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Namjoon’s hair is orange and buzzed short, hugging his scalp like flames licking up his temples. The sweaty sheen of his neck glistens under the fluorescent lights, everything too hot and burning, even at six p.m.
The city swells with summer and the low hum of despair. The people outside the metal skeleton of the bus march towards monotony and the people inside sit blank-eyed as they’re smoothly delivered to it. The concrete streets flash past the grimy windows of the bus. Jungkook watches them with his wide and too-sleepy eyes, sucking on flat cola from a plastic straw. He pulls his knees in and tucks them between his chest and the seat in front of him, making himself small, like always, while Namjoon stretches out next to him, one leg extending into the aisle but always mindful, always pulling it in if someone needs to walk past. He reads intently, his glasses slipping off his nose because of the humid heat. Jungkook hesitates, reaches out and pushes them back up, earning himself a tiny smile. A quirk of the mouth, a soft dimple winking at him briefly before Namjoon’s concentration returns to his book.
Jungkook looks out of the window again, his cheeks gently flushed.
Favourite , he thinks whenever he looks at Namjoon. Home. Comfort. My heart. The same litany of words always crawling up his throat and he has to push them down, smooth their increasingly jagged edges with careful fingers, tell himself he’ll find the courage soon enough.
An inside-out mantra he’s been repeating for years now.
Favourite / soon enough.
Home / one day.
Namjoon’s hair is orange but the world outside is twilight blue, fading from existence, the alleys dark and smoky as they stream past. The neon-lit signs are an assault on the eyes, like tiny explosions amongst the black backdrop of the city’s nightlife.
There have been countless bus rides, sitting next to Namjoon in the early dawn and the fading evening, sharing music sometimes, or silences, or a can of cola where their mouths touch the same place and Jungkook’s heart pounds because of the ghost-kiss of it all.
They’re quiet and constant and everything is easy in the last of the daylight, the day turning black and blue and the stars struggling to twinkle in the polluted Seoul air.
Nothing is ever wrong, but sometimes Namjoon doesn’t talk to him much, nose buried in his book or his phone. Nothing is ever wrong, but sometimes Namjoon doesn’t notice the way Jungkook’s lip trembles, doesn’t ask how he is, doesn’t bring up his hesitant touches. Nothing is ever wrong, though.
Nothing is ever wrong, but the quiet is heavy sometimes, and Jungkook wants to fold into himself on those days, offer himself up, be held, be seen.
Namjoon is mild and absent-minded and doesn’t see how Jungkook would split himself in half if he asked.
*
“I’m so tired today,” Namjoon mutters, leaning his head back against the plastic-covered seat and closing his eyes. Jungkook stares without shame then, gaze lingering over the column of his throat, the sharp angle of his jaw, his flaming hair, like a warning sign.
“Tell me about it,” he murmurs, turning in his seat so he can face Namjoon, turning his full attention to him.
The slant of fluorescent light drains the colour from Namjoon’s face but he’s still so beautiful it makes Jungkook’s breath catch.
Namjoon confesses his fears in a trembling voice, his fingers stitching together something invisible as they twist into the hem of his shirt. He talks about how he feels stuck, how he’s not making enough money, how he wants to switch jobs but is too afraid, wants to think things through carefully first.
Jungkook sits on his hands to silence the urge to hold Namjoon’s.
*
As summer deepens, Namjoon’s mouth stains red with strawberries. He eats them in the bus on the way to work, leisurely nibbling around the stalks and depositing them carefully back in the plastic box he brings them in.
Jungkook buys strawberry-flavoured chapstick from the dollar-store around the corner and applies it religiously every morning.
*
I’ll never go home again, Jungkook thinks nearly every day.
On the bus, with his knees tucked in, with Namjoon next to him and a sweating can of cola cradled in his hand is when he feels safest and most comfortable. It’s enough – those forty-five minutes, caught up in nothing but the sleepy way Namjoon is so close, elbows brushing.
He doesn’t realize it’s a soap bubble. That the slightest puff of air will make it pop, revealing the hologram for what it is – a shiny, rainbow-tinted un-reality.
Because Jungkook might know Namjoon intimately, but Namjoon doesn’t know him back, has never seen the ugly bits he keeps shuttered away.
*
It had occurred to Jungkook before but he didn’t want to bring it up, or make it obvious. The thought of it always makes him panic and he bubbles it down and waits with bated breath, always somewhat on edge about it, always waiting for Namjoon to turn to him and ask — why have I never come over to your place before?
And he does ask, but it’s always jokingly, just the slightest edge of mirth in his voice that allows Jungkook to ignore the query or laugh it off. Except the jokes get more serious and the tilt of Namjoon’s mouth turns from mildly curious to slightly hurt, and if it’s one thing Jungkook can’t bear, it’s seeing Namjoon look disappointed.
So he brings up the courage to offer it himself. “Come over tomorrow,” he tells him the next day, the faint twilight piercing through the grimy bus window and falling onto Namjoon, lighting him up like he’s an angel.
“Really?” Namjoon turns to Jungkook with a surprised smile.
Jungkook’s stomach churns and he can’t tell if it’s in a good way or a bad way. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Come with me when I get off at my stop.”
“Okay,” Namjoon grins, as if it’s as simple as that. As if Jungkook hasn’t been agonizing over it for years, wondering what Namjoon will think of him when he truly sees Jungkook in his entirety.
Namjoon nudges Jungkook with his shoulder and goes back to reading. Jungkook realizes they never even decided what Namjoon is coming over for .
*
The walk from the bus stop to the house is excruciating. Jungkook checks his watch every two minutes, slowing his pace when he realizes they might reach earlier than they should. His heart hammers in time to his step, races away from him the further Namjoon strays, drawn to the neighbourhood cats, flicking their chin and petting them between their ears, cooing at them when their eyes close.
Jungkook craves his touch too, but the desire is muted by his anxiety.
“Jungkookie?”
“Hmm?”
“You spaced out a little,” Namjoon says fondly, walking backwards so he can look at Jungkook, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his jeans. His eyes crinkle and his dimples wink at Jungkook. He wants to poke them with his finger. “It’s cute.”
Cute? Jungkook tries not to let his turmoiled emotions show on his face.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” Jungkook lies. He spots the familiar red door behind Namjoon and swallows down his dread. “That’s my house,” he points.
Namjoon spins around and hovers in the centre of the sidewalk, waiting for Jungkook to lead now. Jungkook looks at his watch for the last time. 4.02 p.m. He steels his nerves and strides up to the door, unlocking it quietly and slipping in, holding it open for Namjoon. The hallway is dark and it’s blissfully quiet.
He breathes a tiny, invisible sigh of relief.
“Cute,” Namjoon murmurs, pointing to a family picture hanging above the little table for the keys and spare change.
“Yeah,” Jungkook agrees. He doesn’t bother looking at it. “Let’s go up to my room.”
Namjoon follows him up the stairs and Jungkook opens the door to his bedroom and then Namjoon is in his room, holy shit — he’d been so nervous he hadn’t even thought about it in terms of Namjoon being in his private space, standing near his bed with its old, worn, Iron Man blanket, peering through his dismally-furnished bookshelves, maybe creaking open his rusty window to have a smoke. They’ve sat together on the bus a million times, their thighs touching, but somehow, this makes Jungkook more shy.
He’s just opened his mouth to ask if Namjoon wants something to drink when they first hear it.
Namjoon looks up, startled. “What was that?”
Jungkook flushes with heavy embarrassment. The low, guttural cry of anguish and pain echoes through his room again. Disembodied trauma. Well, attached to a body he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
She was supposed to be asleep. It’s past four p.m.
“Um, it’s probably coming from the neighbour’s house,” he mumbles, not meeting Namjoon’s eyes. “Television or something…” he trails off.
He pushes the curve of his nail against the edge of his bedside table and presses hard. The nail bed hurts dully but it’s nothing like that one time he got a splinter stuck in there. It had been a good distraction. Pain negating pain. It’s a strange equation. He doesn’t like to think about it a lot.
“No, seriously,” Namjoon asks, more urgently this time. “It sounds like… it sounds like it’s coming from downstairs?”
Jungkook looks at him helplessly. He can’t deny the existence of the noise, especially now that the cries are getting more frequent.
Why aren’t you happy, his brain taunts. Isn’t this what you wanted? Didn’t you want him to see you, all of you?
“Um, it’s one of the people who live downstairs,” he whispers.
“Who lives downstairs? It’s still part of your house, right? Or do you rent it?”
“It’s my grandmother,” Jungkook says, barely audible.
Namjoon leans in, his eyebrows knitted in a frown. “Your grandmother?”
“She had a stroke a few years ago so she’s paralysed and on bed rest. She can’t…” Jungkook pauses, the lump in his throat nearly choking him. “She can’t talk anymore.”
“Shit, Jungkook.”
Jungkook doesn’t reply, having run out of words. He’s supposed to love his grandmother, she’s family, but he doesn’t, he can’t and it haunts him – the discomfort, frustration and irritation he feels for her makes him feel sick and wrong. So he never talks about her, never brings her up even when her voice has burned itself into the inside of his brain and he can barely think anymore, even when he’s failed two classes in uni because he was just so sleep-deprived. It’s easier to pretend there’s nothing wrong.
Namjoon clears his throat awkwardly, his voice lowering in pitch, becoming watercolour-soft. “Is this why you never called me over?”
Jungkook hangs his head and sinks down onto the bed, his hands curling around the edge of the mattress. He nods, feeling ashamed.
“I’m sorry about her,” Namjoon continues, his words stilted as if he’s not sure about what he should be saying.
Jungkook doesn’t blame him. It’s not an easy situation to explain, or comfort someone about. He can feel hot tears prick at his eyes and furiously wills himself not to cry. He doesn’t want Namjoon to have to deal with that either.
“Is it… is it like this all the time?”
Jungkook shakes his head. This is a fairly easy question, even if it does open him up to further scrutiny, to careful eyes closely trained on his face, a worried wriggle between Namjoon’s eyebrows.
“It’s only really bad in the mornings or in the middle of the night. Normally in the afternoons, her medicines kick in and she sleeps peacefully.”
Namjoon hovers next to the desk, nodding. “Wait. In the middle of the night?”
Jungkook turns wide eyes to him.
“Doesn’t that keep you from sleeping?”
“I’ve learnt to live with it,” Jungkook answers softly. He waits for Namjoon’s response, for another question, for anything, but Namjoon only hums quietly and turns to look out of the window with a glazed-over stare.
Jungkook can’t stop the tears then. I just want to be held, he thinks pathetically. Just want your arms around me. But he doesn’t know how to ask and maybe Namjoon doesn’t know how to give either, because he just walks over and awkwardly pats Jungkook’s tense shoulder, making small shushing noises.
And Jungkook cries. He cries because he’s ashamed, he cries because of the guilt of his ugly feelings, because Namjoon is right there but he isn’t doing what Jungkook wants. The hiccups and the hitches in his breath are incomprehensible to Namjoon — the language is different. He doesn’t understand, can’t reply.
*
They don’t talk about it again and Namjoon doesn’t ask to come over. The days in the bus get quieter and Jungkook daydreams, restless.
He thinks about the times they’ve gone out for tteokbokki, the light rain sleeting across their clothes, Namjoon pulling Jungkook into his side, an arm thrown around his shoulders as they giggle and almost-run into the restaurant, shaking themselves like two big dogs. Namjoon ruffling Jungkook’s damp hair, making his knees tremble.
It’s too much sometimes and not enough otherwise.
He thinks about the week before, when his classes ended early and he walked to the bookstore, Namjoon ushering him behind the counter with a soft, happy smile, visibly pleased to see him even if Jungkook had texted he’s coming. He had a silly game on his phone that he let Jungkook play while he served the customers.
“C’mere,” he had said at one point, tucking his hands into the pockets of his bright red work apron. It clashed horribly with his hair. He’d been talking about dyeing it a new colour recently.
“Hm?”
“Come,” Namjoon repeated slowly, shrugging his shoulders towards the tiny office in the back. “I got something for you.”
“For me?”
Namjoon isn’t the giving-presents type. Jungkook couldn’t remember the last time he had received anything from him.
“Yes, now hurry up, will you? Before another customer pops by.”
Jungkook followed him to the office, wondering what Namjoon had and why he seemed so on edge about it. There was no big, wrapped box on the desk, no party streamers to indicate a surprise party, no smell of food to hint at a secret lunch.
“Here,” Namjoon pointed at a yoga mat laid out on the floor, with a pillow and a blanket arranged on top of it. “I set it up so you could take a nap here if you wanted.”
“Oh.”
Namjoon hovered in the doorway. “Yeah. I still have an hour and a half until my shift is over, so you have lots of time.”
Feeling overwhelmed at the simple gesture, Jungkook turned to him and stared, unable to say anything more than a small ‘thank you’. Namjoon nodded once and left.
Jungkook couldn’t sleep though, curled up on his side, thinking of nothing but Namjoon.
*
On the hottest day of the year, they end up at the pool, languid and lazy. The damp musk of chlorine wraps itself around Jungkook as he crosses his arms over his chest protectively, his thin t-shirt sticking to him like another skin but he doesn’t want to take it off, doesn’t want to bare himself in front of Namjoon.
Namjoon doesn’t say anything about it; just strips to his plain black boxers and stretches before diving in with a splash that leaves Jungkook’s ankles wet. Jungkook watches with a shivering heart as Namjoon expertly swims the whole length of the pool, coming back towards him with a toothy smile.
“Coming in? It’s nice and cool,” he asks, propping himself up at the edge of the pool, panting slightly. The muscles in his biceps bulge and Jungkook shakes his head. He swallows dry, retreating towards the benches, trying not to stare at the dark buds of Namjoon’s nipples, trying not to wonder what they might feel like beneath the pad of his fingertips or in his mouth.
“I don’t know how to swim,” he lies as explanation.
*
On Namjoon’s days off, he goes to the library. Jungkook trails after him, wandering through the stacks – the gaps in the books deconstructing Namjoon, breaking him down into smaller parts that should theoretically be easier to look at.
They aren’t.
Jungkook slides a murder mystery off the shelf and bites his lip at the curve of Namjoon’s chest. A how-to manual on entrepreneurship reveals the thick of his thighs, a grim crime novel unveils the slope of his jaw, his lips, the downward tilt of them as he plods along unhurried, picking out what he wants to read next.
Jungkook leans heavily against the young adult section, eyes fluttering shut.
*
Weighed down and nearly delirious with sleep, Jungkook stumbles up the three steps of the bus. It’s been a bad night. Even his sleeping pills haven’t worked, have reached a plateau. Defenceless, Jungkook had tried plugging in loud music, feeding his brain with something else. Anything else. He had pleaded with entities he didn’t fully believe in, tried getting up and pacing the length of his room, tried jumping jacks to tire himself out. It was nearly dawn when he finally crashed from exhaustion, his ears still ringing with the shrill cries, only to wake up again fifteen minutes later as his alarm blared.
Fuck 8.30 a.m. classes , he thought angrily. That thought was immediately followed by: at least it gets me out of the house. It was the only reason he’d signed up for the summer semester.
He felt a sharp stab of guilt at that, as usual, and hurriedly threw all his things into his backpack before leaving, no breakfast in hand. No one called after him either.
Now, with his stomach rumbling and his eyes drooping with tiredness, he stumbles to their usual place near the back and drops down into the aisle seat without a word. Namjoon, who always gets up to give him the window seat, looks up at him in mild alarm, his finger in his book marking his place.
“You look like shit,” he says. “Sorry,” he winces immediately, realizing why Jungkook looks like that. “I mean…”
“It’s okay,” Jungkook mumbles, letting his eyes fall shut as he leans against the headrest. “It’s fine.”
Namjoon is quiet for a moment. “You need anything?” he asks after a beat.
Jungkook tilts his head to look at him. Namjoon’s eyes are kind, his mouth turned up at the corners in an almost-smile, his dimples threatening to appear. I want something you can’t give me , Jungkook thinks. Probably . He doesn’t think he’s brave enough to check.
It’s nice that Namjoon asked though.
“Just… some peace and quiet,” Jungkook whispers, turning his head away because he knows that the longer he keeps looking, the more likely it is he’ll try to find something in his gaze — something that isn’t there, that Jungkook manufactures because he wants it to be true so desperately.
“Got it,” Namjoon murmurs, gently nudging Jungkook’s shoulder with his and then returning to his book.
Jungkook is deathly tired but there’s still a smooth, round pebble of disappointment lodged in his throat — why? He’s giving me what I said I needed. Why do I feel sad, then? He swallows past it, past the tears threatening to flood him, past the worn-at-the-edges anxiety, past the hope that had momentarily bloomed under his heart. It’s cold this morning, and the sunrise is still a bruise in the sky, and for the first time ever, Jungkook finds himself wondering why the hell Namjoon takes an early bus if his shop doesn’t open until 10 a.m. His eyes snap open.
“You don’t have work until much later, right?”
Namjoon looks up again, a soft hum of agreement vibrating in his chest.
“But you take the early bus…?”
Namjoon smiles awkwardly. “Well, yeah, I mean. You take it.”
You take it. Jungkook’s heart hammers and he wants to push more. Wants to ask so what? Wants to press for detail, pick at the scab, make it hurt again. But he’s too afraid, so he just nods and goes back to leaning against the headrest, his eyes closed. It might be quiet, and the rumble of the bus is soothing, but Jungkook’s mind is barbed wire doused in gasoline and Namjoon’s gentle look is the match that would make it all go up in prickly flames.
They’re halfway to the stop at which Jungkook gets off for his university when Namjoon stretches a little and shifts in his seat, pressing more against Jungkook, his shoulder temptingly close to Jungkook’s head.
Don’t do it, Jungkook thinks, his mouth dry. Don’t .
His eyes still closed, he tilts his head lower until the curve of his cheek brushes against Namjoon’s shoulder. The bus groans over a pothole and Jungkook uses it as an excuse to settle in, nuzzle his head into Namjoon, sigh very quietly and then still completely, waiting.
Waiting for Namjoon to politely jostle him awake. Waiting to hear a soft ‘Jungkook?’ to alert him to what he’s doing.
He holds his breath. Namjoon doesn’t move.
With his head on him like this, Jungkook can feel Namjoon breathe, can feel the rise and fall of his chest. He bites his bottom lip, overwhelmed at the warmth radiating off of him. If bus rides with Namjoon had felt safe and comforting, this is that times a thousand. He never wants to get off the bus. He wants to be suspended in time, like a bug in amber, forever preserved.
Namjoon flips a page of his book and a minute later, Jungkook feels something rest on top of his head. A gentle weight, accompanied by a small sigh. Namjoon holds the book with one hand and brings the other up to ruffle Jungkook’s hair. It’s one thing to do that while Jungkook is standing in front of him, smiling brightly, teasing almost, and it’s another to do it when he thinks Jungkook is asleep on his shoulder – to do it with his own head resting against Jungkook’s.
Any drowsiness that had managed to crawl into Jungkook disappears like steam. He’s never been more awake. It’s worse than the time he took four shots of espresso in a row so he could pull an all-nighter and finish a paper due at 8 a.m. the next morning.
But the comfort he feels is laced with the sharp tang of anxiety; he’s on borrowed time. Surely, Namjoon is going to realize what they’re doing very soon. It’s almost certain he’s going to gently dislodge Jungkook, look at him kindly and never speak of it again.
Jungkook keeps waiting but nothing happens.
The head resting on his stays. The hand in his hair disappears but another around his shoulders appears, tucking him into Namjoon’s side, bringing him closer. He smells like apples and cinnamon, Jungkook thinks dizzily. He licks his lips and tastes his strawberry chapstick. His stomach rumbles again. He’s so hungry.
“Hey,” — the softest noise, a vibration under his ear, several agonizing minutes later. “We’re almost at your stop, Koo.”
Jungkook pretends to wake up, eyes fluttering sleepily. “Oh,” he lets slip, letting a soft flush work its way up his cheeks. “Um…”
“Have a good day,” Namjoon says, looking past his hesitation, smoothing things over. “I’ll see you at six?”
“Yeah,” Jungkook replies, swallowing. His cheek is still warm from being on Namjoon’s shoulder. It feels like it’s been branded. “See you.”
He gets off the bus and when he turns around to watch it go, Namjoon is looking at him with a smile.
*
Jungkook thinks about it constantly. He thinks about it during his Maths class, he thinks about it when he walks from the bus stop to his house, or from his house to the bus stop, he thinks about it when he’s awake at night, or when he’s tucked away in the tiny office at Namjoon’s workplace, curled up on the mat, trying to will himself to sleep. He thinks about it more than he should but he can’t help it.
He goes through the past few years like through a museum exhibit. Unhooks the velvet cordons around the softer moments and walks up to the glass. Peers through it to the memory below, carefully sifting through it to find more evidence.
Does he like me? Did he always like me?
Some things flash through the dim swirls like fish in a murky pond — the time Namjoon had curled an arm around Jungkook’s waist and helped him walk to campus because he’d sprained his ankle. The time he’d gently poked his nose and swiped some ketchup off of the corner of his mouth. The time he’d let Jungkook hold his hand in a death grip while he’d gotten his first tattoo. Or more recently, when he’d taken to asking Jungkook about whether he slept well or not.
It consumes Jungkook and Jungkook consumes it — he feels like he does after he’s eaten a big meal and can’t move, like he’s bursting at the seams, a warm, itchy weight nestled in his belly, clawing its way up.
*
Namjoon goes through several hair colours, many of which Jungkook helps him pick out, standing on tiptoe to look over his shoulder at the grocery store, peering at the labels, dizzy at the proximity. Blueberry, mint, the lightest lilac. He finally settles on a shade of red called Strawberry Burst. It’s got a glimmer of pink in it when he stands in the sun and Jungkook thinks it’s the prettiest Namjoon has ever looked.
He looks at Namjoon in the dim light of the bus and in the bright afternoon sun when they meet for lunch. He sees Namjoon at work, commanding yet friendly, completing his tasks with a measured, single-minded focus. He witnesses Namjoon reading quietly, with a small furrow between his eyebrows. He sees him laugh and cry and smile and duck his head shyly at compliments.
He thinks his heart grows an inch every day to make room for the things he feels for Namjoon but it’s still never enough.
*
On a night he can’t sleep, Jungkook paces his room and stares outside the window at the lonely street lamp with its dull pool of light. A dog barks in the distance and the low hum of city traffic buzzes through the floorboards and up his feet. It’s relatively quiet otherwise, yet sleep evades him.
He wants to tell Namjoon. He wants to confess.
But the thought of saying it out loud paralyses him – to have Namjoon’s eyes on him, watching the way his mouth shapes the words? It’s a terrifying thought. What would he even say? Namjoon strikes him dumb. Jungkook can barely get a word out when his kind smile is directed at him.
If only he could… write a speech.
A letter, you idiot, he thinks, wincing at his stupidity. A letter is a good idea – something he can edit and perfect, something that he can hand over to Namjoon and retreat, something that Namjoon can read by himself.
But he’s so much more poetic than me, Jungkook thinks. Much better with his words, able to weave a story and create atmosphere and emotion.
Jungkook doesn’t think he can ever match his skill but he’s willing to try. So he takes out an old notebook and sits down at his desk, chews the end of his pen, gnawing at the plastic until his teeth hurt and then, with shaky hands, starts to write.
Dear hyung, He pauses, thinking about how Namjoon makes him feel, about how to put that into words that feel adequate enough. The dark hours tick by slowly and he writes and crumples up several pieces of paper before he’s finally somewhat happy with what he has.
If you split the word ‘love’ down the middle and cleaved it open, stuffed it full of soft fuzzy cotton and old, worn scraps of fabric like the kind you use for quilts, filled it and filled it, to the brim, until it’s bursting, until it can’t possibly fit anything else in it anymore, but you poured more in anyway, and then, with effort and care and so much strength, you stitched the word back together – this overflowing word, so much bigger than before, holding so much, made with so much – even that word would only reflect a fraction of my feelings for you.
I didn’t know how else to tell you how I feel every time I see you, and I see you every day – in the bus, at the pool, at your house or at your work, in those quiet evenings in the library, or that one time I’ll never forget, when we went to the park and you pointed out all the constellations for me. I wanted to kiss you so bad then but I didn’t because I was so afraid.
I don’t want to be afraid anymore, hyung. Jungkook pauses, swallowing hard. If you like me too, will you turn to me now and I’ll kiss you?
JK.
*
He times it down to the second. Over the next few days, he observes carefully – how long it takes for Namjoon to read a page of his book (approximately 45 to 50 seconds), and how long it takes for the bus to pull up at his stop after it turns the corner (approximately 75 to 85 seconds, depending on traffic).
Which means: if he were to give the letter to Namjoon just as the bus starts to crawl towards Jungkook’s stop, Namjoon would have just enough time to read it before Jungkook has to get off. And if the reaction isn’t positive – well, Jungkook will only have to bear a few seconds of misery before he can leave.
He chooses a Friday too – he doesn’t have uni the next day, and it’s a day off for Namjoon as well. They wouldn’t have to meet on Saturday, wouldn’t have to take a bus together. Jungkook wouldn’t have to see him if things went south.
It’s the perfect plan, more or less.
“Hyung,” he whispers when they are about to reach the end of the road – the curve that would define the rest of their relationship. An arbitrary point, chosen with much care.
“Yes?” Namjoon puts down his book and turns to him, smile indulgent. They haven’t talked much today and it makes Jungkook’s heart soar that Namjoon realizes these are the last few minutes they have, and that he wants to give Jungkook his full attention during them if he wants it.
“Um, I have to tell you something,” Jungkook mumbles, clutching the envelope tightly in his hand, just out of view.
“What’s up?”
Jungkook peers out of the window. They’re less than thirty seconds away from the curve. He swallows. “It’s… difficult, so I wrote it down.”
Namjoon raises an eyebrow curiously as he looks down at the slightly crumpled envelope Jungkook offers (five seconds to react, five seconds to open the envelope, five seconds to carefully unfold the paper and a second or two to adjust his glasses).
Jungkook waits with bated breath. The bus turns the corner.
Namjoon’s face is blank as he reads, eyes slowly zipping over the words that Jungkook had spent so long selecting. The space between them is excruciating – for once, their thighs and shoulders aren’t brushing together. Namjoon is draped over his seat with a long leg extending into the aisle and Jungkook is curled up small in his, watching him anxiously. He’d read his letter over so many times he knows it by heart, knows exactly what word Namjoon must be reading now, waits for him to get to the will you turn to me now .
Namjoon turns to him.
Jungkook bites his lip and leans in, eyes fluttering shut. He presses his mouth softly against Namjoon’s, the strawberry chapstick transferring to his lips, sticky and sweet.
Oh.
He isn’t being kissed back.
There are three, long and severely painful seconds between his realization and pulling back, opening his eyes to see Namjoon’s staring back at him in mild shock.
But I had said I would kiss him, Jungkook thinks pathetically.
An intense shame floods through him – the kind you feel when you’ve made a colossal error, when the world seems to have shifted beneath your feet and you have no one but yourself to blame for the earthquake.
“I’m so sorry,” Jungkook manages to whisper, shrinking away.
Namjoon’s face twists into something incomprehensible and he gently puts a hand on Jungkook’s knee, the act cutting through the viscous silence between them. He squeezes lightly and opens his mouth but Jungkook flinches, turns his body away, curling up against the window in an attempt to make himself as small as possible. He’s trapped between the window and the boy he kissed who didn’t kiss him back and now his world is just that one seat on the bus. For the next few seconds anyway.
“Jungkookie…”
The nickname pierces his heart violently.
“No, no, no… please, just… no,” he pleads, gathering up his things so he can leave as quickly as possible.
There is a beat of silence, broken by a quiet ‘okay’, and then the bus screeches to a halt and Namjoon turns to his side, like he always does, making space for Jungkook to slip by him and get off.
They don’t say goodbye.
Tears choking his throat, Jungkook steps onto the wet pavement and realizes it’s raining softly. The sky had been a clear blue when he’d got on the bus. There’d been no prediction for rain and he’s not prepared, doesn’t have an umbrella. At least the soft raindrops on his cheeks mask the tear tracks. He turns his face up to the sky and squeezes his eyes shut.
He can still see Namjoon’s confused look – up close, Jungkook could have counted his eyelashes too but he was more occupied by his wide eyes, the lack of dimples, the soft sheen of red, strawberry chapstick on his closed mouth. Before Jungkook had turned away in embarrassment, he’d seen Namjoon swipe a tongue across his bottom lip, tasting the strawberry with an unreadable expression.
The rain picks up, chilly and relentless in its fury. Jungkook trudges up the street, shoulders hunched. It’s the perfect crescendo, the rain an accompaniment to the buzzing of his mind – he doesn’t like me, he never liked me, I was so stupid for thinking he did, making up things as always, unworthy and unlovable, how could anyone love me if I can’t even love the ones I’m supposed to love?
The house looms over the horizon, its red door just as much a warning sign as Namjoon’s strawberry hair. Jungkook stops and stares at it with dread. He only had one person in the world who probably understood him the best, and he’s lost him too. The people inside the bricks and mortar of his house never bothered to get to know him, allowed Time to split the family in half, let the cracks continue uninhibited instead of filling them in. Jungkook can’t remember the last proper conversation he’s had with his mother, can’t remember the last time he visited his father’s grave. He hasn’t been in his grandmother’s room ever since she had the stroke. Junghyun had moved to Europe soon after their father’s death and the only contact he and Jungkook have are stilted messages at birthdays and on holidays.
Jungkook had been so lonely until he met Namjoon, until they carved out a routine together, making a space for each other. And now he’s probably fucked that up too.
He’s drenched to the bone and at the bottom of the steps that lead up to the neat row of houses when he hears it – fuzzy around the edges, maybe just in his head.
“Jungkook!”
He turns to look over his shoulder, his heart pounding. Namjoon, drenched and out of breath, is running up the street, the anxiety etched into his face highlighted by the raindrops. He doesn’t have an umbrella either.
“Wait!” Namjoon shouts through the downpour, coming to a stop a few feet away.
Jungkook turns around completely, not daring to hope for anything, not daring to think about anything beyond the present moment – Namjoon, his red hair plastered flat to his forehead but still so beautiful in his eyes. “Hyung?”
“I’m sorry,” Namjoon pants, his words coming out thick and heavy. “I’m so sorry.” He starts to wheeze – the rain is cold and he’s only wearing a t-shirt. “Ugh, just give me a minute,” he continues, doubling over, putting one hand on his knee as the other shoots out to his left, searching for the nearest flat surface to lean on.
Jungkook lurches forward to stop him. “Don’t touch the damn pole! You might get electrocuted,” he says, anger brimming just under his tongue.
It’s misplaced anger and he knows it – it’s just easier to call it that instead of admitting he worries and cares. Those are more vulnerable feelings.
He grabs Namjoon’s arm just in time and tucks it back to his side, holding it in place. “It’s raining, dumbass!”
Namjoon straightens up, shivering slightly, his eyes wide as he looks from Jungkook to the electric pole he’d been about to touch and then back to Jungkook again. “You’re right,” he murmurs. “I am a dumbass. I’m so sorry about what happened.”
Jungkook still doesn’t let himself hope. “Why?” he bites out. He keeps holding Namjoon’s arm and Namjoon lets him, Jungkook’s fingers curled around his elbow.
Namjoon swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing distractedly. Jungkook resolutely keeps his eyes trained on Namjoon’s face.
“I’m sorry I didn’t kiss you back.”
Like a balloon deflating, Jungkook feels most of the anger slowly spill away from him, swirling through the rain and finding its way down the drains near their feet. It leaves a dull ache in its presence. He takes a step backwards, takes his hand away, crosses his arms and hunches into himself. “Why didn’t you?” he asks in a small voice. If you’re sorry about it, would you have done things differently, given the chance?
Namjoon shuffles his feet. “I was shocked…” he starts haltingly.
“I said I would though,” Jungkook murmurs, still feeling so weighed down – by the rain, by his feelings, by the ever-present what-if behind everything Namjoon does and says. “I said I would in my letter.”
Namjoon nods in agreement. “I know, but…”
“But what?”
“I haven’t thought of you… like that… before. It took me by surprise. And then we were at your stop and you just ran off and I didn’t even have any time to process things, to realize what you’d actually said.”
There’s a kernel of truth and logic in Namjoon’s words but Jungkook still feels upset. “It was my first kiss, hyung.”
Namjoon’s face crumples. He reaches out to gingerly place both hands on Jungkook’s elbows, pulling him in. “Oh, Jungkookie, I’m so sorry,” he says. “Can I please have a do over? Please?”
Jungkook looks up at him, still not completely reassured. The itch is still there, he wants more , wants to know exactly why Namjoon was so surprised. “So you do like me?”
Namjoon opens his mouth and closes it, looking stunned. “ Very much ,” he says emphatically. “I love you, Jeon Jungkook. I was just too stupid to realize it. I’ve never had someone like you in my life before. You’re so gentle and kind and I was completely oblivious about how the way I felt was… more than just friendship.”
The rain is cold but in Namjoon’s loose embrace, Jungkook feels warm, nearly burning. His cheeks are flushed, he’s still crying a little bit but the rain is washing it away – blank slate, new start. “Tell me more,” he whispers.
Namjoon smiles very slowly, the tilt of it somewhat sad. “When I came over and you told me about your grandmother, my heart broke, Jungkookie. I wanted to whisk you away and make sure you slept a good night’s sleep,” he reaches up with one hand and gently cups Jungkook’s face, running a careful thumb under his eye. “You’ve always had bags under your eyes but I never thought to ask,” he murmurs, his touch the softest it’s ever been. “I’m so stupid. I’m sorry.”
Jungkook’s breath hitches at the words and the contact, at how close Namjoon is. “You set up all that stuff for me in the office at your shop. That was very sweet.”
Namjoon shakes his head. “It was nothing,” he replies, stroking Jungkook’s cheekbone now.
Jungkook shuffles, still burning despite the breeze stirring through their hair and their clothes now. “More?” He feels greedy but he asks anyway.
Namjoon pulls him in even closer, sliding his left hand around Jungkook’s waist and resting it on his back – a reassuring, solid weight. “You’re always there for me when I’m worried or upset. And I’ve always found such comfort in your words.”
Jungkook nearly laughs. “ My words?” Namjoon is the poet amongst the two of them, Jungkook can barely string together two sentences.
Namjoon nods. “You have a real knack for them. That letter? It kind of blew me away,” he grins, miming an explosion with his lips, distracting Jungkook.
“My letter…” Jungkook blushes deeply. It had taken a lot of courage to write that, to put himself out there, raw and open and all laid out for Namjoon to look at.
“It’s in my bag,” Namjoon murmurs. “I didn’t want it to get wet.”
“Wait… you ran here in the rain? When did you get off the bus?” Jungkook had been slower than usual, partially because of the rain, partially because his heart was too heavy when broken, but he still hadn’t been slow enough for Namjoon to get off at the stop after his and run all the way from there.
Namjoon ducks his head. “Like a minute after you did? I made the driver stop, told him it was an emergency,” he laughs sheepishly. “I didn’t want to rush to you immediately though, so I stopped to like, gather my thoughts a little bit.”
A laugh bubbles up Jungkook’s throat and he lets it. The rain has slowed down a little and it caresses them lightly now, cool and refreshing after the deep heat of the summer so far. “This is like a rom-com, hyung.”
Namjoon laughs too and they look around themselves – they’re standing in the rain, in the middle of a lonely Seoul street, surrounded by storybook houses and shivering trees. Their hands and their eyes are drunk on each other, unable to stray away.
Namjoon looks down at Jungkook’s once-strawberry-chapstick-coated lips and breathes quietly. “So can I kiss you now? Please?” With the hand still on Jungkook’s cheek, he tilts his face up, angles his jaw slightly to the right.
Jungkook shivers at his eagerness, at the faint, hungry look in his expression. “Okay,” he murmurs.
“Good,” Namjoon whispers against his mouth as he leans in and kisses him. It doesn’t taste like strawberries anymore – it’s salty, the rain mixing in with their tears, Namjoon’s lips soft and searching, coaxing Jungkook’s mouth open, licking into it, taking his breath away. Namjoon kisses him like an apology. It makes Jungkook’s knees tremble.
“Sorry for a bad first kiss,” Namjoon mumbles, pulling away but resting his forehead against Jungkook’s – not kissing him anymore but still close, still present. “I hope the second one made up for it.”
Jungkook runs his tongue over his bottom lip and pulls Namjoon in for another kiss. “Third one can be even better,” he grins, slinking his arms around Namjoon’s neck and sealing his mouth over his again.