the bloody gorge between us

by Blue267

Summary:

To tear away part of one's magic is a feat worst than death.

Jeon Jungkook will make it up to them - even if it ends up killing him.

(He didn't mean to hurt them.)

(And five years later, he still loves them.)

Notes:

Hello, so this was a reque$ted work! I really hope you enjoy it, hopefully, the angst is heavy enough. 30K of pure angst with no comfort, so make sure you read the tags carefully!

(To the person who requested this work, I hope you utterly adore it. Truly.)

Chapter 1

Magic. The lifeblood of present society. It is the pressing force for the future, the prevalent balance in the current world. It is the building blocks of society, both the destruction and the peace.   

 

The connection of magic to a being is that of the nature of the soul. It is the central part of a being, the distinguishing features and the beat of one's heart. To touch a part of one's magic is similar to that of touching one's soul. Without it, a being can survive. Though numb, almost soulless, it is a possibility. 

 

To take one's magic is condemning. A clean-cut, separation is liveable, though painful. 

To tear part of one’s magic away is a feat worst than death . 

 

 

Red. Red. Red.

 

Red. 

 

Deep, dark, sticky. Puddling in between his splayed fingers, oozing slowly out from underneath his pressed palms. Jungkook can’t breathe. Can’t see. Can’t hear anything except for the ragged sound of his own breathing in his ears - it’s like thunder, pounding at the sides of his skull in demonic screams, clawing at his stomach with sharpened claws.

 

Everything hurts. 

 

His vision is glossing over. Almost like routine, fading in and out every few moments. Focusing in on the red that is pooling underneath him, thickly coating his finger joints, running through the grooves in his skin. It’s… red. So, so, red. Red soaking into him, into his knees, his clothes. Pounding, pounding. He thinks his ribs are broken. He isn’t sure, and can’t pinpoint where the blistering pain starts and where Jungkook ends. It’s all there, all too much, tightening around his throat like a noose. It hurts.

 

Hurts.

 

Hurts as Jungkook draws in a ragged breath, tears dropping slowly from his cheeks. He doesn’t realize that he’s started crying, and doesn’t acknowledge it until slowly, slowly, water begins to join the puddle below. Dropping into the thick red, pressing indents with careful fingers. He sucks in another pained breath, a croaky whine bubbling behind his teeth. He thinks his jaw is shattered. His heart too, with the exploding pain in his chest. Like electricity bouncing off of his ribs.

 

Hurts. And no one is here.

 

His arms can’t hold him up for much longer, and neither can his drenched knees. He can’t hold his kneeled position, his pathetic curl on all fours as he struggles to breathe. The water is quickly diluting the blood underneath him, gushing down his cheeks in uncontrollable waves. It hurts, hurts as he tries to breathe in but his chest is hitching as his body sobs. Pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling.

 

Faintly, somewhere in Jungkook’s broken mind, the shatters pieces of his clinging consciousness, and he feels his elbows give out. Feels his lower arms splash into the red, sending tiny trails up his pale skin. His knees are following, legs numbed and aching. His body falls. It’s beautifully, really, the limp curve that his body takes as it carves through the air. The sting of pain as his hip hits the ground is welcomed, lesser than the pain in his skull.

 

Red. Soaking into him, drenching him. Jungkook can feel it clinging to his hair with greedy hands, clumping the already sweaty mess together. It cradles at his stomach, pools there to hold him like a babe, and slides in between his legs to coat the entirety of his body in the ugly puddle.

 

To be honest, Jungkook isn’t sure whether or not it’s his own.

 

He remembers heat in between his teeth, over his tongue as his body had retched - blood dripping down like his now falling tears, but surely, surely - he can’t have been the only one to produce the lake that is still expanding around him. 

It’s splintering. 

Jungkook’s joints, his mind as his chest rises in a squeaky breathing motion. It sounds hollow, broken. He tries to force his body to focus, tries to blink through the tears, but there’s… nothing. His body isn’t listening to him.

 

Jungkook closes his eyes. The red is gone here, shrouded by only black. Only nothing. Here, trapped in his own body, he can feel the brush of breeze over his shoulders. Cool, cold air - freezing, actually - licking through his wounds like salt. 

 

They’re still…. they’re still… here. They haven’t moved. Nobody has collected him in their arms or carried him away from the scene of the crime.

 

Somewhere, when he pushes the pain down a bit, swallows around the blade in his throat, Jungkook wonders. Wonders if they won. Wonders how the events managed to slip past their visions, managed to jump them in such a terrifying way. Acid down his spine, past, forgotten screams that had echoed from his mouth. A dull throb in his forehead.

 

They must have. It’s all hazy, the events, everything that came after once Jungkook had sealed his hands together. Once his forehead had creased, teeth gritting as the symbols down his spine tugged into his flesh with their spiking veins - everything had faded away. 

Distant cries, pleads but they’re so far. So, so far away. He can’t find them behind his closed eyelids. Can’t find anyone except the throb of his own broken body, the slow cold as the blood dries around him.

 

Jungkook breathes through it. Slow, painfully. His skin is too tight. His spine is surely broken - his lower body is growing number by the second. He forces his eyes open, searing them in the dulling light - but he has to see. Rakes through the red around him, to where his hands lie limp, curled into one another. To the black that is curling over his palms in ugly jagged veins. They hurt him.

 

He closes his eyes. Draws back into that cold, quiet place and listens to his own breathing. Shaky, uncertain. The slow drip as his tears pass over his nose, drip down the side of his eye.

 

And then it’s not just his breathing anymore. It’s not just a faded echo, no, the real world is hitting him like an arrow-striking bullseye. It burns into his head, smashes through his skull with such a force it has him gasping wetly, body curling painfully.

 

Because of the wails.

 

They’re sirens. Loud and demanding, bouncing off of every broken wall, seizing his brain with clawed hands to squeeze, to puncture. He knows that cry. There’s only one it could come from, one who holds hands with death, with the others, a wail so heartbreakingly inhuman that it’s agony.

 

Jungkook can feel the warmth bubbling in his ears. Doesn’t flinch as the blood starts to trickle down his face, drip off of his chin as his eardrum ruptures. It doesn’t stop, doesn’t take pity on him. The wails, the screams continue.

Gorgeously haunting.

 

He hopes, in some part of him, maybe in between his broken ribs - that it’s a calling for him. 

 

 

----

 

 

It’s raining. 

 

Again. 

 

Jungkook sighs lightly, tipping the black umbrella back just a little so he can stare up at the grey sky. It’s only been grey recently. Well, recently is an understatement - unless the word is willing to describe the last bloody five years. Grey when he wakes, grey when he sleeps, grey blocking the sun, and grey masking the stars. 

 

Maybe he’s grey. 

Each day is the same.

They’ve all been since… well. Maybe time had frozen. Or maybe it’s just Jungkook. Locked away in that precious moment of time, the sensation still brimming over his skin, tearing at his hair. It’s been grey. Grey inside and outside. Grey in his organs. Grey in his mind. Cold, cold, raining. 

Why won’t the rain stop?

 

The rain started that day and hasn’t eased since. 

He sighs again. It’s heavy, tugging at the underside of his lungs, and for once, Jungkook wants to… well. That’s a lie. It’s not just once. He has this thought maybe once every hour - the longing to crawl into a warm bed alone somewhere, where he’s truly alone, and just… be. 

 

Be somewhere without the rain, without the weight. 

 

Things would have probably been a lot different if he had just… left. If Jungkook had just let go, accepted his faults, and broken his own heart by tearing himself away. He’s probably hurting them more by allowing them to see his face every single day - it must be so scarring to see the face of the person who forcibly ripped part of your soul, your very being away. Empty, broken. 

 

And yet he just… couldn’t. 

 

Sigh. 

There’s a sound. It’s not very loud, not very familiar, but Jungkook’s eyes are turning anyway - turning toward the large building that sits to his right. Concrete after concrete, blank windows and a looming structure - not a place you would find him on his day off. Which is not today, not in the slightest. No, he’s here working, trapped in the endless, endless cycle of bad days. 

 

(Let’s be honest, his days off are also bad days, but denial is just a river in Egypt.) 

Why is he out here in the rain again?

Oh, yes. They don’t trust him. 

 

They don't trust him to not stab them in the back whilst they’re trying to concentrate on their job.

It’s not surprising. Jungkook bites back yet another sigh and rolls his neck slowly in a circle, cracking the stiffest parts of his upper back, his shoulder blades. 

 

Out in the rain again. Like a dog. A stray dog, tied up to his kennel, chain around his throat. Waiting patiently, lovingly to be called inside, to maybe be fed a few scraps. It’s pathetic, really,  just how much Jungkook still loves them despite everything. How he waits at that door every day, patiently, forever waiting, waiting for them to maybe, maybe love him back. Even just a slither of what they used to feel for him. 

 

After all, where else does Jungkook have to go? He doesn't have anyone else. He’s never loved anyone else, never had the runes over his skin prickle in another’s presence, the hot, comforting pleasure that he’s felt at their hands. Their magic is a comfort to him, the balmy presences that settle over his own magic like a blanket. Grounding, a constant reassurance. 

 

How is he supposed to let that go?

 

He can’t. He can’t. 

 

He loves them. 

Memories now. Lost little pieces of the past, trapped behind fragments of broken trust. Behind unexplained words, tarnished fingernails. It’s his fault. 

 

Jungkook just wants to go home. 

Where is home again?

“Jungkook-ssi.” 

His head turns, neck clicking as he glances toward the slithered doorway. It was closed just before, a big, wooden door, one clearly not just made for humans to walk through. Machinery, maybe? Something to be wheeled through. He’s getting distracted, stop it. It doesn’t matter. 

But regardless, one of those doors is now opened a slither, just a slither, and blonde hair is poking out through the gap. 

 

Jungkook swallows. His hands tighten around the black handle of his umbrella. The rain patters above him, obscuring his vision a little as it drips down the sides. It feels like a movie scene - him standing there, shoulders hunched, the rain leaking into his boots as his breath collects in the air in front of him. Yet it’s not, because if this were a movie, it would have a happy ending. 

 

The door. 

Jimin. 

The banshee stares at him blankly. Eyes dark, a little sunken, cleared of emotion. It’s the way they all look at him now. Guarded, careful. He wouldn’t be here if they didn’t somewhat need him. There’s nothing there for him anymore, nothing but the darkness of protected pupils. Jungkook can’t say he blames them. They probably feel the pain from… from that fateful day daily. Jungkook just doesn’t know it. He hasn’t been told anything, nothing personal. 

 

Nothing he could use against them.

“You can come in.” Jimin’s voice is as dull as always. Dull like he’s being forced to speak to his worst enemy, coerced by his parents to play nice. Jungkook swallows. His eyes drift up to the black of his umbrella, the grey of the skies. It won’t be raining indoors, at least. 

He dips his head quietly and Jimin turns his back, retreating back into the building. Jungkook waits until he can’t hear the clip of Chelsea boots anymore before he slips into the cracked doorway, turning slightly to put down his umbrella. It drips over his shoes as he steps inside, pushes the door closed with a cautious palm, places the wet umbrella to the side. 

It’s unbelievably large. Intimidatingly so. 

 

The building is dark. It’s dark and it smells musty, but it’s clean. It’s been cleaned recently at that, so it must still be in use. Jungkook doesn’t get much information about these cases, see, he isn’t told like the rest of them. No, he’s just told to loiter behind, to remain on scene in case they need him. Replaceable, a burden. A simple knock on the door is all he needs to slide into the dark car, prepare himself mentally for the day to come. 

 

It’s okay though. 

He treds down the corridor quietly, footsteps ringing dully over the concrete flooring. There’s an elevator at the end of the corridor. It’s large, dinging loudly as it approaches to his floor, slides open to reveal another grey interior. 

 

Slipping his hands into his pockets with a sigh, Jungkook fights the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he scans the nearby wall - catching sight of a caution panel. The max weight is high, Jungkook observes, as he reads the metal instructional sheet that sits there in all its blaring colours. Definitely construction, machinery of some sort. A storage facility maybe?

 

 

He can taste, feel their magic on his tongue as the elevator dings again, approaching a floor near the top of the building. It’s easy to track them as he walks slowly, eyes scanning over the walls. Follow, follow their trail. His faint sense of their magical inputs, the slight exhale that tastes…. Magical. It’s hard to describe, almost like a bloodhound to a scent. 

 

It’s all part of his magic, really. Jungkook can sense the magical outputs of beings - and each being that contains magic leaves behind a… a trail when they walk. Something a little different, something that Jungkook’s own magic can pick up on. Like a fingerprint. Each trail is different, unique to each creature. By each creature, Jungkook means all. From those born with a simple “elemental” use of magic, to those like him - with compression, expansion, manipulation, etc. Those whose magic is used to harness others. And then the many magical creatures of society. They’re all different, all leaving little sugar trails. 

His Hyungs trail leads Jungkook right to another doorway. This one is completely open and he pauses just before the pool of light, taking a deep breath in. he’s still nervous. Still nervous after all this time. 

 

Once again. Play the part. Be good. Put on the mask and don’t upset anyone. 

They’re here on a job. It isn’t just about them, about their… issues, not, it’s about what they’re contracted to do. 

He steps out into the light. 

The room is large, Jungkook notes with a harsh chew on his bottom lip, much larger than expected. He’s not entirely sure the structure of the building is supposed to support a room of this size, especially if it was once used to store stock in, but he’s not here to judge the architecture. 

 

No, he’s here to turn his eye to the people in the middle of the room. 

Six of them are painfully familiar - he could recognize them in his sleep, has in fact, but it’s the other people in the room that interest him. The three that are kneeling on the floor, panting and exhausted, with heavy-duty metal cuffs on their wrists. Molded, made for their wicked kind. There’s blood on their faces, the slight crook of one of their noses - and it draws a tiny smirk to the edge of Jungkook’s mouth. It looks like they messed around and found it, probably by Jimin’s fist. A wicked right hook, he has. 

That is who they are here for. Who their contract stands to fight - the out of control. The rogue in their magical society, the ones who aren’t here to live peacefully and play house. 

 

How they got into this contract is another mess entirely, and not one Jungkook is fond of remembering, but it stands nonetheless. Held to their throats by the government. They are a good team, a strong one at that, but… if the others had it their way, he wouldn’t be a member of it. 

 

Jungkook doesn’t deserve to be on the team. But that’s okay. He can deal with that. Shove it down somewhere deep inside him and swallow it until he’s alone, late at night, with the runes on his ribs stinging. It’s his burden to carry. 

He steps into the room, grimacing as his footsteps echo off of the walls. They don’t look at him regardless, not that Jungkook is surprised as he approaches slowly, hands tucked into his pockets. 

The people on the floor do look at him, but it is through hatred glazed eyes, gritting their teeth, and shuffling on their knees. The prisoners seem to know who they are. It’s not shocking. They’re well-known as being the government’s watchdogs, a well-known threat to be avoided at all costs. Anyone smart knows that if Bangtan is set on your tail, running isn’t going to get you anyway. 

But why was Jungkook called in here? It’s clear they have things under control, more so than it might appear. He can feel the thick seal Seokjin has blanketed over the room, the faint thrum of the warlocks' magic a familiar sensation as it runs over his skin. He can feel the runes on his back sparking happily. 

 

(Jungkook wishes that it would run over him directly, just once more. Like those cold nights when he would be snuggled to Seokjin’s chest, giggling as the warlock had produced tiny, dancing figures from his palms. To taste their magic in such an intimate, intimate way, to let it run through his own magic…. A delightful memory, one he cradles to his chest with delicacy.)

“There’s only three.”

 

Three? Three of what? Hmmm. Oh well. Does it really matter? They probably won’t tell him anyway. Words are meaningless because he’ll never know the meaning behind them. They never explain. Never let him explain. 

 

“Jungkook-ssi.” 

What? Are.. are they addressing him? Jungkook blinks, a little shocked, turning instantly toward the addressing direction. Jung Hoseok is staring at him with those same, emotionless eyes. They’ve perfected them, they all have. 

 

Nothing is there. 

“Huh?” He murmurs, and it sounds so dumb that it even makes himself cringe. He bites firmly on his bottom lip, shoulders shuddering in on themselves as Hoseok gives him an unamused expression. Damn, that was not the right answer, clearly. 

“Did you not read the file?”

I wasn’t given it, but okay. 

“There’s supposed to be five, Jungkook-ssi. Why are there only three?” 

“Aish, what’s the point,” Kim Taehyung snarls, voice still slightly deeper and with a harsh croak from his recent sickness (winter doesn’t go well with him, something Jungkook used to know all too well), “Why don’t we just turn these three in and pass it onto the next team? We’ve raided the place, taken the people who are here. That’s all the contract states.” 

“Taehyung-ah, calm.” Another voice chides softly and Jungkook looks away, firmly locking his eyes onto a wall. He doesn’t need to see the warlock, his warlock comforting someone with soft, tender hands, probably cuddling Taehyung close as the electricity user shakes with rage, “The contract states five. And that is what we shall leave with.” 

“We’ve searched the entire building,” Hoseok is addressing him again, voice bland and tight, “They’re not out in the open. Pathetic of them to hide from us, but well. Who can blame them?”

Who can blame them indeed. Jungkook knows as well as anyone else does. Heck, he was part of them for quite a while - and whilst he’s felt the tender hand of the coven, the one that hushes him to sleep with soft kisses and strokes his back whilst he was sick and crying - it’s impossible to deny that the reputation of the Kim coven vastly underestimates them. 

It makes them out to be ghouls, demons, and bloodhounds that hunt to the hells of the earth, protect those dear to them with unfelt loyalty - and in reality, they are not demons, but the devil himself . 

 

Infamous, feared, an iron hand that was once known to be peacefully ruling, containing of order. 

Except now it’s less peaceful. It’s more bloody, more of thin tempers, and angry scars. 

They’re scarier now than ever, more feared - and this time, Jungkook is on the other side. He’s no longer sheltered behind their cloaks, shown their tender palms, and kissed on the nose. No, he faces the same cold and unrelenting that the rest of society does. 

Something dark has twisted into the Kim coven. 

 

And Jungkook can only watch it from the sidelines, unable to bring light to those he loves the most.

 

But it’s alright. 

 

It has to be.

“Do you… want me to find them?” Jungkook asks quietly and tries not to flinch at the snort that echoes from someone. Maybe, maybe they’re giving him a chance to prove himself! Could this be the day-

“Of course not,” Hoseok snaps, eyes flashing, “Stay here and watch these prisoners whilst we go and find the rest. You do not move, understand? If they move an inch, I’ll scorch your hair off.” 

 

Ah yes, the normal threat of being burnt alive - the Phoneix’s specialty. 

 

“Yes.” Jungkook murmurs, bowing his head, eyes locking onto the kneeling prisoners. Someone is snorting again, murmuring something probably mocking - it’s something Jungkook ignores, knowing that they don’t mean it, that it’s simply a consequence of his own restraint. 

 

(It stings a little nonetheless.)  

“Don’t. Fuck this up.” Jimin hisses as he brushes past, blonde hair bobbing and sleek. Jungkook nods quietly, letting the voice wash over him, nurse at his tender heart as the sound of the door slamming sounds from behind him. They’re gone and the room is quiet. He can feel Seokjin’s shield weakening a little, fading as the warlock focuses his energy onto the people he actually cares for. 

 

Maybe Jungkook should be honoured. It means that they know he can handle himself. But it’s… it’s not out of trust. It’s not out of love, either. Something maybe more similar to spite. Jungkook wonders, wonders right down where his chest aches, if he were ever to get hurt .. Would they care? Would they touch him with tender hands or would they just… ignore him. Pretend that they don’t see it, pretend that nothing had happened. 

 

Maybe if he got hurt, they would speak to him again. Five years and four of them haven’t spoken a squeak to him since that day. 

 

It’s not surprising. Hoseok and Jimin are the only ones who really talk to him if at all. Maybe the other will say his name occasionally, tarnished by the presence of “ssi”, but… it’s just silence. The silent treatment for five, long years. 

But it’s okay. 

 

Jungkook won’t fuck this up. 

 

Not again. 

 

 

He sighs, sneaking a glance back toward the closed door. It doesn’t open, not even a slither, and Jungkook bites back his sigh. He should be used to this, he truly should. But every day he wakes up - he’s back at square one. Back in the moment before that suffocating heaviness settles on his lungs, back in the moment where he could breathe. 

 

And then he wakes up. 

And he remembers. It is hard not to when he sees the awful, white scars that run down the length of his arms. They carve upward in long, straight lines. A reminder of that day. The day he lost them. It’s hard when every time he uses his magic, slams his runes together, he feels the same way he did that day - the familiar whirr as his magic starts, the gripping sensation as it slowly nullifies the intended magic. Now, it’s just a bad memory, using his magic is just….. A past reminder. 

 

It’s okay.

He sneezes softly, allowing his knees to curl as he drops himself onto the floor, sitting neatly crosslegged. The door behind him remains silent and closed, and he can’t help the way his stomach drops. The sharp, steep dive that it does once he’s once again reminded that they aren’t coming back. Jungkook is truly, truly alone here. 

“Hyung? I thought you were-”

“Shh,” Yoongi whispers, his voice low and eyes sparkling, “I couldn’t leave you here alone, could I? Not my precious boy.” 

Jungkook bites back a giggle, sneaking a look towards the cracked door. Nobody seems to notice Yoongi’s absence, so he’s more than happy to curl into his Hyung’s arms, shiver in delight as a kiss is pressed to the round of his cheek. 

“Did they really just leave you here?” Someone says, low and mocking, “Three to one ratio? What if we were just to break out, snap your neck?” 

 

Wonderful. The only people who seem to want to make conversation with him are the traitors to society. 

 

What does that say about himself?

“They wouldn’t care.” Jungkook says automatically, voice dull as he allows his eyes to flick up to the kneeling figures, “They wouldn’t beat a single eye. But you’re not going to move, because that’s my job.” 

 

The man blinks at him, stunned silent. Maybe there’s pity there, hidden amongst the bruises, but Jungkook chooses to silently ignore it, return to his habit of picking at his fingernails. He doesn’t need pity from people like that. Doesn’t need pity in general. Pitying himself would be selfish, shameful. 

 

After all, it is he who put himself in this situation. 

The prisoners have returned to whispering amongst themselves, but it doesn’t help much that their voices are echoing off the grey concrete around them, practically making Jungkook part of their conversation. He sighs deeply, tugging one of his sleeves up softly and rubbing his fingers over the scarred skin. It’s tight today - his body, his mind. Stretching to the limit, tight and overworking, his sides cramping. 

 

He blinks sluggishly as those familiar black runes glide down from where they were sitting, flowing like water to sit underneath his fingers. They sit on his palm like a brand, a shield, directing his flowing magic to that spot. 

 

Their position depends on Jungkook’s use of his magic. A simple compression, something small and containing can be formed simply from one of his hands. It gives equal opportunity for any of his limbs to be able to harness the ability - meaning if his hands are bound, restricted, he could still boot stomp a compression out. They normally sit happily on his spine, on the powerhouse of his magic, the most powerful, ready position, but they seem to be trying to comfort him today. 

 

They really do, as they start to dance around his stilled fingers, Jungkook biting back the smile that threatens to curve at his lips. 

 

Fluid like water, the runes are the cores of his magic. Without them, it’s useless. It’s his direct connection to his veins, the gateway through his skin. 

 

Magic needs to get in after all, in order for him to nullify it. 

 

Jungkook closes his eyes, and breaths out deeply. Like this, he can allow his own magic to expand - to map out the place, pinpoint where each trail starts, the nearby magical users. Namjoon seems to be the closest to him, his warm druid magic spiraling down Jungkook’s spine as he-

That familiar fire tingles at the edge of his mind. Like a flashing signal, and without even looking up, Jungkook twists his fingers firmly. One of the prisoners, the one who had been attempting to build his magic up, gargles out harshly. It’s a harsh, loud sound, one that makes Jungkook retract back into himself, but he finishes the movement, fingers curling back to his palm. 

And there it is. 

 

Floating in mid-air, hidden to all eyes but his own. 

 

The magic. 

It’s something Jungkook has given up on trying to explain. Not even his Hyungs seemed to understand when they quizzed him on it so long ago, tucked in their bed. It’s something so unique, seen only by his eyes, that he’s sure magic users of his same volition wouldn’t be able to understand. 

It’s like a faint cloud. Something colourful, faintly sparkling - but almost transparent, floating through the air just as mist would. Jungkook watches it silently as it snakes to his fingers - the cloud touches his skin, disappearing into the depth of nude. 

 

It’s how it works. 

 

It’s why it’s so tiring. Because Jungkook can compress magic, yes, but it is his own body that absorbs the magic, compresses it inside his bloodstream. It is his organs that purify it, break it down to nothing. Meaning that at most times, his body is thrumming with foreign magic, particles of it diluting his bloodstream. 

 

It’s why it’s so risky. Too much of it, too much foreign body, and Jungkook, everything inside himself, starts to struggle. It’s like drowning inside his own body, organs turning to lead, systems shutting down. He can essentially kill himself from the inside. 

“Jungkook-ah, stop!” Seokjin snaps, fingers harshly grabbing at his wrist, twisting his body away. Jungkook gasps, eyes glossy, hand falling limp from where it’s held tightly in his Hyung’s hand. 

“Stop.” Seokjin repeats, his spare hand coming up to caress Jungkook’s cheek, bully a bit of blood back into his pale lips, “Don’t overdo it. I can tell you’re tired. No more. We can deal with them.”

 

“Hyung-” 

 

“No.” Seokjin kisses the corner of his mouth softly, cards through the hair at the nape of his neck, “Let Hyung take over, baby. You’ve done so well. Just rest for now, okay? I don’t want you to overwork yourself, your precious body. Okay?” 

 

“Okay.” 

Jungkook hasn’t been able to rest in a while. It’s so much harder when he isn’t given a boundary. Always ready to overwork himself at the smallest opportunity, he would grind himself into the ground if he had to. Anything for them. Anything for them. 

He tears his eyes away from the paled prisoner, back onto the concrete wall. They've all fallen silent, bad at hiding their horror - bad at hiding their whispers, the terrified squeak of “My- my magic, he- it’s so weak now-”.

 

Good. If they’re scared of him, they’re more likely to behave. Jungkook doesn’t need any more problems today, he doesn’t need anything going wrong. 

He’s almost ready to fall asleep, really. They don’t seem like much of a threat, especially not when they’re bound by magic restrictive cuffs. Not restrictive enough, apparently. But none of his senses are tingling anymore, not a single ounce of indication that any of the men in front of him are any more than the average magic user found on the streets of society. 

 

Of course Jungkook gets the boring jobs. However, he will still do it perfectly. So, with a heavy sigh, he fastens his eyes back onto the kneeling men and waits. 

 

Waits. 

Listens to the sound of his breathing echoing back to him, the slight clink of metal that eventually gets absorbed by the thick walls. It’s just…. Him. Just Jungkook. Just himself and the throb of his own magic as his runes relocate onto the center of his back, run down his spine in a pattern.  

 

Quiet. Quiet. 

 

He wants to go home. He wants to sleep. 

Jungkook is five years tired. 

Abruptly, a shriek cuts through the air. It’s sharp, startling, and has Jungkook almost falling backward in shock, his heart instantly in his throat. He spins toward the closed door, eyes wide as dinner plates, heart pounding rapidly in his chest. Pressure, pressure, pressure. 

 

Who just broke the silence? Is someone in trouble? Just the thought has him gritting his teeth, instantly pushing up from the floor. That feeling is there, bubbling rapidly inside him - the indescribable feeling to protect, protect those that once were his. He can’t abandon them, no matter how loudly his victim brain screams. 

It has him rushing toward the door, tugging it open without a second thought. Jungkook doesn’t even glance back at the three men kneeling behind him, doesn’t test the air for the sense of their levels, no, he just runs out into the corridor, head whipping wildly side to side. His heart is going, rising higher and higher in his throat as he settles on a certain direction, rushes that way with his footsteps ringing out loud. 

What if they’re in danger? What if Jungkook is too late? What if he gets there and he has to witness one of them on the floor and they’re, they’re- no. No, no that won’t happen! 

 

The balls of his feet are sore, pounding as he runs down the corridor, heartbeat pounding behind his eyeballs. He spins around a corner, breathes out a panting wheeze and it’s- it’s so, so close. The taste of foreign magic. Jungkook speeds forward, mouth dry.

His head is… prickling. Prickling, prickling and… and all his hair is standing on end. He can feel it, feel electricity ghosting through each strand. Crackling in tense air, static, and Jungkook freezes, raises a hand slowly to ghost over the spiky strands. Electricity. That must mean-

“ Fuck!” 

Jungkook jumps out of his skin, hands flying to his chest as he takes an uncertain step back. There’s an opening, leading to a room right in front of him - and he sees someone fly back, hit the floor heavily with a grunt, and roll. 

 

That must’ve hurt. 

Kim Taehyung lets out a pained gasp, rolling onto his stomach to raise himself slightly on his elbows. He spits out a glob of red and Jungkook feels his stomach tighten. There’s a bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck and the inside of his cheek is instantly stuck in between his teeth. Harsh enough to taste iron. He watches Taehyung push himself up onto his knees, panting, purple electricity crackling down the length of his arms, up over his shoulders. 

He’s in trouble. No, he’s not, Taehyung can handle himself. 

 

But he’s bleeding.

Jungkook begins to take a step forward - it’s slow, unsteady, his mind thick with uncertainty. Would his help only aid to make things worse? Is Taehyung going to get angry at him again? He can feel his jaw tensing as his brain ticks furiously. He takes another slow step, breathing out shakily. 

He doesn’t get to make that decision, someone seems to make it for him, because something explodes. It smells so strongly of stone, of dirt, dust blooming up into the air like an angry cloud. 

Jungkook gasps, head shooting up, eyes scanning, and the floor is split just ahead of him. An ugly, jagged split down the floor, stone pushed upward in horrid spikes, crumbling sections. As the dust clears, and as Jungkook’s eyes scan desperately, mind screaming out in worry, he can see Taehyung pushing himself back up onto his knees. But now, there’s a red stripe dripping down his forehead, purple flashing in his eyes. 

 

Fuck. 

Stone is split and- and there’s something filling the air that isn’t dust. The voice that speaks is foreign, thick with dialect and has Jungkook’s skin prickling protectively as he grits his teeth. 

“Electricity can’t beat stone, little one. I wonder why they left you alone?” 

“I can handle myself!” Taehyung barks, but Jungkook can see how his left knee buckles a little as he stands, how he sways unsteadily and blinks his eyes rapidly. Jungkook could tell even if he were asleep - he is not fine. It’s easy to tell when one of his lovers is shaken, thrown off of their normal fighting ability. Taehyung probably has a concussion at the very least. 

Jungkook has to help. He just.. He just has to. Has to despite the consequences, despite the harsh words that might fall afterward. 

 

For old times sake. For his own aching heart, the years he’s spent crying. 

 

He takes a determined step forward, tugging his sleeves up. 

 

A deep breath fills his lungs. 

His skin moves. It’s a familiar feeling, the ripple of his magic as the runes, from where they were seated peacefully on one of his lower arms (shifted along his skin without knowledge, most likely in preparation), start to move. The sequence splits - half of the runes disappearing under the sleeve of his shirt to flow down his other arm, circling his wrist securely. Jungkook takes another deep breath, flexes his fingers and feels the familiar burn as the runes settle in place, sear into his skin and connecting with his nervous system. 

 

It’s go time. The thrum that tingles his skin is painfully familiar. 

He steps out into the room, eyes set. 

The stranger lets out a surprised noise, eyebrows raising as Jungkook finally locks eyes with him. He’s a man, obviously, similar looking to the others - ill-kept with black hair, clothes that are tearing at the seams. His eyes narrow, clearly scanning down Jungkook’s body, looking for indications. 

 

Jungkook’s priority is getting to Taehyung. Now. Hopefully, his presence has shocked this stranger enough that he has enough time to clamber over the gorge, get to his Hyungs side. 

He moves. His boots can’t find a good grip on the split floor, rock tumbling and moving beneath his feet, but he manages to move nonetheless, eventually ending on the other side of the split with only one of his ankles twisted. The stranger is talking, saying something in a loud, obviously mocking tone, but Jungkook doesn’t bother to listen. Instead, he’s kneeling down by Taehyung’s side, hand raising to lay on the man’s shoulder gently. 

It freezes maybe a centimetre above the man’s shoulder. 

 

Fuck. 

 

Things aren’t that way anymore. 

He keeps forgetting that. He can’t be so careless and try to comfort them anymore. He has to control his bloody automatic response to soothe. It never gets easier. 

“Jungkook-ssi.” Taehyung spits, and it’s clearly angry, the glare that he’s sending toward Jungkook’s way a painful one. It’s clear, accusing. Why did you leave your post? Why the fuck are you here? 

“You’re hurt.” Is all Jungkook murmurs in response, mouth tightening as Taehyung snorts, spits another mouthful of blood, and rises to his feet. He doesn’t grace Jungkook with a verbal response, not even a confirmation that he’s okay. 

 

But it’s clear. Jungkook is being told that Taehyung can handle himself. 

 

He’s sure that’s true but the man is bleeding. He’s hurt even if he doesn’t want to admit it. Even if he hates Jungkook, he can clearly see just how stiffly the man is holding himself, how much weight he’s avoiding putting on his now injured leg.  

Hot. There. 

Jungkook’s hands close into fists and he’s slamming his wrists together firmly. The pulse he feels through his bones is something familiar, the blooming of his magic as the soon-to-be-prisoners’ attack freezes in its tracks, the heavy chunk of stone hanging in the air for just a moment before crashing to the floor. Jungkook swallows thickly, runes rolling around his wrists in a fast pattern, glowing a little as the puff of magic joins to the scars of his knuckles. 

 

Fuck. 

 

That hurts. 

 

Dammit, he should’ve known. 

Jungkook’s head whips to one side violently, vision flashing black as he stumbles a little. His mind is echoing something to him, something distant and agonized, but he just can’t catch it. Fuck, just how much force did that man put into that attack? That feels like intent to kill. 

“What the fuck?” Someone is saying but Jungkook can’t hear them, no, can only hear the following shrill screams and crackle of electricity a moment later. Taehyung turning him to fried chicken. But his hearing fades out again, a high-pitched screech vibrating in his ear canal. 

 

Fuck. 

It’s burning hot, crisping at his arms and it has Jungkook clutching at his skin with a pained gasp, eyes clenched shut, teeth gritting so hard he’s sure some of them snap. And then, just as quick as it hit - the pain disappears. It leaves an empty hollow, something that has Jungkook gasping silently, eyes wiping open. He’s left claw marks on his wrist, red amidst the white, and the sweat is clinging to his shirt, drenching his back. He watches from tired, pained eyes as the runes slip up past the sleeves of his shirt, disappearing to hide from the world. 

 

They’re… afraid? Is his own magic trying to… restrict him?

Fuck. 

He can feel something warm sliding over his lip. He raises a shaking hand and one careful wipe later, his fingers come back as red. Dammit. Jungkook gently prods at his nose, grimacing as he feels the blood continue. Fucking hell, a nosebleed? Now? His body is always looking out for his convenience, clearly. 

He lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe the blood away, head still a little hazy, chest still tight.

“Why the fuck are you out here, Jungkook!” It’s hissed, angry, and Jungkook turns blindly, blinking rapidly, to face the furious face of Park Jimin. 

 

“Did we not tell you to not leave your fucking spot?!” He spits, and it’s curt and horrid and Jungkook finds himself swallowing thickly, head dipping a little in shame. Yet just over Jimin’s shoulder - he can see Yoongi by Taehyung’s side, hand on the side of his neck, seemingly talking to him in a low tone. Hopefully, the electricity user hasn’t garnered any broken bones from his encounter. Each day, each mission just seems to be growing more and more dangerous.

Jimin is cursing. He doesn’t waste another moment looking at Jungkook and instead turns to storm away, in the direction that Jungkook presumes one of the other Hyungs has already stormed. Back toward those three prisoners. The weight of guilt is heavy, choking at his throat as Jungkook’s glossy eyes drop to the floor. He didn’t want to leave his station but he heard Taehyung and he was hurt and- he couldn’t just do nothing and now he can feel a headache coming on, loud and pounding and-

 

It hurts. 

Hurts just under his ribs, curls at the base of his spine as he slowly slumps to the floor, sits crosslegged neatly. Eyes emotionless, mouth tight, hands clenched together. 

 

He fucked up again. After they trusted him with a job, and he fucked up. 

Maybe that’s all Jungkook will ever be. A fuck up, a burden. He certainly feels like one when he can hear the echoing voice of Hoseok cursing his name, sharp spits of how the phoenix is literally going to grill him. 

Maybe that’s all Jungkook is meant to be. 

----

It’s cold in the apartment. The kind of cold that sinks to the deepest part of your bones, freezes up in your joints. Jungkook shivers as he carefully closes the door behind himself, arms instantly coming up to wrap around his abdomen. It’s not home. It’s not the place he longs to be. 

 

He just eats, sleeps, …. exists here. 

 

It’s not flourishing. It’s not living either. It’s just… here.

 

And it always seems to be cold, no matter how much he pays for the heat. 

He sighs. Slides off his shoes quietly and hangs his coat up on the lone hook next to the door. It’s the same every day. The same routine. The same motions. He walks down the hallway, out into the small living area, and slowly sinks down onto the couch. 

His eyes instantly find the door. 

It’s easy to spot - white and painted with tiny flowers, a small forest of its own. Flowers painted by Jungkook’s own hand actually, lots of curls and swirls. He had figured if he was going to sit by the door for hours upon hours, he might as well paint it. Paint it while he was crying, waiting for it to open. That’s why some of them are messy, barely even flowers, just blobs of colour. 

In the first year, he must have wasted hours and hours curled by that door late into the night, sobbing for them to open it. Sobbing for them to forgive him, that he’s sorry. They never opened it, no matter how hard he cried, no matter if he worked himself into a panic attack, gasping and heaving.

 

Oh well. 

It’s the door that connects his tiny, offset apartment to theirs. They’re a team after all. But.. after everything, Jungkook was moved into a tiny, readily built apartment, somewhere separate so everyone could feel safe. He can’t count the number of times he’s tried the knob, a deep part of him hoping that they would have forgotten to lock it. 

It only locks from their side. 

 

Sad, really. They have to keep him out. They have to. 

 

And he can’t let them in.

Jungkook flops back onto the couch with a cough, casting an arm over his eyes. The living room lights, even on their dullest setting, still seem to burn at his eyes. At this point, he should just turn them off, save electricity. 

 

…

 

It’s a little sad. 

The suffocating loneliness that settles over him the moment he steps into his “home”. Even if they hate him, mock him with harsh words outside, he’s not alone. He can see them, love them from a distance. 

Here, here it’s just himself. 

 

Himself and his regrets. 

 

Himself and the blank walls, the lack of character, lack of life. 

Something gargles deep in his stomach and Jungkook stifles a groan, pushing himself up off of the couch. He plasters a hand over his mouth, trying to contain his churning stomach as he rushes to the bathroom. His hands hit the familiar, cold ceramic of the counter and he’s heaving over the sink, squeezing his eyes closed. 

 

It burns at the back of his throat. It burns, it burns, and the tears that start to slide down his cheeks burn too, his sobs joining the heaves that eventually turn dry. Jungkook takes advantage of it to drag off his shirt with shaking hands, dropping it to the floor. 

 

It feels like he is dying. 

The sink is red. 

 

It’s honestly not even white anymore. 

 

It’s just.. Stained red. Stained from his blood. Stained from his… his vomit. The blood that drips from his mouth. Jungkook reaches for a piece of tissue, wipes at the corner of his mouth with trembling hands. His mouth tastes rich of iron and his entire body is shaking wildly. It feels like his knees are going to collapse at any moment, a certain ache running through his muscles. 

 

He’s overworking himself. 

 

His body can’t handle this. 

Jungkook gives a weak cough, raises his head to stare into the mirror in front of him. There’s a mirror behind him - mounted on the opposite wall, making it so that he can see his back in the mirror in front of him. 

 

It’s not like he can ask anyone else to look at it. 

 

He wouldn’t let them anyway. 

He releases a shaky breath as he stares at the skin there. It’s getting worse. Jungkook watches through tired eyes, watching as the runes on his back distort. It’s as if they’re bleeding out into his skin, edges sharp and jagged, unable to hold themselves together. And the veins. The veins that run from the spot, they’re all…. They’re all black. Black, tainted blood. They haven’t managed to take over the entirety of his back yet, which is a relief, but if Jungkook continues to overwork his magic… 

Well. 

Most of the magic in his bloodstream at the moment isn’t his. 

 

Dangerous. 

 

He’s walking a fine line. 

 

But why should he care? If they ask him to do something, Jungkook should do it. Faintly, somewhere, his brain reminds him of the times, the overprotective times when they were restrict his magic use. Coax him with gentle hands, ensure that he never, never overworked himself. 

The sigh that leaves his mouth is heavy. So is the drop of blood that splashes onto the counter, let free from his lip. Jungkook watches it through glazed eyes, watching as the red bursts. 

He can’t keep doing this. If he keeps doing this, if he does… well. It’s killing him. Killing him more and more day by day, and Jungkook knows if he passes a certain point, steps over that threshold, there’s no going back. 

 

It’s going to kill him. 

But… at this point… would that be so bad? 

 

He’s not living anyway. 

 

Death would be quieter, really. 

 

(Maybe he deserves that.)

 

----

 

Jungkook stands with his arms wrapped tightly around his waist, bottom lip caught in between his teeth as he watches quietly. They’re here because of his mistakes - his ignorance caused one of the prisoners from the last mission to escape. If he hadn’t of left his position, thought with his head and not his heart, they wouldn’t have escaped. Regardless to say, their…. Employer wasn’t too pleased with that and neither were his Hyungs. 

And now they’re here. 

 

A face-off. 

Jungkook is only here because he was dragged inside. The words still sting at his skin, the harsh glares as he had been herded inside the building. It is his own fault after all. At least it means that he is allowed to be close to them for a time, even if they only allowed him to be with gritted teeth. 

“You made this problem,” Hoseok had hissed, eyes flashing, “ You are going to be there to solve it.”

The man doesn’t seem to be pleased that they’ve found him again. They’re under orders to take him in alive - these people don’t deserve an easy death, threatening the structure of society is a serious crime to the government - which means much of his Hyungs magic has to be heavily toned. 

 

They all have to be careful. If they (Jungkook) make a mistake this time, then…. There might be consequences. 

 

There is blood dripping from the man’s nose and his eyes are swirling with something wild, feral. He’s seconds away from snarling, backed into the corner like a feral cat, back arched. 

Jungkook stifles a sigh, rubs gently at his forehead. His Hyungs in front of him are standing tall, firm, a certain tension thrumming down their spines. Jungkook can taste their magic on his tongue - and it’s something warm, comforting. They don’t usually allow him to get this close, so to be so is such a gift. It has Jungkook happily allowing his muscles to melt, allows his magic to drift just a little - so he can feel the gentle curl of their magic, the nostalgic balm of its familiarity. 

“You fucking government dogs!” The man yells, eyes lit with some sort of fire, hands swinging wildly, “Turning on your own fucking kind! If you hadn’t of fucked up back then you wouldn’t be bound to contracts like slaves!” 

“Shut it.” Namjoon growls, and the depth of his tone makes Jungkook shiver in delight. It’s been so long since he’s heard Namjoon’s voice this close. “You don’t have any right to throw accusations.” 

 

The man laughs and it’s loud, maniacal - “Just look at you lot! What a sorry, sorry group. It’s honestly unbelievable that you still have that bitch on your team, after all he did! He ruined you!” 

 

“Shut up!” Taehyung yells and Jungkook can recognize a dangerous, unknown lilt to his tone, “You have no right!”

“You don’t even know what I’m doing,” The man mocks, “You’re just following your contract like some blind, fumbling fools! Look at yourselves!” 

Jungkook has spent far too much time looking at himself, thank you very much, he doesn’t need to pity himself anymore. It is why it shocks him a little as he feels a change in the air. Jungkook looks at the people in front of him with wide eyes - why.. Why are their jaws tight? Why is Jimin’s eyes narrowed to slits, Taehyung’s teeth grinding together. Why is Seokjin glaring? Isn’t it true? They’re here because of Jungkook, because he messed up. 

 

It’s why he deserves all this. 

Taehyung is barking something out again, but this time Jungkook isnt listening because his senses have locked onto something else. A fluctuation in the flow of magic, a tilt from the enemy across from them. He narrows his eyes, rolling his wrist as the runes burn their way down, sitting ready for action down the middle of his arm. 

 

Something is about to happen, it’s about to-

 

There. 

Jungkook doesn't even have to bat an eyelid - he’s twisting his fingers, firm and direct - and the magic current which is souring through the air, an ugly red, freezes in its position. The man’s face drops from where it was drawn into mocking, happy. 

 

It grows scared. 

 

Jungkook flicks his wrist up and the magic clouds, disappearing from the normal eye to only one seen by his own. 

 

It’s coming toward him. 

He watches through lidden eyes as it caresses his skin, as the runes twist and-

 

Pain. 

 

Teeth gritting pain and it’s barely touched him. 

Jungkook wants to gasp out but he can’t. His vision is glazing over, hand shaking from where the magic is slowly digging its way into his skin. He- he can’t breathe. It feels as if his lungs are shattering, as if his body is collapsing and it’s painful, so, so painful. There are tears in his eyes, a scream on the end of his tongue as he squeezes his eyes closed - refuses to look at the runes that are leaking into his skin, spasming where they sit, screaming out in pain. 

He- he can’t. 

 

Stop! 

 

Jungkook can feel his teeth clicking as he grits his jaw, tries urgently to blink through the pain. It almost feels like his ribs are cracking. But through glazed eyes, heavy breathing - nobody has noticed. No, his Hyungs are busy putting the man in shackles, none of them are even fucking looking. 

 

He’s alone. 

 

They don’t care.

 

It hurts. 

 

They don’t care. 

So Jungkook grits his teeth. Fastens his fingers tightly into fists and breathes out heavily through his nose, eyes twitching as the pain shoots down his spine. It eventually lessens and he can breathe again, eyes sinking closed in relief, but there’s something warm dripping over his top lip. Gently, Jungkook wipes the blood from his nose, trying to ignore how the sight of it has tears springing to his eyes. 

They don’t notice the blood on his pants, nor the red around his nostrils, nor how pale Jungkook has become, grasping at the car door as he slips inside. 

They don’t notice anything. 

 

Oh well. 

He closes his eyes. 

---- 

 

 

He loves these mornings. The mornings where he’s curled in bed, half asleep as Yoongi is plastered on his spine. They’re curled together, warm and comfortable and it’s them. Just them. Jungkook adores these days - because they’re close and they’re undisturbed, his other Hyungs giving them space. 

 

But it’s also Yoongi’s bad days. 

The Dybbuk struggles sometimes - the sense of death can be overwhelming, as well as being combined with the seer powers of his possessed body. 

 

“Out of all people,” Yoongi would lament sometimes, “I had to choose a seer. A bloody determined one too, and then of course our magic knitted together. It’s a headache, honestly.” 

These are the days where his lover just needs quiet, needs space and comfort to try and settle down his eerie connection with the other side. Needs to try and control the seer magic that wasn’t his to begin with. Jungkook can’t believe that his Hyung is considered to be a malicious spirit - he really can’t when the man is purring softly behind him, curled around him like a blanket. 

 

It’s them, them, them. Yoongi’s hand soft on his stomach, intertwining their fingers there, his lips on the nape of Jungkook’s neck as he breathes out quietly and-

BANG BANG BANG. 

His head is whipping up, arms flaying as Jungkook gasps. He’s disorientated, almost dizzy, blinking wildly as he tries to gauge his surroundings. Where- where is he? Why is part of his body numb, why- why-

 

The familiar buzz of his magic lights up down his spine, normally warm and comforting, and yet now it’s boiling hot. Jungkook groans, pushing himself upward, breath stuck in his chest. 

He’s- he’s in his bed. 

 

Oh. 

 

Oh, that’s okay. 

 

He’s safe. 

He breathes a sigh of relief, slumping forward and cupping his face with sleepy hands. It’s harder to be awake, to be conscious with the now ever-present painful buzz of his magic. It feels like his ribs are being pressed on, something inside his chest is expanding, pushing them outward. His breaths are tight, pained and his back is soaked with sweat. 

 

Fuck, why is Jungkook awake? 

What- what woke him? A… a bang? 

“Jungkook-ssi!” 

Wha- what?

 

Is he still dreaming?

Jungkook almost falls out of bed. His tongue is dry, sticking to the roof of his mouth as he rushes toward his bedroom door. He pretends that he doesn’t notice how weak his knees are, how vomit is building at the back of his throat. Has- has all these days, these horrible years, have they all just been a bad, bad dream?

 

Why can he hear Hoseok in his house? Have they come to forgive him? To let him explain? Are they letting him come back, opening their arms to him?

Jungkook’s eyes are blaring with tears, tears of joy as he stumbles out into the hallway, heart pounding in his mouth, happiness giving his mind a high and-

Hoseok and Jimin stand there. They’re here! They’re here, they’re here, here in his tiny apartment, here in his little depression hole and it means they’ve unlocked the door and- and-

 

…

 

It means the bad years haven’t just been a dream. 

It’s all real. The tightness of their mouths says it, the crashing reality that Jungkook is in his hollow shell of a “home”. They- they still hate him. Jungkook can see it in their eyes - they’re hard, looking at him with zero emotion. Looking at him as if he’s some sort of random stranger that has bumped into them on the street. 

Jungkook’s smile is melting from his face, his heart falling down, down into his feet. His shoulders hunch in on himself, hands coming up to curl around his waist. That burn is back, burning down his spine, acid underneath his tongue. 

“Jungkook-ssi,” Jimin says, and there’s tension in his voice, a steeled look on his face, “Uh, good.. Good morning.” 

 

Jungkook nods. Dips his head, lets his gaze fall to the floor. Why? Because his eyes are still glazed by tears, but those tears that had bloomed from hope are twisting, turning into his normal ones of misery. He’s so lonely. It’s settled so deep in his bones, tightening around his throat. 

 

“There’s… a bit of an issue.” 

He stiffens. 

 

Are they- are they going to kick him out from the group? Out from his apartment? Where is he supposed to go?! He’s never known anything but them, his times without them are faint, feel like a bad dream and they can’t. 

 

Please. 

 

They can’t send him away!

 

The panic is instant, curling in his liver, churning his stomach. The burn of magic is up in the bridge of his nose now, making him swallow thickly, eyes watering. No, no, stay calm. 

I can’t live without them! 

“An… issue?” Jungkook asks, and his voice is a weak, pathetic whimper, fingers digging into his ribs, “What.. what kind of issue-” 

 

Hoseok is sighing loudly, raking a hand through his hair. He looks stressed, upset. Jimin does too - it’s clear from the way his forehead wrinkles, his jaw tightens. They glance at each other once before Hoseok starts to speak. 

“Well,” He speaks tentatively, almost as if he’s forcing the words to leave his mouth. As if talking more than two words to Jungkook actually causes him literal physical pain. “You are aware of the… nature of our contract, yes.” 

 

Jungkook nods slowly, trying to blink back his lingering tears. 

 

“Well, someone from… the… agency that holds our contract,” Jimin’s jaw is tightening by the second as Hoseok talks. They both look pained, “Is coming to survey our.. Home. It’s part of the contract apparently. To make sure we don’t… have a repeat of what.. Happened.” 

 

Oh. 

 

They have to have welfare checks because of Jungkook? 

 

Is that why he was invited over for a meal a year ago? 

“Well, last time they came over, they had some… concerns about you and our… dynamic apparently-”

 

“We haven’t told them that we’re no longer romantically involved.” Jimin interrupts, tone unforgiving and the words make Jungkook’s mouth part wetly. “So they’re concerned that you’re going to go crazy again.” 

Jimin’s body rocks violently as Hosoek elbows him, and as Jungkook watches, they seem to be communicating angrily through their eyes. Well. that hurt just a little. They’ve never directly voiced it before and now that it’s hanging in the air, Jungkook just feels… empty. Hollow.  

“We need you to move in for a while.”

What? 

 

Jungkook’s head whips up, eyes wide. 

 

Jimin isn’t looking at him, is glaring daggers through the wall as Hoseok speaks. There’s something unhappy deep in Hoseok’s eyes as his mouth opens to speak again, and one of his hands is clenched into a fist at his side, “We need you to move in. So the welfare check goes well, so they stop monitoring our every move. It’ll only be temporary of course, but… yeah.”

Jimin is leaving, not even looking at him, and his footsteps sound angry. The door slams. 

Hoseok sighs. 

 

Jungkook’s eyes gloss up again. 

 

Ouch. 

 

“Knock on the door later today and we’ll let you in. Bring whatever you need. But stay away from us, you understand? We’re doing this for your benefit. So you’re not seen as an unstable-” He cuts himself off quickly, face tightening. 

 

“Later. I’ll see you then.”

His footsteps fade away, the door slamming as Jungkook’s fingers clench loosely in the air. They… need him to move in for a while. Huh. Jungkook slowly lowers himself to the floor, curling his arms around his legs. They need… need him to move in. Welfare checks? 

 

Oh. 

So that is why he was invited over for a meal a year ago. He’d thought it was weird, but his traitorous heart had skipped, thought that maybe, maybe they wanted to talk about things. They wanted to hear his why. But he’d been invited in and it had been stiff. They wouldn’t even look at him, had argued quietly about who would sit next to him (when they thought Jungkook wouldn’t be able to hear). And dinner had been silent, tense even though Jungkook had tried to keep a smile on his face, tears in his eyes, and he barely registered the foreign voice halfway through dinner. 

 

He’d sat at that table for hours, too nervous to get up, too anxious to fuck everything up. 

Then he’d been sent home. The door had locked behind him. Deafening, final. 

 

They hadn’t spoken to him for weeks after that. Nothing had changed. It- they really, really don’t care. 

Jungkook’s eyes are hot and he can’t stop the way his nose scrunches, his cheeks swell up a little as he lets out a loud sob. It was- he didn’t mean to! He was just- they would have- he needed to and-

They hate him. They hate him, hate him. 

And he loves them. Loves them so much that his heart hurts, that it breaks a little more with every harsh look, every spit of his name. Jungkook wonders what will kill him first - his magic, or his heartbreak? 

 

Maybe, maybe some lame part of him would have thought that this opportunity, this chance could fix things, even just a little. Make them closer. But… but Jungkook knows that is not true. He can’t fix anything. 

They’ll never forgive him. 

(and maybe he deserves that.) 

----

 

Jungkook looks at the small stack of clothing in his arms and then looks back up at the door. It’s still, unmoving in front of him - the one wall that completely seals him away from his previous life. It’s something so, so dark, a suffocating figure that constantly has one hand around Jungkook’s throat, the other blocking his way back into the light. 

 

He’s been trapped here for so, so long. 

 

Trapped, separated. 

 

His heart leaps traitorously and he has to take a deep breath to calm himself. Nothing is going back. Things aren’t going to be fixed. They’re still going to hate him at the end of this. They’re always going to. 

 

This is the least that he can do for them. 

Slowly, slowly, Jungkook raises his fist. 

 

Knock. Knock. 

It rings out. Hopeful. Final. The last strand of Jungkook’s heart desperately clinging onto the past, begging there on its knees. 

Click. 

Hot, hot breath stuck in his throat as Jungkook watches the door swing outward with wide eyes. He steps back a little, just a little so the door doesn’t hit him, tracking the movement with his eyes. It stops, rocking gently on its hinges. Jungkook’s eyes dart back towards the now open doorframe, heart pounding behind his eyes. 

“Hi.” He tries a warm smile, but he can feel his mouth trembling, his smile tentative and watery. 

 

Jimin however, doesn’t even attempt to return that smile. He’s standing strong in the middle of the doorway, chin held high, eyes dark and menacing. Jungkook can feel himself shrinking just a little under the gaze. It’s not surprising - the banshee has always had a piercing gaze, one to go along with his scream. 

Jungkook tries his best not to shudder, but his chin is dipping down, mouth turning downward as he fastens his gaze onto Jimin’s slippers. 

 

Then, the man sighs. It’s loud, strained and slowly, slowly Jungkook watches those slippers step back. Once, twice, out of the doorway, taking one step to the left. He swallows thickly. 

“Come in, I guess.” 

 

“Thank you.” Jungkook whispers. He steps forward slowly, (he does so in hopes that it makes him less of a threat, less likely for Jimin to think he’s going to lunge.), but Jimin doesn’t move either way. Stays steely straight beside him until he’s completely through the doorway, clothes clutched tightly against his chest, eyes still locked on the floor. He waits, still with his breath held, listening to Jimin shuffle behind him. The door clicks locked loudly, the sound of a few bolts sliding soon after. 

Oh. 

Why does it sound as if they have multiple locks on the door? 

Were they that afraid of Jungkook trying to break in? All he’s ever done is wept by the door, maybe pounded at it a little in the first few days, begging for forgiveness. 

 

But he’d never harm them. 

 

Not on purpose anyway. 

It’s not a shock, not really that it was Jimin to greet, well, to let him in. Some traitorous part of Jungkook had hoped that maybe his “threatening” presence would have drawn someone else to the door, maybe the warlock or the druid themselves, but it seems that some part of them, something deep, deep down, must at least have enough faith in him. Enough faith that Jimin is the one to greet him, one of the younger of the household.  

“I presume you still know where you-.... Room is.” Jimin says and Jungkook looks up just a little, watches as the man walks around in front of him. He looks small. Dressed in a fluffy robe, matching slippers - it is the evening after all. But his arms are curled tightly around his own waist, fingers digging into the plush fabric harshly. He isn’t really looking at Jungkook either - his eyes keep moving, and when they do lock onto Jungkook, it’s onto the far of his cheek or the ridge of his eyebrow. 

 

He’s too afraid to look him in the eyes. 

 

That stings. 

“I do.” Jungkook murmurs, feeling a faint burn of emotion in the corners of his eyes. He wrinkles his nose a little, hoping to urge that feeling away. It doesn’t help. 

“Well, I’ll have to walk you there,” The man sighs at what a chore it seems to be, “Dinner is at eight pm. I’m not sure if- if you’ll be joining us or not, probably not, so you’re welcome in the kitchen after nine. Understand?” 

Jungkook hums softly, watching as Jimin turns on his heel and walks off down the corridor. He grasps a second to sneak a look around the parts of the house he can see. It doesn’t seem to have changed much - some of the photos have been taken off the walls, yes, but those familiar vines and plants are still curling through the open rafters. There are still books, little trinkets, hand painted artworks of all different kinds. The nostalgic, warm, fire-hanging lamps, the tiles decorating over the walls. 

It’s still warm. 

 

(It still feels like home. This is where his heart has been longing for, all this time. ) 

“Are you coming? Or do you want to go back through that door?” 

It feels like someone is stomping on his chest, a boot to his cheek, all breath knocked from his lungs. Jungkook stumbles forward hurriedly, almost dropping his pile of clothes as he jogs after Jimin. He quickly slows himself to a walk, catching through the dimly lit corridor that Jimin has flinched, shuddered a little back into a vine-covered wall. 

There, against the plants, he knows Namjoon will protect him. 

They’re watching from somewhere, surely. Jungkook isn’t worthy of seeing their faces. 

It’s a silent walk. One of Jungkook happily drinking in the details of every wall, feeling that tight sensation around his heart fade just a little as he passes by familiar doors. And then they’re sloping upward - climbing the thin staircase, up, up, up, and Jimin is pushing open a very, very familiar door. 

 

The room greets him like an old friend. 

 

It all comes washing back like a tidal wave and Jungkook can only stare speechless, eyes burning again. The bed - tucked under the curve of a growing tree (it’s a miracle that the apartment fits all of Namjoon’s creations to be honest), the dresser, the hand-carved wardrobe and the small planter of plants that sits in the center of the room. The hanging light swings lazily, flame crackling excitedly in the core of it. There’s a layer of dust sitting on the paintings, the photos on the wall - as well as covering his desk chair, the indent in the wall that is his desk. 

Jungkook can’t breathe. 

“I’ll leave you be. It would be best if you… remain in here for the most part.” Jimin mutters and he doesn’t even wait for Jungkook's response, just breezes out and shuts the door behind himself. 

He leaves when Jungkook, honestly, could really use a hug right now. 

He swallows down his emotions, his grief, his relief, and gently wipes off a shelf with his bare hand, placing his stack of clothes on it. It seems as if someone has foretold his next action - as there is a pack of wipes and a feather-duster sitting, discarded lazily just by the inside of the door. 

It takes Jungkook twenty minutes to wipe the dust off most objects in his room. He opens the door to his old wardrobe with a wrinkled nose, noting how most of the clothes there have been devoured by moths. Namjoon’s plants do have a downfall after all, what with all the insects they attract. 

 

(They obviously haven’t put any effort into preserving his room. That hurts just a little, presses at his tender spine)

He closes the wardrobe and turns to the bed. He could probably ask for fresh sheets, but he guesses it depends on how dusty and affected by the elements they have been. With a sigh, Jungkook strides over, stepping up onto the small platform that his bed is held on, and brushes a hanging plant aside. 

He stops. 

 

Blinks. 

The- the bed sheets aren’t- they aren’t like the rest of the room. They aren’t covered in dust, worn away by the years of unuse, no. In fact, they’re peeled back a little, bed made. These sheets are fresh. Changed within the last few weeks. Jungkook tugs them back with a swift hand, eyes wide. It’s- someone has been sleeping in here. So often, that the mattress seems to have an indent of them. And not just one, no, the mattress is lower in a few different places, as if multiple people had slept in here at some point. 

 

Why-

Who are his Hyungs having over? Why in his room? He knows that they… well, were at least very protective over their space, wouldn’t allow any strangers, or even friends to enter their bubble of an apartment. 

It was theirs, theirs, theirs. 

 

So why-

Could it be?

 

No. Jungkook wipes his stray tears away and wrinkles his nose angrily. No, he will not delude himself into that. Into thinking that maybe, just maybe they slept in here because they missed him. That, that is delusional. Too far, even for Jungkook’s damaged brain. 

With a heavy sigh, Jungkook flops onto the bed and closes his eyes. 

This is going to be hard. 

It always is, being in love with people who hate you. His heart longing for the people who hate him the most in the world. It’s almost self-sabotage….. No, it’s definitely self-sabotage. 

 

Oh well. What can Jungkook truly do? His smiles aren’t going to change their minds and it’s certainly too late to apologize. Everything is just so… cold. So heavy. Maybe he should just give up. He shouldn’t even be here. He can already feel the tension, and can almost hear the quiet arguments that are surely taking place somewhere downstairs right now.

They’ll never want him. Not anymore.

Jungkook clambers into bed.

It’s still cold. It’s cold as he rolls over, tucks the duvet up to his chin. His.. his old alarm clock still sits next to the bed, left in its position on his bedside table. It’s almost like… nothing has changed. If he closes his eyes just a little, Jungkook can almost fool himself into thinking that.. That things are right. That he’s going to get up tomorrow morning and eat pancakes cooked by his Hyungs, and they’re all going to laugh together and he’ll get to press kisses to their mouths and no one will be hurt. 

Everyone will be whole and happy and the world will be right. 

 

Almost. 

 

Jungkook shivers his way through the rest of the night.

 

The clock ticks slow. 

 

----

 

Jungkook grimaces as the step creaks under his foot, his eyebrows knitting together in a cringe. He waits for someone to appear, for the noise to awaken something - and yet, nobody seems to notice. Phew. The last thing Jungkook wants to do is disturb the silence.

It feels just wrong to be here. It’s clearly not his space anymore - when he’d woken in “his” room, it had felt odd, almost alien. Almost scary. On the outside, this place is painted like his “home”, it’s everything he remembers, everything that he sees in his deepest dreams. But on the inside, it’s foreign. Terrifying. Cold and unwelcoming, nothing like the home Jungkook remembers.

It’s lonelier in here than it is in his tiny apartment if he’s honest.

At least in his own tiny space, he doesn’t have to press himself up against the walls, trying to make himself as small as possible. Try to not disturb the fragile balance that hangs in the air.

Jungkook feels like an imposter. An intruder.

He shouldn’t be here.

But he wants to be.

So his eyes are already burning with tears and he’s barely been awake for a bloody hour and his stomach is churning angrily, beating at the bottom of his lungs. He feels sick. He shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t. Jungkook shouldn’t have left his room at all. Where is he allowed to go? Is he not allowed out of his room until after nine pm?

But he’s so hungry.

He’s so hungry and that leads Jungkook to creep down the corridor, gripping tightly around his own abdomen as he sneaks toward the kitchen. At least he knows the layout of the house. The familiar curl of their combined magic is warm, warm as it always has been, but it turns on him. Surveys him like an intruder, eases around him with suspicion. Jungkook doesn’t belong here anymore.

And that hurts.

 

Slowly, he pokes his head out into the kitchen space, around the familiar open doorway. It’s… empty.

And it looks exactly the bloody same. Jungkook swallows a knot in his throat and steps into the space quietly, eyes scanning over the countertops. It’s the same, warm wood kitchen, with its little patchwork cupboards, the plant pots home to Namjoon’s creations. With a deep breath, he draws closer to the fridge, looking there with quickly-glossing eyes.

 

There are still photos there. Stuck there with little colourful magnets. And his Hyungs look happy. Smiling, arms were thrown around one another, mouths open in laughter. He recognizes these scenes. One of them is from Hoseok’s birthday, another one where Taehyung had a cold and his little nose is so, so red. It draws a small smile from his lips, moving down photo to photo. But, the longer he looks, the more Jungkook realizes.. that he’s… he’s not there. 

Not in a single photo. When he should be. Because he remembers those moments, he was there - in this one, he should be on Namjoon’s left, hands curled together with his cheek pressed onto his Hyung’s shoulder. And yet… the photo just… ends. Jungkook sniffles quietly, scanning the pictures again. He’s just… not there anymore. Erased. With slow, trembling hands, he plucks a photo off of the fridge, trying not to cry at the sweet kitten magnet.

It’s… folded.

 

Oh.

 

Jungkook bites back a growing sob as he slowly, slowly unfolds the photo. Allows his pupils to drink in the hidden person, the one folded behind the rest. Hidden as if he never existed. A different shade. Past Jungkook looks happy. There’s a foreign sparkle of happiness in his eyes, Yoongi’s arm thrown around his shoulders, his head resting on his Hyung’s arm.

They just folded him away.

Pretended he was never there.

 

His chest hurts. Hurts as he gently folds the photo back and sticks it onto the fridge again. It’s taking all his willpower to not scream, to not drop the magnet, and then drop to his knees because it hurts. It hurts so, so much - a pressure that takes up over half of his lungs. A knife in his stomach, a retching at the back of his throat.

He’s not supposed to be here.

Jungkook isn’t even hungry anymore.

 

He needs to get out. So, he swallows down that lump, rubs his eyes urgently on the backs of his hands, and takes a deep breath in.

He’s okay. Jungkook is okay.

 

It doesn’t feel like he’s dying. Choking back wails. He turns toward the doorway, hoping to get out before anyone spots him, but to his horror, there is already a pair of slippers standing there. Frozen, blocking his escape.

Jungkook’s trembling eyes lock onto Min Yoongi’s face. The man’s own eyes are wide, dark, and Jungkook watches as his lip pulls into something dark, disgusted - a sneer. He does not look happy to have met Jungkoo at this crossroads.

 

“Sorry.” Jungkook breathes out, and even to his own ears it sounds weak, watery, and he quickly slides past his Hyung, making a beeline down the corridor. He doesn’t hear Yoongi move. Nor say anything. Nor do anything at all, but he refuses to look back, refuses to glance over his shoulder because god-forbid there might be a glare there.

 

The staircase feels like a safe haven. A safe haven, his own little bubble as Jungkook rushes toward it, and grips onto the banister with shaking hands. And it’s here, here where he feels safe, that he sneaks a little look over his shoulder. Nothing. Nothing.

He’s not sure what hurts more. The silence or the space. With a tender swallow, Jungkook twists back toward the staircase, ready to retreat for the rest of the day but-

 

His eyes fall on the nearby wall. It’s completely shrouded by some type of flowering vine and Jungkook shrugs, and sniffles softly. But there’s… there’s a slither of colour which isn’t a flower, something odd. He really should get back into his room. He really shouldn’t go poking into spaces that he isn’t welcome in.

Yet his fingers are gently darting the leaves and his eyes are blinded by… a photo. A photo in a pretty, colourful frame. They’re all there, hands interlocked, faces smiling. This was… this was at Seokjin’s… birthday. His throat hurts just a little bite more. With shaking hands, Jungkook gently moves another strand of leaves and- and he’s there.

Younger Jungkook is there, his hands twisted in between Taehyungs, a smile adorning his face. He looks pretty, looks healthy, looks happy. He can almost hear his laughter from back then - back when moments after the photo was taken, Seokjin had swooped on him, pressed aggressive kisses to his lips with probing, tickling fingers.

 

It makes him smile.

Smile just a little as he retreats into his prison. 

 

----

 

Jungkook has been here for four days. A whole four days, as he gently counts on his fingers. When did they say the welfare inspection was? Oh, wait, they didn’t. Hopefully, he will only have to be here for a few more days. He doesn’t know if his brain can take much more than that, to be honest. It feels like Jungkook’s emotions are always on high alert, that he’s ready to snap at any opportunity.

Heck, he’d cried in the light of the fridge just last night, realizing that they had eaten his favourite meal and hadn’t even left him a tiny portion as leftovers. I mean, they’re not obligated to, and Jungkook should have expected as much, but… it still stung when the kitchen had smelt such a tantalizing way and they… it just felt mocking.

Oh well.

 

Jungkook flops back onto his bed with a sigh, gaze falling on the clock. It ticks away slowly, dragging out the days. It’s midnight. Midnight and he can’t sleep. He groans lowly, rolling onto his side, curling his knees to his chest. He wishes he could have a cup of tea. Some tea with honey. But that is likely not going to be allowed. Teabags are Jimin’s precious items, after all, he hoards them like there is no tomorrow. And if Jungkook took one?

Hellfire.

A glass of water would have to do.

But he needs a glass.

Which means he needs to go to the kitchen.

But surely, they will all be asleep at this time? Curled in the master bedroom together, arms and fingers intertwined, hot breath as they sleep peacefully, together- together-

Glass. Water.

 

Jungkook treds down the stairs quietly, making sure to skip over the creaking one. It makes him a little sad, a little happy that he’s started to memorize the quirks of the house again. The little floorboards that creak, the best way to move silently. Silently. Because he’s not supposed to be here.

Oh well.

 

His little head slowly pokes out around the corner, observing the kitchen from his angle. It’s dark, silent. Empty. They truly must be asleep, like he had suspected. Not a surprise - Jin-Hyung had always had a strict policy about getting enough sleep. Especially for the younger members of the households. Seems some things don’t change.

 

Jungkook sways from foot to foot as he watches the tap slowly fill up his glass. It’s a little spooky, with the moonlight filtering in through the kitchen window, the only sound being the sound of the tap running. When his glass starts to border full, he carefully turns off the tap, flinching as it squeaks.

Fuck. Hopefully, no one heard that. Jungkook waits, ears pricked, breath held. But there’s nothing, nothing, and he lets out a sigh of relief, bringing the glass to his lips.

 

Click.

 

Jungkook chokes. Chokes and splutters, gurgling water as he struggles to not drop the glass, spitting violently. There is water spilling down his chin as he draws in a load, croaky breath, coughing aggressively all the while.

What the fuck? He places the glass on the kitchen counter hurriedly, flinching at the loud noise it produces, and scans the dark living room. The living room is set directly in front of the kitchen, a flowing plan that allows lots of light and (past) laughter. It’s dark, yes, so dark that Jungkook has to squint his eyes, comb through the darkness and-

 

He wants to choke again. Wants to choke and flee, bow his head, and apologize.

There’s a small figure curled in one of the armchairs.

 

Jungkook can barely see them, can only really catch their outline in the faint crackles of the dying fire. He squints a little harder, looking closer, and the person tips his face toward the fireplace, and the dying glow illuminates-

 

Park Jimin.

Ah shit.

 

He should run. Retreat back to his room. But it’s clear that Jimin has noticed him, even if he hasn’t acknowledged his presence. Jungkook swallows, nervously, wiping at his wet chin with a shaking hand. That was embarrassing.

“Can’t- can’t sleep?” Fuck, his voice shakes. So much for seeming confident.

Jimin just hums in response. Jungkook can’t tell where he’s looking, it’s too dark, but there’s a prickling inkling that the banshee might be looking directly at him.

 

'“Yeah, uh, me too,” He stammers out awkwardly, one of his knees starting to jiggle anxiously, “You should get back to bed soon though…. otherwise Jin-” He cuts himself off quickly, clears his throat, “Seokjin-ssi will get… angsty.”

 

Jungkook lets out an awkward laugh, shuddering as only silence treats him in return. Jimin doesn’t seem amused. His face shifts slightly, the dying flames illuminating the shadow underneath his cheekbones. Jungkook swallows thickly and it feels like knives in his throat. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of his neck and he shifts from foot to foot, clears his throat again.

“If- If you can’t sleep, maybe make some of that tea that you- that you like? Try putting some honey in it, too. It’s very soothing but oh, you would know that, wouldn’t you.” Ah, fuck, now he sounds stupid and now he’s positive that the man is staring at him. Probably mentally cursing him out, wishing he would leave.

And who is Jungkook to refuse?

 

So, he awkwardly dips his head and turns to scurry off down the hallway. A soft voice is the only thing that stops him, halts him in his tracks.

 

“You… you remember?”

 

Jungkook pauses, his throat thick. He manages to croak out a response but he hates at how it trembles.

“Of course, Jimin… ssi. I remember everything.”

 

And with that, he hurries back to his staircase, hoping that the calm of his room will settle his anxious mind. It doesn’t, doesn’t in the slightest. Not even as he rests his back against the door, presses a palm to his thundering heart. Why did he say that? 

 

God, he wouldn’t be surprised now if Jimin throws out all his tea. Repulsed by the thought of Jungkook remembering intimate details about him, things he should have forgotten by now. 

 

Damnit! All he does is fuck up! Jungkook is supposed to be giving them space, lamely hoping that one day, one day in some distant future, that they’ll find it in themselves to forgive him. Forgive him for tearing their bloody souls apart! 

Jungkook doesn’t sleep that night.

Not a wink. 

 

----

 

He’s sweated through his shirt. Heck, Jungkook has sweated through the sheets as well. Fuck. He can’t just keep saying that he feels sick, well, he does, but it’s so repetitive.

 

I feel sick. I feel sick.

 

His shirt is clinging to his back and his chest is so hard that it’s difficult to draw in a breath. The sheets are sticking to his legs, everything is just flush and damp and there’s the familiar feeling of bile in the back of his throat. Jungkook lets out a quiet, pained whine and slowly pushes himself to the edge of the bed.

 

Fuck, he’s dizzy. There are black spots swimming in his vision and Jungkook stumbles, has to press one hand back onto the bed, and slowly lowers himself back down into a sitting position. Dammit, his head is pounding, something hard rattling around inside his skull, assaulting his tender brain. Dammit! He just wants to sleep. It had taken him hours to fall asleep and now- and now he’s awake and he feels fucking horrible and the world is shrinking and expanding before his hazy eyes.

 

Bathroom.

 

Bathroom, now.

 

Slowly, Jungkook pushes himself up from the bed, gasping in a wet breath. His hands cling to the wall, onto the shelves, onto anything nearby as he limps toward the tiny ensuite bathroom. His head is fucking pounding. He can feel the beads of sweat dripping down his body, a horrible ache in the back of his calves. Jungkook barely makes it to the bathroom door before he’s collapsing in the doorframe, gripping tightly at the wooden frame. Every breath he takes is tight, labored and he squeezes his eyes closed, desperately pleading for the world to stop growing.

 

His head hurts. If Jungkook was ever hit by a truck, this is what he would have thought it would feel like.

 

Dammit.

 

Blindly, he reaches out and searches for the sink counter - and once his fingers have met the cool ceramic, he clutches at it like a lifeline. And slowly, slowly, he drags himself over to the counter, eyes closed, teeth gritted. The world sways even behind his closed eyes. Dances in the dark behind his eyelids.

 

His head hurts.

 

Jungkook plants both of his palms against the counter, and feels the strain as his arms try to hold up his body, unstable and wobbling on his trembling legs. His knees feel weak. He can feel the tension in his muscles, the warmth as tears grow behind his eyelids.

 

Drawing in a deep, rasping breath, Jungkook forces his eyes open.

 

The bathroom is too bright and the light isn’t even on. Where the hell is all the white coming from?! Jungkook slams his eyes shut again with a pained squeak, fingers digging into the countertop. Dammit, can the world just stop moving for just a moment?!

Another bead of sweat drips from the ends of his hair and Jungkook dips his head, drawing in another deep, pained breath. Standing up wasn’t a good idea, not at all. But he’s here now, and he knows it hurts, it does, it really does and that’s okay, but Jungkook has to figure out what is wrong.

 

Well… if there’s anything new that’s wrong.

 

He forces his eyes open, slowly tips his head upward. His head lulls back a bit, rocking painfully on the back of his neck, but at least he’s made some progress. And after a lot of squinting, a lot of gritting his teeth, and straining through his elbows, Jungkook’s eyes focus on the mirror.

 

And it’s… him.

 

Jesus, he looks bad.

 

His skin is pale, more like a sickly cream than a white, and he can visibly see the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. Gritting his teeth a little, he stares angrily at the bags underneath his eyes, at the visible blue on his lips. Okay. Looks normal-ish, so far. His eyes drop downward, scanning over his body, and it looks normal, pale skin, sweat, black veins curling in his lower arms, clammy and-

 

….

 

Wait.

 

If Jungkook could let go of the counter, he would, because his entire body is flinching in shock - gaze zipping back to his arms.

 

Fuck. No.

 

It’s awkward, awkward to have one hand trying to hold his entire body weight as he fights to drag his shirt off with his other hand. And the fabric doesn’t make it easy either - it fights against him, sticky with sweat, his arm quickly tiring.

 

It lands on the floor with a wet plop.

 

No.

 

No.

 

There’s no mirror to observe his back in here, but that doesn’t matter, no, because Jungkook can see the branches of black veins curling around the edges of his ribs. They’ve curled up his left shoulder, paralyzing, and pumping, trailing down the length of his left arm. Seemingly sparing his right, but-

 

But they’ve spread.

 

The contaminated veins. The dirty blood.

 

This isn’t a red flag, no, this is a whole-ass red truck driving 100 km an hour directly at him. This is bad. Jungkook’s bottom lip trembles as he clumsily tries to trace the veins that run down his arm. Fuck, fuck, this is bad. He probably has a fever at this point, body pushing into overdrive to try and contain his magic and-

 

This is bad.

 

He stumbles to the shower, head spinning, dizziness vibrant on his tongue. His hands can barely fumble with the knobs, the shower springing into action. And it’s cold, freezing as Jungkook all but falls into the shower, curling up into a little ball on the shower fall. Now he’s just cold and dizzy and wet.

 

This isn’t helping. The water isn’t fixing the pain. He wishes he could just wash it all away and drain it down the plug.

 

It hurts. It hurts as bile starts to burn at the back of his throat, as his eyes bead with tears, as the invasive veins in his arms pump aggressively.

 

Jungkook can’t breathe.

 

He can’t breathe.

 

It would be so much easier if he was just… dead.

 

It would be better that way for everyone, wouldn’t it?

But I… I don’t want to die.

 

----

 

It’s like… it’s like bells. Tiny, little bells ringing from the force of a chest. Prompted by happiness, fuelled by an ongoing flow of smiles it’s… these giggles are like bells.

Jungkook can’t help but freeze where he’s standing, arms holding a few boxes of snacks. He doesn’t mean to be greedy, to hoard, but… he gets so hungry when he wakes. And these boxes were shoved at the very bottom of the pantry - things like granola, little oat snack bars. When he lived here, he’d never seen any of his Hyungs eat these sorts of things… so surely they wouldn’t be missed.

But now the giggling has got him frozen in his spot, only a few metres from the scene of the crime.

Where- where is that giggling coming from? The apartment has just been cold, and silent for the week that Jungkook has been here and it’s just so… sudden. Laughter? So there is laughter in this home?

 

( Without him, a traitorous part of his brain supplies, they can still laugh even without you. You mean nothing.)

 

Jungkook’s gaze flickers down the corridor, down to where he knows the stairs to his room are. He should really just go back upstairs and try to satiate his growling belly by gnawing at the snacks in his arms. Heaven knows that he doesn’t want to be caught with them, and doesn’t want to look like a thief or anything.

But… the laughter rings out again. In the opposite direction that Jungkook should be going but… his heart gives a traitorous tug. He hasn’t heard them laugh in… in so long. It’s awakening little memories, little flowers sprouting up at the back of his mind. Maybe… maybe just a peek can’t hurt.. can it?

Jungkook just wants to see the curve of their smiles as they laugh, hear those delightful bells just a little closer.

 

So, he creeps in that direction, following the sound of it. He could just track their magic trails, yes, but it’s kind of hard when this is their living space. It means that their magic is tracked everywhere, soaked into every surface, every cushion. Every breath that Jungkook takes in is soaked with the scents of their magic.

So honestly, it’s useless here.

 

Which is why he’s following the sound of shuffling and laughter like a lost, tentative puppy, eyes tight against his head. It’s growing closer, closer with each step he takes - and he can see it - the slight crack in an open door, relaxed light leaking from within. '

Jin-Hyung’s magic is to thank for much of their house. It’s part of the reason it seems bigger inside, part of the reason that Namjoon can have multiple greenhouses without the entire space being utterly filled by plants. It also means that some of these rooms, some that Jungkook doesn’t even remember what are in anymore, are expansively bigger than how they might appear. A simple “bedroom” turned into a beautiful pond with a weeping willow, with blue skies and enough space for him to run for miles.

 

Jungkook draws closer to the doorway, holding his breath.

 

It’s… he doesn’t recognize this room, not when he slowly presses his eye and nose up to the crack in the door and scans the nearby location gently. The floorboards instantly give way to luscious green grass and the smell of fresh air is soaring into Jungkook’s nose. It makes him shiver in delight, eye the daisies growing on the nearby ground with a small smile. The grass stretches out and out and Jungkook has to change his angle a little, shuffling the boxes in his arms in order to see further-

That laughter again. And there’s a slight ‘whooshing’ noise, like something cutting through the air.

 

Jungkook squints his one eye and stares out into the space.

 

It’s… big. Not too bright, a lovely, white glow of sun illuminating the stretching… forest? Maybe it was something else before, but it’s clear that Namjoon’s magic has overgrown the environment. There’s a massive, gorgeous tree stretching up in the center, up toward a raftered sky. Vines hanging everywhere, lush bushes and flowers and there’s white sparkling light filtering down through the leaves. Jungkook feels… calm. He breathes out slowly, eyelids fluttering.

Whoosh.

 

It almost sounds like wings. 

 

Oh.

 

Orange, red. Fire.

 

Hoseok’s Phoneix form is just as beautiful as the first time Jungkook had seen it. A stunning, flame-lit bird with the most gorgeous orange and red-hued feathers. The elegant dip of his head, the curve of his beak as he flies through the air, curling in a gorgeous twirl. It takes Jungkook’s breath away, has a certain gloss appearing over his eyes.

Fuck, no, he isn’t going to cry.

 

“ Hyung!” Someone yells, laughter following it, and Jungkook’s eyes flick over to see - Jimin. Jimin and Taehyung shake with laughter as they chuck another acorn, another seed up into the air - and Hoseok flicks it with his tail, sending it up in a sparkling twirl of fire.

 

They’re… playing.

They’re playing and they look… happy.

 

Jungkook doesn’t realize quite how lonely he is until this moment - until he envisions himself standing alongside them, arms curled around Jimin’s shoulders, laughing as Hoseok sends another seed up like a firework.

Bells. Bells, bells, bells.

He wants to- he wants to be in there. With them.

 

His gaze moves to the great tree behind them, and it has his eyes widening even more because there are chairs. Great, big comforting lounging things, filled with cushions, swinging gently from strong, twisted vines. Namjoon is there, perched in one of these chairs, staring down at his coven mates with such soft eyes. Jungkook can see them from miles away. There is a book in his hand and is that.. is that Yoongi? Curled by his side, head in his lap and oh, Namjoon’s hand is petting through his hair and his Hyung is definitely asleep.

He wonders what it would be like there. To be meters above the ground, safe and sleepy, his head held in one of his Hyung’s laps. Petted and protected while he naps. The fresh wind in his hair, the gentle rock of the chair as the tree sways-

Jungkook draws back from the door, eyes beading with hot tears and he takes a deep, shuddering breath in. He shouldn’t be looking. Shouldn’t be invading their privacy. He looks down at the boxes of food in his arms. Stale, old. Left. Uneaten. Unwanted. He deserves these snacks, definitely.

He stiffens a little as he hears Seokjin’s voice echo from somewhere in the room. It’s light, relaxed, followed by the sound of his squeaky laughter. And Jungkook he- he can’t take it anymore. With a gentle hand, he pushes the door shut, squeezing his wet eyes closed tightly as it clicks shut.

He feels sick. Lonely to his core.

 

His feet speed over the floorboard as he rushes down the corridor, stumbling up his staircase, and the snacks are falling clumsily into a pile on the floor as he rushes for the ensuite. Jungkook’s shoulder bangs painfully onto the doorway as he rushes in, unable to breathe, and his hands slam down by the sink as he gags.

Red. Red as the blood drips from his mouth, eyes tearing up as he feels his teeth rattle. Fuck. Blood, again? Red, red in his sink. Jungkook can’t keep doing this. He wipes his mouth shakily, eyes tearing up even more as he sees the stark contrast of red to white. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He’s so scared. He’s terrified.

 

What is happening to him?!

 

He just wants- Jungkook just wants to be on that chair, Namjoon stroking through his hair as the flowers bloom and instead, instead… he’s in his tiny bathroom. Throwing up blood as he sobs, as his nose screws up.

He cries until his sobs turn dry, until the red has slowly bled away into pink.

It still hurts. He wants to be there. With them. It’s all he wants. It’s all he’s ever wanted! And how- how can they just be.. Be fine without him! They’ve spent years upon years together, tangled between sweaty sheets with their mouths pressed together, heck, Jungkook knows every single little detail about them!

 

Everything! 

 

Everything, everything, everything! The way they like their coffee, how Taehyung doesn’t like it at all, the way Namjoon prefers a certain pillow over all the rest, the way Yoongi has to hold his waist in just a certain way in order to be comfortable, how Jimin likes different teas every hour, like a pattern and- and-

 

Jungkook fists his hair tightly with his hands, biting at his bottom lip as tears trail down his cheeks. He didn’t think it would hurt this much. Seeing them, seeing them happy. It’s different when he thinks about it from the confinement of his own bed, in his own little space, because there, there he can’t see it. Can’t hear it. 

 

Because bloody hell, they sound happier without him. 

 

They’re- they’re more than fine and Jungkook is just here… just here clinging onto the past with broken, bloody hands. Pleading every single night that things will go back to how they used to be but..

 

Now it’s clear. Things can never, never go back to how they used to be. It’s too late. Jungkook should’ve begged on his knees so, so long ago and maybe, just maybe he would be in that room with them. Watching them laugh with one another. 

 

But now he’s here. Here with blood staining his teeth and his heart beating too fast and his eyes are hazing over and his magic is lashing out like an angry snake, fed up with himself. 

 

It still hurts. 

 

That last kiss. 

 

It all hurts. 

 

----

 

Jungkook shouldn’t… he shouldn’t eat anything. He really shouldn't. No matter how those new-looking pastries gleam. Because they’re not for him. But there’s nothing that doesn’t seem… claimed in any way. Boy, do those cherries look inviting, but… he just feels bad. 

 

Maybe he should go out and buy his own food. But.. would they let him back in if they went out? Probably not. It’s why Jungkook is terrified to leave, terrified to even attempt to step out of the door. Because this dream will really end. He’ll be back on his own again, back out into the cold, back into his restless nights and the taste of his own magic. 

 

But his stolen boxes of snacks are quickly running out and now his stomach is curling in hunger. 

 

And yet… and yet Jungkook doesn’t really want to eat. What’s the point? His body is going to reject it either way - he’ll probably just throw it up within the hour. So truly, truly, what is the point?

 

He can not decide what to eat anyway. 

 

Useless. 

 

Jungkook is just taking up space here, just stopping other people from using the kitchen. Those who don’t want to use it whilst he is in here. Damn! He sighs, massaging gently at the front of his forehead. A headache is throbbing at his temple again, insistent and loud. 

 

He feels like his head is going to explode. 

 

Click. 

 

Huh? Jungkook’s gaze follows the noise and the- the kettle has clicked on. That means… that means… oh. His breath is snatched from his lungs in preparation, nose wrinkling. He flinches at the fridge suddenly slams shut in front of him, just a hairs inch away from smacking his nose. 

 

Yep, he thought right. 

 

Kim Seokjin steps into the kitchen in all his warlock glory, casting a sharp, annoyed look in Jungkook’s direction. He can almost hear his Hyungs words - “Don’t just leave the fridge open and waste electricity!”

 

… he used to say that all the time. Mostly with a hair ruffle and a kiss pressed to his temple. 

 

But Jungkook isn’t even worth those few words. His head dips down, a sudden tiredness washing over him. His eyes are painfully hot and he hates it. Hates how tears are always building in the corners of and behind his eyes at every moment of the day. 

 

He wants to leave. 

 

He slinks out into the corridor like a scolded puppy, tail in between his legs and lip in between his teeth as he drags his feet toward his staircase. He didn’t end up grabbing anything. Oh well, Jungkook thinks he still has one more of those oat bars left. 

 

But what do you eat after that? 

 

Maybe he should just starve. 

 

Jungkook snorts, softly shutting the door behind himself. Maybe that would be a good option, huh? Would they like that? Physically torturing him as well as mentally? How cruel can they get?

 

How cruel can Jungkook get to himself? 

 

It’s all part of the game, he guesses. 

 

Maybe he doesn’t deserve to eat after all. 

 

----

“Jungkook-ssi.” 

Jungkook flinches at the gentle knock on his door, hands almost dropping the soft sweater that he’s trying to slowly drag over his head. If he moves too fast, his mind starts to spin, and now the jumping motion due to the startling of the door being knocked on has sent the black patches in his vision off again. 

 

“Yes?” 

 

“She will be here in fifteen minutes. Please come to the table as soon as you can.” 

Ah yes. The bloody welfare person. Jungkook grits his teeth as he drags the sweater over his head, tugging it firmly down around his waist. He strokes over his sleeve gently, grimacing as he recalls the black veins that run underneath. They seem to have calmed a bit this morning - retracted further up his arm, a bit lighter in colour, but they’re still there. 

 

Damn, Jungkook just needs a break. He’s so tired, so tired that it settles in his bones like concrete, weighs down every corner of his mind. He needs to sleep. But he can’t. And now he has to go out and play happy family with the people that he is still desperately in love with. 

 

Damn. 

 

He sighs, turns a little to catch himself in the nearest mirror (a tiny thing perched on one of his shelves). The concealer seems to have done its job for the most part, his dark circles are less bullseye-like on his face, he’s a bit less of a walking target for a sleeping pills advertisement. Jungkook tries to draw a smile onto his face, tries to lighten his eyes a little, seem relatively cheerful. But it just feels fake. 

 

He’s fake. Like a doll that simply pulls on another mask, sits where it’s placed. 

 

But he has to do this. Jungkook can’t mess this up. After all, it’s his life that sits on the line. His Hyungs, despite their now hatred of him, are still willing to put up with him in order to guarantee his own safety! If Jungkook is classified as unstable, even remotely, he doesn’t know what the government will do. 

Will they… just exterminate him? Like he does to those rogues? Handed to them in shackles, face white with fear? 

 

If he’s classified as a threat, if he’s something that could explode at any moment then… Jungkook shudders. He tries to pull another fake smile onto his face and then moves toward the door, tugging it open quietly. 

 

The house seems alive. 

For once, it isn’t just dark and silent when Jungkook reaches the bottom of the stairs. It’s a bit scary, really, the way that all the lights in the house seem to be lit, the floor seems to have been moped (with plant safe chemicals of course.) 

 

They’re seemingly really trying to put on a good show for this woman. This government official. Want to play the ultimate happy family. Pretend.. Pretend that they are all still in love?

Jungkook swallows the knot in his throat and creeps down the corridor, one arm looped across his body to hold onto his opposite elbow anxiously. He steps (more like slides, his socks slipping on the freshly moped floors) into the dining room and it… looks… like home. 

 

The table is set. A cute little tablecloth, the plates and cutlery… familiar. Sitting in the middle of the table are bowls after bowls of different types of food - rice, meats, different sauces and vegetable dishes - and Jungkook can’t help the way his eyes prick with tears. It all smells so… good. And it’s- it’s so nostalgic. 

 

Because this is how the table used to look every single night. Every night when they would all sit down and share a meal, laughing together, glass clinking as they fed one another. 

 

That’s… well. Just that. 

 

The past. 

He loiters in the doorway, chewing his bottom lip nervously, eyes flickering around the room. He spots Yoongi carrying something, is that a vase? But his Hyung doesn’t even acknowledge him, just brushes past him. 

“Hey.” 

 

Jungkook jumps, his head whipping to the side so quickly that spots grow in his vision. AGAIN WITH THE QUICK MOVEMENTS, JUNGKOOK! He bites at the inside of his cheek, blinking his eyes wildly. 

“You’re sitting there.” Hoseok says firmly, pointing to a certain chair at the table. “Sit down.” 

Jungkook should ask if they need help, he should, but… that chair. It’s not his. No, it’s the chair that Yoongi would normally sit in - sat there in between Hoseok and Jimin. Jungkook used to sit next to Namjoon-Hyung, brushing thighs with him with Taehyung on his other side… 

 

Well. They sat him there for a certain reason. Probably because Jimin and Hoseok are the only ones to speak to him. Which is strange in itself if he thinks about it, because how did they select who was going to ignore him and who was going to be forced to interact? 

 

Oh well. 

Silently, Jungkook slides into his seat, folding his hands into his lap and staring firmly at the table. Something is bubbling happily, the delicious smell of spice tingling at his nostrils. He wants to cry. 

 

Jungkook can’t do this. He can’t play happy family when he- he loves them and they hate him, he can’t, he can’t- 

 

Someone slides into the chair next to him and Jungkook gives a harsh sniffle, blinking his eyes. Park Jimin doesn’t say anything, just pours himself a large glass of wine. Jungkook wants to chuckle, watching from the corner of his eye as his Hyung takes a hefty sip. 

 

Ouch. 

 

More chairs are squeaking, but Jungkook can’t bare to look as the rest of his Hyungs slid into their places on the table. They’re talking to each other, making light conversation, and Jimin belts out a laugh as Hoseok slides into his seat on Jungkook’s other side. 

It feels… fake. Fake already. But… their laughs are genuine. Maybe it just feels fake to Jungkook because he shouldn’t be here. He’s an imposter. An intruder on their private dinner.  But he draws in a rattling breath and looks up just in time to see Seokjin entering the room. And, behind him, comes a lady. She looks just as Jungkook had imagined - a tight bun, a firm mouth, and she takes a seat in the chair closest to the door. 

 

Seokjin returns to his head chair. 

Jungkook swallows. Slowly picks up a piece of meat with his chopsticks, silently begging his hand not to shake as he drops it into his bowl. The woman is making light conversation with Namjoon, and it’s just a little too…. Lively. A little too loud. Too loud in comparison to the silent dinners that Jungkook is used to. Damn. He shoves that piece of meat into his mouth. 

“Hey, Jungkook--- ah,” Jimin says, and Jungkook grits his teeth not to jump. He looks up curiously and it burns when Jimin gives him a half-smile. It sears into his flesh. “Can you pass the-” The word fades into static. Jungkook can only blink, trust his body as his hand instinctively reaches out for a bowl, hands it to Jimin. 

 

“Thank you,” His Hyung says, and Jungkook has to physically fight with the tears that bloom in his eyes. Fuck. They- no. This is just an act. And that’s what makes it hurt more. He swallows the needles in his throat and spoons a spoonful of something thick looking into his bowl. It must be a curry of some sort so he needs rice-

Hoseok spoons a few spoonfuls of rice into his bowl for him, barely glancing at him. 

 

Ah shit. 

 

No, no don’t cry! 

 

Jungkook bites harshly at the inside of his cheeks and busies himself into eating, shoveling in bite after bite. If he keeps eating, he won’t have time to think but… he finds himself only eating tiny mouthfuls at a time, his stomach churning. 

 

The dinner fades into television static. Jungkook can’t breathe, can’t see, can only continue the rhythm of shoveling small bites into his mouth. He’s vaguely aware that Jimin and Hoseok keep filling his bowl up for him, but he really can’t think about that for too long otherwise he’s going to start crying. 

It’s over just as quickly as it started. 

Jungkook doesn’t know where it all went. Time has escaped him - he can hear the front door closing after Namjoon has bid her a ‘goodbye’, and then the screeches of chairs as his Hyungs get up from the table. 

His bowl is full. Filled to the brim with food. 

 

The clinking of dishes as his Hyungs clear the table, shovel the leftovers into tupperware containers, chattering among themselves. 

 

Jungkook can’t breathe. He’s frozen in time whilst they are all moving. Whilst he can hear the clinking of wine classes, laughter cut off into a kiss and he’s just.. Sitting at the table. Alone. 

Soon, it’s quiet. It’s quiet and it’s just the moonlight shining over his now cold, still-full bowl of food. Jungkook’s eyes are gleaming, his chest rising and falling in heavy, hitching breaths. 

 

It’s two am in the morning. 

He’s still at that dining room table. 

 

Staring. 

 

Staring. 

 

Full. 

 

Bowl. 

 

----

 

The welfare check is over. 

 

It’s truly over, Jungkook thinks with a heavy heart as he rolls slowly onto his stomach, resting his face on his elbows. Damn. He noses a little into his cushion, trying to calm the violent, nervous churning of his stomach. 

 

They’ll ask him to move out instantly, won’t they? 

 

Probably the second he steps out of his room, they’ll ask him to pack up, go back through that dreaded door. And he has a feeling that this time, it will be locked permanently. They might as well just remove it at this point. Jungkook can’t see any event in the feasible future in which they require his presence. They’ve played happy family. 

 

It’s over. 

 

Jungkook sighs. Heavy and drained as he slowly drags himself out of bed. His head spins through the entirety of his shower and drying his hair is an utter pain - every touch to his scalp sends prickling flames through his nervous system. Everything is just so sensitive and when he drops the toothpaste… 

 

He bursts into tears, curling in a ball of the floor. They’re going to make him leave again. It’s too overwhelming. He had just gotten used to their presences and everything and now they’re… now they’re just going to throw him away again. Go back to ignoring him. But their magic had just gotten used to each other again! Like two cats trying to get along in their new home. But it’s comfortable now, and Jungkook doesn’t think he’ll get any sleep if he’s left alone… he at least gets a few hours of sleep while he’s here. 

 

It helps when the stolen parts of their magic are close to their source. Calms them a little and in turn, calms his own. Torn particles of magic still reaching urgently for one another. 

 

If Jungkook hadn’t… then this would have never… happened…. 

 

Sigh. 

Jungkook tugs open his door with a deep shuddering breath. The staircase below him seems to distort - almost mockingly, expanding and shrinking before his eyes. As if it’s telling him that this, this, might be his last time on these stairs.

They’re going to throw him out.

Surely. They’re all going to be gathered in the living room, all together, and then collectively, they’re going to tell him to get out. One, unit voice. He has ten minutes to pack his stuff, ten minutes to get back through that door - and then the bolts will slide and the door will be forever locked.

 

His chest hurts as he creeps down the hallway, teeth almost chattering. He’s so cold. They're going to jump Jungkook at any second. They’re going to be just around this corner, they are, but…

 

When Jungkook steps out into the living room, there’s… there’s no one in sight. No collective body standing there, faces firm, no, it’s just.. empty. Empty as the fire place crackles fondly, as a hanging plant swings gently.

 

Well.

 

Maybe he can have a cup of tea before he is booted to the curb!

 

Jungkook listens carefully as the kettle boils, as he pours hot water over his teabag, waiting for the furious sound of a chorus of footsteps coming his way. And yet, even after he has taken his first sip of tea… there’s nothing.

 

Nothing at all. The house stays silent. Stays home.

 

Jungkook tips the last of the tea into his mouth and swallows thickly. Okay, he’s had his tea, now surely.

 

Ah, here we go.

 

There’s a flurry of movement by the living room doorway and Jungkook watches through sad eyes as Taehyung steps into the room. The electricity user looks at him for a moment - plain, bored expression, and then turns away. Turns away and plops down on one of the air chairs, opening up his phone.

 

Jungkook blinks.

 

Okay…?

 

He brews himself another cup of tea and patiently waits to be kicked out. Nope. Even Jimin walks into the kitchen, sees him drinking one of the precious tea bags, and just doesn’t.. say… anything.

 

The next day is the same. Even when Jungkook is out in the open eating marmalade toast. And the next day, and the next.

 

They just don’t… tell him to get out.

 

And Jungkook would be lying if he said his heart didn’t skip traitorously. Maybe they just… maybe they just don’t want him to leave? No, there’s no way that’s the reason.. they’re probably just letting him stay a little longer to keep up the charade… the make sure no one suspects anything. That’s right, that’s right!

 

And well, Jungkook isn’t really complaining.

 

So, while he is still here, he’ll try to soak up their very cold, very rare affection, their lame attention. Maybe he’ll be okay. Maybe when he goes “home”, it will hurt a little less. Feel less like his heart is being torn out from his chest whilst he’s conscious and feeling.

 

(Aish, who is he kidding?)

 

----

 

It’s getting worse. It’s getting worse as Jungkook clings onto the rim of the toilet seat, eyes squeezed closed as his back heaves again, as his throat contracts. The thrum of magic is acid, running rapid just underneath his skin. It’s making him vomit, making his body eat away at itself, stomach acid dissolving through flesh. 

 

It’s getting worse, worse, worse. Jungkook can’t sleep anymore. It’s just pain, pain through the darkness, a tightness in his stomach that will never fade. A throbbing headache at the front of his mind that won’t fade no matter how much water he drinks. A pain in the joints of his jaw, a tightness in every breath he takes. 

He slowly turns one of his hands over, watching as his arm weakly collapses against the toilet. The runes are there, trying to comfort him, but they look just as he feels. Their lines are barely distinguishable, no longer straight, no, the blackness is bleeding out into his skin like cobwebs. They’re barely holding it together, strained to the limit. 

Jungkook can’t deny it anymore. No matter how much he tries to convince himself, tries to center his magic, tries to make the pain something withstandable. 

 

He’s dying. 

 

Jungkook is killing himself. 

 

(Maybe… maybe he deserves…. deserves..)

 

---- 

 

Jungkook fastens his eyes on his bowl of cereal, biting back the burning tears as he shakily lifts the spoon again. He’s comfortable enough in these open spaces, hell, his Hyungs continue to avoid him for the most part - but Taehyung was just in here. Jungkook could hear him messing around the kitchen in quiet clangs, the rustling of plastic. 

“You look pale.” A voice had said, and Jungkook’s head had whipped up, eyes wide. Taehyung looks awkward. Eyes flitting, jaw tight, fingers gripping onto a packet of something sweet. 

 

“You look pale.” Taehyung had repeated, their eyes connecting for a moment. Jungkook had just dipped his head, listened to his Hyung leaving the room. 

Now, Jungkook brushes it off, chewing shakily on his cereal. Of course he looks pale. His magic is literally starting to eat at his organs, he can’t breathe without pins and needles jabbing into all his limbs. Of course Jungkook looks pale. But he brushes it off, disregarding it. It’s nothing about caring, nothing of concern. 

 

That would be too much to ask, too merciful. 

 

They don’t care. 

Taehyung probably said that to mock him, to try and make him insecure or something (they would never do that to you, Jungkook, please-) so he buries the comment in the back of his mind and shovels the last spoonful of cereal into his mouth. Once the ceramic has left his lips, the milk from the bowl drunk, Jungkook moves into the kitchen, bowl in hand. His movements are slow, sluggish as he places the objects into the sink. With a heavy sigh, he grips onto the counter, squeezing his eyes closed. 

 

He must have stood up too fast. His head is spinning, vision flickering with dizzy spots. Fuck. He needs to get up slower. He can’t afford to pass out, to worry anyone. Jungkook waits until it feels a little less like his brain is exploding before opening his eyes, turning around slowly, eyes locking onto the kitchen doorway-

 

There’s someone there. 

 

Jungkook’s eyes widen. 

Kim Namjoon takes a slow step forward, eyes scanning Jungkook’s face. They’re just a few paces apart, something heavy in the air. Oh, what is he thinking? Jungkook drops his gaze to the floor, moves to step to one side, but a gentle hand on his arm stops him. 

 

Eye contact again. Glossy eyes to hard. 

 

“You look pale.” Namjoon whispers, and his hand is rising in the air slowly. Jungkook’s heart skips a beat. Because, because for just a moment, it looks as if Kim Namjoon is about to cup his cheek. Cup his face like he always used to, allow Jungkook to melt into his palm, find comfort in his large hands. 

 

The hand jerks away, curling back by the man’s side. 

“Take care of yourself. We can’t afford to have anyone weak on the team.” 

He’s storming away, Jungkook closing his eyes, waiting for a door to slam. 

 

Fuck. 

 

Idiot! 

 

Of course that is what it’s about. They’re worried about him weakening the team, dragging them down. Not to worry, not to worry, Jungkook won’t let anything happen to them, even if it kills him. 

 

Yet why are there angry tears tracking down his cheeks? 

 

Stupid. 

 

Jungkook wipes the tears away with an angry sniffle, grimacing as he feels the sting of his breakfast at the back of his throat. Dammit. He needs to throw up again. Maybe find some ice to place on his runes - it feels like needles are gouging into his skin, a burning down his spine. 

 

It hurts to breathe. 

 

But that’s okay, because it normally does. 

 

Jungkook is used to it. 

----

 

Fuck, his bootlace is untied and Jungkook can’t fucking run fast enough. He stumbles, cursing a little as his palm smacks onto the nearby wall to steady himself. His breath is laboured, heavy and strained as he kicks his boot off, curses at it. He abandons it there, continuing down the corridor, calves screaming as he breaks back into a sprint. 

 

Jungkook doesn’t have time for mistakes! 

 

They’re here, trapped in the walls of some ancient stone building - standing against the struggle of time. Unfortunately, not something to be preserved apparently, not when it’s been the home to a small band of rather aggressive witches. Witches that will do anything to ensure their survival (including slaying magical families, children included). 

They need to terminate them. Fill out the contract. 

 

So if Jungkook’s fucking boots could behave, that would be nice! 

Just an hour ago, he had been eating breakfast. And by “breakfast”, Jungkook means he had been drinking a glass of water in the kitchen, trying to fight back the sting of bile. Even from just that, an essential liquid, his body seems to be repulsed by it. Running on three hours of sleep and a few back exercises (the arch of his bones as he’d vomited), Jungkook feels like death himself. He’d been thinking about going back to bed, at the very least being warm even if he didn’t actually sleep. 

 

Maybe, maybe he could ask Namjoon for one of his plant concoctions. It’s getting that bad. 

 

But then Hoseok had bustled into the kitchen, phone to his ear, dragging a protein bar out of the pantry. He had made a violent gesture toward a shuddering Jungkook, who had instantly straightened, standing to attention. 

 

“We have a contract,” His Hyung had told him roughly, opening his mouth to charr the protein bar, flames licking back into his lips as he hurriedly eats it, “It’s time dependent. Car. Now.” 

 

Maybe Jungkook would have tried to actually eat something if he’d known he was going to be running about but- but it’s supposed to be his day off! 

 

Oh well. 

His palm slams into the wall again as he races around another corner, heart in his throat and-

 

Jungkook’s back is definitely not flexible enough for the position he drops into, staring wide-eyed at the hole in the wall - sizzling just where he stood. He rolls onto his side, pushing up, heart in his mouth, watching as Jimin dodges backward, forehead slick with sweat. There are plants over the floor, seeds that are sprouting - he must have dropped them to enable Namjoon’s magic, to make sure he has some protection. 

 

The banshee doesn’t have the same aspect of magic. Where is another one of his Hyungs? They never, never leave Jimin alone! He’s only hands on, only good in combat, when it comes down to magic he’s-

Jimin shrieks, the sound of his body hitting the ground loud and upsetting. Jungkook’s eyes find him instantly - luckily, it seems that Namjoon’s magic caught him before he hit stone - but he looks tired. Exhausted even.

The witch across the room cackles. They look young - young but wrong - their magic twisted viciously around their soul, tying something dark and terrifying to their human soul. Jungkook curses, shoving himself up from the ground and starting toward Jimin. 

His heart is ringing in his ears. 

 

He can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the sound of his breathing. 

 

His pupils expand with the colour, the colour and expansion as the witch casts out a spell, hands outstretched, magic expanding. 

 

No. 

 

No! 

 

Jungkook can’t, he isn’t- 

He can’t comprehend anything else except the painful sensation of his closed fists smacking together, joints of his thumb pressing together painfully as he feels his bones click into position, his runes whirr into motion. 

 

It fucking hurts. 

 

It burns, burns like fire and Jungkook gasps, eyes bulging, arms shaking. His spine is on fire, bones cracking. The magic is hanging loosely in the air, the witch staring at them in shock. It trembles there, shakes like a leaf. 

 

“Jimin, MOVE!” Jungkook shrieks. His arms are shaking, hot and shaking, losing their sensations and he can’t feel anything, can’t see anything as black flashes in front of his vision. He can feel the runes on his skin screaming, screaming and bleeding and bleeding and it hurts-

Help me! 

The explosion hurts a little less. So does rolling over the floor, body battered. Jungkook gasps out as his back smashes into something, a wall maybe. He can’t really see, can only feel the breathtaking cracking of his bones, the lingering burn as his magic twists at his lungs in agony. 

 

There’s smoke. Smoke when his vision slowly clears, blurred by tears. Jungkook gasps wetly, plants a palm on the ground and tries to push himself up. Everything hurts. But that doesn’t matter, not now, not when he searches, searches-

Jimin. 

 

Jimin lying still on the ground a few metres away, face down. A cry gets stuck in his throat. The unimaginable feeling of grief as Jungkook silently calls out his name. There are tears on his cheek, trying desperately to pull himself forward, shelter his hyung and- 

 

He’s failed. He’s failed, failed again and now Jimin is going to get hurt. This is all his fault, all his fault as he tries to drag himself forward, swallowing his cries. Maybe, maybe he can at least shield his Hyung with his physical body. Maybe-

The faint crackles of magic. 

Colour expanding in his pupils as he sees the flash of a spell, the tendrils of it shooting directly toward Jimin’s limp body. 

Jungkook wants to scream. 

 

He can’t-

 

No! 

His hands are flying up over his face, chest seizing as something loud and crackling fills the air. It feels like an electrical storm - sizzling and tense - and when Jungkook opens his eyes again, there stands a savior. 

Tall, jaw set, eyes dark, Kim Seokjin is a vision as he casts a hand upward, nullifies the witches’ spells with ease. Jungkook’s hazy eyes find Jimin again - Taehyung is by his side, a hand on the man’s back, face filled with concern. He can see the rise and fall of Jimin’s back as he breathes. 

Thank fucking god. 

Jungkook presses a hand to his stomach in relief, breathing in deeply. He feels like throwing up and his hands won’t stop fucking trembling.

Fuck! 

The world is spinning, spinning, spinning and there’s something warm, something slick running down his back, Jungkook can feel it there, dripping, dripping-

“What the actual fuck, Jeon Jungkook!”

 

The first words Kim Seokjin speaks to him in five years are angry, a clear accusation as he drags Jungkook up by his shoulder, ignoring his pained hiss. 

“You have ONE job!” Kim Seokjin is yelling at him - but the yells are just echoing rings, faint and dulled as Jungkook draws in a pained breath, grimaces at the pain in his spine - “ONE job! To make sure no one gets fucking injured by magic! What the hell is wrong with you?! You can’t even fucking compress one tiny fucking spell?” 

He’s letting go of Jungkook, almost throwing him away. There’s a disgusted sneer on his face, something cold and disregarding. It slices him right to the heart, has tears welling in his eyes.

“ You, you let Jimin get hurt. How fucking could you! I don’t care how much you hate us, this is not acceptable! You have one fucking job and you failed.” 

He’s by Jimin’s side now, silent and ignoring, hands gentle as he pulls the banshee into a cradling hold. He seems unconscious. Taehyung’s cheeks are slick with tears - not enough though to cast a harsh glare Jungkook’s way. 

 

It’s his fault. 

 

His fault. 

It’s Jungkook’s fault as he slams into his bedroom, slick hands slamming the door behind him, chest rising and falling at a hysterical speed as he collapses to the floor, pulls his knees to his chest. 

 

His fault, his fault, his fault. 

 

It’s his fault. 

 

A siren in his brain, a choir singing the same tune over and over and over and over-

 

He’s crying. And it’s disgustingly loud, a wail as he buries his face into his hands. He’s- it’s his fault! Why should he care if his own body is falling apart, why should he, when it’s his fault that one of his precious, precious Hyungs got hurt! 

His back hurts, his ribs are splitting down the middle, he’s sure he probably has a concussion and his digestive system has completely shut down. He’s falling, falling, becoming a shell of what Jungkook once was, his body, falling, falling, falling-

 

But it was his fault! 

Jungkook will let himself fall. 

 

But he refuses to let them. 

 

Not them. 

 

Maybe him. 

 

But never them. 

He cries until he can’t breathe, until his vision blurs black and his head hits the floor. 

It’s peaceful there. 

 

----

 

Jungkook hisses as he awkwardly presses the soaked pad at the base of his spine. It sends a hot spark of pain up his back, making him shiver. When he draws the pad away - it’s red. Completely soaked red and he throws it into the small trash can, brow furrowing. It’s hard cleaning your own wounds and general, and when they’re on your spine? Jungkook thinks he is breaking his arms with every awkward twist. And the pain isn’t helping in the slightest. He better not need stitches. 

When he’d finally dragged himself up from the floor, woken up from his crying fit, his guilty conscience, he’d dragged himself to his tiny bathroom to clean up. Upon taking off his shirt, Jungkook had been greeted by a horrific sight. 

His back. 

 

Specifically, a few of his runes. Once comfortably settled down the center of his spine, safe and protected, there is a bloody split down the center of his few bottom runes. 

They’ve been split. Cut directly down the middle by a bloody gorge, his skin has split directly down his spine, revealing his raw flesh inside. His magic. Split, torn apart, black bleeding out into his skin. Is this….- upon trying to flex his magic, the split runes refuse to move. They’re stuck, broken, his magic unable to move from his spine. 

What the fuck?! 

Jungkook moves to gently wipe at the blood again, hissing as the cleaning liquid burns at his tender skin. This has never happened before. Jungkook doesn't know what is happening. All he knows is that he is scared, that his magic is damaged, and that it’s getting harder and harder to breathe. 

He throws the bloody pad into the bin and turns to collect another. Low and behold, the packet is empty and Jungkook curses at it, grimacing as the cold air stings at his open wound. 

Fuck. 

 

He needs more pads, bandages too. 

There must be some in the kitchen, right? He knows that they keep a first aid kit in the pantry, so surely, they must have a roll of bandages there at the very least. With a pained groan, Jungkook drags a black t-shirt over his head, biting the inside of his cheek as the fabric grates against his wound. Metal against skin. 

 

He can’t let them see. Doesn’t want them to feel guilt. It’s not their problem, it’s Jungkooks. He’s too weak. If he wasn’t so weak, he wouldn’t have gotten hurt. Jimin wouldn’t have gotten hurt. 

It’s all his fault. 

 

He shouldn’t even be asking for their bandages. Shouldn’t be wasting their precious resources. But it hurts. It hurts as Jungkook bites back tears, slowly limping down his hidden staircase. It hurts when he breathes out, steps, more like drags himself toward the kitchen. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It hurts as his bloody flesh is stretching over his bone, exposed to the elements, exposed to the world in a way it never should be. 

 

This has never happened before. A few more millimeters deep, and Jungkook is sure he would be able to see the bones of his spine. He can’t even bend without a tight, agonizing feeling, one that he can’t muffle the cry of. Why- and it’s his magic. As if his body is giving up, tearing itself apart to try and keep going. His magic and body are fighting, fighting to survive. As if his body tore his magic apart to try and keep him alive. 

 

Jungkook would be a liar if he said he wasn’t scared. Wasn’t terrified. 

 

He needs a hug right now. He needs to tell someone! Needs to get help. Surely, surely one of his Hyungs would know what to do. Would know what is happening. Maybe, maybe they would… help him? 

 

Please? 

Jungkook reaches the kitchen doorway and almost cries in relief, ready to pull himself into the space and raid the pantry. He doesn’t notice how tense the air feels, doesn’t even pick up on the magic trail until it’s too late. 

“I don’t want him here anymore.” 

He freezes. 

His heart drops to a familiar place at the balls of his feet. 

 

Suddenly, his back doesn’t hurt that badly. 

“It’s been long enough. We’re well past the bloody welfare check and after today, well..”

 

“We all knew it was coming. Why don’t we let things settle a little, let Jiminie recover a bit, and then we’ll ask him to move out.” 

 

“Out, out, Namjoon-ah. I don’t want him lurking in that tiny apartment either. That’s too damn close. I don’t care about what paperwork we have to do, I want him out.” 

 

“I know, Hyung. We’ve left things in a limbo for too long, foolishing thinking- well. It’s time we end things officially. We’ll have to think about his status as a coworker as well.” 

 

“I’m glad we’re in agreement.” 

But we’re not in agreement, Jungkook wants to cry, his eyes damp with tears for what feels like the hundredth time today, we’re not! I don’t- I don’t want you to hate me! Please! He can’t breathe. His throat is caught, his eyes bulging as he presses a hand over his mouth. 

The bandages seem like such a distant issue, something so irrelevant that Jungkook finds himself back in his bathroom, biting at his bottom lip enough to draw blood as he muffles a sob. 

They really, really don’t care. 

 

They don’t care at all. 

 

They’re going to abandon him. 

 

They don’t want him. 

 

It breaks him. 

The trashcan that sits in the corner, filled with bloody tissues, stares back at him sadly. If only Jungkook had a chance to explain, to let everyone know the truth, to explain his side. 

The night has completely consumed the day, and the kitchen bin sits full. A shadow slides over the countertops, the tap flicking on as someone slowly fills up a glass of water. Hoseok is a weak, weak man, especially when one of his coven mates had asked him for water in such a sleepy, sweet voice. He sighs, turning, his eyes dragging over the bin. 

 

Hmm. 

 

It wasn’t that full earlier. 

 

His brows furrow. 

 

Slowly, Hoseok steps forward - flicking up the lid of the bin. There’s a bag shoved there on top, sealed tightly. It’s not one of theirs, surely not, so it must be… 

 

Of course it’s him taking up their bin space. Hoseok sighs angrily, gnawing on his bottom lip. What the hell could Jeon Jeongguk need to deposit so much of? Curiosity is a disease, licking at the back of his mouth, so with slow fingers, he summons a tiny flame, burns away the tiny layer of plastic. 

 

It’s red. 

 

All, all red. 

 

The glass of water trembles. 

 

Blood on blood on blood, bloody articles, pieces of fabric used to mop, even a bloody towel, soaked through with blood. His heart catches in his throat, eyes burning with tears. What- what is this?

 

Is there… something wrong with Jungkook?

 

There’s something wrong. 

“Oh, Jungkook-ah… what have you done?” 

----

 

It’s an inescapable fact that Jungkook’s body is dying on him. It’s dying whilst he’s still locked inside, banging at the door, gripping onto the bars, screaming to be let out of his prison. 

 

It’s killing him. Keeping him prisoner. He’s locked inside his own, dying body. 

 

He’s terrified. 

Jungkook is terrified when he wakes and his fingers are black - black and stiff, skin peeling. The black is spreading, eating at his skin as his limbs start to die. He works himself up into a panic attack, tugging at his fingers with muffled cries, hoping that it’s some cruel prank, that the decay will just peel off. 

 

It doesn’t. It’s eating at his toes too. 

He should tell someone, he tells himself, Jungkook really should. Instead, he weeps in the bathroom, cradles his dying fingers to his chest and pulls on a set of gloves in public. Plasters a smile onto his face and ignores any looks cast his way. Glove after glove after glove. 

They don’t care. They want him to move out anyway. Hopefully, they ask him soon. 

So when he does die, they won’t have to deal with the grief. 

 

(Jungkook isn’t sure they will even care though, and that thought has his eyes growing hot.)

 

He’s fine. He can keep going, he’s fine. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t slept in weeks, doesn’t matter that his eye bags are so black that it could be a type of coffee, doesn’t matter that his stomach can no longer tolerate anything but a few tiny sips of water - and even then, that is coming up in a retch of bile. 

Jungkook is fine. 

 

He is. 

 

(He isn’t.) 

 

(But it’s okay. He’s accepted it.)

He’s fine. 

Everything is going to be okay. 

Jungkook can’t even wrap his fingers around the car door frame to drag himself out, no, his fingers are too stiff to bend - so instead, he awkwardly drags his wrist around the line of metal, uses it to help himself out of the car. The gloves rub against his decaying skin painfully and he bites back a hiss, rubbing his wrists together to urge the fabric up just a little. 

They’re out again today, bound by the painful tendrils of their contract. If Jungkook hadn’t of fucked up so long ago, hadn’t caused that horrific, horrific explosion - the one that ended up killing civilians - then his Hyungs wouldn’t have had to banter to keep his freedom. 

Even though he had stolen from them, ripped parts of them away, they still fought to keep him out of life in prison. Fought to sign a contract together, strapping them together, to work under the government like dogs. 

Somewhere inside him, as Jungkook looks up at the shadowy building in front of them (they all blend together now), he has a feeling that this will be their last job. Probably because they’re going to end their joint contract with him. So, he’ll treasure his last mission, his last contract with them. 

 

Cradle it close to his chest and will weep over it when no one can see. 

 

It’s the last. 

 

The final. The feeling is so heavy, so finalized in his chest. Set in stone, a motion that was set in place so, so long ago. 

 

Jungkook breathes out softly, steps forward, following the dark back of Taehyung. 

“Hey.” 

There’s a light hand on his shoulder, making him jump, and Jungkook spins around, eyes wide. Yoongi is looking at him, small in his thick coat. There’s something indescribable in his eyes, something that Jungkook just can’t pinpoint. But it’s there, dancing in his pupils. 

 

“Are you… okay?” 

The first words Min Yoongi has spoken to him in five years is asking him if he’s okay. 

“You haven’t been sleeping,” The man murmurs, eyes scanning his face, “Can I-... help? In any way?” 

 

There’s a lump in Jungkook’s throat. 

“No, I’m-” His voice breaks, squeaky and taut, “I’m okay, Yoongi-ssi. Please don’t worry. I won’t bother you for much longer.” 

He turns, hurrying toward the building. There’s heat behind his eyes, a hitching of his chest and his lungs aren’t allowing air in anymore. Everything is so, so tight and he’s about to fucking cry and the tight skin on his back is pulling, that open, open wound stinging-

“Bun!” He hears Min Yoongi call, and if Jungkook was stupid, he might’ve thought that his tone sounded worried. No, no, that was just a trick of his mind. So, he ignores it, hurries down the corridor following the faint scent of his Hyungs magic. 

 

He probably just imagined the call after all. There’s zero percent chance that Min Yoongi would call him a pet name. 

This building seems worst than the rest. Cobwebs threatening to invade his mouth at every step, sending him spluttering, the walls crumbling and earthy around him. At least Namjoon’s magic will be accessible in here. Normally some of them have to carry seeds around. 

Aish, what is he even thinking about? Jungkook draws to a halt, chest panting as he plants a palm against the wall, peers around cautiously. What was he thinking, running off in here in a random direction? He could’ve run directly into the jaws of death for all he knew! 

 

He has to disregard everything. Focus. Focus. Focus on the mission, focus on getting out-

 

That focus leads to an hour long, very boring exploration of their newest locations. Jungkook sighs, fingers trailing down a dusty wall. It’s not easy to really focus either, not with the scorching pain that is zapping down his spine every few seconds. 

 

And this place seems utterly dead. It doesn’t seem like anyone is here, not really. Abandoned. Maybe the contract information was wrong? Oh well. What is another hour of searching. Maybe Jungkook will get his focus back. 

Well, it’s bloody well hard to focus when he ends up stumble into a room, hours in and tired, watching one of his hyungs struggle in the grasp of some stranger. Some stranger clad in a dark cloak, flashing eyes. Textbook magical villain. 

 

But Taehyung’s face is turning purple. 

 

And it’s… quiet. 

 

It’s eerie how silent the room is, how one of his Hyungs is silently dying and yet nobody has heard a thing. Jungkook’s mouth falls open from where he’s hidden in the shadows, watching Taehyung kick out with a muted snarl. How can… how can death be so quiet? There isn’t a sound. Not one. 

 

Death is terrifying. 

 

I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die. 

 

And that tension in the air. Like something is about to happen, his magic is prickling on edge, a whisper in the back of his mind. 

 

Jungkook needs to back away, go find one of his other Hyungs, get them to help save Taehyung, but-

But his feet aren’t listening to him, neither is his voice as he stumbles a few steps forward into the room. 

Out into plain sight. 

 

Whelp, fuck. What can he do now?

“Taehyung-Hyung!” Jungkook yells, and the man is turning toward him, eyes blazing. Taehyung is struggling in his grip, clearly trying to say something, but the man is raising his free hand, fingers cocking. 

Electricity soars. It cuts through the air as Jungkook stumbles backward with a gasp, ears ringing. He faintly hears the wall crackling behind him. His body is cold in shock, mouth open. 

 

What-? That’s- that’s Taehyung’s magic so why-

Manipulation. 

 

Harnessing others’ magic. 

Fuck! 

His ears are ringing, hair sticking up from where the electricity had just scarcely missed him, and Jungkook slams his hands together, preparing himself to summon his own magic. If that hits him then he’s-

Fire. 

Fire and it’s hot and has him dropping to his knees, gasping. Why is the world passing by so slowly? Ticking by like a reel on an old film camera. Not yet joined together to run smooth. Jungkook’s movements are so slow, so slow as his eyes turn. 

Jung Hoseok is a sight when he’s angry. Hair glowing like his phoenix feathers, flames burning in his eyes. 

His ears are ringing, ringing as he watches Taehyung being cast to the ground, the magic manipulator laughing loudly. It’s cold, mocking, almost… familiar. Not quite, but it tingles on the edge of it. He needs to move. Move now. 

Fuck! Why does Jungkook’s head hurt so much?! It feels like there’s something he needs to realize, something he needs to realize now but it’s just- just out of reach! A .. a familiar magic trail? It’s on the tip of his tongue and Jungkook squeezes his eyes closed, trying to grab onto it. 

He is, however, distracted by Hoseok screaming his name. 

By the barrels of fire that soar towards him as the manipulator grasps at Hoseok’s throat with a snarl. How- how did they move so fast? How long has it been since Jungkook tuned out from the world? How did his Hyung end up overpowered? 

 

Fire. 

 

Toward him. 

Oh. 

 

Oh that is going to be hot. 

Jungkook can’t- he can’t- he can’t compress that, he’s not ready and-

All he can do is squeeze his eyes closed with a gasp, cover his face with his hands and tremble, bracing himself for the overwhelming heat and-.. He knew he’d die at some point. Jungkook really does. He just didn’t anticipate it being at the hands of one of his Hyungs magic. 

 

But oh well. 

 

End result is the same. 

 

He braces himself, grits his teeth together. 

Magic. 

So vivid, dancing on his tongue. Strong, familiar, protecting. 

Jungkook lets out a wet gasp, stumbling backward, eyes wide. Seokjin meets his eyes, and no, no, Jungkook doesn’t see worry in there, he can’t, no, not as Seokjin casts the shield away, the fire melting into the ground. 

Kim Seokjin… just shielded him. 

 

He-

 

Jungkook’s eyes widen, watching as the enemy casts Hoseok to a side - he lands directly on Taehyung’s trembling body, them curling together tightly. Something… something… His eyes, his vicious, vicious eyes are directly on Seokjin and- and Jungkook can’t just let him-

“HYUNG!” He screams, and Seokjin is looking at him in an instant, eyes wide, mouth falling open, “HYUNG WATCH OUT-” 

Magic in the air, soaring. 

 

It’s- it’s the same as it was back then. 

 

That expansion. Those evil, evil hands that increase the magic in the blood, pump it until the person will explode. It’s the same. It’s the reason why Jungkook had to hurt his Hyungs back then. 

 

It’s the same fucking person. 

Familiar magic trail. He had tasted it back then, back on that day when his own magic had exploded. Back when he had to hurt his Hyungs in order to save them. It’s burning through his tongue. How could he not have recognized it sooner? It’s haunted his nightmares for long enough. 

There, hiding behind the manipulator, smirk visible from the curve of his coat. 

 

Him. 

No. 

Not this fucking time. 

 

Jungkook might be fucked - he’s locked into his fate, his body decaying, but he refuses, refuses to let any of them get hurt. 

Not again. 

He can’t register anything. Nothing but the burn at the base of his spine as his broken runes click back into motion - knitted together over split skin, holding hands via tiny, tiny inken threads. They’re digging into his spine, implanting into his bone, his magic thrumming underneath his fingertips. It hurts, hurts, like boiling water is being poured over his skin, but Jungkook can. Not. let. This. happen. 

Palms slam together like a crack of lightning and time stops for a moment. 

His eyes gleam with tears. They close, tremble. 

His magic bursts.

It’s like a tidal wave, sucking the air from his lungs, curling around the attacking magic like a vice. The thing screams, screams and howls, fights back against his own with clawed hands. It’s a struggle, a tumble in mid-air as compression and expansion go head to head. 

Jungkook can feel the blistering pain of the skin up his skin cracking - the gorge is spreading, blood is pulsing down his back as his runes scream, their threads stretched to the limit as they claw onto their halves. There’s blood, blood dripping from his nose and his vision is going blurry, but that magic is letting out one, one final scream, and it’s finally consumed by his own. 

He’s dropped to his knees. It hurts. Everything does. His vision is hazy as he breathes out shallowly, watches as the tendrils of magic slowly slither toward him. Watches as they settle onto his hands, curl around his wrists. Watches as his body tries to ingest it. 

 

Jungkook can’t.

He can not process any more magic. 

 

He’s well past his limit. 

 

It’s over. 

He registers cold underneath his palms as they slam into the ground, back arching and a painful gag leaves his mouth. It makes his eyes bulge, his throat heaves out a sob of agony, and he’s vomiting. And it’s red. Red and hot as blood drips from his lips, as Jungkook’s body heaves again and it’s more blood, so, so much red. 

Someone is screaming. 

It’s a familiar scream. 

 

Jimin. 

A ghost of a smile curves over his lips as he succumbs to his tiredness, allows his body to fall. It lands, sticky in his puddle, too tired to even curl into a ball. Here, in this position, in his own blood, it feels so much like back then. Back then when he had betrayed them. When he’d lain in his own blood, feeling their stolen magic coursing through his blood, wrapping around his own because by lord his Hyungs were going to protect him in every single sense. 

The blackness is a reveal. An escape from the pain. Jungkook welcomes it with open arms and a relieved sniffle.

----

It’s warm.

 

It’s warm and it’s so nice on Jungkook’s cold joint. He lets out a happy little shudder, nuzzling into the soft next to him. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this. Content, comfortable, held. As if after years of being in survival mode, he’s finally, finally able to live again. 

 

He doesn’t want to open his eyes. Doesn’t want to embrace the coming waves of pain again. It hurts, it hurts too much and he just wants everything to stop. 

 

Jungkook is tired. 

 

He doesn’t want to do this anymore. 

It’s why he kicks and screams as he feels the curl of pain around his ankle again, roughly tugging him back in the direction of reality. It’s why Jungkook claws at the ground, ripping at his fingers as reality tries to coax him back, drag his unwilling body back toward the darkness. He doesn’t want to do this again, he doesn’t want to- it hurts! 

Reality is just as painful as Jungkook thought it would be. 

It’s hot, searing air that burns into his lungs as he takes his first conscious breath, and just as he’d feared - everything fucking hurts. This entire body aches, rhythmical shoots of spiking pain, burning sensations on different parts of his body. His entire back feels split open, raw and doused in salt. A feeble, pained whine grits out from between Jungkook’s teeth as he feels a tear trail down his cheek. It falls to the side, running over his ear. 

 

Is he… lying down? 

 

Why… why is he lying down? He isn’t still on that floor in his own pool of blood… is he? Surely, surely they wouldn’t be that cruel. The thought has another tear running down the side of his eye, a creaky, distressed sound leaking from his stiff mouth. 

It hurts to breathe. 

Suddenly, there’s a flurry of movement. The sound of someone stumbling, something dropping, and then it’s closer, someone dropping to their knees by this side. This must be a dream, it surely must if anyone, anyone is daring to be close to him. 

“Oh, oh Jungkookie,” And it’s Taehyung, Taehyung is here, “Oh, oh, you’re awake, wait, HYUNG! HYUNG!” 

 

Why… why is it… why is it.. Taehyung?

The rapid screech of his voice has Jungkook flinching, shuddering back into his pained body. He can feel hands in his hair, a thumb gently stroking over the expanse of his forehead, Taehyung’s low voice murmuring something gentle. 

 

Why- what is with these gentle hands? There are tears spilling down his cheeks as his chest hitches in a sob, his hand curling uselessly in the bed? Sheets. Bed sheets. He’s in a bed. Jungkook forces his eyes open, stares up at the familiar ceiling just as a resounding bang bursts into Namjoon’s room. 

He’s in Namjoon’s room. 

 

The master bedroom. 

 

The bedroom where they all used to sleep together, sleep in the protective curl of Namjoon’s magic-

“Jungkook-ah? Oh, baby.” 

They’re all here. He can hear them, see them, sense their magic as they’re crowding around him. He watches through teary eyes as he feels the bed dip, Yoongi is at his side, curling against his shoulder, eyes dark with worry. He can feel the tension, see the concern stretched over their faces as they touch him, touch him as if they’re afraid he will break. 

 

“Why-” 

It’s overwhelming, everything gushing back and Jungkook sobs. He’s so confused. More than confused, actually. Because yesterday, yesterday he woke up and they hated him. Hated him for what he had done, hated him for hurting them in the most intimate way possible. They wouldn’t even speak to him. And now they’re here - touching him with soft hands, crying over his weak body and it’s- it’s overwhelming. 

 

Maybe Jungkook is a little angry too. They’ve ignored him for five years and suddenly, suddenly they’re here. Pretending as if nothing has happened, as if they didn’t shun him for all that time. Didn’t pretend like Jungkook was scum on the bottom of their boots. 

 

Like they didn’t stop loving him for five. Whole. Years. 

 

It all burns. 

“Why- why are you being like this? Don’t you- don’t you hate me?” 

Hoseok’s face twists into something guilty in his field of vision, their eyes locking onto each others, but Jungkook pushes forward. He isn’t stupid, he can feel the weak thrum of his magic, he knows that if nothing else, his magic is at the very least dying. He has to explain. He has to. He’s angry, so, so angry that they didn’t hear his side of the story, didn’t even try to listen. And maybe there’s some part of Jungkook too, some part that hasn’t confronted what went down on that horrid day. 

“I didn’t- I didn’t want to-” He croaks out and someone hushes him. 

 

“We know, we know,” Yoongi sounds tearful, and it’s so strange, “We know, just save your strength-”

 

“No, no you don’t!” Jungkook almost shouts and he feels a painful tug at his vocal cords, but it manages to stun everyone into silence, “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to hurt you, I didn’t want to but, but-” 

 

“That man,” Seokjin murmurs, and Jungkook’s eyes roll over to meet his, glossy, teary, “That man today. He was from back then, wasn’t he? And his magic, his magic… expansion, isn’t it?”

 

Silence in the room. Thick, knowing. Jungkook needs to keep going. He needs to make them understand. 

It all comes down to what happened that day five years ago. 

 

On that fateful day in July. 

 

When Jungkook had woken up, it had been normal. Normal as he’d had bites of breakfast, separated between pressing kisses to Jimin and Taehyung’s mouths, giggling with them at the coffee table. Back then, they hadn’t been in the contract, hadn’t been under the government - but Seokjin Hyung had heard of a small group of magic users who had been terrorizing a small neighborhood up north. 

 

So they’d loaded themselves up into their car - Hoseok driving, Namjoon pressed by Jungkook’s side, and they’d driven for what had seemed like hours. Hours of napping on Namjoon’s shoulder, almost drooling in his sleep. And then they had arrived there. 

 

Where it all happened. 

 

It had been a set of ruined stone houses - a little spooky looking, the sky growing dark. And, before Jungkook had been able to clamber out of the car - Yoongi had dragged him in for a long, tender kiss. 

 

“ Be careful out there, okay? Still close to Hyung.” 

 

And Jungkook had nodded with a relaxed smile, pressing another kiss to the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. And then together, together, they had clambered out of the van. 

 

And that’s where it had all gone wrong. 

 

They were there, hiding amidst the ruins, waiting for them. An ambush. They’d been expected, almost anticipated, and Jungkook remembers the yelp that Jimin had let out when Namjoon had shoved him out of the way. 

 

The battle itself, well, to Jungkook’s current brain, it’s a blur. A blur of fighting, of cracking lightning and curling plants, and of Seokjin’s strong magic washing over him like a current. Yoongi hadn’t foreseen this, he hadn’t seen any of it. 

 

They were truly, truly out in the cold. 

 

And then Jungkook had seen him. More like sensed him. Sensed him before he had stepped out from behind one of the stone ruins, a hood low over his eyes. Jungkook remembers how he had spun slowly, eyes wide as the magic had tingled at his senses. So similar to his own and yet… they were opposite. 

 

Compression to expansion. 

 

And it was there, it was there that Jungkook was too late. He had frozen, had only realized a moment later than he should have - that this magician, this expansion user had already grasped onto his Hyungs magic. Had coiled deep, deep into their bodies and infiltrated into their bloodstreams. And Jungkook knew, knew at that moment, that if he didn’t do something, they would die. 

 

They would drown from the inside. 

 

His runes had moved to their strongest formation - spread down the entirety of his back, connected and blinding, and he had slammed his hands together, pinched his eyebrows, let his magic flow freely. So much magic that it hurts. 

 

But it was too late. 

 

His magic had latched on - like a leech, a snake, curling around his Hyungs like a noose and it just wouldn’t let go. Jungkook had screamed, cried, his own magic trying desperately to drag the enemies out, to nullify it, but… but in the fold of everything, in the panic and in his power… part of his Hyungs magic came with it. 

 

Tearing their soul. 

 

A feat worse than death. 

 

Their screams haunt Jungkook at night. Their screams for him to stop, crippling in pain, tears in their eyes but they.. They would’ve died! They would've died if Jungkook hadn’t of… So he had carried on with tears in his own arms, snapping strands of fate and drawing blood as his body had absorbed magic that was not meant for him. 

 

And then everything had exploded. An explosion, Jungkook had later learnt, from the clashing of their magic. Such an explosion that had echoed for miles, ended up killing innocent civilians in the process. Jungkook was a murderer. 

 

And that stolen magic? The magic, the pieces of his Hyungs soul, he couldn’t even give them back. Because those annoying little fuckers had joined with his own, curled around it like a shield, and knitted their way into his blood. If Jungkook tried to remove it now, it would have killed him. 

 

He should’ve done it anyway. 

 

Because the years after that, the years when the ones he loves the most had thought that him, that Jungkook had purposely torn a part of their soul out… those years were pure hell. 

 

Jungkook should’ve just died instead. 

“What do you mean, Hyung?” Jimin’s voice trembles, his face pressed to Yoongi’s shoulder. He sounds distraught. 

“His- his magic is the opposite of mine.” Jungkook croaks out. “Compression to expansion. Whilst I draw magic into myself, he can push it out. Force magic to expand inside people, to multiply. He locks onto the magic inside people, expands it until their veins burst and they die, they die-” He’s tearing up again, but draws in another rasping breath and pushes on.

 

Every word hurts. But he has to tell them, has to tell them the words that he’s practiced in the mirror a thousand times. It’s all bubbling past his lips and he can’t stop it. 

“Back… back then, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I know,” He sobs, “I know I tore parts of you away. But he was- he was already there. Had locked onto your magic and he was going to-” Another sob, “I couldn’t let him kill you. I had to draw his magic out of you, compress it but he already had such a strong hold and it meant- it meant-” 

“Our magic got twisted with everything.” Namjoon finishes quietly. 

Jungkook sobs, his nose screwing up as his chest aches, “I’m sorry. I didn’t- your screams and- and I couldn’t even fucking give it back! Your damn- your damn magic- your fucking overprotectiveness, it- it latched onto my own magic and-”

 

Why would it do that? He had felt it, felt his Hyungs magic twist into his bloodstreams, and of course, he could spit it out if he was quick enough but it had… it had latched on. Curled around his own magic like a blanket, refused to let go no matter how much he had screamed at it to. 

 

Why? 

“Because of our love, Jungkook-ah,” Yoongi whispers, and he sounds so, so sad, “Because we love you. So our magic just wanted to protect you. It’s not your fault.” 

“It is though, it is-” 

“It is not.” Seokjin says firmly, and Jungkook falls silent, eyes hot. It all hurts. It is his fault! 

 

“It is not your fault, Jungkook-ah. You did not do anything wrong. You were just-” His Hyung is crying, crying, “You were just protecting us and we- we didn’t even let you explain. If only I had realized the nature of his magic, I would’ve realized why- I didn’t realize it until I saw him today. And it all clicked. It was the same man and the nature of his magic was so.. Was so dark and then… and then all the pieces just fell together. I should’ve fucking seen it sooner!”

 

 

“I just… I just needed to save you. I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you die.” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Namjoon whispers, his lips pressing to Jungkook’s forehead, “You’re our good boy. Such a good, good boy, always looking out for his Hyungs.” 

Someone is crying somewhere. It’s heavy. It’s so heavy it’s suffocating. The taste of guilt. 

 

And it’s so… so strange. So quick. Too quick. As if… as if they’d had an inkling all along. As if some part of them had still loved him, that is why they are here so quickly. As if they just needed the truth to believe. 

 

As if their love for him overtakes all the pain he’s caused them - is incomparable to the parts of their souls that he had torn away.

 

They… love him?

 

Still?

It smells like heartbreak. Jungkook can see it through his glossy eyes - can see the twists of guilt on their faces, can sense how their magic lashes out angrily, in concern, in distress. They won’t stop touching him, whispering to him, that they’re going to make this right, that they’re going to get him better, that it’s all going to be okay. 

 

They’re angry. Furious. Not at him, Jungkook knows. Five years. It’s not going to be okay, it can’t. They’ve lost so much time. And they… they didn’t believe him. 

 

“It’s going to be okay, little one,” Seokjin is whispering, pressing their lips together, “I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve- I’ve failed you. I’ve failed you so, so badly, I’ve wronged you, Jungkook-ah. It’s going to be okay.” 

 

Jungkook knows that it isn’t.

But he closes his eyes anyway. 

----

He’s not getting better. Jungkook knows that. Can feel it in his chest as he breathes out in a wheeze, shoulders hunched in pain. 

He knows he’s dying. And he thinks his Hyungs know it too - even though they refuse to accept it. He’s heard their arguments, their yelling at one another as they blame themselves, break down into tears of guilt. It breaks his heart, makes his throat clog up when he hears that. 

“It’s our fault,” Jimin had sobbed one night, voice hysterical, “We did this to him, Hyung, we- we treated him like shit and all he did was love us and now-” 

 

“I know,” Namjoon had soothed, “It’s- it is our fault. We only added to his pain when… when he needed us most. Fuck!” 

But it’s not. Jungkook chose this fate. He did this to himself, surely! That’s why he tries his best to smile, tries to reassure them, presses small kisses to the corners of their mouths as they begin to cry, shoulders shaking. 

 

He’s fine. 

Jungkook hisses gently as Yoongi presses the flannel to the bloody gorge on his back, trying to gently clean the split of his skin. His runes are there - broken, magic fading. They don’t move anymore, don’t communicate with him. It’s a useless, useless feeling. 

“I know, I know it’s painful,” Yoongi whispers, pressing a kiss to his wet shoulder. 

 

“It hurts,” Jungkook responds, staring down at the bathwater with hazy eyes. He can see the bruises littering his body, the dark purples and greens, the limp colour of his limbs. The blackness that has spread up through most of his veins, the dying flesh on his lower legs and arms. 

“We left him to struggle alone,” Jungkook in bed had heard, Hoseok curled to his front, their noses brushing. 

 

Is that.. Seokjin…? Yelling? 

“We left him alone and we just added to his anguish, we were killing him and we-” 

 

“I know, Hyung. I know.”

 

“We need to fix this, I can’t- I can’t-” 

 

Panicked, hysterical breaths fill the air. 

“He’ll never forgive us, he’ll never forgive us and he shouldn’t but oh… oh Yoongi. Yoongi I- we love him and we- we’re responsible. We killed him.”

They haunt Jungkook’s nightmares when he finally falls asleep. 

“I’m dying, Hyung.” 

“No, you’re not.” Yoongi hisses angrily, throwing the flannel to a side and grasping at his face with firm fingers, “Jungkook-ah, you’re going to be fine, you have to be.” 

 

Jungkook reaches up, awkwardly lays his dying hands over Yoongi’s own. He presses a kiss to his Hyungs thumb, eyes welling up. 

“I’m not dumb. I can see how much you hang around me. You’re drawn to death, Hyung. We all know it. You can sense it on me, can’t you?” 

 

“No, no,” Yoongi is crying, eyes reddening as his lip trembles. He doesn't want to accept it. None of them do. Jungkook can see it in their eyes. The denial, the anguish. In the kisses they press to his mouth, the tongue pressed to his lips. They hate themselves. Jungkook doesn’t want them to.

 

It’s okay. 

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” Yoongi is pressing their foreheads together, sobbing, but Jungkook presses on, “Your seer magic… you’ve seen it, haven’t you, Hyung? I’ve heard Jimin’s screams at night. I know it’s coming.” 

 

“No!” Yoongi growls wetly, kissing him firmly on the mouth, “No, I won’t let that fucking vision come true, I won’t, don’t say that!”

The bath water sloshes. 

No one can do anything now.

“It’s not your fault, Hyung.” 

All Jungkook can do is sit, watch how Yoongi slumps back onto the cold tiles and starts to wail into his hands. He watches dully, sadly as Hoseok rushes into the room, collects Yoongi in one of his arms and reaches out to cup Jungkook’s cheek with the other, eyes searching. 

“It’s not your fault.” 

----

He doesn’t want to eat anymore. The days of being coaxed to drink spoonfuls of soup seem so far away as he gently tips his head to the side with a wheezing sigh, closing his eyes.

 

 

Jungkook doesn’t feel so good. His heart is beating just a little too slow, his head is a little too heavy. Every breath he draws in is a struggle, a wheezing pain that makes his teeth rattle. 

“‘M tired, Hyung.” 

 

“I know,” Namjoon whispers, caressing his hair. His voice sounds so, so soft, “I know and I’m sorry.”

 

“It hurts.”

 

“I know, I’m sorry, baby.” 

 

He draws in another breath. His lungs are growing tighter, the world growing quieter. 

He feels… on the edge. It’s so far. 

As if on a cue, tempted in by the dark strings of fate, Jungkook hears the door burst open. It’s murky, faded like an echo, but he forces his eyes back open, draws in another hazy breath. The bed dips beside him and Yoongi’s face swims into view, his hand gently cupping Jungkook’s cheek. 

His eyes are glazed with tears. 

“Hyung?” Namjoon asks faintly and Jungkook can’t see what flows between them, but there’s a short sob and Namjoon is rushing from the room, stumbling clumsily as he goes. 

“Hi. Hi sweet boy.” Yoongi is murmuring and there are tears on his cheeks, running down to drop off his chin. Jungkook wishes he could reach up, wipe them away with his palm and giggle, but his body is all too heavy. 

Oh. 

 

Oh. 

 

On the edge.

So easy to let go. 

“Jungkook-ah, honey, stay with me for just a little longer.” 

A ripple in the lake. It would be so easy to just lie down, let the water soak over his face, let himself drift away in the current. But that voice, that pleading - so he draws in another rasping breath, and listens to the sound of people stumbling through the door. 

“No, no, no!” Someone is crying loudly and there are hands caressing his face, wet spots dropping onto his numb skin. 

“Shh.” Someone else murmurs, a kiss planted on the end of Jungkook’s nose. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” 

 

It doesn’t sound like it’s meant for Jungkook. 

“It hurts, Hyung.” He croaks out, tears gathering under his eyelids before he forces his eyes open, “I don’t want it to hurt anymore.” 

 

They’re crying. Seokjin is crying from where he’s at his side. Taehyung, cuddled with Jimin and Yoongi, their hands clutching at him. Hoseok resting his head on Namjoon’s shoulder, eyes glazed as he grips Jungkooks hand. Namjoon, a hand gentle on his thigh as his lips shake, as tears drop down his cheeks. 

Why are they all crying?

 

It’s okay. He just needs to rest for a bit. 

They're all here. 

“Oh, baby,” Seokjin whispers, pressing their foreheads together, his tears running down Jungkook’s nose, “I’m so sorry. So, so, sorry. This- this is all our fault. We’re- I-” 

Someone is sobbing. They’re sobbing like the world is ending. Like the stars are being snuffed out. They haven’t had enough time. Jungkook hasn’t got to kiss them as much as he would like. Namjoon promised to take him on a picnic date! He wants to stay. He wants to, he wants to-

“We’re going to find you again, okay?” Seokjin is saying, but his voice is fading away, “We’re going to find you in the next life. We’re going to make it up to you, I swear, I swear-” 

 

“We’re going to find you,” Yoongi promises, his voice an echo, “Leave it to Hyung, okay?” 

 

“We don’t deserve it, we don’t deserve it but please, please-” 

“It’s okay,” But Jungkook’s voice doesn’t sound like his own, “It’s okay, I love you. It will be nicer there, won’t it?”

Time is slowing down. The dark waters look so inviting as Jungkook stands on the edge. 

“Of course, it will,” Yoongi is whispering, and he can feel the kisses pressed to the side of his lip, seven of them, “Of course, it will be nicer there, sweetheart. And Hyung is going to come to find you, okay?”

“Just don’t want it to hurt anymore.” 

“I know. We love you, Jungkook-ah.” 

That tugs a smile at the corner of his lips. 

He can still hear their voices. They’re saying things, desperate things, but Jungkook can’t comprehend their words anymore. He can’t understand. And their anguish, their heartbreak is slowly fading away, fading as Jungkook dips his hands into that dark pool. 

It’s… quiet here. There’s no guilt. No self-blaming. He hopes his Hyungs are okay. It’s not their fault, not really. Here, here where the water ripples, it’s so… so quiet. Jungkook can finally breathe, can close his eyes. He can’t feel his fingers, can’t feel his magic and it’s… it’s so nice. 

 

Who is he again? Why is he here? Did he do something.. Wrong? No. No, it wasn’t his fault, was it? Oh well. Does it really matter anymore? Doesn’t the water look so… so nice. His… his Hyungs. Jungkook is forgetting something. Something important. But… but… it hurts to try to think of it. 

Let it go. 

Maybe, maybe… maybe Jungkook never deserved this.

Maybe he deserves a second chance. 

It doesn’t hurt anymore. 

Jungkook tumbles from the edge. 

Chapter 2: Epilogue

Notes:

NO THIS IS NOT A HAPPY EPILOGUE!

The tags for this are basically: grief, mourning, lots of crying, self-blame, self-loathing, guilt, and lots of emotions.

VERY ANGST! Please be warned. I bawled like a baby writing some parts of this, but I do hope you... enjoy?

Jeon Jungkook is dead. 

 

Jeon Jungkook is dead and it’s their fault. 

 

Jimin can’t breathe. He doesn’t think he’s taken a single breath since the moment he watched Jungkook take his very last, the way his body had sank limply onto the sheets, that glimmer draining from his eyes. Past the pain in his chest, Jimin doesn’t remember much about that moment. It turned into a blur the second Jungkook’s face had drained of colour, the harsh, stagged moment as his chest sank, air no longer filling his lungs. 

 

Everything had hung still for a moment. 

 

Horrifying. 

 

Grief. 

 

And then his memories become blurry. 

All he remembers is pain, blood-curdling pain, and someone was screaming, screaming so loudly that his ears had bled and his throat had caught and it was just pain, pain, pain. Someone had dragged him from the room but the screams hadn’t ceased - they’d seared into his brain, sharp and jagged as he’d cried his eyes out, cried until his entire body was shaking, until he was throwing up. 

 

What he does remember though, is what happened hours after. 

They hadn’t been allowed to see Jungkook’s body. Allowed wasn’t the right word. It had been suggested, suggested, and then insisted on by his oldest Hyungs. Even so, it had been cruel, a lot of screaming and shouting, so many tears that Taehyung’s eyes had swollen completely shut - but Seokjin had still insisted. Only he and Yoongi were allowed to see Jungkook’s body and dealt with the aftermath in Namjoon’s bedroom. 

 

It still feels a bit unfair, unfair that Jimin wasn’t allowed in, allowed to see him just one, one last time. But then… his memories of Jungkook might have shifted. They might have changed to the boy cold and pale, eyes lifeless, chest with no movement. Maybe, maybe it was for the better that they weren’t allowed to see his body. 

 

Jimin knows that his dull eyes would have haunted his nightmares for months, weeks. 

 

Years. 

 

All Jimin saw was the black bodybag as they had wheeled him out, the garbage bag of bedsheets, and the packaging of the new mattress when it was delivered. It still stings at his heart, at his eyes, that he wasn’t allowed to see Jungkook a final time. It might have tainted his m memories, yes, yes, it might have haunted him, but there’s something else, something conscious and insistent at the corner of his mind. 

He had lost so much t im e with him, had fucked up so horrendously that Jimin probably didn’t deserve to see him anyway - but he had wanted to. He had wanted to even after he had justified it to himself, chanted it over and over again. He still wanted to. Had wanted to kiss Jungkook’s cheeks one final time, promising that they were going to find them again. A promise that would never be heard, so maybe that would have been selfish on his part. 

But Yoongi was going to make sure of it - to find him. That had soothed his mind a little, had allowed the body bag to pass with dull acceptance, eyes unable to lift from the place they’d sunken to on the floor. 

 

That’s not Jungkook. 

 

That can’t be. 

 

It can’t. 

The reason for concealing his body, well, Jimin had heard it from a whispered discussion with Hoseok late one night. Pressed up tightly against the wall, eyes wet and heart thundering. He wasn’t supposed to hear it, none of them were - even Namjoon has been kept silent on the topic. 

But Jungkook’s magic had torn his body apart. After he died, thankfully, so their poor love hadn’t felt the pain of it - but from what Jimin can gather, from the bits of conversation he could hear, his body practically…. Split. Right down his spine, ruining his runes, bones cracking, and skin splitting. Apparently, it had been so horrific that they knew it would scar the younger ones for life. There wasn’t much of Jungkook left, wasn’t much of his face left to see. 

 

The realization had left Jimin gagging over the toilet, sobbing quietly. So when he had heard Taehyung’s pleas, Namjoon’s questions of their young babes body, well…. Jimin just kept silent. Hushed them, refused to press the topic. 

 

They didn’t need that image left in their heads. Didn’t need that to be their last memory of Jungkook. Didn’t need the horrific red imagery that had now been constructed in Jimin’s mind, the fleeting face of Jungkook so distant now. 

Jimin misses him. It’s a burning ache in his gut, one that has been there for over five years - but now it’s just hollow, almost unbelievably. Jimin… is never going to see him again. He’s not going to be able to sit by that fucking door, living with the knowledge that at least, at least Jungkook is somewhere on the other side. Safe and breathing. That one day, one day when it is right, they’ll be together again. That Jimin will be able to throw open that door and Jungkook will be there, perched on the other side, and all will fall into place. 

 

It will all be right in the world. 

 

It can’t be, not anymore. 

 

There’s no one on the other side of that door. 

It hadn’t been an easy decision to distance themselves from him. There’s no excuse, none at all. He’d ripped a part of their soul away, and it had been an accident, an accident, trying to protect them, but they couldn’t help the way they started to react to his magic. Panic attacks, sickness, anxiety. It had been so easy to just distance themselves, tell themselves that it would just be for a short while, but then it had been so so easy to just keep pushing him further, try to ignore it all, and then it was too late, too late.   

 

There’s no fucking point trying to make excuses. They killed him. They fucking killed him. And Jimin sobs, shoving his fist into his mouth to try and muffle his cries. It’s all their fault. They did this. They deserve the guilt, the body-crippling heartbreak. 

 

They deserve the pain. They deserve every bit of it. The crippling heartache when they stare at the photographs, the ones with the lost boy in them, the ones that now feel lifeless, empty. Jimin deserves to sit in that doorway, tracing those painted flowers with his fingers, wishing, wishing that he had done something. 

 

That he hadn’t been so stupid, hadn’t gone along with it. Had forced everyone to sober up, listen, and communicate as they’d always promised each other they would. 

 

It’s too late now. 

 

The paint is flaking. 

 

 

----

 

 

Jimin pauses at the bottom of the curling staircase, fingers brushing against the wooden wall. It’s far too late to be awake, to be honest, arriving at three am, but he just hasn’t been able to sleep. And now he’s here, paused at the bottom of the curling tree-trunk-like staircase, the one that he knows leads to the one place he hasn’t been in for almost a week. 

 

He honestly doesn’t know how Seokjin managed to fall asleep. He had been tucked to the warlock's side for hours, listening to the man’s breathing, the rise and fall of his chest. He’s almost certain the man has been using sleep spells, lulling himself to sleep, because there’s no way he would be able to otherwise. And, after hours, Jimin had slowly extracted himself from the bed and limped out into the cold corridor. 

 

He curls his other arm around his waist, chewing on his bottom lip. 

 

He…. he hasn’t been in that room since… since…. 

 

Well. 

 

Jimin draws in a deep breath, swallowing down the bitter lump in his throat, and slowly starts to climb. The night clings to every corner, the edge of every step, and the further up he travels, the heavier he feels. By the time Jimin reaches that shadowed, still door, it feels like he’s breathing through a layer of ice. Tight, cold, shivering, his body slumped over with the weight on his chest. 

 

The door is silent in front of him. 

 

Jimin quivers in front of it, teeth drawing blood from his bottom lip. For just a moment, he debates traveling back down the staircase, sneaking into one of their rooms. He knows that Namjoon and Taehyung are sleeping together, Hoseok and Yoongi in the phoenix’s room, but… but… 

 

The guilt is sour behind his teeth, tears building on his lashes. 

 

His fingers curl around the knob. 

 

Twists. 

 

Jungkook’s room is dark. 

 

It’s dark and it’s silent and it’s judging. 

 

Jimin shudders in on himself, wrapping his other arm around his waist as well as he stands in the doorway, mouth quivering. He almost wants to fall to his knees. Wants to beg, press his forehead so firmly into the ground that it bruises. Because the walls are quaking around him, rippling, angry and upset.  

 

You’re selfish, the room tells him, sharp and judging, using me to try and escape your guilt. You did this to yourself, you made this happen. You watched. 

 

“I’m not trying to escape it,” Jimin whispers to the night, his voice cracking as he sobs lightly, “I- I know. It was my fault, it was our fault. We… we pushed him. He died because of us. I know that, I’m not trying to escape it, it’s- it’s filling my lungs, believe me, please, I know, I can’t even breathe without thinking of him, without regretting every decision I’ve ever made.” 

 

The room is silent now, watching. Watching him cry, watching him with no ounce of comfort in sight. It’s how it should be.  

 

“I’m sorry.” Jimin whispers into the darkness, eyes wet and bottom lip fat. The room doesn’t respond, just sighs, turning a blind eye and sinking back into the cold of the night. So, with shaky legs, Jimin steps into the room, carefully clicking the door closed behind him. 

 

It smells like Jungkook in here. 

 

A little stale, very, very cold, but it’s him. 

 

He stands in the middle of the drenched room, looking around with wet, gentle eyes. Nothing has really changed. But it’s… it’s clear that he was here. A stack of folded laundry, ready to be put away. Little trinkets, a clock that has been tilted. A small stack of books, a bookmark poking out from one of them. 

 

It’s just…. Jungkook. Little pieces of him, frozen in motion. What was he going to do next? Jimin knows he always wanted to paint one of his walls in here. Paint it in a huge, stunning picture - the sun, the stars, curling flowers, and mystic beasts. He never got around to it. 

 

And he never will. 

 

Jimin pauses to trail a gentle hand over the duvet, eyelashes fluttering as he feels the smoothness of the boy’s bed. It’s always been his favourite, his room, his boy, because it was always the warmest. He would always be in here and Jungkook… Jungkook would be… 

 

He draws his hand away snappishly, stumbling across the room to the closed closet. It greets him quietly, silently opening as he grasps at it. The clothes hang neatly, but they’re so, so dead. Dead and stiff. But it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, because they smell like him, and Jimin is grasping a shirt with shaking hands, sobs building at the back of his throat. 

 

He’s limping back to the bed, clumsily dragging himself onto it and crawling up to the headboard, back hitting it heavily. The shirt is so cold in between his fingers, and he hates it, he hates it, because it shouldn’t be a fucking shirt, it should be Jungkook. And he should be warm, with skin and laughter, arms curled around Jimin’s waist, nosing into the back of his neck when they spoon. 

 

He misses him so much that it feels like his heart is being torn out. And it’s hollow. Because there's no way it could ever happen anymore, no more delusion of someday fixing things. 

 

We killed him. 

 

Jimin slumps down, curls his legs to his chest, and tucks the shirt tightly to his nose. It’s freezing cold, sends shivers down his spine, but he can smell him. He can smell Jungkook, can almost imagine the sound of the boy’s breathing. His eyes are glossing over, chest tightening as a sob breaks through his teeth. He buries his face into the shirt, body wracking with sobs, so heavy that his ribs click together violently. 

 

They killed him. They killed him and he’s never coming back, he’s never going to be here. 

 

Jimin is sure he’s going to die, the grief that has been building in his throat slowly suffocating him. It’s just a fucking shirt. It’s just the shirt, it’s just the shirt and there’s no one in it. And the thought of it is life-shattering, twisting his reality. 

 

Jungkook has to walk out of the bathroom. He has to. He has to and this will all be a bad, bad dream. It’s all just a nightmare, and Jimin is going to wake up and his fingers aren’t going to be numb, and the shirt isn’t going to be cold and- and- and-

The shirt wettens with his tears, his body shakes until he’s utterly exhausted, until dawn is beginning to poke over the crest of the city. 

 

Still, Jimin weeps.

 

 

----

 

 

Hoseok pauses, glances behind him with a tight mouth. Taehyung heaves the bucket up the stairs behind him, arms straining and face tense. The water inside makes a dangerous sound, chewing menacing at its plastic casing.

 

“Are you sure you can carry that?” Hoseok asks gently, feeling the protective burn of his flames curling on the edges of his hair. Taehyung looks up at him with those all-too-familiar dead eyes, glossy and grey. He tries a loose smile, nods, and tugs the swaying bucket of water up another step. Hoseok sighs, troubled, clinging tightly to the mop in his hand. 

 

It’s… it’s not a good day. 

 

There is tension wriggling underneath Hoseok’s skin, his flames hot and upset. They curl tightly in his lungs, burning at his bones, restless and distressed. He feels… he feels empty. As if he broke down to ashes right now, he wouldn’t be able to rise again, rebirth. As if his phoenix would fail him in that moment, would decide that coming back, to live another, to breathe another day, wouldn’t be worth it. 

 

Hoseok can’t exactly say he disagrees. 

The house…. The house feels cold. The kind of cold that not even Hoseok’s warmth can help. He could burn them all rotten, light fires in every room, set himself on fire to try and keep them all warm and… and it would still be freezing. It’s the kind he can’t touch, no one can, the kind that hangs heavy on the tongue. Maybe it’s there because there’s guilt right behind his teeth, something rotten and sad sitting in his chest.

 

 

Well… well because it was Hoseok’s fault. 

 

How can his fire burn the cold that was created by his own hands? 

He should have fucking said something when he saw that bag. That bloody bag in the bin. But he’d brushed it off, resolved to bring it up after the next mission. They needed to be concentrated, needed to be on task - and it was obvious that if he had told anyone else, they all would’ve freaked out. They would have freaked out and… and would have… saved Jungkook…. 

 

His fault. 

 

It’s his fault that the flower door is open now. There’s nothing to hide from, nothing to pretend not to see. It’s open, it’s open and his boy isn’t on the other side. There’s no one sitting by the door, forehead to their knees - Jimin, Taehyung, Seokjin, all. 

 

There would be no point in sitting there anymore, hoping that Jungkook would be on the other side. Because by some stupid, stupid sense, it had been better to keep him far but pretend he was close. To feel him but not allow him to feel them back. Stupid fucking selfish fear that they had allowed to poison their well, fill in their mouths until the black water had burst.

 

It’s their fucking fault. 

Hoseok lets out a slow breath and twists the knob to the bedroom, pushing it open. Behind him, he can hear the thunk of Taehyung dragging the mopping bucket up the stairs, but he tunes it out as he takes the first step into the room. 

 

He… hasn’t been in here in a while. The last time he was, he was sleeping in there with Namjoon, with him just the night before Jungkook had moved back in. And then…. 

 

Yeah. 

And then they’d fucking killed the boy they loved and Hoseok couldn’t bear to step foot into the room because it felt like his heart was being torn out and the guilt was so, so suffocating. 

 

But now he’s here. He’s here and the guilt isn’t any better, and Hoseok has accepted that it won’t ever. It won’t ever get better, and by holy hell is that deserved. He deserves that deep, gaping hole in his chest, the panic attacks, the sobbing over the toilet as he throws up at three am. 

 

Because it’s his fault. It’s their fault. 

 

Jungkook is dead and he isn’t ever coming back. 

 

He hears Taehyung finally lug the bucket into the room behind him, panting loudly. The younger one has been in here, it’s the reason why he can step through the door without tearing up to the extreme - Hoseok knows he’s been curled up in here with Jimin, with Yoongi, trying to foolishly find comfort in the bed of their lover. 

 

In the bed of their mistakes, their regrets, the reason they were so empty for so many years, and even emptier now. 

 

It’s your fault. 

 

Hoseok shakes his head gently, throat tight, and presses his way into the bathroom. It’s no better stepping in there - he can barely breathe, chest so tight, and it’s… it should have Jungkook in here. He should be in here, a little stunned at their intrusion but breaking out into his signature, sweet smile, and he’s… he’s not. He’s just simply.. Not. But it seems like he should be. Because there’s a toothbrush sitting in a small white cup on the sink. A toothpaste tub that is awkwardly curled in that strange way that Jungkook liked to do it. A half-used bar of soap, but it’s not damp anymore, no, it’s bone dry - the only symbol that someone wasn’t just in here, didn’t just finish brushing their teeth. 

 

The tears are running down his cheeks, mop falling from his hands as Hoseok sobs. Jungkook isn’t here. And he’s not going to be here, no matter how many times he opens the door, no matter how long he sits next to that flower door. 

 

Jeon Jungkook is never coming back. 

 

And that hurts. 

 

Rightfully. 

 

He feels arms loop around his middle, a nose pressing into his spine. Taehyung hugs him hard, trembling, his knees knocking into the back of his own. They don’t need to voice it, they both know, they know, so the silence runs between them as sharp as a blade. They remain there until Hoseok’s tears eventually fade to soundless, to simple trails of water down his cheeks that don’t seem to ever be stopping. 

 

But that’s okay. 

He gently pries Taehyung’s hands from around his stomach, turns to press a soft kiss to the youngers forehead - and carefully moves to tug the mop bucket into the bathroom. 

 

It’s stupid. It’s stupid, wanting to keep the room clean, wanting to act as if maybe Jungkook is here, living in it, keeping it warm. But they haven’t touched the bathroom yet, not in the silent weeks afterward, and Hoseok has finally steeled himself for the sight he knows he’s going to see. 

 

The bathroom isn’t what he remembered it to be. To him, it was wide and spacious. They had debated putting a large tub in here at one point, so Jungkookie and Co could take bubble baths at ridiculous hours in the morning. Yoongi had been all for the idea, but they had just.. Never got around to it. 

 

 

It seems… smaller. Tighter. More suffocating. Or maybe that is just his chest, his mind, his life, Hoseok can’t tell anymore. His eyes fall onto the mirror - the mirror that is fastened to the opposing wall. He steps forward, sniffling as he realizes that it’s fucking rigged up so one can view their back in the main mirror. 

His heart drops to his shoes, his chest tightens. That… that alludes, no, it practically fucking spells out that Jungkook knew, he knew, and he was trying to care for himself, and he was staring at his fucking ruined back in that mirror and he was alone, he was dealing with that all alone, alone with just two mirrors and his own reflection in both. 

 

Hoseok tears his eyes away, and swallows his vocal sobs. He doesn’t deserve to cry, to break the odd peace that hangs over this place. He wipes his tears away silently, watching as Taehyung reaches out to plop the mop into the bucket. 

 

It’s- 

 

It snaps at his heart, curls around his ribs almost tight enough to break the bone.

 

He was hurting, he was hurting and he was alone. 

 

Hoseok swallows, cheeks wet as he moves toward the sink with a flannel, leaving Taehyung to gently start mopping at the floor. He hasn’t even made it to the edge of the sink, realization sinking in his stomach, grief burning on the edges of his tongue, when he realizes the once-cream ceramic of the sink bowl has… changed. 

 

He freezes, fingers curled in the air, a sharp intake of breath tearing through his chest. He hears Taehyung’s quiet, questioning - “Hyung?” - and the younger’s arms are winding around his waist again, peering over his shoulder. 

 

They stare at the sink in silence, tasting bile in their throats, cheeks wet. 

 

“Oh god,” Hoseok croaks, shakily trying to wipe his eyes with the heel of his hand, but they just won’t stop. They won’t stop because he can almost feel Jungkook’s pain, can imagine him here, slouched over the sink, biting his lips to stop himself from crying out. And he was alone, alone, he must have felt so fucking alone and that was their fault, their fault- 

 

The sink is stained pink. 

 

It’s stained such an ugly, coral pink, light as if it were scrubbed at almost desperately - but at one point, it had been given up on. Accepted. There must have been so much… so much that it had finally, finally stained the fucking ceramic and Hoseok’s heart is in his feet. 

 

“Hyung, is that…” He can feel the sad, hammering hum of Taehyung’s heart on his back, and he draws in a sharp breath, trying to stay strong, stay at least a little composed in front of his younger lover. Even if his heart is being crushed in his chest. 

 

“Could you finish mopping the floor, please, baby?” He asks gently, and he can feel Taehyung’s harsh swallow behind him - but he slowly moves away, the sound of water slushing. Hoseok draws in a deep breath, waits until the mop hits the floor again, and then gently kneels to tug open the cabinet underneath the sink. 

 

The pipes… the pipes. 

 

Hoseok can already see it. Something dark crusting around the joints of white, something so dark against the delicate pipes. He swallows, trying to blink through his anguished tears, and carefully starts to twist at the pipe pieces. It makes an awfully grating sound as it twists, and when it finally pops off in his hands, Hoseok has to take a moment. 

 

He draws in a breath, steeling himself from what he knows he’s about to see. It doesn’t really help, it still feels like his stomach is being stuck with needles. Because Jungkook was in here alone. He was alone, and he was quite obviously vomiting blood and frequent at that, and he probably felt so, so alone, alone with his bloody mirrors, alone, thinking that they hated him, that they despised him and-

 

Hoseok flicks the pipe upward, gaze drawn to the inside. 

 

It’s what he unfortunately expected. 

 

Red. 

 

Bright fucking red. 

 

Hoseok wants to throw up. He gags, squeezes his eyes closed so tightly that it hurts, and he can’t hold back the sobs that rip from his chest. 

 

The pipes are caked in blood. Dried blood, as if the sink just gave up on trying to wash it away entirely. Caked to the sides, dark and menacing, a reminder that it was their fault, that Hoseok should have fucking said something and it might have changed it all, that- that Jungkook is never coming back and if he had just said something, shown that he was still in fucking love with the boy and hadn’t-  hadn’t been so stupid then-

 

“I’ll go get Seokjin-Hyung,” Taehyung says softly and Hoseok sobs again, listening to the rapid footsteps as the younger one races from the room, breathing laboured. 

 

It hurts. 

 

It fucking hurts. 

 

He could have saved him. 

 

If he had said something before the mission. If he had said anything. Maybe Jungkook would have stayed home. He would have stayed home with someone, been bundled into bed, and forbidden from using his magic. 

 

And that would have saved him. 

 

His lovers can blame themselves all they want. Curse and cry and wring their hands at their own touch in Jungkook’s death. It was all of them, after all, a fucking team effort. 

 

But it’s undeniable. It’s undeniable, that at the end of the day - Hoseok’s hand sealed the deal. 

 

Jung Hoseok sentenced Jeon Jungkook to death. 

 

 

----

 

 

The bed… the bed is cold. The realization sinks into Jimin’s skin slowly, the banshee stirring from his sleep, palm slowly sliding out over the bare sheets. Which is wrong, because there was someone there earlier. There should be someone there. He frowns, sleepy and confused, fingers curling into the cold sheets. They’re not even warm anymore. They’ve been gone for a while. 

 

He.. Yoongi was here when he fell asleep. They fell asleep together, curled up close, the man’s arm over his side, noses brushing. But now he’s alone, Jimin is alone, and he’s learned from the past few weeks that leaving one of them alone is a bad idea. It’s all too easy to fall alone into that devouring, deserved guilt. If they’re going to drown, it should be together. 

 

Because it was all of them who did it. Sacrificed their lover because they were fucking scared of nothing . Heck, Jimin isn’t going to let any one of them drown in their guilt alone - because that’s what they did to Jungkook, to their fucking sweetheart, and now, now look. 

 

He can’t do it again. It would kill him, literally. 

 

So, he rouses himself. It’s not hard to understand where the Dybbuk must be - despite his name, Yoongi has always been gentle. Maybe, maybe it was the mixing of his own magic with the one of the seer that still lingers in his inhabited body - but with the spirit's connection to death… 

 

With their connection, lost and fractured to Jungkook, it’s easy to guess where he is. Probably the only place his mind is a little quieter. It’s the only place where all of their heads are a little more peaceful.

 

His room. 

 

So, Jimin moves silently. He tries his best to tiptoe through the house, hoping that his movement won’t wake Seokjin. The warlocks magic, seeping through the house, can probably sense him regardless. The plants bow their heads at them as Jimin moves past, the man’s nose wrinkling as he realizes that Namjoon is now, too, aware of his movement. 

 

Hopefully, they’ll stay asleep. The last thing he needs is more people muddled with grief - selfishly, he can barely handle himself. To address the tension flowing between them, the undeniable guilt and distress that is gnawing at each of their hearts.. It isn’t a conversation he feels ready to have yet. 

 

Maybe, because then, it would be acknowledging that Jungkook is truly.. Gone. 

Part of him can’t accept it. This must all be a bad dream, he’ll wake up and they’ll have done right by him, they’ll have apologized to him for reacting the way they did. It was an accident, Jungkookie meant well, it broke him to do so. He wouldn’t have to suffer alone, they’d be together, together, as they should be. 

 

Jimin pauses at the bottom of the staircase, swallowing thickly. No matter how many times he climbs it, no matter how many hours he spends up there, in that cold room, it never gets any easier. It never gets easier climbing those stairs with thick, numbed feet, something horrible in his chest hoping, hoping that when he opens the door, that the room won’t be empty, that he’ll be in there, waiting. 

 

He can’t accept it. 

 

He swallows again and starts the climb. The stairs twist and curl, expand before his eyes, and it feels like he’s been walking for hours before he finally reaches that horrid door. Jimin blinks sluggishly, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he breathes out shallowly. His chest hurts. His heart is squeezing. 

 

Please be there. 

 

The door is already cracked, just a little, like someone forgot to close it, and Jimin’s heart leaps. He presses forward, palm against the door, and slowly pushes it open. 

 

And it’s… it’s cold. It’s cold and it’s dark and Jimin’s heart is back down to his feet, something thick and freezing settling in his chest. 

 

He’s not here. 

 

But there is someone there. A small, slouched figure, curled on the edge of the bed. Jimin’s eyes soften when he sees Yoongi there - feet still on the floor, arms curled around his own waist as he sits, sits in his loose white pyjamas, right on the edge of the cold, empty bed. 

 

He closes the door carefully behind himself, saddening when his lover doesn’t even flinch at the sound. 

 

He’s in another world, another realm inside his mind. 

 

Jimin crosses the floor quietly, trying his best to not shudder under the feelings. Under the heavy grief that is building behind his teeth, the tears that are welling at the corners of his eyes. 

 

Jungkook… he has to be- somewhere- 

 

His knees are hitting the floor, gently kneels in front of the man. It’s now that Yoongi notices him, startles a little - and allows Jimin to pry his hands from around his hips, hold them in his own. They rest in Yoongi’s lap, fingers cold and intertwined. 

 

It’s obvious. 

 

“Can’t sleep?” He asks softly, looking up into Yoongi’s hooded eyes. The man’s lips pull into a sad smirk, squeezing at his fingers. 

 

“When have any of us been able to sleep?” 

 

Jimin stiffens, blinking slowly. 

 

He didn’t sleep the night Jungkook wasn’t allowed into the house. He didn’t sleep because he couldn’t, couldn’t because his magic was thriving in agony, but also, because Jungkook’s warm body wasn’t cuddled up beside him. They hadn’t slept apart in all the years they had been together. 

 

Not one night.  

 

Jimin hasn’t slept well since. 

“Hyung…” Jimin whispers, and his eyes slip closed when he feels a kiss pressed to his forehead. He sighs shakily, his head leaning forward, eyes squeezed closed. 

 

“He’s… I can’t feel him Jimin-ah.” 

Jimin sniffles wetly, trying his best to bite back his sobs. It’s all building in his chest, everything, everything, the bloodstained pipes he saw carried through the living room, Hoseok’s eyes red with tears, his throat throbbing at the stench of death. 

 

“Of course, you can’t, Hyung,” He tries, because some part of him stupidly hopes that Jungkook is here, is here somewhere, but he- he knows. 

 

A sniffle has him looking up, mouth tight and heart clenched. 

 

“I know but he’s… he’s not here,” Yoongi whispers, his voice breaking as he turns to stare at Jimin with glossy eyes. Jimin swallows thickly, his own eyes mirroring his emotions, watching as a lone tear slowly rolls down his Hyungs cheek. 

 

“He’s..” 

 

The realization is settling, burning at his lungs, and Jimin sobs quietly, slowly leaning his cheek against Yoongi’s knee. He can feel his heart hammering, something ugly and sour curling in his stomach. His throat hurts, it burns, burns from the screams he had let out that day - his voice is turning croaky now, flesh inflamed. 

 

The screams he let out the day Jungkook died. 

He’s… he’s not… here. 

 

And some stupid part of him thought he might be. That Jungkook would linger somewhere, that one of them, any of them would be able to sense him. That just some fucking part of him, even in essence still hung in his dreaded room. 

 

That they hadn’t truly lost him. 

 

 

----

 

 

Namjoon’s arms hurt. They hurt from the plant pot that is curled between them, bloody heavy, the plant inside slumped over sadly. He stumbles forward a little, mouth tight, trying his best not to bump into the doorway when he steps through into the tiny apartment. 

 

The large plant pot sways dangerously, the green inside it just as unhappy about being moved as Namjoon is to shift it. 

 

The house seems to miss Jungkook just as much. His plants especially, the things having perked up the moment their youngest had stepped back into the household - happy, curling green, pleased that they were finally all back in their place. 

 

But now he’s gone. 

 

He’s gone, and the house is mourning, mourning just as much as they are. And one too many pokes from the monstera in his hands had sent Taehyung spiraling into tears - tears that had ended up with the hallway floor becoming electrocuted. The static electricity had lasted for days afterward. Namjoon knows it’s his magic trying to comfort his lovers, his plants trying to find reassurance in all the tension, the guilt, the grief, but… 

 

But it’s fragile. The life they’re all clinging to. The dull, dead looks at breakfast, the sleepless nights, the ones spent in Jungkook’s cold room, or sitting by that horrid flower door. 

 

So, the plant must move, because one more poke and Seokjin will probably lose his head, because heck, the warlock is barely hanging on as it is, eyes constantly teaming with self-blame, disgust, shame. 

 

The monstera grumbles in its pot, waved leaves swaying sadly, murmuring to itself. 

 

Namjoon swallows thickly. 

 

“I know,” he whispers, taking another, painstaking step into that tiny apartment, “I miss him too.” 

 

We could have done something, the plant murmurs back, sad and guilt stricken, we knew he was hurting and we just.. Let him. 

 

Namjoon doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have the energy to, not when his magic has said the wholehearted truth. There’s nothing to add. There’s nothing to justify, nothing to defend. Namjoon has managed to swallow his actions, managed to accept his part in it all. His hand that had laid the scythe on Jungkook’s throat, watched as his lover had sobbed, begged for help. 

 

He did this. And the grief in his chest is an immeasurable python, curling tightly around his ribs, cracking the bone, puncturing the lungs. 

 

Namjoon draws in a deep, staggering breath, and steps a bit further into the apartment. The flower door, opened behind him, is fastened to the wall - permanently open now, strapped open by a lock. 

 

They haven’t had the heart to shut it, the thought that some part of Jungkook might be on the other side, pleading to be let in. 

 

His heart clenches. Namjoon’s fingers tighten around the flower pot, swallowing thickly as he slowly scans around the apartment. There’s a number of plants slowly piling up in here, seated on the kitchen counters, pressed up against the walls. They’ve been drinking the toxic grief, the distress of the house, lashing out, trying to comfort, going through the stages with them. 

 

Hoseok had almost burnt one to a crisp in frustration, eyes burning with red tears. 

 

Namjoon sighs and slowly presses into the small corridor, shuffling past his one-vined plant. It’s crawling up the wall, big, clawed hands, scrabbling at the wallpaper. It’s almost screaming silently, trying to claw, find a way out, and there… there isn’t. It’s a tomb, a sealed coffin, one made of stiff concrete and staled blood. 

 

He can barely breathe. He can barely breathe, slowly shuffling through the opened doorway. The door is missing, almost ripped from its hinges. 

 

The day Namjoon had seen it, the metal parts lying on the floor, he… just hadn’t mentioned it. Had sealed his lips together tightly, and turned a blind eye when he saw splintered bits of wood in their bins, seated on the sidewalk. And if he saw Seokjin crying, some metal tool clutched in between his fingers, well… that’s his business. There’s only so much Namjoon can do, swallowing around his own shards of guilt, to comfort his lovers. 

 

They don’t deserve the comfort. That’s why he struggles, stands afar, mouth tight. They don’t deserve to hug one another, cry on each other’s shoulders - because Jungkook couldn’t do that, he couldn’t hold them close in comfort, or listen to soft reassurances. 

 

It just feels… sour. Sour and forbidden, something burning hot simmering in the base of Namjoon’s jaw. 

 

He sniffles quietly, stepping over a box on the floor, and moves to place the monstera down gently. The plant sways unhappily, whispering to him in low tones, trying to run its leaves down over his cheeks, trying to comfort him. Namjoon bats it away with a gentle hand, not allowing a smile to slip onto his mouth. 

 

“It’s okay,” He whispers, running a hand over the rim of the flower pot, “It’s okay, I know. I don’t need the comfort. I don’t deserve it.” 

 

He would want you to. Jungkook wouldn’t want you to feel like this. 

 

Something boiling, angry, and lashing zips through Namjoon’s chest and he grits his teeth, jaw tightening. 

 

“Well,” he spits, and his tone is almost unrecognizable, toxic, and sharp, “He’s not here, is he? And whose fault is that? Jungkook isn’t here. He isn’t here. He isn’t here to tell me how to feel - and if he were, I wouldn’t be feeling like this, would I?!” 

 

The monstera falls silent, leaves drooping down to its sides, stem craning downward, almost as if it's trying to protect itself. 

 

Namjoon sighs and rises to his feet, trying to distract himself. The plants whisper around him - some accusing, some comfort. The little yellow flowers, sitting in that painted pot on the bedside table seem to stretch toward him with their small hands, asking to be picked up. 

 

He can’t even look at them. He can’t look at them because of who painted that pot. The laughter, light and happy, rings through his mind like the memory it is - the image of a small hand clutching a paintbrush, paint on his nose, a smile so wide that the stars glittered through his teeth. 

 

There’s another, another next to it, this one a little taller, a little curling, small pink flowers stemming off of the main stem. There are painted fingerprints on this one, stuck in a rough shape of a flower, and Namjoon swallows, something burning. 

 

Oh, oh it’s his eyes. It’s the tears building in the corner of his eyes, the shaky exhale of his chest as everything clenches. 

 

You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself. Stop it. 

 

He claws at himself, whisks his gaze away - focuses it onto a blank wall, one away from the plants. When Namjoon’s feet move, it’s almost.. Robotic. Robotic and pressing, slowly commanding himself into the corridor, squeezing past the boxes that they’ve stacked in here. 

 

It just smells…. Sad. sad, sad, sad. It drenches the walls, howls at the windows. It’s not their sadness though, not their distress, no, it’s not… it’s not theirs. But it just smells of it, reeks of it, the sadness, the utter agony, the peeling paint, and empty doorframes howling. 

 

Jungkook. 

 

The walls have drunk in his emotions, imprisoned them within the frame of the apartment, morphed right into the wood. 

 

He’s standing in the living room now, face fallen, mouth tight. Namjoon looks at the couch - it’s dented, a curled imprint of someone, as if they’ve slept here, slept curled as small as possible. There’s a little blue pillow there, one corner wrinkled - clenched once by a tiny fist. 

 

Namjoon is crying. He’s crying, and the tears are hot, dripping down his neck, slowly hitting the floor. He sniffles heavily, throat impossibly tight as he sobs. His entire body shakes, shuddering in on itself as he curls a hand over his mouth. The tears don’t stop, they run over his fingers, curl in between his joints. 

 

His entire body shudders, shudders as Namjoon cries, slowly drops to his knees, presses his face deep into his hands. He can’t stop the cries, loud and chesty, his entire body shaking, shaking, bile stinging at his throat. 

 

There are slow hands, hands massaging over his shoulders and that just makes him cry harder, because Namjoon doesn’t deserve that, doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to be loved - but Seokjin, Seokjin who is slowly curling around him, cuddling his wet face to his chest… maybe he thinks otherwise. 

 

----

 

“Hyung!” Someone calls softly. 

 

Seokjin grunts, sleep still clinging tightly onto the edges of his mind, but he’s pushing himself up onto his elbows, the bed sheets falling back a little. He’s alone, alone in his bed - he can feel it, his magic curling underneath the duvet, mourning the warmth of one of his lovers. 

 

So, why?-

 

His magic stretches out, curls around the figure who is standing in the doorway - and they giggle softly, allowing it to tug them forward. The way Seokjin’s magic grasps softly, tugs the figure forward… yes, yes, it’s one of them. So instinctual, cradling, even Seokjin’s sleepy mind seeks to protect them. 

 

He feels fingers curling into his hair, the soft exhale of breath. Seokjin blinks softly, looks up into the darkness. It’s still nighttime, he can feel it clinging to the windows, heavy over his body. But as he blinks, focuses to the dark - he’s there, his little one, his littlest, his baby. 

 

“Jungkookie?” Seokjin asks gently, smacking his mouth together. It tastes… like sleep, gummy and thick. Jungkook shifts, a little nervous-looking, and Seokjin instantly understands what is happening. 

 

A nightmare. 

 

His little one had a nightmare. 

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” He croons tenderly, lifting up a corner of his duvet, “You didn’t even have to wake me. You could’ve just climbed in.” 

 

He feels the shift of limbs, the warmth as Jungkook curls into him. His hands press up to his chest, one leg wriggling in between his own. 

 

“Wanted to hear your voice,” His baby murmurs thickly, “Wanted… wanted the comfort of you.” 

 

“You always have it, my love,” Seokjin assures, sealing the blanket tightly around him and flicking a finger to close the door. He can feel the happy sigh as Jungkook molds into him, the soft rise and fall of his little one’s chest - the way it stabilizes as he drifts to sleep, safe and comfortable in his Hyungs arms. 

 

Seokjin curls him a little closer, presses a kiss on the bridge in between his eyes. 

 

He couldn’t imagine his reality any other way-

 

A scream, something blood-curdling, piercing, and shaking rips through the air. 

 

What- 

 

Seokjin can feel his entire body tense, his muscles clicking together tightly. Instantly, his arms are tightening, are trying to curl protectively around the little body next to him, the body that should be there and- and it’s empty. 

 

It’s empty. 

 

Where- where is- where is he?!

 

Sleep is still there, blurring his vision, but Seokjin is pushing himself up, heart in his throat, clumsily trying to grasp for the edge of the bed. Whoever is screaming, if that is him, he needs him, he needs him, Seokjin has to get there, he has to-

 

His magic is lashing, lashing like a whip, tense and unhappy and it snarls, rattling at the walls and- 

 

“Hyung!” 

 

A hand on his arm, tight and anxious and warm. 

 

Seokjin freezes. 

 

Behind him. 

 

He’s spinning, spinning with his body thick and stiff, and his hands are finding someone. Someone beside him, curled close, warmed from sleep and- and his eyes are big. Big and wide, but calm. They’re not doe though. 

 

Seokjin swallows thickly, gently cups a hand to Taehyung’s cheek, sighs shakily as the boy nuzzles into it, presses a kiss to his thumb. 

 

“Wha-” 

 

“It’s Yoongi-Hyung,” Taehyung breathes and the real world whistles back like a missile, smashing into Seokjin’s still-sleepy brain. Suddenly, suddenly he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe and eveyrthing is so, so tight around him. His eyes are finding the place next to him, the empty place, the place where his little one once was and it’s… it’s cold. 

 

Jungkook isn’t here. 

 

He isn’t here. 

 

Yoongi-yah.

 

Seokjin is pushing past the rushing grief, the cramping of his stomach, his lungs, and is trying to tug the duvet off of him, trying to get to the door. Taehyung is grabbing at him again, whimpering softly, and he’s torn, torn to wrap his arms around his littler one, trying to soothe him. 

 

“Hoseok- Hobi-Hyung is with him already, Hyung,” Taehyung whispers, but his voice is a little shaky. 

 

Hoseok is with Yoongi. 

 

The tension leaves his shoulders, just a little, and Seokjin allows himself to melt back into the bed, allows Taehyung to slowly clamber closer, lay his head on his chest. His heart is pounding, pounding, and he’s sure that Taehyung can hear it, can hear it thumping violently. 

 

Yoongi had another nightmare. 

 

It feels like Seokjin is living in a nightmare. He wants to close his eyes, fall back into that dream - that dream where Jungkook is there, soft and warm beside him, eyelashes fluttering as he sleeps. 

 

Instead, the reality is cold, even with Taehyung curled beside him. 

 

Yoongi’s nightmares. They’re frequent, frequent, and terrifying, and Seokjin has had his taste of waking up to the screaming, rushing down the corridor to find a sweaty, crying man, grasping urgently at the sheets. He’s collected Yoongi into his arms, tried to soothe the spirited seer. Other nights, though, he hasn’t heard anything - has only been told gently at breakfast the next morning by Hoseok, or Namjoon, those who had comforted him. 

 

Or sometimes, like tonight, it seems, the urge to run to him is there - red hot, and burning. But he knows, he knows that Hoseok is there. Hoseok is there and too many people will be overwhelming, especially if Yoongi is still blurry, still trying to grasp at the world of awake. 

 

So, he wills himself to squeeze his eyes closed. Listens to Taehyung gently snuffle as the boy cries quietly, slowly smoothes a hand down his spine. 

 

Seokjin waits until Taehyung has eventually greeted sleep again, waits until there is barely a sound from Yoongi’s room down the hall. 

 

It’s then that he slowly drags himself from bed, moves down the corridor, and presses through the cracked door. 

 

He meets Hoseok’s gaze. Meets his gaze, sitting up against the headboard, Yoongi in his lap, head resting on his thighs. His eyes are puffy, face red, cheeks shaking and eyes twitching behind closed eyelids. 

 

He’s asleep, he’s asleep and okay, and that’s enough. It’s enough to press a soft kiss to both of his lovers - Hoseok to his mouth, Yoongi to his forehead, and retreat back to his sleeping sweet one. Allow Taehyung to mold to his chest, and snuffle softly. 

 

Jungkook should be the one in his arms. 

 

Curled to his chest. 

 

He’s not here. 

 

----

 

 

The checked blanket before him seems almost mocking. Jimin stares at it until his vision blurs over, knees tucked to his chest. His chin is resting on them, staring blankly at the blanket below them. 

 

It’s a picnic blanket. 

 

The wind rustles through his hair, rustles, and clings to him with small, wanting hands, and Jimin sighs softly, allows his eyes to shift closed as the sunlight filters through the tree above him. It warms his forehead, burns gently at his closed eyes. 

 

“Jimin-ah.” 

 

His eyes are opening. He sees knees, knees crouched before him, and Namjjoon’s face is soft, knowing. He reaches out, rests a hand against Jimin’s hair. Jimin can’t help but nuzzle into it, trying to swallow back the tears that are bordering on his eyelash line. 

 

“It’s time.” 

 

Time. 

 

Oh, how Jimin wishes he could manipulate time. He wishes he could twist his hands and it would go back, he would go back, he would go back and he would change it all. He would change it, would break the laws of time if he had to, if it meant that… that the outcome for change. How he wishes he was gifted with it. Gifted with something useless, wasn’t cursed with his useless abilities as a banshee. 

 

Time, time could heal, change everything. 

Jimin would die, would willingly, if he could only change it all. 

 

He sighs harshly, takes Namjoon’s outstretched hand, and allows himself to be tugged to his feet. The blanket below him shifts, the open plates clinking. He can’t help but look down, look down through his blurring vision, filtering in a shaking breath. 

 

The scene below him is… familiar. Painfully so. It was a happy day, a joyous one, one where… it was the first. It was the first, the first time they’d all gone on a picnic, the first time Jungkook had laughed in the sunlight, had told Jimin that he’d loved him as they sat there with bread and jam, had kissed him with sweet, sticky lips. 

 

They’ve remade it. 

 

The bread, freshly cut sitting on plates, the jars of jam. Small snacks, sweet and savoury, a box of spicy fried chicken, a tub of Seokjin’s famous prawn fried rice - one for a picky Yoongi who refused to attend without it. Little chocolates, sweet pastries, croissants with their cream - the cream that had stained Jungkook’s nose, the strawberries that had stained his lips red. 

 

It’s their picnic. It’s their picnic and he’s not here. 

 

They haven’t touched the food. Jimin doesn’t think he could stomach anything anyway, had just sat there in silence, mouth tight. They’d sat there for a long, long time, staring at the plates below them, the wind rustling through their hair. 

 

It had been silent for a long, long time. That empty gap on the picnic rug had been so, so loud. A missing piece, a place that is so, so empty. 

 

He’s not here. 

 

Namjoon is squeezing his hand, palm a little sweaty, and Jimin allows himself to be tugged off of the rug, boots hitting the grass. It’s longer than he remembered, swaying around his ankles, little dandelions sparking up from the strands. 

It’s changed. 

 

They’ve changed. 

 

Everything had changed. 

 

Namjoon’s hand remains encased in his own, sweaty and tight and Jimin can feel how his chest is tightening, his breath coming out shallower as they wade over the hill. Past that big, big tree that overshadows them, over to the others, the others who are standing there, still and dull underneath the sunlight. 

 

And Jimin is beside them now. Namjoon’s hand is loosening from his own, dropping away - and Jimin barely feels, it, he barely feels it because his eyes are focussing, focussing on… on the small thing held in Yoongi’s hands. 

 

The urn is pretty. It’s pretty underneath the sunlight. 

 

Not as pretty as the person in it. The dark ashes, too dark for Jungkook. Too dark for his eyes. 

 

Jimin swallows. It’s pretty, a light grey with little blue accents, little carvings into the stone. The lid has a pretty golden handle, one that would be pretty enough for Jungkookie. He would have loved earrings in the same colour, maybe a little thinner, the bar, and there would have to be something dangling and-

 

The tears are dripping down his cheeks. They don’t break the silence though, neither does Taehyung as he slips their hands together, cuddling close. 

 

It hurts. It hurts. 

 

It fucking hurts. 

 

It hurts, burns at Jimin’s organs as he watches Seokjin slowly tug the lid open. It pops off, granting a small pop of dust, not dust, it’s not fucking dust and Jimin can’t fucking breathe. He can’t breathe, everything is tunnel visioning, and he can barely feel Taehyung crying into his shoulder, the short, rasping breaths that are tearing from his throat. 

 

They’re crying. They’re all crying and Jimin just can’t look away. 

 

He can’t look away as everything slows down, as the sunlight glitters happily, catching onto the shadows of the urn. As Yoongi steps forward slowly, biting down on his bottom lip, eyes, and cheeks are already red with tears. 

 

Jimin can’t stop the loud sob that rips from his mouth as he watches the urn tip, watches… watches Jungkookie slowly fall out, watch as the wind catches onto him. Such a delicate, delicate thing. So sweet, so loving. So small as the wind captures up his little pieces, starts to carry him away. 

 

No. 

 

No. 

 

NO! 

 

No, no, no, he can’t go! He can’t go, he can’t not be here, Jimin- Jimin needs him, Jungkook- he can’t- he can’t be gone! 

 

Hysteria is bubbling, ripping from his throat and Jimin is crying, screaming, ripping himself from Taehyung’s arms as he lunges forward, fingers carving through the air. 

 

He can’t be gone!

 

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t-

 

There’s a tight grasp around his waist, yanking him from the air but Jimin can’t stop, can’t stop howling, the blue sky lost to tears as he tries to reach out, tries to grasp Jungkook. To bring him back, to bring him back, he needs to come back-

 

He can’t grab him. Jungkook is slipping through his fingers, slipping away as the wind cuts through his air, as the sunlight fades a little. 

 

He sobs, sobs, fingers curling into nothing, his body breaking as Seokjin cuddles him closer, tears dripping into his hair. 

 

Jungkook isn’t here. 

 

Jimin has to accept it. 

 

He’s not here. 

 

He’s not here and Jimin falls to his knees, howling into his palm. Jungkook had once again slipped between his fingers. Jimin had leaped for him, tried to hold on and the boy had slipped once again. 

 

Jimin didn’t get to tell him that he loved him. 

 

He didn’t get to tell Jungkook that he loved him so, so much. That he never stopped. 

 

He let Jungkook, his sweet boy, his bun, die thinking that Jimin didn’t love him. 

He screams. 

----

 

 

“Taehyung-ah can you… pass me the rice, please?” 

 

Huh?

 

Taehyung startles a little, pulling out from the dark confines of his brain. His chopsticks have fallen limp in his hand, dangling dangerously, and his mouth has unknowingly been sitting open for at least the past five minutes. 

 

“Taehyung-ah, baby… the rice?” 

 

“Oh, yeah, uh, here, Hyung.” 

 

His fingers feel thick and numb and all too hot as Taehyung scoops up the big ceramic bowl as hands it over to Seokjin. The man takes it with a quiet thanks, hands robotically moving to scoop another helping of rice onto his plate. Taehyung watches him through wide, dull eyes, watching as each grain tumbles down and down, lands on the plate with a gentle thud. 

 

He can feel Yoongi’s gaze, can feel it almost burning at his shoulders, flickering between the tender distance of both him and Namjoon. 

 

The empty seat in between them. 

 

Empty. 

 

Empty. 

 

Taehyung swallows thickly, looks back down at his own plate with something heavy coiling in his chest. It’s an impossible weight, one that has settled right on the ridge in between his ribs. Crackling at the bones there, creaking underneath the weight of it all. 

 

Empty. 

 

Empty. 

 

He draws in a slow, shaky inhale, and his fingers tighten, just a little, around the red chopsticks in hand. His palm is sweating, it’s slowly rolling down his wrist, collecting on his sleeves, and his fingers are fumbling like some useless, cold breakfast sausages. It’s almost as though his nerves have been severed, severed just underneath the joints of his fingers, cutting them off from the rest of his body. 

 

His mouth is dry. 

 

Tongue thick and swollen. 

 

Taehyung doesn’t think he can swallow another bite without throwing up. 

 

“ Baby,” a soft voice comes, and it’s almost like a siren's chime, and Taehyung blinks slowly, swallows. It almost… if he closes his eyes just a little, shifts his world just a tad to the left, it almost sounds like… sounds like him. A gentle touch on his arm, Jungkook’s hand curling over his lower arm, tugging at him, asking him to pass a bowl. To grin mischievously, ask for his Hyung to feed him from his own chopsticks. 

 

Jungkook-ah. 

 

“Baby…” The voice comes again, but it’s different, less muffled and more clear, and the hand that touches him isn’t soft and young. No, he blinks, lifts his head, and stares at Seokjin’s hand. The hand that is curled over his shoulder, thumb pressing into bone. The look on his Hyung's face, it’s.. It’s understanding, and realizing. 

 

He knows what is going through Taehyung’s head. 

 

All their heads. 

 

The hand serves little comfort, not really, it’s nothing special, it’s nothing to soothe the burning balm that is slathered over Taehyung’s mind, but he manages to readjust himself, just a little. Direct his gaze back to his plate, scoop up another spoonful of the thick curry that sits there. 

 

He doesn’t want to eat. 

 

He might throw up. 

 

His gaze is moving again, flickering and turning. 

 

It lands on the very spot he’s trying to avoid, the place that he’s been tugging his attention from the entire night. It’s like a magnet, fastening onto the edges of his being, trying to drag him back. But Taehyung has had enough of people crying at the dining table, the loud, unfiltered sobs and jerks of their bodies as they cry. 

 

He’s tired of it, tired of everything, frankly. 

 

Tired of his eyes landing on the empty bowls next to him. They have food in them - they’re filled to the brim, steaming with fresh food, hot curry that is steaming into the air. The chopsticks sit on the table, untouched, resting gently on the small, white side bowl. 

 

No one has touched them. No one has eaten with them, no one will. And yet, and yet, they’ve laid that spot every day for five years. Scooped food into the bowl, pretending not to notice the absence, pretending that one day, someone will sit there again. 

 

The chair is empty. 

 

Taehyung looks at it, mouth tight. He already knows that Yoongi is staring at it, silent and tense, chopsticks dangling from his fingers. And the rest have looked at it too, stared blankly into space while their minds tick, harsh and slow, trying to let reality settle in. 

 

It never seems to, never seems to just.. Click. 

 

To click, to realize that no one is ever going to walk through the door with flowers. No one is ever, ever going to sit in that chair, pick up those chopsticks, dig into the food with a cute, bunny-like smile, giggle at Seokjin’s bad jokes. 

 

Heck, Seokjin hasn’t made a joke at the dinner table for… for years. 

 

It hurts. It hurts, and Taehyung's chest is growing tighter at every passing second, and he’s not entirely sure he’s going to be able to hold back his tears for much longer. It’s too empty, seat barren, and it stings, twists at the edges of his brain. He can half-close his eyes, try to conjure up some lame image, but it’s never enough. 

 

It’s never enough to tame the curling in his chest, the painful sobs that wrack through his body every. Single. Night. 

 

It’s not enough. They weren’t enough. 

 

They didn’t do enough. 

 

But he, he was enough. 

 

And they abandoned him. Left him to spit blood and cry alone. Which is why Taehyung sometimes locks his door, and pretends he can see the shadows of his Hyungs, wanting to comfort him, the dawdling footsteps - because Jungkook didn’t get that. 

 

He doesn’t deserve it. 

 

The house itself smells. Taehyung would say it smells of death, smells of that murky decay that had hung around Jungkook like a cloud, the scent that had bought him to tears every night, grappling with his inability. 

 

But it’s not death, no one had died here, well… not in the recent weeks, and it isn’t the haunting image of Jungkook, wanting to traumatize him. Fuck, no, his poor, sweet baby, he probably doesn’t blame them at all. And fuck, he should, he should, but Taehyung can almost hear his gentle voice in his ear, trying to ease his guilt, trying to assure him it wasn’t his fault. 

 

But it is! It is, it is. I knew you were hurting, I knew you needed help, and I ignored you. 

 

The smell is Namjoon’s plants. They are the ones dying. The once vivid, joyous vines that had curled up the walls of their home are turning brittle and brown. It’s a clear indication of Namjoon’s mental state, clearly, his Hyung is utterly dying on the inside - and it’s manifesting outwardly in his plant abilities. 

 

Fuck, he doesn’t think he’s seen his Hyung enter one of his gorgeous, forest-filled rooms since it happened. The sunflowers on the kitchen sink are wilting, faces turned toward the ground. 

 

And Taheyung has seen, has seen Hoseok and Yoongi trying to subtle clean them away, try not to upset Namjoon even further. The poor Dryad is drowning himself in guilt enough as it is - and to see his precious plants dying? The things he’s cared for years? 

 

That would probably break him even further. Sent him plummeting into the ground, sent him into a worse mental state than he already is. 

 

If that’s even possible. 

 

And yet, Taehyung keeps watering the small daisies by his bedside. Even though the flowers are very much gone, their petals have long composted into the dirt, their stems have turned brown and crackly, snapping underneath his fingers. As if, by some miracle, if he keeps watering it, it will come back to life. 

 

It won’t. 

 

“Taehyung-ah, can you help me clear the table?” 

 

Thank god, because if he has to stare at that empty bowl any longer…. So Taehyung is almost jumping to his feet, hurriedly collecting the still almost-full dishes in front of him. Even the bigger bowls, the ones which they share from… they’re still almost bursting with food. It looks like no one has had much of an appetite recently. 

 

He pushes past a small Jimin, bustles his stack of dishes into the kitchen. Seokjin is already conjuring some containers out of their drawer, is flicking his fingers to have his magic put the remaining food away. Taehyung drops his bowls into the sink, turns to go collect some more and-

 

His gaze lands on the fridge. 

 

Onto the little colourful magnets, onto the little pictures of them throughout the time. Fuck, he loves that fridge, loves how pictures of them just seemingly appeared over time. No one would ever fess up to it, of course, but someone was putting them there. 

 

There’s a crease down one of them though. 

 

It’s grown white and worn over time, over being folded behind for so long, so it cuts down the paper like a thick scar. Taehyung stares at it for a moment, sadly realizing just how… just how separating it feels. It’s… it’s cutting him off from the rest of them. 

 

Well, that was the purpose. It’s why it was folded. Maybe they couldn’t look at his face, too guilt-stricken. 

 

But now, but now Jungkook’s face stares back at him, smiling. 

 

Oh, Taehyung is going to throw up. 

 

Fuck. those eyes, so full of life, of happiness, the way his smile curves and- Taehyung slaps a hand over his mouth, gags as he races from the kitchen. He can hear Hoseok, instantly on his heels, running a hand down his back as he throws up into the toilet, the tears streaming down his cheeks. 

 

He’s trapped. 

 

Trapped in their photographs. 

 

They unfolded them too late. 

 

They sealed him away for so long, tried to pretend it hadn’t happened, that he was just in his room and-

 

And his chair is going to be empty now. 

 

Forever. 

 

It’s going to be scarved of warmth forever, forever, and the realization is already there, heavy and weighing. Taehyung swallows thickly, noting how the water in his eyes seems to burn a little more, pressure behind his eyelids giving away to something so horrifically angry. 

 

He’s angry, furious at himself. Furious at his Hyungs. Angry at his own inaction, his own attempt to ignore the situation. If he had just swallowed his pride, swallowed the pain of his broken soul… he could have fixed this. He could have spoken to Jungkook, come to the realization that not only was it an accident, a desperate attempt to save their fucking lives, but, really, their souls weren’t split at all. 

 

Yes, Jungkook had torn part of their magic away. It’s undeniable, the fact that he did, tore a little part of their soul out in a desperate bid to save them. It was a sacrifice of all their halves, a terrible act that Jungkook not only had to execute but then had to swallow the supposed guilt of his actions alone. 

 

But how could their souls be split, when Jungkook was a part of them?

 

Really, Taehyung thinks slowly, lying in bed later that night, really, their magic didn’t go anywhere. Namjoon snuffles softly, hot breath breathing onto his neck, tickling just underneath his ear. Hoseok has kicked the covers away, but his fingers are curled around one of Taehyung’s wrists almost urgently. 

 

Their magic just… moved bodies. Jungkook was… he was a part of them. A carved section of their hearts, they’d been together for so long that their magic had begun to blend. Recognize the other as one of their own, the same, had begun to react defensively without the user's conscious mind. 

 

So, really, their soul just went… just went to a safer place. Went into Jungkookie’s tender, caring heart and curled around it, determined to protect it. Because even when the Hyungs were stupid, idiots, pushed Jungkook away without any understanding, their magic had lingered. Had engrained itself so deeply inside Jungkook, had merged with his own. 

 

Part of their soul in his. Theirs, yours. His, ours. 

 

Ours. 

 

So really, and the thought has Taehyung’s chest catching, eyes blooming once again with tears, they had just killed a part of themselves. They had killed it, killed it bloody and ferociously, let it die alongside their little lover. Because their magic hadn’t been gone, just part of it was… was a little further away. 

 

Someone a lot warmer. Beating in the heart of a boy who loved them so, so much. 

 

They had literally killed a part of themselves, it had left when Jungkook had died. Hopefully, hopefully they are still with him. It’s a foolish thought, really, one that they don’t deserve, to think that their magic will imprint, will linger in his next life. 

 

It would make it easier to find him. Especially with Yoongi who doesn’t die, just simply moves on to the next life, possesses a new body. It will be up to him, really, to find them all. To recognize their new faces, join their hands back together. 

 

He’ll find Jungkookie.

 

He will. 

 

He has to. 

 

 

----

 

 

It’s warm. It’s warm and Jimin has zero intention to move, even if his hand is growing numb. His entire body is, actually, growing number and number by the minute, but at this point, it’s a sensation Jimin welcomes like an old friend. 

 

It feels better to be numb, than it does to consult the broken, splintering sections of his mind. The little strands of his sanity that are barely, barely hanging together, stretched tendons and painful aches between. 

 

Jimin wants to go home. But at this point, he isn’t entirely sure what the word ‘home’ encapsulates anymore. It’s more of a feeling, maybe, a sensation that has long past, some version of himself that he’s still blindly grasping at, hoping that somewhere, somewhere in his timeline, something, anything will feel right. 

 

It never does though. Even in the curves of his dreams, the blasted nightmares that seem to curdle on the edges of his brain every night. 

 

But it’s warm. It’s warm and Jimin’s hand is shoved underneath another warm body, cradled against poking ribs. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, doesn’t want to view the gazing darkness that surrounds him. 

 

The sight of Jungkook’s room, a little covered in dust, glazed with a helping of grief, the smell of their own festering bodies as they sleep, night and night again. Hoping that the room with bring some semblance, some essence of Jungkook - that they can inject into their hearts, bring a little undeserved relief to their pain. 

 

Jimin opens his eyes. 

 

It’s dark, expected, but somehow, seems a little lighter than the gaping cavern in his chest. Jimin breathes in, and then out, his exhale frail and shuddering. As if his lungs have grown shallow, a pool unable to suffice with water anymore. 

 

His entire body aches. It aches here, against the soft linens, the pillows that have long lost the scent of their lost lover. Jimin had fought, fought Hoseok rather valiantly - because, who needs to wash pillowcases, even if it has been a few weeks and they are covered with stained tear marks, the drool from sleepless cries and grasping fingers. 

 

But, eventually, he had admitted the truth. Sat with Taehyung in front of the washing machine, watching as the sheets slowly drained away any lingering trace of Jungkook, sucking away the last remnants of his scent. 

 

He can’t feel him anymore. 

 

Even lying here, lying in Jungkook’s bed, trying to grasp at the ghost of him, he just… isn’t. As if he were never here to begin with, as if this room was nothing but a spare. And it’s terrifying, terrifying how gaping the hole he left is, bloody and raw, and yet… he simply appears to not exist. Every trace of him is slowly vanishing, leaving Jimin, leaving them to grasp onto frail, delicate strands, try to pull those memories closer. 

 

Jungkook sitting on the couch. Jungkook sipping from his favourite mug. The awkward, but claimed comfortable sprawl in one of their tree hammocks. The curves in his cheeks when he smiled. The way he smelled. The sensations of his magic - the gentle push and pull, almost like the waves of the ocean, washing over them oh so secure, of so safe. 

 

Jimin can’t feel that anymore. 

 

It’s missing, it’s missing and it hurts. 

 

But his eyes are open now. Too late, but they’re open, staring into the blank room of a ghost. 

 

How did he feel, when he was imprisoned here? 

 

The body on his number hand twitches, mumbles something incomprehensible in his sleep. Jimin startles, just a little, allowing his gaze to focus, to move upward onto the man’s face. 

 

Min Yoongi always looks so sweet when he sleeps. It’s forever a running joke within their small family, how the man could never be, in his soul and mind, a malicious spirit. It’s almost easy to disregard that this isn’t the man’s original body, that it was practically bored. It’s the only face Jimin has ever known his lover by - at this point, it’s just morphed into Min Yoongi’s face, the original at that. 

 

(That poor seer, despite already dying in mind, is probably rolling over in his grave somewhere, cursing that this spirit got more use of his own body than he did.)

 

His lips are curling in a sweet pout, brow a little furrowed as his ribs shift against Jimin’s palm. The banshee watches silently, unable to restrict the fondness that drips into his vision. Yoongi is always adorable, with his sweet red lips, and soft skin, and the little crinkles around his eyes whenever his nose and cheeks wrinkle. 

 

It’s warm, it’s warm because Yoongi is here. And that’s the only reason. If Yoongi wasn’t here, if Jimin was alone, it would be cold, cold. Somehow, the grief is more manageable when they’re together. Less like drowning, and more like peace, peacefully letting go. 

 

The water isn’t cold, not with his Hyung. 

 

Yoongi mumbles again - the man is probably plagued by more nightmares than the rest of them, his seer abilities blending into reality. Jimin has the urge to tug his hand free, the lack of blood flow to his wrist is starting to spike pain up his arm - but fate seemingly acts for him. Because Yoongi is nuzzling closer, rolling further down his arm. 

His arm lands over Jimin’s waist, fingers curling around his hip, and his lips are pressed to the bare skin of Jimin’s chest, forehead knocking softly into the bone of his shoulder. Jimin doesn’t move, doesn’t disturb him, but slowly rotates his numb hand around on the sheets, hoping to coax some feeling back into it. 

 

It bursts in with low, spiking pain, similar to the pain his brain experiences every day when he wakes up, wakes up and reality sinks in, the realization hits them in a now-familiar rhythm. 

 

It hurts. 

 

It hurts. 

Creak. 

 

This, this makes Jimin flinch, drawing a little closer to Yoongi in some form of lame protection, his free hand sliding underneath the covers to lie protectively over his Hyung’s hip. As if Jimin could do anything. As if, in a situation, Jimin would be able to defend his lover. His magic is lacking, useless really. It only seems to summon at the presence of death, a symbolizer. 

 

If someone were to enter this room, malicious and violent, magic sparking, Jimin would just close his eyes. Grit his teeth and hope that his body would provide enough protection, enough time for someone else to save Yoongi. 

 

He should have used his own body to protect Jungkook. He should’ve used his mouth, his words, his heart - healed what was breaking, allowed the boy back in when they could all see that he was slowly disintegrating in front of them, running through their fingers like sand.

 

The door creaks open. Jimin squints blearily, raising himself up a little to gaze in that direction, out over the expanse of the room. 

 

There’s no blinding light, the lanterns lining the staircase walls must still be out. It’s not unusual, it’s beyond instinct to know the layout of their home, each twist of its walls. Seokjin’s magic would guide regardless, soothe with gentle hands and direct each to what they desire. 

 

There’s a figure in the doorway. 

 

Jimin squints a little more, mouth dry and gummy. He smacks his lips together, sure that he’s a sight. Hair messy, greasy from unwash, body almost intertwined with his smaller Hyung. The body in the doorway is broad, powerful, and it’s almost easy to decipher who it is - the way the dying plants in the room croon toward him, little brown leaves stretching out. 

 

No water seems to save them, despite Namjoon’s desperate tries. 

 

Namjoon. 

 

Jimin wants to call out groggily, clear, and articulated, but all that falls from his mouth is a sad, quiet, questioning noise. He can see the way Namjoon’s shoulders stiffen just a little, the slight rustle as the dryad steps into the room - and the soft click of the door closing behind him, sealing them all in this stale tomb together. 

 

He lets his head thunk back down onto the cushion, blinks sluggishly. The sounds of Namjoon’s clumsy steps slowly track across the room, and then the edge of the bed is bending a little, molding to his body weight. 

 

Jimin lets out another soft, knowing sound, lidden with sleep and rough feeling, and Namjoon rumbles softly in response. Jimin closes his eyes briefly, feels the bed sink a little, the duvet lift. 

 

Cold air assaults him. It assaults him, chills him to the bone, and even Yoongi lets out a little unhappy noise, nose wrinkling. It’s only for a moment though, a moment and then there’s a soft hand on Jimin’s ribs, thick fingers, and calloused pads. 

 

Hyung. 

 

Namjoon lets out a heavy breath, and the creak of his elbows is audible as the man slowly settles into the bed. Jimin can’t help but crane closer, eyelashes fluttering as he feels the warmth of his lover slowly sink into his bones. 

 

It’s warmer now. 

 

Warmer even though his heart is frozen over, that gaping cavern in his chest ringing with ice. 

 

“You’re still awake?” Namjoon asks softly, his voice a little muddled with sleep, and Jimin hums. He tips his head, allows the warmed, rough kisses to be pressed to his neck, the arm slowly tightening around his abdomen. 

 

Yoongi mumbles, his fingers reaching to intertwine with Namjoon’s sleep shirt. 

 

“Yoongi’s ‘umbling again.” 

 

It’s easier to say that. To blame it on the sleeping man, to blame his insomnia on Yoongi’s night ramblings, rather than the fact that Jimin is so thick with grief that his mind just simply… won’t. Won't shut down, won’t function, won’t quiet. 

 

“You could change rooms now, if you’d like.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and it’s a statement that… that they both know isn’t going to happen. Neither of them are going to move, they’re not going to risk breaking the tense night silence around them, they’re not going to risk missing a glimpse of Jungkook. Maybe a little glimmer of the man will appear in the early hours, and Jimin will be damned if he misses it. 

 

“It’s ‘kay.”

 

“I know.” And that’s it. That’s all the words that need to be said, Namjoon relaxing against him. The gentle thump of his heart against Jimin’s other shoulder is a little comforting, but at the same time, it’s almost sour - he knows that it’s missing a beat, missing a piece.  

 

Jimin faintly wonders what part is missing there. Is it Namjoon’s magic that is lacking, or is it the lacking of Jungkook now? Is this missing magic now embedded in his gut, his heart making room to mourn the loss of the beat of a loved one? 

 

Namjoon’s breathing is slowing down, settling into a certain pattern. His heart is slowing a little too, body growing with that sluggish warmth that Jimin knows very well comes when the man falls asleep. 

 

And it’s quiet again. 

 

And Jimin is alone, left alone to his thoughts. 

 

He reaches his fingers into his chest, right in between his ribs, and pats over the space there. Part of him is missing. It’s not just Jungkook, it’s not just that painful absence, the overwhelming guilt of needing, wanting the boy here. It’s not just that, there’s another gap, a smaller one. His missing magic. The part of his soul that was ripped out by accident, ripped out by Jungkook’s gentle hands, taken in trying to protect them. 

 

It has seemingly died with the boy. 

 

Good. Hopefully, it will protect him in his next life. Hopefully Jimin’s magic, his being is strong enough to protect his lover in his next reincarnation. Maybe there, Jungkook will get what he deserves. And maybe, if fate allows it, Jimin will be able to be there too. Will Jungkook wait? Maybe not. Maybe he’ll find someone better, find someone who will love him properly. 

 

Will give him a chance to explain when things do wrong, will allow his protective, loving soul to reach its full potential.  

 

It feels like Jimin’s veins are sluggish, running too slow. His blood is too thick, almost bursting out into his body. Even then, if it were drained dry, Jimin doesn’t think it would be able to fill the hole inside of him. It’s just blank, blank, grew blanker when he realized that he couldn’t smell Jungkook in the bathroom anymore. 

 

That sitting in the now-cleaned shower, staring at the newly replaced pipes…. That the scent of Jungkook, the faint ring of his shampoo and body wash had faded.

 

He wonders if the others feel like this, too. He wonders if the missing pieces of their souls will rot away. They deserve it. To be whole again, to be full and completed… it will never, would never happen without Jungkook. 

 

And he’s dead. 

 

Dead. 

 

The word rolls around Jimin’s tongue, sour and sharp and stabbing at his tonsils. His eyes are burning, burning with tears, a pressure in the back of his head ready to burst. Jimin squeezes his eyes closed, and embraces the darkness behind his eyelids. 

 

It won’t be better in the morning. 

 

Oh well. 

 

 

 

 

It’s warm. Dripping warmth over his nose. But it’s a little annoying too, something irritating Jimin’s right eye, burning at his skin. Jimin grunts slowly, shifts, tries to hide his face in the firmness nearby. The body behind him mumbles, curls a little closer. 

 

Fuck. 

 

Fuck, Jimin doesn’t want to wake up. He was having such a good dream. He was having such a nice dream and now… now reality is crashing in, weighing heavy on his mind and he’s only just woken up. 

 

Dammit. 

 

Dammit, maybe if he lies still enough, he can slip back into it. Back into Jungkook’s giggles, his hands as they’d played in the ocean’s waves, sand in between his toes. There was a slick of sunburn over his lover's shoulder, a smile so beaming that it would have rivaled the sun. The faint tan lines of sunglasses over his face, cheeks round and healthy. 

 

Jimin misses the beach. 

 

Misses what it came with. 

 

Misses the giggles that had ripped through the air. It had been their first holiday together. They’d all been together, secure for eight months at that point. Damn, they had been so, so young. Jungkookie had been so sweet, baby fat still clinging to his cheeks, arms full and chest light. Jimin rolls the memories through his head all the time. The way the campfire had crackled over Jungkook’s face, the way his mouth had smeared with marshmallow, blowing hash air when it had burnt his tongue. 

 

They had all been there, of course, cuddled together, but… but now, but now Jimin can only focus on Jungkook. Can only focus on the boy in his memories, the happy smiling, the soft laughter, the warmth of his hands. 

 

Dammit. 

 

The way Jungkook had mumbled, curled closer to him, sweat clinging to their bodies in the hot summer sun, the duvet was thrown down somewhere around their ankles. Jimin had run his palm down his lover's back, sighed out happily. 

 

It had been peaceful. 

 

Loving. 

 

Jimin can’t have that anymore. 

 

Never again. 

 

It’s your fault. 

Jimin opens his eyes. 

 

Yoongi’s sleepy face appears in front of him. Hair ruffled by sleep, face a little bloated, lips pushed out into a pout. Jimin admires him for a moment, letting that familiar heaviness fall into his chest. It nestles down in between his lungs, curls tightly around his heart. 

 

Jimin blinks over his lover, raising his head a little. He grimaces, hisses as the sunlight burns at his face. He raises a hand, shades his eyes, and spots the tiny crack in the curtain. And, typical, that tiny crack has directed the sunlight right onto Jimin’s face. 

 

Karma. 

 

Right in his eye. It’s the reason he woke up. The reason he was pulled from that lovely, so lovely, such a sad dream. 

 

Jimin wants to go home. 

 

He wants Jungkook. 

 

With a heavy sigh, Jimin shifts himself on his elbow, slowly rolls himself over. Beside him, he can see the broad expanse of Namjoon. He’s warm, still deep in sleep, forehead creased a little as he dreams. Jimin gently runs a palm down over his cheek, eyes soft. There’s another body beyond that too, a new person, and Jimin watches as Taehyung nuzzles a little deeper into Namjoon’s spine, hand tight over the older man’s waist. 

 

Huh. 

 

When did he get here? It’s not a surprise, really, all six of them have crammed into this bed before, so it’s no surprise to have people appearing in the bed come morning. It’s the only bed they can actually get rest in, for some strange, cruel reason. A strange illusion of peace, hangs over them, only descending when they lie in this bed. 

 

This scentless, foreign bed. 

 

Jimin sighs again and rolls over to face Yoongi. The man’s face has clenched a little, hands curling tightly into the sheets. He watches, watches as his lover whimpers softly, lips pulling into a strict, tight line. 

 

He’s having a bad dream. 

 

Yet Jimin can’t bring himself to wake him. Some sick part of him thinks that they all deserve it. They deserve the bad dreams, the nightmares, the waking up drenched in sweat, grasping for someone who is no longer there. Will never be there. Jimin is never going to wake up with Jungkook in his arms. 

 

Never again. 

 

Slowly, Jimin lowers his head back down onto the pillow, curling an arm underneath his head. His eyes are beginning to gloss over and he blinks the tears back slowly, breathing shallow. The sunlight is so…. Nice. It’s so nice as it ripples over his face. 

 

Yellow, happy. Jimin wonders if Jungkook is underneath the sun right now. He wonders if his lover is enjoying the warmth, if his lips are crinkling, if there are those lovely shadows underneath his eyes. 

 

It hurts. 

 

A tear rolls down his cheek and Jimin wipes it away softly, trying his best to muffle his low sobs. He wishes the sunlight wasn’t there. He doesn’t deserve anything, not even a slither of happiness. He doesn’t deserve the warmth on his face, because while it’s there, if he closes his eyes, just a bit, he can feel Jungkook next to him. 

 

Can hear his laughter, his gentle teasing that Jimin didn’t shut the curtains properly. And that’s why they’ve awoken to the sun in their faces, burning at their eyelids. But when he opens them again, Jungkook isn’t there. He isn’t giggling, isn’t cuddled up to Jimin’s back, an arm over his waist. 

 

He’s gone. 

 

Anguish is heavy. It’s heavy and sour and stabbing and Jimin can’t breathe properly, can only stare at that tiny slither of light with his vision slowly slimming. It’s all he can focus on, the light, the symbol of his grief, his heart broken and snapped in his chest. 

 

He doesn’t want to swallow it, doesn’t want to let it be real. 

 

That Jungkook isn’t ever going to come back. Not in necromancy, not in any magic. They couldn’t do that to him, couldn’t force him back when they mistreated him so. They had driven his hand, had pushed him to the edge. Jungkook might still be alive if they’d just let him explain. Even better, if they’d just.. Let him go. If Jungkook hadn’t been waiting for them, hoping, wanting, needing, he might have survived. He wouldn’t have to use his magic, and he wouldn’t be dead. 

 

They’d be missing, missing, but he wouldn’t be dead. 

 

Jimin’s throat aches. It’s patchy, raw, stinging. He swallows thickly, closing his eyes in a grimace as a harsh sting rolls down his throat. Fuck, fuck, he’s done some damage there. Serious damage at that, but.. He can’t bring himself to regret it. 

 

At least he can’t scream anymore. His banshee can’t rip from him, screaming at the stench of death. Some part of him thinks that he did that, finalized Jungkook’s death, sealed it in with his scream. 

 

At least it’s gone now. 

 

His vocal cords are damaged. Are damaged, torn. Ruined by his screams after Jungkook had died. He had howled so much, screamed until his throat had run red with blood. And then after, after, the screams from waking up at night, Jungkook’s dying face and… and it’s no wonder he’s torn his throat up. 

 

His voice is barely there anymore. It’s barely a croak, a feeble squeak. He can’t really talk anymore, it’s just a croaky mess. He can see his Hyungs staring at him with concern, trying their best to insist that they should go to a doctor, and find him treatment. 

 

Jimin just thinks he deserves it. It’s karma, really, a punishment for what he’s done. He deserves it. His ability has always been cursed anyway, a reminder of death. So close that some people say it’s the bringer of death, the sealing of fate. 

 

And now, now Jimin can’t hurt anyone else. 

 

He shifts, curls a little deeper into the bed, and wriggles his toes. He can hear the sound of his lovers breathing around him, soft and rhythmic. There’s something missing though, it’s clear and vital and tears at his insides. 

 

He misses him. 

Jimin misses Jungkook. 

 

And he’s never coming back. He’s never going to laugh in his ear again, he’s never going to steal Jimin’s food, he’s never going to clamber into his bed at two am, complaining that his bed is cold and empty, he’s never going to sit by Namjoon as he reads, he’s never going to paint with Taehyung, bake with Seokjin, play in the trees with Hoseok, lie with Yoongi on his bad days. 

 

He’s never going to live again.

 

It’s all their fault. 

 

 

Jimin closes his eyes. His eyelids can’t contain his tears, swelling and swelling and swelling. Falling and falling and falling. 

 

 

Gone.