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it was winter all over again.
cold, impulsive, ludicrous — the entirety of this universe knew how much jeon jungkook despised wearing five layers of clothing just to hide his rosy cheeks. but, of course, despite his undying hatred towards this particular time of the year, jungkook still stepped out of his sports car and was greeted with a trail of hungry reporters.
"jeon jungkook-sshi!"
"how are you feeling tonight?"
"mr. jeon, is this your new ride?"
jungkook almost groaned at the mention of the last question. the last thing he would want at the moment was to keep these swarming bees entertained, instead of rushing towards the victorian-styled building complex a few meters ahead — which, of course, would have been an easier task if he actually had more than two bodyguards.
"i'm counting on you, park jimin," nodding his head at the kind assistant slash spokesperson he always used as a back up whenever his mouth didn't feel like working on its own, jungkook proceeded to spill a few basic informations to the older man before fleeing the scene.
"oh, please. don't worry about me," the latter only stifled a genuine laugh. "have fun, mr. jeon, the night is yours."
it didn't take long until one of his bodyguards whipped the star away from the crowd, muttering a shit load of this way, sir as they entered the art museum.
since when did painters receive such overwhelming love from citizens, anyway?
tonight was the launching party of jungkook's first painting, which would be hung at one of the best sections the place could provide. despite of going against his father's wishes of becoming a prosecutor, just like every single person in the household, he was still able to prove his worth by attending the most prestigious art university in seoul and achieved the dreams he had always been passionate about.
but something was missing.
in the sea of curators and art critics who were dying to hear his speech, there was someone else whom jungkook fancied to see.
it wasn't a coincidence as per why his painting was the portrait of a strange man in his twenties, cascaded in a long black hair and korean imperial robes; jungkook himself couldn't exactly recall his name, how did they meet or if they ever did meet, but when he first found their picture resting inside the gallery of his phone, jungkook was drawn almost a little too immediately — as if everything was falling into place.
who are you? the complexity of his feelings was bizarre, indeed. even metaphysics weren't able to describe the warmth that surged through his veins the moment he visualised it into strokes.
but, weren't memories supposed to be remembered?
because through space and time, jeon jungkook was paralyzed, and after years of searching for the clues that only led him to dead ends, he knew for sure that his heart had never left. that the traditionally dressed man he had mindlessly drawn without even knowing his identity first, was most likely never even there in first place.
