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With every step he took, the plush carpet compressed beneath his leather shoes. In his peripherals, he could see himself pacing; he was reflected in the spotted mirror above the fireplace, and once more in the mirror sitting atop his vacant desk.
He was a starving artist in a meticulously cleaned mansion. The spotless surroundings did nothing to stimulate creativity.
He craved to be freed from this hell called writer's block. His want for inspiration had him desperate to break plates. Bust walls with his bare fists. If only he could run a blade through priceless upholstery and rip the stuffing out. But his father wouldn't think twice about committing him if he ever dared.
It's bad enough you burn your mother's azaleas, his father would say. Now you're tearing up the place. You must have finally lost your mind. That's what happens to poets, Yoongi. Don't you know? They drive themselves insane.
And Yoongi would reply, Marigolds. I burn the marigolds.
Huffing a sigh, he left the parlour thrice. Once in real life, and twice in the mirrors.
*
His phone felt heavy in his hands. He listened to the line ring and ring and ring. He stood on the balcony, overlooking the gardens, because he hated making calls within the walls of his house. Electronics felt out of place when everything looked like it belonged in a museum collection.
Seokjin answered on the fourth ring with a breathless, "Make it quick." That could only mean one thing.
"Are you telling me? Or are you telling Namjoon?"
"You're awfully smug for someone who's about to ask me for a favour."
Yoongi's smirk disappeared. He fished a lighter and a cigarette from the depths of his coat. His thumb danced on the lighter's tab. He was wholly entranced as the wisps of orange swayed and sparked. In one fluid motion, he set the cigarette ablaze. It caught flame deliciously, propped between his lips. He forced himself to put the lighter away and inhaled a burst of cloves and cherries, unbothered by the sounds of Seokjin panting against the receiver.
Just as Seokjin dissolved into moans, Yoongi asked, "How'd you know?"
"Everyone knows you hate-- fuck, that's it, right there-- You hate talking on the phone," Seokjin managed between gasps.
Yoongi took a drag and waited patiently for Seokjin to finish orgasming. When the name on Seokjin's lips was Taehyung's and not Namjoon's, Yoongi almost ate his cigarette in surprise. He sputtered smoke.
Seokjin, being the rude motherfucker he was, started laughing. He didn't even give Yoongi the chance to recover before asking, "What d'you need, Yoongs? Is it drugs?"
"No, it's not drugs," Yoongi rasped. He held the phone at a distance so he could cough into his elbow. He could still hear Seokjin laughing at him, tinny and far away.
And then Taehyung's voice came blasting through, loud enough for Yoongi to be grateful he didn't have the phone close to his ear.
"Yoongi! You sure you don't need drugs? I got a new dealer and he's otherworldly, dude."
To save himself the hearing loss, Yoongi tapped the option for speakerphone. He balanced his mobile precariously on the balcony railing. He sucked another lungful of nicotine and swore it soothed his throat.
"What's he selling?" Yoongi asked. The words billowed on a cloud of smog.
Taehyung laughed delightedly. "It's like nothing you've ever tried before. Trust me. I swear he makes 'em outta dreams."
"Alright, I'm interested."
Taehyung cheered, followed by a sharp noise like the speaker getting scuffed. Yoongi recoiled from the volume of the successive sounds. Seokjin must have taken the phone back from Taehyung, because his laughter was suddenly the loudest thing and Taehyung's victorious cries became background noise.
"Go shower," Seokjin said. "Let the adults talk in private now."
Taehyung must have gone without a fight, because his excitable chattering tapered into nothingness.
As soon as he had the chance, Yoongi asked, "Does Namjoon know?"
"Who do you think gave me the idea?"
Yoongi snorted. "Is he any good?"
"Ten out of ten, will fuck again."
"That's cute."
Quiet blanketed over them briefly. Yoongi took the time to tap the ash from his cigarette. He could tell Seokjin was resituating himself by the sound of soft, rustling sheets. Once the bedsprings stopped creaking under Seokjin's weight, he broke the silence.
"Why'd you really call me, Yoongs?"
Yoongi stopped halfway through his shrug, remembering that Seokjin couldn't see him. Responding verbally could be such a pain sometimes. Even writers struggled with words. He savoured the last of his cigarette as he gathered his thoughts, and on that final breath, he said, "I'm getting stir crazy."
Seokjin hummed, appraising. "Can't write?"
"Happens to the best of us."
"What project are you stuck on this time?"
"I don't have one," Yoongi said. "That's the problem."
"Ouch. Writer's block?"
"'Full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife.'"
"Cummings?" Seokjin guessed.
"You're joking, right? Please tell me you just wanted to say the word cumming after cumming in my ear," Yoongi said.
Silence on the line.
Yoongi shook his head in disbelief. "It's fucking Shakespeare. Macbeth."
"You're so pretentious sometimes," Seokjin said, all too affectionately. "Hey, so... about Tae's new dealer."
"Yeah?"
"He's throwing a party at his place tonight. You might wanna be there. He's got a house like Wonderland."
"Text me the address."
*
Yoongi willingly fell down the rabbit hole.
He would be dressed smartly, if his suit's jacket weren't covered in gaudy sparkles. Under the multicoloured lights of the house, however, he shimmered beautifully. Sequins were stars stitched into the night sky fabric. The material could not be described as velvety, but the jacket itself was so dark, it could only be classified as a velvet dark. His pale skin looked like moonbeams thanks to the contrast his clothing provided.
The party's attendants dressed equally as ostentatiously. He caught sight of a girl wrapped in swathes of sheer, gold material and nothing else. A gangly teen in jewel tones wore braids plaited with peacock feathers.
And the house itself was a sight to behold. Where Yoongi's had the charms of a restored plantation, this urban palace redefined modern architecture. He honestly didn't know how some of it existed. He had yet to stuff himself with substances, so he had no excuse for the anomalies.
Curtains of curling ivy spewed from the doorways, imitating beaded curtains. Orbicular lanterns drifted aimlessly over the crowd, detached from any strings. Warped vases emitted strange, musical tones when people passed them by. A table, in what Yoongi assumed was the dining room, glowed with hundreds of thermal handprints. Yoongi placed his hand atop the wood--it felt like real wood--and added his own handprint to the collection.
This couldn't be happening. This was a disjointed, glitter-slicked version of reality. A place like this couldn't exist, and yet, here it was.
The kitchen had an impossibly large selection of alcohol, all spread out like a buffet. Someone handed him a pill. Oval and opaque. He plucked a pink drink from a tray of rainbow shots and swallowed it.
Yoongi stopped hearing the music playing over the speakers and started feeling the bass kick in his chest, wild as a feral beast. His fingers went pleasantly numb. His tongue felt soft and weightless in his mouth, like cotton candy.
Hours passed in seconds in a blur.
He didn't remember walking to the pool, but he was at the pool. The water didn't smell strongly of chlorine. Rather, it emitted the heavy scent of salt that he associated with rare trips to the ocean. His returning sobriety became more evident with each inhale.
The high was wearing off, but he didn't feel like shit. That alone had him hooked faster than anything.
Yoongi realized, albeit belatedly, that he was not the only person at the emulated beach.
Sitting at the poolside was a guy in a deep blue suit. The suit looked like it could either be formal wear or pajamas, and he had the slacks hiked up to his thighs. His feet were in the water. Under the blazer, the patterns on his button-down looked like glow-in-the-dark stars. The plastic, tacky kind. When Yoongi looked at him, he was already staring back. He had probably been staring since Yoongi first came outside.
Yoongi hovered, unsure of what to do with himself. The guy cracked a smile, and it was a toothy grin. The force of it made his nose scrunch. He had enough likeness to the White Rabbit in his smile for Yoongi to wonder how punctual he was.
"Enjoying the party?"
Yoongi nodded. "This place is incredible, man. You seen it?"
The kid's smile had yet to desist. Yoongi didn't understand why he simpered until he said, "Well, yeah. I live here. Built the place myself. But don't let that stop you from complimenting my interior design."
Yoongi's eyes didn't widen. His jaw didn't drop. Instead, he circled closer like a shark. He kicked his shoes off and rolled his pants up to his knees. He sat down, stuck his legs in the water, and asked, "You're Tae's dealer?"
For the first time, the guy looked vaguely confused. "Tae?" he asked, but then his expression cleared and his smile reappeared. "You mean my weekly allowance?"
Yoongi brandished a smile of his own like a knife. "'Look the innocent flower, but be the serpent underneath it,'" he quoted. "I'm Yoongi."
"Jungkook."
They lapsed into silence.
Yoongi tilted his head back. Directly over him, the moon was fat and full. It looked close enough to touch. Pinpricks of light filled the sky. He couldn't identify the constellations if he tried.
Jungkook was still watching him, his expression that blend of knowledgeable expectancy that only a drug dealer could wield around an addict. Yoongi felt too warm under that stare. He shucked his twinkling jacket off his shoulders and left it in an intergalactic heap beside the pool, uncaring if it got wet.
"You always throw parties this big?" Yoongi asked, cracking the quiet like glass.
"Yeah, once a month. Twice a week in the summers."
"You can afford all that 'cause of your pills?"
"And my coke, and my weed," Jungkook said. "Anything you want."
"Yeah? You got some on you?"
Jungkook nodded, satisfied as a hunter with its prey between its teeth.
"How much for another pill?" Yoongi asked.
Jungkook's smile showed less overbite this time. He withdrew a small bag from the breast pocket of his button-down. A dozen perfectly circular pills rolled around inside the bag. Plucking one of twelve from the fray, he said, "It's free the first time you make a deal with me directly."
Yoongi hungered for the high like nothing else. He extended an upturned palm and crooked his fingers, the universal gimme.
Jungkook calmly returned the bag to his pocket. Just as calmly, he wrapped his hand around Yoongi's own and used it as leverage. Yoongi lurched forward. He could feel Jungkook's breath crashing on his face like the pool's water crashed on his legs.
"Like signing a contract," Jungkook said, and placed the pill on his own tongue.
Yoongi tipped forward. He snatched the pearl from Jungkook's lips and swallowed it down, only to continue licking into Jungkook's mouth. Pleased, Jungkook shifted towards him. Their legs grazed underwater, making Yoongi jump.
Jungkook's laughter was what broke the kiss. For that, Yoongi shoved him in the chest. He crossed his arms and turned his face away. Even when Jungkook scooted an inch closer, he refused to look at him. But avoiding Jungkook's eyes meant Yoongi had to look everywhere else, and for the first time, he registered the startling lack of people outside.
Somehow, they were completely isolated.
"How are we alone?" Yoongi asked, finally letting himself look at Jungkook again.
"The door doesn't open for just anyone," Jungkook scoffed. He sounded like he couldn't believe Yoongi's stupidity. Of course the door didn't open for anyone. How silly of Yoongi to not understand Jungkook and his fucking magic house.
Yoongi narrowed his eyes. "Then why did the door open for me?" he asked. "We've never met before."
"Maybe I dreamt you," Jungkook said, and his lips curved sideways in a smirk.
Yoongi was overwhelmed with the urge to kiss him again. Nothing was stopping him from doing just that. He wavered slightly before falling forward for a second time, and Jungkook met him halfway.
Their mouths were warm like burning embers. When Jungkook kissed, his presence was slight as a summer breeze. He had his hand on Yoongi's thigh with a pressure so light, it could be classified as barely there. His thumb repeatedly stroked the inseam of Yoongi's slacks, kindling for the flame in Yoongi's gut.
And Yoongi kissed with the intensity of a forest fire. He consumed what he could, kissing down Jungkook's jaw to the marble pillar of his neck. Teeth dragged over swallowing throat.
The contrast of cool water splashing his legs and the hot prickling of an oncoming trip had chills shooting down his arms. He swayed, and Jungkook must have felt it, because he pulled away. His hands fixed on Yoongi's shoulders, holding strong.
Yoongi's head lolled wildly, unable to keep itself upright. A laugh ripped through him. He swung like a pendulum. If it weren't for Jungkook's firm grip, he would have toppled into the pool. And maybe he spent too much time around Jimin nowadays, but he fully expected Jungkook to be concerned for him. Not teeming with excitement.
"Feels good, huh?"
"Feels fucking great," Yoongi slurred.
The pool sloshed as Jungkook removed his legs from the water. He dripped all over the surrounding pavement and, consequently, Yoongi's discarded jacket. Rather than slide his slacks over his wet legs, he stripped to his boxers. He looked more than a little ridiculous, and Yoongi couldn't stifle his guffaws.
"Come on," Jungkook urged. "I wanna give you the grand tour."
Yoongi reached for him, and Jungkook pulled him up. Off went Yoongi's pants, joining the pile of abandoned clothes. He expected Jungkook to drag him back into the house, and he should have cared more about the prospect of being without pants in front of a hundred strangers, but he was too high for nonsense like embarrassment. They would just have to deal with Yoongi's naked legs.
Jungkook didn't pull him in that direction, though. He went the opposite way, leading Yoongi into the lawn.
"Where we goin'?"
"Back inside," Jungkook replied.
Yoongi may be high, but he wasn't that high. Jungkook could not possibly be taking them back inside, because they were currently powering across manicured grass.
They didn't make it very far before Jungkook stopped at a seemingly random spot in the yard. Yoongi geared up to tease him, then choked on his words when Jungkook opened up a door.
Opened. A fucking. Door. In the middle of the lawn. As in, a rectangle of grass-and-sky gave way to a dimly lit hall. Naturally, Yoongi lost his shit.
"Where the fuck are we?"
"Relax," Jungkook said, which Yoongi absolutely could not and refused to do. "I told you, this is my house."
Only when Jungkook reached for the horizon did Yoongi identify it as a wall merely painted to look like the sky. His fingers found purchase on something in the faux twilight and the moon above them went out like a light.
*
Yoongi couldn't walk through the hallway without clinging to Jungkook, mostly because he couldn't tell which way was up or down. Perhaps there was no such thing in this portion of Jungkook's house. His surroundings, distorted and swirling as though the ceiling were the floor every other step, threw him off-balance.
Jungkook steered Yoongi into another room. He closed the door, sealing the vertigo-inducing hallway behind them. Yoongi fell, and Jungkook didn't have time to catch him.
After the twisted corridor, Yoongi welcomed the floor's solidity. His elbows and knees tingled where they touched the carpet. Gritting his teeth against nausea, he asked, "You built that?"
"And this," Jungkook said, motioning to the room around them.
Yoongi, afraid of what he might find, looked up slowly. He drank in the details, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
They were standing--correction, Jungkook was standing; Yoongi, kneeling--in a bedroom. It was quite clearly owned by a teenager, given the posters on the walls and the slight disarray of scattered clothing on the floor. It didn't seem like Jungkook lived here the way he lived in the room with the pool. Allusions to his wealth appeared in the plasma screen TV, angled toward the bed of four posts and a canopy.
Should he be relieved or disappointed by the mundanity?
Neither, he supposed. If anything, he was surprised. He wouldn't dare classify Jungkook's style as plain, but when compared to the wonders within the rest of the house, this room fell into that exact category: Plain.
In Yoongi's repose, Jungkook reanimated. He started banging around the dresser drawers in search of something, and Yoongi paid him no mind.
Broad strokes of moonlight filtered into the room by several large windows along the wall opposite the television. Trees created a vignette outside the glass, framing the slanted hillside and the splashes of city lights. Yoongi, still unable to stand, admired the view from afar. If he had his camera--
A pair of pants collided with his head. He swiveled to glare at Jungkook, the snickering fiend. He must have changed clothes while Yoongi wasn't looking, because he was now a snickering fiend in a soft, white shirt and basketball shorts.
"Sorry," Jungkook said, obviously not. "Those might be a little big on you, but... the waistband's elastic. I guess we'll see."
"I guess we will," Yoongi hissed, snatching the pants from where they fell. He shoved his legs into the clothing's respective holes. He fell flat onto his back and angled his hips so he could pull the pants over his ass. Sitting up required effort he didn't want to give at the moment. He remained splayed on the floor, somehow feeling more vulnerable like this than he did without pants.
"Mind if I join you?" Jungkook asked, already settling on the floor beside him.
At Yoongi's grunt, Jungkook reclined until they were eye-to-eye. Whatever Jungkook dosed him with didn't last as long as the first pill he took, and he could feel sensibility ebbing at the edges of his thoughts.
Jungkook's mouth was that of the Mona Lisa; both a smile and a frown. "Coming down?"
They both knew he was coming down. He didn't need to acknowledge it. But he suspected Jungkook wasn't asking out of concern. Jungkook wanted Yoongi to prove him right, and the idea of denying him that satisfaction sent chills up Yoongi's spine. Then again, that could be the waning drugs.
"Where do you know me from?" Yoongi asked, purposefully derailing the conversation.
Jungkook's pout was picturesque. In a way, his expression served to prove Yoongi right. He said, "Friend of a friend."
"That doesn't explain the door."
"The... door?" Jungkook asked.
"Don't play dumb," Yoongi said, inspiring a blush across Jungkook's cheeks. Earlier, Jungkook seemed to have all the answers. Unflappable. With Yoongi questioning him like this, though, he was visibly out of his element. That made Yoongi's body thrum, electric and hot and definitely not withdrawal symptoms. "You said the door doesn't open for everyone, but it opened for me."
"So?"
"So," Yoongi echoed. "I know you because of Taehyung. How do you know me?"
"Friend of a friend," Jungkook said again.
At first, Jungkook's vague replies might have been alluring. The less he revealed, however, the more paranoia he incited in the distrusting calamity of Yoongi's mind. He wanted this, but he wouldn't let himself have it. Not like this. He couldn't let go of control enough for things to just... happen. He had to understand.
"I'm confused, alright? Help me out here," Yoongi said.
"'Confusion now hath made his masterpiece,'" Jungkook quipped.
Yoongi didn't hesitate in using the bit of strength he had garnered. Straddling Jungkook's waist, piano-playing fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder, Yoongi held him against the carpet.
Jungkook sucked his lower lip into his mouth, an action fueled by anxiety. It slipped from his teeth when he broke into a nervous laugh. "It's Macbeth," he said.
"I know it's fucking Macbeth," Yoongi spat. He didn't feel like his weight was enough to hold Jungkook down. Not that it mattered; Jungkook wasn't putting up a fight. "I'm the only shitstain in a fifty mile radius who quotes Macbeth off the top of their head. Why the fuck are you quoting Macbeth?"
"Because Shakespeare's a literary genius?"
Yoongi raised a fist. Jungkook flinched, quite possibly more for Yoongi's benefit than out of fear.
"Whoa, hey! I don't know what you want from me--"
"I want the truth," Yoongi said.
Jungkook tilted his head. Amusement flickered in his features. "If you wanted the truth, you never would've taken drugs."
Yoongi lunged forward. Actual fear overtook the entertainment in Jungkook's face. His hands came up to block the punch and a name popped from his bitten lips--
"Hoseok!"
Yoongi froze. The intent in his arm dispelled. Jungkook peeked through the gaps between his fingers, eyes wide like he couldn't believe Yoongi didn't take the shot. His hands parted somewhat, tentative to leave his face. Once he realized that Yoongi wouldn't aim for the nose, he let his arms fall to rest above his head.
Yoongi couldn't resist the temptation; he shifted forward and gathered Jungkook's wrists together, pinning him by the pulse points. "Keep talking," he urged.
"He's my-- He's a client," Jungkook said, voice thin. "He's-- not infatuated, but--"
"He likes me?" Yoongi asked.
Jungkook nodded.
"He told you about me," Yoongi guessed.
Another nod. This time, Jungkook couldn't maintain eye contact. He turned his head, and Yoongi noticed the shiny strip of a scar embedded in his cheek.
"There's something else," Yoongi said.
"It-It's not what you think. I swear, I'm not a creep. It's just... I like you, too." The words sprang forth as if they had been waiting in Jungkook's mouth. A loaded gun, ready to fire. Aimed for Yoongi's fucking heart.
"You like me?"
"Yeah."
"Because of what you heard from Hoseok?"
"Yeah..."
Yoongi sighed. "You're not a creep."
"I'm not?"
"No," Yoongi said, sarcastic. "You're just a drug dealer who memorized Macbeth for someone he's never met. That's not creepy at all."
Jungkook blushed harder than before. "The Macbeth thing was an accident."
"You accidentally memorized Macbeth?"
Jungkook's hands flexed like they wanted to break free from Yoongi's hold, maybe so he could cover his face again. "I wanted to ask you out," he said. "I scripted a lot of what I wanted to say, actually... I'm not good at words, so-- I don't know, I thought-- reciting lines might be a better way to get you to like me back. Some of those lines just happen to be from Macbeth."
Yoongi couldn't help but smile. Jungkook talked about this like he really had put a lot of effort into making a suave first impression, and frustration bled into his rambling as if it hadn't worked. Did Jungkook not realize that he had literally charmed the pants off of him?
"I didn't want to do this at a party, either, but-- fucking Taehyung-- He went and pulled a Taehyung."
"He does that," Yoongi agreed.
Jungkook puffed a breath. "I didn't even know you were going to be here until I saw you through the-- through the glass."
"The looking glass?"
"What?"
Yoongi shook his head, still smiling. "Sorry. Mixing up my literary references," he said. Steering the conversation with the poise of a captain at the wheel, he went on. "So you saw me through the glass. I'm assuming you mean the glass door to the pool?"
"Yeah."
"And you had the door let me in."
"Yes."
"You weren't partying with everyone else?" Yoongi asked. "You were just... off by yourself? Being a recluse?"
Jungkook snuffled a little, nose scrunching with the force of his inhale. "Parties aren't really my scene. They're-- They're just an easy way to push my product. I don't know."
"You're quite the contradiction," Yoongi said.
"Is that okay?"
Yoongi clicked his tongue in disapproval. "You gotta have permission to be yourself?"
Jungkook froze, like he knew he said something wrong. He hurried to make amends in such a way it betrayed his need for approval. "No, I don't."
Yoongi released Jungkook's wrists. He let his hand slide back to Jungkook's collarbones. His skin looked somehow paler than the blanched fabric of Jungkook's shirt. Jungkook lifted his head from the floor so he could follow the motion. Yoongi pushed against Jungkook's chest, and Jungkook allowed himself to be flattened once more.
This time, Yoongi followed him down. He let his lips graze Jungkook's as he spoke. "Now would be a good time to ask me out."
*
"You should have never let me put these on," Yoongi said, gently annoyed by the interruption.
Jungkook hooked his fingers in the stretchy elastic at Yoongi's waist. He kissed Yoongi's frown as he tugged the pants down his hips. Texturally, the pajama bottoms were a stark contrast to Yoongi's dress shirt, and Jungkook preferred the consistency of Yoongi's chilled skin beneath his calloused palms.
Yoongi kicked Jungkook lightly to separate them a second time. Jungkook pulled the pajama pants off the rest of the way, lingering along the slopes of Yoongi's thighs just enough to make him sigh impatiently.
"Strip down while I'm getting unbuttoned," Yoongi ordered.
Jungkook ducked his head, trying to keep Yoongi from seeing his broadening smile.
Yoongi's fingers worked deftly at the buttons on his shirt, as if hitting ivory keys, and he was in nothing but his boxers while Jungkook struggled to get out of his shorts. Yoongi pulled Jungkook closer by the hips, forcing Jungkook's legs to frame his own. Thankfully, they decided to relocate to the bed before getting started; he didn't want to imagine how rough this position might be on Jungkook's knees if they were still on the floor.
"How are you messing this up?" Yoongi asked, yanking the drawstring.
"You make me--" Jungkook let out a shuddering breath when Yoongi's fingers dipped below the waistband. "--shaky."
“You really are just a shy nerd, aren’t you?”
Yoongi retracted his hands only to shove Jungkook’s shorts down his toned thighs, taking his boxers with. Jungkook didn’t duck his head, because that would give him full-view of Yoongi’s fingers, pale in comparison to his solar-singed skin, finding home around him. He looked up instead, chewing on his lips as he did.
“‘Shy’ might be an understatement.”
“Diffident?”
“I’m not-- I don’t lack self-confidence,” Jungkook replied.
“Something without the connotative twist of diffident, but synonymous with shy nonetheless,” Yoongi mused, and he knew flaunting his vocabulary wasn’t the cause for Jungkook’s gasps. “You’re ‘shy’ with a little more ferocity than three letters.”
“Yeah,” Jungkook agreed, and again, Yoongi knew he wasn’t agreeing with the language assessment.
“Farouche, then,” Yoongi said.
“Fa-- ah, fuck-- yeah, farouche sounds--”
Yoongi smiled. “Good?”
“So fucking good,” Jungkook sighed, letting his head fall forward. His eyes fluttered shut, but when they opened, he matched the intensity of Yoongi’s stare. His pupils were blown, dark and shimmering like something predatory.
Yoongi moved to take Jungkook into his mouth, only to be stopped by Jungkook’s hand in his hair, pulling to the point of painful pleasure. His neck had no choice but to follow the line of action, forced backward by Jungkook’s insistence. He moaned, low in his throat, before he could stop the sound.
“There’s something else I have to tell you,” Jungkook admitted.
“Tell me.”
Jungkook didn’t tell him, not immediately. He made quick work of Yoongi’s underwear, and then he flipped their positions, encouraging Yoongi to straddle him again. His knuckles brushed the headboard, inviting Yoongi to hold his arms in place over his head, and Yoongi did not skimp the opportunity to restrain him.
“I’m not just a farouche nerd,” Jungkook said, after Yoongi left his mouth throbbing with a deliberately lip-splitting kiss. “I have-- It’s-- There’s really no way for me to say this without sounding like I’m weird in the head.”
“You probably are weird in the head,” Yoongi said, not entirely unkind.
“I have powers,” Jungkook said.
Yoongi squinted down at him. It wasn’t the squint of a disbeliever; it was the squint of a cynic who wanted to believe. “Did you build your house with these powers?”
Jungkook nodded. “Yeah, I-- I can bring things out of my dreams.”
Yoongi teetered forward and kissed Jungkook’s troubled mouth. Against his chapped lips, he murmured, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“I have to sleep to dream,” Jungkook said, baffled as if Yoongi had just asked him to descend into unconsciousness that instant.
“Then sleep with me,” Yoongi replied. “You’ve already got our clothes off.”
A molten blush overtook Jungkook’s expression, melting his bewilderment.
*
Yoongi awoke to the view of Jungkook, entangled in the bedding and turned away from him. His back was a smooth expanse, skin golden in contrast to the sheets draped over the dip of his waist, and strawberry bruises were speckled along his shoulder blades from Yoongi’s mouth.
The room had gone frosty overnight. Yoongi wondered if the absence of partying nobodies in the rest of the building could be blamed for the tapering heat. Jungkook’s house was already magic. Who’s to say it didn’t use drugged-up, gyrating bodies as an energy source?
In an attempt to chase the warmth radiating from Jungkook’s body, he pressed himself against the enticing curve of Jungkook’s spine. Jungkook, still sleeping, didn’t react as Yoongi burrowed against him. He had one arm shoved behind the pillow under his head, while he kept the other folded over his broad chest. The prominence of his veins, paired with the clenched muscles, should have been the first indicator that he was holding something to his torso, but Yoongi, in his morning-induced fog, didn’t notice.
He drifted through that purgatory of sleeping and wakefulness for well over an hour, dangling on the edge of dreams. He jolted suddenly, disrupted by the falsity of falling, and felt as though he were struck by lightning.
Not lightning.
Inspiration.
He loved and hated this feeling. Loved, because he could practically taste the words forming in his mouth, and his hands itched for an outlet. He needed a pen, a page, or-- Hell, even the notepad app on his phone was a preferred medium to letting prose slip out of reach. Hated, because his muse rarely returned with convenience. It roused him from slumber, or found him in a diner with nothing but a kid’s menu and crayons, or stole him away from parties, or prompted him to leave the bedside of some gorgeous guy. Never once had he sat before his desk, writing utensil poised with intent, and been able to produce.
He rolled away from Jungkook, grousing about the cold as he ejected himself from the comfort of the blankets. He pulled his dress shirt over his shoulders, not bothering to button it, and stepped back into his underwear. He searched the pile of clothes with increasing urgency. Panic solidified in his gut when he couldn’t find his phone.
Hopping onto the bed, he grabbed Jungkook by the shoulder and forced him flat onto his back. Jungkook’s arm went slack, releasing the bird from his chest. Its feathers were sleek and shiny as a new car. It soared upwards, aiming first for the ceiling, and then changing course to flutter against the window panes.
“What the fuck?” Yoongi yelped, falling flat on his ass. He didn’t go sliding off the mattress, but he came pretty close. He clutched at the comforter to keep himself upright.
The commotion finally drew Jungkook from sleep. He sat up, clearly sore from the way it made him wince. He wasn’t bleary-eyed for long after he registered the level of hysteria in Yoongi’s voice. “What’s going--”
“Bird,” Yoongi said.
Said bird must have learned that smashing its beak into the windows wouldn’t make them open, but it was hopping along the windowsill, craning its head inquisitively at its own faint reflection in the glass.
“Oh,” Jungkook said, completely unfazed. His posture deflated, and in that same instant, that sleepy glaze returned to his eyes. Scratching his stomach and yawning, he said, “Yeah. I got you a bird.”
“From--?”
“Yeah. She’s from my dreams.”
“It's a she?”
Jungkook lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
Yoongi looked at the bird, and it was more than a little unnerving to find the bird looking back. Frowning, he said, “You should probably let her outside before she takes a shit on your floor.”
“I don’t think she can take a shit,” Jungkook said. “I don’t think she’s got internal organs or anything.”
“How the fuck is she real?” Yoongi asked, still unable to completely wrench the panic from his tone.
“I don’t know,” Jungkook admitted. “There’s not really a handbook for this stuff. ”
Yoongi scrubbed a hand over his face. He expected the bird to disappear, or at the very least stop looking so lifelike, because-- “She’s not actually alive, is she?”
“Of course she is,” Jungkook said, taking offense. He disentangled himself from the hurricane of blankets and bedsheets. The motion attracted the beady eyes of the bird, and she started watching Jungkook instead of keeping her attention on Yoongi.
To be fair, Yoongi understood where the bird was coming from. Jungkook moved gracefully, even in his nudity, and his body consisted of rigid muscle and lines worthy of being drawn in dark ink. With so much of him on display, it was impossible not to watch.
The bird didn’t shy away from Jungkook when he reached for her. She let him scoop her back to his breast, and even after he opened the window and stuck his arms outside, it took some coercing to get her to fly away.
Jungkook closed the window, locking the latch with a snap, and he was rubbing his arms when he turned back around. “Cold in here,” he said with a laugh.
“Does it make you tired?”
“The cold?”
Yoongi tried not to roll his eyes. “No, not the cold,” he said. “Creating life and bringing it out of your fucking head.”
“Not really,” Jungkook said. “I just woke up. Hey, would it be inappropriate for me to say ‘I told you so’?”
Yoongi, beside himself, didn’t respond. He stared as Jungkook climbed back into the bed, situating blankets and fluffing pillows like he didn’t bring a bird into being via REM cycle. Here Yoongi was, shaken to hell and back about this, and Jungkook--quiet, blasé Jungkook--let him stew in his upheaval without providing anything more than an I told you so. A completely unwarranted I told you so, because Yoongi--
Yoongi may not have believed him last night, but he didn’t… not believe him. He just…
He wanted proof, alright? Even if he had believed Jungkook completely and without a flaw in his faith, he would have wanted proof all the same. He wanted to see magic, and oh man, had he seen it now.
“Did you want breakfast?” Jungkook asked. He looked amused by Yoongi’s twitching brow.
“Are you gonna fry me an egg in your sleep?”
“If you want me to--”
“No,” Yoongi said, cutting him off smoothly. “I don’t want breakfast. You can’t bring me a dream bird and then a dream egg, Jungkook. That’s just… wrong. Thanks anyway.”
Jungkook laughed, boyish and loud, and it ended as abruptly as it began. He looked embarrassed, like he hadn’t expected to laugh at that volume, and he chewed on his lip to stifle any other sounds, but his shoulders were shaking, meaning his laughter wasn’t done. When he regained his composure, he said truthfully, “I’ve never tried to eat my own dream stuff.”
“People ingest your drugs, though. Isn’t that kind of the same thing?” Yoongi asked. He was getting cold again, so he crawled under the covers and sat, shoulder to shoulder, beside Jungkook.
“I guess,” Jungkook said.
“How’s that work, then?”
“I don’t… I don’t know. When I’m dreaming, I know what the drugs are supposed to do, and when I take them out, they just… do it.”
Yoongi didn’t understand how someone could possess such an enthralling, otherworldly power, and not question the process of creation. Having been reminded of creation, however, Yoongi didn’t give himself the opportunity to grill Jungkook about this. He suddenly remembered everything before the bird-- His missing phone was still missing, and his ideas flooded his head like they never left.
He didn’t explain himself as he got up. He didn’t explain himself as he started picking through the remnants of their clothing pile again, and he didn’t explain himself as he growled in frustration, “Where is it?”
Jungkook watched the ordeal unfold without intervening. When Yoongi looked back at him, he had his arms behind his head, posture relaxed as he lay propped against the headboard. He smiled under Yoongi’s scrutiny, like he knew he looked good and expected Yoongi to say something about it, or have a jaw drop moment, or something. “Everything okay?”
Yoongi gave him none of the above. “I need to find my phone,” he gruffed.
Jungkook, realizing that Yoongi wasn’t in a teasable mood, dropped his arms and started picking at lint stubs on the blanket. “Wouldn’t it be with the rest of your clothes?”
That… made sense. Yoongi felt ridiculous, now, for getting worked up. He didn’t feel comfortable displaying his emotions, and he was hardly ever expressive in anything outside of his writing, but when he was around Jungkook, he felt everything, and he felt it intensely. He wondered if this might be a side effect of something Jungkook gave him last night-- and no, that wasn’t supposed to be a euphemism.
“Please tell me I can get to the pool without going through the hallway of death.”
Jungkook smiled. “Let me get dressed.”
*
The room with the pool was more or less the same, with their clothing untouched beside the water and the door to the main building still sealed shut. Yoongi breathed a long sigh of relief when he found his phone beneath his glistering suit jacket, and an even longer sigh of relief when his lighter went tumbling from within the lining’s pocket.
“You smoke?” Jungkook asked, toeing at the fake grass.
“Only when I need to,” Yoongi replied.
Jungkook smiled at that.
Yoongi dropped his jacket back onto the ground, uncaring of its monetary cost. He left his lighter where it was--it wasn’t going anywhere--and checked his phone for damage. It was fine, despite spending last night and most of this morning with its screen facing the floor, and the orange bar running across the top let Yoongi know it currently had less than fifteen percent battery charge. His notifications were filled with missed calls and worried texts from Seokjin. Yoongi frowned.
“Someone wondering where you are?” Jungkook asked, and Yoongi flinched because he didn’t realize Jungkook was standing right behind him, close enough to read over his shoulder.
Yoongi locked his phone. “Yes. Nosy.”
“I don’t mean to be,” Jungkook replied, voice mild. When Yoongi craned his neck to look at him, Jungkook had nothing but that same smile on his face. He was completely unaffected by the accusation. Yoongi didn’t know why he expected otherwise.
“In that case, I don’t mean to be rude," Yoongi said. "But I really need a shower and I don’t want to find out if yours looks like a spaceship on the inside.”
“That’s fair,” Jungkook said. “You going home?”
Yoongi nodded and picked his slacks off the lawn. He slid into them, pretending like he didn’t notice Jungkook staring. He dropped his phone down the pants pocket, freeing his hands so he could button his shirt. Jungkook spun him around before he had the chance to get started.
“Let me,” he offered.
Yoongi scoffed, but let his hands fall to his sides. Jungkook gathered the sides of his shirt and pulled them closer together. Yoongi admired the concentration crease between Jungkook’s eyebrows as he worked. Once he finished, Yoongi grabbed Jungkook by the chin and pulled him down for a kiss.
Jungkook wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked positively dazed when they broke apart. He spoke so quietly, Yoongi almost didn’t hear when he said, “Digits?”
“Uh… Yep,” Yoongi said. He removed his hands from Jungkook’s jawline and flexed his fingers for him to see. “I’ve got ten of them.”
Jungkook puffed air through his nose in what Yoongi thought might be a soundless laugh. “No, like… Your phone number? Can I have it?”
“I’m surprised you don’t already,” Yoongi said.
Jungkook cocked his head to the side. “What d’you mean?”
“You got so much information out of Hoseok, I was sure you’d have my phone number by now,” Yoongi teased.
Jungkook frowned and he blushed in his embarrassment. Yoongi liked seeing Jungkook pout more than he probably should. He reached up to pat Jungkook’s warm face.
“I hate phones,” he said. “Have one of our mutuals give you my e-mail or-- Better yet, my address. Have a dream bird send me something handwritten from you. That would be fucking spectacular.”
“But… why do I have to go through someone else? Can’t you just give it me?” Jungkook asked. His youth bled through his mature facade with the petulance in his tone.
“I want you to work for it a little more. Is that so wrong?”
“Yes,” Jungkook said immediately.
Yoongi let his hand slide from Jungkook’s face to his neck, where his fingers hovered and his thumb stroked over his Adam's apple, feeling it bob as he swallowed. Then, his hand continued its trek and came to rest at his shoulder.
“You’ll live,” Yoongi said.
Jungkook sighed and let out the smallest groan of frustration when he realized Yoongi wasn’t going to fold.
Yoongi’s mouth twitched with a smile. “Don’t work yourself up about this, alright? I already said I would go out with you. All you have to do is find a way to reach me, and then…”
Jungkook was already leaning in, making it easy for Yoongi to kiss him again. He teased Jungkook’s lips with the points of his teeth.
“I look forward to your letter,” Yoongi said.
*
Yoongi’s particularity in romance made one night stands (unsafe, much?) or friends with benefits (yeah, right, because that scenario never ended in disaster) or no strings attached (codeword for I have so many strings they might as well be a fucking web, but I also have commitment issues) completely useless. But Jungkook’s tangible desire rendered Yoongi completely useless, and he knew that if he didn’t get out of there quick, his thoughts would be doomed to never meet the page; he would be too busy basking in that passionate state of being that he craved to express through words rather than actually taking the time to write about it.
He found a seat and took it, squished between an elderly woman drowning in her own perfume and a teenager blaring their music so loudly, their headphones were as good as unplugged. With every unintentional thwacking of the elbows or every jostle of the bus, the more he wanted to be home already. He didn’t know just how badly he needed to shower until twenty minutes of a bumpy ride later.
He made the most of his dwindling battery life and typed as much as he could with the tiny keyboard. He got swept away and nearly missed his stop. He had to yell for the driver to wait so he could properly exit, and he wasn’t imagining the hateful glare it got him, even as he gave the driver an extra tip for the trouble.
The bus didn’t take him all the way to his house; it was within a gated community, and Yoongi’s residence in particular was especially far from the entrance. Tossing his suit jacket over one shoulder, he started the walk home.
Halfway there and running on five percent, Yoongi’s phone buzzed with an incoming call. Sighing in annoyance, he pressed the green button and brought the receiver to his ear.
“He lives!” Seokjin cried, and from somewhere behind him, someone else was clapping to commemorate Yoongi’s lack of death.
That someone else was quickly revealed to be Jimin, as his voice came down the line next. “I didn’t even know you were there last night! What happened to you?”
“Nothing happened,” Yoongi replied flatly. “I took some drugs and I got lost. I’m fine.”
“Lost without your phone?” Seokjin asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.
“Speaking of phones,” Yoongi said, attempting to avoid whatever conclusion Seokjin was on the brink of, “mine’s almost dead. And I would like to get a sonnet done before noon. Can we do this later?”
“That writer’s block sure didn’t last long,” Seokjin said.
“Yeah, well. I found inspiration.”
Jimin gasped, loud and suddenly. “Ohmygod, you got laid!”
“Shut up,” Yoongi hissed.
Seokjin and Jimin’s laughter flooded Yoongi’s ears, as well as cries of, “Who? Who?”
“I’m hanging up now!”
“No, wait--”
“See ya,” Yoongi said, delighting in the way their excited screams cut off when he ended the call.
He exchanged his phone for his lighter, twiddling with its tab as he walked. The metal heated and cooled and heated beneath his thumb as he forced flames out of it. His shoes crunched along the pathway through the gardens. The winding walk to the front door was something habitual.
When Yoongi made it to the porch, he retrieved a cigarette. He took more than half of it into his lungs, then left it smoking as he flicked it into the wilting patch of marigolds. He didn’t stop to watch the golden petals curled inwards as the still-lit stub bore holes into them. A heartbeat away from splitting at the seams with impatience, he turned on his heel instead.
He didn’t stop until he made it to the sparsely decorated parlour upstairs. Reflections of himself in disarray greeted him upon his return. His leather shoes stamped footprints into the carpet as he walked to the desk. His laptop complied with the insistent nudging of his fingers on the trackpad, and the monitor awoke.
He sat. He opened a new document. He wrote, and he wrote, and he wrote some more. Without pause, he wrote until the sound of someone whistling permeated the glass door between the parlour and the balcony. It was a whistle so uncannily familiar it was as if Yoongi himself had invented the melody.
Leaving his cursor blinking on-screen, stopped in the middle of a sentence, Yoongi twisted in his chair to take a look. Perched on the balcony railing was a bird. A raven, like the one from Jungkook’s head. It cracked its beak and whistled that same tune again.
Yoongi, skeptical as it had only been a few hours, approached the doors to the balcony and thrust them open with enough force to frighten any bird that wasn’t manmade. The raven didn’t flinch. Rather, it turned to put its tail feathers on display.
An envelope peeked from between the tufts of black. Yoongi reached for it, but he hesitated when he caught sight of something beyond the bird.
The horizon was no longer hazy from the afternoon; it was blackening with beating wings. A flock, large enough to fill the sky in its blue entirety, drew near in overwhelming unison. Yoongi tracked the murder of ravens as they flew overhead, unable to look away. Before he knew it, he was smiling, wide enough for his cheeks to ache.
The birds passed within an infinity and, at the same time, passed in less than a second. They left behind nothing other than white puffs of cloud, and Yoongi’s neck hurt from craning to watch the last of them disappear.
The raven on the balcony had yet to fly away. It whistled once more, recapturing Yoongi’s attention. It didn’t join the others until Yoongi had pulled the envelope from its tail.
His hands were shaking as he tore into the paper. He withdrew the letter from within and read the first word--Dear, charming and traditional--but before he could continue, he chanced another look at the sky.