Jaywon AO3 stories :)

Our honeyed threads; lovecubed

As Jungwon walks towards the door, he trips over his own feet, just barely saving himself from faceplanting embarrassingly onto the floor. Jungwon's never been particularly clumsy, so he takes an affronted glance behind him in confusion.

Strange. There's nothing there.

Whatever. He's late, the transfer from SM to BigHit having taken longer than he thinks it should've and, with every second he isn't in that practice room, his youth—his marketability—slips from in between his fingers. So, Jungwon rubs his thumb over the small lucky bag in his pocket and pushes the door open.

The stark white fluorescent lights blind him as he apologetically nods to the wary dance instructor. He turns to face the sea of twenty other teenage boys, all in the midst of conversation before the lesson starts, and—

Jungwon's greeted with honeyed skin and a shark-like grin, this beautiful boy's head thrown back in beautiful laughter. Jungwon stays rooted in place, staring wide-eyed as something that's long grown dormant in his body crawls into his heart and digs a hole through his lungs and sinks into his stomach, and even though it leaves him wanting to choke—

It feels like Jungwon's properly breathing for the first time.

The boy notices Jungwon's stare and offers him a crooked smile accompanied by a wave of his hand, and Jungwon hesitantly offers a small wave back. His core burns with pain when their eyes meet, and his hand flattens against his chest to soothe a wound that doesn't exist. The dance instructor impatiently coughs, and Jungwon squeaks before scurrying to an empty corner in the room, one that's as far away as possible from this honeyed boy.

Jungwon knows many ghosts.

Adults were so entertained by him when he was younger, listening intently as he talked about fantastical uncles he doesn't have and mystical cities that didn't exist. A natural storyteller, they nodded approvingly to Jungwon's parents. His imagination is something to treasure.

But, sometimes Jungwon will blink and suddenly he's standing in ancient Nineveh. He's surrounded by lush foliage and ripe orchards, basking in the warm summer air as he marvels at the water canals organized throughout the citadel. The shadow of an uncle with sun-kissed skin and a beard full of secrets provides him cool shade, and Jungwon's holding a piece of fresh baklava his uncle stole for him because he's young and he loves sweets.

Then, he'll blink again and find himself in the present, sitting in the air-conditioned bedroom he shares with his sister in his family's Seoul condo.

Dreams are supposed to fade, and dreams aren't real.

Jungwon's dreams may be faded, chipped, and blurry, fleeting moments and impressions of lives he can't quite remember, but they're real—god, they were real once. Just like how the Hanging Gardens of Babylon were real once, too—they were just located in Nineveh instead.

Jungwon knows more than he should, he remembers more than he should, and as he grew older, the less keen adults were to hear his stories.

His memories.

No one else seems to remember the way he does.

("Noona," he whispers out one evening when he's ten and still hopeful that someone else can understand him.

A muffled groan. "Yeah?"

"Do you ever—" Jungwon tugs his covers over his chin. "When you're standing, sometimes, do you ever blink and suddenly you're somewhere else?"

"What does that even mean?"

"Like," he licks his lips. Despite the chapstick he'd applied, they're dry. "Like you have memories that aren't your own."