Lord Of The Wolves

Springtime Lovers Whisper Secrets To Each Other

Fire. Sometimes Jungkook dreams of them. They burn in packs of waves, drowning him in  scalding flames and sinking deep into his skin, grinding its ghastly fangs as though they were filled with vile wishes of death. They remain impassive of his grieving, feasting on his melancholy, releasing tainted smoke into his lungs and turning them ragged. Then they travel fast, in angry shades of red and blue, mounting on a crest of orange hues no brighter than a flickering matchstick. His polluted veins constrict with every tickle, the leaves of a fruitful mind discolouring as it digs into the rifts of his body.

Jungkook despises fire. They strip him of his powers, turning his ice into a pitiful collection of glass shards. And his soul is bared to the beguiling eyes of loathsome spectators, crowding over him with their many wretched hands. Their fingers wheedle around in circles –elusive, like the wind, absconding through the eerie silence only to come back bigger, louder and more malignant than before.

-

When Jungkook looks at fire, daring a peek at the fuming shadows of its deceit, he only remembers sorrow —but Taehyung was fire, and Jungkook breathed in his smoke as if it were the most harmless thing. It was was just that easy to forget things — with Taehyung, he always felt safe. Not an ounce of suspicion or reluctance —caressed by loving comforts.

"Kook?"

It has never been a question, because everyone knew Jungkook admired his brother more than any other fanatic fella. Front stage, back stage – one act more familiar than the other. They knew details of Taehyung's achievements, but Jungkook had access to every failure he had endured. They knew so much of his charming disposition and dazzling looks, but Jungkook saw coarse scars and chafed fingers –always the first to patch up the ugly bruises splattered all over his skin. Jungkook likes to believe he's known of the man before the world ever heard his name.

"Kook? You okay?"

—but Jungkook sometimes wishes Taehyung's name remains unheard of, unknown. There are some reservations, a kind of discomfort that leaves the prince on guard. He  feels a sparse disconnection with the older, not too much of a chasm but still a fair amount of questionable distance – as if the shed of the spotllight hold clandestine corners no man could dare to unravel, to unveil. Not even Jungkook.

"Hyung?" He finally answers, a modest voice so used to speaking softly. His eyes roam the free area, landing still on Taehyung's neck, they throb, subtle beats buzzing listlessly in peace. A light passes through the ghostly noon, inching closer to the older's face and drawing out a yellowish glow. Some shades of darkness bespatter the man, and Jungkook wonders if the lingering shadows near his lips would cast him a spell – or would they perish in the disquieting pause too? Never to whisper of the man's most hidden secrets?

"Have you ever heard about the wolf who cried moon?" Jungkook speaks out in bewilderment, just as cautious of his own sudden question.

Taehyung gazes back with curious eyes, sat behind a pile of rolled parchments and heavily scented books. He purses his lips in contemplation, slow with his words as he replies, "From your father's story?"

Jungkook nods, refusing to dive into his folded elbows to make a pillow out of them. The rays are coming with ease, sauntering their way — into the caged windows and into Taehyung's soulful orbs. Hazel, Jungkook thinks, much like the sharp indents in his face.

"What about it?"

The voice is husky but light, rippling through the dry air with a song of its own. Sunflowers, they smell like sweet, saccharine sunflowers.

"Did the moon ever love the wolf?" Jungkook shifts. He feels something amiss within the surroundings, unable to fully grasp a conscious mind. Jungkook's attention is in clutters, a bungling thread of nerves that aimlessly lurch around the brown and yellow tinges of the barren hallways.