Jungkook's sweaty hands attempted to steady the pot on the stove-top, as Seokjin snapped some uncooked strands of spaghetti into halves. At least, he intended to. Instead, they crumbled in his fingers like sand.

"You're breaking those pieces with some vigor," Jungkook said, switching hands and wiping them on his pants.

"Where'd you learn that word?" Seokjin asked, pulverizing another few pieces.

"English class. This girl kicked me awake, so I was forced to listen to the lecture."

"Vigor isn't something you're taught in senior year, Jungkook."

Jungkook response was a childish shrug. "Maybe focus on your spaghetti instead of my vocabulary."

"Big words," Seokjin mumbled. "You know about your extra shift, right? You're waiting today."

"Taking over for Jeong-gi," He salt and peppered the water, the flakes floating in the fluid, and looked at Seokjin. "I'm aware. 6:30, today. I've got it in my notes." Jungkook cranked up the heat, and let his hands fall to his side. "But you're not supervising me today. Are you going somewhere?"

"Airport," Seokjin seized the pot's handle, tilting it so it hung over the counter, so it wouldn't fall over. Jungkook watched him, wiping off his sweat, and his brow creased like the wilting organics in the green bin outside the restaurant.

"You never go to the airport."

"There's a first time for everything, Jungkook."

"Aren't you afraid of planes?"

Seokjin's fist curled around the hem of his apron, as he cleared the hitch in his throat, cutting Jungkook off. "A-hem!" He spluttered, causing Jungkook to jump. If Seokjin hadn't moved the pot handle earlier, Jungkook would have tipped the pot of boiling water, and created a patch of marred, fluid-filled, burn blisters on his skin. 

Jungkook ignored Seokjin's indirect plea for him to shut up. "Is Namjoon going somewhere?"

"Training's over!" 

"What?!"

"Time's up! Noodles are cooked, sauce is done, and here's a plate! You're done!"

Jungkook poked at the noodles. "They're stiff."

"Your butt's stiff!" Seokjin huffed. In five minutes, he'd ushered Jungkook out of the door, with a extremely confused look slapped onto his face, and packed up his kitchen. He slipped the porcelain white plates into the dishwasher, jabbed his thumb into the START button, flicked the lights off, then stepped towards the door.

The appliances of the kitchen gave him a low hum goodbye.

"Hey," Hoseok said, shaking Yoongi's shoulder. They were positioned across the street, on a cold bus bench not too far away from the closest restaurant. It was always busting at the seams, crammed with businessmen and women with jeweled accessories worth at least a couple cars. "Twelve o'clock. Jeon Jungkook."

Yoongi shook Hoseok's hand off, stepping forwards. The corner of Hoseok's mouth twitched. "Where'd he come from?"

"Kim-ui Segye," Hoseok said, pursing his lips. "Kim's World."

Jimin's house, while deteriorating in physical appearance inside, felt more alive with Park scratching up the floor as she ran. Though Jimin wasn't sure what might have gotten into her milk, he was glad that she at least had the energy to tear up his house. Park often left unexpected tufts of ginger-hazel fur around the house, usually floating around aimlessly, which made cleaning the house significantly harder.

"Park," Jimin chided her that day, squatting down to her level. He pointed her finger at her, just to let her know he was being serious. "I'm going to the airport today."

"Me-ow." Park jutted her tiny head out, as if to say: Your point?

"Meaning," Jimin elicited a sigh, knowing Park wasn't going to listen regardless. "You have to be good."

Park's tail swished against the hardwood idly. 

"You're not gonna do that, are you?" Jimin's finger dropped to his side. Park rolled onto her back, and flattened against the floor. "Right. Got it."

Jimin's finger hooked through the key ring, and he spun his bundle of keys around. "I won't be gone long," he promised, smiling. "I love you."

Park sat up, blinking. He took that as an "I love you, too."

Jimin shoved his hands into the depths of his pockets, tipping his head down, so his hair covered his face, and speed walked until he was off his street. He caught a bus heading to the airport, and snagged a seat at the back. 

"I can't go on," Namjoon's chest heaved, as he stumbled backwards, hand hitting the edge of the counter top as he backed up. "Just, arguing with you like this!" 

Seokjin's knee bounced sporadically, the airport buzzing with rushed energy around him. Suitcases dragged across the floor, occasionally hitting a bump of metal where the ground rose a little, to mark the area of a shop, or waiting area. Towering panes of glass replaced some of the smaller walls in the airport.

"Then don't. Don't do it."  Seokjin's voice was a thin blade that sliced the next words off of Namjoon's tongue.

"Last call, Flight B613, Gate B, last call." A creaky voice, like the hinges on a rusty iron gate, scratched through the PA. Namjoon's flight. In twenty minutes, he could see the Air Korea flight rolling away on the runway, eventually tipping it's nose upwards as it sliced into the air.

Soon enough, it was just the size of his hand.

His smallest finger.

His fingernail.

Gone.

Without being aware of it, Seokjin was standing once again, body moving of its own volition,  taking all the wrong turns in the direction of the exit, one foot tripping in front of the other. It was like watching Namjoon's plane had sliced him down the middle, letting his consciousness escape his body. It dissipated into the air, watching his physical form stumble along, drunk on shock.

Jimin's eyes glinted, a spark of naive hope lighting up his cognac brown irises. His legs tensed, like rubber bands waiting to snap. The first step off the bus took a certain strength.

Maybe I don't have to wait to see them. They'll visit.

He knew he was wrong.

Being desperate was like being stranded in the middle of the ocean, with just tiny waves softly pushing you along. Big waves were dangerous. Big waves meant change. But change would never come. All the hope you had to sustain yourself was wasted on the little, useless waves.

Forever suspended in numbness.

The bus rolled away, following the curve of the road, ready to cart more hopeless "wave" riders along their delusions. 

Seokjin buried his phone into the depths of his pockets, unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt. White dress shirt. It was suffocating how proper he'd made himself, pressed pants and hair fixed in place by the gel he'd bothered to use. Prim and proper. No imperfection could ever be visible. There was something comforting in the idea of perfection; the notion nothing would ever stray too far from its path, the freedom from change.

Safety.

And Jimin.

"Jimin?" Seokjin shot up.

---

A/N: jImIN??? 

this was a rush for me to finish, even though it was just a couple words. i know if i don't get it out today, this draft will never leave the "unpublished" stage. SO, SORRY FOR THE CLIFFHANGER. this is a bit different from my outline, but this chapter wasn't really working with what i had planned for it anyways, so we'll see how that goes.

also-- take into consideration the contrast between jimin's desperation for change, and seokjin's comfort in perpetual similarity. just a little interesting thing i noticed: ALSO NOT PLANNED.

gah let's see when i update next ACK

- ri