Chapter Text
⛧☾༺♰༻☽⛧
The moving truck left forty five minutes ago and Jungkook still hadn’t unpacked a single box.
He stood in the middle of his new living room with his hands on his hips, surveying the mess like it had personally offended him, like the boxes had arrived already knowing he was too tired to deal with them. Cardboard towers rose around him in uneven stacks, some leaning, some already half crushed, forming a kind of temporary fortress he would eventually have to conquer. Just not today. Definitely not today.
The apartment itself was decent. Modern building, newly renovated, and the landlord had sounded desperate enough on the phone to drop the price twice before Jungkook had even asked. That should have been a red flag, but Jungkook didn’t care about red flags anymore, not when cheap rent mattered more than guessing why a place had suddenly become available.
The walls were white and bare, not for long, they would be black in a few days once he had the energy for it. The floors were dark wood that didn’t show dust too badly, which already felt like a small mercy. The kitchen counter was some kind of fake marble that looked real enough as long as you didn’t stare too long or run your fingers over it. And the bedroom, his favorite part, had space for exactly two things: his bed and the strip of purple neon lights he’d brought from his old place.
He’d plug those in later. Right now he needed to sit down.
Jungkook dropped into the only piece of furniture currently not trapped in a box, a worn leather armchair his mother had tried to throw away five years ago, and pulled out his phone. No messages. Good. That familiar quiet settled in his chest, the kind that didn’t demand anything from him.
Through the window, the afternoon sun spilled onto the street below. Normal houses lined the road. Normal lawns trimmed within an inch of their lives. Normal people doing normal things without looking over their shoulders. A woman walked her dog. An old man watered flowers with slow, careful movements. Kids on bikes shouted something he couldn’t quite make out.
Jungkook watched them for exactly twelve seconds before standing up to close the blinds, the movement automatic and practiced, like something he’d learned to do without thinking about it anymore.
Peace. That was what this was supposed to be, or at least something close enough that he could pretend it counted.
A small town where no one knew him. Where he could work his shifts at the garage, buy his groceries at the same store every Tuesday, eat dinner alone in front of whatever crime drama happened to be playing, and sleep through the night without anyone knocking on his door or asking questions he didn’t feel like answering.
The apartment went dark as the blinds cut the sunlight. Better.
He reached into the nearest box and pulled out his bedding. Gray sheets, black comforter, one pillow. All he needed. He carried them into the bedroom and dropped them onto the bare mattress, then went back for the neon lights.
Purple. His one color. He’d tried red once but it kept him awake, made his thoughts feel too loud when he was trying to sleep. Blue felt too cold, too empty. Purple landed somewhere in the middle, soft enough to rest under but bright enough that he could find his way to the bathroom at three in the morning without turning on the overhead light.
He ran the strip along the headboard first, stepped back, frowned at it, then decided it looked stupid and moved it to the wall behind the bed instead. Better. He plugged it in and the room filled with a soft purple glow, the kind of cheap mood lighting you saw in movies he never watched.
Good enough.
By the time he finished adjusting it, the sun had started its slow drop toward the horizon, turning the light outside dull and orange. His stomach growled, sharp and insistent. Right. Food. He hadn’t eaten since the gas station sandwich at noon, and that thing had barely qualified as a meal.
Jungkook grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter and headed for the door. He’d find a grocery store, grab enough to last a few days, come back, eat, and figure out which box held his television. Simple enough.
The hallway smelled like fresh paint and floor cleaner, the sharp kind that clung to the back of his throat. Newly renovated. He appreciated that more than he probably should have. The elevator took its time arriving, humming softly before the doors finally slid open. He stepped inside alone, exactly the way he preferred it.
The building’s parking garage sat one level below ground, dark and concrete, lit by buzzing fluorescent lights that gave everything a faint green tint. His bike waited where he’d left it, a Hayabusa in matte black that took up its space like it owned it. No chrome. No flashy decals. Just pure machine, all business, the kind of bike that made other riders nod in approval and made old ladies clutch their purses a little tighter when he passed.
He swung a leg over the seat and felt the engine rumble to life between his thighs, steady and familiar in a way people never were. This. This was the only thing that still felt right.
The ride to the grocery store took seven minutes. He knew because he counted. Small towns meant short distances, something he would have to get used to whether he liked it or not.
The store was one of those local places that probably sold the same things as a regular supermarket but charged more for the illusion of charm. The produce section made him feel vaguely guilty for not knowing what to do with half the vegetables. He grabbed a cart and moved through the aisles with practiced efficiency, muscle memory taking over where enthusiasm never had.
Bread. Check.
Rice. Check.
Some kind of meat that was on sale. Check.
Eggs. Check.
Frozen vegetables because fresh ones went bad too fast. Check.
Coffee. Check.
Beer. Six bottles, nothing fancy. Check.
He was reaching for a box of cereal when he heard it.
A voice. Loud. Enthusiastic. Coming from somewhere behind him, cutting through the quiet hum of the store like it belonged there.
“Oh my god, you’re the new neighbor!”
Jungkook closed his eyes for exactly one second before turning around.
A guy stood at the end of the aisle, holding a basket full of things that did not belong together. He wore a bright yellow sweater, the kind of color that looked like sunshine had decided to become clothing. His hair was dyed a soft blond that caught the harsh store lighting and somehow made it look warm instead of washed out. He was smiling, actually beaming, like he’d just found something he’d been looking for his whole life, and Jungkook had the uncomfortable feeling that whatever it was, it had just landed squarely on him.
“I saw the moving truck this morning,” the guy continued, walking closer like they were already friends. “I live just down the street. Well, not just down the street, more like out past the woods a bit, but still, same neighborhood basically. I’m Taehyung, by the way.”
He stuck out a hand, waiting.
Jungkook stared at it longer than was polite.
“I’m getting groceries,” Jungkook finally said, his voice flat.
Taehyung laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d heard all day, his whole face crinkling as his eyes disappeared into happy little crescents.
“I can see that,” Taehyung said, dropping his hand without a hint of offense. “Good choice on the cereal, by the way. That one’s the best. I put honey on mine. Do you put honey on yours? You should try honey.”
Jungkook looked down at the box in his hand like it had personally betrayed him.
“I don’t…” He trailed off, already knowing there was no point in finishing the thought. This was clearly one of those people who filled silence without noticing the other person wasn’t participating.
Taehyung’s basket caught his eye. A bag of apples sat next to a jar of something that looked like pickled eggs. There was a box of cake mix, a head of cabbage, three different kinds of cheese, and a bottle of red wine that probably cost more than everything in Jungkook’s cart combined.
“You’re not going to eat any of that,” Jungkook heard himself say.
Taehyung looked down at his basket, then back up with the same unapologetic smile.
“Probably not. I get excited and buy things that look pretty. The apples are genuinely beautiful, though. Look at them.” He held one up like a presentation. “Perfect red. Not a single bruise. How could I not?”
Jungkook had no response to that, and for once Taehyung didn’t seem to need one.
“Well,” Taehyung said, somehow managing to make a single word feel like a whole conversation, “I should let you get back to your shopping. But welcome to the neighborhood. Really. If you need anything, I’m in the big house out past the woods. You can’t miss it. It’s the one that looks like…”
He paused, tilting his head as if reconsidering.
“Actually, you’ll see. It’s very me. Okay, bye!”
And then he was gone, the yellow sweater disappearing around the end of the aisle, leaving Jungkook standing there with a cereal box in his hand and the lingering impression that he’d just been hit by a very friendly truck.
He finished his shopping in silence after that. Paid in cash. Loaded his bags onto the bike with practiced precision. Rode home as the last light bled out of the sky.
Back in his apartment, he ate rice and meat straight from the pan while standing at the kitchen counter, not bothering with a plate. He found the box with his television, set it up, and watched forty seven minutes of a show about a detective who drank too much.
When he finally crawled into bed, the purple glow from the neon lights painted the walls in soft color. He stared at the ceiling and worked very hard at thinking about nothing at all. That was the goal.
But somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice kept replaying.
“It’s very me.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Jungkook closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. Tomorrow he’d start work at the garage. Tomorrow he’d figure out where to put his tools. Tomorrow he’d continue his quiet campaign of being left alone.
Tomorrow, hopefully, the guy in the yellow sweater would find someone else to bother, someone who didn’t flinch at unsolicited friendliness in the cereal aisle.
⛧☾༺♰༻☽⛧
Three weeks passed exactly the way Jungkook wanted them to.
He woke at six thirty every morning, showered, dressed in black jeans and a black long sleeve that had seen better days but stubbornly refused to die. Coffee from the machine he’d unpacked on day three, the first box he’d bothered opening that wasn’t bedding. A cigarette on the small balcony overlooking the parking lot, because the apartment faced the wrong direction for sunrise and he didn’t care enough to fix that. Then the bike, the ride, the garage.
Work was work. Engines made sense in a way people rarely did. Customers mostly left him alone once they realized he wasn’t the chatty type, and he appreciated that more than he would ever admit out loud. His new boss, a fifty something man named Mr. Park who permanently smelled like motor oil and old coffee, had taken one look at him on day one and said, “You know your way around a bike?”
Jungkook had nodded.
Mr. Park had grunted.
That had been the entirety of their orientation.
The other mechanics tried, at first. They asked where he was from, what brought him here, whether he wanted to grab a beer after shift. Jungkook answered in short sentences, kept his eyes on whatever he was working on, and never took the beer. After a week, they stopped asking. Perfect.
Grocery shopping happened every Tuesday at six pm. He’d learned the store’s quiet hours by now, knew exactly when the rush died and the aisles emptied out. Same route every time. Same items. Same cashier, who had stopped attempting conversation after the third week of one word answers.
Dinner was rice and whatever protein happened to be on sale, eaten standing at the kitchen counter because buying a dining table felt like admitting he planned to stay. Television until his eyes got heavy. Bed. Purple glow. Sleep.
Repeat.
On day fifteen, he finally painted the living room wall.
It took him three hours and two coats. The white disappeared under layer after layer of deep matte black until the room felt like it had shrunk around him in the best way. The sound of the roller against the wall, steady and repetitive, did something calming to his thoughts. He stood back when he was done, paint still drying, roller hanging loosely in his hand, and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
It wasn’t happiness, exactly. But it was close enough to satisfaction that he accepted it.
The apartment was starting to feel like his.
By the end of week three, his routine felt solid enough to lean on, heavy enough that nothing could knock it loose. Or so he thought.
“You have two days off,” Mr. Park said on Friday afternoon, wiping his hands on a rag that had long ago given up being any recognizable color. “Don’t come in tomorrow. Or Sunday. That’s what days off mean, boy.”
Jungkook opened his mouth to argue, already lining up reasons why he didn’t need days off, but Mr. Park was walking away before he could get the words out.
Fine. Two days. He’d figure something out.
Saturday morning arrived too bright and too quiet.
Jungkook stayed in bed longer than usual, staring at the ceiling as the purple glow faded and real daylight crept in past the living room curtains he never quite closed all the way. His body felt wrong without the usual momentum. No morning routine. No bike ride. No garage waiting for him.
He lay there longer than he should have before the thought finally surfaced.
The paint.
The apartment still had three walls that needed attention. He’d used almost all the black on the living room, which meant he needed more. And the hardware store in town was small, overpriced, and run by an old woman who had tried to sell him scented candles the last time he’d gone in for lightbulbs.
He could drive to the next town instead. Take the long way. Let the bike stretch its legs on roads that actually curved instead of the straight, boring shots around here.
The decision settled in easily, like it had been waiting.
By nine am he was dressed and ready, pulling on his jacket with the practiced ease of someone who’d done it ten thousand times. The bike waited in the garage, gleaming even in the dim light. He swung a leg over, felt the familiar weight settle beneath him, and kicked the engine to life.
The ride was good. Better than good. The kind of ride that reminded him why he’d fallen in love with bikes in the first place. The roads opened up outside town, winding through low hills and stretches of forest that blurred past in streaks of green and brown. He leaned into the curves, felt the bike respond like an extension of his own body, and for a few miles he didn’t think about anything at all.
The next town was bigger than his, not by much, but enough to have a proper hardware store with an actual selection. He parked out front, killed the engine, and stood there for a moment just breathing, letting the last of the ride settle out of his system.
Inside, the store smelled like lumber and fresh paint and that particular hardware store scent he could never quite identify. He found the paint aisle easily and stopped in front of the black samples with the focus of a man making a very serious decision.
There were seventeen shades of black.
Seventeen.
He picked up two samples and held them side by side. Midnight Ink. Obsidian Shadow. They were both dark, both matte, both black enough to do the job. If he squinted, one maybe leaned cooler, the other warmer, but it felt like the kind of distinction people made when they needed to justify having options.
“Excuse me, do you know where I can find…”
Jungkook froze.
He knew that voice.
“No way!”
The sweater was different today. Pink. Bright, aggressive pink that hurt to look at directly. But the smile was the same. The hair was the same, still that soft blond that somehow caught the harsh store lighting and softened it instead of washing it out. The basket was the same chaotic collection of objects that clearly hadn’t been purchased with a plan in mind.
Taehyung appeared at his elbow like he’d simply decided to exist there.
“The new neighbor! Jungkook, right?” Taehyung said, already too close. “I never actually asked if you go by Jungkook or if you prefer something else, but Jungkook feels right, so I’m committing to it. What are you doing?”
He leaned in to look at the paint samples, close enough that Jungkook caught a faint, clean scent that did not belong in a hardware store.
“Paint,” Jungkook said, feeling the familiar spike of irritation crawl up his spine, sharper this time because it came paired with the deeply unhelpful realization that Taehyung was, annoyingly, very beautiful.
Not in a neat, obvious way. In a wrong way. In a way that didn’t make sense standing under fluorescent lights in a paint aisle, wearing a pink sweater and smiling like nothing had ever gone badly for him.
“For what?”
Jungkook stared at him, jaw tightening.
“For walls. In my apartment.”
Taehyung’s face lit up like someone had flipped a switch behind his eyes.
“You’re painting! Oh, that’s exciting. What color? Wait, let me guess.” He stepped back slightly and studied Jungkook from head to toe with exaggerated concentration. “Black. Definitely black. All black. Everything black.”
Jungkook didn’t confirm or deny it. He didn’t need to.
Taehyung gasped like he’d just solved a mystery.
“It is black. Oh my god. Your whole apartment is going to be black, isn’t it? Like a cave. A very depressing, very dramatic cave.”
“It’s not depressing.”
Taehyung hummed thoughtfully, reaching past him to grab a sample card, holding it up between them. “Black walls can be heavy, though. Not depressing, necessarily, but heavy. Depends on the finish, the light, the undertone.” He angled the card slightly. “See how this one pulls cooler? It’s quieter. This one has warmth in it. That changes how the room feels.”
Jungkook blinked, caught off guard despite himself.
Then Taehyung shoved a different card inches from his face.
“This, however.”
The color was green. Not a normal green. Not even a slightly acceptable green. It was the green of old mint candies left too long in a grandmother’s purse. The green of outdated medical waiting rooms. The green that made Jungkook feel faintly nauseous just looking at it.
“No.”
“Just look at it,” Taehyung insisted, undeterred. “It’s called Spring Whisper. Spring Whisper. That name alone deserves respect. Imagine waking up to Spring Whisper every morning.”
“I would rather wake up to nothing.”
Taehyung laughed, full and unrestrained, shoulders shaking, eyes disappearing entirely.
“You’re so dramatic. Okay, but seriously, black for everything?” He tilted his head, thoughtful again. “What about an accent wall? One wall with a little personality. Something that says you’re not emotionally dead.”
Jungkook put the samples back on the shelf and picked up two more. Jet Black. Pitch Black. He held them up, studied the labels, the finishes, the absurdity of caring this much.
“I don’t have emotions.”
“That’s a lie,” Taehyung said lightly. “You just dress them in black and hope no one notices. It’s like armor. Very effective. Very intimidating. Probably works on most people.”
Jungkook glanced at him sideways. “It’s not working on you.”
"Nope." Taehyung popped the p like it was its own word. "I can see right through you. You're not mysterious, you're just tired. Tired and in need of better paint colors."
Jungkook turned to face him fully for the first time. Up close, Taehyung was all sharp lines softened by warmth. High cheekbones, full lips, eyes that seemed to catch light from somewhere that didn’t exist in this store. It was deeply unfair.
“What are you even doing here?” Jungkook asked. “You don’t strike me as the hardware store type.”
Taehyung lifted his basket. Inside, Jungkook spotted a small hammer, a pack of thumbtacks, three different colors of twine, and what appeared to be a single ceramic frog.
“I’m accessorizing.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Anything is a thing if you believe hard enough.” Taehyung set the basket down and picked up the black samples again, comparing them carefully this time. “These are close, but not the same. This one’s flatter. This one will swallow light differently. You’ll feel it more at night.”
Jungkook hated that he understood exactly what he meant.
“You already chose,” Taehyung added gently. “You’re just stalling.”
Jungkook didn’t argue. He couldn’t.
Taehyung smiled, softer now.
“I’m just saying. You moved here for a reason. I don’t know what it is and I don’t need to. But starting over doesn’t have to mean erasing everything. Sometimes it just means adding one small thing you didn’t expect.”
Jungkook opened his mouth to argue but nothing came out.
The silence between them stretched, heavier than it should have been in a paint aisle.
Then Taehyung clapped his hands together and shattered it.
“Anyway. I should let you get back to your very serious paint selection. But since we keep running into each other, I’m calling it fate. You should come over for dinner sometime. I’m a great cook. That’s a lie. I’m terrible. But I’m enthusiastic, which counts for something.”
Jungkook blinked. “What?”
“Dinner. My place. You, me, food, conversation. You can see my house, which is way more interesting than your black cave. What do you say?”
Every instinct in Jungkook screamed no. People led to expectations, expectations led to obligations, and obligations led to staying longer than you planned.
But Taehyung was looking at him, waiting, not pushing, just standing there in a pink sweater, smiling like the answer didn’t actually matter.
“Maybe,” Jungkook said, before he could stop himself.
Taehyung’s face lit up so brightly it almost hurt.
“I’ll take maybe. That’s basically a yes from you.” He grabbed his basket and headed for the register, pausing at the end of the aisle to glance back. “Get the Jet Black. I know you will. But think about the undertones. And think about the green. Just a little.”
Then he was gone, pink sweater disappearing around the corner, leaving Jungkook alone with seventeen shades of black and a faint, irritating echo of warmth he didn’t remember inviting in.
He bought three gallons of Jet Black and rode home with the cans strapped to the back of his bike. The wind rushed past his helmet and he focused on the road, on speed, on anything that wasn’t the lingering sound of Taehyung’s voice in his head.
Spring Whisper.
He shook his head and accelerated.
⛧☾༺♰༻☽⛧
Three days after the paint store encounter, Jungkook had successfully convinced himself that the whole thing hadn't happened.
The apartment was coming together. The walls in the living room now matched the hallway, deep black that swallowed light and made the space feel like its own small universe. He'd done the bedroom too, kept the purple neon because even he admitted that black on black in a room with no windows, even on an open floor would have been too much. The kitchen remained white because painting kitchen walls felt like admitting he cooked more than rice and meat, which he didn't.
Work was work. Engines needed fixing, customers came and went, and none of it required anything from him beyond his hands. The other mechanics had stopped trying entirely, which meant Jungkook could eat his lunch alone on the curb outside, watching cars pass and thinking about nothing.
Friday afternoon arrived with the usual rhythm. Five more hours until the weekend. Five more hours of pretending he cared about anything other than getting back on his bike and disappearing down an empty road.
Then Mr. Park appeared at his bay, holding a clipboard like it personally offended him.
"Jungkook."
Jungkook looked up from the oil filter he was removing.
"Your medical checkup. The company hasn't received it yet."
Jungkook stared at him.
"Medical checkup?"
"For employment. Mandatory. You should have done it before starting." Mr. Park tapped the clipboard. "Health screening. Blood work. Chest x ray. The whole thing. You didn't do it."
Jungkook wiped his hands on a rag. He remembered something about paperwork when he'd first been hired, a stack of forms he'd signed without really reading. Somewhere in that stack, there had probably been a medical form.
"I forgot," he said.
"No kidding. You need to get it done. Company policy. Government policy. Can't have you working here without it."
"Fine. I'll find a clinic."
Mr. Park made a sound that might have been a laugh. "Clinic. Good luck. Closest one that does employment screenings is four hours south. Unless you want to drive eight hours round trip for a blood draw."
Jungkook considered this. Eight hours on the bike. Open road. No destination except the ride itself. It didn't sound terrible.
"There's the general hospital here in town," Mr. Park continued. "They do them. That's where everyone goes. Make an appointment, get it done, bring me the paper on monday. Simple."
The general hospital. Jungkook had driven past it once, a low building on the edge of town with a parking lot that always seemed half empty. He'd assumed it was for emergencies only.
"I'll call," Jungkook said.
Mr. Park nodded and walked away, already focused on whatever problem came next.
That evening, Jungkook sat in his leather armchair, perfectly still, and stared at his phone for a full seven minutes before dialing. The woman on the other end sounded tired but efficient. Yes, they did employment screenings. Yes, they had an opening Saturday morning. Yes, he needed to fast for twelve hours beforehand. Yes, he needed to bring his insurance card. Yes, the whole thing would take about two hours.
He hung up and stared at the wall.
Saturday. Two hours in a hospital. Surrounded by people. Being poked and scanned and asked questions.
He could still drive the four hours south. Eight hours round trip meant most of the day on his bike, which sounded infinitely better than sitting in a waiting room.
But the bike needed an oil change. And the tires were getting low. And if he drove that far, he'd have to get gas twice, which meant spending money he didn't have on a trip he didn't need to take.
Jungkook closed his eyes and told himself this was fine. Two hours. One morning. Then back home to his black walls and his purple glow and his carefully constructed nothing.
Saturday arrived gray and overcast, the kind of morning that made him want to stay in bed. He didn't. He showered, dressed in his usual black, and rode to the hospital with the sky threatening rain that never came.
The building looked different up close. Older than he'd expected, with a entrance that opened into a lobby that smelled like antiseptic and artificial flowers. A woman at the front desk directed him to the occupational health wing, which turned out to be a series of hallways painted the exact shade of beige that screamed institutional indifference.
He filled out forms. He showed his insurance card. He waited in a room with plastic chairs and magazines from three years ago. A nurse called his name and led him to a smaller room where she took his blood pressure, his height, his weight, asked questions about his medical history that he answered in single words.
Then came the blood draw. Then the eye test. Then the hearing test. Then another waiting room, this one with a rack of hospital gowns folded neatly on a table.
"Put this on," the nurse said, handing him one. "Everything off. There's a locker for your things. The doctor will be in for the physical in a few minutes, then we'll take you for the x ray."
Jungkook stared at the gown. Thin fabric. Pale blue. Tied in the back.
"Everything off?"
"Everything."
He changed in a tiny curtained area, folding his clothes with precise movements and stuffing them into the locker. The gown felt wrong against his skin, too light, too open, too much like being exposed in a way he couldn't control. He sat on the edge of the examination table and waited.
The physical was quick. Doctor asked questions. Listened to his heart. Made him breathe deep and cough. Shined lights in his eyes and ears. Declared him boringly healthy and sent him back to the waiting room for the next step.
Another nurse appeared eventually. "X ray? Follow me."
She led him down another hallway, this one with brighter lights and doors that looked heavier than the others. She pointed to a plastic chair against the wall.
"Wait here. The technician will call you when they're ready."
Jungkook sat, shifting slightly as the chair pressed back against him, as uncomfortable as all the others. The wall across from him was the same beige as everywhere else. A poster explained the importance of calcium for bone health. Another poster showed a diagram of lungs with cheerful arrows pointing to various parts.
And then he heard it.
A laugh. Distant but unmistakable. Bright and full and completely out of place in this hallway of sickness and fluorescent lights.
Jungkook’s spine went rigid.
He looked left. Empty hallway. He looked right. Empty hallway. The laugh came again, followed by a voice, higher pitched than usual but still unmistakable, talking in that rapid fire way that left no space for silence and somehow still sounded like it belonged.
No. No way. Not here. Not possible.
Jungkook pressed himself back into the chair like he could sink into the beige wall and become part of it. If he stayed very still, if he didn’t move, if he stopped breathing loud enough to be a person, maybe Taehyung wouldn’t notice him. Maybe Taehyung’s life had some other Jungkook-shaped target today.
More laughter. Children’s voices this time, excited, overlapping. Taehyung’s voice answering, warm and patient, saying something about colors and mixing and wasn’t that the most beautiful blue they’d ever seen.
Against every instinct he had, Jungkook’s head turned toward the sound.
The hallway to his right led to a set of double doors with small windows. Through the glass, he could see movement. Bright colors. Small figures.
His feet moved before his brain caught up, and that alone made him angry.
He didn’t even have a reason. He didn’t know these kids. He didn’t need to see. He didn’t care. He was just curious, which was the first red flag, because curiosity was what got you tangled in people and their lives and their expectations.
The doors opened onto a different world.
The beige walls here had been covered, absolutely covered, in paintings. Not professional ones but children’s art, all wobbly lines and too much paint and colors that clashed in ways that should have been ugly but somehow weren’t. A sign on the wall read CHILDREN’S WING in cheerful letters surrounded by handprints.
Jungkook stayed in the doorway, hidden enough that no one would notice him unless they looked directly his way.
A few meters down the hall, a small common room opened up. Inside, five children sat around a low table covered in newspaper. Some in hospital pajamas. One with a cast on her arm, already decorated in marker drawings. Another with an IV stand parked beside her chair like it was just another piece of furniture. A boy with no hair under his colorful beanie. A girl so thin her wrists looked like they might snap.
And Taehyung.
He sat cross legged on the floor among them like it was the most natural place in the world for him to be, like he belonged there more than the nurses did. His sweater today was lavender, soft and light, with paint smears on one sleeve that he either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care about. His blond hair fell across his forehead as he leaned over a piece of paper, demonstrating something with a paintbrush.
Jungkook’s first thought was irritation.
His second thought was worse.
Taehyung looked… wrong, in the way beautiful people sometimes looked wrong, like they were built for a different kind of light than the one they were standing under. The fluorescent glare should have flattened him. It should have made him look tired, washed out, ordinary. Instead it softened around him, like his face refused to be punished by a hospital.
It wasn’t fair. It was also deeply unhelpful, because Jungkook didn’t want to notice any of this. He didn’t want his attention caught on the line of Taehyung’s cheekbone when he smiled, or the way his mouth moved when he spoke to the kids, or the brief focus in his eyes when he corrected a brush grip like he actually cared about doing it properly.
He shouldn’t be watching at all.
“See?” Taehyung was saying, cheerful and sure. “You don’t have to stay in the lines. Lines are suggestions, not rules. Who made the lines anyway? Some grown up who thinks they know everything. But you know what? You’re the artist. You make the rules now.”
The children laughed. The boy with no hair grabbed a brush and stabbed it into red paint with more enthusiasm than skill.
Taehyung beamed at him like he’d just painted a masterpiece.
“That’s it! That’s exactly it. That red is so red. It’s the reddest red I’ve ever seen. You should name it. Every color needs a name.”
The boy thought for a second. “Angry Tomato.”
“Angry Tomato. Perfect.” Taehyung’s grin went impossibly wide. “I’m writing that down. Someone get me paper. No, wait, I have paper. Tell me again? Angry Tomato. Got it.”
He pretended to write on his arm with an invisible pen, leaning into the bit so hard the kids dissolved into giggles.
Jungkook watched.
He watched Taehyung move from child to child, giving each one the same intense focus, the same complete attention, like no one else existed in the room when he was talking to them. He watched him adjust a brush in a tiny hand, praise a lopsided flower like it mattered, ooh and aah over a scribble that looked like nothing at all.
He watched him be the same person he’d been in the grocery store and the hardware store, loud and bright and too much. But here it wasn’t too much. Here, it fit. It made sense. It had a purpose.
That realization hit Jungkook somewhere uncomfortable, because it meant Taehyung wasn’t just annoying. He was real. He was good at something. He was the kind of person who walked into a room and made it lighter without even trying, and Jungkook hated that his chest reacted to that like it meant something.
A nurse passed behind him and he stepped back, suddenly aware he was standing in a doorway staring at children like some kind of creep. He turned to go, anger rising fast to cover whatever else had tried to surface.
Behind him, in the common room, Taehyung’s head lifted.
His eyes found Jungkook’s back immediately, too fast, too accurate, like he’d known Jungkook was there from the moment he stepped into the hall. His mouth opened slightly, then curved into a smile so wide it threatened to take over his whole face. He raised a paint stained hand in a wave that Jungkook didn’t see.
Jungkook walked back to the x ray waiting area and sat down hard in the plastic chair, as if the chair had done something wrong. His heart was beating faster than it should have been. His palms felt too warm. His throat felt tight, like he’d swallowed something he didn’t want inside him.
It was nothing. It was irritation. That was all.
The x ray technician called his name two minutes later. He stood, followed instructions, stood still while a machine took pictures of his insides. When it was over, he changed back into his clothes with more relief than the situation warranted and walked toward the exit as fast as he could without actually running.
He almost made it.
“Jungkook!”
The voice echoed down the hallway behind him. Jungkook closed his eyes, counted to three, and turned around, already bracing himself for impact.
Taehyung was jogging toward him, lavender sweater bright against the beige, paint still on his sleeve, hair even messier than before. He stopped a few feet away, slightly out of breath, and grinned like the world had just handed him a gift.
“You’re here. In my hospital. Getting checked out?” Taehyung said, words tumbling. “Are you sick? You don’t look sick. You look very not sick, actually, which is good because being sick is terrible. Was it the physical? The employment thing? Everyone has to do that. I did it when I started here too. Boring but necessary.”
Jungkook stared at him, and the problem was that Taehyung was close enough now that Jungkook could see details he didn’t want to be aware of. A faint paint smudge on his knuckle. A tiny freckle near his mouth. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, like smiling was something his face did naturally, without calculation.
“You work here,” Jungkook said, because if he spoke in facts maybe his body would stop reacting like an idiot.
It wasn’t a question, but Taehyung answered anyway.
“Obviously. I teach art to the kids. Best job in the world.” He said it with easy pride, like he had no reason to be embarrassed about loving something. “Well, second best. First best would be teaching art to kids who aren’t in the hospital, but here they need it more, you know? Art makes everything better. That’s a fact. I have research.”
“You teach painting,” Jungkook said, and he meant it as an accusation even if it didn’t sound like one.
“To small humans, yes.” Taehyung lifted his hands, palms up, proudly displaying the dried paint smeared across his skin. “They’re better at it than most adults. Adults worry too much about getting it right. Kids just paint. Look.”
“I’m a walking art project by the end of the day. The nurses love it. The janitor loves me less. There’s a permanent stain in room 204 that I swear wasn’t my fault but no one believes me.”
Jungkook didn’t know what to say. He never knew what to say around this man, because Taehyung spoke like he was trying to fill the whole air between them, and Jungkook was used to living in silence.
Taehyung tilted his head, studying him with those too bright eyes, and Jungkook felt it like pressure on his skin.
“You were watching. Earlier. I saw you in the doorway.”
Jungkook’s face did something he couldn’t control. Heat, sharp and immediate, sliding up his neck like betrayal.
“I was waiting for x ray,” he said too quickly, already hating how it sounded.
“Mhm.” Taehyung’s smile turned knowing. “Sure. X ray waiting area is definitely in the children’s wing. Very common mistake. Happens all the time.”
“I got lost.”
“You got curious,” Taehyung said, softly enough that it didn’t feel like teasing.
The word hit something in Jungkook’s chest. He opened his mouth to deny it, to shut it down, to put distance back between them.
“You’re really good with them,” he heard himself say instead.
Taehyung blinked. For once, he looked genuinely surprised.
“The kids,” Jungkook clarified, because he needed it to be about the kids, not about the fact he’d stood there watching Taehyung like an idiot. “You’re good with them.”
Something shifted in Taehyung’s expression. Softer. Warmer. Like Jungkook had said something more important than he realized.
“Thanks,” Taehyung said quietly.
Then he brightened again, as if warmth embarrassed him and he needed to cover it with noise.
“Hey, since you’re here and not dying, which is great, and since I keep running into you, which is clearly fate, you should definitely come over for dinner. Tonight. I’m free tonight. Are you free tonight? Say yes.”
Jungkook thought about his apartment. His black walls. His rice and meat. His television show about the detective who trusted no one.
He thought about Taehyung sitting on the floor, laughing with children who looked like they carried pain in their bones, and how that had done something inconvenient to Jungkook’s chest.
“I have plans,” Jungkook said, because plans were safer than honesty.
Taehyung’s face fell for exactly half a second before recovering.
“Tomorrow then.”
“Work.”
“Monday.”
“Work.”
“Tuesday.”
“I work every day,” Jungkook snapped, because the more Taehyung pushed, the more Jungkook could feel the edges of his routine loosening.
“You have days off.” Taehyung stepped closer, casual, like he didn’t realize proximity was a weapon. “Everyone has days off. I saw you buying paint on a Saturday, which means you have Saturdays off sometimes. Don’t lie to me, Jungkook. I can tell when people lie. It’s a gift.”
Jungkook had no response to that, and he hated that too.
Taehyung leaned in just a fraction, close enough that Jungkook could see tiny flecks of blue paint near his ears, close enough that Jungkook’s attention snagged on his mouth before he could stop it.
“One dinner,” Taehyung said. “That’s all. You eat dinner anyway, right? Just eat it at my house instead of yours. I’ll cook. I’ll try not to burn anything. We can talk about paint colors and motorcycles and why you wear so much black. It’ll be fun.”
“Fun,” Jungkook repeated, flat, because if he said it like it was stupid maybe it would stop sounding tempting.
“Yes,” Taehyung insisted, smiling like he’d already won. “Fun. You remember fun? It’s that thing people have when they’re not alone all the time.”
Jungkook should have said no. Every part of him that had spent the last month building walls and routines screamed at him to say no.
But Taehyung was standing there with paint everywhere and hope in his eyes, and Jungkook had watched him be genuinely good in a way that didn’t feel performative.
Worse, Jungkook had felt it. That pull. That stupid, unwanted interest that didn’t care about his rules.
“Fine,” Jungkook said. “One dinner.”
Taehyung’s face lit up like sunrise.
“Really? You mean it? You’re not going to ghost me? Because you seem like the type who might ghost.”
“I said fine,” Jungkook repeated, sharper, because if he softened even a little he was going to regret it.
“Okay. Great. Amazing.” Taehyung held out his hand. “Here, give me your phone.”
Jungkook stared at him, then dug his phone out and handed it over before he could talk himself out of it.
Taehyung’s fingers flew across the screen. Too quick, too confident. Jungkook watched them, and again his brain did that unhelpful thing where it noticed the shape of Taehyung’s hands, long fingers smeared with color like he lived his life with his palms open to it.
“There,” Taehyung said, handing it back. “Taehyung with a smiley face. You’ll know it’s me. Text me when you’re on your way and I’ll give you directions. My house is a little hard to find but that’s part of the charm.”
He grinned like charm was something you could weaponize.
“Saturday. Next Saturday. You’re off Saturday, right? Don’t lie.”
“I’m off Saturday,” Jungkook admitted, because lying would be pointless.
“Perfect. Saturday it is. Six o’clock.” Taehyung waved toward the hallway like he was already leaving. “Don’t be late. Actually, be late if you want, I’ll probably be late too, I’m always late, it’s a problem. But don’t be too late or the food will get cold, assuming I manage to make food that’s hot in the first place.”
A nurse called his name from down the hall.
“Gotta go. Paint emergency in room 212. But Saturday. We’re doing this.”
He jogged backward a few steps, waving.
“Bring your appetite. And an open mind. And maybe a fire extinguisher just in case.”
Then he turned and disappeared around a corner, leaving Jungkook standing alone in the beige hallway with a phone that now contained a contact named Taehyung :)
He looked at it for a long moment, irritation curling in his stomach like it was trying to protect him from something.
Then he shoved the phone back in his pocket and walked out of the hospital without looking back, telling himself the tightness in his chest was annoyance and nothing else.
⛧☾༺♰༻☽⛧