Jungkook vaguely remembers the first time he had been to the airport. He was seven then, with an arm tightly wrapped around his stuffed bear and a cherry-flavoured lollipop in his mouth. His mother held his hand in hers while Junghee, nine-years-old, trailed behind them in a peach dress, her hair in pigtails. They had eagerly welcomed their father home from his quick trip to Korea; if he closes his eyes and tries his hardest, he can still remember the feeling of his father's arms wrapping around his small frame, lifting him into the air, a smile warming his father's normally cold features.
Jungkook has trouble remembering the second time around. All he remembers was that at twelve years old—Junghee then at fourteen—his father's sharp, hardened features only tensed further upon laying his eyes on his waiting family. Jungkook didn't know then why Junghee couldn't maintain their father's gaze.
His third visit to the airport is the most vivid; it still stings like a fresh wound cut open in his mind, memories bleeding from the open flesh.
As he stands at the entrance of the airport, he recalls every aspect of his memory from that day, and suddenly, he's fourteen again. Everything comes back to him in waves; the warmth of Junghee's embrace, the stains her tears left on his shirt, her whispers and pleas to take care of Mom, okay? Be a good boy, Kook. Be a good boy.
He remembers their father refusing to be anywhere near her. He remembers the filters of agony resonating in his mother's screams as his sister took her bags with her and turned her back on them, a tall, dark-haired boy next to her, carrying his own luggage with him. He remembers the bump in her belly, the faded bruises on her arms and legs. And then nothing much after that; a quiet ride home. No lunch, nor dinner; he hadn't bothered to touch his food at all that d
It's been many years, yet it still hurts all the same; if not, even worse.
His mother's hollering brings him back from the ocean of his memories to the shore of the present. She's triple-checking his bags, running her hands all over him, fixing his air. His father stands idly behind her, back turned to him.
"Be good to your aunt, alright?" his mother reminds, running her hand through his hair and smoothing it afterwards. "Give us a call when you get to her house. We love you, okay? We'll see you in September."
Jungkook forces himself to smile, albeit it comes out as a grimace. "Okay, Mom."
His mother smiles at him, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She turns to his father and nudges him. "Say goodbye to your son."
Jungkook shakes his head.
"Come back as someone else or don't come back at all."
The smile drops from his mother's face; it is replaced by a deep frown that emphasizes the wrinkles on her face.
Jungkook nods in silence, already having expected words of that short from his father.
His mother casts one last look over him from head to toe, as if she is trying to memorize every last detail about him. She wraps her arms around him, her head only reaching up to his chest. He closes one arm around her and returns the gesture, her scent—soft and delicate, roses and tea— filling his senses. He slowly drops his arm back to his side, while his mother lingers just a few seconds longer.
"Don't listen to your father," she manages to murmur lowly, "and come back by September." "I'll try," Jungkook replies, voice empty. Monotonous.
He takes his bags with him as he heads toward the terminal, not bothering to cast another glance over his shoulder; just to check on his family. A small voice in his head tells him they won't bother to watch him leave.
YOU ARE READING
you and me, we're bumper cars (taekook ff)
Fanfiction"The more I try to get to you, the more we crash apart." After a myriad of mistakes committed in his leather jacket with a cigarette between his teeth, Jungkook finds himself exiled to his aunt's house in a quiet, faraway town for the summer. Nothin...
