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summary: inside jeongguk's apartment is where you meet the possibility of life.
𓍯𓂃
It seems as though Jeongguk is still turning your words over his heart once you arrive at his apartment and the sullen grayness of his personal space greets you. A certain pensive look, embellished with a wrinkle between his brows, paints him in the shades of stark reclusiveness, the unapproachability of that façade the blue highlights that make the current inertia of his usual hyperactivity uncannily animated. It's an oxymoron, the stillness of his being, despite the fact you very vividly sense the turmoil happening inside his chest.
Turmoil must be second-nature to him. Almost like a friend.
You don't know what to say. The downturned corners of his mouth are so engraved into your vision that when you look away, you can still see them. Sad and pouty, caused in most probability by the truth you uttered. War happens, Jeongguk, if Yoongi and I see each other outside of the walls of our home. Those were the most heart-felt, authentic words that were flung out of the chambers of your heart because—yes, if Yoongi were to know that you smoke one cigarette a day with a boy with a nicotine-addiction, a motorcycle and a tendency to go back to people who have spread agony down his lungs like the white fumes of his cigarettes, he would get up from the kitchen table and grab the nearest knife, start a war for your dream that, according to him, got interrupted by temporary, meaningless things.
But Jeongguk isn't meaningless. You thought for the longest time that he was temporary, but his lingering presence through high school and now through uni convinced you of the opposite. You believe now, now as he bends at the waist to place a pair of pink, fuzzy slippers with a yummy fried egg on top in front of your icy-cold, socked feet, that he has more shape—the eyes of an angel born wrong, born human, the mouth of a saint that fears to say the wrong thing—than your dream does.
Your dream doesn't have a face.
Your dream doesn't have a meaning, either.
Yoongi knows this, pretends he knows the contours of that dream when he tells you to go study. Pretends he knows the color of its flesh, all the greens, purples and blues, when the only words he throws your way are of commanding nature. Come eat. Go shower. Go study. Don't. You can't recollect the last time you had a genuine conversation with him that did not include those very words.
It's exhausting. Your bones are burdened by it—by being treated as a student and not as a human being. But you ignore this because you respect him, hold him in high regard because of his own burden, laid heavy across the length of his shoulders that have become too thin, too skeletal, that have once been broad, beautiful and ogled by those, who had the luck to encounter him.
He doesn't go to the gym anymore, to fill the mass of his muscles with exercise. He works long hours doing food delivery to fill your tummy instead.
And it's hard—balancing your respect for him and your ostensibly inner desire to go in search of the things you read about in your books. You can't help but expect to dig them out, selfishly, in Jeongguk. The kind, now somber, boy who has been by your side for so long. With words and simultaneously without.
