#yenny.

for @yeunder​ | continued from here, inspired by this.

for a second, for a minute can we go?

daybreak, seoul.

he finds her first in seoul. 

her cheeks are stained pink and there’s dirt under her fingernails. 

“it’s because -- i’m! i’m a florist!”

jungkook doesn’t let her touch his shirt. brushes his hands off on his sweats before offering her his hand again, instead. 

“whatever you say, kid.” 

she huffs. 

she huffs, but takes his hand, still. 

daybreak, london.

he nearly doesn’t recognize her. not without leashes in her hand and dirt under her nails. this time, she’s holding oranges. or, at least, she had been. they’re gone now, rolling down the street. one already crushed on the pavement, pulp and juice a pink-orange in the faint light of the sunrise. jungkook grips her waist tighter. pulls her in, jaw set as he stares in the direction of the cyclist, already long gone.

"my tangerines!”

he nearly drops her at that. the korean is unexpected. in this city, at this time. startled, he glances down. lets his eyes meet hers. it takes a second, and then one more. and then: it’s you! her words, familiar and nostalgic, almost get lost in the stirring city, voice layered under the morning tinny around them. 

“it’s... me?” “you! you broke my flower pot!” “i --” “i tripped and you broke my flower pot!”

it’s an out-of-body experience. london is awake, the morning finally beginning to catch up to them, but jungkook has one foot in seoul and the other out. still, she doesn’t let go. she grips the front of his hoodie tightly, her fingers tangled in the strings. he can smell the citrus staining her palms. jungkook chokes out a strangled laugh, after.

“oh yeah. it’s you. dirt hands.” “what did you just call me?!???”

daybreak, jfk airport, ny.

"if you run into me one more time, i’m gonna call the cops.” “wh -- excuse me???” “so you aren’t stalking me, then?”

she huffs so loudly that her entire seat shakes. jungkook doesn’t bother with manners. throws his head back and laughs with all of his teeth. she pinches his side but jungkook can feel the eyes of his agent on him more sharply, instead. he ignores it. the laughter dies anyway. jungkook settles in, settles back. he’s bone-tired but she still smells of oranges. 

he wonders if it’s a memory. 

he wonders if he just needs some more goddamn sleep. 

“i have better things to do than stalk someone like you.” “i’m sure.” “it’s not my fault if --” “if?”

she pauses. his agent is still trying to eavesdrop from his left but the stewardess’ cart rattles loudly enough down the aisle that he doesn’t think that it’ll matter. he leans in closer. presses his arm against hers over the armrest and raises a brow. 

finally, she shrugs. finally, she leans back in.

“i am a very, very busy person, i’ll have you know,” her voice is low. hushed. as if she’s whispering a secret that she wants to share only with him. “but the universe must have other plans for you and me.”

daybreak, seoul. 

he rubs at his eyes blearily. his back aches from the flight but the girl seems unfazed. she bounces on the balls of her feet as she pushes her phone towards him, her smile bright. 

“my name is yeeun, oppa!” “...?” she pushes her phone further. presses it into his hands and laughs so loudly that jungkook starts to think that the sunrise must be long past, daybreak already long gone. yeeun is nothing but pure sunshine. she chases the darkness away.  

“we should give the universe a hand! for the next time we meet!”

(next time?)

the sunrise is replaced with the sun high in the sky, brilliantly bright. jungkook rubs at his eyes and tries to return the smile. sleepy and small -- but just as sincere. 

“for next time.”

daybreak, wherever you are.

next time, is three months later. the next next time, is two weeks into fall.

he doesn’t bother keeping count after that.

jungkook sees her at corner stores, in the dog park, at subway stations. he sees her in summer sundresses and winter mittens and everything in between. sometimes it’s intentional --

“you wanna come over for chicken?” “are you cheating on your diet again? oooOOooh--”

-- and sometimes, just like today, just like any other day, not so much:

“i told you. the universe is up to something.” “something good?”

she smiles, as brightly as she always does, and jungkook can’t help but think that the sunrise has come early. her legs dangle from where she sits, perched on a swing that’s far too small for him but a seemingly perfect fit for her. faint pinks and oranges peek out from the trees behind the park and jungkook wonders if she smells like oranges, still. 

after a long moment, she replies:

“yes. yes, something good. something very good.”

the words take root like the flowers she sings to in the evenings but jungkook pretends not to notice. brushes it off, like every other meeting, like every other conversation he has with her. fleeting and soft. a whisper of morning before the sun rises in earnest. a moment just for them. a secret that jungkook has done his best to keep. 

(he knows, he probably won’t see her in a few months. he knows, that she has restless feet and he has a bum knee. he knows that she grows flowers from the ground up that are meant to be cut and shared and spread. from city to city, from sunrise to sunset. her flowers are meant for bouquets and airplanes and jungkook has a knee that won’t let him follow. he knows. he knows, but he lets a garden take root in his ribs regardless.)

he’s always been good at keeping secrets, after all.

“yeah,” he agrees. quietly, softly. watches the sun come up and the city begin to stir. the moment is gone and the universe will decide when they’ll see each other again. (at least the daybreak is theirs. at least it’ll always be theirs.) he smiles vaguely. “something very good.” 

your skin is a map.

at your fingertips, the indents left by guitar strings: nighttime encompassed by swaying grass and a tickling breeze, an open sky and an abundance of winking stars. cicadas and their summer songs, swelling and falling with each waning hour. after a while you strummed thoughtlessly, notes falling into one another like a ripple in a pond. 

(follow the wooden panels. they’re worn down now, by countless hands like your own. it’s a story with voices that overlap, not quite fitting but tracing one another instead. a story that stays, a reminder of july.)

beneath your knee, a bruise: you’d bumped into the table the other day, wailed loudly as if you were still a child. let patient hands smooth ice cubes over it as they laughed, shaking their head--such a baby.

(don’t mind the boundaries you’ve strayed past. you’ll laugh about it later too, at how temporary, how silly, how small it had been.)

against your ankles, grains of sand: gritty, stubborn. it’s the day after when you find them, after an afternoon spent with the sun full and round and high, waves submerging your feet and making you shiver. you know you’re home when your hair is tangled, kissed by the salt water, when your skin burns with the warmth you can only find here. 

(close your eyes. will the sea to come back to you.)

on your mouth, a stain: one too many cherries, the tartness lingering on your tongue. raspberries. strawberries. red-kissed. your head is dizzy-- maybe it’s the sugar, maybe it’s the sticky air, maybe it’s a pair of eyes that meet your own. the details are fuzzy but it’s the sweetness that stands out. 

(directions: they’re no longer needed.)

you’ll find at some point that they’re no longer there.