Yoongi boarded the train to Seoul, his beaten-up leather wallet and a chipped violin the only objects in his possession. Despite the calamity of strangers filling the car by the gallon, he snagged a tight seat between a studying college student and a drowsy grandmother. The grandmother, sitting to his left, veered dangerously close to his shoulder, and the student held the musty scent of days-old cologne and the strange odor of rotting cheese.

Rather than indulge in his own repulsion, he fiddled lightly with his instrument in an attempt to distract himself from the trivialities swarming his peripheral. The strings vibrated and giggled in a disorganized rhythm while the violin croaked out a whiny tune reflecting the longevity of the day. Calloused fingers thrummed the side of the device in a drawn out beat. From the blurring background, sunlight wrenched itself of the motions, resting upon the swirling spruce and maple, spotted and uneven.

The floor jumped beneath his converse, rumbling and lurching, before coming to a settled stop. With a strident shriek, the doors slid open. Rows of people funneled out the car, and in a whisk, it was only he and another sad individual left to inhabit the space. Yoongi paused to observe.

A boy with eyes littered with stars squirmed across and three seats to the right of him. A thumb balanced between two perfectly sculpted, trembling lips. The boy’s knees shook up and down in erratic motions until he couldn’t take the yelling of his own apprehension anymore and stuttered to his feet, clutching onto one of the metal poles provided. Creases still formed on the paper of his porcelain face. It crumpled and ripped, and Yoongi suddenly felt intrusive skimming the page. He focused on the window, and if his breath was a little short, his body was the worse traitor.

There was another stop, and Yoongi could hear the chatter of people from the next car over filing out into the station. Yet, without the muffled prattling filling the mood with white noise, the lonely duo were left to wallow in a languid silence. A meek companionship came in the murmurings of the engine and the methodical heartbeat of the machinery. The atmosphere remained thick as cream. Again, the boy squirmed, hands nervously smoothing over the other.

Anxiety must be contagious, Yoongi thought with a frown, for unwanted emotions resurfaced from the depths of his chest, gasping for breath. He tried to strangle the ache. He clutched onto his violin like a lifeline, plucking and tuning the strings in a means to forget. The thin sounds lulled his eyelids to a close, seducing him into Hypnos’s abyss.

The last thing he saw before ebony black bled through the shield of his vision, was the shimmering cerulean of the sky.

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.

.

Only a few minutes must have passed when that agonizing bell whistle shrieked. Fluttering awake, Yoongi thought tall buildings, a series of bright lights and smog, would greet him, but instead sun brushed dirt, staticky plants, and rocks the size of his head occupied his sight. For a moment he thought he had missed his destination, but knew that even then, at least some form of infrastructure would be present.

With a familiar screech, the doors opened. He glanced to see the other boy still there as puzzled as he. There was a brief exchange of mutual concern as this was definitely not the bright lights of Seoul, the center of city life and opportunity. After moments of waiting, Sparkles (as he so generously named) clutched onto his ragged tote bag, and stepped towards him.

He stared at Yoongi, opening his mouth, closing it with a tremble, and then opening them again. “I-I’m going to the conductor to see what’s up.” Yoongi stared, face neutral. So? He mentally asked. Sparkles lingered a bit, his lips. Yoongi pretended not to follow the movement. “A-Are you—um—coming? I mean, do you want to come?”

Debating between solitude and accompanying the handsome stranger, Yoongi decisively placed his instrument in its case. He pushed himself off his seat with a curt nod. Sparkle’s face folded, forming a line, and together they walked toward the conductor’s car in awkward silence. Yoongi didn’t mind that much, favoring any assortment of company in spite of the impression his reticent disposition may imply. Meanwhile, Sparkle’s mouth twitched, his tongue on the verge of breaking.

“So, what’s your business in Seoul?” he finally asked.

Yoongi spared him a glance. “Visiting family.”

“Same!” the other replied, “Well, not the same, I’m visiting friends who are like family, but I’m not necessarily there to visit them. I’m just crashing.”

“Mm.”

He continued. “Jungkook! Jeon Jungkook, by the way.” His hand was held out, calloused and full of rough patches. He tilted his head in a bashful way that questioned yours?

Yoongi stared, but shook his hand after a moment. It was warm. “Yoongi.”

Jungkook seemed like he desired to speak more, but Yoongi really couldn’t bother with a conversation so early after a catnap.

Finally, they reached a burgundy door, and Jungkook knocked frantically with purpose. When there was no reply, he knocked twice as hard. The door slammed opened and a surly man walked out. He wore a crumpled hat and a haphazardly buttoned vest. An explanation was already loaded to fire. “I’m so sorry, we’re experiencing some technical difficulties right now. There’s a kink in the machinery, so you’ll have to wait here a few hours before we identify the problem.”

Yoongi’s heart stopped. This couldn’t be happening. The violin.

If possible, Jungkook’s face wrapped even further into a smidgen of a ball. His eyes, a meteor shower. “I don’t have hours! I need to get to Seoul by sundown!”

“I’m sorry, sir—”

“Where are we?” Jungkook rambled on. “Are we able to make it before nightfall?”

The man gave an apologetic tilt of the hat, and they all understood the impotency of the situation. They’d be racing the eastern winds by the time the train restarted. Yoongi clutched onto the groove of his pants.

“How are you going to pay us back our money? Our time?” Yoongi snapped, tiredness promoting his need to . “Are we supposed to sit on our asses and do jack while our appointments in Seoul go up in ing Hell?” Jungkook’s mouth hung at such vulgarity being the first long set words to have escaped his mouth.

“We’ll do our best, I promise, we’ll give you full refunds and extra too,” the conductor swore. “But for now, we have to address the problem. Again, apologies.” And with that, the door was closed.

He tried not to think of the consequences of the delay, though the underlying panic remained. A piercing bang directed his attention to Jungkook whose fist slammed against the wall, face dark and brooding, tongue poking at the corner of his cheek rudely. Discretely, Yoongi pulled at his collar to relieve the heat diffusing across his skin.

The tangerine orange of the sky twisted into an ashy complexion.

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They returned to their original car, and Jungkook paced across the entire length, thumb between teeth. He cursed at himself, the world, and all transportation companies before throwing his head up backwards in a panicked wail. The cycle continued. Upon a closer inspection, Yoongi spotted the whittled edges of his fingernails, a consequence of his little habit. A hint of swollenness bloomed on the boy’s lips from the repeated abuse.

After the twelfth ‘Oh ! Oh hell!’ Yoongi’s level of patience severely decreased. The constant mumbling of the other was not helping ease his own dismay. “, calm your . How long do you plan to run a hole into the floor?” he snapped. Cat-like eyes fixed into a glare.

The other burst into a flaming crimson. His wide eyes imitated a deer in headlights. “I’m not trying, I mean, um, no,” he sputtered, tongue-tied. “I just really need to be at Seoul by tonight.”

“Don’t we all?”

Jungkook bowed his head. The soft puppy-like gesture tugged at Yoongi’s heartstrings. “Yeah, sorry, just—” His lip quivered, resembling a little boy instead of the young man he appeared to be.

An echo of guilt ran through his body. The other’s worried expression reminded him of his younger brother. Of that childlike fear that would splash his visage when confronted with a scolding. Yoongi sighed, all his sharp edges softening into a mien he hoped was more approachable. “Sit down,” he said with a gentler tone. When he received a gaping mouth in response, the bite came back. “Or no. Please, stand there the entire five to six hours we’re stranded here. Go ahead.”

“No, I’ll—uh—I’ll sit.” Jungkook shook his head, snapping out of his stupor, and sliding right up beside him. Out of the sixty seats available, this was what he chose? His arm pressed against Yoongi’s, and Yoongi stared at it, the outline of tough muscle noticeable under a denim jacket. Sparkles noticed the staring and he jutted two inches away. “Sorry, I’m too close, aren’t I?”

“It’s fine,” Yoongi replied a bit too quickly. The other flushed, and returned to his spot.

Another tense silence permeated the air. Jungkook, true to his character, fidgeted once more. His eyes darted to Yoongi, as if waiting for something, anything. The shift of his clothing rubbed Yoongi’s sweater. It was like a call to action. Normally, this would be where they’d cease interaction in Yoongi’s world, but the real world had emotions. The real world compelled a paternal (yes, completely paternal, he convinces himself) instinct to help; there was a need of comfort.

Yoongi picked at the edge of his undershirt. “Do you…,” he forced it out,”...want to talk about it?” Normally, he wouldn’t be so inclined to extend an olive branch, but perhaps his intentions weren’t so selfless in nature. He himself was struggling to maintain his balance.

“What?” Jungkook blurted, not expecting Yoongi to acknowledge him. Let alone speak. “I-I don’t… I mean… uh.”

“You were pretty anxious.” Even before the train stopped, Yoongi wants to add, but he doesn’t feel like revealing that stalker-like tidbit. “If you were just going to crash at a friend’s house for a night in Seoul, then you wouldn’t be this worked up. So,” he stared at Jungkook with purpose, “what’s wrong?”

Jungkook’s jaw dropped, and the first words to come to mind spilled out like ink on a page. “I don’t know you.”

“Really? Hadn’t noticed,” Yoongi deadpanned.

The other raised a suspicious eyebrow. The various creases of his face shone with amusement at the sheer absurdity of the offer. “I don’t know,” Jungkook stated with a snigger, all former notions of shyness erased from his person. “I’ve been advised not to talk to strangers.”

Yoongi grimaced. He took back everything he said regarding Jungkook. He wasn’t like his brother at all. Whatever, he had to face the music he created, even if he disliked the bass line. “And I’ve been constantly advised to never major in psychology, but here I am, a therapist just for you.”

“I feel so special.” A ghost of a smile traced the outlines of Jungkook’s lips. Yoongi’s heart alleviated at the sight. “Still, you never know. Maybe when we reach Seoul, you’ll use my story to blackmail me and steal my riches.”

Yoongi raised an unimpressed brow. “Ah yes, I, a greedy poor man, plans to extort money from a struggling college frat boy who can’t even keep his white shirts white.” He poked at the ketchup stain ingrained in the fibers. “Bravo at discovering my master plan.”

To his surprise, Jungkook actually laughed as though Yoongi shared the world’s funniest joke. It was a deep chuckle, caught in his throat. Yoongi’s emotions intensified unbearably at the crinkling nose, and shimmering eyes, and that smile (goddamn), and suddenly the internal debate of whether he should follow through with his olive branch became settled. 

Jungkook settled in his giggles, a small tilt of lips left. “You drive a good argument, Yoongi-ssi, but there are a few flaws. First off, this stain. It was a one-time guest appearance. McDonald’s Monday only. Second off, I’m not a frat boy.” He sighed. “In fact, I’m not in college at all.”

Yoongi absorbed the information like a sponge, memorizing how the other visibly wilted. The bag slung over his shoulder shifted into his lap like a shield. He was clearly waiting for a form of condescension, an uncomfortable period of judgement, a pitiful grimace masking a patronizing opinion. Yoongi took a breath. “Interesting. But did you know I started playing violin when I was eight?” Jungkook frowned in confusion, but Yoongi brushed him off. “It’s the law of equivalent exchange. You were right. You don’t know me. Probably won’t know my favorite color or my favorite band, but that’s not important. This is.”

“You don’t have to bother yourself with my problems. You don’t need to share yours,” said Jungkook.

“I’m not sharing any problems. Everyone’s got something to say about their life. Negative or positive, there’s something. You told me some of yours, so I’m telling you a little bit of mine, and then you can tell more of yours. That’s called a conversation,” Yoongi affirmed.

Jungkook nodded, his lips. “Did you… always have an interest in music?”

Yoongi hummed. “No, but my little brother did. He would stare into the music store for hours—there was only one back in Daegu—but he had no interest in learning how to play, he just loved it. I asked my dad for a violin the month before he turned six, and for his birthday and every one after that, I played for him.”

“Sweet,” Jungkook commented, tension easing. Yoongi thought the other was mocking him, but Jungkook shook his head as if he could read Yoongi’s mind. “No, I mean it. I don’t have any siblings. I have a lot of cousins, but no siblings. I’m envious.”

“You say that, but man can they be brats.” Yoongi’s eyes blurred. He counted three dots on the ceiling and refocused his vision. “He’d jump on my bed at two in the morning, insisting ‘Hyung! Play Vivaldi or play Yiruma!’ and I’d try to play as quiet as I could, but we’d still get caught. Sometimes you wish you didn’t have them.” Yoongi let a soft, gummy smile grace his sharp features.

The smile was infectious, for Jungkook smiled too. He didn’t talk for a while, staring, and Yoongi cocked his head in confusion. Jungkook tinted, also to Yoongi’s puzzlement, and asked, “Does this sibling have a name?”

Yoongi paused. “His name was Jun.”

The young man nodded, letting the letters file into the folders of his memory. Then, he faced the older, his entire body shifting. “Well, I, um—I like to draw.” Yoongi waited. Jungkook fumbled with the strap of his bag, drawing a dozen post-it notes from his bag. Three Crayola colored pencils spill out onto the floor. “I don’t use sketchbooks. I think they’re too thick and time-consuming. Post-its are small and easily disposable. I really hate wasting too much time on one thing.”

“Hm, I wonder how long your relationships last,” Yoongi quipped, and Jungkook replied with a chuckle.

He continued. “During middle school, all I had were the post-it notes too. And that was because they were required for English for annotations. I never did them, by the way.” When Jungkook talked, his hands gesticulated in large motions. “Whenever I was done with a drawing, I would stick the finished product on anything and everything I saw. I’m pretty sure Ms. Lee loathed me, because I had so many math puns taped to his whiteboard.” His voice invigorated. His body became the living embodiment of his passion. “But that’s the beauty of art, isn’t it? To have the ability to shape the life around you, whether it be humorous or stunning, to draw and inspire emotions in people. To make them feel, even if it’s anger!” His tone softened. “It makes yourself feel too, feel all the world can offer or drown out all the world demands. You understand that, don’t you?”

Yoongi did. His violin was his closest confidant. High school was an especially tumultuous era of his youth. Dark leather and dyed hair and the one thing going for him his sense of rhythm. There were warm hugs in the frayed horse hairs of his bow. There was a therapeutic quality in the D-string. Most notably, there was a certain mind-numbing aspect that accompanied the strict design of music notes that dulled the ache in his heart. He hated that he understood Jungkook. Neither of them should know how emptiness ate away at their psyche.

Like breaking through a wall, his own spark of imagination slammed into him. “Then let’s feel it. Let’s do it.”

“Huh?” Jungkook’s face knitted, creased.

Yoongi extended his hands, and he ripped a butter yellow post-it note from his laid out stacks, along with a marker. “You asked if I understood how art could make us feel like the entire world can’t touch us. I do. So much. I have music, and you can draw. If you draw, there is no Seoul. You don’t have an appointment probably going up in flames right now.”

“But, I—there’s not even people, or proper surface, or anything to draw here!”

“You’re an artist, get creative. Art is your drug, right?” Yoongi pressed the paper square to his chest. “Overdose.”

Jungkook appeared appalled, then apprehensive, then amused. His arrogant smirk was unbearable. “Do your parents often encourage you to OD on metaphorical drugs?”

“ you, let’s do this.” Yoongi yanked Jungkook to his feet—a valiant effort considering how he was of a vertically-challenged stature trying to lift a muscled man a few inches too tall—and proceeded searching and exploring the compartment. The unlikely duo stumbled upon a forgotten sports bag lazing about on the top shelf. Yoongi let go of Jungkook’s hand (of which he held for longer than socially appropriate), and doodled hastily on one of the small squares. He slapped it against the bag once finished.

A tiny, excitable cookie-like character was jumping across the page. A crudely drawn speech bubble screeched “Please don’t eat me even if I’m small!”

Jungkook stifled a snicker, prompting Yoongi to glare. But that miniscule act seemed to be all the artist needed as inspiration. He grabbed a blue note, nabbing one of the pencils that had stumbled on the floor. He refused to let Yoongi see his sketch, grinning as he finally stuck it next to the cookie. Coming closer, Yoongi saw that it was an unusually buff rabbit, the mouth portion open obscenely wide. The location of which it was positioned made it look as though the cookie was jumping into the animal’s mouth.

“Honestly, that is so rude. How could you treat Shooky like this,” Yoongi complained.

“You named the cookie?” Jungkook beamed.

“Do you not name your own art pieces?”

“True,” Jungkook replied, then handed the pencil to Yoongi despite the marker in his hand. “Here, try again.”

Yoongi shook his head, backing away. “No, that was a onetime thing to get you started. Tutorial phase.”

“It’s okay, I know drawing must be such a hard task for the musician.”

“I wouldn’t say that—”

“No, it’s fine. I know you can’t handle it.”

“I can too,” Yoongi huffed, snatching the pencil. “It’s just a few lines.”

“Is that a challenge?” Jungkook suggested with a bold gleam.

“Not so much a challenge, as it would be a complete slaughter when I turn out to be better than you, Kookie,” Yoongi declared. A stupid, stupid decision he thought immediately. Why did he think it was a genius idea to challenge an artist to an art contest? But it was already too late. Jungkook wore that cocky smirk again.

“It is so on, Yoon-Yoon.”

“Never call me Yoon-Yoon again.”

“I’m sorry.”

The pair instigated an impromptu doodle battle that left debris splattered throughout the entire car, their weapon of choice the assortment of Crayola product stored in his messenger bag. The two pencils became three, then multiplied to twelve, until they worn out all the sharp edges to where they strained to whittle out the lead. A flurry of marigold orange, mustard yellow, and lime green summoned a new dimension in their little compartment; population: two.

Running out of paper and pencil to fill the void, Jungkook and Yoongi strewn their bodies across the seats in a giddy high of childish wonder. Adrenaline pumped through their veins, fueled by the laughter created by countless sabotage tactics inflicted upon one another. Somewhere, a wall crashed to the ground. They traded a myriad of stories, building windows to their lives where they didn’t fully open the doors. There was a solace in the knowledge that sentences uttered in this wonderland would not leave the hidden barriers leading to reality. Yoongi let a small smile grace his face more than once that afternoon.

“Man.” Jungkook sighed. He fashioned constellations from the dots on the ceiling. His long legs dangled off the side of the seat. “I haven’t felt like this in—” he counted his fingers, “—four years!”

Yoongi sat up. “Four years?”

Jungkook chuckled. “Yup, I graduated high school then. But afterwards, with no set plan for the future, and no college that’d take me and my grades regardless of my sports record, the only freeing thing I experienced was the parties and the beer. You drink?”

“No, I find it disgusting and repulsive.”

“You’ve never tried?”

Yoongi’s lips pressed into a line. It took him a moment to speak. “I’m... nine months sober.”

Jungkook tensed. “You were—”

“Yes.”

“...Why were you—”

“Hey, were your parents supportive of your art career?” Yoongi interrupted, purposefully ignoring Jungkook’s prying eyes. He didn’t want to talk about it. You never want to reveal the worst of you: the most vulnerable state of your being.

“No…” Jungkook said slowly, dropping the previous subject. Instead, his dulcet tone took on a melancholic color. He suddenly shook his head with a forced grin. “No, they weren’t happy.” He inhaled sharply. “It’s just—that’s one of the reasons why I’m trying to go to Seoul.”

Yoongi kept quiet, expression hardening at the sensitivity of the topic.

“My parents—well, they were—” Jungkook struggled to find the words. “They said they were okay with it, that they were fine with my decision, but—” A blatant anguish cast over his countenance. “I could see it written on their faces, disappointment, that is. Why couldn’t you become a lawyer like Jaesuk, or a registered nurse like Seon-Mi, and,” he faltered, “and I could just see that they thought they raised an idiot.”

False assurances and honeyed comforts were sympathies Yoongi could not offer. A stranger’s words meant nothing if the person themself didn’t believe in the genuinity. Yoongi’s hand reached across the aisle between them, holding the forefinger of the other. Jungkook stilled, twitching, before he intertwined their fingers resolutely. Hoping it was enough, Yoongi stayed, listening, as he promised.

Jungkook’s sparkling eyes swirled into a murky pool. There he was, falling, and rippling, and breaking like a meteor shower.  While his voice trembled, his mouth was a broken dam. “I ignored it, and they said it was okay, they—they did, but it just wasn’t the same anymore. They stare at my hands like lost potential. And it only got worse when I didn’t have a college to go to, and I left the house and started partying. Honestly, I want to make them proud.”

Yoongi remembers his parents’ reactions when he said he wanted to pursue classical music as a career. His mother shrieked, broke down in tears, as she warned him he was going to starve, that she wouldn’t dare help him when he became homeless. His father was resigned. He was the one who bought the violin. Yoongi left Daegu with a salty aftertaste that followed him to adulthood. He couldn’t understand Jungkook, for he left everything behind with no remorse. But he does understand the need to prove your existence of which the universe should care to acknowledge.

Jungkook gripped at his lone pencil, a nub for a tip. “I need to make something of myself. I want to be successful, so they won’t shy away when they tell family about me.”

“So the reason you came onto this train…”

Jungkook stared at him with a trembling smile. “An art gallery. There’s this famous artist, maybe you’ve heard of him? Kim Taehyung.”

Yoongi shook his head at the name. “I only pay attention to music artists and sheet notes. I’m sorry.”

A giggle responded, but it came out as shattered. “Yeah, well, this artist, he’s hosting this gallery, but every so often he stages a competition. Ruthless. And the winner of the competition get displayed as one of the main works. But not only a main. Your artwork gets hung at the center. It’s big and extravagant, and it would have made my parents proud if I managed to win.” His shoulders hitched as a grimness cascaded. “One problem though. I was two-hundred miles away, and broke as , but I needed this. So bad, Yoongi. I had to get there.”

“So, you packed some art supplies and booked it without a thought of the consequences,” Yoongi said. Idiot, he thought, we’re both idiots.

“And I know I’m an idiot,” Jungkook said, throwing his hands over his face. “And I’m such a mess! I was so nervous about making it, and succeeding, and I was freaking out. All for what? For a stupid competition to prove my worth?” His head lowered, resigned. “I really am a fool.” Tears stained his bright eyes, but he spilled and spilled. “And the gods must agree with me, because now I’m stuck on this godforsaken train in the middle of nowhere, never even having the chance to try and be someone, making all the sacrifice with nothing to reap from it! I am an idiot, and I’m more of an idiot to think I’m not.”

He wept, his sobs smothering the careful atmosphere, and the musician didn’t know what to do. Remembering when he used to cradle Jun after a nightmare, he mimicked the motion, pulling Jungkook’s head to rest on his shoulder. The other was tall compared to his shorter height, so Jungkook’s back arched at an awkward angle, but the tears continued hitting the floor. Yoongi hummed into his ear, the locks on his head softly, as though he consisted of stardust. The sun began to trickle down, the sunlight soothing the coldness of tears on skin.

The sky was a tetchy ruby red.

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.

.

It was strange to witness a person cry, Yoongi decided as his shoulder dampened and grew sore from the extra weight, the way the pain filtered itself out in salted droplets. Jungkook tried to choke back tears, gasping into the plaid pattern of his shirt in little stutters. Yoongi loathed being involved in the misfortunes of others, but here is a man, clutching onto a weeping stranger, and again, he didn’t know what to do. Needing to enunciate a voice of reassurance, but needing to admit the most truthful version of consolation, he took a breath.

“Dropping everything to travel to another city you’ve only heard of was a stupid idea, and yeah, you were an idiot to think that was bright in the first place,” Yoongi ended up stating bluntly, feeling Jungkook flinch in his embrace. “But, I think you’re the good kind of idiot. The one society needs to function its best. You try to prove yourself even if you’ve hit rock bottom, even if you have no support. That’s a good Grade-A idiot—you are a Grade-A idiot.” Yoongi held the other’s face, all red and pink and sloppy. “And that’s okay. That means there’s always the potential to be great. Everyone’s an idiot. You’re a better one.”

Jungkook stared at him, eyes puffy and struggling to stay open. He stared as though he was seeing Yoongi morph into someone else. He stared, eyes twinkling mysteriously. His long arms jutted out, wrapping themselves around Yoongi’s frame tightly. “I… I will work hard to be a good idiot. Thank you. Really.”

Yoongi returned it hesitantly, body overrun with sensation at the hard lines pressed chest to chest with his. He pat Jungkook with intense concentration as to not combust. “Your… welcome?”

“Y’know,” Jungkook began with a smile bubbling again. His breath had steadied. “I thought you’d be a huge Ice King, like a porcupine, but you’re more of a watermelon.”

“What.”

“Hard on the outside, sweet on the inside.”

God forbid Jungkook discover Yoongi’s high school pseudonym, Suga. Yoongi narrowed his eyes at the younger with burning cheeks, the somberness of the previous mood forgotten. “Please don’t add any more adjectives to my decaying personality.”

Rubbing his face with the sleeve of his jacket, Jungkook started giggling, making Yoongi flush darker. The light laughter then led to him doubling over with a guffaw latched on his tongue, and soon the musician let a gummy smile creep on him. Just a small one.

After another round of laughter by the boy, Jungkook grinned up at him curiously. “And you?” At his blank face, Jungkook continued, “What kind of idiot are you?”

Yoongi flicked the other on the head lightly. “I’m not an idiot at all. I know when to give up.”

A whine. “C’mon, that’s not fair!”

A sigh. “Life’s not fair sometimes, kiddo,” Yoongi said. “Some things don’t work out the way you want it too.”

Jungkook frowned, playfulness gone. “Well, that was ominous…” he said with a soulless chuckle.

Yoongi ran a pale hand through his dark locks. “Yeah, sorry. But it’s true. I’m not an idiot. Just an .”

Jungkook’s arms retracted from around Yoongi’s waist, and Yoongi had enough shame to be embarrassed of the way his body leant forward. He’s encountered frequent human contact beforehand with touchy friends, so this magnetic attraction is unbeknownst to him. Jungkook seemed to not share such reprimand of thought, eyebrows furrowed with concern. “Yoongi… why are you visiting Seoul?”

“Does it matter?”

“Are you visiting relatives?”

Yoongi smirked. “You know it’s rude to answer a question with a question.”

A firm hand returned its grasp in his. “Yoongi.” The artist’s face was structured with the deepest edges of sincerity. It hurts, and his chest was constricting, but he wants, too.

“Okay.” Yoongi dropped the contact, the ghost of his touch lingering. He strolled to his seat, caressing the outer cover of the violin case. It was peeled in the base. He opened the two locks on the side, and lifted the fragile instrument. He turned to Jungkook. “The E string broke,” he said, his thumb rested upon three strings. The wire of the fourth had snapped. “I’m going to Seoul to buy a new one and get it repaired.”

Jungkook scoffed in disbelief. “You’re coming all the way to Seoul to fix your violin?”

“Yes.”

“That can’t the whole truth.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t believe in this being the full disclosure of your visit.”

“And you’d be correct,” Yoongi admitted. “But it’s not relevant.” Jungkook opened his mouth, but Yoongi beat him again. “And I know it’s hypocritical of me to censor the exposure of my problems when I practically coerced yours to light. But please, let it go.”

“Hey… it’s the law of equivalent exchange, right? I give a part of me, you give a part of you. What happens on the train, stays on the train, so trust me.”

“This isn’t Las Vegas,” Yoongi joked.

“Stop avoiding me. I’m feeling pretty one-sided. Talk to me, about everything, to quell my own helplessness if not to help yours.” Jungkook took the artist’s hands in his, squeezing tightly, strangling the tremble. “Maybe you are just going to Seoul to fix your violin, but that can’t be the it of your story. Human souls have a way of recognizing others. I want to think I know you.”

Perhaps that’s what it was. A simple connection designed by the universe, an interaction predestined to catalyze the contemporary characterization of his being. Perhaps Jungkook wasn’t even real. Guys with a face like that and a heart like that must all be a desperation Yoongi had craved: whatever the excuse he’d conjured up in a sorry attempt to justify the baggage he was going to unload upon this unfortunate youth, he gave it. He recognized Jungkook, and he’d understand, because that’s how the world planned it to be.

Yoongi flattened his lips into a line. “It was my brother’s birthday today.”

“Your younger one? Jun, right?” Jungkook leaned back, eyebrows knitted, not understanding. “How old’s he turning?”

“Yeah, he would have turned… well, he’d have been your age, actually,” Yoongi whispered. He met the gaze of the other, pleading for understanding. He felt another word would break apart in the fragility of his emotions.

The younger’s mouth opened in realization, closed in regret, the open again. A small pathetic “oh” fell from his lips. Silence brewed between them. It filled with Jungkook’s stuttering. “I-I’m so sorry, I d-didn’t—“

“—know?” Yoongi offered weakly, a budding pool of irritability flooded at those pitying eyes. He should’ve known this had happened, ing connection, his a—“Obviously. I didn’t exactly go out of my way to make it known. It’s fine. I don’t need your apologies. I’ve gotten enough, believe me.”

Jungkook backtracked. “I didn’t mean it that way, I mean, sorry. Sorry.”

“Can you shut the up about sorry? Please?” Yoongi snapped.

Jungkook flinched. “I-I—sor—no, I, yeah.” He kept silent, face wounded with guilt, making regret encase the musician. Jungkook was not to blame, he didn’t know another way to express his shock, but Yoongi went ahead and hurt him anyways.

Yoongi toyed with the D string of the violin, biting his lip in that painful way which almost breaks skin. “No… I shouldn’t have taken my frustration out on you. I was wrong.” Jungkook’s lips moved as if to retort his claim, but he stayed quiet when he saw Yoongi continue. “If I’m being honest, the real reason why I even talked to you was because you reminded me of my brother. A little anxious. Scared.” He choked. “He used to wake me up after a nightmare, not mom or dad, me, because I was the big Hyung who could protect him from anything.”

“And how did he…?” Jungkook was so soft, letting the question hang in the air like tinsel.

“Car accident,” he hissed bitterly. “My family was on the way to the supermarket when this driver fell asleep at the wheel, swerved, and hit us right where Jun was sleeping. He died instantly, while the stupid driver just got paralyzed. My dad got a pain in his right foot and strong case of alcoholism, my mom got depression, and then there’s me.” He lifted his hands in the air. “I’m the lucky who got both. Just that, a broken violin, and a brother I will never get over.”

Yoongi shut his eyes tight, a lurching sensation echoing inside his intestines, a weight sitting atop his diaphragm. If there was a way to explain death, he’d have personified it in the way his heart blistered at the thought of him, in the bruise left by the phantom of his brother.

“It was so fast, he just died at the scene. I couldn’t even do anything for him. Didn’t even see him because I was being carted away. Is that what an older brother does? Leave?”

Jungkook frowned. “You couldn’t help that.”

Yoongi clutched at Jungkook. His nails dug into the fabric, bangs shielding the top of his face. “We used to live in Seoul, just a bit, but we left him.” Jungkook removed his clenched hands from his arms, opting to hold them. Yoongi leaned forward, pressing his face into the lapels of his jacket, but he wasn’t crying. “I need to fix this string, because it’s his birthday and he loved Amazing Grace, made me play it every year, but now I’m stuck on this train and he can’t hear it.” His voice shook, but not him. “I love him, he’s my baby brother.”

Jungkook unlocked one hand from his and drew a Post-it note from his bag, a violet one, and slipped it into the older’s hands. Yoongi’s raging eyes inspected it, and he gazed at him with confusion, the slightest tinge of offense. “I can’t draw my problems away. I’m not you.”

“I know,” Jungkook said (so soft, so soft). “But you can write.”

Yoongi stared.

The other pushed a pencil into his hand. “My gran used to say that if you write your thoughts on a piece of paper, then fold it into an airplane, your words could reach the afterlife.”

“The pencil’s dull.”

“So?”

“I won’t be able to write.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“That’s stupid,” Yoongi stated, but he was scratching out letters on the paper, spilling his frustration, his anger, his sorrow in each short almost nonexistent . He wrote about how he was sorry he allowed liquor to control him, allowed it to ruin their family when it was already so delicate to begin with. He wrote about how he was grateful for Jun’s existence because it made waking up in the morning bearable, because he’d see his face and feel like life was worth it. Because even in death, Jun inspired him to be a better person, to go to rehab and learn to love himself even if he hadn’t quite knew how yet. He wrote his apologies, and thanks, and complaints. He filled the 3x3 square up, top to bottom with his raw sincerity.

Folding it angrily, it came out to be a tiny, haggard plane, wings crooked and curved.

A rough hand pulled him up and dragged him outside, up a rusted ladder, and atop the busted train where Yoongi’s pale face greeted the moist summer air of the dusty terrain. He didn’t know if their actions were legal, but at the moment, he felt restless like legality was too trivial a worry.

He looked up at Jungkook expectantly.

“You wrote it. “ Jungkook tilted his head at the shorter, and pointed to the setting sun. “Now let it fly.”

With all his strength, which wasn’t much, Yoongi his arm forward, the paper airplane soaring off the tips of his fingers and snagging the coattails of the wind, getting lost in the orange haze. The problems didn’t leave, and the ache was still present in his chest, but Jungkook pulled him against his chest like the musician had done before. Yoongi’s cheek met taut fabric, large hands holding his hair loosely.

Yoongi frowned, pushing back. “I’m not going to cry, you sap.”

“I know,” Jungkook replied, tears lining his starry eyes again. “That’s why I’m going to cry enough for the both of us.”

With that, he held him again, dewdrops falling, falling for Yoongi. For Jun. For what they couldn’t have. And for a moment, Yoongi laid still, a statue, but something rumbled within him, and a single drop of water leaked from his eyes.

And another.

And another.

He wiped at the liquid with his sleeve whenever it came, but soon his shirt was drenched. Stop this nonsense, he berated himself, trying to will the tears away. Be strong.

Jungkook held his wrists, dragging them away from Yoongi’s face. “It’s alright,” Jungkook whispered into his hair. “Let it all out.” Yoongi trembled, and he only held him closer, asking a single question. “How old was he?”

A string snapped inside him, and Yoongi was clutching onto Jungkook’s jacket, howling into the wind. Sobs rang into the air as he screamed into the atmosphere, crumpling onto his knees, Jungkook holding onto him. He shuddered, gasping, banging the hood of the train until his fists turned raw.

The world spun before her as his voice croaked quietly. “He was ten.”

And the sky lingered above them, fading to a bubbling lavender.

.

.

.

For ages, they held hands, sitting on empty train cars, counting moments as the clouds went by, staying silent and basking in each other’s reassuring presence. A mutual understanding hung between them and all burdens slipped down their shoulders. Yoongi’s fingertips would take the time to smooth over every fingernail, tracing the rough edges and exploring the hardened bumps and light crevices of the appendage. Jungkook would let him, talking about his life in a fond way, from parties to the hurtful but meaningful parts, his nose finding anchorage in the dip of Yoongi’s neck.

“I stole my mom’s lipstick,” he confessed once. “Everywhere, even the walls. I was quite the brat” “—still are—“ “And I’d hide art supplies in corners my small physique could crawl through.”

Yoongi would add his own two cents in. “My neighbors were . I climbed on top of their roofs and played Mary Had a Little Lamb until they chased me off. Rude.”

“One time my friends dared me to go skinny-dipping. I did and I was caught.”

“Well, I accidently swapped my neighbor’s shampoo with my hair dye when we bumped into each other in the hallway after grocery shopping. He had blue hair for weeks.”

“Why are most of your stories about your neighbors?”

“Because I hate them.”

“Relatable.”

And they’d trade stories continuously, familiarizing themselves with the adventure of human intimacy in its purest form. They viewed each other as a gold mine waiting to be explored. They weren’t afraid of anything anymore, and as the shadows of stars peered into view. They both sighed, knowing, dreading.

At one point, Yoongi retrieved his violin, playing Amazing Grace as best he could, because Jun would hear his song anywhere even if not right next to her. Jungkook listened, sketching bold designs into the cool metal with a permanent marker, wanting to make an impact on the world even on a tattered vehicle.

Soon, the wind barked, and they clambered inside, huddling in a corner, giggling secrets into their hands, and a laugh came easier and more often. It came with an anticlimactic “oh” when the conductor waddled into their compartment, sighing deeply at the Post-It wonderland.

“Thank you for waiting,” he struggled to say with positivity. “The problem is fixed so we’ll be in Seoul in half an hour.” He retreated back to his room.

It wasn’t until the bell whistle shrieked and the doors rusted shut that reality smacked them across the face. As the train moved again, so did they, and the slow awareness that they were most likely not to meet again hung over. They didn’t speak of it, and if either one acknowledged or worried over it, they did not attempt to address the elephant in the room. They proceeded to speak of menial things, until a comfortable silence was established, allowing them to savor their companion’s presence a while more.

However, the shattering illusion was made conscious when the doors slid open again and the train came to a stop.

The duo, still dazed, sauntered out with all their belonging, and spent a moment or two absorbing the other, letting it sink in that this was it. Their world was gone and in the end, they were still strangers.

“Is there any way to contact you?” Jungkook broke the silence, stiff hands clutching his leather bag with anticipation.

Yoongi’s lips pursed cheekily, a wry smile gracing only for him. “Nah, not for you. I’m too worried over the confidentiality of my secrets and the robbing of my riches.”

Jungkook’s voice cracked. “I could make an exception for you.”

Their gaze met, something strange stirring between them, and Yoongi couldn't breathe. Tentatively stepping forward, Jungkook held his face and leant forward, pausing when Yoongi moved back, shaking his head.

He took Yoongi’s hand in his. "Whatever happened on the train, stays on the train, remember?"

Eyes glanced down and up. "We're not on the train."

"But it's still here," he replied.

The artist returned to the close proximity, and stopped when their noses met. Their breaths mingled with each other. Yoongi stared intensely, searching for an emotion. Then, gripping onto his bag, closed the gap. Yoongi kissed him, soft and true, and their teeth clashed under the swollen starlight. Jungkook tasted of warmth and the fresh summer air after spring, like childhood and chocolate. If this was Jungkook’s flavor, Yoongi wondered what was his.

The train whistled and the doors squeaked shut. Their alternate dimension ran away, leaving two boys standing on a darkened station, pressed together.

It was a signal of their own departure, and Yoongi pulled away first, his lips numb, fingers touching his mouth. Jungkook was a gorgeous shade of red, and this time he leaned back in, to feel their worlds colliding for just a bit more, but again Yoongi refused his own inclination, letting his arms slide around the other’s waist in a tight embrace. The violin case clunked against his sides. He had so much he wanted to tell Jungkook, but couldn't because he knew that he wouldn't be able to leave.

I want to see you again. I want to be with you. You were magical. But Yoongi didn't say that, and it came out as, "Thank you."

The taller rested his chin on top of his head, soaking the last remnants of him before they parted. "No, you."

Yoongi didn't say goodbye. He knew it might mean forever, and although that was the plan, the spark of hope idled. A maybe. A someday. After a few more minutes absorbing the rough patches on Jungkook’s skin, the lilt of rabbit-like teeth, his simple presence, Yoongi was able to tear himself from him, his hands lingering a little more than necessary.

He felt Jungkook’s eyes searing into his back as he walked away towards the exit, and a sudden burst of affection bloomed within him, a sudden need to say something, anything that would make sure Jungkook knew how much he meant.

Yoongi whirled around, shocking him when they met with an intensity, and he smiled, bright and shining and gummy. "See you later, Cooky!"

Jungkook’s face was the epitome of stupefaction, until he stuttered out breathlessly, “See you soon, Shooky!”

Yoongi surged with laughter, something he hadn't had in a long time, and under the barely lit lantern lights and Jungkook’s sweet voice carrying into the atmosphere, Yoongi had a smile that he hoped conveyed what words could not. And he saw Jungkook’s lopsided, boyish grin of summer, and he, for the last time, really, departed, a twinkle in his laugh and a tingle on his lips.

The sky was the color of soot, a glaring midnight that kissed the two farewell.