Gilt • taekook spy au

Epilogue

He was never able to feel much, as far back as he could remember.

Pain never fazed him, neither did the jesting and mocking of the other kids. It was as if the world was separated from him by a thin veil. Thin, yet impenetrable, shielding him from the laughters just as much as the tears.

Not that Jungkook cared, really. It felt cozy in a way, with the noise and distraction in the distance. He played alone, jumping to grip onto the rusted monkey bars tightly each time, only to fall and scrape his knees hard on the gravel. And then he'd try again, and again. Until he's able to hang on and make it all the way to the end of the bar, the bloody scabs dried and numb on his legs, alone and depending on nobody else.

There was a quiet comfort in solitude, and he enjoyed feeling stronger each day as he grew up, muscles taut and aching to be pushed to the brink. Books became his companions, and he spent countless nights reading biographies and philosophy, letting his own beliefs and morals take shape.

It was all fine, he was even a little proud, of the way he ignored the worried whispers of the teachers, or punched through the despising glares of his peers. But what finally pierced through his wall of defense was the soft sighs and resigned murmurs of mom.

"Gukkie, your teacher called me today, Ms. Louis? She said you were in a fight again, and that the other kids are scared of you."

A hand would reach towards his cheek, thin delicate fingers brushing just below the bruised cut. The sigh that followed would drape over his heart, making it irritably heavy, "Try to smile more, love. People are scared of you when you look so serious... So quiet and serious, just like- just like him-" another long sigh that dragged and fizzled into the air, as the sentence was cut short, and the hand retracts, taking the hint of warmth away.

He was too young to realize that maybe she's just tired, too tired from life to appreciate her son for being different. So naturally, as most kids would do, he blamed himself - if only he could be just like everyone else, if only he could pretend to feel, to blend in.

Jungkook started observing people, emulating their small motions and reactions in every social occasion. A slight upcurl of the lips for simple jokes, raised cheeks and pearl whites for bigger occasions. A gentle pat of the arm or back, no matter how bizarre it felt to him, seemed to put people at ease. And when all failed, he learned to listen - let them talk, no matter the age, about themselves. It's amazing how everyone unequivocally loved to talk about themselves in the end.

He messed up sometimes, and kids called him a freak that "can't even act properly". But eventually, he tweaked and rehearsed each motion so it's just the right amount of superficial appropriateness. People no longer stayed away, when he finally seemed no different than them, safe. The mastered smile almost looked genuine in certain lighting.

The bruised cut eventually healed, leaving a faint line on his cheek. Every time Jungkook spotted it in the mirror, he thought of it as a memento, of how he needed to disguise his true self, for the only person that mattered to him.

"Am I really... just like him?" The question finally drifted out one night, when he was worn out, when mom had a night off and was in a happier mood.

She hesitated in the dark, but Jungkook felt the pause clench at his heart. Eventually, she responded, "Of course you are. He is your father, after all."

Why doesn't he ever visit then? The question rang loudly on his mind, but he curbed it, not wanting to face the answer, and asked instead, "Can I meet him one day?"

Another pause. But the response was uttered into the dark, resonating to all the longing that he would never admit to, "I told you before, your father can't be with us. But he loves you very much, and is always out there watching out for you."