VMINKOOK / THE ART OF BEEKEEPING

57

— PART FIFTY-SEVEN.

( AN ok just so you know, there's a small smut scene at the end — just a pre-warning, in case people don't want to read smut! )

"Oh, you are so dead!"

Their faces are so cherubic against the snow, perhaps even more than usual; white eyes and red cheeks, with the coruscating allure of the climate fluttering over them. Their feet hover across the ground, floating angels, drifting amongst the floors of heaven — harps and falsettos, their smiles are silver, giggling. They're numen of this wonderland, keeping their etiolated gazes appointed against one another, only focusing on each other.

And, amongst it all, amongst such bitter frost and sparkling transparency, their bodies are warm with blood. Blood-red tongues and thick, oozing desires.

Even in Jimin's Cadillac, they were distinctly dark, incongruous to the bright lights of snowfall all around them. They hadn't taken Taehyung home, no, instead, they drove to the outskirts of town, wherein they could escape the destructive eye of the townspeople, with their American Gothic appeal, like a Grant Wood painting come alive.

Taehyung tears up their image of falsified sanctity with his shriek of laughter, his breaths heavy, feet bounding, crunching against the snow, as he runs around, tries to escape the ambush of snowballs hauled his way.

None of them were too sure who'd started it, but, here they are, running around the empty fields, ripening their hands into shades of pink as they scoop up ice, chucking it at one another. It's a strangely jovial practice, even as Jeongguk's snowballs appear to be enlarging.

"You shit!" Jimin cries as a very big one collides with his back — and he's laughing, as he tries to grapple more of that snow to throw back. Jeongguk just laughs, ducking out of the way easily.

Taehyung, using his initiative, grips a small, delicate bundle of snowflakes, and uses it to hit the redhead square in the nose — he can't help but be impressed by his own aim. "Fuck!" Jeongguk splutters out, amongst peels of giggles. Before he can retaliate, Taehyung makes for the bushes, hoping to find a perfect vantage point.

He's trying to control his laughter, though his cheeks are aching with the splendour of it; the daylight is so feathery and nimble in this scene, and his shoulders and chest are slamming back and forth, trying to keep his breaths as quiet as possible. He'd managed to crouch down in such a position that he remains somewhat hidden, and he's so focused on the harshness of his respiratory system, he hardly notices when that becomes the only thing that there is to focus on.

Eyes widening, he cranes his neck around, peeks over the bush, and his smile falters a little, as he's graced with the image of a perfectly empty field.

Completely white and serene, the ground is illusory, looks almost blurred in his confused state of vision; like the clouds of heaven, though drenched in a psychedelic hue, that has him tempted to rub his eyes. There's not a single sign of them — no clouds of breath, no giggling timbres, no sneaky whispers, no flashes of colour. Nothing.

Taehyung's eyes have to narrow a little, and they flicker around frantically, puzzled as to where on earth they could have gone. Were they even there? His teeth clutch his bottom lip, and he rises to his knees, his heart beating in his ears, blood sloshing around them. He thinks perhaps he's gone insane, but, as he looks out at that plain, barren field, it's so desolate, it looks like no one had ever set foot on it.

His eyes widen again as he comes to realise exactly how literal that statement to be, because, as he really looks at the ground, at the freshly fallen snow, at the way it stretches and meanders across the earth, so whimsical and unsullied, he comes to the realisation, there are no footprints.