Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

If Jungkook doesn’t get his morning coffee in the next twenty seconds, he doesn’t feel like he should be held responsible for the person he’ll turn into, or what he’ll be yelling uncontrollably at the giggling schoolgirls in front of him, who are busy debating the varied flavors of cream lattes on the menu. He’s barely reining in his annoyance. It’s a good thing, then, that the girls finally make up their minds and move away from the cashier.

“My usual, please,” Jungkook says through gritted teeth, striving to speak more politely than he feels.

“Having here or to go, today?”

Jungkook hesitates. He glances at the large wall clock behind the counter, then at the couple of remaining empty tables in the cafe. Despite his impatience, he actually does have a little time, he thinks. He shrugs, already less annoyed, feeling much more amiable at the prospect of an unhurried jolt of caffeine in his bloodstream. 

“I’ll have it here,” he says. 

But he further underestimates how long it takes for the overworked, underpaid baristas to produce the two fussy drinks of the girls who were in front of him, and by the time he realizes he should have snagged a seat first, the two empty tables have been snapped up. Jungkook lets out an exasperated sigh, his fragile peace once more disrupted. Winding his way through the cafe, he spots a table for two that’s occupied by a party of one. All right then. Good enough. He can be friendly for as long as it takes to down his drink.

He stops in front of the table and clears his throat.

“Hey man,” Jungkook says politely. “Mind if I share your table for a bit?”

The stranger shrugs noncommittally without even looking up. His face is half hidden in his book, his Americano half drunk and cooling on the table. His voice filters from behind his book. “Sure, go ahead.”

“Thanks.” Jungkook tugs the chair out with his foot and settles in, impatient to get his coffee. He’ll need the caffeine and sugar boost to make it through the day. He remembers Wooju saying something about a new shipment coming in that evening, and he’ll need to stay late to help unpack after closing hours. 

He doesn’t mind the work, honestly; in fact he really enjoys it, even if his mother thinks he isn’t much more than a glorified salesman. It’s always fun to see what comes in from their artists and suppliers, whether original art or reproductions of more famous artworks. Some of them are picky about the way things are displayed and bring their art personally to negotiate placement, but others are happy for them to work it out themselves. There’s something he really likes about unpacking crates of art for the shop. Jungkook supposes it’s similar to the unboxing videos people like to watch online; he gets all the thrill and excitement of opening packages, without having to spend a single cent.

Yeah, he’ll enjoy helping Wooju unpack the crate, even if his boss doesn’t exactly pay him overtime for the extra work.

Jungkook steeples his fingers under his chin and stares moodily out of the cafe window. 

It’s just that Jungkook still doesn’t quite know what he’s doing with his life. Working for Wooju has been…fine. It pays the bills. It’s pleasant enough. But it’s certainly not what everyone expected him to do when he graduated from SNU - after all, most graduates are desperate to be hired by a big corporation and climb up the ladder.

The only thing Jungkook had been absolutely sure of, fresh out of school, was that he would rather die than do just that. He remembers using the words ‘soul-sucking’ and ‘corporate zombie’ to his classmates, who just shook their heads, pity and bewilderment in their eyes, and put more distance between him and them as they busily compared job offers and starting pay.

Jungkook, on the other hand, spent a couple of weeks morosely wandering around Seoul. For all his preaching, he had no clue what he really wanted to do. He took on odd jobs here and there - he was a waiter for a little while, then did some freelance work, just enough to pay the bills, but nothing he really enjoyed. He was this close to capitulating and actually drawing up a resume when he stepped into Wooju’s shop in Insadong on a whim, all because of a painting he glimpsed in the window that he really liked. It must have been serendipity, because an hour, a cup of tea and a chat with Wooju later, to his utmost surprise, he was offered a job that he felt actually suited him. 

Jungkook winces to himself, remembering the conversation he had with his mother when he told her about the job he applied for on impulse and got. 

“A…retail job?” his mother said, trying hard to hide the concern and almost-distaste in her voice. “But sweetheart…” and she trailed off, clearly wanting to be supportive, but unable to wrap her head around the fact that her only son, a fresh graduate in Seoul, had chosen to take up a dead-end sales position when the ink on his university certificate was hardly dry. “Is it an art gallery?” she asked hopefully. “Like the kind with really expensive art in it?”

Jungkook let her down gently. “It’s like a consignment shop, eomma,” he explained. “It’s quirky and cute. We sell a whole range of art, from reproductions to originals, but no, not usually the really expensive stuff. Local artists send their artwork in for sale, and the shop gets a cut. I get commission too,” he adds hastily, to soften the blow.

“Are you earning enough?” She sounded dubious, and Jungkook honestly could hardly blame her. Money has always been tight for them. He doesn’t want her to worry.

“It’s more than enough, eomma. Don’t worry.”

His mother went quiet for a moment, and Jungkook was genuinely abashed enough to start to say something, but then she sighed, indulgence winning out over concern. “It sounds…nice,” she said hesitantly. “Maybe it’s what you need?” she asked. “Like a break, after all that studying, before you look for a job in a big company?”

Jungkook wasn’t sure how to explain to her that taking up a job in a big corporation like everyone else does would be sure to crush his soul even further. 

“He’s taking a break” is how his mother would end up delicately describing it to others. Jungkook has given up trying to explain it any further than that.

Jungkook stares out the window of the coffeeshop, a dour look on his face, and shifts restlessly. 

Nothing’s wrong, really. He’s been coasting, doing okay. Nothing he can complain about. 

But still.

He just doesn’t know what’s out there for him. He can’t fight this feeling of ennui, the dispiriting feeling that he’s missing something. Someone he’s supposed to be. Something he’s supposed to do. Someone he’s supposed to be with, even. 

It’s like a giant void in his soul that he can’t fill, even though he really loathes the way this might sound to other people. Like he’s some sort of spoilt brat, some privileged kid who wants to mooch about and find himself, or something of the sort. Jungkook worked two jobs to put himself through university, after all. It’s not like he floated through on his parents’ money.

But Jungkook doesn’t even know what it is that he’s missing - so how can he fill it? He just knows he feels hollow, unearthed, uprooted. Unmoored.

He just doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. 

Jungkook must have sighed too loudly, because his table mate shifts a little bit and makes a small annoyed noise, and Jungkook ducks his head apologetically. He glances over at the other man, and then tilts his head and frowns. Jungkook recognizes that book title - they have some copies for sale at the shop. 

It’s not everyone who enjoys reading about interpreting modernism in Korean art. Cool, Jungkook thinks. A kindred spirit. 

Jungkook is about to say something to break the ice, and he opens his mouth, but then their eyes meet. There’s a shockwave that runs through Jungkook’s body, and this time his mouth falls open all the way. The other man sucks in a surprised breath. The book, forgotten, slips from his fingers into his lap. 

They stare, slack-jawed, at one another.

The first thing that strikes Jungkook is the man’s almond-shaped eyes. There’s almost a glint of gold in them. Eyes hooded and heavy-lidded, the man’s gaze is warm and direct and penetrating, as if he can see right through Jungkook to the heart of him. The ground beneath Jungkook’s feet seems to tilt. The other man is staring at him with such surprised wonder, such open delight, that Jungkook feels deeply unsettled by the expression on his face. Something shifts disquietingly in Jungkook’s chest, and yet…even as he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the other man’s, it somehow feels like something is slotting neatly into place. For some reason, the man looks strangely familiar, as if there’s a name hovering just out of reach at the edge of his memory. 

At the same time, Jungkook is absolutely sure they’ve never met. 

Jungkook would have remembered a man like this. Those eyes - those dimples - 

His vision is almost blurring. There’s a sensation in his mind of gold flecks, fire flashing, heat and sparks and a metallic shimmer, the smell of hot iron, glowing from the forge. Time stands still for a moment more, until Jungkook finally blinks, and frowns. 

What on earth is happening to him? 

He feels faint, dizzy, jolted, and he opens and closes his mouth to gasp for air. In front of him, the stranger half-rises to his feet and reaches toward Jungkook, his fingers curling as if he’s about to take Jungkook’s hand, and Jungkook stumbles to his feet and backward, utterly confused. There’s so much naked hope in the man’s expression, raw and open and almost desperate. 

Jungkook flinches away from the weight of that much emotion.

“Wait,” the other man says hastily, “please,” but Jungkook takes another step backward, and the man must be able to transcribe the dazed bewilderment in Jungkook’s eyes because he, too, hesitates. 

“Do you…do you know who I am?” he pleads almost urgently, and Jungkook shakes his head vehemently, lost. How could he know who this utter stranger is?

“No, I don’t - I’m sorry, I-” Jungkook stammers, and then he manages to take a complete breath, even though the air burns like molten metal in his lungs. He shakes his head again, this time to clear it, and hurries for the exit, ignoring the man’s outstretched hand.

As Jungkook pushes quickly through the doors of the coffeeshop, dashing through the drops of the drizzle that’s begun to fall, he’s so busy running away that he completely misses the way the man’s face crumples behind him.

Jungkook strides quickly through the damp streets of Seoul. By the time he reaches the sanctuary of the shop and opens it up, the sweat on his clammy hands has dried and his heart rate is back to normal. He can almost convince himself that nothing really happened.

Jungkook sorts through the mail - a meaningless task to keep his hands too busy to shake. These are bills, to open and file neatly for Wooju to settle later. This one - a delivery notice for the crate that arrived yesterday. The next few are flyers, and Jungkook sets them aside for recycling. 

He takes a deep, steadying inhale of oxygen to flood his lungs and chase the confused tension that still clings under his skin.

Nothing really happened, anyway, right? 

That man. His expressive face. Those almond-shaped eyes, that glimmer in them. So familiar…

Clearly they thought they’d recognized each other, but Jungkook knows they must both have been mistaken. Perhaps some odd case of mistaken identity, or déjà vu even. No matter how strange that sounds. And maybe Jungkook just needs a little more sleep, or his blood sugar is low, or… 

He shakes his head. It feels as though there are clouds inside his skull. Jungkook groans, thinking yearningly about the coffee he inadvertently left behind in his rush to leave. He’ll have to head back on his lunch break later and hope it’s still there, or pay for another cup; either way it’s an inconvenience and an extra expense he doesn’t need - plus he’s working with a brain full of cotton wool. 

“Excuse me,” someone calls from the door. Jungkook glances up. The rain has stopped, sunlight shining feebly in patches down from the cloudy sky. 

“Hello, welcome,” Jungkook says automatically, but the lady isn’t coming in. She just stands there, in the doorway of the shop, holding something out to him expectantly, so he goes over to see what it is.

It’s a paper cup bearing the logo of his usual coffee shop - the one he just fled from. Jungkook doesn’t understand, and frankly he feels like he’s endured enough weird encounters with strangers to be polite. “Uh,” he frowns. “Sorry, what’s this?”

“Someone asked me to pass this to you,” she says uncertainly. She looks over her shoulder, as if the person is still there, but the street is mostly empty. The bewilderment on Jungkook’s face must be clear to her, because she shrugs noncommittally. “I guess it’s coffee?”

“Who…?” 

“I don’t know,” she says, clearly eager to get going. “Some guy. He was right here. He just tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I would pass this to the man inside. You.”

Jungkook takes the cup hesitantly. “Um, thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem,” she says over her shoulder, already off and grateful to be done with the encounter.

Puzzled, Jungkook cracks open the lid of the cup and sniffs, then sips. He closes his eyes in gratification. He checks the slip stuck to the side of the cup.

It’s not just any coffee; it’s his specific daily order. 

He can’t imagine that the (overworked, underpaid) baristas would have had the time or the inclination to put his coffee in a go cup and walk nearly half a kilometer down the street to pass it to him. He’s pretty sure he can guess who his unknown benefactor is (can almost picture his almond eyes and his dimples, even), and he’s not entirely sure how he feels about it.

It occurs to him, disquietingly, that the stranger now knows where he works.

Jungkook spends the rest of his shift feeling somewhat out of sorts and trying to move past it, even though the unexpected coffee has helped to lift his mood. There aren’t many customers, thankfully, and by the time the clock winds down toward closing time, Jungkook’s more or less feeling better. He can almost forget the man with the familiar, piercing eyes.

There’s a jangle at the door, and Jungkook looks up sharply, then relaxes when he sees curious faces at the door. “Hello,” he says. “Welcome! Let me know if you need any help.”

The couple that strolls in nods shyly. Jungkook doesn’t really mean to watch them as they browse, but there isn’t anyone else in the shop, and the couple’s cute together. The woman is clearly keen on art; she easily identifies some of the artists they carry, and enthusiastically (and adorably) bubbles about some of her favorite pieces. The man doesn’t seem quite as knowledgeable, but he’s a rapt listener and nods solemnly as she chatters away, asking enough of the right questions to keep her going. 

It’s cute, Jungkook thinks. So nice when a partner listens and appreciates the same things you like.

“Oh,” the woman breathes as her eyes land on their assortment of art prints. “The Blue Side. I love their art.” She flips excitedly through the poster boards of samples until she finds one that makes her eyebrows crease into an expression of transcendent delight. “Look, jagiya,” she exclaims. “This was from their New York exhibition. The peonies, and the serene look on the woman's face…isn’t it gorgeous?” 

Jungkook comes a little nearer, smiling at the couple. Her enthusiasm is infectious, and the man is gazing at the print with what seems to be a newfound interest and appreciation. 

“That's a depiction of Mago, our creator goddess, of course. The original is acrylic on wood,” Jungkook says. He traces a finger over the clouds curling against the rich, dark indigo hue of the sky. “You’ve got a good eye,” he compliments the woman, who beams at him. “Did you get to visit their recent New York exhibition?”

“No,” the woman says regretfully. “Actually, I’m just someone who likes to look at pretty things,” she admits in a rush of flustered honesty, ducking her head in embarrassment. “I don’t really know that much about art, or value.”

But Jungkook is already shaking his head at her. “The value of art is in how you appreciate it personally,” he says reassuringly. “We can’t all be rich art collectors, or art historians, or…artologists, or whatever,” he rolls his eyes teasingly, heartened when it elicits a laugh from them both. ”As long as you get something out of the artwork, as long as it touches something within you, that’s where its value lies.”

The woman nods eagerly. Jungkook’s words have clearly struck a chord with her. “I know what you mean. There’s something about this that really speaks to me, you know? The serene look on the mother’s face. The unfolding flowers and the double moons. The idea of her role as both mother and daughter - I always thought the smaller face beneath was her daughter aspect, right? The way Korean heritage is woven into a modern narrative. I love it.” She clasps her hands under her chin and gazes lovingly at the print as if she can’t bear to walk away. 

Jungkook totally gets it. He smiles, pleased at her response. He turns to the man, who’s looking at the woman with adoration, and murmurs to him, “Just so you know, our art prints are going for twenty percent off right now, and we happen to have this exact print for sale. Acid- and lignin-free, of course, so they won’t yellow over time, even if exposed to sunlight.”

The man’s eyes crinkle, and Jungkook knows he’s sealed the deal; it‘s easy enough with the relatively inexpensive posters. 

“We’ll take one,” the man says decisively. “Why not? It’ll look amazing in our entryway.” He grins, pleased at the way his partner’s mouth rounds into a delighted O and her eyes light up. 

“Wonderful,” Jungkook says briskly. “We have a wide selection of frames that fit this exact size too, if you’d like to pick one up. Saves you the trouble of looking for one, or getting it custom framed. We have lots of different colors to match your decor - even gilt.”

“Yes, of course,” the man says, “that’s perfect.” They move over to the counter, where they peruse the brochure for frames. Jungkook grins. Time to move in for the kill. He hums cheerfully as he checks the number of the art print and retrieves the corresponding roll from the shelf, then almost as if on an afterthought, he pauses, taps his chin, and turns to the woman. 

“You know,” Jungkook says thoughtfully. “We have some of TBS’ kintsugi vessels, if you’d like to take a look?”

The woman emits a little squeak in the second before she claps her hands to her mouth., her eyes round with excitement. “The broken pottery repaired with gold?”

“That’s right, I knew you’d be familiar with them,” Jungkook says, already leading the way. “They’re right here.” He grins and indicates the shelf with a flourish, pleased to hear the woman gasp. He bends and murmurs conspiratorially, “I personally recommend getting three to display together - one isn’t quite enough, is it?”

It’s a tricky proposition - the kintsugi vessels are distinctly harder on the pocket than a simple art print - but Jungkook’s effusive charm and the woman’s obvious delight mean that not fifteen minutes later, their items are being rung up, and Jungkook proffers the machine with a flourish for the man to tap his credit card. The woman is practically shining with joy, and going by the fond look on her partner’s face, Jungkook feels satisfied that they’re happy with their purchases. 

“Here’s our card,” Jungkook says before they leave. He slips it into the paper bag and hands the whole thing to them. “Please follow our social media for updates! We’re expecting a shipment of art tonight, so we’ll have lots of new things to look at very soon.”

He waves them out of the shop, and watches with the smallest hint of wistfulness as they leave. Right in front of the store window, not realizing that Jungkook can see them - or perhaps not caring - the woman winds her arms around the man’s neck and kisses him, although the kiss doesn’t last long because the smile on her face is simply much too difficult to contain. The man’s lips move as he says something, and she throws her head back and laughs in delight. She slips her arm into his and they stroll away. 

Jungkook smiles faintly to himself. They’re a sweet couple. And if the experience has deepened the longing inside him for something more, well.

That’s on him. 

A clatter at the back door shakes him out of his reverie, and Wooju pops his head into the shop and beckons at Jungkook.

“Ah, Jungkook,” he says, “lock up and gimme a hand, would you?” 

Jungkook locks the front door of the shop, turns the sign so it reads CLOSED, and heads into the storage area. The back of the shop is almost as big as the front, with things stacked neatly on carefully labeled boltless shelves, and a large open space in the middle with an island for packing and unpacking. Wooju already has the crate sitting in the middle of the open space.

“Heads up,” Wooju says, and tosses Jungkook a pry bar which he catches easily.

They don’t talk much to each other as they work in companionable silence. They’ve done this enough times for them to have the routine down pat. They work away at individual ends of the crate to lever the wood up along the seams, and by the time they have the lid off, Jungkook’s worked up a nice, healthy sweat. 

Wooju grunts. “Here we go.” They set the lid on its end against the wall, and Jungkook peers into the crate.

“So many pieces?” Jungkook asks. They start lifting out bubble-wrapped items onto the table, starting with the smallest on top. 

“Yup. The Blue Side sent a full crate, this time.”

Jungkook raises a brow, impressed. TBS really is his favorite art collective. Based in Seoul, the group of six artists is famously private, and very uniquely, the artists release all their works under the name of the collective rather than as individuals. 

He whistles.

“How do you manage to get your hands on their stuff? Aren’t big artists like these exclusive to the bigger galleries?” It’s an understatement. Works by The Blue Side are highly sought after, and Jungkook can’t imagine how Wooju’s been consistently able to snag entire crates of their art pieces. He’s itching to unwrap them. 

Wooju grins, pleased. “Apparently the collective has a soft spot for small, quirky art shops, run by locals,” he explains. “I met their manager a couple of times when he came into the shop to browse, and he offered to send us some of their smaller items and reproductions from their merch line. None of their big, expensive pieces here, obviously - those go to the big galleries, like you say. But once in a while, they send us some of their drafts, or their test pieces, or the things they make for fun, and that way even small shops like ours get to sell artworks from TBS.” 

Jungkook nods, impressed by Wooju’s coup and now extra keen to unpack everything. They’re halfway through the crate by now. Each bubble-wrapped package is clearly numbered, so Jungkook calls out the numbers and arranges the smaller pieces on the island, larger pieces flat on the floor, while Wooju checks each item off the packing list. 

“Okay,” Wooju says finally. “Everything’s accounted for.” He puts the clipboard down, barely able to disguise his glee. He’s practically rubbing his hands together like a small child on Christmas Eve. “Now we open them.”

Jungkook shakes his head at his boss and laughs. “Do you want dibs?” 

Wooju spreads his arms out, the picture of generosity. “You do one, I’ll do one,” he says. “It’ll move faster. Just call out the number and what you get so that I can double-check with the list.”

They start carefully slicing open packing tape and bubble wrap. The contents of the crate are eclectic, to say the least. Jungkook and Wooju uncover a dizzying variety of pieces: there are ceramic and wooden sculptures, bowls, plates and all manner of pottery. Jungkook sighs wistfully when they unwrap a series of pale, perfect miniature moon jars made in an array of sizes - the smallest one fits comfortably into the palm of Jungkook’s hand. There’s a selection of metal jewelry and finely-worked leather items, including a set of quirky abstract face brooches that Jungkook can’t stop smiling at. Wooju practically coos when he pulls out wall-hung tapestries made from traditional Korean knots. The last few are paintings, small but exquisite minimalist canvases executed with bold strokes.

When they finally have everything unwrapped and cataloged, the two men sit back and sigh at a job well done. 

“No wonder they’re so sought-after,” Jungkook breathes, surveying all the art around them. “Every single piece is amazing.” The fine workmanship that went into each item is clear as day, each one lovingly crafted with a tremendous level of skill. The TBS artists are incredibly talented. Jungkook wishes he could have a peek into their workshop. It must be heaven. 

Casting his expert eye over the bonanza laid out on the island, Wooju looks almost drunk with giddy delight. “It really is amazing,” he says. “They sent professional photos, too, so we can already start getting them up on the website for online sales.”

“Which ones do you want to display in the shop?” Jungkook asks.

His boss taps a thoughtful finger on his chin. “We have space for some of the bigger canvases on the left wall,” he says, “and we can move some things around, make room for a couple of the moon jars…” Wooju’s still musing over his options when Jungkook spots a lump of bubble wrap. Something that hasn’t been opened yet.

“Wait,” Jungkook says. “What’s this?” He picks up the sizeable lump and hefts it curiously. There’s clearly something solid inside.

“Oh, right,” Wooju says. “I forgot about that one. The delivery guy passed it to me along with the crate. It isn't numbered, so it's not on the packing list.  I’ll have to contact TBS and find out.”

“Can we…” Jungkook’s fingers are already tugging gently at the bubble wrap, trying to find the edge of it. “Can’t we open it and take a look?”

Wooju shrugs nonchalantly. “I suppose so,” he says. “Why not?”

Jungkook slices carefully across the heavy packing tape with the blade, and then eases the plastic wrap gently away from the object beneath. As he unearths more of it, his breath catches painfully in his throat. It’s beautiful, he thinks, his mind hazing over. It’s so beautiful.

For some inexplicable reason, Jungkook could swear that somewhere, somehow, he has seen this beautiful thing before. 

The bubble wrap falls away to the floor, forgotten, as Jungkook turns the porcelain dragon over and around in his hands. For the second time that day, his chest seizes, and he can’t speak as he takes in every detail of the sculpture in his hands. The dragon’s gleaming white body curves sinuously upon itself, each corded fin on its back ridged and flowing with movement. Its tiny claws are splayed out for balance. One forearm tucks a round orb close to its body as if to show how precious it is. The only color on the porcelain is on the dragon’s gold-tipped claws, and the gleaming pupils of its lidless eyes. Jungkook strokes a finger over the cold porcelain warming in his hand, marveling at how perfectly each finely carved scale lies along the dragon’s body. Something about the sculpture tugs at something deep inside Jungkook’s heart. It feels…inexplicably proprietary. 

This is mine, he thinks longingly. I want it. It should be mine. It belongs to me. 

He jolts, just the tiniest bit, when Wooju comes up beside him. He forgot his boss was even there. Jungkook feels almost jealous when Wooju reaches out to touch the dragon, but if his boss notices that Jungkook pulls back slightly, he doesn’t say anything. 

“Now that,” Wooju says reverentially, “is a piece of fucking art.” 

Jungkook tries to laugh in response, but he can’t quite get it out. It sticks in his throat like a lump of cold gristle.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, I guess it is.” 

He has to fight the urge to close his hand around the dragon and run off down the street. It’s a miracle that he even manages to get his hand to set the sculpture down on the table. Even as Wooju bustles around, giving him instructions on what to shelve and what to bring into the shop to display, Jungkook simply can’t stop his gaze from constantly straying back to the little dragon, curving gracefully into the air like an arrogant god. 

It doesn’t belong to him. Not even a little bit. 

He knows that. 

But it doesn’t stop him from believing it does. 

It’s stupid late by the time Jungkook gets home and crashes, bone weary, onto his bed. He’s pretty fit, but even then the constant bending and lifting has him sore. He rolls his shoulders and settles into the soft warmth of his bed. His pillow is plump and inviting, his blankets just the right thickness to snuggle into. Jungkook has perfected the art of making a bed in his desperate quest for a good night’s sleep, but it never works, and it’s not the bed’s fault. 

“Please,” Jungkook mutters to himself. “I could do without dreams for just one night.” He knows it’s fruitless, though. He hasn’t had a dreamless sleep for years. The second he drops off, he knows the bad dreams will come, harrying and oppressive and utterly confounding. 

He’s used to it by now. He’s learnt to live with them, even though the dreams make sure he never quite gets enough rest. 

Still, Jungkook knows some rest is better than none. He tosses and turns, finding it difficult to fall asleep. Every time he closes his eyes, he feels the solid weight of a porcelain statuette in his hands, sees gold-flecked eyes and claws gleaming in the muddy dark. 

Sleep is a long time coming. 

When he finally drifts away, Jungkook dreams as he always has. 

Jungkook, a voice whispers, sad and lonely and utterly bereft, a voice which Jungkook should know, but doesn’t. Baby, where are you? 

I can’t find him, hyung, another voice mourns. It’s so full of pain, so tired, Jungkook yearns to reach out and hold the person and soothe their hurts away. His heart swells with longing. He tries to answer, but his mouth won’t work. 

Here I am, Jungkook screams soundlessly. I’m right here. 

But the voices are growing more distant, fading off into the background, and panic wells up hard and heavy in Jungkook’s chest. 

Come back, he sobs. Please. Don’t leave me here. 

He flinches in his sleep and kicks off the blanket. 

A disembodied hand reaches out toward him, and Jungkook reaches back out, but abruptly he’s falling backward into blackness, gold eyes shimmering above him, and screams echo around.

Jungkook is falling, falling, falling. 

He thrashes awake. His shirt is soaked with sweat, cold in the night. Tears are gathering in the corners of his eyes and his heart is rabbiting away. Sitting there on his bed, the last vestiges of his dream fading into oblivion, Jungkook swallows hard, chasing the feeling, but it’s gone. He can never remember what he’s dreamt when he wakes; all he carries with him is the unsettling sense that there’s something lying just beyond his reach. 

Jungkook scrubs his hand over his face wearily, then tugs off his uncomfortably damp shirt and tosses it into a corner. The glowing numbers on his digital clock read 5:30AM.

He tries his utmost best. He closes his eyes and deliberately slows his breathing, but there, in the slowly lightening dark, the mercy of sleep eludes him. 

Jungkook isn’t sure what he’s hoping to find when he pushes through the door of the coffeeshop. If he’s being frank with himself, he’s been avoiding it for a few days. He hasn’t felt ready for another run-in with the stranger. Today, though, he feels a little braver, and so he’s almost disappointed when a tentative scan of the cafe tells him that the man he’s looking for - or not looking for - isn’t there. 

“Morning,” the cashier chirps. “The usual?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Jungkook says. He hesitates. “Hey, last week - did, ah, did someone grab my coffee for me?”

“Oh yeah,” the cashier says brightly. “The tall guy you sat with? He asked if we knew where you were going, and said he’d bring it to you, so we told him you worked in the art shop just down the street. He knew the shop’s name, said he’d been there before.” She looks a little anxiously at him, suddenly uncertain. “Was that okay? I’m sorry if we shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jungkook says. “I got the coffee. Thanks.” He smiles and nods reassuringly.

No point testing fate. Jungkook decides to get his drink to go, and an odd mix of victory and disappointment courses through him as he actually makes it all the way to the art shop without bumping into any strangers with compelling almond-shaped eyes. 

Opening up the place, he does a quick once-over to see if Wooju’s sold anything significant from the day before; he’ll check the point of sale system, of course, but it’s always fun to see if he can spot what’s gone. He sees that the TBS line silhouettes made from metal wire have been sold, and the trio of brightly colored plastic Buddhas, but the absence of the most important thing makes his heart race just for a second before he finally spots the little white dragon. 

“There you are, my lovely,” Jungkook murmurs. He strokes it with a gentle finger and tugs it out from behind the counter, but to his consternation there’s a note beneath it: “Someone from TBS will come today to pick up the dragon. -Wooju.”

Damn it. Damn it, damn it. Jungkook’s heart sinks hard and fast.

He was really hoping to buy it. 

He’s been mooning over the dragon for days now, unable to keep his eyes (okay, and his hands) off it. Jungkook knows it’s utterly ridiculous, but he genuinely feels like it belongs to him. 

He lets out a long-suffering sigh. Handing it back to the representative from TBS is really going to hurt. Jungkook’s been keeping the dragon near him during all his shifts. His fingers keep returning to it, touching it and holding it, caressing the sleek waves of its body, feeling the points of its tiny fangs and antlers. Jungkook briefly debates running for his life, the statuette safe in his pocket, running home and locking the doors and never coming out ever again, and -

Jungkook frowns at the little dragon, its glassy gold eyes fixed on the horizon. He must be crazier than he thought. Why on earth is he so obsessed with a porcelain creature?

Just then, the bell above the shop door rings, and Jungkook looks up. With a gentle finger, he slides the dragon back under the counter.

“Hey there,” he says. “Welcome.”

The customer who’s just ducked into the shop looks back at him with a happy, engaging grin, and Jungkook can’t help himself. He smiles back, even though he’s pretty sure he hasn’t done anything that makes him worthy of the full wattage of this stranger’s heart-shaped smile. 

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Jungkook asks.

The man looks straight at Jungkook for a long moment, his gaze piercing and almost searching, but just as the silence between them teeters on the edge of awkwardness, he looks away, hums and trails his hand idly along a table. 

“Sort of,” he says. “I’m just going to poke around for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

“Be my guest,” Jungkook says. “Let me know if I can help you with anything.” 

He watches for a couple of minutes as the man literally pokes around - walking his fingers over ceramic pots, running them along the edges of sculptures, but fortunately refraining from touching the painted canvases, or Jungkook would have had to say something. The man is simply but stylishly dressed, with a linen shirt pulled over a white undershirt and straight, loose jeans, and Jungkook admires his casual confidence as he strolls through the shop. 

“Can you tell me more about this piece?” the man asks, pointing at a small canvas. 

“Sure. It’s by one of our up-and-coming artists.” 

As Jungkook enthusiastically shares about the piece and the artist, he can feel the man’s gaze lingering on the side of his face. They fall into an easy conversation, chatting about some of the other works that catch the man’s eye, but it feels as though the man is angling for an opening to talk about something else, and he finally takes it. 

“You really know your stuff,” the man says. “Have you worked here long?”

Jungkook shrugs genially. “Just under a year,” he says. 

“Mm. Didn’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“Aw, do you only come in once a year?” Jungkook teases. “We’d love for customers to visit us a little more often than that.”

The man laughs louder and longer than Jungkook expects from his feeble joke, and darts a quick, interested look at him. “Now that you’re here, maybe I’ll visit more often.”

Jungkook tilts his head, amused. Is this guy flirting with him? He can’t say he’s entirely opposed. The reckless curl of the man’s hair at his nape is begging for someone to slide their hands through it, and the openness of his face makes Jungkook feel like he’d be someone who would listen to all of his deepest, darkest secrets and never judge him for them.

God, Jungkook thinks, nearly wistful, it’s been a moment since he’s been on a date with anyone he really liked. 

“This is really nice,” the man says finally. He points at one of the TBS pieces, a corded wall hanging made to look like an extra-large norigae, the traditional knotted accessory that women hang on their hanbok. The man turns back and peers at Jungkook, his smile light and inexplicably, indefinably cheeky. Jungkook wants to see him smile all the time. “Do you know who the artist is?”

“That’s by The Blue Side,” Jungkook answers happily. “My favorite artists.”

The man perks up even more. His eyes are sparkling, wide and bright and filled with open mirth. “Are they really? Your favorite, I mean.”

Jungkook nods fervently. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard of them, but TBS is an art collective. All of their artists make such spectacular things. They're famous for their modern take on heritage crafts. I’d kill for a chance to walk through their workshops, but they’re very reclusive, apparently. Hardly anyone even knows what they look like.”

“Oh, they’re my favorite artists too,” the man confides, although the way he looks like he’s repressing a laugh has Jungkook wondering what’s really going through his mind. “So which of their artworks is your ultimate favorite?” the man presses. “I want to know.”

Jungkook hesitates, thinking of the porcelain dragon, but unsure if he should mention it. 

“Come on, be honest,” the man coaxes, grinning. “Is it the norigae? Or their kintsugi? No, I bet it’s their jiseung pots, isn’t it? Tell me! I promise I won’t tell.”

Jungkook laughs heartily at the joke. It’s a good one. Whom would this adorable stranger tell? Someone from TBS? Please.

“Honestly,” he admits, “I can’t choose. Their works are so eclectic, so varied, and all so perfectly rendered. I love them all. It’d be like picking a favorite finger.” 

The other man chuckles boisterously at that, and doesn’t press. “What a pity. Maybe I could have gotten you your favorite.”

“They’re pretty pricey,” Jungkook grins. “That would be some present.” But Jungkook, as usual, can’t get the dragon out of his head, nor the odd urge to share him with this complete stranger, and finally he confesses, “Actually, I do have a favorite, but it isn’t for sale.” He reaches behind the counter and pulls out the dragon. “It’s weird - they have so many spectacular pieces - but right now my favorite is this little guy here.”

The man goes very quiet, such an abrupt change from his bubbling self that Jungkook glances quizzically at him, only to find him staring silently at the dragon in Jungkook’s hands. The man’s eyes are suddenly strangely damp, and the gaze in them travels from the dragon back up to Jungkook’s face.

 Before Jungkook can say anything, though, the man clears his throat, his voice coming out husky. “Yeah, he’s gorgeous, isn’t he?”

Jungkook startles when the man refers to the dragon as a “he” instead of an “it”. It’s exactly how he’s been thinking of the dragon, himself. The man’s unexpected response prods Jungkook into a rare, open honesty. 

“It belongs to The Blue Side, not to me, unfortunately,” Jungkook tells the man. “We think maybe they sent it to us by accident with the rest of their art, so…we’ll have to give it back.” He strokes the dragon with a finger. “It’s going to kill me to say goodbye.”

“Maybe it was fate that he ended up in your hands,” the man says quietly. He reaches out his own finger and rubs the dragon’s nose almost affectionately. Jungkook expects to feel the same curl of jealousy he felt when Wooju reached for the dragon, but there’s nothing. If anything, he feels thrilled to share; he opens his hand a little more so the man can reach it easily. He’s standing so close now that Jungkook can just about pick up the undertone of scents hanging on his clothing. Turpentine, wood shavings, the earthy smell of fresh clay. The gears in Jungkook’s head are turning much too slowly, so that the man’s next words still come as a shock. 

“You know,” the man says, the glimmer of a smile in his eyes, “if he means so much to you, I can let you hang on to him for a little longer.”

Jungkook startles, and stares at the man in growing shock and realization. “You…wait. What?”

“Tell you what. You keep our dragon for us until you’re ready to give him back, and if you’re still interested in seeing our workspace then, give me a call.” He presses a card into Jungkook’s hand and winks, clearly delighted by the dumbfounded expression on Jungkook’s face when he looks at the card and sees the blocky cerulean logo of The Blue Side. He heads to the shop door and pulls it open, then glances back and chuckles out loud when he sees Jungkook standing stock still, unable to move, jaw still unhinged.

“Hey, Jungkook,” the man calls from the door, his voice sweet and persuasive and full of sunshine. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Jungkook smiles uncertainly and nods, a warm, surprising pulse coursing through his body. He finds his voice. “I…” he stammers. “Okay?”

The man smiles back encouragingly. “I’ll see you around, then,” he says, his eyes crinkling, and then he slips through the entryway and blends so quickly into the peak hour crowd that Jungkook loses sight of him in an instant.

It takes a minute for Jungkook to gather himself, the dragon in one palm, the card in the other, and then he stands there in dawning realization that he’d never told the man from The Blue Side his name. 

The trip back home is a long, silent one. For once, Hoseok doesn’t turn on music; he drives back to Chuncheon in contemplative silence. The scenery whizzes by unnoticed. 

Hoseok’s brain is buzzing. He finally saw Jungkook, they laid eyes on each other, and Hoseok’s heart had tripped heavily over itself in anticipation, but…nothing.

Nothing.

Hoseok can remember, all the way back several centuries, every single time he met Jungkook’s eyes in every single lifetime. He remembers the thrill of the buzz that runs down his spine, into his fingertips, that electric jolt that tips them both into instant recognition and memory.

He remembers every single time he’s met all of his six lovers. In every lifetime, it’s been a gift, something they have grown to take for granted. Every time they come back and find each other again and the moment they do, they remember all the past lifetimes they’ve shared.

And yet this time it hasn’t worked, not for Jungkook, who looked at him with no recognition whatsoever. 

Hoseok can’t understand it. No zap, no jolt, no recovered memory. He’s shaken to his core. It should be such a gift - finally finding the last piece of their puzzle - but instead both he and Namjoon have been left bereft. Hoseok is exhilarated at finally meeting Jungkook, but at the same time despondent. 

He doubts, for a brief second, if it really is Jungkook. It’s the only possible explanation for it, and yet it’s one that Hoseok can’t accept. Ever since he locked eyes with Namjoon in this life, twelve years ago, he’s had every memory he’s ever kept for the last few centuries. 

Hoseok knows exactly who the loves of his life - or lives - are. He would recognize Jungkook anywhere, anytime. It has to be him. And yet Jungkook looked back at him with no spark of familiarity in his eyes. Hoseok frowns deeply, his brow creased in anxiety.

He’s had twelve years with the others in this lifetime, knowing Jungkook has to be out there somewhere, but no one found him - until now. And now that they finally have - Hoseok can’t figure it out. Now he understands Namjoon’s desperate sorrow and worry when he told them about meeting Jungkook in the coffee shop.

By the time he reaches Chuncheon and parks the car, he’s no wiser. When the others clamor around him at the door, eager for news of his meeting with their lost lover, they take a quick look at his face and know the news isn’t good.

“I’m sorry. He didn’t recognize me,” Hoseok says without any preamble, not eager to prolong the agony. “I looked him right in the eye. Nothing.”

He drops heavily onto the couch, tucks his head into Jimin’s shoulder, desperate for comfort. Jimin takes the cue and wraps his arms around Hoseok, rubbing his thumb along the back of Hoseok’s neck, easing the pressure throbbing beneath skin and muscle. Hoseok leans into him gratefully. 

“I don’t understand,” Taehyung frowns. “You’re sure it’s him?”

Hoseok’s voice is hollow. “I’m sure. Namjoon was right. He looks exactly the same. It’s him.”

As always, Taehyung’s stormy and ready to argue. “But maybe he just looks like our Jungkook. How do we know it’s really him?”

Hoseok recalls the tender look in Jungkook’s eye as he held the little dragon in his hands, the way he called the dragon his favorite. “No,” he says with finality, hopelessness tingeing his voice. “I’m sure it’s him. He just doesn’t remember us.”

Seeing Jungkook was like rain falling on parched ground - Hoseok is desperate for more, to run back to that little shop in Seoul and soak in every precious second, but at the same time it was exhausting to keep up the sunniness and the pretense that he doesn’t know who Jungkook is. 

“He has the dragon statuette,” Hoseok muses. “Namjoon was right about that, too. The way Jungkook looks at it…as if there’s something about it that triggers something inside him.”

“But that’s good, right?” Yoongi asks. “That means there’s hope.”

“Namjoon-hyung said he felt something, after all,” Jimin adds in his quiet, sweet way. “A frisson. A spark. And he was sure Jungkook felt…something…too, even if it wasn’t the deluge it should have been.”

“I didn’t feel anything at all,” Hoseok says dejectedly. “If I’d passed him on the street before I’d met Namjoon, I might not even have recognized him. Maybe…maybe it’s already even happened.”

The thought is equal parts horrifying and dispiriting. Taehyung wilts a little, pressing himself back into his seat. 

“So what did you say to him?” This from Seokjin, who’s on the other end of the couch, long legs draped over Yoongi’s lap. “Does he know who we are? What we do?”

Hoseok cheers up considerably at this question. “You should have seen him, hyung. The way he lit up when he talked about The Blue Side. He said we’re his favorite art collective! We’re his favorite artists!”

Seokjin chuckles. “I guess some things stay the same, even if he doesn’t remember us.”

“Ah, Lady Fate,” Yoongi murmurs. “She won’t be denied, the tenacious little bitch.” But his tone is teasing and fond, and he works his hands gently along the curve of Seokjin’s calf. 

“Bet he likes my stuff the best,” Taehyung says, smug as if it’s already a known fact.

Hoseok rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I actually asked. He wouldn’t cop to a favorite. He said, and I quote, that our work is so eclectic, so perfectly rendered, that he loves them all.”

Cue delighted gasps, coos and awws from the other four. 

“He said it’d be like picking a favorite finger,” Hoseok adds, and everyone laughs like he knew they would. 

“That boy,” Seokjin sighs, delighted. “That darling boy. He always was such a sweet, smooth talker.”

“He loves us all the same.” Jimin is pleased, his voice soft and light and musical against Hoseok’s head. “That’s definitely our Jungkookie, right there.”

But Hoseok shakes his head. He doesn’t want them to misinterpret, to hold false hope so close to their hearts that it devours them and turns them bitter. “No,” he corrects unwillingly, “don’t get me wrong, but what he loves is our art. He doesn’t…he doesn’t know who made what. And he doesn’t know who we are.”

Hoseok hates the way they all look shattered in some way. He hates that he feels like he did this to them, like he carries the massive responsibility of being the only one here who’s actually met Jungkook in person. 

“What should we do?” Jimin asks, frowning. “How can we fix this?”

“If Joonie doesn’t even know how…” Taehyung trails off. If Namjoon doesn’t know how, the sentence continues brutally in everyone’s heads, nobody knows how.

Silence hangs in the room for an over-tender, bruising moment. 

“Well, Namjoon’s not here,” Seokjin points out. “He won’t be back for a couple of weeks. It’s up to us to figure things out while he’s gone.”

“We’ll fix it. We do this the hard way,” Yoongi says determinedly. “Like everyone else does.”

“You mean…” Seokjin bites his lip, unhappy but resigned. “I guess we don’t have a choice.”

“I gave him our card,” Hoseok tells them. “I told him to call if he wants to meet us.”

“That’s good,” Yoongi says. “That’s the first step. So now we wait for him to come to us. It has to be his decision.”

“Wait?” Taehyung looks shocked, almost appalled. He jerks upright. “You mean - you mean we’re just supposed to sit around and wait for him to think about whether he wants to meet us - six strangers - he doesn’t even know who we are. What if he isn’t interested? What if he never calls us?” Taehyung’s eyes are blurry with sudden tears. “Hyung, I don’t know if I can do that.”

“We have to, Tae-bear,” Seokjin says gently, reaching out and tugging him closer, pulling him into the crook of his arm. The pet name makes Taehyung’s eyes smart, and Seokjin drops a kiss on the top of his head. “He needs to come to us.”

“He’ll come,” Yoongi says, sure of himself. “He’ll come.”

“And maybe he’ll remember,” Hoseok says hopefully. “Maybe he’ll remember us.”

At those words, Jimin shivers, his warm hands falling off Hoseok’s shoulders. “But what if he remembers everything?” he whispers, raw and afraid, and the way he says it, very different from the way Hoseok did, makes everyone go very still and quiet. 

What if he remembers everything?

Be careful what you wish for, the saying goes, because you just might get it. 

Jungkook bolts upright in bed, his heart racing and his head aching. The sliver of sky framed in the crack of his curtains is pitch black. Jungkook holds his hands up in front of him. 

They’re still trembling. 

He drops his chin to his chest and braces himself on the bed with one arm. He’s so tired. So damn tired. Jungkook wills his heart rate to slow down, taking deep breaths, even as the dream has already faded from his mind’s eye. 

He can’t remember what he’s been dreaming, but Jungkook swears they’re getting worse, like a disease coming out of remission. For years, the dreams have been disturbing, but he’s largely been able to get some rest. Lately, however…Jungkook scrubs his hand over his face wearily. He’s been waking multiple times a night, drenched in a cold sweat, his head throbbing fit to burst.

Some nights, he can’t even make himself fall asleep. 

Jungkook glances at his bedside table. The digital clock informs him that it’s barely past three in the morning, but what Jungkook really wants is sitting beside the clock. He reaches out a trembling hand and scoops up the cold white dragon, turning it in his hands, finding comfort in its solid weight. Its gold eyes gleam in the scant light, and gradually Jungkook’s hands grow steady around it.

After the man from The Blue Side left, Jungkook decided it was his prerogative to bring the dragon home. As far as Wooju knows, the dragon’s already gone back to the collective, and if it’s really sitting in Jungkook’s jeans pocket all day and next to his bed at night, well, Jungkook feels he has as good as gotten permission from its rightful owners to do so. 

Jungkook rubs his thumb over the dragon’s back, running the smooth ridges of its fins against his skin. His heartbeat has slowed enough that he feels like his body is moving through thick mud.

“Help me,” Jungkook whispers dully. “I’m so tired.” He closes his eyes, heartsick, and a tear slips down his cheek. 

Through the crack in the curtains, distant lightning flashes, and rain begins to fall. 

A week passes, and then another, and still Jungkook does nothing more than dubiously eye the card he’s tacked to the back of the counter, and doesn’t make any move to call the man from The Blue Side. He’s curious, for sure, and he really, really wants that tour of their workshops - but he thinks about what the man said and something stops him from calling.

“You keep him for us until you’re ready to give him back, and if you’re still interested in seeing our workspace then, give me a call.”

He’s not sure entirely if the man meant every word, but Jungkook is definitely not ready to give up the dragon. If he has to choose between holding on to the little dragon and visiting his favorite artists’ workshops - well - a dragon in the hand is worth two in the bush, surely?

Jungkook doesn’t want to return the statuette. Not even close. He picks up the card and turns it around in his hands. The cerulean logo is simple and elegant, stylized to look like a traditional Korean seal. 

“What’s that?”

Jungkook jerks his head up, startled, thinking it’s a customer. It takes a few seconds for him to recalibrate, to realize it’s Wooju asking him a question. He’s been zoning out, waiting for Wooju to finish the paperwork before unpacking the new shipment. 

“Uh…” Jungkook blinks, hard, trying to focus. “What’s what?”

Wooju points at the card under Jungkook’s tapping finger. “Is that from The Blue Side?” he asks. “I see their logo.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah.” Jungkook waves the card absently. “They invited me to their workshop, I guess.”

“They what!” 

Jungkook scratches the back of his neck, abashed at Wooju’s reaction. “When one of them came to pick up the dragon.”

Wooju laughs, incredulous and excited. “One of their artists came in person? To our shop?”

Jungkook blinks. Now that he mentions it, Jungkook isn’t entirely sure if it was one of their artists. “Um, that’s the impression I got. He said to call him if I was interested.”

The sound that comes out of Wooju’s mouth is garbled and incomprehensible. “So when are you going?” He stares at Jungkook incredulously as Jungkook lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “You haven’t called the number?”

“I guess I haven’t really decided?”

His boss goggles at him for a moment. “You’re nuts,” Wooju remarks flatly. “You have to go. Look at everything. Don’t break anything. Make sure they like you, and get them to sign an exclusive contract to send us their art for the next fifty years.”

Jungkook sniggers, finally knocked out of his doldrums. “Opportunist,” he accuses Wooju.

Wooju doesn’t deny it, just laughs airily. “Look, Jungkook,” he says, “contracts aside, if The Blue Side invited me to go get a firsthand look at what they’re doing in their workshops? I’d crawl over broken glass and lava to get there.”

A muffled laugh comes from Jungkook. “I can see where you’re coming from,” he says. He exhales, rolling his shoulders. He can’t admit to Wooju that he still has the dragon with him, currently snug in the pocket of his baggy jeans, and that he’s afraid that going to visit them means having to give it up.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Wooju advises, oblivious to Jungkook’s internal dilemma. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. What are you waiting for?”

Jungkook sighs. “I’ll think about it,” he says instead. 

Wooju’s brow wrinkles. He’s known Jungkook for nearly a year, and this doesn’t seem like him. He comes over and presses the back of his hand to Jungkook’s forehead. 

“You okay?” The older man frowns and peruses Jungkook’s face. “Are you coming down with something? You’ve seemed pretty out of it lately.”

I can’t sleep at night, because I have dreams that make me physically ill, even though I don’t remember any of it when I wake up.

“M’fine,” Jungkook answers instead of spilling his guts about his nighttime miseries. “Probably just…just need to get some sleep. Haven’t really been able to sleep well lately.”

Wooju looks unconvinced, but he doesn’t press it. “Well, get some rest, and when you’re feeling better you need to call The Blue Side and fix a date.”

“Got it.”

“Speaking of The Blue Side, anyway,” Wooju continues conversationally, “they sent in another small box yesterday.” He doesn’t miss the way Jungkook snaps upright in surprise, and a small smile curves along his face. “Want to open it with me?”

“Heck yeah.” Jungkook follows Wooju into the back. “How come they sent another one so soon?”

Wooju’s running his fingers over the crate. “Maybe they got tired of waiting for you to call them,” he teases, and Jungkook rolls his eyes. He waits for Wooju to take point, but Wooju shrugs. “Go ahead.”

Jungkook bites his lip, but gets the crowbar and self-consciously pries up the top as Wooju hovers in curiosity. Putting the crate cover aside, Jungkook pulls out a wrapped canvas and a couple of smaller items. The first package he opens contains a pair of delicate blue rice wine cups, veined with gold. Jungkook smiles over them.

“Lovely,” Wooju remarks. “The smaller ones are easy to sell.”

But Jungkook isn’t listening. He’s peeling the wrappings off the canvas, and as he does, it feels like there’s a huge, yawning pit in his belly. The painting is an oil, applied skilfully in a thick impasto, and the figures are deliberately indistinct. Seven silhouettes are ranged along train tracks, facing a setting sun. They’re positioned closely together in a way that suggests intimacy and closeness; they have their fingers tangled together, or arms around shoulders, each one touching in some way. 

Jungkook very nearly drops the painting.

Suddenly, he has a rush of nauseating clarity, for the first time in his life.

I dreamed this. Jungkook stares at the painting in his hands, dazed and completely confused. He never remembers his dreams. Never. But this time Jungkook feels like he’s drowning in cold, clear realization. I dreamed this exact scene last night.

Before Wooju can pick up that there’s something wrong, Jungkook very carefully puts the painting down on the island. His head is swimming.

“Oh wow,” Wooju says, admiring the canvas. “Bold, and expressive. Look at those palette knife strokes. Gorgeous.” He’s clearly unaffected, appreciating the painting simply for what it is. 

“I’m just…I’m just gonna…” Jungkook clears his throat. “Bathroom.” He escapes quickly, before he can throw up on the floor. He locks himself into the shop’s bathroom and leans against the wall. He’s gone pale, he can see from his reflection in the mirror, and sweat is pearling along his hairline.

Try as he might, Jungkook can’t shake the dizzy feeling in his head. 

“What the fuck is going on,” Jungkook whispers faintly to himself. He slips his hand into his pocket, intending to rub the little dragon for comfort, but the sharp corner of a card rakes across his skin as he does, so Jungkook pulls out the card instead. He stares at the logo of The Blue Side for a long, perturbed second.

It can’t hurt, he tells himself. Just a phone call.

Then he takes out his mobile phone and dials the number, before he loses his courage.

“Hello?” He takes an unsteady breath. “This is Jungkook.”