeous. So damn gorgeous.

Taehyung buries his face into his neck, because something inside him is ripping apart painfully. Rubs his cheek against the frantic pulse.

His voice is rough, strained when he repeats once more, "You can’t run away anymore. You can’t."

Jungkook pulls him closer, melding their sticky bodies together,

"I won't."

"We were childhood friends," Taehyung says quietly.

Jungkook rests his chin on his knee, peering at him from beneath the hair that falls into his eyes. "Were you in love with him?"

"I don't know. I admired him, I guess." Jungkook's hand lies on his bare knee, and Taehyung traces the edges of his ragged nails, frowning slightly. "It was kind of childish. He was just so cool, and I followed him in everything he did. For a long time, he felt like the only person who truly understood me." Jungkook hums thoughtfully as Taehyung unscrews the nail polish cap. "And then, one day, he kissed me, and we started... You know" he looks up at Jungkook and sees him openly grimacing, which makes him chuckle a bit. "It lasted about a year. Until we got caught at school. We were just making out, but yeah, the scandal was massive."

"What happened?"

Taehyung takes Jungkook's hand in his, gripping his pinky tightly because Jungkook can’t stop swaying, "Namjoon… he was a fucking coward. Told his parents I forced him. Unexpectedly attacked him with my mouth or something."

"Asshole," Jungkook suddenly hisses, and Taehyung bursts out laughing—genuinely, truly, despite the moisture caught in his lower lashes.

He slowly brushes the nail polish on Jungkook's pinky, leaving a black streak. He tries to be careful. His hands barely tremble. Jungkook has stopped fidgeting, frozen in place. "I get it,” Taehyung says, “He was super smart and had this bright future ahead of him. He didn't need a ruined reputation."

Silence stretches as he slowly blows on Jungkook's pinky, not daring to look at him, feeling so exposed, vulnerable, with his pain teared from inside and laid out right before Jungkook, between their bare legs.

Taehyung lifts Jungkook’s hand, trying to smile as genuinely as he can, "Check it out."

Jungkook, this sunny boy, looks at him with that piercing sincerity in his eyes, in the slight downturn of his lips. He whispers,

"I'm so sorry, Taehyung."

Taehyung drops his gaze and shrugs, then stubbornly hands the polish bottle back to him, "Now mine."

And Jungkook tears his pain from inside and lays it before Taehyung, between their bare legs. He talks about God. About the expectations bearing down on his shoulders. He says he doesn't understand, says that love is love and it's the whole point of faith. That he resisted for so long, held on for so long, and Taehyung is an unbearable, stupid idiot, but unfortunately so damn beautiful. That’s a direct quote, actually. Taehyung smiles into his neck when he hears it, then bites down hard, laughing hoarsely, licking over the spot afterward.

Later, they look at their black-painted pinkies, crossing them like two sappy idiots. Jungkook smiles wide, so wide, his teeth taking up half his face. Everything inside Taehyung is sparking, burning, blazing.

They lie in bed, and Jungkook’s hand rests on Taehyung’s cheek again. His eyes hold a question, silently asking if Taehyung knows how beautiful he is.

"I’d never do to you what he did, you know that?" he asks instead.

"I know, sweetheart."

He doesn’t know shit. He doesn’t know what awaits them, where they will find their place in this cold fucking world. But Jungkook holds him in his hands.

Jungkook's palm on Taehyung's cheek is dry and warm. His eyes are love. His whisper is love. His whisper says,

"I think I love you."

Taehyung feels like he’s on some spiritual high. He wonders if this is what it feels like—the tightness in his chest easing, then tightening again into something incredibly devastating and wonderful. Maybe this is what it’s like—to touch God. And he laughs at this stupid thought, snorting, "You love everyone. That’s the whole point of you."

Begging for more, like a pathetic puppy. His imaginary tail wagging eagerly. It’s not God. It’s just that Jungkook is so full of light it leaks out of him through every crack.

Jungkook slides his thumb to the other cheek and suddenly grips his face hard. Doesn’t let him move. "Taehyung," he warns, voice firm, gaze burning.

Taehyung jerks his head to the side just because he wants to play. Because he's happy. But Jungkook tightens his grip even more, holding him, not letting him pull away. Punches him with his lips again. Fucking hurts.

"Tell me your secret," he whispers hotly against Taehyung's lips, "So you know mine, and I know yours."

"I can’t talk," Taehyung mumbles through his pressed lips.

Jungkook huffs, annoyed, like that’s not a good enough reason, but his grip loosens.

Taehyung sighs, holds back a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, "Alright, you ready for this?"

"Go ahead."

"I have this fantasy," Taehyung says, biting his lip, letting the tension build. "Where we have filthy sex in the church."

"Taehyung!" Jungkook yells, slapping his shoulder.

"What?" Taehyung laughs. His laughter spills out freely, effortlessly, like it costs him nothing. "You look so adorable in your robe."

"Shut up,"Jungkook smacks him again and again, pushes him hard, making him squirm and gasp in pain, “F-fucking shut up."

He's disheveled, stars in his eyes, cheeks like red apples.

Punches-kisses him again.

Oh God.