And though I’m paper skin,
I’m gonna love you, I’m gonna love you now...
_ _
There is magic in the world. And not metaphorically - believing in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus and miracles - but scientific, actually proven fact. There is magic in the world, flowing through it, seeping out of it - in the ground and the air and the currents of the sea. If you’re born with the right blood, or DNA, or something ( that scientists aren’t sure of yet) then you’ll be able to feel it. It’ll flow through you, too. You’ll hear it humming in the back of your mind, buzzing just beneath your skin, connecting you to everything else.
Sometimes, your body and bones will seem too small for all that power.
Because magic is powerful and it looks different for everyone, so the books say. There are the standard spells and practices, sure - the ones that technically anyone can learn from the right book or rune set, even if they don’t have enough raw power to put it into practice. But deeper than that, woven into the very fabric of your being, is an ability that you were born with, that can’t be copied. You might be able to commune with the dead, or dream about the future, or talk to animals…
Or, if you’re Jeon Jungkook, sense the emotions of people around you - sometimes so viscerally it’s as if they’re your own. Anger, fear, sadness, hope, joy, love all press against you, fill your lungs and your chest until you’re overflowing.
When he was a child, Jungkook reveled in it. The world felt so big and he was so connected to everything in it. To his parents, and his brother, and his friends at school - even the strangers passing by on the street. Sometimes, if he touched them, he could even hear the thoughts zipping through their minds: the grocery list his mother was trying not to forget, the notes of a song his father was humming, the victory shout when his friend got an A on an assignment. A brush against a grandmother in a shop revealed her excitement at seeing her grandchildren for the first time in several months. Meanwhile, the important looking man in the suit next to her was trying to compose a text to his wife, explaining that he would be late for dinner. Again.
It made Jungkook feel so alive, getting these amazing glimpses into other people’s worlds. But magic is powerful, and powerful things are often feared.
Even by those closest to you, who should understand but don’t. Can’t.
Never will.
_ _
The things Jeon Jungkook loves about New York City:
And the things he hates:
He still can’t think about the test that’s crumpled in his backpack, so marked up with red ink that it looks like it’s bleeding. It’s three in the afternoon on a Tuesday and he just bombed his second major test of the semester. Tonight, he’s going to have to go home and tell his parents about it - weather their disappointment, their concern, their questions.
Is the city too much for you? Are you getting distracted again? I thought you had that under control, Jungkook.
Which. He does. He swears he does. He wears gloves and he’s careful, careful, careful not to touch anyone and he’s locked his magic up so tight - welded the box in the back of his mind shut - that he barely even gets impressions anymore. Sure, it feels a little like he can’t breathe, all the time. Or like there’s a hole in him, a vital piece that’s missing, but he understands. His “gift” is intrusive and unwelcome and dangerous, and he needs to keep it in check. For the sake of himself and everyone else.
But the fact that he bombed a second test has nothing to do with that and everything to do with how much he hates business. He isn’t smart enough for it, or aggressive enough for it, and most of his classes are so boring he wants to scream. There are so many other things he loves - dance, music, art, photography, video production - but none of them lead to practical careers, according to his parents, and so they’re a waste of time and money. And he won’t be able to cover tuition and rent by himself, if his parents cut him off, so two years and two universities later, he’s still battling his way through a business course.
It might all be a moot point, anyway, if he flunks out.
He pulls his scarf up a little higher, covering his nose, and shoves his hands in his pockets. He has no idea where he’s going, not even sure which stop he got off the subway at or what neighborhood he’s currently in. Somewhere down south, near the river. East Village, maybe? It doesn’t really matter. His current goals are a) avoid going home for as long as possible and b) avoid crying in the middle of the street.
The second goal is quickly slipping out of reach as he feels his eyes burning and his vision blurs. Shit. He ducks his head, turns down a side street. Definitely East Village. He recognizes the colorful shops, the graffiti murals on brick walls, the smells wafting from various Asian restaurants dotted around. He’s always liked it here, though it sometimes feels too infested with students from his university. He comes to draw sometimes, or take pictures of old, ivy-covered townhouses, and it’s not a surprise his feet carried him into the neighborhood without input from his brain.
He takes a deep breath and wipes at his eyes, which are still leaking. It’s 3:30 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon and he’s crying in the middle of the street.
Great. Fantastic. He loves his life.
He’s also managed to turn down a street he’s never explored before. It’s quieter than some of the main thoroughfares with their bars and clubs and restaurants - almost hushed, with ivy on the old buildings. He kind of wants to sit down on the curb and collect himself, but that might be more embarrassing than just accepting his fate and going back to his studio to have his breakdown in peace.
Right, he can make it home. A couple subway stops, a ten minute walk, and then he’ll have a few hours before he has to call his parents. Plenty of time for some crying and television bingeing and maybe a workout to stop himself from wallowing.
He’s almost to the end of the street when he feels it: a sharp tug in his chest, the corner he tries so hard to ignore. He turns his head and there, across the street, is a store. Plants and books visible through the front windows, a few stone steps leading up to the recessed door, no awning but a large sign: The Magic Shop in curling letters. Beneath it: Enchanted Items, Artifacts, and More.
He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn't. He’s seen a few places like this in the city and always managed to avoid them - walked by them fast and with his head down until the hook-pull faded and he was empty again. But right now he’s tired, and still half-crying, and it feels so … warm.
The magic in the air around the shop is warm against the Fall chill and inviting and the next thing Jungkook knows, he’s up the steps and pushing open the door.
The warmth increases, washes over him like a flood, and he pauses just inside, trying to absorb it with suddenly weak knees. The shop is bigger than he expected, unfolding in an organized jumble past where he can see. The left wall is filled with books of all shapes and sizes - some looking older than time and a breath from falling apart, and some crisp and contemporary. The right wall is stacked with bottles and jars - most of them seem to be full of dried herbs, plants, and spices, but he also spots some liquid potions near the far end. On displays in the middle of the room are various artifacts and enchanted items (just like the sign promised). A section of healing crystals, several intricate tarot decks, and dozens of other objects he can’t identify with his very limited magical knowledge. There are plants hanging from the ceiling, nestled on the shelves, and the whole place just feels…
He kind of wants to cry again, for a completely different reason.
There are footsteps from the back, approaching, and he expects someone wizened and elderly to emerge, not a boy his age in a fluffy sweater, sporting platinum blonde hair and a wide, bright smile.
“Hi!” he says in slightly accented English. “Welcome to The Magic Shop. Can I help you with anything?”
He’s small, and Jungkook isn’t sure if pixies are real, but he imagines that if they are, they’d look a lot like this kid. And even though he’s welded the box shut, closed all the doors, he can still sense traces of magic radiating from the boy.
“I’m,” he stammers. “I’m just looking.”
The boy nods. “Okay. Well my name’s Jimin, if you need anything.” He takes a step closer, the smile slipping to a frown. “Are you okay?”
Shit. His eyes must still be red-rimmed and he’s sure his face is puffy and pale beneath the protection of his scarf and hood.
“I’m fine,” he insists, though his voice wobbles in the middle, cutting his confidence off at the knees.
“Hang on,” Jimin says, heading back into the shop, “let me make you a cup of tea.”
What? Tea?
“You really don’t have to…” he tries to protest and Jimin makes a shushing motion.
“It’s fine. We offer tea to all our customers.”
He suspects that isn’t true, but he’s too polite to argue, and a few minutes later tea in a genuine china cup is being pressed into his hands. There’s even a saucer, like a Victorian period drama. He’s about to take a sip when he remembers that he’s in a magic shop and what if this isn’t normal tea? He’s already breaking so many of his own rules, he can’t actually consume something magical - what if his parents found out? What if he Skyped them later and they could just tell? What if-
“Relax,” Jimin says, sounding amused. “It’s just chamomile. I wouldn’t give you anything magical without your consent.”
Oh. His face flushes in embarrassment and he ducks his head to hide it, finally trying the tea. It is chamomile and it feels warm and soothing in his mouth. He might accidentally make a pleased noise, because Jimin’s face brightens again.
“It’s good, isn’t it? Hoseok makes the best tea. But don’t tell Jin I said that.”
He has no idea who Hoseok and Jin are and he’s too nervous to ask, so he nods instead. “It’s good. Thank you.”
Jimin tilts his head to the side. “You’re from Busan, aren’t you?”
All the warmth drains right out of him again. “I-how could you tell?”
“Your accent,” Jimin says. “And magic users from Busan always feel like the sea, even if their abilities don’t actually have anything to do with it.” He taps his chest. “I’m from Busan, too, and I always feel really connected to the ocean. My ability isn’t water-based, but I can feel the tides sometimes, especially if there’s a full moon. Do you ever get that? Like this magnetic pull in your stomach? One time, it was so strong, I took the train out to Coney Island because I needed to just, like, stand in the ocean for awhile.”
Jungkook isn’t sure his lungs are working properly right now. What Jimin said might make sense, if he gave himself time to examine it. To face the idea that the box isn’t welded shut as tightly as he wants and sometimes he feels twinges of something that he can’t ignore. Sometimes, the only thing that can calm him is the water. And once or twice, he’s found himself on the platform to Coney Island without really knowing why and ran all the way back home in a panic.
“You can sense my magic?” he asks in a very small voice - the only question he can get out around the familiar anxiety that’s rising, rising, rising.
Jimin frowns at him in confusion. “Of course I can. All magical beings can usually sense each other, right? Unless someone is purposefully masking. And, I mean, it is kind of hard to sense you? Kind of like you’ve muffled it somehow or shrunk it down, but it’s there. You definitely have the spark.”
Shit, shit, shit. He shouldn’t have come here, he knew this was a bad idea…
“Hey,” Jimin says, concern on his face now. “Hey, I’m sorry. Did I overstep? Namjoon always says I’m too nosy for my own good, but…”
“I have to go,” Jungkook says in a rush, setting the cup and saucer down on a nearby counter with a loud clatter. “Thank you for the tea, I’m sorry.”
And then he fucking bows like an idiot, and that’s just. Great. What the hell?
“Wait…” Jimin says but he’s already running. Out of the shop, down the steps into the cold, darkening evening, and through East Village’s crowded streets to the subway stop.
Back on the safety of the train, he presses his forehead to his knees, a hand over his jack-rabbiting heart and tells himself that it’s okay. It was a mistake and he won’t make it again. It doesn’t matter how warm and safe that place felt, he promised his parents, years ago, that he would stay away from that world.
He can’t go back.
_ _
He goes back.
He wasn’t planning on it. Really.
It’s just the Skype conversation with his parents didn’t go well, and he’s barely slept in a week trying write a paper for another class he’s struggling in, and he finally decided to go to East Village to take some pictures for sketch references, and now he’s standing in front of the shop again.
Fuck.
Walk away, he tries to tell himself, but the magic beckons. Like fresh air in the spring. The earth after rain. The crash of the sea. The hole in him aches.
A bell jangles when he enters - something he failed to notice before - and it isn’t Jimin sitting behind the counter. This boy has light red hair and a narrow, expressive face. When he smiles a greeting it’s kind of like opening the blinds in the morning and staring directly into the sun.
“Hi, welcome to The Magic Shop!” His accent - it isn’t as pronounced as Jimin’s, but he’s Korean, too. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Uh, I’m - is Jimin here?”
“No, Jimin has class on Thursdays. I’m Hoseok.” The name sounds vaguely familiar. “And you must be the kid from last week,” Hoseok continues.
This time, Jungkook doesn’t have a scarf to hide behind when his face flushes. “Jimin … Jimin mentioned me?”
Hoseok nods and actually jumps up to perch on the counter, legs dangling off the edge and kicking idly against the wood. Something tells Jungkook that Hoseok is not very good at sitting still for long periods of time. He just seems to radiate energy.
“Yeah, he felt really bad about the other day. Was hoping you’d come back so he could apologize.”
“Oh. Uh.” Jimin wanted to apologize? He’s never had anyone, well, care that much before. About upsetting him. “Please tell him it wasn’t his fault. And I forgive him. And my name’s Jungkook.”
Hoseok nods along with each point. Grins at the end. “Jungkook, got it. Nice to meet you. Want some tea?”
He’s thrown by the non-sequitur. Is tea actually a thing here? “Sure?”
The cup and saucer Hoseok hands him has vines painted on it in swirling, intricate patterns. The tea is a different flavor, this time. Something fruity and bright on his tongue. Hoseok hovers, watching him intently as he takes a second sip. “What do you think? Is it good? I’m trying out a new recipe.”
So I’m your guinea pig? Jungkook is too shy to ask.
“It’s good,” he says instead. “I like it.”
Hoseok beams at him. Mutters something like “take that, Jin” under his breath and then leaves him to finish his tea and poke around a little. He’s not brave enough to actually pick anything up, especially with his somewhat slippery gloves. But it’s fun to try to decipher the titles of the books. Many of them seem to be in foreign languages. He can make out Latin and French. Spanish. Maybe German?
“Stop by again sometime, Jungkook-ssi,” Hoseok says when he finally says goodbye.
Jungkook doesn’t tell him that it seems inevitable at this point.
_ _
The heating breaks in his studio apartment, he’s a day late turning his paper in, and he realizes that he didn’t budget well this month so he’s going to be living off instant ramen for the next two weeks until his monthly allowance comes through.
(He wanted to work, but his parents insisted that he focus on his studies instead.)
On top of all of this, he still hasn’t managed to make any friends on campus. To most of them, he’s the weird, shy kid that sits in the back of class and wears gloves even indoors. Sometimes, he wishes he could just lock himself in his room like Elsa in Frozen, but the truth is that he still loves people too much to cut himself completely off from them.
He goes back to the shop instead.
And there is yet another boy behind the counter today. This one is tall and lanky, with light brown hair swept off his forehead and a serene air about him. His presence still throws Jungkook for enough of a loop that he blurts, “how many of you are there?”
Fortunately, Guy #3 just laughs, low and cackling. “You must be Jungkook. I’m Kim Namjoon.”
Another head pops up from behind a display case and Jungkook startles. Guy #4 is almost unfairly handsome - Jungkook would kill to be able to get his bangs to do an artful sweep across his forehead like that. “You’re Jungkook? Hang on.”
He disappears into the back of the shop and Najmoon shakes his head. “That’s Seokjin. Don’t mind him.” He beckons Jungkook further into the shop.
“How do you know about me?” Jungkook asks, fiddling nervously with the strap of his camera bag.
“Jimin and Hoseok,” Namjoon explains as Seokjin reemerges with a cup of tea cradled in his hands.
“Drink this,” he says, handing it to Jungkook. This mug is decorated with what looks like lavender blossoms and the tea in it is nearly as dark as coffee.
Jungkook eyes it dubiously, but, well, they haven’t poisoned him yet. He takes a tentative sip, bracing himself for something bitter. Instead it’s rich and sweet, with a hint of … chocolate? Is there chocolate in this tea? And orange?
“Whoa,” he says.
Jin is staring at him. “Is it good? Is it better than Hoseok’s?”
“Uh…” he doesn’t want to be impolite, and it is good, but in a completely different way, and Hoseok gave him tea first so he feels a weird loyalty even though….
“Just say yes,” Namjoon advises from behind the counter.
“Yes,” he echoes and Seokjin makes a sound of triumph.
“Ha, magic can’t beat good old-fashioned practice.”
Jungkook is very confused, but this tea is good and Seokjin doesn’t really seem to need or want his input anyway, so he stays where he is and keeps drinking until Jin has returned to whatever he was doing before and the cup is empty. Namjoon is calm and personable - a nice contrast to Hoseok and Jimin’s energy - and from him Jungkook learns that there are six of them who run the shop, though Namjoon, Hoseok, and someone named Yoongi are the official owners. They all live together, too, in an old townhouse near the top of the neighborhood - a few blocks from here. And they’re all magical, which Jungkook figured.
Namjoon thankfully doesn’t ask any questions about Jungkook’s magic, and Jungkook leaves feeling far less stressed than before.
_ _
“Jungkook!”
It’s actually good to see Jimin again, bounding towards him from the back of the shop. His blonde hair is a little messier than normal, hanging in his eyes, and he’s wearing … some kind of coat? It’s long, hanging past Jimin’s knees, and made of a very shiny silver material that looks almost metallic.
Jungkook doesn’t have time to ask about it because Jimin has grabbed his hand (he panics for a moment before he remembers that yes, his gloves are firmly in place) and drags him towards the counter, where Boy #5 is perched on a stool with a mouthful of pins. He’s got silver hair that he’s pushed back from his face with a headband and sharp features.
“Don’t run in it, Jimin,” he says through the pins, voice much lower than Jungkook expected.
Jimin ignores him. “This is Jungkook.” He pushes Jungkook forward a step like he’s presenting a prize. “I told you about him, remember? Jungkook, this is Taehyung.”
Taehyung looks up at him, brow furrowed. Then he stands and moves out from behind the counter. Jungkook, rapidly getting used to baffling behavior, holds himself still as Taehyung seems to measure his height and then points to the coat Jimin’s wearing. “Can you put that on?”
He glances at Jimin, just to make sure this isn’t an insult, but Jimin is already shrugging out of the coat with a muttered, “thank God,” and passing it over.
Which is how Jungkook a) spends an afternoon getting measured and poked with needles and b) learns that Taehyung is a senior at the New York Fashion Institute of Technology and Jimin is a dance major at fucking Juilliard.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Jimin says, sheepish.
“They only let in twenty-four students a year, ” Jungkook points out. Taehyung makes a noise of agreement from his spot on the floor.
“Jimin’s amazing,” he says, easy. “You should see him dance sometime.”
“Ah, I mean, I’m okay …”
“You’re top of your class, shut up,” Taehyung says and Jimin throws what looks like a handful of incense at his head.
He ducks, sqawks, and jabs a needle into Jungkook’s leg.
“Ow,” Jungkook grumbles and Jimin looks guilty.
“You were supposed to block that, asshole.”
“How ?” Taehyung asks, patting Jungkook’s leg in apology. “You know I’m not good at defensive magic.”
Jungkook stiffens at the mention of magic (even though he’s standing in the middle of a fucking magic shop, thank you, yes, he’s aware), but neither Taehyung nor Jimin seem to notice, too caught up in bickering like an old married couple.
All in all, it’s not a bad afternoon.
_ _
He goes back. And back. And back.
At first, he limits himself to just once a week, but that quickly multiplies to three times a week and then almost every other day. None of the boys seem to mind (except for the mysterious Yoongi, who Jungkook still hasn’t managed to encounter and is starting to suspect isn’t actually real) and the atmosphere of the shop is just so … soothing.
(“I know,” Jimin says one day, when Jungkook finally works up the nerve to mention it. “It’s why I always come here to do homework.”)
He starts lugging his backpack over and sitting behind the counter to study. Sometimes, Taehyung or Jimin joins him and sometimes Namjoon, who seemingly knows everything, will peer over his shoulder and gently point out his mistakes. They’re rarely all in the shop together and it becomes a game of sorts, comparing their different interactions:
He likes spending time with them, likes that they don’t pry into his life too much and that they’re fine with him suddenly crashing into theirs. He’s not sure, but he thinks he might have finally made friends.
Just not ones he can ever tell his parents about.
_ _
He learns that Hoseok, Namjoon, and the mysterious-possibly-not-real Yoongi all met in college and decided to go into business together after graduating. (Other things happened, back then - bad things that spread shadows across their faces and they refuse to talk about, but Jungkook understands and doesn’t push.) They’ve been in America for nearly seven years and have no plans to go back to Korea, even though they miss their families.
Seokjin moved to the States when he was in high school and met Namjoon a year after Namjoon graduated from college. The rest is history and now he apparently spends his free time cooking and getting master’s degrees, just for the hell of it. (He's on his second one, already, in film studies.)
Jimin and Taehyung are the newest additions to the group. Came here for school three years ago and haven’t looked back.
Hoseok’s favorite color is green and Taehyung secretly hates coffee but drinks it for the caffeine. Namjoon can rap as well as Eminem (in Jungkook’s humble opinion) and Jimin once dyed his hair bright orange on a drunken dare and nearly got kicked out of his junior showcase as a result. Seokjin originally majored in theatre in undergrad and apparently still does the occasional community production.
Jungkook stores up all these little details in another box in his mind, to be taken out when his studio seems too empty or he has a bad day. He gives out information sparingly to them, uncertain of how to put into words his upbringing and his closed off magic and the fact that college is drowning him, little by little. That he wakes up every day and can feel the water a few inches closer to his lungs.
Maybe they sense it, maybe they don’t care. Either way, they never punish him for it. Just make him endless cups of tea and chatter on the days he can’t talk well and make his whole life better without even trying.
He hopes, desperately, that he gets to keep them.
_ _
He thinks about what it would be like to open the box, let all his magic out for the first time in over a decade. What it would be like to experience their happiness, their sadness - help shoulder their stress and frustrations. Connect to them, like he used to do with his family when he was a child. Truly belong, with his magic full and flowing through him as easy as breathing.
The thought makes him terrified, makes his whole chest ache, so he shoves it away. Into the box with his magic, never to be looked at again.
_ _
“Jungkook,” Taehyung says one afternoon as Jungkook’s getting ready to leave, “you should come back tomorrow.”
Jungkook stops in the middle of shrugging on his backpack, frowning. “What?”
“You should come back tomorrow,” Taehyung repeats without looking up from his sketchbook. He’s got a design showcase coming up next month and he’s been frantically drawing for the last two weeks - the wastebasket next to him is full of dramatically crumpled papers.
Tomorrow is Wednesday, and he has a class that lasts until four p.m., then he was planning on forcing himself to really study because he’s pretty sure he’s going to fail the next test at the rate he’s going, and that means failing the class.
“I-”
“You should listen to him,” Jimin says, passing by with an armful of books in need of shelving. “At least about this.”
“Is something happening tomorrow?” Jungkook asks, confused.
Jimin pauses, a hesitant look crossing his face. “Tae is…”
“I’m a seer,” Taehyung murmurs, still mostly focused on his drawing. “Or a precog, is another word for it.”
Oh. They’ve never discussed their abilities around him - probably sensing the panic that rises in him whenever the topic of magic is brought up - and that’s … “you can see the future?”
Taehyung shrugs. “Not really. I just get … impressions.”
“Yeah, super vague ones,” Jimin grumbles.
Taehyung, still without looking up, lobs a paper ball at Jimin’s head. It’s a perfect hit and Jungkook bites his lip to hide a grin at Jimin’s outraged glare.
“I was going to say that you’re usually right, though,” he huffs. “Asshole.” He turns back to Jungkook. “So you should come back tomorrow.”
“Why?” Jungkook presses. He really, desperately needs to study.
“Dunno,” Taehyung says. “Just that you should.”
“See what I mean?” Jimin stage whispers to him. Another paper ball comes sailing.
“Okay,” Jungkook agrees, mostly to prevent Jimin from starting an argument. “I’ll try, hyung.”
Taehyung lifts a hand in an absent wave and Jungkook, still confused, bids them both goodnight.
_ _
Wednesday is shit. Two hours in, he wants to crawl back into bed and start over. First, he woke up late and, in his rush, forgot his gloves, which left him in a panic all morning until he could go back to his apartment and retrieve them. The panic also forced him to keep an even tighter hold on the box, which caused a migraine that made it difficult to focus in class. When one of his professors called on him, he didn’t know the answer at all and everyone looked at him with a mixture of amusement and pity and he still wants to die just remembering it.
He forgot his textbook for a different class and had to share with someone. Kept his hands jammed in his pockets so that he didn’t accidentally touch her and bit his lip at the weirded out looks she kept sending him. He didn’t have enough money for lunch so he wandered around campus for an hour until his next class and tried to ignore the growling of his stomach.
Then, in his third class, the professor pulled him aside to express concern about his steadily tanking grade and recommend a visit to the school counselor, which. Great. Good to know that everyone can see him drowning.
By the time 4 p.m. rolls arounds it’s started to pour and he naturally doesn’t have an umbrella and he just spent ten minutes having a mini-breakdown in the rec center bathroom.
So fuck it, he goes back to the shop. Maybe Taehyung will be able to cheer him up, or one of the others.
He’s drenched by the time he’s walked the ten blocks to The Magic Shop and half-frozen all the way down to his bones. He can hear his teeth chattering as he pushes open the door, wincing at the puddle of water that immediately starts forming on the hardwood floor.
“Taehyung?” he calls into the surprisingly quiet store. Usually, no matter who’s running the shop, there is noise: Jimin’s shoes scuffing against the floor, Taehyung and Seokjin’s absent-minded humming, Hoseok clattering around in a whirlwind of productivity, Namjoon drumming against the counter with his fingers or a pencil, trying to work out a beat.
Today, it’s still enough that he double checks the sign. It says OPEN in big block letters.
“Taehyung?” he tries again, shivering. Even the warmth of the shop isn’t enough. Maybe Tae’s in the back and hasn’t heard him? That’s happened before.
Footsteps, but it isn’t Taehyung that rounds the corner. The rest of Jungkook’s words die in his throat as he comes face to face with a stranger who must be the mysterious-potentially-not-real Min Yoongi. He’s not really at all like Jungkook imagined - smaller and slighter than even Jimin, practically swimming in his baggy hoodie, with sharp eyes and very unimpressed look on his (shit, handsome) face.
And his magic, holy shit. Maybe it’s because Jungkook is exhausted and freezing and his normal walls are full of holes, but he can feel it like a storm. It expands Min Yoongi’s presence out into the whole room and it’s … overwhelming. Raw. So, so different from the brief flashes he’s gotten of the others. He quickly slams his walls back up as high as they go.
Well, fuck.
“Hi,” Jungkook says, dizzy and soaked and still kind of wanting to cry. “I’m sorry to barge in like this and for dripping water all over your floor, it’s just that Taehyung said I should come back today and Jimin-hyung said he’s usually right about this kind of stuff and I had, possibly, the shittest day I’ve had in the last six months so I thought that - I don’t know what I thought, I’m sorry, I’ll shut up now.”
He slams his mouth closed with effort, swallowing back the rest of the word vomit trying to escape. God, he’s an embarrassment. He should go outside and pray a bolt of lightning puts him out of his misery. And Yoongi still hasn’t said anything - is just watching him with a raised eyebrow and a slight smile of what Jungkook thinks is amusement.
Can lightning strike indoors?
He almost misses Yoongi beckoning him further into the shop because he’s busy burying his face in his hands and fighting the urge to scream. But Yoongi beckons and he follows, shoes squeaking and clothes sloshing. There is water everywhere.
At the register, Yoongi points to a typed out sign that’s now perched at the edge of the counter: I’m mute. Thank you for your patience while I respond.
Oh. Oh. Fuck.
“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he babbles. Maybe he can just crush his own skull with one of the tomes? They look like they’d do the job. “I didn’t realize. I mean, none of the others said anything and …”
Yoongi holds up a hand and yep, that’s definitely amusement. He makes a wait here motion and vanishes into the backroom. Jungkook picks nervously at the hem of his sopping hoodie and tries to figure out which book is the heaviest. Before he can decide, Yoongi returns with an armful of fluffy towels and a cup of tea.
“Oh, you don’t have to-” The towels get shoved into his arms and the cup of tea goes on the counter. Then, Yoongi fishes around in the pocket of his ripped jeans for his phone. Types rapidly in what looks like the notes app.
After a moment, he holds it up for Jungkook to read. Take off your sweatshirt. And pants.
Jungkook immediately feels his face turn the color of a tomato. “W-what?”
Yoongi rolls his eyes. Just do it. You’re shaking and you’re getting water everywhere.
He leaves Jungkook spluttering by the register and goes to flip the closed sign on the door. Pull the blinds down over the front windows to give them some privacy. It’s raining so hard, it sounds like drums beating against the roof and Jungkook gets a glimpse of the street outside, steadily transforming into a rushing river.
Right, looks like he doesn’t have a choice. He takes a deep breath and starts peeling off his layers. First his hoodie, then his shirt, then, after a moment of consideration, his gloves. He toes off his boots and wet socks and watches Yoongi collect each item and drape it over one of the radiators scattered around the shop.
Pants, too. Come on, kid.
“I got it,” Jungkook grumbles mutinously and takes another fortifying breath before carefully working his jeans over his hips and down his legs, leaving him shivering in thankfully black boxers instead of the Iron Man ones he debated putting on this morning.
Small mercies.
Yoongi has also averted his eyes and brought over an ancient-looking quilt in addition to the towels that Jungkook is currently using to dry his hair.
“Thank you,” Jungkook says, immediately wrapping himself up in it like a sad burrito and trying not to sigh audibly at the warmth. This also reduces the risk of skin contact, so win-win.
Yoongi dips his head in a nod and passes Jungkook the tea that he had completely forgotten about. He worms a hand free from his blanket burrito and takes it, making sure his fingers don’t brush against Yoongi’s slender ones as he does. It’s simple green tea, none of the flair that Hoseok’s or Seokjin’s usually have, but it’s still good. And warm. And good.
He blinks up at Yoongi who is now sitting cross-legged on the counter and probably texting on his phone. Takes him in again - his dark, messy hair and smooth features and shit, he isn’t Jin levels of handsome but he’s cute and his magic is like a storm and he’s just … a lot. This all a lot.
Damn Taehyung.
“I’m sorry about all this, Yoongi-ssi.” he says again and then winces as he realizes that maybe he isn’t supposed to know Yoongi’s name? Does Yoongi even know who he is?
Typing.
It’s fine. Relax, Jungkook.
So that answers one question.
And if you call Jimin ‘hyung’, you can call me that, too.
Jungkook snorts before he can stop himself and is rewarded with a warmer smile from Yoongi. One that drags the whole right side of his mouth up. “Okay, hyung.”
Yoongi points to the cup still in Jungkook’s hand and makes an insistent drinking motion. Damn, he’s bossy. And somehow, Jungkook doubts he was the author of the sign sitting next to him on the counter. He’s only known Yoongi for about ten minutes, but it already feels too polite.
“I’m drinking, I’m drinking,” he says and proves it by taking another large gulp of the now lukewarm tea.
Yoongi watches him like a hawk until he finishes the whole cup and hands it over. He feels ridiculous, sitting on the floor of the shop in his boxers and a quilt. Curls the blanket tighter around himself as he watches Yoongi check his clothes. He can’t see much through the cracks in the blinds, but it looks like it’s almost dark outside. And still pouring.
Yoongi probably wants to go home, not sit here and babysit him until his clothes dry. And he’s just going to get soaked all over again on his way home, so this is just delaying the inevitable.
“I can go now, hyung,” he says, standing on still-wobbly legs. The tea and the warmth of the shop is helping, but he’s definitely not all the way defrosted yet. “I don’t have an umbrella so it’s pointless to wait until my clothes dry out.”
Which he probably should have said at the beginning of all this, thinking back. Maybe he just didn’t want to face the idea of going back to his empty apartment and eating shitty $1 ramen from a styrofoam cup all by himself. He still doesn’t, but he’s not a baby. He won’t inconvenience Yoongi any further just because he’s feeling lonely and sad and clingy.
Yoongi is frowning at him, he realizes, and typing on his phone again.
Come to dinner.
“Is that an order?” Jungkook asks, off-balance.
From Jimin, yes. And Jin.
“Oh. You-you told them I was here?”
And looking like a half-drowned puppy.
He chokes. Yoongi’s eyes are dancing with mischief. And God, he really doesn’t want to go back to his apartment. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll come.”
Yoongi closes out the notes app and pulls up what looks like a group chat. After he types something in, he waits a moment then huffs what Jungkook thinks is a laugh and shows him.
Brat #1 [5:14 pm]
YESSSS. TELL HIM WE HAVE DRY CLOTHES HE CAN BORROW AND JIN IS MAKING BULGOGI. HE WON’T REGRET THIS.
Brat #2 [5:14 pm]
we’ll also make sure to move all the carnivorous plants out of the living room.
Hobi [5:15 pm]
there are no carnivorous plants in the living room.
Joonie [5:15 pm]
are you sure about that? I think one is looking at me.
Hobi [5:16 pm]
i said no CARNIVOROUS plants.
Joonie [5:17 pm]
what the fuck does THAT mean?
Seokjinnie Hyung [5:17 pm]
someone who isn’t namjoon come help me in the kitchen, please.
Jungkook claps a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter as Yoongi types: we’re heading over soon, pull yourselves together.
He’s aching, though, beneath the humor, because they all sound like such a family and he wants that so badly that sometimes he thinks he’d sell an actual piece of his soul to get it. Even just for a little while.
A tap on his shoulder, startling him. Yoongi is holding his semi-dry clothes in a black bundle and mouths, “ready?” when Jungkook’s gaze snaps to his face.
He nods, grateful when Yoongi leaves him to get dressed again, puttering around the shop turning off lights and locking up the register. His hoodie is still a damp, cold mess, but the rest of the clothes are mostly dry. He wonders, suddenly, if there is a spell for this, like in the Harry Potter books, and if Yoongi didn’t perform it because the message Jungkook is nervous around magic, even though he’s fucking magical got passed down to him.
He’d rather not know, he decides.
It’s still raining, but Yoongi has a giant umbrella hooked over one arm. He hands it to Jungkook as they step outside and Jungkook takes the cue to open it, watching Yoongi lock the front door and then hold up a hand. He traces a symbol in the air with his finger and something shimmers, rippling across the exterior of the shop in a near translucent blue wave before vanishing again. Jungkook’s mouth must be open in surprise because Yoongi holds up his phone.
Protective wards.
“Oh.”
Better than locks.
Curiosity overrides his trepidation. “What happens if someone tries to get past them?”
Yoongi makes a faint bzzt sound and mimes someone getting electrocuted.
“Oh. Wow.” Definitely better than locks. He takes a step back, just in case, and Yoongi smirks at him.
Come on.
_ _
The house is only a few blocks away, tucked away on another quiet, tree-lined street. It’s four stories, in the middle of the row, and it’s brick front is nearly completely covered with ivy. Like something out of a movie, really. Awed, Jungkook follows Yoongi up the steps and through the large red front door. It feels like the shop, he realizes as soon as he steps into the entryway: warm and inviting and laced with magic.
There is a towering rack stacked with various shoes and a long line of pegs for coats. He toes his boots off, setting them carefully next to Yoongi’s on the floor. Keeps his gloves and hoodie on.
Two seconds after straightening up, Jimin is skidding to a stop in front of him, beaming. “Jungkook-ah!” He’s got on potentially the fluffiest blue sweater in existence and Jungkook, still cold, is deeply envious. “Come in, come in. Welcome. Let’s get you out of those wet clothes. I stole some of Jin’s for you to borrow because you're such a muscle pig, I think he’s the only one whose stuff won’t be too small.”
Jungkook glances back at Yoongi, in the process of hanging up his long green coat on one of the pegs. He catches Jungkook looking and smiles. Makes a shooing motion with one hand.
“Oh,” Jimin says, pausing in the middle of dragging Jungkook further down the hall by his sleeve, “I think Jin might need some help in the kitchen, Yoongi-hyung. He banned me, Tae, and Hoseok.”
Yoongi signs something that must be a joke because Jimin laughs and says, “exactly,” then continues with his apparent mission to get Jungkook dry clothes. Jungkook can’t help looking around, trying to take everything in as Jimin pulls him along. The house is old - he can almost feel the weight of its history, even if it wasn’t evident from the crown molding and worn floorboards. The paint on the walls is all fresh, though. Even some of the wallpaper looks like it’s been restored.
Almost none of the furniture matches, but nor does any one piece seem out of place. The jumble of a blue couch and red armchair and yellow loveseat somehow work together, as do the floral curtains and the massive brown rug. Just like the shop there are plants everywhere - in all the windowsills and tucked in every corner and perched on top of every bookcase. Ferns and flowers and miniature trees and something that looks like it’s shifting to watch him and Jimin as they cross the room.
Creepy.
He can hear clattering in the kitchen, Seokjin’s familiar voice, though he can’t see much through the open archway. He lets Jimin push him onto the sofa, taking in the healing crystals and clothing sketches scattered across the coffee table. The whole house feels big, but lived in - a sweater hung over the back of a dining room chair, a dog-eared book lying on the armchair, an empty mug that Jimin snatches off a side table with a sheepish smile.
This feels … like a home.
(His chest is aching again.)
Hoseok appears in the doorway, toweling his hair dry, grin as bright as always. “Good to see you, Jungkook.”
“What happened to you?” Jimin asks.
“Had to check on the plants in the greenhouse,” Hoseok replies, slinging the towel around his neck. “Fergie gets scared during storms.”
“Fergie…?” Jungkook ventures.
Hoseok opens his mouth, but Jimin cuts him off. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
“Oi, don’t insult my plants.”
“They’re terrifying, hyung, and one of them is going to eat my face in my sleep.”
“They’re adorable and none of them have legs, Jimin.”
“That you know about,” Jimin grumbles.
Hoseok rolls his eyes and smacks Jimin with the towel, eliciting an outraged squeak. Fortunately, Taehyung arrives with clothes before a fight can break out.
“Here you go, Jungkook-ah,” he says, handing them over and point the way to the bathroom.
The clothes fit, thankfully, even if he’s never been big on pink. When he passes his own clothes over to Jimin, he gets an arched eyebrow and a pointed look at his hands. “Are you going to leave your gloves on?” He glances down in uneasy panic then back up to Jimin’s face, the gentle expression he’s wearing. “Because nothing bad is going to happen if you want to take them off.”
Nothing bad, ha. Jimin doesn’t know, so he can’t say that, even if he’s magical, too. Jungkook’s power is different, invasive, and … “I’m okay. I’ll keep them on, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Jimin says and squeezes his shoulder. “C’mon, help me stop Namjoon from setting the table.”
“Why?”
“His nickname is the God of Destruction.”
"Really?”
“We lost two plates and my favorite cup last week.”
“Ouch.”
“It was devastating,” Jimin says solemnly and passes Jungkook’s clothes off to a protesting Hoseok.
Jungkook shoots him an apologetic look as he’s once again dragged away, but Hoseok is smiling.
_ _
Dinner is … chaotic is the first word that comes to mind. Or at least, it is while everyone gets settled. There is lots of passing food and pointing at things and protesting, in English and Korean, over portion sizes, and then, suddenly, a hush descends. It takes Jungkook a moment to realize that it’s for Yoongi’s benefit - that the others orient themselves towards him.
“How was the store?” Namjoon asks, in English. Because, according to Jimin, Wednesdays are strictly enforced “English Only” days, along with Mondays and Fridays “so we don’t get rusty and have a chance to practice in a safe environment.”
Yoongi shoves a large bite of bulgogi into his mouth with his chopsticks and then starts signing, fingers nimble and lightning quick.
“Good,” Jimin translates for him in a whisper. “But pretty quiet. The rain kept people away.”
“Any customers at all?” Hoseok asks, signing along with his words.
(They’ve all learned, Jungkook realizes with a strange lurch in his chest. They’ve all learned sign language for Yoongi.)
Yoongi holds up three fingers. Then four, and points at Jungkook.
“Ah, Jungkookie’s not a customer,” Jimin says, reaching up to ruffle Jungkook’s hair. Jungkook tries not to flinch, or let anyone hear the hitch in his breath at the contact.
“Of course he isn’t,” Namjoon says, teasing, “he never buys anything.”
Everyone laughs, but it isn’t mean. Like he’s part of the joke instead of the butt of it.
He feels warm all the way down to his bones and his chest aches, aches, aches.
_ _
He’s not allowed to help with the washing up so he perches on the sofa with Yoongi and wonders if he should ask for his clothes back. It’s after eleven and he really should head home, even though he’s pleasantly full and kind of just wants to sink into the cushions and sleep right here.
That would probably be rude, though.
His eyes are still drifting closed, heavy, when a finger pokes his shoulder. He blinks up at Taehyung. “You should stay the night.”
“Is that another one of your … impressions?”
“No,” Taehyung says, looking amused. “That’s it’s-still-raining-literal-buckets-outside-I-think-we-might-in-the-middle-of-a-hurricane-so-you-should-stay-here-and-be-safe.”
“...oh.”
Taehyung nods and straightens. “Jungkook’s staying the night!”
“Good!” Seokjin calls from the kitchen. “We have an air mattress somewhere or he can just take the couch!”
“The-the couch is fine,” Jungkook stammers, slightly mortified at being such a potential inconvenience.
Yoongi holds up his phone. I’ll get blankets.
“And a pair of Jin’s pajamas,” Taehyung instructs.
From the kitchen: “Hey! Yours will fit him, brat!”
Taehyung turns back to Yoongi and signs what Jungkook can only assume is and a pair of Jin’s pajamas, judging by the amused look on Yoongi’s face and the thumbs up he gives.
“I can just sleep in these,” Jungkook tries to insist, but Taehyung shushes him.
_ _
Twenty minutes later, he’s back on the couch with freshly brushed teeth and a pair of Jin’s pajamas, buried under a literal mountain of blankets.
(“The heating in the house can get a little spotty,” Jimin explained, adding another blanket to the pile. “So better safe than sorry, right?”)
His mind is buzzing and his chest is overflowing and he can still feel the low hum of magic in the air. Maybe, just this once. Just for a moment. That would be okay, right?
He lowers his walls all the way down and lets in the flood. Namjoon and Hoseok one floor up, radiating quiet contentment as they settle down for the night. Brilliant excitement from Jimin next door, echoing amusement from Taehyung, and a deep undercurrent of affection running between them in an endless loop. Buzzing restlessness from Yoongi on the top floor, almost like a hum that Jungkook can feel against his skin. And next to him, the contrast of Seokjin’s slowly fading happiness over a good night, as he sinks into sleep.
Jungkook rolls onto his back and drinks them in for another moment, two, three - greedy for this connection, this wholeness. Raising the walls back up is almost agony, but he does it eventually, trying not to dwell on the ensuing emptiness. The tear opening in him again as he welds the box shut once more.
It’s a long time before he falls asleep.
Also I wanted to be able to love
And we all know how that one goes, don't we?
Slowly.
_ _
Morning brings even more chaos. He wakes before the rest of the house (was barely asleep in the first place) and retrieves his own clothes from the laundry, ducking into the bathroom to change. By the time he emerges, Taehyung is seated at the kitchen table, serenely eating what looks like a bowl of Cheerios, and Jimin is … talking.
To thin air?
“For the last time,” he says in the direction of the balcony doors, “I have to go to dance practice first. Then I can help you look for your cat, okay?”
A pause, where he actually seems to be listening to something, and then a deep sigh. “ No, I told you I - for the love of-” he pulls his phone out of the pocket of his hoodie and starts typing. Reads. Takes a fortifying breath. “Je dois aller à la pratique de la danse. Après cela, je peux vous aider à chercher votre chat. D'accord?”
French? Is that French?
(Is he dreaming? Has he actually not woken up yet?)
Taehyung is still eating Cheerios. Like this is a normal occurrence.
Jimin sighs again. Raises his voice. “Je dois aller à la pratique de la danse! Après cela, je peux vous aider à chercher votre chat! D’ACCORD?” Another listening pause. “Good.”
He scoops a backpack Jungkook failed to notice off one of the chairs and throws it over his shoulder, muttering, “I’m so late,” as he bends down to kiss Taehyung on the cheek.
“Good luck,” Taehyung murmurs through a mouthful of Cheerios.
Jimin crosses the room. Squeezes Jungkook’s shoulder on his way past. “See you later, Jungkook-ah.”
He’s halfway down the hall when Taehyung suddenly turns in his seat and yells, “Jimin, take an umbrella with you!”
Angry muttering - what sounds like “fuck, really?” - and then the clattering of the umbrella stand Jungkook vaguely remembers being next to the front door. Then the door itself, opening and banging shut, and a descending, heavy silence.
Jungkook debates pinching himself. He’s still holding Jin’s pajamas in his hands, too - frozen two steps from the bathroom door.
“It’s his gift,” Taehyung says, finally setting down his bowl. “He’s a medium.”
“A … medium?” Jungkook repeats as he forces his feet to unstick themselves from the floor and his hands to set Jin’s pajamas down on the couch. The term sounds familiar. He thinks he remembers a TV show or two - a shop advertising seances in Busan that his mother hurried him past (“They’re frauds, Jungkook, taking money from innocent people.”), but that’s where his limited knowledge stops. “He can talk to the dead?”
Taehyung hums, gesturing for him to have a seat. Jungkook sinks into the chair and watches Taehyung get up to retrieve another bowl and spoon. Nudge the cereal box closer to him. “We also have Captain Crunch, Lucky Charms, Cocoa Puffs, and disgusting bran mix that Jin-hyung insists on calling cereal.”
“Cheerios is fine,” Jungkook says. Realization hits in the middle of pouring himself a bowl. “Wait, was that a ghost Jimin was just talking to?”
Taehyung reaches over and tips Jungkook’s hand back up so the bowl can’t overflow. “Yeah.”
“Is it still here?” He glances at the balcony doors, half expecting the girl from The Ring to rise up from the floor, but there’s only empty air.
“Nah, it followed Jimin. He’s kind of like a beacon to them? All mediums are. Usually they’re harmless - just want help with shit like finding cats or seeing their families one last time or making sure a priceless heirloom is taken care of. Sometimes they get mad and throw stuff around, but that’s rare and Jimin always tries to pin it on Joonie, anyway.” He laughs. “The most annoying thing is that sometimes they can’t speak English. Or Korean. Jimin’s got a translator app on his phone that’s he worn out. Got followed by a Russian ghost for a whole week once - that was hilarious.”
Jungkook struggles to wrap his head around all of this and not get milk all over the table as he pours it into his cereal (from a genuine porcelain pitcher, what the hell?). He knows, logically, that they all have abilities - that all magic users have abilities and there are thousands of magic users in the world, Jungkook isn’t alone - but it’s strange to be confronted with them. To sit down across from someone and talk about seeing ghosts like it’s normal. Just another part of Thursday morning.
“Is-” he’s not sure what he’s going to ask (is Jimin okay with this? Are his parents? Are you?), but before he can get any words out the temperate in the house plummets. Between one moment and the next, his breath starts fogging the air and honest-to-God ice looks like it’s forming in the milk pitcher.
Taehyung pauses with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth and blinks down at the steadily-freezing liquid. “Uh-oh.”
From somewhere upstairs, at deafening volume: “MIN YOONGI.”
Doors slam, and he tries not to flinch at the thunder of footsteps overhead, tracking them as they descend the stairs into the hallway.
“How many times have I told you?” It’s Hoseok, trailing angrily after Yoongi - who looks just as furious, managing to appear terrifying even while wearing the most oversized hoodie that Jungkook has ever seen. “Stop fucking with the temperatures in the house! My plants can’t take it! Just go roast whoever you’re mad at - unless that person is me - and stop making us all suffer. Or you could, you know, use your words.”
Yoongi rounds on him, hands flying.
“And that isn’t my fault!” Hoseok declares. He’s still in pajamas, and they have ice cream cones on them. Jungkook returns to his earlier dream theory. “Raise the temperature again. Please. Hyung.”
Yoongi’s eyes narrow, and, if anything, it gets colder. Jungkook’s bowl of cereal is completely frozen now - Cheerios stuck like islands in the middle of a white, artic sea of milk.
“Min Yoongi, I swear to God!” Hoseok snaps.
More footsteps and Namjoon trips into the room. He’s got a jacket half-on - the left arm flapping uselessly as he moves. “Hyung, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to break it-”
Yoongi shifts his attention to Namjoon and for a moment, Jungkook swears he sees flames dancing on the tips of Yoongi’s fingers, what-
Taehyung clears his throat. Loudly.
Three heads turn in their direction. “We have a guest, gentlemen,” Taehyung says calmly, waving a hand in Jungkook’s direction. Jungkook tries not to shrink beneath the combined weight of their shocked stares.
The temperature immediately rises - from the Arctic to a near sauna in less than a minute - and it’s dizzying. Yoongi makes a sign and Jungkook only has to read the expression on his face to know that it means “sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he says, vaguely aware of how shaky his voice is.
Yoongi glares at Namjoon again, who raises his hands. “I’m sorry, hyung. Truly. I’ll see what I can do to get it fixed.”
“You should apologize to my plants, too,” Hoseok points out, arms crossed.
Yoongi rolls his eyes, but signs something long and elaborate that drags the corner of Hoseok’s mouth up in a smile.
“Good,” he says, “I’ll pass it on to them.”
Something else, just as long and elaborate to Namjoon, who winces. “I know. I am sorry, and I know.”
Yoongi nods, then actually reaches out and squeezes Namjoon’s shoulder. Jungkook, thinks, with another twinge of awe, that they probably don’t stay mad at each other for long. That they seem incapable of it. He’ll have to dissect that more, later - when the shock dissipates and the rest of his brain comes back online. For now, he pokes at his very soggy cereal and watches Yoongi wave goodbye to the house, fixing a baseball cap on his head as he disappears down the hall.
“What did you break this time?” Taehyung asks as soon as the front door has closed.
Namjoon sighs and flops into a chair across from Jungkook, rubbing a hand over his face. “The glass figurine his mother gave him. You know, the swan?”
Taehyung’s mouth opens in surprise. “Shit, hyung.”
“I know,” Namjoon says plaintively, scrubbing a hand over his face. His eyes, Jungkook notices suddenly, are red-rimmed. “I tried to clean it up and got blasted with memories of his mother buying it and giving it to him - I know.”
Hoseok, now cradling a box of Lucky Charms under his arm, stops by Namjoon’s chair to squeeze his shoulder. “Take it down to Madame Russo’s. I bet she’ll be able to fix it.”
“Namjoon's a clairvoyant,” Taehyung whispers to Jungkook - who still feels like his head is spinning. “That’s why he was crying.”
“Shut up, I wasn’t,” Namjoon huffs, wiping his face. “They were just very intense memories, okay?”
Okay. Okay - a clairvoyant, a medium, a seer, and whatever Yoongi, Hoseok, and Jin can do. This is fine. He can roll with this.
“Madame Russo’s,” Hoseok repeats. “This afternoon. I can meet you there. She likes my healing lavender oils - she’ll probably be willing to trade.”
“Okay,” Namjoon agrees with a deep breath and a firm nod. “Sounds good. Thanks, Hope-ah.” He glances across the table to Jungkook. “And I’m sorry about all this, Jungkook-ah. Mornings aren’t usually this bad.”
“Yes they are,” Taehyung counters.
“Okay, yes, they are, but still. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Jungkook says, voice smaller than he wants it to be. “What can … what can the rest of you do?”
Might as well know it all now. Then he can let his head explode in the safety of his apartment later. (He was aware that magic users all had gifts, but not how diverse those gifts could be.)
Hoseok takes a seat at the end of the table, reaching for the newly-thawed milk. “My gift is plant magic. Kind of what you might have called a nymph back in the day? I can make plants grow and die and change and all that.”
“Yeah, and he goes prancing around in forests, too,” Namjoon says, teasing.
Hoseok shrugs it off. “Forests are incredible.”
“Yoongi’s an elemental,” Taehyung says. He’s still drinking his coffee, even though it must be disgustingly lukewarm by now.
“An elemental?”
“He can control the four elements,” Namjoon explains. “Fire’s his strongest one, but he’s good at water and air, too. Passable at earth.”
“Oh, and don’t make any Avatar related jokes,” Taehyung adds. “It’s on the house board.”
He points and Jungkook twists in his seat to see a large chalkboard hanging on the wall above the counter. It’s covered in writing that’s a strange mixture of Hangul and English, in several different colors. Some of the handwriting he can’t read, but what’s legible creates more questions than answers:
2. No offensive magic inside the house (Yes, this includes temperature manipulation, Yoongi-hyung - be kind to my plants)
5. PUT YOUR SHOES ON THE DAMN SHOE RACK, SO HELP ME GOD. I WILL THROW THEM AWAY
6. 문을 좀 잠가 제발 (I’m talking to you, Taehyung)
9. No carnivorous sentient plants in the living room (Lucille is harmless, fuck you)
12. When in animal form, STAY IN THE COMMON AREAS unless otherwise invited
13. No handling of personal objects without permission
15. No Avatar jokes around Yoongi
19. 요리 한 후에 [제발] 설거지해라 (Please, for the last time. I found MOLD last week. MOLD)
21. Please keep ghosts from snooping around the house. Or throwing things when upset
22. Experimental herbal remedies are to be properly labeled AT ALL TIMES
“Wow,” Jungkook murmurs, for lack of a better response. He’s made it past shock to a sort of numb acceptance that he doesn’t mind that much. “Animal form?”
“Jin’s a shapeshifter,” Hoseok says, in the middle of picking all the clover marshmallows from his bowl of Lucky Charms. “He can mostly just turn into a cat, but he’s working on a bird right now.”
“It’s not going well,” Namjoon grumbles.
“He’s getting there,” Hoseok insists.
“Slowly,” Taehyung says.
Shapeshifting. That’s a thing that people can do. Cool. Cool cool cool.
He has a feeling he might be in just a little over his head.
_ _
He should, he knows he should, but he doesn’t stay away. He comes back and back and back and back. He keeps spending his afternoons in the shop and he gets dragged to dinner at the house at least once a week. He watches Jimin talk to ghosts and Hoseok make plants grow with a twist of his fingers. Jin wanders past him as a fluffy white cat on a Tuesday afternoon and he manages to only freak out a little.
The guilt sits heavy in his chest. The magic is heavier, lining his bones with lead. It’s so hard to breathe, but he manages. He keeps the box closed.
_ _
Yoongi fascinates him the most. It feels like after that first meeting some kind of switch has been flipped and suddenly he sees Yoongi almost every time he ventures to the shop.
(And once even outside, sitting on a bench near the subway station, smoking.
“That’s bad for you,” he’d admonished before he could stop himself and Yoongi actually looked a little sheepish. Typed back: I know, but it helps when I’m stressed. Don’t tell Namjoon.
“Okay,” he’d conceded, reluctantly, and Yoongi tipped the brim of his wide hat in Jungkook’s direction like some kind of Victorian gentleman, surprising Jungkook so much he’d burst into uncontrollable, embarrassing giggles.
Yoongi just smiled, almost pleased.)
In spite of the storm of his magic, there is something steady about Yoongi that he can’t really define. Stable. When he’s running the shop, quiet permeates everything, but it's the peaceful kind. Like the hush of the earth at dawn, before everything has properly woken up. Or the lull that sweeps in after the rain - the smell of water and growth and dirt. The full darkness at three a.m. that soothes instead of devours.
Maybe all of those metaphors are stupid - the point is that he likes it. He likes the bustle of the others, but there is something special about sitting behind the counter and letting that hush drape over him while he struggles through his homework. Yoongi tends not to bother him much when he has his textbooks and notebooks out - just stubbornly nudges tea in his direction and sits in his usual crossed-legged position on top of the counter - knee brushing the register and a book open in his lap.
The book varies from day to day - sometimes it’s a novel, sometimes ancient and magical, sometimes a biography, and once an extensive encyclopedia on space.
(“Do you ever finish them?” he asks that afternoon, watching Yoongi read about nebulas and dwarf stars and black holes.
No, Yoongi types, bending down so Jungkook can read the phone. No patience. But I recommend the good ones to Joonie and he tells me how they end.
“You don’t care?” Jungkook asks, a little surprised. “About the end?”
Yoongi shrugs. It feels too final. He flips to a new page of the encyclopedia and pauses. Tilts it so Jungkook can see. 134340, it says on the glossy page. Asteroid. Formally classified as the planet Pluto.
It seems sad, Yoongi types. Downgraded to a number.
“Yeah,” Jungkook agrees, a strange ache in his chest. “I guess it will always be Pluto to us, though.”
It’s fitting, in a way, I guess. Yoongi fingers fly over the keys on his touchscreen. Pluto was the Roman god of the Underworld - always separate from everything else.
Separate, Jungkook thinks as the ache sharpens. Stabs right between his ribs. “Yeah. Fitting.”
Yoongi’s head tilts and his eyes narrow in a way that feels like he’s looking right through Jungkook, into the very center of him where all his messy secrets stay hidden, where his magic sputters and persists like a weak flame. Jungkook ducks his head, focusing on his textbook again, and eventually hears the faint swish of Yoongi turning a page.)
Sometimes, once he’s finished the homework, he helps around the shop. He still feels nervous about touching magical objects, even with his gloves, but he can organize books or dust the shelves and tables. He spends an entire afternoon with Hoseok relabeling all the the remedies and potions on the left wall and leaves with a head full of obscure words and a swoop of satisfaction in his stomach. Yoongi shoves stacks of books at him and irritably gestures to the top shelf, scowl deepening when Jungkook snickers.
It’s a routine, it’s almost comfortable, but the guilt lingers and lingers.
_ _
He has dozens of questions his doesn’t ask, about magic, but mostly about Yoongi.
(What happened to your voice? Were you born mute? Why are there years Hoseok and Namjoon won’t talk about? Are you afraid of the storm inside you? What do you see when you look through me?)
He sticks to mundane things instead. Stupid things. Like, “hyung, what’s your favorite color?” or “what annoys you the most?” or “what’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten?” It feels like he’s turned into an annoying college icebreaker half the time, but Yoongi always indulges him - answers typed on disappearing notes on his phone.
White.
People who don’t let me talk.
Jin-hyung’s kimchi fried rice, but don’t tell him I said that.
He has questions, too. Lobs Jungkook’s own back at him, but adds on others, just as benign: what’s your favorite animal? and what’s your least favorite time of day? and what do you do to relax?
“Lions. And little fluffy dogs. I am aware of the contrast there, yes.”
“Four p.m., because I’m tired but it’s too early to sleep and also too early for dinner.”
“Draw, or take photographs.”
(He used to dance, but it’s been a long time since he allowed himself that - he loves it too much to let it be a hobby.)
It’s silly, maybe even pointless, but with each question, each passing day - as fall bleeds slow and steady and unyielding into winter - he can feel Yoongi taking shape. Feel them all taking shape.
He has lists upon lists in his head that he writes and amends and stores for safekeeping.
Jimin
Taehyung
Hoseok
Seokjin
Namjoon
And Yoongi. Yoongi:
There’s more. He thinks he might be filling up pages, but he doesn’t know how to stop. He just knows that sometimes, when he’ll crack a joke or pick a funny answer to one of Yoongi’s inane questions, Yoongi will smile wide enough to show off his gums and crinkle the corners of his eyes. And sometimes, Yoongi will laugh that whispery laugh, hunched over on the counter, and Jungkook will feel a swoop in his chest - like when you’re riding a rollercoaster, just tipping over the edge of that first drop, but deeper.
Resonating in the core of him.
_ _
Randomly, Jimin decides to add him to the house group chat and his long, exhausting days at college get a little brighter as he’s almost constantly inundated with messages. In spite of their busy schedules, they talk to each other all the time - and never seem to mind if he listens more than he contributes.
Yoongi [2:16pm]
joonie, flea market on West 12th today at 4, should have some good magic items. can you make it?
Namjoon [2:18pm]
yeah i’ll meet you there.
Hoseok [2:19pm]
i want to come, too. you guys never bring back decent books.
Yoongi [2:19pm]
we do you just have terrible taste.
Hoseok [2:20pm]
that is slander min yoongi and i won’t stand for it.
Jimin [2:21pm]
you can’t! you promised to help me with choreo, remember? no backing out, hyung. :(
Hoseok [2:22pm]
shit sorry jiminie. 7 right?
Jimin [2:23pm]
yes bring food.
Hoseok [2:24pm]
that wasn’t part of the deal…
Jimin [2:24pm]
i want kebabs. from that place off 2nd avenue.
Hoseok [2:25pm]
fine…
Jimin [2:25pm]
;)
Seokjin [2:27pm]
who’s eating at the house? sound off.
Yoongi [2:29pm]
we should be back by 6:30.
Namjoon [2:30pm]
at the latest.
Tae [2:32pm]
i will be physically present.
Seokjin [2:33pm]
and mentally? spiritually?
Tae [2:34pm]
dying about my project that’s due next week. hey, yoongi-hyung...
Yoongi [2:35pm]
no
Tae [2:36pm]
you don’t even know what i was going to ask.
Yoongi [2:37pm]
yes i do.
Tae [2:37pm]
please?
Yoongi [2:38pm]
no
Tae [2:38pm]
it’s a very tasteful skirt! i promise! please, hyung, i’m going to DIE.
Yoongi [2:39pm]
no you aren’t.
Tae [2:39pm]
literally die. it’s due in TWO DAYS. TWO. DAYS.
Yoongi [2:40pm]
fucking hell. fine.
Tae [2:40pm]
:D! thank you thank you thank you i love you.
Yoongi [2:41pm]
shut up.
Tae [2:42pm]
to the moon and back.
Yoongi [2:42pm]
stop it.
Tae [2:43pm]
<3 <3 <3 <3 <3
Seokjin [2:44pm]
great, glad you two worked that out. jungkook-ah, are you in?
Jungkook [2:46pm]
for dinner?
Seokjin [2:47pm]
unless you also want to model a skirt?
Tae [2:47pm]
you do have a great waist, kook.
Jungkook [2:48pm]
i’ll be there for dinner. no modeling.
Seokjin [2:49pm]
wise choice.
Tae [2:50pm]
:(
Tae [2:50pm]
jk, see you tonight!
Jimin [2:55pm]
and you had better come back tomorrow too, jungkook-ah. i’ve barely seen you all week.
Jungkook [2:56pm]
oh. i will.
Jimin [2:57pm]
:D
_ _
He fails another class and gets put on academic probation - weathers the frustrated phone call from his parents, the piercing questions, the hints that maybe he needs to come home. Promises, in a panic, that he’ll do better, he will, but he wants to stay.
Six more months, they agree. One more semester. If his grades don’t improve, he’s coming back to Busan.
He feels sick and shaky when he hangs up the call, and the walls of his studio seem to be compressing, smothering him. He fumbles into his coat and boots, crams a beanie on his head, and trips down the narrow flights of stairs into the street. It’s early November and the wind is unforgiving, slicing through his layers and skin. He ducks his head against it, against the tears pricking at his eyes, and walks.
Doesn’t look up again until he’s standing on a familiar street, in front of a familiar shop. Only then does he realize that it’s 10:30 p.m. and everyone has long gone home for the night. And he could go to the townhouse - Taehyung is probably awake working on his never-ending projects; and sometimes Hoseok stays in the greenhouse late, tending his plants; and Jimin tends to come back from the studio at ungodly hours, creeping his way through the house and pausing to drape an extra blanket over Jungkook’s shoulders on the rare nights he’s slept over.
But he’s never stopped by unannounced before and he doesn’t really want to deal with all of their concern at once. Just…
He pulls his phone out of his pocket, hesitates over Yoongi’s contact. It’s been two months, but they’ve never really texted separate of the group chat before. Never really talked at all outside of their interactions at the shop or the house. This could be awkward, or embarrassing, or unwanted, but. But. Yoongi makes him feel stable, makes him feel safe, makes him feel like it’s okay to be quiet - does all of that just by sitting next to him in the shop - their elbows brushing if they’ve crammed behind the counter together, Yoongi’s warmth all up his side.
He opens a new chat window and types before he can second guess himself.
Jungkook [10:35pm]
hey hyung are you awake?
A typing bubble appears right away.
Yoongi [10:35pm]
yeah, you okay?
Jungkook [10:36pm]
can you meet me at the shop?
Yoongi [10:36pm]
the shop? what’s wrong? are you okay?
Jungkook [10:37pm]
it’s nothing serious. i’m okay.
i just
He takes a deep breath, phone creaking against his gloves from holding it so tight.
Jungkook [10:38pm]
i kind of had a really rough day and i don’t want to be alone right now.
sorry.
and i would come to the house but the others
are kind of a lot? all at once.
so
maybe, if it’s not too much trouble, could you meet me at the shop?
Yoongi [10:39pm]
on my way.
He blinks down at Yoongi’s message, chest tight, and pockets the phone again. Huddles next to one of the front windows (though careful of the wards he knows are in place) and, just this once, opens the box a tiny bit to let the lingering magic in the air seep into his bones - soothe some of the restless rattle in his ribcage.
Yoongi rounds the corner a few minutes later, dressed in his baggy green coat and thick black woolen scarf - a blue NY beanie crammed on his head. He speeds up when he spots Jungkook, concern written all over his face, and Jungkook hopes the tears he’s been blinking back for the past half hour aren’t too obvious in the dim light. Yoongi touches his elbow, fingers catching on the fabric of his coat and tugging in a silent question.
“I’m okay,” Jungkook says quietly.
Yoongi points at the shop, eyebrow arched in another question.
“Can we walk a little?” Jungkook asks, nervous. It’s cold out, so he understands if Yoongi doesn’t want to traipse across the city with him, but he’s too anxious to sit still and he thinks right now that any room is going to feel too small.
Yoongi nods, though, and gestures for Jungkook to lead the way. They wind back past the subway station, into Greenwich Village, and for a long time, it’s quiet. Yoongi doesn’t push him, which Jungkook is eternally grateful for, and he lets the words simmer until he can feel them boiling on his tongue, desperate to get out.
“I’m failing college,” he blurts when they make it to Washington Square Park, pausing beneath the archway. The tears are back, making his eyes burn. “I’m on a business course and I’m studying, I swear, but I’m still failing. I got put on academic probation this week and if my GPA doesn’t improve by next semester, I’m going to get kicked out and if that happens then I have to go back to Busan and figure something else out. Start over, probably, even though I’ll be twenty-one then, and-”
He cuts himself when a sob tries to claw its way out of his mouth, gritting his teeth against it. “Sorry,” he hiccups. He can’t look at Yoongi - at whatever disappointed expression is probably on Yoongi’s face. “Sorry. None of this is your problem.”
Yoongi tugs on his arm, guiding him to a bench near the fountain. They sit down side by side and Jungkook watches through tear-blurred eyes as Yoongi starts typing on his phone.
It’s okay. You don’t have to be sorry, Jungkook-ah.
He looks from the words to Yoongi’s eyes, illuminated by the street lamps and the phone screen. Doesn’t find any disappointment or pity, just something soft and compassionate and maybe understanding. For some reason, it makes him want to cry harder.
“I don’t want to go back to Busan,” he chokes out. “I really, really, really don’t want to go back to Busan.”
Why do you think you’re failing?
It’s blunt, but not mean (he doesn’t think Yoongi has it in him to be cruel ), and it gives him the strength to admit, “because I hate it. It’s a business course and I hate it. My parents insisted, though. I didn’t do well in Seoul, either, and they told me I could go abroad if it meant that I studied something practical.”
What do you want to study?
“Art,” Jungkook whispers. “Or-or dance. Video production, maybe. Music. Something creative. But that isn’t - my parents don’t think I’ll succeed. Won’t have a career and end up broke and living off them for the rest of my life.”
Yoongi absorbs this, fingers sliding back and forth across his phone screen like he’s contemplating what to say.
He’s got fingerless gloves on and his skin is turning a little red from the chill. It makes Jungkook want to fold his hands around Yoongi’s, keep him warm, but he resists the urge. That’s crossing too many boundaries, even with the protection of his gloves.
And they won’t change their minds? Even though you’re struggling?
Jungkook reads the words and wipes at his still-leaking eyes, willing himself to stop crying like a pathetic child. “No,” he says. Doesn’t want to replay the many discussions he’s had with his parents - after high school, after Seoul, and now here. “No, they just see it as me not trying hard enough.”
Yoongi’s brow furrows. But you study all the time.
A wet laugh punches free from Jungkook’s mouth and it sounds grating and terrible even to his own ears. “They don't see that, I think. They … they figure I’ve just got my head in the clouds. That dreams are just meant to stay dreams and I need to let go.”
Yoongi’s frown deepens. Well, they’re wrong.
Jungkook laughs again and scrubs hard at his eyes, sucking in a fortifying breath. “What about you, hyung? Is running a magic shop your dream?”
It’s something he’s wondered about - seems like an odd profession for someone in their mid-twenties - but this is the first time he’s been brave (or foolish) enough to ask.
The corner of Yoongi’s mouth quirks up in a smile that’s laced with sadness. No.
“What was?”
A very long pause. Long enough that Jungkook starts to fidget, wonders if he should take the question back somehow - say something to erase the faraway look that’s crept over Yoongi’s face and the sudden weight that’s bent his shoulders. But then Yoongi closes out of his notes app and pulls up SoundCloud. Jungkook watches, confused, as he fishes around in his coat pocket and produces a pair of headphones. He plugs them in with unsteady fingers and holds one ear bud out to Jungkook.
Jungkook puts it in, feeling like maybe he should hold his breath. Like something monumental is happening even though it’s just the two of them, alone in Washington Square Park at midnight, steadily turning numb from the cold.
Yoongi clicks on a song that Jungkook can’t read the title of and hits play. Music filters in immediately - a catchy instrumental beat - and then a voice not long after that. Rapping, Jungkook realizes - mostly in Korean, but with English mixed in effortlessly. The voice changes to another, a little raspier, not quite as nimble, but still brimming with confidence. And then a third voice, more intense than the previous two. Angry, maybe, or just passionate - forming words like they’re being torn out of his chest, like he can feel all the weight and emotion of each one as he speaks.
It’s breathtaking, raw, a punch to the gut.
“Who is this?” he asks, leaning closer, feeling the music, the words, the voice reverberate in his chest, up his spine. “They’re really good.”
Yoongi taps a finger against his own chest and Jungkook’s world tilts. “This … this is you? ”
The song has changed - something slower now. Sadder. But the voice is still low and raspy and overflowing with emotion. And Yoongi bites his lip, hard enough that it looks like it hurts. Nods. Mouths “yes.”
“Hyung…” Jungkook says and isn’t sure where to go after that. “I like your voice.”
Yoongi huffs out a broken, wheezing laugh and signs thank you.
“What happened?” Jungkook asks as the song filters out and Yoongi takes the ear bud back. “Unless you don’t want to tell me, which I would completely understand. We can talk about something else or-”
Yoongi nudges him and he snaps his mouth closed, cutting off the slightly panicked stream of words. Only then does he notice the phone Yoongi is pointedly holding up.
It was taken. Black magic.
He’s heard of black magic - thinks that every child has. It lurks in the horror stories kids tell each other at sleepovers after dark, in the warnings parents give their children, in the distrust of magic users by people like his parents. Black magic is rituals in the woods at night; bloodthirsty specters in the mirror or beneath your bed; shops with shuttered windows in the back alleys of Busan. It’s his father telling him it’s evil, son, and tempting - better if you stay away from magic all together when he was ten years old.
But he never knew that it could take someone’s voice. “Black magic can do that?”
Yoongi nods, expression grim. Hoseok and Namjoon didn’t want to keep performing without me. We stumbled across the shop after college. Decided to try it out.
There’s more, Jungkook knows. There is so much more in the shadows in Yoongi’s eyes, the tense line of his spine, the fidget of his fingers against his phone. But Yoongi is allowed his secrets, his hidden darknesses, and Jungkook won’t pry.
“But you miss music?”
Yes, Yoongi types. But my point was - it’s okay, if you can’t follow your dream. At all or even just right away. Even though it hurts sometimes, life isn’t bad, Jungkook-ah. I’m okay, and you will be, too. Even if you have to wait a little to chase your dreams. It doesn’t make you a failure.
And now Jungkook is going to start crying again. Great.
“Thank you,” he croaks, wishing that Yoongi had texted the words to him so he could keep them forever. “That means a lot, hyung.” Probably more than Yoongi knows. It’s been a very long time since someone’s believed in him.
Yoongi squeezes his shoulder and stands. Let’s get food.
It’s nearly one in the morning, but Jungkook doesn’t care. The last thing he wants to do is go back to his compressed studio and try to breathe for the rest of the night. So he lets Yoongi take him to get lamb skewers at a twenty-four hour hole in the wall not far from the park. And he sits with Yoongi on the steps of the Magic Shop and laughs as Yoongi battles the grease with an adorably concentrated look on his face. Jungkook’s taken off his gloves so they don’t get ruined, trying to pick the best meat off first. Yoongi shifts closer to him on the narrow step and as he adjusts, his fingers brush the back of Jungkook’s hand. It’s a flash, barely anything - not enough to pick up thoughts - but Jungkook still feels it like fire on his skin. Jerks backwards before he can stop himself and nearly pitches off the steps in his haste to put some distance between them.
“You shouldn’t touch me,” he whispers at Yoongi’s bewildered look.
Why? Yoongi mouths, head tilted.
Jungkook shakes his head, too tired, too scared, to try to explain. “You just shouldn’t.”
Thankfully, Yoongi lets it go. Just drags Jungkook back to the townhouse and buries him under blankets on the couch.
Get some rest, he types and pats Jungkook’s blanket-covered shoulder.
Jungkook curls up, safe, and listens to Yoongi’s voice play through his head on repeat.
_ _
Jimin wakes him up the next morning by sitting on him and Seokjin makes everyone waffles, including an extra one for Jungkook because he “looks a little like a kicked puppy this morning.” At the head of the table, Namjoon and Yoongi are bickering in ASL over the selling price of the magical items they purchased at an auction last week, according to Hoseok. Taehyung steals strawberries off his plate, ignoring Seokjin’s grumbling about how to properly treat guests, and overall it’s a good morning.
For the first time in a long time, Jungkook thinks he might be okay.
_ _
He revisits that assessment two weeks later. His parents want him to come home for winter break, but he almost can’t stand the thought - half terrified that they’ll take one look at him and know that he’s been exposing himself to magic. That he’s broken just about every single one of their agreed-upon rules, and what will they do, then? Just straight up forbid him from leaving the house?
He almost wouldn’t put it past them.
He tries to structure a good argument in his head - all the logical reasons why he should stay in the city: travel costs, and extra time to study, and rent on his studio - but it’s hard to focus with the cough that he’s developed. It settled in two days after his late night excursion with Yoongi and has refused to leave.
He had to excuse himself from class yesterday because he was hacking so much he was disrupting the lecture. This morning, a fever has crept in, too, making him dizzy if he tries to stand up for too long. He still forces himself to get dressed, because he’s on academic probation and he can’t miss any more class or he risks getting expelled.
The trip to campus is agony and he barely hears a word of his first two classes. Throws up in the student center bathrooms before the start of his third. His phone is buzzing in his pocket - Jimin, asking if he’s coming to dinner tonight - but he can’t get his shaking fingers to cooperate enough to type a response. He doesn’t remember the last time he was this sick, or if he’s ever been this sick. He works out, he eats healthy - even as a broke college student he’s tried to make a point of taking care of himself, in spite of his fucked up sleep schedule.
His third and fourth classes pass in a blur and he feels a little like dying as he staggers his way to the subway stop. He curls up in one of the seats at the far end of the car and coughs, coughs, coughs into his hands - his stomach cramping with the force of it. His lungs feel like they’re burning, like someone has literally lit them on fire, and fuck, maybe he needs a hospital?
(He can’t afford a hospital, not even with his parent’s money.)
His apartment is on the fifth floor of his building and the elevator is almost perpetually broken, forcing him to half-walk, half-crawl up six flights of stairs to reach his front door. It takes him three tries to get the key properly inserted into the lock and then another two to shut the door behind him and throw the latch. He peels off his coat and layers, most of them damp with sweat, and staggers to the bed, collapsing in a heap.
The world blurs, tilts, and then fades into darkness.
_ _
He wakes up to his phone ringing - loud and shrill in the stillness of his apartment. It’s still in his backpack, lying just inside the door, and right now the distance seems like an ocean. He’s tempted to ignore it, but it starts ringing again, insistent, so with a low groan, he pitches off the bed and belly crawls over to it.
Six missed calls, thirty-seven unread messages. It’s nearly eleven, the display informs him, and Jimin is calling for the fifth time.
“‘Lo?” he slurs after pressing accept, fumbling to get the phone up to his ear. It’s still so hot and his lungs hurt, hurt, hurt. He curls up, presses his arm over his mouth to muffle the coughing.
“Jungkook?” Jimin sounds worried, almost downright scared. “Jungkook-ah, are you okay? Where are you?”
“Home,” Jungkook mumbles. “Apartment.”
“Are you sick?”
“A … little.”
Jimin swears. Taehyung’s voice rises in the background, urgent. “We need to get over there. Now.”
Rustling. Seokjin’s voice now, uncharacteristically serious. “Jungkook-ah, can you tell us your address?”
His address? He can barely remember his own name right now - how is he supposed to remember his address?
“Please, Jungkook-ah,” Seokjin presses. “It’s important. Try to remember.”
He coughs harder, grits his teeth to muffle the worst of it, and racks his tired, dizzy brain. “W-West 31st Street. Building … building 435. Apartment …” he frowns, struggling to remember his apartment number. It’s literally right next to his door. He sees it every day. “515.”
“Okay,” Seokjin says, still blessedly calm. “435 West 31st Street, apartment 515, right?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Hang in there, Jungkook-ah. We’re on our way.”
He wants to protest, insist that they don’t have to go through all this trouble, but he’s so tired and sick and scared, and he doesn’t think he can even pick himself up off the floor right now, so he just mumbles a vague affirmative and lets the phone slip from his lax fingers. Focuses on not actually coughing up one of his lungs. He’s pretty sure that would be bad.
_ _
He has no idea how much time has passed when his apartment door swings open. He’s positive he locked it, even in his disoriented state, but he thinks he might also be able to feel the telltale buzz of magic in the air, so that answers that question.
“Shit,” a voice says - Hoseok, maybe? - and then someone is kneeling next to him where he’s still sprawled out on his floor like an idiot. “He’s burning up.”
“Tae,” Seokjin, this time - he’s almost sure of it, “run the bath cold. We need to get his temperature down.”
There’s just a lot of noise, after that. Clattering in the kitchen, Hoseok saying something about “it’s almost ready,” footsteps on his old floorboards, water running in his cracked bathtub, hands under his arms, lifting him up.
“Shit,” maybe Jimin says, voice cracking, “that’s blood on his sleeve, hyung.”
“Let’s get him into the bathroom,” Seokjin says and then they’re moving.
He tries to get his feet to cooperate, help the two(?) people supporting him on either side, but his body is too weak and they have to half-drag, half-carry him into his dinky bathroom. He whines in protest when someone tugs at his shirt, trying to get it off, and they stop immediately, murmur apologies.
“We need to at least take the sweatpants off,” Seokjin says. “He’s too hot.”
He holds himself still while someone works his sweatpants down his legs and off, bracing himself for a flood of thoughts that aren’t his own, but whoever it is manages to do it without touching his bare skin. Then, cold. Freezing cold.
He moans, struggles, but arms wrap around his waist and he’s being cradled against someone’s chest. They’re humming in his ear - wordless soothing noises - and Yoongi, he realizes. Yoongi is sitting in the water with him, keeping him upright.
It’s so cold, but the wet cloth being pressed against his face feels nice. Glass against his lips now, Hoseok’s voice murmuring, “drink, Kookie,” and then something sharp and sweet on his tongue, in his throat. It eases the burn in his lungs, helps him breathe, and he sags back against Yoongi, who hums again - strokes gentle fingers through his hair.
“Jungkook-ah.” Jimin again, he’s sure of it. “Jungkook-ah, you need to remove the block on your magic.”
What? No - he can’t do that. That’s dangerous, that’s the one rule he hasn’t broken, he promised his parents that he wouldn’t -
“Please,” Jimin says, sounding desperate, “please, just for a little bit, okay?”
Jungkook whines, torn. Everything still hurts - he feels wrung out, like body is too small, too frail to contain whatever is trying to escape - but he promised, he - Yoongi lets out a whispery sound and pulls him closer, tugs on the fabric of his shirt insistently, and Jungkook doesn’t need words to feel the urgency. To understand that this is important - they wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.
“‘Kay,” he manages to mumble and reaches for the box, clumsily tips the lid open.
Worry slams into him like a speeding train, punching a gasp from between his chattering teeth. Then concern, anxiety, fear - his own, theirs? He can’t tell which way is up anymore and it’s too much, too much, way too much -
A storm wraps around him, blocks everything else out. Yoongi’s magic, mingling with his, crackling along his skin, heating his blood in spite of the freezing water. It feels intense, but safe - like protective fire, like an unspoken I’m here and I’ve got you. Jungkook moans and gives up, sinking into the magic and the warmth of Yoongi’s arms, letting it expand his fragile body, help him breathe.
Eventually, minutes or hours later, they haul him out of the tub and get him changed into dry clothes - careful the whole time to touch him as little as possible. Then, there is the softness of his mattress beneath him and Hoseok is pouring something else bright and cool down his throat. A weight settles on the bed next to him - Yoongi again - and he curls closer instinctively, reaching for Yoongi’s magic to draw around him like an extra blanket.
“I’ve left a few more remedies on the counter,” Hoseok says from somewhere far away. “Give him in another one in a few hours and then again in the morning.”
“And keep us posted, okay?” Taehyung insists. “Text us if anything changes.”
“Immediately,” Jimin adds, still sounding frightened.
“I’ll stop by with food later,” Seokjin says.
Yoongi must answer them, because the floorboards creak and the front door opens and closes, signaling their departure. Cocooned in Yoongi’s magic, Jungkook sinks back into exhausted sleep.
_ _
Sunlight, streaming in through the flimsy blinds on his window, playing with dust particles in the air. Yoongi on the bed next to him, dressed in his clothes and asleep sitting up - head tipped back against the wall. Magic, his and Yoongi’s, mingling throughout the room. The box, open and leaking in his mind.
He sits up with a gasping jolt, startling Yoongi awake.
“No.” He can feel his next door neighbor, anxious about her job interview this morning. The man above him is excited for a date this evening and the man below just got bad news of some kind - his anger sharp against Jungkook’s skin.
And Yoongi. Yoongi’s worry, Yoongi’s uncertainty - all about him, all for him.
He scrambles for the box, shoving his magic into it as deep as it can go, and seals the lid shut again. Pain pulses through his whole body in response, a searing wave, but he grits his teeth through it. He slipped up, but it will be fine. He’ll get used to having a hole in him again, he just needs a little time to adjust - to ride out this ache - and then he’ll be fine.
He will.
“Sorry, hyung,” he says to Yoongi, who is staring at him with a furrowed brow and open concern. “About last night. I feel better now. You can go.”
Yoongi shakes his head and clambers to his feet, casting his eyes around for his phone.
“Please,” Jungkook insists, unable to deal with the fact that not just Yoongi but everyone saw him last night - unable to even look after himself. And he let them all in without them even realizing. Jimin asked him to remove the block without knowing what that meant and Jungkook didn’t tell him. Didn’t warn him.
Shit.
Yoongi glares at him, frustrated, and Jungkook buries his face in his knees. “Please just go, hyung. I’ll call you later.”
He needs time to collect himself. Figure out what he’s going to say - to them, to the professors of the classes he’s going to miss today, to his parents, if it comes to that.
A sharp sigh from Yoongi. Jungkook looks up in time to see him sling a bag over his shoulder and toe on his boots. He glances over his shoulder, looking caught somewhere between irritation and worry, and Jungkook attempts a reassuring smile.
“I’ll call you later. I promise. I just … I need to be alone for a minute.”
Yoongi points at him - a silent I’ll hold you to that, brat - and then he’s gone and Jungkook is, in fact, alone. The first thing he does with this sudden peace and quiet is what he’s tried to avoid for days: burying his face in his pillow and crying, loud and wet and messy.
When that’s done and he feels hollowed out - exhausted down to his fucking soul (though maybe that’s a little melodramatic, he doesn’t care) - he forces himself off the bed. The fever has broken, but the cough is still there, itching at the back of his throat. He thinks he has some soup, somewhere, and the current plan is to make that and then burrow back under his covers like a sad turtle for the rest of the day.
He doesn’t want to think about magic, or school, or his parents, or anything. Especially Yoongi and the others.
As if summoned, his phone buzzes on the mattress.
Jimin [7:34am]
yoongi told us he’s on his way home, you okay?
Jungkook ignores it. Soup. Soup first.
In the kitchen, next to the sink, is a bottle like he’s seen at the shop - full of bright blue liquid. He has a sudden, vague memory of Yoongi shaking him awake last night, making him drink something. There is a note next to the bottle: DRINK ME, with an arrow, like Alice in Wonderland, and then beneath that, in Hoseok’s careful scrawl - to help with the coughing. Herbal remedy only, minimal magic! He’s finished it off with a smiley face and Jungkook feels an involuntary smile of his own creeping across his mouth.
He drinks the stuff, figuring there’s no point in avoiding it when he’s already consumed at least three bottles. It’s sweet, just like before, and pleasant and the itch dies down right after so thank God for Hoseok, really.
He makes soup, chicken noodle, and burrows back under his covers like a sad turtle, as planned. Spends the rest of the day there, watching stupid movies and only moving to go to the bathroom and text Jimin and the others that he’s fine and he’ll call them tomorrow.
It starts to rain, sometime in the afternoon, and he listens to the drum of it against his windows, tastes the spark of dissipating magic on his tongue. The hole burns at the edges, like the fire he once saw dancing across Yoongi’s fingers, and he starts another movie so that he stops thinking about it.
(He’s going to be okay. He is.)
The sun is setting and he gets up to turn on the lights when he finds an envelope on the table next to the door - tucked beneath his keys and gloves. His name is written across it in messy Hangul.
He takes it back on the bed and opens it with cautious fingers.
Jungkook-ah,
You’re asleep right now, and I’m hoping we’ll get a chance to talk about this in the morning, but just in case, I thought I’d write this. We both know you can be stubborn.
I know that Namjoon told you I’m an elemental, but I don’t think he ever explained what that entails, did he? Essentially, I have a lot of magic. Way more than average. Which makes me powerful, but it’s also hard to control.
When I was eleven years old, I accidentally caught our house on fire. My mom nearly died, and we lost almost everything. I was terrified of my own magic after that, and so was my family, so I decided to cut myself off from it. Like you, I put a block in place and told myself that everything would be all right. I could protect my family and live a normal life. But magic is part of us, Jungkook-ah. It’s in our cells, our blood, and it’s impossible to survive without it.
In high school, I started getting sick. I was coughing all the time, I had fevers, dizzy spells, etc. My depression got worse, and my anxiety. My parents took me to a bunch of doctors, but none of them could figure out what the hell was wrong with me. Then, I collapsed at school. Kid you not. Passed the fuck out right in the hall and had to be rushed to the hospital. One of the nurses on duty was a magic user and she figured it out: poisoning. Basically, by blocking my magic, it was like stopping a vital organ from working properly. And now my magic was poisoning me and my body was failing.
I almost died, Jungkook-ah. Another couple months and I would have. The nurses and doctors and the healer they got to come look at me called me all kinds of stupid. My family realized, too, that I couldn’t go on like that. They got me a tutor, told me not to worry about my magic - just learn to control it - and things got so much better after that.
I get it, though. I really do. You’re scared and that’s okay - magic is terrifying. It’s as old as the earth and it’s powerful and it can be as dark as it is brilliant. And it lives inside of us. Crazy, right? But we’re a part of this world - YOU are a part of the world, Jungkook-ah - and whatever it is that you’re afraid of, I promise we’ll at least somewhat understand.
We’ve all had to cope with the terrifying side of our magic. Jimin and his ghosts, Taehyung and the future, the fire that nearly killed my family - we get it. We do. And we won’t judge you.
We’re just worried. I don’t want to see you die from this, Jungkook. Don’t make me watch that, okay? There are so many people out there who are afraid, who don’t understand, but that doesn’t always make them right. Even our own families.
So just talk to us, yeah? We’re here for you, I promise.
I’m here for you.
Yoongi
He reads the letter once, then again, and then tries a third time, but is crying too hard to properly make out the words. It’s a little pathetic, maybe, that he’s sitting here bawling over a letter, but he doesn’t care. He wants to press the paper to chest and absorb it inside of him - write I’m here for you onto his very bones.
And he’s scared, Yoongi’s right. He’s so scared - has had ten years of people telling him that his magic is wrong, his magic is dangerous, his magic needs to be locked away where it can’t hurt anyone - but right now, he also isn’t alone and that’s. That’s everything, isn’t it?
He needs to talk to Yoongi, he decides, surging to his feet. He needs to talk to Yoongi right fucking now.
It’s still pouring outside and the cough is coming back, but he doesn’t care. As long as he makes it to the townhouse, he feels like everything really will be okay. So he puts on a raincoat and stumbles down the stairs and out into the night again.
He’s drenched by the time he makes it off the subway, even with the hood, and shivering. Thinks that maybe he really should invest in an umbrella as he half walks, half jogs the now familiar streets of East Village. But the townhouse is there and all the lights are on in the windows and the magic is already pushing some of the cold away.
He trips up the steps and presses the doorbell. Once. Twice. Is lifting his hand to ring it a third time when the door swings open and Jimin gapes at him. “Jungkook?”
“Can I come in?” Jungkook asks through chattering teeth.
“Shit,” Jimin says, reaching for him. “Of course. What the hell are you doing, you were dying yesterday and it’s pouring out and oh my god, Tae, is this why you told me to get a change of clothes ready?”
Taehyung, stopped behind Jimin in the halls, blinks slowly and says, “guess so.”
“Fuck,” Jimin grumbles, but he’s already trying to peel Jungkook out of his sopping coat and shouting for Namjoon and Seokjin to bring towels and tea ASAP and barking at Taehyung to “go get the clothes, then!”
(Jimin, Jungkook decides as he’s half-pushed, half-marched into the bathroom to change, is kind of terrifying.)
The next time Jungkook snaps to full awareness, he’s seated on the couch in what he thinks are Taehyung’s pajamas with a quilt draped over his shoulders, a mug of tea cradled in his hands, and five anxious boys seated across from him. There is, however, a distinct lack of Yoongi.
“Where’s Yoongi?” he asks, hoping he isn’t coming across as too rude. “I need to talk to him.”
“He’s closing up the shop,” Namjoon says. “Should be home in a few minutes.”
“What’s going on?” Jimin asks. “Did something happen?”
“He wrote me a letter,” Jungkook explains. It’s still sitting on his bed, even though he kind of wants to carry it around with him forever. “Explain - explaining some things. And I need to talk to him.”
A wordless conversation between all five of them. “I’ll text him to hurry up,” Seokjin finally says.
“Just tell him Jungkookie’s here,” Jimin says with a faint smirk. “That’ll move him.”
Hoseok snorts and Jungkook is pretty sure he’s missing something, here, but he once again doesn’t really care. He just needs to see Yoongi - to make sure that he means everything he wrote.
“Drink your tea,” Namjoon instructs him gently. “Yoongi’ll be back soon.”
And he isn’t wrong. It hasn’t been fifteen minutes when the front door opens and Yoongi appears in the living room. He’s ditched his boots, but is still sporting his coat and hat. In spite of the freezing rain outside, he looks flushed and a little out of breath - almost like he ran all the way home, which seems ridiculous.
“Jungkook needs to talk to you,” Seokjin explains at Yoongi’s questioning glance. “About a letter you wrote?”
Yoongi’s dark, fathomless eyes move to him. “Did you mean it?” Jungkook asks, clutching his mug of tea like a lifeline. “Everything you wrote?”
Yoongi’s fingers twitch towards his phone, but then he looks to Namjoon, perched on the arm of the settee.
“I’ll translate,” Namjoon offers and Yoongi’s fingers start flying.
“Of course I did,” Namjoon says and it’s weird, hearing Yoongi’s words in Namjoon’s voice, but this is definitely faster than typing. “We’re here for you, Jungkook. Whatever you want to tell us or what your gift might be. We’re all freaks, you know. You’ll blend right in.”
“Hell yeah, you will,” Jimin adds. “You forget I literally see dead people?”
“And Jin turns into a cat,” Taehyung says. “What could be weirder than that?”
“So you should stop hurting yourself,” Namjoon continues for Yoongi. “Please.”
“He’s right,” Hoseok says with uncharacteristic grimness. “My family’s treated magic sickness before. It’s no joke.”
Jungkook absorbs all of this - the raw expression Yoongi’s face, the insistent understanding from the others - and takes a deep breath. He remembers being fifteen in Busan and climbing to the top of a seaside cliff on a dare. His friends below, shouting at him to jump, and that moment, right after his feet left the earth, where everything was still - it feels like that again.
“My parents,” he gets out, trying to shape his words around ten years, around the hole inside of him, “don’t approve of my magic. We … we’ve never had anyone in the family with it and they think it’s dangerous. My gift … I can pick up on people’s emotions, sometimes even vaguely what they’re emotional about and my family thought that was … invasive. Like I was, taking something from them without their permission.”
“Bullshit,” Jimin says, harsh. Taehyung nudges him, but he just squares his shoulders defiantly. “You’re an empath, Jungkook-ah. It’s natural.”
“They didn’t see it that way,” Jungkook insists. “Especially because when … when I touch people, I can hear their thoughts? What - what they’re thinking about in that moment - and that’s - my family hated it when I did that. Said it was … unfair, that I had that advantage over them. And I understand - I do - people’s thoughts are private and I wouldn’t ever without permission, even if you don’t mind the empath thing I’d keep to myself around all of you, I swear - I tried to tell my parents that, but they just insisted that all of my magic was too much so I started hiding it and…” he clamps his mouth shut, aware that he’s about two seconds away from crying again. “I’m sorry,” he hiccups, unable to look at any of them. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Seokjin says, fierce. “Don’t be sorry, Jungkook-ah.”
Yoongi is moving, Jungkook realizes, nudging Jimin and Taehyung aside to crouch in front of him. And Yoongi is reaching for him, for his bare hands, and before he can flinch away, Yoongi is taking the mug and Yoongi’s slender, callused fingers are knotting with his.
Can you hear me? e choes through his mind like a bell - the same deep rasp he heard in the song, Yoongi’s voice. That’s … that’s …
He chokes on an amazed sob, both at the feel of Yoongi’s skin against his own (can’t remember a time when he’s had that, when he’s let himself touch anyone, when anyone has let him touch them) and the weight of his magic, his thoughts, his compassion bleeding into Jungkook like a river.
“Yes,” he says out loud, voice wet. “Yes, I can hear you, hyung.”
Yoongi smiles at him - all gums and crinkled eyes - and squeezes his hand. See? Nothing to be afraid of, then.
“You don’t mind this?” Jungkook whispers.
No. I’m here, aren’t I?
And Jungkook can’t stop himself from leaning forward and pressing his forehead to Yoongi’s, desperate for more contact. Yoongi hums and wraps an arm around him - actually brushes his lips against Jungkook’s temple, and the touch burns against his skin in the best way.
I’ve got you, Kook. We’ve got you, you’re okay.
More hands, he realizes, on his shoulders, dipping beneath the collar of his shirt.
You’re one of us, Jimin’s voice echoes after Yoongi’s. We’re not going to judge you for this.
Ditto. Taehyung, rubbing the back of his neck.
Hoseok, Namjoon, and Seokjin are hanging back, but Jungkook senses that’s to avoid overwhelming him rather than any kind of judgment. He might be in shock, a little, at their easy acceptance. At how good it feels to have them close like this - sparks in his mind, his lungs finally cycling air, the hole sewing closed. He can feel tears slipping down his cheeks, but none of them are judging him for that, either. Yoongi just wipes them away with an understanding smile and Taehyung has upgraded to literally draping himself across Jungkook’s back like a koala, and it’s just a lot and perfect and Jungkook never, ever wants to move.
“I propose a sleepover,” Hoseok announces. “We’ll all crash down here with Kook.”
“I second this idea,” Jimin says immediately.
“Third,” Taehyung says into Jungkook’s neck, muffled.
“Fourth” Seokjin announces, already heading to the kitchen. “I’ll heat up some food.”
“Fifth.” Namjoon stands and taps Taehyung’s shoulder. “Help me get blankets.”
Taehyung grudgingly dislodges himself, pressing a kiss to the top of Jungkook’s head as he goes.
They’re going to do that all the time now, Yoongi says into his mind, amused. They’re monsters. You won’t get a moment of personal space anymore.
“I don’t think I mind,” Jungkook says, reluctantly pulling back so Yoongi can get out of his coat and hat.
Letting go of his hand is a form of agony - and okay, Jungkook is maybe a little touch-starved, he’ll have to work on that - but Yoongi brushes Jungkook's bangs off his forehead, tender, and Jungkook’s whole heart kind of seizes and it’s good.
(Taehyung and Namjoon are yelling about blankets upstairs and Hoseok and Jimin are pushing the furniture around while Seokjin gives instructions from the safety of the kitchen and it’s absolute chaos, but Jungkook loves every second of it.)
It’s so good.
I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.
_ _
He once again wakes to Jimin sitting on him, but this time there are hands on his face and the buzz of Jimin’s thoughts mingling with his own: good morning up up up you’re cute when you sleep but you’re kind of drooling everywhere i’m on breakfast duty come help me...
“I’m up,” he mumbles, still mostly asleep. “I’m up.”
He’s lying on several couch cushions pushed together on the floor, half-crushed between Yoongi and Taehyung. Yoongi’s arm is around his waist and Yoongi’s face is buried in his neck and Yoongi’s thoughts are here, too: too early too cold fuck off…
Jungkook stifles a smile and cracks his eyes open. Winter sunlight is pouring through the thin curtains on the balcony windows and Jimin’s grin is just as bright.
It’s going to be a good morning, Jungkook thinks.
And it is.
_ _
Winter break goes like this:
1. After four Skype sessions and twice as many arguments via email and text, Jungkook convinces his parents to let him stay in New York, as long as he works hard to get himself off academic probation by the start of next semester.
2. Snow comes sweeping in on a storm and turns everything white white white. He stands out in it until his face goes numb because it feels different than the snow in Seoul - heavier, sharper - and he likes the bite of the wind in his lungs.
3. The shop gets covered in an obscene amount of fairy lights, making Namjoon even more afraid to venture out from behind the counter. Taehyung stands in the middle of the chaos, one strand tangled around his arm, and shows Jungkook how to change the colors with magic - blue to green to red to purple to yellow to orange and back again.
4. He goes to a Christmas tree market with Hoseok and Yoongi and watches Hoseok flit from tree to tree, humming to himself as he runs his hands across their needles and touches their trunks, magic sparking along his fingers. The trees seem more vibrant when he leaves them behind - like their lives have been extended just a little longer - and finally Hoseok stops in front of a small, sad-looking one in the back corner. Jungkook’s heart aches a little, over how forlorn and forgotten it seems, but then Hoseok crouches in front of it and declares, “this one.” And the tree - Jungkook swears it stands a little taller when Hoseok pats one of its branches, like it knows it’s been chosen.
5. The tree grows three feet in the living room of the townhouse, stretching its branches towards the ceiling like it’s still in a forest. An evening is spent covering it in lights and popcorn strands and a truly amazing amount of tacky ornaments. Seokjin makes mulled wine and Taeyhung blares Merry Christmas, by Mariah Carey until Jimin makes him change it to Michael Buble. Jungkook gets pleasantly buzzed, ignoring Seokjin’s half-hearted muttering about him being underage, and presses his forehead against Yoongi’s while Hoseok and Namjoon sway together and belt out a headache-inducing rendition of Feliz Navidad. Yoongi’s thoughts are slow and warm, like the wine in Jungkook’s stomach, and his eyes are crinkled at the corners from his smile and Jungkook thinks, for the first time, I could fall in love with you.
6. He keeps that to himself, though. For now.
7. Another sleepover is hosted on Christmas Eve, though no one falls asleep until nearly three in the morning - too caught up in talking around the crackling fireplace in the living room. Jungkook watches the flames cast light and shadows across Yoongi’s fingers as he signs and listens to Seokjin’s hiccuping laughter. Jimin and Taehyung harmonize to Silent Night , arms wrapped around each other like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and Hoseok and Namjoon are falling asleep on the sofa, heads tipping towards each other. And Jungkook - Jungkook is content.
8. They give him a new sketchbook for Christmas and he’s so floored that he nearly starts crying for probably the umpteenth time in front of them. And that’s before they reveal they also got him custom-made pencils. “They’re magic-infused,” Namjoon explains and sketches a stick figure in the corner of the first page. It comes to life, doing a little wave. “Looping images, depending on what you want them to do. Birds can fly and the sea will ripple, stuff like that.”
9. “Oh my god,” Jungkook whispers, and gives in to the tears. Just a little.
10. He spends the week between Christmas and New Year’s frantically studying, books spread around him on the floor of the shop and the kitchen table of the townhouse. Namjoon and Yoongi, who apparently took some business courses while trying to figure out how to run a shop, both offer to help and soon his notebooks fill with Yoongi’s messy scrawl and Namjoon’s elegant, flowing script - paragraphs and tips in both Hangul and English. It helps, it does, but it still doesn’t feel like enough.
11. In so many ways, he’s still drowning - the water creeping closer, closer, closer.
12. Taehyung’s birthday and New Year’s get lumped together into a two-day celebration with lots of food and cheap champagne. Tae tears up at the designer coat that everyone pitched in to get him, and even at the drawing that Jungkook hesitantly presents of him at the kitchen table, shoulders bent and concentration on his face - sunlight from the open windows reflecting off his silver hair. The design he’s sketching forms on an endless loop, bursting into life and color over and over again.
13. Just before midnight, they climb out onto the roof to watch the fireworks over Times Square, huddle together against the biting cold. Hoseok and Seokjin scream the countdown ("TEN! NINE! EIGHT! SEVEN! SIX!” ) and take turns kissing a laughing Namjoon on the cheek. Jimin and Taehyung kiss properly - Jimin’s arms draped over Taehyung’s shoulders and Taehyung’s hand cupping the back of Jimin’s head like something out of a novel cover.
14. Yoongi’s fingers drag through his hair and Yoongi’s lips press warm and perfect against his temple and Yoongi’s thoughts whisper to him Happy New Year, Jungkook-ah.
15. I could love you, Jungkook thinks, watching Yoongi’s face lit by firework blue. I could love you.
_ _
School starts again with a vengeance, but he keeps his head down and manages to claw his way off of academic probation, just like his parents wanted. He tells Yoongi about it at the shop, showing him the official letter that puts him in the clear (for now).
That’s great news, Kook, Yoongi types and Jungkook wants to feel relieved, he does.
But there’s only water.
_ _
“Teach me about this world?” he asks them over breakfast one morning, when they’re all actually present and he’s feeling bold. (He’s so far in now, past his waist, his chest - he might as well dive completely.) “About magic. I… there’s so much I don’t know.”
About magic, about himself, about all the great and terrible things he might be capable of.
A wordless conversation happens in front of him - Namjoon to Hoseok to Yoongi to Seokjin to Jimin to Taehyung - that’s mostly a series of tilted heads and quirked eyebrows and narrowed eyes.
“Okay,” Namjoon says at last, smiling at him. Soft. “There’s stuff you can learn from all of us, so we’ll put together something.”
“A lesson plan,” Taehyung says, grin much sharper, wilder. “And homework.”
“But we’ll go at your pace,” Jimin adds with what looks like a kick to Taehyung under the table.
“Of course,” Taehyung amends. “Your pace, Jungkook-ah.”
His pace - he has no idea what that means. What’s fast or slow or what’s even waiting for him beneath the waves. His parents kept him cut off as completely as they could, taught him to shut his eyes against the magic that drifted through Busan - the shops on the side streets, the markets that sometimes popped up near the Summer Solstice, the fortune tellers that would linger outside Busan Station, the strange pull of the sea.
Over ten years with his eyes shut. He’s terrified, but he’s ready to open them now.
“Okay,” he says, gaze meeting Yoongi’s across the table - Yoongi’s eyes are gentle and dark as a winter night. (Yoongi, who lost his voice because of magic, but still remains immersed in it, unafraid.) “Okay.”
_ _
Namjoon is first. He spreads old, weathered books out across the kitchen table, and talks about history. About witches and Salem and persecution that gave way to reluctant acceptance - “in some countries, magic is still outlawed in others.” Jungkook watches him trace a line through the centuries to now: protection and regulation in equal measure.
(“No one is allowed to be discriminated against because of their magic, but the use of it is banned in certain areas, like schools, and if a child has a potentially violent ability they have to be registered,” Namjoon explains, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
“Like … like Yoongi?” Jungkook asks, stomach knotting.
“Yeah,” Namjoon says, quiet - the weight of history behind the word. “Yeah, like Yoongi.”
It’s not a big deal, Yoongi types to him the next day. I just have to carry a card around and include it with my paperwork if I want to apply for a job. Since I’ve had no violent incidents in over ten years, they’re not allowed to refuse me work based on that.
But it was a big deal, once, Jungkook thinks. And the low buzz of anxiety coming off Yoongi suggests that it sometimes still is - because one thing Jungkook has learned is that many people are not as kind or as fair as they should be.)
At the table, Namjoon sketches out a helix in the margin of Jungkook’s notebook. “They think it has something to do with DNA, but no one is sure. Since in some families everyone is magical and in others almost no one is. But more people are being born with magic now than ever before. They can’t explain that, either.”
“There’s a lot we don’t understand,” Jungkook comments. He’s the first to have magic in his family (the first ever) and he’s never known exactly what that means. If it means anything at all.
Namjoon smiles. “Yeah, but that’s what makes it beautiful.”
Jungkook has never considered that before - that the unknown could be beautiful instead of terrifying - but maybe Namjoon is right.
_ _
Coming over the to the townhouse doesn’t stop being an adventure, even as winter creeps on. Whether it’s Seokjin fluttering around in the rafters as a raven, trying to get the hang of his wings, or Jimin arguing with one of his ghosts in French, Spanish, German, Japanese. Or today, Taehyung has Yoongi seated in the tub of one of the upstairs bathrooms with a fluffy towel over his shoulders.
Yoongi signs something to him. Jungkook (who might be studying ASL in his limited free time) manages to pick out “don’t” and “too bright.”
“I won’t,” Taehyung promises. “This will be nothing like the Purple Incident of last winter, cross my heart. I think I’ve got the balance right this time.”
“What are you doing?” Jungkook asks, taking a seat on the closed toilet lid to watch.
“Dyeing Yoongi’s hair,” Taehyung explains. “I’m trying to use magic instead of a chemical formula. It’s been a process.”
Yoongi points to his phone on the counter. Jungkook hands it to him and watches him open his trusty notes app. He holds the phone over his shoulder when he’s done, so Jungkook can read.
I’m the only one who’ll let him experiment.
“Which I’m very grateful for,” Taehyung says, drawing symbols on a piece of paper in his lap. “Stupid Jimin still insists on using box dye like in the Middle Ages.”
“You really don’t mind?” Jungkook asks dubiously.
Yoongi shrugs. It’s just hair. And he can usually turn it back. A pause. Okay once it was both pink and purple for a week and I’d rather not repeat that.
“You pulled it off,” Taehyung insists and Yoongi makes an exaggerated grimace that has Jungkook hiding a laugh behind his hand. “And I’m just aiming for blonde this time, so don’t worry.”
Last time you landed on silver instead.
Taehyung pokes him in the shoulder with his pencil. “And you told me you liked it, hyung.”
I did, Yoongi admits with a nod. Taehyung looks very smug.
For a few moments, there’s silence except for the scratch of Taehyung’s pencil against the paper. Jungkook watches him draw, watches the slump of Yoongi’s shoulders against Taehyung’s legs - the back of his head resting on Taehyung’s jean-clad knee - and once again marvels at the intimacy they all share. He’s opening up, in starts and agonizing stops, but it’s, as Taehyung would probably label it, a process.
(He’s allowed to touch, to reach for them, but it’s hard to remember sometimes.)
Taehyung is humming quietly to himself and Jungkook closes his eyes, soaking up the gentle haze of Yoongi’s sleepy contentment and the slightly sharper contrast of Taehyung’s concentration.
“Okay,” Taehyung announces finally, holding the paper up. “I think I’ve got it.”
Yoongi sits up straighter, leaning forward so that Taehyung can press the paper to the back of his head. Taehyung whispers something that Jungkook can’t understand - is that Latin, maybe? - and then light flares on the paper and color washes across Yoongi’s hair in a wave, replacing the black with…
Well, not blonde. Close, but there’s definitely a bluish tint.
“Damn,” Taehyung mutters, rubbing a few strands between his fingers.
What? Yoongi signs.
“It’s a little off. Like, blonde but kind of a step or two to the left,” Taehyung says. “I must not have the alchemic formula right yet.”
Yoongi picks up his phone again and turns on the front facing camera. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking as he turns his head this way and that, watching the blue catch in the light.
“I think it suits you,” Jungkook offers, because it does. Makes him look a little more ethereal, maybe. More magical than he already is.
“It definitely does,” Taehyung throws in quickly, squeezing Yoongi’s shoulders. “And besides, you know it’ll fade in a few weeks. I haven’t been able to get the permanent part right yet, either.”
Yoongi finally cracks a smile and reaches back to pat Taehyung’s knee - a silent, it’s good, Tae-ah.
“Someday,” Taehyung says as he picks up a brush to fix where the magic mussed up Yoongi’s hair, “I am going to perfect this and then I am going to sell it and make a fortune. ”
Yoongi pats his knee again, though it seems much more condescending this time. Jungkook stifles another laugh. Taehyung finishes parting Yoongi’s hair with a satisfied sound and turns to Jungkook, expression morphing into a contemplative one that sets alarm bells off in Jungkook’s head. “Hey, Jungkook-ah, have you ever thought about dyeing your hair?”
“No,” Jungkook says and flees.
_ _
Yoongi finds him later, curled up on the couch in the living room, and sinks down beside him - cushions dipping, tipping them into each other so their shoulders brush. Jungkook screws up his courage and touches Yoongi’s hair. There’s an air of doubt around Yoongi, hanging off his shoulders like an invisible cloak, and that also gives Jungkook the courage to whisper, “I really like it, hyung. You look good.”
Yoongi ducks his head, an actual flush on his cheeks, and Jungkook’s heart twists.
Maybe, he thinks as he feels some of the doubt lift, some of the the things he’s capable of have nothing to do with magic.
_ _
Seokjin takes him on walks through the city and talks about his family - all shapeshifters, many of them back in Korea but quite a few in upstate New York as well. He skirts around the edges of it, but Jungkook ascertains that they’re very rich - old magic and old money. Seokjin is the second son, which has given him more freedom to explore his own path in life. He doubts, he says wryly, his parents anticipated that involving a magic store and sharing an aging townhouse with five other people, but they haven’t criticized him for it.
(“They might,” he adds as he beckons Jungkook down a street to show him graffiti that moves when you infuse it with a spark of magic, “when I reach thirty and I’m still not married or settled into a career, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Do you want to get married?” Jungkook asks.
Jin shrugs. “I like the idea of it, but it would have to be the right person. For now, I’m happy where I am.” He grins, handsome face scrunching into an endearing expression. “When you’re a shapeshifter, you learn to figure yourself out pretty quick. You need that anchor.”)
He takes Jungkook into Madame Russo’s, a magic repair shop not far from Washington Square Park. Madame Russo herself has wild gray hair and a thick Russian accent and towers over even Jungkook, but her magic is welcoming and her smile is crooked and well-suited to her wrinkled face. She shows Jungkook several magical artifacts that she’s in the process of fixing: a healing crystal with a crack down the middle, a scrying bowl with a hole in the bottom, an enchanted music box that supposedly can hold anything.
“I make things, too,” she says, pointing to the far wall. “Clocks, mostly.”
They’re hand-painted and intricately carved, reminding Jungkook of the pieces he’s seen on the walls of Victorian mansions in period films.
“Someday,” Seokjin murmurs, “I’m going to buy one for the house.”
“Why haven’t you?” Jungkook asks.
Seokjin runs a hand over one that features two songbirds perched on a flowering branch. “None of them have called to me yet.”
Madame Russo nods, an understanding look on her face.
There are other stores, besides hers, and several popup markets hawking magical artifacts. They’re mostly tucked away, regulated to quieter streets, but they’re not disguised, either.
“We mostly keep to ourselves,” Seokjin explains. “That’s why some neighborhoods are more magical than others. We’re drawn to each other, and places we know are safe.” He sees the look that must be on Jungkook’s face and hurries to amend, “Nothing really bad happens, not like it was even a few decades ago, but it still makes people uncomfortable. It’s still better to be … cautious. People always struggle with what they perceive as different. Unnatural.”
Jungkook thinks of the ache of his mother’s hand tight around his own. The anger on her face as she berated him for using his gift.
(He thinks of sophomore year in high school, and realizing that it wasn’t a girl he wanted to kiss, or take to prom. Of the knowledge, deep in his gut, that his parents would hate him for that, too - of shutting it away right next to his magic.
Of the fact that he thinks he might want to kiss Yoongi sometimes, and how much that still terrifies him.)
“Yeah,” he says quietly, “I get that.”
Seokjin squeezes his hand, warm even through his gloves.
_ _
Jimin [8:13am]
jungkook-ah what are you doing tonight?
Jungkook [8:17am]
nothing … why?
Jimin [8:18am]
come dancing with us!
Jungkook [8:19am]
… dancing?
Jimin [8:20am]
yep! it’ll be fun i promise.
Jungkook [8:21am]
i don’t really dance…
Jimin [8:22am]
don’t worry this is different + it’s on your lesson plan you have to come.
Jungkook [8:23am]
okay…
Jimin [8:24am]
YES. come to the house at 7 okay?
Jungkook [8:25am]
7 got it.
Jimin [8:25am]
<3 <3 <3
_ _
He wonders about what exactly “dancing” entails all day and spends half an hour back home agonizing over what to wear. Jimin gave no specifications except that they weren’t going to a club and he should dress “comfortable.” But does that mean jeans and a sweatshirt or like … lounge clothes?
Eventually, he says “fuck it” out loud to his empty apartment and throws on his comfiest pair of jeans and his warmest hoodie, since it’s currently still snowing out.
Jimin greets him with a big hug at the door, fingers brushing the back of his neck so Jungkook can catch a flicker of his excited thoughts. There’s a general air of excitement permeating the house, though from Yoongi he mostly picks up a quieter amusement.
“Hi,” he says once Jimin has released him.
Yoongi waves. He’s got his dyed hair tucked under a baseball cap and half his face obscured behind that massive woolen scarf of his and it probably shouldn’t be cute, but it is. (Jungkook is getting used to the flips his stomach does around Yoongi, though. He can handle it.)
“What exactly are we doing?” he asks Namjoon, who he figures is the most likely to give him a straight answer.
“We’re going to the studio Hobi teaches at.”
“Part time,” Hoseok explains, in the process of shoving a beanie on his head. “A few nights a week and some weekends. The owner’s magical and she lets me have a space once a month.”
“For … what?”
Hoseok grins and winks, of all things. “You’ll see.”
The studio is a few subway stops away in Hell’s Kitchen and Hoseok lets them in with a key. Pauses just inside to undo the wards over the main space and the practice rooms.
“Mrs. Koepler’s a little paranoid,” Hoseok explains. “Doesn’t think that just one ward around the exterior is enough.”
“She’s just convinced Hell’s Kitchen is still a bad neighborhood,” Jimin mutters with a shake of his head.
“That, too,” Hoseok amends and ushers them into one of the larger rooms. The wooden floors are scuffed but pristine and the walls are painted a soothing, pale blue color. Well, two of the walls. One wall is completely floor to ceiling mirrors and the opposite one floor to ceiling windows, all of the blinds shut tight to keep out the city lights.
“Right,” Hoseok says, clapping his hands together. It echoes loudly. “So this place is pretty much enchanted to high heaven. Nothing we can do will damage it. Yoongi-hyung, a demonstration?”
Yoongi roll his eyes, but slams a foot against the floor. Cracks spider-web out from his sneaker and disappear instantly.
Holy shit.
“Holy shit,” Jungkook says.
“Yup,” Hoseok agrees. “So, like I said earlier, once a month the wonderful Mrs. Koepler lets us come dance here and use our magic.”
Jungkook is so lost.
“Use your magic?”
Namjoon clears his throat, straightening his posture into what Jungkook is coming to recognize as his “teacher pose.” He imagines that if Namjoon were wearing glasses, he’d adjust them now. “So all of us build up magical energy inside our bodies, right?” Jungkook nods, because it seems like the correct response. “And we can channel it into all kinds of things - our abilities, more focused magic like incantations or drawn symbols or even rituals - but we can also expel it as raw energy, too. Now, if we let magical energy build up too much, it can have negative effects. Different from what happens when you put an actual block on your magic, but still harmful to-”
“Oh my god,” Jimin says, interrupting. “Cliff Notes version, Kook. It’s good to get magical energy out, kind of like a cleanse? It helps our bodies. Usually it isn’t harmful unless we want it to be - since magic is about intent.” He turns, suddenly, and shoves his palms out in front of him. Jungkook blinks as a barely visible wave of energy hits Taehyung enough to force him back a step.
“Hey,” he huffs.
“And dance is a great way to do that,” Jimin continues, ignoring Taehyung. “Which is why Mrs. Koepler has designated time for magic users.”
“I was getting around to that,” Namjoon mutters.
Jimin shakes his head. “Yeah, really slowly.” He turns back to Jungkook. “Plus, it can look really cool. Watch.”
He slides his foot across the floor and a streak of blue forms, fading slowly.
“Whoa,” Jungkook murmurs. His head is spinning. “How did you do that?”
“It’s about intent, right?” Jimin says. “So I just kind of thought blue really hard and that’s the color the energy took on.”
“It takes some control,” Hoseok says, “to figure out how much you’re releasing and not overdo it, but it’s pretty instinctual.”
“And … and I won’t hurt anyone?” Jungkook asks dubiously.
“Nah,” Hoseok says with a dismissive wave. “The place is unbreakable and we can all take care of ourselves. This is just about having some fun, Jungkook-ah. Letting off steam.”
He’s still nervous. It’s been a few years since he’s danced, though he misses it with an ache inside of him - phantom pain that lingers. And adding magic? His magic still feels wild in his blood, unstable, and in spite of their assurances, hurting one of them would be....
Hands cup his face. Taehyung.
Relax breathe you’re okay Kook we’ve got you remember?
“Yeah,” he says, some of the panic leeching away in the face of Taehyung’s steady confidence. “I remember.”
Taehyung grins at him, boxy and bright, and nuzzles the side of his face before skipping over to bicker with Hoseok about the music. Eventually, they settle on an EDM playlist - songs with pulsing beats and lyrics by artists he barely recognizes. Hoseok dims the lights and Jimin bounces around hyping everyone up, and it quickly dissolves into chaos.
Seokjin and Namjoon are doing what can only be described as enthusiastic flailing in the corner, competing to see who can make the biggest arc of energy - Seokjin’s pink and Namjoon’s yellow - without a care for beat or rhythm. They look ridiculous, but they’re both cracking up and the happiness radiating off them hits Jungkook’s skin like firecrackers.
Taehyung and Hoseok are twirling each other around the edge of the room, energy blooming in starbursts of color beneath their feet and their laughter bouncing off the walls.
Jimin goes straight for Yoongi, still huddled near the door. “C’mon, hyung,” he insists, taking Yoongi’s hands and pulling him further into the room. “Full group participation, please.” Yoongi huffs, but his gaze is soft, soft, soft (the way it always is when he looks at any of them, Jungkook is realizing) and he’s losing a battle with the smile that’s taking over the ride side of his mouth. He mostly just looks hopelessly fond as Jimin tries to engage him in some pretty complicated-looking choreography.
Heart full, Jungkook takes a few minutes to practice on his own. Tunes into the flow of energy running through him and focuses on pushing it past his skin, into the floorboards. His first two attempts are too weak and his third is too strong, knocking him back a few steps as his foot is pushed off the floor.
Hoseok stops by him. Presses a hand to his chest. “You’re overthinking it. This kind of magic is instinctive. Just breathe and feel. Move with it. Don’t try to force it.”
He obeys, opening himself up more. Until he can taste the magic on his tongue, feel it even in the lining of his lungs, brushing against his lips with each exhale. The fourth attempt is smoother. By the eighth, he can make a bright arc of red energy with his hands, and he watches it fade with giddy amazement.
“See?” Hoseok says, grinning at him. “It’s fun.”
Fun. Applied to magic. What a novelty.
But it is fun, and he lets go even more. Lets the beat pulse through him, lets his body remember how to move to it - a little punch drunk on the magic and emotion swirling through the air. He laughs at the sight of Jimin swaying Yoongi, hands on Yoongi’s hips while Yoongi stares at the ceiling in embarrassed exasperation. He gets spun in a dizzying circle by Taehyung and then Hoseok is bounding up to him, delight on his face.
“Jimin said you don’t dance!”
“I don’t,” Jungkook argues.
“Liar,” Hoseok says.
“I don’t anymore.”
“We should fix that,” Hoseok insists, but thankfully doesn’t push any more than that - distracted by Jimin and Yoongi.
“C’mon, hyung,” Jimin is whining, “you have to.”
Yoongi arches an eyebrow that clearly says do I, brat?
“Show off to Jungkookie,” Jimin needles and Jungkook feels heat warm his cheeks that has nothing to do with current temperature in the room.
Yoongi freezes for a moment, looking almost like he wants to flee, but Jimin is having none of it. Just drags him to the center of the room. “Come on, come on - it’s not a dance night without it, Yoongi-hyung.”
Yoongi sighs, rolling up the sleeves of his baggy sweater. The others seem to be getting into some kind of formation.
“Group dance,” Hoseok explains, tugging Jungkook forward. “Don’t worry, coordination isn’t necessary.”
“That hurts, Hobi,” Namjoon says from Jungkook’s left.
“Just stating facts, Joonie,” Hoseok fires right back.
Yoongi takes a deep breath and then touches one heel to the floor. Which changes color. The whole floor. To a brilliant, glowing blue. And it doesn’t fade.
“Holy shit,” Jungkook whispers.
“Elementals,” Taehyung says sagely.
“They’re ridiculous,” Hoseok grumbles good naturedly.
Group dance time turns out to be following along with Hoseok and Jimin as best as possible to make patterns on the base coat Yoongi’s provided. They manage a vague resemblance to a butterfly and a bunch of random flowers. Occasionally they add bursts with their hands, explosions of color that fade into darkness like fireworks. Yoongi changes the floor color to white and they create a rippling blue sea over it. Then black and they switch to nebulas and dwarf stars like the book Yoongi read once.
Jungkook thinks brown and creates a small globe in the air.
“Pluto,” he says in response to Yoongi’s questioning look.
Yoongi grins.
_ _
They stop around midnight - after Jungkook has performed a very enthusiastic (and terrible) tango with Taehyung, gotten roped into swing dancing with Jimin, and waltzed with Yoongi, giggling as he let Yoongi dip him - and Jungkook is sweaty and exhausted and his ribs ache from so much laughter. He feels good, like he’s just had one of those juice cleanses that his mother was always trying, but a thousand times better.
He’s in love, he thinks. With this world, with his growing place in it.
(Maybe with Yoongi, too. Someday. Inevitably.)
_ _
Hoseok’s greenhouse is like another world. Jungkook doesn’t think he’s seen so much color in his life, or so many different kinds of plants. They hang from the ceiling and perch on planters and climb up the walls. The entire back wall is full of vegetables, herbs, and a few honest-to-god fruit trees. There is another section of planters bursting with flowers, and Jungkook has to push aside several tropical-looking ferns to find Hoseok at a workstation sitting in the middle of it all, tying what looks like dried herbs into bundles.
“Sage,” he explains when Jungkook stops next to him. “Good for cleansing.”
“You sell this?” Jungkook asks.
Hoseok nods. “At the shop. I also sometimes make deliveries - offer home cleansing services and some basic healing techniques. Remedies, stuff like that.”
He indicates for Jungkook to take a seat across from him and shows him how to tie bundles. The smell of the sage is soothing, mixed with the general earthy atmosphere of the greenhouse. He can see why Hoseok spends so much time here, why the others gravitate towards it sometimes, too - Jin napping in cat form, Taehyung sketching designs in the midst of all the flowers, Namjoon humming to himself as he helps Hoseok water the plants.
(“It’s best when I can get Yoongi to help me,” Hoseok says, in conspiratorial whisper. “He can just move water from the fountain and cover whole areas at once. Usually I have to bribe him with free food, but it’s worth it.”)
Hoseok tells him about his family outside Gwangju - that his father is a professor, but almost everyone else helps with the family business. How their greenhouse is twice as large as his modest one here. How he spent his childhood tending to plants and following his mother and grandmother into the woods to gather rare ones. How his grandmother could pass her hand over the wounded bark of a tree and it would mend without even a scar. How, when he was still learning to control his own magic, ivy spread to every corner of his room and completely blanketed his ceiling. How he’s always been able to feel the pull of the Earth, the weight of it beneath his feet.
“I think my family was a little sad,” Hoseok says as Jungkook follows him to make a delivery of healing remedies to an older woman in the neighborhood, “when I said I wanted to go into dance and music production instead. But they understood, too. My mother told me that we all have to find our own path.” He shrugs, smiles. “Mine ended up leading me back, anyway.”
“Do you regret that?” Jungkook asks, hoping desperately that isn’t too insensitive of a question.
Hoseok shakes his head. “No. I mean, I miss performing with Joon and Yoongi, but this is good, too.” He touches one of the trees growing in front of the woman’s townhouse. “My grandmother always said that we’re more susceptible to gravity than most. That the Earth will always pull us back in. Maybe it was inevitable. Either way, it isn’t bad.” He takes Jungkook’s gloved hand to lead him up the steps. “C’mon, I’ll show you why.”
The woman gives her name as Maxine and she’s tiny, stooped with age - a weathered hand trembling on her cane. But her blue eyes still twinkle with a spark of youth and her full, white hair cascades down her shoulders like a waterfall. She gratefully accepts Hoseok’s remedies (“meant to help oil my creaky joints,” she explains) with a kiss on his cheek and insists on feeding them lunch.
Jungkook perches on her floral sofa with a purring cat in his lap and plate piled high with sandwiches and cookies, listening to Maxine ramble excitedly about Hoseok always giving her a discounted price (“unlike some of the bigger sellers - scam artists, the lot of them”) and how his remedies have probably single-handedly kept her from a nursing home.
Hoseok waves away her praise, but he’s beaming and blushing in equal measure, and Jungkook understands, then.
“Magic can really help people, can’t it?” he blurts when they’re back out on the sidewalk.
Hoseok pauses, in the middle of winding his striped scarf back around his neck. “Yeah, Kook, it really can. I mean, there is darkness to everything. There are scammers, like Maxine said, who pretend to have magical remedies but don’t. And there’s black magic, too, that can cause a lot of damage, but …” He pauses and Hoseok rarely weighs his words like this, so they must be important. “But the earth is full of magic. It’s meant to be here. It’s been here since the beginning. Like the trees or the ocean or the moon.” He reaches out to squeeze Jungkook’s hand again, face open and painfully earnest. “Magic isn’t evil, Jungkook-ah. It just is. We have to decide what we want it to be.”
He glances back at Maxine’s blue front door. “And I want to use mine to help people.”
Jungkook squeezes Hoseok’s hand back. “That’s good, Hoseok-hyung. Thank you … for showing me.”
Hoseok grins at him, bright as always. “Any time, Jungkook-ah.”
I want to help people, too, Jungkook doesn’t say. I just don’t know how yet.
Maybe, he just needs to give it a little more time.
_ _
These days, he spends more nights at the townhouse than he does at his studio - and usually they’re peaceful. The couch is actually more comfortable than his lumpy bed and he likes the soothing magic that permeates everything.
But one night, in the height of winter, he wakes to a crash - to a cup smashing on the floor next to him - and sits up with a terrified jolt. Another mug comes flying for his head, forcing him to scramble out of the way, jumping from the sofa to the settee. A sound scrapes against his ears - a low, piercing scream - and fear and anger is permeated so strongly in the air that he can practically taste the sour burn of it on his tongue.
A ghost, his tired mind finally realizes. It’s a ghost.
He pitches over the back of the settee, using it as a shield from the plate that comes flying, and tries to figure out an escape plan. As far as he can tell, the ghost is between him and the door to the hallway, but maybe if he just makes a run for it…
Footsteps. Human ones.
He risks a glance over the edge of the settee and sees Jimin appear in the doorway, silhouetted by the moonlight.
“Jungkook-ah,” he says, voice carefully calm, “come over here.”
Another furious wail from the ghost. Jungkook still can’t see it, but he can feel it - the shape of it. Like the air has compressed around it, creating a void in the middle of the room.
“Are you sure-” he whispers.
“Jungkook,” Jimin’s voice is steel. “Come here.” He’s holding out an arm and he isn’t afraid, Jungkook realizes. He’s projecting a steadying aura into the air - either meant to soothe Jungkook or the ghost. Or both. It’s all Jungkook can sense from him, which is disconcerting after he’s gotten used to Jimin’s bright emotions.
But none of that matters right now. He has to move.
He pushes himself up and darts as fast as he can to Jimin. Something else - a vase - hurtles towards him and stops in mid-air, caught by Jimin’s magic. The ghost roars and Jungkook shakes under the force of its fury. Fuck, he’s woken up in a horror movie.
Then Jimin’s hand is in his and Jimin’s thoughts are crashing into his brain: go upstairs go upstairs go to Yoongi’s room it’s the safest place in the house…
“What about you?” Jungkook whispers.
Jimin squeezes his hand. I’ll be okay this is what I do, remember? And Jin’s sealing off the living room he’ll step in if anything goes wrong so go to Yoongi now.
“Okay,” Jungkook agrees, knowing he needs to trust Jimin. He still squeezes Jimin’s hand tight in his own. “Be safe.”
Jimin smiles at him, reassuring. He’s in plaid polka dot pajama pants and a striped bathrobe, blonde hair a mess, but he feels powerful right now, bigger than the living room and the seething ghost.
This is what I do, remember?
Jungkook goes. Seokjin is standing in the hall and he also gives Jungkook a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Jungkook-ah. This isn’t our first rodeo.” He nods his head towards the stairs and as Jungkook passes him, he notices a paper with symbols carved on it.
Wards, he guesses. To seal off the living room and keep the ghost contained.
(And Jimin locked inside with it.)
He shudders and keeps moving, up the stairs to the second floor and then the third. Yoongi’s door is the last one and it’s already opening as he approaches, revealing Yoongi pulling his robe tight around his waist. He holds out a hand and Jungkook threads their fingers together.
Easy easy I’ve got you you’re safe come inside…
It’s only then Jungkook realizes that he’s shaking from head to toe, wracked by his own private earthquake.
“Sorry,” he whispers, but Yoongi shakes his head and draws him into the room. Taehyung, Hoseok, and Namjoon are already there, and a barrier covers the door when Yoongi closes it again.
He’s only been in Yoongi’s room a few times, but he always finds it a comforting place. Neat and organized - a shelf full of books and an arm chair by the window currently occupied by Hoseok. Namjoon is sprawled in the swivel chair at the computer desk and Taehyung’s on the double bed, sitting with his back to the wall. Where the walls of Taehyung and Jimin’s room are covered in art, Yoongi’s are mostly bare - a map, a chart of constellations, a poster replica of Andreas Achenbach’s Clearing Up that was a gift from Taehyung (Because I remind him of a storm. ).
Yoongi’s bed is piled with blankets because the heating in the house isn’t the most reliable and he’s always cold. Jungkook burrows under them, huddling up against Taehyung as Yoongi climbs in next to him and another crash echoes from downstairs.
“Jiminie will be fine,” Taehyung murmurs, though he looks a little scared beneath his determination. “He’s good at this.”
Still, they all sit in nervous silence for what feels like hours. Yoongi strokes his hair, seemingly on instinct, his eyes somewhere far away, and Jungkook loves the feel of it too much to say anything, in spite of the faint, knowing smile Taehyung gives him.
Finally, finally, everything is quiet downstairs and the lingering fear and rage that Jungkook could still sense even through three floors and two magical barriers, fades it until only echoes remain.
“I think we’re safe,” he whispers just before Seokjin calls up the stairs that the coast is clear.
The living room looks like it was hit by a hurricane - debris everywhere, balcony curtains torn, furniture overturned. Jimin at the center of it, sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands. There’s a cut on the back of his hand, bleeding sluggishly, and Taehyung makes a low, distressed sound. Hurries over to wrap Jimin up in his arms.
“It was a girl,” Jimin says through his fingers and Jungkook can feel the weight of his grief pressing against his ribcage. “Seven years old. Her older … her older brother drowned her.”
Taehyung pulls him closer, kisses the top of his head, and Yoongi makes a low sound of anger. She was scared of him, Jungkook realizes with a sinking feeling. He reminded her of the brother who killed her.
Suddenly, he wants to be sick.
“Is she … is she okay?” he asks and then immediately winces at the stupidity of that question. Can ghosts ever be okay?
Jimin finally lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed and there’s another shallow cut on his cheek, but he nods. “She is. She’s moved on now.”
Taehyung kisses his temple. His bloody cheek. The trembling corner of his mouth. “You did good, Jiminie,”
“It doesn’t feel like enough,” Jimin whispers and a heavy silence follows the confession, because he’s right. It doesn’t. What kind of brother murders their sister? What kind of world is full of children that die so young?
Not for the first time, Jungkook, as he looks at Jimin’s haunted expression, wonders about the cost of all their gifts.
“I’ll make some tea,” Seokjin finally announces and begins picking his way through the sea shattered glass and china to the kitchen.
They spend the rest of the night sweeping and righting furniture and taking inventory of what’s been broken (half of the dishes, two vases, a flower pot, a lamp, and a kitchen chair). Jimin rallies himself again as the first blush of dawn is shifting the sky from black to blue, smiling gratefully at them all.
“Thank you,” he says. Glances at Jungkook. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Jungkook insists even though he still feels rattled. His nerves are nothing, really, in comparison.
“It’s Saturday,” Namjoon says, “I say we all go back to bed.”
Murmurs of exhausted agreement ripple around the room and Taehyung takes Jimin’s hand to lead him up the stairs, Seokjin, Namjoon, and Hoseok trailing closely behind. Jungkook glances dubiously at the couch. He’d rather not sleep there again right now - not with the aftermath of everything that just happened still lingering, the fear still dissipating. Maybe he should just go back to his own apartment? It’s lonely there, usually, but -
A tug on his sleeve. Yoongi.
Come on, he mouths and points towards the stairs.
“You’re sure?” Jungkook asks, pathetically desperate for him to say yes, but also not wanting to intrude.
Yoongi nods. Tugs on his sleeve again.
Jungkook caves easily. Allows himself to be lead back upstairs into Yoongi’s room. Crawls under the blankets and sighs at the warmth, at Yoongi’s presence next to him.
“Thank you,” he whispers to Yoongi.
Yoongi smiles at him, musses his hair. Gently drags his fingers down the side of Jungkook’s face so Jungkook can hear sleep projected at him loud and clear. The touch is searing and soothing in equal measure and Jungkook presses his face into the pillow to hide the flush on his cheeks, the smile overtaking his mouth.
“Okay, hyung,” he whispers, but it’s Yoongi’s breathing that evens out first.
Careful, careful, Jungkook puts a palm over Yoongi’s chest, the soft fabric of his sweater. Feels the rise and fall of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart.
Life, still. In spite of all the ghosts.
_ _
From then on, instead of sleeping alone on the couch, Jungkook finds himself in Yoongi’s room, curled up in bed beside him.
And he should put a stop to it, he knows. Yoongi is just being friendly, being supportive and kind, while Jungkook greedily, selfishly wants more. Imagines, sometimes, what it would be like to lean over and kiss Yoongi - how Yoongi’s lips would feel against his own and how Yoongi’s callused hands would cup his face.
He should put a stop to it, but he loves the warmth too much. He’s a coward and he only drifts closer when he should pull away.
_ _
Taehyung’s from a small town outside Daegu, and magic is rare in his family. Skipped from his grandmother to him and missed his parents entirely.
“That’s why I went to live with her in Busan,” Taehyung explains as they take the subway north. It’s late, or early maybe, and the car is nearly empty. Taehyung seems to exist the fullest in odd hours like this. He says it has to do with magic, with the veil between this plane of existence and the next being weaker, but Jungkook suspects it’s mostly to do with Taehyung. “So she could teach me.”
“How long did you live with her?” Jungkook asks.
“Fourteen years,” Taehyung says quietly. “She died two years ago.”
His grief is a subtle thing, softened by time, but Jungkook can still feel the ache of it, enough to reach out and rub Taehyung's shoulder through the fabric of his coat. He smiles in gratitude. “She taught me everything I know.”
“Was she a seer, too?”
“Yeah. A way better one than me.”
The train pulls into a station - they’re somewhere in Harlem, Jungkook thinks - and Taehyung beckons him off. The leave the main thoroughfare behind quickly and this late, or early, the side streets are quiet and empty. It feels like a different city, like him and Taehyung are the only two people alive.
The witching hour. He finally understands what that means.
On one of these empty side streets is a small theater and Taehyung stops in front of it.
“I know the owner,” he explains as he pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. “So we’re not breaking and entering or anything.”
He presses the paper to the door and whispers an incantation. A lock clicks. They go through the lobby, with its faded red carpet, and past the concessions booth. Through the weathered doors and down the aisle through the rows of empty seats. It’s a bigger space than Jungkook expected, complete with balcony and a soaring, old-fashioned ceiling.
“It was condemned at one point,” Taehyung explains as he climbs onto the stage. “But Carlos and his husband bought it up and fixed it up. I think they’re trying to get it labeled as a historic landmark.”
He sprawls out on his back on the stage and pats the spot beside him. Jungkook lies down with a low laugh, feeling a little ridiculous - curious as to why exactly Taehyung has brought him here.
“I don’t really have anything to teach you about magic,” Taehyung says after a moment. “I’m not good at teaching anything, really. Not like Namjoon or Jin. But I thought you could learn a little more about me, if you want.”
Jungkook shifts so his head is resting against Taehyung’s. Taehyung, who told him to come back to the shop on a Thursday afternoon and changed his life. Taehyung, who is always stressed about his degree and his career, but never enough to not make time for the rest of them. Taehyung, who is an anchor to Jimin and dyes Yoongi’s hair with magic and lives with a foot in a future none of them can see.
“Of course I want,” Jungkook says, heart suddenly full. “Tell me about the mysterious Kim Taehyung.”
Taehyung laughs. “I’m not really mysterious. That’s just the seer thing.”
“Well tell me about the ordinary Kim Taehyung, then.”
So Taehyung does. He says that he comes to the theater because the quiet helps him think. He says he was terrified when he first came to America, because it wasn’t in his original plans - he never saw it coming - but he couldn’t let Jimin go it alone.
(“We’ve always been together,” Taehyung explains, voice soft with old, well-established love. “Ever since we were kids. I didn’t want that to change.”)
He says he loves New York now and doesn’t really want to leave it, even if he will always be something of an outsider in a way he wouldn’t be if he returned to Korea. He says that his magic is quiet in a way some of the others aren’t, but he prefers that. Doesn’t need anything flashy, just the feel of it deep in his marrow is enough to keep him steady. He gets annoyed, though, when people think that he can turn it on and off - ask him to tell them their future like the flashes he gets are up to him.
(“All those fortune tellers - half of them don’t know shit. They’re just making it up. The future’s too unpredictable for that kind of prophecy.”)
He says that he wanted to be a singer once, before he discovered fashion design when he was in middle school and never really looked back. His degree might kill him, he thinks, but it will have been worth it.
“I like Kim Taehyung,” Jungkook says when the clock on his phone reads three a.m. and Taehyung’s voice has started to go a little hoarse.
“Good,” Taehyung says with another laugh. “I like Jeon Jungkook and I think he should model for me in my senior showcase.”
Jungkook sits up. “Seriously?”
Taehyung arches an eyebrow. “Dude, have you seen you? Of course, I do. And pictures for my portfolio, too.”
Jungkook still feels a little blindsided. Sure, he works out, he takes care of himself, but he’s never considered himself model material. He’ll trust Taehyung, though, if this is what Taehyung wants. Even if he dies from embarrassment trying to walk down a runway.
“Sure,” he says and Taehyung whoops. Throws his arms around Jungkook’s neck and pulls him back down again, ignoring the squawk of protest that escape’s Jungkook’s mouth.
“And you have,” Jungkook continues when they’ve settled - lying side by side once more. He needs Taehyung to know this, he thinks, because for all that he seems self-assured, doubt plagues everyone. “Taught me about magic.”
Magic isn’t always a river or an ocean or storm. Isn’t always visible like Hoseok’s plants or Seokjin’s shapeshifting. It can just exist - quiet, beneath the surface. Like a still lake with deep waters.
And in that form, it can be enough, too.
“Just call me Yoda, then,” Taehyung says and ruffles Jungkook’s hair.
_ _
He learns the story of Yoongi’s voice in starts and stops and pieces scattered across the dying days of winter - from Hoseok and Namjoon and Yoongi himself.
There was a boy, Namjoon tells him. Junior year of college. Back then, the three of them were making music together already - Namjoon and Hoseok wide-eyed sophomore transfers, changing schools because they met Yoongi and all his brilliance on a study abroad program and saw a future they wanted to chase. Yoongi loved him.
Something heavy in Namjoon’s voice suggests that the boy didn’t love Yoongi back - at least not in the same way.
He was an asshole, Hoseok says, ripping up weeds in the garden with uncharacteristic venom. I hated him.
I was fucking stupid, Yoongi types on his phone, perched next to Jungkook on the bench of the piano in the basement room - the one that leads out into the garden and functions as a practice room for Jimin and Hoseok. The piano faces the wide windows and doors - the brown wood lightened by the sun - and Yoongi plays it less than he used to. And blind.
That’s not true, Jungkook wants to say, but doesn’t know if he has the right.
The boy was full of insults, of judgment. Towards Yoongi’s appearance and his magic and his dreams. And Yoongi, so strong and so fragile, believed too much of it.
He made Yoongi less, Namjoon says, fingers tight around his mug of coffee. Tried to shrink him down because he was intimidated. Because he wanted to be the one that was more.
I hated him, Hoseok reiterates from the other end of the table. I should have punched him in the fucking face. Repeatedly.
The relationship lasted for over a year, and during that time Yoongi only grew, in spite of the boy’s attempts to prevent it. The three of them - Namjoon, Hoseok, and Yoongi - started performing, started posting music to SoundCloud, and people liked it. People wanted to hear more.
We could do this, we thought, Yoongi writes at the top of Jungkook’s notebook - the words shaky from the tremble in Yoongi’s fingers. We could be something.
The boy didn’t want that. The boy wanted Yoongi to choose - him or music.
I chose music, Yoongi whispers into Jungkook’s mind as they lie curled up in bed together - Yoongi’s fingers resting on the bare skin of Jungkook’s arm. And he hated me for that.
We should have seen it, Hoseok says.
We should have stopped him, Namjoon says.
I should have known, Yoongi writes.
But they didn’t, and Yoongi went back to a once-shared apartment to collect his things and walked right into a trap.
There was a binding seal drawn on the floor just inside the door, Yoongi types with those trembling fingers. I didn’t stand a fucking chance.
The boy got friends to help him. It took four of them, apparently, to keep Yoongi under long enough to complete the ritual. After, Yoongi woke up on a bench on campus - dizzy and sick, magic dangerously unstable, and voice gone.
Everything shattered a little, after that.
We almost lost him, Namjoon says with a far-away look, a haunted grimace on his face. We came so close to losing him.
I tried something really fucking stupid, Yoongi writes with a shake of his head, his words filling up the margins of Jungkook’s chemistry notebook. A ritual to get my voice back. It nearly killed me. Hobi found me.
He doesn’t go into any more detail on it, but the horror of the memory is still plain on Hoseok’s face when he talks about it, when he says, I thought he’d tried to kill himself. I thought the ambulance wouldn’t get there in time. I thought I was going to watch him die.
It took a long time, Jungkook suspects, for Hoseok to forgive Yoongi for that. Took even longer for them to get their feet back under them. Yoongi had to take a break from college, finish up a year later and graduate with Hoseok and Namjoon. Had to see a specialist to get his magic back under control. Had to go to ASL classes at night at a community learning center, Hoseok and Namjoon on either side of him, practicing signs under the harsh fluorescents.
Namjoon was the one to tell his family, but Yoongi still heard his mother cry over the phone. Through Namjoon, had to convince her to let him stay in America, that he would be okay.
The three of them stopped performing music, stopped producing it, too, because the wound was raw and bloody and they didn’t know how to close it yet. They did as much research as they could - talked to every expert they could find - but Yoongi’s voice was gone. Sold, probably, to someone who wanted the magic still laced in it for incantation.
There’s a whole goddamn black market for things like that, Hoseok says in disgust. It’s horrible.
Eventually we let it go, Yoongi whispers in his mind at night. We moved on. The shop helped. Gave us something to focus on.
There is still grief inside him - Jungkook can feel it. The ache of what could have been. What would have been.
I’m sorry, he doesn’t say, knowing that Yoongi doesn’t need to hear it. That Yoongi is here and Yoongi is so strong and Yoongi really is okay, for the most part. There are bad days, still. Non Days, Namjoon calls them, where the sadness becomes suffocating and prevents Yoongi from focusing on anything, from interacting with them - sometimes even from getting out of bed.
(They’ve learned, Namjoon says, when Yoongi needs time alone on the Non Days and when he needs company. Needs someone to occupy the same space as him - Taehyung in the armchair drawing, Namjoon reading a book out loud, Jimin working on coursework on the bed, Hoseok putting flowers in a vase nearby, Seokjin telling stupid jokes.
And one day, it will be Jungkook’s turn and he will crawl into bed beside Yoongi and wrap his arm around Yoongi’s waist and Yoongi will shift, will curl into him, let Jungkook hold some of that sadness, and together they’ll breathe into the quiet of the room. In and out, in and out, in and…)
I’m sorry, Jungkook doesn’t say. I think you’re incredible.
Just settles for pressing his forehead to Yoongi’s temple and letting their magic intertwine until it quiets the storm of Yoongi’s thoughts.
_ _
He asks Jimin to take him to Coney Island, even though it’s barely spring and the wind still has teeth. Jimin grins, bundles them both up in scarves and hats and sweaters, and they take the train south on a Sunday afternoon.
The sun is out, dancing across the top of the water, even if its warmth can’t combat the lingering chill.
“Do you miss Busan?” Jungkook asks as they stand at the edge of the shore, letting the sea brush the toes of their boots. He can feel the hook/pull of the tide in his chest, can feel the way the water extends down down down towards the center of the Earth, and understands why ancient people worshiped this great and terrible force of nature.
“Yeah, sometimes,” Jimin says. “Especially in the summer. But I’m happy here. Do you miss it?”
“I miss the ocean,” he decides, but can’t really think of anything else. Busan was suffocating, his parents were suffocating, and he couldn’t wait to escape. Hasn’t looked back much since.
Jimin hums and links their arms together. “You can feel it, can’t you? In your bones?”
“Yeah,” he says, still a little awed.
“Guess that’s what happens when you’re born by the sea.”
They wander up to the boardwalk and buy cinnamon-sugar coated pretzels from one of the street vendors. Eat them on a bench by the ferris wheel while Jimin talks a little more about Busan.
“I come from a big family,” he says. “All mediums. They run a business - doing seances and house cleanses and things like that. I think they wanted me to participate, after college, but I wanted to find my own path.” He laughs. “Everyone was always in everyone’s business in my family, and I needed to figure out who Park Jimin was, without all that influence, you know?”
“Yeah, I do,” Jungkook says because he ran for so many of the same reasons.
“I mean, I still call them like once a week, but the distance is good for now.”
“Is it hard?” Jungkook ventures, thinking of the drowned girl in their living room and the tears on Jimin’s face. “Being surrounded by so much death?”
“Sometimes,” Jimin says, brushing sugar off his fingers onto his jeans. “But it’s mostly made me appreciate life even more. And I like that I can help them, at least a little.”
Jungkook’s heart aches. Jimin, so unbearably kind. “I think you help them more than a little.”
Jimin’s eyes are soft and his grateful smile is is gentle but a little uncertain. Like he’s not quite sure he believes Jungkook’s words, but he appreciates them all the same. “Thank you.”
Sensing that it’s time to change topics, Jungkook shoves the rest of his pretzel into his mouth and stands up. “C’mon,” he says, muffled, and is rewarded with a bark of laughter from Jimin. “I want to ride the ferris wheel.”
Jimin eyes it dubiously, but lets himself be pulled to his feet. “I don’t know…”
“It’s not even that high,” Jungkook insists. “And you can hold my hand the whole time.” He’s wearing his gloves, but he’ll still be able to feel it if Jimin gets too anxious, help keep him calm.
“Oh, well, if hand holding with a cute boy is on the table,” Jimin says brightly, with an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows, and threads their fingers together.
Jungkook laughs through his embarrassed flush, mutters "shut up," and drags Jimin over to the counter to purchase two tickets.
_ _
He’s falling in love. With this world of magic and his place in it. With Yoongi.
And he didn’t know that love could be a culmination of quiet moments, but here is, with a box full of them:
_ _
And here is Yoongi now, at the piano in the basement room, playing Claire de Lune to the moonlight. The house is quiet and Jungkook is sitting next to him, watching Yoongi’s fingers move across the keys.
Jungkook wants to kiss him. Has wanted it for weeks, maybe even months, but he’s still so afraid. Caught between that desire, a rising flame, and everything he knows he should be, was expected to be. He’s broken his parents’ rules about magic and if he breaks this - their dream of a future where he has a wife and a nice house and a nice job and gives them grandchildren - then he doubts they will love him anymore, and he isn’t sure he can live with that.
But here is Yoongi, letting the music move through him as he plays, eyes closed, and here is all the love that Jungkook doesn’t know how to keep in his chest, spilling out everywhere.
The song ends and Yoongi’s hands still at the piano. His eyes flutter open, and he smiles at Jungkook - gummy and a little sheepish, like he’s worried Jungkook will be upset at him for getting so lost in the music. And Jungkook screws up every drop of his courage, every precious ounce of it that he has, and leans forward in spite of the terror knotting his stomach and the shake in his hands.
Yoongi’s lips are cool and slightly chapped against his and he feels Yoongi startle, hears his name echo, and God this was such a bad idea, wasn’t it? He’s ruined everything, all of this easy friendship, and -
Shhh shhh come here, Yoongi thinks as Jungkook starts to pull away. Hands cup his face, pulling him back in, and then Yoongi is kissing him properly and all Jungkook can feel is warmth, in his heart, his blood, the gentle slide of Yoongi’s tongue into his mouth. Can feel the buzz of Yoongi’s thoughts and the giddy rush of his disbelief, his excitement.
Fuck Jungkook Jungkook Jungkook amazing incredible didn’t think you wanted this didn’t want to pressure you feels so good holy fucking shit Jungkook-
Jungkook is still trembling when they pull apart, when Yoongi presses a few searing kisses to his jaw, his cheek, his temple. There is no going back now, he realizes. There is no cutting himself up or breaking himself down to fit in the box his parents crafted for him. He loves this world and he loves Yoongi and he’s so afraid but he wants to keep running into this future without looking back.
Yoongi’s fingers fan across his cheek. Okay?
“I’m scared,” Jungkook whispers into the silver quiet of the room. “But I want this. You. Whatever we end up being.”
Yoongi’s eyes are soft soft soft as he shifts forward and presses their foreheads together, winds steadying arms around Jungkook’s waist.
I’m here, Kook, you have me. I promise.
I know, Jungkook doesn’t say, because he isn’t certain of it yet. But he will be. Soon, he thinks, he will be.
“Kiss me again?” he asks, feeling a little bolder.
And Yoongi does.
At the end of the day, it isn’t where I came from.
Maybe home is somewhere I’m going and never have been before.
_ _
Yoongi kisses him and kisses him until his lips are almost numb and he can’t tell where his thoughts end and Yoongi’s begin, if the heat sparking down his spine is his or Yoongi’s. He supposes it doesn’t matter.
What does matter is that he’s here, kissing Yoongi, and Yoongi likes him back and they’re going to be something.
(Something great, he hopes.)
We should go to bed, Yoongi says after minutes or hours, his thumb stroking along the bone of Jungkook’s cheek - back and forth in soothing sweeps. Jungkook nods and stands on jelly legs, stomach a tangled knot of giddiness and fear and ebbing desire.
(Yoongi likes him back. Yoongi likes him back back back.)
It feels like miles up the three flights of stairs to Yoongi’s room - his legs still won’t work right - but Yoongi’s hand stays warm in his and when they climb under the covers, Yoongi curls around him. Drapes across his back in a way that makes Jungkook feel small, safe, in spite of their normal size difference.
He wonders how this will look in the morning. He wonders if the fear will ever go away, or if that’s just part of love. He wonders if Yoongi is afraid, too. Since the last person he loved hurt him so, so badly.
As though he can hear Jungkook’s buzzing thoughts, Yoongi’s lips suddenly press to the back of his clothed shoulder and Yoongi’s slender fingers shift to tangle with his against the mattress. Sleep, Kook.
Jungkook hides his smile in his pillow, even though he’s pretty sure Yoongi can still see the edges of it, the way it scrunches up his face. (“Like a cute rabbit,” Taehyung said the other day and Jungkook hit him over the head with a couch cushion.)
“Okay,” he says, squeezing Yoongi’s hand. “Okay, hyung.”
_ _
It still looks a little scary in the morning, when he wakes up before Yoongi and just sits in bed, watching the rise and fall of Yoongi’s chest and feeling his own compress. This is where he hits the water, he thinks. Ocean all around him.
No going back now.
He’s restless, needs to talk to someone, but he doesn’t want Yoongi to think he fled. He knows nothing about romantic relationships, but he’s pretty sure that’s a shit thing to do. So he fishes around on Yoongi’s desk for a post-it note and writes went downstairs :) before sticking it to the lamp directly in Yoongi’s line of vision when he wakes up.
Then, he creeps down the creaking stairs in his socked feet, hoping that maybe there will be tea in one of the cupboards and no one will mind him taking some. It’s early still and gray outside - clouds heavy with the promise of rain - but to his surprise, Jimin is already seated at the kitchen table, dressed in a robe and pajamas, with two steaming mugs in front of him.
“Oh,” Jungkook says, freezing at the sight of him. "Sorry, hyung. Am I … interrupting something?”
God, he hopes not. He knows Jimin and Taehyung are together, though they’ve never talked about the exact shape of it, and it can’t be easy to find privacy in this house, as big as it is. What if this is like … an early morning ritual he’s disturbing?
“Relax, Kook,” Jimin says, an amused smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “The second mug’s for you.”
“For … me?”
Jimin nods and nudges it towards him, gesturing for Jungkook to sit down. “Yeah. Tae, the asshole, woke me up twenty minutes ago and said I needed to come down and make two cups of tea because,” here he deepens his voice in a comical impersonation of Taehyung, “‘someone will need it.’ I’m guessing that someone is you? You look like you need it.”
“I need it,” Jungkook admits, sinking into the chair and gratefully pulling the mug closer. “Thank you. And Taehyung.”
“Taehyung is still sleeping and so does not deserve thanks,” Jimin huffs, though his tone is too affectionate for his words to have any bite. “But I’m also guessing there’s a reason I needed to be the one to make the tea, so what’s up?”
He’s glad, he realizes suddenly, that it’s Jimin, who would probably have been his first choice to talk to, anyway. He’s not sure if it’s the fact that Jimin is the one he met first, or that Jimin is so warm-hearted he knows he won’t be judged, or more like a combination of both of those things. But he’s glad Jimin is here, and he definitely needs to thank Taehyung later.
Of course, it’s still hard to get the words out. It takes him a minute and eventually, he mutters them to his mug in a messy rush, “IkissedYoongi.”
And god, he’s already blushing.
“Wait,” Jimin says. “Rewind that. Did you say you kissed Yoongi?”
Jungkook bites his lip hard enough to hurt and nods. Reminds himself again that Jimin won’t judge him and there is no need to shrink up like the frightened rabbit he knows they still sometimes see him as. His shoulders still hunch, though, and his fingers curl into a fist against the tabletop.
Jimin won’t judge him, but they all love Yoongi and Yoongi belongs here in a way that he, Jungkook, does not. So if Jungkook messes up … or what if they don’t approve in general?
“Finally,” Jimin mutters. “I thought you two were going to dance around each other forever. And please stop looking like I’m about to murder you? I’m not about to murder you. Here,” he leans over, nudges the mug closer to Jungkook, “drink your tea and breathe.”
Jungkook blows out a long, shaky breath. “You’re not … you think it’s okay?”
Jimin tilts his head, reminiscent of Yoongi. There’s no anger coming from him, but also no other emotion Jungkook can easily define. He’s projecting calm, probably, like he did with the ghost. Calm for ghosts and skittish friends. “You care about him?”
“Yes.” That answer is easy, if inadequate for the depth of the feelings all clashing around in Jungkook’s chest.
“And, I mean, he obviously cares about you. So I think it’s very okay.” He squints at Jungkook. Like he’s somehow peering into Jungkook’s soul. “Do you think it’s okay?”
Ah, here is the hard part. “I …” he takes another fortifying gulp of tea, trying to organize his chaotic thoughts. “I … my parents would say no and that … that hurts but … I can deal with that. It’s just I’ve never - I haven’t been in - how did you know Taehyung was - that you liked Taehyung as more than a friend?”
Great. Wow. That was remarkably coherent. Top marks, Jeon Jungkook.
Jimin, to his credit, doesn’t look phased by the jumble of words Jungkook just spilled, merely thoughtful. “I don’t know if me and Tae are the best example? He’s just kind of always been there. Since I was eight years old, you know? And there wasn’t any one sudden moment. I think as we grew up, my feelings grew, too, but. Wait.” He smiles, rueful. “Okay, so you know we don’t have sex, right?”
He … didn’t, actually. “You don’t?”
Jimin scratches his cheek, sheepish. “Ah, I probably should have mentioned something. I’m asexual? Which means I’m not interested in sex. But I didn’t realize that, at first, so Taehyung and I tried. And tried. And tried. And it just - I never liked it. And I was freaking out, you know? Thinking ‘oh God something’s wrong with me, what seventeen-year-old doesn’t like sex?’ But Taehyungie…” Jimin smiles - a raw, loving thing that hits Jungkook like a punch. “He did all this research. And he’s the one that sat me down and explained what asexuality was and showed me all these websites and stories like mine, and he took my hand and he said, ‘Jimin, I love you very, very much - more than anything - and that will never change. I don’t think we should have sex anymore, should we?’”
Jimin shakes his head and laughs, an echo of the disbelief Jungkook imagines he must have felt back then. “We were seventeen, but he meant every damn word, Kook. And that was the moment I knew this was a forever kind of love.”
“Wow,” Jungkook says, trying to wrap his head around being that sure of anything now, let alone at seventeen. (Yoongi, a part of his mind whispers. He could be sure about Yoongi.)
Jimin shakes his head again. “Of course, we’ve still had our ups and downs. It took me a long time to really believe he meant that, and that he was okay with just being romantic partners. The first year of college was shit and there were times when I was half-terrified we were going to break up, but we made it. We’re making it.” He glances up at Jungkook. “And I guess the point I’m trying to make, Kook, is that it’s okay to be afraid, and not everything is going to slot into place right away. No relationship is exactly the same as the next, either. You and Yoongi will figure out your own path, yeah? But.”
He leans forward and puts his hands over Jungkook’s, says in an overly-solemn tone, “you have my blessing.”
And Jungkook laughs, some of the tension unspooling. “Thank you,” he says. “I-I needed to hear that.”
Jimin squeezes his hands and sits back. “Good. Now drink your tea and tell me - is Yoongi a good kisser?”
Jungkook chokes on the sip he’d just taken.
“Because he really seems like he’d be, you know? Something about his mouth…”
“Oh my god,” Jungkook says and buries his flaming face in his hands.
Jimin laughs, teasing and bright and the tension dissolves a little more.
_ _
Later, after his mug is empty and Jimin has retreated back upstairs to “take full advantage of this Sunday morning, thank you,” Yoongi shuffles into the living room, looking adorably rumpled in his usual baggy sweater and pajama pants, and Jungkook’s heart gives a familiar flip at the sight.
“Hey,” he says from his spot on the couch, setting aside the textbook he’d been half-heartedly reading.
Yoongi waves, smiles. It’s a little awkward, Jungkook thinks - neither of them sure of this yet. Of the stability of the ground beneath their feet.
Come here, he wants to say. Kiss me again.
Are you afraid? he wants to ask. And does that mean it’s love?
Instead, it is Yoongi who keeps moving. Who walks up to the couch and slides a hand along the side of Jungkook’s neck - lets him hear, in the morning-rasp of his voice, hey good morning missed you like the way you look right now all the time fuck- he takes a deep breath and his thoughts settle some. Sorry. Want to kiss you again - is that okay?
“Yes,” Jungkook whispers. “It’s okay.”
So Yoongi bends down and fits their mouths together and Jungkook can feel it now, that Yoongi is afraid. It’s there, pressed against his ribs and lining his lungs - because he remembers how this felt once and how it shattered at his feet right beside all his dreams. But there is joy, too, sparking like electricity, and hope - that this time will be different.
And all those things give Jungkook the courage to reach out and cup Yoongi’s face. Deepen the kiss until his whole world is the feel of Yoongi’s lips on his and Yoongi’s hands on his skin and Yoongi’s tongue brushing his own.
They’re both afraid and they’re both trying to be brave and they both want this, enough to ache with it.
And that’s a start, right?.
“Hey,” Jungkook says again when Yoongi pulls back, moving careful hands to Yoongi’s narrow waist. “I’m really happy.”
Yoongi grins enough to scrunch his face up and sinks his fingers into Jungkook’s hair. Mouths, me too.
_ _
Springs comes in like a riot - color bursting everywhere. Taehyung dyes Yoongi’s hair pink on a Tuesday evening and Jungkook loves this color just as much as he has all the others. Buries his hands in Yoongi’s hair and says, “you look good,” with heat in his voice that he’s forgetting how to hold back.
Yoongi winks at him, smirks at him, and it makes Jungkook weak weak weak.
_ _
They’re not a secret, for all that neither of them have made a big announcement, and the rest of the house gives their blessings one by one:
_ _
Spring comes in like a riot and Jungkook grits his teeth for the final months the semester, for the uphill battle it’s going to be to convince his parents to let him stay in New York for the summer. He’s not on academic probation anymore, isn’t failing thanks mainly to Yoongi, Namjoon, and now Jin’s tutoring, but his parents don’t want him working. Still want him close, more than than not, and he can’t imagine three months in Busan, locking his magic away - this house, these friends, Yoongi with it - and keeping his head down.
He finally feels like he can breathe and he doesn’t want to give that up.
I could come visit you, Yoongi suggests in the corner of Jungkook’s sketchbook. My family’s in Daegu and I’m overdue for a return trip.
“No,” Jungkook says, perhaps a little too harsh. At Yoongi’s frown, he swallows, cuts himself open enough to admit, “I care too much, hyung, and they’d … they’d be able to see.”
Yoongi softens. Picks up the pencil again. We’ll figure something out.
Jungkook desperately hopes he’s right. Doesn’t want to think about it now, though, when all the trees are in bloom outside and the earth is finally beginning to thaw.
“Hey,” he says, poking Yoongi with his own pencil. “Go on a date with me?”
Yoongi smiles at him, crooked, and scrawls, sure, at the top of the page.
“Tomorrow night,” Jungkook decides because he knows Yoongi isn’t working at the shop and he has a light class load. The paper he should be starting on can wait another day. “Seven p.m.?”
Are you picking me up? Yoongi’s eyes are joking, but Jungkook wants to do this right.
“Yes. Wear something nice.”
Yoongi flicks him on the forehead, lingers long enough to let Jungkook hear his sharp brat, but there is more affection than anger behind it.
Jungkook bites his lip hide his smirk. “Please wear something nice, hyung .”
I’ll break out my best sweater, Yoongi promises and Jungkook laughs, then, pressing his forehead to Yoongi’s shoulder and soaking up the sparks of his happiness, letting them burst along his own nerves.
_ _
Panic sets in the next morning, because fuck - where do you take someone on a date? Especially when that someone is Min Yoongi? A restaurant seems too simple and stressful - Yoongi hates trying to order and hates even more when someone does it for him. Neither of them are the museum or art gallery type. It’s been raining for the last few days - is currently raining right now - and that rules out a walk in the park.
He goes in circles all day, pulling up one idea only to reject it in favor of another, and repeat. He barely pays attention in any of his lectures and ends up looking like an idiot when he fails to notice the professor has called on him and been waiting for him to answer for at least a good thirty seconds. Yoongi feels more important than this boring class, anyway, and he wants to do this right - even if he has no idea what “right” looks like.
It’s afternoon when he caves and texts Namjoon.
Jungkook [4:14pm]
hypothetically, where would you take Yoongi on a date?
Namjoon [4:17pm]
is this you asking where YOU should take Yoongi on a date?
Jungkook [4:17pm]
hypothetically
Namjoon [4:18pm]
fuck i don’t know Kook i’ve never thought about dating Yoongi
ask Hobi he’s better at this kind of thing
and he actually had that massive crush on Yoongi sophomore year
Jungkook [4:19pm]
wait what?
a crush?
on Yoongi?
Namjoon [4:20pm]
i will speak no more on the matter
bother Hoseok
Jungkook curses quietly and gets off his bed to pace as he pulls up Hoseok’s contact information. He’s dying to ask about this mysterious crush, because that sounds like an interesting story, but priorities.
Jungkook [4:22pm]
hey Hoseok-hyung hypothetically where would you take Yoongi on a date?
Hoseok [4:23pm]
depends
is this a first date?
Jungkook [4:24pm]
yes?
Hoseok [4:25pm]
what’s with the ?
Jungkook [4:26pm]
i mean we’ve been out together just the two of us but not on DATE dates
Hoseok [4:26pm]
in this ‘hypothetical’ scenario right? ;)
Jungkook [4:27pm]
completely hypothetical yes
Hoseok [4:27pm]
okay first date take him here
http://www.obscuraantiques.com
Jungkook clicks on the link, pulling up a website to “NYC’s oldest oddities imporium.” It looks like a chaotic mess of a place, filled to brim with weird shit, and Jungkook knows after about two pictures on Google Images that Yoongi would love it.
Hoseok [4:29pm]
you have to pick a dinner place tho i’m not doing all the work here
Jungkook [4:30pm]
i will. hypothetically.
Hoseok [4:30pm]
right :P
Jungkook [4:31pm]
thanks hyung
Hoseok [4:32pm]
np
And Jungkook should leave it there, probably, but he’s curious and he could use a distraction.
Jungkook [4:33pm]
so about this crush on Yoongi that Namjoon mentioned…?
Hoseok [4:34pm]
no one can prove that ever happened and you shouldn’t listen to a word namjoon says
Jungkook [4:35pm]
so it didn’t happen?
Hoseok [4:35pm]
no comment
Jungkook [4:36pm]
so it did?
Hoseok [4:37pm]
NO COMMENT
go get ready for your “hypothetical” date brat and leave me in peace
Jungkook laughs and sets the phone down. Some of the panic has eased a little. He’ll take Yoongi to Obscura Antiques and then maybe to their usual lamb skewer place for a late dinner after. It’ll be a relaxed evening, just like most of the ones they’ve already spent together. It will be absolutely -
Shit. What does someone wear on a date?
He groans and picks up the phone again, even as a little voice reminds him that Min Yoongi probably doesn’t give a single fuck about what he shows up in. But he told Yoongi to wear something nice and that means he needs to wear something nice to and -
Jungkook [4:43pm]
taehyung I need your help.
Taehyung [4:44pm]
what is it my young grasshopper?
Jungkook [4:45pm]
hypothetically what would you wear on a date with Yoongi?
Taehyung [4:46pm]
i’ll be over in half an hour
_ _
Taehyung pulls apart his closet, laments at his general lack of clothing options in general (“why the hell do you have five of the same black t-shirt, but not a single button up in here?”), and eventually hands him a pair of black jeans and a nice white sweater he completely forgot he owned.
“Wear those with your boots. The black ones.” He then fishes out the leather jacket Jungkook bought on a whim and then immediately decided he looked stupid in and never wore again. “And then put this over it.”
He eyes the leather jacket dubiously. Taehyung shakes it him. “Jungkook-ah. Am I or am I not about to get a degree in fashion from one of the leading schools in the world? ”
“You are,” Jungkook mumbles, just shy of petulant.
“Then wear the damn jacket,” Taehyung says and shoves it into his arms.
He changes in the bathroom, feeling a little ridiculous, but Taehyung whistles when he emerges. “Forget Yoongi, you should go on a date with me .”
“Stop.” Jungkook tilts his head towards the ceiling to hide his furious blush. “You really think it looks good?”
“You look hot,” Taehyung says honestly and Jungkook’s blush intensifies. “And besides, it’s just Yoongi. You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah,” Jungkook agrees quietly. “It’s Yoongi.”
Taehyung softens and wraps him in a bear hug, swaying Jungkook back and forth the way he always does when he’s trying to comfort someone. “He’s head over heels for you, Kook. You’re gonna be fine, and I don’t even need to be a seer to tell you that.”
“Truly?”
“Cross my heart.” He leans back and draws an X over his heart. “Now I have to go. Spread your wings and fly, little bird.”
“I’m taller than you.”
“Shush. Oh-” Taehyung stops by the door and picks up Jungkook’s red beanie from where he discarded it on the table two days ago. “-and wear this, too.” He tosses it, grinning when Jungkook catches it on reflex. “And knock ‘em dead.”
“Dead?”
“You know what I mean.”
And then he’s gone.
Jungkook takes a deep breath. Fine, everything is going to be absolutely fine.
_ _
Yoongi answers the door wearing skinny jeans and a green jacket over a white T-shirt - silver hoops in his ears - and Jungkook maybe blurts “fuck” out loud at the sight of him. Yoongi blinks at him, then smiles and rakes his eyes from Jungkook’s boots all the way up his body to his blushing cheeks. Mouths “fuck” right back.
Jungkook giggles and the knot in his stomach that’s been gathering all day loosens another fraction. “Ready?”
Yoongi nods and closes the door behind him. Curtains rustle in one of the windows - the others, no doubt, watching them leave. Just for that, Jungkook makes a point of looping his arm through Yoongi’s as they start off down the street.
“You look nice.”
Yoongi shifts to take Jungkook’s hand instead. Taehyungie might have helped.
A burst of laughter punches out of Jungkook’s mouth. At Yoongi’s questioning look, he shakes his head. “He helped me, too.”
Yoongi laughs, too, then - head tilted back. This is Jimin’s jacket.
“I forgot I owned this sweater.”
We’re hopeless.
“Completely.”
Yoongi laughs again, whispery and happy, and the knot loosens even further. They can totally do this, Jungkook thinks. They’re hopeless disasters, but at least they’re in this together.
_ _
Obscura Antiques and Oddities is every bit as weird as advertised and Yoongi predictably loves it. They spend two hours navigating the tiny space, laughing at creepy dolls and grimacing at the myriad of skulls around. They find tins of vintage condoms that make Jungkook blush and Yoongi crack up; dice made of real bone; a letter opener made of real bone; a stuffed alligator that has inexplicably been turned into a lamp and might give Jungkook nightmares in the future; and a whole collection of pocket watch faces.
Yoongi stops in front of a bag of small stones and grins, reaching out to take Jungkook’s hand again. They’re magical.
“Really?”
Yoongi nods and puts one of the stones in Jungkook’s other hand. He almost immediately feels a small wave of soothing warmth wash over him. “Whoa.”
That’s amazonite, infused with magical energy. It’s meant to help with stress. I have one that Hoseok made into a necklace for me.
Jungkook blinks down at the smooth green stone in amazement. “That’s so cool.”
I’ll buy it for you, Yoongi decides, taking the stone from him.
Jungkook protests on instinct. “But, hyung, I’m taking you on this date-”
Yoongi flicks his neck, gentle. Lets his fingers linger there so he can say, this date is a mutual experience, Jungkook-ah. Let me buy you the damn rock.
Jungkook laughs, in spite of himself, and relents. “Fine, buy me the damn rock, hyung.”
Yoongi buys him the damn rock. Nodding and shaking his head through the cashier’s questions (“Oooh good choice.” Nod. “Is it for you?” Shake. “Oh? For him?” Nod. “That’s so sweet.” Nod, smile, bashful. “Do you want a bag?” Nod. “Here’s your change. Have a good night!” Nod, wave.), and then folding up the bag and placing it carefully in the pocket of Jungkook’s jacket once they’re back out on the street.
Hoseok could probably make you a necklace, too, if you want.
Jungkook squeezes Yoongi’s hand and thinks, helpless, I love you. I love you so fucking much.
But it doesn’t feel like the right time to say that. The words, he thinks, won’t come out right around the still-loosening knot in his stomach, his throat, his chest. They have time, though (at least, he hopes they do), and he’ll figure out how to say them eventually, even if he doesn’t do it with his mouth.
“Come on,” he says instead. “Food.”
Food, Yoongi agrees with a solemn nod. Skewers?
“Maybe,” Jungkook hedges and Yoongi grins.
So fucking much, Jungkook thinks again and wonders if that will always scare him. Maybe you can’t love without a little bit of fear. Maybe that isn’t a bad thing.
Fear and happiness, the jump, the ocean - the water he can still sometimes feel, inching toward his lungs - and maybe none of it matters, in the long run. Because right now, he is here and Yoongi is here, holding his hand beneath New York street lamps, and he thinks they’re going to make it, in spite of all that water.
And maybe that’s what love is: hope, in spite of fear, that both of you are going to come out the other side of whatever life throws at you with your fingers still laced tight together.
_ _
Hoseok’s garden blooms, as do trees outside Yoongi’s window - pink like his hair. Central Park is a sea of blossoms and Jungkook spends an afternoon there with his camera and Hoseok, drinking up the smell of the flowers and everyone’s giddiness at the arrival of spring.
“This is my favorite time of year,” Hoseok says, catching one of the blossoms in his hands. “Can’t you feel all the life? ”
“Yeah,” Jungkook says, watching a couple kids chase each other in laughing circles on the grassy hill. “I can.”
He snaps a picture of Hoseok beneath one of the trees, smile like sunshine, in spite of the lingering rain, and petals in his dark hair.
_ _
“I hate spring,” Seokjin mutters when Jungkook stops by the shop one afternoon. He looks miserable, eyes swollen and red and a box of tissues within easy reach on the counter. “I wish I could just stay a cat for all of it. Fucking pollen.”
“You should drink the stuff Hoseok makes,” Namjoon points out from where he’s sorting through their latest book intake. “It helps.”
“It’s disgusting,” Seokjin complains. “It tastes like vomit.”
“But it helps. ”
Seokjin grumbles and sneezes, so violent it shakes through his whole body. Jungkook pats his back in awkward sympathy.
_ _
He still sleeps in Yoongi’s bed at least four nights out of seven, but now they spend the night tangled up in each other - kiss before they sink into sleep and again when they wake up in the morning. Jungkook has mapped just about every inch of Yoongi’s mouth, he thinks. Learned the curve of Yoongi’s neck and the dips and ridges of his collarbones. Knows the feel of Yoongi’s callused palms on his hips, his stomach, his spine, sliding under his shirt, up up up - until Yoongi’s fingers are brushing his nipples and Jungkook is gasping.
They don’t go further, though. The one time Jungkook tries to return the favor, dip his hands beneath Yoongi’s sweater, he feels a spark of fear that isn’t his own and Yoongi grabs his wrist, hisses no into his mind forceful enough to make him cringe.
“I-I’m sorry,” he stammers, taken aback. “I didn’t-”
But Yoongi shakes his head. No, sorry sorry didn’t mean to scare you just -
He kisses Jungkook’s trembling hand, the lines on his palm. I’ll tell you I’ll show I promise I just need time just a little more time okay, Jungkook-ah?
Jungkook doesn’t understand, but there are old shadows in Yoongi’s eyes, old tragedy. “Of course,” he says, shifting closer to nuzzle at Yoongi’s cheek, to clutch his waist over the protective layer of his sweater and try to ease some of the tension still thrumming through him. “Of course, hyung. As long as you need.”
It’s not like Jungkook is in any rush. He loves Yoongi, he wants Yoongi, but he’s never let himself think about sex with anyone before, not really, and it’s … it’s a lot. It’s vaguely terrifying. Just the fact that Yoongi doesn’t mind touching him is still overwhelming sometimes. That all the others are also perfectly happy to hug him and take his hand so he can hear their thoughts - it isn’t something he ever thought he’d get to have, and it’s more than enough in a lot of ways.
He can take it slow, if that’s what Yoongi needs. Should take it slow because that’s what he needs, too.
“As long as you need,” he repeats and Yoongi hums into his neck - wordless gratitude.
_ _
He’s drawing again and taking pictures again and going to the studio to dance with Hoseok and Jimin twice a week, and it means his studies are slipping. He just can’t focus on it when it’s the opposite of everything he wants, but he has no way of explaining that to his parents.
They’re on Skype again, talking about his always-suffering grades and coming back to Busan and maybe taking him to see someone, getting him put on some kind of medication because this lack of focus can’t be normal, right?
Something in him trembles at the thought of drugs - at least the kind that his parents want to give him. They did it once before, in high school. Got them from a doctor that supposedly specialized in dealing with magic users and wrote all kinds of words Jungkook didn’t understand in a notebook before sending him off to the pharmacy with a prescription. Those drugs made him slow and sluggish and too obedient - dealt with his anxiety and his magic by taking away his ability to feel at all. And he can’t, he can’t imagine going back to that numb half life when he feels so whole right now, so whole and alive.
“Maybe I could switch my major?” he asks, hushed and nervous, wringing the hem of his sweater in twitchy, gloved hands. (He hadn’t been wearing them, when he started the call, and they’d snapped at him for that, asking if he was getting careless again.) “I don’t - I don’t think - business is the right fit - for me. M-maybe something more … creative?”
“Jungkook,” his mother sighs, “we’ve been over this.”
“We’re not letting you waste a college education on something so frivolous,” his father chimes in.
“But it’s what I-I’m good at,” he whispers and blinks his stinging eyes to keep from crying. His parents hate it when he cries, and he wants to tell them that he’s sorry. He’s their only child, their only son, and he’s so, so sorry that he isn’t the way they expected him to be, pushed him to be, wanted him to be.
(But he’s also so, so tired of apologies. Wants to ask, just as badly, why they can’t love him the way he is? His magic and his creativity and his sexuality - why isn’t any of that okay? He’s their child - doesn’t that mean they’re supposed to love him no matter what?)
“No, Jungkook,” his father says.
“We expect you to improve by the summer,” his mother adds with a frown. “Or you’re coming home, okay? You can’t keep on like this.”
But I’m happy. I’ve made friends. I’ve met a boy. I’m so, so happy.
“O-okay,” he promises and hangs up the call feeling sick again, terrified, and maybe a little heartbroken.
He texts Yoongi before he can overthink it, hands still shaking, and then crawls into bed. Yoongi shows up twenty minutes later with a bag of Thai food and Jimin and Taehyung in tow.
They insisted, he types, holding up his phone for Jungkook to read with tear-blurred eyes.
Jungkook nods, biting his lip, and Jimin reaches for his hands - the gloves still covering them. “Can I take these off, Kook?”
"Please,” Jungkook says, voice cracking. He never wants to wear fucking gloves again.
Jimin strips them off and threads their fingers together. We’re here we’ve got you just let it out, Kook.
The first sob breaks free as Yoongi puts the food in the kitchen and Jimin and Taehyung help him back into bed, slotting in on either side of him. Though they make room for Yoongi when he joins them - Taehyung shifting back so Yoongi can press in between him and Jungkook, kiss Jungkook’s temple.
He tells them about the drugs through messy tears and feels a prick of satisfaction at the furious noise of outrage Jimin makes, the tug of Taehyung’s fist in his sweater. Yoongi just looks sad. Strokes Jungkook’s bangs off his forehead.
I took ones like that, while I was still trying to repress my magic. They’re bad shit.
“They’re really bad shit,” Jungkook agrees.
“Fucking right,” Jimin says. “They’re just an excuse to turn you into a zombie. If they were really trying to treat something like anxiety, they’d take you to a proper doctor who specializes in prescribing medication for magic users.”
“He knows that, Jiminie,” Taehyung murmurs, rubbing Jungkook’s stomach.
“I know he does,” Jimin grumbles. “But I’m angry on his behalf and I wanted to rant.”
Jungkook snorts, in spite of his lingering tears, and leans into the reassuring kiss Jimin presses to his hair. “Thank you.”
Yoongi’s lips find the back of his neck. You’ll be okay we’re not letting that happen to you I promise.
Jungkook wants to believe him, so badly, but can’t just yet. It would hurt too much, if Yoongi was wrong.
It would shatter him.
_ _
“What if you told them the truth?” Namjoon asks him two afternoons later. The issue of Jungkook’s parents has spread to the rest of the house and now everyone seems determined to find a solution. Which is too much for Jungkook to deal with, really - the idea of them caring so deeply about him.
“They’d cut me off,” he replies with grim certainty. He wouldn’t be their son anymore.
“You could come live at the house,” Seokjin suggests. “You practically do, anyway.”
“Yeah, and we could help you get into a creative program.”
Jungkook shakes his head sadly, stubbornly telling himself that he’s not going to cry again. For the tenth time in two days. That’s a level of pathetic he really doesn’t want to reach. “I wouldn’t be able to afford tuition.”
“There are scholarships I could help you apply to,” Namjoon says, eager.
“And I could cover the rest,” Seokjin adds, as casual as if he was commenting on the weather.
“W-what?” Jungkook asks, gaping at him. “I couldn’t let you do that.”
Seokjin shrugs. “It would be an investment, in someone’s future. Can’t think of a better way to spend my money.”
Oh god, that’s too much. That’s way, way too much. Jungkook wipes at his eyes. “I can’t let you do that.”
“You’re my family,” Seokjin says, with a squeeze to his shoulder and a ruffle of his hair. Jungkook sways, feeling sucker-punched by the simple statement, presented like a fact. The sky is blue, water is wet, and Jungkook is family. “Of course I can.”
“We don’t want to lose you, Jungkook-ah,” Namjoon says. “We want to help.”
“I know you do,” Jungkook whispers, wiping frantically at his traitorous eyes again.
“Think about it,” Seokjin says and Jungkook promises that he can at least do that.
_ _
Spring creeps on slowly - the color giving way to green green green - and the city warms enough for Jungkook to ditch his hoodies and coats in favor of his usual white or black T-shirt (that Taehyung still rolls his eyes at). Yoongi, he notices, sticks to his sweaters - doesn’t even roll the sleeves up in the gathering afternoon heat.
There is something there, Jungkook knows. A wound that Yoongi isn’t sure he wants Jungkook to see. And he’s wanted to give Yoongi time, but after watching Yoongi wrench his sleeves down when he realizes they’ve crept up a little, something like panic on his face for a brief moment, he thinks that maybe everyone needs a push now and then.
It takes him two weeks, still, to work up enough courage to confront Yoongi about it. He chooses the shop, safe ground, and a quiet Thursday afternoon, when they haven’t had a customer in hours because of the steady rain outside.
(Rain, like on the day they first met.)
“Hey, hyung, you can tell me, you know?” he says, looking up at where Yoongi is reading on the counter - his face turned away so all Jungkook can really see is the tense curve of his back. “Whatever it is. I won’t - I’ll still be here. I promise.”
Yoongi glances at him, gnaws at his lip, curls his fingers tight around the edges of the book in his lap, but he isn’t shutting down and Jungkook can wait.
Not here, he types on his phone after a long moment. When we get home.
Home. Jungkook feels the word to his bones, wonders when the townhouse got filed away under it. Probably about a month after he first came over, if he’s being honest with himself. Maybe even earlier than that. Maybe right after Taehyung and Jimin wrapped him up in blankets and Yoongi touched his shoulder and they told him to stay.
“Okay,” he agrees, reaching up to brush a hand over Yoongi’s jean-clad knee. “When we get home.”
Yoongi puts his hand over Jungkook’s and squeezes once, tight, before turning back to his book.
_ _
Back at the townhouse, Jungkook sits facing Yoongi on the floor of Yoongi’s room. It’s still raining - a steady drumbeat against the windows - and Yoongi’s nervousness floods the air with static, tastes burnt against Jungkook’s tongue.
“Hyung….” Jungkook starts, not sure of what comfort or reassurance he can offer, but before he can find the right words (or any words) Yoongi yanks up the sleeves of his sweater.
Jungkook sucks in a sharp breath. Scars. Yoongi’s pale arms are scattered with scars. They criss-cross his skin in long slashes and some of them look like they were bone deep. One particularly nasty one runs from Yoongi’s wrist, vertically up to almost the crook of his elbow, and Jungkook dizzily remembers a moment of despair at sixteen, looking up the best way to die on his laptop in the middle of the night and there were websites that said -
Yoongi snags his hand, like he can read the terrible thoughts clashing around in his head. I didn't. I didn’t, Jungkook-ah. This was the ritual.
“The ritual?” Jungkook whispers. “The one you used to try to get your voice back?”
Yoongi nods. Yeah. It was black magic. Jungkook turns over Yoongi’s arm again, runs his fingers careful and gentle over the scars. Rituals are more complex than spells, remember?
Vaguely. It was one of Namjoon’s lessons - the different levels of magic and the power required for each. First: the ability that you’re born with - that should come as natural to you as breathing. (Though abilities vary depending on strength - Jimin once said he met a medium who could only hear ghosts, and wasn’t powerful enough to see them). Second: simple spells like wards or cleaning your house. Third: rituals, which have many rules and take a lot of power and are usually best to stay away from.
Well this was a dangerous one, Yoongi continues, staring down at his lap. I was trying to trade something for my voice. Like my eyes. I thought if I gave up something, then I’d get my voice back. But … I must have done the ritual wrong and the spell backfired. The magic … lashed out at me. It can happen when you screw up.
He pulls one of his arms out of Jungkook’s grip. Plays with the hem of his sweater. You know the spell from Harry Potter? The one Potter uses on Malfoy in the sixth book?
“Sectumsempra?” His parents hadn’t wanted him reading Harry Potter when he was a kid, but he snuck the books home from the library and devoured them, anyway. One of his rare, small rebellions.
Yoongi nods again. Yeah, it was like that. Like being cut by a dozen invisible swords. I blacked out. He winces. Hoseok found me in a pool of blood in the middle of my apartment. I … I almost died. I lost so much blood. And then the cuts magically reopened at the hospital, after surgery, so they had to call in a special doctor…
A shudder runs through him - phantom pain, perhaps - and Jungkook can feel the press of his grief, the lingering ache of his fear beneath Jungkook's own heartsickness.
“Hyung,” he whispers.
Yoongi shakes his head and takes Jungkook’s hands. Carefully, carefully moves them under his sweater - and Jungkook can feel them: more scars littering Yoongi’s torso. His stomach and sides and even one or two higher up on his chest.
His heart aches aches aches.
I’m sorry, Yoongi whispers into his mind. They’re fucking ugly. And my own stupid fault.
“No,” Jungkook insists immediately, though he’s not sure what he wants to follow it up with. They’re not ugly because they’re a part of you or you were desperate, I understand - something vital was ripped away.
None of it feels like enough, so Jungkook shifts closer, until their knees are touching and lifts one of Yoongi’s arms to his mouth - runs his lips over the deepest scar and tries to reach out with his magic, to let Yoongi know that he’s not angry or disgusted or upset. That this sharpness in his chest is a grief of his own, for the Yoongi who was desperate and alone enough to try black magic rituals to get his voice back. For the Yoongi who must have been so afraid, lying there dying on the floor of his own apartment. For the Yoongi who woke up in a hospital with fresh scars and a still-missing voice and had to piece himself back together once again.
From the quiet sound of surprise that tumbles from Yoongi’s mouth, he must feel at least some of it.
“You’re so brave,” Jungkook says, kissing Yoongi’s damaged wrist, his palm, back again. “You’re so brave, hyung.”
I was an idiot, Yoongi argues. And I paid for it.
“But you kept going,” Jungkook insists. “You’re here. Scars and all.”
Yoongi makes another sound, closer to a disbelieving laugh this time. I guess so. Scars and all.
“Scars and all,” Jungkook repeats with a smile that’s probably far too smitten.
Yoongi shakes his head and pulls Jungkook in for a proper kiss, his thoughts jumbling together as he slides his tongue into Jungkook’s willing mouth.
Thank you thank you wasn’t sure you’d still want me would have understood if you didn’t but thank you…
Jungkook gets his hands under Yoongi’s sweater again, runs his fingers over Yoongi’s stomach and hips and sides - smooth and scarred skin blending together.
I’ll always want you, he doesn’t say, but he thinks Yoongi can feel it, anyway - in his magic, his touch, the quiet gasp that escapes when Yoongi’s hot mouth moves to his neck. I’ll always, always want you.
(He’s not certain of a lot of things, but he’s pretty certain of that.)
Yoongi shifts again, wraps his arms around Jungkook to pull him closer. They’re almost chest to chest now - Yoongi’s face buried his neck and Yoongi’s hands fisted in the sides of his shirt. He moves, slides his own hands up Yoongi’s back to bring him closer still, presses his cheek to the side of Yoongi’s head.
They stay like that for a long time, just holding each other up.
_ _
“What other things can black magic do?” Jungkook asks Yoongi later that night, after they’ve settled into bed.
Lots of things, Yoongi replies, cheek pressed to the bare skin of Jungkook’s shoulder, where the sleeve of his shirt is riding up. Since magic is about intent, bad people can use it for all kinds of fucked up stuff. Like stealing voices or tainting places so they feel dark and specters are drawn to them or even draining your magic completely.
“Drain your magic?”
Yeah. If we use too much magic, or it gets taken away from us, we’ll die. There are rituals that can take all of someone’s magic, store it for another person to use.
“And kill the first person in the process,” Jungkook murmurs, horrified. He can’t imagine performing something like that. Hurting another person like that. He understands, a little better, why his parents were so afraid - even if he’ll never completely agree with them.
Yeah. It’s dark shit, Kook. Stay away from it.
“Planning on it,” Jungkook reassures him with a shiver. “Far, far away.”
Good, Yoongi says and kisses his neck.
“The guy that hurt you,” Jungkook says, because he’s been thinking about this on and off ever since he saw the scars. “He was a real asshole.”
Yeah, Yoongi agrees grimly. He was. Joonie wanted me to press charges for assault.
“Why didn’t you?” Jungkook asks, hoping that he doesn’t sound accusatory.
Yoongi sighs. Because he was gone, and I was broken. And I still loved him, in a fucked up way. It hurt too much, back then, to be angry. The anger came later, after it was too late.
It makes sense, in a heartbreaking way. Jungkook thinks about his parents and wonders if he’ll ever stop being sad and land on angry instead.
Yoongi rolls over suddenly, so that he’s straddling Jungkook’s waist, and Jungkook would blush if not for the serious look on Yoongi’s face. But I’m here, Yoongi says, fierce in Jungkook’s mind. Fierce like the magic inside of him, always a storm. You said it yourself. So don’t you dare fucking pity me, Jeon Jungkook.
“I could never pity you,” Jungkook says. “You’re so fucking brave, hyung. I’ll never pity you.”
And don’t mourn me, either. It’s over. It’s done. I don’t want your anger now, okay? I’m happy. Here. With you.
“I am, too. I just … let me be a little angry?” Jungkook asks, nervous, but trying to match Yoongi’s fierceness with his own. “I lo-care about you a lot and he hurt you and I’m going to be a little angry about that, for a little while.”
I just don’t want you to focus too much on it, yeah? It’s not who I am. It’s not all I am.
“I know that.” Yoongi is so, so much. He is a storm and lamb skewers at three a.m. and midnight walks in the park and the anchor to the whole damn house, the person that makes Jungkook want to be strong - and he thinks he could maybe write forever, speak forever, and he still wouldn’t be able to shape words around everything that Yoongi is.
(He’ll make a list, maybe, to start. To give to Yoongi so he can see in ink and paper: this is just a glimpse of what you mean to me. )
“I promise,” Jungkook repeats, for the doubt he can still feel in Yoongi - see on his face. “I know that. You aren’t … you aren’t a sad story. I don’t want us to be a sad story. I’m angry, that he hurt you. That it happened. That he fucking got away with it. But none of that changes how I see you, hyung. Yoongi.”
He takes a deep breath and reaches up to cup Yoongi’s cheek. “None of that changes how I see you.”
God you- Yoongi starts, cuts himself off abruptly, and leans down to kiss Jungkook instead.
Me what? Jungkook wants to ask, but he thinks it was a compliment. Something good. Just like the feel of Yoongi’s mouth and the warmth of Yoongi on top of him.
Something good.
_ _
It’s weird, how change can happen. Sometimes slowly, like the ebb of the tide that pulls you along so subtly that you’re surprised when you look up and realize how far you are from the shore. And sometimes, it will be an ordinary Tuesday afternoon right up until, like the suddenness of a car crash, it isn’t.
Jungkook is all the way up in Harlem, running an errand for Namjoon, who texted him in a panic asking if he was free to pick up a very rare book from a shop because the owner sold it to Namjoon at a discount, but wouldn’t hesitate to give it to someone else if Namjoon failed to show up at the appointed time. And Namjoon was stuck on a bus in “fucking Brooklyn” and, therefore, could not show up anywhere close to the appointed time. So please could Jungkook go? Since he was out of class and everyone else was busy?
And Jungkook is a good friend who likes to be useful, so he switched trains instead of heading back to his apartment like he’d been planning.
And now he’s in Harlem, trying to follow his GPS to the address of the shop, through fairly crowded sidewalks and past street musicians and restaurants and people hawking artwork in front of eclectic stores. He’s also fielding a barrage of texts from Namjoon, asking him about his progress. The GPS says he’s five minutes away, but it’s been saying that for awhile now and he suspects it’s lying to him to save face.
Namjoon [3:21pm]
are you almost there? please say you’re almost there.
Jungkook [3:21pm]
i’m almost there
Namjoon [3:22pm]
but don’t say it if you’re lying to me
you’re lying to me, aren’t you?
Jungkook [3:23pm]
i THINK i’m almost there
they don’t make their store easy to find
Namjoon [3:24pm]
no they don’t
they don’t like a lot of people coming in off the street, even though that’s the point of a shop
i keep telling him he should just move his business completely online but he doesn’t trust the internet much
anyway you should be able to feel it when you’re close - they put a marker up for magic users. kind of like a “notice me!” thing.
Jungkook stops on a street corner, frowning at the hook-pull sensation in his chest.
Jungkook [3:26pm]
i’m getting a really strong urge to turn left?
Namjoon [3:26pm]
that would be the marker follow that
maybe at a run?
Jungkook [3:27pm]
how much is this book worth hyung?
Namjoon [3:28pm]
so much money
please hurry
Jungkook sighs but obediently breaks into a jog, following the insistent tug of the magic down another street and to a tiny storefront tucked away at the end - Magia Libris in swirling letters on the glass window.
Latin, how fancy, says a voice in his head that sounds way too much like Yoongi.
He laughs to himself and pulls open the equally fancy door. It’s a tiny place, less than a third of the size of the Magic Shop, and crammed full of books. Books on the walls, books stacked on the floor, books piled on display cases - Jungkook had no idea so many books could fit in such a small space.
The owner is a gruff, middle-aged man with hawkish features and graying hair. He seems almost disappointed that someone has arrived to collect the book as agreed and hands it over with a muttered complaint in a language Jungkook can’t place.
“Thank you,” he says anyway, just to see Grumpy glower further, and places the (heavy) book carefully in his backpack. (Thank God he had a light class day and most of his textbooks are back at the apartment, or he would be permanently deforming his spine.)
I got it, he texts to Namjoon once he’s back out on the sidewalk.
Namjoon [3:40pm]
oh thank fuck, i owe you
Jungkook [3:41pm]
just buy me dinner and we’re even
Namjoon [3:42pm]
if i ever get off this goddamn bus i will
He agrees to meet Namjoon at the shop and starts the process of finding his way back to the subway station.
And here, here is where it goes from a (somewhat) normal Tuesday afternoon, to … not. Because he’s passing by another street - quiet, tree-lined, mostly rowhouses - when he feels it: Yoongi’s magic.
He’d know it anywhere by now, knows it almost better than his own, and it’s a faint, faint spark but unmistakably Yoongi. Only that’s impossible, because Yoongi is currently all the way down in Two Bridges, doing a special delivery run with Hoseok and Jin (someone bought out half their supply of crystals and herbal remedies and for such a large purchase, they offered to bring the items personally instead of shipping them). So this isn’t Yoongi, but it’s Yoongi’s magic and -
Oh.
Oh fuck.
When Asshole Ex took Yoongi’s voice, he took some of Yoongi’s magic with it - and Jungkook suspects that Yoongi’s magic will always feel like Yoongi, even just the echoes of it - so that must mean …
Fuck.
He runs, hiking his backpack up higher, and following the spark down the street, around the corner, and two blocks over to another street. There is a store here, almost tucked away amidst the townhouses and trees - at the basement level, cracked steps behind a wrought iron gate leading down, down, down.
And here, in front of it, Jungkook can feel something else besides Yoongi’s magic. Something sinister and dark that sends a chill dripping down his spine and forms goosebumps on his arms.
Black magic. It’s practically seeping out from beneath the closed door, the shuttered windows.
Black magic - and Jungkook isn’t stupid. He can’t go in there alone, as much as he wants to - to go in and find Yoongi’s voice wherever it’s trapped inside and bring it back, finally, to its rightful owner.
He needs backup.
He takes a deep, steadying breath and turns away, back towards the main street and the subway stop his GPS says he’s a three-minute walk from. He’ll get to the shop and tell the others and they can come back, all seven of them if need be. Can come up with a plan to combat the darkness lurking in the shop and get Yoongi’s voice back.
For the third time today, Jungkook breaks into a run, uncaring of the heavy backpack weighing him down or the still-sharp spring air burning in his lungs.
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
_ _
Yoongi is pacing a hole in the floor of the Magic Shop - from the door to the register and back again, over and over and over. Jungkook wants to reach out and snag his wrist on the way past, pull him to a stop, pull him in, but the anxiety crackling around Yoongi is like a barrier, preventing him from trying.
Everyone is anxious. Their shock, surprise, uncertainty crackle against his skin like mini, invisible bolts of lightning.
He ran to the subway stop in Harlem, fidgeted his way through the twenty-seven minute train journey, and then sent a message to the group chat as he tripped his way up the station steps in East Village, asking them to come to the shop ASAP. It took awhile for everyone to assemble from their different corners of the city, but now they’re all here - in the golden glow of the setting sun peaking through the closed blinds.
Namjoon takes a deep breath, lets it out slow in the tense stillness. “You’re sure?” he asks. “You’re sure it was Yoongi’s magic you felt?”
“Yes,” Jungkook replies without hesitation. “I’d know it anywhere.”
Yoongi stops halfway to the door and shoots Jungkook a wan smile.
“Fuck,” Hoseok says from his perch on the counter, scrubbing a hand over his face.
Yoongi signs something too fast for Jungkook to make out, but he can guess the jist of it from the determined set to Yoongi’s jaw and the frustrated look Namjoon throws him.
“I know, but we need to be careful about this. If it really is a black magic shop … that’s serious shit, hyung.”
“You don’t think we know that?” Hoseok fires back before Yoongi can reply. “But this is Yoongi’s voice. We’ve been looking for it for three years, Joonie. We can’t pass this up. Black magic shops move around. If we miss this window….”
“I know,” Namjoon snaps back. “I know. But I don’t want anyone getting hurt. Or killed.”
Taehyung, Jimin, and Seokjin have been quiet up to this point, perhaps sensing that this is a battle for the three people closest to the original tragedy, there for the start of the war. But Jimin lifts his head now, looking immovable - like he was in the face of the violent ghost. “We know, hyung. We’re all aware of the risks. But Hoseok’s right. We can’t pass this up.”
Yoongi turns to frown at them. Signs again.
Taehyung shakes his head. “ Yes we are. You’re gonna need all the backup you can get, hyung. You’re not doing this alone.”
“We’re family,” Jin says. “So you definitely aren’t.”
Yoongi’s gaze skips over all of them, his frown deepening, and then lands on Jungkook. And no, Jungkook already knows what he’s going to say - you stay here Kook don’t get involved with this shit - and no.
“I’m coming, too,” he says with as much steel as he can muster. “Jin said I’m a part of this family, so you can’t leave me out of this.”
Hoseok mirrors Yoongi’s frown. “But Jungkook-ah, you’ve never dealt with black magic before. It would be better if-”
“No,” Jungkook cuts him off, a little shocked at his own boldness. But it’s Yoongi. Jungkook is pretty sure at this point, he would face down just about anything for him - black magic shops included. “I’ll hang back, but I’m coming.” He locks eyes with Yoongi’s dark ones, squares his shoulders. “I’m coming, hyung.”
Yoongi makes a sharp, frustrated sound, but doesn’t argue.
“Fuck,” Namjoon mutters, echoing Hoseok from earlier. “We’re doing this, then?”
Yoongi nods and Hoseok curls his hands into tight fists against his thighs. He looks fierce - like the sun still but all those pictures where you can see the enormity of it, the intensity of its fire. The ones with the captions that warn about it scorching the earth. “Hell yes.”
Jungkook’s stomach flips in a mixture of fear and excitement. He can feel a spike of it echo through the room as everyone stands up a little straighter, reaches for their own courage. And in the middle of it all, Yoongi towers - his magic expanding out, out, out until it encompasses nearly the whole room.
Elementals, Jungkook thinks with something close to awe, watching fire flit across Yoongi’s fingertips and glow briefly in his eyes.
Right now, he can’t imagine anything standing in Yoongi’s way.
“Let’s do this, then,” Namjoon says, grim.
_ _
The subway ride back up to Harlem is tense. Everyone has their battle faces on, Jungkook thinks. Even Jimin’s looks hard and unflinching.
“Yoongi takes point,” Namjoon says over the rattle of the car. “He’s the best at offensive magic. Hobi and I will flank him. Everyone else stay back with shields ready. Taehyung and Jimin, keep Jungkook safe.”
He wants to protest that he can look out for himself, but he has no idea how to even begin making a shield, so Namjoon probably has a point.
Taehyung pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure nothing happens.”
“Damn right,” Jimin says.
They both sound more confident than they look, but the train hurtles forward, through New York’s winding tunnels, and there’s no going back now.
_ _
He hates the feel of black magic, he decides when they reach the shop again. Pause at the top of the steps. It feels like ants crawling up his spine, spiders just under his skin. It hisses like snakes in his ear and wraps like a vice around his chest.
It amazes him that something that looks so innocent could feel so sinister underneath.
“Shit,” Hoseok says, frowning. “This is some powerful stuff.”
“But I can feel Yoongi’s magic.” Seokjin steps forward, to the front of their little huddle, palm glowing. The air shimmers briefly, brilliant blue. “These are strong wards, though. Give me a minute.”
They probably look like idiots, standing out here clustered under the glow of the street lamps, but there are no other pedestrians in sight. Maybe everyone can feel the darkness lurking here, magic user or not, and knows to stay away after the sun sets.
God, he hopes they don’t themselves killed.
The air shimmers again, brighter now, and then the blue wall turns to ash and vanishes completely.
“Wards down,” Seokjin announces. Yoongi moves past him, expression drawn and focused. He doesn’t break stride as he descends the stairs and reaches for the door. He fishes in his coat pocket for a piece of paper like the one Taehyung used outside the theater and presses it to the chipped wood.
A lock clicks.
“Stay alert,” Namjoon says, terse, as Yoongi shoulders his way inside.
Looking back, Jungkook still isn’t sure exactly what happens next. He crosses the threshold two steps behind Jimin and Taehyung, and catches a glimpse of a very different interior than he was expecting: a cavernous space with vaulted ceilings, stretching high overhead, colored tile beneath his boots, recessed doors covered by … archways? He thinks he spots a counter of some kind, near the back wall, but then someone ( Namjoon?) yells and magic that feels like Yoongi’s slams into him, nearly knocking him off his feet.
He staggers sideways, gasping, and the world tilts. Blurs.
Goes dark.
_ _
He wakes up alone, on the cracked wooden floor of a locked room. The ants are still crawling, more insistent than before, and deep in his blood there is a pull. Like something is trying to trap him - darkness inching closer.
He realizes two things at once, glancing around the featureless room.
The others, though. Where are they? Yoongi must have realized there was a trap of some kind, shoved Jungkook away. Did that save him from something?
It doesn't matter. He has to find them, before the creeping shadows reach him. Pull him in.
Think, he tells himself through the panic clawing at his throat. Focus.
His magic is about connection, invisible threads that tie him to others. That tie him to them. For months, he’s felt them: their joys, their sadnesses, their hopes, their fears. They live in his head every time they touch him. He thinks, sometimes, that they’ve become a part of his blood, his heart. Maybe even a little of the fabric of who he is, who he’s becoming, who he will be someday.
And surely that is stronger than black magic.
He kneels in the center of the room and reaches out with his own magic, searching, searching, searching until -
There. A fading beacon.
Yoongi.
He surges to his feet. Feels the walls seethe around him.
Fuck you, he thinks to the furious magic and runs, crashing through the decaying door and into a hallway beyond.
The floor bucks, begins to collapse, and he picks up the pace, sprinting with everything in him towards the light he can feel from Yoongi - that thin wavering thread. Doesn’t look back as he turns another corner and a lamp falls from the ceiling overhead, grazing him before shattering into thousands of shards against the floor.
He’s almost there, he’s so close…
Through another door and into a bigger room than before. Glass mirrors along one wall and reflected in them, beyond them, Yoongi. He’s suspended in midair, held by an invisible force, and Jungkook can feel the magic being drained from him. See the dark tendrils of it sinking into Yoongi’s chest.
No.
He staggers up to the glass, pressing his hands against it - the cracked edges cutting into his palms.
You can’t have him.
Not again. Not this time.
Gritting his teeth, he gathers up as much of his magic as he can spare and throws it outwards, through the mirrors, widening the cracks, and straight into Yoongi. Past his skin, his muscles, his blood and nerves, until he finds the flicker of Yoongi’s magic still fighting back.
Wake up, he begs as he weaves his own magic with Yoongi’s, trying to give him power. Wake up, we need you.
Yoongi’s eyes fly open and his magic surges, latches onto Jungkook. He gasps, like it’s his first breath, or his last, and the mirror shatters.
Jungkook throws his arms up to protect against the flying glass. Something roars, in the back of his head, in the ceiling overhead and the ground beneath him. The wooden floorboards break, give way, and he crashes down a story into another room.
He lies there for a moment, stunned by the pain spreading through his entire body, but this isn’t over yet. A hand is fisting in his shirt and pulling him up. Yoongi, cuts on his face from the glass and the glow of fire in his eyes.
Jungkook-ah.
“We have to find the others,” Jungkook gasps. “We’re running out of time.”
Threads, he thinks as Yoongi nods. Follow the threads.
He stumbles forward in the darkness of the room. No windows here, but there is a grate in the floor and he can feel Jimin. Jimin is close.
He sinks to his knees in front of the grate and peers through it into what seems to be a basement of some kind. Concrete walls and floor, flickering lights, and Jimin - surrounded by the same shadowy tendrils.
Jungkook takes a deep breath, fights through the burn in his ribs, and laces his fingers with Yoongi's.
Help me.
Yoongi’s magic and his - still intertwined, and powerful enough to reach out to Jimin, cut the tendrils away, and weave into his magic. Jimin shakes, gasps, and staggers forward a step, catching himself on the wall.
Jungkook-ah?
Find Taehyung, Jungkook says. Signal me. Be careful.
Jimin nods, his magic pulsing - bolstered by Yoongi and Jungkook’s. I will.
Jungkook takes Yoongi’s hand again. “Let’s go.”
They find Hoseok next, trapped in a flooding room, and free him the same way. Jungkook can feel the chain of all of their magic now, linked together, linked to him. It makes it easier to locate Seokjin in a long room full of shattering windows and pull him to safety. Jungkook takes a piece of his magic, too, building the power, letting it run through all of them.
They’re on the way to Namjoon when Jimin shouts I found Taehyung! and Jungkook adds him to the chain. The light is leaching from the house, shadows curling along the walls and ceiling, rising from the floor, but Jungkook keeps running - their combined magic enough to keep it at bay for now.
“In here,” Hoseok says, skidding to a stop in front of a padlocked door.
Yoongi lifts up a foot, the sole of his boot glowing, and slams it against the the wood. It cracks, collapses inward. The house roars again and the shadows writhe.
You can’t have any of them, Jungkook thinks, fierce, and reaches for where Namjoon is suspended in the center of the tiny, barren room. Weaves his magic in, too, and it’s so powerful now, he thinks the force of it might break his ribs. He can feel all of them, reverberating in his mind, his cells.
On three, we fight back.
Seokjin, Yoongi, and Hoseok nod. Namjoon climbs to his feet, jaw tense and eyes bright. Nods, too. An affirmative comes down this strange bond they’ve formed - Taehyung and Jimin.
One.
Jungkook takes a breath. Holds it. Feels the magic building.
Two.
The shadows are curling around their ankles, digging into their skin.
Three!
He lets the built up energy explode out, feels the others do the same - all of their magic mixed together into one powerful, all-consuming wave. A deafening crack rents the air, and then Jungkook is collapsing to his knees, back in the same cavernous room they first started in. It’s brighter than before, though the source of the light is impossible to determine.
The others are all here, too, gasping for breath.
“Fuck,” Jimin hiccups, shaking. “Fuck.”
“It’s not over yet,” Namjoon says as Yoongi climbs to his feet.
At the other end of the room, the shadows have condensed into seven hooded figures, all wearing masks like something out of a renaissance film.
“What the fuck,” Hoseok whispers.
“Guardians,” Seokjin says, also standing. “The owners must have installed them.”
“Are they supposed to be us? ” Taehyung ask, eyes wide with terror.
“They’re pure magical energy,” Namjoon says, “infused with intent. My guess is they’re meant to mirror whoever gets this far.”
“Fuck,” Jimin says again.
Yoongi signs something, but Jungkook feels the echo of it in his head, down the thread of their still-connected magic.
Let me handle this.
“Hyung,” Namjoon says, protesting, but Yoongi shakes his head, motions for them all to stay back.
The figures are advancing, darkness crackling around them like a living thing.
“You heard him,” Seokjin says, pulling Taehyung to his feet. “We need to get a barrier up. Now.”
Jungkook’s heart is somewhere in the back of his mouth. Yoongi can’t be serious, going in alone. He takes a step forward, determined to help, but Namjoon grabs him by the shirt and tugs him to a stop.
“It’s okay, Jungkook-ah. Let him handle this.”
Jimin, Taehyung, and Hoseok have their arms raised and are murmuring an incantation, voices blending together. The world suddenly takes on a faint purple hue, like a veil descending. The barrier, separating them from Yoongi. Leaving Yoongi out there alone with the darkness.
But Yoongi is glowing. Yoongi is towering.
His magic is a storm, charged by all of theirs, and it whirls in the air around them: fire, fury, and flood.
This, Jungkook thinks, watching flames bloom from Yoongi’s hands and dance up his arms, is Min Yoongi at full power. And the man who stole his voice only lived, only succeeded, because Yoongi loved him.
“Keep that barrier up!” Namjoon yells as Yoongi slams his burning palms into the ground and the world explodes around them.
Jungkook can feel the heat from the inferno even through the protective barrier. The ground shakes beneath his feet, like an earthquake is roiling through the earth, and above the roar of the blaze, the black magic screams, loud and shrill enough to make his teeth ache . Jungkook gasps and covers his ears, hunching over from the insistent force of the two battling powers. The sound gathers and the fire rages and then, suddenly, there is another crack and -
Silence.
Jungkook cracks open an eye.
They’re in a small, innocent looking room. Shelves full of sinister, but tacky knick knacks, and a counter with a register along the back wall - the real shop. Jungkook is two steps past the now closed door and the oppressive black magic is gone, though he can still sense lingering traces.
They made it. Fuck.
“Fuck,” Jimin says and drops his hands. The barrier breaks. Dissolves.
“We’re such idiots,” Hoseok rasps, sounding like he’s just run a marathon. “Falling for a trap like that.”
“I don’t think we were the first ones,” Namjoon points out grimly.
Yoongi’s voice may never have been here, Jungkook realizes. Or if it was, it was merely a decoy. A beacon meant to draw in magic users so they could be trapped and drained.
“Shit,” he whispers, furious and heartsick.
He gave Yoongi hope, false hope, and now…
“Hyung?” Taehyung says and Jungkook’s gaze jerks to where Yoongi is still standing in the center of the room, facing away from them. The fire is gone and Yoongi is merely Yoongi again, almost small even in the cramped space of the shop. But something’s wrong with his magic.
It’s … sputtering. Like a flame going out.
“No,” Namjoon breathes and rushes forward, just in time to catch Yoongi as he pitches backwards, lowering him gently towards the floor. “You idiot,” he says, choked. “You fucking idiot.”
Lungs seizing, Jungkook crashes to his knees next to Namjoon. Yooni’s skin is so pale it might as well be translucent and there is blood in the corner of his slack mouth, slipping in a thin rivulet down his chin. His eyes are closed, lashes fluttering, and Jungkook can barely see the rise and fall of his chest.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, panic slamming into him with the force of a train.
“He used too much magic,” Namjoon says, voice tight with his own fear, fingers against Yoongi’s pulse. “He’s dying.”
“I’ll call an ambulance,” Seokjin says, but he sounds muffled, far away. All Jungkook can see is Yoongi. All he can hear is the labored rasp of Yoongi’s breath. All he can feel is the dwindling embers of Yoongi’s magic.
No. No no no -
This isn’t how it ends. Jungkook won’t lose him like this.
The thread is still there, connecting them. Maybe Jungkook can give him more magic, just enough to hold on, anchor him.
He leans forward, pressing his fingers to Yoongi’s temple.
“Jungkook, no!" Namjoon warns, but Jungkook tunes him out. Wrenches open the bond as wide as he can and pitches in headfirst.
The shop falls away, the frantic voices of the others fade, and -
_ _
He sits up with a jolt, chest heaving, and it takes him a moment to understand where he is. There is a couch beneath him, springs digging into his back, and the air is thick with dust particles, dancing in the light streaming in from the ruined ceiling.
The whole room is a charred aftermath, he realizes. Scorched and ruined - he can taste the ash of a burnt-out fire on his tongue. It might have been a living room once, judging from the murky details he can pick out: the couch, remnants of a fireplace, a door leading somewhere, flickering lights on the damaged walls. In the corner is the blackened husk of a piano and seated on the bench is a familiar figure.
“Yoongi,” Jungkook breathes and staggers to his feet.
He doesn’t look like the Yoongi currently unconscious in Namjoon’s arms. His hair is black now and the baggy sweater he’s wearing is white, streaked with soot in several places. His battered converse is resting on one of the piano pedals, but he isn’t pushing down and his fingers aren’t moving across the keys. The scars on his wrists are an angry red, instead of the white Jungkook is used to, and his gaze is somewhere very far away.
“Hyung,” Jungkook says, fear coalescing in his stomach as he sinks down onto the edge of the bench, shoulder pressed to Yoongi’s.
“Jungkook-ah,” Yoongi replies without looking at him. And it’s strange, watching his lips move and hearing his voice fall from them. Jungkook’s head feels empty without the echo of it, but here, in this strange place, he can’t feel Yoongi at all - not even his magic. “Can you hear it?”
“Hear it?”
Yoongi tilts his head, like he’s listening to something. “Singing. Someone’s … singing.”
He’s dying, Namjoon said in the shop. He’s dying.
“No,” Jungkook says, the fear digging in deep, choking his lungs and running ice down his spine. He reaches for Yoongi’s hand and it’s cold to the touch, like the life is steadily leaching out of him. He still intertwines their fingers. “No, don’t listen to it, hyung. Yoongi. Stay here with me.”
Yoongi finally looks at him and there are shadows in his eyes, deep as an abyss. “I’m so tired.”
“I know,” Jungkook says through the sharpness of his breaking heart. “I know, but I need you to stay with me, okay? Just … just for a little longer.”
(Until they can get Yoongi to a healer, a hospital. Stop all this.)
He glances at the piano and it doesn’t look like it will work, but this is a dream, right? “Play me something,” he says, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Play me Clair de Lune.”
And there is a faint smile, quirking the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. “Clair de Lune, huh?”
Jungkook shrugs. “I’m attached.”
Yoongi’s gaze is focused on him now, at least - more present than he was a few moments ago, even if his skin is still freezing beneath Jungkook’s - and he nods. “Fine, brat. Clair de Lune.”
He shifts and Jungkook slides his hand away, watching as Yoongi’s fingers start to dance across the keys and music rises from the burned piano - as clear and crisp as it was the night they first kissed. Jungkook presses his mouth to Yoongi’s clothed shoulder now, tasting more ash, and tries not to cry as Clair de Lune fills the corners of the room.
I love you, he thinks, with something close to grief. I love you so much.
Yoongi plays and plays as Jungkook closes his eyes to listen - to trap the tears wanting to fall - and then … stops. Sudden. Jarring.
Jungkook’s eyes fly open and dart to Yoongi’s face. His expression is distant again, faded at the edges, and his fingers are poised unmoving on the keys.. “I …” he whispers. “I can’t remember the rest.”
Another fissure in Jungkook’s chest, widening widening widening.
“That’s okay,” he says, lifting Yoongi’s cold cold hands from the piano. “That’s okay, hyung.”
Maybe if he takes them away from here - from this devastated room and the darkness of Yoongi’s memories. Maybe that will …
“Come with me,” he says, pulling Yoongi up, and he has no idea if this will work, but Yoongi is dying and Jungkook will never know how to let go of him without a fight. So he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, reaches out with his magic and grasps the first anchor he finds.
Pulls.
The world wrenches, twists, and they’re standing in Washington Square Park. Right in front of a familiar bench, next to a familiar fountain. The leaves are still dying on the branches, not quite winter yet, and Yoongi has a blue beanie on his head. Jungkook knows, without looking, that the phone in his pocket will read close to midnight.
“What…?” Yoongi whispers, looking around.
“I’m sorry,” Jungkook says. “This was … I love this place.” He touches the polished wood of the bench with a gloved hand. “I felt like I knew you, for the first time. Here.”
Yoongi’s expression goes soft and sad. “I’m dying, aren’t I, Jungkook-ah?” It doesn’t feel like a question - not with the sudden knowing in Yoongi’s eyes, the weary, understanding slump of his shoulders.
“No,” Jungkook still says, because he can’t. The idea of a world without Yoongi in it.... “Not yet.” He sits on the bench. “We’re just going to sit and talk. You and me. That’s all. You’re not … don’t leave me yet.”
( Not yet not ever please…)
Yoongi sinks down beside him. “I’m not sure I have a choice. I’m so tired.”
“I know,” Jungkook says, taking his hand again. The tears are back, pricking insistently at his eyes, and he blinks them away before they can spill over.. “I know, but please …”
Yoongi twists to brush his knuckles over Jungkook’s cheek and the affection in his gaze knocks the air out of Jungkook’s lungs. “You’ll be okay, Kook. I promise. You’ll be okay without me.”
“No, I won’t,” Jungkook insists. The tears mount another assault. Start to trickle down his skin. “I won’t. You think … we’re not finished yet. I don’t want to do any of this without you.”
“But you won’t be alone,” Yoongi insists.
Jungkook shakes his head. How can he make Yoongi understand? “None of them are you. ”
Yoongi kisses him and it tastes like salt, like ash, like an ending, and Yoongi’s hands on his skin are cold cold cold and this is what heartbreak feels like: visceral and fathomless and all-consuming - his whole chest cracking open, his ribs, his lungs, his bones.
He thought drowning was painful, but it is nothing compared to this.
“No,” Jungkook says when Yoongi pulls back. When Yoongi smiles at him, sad and jagged and a wordless goodbye . He can’t accept this. He won’t accept this.
He reaches out again, a third time, with all the magic left in him. Sinks it into Yoongi, ignoring Yoongi’s gasp of “Jungkook” and pulls.
The world blurs and tilts again. Falls away briefly before rushing back in and …
He’s on a beach. No, wait, this is…
Haeundae Beach. Busan.
He turns and sucks in a breath at the familiar city behind him, skyscrapers gleaming with the golden light of the setting sun and mountains rising green and dark beyond them. He can feel the ocean in his chest and then, deeper, death. Reaching for him now, too.
The last of his magic, and he brings them here.
He brings them here to die.
He almost wants to laugh, but life is often cyclical right? Perhaps there is something fitting about this: ending his life in the city he’s wanted to run from for so long.
He focuses back on the ocean, on the silhouette of Yoongi standing in the water, and starts toward him - sand shifting restless beneath his boots and then the bite of the ocean as he wades in. Yoongi’s gaze is on the distant horizon line.
“The tide is coming in,” he says.
“I know.” He can feel it. Like a hook in his chest. The tide is coming in and death is reaching, murmuring in his ear like a song: let go come with me let go come with me come with me come with me…
He ignores for a moment - just a few more moments.
“I guess this place still has a hold on me,” he says. Why else would his magic have brought him here, even if only in a dream? “I used to come here as a child.” He watches the light play across the water, across Yoongi’s face. The hat from the park is gone and the wind ruffles his bangs on his pale forehead. The scars are so red now they might as well be bleeding. “I could feel the sea in my bones.”
“I can feel it now,” Yoongi says, and then finally looks at him and his face is a study in the heartbreak Jungkook can still feel ravaging his chest. “Why are you here? ”
Means: why did you follow me? why couldn’t you let me go?
“Because I love you,” Jungkook replies and the words come out easy now, at the end. On this empty beach with the water rushing past their knees, their thighs - almost to their waists. “I love you and maybe you know that, but I need to say it. I’m sorry that I didn't earlier. I’m not - I suck at this - but I loved you on our first date and I loved you when I kissed you the first time and I probably loved you on that bench in Washington Square Park, all those months ago.”
Yoongi makes a wounded sound, looking sucker-punched, but Jungkook keeps going. He can feel the water almost to his chest now, flooding past him across the beach, and he needs to get this out before it’s too late.
“I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone like I love you, hyung. And that was terrifying. It felt like jumping off a cliff, only you can’t see the ground, can’t see where or when you’ll land, but I’m not scared now.”
He sloshes closer to Yoongi, cups his face. The roar of the ocean is nearly deafening and on the horizon the sun is sinking fast. Behind them, the city itself is starting to crumble - cracks appearing along the skyscrapers, chunks of concrete and glass tumbling into the sea - but Jungkook’s world is Yoongi. The wet sheen over his dark, dark eyes; the tremble of his body beneath Jungkook’s hands; the awe and devastation on his face.
“I’m where I need to be,” Jungkook says, fierce and sad in equal measure. “I don’t have any regrets, Yoongi.”
Out of all the endings he could have chosen, this doesn’t seem like a bad one.
Yoongi shakes his head, opens his mouth, but whatever he might have been ready to say is stolen by the wave that crashes over their heads, pushing them down into the turbulent sea. Jungkook loses his grip on Yoongi as the water presses in in in and darkness rushes right after.
He’s drowning.
It’s strangely peaceful. Just him and the water steadily overtaking his lungs.
_ _
He doesn’t expect to wake up. He said his goodbyes, he made his peace, he let the ocean take him - but somehow, impossibly, his eyes crack open and the light floods in. It’s blinding at first, searing, and he squints against the force of it. Gradually, the world takes shape: a cream-colored ceiling and walls; a window with the curtains open and the New York skyline beyond the glass; a bed beneath his aching body; the steady, low beep of machines to his right; a hand clasped tight in his; and a familiar head of blonde hair resting on the mattress near his arm.
He stares at the curve of Jimin’s shoulders for a long moment, the rise and fall of them. Taehyung is sprawled out in a chair in the corner, also fast asleep. They’re both dressed in hospital gowns, over bland sweatpants, but they have no obvious injuries at first glance.
He takes a deep breath, aware of creeping pain, steadily inching its way through his veins. He feels wrung out, hollow. And beyond that nothing - from Tae or Jimin or any of the staff outside his room. No emotions, no life, nothing. It’s even worse than when he was blocking his magic. Even back then, he would get flares sometimes, that would break through his carefully constructed barriers into his mind. Now there is just a great and terrifying void.
Breathe, he tries to tell himself, but his next inhale is hitching and loud in the stillness of the room. Jimin shifts, jerks upright. His gaze snaps immediately to Jungkook’s face and he must read the panic there, because he reaches out to cup Jungkook’s cheek.
“It’s okay, Jungkook-ah. You’re okay. They’re dampening your magic right now, so you can build up reserves again, but you’re safe.”
Safe. He’s safe.
He must be in the magical ward of a hospital - still rare, but growing in number, designed to specifically to treat magical patients and anomalies.
Taehyung is awake now, too, nearly falling out of the chair as he sits up.
“Jungkook,” he says and then hurries across the room. “I was so fucking worried, you bastard.” He presses their foreheads together and Jungkook carefully doesn’t panic at the blank space where his thoughts, his relief, should be.
“We all were,” Jimin says, squeezing Jungkook’s limp hand. “Let me call the nurse.”
“Wait,” Jungkook croaks. There’s something he’s missing. Something important. He struggles to get his still foggy brain to focus. He remembers, vaguely, Busan and before that a burned piano. Deft fingers playing Clair de Lune …
“Yoongi,” he gasps, trying to sit up. “Where’s Yoongi?”
Oh god - the water, the ocean, Yoongi slipping away into the dark. He can’t have lost him, he can’t…
Jimin pushes him back down, frowning. “Easy, easy. He’s okay. He’s just a few doors down the hall. They’re worried about his control, when he gets enough magic back, so they’re keeping him isolated for now.”
“Yeah,” Taehyung says, going back for the chair and dragging it over to the bedside. “All of our magic’s acting weird. They’re keeping us overnight for observation.”
“I hate hospitals,” Jimin grumbles and for the first time Jungkook notices how pale he is, how drawn around the edges.
Hospitals, he imagines, are riddled with ghosts.
Taehyung rubs Jimin’s shoulder. “I’ll call the nurse.”
He gets up and disappears through the door into the quiet hallway beyond. Jungkook licks his cracked lips. Tries to get his brain to keep focusing when all he wants to do is sink back into sleep. His bones feel like they’re lined with lead and the pain is more insistent now - dozens of stabbing needles through his abdomen, up his spine, even down his legs.
“How long … was I out?”
“About twelve hours,” Jimin says. “They had to give you a boost to keep you from slipping into a coma.”
“...boost?”
“Kind of like a transfusion? Only magical.” He shakes his head. “You used too much, idiot, trying to bring Yoongi back. Burned yourself out.”
Right. He remembers that - feeling the last of his reserves sputter out after dragging Yoongi to Haeundae Beach.
“Oh.”
Jimin huffs. “Yeah. Oh.”
Before Jungkook can reply, Taehyung is back with what feels like an army of medical personnel, and everything descends into chaos. He drifts in and out of awareness as they shine lights in his eyes, take his blood pressure, draw blood, consult charts, and check his reflexes. They ask him his name and the year and how much he remembers. Repeat what Jimin told him, but with a lot more medical jargon thrown in.
He can’t really keep up, but he understands that he’s going to be kept for observation at least overnight, that he’s still weak and on painkillers and magical blockers, and that apparently something else weird (“abnormal” is the term they use, but he suspects they’re just trying to be polite) is going on with his magic that they want to keep an eye on.
Basically, he suspects, they want to make sure he’s a) not going to die and b) not going to turn into an unstable threat.
“Okay,” he manages to get out, and then the army of medical personnel hustle away as quickly as they came.
Taehyung and Jimin help him sit up and feed him ice chips (“I love you,” he mumbles as the cool water soothes his mouth and throat), then lower him carefully back down and tell him to sleep.
He wants to see Yoongi, he’s almost desperate to see Yoongi, but his body gives out before he can make the request and familiar darkness rushes in.
_ _
When he wakes up a second time, it’s dark and he’s alone. He panics for a moment, until he sees a note on the bedside table in Taehyung’s messy handwriting, explaining that him and Jimin have been forced back to their own rooms for the night and they’ll check on him first thing in the morning.
He wonders, suddenly, where Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jin are. With Yoongi, maybe. Though, if they’ve also been sent back to their rooms…
He should sleep, he knows this. Logically. He should lie here and let the distant noise of the city lull him back under. But Yoongi is just down the hall, only a few hundred feet away, and he needs to see him. He can’t feel him, so he needs…
Right. He can do this.
He’s still got an IV in, but with a little careful maneuvering, he manages to haul himself upright and unhook the saline bag from it’s stand.
Step one down.
Step two is to make it to the wheelchair that he can see in the corner. They’ve probably left it here intending to use it to transport him tomorrow, but he might as well take advantage. Standing, though, is a herculean effort and happens in small degrees, requiring a lot of pauses to catch his breath or fight down a wave of nausea and dizziness. Eventually, he’s upright, clutching the IV bag in one hand and bracing himself on the bed with the other.
Five steps. Six at the most.
Easy.
He shakes his head and slide his right foot forward. Half stumbles, half shuffles his way across the tile on shaking legs until he’s clutching the back of the wheelchair. He sinks into it slowly, teeth gritted against the pain that rocks through his protesting body, and arranges the IV bag carefully on his lap.
Okay, okay. Just out the door and down the hall now.
Easy.
It takes a few frustrating minutes to get the door to his room open and maneuver the wheelchair out into the hall - his fingers clumsy and stiff, arms aching like he’s just spent several hours lifting weights instead of lying comatose in a bed - but at last he’s free. The floor outside his room is mercifully empty. He remembers being ten years old in a magical wing in Busan, the only time his parents ever took him to one, desperate to find a way to get rid of their son’s … unnaturalness. It had been quiet there, too. Less personnel, more secure rooms...
He shivers and decides not to dwell on it, focusing on pushing the wheelchair forward instead. His pace is slow (if any of the others were here, they would certainly laugh at him), but he steadily creeps along. A new problem has presented itself, though: he has no idea which room is Yoongi’s and he can’t just go opening doors until he stumbles on the right one.
Fuck.
Jimin said “a few.” How much is “a few?” Three? Four?
He squints up at the numbers, panic rising, until he sees, under the plaque for Room 608, a small whiteboard with a name scrawled on it: Yoongi Min.
Oh thank God.
He blows out a long, relieved breath and reaches for the door handle. A few more minutes of awkward maneuvering and he’s inside. Yoongi’s room is a mirror of his: bed, large windows, machines, empty chairs in the corner. Jungkook ignores them, wheeling straight up to Yoongi’s bedside. He looks small and pale, but Jungkook is relieved to see that someone procured a sweater for him - both to cover up his scars and keep him warm in the chill of the room. The color is gone from his hair, drained with rest of his magic, and his black bangs are almost hanging in his eyes.
He’s still one of most beautiful things Jungkook has ever seen. And his chest is rising and falling and when Jungkook presses a careful palm to it, he can feel the beat of his heart beneath his skin: alive alive alive.
Tears of relief abruptly flood his eyes and he wipes them away with an annoyed huff. He’s cried enough recently, probably to last a lifetime. They’re both alive, they’re both (hopefully) going to be okay, and the rest will come. For now, he threads his fingers with Yoongi’s, aching at the lingering void where Yoongi’s hazy dreams would be, and holds on tight.
Minutes or hours pass like that, he’s not sure, but Yoongi eventually stirs. Coughs. And then his eyes are fluttering open and his head is turning and he’s mouthing, Jungkook-ah - gaze raw and stunned.
“Hi,” Jungkook whispers, teary again.
Yoongi moves, hauling himself forward to cup a hand to Jungkook’s cheek. And there is nothing, nothing, just that awful void.
“I can’t hear you,” Jungkook explains when Yoongi’s brow furrows in confusion. “I’m sorry, hyung. I’m on these weird blockers. I can’t hear you.”
His chest is aching. All this effort,, all this near-sacrifice, and they didn’t even manage to give Yoongi back his voice. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’m so sorry.”
Yoongi shakes his head, stubborn, and presses their foreheads together, curling one trembling fist in the front of Jungkook’s hospital gown. Jungkook breathes him in, the warmth of him, and when Yoongi pulls back, he’s mouthing something.
It takes Jungkook a moment to understand, to read the words on Yoongi’s lips: I love you.
He laughs, wet, and cups Yoongi’s face like he did in the ocean. “I love you, too. God, I love you .”
Yoongi kisses him: his jaw, his neck, the ridge of his cheek, his temple, and finally his mouth. Each one is searing, anchoring, and Jungkook never, ever wants to let go of him. Yoongi seems to be of the same mind, because he tugs on Jungkook’s hand and nods at the bed.
Jungkook groans his way out of the wheelchair, waving off Yoongi’s concerned look, and crawls awkwardly onto the narrow bed, grateful that neither of them are very broad as he settles next to Yoongi.
Oh wait.
“Shit, hang on.” He shifts and strains until he manages to hook his IV bag on the stand next to Yoongi’s. “There.”
Yoongi huffs at him, amused, and then helps Jungkook wiggle under the thin blanket. They fold into each other like aligning puzzle pieces - legs tangled, Yoongi’s arm around Jungkook’s back, Jungkook’s arm around Yoongi’s stomach, Yoongi’s cheek on the top of Jungkook’s head, Jungkook’s face buried in the crook of Yoongi’s shoulder.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispers into Yoongi’s neck. “When I woke up, I…” He can’t find words for that level of despair, but Yoongi makes a sound of understanding. Presses a kiss his hair. Jungkook sighs. “Let’s never do that again.”
Yoongi taps his back twice - silent agreement.
Jungkook’s head still feels empty without Yoongi’s voice in it, but being held by him is more than enough for now.
Slowly, he drifts off to sleep for a third time, lulled by Yoongi’s steady breathing.
_ _
And wakes to a very irate nursing staff, accompanied by five very worried boys. They take turns lecturing him - first the nursing staff, then Jin and Namjoon - for sneaking out of his room and giving them all heart attacks, but he keeps his hand in Yoongi’s and can’t really find it in himself to be truly sorry.
Namjoon and Jin must sense this, because they give up with nearly identical huffs of frustration and takes turns hugging him instead.
“Thank you,” Namjoon murmurs for his ears only. “For saving him.”
“Always,” he whispers back and Namjoon smiles.
Then Jimin shoulders in with a loud, “Jungkook-ah, are you trying to kill me?”
He still looks too pale so Jungkook reaches up and hugs him tight, too. “I’m okay, I promise.”
“I hate hospitals,” Jimin whispers, digging his fingers into Jungkook’s hospital gown before moving to hug Yoongi, too.
Yoongi strokes down his back, hums some soothing melody, and Jungkook watches them with his heart full.
They’re going to be okay. That’s the first moment he's close to sure of it.
_ _
The medical staff grudgingly moves him and Yoongi into a double room after Namjoon informs them that Jungkook will most likely just sneak out again, or Yoongi, if they’re separated. This one actually has a sofa in it, as well as the usual array of chairs, so everyone gets comfortable: Jimin with his head in Taehyung’s lap on the sofa, Hoseok and Seokjin and Namjoon all clustered together in a little semi-circle.
The afternoon passes in a blur of sleep and quiet conversation. They talk about the black magic shop, about the aftermath. Jungkook learns how he fell unconscious on the floor of the shop, and Jimin thought he was going to lose them both. How scared Taehyung was while they waited for the ambulance to arrive. How Hoseok kept them both alive with his magic. How Namjoon was the one to ride to the hospital with them and how Seokjin convinced them not to call Jungkook’s parents and insisted on covering all of the hospital bills.
“Thank you,” Jungkook whispers, awed again by the depth of their care for him.
“Of course,” Jin says like it’s nothing - his fingers sinking warm and comforting into Jungkook’s hair. “You’re family, remember?”
In the cool of evening, the doctors return. They want to remove the blockers, they explain, and check in on the state of Jungkook and Yoongi’s magic.
“We’ll need to isolate you,” they say to Yoongi, and Jungkook hates the resigned expression that creeps over Yoongi’s tired face. “Considering the nature of your magic.”
Yoongi nods, waving off Hoseok’s protests, and lets them wheel him out of the room. Jungkook’s skin feels cold without his touch, but he has to focus on the doctor currently inserting a dark blue liquid into his IV.
“This will negate the blockers,” he explains.
Jungkook nods. Waits. A minute, two.
Then, suddenly, several things happen at once:
_ _
They run tests. And tests. And more tests. Jungkook’s put through a special MRI machine, and then a second scanner designed to analyze magical energy. They draw more blood. Get rid of the blockers and watch the same result happen: the maelstrom, the panic, the pain. They take more magical energy from all of them. They hook them up to various machines. They pour over readouts and scans and don’t seem to get any closer to an answer about why Jungkook’s ability has gone haywire, even after nearly four days.
Jimin is practically climbing the walls at this point and they finally put him on blockers, too, to give him a break from persistent ghosts. Everyone is exhausted, though, and Jungkook can feel a frustrated scream steadily building in the back of his throat when the doctors finally cave and call in an arcanist.
(“A what?” Junkgook asks Seokjin.
“Someone who specializes in ancient magic and complicated magical anomalies,” Seokjin explains.
“It means they really don’t know what this is,” Namjoon says from where he’s losing his fifth round of Go Fish to Taehyung.
“And they’re desperate,” Hoseok adds, currently resting upside down on the sofa because all of them are going more than a little stir crazy locked up in here. “Modern medicine tends not to like arcanists.”
“Yeah because they refuse to admit how unpredictable magic still is,” Taehyung grumbles.
“Well hopefully they know something,” Jimin murmurs, curled up between Yoongi and Jungkook. “I want to get the fuck out of here.”)
The arcanist is a small woman with close-cropped hair, but her magic towers, just like Yoongi’s, and her British accent sharpens all the words leaving her mouth. Within five minutes, she has all the medical staff at her beck and call, bringing her readouts and test samples and even, at one point, a cup of tea.
“Bah, machines,” she grumbles at them, dropping the stack onto Jungkook’s bedside table, “they can’t tell you everything. Come here, child.” She gestures Jungkook to the middle of the room and two chairs she’s pulled up, facing each other. “Sit down.”
The medical staff are banished and the others instructed to give Jungkook space as he sinks down into the chair, glad that at least his legs have gotten steadier and the pain has receded almost completely. The arcanist shoves her cup of tea into Jungkook’s hands and takes the other chair. He watches, nervous, as she lifts a small pair of glasses from their chain around her neck and perches them on her nose. They make her blue eyes seem huge and otherworldly and he has to try not to flinch back when she reaches out bony fingers to press against his temples.
He can feel it, then, the powerful spark of her magic. Ancient, he thinks. Fathomless.
“Relax,” she instructs him. “I’m just having a quick look.”
He forces himself to go still and boneless as he feels her rummaging gently around in his head, examining his magic with her own. It’s a weird sensation, but not unpleasant, and the tea is comfortingly warm in his hands.
Eventually, she sits back with a contemplative hum.
“What?” Hoseok asks, hovering with the others a few feet away. “What is it?”
“Not sure yet. Patience.” To Jungkook, “get up, dear. One of you take his place, chop chop.”
Hoseok is next, then Namjoon, then Seokjin, then Taehyung and Jimin, and finally Yoongi. She takes his hands in hers, pushing his sleeves up so she can examine his scarred wrists. Touches his throat. “My, but you’ve been through it, haven’t you, my boy?”
Yoongi nods and Jungkook aches at the tired bend of his spine, the way his gaze slides into his lap. The arcanist squeezes his hands and then moves her fingers to his temples, humming softly to herself as she works. Magic glows at her fingertips, bright against Yoongi’s pale skin and dark hair. When she sits back a few moments later, she’s frowning.
“The black magic shop,” she says and none of them dare ask how she knows about that, “walk me through what happened.”
Six pairs of eyes turn expectantly to Jungkook. He swallows, suddenly nervous, and plays with the hem of his sweater as he explains, as best as he can, trying to navigate the maze of the shop, trying to save all of them. Reaching out and tying his magic to theirs, then their magic to each other, hoping it would give them the strength to fight back.
“And it did,” Jimin adds when the arcanist’s frown grows deeper and Jungkook’s stomach flips. “He saved our lives.”
Taehyung loops an arm through Jungkook’s, pressing their shoulders together in silent thanks, but it doesn’t offer much calm. He did something, in that shop, and now it’s hurting them. It’s hurting all of them, just like his parents always insisted his ability would-
“I have no doubt of that,” the arcanist says, cutting through his spiraling thoughts. She turns to look at Jungkook, pinning him with her piercing gaze. He feels like she’s peeling him back in layers, one by one. “You have some powerful magic, child. Even though you’re reckless.”
“Reckless?” Namjoon asks, putting protective hand on Jungkook’s shoulder.
The arcanist scans all of them and shakes her head. “Reckless idiots, the lot of you. Trying to fight black magic, rushing into things without understanding the consequence of them.”
Yoongi’s fingers scrape against the thin fabric of his pants as he curls his hands into fists against his thighs. His head is still bowed and Jungkook longs to reach out and touch him, but isn't sure it would be welcome. Isn’t sure he can even move right now, with the fear curdling in his stomach and his heart climbing up his throat.
“What did I do?” he whispers. “Please tell me and I’ll try to fix it. I’ll do anything I can to fix it.”
He’ll give up his magic, if that’s what it takes. He’ll leave them forever, if they can no longer be safe around him, even though it will shatter his heart into a thousand pieces. Anything for them, who have loved him so much and so easily.
The arcanist sighs. “There is no fixing it. You’ve formed a circle.”
The words don’t mean anything to Jungkook, but Seokjin sucks in a sharp breath, like he’s been slapped, and Hoseok’s mouth drops open.
“That’s impossible,” Jimin says, frowning. “There hasn’t been a circle in decades.”
“Fifty years, to be exact,” the arcanist says with a nod. “That we know of. But they’re still quite possible to create. The magic of it hasn’t changed, merely the circumstances that used to necessitate them.”
Jungkook glances around at the pale faces, at the way Yoongi has hunched even further down in his seat, and feels so far out of his depth. “What’s … what’s a circle?”
The arcanist blinks at him. “You don’t know?”
Jungkook flushes in embarrassment as he shakes his head. God, he’s so stupid, isn’t he? Thinking he understood magic now. Thinking he could use it right.
“Jungkookie’s new to this world,” Namjoon explains, squeezing Jungkook’s shoulder hard.
The arcanist mutters something under her breath about “reckless, ignorant youth” and drops her glasses back around her neck. “I need another cup of tea for this.”
She presses the call button on Jungkook’s bed and demands a fresh cup from the frazzled nurse that enters. Then she tells everyone to sit down while they wait and Jungkook takes the opportunity to drag a chair next to Yoongi’s. He’s not sure what kind of intimacy would be welcome here, with a stranger, so he doesn’t kiss Yoongi’s shoulder like he wants to, merely puts his hand over Yoongi’s. Yoongi lets out a shuddering breath and uncurls his fist, flipping his hand over so he can tangle his fingers with Jungkook’s.
“I’m sorry,” Jungkook whispers again. Yoongi looks so exhausted, so washed out, and he doesn’t know what to do to fix it.
Yoongi shakes his head. Manages a weak smile.
Jungkook misses his voice.
“All right,” the arcanist announces when the nurse returns with the requested mug of tea. “I’m only going to explain this once, so please pay attention.”
She talks for a long time, until Jungkook’s head is spinning. She explains that magic is stronger when it isn’t isolated. Magic users are drawn to each other because of that, which is why communities and neighborhoods spring up. And magic is even stronger when connected to other magic. Centuries ago, decades ago - when they burned suspected witches in Salem, when they drove shaman underground, when they purged communities and banned texts and outlawed rituals - people were desperate to protect themselves, to fight back. So they formed covens, which required a bond of blood in exchange for more power, and some - the most desperate, the most daring, the most reckless - formed circles.
“Covens require blood to be effective,” the arcanist explains. “But those bonds can be broken when the coven is no longer needed, or someone wants to move on. Circles are different. This is a bond of magic. The very core of who you are, tied to another person. This makes circles permanent and unbreakable. If someone were to shatter their bond with the rest of the circle, the mental backlash would result in death. Of all the other members and themselves.”
That’s why, she goes on while Jungkook feels his chest slowly restricting with panic, circles are rarer. Have almost completely gone extinct. No one wants to pay such high a price, make such a deep and lasting commitment - where the only way out is death: yours and the ones you’re bound to. Taehyung’s fingers dig into his arm through his sleeve and he doesn’t dare look at anyone.
Oh god oh god oh god, he’s chained them all to him for life.
“Now this is just my theory,” the arcanist says, calmly sipping her tea like she isn’t tilting their world completely on its axis. “But most likely the reason you all can now hear each other mentally is due to Jungkook’s abilities.” His name sounds weird in her mouth and she pronounces it wrong: JONG-KOOK. He wants to throw up. He’s chained them all to him for life. “He formed the circle, so he’s the anchor of it. Which means that his ability has spread to all of you, to a certain degree. If, for example, Mr. Min here had been the anchor, you most likely would have access to a small bit of elemental magic.”
A stunned silence, so heavy that it’s choking. Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut, wishing that a tear in the earth would open and somehow swallow him whole. Only that would mean that everyone else would die, too, because he’s … he’s trapped them. Forever. He’s trapped them without a choice or a way out and his parents were right. He never should have opened himself up, let his magic grow. He should have kept it locked in that box until it killed him.
“What do we do now?” Seokjin asks with remarkable calm.
The arcanist shrugs her thin shoulders. “Learn how to use it so it doesn’t get you all killed.”
Yoongi squeezes Jungkook’s hand, but Jungkook still can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He’s a monster, he’s stolen their futures from them. Anything that they might have been, anywhere they might have wanted to go - he’s wrapped them up in magical chains and tied them to himself and -
The chair screeches against the tile as he lurches to his feet. He can’t look at them, can’t breathe, has to get out out out.
“Jungkook-ah…” he doesn’t even register who says it, who calls after him as he bolts for the door and trips his way out into the hall, socked feet slipping on the tile.
_ _
He ends up on the roof. Someone left the access door unlocked and he pushes out into the warm spring air with aching legs and a heaving chest. The sun is bright overhead and it feels like years since he’s seen the sky. He drinks in the expanse of it overhead, the gleam of the surrounding skyscrapers, and tries to let it calm him.
He doesn’t think he’s ever fucked up this badly, though, and they’re going to hate him now, he’s sure of it.
All that love they so generously gave him, and he…
He sinks to ground at the edge of the roof, pressing his back against the cool concrete wall and the heels of his hands into his eyes until they ache.
All this wasted effort. Yoongi still without a voice and he tried to save them but damned them instead.
He’s crying, he realizes distantly - tears leaking from his closed eyes down his cheeks. He swallows back the sobs clawing up his throat and tries to think past this yawning despair. Maybe there is a way they can break the circle without dying. He’ll search everywhere, if he has to. Even if he’s the only one that has to die - that would be a small price to pay to make sure the others are free again. He’d pay it without thought, without hesitation. He’d cut his own beating heart out of his chest if it meant that -
Footsteps. Barely audible, but getting closer. And closer.
He buries his face in his folded knees as someone crouches in front of him, as familiar fingers sink into his hair.
Yoongi. (Always, always Yoongi.)
Yoongi makes a whispery sound, a wordless please look at me, and Jungkook owes him this, so he drags his eyes up slowly, slowly to Yoongi’s face. His own must look a mess, streaked with tears and snot, but Yoongi just wipes the wetness from Jungkook’s cheeks with the sleeve of his sweater.
Jungkook wishes, desperately, that he could sense what Yoongi might be feeling, even as he also never wants to touch magic again.
Yoongi takes his hand, prying it away from where he’s gripping his knee, and presses a piece of paper into it. Mouths read it. Then his lips are brushing Jungkook’s cheek, the corner of Jungkook’s mouth, and he’s standing, backing away to give him some privacy.
Jungkook watches him retreat to the other side of the roof and sucks in a burning breath. Unfolds the paper with shaking fingers.
Jungkook-ah,
Sorry if my handwriting’s terrible, I’m trying to get this out as fast as I can. No one can find my fucking phone.
I’m scared. We all are. This is the part of magic that is always terrifying. Ancient, binding, more powerful than we can imagine. It feels like a paradox, doesn’t it? Magic can kill you, but we’d die without it. Though I guess that’s true of a lot of things.
Sorry. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t blame you. I don’t think any of the others do, either. You saved our lives. I remember the beach in Busan. I remember the way you held on to me. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to tell you yet, how much that meant. I’ve never had anyone love me like that before.
I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.
And that won’t change because of this. I can promise that much.
So take a deep breath, Jungkook-ah. Let it out slow. We’re alive and we’ll be okay, I think. We’ve all made it through a lot of shit and this - I don’t think this is a bad thing. It’s an unknown and it’s terrifying, but so many of those kinds of things end up being beautiful.
I still love you. Everyone downstairs is worried sick because they love you, too. Don’t stop believing that, even if you can’t feel it like you usually do.
The end of the world is often temporary. I thought everything was over when I lost my voice, but life continued. Life even turned good again. This is one of those moments: it feels like you’re in a free fall, like nothing can ever be right again. But those moments end and you get back up and you realize you’re stronger than you thought.
Take another breath. Come find me when you’re done reading. Whatever the next first step is, we’ll take it together.
Love,
Yoongi
Jungkook reads the letter twice, a third time, then presses the paper to his chest and breathes, just like Yoongi asked him to. He’s crying again, doesn’t know when he’ll stop, but these tears feel cleansing instead of destroying.
(He’s going to buy a box, he thinks, and store all of Yoongi’s letters there so he can keep reading them until the day he dies.)
When he doesn’t feel like he’s about to rattle apart anymore, he gets up. Yoongi is further down the roof, looking out toward the Empire State Building in the distance, and Jungkook wraps his arms around Yoongi’s waist from behind, draping across his back.
“Thank you,” he whispers into Yoongi’s ear. “I love you. Thank you.”
Yoongi turns to kiss his cheek, lets Jungkook cry into his shoulder until he feels hollowed out and almost calm.
Back downstairs, he’s dragged into a five-way hug immediately - so surrounded that he doesn’t know where one person begins and another ends. It’s just all limbs and the warmth of bodies and five different voices trying to assure him, at once, that they’ll figure this out.
“Don’t feel bad, Kook,” Jimin says. “We’re alive because of you.”
“You’re still family,” Seokjin insists.
“We love you,” Taehyung says with a kiss to his hair.
“This could actually be epic,” Hoseok says.
“And beneficial,” Namjoon adds.
Jungkook hiccups. Shakes his head. “Please don’t make me cry again.”
And everyone laughs at that.
It feels like hope.
_ _
The arcanist sticks around, apparently to help them learn how to control the new bond that’s been formed.
The blockers come off slow, in starts and stops. It makes Jungkook sick, having his magic released and locked down again over and over, and the others take turns rubbing his back as he hunches over the toilet.
After two days of this, Yoongi puts his foot down and demands, via Hoseok, that the hospital remove the blockers permanently and let the six of them figure shit out on their own. The medical staff reluctantly agrees, on the basis that they will remain for another twenty-four hours for final observation.
The first three of those twenty-four hours are painful chaos but gradually, in inches, they learn control. Learn to separate out their voices from each other, learn to slow their thoughts down. Eventually, according to the arcanist, they’ll be able to turn off their connection temporarily, but that could be a long ways off. For now, there is noise and bleed-through, but there are also tears in Jimin’s eyes and Taehyung’s excited yell when they hear Yoongi’s voice for the first time. There is the way Namjoon presses his forehead to Yoongi’s temple and looks like he’s about to cry when he whispers, “I can hear you.” There is the awed, overwhelmed look on Yoongi’s face when he hugs Namjoon back.
There is the sound of Seokjin’s laughter ringing in their heads from three floors down as he watches some dumb video one of the nurses has shared. There are cries of mock indignation when Hoseok gets a pop song stuck in all of their heads. There is the weight of all of them in Jungkook’s chest - their happiness, their fear, their love.
His head is full to bursting, full to pain sometimes, but he isn’t alone and that is the most important thing.
_ _
The arcanist leaves a set of theoretical guidelines before her departure, written on a sheet of paper in elegant script:
“These seem kind of vague…” Jimin murmurs, taking the list from Jungkook.
“We’re in pretty uncharted territory here, I think,” Namjoon says, rubbing his temple.
“It’s all right,” Taehyung says, an almost knowing smile on his face. “We’re gonna be okay.”
“Oh?” Hoseok asks with an arched eyebrow.
Taehyung’s smile grows and he tilts his head back to stare up at their bland ceiling. “I have a feeling.”
_ _
The night before they check out, they hold a powwow on the roof. Jungkook promises to serve as a mental lookout as they huddle together in a tight circle on the ground, their knees all touching like a long chain. The bond is quieter now, enough that Jungkook no longer feels like he’s drowning in them, like they’re drowning in him.
“So,” Namjoon begins, ever the leader. “We haven’t really had a chance to talk over the last … week. How is everyone feeling? I know we can kind of hear each other right now, but I thought it would be good to talk.”
“I’m sorry,” Jungkook blurts before he can stop himself. “I know you keep saying we’re going to be okay, but I’m still sorry. I … none of you asked for this. I acted recklessly and I’m sorry.”
Jimin nudges him. “ You didn’t ask for this, either. And I guess I’ll go next, in response to Kook. I’m scared. This is … big. I mean, I’m not afraid that anyone is going to want to break the bond, but still. Having you all in my head is a lot to process. But I’m - look, I love all of you,” he says, face screwing up in embarrassment. “And I don’t mind, really, that you’re all going to be in my life forever. I would have wanted that anyway.”
“Ditto,” Taehyung says, squeezing Jimin’s hand. “If I was going to pick anyone to share my headspace with, it would be all of you.”
“I’m just anticipating the look on my family’s faces,” Seokjin says, already laughing. “It’s going to be hilarious.” He sobers slightly. “But I’m okay. Worse things could have happened.”
“A lot worse,” Hoseok agrees.
“I just…” Jungkook picks at loose thread in the thin cotton of his pants. Glances at Yoongi seated across from him. “I’m sorry we didn’t get your voice back, though, hyung. I just … I was hoping that I could help you - that I could give that to you.”
Yoongi tilts his head and a smile tugs up the corner of his mouth, soft and so fond it hits Jungkook like a punch. You did, though.
It echoes in all their heads, clear as a bell, and Hoseok wraps an arm around Yoongi’s shoulders while Jungkook barely represses the urge to crawl across the circle and kiss him.
And that’s why I’m happy, Yoongi continues with a shrug. You all are fucking loud, but this is ... good. More than I hoped for.
“So in conclusion,” Taehyung says brightly, “for anyone taking minutes: we’ll figure this out and be fine and awesome. So we can stop wallowing or feeling guilty or any of that shit. Agreed?”
Agreed, everyone says at once - a chorus filling all the corners of Jungkook’s mind.
_ _
They stay out there for another hour, in spite of the chill, pretending they can see stars beyond the glow of the city lights.
_ _
“FREEDOM!” Taehyung yells the next morning, when they stop through the door of the hospital into the spring sunlight, spinning in a wide circle and nearly knocking over two innocent pedestrians who like they’re just trying to get home from work.
“Thank God,” Jimin breathes, closing his eyes and swaying on his feet. “I never want to set foot in a hospital again.”
“Considering we live with Joonie that’s probably unlikely,” Seokjin says.
“I have only been to the hospital twice in the last year, not counting this,” Namjoon argues, glaring at him.
“Still two times more than any of us,” Hoseok points out with a cheeky grin.
“Whatever,” Namjoon sighs. “Let’s just go home.”
Home, Jungkook thinks, a little giddy, a little punch-drunk from their excitement and relief. He has a home.
Yoongi’s fingers thread through his. Squeeze tight. Okay?
This time, Jungkook answers him back through the bond. Yeah. More than.
Yoongi kisses his shoulder. Good. Also, we should go on a date soon. We have to make up for almost dying.
Jungkook surrenders to the smile trying to take control of his mouth. Yeah. I’d like that, hyung.
Ugh. Jimin’s voice, crashing into their heads. Get a room, you two.
Fuck off, Yoongi fires back without missing a beat and Jungkook laughs.
It feels bright in his chest. Like sunlight. Fireworks. The start of a new day.
He doesn’t know what his parents are going to say about this, or how he’s going to make up over a week of absence at school, or what he’s going to do about his studio when he’ll probably need to be closer to the six of them, but right now, none of it matters.
Right now, Yoongi’s hand is warm in his and the others are sunk deep in his bones, like the sea, and he isn’t alone.
Whatever comes, he won’t have to face it alone.
Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.
_ _
They go home.
Hoseok laments over the state of his plants after being left on their own for over a week, flitting around the house and bringing them back to life with quick touches. Yoongi makes it rain in the greenhouse, fat drops falling from the ceiling, where Yoongi has spread a blanket of water pulled from the garden hose.
“I can feel that, hyung,” Jimin whispers, hand over his chest. “Your magic.”
Taehyung catches water in his hands - a glittering pool contained in his palms. “Me too.”
It’s like a second heartbeat, Jungkook thinks. Extra life.
_ _
They go home and Jungkook curls up in Yoongi’s bed to kiss him. Kiss him and kiss him and kiss him with fingers sunk deep in his black hair and Yoongi answers with his own fingers on Jungkook's waist, pressed in hard enough to bruise.
They haven’t talked yet, about how close to the edge they came. About death’s cold grip that Jungkook can still feel trailing down in his spine in the middle of the night, turning the darkness heavy and suffocating.
For now, there is the gentle curl of Yoongi’s voice in his head, whispering I love you, and that’s enough.
_ _
He goes back to school with a note from the hospital to excuse his absence. None of his professors seem that impressed and he has to make up two exams and finish a paper that is now two weeks overdue.
It makes him want to cry a little, as does the emptiness of his studio apartment when he finally goes back to collect more of his clothes. His head aches without the noisy presence of the others, and even though he knows that’s the bond - unstable and uncertain still, trying to reel him back in - this place that his parents rented for him still feels like a reminder. Of all the things he still needs to say, of the ties still on him - the chain running from here all the way back to Busan.
Not yet, whispers his coward heart. He’ll tell them soon, but not yet.
He packs a suitcase with almost all the clothes from his closet, throws out all the perishable food that has rotted in his fridge, and dumps the rest in a bag to give to Seokjin. Then, he locks the old, noisy door and heads for the subway without looking back.
_ _
“Right,” Taehyung announces to their collective huddle. It’s seven a.m. on a Tuesday morning, and they’re standing in front of The Magic Shop, bundled up to combat the sudden, late spring chill that has descended over the city - like winter wants to sink its claws in one last time before fully yielding to the scorch of summer.
Taehyung has Yoongi’s reading glasses perched on his nose because they “make him look smarter” and a fucking clipboard in his hands that he unearthed somewhere from the depths of the shop. “Thank you all for coming.”
You dragged us here, Yoongi grumps in their heads, in the middle of chugging his second cup of coffee. You woke us up.
By loudly singing Frere Jacque to the whole house , which Jungkook still has stuck in his head, though he’s not sure if that’s his own mind or feedback from the others. Everyone is tired - except Jimin, who had to be up for class and is half the reason they’re meeting this early - and a little moody, but there’s an undercurrent of excitement, too.
There usually is, when it comes to this strange new bond between them.
“For very important science,” Taehyung says out loud. He raps a pencil against the clipboard. “Are you ready, Kook?”
“Why do I have to be the one to move?” Jungkook complains. He’s only had one cup of coffee and strange dreams kept him up last night. His head feels loud and raw and tender this morning and he would much rather go back to bed and curl into Yoongi instead of trek around the city in the name of figuring out the extent of their radius.
“Because you are the common factor here,” Taehyung explains patiently. “And it’s easier. And I was too afraid to ask Yoongi-hyung to move.”
Yoongi huffs into his mug, but Jungkook can’t tell if it’s denial or agreement. Probably agreement, judging from the amusement radiating off him in a quiet wave.
“Fine,” he says. “Which direction first?”
“That one,” Taehyung decides, waving grandly towards NYU and Washington Square Park. “Good luck.”
Jungkook sighs and starts walking. He feels a little like he’s in those annoying commercials Seokjin randomly showed him once: walk a few blocks, stop, can you hear me now?
He gets a yes all the way to NYU, a yes past the campus and into the park itself. He dodges the bench where Yoongi kissed him like it was goodbye and keeps going, ignoring the sudden taste of ash on his tongue.
Yes all the way into Greenwich Village and Christopher Street Station. His phone says he’s walked a mile and a half.
Now what? He asks, debating if he should make a detour for a second cup of coffee. He passed a Starbucks a few blocks back…
Get on the subway, Taehyung sends back and he sighs, fishing around for his metro card as he heads down the steps.
Where am I going?
North. Take the 1 Train to Penn Station.
Fine.
He gets on the damn train, crowded against the door by men and women in business suits, sleepy students with their backpacks on their laps, a woman in a coat that looks like it was fashioned out of a fuchsia bathroom mat, several men dressed like they stepped off the cover of a punk rock album, and two would-be artists sketching furiously in their notebooks.
Penn Station is a chaotic rush of noise and bodies. He ducks into the Shake Shack, just to break free from the human current.
Can you hear me now?
(2.1 miles, his phone says now.)
Yes, Namjoon answers. But you’re getting fainter.
He suppresses another deep sigh and wonders if 8 a.m. is too early for a milkshake. Probably. But fuck it. He buys a strawberry one with an excessive amount of whipped cream on top because he’s an adult, thank you.
Why are you counting change? Taehyung asks as he fishes around in his wallet for the right amount of cash. Are you buying something? This is very serious science, Jeon Jungkook, you need to focus.
I’m focused, he fires back, accepting the milkshake from a harried worker. I’m completely focused.
A suspicious pause. Good.
Jungkook ducks his head to hide his amused smile. Having them in his head can be annoying, but mostly it feels like he’s not alone, even in the chaos of New York City during rush hour.
Where am I going now?
One moment, please.
They’re consulting a map, he thinks. Probably pulled up on Namjoon’s cracked phone screen. Bickering about where to send him next. He finds a bench and sips his milkshake, content for them to sort themselves out.
Okay, Taehyung finally says, keep going north. To West 59th Street.
The lower boundary of Central Park. Okay.
Subway?
Walk. It’s a nice day.
It is - sunny and bright in spite of the lingering chill. He doesn’t mind much as he finally exits Penn Station and heads into Midtown, music in his ears and his beanie pulled down low against the cold.
Can you hear me now? He asks as he passes Times Square.
Yes.
And it’s yes all the way up to Carnegie Hall, almost to Columbus Circle. He’s on West 58th Street, right by the Museum of Art and Design, when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
Taehyung [8:30 a.m.]
we lost you
He checks his phone. 3.9 miles. Damn.
Yoongi [8:31 a.m.]
i haven’t lost him?
Wait.
You can still hear me?
Yes.
Clearly?
Yes.
Taehyung [8:30 p.m.]
well damn keep going kookie
He swallows a strange rush of giddiness that Yoongi can still hear him - that apparently his bond with Yoongi is just a little stronger than the others. Makes sense, considering it was forged in fire on the edge of death, but still. It’s nice, knowing that they still having something that is just for them - as much as he loves the rest of their strange little group.
He turns right at Columbus Circle and passes through the gates into Central Park. Yoongi stays with him all the way past the Museum of Natural History and the Great Lawn and Belvedere Castle. Along the edge of the massive reservoir that Jungkook never remembers the name of and to the 97th Street Transverse.
Then, his phone buzzes.
Yoongi [9:16 a.m.]
okay now i’ve lost you
6.2 miles. Almost twice as far as the radius for the others. Damn.
Jungkook [9:17 a.m.]
wow
Namjoon [9:18 a.m.]
you are literally six miles apart and i can only see one of you but i KNOW you’re both making sappy faces at your phones. Stop.
Taehyung [9:18 a.m.]
they’re young lovers namjoon-hyung let them live
Seokjin [9:19 a.m.]
please don’t call them young lovers
Hoseok [9:20 a.m.]
for those lacking a visual, jin-hyung is currently grimacing at his phone
Taehyung [9:21 a.m.]
but they are! even though i’m pretty sure they haven’t had sex yet, or at least not since we got back from the hospital because we all DEFINITELY would have known
oh god how is THAT going to work?
are we going to have to listen to Jungkook and Yoongi-hyung have sex in our heads?
i’m an innocent soul, i didn’t sign up for this kind of mental scarring
Yoongi [9:22 a.m.]
shut the fuck up
please
Jimin [9:23 a.m.]
at least tae and i aren’t ALSO having sex or we’d have a real problem on our hands
Taehyung [9:24 a.m.]
yeah you all should thank jimin for being such an awesome asexual
Jimin [9:24 a.m.]
damn right
Hoseok [9:25 a.m.]
now jin-hyung and joonie have fled to get coffee
Jungkook [9:25 a.m.]
i’m going to throw my phone into this lake
Taehyung [9:26 a.m.]
I think it’s technically a reservoir
and don’t worry kookie if you and yoongi-hyung want to have sex all we’ll have to do is make sure we’re 3.9 miles away for the duration
you can text us when you’re done
Jungkook [9:27 a.m.]
oh my god
Yoongi [9:27 a.m.]
STOP
i’m still standing right fucking next to you
also stop grinning at me like that
and doing that thing with your eyebrows
go to class brat
jimin too i don’t see what’s so funny
hoseok stop encouraging this behavior
Taehyung [9:28 a.m.]
sure hyung
though do you think sex is different with a magical bond?
you should experiment and let us know what you find
for science
this is ground-breaking territory here
this is
Hoseok [9:28 a.m.]
and yoongi snapped
you can come back now jungkook-ah
taehyung’s made a run for the subway
after yoongi poured cold coffee on him
i’m going the fuck back to bed
Jungkook buries his flaming face in his hands and laughs, helpless. God, they’re all ridiculous.
And it doesn’t help that he’s thought about sex with Yoongi for a long time. About more. About the skin of Yoongi’s thighs and hips and the dip in his lower back. About how he would feel, how he would taste, about how good and terrifying and good it might be.
But now isn't the time. He’s the middle of Central Park and he’s got a long trek back to the townhouse. And an eleven o’clock class that he can’t be late for.
He pulls up his map to chart the best way back: 96th Street Station and the 6 Train all the way south until he gets to Astor Place. Simple enough.
The train is still crowded, but he manages to find a seat in the corner, surrounded on all sides by a chattering group of Japanese tourists, and puts his headphones back in to drown out the rattle and shake of the car around him - the press of so many emotions packed so close together.
It isn’t long before a familiar voice brushes into his mind.
Welcome back.
He closes his eyes and smiles.
_ _
Spring continues its steady march towards summer and as the days unfurl, Jimin and Taehyung gradually grow more frantic and sleep-deprived and generally desperate.
“Never go to college,” Taehyung tells him, surrounded by dozens of rejected design sketches. It looks like his notebook threw up all over the kitchen table. There is even one somehow stuck on the light fixture above their heads.
“I’m in college,” Jungkook reminds him, carefully slipping the pot of coffee away from where it’s resting near Taehyung’s elbow. He’s on his fourth cup and he’s starting to vibrate a little. Also his mind is frantic and buzzing against Jungkook’s and he knows it’s making the rest of the house tense.
Not knowing what else to do, he wraps his arms around Taehyung’s shoulders and rests his chin on top of Taehyung’s head. They’ve all comforted him so much over the last seven months, he figures it’s his turn. “It’ll be fine, Tae. You’re amazing at this. And I’m still walking for you, remember? In spite of how much that terrifies me.”
“I’m gonna make sure you turn every eye in the fucking room,” Taehyung mutters, reaching for his fifth pencil and his third notebook. “Just wait, Kook.” It sounds vaguely like a threat.
“I believe you,” Jungkook assures him.
“I want Yoongi-hyung to walk too,” Taehyung continues, which … not really a surprise, actually, considering how often Yoongi has modeled Taehyung’s clothes for him during the design process. Always with an exasperated look on his face, but endless patience. Even when Taehyung broke out the skirts and made Yoongi pad his hips to get the general fit right. “But I’m not sure how to ask him.”
“Just ask him,” Jungkook says. “He loves you.”
Yoongi loves all of them - Jungkook can always feel it, a layer beneath everything else, a quiet part of who Yoongi is. It’s there even when he rolls his eyes at them or grumbles about them having too much energy or being too loud or eating all of his cereal.
Taehyung makes a strange sound. “He’s still intimidating, though.”
“You shouldn’t be so worried,” Jungkook says, throwing some of Taehyung’s words from a few months ago back at him. “It’s just Yoongi.”
Taehyung laughs, catching the reference. “Yeah,” he says with a shake of his head. “It’s Yoongi.”
_ _
In the end, Taehyung asks Yoongi over breakfast one morning, right when he’s taken a bite of his toast. Just blurts it out for Jimin, Yoongi, and Jungkook to hear: “walk in my senior showcase for me, hyung?”
Yoongi chokes, briefly, and toast crumbs scatter back onto the plate. His eyes are wide, a little stunned, but Jungkook knows from the coil of surprise in Yoongi’s chest, from the rush of happiness that follows, that it isn’t a bad expression.
You really want me to?
“Yes, hyung,” Taehyung replies, earnest.
Yoongi chews on his lip. Glances down at where his sweater sleeve is pulled all the way to the top of his hand. But … the scars…
“No one will see them,” Taehyung insists, looking like he wants to reach out and put a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder but is restraining himself. “I promise, hyung. I’ll make sure they stay covered.”
Even though it’s a summer collection?
“Coats are fashionable year-round,” Taehyung says and Yoongi finally cracks a smile.
Okay, then.
Taehyung crows and launches himself across the table to hug Yoongi, who sputters and holds his toast away, trying to protect it from the crush of Taehyung’s body.
“Hyung,” Jimin pipes up from where he’s watching the proceedings with an amused expression, “Taehyungie kind of beat me to it, but would you play piano for my showcase, as well? I thought it could be cool if I danced to live music.”
Yoongi’s mouth drops open and Jungkook’s chest is tight with the echo of everything that Yoongi is feeling right now: shock, joy, love, uncertainty.
Really?
“Yes,” Jimin assures him.
“You should say yes,” Taehyung says, muffled because his face is still smushed into Yoongi’s hair.
Yes, Yoongi mouths with a nod.
Jimin grins, Taehyung shouts again, and it’s a good morning.
_ _
He feels like he’s running out of good mornings, though, because it’s almost the end of the semester and his parents have been hounding him for a talk, wanting to sit down and hammer out their plans for his return to Busan for the summer.
He’s out of time and he’s going to lose them, he knows that. Braces himself for it when he goes back to his studio apartment one evening, when he pulls on his gloves and rests his laptop on the pockmarked desk, opening Skype. At least there is the comfort of Yoongi, getting coffee across the street.
Jungkook-ah, this girl just wrote her number on my coffee cup.
He sounds so baffled that it manages to drag a weak, shaky smile to Jungkook’s mouth.
You’re attractive, hyung, how many times do I have to tell you?
(Probably a lot more, he knows, because there are insecurities buried deep in Yoongi like thorny roots, planted by people who were supposed to love him. Jungkook can maybe relate. )
Sure, but not interest-from-strangers attractive. That’s you. Or Jin-hyung.
Jungkook can’t answer because the distinctive Skype ringtone fills his apartment. He takes a shuddering breath and accepts the call.
I’m here, Yoongi says to him. I’m right here, Kook.
_ _
He tells his parents everything. Rips it all out of his chest in one long torrent: his magic, the shop, the house, the bond, Yoongi.
I love him, he says through his tears at the hardened looks on his parents’ faces, and he loves me. We’re happy.
But it isn’t enough. He knows that they’ve always wanted him to be perfect, not happy. Not himself. He’s crushed all their dreams for him, everything they hoped they could still make him be, and he can see that devastation, that grief, even without his gift.
He thinks it’s nothing compared to the wasteland in his own chest when they announce that that they cannot support these “life choices”. When they say, with terrifying finality, that they’re cutting him off. That until he gets his “act together,” he’s no longer welcome in their home, he will no longer receive their financial support, he is no longer their son.
And he was expecting it, he was, but it still hurts like a bullet wound. Like the slide of a knife between his ribs, cutting up into his lungs.
“Okay,” he says, and his voice is steady and his tears don’t fall because Yoongi is still murmuring I’m here here here I love you I’m here and he’s stronger now, than he ever thought he could be. Strong enough to sit up tall. To square his shoulders. To look them both in the eye and show them that for the first time in his life, he isn’t afraid of them. “I understand. Goodbye.”
He hangs up before they can say anything else. His whole stomach feels bruised. His chest. His insides.
He rips the gloves off his hands and throws them across the room. Watches them hit the wall with a satisfying smack, and reminds himself to breathe. Let it out slow. He’s not alone and he’s going to be okay. Maybe more than okay, in the long run, in the end.
(I almost died, he told them and all they asked about was the magic.
I love him, he said of Yoongi and all they wanted to know were the ways Yoongi has corrupted him.
I’m happy, he insisted and all they focused on was the danger he might be to others.)
He puts his laptop in his backpack and takes one more look around the barren apartment. His parents purchased all the furniture and it’s their names on the lease. Let them sort out all the details of removing him from their lives.
He sets his keys on the desk, shoulders his backpack, and walks down the six flights of stairs to the ground floor. Out into the street, through the doors of the quiet cafe on the corner, and right into Yoongi’s waiting arms.
I’ve got you. Yoongi presses warm kisses to his cheek, his jaw - swings up on his tiptoes to brush his lips across Jungkook’s temple, too. I’ve got you, love.
I know. Jungkook sinks into his body, kisses the strip of bare skin on Yoongi’s neck that isn’t covered by his scarf. I know.
They’re going to be okay. Right now, he’s grieving a little, but he thinks that’s natural. Thinks the others will understand and support him through it and honestly, it’s worth it. They’re his parents and a part of him will probably always love them, in spite of everything they did - all the ways that they’ve hurt him - but he doesn’t owe them anything anymore.
The chain’s gone.
He’s free.
_ _
They go home and Jin greets them in cat form, curls up on Jungkook’s lap when he sits on the sofa and rubs his fluffy head under Jungkook’s chin. He hugs Jin closer, soothed by the silkiness of his fur
“I don’t think they’ve ever loved me,” he whispers into the hush of the living room, to the other boys all gathered around, to Yoongi who is sitting with his fingers tangled in Jungkook’s hair. “Not the way I wanted them to.”
“Well we love you,” Jimin says, squeezing the back of his neck. “A hell of a lot.”
“And I know that doesn’t make up for everything….” Namjoon adds, and there is anger sitting deep in his chest, like a coiled dragon.
“It helps,” Jungkook assures him, unused to having someone’s anger - to someone loving him enough to be infuriated by the things that hurt him. “It helps a lot.”
It feels inadequate, to encompass everything they mean to him - all the ways they’ve saved him and continue to save him and make him stronger and just … better. So much better. But he thinks they get it, they can feel it, through the bond or whatever expression might be on his face. The tears that are gathering that have very little to do with sadness.
Jin purrs, loud enough to wake the dead, and Yoongi’s fingers sink deeper into his hair and Namjoon’s anger sleeps and all of their love burns and it’s … okay.
More than.
_ _
He finishes out the semester because it’s already paid for and he doubts his parents would be petty enough to tell the school he’s no longer attending - not even sure that’s something they can legally do when he’s twenty years old.
“What are your plans for the fall?” his academic advisor asks him at their last meeting, after all his exams are over and his papers turned in, and his grades calculated and printed out on the slip of paper in her hand.
She has glasses that always perch on the very edge of her nose and the curliest hair Jungkook has ever seen - a large brown mass that spills down her shoulders like a tangled waterfall. She’s always been kind to him and that’s enough for him to say, “I don't know. I can’t keep going here. My parents … they won’t be paying anymore.”
She arches a bushy eyebrow but doesn’t press him. “So you’re dropping out?”
“I think so,” he whispers and the admission tastes heavy on his tongue, like defeat. Even though he hated the business program, he still wanted to get a degree. Knows he’s probably screwed without one - here or back in Korea.
“If you weren’t dropping out, what you want to do?”
He’s thought about this, in his biggest pipe dreams, lying awake and staring at the ceiling of Yoongi’s room, trying to build a future between the spider-thin cracks that Yoongi keeps saying he needs to plaster over.
“Transfer,” he says. Tries not to wring his hands in his lap. “To the Tisch School of the Arts. Their film program. If I could get in. I think … I want to make documentaries.”
There are so many stories out there that need telling, so many people without a voice. He’s always wanted to give one to them, give one to himself - ever since he was silenced as a child.
His advisor’s smile is sympathetic without straying into pity. “Well your eyes definitely lit up when you said that.” She passes the paper with his grades over to him and then begins clacking away on the computer, the rings on her thin fingers loud against the keys. “Here,” she says after a few moments. “Let me print some things out for you.”
As if on cue, the printer at the corner of her cluttered desk whirs to life. She hands him more paper. “These are the admission requirements for Tisch. And their deadlines. And this,” she scribbles a name and a number on a bright orange post-it note and sticks it to the top of the pile, “is the name and number of one of their film professors. Great guy.”
“I…” He isn’t sure what to say. It’s a pointless dream, he knows that, but he still carefully puts the papers in his backpack. “Thank you.”
“Your grades aren’t the most stellar,” she continues, pushing up her glasses. They slide back down right away. “But they should meet their requirements. You’ve missed the application deadline for transfers, but give them a call. They sometimes accept late admissions.”
“Thank you,” he repeats. “For everything.”
She reaches across the desk to shake his hand. Her palm is dry against his own and he keeps it quick, one pump up and down, but he still catches a flash of good kid hope he makes it and smiles before he can stop himself. She smiles back, teeth a little crooked, and that’s that.
_ _
Back at the townhouse, he puts the papers in the drawer of the desk that was Yoongi’s and has become theirs, buries them amidst audio cables and a dusty synthesizer, and tells himself to forget about them.
They can stay in the drawer, next to Yoongi’s own unfulfilled dreams.
_ _
Taehyung’s showcase is on a Friday night, alongside the other graduating students. He’s a tornado backstage, rushing from model to model with pins in his mouth and tape flailing behind him and a manic look in his eyes that Jungkook’s gotten used to seeing in the last few weeks. His thoughts are wild, but focused - like a swarm of bees - and they don’t help with the nerves eating at the lining of Jungkook’s stomach.
But he smiles for Taehyung, trying to look supportive as he lets Taehyung put him in the first of three outfits he’s going to be wearing. There are two other models besides him and Yoongi - both women and so tall that Yoongi looks up at them with something close to despair and Jungkook has to hide a snort of laughter behind his sleeve.
One of them puts makeup on Jungkook - eyeliner and mascara and this gold eyeshadow that he will admit looks kind of incredible when he catches sight of himself in the mirror. The clothes are loose and flowy and colorful - Taehyung to the core - and staring at the finished picture, he thinks he might just able to do this.
“You will definitely be able to do this,” Taehyung tells him, fluffing his hair.
“Stay out of my head,” Jungkook huffs.
Taehyung pinches him. “Can’t. Your fault.” He winks, though, and there is no bite to the words. “Oh! Yoongi-hyung.” He drags Yoongi over and Jungkook’s heart stops for a full beat because if he looks good, Yoongi looks ethereal. Someone’s curled his dark hair and done his makeup - silver tones to Jungkook’s gold - and Taehyung perches a wide-brimmed white hat carefully on top of his head with a bright grin.
“You both look amazing, you’re welcome. Now get out there and make my professors swoon, okay?”
Yoongi glances at him, a reflection of Jungkook’s nervousness, and Jungkook reaches out to squeeze his hand tight. Wants to kiss him, too, but doesn’t dare ruin any of their carefully applied makeup. “Tae made us practice walking like five hundred times last week. We’ve got this, hyung.”
Right, Yoongi says and squeezes back hard. Let’s fucking do this.
_ _
In spite of their overwhelming nerves, they kill it, according to Taehyung. Kill it.
“Thank you so much,” he says after the show is over, trying to hug them both at once. His hair’s a riot and he’s got lipstick inexplicably smeared on one cheek and several pins stuck to the sleeve of his shirt, and he looks happier than Jungkook’s ever seen.
Yoongi reaches up to ruffle his hair, mussing it further.
I’m really fucking proud of you, kid.
Taehyung sniffs, smiles again, more wobbly now but no less heartfelt, and digs his fingers into the back of Yoongi’s sweater.
Thank you, he says, through the bond this time, just for them.
I’m proud, too, Jungkook adds because he kind of feels like his chest is going to burst from the force of it. I know that doesn’t mean as much as when Yoongi-hyung says it-
“It does,” Taehyung interrupts him, eyes suspiciously shiny. He presses a kiss to Jungkook’s cheek. “It definitely does, Kook. I love you both. A lot.”
And then he swoops down and kisses Yoongi’s cheek, too, ignoring his startled squawk, and Jungkook feels light enough to float, buoyed by the joy and love he can feel radiating from Taehyung in a fierce, brilliant wave.
_ _
Jimin’s showcase is two days later and all Jungkook can think from the audience is that he’s never seen Jimin dance like this - as flowing and graceful as water. It’s just him and Yoongi up on that stage, the white of the piano a contrast to the black of Jimin’s costume. He’s barefoot and his hair gleams in the stage lights. Jungkook’s enraptured by the way he moves, by the curve of Yoongi’s shoulders over the piano keys, by the art they create together.
When the song ends, the final note trailing off slow, Jimin bows at the center of the stage. Taehyung stands on his chair, whooping and waving the bouquet he bought until Jimin blushes and buries his face in his hands.
You were amazing, Jungkook tells him, through the clamor of the audience, you’re so amazing.
Thank you, Jimin fires right back, eyes landing on him and a grin stretching his mouth wide. And you, too, Yoongi-hyung.
Any time, Jimin-ah, Yoongi says, soft soft soft. You know that.
_ _
Outside the theater, Taehyung peppers Jimin’s face with kisses, declares his love and admiration loud enough for the whole street to hear over the peals of Jimin’s laughter, and Jungkook is almost blinded by their brilliance. Doesn’t need Taehyung’s gift to know their future is going to be among the stars somewhere.
And he doesn’t mind, really, having his feet on the ground. Being stuck down here while they soar.
But his chest aches, a lingering what could have been, and he isn’t surprised when Yoongi’s fingers thread with his. Yoongi pulls him down for a kiss and there is an understanding in it that isn’t quite sorrow.
Acknowledgement, perhaps, of unrealized things. Of sacrifices, both willing and forced.
_ _
“I’m afraid,” he whispers to Yoongi one night. The window’s cracked and the ceiling fan turns lazily above them. He can still feel the sheets sticking to his back through his shirt. In a house this old, the air conditioning in just as unreliable as the central heating, and summer is coming with a vengeance - the air hot even so far after dark. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m on a student visa and if I can’t get into another program, I’ll have to go back to Korea. Only I can’t go back to Korea because I can’t leave any of you and…” he scrubs a hand over his sweaty face.
Tells himself: breathe breathe breathe.
We’ll figure it out, Yoongi assures him. We always figure it out.
Right. He thinks that Yoongi and Namjoon and Hoseok must be experts at new beginnings. At rebuilding something from the rubble-strewn ground up.
The fear doesn’t completely dissipate, though, and Yoongi must sense it, must feel it, because he rolls over and he settles careful, careful in Jungkook’s lap. Jungkook sucks in a breath - can feel every inch of Yoongi’s thighs bracketing his hips, all the places where their skin is touching.
There is still so much they haven’t talked about. There is still salt in his mouth sometimes, and ash, and on the bad nights he has to press his hand to Yoongi’s chest until he can feel a heartbeat. But right now Yoongi is bending down, kissing him, and all the thoughts fall out of Jungkook’s head when Yoongi’s tongue slides past his parted lips.
_ _
Summer rolls in lazy, slows everything down. Namjoon comes back from the New York Public Library one heat-soaked afternoon with his arms full of magic books.
“I’m going to see if I can find out more about circles,” he explains as he stacks them on the kitchen table. “I’ll keep everyone updated.”
Seokjin takes several of them to read, as well, and gradually a list of discoveries grows, pinned to their fridge with a magnet of cat’s butt that no one’s explained to Jungkook (but was probably a gag gift from of them to Jin), and written in Namjoon’s scrawl and Seokjin’s orderly letters.
“I feel like this is the blind leading the blind,” Namjoon mutters are after all the books have been poured through and as many notes as possible have been made and all of them are pretty much as confused as they were before.
“I’m telling you,” Taehyung says around a mouthful of cereal. “Make this a real research paper. You’ll be famous.”
“And then they’ll probably immediately want to turn us into test subjects,” Hoseok points out.
“Shit,” Taehyung grumbles.
Jungkook traces patterns on the worn kitchen table. It’s a lived a life: full of smudges from Taehyung’s pencils and knicks from various kitchen knives and utensils and a bright spot of blue paint in one corner from when Seokjin apparently had a strange arts and crafts phase. This whole house sighs with stories, memories, and he wonders now what Namjoon feels when he walks through it, when he runs his hands over the old walls. Jungkook can only feel the life in it, each of them six brilliant points in his mind - threads running from their chests right into his.
Doors, Namjoon-hyung keeps saying.
“Maybe we’re going about this wrong,” he says and then immediately tries not to blush when all three boys immediately turn to look at him. “You said magic is instinctive, right? What if this is, too?”
He sits back in his chair and imagines the house in his mind’s eye. Each of the rooms, with their weathered doors. Yoongi’s room now, with it’s sparse walls and it’s soothing aura, and Yoongi currently sitting on the bed, scribbling out sale ideas for the coming month. Jungkook sits beside him, hooks his chin on Yoongi’s shoulder, and shuts the door.
At the table, Namjoon murmurs, “whoa,” and Hoseok says, “you’re really muffled all of a sudden, what the hell did you just do,” and Taehyung crunches his cereal.
“Think he shut the metaphorical door,” he mumbles.
Yoongi? Can you hear me?
A beat and then imaginary Yoongi (maybe real Yoongi, too) looks up. Yes? Everything okay?
Yeah, just testing something out. Namjoon-hyung, can you hear me?
“Yes,” Namjoon says out loud. “But barely - it’s like you’re whispering.”
Okay, so the door has some holes in it, but they can probably work with that.
“What did you do?” Hoseok asks again.
Jungkook opens his eyes. “I just pictured myself closing a door. Shutting everything out. It needs more work, but I think it’s a start, hyung?”
Namjoon laughs, rubbing a hand over his hand. “Magic is instinctive,” he murmurs to himself, rueful.
“Don’t tell Seokjin he read all those books for nothing,” Hoseok warns.
Namjoon grimaces.
_ _
“Jungkook-ah, can I talk to you?” Seokjin asks him on a perfectly boring Thursday afternoon and his heart immediately plummets towards his shoes.
He knows, logically, that he isn’t being kicked out. That he belongs here and they want him here (even if right now he feels mostly useless, no school and barely any work, resorting to obsessively cleaning the house and watering all of Hoseok’s plants just to feel like he’s contributing), but a gut instinct built over a decade of rejection is hard to kick. The serious look on Seokjin’s face isn’t helping either.
“Yes?”
Seokjin doesn’t feel angry or sad, just … nervous? And they’ve all been practicing with the doors, so his thoughts are muffled and indistinct. Just be cool Seokjin remember what you went over-
Stomach twisting, Jungkook follows Seokjin into the kitchen. They’re the only ones in the house, a rarity, and the living room feels too quiet, Jungkook’s head too empty, but he still takes a seat at the table, trying not to hold his breath.
Then he sees the papers. The ones he shoved in Yoongi’s desk drawer nearly three weeks ago and has been trying to forget about ever since. They’re spread out on the table now, carefully unfolded - the creases smoothed down - and Seokjin picks one up: Tisch School of the Arts emblazoned across the top in large purple letters.
“Is this … where you want to go school, Jungkook-ah?’
“Where did you find those?” Jungkook says, trying not to sound defensive.
Seokjin still scratches his cheek, sheepish. “Ah, Yoongi-yah gave them to me. Found them in his desk drawer - is that ringing a bell?”
“Why would Yoongi-hyung give them to you?” That doesn’t make sense.
“He thought I could help,” Seokjin says, setting the paper back down. “But first, is this where you want to go to school?”
“Yes,” Jungkook admits and it feels like the word has been wrenched from his stomach. It hurts, seeing his dreams again when he’s been trying so hard to forget. He should’ve just thrown the papers out. That would have been easier. “But it doesn’t matter. I can’t afford tuition, and I can’t take a loan or get financial aid - I checked. I won’t qualify for any of the federal stuff and it’s too late to apply for private scholarships so-”
“I’ll pay for it,” Jin blurts. Jungkook sucks in a breath, blindsided. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I’ll pay for it. All of it.”
Jungkook wracks his brain for an appropriate response, but none is forthcoming. There’s only shock. “I...hyung, I can’t ask you to-”
“You’re not asking,” Jin insists, firm. “I’m offering.”
“It would be almost two hundred thousand dollars,” Jungkook protests weakly.
Jin leans across the table and puts his warm hand over Jungkook’s, a wry smile on his face. “Jungkook-ah, I don’t like talking about how much money my family has, but two hundred thousand dollars is pocket change. And I don’t say that to make you feel bad - just that. This is literally the least I can do. Write a check. You’re the one who’ll be doing all the work.”
Oh god. Jungkook’s going to cry. “W-why?”
A squeeze to his hand. Jin’s expression is gentle, but earnest. “Because you’re family, remember? And I want to do something worthwhile with all this stupid money. I invested in the shop, back in the beginning, and I helped renovate this house and I supported Jimin and Taehyung through school, too. Now it’s your turn. You get in, I’ll cover all your expenses, absolutely no strings attached.”
“But what do you get out of it?” Jungkook asks, still trying to wrap his pounding head around all this.
“I get to see someone I love get a chance to chase their dreams,” Jin says with a bright smile. “That’s more than enough for me. Money is money, Jungkook. I know that’s easy for me to say because I’m rich, but really. You getting the chance you deserve? That’s priceless.”
“Did you just … quote a credit card commercial?”
“No?” Jin says, all faux innocence, and Jungkook tries to decide if he wants to laugh or burst into tears or both.
“And you’re really okay with just … covering my tuition?”
“Completely,” Jin assures him. “But please don’t make any sugar daddy jokes. Yoongi will kill me.”
Jungkook finally laughs, though it comes out hiccuping and wet and stands up so he can wrap his arms around Jin in a tight hug. Jin hugs him back, chin hooked on his shoulder.
“Thank you,” Jungkook whispers past the massive lump in his throat, the tears still stinging at his eyes. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
“You don’t have to,” Jin insists. “Just do your best, okay?”
“You’re assuming I’ll even get in,” Jungkook points out.
Jin squeezes him tighter. “You will. Better start your application, though.”
Right. Shit.
_ _
The next two weeks are a whirlwind. A phone conversation with his contact at Tisch leads to the promise that if he can get his application submitted by the end of the month, they’ll consider him for the fall semester. He calls business school at NYU and follows the chain of redirection through the admissions department until he manages to find someone willing to send his transcripts over to Tisch. He works on his various written essays ( “describe an experience in which you exhibited leadership…” and “ how has a film, play, book, television series, painting, music or other significant work of art inspired or influenced your own work or the way you look at the world?” ) and wracks his brain for what he wants to submit for the film portion. He barely sleeps, barely eats, and consumes enough coffee to make him jittery and his heart beat rabbit-fast almost constantly.
“You look like me and Tae,” Jimin remarks one morning, smudging a finger under Jungkook’s eye where there is no doubt a circle dark enough to look like a bruise. “You need to take care of yourself, too.”
“I’m almost there,” Jungkook insists. He’s finally figured out the theme of the film. He just needs to get Yoongi and the others to agree to sit down and let him interview them. “I can sleep when it’s over.”
Jimin kisses the top of his head and leaves him to it.
_ _
Hoseok is first, seated in his greenhouse with plants blooming all around him. “Family?”
“Yes,” Jungkook says, as he carefully lines up the shot. “What does it mean to you?”
“Growth,” Hoseok says, brushing his hand over one of the plants. “Family is only family if they’re willing to help you get stronger, be better. Support you as you chart your own path.”
“Noise,” Jimin says, seated on the floor of the practice room downstairs, a laugh twinkling in his eyes. “But something that stays with you. Connection, I guess? No matter where in the world you are - you can reach out and they’ll still be there.”
“Priceless,” Seokjin says with an exaggerated wink, leaning on the kitchen counter. He’s wearing a floral apron that he insisted he didn’t want to remove before the interview. “They’re the people that make you happiest, the most content. You can buy friends, if you’re rich enough, but true family is worth more than that.”
“Legacy,” Taehyung says, running his fingers over the intricate designs of his grandmother’s tarot deck, spread out on the kitchen table. “We carry them with us, even after they’re gone. They’re in our hearts forever.”
“Safety,” Namjoon says, resting his elbows on the counter at the shop - his glasses catching the fading evening light. “They’re the people that make us feel the most secure, where we can be who we truly are. Blood doesn’t really have anything to do with it.”
“Love,” Yoongi says with his hands and Taehyung’s voice. “They’re the people who love us more than anything. Unconditionally. Who will stay with us when our world collapses. Who will look at you and the ruin all around you and say ‘I’m not leaving you.’ Who will accept your imperfections and your struggles alongside your talents and joys. Who are there for the lows in addition to the highs. Families are the people you choose, and the people who choose you.”
“Home,” Jungkook says, seated at Yoongi’s desk with the camera propped up on a stack of books. “Family is where you truly feel at home. Where you know you belong.” He presses a hand over his heart, where his chest is tight and aching in a good way. “You really, truly belong.”
He edits the video together on his old laptop, steadily deforming his spine at the kitchen table as he adds in footage he took of the house and the city: Hoseok’s plants and Jimin’s dance and Seokjin’s cooking and Namjoon’s books and Taehyung’s designs and Yoongi’s music - pieces of all of them.
He saves the personal essay for last and for it he writes about first stepping through the doors of The Magic Shop, and all the times after that. How each one changed him in some small way until he met Yoongi on a rainy afternoon and the changes grew bigger and bigger until he looked back and realized he wasn’t the same at all.
_ _
By the time he’s gathered his whole portfolio together and put the documents in the mail, he’s dead on his feet, but he finishes with three days to spare.
I’m so proud of you, Yoongi murmurs in his mind as he collapses into bed. So proud, Jungkook-ah.
_ _
He’s resigned himself to several weeks of anxious waiting, but three days after submitting his application, Yoongi wakes him early one morning and says, pack a bag.
“Are we going somewhere?” Jungkook asks, still brushing sleep from his eyes.
Yoongi kisses him, deep. It’s a surprise.
Oh. He hadn’t pinned Yoongi for this kind of spontaneity, but he’s excited.
Casual clothes, Yoongi tells him. Swim trunks. Probably a sweater or two.
He throws everything into a duffle bag - carefully packs his camera, as well - and follows Yoongi out of the sleeping house and into the garage that he’s somehow never entered, even after months of living here. He’s surprised to see an old, but pristine sedan sitting inside. It’s brown and boring - something a mom would probably own - and it’s weird watching Yoongi climb behind the wheel.
“You can drive?” Jungkook asks as he slings his bag in the back and slides into the passenger seat. There’s already food and a suitcase filling up the backseat. Yoongi must have gotten up long before him to get everything ready.
Yoongi nods. Just don’t do it that often.
No need, really, in New York. Jungkook’s parents insisted on him getting his license, but he hasn’t used it since he moved to Seoul.
The streets are busy, even this early in the morning - before the sun has even come up - and they wind their way slowly out of the city, heading north.
“Is this your car?” Jungkook asks, watching Yoongi’s fingers tap against the steering wheel.
Mine and Joonie’s. We bought it together after college.
Jungkook laughs. “God, you two are so married.”
He expects Yoongi to roll his eyes or shake his head or smile, not visibly flinch. His grip tightens on the wheel and his jaw clenches and a voice that isn’t Yoongi's flashes through Jungkook’s head.
You’re fucking him, aren’t you? Just admit it. You’re fucking him behind my back.
… what?
Jungkook-ah, Yoongi again, hesitant, almost panicked. You know that there isn’t anything between us, right? Me and Namjoon. There’s never been anything-
“Yes,” Jungkook insists, a little alarmed. He reaches over to put a hand on Yoongi’s jean-clad knee. Rubs his thumb over the denim in hopes it will ease some of the tension still on Yoongi’s face. “It was a joke, hyung. You two are … soulmates, in a way. But I’ve never minded. I know it isn’t romantic. You love him, but different than you love me, and that’s how it’s supposed to work, right?”
Yoongi lets out a slow breath, relaxing. Yes. Sorry, I just… He shakes his head, but pieces are rapidly falling into place.
“He didn’t like it. That you love Namjoon-hyung.”
No. Yoongi sounds small, tired. Jungkook keeps moving his thumb in soothing circles. He hated it. Wanted me to stop seeing him and Hoseok. And I know you don’t think that. It just … reminded me.
“It’s okay,” Jungkook says, swallowing back a rush of anger at the unnamed asshole who devastated so much of Yoongi. “I understand. But I really don’t mind. I love Namjoon-hyung, too. And all the others. But I don’t want to kiss them.”
Yoongi finally laughs, then, eyes crinkling. The anger dissipates. Good.
_ _
They drive. The city gives way to forest and rolling hills and the gleam of the ocean to their right. Jungkook flips radio stations until he finds a Top 40 one and spends a good hour dramatically belting Katy Perry and Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez to Yoongi until Yoongi’s shoulders are shaking with laughter.
You know, you’re actually a pretty good singer.
Jungkook flushes and waves a hand. “I’d die of fright on a stage, though. This is more fun.”
Then Ke$ha comes on and he’s off again. “ DON’T STOP MAKE IT POP DJ BLOW MY SPEAKERS UP…”
Oh my god, Yoongi says and dissolves into laughter again - his thoughts warm, giddy things like fuck he’s so cute why, and Jungkook feels lighter than he has in weeks.
_ _
They stop for lunch somewhere in Massachusetts, eat sandwiches perched on the hood of the car.
Not much further, Yoongi assures him, looking far too adorable with his cheeks stuffed full of bread. Just another two hours or so.
Is there any reason for this? Jungkook asks, resorting to the bond so he doesn’t have to try to talk through his own large mouthful. This is better than any rest stop food has any right to be, in his opinion.
Yoongi shrugs. To celebrate you finishing your application? But mostly because I thought it would be nice to have some time just the two of us.
Yeah, Jungkook agrees. He loves the others, truly, but he’s missed alone time with Yoongi. Having space for just the two of them in Jungkook’s head. It will be.
Yoongi smiles at him, bright and gummy, and fuck, Jungkook is so in love.
_ _
“A ferry?” Jungkook asks, watching Yoongi pay for tickets in Woods Hole. “We’re going to Martha’s Vineyard, aren’t we?”
Maybe, Yoongi hedges, as if he hadn’t just asked for two tickets to Oak Bluffs, which is listed on the board as Oak Bluffs, Martha’s Vineyard.
Jungkook bites back a yell of excitement and shock. He’s heard classmates talk about vacationing here, always thought it would be fun, but way too expensive.
You all need to stop spending money on me.
Yoongi flicks his neck. Shut it, I wanted to do the boyfriend thing.
“Boyfriend thing?” Jungkook says out loud as they get in line for the ferry, behind a very expensive-looking sports car.
Yoongi rolls his eyes. You know. Take you somewhere, give you something special, fucking soft shit like that, okay?
Jungkook grins, cheeky, even though he’s currently warm and tingling down to his toes. “How sweet of you, hyung.”
Shut up, brat. But Yoongi’s smiling, too, and he doesn’t pull away when Jungkook takes his hand and moves it into his lap, playing with Yoongi’s slender fingers.
_ _
Yoongi’s rented them a one-room cottage, bracketed by woods and with the sea a strip on the distant horizon. It’s warm and airy, walls full of windows and furniture made up of bright colors, and Jungkook kisses Yoongi in the middle of it, as soon as the door is firmly shut behind him. Kisses him like he’s wanted to kiss him for weeks - arm around Yoongi’s waist, tongue in Yoongi’s mouth, Yoongi’s head tilted up to meet him. The last time they let themselves get this heated, Taehyung started screaming over the bond and Jin said "CHILDREN" in scandalized outrage and Jungkook still kind of wants to die thinking about it, but now it’s just the two of them and god, god he wants.
We’re here for five days, Yoongi says when they finally pull apart, looking flushed. Lips red. I have a couple things that could be fun to see, but it’d be nice to just relax, too.
“Yeah,” Jungkook agrees, brushing his fingers along the skin of Yoongi’s stomach, under his sweater. “I’d like that.”
_ _
They go to dinner in town and they walk on the beach after dark, stand barefoot in the cool ocean.
“We almost died,” Jungkook says, watching the black waves rolling towards the shore. “That still scares me sometimes.”
Yoongi threads their fingers together. We’re still alive, though. Focus on that.
“Yeah,” Jungkook agrees. “It’s hard, though.”
I know. Yoongi’s full of sad understanding and god, of course he knows. He nearly bled out on an apartment floor. But it does fade, trust me.
“I do,” Jungkook assures him. “I do.”
_ _
They go to Gay Head Lighthouse, just because of the name, and visit some of the shops in town. Jungkook buys Yoongi a necklace made of sea stones, brimming with magic, and Yoongi finds a new pair of earrings for him that are meant to be a joke (seahorses), but Jungkook wears for the rest of the day because he likes how they catch the light.
They hike through some of the nature trails and lie out on the beach in the sun. Jungkook lets his fear of the ocean settle - takes pictures of Yoongi in the water and doesn’t think about death at all. His camera roll fills up with other pictures, too: flowers and trees and pretty cottages with colorful exteriors. And Yoongi. Yoongi’s smile and his hair in the sun and the disgruntled expression on his face before coffee - each of them a memory Jungkook is going to keep close to his chest.
On their third night there, they cook together like a proper couple - have pasta and wine and laugh at how pretentious they feel. Then they kiss and kiss and kiss, until Yoongi is pressed against the couch cushions and Jungkook settles into his lap and imagines that he can feel every inch of him, even through their layers of clothing.
Yoongi’s hands find his hips and there is desire rippling from him, but nervousness, too. You’re sure?
Jungkook rolls down, a slow grind that is all heat heat heat in spite of how awkward he feels. He doesn’t know how to move his body like this, not really, but from the flushed look on Yoongi’s face - the tiny hitch of his breath and the squeeze of his fingers against Jungkook’s skin - he doesn’t think it matters.
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I want you.”
So much.
Yoongi still hesitates. Even though you’ve never…
“I don’t care,” Jungkook insists. He cups Yoongi’s face, brushes gentle fingers over his cheeks and up into his hair. “I know you’ll take care of me.”
Yoongi shivers and his desire deepens, so hot and wonderful beneath Jungkook’s skin. He’s still afraid, though. There are bad memories lurking here, too, Jungkook knows, because the last person Yoongi gave this to was the one who hurt him the most. That prompts him to lean down and rest his forehead against Yoongi’s.
And I’ll take care of you, too. I promise.
Fuck, Yoongi rasps over the bond, shifts to kiss him. Okay. Okay.
_ _
Jungkook knows he’s inexperienced, probably too eager, but he doesn’t bother trying to hide how much he wants Yoongi. It gets Yoongi flushed and pleased and happy (and Jungkook aches a little, at the realization that Yoongi isn’t used to someone wanting him like this), but he still hesitates when he goes to pull his sweater over his head.
I can leave this on. There are … you don’t have to look at them….
“No,” Jungkook insists, catching his fingers on the hem and helping Yoongi get it off. “No, please, I want to see you.” I want to see you.
Fuck, Yoongi hiccups, awed and overwhelmed and nervous, fuck.
The scars are pale in the dim light and Jungkook’s gentle when he touches them, when he runs his hands over Yoongi’s stomach and shoulders and arms and down to his hips.
“You’re beautiful,” he insists when Yoongi bites his lip and stares at the ceiling, shivering under Jungkook’s touch. “You’re so beautiful, Yoongi.”
You’re ridiculous. But Yoongi’s cheeks are red and there is a smile twitching across his lips and his happiness is a ball of light in Jungkook’s chest.
And right, he fires back and pulls Yoongi down into another kiss.
_ _
He learns a lot of things that night:
_ _
After, Jungkook curls up on the sheets and comes down slow, body trembling through the aftershocks. Yoongi locates a washcloth in the bathroom and cleans them up, gentle, gentle. Makes Jungkook share a glass of water with him. His hair is sticking to his forehead and in a thousand directions from Jungkook’s hands and he’s flushed and sweaty all over and he’s still the most gorgeous thing Jungkook’s ever seen.
Was thinking the same thing about you, Yoongi teases as he pulls the blankets over them.
(He didn’t put a sweater back on, after they finished, and Jungkook considers that a victory.)
“Shut up,” Jungkook huffs. “I don’t have enough brain cells left for a good comeback.”
That good, huh? Yoongi asks, a hint of nerves creeping back in.
“ Amazing.” Jungkook shifts closer, kissing Yoongi’s bare shoulder. “God that was … fuck.”
Yes, that is what we did.
“You’re terrible,” Jungkook laughs and Yoongi grins at him, crooked. Brushes some of Jungkook’s sweaty bangs from his forehead. “I love you.”
Love you, too. And thank you, for taking care of me.
He doesn’t add, a lot of people haven’t, but Jungkook hears it and kisses him again, continuing up his neck to his cheek and the corner of his red, red mouth. “Ditto. You … that was so good .” You made my first time so good.
I’m glad, Yoongi murmurs, kissing him, too. I wanted to give you that.
Jungkook’s heart is full to bursting and his body is wrung out and exhausted and content. He sighs, happy, and wraps an arm around Yoongi’s waist, shifting them so he can press up to Yoongi’s back, reveling in the feel of so much skin against his own.
Sleep now. Yoongi already sounds most of the way there, tipping his head so Jungkook can nuzzle into his neck and letting out a pleased sigh of his own.
They drift off like that, still tangled up in each other.
_ _
In the morning, they sit on the beach and watch the sun come up. Yoongi smokes a cigarette with timorous fingers and Jungkook wonders how to bring up the fact that he felt Yoongi jolt awake last night, felt his panic until it faded, heard his hitching breaths when he settled back down.
Maybe Yoongi knows because he presses his shoulder to Jungkook’s and says, it was a bad dream. I’ve had it before. It’s okay.
“What’s … what’s it about?”
Yoongi blows out a slow stream of smoke. I’m with … with him. Sometimes we’re fighting, or we’re in bed, or I’m pinned to the floor for the ritual. I want him to stop. I try to tell him to stop. Whether he’s yelling or touching me or whatever - I always want him to stop. But I can’t … he’s holding my voice in his hand. Or sometimes, it’s around his neck. And I can see it there, but I can’t reach it and I can’t speak and no one can hear me and there’s a hole in my throat that won’t stop bleeding…
He rakes a hand through his hair and shakes his head. Jungkook wraps an arm around his shoulders, trying to offer what comfort he can through the clench of his stomach.
But it’s just a dream, Yoongi continues. It leaves me a little shaken up hence… he waves the cigarette. But I’m okay. I’ll be okay. And it wasn’t anything you did, I promise. It just happens sometimes.
Jungkook nods. Presses his mouth to Yoongi’s temple. “I hear you, hyung,” he whispers.
I know. Yoongi leans into him. You always have.
He means: even before this, even when they were limited to letters and typed phone messages and someone else’s voice. Jungkook has always heard him, always wanted more of his words, thoughts, opinions. He used to absorb them like water in a desert - any piece of information that could shade in more of Yoongi for him, give a fuller and more detailed picture of a person he already admired so much.
Yoongi stubs out the cigarette. The sun is full and bright over the water and he lays on his back in the sand, pulling Jungkook down with him.
C’mon. Lie with me.
Jungkook smiles, uncaring of the sand that’s probably getting everywhere as Yoongi plays with his hair.
“So … we’re doing the sex thing again, right?” he says after a few moments of comfortable silence. Because after last night … fuck, he wants more - everything Yoongi’s willing to give him.
God, brat, let me at least have coffee first, Yoongi grumbles, but he’s smiling.
Jungkook laughs, and Yoongi’s right.
In spite of the lingering shadows, they’re okay. They’re good.
_ _
Leaving the Vineyard is hard after five days of relaxation and dumb tourist activities and good food and frankly amazing (in Jungkook’s humble opinion) sex, but he’s missed the others and the familiarity of the townhouse and the shop. The bustle of New York.
“I never said thank you,” he tells Yoongi as the towering skyline comes into view, “for giving those papers to Jin-hyung.”
I wanted to help, Yoongi says with a shrug. Reaching over to run his knuckles down Jungkook’s cheek. Seemed like the least I could do.
“Jin-hyung said that, too.”
Sometimes, on rare occasions, Kim Seokjin is right about things.
“I still have to get in, though,” Jungkook points out, anxiety inching closer to the forefront of his mind again.
You will, Yoongi says and Jungkook can’t feel any doubt in him. Not even a flicker.
_ _
There are lots of hugs from the others and a home-cooked dinner waiting for them when they get back - jokes about their “romantic getaway” and the flood of them filling up space in Jungkook’s head again.
July rolls on - the air hot and thick on Jungkook’s tongue - and the bond continues to settle. They all get better, at opening and closing the doors, at carving out moments for themselves away from everyone else.
Taehyung lands an internship with a very famous fashion label and cries into the cake Jin makes him, while Jimin rubs his back and kisses his hair, and doesn’t bother to keep the pride off his face. Jimin, in turn, gets into a dance company that specializes in incorporating magic into their routines, and they all get drunk on cheap champagne and take turns spinning a laughing Jimin around the living room.
Business in the shop increases as tourist season approaches its peak and Jungkook spends most afternoons there re-stacking shelves and ringing up orders and talking to people from all over the world.
The admissions department at Tisch is silent and the worry eats at Jungkook’s stomach, no matter what he does to try to dispel it.
You’ll get in, they all tell him. You will.
Then, one average Monday afternoon, Jungkook is in the middle of rearranging the crystal display when Taehyung knocks on the bond from his own workplace.
You should pick up the mail on your way home.
His stomach does an immediate somersault, and butterflies explode in his chest. It’s an hour until closing and the time passes in slow, steady agony. This might not be it, he tells himself. Taehyung’s impressions are vague. Maybe it’s another piece of news. Maybe it’s the fucking furniture catalogue Namjoon ordered two weeks ago and is still waiting for.
But he still runs all the way home and makes a racket fumbling open their mailbox, hauling out the handful of letters inside. Bills, bills, junk, junk, junk, and there: his name, return address the Tisch School of the Arts.
Fuck.
A chorus of voices immediately answer him.
Did it come?
Is this it?
Get in here and open it, we’re all waiting.
Wait! I’m still on the train.
Well hurry the fuck up, then, Tae.
Shaking his head, he trips into the entryway and toes off his shoes. A cluster of people, minus Taehyung, are already gathered in the living room, looking just as anxious as he feels.
I’ll be there in five minutes, Taehyung declares, sounding out of breath even over a mental link. Don’t you dare open it until I get there.
Jungkook nods, even though Taehyung can’t see him, and Jimin takes his hand while Yoongi’s fingers find the back of his neck.
“Whatever happens, we’re with you,” Jimin says.
“All the way,” Namjoon adds.
Jungkook nods and bites his lip hard enough to hurt, unsure how to explain just how much that means to him.
Finally, finally, the front door crashes open and Taehyung rushes into the living room, flushed and panting.
“Okay, I’m here, open it open it open it….”
Jungkook takes a deep breath and tears open the envelope. Whatever happens, he reminds himself as he unfolds the letter. Whatever happens, he isn’t alone.
“Dear Jungkook,” he reads, voice already shaking. “On behalf of the admissions committee, it is my honor and privilege to share with you … that you have been been admitted to the Tisch School of the Arts at New York University.”
Taehyung whoops and throws his arms around Jungkook, crushing Jimin into Jungkook’s side in the process. Everyone else is cheering and jumping up and down and causing a general ruckus, and Yoongi’s forehead is pressed against his temple, a stream of love you love you knew you’d do it you’re gonna be amazing congratulations trickling into his mind.
Jungkook is dimly aware he’s crying, even as the others take turns hugging him and Seokjin takes the letter from his limp fingers to pin it to the fridge, right next to their research document.
He’s not sure he’s ever been this happy. Didn’t know, even just a few months ago, that this kind of happiness existed. The kind that makes your bones ache from how it fills every corner of you, expands your heart until its pressing against your ribs. That makes your mouth stretch so wide it hurts and tears leak from your eyes. Full-body happiness. Soul-deep happiness.
Raw and joyous and painful - enough to make you feel so so so alive.
You’re gonna be amazing, Yoongi tells him again while Seokjin declares that he needs to make a cake, ASAP, and someone go buy alcohol immediately, they are going to have a party, goddamnit. You’re gonna be so amazing, Jeon Jungkook.
Jungkook flails until he finds Yoongi’s hand and holds on tight. We both are. We all are.
Their circle. Their family.
Finally, after so many years, after so much searching, he’s home.
He’s home.
_ _
August of another summer, and once again
I am drinking the sun
and the lilies again are spread across the water.
I know now what they want is to touch each other.
Fin.