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Taehyung wakes up to white walls, Jimin’s trembling hands clutching his face, and Jimin’s trembling voice calling for a doctor.
The doctor comes with a sad look in his eyes and asks him some questions.
This is what he knows: his name is Kim Taehyung, he’s 22 years old, it’s August of 2018, and his head is throbbing.
This is what the doctor tells him: his name is Kim Taehyung, he’s 24 years old, it’s January of 2020, and he was in a car accident.
Taehyung blinks, thinks about what he just heard, and promptly passes the fuck out.
A week later, Taehyung goes home.
He bats away Jimin’s concerns and tells him he’ll be okay being alone, tells him he wants the quiet, tells him he wants to figure things out on his own. Jimin doesn’t believe him, but Jimin lets him go.
So, Taehyung goes home.
He steps into his apartment and it feels bigger than he remembers. Or emptier. But maybe that’s just him.
He walks to his bedroom, tries not to notice the things that have changed. He doesn’t think about the yellow curtains, he doesn’t think about the wilted flowers on the windowsill, he doesn’t think about how this isn’t the house he thought he’d come home to.
He just buries himself in his sheets and tries to dream about the things he lost, but all he sees is darkness.
For days after, all he does is sleep, and dream about things he doesn’t understand.
He dreams of a voice he doesn’t recognize, the smell of fresh laundry, and the feeling of sand under his fingernails. He dreams of the sea, eyes as round as the moon, and the color gold. He dreams of hearing bells, being held, and a twinkling laugh.
He wakes to the phantom feeling of arms around his waist and decides he has to get up.
He makes some eggs, burns them, and swallows them down staring at his living room. He looks at the yellow curtains. Wonders about the lavender air freshener. Doesn’t even try to figure out the dead sunflowers by the window.
He goes back to sleep.
He doesn’t throw the flowers away.
He cooks more eggs, burns less, and still doesn’t throw the flowers away.
He texts Jimin that he’s okay, and ignores the rest of his messages. He looks at his new phone and his empty phone gallery, and wonders what photos he has on his old one, the one cracked open in the wreckage of his car.
He showers, and is relieved to see the same strawberry shampoo he’s used since he was a kid.
He looks at his closet, and finds a black hoodie three sizes too big. He puts it on, and the smell of cologne sticking to the fabric makes his chest tight for reasons still unknown to him.
He runs out of eggs, so he goes grocery shopping.
He gets a carton of eggs, a few boxes of strawberries, a bottle of white wine, and almost checks out some lavender shampoo before he catches himself and puts it back. Strange.
He passes by an art store and gets himself some oil paints. He hopes this is the one thing he hasn’t forgotten. He doesn’t know what he’s here for if he does.
So, Taehyung goes home and tries to make his hands move like he remembers. Like he knows they can.
At first, he attempts to sketch the things that still come clear to him. Jimin’s smile, strawberry shampoo, the back of his own hand. He draws what he thought he would come home to, the white blinds and brown couch and grey sheets, and draws what he saw when he did. Draws the drooping sunflowers, the unfamiliar living room, the nonexistent shoes he tripped over the second he walked in the door.
He puts his pencil down and gets his paints, spends hours mixing colors. The monotony of his old home is easy, and the greys only take a few minutes. It’s the new one he’s faced with that takes up the rest of his day.
He spends a long time trying to get the colors right. He tries to get the right shade of sunbeam yellow for his curtains, the deep blue ocean of his carpet, the varying browns across the sun kissed skin of his hand.
He lets himself drift, lets his hand move on its own across the canvas. Colors inside the lines of his skin and deepens the shadows of his fingers, watching, as though out of his control, the image change before his own eyes. What comes out are shorter fingers, a bigger palm, inked knuckles. A thin silver ring on the index finger, right on top of a tiny, black crown.
He puts his brush down, looks at the painting and feels something burn in his chest, an old, festering hurt he doesn’t know what to do with, and tries to take a deep breath.
He puts the painting by the window to dry by sunlight, right beside the flowers he still refuses to touch.
When it dries, days after, he hides it in his closet so he doesn’t have to look at it and feel something he doesn’t have a name for. It’s just another addition in the growing list of things that don’t make sense to him, and he doesn’t know if it ever will.
Taehyung keeps dreaming. The same twinkling laugh, wind blowing through yellow curtains, dip-dyed blond hair against the blue depths of his carpet. The sweet smell of lavender, a crooked smile, a hand reaching for his own. A hand with shorter fingers, a bigger palm, and inked knuckles.
He wakes up to the phantom feeling of a hand cradling his cheek and feels something wet on his face.
He’s crying.
He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and sighs, rolling back into his pillows and hiding under his covers, and tries his best to feel warm.
He closes his eyes, tries to stop himself from crying for reasons he can’t seem to grasp. He breathes in through his nose, out of his mouth, keeps going until he stops shaking, until he feels steady enough to fall back to sleep.
He’ll think about this in the morning.
In the morning, he puts on the black hoodie, makes some eggs, stares at his dead flowers, and tries to get the courage to look at the painting he’s sure he saw in his dreams.
He doesn’t. Instead, he decides to take some pictures.
He looks for his old film camera and captures the life he’s still trying to get used to. He didn’t get to paint more before he started to hurt, so he decides to start in the living room he still struggles to commit to memory. Yellow curtains and dead flowers and sea floor carpet, and all. He puts his eyes to the tiny window of his lens and presses the shutter, and in the blinding light of the flash he can almost imagine someone standing by the window, draped in yellow, eyes closed under the light of the sun.
He blinks, and the image is gone.
He shakes his head, and keeps clicking.
Eventually, he runs out of film, but in the midst of shooting, he learns how to breathe again. He looks at his space and commits it to memory, presses the shutter, and makes it a tangible thing.
He thinks he has a few rolls left in his closet, and steels himself to see the painting he’s been trying to avoid. Instead, he finds something he didn’t know he was looking for.
It’s a box.
It’s a box with an address he doesn’t recognize.
Inside, there are dozens of undeveloped film rolls, all with dates spanning twelve out of the fifteen months he lost.
So naturally, Taehyung stares at the box for a few minutes, and goes to sleep.
The next day, Taehyung hauls it to the nearest film lab he knows and asks to get all of it developed. The person behind the counter looks at the sheer number of rolls he’s shown and sighs. Taehyung pays him with the money he found lying around and after minutes of counting his pile of coins, the clerk tells him it’s enough, and that his prints will be ready in three days.
Taehyung comes home, trips over nonexistent shoes by the doorway, and spends the rest of his day lying on his carpet, staring at the ceiling. He spends the next three days both restless and terrified, both unable to sleep and unable to stop dreaming. He keeps seeing flashes of gold, keeps thinking of the quiet humming at the back of his mind not unlike the dream-like laughter he can’t forget if he tried, keeps staring at his dead flowers like it might have the answers he’s looking for. He digs up his painting, and feels the quiet simmer of hurt in his chest fade against the weight of anticipation in his bones.
Three days pass.
Taehyung comes back to the film lab and the clerk looks at him and there’s a softer look in his eyes. He smiles and Taehyung smiles back, if only for the sight of those dimples on his cheeks. He hands him back the box he left behind and says, “he must be really special, huh?”
Taehyung, heart beating out of his chest and having absolutely no idea how to respond, just nods and bids him goodbye.
He doesn’t run back home, but it’s a damned near thing.
Taehyung walks in his door, doesn’t trip over the nonexistent shoes, and sets the box down on his carpet.
Heart pounding loud enough he’s sure it can be heard on the other side of the street, he closes his eyes, and opens the box.
He takes a deep breath, and opens his eyes to the sight of a boy.
The most beautiful boy he thinks he has ever seen in his life.
Frozen in a photograph, eyes as round as the moon. And on his chest, dark and unmistakable, is KTH.
Taehyung’s initials, branded right across his heart.
It takes him days to look at all the photos.
Not because of how many there are, but because of how his heart both drops and picks up the pace at each one.
His thoughts cycle back and forth to each other until it’s all he can hear.
Who is he?
Three photos.
First, a close-up: long brown hair fanned across a white pillow, nose scrunched, big hands covering his cheeks. His eyes are shut from in between the gaps of his fingers. He is pink everywhere, from his knuckles to the tip of his nose to the skin peeking out from his cheeks.
There’s a patch of sunshine making a home on his fingers, his thin silver ring reflecting its light.
Second, a little farther: stars in his eyes, gaze fonder than Taehyung has ever known. His smile is wide and unrestrained, bunny teeth on full display.
Joy, bright and unmistakable.
Arms out, reaching for Taehyung, about to pull him in.
Third, not as close, but just as felt: Taehyung, pulled in.
Back to the camera, face hidden in the man’s neck. The back of his ears are red. His cheeks are poking out in a smile, visible even from behind. The man is leaning his head against Taehyung’s, and his eyes are closed, smile small and a little crooked, dimple poking out sweetly.
His arms are out to take the photo, and Taehyung’s arms are wrapped tight around him.
He’s beautiful.
From above: him, dip-dyed blond hair a mess all over the sea floor blue of his carpet, cheeks red and eyes clouded over in a daze. Taehyung’s hand is cradling his face with a gentleness he didn’t know he could possess, and his thumb is tracing the boy's lips, red and bitten raw, slick and shiny, looking like he had just been kissed within an inch of his life.
From below: him, seconds after, about to return the favor. Shirt off, neck decorated with red marks shaped like Taehyung’s lips and Taehyung’s teeth and Taehyung’s tongue. He’s looking at Taehyung, eyes the color of molten gold. Everything about him is golden, beams of light falling over him like second skin. And behind him, the sun, blond hair haloed as it falls into the horizon, seconds before this boy falls into him.
Did I love him?
In the dark: eyes half-closed, tattooed hand intertwined with Taehyung’s paint-stained fingers, Taehyung’s wrist bent at an awkward angle. He’s tucked both under a soft cheek, right at the corner of his lips, which are pursed in a small kiss. His brows are furrowed, like he’s trying not to fall asleep.
In the morning light: eyes half-open, head turned to Taehyung’s hand under his cheek, planting a soft kiss at the back of it.
A few seconds after: eyes bright, smiling, looking just right above the camera, nosing at their joint hands, kissing at his bent wrist.
He looks at me like he loves me.
Under the night sky: his neck cradled by Taehyung’s arm, shielding his hair from the sand. His head is turned towards the stars, but he has all of them in his eyes, which are turned to the side. Right where Taehyung is supposed to be, right where the camera can see, the corner of his lips quirked, like he could tell before looking that he’d already been caught.
Under fluorescent light: in a hotel bathroom, a vision through steamed glass, water dripping across golden skin, one hand in his shampooed hair. Eyes rolling, crinkled at the sides, head turned towards the door like he isn’t the least bit surprised. Smiling like he can’t help it, like he’s trying not to let it show, hand reaching out to pull Taehyung in with him.
Under the afternoon sun: standing between billowing curtains, bathed in yellow and gold. He’s right in front of the blinding lightness yet his head is turned, looking back at where Taehyung is stood, like he’s just confirming what he’s already known: that the sun was right behind him all along.
What were we?
From the chest down: Taehyung’s arms wrapped tightly around a small waist, thin legs draped over strong thighs with bruises shaped like familiar fingers, one foot tangled with the boy’s and the other wrapped lovingly around his ankle.
From the waist up: Taehyung’s head laying on his chest, mouth curled up, eye to eye with his initials, KTH bold and brash and unmistakable, right on top of his heart.
Heads together: Taehyung, nosing at his cheek, lips pressed against the scar, eyelashes long and fluttering against his skin.
Hands connected: two silver rings, pinkies intertwined.
Where is he?
In Taehyung’s shower: a lavender shampoo bottle, right beside the strawberry he’s always known.
In Taehyung’s living room: feet bare against the blue of his carpet, painting his nails with the exact same color.
In Taehyung’s bed: against white sheets, golden skin, golden eyes, Taehyung’s name on his golden heart.
In front of Taehyung’s apartment door: black platform boots thrown off haphazardly by the doorway, beside leather loafers with the back bent towards the insole.
Why did no one tell me about him?
Photo after photo after photo: just him. Just them. This apartment. No one else.
Photo after photo until there’s none of them left: dead flowers. A missing coat from the hangers. An extra key in the rack.
Was he the one who changed everything?
He sits there for what feels like months just staring at what he lost, at what he desperately wants to find. He doesn’t have the memories, but they are a tangible thing. He has all of this in front of him, but the questions remain unanswered. So he does the only thing he can.
He picks up all the photos, puts them back in the box, hides them behind his curtains.
Then, he picks up his phone, and calls Jimin.
Jimin is lying on his carpet, pink hair bright against the deep ocean blue.
Taehyung lays down beside him, gently knocking their heads together, and knows without looking that Jimin smiled.
“Jimin-ah,” he starts, soft, unsure. Jimin takes his hand and squeezes, and Taehyung breathes in.
“Jimin-ah,” he says again, “in those fifteen months, was I ever—seeing anyone?”
“I’m not sure,” Jimin breathes out, voice just as soft.
“You—didn’t tell me anything, but I could tell you were in love, because I know you better than you know yourself. You were softer around the edges, you smiled more, and the smiles were realer. You were brighter than I’ve ever seen you, Taehyungie, and you’re already the brightest thing I know. You were glowing, and you didn’t say anything, but I knew.”
Taehyung breathes in, grips Jimin back just as tight.
“What if I was just happy?” he asks, and Jimin breathes out.
“You would also smile at your phone a lot,” Jimin replies, lips quirked up, “you would take calls outside and come back with your cheeks red, and you would cancel plans because you said you already had other ones.”
“Maybe I had other friends?” Taehyung tries, and gets a laugh in response.
“I’m your only friend, TaeTae,” Jimin teases, and Taehyung knows he’s smiling that smile that makes it hard for him to see, “you always said I’m the only one you’ll ever need.”
Taehyung grins, knocks his head against Jimin’s once more, “you are, Jiminie.”
“I know,” Jimin replies, rolling his eyes fondly, “but I wasn’t the one making you smile like that.”
Taehyung smiles, a faint thing, and Jimin leans his head closer, and stills.
“But then,” he continues, “you stopped.”
Taehyung doesn’t answer, just squeezes his hand, and Jimin breathes out.
“And you were quiet for a while, and I could tell you were sad. I could tell you had your heart broken, Taehyungie, but you wouldn’t tell me why and you never told me who, so I never asked. So we just did this, for a while after, until you could breathe again. Just laid down on your carpet and stared at the ceiling until you could get back up.”
Taehyung squeezes his hand three times, and Jimin does the same.
“Jimin-ah,” Taehyung starts again. “That night—”
Jimin breathes in, and Taehyung moves closer until their sides are touching, and intertwines their fingers so that their pulses align.
“That night,” he continues, voice soft, “did you know where I was going?”
“You told me you were going somewhere,” he replied, quiet, “but you wouldn’t tell me anything else.”
“Did I say why?”
“You just said that if you did, I would be able to convince you not to. And you needed to. And I let you, because you were so sad, Taehyungie. You were so quiet. It was the first time I didn’t know how to make you feel better, and no matter what I did, nothing changed. I thought that when you came back from wherever you were going to go, it would fix you the way I couldn’t.”
Jimin was starting to shake, so Taehyung breathes out. He turns his head and looks at Jimin, and Jimin breathes in before looking at him back.
Taehyung nudges their foreheads together, the way they used to when they were kids and still learning how to read each other's minds, and tells him, “it wasn’t your fault.”
Jimin looks down, closes his eyes so Taehyung can’t see them, as if Taehyung couldn’t see right through him. As if losing fifteen months of his life could erase the fifteen years he spent knowing him better than the back of his hand.
“I know,” Jimin whispers, unable to find the strength to raise his voice, “but I still wish I could have done something. I never found out where you were going, and you could never tell me—because the next time I saw you, you were fighting for your life, and they were telling me you were hit so hard your head went through the windshield.”
Taehyung squeezes his hand, three times, gripping tight enough to hurt, to remind Jimin he’s here, that he survived. Jimin breathes in, shakes his head, as though he’s pulling himself away from the past. Sometimes, Taehyung fails to realize that Jimin remembers what he’s lucky enough to forget, and wishes he was steady enough to help him breathe again.
“You were in a coma for three days,” he continues, “and when you woke up I thought nothing had changed, because you still looked at me the same. But then, we found out what happened, and what you lost, and I couldn’t forgive myself.”
He’s crying. Taehyung wipes his tears away and cradles his cheeks, tilting his chin up so they’re eye to eye. He blinks away the sting of tears that always comes when Jimin cries. He pulls the corner of Jimin’s lips up until it resembles a smile, long enough that when he lets go he knows the smile will stay.
“You don’t have to, Jiminie,” he breathes out, wiping away any stray tears still falling on his face, “you don’t have to feel sorry about anything.”
I’m here now, he thinks, and knows Jimin hears it.
Jimin breathes in, and Taehyung keeps him afloat.
Jimin stays the night, and the next morning Taehyung makes him some eggs, makes him smile the whole day to start making up for the ones he spent crying. Jimin looks at him like he knows exactly what he’s doing, but doesn’t call him out, or tell him to stop.
When he leaves, Taehyung wraps him up in his arms and makes sure he feels warm all over. Jimin hooks his chin on his shoulder, and Taehyung could feel his cheeks bunch up when he smiles.
He breathes in, and tightens his hold on Taehyung’s waist, before slowly loosening his grip.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the answers you were looking for, Taehyungie,” he exhales, and Taehyung holds him closer for a few more moments before letting him go.
“It’s okay, Jimin-ah,” he says, face falling into a smile, “I’m just happy you’re here.”
“Maybe the box you hid behind the curtains can tell you more than I can,” Jimin says, eyebrows raised, watching Taehyung’s face pink.
“I didn’t look through it, but—I saw an address. Maybe going there will tell you what you’ve been waiting to hear.”
Taehyung thinks about it.
Looks through the pictures once, twice, three more times, commiting the face to memory. Writes down the address on his phone, and sets an alarm for 10 in the morning, trying to calm his heart, still racing, even in the dead of the night.
Then, he goes to sleep, and dreams.
The next day, he wakes up seconds before his alarm rings, and takes a deep breath.
He doesn’t turn it off, goes through his whole morning with SUGA’s voice filling up the room, filling his ears, hoping that if he hears I don’t give a shit, I don’t give a fuck enough times it’ll actually be true, hoping that if SUGA tells him it’s not easy, but engrave it onto your chest he’ll actually find the strength to do so.
What happens is he cooks some eggs, burns them, swallows them down, and looks at the photos again. Looks at his big round starry eyes, the soft line of his nose, the delicate curve of his cupid’s bow. The scar on his cheek, the furrow of his brow, the soft wave of his hair and how it falls into his eyes.
All the photos of him beginning to smile, looking like the sunrise, like the waking of the world, like dawn after a heavy dusk. He looks like everything Taehyung has ever dreamed of come to life. Golden and blinding and true, Taehyung wonders how he could have survived all those months being faced with it, when he can barely catch his breath just looking at him now.
So he puts on the black hoodie, listens to SUGA’s voice, let the words if you feel like you’re going to crash then accelerate more fall over him, and does just that.
Taehyung is standing in front of his door, Apartment 126, just like it says on the box.
He has been standing in front of the door for nearly ten minutes, the box of photos by his feet, hand raised to knock.
Right before he gathers the courage to finally do it, the door springs open.
It’s him.
He’s standing there, right in front of Taehyung, pink mouth open and tears forming in his eyes.
“Taehyung?” he whispers. His voice is beautiful, bright, like the chiming of a bell, like a slow outpouring of light. Taehyung allows himself a few moments to be stunned, before he finally gets the courage to respond.
“Hello,” Taehyung says, tongue-tied. He puts his hand down, clutches it with his other so he doesn’t end up wiping those tears away.
The pictures don’t do him justice.
The boy shakes himself out of his daze, wipes at his eyes, blinking furiously, like he can’t quite believe what he sees.
Taehyung takes a deep breath, gives him a small smile.
“Can I come in?”
So, Taehyung comes in.
He doesn’t trip over the chunky black boots by the doorway, doesn’t look at the yellow curtains, just stares at the back of the boy’s head so hard he’s sure he must be able to feel it with how red his nape is starting to turn, and wants more than anything to be able to look at his eyes again.
He goes to the kitchen to get them some water, and Taehyung follows, watching him scuttle around like a baby deer, following him around the space to right all the things he keeps knocking over in his haste. He makes Taehyung’s tea exactly the way he likes it and pours himself some coffee, thin silver ring glimmering in the fluorescent light, shaking hands making it difficult for him to stir.
Once he’s done, Taehyung takes the drinks from his trembling hands, their hands touching for the briefest of seconds.
The boy freezes at the touch, and slowly moves away, but it’s okay.
Taehyung’s hands feel warm for the rest of his stay.
The boy sits him on the couch, and plops down right beside him, close enough that their thighs brush, but not too close that they touch.
Taehyung takes a moment to look at him, at all the things photos fail to capture in their stillness. The way his wide eyes grow impossibly wider with every stolen look Taehyung catches, the way he tries to school himself into the picture of calmness but is betrayed by the uncontrollable thumping of his legs, the lovely color blooming on his cheeks when he steals a glance and sees Taehyung still hasn’t looked away.
Taehyung wants to know so much, to know the sound of his voice when it isn’t thick with emotion, to know the feeling of his touch when it isn’t fleeting, to make him laugh and finally figure out if it’s the same as the one in his dreams.
But more than anything else, he wants to know—
“..your name?”
The boy almost jumps at the sound of his voice, and Taehyung can barely hold back a smile.
“What’s that?” he asks, voice squeaky and endlessly endearing.
“Your name,” Taehyung says, apologetic.
“What—” he repeats, eyes wide, more confused than anything, “what do you mean?”
“I—” Taehyung says, wry, “it’s a long story.”
“Tell me,” he whispers, already knowing that it’s not a happy one. Not from the way Taehyung’s eyes must look, empty, just like what’s inside.
“I was in an accident,” Taehyung says, and hears a sharp intake of breath.
“It was a car crash,” he continues, “I don’t remember anything, and the moment I woke up thinking I was still in August of 2018, they told me why.”
Taehyung watches him take it in, watches him look down and try to hide the shaking of his hands, but the cup he’s holding gives it away. Taehyung reaches over and takes it from him, puts it on the table, replaces it with his own steady hands.
“They told me,” Taehyung says, “that it was January of 2020, and I lost 15 months of my life in the crash. And I had to live with that. I went home, and I realized everything had changed and I have no idea how that could be, and no way to find out. But then.”
Taehyung squeezes his hands, and he lifts his chin and looks at Taehyung, eyes filled with tears refusing to fall.
Aish, he thinks, wry. I don’t even know his name, and I’ve already made him cry twice.
He frees one hand from Taehyung’s grip and moves closer, until their thighs are nearly overlapped, and gently cradles the side of his neck, as though wanting to feel for his pulse.
“But then,” he continues, “I found a box with this address on it, filled with film rolls, and when I got them developed they were all of you.”
The boy closes his eyes, and his tears fall on their joint hands.
“And I looked at them, all of them, so many times that I don’t think I could ever forget you again. And I—” Taehyung laughs through his nose, a quick exhale of breath, “I don’t even know your name, but I know you’re important. I—I think you changed everything.”
“I—” the boy tries, voice breaking. He sniffles, frustrated, nose cherry red. Taehyung holds back a smile, despite himself.
“When did it happen?” he tries again, whispering, “The accident?”
“New Years’ Eve,” Taehyung answers, and watches as the boy crumbles, letting out a soft sob.
“My name is Jeon Jeongguk,” he says miserably, voice thick, like he’s speaking through a lump in his throat, “and I know where you were going that night.”
“We had been together for a year, before I broke things off,” Jeongguk says, hands clutching Taehyung’s own, thumbs absentmindedly rubbing circles on the backs of his hands.
“I—I loved you. Love you,” he corrects, smiling sadly, “so much I didn’t know what to do with it.”
“I saw,” Taehyung replies softly, “in the photos. You looked at me like you did.”
“But I—” Jeongguk swallows, looking down, “I wasn’t out. And I loved you more than anything, but I was so terrified. And you—you were so kind, and you said it was okay to hide.”
He takes a moment to breathe, like it’s hurting him to speak.
“But that wasn’t fair to you,” he continues, squeezing Taehyung’s hands so hard that it hurt, “and I knew that. And I could tell how hard it was for you. We couldn’t go out, and we would only stay at your apartment if we wanted to meet. We would only go if it was far away, so I could feel less afraid. You couldn’t even tell Jimin, and I knew that was the hardest part.”
He loosens his hold on Taehyung’s and rubs the backs with his thumbs again, like an apology, like a soothing balm.
“So I told you that I wanted to end it,” Jeongguk says, biting his lip hard enough that it turned red, “and you refused. And I told you—I told you this wasn’t what you deserved. That you deserved to be loved out there where the rest of the world can see, and so loud that everyone would be turning their heads to look, and I—” he pauses, tries to steady his breathing.
“I couldn’t give you that. I wanted so badly to be strong enough, but I couldn’t. And you fought me, every step of the way, but I wouldn’t budge.”
“That night,” he continues, breathing in, “New Years’ Eve, I got a call. It was months after we broke up, and my mom—she found out about me. About us. And the world didn’t end. I talked about you for hours, and she told me she was happy I found someone so wonderful, and I couldn’t bear to tell her that I already let you go.”
This time, it was Taehyung holding his hands tighter, pulling them closer to himself.
“When I hung up,” he says miserably, “I could barely breathe. I was so relieved that she didn’t hate me, but the person I wanted to tell the most was the one I wasn’t brave enough to keep.”
Jeongguk looks up, lets go of Taehyung’s hands only to clutch at his arms, to touch the breadth of his shoulders, like he’s making sure he’s actually real.
“I missed you so badly, Tae,” he says, big starry eyes staring straight at Taehyung’s, “I just wanted you back, I would’ve done anything. So, I sent you some flowers with a message that said to meet me by the river before the clock struck 12, because I wanted to see you again. I had to tell you something before the year ended. I was ready to beg, to get on my knees, just to have you in my arms again.”
He gently puts his hand on the side of Taehyung’s neck, fingers against the racing of his pulse.
“But you didn’t show up,” he continues, wry, “I called you and waited by the river for days after, but every time I did it said the number was no longer in service, and everyday I waited, no one came. I—I thought that was it. That I lost my chance. I didn’t know—”
There are tears forming in his eyes again, and this time Taehyung doesn’t hesitate to wipe them away. Jeongguk just looks at him, eyes wide, full of hurt and regret and wonder, all at once.
“I didn’t know,” he whispers again, hand gently touching the one Taehyung is using to wipe his tears away, and keeps it there, right on his cheek for him to lean on.
Taehyung, knowing that tone of voice, takes Jeongguk’s other hand and puts it on his chest, right on top of his heart. So he can feel it beat, so he can tell if Taehyung lies.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Taehyung says, voice firm, heartbeat steady. Jeongguk closes his eyes, and lets himself be pulled. Listens to the sound of his heart until it’s all he can hear, until he can feel himself start to breathe again.
“I’m here now,” Taehyung says, repeats it until it’s all Jeongguk can hear, and pulls him close. Until they’re chest to chest, and they can feel each other breathe.
They stay like that for as long as they can.
“Jeongguk,” Taehyung starts, and he feels Jeongguk’s cheeks rise in a smile against his skin.
“You said my name,” he whispers, and Taehyung smiles in return, cheeks poking out to meet Jeongguk’s.
“Jeongguk,” he repeats, and when Jeongguk turns his head Taehyung can feel his nose brush against his cheek.
“Do you want to see the photos?”
“Can you tell me about this one?”
They’re sitting on the floor in front of Jeongguk’s couch, sides touching, box of photos in front of them.
Taehyung shows Jeongguk the photo of him in the dark, him half-asleep, eyes closing, their joint hands tucked under his chin, and Jeongguk lights up.
“That was the night we met,” Jeongguk says, eyes crinkling at the sides. Turns his head and looks at Taehyung, who’s looking at him back.
“Tell me,” Taehyung whispers, poking his cheek until he scrunches his nose.
He laughs a little, and tells him, “it was the night before my birthday, and we were at a club.”
“I—I’ve never been to a gay club before, and I thought that maybe I could try, for my birthday. I was so nervous. You saw me trying to get the bartender’s attention and bought me a drink. I turned and saw you and—I don’t know. It’s like my heart stopped. I stood there just staring at you for so long, and all you did was smile, and wait for me to catch my breath. And I don’t know how I got the courage, but I asked you to dance.”
Jeongguk laughs again, burying his head in his hands. Taehyung gently pulls his hands away, lifts his chin so they’re eye to eye.
“Keep going,” he says, softly, “and don’t hide. I want to keep looking at you.”
Jeongguk’s cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink, and it’s all he can do to look away from Taehyung’s gaze. He keeps going.
“It was a mess," he groans, embarrassed, "we kept stepping on each other's feet and giggling, and you spun me around so many times that I threw up on your feet."
Taehyung bursts into laughter, pulling at Jeongguk's hands when he tries to hide his face again.
"No, keep going," he insists, biting back his smile, "I won't laugh, I promise."
Jeongguk just looks at him, pleading, and sighs. He puts his head on Taehyung's shoulder.
“I threw up on your feet,” he repeats, and smiles softly, "but you still took me home."
Taehyung leans his head against Jeongguk’s, gets a whiff of his lavender shampoo.
"We didn't do anything," he continues, "we didn't even kiss. We just talked the whole night. You kept tucking my hair behind my ear and I kept letting you. I wouldn't let go of your hand, and I told you it's to stop you from getting away, but not once did you even attempt to let go. Even when your wrist was bent at an awkward angle, just so I can use our hands as a pillow. You asked me if you could take a photo of me, and I remember telling you yes before I went and fell asleep.”
Jeongguk smiles, a small, fragile thing.
“I woke up just as the sun was rising and I saw you, and for a moment I wondered if I was still dreaming. You were looking at me so softly that I had to look away, so I just kissed the back of your hand, kissed your bent wrist, which started creaking the second I moved it.”
Taehyung takes his hand, and Jeongguk intertwines their fingers as soon as they touch, as though he’s been waiting for it all this time.
“You asked me,” he continues, “why I didn’t tell you it was my birthday. And I asked you how you knew, and you said that my phone kept ringing with messages greeting me and you just happened to see what they said, and you looked so genuinely upset that I didn’t know what else to do but kiss you.”
“You kissed me?” Taehyung asks, pleasantly surprised. Jeongguk blushes harder than he already is and replies.
“I missed your lips,” he confesses, red to the tips of his ears at the sound of Taehyung’s laugh, “but it got that look off your face. I told you I didn’t think it was important, and you told me that if you knew, you would have made last night more special. And before I could ask you how, you blushed and squished my cheeks together, and told me you’d bake me a cake.”
“Did I?” Taehyung asks, and Jeongguk plays with his fingers for a moment before he smiles.
“You only had eggs in your fridge,” he giggles, nose crinkled, “so you just made eggs and said the cake will come later, and then you burned the eggs because you kept looking at me.”
“I don’t blame me,” Taehyung says, smiling as Jeongguk’s eyes narrow, “look at yo—”
Jeongguk shoves his finger against Taehyung’s lips before he could finish, and Taehyung feels his mouth fall into a big, boxy grin.
“Shh,” Jeongguk grins back, and Taehyung moves away to nose at the hair behind Jeongguk’s ear, and tells him to keep going.
“You gave me a plate of burnt eggs with a candle sticking out from the middle and told me I didn’t have to eat it, but I did because it made you smile. You sang me happy birthday, lit the candle, and told me to make a wish. So I wished that I could kiss you, blew out the candle, and did just that.”
Taehyung smiles into Jeongguk’s hair, and drops his head on his shoulder.
“That’s a great story, Jeonggukie,” he whispers, “I wish I could remember it.”
“You called me Jeonggukie,” he replies, voice soft and wistful.
“What did I used to call you?” Taehyung asks, lifting his head right as Jeongguk’s cheeks warm.
“You used to call me baby,” Jeongguk says back, watching Taehyung’s eyes widen before realizing what he said and springing away. He stands up and takes their forgotten glasses and tells him he’ll be right back, right before scrambling away to the kitchen.
Taehyung watches him go, and sags back into the couch, stares at the ceiling in a daze.
“Baby,” he whispers to himself, and feels his cheeks warm when he does.
“It’s getting late,” Taehyung says, looking at the time.
Jeongguk looks at him, eyes wide, before grabbing his arm, tugging at the hoodie sleeve until Taehyung is only looking at him.
“Do you,” he licks his lips, hesitating. Taehyung waits, wanting to hear what he’s going to say.
Jeongguk takes a deep breath, and asks.
“Do you want to stay?”
So, Taehyung stays.
Jeongguk gives him a towel and some of his clothes so he can shower, and shows him to the bathroom. He tells Taehyung he’ll just be in the living room, and scampers away before Taehyung could respond.
Taehyung smiles to himself, takes off his clothes, and hops in the shower.
He uses some of Jeongguk’s lavender shampoo, is a little giddy thinking about smelling like him for the rest of the night, and hopes he doesn’t mind.
He dries himself off, grabs Jeongguk’s soft pajamas, and inhales the scent of fresh laundry when he puts them on. He rubs the fabric against his cheeks, looks fondly at the smiling red hearts all over it, and walks into the living room to Jeongguk’s awaiting eyes.
Taehyung walks in, and Jeongguk takes one look at him wearing his clothes, and blushes to the roots of his hair.
He scrambles off to shower, but not before whispering a hushed “you smell nice” to Taehyung as he walks past.
Jeongguk shows him to his bed, fluffs his pillows, gets one of them, and almost walks out before Taehyung calls him back.
“Where are you going?” he asks, confused.
“To the living room?” he replies, just as confused.
“This is your bedroom,” Taehyung answers back, gesturing to the half of the bed he presumed Jeongguk would sleep in. He looks at Jeongguk, sinking back into the pillows, eyes heavy. His hair must be a mess, he thinks blearily, and reaches a hand out to Jeongguk, wondering why he’s so far away.
“Sleep here with me,” he whispers, looking at Jeongguk under the soft yellow light of his room. He’s wearing pink pajamas with bunnies on them and his hair is still wet, curling into his eyes and around the backs of his ears, some drops still falling on his shirt. Taehyung could paint him like this, he thinks, sleepy and blinking slowly, standing under artificial light, ordinary and mundane and everything Taehyung thinks he could ever want.
“I—” Jeongguk stutters, eyes wide and round, hands wringing, “I can’t.”
“Why not?” Taehyung asks, head tilted, “we’ve done this before, haven’t we?”
“But you—” Jeongguk tries, voice breaking, “you don’t remember that.”
Taehyung smiles, indulgent, and pats the space beside him.
“Remind me, then.”
So Jeongguk does.
Taehyung looks at him, face inches away, eyes closed and serene. He’s breathing deeply, body loose and relaxed, and Taehyung would almost believe he was asleep if it weren’t for the nervous thumping of his feet.
Taehyung smiles, endeared, and looks at him for a second. He’s catching the moonlight in such a way that almost makes it hard for Taehyung to believe that he’s real, if he weren’t close enough to touch. So Taehyung reaches out, takes a strand of hair between his fingers and tucks in behind Jeongguk’s ear, feeling his ears warm beneath his hand.
“Jeongguk,” he whispers, watches Jeongguk’s nose twitch in response, watches Jeongguk pretend to not hear his name being called.
“Baby,” he tries again, watches Jeongguk’s eyes fly open, big and wide, like he just had the shock of his life.
“What was that?” Jeongguk asks, voice worryingly high. Taehyung holds back a smile.
“Jeonggukie,” he says instead, fondly watching Jeongguk’s lips purse in a small pout, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
“Tell me something,” he continues, scooting closer to Jeongguk’s frame, until they’re only inches apart, until it’s almost as if they’re exchanging breaths, until he doesn’t know where he starts and Jeongguk ends.
“Anything?” Jeongguk whispers back, like they’re exchanging secrets, moving impossibly closer. His hair falls into his eyes again, and Taehyung absentmindedly tucks it back behind his ear, thumb gently stroking the scar on his cheek.
“Tell me,” Taehyung says, thinking about the one thing he’s always wondered about, “about the yellow curtains.”
Jeongguk smiles instantly, sweetly, lashes fluttering, eyes curving up. Taehyung feels his own lips curve up, like an involuntary muscle, answering to the sight of Jeon Jeongguk’s joy.
“You and I were lying in bed, just like this,” he begins, looking fondly at Taehyung, eye to starry eye, “and you were telling me about parallel universes.”
“You told me,” he says, voice low and so warm Taehyung could melt, “that thinking about them scares you, sometimes. All the universes that one person could make, where some are almost exactly the same, and other vastly, terribly different.”
Taehyung feels his face warm, because that sounds exactly like him, and because Jeongguk’s voice is so unbearably, impossibly fond.
“And you told me that it scares you,” he whispers, smiling gently, “thinking that somewhere out there in the world, is a Taehyung that doesn’t have his Jeongguk to love him.”
Jeongguk nudges their noses together, and when he blinks, his eyelashes flutter on Taehyung’s cheeks like little kisses.
“And I said to you,” he breathes, “that that’s an impossible thing. Not because those universes don’t exist, but because I don’t believe that there could ever be a world where you and I don’t find each other.”
Taehyung feels his breath catch, feels a lump form in his throat. He closes his eyes, and hopes Jeongguk feels the kiss he just gave.
“And you said, but they could,” Jeongguk mimics, brow furrowed, and breaking out of it with a small shake of his head, “but they could. There could be a universe out there where everything is the same except you have yellow curtains, and there could be a universe out there where nothing is the same except you have me.”
He pauses, looks at Taehyung, and smooths down the furrow in his brow that formed without him knowing.
“And you said, there might be a universe out there where you lose me.”
Taehyung looks down, blinking back the sting of tears forming in his eyes. Jeongguk cradles his cheeks with gentle hands, and lifts his chin so their gazes meet, eye to starry eye.
“So I told you,” he says, wry, “that it won’t be this one. And that I don’t care about any other universe out there, because this is the one where I have you, and this is the one where you’ll never have to fear losing me.”
Taehyung can no longer hold back his tears, and they fall on Jeongguk’s cheeks before he nudges their noses together, before he flutters more kisses on Taehyung’s cheeks in an apology he will never be able say enough.
“This is the one that counts, yellow curtains or no,” he whispers, and tugs Taehyung even closer, until their lips almost touch, until they’re almost speaking into each other’s mouths.
“And the next day,” he breathes, “I got you yellow curtains, and told you our universe exists right here. We’ll make our world exactly the way we want it, and it’ll be just ours.”
He closes his eyes, leans his forehead against Taehyung’s, and takes a breath. Taehyung breathes with him, opens his eyes, tucks the same hair back behind his ear and buries his hands in his hair.
“And I’ll never leave,” he whispers, like a promise, like something more than just a part of the story he’s told.
“I’ll never leave again.”
Taehyung closes his eyes, leans in to kiss the corner of his lips, lingers for a few moments before he pulls away, and tucks his head under Jeongguk’s chin.
Jeongguk wraps his arms around Taehyung’s waist, and moves until they’re chest to chest, heart to hurting heart.
They stay like that until the morning comes, and still refuse to let go.
Taehyung wakes up, and it takes him a few seconds to remember where he is, and a few more to figure out if he’s still dreaming. He looks down at the arms holding him close, no longer just a phantom feeling, and melts into the embrace.
He looks up, and it’s like his heart stops. Jeongguk is right there, gorgeous and unmistakable and real, looking at Taehyung with eyes brighter than the morning light draping itself on his skin.
Taehyung just looks at him, still vaguely stunned, staring at the softness of his gaze. His face is still puffy, cheeks rounded, teeth poking out from his lips.
Jeongguk just looks at Taehyung looking at him, and a smile too fond for this early in the morning crawls up from his lips. He scrunches his nose at the sight of Taehyung’s dumbfounded face, and the arms around Taehyung’s waist tightens, hugging him close.
Jeongguk hooks his chin on Taehyung’s shoulder, nosing at his hair, smiling when he feels Taehyung’s ears warm.
“Good morning, Tae,” he whispers, and Taehyung’s heart skips a beat, “you smell nice.”
“Good morning, Jeonggukie,” he replies, heart lighter than he can ever remember it being.
“Tell me something?”
And they start again.