𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐯𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 || JJK x READER

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎

Jungkook's pov
I sat down on my old wooden stool, which creaked under the weight I exerted against it.

Around me was the only sound of Yn's footsteps as she paced back and forth across the room, busy first removing shards of glass, then cleaning up the paint she had knocked off yesterday, smearing my painting.

Also the ticking of the clock coming from the room next door, the room I have long since abandoned, where I used to immerse myself in the books of French poets who wrote how difficult could be the life to live.

Everything was proceeding silently.
The problem was the screaming inside my head, overlapping each other.

That was the perfect time to paint, my emotions were eager to crash against the rough surface of the canvas in front of me.

To hurl themselves against it like the whisky bottle shattered against the wall.
Like my heart shattering against my chest, crazed, until a few moments ago.

I gripped the brush firmly and, dipping it in a fervent red, now my canvas was no longer empty.

Fiery red.
Passion red.

Red rage.

There, that hue reflected the last emotion, hiding a lot of suffering, never given to be seen except through my art.

That deep red was my defeats, my "it's all my fault!", my guilt, my inadequacy.

It was all blooming at that moment, through my expert hand wandering over the surface giving vent to myself.

Anyone who would have seen that painting would never have understood its painter's motives.
I closed my eyes for a moment so as to face them one by one and, inevitably, the scene that today had unleashed an animal ferocity in me appeared.

I had drunk a little too much last night and this morning my body was feeling the effects, not being able to get up at the right time, missing my alarm clock.

The clock showed how late I was and, after putting on a shirt, I hurried to open the door, imagining that Yn was already there waiting, or who knows maybe she got tired of it and left.

The thought troubled me for a moment.

I had spent the last night getting used to the idea of having a new human presence around me, having to deal with her voice, her ideas, her breaths and her unexpressed thoughts.

By 4 a.m. I had collapsed with the knowledge that I was letting someone into my life.

Surely Yn must have thought otherwise, but I had intended to help her, even though I am not in the habit of letting anyone into my life.

From the words of the headmaster of that college I had sensed that girl's despair, still not knowing her motives.

So this morning I feared that all the mental practice of accepting her presence in my life had been in vain, as if I had latched onto a new feeling.

To no longer be alone.

I detested her ways and she detested mine.
She had criticised my art mercilessly, never mentioning the human side that could have led me to create similar works.
She had been such a bitch.

But she was stubborn, no doubt about it.
She only saw her dream and all my flaws, after which nothing else existed for her.

At least that was what she was showing, and if I ever found her still waiting outside my studio door, from then on I would get to know her better, to detest her more probably.

In fact I found her still there but not in the situation I thought.

I thought I would find her furious because I had left her waiting in the cold.
I would have been content to find her huddled and shivering from the few degrees she felt and having to carry her inside and cover her up to her nose with blankets.