𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵 𝓸𝓯 𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱

ⓒⓗⓐⓟⓣⓔⓡ ⓣⓗⓘⓡⓣⓨⓞⓝⓔ

He laid Jungkook down on the bed, pushing off his clothes and the used tissues that sprawled on it. He sat on the edge, brushing his hair with his fingers, examining the face he had missed so dearly. It was hard to look at. His puffy cheeks had turned hollow, his glowing skin had turned dull. He wondered what could have happened in that month, what would make him turn himself into this. He did not want to believe it was because of him.

He went and took the first aid kit, bringing it back in the room to take care of Jungkook’s wounds. Fortunately, there was not much else than his broken fingers. He definitely had many bruises across his body, but Taehyung confirmed nothing was broken or perforated. The guys he had crossed were too drunk to properly beat him up, and Taehyung was unbelievably glad for that. Maybe stabbing their eyes and slicing their throats had been a little excessive and over dramatic, but in that moment he had seen only red. He barely remembered what had happened between when he got out of his car and when he faced Jungkook. All he knew was that those guys did not even have the time to notice him before being dead. All he knew was that he would do anything and everything to protect the man he loved.

He took a deep breath as Jungkook twitched under his touch, his static expression suddenly changing. He knew he had a lot of explaining to do and that this was not going to be easy. Jungkook was very impulsive and emotional, which he knew would definitely make this one hell of a confrontation. His eyes slowly opened. He frowned when he notice where he was, staring at the ceiling. When his eyes looked back down to meet with Taehyung’s, he flipped.

Jungkook pushed him off the edge and slid himself against the back of the bed, tears already filling his eyes. He shook his head as he understood what was going on before him. All this time, he had wanted to see him. Now, however, he could not handle it. All the sadness, the anger, the yearning, the waiting… just for him to come back like nothing had happened. To appear in the middle of the streets, saving him once again from the claws of death. He was mad. So incredibly mad. He wanted to hit Taehyung, to curse at him and yell at him. The knot in his throat kept him from doing so.

“Go ahead. Say it,” Taehyung said, standing up from the floor.

His lips trembled from rage, his unbandaged fist clenched tightly. So many words and insults and pleads came to his mind. The ideas scrambled inside of his head, running into one another. He could not even think of a particular word to say, he was completely shocked. He had accepted that Taehyung would never come back. He had gone back to his old ways; drinking and chasing after death, waiting for the day it would finally come to take him away. He had repressed his memories of Taehyung, he had recognized that he was gone forever.

Yet here he was. Standing in front of him, untouched, The same face Jungkook recognized so well; he even wore the same black clothes he would always wear. His stare was still dark, his expression sharp. It was him. The one and only. The same man that Jungkook had grown to love unconditionally, through thick and thin, through madness and murder. The presence that Jungkook yearned more than oxygen itself; the one thing that made it feel okay for him to live.

Yes, he wanted to hit him. Hurt him. Make him feel the pain he had felt. He also wanted to kiss him, run his hands through his hair and pull it, bite his neck and delve deep in the raw connection they had always shared. He wanted to taste the skin he had ached to touch for too long, he wanted Taehyung to fuck him how he had always done, with such soul shaking passion he could never get over it nor lay with anyone else. His emotions contrasted with one another in that moment, and he did not know what to do. Even less what to say.

His body spoke before him. He pushed himself up and faced Taehyung, inches away from his face. He examined every little detail of his skin, down to the small scar next to his mouth. Every mark and crack and bump. Taehyung stared back, the tension in the room growing stronger. He could feel all the pain Jungkook had went through. He had not needed to speak; Taehyung understood. He had felt the same way. Yet, he could not say it. As much as he wanted to apologize, beg on his knees for Jungkook to forgive him for leaving so hastily and without a word, he could not.

He brushed his thumb across Jungkook’s jaw, a single tear meeting his touch. Jungkook leaned his head into Taehyung’s hand, closing his eyes, focusing on the feeling of his rough fingers against his face. He shivered at his touch, electricity shooting through his body. How long he had craved, ached for this feeling. It had felt like a hundred years; a century of longing pain.

He kissed him with that pain. He kissed him with the fury he had kept in for too long. He took off Taehyung’s shirt too quickly, desperate to see him again, to feel him again. His fingers grabbed and clawed at his exposed skin, pulling him closer. Taehyung moaned in Jungkook’s mouth painfully, his own longing taking over him. He fumbled to take off Jungkook’s shirt, his shaking hands unable to control themselves anymore. They had seen blood and guts, steel and chains, but had craved something much greater; his lover’s nakedmattress.
Their sparks turned to fire, intertwining into one another, kissing and tugging at every inch of exposed skin they could see. Two elements clashing, combusting into one. In that moment they felt each other’s pain, hunger, and delirium. There was nothing else in the world that existed but the two of them. They breathed one another, tasted one another, as if it would be the last thing they would do on this earth. Taehyung turned Jungkook around and pushed him on the bed, following closely behind. He pressed his chest on his back, pulling down on his pants, his hand hastily reaching to his mouth for spit. He hurriedly slipped his fingers inside of Jungkook, kissing the nape of his neck, licking his shoulders. Jungkook moaned and gripped the sheets of the bed, his erection pressing firmly into the mattress.