Chapter Text
🍃
His stomach flips when he sees him. Something so eerie about watching Jungkook laugh, throw his head back, bangs flapping against his smooth forehead and cheeks. Nose scrunched and eyes two dark crescents. As if nothing had happened. As if the earth was turning just the same, its axis remained tilted, the moon phase unchanged.
Taehyung gulps. What if he notices him? What if he approaches him, starts acting indifferent? What if his friends follow, they start laughing, mocking, because they don’t understand? They never could.
Jungkook does, he knows.
Back in the forest, deep, their crooked tree, the naked branches, the rough bark and poking needles.
Taehyung saw his scar last night. Traced it with the tip of his finger.
“You good?” Wooshik nudges him with a spoon, leaving tomato stains on his apron. Taehyung snaps out of his thoughts, probably a dumb expression on his face.
“Huh?”
“The sauce, bro. You’re gonna burn it if you don’t stir it.”
“S-sorry, sorry. Yeah.” Taehyung hurries to mix the bubbling pot. Wooshik hangs around him, something knowing in his stance.
“That table’s still waiting for their order,” he pauses, pointing with his chin instead of a finger at a group of friends. Ex-friends. “Want me to help you?”
Taehyung’s embarrassed beyond reason. He ducks his head to the side, blush spreading high on his cheeks. “Nah, I got it.”
Wooshik stops him with a firm squeeze on his shoulder. He’s bulked up, now, there’s muscle on his usually lean frame. His touch feels different, firmer, much more like their father’s. Playing basketball six times a week can do that to you, apparently.
A new fit of laughter filters through the fog in Taehyung’s head.
“You sure?”
Wooshik’s eyes are clever. They must see right through him, Taehyung guesses. He could bullshit his mom, his dad, could probably fool Jimin, or Hoseok, but not him. Never his big brother.
Right now, Taehyung looks at him with a silent plea, to just drop the topic, to let go for now. Later, he tries to convey. I’ll tell you later. Everything, but later .
“Hey, ma,” the older boy leans back on the counter. He blinks a few times, signaling for Taehyung to get going, before he changes the topic and talks to their mother.
Taehyung collects Jungkook and his teammates’ plates. His hands are shaking so badly the whole tray rattles. He almost spills the soda all over the bar.
When he approaches them, the whole table falls silent. He feels Wooshik’s gaze heavy on his back. As if there was a target, dark red circles marking the space between his shoulders.
He gulps.
Taehyung remembers their order, so he doesn’t ask. He silently sets their table, filling the empty spaces with dishes, napkins and drinks.
He knows Jungkook likes his kalbi extra spicy, and not so sweet. He told Woosik to add an extra sprinkle of gochugaru, even though the boy had forgotten to ask. Jungkook always remembers later, when it’s too late and food’s already there, cheeks puffed up with annoyance and brows furrowed.
“Anything else I can get you?” Taehyung stutters, because he knows his dad is watching, too. Checking if his customer service and manners have improved.
(Last week he refused to give Taehyung his pocket money. Said he should be more polite while serving the guests, no matter who they were. Wooshik argued, but dropped the topic immediately when dad started raising his voice.
Later, his brother just shared the extra money he had stashed away for concerts and shoes, ruffled Taehyung’s hair and said to not worry about it. But Taehyung did worry. He deserved it, they both did. He knows they both work harder than their dad is willing to admit.)
Someone laughs. Taehyung doesn’t know who, his eyes are glued to the empty tray he’s holding. His knuckles turned white, that’s how hard he’s gripping the plank of wood.
In a sudden rush of hope, he raises his head slightly. The tip of his hat blocks the view of malicious, acne-ridden faces. His eyes fix on Jungkook instead.
He’s looking off to the side, not meeting Taehyung’s gaze. There’s something so alien about him, how he’s acting. That’s not the Jungkook he knows.
It hurts. Resentment and letdown hurt worse than being hit square in the face. He knows that, too.
It used to be so easy. What happened?
Oh, Taehyung knows what. He knows exactly who’s at fault here.
His lips tingle, a phantom feeling.
He licks them.
After it’s certain no one will talk to him, he wishes them a good meal and scurries away, back to the kitchen.
Their repressed laughs still rattle around his skull later that night, even after he wraps the pillow around his head, too tight.
🍃
The forest near his house isn’t pretty. It’s nothing like the movies or books. There are no pretty flower beds, no shimmering streams nor high-top pine trees. Taehyung wishes there were all sorts of creatures, little bambis or rabbits prancing around the bushes, beautiful birds singing soft melodies, crickets and other colorful beings. But, if he closes his eyes hard enough, breathes in deep and slow, he can almost see it all. Imagine the meadows, the groves and the canopies. Lush and green. Real, it’s all real in his head.
He sighs, head resting against the naked trunk. It’s their tree, the dwarfy being. It’s crooked and it’s crouched, and it’s barely hanging on. Not so much growing as it is existing. But, it is theirs, and no one else’s.
There are four letters engraved into it, hidden from the sun, or the rainfall. A secret. An oath, sealed by the moonlight all those nights ago.
I’ll never leave.
I’ll never forget —
“Were you waiting for me?”
Taehyung blinks. The page he was supposed to turn a while ago is all crumpled now, he must’ve dozed off.
“Who else?”
Jungkook hauls himself up, lands graciously on his butt. He’s wearing the same clothes as he did back at the diner. There’s a red stain under his chin, where the silver pendant catches the moonlight, winking at him. A crucifix.
He’ll see him on a Sunday, no?
“Dunno. Knowing you, could be looking for fairies, or elves, or some shit.”
Taehyung snorts. He scoots back up against the trunk, leaving more room for the boy. Jungkook gets the cue. He crawls, closer, slowly. Nudges the book off the branch. It falls to the ground with a soft thud. More pages ruined.
Jungkook stops right in front of his face.
“Can I kiss you again?”
It’s sudden, he breathes on his mouth sugary mint, and Taehyung would be an ugly liar if he said he didn’t anticipate it.
Well . Their first kiss happened barely a day ago, but Taehyung trembles all the same when he thinks about that moment.
Actually, he finds it hard to think about anything else. He burnt two pots of sauce earlier today, his father wasn’t happy. He had him switch places with the help and do the dishes instead.
(Taehyung broke one plate, too. Wooshik came to the rescue, before parents could notice. He only cut his hand a little, but it’s nothing he couldn’t disguise as an unfortunate paper cut. And it’s not like they count their plates. It’s all good.)
“Yes, please,” he whispers and Jungkook smiles, because he likes obedience. Taehyung isn’t sure if it’s right, but his lips taste so nice when they touch, so sweet from that mint gum he chewed after that chocolate cake he had for dessert.
It’s strange. How Jungkook’s acting at school, at church, during practice, or when he comes over to eat at their place. How different is the Jungkook everyone knows, from the one who touches his face at night, asking so nicely for more.
It’s like they’re strangers. They eye each other in public curiously, cautiously, like they don’t have a tree deep down in the woods. Like it doesn’t grow its arms around, shielding them both from the evil reality of it all. Like Taehyung hasn’t traced his name with his lips, over and over again, months before their mouths even met.
He’s confused, but he’s used to that feeling with Jungkook. He’s cool, too cool for a loser like him, he understands. Jungkook is popular and he’s violent, and everyone says he’s trouble (including Wooshik), but Taehyung knows not everything is what it seems.
(Taehyung saw boys with black eyes, saw scratches on Jungkook’s body, saw his split knuckles and knees, but he never asked. He watched him play and shove other players, shoes skidding on the floor, whistles flying over his head, that look on Wooshik’s face when he’s annoyed. Taehyung knew Jungkook didn’t like stupid questions. And wanting to know more about something as obvious was silly. So, Taehyung never asked. Instead, he listened. He was great at that, everyone told him.)
Taehyung was fetching a map once, when he heard a fight in the corridor. He saw Jungkook push someone against the lockers, hands wrapped around that boy’s neck.
Those were the same fingers that curled around his nape, he realized. Same hands that held his, fingers interlaced. Same fingers that climbed the ladder of his ribs so delicately.
Jungkook never said anything when he started wrapping those fingers for him, too. Thin band aids glued over the gashes in his skin.
He knew, he understood what it was. That silence, that followed whatever trouble Jungkook has gotten himself into.
Taehyung also wasn’t good at being honest, or asking for help.
The kiss is shallow and quick, and it’s immature, barely a peck or two, something foolish, but sweet.
“Jungkook.”
It falls out of his lips like a promise, a blissed out sigh. What does it feel like, being young and in love?
The boy rubs against him, the first shy trace of a stubble scratching at Taehyung’s cheek.
He wants to laugh, the small hairs tickling his jawline. It’s funny how some boys already have a deeper voice or a thin mustache, their shoulders are bigger, chests fuller, and some still look like big children. They’re all slowly growing into adults, more troubled souls to this world.
Taehyung blushes. He never thought of Jungkook as a young man.
Sure, he was handsome. Tall and shaped like a comic book hero. His hands were rough on the inside, but soft on the outside, much like dad’s. Taehyung watched Jungkook’s blisters heal and turn into scar tissue. There were lots of those, little bumps and lines, ridges, where the ball rested in his open palm whenever he was scoring a three.
Taehyung liked holding hands with Jungkook. Theirs were very different and he often would joke the only marks he could get were from either broken dishes or the broom.
(Jungkook would then stare at him with a solemn look in his eyes, something sad and unexplainable to this day.)
“Everything okay?”
He gasps when he sees the flush dotting Jungkook’s arms. The spots are finger-shaped and they don’t look like his usual boy-fight scratches.
Jungkook swallows, searching his face. Moonlight filters through the leaves, his eyes are big and honest, swimming in unshed tears that look heavy to spill. Here, leaning closer like that, calves wrapped around the branch, he looks so innocent. Taehyung notices he’s shaking, he clutches the boy’s shoulders a bit tighter.
“Want me to hold you?”
He tries that way, because he won’t ask what happened. That’s rule number one. Jungkook tells him what he wants him to know, never more than that.
Now, he keeps his mouth shut. It’s quiet, so quiet. Not even a buzz or a rustle in the distance. The air stills and Taehyung swears he can hear the boy’s soft whimpers, sounds that are sticking to the back of Jungkook’s throat.
It breaks his heart, whacks through him like thunder. Because… has he ever seen Jungkook cry?
Taehyung often cried. He wasn’t scared to shed some tears around Jungkook. He cried for different reasons, most of the time it was because of school or his parents. Bad grades, bad afternoons, bad shifts, or bad family dinners.
And Jungkook, oh, he didn’t know it at first, but then he got it all perfect. Taehyung hated to ask, found it hard to communicate. But just like lovers did in his books, Jungkook knew him already. Could see right through him, he guessed. He often held him, without a word. A silent comfort, no begging, no uncomfortable speeches. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect, in those moments.
Taehyung wishes he could soothe whatever hurt Jungkook, to repay the favor. He could get better at it, he just needed to know what it is that Jungkook needed. But he was bad at guessing, and asking was off limits (he tried). Still, he couldn’t help, but wonder.
What’s causing this pain? Where does it come from? How can they make it go away?
Jungkook’s not alone, whatever it is. I won’t leave you , he wants to remind him. We’re in this together.
It’s okay to tell me.
“Forget it,” Jungkook sobs and wipes his face. And just like that, the softness is gone. The hardened expression is back. Lips drawn and skin taut. The not-Jungkook look. Eyes narrowed, cheeks sharp. The stranger from the table. The school hooligan. The too-violent player.
Jungkook scoots back toward the end of the branch.
Taehyung panics.
Don’t go , he wants to say. Come back and tell me.
“ Jungkook,” he tries, but sees the boy’s frame bristling. He powers through the fear of being told no. He wants to help, to make things better for him. He knows it’s not easy, but nothing loving ever is.
“Please…” he tries, again. Always trying, always failing. “You can trust me…”
He shifts to caress Jungkook’s cheek. He stops him, makes a face. “Don’t touch me.”
Taehyung holds back a whimper. It still slips out.
“Don’t say that.”
They’ve come so far now–
“Fuck off.”
“Jungkook!”
Jungkook lands on the ground like it should hurt. Taehyung’s jaw clenches and he wants to scream, but he won’t. He makes his way down the trunk slowly, using the branches he’s memorized as the quickest route. He fixes his glasses once his toes touch the grass, they keep sliding down his nose in this summer heat.
The night is warm, the air around the trees is steamy. His skin is damp and there are dark stains on his shirt, he’s sweating through his boxers and on his chest. But quickly catches up with Jungkook, he’s waiting for him at the clearing.
He’s facing the town, distant lights illuminating his frame in a sodium orange glow. Taehyung keeps his distance, watches Jungkook watching him out of the corner of his eye.
“I want to help,” he’s using the tone Wooshik talks to their father with, whenever he tries to reason with him when he’s angry. It’s calm, but it’s stern, the type of tone that won’t take no for an answer. Well, in theory. He’s never tried it on Jungkook before. ”I wish I could understand—”
“Don’t need your help,” he cuts in, ending all reasoning there. Taehyung sags, tries to calm down his beating heart.
Jungkook turns to him, and now, while they’re both bathed in the gleam, Taehyung notices there’s more damage to his body than the bruised arms. He fights the surprise off his face, seeing the bruises on his neck and knees. Can’t ruin the moment showing concern, again.
“Can you come with me?”
Jungkook’s acting so casual all of a sudden, eyebrows lifted, eyes indifferent. Hot and cold. Push and pull. That’s how he is. On Sunday, he’ll kneel, say he’s sorry while looking at him with those tear-wrung eyes, and Taehyung will have to skip dinner, stomach all in knots.
He takes his hand, not questioning how it’s okay to touch him now.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
🍃
Looking back now, Taehyung doesn’t blame himself. He knew he would follow Jungkook anywhere, with eyes closed and hands outstretched. It’s how he loved, no point questioning that. He was naive and stupid.
He couldn’t possibly know how this would end. That one hot summer night would change everything, make them avoid each other and never talk again.
Taehyung supposed if they fall out, they’ll do it greatly . A grand ending, it’s what they deserved. No soft epilogues for lovers like them.
Jungkook was gone. Gone for good. No love would save him. Not the type Taehyung had to offer, anyway.
It’s the silent truths that tore them apart.
He remembers watching him after games, victorious, going to that girl’s house. Her perfume smelled like apples and elderberries, cheap fragrance, leaving a sickly sticky residue on his shirts.
Taehyung wanted to puke whenever the trees started to bloom in late spring.
Clothes went off first whenever he came back to him. Jungkook mistook that for passion. For Taehyung, it was a necessity. The last thread to keep his sanity intact.
Mine, mine, mine.
A meaningless mantra both of them repeated, gasped into each other's open mouths over and over again, till both went stupid. Slowly, all words lost their meaning. Anything was theirs. Anything could be his.
Taehyung’s virginity was Jungkook’s. Jungkook’s first love was his. The kiss, the bite, the fist. His, his, his.
After time, these things meant nothing. It’s like they never happened. It’s like Taehyung’s body and mind went on a separate trip, and one of them never came back.
Wooshik moved and Taehyung was left alone. And it didn’t take long before he got it, and finally understood what Jungkook’s home has always been like.
He wondered which one was worse - being born an only child, or growing up alongside the perfect older brother, who as soon as he’s left, has shifted all focus onto you. He used to think it wasn’t fair, how some kids were lucky enough to have a sibling or two, and some had no one to look after them. Lucky. He used to think he was of the lucky ones.
Taehyung wasn’t prepared to be met with such pressure. Like pneumatic vices, his father scrutinized him, picked him apart, till none of him was left. Taehyung burst and his father has built himself a copy, a shadow of the firstborn - at least that’s what he thought.
When it got worse, he lost his name. His father took his freedom, his love, his youth, himself. He took and he took till there was nothing left. And, in a way, that’s what Jungkook did to him, too.
Wooshik was happy, away from home. Taehyung was stuck, rotting where he shouldn’t.
His senior year, there was a violent storm. Many houses and trees got hit that night, the repairs took weeks. He helped. Scraped the gravel off the roads with his bare hands. He never saw his dog again after that day.
He discovered months later their tree was gone, too.
Taehyung thought he would cry. Felt he should at least shed a tear.
His eyes have never been drier that year.
Soon, it was just him and his parents and the house. Everyone went. Moved on. He stayed.
A golden child. A perfect son. Whatever has happened to him?
He did so well at school, good grades, good scores. Stayed away from any trouble, drugs, or alcohol. Helped out his parents, was obedient. Grew so fast, so mature.
Everyone has gone. Why not him?
What was wrong with the youngest Kim?
He kept asking the same thing.
🍃
Ten years, it’s what he wrote in his diary. Jungkook should be almost twenty seven by that time. If he comes back to him, he’ll be a well rounded adult. With a job and a future, a career built ahead of him. Perhaps a house, too.
A wife? Who knew.
Taehyung bangs his fingers against the steering wheel, waiting for the lights to change. There’s no one else at the crossing, but it’s good to have some rules to follow. It’s how he’s survived so far. Discipline and routine, his doctor told him.
Discipline and routine.
Green flashes in front of him, spilling over his arms and cheeks. He kicks the gas pedal and races no one but a gust of wind.
Milk rattles in a bag on the passenger’s seat. Thick glass clinks against the other bottle, his zippo and the tin of lemon candies. His father’s favorite.
He shifts to grab it, rips the foil off with his teeth. It’s not like anyone will notice if he takes a few. He always does that, stealing moments of thrills.
He pops them in his mouth, winces when the saccharine ends and there’s only sour feeling left. The aftertaste is bitter, acidic. Hurts his tongue in a pinching sensation, as if a million needles were poking into flesh.
It’s good. He likes a little of a controlled torture.
He parks outside the curb, the car grunts with him when he climbs out of it.
The air is wet and stinking to his nape, it must’ve rained while he was gone. He tries to remember if there were any dark clouds on the horizon as he fixes his hair, loose strands falling out of the tight knot. He should cut his hair, his mother told him days ago.
She greets him from the threshold. He passes her the bottle, lighter already tucked safely in the backpocket, where she can’t see it. The other bottle - that has gone under the seat. He’ll come to get it later, at night.
“Where’s dad?”
“Why? Got something for him?”
He shakes the bag, candy clattering in its small container. She nods, a satiated smile on her face. She points to the old garage with her chin. Taehyung tenses. He specifically remembers asking his parents not to go in there—
“He’s watching the game. You hungry?”
“Nope,” he’s thrumming with the urge to run, to check what his father’s been snooping on this time. It’s always like that, he shouldn’t be upset. Taehyung’s used to keeping most of his stuff a secret, stashed away where his parents won’t find out. Though he wishes, still hopes they would at least try to respect the remains of his privacy.
His mother is watching him. Wooshik’s got her eyes.
“Wooshik called?”
She ponders for a second, purses his lips and he hates the facade, the pretense. “No, why would he?”
She’s in that stage of denial, where she can’t accept that one of her children has a life of his own, and won’t be available to satiate her needs all ‘round the clock. Wooshik got an internship, a second chance, and he couldn’t really miss it this time again. They don’t offer a position in Taiwan to anyone, he tried to reason. Taehyung got even pulled into the noble attempts to bribe their parents. Promising them a new house, a better car, a paid off debt, a safer future with expensive clinics and qualified doctors, anything, really. Anything that would make them approve of his leave. All things expensive, now attainable with the money Wooshik could make while overseas.
It didn’t work. Of course it didn’t. The time difference, the distance, the busy schedule. He wasn’t able to come and visit that often. On top of it, Wooshik would call only occasionally, because international tariffs are still so damn expensive.
He’d send an email or two, every week or so. Taehyung would go to a cafe in town and check his inbox every time he remembered. He even made the effort to print out some pictures of the city, the harbor, the girlfriend. Wooshik had asked him to bring them home and show mom and dad a slice of his new life.
They refused to look. Would ignore the pages where he hung them on the fridge.
Taehyung didn’t have the heart to tell that to Wooshik.
Perhaps it’s for the better that he didn't call.
Taehyung walks into the garage, weary of his father’s presence. The old man sits in the corner, perched on the small stool Taehyung uses to fix his bike. The TV is on, players running on the maple court. From this perspective, they’re just a bunch of small colorful dots, bouncing around the glass screen.
“Got your candy,” he sets the bag on the table.
His father hums, takes out the tin and opens it without looking. He pops a few drops into his mouth, flappy lips powdered with sugary dust. Taehyung notices how similar their gestures are, the flick of the wrist, the irritated grunt when it gets on the sleeve, the way his father blinks when he’s amused.
Taehyung’s heart sinks down in his chest.
He turns away, suddenly not able to look. He busies himself with organizing the tools, putting stuff away. Before his mother had called him over to help with the errand he was working on the tailpipe. There’s a mess, and mess isn’t good for discipline, nor routine.
“Game’s good?”
A grunt for yes, mouth smacking around the yellow discs.
Taehyung’s happy, they’ve clearly made progress. Sure, his father has entered his space uninvited, but he came with a purpose and that wasn’t to hurt him. He came to just watch the game, and respected some of his boundaries while doing so. Didn’t ask, didn’t stare, didn’t touch his stuff like he’s asked him to.
That’s something, no?
Taehyung is climbing the small ladder, when he hears the sports anchor over the clattering shards of metal in his hold—
“ -player number seven, Jungkook Jeon enters the game- “
His father makes a disgruntled noise.
“Wasn’t there a kid like that, back then…?”
Taehyung freezes. He holds onto the steel rack, not trusting his own legs at the moment.
Jeon Jungkook.
Of course.
Of fucking course, he’s made it. Gone pro, to play in the league.
Taehyung’s knees wobble when he steps back on the ground. His palms are sweaty. He wipes them on his jeans, trying his best to remain unfazed while panting like a restrained animal.
“I’m not sure there was, pa—”
“Pretty sure there was a Jeon,” his dad pushes, like he usually does when he’s sure he’s right. This time, Taehyung doesn’t know if he has it in him to lie, to act stubborn. “Didn’t he play with Wooshik?”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath. He tries.
“P-pa, I’ve never… I wasn’t playing, remember?”
“But you went to the games, saw his friends.” His father presses, like it would mean anything if he admits he’s correct. There’s some agitation to his voice, some heavy reproach.
“Jeon Jungkook? You really don’t remember that kid?”
Taehyung trembles when that name rolls off his father’s tongue. Never, not a million years did he suspect he’d hear him say it. Not like that, at least. Not even in his wildest, darkest, deepest dreams or fantasies.
Jeon Jungkook.
(No, dad. It’s not that I don’t remember him - I can’t actually forget him. There hasn’t been a day where I haven't thought about that kid. I can’t stop obsessing over his lips, how soft they felt on my skin. How sweet his moans sounded, when he tucked them into my hair. How he tasted on my tongue, his sweat and his tears. How he swore he would never leave.)
Some people keep their promises, don’t they?
They take them to their grave and beyond. He knows he will.
When Taehyung fails to answer him, too lost in his thoughts to register the look he’s getting, his father turns back to the screen. His quiet grumbles get swallowed by the commentator’s ringing voices, but not to Taehyung. Never to him.
He drinks all of his words up, not letting a single syllable slip unnoticed.
“Pretty sure, uh… before he’d stopped playing, they’d come to eat together… the table by the window… the boy with the tattoo…”
He’s terrified. Unmoving. He’ll probably stay like that, propped against the pillar until the stupid shed folds under itself. Collapses on him. Swallows him down with mother earth.
Jeon Jungkook.
He’s found him. Came back to haunt him from behind the screen.
So, he’s alive. Doing just fine, so it seems.
A job, a future, a career ahead of him.
Wife? Taehyung could puke.
People cheer, he’s scored another three-pointer.
Blisters. Scars and edges on the inside of his palms. Calloused fingers pressed against him.
Discipline and routine.
Taehyung could faint, but he’s not that great at being honest.
🍃