𝓗𝓮𝓭𝓸𝓷𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓬 𝓭𝔂𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓹𝓲𝓪

Church (Jeon Jungkook.)

Notes:
You met in a park at three a.m.

→Warnings include: internalized homophobia, ethical ambiguity, domestic abuse, substance use, swearing, sex.

I stirred awake from yet another nightmare. It seemed to me as if fate was adamant on making me suffer from them every night. My hand fumbled for my phone as I shuddered from the feeling of cold sweat sticking my skin to my bedsheets. I swore as I couldn't feel it and shuffled off from the mattress, stumbling on the miscellaneous objects scattered around my room.

I turned on the lights to see the phone laying across the floor. I dragged my feet to it and picked it up to check the time.

It was 3:27.

I put on a pair of jeans, a shirt and a jacket that were laying about and picked up my keys and my stash of weed. I got out of my room, making sure not to wake my roommate up, and left the house.

The cold night air soothed the dull ache in my skull and brought me to full wakefulness.

His gnarly hand was the only sight I remembered before I felt the red hot pain of a cigarette being put out on the bare skin of my arm. "Stop crying," he would scream. "Real men don't cry. I didn't raise a bitch."

The tremble of my hand didn't stop as I was hit with an onslaught of memories that I'd wished were buried deep within oblivion. I did not want to be reminded of the dread, the fear, or the vulnerability.

The cold became less soothing the more it nibbed on my flesh and stung my skin.

My feet guided me to the usual spot underneath the bridge. It was isolated and the only people who went there were degenerates like myself, who either wanted to get high or fuck. It was usually empty after it was fenced off, but I knew where to weasel myself around it.

I found the hidden hole in the fence and ducked in, slipping easily beyond it.

I could make out some movement under the bridge and a single dot of light. A lit blunt.

When I made it to the bottom of the bridge, I could better make out the silhouette of someone with what seemed like a cigarette perched between their lips. The person turned to me. "Yo." I called, and he removed the cigarette from his mouth. "Is this your spot? Sorry. I'll leave." He said, his voice sounding masculine, but youthful and almost like it had an edge to it. His tone was passive and quiet.

"No, it's cool. You can stay," I told him before he could leave. I sat down on the broken bench and started to roll my blunt.

"Thanks." He muttered and sat down on a piece of cardboard on the ground. He tossed his cigarette butt to the ground and made to pull out another one only to crumple the pack and throw it away.

"Those are expensive, you know." I said to him, putting my blunt between my lips and lighting the end. He remained silent.

"It's empty." He replied. I grunted and took a long drag, letting out a thick cloud. "Well, want a drag?" I offered him.

He tentatively grabbed the blunt from my hand brought it to his own lips, inhaling the smoke. I patted the bench beside me and he sat down.

He was wearing a large black hoodie, some baggy pants and a pair of doc martins. His hair was black and long enough for his bangs to reach just below his eyes, which fluttered shut for a second as he exhaled the smoke.