Chapter Text
Seokjin is an unfathomably lucky man.
This morning, Jungkook's lips taste like minty licorice and later like jasmine tea and later — well, half the time — like sweat and later like black bean sauce. This morning, Jungkook's cheeks are plush and soft when he isn’t grinning ear to ear and his waist is so small — Seokjin already knew that, but still. This morning, the imprints of Jungkook's fingertips linger for seconds afterwards, wherever they hotly press into him — his upper arm, the back of his head, even somehow around his ankle.
This morning, Jungkook makes the cutest, most delightful noises. The questioning tilt of “Hyung?” when he checks whether Seokjin's okay. The surprised-pleased hum and breathy sigh when Seokjin comes forward and initiates; the cackling giggles that follow everything else Seokjin does — he’s so happy this morning, flushed and laughing. Seokjin's happy too.
Jungkook's undisguised, expressive glee and the undeserved, sunny-eager adoration in his eyes chase off Seokjin's feelings of being accommodated, of inexperienced inadequacy, before they can really form and sink in. Instead he feels mind-bendingly wanted; shit, he’s so lucky. It seems Jungkook wants him to such a degree that he’ll overlook that Seokjin does not know, really, beyond the usual remote flashes of familiarity, what he’s doing, what they’re supposed to be doing or would be doing if circumstances were more normal.
Seokjin's floundering confusion, even if not bothersome, is probably obvious. And Jungkook may be happy but he’s not carefree; he’s… careful. Careful with him. It’s like he has a 20 second timer hidden somewhere on his person. He brings them up for air whether or not Seokjin wants to go. He won’t permit Seokjin to get too lost, lose his head, sink too deeply into the fascination, visceral intensity, or newness of it.
Trapping Jungkook's body against the bathroom door at seven o’clock, their lips melt together properly for the first (sane) time. Quickly relearning-remembering-figuring-out his own mouth as well as gleaning a little of the other one, he’s pleased with himself, blooming with pride when he draws out a sweet little sound. Jungkook grants him less than half a minute of this thoughtlessness before wiggling away, if his perception of time is to be believed.
Lying around quietly luxuriating after breakfast (where no one seemed to suspect anything was different), kissing lazily, intermittently, with lingering amazement, the softness reminds him a little of zero gravity. With the curtains drawn against the morning’s already-gathering warmth, Jungkook glows rosily in the pink light from the wall sconces; he imagines that he does too. Seokjin's hand is grabbed onto and held elsewhere only a handful of seconds after it (magnetically) glides onto the warm skin of Jungkook's waist under his shirt.
Rushing back to him after a quick, annoying check-in with the doctor, Seokjin feels a little manic, yanking Jungkook in flush and attempting to attack with an eagerness that Jungkook laughs off, as if this drive to eat him whole, whatever the fuck that entails, is not real and begging to be sated. Reining in with brute force, Jungkook's strong arms envelop him in a simple hug that sways him back and forth, tempering his energy, no longer wild, eventually gentle.
Seokjin is happy to follow his agenda. Seokjin is happy with anything. Happier, more positively and blissfully alight, than he’s ever been with anything before in his single year of life. He knows that with certainty. And if he’s not going to be granted a singular transcendent-divine moment in which he remembers everything that used to be important, at least he can kiss his favorite boy. At least this one thing can work out for him.
Not that he’s owed it, of course, or even worked hard enough to deserve it — he’s amazed he got this far, given the quality of his plan: all impulse, no significant thought given to it until Jungkook forced him to answer questions. God, those were a horrifying, scary ten minutes, the minutes that came after he opened his mouth, thinking his impulsiveness was heroically brave, almost immediately becoming confused and stupid and mortified and weakened. In retrospect, mortification aside, he’s proud of himself for pivoting, cooperating, and schooling himself into productive honesty, for calming down enough to think and undoing what he ruined, or figuring out that he hadn’t ruined it — it just needed piecing together. He’s proud of them for being able to do that.
Yesterday, he just had a fuzzy, guilty image of what he wanted; today, Jungkook actually is pecking his cheek in a dark corner, just like he dared to dream, before pinching his waist — ow! — and ducking into the blinding sunlight of the dry-for-once early afternoon with a laugh.
They’re going on a little trip (because that’s something that is possible to do down here), venturing off of the base’s grounds for the first time since they entered — it has been only a week, shockingly. Taehyung is busy with work, so they have to leave him behind, but Namjoon wanted to organize an activity anyway, a diversion, a distraction. It’s not a completely whimsical fabrication — Jungkook does technically need some things of his own; Jimin has a list in his head, as well as knowledge of where in town to shop most effectively, so that’s where they’re headed. A half hour’s drive (or more) southwest, loosely following the coastline. Only a little of the journey remains in Seokjin's memory; he was too overwhelmed to retain much that day.
Seokjin would have come with them anyway, without thinking twice about it, but Jimin told him he also hoped Seokjin might make a purchase or two for himself — ridiculous, because old-Seokjin accumulated more random trinkets and clothing items than he would realistically need, even with Jungkook sharing. When he says this, Jimin advises him that the concept of shopping is not so strictly utilitarian; it can also be about leaning into one’s aesthetic sense or recognizing one’s wants.
Recognizing his wants? Intentionally or not, the excursion might double as a memory exercise for him, in a subtle way. And that’s fine.
The shiny black company car (one out of a fleet) is clean inside and out, and well-upholstered in pale leather. The smell of gasoline is inevitable, though, as is the heat. But after they pass through the main security gate, down the wooded private drive, and onto the main road, it’s whisked away in the artificial breeze.
Jimin and Namjoon talk to each other diagonally, and eventually Namjoon is at the edge of his seat with his head and a shoulder wedged into the front row. It’s difficult to tell whether Jungkook, also in the backseat, is quiet out of awkward discomfort or simply at peace enjoying the open window. Seokjin would like to think he’s well-attuned to Jungkook's presence now, but except for the occasional chuckle, it’s like he makes himself disappear.
Seokjin, with the lucky vantage point of the passenger seat, likes watching Jimin drive the car. He’s again struck by the interesting two-dimensional constraints inherent in the road conditions, the road itself, and how Jimin anticipates the obstacles without thinking, how he handles the wheel smoothly and gearshift deftly, while keeping his passengers’ comfort in mind. Not that any of these particular observations is shocking; it’s just that Jimin looks cool. (Jungkook would look cool doing this too. And Namjoon doesn’t know how to drive at all, he learns, which is also somehow endearing.)
The highway cuts mostly between cultivated fields — the scenery is familiar, bits of it coming back to him, source unknown — where the ocean is hidden behind the boundaries of the farmland, although Seokjin is sitting on the wrong side anyway. In the far distance, what he can see is forested hills. There’s hardly anyone out working, large pieces of equipment sitting alone from the conclusion of the morning’s tasks.
Small clusters of dwellings fly past, single outbuildings and barns giving way to more cars, more frequent, larger, modern homes; then the buildings are old again, alternating between upkept and rundown, squat and multistoreyed. Drying laundry hangs colorfully outside the windows of the upper floors.
As they approach, he assumes, the center of the town, increasingly frequent street signs point towards the ocean, as if its direction isn’t obvious; maybe some of the tourists are clueless. He spots a few inns catering to them.
Jimin carefully peers both ways before rocking over parallel sets of train tracks; they must be passing over the route by which they arrived. Then, all they did was step out of the small station and into a taxi. Now, they circle a gravel lot speckled with automobiles, cargo bicycles, and even two donkeys hitched to a pole in the shadiest corner.
The brightness of the sun, the pounding heat, strikes him as soon as they stop moving, but especially after he gets out of the car. He indignantly shakes Jungkook's hand off of his arm, its presence unbearable even though that’s all he’s wanted the first half of the day; his discomfort is immediately detected. “Here.” Jungkook was the only one who thought to bring a hat, but he immediately gives it up.
“It’s your hat in the first place, Hyung,” Jungkook responds to his stuttered protests, fastening it under his chin.
“We can pick up some more,” Namjoon promises, already trudging across the gravel towards the nearest intersection; if he’s so confident it’s not a big deal, then it must not be. And Seokjin, following, does feel better like this. Hidden. Un-squinting.
It’s a bit of a walk from the parking area to their first destination, given the town pre-dates the car infrastructure. Either by memory or by picking up other clues, he feels the main street approaching before they arrive and feels himself dreading it in a way he forgot to expect. It was a week ago when he briefly experienced the city’s chaos, and while this environment is different in many ways, it’s still, to his unaccustomed brain, a sensory cacophony.
The air here is clean-feeling and in most places clear of smoke. The most prominent smell is not exhaust, but wildly varies every few meters according to what’s being cooked or manufactured. The same is true of the noise. It’s loud, people standing at the most popular storefronts needing to shout over each other, but without the middle layer of rumbling engines. Because of the weather, surfaces are bright and colors are vibrant. Shady awnings provide the only visual respite, carving blocky geometric shadows where cats and dogs laze about.
His companions throw him frequent, measuring glances as they navigate in column formation down the street. Jungkook isn’t the only one who’s worried about how he’ll handle the atmosphere, and being cared about, as he’s learned, sort of feels nice. He doesn’t know what they see. Nothing too concerning, he hopes. He is struggling a bit — he’s not as used to the headache as he was a week ago, when it was constant, but it’s not too jarring. He’s content with how well he’s managing it.
They hop between a few stores, Jimin navigating, Jungkook quickly and quietly making selections, Seokjin staying out of the way, and Namjoon paying for everything — holding the money, at least. Seokjin doesn’t know whose pocket it’s actually coming out of. Jungkook is very flustered the first time Namjoon produces his wallet, and he continues to appear uncomfortable with it the next time, awkward as he attempts to emphasize his gratitude. (All of his interactions with Namjoon are a little awkward.)
Seokjin has nothing much to contribute. He simply watches and accompanies, inside and back out on the street again. The food stalls and little open-air restaurants do not entice him — they just had lunch an hour ago, and even if he was hungry before making it to the main street, he wouldn’t be anymore — but the other displays are interesting to look at as they pass by. He catches himself standing still once, staring in transfixed fascination at a squadron of small glass objects lined up on velvet, figurines in the shape of little frogs and mice and dragon-puppies. They do call to him, dammit, as if the miniatures and tiny stuffed toys occupying the shelves of his bedroom aren’t enough. He might even own some of these already; but he doesn’t spend time searching — he doesn’t want Jimin to see and force him to get something and talk about it, and even more than that he doesn’t want to catch the attention of the shopkeeper.
Jimin and Jungkook make a good team. After less than an hour they’ve reached their last (and most complicated) stop, the commissioning of some made-to-order sets of clothes at a seamster’s. Without any nonsense, communicating in a hushed back-and-forth, expressions almost humorously serious, immersed, they work together to choose fits and fabric and styles. They’ve got it managed, and watching Jungkook's measurements being taken feels ungentlemanly (in a way it wouldn’t have yesterday) so he lets himself outside, where there is a bit of breeze now, probably clouds moving in for tonight's resuming rain.
He steps back almost against the window as two children run recklessly past, screaming at each other, leaving behind them the smell of boiled chestnuts. Soon after, a black cat with a shiny green ribbon around its neck comes over and twists itself against his ankles.
Wouldn’t it be funny if he used to know this cat? If the creature knows him? Would it feel hurt if he doesn’t react the way it expects? “I’m sorry,” he coos once struck by this thought, guiltily squatting down to its level, though that’s not what it wants from him, apparently, scampering away to the furthest support pole of the canopy.
He stares it down, waiting for a change of heart. When he finally stands up again with a sigh, the cat runs away. It doesn’t know him. It’s just a random cat, Seokjin, seriously.
“Seokjin?” Two smacks to the back of his shoulder and the crow of an unfamiliar voice have him freezing up. What? A hand tugs him, not forcefully, but unexpectedly, to turn around. “Is that you? It is you!”
Fuck. The tan, middle-aged merchant woman now in front of him looks pleasantly astonished, head cocked, hand on her hip. Oh, god. Can he charm his way out of this one? He’s afraid. She’s going to be disappointed. He doesn’t feel like he can breathe properly.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes — it’s been ages! Why haven’t you come to see us?”
“Ah, I-”
She breaks in shrewdly, as if already expecting and forgiving his poor explanation. “Have you been well? You look too skinny. Do you have time to come down for tea-”
“Jin!” Yet another hand grabs him, Namjoon's strength tripping him backwards. “I need you, quickly, come on!”
Thank god. He’s getting dragged inside; he’s being saved. “Sorry!” he calls to her, finally managing a smile as Namjoon marshals him across the dim threshold. “I’ll swing by soon!”
Out of sight — he needs to get out of the vantage of the windows. Once behind an adequately tall shelf of fabric bolts, Namjoon's hand holding him up by the collar disappears, and he deflates, in that same direction, colliding against Namjoon's arm and shoulder as he leans in with a deep sigh.
“Yeah. Yikes,” Namjoon sympathizes.
“Thanks for that.”
Opening his eyes, he catches Jungkook's gaze from across the room, where the other is tucking all the bits of his original outfit back into place; he springs fully upright, feeling a twinge of guilt. (Once he recognizes that it’s silly, that he hasn’t been caught doing anything wrong, it’s too late to go back. Ah.) Jungkook walks over. “What happened?”
“Intercepted by a mysterious acquaintance,” Seokjin says with a sigh. “My fault for waiting outside alone.”
“It was just one of the local butchers. She really wants you to marry her daughter, but she’s never said it outright so you haven’t been able to shoot her down,” Namjoon says, sounding amused. Seokjin doesn’t find it very amusing, and Jungkook doesn’t, either. Jungkook himself is amusing, though, the offended wrinkle of his nose, the cautious glare he shoots towards the window.
“All set!” Jimin returns to them from where he’s been speaking to the proprietor. “We can return as soon as tomorrow.”
“Awesome. Great job, guys. Anyone interested in ice cream?”
Jimin giggles at Namjoon's suggestion. “You and your sweet tooth.”
“We deserve it after all this; come on.”
“Yes, please!” Jungkook chirps brightly. And Seokjin nods. Sounds fine. As long as they don’t run into anyone else. (They leave through the side exit.)
Ten or so minutes later they stand around a tall table in front of the confectionary establishment, crowded around the side that retains the shade of the overhead umbrella. Now that he’s used to the heat he can tolerate Jungkook leaning against him, stealing bites out of his bowl. The closeness is useful, even, helping to tame his persistent nerves; he hasn’t been able to shake the expectation that each passerby is going to approach him. And this way none of them should notice that he isn’t really eating.
They’ve been in this town for less than two hours. He shouldn’t feel this exhausted. It’s disappointing, really. He can’t help but wonder if his capabilities are declining, and if so, why? Is it because of how nicely he’s been living in recent days? Is it because of the difference in medical treatment he's been receiving?
He dips his spoon back in to give the mess another stir. He doesn’t feel nauseous, exactly. There’s just a subtle sense of dread hanging over him, for some reason. It’s irritating. He’s confused. The sound of the others’ chatter and laughter, which was satisfyingly, freshly normal just a minute ago, feels very far away now.
His hand is being held. It’s being squeezed. The same hand that’s gripping only his spoon, right in front of him; there’s no one. This feeling… these callouses, he knows the identity of the phantom, but Yoongi isn’t here.
“Ugh,” he exclaims, bringing himself firmly back to the present reality and back to the center of attention. His heart is racing. “My head- my head hurts.” He realizes that it’s true.
“Oh-” Jungkook stutters, Namjoon cutting in.
“Brain freeze?” he asks, reaching over the table, but retreating when Jimin bats his hand down.
“Baby, let me.” Jimin's fingers against his forehead feel maybe as good as Jungkook's do, applying less pressure but with points of contact more deliberately chosen. Seokjin sighs and Jungkook's hand, cold and wet from condensation, and very real, squeezes his under the table. He doesn’t mention his disconcerting hallucination. He has no idea whether they’d take it as a positive or negative. Maybe he’ll tell Doctor Baek, but they don’t need to know. (Jimin's touch lingers, and the hint of wistfulness in his expression is offset by Jungkook's frankly humorous jealousy. As if he’s not the one who kissed Seokjin dozens of times today.)
They head back to the car soon after. As Jimin ignites the engine and Namjoon arranges their new purchases in the trunk, Seokjin takes the opportunity to steal the backseat from him, interested in a quieter drive. “You okay?” Jungkook checks as he slides in on the other side. Seokjin nods.
But when Jungkook pouts in a now-recognizable way and leans forwards, ‘okay’ turns into ‘confused’ again. Surely he doesn’t want... Not just confusion, but alarm — there are other people here. Jungkook can’t expect- can’t expect Seokjin to kiss him. That’s insane. Seokjin recoils backwards slightly and the message is communicated, Jungkook's face falling and withdrawing. He’s disappointed.
Seokjin doesn’t get it — what the fuck was he expected to do? — but he also doesn’t want to talk about it. Anyway, Jungkook isn’t mad. If he couldn’t tell through his expression, Seokjin can tell by the hand that briefly darts out to pat his thigh. With that reassurance, Seokjin puts the strange moment aside and is asleep in his seat before they leave the parking lot.