The Bonsai on the Windowsill (NJ x Reader)
Genre: Angst, Idol AU, Domestic AU
Pairing: producer!Namjoon x Reader / implied Bangchan x Reader
Warnings: No warnings apply
Summary: The bonsai on the windowsill has witnessed all the beautiful moments of a young couple, seen how a producer could gladly come home to be the man he is outside the serious musical business and how delighted his girlfriend was each time at the sight of the transformation.
But now it has to face the end of a home.
Packed schedules in the commercial entertainment world often form the foundation of the split between artists and their significant others who are not part of the business, leading to a rise in frequency of lonely awakenings, futile waiting on nights promised to be spent together and meals that were used to be cooked together now eaten in solitude if the once loved dishes are made at all.
Fortunately, albeit bittersweet, these individuals left alone can find solace in friends or newly met people, thus filling up the void unintentionally created by the beloved who is consumed by creative endeavours. However, sometimes the inherently substituting bond can deepen in meaning when the heart is reminded of the love it once upon a time held for the truthful lover who is slowly turning into a mere somebody.
Walks on the shore kissed by the waves on beach dates that started off as friendly meetings gradually formed the background against which fingers slowly have begun to entwine, intending on never letting go.
The sheets under a different roof have become the resting place filled with a mixture of sensuality on especially cold nights and cosy intimacy on days warmed by simply being with a boy reminiscent of a kangaroo rather than with the fading plant-loving musical giant.
Than with the man with shaking shoulders, big hands tucked into the pocket of bleached jeans to give them a place to rest instead of hanging uselessly at the sides.
‘So, this is it?’ The heavy croakily asked question hangs in the air of the living room of a tall tree’s apartment downtown.
‘You don’t have to do this.’ Sorrowful crystal tears roll over honey-skinned cheeks, glistening in the rays of the bright spring sun falling in through the window looking out over the shopping street in the heart of the city. ‘You know how demanding being a producer is, but I can spend less time in the studio.’
The cut-off argument is finished, sighing in face of the inevitable defeat leading to the incapability to change the outcome of the situation. ‘Between us, things have cooled. We aren’t as we used to be. Yes, I do know how busy you are with a new album on the horizon, but over time I’ve come to feel as if music means more than our relationship.’
‘Which is why you went to him, isn’t it?’ Rage reverts to grave sadness at the sight of a new necklace, a trio of small pendants consisting of a silver wing, a tiny plaque engraved with the first initial and the personal birthstone. The jealous snarl relaxes into a self-deprecating smile, platinum locks shaking at the foolish unspoken assumption there was any hope left at all of still having priority, smashed to fragments by the replacing piece of jewellery.
Substituting a part of him.
‘Chan makes me really happy, is there for me when I need someone and has been more of a steady pillar than you’ve been recently.’ Although managing to speak coherently, the throat is constricted with the same hurt standing a step away though, loathsome as it is, the emotional distress cannot fully be emphasized with despite the shared good moments of domestic peace.
Something that is attempted to be pushed forward by a breaking baritone voice, unable to talk entirely as the last word is almost choked out. ‘You’ve always been my steady pillar.’
‘A pillar that crumbles, Namjoon, that’s what I am.’
‘Where did you get that necklace?’
‘Chan gave it as a birthday present.’
‘Right…’ The hand that will never be held again slips out of its confinement to temporarily erases enough of the show of a suffocating heart to see the aftermath of yet another mistake in the plethora of faults resulting from putting creativity before social health. ‘I missed it.’
An acknowledging nod accompanies mirthless confirmation, hatred in war with pity but neither side prevailing. ‘Yeah, you did.’
‘What did you do?’ Big bare feet clad in slippers rub the floor, shoulders hunched as focus is put on the action, too terrified to see the ghost of another man standing behind the girl who is about to walk away.
The slight tilt of the head sidewards makes a few locks obscure the sight of a broken man, arms crossed, nails digging into the skin as a thought arises that a simulation of similar equal hurt is deserved as a punishment for doing this. ‘Do you really want to know?’
The plush bottom lip kissed many times is caught between stark teeth when tortured brown irises look up to properly face a presence that will walk out of a life built and destroyed together, a curt nod functioning as an agreeing response. It is incomprehensible that the producer wants to hear how happiness is achieved with another, likely seeing it as a righteous sanction for being absent, especially at the wrong moments. ‘Yeah… I- I do. Please, tell me.’
‘I dropped by Chan’s for dinner and a movie night.’ A dejected sigh follows the obscure summary of the events on the day of growing older, refusing to dive into details for they are not important and shall only serve to worsen the agony of this permanent goodbye.
However, the bearing of the burden wants to be expanded by suggesting even what is left unspoken wants to be known, hopefully finding a reason in those aspects to try again. A solution to the problem preventing being better for the woman who has had enough. ‘There’s more to it.’
‘Yes, but-’ The mouth trying to evade shaping the additional happenings is fortunately cut off by the assumption the tongue desperately wanted to avoid voicing. The grip on forearms strengthens, anchoring a reluctant soul in the current reality to meet the consequences of past actions head-on, to maintain the intent behind the earlier text message of having to talk.
A whisper bordering on a sob pierces through the temporary weighty silence. ‘Did you sleep with him?’
Momentarily locked gazes break contact, averting to the floor as cheeks burn crimson and the body makes itself as small as possible in fear of the repercussions of the unavoidable confession. ‘Yes.’
‘Have you before? I can’t blame you if you did. After all,’ the original reason for repeatedly making what was supposed to be a one-time mistake is choked out, the slender fingers restrained by pockets again visibly cramping in remorse, ‘I wasn’t there.’
‘We have, more than once.’ A quick flash of Chan’s face, full of the admiration Namjoon used to show as digits gently trace bared skin after roughly showing affection, evokes a melancholic grin that vanishes in an instant when attention is pulled by a melancholic laugh.
Broad shoulders turn away towards the windowsill where a small Asian-inspired garden has been established despite living in an apartment, expanded with each trip to the garden centre, something of which the last time cannot be remembered. Full lips straighten out into a line, fearing to lose a sliver of happier times to be reminded by. ‘Do you… do you want your bonsai back?’
‘No, I think it’s better off here.’
The Japanese tree means nothing anymore.
The spring sun lighting up its world has no significance.
Mutual memories do not deserve to be deemed as meaningful.
All that is of importance is a barely audible sound.
Belonging to the door that was opened for the last time.
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