VMINKOOK / THE ART OF BEEKEEPING

20

— PART TWENTY.

It certainly hadn't been Taehyung's intention to get drunk (and I use that term with a pinch of salt, as, admittedly, he hadn't quite surpassed the state of tipsy). Alas, an alcohol-breached tongue is what he finds himself with — is what he hears mutter contemptible nothings into the ears of drunken strangers.

If he recalls, within his dazed, fractured state of mind, it had been his plan to do just the opposite of what he was currently doing: he'd originally intended for Jimin to be the drunk one, it'd been within his guidelines for Jimin to be the one cooing asinine strings of words, rather than for he himself to be of a mind drooling and throbbing with nonsensicality. And yet, he was fast learning that Park Jimin was a rather good manipulator, was rather good at deterring the course of the world to fit his own ideals.

So, here he was, flirtatious and loose, within the clutches of a sober conductor. Quite literally, one may add, was Taehyung seething within the clutches of bruise-inducing fingers which plunge indulgently within the skin of his waist, pulling him into the body of unbearable, indecent majesties behind him. It'd been this way all night, Jimin seemed to have sewn their skin together, digging agonising needles into their dermis' and zigzagging across mines of gore and guts, until they were screaming for the needle to stop, until iron was pulsating from their ugly, cohesive bodies, now bound together for the night. His eyes, too, remained heavily clamped to Taehyung, like a cheetah to prey, gauging at his sweaty, mindless body and scouring at anyone else who dared near it.

He'd been reluctant to grind up against Jimin, despite what it being what he originally intended to do (originally intending to seduce), despite it being what Jimin would most likely be thrown off by, despite it being what everyone else in the room was doing, despite it being what the alcohol was screeching at him to do. Still, even in spite of the mind-pulverising secretions of firewater sloshing about his brains and obscuring his guts, he couldn't quite bring himself to shed the shy, awkward skin he'd been forced into from birth. He wasn't particularly scared of Jimin (in this moment, at least), but, more so afraid of the reactions of those around him. He, even with a soused head, was incapable of feigning ignorance to their judgement, to their harlequin lips of moribund whispers.

But, somewhere within the bursting pipe of peer pressure and the raucous of amatory fingerprints gracing his skin, he felt compelled to dance. It was as though Jimin was completely in control of him (which, again, wasn't at all Taehyung's intention, it was supposed to be the other way around), and had manifested the urge for movement within him; to Taehyung, it was like pills had been shoved unwillingly down his oesophagus, which cemented the concept of sex and lust within his soul, making him hungry, hungry, hungry. God, he was starving, and, in that moment, the lethal puppeteer behind him was all that could replenish the hollers of his stomach.

And thus, he finds himself here, within the catacombs of distant mouths and forgotten eyes, which no longer flicker with seizures of merriment. No, instead, blood is restocked as disco balls and uncomplimentary vices are bursting holes within their hearts; fountains dance in quivering natatoriums of ichor, conniving teeth twisting skin into lamenting contusions. Two thousand tidal waves thrash in resplendent vigour against the thrum of music; a unity of hatred and jealousy that's unable to separate it's components — every single body clasping to another, desperately combatting against the avalanche of salt that spritzes across pulsating lungs.

It's intoxicating to the newbie, he must say, to be thrust so deep into the unforgiving lacquer of alcohol-infused oceans. All he can feel is water, the way it slams so pertinently into him and swims so desperately within him, goldfish golfing up his mind and all. He can feel the water of the nymph king's hands, as they anchor his body into the sea floor of Jimin's muscle-engulfed body. Goodness and sanity don't seem to matter anymore, as the beautiful feeling of swimming implores him to keep moving, to keep thrashing along with the sound waves of horrendous buzz. It's only as the combers of fingers attempt to abseil a little too far ashore of his skin, does he feel the water consume his body too vitally, attempting to lull him into the depths of a world his breaths are too short to explore.