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yeojaa · 4 years

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TO THE MOON AND BACK - ft. ???

You feel winded and you're not sure why. Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds. When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you. "Yes." Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic. Always had been. It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

alt summary. You use your one brain cell for love. It doesn’t always end well.

pairing. who knows, honestly. the obvious ones are kim taehyung and jeon jungkook, though.

tags. blind date, strangers, strangers to friends, strangers to lovers, getting to know each other, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, romantic comedy.

rating. general (for now?)

word count. ~4000

chapter 5.

By the time you've finished dinner, tumbling through the doorway like two giddy school children, you feel like you've known Taehyung for a lifetime.

He'd told you all about his family, his little brother and sister that he loved dearly. You'd sensed that same wistful longing from the interview, a sadness that presented itself in the way their names fell from his lips. You were the younger sister of a relatively nuclear family, so you didn't know what it was that coloured his words or turned his blood to battery acid. You could never understand. Instead, you'd held his hand, offering comfort in the form of coiled fingers and a gentle squeeze. You weren't sure if it'd had any effect but by the effort he'd put into his smile, you'd felt it had.

He'd brought up photos of his beloved Yeontan on his phone, swiping through albums and albums of the little black and tan Pomeranian. You'd squealed with each new revelation, hands clapping with mirth at a particularly cute video of he and Tannie curled up in his bed. You'd even been so bold as to ask him to send you a photo, insisting you needed one for his contact profile. (He'd obliged, all too happily.)

You'd talked about your passions, your current internship and enrolment in composition. You'd poured your heart out to him, hoping to convey everything it made you feel. How it was your first love - guiding you through the best of times and holding you in the worst. You'd felt like you'd lost him a couple times, only to have him repeat your words back like they were the single most interesting thing he'd ever heard.

You'd admitted your short comings, providing a few brief tales of sordid affairs that hadn't ended well. He'd laughed when you'd included your kindergarten crush, detailing the way Jeong Jisung had broken your heart when he'd kissed your cheek one day and ignored you the next. You blended self-deprecation and otherworldly self-awareness so well, like a character breaking the fourth wall.

Together, you'd swept dust from old books, flipping through pages of memories together and baring secrets open for the other to see.

He'd made connections where he could, filling the missing gaps in your knowledge like golden thread in kintsugi. He'd been friends with the same group of men since he was sixteen - the ones you'd met at breakfast, sans one important member. Modelling had been something he'd thought to pursue, straight out of university, but he'd found comfort behind the lens rather than in front of it. What a shame. He was a curator at a gallery and still dabbled in art himself, finding beauty within the tiny square of his viewfinder. Neon pink had painted every edge of his skin when you'd compared him to a Caravaggio.

"Thank you for dinner. I ate so well." Words are driven home by the way you're sluggish and soft beside him, a glutton for food (and for love).

Taehyung beams like you've done him the biggest favour. "You're welcome. Did you have fun?"

You meet his stare and your heart trips on itself, nearly lodging itself in your throat. You swallow thickly, trying to find the words when you're about two seconds way from ruining everything with your over-enthusiasm. It's impossible to think straight when he's so close and the streetlight above you is casting a makeshift halo around his head. He's straight out of your wildest dreams - heaven sent.

"Can I kiss you?" Whether he's whispered it, you're not sure. It hardly registers, dull behind the pounding of blood against your eardrums.

Still, you nod dumbly, in case you hadn't just pulled the question out of thin air.

It's otherworldly. That's the only way you can describe the way he kisses you, with hands cradling the slope of your jaw. His touch is tender as he tilts your head to meet his, his mouth soft and dry, lips barely parted with the chaste peck. It's over far too soon and you chase the ghost of him, ever eager for more. You think he's like the first day of winter when the cold sinks into your skin and suffocates you. It's piercing, digging into every fibre of your being and making you tingle like frostbite.

He laughs again and the sound is breathless, like somehow you're the one that's stolen the air from his lungs and not the other way around.

"Can I kiss you again?"

You're ready this time and you meet his half-lidded gaze boldly. "Please."

The feeling of his lips on yours again kicks your heartbeat into overdrive, a hummingbird come to life within the cavity of your chest. He moves with such languid purpose, slanting his mouth sweetly. He's never rushed, taking in the subtle taste of you and your bubble gum-flavoured lip balm as his palm adjusts, trails heat over the line of your neck and fits itself comfortably against your pulse. Fingers tangle, gentle as a lover's touch, in the inky strands, and you hum a noise that borders on a whimper.

You feel him smirk against your lips. You want to rebuff him, warmth spiking across your cheeks. You're not sure whether it's embarrassment or all-encompassing want that turns your insides to jelly.

When his tongue glides over your bottom lip, you know it's the latter.

That same half-whimper escapes you, swallowed whole by the cavern of his mouth as he coaxes you open with careful ministrations. It feels so good and you're breathless, lost in the feeling of his exploring tongue, drawing your own to his in an intoxicating game of cat and mouse. It doesn't even matter that you've known each other for all of five minutes and that you're crowded under an awning in the middle of Hongdae.

To you, it feels like the beginning of a fairy tale.

"I should probably get you home." It's the best parts of him that have him drawing away from you, allowing you to regain your breath. His hands have fallen from your neck, trailing affectionately over the royal blue wool of your cardigan until he's found your hands. Your head is still swimming and you're grateful for the way he anchors you there, fingers interlocked.

"Probably," you answer, reluctant. You're like a child whose favourite toy has been taken away, pouty and petulant despite your best efforts to appear as nonchalant as possible. It's endlessly clear in the way your cheeks puff, fill with air you won't release; your shuffling of feet, rubber toe of your sneakers dragging through a line of gravel. It rolls off you in discontented waves and he's smiling, twisting your joined fingers until you're flush against him once more, your hands trapped in the space between you.

"We have lots of time." He's reassurance in the form of another kiss, one that just barely grazes skin.

You know he doesn't mean to tease you but you can't help chase the feel of him as if there's a string connecting you two. A single red ribbon that spans his lips to yours, knotted in a noose around the thing that palpitates heavy in your chest. You're greedy for another taste and you know he is too when he doesn't manoeuvre out of your way, instead revelling in the way your mouth finds purchase against the underside of his jaw. You can taste his pulse there, just beneath the thin membrane of skin, and you think how easy it would be to go too far - to dive headfirst into the siren song of his heartbeat.

Instead, you withdraw, hoping against all hope that fate will reward you for your patience tonight.

"I know," you breathe, still a little morose and all the more endearing. When you meet his stare, it's coquettish and sly, narrowed behind thickly layered lashes. "Take me home." You trace the words like they're a treat, mouth shaping around the last word to drag it into debauchery.

He knows you'll be the death of him. He thinks he wouldn't mind. "Lead the way."

You walk together like you've done it a hundred times, falling into comfortable silence as your feet mirror one another's. His hand remains steadfast within yours, your cheek pressed to the soft wool of his coat as you amble along. He hums a tune you don't recognize and you do your best to join in, dipping into your own music box when he trails off. You sneak glances at him when he isn't looking and yet somehow, always meet his playfully patient stare, colour burning intensely across your cheeks when he meets you with no shame.

"Who would have thought," Taehyung muses when he catches you staring for the third time, tongue swiping across his bottom lip in that way you've come to recognize.

"What?" You're tilting your head, studying him closely. You can already see the words that are weaving through his mind, coaxing others out of their hiding spots and slotting into place.

"That we'd connect like this."

The sincerity is a little too much, so you do what you're best at - pretend like it's nothing. "You didn't think you'd meet someone as incredible as me? On a random YouTube segment?" A scoff to drive the point home, eyes twinkling merrily, though perhaps a bit too brightly for the guarded tone that wedges itself between your teeth.

"I thought it would be fun." He's undeterred by your indifference and he continues, an unstoppable force. Fitting. "Jungkookie said it would be too good of an experience to pass up - that I would have nothing to lose." Whether he notices the way you stiffen at his side, you're not sure. He seems completely lost in his own thoughts, spying patterns in the sky above your heads, and you're grateful. You don't want to think about him right now.

"Well, he was right." There's a casual lack of concern in your voice, a subtle steering of the conversation. "But you've also only known me for like, a day." You wiggle your eyebrows before remembering the fact that you're really quite terrible at it, and settle for opening your eyes as wide as possible. You're sure you look ridiculous but Taehyung doesn't laugh directly at you, instead having the decency to hide his amusement behind a tight-lipped smile that threatens to blow open. "You hardly even know me. What if you end up hating the way I eat or the fact that I drink six coffees a day?"

"I've seen you eat and it's cute - and that just means more cafe dates." Perhaps your examples were poor or maybe he can just read you that well. You're not sure which it is and that scares you more than you want to admit. "But even if I don't know you well..." He's looking at you with those impossibly dark eyes, ones that threaten to pull you underwater and drown you in their depths. "I feel like I already know you better than most people do."

You hate that he's somehow always so right. It's infuriating and terrifying all at once.

Because he knew things even your so-called friends didn't, had you offering up your secrets like they were casual hello's. He'd seen your lovesick heart and offered it a home, a quiet place to lay its head and in doing so, he'd swept into your life like a hurricane, uprooting all of your carefully constructed contingency plans. He'd torn the excuses right from your mouth, taken your hands captive like they belonged with his. You, who'd always kept everyone at arm's length out of fear for falling and shattering into a million tiny pieces.

So you say nothing, letting your silence speak instead. He seems completely fine with this, a self-satisfied settling over his face like it belongs there.

"This is me." You've reached your block in no time at all and you can't help the disappointment that colours you when you pull to the side of the street, bringing him with you.

"Goodnight then," He says sweetly with the tiniest edge of teasing. He's about to move away, leave you high and dry, and you're doing your best not to hold too tightly, unfurling your fingers from his. He's right - you had all the time in the world. You repeat that in your head when the weight of his hand is gone and arrange a megawatt smile on your face, ready to wish him goodbye. You don't expect him so close, however, his eyes lit up like the sky above you, full of promise. It's easy to get lost in them. "You didn't think I'd leave without a kiss, did you?"

When your lips meet again, tentative and lingering, you're not sure whether it's his laughter or yours that bubbles into the air.

You're on cloud nine when you swan into your apartment, gently nudging the door closed with the heel of your foot. You sweep your tiny furry roommate into your arms, nuzzling your face into his soft slate coat and you beam at the way he returns your affections, like he's keenly aware anything else would be a mortal offence. You don't even bat an eye at the mess you'd left behind this morning, the unfolded blanket hanging haphazardly across the loveseat, your laptop half-shut on the table beside a cup of forgotten tea.

"I had such a nice date, Po."

You stare expectantly at your feline friend, cradling him under his front legs in a position very reminiscent of a certain Disney film. He mewls what you think is understanding and you laugh, the sound breathless and sweet, dipped in fairy floss. You settle onto the couch, legs tangling in your throw as you settle among the cushions. Upo takes a front row seat, resting his paws upon your chest like a regal prince. A low rumble starts, quiet at first and then louder, filling the small spaces between you. You beam, stroking feather light over the turn of his chin, the sensitive spot behind his ears. You're overflowing with love, like a balloon about to burst.

"He's the one from filming, with the big boxy smile." Speaking the words draws a picture in your mind, charcoal shading the contours of his cheeks and the sharp line of his nose. It tries to mimic the kindness in his eyes, the way his cheeks grow ten sizes when he smiles, the full swell of his lips. Your imagination is feeble in comparison to the real thing. "I really like him," you relent in hushed tones, as if you're admitting a shameful secret.

Upo doesn't react beyond a flick of his left ear and a nudge of your now-stilled hand, a silent demand for more. He's seen you through enough heartbreak - often by your own hand - that he takes everything you say with a grain of salt.

At least, that's what you think as you resume the gentle scritching around his skull. He's not very talkative. "You'll get to meet him soon, I'm sure," you muse, aloud. There's a drop of hope in the turn of consonants, softening the way they fall from your lips. "I wonder if he likes cats." You think back to his adorable dog, all black and brown and as endearing as his owner. "Would you like to meet Tannie, Po?"

It seems your companion has tired of your wishful crooning. He rises, the soft beans of his toes kneading you like bread once, twice, before he hops off of you. He doesn't even glance back as he disappears down the hallway, tail held aloft. You can't help but snicker to yourself. Normally, you'd be dragging him back against you, ignoring his yowls of complaint and only releasing him when he'd dug his politely sheathed claws into your flesh.

Today, you were satisfied. Full.

It's a nice feeling. Not unfamiliar, but different. Tinged a specific shade of rose that reminds you of Taehyung.

He's not sure what had possessed him to dig through his belongings, rummaging through school work he'd neglected to shred or burn when he'd graduated. All he knew is that he wanted to find it.

It, being the external hard drive he'd used for the duration of his four years in undergrad.

So, there Jungkook was, legs tucked beneath him as he pulled box after box from under his bed. He rifles through each one with deft fingers, narrowly avoiding collections of paper cuts across his inked fingers and hissing through bared teeth when he manages to get an even worse cardboard cut along the slope of his palm.

He knew it was somewhere. But where?

Frustration presents itself in something that more closely resembles a whine than a huff, the sound breaking the relative silence of his apartment and joining the constant stream coming from the far corner of his bedroom. It's repetitive and loud, punctuated with expletives and directives that don't hugely make sense out of context. He's streaming Overwatch, of course.

When his palm brushes something cold and heavy, he nearly upends the crate he's currently elbow deep in, fingers curling around the root of all of his troubles. He hoists it into the air like it's buried treasure, glittering diamonds and rubies rather than a piece of hardware covered with a comically drawn sticker.

He tells himself he'll put the boxes back later - a lie - and crosses to his computer in four long strides. Even in his sweatpants, worn black and terribly soft from years of wear, he's all leg.

The hard drive is connected and booted up almost before his butt sinks into the seat, his top of the line model-O mouse sweeping deftly across his gaming mouse pad. He navigates through neatly labelled folders, clicking in and out of them like he's on a mission. The irony that his electronic files are so perfectly kept - near obsessively, in fact - when it took him the better part of a half an hour to find the drive isn't lost on him. Priorities, he thinks.

Once he's found the file, he pulls his headset over his ears and after a brief hesitation, he opens it.

Black swallows the screen and then you're there, reflected in the mirror beside him. You're both in black - he in an too-big hooded sweater that swallows him whole and you in a leather coat. There are passports fuzzy in the replication, two dark green covers gripped tightly in your hand. He's grinning at himself - or you, it's impossible to tell - and you're bouncing from foot to foot like a kid on their first day of school.

It cuts to the airport and there are people milling around you, nearly swallowing you whole. You dance past them, quick on your feet, and toss a cheery smile over your shoulder. Then you're at the ticket counter and you're stepping past the gate agent as Jungkook's own tattooed hand comes into view, accepting his passport back as the ambient noise of the terminal fills his ears. He follows you down the panelled glass hallway and the focus never cuts from the back of your head, midnight curtain spilling across your back and over your shoulder.

You make a noise when you're nearing the gate, turning to wiggle your eyebrows - or really, widen those pretty dark eyes of yours - at him. He'd cut his laugh but he remembers it now, filling the enclosed space as you began swinging your arms back and forth like a chicken. You stop right before you reach the aircraft door, flailing arms slackening to fall at your sides, the picture of normalcy. If he hadn't known better, he would've thought you were crazy.

There's a shot of his boots - combat leather with laces running up the front. You'd made fun of him about them, insisting comfort was key as you'd wiggled your toes in your own yellow suede Vans with dirt marking the soles.

Music pours in from the headphones and it's a montage.

Shots out the window of the plane, blue sky stretching far and wide above cumulus clouds. The front seat of a taxi cab, unfamiliar Japanese characters shining back beneath the revolving door of lights that filtering through the windshield. Your profile, crowded in shadow as you take in the sights, the characteristic little cars and city lights. A single elevator button lit up beneath your finger, then all of them by his as he drags his hands down the cold metal. The briefest flash of your face, mouth wide open before you double over in laughter and shove him; the camera shakes.

Your figure again, draped in a soft flannel that stands in stark contrast to the denim of your jeans. Your long hair sits pretty down your back, two space buns knotted on the top of your head and held in place with soft-looking grey pompoms. The video follows you out of a hotel and into the backseat of a taxi, cutting from you taking a halfhearted selfie - he's reflected in your phone screen, though largely obscured by the lens of his camera - to you walking down the sidewalk, hands raised above your head as you wiggle your fingers like they've got minds of their own.

He tracks you like his life depends on it, catching all of the little expressions that make his heart skip in his chest.

Your occasional look back, just to make sure he's still there and within reach, no more than five feet between you. The way you spin in awe when you cross Shibuya Crossing, child-like wonder written into every line of your smile. Excitement in a hall of infinity mirrors because it's not just a perfect photo opportunity but because you love Yayoi Kusama and you've been talking about it all day. The track overlay steals your words but he reads the movement of your lips.

"It's so beautiful." He couldn't agree more.

More of you. Some, up close, with you waving your fingers in your face as if to rebuff the attention. Others, further away as you window shop, passing by gorgeous storefronts. A long continuous shot of you finally finding the place you'd decided on for dinner - a kaisendon restaurant - and your grace as you'd skipped down the steps and inserted bills into the automated ticket machine. Flashes of you shovelling rice into your mouth and his own portion growing smaller and smaller with each transition.

Tokyo's sprawling streets, lit up at every corner. Hazy outlines of the people you roll by. Then darkness, again, before it's you, jumping frantically in front of the Tokyo Disney Resort sign. You look a little spastic, trying to land the perfect pose despite the fact that it's video. You don't really care.

He can practically hear your laughter through his monitors, the giant Minnie Mouse ears askew on your head as you spin together in a teacup. You'd had to do most of the work, with his filming and all, and you're out of breath, exhilaration staining your cheeks bright enough that he can make it out beneath the level adjustments he'd done. It's like every dream he's ever had come to life in the shape of your mouth, your delighted grin when you let the centrifugal motion carry you through the rest of the ride.

His heart stops, trips and hardly has time to right itself, when he catches sight of your intertwined hands. They're there, just barely in frame as you drag him around the happiest place on Earth.

Your face is suddenly illuminated, by lampposts and further away and dim, the fireworks that are going off above your heads. The aperture focuses on them briefly before returning to you. You've got your phone up and you're on the balls of your feet, swaying to and fro as you try to capture the moment in your hands. Then, all at once, you're turning to him and his line of sight is obscured, jumbled with lights and darkness. It centres just in time to catch your faces, his cheek pressed to your hair, one of Minnie's ears scratching his eyebrow, and your teeth blinding around a smile.

Then there's his name and the year - 2018 - flashing across his screen.

As his wallpaper returns, Discord and Twitch maximizing to full size once again, Jungkook wonders where it all went wrong.

notes. yes, i put the "G.C.F. in tokyo" video into words and every minute of doing so was excruciating.

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