Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Kim Taehyung
Summary: A collection of individual Taekook stories based on colour prompts rooted in love, wonder and sex. Every instalment is a single bottle sent out to the lonely sea.
White is every colour of the spectrum, reflected.
Jungkook is colour blind.
He doesn’t mix his greens up with his reds. It’s not just a case of missing pigment or a two-dimensional glitch in his photoreceptors. It’s not a narrowing of his spectrum because there is no spectrum to narrow.
He sees black. He sees grey. He sees white.
Sees light and shadows, but not the saturated sky as it changes from orange to purple as the sun goes down. Sees details, but can’t tell you the colour of someone’s skin, the colour of their eyes. The colour of their lips. And it’s not tied to some romantic notion. Nothing to do with soul mates. It's not timers on arms, tattoos on skin, coming of age—concepts Jungkook thinks are mostly ridiculous, is jealous of, because for him there is no gain. There’s no rainbow at the other end. No love, no switch. No inbuilt trigger that’s going to change the way he sees; when he’s walking home from his job, when he’s in the midst of the busy city on a Saturday night, when he’s on a train hurtling through the country. It is what it is—the hand Jungkook was dealt. Genetic monochromatism. Rare, but so are shark attacks. So are plane crashes. Rare doesn’t mean things don’t happen. All it means is that if they happen to you, you’re unlucky—that is, if the thing that happens is bad, and in Jungkook’s case, it is.
Or at least he thinks it might be.
Reality is, he doesn’t know what he’s missing because you can’t truly miss something that you never even had.
But the older he gets, the more he learns about the world, the more he learns about people, the more he feels a snaking grief. Grief for something he’s never known but still knows is lost. Is gone. Is different. It wraps around his lungs and squeezes the air out when he hears people talk about flowers, fireworks, fabrics, what they’ve seen on film. Because, to Jungkook, it’s just a change of contrast, a shift from dark to light.
Illumination and nothingness.
Jungkook’s never had a boyfriend—or a girlfriend, for that matter—because he is afraid. Afraid he’ll say the wrong thing or give the wrong advice. Feel the wrong feeling. Bore them to death because he’s heard that grey is drab and Jungkook thinks he might be what he sees. Dreary and dull. Tedious and tiring.
He steers clear of galleries. Doesn’t enjoy spring. Never goes out to the movies. Can’t tell the difference between an orange and a grapefruit, so how is he supposed to tell you that your outfit brings out your eyes, the highlights in your hair? How is he supposed to smile when you crunch through Autumn leaves and yell that they’re so vibrant? When you say that you only go to the beach on rainy days because the sea turns green, like an uncut emerald?
Jungkook thinks that there might be a limit to how much grey a person will endure. How much they’ll bend before they fake it. He lays awake at night trying to fathom how many unshared observations, how many failed interpretations it would take for a gleam to fade from a smile, for a glimmer in patient eyes—a lover’s, say—to tarnish like cut-rate gold. And, as he calculates the cost, weighs up the risk of sure rejection, the inevitable discarding of something incomplete—something dysfunctional—he decides that he won’t ever be the cloud that eclipses someones sun, and he doesn’t have it in him to try and shine for two.
The day he meets Taehyung, it’s because colour, or lack thereof, almost nearly kills him.
prguitarman
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
dededos
andulkaphoto
pixelskylines
gummygunk
