Angle Of Refraction (Chapter 7: White-Balance)

...white-balance: [in digital photography] wherein a camera sees an object as its lighting’s colour...

“Hey, kid.”

Jungkook glances up from where he’s editing on Photoshop, brows lifted, half in annoyance and the other in mild fondness. “I would remind you that I’m not a kid anymore but I suppose it wouldn’t make a difference.”

Min Yoongi is the owner of their studio, and Jungkook remembers the day they had met, mid-summer, sleeves rolled up in a last ditch attempt to stave off the heat and hands wrapped desperately around an iced Americano as he sat in the coffee shop, waiting for Yoongi to show up.

They’d shook hands, and despite only having known each other for two hours, Yoongi had recognized the flickering burn in Jungkook's eyes in parallel to his own. This was how their little start-up came to be.

It wasn’t easy with only the two of them taking on freelance tasks, assignments that ranged from architectural projects to product photography, but Jungkook would like to build on the fact that they’d managed to survive, and that five months into their project, they have a studio, albeit modest, but close to a second home.

Yoongi fixes him with a cool stare, decidedly unamused with the sass. “I’ve been telling you to go home for the past three hours.”

“It’s fine if you leave first, I can lock up.”

“I know that, but I think you should give yourself a break sometimes. We’ve made it this far, it’s all right to cut yourself some slack.” Yoongi walks past him to the mini pantry, ruffling Jungkook's hair as he goes (“Will you ever stop this!”).

Jungkook hums, scrolling his crosshair across the pixelated canvas as he thinks about home. “It’s just… I don’t like going home.”

Going home to an empty apartment, his mind echoes back at him.

Yoongi sighs, but places a hand on Jungkook's shoulder before reminding him to lock up as promised.

The door to the studio opens and closes, and Jungkook realizes, as he does every day, that no matter he is, it always feels like there’s an empty space.

It’s the mailbox that Jungkook first checks when he gets home, turning the little key that he’d spent nearly twenty seconds trying to find in his apocalypse of a backpack, pulling down the small latch and peering into the box.

There’s an envelope, and Jungkook laughs, brightening up a little as he slides it out.

Later, when he lifts the flap, a postcard falls out, the Eiffel Tower standing tall and heavily edited in the foreground, with a random couple holding hands in front of it and trust Taehyung to choose the most clichéd of postcards, Jesus Christ.

“I miss you, my star” is written at the back in Taehyung's distinct doctor’s scrawl, a chicken scratch that Jungkook struggles to decipher, only to feel his cheeks warm when he finally makes out the words.

There are a couple of polaroids in the envelope, and Jungkook looks through each one, the side of his lips tugging up when he sees the quaint cafés in the small frame, some badly taken selfies with only half of Taehyung's face in them, some blurry.

Taehyung has been to places. Many places, and he had always made sure to send a postcard, or polaroids, and once, a long, handwritten letter that Jungkook had cried tears of blood trying to read, after which he had replied very politely that he’d much prefer if Taehyung sent more pictures of his face instead.

If there is anything that Jungkook doesn’t like about their arrangement, it’s that Taehyung never gives him a return address.

Understandable, because both of them would never know how long Taehyung intends to stay in every location. Taehyung could be in Berlin one day, and the next week, he would still be there, indulging in apple cider and bratwurst, which he had insisted was his favourite food in the entire world until his postcard from Hanoi nearly a month later, with some polaroids of him eating tornado potatoes on a street in Old Quarter, declaring it as his new favourite food.

(And then:

“Actually,” Taehyung had said, in a Kakao call two days later, “I think I like Pho more. Not the soupy kind. The dry kind. ”

“Okay, Tae, I mean, it would help if I knew what you were talking about.”

“Google exists for a reason.”)

Jungkook keeps all the polaroids, strings them on a thread until it almost feels as if he’s been to the London Eye, seen the Big Ben, or taken a picture with the Merlion in Singapore. Taehyung writes dates on them all.

June, it had started with. June again, three times in July, nearly six from September as compensation for going missing in August (“Holy shit, Tae, did you mail me something every three days?”). Then the newest one, October.

He checks the time, does some mental math for the time difference, then calls Taehyung.

Taehyung picks up, the familiar crackle of his voice over unstable data connection. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

They stay this way a while, listening to the sound of the other breathing through the line, until Taehyung speaks again. There’s a hum of traffic in the background, and Jungkook's chest tightens a little, wishing he could be there.

“I almost got pickpocketed today,” Taehyung says, a little laugh in his voice, and Jungkook can imagine the mirth twinkling in his eyes. “These guys were trying to make me sign a petition I think, came way too close, but I noticed one of them feeling my pockets.”

“That’s shit,” Jungkook snorts, but a little peeved at the thought of some random strangers getting that close to Taehyung.

“It was a little obvious, though, I mean, I am undoubtedly Asian, so why would they try to talk to me in advanced French.”

Jungkook hums, nodding a little before remembering that Taehyung can’t see him. “So what’re you doing now?”

“I’m on the way to Notre-Dame. To see the cathedral.”

“Take pictures,” Jungkook says, although unnecessarily. “I’ve seen some shots from the top of the cathedral. Looks best during the sunset.”

“Sunset?” Taehyung's laugh is fractured over the line, but it still makes Jungkook's chest go warm. “Probably won’t get any sunset shots, then. It’s still afternoon here. Which means it’s late there. So go to bed, babe.”

Jungkook swallows, the term of endearment tugging on his heart and oh god, he misses Taehyung. Misses him so fucking much.

Come home, Jungkook means to say, but he doesn’t. How could he, when he can hear the happiness that tints every syllable of Taehyung's voice?

“Yeah, have fun, babe. I’m going to bed.”

“Sleep well.”

Jungkook's eyes are closed, later, but he can’t stop thinking about Taehyung's smile, of their last night together in Sapporo, Taehyung mouthing “hey” against his lips, the soft kisses, and Jungkook holding Taehyung's hand, never wanting to let go—

He falls asleep as the sun rises, glad that it’s a weekend.

Park Jimin is as condescending as he had been since the last time they’d met. A rough one year, but between him and Jeon Jungkook, there is no space for awkwardness, neither is there time for any buffers to warm up.

“When will you stop patting my head,” Jungkook deadpans, swatting the other man’s hand away, earning a pat on the cheek instead.

“When your opinions start to matter.”

They’re at their café, the one near their old university, and sitting at the familiar table brings back an entire rush of memories, the nostalgia burning in his throat as he tries to soothe it with his iced coffee.

Jimin is in a sweater that looks two sizes too big, but Jungkook doesn’t make any snide comments, except one stating that Jimin's fashion sense has stagnated.

“I am starting to think that this friendship is not mutually beneficial.”

“I wasn’t aware that our friendship had terms.”

Sunday afternoon finds the both of them with their hair still mussed with sleep, Jungkook with a beanie pulled haphazardly over his bedhead and Jimin with his cheeks puffier than usual. When Jungkook had let himself be pulled in for a hug, he’d gotten a glimpse of the dark circles beneath his eyes.

“How’re you, though?” Jungkook glances up, stirring his coffee with his straw, chin on his other hand. “You look like you’ve been through a war.”

“You have no idea how hectic the ER gets.” At the mention of work, Jimin's face scrunches up, disgruntled, looking almost insulted that Jungkook would bring it up on the one day he doesn’t actually have work. “Will citizens please do us a favour and not hurt themselves?”

“I’m sure we don’t get hurt intentionally,” Jungkook quips, his voice dry, and if even possible, Jimin looks slightly more affronted. “All right, let’s change the subject, you look like you’re about to hit me.”

“Damn right I was.” Jimin pops a cookie into his mouth, making a show of chewing it with unnecessary force. “How’s it going with Taehyung?”

“It’s going.”

“Did he say anything about coming home?”

Taehyung hadn’t, and Jungkook hadn’t asked, either. It’s a question that hangs between the both of them that neither wants to be the one to ask or mention. Jungkook, because he’s afraid of hearing that Taehyung doesn’t want to come home yet (or if he even wants to come home at all).

“I didn’t ask.”

Jimin nods slowly, notes the expression on Jungkook's face, and launches into a discussion of some new anime instead, which Jungkook is content with just sitting opposite him and quietly listening.

(“What do you think about life?”

“Life?”

“Yup.”

“Well, for one, it sucks.”

“Look, Jungkook, I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”

“I gave you a proper answer.”

“What do you think about people, then?”

“I think they’re temporary. We’re bound to meet people over the years, but most don’t stay. The ones who do won’t stay forever. There’s an expiration date, like a lease.”

“I can’t believe you’re comparing human relationships to contracts.”

“My dad is a lawyer.”)

Nearly two in the morning, it’s another quiet night, and Jungkook is sprawled out on the couch in the studio as Yoongi uses the desktop. Comfortable silence, but Yoongi is the first to break it.

“What do you really want to do?”

Jungkook props himself up on the arm of the couch, voice hoarse from disuse. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re good at what you do.” Yoongi's turned around now, his arm hanging over the back of the chair as he faces Jungkook. “But I can tell you’re not into taking pictures of buildings or jewellery. Or even people. And that’s what we’ve been doing these past few months.”

Jungkook swallows, says, “uhm.”

“You’re always saying you’re all right with anything when I ask you what sort of project you’d like to work on. Why don’t you tell me, and we can work something out? You can do what you like too, Jungkook. This studio is ours, not just mine.”

He spends the next hour thinking, mulling over Yoongi's words, the lump in his throat growing with every passing minute, because what is it that I really want?

He finds his answer later that night, back in his room, a memory card from April slotted into his laptop and photographs of cherry blossoms filling his screen as he scrolls, one lavender-haired man grinning wide at the camera.

He calls Yoongi, who picks up with a grunt. “It’s five in the fucking A.M.”

“Street photography,” Jungkook says, staring at a shot zoomed in on a fallen cherry blossom on the pavement, with Taehyung's blurry silhouette in the foreground.

The next time Taehyung calls, it startles Jungkook awake from where he’s drifting off to sleep, the sound of his phone rattling on his nightstand jolting him up from bed. He’s this close to cursing when he spots the caller ID, and with a sigh, slides his thumb over the screen.

“This better be important,” Jungkook pushes himself up to sit against the headboard, rubbing at his eyes.

Taehyung's words slur together as he speaks, “babe, I miss you.”

A small part of Jungkook's heart breaks at the sound of Taehyung's voice, small and broken, obviously drunk. “Baby, where are you?”

“Roppongi,” Taehyung laughs, soft and breathy, and Jungkook exhales shakily, a quiet stutter. “You know, that bar we were at. Our bar, you came out there.”

“You’re back in Tokyo?” Jungkook pulls the phone away for a little while to check the time, skin prickling with unease. “It’s pretty late, Taehyung. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, m’fine. I just miss you, Jungkook.”

They stay on the phone, quiet, and Jungkook can’t think, not with his mind muddled with sleep and Taehyung’s wrecked voice telling him that he missed him and wanted to kiss him.

There are smatterings of Japanese in the background, and Taehyung's quiet breathing nearly lulls Jungkook back to sleep when the other speaks again.

“We should come back here again next time, together.”

“Sure, babe,” Jungkook murmurs, a soft smile on his lips, warmth in his chest despite the ridiculous hour and his empty bed. “We should.”

Then, again, “I miss you.”

It builds up this way, the desperation that Jungkook had so frantically tried to pack away. The one plea that sits dormant on the tip of Jungkook's tongue whenever they talk, the desire that amplifies at odd hours.

Jungkook whispers, “so come home, Taehyung.”

Taehyung's breath catches.

“Come home to me.”

For a terrifying moment, Jungkook thinks that Taehyung might hang up, or that he’d fallen asleep on the bar counter, but then Taehyung answers, his voice clear despite his syllables blurring at the edges.

“I can’t,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”

Jungkook's breath shudders in an exhale, and he closes his eyes, holding on to the sole comfort that at least they’re both in the time zone this time. So close, but always, always, still too far away.

“Jungkook.”

“Mm?”

“Just… let me be selfish for a while longer.”

“Yeah, baby.” Jungkook's eyes lift, staring at the opposite wall. One of the polaroids glints with the reflection of the moon. He looks away. “I’ll wait for you.”

“Thank you,” Taehyung breathes out, sounding considerably more sober. “I—”

Jungkook waits, but Taehyung just laughs, making the call crackle with faint feedback. “What?”

“It’s nothing, I’ll tell you when I come home.”

(When I come home, Taehyung had said.

Jungkook thinks about it a lot.)

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