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It’s not that Yoongi has something against the ocean.
In fact, he thinks it is beautiful, majestic – something about the way its waters change color and temperature, the way it rebels once in a while, to show its power, is truly fascinating. And Yoongi likes to admire its vastness from afar, preferably with a cigarette dangling from his lips, the cool breeze playing his hair and his feet firm on the wet sand. When he can’t stay focused on his writing, when he hates every word he dared to put on a piece of paper, he likes to leave the house and walk through the busy streets, wrapping his coat closer to his body, taking a drag of his cigarette and ignoring all the looks he receives as he makes his way to the beach – sometimes, during winter, under a thin, but nonetheless, cold rain.
But it would be rather a misconception to simply associate his admiration for the ocean with a genuine wish to go on a cruise. On a boat. For six days.
It’s something he has to do, he has told himself since he had hit the huge and unfathomable wall fairly known amongst writers as block. He had gone to taverns and meetings with fellow writers, and he was always met with the same advice, find a nice lady! She’ll inspire you!, or you should come around more often, my friend, didn’t you know that alcohol is the best source of inspiration? Liquid literature, I’d call it! , but he wants none of that. He has no desire for young women, alcohol makes him sleepy and his tongue loose – when he wakes up on the next morning, he’s assaulted with a monstrous headache. Words, sentences, writing: it all seems less important and to vanish when all he wants is to rip his eyes off their holes and drown into liters and liters of coffee until he can’t feel his body anymore.
In the middle of his despair, with at least three sleepless nights showing on his face and mood, he made his way to Namjoon’s house. Namjoon is filthy rich, son of a banker, he has the world on his feet and no intentions to change that. Writing, for him, is a hobby – and something he’s really good at. Inspiration seems to make its way to Namjoon like a lover, words were his best friend. Always surrounded by art, Yoongi envied him. Envied how easy everything is for him, how he would sometimes run to Yoongi in the middle of the night, sometimes wearing nothing but loose trousers and an undershirt, eyes crazy in excitement, to read him one of his new poems. Even if it was good, Yoongi would roll his eyes, scoff, and say “garbage, come back when you have something that will make me cry”, and Namjoon would laugh and throw the piece of paper at Yoongi before burning another cigarette on his way back home.
He had told Namjoon about his dilemma: he has desire to write, he knows the words, but something’s lacking. Putting it on simple words: he has no reason to write, but he wants to. “Where can I find my will to write again?”, he had asked Namjoon between glasses of liquor and too many burned cigarettes.
Namjoon had looked at him with hazy eyes, precariously holding the glass, and said, “isn’t it obvious, my friend? You must go away. If the inspiration isn’t in yourself, then you must find it in someone else”, then he shrugged, “or somewhere else.”
Yoongi rolled his eyes, standing up and leaving with a “you’re always of no help. No wonder no one takes your writing seriously. You’re just a spoiled brat.”
“What a best friend you got yourself, huh?”, Namjoon yelled back, laughing wilding.
After this, Yoongi decided he’d go for a cruise. He liked the ocean. He’d be away for at least six days. He’d meet new people. He’d be able to observe, and maybe, he’d collect enough material to write about how rich men mistreated their rich, sad, addicted to alcohol and cheap fun, wives while they were around fucking other women late at night. Not poetic, of course, but polemic enough. Yoongi would be the most hated author of his generation and the possibility almost made him smile.
So now he finds himself standing at the parlor, waiting to go on board. Namjoon is smoking on his side, tall, wearing his darkest suit, a beret hiding good part of his brown hair. Yoongi can’t stop looking at the immense ship he’s about to step in and spend six days inside. In the middle of the ocean. Alone. What if the ship sinks? What if he ends up writing something and then, one day, while he’s sitting at the common area, the wind takes away all of his notes? He can’t tell which would be worse.
“I thought you liked the ocean”, Namjoon says, cigarette hanging in the air.
Yoongi swallows hard, but doesn’t look at Namjoon, “I do”, he says, eyes still on the platform connecting the parlor to the ship, the place where he was supposed to be going if it wasn’t for the paralyzing fear taking over his limbs. But Namjoon doesn’t need to know that. “I figured it would be better to wait until everyone on the lower decks to be on board before I go there myself.”
Namjoon just hums in response, too engrossed in smoking his cigarette and watching people. Yoongi does the same, his fingers tightly wrapped around the strap. Rich men with their wives make their way to the platform – men wearing their most expensive suits doing little to hide the volume on their abdomen, their shoes shining with the sunlight, little hair left perfectly combed, lying on top of their heads. Women stand tall and proud, with blinding smiles and too much make up, cheeks unnaturally pink, necks decorated with too many jewelries. It’s not that Yoongi feels out of place, he definitely doesn’t. He just can’t see it how being surrounded by the same people he has been since he can remember will help him to find his will to write again.
As if he can read his mind, Namjoon goes, “inspiration will come to you, my friend. You just have to keep your eyes open and see past the dresses, tuxedos and liquor. I can already feel it in my bones!”, Yoongi looks at his friend and Namjoon’s taller and builder body is trembling in excitement, eyes closed, chin up, a devilish smile on his angelic features. It makes Yoongi mad, how he sees beauty and inspiration in everything. That’s not how the world is. The world isn’t pretty, not every human being is worthy of a poem, a verse, or even a word from people like them. Words are everything they have, and still, they give it freely to people who have no taste. Who can’t appreciate his craft.
“It’s just a waste of my money”, Yoongi mutters, tearing his gaze away from Namjoon’s face. He has always been more handsome, too, men and women would fall for the banker’s son whose lips were full not only of beautiful words, but also of lust. “Liquor will be my best friend for the next six days.”
Namjoon’s laughter hits him in waves, followed by a cloud of smoke coming from the writer’s lips and nostrils. “If that’s how you plan to spend six days on board, you might as well drink their best liquor and kiss the most handsome boy in this ship. Go crazy, my friend”, he pats Yoongi’s shoulder and says, “I’ll go now. Come back alive and with a story for me.”
He doesn’t bother to give his best ― and maybe only friend ― one last glance before walking towards the platform, his bag secure in his hand. He stays in line, his hands are clammy around his ticket, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. It all sounds like a bad idea: going away, the ocean, being alone, observing people he knows all too well and doesn’t feel any kind of appreciation for. And yet, he drags his feet forward, one after the other. And yet, despite feeling anxious and the siren telling him to stop right now, turn around and run away, he shows his ticket and smiles, shoulders stiff, to the man at the door, who welcomes him with a cheerful “Welcome to Serendipity!”, which Yoongi answers with a not so enthusiastic thank you. The man doesn’t seem to care about Yoongi’s lack of enthusiasm.
It’s late afternoon when the ship finally sails and Yoongi gets to go to his room, after captain's enthusiastic and colorful welcome at the main deck, his megaphone glued to his lips. Yoongi went through it just because he wanted to experience every single thing this trip has to offer ― he won’t pass a single experience, even if he finds it boring or weary. He booked a cabin on deck A, on the highest part of the ship and it was bigger then he had imagined, from what he had in mind after Namjoon’s poor and devaluing description.
He drags his only suitcase with him, struggling a little to open thede door and step inside. The cabin is slightly different from what Yoongi expected, but it is a welcomed surprise. A big, comfortable and inviting bed can be seen from the entrance, white silk sheets covering it. A small dresser faces the bed, while on its right a mini-bar can be seen. How convenient, Yoongi thinks, as he throws his bag on the bed. There’s a small, round, window above the bar and Yoongi finds it endearing, how all the drawings he had seen of ships are somehow just stereotypes or product of an over imaginative mind of an artist. He feels almost as if he’s a cartoon character himself.
Lying on the bed, Yoongi sees a simple, but elegant, flyer, written on elegant and cursive calligraphy invites all passengers from decks A to C to a dinner at the main hall. The dress code is written in bold letters under a illustration of a pale couple, drawn in shade of black, white, gold and pale pink, black tie. He makes a mental note to thank Namjoon for forcing him to add a tuxedo and his best shoes to his luggage. Yoongi is not a people’s person, different from his fellow writers and his loyal assistant, Jimin, he avoids parties and social meetings at all costs. But that’s not what he came here for, isolating himself and avoiding the sea at all costs is not going to make him inspired to write again. So he sighs and gets steps out of his shoes and his suit, hanging it by the door, undoing his tie and the first buttons of his dress shirt and goes for his bag, looking for the soft black dress shirt Namjoon gifted him last Christmas. He might not like being around people, might not feel comfortable around them or with the words that come out of their mouth ― they’re stupid, poorly used, it makes his skin itch, his stomach turn ― but he undresses and goes clean himself anyway because, for the next five days, he’ll be someone else, act like someone else and, maybe, he’ll have the inspiration of a novice writer.
It feels colder than he imagined it would be for this time of the year. He steps out of his cabin and immediately regrets not bringing a thicker coat with him, shivering from time to time when the sea breeze kisses him and cuts through his clothes. Yoongi holds his chin up high, the salty breeze hurts his eye, but he doesn’t blink the tears on the corner of his eyes away, no, he keeps walking, nodding stiffly to the polite staff and then giving a more relaxed nod, his posture a bit straighter, making him a little bit taller, when rich men and women nod at him with lip-closed fake smiles.
The night is darker, darker than Yoongi ever thought possible, here, on board. It is unsettling and comforting at the same time, the sky is decorated with shiny, small stars, constellations seem a touch away from Yoongi. Back home, he hardly ever stops to see what’s above him ― he has no time, no interest, always wondering around with a drunk Namjoon, too engrossed in discussing words, rhymes and styles; trying to convince his peers that dwelling too much on feeling or sensations was a waste of their time. No one listened to him, anyway, so he would always walk back home, chin held up high, chest inflated with something akin to anger and a hurt ego, eyes focused on his path ahead. Never looking up. As he walks to the main hall, on the highest floor of the ship, he wonders if the stars shine this bright and are just as intimidating at home or if they are overshadowed by the empty euphoria inherent of big cities and their cheap distractions.
The ocean is calm beneath him, is away from Yoongi, minding its own business, but somehow Yoongi can’t forget its cunning and indocile nature for a second. Not when he stands on a small line, a couple in front of him, chatting happily about something Yoongi soon finds out to have no interest on. The ocean makes no sound, it’s silent, but somehow Yoongi can still hear and feel it above the bassy sound of the band playing on a fanciful stage. He wants to forget about it, the ocean won’t give him a story, stargazing won’t give him inspiration to write. He needs more, and because he believes to be invested on finding rescuing his lost will to write, he steps inside the spacious room with a deep sigh.
The room is fuller than Yoongi had expected, but that’s not an issue ― Yoongi can be social, yes, he can talk to bankers, other writers ― he sees Tiffany Young in the darkest blue dress he has ever seen, her fair and bony collar bones on full display, breasts round and imposing, pulled up by a very slim waist and adorned with a round sapphire hanging from her slim neck. Yoongi met her in a dinner a couple months back, she writes beautifully, Yoongi admits, and it’s one of few women who has works accepted in their stupid little community. Tiffany writes about things Yoongi doesn’t know, he recalls, and it fascinates him. His peers, just like himself, are scared that she might have a better understanding of words and feelings than they do.
Yoongi doesn’t voice out his fears, but he knows when praise should be given. And Tiffany deserves it. He looks at her, she smiles and chats away with older men, men who have no interest in her stories, and wonders where she gets the inspiration from. She’s someone else Yoongi envies.
But her eyes never meet Yoongi, awkwardly staying in the back until a waiter, way too young to be working, in Yoongi’s opinion ― he can see scars of acne on his cheeks, a pimple on the right side of his chin, his smile to Yoongi is too bright, to innocent, he hasn’t seen much of the world yet to smile at someone like Yoongi with such bright eyes and hope ― approaches him delicately and says:
“Good evening, sir. My name is Daewhi, I’ll be your servant tonight. Would you like a sit on one of our tables, near the band, or a place at the bar would suit you better?”
Yoongi blinks, his eyes were focused on Tiffany and how her short black hair waved every time she threw her hair back to laugh at something the old man had said. Yoongi doubts her laughs are genuine, but he pushes the thought away to turn to the boy at nod. “The bar is perfect for me, thank you.”
The boy smiles at him again, his eyes closing, pink, chubby, cheeks rising. He extends an arm, indicating Yoongi should follow him. And so the writer does, his eyes still scanning the room. The band is now playing something slower, a jazzy, bass-heavy tune, and the couples gather around the improvised dance floor. Yoongi is careful not to trip on his own feet and make a fool of himself, he’d die of embarrassment, even if he is sure not a living soul in this cruise knows who he is.
Yoongi’s proven wrong when he sits at the bar and Daewhi, the waiter, is still smiling blinding at him. The writer just furrows his eyebrows, looking away, to the dance floor.
“Would you like something do drink, sir?”, Daewhi’s deep, but still juvenile, voice reaches his ears over the song the band is playing.
Yoongi looks at Daewhi again, searching, as he says, “give me your best liquor, boy”, and watches as the waiter happily agrees and gets behind the bar, preparing Yoongi’s drink. Daewhi’s black hair is slightly longer than it should be, it falls over his eyes, giving him a inscrutable feeling, which makes Yoongi uncomfortable. The waiter is clearly a teenager, someone the company hired to work paying way less than the minimum wage for twice as much work; his clothes were too big for him, and that meant the tuxedo was not his because he’s probably poor and accepted this job to gather enough money to take home and sure his relatives had something to but in their stomachs at the end of the day. Yoongi doubts the boy can even read.
But he’s proved wrong again when Daewhi slides his drink with a smile and leans closer. “Never, not even in my wildest dreams, I imagined I would have the honor to serve you, sir Min!”, he confides and watches Yoongi with expectant eyes.
“You know me?”, he asks as he sips on his liquor. It’s dense and warm, exactly how Yoongi likes it best. It lingers on his tongue, hits the back of his throat smoothly and its warmth spreads all over his body immediately. His head and ears feel hot too, and suddenly it’s not so bad to be on a cruise, on winter, anymore.
Daewhi beams and looks to his right and left, before getting a cloth and pretending to be drying a few glasses. He spends too much time on one because he’s too busy looking at Yoongi with shameless admiration as he explains. “Oh, how could I not?”, the smile is there again, the band plays another song, a upbeat, happy one, with lyrics about drinking until the sunrise, Daewhi lazily and deliberately dragging the white cloth against the glass surface, and he continues, “my mother taught me how to read and write with your poems, they’re lovely! You must be very lucky and in love yourself!”, he bobs his head excitedly.
In love? Yoongi hums, taking another sip of his liquor before answering the boy. He’s flattered and a little bit upset. His works were not meant to teach children ― they were written, poured out from his boy with his blood at times, to be appreciated, to be praised. But, at the same time, they opened new possibilities for someone like Daewhi. His mother had a good taste, probably came from a good family, if she chose Yoongi’s works as material for his son to read. Flattered and full of pride, Yoongi smiles and raises his glass, “your mother has a good taste for literature, boy”, Daewhi seems to like Yoongi’s answer, “I’m flattered, thank you. But, my poems may be lovely, but I’m not. Nor I’m in love. There’s no such thing as love for me, boy.”
That seems to catch Daewhi by surprise as he gasps and his movements on the glass stop. “How so?”, he whispers, “your words… they carry so much! How can someone who has never loved, write something as romantic and heartbreaking as those I’ve read in your poems?”
Yoongi laughs drily, finishing his drink. He slides his cup back to Daewhi, who grabs it with skill, leans forward, elbows on the countertop ― he might get his tuxedo dirty, stain it with liquor, but he doesn’t care. He just grins at the boy and says: “they’re just words, boy. The feelings, the heartbreak, you put them there. Not me. I’ve never seen love, not even coming from my parents”, he pats Daewhi’s cheeks and demands, “now, pour me another. Double this time.”
Love, what a waste of time, Yoongi thinks. His mother loves him, but that’s motherly love ― the purest, never-ending and selfless love. Yoongi has never felt that, he’s not a mother. Namjoon loves the women and men he takes to bed, but at the same time, he loves none of them. All the people Namjoon have seduced and taken as lovers have inspired him in the past, but Yoongi has never felt that, either. Never saw himself in this position, to want someone else’s body against his, to feel someone wrapping their arms around his waist or their neck, pulling him closer. He never felt the will to pull people close to him, either. Taking lovers has never appealed to him. For some time, he swore it was the missing piece, what could give him a new perspective on his life, on how he saw and felt the universe.
But women and their soft body, round breasts and sweet breath never had effect on him. The easiness with which Namjoon swings between lovers always told Yoongi that it isn’t something he needs, although in his deepest, lonlinest and darkest nights, craves.
Yoongi had crossed love from his life a long, long time ago.
And still, he writes as if he knows something about it. As if he had seen it, felt it, tasted it on his tongue.
Suddenly, he thinks he can hear the ocean again, can hear the ship cutting through the water, the sound of waves hitting the strong metal keeping him upfloat. He’s uncomfortable again, sitting at the bar, listening to the band play live and watching people happily dancing. Daewhi is gone, but the drinks keep coming and he keeps drinking them, because liquid confidence and inspiration are a thing. He has no desire to be at this fancy celebration, at this meeting of people celebrating their own inflated egos and fat bank accounts. Liquor helps him, to endure, to see things clearer, to see beyond beautiful dresses and rosy cheeks and lips.
Yoongi focuses on the bodies dancing in front of him, tries to forget how the water beneath them dances dangerously, a constant promise of swallowing them whole at any given moment. If they disturb the sea too much. So he stays quiet, drinking and watching, thinking about why he writes about love, why he has never felt it and still writes about it. He wonders if God had made him to use words, and words exclusively, being this his one and only constant feature, all other basic human feelings and needs erased to give space to words, words, and more words. He feels empty. No amount of words or liquor, right now, can seem to fill him up.
He downs another shot of a different liquor, not as dense, but it stings more, makes his nostrils and throat burn. It should burn him whole ― he’d rather burn than be taken by sea’s cold claws.
The band changes again, and this time, the saxophonist has a solo. He steps forward, instrument brushing on his lips, strong brows furrowed, a smile on his face as he closes his eyes and plays, swaying around. Yoongi has to blink ― he’s handsome, breathtaking almost. His hair is brown, styled just like Yoongi’s exposing his forehead, but his clothes aren’t as fancy. His white undershirt hangs out of his pants, but no one seems to care. He’s free, and dancing, the instrument his pair, his lover. He then opens his eyes, and Yoongi follows his gaze, to a couple, dancing quietly on the far right, being careful not to stumble onto a table.
There’s nothing special about them, but for some reason, Yoongi can’t take his eyes off of them. They’re hypnotizing. A tall, lean man, wraps his arms around this wife’s waist, pulling her closer delicately. Her long, blond hair ― a contrast in comparison to all women with short hair Yoongi has seen for the last couple of months ― sways with their movements, and she laughs, Yoongi can see her shoulders moving, can see her lips stretched into a wide, sincere, lovely smile. She smiles, and laugh, and his husband ― Yoongi just assumes ― doesn’t say a word, just smiles back, pulls her closer from time to time, hand firm on her lower back. They sway, in the same rhythm as the saxophonist, but their eyes never leave each others, not even when he spins her around ― when they’re facing each other, their eyes are locked, a cage made just for them by themselves.
Her eyes shine with feelings Yoongi can’t understand. But they make her the most beautiful woman in the room, and her smile shines, reflects all the beauty she carries onto him. They make each other beautiful, is all Yoongi can assimilate.
But her eyes shine differently. It’s different from when a child gets their so much desired toy. It’s a different sparkle then the one Namjoon has on his eyes when he takes a lover to bed. It’s different from when his peers finish a work they’re specially proud of.
Yoongi has never seen this before. She has stars in her eyes. And so does he. And they’re each other’s stars, constellations, completing each other, but not subjected to one another. They coexist, make each other better, more beautiful. Stunning.
And then the music ends, the magic doesn’t fade away, but they’re no longer in Yoongi’s sight, and then the liquor is too much, he feels as if there’s an ocean of its own inside him, swinging back and forth. It’s too much, he feels the liquor making its way back to his mouth. He runs, and he’s sure he drew some attention to himself, but he pays no mind. He flees the hall, feeling wrong, like a fugitive, a bandit, and throws himself against the protection fence and throwing up all the shots of liquor he had back at the bar.
He stains the ocean with his own sadness and confusion and he’s sure the ocean will remember it. He’ll deal with its retaliation tomorrow.
Making his way back to his cabin was more arduous than it should have been. A pathway of small torches, lit up and burning yellow and blue, was blurred in front of Yoongi’s eyes, but he managed to walk though it without setting himself on fire. His mind made a insignificant note on how this was outdated and that he hoped his room had electricity. He should have checked before leaving. People greeted him on his way to his cabin and he remembers greeting them back, with a tight smile and stiff bow. Someone, an old man he had met before from his father’s uninteresting diners at his place, stopped him and asked what had brought him there.
“Looking for inspiration”, Yoongi offered as an answer and the old man scoffed and rolled his eyes, looking for his cigar in the inner pocket of his vest before dismissing Yoongi with a wave of his wrinkled and marked hand and a:
“Young boys, always playing around, when will you become a man, huh?”
After that, Yoongi just focused on making his way back to the cabin faster, ignoring everything ― people who tried to call his attention, waiters and ship crew offering him more liquor or asking if there was anything he needed, he ignored the excruciating silence emanating from the sea beneath his feet. He had a tunnel vision, he needed to get back to his cabin, scour his bag for his journal and put all those mixed feelings into words.
Now, he stares his journal, grip tight around the leather cover ― he got rid of his clothes as soon has he stepped inside, staying only on his pants and socks, window open, the sea breeze welcomed to calm his insides, make his hands stop shaking. He tried to ignore the fact that the wind came from an entity that probably wanted him dead. How should he use his words, now? He doesn’t know. The image of the lovely couple dancing and spinning around is still fresh on his mind, but nothing can’t make justice to that ― he feels hopeless. Words, the only thing he believed to have total control over, slip through his fingers, laugh at him; the black leather cover of his journal now looks, to him, like a children’s coloring book. Or a children’s book, full with silly stories about rabbits and turtles that can speak.
Growling, Yoongi opens the journal and moves to a small desk set across the room, on the opposite side of the window. The moonlight invades the room, painting it in ghastly shades of dark blue and yellow, coming from the candles by his desk. The moonlight kisses his hands as he looks for an empty page to throw his mind on it; he does lose some seconds admiring how pale his own skin his, how he can see the green and purple veins under his skin. He wonders if people can see that, too, and what it might tell them. If they can see beyond his face and his words. If Daehwi, the waiter, saw more in him than he did every time he looked at his reflection on the looking-glass.
His daydreaming comes to a halt when a blank page appears, demanding Yoongi to fill it up. With his fingers wrapped around the pen, body thrown over the blank pages and the night his only and best companion, Yoongi throws himself into writing and, for the first time since he had discovered the power words had over him, he doesn't think about them. He writes freely, pen scribbling across the yellow pages, feeling being poured out spontaneously.
Yoongi couldn’t be more naked than this as he writes, in his messy calligraphy:
Night 1.
What has brought me to this place? To the open sea, running calmly but steady and yet so dangerously beneath my feet? I feel it’s powerful presence more, now, like an intruder. This isn’t my place, and I have never been afraid of the ocean, but it’s grandiosity makes one feel like they don’t belong, out of place. Every step I take inside this ship, a new thorn cuts through my skin. I’ll be decorated with them by the end of my journey and, perhaps, I’ll look more like a flower than a human being.
Before earlier this evening, I had never given too much importance or thought to roses, but I might have falling in love with two of them, they were one of a kind ― they had thorns like roses, had their delicacy and grace, but they shone like stars and gravitated around each other with the force of two planets of their own. I came to the sea because it’s unfamiliar, dangerous, and dark. Because I feel like an outcast, an intruder, because it makes me watch my own back at every moment. Because it’s breeze and smell burn my throat and take my breath away in the most uncomfortable way a man would dare to imagine. I came to the sea because an uncharted place may be where my will to write lays, and although it might be too early to have it back in my bones, I never thought I would find, in the sea, roses, planets, thorns and stardust in a couple’s eyes.
I watched, from the bar, like an obsessed man, a bandit, feeling slightly bolder from all the alcohol in my system and the compliments coming from a young reader, as they danced, eyes never leaving each other’s. It felt like watching two stars colliding ― it blinded me, my head spun around, and disoriented, I had to flee. A man, when he becomes a man, renounces a handful of things in order to establish himself and an identity of his own. As a grew and made up my mind, I had given up love, and, my body refused it as a whole from that moment on. Even if it was displayed and dissected in front of my eyes, I wouldn’t recognize it. If man explained it to me with plausible facts and words, I wouldn’t know how it sounded. The concept was strange to me, until this evening, when the blonde, skinny and short women wrapped her arms around her lover’s neck.
And all it took for me to understand that what they shared was love was me looking into their eyes for the briefest second.
Two pairs of eyes full of stardust was all it took me to reevaluate the decisions I made when I became a man. Was love the missing piece? Is it on love where my inspiration lays? Will watching them be enough to set my heart a blaze, and give me back the pleasure writing used to give me?
Must I seek it, even if it lasts only for a night?
On the second night, Yoongi finds himself in front of the small mirror of his cabin, combing his hair out of his face, parting it a little, his raven black hair styled up, his forehead making an appearance. He thinks he looks handsome like this, with his hair out of his face, black suit open, revealing his grey vest and black silk dress shirt, perfect while collar straight and framing prettily his neck. He gives himself another look at the mirror before heading out ― there’s another event, this time, under the moonlight, with a band playing the latest hits live. One of the waiters had told him, early during lunch by the pool, that there would be poker and wine tasting. Yoongi can’t complain or deny that he’s looking forward to this evening. And, maybe, he’ll get a glimpse of the roses he had seen last night.
This time, the event isn’t on the highest deck, it is only one floor above Yoongi’s cabin, so it’s not long before he’s standing in a small line. He gets on his tiptoes to take a look at the event ― the small tennis court they have is secured by a long red velvety ribbon, tables are displayed across it with high parasols decorated with fairy lights, candles burn on their holders on the table. He sees men wearing dark suits, with shiny shoes and cigarettes between their fingers; women smoke too, and laugh, their short, curly hair shine against the fairly and candle lights, and every time they move, their shiny dresses move with them, legs and knees covered by pantyhose, dresses doing little to cover their gather belts. On their heads, beautiful jewelry bands compliment their looks, matching their dresses and some of them even have a feather on the side.
The line moves, and Yoongi can hear the live band playing ― it’s a jazzy sound again, and people dance happily dance to it, their laughs echoing across the cruise. It does stirr something in Yoongi ― he’s almost excited to be there, which is unusual, he’s not a fan of parties, but the energy is infectious, he feels it in his bones, makes his cheeks hot and his feet stomp to the rhythm of the song. His trance is only broken by the sound of a high, excited and inviting voice coming from his right.
“Oh, you look stunning tonight!”, the boy says and Yoongi frowns, trying to get a glimpse of who’s speaking. “You should make a memory of it! I can draw you, it’ll be so easy! Your beauty is doing all the job for me!”, he lures the woman in with his words and then the man in front of Yoongi steps inside the tennis court and Yoongi can finally see who is the artist and who he’s about to draw.
Of course, Yoongi had expected an young man ― maybe as young as Daehwi, small and with soft, child-like features. And, albeit young, there’s nothing soft about the man behind the easel. The man behind the canvas, drawing with strong eyebrows furrowed together, is taller than him, with long and strong arms and legs. Yoongi’s eyes linger on his limbs ― he’s not wearing a suit, only a white undershirt, black slacks and suspenders, one of them falling from his shoulder. Strong, but lean ― his muscles aren’t imposing, but they are there, showing every time he has strokes his pencil a little harder against the canvas, or when he lowers a little bit, his thighs looking thick and strong, even through the loose fabric of his slacks.
“Sir?”, the host calls, and Yoongi’s eyes dart away from the young artist for the first time. “Are you joining us tonight or you’d like to get your night memorized by our artist?”
Yoongi hums, “I’ll stay back for a while”, is all he says as he steps out of the line, and stands behind the woman posing.
For a while, the young boy is focused on his craft, brows knit together, the pink tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth, not a sound coming from his lips ― Yoongi is surrounded by the ocean and the music coming from beyond the velvet ropes, and yet, he feels emerged in the boy’s silence, focus and dedication. Suddenly, the ocean’s dark and dangerous water are nothing, almost harmless, if compared to the passion ranging in the dark sea of the younger boy’s eyes.
In front of Yoongi, the woman smiles and stays still, as the boy works. Yoongi doesn’t need to think too hard to know that she’s probably doing this not because she admires art or because she’s benevolent enough to let the young artist draw her, knowing he’ll receive a small amount for his work. She’ll brag about it on her mediocre dinner she throws because her husband is trying to climb the social ladder, buys small, cheap shares. In fact, Yoongi can tell she’s here because her husband thought a cruise would be the perfect place to make new connections. Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Yoongi scoffs, looking at the woman. He can see her dress is old, probably second-handed, there are a few sequin missing here and there, the glittery stripes falling from her shoulders are torn and not as white as the rest of her dress.
Yoongi scoffs loudly again, rolling his eyes, but he stops mid-action and tries not to blush profusely when the dark ocean stares back at him from over the canvas.
“Aren’t I the best?”, the boy says with a mischievous grin as he steps back and crosses his arms over his chest. The woman between them laughs behind her hand, shaking her head softly ― her dark curls shake, too, and suddenly all the judgment Yoongi made vanishes. Maybe, that’s why they’re getting there. She’s lovely and her husband knows so. Poor thing , Yoongi’s mind whispers, but he ignores it because the young artist is smiling.
“Oh my!”, the young boy exclaims theatrically, “it seems like I have a busy night ahead of me! Look, I barely finished drawing his beautiful lady”, he looks at her with a extended hand, palms open in front of his body and an eyebrow arched, “and I must say, I don’t think I made such rare beauty justice, I hope you forgive me and accept this poor attempt at portraying your lovely features”. His voice is high, excited but enchanting at the same time ― and it does its magic: the woman laughs again, waving a hand at him.
“I’m sure you did your best, young man. I’ll make sure my lovely husband pays you handsomely, just like you.”
The smile the young artist flashes ― not at the woman, past her, and Yoongi has some difficulty to breath in like a functioning human being ― is blinding. He bows, one arm around his middle, the other one straight by his side. “Thank you”, he says, brightly, as he removes the large paper from his canvas and rolls it over, handing it over. “Have yourself a blissful night!”, he waves her away.
Yoongi hadn’t realized he’s staring until the young man’s eyes are on him again, searching. He blinks, but doesn’t look away and it seems to amuse the artist. “Are you waiting for an invitation, pal?”, he asks, wiggling a pencil between his thumb and index finger.
Yoongi scoffs, and turns to one of the waiters going to the entrance, “hey!”, he calls and the young man almost runs to Yoongi, but doesn’t spill a single drop of his drinks. “What’s this?”
The waiter is sweating, that much Yoongi can see. He swallows hard, looks at the young artist before stuttering to an unimpressed Yoongi. “Bee’s Knees and Corpse Revivers, sir.”
A muffled laugh comes from the young artist, but Yoongi pays no attention, grabbing a cup with Corpse Reviver in it. The color is dreadful, and so is its taste, but it’s strong and the name is really appropriate. He sips and hisses at the taste, closing his eyes and scrunching his nose. The liquid is pure fire on his throat, warms his insides, but it’s the young boy’s eyes that almost turns Yoongi into a puddle of a man he thinks he is. It’s embarrassing and Yoongi is not keen to the feeling; so he turns his face to the boy and smirks.
“I gave you good material to work with, fella. Shouldn’t you be drawing already?”
The young artist laughs, throwing his head back in delight before he starts working, his face going back to the mask of concentration and passion while he draws Yoongi. The writer tries to move, to make it difficult to the boy, as he sips his drink, hisses, cleans his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at the dark sky. The only sounds are the band playing, the ocean waves hitting the ship and, if Yoongi focus enough, he thinks he might hear the sound of pencil scribbling against the paper. It is a unexpected soothing sound.
The artist clears his throat and the sound of pencil against paper stops, the band becomes louder, a saxophone solo ringing in their ears. Yoongi looks at the artist with the corner of his eye.
“I see the gentleman isn’t as cooperative as the young lady before you. I wonder if the inability to remain still is an exclusive male trait or whether it is limited only to rich and arrogant men.”
Yoongi’s body is now completely turned to the young artist, who still has most of his frame hidden behind the big canvas, his shiny orbs the only part Yoongi can truly see. The writer rises a challenging eyebrow, taking his cup to hover near his lips, swirling the liquid around it. Then, he opens a wide smile, tries to put all his disgust into it as he shots back:
“I wonder if insolence of second-rate artists is a talent or a fixed-personality trait they have solely because they are sure to have their miserable fifteen minutes of fame someday and nothing more. If god is kind to them, of course.”
The artist cocks his head to the side, “What makes you think I believe in God or have desire for fame?”
Yoongi blinks, “isn’t it what every artist dream about?”, he asks and takes another sip of his drink. It doesn’t burn anymore and even if it did, the glance the artist throws him would be enough to turn him into ashes.
The artist resumes to his craft, eyes never leaving the page in front of him, but his voice is loud and clear. “If that’s true”, he says, “then I must stop considering me an artist because my soul claims for sublime, but yet, mundane things.”
“And what would they be?”, Yoongi hears himself asking, too late to stop now. He notices he has taken and step towards the boy, and now he can see the boy’s long lashes, can see how torn apart the soft skin of his lips are, the corners dry by the cold and harsh wind.
“If fame comes”, he starts before his brows furrowed together again and he glances one more time ― Yoongi ignores the heat he feels because he’s not sure what it is ― “it’d be welcomed, but I don’t believe fame brings happiness. Are you famous?”
“Yes.”
“Are you happy?”, he asks, but doesn’t look at Yoongi.
“Certainly”, he lies. He doesn’t know what happiness is and he’s not sure if he is unhappy. He exists, he lives with luxury and does what he has passion for every day. Isn’t it happiness?
The artist stops drawing to look at Yoongi. The boy’s eyes are dark, all the shine gone, and Yoongi fears ― fears for his secrets, for everything he knows and all the words inside his head. The dark orbs can suck the life out him, he knows, they can and, with a sinking feeling Yoongi realizes, will unravel each and every single one of Yoongi’s secrets.
Suddenly, the ocean beneath him feels more violent, angry, even, and Yoongi feels as if it is coming for him again, to drown and kiss him to death.
The artist scoffs softly, “if this is how happiness looks like, now I am more certain to want love over fame”, he says and rips the paper from the canvas, folding it and handing it to Yoongi; who takes it with shaky hands.
“Love?”, Yoongi frowns as he unfolds the drawing. “Why would you desire something you can’t see?”
“Can you see sorrow, pal?”, the artist asks and Yoongi feels his eyes on him as he inspects the drawing.
“No”, Yoongi whispers.
“And yet, you feel it. Love is tangible, my friend. It’s printed in a lover’s flesh.”
And then the voice is gone. Yoongi looks up, but the boy is nowhere near the canvas or the party. The band has moved to a new set, playing slower songs. Sweet and melancholic notes dance around Yoongi as he looks at the drawing again. It is, definitely, him, but small. His face is small too, but his nose is too big, lips almost nonexistent and, instead of eyes, the artist draw two circles and painted them black. His back is arched forward too and he looks like he’s about to fall. It’s terrifying. That’s not him.
Yoongi looks up to complain, but then he remembers the boy is gone. He folds the drawing again and puts it on the internal pocket of his jacket. He fixes his hair and clears his mind ― that’s not him. The young artist obviously had an unpolished, almost childlike style that could not suit Yoongi’s delicate and unique features. Or, at least, is what Yoongi tells himself as he makes his way back to the line, passes the velvet barriers, and drinks an ocean of alcohol.
That’s not him, he thinks every time he feels the paper burning against his chest. That’s not how the world sees him. It can’t be.
In the following morning, Yoongi decides to forget the young artist’s incident and the horrifying picture he draw of Yoongi. The writer had hid it in the bottom of his bag, unsure as to why he couldn’t just simply rip it into pieces and throw it at the sea. With his head resting against the soft pillow, Yoongi had convinced himself he wouldn’t want to awake the sea’s fury. At the time, the lie sounded unconvincing even to his own ears, but as the light crept him through the small window of his cabin, the lie tasted sweet on his tongue and firm on his heart. No one would like to face the sea’s anger and Yoongi would not play with his luck.
So after having breakfast, Yoongi decides to finally giving writing another try. He leaves his cabin with his small notebook and a pencil in hands, wearing light clothes ― a white silk dress shirt and black slacks, his shoes shine against the sun light ― because the weather is just too hot to wear anything else. The sun shines and its white light almost blinds him, forcing him to roam around the ship with sunshades ― they’re small and round, dark lenses and slim temples and even smaller, delicate nose pads. Namjoon picked it for him, saying he’d need sunshades for a cruise. It slides down the bridge of his nose, making Yoongi chuckle; who knew Namjoon would be right about things you’d need on a cruise .
As he walks, looking for the perfect spot to seat and start running his pencil through the blank page to let the words flow, he notices there isn’t much to choose from. All he has is the ocean ahead of him, under his feet, by his sides. He can seat by the pool, under the parasol and use a drink or two while he writes, watching rich women swimming in their dotty swimsuits and cute flowery caps while their husbands sit in a bigger table, drinking scotch, smoking Cuban cigars. Or he can go down stairs, to a lower deck, watch not so rich people, gold diggers with their chaperones, drinking cheap liquor, smoking cheap cigars wearing cheap suits as they try to climb to the higher deck, using their wives and fake smiles as bait. He then decides to stay on the lower deck, with the gold diggers. He didn’t have the chance to see the lovely couple again and, if he wants to have inspiration wrapped around his little finger, he needs to see them again. Even though it is scary. Even if it costs Yoongi’s sanity.
So he makes his way to the where the sun loungers are, the sea his view, its salty and soft breeze playing with his hair. Yoongi still doesn’t like the sea, but look like this, from above and afar, he can almost understand why people like it so much. It is a strong, uniform, yet forever changing institution, that overpowers every single human being. Perhaps people like that. To feel like they’re not in control and that what happens in life is not their fault. To not take responsibility.
That’s not what Yoongi likes, though.
Under the parasol, he opens his notebook and the blank page frightens him. He knows the words, but he doesn’t know how to put them together. He looks up, looks for the couple ― and finds them. They’re seated across from Yoongi, close to the fence that protects them from falling into the sea and, just like the first time, Yoongi can’t look away. The couple isn’t doing anything special ― just eating, talking and occasionally laughing together of something they say or see. The girl has her blonde hair tied up in a high ponytail, almost no make up on, but he glows under the sunlight; her eyes are protected by dark shades, and when she removes them, Yoongi gasps. These aren’t her eyes ― they aren’t as soft or shiny as Yoongi remembers them to be; they’re dark, and deep, dour. They remind Yoongi of lonely dark nights by the seashore after drinking with Namjoon, as he watched the sea crawl back and forth, white claws reaching out and tearing the white sand open, dragging it into its vast, deadly darkness. It’s beautiful, and Yoongi has seen it more than once, alone. In someone else’s eyes.
The artist’s eyes.
He blinks and presses the palms of his hands against his eyes in a childish and weak attempt to take those eyes of his brain, to focus on the couple― what he needs to write, the story he needs lays on them, not on the attentive, smart and mysterious eyes that saw through Yoongi the night before. He blinks, people and sea unfocused, and groans as his vision adapts and focuses again on the couple, who know kiss discreetly― small, soft pecks on the lips, giggles between them. But Yoongi’s mind is a mess of thoughts about the artist, the drawing, his eyes, his cutting words, his dreamy, airy tone; the waves; its claws wrapping around Yoongi’s neck, in his nostrils, ears, his eyes the only thing that could save him and they stare at a pair of dark brown eyes who look back at him with curiosity and perhaps a little bit of judgment as well.
He gives up on writing or watching the couple with a loud groan, that has two women and their husbands, or so Yoongi believes them to be, turn their heads at him, confused looks with a hint of disgust thrown at him followed by a staff approaching him, voice soft as he asks.
“Is everything alright, sir? Is there something I can help you with?”
“Do you know the artist?”, Yoongi’s tongue works faster than his brain, betraying his intentions to leave.
The staff ―a member of the crew, Yoongi realizes as his eyes fall on his garb ― frowns, but keeps his voice light and a fake smile on his lips. “I’m afraid there are many on board with us, mister Min”, he looks around, throwing smiles at the other passengers. Yoongi looks around too and realizes he may have called unwanted attention with his delirium. “Aren’t you an artist yourself?”, he asks.
Yoongi scoffs and rolls his eyes, standing up. The man stands ups as well, taking two steps back away from the writer. “I’d like to have a bottle of your best liquor sent to my room. Is there any events planned for this evening?”
With another confused look at Yoongi and then at the passengers― who have already returned to their mundane activities ― the staff answers, “it’ll be waiting for you in your cabin, sir. And, yes!”, he chirps with fake enthusiasm, “we’ll be holding a dancing contest on Deck A, the best couple will in a prize in cash, of course! Will you gives the honor to join us, mister Min?”
Yoongi hums, “will it be open to everyone? Even lower decks?”
“Well, of course!”, the man throws his hands up and they land on Yoongi’s shoulder. He tries not to wince or to shake them away from his body. “I’m sure even some members of the band will take turns dancing!”, he laughs, throwing his head back. His teeth are yellow, small and some of them are slightly crooked. “Who doesn’t want to dance their way to fortune in times like ours, huh?”
Yoongi opens the fakest smile ever, leans forward and pats the man’s shoulder with more strength than necessary, “if you do your job and give me the liquor I’ve ordered, I might give you the honor of my drunk presence and dance. I really hope to see you later…?”
“You can call me Jinyoung!”, the other says, happily.
“I don’t care”, Yoongi says as he pats the man’s shoulder one last time before start walking. Before he’s too far away, he says in a loud, demanding voice, “chop, chop, go to work!”
For the rest of the day, Yoongi’s only company is the bottle of heavy and sour liquor in his cabin; his notebook and thoughts about writing replaced by dark deep eyes stripping Yoongi naked painfully slowly. For the rest of the morning, foregoing lunch, throughout his afternoon and early evening, Yoongi lays on his bed, looking at the bottle but doesn’t bother to open it and get drunk. Somehow, it feels too easy to just drink himself to sleep, drink too much and leave the cabin drunk, stumbling and making a fool of himself. It feels too easy to face the sea and look for those dark eyes again, to demand them to look at him with admiration ― just like everyone else does, just like Daewhi, the bartender boy did on his first night at the ship ― to look at him like the lovely blonde woman looks at her husband. A drunk person could easily do all of that and wake up the next morning without a single memory of their previous night’s wrong doings. A drunk coward could do that.
But Yoongi doesn’t believe himself to be a coward.
And he doesn’t want to see the young artist, does he? He glances at the bottle in his hands once again, pondering if his drunk self would run to find him again. And to what? To demand a new drawing, a more beautiful one? Yoongi scoffs, throwing the bottle on the soft mattress― perhaps the boy isn’t capable of painting anything beyond obscure and deformed lines. He’s more than sure that what he needs lies on the passionate couple he saw dancing once and again earlier today, not on the young artist’s eyes. Determined, he stands up and prepares to wash himself and get ready for tonight’s event.
Yoongi seats at the bar, far away from the couples dancing excitedly. Women smile wide, their pearls’ shine mixing to the white from their teeth, bliding the judges. Men stand tall and proud, swirling their partners around. He waited for the lovely couple to show up, but so far, they made no show, so Yoongi decides to wait at the bar, sipping on a drink. He kind of expected Daewhi to be the one serving him, but another waiter pours his drink and this one doesn’t have the same genuine, almost juvenile enthusiasm as the younger boy. It is disappointing.
He has lost count of how many drinks he had, but his vision becomes funny soon enough. Everything― his hands movement seem to be slower than usual, the air feels thicker. The couples dancing seem more obscene now, losing the minimum essence that makes them humans, becoming sparkling immaterial bodies flying around the dance floor. Yoongi blinks and smiles widely, he’s sure his gums are on full display and that he resembles a boy that he once was, as he sees the band’s saxophonist leaving his post, jumping from the small stage and running in Yoongi’s direction, open arms and wide youthful smile on his face. Yoongi follows the boy― it’s the same from the first night, one of the most beautiful men the writer has even seen― and watches, in a mix of confusion and awe as the musician wraps his arms around a strong, tall male. Their laughter sounds louder than the music ringing through his ears. It’s heavy, airy and young. It sends butterflies to Yoongi’s stomach.
But all the butterflies die when Yoongi watches as they make their way to the dance floor, not in the center, but in the far right corner, away from the bigger audience. The little beings dancing inside his belly and sending a funny, warm feeling down his body, turn into ash when the same dark, deep eyes from the previous night fall onto Yoongi’s hazy, heavy yet wide ones. The dark eyes at first look at Yoongi with surprise, and then something else flashes― so quickly that the writer misses it in his drunk state before the eyes are shining with mirth and something else. Yoongi blinks and the eyes aren’t on him anymore, their owner is waltzing around with the saxophonist, a wide grin on his lips― his front teeth are slightly bigger than the rest, standing out and erasing the grey and cold image somehow wormed its way to Yoongi’s brain.
Liquor makes Yoongi bolder, liquid confidence, some call it, but whatever it is, it’s not often that Yoongi lets it control his senses or blind his judgment of right or wrong. Staring is wrong, but he does it shamelessly― the young artist is as tall as the saxophonist, but he’s somehow bigger. His figure overpowers his partner's in every sense: the muscles on his arms are bigger, stronger and they flex daringly every time the artist holds the musician close or lifts him up a little bit off the ground. Yoongi wonders if he’s as strong as he looks, if they would feel like rock against his body. If he’d feel safe there― if what women say about being held close, having chests glued together and feeling wanted in the cage of their lovers’ arms is really true.
One drink comes and another one goes, and artist and musician are still in each other’s arms. The band now plays without much etiquette, their singer laughs in the middle of the song and Yoongi laughs too, because, why not? Everything’s funny. He’s search for inspiration is a joke and so is his mind― why would he be interested in the eyes of a bizarre styled-young-artist? He laughs louder this time, throwing his head and upper body forward; his drink slips from his fingers, but he manages to catch it before the it spills its content all over himself. He laughs more, on his stupidity and his drunkenness― he laughs because he knows a monstrous hangover awaits him on his bed; he also his nest will be neat, cold, crib of endless nightmares. Liquor deceives man and their balance because suddenly his body is moving forward, but in his mind, it is funny― his fall, it’d should be fun! Feeling his face against the cold, dirty ground, feeling the sea breeze lullying him to sleep. It should be fun!
Instead of falling on the floor, he falls on a hard chest, his arms are supported by strong, calloused fingers, and his nose falls on a deathly valley.
The valley moves, goes up and down and Yoongi’s head spins around. “Liquor makes every man dance”, the valley says, “even those who think they’re too good to such mundane activity.”
Yoongi laughs again and punches the southern mountains that seem to move, too. “I don’t dance! I wasn’t dancing! I was falling!”
“I never said you were doing it well, did I?”
Yoongi gasps and looks up, away from the valley and the mountains― he gasps again, softer this time for genuine surprise. It’s the young boy, the artist. “You wound me!”, he exclaims, punching the man’s chest again― it’s solid. Warm. “The premise of dancing relies on the amusement of the dancer and the audience. Skills are debatable.”
“You have none, I suppose”, the young artist says, amused. He’s too close now, Yoongi can feel his chest rising and falling right close to his own― it’s uncomfortable, immoral, completely wrong to be so close to another male like this, it the open. And, yet, he doesn’t feel the need to pull away. He’s uncomfortable because he’s a stranger, he can’t be too close to someone like this, and yet, he wants to know him well enough to end the distance between them.
Yoongi clicks his tongue and takes a step back, his lower back hitting the fancy stoll by the bar; his hand goes automatically to this cup― not much of liquor left. The artist’s eyes are doe like, wide and attentive. “Are you always making assumptions about people you don’t know?”
The boy frowns.
“First the drawing you made me last night”, Yoongi clarifies, “now the dancing matter. You’re assuming a lot of things about someone you’ve barely met.”
The young artist looks over his shoulder, probably looking for his friend― who’s already gone, disappeared as soon as Yoongi’s eyes were off the boy’s chest. Then he looks again at Yoongi and chuckles , deep and raspy, before stating: “my words stung.”
“They didn’t”, Yoongi shrugs and downs the rest of the liquor, just to have something to do. The band is still playing, his toes are curling and his body is warm and aching for something. And the artist is right there. “It is a really irritating habit to have. Thought I should let you know.”
“Was I wrong, then?”, he asks, taking one step forward and wrapping Yoongi’s breath around his finger, the same finger he runs across the countertop and his head cocks to the side.
“You said many things in a short period of time, young friend”, Yoongi says, “I’m afraid I didn’t give your words too much importance to remember all of them at this exact moment.”
The frown decorates the artist’s young face, but the corner of his lips are twitching up. “I see you’re a talented liar”, he rises an eyebrow, “but I was referring to your dancing skills. Or you lacking them.”
“Do you know who I am?”, Yoongi finally asks.
“No”, the artist answers with sincerity and it stirs something in Yoongi. Is this why this young man has been nothing but brutally honest with him since their first encounter? Is this why Yoongi is so caught up in his eyes or the delicate shape of his mouth and the words that fall out from them?
They look at each other in silence. The artist looks at him with calm, eyes dark and steady as the ocean beside them. Yoongi’s body doesn’t feel calm or steady at all― in fact, he feels a flame: it’s small, but it starts to burn and to warm him from inside out. It’s disturbing, but, Yoongi doesn’t believe himself to be a coward and he has had his share of liquid confidence for the day so he asks:
“Do I need to send you a formal invitation?”
“What for?”, the boy asks.
“For us to have this dance!”, Yoongi exclaims and steps forward, the distance between them almost over.
The younger boy sports a blinding smile as he places both of his hands on Yoongi’s waste and pulls him close, chests touching through the thin fabric of their shirts. The young artist starts to walk backwards, pulling Yoongi with him to the dance floor; the smile on his lips getting wider and wider by the second and the writer fears it might tear the boy’s face apart. That would be a shame, in Yoongi’s silent but very much genuine opinion.
“I’m Jungkook, in case you’re wondering who I am”, he says as they stand on the dance floor, far away from the center but still visible enough.
“I wasn’t”, Yoongi replies, looking away.
“Well”, Jungkook shrugs and smiles softly, “just another information for you, then. Use it wisely when time comes.”
Yoongi just rolls his eyes and starts to follow Jungkook’s lead. The song is slower, romantic almost, and he’s sure that’s the boy’s saxophonist friend’s doing. Yoongi soon enough finds out he doesn’t mind dancing to ballads.
They dance in silence at first, Jungkook’s hands awkwardly placed on Yoongi’s middle, as they sway from left to right, without a rhythm; just two bodies moving as they please. Yoongi can admit to himself that it feels nice― to be moving his heavy and drunk limbs carelessly because Jungkook is doing all the work for him. But he would never say it aloud; not even his drunk self would admit that.
So by the end of the song, Yoongi looks up at Jungkook’s face― he’s smiling, lips closed, a satisfied smile― and smirks back, cocking his head to the side.
“I thought I’d learn something from this”, he says moving his index finger around, “but now I see your only objective was to stress and flirt with me”, Yoongi sighs.
“What makes you think I was flirting with you?”
Jungkook’s voice is deep and serious, it makes Yoongi briefly lose his grip. He stumbles back, almost stepping on Jungkook’s toe and stumbling on his own feet, but the younger is stronger and agile, quickly pulling Yoongi to himself, properly wrapping his arm around the writer. The artist’s warm palm envelops Yoongi’s other side, only a the thin fabric of his shirt between their flesh. Jungkook’s free hand runs down Yoongi’s right arm and stops on his wrist; a questioning eyebrow is raised at Yoongi.
“Is this how you treat strangers? I’m afraid that’s quite inappropriate.”
Jungkook scoffs and starts to move their bodies― Yoongi’s left hand flies to the boy’s shoulder while his right hand falls perfectly into Jungkook’s smaller, but firmer, one. Jungkook’s feet are sure and firm, taking Yoongi left and right, his hold is strong but comfortable too and the writer doesn’t feel embarrassed.
Jungkook leans closer and whispers against Yoongi’s ear, “look who’s making assumptions, now.”
Yoongi has never been so close to someone else like this before. He has never smelled someone’s strong, heavy and salty scent so close to their neck. If he leans forward, he can brush his lower lip along Jungkook’s shoulder, over the fabric of his shirt, and then reaching his golden skin. But he does no such thing, instead he says, “I can do this all night long if you let me”, watching hair standing on the back of Jungkook’s neck when his breath touches the boy’s exposed skin.
They stop dancing, but Jungkook’s arms are still around Yoongi’s waist, their hands are still on one another and their eyes locked. Jungkook’s eyes are as dark and deep as the ocean around them, but they don’t scare Yoongi away. They’re warm, big, round ― innocent, even, but the writer knows better. Knows that the way Jungkook is looking at him right now ― doing something utterly wrong and despised by all men, letting another man wrap his arms around his torso, bring him close, pressing their chests together – it makes the writer’s stomach do summersaults. It makes Yoongi’s skin burn with the night breeze in such a unique way. Jungkook’s lips are stretched up, a knowing smile lighting up his features. He shines, and Yoongi’s going blind.
“See something you like?”, Jungkook asks again, in a low voice. His breath hits Yoongi’s nose, waking him up from his haze.
He didn’t notice he was staring, so looks away, past Jungkook, to the band. The boy who was previously dancing with Jungkook had grabbed his saxophone and made his way to the stage, beret decorating his hair, a smug smile on his lips as he comes back from wherever he was, and stomps his foot three times before taking the instrument to his lips and starting a new song.
Yoongi decides to ignore Jungkook’s question and his face, he’s still drunk but all the dancing under the moonlight made him sweat in the most pleasant manner and the alcohol had gone away through his pores. He wonders if Jungkook can smell it as he looks at him with the corner of his eye and asks,
“Are artists the type you fancy?”
Jungkook’s soft giggle before they start moving again – this time slower, going against the rapid, upbeat sound of the drums and sax; needless to say, Yoongi’s not too invested on dancing or the music, there’s only Jungkook around and inside his mind, wrapping Yoongi around his little finger, trapped. It doesn’t occur Yoongi to feel bothered, annoyed or even disgusted – he’s driven by the curiosity, the desire to know why the boy had drawn him in such a disturbing way, to know how his mind works. Judging by his performance tonight with the quirky musician, Yoongi assumes Jungkook is the type to have… unique acquittances.
“What makes you think I fancy people?”, he retorts and it makes Yoongi groan in impatience.
“I asked you a question, I expect an answer”, he says between his grit teeth, “not that you shoot them back at me.”
Jungkook gives him a questioning look, but it lasts only for a second before he’s looking past Yoongi’s head, to the sea. “Nothing in me says that I must answer to your questions”, he murmurs, “has it occurred to you that perhaps I would like to know what makes you ask such questions?”
“No”, Yoongi says quickly, his grip on Jungkook’s shoulder getting stronger. The artist raises an eyebrow, which the writer ignores for the sake of making them move faster, maybe to make Jungkook trip and embarrass himself, to let him let go of this superior aura he carries. It does not work, Jungkook follows Yoongi’s wishes gracefully and spins them around the dance floor twice.
The room is going round and round, the walls on a odd angle when Jungkook speaks again. “I see. You’re a taker.”
Yoongi stops on his feet, and it almost makes Jungkook trip – sending a small wave of satisfaction to Yoongi’s body, which he ignores because other sensations fill in his mind. There he goes again, this young boy, this artist, whose craft is flawed and weird, so out of pattern, so on the edge of art and culture. There he goes again, analyzing Yoongi as if he had known him, as if he had seen everything Yoongi has gone through.
Jungkook didn’t even recognize Yoongi.
“A taker?”, he repeats, in shock. “I see we’re both very good at making assumptions, but not so proficient at the art of listening or communicating as a whole.”
Jungkook takes a step back, removing his hands from Yoongi’s body. The warmth gone. “I disagree”, he says, smiling. His front teeth are slightly bigger than the rest, which gives him a youthful look. It doesn’t match his eyes as he speaks or the defined jawline he so proudly carries, chin up high, looking Yoongi from above.
“Is that so?”, Yoongi’s tone is harsher than he meant, but he likes it. He likes the way Jungkook’s body jerks one step away from his, the way his eyebrows furrow softly at the writer’s sudden rudeness. “Enlighten me, then, Jungkook.”
“There’s nothing more communicative than our bodies”, he starts, brows still furrowed together, “I drew you last night. That was what your body told me. You’re lonely, and your flirt, and you were having a good time with me. You wanted me.”
You wanted me . The sentence sends Yoongi laughing, like he had never done before. It explodes past his dry lips, shakes his torso and shoulders, forcing him to bend forward and throw his hand at Jungkook’s forearms for support. How could Yoongi want someone like Jungkook ? A mediocre artist, who thinks he’s someone? Yoongi can see Jungkook’s unimpressed expression through his teary lashes. Hilarious, really.
“You’re, definitely, a funny fella, my friend”, Yoongi says between deep breaths, “but if you thought for a second that I would want to do anything to someone like you …” he trails off, shaking his head and looking Jungkook dead in the eye. “Jungkook, do you know who I am?”, he asks and watches as the boy shakes his head. Yoongi’s smile widens, “but I know who you are. I bet you know your place, as well. It was fun, to dance with you. Go back to the mediocre musician friend you have, he might want to fuck you tonight. Not me”, Yoongi smiles and taps Jungkook on the shoulder before turning his back to Jungkook, without taking in his features before leaving.
His way back to his cabin is quick, even though the ship is full of people, full of life and lights, of booze and couples, smoke and dirt, sweat of bodies against one another in the most inappropriate forms Yoongi would dare to describe. But none of that called his attention, none of the party and cigarettes, not even the alcohol called upon Yoongi how Jungkook’s eyes had done. And he hates it.
He hated when Jungkook had said he wanted the painter, because he wasn’t sure if what the boy had said was true. He hated when Jungkook’s eyes turned confused and blurry with Yoongi’s words because he didn’t know what the sting on his chest meant. He hated when he turned his back to the young artist, because, his body shook and protested at every step he took away from Jungkook, and he didn’t know if it was because everything they had said to each other – which wasn’t much – was true or had a meaning.
He hates it even now, as he makes his way to his cabin, the moon high in the sky, showering him with its white light. He’s sure he looks like a phantom now – and he wishes he were one. He wishes he were a phantom to roam around, observe the couple, see what they have. To maybe enter into that sweet woman’s body and feel what she feels, to make sure the hand wrapped around his chest has nothing to do with Jungkook’s own manly, strong hands, to his warm body pressed against his, to his words whispered into Yoongi’s face. To make sure he’s not feeling all those feelings he has so often written about.
The lightning in the corridor to his cabin makes him feel more alive, yellow candles placed on the left side of each door, send shadows to Yoongi’s face, paints his skin yellow, hides his confusion and denial in the darkness. He takes a deep breath, leaning his weight against a wall covered in soft, velvety wallpaper. It was a long day, an even more stressful evening. He wasn’t expecting to meet Jungkook, although he couldn’t say he regretted their meeting. And, yet, all of his goals flew out of the window when the boy took him for a dance, that turned into two, until they blended into one another and he was saying things he reserved for people he had no respect for.
And that isn’t Jungkook’s case. He’s a fellow artist, even if not as talented as others Yoongi had met before. Still, there was something in him. Yoongi doesn’t know what it is, and, as he opens his eyes because of a loud moan coming two doors on his right, he decides he won’t be dwelling into that now.
Yoongi has written about many things. Has written about women’s soft lips, about their fair and milky skin and how it’d burn under their lover’s touch. At times, he had considered his written borderline explicit, which Namjoon highly approved. Words could make people feel things, and even when they weren’t as explicit as Namjoon liked them, they were enough. The moans coming from the 039 cabin made no sense to Yoongi, they weren’t words, but they draw him in. His feet move on his own, but he stops himself from stepping into the light – he must not be revealed.
Shadows inside the cabin move together, under the candle light, and they’re hypnotizing. He can see it’s a man and a woman, the petit woman underneath him, her back curved up, seeking him, as if they were one. And he gave it to her – the touch from his hands, from his lips on her neck, going down to her breasts. In the shadows, Yoongi can see her hands running down his back, pulling him closer. He then stops kissing her, moves up her legs spread wide, giving him space to stand between them. Even in the dark, Yoongi can see it – feel it, with the wind blowing from the open window, the flickering candle lights, from the way her chest goes up and down quickly in expectation. He can see that they’re one, and it fills his mouth with a bitter taste, on the back of his tongue. It wraps a hand around his neck and whispers in his ear Jungkook would look at you as if you hung stars all over your body.
Yoongi’s heart beats fast on his chest, his mouth and eyes are dry, his mouth tastes as if a dead animal had made it its home. So he runs, he runs in the shadows, avoiding the light thrown by the candles, to his cabin, to his solitude, to where is safe. He locks the door and has his back against it, his eyes wide open, although he wants to close them. His eyes wide open, and he knows the window is supposed to be in front of him, but he can see is the darkness of Jungkook’s eyes, to imagine how it would feel like to be in the position the woman was, lying down, legs spread open. Vulnerable.
Yoongi doesn’t know vulnerable. He never wanted to know how it felt. He only imagined it must feel nerve-wrecking, frightening.
She didn’t seem scared of giving in.
And Jungkook didn’t seem scared of taking whatever Yoongi had to offer. And Jungkook doesn’t even know who Yoongi is.
Yoongi, then, runs to his desk by the window, with Jungkook’s wide dark eyes still on the back of his mind, to find his journal and starts writing. He writes about how it felt to be held close. How Namjoon had warned him a couple of times how words were not enough, how he needed to experience things in order to understand them. He writes, knuckles white from holding the pencil so, so tight, that maybe he has found what he came here for.
His inspiration.
And it might lay on Jungkook and his firm hands around Yoongi’s waist, or his dark, deep eyes that scare the writer as much as the sea beneath them does.
The night is definitely Yoongi’s favorite time. Call it cliché, vampiric, even, given the writer’s appearance and his thing for dark suits. In the ship, the feeling only intensified: in the evening, people are either too drunk to approach the writer and ask him questions about his old poems he cannot answer or to make small talk to investors his father is friends with. To write, it has always been his favorite time, his safe place.
To get drunk as well. No one judges you when you’re drinking a drink after another when it’s nighttime.
Decided to forget all the events from the previous nights – and it includes the thought that maybe Jungkook would be the solution to his problems – Yoongi leaves his cabin with his journal and a pencil, and goes to the favorite part of the ship. It is not a hidden spot, or somewhere private by any means; on the contrary, it’s right in the open, under the stars and facing the open sea. He makes his way through the ship, nodding at the familiar faces he meets along the way, letting the late afternoon breeze play with his hair. Yoongi has no idea where in the world they are, but he does know the wind is colder and harsher, and he likes it. He sees women covering their exposed skin with extravagant long coats, warming their bodies up with cigarettes. Most of them don’t bat an eye when Yoongi passes through them and he’s grateful for that – he has no time for them.
Two steps at the time, Yoongi climbs the stairs that will take them to the highest part of the ship, where there is a small room that Yoongi has no idea what it may house, and, behind it, a few tables and chairs sit, facing the ocean. The writer doesn’t mind the people around him, his breath stuck in his throat by the view before his eyes. Deep orange hue paints the horizon, with pink and purple lines spreading its soft and calming claws along the sky. It’s breathtaking, it sends a wave of inspiration through Yoongi’s body. He breathes in, the salty, crisp air, closes his eyes and lets the feeling wash over him.
This is what I missed. No person can hold so much inside them. Only words, the sky, can.
Eyes open, he searches for an empty chair and soon finds one – right at the edge of the ship, only thin metal bars separating them from the free fall. It doesn’t matter, Yoongi thinks, his eyes will be focused on the sky and on his words, the sea has no use for him. He doesn’t need to think about it or how it reminds him of Jungkook. He doesn’t need to think about Jungkook right now.
And he does manage to focus for a while – he doesn’t know now long it has passed, too focused on writing words, and more words, on his notebook. The skies have changed from deep, burning orange to dark blue with a few stars here and there. The lights on the ship have been lighten up, making it easier for Yoongi to see whatever was coming to life on that piece of paper.
It doesn’t last for long, though. Soon he’s seeing Jungkook’s eyes behind his eye lids. Soon, he scribes out Jungkook’s name in the middle of a sentence and has to cross a line over it a few times, to get rid of it. It doesn’t work. With the cold breeze, he longs for the warmth having Jungkook’s body against his provided.
You want me , his mind provides him, in Jungkook’s serious and low tone.
And he hates it. He might miss the warmth, he might want that , but he doesn’t want Jungkook’s words.
With an annoyed grunt, he stops writing and actually reads it. “This is…”, he starts to himself, and then, frowning, “crap.”
“I must agree with you on this one”, a voice – a voice Yoongi knows and that haunted him in the previous night – says. Yoongi looks to his sides, and sees nothing. “I’m up here”, Jungkook says, voice light and airy. The writer looks up and he shouldn’t have, he shouldn’t. He should’ve kept his eyes on his paper, ignoring Jungkook and his stupid remarks.
But he looks up, and there the boy is. From this angle, Yoongi can see how his teeth rest on his lower, full lip, as he smiles cheekily at the writer. He can see the boy’s nostrils and eyelashes throwing shadows on his cheeks. Even from such awful angle, Jungkook looks handsome and Yoongi feels the thought sinking in on the back of his mind, unable to stop it. However, he can’t think too much about it now ― otherwise he might make a mistake, let his thoughts roll out of his tongue, and that would be bad. Really, really bad.
When Yoongi doesn’t answer immediately, Jungkook’s expression changes slightly, a delicate frown appears on his forehead, his bottom lip jutting forward just a little bit. The writer looks up, at Jungkook, a grin on his lips. “I won’t bother to reply to your comment if you stay behind me. You’re not worthy a neck injury.”
Jungkook laughs at that and makes his way to sit beside Yoongi ― the writer hadn’t notice there was an empty seat right next to him, but he doesn’t bother to shove Jungkook away: he’s sure the artist will be gone soon. No one never stays for too long, anyways, Namjoon being an exception.
“Then, let me repeat myself”, he says and he’s still smiling that bunny smile of his, eyes disappearing and wrinkles decorating the edges. “This”, he points to Yoongi’s notebook with his index finger, “is crap. Aren’t you a famous author?”
“I am”, Yoongi says, nodding and ignoring the sting of offense hitting him deep. “And that gives me the right to say whatever I’m creating is crap. It doesn’t apply to you, though.”
Jungkook cocks his head to the side, biting his lower lip, “why not?”, he asks.
Yoongi’s reflexes are slow, but his mind is working on a thousand miles a second. The only source of light comes from the lamp on their right side, near Jungkook’s head. But the moon ― Yoongi has the feeling that it likes Jungkook, that they’re friends, lovers, even ― shines its light right into Jungkook’s sharp and yet hard features. The light paints Jungkook’s golden skin in paler tones, but he’s breathtaking and fresh nevertheless.
“Chatting with you has proven to be a delightful experience”, Jungkook says sarcastically when Yoongi takes too long to reply. “Your eyes say a lot, and you’re lucky I’m an excellent reader.”
“Is that why you think you can judge my work?”, Yoongi snaps, “call it crap ?”
Something changes in Jungkook ― there’s a sparkle in his eyes, and Yoongi’s mind takes notes automatically. Yoongi doesn’t question why. “Obviously”, the boy shrugs, “and, obviously, I am right. You said it yourself.”
“I never said you were right”, Yoongi shoots back.
“But you said your work was crap”, Jungkook retorts.
“I did”, Yoongi starts slow, trying to avert his gaze from Jungkook’s dark orbs, trying not to dive into this ocean ― because he’s scared of it, yes, but he’s curious, too. The curiosity that rose on the first night is stronger now, ferocious, it runs down Yoongi’s arms and settles on his hands, making them itch to touch, to reach Jungkook. He doesn’t listen to his curiosity, focusing on sending the young boy away. “Yet, you are not allowed. How’d you feel if someone said your paintings are crap ?”
It seems like the question is interesting enough to get Jungkook looking to the horizon, the ocean, considering Yoongi’s words. Jungkook’s nose is slightly oversized, his lips form a delicate pout as he frowns, deep in thought for a minute. Then, he opens a shy smile and says, looking at Yoongi from the corner of his eye. “You think the portrait I made of you is crap, am I right?”
Yoongi chuckles softly, “Surprisingly”, he says, “you are”. Then he raises a finger, “this time, you are.”
Jungkook hums soft, “I can draw you again, if you’d like.”
“Why the sudden offer?”, Yoongi asks, curiosity getting the best of him once again.
Jungkook shrugs and wrinkles his nose, the moonlight is not pale enough to hide the soft rush of blood in Jungkook’s cheeks. “Wouldn’t you like the opportunity to make a better job? If given the opportunity, obviously. Specially if it’s something you believe to be good at.”
“And you think you’re good at portraits?”, is all Yoongi asks, unable to keep the acid from his tone.
“As much as you think you’re good at writing about love.”
Yoongi has never dealt well with criticism coming from other than Namjoon ― and even when the younger did try to criticise any of Yoongi’s works, the writer would rolls his eyes and send the boy off. Secretly, he’d start over, take the comments to further analysis. Criticism from the public is not something he seeks, and, the times he had faced it, Yoongi felt… uncomfortable. Now, as Jungkook looking at him knowingly, he feels exposed again.
But it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. It doesn’t make Yoongi stir on his seat, trying to look away or look for the perfect clapback.
Again, it makes the writer curious. “Writing is much more complex than what you do”, Yoongi says, defensive.
Jungkook, on the other hand, tries to be diplomatic as he smiles and nods softly, “art is unique on its own, regardless complexity.”
“You couldn’t write about love”, Yoongi says, finally, “you may draw representations of it. But they’re shallow if compared to words.”
Jungkook frowns, leaning his body closer to Yoongi’s. “Are words all you know? Because if that’s the case here”, he says and glances at the notebook, “I may know why this is crap.”
Yoongi closes the notebook in a childish act, he knows, but he doesn't want Jungkook prying any longer. “Words are enough”, he says between grit teeth. “You can’t possibly know what’s wrong because you can’t write .”
Jungkook doesn’t seem to listen to any of Yoongi’s words because his eyes are fixed on the writer’s features, eyes searching. Yoongi frowns and leans away in a pathetic attempt to keep Jungkook away. It doesn’t seem to work, however, because Jungkook’s eyes shine with whatever discover he made right this second. His lips stretch into a victorious grin as he whispers, “I was right the other night as well. Let me show you, Yoongi.”
“Show what?”, Yoongi says, his chin held up high, notebook pressed against his chest, supported by his crossed arms.
“Love”, Jungkook says, simply. “This”, he points to the notebook, “is not it. Isn’t it what you want? I can tell you about it. But I can do better.”
“Better?”, Yoongi repeats, weak.
“Let me show you, will you?”, Jungkook grins and Yoongi is sure that the moonlight becomes whiter and shines directly onto Jungkook and, for a second, he looks exactly like the mixture of salvation and damnation. All wrapped into one.
Yoongi’s mouth his dry, he doesn't know why. His eyes are dry, too, but he can’t blink, blinded by the light oozing from Jungkook. The artist’s aura is so strong, it pulls Yoongi closer ― and this is definitely something he has never felt before, so he can’t exactly classify it or understand if he appreciates the feeling or not. But right now, all he can do is stare at the younger while his words dance around his mind.
They don’t stay in there, though, rolling out of his tongue in a shaky, “show me what?”
And the smile Jungkook flashes at Yoongi, it does all the talking for the younger. In a blink of eye ― that hurts , due its dry state, or maybe is the salt in the air, coming from the sea, Yoongi doesn’t know nor cares ― they are all alone, and in front of him, there isn’t a boy. No, Jungkook is definitely not a boy. In front of Yoongi, there’s a road that may lead him to experiences he never had before, an infinite possibilities lay inside Jungkook’s eyes, rest on his palms, hide behind his exposed teeth as he smiles. And, perhaps, Jungkook’s youthful and annoying manner is what has lead Yoongi to be angry at him, for his drawing. To dance with him on the previous night. To be sitting with him right now, allowing the younger to insult his work, his intelligence and not feel offended.
And, perhaps, Yoongi’s can actually feel his heart beating inside his chest, for the first time since he can remember, and it’s uncomfortable, the constant thud inside his ribcage. It feels different, it doesn’t bother him, it draws him in to Jungkook. Perhaps, he likes this.
Perhaps Jungkook has inside him what Yoongi needs, what he has been seeking for months, now.
“How it feels”, the image Yoongi’s mind projected shatters in front of his eyes, but Jungkook’s smile remains as beautiful and blinding as always. “When we experience something first-hand, isn’t it easier to write them down? To understand what it exactly is?”
Yoongi scoffs, “there you go with your assumptions once again”, he tries to avert his gaze, but Jungkook won’t allow ― there’s dominance and a demand for attention in the way Jungkook carries himself, the way his eyes pierce through Yoongi’s soul so effortlessly; he just can’t get away. Jungkook presses his lips together in amusement, as if biting back his words. “Not every one of us has this kind of intelligence. Projecting your own feelings in front of you, to classify and sort them out is too much for a ordinary mind.”
“Never took your mind for ordinary”, Jungkook retorts, his lips perking up, “you are not ordinary.”
Yoongi clicks his tongue, but he’s amused. Jungkook’s words to their job, they soothe Yoongi’s ego, boosts it. “Is this how you chase the ones you fancy? The boys you want to take to bed with you?”
Jungkook chuckles, but the action isn’t the most natural, it feels strange, out of place. Yoongi shouldn’t have noticed the subtle change, but he notices it anyway. “You don’t seem bothered by my approach nor my words.”
“I’m not”, Yoongi confirms.
“Well”, the younger starts, finally breaking eye contact to look at the sea before them, “am I succeeding, then?”
Softly, Yoongi repeats, “succeeding?”
“Fancing you”, Jungkook gives as sort of explanation, “will you let me show you?”
A nervous chuckle falls from Yoongi lips, “that was the most unique way someone has ever asked if they could fuck me”, he says and it starles the younger a bit ― Yoongi can see his shoulders rising a little, turning stiff. But his face remains a mask of calm and amusement he sports since the first time they met. Luckily, Yoongi is a good reader. “Why me?”
Jungkook doesn’t bat an eye before he’s saying, “I want to change the image I have of you. I want to draw you again, so you can see what you can possibly be.”
Yoongi simply rolls his eyes, “tempting”, he murmurs.
“What was that?”, Jungkook asks, frowning.
“Nothing”, Yoongi dismisses, with a waving hand and looking ahead, too. The moon shines on the dark ocean, forming a small but inviting white path on the water’s surface. If Yoongi didn’t know any better, he could believe there was something beautiful waiting for him by the end of the road. Maybe a beautiful garden, decorated with white flowers, shining under the moonlight, stuck in the longest night to ever exist. Maybe, in the end of the road, he’d find himself drowning, he’d drown in Jungkook’s depth, in his shine. But did he want to? Would he allow this young man to touch Yoongi in ways he has only heard about?
Was that what he craved? Is this what I want?
Warmth lands near Yoongi’s ear, sending shivers. He doesn’t turn his head to look where it comes from, because he can feel Jungkook’s lips brushing against the hot and sensitive skin as he whispers, “you’re thinking about it, aren’t you? Imagine Yoongi”, he whispers, voice low and grave; the writer ignores the wish to close his eyes and let himself be carried away by the younger’s melodic tone. “Wouldn’t it be easier? To put into words how it felt when I’ve explored each and every layer of you. Do you even know how…”, he sighs, at lost of words for a moment, “I can tell no one has ever touched you. You think too much of yourself to let someone else do anything to you. But, letting me, a simple, poor and dirty artist you met in the middle of the ocean, unravel you… that demands courage and power, Yoongi.”
Breathlessly, Yoongi demands, “say what you want. Say you want to fuck me.”
Yoongi feels Jungkook’s breathy laugh on his neck and he panics, it feels warm, intimate, a secret exposed to everyone to see. “That’s not what I want”, he says.
“What is it then?”, Yoongi shoots back, weakly. His voice wavers, but he pays it no mind, “if you want me that bad, just say it. You might be surprised by the answer you’ll get.”
Jungkook chuckles again before brushing his nose along the crook of Yoongi’s neck. He feels goosebumps and does his darn best to stay still, looking ahead, at the moon, at the ocean. To keep his eyes open. “I don’t want to fuck you, Yoongi”, his lips are on the tip of his ear, and maybe Yoongi feels his teeth? Playing with skin? He can’t tell, his mind is foggy and slow. “That wouldn’t help you. I’d like to make love to you.”
“Love?”, Yoongi scoffs, “we don’t know each other. I don’t love you.”
“Neither do I”, they’re so close that Yoongi can feel as Jungkook shrugs, “but you’re an writer, I’m an painter. Isn’t our job to pretend? To create? I can pretend for a night. Can’t you?”, the question is marked by Jungkook nibbling at Yoongi’s ear.
Yoongi closes his eyes, overwhelmed by the intimate touch and his words.
He can pretend, just for a night. Can’t he?
Before he can exactly react to Jungkook’s sudden and explicit touch, it’s gone. The younger is leaning away from him, his back straight and resting against the wooden bars of the chair; face as calm as the sky. The heat in Yoongi’s face remains, he can feel his heart pulsing on his ear, the tip burning, a sign that Jungkook’s lips were really there. If that’s how he feels with the slightest, minimum of the touches, he can’t even begin to imagine how it’ll feel if he allows this man to touch him somewhere else. Everywhere else.
But Yoongi doesn’t go down without a fight, he doesn’t give in , so he repeats “tempting”, louder this time.
“The offer stands, Yoongi”, Jungkook shrugs nonchalantly. “We’ll see each other around, eventually. If you’re interested, I’ll be more than willing to help you.”
Yoongi gives the younger boy a quizzical look to which the other responds with a soft smile and a raised eyebrow, “with you art, that is.”
Yoongi hums as he collects his belongings to stand up and return to his cabin. He feels lightheaded, as if he had drank a little over his tolerance and now had to be careful with his words and watch his step. When he’s standing, Jungkook looking up at his expectantly, “perhaps I should accept the offer, an outsider’s perspective may clarify my mind. But not tonight”, he smirks, “go find someone else to use tonight. I hope you don’t have to work as hard as you just did. Just tell them you want to fuck.”
Jungkook giggles, eyes closing shut in delight, his teeth on full display. “Don’t worry”, he sighs after a few seconds of shaking his shoulders, a hand resting on his stomach. “I’ll be saving all of my loving to you.”
“I didn’t tell you to make love ”, Yoongi distorts the words, as if they taste bitter in his tongue ― it really doesn’t and he stores this information in the back of his brain for further analysis and perhaps a small anxiety attack ― “I told you to look someone for a fuck There’s a difference.”
Jungkook has a smug expression as he says, “so you admit that making love and fucking are different things?”
“I never said anything on the matter, to being with”, Yoongi shrugs, “but if there are two different words for the same act, there must be something that tells them apart from each other.”
“Fair point”, Jungkook nods, “it goes beyond words, though.”
“Words are everything”, Yoongi shoots back without a second of hesitation and he watches as Jungkook stands up, too, a little bit taller than him ― but it feels like he’s towering over Yoongi’s form, over everything Yoongi believes himself to be, and looks at the writer from above.
“They are really not”, he says, knowingly, “specially when you’re under someone, we’ll see if you can form any word beyond their name” and with that he turns around, walking with straight back and his chin held up high, leaving Yoongi alone and annoyed, confused, with so many conflicting thoughts dancing on his mind.
Sunlight creeps through the round windows of his cabin, coloring the room in soft shades of yellow and white. Yoongi’s eyes hurt, but he doesn’t blink, staring up at the ceiling as if it held all the answers to the questions he haven’t dared to let roll out of his tongue. And even if he did, who could answer them? The only one isn’t with him right now, Namjoon is on land and Yoongi is stuck in this ship for another day.
After his… conversation with Jungkook, Yoongi made his way back to his cabin, stopping at the bar to get a bottle or two of liquor; the bartender didn’t even flinch or frown at the writers request ― four days in this ship and it was common knowledge around the cruise’s staff that Yoongi’s an avid drinker. Good , Yoongi thought, now they can keep the liquor coming and the troubles away . He doesn’t need to say he was wrong. The liquor burned his throat, but it did nothing to his mind. He opened the first bottle as soon as he grabbed it, drinking straight from it, not bothering to look at the people who passed by him, to wonder what they’d think at the sight of Yoongi, on his informal clothes, roaming through the ship with a bottle under his arm and another stuck to his lips.
An empty bottle later, Yoongi was on his bed, shirt ripped open, legs spread wide on top of the mattress with his second bottle and notebook displayed in front of him. He didn’t know what he was supposed to write ― he didn’t know what he wanted to put on those pages because all of his thoughts were being driven by Jungkook and his words and the shape of his mouth, the way his eyes sparkled at the mention of teaching Yoongi. The way the artist’s dark locks shone under the pale moonlight. He was the most beautiful thing Yoongi had ever laid his eyes on and it was disturbing.
It was disturbing because Yoongi’s hands were clammy with sweat when he reached for his bottle at the bar; and he hadn’t noticed it. It was disturbing because when they danced, Yoongi felt safe in Jungkook’s arms, when they looked into each other eyes, Yoongi saw a reflection of himself that he wasn’t scared of disgusted of. All he could see was indefinite possibilities ahead of him, reflected on the darkness that was Jungkook’s mind and orbs, telling Yoongi to dive into it, to go deep down and kill the monster growing inside of him. That monster being curiosity and other things that, perhaps, it was time for Yoongi to address properly.
But he did no such thing. With a simple candle burning on top of his desk, Yoongi opened his notebook and started to write about him because, perhaps, if he put it out, perhaps it’ll go away. Perhaps the thoughts pesting his mind would ease and die, perhaps the monster would go back to sleep, never to be awaken again. So he wrote. About how Jungkook’s eyes were dark and dangerous, but he wasn’t scared. About how Jungkook’s hands felt when they rested on his small back, pulling him closer ― his heart had skipped a beat or two, his breath was stuck in his lungs; and it all felt good . Feeling powerless, had given everything to Jungkook in that small, harmless action ― dancing ― felt better than any other word Yoongi had ever put out there for the public to read. The thrilling, warm and sweet feeling that ran through his body was more rewarding and fulfilling than any compliment he had gotten in his entire life.
And what a shame that is, Yoongi still thinks, as he blinks slowly and his head lolls to the side.
As he wrote, messily and angrily ― at everything: at Jungkook for popping so many questions into his mind, at himself for… not being strong enough. At Namjoon for not being here to help him center ― he addressed his feelings alright. Jungkook was rightwrite - Yoongi wanted him; and for a matter of fact, he still does. Yoongi doesn’t know exactly what it means, but he’s aware that it is important and big and that he shouldn’t give so much power to someone he doesn’t know. But, on the other hand, what are the chances of them meeting outside that ship? None. Jungkook can show him things he doesn’t know, can make him understand Namjoon’s fascination of touch and word; how they come together, always tangled.
Yoongi wanted Jungkook to show him whatever he, Namjoon, and so many other people he has encountered in his life talked about. He wanted to see what it’d do to him , and if he’d be changed forever.
Secretly, Yoongi wanted Jungkook to touch him. No one else, Jungkook only.
He didn’t address that properly the other night, but he knew it. He knows it now as he sighs, an awful taste lingering on this tongue. He knows every single one of the reasons he has lied out on the paper are just excuses to what he truly feels ― and he won’t name it right now. It hurts his ego to say admit it, but he’s frightened by what’s happening right in front of him. Independently from what he might feel, he still can make the best out of the situation. He still can power through the paralyzing fear ― the fear that makes him drown in alcohol and lies in bed for hours, sometimes days. He can still look for Jungkook and say yes to his offer.
The thought of surrender to Jungkook’s proposal makes Yoongi scrunch his nose in distaste. Not because he’ll have Jungkook touching him ― that’s definitely something he has accepted to be something he lusts . But looking for him, accepting the offer, somehow it feels like he’s losing. For some reason, Yoongi knows his pride isn’t the only thing he’ll be missing as soon as he says the word.
Another thought jumps to the front of his mind and it weighs more than any other: why . It’s a simple question, but that remains unanswered, no matter how hard Yoongi thinks. Maybe Jungkook is just really fixed into taking Yoongi to bed, and that’s alright. Maybe Jungkook does that to people who have influence, like Yoongi, because he’s a small, unknown artist, and that would be alright too because Yoongi won’t be having any sort of contact with him once this is done. It’s almost impossible, but maybe Jungkook feels somehow like Yoongi does: intrigued, attracted and deeply scared, although the latter sounds unlikely ― the younger oozes confidence.
There are a lot of maybes and ifs present in this situation, but Jungkook’s proposal was solid and so was the feeling when he nibbled at Yoongi’s ear. There’s no denying in that.
So hours later, Yoongi can’t tell exactly how long he spent lying in bed, arms wrapped around himself, eyes at looking at the ceiling or at the walls, sometimes darting to the window, he makes up his mind. He swallows all the pride down with the last sip of brown liquor, swallows his fears, his embarrassment, places his ego aside and decides he wants this and he wants it right now. What harm could it cause? Embarrassment? Yoongi makes a fool of himself on a daily basis with Namjoon and no one pays him no mind. A waste of time? Maybe. But Yoongi has wasted his time doing less interesting things ― time isn’t a problem here; he feels something will come out of it. Heartbreak? Yoongi mentally skips the last option.
The first step is to take a shower, look presentable. Even if he succumbs to Jungkook’s hands, the younger doesn’t need to know about the inner battle the writer has gone through the previous night. So Yoongi takes longer than he usually does in the shower, partly because he dozes off in the bath and partly because he makes sure cleans himself thoroughly. Once he’s satisfied with it, he steps out to look for an outfit; he doesn’t spend too long on the task though, opting for simple white dress shirt and black slacks, foregoing a suit ― he won’t need it tonight. And when he’s ready, he shuts the door behind him, in his special mission of the night: find Jungkook.
The fifth night in the cruise seems to be the most agitated. As soon as he steps out of his room, he sees men and women dressing their best outfits and heading to the main salon. He does hear something about a special ball, the last one before they return home, so he assumes that’s why people took a upon themselves the job to present the best version of themselves tonight. Yoongi doesn’t feel out of place, but undoubtedly feels slightly uncomfortable; the good part is everyone is too focused on the ball so no one really pays attention to what he’s wearing or where he’s going.
Yoongi follows the herd of people to the higher deck, eyes scanning the crowd looking for a certain black-haired male who apparently owns nothing but a pair of black slacks, long sleeved shirt and suspenders. Jungkook is nowhere to be seen, making Yoongi’s hair at the base of his neck rise in frustration. He continues on his search, refusing to give up just yet. At the hall, he sees people entering, smoking and drinking. The band is playing and that’s when he remembers, with a small tug at his chest that Jungkook is good friends with the saxophonist of the band. So he makes his way into the grand space, searching at the band ― indeed, the man is there, happily playing as he sways his hips side to side. Yoongi has no idea how to call his attention, but it soon is proven to be unnecessary because the musician’s eyes fall on Yoongi and he smirks knowingly, gesturing for Yoongi to wait with his free hand. And so he does, standing awkwardly by the bar, but refusing to grab a drink ― his head his pounds from the previous night adventures and… he wants to be sober (as sober as he can) for this. Another realisation slaps his cheek with the heavy hand of the truth: he wants to remember it, and not for his writing’s sake.
As soon as the song is over, the saxophonist hops off the stage and makes a straight line towards Yoongi. Not even once does the musician blink or his smirks leaves his face, and it frightens Yoongi ― where do these people find so much confidence to carry themselves like that when they’re nothing to most of society? The writer doesn’t have too much room to think about it because in a second the musician is standing right before him, speaking above the noise.
“You’re Jungkook’s friend, the grumpy writer”, he says with a smirk. “Wish I could say I heard a lot about you, but that would be a lie.”
Yoongi grimaces at the words, “likewise”, he says and the musician giggles.
“I’m Taehyung, by the way”, he says, offering a hand that Yoongi reluctantly shakes, “what can I help you with?”
Not beating around the bush Yoongi thinks, and he sees why Jungkook is the way he is. With the friends he has, it’s expected from Jungkook to act like an arrogant bastard. It almost makes Yoongi laugh. “Yoongi” he says. “Jungkook is not around?”, he asks, unsure.
Taehyung looks around for a few seconds and smiles at Yoongi, shaking his head, “when I left our cabin, he said he’d be stopping by later. I don’t see him here.”
“You share a cabin?”, Yoongi can’t control his tongue. He doesn’t have time for it, he can regret his words later.
The look Taehyung shoots him almost makes Yoongi ran away, but the musician answers anyway. There’s caution in his posture and words, but they sound polite and sweet as it has been since the first words they exchanged. “Yes, we’re on Deck C. Musicians, staff… all of us sleep together. We’re lucky we got a cabin just for the two of us. Mark, Jaehyun and Daewhi weren’t so lucky”, he scoffs.
“Deck C…” Yoongi repeats, “isn’t it down the machinery room?” and Taehyung nods. Those are awful cabins , Yoongi thinks, remembering Namjoon’s words when they went together book Yoongi’s trip.
“It’s not hard to find it, you know. He’s probably there, drawing”, the musician rolls his eyes. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”
Yoongi narrows his eyes and bites his lower lip. He knows where to find Jungkook now, and that’s the easiest part. His heart jumps inside his chest at the thought of what may come next, making him barely whisper a “yeah” before turning around and leaving Taehyung behind, good-manners be damned.
Yoongi has never given too much thought about how powerful the human mind can be, and what may be the collateral effects of its overuse of power. When Yoongi turns his back to Taehyung and the entire hall, filled with moving bodies, his vision becomes blurred and sharp at the same time; he can’t see people around him – they’re vultures, immaterial beings flying by his side like black, white and grey sparkling silk sheets. He races through them, eyes focused ahead, mind telling him to move, one foot after the other. Be careful, there are waiters ahead and they’re carrying trays. Step to the right, step to the left. Turn left. Go down stairs. Yes, two at the time. No, you won’t fall. Where’s Deck C? Ask someone. Oh, there, that young fella you met at the bar.
In his haste, Yoongi almost trips and bumps his body against the young waiter – Daewhi, if he remembers correctly. The boy yelps, but recovers fast opening an excited smile at the writer. Yoongi, however, doesn’t have the patience nor the time to mimic the boy’s expression – he knows he isn’t late by any means, they haven’t set a time or a place. Yoongi didn’t even say yes to the offer yet, but there’s this feeling of urgency bubbling inside his chest and he believes this fire driving him comes from his fear to be rejected, to see Jungkook walking away and changing his mind. Yoongi is scared to change his mind, too; the thought sends another rush of fear and a bitter taste crawls back into his mouth. He wishes he could spit it out – but that will have to wait, so he swallows it.
With Daewhi’s hands holding him up, the boy chirps, “Mr. Min! Is everything alright?”
Careful to not give the wrong impression and hurt the boy’s feelings, Yoongi straightens his back and tries to smile back as he says, “Everything’s awesome”, his words doesn’t match his breathy and weak voice, but the boy doesn’t comment on it.
“That’s fantastic!”, the waiter’s smile is wide and bright, but not as bright as Jungkook’s his mind provides him, making it hard for Yoongi to focus. Suddenly, the bodies around him start to get shapes and forms, matter crawling back into their bones. His mind isn’t as focused anymore, his vision isn’t as sharp. But then, Daewhi brings Yoongi back to what matters: “What can I help you with, sir?”
“Oh!’, Yoongi parts his lips slightly, eyes focusing on Daewhi. He can feel his vision sharpening again as he focuses on what matters, as his goal runs back to the front of his mind: Jungkook. “I was wondering if you could show me where Deck C is. I have a friend I’d like to see.”
But then Daewhi’s expression changes from excitement to confusion to suspicion. “But that’s staff area, mr. Min. Someone as important as you shouldn’t go down there.”
Yoongi frowns, unpleased by the waiter’s clear refusal. “All I’m asking is for you to show me the way. If you can’t do that, I’ll find someone else who may put my money into good use.” He’s leaning forward again, his jaw is tense and eyes narrowed; he probably looks like a madman, and, true to himself, he almost feels like one.
Daewhi’s eyes widen at Yoongi’s tone, swallowing hard and stepping back as in to get away from the writer’s sudden anger. “Mr-mr Min”, the boy starts, “I’m sorry, but Deck C is staff only area. I’m afraid I’m not allowed to escort you down there.”
“But-“, Yoongi starts, infuriated. “I need to go down Deck C!”, his voice is louder, now, and some people do turn their heads to see what’s going on. Yoongi pays no attention to them.
“I-I’m sorry!”, Daewhi cries.
“What’s on Deck C?”, Jungkook’s voice reaches Yoongi and it feels like a balsam, penetrating through Yoongi’s every open pore, dancing on his nose, making his head dizzy but so content at the same time.
So he turns around, completely forgetting about the waiter boy who he had just scared for the rest of his life, to meet Jungkook. The young artist is dressed as always – white long-sleeved shirt, tucked into his dark slacks, with a pair of suspenders securing them. His hair is styled up, but his hair is too long in the front, so it often falls over his eyes – Jungkook doesn’t bother to remove them, letting his dark locks cover part of his left eye. Yoongi thinks it suits him, and his mouth works faster than his brain because he lets this particular thought slip.
“Your hair suits you”, he murmurs and Jungkook smiles brightly.
“Thank you”, he says, nodding a little, “but what’s on Deck C and what are you scaring poor Daewhi for?”
Yoongi doesn’t answer the first question, opting for looking over his shoulder, at the waiter. Daewhi does look scared – his brows are furrowed together, shoulders tense and up towards his chin, teeth mistreating the soft skin of his lips – so Yoongi whispers an apology, and it seems to ease the boy a little. Then he turns to Jungkook, and he tries not look into his eyes as he says, “He refused to give me the information I needed.”
Jungkook hums, brows furrowing slightly, but his lips quirk up a little as if he’s trying to hold back his smile. “And what was that?”
Yoongi scoffs and rolls his eyes, “You’re insufferable. This is a bad idea.”
“What’s a bad idea?”, Jungkook shots back in a heartbeat.
This is a bad idea, this is a bad idea. Forget it, forget it , Yoongi’s mind yells at him. But he can’t, his body refuses to move away from Jungkook – much on the contrary, he unconsciously takes a step towards Jungkook – whose smile widens – and eyes seek the younger’s darker and deeper ones. Jungkook gives everything Yoongi seeks without even thinking twice: a step closer, Jungkook closes the distance. Eyes, Jungkook looks at him as if they were alone, the world nothing but a futile detail they don’t need to acknowledge as of now.
“What’s a bad idea, Yoongi?”, Jungkook whispers, eyes seeking, searching something inside Yoongi’s. Maybe the answer is written all over his face, maybe Jungkook has already found it, but he wants to hear him saying it. Words are everything , Yoongi himself had said just yesterday. Use your words.
“Saying yes”, he whispers back. “Saying yes to you is a bad, bad idea.”
And then Jungkook smirks, closing the distance between them. “Lead the way, Yoongi”, is all he says and Yoongi doesn’t have it on him to say no. Jungkook slides his hand to Yoongi’s, wrapping it around it and squeezing. The touch is so unexpected, so innocent and yet new that it has the writer jumping on his feet before he starts walking. Behind him, he hears Jungkook chuckling, but doesn’t bother to bite back.
Yoongi stands awkwardly in his own cabin, by the door, as Jungkook roams around, looking at every single detail in a concealed awe. He sees the boy’s eyes sparkle, and it sends a hand wrapping around his heart, squeezing it, making it bleed so much, bleed for Jungkook. The boy stops by the bed where the evidences for Yoongi’s crime lay: his open notebook and two empty bottles of liquor. Jungkook raises his eyebrows and points to the items.
“You drank those?”, he asks and Yoongi simply nods, suddenly embarrassing of his doings. “By yourself?”, he sounds impressed and Yoongi nods again, more reluctant this time. Jungkook whistles lowly, “Are you sure you’re already sober?”
“I’m fine”, Yoongi croaks.
Jungkook snorts softly, “I don’t believe you, but who am I to make assumptions, right?”
If the joke was meant to make Yoongi relax, it works – he lets out a weak chuckle in sync with Jungkook, who now looks intently at the writer’s notebook. “I hope you didn’t write while drunk, though”, he comments. “That would be very unprofessional of you.”
“And you’re the perfect artist who never painted while drunk”, Yoongi scoffs, rolling his eyes and moving to collect his belongings on the bed. Jungkook watches as he retrieves everything, putting the glasses across from the bed, on the floor, and the notebook on the desk under the window.
“You caught me”, he exclaims, placing his hands on his heart, “I’m guilty! In fact, I was drunk when I drew you.”
Yoongi gasps, throwing the first thing he can get his hands on – a pillow – at Jungkook’s face. “I knew it!”, he exclaims while Jungkook bends forward, arms wrapped around himself as he laughs, “you owe me a decent drawing. Literally. You owe me. I paid for that shit.”
Jungkook doesn’t stop laughing, his shoulders and entire body shaking with the force of his laughter. Annoyed, Yoongi moves, making his way to the younger boy, slapping his palm against his shoulder a couple of times. The younger protests, exclaiming Ouch! Ouch! Before he takes a deep breath and straightens his back to look at Yoongi. There are tears on his waterline, but otherwise his complexion is neutral – calm, even.
“I paid for your work”, Yoongi repeats, “and your work was crap. You owe me.”
Jungkook hums, stepping closer – and he’s dangerously close. Yoongi can feel the warmth coming from his every breath, he thinks he can even hear his pulse in his own ears. Jungkook looks down, his hand slowly making his way to Yoongi’s face. His hands are cold when they touch Yoongi’s cheek, but the writer doesn’t pull away, too entranced by Jungkook’s eyes, and how they look at him right now. With mirth, obviously – that’s a constant – but with something more as well. “Aren’t I here to pay?”, he whispers as his thumb plays with the skin beneath it, drawing invisible circles.
Yoongi feels it – it starts small, and it’s barely there. It’s a flame, burning slowly but surely, inside him. It lighted up to Jungkook’s touch and it gains force with every word he says as he looks at Yoongi like that . The flame sends a roll of warmth down his body, and he shivers – Jungkook feels it, he can see in his smug grin, can see it when the younger ends the distance between them, gluing their chests together.
However, Yoongi isn’t the one to go down without a fight. He lets Jungkook touch his face as he likes it, but retorts, “I still want a good drawing.”
Jungkook chuckles and his breath Yoongi’s face – it’s sweet , doesn’t feel as disgusting as Yoongi’s liquor-breath – as he says, “Of course, anything for you.”
“Anything?”, Yoongi asks, looking right into Jungkook’s eyes.
Jungkook holds their gaze, but he starts to move forward, making Yoongi lose his balance a little – but the younger’s hand is there to hold him close, wrapping it around his middle. The younger guides them, eyes never leaving Yoongi’s face – he notices Jungkook’s is scanning his face: his eyes, cheeks, and lastly his lips. And, for a second right there, before his calf hits the bed frame, Yoongi thinks Jungkook will put his lips against his own.
It doesn’t happen.
Instead, Jungkook looks at him and finally whispers back, “anything”, with a soft smile. And then there’s a heavy silence between them – Yoongi doesn’t know what to say, of if he should say something. All of those novels, poetry he wrote… right now, they seem futile and empty. Nothing has prepared him for this, for the expectation, for the heart pulsing wildly inside his chest, for eyes who seek the other’s dark orbs, for hands that tremble in their inexperience and shyness, mingled with the desire to touch.
He wishes Jungkook’s calm and confidence were his own, because nothing in Jungkook’s posture or eyes give away insecurity, shyness, doubt. The younger is certain and he’s studying Yoongi in detail, the writers feel every and each layer he worked so diligently to craft being teared apart by Jungkook’s eyes and his hands that now run down his arms, stopping at writer’s own hands, intertwining their fingers. Soft , is what his touch is – feather-like, barely there, but it ignites Yoongi’s burning flame.
“Yoongi”, Jungkook says in a low voice. It feels good to hear him saying his name in such an intimate, soft voice. Yoongi closes his eyes and hums, “are you one hundred percent sure you’re not drunk?”
Frowning, but keeping his eyes closed, he says, “I am. Why’d ask?”
“Just…” he feels Jungkook shrugging, “want to make sure you know what you’re doing. Hey”, he calls, “open your eyes for me, yeah?”
The writer easily complies, opening his eyes to a somewhat new Jungkook. The room is dark, but there’s just enough light coming from the moon outside and the candles Yoongi lit up as soon as they arrived for him to see the boy’s features. If before Jungkook was playful and youthful, now Yoongi is face with a soft, delicate, caring Jungkook – he can tell by the way his dark orbs melt, the way his jaw is relaxed and his lips are closed in a soft, delicate smile.
“My eyes are open”, Yoongi says dumbly and for the lack of a better answer.
Jungkook laughs softly, leaning closer and brushing his lips against the soft skin of Yoongi’s cheek – it burns surprising good where their skins touch and the writers hears himself gasping softly. Jungkook doesn’t pull away, though, choosing to press his lips against Yoongi’s ear to whisper, “If you’re not enjoying any of this, please, all you have to do is say no. And I’ll stop.”
Yoongi’s frown deepens, “Whatever comes out of this, I’ll be learning,” he reasons, “there’s no reason for you to stop.”
And then Jungkook is far away from him, looking at Yoongi with concern in his eyes, the warmth and softness gone. “No”, he says firmly, “I promised to make love to you, not to hurt you. I would never.”
“Love means hurting”, Yoongi retorts.
Jungkook shakes his head, “Not here”, he repeats, “not with me.”
Yoongi hums, “Make love to me, then”, he whispers in a rush of boldness, “don’t hurt me. Show me.”
Jungkook’s face relaxes as he opens a blinding smile and scrunches his nose, “Demanding”, he jokes, moving close to Yoongi again, “your wish is my command, mr. Min.”
“Are we using titles, now?”, Yoongi shoots back, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Is this something you’re into?”, Jungkook asks, an arched eyebrow. “I don’t mind, if that’s what it takes for you to enjoy yourself.”
Shame rises up to Yoongi’s cheeks, he feels them hot and looks away from Jungkook’s eyes. He doesn’t know what he enjoys or not – he has never… touched or was touched anyone else before. He was stupid to think Jungkook would assume he was inexperienced. For Jungkook, this is nothing but a conquest, some fun he’s having at work that he’ll probably run to tell Taehyung about. He’ll run to Taehyung and say how bad, how stupid and weak Yoongi is.
“Yoongi?”, Jungkook calls, placing a hand on his cheek to smooth the skin there when the writer takes too long to reply. “Did I say something wrong?”
The writer shifts his weight from one foot to the other, slightly uncomfortable as he looks to his own feet; Jungkook’s hand still caressing his face. “Uh…” he starts, unsure, “I- I’m not sure about what I like .”
“I’m sorry?”, Jungkook asks. He tries to pull Yoongi’s chin up, but the elder refuses to raise his head and face Jungkook right now. This is a bad idea .
“I’m not sure about what I like”, Yoongi spits it out, hating himself for the first time since… forever. He’s ashamed, too, and, since he has come this far… is it worth to hide what he feels? Is it worth it the trouble to put up a façade to someone he won’t ever see again after this cruise is done? “I’ve never done this before”, he says more confidently this time.
“Oh”, Jungkook gasps softly, his voice giving in his surprise. “Well”, he starts, “I need you to stop looking away, Yoongi. Look at me, please?”, he pleads and Yoongi is too weak to deny the boy anything he asks.
So, he looks, and Jungkook’s face remains soft, understanding and inviting. The younger boy places his free hand on the base of Yoongi’s neck, caressing the skin there for a few seconds before placing it on his nape, playing with the hair in the area. It’s sensitive, it fuels the flame that burns stronger now, warming him up from inside out. He’s scared it might burn his lungs, because it’s already hard to breathe as it is.
Jungkook lowers his head, his nose touches Yoongi’s softly. He brushes them together once, twice, his lips really close to Yoongi’s; eyes open, watching the writer’s every reaction. When Yoongi doesn’t pull away, Jungkook smiles, and moves his lips to Yoongi’s cheek, placing a soft kiss there.
And there goes all of Yoongi’s oxygen, right through his nose.
Jungkook chuckles and whispers in Yoongi’s ear, “Lay down for me, will you?” to which Yoongi nods and reluctantly steps away from Jungkook to crawl into bed, resting his back against the bed frame. Jungkook clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “No, no, not like that, honey”, the pet name sends Yoongi opening his lips to protest, but they die at the tip of his tongue when the younger smirks like that .
“Tell me what to do”, Yoongi says, lost. “And, honey ?”
Jungkook chuckles from where he stands, watching Yoongi with loving eyes. “I like honey”, he tries to dismiss it.
“But I’m not sweet”, Yoongi argues as he slides down, lying on his back, face towards the ceiling. “And you don’t like me. We don’t know each other.”
“That’s correct”, Jungkook says, still watching Yoongi from afar, “but, we promised to pretend, didn’t we? I like honey. I bet you’re sweet as honey.”
“I’m not”, Yoongi insists.
Jungkook clicks his tongues and says, “We’ll see, baby ”, he chuckles, “is baby okay?”
Yoongi feels the matters deepening in some spots as Jungkook climbs on bed, on top of him. Jungkook hovers, still smirking, waiting for an answer. “Either are alright”, he finally says, breathlessly. Truth is, both pet names send shivers down Yoongi’s spine, fuelling the flame, the fire starting to burn somewhere down there .
“Baby”, Jungkook tests the word on his lips and Yoongi can’t hold back the sound his throat makes at the pet name, which seems to satisfy the younger immensely. “Honey”, he says as he leans down to Yoongi’s neck, running his nose down the top to the junction to his shoulder, and if goosebumps take over the writer’s skin, he’ll blame it on the lack of touch for… forever.
Jungkook places a kiss on Yoongi’s pulse point on his neck, eliciting a noise from the writer. The noise is deep, needy and long; Yoongi didn’t even know he could make such noises. It serves as a confirmation to Jungkook, who repeats the action, eagerly this time and it kicks the little oxygen left in Yoongi’s lungs. He gasps and his hands fly to Jungkook’s locks on their own accord.
Jungkook doesn’t seem to mind, in fact, it seems it serves as an incentive.
The younger’s hands fly to Yoongi’s hips, keeping him in place. The flame that burned slowly but surely, turns into a fire – it threatens to consume Yoongi whole as Jungkook’s lips work on his neck, down his collarbones, his shoulder – as much as he can, there’s still fabric covering most of Yoongi’s body. The writer feels hot, his eyes close shut without his permission, too lost in that specific touch to be able to think about anything else. Jungkook, daringly, darts his tongue out and licks a stripe at Yoongi’s neck, who moans deep and long. He’s embarrassed at the small sounds that fall from his lips – he wants to open his eyes, to tell Jungkook to stop, to regain his conscience and control.
But he just can’t.
When Jungkook moves to place his knees on both sides of Yoongi, the writer protests in a low voice – he doesn’t know what he just said, the words escaping him, too scared to fall out from his lips. The boy chuckles, and shushes Yoongi, “It’s alright, honey”, he says, “I’m just making sure you’re comfortable.”
Yoongi nods, eyes still closed. He wishes he could open them to look at Jungkook, to do what he’s asked earlier. But then Jungkook’s hands are on his chest, touching him lightly, fingers just hovering over the fabric. “Hey, honey?”, he calls, and Yoongi hums in response. “Look at me, honey”, he demands and it takes a lot from Yoongi to do so – but he does.
Oh, and it’s so worth it .
Because Jungkook’s lips are starting to get swollen, his hair is messy thanks to Yoongi’s hands, his eyes are hooded and he looks… as affected as Yoongi himself feels. As in a reflection, Yoongi wonders if he’s as beautiful as Jungkook right now. He doubts it.
“You look beautiful”, Jungkook says, as if reading Yoongi’s mind. “But…”
“But?”, Yoongi asks, weak, oh, so weak.
“I need to ask two things of you”, he says, sitting on his heels.
“Yeah, okay”, Yoongi answers, suddenly too aware of how… close they are.
“First, I need these gone”, he says, touching Yoongi’s shirt, “and second, do you have any oils?”
“Oils?”, Yoongi asks, confused.
“Yeah, oils. Shower ones will do.”
“Uh..”, Yoongi says, biting his lower lip in confusion, “yeah, there are some in the bathroom. You can get any.”
“Okay”, Jungkook chirps, “I’ll be right back, honey. Stay right there, okay?”
Yoongi simply nods, letting his head loll in the pillow. He can hear Jungkook pacing through the room, opening the bathroom door and searching for whatever he needs. Alone, Yoongi is painfully aware of how affected is body is and all Jungkook did was to touch his body with his steady hands and kiss his neck, chest and shoulders with those soft lips of his. Slowly, scared he might get caught, Yoongi lowers his right hand to where the flame burns furiously, feeling how quickly his body had given him away.
Jungkook comes back quickly, dropping a small bottle of brown-colored oil beside them. “Good boy”, he praises when he notices Yoongi is still dressed. “I’ll help you with these, yeah?”
A breathy “yeah” is all Yoongi can say before Jungkook’s hands start working on the buttons of his shirt, unraveling him slowly. Another layer of Yoongi’s being exposed right now, he’s literally chest bare for Jungkook to see and touch however he likes it the most. The younger doesn’t waste time by talking, choosing to latch his lips to every surface of Yoongi’s exposed skin. Jungkook’s lips are gentle as they make a slow but burning path from his throat down to his chest, stopping at his navel, where the artist sucks at the skin there, making Yoongi’s back arch in a foreign, but very much delightful, feeling.
“Again”, Yoongi’s mouth betrays him, voicing his deep desire to have Jungkook’s mouth sucking on every inch of exposed skin. He wants Jungkook to go down, to touch him between his spread legs, to crawl back to his neck and make that spot Jungkook’s lips new home. The boy chuckles, nosing Yoongi’s exposed stomach so delicately that it almost makes Yoongi sick at how intimate it all feels ― as if they had done this over and over again.
As if Jungkook knew exactly how Yoongi’s body would react to his touch.
Yoongi felt so wanted with this idea, it made the flame explode inside him once again.
With hot cheeks and embarrassment forgotten, Yoongi places his hands on Jungkook’s hair to guide him towards his chest again. The boy complies, leaving love bites along Yoongi’s pale and smooth skin. The writer can’t breathe properly, oxygen burns his lungs but he loves it. Then, Jungkook moves up, his lips gluing to his neck, shoulder, then going to his face to leave small pecks on his cheeks and forehead. It’s disgustingly sweet until he presses his lower body against Yoongi, Jungkook’s sharp hips pressing against his own, and the fire burning in the writer’s groin threatens to consume him whole as Jungkook rolls his hips slowly and deliberately, watching Yoongi’s every reaction.
Incoherent sounds fall from Yoongi’s lips at every roll of the younger’s hips, at the friction and Yoongi wants more. It’s not enough, somehow the feeling is artificial, there’s still distance between them and he wishes he could end them. So, the writer whines, frowning and it sends Jungkook laughing.
“What about words, Yoongi?”, he says as he rolls his hips one more time, eliciting a deep moan from the writer. “Use your words, baby.”
Slightly irritated by the younger’s mockering and lack of touch, he growls a “fuck the words, touch me.”
Chuckling, Jungkook clarifies, “I am touching you”, but he does place his hands on Yoongi’s hips, sitting back on his heels to take a better look at the writer under him. “Where do you want me to touch you?”, he asks, pressing his thumbs near Yoongi’s crotch. In response, the writer jerks his hips up, seeking… something. Anything . “Here, baby?”, he asks again and Yoongi nods. “I got you.”
I got you is the last coherent sounds both of them make from then on.
Because after that, Yoongi turns into a mess ― a mess of moans and watery sounds falling from his lips, a mess of tears pooling at the corner of his eyes because Jungkook is just too much. A mess because Jungkook is fast to remove his pants, underwear included, leaving Yoongi as bare as when he came into the world, whispering, “beautiful”, as he looks down at the writer and smooths his thighs with his large, strong hands.
After that, Jungkook grabs a pillow from behind Yoongi’s head, but he pays no attention to that until Jungkook is pushing it under his hips. After that, Yoongi is a mess because Jungkook is everywhere and everything ― he becomes the flame that once burned inside Yoongi and it’s so, so bright, Yoongi might lose his sight: and he wouldn’t regret a single thing. Jungkook’s lips aren’t as soft or delicate as before ― they devour Yoongi whole, leaving blooming red-ish and purple flowers on Yoongi’s collarbones, chest, right next to his left nipple ― which Jungkook mistreats with his tongue a couple of times and makes Yoongi’s cock twitch, begging for attention.
But Jungkook doesn’t comply so easily.
He continues to kiss Yoongi down, every inch of his body has been under the boy’s lips, every breath has been stolen by Jungkook’s hands on his inner thigh, on his ass, on his waist and hips. Sometimes Jungkook stops, breath heavy and difficult, just to smile down at Yoongi and lean down to kiss his forehead and shower the writer with praises he’s sure he doesn’t deserve. “Smooth”, he says, kissing down Yoongi’s navel, stopping at his crotch. He looks up, and Yoongi tries to keep his eyes focused on Jungkook but it’s hard when his lips are so close to where he wants to be touched. To be kissed. “I could never do you justice, Yoongi. You’re…” he trails off, opting for kissing the base of Yoongi’s cock.
Yoongi doesn’t bother to ask because then Jungkook is holding his hips down because his lips are enveloping him, the wetness and warmth being too much . He cries, and cries, but it’s all to Jungkook’s pleasure it seems. He sucks gently, savouring it, and it sends Yoongi shaking ― everything inside him is shaking: his thighs, his thoughts, every single resolution he once believed to be immutable, his heart shakes inside his chest. The writer’s hands hold Jungkook’s hair for dear life, pulling him closer, but trying to get away at the same time. He wants it to end, but he wants it to last forever as well; nothing can be better than Jungkook kissing his core like this, to devour him with such devotion.
Yes, Yoongi feels the dirtiest type of holy right now.
Jungkook doesn’t stop his mistreatments as he moves one hand to Yoongi’s legs, spreading them even further, and tapping at Yoongi’s inner thigh. He places a hand under his knee as he removes his mouth from Yoongi’s pulsing dick gently, he licks his lips and swallows and smiles as he explains, “I need you to put your legs like this, alright honey?”, he clarifies, moving to remove Yoongi’s hands from his hair to the writer’s knees. “Hold still for me.”
Yoongi nods, and he should feel embarrassed. He should feel exposed, wrong, uncomfortable.
But he doesn’t.
Because Jungkook holds him in place so carefully; his lips keep touching his skin, following the path that leads to Yoongi’s entrance. Carefully, Jungkook plants a kiss there, his lips barely brushing against the sensitive rim and Yoongi squirms; an exposed nerve, that’s exactly how he feels. Electricity, fire, ray and thunder all run down Yoongi’s throat, reverberate and multiply when he feels Jungkook’s tongue take small licks. The sounds seem to encourage Jungkook immediately, as he intensifies his movements making Yoongi’s eyes roll back and his mouth fall open; he’s barely holding himself together for Jungkook to work his magic.
He wishes he could says something clever, witty or simply rude . Just to feel in power again.
He does speak, sighing a “wait, what?”, when Jungkook’s lips are no longer on him. The younger shushes him with a soft kiss on his cheek, and a “I need the oil, now, honey. Keep holding on for me, alright?”
Yoongi doesn’t have strength to say anything so he simple nods as he watches Jungkook working. He knows what comes next ― being friends with Namjoon and, well, being a writer has prepared him for this. He knows what comes next and he craves it. And if Yoongi was a mess before, he can’t begin to describe what he’s when Jungkook’s warm finger pushes past his hole, filling him up painful and deliciously, making him bite Jungkook’s shoulder ― which does draw a growl from the younger and a sheepsily smile from Yoongi ― and contracting his muscles involuntarily.
By his ear, Jungkook demands, “relax, baby”, then kisses his cheek, “relax for me, Yoongi”, another kiss on the writer’s jaw, Jungkook pushes in and then out and Yoongi sighs, closing his eyes, “good, good”, Jungkook praises as he pushes back inside and Yoongi clenches around his finger. “Good, baby, so good”, he showers him with praises and soft kisses. Yoongi takes a while to notice he’s moving his hips, seeking Jungkook’s finger, seeking the feeling. The younger gives it to him, without thinking twice; his free hand finds Yoongi’s dick again ― the hold is loose, not enough to have Yoongi whining and crying, but he loves it this way: slow, and building up, with their irregular breaths feeling every corner of the room.
Yoongi tries really hard to not melt when Jungkook pushes away his hands from his legs and places himself between them, holding Yoongi by his thighs. Jungkook leans down again, sucking at the tip of Yoongi’s cock as he slowly pushes inside the writer. When the man protests ― pain overshadowing every wave of pleasure he has felt so far ― Jungkook is there, with his soothing hands and dark, shiny, eyes to look at Yoongi with warmth and certainty, to calm him down by placing a soft kiss on Yoongi’s heart. The writer complains, not with words, but he can communicate through small sounds that fall from his lips and a chant of Jungkook, Jungkook, Jungkook-ah that comes right after the younger is completely inside him.
Yoongi is glad he hadn’t closed his eyes through the pain, because the view he has of Jungkook atop of him, inside him, is worth all the little moments of discomfort he had had so far. Sweat shines against Jungkook’s temple, near his hairline, and it makes him glow more under the light coming from outside; his jaw is set in what Yoongi believes to be a mixture of concentration and pleasure as he tries to move slowly and steady, to make it good for Yoongi, and that’s when he looks at the writer with fire in his eyes, but oh it burns so sweetly that the writer isn’t scared of it.
In fact, he craves it. So he chases it.
His hands fly to Jungkook’s forearms, pulling him closer; the younger gladly complies, burying his face in Yoongi’s neck. With a low growl, Jungkook plants a kiss on Yoongi’s pulse and starts to move more diligently, more determined, chasing something ― Yoongi’s quick to understand what the younger is chasing because, he, too, wants it.
“Baby”, Jungkook sighs on Yoongi’s neck, and the writer waits for what’s next, but it doesn’t come. No words, that is, only Jungkook making sweet, melodic noises as he fucks into him, not too strong but definitely hitting all the right spots.
Yoongi can’t form words or think straight when the younger picks up his pace. Everything is Jungkook and the way he feels literally and metaphorically full ; full of Jungkook and of something else he can’t name, some would call love, others would call lust. He can’t think past the heat the pools on his lower belly as Jungkook thrusts, over and over again, as the bites his neck, as Jungkook lowers his head and suck as his hard nipple, at times playing with it with his teeth.
Yoongi can’t think past Jungkook and all the depth he sees as he comes, all over himself and Jungkook, and the way the young artist looks at him ― with care, adoration, and, perhaps, with a little bit of love as well.
But the last, could be just pretense.
“Breathe”, Jungkook says, kissing his throat, “breathe, baby, you’re fine”, he says.
“I was right”, Yoongi says with difficulty. I was right, I have always been right.
Jungkook hums as he licks another stripe on Yoongi’s neck ― he probably tastes like sweat, but it doesn’t bother neither of them. “About what?”
“About this”, Yoongi clarifies.
Jungkook stops what he’s doing to look at Yoongi in the eye, even in the dark, the moon shining just enough for Yoongi to see confusion in the boy’s features. “What do you mean, baby?”
Yoongi closes he’s eyes as he says, “this was a bad idea” and he can’t see the tip of disappointment that sparkle in Jungkook’s dark, deep, sea.
Yoongi doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he’s pulled out of slumber as he feels the mattress move under him, the area getting lighter and colder – a body leaving him alone. All the memories from the previous night – or is it still night? He can’t tell – rush to the front of his mind, making him turn and bring his knees to his chest. He’s naked, that much he knows because the cold breeze coming from the open window bites his skin angrily, and probably alone. Of course Jungkook would leave as soon as they were finished – it was just play pretend.
He doesn’t regret his doings, although he still thinks he was right: it was a bad idea. It was a bad idea because Yoongi enjoyed every second of it, because he knows he won’t be lying with anyone else for a long while, because every time someone tries to unravel him, he’ll think about Jungkook and how he did it , and the comparison will ruin everything. He knows it was a bad idea as he feels lonely and cold, coiled up on his own bed, missing the warmth coming from Jungkook’s body against his.
He knows it was a bad idea because Jungkook showed him something he could never have.
And the only memory he would have of this night would be the love bites on his body, that would soon fade. Jungkook had not kissed him, not even once, and it didn’t go unnoticed by the writer. Yoongi had no taste to linger on his tongue and keep as a dear, secret memory.
It stings, he realizes, so he folds more into himself.
“Yoongi?”, Jungkook’s voice calls – but it feels off. It’s not light, good-humored as it often is. It’s not affected like it was last night. “I know you’re waking up, Yoongi.”
“No”, Yoongi groans, suddenly aware of his entire body.
“Open your eyes, Yoongi”, the younger demands and the tone is harsh, harsher than Yoongi has ever heard coming from the other. It makes Yoongi’s eyes snap open in surprise, his vision blurred at first, but soon adjusting to the lightning. It’s still dark, which means day hasn’t come just yet.
“Aren’t you tired?”, Yoongi croaks, looking around. Jungkook is sitting by the edge of the bed, his back turned to the writer. “It’s late, you can go back to your cabin in the morning. No one will ask questions, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Jungkook stays silent for a long, long time, not moving. Yoongi would think he’s dead if it wasn’t for the subtle movement of his shoulders, up and down, which shows he’s breathing. Yoongi’s about to call his name again when the younger starts, “I drew you” his voice is low and restrained. “Last night. After we fucked.”
“It wasn’t a fuck”, Yoongi protests, “you told me it was different.”
Jungkook chuckles dryly, sarcastically. “No, we fucked. I fucked you ”, he clarifies, “and I hope it was worth it, Yoongi”, he then turns around and Yoongi’s notebook is falling from his hands, hitting the bed with the loudest thud Yoongi has ever heard. It feels like his heart has thrown right in front of him.
“Jungkook, I-“
“Look”, Jungkook starts, standing up and presses the bridge of his nose with his index and thumb, “I wanted you because…”, he trails off, looking at Yoongi as if he held all the right words he needed right now. Too bad Yoongi was at a loss of words as well. We’re both lost in this turbulent sea , he thought to himself. “What I did to you, wasn’t a favor. I wanted it. I thought we’re just… playing. That you were playing hard to catch”, he shrugs, “never thought you’d use me to write a novel and then completely ignore and forget about me.”
“Jungkook, lis-“
“Shut up”, Jungkook groans, “you’re pathetic. Now I understand why you treat everyone like shit. I thought that was an act, too. I see now that I was mistaken.”
“Would you please listen to me?”, Yoongi shouts, sitting up and completely forgetting about his nudity – his dirty soul was already exposed to the man in front of him.
“I’ve read enough”, Jungkook shrugs as he makes his way to the door, “I hope you had a good time and that you make a lot of money from this, Yoongi. Would hate to know that my dick up in your ass didn’t please the general public.”
And then Jungkook’s out the door, leaving Yoongi alone, confused and cold. He doesn’t run to the door to look for him. He doesn’t try to find his clothes, he lays down on his bed and thinks that tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll do something. But, what can he do? They’ll be back on land tomorrow morning, Namjoon will be waiting for him at the harbor. Jungkook probably won’t ever want to speak to him again.
And it’s fair. Because Yoongi did want to use him. Because Yoongi was seeking inspiration, and he did find. He found inspiration in Jungkook’s eyes and on the shape of his mouth, the sharpness of his jaw and the hidden meanings in his words. Yoongi had found inspiration in the feeling he got every time Jungkook was close to him because he made him forget about everything Yoongi knew, it was a start over, a breath of fresh air.
And Yoongi missed it, because he was too dumb to rip all the pages. To leave the notebook around, to Jungkook’s reach. Because he asked for a new drawing and Jungkook so kindly complied, once again, to his wishes.
Jungkook gave, gave and gave while all he could do as take.
Yoongi stays on bed, curled up and lonely, until the morning comes and he has to pack.
He doesn’t have a taste to save as a memory.
He doesn’t.
It’s late afternoon when the ship returns to town, stopping at the harbor to a small crowd of people waving excitedly at the crew and passengers. During the entire day, Yoongi stayed inside his cabin, collecting his belongings. At some point, a crew member knocked at his door asking if he’d like to have lunch in his chambers. Yoongi turned in down in favor of being alone with his dark thoughts. He didn’t look for Jungkook nor did the boy came back, knocking on his door and saying that everything was an act, too. That he was pretending, because they were artists and that what they did. No, Jungkook went away and left Yoongi behind, with nothing but a sour taste on his tongue.
A taste that wasn’t his.
So, when the time to leave rolls around, Yoongi does leave his cabin carrying his only bag, and doesn’t look back. He doesn’t look at the memories he made, at Daewhi standing in the line with the rest of the staff or at how his smile wavers at the sight of the writer – he’s probably still scared, and Yoongi could never blame him for feeling something. Not after last night. As he makes his way to the exist, going down a long ramp, Yoongi’s eyes look for dark hair, slightly tanned skin, dark sparkling wide eyes. He doesn’t find them.
He does see Taehyung, the saxophonist, but the look the boy throws him from the other side of the ramp is too acid and vicious to let Yoongi come near him. If looks could kill, Yoongi would be dead right then and there.
He does see Namjoon, happily waving at him, a white handkerchief on his hand, swinging left and right with his hand. Yoongi does his best to smile back and wave, but it takes too much of him. His mind is elsewhere, in someone else’s body and lips. On Jungkook’s lips, he corrects himself.
There isn’t much of the ramp now, he’s almost on the ground, the fear of the ocean under him forgotten for now – sorrow takes too much space in one’s soul, he deduces – when someone taps his shoulder.
It couldn’t be.
He doesn’t deserve it.
And yet, again, Jungkook gives .
Because Jungkook’s there, with a closed expression, frosted eyes and tight lips. But he’s there, standing before Yoongi, looking at him, with something between his trembling fingers. Yes, Yoongi can see how softly his hands tremble as he clears his throat and moves uncomfortably before the writer.
“You’re here”, Yoongi whispers and Jungkook swallows hard.
“I promised you something”, he says, “and I keep all of my promises.”
Yoongi takes one step closer, but Jungkook takes a step back, “please, Jungkook, I’d like to explain and formally apologize.”
Jungkook bites his lips as he dismisses the writer’s offer, “not now”, he says and offers what he’s holding. It’s a small package, brown paper folded laced with a white cloth strip. It’s simple, humble, and delicate – like everything Jungkook does, and Yoongi accepts it with both hands. “This is for you”, Jungkook says and leans closer, pecking Yoongi’s lips delicately before literally running away from him.
It’s so quick Yoongi barely manages to understand what’s happened.
Jungkook kissed him.
And it tasted like hope.
On his way back to his house, Namjoon eyes him curiously. “Did you find what you were looking for?”, he asks, curious, as Yoongi eyes the paper Jungkook handed him back at the harbor.
It’s a drawing. Of himself. Naked and peaceful, dark locks falling over his eyes, lips ajar. This is how he sees me, Yoongi thinks, and, at the bottom, the writer sees what looks like an address and a short message, scribbled in messy handwriting:
Write me a letter, write me a poem, about me. About us. And I might love you a second time.
Or, perhaps,
Forever.
Jungkook.
Smiling, Yoongi nods and says, “it found me, my friend. It found me.”