Blood Ink ✔️

38: Shift

It's the silence of the air that's no longer weighted down by rain that rouses you from sleep. Shifting, you yawn sleepily and peel your eyes open, squinting against the rays of sun stabbing in like daggers from the windows.

As you come to, you feel the muscles of your neck and back protest from sitting up too long. Grimacing a little, you stretch your neck and force your eyes open fully against the harsh sunlight.

And you almost fall out of the bed.

Black doe eyes are clearly open and staring up at you through a narrow-eyed gaze. Jungkook's long body is trapped to the bed by your arm flung over his chest, his silky black hair still splayed over your lap.

Those charmingly-uneven lips of his are twisted into a shape that says he's half curious as to how he got into this position, and half pissed off that you've let him do it.

Actually, there's probably a bit more pissed off that curiosity.

Unfortunately.

"Good morning," says Jungkook in a raspy morning voice, dry and unamused. "Care to explain why I'm in your lap?"

Blinking in shock, it occurs to you that the man that came so unglued last night may not remember a single second of what happened.

He doesn't know.

It never occurred to you that there could be so much turmoil tucked into the back of his brain that when it's raining, it completely takes over his consciousness. It's like Jungkook was possessed utterly and totally by the unfortunate of his life.

You feel like you should tell him, just so he understands that you might have seen a little and know and a little about him that he may not have really wanted you to know.

"It rained last night," you say, all you can think of in explanation. "Do you tend to sleep talk? And walk? And act completely conscious when you actually aren't?"

Realization sparks in Jungkook's eyes.

His face goes pale.

You wait for him to recoil from you, roll off the bed and walk out in an attempt to regroup, explaining away with anger and rejection the events of last night in some misguided attempt to not acknowledge what you've witnessed.

You expect him to do his utmost best to escape you.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he almost knocks you out with bewilderment when he turns into you to hide his face, burying his emotions into your stomach and clutching the material of your shirt in a closed fist.

It's so polarly opposite to the usually sarcastic, condescending wall that he puts up, and although on any other day you might call him out for being sappy, he feels way too fragile in this moment to even attempt at making a humorous remark.

All you do is let your fingers fall down to card through the luxurious stands of his midnight hair. You just wait for him to gather himself, wait for him to take the lead and speak first.

It's normally easy to read emotions in the gaps and spaces of noise that make up silence.

A cloud of fury, a haunting mist of sadness, or the gentle, warm light of gratitude; those are easy to read. This silence...

It's so hard to read.

You can catch tiny flashes and hints as they shift and move through the murky heaviness of the quiet. You can sense a little bit of embarrassment, a flash of anger, and maybe even the barest, briefest hint of that warm gratitude.