Thread by @peupeukoo

#JIKOOK — In Summer And Rain

Summer.

One word, three months, and a whirlwind of feelings JK can only name as they creep up his spine and sigh into his ears and fill up the hollow of his chest.

https://twitter.com/7timesSana/status/1655565976883306496

Relief, in the sharp trill of the last bell, summer curling itself into the vines climbing up the walls and stealing into the school halls and lighting up JM’s eyes in the most wondrous way possible.

Pleasure, in the last dredges of homework stuffed away in old bookshelves and crumpled in the pockets of discarded schoolbags, where they sit—stone heavy, forgotten—until the drag of the days is too long to ignore.

Surprise, in JM’s sudden appearance on JK’s doorstep one morning—as if summoned by sheer thought—with nothing but a wallet and a bright smile.

He drags JK to buy new running shoes at the mall, and then makes JK buy him a small own keychain. JK thinks matcha ice pops have never tasted better.

Satisfaction, as watermelon slices replace ice pops and NJ’s braying laugh presses itself into the wooden floor on the opposite side of the court.

Contentment, in the tv’s digital blue glow on JM’s face and the empty bowl of greasy popcorn beside him; in the comforting sink of the spare futon beside his own as JK lays awake in the dark, eyes tracing owls and volleyballs and stars on the ceiling.

JK is all too familiar with summer, aware of every emotion that settles itself in his mind and buries itself deep within his chest.

But he can’t name the one that makes itself known from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet, in the slight warmth of the evening breeze and the skip of his heartbeat, as he gazes down at JM on his doorstep again—this time in his best shirt that JK once cleaned ice +

cream off of and with a steadily drooping daisy between his fingers.

Evening glows golden, cicadas chirp in their crooks, and somewhere within JM, a soft campfire lights itself from the feathers of his heart.

(JK strongly suspects he will remember this forever: the little girl who lives across the street with her pigtails, the thin grooves of the wooden door against his fingertips, JM glistening under the drops of sweat dampening his forehead and wearing an expression as if he’d +

been offered the brightest star in the universe, just like that).

“Ggukie?”

Evening glows golden, cicadas chirp in their crooks, and the garble of the neighbor's television plays over the faint noise of traffic and JK’s thumping heart.

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Why are your cheeks red?”

Excitement, surprise, satisfaction, contentment. All the words that scrawl themselves into JK’s heart every year, when summer rears its sleepy head and encloses Jak inside its warm, comforting embrace.

But not quite the words that describe the warmth of JM’s embrace, the curve of his smile against JK’s shoulder, and the press of the singular daisy stem against his thin cotton shirt.

Oh, this. This is what it feels like.

His eyes are filled with stars, and JK marvels at the sight. Beautiful.

Excitement, surprise, satisfaction, contentment. The promise of something new.

Perhaps this is what summer is.

Rain.

It’s everywhere—drumming itself loudly on the rusted metal roof, pooling in shimmering, lopsided puddles on the concrete road and around their shoes, dangling off the ends of JK’s eyelashes and then on his fingertips as he stretches them out of the safety of the bus stand.

If JM’s being honest, it’s not something he really likes, but who is he to be honest when the most beautiful human being he’s ever seen is so enamored by it?

If the same petrichor that makes him wrinkle his nose makes JK’s lips tip up in that rare, genuine way of his, who is he to complain, really.

(He used ‘petrichor’ right, didn’t he?)

It isn’t even a question.

A gust of icy air drags its fingers down his spine, and JM shivers, sticking his hands between his thighs. JK laughs, a quiet affair—just a small puff of air that paints its pearly white into the air heavy with rain and JK—but nevertheless, it surrounds JM, drowning out the +

insistent rain. “Here, hyung,” he says, and as he tugs at JM’s hands and wraps his own long, bony, beautiful fingers around his, JM draws in a long breath.

Oh, this. This is what it feels like.

JK has an eyelash on his cheek. JM tells him so, and JK’s blush is unrivalled.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there, huddled together on the wet, cold bench under the rusted metal roof with JM’s hands in JK’s, and he finds out that he doesn’t really mind, not when +

JK’s heat is pressing onto his palms and against his thigh and into his side, like a promise well kept.

Somewhere between the scribble of passing minutes into the armrest digging into his side and JK’s distinctive cologne, JK manages to fall asleep, bag on his lap +

and head on JM’s shoulder.

In that moment, they’re all alone in the world, twin ghosts in the steadily deepening darkness.

JM reaches into the pocket of his bag, and his fingers brush against manila. An entire future contained in a piece of paper. He traces the shape of the envelope, commits it to memory.

Commits /this/ to memory:

The rain pittering and pattering to a slow stop, JK’s head on his shoulder.

Excitement, surprise, satisfaction, contentment. The promise of something new.

He’ll tell JK another time.

— the end.