Bangtan Universe • BTS oneshots

11. Where the Heart Is • taekook

Taehyung rents an old house deep in the countryside, for a quick reprieve from his jam packed schedule.

His blood red Porsche Spyder zooms east, past the shadowy pine forests, meanders along icy lakes until gas stations become a rarity, until the crowd thins and the endless chatters of the world lulls into a comforting radio static buzz. It takes him ten minutes to find the key hidden in the withered flower bed by the front door, another six minutes to drag his oversized luggage into the musky living room.

"Call me back, this is insane, you can't just ditch everything like this when you have performances booked alre-" Click, delete. He throws the cellphone onto the worn out fabric couch, comes back to it in fifteen minutes and turns the power off completely.

The silence is suffocating at first, like an invisible vice that grips onto his migraines and wrings out all the forgotten regrets. But eventually, as the sun sets and rises again, and the front door opens and slams shut over and over, he learns to mop up the scattered shards of his solitude.

The only time Taehyung sees the other tenant is when he plays the piano.

In a dusty room smelling like the Baptist church of his childhood, behind the piano that hasn't been tuned in years, he finds a folder of handwritten musical scores. The songs come alive under his long fingers on the yellowed keys, as he hums out the tunes and squints to read the neatly written lyrics. Old fashioned, evocative songs filled with melancholy. And next thing he knows, the stranger is standing next to him, listening attentively with hollow doe eyes, sunburnt skin peeking through both his sleeves.

Taehyung has never been alarmed by him. Sometimes the stranger would find his way to the corner of the piano bench, and hums to the tunes next to Taehyung, voice airy and faint, like fragments of a lucid dream.

"Do you know who wrote these songs? They are beautiful, I want to record them. I think this is just what the market needs right now, something sweet and nostalgic, not belonging to this time." Taehyung beams at him, head in a hazy cloudy.

The stranger dips his gaze, a toothy smile paints his pale face, "If you say so. All yours. Was - was never supposed to sing anyways."

"Why not?" Taehyung's eyelids droop and flutter wearily.

The stranger tilts his head, eyes a little glassy, "Glad they still have an audience... Always felt safe here, so nice."

Taehyung has to agree, the house does have a spell of its own. A perpetual fog shrouds every corner, as his thoughts trudges to a stop, like the millions of dust bunnies suspended in the sunrays through broken shutters.

They seem to always miss each other in the house otherwise, but the few traces of him bring Taehyung comfort - warm tea with steam rising languidly into the chilly air, the creak of the backdoor as it opens into a field of sun drenched wild thistles, and that soft airy voice humming the songs he's grown to love.

The owner of the house hesitates over the phone, "You must be mistaken, sir, there's nobody else at the house besides you. As you had requested, we were extra diligent about ensuring your privacy..." Taehyung's response stutters, a comma that blinks and flickers, never turning into a period.

In the dimly lit study, buried under a heavy pile of military history books and the dried remnants of yellowjacket wasps, Taehyung finds a cardboard box of photos.  Most of them are stiff family portraits against a dark fabric background - a father in full military uniform, staring sternly into the camera, mother seated with two boys next to her. It's the younger boy that catches his attention, the one with inquisitive doe eyes and a toothy smile. Then another photo underneath: a band of musicians posing on an open stage. His eyes lock onto the somber youth in the front holding the tall vintage microphone, the piercing glance touching his heart.

Bravo. I knew you'd find a way for your voice to be heard.

Taehyung smiles fondly at the image, pride swelling against his chest.

His gaze lands back at the pile of photos, and pauses at the one sticking out at the bottom. It's in shades of mottled brown and grey, a fleeting nightmare that yearns to come alive in vivid colors.

Stern features and the familiar doe eyes, in a military uniform a tad too big for his frame. There's handwriting on the back of the photo - neat, orderly, just like the lyrics written on the music scores - Jungkook, December 1939.

If the world is nothing but memories on our mind, then can we keep love to ourselves, beyond the boundary of time and space?

A month later, Taehyung releases the last album of his music career, before disappearing into obscurity. In a drastic departure from his signature energetic pop style, the songs are decidedly old fashioned, punctured by clips of silence. Well, they are not silence, not exactly, more like recordings of moments in life - the buzz in the air as the town awakens, erratic tapping of raindrops on an old tiled roof, and the sound of pages turning, another, another, and another...

Taehyung buys the old house deep in the countryside and moves in permanently. People walking by would often hear evocative melodies drifting out of the half open windows, accompanied by muted laughters. What a pretty tune, they think to themselves absently, and continue to walk past the house, thoughts floating back onto their own lives.