Chapter Text
Jungkook lights the candles carefully, kneeling on the hardwood floor. His apartment is normally a bit cluttered—ramen dishes by the sink, mugs with tea leaves still in the bottom (he swears he’ll get around to reading them eventually), a rain-soaked shirt drying on the back of a chair—but right now everything is pushed aside, furniture shoved against the walls. Towels are placed under the window to catch the warm rain of the 3am summer storm.
He’d chosen the University of Omelas not because it has a decent art program, but because the area is a magnet for storms. There are certainly other draws, like its picturesque solitude, tempting to any artist or witch. From his window he can see the lights of the bustling downtown below, the headlight of a train snaking from Omelas to the rest of civilization an hour or so away. The college town has its share of barely-passing-inspection pizza joints, 24/7 cafes with mediocre poetry nights, sketchy night clubs…
But this is the first storm.
It’s already been a long semester of projects and essays and lectures and paying rent, and every day without a storm has made the tension in him coil tighter, the shadows growing longer—
—But there’s a storm now, Jungkook quickly reminds himself before his anxiety can mount too high, forcing his breathing to settle. That’s what matters.
Jungkook rolls his neck as he flicks off the lighter, settling back into a comfortable cross-legged position. Thunder bowls through the college town, raking goosebumps down his bare skin (just like to sleep, Jungkook only wears boxers to do his rituals.)
Candlelight dances behind his eyelids as he closes his eyes, the warm light lapping at the shadows. Jungkook lets out a stuttering relieved breath as the darkness recedes. Shadows are a part of him, slipping through his veins—but Jungkook knows what shadows can do. That’s why he yanks them back, why he’s out of half his sage supply because he does so many rituals trying to keep the shadows at bay; the results have always been unsatisfying without a storm, but now Jungkook feels the mounting shadows melt away—
There’s a knock on the door.
Jungkook, already deep into his headspace, hears it as if through layers of cotton. The ebb of the candle’s light pulls him back under easily, the patter of summer rain soothing—
KNOCK KNOCK. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
Jungkook blinks his eyes open, seeing his room through a film of double-vision and fuzziness. Interrupting a meditation ritual is the biggest faux-pas in the witching world, but this college is full of humans who know nothing about the existence of magic.
The pounding of an apartment party down the hall shakes the floor, and distantly he wonders what exactly he was expecting.
Sighing, he stumbles to his feet. His hand smacks onto the wall for support when he almost trips. The knock comes again. Not bothering to check the peephole, he swings the door open with one hand rubbing his eyes. “Yeah?”
There’s silence, and Jungkook drops his hand from his face to run through his hair, blearily taking in the vague figure of a shorter person outside his door. Their features seem to swim, but Jungkook’s eyebrows immediately furrow as he catches the hot pink of booty shorts and the odd shape—is that a rice cooker?—tucked under their arm.
They’re still silent, and Jungkook brings his eyes back up to their face, blinking in an attempt to sharpen the image. The eyes make Jungkook jolt—chocolatey, wide; they capture the shitty hallway light and somehow transform it into moony, glinting stars. The world is blurry, but somehow those eyes are clear.
Jungkook blinks rapidly, feeling offbeat. “Can I… help you?”
/**
Jimin taps his foot as he waits outside the door of lucky apartment number 617, hoping someone’s inside. Warm light seeps under the door, and he swears he heard shuffling a moment ago.
He’d tried every apartment on his floor, but it’s a Friday night, and apparently everyone is either out partying or throwing drunken ragers like that apartment down the hall—they’re playing hype music loud enough to make the walls throb, and Jimin just wants to go back upstairs so he can chill with his five amazing boyfriends and their Mario Kart tournament. But, he’d been sent on a mission to find a kind neighbor with a bag of rice to spare (since Tae had forgotten to pick up some), and dammit, he wasn’t going back empty handed.
There’s shuffling, but it’s agonizingly slow, and Jimin feels a bolt of guilt at the realization that the occupant might’ve been sleeping. Nervously biting his lip, he taps his foot on the floor, the oversize Gucci slider slapping his heel—he’d thrown on the first pair he’d found by the door, which had apparently been Tae’s.
The handle finally turns, and Jimin puts on his cutest smile to hopefully make up for the disruption. As the door opens, so does Jimin’s mouth, but the words promptly die in his throat.
“Yeah?” The man grumbles, voice rough with sleep, but all Jimin can focus on is the note of angelicity in it, his overactive Love Witch mind imagining what he must sing like in the shower. He doesn’t have to imagine what the guy looks like in the shower, because he’s not wearing a shirt. Or pants. The rice cooker nearly drops as Jimin’s grip slackens.
“Can I… help you?”
Jimin blushes, banishing the mortifying image of water sluicing down those abs (like a washboard, literally like a washboard). He feels strangely sheepish as he brings his eyes up to those deep brown pools, having to glide across the collarbones and jawline and cheekbones first.
Jimin gulps, throat dry—what? Since when does he get nervous? “Um… Do you… Do you have any rice?”
Those doe eyes squint at him in confusion. In concern, Jimin notices that the boy is blinking a lot, like his eyes are having trouble focusing.
Jimin feels a rushing down his arms—his magic, running through his body like blood, drawn to his fingertips in the hopes of being used. It feels shimmery, and bathwater-warm, and pink (an extension of Jimin’s own aura that Taehyung likens to a fruity bathbomb). Dumbfounded at the strong magical reaction, Jimin fights not to let it show on his face.
Partially hidden by wavy black bangs, the boy’s eyebrows are furrowed. He seems to have trouble grabbing words from the air. “How much do you need?”
“Just—just enough to fill the rice pot. That’s why I… brought the pot.” Tongue in a knot, Jimin feels like screaming; this isn’t like his magic at all! Jimin is a Love Witch—he flirts and spreads affection as easily as air. His magic is obviously present—pulsing in his fingers like a heartbeat, blushing them pink—so why isn’t it coating his words, honeying his mouth?
The witch feels uncharacteristically helpless as his eyes follow the tan back of his neighbor walking deeper into the apartment. After a second of hesitation, Jimin follows. The boy reaches up into a cabinet and Jimin’s eyes magnetize on that ass, athletic and toned and—
His eyes shoot up as the college student turns back around, mouth snapping shut so quickly he bites his tongue as the man plops a bag of rice onto the table. “Did you just want the whole bag?”
“Juth enough to fill the rice cooker,” Jimin lisps, holding back a wince as his tongue throbs. He tries to do something with his hands, but just ends up stuffing them in his pockets, ears feeling hot. Suddenly, Jimin is hyperaware of how he must look: no makeup, hot pink booty shorts under Seokjin’s oversize sweater, the rice-cooker’s electrical cord dragging pathetically behind him. His orange-dyed hair still has a braid in it from Taehyung’s restless fingers.
Jimin startles as the man’s fingers brush his, gently prying the rice cooker from his hands, and Jimin feels a warm spark of his magic travel down to pool in his gut.
Okay, so Jimin is a Love Witch, but he swears he usually has more control than this.
As soon as his neighbor turns away, placing the rice cooker on the counter, Jimin lifts his fingers to his mouth, feeling the swollen bit of his tongue as he stares dumbstruck at the back of his neighbor’s head, that pile of messy curls. He feels the edge of the boy’s aura, painterly and dark blue, stubbornly refusing to unfurl like a scroll for Jimin’s eyes to scan and caress.
Jimin clears his throat, lowering his hand as he remembers how to speak. “Um, I’m Jimin—what’s your name?”
The man sniffs absently, shaking the rice bag over the pot, muscles in his chest and shoulders rippling. “Jungkook.”
Jimin vaguely registers the candlelight in the living room, and the whole scene suddenly feels hopelessly domestic, like he’s watching a gay home-making channel—or with any luck, his life ten years in the future.
The urge rises in him, slow like the first bubble in a boiling pot: the deep urge for Jungkook and his covenmates to meet.
Jungkook might be human, but he has a strong aura—though secretive, its color is deep and concentrated and pure (and beautiful), and, for some reason, it strips Jimin of his grace, making his magic as overexcited and clumsy as when he’d been coming into his powers. It’s like when he’d first met his covenmates, all those years ago—
Oh.
…Oh.
It feels like warm candlewax is dripping over Jimin’s heart as realization dawns. Recognizing the feeling from all those years ago, he stares at the back of Jungkook’s head in awe.
The witching community mostly views Love Witches as… promiscuous, to put it lightly, and Jimin even avoids going on PornCauldron because the tropes make his skin crawl. Yes, a Love Witch’s magic is primarily replenished and expressed through sex, but each witch only needs a certain number of partners in order to keep their magic supply healthy, and those partners are usually soul connections that the witch stays in a committed relationship with.
Jimin was lucky enough to find five of his soulmates at an early age, the Bangtan Coven forming early in junior high. But for every Love Witch the number of connections they need varies, and for Jimin the number is a stubborn six. It’s always been a bit of a cloud over the coven, the disappointment that they can’t give Jimin everything he needs, but they’re supportive, obviously encouraging their covenmate’s health. (There had been a time, around when Jimin’s powers were maturing, where Jimin had been in a bad place, feeling guilty and dirty and burdensome for his love magic, and tried actively denying himself the sixth energy in a frantic bid to stay ‘loyal’ to the coven. When the others saw what he was doing to himself, how his health was deteriorating… there were many tears, many cuddles, and a serious conversation about what health looks like for Love Witches. Jimin still can’t believe he’d gotten so lucky, with five amazing covenmates that are willing to understand and support and love him no matter what.)
And judging by his… specific attraction to Jungkook—
“You… need something else?”
Startled, Jimin’s eyes shoot up to his neighbor. The college student is staring straight back at him, holding the full rice cooker by his taut stomach and looking almost cute, black hair flopping into his glittering brown eyes.
“Um, no,” Jimin rushes, then mentally kicks himself. “I mean—um—what’s your major?”
Again, Jimin mentally kicks himself. Shitty freshmen icebreakers? Seriously? At a loss for what else to do with his hands, Jimin reluctantly takes the pot from Jungkook.
Jungkook blinks slowly. “Um… art?”
A wry smile takes the corner of Jimin’s lip, out of nerves or flirtation or both, even Jimin can’t tell. “You don’t sound so sure.”
Jungkook huffs a laugh, looking down at the table with a breathless smile, and Jimin almost drops the full rice cooker, a few grains tumbling to the ground. Indented crescents frame that smile, a smile that scrunches his eyes and reveals the most endearing overbite. “Ah, I’m sure. Just…”
“Tired?” Jimin offers.
It takes Jungkook a second, but he nods. “Tired.”
Regretting every step, Jimin makes his way to the door, wishing beyond the power of wishes that Jungkook was a witch, that he would understand if Jimin said hey, by the way—
“You?”
Jimin startles. “Huh?”
“Your major?” Jungkook’s voice is heavy with sleepiness, but Jimin still feels his heart dance funny in his chest.
“Oh! I’m a dance major.” They get to the door, and Jimin turns around to see the poor guy desperately trying to pay attention, blinking and looking like his eyelids are trying to seal themselves shut. “Uh—ballet, hip-hop mostly.”
Jungkook nods distractedly. Jimin looks down, realizing he’s not completely outside the door, and hesitantly steps out. He looks up at Jungkook, who’s gripping the edge of the door, rubbing his eyes. With a sharp bolt of longing, Jimin ignores his instincts and turns around, heart in his ears as he stares at the booze-stained wall, shoulders tensed up to his ears. Hesitantly, he looks over his shoulder. “Um—I’ll see you around?” See you around? What kind of lame—
“Yeah, see you around.” Is Jimin imagining that small note of tenderness—or is that tiredness—as the door shuts, air current brushing Jimin’s thighs. The witch blinks, staring at the gold numbers 617, fingers clutching the rice cooker to his stomach.
…What the hell just happened?
/**
Jungkook shuts the door, promising his aching body that he’s not getting up again until the ritual is over and his mind is clearer than witch hazel—which will be even harder to do than before, with the vision of those eyes dancing in his head.
His mind feels scrambled—time and place foggy and disjointed—and what are those… those swirls of shimmery, warm pink, streaking in his hazy mind like hesitant ribbons, just brushing the edge of his mind like they’re not sure they have permission?
Something nags at the corner of his subconscious as he settles back on the ground with a sigh. He feels peace get farther away the more it nags at him, and he quickly shuts it down, forcing his mind to stop picking at the scab. He rests his hands on his bare thighs, breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, not sure how long it will take until he’s fully back in his headspace. Jungkook mutters meditation phrases under his breath.
It’s not like he’ll ever see that person again, anyway—their sweet voice, the bright shock of orange hair. Or was his hair pink? Jungkook’s blurry brain can’t remember, and when he catches himself straining to remember he forces himself to let it go.
But that curl of warmth in his gut, whenever the boy’s voice had floated into his ears… it had pierced through the fog, along with those chocolate brown galaxies for eyes, and Jungkook—
Jungkook grits his teeth, one step away from ramming his head into the coffee table just for the pain to clear his mind. The night rain is still pattering in through the windows, and Jungkook focuses on it, and only that, like a lifeline.
He doesn’t want to think it, but they’re the last words floating in his head before the meditation takes over:
Jungkook hasn’t been able to make any friends his whole life; why would that change now?