Two Kisses

by agustdunks

Summary:

Seokjin’s way of staying was with a shaky camcorder and too much love to fit inside one lifetime.

Notes:

Hi! Most of this came from daydreams about NamJinKook, and I didn't know how to weave them into one piece. One thread I played with was the recording timestamps matching Jungkook’s age in each moment. I’m not sure if I pulled this together the way I hoped. Anyway, happy birthday, Jungkook!

[00:00:01 — REC] 

The camera shakes. A voice behind it laughs, Namjoon’s, deep and nervous.

“Hold him carefully, Jin, oh my god—don’t drop him—”

“I’m not dropping him!” Seokjin’s voice, breathless with joy. The picture steadies, and the lens focuses on Seokjin’s face, flushed, sweaty, but beaming. In his arms, a tiny bundle stirs.

“Look, Jungkook,” Seokjin whispers to the baby. “Look, bunny love. Appa’s here.”

Namjoon leans into the frame, kisses Seokjin’s temple, then leans down to kiss the baby’s forehead. “Two kisses,” he says, grinning at the camera now. “One for Papa, one for Appa.”

The screen flickers, then cuts to black.

The first time they bring Jungkook home, Namjoon doesn’t know where to put his hands.

He keeps fussing with the newborn carrier, trying to adjust the straps, only for Seokjin to swat his wrists away. “You’ll wake him,” Seokjin whispers, even though Jungkook’s been asleep for nearly an hour, tiny fists curled near his face, his breaths soft little hiccups of air.

The house is quiet, and for a long moment Namjoon just stands in the middle of their humble living room with the weight of his son against his chest, Seokjin pressing close at his side. It feels too big and too small at once. This is their home. This is their son. This is the rest of their lives.

Namjoon kisses the crown of Jungkook’s head. “Hi, bunny,” he whispers, voice cracking in a way he’ll deny later. “Welcome home.”

Seokjin laughs softly, setting the diaper bag down, already tugging Namjoon toward the couch. “He’s not going to remember this, Joon.”

“I will,” Namjoon says simply.

And he does. He remembers the way Seokjin tucked the blanket around them both, how Jungkook made that soft squeaky noise babies make, how Seokjin rested his chin on Namjoon’s shoulder and whispered, “We’re parents. Can you believe it?”

Namjoon had answered honestly, “No. But I’ve never wanted anything more.”

 

[00:07:1 — REC]

 

The years tumble forward.

Jungkook grows too fast, or maybe time just slips quicker when you’re chasing after a child who never sits still. There are birthdays filled with frosting-smudged cheeks, scraped knees soothed by kisses, evenings where Seokjin sings him lullabies in the softest voice while Namjoon records the sound like he’s afraid he’ll forget.

Seven years in, everything changes.

It happens slowly at first. Seokjin tires easier. He sits down more often, hand pressed to his side when he thinks no one’s looking. He hides it well, too well, but Namjoon has spent years memorizing him, and he notices every wince, every swallow of pain.

The hospital visits begin soon after.

 

[00:00:07 — REC]

 

The living room was a storm of color and sound, balloons bumping against the ceiling, streamers dangling halfway where the tape had given up, a cake so enormous it looked ridiculous on the little coffee table. Seven people in one room meant nothing stayed neat for long.

Hoseok had arrived first with a bag full of noise makers and glittery hats, immediately insisting everyone wear one. Jungkook had picked the biggest hat, lopsided on his head, the tassel falling into his eyes. Yoongi came next, a small wrapped box in hand and the right size batteries tucked neatly into his pocket. “For later,” he said, holding them out to Namjoon like it was a secret between dads. His gift, a sleek toy car, sat on the table, waiting for Jungkook’s eager hands.

Taehyung and Jimin wrestled with the banner that stubbornly refused to stay up. By the time the letters finally drooped into place, the two of them were tangled together in streamers, laughing so hard they couldn’t stand.

Namjoon tried to herd the chaos, moving cups before they spilled, rescuing forks from vanishing, but Seokjin only fanned it, clapping at Hoseok’s impromptu dancing, shoving a frosting-smeared finger right back at Jimin, laughing so hard his shoulders shook.

At some point, Seokjin picked up the VHS camera, the red light blinking to life. The lens panned across the room: Hoseok spinning with Jungkook squealing in his arms, Jimin grinning through a mouthful of stolen frosting, Taehyung waving a balloon like a sword, Yoongi crouched low to help assemble the toy car while Namjoon hovered nervously nearby.

Finally, the camera settled on Jungkook. The room hushed instinctively, the chatter falling into a warm buzz. The cake was pulled to the center, candles flickering, the flame dancing in Jungkook’s wide eyes. His cheeks glowed, round and flushed from laughter, his little palms pressed together the way Namjoon had taught him.

Seokjin’s voice dropped, softer now, only for his son: “Make a wish, baby.”

Jungkook squeezed his eyes shut, face scrunching, and then blew with all his strength. The candles went out in one breath. The room erupted, Hoseok whooping loud enough to startle him, Jimin clapping like thunder, Taehyung flashing another Polaroid, Yoongi pretending to be unimpressed even as he smiled.

The camera jostled but didn’t cut. It caught Jungkook’s delighted hands clapping at his own success, the frosting still smeared at the corner of his mouth. It caught Namjoon’s expression just behind him — quiet, steady, proud.

And though the VHS never showed it, Jungkook remembers. The way Seokjin’s smile bloomed behind the camera, wide and luminous, his eyes curved like crescents as if the whole world fit in that one frame. The tape caught the laughter, the cheers, the glow of the candles, but Jungkook’s memory filled in the rest. Whenever he watched it back, he could see it still, as clearly as if Seokjin were standing there again. That smile, steady and unshakable, holding him in its light.

 

[00:07:05 — REC]

 

When they came back from the hospital that evening, the house felt too quiet. Namjoon set the worn duffel bag down on the floor with a sigh. “It smells like hospital in here now,” he muttered, almost to himself, tugging at the zipper.

Jungkook frowned, padding closer. His small fingers clutched the hem of Namjoon’s shirt. His father hears a voice so certain in a way only children could be. “It smells like Appa.”

Namjoon’s hands stilled on the bag. The word cut straight through him, soft and sure. He looked down at Jungkook — wide eyes, nose wrinkled, like he was trying to inhale every trace of his Appa. And Namjoon realized with a dull ache that for Jungkook, the hospital smell wasn’t just sterile walls and disinfectant. It was Seokjin’s laugh echoing down the hallway. It was the warmth of his hand. It was Appa.

Clearing his throat, Namjoon started to unpack. Laundry, still folded neatly the way Seokjin liked. Books with corners bent from nights too long. A cardigan that smelled faintly of soap and something sweeter. And then, at the very bottom, something that hadn’t been there before.

A VHS case. Plain, edges a little scuffed. On the front label, in Seokjin’s round, careful handwriting:

Jungkook’s Lullaby — by Appa.

Namjoon’s chest tightened. He hadn’t seen Seokjin slip it in. Which meant he must have done it quietly, sometime after they’d left the room, knowing they’d find it later.

He turned to Jungkook, who was clutching the tape in both hands, small fingers smudged with pencil from his earlier drawings. “Kook-ah,” Namjoon said gently, “this looks like Appa’s gift. Do you want to watch it now, or should we save it for tomorrow?”

At the word Appa, Jungkook’s eyes went wide, glimmering even as a yawn cracked his face. He blinked hard, trying to fight it, his gaze only growing more determined. “Now,” he whispered, voice small but certain.

Namjoon smiled faintly, smoothing a hand over his son’s hair. “Alright. Now.”

The tape went into the player with a click. The screen stuttered to life in a haze of static before clearing. And there was Seokjin, perched cross-legged on the narrow hospital bed. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, and he wore one of Namjoon’s old shirts.

At first, he didn’t look up. He just hummed, low and steady, the familiar tune that had lulled Jungkook to sleep since he was small. Then, softly, he began to sing. His voice wasn’t as strong as before, but it was gentle, warm, wrapping around the room like a blanket.

Finally, he lifted his eyes, straight into the lens. “Kookie,” he whispered. “If you’re watching this, Appa’s not with you tonight. But I’m here. You can still close your eyes, and I’ll be the one to sing you to sleep.”

Jungkook climbed onto Namjoon’s lap, staring wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in wonder. And when the song faded, replaced by static, he whispered like it was the simplest truth in the world: “See, Papa? It does smell like Appa.”

That night, Jungkook fell asleep faster than he had in weeks, curled against Namjoon’s chest. And much, much later — when Jungkook was grown, when the tapes had been rewound so many times the image wavered, when the house no longer smelled like hospital but still, somehow, faintly like Seokjin — he’d press play again. Thirty years old, shoulders broader than Namjoon’s, but still his father’s son. And the lullaby would still work. Every time.

 

[00:07:23 — REC]

 

“You know what, Jungkook? If you really had to have one parent only, I hope it was your Appa Jin, he would've made a better parent.”

Jungkook was too young back then when he first heard those words from his father, Namjoon. He was seven to be exact. His father had laid him down in his bed, tucked him under his favorite blanket. It was his birthday.

Jungkook had been too tired from his all-day party with his friends—three of those being his uncles, Yoongi and Hoseok, and the other two being Jimin and Taehyung from school, the only ones brave enough to talk to the quiet boy who never spoke much.

He was too young and too tired to understand. But he wasn’t too deep in sleep not to hear.

He guesses Namjoon must’ve told him that a million times before Jungkook was even able to understand what it meant. But many moons after the first time Namjoon told Jungkook that, when he’s grown, and has heard his father say those words again, the time as he tucks him into bed after a night of too much soju, cheeks flushed, voice slurred but tender—Jungkook disapproves.

Not because he thinks Seokjin would have been a bad parent. He just thinks no one’s better than the other. He never had one parent anyway. It was always the two of them.

“Two kisses,” Namjoon whispers. Jungkook is grown now, taller than Namjoon, heavier with the weight of years, but he doesn’t mind receiving kisses from his father. As long as it’s those two kisses.

Namjoon leans down, voice trembling but sure. “One for Papa, one for Appa.”

Two kisses.

It has always been the two of them.

Simple. Ritual. Familiar. But this time the air had felt different, too heavy, too charged, as if the words carried something neither of them could name. And when Jungkook’s breathing evened out, Namjoon sat in the silence, the ghost of that kiss burning on his mouth, wondering if he had failed both Seokjin and his son.

Morning came anyway.

The kitchen was too small for two tall men, shoulders bumping every time they moved. Namjoon chopped scallions while Jungkook stirred noodles, neither saying much.

“Too salty,” Namjoon muttered, tasting the broth.

“It’s fine,” Jungkook said.

They stood in silence again, the air heavy with unspoken things. The ghost of Seokjin lingered there, in the recipes, in the laughter that used to bounce against the tiles.

Finally, Jungkook nudged his shoulder into Namjoon’s. “Papa,” he said softly. “You don’t have to cook like him. You cook like you.”

Namjoon blinked. His throat tightened. And then he let himself laugh, watery and small, but real.

 

[00:00:09 — REC]

 

Sometimes it feels like grief is stitched into the walls of their home.

It lingers in the photographs on the shelves, in the worn blankets Seokjin used to cocoon Jungkook in, in the space at the table where his laughter used to be. And yet, Namjoon refuses to let absence become silence.

So he tells Jungkook stories. Every night, every birthday, every scraped knee. Stories about the way Seokjin used to cook enough food to feed the entire neighborhood just because Jungkook liked one dish. About the way Seokjin sang high keys in the shower until Jungkook banged on the door. About the way Seokjin lit up the room just by smiling.

And Jungkook listens. He listens until he knows them by heart, until he can recite them back to his father, until the man he barely remembers feels almost present.

But memory, no matter how vivid, isn’t the same as a voice.

And that’s when Jungkook finds the tapes.

 

[00:09:02 — REC]

 

Jungkook only found it because he was rifling through his Papa’s office for a pen. He wanted to draw something with dragons and stars, he hadn’t decided yet, and Namjoon always kept the best pens tucked between his notebooks. The desk smelled like paper and ink, the wood worn smooth by years of leaning.

That was when he spotted it.

Tucked away in the back of a drawer, beneath old lyric notebooks and half-finished demos, a plain VHS tape. The label was simple, written in Seokjin’s round handwriting: How to Tie a Tie — For Kookie.

Jungkook padded out of the office, the tape clutched to his chest. “Papa?” he asked softly, holding it out.

Namjoon looked up from the couch where he’d been reading, his brow furrowing when he saw it. He took the tape carefully, as though it might shatter in his hands. “Where did you find this?”

“In your desk,” Jungkook said. “In the back drawer.”

Namjoon shook his head, a faint laugh breaking through the tightness in his throat. He swore he never put it there, he hadn’t even known there would be more. Maybe Seokjin did, all those years ago, slipping it in with quiet hands and that secret smile of his.

Jungkook leaned closer, squinting at the label again. “It says Kookie. That’s me.” His voice was quiet but certain, like he was letting himself claim something he already knew belonged to him.

Namjoon’s chest ached, turning the cassette over in his palms, thumb brushing the familiar curve of Seokjin’s handwriting. He brushed Jungkook’s hair back, kissed his crown, then asked, “Do you want to watch it now?”

Jungkook nodded, small but sure.

So Namjoon rose, slow and deliberate, and crossed the room to the old player tucked beneath the TV. He slid the tape inside, the machine whirring to life. The screen flickered blue, then black, before the faint crackle of static gave way to Seokjin’s face, warm and familiar, smiling into the lens.

Seokjin, beautiful but already pale, sitting in their old living room. The shot is slightly crooked, the edges fuzzy with static. He’s wearing one of Namjoon’s dress shirts, sleeves rolled up, a tie draped clumsily around his neck.

“Okay,” Seokjin says, looking directly into the camera. His voice is warm, steady, only faintly tired. “I’m not sure when you’ll find this, but it’s either I’m at the hospital again or… well, you know.” He pauses, bites his lip, then forces a smile. “Anyway, I don’t want you going to school dances or job interviews looking like a mess. So. Ties.”

He holds the two ends up like a magician about to perform a trick.

“Step one. Cross the wide end over the skinny end.” He demonstrates slowly, careful, exaggerating the movements. “Step two. Bring it up through the neck loop. Like this.”

The tie slips awkwardly through his fingers, and he laughs, shaking his head. “Okay, not like that. But you get the idea. Keep it snug, but not choking you. You’re not Hoseok trying to strangle Yoongi with a hug.”

Namjoon huffs a laugh at that from where he sits on the couch beside Jungkook, but his eyes are wet.

Seokjin continues, patient, repeating the steps until the knot is neat. “There. See? Easy. Handsome already. Just—” He looks away, voice softening. “Just promise me you’ll let your Papa help the first few times. He pretends he doesn’t know how to do this, but he does. He just… needs to feel useful too, okay?”

The tape cuts abruptly to static.

At nine years old, Jungkook didn’t understand. He didn’t even own a tie. He sat cross-legged in front of the screen, head tilted, wondering why Appa would want him to know something so grown up.

The first time he owned one, he was fourteen. The fabric was dark and stiff, the kind of tie meant for serious occasions, not school or play. His fingers knew what to do. Appa had shown him enough times on the tape that he could have knotted it perfectly on his own. But that morning, when the house felt unbearably quiet, he didn’t lift his hands. He let Namjoon do it instead. Papa’s fingers moved carefully at his collar, tugging the knot into place as though Jungkook had never learned it at all. And Jungkook didn’t say a word. Some lessons weren’t about independence. Some were about letting yourself be held together.

But years later, at fifteen, standing nervous before his first recital; at twenty-one, smoothing his collar before a job interview; at thirty-five, dressing for the biggest night of his career, he remembered every step like muscle memory. Over, under, across, through. His hands knew it without thought.

And still, he watched the tape. Even when the tie slid perfectly into place, even when his fingers no longer trembled. Because the knot wasn’t the point. It was the voice that lingered, soft and certain, guiding him through things he no longer needed help with, but wanted Appa there for, all the same.

He thought about it again at twenty-four, before his first real stage award, when his hands shook so badly he almost gave up on the tie altogether. Namjoon had walked in, wordless, and fixed it for him. Jungkook remembered then — Appa’s voice, laughing gently on the tape: “Just promise me you’ll let your Papa help the first few times. He pretends he doesn’t know how to do this, but he does. He just… needs to feel useful too, okay?”

By the time he was thirty-five, standing in front of the mirror before what would be the biggest music awards show yet, Jungkook could have tied a perfect knot blindfolded. Still, he let Namjoon take the ends of the tie and do it for him, hands steady where his own trembled with nerves. Because it mattered less that the tie was straight, and more that, in that moment, he was still Appa’s boy, still Papa’s son, still the child who had been told he never had to do things alone.

 

[00:00:13 — REC]

 

Jungkook is thirteen when a tape shows up in the kitchen, of all places, wedged behind the rice cooker like it had been waiting for him. The label, again, is simple: “How to cook rice.”

Namjoon’s at work, so Jungkook feeds it into the VCR alone.

The screen flickers to life, static at the edges, and there’s Seokjin again. This time, he’s sitting at their old kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, hair falling into his eyes. He looks healthier here, fuller, though his smile still carries that fragile determination that Jungkook is beginning to recognize as the thread in all the videos.

“Okay,” Seokjin says, leaning close to the camera as though sharing a secret. “Rice. The most important skill in life. You mess this up, Jungkook-ah, and you’ll go hungry. Don’t depend on takeout. Don’t let Papa live on ramen.”

He gestures at the rice cooker, tapping it like a trusted friend. “First, wash the rice. Don’t just dump it in, wash it until the water runs clear. Three times. Four if you’re picky, like me.”

He lifts the bowl, swishing it in circles, grains of rice slipping through his fingers. “It’s like… patience practice. Gentle, not too rough. You’ll see the water cloud up, but keep going. When it’s clear, you’re ready.”

The camera zooms a little too close as he leans forward. “Then add water. Use your finger, second knuckle method. Don’t argue, it works.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Your Papa will probably try to measure it with a cup. Tell him I said he’s wrong.”

“And,” there’s a pause. Seokjin glances off camera, then back, softer now. “If you ever feel lonely, when you’re washing the rice, think of me. Think of all the nights I did this for you and Papa. It’ll be like I’m still here.”

The tape ends on his smile, bright and shaky all at once.

Jungkook sits in silence after it clicks off, the room too quiet without Seokjin’s voice. He doesn’t cry, not this time. Instead, he gets up, pulls out the rice, and follows every step. The water slips through his fingers, cool and familiar, and for a moment he feels less alone.

Namjoon notices the change when he gets home.

The smell of fresh rice fills the kitchen, Jungkook hovering awkwardly with two bowls on the table.

“Did you…?” Namjoon trails off, throat tightening.

Jungkook shrugs, cheeks pink. “Rice isn’t hard.”

Namjoon sets his keys down, pulling his son into a tight hug before Jungkook can protest. He whispers against his hair, “You’re just like him, you know.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer, but he leans into the hug a little longer than usual.

 

[00:00:17 — REC]

 

The next tape doesn’t surface until years later. Seventeen now, Jungkook is taller than Namjoon, broad-shouldered, restless in ways he doesn’t know how to explain. College brochures litter his desk. Music equipment hums quietly in the corner.

He finds the VHS when he’s digging through the attic, searching for an old speaker cable. The box is dusty, labeled in Seokjin’s handwriting: “Misc.”

Inside, he finds it, “How to ride a bike.”

It feels almost childish compared to the others, but he carries it downstairs anyway.

When the video begins, the camera is tilted low, aimed at Seokjin sitting on the front porch steps. A small bike leans against the railing beside him, training wheels attached. He looks younger here, maybe before the illness really began to show, his smile unburdened.

“Alright, Jungkook-ah,” Seokjin says, clapping his hands together. “One day, you’ll want to go further than your feet can carry you. That’s when you need a bike.”

He pats the handlebars affectionately. “Balance is everything. At first, you’ll wobble. You’ll fall. You’ll scrape your knees. That’s fine. Falling doesn’t mean failing. It just means you’re learning.”

He demonstrates, miming the motions with exaggerated care. “Keep your eyes forward, not on your feet. Trust your body. Trust that the bike will move with you if you just let it.”

He pauses then, expression faltering, voice quieter. “The same goes for life, Jungkook-ah. You’ll fall. You’ll hurt. But you keep going. You keep your eyes forward, because you’ve got so much waiting for you. More than I’ll get to see.”

The tape ends with him adjusting the camera, muttering something about Namjoon yelling at him for scuffing the bike tires indoors. The screen flickers to black.

Jungkook sits back heavily on the couch. He hasn’t ridden a bike in years. But that night, he dreams of being seven again, wind whipping his hair, Seokjin’s hand steady at his back before letting go.

Namjoon finds him in the kitchen the next morning, still in pajamas, staring out the window.

“You okay?” Namjoon asks, pouring coffee.

Jungkook nods, though his voice is thick. “Appa taught me how to ride a bike again.”

Namjoon doesn’t ask what he means. He just slides a mug across the counter and squeezes Jungkook’s shoulder.

 

[00:00:19 — REC]

 

Another tape surfaces during Jungkook’s final year of high school.

It’s unmarked, tucked into an old shoebox. When he pops it in, the screen shows Seokjin sitting cross-legged on the bedroom floor, hair messy, wearing a worn t-shirt.

“This one’s important,” he says, tone unusually serious. “It’s not about cooking or bikes or clothes. It’s about bad days. Because you’ll have them, Jungkook. More than I want for you.”

He folds his hands in his lap. “When you feel like the world is too heavy, first thing: breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slow. Do it until your chest doesn’t ache so much.”

He demonstrates, exaggerating the breaths, looking a little silly. “Second thing: don’t bottle it. Talk to someone. Talk to Papa, talk to your friends. Cry if you need to. It doesn’t make you weak.”

He hesitates, blinking quickly, but pushes on. “Third thing: find something small. Music. Drawing. Washing the rice, even. Something that reminds you the world isn’t all bad.”

There’s a long pause then, Seokjin staring directly into the camera. “And if you can’t find anything… remember me. Remember how much I loved you. Remember that Papa loves you more than anything. That’s enough to keep you here.”

The tape cuts off suddenly, as though he couldn’t bring himself to say more.

Jungkook sits frozen long after the screen goes black. His chest aches in ways that breathing can’t fix.

But when Namjoon comes home late that night, weary from work, Jungkook wraps his arms around him without a word. Namjoon stiffens in surprise, then melts into the embrace, whispering into his hair, “Two kisses. One for Papa, one for Appa.”

Jungkook presses them to his father’s cheeks, and for the first time, he lets himself cry in his arms.

 

[00:00:13 — REC]

 

The camcorder blinks red from where it’s perched on the nightstand, angled just enough to catch the bed. Seokjin lies back against the pillows, looking pale but still managing that familiar half-grin. His voice is softer now, thinner around the edges, but warm.

“You’re what, thirteen? Fourteen?” he asks, tilting his head toward Jungkook, who’s busy tucking the blankets a little too tightly around him. “You’re supposed to be slamming doors and rolling your eyes at me by now.”

“I don’t slam doors,” Jungkook mutters, cheeks red.

“Not yet,” Seokjin teases, eyes twinkling. “But give it time. One day you’ll stomp down the hall yelling, ‘You just don’t get it, Appa!’” He mimics a dramatic teenager’s voice, drawing a reluctant laugh from Jungkook.

“Why are you recording this?” Jungkook asks, glancing at the blinking light.

“Because,” Seokjin says, leaning closer like it’s a secret, “one day you might get too cool for me. You’ll grow your hair out, start brooding in corners, maybe even get a tattoo before Papa has a heart attack about it.”

Jungkook huffs, but a small smile tugs at his lips. “...I might get a tattoo.”

Seokjin gasps theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Betrayal. Right to my face.” His laugh is weak but real, filling the room despite the weight in the air.

“Don’t worry,” Jungkook says, softer now. “If I do, it’ll be something for you and Papa.”

For a moment, Seokjin’s smile falters, softens. He reaches up, brushing his thumb across Jungkook’s cheek. “You don’t need ink for me to know. But I like that idea.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Proof that once, you sat right here and took care of me.”

Jungkook swallows hard, blinking quickly as if it might hide the way his eyes burn. “I’ll take care of you forever.”

Seokjin nods, whispering, “I know you will.” Then he clears his throat, forcing brightness back into his tone. “Now, go get me some water before this turns into one of those sappy dramas you like pretending you don’t watch.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes exactly the way Seokjin had predicted, and Seokjin’s laugh, fragile but bright, lingers on the tape.

 

[00:00:19 — REC]

 

Namjoon dangled the keys in front of him with a small smile, though his hand lingered a beat too long before letting go. “It’s yours now, Kook,” he said, voice gentle, as if passing down something heavier than just metal and engine.

Jungkook sat in the driver’s seat longer than he meant to, fingertips brushing over the steering wheel like he was memorizing it. His first car. Secondhand, sure, but it felt new in the way it hummed quietly under him, in the way the seat adjusted just right to his height. He was excited to explore every switch and button, as if it weren’t the very same car he’d grown up in, back when Appa could still drive. Back when the three of them would pile in for long rides to the coast, windows rolled down, music too loud, Appa singing over Papa’s laughter.

He leaned across the console, opening compartments like they might hold treasure, as though the car itself was keeping secrets for him. When he tugged open the glove box, he froze.

Tucked between the owner’s manual and a stack of insurance papers was an envelope, the corner bent like it had been hidden there for a while. The paper smelled faintly of leather and pine, the same pine tree freshener Namjoon always bought in bulk at Appa’s request.

Inside the envelope was a VHS tape, the label scrawled in Seokjin’s rounded handwriting: Driving Lessons — For Kookie.

Jungkook stared at it, thumb brushing over the fading ink, like the letters might smudge into his skin. Instead of turning the key in the ignition, instead of testing out the freedom of driving, he carried it carefully into the house, like it might break if jostled.

Namjoon followed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… forgot that was in the glove box. Must’ve slipped it in before—” His throat closed around the rest of the sentence.

Jungkook didn’t wait. The tape slid into the player with a click. Static, then:

Car interior. The lens was crooked at first, propped on the dashboard, capturing Seokjin at the wheel. The picture shook, adjusted, Namjoon’s hand moved it, though his voice came through faintly behind the camera.

Seokjin grinned. “Alright. Driving lesson. Not for Papa, since he refuses to learn, but for you, Kookie. Just in case I’m not around when it’s time.”

“Hands at ten and two. Eyes ahead, but check your mirrors. You need to know what’s behind you to move forward.”

“Brakes aren’t failure,” he continued, tone soft, almost like a secret. “Slow down when you need to.”

There was shuffling, Namjoon fiddling with the camera. Then Seokjin’s laugh, rich and close. “Papa’s going to panic the first time you drive. Humor him.”

Namjoon snorted. “I’m not—” He cut himself off, but Seokjin’s laugh doubled, shaking through the car.

The shot angled outward now, like a dashcam, the road ahead, stretching empty in late afternoon light. The hum of the car filled the speakers, steady. Their voices carried on, unguarded. Talking about what to cook when they got home. Singing along, off-key, to a song on the radio. The kind of sounds that filled the spaces between rules, turning the drive into something warmer than a lesson.

By the time the shot cut to black, Jungkook’s throat was tight. He was smiling, but it hurt.

Jungkook didn’t move. He only watched the static until the player clicked itself off.

The next day, with too much curiosity and just enough know-how, Jungkook had already converted the VHS into an mp3 file. Headphones plugged in, he listened as the voices crackled through the static. It was rough, imperfect — but it was Appa’s voice, right there in his pocket.

And when the time finally came to take his first long drive, Jungkook wasn’t alone. Namjoon sat in the passenger seat, fidgeting nervously. The wheel was steady beneath Jungkook’s hands. And from the speakers, Seokjin’s voice filled the car:

“Hands at ten and two. Eyes ahead, but check your mirrors.”

So his first drive was with both of them, Papa beside him, Appa ahead of him, guiding him forward.

 

[00:00:05 — REC]

 

The three of them were a pile on the living room floor. Jungkook’s tiny body sprawled across both his fathers, his head in Seokjin’s lap while Namjoon read from a picture book.

“Not like that,” Seokjin had said, laughing as he took the book. “You make the dragon sound too gentle, Joon. He’s fierce.”

Namjoon huffed, pretending to be offended. Seokjin puffed his chest and roared, a terrible sound that sent Jungkook squealing with delight.

Seokjin picked up the camcorder, his voice bright, a little too cheerful to mask the dampness in his eyes. “Say hi, Jungkookie. Show us your dragon roar for the camera.”

Jungkook puffed out his chest, letting out a sound that was more squeak than roar. Seokjin’s laughter filled their home, warm enough to make the moment lighter.

Seokjin placed the camera back on the stool in the corner. The VHS light blinked red, not for a guide this time, but just for them. Just for proof that once, they were all here.

The tapes are random, scattered, like breadcrumbs Seokjin left across time. Some are practical. Some are tender. Some are so full of love they feel unbearable to watch. But Jungkook keeps finding them, and each one carries him a little further.

It was Seokjin’s way of staying — with a shaky camcorder and too much love to fit inside one lifetime.

 

[00:00:24 — REC]

 

The last tape Jungkook finds isn’t really the last. There are always more, tucked into drawers, slipped between books, hiding where only time can reveal them. But this one feels final, heavy, like it had been waiting until Jungkook was ready.

He’s twenty-four now. His voice has settled, deepened, his shoulders broad and steady. Namjoon’s hair is threaded with gray at the temples. The house feels quieter these days, lived-in, warm but full of absences that no amount of furniture can fill.

The VHS is buried in a box of sheet music Seokjin once kept. The handwriting on the label is smaller, shakier than the others. “How to shave.”

Jungkook laughs a little when he sees it. It feels unnecessary. He’s been shaving for years, but he watches anyway.

The screen crackles. Seokjin appears in the bathroom mirror, holding a razor up like a sacred tool. He looks thinner, the illness more present now in the shadows beneath his eyes, but he still tries for brightness.

“Alright, Jungkook-ah. This one’s special. Every man remembers his first shave, yeah?” He winks at the mirror. “Except you—you get two dads, so someone probably already showed you. But I want to leave you my way, too.”

He dips the razor in a cup of water, then spreads shaving cream across his cheeks with exaggerated care. “First rule: don’t rush. You’ll cut yourself if you hurry. Life’s like that too, I guess. Take your time.”

He drags the razor carefully down his jaw, pausing to show the camera the clean line. “Second rule: short strokes, not long. You don’t have to do everything all at once. Little by little works just fine.”

The camera wobbles as he leans close, foam on his upper lip. “And third: when you’re done, rinse with cold water. It stings, but it wakes you up. Sometimes, you need the sting to remind you you’re alive.”

He lowers the razor, staring into the lens now. His smile falters, but he doesn’t look away. “I won’t be there to see the man you become, Jungkook. But I know you’ll be kind. I know you’ll take care of Papa. And I know you’ll carry me with you, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.”

The tape ends there, abruptly, like he couldn’t bear to say more.

Jungkook sits alone in the living room afterward, face buried in his hands. He didn't shave that day. He lets the stubble grow out, a quiet rebellion against time itself.

 

[00:00:15 — REC]

The cemetery was quiet, just the rustle of leaves and the low hum of the world carrying on. Namjoon stood a little behind, giving space as Jungkook crouched in front of the headstone, setting down a small bouquet.

No camera this time. No blinking red light. Just silence.

“Hi, Appa,” Jungkook murmured. His voice was deeper now, no longer the child Seokjin had known, but the tenderness was the same. “I had my birthday last week. Everyone was loud. You would’ve liked it.”

Namjoon closed his eyes, hands shoved in his pockets, listening.

Jungkook’s hand lingered on the stone, tracing the carved name as though touch could bridge years. “I’m trying to cook more. Papa keeps making the soup too salty. I tell him it’s fine. But you know.”

A laugh, small, broken. Then quieter: “I miss you.”

Namjoon stepped forward at last, resting a hand on his son’s shoulder. Together, they stood in the long silence, letting the weight of love and absence settle around them.

 

[00:00:16 — REC]

 

The next VHS is almost playful. Jungkook finds it a year later, slipped into a box of old cassettes he’d been meaning to digitize. No label this time, just a blank case.

When he presses play, Seokjin is sitting cross-legged on the floor of Jungkook’s childhood bedroom. The wallpaper is faded, the bedspread wrinkled in the corner.

“Okay, okay,” Seokjin says, waving at the lens. “This one’s not really a lesson. It’s just… me.”

He laughs awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “I wanted to make one where I wasn’t teaching you anything. Where I was just your Appa. So, um. Hi, Jungkook-ah. How are you? Eating enough? Taking breaks?”

He pauses, gaze flickering down, voice dropping. “I miss you already. Is that weird to say? You’re still little, but I miss the grown-up you. I wish I could’ve met him.”

Seokjin leans closer, with a soft smile, eyes glimmering even through the fuzz of the VHS. “So do me a favor, yeah? Don’t grow up too fast. Sing. Laugh. Take care of Papa. And when you think of me, don’t be sad all the time. Think of the silly stuff. Like how I burnt the pancakes that one time. Or how I made you wear matching pajamas.”

He makes a face at the camera, puffing his cheeks out. “Remember me like this. Goofy. Embarrassing. Yours.”

The tape fizzles, the screen fading to blue.

Jungkook doesn’t move for a long time. The house creaks around him, quiet but not empty. He feels Seokjin everywhere. In the kitchen tiles, the porch steps, the smell of rice still lingering in the walls.

He whispers into the silence, “I remember, Appa.”

 

[00:02:60 — REC]

 

Years slip forward like film spooling too fast.

Jungkook is older now, mid-twenties, career blooming, voice carrying him further than he ever thought he’d go. Namjoon cheers at every show, claps the loudest, keeps the fridge stocked with water bottles for practice sessions.

And still, on nights when the weight of it all threatens to crush him, Jungkook digs out another tape.

Sometimes it’s the rice one. Sometimes it’s the one for his bad days. Sometimes he doesn’t even watch, just holds the plastic case in his hands, feeling the grooves of Seokjin’s handwriting.

 

[00:00:08 — REC]

 

The sun dipped low, spilling gold across the backyard. Jungkook, seven, barefoot and sticky from watermelon, chased fireflies with a jar clutched in his hands. His laughter carried through the humid air, bright and untethered.

Seokjin sat on the porch steps, camera balanced on his knee, recording without really aiming. The tape caught bits and pieces. Jungkook darting across the grass, Namjoon sprawled on the blanket with a book he wasn’t reading, the sky burning orange and pink.

“Come here, baby,” Seokjin called, and Jungkook barreled into his lap, breathless, showing off an empty jar.

“No fireflies yet,” Jungkook pouted.

Seokjin kissed his hair. “That’s okay. You’ve already caught the best light.” He gestured to the sunset, to the way Jungkook’s cheeks glowed in its warmth. “See? Some things you don’t keep in jars. You just live in them.”

Namjoon lifted the camera then, turning it back on Seokjin. For once, Seokjin didn’t hide, didn’t wave it off. He only leaned into Jungkook, arm tight around him, smiling like the world was whole.

The final frame lingered on the three of them together. Seokjin’s laugh, Namjoon’s quiet eyes, Jungkook squirming between them.

No lessons. No guides. Just family.

The tape clicked softly as it ran out, the screen fading to static.

 

[31:00:01 — REC]

 

A moment for their family comes years later, not with a tape, but with a song.

Jungkook is twenty-nine. Namjoon sits in the front row of a small concert hall, silver streaks bright in his hair, glasses sliding down his nose. The lights are soft, warm, and intimate.

On stage, Jungkook holds a guitar. His hands tremble, but his voice is steady when he begins.

The song is simple. A lullaby, almost. Fragments of memories stitched into melody; rice washing, bike riding, the sting of cold water after shaving. The intro sounded like a promise: I'll take one step at a time toward you. Still with you

As he sings, Jungkook sees flashes in his mind, the VHS tapes, Seokjin’s smile, Namjoon’s arms holding him tight. He feels them both with him, one in memory, one in flesh, both endless.

When the final chord fades, the hall is silent for a breath. Then Namjoon stands, clapping with tears streaming down his face.

Jungkook bows his head, whispering into the microphone, “That was for you, Appa. For both of you.”

The audience erupts in applause, but Jungkook doesn’t hear it. He only feels the warmth in his chest, the ache that isn’t quite pain anymore.

 

[00:00:00 — REC]

 

The footage begins with a jolt, the lens tilted at a table strewn with flowers and paper lantern strings. Someone laughs, Hoseok, unmistakably, before the camera steadies. The frame sharpens into a small hall decorated with mismatched chairs, a makeshift arch twined with fabric, and light that falls golden through the windows.

Seokjin stands near the front, fussing with his cuffs. His hair is carefully combed, but a piece keeps falling against his forehead no matter how many times he pushes it back. His smile is wide, nervous in the way that makes his laugh bubble out too quickly. The camera lingers on him, maybe too long, until Yoongi’s low voice mutters something like, you’re drooling, whoever’s holding this thing.

Then Namjoon appears. His suit doesn’t quite fit, his tie is a shade off from Seokjin’s, but none of that matters. He looks at Seokjin like he’s both steadied and undone at once, like the only thing tethering him to the earth is the man in front of him. Seokjin laughs at something Namjoon whispers, swats his arm lightly, and the sound rings over the soft shuffle of guests.

Yoongi and Hoseok take their places as the only witnesses. Yoongi with his hands shoved into his pockets, pretending disinterest, though his ears are visibly red; Hoseok clutching the bouquet he’ll later hand off, bouncing on his heels, unable to keep still.

The vows come, clumsy and honest. Namjoon trips over his words halfway through, face burning, and Seokjin whispers “babo” under his breath before squeezing his hand like a promise. Hoseok sniffles loudly, Yoongi groans at him, and the whole room bursts into laughter just as the officiant nods for the kiss.

It isn’t perfect. It’s too fast, teeth knocking for a second before they settle, and Seokjin pulls away laughing, face pink, Namjoon’s hands still gripping his like he’ll never let go. Applause fills the little hall, Yoongi whistles, and Hoseok nearly jumps out of his skin clapping.

The shot wobbles again, catching the blur of Yoongi and Hoseok hugging them, voices overlapping. And then, almost by accident, the camera passed into Seokjin’s hands. He turns it around, holding it too close at first, then pulling back until his flushed, glowing face fills the frame. Namjoon’s arm is looped around his waist, his chin tucked shyly against Seokjin’s hair.

Seokjin grins straight at the lens, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. “Hi, Jungkook-ah.” He takes a quick breath, still a little breathless from laughter. “This was the happiest day of my life. Well, one of them. The other will be when we finally meet you.” He glances at Namjoon, whose ears burn red as he tries to hide a smile.

“We’re a little sad you’re not here yet,” Seokjin goes on, softer now, “but this… this is for you, too. So we can be a family, all of us. Your Appa wanted to make it official, so that when you came into our lives, there’d be no question. You’d be ours, from the start.”

He winks suddenly, playful again. “I hope when you’re watching this, you’re giving him gray hairs already. Be good, but not too good. Life’s boring without a little trouble.”

Namjoon groans, half-laughing, “Hyung—” but Seokjin cuts him off with another bright smile, tilting the camera closer.

“Just remember: you were already loved here. Before we even knew you. Loved so much it overflowed.”

The tape crackles, cuts on their laughter, and ends.

Notes:

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