Archive of Our Own ^beta

∞

 

In which a poet drinks a finger of whiskey

and writes a stanza about his own death

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Our protagonist is dead, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. 

The entire scene is painted as a monochrome in red: the dim LED signs on the wall contouring his face with maroon, the mahogany countertop slick with spilled liquor and regrets, the scarlet shirt on the lonely looking stranger next to him.

Yoongi is sitting at the bar, drumming his fingers against the surface. He absentmindedly traces the grain with a nail, trying to extract some form of inspiration from the swirling patterns in the wood. This curve right here, a wave. That burl there, a wormhole. His fountain pen drools onto the napkin as he stalls, blotting out half-hearted phrases. 

He sets the pen down with a sigh. It’s become a bit harder for him to concentrate these days; too many thoughts rattling around inside his head. A fragment begins, only to be broken off and resolved into something incongruent with the rest. 

Yoongi takes another sip of his whiskey, regret immediately exploding across his tongue. He can’t stand the taste anymore. 

It’s taken everyone by surprise — the bartenders at the establishments he regularly frequents; the friends who’ve known him since he’d had his very first drink at fourteen and never looked back; the graves of loved ones who used to get a taste every time he poured out a shot for them after downing one himself. But he’s un-acquired the taste for whiskey, just like he’s unlearned a great many other things. One thing he’ll never get used to is seeing his own headstone. 

“Have you ever died before?” Yoongi asks suddenly, swiveling around to face the man sitting beside him. The scarlet shirt comes into focus. 

“Sorry?” The man glances around, his eyes unfocused. “Are you talking to me?” 

“Yeah,” he says, “you.” 

“Oh. I mean — no, I can’t say I have?” The stranger scrunches his face up, like he’s genuinely considering the question. Judging from the light flush in his cheeks, he’s certainly tipsy enough to be.  Pretty handsome, too, Yoongi registers, even when his features are all contorted in perplexity. The man wets his lips, appearing hesitant. “Was that some kind of a pick-up line?” 

Yoongi presses the smile out of his lips. He leans forward, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the muffled music. “What’s your name?”

“Seokjin. Or Jin.” The man waves his hand around, blowing air out of his mouth. His eyes are glassy. “Whichever.” 

“Seokjin,” he repeats, committing it to memory. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Likewise,” Jin replies brightly, reaching across to shake his extended hand. “Are you here alone?” 

Yoongi wiggles his eyebrows. “Who’s hitting on who now?” 

“It was just a question,” the man huffs. He straightens up, his posture juxtaposing the flustered quirk in his mouth. Through the window past Jin’s shoulder, Yoongi can see the horizon just beginning to deepen into copper. Soon, the sun will sink, leaving them in darkness and scattered neon hues. 

“I’m just messing with you,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m alone. Just drinking, and dwelling. Dwelling and drinking.” 

He turns his drink around in his hand, the amber liquid sloshing around as he positions his fingers onto the facets of glass like guitar frets.  He can feel Seokjin zero in on the movement. 

“What are you dwelling on?” 

“Lots of things.” Yoongi takes another sip, wrinkling his nose. “Beer,” he mutters. “I should have ordered a beer.” 

There’s a snort. “Why didn’t you?” 

“Force of habit, I guess.” He shrugs. “Muscle memory.” 

“Muscle memory,” Seokjin echoes, smacking his lips. He laughs again, the sound more muted. “Yeah, I get that.” 

Yoongi peers at him curiously. He knows a man on a mission when he sees one, and this man has clearly set out to pour himself into oblivion. But apart from this one glaring motive, it’s hard to get a read on him.

“Anything in particular you’re here to drink away?” 

“You’d hardly believe me if I told the truth,” Jin says with an odd expression. 

“That crazy?” He grins, leaning forward. A stranger; a spark of curiosity. It’s all he needs to feel alive these days. “I’ll bite.” 

“I’ve been stuck in an endless time-loop, trying to save everyone that I love, and I keep on failing,” Jin deadpans. 

He nods. “It happens.” 

Seokjin lets out an abrupt, startled noise that dissolves into a chuckle. “You asked if I’ve ever died before,” he mentions suddenly, his eyes thoughtful. “Did you mean metaphorically?” 

“God, no.” Yoongi wrinkles his nose. “I’m tired of metaphors. I’ve lived through too many of them.” He slides his napkin off the table, stuffing it into his pocket. Half formed lyrics crumple into oblivion. Seokjin’s eyes track the movement. 

“I visited a grave today,” Yoongi continues. “Belonged to a friend.” He stifles a laugh with the back of his hand; the gesture doesn’t go unnoticed, though Seokjin doesn’t look nearly as baffled as he should. Then again, there’s very little that would surprise either of them at this point. 

“You must miss him a lot,” Jin says carefully. Under the flickering light, smaller, abstract details are beginning to emerge. He carries the flavor of death about him too, gravestones caught between his teeth like a persistent ache. Loss threads its way through the furrow in his brow. The man hides it well. But Yoongi has a trained eye for these things.  

“Oh, I suppose.” 

Jin takes his flippant response in stride. “What was his name?” 

“Jungkook,” he says softly. Nostalgia wells up in his chest, rising in his throat. He winces, tapping his sternum with his fist as he tries and fails to choke it down. “Sorry,” he coughs. “Acid reflux.” 

They lapse into a not quite awkward, not quite comfortable silence. The sky hasn’t fully darkened yet. Seated by the window, Yoongi can see the glow of twilight tickling the horizon. 

“You can ask me another question, if you want,” Seokjin speaks up, sounding surprisingly at ease. “About whatever you’re… dwelling on.” 

Yoongi lifts his chin. “Is your first love ever the one you get to keep?” he murmurs. 

Seokjin purses his lips. “Sometimes, maybe.” 

He brightens. “You think so?” 

“I think it depends on how much both people are willing to hold on.”  

“Mm,” Yoongi hums, his gaze fixed somewhere far away. “Good answer. It’s a shame…” 

A shame. In hindsight, there’s not much more to say about it. If only they had held on a little better. If only they hadn’t spent most of their lives running away from each other. A real damn shame it was, and a damn shame it would continue to have been if they both weren’t equally addicted to the chase. Is there anywhere, any place in the entire universe one could go where the other wouldn’t follow? 

“Are you alright?” Seokjin asks, snapping Yoongi out of his thoughts. 

He quickly straightens up, composing himself. “Sorry, where was I?” 

“You were talking about your first love?” 

“Oh, right. My first love. Well it’s not a horribly interesting story,” he remarks, nonchalant. “He died before I ever realized that I loved him.” 

“That sounds,” Seokjin blinks in surprise, “really tragic, actually.” 

“Tragic?” Yoongi echoes. “I guess it was a tragedy sometimes. Sometimes it was a comedy. Sometimes it was a drama. Most of the time, he was just a pain in my ass.” 

“Now you’ve really got my attention,” Seokjin says, shifting in his seat to fully turn towards him. “If it was only a tragedy sometimes, does that mean there was a happy ending?” 

“I don’t know,” Yoongi answers honestly, his eyes drifting over to the window again. The last vestiges of sunlight have drained away, the inky sky now freckled with stars. “It hasn’t ended yet.” 

 

***

 

If this were any other story, we would return to the beginning. 

But this is not any other story, and there is no beginning for us to return to. 

The only place left to land is somewhere deep in the center. 

 

 

∞

 

 

RELEASE AND WAIVER OF LIABILITY FORM

I. NATURE OF SERVICES
The individual named below (referred to as “I” or “me”) desires to participate in the following activities:

1. The disintegration of reality and time as I know it.

2. Traversing the past, which I will have no power to change, and analyzing various futures which will also be beyond my grasp.

3. █████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████.

4. An in depth deconstruction of my own character, the results of which are not guaranteed to be favorable; in fact, the nature of this particular activity almost guarantees that it will not be.

5. █████████████████████ including, but not limited to,███████████. 

6. A gratuitous amount of quantum mechanics and quantum theory.

7. A gratuitous amount of utter nonsense and absurdity.

II. ASSUMPTION OF RISK

I understand that there is a chance that I will not be able to find my way back to my own world, or that I will be unable to reintegrate into my life after everything I will come to know. I understand there is a risk of experiencing an existential crisis so profound that my mind, body, and soul will sustain irrevocable damage. I understand that there is no guarantee that after everything I go through, I will be granted a happy ending.

NOTWITHSTANDING THESE RISKS, I ACKNOWLEDGE THAT I AM VOLUNTARILY PARTICIPATING IN THE AFOREMENTIONED ACTIVITIES WITH KNOWLEDGE OF THE DANGERS INVOLVED.

III. RELEASE

With the above in mind, and being fully aware of the risks involved in the participation of this experience, I hereby waive all rights and claims to damages. I understand that the signing of this waiver will not be retained in my memory, and that this document will self destruct upon receiving my signature.

________________________
Signature

________________
Date

 

∞

 

In which a butterfly lights itself on fire

in an abandoned ghost town

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On the day that Yoongi is going to die, he’s rudely awoken by the blaring sound of the fire alarm. Its shrill scream pierces his ears; for a single moment, the sound separates into two, underlaid with a familiar voice. Then it all melts back into rhythmic shrieking, and he’s bolting upright in bed with an agitated groan. 

Yoongi’s apartment is what Namjoon would deem a “pigsty,” despite not having high marks in cleanliness himself. Cans crunch beneath his feet like scattered bones, singed scraps of sheet music littering his floor like bits of charred flesh. There’s miscellaneous bits of crap strewn about too: a stick of lip balm that he hasn’t used in years, a transparent guitar pick that blends in with the carpet, scattered coins that catch the light and blind him like speckles of sun. He kicks them out of the way with his toe, bits and bobs ping-ponging off of furniture and clicking against the walls. 

He takes the fire escape two steps at a time, cutting through the parking lot and making a beeline for his motorbike. The world feels a little different this morning; colors are more saturated, silhouettes are sharper. It’s annoying for everything to suddenly seem so beautiful. Today of all days.  

Yoongi reaches his destination without having to think much about it. He makes the turns on autopilot, operating on muscle memory. There are few places he goes to these days. He knocks against the side of the trailer, waits a few seconds, then knocks again. The door finally swings open, revealing a bedraggled boy with dark circles that would give Yoongi’s a run for their money. 

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Namjoon exclaims, stepping aside to let him enter. A white lollipop stick at the corner of his mouth disrupts the symmetry of his face. It switches from one side to the other, never still, always swinging like a pendulum. 

“You sound delighted to see me,” Yoongi grumbles, making his way inside and flopping onto the couch.

“I am,” Namjoon says genuinely. “It’s not every day I get a surprise visit.” 

“I missed you.” Yoongi is saying it before he realizes that he’s saying it, and then it’s too late. Namjoon’s eyes widen. He turns around, clearing his throat in embarrassment. 

“Coffee?” 

Yoongi sighs. “Do you have anything stronger?” 

“It’s one in the afternoon.” 

“Too late for coffee, then.” 

Namjoon gives him a look, then turns around to the sink to fill the kettle with water. 

Yoongi pretends to look around, as if he hasn’t been here a million times before, as if he could say something as innocuous as I like what you’ve done with the place. “How is Taehyung?” he asks instead. 

“He’s… good. Funnily enough, he just asked about you the other day.” Namjoon looks at him carefully. “You can visit him too, you know.”

“Nah,” Yoongi says dismissively. “Prison doesn’t suit me.” 

“Hyung.”

“Besides, I think I’m the last person he wants to see.”

“If that were the case, I don’t think he would’ve mentioned your name at all.”

Yoongi looks at him sideways. “Did you pass along the money I gave you?” 

Namjoon nods. “He appreciated it a lot.” 

He pauses. “You didn’t tell him it was from me, did you?” Namjoon’s silence says it all. He rubs his face, then pulls out a cigarette. “Jesus.” 

Namjoon frowns down at it. “You still haven’t quit?” 

“Why would I?” he says defensively. “Will those lollipops of yours get me buzzed?” 

“No, but your mouth will taste like cherry candy instead of an ash tray.” 

“The only person tasting my mouth these days is me,” Yoongi snorts, “and I have no complaints.” He immediately wishes he hadn’t said it, giving Namjoon an opening to interrogate about yet another aspect of his life. 

Sure enough, Namjoon’s forehead creases with an inquisitive stare. “Aren’t you lonely?”

“Lonely?” He lets out a strained laugh. “Why would I be lonely?” It’s not like you’re the only friend I have left. It’s not like the one person I lived for is never coming back. “I might have been in love once,” he continues, strangled. “I think I can admit that now. What fucking good will it do me? No, I don’t need companionship, Joon-ah. I don’t know what I need.” 

There’s a beat of silence following his outburst. “Have you been composing anything lately?” his friend asks quietly. 

Yoongi runs a hand through his hair with a heavy sigh. “There’s no point. I’d only wonder what the hell I’m doing it for.” 

It’s always been Namjoon encouraging his hobbies, his half-hearted dreams. It had been Namjoon who’d bought him his first guitar pick, Namjoon who’d gotten him his first sheaf of staff paper. Namjoon who had encouraged him to take that teaching job at Jungkook’s school, framing it as a stepping stone to what he really wanted to do. 

Create. Create. Create. 

If only Yoongi had known that he’s destined to do the exact opposite. 

“There’s always a point,” Namjoon argues, still pushing. “Just think back to the beginning. What made you want to write your own music?”

“It’s a silly story,” he mutters, embarrassed. 

“Tell it.” 

Yoongi flexes his fingers, rooting around in his subconscious for that long buried memory. “I didn’t know how to read notes yet,” he begins, reminiscing. “I couldn’t play any of the Chopin, the Mozart, the Beethoven. All these pages of music, and they were meaningless to me. I was too impatient to learn. I would bang on the keys in an attempt to torture something beautiful out of it, and it resisted me.”

He sucks in a breath before continuing, his nails digging into his thigh. “Then one day, I heard a voice. It wasn’t coming from anywhere inside the house, but it wasn’t from outside either. It felt like it was inside of my head, like an angel was singing directly into my mind. And then the music just came.” 

Anyone else might have called Yoongi a young prodigy. But Yoongi had always had the feeling that some entity had bestowed some sort of blessing upon him. One that he’s never done anything to deserve. 

“Maybe there’s such a thing as fate,” Namjoon remarks with a soft smile. 

“No,” Yoongi murmurs. “I’ve lost it all again anyway. The voice is gone.” 

“Look, why don’t you start small?” his friend suggests. “I know you hate that part time job you’ve got now. Why not try applying at the school again?” 

Yoongi shoots him a dark look. “I don’t think I need to tell you the many reasons why that is the worst idea you have ever come up with.” 

“It’s been five years, hyung.” 

“Yeah, it’s been five years since I’ve been able to breathe freely,” he snaps. It all comes spilling out of him in a rush. “I’m being— I’m being fucking haunted, Namjoon. I can’t go anywhere. All those places of the past, off limits. I’m not myself. I find myself eating and drinking the things he used to like. When I sit at my piano, I can only play the songs he used to listen to. It’s fucking ridiculous.”

“That’s a completely normal side of the grieving process,” Namjoon states patiently. 

“It’s been five years,” Yoongi repeats shrilly. “I’m not fucking grieving. Jungkook is dead. Gone. So why—” He stops, clears his throat, tries to maintain composure. “So why doesn’t it feel like it?” he whispers. 

It gives him some sick sense of satisfaction, watching Namjoon’s calm facade finally crack. The boy’s eyes glaze over, his mouth tilting down at the corners as if unable to resist the pull of gravity. “I pretend sometimes, too,” he says quietly. “Sometimes I even forget.” 

“I’m not pretending, and I’m not forgetting,” Yoongi huffs. “It still feels like he’s with me. He’s not alive. I know that. But if he’s not alive, then shouldn’t I be dead?” 

“Hyung,” Namjoon says sharply. His eyes flash. 

“Sorry, did I make the conversation uncomfortable?” Yoongi laughs, loud and grating. 

Namjoon’s gaze simmers with worry. “It kills me, not being able to do anything for you,” he says hoarsely. 

This isn’t how Yoongi had intended for this meeting to go. Then again, he’s never really gotten the knack of goodbyes. 

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” he says. “Just stay alive. Enough people are dead already.” He stands up, tossing a wad of bills onto the table as he makes to leave. “For the coffee.” 

He walks out just as the kettle begins to whistle. 

 

***

 

Yoongi’s apartment is exactly the way he left it this morning. He doesn’t know why he always expects otherwise. His eyes automatically sweep the counter for lingering mugs of tea, fall upon the shoe rack by the door in search of an extra pair of sneakers. But everything is exactly the way it’s been for months on end, save for the five gallon canister of gasoline tucked beside his nightstand. It’s a glaring feature, colored in fire engine red. Yoongi sits on the edge of his bed and stares at it. 

He can clearly remember making the purchase, though he hardly remembers making the decision to do so. He understands its significance, but has grown unaccustomed to anything in his life being significant. With a sigh, he goes to reach for it, before something catches his eye. 

Yoongi stops. Stares. He looks towards the window, but it’s as tightly closed as ever. In fact, he can’t even recall the last time he opened his window. He glances back at his night stand, blinking slowly at the iridescent flutter of wings. 

“Huh. How’d you get in?”

No answer.

“I suppose you’re going to try to stop me,” Yoongi mutters darkly. “Wait no, you can’t — you’re a fucking butterfly.” 

No answer.

The creature doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch as Yoongi reaches out as if to bat it away. It’s startlingly blue, the kind of cerulean that doesn’t feel like it should be found in nature. It’s a pretty little thing, though Yoongi can’t say he’s ever been fond of insects. 

He supposes he should open the window and let it outside. But it doesn’t seem intent on budging, and he’s in no particular mood to deal with anything as stubborn as him. He reaches into his pocket, drawing out a familiar object. 

“Some people say that killing yourself is one of the most selfish things a person can do. What could possibly be more in character for me, then?” His thumb softly sweeps over the spark wheel of the lighter without applying any real pressure. Back and forth, back and forth. 

“Aren’t you going to do anything?” he asks the butterfly. Its wing twitches, but it says nothing. “Why do I always forget?” He laughs self-deprecatingly. “I’m still not used to you not being here. The world is crooked without you. Suddenly, I’ve convinced myself that butterflies can talk.” 

Click. Click. Click. 

“Hey, Jungkook,” he murmurs quietly. “What’s the weather like over there? Have you eaten?” He lets out a wet laugh. “Look at me, pestering you with this small talk. I’m sorry.” 

No answer.

“But who says you can’t be a bit selfish with your own death?” he says, suddenly defensive. “So what if I want to set myself on fire? So what if I want to go out poetically?” He stares down at his hands. “There’s only one bridge left to burn.” 

He suddenly bursts to his feet, grabbing the canister. His mind goes blank as he makes a circle around his bed, dousing the rug in gasoline. He hums to himself as he works, just four notes. Again and again, a repeating motif. What use are last words, when there’s no one around to listen? This will be his swan song, his final tune. When he’s done, he tosses the empty container to the side. 

They say that before you die, your entire life flashes in front of your eyes. Each event plays out in real time, just like you’re living it all over again. An entire world inside your mind, condensed into mere seconds. Everything all at once. And then nothing.

Yoongi tosses the lighter onto the ground. The fire erupts all around him, a wall of dancing golden flame. He’s enclosed on all sides, stuck in the middle to absorb all the heat, to breathe in the thickening smoke. Yoongi falls backwards onto the bed, his arms spread wide. He looks to the left, but the butterfly is gone. He’s alone again. 

Yoongi closes his eyes and waits for it to happen, to see the movie play out before him — all his day ones, all his first meetings, all those little moments he’d disregarded before — waiting to be snatched up by his greedy, dying mind. Nothing comes. The fire glows through his lids, but everything is dark. 

Dying is easy, he thinks to himself. From nothing to nothing. There — he’s already slipping into sleep, the edges of his consciousness darkening into oblivion. The world is on fire, heat seeping into his skin, but he’s at peace. Yoongi’s dying, dying, dead.

And then he’s not.

He’s being held. Cradled. Saved. 

“Jungkook?” he rasps, his eyes fluttering open. The face swims in and out of focus, but he would know those features anywhere, even as a smudge. He’s being dragged from underneath his arms, tugged off the bed and across the floor. Smoke fills his lungs, replacing oxygen with ash. Breathe in, breathe out. It’s not so easy anymore. 

He struggles to get his eyes open all the way, desperate to get a proper glance at his savior. A silhouette, a ghost, a merciful haunting. Jungkook, he murmurs inaudibly. His heartbeat gradually slows. His vision darkens. 

The boy dies. The world goes quiet. 

 

When Yoongi wakes, it’s to the blaring sound of the fire alarm. 

 

∞

 

In which the red handprint on a child's cheek

foreshadows the blood on his hands

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Child·hood

/ˈchī(-ə)ld-ˌhu̇d/
Noun

1. The formative years of a person’s life; an ossifying of soft cartilage, spontaneous materialization of knee scars, the potential of unconditional love for anyone, an undying grudge against everyone. Squeaky clean sleep schedule, eat your vegetables, greet your father with a smile when he comes home from work, don’t bother him for the rest of the evening, tell your mother you love her three times a day, wait for her to say it back. Search the pockets of her apron for affection, steal your father’s watch to see if his time ticks differently from yours, to see if he has fewer seconds to spare. This is what it means to grow up happy. These are the people who teach you what it means to love another.

2. I try to remember a time when things were easier, and I can’t. I was still afraid and still worried and still wept and still struggled, but everything was on a smaller scale, and maybe that’s all that growing up really is, just a fusing of newly hardened bones into fully developed kneecaps — congratulations! you have a patella, you can now crack under pressure, don’t fall too hard or you will break. 

3. When you’re ten years old and you meet Jeon Jungkook, remember. Don’t fall too hard or you’ll break. 

 

***

 

Jungkook and Yoongi are attached at the hip — as close to one another as two children of different ages can be. Yoongi has never despised anyone more. 

It was his mother who had first encouraged him to go extend a welcome to the boy who’d just moved in next door. At first, Yoongi had known practically nothing about Jeon Jungkook, and also far too much. He knew the boy was younger than him, and fatherless. His mother is constantly filling the house with the noise of gossip; phone pressed between her ear and shoulder as she migrates between rooms, trailing rumors and giddy speculations behind her. 

Yoongi’s mother has always been strange with her love. She’s more inclined to be maternal towards children that are not her own. A sweeter, softer version of her emerges, like someone has used oil pastels to sketch out an approximation of the woman he knows. It somehow hurts even more to see the proof that she possesses the capacity for kindness. Jungkook is an angel in her eyes, a boy who needs to be saved from his sorry situation. And she sends Yoongi to do it. 

“Aren’t you glad you have both of your parents, Yoongi-ah?” she’ll coo as she yanks at the tangles in his hair. She always brushes it like she has something to prove, scowling at his pained groans as if they’re uttered purely to spite her. “Not every child is so lucky like you.” 

Yes, lucky. 

So lucky that he is forced to befriend the boy next door for the sake of his mother’s project, so lucky that he gets to watch as she treats him like the son she never had. What has Yoongi done, at this age, to make her so keen on starting over? What has he ever done except inherit her face, only for her to say that it’s too round, too soft around the edges? What has he ever done except for share her blood?

An entire year later, and Yoongi still can’t seem to shake the brat. Jungkook comes over nearly every day after school, hanging around Yoongi’s house for hours on end like some spare shadow. He usually makes no great effort to entertain the kid. During his particularly bad moods, he makes no effort to acknowledge the boy’s existence at all.

But today, their proximity is unavoidable. Yoongi’s father had put them up to the task of painting a wall in his office for him, with Jungkook practically vibrating in his eagerness to help. Yoongi grudgingly pulls up a stool for him to sit on, reaching over to roughly grab Jungkook’s wrists and make sure is sleeves are rolled all the way up to his elbows. 

They start off in silence, which Yoongi makes sure to savor while it lasts. Sure enough, not even a minute goes by before the younger boy starts chatting, continuously oblivious to the frigid atmosphere.

“I got lost yesterday,” Jungkook states matter of factly, slapping the dry wall with uneven strokes. Red splatters from the brush in bursts of color.  “It was super scary. But it was no-big-deal, not for me!” He singsongs the tail end of his sentence, wagging his head for emphasis. 

Yoongi dips his brush back into the can placed between them, staring blankly ahead. “I heard.” 

“Did you come look for me?” Jungkook asks, his eyes lighting up. 

“No.” 

“No?” Jungkook looks confused, like he can’t quite comprehend the fact that Yoongi had not sprinted into the trees after him, a search party consisting of one ten year old boy with no sense of direction. 

“I was busy,” Yoongi lies. Something sharp and bitter stabs him in the chest; regret, a helpful voice in the back of his mind supplies. “Eomma always tells you not to go playing too deep in the thicket,” he chastises, a hint of agitation creeping into his voice. “You never listen.” 

“Someone came, though,” Jungkook continues dreamily, as if he hasn’t spoken. “He was super tall. Like really, really tall. I wonder if I’ll ever be that tall.” 

Yoongi, whose height has nothing on that of other kids his age, glances at him skeptically. He towers over Jungkook, the other boy having to crane his neck up to speak to him. Yoongi thinks that a sapling would look “super tall” if placed next to Jungkook. 

“I never saw him before,” Jungkook babbles on. “But he was so nice, and he held my hand and walked me home. I think he was a ghost.” 

“Okay Jungkook,” Yoongi says indulgently. A smile begins tugging on his mouth, and he quickly presses his lips back into a thin line. “I’m glad the ghost walked you home.” 

Jungkook is silent for a bit. “Have you ever felt like a ghost, Yoongi hyung?” 

Yoongi scowls at him. “What are you on about?” 

“How do you know you’re real?” Jungkook asks, poking him and giggling. Yoongi huffs, attempting to push his hand away, but the boy is relentless. Eventually he gives in, allowing himself to be prodded. 

“I’m pretty sure I’m real,” he intones, sitting perfectly straight. “If I was a ghost, I’d be dead. And I’m not dead yet.” 

Jungkook looks up at him, moon-eyed. “What about me?” he whispers, his hand balled up loosely in the hem of Yoongi’s shirt. 

Yoongi’s hand floats down, landing in the tufts of Jungkook’s hair. He looks down at it, surprised at his own gesture. His fingers flex, each one lifting one by one, before settling once more. He inhales slowly, holds the breath. His vision blurs, until the top of Jungkook’s head is an almost perfect, dark circle, his hand placed in the center of it. 

Suddenly, the room feels too large. Gravity feels too insignificant. Yoongi is almost floating, would probably drift off into the atmosphere if it weren’t for Jungkook’s gentle little hand keeping him tethered to the earth. His heart beats in slow motion. His ears ring with the sound of paint drying on the walls. 

“You’re real,” he says, his voice painfully soft. “Completely real. I tested it myself.” 

“Test?” Jungkook gapes. “What test? I passed?” 

Reality slams back into him like a tidal wave. Yoongi blinks rapidly, the face in front of him gradually coming back into focus. 

“Yes, you passed. And I can’t tell you, because I just know these things.” 

“I know things too,” Jungkook replies stubbornly, crossing his arms. “My mother told me a cool riddle yesterday. Do you wanna hear?” 

Yoongi makes a grudging noise. “Okay.” 

His face immediately scrunches up, like he hadn’t expected to get this far and now can’t remember precisely what he was going to repeat. “If a tree…” Jungkook begins hesitantly. “If a tree falls in the middle of a forest and nobody is there to hear it, does it make a sound?” 

“Of course it does.” 

“Even if nobody hears it?” 

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Yoongi scoffs, his patience finally running thin. He turns back to the wall, lifting his brush. Something wet hits his face in a cold slap. 

It remains there, a firm presence in the exact shape of a boy’s hand. Yoongi doesn’t move. He just sits there, frozen for what feels like forever. Neither of them breathe a word. And then he looks. 

Jungkook is staring back at him with glass marble eyes, widened in awe as though he’s the one who’s just been slapped. “I got you,” he whispers, his palm flat against the curve of Yoongi’s cheek. I got you. 

In the chilled, air-conditioned room, paint fresh from the can, Yoongi would have expected it to feel cold. A drop of scarlet trickles down the side of his neck, warm as blood. 

 

∞

 

In which the angel crosses his heart and hopes to die

then turns around to make a deal

with the devil

╚════▣◎▣════╝

Yoongi waits out the fire alarm while sitting on his bike, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. Hadn’t there just been a fire alarm yesterday morning? An hour passes, and he receives an automated text that they’re in the clear. False alarm. The firetruck pulls away, and Yoongi slinks back up to the room. 

He spends most of the day idle, napping fitfully in bed before reluctantly dragging himself outside to get a bite to eat. But as he nears his destination, Yoongi stops short. The sign on the convenience store, the one that has always been bright blue, is now green. Baffled, he spins around and heads back down the street without even going inside. He rubs the bleariness out of his eyes, takes in the details that he hadn’t noticed in his morning daze. 

He could have sworn that his apartment building has always been five stories, but now it clearly and unmistakably has six. Foregoing his usual path up the fire escape, he enters in through the lobby, waiting for the elevator to take him up. Sure enough, once he steps inside he’s greeted with a button featuring the glaring number 6, as though it had always been there. 

When he enters his unit, he’s greeted with even more anomalies. Almost everything is exactly as it was, save for a detail here and there, just enough to tip the scale from familiar to disorienting. 

Nailed to the wall, opposite his bed, is a white board covered in what looks like chicken scratch. Instead of guitar picks on the floor, he has to wade through scattered dry erase markers. Yoongi is pretty sure he’s never bought a white board or markers, yet here these things are, inexplicably present in his room. He slumps onto his bed, his mind abuzz. A random flutter drags his eyes towards the windowsill. 

It’s already dark out, despite him having spent the entire day doing absolutely nothing. And settled in front of the glass, bright blue against an inky indigo backdrop, is a small butterfly.

“You again,” he mutters. “Haven’t I seen you before?” 

It immediately takes off, flying closer and settling on the nightstand. He tracks its movement, before his eyes come to rest on the item tucked just below the bed side table. 

Oh, right. That. 

“That was an impulsive purchase,” he sighs. “I think I do most things on impulse these days, otherwise nothing would get done at all.” 

For a moment, Yoongi has the strange notion that this little creature is Jungkook reincarnated, that it can see and hear everything that Yoongi is saying. The idea is comforting, somehow, as ridiculous as it is. Against his better judgment, he begins talking to the thing, spilling all the things he’s never said out loud.

“You were so, so small,” he says brokenly. “I wanted to protect you. I wanted to crush you in my fist.” The butterfly gives a small twitch. “I don’t know, either,” he murmurs. “Have I ever loved anything I haven’t wanted to ruin?” 

He blinks, and the butterfly is gone. He lets out a deep sigh. He’d probably been imagining it the whole time, just like he’s been imagining a great many other things lately. 

“I feel you here,” Yoongi croaks. “I still do. It wasn’t fair what you did, leaving me all alone like that. You were the only person who ever forced me to live. Now there doesn’t seem to be much of a point.” 

Day by day, the numbness inside him has been growing. It had started as a seed in his chest, blooming outwards to encapsulate his lungs, until breathing seemed more like a labor of willpower than instinct. It’s like sleeping on his arm all wrong and waking up to see a hand resting on the pillow by his face. That jolt, that feeling of disconnect, only to realize yes, that is still my hand, this is still me, this limb has only temporarily gone away from me but now it will come back.

But no matter how desperately he tries to acknowledge the numbness, no matter how hard he tries to jolt himself back into feeling, his entire self has taken on that sensation of being a foreign object, something that has been untethered from his soul. 

Yoongi stands up, reaching for the canister with renewed resolve. He suddenly freezes. Not through any willing effort of his own — his hand has stopped halfway through its movement, halted in midair. He stares at it, uncomprehending. His index finger gives an involuntary twitch. His wrist trembles. 

In awe, Yoongi watches as his own arm lifts without his command, barely having any time to react before he’s slapping himself clean across the face. 

 

***

 

“Still whiskey?” Namjoon asks, greeting him with a clap on the shoulder. 

Yoongi takes a seat beside him, nodding at the bartender. “Whiskey.”

“Two whiskeys, on the rocks please,” his friend calls out. 

“Keep the tab open,” Yoongi mutters. “I need to be drunk for this.” 

Namjoon eyes him curiously. “I have to say, I’m kind of surprised you invited me out.” 

“You can call me a hermit, it’s okay.” 

“You’ve always enjoyed your solitude,” Namjoon says with a smile. “That hasn’t changed.”

“I enjoy peace, not solitude,” Yoongi corrects. “And I’m getting a lot of the latter without the former these days.” 

“What’s been on your mind?” his friend asks, giving him a slow once over. “You look gaunt. Have you been eating well? Sleeping?” 

“Yes, Joon-ah,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I still eat and sleep and function like a normal human being. Barely, but I do.” Two glasses of whiskey are placed on the table and he grabs his eagerly, downing it all in one go.

“Jesus,” Namjoon says quietly. 

“I was supposed to visit you yesterday. I got a bit distracted.” That had been the plan, hadn’t it? Go see Namjoon, say goodbye. Go out with a bang. Yoongi sighs heavily. “I don’t know how to say this. I’m kind of afraid of how you’ll react.” 

Namjoon frowns. “You can tell me anything, you know that. There’s not a single thing that I would judge you for.” 

“That’s a hyperbolic claim,” Yoongi mutters. “You may be a saint, but even you have your limits.” 

“Hyung, what is it? What’s wrong?” 

He lets out a resigned huff, glancing around self-consciously before leaning over to whisper. “There was someone inside of me last night,” he says gravely. 

Namjoon stares at him for a moment, unblinking. “Remember how I said you could always tell me anything no matter what?” 

“That was twenty seconds ago, so yes.” 

His friend clears his throat, his cheeks rapidly pinking. “I think — I think there are still some things that are better left… unshared. I’m happy for you, though! Seriously, I am. I was even thinking about offering to set you up with someone the other day, but I guess that’s no longer necessary.” 

Yoongi reels back like he’s been slapped. “Jesus,” he says, his face contorting. “I was talking about demonic possession, you pervert.” 

Namjoon lets out what could either be a sigh of frustration or relief. “Next time, will you please open with that?” He pauses, processing the words. “Wait, what do you mean possession?”

“This is gonna sound crazy. But I think I just lived the same day twice,” Yoongi says hesitantly. “Like a do-over. Also, last night— I slapped myself.” Namjoon says nothing, simply staring at him for a while. “I’m not crazy,” he tacks on as a disclaimer. But the damage has already been done.

“How long have you been… slapping yourself?” 

“I told you, only since yesterday,” Yoongi replies crossly. “And I didn’t slap myself, exactly. It was my hand, but it wasn’t me. Hence, the possession.”

“Look hyung, I know someone—” 

“For the last time, I do not need a fucking psychiatrist,” he snaps. “I’m not grieving, I’m not insane, and I think you’re projecting.” He’s not being fair, he knows that. Everything he’s saying has all the signs of a rambling lunatic, but he knows that he’s not crazy. 

“I’m not the one who is quite literally beating myself up over nothing,” Namjoon points out. 

“It wasn’t me,” Yoongi reminds him impatiently. “It was Jungkook.” 

It’s the first time he’s saying it out loud. The first time he’s given a voice the the murky haze of a theory lingering in the back of his mind. It had been Jungkook he’d seen in the fire, he’s sure of it. The fire that had definitely happened, despite the day looping itself over again as if it had all just been one prolonged, hyperrealistic dream. 

And last night, somehow, Jungkook had taken control of his body. Seized the hand that was ready to commit the same act all over again, and snapped him out of it. The more he goes over it in his head, the more firmly he believes it. And then he sees the look on his friend’s face. 

“You were never one to believe in the supernatural.” 

Yoongi’s shoulders slump. “I know.” 

“You think Jungkook possessed you.” 

“I did say that, didn’t I,” he mutters. 

“You think he’s trying to send you some kind of message or something?” 

“Alright,” he huffs. “Stop.” 

“I’m not taking the piss out of you,” Namjoon says quickly. “I’m just trying to understand.” 

“Do you think I understand?” he asks, fed up with it all, with himself. “Do you think it’s my choice to sound like a raving lunatic that thinks his dead friend has risen from the grave?” 

“You’re not crazy,” his friend says calmly. “I know you’re not.” 

Yoongi orders another whiskey. He downs it. 

“Do you think that some people are meant to be unhappy?” he mumbles, cupping his face in his hand. 

“Hyung,” Namjoon says, his voice unnervingly gentle. A hand settles on his shoulder. “I know that you’ve been having a hard time. Ever since…” 

Yoongi groans, digging the heel of his palm into his eye. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

“I know that we have,” Namjoon placates, misunderstanding. “But we always seem to end up right back where we started.”

Right back where they started. Yoongi’s room had gone up in flames, and then yesterday morning he’d woken up right where he started. Had he died and entered some kind of purgatory? Is that what this all is?

“You know,” Yoongi begins quietly. “For the first month or so after it happened, I was completely numb. Barely ate, barely slept. Barely allowed myself to think. And then one night, after another long day of simply keeping myself alive, I broke apart. There’s a special type of crying, one that just… pulls everything out of you. When I was done, I didn’t think there was any piece left of me to grieve. I’d emptied myself out, drained myself dry. It was exhausting, and painful, but it was over. At least, that’s what you would think. And then you go to sleep, and you wake up in the morning, and you do it all again. That’s what it has been like for five years, Namjoon-ah. It never ends.” 

Namjoon seems to be struggling with his words, something rather uncharacteristic of him. “I won’t pretend to know how that feels. I loved him too, but not like—” He cuts himself short, dragging a hand wearily down his face. “I got closure.” 

“You either regret the things you did, or you regret all the things you didn’t do,” Yoongi shrugs. “With him, it’s somehow both. I regret everything I ever said to him, and I’m haunted by everything I didn’t.” 

“I can’t speak for him,” Namjoon says carefully, “but I don’t think Jungkook had any regrets when it came to you. Do you?” 

“That kid could never hide what he was feeling to save his life,” Yoongi mutters. “But I never once knew what he was thinking. I don’t know, Joon-ah. I don’t know. People would think otherwise, but  he was more to me than I ever was to him.” He grits his teeth. “And then I killed him.” 

“You know how I feel about you saying things like that,” Namjoon says, his voice a low warning.

“We all know it’s true,” he scoffs. “It’s why everyone stopped talking to me, isn’t it?” 

“We grew apart,” Namjoon answers steadily. “I think you have a biased interpretation of events.”

“Is it possible not to?” Yoongi wonders. “Don’t you ever… don’t you ever wonder if you’re a good person?” 

“All the time,” Namjoon says without hesitation. “I don’t think anyone needs to commit any great sin to wonder that.” 

Yoongi exhales heavily. “There’s just this constant war between me and the person I want to be. Sometimes one overpowers the other; sometimes one admits defeat. I don’t know if I know which one is real.” 

Namjoon hums, deep in thought. “It’s all real.” 

“I don’t know anymore,” he murmurs. He shakes his head. “Everything is grey now. Everything could be an illusion, and I’m just trudging through it all, trying to avoid bumping into things that can touch me.” 

Yoongi lifts his eyes, looking and seeing nothing. “I have no shortage of ghosts. And maybe I haunt them too.” 

 

∞

 

In which the drowned boy breaks reality

by falling in love with the water

╚════▣◎▣════╝

Jungkook wants him dead. Or rather, if looks could kill, Yoongi would already be dead. Jungkook, who has never been mad at Yoongi in his life, is livid. The reason? Well, he’s not entirely able to pinpoint it himself. Each individual reason is just the tip of the iceberg, and Yoongi tries not to dwell on what lies beneath the surface. 

At the moment, it’s a bit difficult to gauge Jungkook’s mood given that he’s practically a smudge in the distance. But if he had to guess, Yoongi would say that he’s probably being pierced with the same glare he’s been on the receiving end of for weeks now. 

“Just jump,” Yoongi calls up to him, forcing a laugh. “It’s not that high up.” 

“It looks pretty fucking high to me,” Jungkook yells back. “It’s easy to talk from your nice cozy spot on the ground.” 

“Stop deflecting,” he scoffs. He feels suddenly and inexplicably irritated. “Only cowards deflect.” 

Yoongi can feel the wave of baffled glances his friends send his way. He braces himself for the inevitable voice of reason to make itself heard. This was supposed to be a fun trip for all of them, after all. A day at the sea, a series of stolen moments for them to escape to. And here he is, ruining it with whatever strange tension has been brewing between him and Jungkook. Why the fuck had he dared the kid to jump from up there, anyway? It’s exactly the kind of thing Yoongi would adamantly caution him against on a normal day. He must be losing his goddamn mind.

“Why are you being a dick to him? He doesn’t have to do it.” Namjoon’s forehead creases in a frown. “In fact, it’s probably safer that he doesn’t.” 

Aha, he thinks bitterly. Voice of reason.

“I’m not being a dick,” Yoongi snaps, then immediately regrets being a dick. He looks up at Jungkook, pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth. He inhales sharply, his breath a quiet hiss. Annoyance hums through his veins like adrenaline, driving him forward. He stomps over to the ladder, making a big deal out of grumbling about it.

Jungkook peers down at him from the platform, his hair swinging off his forehead.  “What are you doing?” he yells down, cupping his hands over his mouth. 

“Coming up there with you,” Yoongi barks. “The fuck does it look like I’m doing?” 

He can sense the suspicion on Jungkook’s face even from his spot on the ground. “Why?” 

“So I can push you off,” he deadpans. “Obviously.” 

Jungkook glowers at him. “If I die, I’m gonna haunt you for the rest of your life.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

“I’m serious!” Jungkook raises his voice, straining to be heard over the blossoming breeze. “You’ll never hear the end of it!” 

Yoongi grits his teeth, grabbing the sides of the ladder. Fuck it. He’ll drag Jungkook back down himself if he has to. For all of his reluctance, Yoongi’s knows the boy’s pride won’t allow him retreat at this point. Maybe he’ll insist on jumping now, just to be a brat. That’s fine. Yoongi will just have to go in after him.

Up and up he climbs, the wind carving out a new part in his hair. He finally pulls himself up onto the platform, slumping onto his knees with a groan. It takes a moment for his eyes to register what he’s seeing — or rather, what he isn’t seeing. 

“Jungkook?” he yells, panic stabbing him between the ribs. Jungkook is gone. 

He looks down. No ripples. Looks up. Sky. He spins in a frantic circle, returning to his starting point just in time to see the boy leap from the platform with his arms spread wide like wings. 

Time stutters; skips a beat.  

 

Jungkook jumps.

He falls.

Boy splits sea. 

 

Yoongi has always been frightened by the ocean; the endless depth, the pitch and roll of turbulent waves. The water closes in above his head, his arms and legs flailing. He swivels his head from side to side, seeing nothing. For a few, infinite moments, there is sheer panic. Then he opens his eyes. 

Yoongi’s mouth opens, water flowing in. 

His lungs contract and convulse, his air bubbling around him. It fizzes against his cheeks, blurs in front of his eyes.  He’s enveloped in a bloom of his own making, a flower petaled by his last, futile gasps. The pain strikes at his body, hard and fast. 

Across the abyss, a pair of hands reaches towards him.

Jungkook’s mouth closes over his in a perfect seal. 

Yoongi breathes in. 

 

∞

 

In which the lover fucks linear time

without making any love at all

╚════▣◎▣════╝

For the first time in months, Yoongi dreams. 

There’s a boy inside his head. Inside his chest. A flutter behind his sternum, a second heart nestled beside what’s left of the first. It’s raining hard, the water dripping into his eyes. The earth gives way beneath his feet, shoes sinking into damp soil. He stares straight ahead, unseeing. 

“What is it like,” Yoongi mutters, “standing over your own grave?”

“Yeah,” he exhales. He smiles at the familiar voice, wishing it didn’t carry so faintly within his own mind. “It’s weird for me too. You being gone— it’s not right. The world is off balance.” 

“You’re not, though. I fucked up.” A lump grows in his throat, choking him. “I fucked it all up, Jungkook,” he whispers. 

Yoongi frowns. “Have we?” 

His hand reaches up, two fingers digging into his temple. He grits his teeth at the ache in his skull, the growing confusion blooming like weeds amongst his thoughts. The rain is coming down harder now, obscuring his vision, and all he can register is the permeating, freezing wet. Where is he right now? Where is— 

“Hyung.”  

Yoongi jolts, almost falling backwards as he whirls around with a choked sound. The last thing he sees is a young boy — eyes glimmering with glee, reaching towards him with a paint slicked hand — before his eyes burst open with a ragged whimper. 

 

***

 

It’s about time that Yoongi loses his mind. It’s not that he’s felt completely sane, not since that night, but it still comes as a shock that his torment hasn’t escalated to this level until now. He’ll round a corner, hear an extra pair of approaching footsteps, then quickly realize it’s just the blood pounding in his ears. Out of the corner of his eye — in a mirror, a window, a reflection in someone’s sunglasses — he’ll see a sliver of a face. A smile. 

So he’s being tortured. Fine. He deserves as much. 

It’s something he’s considered for a while — if when a person dies they just go on living, and everyone left behind becomes the ghost. Yeah, maybe that’s it. Min Yoongi is the one who can’t let go. The living haunting the dead. 

Everything has been off kilter since that other night; waking up from that surreal dream, from what he thought had been his death. Little things here and there, insignificant details that aren’t accurate to the reality that he knows. It does nothing to mend his mental state, especially when combined with the phantom of a boy that won’t stop lurking in his periphery. 

Yoongi looks down at the mug clenched between his shaking hands. He must have made himself a coffee at some point, moving on autopilot as he carries out the simple routine that always brings him comfort. 

He takes a sip. It’s far too sweet, with far too much creamer. Just the way Jungkook used to take it, the way Yoongi used to make it for him when the boy would come barging into his apartment at some insane hour of the night demanding his company. He takes another sip, then pours the rest down the drain. As someone who regularly takes his coffee black, he distantly wonders when he had even bought creamer. 

Yoongi’s heart squeezes painfully, his breaths clogging his throat. Where is he? In his kitchen. What is he doing here? He’d woken up from a nightmare, then got up to make himself a coffee. Jungkook’s coffee. What had the dream been about? Jungkook. It’s always about Jungkook. Everything, even now, as it always will be, is about him. 

Yoongi stumbles blindly over to his piano, the seat jolting beneath his weight with a small screech. He presses his forehead to the music shelf, inhaling deeply. He lifts a finger, drops it on some random key on the higher register. It rings and rings and rings, even though his foot isn’t on the pedal. As the note slowly fades, it begins to sound less like an instrument and more like a voice — an eerie falsetto. 

He sits up straight, staring down at the keyboard. It swims in front of his eyes, black and white slabs melting into each other until everything is one gray blur. He reaches out with his hands and tries to play the opening bars to a song he once knew. It comes out disjointed and stiff; it’s been ages since he’s properly practiced, since he’s even sat down and played. He hits a stray note, souring the entire harmony. 

Yoongi grits his teeth. His music has become ugly, something unrecognizable. He lifts his hands and drops them heavily, scattered notes clambering over one another in a brutal dissonance. His fingers move, spidering across the keys, wringing malicious melodies and tortured whines out of the old instrument. It builds and builds, crescendoes until the entire apartment is filled with deafening grief. It stains the walls, slams against the windows, spills across the floor. One last screaming chord — 

 

BANG.

 

And then silence. Yoongi is on his feet, chest heaving. The notes don’t hold, just slip away into nothing. Sound disappears altogether, save for his heaving, gasping breaths. For a moment, he exists in a vacuum. And then he feels it. 

Directly behind him; a physical, potent presence. He feels it, with more senses than he knew he possessed. He knows the slant of that shadow better than he knows his own name, knows that cadence of breathing like a song he’s heard sung all his life. 

Yoongi slowly turns.

 

 

***

 

 

Time

/tīm/
Noun

1. In how many different ways can it be kept? Unraveling spools of thread, knots of delicate red string, the complex geometry of spiderwebs, fractals in snowflakes, a wave breaking upon the shore, the flutter of a butterfly’s wing. A never-ending, overflowing, boundless entity that breathes and moves and pumps immortal blood into the cosmos, veins flowing with galaxies, eyes dotted with dying stars. 

2. Here’s what they don’t tell you — infinity can be held in the palm of your hand. It can be crushed to dust in your fist. And still time flows on, stardust gathering and reshaping itself into new souls, into a new universe, rolling over the backs of your knuckles like a celestial coin. Drip, drip, drip down the hourglass. Break the glass. It spills, and still remains. 

3. If I told you that it’s nothing more than a god, and if I told you that god is dead, would you believe me? 

 

 

***

 

 

Yoongi’s eyes meet Jungkook’s, and time no longer exists. 

 

∞