— 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.
Jimin tugs him under, forcing more and more reservoirs to saturate his throat and pixelate the image of salvation previously appointed to him. All he feels now is monochrome sticks and stones and freckles of dust begin to infiltrate his lungs. Jimin causes frenzies of distaste about him as he drills innocent, helpless nothing's into Taehyung: just another fish caught in his net. Taehyung can feel his life draining from him, as he attempts to move horrendously, his body slowing down with each grind of movement.
"Having fun, baby?" Coos the executioner, with no concept of human emotion, just simply running his fingers all over the scales of the nameless, faceless fish, enjoying the power that comes with the struggle. Taehyung still, disturbingly, felt like platinum. He felt as if the torment was okay, was dignified, because the heat of his capturers fingers was so fucking rich.
Taehyung's response isn't verbal, he just pushes himself against Jimin more, allows the older to grasp at power and to kiss punctures into Taehyung's throat. The blond gives himself to Jimin in that moment and just revels in exhibitionism of it all — delights in the looks of grave envy cast his way from girls and boys who aren't as special as him right now, who haven't yet been brought upon the most expensive ship of them all. In this moment, he feels alive, feels like Jimin's spitting starlight into his blood and good lord does he feel okay with the idea of letting him win. And that's what he does, moaning quietly into the echoing ocean and willingly nosediving into this new body of water compressing against his back.
One drop, two drops, three drops, and—
His jump is hindered, prevented, as another entity seems to slap him from the mindset lacking in self-worth. There he stands, a pirate of a canoe, with oars which cascade against the tug of ocean waves; such small, insignificant things, which have the power to part the sea.
"Taehyung." He says, like the intimacy of the heavens, coaxing away the demon, which leaves branding marks against his neck and jaw, "let's go outside, yeah? Get some fresh air."
Jeongguk clutches his wrist and it's almost like the netting is shed and he's free, completely, with only the lingering thump of his heart to remind him of the danger he'd been in only moments ago. Nodding without so much as a second thought is perhaps another dangerous idea, as it means Jimin's netting hook onto him a little tighter. "Can't you see we're busy, Jeon?"
"Like I care." He scowls, prying Taehyung away and gently manoeuvring him through the safety of passages that lead to the garden — the somewhat empty and sanctimonious garden, barren of such electrifying music and regretful thoughts.
They stand within the eyes of the moon, the stars preaching heaven against their silken skin, evaporating blasphemy from their loins and embedding new coats of rationale within their blood stream — within Taehyung's blood steam. His breaths are heavy, disbelieving, as he watches the pool of chlorine-stained water before him, now void of humanity, only haunted by solo cups which compromise the image of insanity. Manmade water seems a whole lot more tranquillising to him than the hubbub of metaphysical water in the building behind them.
Jeongguk takes in the younger's wide eyes and panting breaths, almost feels bad about the truly objectified way he appears, his skin glistening with the same integument as a used toy. "You alright?" It's a redundant question really and Jeongguk knows that, but, in this moment, he thinks Taehyung needs a formality.
"No.. I— I .. I don't know." He gulps, clutching different patches of his neck, sensing where the flowers of owning are beginning to blossom, "I dunno what happened." His voice is barely audible, if Jeongguk hadn't solely placed his focus on Taehyung, he probably wouldn't have even noticed he'd spoken.
"You're drunk, Taehyung," Jeongguk informs him, as if the younger wasn't aware, "and you're at a party, and it's just normal you're going to get.. I don't know, lured into the fun of it?"
"That's..." Taehyung breathes exasperatedly, ignoring the pattern of his ugly heart against his ribcage at the kindness within Jeongguk right now, "uh, that's.. that's not... I— oh, fuck." He didn't mean to cry, he really didn't, but, beneath the glares of the stars and with a mind that vibrated with muddled and blitzed dispositions, he found himself easily victimised by the repulsions of salty scintilla — the ocean he'd been drowning in seemingly leaking out through his eyelids.
"Taehyung..." Jeongguk's voice was a little hoarse due to the surprise of those tears. He'd been expecting Taehyung to be angry or a little too merry, certainly not despairing, it was rare to find someone despairing after a session with Jimin's black soul.
He didn't offer much choice when he prompts Taehyung into his embrace, allowing the blonde to sob relentlessly into his shoulder, as he doodles apricot sunsets and monkey bar-induced scrapes of knees into his back, fingers dispelling negativity from Taehyung's loss of control. In all honesty, the blonde himself wasn't entirely aware of what made him cry, but just everything was growing too much, everything too stressful and nagging at his mind. He felt as if everything in his life was topsy-turvy and the only way to get back on track was to release the puddles of despair crawling amongst his liver.
Jeongguk smells like cherries and microwave puddings, and the squeaking leather of his jacket is somewhat solacing a sound as it laps up Taehyung's form and braces him in the comfort of Jeongguk's arms.
He shushes the snivelling boy softly, resting his chin on top of his furrow of curls, eyes securing the area and ready to shun anyone who neared. What his eyes didn't quite pick up, however, was the irritated gaze flummoxed to him from the kitchen window, a gaze which resolved firmly on their bodies huddled together so serenely. No, he didn't quite catch the despairing gaze of Park Jimin, who'd lost all sense of humanity on the dance floor.
AN
woo we love a chapter full o' metaphors and emotions