#one of my fondest memories drowned by years of abuse

[sirbob-thebread]

Burned the last connection of you; An 8 year old dried wildflower bouquet picked along the Louisiana roadside

[jngukie]

smile with me (you make me begin)

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook/Reader Genre: Smut, Comedy, Angst, Fluff Word Count: 30,587 Warnings: cursing/cussing, sexual content, exhibitionism, orgasm denial, unprotected sex, past bullying, past abusive relationship, mentions of drug usage, mentions of depression, anxiety attacks, self-harm

SUMMARY First, there were hot tongues and meaningless moans, anger and grudges hidden behind sex. Then, there were laughter and inside jokes, fleeting kisses and warm gazes trapped in time. Jungkook has never known love before, but if he has to define it, he’s sure that love is everything he feels for her.

AUTHOR’S NOTE for the sake of the story, BTS’s ages are ambiguous. however, 95 line are still the same age, and jungkook/reader are the same age as well. jimin and taehyung will be in their third year of college, while jungkook and the reader in their first. hoseok and namjoon are also in their last year. the reader/female character will always just be referred to as she/her/the girl. any other female character (the reader’s roommate) will be referred to using their name (or in this case, “her roommate”). P.S. ALSO EXCUSE THE SMUT THX P.P.S. if you’ve ever read the overwhelming light surrounding us, see if you can catch my little reference ;) P.P.P.S. thanks @sydist for reading the whole thing and sorting out the plot with me, @thules for making sure the smut’s okay, and @trbld-writer for encouraging me to write this!

The winter air is colder today; Jungkook shoves his fingers into the pocket of his jeans. He quickly strides forward, breathing ragged as white mist dances before his lips; his camera slams against his chest as he breaks into a run.

He has always enjoyed winter. There’s something about the serenity of the season—a time littered with sprinkles of hope, joy, and laughter—that somehow always manages to warm his heart. His fondest memories are born during this time of year, images of a chocolate fondue, his smiling older brother, and giant Christmas presents tucked neatly into the corner of his mind.

His camera bounces as he halts abruptly, and he pushes through the doors of the coffee shop.

“Jungkookie! You’re back!”

Taehyung stands behind the counter, wiping away coffee stains and cookie crumbs—or at least, he was. He’s now munching on a scone in his right hand, his left holding a cloth that lies idle on the smooth countertop.

Jimin grunts from the other end of the shop, frowning as he ducks beneath the tables to mop up some liquid a customer spilled. “Great, now you can help us clean up this place—unlike some people.”

Jungkook shrugs as he waltzes over behind the counter to the register, punching in some numbers before dropping in a couple bills and loose change. “I don’t work here.”

“Then get the hell away from the counter,” Jimin mumbles, though both of them knew Jungkook does what he well pleases in the coffee shop. Unlike Jimin and Taehyung, Jungkook has somehow charmed off the shop owner with his bunny smile and doe eyes, falling into his sweet graces by the third time they met. He’s bound to earn free coffee at some point, but Jungkook never takes more than what he believes he deserves, and free coffee—regardless of how tempting that is as a poor, broke college student—is not something he’ll ever take advantage of.

“Technically,” Taehyung interrupts, finishing the last of his scone before brushing his hands on his pants, “Jungkookie does work here. He’s in charge of the shop’s Instagram page, remember? Since he’s artistic and shit.”

“That hardly counts as a job,” Jungkook argues. He searches the shelf for the caramel syrup, but finds it missing. He frowns. “Hyung, where’d you put the caramel stuff?”

“Third cupboard, second shelf,” Taehyung replies smoothly. He begins to wipe the counters down again. “You get paid to update the page, though. That means it’s a job.”

“I get paid hardly anything.”

Jimin snorts. “Join the club, kid.”

Jungkook glares at Jimin, but grabs a cloth anyway. His coffee can wait.

Taehyung is humming some old song (probably some jazz rendition—Taehyung loves that stuff), and Jimin finishes the floors, propping up the CAUTION WET FLOOR sign in the middle. The coffee shop surprisingly isn’t that busy; there’s a man with a mug and a paper by the window, a woman and her dog in the corner of the shop. A classical song plays in the background, most likely thanks to Taehyung.

“How’d your photo adventure go, by the way?” Jimin asks, returning the mop to the broom closet. He quickly washes his hands before moving to finish making Jungkook’s drink—two creams, two sugars, and a whole lot of caramel. He places the mug in front of Jungkook, who grins appreciatively. “Got any good shots?”

Jungkook hums, taking a sip from the mug. The sweet flavour of caramel encircles his tongue, the coffee rich but not too bitter. He grins. Jimin always gets his coffee right. “A couple. Not sure if they’re worth adding to my portfolio, but a few might be okay for social media.”

Jimin shakes his head. “You’re too hard on yourself.”

He shrugs. “I can’t afford anything less than perfection.”

Taehyung clicks his tongue. “Reasons why I’m not an art major. I feel like STEM is much more forgiving.”

“Right,” Jimin says. “Because you can miscalculate the trajectory of an airplane and still be forgiven when hundreds of innocent lives are lost. Can’t wait to see you graduate with that aerospace engineering degree, Taetae.”

“I mean at least our definition of perfection isn’t subjective,” Taehyung counters back, pouting. “All we gotta do is calculate stuff right. With art it’s all like, ‘Wow, this painting looks brighter than my future! It must be shit!’ ”

“Okay, fuck off,” Jungkook growls. “We art majors don’t think every piece we create has to depressing.”

“Of course not.” Taehyung shakes his head. “I would never call your Eternal Slumber series depressing.”

“Or your Gloom series,” Jimin supplies.

“Or your Drowning series.”

“Oh my gosh, don’t remind me of that one. If forcing me to sit in a cold bath for hours isn’t depressing, I don’t know what is.”

“Okay! I get it!” Jungkook huffs. “So maybe my previous themes were on the… darker side. I was going through a rough time.”

Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “The day you forced Jimin into a bathtub, you literally shouted—and I quote—‘I’ve never been fucking happier!’ ”

“You’re a piece of shit,” Jimin says. “I can’t believe you’d be happy I could potentially have gotten hypothermia.”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Jungkook mumbles. He takes a deep breath. “You guys—you guys know why my themes are always depressing.”

There’s silence for a while. Jimin purses his lips.

“We know,” he whispers. “Sorry.”

Jungkook shakes his head. “It’s fine. I—I should probably go.”

Taehyung smiles. “Take some more pretty pictures for us, Kookie. Your pictures are always the prettiest.”

“Thanks.”

Jungkook sets the mug down and exits into the cold.

The lecture hall is packed when he enters, something he should’ve anticipated when he finally decided to wake up fifteen minutes ago. He sighs, running a finger through his unruly hair as he searches for an empty seat in the room. Usually, he would opt for a seat in the far back; Art History is ruthlessly boring at eight AM, and he doesn’t plan on staying awake during the entire one-and-a-half-hour long lecture.

Sadly, the last seven rows are completely filled, most students having thought of the same strategy as Jungkook, leaving him to choose between rows one to four. He quickly slides into the seat at the end of the fourth row just as the professor walks in.

The loud hum of the class immediately dies down, and Jungkook watches as Professor Kim settles behind the podium, shoulder bag carefully placed aside. Girls giggle as he pulls up the sleeves of his button-up. “Morning, class! I hope you’re alive and well today.”

He sips on his coffee cup.

Jungkook holds his breath.

“After all,” Professor Kim continues, “it’s a brew-tiful day.”

Some students giggle in the audience. A few politely laugh. One guy loudly guffaws.

Jungkook is not amused.

Professor Kim, on the other hand, seemed pleased by the reaction. He sets his coffee down and switches the display screen to his presentation slides. “Welcome to Art One-Oh-Three, also known as Modern Art History. In this class, we’ll be focusing on twentieth century art in particular and the effects of culture and history. We won’t be discussing every piece of art created in the twentieth century, of course—that’s why you kids have to take that unnecessary extra art history course—but we’ll be selecting a few from various different cultures, and hope that it’s broad enough.”

He pauses for a while, searching for a question.

Jungkook stifles a yawn.

“Now, I hope everyone has a copy of their syllabus with them? If not, you can just turn to the screen—”

The door bursts open then, the wood slamming against the concrete walls. Professor Kim stops his presentation, and all eyes dart towards the latest distraction. There’s a girl standing in the doorway, winter coat slipping off her shoulder, scarf dangling loosely around her neck. Jungkook can’t quite see her face; strands of hair hides it from him as she dips into a low bow. She’s wearing a black t-shirt and pajama pants and taupe Uggs.

Professor Kim blinks. “Ah, can I help you?”

She rises slowly. “I—I’m in this lecture, I think? Art One Hundred and Three?”

“Then you’re in the right place,” Professor Kim reassures, before gesturing to the almost filled room. “Feel free to sit anywhere you like. Don’t worry—you’re only a little bit latte.”

No one laughs, most of them just staring at her in the doorway. Through her hair, Jungkook sees the tiniest hint of a blush, fingers messing with the strap of her backpack. She turns to search for an empty seat, hundreds of eyes continuing to watch as though she were prey. Most of the empty seats are in the first row, since most students don’t dare touch the front of the room, and Jungkook watches as she darts into a seat right in front of the podium, backpack sliding off her shoulder and onto the floor.

He catches the shape of pink lips and chromatic eyes, and suddenly, he’s sitting in a different classroom, one he hasn’t stepped in since he was five.

He’s brought back to the present as quickly as he left it, and Professor Kim is speaking again, pointing at the screen as he talks of papers and weights.

Jungkook stares at the back of the girl’s head, wondering why she brought back images of crying eyes and chapped lips and a sombre winter day.

“How’s your photo class so far?”

Jungkook blinks, looking up from his burger; there’s drips of ketchup and mustard on the tray below him, pieces of tomatoes lying sadly against brown napkins. He talks as he chews. “It’s good.”

Yoongi sighs, rolling his eyes as he hands Jungkook a stack of extra napkins as though he’s already anticipated the younger’s mess. Jungkook simply takes it from him gratefully, using one to wipe his mouth. He swallows before he begins to elaborate.

“I mean, it’s barely the second day of second semester, hyung. I’d have to be really talented to have already fucked up by now.”

“That’s not what I meant, you brat,” Yoongi mutters, taking Jungkook’s drink and downing a giant gulp. He instantly regrets it when he feels the soda bubbling in his nose. “I mean how’s your professor? Kinda wish I didn’t give up those intro classes. Though freshmen are fucking annoying.”

“Hey, I take offence to that.” Jungkook munches on a fry. “Besides, it’s your fault for quitting your lecturing job to open up a studio of your own. Should’ve stayed if you wanted to teach so badly. Or at least get your Doctor of Arts.”

“And get stuck with you as a student?” Yoongi snorts. “I can’t imagine you calling me professor. God, that sounds annoying as hell.”

“I’m a great student, Professor Min.”

Yoongi throws a fry at him.

Jungkook laughs. “But seriously, you should get your D.A., hyung. You obviously like teaching. Professor Kim said you were one of the best lecturers in the department, and that’s why he stole your presentation slides.”

“That bitch,” Yoongi mumbles, but there’s no malice in it. He doesn’t really seem to care. “Tell Seokjin-hyung I don’t fucking care what he does to my slides, and that flattery won’t make me come back to take over the stupid art history courses. God, those were a pain to teach.”

“They’re a pain to attend. Who invented eight AM classes?”

“You do realise there’s a second lecture, right? One at ten?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “There used to be, but someone quit, and so they got rid of the second lecture all together. Now all the freshmen take the same general art history class.”

Yoongi chuckles. “Bet Jin-hyung loves that.”

“Okay, it’s getting really weird hearing you call him hyung.”

He shrugs. “He is my hyung. He was a year above me when I was in school. Hey, get me some ketchup, kid.”

“You do it yourself.”

“I’ll buy you lamb skewers next week.”

Jungkook stands quickly.

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Refill your drink, too. Preferably not cherry coke, thanks.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jungkook says dismissively, grabbing the cup and moving towards the fountain drink. He’s too busy searching for the ketchup dispenser to notice the body in front of him and clashes into the person, the paper soda cup almost falling from his hand. He stumbles slightly before realising he should bow in apology. He ducks his head in shame. “Uh, sorry about that.”

“It’s fine.”

Jungkook looks up. It’s the girl from Art 103.

The girl blinks. “Do I know you?”

“Uh—I don’t think so? But—” Jungkook bites on his bottom lip. How strange would be to admit she feels familiar too? He shakes his head internally. He settles with introducing himself as a fellow classmate.

She blushes. “Ah, so you saw my entrance this morning. That was embarrassing.”

He smiles shyly at her. “Happens to the best of us.”

“Jungkook!” Yoongi yells. “Hurry the fuck up!”

Jungkook purses his lips, looking back at Yoongi and then turning around again. “Ah, I should probably—”

His sentence falls when he lifts up his gaze to the girl’s face. The warmth and amiable expression is replaced by a cold and harsh glare, burning familiarity dancing behind clouded irises. Jungkook takes a step back in surprise, a lump suddenly forming in his throat.

He swallows forcibly and points lamely at the soda machine. “I, uh, should—yeah.”

Something in the girl’s expression drops briefly, but all her walls come up as soon as they fell. She steps aside, letting him walk past her. He doesn’t dare turn around until he hears Yoongi calling out for him again. By the time he finds the ketchup dispenser, the girl is already long gone.

Jungkook dreams of first grade and sneering mouths. There’s a girl in the middle of the classroom, sobbing as she clutches to the ends of her skirt, small whimpers escaping her mouth. The other girls in the room spit at her as they call her taunting names; the boys laugh as louder sobs escaped her tired lungs.

He stares at her from a distance—him, in his five-year-old body. The teacher is nowhere in sight.

Anger bubbles within him as he witnesses the scene. How could these children be so cruel to an innocent girl? He finds himself striding forward, ready to speak his mind and tell the other children off.

Jungkook realises too late that five-year-old Jungkook doesn’t feel anger at all. Instead, there’s an apathetic drum inside of him, disinterest seeping out of his lungs. He watches in horror as his stubby hands merely reach past the girl for the box of crayons behind her, watches as she lifts her eyes as though begging Jungkook to come save her.

Jungkook merely stares back, doe eyes blinking coldly.

“Bad kids do drugs,” he finally recites. He shrugs, looks through the different crayons in the pack. “Your brother does drugs. Mummy said to stay away from kids with drugs.”

“But I don’t do drugs!” She whimpers. “My brother’s the bad kid!”

Jungkook shrugs. “Mummy says bad families make bad kids. That means you’re a bad kid too.”

The tears rush faster down her face.

He moves back to his desk and resumes colouring his flower.

Outside, a snow storm brews.

Jungkook doesn’t get to talk to her during class. She’d make her way to the front as soon as he’s seated in the back, and whenever he sacrifices his sleep for a front row seat, she’d sit in the very last row, glares piercing through the back of his skull.

He wonders if she somehow caught on that he recognises her, wonders if that memory is the reason for all the hostility. He tries to focus on the professor’s voice, letting his drumming pencil come to a stop.

“As you all know, the annual arts exhibition is this semester,” Professor Kim announced, leaning against the podium. He’s wearing a black turtleneck today, long black overcoat hugging him warmly. Jungkook makes a mental note to ask Yoongi to ask Professor Kim where he got his black sweater.

“If you recall from the syllabus, I require you to attend one exhibition—whether on or off campus—and to select one art piece from the exhibition to write about. The previous professor who taught this class has always been adamant about limiting the art pieces you select to those created in the twentieth century, but I think that’s unnecessary and too constricting. The previous professor also believed that this class was made to torture you poor innocent souls, but according to the course description on the school’s website, the purpose of this class is actually to connect history and culture with art, so I’ll allow you to attend any exhibition you wish, including the school’s annual arts exhibition.”

Professor Kim pauses for questions, smiling when none arise. “I’ve also been told to inform you that students—regardless of class standing—may be selected to participate in the exhibition. They’ll be evaluating the portfolio you’ve built up since Day One, regardless of whether your works were for school or for leisure, so I suggest you start building a solid portfolio between now and the next few months or so to increase your chances of participating.”

A student raises his hand. “Is there a theme for the exhibition?”

“Good question.” Professor Kim smiles. “We’ll release the theme once the artists have been decided. Now that’s over with, let’s have a pop quiz!”

A collected groan echoes in the classroom.

Jungkook bites on his bottom lip as students shuffle through their bags to pull out a writing utensil if they haven’t already done so. Professor Kim’s words echo in his ear (literally anyone could be selected, he realises), and throws a tentative glance to the back of the room. He catches her looking away.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing out of his mouth when he finally catches her as she escapes the lecture hall, backpack bouncing against her back. Her arms are filled with canvases of all shapes and sizes. Jungkook purses his lips, letting his eyes drift to the ground. He isn’t sure how long he has her attention for, but he knows every second counts. “I—I didn’t mean it. I was a kid. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

There’s silence for a minute, and then two. Jungkook looks up. She looks hardly interested.

“Are you done?” she asks, raising an eyebrow in annoyance. “If you are, please excuse me. I have two paintings I need to finish.”

Jungkook blinks. “But—”

“Excuse me, Jungkook-ssi.”

Something within him breaks; he feels anger burst like fireworks inside him, heartbeat picking up as steel coats his tongue. His hand darts forward, enveloping itself around her wrist, and her paintings fall to the ground as he tugs her back. For a moment, he hesitates, swallows uncertainty as he watches fear flash briefly behind her eyes; he’s glad no one ever lingers in the hallways long enough because he’s sure someone would have reported them by now.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demands dangerously; his words are knives, icicles piercing through skin. “I fucking apologised to you over something I clearly had no understanding of—and you dismiss it? How petty are you to hold a grudge against something a five-year-old did in the past?”

“Petty?” She laughs; all traces of fear has been wiped clean. Instead, what bubbles on the surface is pure hatred, a loathing so deep he almost forgets to breathe. “My mother overdosed when I was five, and my older brother got caught dealing drugs at thirteen. How am I petty for blaming you for the shit life I had?”

“It’s not my fault your family’s involved with drugs—”

“No, of course it isn’t,” she cuts in. Her tone is mocking, taunting. She sounds like the kids that day, the kids with venom in their spit and cold laughter in their lungs. “It’s mine. Of course it’s fucking mine. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t know what the fuck was going on either, right? What was it you said? A bad family makes a bad kid? Bet you all were waiting for the day I showed up to school smoking weed and snorting cocaine.”

Red covers his vision. He drops his bag on the ground, pulls her into the nearest classroom around. The lecture hall is empty—it should be for another hour or so. The door slams shut behind them.

“You—you enjoy playing the fucking victim, don’t you?” he hisses. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice tells him how wrong this was, how he should step back and apologise again and again until his tongue bleeds from all the words he has to say. But all rationality disappears into thin air, and he’s left with anger, hatred, disgust. “You keep holding the grudge because you enjoy walking around with your head down in shame because that’ll get you the pity you deserve, am I right?”

She struggles against him. Their faces are close now; he can easily count all her lashes.

She’s crying again.

“You enjoy hurting me, don’t you?” she challenges back. Her voice is croaky, strained, as though the fear is gripping her as much as the anger and she’s now on defence, searching for a way to attack. “What a nice friend you are—you didn’t stand up for me then, and you’re not defending me now.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“No, you proved that years ago,” she growls, lunging forward—

—and suddenly her lips are on his, her body pressing against him as he struggles to keep them upright. Somewhere in his mind he hears the chanting of wrong, wrong, wrong grow increasingly loud, but then she dips her tongue into his mouth and thought vanishes again, forgotten in the abyss of things he should have never forgotten.

He releases his grip on her wrists, and her hands reach for his hoodie, moving beneath the material and underneath his shirt, until skin is touching skin, heat burning heat. Her nails scratch against his stomach, his abs tightening in response as a soft moan slips into her mouth.

She pulls away briefly, lips ghosting over his, eyes clouded in lust. “Bet you expected something like this, huh? Expected me to turn into either a druggie or a slut.”

He groans as she lets her kisses travel downwards, lips dancing across his collarbones. He feels her suck onto his skin, teeth sinking into the flesh, and he can already imagine the purple bruising that’s bound to form there. Heat pools into his lower area, causing him to moan louder as he ruts against her thigh.

No other words are exchanged as she pushes him against the tiles below. Her fingers don’t shake as she undos the button of his jeans and pulls his underwear down, allowing him to spring free from his confines. She wraps her fingers around him as a finger caress the head, and he whimpers, bucking into her hand. The gesture evokes a click of annoyance from her tongue, and she removes her hands from him completely, a growl erupting from his throat—but she simply throws her leggings and underwear aside in favour of sinking down completely onto his length.

She hisses in pain, sinking slowly but surely; within minutes he’s completely buried inside her. He groans at the feeling, addicted to the sensation of the heat closing in around him. She’s tight, and he’s breathing in ecstasy, groaning as he begins to buck his hips into her as she drops down on him again. His hands make their way to her hips, his grip surely bruising her skin, but he doesn’t care; she doesn’t mind it either, leaning down to press a harsh kiss onto his mouth. A hand soon wanders southwards until he’s touching her cunt, fingers massaging into her clit as she releases a startled cry.

He angles himself better, finally earning him her pleasant screams; she picks up the pace, and he gives her whimpers as he cries for more. There are only moans and the sounds of slapping skin echoing in the empty room, the smell of sex slowly penetrating the untainted air. Briefly, he worries someone might walk in and discover their illicit activities, but he found himself caring little as she captures his mouth again, swallowing every aching breath and drinking his moans drunk.

It doesn’t take long before she’s coming over him; she sinks once more, and he’s spilling himself into her, hips still thrusting upwards until every last drop is spent.

Their breaths are ragged as she stares at him with her clouded gaze, the anger and animosity gone from her eyes. Slowly, she lifts herself off him and wordlessly redresses herself. The door opens moments later, and she leaves, the haze and anger disappearing with her.

The events slowly unfurl themselves in his mind, and the feeling of self-disgust pierces through his skin. The sensation is all too familiar, and the word manipulation manifests itself again in his head as other depreciating words replay themselves over and over again until he sees bruises and scars on his body, the lips of a different woman brushing against his ear. A soft whimper stumbles out of him as he quietly tucks himself back in.

He curls into a ball. With a shaky breath, he allows himself cry.

The coffee shop is quiet again, and the owner is worried. Jungkook’s privileges are slowly being revoked piece, but he doesn’t exactly care; either Jimin or Taehyung will still make him coffee if he can’t make it himself.

Namjoon’s at the register this time, taking in the order of some elderly lady who can’t decide between a hot cocoa or a latte. The barista is patient, however, and simply waits with a dimpled smile for her to make up her mind. Jungkook stands behind her, playing with the scarf around his neck while pretending to look at the menu in interest.

Jimin snorts from the drink-making station, shaking his head at Jungkook, and motions him over to that side of the counter as he begins working on the caramel drink.

“I still have to pay, you know,” Jungkook reminds Jimin as he dumps far too much caramel into the drink before handing it over to the younger. He takes a tentative sip. It tastes perfect. Like always.

Jimin smiles. “You seem like you’ve been having a bad day. Besides, you could always pay later. Everyone here knows you always order the same thing, so Namjoon knows how much you owe him.”

“Him?”

He points at the register in time to reveal Namjoon placing his own money into the machine. “So you don’t have to wait in line.”

Jungkook blinks at the tall boy at the register. Namjoon looks up and smiles. He shakes his head as though to say, It’s on me. Jungkook suddenly feels grateful.

“So,” Jimin begins again, and Namjoon announces that the woman’s finally decided on an earl grey, so Jimin begins preparing that. “Did something bad happen today?”

Jungkook freezes at the question, remembering the way her hands felt on his body, how hot her walls were as she bounces on top of him. The marks on his neck burns all of a sudden, and he finds himself tugging harder on the scarf around his neck, adjusting it again and again until he’s almost choking. He lets his hands fall to the mug and bends to blow into it before taking another sip. For some reason, it burns his tongue. He yelps in pain.

“Shit! Jungkookie, are you okay?” Jimin asks, setting the hot tea aside. The woman picks it up while looking worriedly over at Jungkook, torn between helping and scolding Jimin for his inappropriate use of language. “Oh my gosh, I didn’t know it was that hot!”

Jungkook coughs, shaking his head. “No—No, it’s fine. The first sip was okay. I think—I think I just swallowed too much this time.”

Jimin frowns in concern. “Are you sure? I could filter it out with some ice—”

“It’s fine, hyung,” Jungkook promises. He gives Jimin a weak grin. “The drink will cool down in a while.”

There’s still guilt in Jimin’s expression, but he nods anyway, pursing his lips despite not liking the outcome of the situation.

Namjoon looks at the clock. “Hey, Jimin—don’t you have dance practice right now?”

Jimin’s eyes widen. “Shit!”

The woman glares.

“I’m going to be so fucking late—hyung, can you hold the fort before Taehyung comes?”

Namjoon looks around the empty shop. “I don’t know. It sounds impossible.”

Jimin punches Namjoon on the shoulder. He grins at Jungkook. “I’ll see you later, Kook-ah! If you ever need to talk, I’m here for you!”

Jungkook waves lamely out the window.

Namjoon moves to clean the counters.

“So,” the elder began, lifting his eyes too look at Jungkook, “is there anything you need to talk about?”

Jungkook wonders if Namjoon’s psychic or if it’s just his psychology minor that’s talking. He squirms under the barista’s gaze, letting his eyes drift to the floor. There’s a stain he’s never seen before on the floor, the colour a light brown. He picks up the rag Namjoon’s discarded and wipes it off.

“Not really,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his head. He wishes he could wipe off the marks she left him the same way he erased the stain off the floor. “Just—you know. Stress. School.”

Namjoon nods. “The first year can be hard. To be honest, you don’t really get the hang of things until maybe your second year. The transition between high school and college is—well, it’s difficult. I think I failed a course or two my freshman year.”

“No way. You’re serious?” Jungkook looks at Namjoon incredulously. There’s no way Kim Namjoon has failed a course in his life; he’s the Einstein of the campus, after all. The music and pre-med double major with a minor in psychology. Namjoon can’t have failed a class.

Namjoon shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, my parents were pissed. I had to score all A’s the next few semesters in order to make it up to them.”

“Sounds rough,” Jungkook comments.

Namjoon smiles. “I’m used to it. Besides, I was disappointed in myself, too. I could’ve done better if I hadn’t slacked off. I had too much confidence, thinking my IQ was going to make up for the lack of studying. But maybe it’s different for you, golden maknae and all.”

“I’m not—who said—what?”

He laughs. “It’s something Taehyungie called you back when you first joined our little group. He said that you dominated every game when you two went to the arcade, and then said something about you probably being good at everything else. He also mentioned how you’d probably be great in bed, which was really unnecessary. Taetae should really work on keeping some of his opinions to himself.”

Namjoon’s words caused the forgotten nausea to return in waves; Jungkook glances down at his body and suddenly feels an overwhelming amount of hatred for the muscles he worked so hard to earn. Is that all anyone sees in him? A walking sex machine ready to pounce?

What little coffee he downed suddenly rises back up his throat.

“Bathroom’s clean, right?” he asks, wheezing as his breathing grows shallow. He can feel the panic rise as the walls around him suddenly become too constricting, and he wants to vomit, vomit, vomit until his stomach is empty and his throat is raw.

Namjoon does a double take. “Yeah, Jimin just cleaned it. Kook, are you okay?”

“I—” His voice dies in his throat. He swallows thickly. “Bathroom.”

He dashes off before Namjoon could ask another question.

The bathroom is smaller than the shop itself—expected, seeing as it only consists of one disabled stall with a sink and a hand dryer—but the walls almost liberates him, as though they’re expanding to accommodate his large body. He forces himself to the toilet and drops to his knees, closing his eyes as he tries to regain his breathing. He’s glad he chose to wear his normal skinnies instead of his distressed jeans; he knows he’d puke for sure if his bare skin touched the dirty bathroom floor.

He heaves once, twice, but nothing comes out. He stands. Flushes the toilet out of courtesy. Washes his hands and dries them until they’re hot and red.

The bathroom door clicks open, and he makes his way back to Namjoon. There’s a customer in front of him, but he turns to Jungkook anyway.

“Hey, you okay? You look pale—”

Jungkook’s body goes rigid as he stares back at her, their gazes watching each other like a hawk. The panic he left behind in the bathroom returns at full force, and he looks around for his backpack, wondering where he discarded it when he arrived. He finds it next to the counter beneath his mug, and he dashes for it, slinging it over his shoulder.

Taehyung enters through the front door. “Hey, Jungkook—”

He pushes past him and runs straight for the dorms.

He pukes in the bushes outside.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

It’s the seventh time Hoseok’s asked him that morning, and it’s only seven-thirty. Jungkook simply rolls over in bed, clutching his stomach in pain. There’s no actual discomfort there, but the idea of having to face her in class again is enough to make him feel nauseous. He tries not to run to the bathroom to dry heave again.

“I’ll be fine,” he says dismissively instead, waving his hand at the door. “You should go, hyung. You’re gonna be late for class.”

Hoseok’s lips fold into a thin line. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to leave his roommate alone; Jungkook’s not very good at taking care of himself in the first place. Jungkook’s sure Hoseok thinks his stomach pains are due to Jungkook’s recent obsession with the new burger place on campus and the amount of coffee and energy drinks he has started to drink religiously to make up for his lack of sleep, and he lets the elder think so. It’s much easier than having to recount the events from two days ago.

“If you need anything, call me. Or Namjoon. Or Jimin. Or Taehyung.” Jungkook nods dutifully, and Hoseok grabs the coat hanging over his chair. “There’s ibuprofen on my desk. Advil’s in the drawer. If you prefer activated charcoal, there’s some in the bathroom and—”

Jungkook waves his hand away. “Okay, hyung. I get it. I’ll be fine. Go to your dance class already.”

Hoseok looks at him and then at his watch. “Okay, okay. I’ll go. Jimin’s coming by with soup later—eat.”

Jungkook nods.

Hoseok finally leaves.

He lets out a sigh, flopping back onto his bed. The clock on his phone now reads seven-fifty-five, and he could only hope Hoseok has just enough time to dash across campus to the dance studios.

His next class isn’t until after lunch, and with more than four hours to kill, Jungkook finds himself confused on what to do. For a while, he flips through his art history textbook, deciding he’ll create his own set of notes in place of today’s lecture. It works for about five minutes until he realises he doesn’t even know what today’s lecture is on; Professor Kim (and he supposes by extension Yoongi, since the professor is using his old slides) decided it’ll be much more effective if students read about the discussed historical events and cultures in their textbook prior to lecture, and then simply use lecture time to apply whatever they learn to several pieces of art, so there’s really no point in making notes on something he has no access to.

Jungkook groans, flopping back onto his bed. Now what? It’s not like can ask Yoongi for the slides.

He tries it anyway.

“No,” is the first thing Yoongi says.

Jungkook whines. “I haven’t even said hello!”

“Hello,” Yoongi replies back. “The answer is still no.”

“Hyung,” Jungkook pleads. “You don’t even know what my question is.”

“Doesn’t matter. Eight AM is too early for any of your shit. The answer is no.”

“But I need the slides! The Art One-Oh-Three slides!”

“Then go to lecture.”

“I can’t. I’m sick.”

A pause. A sigh. “I’ll email them to you. Get some rest or something. I better not see you on campus today.”

Jungkook grins. “Thanks, hyung. You’re the best.”

“Yeah. Now let me go back to sleep.”

“Okay, bye—wait, what do you mean you better not see me on campus? You’re visiting campus today?”

The line goes dead. Jungkook huffs.

Yoongi emails him the presentation three minutes later, and Jungkook spends the next hour or so looking back and forth between the textbook and the slides in an attempt to make sense of the paintings on his laptop screen. He gives up after the sixth painting, throwing himself back onto the mattress. He makes a mental note to visit Professor Kim during office hours to cover what he missed.

Sometime between giving up and noon Jungkook fell asleep, and by the time he woke up, Jimin’s already at the door, pounding against it while shouting through the wood that he has soup. Jungkook groans, forcing himself up, and shuffles to the door to open it before his neighbours complained about the noise. It’s unlikely, seeing as how it’s dead in the afternoon and people would either be in class or chilling elsewhere, but he doesn’t want to risk it. He drags back to the bed and falls onto it face down.

Jimin took one look at him and frowns. “You look worse than I thought.”

Huh, Jungkook thinks. He didn’t think he’d actually look sick.

Taehyung trails after not long later, bringing in two boxes of fried chicken. He places one on Jungkook’s desk, allowing himself to sit on the chair before kicking his legs up and propping them against the mattress. Jungkook lets him. He doesn’t have the will to fight.

Jimin presses a hand against his forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Is it a stomach bug?”

“Probably,” Jungkook mumbles. He wishes it were a stomach bug.

Jimin hums before turning to Taehyung. “Hey, STEM major. Help a brother out.”

Taehyung scoffs. “Excuse you, Jiminnie, I am an aerospace engineer. Does Jungkookie look like a fucking airplane to you?”

“Technically, you’re not any kind of an engineer yet,” Jimin points out. “Where’s Namjoon-hyung when you need him?”

“In class, probably,” Taehyung mumbles. He opens a box of fried chicken and helps himself to two at once. “How many units is he taking? Five hundred?”

“Something like that.” Jimin turns to Jungkook and opens the tupperware he’s brought with him. “Do you have a microwave?”

Jungkook nods. “Yeah. By Hobi-hyung’s desk.”

Jimin searches the room before spotting it behind a pile of textbooks. He pops the soup in and waits a minute. The microwave beeps, and Jimin pulls it out, blowing onto the open tupperware as he makes his way back to Jungkook’s side. The container is gingerly placed onto Jungkook’s lap.

“Eat,” Jimin commands.

“I’ll give you chicken,” Taehyung offers.

Jungkook swallows a spoonful. He stomachs it better than he expects.

“By the way,” Taehyung begins, handing Jimin a piece of chicken breast. Jimin scowls and asks for a drumstick. “Some girl was at the coffee shop when you mad dashed out two days ago. She was asking about you. Damn, Kookie, I knew you were popular on campus for your looks but I didn’t think people would be this interested.”

He feels the lump in his throat again. He sets the soup on the night table.

Jimin frowns at him. “Kookie?”

“I’m not hungry anymore.” He crawls under his blankets again. “I’m sleepy again, hyung.”

“But you need to—”

The sentence dies suddenly, and Jungkook hears rushed whispers between the older boys. He ignores it the best he can; he doesn’t want to know what they’re discussing. It’s hard, but he manages. He thinks about Zhu Yuanzhi’s self-portrait instead, about twentieth century Chinese paintings and western culture’s art. It manages to block out most of the words, and it’s not long before the whispering dies, leaving a sudden stillness in the air. He feels the gazes of both boys. He hears a silent agreement to leave him alone.

“We’ll leave the soup with you,” Jimin says, slowly inching towards the door. He moves as though he’s waiting for Jungkook to tell them to stay, but Taehyung knows the younger will never ask that.

So he pushes Jimin towards the door, the smile on his face visible from where Jungkook peeks from beneath the covers. “Feel better soon, Kook-ah.”

The door closes, and Jungkook’s alone again. Taehyung’s words ring in his mind. He closes his eyes and falls asleep again.

He’s managed to convince Hoseok to let him stay another day, but on the third day his roommate is forcing him into the shower, ignoring Jungkook’s protests that he “still doesn’t feel too well, hyung, please let me rest!”

It’s futile, and Jungkook ends up dousing himself in cold water for a good thirty seconds before he remembers that Hoseok’s the one who does morning showers while he prefers night ones. He gets out of the stall and runs back into their dorm room soaking wet.

“That was a quick shower,” Hoseok commented, blinking at Jungkook in surprise.

“I showered last night.”

“Your point?” He shrugs. “At least you’re more awake now.”

“I hate you.”

Hoseok grins. “Love you too, Kook-ah. You should drop by the dining halls for breakfast; I don’t care if you only eat toast. You need something in your stomach.”

Jungkook throws on a white sweater and black jeans, slipping his feet into a familiar pair of Timberlands. He only barely manages to remember his backpack and winter coat before he’s bounding out the door, camera bouncing against his chest as he waves Hoseok goodbye.

The dining commons is still empty when he gets there. He grabs a banana and bagel to-go, nodding at one of the kitchen ladies in polite greeting.

He leaves quickly and takes a different path that’s less travelled on, determined to avoid her at all costs. Granted, he normally doesn’t see her outside of lecture, but the coffee shop encounter has thrown him on edge. The fact she asked for him at the shop nerved him more, and he finds himself fiddling more with his camera settings than taking actual pictures like he intended.

He sighs, capturing a bird taking flight before it disappeared completely. He stares at the widespread wings, the way it soars into the open sky. A weird longing churns in his stomach.

There’s a tap on his shoulder and he whirls around, only to regret it as the air around him grows infinitely colder. She’s standing there in a winter coat, the sleeves of her sweater peeking out from underneath, legs hidden behind warm jeans and knee-length boots. She’s wearing a beanie on her head too this time, earphones dangling from her ears. Her gaze is still as unnerving as all those times before.

Jungkook swallows. “Can I help you?”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she accuses, crossing her arms across her chest. “I honestly can’t care less if people avoid me but—is it because of that?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“Is it because—” She takes a deep breath, letting the words sit momentarily on her tongue before she forces them out. “Is it because I’m from a bad family? Are you ashamed of the fact you slept with someone as terrible as me?”

“What?”

She glares. “I bet you’re thinking you’re right. That I’m some bitch who forced herself onto you, whose first instinct is to fuck you in anger. It probably helps you with your whole ‘she’s bad kid from a bad family’ spiel.”

Jungkook stares at her. Familiar emotions are swirling inside him again. He tries to keep them at bay. Not again.

“I don’t care if you avoid me,” she continues, her voice becoming thicker and thicker in rage, “but if you’re going to view me as a bitch, I’d rather you have evidence to back it up before telling the whole campus about what a needy slut I am.”

The dam breaks. Anger sweeps into his bloodstream once again. “Are you accusing me of spreading rumours? I haven’t come out of my fucking dorm in two fucking days.”

“I didn’t accuse you—I know you did. You seem to be the type of person to backstab a person again and again until they’re bleeding all over the goddamn floor.”

Jungkook glares. “You have no right to judge me. You don’t even fucking know me.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” she snaps. “But you didn’t seem to have a problem with it when you were five—”

“Again with the fucking ancient grudge!” A laugh bubbles out of his throat—raw, angry, exhausted. He could hear something else in her voice—a quiver of something that he knows he’s personally familiar with—but he ignores them, too tired of the constant yelling, screaming, fighting to set their differences aside and try to make peace. “I already apologised once—I even let you fuck me—but you still dangle that childish mistake over my nose as though I’ve hurt you all these years instead of that one fucking time.”

“Because you have!” she screams, and a few passerby stopped to look, though most simply rushed past. “You’ve made my life so fucking miserable, and yet you don’t seem sorry at all—”

“Shut up,” Jungkook sneers. He glances around. “You’re drawing attention.”

“Isn’t that what you want? For people to notice you’re being harassed by some crazy ass bitch?”

He sucks in breath. His fingers find her wrist again, and suddenly he’s pulling her away—away from the cold, the prying eyes, the toxic air. He pulls her into the first building he finds, into the first empty room he encounters, and he’s about to scream at her at full volume when suddenly she’s latching herself onto him again, her lips colliding harshly into his as the breath he didn’t know he was holding quickly stumbles out.

She has him pressed against the wall—mirror, Jungkook notices immediately. The dance studio is deserted and quiet, and the thick walls only amplify the sound of their ragged breathing and desperate moans. Her fingers catch the ends of his coat before she’s pushing it down, the soft thud barely noticeable through their heated kiss. Her arms wrap themselves around his neck as she wraps her legs around his waist, fingers toying with the strands of his hair at base of his neck.

“Why—” He swallows the air around them, breathes in her smell that is poison. “Why do you keep doing this?”

“Shut up,” she mumbles, dipping her head into the crook of his neck. He feels her sink her teeth into his flesh, tongue licking over the bitten area as she sucks him a new bruise. He’s going to have to hide them under turtlenecks and scarves. “Don’t say anything just—just shut up.”

He moans as she sucks two more bruises, implants memories of their activities onto his skin. She leans away, kissing him roughly, hands wandering underneath his sweater to press her hand against his stomach.

“Shirt off,” she commands, tone heavy and final. “Off. Now.”

He complies. The sweater is discarded onto the floor next to his coat, and she’s sinking down, lips travelling towards his groin as he feels himself harden under her touch.

“You—”

She licks a quick stripe up his abs. He groans as she pushes his pants and underwear down, and swallows his length whole.

The groans in his throat amplifies with each bob of her head, her mouth swallowing everything and anything as though she has no gag reflex built into her. Her hands massage the inside of his thighs, nails digging into the flesh there, and he bucks his hips upward as she sucks hard, causing him to cry in a mixture of pain and pleasure.

“Please,” he begs.

She releases him coyly. She clambers upwards until she’s kissing him again, and he tastes the precum on her lips, the flavour foreign and strange. He doesn’t push her away, instead allows her to have her way with him until she’s tangled her legs behind him, her heat pressed against her groin.

Once more, words become nonexistent as she pushes her jeans down, drops the onto the floor before climbing onto him again. She doesn’t pull her underwear off, merely pushes them aside as she slips him inside her, securing him inside her tight walls once more. Jungkook throws his head back as short pants escape his lips; she rolls her hips experimentally against his, and he moans loudly, unashamedly.

He grabs her and switches their positions, pressing her against the mirror instead. His eyes remain closed as he pushes himself deep inside her, relishing the easy slide as he simply pulls back before slamming back in. He can hear the echoes of her back crashing against the mirror, the squelching sounds of sex an added symphony to the calamity that is them.

Her breaths are ragged as he holds her face in his hands, lips drinking in her little mewls greedily as he fucks her senseless. He leaves her mouth in favour of sucking his own bruises into her neck, and she has to clasp her hands over her mouth to keep her lewd moans at bay as noises of passing students rise and fall outside the door.

He adjusts her against him and thrusts forward. She screams into her hand, her face morphing into sweet ecstasy. He sucks her another bruise.

It takes him three more thrusts before he’s coming again, and she unfurls with him, slumping forward against his body, both their energies spent.

He pulls out quickly, the gravity of the situation sinking in faster than it did before.

This time, he’s the first to run away, ignoring the way she stares at him piercingly, hot tears running down his face.

He confesses to Taehyung and Jimin in the coffee shop over a mug of caramel latte, recounting the story of five-year-old Jungkook, the long harboured grudge, the meaningless sex. His breath hitches as he tries to skim over the details of the past few days, hands shaking around the handle of his drink while Jimin cups them with his own.

Taehyung’s sporting a frown by the end of his story, expression somewhere between livid and broken for his friend.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung begins, his voice softer than Jungkook expects it to be. “It’s not your fault.”

A tear falls before he could stop it. Jimin quickly wipes it away.

“If I—If I hadn’t said that to her then—”

“You didn’t know any better,” Jimin interrupts, frowning as his thumb rubs against his knuckles. “What you said was pretty shitty, but you were five, Kookie. No one knows what the hell anything meant when they were five.”

“But she—”

“It’s her problem,” Taehyung growls, and Jungkook realises the anger Taehyung’s been hiding carefully isn’t directed at him—it never has been. “It’s her fucking problem for holding such a fucking grudge on you, like, you were a fucking kid, it’s been fucking years—”

“What Taehyung means to say is,” Jimin interrupts, glaring at his best friend before moving to look softly at Jungkook, “that it’s not your fault. Although, I have to ask, Kook-ah—why’d you do it?”

Jungkook sniffles. “What do you mean? Why I teased her even though she was my friend?”

Jimin shook his head. “No. I mean—why did you have sex? Do you like her?”

Jungkook slumps against the counter at that. “I don’t know, hyung. She just latches herself on me and I don’t know how to respond, and we’re both just so angry and there’s just so much tension and—”

The word manipulation rings in his head.

Taehyung’s hands joins Jimin’s around Jungkook’s. “Hey. Hey, Jungkook. Calm down. Breathe for me, okay? In, out. In, out. That’s it. That’s our wonderful, loveable Kookie.”

Jungkook sucks in air one more time. He releases it and breaks completely, all the pent-up emotion suddenly breaking through the walls he built.

Namjoon walks into the shop then, staring at the trio in confusion. Through his blurry vision, Jungkook sees Jimin shake his head, and Namjoon proceeds to the register without question.

Taehyung’s fingers thread gently through his hair. “Don’t worry, Kookie. Jimin and I will always be by your side, okay? We’ll be the Bunny Kookie Protection Squad and follow you everywhere. You’ll never be alone.”

He doesn’t say anything. His fingers shake beneath the pile of hands.

Jimin turns to Namjoon, who nods with a smile.

“Let’s go bowling, okay, Jungkookie?” Jimin asks. “I’ll buy you ice cream if you get a perfect score.”

“Okay,” he agrees, doubting he’ll manage twelve strikes today. It doesn’t matter; he knows Jimin’s buying him ice cream regardless of the outcome of the game.

Taehyung stands, taking one of his hands while Jimin takes the other. “You’ll be alright, Jungkookie. You’ll be alright.”

He manages to avoid her for the rest of the week; this time, he’s the one who arrives later, the one who decides how far apart they sit in lecture. She eventually settles in the second to last row by the second week, so he makes a home in the first row directly in front of the podium, trying his best to focus on the professor’s words rather than the burning stares he feels from the back.

He finds himself shrinking smaller and smaller until he’s sure she’s forgotten about him.

The class disperses as Professor Kim releases the students, and he sees her exit the room without so much a glance in his direction. He releases the breath he’s holding and begins packing up his own belongings, taking his time until he’s sure she’s gone from the perimeter.

“Jungkook-gun?”

Jungkook looks up to see Professor Kim leaning casually against the podium, a soft smile on his lips. The teacher beckons him over, and Jungkook slings his backpack across his shoulder, careful of the camera around his neck.

Professor Kim is holding something in his hands—a folder of some sort.

“I’m sure you remember the exhibition I mentioned at the beginning of the school year?” he asks, straight to the point. Jungkook stares at the folder and then lifts his gaze up, nodding slowly. Professor Kim smiles. “Do you know what this is, Jungkook-ah?”

Jungkook purses his lips. “I’m not sure, Professor.”

The folder opens and his stomach twists. There are pictures of Jimin lying in a bathtub, of Taehyung standing in the rain. There’s a photo of a dancing Hoseok while Namjoon tries to save a falling coffee mug. There’s Yoongi looking at the camera with a quirked eyebrow and a cigarette between his lips.

“Your portfolio has some very interesting concepts, Jungkook,” Professor Kim begins, forcing Jungkook to look away from the photographs and at his teacher instead. “You’ve grasped a great understanding of photography as an art, and your skill is impressive. If you agree, the art department would like to have you feature a couple pieces at the annual exhibition.”

Jungkook blinks, opens his mouth, and closes it again. “Uh—I—what?”

Professor Kim smiles. “Admittedly, your style is different from this year’s theme. Your photos are quite depressing, and to be honest, we’re trying to convey joy and happiness this year, but that’s alright. The art department still finds your work astounding. They think you’re one of the best photographers they’ve admitted, and you’re only in your first year. It’ll be a great opportunity for both you and the school.”

“I—”

“Yoongi also told me to make sure, and I quote, ‘that brat takes the goddamn offer or I’ll expel him.’ Not sure how he’s going to manage the threat since he dumped this course on me, but it’s a sweet sentiment.” Professor Kim smiles. “Are you two close?”

Jungkook gapes at him. “I—uh, yeah? Yoongi-hyung and I—we, uh, met over the summer once when I was twelve. He’s the one who taught me photography and gave me my DSLR.”

“Ah, so you’re the kid he always fretted over,” Professor Kim mused. There’s a pleased smirk on his lips. “Feel free to look forward to any embarrassing stories about Min Yoongi in his college days.”

Jungkook blinks. “Um. Okay.”

Professor Kim laughs. “I can see why Yoongi’s cold heart softened for you. Anyways, please consider the offer? Feel free to drop by my office hours with your decision at any time, but please do so within the week.”

“Okay.”

He smiles, shouldering his bag. Jungkook bows quickly as the professor makes his way to the door, stopping in the doorway with a friendly wave. “And tell Yoongi he better fix my Mario figurine if wants to eat tonight!”

Jungkook watches as the man disappears completely, leaving him to truly stand in the lecture hall alone. He shivers as he makes his way through the door, quickly running through the hallways in need of fresh air.

In all honesty, he’s flattered he’s been chosen; the moment Professor Kim announced the exhibition, he silently was pleased. He knew his photos are better than average, that there’s a certain raw beauty in them that captivates people. He purposely crafts them that way—to allure, entice, enchant.

But the theme of the exhibition is happiness, something Jungkook isn’t sure he has grasped ever since he began college. The idea of happiness is a foreign concept; the closest thing he’s felt is Jimin and Taehyung, Namjoon and Hoseok and Yoongi—but even then he feels as though the emotion is fleeting, lingering only long enough before sadness decides to crawl back.

He takes a shaky breath, fiddling with the buttons on his camera. His feet guide him towards the coffee shop on instinct, and his eyes search the scene for potential photos on impulse. Taehyung’s sprinkling powdered sugar into Jimin’s hair, and Jimin’s laughing while shoving Taehyung away. Jungkook smiles and brings the camera to his eyes and snaps a quick picture.

He brings the camera down, and he comes face to face with her, her eyes angry and hurt and—confused.

“You’re an asshole,” she sneers, glaring at him. “You’re an asshole.”

Jungkook swallows. No. Not again.

“Why’d you leave me?” she asks, voice softer this time—as though she’s trying to keep the fight to a minimum, to lessen the damages and avoid the consequences. “You left me in that studio alone.”

His hands shake on the camera. “You left me too. The first time. I just returned you a favour.”

Her eyes flash dangerously. Jungkook wishes he could take his words back. “You’re an asshole. The biggest fucking asshole I’ve ever met.”

He whimpers.

“Do you find it satisfying to keep breaking me? Is angry sex pleasing to you? Is—”

“Stop,” he whispers. He’s trembling now, crying openly. She looks at him in shock. His fingers clutch onto his camera tighter than before. “Please, just stop.”

“Jungkookie?” It’s Taehyung, smiling Taehyung who was playing with Jimin moments ago. There’s a hint of worry in his tone but mostly animosity, and Jungkook wants to apologise to him for turning his mood sour. Taehyung never deserves to be angry; it isn’t a nice look on him. “Jungkook, are you alright?”

The words are stuck in his throat. He crumples to the ground, arms pulling his legs into a ball. He tries to count to ten in an attempt to calm down, but he gets stuck on two and he begins weeping harder, louder.

He feels familiar arms surround his body, Jimin’s vanilla scent washing over him.

Her voice is shaking. “I’m sorry, I—”

“I think you need to leave,” Jimin says coldly, pulling Jungkook closer to his chest. He hears the sounds of footsteps darting away, and then Jimin’s running fingers through his hair, his lips moving against his ear. “It’s okay, Jungkookie. You’re safe now. You’re safe, kiddo.”

Taehyung’s arms wrap themselves around him too, the three of them sharing their warmth. He doesn’t say anything, just sits there squeezing the life out of Jungkook, head resting on top of Jungkook’s. A hand massages his back, fingers swimming up and down his spine.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asks, and Jungkook shakes his head. He doesn’t want the images to resurface again. Taehyung sighs. “Jungkook, we need to talk about this. About the explicit stuff. It’s hurting you, and you need to get it out.”

“Don’t want to,” he whispers, voice broken by his sobs. “Hurts so much, hyung, I—”

“Is she manipulating you?” Jimin asks softly, and Jungkook shakes his head frantically. The word does come up in his mind every time they stumble into empty classroom to relieve themselves of the tension between them, but he doesn’t think she’s manipulating him.

“No,” Jungkook finally says after a couple heartbeats. He waits two more minutes before he elaborates. “It’s angry sex, hyung. That’s not—that’s not manipulation, is it?”

“It depends,” Taehyung says. He’s playing with his hair now, Jimin’s fingers rubbing circles on his back instead. “Did you consent it?”

“I didn’t stop her.”

Jimin frowns. “Did you want it?”

Jungkook shivers. “I don’t know. I don’t know why I let her—us—do it, hyung, I—”

Any attempt to speak is broken by another rush of tears. He sees the images of an older girl running her hands across his chest, of his length trapped in her mouth as he pounds hard into her, only to see her running away and leaving him cold once they’re both spent. He remembers bruises and fists and broken sticks, whips and cuffs in guise of a sexual kink, love-filled praises masking the lust that contained the beast within.

Jimin sighs, rocking Jungkook back and forth. “I think you need to talk to her, Kookie. You need to tell her of your past, and maybe—maybe then it’ll get better.”

He cries into Jimin’s chest.

It seems as though she only wants to be found when he’s not actively looking for her.

He finds her at the library, surrounded by books on art, an expression of concentration and confusion etched across her face. It’s the first time he’s actually looked at her without fear or rage, and he finds her beautiful; the curve of her nose is pretty, her eyes bewitching. He knows how sinful those lips could be, but instead he thinks about kissing her softly, fingers threading through her hair in adoration.

The image disappears from his mind as quickly as it came; he doesn’t know what these feelings are and why he keeps returning to them. He can’t afford mistaking attraction for obligation.

The past two days were filled with Jimin and Taehyung constantly trailing after him, partly because Taehyung has proclaimed themselves “personal bodyguards of Bunny Kook, a boy who is too pure for this world that he needs to be protected.”

Jungkook coughs and points out that technically, he’s “had more sex in the past five months than the two of them combined ever has.”

That earned him a kick in the shin and a slap on the back of his head. So much for personal bodyguards.

He watches as she stands up and moves towards the aisles, eyes searching the spines carefully. Aside from making it their personal mission to protect Jungkook at all cost, they made use of their constant presence to convince him to talk to her. He protested at first, claiming it hurts too much to even think about it, and when that didn’t work, he tried using school as an excuse.

“Then you can just use school as a conversation starter,” Jimin suggested, shrugging nonchalantly.

Taehyung nodded seriously. “You need to talk to her Jungkook. It’s slowly killing you inside.”

So their third motive became helping him search for her all over campus, following him and dragging him to places he didn’t even know existed. Despite their constant efforts, she always seemed to be hiding, not wanting to be found.

She’s here now, though, walking back to her desk, fingers opening the book delicately and carefully.

There’s exhaustion in his eyes as he approaches her; lately, the nightmares have returned, stronger this time. He often wakes up crying and screaming, startling Hoseok up from his slumber. The older would open have to hold him until he falls asleep, and when he doesn’t, they stay up listening to slow pop songs and Taehyung’s classy jazz.

Still, he approaches her table with dignity, an air of nonchalance floating around him. He clears his throat once he’s standing in front of her, and she lifts her eyes, staring back at him in shock.

Any resolution dies inside of him, and he looks around in search for the nearest exit.

She sighs, and sets down her pencil. “Can I help you?”

He chews on his bottom lip. “Can—” The words die on his tongue. He tries again. “Can we talk?”

She quirks an eyebrow at him, frowning as she scanned his face. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Every time we’ve tried, I end up lashing at you, and you end up screaming at me, and then we’re fucking in an empty classroom.”

He winces, trying not to allow the images of their activities resurface in his mind. “I mean, we’re being civil right now. You haven’t yelled at me, and I haven’t yelled at you, and we’re in a library so there’s no way we can f—”

He can’t bring himself to say it. He clears his throat. “There’s no way we can make the same mistakes again.”

She studies him for a while, searching his face again, and then sighs, standing up and motioning for him to follow her with a single finger. “We technically can’t talk in the library, but I know a secluded place where we won’t bother too many people.”

He swallows. He hopes that fact won’t lead to anything.

The two of them moves between the rows of shelves quietly. No one shoots them a second glance. (Except Namjoon, who’s sitting by the medical books. He meets Jungkook’s eyes as he turns to return to his desk, gaze inquisitive and tense when he recognises her as the girl from the coffee shop all those days ago. Jungkook simply shakes his head.)

They reach a corner by the elevators, hidden by three rows of books, and she leans against a pillar, fingers playing with the end of her sleeves. “You wanted to talk?”

Whatever words he previously planned disappears from his mind. He stares at his feet, shuffling them worriedly.

She sighs again. He feels guilt; he’s wasting her time.

He looks up to dismiss their meeting, play it off as a mistake, but he sees the softness in her eyes, the hesitation. She’s chewing on her lip, teeth grazing back and forth, and a hand tucks strands of hair behind her ear. She coughs softly into her fist. “I’m sorry.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen in surprise.

She stares at the ground. “I shouldn’t have blown up on you like that when you apologised. You’re right—it’s a childish mistake, and it’s been—what, five hundred years? I shouldn’t have held it against you like that. I’m sorry.”

Jungkook stares at her. “I was in an abusive relationship.”

She looks up at him in shock. He’s surprised too, not sure where the courage came from.

He shuffles his feet. “It happened last semester. She was an older girl, so I thought she knew what she was doing. I believed it was all love, but… well, obviously it wasn’t.”

There’s a heavy silence in the air. He feels sick, but he continues anyway.

“She was just using me for sex, you know. Said something about me being pretty enough to taint? I—I never really did anything about it since I loved her, and I pretended it wasn’t just a sexual relationship. I mean, I should’ve broken up with her as soon as—” He chokes. “—she started hitting me and calling me bad names and—”

He shakes his head. He can’t do this. Pulling out the memories from the crevices of his brain is too much, and it hurts too much, and the bruises and scars he used to hide are emerging from the depths of his skin again. He feels his body shake, hot tears streaming from his face; the word manipulation rings louder in his head.

She doesn’t move, unsure of what to do. Her eyes are trained at him, fixed and focused, and he shivers under her gaze. He can’t see her expression, but he doubt there’s anything but cold and steel. He’s not worth anyone’s pity, after all.

“I guess we both have shitty pasts,” she whispers, and he looks up at her. He’s surprised to find her crying, too. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have… I wouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that.”

He shakes his head frantically, hands rubbing at his eyes. “You didn’t take advantage of me. I allowed it to happen.”

“No, I did. And it wasn’t fair of me.” She looks at the ground again. “It’s not an excuse but… growing up without a mother can be hard. Especially when you used to depend on her a lot. I love my dad but sometimes… sometimes it gets too much, you know? And there are things I can’t exactly tell him, not when my brother was still dealing drugs, even though he’s gotten in trouble for it once.

“Sex is all I know. It’s the only way I vent out my frustrations, and I’m sorry I did that to you.”

He stares at her.

She smiles sadly. “Guess that makes me a slut, huh? Maybe bad families do make bad kids.”

“You’re not bad,” Jungkook protests. He rocks on his feet. “You wouldn’t be apologising right now if you were.”

“I wouldn’t have had sex with you if I weren’t,” she argues.

“Then that makes me a bad kid too.” She looks up at him. He smiles. “After all, I never said I acted as though I didn’t want it. Sex is all I know, too.”

She gives him a small smile. It’s not exactly happier, but it’s comforting, at least. She fiddles with her thumbs. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’m sorry for what I said as a kid.”

“I’m sorry for not accepting the apology as an adult.”

He laughs softly. “Do over?”

“We can do over,” she agrees, “friend.”

“So you guys made up?” Jimin asks, sliding a mug of caramel latte over the counter. The owner’s in a good mood again, now that business is picking up; the place is almost crowded, people’s orders almost drowning the baristas’ responses. Jungkook has begun to slowly regain his privileges.

Jungkook turns to look at her. She’s standing beside him at the counter, eyes watching the patrons of the shop in curiosity. There are more students now, less elderly couples, and the clicking of laptop keyboards harmonised well with Taehyung’s latest classic find.

He nods, feeling her switch her gaze from the long line to his face. “Yeah, I think so. We cleared stuff up.”

Jimin nods, smiling softly at him. He doesn’t spare her a glance as he moves to make her order. There’s still slight hostility on his part, which Jungkook doesn’t blame him for. With Jungkook’s past, anyone who hurt Jungkook once immediately lands a spot on Jimin’s hate list. (Which is hard to do the first place, since Jimin’s heart isn’t capable of understanding hate under normal circumstances.)

Taehyung glares at them from the other side of the counter, making three drinks at once. “Jimin, can you maybe, like, I don’t know, fucking help me?”

“Bitch, do you not see this fucking cup I’m making here?”

Namjoon sighs from the register. “Taehyung, Jimin, don’t curse in front of the customers.”

She laughs next to him, and he smiles, liking how she’s trying to get past the awkward boundaries his friends have established. It’s weird, he thinks, going from people who threw nothing but negativity at each other to something that’s somewhat friends. She thanks Jimin for the cup of flat white that he carefully pushes over to her. “Your friends are nice.”

“Debatable,” Jungkook mumbles, and Jimin glares, dragging the caramel latte back towards him.

“Watch if I ever make your caramel drinks again, Jeon Jungkook,” Jimin threatens, grabbing a salt shaker. Jungkook jumps over the counter and tackles him.

Namjoon slams his fist against the register by accident, and it pops open, money flying everywhere.

A coin hits Taehyung on the forehead. He crashes into a CAUTION WET FLOOR sign.

“Kim Namjoon—”

“Well, this is a lively coffee shop,” a new voice quips, and five pairs of eyes turn towards the doorway. The shop has died down a bit, new customers no longer streaming in and out except for the two that linger by the exit. Professor Kim is standing there with an amused expression, while Yoongi looks like he’s ready to disassociate himself with everyone in the room.

“Professor Kim!” she says, startled, dipping carefully into a bow. Jungkook looks between them, and then hastily copies her awkwardly.

Yoongi still looks bored. “Hey, Jimin, make me some coffee. Black.”

“’Kay,” Jimin chimes happily. Jungkook watches as he dumps seven teaspoons of salt into the drink.

Namjoon coughs. “Uh, Prof, you still need to pay.”

“One, it’s Yoongi-hyung. I’m not a professor and I never was. Two, you owe me a month’s worth of coffee since you never paid me back for barbeque, kid.”

Namjoon stares at Yoongi. He dutifully places four thousand won in the broken register.

Taehyung jumps onto his feet. “So, Professor Min’s friend, what would you like?”

“Goddammit, Taehyung, I told you it’s hyung—”

“Can I get a mocha latte with an extra shot of caramel and hazelnut?” Professor Kim asks. “Please put it on Yoongi’s tab.”

“What the fuck? When did I owe you a fucking cup of coffee—”

“Say, Jungkook-ah, have you heard about that one time when Yoongi started doing body shots at a party? Damn, I’ve never seen him more excited—”

“OKAY, FINE, I’LL PAY FOR YOUR DAMN COFFEE.”

Professor Kim smiles happily. Jungkook’s head spins.

She coughs, and Jungkook turns towards her, a sheepish smile on his face. She shakes her head as though to dismiss his friends’ antics, watching the scene in front of her with amusement. “Like I said, they’re nice.”

Behind the counter, Taehyung moves to begin preparing Professor Kim’s drink. Jimin hands Yoongi his coffee. Yoongi takes one sip and spits it right back out. Jimin laughs. Namjoon tries to reason with Yoongi before he commits homicide.

Professor Kim turns to smile at Jungkook. “So, have you thought about the exhibition yet?’

Five pairs of eyes turn to stare at him. Her eyes widen.

“You got offered a spot?” she asks, surprise evident in her voice. He’s not sure what tone hides behind her words, whether she’s happy or jealous or angry, but she looks intrigued, curious.

Jungkook shrugs, avoiding eye contact. “I’m not sure if I’m doing it, though.”

Yoongi turns to Professor Kim. “He’s doing it.”

“Hyung!”

Yoongi shrugs. “You’ve always needed a push for these kinds of things. You’re a good photographer. You deserve it.”

Jungkook bites on his bottom lip. “But the theme—”

“You’ll be fine,” Professor Kim reassures. “I get that it’s different from what you’re used to, but with your talent, whatever photos you take will come out just fine. More than fine, really.”

Jimin gives him a thumbs up.

Namjoon clears his throat. “Do or do not. There is no try.”

Taehyung clutches his heart with his hands and nods to Namjoon’s words. “Yoda’s advice is always the right advice.”

She watches him carefully, waiting for his response. He can finally pick apart the jealousy in her eyes, and he waits a second or two to see if she’s going to break into anger again. After all, it’s the only emotion he knows on her, but it’s startling to see the smile that slowly pushes past the envy and slides onto her face.

It’s encouraging, pleading. Take the offer.

He looks back at Professor Kim, and then at Yoongi. He scratches the back of his head. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

Jimin and Taehyung whoops. Namjoon smiles. Yoongi sips on his salty coffee (and spits it out again).

Professor Kim is beaming. “Perfect. I’m looking forward to seeing your art, Jungkook-gun.”

Jungkook watches as Professor Kim asks for his coffee to-go, and Taehyung dumps the concoction he made into a paper cup, which he hands to the professor. Yoongi stands and tells Namjoon to make his coffee, not caring that Namjoon might either a) mess the order or b) break the machine. The tall, lanky man quickly goes and grinds a new batch of coffee beans, filtering it out and dumping the drink in another paper cup.

Yoongi and Professor Kim leaves the shop with the former stopping to ruffle Jungkook’s head, and the shop is back to normal. As if on cue, another set of customers swarm in at once, and Jimin moves to the various tables to clear out empty mugs and dirty plates. Taehyung struggles with five orders at once, and Namjoon sheepishly answers questions about the broken register.

She sips on her flat white, smiling shyly at him. “So, what’s the theme?”

“Huh?”

“The exhibition theme,” she clarifies, shifting her weight on her feet. Jungkook realises they’ve been standing for a good ten minutes, and grabs his (thankfully) salt-free coffee to sit at a table. She follows him, setting her latest painting on the empty chair beside her. “Professor Kim said they’ll release the theme when the artists have been decided. I’m assuming he already told you, since apparently that’s your main concern.”

Jungkook hums, drinking in the scent of sweet caramel. He shrugs. “I mean, I guess? My photos have always been somewhat depressing, and the exhibition is asking for something on the happier side.”

“Sunshine and rainbows?”

“Maybe even unicorns,” Jungkook agrees. “And I don’t do unicorns.”

She clicks her tongue. “Why don’t you just take pictures of something happy? Things that represent your happiness?”

He remains silent for a moment. How does he tell her he doesn’t know what happiness is anymore? That the only happiness he encounters are fleeting and far in between?

He doesn’t. “I guess that’s the easy route.”

“You’ll figure something out,” she consoles, giving him a small smile. “From one artist to another, I promise you’ll find inspiration soon.”

He smiles. “Thanks.”

She hums. “I better go finish my painting. This assignment’s a bitch, and I’ve put it long enough. I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Sure,” he agrees. He watches as she stands to leave, taking her backpack and canvas with her. He sends her off with a little wave, and she waves back, white teeth and bright eyes on display. She turns to bid goodbye to his friends, too, who wave back with hesitant smiles but trusting hearts.

Jungkook lifts his camera and takes a picture of her as she leaves.

It becomes a routine for them to invade each other’s dorm rooms. They spend some hours sitting in silence and others watching YouTube videos or playing Mario Kart. Their relationship is pleasant; although they’ve only known each other for a month, during which they spent the majority of the time hating the other’s guts, they surprisingly get along well.

Jungkook learns that she’s an art major, her focus being primarily oil painting. She’s the type to drink her coffee with only a hint of cream, sing off-key in the shower, and name the many succulents on her window sill. She’s contemplating a double major—in exactly what, she doesn’t know—and she enjoys reading books as much as she does writing them.

“Well, they’re exactly books, per se,” she admits when he asks. They’re lying on her bed, both of them staring up at the ceiling where plastic glow-in-the-dark stars make imagined constellations. “I post them online, but they have a decent word amount.”

“Can I read them?”

She laughs. “Absolutely not.”

He tells her about photography, how he met Yoongi that one summer and caused him to fall in love with photos. He tells her about Jimin and Taehyung in the coffee shop, about Namjoon’s genius intellect, about Hoseok and his parties that Jungkook no longer goes to.

“I think you’ll like him,” he decides. “Do you like drinking?”

“I do,” she says. “I don’t drink often, though. Let’s just say my brother’s addiction didn’t end with drugs.”

Jungkook waits a beat, and then says, “I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be. His shitty choices doesn’t affect you. Besides, he’s gone now. He died last semester in a car crash.”

“Oh. I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say sorry.” Her fists are clenched, her breathing ragged. He shuts his mouth completely, afraid they’ll somehow slither into old, regretful territory. “My dad and I are better without him, anyway. I don’t exactly miss him.”

“Oh.”

They allow peace to settle between them, waiting until her breathing evens out. He realises she has a short temper, but she tries to keep it at bay. The one time it got out of hand that week, she snapped herself back immediately, begging Jungkook to leave before she does something they both regret. He left her a bag of homemade cookies on her doorstep the next day, and she smiled at him in lecture the day after. Things are even better now.

“Have you ever been to the greenhouse?” he asks suddenly, and she turns to look at him, eyes searching his face. He feels vulnerable under her gaze—he always has—but he remains still, locking his gaze on the ceiling above.

She shakes her head, still staring at him.

He smiles, sitting up. “Wanna check it out?”

She hums. “Sure. Let me just grab my coat and we can go.”

Her finger brushes against his as she throws herself off their bed. He hopes his face isn’t as hot as he feels.

The greenhouse is considered on-campus, but Jungkook begs to differ; it’s a thirty-minute walk from the dorms, fifteen from the nearest classroom building. He hasn’t visited his sanctuary since last semester, when he used the building to hide from the abuse and pain that came with the relationship he had. The roof is completely covered in snow this time of year, though specks of green could still be seen through the window. It’s different from what he remembers, but at the same time it feels familiar, almost like home.

He pushes the door open, the metal hinges creaking at the sudden movement, and warmth surges into his veins. She steps in carefully behind him and shrugs off her winter coat. It’s warm enough inside without the extra layers.

“Welcome to the greenhouse,” he says lamely, stripping himself to his sweater. He gestures to the hanging plants and growing shrubs with a dismissive hand. “This isn’t the best part.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Greenery in the middle of winter? What else could be more impressive?”

He grins. Grabbing her wrist (gently this time), he pulls her along the rows of plants, eyes searching past the tall vines and wooden tables. He spots it in the corner exactly where he saw it last, abandoned and appearing as though it’ll fall apart but beautiful nonetheless. He stops ten steps in front of it, and she collides into him.

“Sorry,” she says, and looks over his shoulder.

The swing’s paint is chipping off, rust coating the pole that kept it together. The wooden seat looks worn out, as though it’s seen years of happiness and is now waiting to rest. Jungkook lifts up his camera and gets on one knee, snapping a quick photo of the swing. The sunlight glistened through the gaps on the roof.

“Oh,” she whispers. “It’s pretty.”

Jungkook hums. “I used to come here all the time last semester when…”

She smiles soothingly, nodding in understanding. “Yeah.”

He smiles back, glad he doesn’t have to talk about it again. “I’ve never really tried riding it because, well, I’m heavy—”

“You’re not.”

“—with muscle,” he finishes, smirking at her when he catches her blushing, “and I didn’t want to ruin a pretty thing. So. It’s just been there, standing in neglect.”

“We should make use of it, then,” she decides, crossing her arms over her chest. She looks at the swing with newfound determination. “It’s obviously a sad swing now. We should give it purpose again.”

Jungkook blinks and frowns. “First off, you could fall from it and get hurt. Second of all, what do you mean it’s a sad swing? It’s clearly a happy swing.”

She turns to him in confusion. “How can a rusty old swing be happy?’

“It’s been worn out, completely used up,” he argues. He doesn’t know why he’s adamant about the state of the swing; the damn thing can’t even feel emotions. “It’s served its purpose, and now it’s in retirement. It remembers all the nice butts that have sat on it, and now it’s content with just remembering them. It’s happy it’s lived a good life.”

She stares at him. And then, “Well, shit, fam.”

He stares back at her. He takes another photo of the swing.

She clears her throat. “It still looks kind of sad to me. Like wistful? Like you said, it’s reminiscing the days when it was used. Maybe it wants to see one more butt before it dies.”

“Inanimate objects don’t die.”

“They don’t feel emotions either, and yet here we are, debating on how it actually feels.” She shrugs. “It’s a sad swing. A bittersweet swing.”

Jungkook sulks. “I still think it’s a happy swing.”

“I’m going to sit on it.”

“You’re going to get hurt.”

She sits on it. Jungkook waits for it to break. It doesn’t.

She smirks smugly at him. “I’m gonna start swinging now.”

“Fucking hell, you’re gonna get hurt—”

She kicks her legs up. The swing groans. She doesn’t fall.

“Told you so!” she shrieks, kicking her legs higher. The hinges squeak louder in protest, and Jungkook pales as he watches her swing faster. The poles supporting the swing scoots back and forth. “You should join me. This thing’s a two-seater for a reason.”

“And risk death? No thanks,” he decides, huffing as he sits on a ledge. The shrub behind him tickles his neck, and he whacks the branch aside. “One casualty would be enough for the school to handle.”

She rolls her eyes, kicking harder. “You’re such a wimp.”

“I like to go bungee jumping.”

“And yet you won’t ride a lonely, depressed swing.”

He glares playfully at her. “I told you it’s a happy swing.”

She grins at him. “Sit with me.”

He stares at the swing, and shakes his head. “I think it’s happy enough with you on it.”

She shrugs, kicking harder. The swing creaks beneath her. She laughs rays of sunshine.

Jungkook captures her laughter in time.

Jimin and Taehyung are still skeptical of her, despite the fact that it was their idea to force Jungkook to make amends. Jimin demands that he brings her to their weekly Mario Kart Game Night, ignoring Taehyung’s protest on how it will no longer be a bro thing.

“I can’t believe you’d betray the bro code, Chimchim,” Taehyung whines as Jimin opens a bag of chips (it’s his second one that night). Jungkook settles onto the couch, fiddling with his phone in one hand, waiting for her text. He hopes he doesn’t look desperate; he’s just afraid she’ll get lost.

Jimin munches on the onion ring chips contently. “The code can be broken under dire circumstances, and Jungkook’s new friend falls under dire circumstances.”

“But you’re always complaining about how I should make more friends,” Jungkook protests, setting his phone on the coffee table. He grabs a Wii controller and begins a single-player race.

“Correction: this particular female friend falls under dire circumstances,” Jimin amends.

Taehyung snorts. “At least I know we’ll only have to break the code once.”

Jungkook throws a cushion at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You can’t talk to girls, like, ever,” Taehyung points out. He grabs the cushion and hugs it, climbing onto the barstool by the kitchen island. It’s times like these when Jungkook’s reminded of the fact that Jimin and Taehyung live in an apartment rather than a dorm room. He wishes he could afford one, too. His own kitchen and bathroom would be nice. “You’re, like, the walking definition of awkward.”

“Hey, I take offence to that.”

“It was supposed to be offensive,” Taehyung teases, dodging a flying popcorn. It lands straight on his nose, falling onto his lap. He pops it in his mouth.

The doorbell chimes, and Jungkook hurriedly pauses the game, standing up on instinct. Jimin’s already moving towards the door, unlocking the bolt and letting her in. She has a jar of cookies in her hand, a sheepish smile on her face.

“Sorry I’m late,” she apologises, and Jungkook breathes out a small sigh of relieve. “I got lost on the way from the grocery store.”

“You were shopping this late at night?” Taehyung asks, hopping off the stool to join Jimin at the entryway.

She shakes her head. “I, uh, was getting you these? As a thank you for having me.”

Taehyung eyes the cookies. He turns to Jimin. “Can we keep her?”

“What happened to ‘betraying the bro code,’ huh, Taetae?”

“She has cookies!”

Jimin sighs, turning to smile politely at her. Jungkook could see the slight resentment in his eyes. “Thank you. Please, come in.”

It’s awkward for a while. Jungkook tries to break the ice by forcing them into match after match, but after the third cup, Jimin decides he needs a break and moves to the kitchen to grab a drink. Taehyung reaches over them to grab a cookie, standing up and humming something about asking Jimin if there’s any alcohol he could chug on, and then it’s just Jungkook and her in the living room, Mario Kart music playing in the background.

She squirms, leaning against him tiredly. “I don’t think your friends like me much.”

“They do,” he lies a little too fast. He winces. “They’re just awkward about meeting new people.”

“But they’ve met me before,” she counters, and then after a few pauses, rests her head on his shoulder. Jungkook switches to a single-player race again. “In the coffee shop, remember? I think they just don’t like me for what I did to you.”

“I told you they’re the ones who pushed me to sort things out with you.” Jungkook stares at the characters on the screen. He picks Baby Mario.

“Doesn’t mean they like me. I would’ve forced you to talk to me even if I didn’t like me.”

“Well, I like you, so they shouldn’t really matter?” Jungkook switches back and forth between the cars. Great, now he has trouble deciding whether he values speed or acceleration more.

She frowns. “They’re your friends, Jungkook. Pretty sure I’ll be around them a lot if we’re gonna stay friends.”

“I mean, I could always just keep you two separate. Like have two separate circles of friends.”

“Right, and I’ll be the only member of Friend Circle B because I know you have no other friends besides your hyungs.”

He glares at her shoving her off his shoulder. “I hate you.”

She laughs. “No, you don’t. Also, prioritise acceleration. Like, don’t use that car because the speed is shit, but the other one—yes, that—is decent.”

He selects the car, and the race begins. Jimin and Taehyung returns halfway through his third race in the cup, Jimin smacking him on the head for starting without them, while Taehyung immediately makes it his personal mission to yell GPS directions in Jungkook’s ear.

“Fucking hell, Taehyung, I know what I’m doing—”

“You’re falling behind,” she singsongs as Bowser rush past him, a lightning bolt flashing on the screen just as Peach zooms past. He accelerates quickly with gritted teeth, dodging Taehyung’s excited hands as he drives neck and neck with the pink princess. “Grab that box—yes! Now use your green shell—no—no—now!”

For some reason, his fingers obey her. The green shell darts out in front of him and knocks Peach aside, and he drives past her until he’s right behind Bowser. Luckily, the NPC slips on a banana just then, and Jungkook makes it to first place in time for the race to be over. He throws the controller across his lap, and then moves to give her a high five. She beams at him and slaps his hand with her own, laughter bubbling out of her lungs.

“We should have a team race,” Taehyung suggests, wrapping his arms around Jungkook’s shoulders and leaning all of his weight on him. “Ninety-five line versus ninety-seven.”

Jimin smirks. “Losers owes winners six packs of beer each.”

Jungkook hums “You’re on, hyung. Be prepared to lose.”

Taehyung whoops. “Watch out, Jeon Jungkook, your reputation as golden maknae is about to be destroyed!”

It only takes them one cup to settle the winner, and Jimin glares at the screen, a pout on his lips. Taehyung’s pointing a finger at Jimin, blaming the shorter for not listening to him during that last match, and she and Jungkook just giggle through the small fight, which ends with Jimin surrendering and agreeing to give Taehyung a third of his not-so-secret stack of chips as compensation.

Taehyung grins satisfactorily, eyes moving away from the smaller boy. “Oh, shit, it’s really late.”

Jungkook turns to look at the clock that hangs above the TV, blinking when he realises it’s past one in the morning. She yawns beside him as though realising the time, and Jimin looks over at them in concern, standing up and dusting his pants.

“You two should head back to campus,” he decides, grabbing a bottle of water and handing it to them. She thanks him and chugs half of it down, dropping the bottle into the pocket of her coat once she’s done. “Do you want me to walk you?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “I think we’re okay. Don’t want you to get mugged since you’re so small, hyung.”

“Hey, respect your damn elders—”

Taehyung snorts. “I mean, he’s technically not wrong. You are tiny.”

“I’m not even the smallest in the room,” Jimin protests, and then quickly switches the subject. He toys with the ends of his sleeve, a habit Jungkook has picked up as nervousness. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

She seems to realise Jimin’s talking to her after five seconds of silence, and she smiles, cheeks burning a slight pink. “Ah, I’ll be fine, sunbaenim. Jungkookie will take me home safely.”

“Oppa,” Jimin corrects. His eyes widen. “Not like—Not like that—just—you don’t have to call me sunbae—”

Taehyung snickers. “Jiminnie has an oppa kink. Who would’ve known.”

Jimin punches him in the arm. Taehyung hisses in pain.

“Okay, but he’s right,” he says through gritted teeth, glaring at Jimin for using his full strength. “You don’t have to be so formal with us. We’re friends, after all.”

Her eyes brightened at this. “Thank you.”

Taehyung shakes his head. “Nah, it’s not a problem. After all, you’re the first friend Jungkookie has made outside of our close-knit circle, so we kind of owe you one.”

“I still take offence to that,” Jungkook declares, and Jimin rolls his eyes, grabbing Jungkook’s hand and shoving a cookie in it. He hands one to her as well despite her protests, and he argues that they should at least eat something before they go. Taehyung points out a cookie isn’t even much in the first place, but Jimin dismisses it, waving his hand.

She smiles. “Thank you, again. I guess I’ll see you around?”

“Of course,” Jimin agrees. His smile reaches his eyes this time, whatever aversion or doubt that lingered behind finally completely gone. “Feel free to visit any time, too. We always have snacks ready.”

“But they’re never for me,” Taehyung mumbles with a pout. He glances at the clock. “Okay, you really should go. Be careful out there! Don’t talk to strangers!”

The door closes behind them, and they make their way to the elevator, footsteps synchronised so that they’re walking next to each other. Jungkook munches on his cookie until it’s completely gone, nodding at the security guard who knows him well by now. There’s a calm silence that settles between them, the sounds of the occasional passing car breaking the tranquility, and Jungkook finds himself staring off into space.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she asks, looking over at him with curious eyes.

He blinks, breaking out of his reverie. “Uh, it’s nothing really.”

She hums. “How’s your exhibition stuff going? Found any pictures that fits the theme?”

Jungkook blushes; he’s glad she can’t see him in the dark. “I mean, I haven’t really been taking pictures.”

“You carry your camera literally everywhere.”

“I got distracted,” he mumbles. The camera he always brings is dangling around his neck; he meant to snap a couple of pics of a smiling Jimin and laughing Taehyung during Game Night, but it completely slipped his mind. “Besides, you can’t just take any random picture. It has to be in the moment.”

“How do you know it’s the perfect moment?” she asks, tilting her head curiously. She stuffs her hands into the pocket of her jeans, jumping over a puddle on the ground.

He lifts the camera to his face, and snaps a photo of her under the streetlight. “Like this.”

She gasps and smacks his arm, trying to reach for the camera. He holds it high above his head, grinning at the height advantage he has over her. “Jeon Jungkook, I swear—that’s not fair!”

“It’s a pretty photo,” he argues, and she’s on her tiptoes, desperately reaching out. He blocks her prying hands with his free arm, pushing them aside, and then he’s running, the cold night air brushing through his hair.

She’s chasing after him, swear words and threats spilling out of chapped lips, and he laughs loudly, sparing a quick glance back to see how she’s faring. She’s running as fast as her shorter legs can take her, and he grins, bringing the camera back up to his eyes and letting the click of the shutter secure the image in time.

“Fuck you, Jeon Jungkook!” she yells, and he laughs again, finally slowing down at the traffic light across campus. She catches up to him, chest heaving, one arm holding his bicep for support.

He smiles softly down at her. “I swear they’re pretty.”

And he shows her. The first picture shows her wide eyes and shy smile, the light from the lamp above her illuminating half her face. The shadows accentuate her beauty as it contrasts the shine in her irises; her hair frames her face that is art.

The second picture is blurrier; Jungkook forgot to change the setting so it’ll take photos in quick succession. Still, her expression is clear—it’s radiant, mouth wide open in mid-scream, hair flying around her as though they’re made of silk. Her eyes are bright and sparkling with laughter.

“I look like shit,” she whines, tiredly reaching for the camera.

He easily pushes her hands away. “No, you don’t. Promise.”

She pouts, punching his bicep weakly. She wraps an arm around his, and the walking sign flashes green in front of them. They cross the street that way, bodies pressing against each other.

“I hate you, you know that,” she mutters, and Jungkook hums, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“No, you don’t.”

She glares at him. “I do. You’re a dick.”

“Correction: I have a dick.”

“I really, really hate you.”

He laughs. “Hey, maybe I’ll use these pictures for the exhibition.”

“You better not—”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Kidding, kidding.”

She sighs.

“No promises, though.”

“Jungkook!”

He laughs again. They’re standing in front of her dorm now, feet pressed beneath the layers of snow. The streetlight above them blinks on and off, stealing their shadows from time to time. She brings her hands to her mouth and breathes into them.

“Thanks for walking me home,” she says, shy all of a sudden. She still has the cookie Jimin gave her, although now half of it is missing; Jungkook guesses it broke off during the run. She breaks the remaining half in two, offering one to him. “A cookie for Kookie.”

He smiles, taking it from her and eating it. She shoves her piece into her mouth and then dusts off the crumbs from her fingers.

“Get home safe?” she asks, and Jungkook nods, a silent promise made between them. He waits until she’s securely inside the building and in the elevator before he leaves, sending off one last wave as the elevator doors steal her away.

His dorm isn’t far from hers, but he walks faster anyways to get rid of the cold. The paths are empty and the lights are dim, brightening only when they realise a human is walking beneath them. A few paces ahead of him, Jungkook sees a silhouette standing in the shadows; upon closer inspection, he realises it’s only Hoseok.

“Hyung,” he greets, and Hoseok smiles at him, sparing him a nod. They fall in step side by side. “You’re out late.”

“Been hanging out with Namjoon,” Hoseok explains. He’s wearing a simple varsity jacket and ripped jeans, and Jungkook wonders how the older isn’t freezing to death. “He’s producing the track that Jiminnie and I are dancing to at the exhibition. It’s not done, but what I’ve heard so far is sick.”

“You’re dancing at the exhibition?” Jungkook asks. He always assumed the annual exhibition was a visual arts thing.

Hoseok hums, nodding. “Yeah, they have stages scattered throughout the day. I have a solo at two and then Jiminnie and I have a group dance right after. You’re going to be there right? With your photos and everything?”

Jungkook blushes. “Namjoon-hyung told you?”

“Nah. I ran into Professor Min the other day—did you know he really hates it when we call him that?” Hoseok shrugs. “But it’s not like I can just call him hyung. That’s weird.”

“I call him hyung.”

“But you’ve known him since he was a small grandpa,” Hoseok argues, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s different for us who actually had him as a lecturer.”

“Lecturers and professors aren’t the same, though,” Jungkook counters back.

Hoseok ruffles his hair. “I know that you brat. But it still feels weird.”

Their dorm looms in front of them, and Hoseok pulls out his key card, unlocking the front door. The common room is empty except for that one hyperactive exchange student from Thailand—Jungkook doesn’t remember his name, but recalls seeing him in the dance studio at one point with a Thai girl and that tall guy from the dance class he took last semester. He’s sleeping on the couch now, and Jungkook wonders if he should wake him and remind him that sleeping in the common rooms are against dorm policy.

Hoseok tugs him away before he could even decide, and the elevator doors open to swallow them in. There’s bad music playing as usual. (This time it’s Rick Astley’s “Never Give You Up.” Jungkook would gladly give Rick Astley up.) Hoseok keys in the fifth floor and leans against the wall.

“So, who was that girl you were with?” he asks casually, and Jungkook snaps his head towards the dancer. Hoseok has a sly grin plastered on his face, eyebrows raised upwards suggestively, eyes twinkling mischievously.

Jungkook’s cheeks burned red. “Nobody. Just a friend.”

“A friend, hm?” Hoseok teases, poking at Jungkook’s stomach. “You looked really friendly back there.”

“Because we are really just friends?” Jungkook whines in frustration. “Hyung, stop poking me!”

Hoseok laughs. “Either way, I’m glad you made a new friend, Kook-ah. Seeing you sad makes me sad too, you know.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” The elevator doors open. Hoseok grabs his hand, pulling him to their room. “I’m glad you’re feeling better though. Lord knows you deserve so much happiness, Jungkook-ah.”

Their door clicks open. Hoseok flicks on the light to their room.

“Thanks, hyung,” Jungkook whispers, and Hoseok smiles, ruffling his hair again. He moves towards his bed.

“Now go to sleep, Jungkookie.”

“Hyung, you haven’t showered all day.”

“I’ll do it in the morning.”

“That’s gross—”

“Goodnight, Jungkookie.”

Jungkook sighs, grabbing his toiletries and towel off the rack. He flicks off the bedroom light and opens the door. “Night, hyung.”

“How are your pieces coming together?” Yoongi asks him as Jungkook plays assistant, fixing the lights and holding the reflector as needed. The ex-lecturer had finally agreed to hire Jungkook as a paid intern at his brand new studio. At first he was excited about it, but Jungkook quickly learned that his job basically only required him to hold light reflectors, reply to customers’ emails and whatever else Yoongi can think of. It’s boring, but at least it’ll look good on his resume. Plus, he’s getting paid more than the coffee shop.

Yoongi takes his photos in quick bright flashes, and when he’s done he briefly skims through the pictures with his customers until they hum in satisfaction. The engaged couple thank Yoongi profusely, and Yoongi tells them he’ll be in contact with them soon to send them photo options. He sets his camera aside once they are gone and stretches his legs, and Jungkook puts the reflector down, glad his arms could rest.

“You mean for the exhibition?” Jungkook asks, humming in thanks as Yoongi hands him a cup of instant coffee. He takes one sip and grimaces; the flavour’s disgusting, but he drinks it anyway for Yoongi’s sake. “I haven’t really decided on my angle.”

Yoongi frowns. “Kid, you do realise the exhibition’s three months away. How the hell are you going to get enough pictures and edit them in time?’

“I know, hyung. I’m not a kid,” Jungkook protests, sliding into the seat beside the short man. Yoongi’s hair is back to black, the familiar old blond he sported now an old memory. Jungkook thinks the colour makes him look younger, a reminder of that teenage boy with a beat up Canon camera from all those summers ago. Jungkook holds that camera closer to his chest. “I’ll figure it out sooner or later.”

“You better.” Yoongi yawns. “Jin-hyung called me the other day asking if you’ve told me anything about your entry.”

“It’s still weird hearing you call Professor Kim hyung.”

“We were roommates and best friends; what else am I supposed to fucking call him?”

Jungkook sighs. “You should really cuss less, hyung. Maybe that’ll get you a girlfriend.”

“Fuck off. I do have a girlfriend.”

“I was kidding—wait, you have a girlfriend?”

Yoongi rubs the ear that Jungkook damaged with his voice. He glares at the younger, who simply stares back at him. He sighs. “Yes, I have a girlfriend. Why the fuck is that so hard to believe?”

“Well,” Jungkook begins, “I mean you’re, uh, you.”

Yoongi stares at him. “Okay, you’re fired. Get out of my studio, Kook.”

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” Jungkook pleads, gripping Yoongi’s arm. “Don’t fire me, hyung. You haven’t even paid me.”

Yoongi sighs exasperatedly but is unable to hide his fond smile. “This brat.”

“Yep, that’s me. A giant, egotistical brat. Please keep me employed.”

“Fine,” Yoongi consents, “but I’m no longer making you instant coffee.”

Jungkook nods solemnly. He’s rejoicing inside.

They return to work moments later, with Jungkook helping Yoongi stow away all the equipment inside a small closet. He watches as Yoongi turns the key and locks the door, cleaning up any empty take-out boxes and dumping them in the trash outside. Jungkook dutifully locks up the studio and hands the key back.

“You need a ride back to campus, kid?” Yoongi asks, already walking towards the SUV at the end of the street. Jungkook quickly calculates the time it’ll take for him to walk to the dorms before nodding to Yoongi’s offer. He runs after the shorter man and slides into the passenger’s seat as Yoongi’s turning the key into ignition.

They drive in silence, the heavy beat of Yoongi’s favourite hip hop sounds keeping them occupied.

“You can drop me off right here, hyung,” Jungkook orders as they got closer to the dorms, and Yoongi frowns, looking down the parking lot.

“You sure? Isn’t your dorm further down?”

“Yeah, but I’m visiting a friend today,” he explains, climbing out. He closes the door with a loud bang. “Thanks for the ride, hyung.”

Yoongi nods, still frowning a little. “Stay safe.”

He’s gone in a minute, leaving Jungkook to stare at the empty spot in contemplation. The street lights are dimming again, and so he begins to walk, moving past the housing office and down the familiar paths.

He pulls out his phone and calls her once he’s outside the dorm. The door opens as the line picks up, and she grins at him, arms tucked beneath a fuzzy sweater.

Jungkook hangs up. “Were you waiting for me?”

“No,” she lies. Jungkook smirks. “Okay, fine, yes, but what else am I supposed to do on a Saturday night when my roommate’s gone?”

“Aw, you missed me,” Jungkook teases. “It’s okay, I’m great company. I’d miss me too.”

“Never mind, I don’t want you here anymore,” she decides, pushing him out. He doesn’t budge. “You’re annoying and honestly too much to deal with your big ego.”

“My ego isn’t the only thing that’s big. But I mean, you would know.”

“For fuck’s sake, Jungkook—”

Jungkook laughs. “I’m kidding. I mean, not about my size but—”

She stops struggling and just heads for the elevator. Jungkook runs after her.

“Wait up!”

The elevator takes them to the third floor, and Jungkook allows her to guide him to the thirteenth door on the right even though he’s memorised his way by his second visit. She pushes down the handle of her door, and Jungkook steps in after her, shrugging off his coat and draping it over her desk chair. He flops on the bed.

She snorts. “I should’ve known you came here solely for my bed.”

“I feel like they purposely give the girls better mattresses,” Jungkook hypothesizes. He flips himself onto his stomach, propping his elbows onto the mattress and his head onto his hands, and watches her move around the room as she begins her nightly skincare routine. “It’s gender discrimination.”

“Oh my gosh, you actually know a big word,” she mocks, wiping her face off with a chemical exfoliating pad. She throws it in the trash when she’s done and tosses Jungkook her face wash. “The bathroom’s free right now. No one takes a shower this late. If you hurry, a girl won’t walk in and scream.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, grabbing the small face towel off her shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

He exits the dorm room and makes his way to the bathroom, pausing outside to listen to possible showers running. It’s silent inside, and he decides to risk it, opening the door and closing it quickly behind. The place is empty; toothbrushes fill up cubbies, a rubber duck lounging on the sink. He thinks how different it is from the boy’s bathroom where steam constantly warms up the room. He quickly splashes water on his face and massages the cleanser in, running out of the bathroom while still drying his face.

She’s watching him in amusement as she tosses him her toner. Jungkook glares at her, dumping the towel in the laundry basket. “Not funny.”

“You look like you’ve just been to war,” she points out, giggling. “I told you there won’t be any girls, Jungkook. You didn’t have to be afraid.”

“I was not afraid,” he mumbles, taking off his sweater. He pulls down the t-shirt underneath when he feels it ride up. She moves her chair over and he sits on the floor beside her, patting the toner onto his skin. “Are you doing a face mask today?”

“Yep. Do you wanna be the bunny or the tiger?”

“Is that even a question?”

“Bunny it is.”

“Excuse you, I am a big, manly, ferocious tiger.”

She whistles. “Another big word there, Jungkook-ah. Have you been reading the dictionary lately?”

He whines.

She laughs and hands him the bunny mask. “You’re a bunny through and through, Jungkook. Sorry, not sorry.”

Jungkook sighs, but rips the package open and puts the mask on anyway. He stretches his neck in an attempt to see the mirror, but all he sees are makeup products lying scattered across the wood. A huff of frustration escapes his lips, and she giggles above him, turning him around so that he’d face her. Her fingers brush against his skin as they adjust the mask over his face, pressing it down securely.

He looks up at her in her tiger mask, grabs his camera from the desk and snaps a shot of her. She’s not even phased.

“Not going to lie, but you look kind of scary.”

“Not going to lie, but you look kind of adorable,” she counters. She rolls her chair away, and Jungkook stands, setting his camera aside and flopping onto her bed again.

Jungkook huffs. “I told you, I’m a big, manly—”

“—ferocious tiger, I know,” she interrupts. “But tigerness is in the eye of the beholder.”

“That’s not even how the saying goes.”

“Details. Wanna watch the latest Haikyuu episode?”

They press themselves together on the bed, his arm slung lazily around her as a way to keep the both of them from falling off the twin-sized bed. One episode becomes two, and two quickly becomes rewatching the entire third season, shared growls of frustration and howls of laughter echoing in the small dorm room. Their masks were abandoned some time after the first episode, their face still sticky with residue.

She stands up after they’ve rewatched the newest episode again, yawning as she grabs the moisturiser off her desk. She pumps out a couple drops onto her palm and hands the rest of the bottle to him, and the two spent the next minute just rubbing the cream onto their skin.

Jungkook yawns. “I should probably go back to my room now.”

He stands, stretching his tired limbs, and realises she’s been quiet for a while now. He looks down at her and notices the way she’s worrying her bottom lip, eyes trained on the ground as a million words fly through her head. He sits back down on the edge of the bed, tilting his head to look at her properly. “Penny for your thoughts?”

She purses her lips. “My roommate’s actually been gone for three days now.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Do you miss her?”

“Not really. I mean, yes, since we’re friends but—that’s not the problem.” She bites her bottom lip again, plays with her fingers a bit. Jungkook waits patiently for her to speak. She takes a deep breath. “When—When I sleep alone, I get these nightmares. I guess maybe it’s because my mum and I used to share a bed growing up, and when she died my dad tucked me into his side as replacement. I thought I’d be better now that I’m older, but I always slept with the door open, and Dad was just down the hall and…”

She trails off, not knowing what to say. Jungkook watches her for a moment, and then reaches out to pry her shaking hands apart. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

She looks up in surprise. “A—Are you sure? I don’t want to be a burden.”

He smiles. “You’ll never be a burden. I can sleep on the floor.”

“No, no,” she protests, shaking her head adamantly. “Just sleep on my roommate’s bed; she won’t mind. She washed her sheets anyway, so it’s actually bare, and—”

“That’s fine. I’ll just fold her blanket and put it on her chair. You have an extra, right?”

She nods. “You can use my second pillow too.”

He smiles, engulfing her into a hug. “You’ll be fine. I’m here, after all.”

She laughs softly. “Thank you.”

They move around the room, her fishing out the blankets and him shrugging off his jeans beneath the covers. He dumps the cursed pants on the floor, wrapping himself up and breathing in the scene of fresh laundry. She settles underneath her own covers minutes later, face turned towards his.

“Goodnight, Kookie.”

He smiles. “Goodnight.”

He wakes up feeling too hot, the heat clinging onto his skin. Groggily, he pushes himself up, but finds an arm wrapped securely around his waist, holding him down. He panics for a moment, wondering where he is, but then remembers her pleads and him agreeing. His heart rate calms.

She’s sleeping peacefully beside him, mouth open as silent snores dance through the night. In the darkness, she looks younger, more vulnerable to the world. Her hair pools around her like wishes from a star, and he reaches down to carefully tuck strands of hair behind her ear.

He settles back down on the bed and falls back asleep.

He’s in the library with Jimin when she unexpectedly arrives, a tray of cupcakes in her hands. There’s no rule in the library that says food isn’t allowed, but most patrons simply assume it’s law; after all, stains can destroy pages and smells can distract people.

He doesn’t notice her at first, too wrapped up in his medieval European art history book to notice. It isn’t until he feels arms around his shoulders and a body pressing against his back that he acknowledges her presence.

He doesn’t lift his eyes from the textbook, merely sighing. “Please get off me. You’re heavy.”

“Okay, that’s rude,” she comments, setting the cupcakes down. She makes no move to get off. “Jiminnie-oppa, please tell Jungkook it’s rude to comment on a woman’s weight.”

Jimin stares at the both of them. “Since when is this a thing?”

“Since when is what a thing?” Jungkook asks.

“This.” Jimin gestures vaguely to them. “The cuddling.”

“Oh,” she says, and Jungkook feels himself blush. He’s glad she’s standing beside him and not in front of him; he doesn’t know what he’ll do if she sees how red his face is. “I don’t know—about a week ago? Don’t you cuddle Taehyungie-oppa, Jimin-oppa?”

Jimin blinks. “Uh, yeah. I guess I do.”

She nods. “Then that’s what Jungkookie and I do. We cuddle.”

Jimin’s eyes move from her face to Jungkook’s.

Jungkook’s face burns brighter. He coughs. “Yep. It’s all—all platonic.”

Jimin watches them for a moment. “Well, okay.”

He goes back to work.

Jungkook releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He eyes the cupcakes. “Wait, what’s this?”

She snorts. “Of course, you’d just notice the cupcakes. I was volunteering at the local bakery today—did you know Professor Kim’s family owns it, by the way? Anyways, they had a couple leftovers, so I thought I’d give you some. They’re choco-banana flavoured, by the way.”

Jungkook immediately attacks one, crumbs falling onto his shirt. She tusks and wipes them away. Jimin’s eyes are on them again.

“I have the recipe, if you want. You could charm the dining commons lady again and we can bake a couple batches.”

“Can we sell them?”

“To people on campus? I mean sure. As long as we don’t get caught.”

“I call fifty percent share.”

She pauses. “Jungkookie, you do realise fifty percent is half the share right?”

He’s silent. “Right. I knew that.”

He can picture her roll her eyes. “Of course you did.”

The librarian glares at them. Jungkook goes back to his textbook. She keeps her arms around him. Jimin continues to stare.

Jungkook sighs. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Wow, you want me to leave that badly, Jungkook-ah?” she teases, pinching his cheeks. He squirms away. She giggles. “Okay, okay. I’ll leave you to study.”

He sighs. “Thank you.”

She presses her lips to his forehead.

Jimin’s jaw drops.

“Have fun studying, you dork. Bye, Jimin-oppa!”

She leaves with one final glare from the librarian. Jimin’s still staring at him with an open mouth.

He sighs. “Can I help you, hyung?”

“I—You—” Jimin clamps his mouth shut, then clears his throat. “So, is there anything you want to tell me?”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “Uh, no?”

“Are you sure?”

He taps his foot in annoyance. “Yes, hyung. I’m perfectly fine.”

“Okay, just making sure.”

They go back to studying. Jimin stares at him from time to time. Jungkook sighs, deciding it’s getting annoying having to deal with Jimin. He packs his things and grabs the cupcakes, waving goodbye to the elder without a word.

They end up sleeping together more often than not. Usually, they spend the night in her dorm, tucked beneath layers of blankets, her head resting on his chest. Her roommate luckily doesn’t mind, thinks they’re dating instead. Jungkook won’t lie; her roommate’s presence makes cuddling a bit awkward, but both parties simply mind their own business, acting as though the other didn’t exist.

Jungkook wonders if she really got along with her roommate like she said, but he doesn’t question it. After all, her roommate isn’t here tonight, and they’re comfortable. They’ve cuddled enough times that Jungkook’s comfortable enough to discard his shirt and pants the way he would in his room, and she’s not shy to simply slip a giant t-shirt over her head and crawl into the space next to him.

Her legs are tangled in his as he combs his fingers through her hair; her head is resting on his bicep, hers loosely wrapping themselves around his waist. They lay there in silence, just listening to each other’s breathing until he begins to hum a song that’s been stuck in his head.

“What’s that?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. He manages to hear though; it’s hard not to when there’s only silence surrounding them.

“A song Namjoon-hyung showed me.” Jungkook twirls her hair around his finger. “You know Justin Bieber?”

“Who doesn’t know Justin Bieber,” she mumbles back, cuddling closer.

He hums. “It’s one of his lesser known songs—at least, here in Korea. I think it’s called ‘Nothing Like Us.’ I don’t understand the lyrics but I like the sound.”

She yawns. “It sounds pretty. Especially when you sing it.”

He smiles. Looks away, blushing. “Song’s not as pretty as you.”

He feels the finger that’s been tracing patterns on his hip suddenly freeze, and her head tilts upwards to look at his face. He doesn’t turn to look down at her, deciding to focus on the empty space in the bed across the room instead. Her fingers snakes across his skin until their caressing his cheek.

“Do you really think that?”

She slowly moves his face until they’re inches apart, and Jungkook remembers one moment when they were this close—once again, he’s close enough to count the lashes on her eyes.

They don’t move in unison; she’s the first one to be bold, to move up until her lips are centimetres from his. It’s only until the last second did she stop, fingers shaking against his cheek as hesitation fills her beautiful eyes. Jungkook brings his free hand to her face, thumb stroking against her cheek.

“It’s okay,” he promises, and he dips down, capturing her lips in his as they melted together, mouths moving against each other in a waltz. They kiss as though they’ve discovered something they’ve been missing, and her hands move from his face, softly grazing his chest.

She moves until she’s straddling him, his hands falling to her hips to keep her steady, and she runs her fingers upwards until they’re cupping his face again, thumb softly dancing across his jaw. She pulls away, her parted mouth barely brushing his lips.

“Say that again,” she begs, resting her forehead on his.

He closes his eyes, opens them again. “You’re so, so pretty.”

His boxers are the first to go, discarded onto the floor. They’re kissing again, her hands roaming all over his body, lips searing his skin. She travels downwards as he tries to hold back a groan; she wraps her mouth around his nipple, and he loses all control.

A giggle escapes her as she softly rakes his stomach with her nails, the muscles tensing as they only roam lower. Her voice is teasing as she presses a kiss to his jaw. “Have you always been this sensitive?”

“Maybe?” He gasps, feeling her suck particularly hard. Her teeth nibble on the area before her tongue moves to lick the mark, her hands wrapping themselves securely around his cock. She pumps him slowly, stretching out the pleasure, and he moans as she thumbs the slit, jerking his hips upwards in surprise.

She laughs. “Someone’s eager.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” he pants, thrusting into her hand.

She presses another bruising kiss into his jaw. “You’re so, so beautiful.”

He lets out a whine, eyes closing as she squeezes a little too hard. “C—Careful—”

Suddenly, he’s engulfed in something warm and wet, and his eyes spring open to find her swallowing him whole, the entire length buried inside her mouth. She lifts her head only to sink down quickly, sucking and massaging the inside of his thighs. He cries louder, bucking his hips forward, and she chokes, lifting herself off and coughing slightly.

Panic surges inside of him. “Shit—I—I’m sorry—”

She shakes her head, wrapping a hand around the base again. “It’s fine, Kook-ah. You’re fine. You can do whatever you want, okay? I can handle it.”

“But you—”

She kisses him on his lips, letting him taste the salty flavour of his precum. Slowly she sinks down again until she’s face to face with his cock once more. “I’m a big girl, Kookie. Do as you please, babe.”

He snaps as soon as her mouth is on him again, snapping his hips upwards in quick succession. He cries out in pleasure as the stimulation becomes too much, feels himself edging closer and closer until he’s seeing stars. She sucks hard, palming the inside of his thighs, sometimes reaching higher to toy with what she couldn’t swallow. He’s so close, so close he could burst—

Her grip tightens around his base, and he whines, tears slipping from his eyes.

“No—No, please—you can’t—”

She kisses his eyes, kisses his lips. “Sorry, sorry. I just—can we come together? Please?”

He whimpers. “Yes. Yes, please. Need to come, just please.”

She smiles, reaches over to her bedside table, pulls a drawer open. “I—I was on the pill the first two times but—but I stopped recently—you don’t mind a condom do you, babe?”

He shakes his head; he doesn’t care anymore, just needs the release, needs her—

“Okay, okay, calm down, sweetheart,” she coos, ripping open the package and slowly slipping it on him; it’s tight, weird, foreign. He’s only worn a condom once, and that was before his ex-lover made sure he was clean. He whines at the feeling, and she pumps him as though to comfort him, but it only adds to his displeasure of not being able to feel her skin.

He cries out her name, and she kisses him again, lifting her t-shirt over her head as she slips her underwear off. “I’m going to finger myself first, okay? Gotta prepare myself perfectly for you—unless you want to?”

Desire burns inside of him and he quickly nods his head, and she switches their positions with only a bit of trouble. He traps her between his legs, his chest rising and falling heavily as his eyes searches her face. She giggles, reaching up to push away the bangs from his face.

“You’re really hot when you’re dominant, Kook-ah.”

He groans lowly in appreciation, reaching down with his fingers until they find the opening; he presses a single finger in, quickly adding another when he feels how wet she is. A mewl escapes her mouth, desperation dripping on her tongue, and she keens, fucking herself onto his hand as he curls his fingers, immediately pulling a reaction from within her.

“Jungkook—fuck!”

He repeats the motion, thrusting specifically in that general direction, and her moans crescendos, bouncing and reverberating against the walls. He adds in a third finger as he feels her slowly loosen, and soon the tightness becomes too addicting, too enticing not to use it properly.

Without warning, he flips her onto her stomach, and plunges straight into her hole.

The sensation is better than he remembers it to be, the heat hotter than he recalls despite the material that separates them. He pulls out experimentally until his tip is the only thing buried; he watches in fascination as he disappears completely, pounding straight into her. The headboard slams into the wall.

“Again, Jungkook, again—”

He growls, arms moving to grab her wrists as he pulls her backwards, and her back arches towards him, breasts exposed to the cold hair. He releases a grip on her hands as he feels her mounds, teasing her nipples until they’re rock hard.

“You’re so beautiful, so good—”

“Faster, please, faster—”

He leans forward and kisses her neck, returning the favour and marking her for all to see.

“I’m close, baby, so close—are you? Are you close too, Kook-ah?”

He grunts, the heat stronger than ever now. “Yeah. I’m—fuck—I’m close.”

“Can I?”

“Of course, love,” he mumbles, grabbing her jaw to softly kiss her from behind. He feels a whine escape her, the sound causing vibrations to dance on his lips. “Come with me, darling. Come with me.”

She moans as the pleasure rips her apart, liquid dripping past her walls and down her thighs. The sensation pulls him over the edge as he releases himself into the condom, continuing to snap his hips until the high completely falls. She’s panting, obviously spent, and he continues to ride out the bliss until he’s soft again.

Carefully, he pulls out, flips her onto her back again and presses a kiss onto her lips. He grabs the tissues from her table and begins to wipe her clean before gently peeling the condom off and throwing it into the trash. He proceeds to grab a new bundle of tissues to clean himself with, and then throws the wad onto the floor to be dealt with tomorrow.

“That felt good,” she whispers as he falls next to her.

He wraps an arm around her waist, and kisses her on the forehead. “Every moment with you feels good.”

She laughs. “I can’t believe you’re secretly this romantic. I’ve always pegged you for the highly cold, dominant type.”

He blushes. “My last relationship preferred it when I was pretty sub. Guess old habits die hard?”

“Hm,” she hums. “Either way, you’re amazing, Kook-ah. Thank you.”

He smiles, kisses her nose. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, love.”

The sunlight is what he wakes up to in the morning; her face is the first thing he notices. He doesn’t get up right away, instead revels in the memories of the night. He doesn’t remember a time when sex felt so good, when he felt so loved.

Love. The word had escaped his tongue last night, slipping past his walls before he could contain it, but there hadn’t been any panic unlike all the other times he said it before. There were no abruptly stopped orgasms, no bruises to his thighs, no whips, no belts, no pain.

Just—love.

And to have it be uttered back—he felt his heart sore at the feeling and the idea of finally, finally being loved back.

He stares at her sleeping figure, wishing he could stay. He wants to be the first thing she opens her eyes to, the first person to receive her ethereal smile. He wants to thread the words I love you again and again into her heart until she has memorised it and buried it deep inside her lungs.

The chime of his phone pulls him away from his thoughts, and he sighs, moving to turn off the alarm. He hates eight AM classes.

He stands, almost tripping on the discarded clothes. He eyes them hesitantly before slipping on his boxers and placing her clothes in the hamper. The tissues are thrown into the trash along with the open condom packet that fell in the middle of the night.

He grabs his t-shirt from yesterday, throwing it over his body, wraps himself in the hoodie he brought with him before tugging on his skinny jeans. The coat he brought with him is hanging behind the door, and quietly, he tiptoes over to his backpack and pulls out a chocolate bun that he meant to eat last night.

Searching around her desk, he finds a post-it note and a pen, quickly scribbling a 8AM class, have breakfast in bed xx and sticking it to the bun, which he places next to her phone on the bedside table. Smiling softly, he looks at her one last time before the urge to capture her overtakes him and causes him to reach for the camera that he carries everywhere.

The shutter clicks, and he stares at the image, his heart swelling. He loops the camera around his neck, pushes his arms through his winter coat, then presses a kiss to her forehead before he straps on his bags and slips on his shoes.

The door creaks open quietly, and he smiles all the way to class.

“Hyung,” Jungkook calls over the sounds of the coffee machine. It’s just Namjoon in the shop today, but the customers are as lively as ever; in the past ten minutes alone, Namjoon’s had to serve seven customers at once. Jungkook felt pity for the older and offered to help, since he, after all, knew exactly how the machines worked, having made his own coffee before. Namjoon smiled appreciatively at him, telling him he can help himself to as much coffee as he wants.

Namjoon hums, quickly calculating the change for an old lady. He’s always liked college students more; they never carry cash, and cards are so much easier to swipe. “Yeah?”

“How do you confess to someone you like?”

Namjoon stops mid-transaction before realising he has to swipe the card again. He quickly handles the new customer’s payment and hands him a receipt he never asked for. “What—Jungkook—did—”

“I think I’m in love,” he whispers, and despite the bustle of the shop, Namjoon hears his words loud and clear. He looks at the line and sees there are only three customers left, one of them being Yoongi, and he holds up a finger in the universal sign for wait before darting around the counter and grabbing the shorter man by the arm.

“Prof, do you have a sec?” Namjoon asks once Yoongi’s on the other side of the counter.

Yoongi rubs his arm. He doesn’t correct Namjoon. “I’m done for the day, if that’s what you mean.”

“Can you hold the fort for me? Please, just for a bit?”

“What the fuck? No—”

“I’ll buy you another month’s worth of coffee,” Namjoon begs. His eyes dart towards Jungkook, who pretends to be interested in the coffee he’s making.

Yoongi scowls.

“I need to talk to Jungkook.”

Jungkook lifts his eyes to find Yoongi staring at him; after all, his past relationship is no secret among his group of friends. He watches as Yoongi licks his lips and nods, grabbing Jimin’s apron and throwing it over his clothes. There’s a surprisingly pleasant smile on his face as he greets the customers, taking their orders smoothly as though he knows exactly what to do.

Namjoon moves to the spot beside Jungkook, but doesn’t touch anything. He only adds sugar and cream and syrups as necessary, allowing Jungkook to handle the fragile mugs alone.

He coughs into his palm. “How serious are you, Jungkook?”

Jungkook focuses on steaming the drink right. He watches as the foam coats itself onto the top layer, covering the dark brown liquid from plain sight. “I—I’ve never felt this way before, hyung.”

Namjoon doesn’t respond, merely squeezes caramel syrup into a small cup. Once he’s done, Jungkook takes it from him and places it on the counter. Namjoon clenches his fists. “That’s what you said last time, Kook.”

“I know, but I’m sure this time—” He breaks off, suddenly feeling desperate. His breathing quickens. “Hyung, last night was the first time I’ve had sex and actually felt loved.”

“Jungkook-ah—”

He takes a deep breath. Releases it. “I know how it sounds, hyung. But—But it’s different this time. With noona—there was always something that hurt despite feeling loved. But last night—last night I only felt love, hyung. And I’ve never felt so happy.”

Namjoon’s eyes softened, grabbing Jungkook’s shaking hands. He didn’t even notice he’s begun to shake, but Namjoon merely wraps his arms around him and runs his fingers softly through his hair.

“ ‘Being loved deeply by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage,’ ” Namjoon cites. Yoongi moves around them to begin the next batch of orders, while Namjoon pulls away and gives him a radiant smile. “I’m so proud of you, Jungkookie. And to answer your question—there is no right answer. All you have to do is just go for it.”

Hoseok invites him to a party, and Jungkook, for once, agrees. The excitement in his roommate’s eyes is prominent as he searches through the younger’s closet for something to make him wear.

“I can just go in jeans and a t-shirt—”

“Fuck no, Jungkookie, you’re not leaving looking like that—”

He ends up in a fuzzy white and deep blue sweater, dark grey slacks fitting him in all the right places. Hoseok’s managed to convince him to wear his dark gray earrings despite Jungkook’s protests. His roommate looks at him in satisfaction as he works magic on his eyes, dusting a soft bronzy-black look across hooded eyelids.

Hoseok whistles lowly once he’s done, and Jungkook opens his eyes, watching the elder pack away palettes he didn’t even know the elder owned.

“Where did you get all of these, anyways?” he asks, motioning to the brushes and blushes and a million other products he doesn’t know the name of.

Hoseok shrugs, dumping everything into a zipped pouch. “We kind of need it for dance? My sister taught me how to use all of this when I was a freshman, but I mostly learned from the girls in our department.”

Jungkook turns and stares at his reflection in the mirror. His heart pounds in his chest. He looks different.

There’s a slap on his back, and he looks up to find Hoseok grinning down at him, a wink thrown his way. The elder pulls him to his feet and grabs them both a coat each, pushing them out the door and locking it behind them. The air is warmer now, forgiving enough to let them leave the thick winter coats in favour of something thinner. Still, Jungkook prefers to wear the padded jacket he got for Christmas anyways; there’s still hints of snow on the ground, the last signs of winter just slipping away.

“Who’s hosting this party?” Jungkook asks, listening to the crunch of his shoes. He wonders what she’s doing that day, if she liked the small gift he left for her that morning. (It may not be much—in fact, Jungkook realises leaving a chocolate bun and playing it off as breakfast in bed is a little sad. He argues that it’s the thought that counts anyways, and forces himself to not worry much about it.)

Hoseok hums, skipping a step. “Some guys in the dance department. We’re all graduating soon, so we figured why the hell not.”

“Wait, it’s on campus?”

“Nah,” Hoseok denies, shaking his head. He gives him a friendly smile. “Don’t worry, Jungkookie. Trust me.”

By the time they arrive, the bass is already pounding against the walls; there are dancing bodies and staggering people everywhere, making the place feel hot and tight and unnerving. Jungkook regrets wearing the coat and slips it off, throwing it into a random pile of similarly abandoned outerwear. No one’s bothered to take off their shoes despite the sign that read No shoes please, and so he decides it’s only fair he follows the majority.

Hoseok disappears from beside him moments later, yelling over the music about finding something to drink before the crowd swallows him completely. Normally, the separation would force Jungkook into a state of anxiety, but tonight, he finds he doesn’t mind.

Maybe Namjoon was right. Loving someone deeply does give one courage.

He moves through the dancing crowd, melts into the music as he lets the rhythm takes him away. Old techniques he’s buried to the back of his brain resurfaces once more, and he remembers the hip-hop classes his middle school friends convinced him to take before he grew bored due to his love for photography.

He feels an arm slink around his waist, his head snapping towards the person behind him. He release a breath of relief when he finds that it’s only Taehyung, the goofy, dorky grin plastered across his face. He’s holding a cup of transparent liquid in his free hand, which Jungkook highly doubts is water.

“Never thought I’d see you at these kinds of things again, Jungkook-ah!” Taehyung yells over the crowd, keeping their bodies close as guys and girls stumble behind him. Jungkook realises his friend is already plenty drunk, tilting backwards and forwards at random moments. He’s using Jungkook’s body as leverage, and Jungkook stares at Taehyung, unamused.

“Thought I’d try it again,” Jungkook mutters.

Taehyung doesn’t hear, merely sways back and forth before downing the cup in his hand. “Say, help me find Jiminnie, yeah? He—He said he wanted to get laid tonight.”

Jungkook sighs, already expecting this to happen the moment he agreed to Hoseok. It’s always how these parties turn out; Jimin would disappear into the crowd only to come whining to him about losing a girl’s interest, Taehyung would get drunk and then demands to play five rounds of beer pong, and Hoseok will claim the room for the night with whoever he manages to drag home.

Still, Jungkook doesn’t mind, pulls Taehyung along instead as he escapes the dance floor. He moves towards the kitchen to fetch himself a cup before searching through random rooms for a familiar mop of orange hair.

He instead finds pink wrapped in a black sweater and ripped skinny jeans. Jimin runs a hand through his hair, eyes lighting up when he sees Jungkook. He braces himself for the sobs to come, but it never does. He opens an eye and meets a beaming Jimin instead.

“Jungkookie!” the shorter male greets, wrapping an arm around the younger. “I heard from Joonie-hyung! I’m so, so proud of you, Kook-ah!”

Taehyung wobbles. “Wait, what are we celebrating?”

“Jungkookie’s found love!” Jimin squeals, laughing as he throws his free arm around Taehyung’s shoulders. It’s a bit of a struggle, and he practically pulls both taller men down. “And not just any love—real love!”

“Hyung,” Jungkook calls, trying to escape Jimin’s grip, “are you drunk?”

“Drunk on happiness!” Jimin calls, whooping excitedly. Jungkook sighs. “Come on, smile, Jungkookie. That’s not the face of a boy in love!”

“I’ll smile if you would just calm down, hyung—no, Taetae-hyung, don’t run off!”

His words are futile as the older man vanishes, screaming beer pong! Beer pong! in continuous repetition. Jimin detaches himself from Jungkook, rocking himself back and forth on his feet. He grins up at him.

“I have a feeling, Jungkook-ah,” he mumbles, speech almost incoherent. “Today will be a good day.”

At that, Jungkook smiles. “I hope so too, hyung.”

And then he sees it—a swish of a hair, familiar arms disappearing behind a wall. He leans on his tiptoes to try to see past the crowd, cursing when she vanishes completely from his sight. He pushes Jimin off, muttering an apology, before he’s surging forward, shoving through walls made of sweaty bodies and unwanted flirty remarks.

She’s right in front of him then, and a smile breaks out on his lips; he can taste the words on his tongue, the confession ready to drip into existence. He can already picture them kissing, picture her smiling up at him in the only way she can, eyes coated with nothing but love, love, love—

—and then it shatters, her arm being pulled away by an equally familiar figure, the lips he is dreaming of captured in another’s kiss. He hears his heart break, the pieces he so desperately pasted together slowly crumbling; after all, glue was never strong enough to hold such a fragile thing together.

The tears appear in his eyes as he watches them leave, her body staggering after the boy’s as laughter bubbles out of her throat—he thought that was only reserved for him, thought he was the only one who could make feel loved.

He’s a fool. A complete, utter fool.

He’s running before he can stop himself, leaving Taehyung and Jimin behind; he writes them a mental apology and hopes they’ll be alright. His feet know they can’t race towards his room—that’s occupied, filled with moans that’s not for him, kisses that’s not for him, lovebites that’s not for him.

The bruises on his neck suddenly sears in pain.

The air around him grows colder but he only dashes faster, not checking the traffic signs as he crosses long, winding streets, narrowly managing to avoid cars and jumping over concrete. He runs until he no longer tastes air, no longer hears his own heartbeat pulsing against his chest, until the only word he hears is manipulation, manipulation, manipulation.

Fool, fool, fool.

The door is familiar; he hasn’t visited since last summer. He takes a deep breath and knocks once, twice, fingers shaking and teeth chattering as tears coat his untainted face. He’s choking when the door finally opens, an unfamiliar woman standing in the doorway. For a moment, he’s afraid Yoongi’s moved, that he got the wrong address, that he has nowhere to go—

—until the man is standing behind the unknown woman, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Shit, Kook, what happened?” he asks, hands pulling Jungkook inside and immediately enveloping him into a hug. Yoongi rocks his trembling body back and forth until his sobs become dry heaves, until he can no longer block the pain out and let it overtake him.

“Hyung—hyung—”

Yoongi shushes him. “I’ve got you, Kook. I got you—”

“Hobi-hyung he—he’s with her and—they left together—I don’t know—it hurts, hyung, it hurts—”

Yoongi’s grip on him tightens as he continues to rock them both together. Jungkook doesn’t know how long he’s cried until finally exhaustion is inevitable, and he falls asleep in Yoongi’s arms.

The only way he could describe his feelings is numb; it’s as though a void has settled within him, robbing him of every emotion known to man. The only other word he could think of that may even come close to numb is exhaustion, if anything due to the puffy eyes and dried tear streaks.

He pulls off the covers that swallowed him completely, standing shakily on his bare feet. He’s still dressed in last night’s clothes, but at least Yoongi’s laid out a t-shirt and sweatpants for him to change into. He feels sticky, disgusted with his own body, and he searches the room for some soap, shampoo, something. There’s a small basket of toiletries sitting on the desk, and Jungkook grabs it, running for the bathroom without thinking twice.

He turns the knob until the water is scalding, sits underneath the shower until his head goes numb. He scrubs his body until his skin is raw and red, rubs shampoo into his hair until is scalp is bleeding—Yoongi finds him weeping in the shower, sitting on the tiles with his knees to his chest.

When he comes to, the woman from last night is gone, and he’s sitting at the dining table with a plate of pancakes in front of him, whipped cream and maple syrup glazing over the top. There’s even bananas, sliced into neat pieces, wedged into the cream, a design Jungkook always found exciting as a kid.

This time, he only felt repulsed. He pushes the plate away.

Yoongi sighs. “Jungkook-ah, you need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbles, staring at the wood of the table. He kicks his feet against the carpeted floor.

“You need something in your stomach, kid,” Yoongi argues, and now he’s not even trying to hide the worry in his voice. Jungkook hates himself for making the elder feel that way, for having to force him to deal with him simply because he’s heartbroken again.

He stubbornly shakes his head. “I don’t want to eat, hyung. I can’t.”

Silence overwhelms the both of them; it’s neither calming nor tense. They sit there quietly as Yoongi munches on his pancakes, as Jungkook simply stares at a fixed point somewhere in the distant. When Jungkook comes to, Yoongi’s clearing the plates, Jungkook’s stack of pancakes placed neatly in the fridge for a later time.

“Seokjin-hyung wants to see you today,” Yoongi says, scrubbing the dishes with a green sponge, and Jungkook lifts his eyes too look at his hyung’s face. He notices how tired he seems, how swollen his eyes were; he wasn’t the only one crying last night. “I told him you were going through something personal right now, and he agreed to push off the meeting till Wednesday.”

Jungkook doesn’t reply, simply stares at the way Yoongi scrubs the plate again and again and again.

“He wants to talk to you about your entry, kid, so I suggest you start working on it today.”

“I have pictures,” Jungkook says.

Yoongi looks up surprised.

“I mean, I’ve taken some,” he revises, staring at Yoongi’s collection of cameras that stay locked behind glass cases. “Except the camera’s in my room right now, and I—”

The words die on his tongue, but Yoongi understands. Yoongi always understands.

The elder sighs, dropping the plate into the sink. “I’ll tell Jimin or Taehyung to pick it up for you.”

Jungkook nods. Yoongi grabs his phone and dials a number.

The door slams open with an angry BANG; Yoongi left it unlocked for the troublesome duo. There’s Jungkook’s familiar camera hanging from Taehyung’s hands, the metal worn out but awfully familiar. Jimin storms in with rage painted on his face, eyes blazing and mouth set into a firm, tight line.

One look at Jungkook and all that melts away, the pink-haired male running to immediately engulf Jungkook into a hug. Jungkook realises a minute too late that Jimin’s crying, tears seeping into his shirt.

“Hyung’s sorry, Jungkookie. Hyung’s so, so sorry—”

Jungkook sits there limply, letting Jimin cry. Taehyung hands Yoongi the camera and punches the wall.

Yoongi sighs. “Fuck, this whole thing is a mess.”

This time, it’s Jungkook’s turn to apologise. “I’m sorry.”

Jimin pulls away, wiping the tears from his eyes. “No. No, never apologise, Jungkookie. It’s not your fault.”

“Jiminnie’s right,” Taehyung growls, grabbing the first aid kit that Yoongi hands to him. He’s bandaging his hand, which is raw and red and split. “Out of all the fucking people, it had to be Hobi-hyung—”

“It’s not his fault,” Jungkook mumbles, and Taehyung turns to look at him incredulously, disbelievingly. He interrupts before Taehyung could begin. “He didn’t know about her. I mean, he did, but he’s the only one out of all of us who hasn’t really met her. It’s not his fault.”

Taehyung softens. “That’s… true.”

Jimin’s eyes grow cold. “Doesn’t give him a fucking right, though. But you’re right. It’s mostly her fault, if we’re being honest.”

“No,” Jungkook protests. He shakes his head adamantly, desperately objecting. She doesn’t deserve to be portrayed as a bad kid; not all bad families make bad kids. “She did nothing wrong. It’s me. It’s me.”

“Jungkookie,” Taehyung whispers, seating himself beside him. Taehyung wraps an arm around the younger’s figure, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “She’s manipulating you.”

Fear vibrates his every core.

“No,” he denies, shaking Taehyung’s arms off him. “No, she’s not—she’s not manipulating me—she’s not—”

Yoongi’s arms steady him, stopping him from accidentally hurting himself. His eyes are bloodshot and red, eyes puffier than what Jungkook remembers.

“I’m sorry, kid,” is all Jungkook gets, and he slumps in Yoongi’s embrace, reality washing over him.

The next time he wakes up he’s in bed again, Jimin and Taehyung’s voices out of the picture. Instead, he hears Namjoon talking to Yoongi, the younger of the two apologising over and over while the elder denies the guilt again and again. Jungkook closes his eyes, refusing to listen to their conversation. He falls asleep again.

It’s night by the time he finally comes to. He rubs his eyes, squinting through the darkness, and finds his phone on his bed. The clock reads 9:52 PM. There are texts from all sorts of people. The most recent one is from Hoseok.

He clears away his notifications.

Shuffling, he searches the bedroom walls for the lightswitch, sighing in relief when the bright lights above the room illuminates every dark crevice. The first thing he notices with the lights on is the laptop on the bed, USB plugged in. A bright green sticky note is stuck onto the top, the words Exhibition written in messy handwriting.

He rips the post-it off and throws it in the trash, booting the laptop up. He supposes it’s time he gets around to it.

There’s no passcode on the device, just a happy little welcome button. He clicks on it, waits for the desktop to load. The USB is registered almost immediately once the files on screen comes to life, and he clicks through the folders to find the images from the past few months.

He suddenly feels like he’s been slapped in the face.

There are rows and rows of pictures of her in every form—there’s a photo of leaving the coffee shop, of her on the swings. There’s a picture of her laughing through the streetlights and of her screaming at him as she chases him down the streets. There’s an image of her in a tiger mask, his reflection captured in the mirror behind her.

There’s a memory of their first time making love, of unheard promises and raw, unfiltered hearts.

He feels queasy to the bone.

He selects every single photo and right-clicks to delete, but his fingers pause and hesitates last second. He stares at the images, the memories he’s made in the past few months. Is it worth it to burn it all away?

The folder is closed without any alterations to the files; the USB is ejected safely and the laptop is shut down. He tosses the memory stick somewhere in the room, and crawls back underneath the covers to fall asleep.

Somehow, Yoongi agrees to tutor Jungkook in Art 103. He never attends lectures anymore, simply going to class for courses he can’t make up. Professor Kim has been told of the situation, although no names were given, no faces attached. The art professor simply nods in understanding and asks Yoongi to take care of his student.

Jungkook still, however, can’t avoid meeting Professor Kim; it’s imperative they meet before the exhibition. Jungkook sighs as he trudges across campus, following the paths less wandered on. He’s been avoiding her this way, and with Namjoon, Jimin, and Taehyung as lookouts, he manages to avoid both Hoseok and her altogether.

The art department building looms ahead of him, and he stares up at the grey walls, biting his bottom lip in nervousness. The hallways are empty except for a few students who no doubt are heading to class; he makes sure to stay away from the direction of the painting studios.

He climbs the stairs instead of taking the elevator, using his lack of workout as an excuse. Who he’s giving the excuse to he’s not entirely sure.

Professor Kim’s office lies right next to the stairwell, and he quickly peeks inside to see if he’s free. The man is sitting at his desk, studying a charcoal drawing, and Jungkook knocks once before the professor looks up, a smile on his face. He beckons the student in, and Jungkook wastes no time closing the door behind him, afraid that somehow, he might run into them here.

“Professor,” he greets, bowing lowly.

Professor Kim smiles. “Jungkook-ah. Take a seat.”

Jungkook slips into one of the chairs in front of the desk; it’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s better than the plastic chairs outside. He waits patiently for Professor Kim to start, pressing his back further into the chair. His backpack digs into his spine.

“I’m sure you know we’re here to talk about the exhibition,” Professor Kim says, and Jungkook nods, fiddling with his thumbs. Professor Kim smiles reassuringly. “I won’t force you to submit the required minimum of ten pieces, Jungkook-ah. I’ve talked to the higher-ups of the department. We’ve come to a collective agreement to let you submit however many you would like.”

Jungkook’s heart sinks. “I—I don’t think I have anything to enter, Professor.”

They don’t speak for a while. Professor Kim continues to stare.

“I’ve taken pictures, but they represent something else now, and I don’t think it’s a good idea on my part as an artist to submit something that doesn’t quite fit the theme,” he explains. It’s hard to keep his voice from quivering, but he manages somehow. “I understand that my photos might resemble happiness but—they don’t, at least not to me. It’ll be unfair for me to lie to the audience like that.”

“I see,” Professor Kim says. Jungkook looks up, afraid of what he might see on his teacher’s face, but Professor Kim’s eyes holds nothing but understanding. “Well, I guess it can’t really be helped. I’ll tell the directors above me. Maybe you’ll join us next year?”

He smiles. “Sure. As long as the theme fits my style.”

“I’m trying to get the higher ups to agree to a Super Mario Bros theme,” Professor Kim confesses. Jungkook almosts laughs and believes he’s joking, but the teacher’s face is completely serious. “Imagine all the kids taking picture of Mario figurines and painting Mario figurines and sculpting Mario figurines—”

Jungkook laughs.

Professor Kim smiles. “Sorry.”

Jungkook shakes his head. “Yoongi-hyung warned me about your addiction.”

“Addiction? The fucker, I’m a fanatic not an addict—”

Jungkook laughs again. “I’m sure, Professor.”

Professor Kim smiles kindly at him. Jungkook stands, bowing gratefully before turning towards the door. Professor Kim coughs, and he turns around, surprised to see the sad eyes that suddenly consumes his teacher’s expression.

“If you ever need to talk, Jungkookie,” Professor Kim begins, “feel free to come to me.”

Jungkook feels his heart cry. He smiles. “Thank you.”

He leaves the room behind.

Hoseok eventually finds him on the fourth day of his leave, eyes wide and brimming with tears.

“Jungkookie!” he yells, catching the attention of several passerby, and Jungkook’s eyes widen, panic overriding his system. He needs to leave before Hoseok reaches him, before he feels more like a perpetrator than a victim.

Hoseok’s arms flies around him, drawing him into a hug. Jungkook tenses as Hoseok cries, wet tears now soaking his hoodie. This is a familiar scene, a scene that was on constant repeat for the majority of last semester—he remembers crying faces, words of love, broken promises, his innocent guilty heart.

He tries to escape Hoseok’s grip, but the dancer merely hugs him tighter. Jungkook feels Hoseok’s mouth open, and he braces himself for the toxic words.

“I’m sorry!”

And Jungkook blinks, not expecting that of him. He stops struggling, falling limp in Hoseok’s arms. He waits a beat or two, waits for Hoseok to gather himself and finish the rest of his speech.

Hoseok releases Jungkook and sniffles, wiping at his eyes. “Taehyungie told me everything. I—I’m so sorry, Jungkook-ah. I didn’t know.”

“I know,” Jungkook whispers.

“It’s okay, you can blame me—”

“I don’t blame you, hyung,” Jungkook whispers. Hoseok stares at him. “It’s not your fault; you honestly didn’t know. I don’t blame you, hyung. I never would.”

“Oh, Jungkookie,” Hoseok says, and he wraps his arms around him again, squeezing him tightly. “You’re far too kind.”

He shakes his head. “Just love you, hyung.”

Hoseok breaks down again. “Yes, I—I love you too, Jungkookie. Gosh, you’re such an amazing little brother, aren’t you? I—The world doesn’t deserve you, Jungkook-ah.”

Jungkook smiles. “Thank you.”

“Let’s go home, okay? I’ve missed you so, so much.”

“I’ve missed you too, hyung.”

“Wanna play Mario Kart? We’ll invite everyone. Hell, I’ll invite Professor Kim, too.”

Jungkook laughs. “Okay, hyung. Let’s do that.”

He receives a text message from her on day six.

hoseok sunbae told me you saw us at the party. it didn’t mean anything. not an excuse but i was really drunk and i’m sorry and i just really, really miss you. pls text me back xx

He deletes the message and tucks the phone into his pocket.

He sleeps over at Jimin and Taehyung’s on day eleven. He’s not avoiding Hoseok anymore; everyone in their group has made amends, and he has moved back to his dorm. The only reason he’s even taking over their couch tonight is because their weekly Game Night ended up lasting a little too long, and with recent events, Jimin and Taehyung refuses to let Jungkook wander out alone at three in the morning.

He’s grateful; he doesn’t think he’d be able to stomach all the junk he ate if the memories start resurfacing again.

“You sure you don’t want to sleep in a bed?” Jimin asks for the millionth time, his Busan accent slipping back into his speech. Jungkook notices it’s happening more often lately. He knows his mental health is putting a toll on his best friends, and he mentally apologises for being a burden to them.

Taehyung reads the expression on his face and glares at Jungkook, reprimanding. “You’re taking the bed, and we’re all going to cuddle together and remind you you’re loved, and you’re going to fucking accept it because no, Jeon Jungkook, you are not a burden to us.”

Jungkook blinks at them. “But—”

“No,” Taehyung interrupt, and kneels in front of him on the couch. He grabs Jungkook’s hands and squeezes the fingers tight. “Repeat after me, Kook-ah. I am loved.”

“I am loved,” Jungkook echoes.

“My father loves me.”

“My father loves me.”

“My mother loves me.”

“My mother loves me.”

“My brothers loves me.”

“My brothers loves me.”

“Taehyung is the best.”

Jimin throws a pillow at him. “Taetae.”

Taehyung laughs. “I’m kidding. Repeat after me, though, Kookie—I am not alone.”

Something clogs his circulation. He inhales deeply, closing his eyes and breathing through his nostrils. He lets out a shaky breath. “I am not alone.”

“Good job,” Taehyung congratulates, rising to his feet. “Now you’re gonna follow Jiminnie and me to my beautiful bed.”

“Wait, who says we’re sleeping on your bed?” Jimin whines. “Your bed’s a fucking full. We should sleep in mine since it’s a queen.”

“But who has the memory foam, Jiminnie? Who does?”

“…You.”

“Exactly,” Taehyung says triumphantly. He offers Jungkook a hand, pulling him onto his feet. He grabs Jimin’s left one, and pulls them towards his room. “We might be squashed but at least our backs will be alright!”

“I’m going to fall off the bed tonight,” Jimin mumbles. Taehyung dismisses him, pulling all three of them onto the small space simultaneously. Jungkook’s legs end up kicking Jimin in the stomach, and Jimin’s arm socks Taehyung in the gut. “This is a bad idea.”

“Nonsense,” Taehyung waves off. “Comfortable, Kookie?”

Jungkook twists under Taehyung’s grip. “Uh, not really.”

“See, we’re fine! Goodnight, guys!”

Silence. And then—

“I can’t fucking sleep. I’m taking Jungkookie to my room.”

“Excuse you, you fucking bastard, did you just ignore my hospitality—”

They end up on Jimin’s bed. It’s still slightly cramped, but at least it fits them better. Taehyung’s fast asleep ten minutes in, his snores soft and soothing to Jungkook’s ears. He lies there, just staring at the ceiling, and he suddenly remembers plastic stars and fake constellations.

“Jungkookie?” Jimin’s voice croaks in the darkness. “Are you okay?”

Jungkook blinks, realising he’s crying yet again. He moves to wipe the tears in his eyes, moving so that he’s facing away from the older boys. “I’m fine.”

Jimin sighs. “Come here, Jungkook-ah. Sleep between Taetae and hyung.”

He hesitates for a while, before sitting up; he makes out Jimin’s figure in the dark, sees his eyes staring at his figure. He crawls over Taehyung’s legs and pushes himself in between the two boys, Taehyung immediately turning and latching onto his body. Jimin throws a leg over him as well, snuggling closer until Jungkook’s completely warm.

“It’s okay to cry, you know,” Jimin whispers, hands threading through his hair. “I know it hurts a lot. More than last time. If it helps, please cry. I don’t want you to bottle all that inside.”

“I know,” Jungkook mumbles back. He turns on his side so that he’s facing Jimin and tucks himself into his hyung’s chest. It feels weird to make himself smaller, but that’s the reality; Jungkook will always be the little brother, and Jimin and Taehyung and Namjoon and Hoseok and Yoongi and maybe even Professor Kim will always take care of him and make sure he’s loved.

He takes a shaky breath. “I just—I really love her, hyung. And it hurts so much.”

“I know, Jungkookie, I know,” Jimin mutters back.

“She texted me a couple days ago, you know? She says she misses me. I wanted to say I miss her too, but I couldn’t do it. I love her so much but she’s hurting me so much and I don’t want to get hurt again.”

“I know, Jungkookie.”

“But—but I’m already hurt so—so what’s the point?”

Jimin hums softly. “Do you really, really love her, Jungkook-ah?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe…” he trails off. Takes a deep breath. Releases his thoughts. “Maybe you should let her go.”

He walks into Yoongi’s studio to find him bickering with Professor Kim, the former insisting the white backdrop is more than fine. Professor Kim huffs and protests he’s taking away the art in photography, that he’s wasting away a potentially perfect photograph on boring, mundane concepts.

Namjoon and Hoseok sit off the side, both of them wearing expensive-looking tailored suits. Hoseok spots Jungkook first and waves him over, offering him a plate of brownies from Professor Kim’s family bakery. Jungkook happily takes one and stuff it in his mouth, not bothering to chew thoroughly before speaking.

“What’re you guys doing here?”

Namjoon looks up at him, bored. “Don’t talk with your mouth open. Also, we’re supposed to be taking graduation pictures but—”

“I’m telling you, white backdrops are unnecessarily boring. I’d understand if this was for the school, but it’s for these kids’ private collections,” Professor Kim protests. “I demand they have funky backgrounds.”

“Funky backgrounds,” Yoongi repeats, and then turns to Jungkook as though to say Can you believe this kid?

Professor Kim huffs, then turns to Jungkook as well. “Jungkook-ah, tell your hyung he’s stupid.”

“Jungkook-ah,” Yoongi mocks, “tell your professor he’s stupid.”

Professor Kim gasps. “I am offended—I am your hyung—”

Namjoon sighs. “Professor Min, Professor Kim—with all due respect, can we just please take the fucking photos?”

Yoongi smirks, snatching the camera from Professor Kim’s hands. “You heard the kid. Move it.”

Professor Kim narrows his eyes. “I can’t believe this. I came here to have a good time and I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now.”

“Wow, you know your fucking memes. Congratulations, you’re not ancient.”

“I’M HONESTLY FEELING SO ATTACKED RIGHT NOW—”

Yoongi clicks his tongue. “Jungkook, grab the reflector. Namjoon, sit right here and don’t you touch a fucking thing.”

It takes a whole two hours just to take Namjoon’s pictures; somewhere in between the rapid shutter of the camera, Professor Kim has managed to sneak five full-length mirrors into the backdrop. Yoongi drops his camera, glaring at his friend.

“Hyung,” he says, voice teetering dangerously, “you’re messing up the lighting.”

“Nonsense, it should be fine.”

“I’m the fucking photographer, you’re a fucking sketch artist—”

“Jungkook, why don’t you take the pictures? I’m sure you’ll take much better pictures that Yoongi here.”

“Fucking Kim Seokjin—”

“Oh, I never finished the story about the body shots, did I? So Yoongi here—”

“Oh, al-fucking-right!” Yoongi shoves the camera into Jungkook’s hands. “Take the damn pictures. I don’t care anymore.”

Jungkook stares at the camera. He looks up at Namjoon. “Uh, look pretty?”

Hoseok snorts, stretching in fatigue. “That’s gonna be pretty hard, not gonna lie.”

“Fuck you, Hoseok—”

Jungkook snaps a picture.

It takes another hour to finish Professor Kim’s latest concept, and another three wrap up Hoseok’s photo shoot. The same routine was established, with Yoongi taking the “boring, uninventive shots” (Professor Kim’s words, not his) and Jungkook taking the “unnecessary, stupid, too fucking extra” images (Yoongi’s words, not his).

By the time they’re done, the sun’s already setting and Hoseok’s late for dance practice, Hoseok and Namjoon bidding goodbye as the latter mutters something about pre-med papers needing to be written. Professor Kim lingers to help stow away the props he pulled out of thin air while Yoongi quickly sweeps the floor full of brownie crumbs. Jungkook’s in charge of simply filtering through the pictures, picking the best ones.

He keeps his favourite shots in the disc Yoongi gives him, quickly burning the pictures into them. The studio is empty by the time he’s done, and he frowns, looking around for the two older men.

“Professor? Yoongi-hyung?”

He pushes the door to the closet open, and finds Yoongi wearing a massive Luigi hat. Professor Kim stands next to him with his phone and a Mario hat on his head.

Jungkook blinks. “Uh, what should I do about the disc?”

Yoongi throws the hat aside. “Put it in my office. You know where that is, right?”

“Yeah.” Jungkook nods, slowly walking away backwards.

Professor Kim looks at the photo on his phone. “Aw, Yoongi, you look so cute!”

“I fucking hate you,” Yoongi mumbles. “Where the fuck did these stupid hats even come from?”

“I don’t know. This is your studio.”

“Again: I fucking hate you.”

“Should’ve thought about that before making me your best friend—”

The rest of the conversation dies in his ears as he navigates through the hallways, checking the small signs for the way to Yoongi’s office. He’s only been there once, vaguely remembers what it’s like, and he wishes he asked Yoongi for directions.

He turns a corridor (when did this studio get so big?) and stops abruptly, staring at the walls in front of him. Every few inches is a brown photo frame, a black-and-white photo encased within. Some of the photos Jungkook can tell are old—there’s one of baby ducks that’s taken around the time Jungkook was six. The farther up the hallway he travels, the newer the photos become.

There’s a picture of Yoongi’s brother at twelve years old.

A picture of Yoongi’s father fishing at a lake in Daegu.

A photograph of flowers in an unknown field.

And then—a picture of twelve-year-old Jungkook, grinning as he shows Yoongi the stag beetles he just found up in a tree.

He stares blankly at the photo, the memory rapidly resurfacing. It was during that one summer his parents worked, sending him off to play at the beach with the neighbourhood kids as an attempt to entertain him. He met Yoongi at the docks then, the older boy explaining that he’s from Daegu and thus has never really seen the waves in the ocean. Little Jungkook had watched in fascination as Little Yoongi brings his camera to his face and snaps picture after picture of the rising tides.

Little Jungkook asked if he could try taking pictures, too.

Little Yoongi agrees and gives him the camera to keep.

The camera hangs heavily around Jungkook’s neck, the memory tugging at his heart. The next photograph is different; it’s Little Jungkook when he was thirteen, stuffing his mouth with ice cream.

The next was a photo of fourteen-year-old Jungkook staring at his camera, the waves singing behind him. Jungkook remembers this—it was the first time Yoongi complimented him for his photos. It was also the first time Yoongi travelled to Busan alone, using up the year’s saving for a two-way trip.

He doesn’t recognise the story behind the next photo, nor does he know exactly when it’s taken; the photos stopped having years printed on the bottom of the frames starting with the one of thirteen-year-old Jungkook. He doesn’t recognise most the people in the scene, but the guy who has his arm slung around Yoongi’s shoulders is unmistakably familiar—it’s Professor Kim wearing a Mario hat. Yoongi’s wearing a Luigi hat similar to the one Jungkook saw in the storage room, his expression just as grumpy.

The photos soon become foreign; the memories aren’t obviously a part of his anymore. Photos of a laughing Professor Kim are thrown everywhere, an image of various different girls sometimes intercepting the memories made between two friends. Soon, more familiar faces begin to appear—at first, it was Namjoon and Hoseok, and then Taehyung and Jimin joins the timeline. A couple photo frames later, there’s Jungkook again, holding a high school diploma with the biggest smile on his face.

The next photo was of Jungkook, laughing as a coffee war between his newly adopted older brothers rages on around him.

At the end of the line, Yoongi’s handwriting is etched into a plaque: The Most Beautiful Moments in Life.

“Jungkook-ah?” Professor Kim’s voice calls from the end of the hallway. Jungkook jumps, looking at the source of the voice in fear. Both men are watching him in amusement, slight smirks on their lips. “Ready to go?”

Jungkook looks down at the disc in his hand. He opens the door to Yoongi’s office, and throws it onto the couch. Yoongi frowns. “I’m ready.”

He runs after them towards Professor Kim’s car, the teacher insisting he drops both student and friend at their respective homes. Yoongi shrugs and hops into the passenger seat, and Jungkook hastily mimics his actions, settling himself in the back with a seat belt strapped across his body.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Yoongi beats him to it; he turns around and hands him something, smiling knowingly. “Saved it for you. You’re welcome.”

Jungkook opens the palm of his hand. It’s a USB stick with his SD card in it, the words Jungkook’s moments scrawled across the device. He smiles, leans against the window, and watches the world fly by.

He texts her on day twenty-eight. The message is short, simple; Ur studio @ 5. He sits there, hoping she’ll come despite his absence in her life. He really does miss her.

She comes at five past five, opening the door slowly. He feels his heartbeat quicken at the sight of her, his hands clamming up as she hesitates at the darkness of the room. She feels the wall around, looking for a switch, flicking it on when she does find it. A gasp escapes her as she meets his eyes, and he feels himself blush, eyes darting to the ground.

She’s as beautiful as he remembers her to be.

They don’t share any words, one of them overcome with shock while the other overcome with sudden fear. Jungkook squeezes his eyes. What if she neglects him? What if she leaves? What if all this time it’s been a lie, a plot to capture him alone and—

Her arms wrap themselves around him, her chest heaving as she breaks into sobs. She shakes beneath him as he simply stands there, unsure of how to respond.

“I thought you hated me—I thought I lost you—”

He wraps his arms around him, rocking the both of them back and forth. He softly kisses her head, murmuring the words against her temple. “I could never hate you, love.”

She sobs harder, and he’s reminded of Hoseok and how afraid he was; he pulls away and cups her face, looking into her eyes as the tears spill down her cheeks.

“It’s just—I hurt you even though I knew—and you avoided me—you were in pain—I was so worried—”

Jungkook chuckles. His voice is light and teasing. “So you do care about me.”

“Of course I care about you,” she whimpers, punching his chest. “You’re my best friend, Kookie.”

Ah. He forces a smile. “You’re mine too. Kind of. Sadly, Jiminnie-hyung and Taetae-hyung would have to go first.”

She laughs. “Understandable. They were better friends than I ever was.”

“Debatable,” he says, voice lilting. He grins cheekily at her, and she giggles back, combing her hands through his hair.

“You’re alright though?”

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “Not completely, no. It—It hurts sometimes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No, it is—”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s really not. And no, I’m not blaming myself either. It’s—It’s complicated.”

She tilts her head. “I’ll understand.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

“It’s easier to show you.”

She blinks up at him. “Okay.”

He takes her hand and guides her to the back of the room, where he has carefully covered easels with black tarps. She looks at them in curiosity, looks at Jungkook in confusion, and he bites on his lip, fiddling with her fingers.

“Don’t laugh,” he finally says, and then pulls the first tarp away. She stares at it, eyes wide in recognition; she should. After all, it’s an image of her at the coffee shop, or at least, leaving it—she’s waving goodbye to Jimin and Taehyung and Namjoon, all of whom are seen waving back. She’s got a canvas in her hand—an oil painting of the first flowers to bloom after winter—her backpack clanging against her arm. There’s a slight mustache left on her upper lip from the foam.

“Was this—”

“The day I introduced you to my friends,” he confirmed. “You were scared that day. Kept asking me if it’s a good idea to introduce you since they obviously hated your guts—at least, Jimin-hyung and Taehyung-hyung did—but I forced you anyway and you ended up liking them and they ended up liking you. Well, except for Jimin-hyung and Taehyung-hyung. It took them a while to get there.”

“And now?” she asks, voice small. “Do they hate me?”

He shakes his head. “They’re mad at you, sure, but they don’t hate you. Your mistakes don’t define you, you know.”

She laughs softly. “Been spending time with Namjoon-oppa?”

“I’ve had a limited choice of company,” he admits, pulling her over to the next tarp. He unravels this one, too, the image equally familiar.

She’s sitting at the swings this time, feet kicking her up into the air. There’s a laugh that’s bubbling out of her throat, her voice begging Jungkook to come sit next to her. He wishes he did; he wants to be part of that memory too, a part of the laugh and the screeching of the hinges and the swing collapsing beneath them.

She smiles, squeezing his hand. “I remember this. You were a wimp.”

“I was not,” Jungkook protests, huffing indignantly. “That swing was old. I was just looking out for the both of us.”

She snickers. “Sure, Mr. I-Bungee-Jump-but-Don’t-Ride-Swings.”

“Bungee jumping is different.”

“Yes, because plummeting hundreds of feet from the air is different from falling ten inches onto the ground.”

He frowns. “I don’t appreciate your sass, ma’am.”

“I don’t appreciate you calling me ma’am, sir.”

He smirks. “I don’t mind sir. Call me sir all the time.”

“Oh my god, you sick boy.”

He pulls off the tarp to the third photo, and she gasps. It’s a photo of her standing beneath the street light. She’s slightly turned his way, her eyes bright like the stars. Juxtaposed onto the image is the photo of her running towards him, her mouth open in mid-scream. He can still hear her threats and his name from her lips; she must be thinking the same because she’s now glaring, free arm punching his bicep.

“What the hell, Jungkook,” she hisses. “I told you not to use these pictures!”

“Technically,” he says, “you made me promise I wouldn’t use it for the exhibition. You never mentioned anything about using it for other purposes.”

She glares at him. “I fucking hate you.”

He laughs. “Sure, love. Sure.”

He moves onto the next one.

“This—this is the last one.” He hesitates. She squeezes his hand. He smiles at her, and with shaky fingers, rips the tarp open.

She’s lying on the bed, still deep in sleep, mouth slightly parted as she breathes. Her hair pools around her, framing her face in a way that makes her look like an angel. Her bare shoulders are visible from this angle, the covers covering only what needs to be hidden for modesty, legs tangled in the leftover sheets. The sunlight seeps through the curtains and dances against the foreground.

“Is that—?”

“Yeah,” he replies. He swallows. “The time I fell in love.”

She snaps her head towards him, but he avoids her eyes, holds onto her fingers instead as though he’s afraid she might suddenly disappear.

“I mean, I’m sure I was falling in love the whole time, but this was the moment I knew, and I even went to Namjoon-hyung to ask for advice on how to ask you out, but then when I finally got the courage I saw you with Hobi-hyung and—”

“Kookie,” she whispers, bringing her hands to his face. She’s swiping her fingers below his eyes, collecting wet droplets that managed to stray. She leans forwards, pecking his lips softly. “I—I’m sorry for breaking your heart.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault. Like you said—you were drunk, and Hobi-hyung doesn’t know you. It’s not mine for catching on feelings—it’s my love for you that’s to blame for how much it hurts.”

“Jungkook—”

“I know it’s… a lot to take in,” he interrupts again. He needs to get this off his chest before the fear swallows him whole again. “I’ve been thinking the past few days and—I get that we’re toxic for each other—I mean, we started by hurting each other and now we’re both hurt again and—I get that, but if you want—please—I want to try this out.

“I—I want to fall in love and be loved back.”

She’s quiet, staring at his face with an unreadable expression. The nerves get to him and he shivers, licking his lips in an attempt to calm himself. Then, a small smile presents itself on her face.

“Okay.”

[virtuallypau]

The Carpenter Bear

One of my fondest childhood memories has always been that of my dad singing me an old Spanish folk song. He sang me the lengthy song when I woke up, when I went to sleep, when I brushed my teeth, when he went away. “There was once a carpenter bear that lived very poorly. He cried because his little cub would weep of hunger.” These words kept us together as he left to New York to start a new life for us. We’d stay up for hours talking. I had school in the morning. He had work, too. Dollars out of his pocket. Rent was coming up soon. He didn’t mind, though, and I didn’t either. These were the moments we cherished for they were all that we had. Eleven years later-- what do we have now?

In the song, the carpenter bear woke up at five A.M every day. Before he left, his cub would say, “Hey daddy, I want bread.” And every day he would reply, “Light of my life, maybe one day.” I was the cub, he was the carpenter, both aching but both holding onto hope. Hope that one day we would return back to each other, the bread in one hand, our love in the other. Together at last. The wait was over.

Of course, I didn’t know this song was the essence of my reality. I was only seven at the time, but the meaning of the song helped me sleep in restless night, when I wasn’t lucky enough to have my mom or dad by my side. Three thousand miles away, a shaky reception, an hour apart. Every day he would call. Every day I would answer. This was my safe haven.

I longed for my father. A man that left me alone in a country that didn’t want me either. Funny isn’t it? Chasing after a man that didn’t want to be caught. I created an image in my head of a man that I hardly knew. Strong, caring, kind: Mi Padre. Maybe he once was. Maybe that was the man who’d call.

The truth is, my father is not the carpenter bear and I’m not his cub. Not after all that I’ve witnessed. He is a drunk. And an abuser. And a heartbreaker. Driven by madness, we spent a decade hiding in the shadows of our legal status and the injustices suffered through the palms of his hands. I witnessed my mom beaten, hit by his car, almost dead because of him. That was the worst day of my life. I thought I had lost her. He bruised our family and to this day I wonder, for what cost? I don’t recognize what “home” is anymore. It can’t be four walls a window and a door. I don’t want it to be only that.

When I think about my old home, Mexico, only certain recollections arise in my mind. I can still recall the scent of warm milk and pan dulce in cold mornings. And the taste of my abuelo’s favorite chocolate chip ice cream during walks to the park. I can still imagine the candies falling from hand-made pinatas at my cousins’ birthday parties. And how beautifully the sunset would paint the sky that overlooked the mountains in our countryside. My new home, Brooklyn, though it can never replace the nostalgia and warmth of my land, fills my mind and heart with dreams of a better tomorrow.

I have to admit though, I miss Mexico now more than ever. A river and wall divides us. This president makes me want to hide too. He makes me feel ashamed. Everything scares me. These man-made borders cause so much pain. I’m so close to home yet so far away. I can sense some of  my memories slowly fading away. Sometimes, it feels like I’m actually going insane. How can I forget the faces and voices of people I love? Of people that raised me? I’ve been detached for too long now. I hold onto these little bits of pieces that I still have because I don’t know when I’ll get to relive them again.

My father brought my sister and I to the states after we graduated kindergarten. He brought us here to escape the poverty and misfortune we inherited by birth. Instead he brought more pain. This pain came after he had recovered from a horrible accident that left his right leg amputated. I can’t begin to imagine the suffering he endured both physically and emotionally during those years. I was only there to experience the aftermath.

When my father finally completed therapy he was able to walk again. His first steps led him to the stoops of bars where he met the woman he would later have an affair with. The liquor mixed with the agony and wails of my broken mother made for the perfect combination to latch out his anger. Maybe he felt an unfairness. Maybe he thought, “How can I, a man who has sacrificed so much for his family, continue to have such bad luck?” Maybe this is how he justified his actions. Ironically, you’d think a person who has hurt this much would never want to project that same kind of hurt onto others. Funny isn’t it? He ended up hurting the people he claimed to love the most. My father was always funny like that.

“A better life and bigger chances” that's what he would say. And although we were poor in Mexico, we were rich in happiness. I had a family. This home is broken. Suicidal thoughts filled my mami’s brain. My words: “I need you” were the only thing that saved her. I wish I could’ve saved my pa too. I was his cub. I was his everything-- until I wasn’t.

The question still remains: Eleven years later-- what do we have?

I don’t know. I really don’t know. Sometimes I feel like the relationship I have with my father can go back to what it once was. We share laughs and smiles but then, when they fade away we’re left with awkward silence and an eerie feeling in the air that’s enough to drown in. What I do know is this: Although he broke us he didn’t break me. He promised so much and gave me so little. But I want so much more than what he promised. I have myself and with that comes dedication, drive, and discipline. My life doesn't end here because it only just begun. I live my truth, past and present because I acknowledge the power in my adversities. The power within me.

I love my father and always will, despite the hell  he put us through. At times, I get so mad at myself for loving him so much. But the thing is, I love myself a little bit more. I’m slowly learning to let go of the resentment I have towards him. I carry our song with me as a celebration of what we once had, not as a reminder of what could’ve been. I hope he does too.

“... And today the carpenter bear has a great fortune, so much so he gave his little cub a small sack of gold, a thousand toys, honey, and some bread.”