Chapter Text
******
Mid-summer and August may be the hottest times of the year, but the funeral home and all its attached buildings stay on a perennial chill as per requirement—one Jimin never quite gets used to.
Around here, winter is all year round—especially within the inner layer of the funeral home where the staff office and the morgue are located. It is always a negative drop, an absolute necessity and not an option. The air conditioner is on full blast at all times, with the tangy smell of lemongrass sanitisers keeping the office clean-smelling and fresh.
All around the house, the chill is ever-present and much-needed to mask off any unwanted scents from the non-living and their wastes. Only human warmth makes up for the lack of heat and warmth of the supposedly very unliving clients.
The amount of moisturizers and lotions the staff would splurge on per month to salvage their skin would be able to support a whole household use of emollients.
Fifteen years into the service, Jimin has gotten used to the constant shift in weather once he steps into the house—plus minus the years he went for school and military service— despite never really liking it. One room in particular—the room he is in right now, a medium-sized room Yoongi would call the ‘iceberg room’ is one he has particularly struggled with, but one he is most likely to be found in.
Jimin is a creature of the sun, of the beach in afternoon, of evening naps in springtime. Except when the first snow would drop, one would not really see Jimin outside during winter.
From beneath the lone window of the iceberg room, the scorching afternoon summer sky is generous and bright, and the burst of tangerine fills the room from the little sealed-shut glass square where it is allowed to penetrate.
Jimin likes working with the curtains open, lights off; giving way for the rays of natural light to filter on and wash over his body and the body in front of him in natural colours. Everything is washed in muted sepia tone, and dust floats where the light hits. Tyndall effect, Jimin remembers from his Chemistry class.
A woman in her fifties lies stiff on the steel bed, dressed in an immaculate, ironed stiff, long black dress which reaches midway to her ankles, her face a tinge of green and yellow. Despite the sure signs of death making her look sallow and solemn, her features remain dainty and delicate; a primadona at the end of her days.
The deceased was sent to the funeral home late afternoon yesterday, and the staff had bathed and dressed her early in the morning. Jimin was there to help out mid-way, giving her the salon treatment she needed.
Now she is more ready to be dolled up and prepared for her wake. It’s all in a day’s work, Seokjin would say.
Speaking of the tall, brawn man of thirty-three, the said man has just walked into the office with a black suit in the fold of his arm, promptly knocking on the glass door overlooking the room once he crosses the threshold. Jimin takes notice of the older man as he fixes the gloves on his hands, ready to greet him for the morning.
As per family tradition, Seokjin is the current owner and inheritor of the century old funeral home, knowledge-profound and experience-heavy. Jimin could not think of anyone else fitting for the role other than Seokjin. Their history go way back to their childhood days, and even if he is Jimin's employer now, they are more or less brothers than anything else.
“Morning, hyung!” Jimin mouths from inside, nodding on cue with his words.
Seokjin signals for him to come out for a moment before Jimin is about to begin the usual massaging routine on the dead woman.
Looking at him curiously, Jimin opens the steel door by a sliver of space, holding it open with his torso. He prefers not to really leave the woman alone.
“Yeah, hyung?”
“They’re not coming, so you can wrap her up as soon as you’re finished.”
“Oh.” Jimin’s lips form a perfect O with the statement, eyebrows up. Nothing surprises him anymore, having been in the industry for many years.
He has learned a lot of things throughout the years of learning and working with both the living and the non-living, and one of them is the need to not dwell on things not within his control. For the first few beginning years, it used to eat at his guts how love is not such an universal thing; and death is not usually an ending to feuds or hatred.
He has since grew quite jaded from those years. That is just how the world works.
“Yeah.” Seokjin nods simply, sipping the drink from his coffee tumbler, which barely ever gets filled with coffee. Seokjin has a knack to want to appear adultish at all times, even when his tumbler is often filled with super vanilla milkshake with cinnamon sprinkles rather than strong coffee.
Jimin cannot say much because he is about the same. No one really wants to stay awake over here.
“I’ll get her ready then. Thanks, hyung.”
Seokjin is already halfway to his office next to Jimin’s when he turns around on cue, as if remembering something.
“Oh Jim, Yoongi told me to remind you about dinner tonight. We're having meat by the way,” Seokjin unlocks the door to his office, his black coat still hanging on his arm. "He told me to remind you to bring Jihoon as sacrifice."
Jimin sends him off with finger guns before getting back inside and shutting the door close.
For a few minutes after he closes the door, Jimin reorganizes his thoughts and work plans, careful not to leave out any details. He picks up a file, reading through the checklist for the dead woman's wake as he devises plans in his head.
Working for the dead might seem unnerving because the living barely ever wants to connect with the dead in any form, and while Jimin agrees it is terrifying, it is for a completely different reason.
Everything is irreversible, and mistakes are not welcomed. For professionals like Jimin, mistakes are unforgivable. One might argue that nobody really cares about what happens to the dead once they are wrapped up in the morgue, but people who work in the business know and understand there is a lot of care in it. This is somebody's somebody, living or not.
All the staff of the funeral home are perpetually taught a sense of respect for the dead as much as they do the living, regardless of their beliefs. Seokjin's father taught them that. Jimin's father taught him that.
Walking back to the woman after tossing the file aside, Jimin readjusts his gloves and takes a rollerchair, easing to sit as close as possible to her body.
“Morning, Ms. Yoo. Beautiful day isn’t it?” Jimin’s voice breaks the solemn of the room, lips up in a smile which bunches his cheeks up, eyes closed in sharp lines. “Let’s get you dolled up.”
Lifting the mask from below his chin upright to cover his nose and lips, Jimin takes a few moments to observe the places which need the most adjustments, a bit of massage here and there, intense kneading at a few spots.
Once he begins the process of massaging, Jimin focuses on nothing else. He properly massages the cold skin around her face, setting her slightly open lips close if not entirely. Despite being sent here a few days after her death straight away from the coroner, the woman’s body is still malleable, and Jimin’s work is made easy. He has worked with bodies which have just entered rigor mortis, and those are especially difficult.
The process of massaging and fixing body parts are a must needed expertise for professional morticians like Jimin, which comes with both years of theoretical and practical applications. A massage is almost a ritual especially for corpses left for too long—and in the case of this woman, four days.
The body of the dead begins to deteriorate naturally and quickly with or without delicate temperature care. In the process of doing so, their limbs, skin, and organs would be impossible to move unless massaged accordingly.
Kneading body parts are considered the least problematic process of preparation compared to fixing and repairing; especially when the body parts disattach, twist, or fall of the body like goo.
Jimin has fixed hundreds of unhinged jaws, lengthy tongues, twisted limbs, and organs that would fall off the bodies the minute they are tampered with.
There is nothing he has not seen, nothing surprises him anymore in this death business.
One could say Jimin is morbid, but he thinks he is the least morbid person he knows. He is just very accepting of the concept of death, just like anyone who works at the funeral home do.
Earlier on they had massaged her body a bit during the bath, but for the cosmetic process, Jimin needs to tend to the body a little bit more. He wants her to look her best before her burial.
Throughout the years, Jimin has dealt with a lot of cases which needed intense 'refurbish', especially accidents; where the deceased are less than presentable and are usually not in one piece. For those cases, precautions and long processes are imperative. It takes a lot of work—gallons of glue, wax, and formaldehyde to settle them just about right for the family to see and not be scared shitless off their pants.
Seokjin’s funeral home has a good reputation in taking the unclaimed dead from hospitals and police cases—having been contracted by the state government for years; and Jimin and Seokjin, and the rest of the staff have worked through the brunt of it all. This woman is an easy case.
Jimin can deal with everything from severed head, lengthy tongues, and missing organs but he could never quite get used to suicide cases. As much as all the cases which are rolled in here are mostly gory and brutal, the part of the death where it is voluntary usually gets to him.
When he is done with the massages and the woman’s face looked ready to be painted on, Jimin exits the room for the store room where he collects a trolley filled with miscellaneous small bottles and boxes of different sizes. He enters back a couple minutes later, pushing a steel trolley with an overwhelming number of cosmetics on it.
Glass bottles of foundations in different shades, palettes of drugstore eyeshadows and lip colours are stacked on the trolley alongside some tools for application.
The dead woman's family neither requested for anything special nor sent in the deceased own makeup products, so Jimin makes do with what they have as per usual.
“Ms. Yoo, you ready?”
Jimin talks to nobody in particular, and finds himself pathetically funny for some reason. He talks a lot to every case which comes through here, and it helps ease his quiet, lonely job at the mortuary a lot. He finds it incredibly soothing and exciting knowing the dead could hear him or watch him do his job on them.
“Let’s cover up those spots.”
Jimin begins by putting a white stiff paper on the deceased collar and clipping it, a precaution from the possible blotches of stains from foundation and makeup products on the dark collars. His dexterous gloved hands move like an artist’s as he sets up the canvas in the form of a dead woman lying stiff on the steel tray. He combs the woman's hair away from her face, clipping her fringe on top of her head.
Noting the greenish tinge of the woman’s face, Jimin squeezes a dollop of red-based liquid concealer on the edge of his left hand, carefully mixing it with a brush. He dabs the creamy liquid on the couple of spots which have begun to resurface on the woman’s greyish fair skin, a sure sign of death.
Dead bodies need strong cream concealers, and Jimin also has to colour-correct them a lot.
After finishing the correction process, he takes a couple of foundation bottles from the tray and spritzes them onto the back of his palm, keeping it close to the dead woman’s face to see which colour would suit her skintone. He picks the second—a lighter beige with reddish undertones since the woman looks a little green from discoloration.
Very much like with the living, similar makeup tips can be applied to the non-living, with thicker application at times.
The lack of heat and warmth of the dead bodies would affect the makeup process a lot, and choosing the correct product is a must. Whenever the skin looks a little yellow, Jimin would opt for purple bases to cancel out the tones. For post-foundation, he uses the natural-toned ones.
While on other days Jimin would choose to dabble on the skin with a brush, for today he decides to use a sponge and airbrush foundation for a better finish. Her poreless, smooth skin, evident of the years spent taking care of it with expensive products would do just fine with an egg sponge.
Regardless of that, the woman’s body was kept for a long time over at the coroner’s, and her skin has dried up a bit which does highlight the sagging skin and the fine lines. Blending would be tedious when one no longer has body heat, and airbrush foundations are always handy. He decides to stick to it for everytime.
Squeezing a few dollops of foundation on the sponge, Jimin carefully dabs the thick liquid on the woman’s face in an outward motion to avoid splotches and uneven foundation patterns. He blends delicately and meticulously, making sure the foundation covers the concealer well, and fills up the wrinkles.
Even in her eternal sleep the woman looks every bit the picture of beauty and grace; a face of a middle-aged Madonna, given her sallow skin is corrected and tampered with a bit. Jimin evenly colours all the available skin that she has, using the brush for ridges and folds, before registering the presence of a young man half-entering the room.
“Hyung, you want me to do the nails?”
A soft male voice, one almost similar to Jimin's speaks from the threshold.
Jimin looks up at the younger man standing in between the door, the mask muffling his voice as he speaks.
“Yeah Hoon, that’d be nice. The usual shade. Thank you.”
“No problem, hyung.”
The man, Jihoon replies, already on his way out to get a boxset of nail clippers and buffers, and two bottles of nail lacquer from the cabinet outside. He places everything on a steel trolley almost similar to Jimin's, albeit a little smaller.
Less than a minute after, Jihoon walks in with everything he needs—promptly taking a stool to set up his workspace two steps away from his older brother. Jimin smiles underneath his mask, already comforted by the presence of his younger brother. Today he smells especially soap-fresh, probably coming here the minute he finished showering just to help Jimin out.
Like nobody else in the world, Jimin adores his younger brother to no end.
Where Jimin is harsh, dry, and clear-cut, his brother is the softer, rimless bend. They look almost the same—all petite and small features, soft wispy hair, medium height. But where Jimin is sharp, angular and skinny-cheeked, Jihoon is all soft edges. Jimin might have become a bit jaded and cynical over the years, but Jihoon is always hopeful and limitless.
A younger Jimin might have looked more or less like Jihoon, but his brother would always be a better version of him, the best of him.
“Aren’t you tired from last night’s class?”
Jimin questions in a half whisper, half of his face no longer covered under a surgical mask. “Did you get breakfast?”
Jihoon begins clipping the thumbnail the minute he wears a glove, eyes keen and almost criss-crossing in concentration.
“Waiting for you. Let’s have lunch together, hyung.”
“You sure you wanna eat with me? Or Tae-“
“Hyung!”
“Shh. I’m sorry Ms. Yoo.” Jimin apologises, the edges of his eyes crinkling up at the whiny tones of his younger brother, knowing full well the younger would never admit to anything Jimin has to say when it comes to some specific subjects.
“I mean, I could ask him. He could be up for a lunch? It’s summer break anyway, no school.”
“I know, but no, hyung. Please.”
“Suits you, baby.”
Jihoon grunts, as if not really accepting his baby status or just too pampered to acknowledge he is the baby of the family and at the mortuary, or simply placated at the thought his brother is following his every whim. From the tender age of seven, Jihoon has been navigating the white walls and laminated woods of the house, and has built quite a home in the place.
Not even once in their conversation do Jimin’s hands ever stop doing their magic, and by now he is done with the layers of foundation and concealers.
Jimin applies concealer where he missed on the first layer, or where the spots are just too dark to cover with one layer of concealer and foundation. The dead’s skin tend to do that, lacking the heat within to melt the oil and adjust to the colour.
When it comes to foundations and colour-correcting, the tedious process comes from knowing the application should not be too thin lest they oxidise too early; nor too thick that family members no longer recognise the dead as one of theirs.
Sometimes the dead has to, or wants to look dead, and Jimin must allow that. He puffs up the face with a loose powder, a small kabuki brush in his hand.
“What do you wanna have for lunch, hyung?”
Jihoon’s voice sounds small, lips puckered up as he clips the nails slowly. Jimin always tells him to hold every single limb of a body delicately and Jihoon never forgets that tip.
Jimin has half a mind to slap his brother’s head for talking about lunch menu in front a deceased.
“I don’t mind. You pick.”
“You always let me pick. What do you want?”
Jimin stays quiet at that, carefully blending a parchment hued concealer on a dark grey spot.
For a few seconds, he rolls over on his chair close to Jihoon, whispering into his ears while Jihoon stays unaffected by the hushed whisper of his brother into his ears. Jimin loves to talk in whispers for some reason, especially in his adult years. They both do this a lot, the quiet brothers who love to whisper.
“Soup. Let’s have spicy oxtail soup.”
“Sounds good. Yum!”
Jimin smiles softly as he rolls back into his designated spot, mouth kept shut again in respect to the deceased. They should not even be talking food and love life in front of the deceased, but Jimin has no way to stop his younger brother, or himself.
Once the silence continues, Jimin proceeds with colouring the eyebrows, filling it up with a charcoal black kohl pencil. He colours the gaps like he would the long grass in sections of colouring books, thick and detailed but sparse. When he sees that the eyebrows are symmetrical, Jimin picks a palette with almost two dozens of eyeshadow picks.
The more natural pink, and earth-based tones are already caved in and showing the steel bottom, a sign of constant use. Meanwhile the blues, purples, and the greens remain mostly untouched.
By this time, Jihoon has already finished clipping fingernails for both of the woman's hands. The acetone scent of the nail lacquer fills the room with something else than the lemony disinfectant, soapy sanitiser, and leftover formaldehyde. Painting the nails deliberately slow because he likes this bit the most, Jihoon steals a few glances at his older brother who is trying to select the correct hues for the eyes.
“Can’t we do blue, hyung?”
“No," Jimin speaks to the woman, voice still in a hushed whisper. "We’re not going to a party, aren’t we Ms. Yoo?”
Without a doubt she would have looked lovely in any colour Jimin picks, given his superior blending skills and her great facial features, but makeup for the dead rarely goes for the glamour. Shading is unnecessary.
The intention is to make them look alive and healthy, glowing for some, and barely passable for the old, decaying one.
Once or twice, Jimin would get requests for heavy makeup, and even then he tries his best not to make them look like they are hungover from a previous night’s rendezvous.
Makeup for the men are trickier sometimes as they are usually never seen with good skin or coloured lips when they were alive. Jimin often opts for orange hues for the men's lips, avoiding reds and pinks; and always settling for butterscotch or tangerine which make them look natural but not dolled up.
Jimin has talked to a few morticians who mentioned family members complaining their dead do not look like themselves, or the men looking too effeminate.
“Yeah, but she would look nice in those baby aquas.”
“And I would be fired.” Jimin settles for a medium shade of cider brown and a bit of cantaloupe peach, which would fit in nicely with the woman’s olive skin tone. “You can apply it on me when I die.”
“Hyung, stop.” Jihoon is the one stopping his ministrations on the nails, not really liking whenever the subject of his brother and death is mentioned in one sentence.
“Also, no one would fire you. You could draw dicks on their faces and Jin hyung still won’t fire you.”
“Watch it.” Jimin almost laughs, but keeps to himself, dabbing and blending the shades on the brown on the woman’s creased eyelids. Putting on makeup for the dead can be a little bit tricky especially on the creases. Older bodies tend to have more wrinkles and creases, and makeup can look a little bit powdery. Jimin would not have any of that.
Once he is done with the light ombre look on the woman's eyelid, Jimin chooses a brown kohl pencil to line a bit of the woman's lashline to give an illusion of an edge.
When he is done with the eyes, Jimin takes a small brush and brushes away the smudges on the eyelashes and combs them. He usually skips the mascara because it is messy and tedious, and he would have to lift the eyes with a plastic prop to apply to the tiny hairs and wait for them to dry.
He had tried that a lot when he first began working, often having to correct the black smudges under the eyes for tens of minutes.
For the woman's high cheekbones, he puffs a bit of coral blusher mixed with watermelon pink on the woman’s cheek, now looking a lot more rosy and alive thanks to his work. If not for the telltale signs of death from her greenish lips, one could simply say the woman is in a deep sleep.
Like in the photo the family gave him yesterday, the woman was very well-dressed and elegant when she was alive, and Jimin is not going to have her sent off with a drab look.
Jimin’s favourite part is always the lips.
He loves the lips, and the woman has beautiful lips which are spread in equal, symmetrical sizes for the top and bottom. He first lines them up with a natural colour, before filling the pout in. A punch pink lip colour is chosen out of the many colours in the lip colour palette, one he often uses for olive skins.
Jimin tilts down his face a bit more to carefully fill in the colour inside her lips so that it would not miss any spots, especially the edges of her lips.
For emphasis, he adds a bit of strawberry red on the inside of her pout. Jimin has seen enough bodies to know morticians who do their jobs recklessly and miss spots, or colours over the line because they cannot care less, and he hates it the most. More than the dead would, he thinks.
When he is done putting on the lip colour, Jimin takes a blotter and blots all the spots on the face especially the lips, before recolouring them all over again. This makes the colours stay longer.
Next to him, Jihoon is blowing the nails dry, his huff and puff the only sound heard in the room, aside from the timely, heavy blow of the air conditioner. They always use the OPI natural shades of browns and pink for the nails, but occasionally the family would ask or provide different colours.
For this woman, Jihoon chooses a tan nude which he thinks is well-fitting with her elegant look.
When he is done with the face, Jimin carefully picks a straight comb and a circular hairbrush among a few other ones placed in an upright container in the trolley. The medium-length hair of the woman is almost baby soft and wispy, making her fringes fall naturally on her face without much effort once he unclips her coif.
He rolls the fringes a bit more so they would cover her forehead ala heroines of '90s Hong Kong films he loves to watch ever since he was small.
Brushing her hair slowly to detangle any knot and to avoid ripping anything out of her scalp, Jimin takes her hair and brushes it like he is doing a pompadour, before making a small chignon on the top of his head, reminiscent of Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Jimin thinks she would like her look very much.
Finished with his own task, Jihoon stands up to clean up his work station and examine the body.
He recognises that she now looks rather like she is dressed for a party but decides to take a nap, rather than looking like she has been dead for a few days. Jimin blended everything so well so that no harsh lines can be seen, her face looking almost glowing from the foundation, making her look younger than her age.
“Wow. Hyung, you’re amazing.”
Jihoon retorts as he tilts his head in keen observation, scrutinising the woman’s look from where he stands. “She looks pretty, and pretty ready.”
Jimin takes off the white papers from her collars as his brother comments on his side. "Hear that, Ms. Yoo. You really do look beautiful. Let me show you?”
Jimin takes a small face mirror the size of an adult face and puts it in front of the woman’s face, as if waiting for her to comment. In a dream sequence she would probably comment that she would want more colours up her puffed up cheeks, or a deeper red for her lips, or a bigger volume for her hair.
But for now, she remains asleep and in peace, eyes shut and lips slightly open.
To Jimin and many other morticians, the dead speak to them in more ways than the living.
Sometimes a makeup would look off, wrapping up a body can be difficult, and wrapping papers would get torn up. In a lot of cases they had to force the tongue in and seal the lips, and he hates those the most knowing it is torturous for the body.
Jimin is far from being superstitious, but he believes that everything good or bad are small signals sent for him to change a shade, or be gentler in his touches, lose the braid. He feels that the dead know what they want even when they are barely breathing.
“Let’s get you ready, ma’am.”
Jihoon would watch as his brother picks up a long and huge piece of porcelain-coloured paper from a roll on the corner of the room, and begins the process of wrapping the body up like a doll, covering up the hands with the cute nails he just painted, and the face Jimin just made up, alongside the rest of the body. He puts in white socks for the woman too.
Most of the times, the staff would give time for the family to see the deceased again before wrapping up. Whenever Jimin wraps the body straightaway, Jihoon knows not to ask.
Some bodies can be unloved, but no one has to say it out loud.
Watching his brother struggle with a particular part, Jihoon goes over to lend his hand, careful not to jostle too much with the paper. They have done this together for awhile now, but Jimin mostly does it alone.
It is his job after all, and he usually does not let Jihoon in that often, not wanting the younger to waste his time here instead of studying or doing his own work.
Jihoon comes over a lot anyway, even when his brother would usually kick him out after a couple of hours. Jimin has done a lot for the both of them, and coming here to help him out seems like the best way to show his appreciation and love for him.
The morning may be wonderful and sunny outside, rare streaks of dove grey criss-crossing on the baby blue sky. No one would question how much of a good day it would be for walking your dog and napping with your loved ones, or playing kites on the field.
For the two brothers, the time spent together like this, painting skins and wrapping dead bodies is just as marvelous; Jihoon and Jimin would not have it any other way.
*****
The man stares at Jungkook from inside the restraining single cell as the officer continues speaking into his phone, listening intently to his mother’s gentle yet powerful voice on the other side of the line.
The double cells on both sides of his single cell are filled with more people than this lone one, but the man’s face is less than satisfactory about his private treatment. His expensive clothes look disheveled with dried blood and cuts on his face. There is a rip on his knee, showing blood and broken skin.
Even as Jungkook walks away a bit from the cell to focus on the call, the man still stares at the officer like a mad dog, red bulging eyes wide and fist clenching. Slick hair is matted onto his forehead with a bit of dust and blood, a sign he was taken here when he was less than ready.
Still cursing under his breath like every second he did from the moment he was taken it, Jungkook can hear the volume of the man’s voice slowly rising with the hustle bustle of the station—as if trying to create a commotion the longer everyone ignores him.
The officers all around him walk around like nothing out of the usual is happening, and while it is so, Jungkook knows the man is looking only at him.
“Yeah Ma. I’ll take her to it. I don't know why she wants me-” Jungkook’s eyes never leave the man, but for a few minutes he feels a little bit too annoyed with his antics.
The bastard really does not know his place.
“Yeah, alright. Don’t you think she’s been going to that place too often? It's been almost a year, what else are they discussing?”
Finally losing patience, the man suddenly growls and launches at Jungkook from beneath the cell’s steel bars, fingers gripping the bars tightly. “Motherfucker! Let me out!”
Jungkook ignores the man’s yells, looking away to his colleagues in charge at the temporary jails for bailouts and expected convicts, watching them file in reports and answer calls like no man is screaming his lungs out from a cell one or two feet away from them.
It's all in a day's work, one would say.
Screaming convicts, crazy drunkards, beaten up gangsters. No one bats an eyelid anymore to anything happening around here.
“I know, but isn’t it a little weird-“
“Wait until my brother gets to you, you motherfucker! Fuck you and your mother and your capta-“
Jungkook would be startled if he does not see it coming, but he does. He anticipated the commotion.
Jo Manseok is one of the guys he has been chasing for almost a year, his profile is on the tips of Jungkook’s fingers. His loud, boisterous nature is one of the solid descriptions in his profiling, proven by multiple charge of assaults started at the expense of his mouth.
“Hold on one sec Ma-“
“Fuck your mother, you asshole! You-"
In two long steps, Jungkook is already next to that man, a leg lifted up to a forty five degree angle, as the sole of his black boot is swiftly pressed on the man's grip on the bars, causing the man to shriek in pain.
"-son of a bi- argh!”
A few officers turn to look, the lack of surprise on their faces a true explanation of the whole very common scene of Officer Jeon and his captives.
Jackson who walks by with a few files in his arms sneers to the screaming man, sharing his much unneeded words of wisdom. “You asked for it, man. Told you to shut up.”
The man could have just ignored Jackson but spouts a few more curses at the officer snickering as he passes by. Jungkook presses a little harder, feeling a slight pull on his thigh muscle.
“Yeah- yeah. Alright. I don’t know why she’d ask me when she knows I hate-“
After struggling for some time, one of the man’s hands escapes the heavy press of Jungkook’s boot. He is now trying to damage the boot in some way, grabbing Jungkook’s foot and trying to make him release the press on his other hand.
He pulls it all he could, clearly attempting to make the officer fall down by pulling his leg in. Jungkook almost sways to the left before he corrects his stance.
“Ah this bastard-“ Jungkook cusses slowly so his mother would not catch it, then promptly takes a pen from his jacket pocket. He clicks it open, bends his knee a bit, and jabs the man’s hand multiple times vindictively, to which the screaming continues.
Every other cell dweller watches in horror the scene happening in front of them between the lanky officer talking on his phone and the man in the cell next to them. Jungkook presses even harder, now twisting his boot left and right, like extinguishing the light from a cigarette.
“Yeah Ma, I’ll take her. Yes- yes I will. See you at home.”
Right about the second he stores the phone back into his jacket, Jungkook releases his foothold, letting the man fall on his back, screaming on the floor. The man is positively coughing on the floor, face looking squeezed like used up lemons.
“Manseok." Jungkook speaks slowly, as if speaking to a child. "Can’t a man speak in peace for 5 minutes? You just have to make everything a scene.”
“Fuck you!” The man spits from inside the cell, holding his very much reddened hand to his chest, Jungkook’s boot sole imprinted on the back of his hand with a dozen or more poked holes from his pen.
“Yeah well, I don’t swing that way.”
Jungkook crouches in front of the man on his back, picking up his fallen pen.
“I’ll fuck your mom then.”
“I thought I’m the motherfucker? Ah I don’t think she swings your way either. Sorry.”
He slaps the jail bar with a file, giving the man a smirk. “Until you talk, you can spit at me dry. Don’t forget that, Manseok.”
Jungkook rises up from his crouch, stares at the man for a few seconds and more, positively making the said man cower under his eyes, before walking over to Dahee’s desk.
“Let me know if anyone bails him. Crazy fucker always have someone doing it for him.”
Dahee looks up from the monitor where she is focused on typing out a document. “Sure, Jeon. I’ll ring up your department.”
Jungkook says his thanks, taking leave to the other wing of the block for his own department away from the cells. He can hear Manseok screaming but he could not care less at this point. They got him, they got him good.
He feels an incoming headache pulsating in between his eyes, a tension headache after four days of short naps, none of those at night. At this rate he must have drank about three dozens cups of coffee, and Jungkook feels like he is going to pee blood soon.
They have been doing surveillance and nightly stakeouts for awhile now, and with the capture of Manseok, he feels that the case is finally getting to where it should have been a couple of months ago.
Other than that, Jungkook is just grateful he has not collapsed yet from the exhaustion. He can barely see without seeing double visions, and he had cracked his glasses while chasing after and struggling to cuff Manseok the previous day.
The day is going to be a long one, and one he probably can see not much of with the state of his sight.
The phone conversation with his mother did not ease the throbs, in fact it is adding to them. He has not been home for the past four days, and his family house in a week or two, having camped out in the station for the past month.
Occasionally he would head out to Hoseok’s house to get some shower, steal some naptime, and borrow a change of clothes, since the older's apartment is closer to the station.
Far more importantly, Jungkook also would not like his family to see him at his most disoriented moments, whenever he is too much into a case, or when a case is reaching a peak and the suspects are within the grasp of his palms.
During these times Jungkook finds himself ultimately insufferable; usually turning very wild, very primal, and he would not like his family, especially his grandmother to see him that way.
Jungkook’s grandmother was the subject of the phone call, he had called his mother to ask about her wellbeing. His grandmother is the absolute person for Jungkook, the one person he feels closest to in this world. Growing up, Jungkook found solace in his grandmother more than the rest of his family, and not even his parents.
Sure, his parents are good parents who love their children very much, but they also have an empire to raise.
In overall Jungkook is very loved, comes from a good, wealthy household, and one would question why he would be a police officer given he could be working for his father.
But there were no objections, and his father was not a rich dad, poor choices cliché like that. He allowed his sons to pursue their ambitions, and Jungkook applied for police training immediately after military service and school. His brother is a graphic designer at their father's company, now a father to two cute babies.
Jungkook's grandfather was a tough policeman in his years alive, and Jungkook feels that his grandmother’s glassy-eyed smiles whenever she saw him in full uniforms are worth more than his entire lifetime of smiles. She has been through a lot and still has a lot to give, the steel woman she is.
To Jungkook, his grandmother Dukseon is amazing, super-intelligent, beautiful, and then some.
She is also a little bit morbid, despite being the brightest, most jovial woman Jungkook has ever met. One could say she is a bit too obsessed with her own death, or specifically her funeral.
It is not weird to plan your funeral, buy the plot of your grave and plan how many years you want your corpse to stay in that damned hole, but Dukseon actually anticipates everything like it is a festival to be celebrated. She might seem morbid and depressive, but she is none of that.
She talks death at the breakfast table while she laughs, and she laughs a lot on the daily. This past year, Jungkook’s family would find her visiting the small yet esteemed funeral home at the outskirts of the city a little bit too much.
They cannot exactly visualise what she does there though she is anything but an honest little woman, even when she tells them everything she does. Jungkook's father might be worried sick, but learned to not overstep his boundaries after awhile, knowing how strong-willed his mother is.
No one could stop her seeing how everytime she comes back, she looks so happy and content like she has just had the time of her life.
Jungkook hates it though, and the thought of his grandmother dying would be the last thing on his mind. And after four days of no sleep, thinking about ferrying her to the damned place this afternoon sounds like the exact most damned thing he would want to do.
“Jeon! Heads up!”
Before he could register what is happening, he feels himself falling down on one knee, his files dispersing all over the floor. Someone just kicked the back of his knee. A loud laughter is heard and a slap of palms later on.
“What the f-“
Jungkook would have wanted to punch the smug face but resorts instead to digging his elbow inside Yugyeom’s back, who is running away from him, making the man scream in pain and laughter.
“Oi kids cut it out! Too loud, too early for fuck's sake.” Hoseok speaks from his desk, eyes flitting between the stack of reports and the PC monitor. “Don’t trigger Kook, Gyeom. Last time he broke a handcuff.”
A muffled groan can be heard from a bundle of black jacket on the couch behind a chest-level cupboard, Jongyeon tossing away in her sleep. "Shut up, shitheads!"
Hoseok laughs from his desk, not realising she is around after three days of extended shifts. He thought she went home.
“Where do these kids even get energy? They don’t even sleep.” Jaebum murmurs from his seat, stamping some documents, voice loud enough for everyone to hear. He looks more than sleepy for the early morning, probably having to stay up all night with his newborn baby.
All around them everyone seems either too tired to sleep, or too exhausted to function, their coffee breaths reminiscent of their utmost effort to stay awake. Only those like Yugyeom and Jungkook can scream inferno at the crack of dawn.
Yugyeom gets to escape from Jungkook’s hold before running away into the hallways leading out of department, laughing away like a fool on crack. Jungkook almost chases after him before realising he needs to finish typing up the handwritten report of Jo Manseok's arrest at his desk.
He struts over to his desk and takes off his jacket, before putting a thumbstack on the seat of Yugyeom’s office chair next to him.
“You look dead, JK,” Hoseok observes for a second before turning back his face to the monitor. “Smell dead too. Go home today.”
Jungkook grunts a reply, before Hoseok tosses a pen at his head.
“Yeah hyung, I’m going back. Talked to my mom just now.”
“Oh home home? Not your apartment?”
“Yeah well my apartment is their home too considering how many times they go there even when I’m not there. But yeah, home-home. Gotta send the girlfriend somewhere.”
Hoseok smiles at that, and looks up from beneath his glasses perched on his sharp nose, “She’s doing alright? I haven’t visited in awhile.”
“Come soon, hyung. She misses you more than she misses me, I’m sure. You let her win Go Stop everytime.”
Hoseok laughs heartily at that, remembering Jungkook’s grandmother with fond memories.
She is a wonderful woman, someone with a presence unlike any. She reminds Hoseok’s of his own grandmother, a distant memory in his childhood. Hoseok visits Jungkook’s grandmother and his family when he can, and with their job, he wishes it could be more than the meager few times.
Jungkook glances at the clock, calculating the six hours before his shift ends, an early off day.
He could do some shut eye after staying up all night, but immediately cans the plan after remembering the need to type in his handwritten case report and also check several case files again before they are sent to the district attorney. He switches on the PC, ready to type his password in when the door to the Chief’s room swings open.
“Jeon, get in here,” Chief Song speaks from where she appears next to the door, immaculate in her white shirt and strong oceanic perfume. She curls his fingers in a hand signal for Jungkook to get into her office. “Bring the case file.”
Jungkook does not wait before grabbing everything he needs, entering the Chief’s room with ease.
Jihyo has been their team captain for a long time, and if there is one thing Jungkook could say about her is that she is the best captain Jungkook has ever been assigned under. Her calmness, rational-thinking could be her best feat, if her superior intelligence is set aside.
Chief Song Jihyo is the most intelligent, least temperamental team lead Jungkook knows, hence making their team the luckiest in their cases, the best of the best.
Jihyo plops back into the office chair overlooking her messy office table, filled with strewn around case files, a PC and a framed photo of herself, her husband and two children. Jungkook stands where he stopped the minute he entered the room a couple of seconds back, hands flipping the file case to find the pages he wants to show to the Chief.
“So we got Jo Manseok in.”
“We did,” Jungkook answers surely. “We tried to get the brother, but he fled before we got to him. But knowing how they work, Mansik won’t do anything without his brother.”
Upon finding the page he is looking for, Jungkook straightens it out and hands it over to Jihyo, who begins to read the file attentively upon receiving. Her ears and eyebrows are still up for Jungkook’s verbal report. Her shoulder-length hair is coiffed up in a bun, stray hair held in place by the glasses placed on top of her head.
“We got enough evidence to hold Manseok in with his DNA on the latest victim, but not enough for Mansik. But I’m sending this over to DA, if he could see some ways to get the brother as well,” Jungkook continues. “I’m still going through the missing persons report just in case we have another profile of a possible victim. We could be missing out on the body count.”
“You’re saying we haven’t found all?”
“I’m not sure, Boss. On the presumption that while Mansik is the quiet doer and Manseok is the exhibitionist one, I think there are more victims we haven’t discovered. They’re not a perfect duo, but their list of victims have been quite intriguing and different from each other. So I'm assuming there are more we haven't discovered, if we only focus on combined profiling instead of individual profiling.”
Jihyo nods a couple of times, eyebrows furrowed at his report. “You’re checking the missing list?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Great observation. Get DA Kim on the phone, I’ll speak to him, tie the knots. This case is exhausting everyone the heck out. Let’s get it over with.”
Jihyo hands him back the file, and Jungkook is ready to bail. He is sure he quite accomplished a lot with such a grim case, and it is about time they tie whatever loose ends they keep on getting to with the Jo brothers case. By the fifth victim, Jungkook already felt like quitting the force.
“Sure does, Ma'am. I’ll get to it quick.”
“Thank you, Kook. Now get the hell out.” Jihyo says with a nod; her wide, satisfied smile betraying the harshness of her words. Jeon Jungkook is a part of the best team she has assembled in years, made of officers with equivalent distinctions and expertise. The young officer himself is an asset in a room full of assets.
“Thank you, Chief.”
Jungkook leaves the room with a slight bow, feeling like he is ready for whatever the day would throw at him, suddenly very awake and bright-eyed. He feels more than ready.
More than ready for anything.
Anyone.
***
The last couple of hours before lunch hour starts is always the best hours to grab lunch, or a late breakfast.
In the tiny small restaurant they are eating right now where soups and rice are a delicacy equivalent of foods for the gods, Jihoon finds himself and Jimin the only ones occupying the table other than another two.
Jihoon loves these hours best, ones he could eat with his brother in peace and in quiet with nothing or no one to get in the way.
Jimin looks especially thin these days with his increasing hours and exhausting rise in cases, and Jihoon wants to make sure his brother eats well for a lot of reasons.
He picks up a piece of meat from his bowl and places it in Jimin's bowl, the older immediately looking up at him in surprise. Before they can start a banter over who needs more meat, the owner's voice can be heard welcoming a new customer.
“Oi why didn’t you wait for me?”
Jihoon is slurping his soup to avoid Jimin's stare when he feels a slap on his back, effectively making him choke on the hot liquid.
Next to him a few heads up, Taehyung grins widely as he takes out a chair and plops into it, promptly calling for a server. He is dressed in his comfiest—sweatpants and a loose periwinkle purple button up showing his eager collarbones. Taehyung always does whatever, and Jihoon likes that the most about him.
What he also does not like is how Taehyung does whatever Taehyung wants, and they usually get in the way of Jihoon’s life in the weirdest of ways.
Right now, he is trying to figure out why Taehyung would be here on a Sunday morning when he usually sleeps well into the afternoon on summer breaks, and is actually sitting down with his brother and himself in their favourite soup restaurant in their neighourhood. He blames it on Jimin, who is snickering into his soup like a forsaken bastard.
“Slow down, Hoon. Why do you eat like a baby?”
Jihoon chokes on the spices a bit more, feels his nose and ears burning. Jimin just shrugs as he hands over a napkin to his baby brother, like he does not have a clue why Jihoon eats like a baby or why Taehyung has magically appeared over here.
“Please get me the usual, auntie. Double scoops of rice, please. Your cooking is the best!” Taehyung’s words are saccharine sweet, making the older woman who came to take his order laugh heartily, wrinkled hand patting on his soft brown hair.
Taehyung laughs like a child, the glasses on his nose almost falling onto his laps when she coos at him, obviously enamoured at the sweet young man. She leaves the table still with a wide smile on her face, truly happy to be able to serve a table of younger men she sees as grandsons.
“Hey Jim,” Taehyung says quickly without interest, before dramatically turning to Jihoon, an elbow on the table, palm pressing the side of his face. “Long time no see, buddy. Sorry I joined your brotherly reunion without notice. Sweet coincidence.”
“Sure, hyung.” Jihoon answers in a clipped tone, and turns to Jimin whose facial expression could be spelled out as ‘I’m innocent’ and ‘I didn’t invite him’. Or ‘please don’t kick my leg under the table anymore because it hurts’.
“How’s school? When is the academy’s preliminary test?”
“Great.”
Jihoon briefly looks at the older man, trying not to blush at finding Taehyung still looking like the handsomest man he has ever seen, even with the smudge of toothpaste on his chin. His fingers feel itchy to rub it off and probably touch the man's tanned face.
The soft scent of baby lotion from Taehyung's hand drifts into his nostrils, as the older man lifts his hand and pats his hair. Jihoon feels the need to explode at the very moment, but before he does, he remembers the question. “Mm mid-January.”
“Awesome, we can go for a winter vacation first then before you get busy.”
Jimin is slurping his soup as he comments, fingers still scrolling down a recent message thread for the office staff on his phone. “Tae, it’s August. Too early.”
“Yeah, but we need to plan ahead. Let’s go skiing. How do you feel about skiing, Hoon?”
Jihoon feels like he is about to die now with Taehyung giving him all the attention he needs, and how he does not know how to react.
“I don’t know, I haven’t skied much.” Jihoon wipes his puffy lips with a napkin, trying not to stare at Taehyung too much even when the older is doing the exact damn thing to him. “I think Jimin hyung hasn’t too.”
“I’ll teach you.”
Taehyung is still staring at Jihoon with his wide eyes, occasionally glancing at the younger’s red lips, red from the spices. He picks up a spoon from a container and continues to scoop the liquid from Jihoon’s bowl into his own wide open mouth. “Jimin doesn’t like winter. Let’s get a hotel room for the both of us and ditch him.”
Quite possibly the best plot twist ever, Jihoon chokes on his soup again, this time positively drooling from his nose. Taehyung quickly gives him a glass of water to get the spices in, making him feel a bit bloated. By now he feels his face changing into a shade of red; successfully turning into a whole fool in front of the love of his life.
“Excuse me. Toilet-"
Jihoon rises from his seat and runs for the toilet. Taehyung watches him run, hand still hovering in air where he held a napkin to wipe the younger man's face. Jihoon's spoon falls with a cling on the floor when he left for the toilet, and Taehyung picks it up before tossing it aside. He grabs a new one for Jihoon from the next table.
Jimin watches everything happening in front of him with a dead-eye stare.
“You are a nasty old man.”
“What?” Taehyung asks, his face incredulous as he continues feeding himself spoonfuls of Jihoon’s spicy soup.
“Don’t do that to Hoon, man. You know how he feels for you.”
Taehyung scrunches up his face in a frown, really trying to figure out what Jimin is trying to say. “What am I doing?”
“You’re leading him on, Tae.”
“Leading him on what. I wasn’t doing anything.”
Jimin clicks his phone close, putting it aside as he continues eating and ignoring Taehyung's faux ignorance. “Uh-huh.”
“Spell it out you old fucker.”
“One of these days I swear the very thing you teach in class will hit you back in the face. Force, magnitude, velocity.”
Taehyung leans back into his chair, eyes narrowing at Jimin. “Those are Physics, not Chem. Is that even a diss?”
“Oh well. Hoon likes you, I can’t diss you without feeling guilty for him.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah 'Oh'. The minute you both decide to have something going on please let me know. It’s getting tiring to see you both dancing around each other.”
Taehyung tilts his head at that, looking at Jimin like he is thinking of something introspective and wanting to say it out loud, but deciding against it in the last minute. Jimin knows it is a safe old banter he always have with his childhood friend of many years; knows Taehyung would likely not be hurt by what he says.
“He’s my brother too, you know.”
Taehyung sounds serious for a moment, but his oily, red-rimmed lips are not helping his case.
“Well, he doesn’t think of you that way.” Jimin throws that out just as quickly, a sly smile loyal on his face. "You certainly don't think of him that way, Tae. Admit it."
Jimin repeats his last line, slurping his soup obnoxiously loud, before Taehyung decides to pokes his chopsticks at Jimin's spoonful of meat. The crimson red soup splatters a bit onto the desk and onto the frontmost of Jimin’s white shirt. Taehyung feels vengeful for some reason.
“You fuck-“
Jihoon finally returns to his seat and watches as Taehyung laughs loudly at whatever he is talking or arguing about with Jimin. Taehyung never really laughed like that around him these days.
He feels a tinge of jealousy creeping up his neck, which he quickly pushes aside to settle back into the previous conversation. He had washed his face and his nose in the toilet, now coming back with a resolve; to appear more adultlike and be less immature. To look calm and look cool. To be anything remotely desirable to Taehyung's eyes.
But when Taehyung looks at him with that look of worry and pity, he feels himself crawling back into his tiny, scrawly twenty-two year old body.
“You okay Hoon?”
Before he gets to answer the question, the restaurant owner begins sending in Taehyung’s order of rice and spicy oxtail soup, with several side dishes alongside the platter. He claps his hands excitedly like a seal in a circus, before launching into his soup like it is the first thing he eats today, and not Jihoon’s half-finished soup.
“How’s that kid in your class you talked about last time?”
Jimin asks from where he is finishing the last bits from his own bowl, and Jihoon quietly thanks his brother for changing the route of conversation from where it was Jihoon-centric to Taehyung-centric. He would want to know what the teacher is up to too, especially these days when summer breaks usually means he teaches supplementary classes.
“Failing. I gave him a D last time.”
Taehyung munches on the crispy cabbage kimchi loudly, savouring the burst of flavours in his mouth like no other. “He doesn’t wanna help himself.”
“You on your super-strict mode again?”
“He can’t even tell a proton from an electron in his final year, Jimin. Three years of high school Chem and that? How else am I going to help?”
Jimin nods from his seat, acknowledging Taehyung’s resolve in things and thought process in teaching. The man is one of the best teachers Jimin knows, and the smartest one at that. “You did try, Tae. It’s all him now.”
“Yeah. I mean between the kid and the rest of the students who actually want to study and go places, I would probably have to settle for the bigger, more rewarding crowd.”
“Are you giving up on him?”
Jihoon voices suddenly; shocking himself with the loud question in his head being spoken by his lips.
Taehyung turns to look at Jihoon, a different kind of look etched on his face from the usual nonchalant face he pulls whenever he speaks to Jimin. “Not really, Hoon. I’m just giving him space to see what he can do on his own. I don’t think any teacher ever really gives up.”
Jihoon nods at that, ten times overwhelmed at the renewing admiration he has for the Chemistry teacher, unaware of Jimin’s close-lipped smile from across the table.
"Tae never gives up on anything he's passionate about. You're like that too, Hoon."
Jihoon tries to ignore the underlying meaning behind the sentence, but he mirrors the smile on his brother's face.
Little does he know, Taehyung is trying to hide his own as he takes another spoonful of rice into his mouth.
**
About twenty minutes before he got into the house and was forcibly pushed to eat a huge spread of late lunch by his family, one could say Jungkook was ready for whatever he has ready for the day.
Right now, with his tummy inflated and probably a pound heavier, all Jungkook wants to do is sleep in his comfortable bedroom and wake up in time for his shift tomorrow. Regardless of his puny little afternoon dreams, he would have to return to the station tonight to finish off the rest of the work he left to return home, and he groans at the realisation.
Right now he has something to get off his way.
And he would have complained all the way if his grandmother would not look at him too happily from the passenger seat while they softly sing along to an old song about reminiscing memories by Boohwal. The song is called Reminiscent III, one Jungkook could sing to even in his sleep.
Growing up in his grandmother's house and room means Jungkook knows every classic Korean rock there is. His grandmother is every bit the rock chick of the 40s.
“Jungkookie, you remember me singing this song to you to get you to sleep. You were this tiny,” Dukseon raises a hand up to her belly trying to properly describe the tininess of Jungkook once upon a time, looking at Jungkook driving on her side. “And you would tell me I have the most beautiful voice. Oh!”
“You have the best voice, Grandma. You’re my favourite rock chick.” Jungkook retorts back, teeth out from his wide smile, tone childish like his grandmother likes it best.
Dukseon laughs at that, hands trembling and eyes wrinkled, but the laughter escapes her lips easily. "I'm the only rock chick you know."
Jungkook cannot help but laugh at that, nodding his head a few times.
While there are many unspoken reasons why he loves her so like no one else, he loves her brain the most.
She sees things like no one else would, and she never enforced her belief on others. Everyone else may question the need for Jungkook's preference to live alone or on his own—never really finding the need to be with anyone even as he approaches twenty-seven this year, but Dukseon never once said anything about it.
Whenever the subject of love is talked about, she would rather focus on the universality of it—how it is not limited between the love of a man or a woman, or two people for the matter. Dukseon loves talking about love, but talks of it in ways which one would talk about the universe or spirituality.
For her, love makes one whole, but wholeness is also love. One could be in love with a four-petaled clover, the dusk skies, or the scent of a person.
She is a revolutionary way beyond her times. Jungkook knows that the frail woman knows everything about his sexuality, but she never once picked on it with him. She would be the last person to.
“Oh I know someone with a better voice,” Dukseon suddenly speaks wistfully, a sweet smile still lingering on her face. “His voice is so wonderful. Actually, everything he does makes me feel so at ease.”
“He?” Jungkook turns to his grandmother, eyes flitting forward to make sure the highway is still empty except for his jeep. It is an hour away from the off-work hours, and the roadways are relatively empty. “Who? You met anyone recently? Grandpa?”
“No. Your Grandpa has this croaky, harsh voice. I liked that a lot when I was younger, but as I get older I appreciate the quiet ones. Lucky he’s dead, I don’t have to listen to him anymore,” Dukseon quips, laughing at herself.
“Grandma!” Jungkook joins in with her throaty laughter, unable to mask his overwhelming love for the woman of eighty plus sitting next to him. The thought of ferrying her over to talk about her death gives him a reality check at some point, dampening his mood a bit.
He turns to the woman, carefully observing the wispy threads of grey on her head.
The chemotherapy had taken a lot of her hair before, killed off her skin a bit; so when she decided to lay off the treatment and continues living without, she actually looks much healthier. Redness returned to her cheeks and her hair became lush again, but with the impending threat still lodged deeply within her Jungkook does not worry less.
The family has tried their best to coax her into continuing the treatment, but the woman has the last word. She always does, she is that powerful.
It is ironic how one looks the healthiest when one is suffering the most, and looks like one is dead when one is healing.
“What do you even talk about with the people at the mor- funeral home, Grandma?” Jungkook begins his questions, the usual thing he does on the daily except now there are no convicted murderers, but a frail woman on her final days of life.
“We talk about things that matter. We talk about the kind of clothes, wrapping papers I want,” Dukseon speaks so easily, every word gliding from her tongue like poetry. “Last week we discussed coffins. You should’ve came with me, and felt the wood.”
Jungkook feels a little bit disturbed at that, knowing how people could easily take advantage of his grandmother’s immense wealth and childlike optimism towards life. While it is undeniable that she is smart and certainly is not near as naïve like Jungkook would think she is with her easy smile and kind acceptance, Jungkook do find her too open with strangers.
In his world everything is done with a motive and modus operandi, and the kindest-looking ones are the usually those who are most cunning. He has stared into the supposedly kind eyes of teachers who killed the children they taught, or mothers who killed their own babies.
Nothing surprises him anymore, but nothing also seems to placate his sense of acceptance of people. Jungkook rarely opens himself up to new people, and with the work hours he has, he is rarely challenged to do so.
He especially does not seem to get the lucrative income which comes from the business of death, dealing with death. He does not see the point of it all; all the lavish rituals, loud processions, expensive wood.
They are all going to die someday and get buried or burnt to ashes per choice, and knowing someone is getting paid for someone’s death makes him feel like it is all a scam.
Knowing how his grandmother would probably spend a fortune on her own funeral is also ticking him off in severe ways, feeling like their family and himself are not giving enough for her to cherish life and not focus on death as much.
“Don’t think too much about it, Kookie.”
Dukseon speaks as if his thoughts are bared out in the open for her to inspect, and Jungkook quietly wonders how she always knows what he is thinking.
“You will come to a point in your life someday where acceptance of everything gives you more happiness than anything else. Talking about the kind of coffin and dress I would wear on my last days here gives me so much comfort. And I'm the biggest control freak I know.”
Even when the old woman laughs heartily at her own words, Jungkook does not wipe the pout off his face.
“I don’t like it, Grandma. I don’t know why-“ Jungkook stops talking before his mouth would run off into his usual snarky, rebellious territory. He got into trouble a lot because of that, with the family, with the force. Never with his grandmother, but he is not going to attempt that now. “Aren’t you happy with your life now?”
“I am, Jungkookie. Terribly, immensely happy and blessed. I lived a long, wonderful life. I have everyone I love around me, my lovely, handsome grandson driving me around.”
Dukseon brushes Jungkook’s hair with her dainty, shivering fingers. “I also love everything that comes with life, including death.”
Jungkook would love to argue about that, except now they have arrived at the damned place Jungkook hates so much. Last time he had been here a couple of years ago for a senior officer who died during duty, it was so heartbreaking and solemn he left only after half an hour. He could not stand the place.
Being a cop and facing nameless deaths everyday does not help Jungkook deal with death that well.
The funeral home looks quite vintage considering the stable, confident prestige it is esteemed with, having been around for quite some time.
While the front building which houses the wake looks more aged and classic than the background layout—having been built mostly with wood, the rest of the building are very modern and contemporary.
A little bit off the side of the main funeral home was a building which has a smaller insignia of the home; huge glass double doors leading into what could be the staff building where consultations would take place.
Jungkook's mind immediately questions where the morgue is.
When they begin walking towards the double doors, Jungkook examines the state of the place a bit more, with the background landscape being nothing more but a vast willow of lush green meadow of short grass, looking almost like a golf course.
In the summer light, it seems like a good place to hangout at—if one could ignore the hearse, and long limousines of tinted cars in the parking lot, and the fact that a morgue is there at such a remarkable place.
“I hope he's in today,” Dukseon mumbles to herself, arms held by Jungkook who stands at least three heads taller than her. He listens to everything Dukseon says, but decides against asking unnecessary questions.
Three steps before making it to the glass doors, they open from the inside to show a boy, someone probably not older than twenty-one walking out and smiling towards Jungkook and his grandmother, bowing and greeting in respect. His brown hair glints with the afternoon light, all white shirt and blue jeans. His face almost looks smaller than Jungkook’s fist.
“You’re here Ms. Jeong. Welcome, he's waiting inside!”
Jungkook ignores the mention of ‘he’, and walks in with a clipped smile on his face; settling for a stern, officer look on his face. The boy holds the door open, accepting Dukseon’s other arm when she makes it past the threshold, carrying her over to a nearby room.
Jungkook takes the time to observe the surrounding office, a routine and a trait he has yet to get rid off upon first stepping into the police academy.
He observes the big circular clock on one wall, and the soft mauve hues of the walls in huge contrast to the blinding, static white of the funeral house.
Several potted plants are placed strategically close to the windows, giving the room a homey ambiance. They look like they are well taken care off, judging from the healthy state of leaves and flowers. Plush couches are set in a circular design in the lobby, with a coffee table in the middle, alongside an empty receptionist desk and a water filter on the sidemost part.
The boy leads them straight towards a room second to the first one Jungkook saw when he first came in. Dukseon keeps on brushing the boy's hair, and Jungkook feels a little bit off by the sight.
The place looks more modern than Jungkook ever imagined it could be, and he is still curious where the morgue would be.
“You’re here, Ms. Jeong. Good day!”
Jungkook registers the high-pitched, yet ironically low timbre; whisper of a voice before turning to face the man standing in front of his desk in the small office.
The room looks almost similar to Chief Song’s room, except that hers would be sparsely decorated and are cluttered with files everywhere. This man’s room shares the same paint from the outside walls, and everything looks neat and placed where it needs to be.
Jungkook takes notice of several framed certificates on his walls, and framed photos of people who he assumes is the man's family.
“Mr. Park, I’m here again. Please take this old woman in her whims and bids,” Dukseon begins, as the said man takes over from the boy from earlier, getting her to sit on the seat overlooking his on the other side.
“Chamomile tea, hyung?” The boy speaks to the said Mr. Park, but they both turn to Dukseon, waiting for her answer.
“Chamomile tea is fine, Jihoonie. Thank you honey,” she replies, looking at the boy sweetly before turning his face to Mr. Park, who is still holding her hands tightly like he truly loves having her here.
“I’m always happy to have you here, Ms. Jeong,” Mr. Park says, eyes trained at Dukseon.
Jungkook wants to scoff at his words, knows the exact meaning those words could imply to a trained cop, but decides against saying anything.
“This must be your-“
“Grandson. Jeon Jungkook, my youngest. Do you remember? Jungkook, Mr. Park is older than you,” Dukseon remarks, a hand slapping Jungkook’s arm.
Jungkook stands up and bows again, extending a hand to Mr. Park who receives his hand and smiles at him easily, eyes turning into two thin lines of black lashes. With an immaculate white dress shirt and an ironed sharp pair of black pants, Mr. Park looks like he would fit in any international, corporate organisation back in the city.
His face is delicate and pointy, all skinny cheekbones and sharp nose, but his lips are round and thick. When he smiles to welcome Jungkook, the latter takes notice of the front snaggle tooth of the man’s white teeth.
“Oh the police officer? Welcome, Mr. Jeon. Thank you for coming all the way here. It’s quite far from the city, isn’t it?”
“Not at all. I like driving.” Jungkook answers in a clipped tone, not knowing why he said why he said, but he needs to cut off any conversation before he starts interrogating, even with the best intentions.
The man looks briefly alarmed by his previous strong handshake and the unwavering sharp stare, and Jungkook intends it to be that way. The younger knows he has large eyes, and he can be intimidating when he wants to be.
Mr. Park takes his seat on a larger swivel chair, looking much smaller now sitting across the table from them both.
“Alright, Ms. Jeong. What are we going to discuss today? We’ve discussed the burial clothes, the type of coffin, wood, wrapping paper,” the man trails off while opening a file which looks like an organiser where he lists down everything he discusses with the clients.
He looks like he loves writing compared to typing even with the Mac on his desk, judging from the indent in his index and middle finger—something Jungkook learns from observing criminals to know whether they are left-handed or right-handed.
He also takes notice of the man’s nonchalance about talking death like it is a business, and would not have guessed it from such an innocent face.
His small stature and facial features look almost similar to the boy who greeted Jungkook and Dukseon earlier, except for the obvious fact that he is older—judging from the crinkles set at the edge of his eyes, and a more professional outlook.
He smells of musk and wood, and Jungkook would have asked him for the name of his perfume, if he is not intensely judging the man on everything he is, and everything he does.
“Oh we haven’t finished talking about the wake, and your personal requests,” Mr. Park says, as he grabs a pair of glasses and wears it. Like this he looks older, despite his cheeks bunching up a bit more when pressed by the frames.
“Oh yes. We were choosing drinks. I wanted wine?”
Mr. Park laughs at that. “Yes, Ms. Jeong. You wanted both the wine and rice wine.”
Jungkook gets a bit confused at that, but Mr. Park continues, “Wine is a little bit expensive, especially seeing you’re inviting many people, Ms. Jeong.”
“Grandma,” Dukseon corrects, and Mr. Park laughs.
“It’ll be costly, Grandma. You sure you want that?”
Jungkook does not like where this is going.
When it comes to money, and words like expensive and costly are being thrown around, he feels a little bit cautious. Police officer or not, Jungkook comes from a wealthy family, and he has had his fair share of being manipulated or used for money in his younger years. This explains why he rarely ever discloses where he lives and from which family he is from. People steal when they can.
“Rice wine is fine.” Jungkook cuts off the conversation. “What else?”
Both Mr. Park and his grandmother look a little bit shocked by his sudden intrusion, with Mr. Park looking like he does not know what to say for a moment. “Oh. You okay with that Grandma?”
“She’ll be okay with that.”
Jungkook does not understand why the man needs to confirm anything else when Jungkook has stated what he wanted. “What else, Mr. Park?”
“Well, if you say so Mr. Jeon.”
The man would have stuttered a bit if he is younger, but he looks composed and calm. His stare though has hardened, sensing the hostile vibes Jungkook is openly sending to him from where he sits stiff, legs open in a manspread. The man does not look intimidated, and it is getting on Jungkook’s nerve.
“You can change the arrangement anytime though, Grandma,” the man says sweetly, effectively getting Jungkook in an offensive position. His innocent face is nothing like what he is like. Jungkook is always right.
“Mr. Park,” Jungkook begins. “May I see the list of arrangements for my grandmother’s funeral? Her type of coffins and all?”
Mr. Park does not look remotely unnerved by his clipped tone. In fact, his tone turns a little bit more poised, as if he is talking in a car commercial. “Sure, if Grandma allows me to I can.”
“Sure Jimin, give the boy what he wants. Let’s talk about everything else,” Dukseon speaks lightly as Jimin opens another file, flips to a few pages inside, and hands the whole file over to Jungkook.
Jungkook takes it and begins reading everything meticulously, almost as if he is reading a case file from earlier.
The man - Mr. Park Jimin, is still smiling like it does not hurt to smile like that all the time.
“Grandma, we finished discussing the menu the other day. Everything is almost done. Do you wanna talk about anything else?”
Dukseon contemplates about that for a moment before speaking out excitedly, “Oh Jiminie. I want to look my best on that day. Make me up the best you can.”
The man smiles at that, holding her wrinkled fingers inside his smoother ones, and Jungkook does not like it. He scrutinises the small table listing off the type of coffins available, noting that his grandmother has chosen the most expensive one out of all. She could, and she can afford to, but something does not fit right with him.
“Oh! We can look at the palette-“
“Do you have other options other than mahogany, Mr. Park?” Jungkook begins speaking in his officer mode, eyes still fixed on the paper in front of him. “I know mahogany caskets are very expensive, and while we can afford that, I don’t see the point.”
Dukseon slaps her grandson's arm at his words, sensing the man's need to challenge everything they have planned. “Jungkook, I chose that.”
“Mr. Jeon, we have other types of woods, like you can see in the list. However, we strictly adhere to our clients' requests. And if Grandma chose that, there’s nothing I can do about it. She deserves the best, and like you said she can afford it.”
Jungkook openly scoffs at that, and Mr. Park straightens his body a bit, looking mildly agitated. "Well, of course."
“With all due respect, Mr. Jeon—”
“Mr. Park, I understand the death business is lucrative, but we’re talking my grandmother here.”
“Yes we are.”
“And you're scamming money off her,” Jungkook does not know where that came from, but he feels angrier the more he stays there looking at the morbid arrangement. “We can pay you all that but not when you’re making this about money.”
“Jungkookie, stop.”
The boy from earlier knocks, and sends over the tea like he is not interrupting an argument between a police officer and a mortician about coffin types.
“Your tea, Grandma, Sir.”
“Thank you, darling,” Dukseon pats the boy’s arms and Jungkook does not like that too.
He feels like everyone here is scamming his grandmother, almost wanting to stop her from drinking the tea. His paranoia is at an all time high. The thought about people poisoning her tea or stealing her money crosses his mind in a fleeting few seconds. He knows he is being irrational, but he could not stop it.
He turns back to Mr. Park who looks disinterested—offended but not as affected as Jungkook imagines he would be after the short banter. He tilts his head to the side, and smiles to Jungkook, now surprising the younger man.
“You’re a policeman aren’t you, Mr. Jeon? The one with the homicide department?” Mr. Park says, fingers trailing the rim of the cup, eyes still looking at Jungkook. He looks almost cunning with his puffy lips up in a decent smile and a dead-eye stare, but Jungkook is used to this. “Grandma talks about you a lot.”
“What's your point?”
“We’re not your criminals. We wrap up dead people, some killed by your criminals, but we hardly do any crimes here. We don't.”
Jihoon, the boy from earlier who is just about to exit the room stops in the middle of his walk, turning around and watching the whole commotion. Jungkook can feel the boy's eyes on his head.
“If selling coffins is a crime, then my whole family are scammers,” Mr Park continues, eyes unwavering. "Of course it is business, but business only thrives with necessity and values, Mr. Jeon."
Jungkook almost wants to gape for a moment, but he can feel his head heating up.
“I’m not saying you’re not supposed to sell coffins, but I think you’re not helping my grandmother make wise decisions here. Mahogany coffins? Imported paper? Expensive meat? Are we having a party here?”
Jungkook does not know how to stop. “Gucci dress?”
“That decision does not come from us. The deceased give us their clothes and cosmetics if they want to.”
“Cosmetics? Make up? You’re getting paid for that too? Unbelievable.”
“Believe it, Mr. Jeon. It’s my career. I'm a trained professional."
Mr. Park looks so calm, like he is talking about recipes to a neighbour, but his sharp stare might give it away. "You’re saying I’m not helping her make wise decisions about her funeral, Mr. Jeon. Well, are you?”
Jungkook quiets at that, and stares at the man before rising up from his chair, tossing the file onto the table and promptly leaving the room. He has never done this before to a civilian, Jungkook is rarely ever rude to anyone.
But he feels so ticked off with this Mr. Park, feels his vein bursting and his emotions getting the best of him. As he walks away towards his car, Jungkook decides that he hates the place, hates the man.
Jungkook hates the damned place and the damned man in it.
Dukseon looks alarmed at his grandson's sudden outburst, almost rising too, if not for Jimin’s hand holding her down so she would not be shocked to follow. “Grandma, I’m sorry.”
“No. Jimin. I apologise for that. He’s having a rough time I know. He just loves me so much, it's difficult to talk about this with him.”
“I know. I can imagine. I’m sorry I have to say the things I said.”
“Never apologise for standing up for yourself.” Dukseon holds Jimin’s hands firmly, her tone rising, affirming. "You're a wonderful person who deserves good things, and no one should question what you do for a living."
Jimin goes quiet at that, feels his chest growing heavy with adoration and love at the aged woman sitting in front of him. It has been a while dealing with Jeong Dukseon, and every meeting has been lovely, even this one.
Jimin would have never thought he would ever foster a connection with a client seeing it would usually be the family members who would come in and discuss what they want for the deceased.
About a year ago, Dukseon came in in her healthiest, a month off chemo, seeking help to plan her funeral. Ever since then, Seokjin's staff have all become quite enamoured with the woman of eighty-five, even when her coming in is always with the intention of speaking about her death.
She loves everyone, but spends the most time with Jimin. Jimin may say that Dukseon reminds him of his late grandmother or his late mother, but he knows they are all different people. Dukseon is a whole different person, a whole different kind of love.
It's all in a day's work, everyone would say. But Jimin knows Dukseon is more than work.
“I think we’ve discussed the lot of it. I just wanted him to see you, I wanted you both to meet each other. I got my wish,” Dukseon speaks, her eyes watering up alongside her wide smile.
Jimin laughs at that, clear from the cynical laughter he had previously used with the sharp-tongued Mr. Jeon. “You want him to meet me, Grandma? What for? You want to watch a wrestling match?”
“I wanted him to see you and talk to you.”
Jimin feels taken aback by that, not knowing where that idea come from, but the woman continues.
“I’ve lived for a long time, and I think the best feeling in the world is when I feel calm and at peace. I feel my calmest when I’m with you both, and I want you both to feel it too—as much as you make me.”
“Mm... He doesn’t like me that much, Grandma.” Jimin does not like Jungkook that much either, but keeps it to himself.
“He will, I know my Jungkook.”
She continues when Jimin stays silent. “He’s a little rough around the edges, he has never been through any real hardship. He gets what he wants. He doesn’t know life beyond the things he thinks, he sees. I don't mean he's spoiled in any way, he works hard to get where he is right now. He's just... very righteous, very black and white."
Jimin senses the truth in that. Jeon Jungkook does not look evil to him. He may be irritating, but he is not the first client Jimin has had to deal with who are unnecessarily rude or righteous.
“He's a good man, but there's so much he could learn from you, Jiminie. I want him to do that.” Dukseon's grips tighten around his hand, and Jimin can feel her ruby-studded ring beneath her clasp. "And I want you to live for yourself too."
Jimin does not get the last part, but he agrees with everything she says anyway. Dukseon is that powerful.
“Sure, Grandma, bring him around again. I‘ll be nicer. We’ll start over. I'm the hyung anyway?”
Dukseon rises from her seat, smiles at Jimin as she takes leave. He sends her off halfway and gets Jihoon to send her all the way, not quite making his way to the Wrangler where Jungkook is already seated in the driver's seat, the man looking in a different direction.
While Jimin feels the hostility will not end if Jungkook does not get over whatever daddy, backyard mates issues he has with Jimin soon, he has made promises with the woman.
Jungkook does not make promises.
He thinks the world is a scary place for promises, brittle word contracts. He knows for a fact he does not like the man, nor the fact that his grandmother enjoys this place so much.
He just hopes he does not see him again.
As his grandmother climbs into the car, sent by the boy from earlier, Jungkook quickly reverses his jeep away from the parking lot. He does not feel the need to linger around here any longer.
He knows his grandmother must be more than disappointed in him, but he does not feel like he needs to address anything spoken inside the man's office. Dukseon however, takes his free hand into his, effectively cooling him down.
His grandmother knows his best points, his soft and hard edges, and now Jungkook feels guilty.
"I'm sorry for forcing you to come with me. But you know what you did, right?"
Jungkook stays silent at that, feeling like a child once again. He remembers being pulled aside after hitting a cousin when he was five, and being asked the same question by the same woman. Both times, they were admittedly his fault. But he does not want to cave in this time.
"I know. But why, Grandma? Why do you need me to- You know I hate these things."
"I wanted you both to meet each other."
Jungkook frowns at that, his face forming a scowl at the confusion and the irritation which come with it. "Meet Mr. Park? Me? Why?"
Dukseon stares into the distance, a knowing smile forming on her thin lips as she shuts her eyes gently, feeling tired as the day ripens.
"Oh Jungkook, if only you know the things I know."
Outside the windows of Jimin's office, and away in the highways where Jungkook is driving home with his grandmother dozing off to sleep, the mid-summer rain has started to fall; a sign for the cooler days. The welcoming spectrum of dusk fills the vacant space all around them like a painted on wallpaper.
The earth still spins on its axis, dusk turning into night, and two souls live unknowingly, not aware they are always meant to collide—destined to collide a little bit more.
*