Chapter Text
"You did what ?"
Jungkook dimly recognizes the shock in Jimin's voice, but for the most part, it blows right past him, along with the warm breeze through the open sliding door to his balcony. He's got his cell phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder as he uses his free hands to dig through all the papers stuffed into his desk drawers.
He'd meant to be on his way to his rented studio space an hour ago. The unannounced call from Jimin had thrown him off and now he can't find the notes he brainstormed the night before.
"It's not a big deal, hyung," Jungkook says, barely registering his own words. Another gust of wind blows in from off the water outside, catching a few of the loose pages in the desk and tossing them across the room. Jungkook sighs and goes after them.
"'Hyung?'" Jimin repeats. "Do you even know who you're talking to right now? You haven't called me that in years, Jungkook-ah."
Jungkook sighs. "I'm sorry. I'm just busy and distracted."
"Busy and distracted working on your secret project that you didn't tell me about, but that you moved halfway across the world for." He's doing a good job hiding it, but Jungkook has known Jimin too closely and too long to miss the genuine hurt in his tone.
He stops looking for his lost notes and straightens up to give Jimin his full attention.
"I really am sorry, Jimin-ssi," he says, practically hearing Jimin's fond eyeroll on the other end of the line. "I genuinely didn't think you would care this much. If I'd known, I would have told you. And it's not a secret project. It's only a production, not even a big one. I just needed someplace private to work."
Jimin scoffs, but even through the phone Jungkook can tell that his apology has helped smooth things over. "Yeah, you just needed some privacy in the middle of a major tourist destination. Don't think I don't know where Positano is."
"You know what I mean," Jungkook says. He's itching to end the call and be on his way, but his impatience isn't worth hurting Jimin's feelings. Not when it's been so long since they've even spoken -- over a month, apparently, since this is the first call they've had since Jungkook semi-permanently relocated to Italy to work on his project.
Jimin doesn't acknowledge whether he knows what Jungkook means or not. He says, "Do any of the others know? I bet you told Yoongi. You tell him everything."
"No, I didn't tell any of them either. Like I said, it's not a big deal. I haven't even spoken to them in..." he trails off when he realizes that this line of thinking isn't going to win him any points with Jimin. The fact that he keeps in touch with Jimin better than anyone else and still does so miserably at it will only exasperate him further.
Jimin mutters, almost like he half-hopes Jungkook won't hear him, "And I guess I don't need to ask if you've talked to --"
"No," Jungkook cuts him off. "You don't."
He knows Jimin hears the shift in his tone, from mildly annoyed and distracted to cold, but he can't bring himself to care. Jimin doesn't dare even mention that particular topic of conversation nine times out of the ten that they talk, and he doesn't know what could have possessed him to do so now, but he doesn't appreciate it.
An anger he doesn't feel often anymore -- an anger he sometimes believes he's grown out of -- overtakes him. He's finished with this conversation, unless he wants to say something he regrets.
He knows he's more cut off from his life than he probably should be and doesn't want to risk severing another tie, so before he can let the anger take him, he says, "I'm sorry, Jimin, but I really have to get to work."
"Why do you have to go anywhere at all?" Jimin asks, sounding like he's pouting. "Isn't the whole point of being there that you have the privacy to work?"
Jungkook shrugs even though Jimin can't see him. "There are a few apartments in the building," he says. "They're not all occupied, but I don't want my music to disturb anyone. I'm renting a studio space in town to work out of."
Jimin sighs. "Fine," he says. "I'll let you go. But Jungkook, if you move to another country again without telling me first, I will track you down, do you hear me? And text the hyungs; they miss you as much as I do."
Despite himself, Jungkook feels his mouth tug up into a grin. "Okay," he says. "I'll text them."
"At least drop into the group chat now and then," Jimin grumbles, and Jungkook knows why. The rest of the guys have to maintain two separate group chats because of him. He really should make more of an effort to keep up with it.
"I will," he says.
With all of these promises extracted, Jimin lets him go. Jungkook ends the call and then, as soon as he's no longer distracted, finds the notes from last night on his bedside table. He tosses them, along with his sneakers and workout clothes, in a duffel bag and heads for the door.
Around him, the apartment he's been living in for the last month is airy, bright, and pleasant. It's a warm day on the Amalfi Coast, as nearly every day has been since he arrived here, but the ocean is less than a mile away and the breeze coming off of it keeps the place comfortable enough.
The full-length, gauzy white curtains blow into the room, making the space feel sort of magical and timeless. It doesn't feel quite part of the real world -- definitely not the world Jungkook is used to living in, steel and skyscrapers and all-night lights -- which suits him perfectly. The hardwood floors are scuffed and make the place feel lived-in. The white walls are homey and familiar.
He'd lucked out getting the place for long-term lease, and despite the instinct that had driven him here, a constant desire to be on the move, to run away from his own life, he feels good here. He thinks it's been good for him. But he can understand why it disturbed Jimin so much to realize Jungkook had been out of the country for a month without letting anyone know. His disconnect only seems to be getting more pronounced over time. He locks the door behind him and slings his bag over his shoulder.
It isn't that he doesn't want to talk to his hyungs, or that he feels any active desire to cut himself off from other people. It's more a combination of not knowing how to relate to new people, and all of the old people in his life having so much baggage attached to them.
He loves them, he'll always love them, and he likes to think he would be there for them through anything, if they needed him. But it's impossible to talk to them without being acutely aware of what (who) is missing.
Any awareness of that is as painful as it's ever been, like an open wound right at the center of him, still bleeding after all these years. It's ridiculous that it still affects him so much, but it's like an infection. He can ignore it when nothing is touching the wound, but the instant there's the slightest pressure there, he's in pain all over again, all raw and tender and inflamed, like the wound is still new.
Jungkook hurries through the building down to the street where the little moped he's leased sits waiting for him.
For the first couple weeks, he had been good, always wearing his helmet like he's meant to. As the days passed, though, and he began to feel less and less like a tourist and more and more like someone who sort of belongs here, he'd taken to leaving it off. He doesn't bother with it now, just stuffs his bag into the space of the seat behind him and turns the key in the ignition, puttering out into the narrow streets as quickly as he can.
He doesn't have a real schedule to keep, no one he's accountable to until it's time to head back to Korea to begin working with the dancers, teaching them everything he's working on while he's here. Still, he doesn't like to spend too much time away from the work. When he does, the days stretch out, long and unwieldy. He prefers to work through them as much as possible, to keep some structure.
The studio isn't far from his apartment, which is a good thing. Even on the little moped, navigating through the cliffside village is difficult in the middle of summer. The place is packed with tourists, here for a day or two, driving their rental cars around slowly as they ogle the scenery, getting lost in the winding roadways.
Jungkook swerves around and past them as patiently as he can, wishing he'd thought to grab his headphones so he could at least listen to music as he goes.
Still, it isn't all bad. Even after weeks, he isn't accustomed to the sight of this little, old village perched on the cliffside, overlooking perfectly blue water. As he drives, he hears snatches of so many different languages that he doesn't feel out of place with his Korean and bits of English.
He's barely picked up any Italian, but he's found that he hasn't really needed it, partly because when he does speak to other people, it's either just to order food or in a situation where only the most minimal language is needed, and then the English he shares with much of the world's population is enough to get by with.
He moves further from the ocean as he drives toward the studio, but he can still smell it, a clean, salty scent. He can smell food from the various kiosks and restaurants lining the beachfront too: pizza and pasta, but also uncountable kinds of seafood caught right out on the water every morning and sold directly to the chefs by the local fisherman.
Jungkook has found that the best time to be on the beach is when the fishermen are out pulling in their catches -- early enough that the day isn't scorching yet, when only the locals are around and taking up their relatively small space.
He pulls the moped to a stop in front of the building where he's renting one studio and slips the key into the pocket of his bag. He steps into the air-conditioned building with a sigh of relief. In his own space, he quickly changes clothes.
Despite how anxious he's been to start work for the day, once the music is playing, blasting through the speakers up in the corner of the spacious room, Jungkook finds that he doesn't know where to begin.
Even after skimming through his notes, all of the ideas he'd had lying in bed the night before, he only stares at his reflection in the wall of mirrors.
He looks at himself for the first time in a while for anything other than quickly fixing his hair before going out or monitoring his own dance moves to see if they look as good in reality as they do in his head.
Maybe it says something about him that he looks different to himself. How often does he meet his own eyes in the mirror?
They're dark and round like they've always been, but for the first time there are faint hints of what his face will look like in middle age, the beginnings of fine lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. His hair is shaggy because he hasn't gotten it cut since he moved here, looking a bit long for the first time in years. He's bulkier than he remembers being, probably because he works out both to pass the time and to use up energy.
It's funny, he thinks, how in his own mind, he still looks the way he did a few years ago. The way he did during the best months of his life, when he had everything he'd ever wanted, all at once, for the first time.
If he has to imagine himself, he imagines the happy boy he had been then. He's never closed his eyes and pictured himself as the man he sees in the mirror, sad eyes looking back at him like an old dog who has been kicked by the world one too many times.
He shakes his head, half to flick the hair out of his face, half to try to clean the thoughts from his mind. They aren't doing him any good, and he has work to do.
#
Jungkook forces himself to go through the motions for four hours, and then finally he has to admit defeat. He's come up with, at most, a handful of new steps that might be usable. He hates to admit it, even to himself, but the fact is that his conversation with Jimin has shaken him, for several reasons. He isn't going to get anything better out of himself today, so there's no sense torturing himself further.
He feels jumpy, almost itchy under the skin as he pulls his phone from his bag and quickly flicks through his notifications, swiping them away with a brush of his thumb.
He hovers for a moment over the group chat he has with his hyungs, knowing what he'll see and seriously debating clearing that notification too, but he'd promised Jimin he would make more of an effort. He opens the message and sure enough, there's Jimin informing the rest of the group that Jungkook has moved to Italy and been there for a month.
The reactions are what Jungkook would expect to see: a sober congratulations from Namjoon, over-the-top upset from Jin about not having been told by Jungkook himself, a string of cry-laugh emojis from Hobi, and a simple, "Why?" from Yoongi.
Working on a project , Jungkook types and hits send before he can second-guess himself. Just needed some space somewhere new. Sorry I didn't tell you guys sooner .
He thinks of his own face looking back at him from the mirror and adds a smile emoji. Then he realizes they will all immediately think something is wrong if he includes a smile emoji and deletes it.
Tossing the phone back into his bag before anyone has a chance to reply, he's back on the moped a moment later. The futileness of his day hits him as he's driving toward home through the winding streets. He's back where he started with nothing to show for it, all because of one cut-off sentence from the other side of the world.
His annoyance over this fact only seems to add to the heat of the day and in his belly. He thinks about showering and changing when he gets home, going out, maybe finding someone to bring back to his bed for a few hours -- but it sounds like so much work, too much to be worth the reward when he can get the same result with far less effort.
He stops by the small corner store to grab a couple packets of ramen and then he's back in his apartment, feeling more restless than ever.
Despite the fact that the day is cooling quickly, he feels sweat beading at the small of his back and he suddenly can't wait to get out of his clothes. He drops the ramen on the counter of his small kitchen and sheds his clothes as he crosses the apartment, first dropping his duffel bag, then kicking off his sneakers, pulling his shirt over his head, and finally stripping out of his joggers to leave them in a little heap at the foot of the bed.
He bites his lip, a habit he's kept even though he's long since gotten rid of the lip piercing that engendered it in the first place, and considers whether he wants to shower first.
There are pros and cons to showering before or after, but the deciding factor is that he's beginning to feel downright jittery, like he's about to start buzzing around in his own skin. He crawls onto the bed, soft and plush with its bright white linens, and makes himself comfortable among the pile of pillows.
With an excited tremor in his hands, he reaches over to his bedside table and opens the drawer. Everything inside is neat and tidy, so he doesn't have to search for the bottle of lube, or the favorite toy he brought with him from home. He leaves the toy beside him on the bed and pours a healthy amount of lube into his hand.
It's been a while since he's done this. Usually he just goes out for a drink, maybe dances a little, and ends up bringing someone back with him, or going to theirs. Other times he uses the apps, always shortening his name to "JK" just in case. It hasn't been an issue so far.
This is different; it feels indulgent, like a treat, something he doesn't allow himself to have often.
In his excitement, he doesn't bother warming the lube between his fingers, just lies back into the nest of pillows, plants his feet on the mattress, and rubs the pads of two fingers over his hole, enjoying the glide of them over the sensitive skin.
He hasn't touched his cock, but it's already growing hard against his hip, and with the way he's feeling, he wonders if he'll be able to get off without touching it at all. He shivers at the thought. It's something he's always loved but has only managed a few times on his own.
He presses his two fingers just inside and then pulls them out again, teasing. That's something he doesn't get to have often either. When people are hooking up in the middle of the night, usually the focus is on coming and going as quickly as possible.
On his own, he can drag it out, enjoy it for as long as he likes.
He pushes in again, reveling in the combined sensation of the slight stretch and the tingling pleasure of touching himself in this most sensitive place. He’s anxious for more, though, so the second time he sinks his fingers in as deep as he can, feeling his breath start to come a little harder as his body adjusts.
There's nothing quite like this feeling, and maybe it's dirty, but it's the mix of an edge of pain with the pleasure that makes it so good for him. He doesn't waste time pressing a third finger in alongside the first two, doing his best to crook them toward his prostate. It makes him shiver, but it's too hard to get a good angle with his own fingers, so he focuses mostly on opening himself up.
Even just the thought of it, he loves. The idea of forcing his body to do what he wants it to do, making it bend to his will -- and the way that it does , reforming around his intentions. He imagines what he must look like, fucking himself on his own fingers, hole clenching around them, already hungry for more, and this time there's no sadness in the image at all.
He feels more than hears himself whine, the little sound bubbling up out of him without any input from his brain, and he knows it's time to move on. He hasn't fully lost himself yet, and he knows it's coming, knows how sweet it will be when it does, even if it's just for a few minutes.
So he pulls his fingers out and picks up the toy he's so attached to he had to bring it all the way from Korea in a carry-on bag instead of just ordering something new that could be delivered to him here.
It's a little silly-looking, glittery and a bright turquoise color, but it's the size and shape of it, the feel of it, that make it his favorite. It's on the bigger side of realistic, long and thick, and it has a satisfying heaviness to it, in his hand but more importantly when it's inside him. He slicks it up quickly, efficiently, anxious for it now.
He leans back again and bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration as he prods at his hole with the blunt tip of it. He didn't prep himself as much as he could have, and it's not coming easy. He draws in a long, deep breath and uses a slight but steady pressure to slowly ease the toy past his rim until the head is nestled inside.
He lets out a moan at the feeling of it, and immediately his mind is flooded with endorphins and images ( memories ) that he's long since given up trying to resist.
As long as there's no face to them, it doesn't even hurt anymore.
He lets himself sink into them as the toy sinks deeper and deeper into him.
Memories of pretty hands with long, elegant fingers taking him apart one light touch at a time. A hot, wet mouth over his nipple, teeth in the join of his neck and shoulder, a low voice whispering sinfully filthy words in his ear, a cock remarkably like this one splitting him open, but always moving unpredictably. He tries to capture that feeling now, but it's hard to do when he knows every move he's going to make.
He pulls the toy most of the way out and then eases it slowly back in, feeling his back arch into it in a way that's almost removed from him. He repeats the motion a couple of times and then abruptly switches to pressing it in as deep as it will go and rotating it in little circles, grinding it down against his prostate in an approximation of how it might have felt once upon a time, though back then the sensation would have been accompanied by the bruising grip of big, surprisingly strong hands around his waist, or pushing down on his low back to hold him precisely in place.
His entire body shakes as he drives the toy as hard as he can into that spot inside him that's starting to swell from the abuse it's taking. He doesn't care, just pushes harder, grinding the toy against it in little pulses until he's shuddering.
Vaguely, he's aware that there are little noises spilling from his throat and sticky pre-come spilling from his cock and dripping down onto his belly. His eyes are shut tight against the fading light of the day and behind them swirls an intoxicating blend of memory and fantasy.
Jungkook fucks the toy into himself a few more times, as hard as he can, driving it in with all the force his own strength can give him, and it isn't quite right but it's close enough.
His belly tightens and he hears himself cry out as he gets right up to the edge. Behind his eyes, where no one will ever have to know, he sees the ghost of a boxy smile. In his ringing ears, he hears the echo of a low, reverent laugh.
With one last, deep thrust, Jungkook lets his hips move of their own accord, rolling down to grind on the toy, making sure, by some natural or well-learned instinct, to put the right pressure on all the right places, until with a loud, high cry, he clenches down on it, twitching and writhing as he falls apart on nothing but the glittery silicone.
For those few brilliant seconds, it doesn't even matter that while this is better than anything else he's likely to get, it pales in comparison to the best he's ever had.
#
Jimin rocks back and forth in his chair, his tired eyes gazing up at the ceiling. They feel heavy, but he keeps them open, cradling the warm little body against his chest, cell phone against his ear.
"I don't know, Jimin," the voice on the phone sighs. "Life is good. I'm just tired."
"Sounds like you need a vacation," Jimin says, keeping his voice low so he won't rouse the infant he's desperately trying to get to sleep.
The voice laughs without a trace of humor. "Who doesn't?"
Jimin's eyebrows move in concession of the point. He could sure use one. "Not all of us have the option," he says. "But you do," he points out, with a dawning realization.
"Too busy."
"No, I'm serious, Taehyungie," Jimin says, and even he can hear the indication of just how serious he really is in his voice. He hopes Taehyung notices it too, perceives it as Jimin putting his foot down, looking out for his health. "A big star like you can make his own schedule, right? Take some time off. You don't have anything going right now. Surely you can miss a few parties and premieres and that sort of thing."
There's a pause on the line and Jimin would laugh at himself for the way his heart rate actually picks up, but this is the most important thing he's done since this baby in his arms was born and that's not even an exaggeration.
"Maybe you're right," Taehyung says, sounding like he's actually thinking it over.
Jimin almost jumps in his chair, jolting the baby back to wakefulness -- but it's a worthy sacrifice if he can get this to work.
"Of course I'm right," he chirps.
"What would I do though?" Taehyung asks. "Where would I even go?"
Jimin could almost cry. He looks at the ceiling again, this time directing his gaze past it and up into the heavens. He mouths a silent "thank you" to the stars, and then turns his attention back to his phone.
"Have you ever been to Positano?"