you and me, we're bumper cars (taekook ff)

Screaming at the Stars

He later learns from his aunt over the dining table and some scalding green tea that the boy is named Kim Taehyung.

"He's a sweet kid," she says, nodding while nibbling on a piece of burnt toast and fanning her tongue after taking a sip from her cup of tea. "He used to live with his grandparents and his parents."

"Used to?" he quirks up an eyebrow.

"Well, his mother passed away." A solemn look crosses her face. "She was supposed to give birth to a baby girl two years ago; never made it. Neither did the baby. His grandfather died soon after. Now, it's just Tae, his dad, and his grandma. His family moved here a decade ago. His parents helped me out when my ex-husband and I first moved here."

"How old is Taehyung?"

"You seem awfully curious about him."

"Well, he seems awfully curious about me," Jungkook murmurs, more to himself; nonetheless, his aunt catches his words. He quickly follows them up with, "He keeps staring. When I get back from biking. He even followed me once."

His aunt throws her head back in laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. "He followed you because his house is right across mine. Don't be so full of yourself, Kook. You city boys and your vanity." She shakes her head in amusement. "You must get it from your father."

"He's much worse," he says absentmindedly.

"I think so, too," she admits, frowning at the thought of her brother. "Anyway, don't let Taehyung's—how should I call it?—observations get to you. It's a small town, Kook; nothing happens. I know everyone and everyone knows me. You're the odd one out; it's natural for him to react that way. Don't think too much about it."

"Even the elders who wave at me when I bike?"

"Yes, even them," she chuckles, finishing the last of her toast before rising from her seat to carry her plate to the sink. Over her shoulder, she says, "Don't let your ego get the best of you. Say hi every now and then. Talk to Taehyung if you want; it'd be good to have a friend here your age."

"Yeah, okay," he says with a tone of finality, closing the subject and finishing his dinner. "I'm going to bed."

"Didn't think bad boys like you had a bedtime," his aunt teases, but still bids him good night with the usual reminders to wash up and Don't let the bedbugs bite!

After a long hour spent serenading himself in the shower with his favourite Nirvana songs and brushing his teeth, he changes into a comfortable white tee and a pair of grey sweatpants. He then shuffles into the spare guest room his aunt had prepared for him before his arrival.

The room is spacious enough, with minimal decorations; one bed is pushed to the corner opposite the door, near the white blinds draping over the windows. A single yellow clock hangs on the wall, and the only other things accompanying it on the white walls are old photographs of Jungkook from ten years ago. A small blue lava lamp rests atop the wooden desk by the bedside; his aunt's placed several books and notebooks on the table as well, along with a pile of compact discs and a typewriter. He still hasn't found the heart to touch any of it, even though there's a note taped to the typewriter that tells him to Get comfortable! with his temporary dwelling place for the summer holidays.

He lies down on the bed and attempts to fall asleep beneath dark blue bedsheets. What feels like hours of tossing and turning and longing for a midnight getaway translates into only five minutes past nine on the analogue clock on the wall. Upon seeing the time, he grunts and turns, lying on his stomach and burying his face in his pillow.

Jungkook likes to believe he's settled into the neighbourhood quite quickly. Likes to; but he knows that's far from the truth. Especially now, when everything around him is so foreign; the scent of the room is thick with dust and a musky fragrance courtesy of the floorboards, instead of the comfort that comes with nicotine and a whiff of whiskey. The walls are too blank, too quiet; he's used to the loud, screaming colours of his posters in contrast to his pale grey walls back in his own room. The weight of the silence is heavy on his ears, and the absence of volume is more deafening than serene; or maybe it isn't the silence that's making his ears ache, but the chorus of a million thoughts singing in his head all at once. They're almost loud enough for him to think that they're all coming from a single person, speaking, shouting in a single voice...