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jiminrings · 10 months ago

Text

four seven eight, phase 3 (2)

pairing: jungkook x reader

wordcount: 9k

glimpse: you’re pushed to the edge after eunsu’s stunt, and it makes jungkook realize that he’s no longer secure when it comes to being a husband and a dad.

alternatively, jungkook goes back to square one with you, but especially with hwayoung.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale — complete series masterlist, from phase 1 to 3 ]

[ angst, fluff, the double-edged desire of wanting more n Being More despite having almost everything, hwayoung being the universe, mentions of eunsu breaking in into jk's hotel room, jus eunsu being a weirdo in general, 478 couple goes old school YIPPEEEE, yoongi as his own warning, eventual redemption ]

notes: heh... i did say it wud get a little worse before everything gets better!!! :O

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!!

Hwayoung keeps staring at Jungkook’s empty spot on the dining table.

“Where’s appa?”

She looks like a spitting image of Jungkook with the way her brows are furrowed and her bottom lip pouted, clearly confused to why her carbon copy still isn’t here. Hwayoung’s heard your explanation a dozen of times already, yet she asks you again — not because she forgot already, but because she’s in disbelief.

“He’s working, Young-ie,” you smile tightly, cutting up her pancakes once again to redirect her into eating instead of asking where Jungkook is. She eats, even if you don’t slice the pancakes the way Jungkook does (he cuts them up to look like a window with four, almost-perfectly divided slices) and in the same breath, you try not to pull out your phone to ask if he’s already had dinner.

Loving Hwayoung is extremely easy, even if you get choked up from time to time trying to internalize the fact that she’s yours and Jungkook’s. There’s a continuous beep in your chest that rivals the volume of what pedestrian crossings sound like when they turn green; it’s been ringing ever since you found out you were pregnant with Hwayoung and came to the realization that you owe everything (if the world happens to not be enough) to her.

Hwayoung may be a curious, bubbly child, but the extent of her questioning only stops when you tell her that Jungkook’s working. She doesn’t prod any further than that, settling for a generic answer you’d expand on if only you could find the heart to.

Hwayoung doesn’t ask why you hold her a lot more closely than you’d usually do when you’re asleep or why her oversized sleep shirts lately belong to you and not Jungkook, not because she doesn’t care about the sudden absence of her dad, but because the abundance of you almost makes her forget about her new routine.

Almost.

She goes down from her seat (just like how Jungkook taught her with both hands and extreme care) wordlessly, strolling off with a determined gait, only to return with your cat in her arms like it’s a normal occurrence at seven in the morning.

“What are you doing with Miso, Young-ie?” you question playfully, getting your answer soon enough when she carries Miso up to where Jungkook’s plate would be.

Your daughter seems pleased about the situation altogether, nevermind the fact that the too-chunky-for-her-age cat she’s been spoiling with treats is at the head of the table instead of Jungkook.

Hwayoung’s young. She’s young enough to the point that you can withhold entire truths from her without having to clarify your words. Even more, she’s young to the point that you can’t even tell if she’ll remember this point in her childhood for the years to come.

You can’t tell if Hwayoung will even remember the chunk of time wherein Jungkook’s nowhere to be found and she’s upset about it, nor if she’ll even recall in the future about the way you’re looking at her with so much fondness and desperation at this exact moment — but nevertheless, you want Hwayoung to be young in the same way you want to be honest.

Neither you and Jungkook can withhold anything from her if it means making her happy; even if it means she won’t do something as futile as making a cat a placeholder for her dad.

“Do you miss him, baby?” you hum, feeling for your phone in your pocket as you rub the ridges of its case over and over again while deep in thought. You can’t even tell why you asked that because you know the answer already, regardless of your daughter beaming and nodding her head fervently.

“Do you wanna go on a trip?” you whisper to her ear as if it’s a secret, immediately getting her giddy. You comb through her hair with your fingers as she basically bounces on her seat, already clapping her hands because she knows the word and everything fun that it entailed. “Let’s surprise your appa, hm?”

It’ll just be a last-minute airline ticket purchase, which would happen to be Hwayoung’s first-ever plane ride that Jungkook won’t be there to see because the whole trip’s purpose is to get to him. It’ll just be a rest day or two that you have to coordinate and apologize for over and over again for the potential inconveniences you’ll create. It’ll just be a blip in Hwayoung’s memory soon enough, one you’re uncertain if she’ll even remember, but you figure that it’ll be worth it.

It’ll be worth it because it’s Jungkook, you think as you cram yours and Hwayoung’s belongings into a single backpack with no other luggage in tow.

It’ll be worth it because it’s Jungkook, you rethink while contemplating about how it’s rare for you to be impulsive, but at your fate, with respect to Jungkook, you completely surrender.

It’ll be worth it because it’s Jungkook, you mutter under your breath as you hastily plan with Jimin on the phone about your temporary quick leave, if he can look after Miso, and how to get to the airport without being noticed and most importantly, without Hwayoung being pictured at all.

Your daughter doesn’t know any better about how you and Jungkook go to extreme lengths to protect her, or how the straps of your backpack are digging into your shoulders, or how you’re nervous because it’s her first plane ride and you don’t know how she’ll take it, or how you’re ready to bolt immediately with her in your arms because she’s only yours and Jungkook’s and no one else’s.

You’re not the world-famous and critically acclaimed actress in this long-haul flight; you’re a mom to Hwayoung trying to get her to yawn repeatedly so her ears wouldn’t get clogged, you’re a mom hanging her head down in apology when it’s the fourth flight attendant to approach you asking for a picture, and you’re a mom who just happens to be extremely desperate and humble to beg said flight attendants to help you deplane first so nobody else would look at your or your daughter.

For a split second, or even for as long as you hold Hwayoung and beyond that, you forget the trophies and plaques attached to your name.

You no longer want to be the best when in your arms, Hwayoung’s jet-lagged and fighting through said fatigue, because you’ve convinced not only her but yourself, that it’ll all be worth it because it’s Jungkook.

( ♡ )

Hwayoung sleeps in your arms the whole time.

You figure that she’s out cold because you’re wearing Jungkook’s hoodie, knowing better than anyone about how your baby gets completely placated whenever she’s held. It’s heartwarming to see her this way even in such odd circumstances, the fist that’s curled up on your shirt reminding you when things used to be a little more simple.

The stress that’s been accumulating inside your temples threaten to burst and you fear that you’ll be set off by the most miniscule thing while you’re on your way to Jungkook. You’re sleepless and you’re bubbling inside with annoyance and it takes an absurd amount of energy from you to try and contain yourself.

Coordinating with Jimin through the phone makes your nostils flare, even if he’s trying his best to be helpful. Seeing people on the street in large groups, without even knowing the reason why, makes your jaw clench. Even the driver who keeps looking at you on the rearview mirror in concern makes you want to rip your hair out.

You’re frustrated and angry, even if you try convince yourself that Jungkook is worth all the fuss.

“Young-ie,” you whisper, shaking her awake gently. Your free hand’s already gripping your backpack even if you’re still minutes away; if only you had the remaining patience (maybe even optimism) to look at yourself, you’ll see the irony of you being the equivalent of overeager dads you hate on airplanes that immediately stand upon landing, even when the connecting tube to the terminal hasn’t been attached yet. “Wake up, baby. We’re getting closer.”

Everything feels a little heavy. The weight of your backpack is not the problem, and neither is Hwayoung who’s glued to you by the hip.

You have the terrifying idea in the back of your head, locked and loaded for anyone (read: Jungkook) to see if they take the additional second to ask you, that you’ll have to suffer all over again; that you’ll have to establish an ultimatum with a time limit of sorts, just so you can nullify the vacancy in you by pushing Jungkook away again.

Even now, a part of you wonders about Sora.

She’s no longer a part of your husband’s life, for good this time, yet she occupies your mind every once in a while as if she’s a bad meal on a bad day you have to stomach over and over again. You want to vomit her out completely and rid yourself of the taste of being inferior to who came before you, and yet, she lingers like a stray who knows its home.

You wonder if she’s happy with her life and how it turned out, even if Jungkook’s no longer in it despite being each other’s first for everything. You wonder if she ever thinks about Jungkook whenever it’s April 23 or when she walks past tent bars; if she’s ever married now and has a family like you and her first love do.

You wonder about Sora from time to time because if Jungkook really loved her, you fear that a little bit of it would always linger.

In the same way that you had really loved a multitude of things growing up, little bits of them would always linger even if you’ve sworn off them.

Your old obsession with tiny bottles of perfume you could only buy from boutiques (and never from malls) resurfaces whenever you visit your parents and magically, they always have a box filled up with your childhood shirts they’ve spared for Hwayoung to wear, imbued with a scent you can place to a memory, but not replicate.

The old fixation you had on patchwork blankets lingers whenever you head to the stockroom to store a PR package you could justify keeping for future purposes, only to see the unopened stacks of shirts you’ve gotten from numerous workshops, countries, and tapings as mementos throughout the years. They sit there in the dust, waiting patiently for you to take notice, but you avert your eyes as to not start a project you can’t bring yourself to finish.

The old liking you had towards the color orange stains on your fingers whenever you peel tangerines for Hwayoung, training a keen eye on her as she holds it for herself while slicing the portions you have at hand for her to eat safely.

You wonder about Sora and if she ever holds the regret of letting go of Jungkook for someone like you.

You wonder if Jungkook’s love for her, although dissolved and voided already, lingers through the existence of Eunsu — someone who’s much, much different than you, just like Sora was.

Love is not supposed to feel heavy and you stand by it, because holding Hwayoung while carrying the backpack that’s meant to sustain the both of you in a foreign country, just because you don’t want any excess baggage as you surprise Jungkook out of nowhere, has never felt lighter in your heart.

Love is not supposed to feel heavy, even if you wonder why the door to Jungkook’s hotel room is open by itself without needing a key.

Love is not supposed to feel heavy, even if you meet several pairs of eyes that either locks or avoids your own, all for a multitude of reasons.

“Jungkook,” you whisper, pupils shaking as you instinctively turn Hwayoung’s head away from the sight before you. “What’s going on?”

Your husband, who’s evidently rattled for more reasons than one and is dressed in his pajamas, stares at you head-on with his bottom lip trembling.

His staff members, some of which you recognize, avoid your gaze whilst one of them continues talking on the phone with an apologetic bow.

The members of hotel security, both of which are a little lost in what’s happening because they’ve only been suddenly called to the room of a husband to a celebrity they didn’t catch the name of in a hurry, gasp in realization when they recognize you instantly.

Eunsu, who’s clad in only a silky nightgown that leaves almost nothing to the imagination as she’s restrained to a chair by hotel security, scoffs at your presence.

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear,” Jungkook repeatedly mumbles to you, even if he only catches a shadow of you lingering somewhere as you bounce in between places trying to sort everything out.

“I-I didn’t do anything. We didn’t do anything. I never wanted things to go like this in the first place,” he says to you over and over again, even if you’re on the phone with Jimin to get ahead of damage control if the news ever breaks out.

“I’d never.. I-I’d never cheat on you, Y/N. I’ll never hurt you,” your husband whispers to you like a broken record, running his thumb over your knuckles to try and get you to calm down as if you’ve lost your cool for the past two hours.

The whole thing’s been foiled.

Neither you, Jungkook, or even the staff can even think about the short film’s immediate downfall without it even being released yet because from the get-go, it had already been a raging wildfire with Eunsu in it.

There’s no talk about the film.

There’s no talk about the hours, efforts, and even money wasted on it because all that you could think about— all that everyone who knew of the situation just now could think about, is how Eunsu broke into Jungkook’s hotel room to seduce him.

There's no talk about the unspoken rule in between the staff to tiptoe around their executive producer’s wife, and most especially his daughter. It’s no secret that the two of you dropped in unannounced (they recall Jungkook being miserable so they knew there was no way he could predict his family was about to surprise him), and yet with the way they give you space and nothing but humility, you’d mistaken them for devoted fans.

There’s only hushed, cordial conversations between everyone to keeps things up to date and under wraps. There’s only gratitude, pity, and assurance thrown your way about how they never liked Eunsu in the first place and how you were such a good, filial wife and mother to clean up the mess attached to Jungkook’s name whilst keeping Hwayoung close to you the entire time.

“She’s detained by the police now. I’ve already called up lawyers back at home. We’re pressing charges,” you say, finally standing in one place. “I have Jimin drafting everything in place in case word gets out.

You’ve been going back and forth trying to sort everything and everyone from the police, to the hotel security, and even Jungkook’s staff — even if you’ve already vacated Jungkook’s room for the three of you to be transferred to a different room in a different hotel entirely, not once have you set Hwayoung down.

You haven’t even let him hold her once since landing here.

Jungkook’s shaking in anger, or atleast whatever it is that drowns him whole even if his head is only submerged in between his knees as he tries to breathe. He’s spoken perfectly and concisely when he was asked for his statement. He’s spoken without a hitch when asked for his honesty, and he hasn’t even faltered once when he asked for the footage of Eunsu seducing a receptionist to break into his room to support his rock-solid testimony.

Jungkook even cussed Eunsu without stuttering as she basically confesses her crime (while cursing you, who didn’t want to look at her, in the process) whilst being dragged away by the cops.

Ironically, the only people who had everything going on for him whom he momentarily tried to distance himself from, are the first people to his rescue. The bed in the new room is more than massive, yet you don’t even lay Hwayoung on it; she’s still in your arms that are screaming to give out, and the backpack you’ve packed for the both of you is yet to be opened, sitting on the opposite side of the room to Jungkook’s massive luggage.

Everything has failed and collapsed around Jungkook, yet it’s you who cleans up after him.

You only let Hwayoung sleep on the bed once you needed to book separate flight tickets.

“It’s not a problem for me. We’ll be less recognizable together,” Jungkook answers quickly when you question him if he could take Hwayoung back while you get on a later flight.

He’s snappy this way, trying to ignore the raging pounding on his head that you’re upset with him; that perhaps not only were you disgusted with him, but you were also exhausted of him entirely.

There’s a massive knot in Jungkook’s throat that doesn’t want to untangle in the slightest. He feels like he’s about to choke on nothing because he rethinks that he has no right to feel tired; that he has no right to close his eyes for even a second because you haven’t slept for a day and even longer, and that he has no right to feel this low when he’s dragged you down even lower.

You only nod quietly at his answer, clicking on your phone without meeting his eyes as you blow money on last-minute flights without even flinching.

“You okay?”

You ask softly, the bags under your eyes more evident under the warm lighting. You’re sitting on a chair at the corner of the room like you’re a complete stranger while Jungkook’s sitting on the edge of the bed like he’s only a familiar guest.

It’s only Hwayoung in this room who’s acting as if she belongs here.

Right now, it’s only your daughter serving as the common denominator that you have with Jungkook — with her asleep, your husband can’t even tell if he’s on the same ground with you.

“Did she touch you anywhere?” you add, slouching on your knees. You’ve never laid back since you’ve gotten here, the fear that something bad would happen to you or anyone in your family if you took your eye off the ball for the slightest second overtaking you.

Even after you’ve cleaned up Jungkook’s mess, it’s you who tries to reach out; it’s you who tries to keep everything and everyone together, even if it’s by the thinnest thread that incessantly digs into the palm of your hands, even tighter than how your wedding ring could.

“No, no. She didn’t even get close. I just… I immediately yelled so the staff nearby heard,” Jungkook answers truthfully, shaking his head slowly in the process.

You say that it’s a relief nothing else happened, and reiterate that you and Jimin have all exits covered.

You say that you’re sorry that it happened to him, and reiterate that you’re pressing charges.

You say that you’re there in case he wants to talk about it more, and reiterate that he has to wake up early so he and Hwayoung could go on the first flight back home.

Jungkook feels extraordinarily guilty. He feels so much regret in his stomach that he wants to throw up because your contained frustration for him is unbearable to the point that it brings him to tears.

"Give it to me," he inhales sharply, shoulders trembling as he buries his face in his hands. "Just give it to me."

“What are you talking about?”

"Why won't you yell at me?!” Jungkook sobs painfully, his own hand slapping down on his mouth as he tries to keep his volume down so Hwayoung could keep sleeping. He feels as if he’s tethering over the edge the longer that you look at him stoically, his fingernails digging to his palms roughly to the point that he draws blood. ”Why won't you tell me I told you so? Why can't you tell me that I had it coming?"

Everything and everyone except you is falling apart around Jungkook, and it brings him to his knees.

“Do you want me to punish you? Is that it?” you ask, clenching your jaw until it aches.

Jungkook looks miserable this way. He looks like a devastated sinner awaiting judgement from a god whom he once lost his faith to. He looks like your husband begging, not for forgiveness, but for something more painful for as long as you feel compensated for what he’s caused you.

“You want me where to hit you where it hurts, Jungkook?” you laugh dryly, making him raise his head up as he nods slowly yet definitively, the tears on his face not close to stopping.

You say nothing while Jungkook expects everything, your husband unable to decode what you say under your breath as you turn your back on him to go shower.

You get out of the bathroom eventually, finally seeing that he doesn’t have his forehead touching the carpet.

Instead, Jungkook’s passed out from crying and has himself curled up into a little ball on the same chair you’ve sat on just awhile ago, with your clean change of clothes pressed on the bed right next to your daughter.

( ♡ )

Jungkook looks for you in everybody but he finds you in no one.

He woke up far earlier than his alarm (not that he had been in a deep slumber anyway) and the perpetual ache all over his body reminds him of that, his eyes glazing over you as if it’s the last he’ll see of you for decades.

Hwayoung stirs awake at the same time that he does, and for a moment, Jungkook thinks that everything’s okay.

For a split second, he mistakes today as one of your workdays wherein he wakes up early to prepare you your breakfast and it just happens that Hwayoung wanted to be a joey to a first-time kangaroo mother. He mistakes your little family in this hotel room to be a perfect one, wherein his only biggest hurdle in life is to keep his daughter inside his do-it-yourself sling while trying not to overcook your fried rice.

Apparently, Jungkook mistakes everything and everyone to be in favor of you, of him, to the point that he had deliberately ignored your plea to work with Eunsu all this time ago, and that decision of his has majorly, if not completely, undone everything you tried to work on for your family.

He tries to find you in the elderly lady who looks at him in pity as Hwayoung cries while they’re in first class seats, the shallow breaths he tries to ground himself to (so he wouldn’t panic and text you in fear of bothering you) doing nothing in the long run.

Your husband tries to find you in the foreign flight attendant who despite not knowing him or whom he’s married to, offers to hold Hwayoung as she explained that she’s a mother and also has a toddler at home.

Jungkook tries to find you in the remnants of your perfume on his daughter’s shirt. Hwayoung’s already stopped crying after some time of being cradled by the flight attendant, and the sight of his daughter calming down because of a stranger (who is obviously better than him) makes him want to be ground to a fine powder for everyone to walk over.

He feels ashamed in a way that he can’t even put into words. Jungkook feels far too inadequate, far too undeserving, and far, far pathetic that he fears not even his constant apologies to you would ever be enough.

Jungkook feels ashamed even when you take the last flight home and you go through the door like nothing’s wrong between the two of you, simply because Hwayoung’s watching. He feels like a dog fetching you your house slippers automatically but he wants to be reduced to something more filial; something a little more loyal to the point that it’s pathetic.

Your husband is ashamed even when you’re not awake and he can’t see your eyes avoiding his whenever your daughter’s not around.

Jungkook holds you tighter in his sleep, going so far as to kneel by the side of your bed instead of reaching across you, so Hwayoung wouldn't be caught in the middle — even if she’s already been since the start.

( ♡ )

Outside of you and Jungkook, only Jimin and Yoongi know about what happened.

You have your pride holding you back from telling your parents because in the back of your mind, there still lies the instinct of wanting to protect Jungkook, your own family, from the family that raised you.

You have no one to confide to except for your manager, who’s technically obligated to know what’s been going on with you when you suddenly call him up to tell that you’re surprising Jungkook in the US, only for your next call to consist of you asking for his help in a terse manner– and your best friend, who’s the first person Jimin calls whenever you’re in need of serious assistance.

There’s been no headlines of Eunsu breaking in and entering Jungkook’s hotel room, along with the follow-up details of how you and your daughter (whose existence is known but her privacy maintained to the highest level you can maintain) arrived as a surprise, only to be confounded by the very scene of your rival in a nightgown, held back by guards.

You know it’s going to come eventually.

You know the telltale dread that fills you up when something far bigger and beyond you is on its path to overtake you. The articles, the scrutiny, and the discourses haven’t even entered the stage yet you already feel sick because this time, it’s not only your name that’s going to be dragged into a situation you never thought would happen.

It’s also your daughter’s.

“We need to talk about Hwayoung,” you approach Jungkook as soon as you come home after your overtime, stilling in your tracks when you see Hwayoung sleeping in her pen.

Jungkook’s eyes linger on her before looking at you properly this time, the knot on his throat loosening at the prospect of what’s been bothering his mind repeatedly, but with the promise of a solution that he hasn’t arrived at, yet is bound to hurt him nonetheless.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

You sit on the far end of the baby blue floor couch as if you and Jungkook don’t share a home together.

“We look okay to her now but still,” you pause, looking down on your feet that are bruising from the heels you’ve been filming with all day and night. “I don’t want to put her in the middle of… everything that thisis.”

Jungkook nods, not only because he understands, but because he’s aware of everything, all the way from the guilt of being a husband to the guilt of being a dad.

“She’s bound to ask questions too, and even if she’s not asking them now, I feel bad having to keep her in the dark.”

“She’s still young, Jungkook. I never thought I’d say this, but I mean,” you sigh, shrugging defeatedly as you try to look for the right words. “If we keep including her in situations that she shouldn’t be a part of, we’re only bringing her closer to harm. For all we know, someone somewhere has a picture of her during the trip.”

“I-I tried my best. I moved as fast as I-…”

“I know. I also tried my best when we took the trip to you,” you exhale heavily, trying to wrap your head around the complexity of the past week alone; you can’t even understand why you pushed yourself to go back to work immediately after going back home. “I’m not saying that Hwayoung’s known already. I’m just considering the possibility because we could never be too sure.”

Jungkook knows you’re trying to get rid of the guilt that forms in him for that matter, but for everything else, he knows better than to assume of you.

“Do you…” he swallows. “Do you also think that Hwayoung needs a breather from us? Not the other way around, of course, but you know-…”

“I know what you mean,” you nod your head, the guilt of being a mom to a Hwayoung coming easily these days. “It’ll be good for her to be around other people. To be away from what we have going on.”

You and Jungkook share a guilt that’s only unique to having Hwayoung under your circumstances, and it’s a burden you want to get rid of without ever hurting her in the process.

“We can’t have my parents babysit. They read me easily and I don’t want them to know,” you confide, making your husband hang his head in shame even if it wasn’t your intention.

“My parents can’t either. They went on a cruise.”

“I don’t trust nannies,” you add, making Jungkook nod deliberately.

“Who can we trust then?” he sighs, rubbing his hand all over his face as he tries to scour his brain for people. “Who do we have in our lives that Hwayoung trusts too?”

Your head tilts after a few seconds in realization, and Jungkook’s mind drifts to his daughter’s godfather whether he likes it or not.

You and your husband have the same idea in mind, with one being less fond of it than the other.

“I’ll call Yoongi.”

( ♡ )

“I want to be your personal assistant.”

Jungkook says in one breath, right in the middle of making your lunchbox.

You woke up early in the first place because you neither thought nor expected for him to do it for you, but with the way he’s nearly done and making more than necessary, you’re clearly due to be corrected.

Without Hwayoung to tend to, Jungkook itches to have a purpose. He wants to be needed even if he isn’t and the thought always springs up on him whenever his girls are by themselves. The use of him, although not always necessary, is what keeps Jungkook up on his feet these days, nevermind the excruciating guilt and desperation of wanting to make it up to you.

He almost always came to accompany you to your shootings before Hwayoung came around and he’s reminded of it as he packages your meal, his shaking pupils meeting your own that are only begging for any sort of explanation.

It’s not that you don’t want Jungkook to try — it just happens that it’s been awhile since it was only, truly the two of you.

“Why?"

“Because I want to,” he merely shrugs, and when he steps out of the kitchen, you only keep your frown to yourself as you realize that he’s already dressed for the day.

Jungkook doesn’t invade your space like he usually does but he sits close enough to you on the drive to your shooting location; enough for you to feel the warmth that radiates from him without being overwhelmed.

It’s been more than a long time since this happened that you’ve practically forgotten what it felt going to work with Jungkook.

You forgot how your husband steps out of the car first to hold all of your things in one hand with the other reaching out to help you down.

You forgot how he has a natural scowl on his face and how despite your staff knowing that you’re already married (and to him specifically), they can’t believe the sight of the two of you together.

You forgot how Jungkook likes to hang around you as if he’s a dog with only one owner in any place he can call home as long as he’s with you, that you forget to tell Jimin that you haven’t told your husband about the upcoming press conference at all.

Without even trying, Jungkook overhears Jimin (who’s giving him the cold shoulder) going through your schedule for the next two weeks, his jaw grinding at the particular event that he already knows is important without any explanation—

Without any heads-up from you at all, it seems like.

Jimin’s already left your trailer several minutes ago but Jungkook’s eyes are still fixated on the chair he sat on, his eyes looking past the flooring and deeper into the ground that he wants to be one with out of disbelief– out of shame, even.

You always told him about your schedule and you didn’t leave anything out — it’s only now when it dawns on him that you haven’t been telling him about your work at all.

“Do you not want me there?” he asks, his voice thick with confusion. “Are you embarrassed of me or something?”

“It’s not like that, Jungkook.”

“Then make me understand,” he pleads with the hint of despair, the disbelief that coats his tone all throughout being entirely transparent.

You didn’t plan on how to break the news to him. You didn’t plan on letting Jungkook know about the media event at all.

There’s no other response that springs up to your throat except for the one that only exists since he’s had that drunken fight with you.

“Because I don’t want you to ruin it again for me, okay?” you lick your lips, going more and more breathless the more that Jungkook mirrors how you looked back then when you begged him all those years ago. “Because the last time that I had a big press conference like this, you ruined it for me too.”

The thought of Sora, and then Eunsu, and then Jungkook himself come hand in hand, and you wonder when will you stop suffering from the though process that haunts you whenever you’re reminded of press conferences — of your entire work in general.

“I don’t want to be reminded that you hate the life I gave you.”

Jungkook feels the urge to tuck his head in between his knees again, but he doesn’t want to run away this time.

“I said I’m sorry,” he surrenders as he lacks the words he had been telling you in numerous variations for the past days and weeks.

He didn’t think it had hurt this bad the last time around.

"And I only forgave you because it seemed right at the time," you clench your jaw, your exhale being more shaky than you expected. “I only forgave you because I had Hwayoung in my mind."

( ♡ )

Jungkook’s getting back into the groove of being by your side at work.

You’re still not fully adjusted to the sight of Jungkook during tapings, all while he moves about like it’s always been in his nature to assist you. He’s overeager in a lot of things, so much so that his presence practically attracts more attention than you do on set.

It was just yesterday when Jungkook hollered and clapped his hands loudly after you say a long, emotional line before the director said cut and before your co-star could even say her line next, which led to you having to re-do the scene.

It was just two days before when he audibly groaned when an extra had to whistle at you for a scene and literally walked right into the set with his fists clenched, forgetting entirely that you were filming and that a random guy just didn’t catcall his wife in front of him.

It was just two minutes ago, when you ban Jungkook completely from watching you act.

“I’ll do it,” he perks up at the stylist as if he hadn’t been sulking to you just two minutes ago, his hands already fixing themselves on your arms to get you to stand up.

“Jungkook-…”

“But Mr. Jeon-“ she squeaks, about to say her thrice-rehearsed piece of doing her job (everyone on set has been warned about your husband making them jobless) when Jungkook basically carries you to your dressing room.

“No, no, I said I’ll do it!” he practically squeaks, setting you down wordlessly with a giddy smile on his face.

Jungkook’s too good at getting back into the groove of being by your side, you almost forget that the two of you aren’t entirely okay.

He gets you into your gown with utmost care (albeit a little confusion along the way), his hands caressing you with the familiarity that only he carries. Jungkook carries a weight with him that settles when he touches you in any which way, the weariness of his fingers dispersing as soon as you give him the slightest attention.

He may have looked stupid pretending he didn’t know how corsets worked or how petticoats are worn first before the actual gown, but his denseness had atleast bought a little more time from you.

A little more warmth.

Jungkook looks at you intimately, not in the way that’s begging for you to want to jump his bones, but in the way that he knows who you hated throughout the workday while having his warm hands work on your calves.

He knows every inch of you, which may be the reason his hands feel warmer on you than you recall, all the way to the tips of your toes that feel trapped all of a sudden.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I think they’re gonna swap out my shoes anyway because they won’t be seen,” you murmur, trying to avoid the heels and the pain they bring but not until he hushes you.

“I’m not putting on your heels. I’m putting on your socks.”

“I don’t need socks.”

“Your cold dogs keep rubbing up on my legs at night whenever you forget to put them on,” he snickers out of nowhere and it brings out a sudden snort from you, the brief and unorthodox moment hanging over you whilst the two of you gloss over the fact that not only have you not been intimate for so long, but you’ve also not cuddled despite sleeping in the same bed.

Jungkook walks you to your set with his hands raised in surrender, already murmuring to your worried director that he’ll stay out this time as soon as he finishes taking you.

“Wait,” he squeaks before turning back to you, making everyone else hold their breaths to see if they could retain their jobs today. Jungkook carefully removes your wedding ring that you forgot to stash, wearing it snugly on his pinky instead. “Just for safekeeping.”

( ♡ )

Jungkook’s not fond of the rain.

He’s not fond of it especially when your job requires you to stand under it.

“Your hazard pay should be ginormous for the work they’re making you go through,” he mutters, holding up an umbrella for you as some stylists make quick work of already pre-soaking you before the scene starts.

“It’s just a little rain,” you roll your eyes, about to shove your hands in your pockets because it’s getting a little cold already yet Jungkook notices before you even could, holding both of them with just one massive hand as he leans the umbrella more to your side.

“They should cancel the filming today. It’s pouring,” he continues like he’s never heard you, even if the rain isn’t terrifyingly bad. The weather’s only fitting because the scene calls for it, but even so, Jungkook feels hesitant.

He lets go of your hands for a brief second to retrieve the handkerchief that’s tucked to the waistband of his pants, already unraveling it for you in waiting.

“Blow.”

“What?” you narrow your eyes at him, looking down on the fabric until it finally hits you in realization.

“Blow your nose,” he nudges you, nodding his head to it but it only makes you shake your head even more.

“No way!”

“Just blow your nose now so you wouldn’t feel stuffy later.”

“I’m not gonna feel stuffy later. It’s just a little rain,” you roll your eyes, crossing your arms together as you beg internally for the lighting to be fixed so you could shoo your husband away.

“Blow your nose while I’m still asking.”

“Ew, no. I’ll look like a child in front of — Jungkook!”

Before you could even comprehend it, Jungkook’s already pinching your nose with the handkerchief, forcibly making you blow your nose, uncaring of the swooning and oddly endeared eyes trained on the two of you.

“Just a little rain. Heh,” he mocks, folding the handkerchief back up with one hand to tuck back into his waistband. Jungkook moves on like it’s nothing, begrudgingly leaving you alone without an umbrella, but not without raising his voice enough for the other staff to hear. “I’ll try to scare your management into raising your hazard pay.”

( ♡ )

Jungkook likes peeling fruits for you and Hwayoung.

He doesn’t like the sticky residue nor the lasting smell that gets stuck underneath his fingernails, but he manages. He’d only eat your leftovers and he wouldn’t do it for himself anyway, even if he knows you always get a little irked by the fact.

It’s his habit now to cut fruits for you in the most Hwayoung-tolerable slices possible, the bowl of tinily-cut tangerines underneath your hands as you skim through your script making him uncharacteristically silent; if he wasn’t apologizing to you, you would be talking each other’s ear off about Hwayoung.

He tries not to make a big deal out of brushing your hair because it’s been a while since the last time, instead reading your script along with you so he’ll be distracted. Jungkook doesn’t know if he can focus as hard as you do or remain like so for even longer, but at the moment, there’s only one line on the script that stands out to him.

It stands out, not because it’s long nor vulgar, but because the line belongs to him.

“That scene — will it be filmed today?” Jungkook asks, breaking the silence as he traces the words with his finger.

“Huh? This one?” you follow to where he points, shaking his head as you try to remember. “No. It’ll be next week, I think. I’m just memorizing in advance.”

Jungkook hums but it’s not out of interest, the sound that comes from him instead bordering on a wince. There’s a terse look on his face that you could only liken to jealousy, the thought of it unexpectedly making you snicker.

“Calm down, Jungkook. It’s not a kissing scene.”

“But you say I love you to him, though.”

“That’s worse?”

“Maybe. Probably,” he shrugs, the uncalled-for thought about what he’d feel if there’s a scene where you have to have (read: acting to have) sex making his throat close up painfully. “I can’t tell.”

The thought crosses your mind too, but you’d rather not dwell on it.

“How do I look like when I say I love you?”

Jungkook purses his lips, pausing from brushing out the section of hair he’s passed through more than ten times out of distraction (read: devastation).

You look like love itself if it had been personified.

You look like an unexplainable feeling in an interrupted dream he had been born with, and his sole mission in life is to seek you.

You look like what miracles do and he’s the first witness each and every time until you’re canonized by everyone, except he always wants to place himself at your feet as your first devotee.

“I know exactly what you look like when you tell me you love me,” Jungkook answers. “But I don’t want to tell you.”

“Why not?” you laugh at his defensiveness, replacing your gaze on him through the mirror just to crane your neck up at him so you could see his reaction more closely.

“Because you only have to act it out,” he shrugs, eventually laughing along with you even if he means every word. “I want to be the only one that knows what you look like when you’re saying the truth.”

( ♡ )

It’s your first good day in a week and a half.

It’s actually the first day wherein you and Jungkook talked simply because you wanted to; the first day wherein your conversations didn’t revolve around Hwayoung and pestering Yoongi to send more pictures of her, and the first day wherein Jungkook didn’t try apologizing.

You hum in content as you sit on the couch as soon as you come home, your husband following suit and sitting next to you instead of giving you space.

There’s only a centimeter worth of distance between your hands placed on the couch, and if Jungkook only twitched in faux accident, his pinky (the one that still wore your wedding band) would be brushing yours already.

“It’s like we’re kids again,” you smile to yourself, looking around the entire house. You remember how your ceilings didn’t used to be this high and how your space didn’t used to be this wide — you remember how you and Jungkook weren’t always like this.

“We are kids,” he emphasizes, playfully rolling his eyes.

“Aren’t we pushing thirty?”

“I don’t wanna go into details right now,” he murmurs, slouching further into the couch and nearer to you, his hair that’s growing past his ears lightly brushing against your shoulder.

Jungkook looks around the house too, his eyes glazing past Hwayoung’s playpen, the laundry of a family of three that he’s yet to fold, and the toys of a cat who hates him that he has to sort out soon enough.

Jungkook’s life wasn’t always this way and although he appreciates the fact, he’s terrified by the possibility that it’ll be this double-edged sword that’s waiting to happen.

In the same way that worship is optional but devotion is necessary, Jungkook tries to hold you as tightly as he could without pushing you away.

“Baby,” he rasps out, chewing on his bottom lip as he tries to make sense of the ache that blooms in his chest. “What if…”

“What’s in your head, Kook?”

In the same way that devotion is necessary but worship is optional, Jungkook toes the line with a question that he has no telling what the answer is to.

“If you had the option to have Hwayoung with someone who isn’t me,” he clears his throat, trying to get rid of the immediate pang in his heart that follows.“Would you still have her?”

You think for a second and answer immediately, even if Jungkook wanted you to stay silent for longer because he’s afraid of what you would say.

“That’s not Hwayoung then.”

“No but I mean hypothetically, if you could have Hwayoung-…”

“I got what you meant the first time,” you interrupt him, gently shrugging him to get up from your shoulder so he’d look at you without running away. “That’s not Hwayoung,” you mumble, trying to keep up with the myriad of thoughts that he had opened up. “Hwayoung’s only Hwayoung because she’s part me and part you.”

Jungkook nods, except he doesn’t understand. You could say your piece over and over again, but Jungkook still wouldn’t understand because he doesn’t know what he wants to hear from you either.

“But what if she has all of you and you could pick someone else to be her dad,” he croaks, looking down on the floor with a grief that belongs only to him. “Would you still want her?”

“I want Hwayoung because she’s my daughter with you, Jungkook,” you sigh. “I could pick someone to be her dad and that someone is you. I already chose you — what’s hard to understand about that?”

You hear Jungkook asking you the question over and over again, even if his mouth is already shut. You see him looking at you with tears in his eyes even if they’re downcast on the floor in reality.

You feel yourself wavering even if you’re definite about your answer.

“You made me a mom and I made you a dad.”

“But I doomed us into this,” Jungkook weakly counters. “If only… i-if only I changed my ways earlier, if I — if I could’ve been just content with this perfect life you built for us, t-then we wouldn’t be-…”

Jungkook inhales sharply, the choke that soon follows ringing in your ears to the point that it pricks tears from your eyes.

“We wouldn’t be in this situation, Y/N. I turned us into this,” he sobs. “If only I could’ve been s-satisfied, Hwayoung would be in my arms at this time while we wait for you to come home,” Jungkook shakes his head painfully, the clench of his fists evident even when you’re only looking at him from the corner of your eye. “If only I thought everything you— you spoon-fed me was enough, then Yoongi, of all people, wouldn’t be babysitting our daughter right now,” he pauses. “Why can’t I be in your press conference?”

You don’t have to look anywhere in the house to realize that Hwayoung’s playpen is empty.

You don’t have to tune anything out to realize that Hwayoung isn’t here in between the two of you, talking and giggling as you go about your day while you’re still wearing your outside clothes; while she’s still in her pajamas because she wanted to wait for you to come home.

The gravity of everything hits you all at once, making you hiccup in tears.

“You were really mean, Jungkook.”

In the same way that worship is optional but devotion is necessary, Jungkook listens to you even if it’s you cursing him.

“I’m not the best mom there is because I’ve missed so much milestones. I… I-I’ve missed so much trying to secure everything for you, for Hwayoung, f-for us because I don’t know how much more I could take,” you sob, burying your face in your hands. “Do you know how hard it is for me? Do you know how hard it is for me to work alone while knowing that my husband and daughter have each other at home? That I don’t have someone while I put myself out there?”

There’s a strain of grief in your heart that only you carry, and Jungkook can’t do anything about it.

“I feel so, so, s-so fucking guilty, Jungkook!” you shriek, your cheeks turning blotchy the more that you cry. “I-I… I had to pick up this child— this child actor— over and over again because my fake role is to be his mother,” you strain a laugh humorlessly, trying to screw your eyes shut so you wouldn’t see Hwayoung’s laundry from the corner of your eye. “Meanwhile, I can’t even hold my own child because her appa’s already taking good care of her at home.”

In the same way that devotion is necessary but worship is optional, Jungkook takes it, takes you, should this be his punishment.

“Jungkook, if you envy me, then you don’t know how much I envy you more,” you exhale in defeat, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “If only I could, do you think I wouldn’t drop everything just to stay at home with you and Hwayoung?”

“You could be mad at me all you want, Jungkook, but I still don’t want you to go to the press con.”

“It’s different now, Y/N,” Jungkook whispers, his eyes rubbed red and raw as he pleads with you silently because no word, no litany can save him now.

“But how different is now from then? It’s like we’re kids again, Jungkook,” you whisper. “If you were the one in my place, would you drop everything if I asked you to?” you add, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Can you drop everything if I asked you to?”

( ♡ )

In a dream Jungkook doesn’t tell anyone, he’s never met Sora, and you happen to be his first everything.

In a dream your husband doesn’t tell anyone, he doesn’t know of Eunsu’s existence, and if he were to know about her, he only happens to think about her as your rival and nothing more.

In a dream he doesn’t tell anyone, he didn’t wake up late in your bed, and he most certainly heard Yoongi ringing the bell eagerly because he wanted to take Hwayoung home to see the both of you before you go to your press conference.

Jungkook bounds down the stairs so quickly that he almost trips on the way down. His hair is still unkempt and his shirt remains askew, yet he still goes down anyway with a speed you can’t even decipher because he’s already heard his daughter cheerful screaming.

"Up, up!" Hwayoung claps her hands, looking at Jungkook’s direction but not at him — instead, she’s looking at Yoongi who’s emerging from the kitchen.

In a dream Jungkook doesn’t tell anyone, Hwayoung doesn’t know anyone except for you and him.

“Up, appa! Up!”

In a nightmare that Jungkook’s experiencing in real time, Hwayoung mistakes Yoongi as her dad.

#HEHHHHHH how r we feeling citizens!!! pls report back i am So Sorry :O #jungkook imagine #jungkook oneshot #jungkook oneshots #jungkook series #jungkook angst #jungkook angst imagine #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #jungkook au #jungkook scenario #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x you #bts jungkook imagine #jungkook scenarios #jeon jungkook x reader

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fcble · 1 year ago

Text

In which Eunsu receives a visitor.

FEATURING: Baek Eunsu, Yoon Mingeun WORD COUNT: 4.1k SETTING: November 2023 NOTES: Welcome (finally) to the transitional period between Fable Season 1 (2023) and Fable Season 2 (2024?)! Or something like that. This is just an excuse to experiment with characters who would otherwise have nothing to say.

“Can you pick me up? I’m at the train station,” Mingeun says when Eunsu picks up the phone. He doesn’t say hi. He also never told Eunsu he was coming to visit.

All of their other meetings have been very carefully planned outings, the two of them juggling their schedules and their obligations and their differences in locations. Sometimes Eunsu visits Seoul. He’ll take the subway to the station a few blocks away from the Zenith Entertainment, and walk the familiar streets. He could never forget that walk, and each time he does it, he’s filled with pangs of regret. At other times, Mingeun takes the train out to Taebaek. In the beginning, right after he left, Eunsu refused to let him see him like this. It wasn’t until nearly a year had passed, as he had settled back into a life he thought he would never return to, that he let Mingeun visit his home.

He had shown him through the small, cramped streets and the single highway, apologizing for its shabbiness and its rural-ness compared to Seoul’s opulence, until Mingeun gave him a strange look and asked what he was apologizing for.

Now, he’s a bit more used to it. He’s still not proud of his hometown—he doesn’t think he ever will be. But when Mingeun asks for a ride, Eunsu says yes.

He’s not a good driver. More accurately, he isn’t a confident driver. Each time he sits behind the wheel, he thinks about Yonggeum and feels a sharp, stabbing pain through his chest, a feeling that will never go away and has only slightly softened over time. Instead, Eunsu is a very precise driver. He places both hands on the steering wheel, left hand at ten, right hand at two. He slows to a stop at every yellow light. He always uses his turn signal. He refuses to drive if he’s tired or drunk or otherwise inebriated.

He picks Mingeun up at the bus terminal. Mingeun is wearing his characteristic scowl, a pair of wired earbuds connected to his phone.

“Thanks,” he says gruffly as he slides into the passenger seat, tossing his backpack into the backseat. He leaves one earbud in.

Eunsu is unbearably nosey, so he has to ask, “What happened? Is this an impulsive vacation?”

He spares the slightest glance away from the road in front of him to see Mingeun lean his head against the window.

“I had a fight,” Mingeun says. “With Haksu and Intak-hyung and Jaeseop-hyung.”

Eunsu wonders what they could have disagreed about, that would set Mingeun opposite the three of them. He never would have imagined Mingeun and Jaeseop disagreeing. He doesn’t push further. Mingeun will talk about it when he wants to talk about it. If he ever wants to talk about it.

At home, Mingeun fits in like he lives there. Eunsu leaves him in the kitchen, charming Eomma as he usually does, and heads off to clean his room.

Mingeun is messier than he is, so he doesn’t try too hard: clothes in a pile in his closet, papers straightened on his desk, swipes his hand through the layer of dust on his nightstand then wipes it on his pants. He tries not to hear Mingeun talk about life in Seoul. He fills his ears with the screech of the rusted hinges of the hallway closet, followed by the scraping sounds of the floor mattress against the hardwood floor instead. Mingeun always stays in his room, because the other bedroom is still Yonggeum’s, kept perfectly preserved the way it was, like he'll come home and head off to his room any day now.

He surveys his handiwork: the mattress pressed up alongside the base of his bed, the only somewhat cleaner room, and knows Mingeun has survived worse.

As he emerges from his bedroom and inserts himself back into the conversation, Mingeun asks almost immediately, “How long can I stay?” His gaze darts furtively between Eunsu and Eomma.

The bits of conversation Eunsu blocked out from his mind must have worked some magic on Eomma, because she gives Mingeun a tender, loving look. He can’t remember the last time she looked at him like that.

“As long as you’d like,” she says, and that’s the end of that discussion.

In the morning, Mingeun slips back into Eunsu’s life like he never left. The house is livelier with him around, even if it’s because he misjudged the doorway of the bedroom in the dark after a bathroom trip and stubbed his toe on the doorframe then woke Eunsu up with his swearing. Sometimes Eunsu thinks he should ask Mingeun to tone it down in front of his parents. And yet he knows that it’s exactly the kind of request Mingeun would ignore. He can only hope Eomma and Appa are unaware of this side of Mingeun, because he’s polite and charming at all times other than three in the morning.

Morning car rides to the temple are usually somber experiences. Eunsu will sit in the passenger seat and stare out the window while the radio alternates between static and snippets of a news broadcast. Neither he nor Appa speak.

With Mingeun around, it’s different. Eunsu gives up his shotgun seat for Mingeun, who starts fiddling with the dials as soon as they pull out of the driveway.

“How can you not have Bluetooth?” Mingeun grumbles, as if he hasn't ridden in Appa’s ancient Toyota multiple times before. “It's a basic feature.”

He complains, but he clearly knows better now. The CD player whirs as it accepts his offering, and something bass-heavy begins to play.

Eunsu doesn't recognize it. His silence is an affront, apparently, because Mingeun turns around as much as he can in his seat.

“Nu’est?” he asks. “Re:BIRTH?”

Given the name of the album, it sounds slightly more familiar. “Did you choose this one specifically? Or do you normally travel with a CD from ten years ago?”

“Nine years. I might meet Minhyun-sunbaenim somewhere someday,” Mingeun says seriously. He disappears from Eunsu's field of vision, and reappears holding the entire album.

Eunsu can't help but laugh, a bright sound that sounds entirely foreign coming from him. He's lived in the same state of permanent dreariness for years. Such a light-hearted feeling of happiness is unfamiliar.

They listen to a little more than two songs when they arrive at the temple—his second home for the past two years. Eunsu tries to see it from an outsider’s perspective, with some difficulty. There’s the small parking lot that Appa pulls easily into, where the faded paint lines of the stalls have disappeared into the asphalt.

They walk up the five stairs to the entrance, the wood creaking and bending under their combined weight. The building’s paint is peeling in long strips, exposing the wood underneath. Eunsu shoves down the inexplicable urge to defend all of it to Mingeun.

Appa unlocks the door, and the two of them fall into their normal, silent routine. He disappears down the center aisle to the private storage room in the back of the building. Eunsu props open the doors, the pervasive smell of incense already surrounding him. It never fades, despite his best attempts to air out the room. He opens the only two windows near the entrance anyway.

Mingeun seems rooted in the entryway. Eunsu gives him a questioning glance.

“When we lived in Seoul, I never thought I’d ever see for myself all of this,” Mingeun says, spinning in a slow circle.

He’s over-dramatic.

“You’ve visited me before,” Eunsu says.

“And you never let me see anything except your house.”

There’s no one to blame except Eunsu for that one. He did it on purpose—never taking Mingeun anywhere except his house, a few of his favorite restaurants, and once, the base of the mountains.

“This is cooler than the time I went to Mass with Haksu-hyung,” Mingeun continues.

That’s a good thing, Eunsu supposes. He knows Mingeun’s church experience was horrific enough to never go back.

“The service hasn’t started yet,” he says, logical as always. It’s unfair for Mingeun to say that before he’s fully experienced it.

Mingeun shrugs. “It can’t be worse,” he says, almost uncharacteristically optimistic.

To Eunsu’s surprise, Mingeun survives almost the entire service. Eunsu knows meditation isn’t for him, so he isn’t surprised to hear the pew creak next to him almost as soon as the small congregation closes their eyes and breathes deeply. A slight breeze enters the room as he exits.

Eunsu has had the time to make peace with his responsibilities. And really, keeping track of Sunja’s dog and how Kanghee’s kids are doing isn’t too much of a leap from remembering repeat fansign attendees. So he clears his mind of thoughts of Mingeun for the next twenty minutes, listening instead to the quiet rustle of the wind in the trees overhead.

When he judges his part is done—by the much smaller crowd and Appa’s blessing—Eunsu heads out the back and finds Mingeun immediately. His bag is leaning against the side of the building while he sits under the shade of the largest tree, earbuds in. A small pile of stones is built almost into a pyramid in front of him.

“You're done,” he says. “Finally.”

“Not yet,” Eunsu says. “Appa's still inside.”

Mingeun practically wilts.

“You’ve never come out here with me before.” Eunsu crouches on the ground so that he can be at eye-level with Mingeun, though he refuses to sit.

Mingeun adds another rock to his pile. It balances precariously on top. “This time is different,” he says. “I thought I should try to understand how you live. And I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Eunsu wants to unpack that. He wants to ask why. He wants to know what Mingeun ran away from this time, because he’s always running from something. So he approaches it carefully, cautiously, and asks, simply, “What do you mean?”

His question is ignored. Instead, Mingeun looks him in the eye, and in his careless, blunt way, asks, “Do you want to be here?”

Eunsu's thighs are starting to kill him, so he stands up.

“It doesn't matter what I want,” he says.

Mingeun glares up at him. “That's not what I asked.”

They've had this conversation before, and time and time again, Eunsu gives the same answer. It doesn't matter what he wants, because what he wants has absolutely no bearing on what he does. It's the complete opposite of Mingeun, who's constantly driven by his desires.

“Yes,” he answers, just to shut Mingeun up. He doesn't know what he wants. He hasn't given it much thought in the past two years.

Mingeun has no response. He scatters his rock pile into its individual pieces and stands up. Then he says, “Haksu-hyung was mad at me first. Said I was selfish and a hypocrite for taking all the opportunities I had. He pretended he doesn't do that. Of course I was mad at him.”

He pauses in his recollection for a moment. None of that seems like an issue to Eunsu. It's a small disagreement, not something that should have caused so much discord. He stays quiet, and Mingeun continues.

“I never expected Jaeseop-hyung to take his side. He's never been mad at me like that before.” Mingeun sounds small and unlike himself. “I know he’s been stressed lately—”

“About what?” Eunsu asks, interrupting him. He's momentarily more interested in potential Fable drama than Mingeun's woes.

“Me. Andrew-hyung. The new album. Taein-nim. Our tour. His girlfriend. The list of what he isn't stressed about is shorter.”

It's all so ordinary and typical of him. Eunsu's hopes are dampened. He doesn't know what he thought had changed in his absence. They're celebrities, sure, but they're also normal people. He was one of them, once. He should know better. He’s not sure why he doesn’t.

Mingeun continues his tirade of his own personal issues and his current disagreements, but by then, Eunsu has already partially tuned him out.

The days with Mingeun pass more or less the same as the days without him have. Sometimes he follows Eunsu to the temple. Other times he helps Eomma with the household chores. Eunsu hears this from both of them—his mother praises Mingeun’s willingness to help and then bemoans his absolute lack of homemaking skills. Mingeun, on the other hand, gains an entire repertoire of Eunsu’s embarrassing childhood stories.

Then, there are the times where Eunsu returns to Mingeun sitting on or in front of the living room couch, speaking English in a quick, low tone to his computer. The WiFi is best there. It took him less than a week to figure that out.

On one of those days, Eunsu is passing by on his way out when Mingeun waves him down. He sits cross-legged on the floor, laptop open in front of him, right AirPod in his ear, left AirPod in his left hand, the white G-shock Eunsu gifted to him years ago on the same wrist.

“This is my therapist,” Mingeun says softly, and Eunsu looks at his computer screen, where he’s currently in a video call with a middle-aged woman. He scoots over so Eunsu can sit next to him, so Eunsu has a seat.

Mingeun introduces him in Korean, in simple, formal sentences. “This is my friend. His name is Eunsu.”

The woman says back in similarly stilted and proper Korean, “Nice to meet you. I am Stephanie.” Then she bows to her web camera.

“Do you speak Korean?” Eunsu asks, just as grammatically correct. He’s struck by an incredible sense of deja vu, of having said almost the same thing to an obviously not quite fluent Mingeun so many years ago when they first met.

“A little.” Stephanie pinches her thumb and forefinger a mere centimeter apart.

Mingeun speaks to her again in English, presumably explaining something else. Eunsu has always admired the way he could seemingly slip so flawlessly between the languages, like he’s shedding one identity for another. He’s tried learning English, or any other foreign language, for that matter, on his own. He’s never progressed very far, because the longer he spends with his family in his hometown, knowing his future will never eclipse the borders of the same area he grew up in, it feels less and less important. Mingeun, on the other hand, has the world in his palms.

Eunsu does his best to tamp down the tendrils of jealousy. He never quite succeeds at that either.

“I have to show her I’m doing well,” Mingeun mutters softly, snapping Eunsu out of his thoughts. “I’m getting better.”

He can say that as much as he wants. As far as Eunsu can tell, running away from Seoul the same way he runs from all his other problems is not a sign of recovery.

He nods along silently and leaves Mingeun alone as the conversation slips back into English.

The days continue to pass without incident. Considering Mingeun’s track record, it comes as a surprise. He shows no sign of wanting to return to Seoul.

Then, in the afternoon following a service, Eunsu finds his phone vibrating incessantly. He picks it up to see Haksu calling him, for what appears to be the fourth or fifth time.

“Hello?” he asks hesitantly, finally answering the call. They’ve barely spoken to each other since he left. He hears about Haksu through Mingeun, though of course that’s colored by the lens Mingeun sees him through.

“Where’s Mingeun?” Haksu demands.

“At my house,” he responds.

“He’s not. He’s out somewhere. Check Instagram. There was this video, and you know him. He always thinks he needs to—”

“Slow down, hyung. You’re not making any sense,” Eunsu interrupts. But he opens Instagram anyway. He also sees he’s been added back into the Fable group chat, and now he has over a hundred unread messages.

“Fuck,” Haksu swears. It’s the first time Eunsu has ever heard him curse. Whatever Mingeun is doing must be bad. To him, at least.

The livestream finally loads. “Jaeseop-hyung is in it too,” he says in surprise. “What’s the big deal?”

“Are you listening to them?” Haksu demands again.

“No. I’m talking to you.”

“Find him. Call me or Intak-hyung or Byeonghwi when you do.” He hangs up.

Eunsu doesn’t do that. He sits on the steps of the temple and calls the one person Haksu neglected to mention.

“Eunsu?” On the other end of the line, Andrew sounds surprised.

“Yes. Hi. It’s been a while.”

“It has.” He sounds guarded. “I don't know what Haksu asked you to ask me, but the answer is no.”

“He didn't ask me for anything from you.” Eunsu missed something. He puts Andrew on speaker and starts skimming through his texts. “He asked me to find Mingeun.”

“Are you looking for him?”

“No.”

He’s reading over Haksu’s twenty-plus message rant about how Mingeun needs constant supervision and can’t be left to his own devices and how Jaeseop is just as bad if not worse for enabling him when he’s alerted with another incoming call.

The other members, he can understand, but this one is coming from Daewoong. Eunsu hasn’t talked to his former manager since he left.

“Daewoong-hyung’s calling me,” he says.

He’s about to answer when Andrew speaks first. “Don’t.” His words are clear and sharp, a command rather than a suggestion.

So Eunsu doesn't. He lets the call ring and ring.

“He's on his way to pick up Mingeun,” Andrew explains. “He left not too long ago.”

“He’s driving here?” Eunsu is surprised. Mingeun is in more trouble than he thought. “That’s far.”

“So it’ll take him some time. They're right, but they're going to be in trouble,” Andrew says, voicing Eunsu’s very thoughts. “Taein-nim told them not to say anything. Mingeun insisted. You know how he gets.”

Of the two of them, Eunsu thinks Jaeseop is more concerned with morals, but Andrew is right on one point. If Mingeun wants something, he'll stop at nothing to get it.

“Why aren't you in the live with them?” Eunsu asks as soon as the thought occurs. He can picture the battle lines in his head: Mingeun and Jaeseop on one side; Haksu, Intak, and Byeonghwi on the other; Andrew somewhere in the middle; and Kiyoung’s blissful enlistment ignorance.

“I haven't had access to my account for months. Talked shit one too many times in the comments of my own posts,” Andrew says, almost wistfully.

“I could join,” Eunsu says.

“You don’t have to be part of this. You can live your own private life now. Haksu never should have involved you in the first place.”

He doesn’t want to ruin Andrew’s perception of post-idol life, so he says nothing about how they’ve both passed the point of no return to a normal life. He thinks about the fans that used to visit Taebaek and his father’s services in the months immediately following his departure, and decides Andrew doesn’t need to know that.

He changes the subject as best as he can, which isn't very well. “What time did Daewoong-hyung leave?”

Andrew takes a few moments to respond. “A bit after the live started. He’s probably speeding.”

There isn’t much speeding to be done in Seoul traffic. There’s a lot of speeding to be done on the long, empty roads out to Taebaek. All things considered, Eunsu estimates his trip to be somewhere around two hours.

“I assume Taein-nim gave him your address,” Andrew continues, interrupting Eunsu’s train of thought.

Eunsu sighs. He isn’t looking forward to Daewoong at his front door in the slightest. He opens Mingeun’s Instagram again. He appears to have propped his phone up somewhere and is standing far off in the distance, knee deep in water. Eunsu can’t imagine what the topic of their livestream is. Jaeseop is still speaking, poised and composed. Their viewers have crossed into the quintuple digits, a feat Eunsu is, despite the situation surrounding it, slightly impressed with.

“Thanks for letting me know,” he says, already typing out a warning text to Mingeun. “I’ll look for him.”

“Not too hard,” Andrew says, almost in warning.

“Not too hard,” Eunsu agrees. He makes no move to leave his suddenly very comfortable seat.

Two and a half hours later, Daewoong appears on Eunsu’s doorstep. He parks his car, a shiny black Lexus, right in front of Eunsu’s house. It’s the newest, cleanest, and most expensive car on the block.

Against his better judgement, Eunsu invites his former manager into his home.

“Where’s Mingeun?” Daewoong asks, all business from the start. He stands awkwardly in the kitchen, like he’s never seen one before. Eomma, almost as awkwardly, sits at the kitchen table, not quite looking at either Eunsu or Daewoong.

“Packing,” Eunsu says. “Would you like something to drink?”

Somehow, he manages to coax Daewoong into having a seat. It’s an almost comical tableau—Eomma and Daewoong on their very best silent behavior. He leaves them to it, apologizing in his head to his mother for leaving her with him.

Eunsu finds Mingeun in his room, packing, just as he told Daewoong. It’s obvious that Mingeun is trying to drag it out as long as possible. The few contents of his backpack and suitcase are spread all around the floor. Eunsu sidesteps it all easily and closes his bedroom door behind him.

“I’m not ready to go back yet,” Mingeun says without looking up.

“Daewoong-hyung is in my fucking kitchen,” Eunsu says. He doesn’t want to be unsympathetic, but Daewoong is in his fucking kitchen. He can only imagine the conversations out there, the collision of his two worlds he fought so hard to keep separate.

“He can sleep in his car tonight,” Mingeun says, just as unsympathetic to Eunsu’s plight.

“I think he’d rather sleep in his bed in Seoul.”

“Your bed.”

Eunsu doesn’t know what he means by that, so he stays silent until Mingeun elaborates.

Still staring down at his belongings, Mingeun speaks again. “Daewoong-hyung moved into your room after you left. He still stays there sometimes.”

Eunsu is about to ask why when Mingeun predicts his question.

“He hasn't said why, but I know it's to keep an eye on me.”

That doesn't sound right, but Mingeun sounds so certain in his beliefs that Eunsu doesn't want to argue. Not when he's leaving so soon.

Mingeun closes his suitcase, having seemingly given up the illusion of packing. It was half empty anyway—just a few changes of clothes that wouldn't fit in his backpack.

“If you come back to Seoul, you can get your room back.”

Eunsu takes that to mean he should visit, not move permanently. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with Mingeun. He knows he can’t go back. Even a visit is hard to plan—he has an increasing number of responsibilities here, and he can’t go running off whenever he feels like it like Mingeun does.

“I will,” he says, although he doesn’t know if it’s a promise he can keep.

The scene in the kitchen is opposite the one Eunsu left. Eomma is leaning across the table, showing Daewoong something on her phone. He presumes it's embarrassing pictures of him, accompanied by stories of his childhood: the time he ate an ant on purpose, or the time he insisted on going down the playground slide headfirst and ate shit, or maybe that one really embarassing faux music video he and his friends filmed when they were twelve and thought they could start a band. At this rate, everyone at Zenith Entertainment will know the minute details of his life.

When Mingeun steps into the kitchen, suitcase wheels loud on the tiled floor, Daewoong seems to snap back to himself. He stands up and jerks his head towards the door. “Let’s go, Mingeun.”

“Fine,” Mingeun says, but from his tone of voice, he’s anything but fine.

Daewoong either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because all he does is thank Eomma—and not Eunsu—for her hospitality, and lead Mingeun outside.

From the comfort of his home, Eunsu watches them leave: Mingeun’s bags in the trunk, Daewoong in the driver’s seat, the rumble of the engine, Mingeun in the passenger seat with his earbuds in. Then they’re pulling away from the curb, and before he knows it, they’re receding away in the distance. Andrew was right. Daewoong speeds.

“What happened?” Eomma asks, following Eunsu’s gaze out the window.

“He made a mistake.” Eunsu doesn’t want to explain it all. He’s not even sure if he knows the whole story. Besides, she’s never really understod what being an idol entails, and how precariously their careers balance on their words and actions and appearances. “It happens to him a lot.”

Eomma looks like she doesn’t know what to make of that. Eunsu doesn’t blame her. He’d like to say, or even think, that it won’t happen again. With Mingeun, it’s a matter of time. He wonders how long he’ll have to wait for Mingeun’s return.

#╰ to be written in ink is to be immortal — [ writing. ]#╰ to be written in ink is to be immortal — [ eunsu. ]#fictional idol community #fake kpop group #kpop oc #kpop addition #kpop fanfic

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