VMINKOOK / THE ART OF BEEKEEPING

44

— PART FORTY-FOUR.

Taehyung, strangely, feels as if he's being courted; there's something so antediluvian, so medieval, about his position currently, being prim and proper, with boys fawning over him, gifting him their affections, all their pining wrapped in tissue paper and rose petals. He feels like royalty, momentarily, with knights tearing open guts and ripping apart skin, plucking a heart from a carcass and gifting it to him in exchange for his red-hot love.

Currently, he's stood behind the carnival stalls, 'round the backs of the rides and arcade games, slipping away from the lights, into the beautiful dark, were a few youths are lingering, doing drugs. The weed reeks, and he feels ridiculously childish being exposed to it, while wearing his witch's hat and holding a group of stuffed toys to his chest.

Both Jimin and Jeongguk had won him two each, and he'd managed to win himself the largest one: an obnoxious, blue elephant. He really didn't think that was something people actually did, win people cuddly animals from the fairground, and yet, here he was. He really feels like he's being courted, like they're trying.

Attempting to ignore the marijuana that infests his current fantasy of chivalry and rose-tinted glasses, he leans against the back of the stall, breathing heavy. He'd come back here to phone his dad, letting him know he might be home a bit later than expected — and also because he really needed a breather. The whole night was nice, really nice, to the extent it caused great convulsions of alarm to rattle through him.

Truly, he was unsure what to make of the sudden metamorphosis of their personalities; they'd been such ugly creatures before, crawling around the ground, tangling with mud, getting their feet stuck in it, with bloody gums and sharp teeth that crunched and slurped upon dirt and horror. But, now, they'd been cocooned, processed in a blender, like they'd torn apart their anatomy and reconstructed themselves into beings of immense beatitude. Now, they flutter around, graceful and amatory, bursting with colour, vibrant and powerful, like nature. Like butterflies.

"You okay, sweetheart?"

Taehyung snaps out of his daydream, turning to see Jimin, the boy seemingly having materialised beside him, smiling and golden, despite the scales on his skin. His hair is tussled by the wind, pumpkin guts flailing around underneath the cool zephyr, and his clothes don't seem to accommodate for such cold weather. He's grinning, despite it, the frost settling on him comfortably, verglas.

"Oh, uh, yeah, I'm fine." Taehyung nods after a beat, smiling as best he can, hugging the toys closer to him, "where's Jeongguk?"

"Getting food," Jimin says, absentminded, and he looks around, spying the group of guys doing drugs a few metres away, frowning at them, as if they personally offended him. When he turns back around, his face bleeds into something more gentle — soft, like melted ice cream. He peers at Taehyung for a minute, as if taking into account every slant of his essence, inundating himself within the boy's seraphic physiognomy, basking in him. Then, haphazardly, he says, "you ever done drugs?"

The blonde cocks an eyebrow at that, gazing at the elder, as if the skin of his neck was torn apart, the seams of his garish crevices unfurling, as another head cultivates beside his real one — ludicrous, "you're really asking that?" and Jimin bursts into laughter, and it's so fluid, the way his body moves in order to gently rest his hand on Taehyung's shoulder. He squeezes it, comforting and joyful.

"No, of course you haven't," his hand moves up to pinch Taehyung's cheek, fond, and it doesn't come off as patronising as it perhaps should, it's just delicate and saccharine, "me either."

Taehyung turns to properly look at Jimin then, still leaning against the back of the stall, but his head is fully engaged in the older boy's quiddity, "really?"