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Sacrilegious Stars

Summary:

I don't want to talk about it, what you did to me.

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Taehyung wakes to the loud sound of banging on his front door. The sun is streaming in long warm beams through the crack in his living room window and as he rolls off the couch, he guesses it must be 9 or 10 in the morning.
“Hello? Sir!”
He flings the door open, staring daggers at the… Firefighter.
“Sir we received a report of smoke coming from your back yard, everything okay?”
Taehyung’s face drops, and he scrambles to pull his robe closer around him. “Oh, oh, sorry… um,” he runs a nervous hand through his hair. “Yeah. Yeah it’s all good.” He flashes a reassuring smile at the fireman who’s giving him a critical look.
“Well,” He glances down at his feet and tries retreating back inside. “If that’s all—”
“Sorry sir, what was causing the smoke?”
Taehyung freezes. Freezes cause how… how do you explain…?
And then it hits him. Hits him all over again the fucking phone call the fucking fire the… Everything.
He stands there for a solid minute staring into space before he just breaks down.

Chapter 1: Fuck White

Chapter Text

playlist

 

!please note all my fic playlists are collaborative because I want you to able to add songs that you think really fit the story. I think its a great way to discover new music and have you feel more immersed in the story if you're like me and always listening to music while reading. HOWEVER I reserve the right to remove any songs, add any songs at any time and IF YOU ABUSE YOUR POWER I will make it non-collaborative, so just, play nice and we won't have any problems.

 

 


 

[Kim Taehyung]

 

 

 

Weather should be in the high 90s for the next several weeks, we’ll be seeing rain on Thursday night-

Taehyung rolls the radio dial pathetically, thankfully landing on a music station. He knows it already, doesn’t need some weather lady telling him that he’s going to fucking melt. The song is ‘Macho Man’ the time is 4pm on a Monday, the place is Kim Taehyung’s home. Finally, he decides to get up from the couch that’s littered with napkins and straws and some popsicle sticks, muttering to himself as he heads to open a window.

“Disgusting…”

He shoves open the blinds, letting in some light. He hasn’t been outside in something like four days. Reluctantly, he grabs a trash bag.

He dramatically turns up the music, making sure it’s loud enough to overwhelm every room in the whole damn house, and starts tidying up, throwing anything remotely annoying into his bag. He pauses; half bent over the couch when he hears a loud tapping on his window. And then another and another and another an-

“Hello?!”

Taehyung turns to find his neighbor [Ms. Bonellia] banging on the window, a hostile frown on her face.

He gives her a look, a long, annoyed, 'do you mind?’ look. But she just points threateningly towards the door. Taehyung sighs and abandons his trash bag, heading to fling open the door as aggressively as he can.

“WhAt?!”

He glares down at Ms. Bonellia who stands in front of him, her hands on her hips in defense.

“Kim Taehyung! You cannot turn your music up so loud!”

He huffs and leans against his door frame. “And why NOT I am going through something…” He whispers the last part like a trendy secret you tell your friend in the hallway. “Can’t you have a little sympathy?”

The woman scoffs. “It’s been a month! Either get a therapist, or get over it!”

Taehyung exhales haughtily and fluffs his hair. “I don’t think that’s any of your business!” He’s met with a deadly glare. “It starts becoming my business when I can see my plants SHAKING from the vibrations of that sound!”

Taehyung gasps and leans down to her level, “This, woman, is a fucking incredible song!” She rolls her eyes.

“Look Tae, I know it’s hard, and I truly, truly am sorry-“

Taehyung shakes his head firmly, giving her a begging look. “Oh god. Please don’t Bon. I can do angry yelling; I can’t do sympathy.” He frowns, “it’s too pathetic.”

She purses her lips but eventually nods, returning to her angry stance, this time with a fake growl as she yells. “Turn that BULLSHIT down or I will call the POLICE!!!”

Taehyung laughs and pinches her cheek before slowly closing the door in her face, “Thanks Bon!”

She’s barely able to yell a strangled, “I’m not kidding!” Before the door clicks closed in her face.

Taehyung, sighs as he leans his back against the door. He bites his lip as it starts to quiver gently. God, he hated that. He can feel is eyes misting over. Swearing quietly under his breath he makes a run for the stairs, flinging himself into his room where he can collapse on the bed. The bed he hasn’t slept in in over a month. A bed he shared with his husband, that hasn’t been touched sense they both last slept there… together.

He clings to the thick comforter like it’s his life line and silently, pathetically, simply, tries to suppress his tears.

Shaky breathing

Heavy heart

Unbearably, painful, loneliness.

It’s a long time before he recovers from the sudden wave of emotion. But he does. He always does. Slowly, numbly, he props himself up with one hand, and slides his feet to the ground. He bites his lip, staring at the wall. The white wall that Jimin had wanted. A color Taehyung hated but said he didn’t mind. He swears again before getting to his feet. He needs a fucking shower. To say it had been a week would be an understatement.

 

Once he’s clean and feeling fresh, Taehyung heads to his closet. The music that now radiates from the floor below is ‘What I like About You’ by the Romantics. Taehyung has heard it every day for the past month at this exact time. Stupid radio station can’t find some damn diversity but oh well, it’s a good song.

His closet is… large. Very large. Left was Jimin’s, right is his. And as he stands, every wall surrounding him with its looming presence, he wants to scream.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, or why, but fuck is he doing something. He moves from one side of the room to the other in a zigzag pattern, grabbing hats, shirts, jackets, suits, sweaters, underwear, ties, shoes and throws them into a pile in the center of the room. His burn pile.

 

[You should get it; it brings out your eyes!] burn.

 

 

{Merry Christmas Jimin! I hope you like it!} burn.

 

 

[Happy Birthday Tae! I hope it fits!] burn.

 

 

{I got it at the giftshop, what do you think?}  burn.

 

[How about this one instead, it’s more professional?] burn.

 

{I went shopping! Come see what I bought.} BURN.

 

Eventually he does scream, but he doesn’t really notice it over the music and the pure adrenaline of frustration.

He must have emptied half his closet and most of Jimin’s by the time he collapses, exhausted, on top of the pile. Anything he’s never worn, everything he never liked. And all the stupid fucking suits he’d bought so he could look presentable in front of Jimin’s colleagues. And then Jimin’s things. Mostly gifts from Taehyung. Anything he didn’t bring with him obviously.

Taehyung picks up an old scarf he’d given to Jimin. Knitted that shit himself, and mutters, “Typical,” releasing a puff of air from his lips that poofs his hair out of his face. “Dick-WAD.” He yells again and heaves himself up, grabbing a handful of trash bags from the kitchen downstairs and going to work on his ‘burn pile’.

By 6’oclock he’s bagged everything and shoved it into the back of his truck. 9 trash bags worth of clothes in 2 hours. He smiles confidently at the product of time well spent before getting in the car, and with some convincing manages to start the damn thing.

Considering he couldn’t actually burn the damn things; he ends up taking them to Goodwill. On the way back, he stops at a paint store. Because fuck white.

 

 

 

*     *  *

^^^^^^^

 

 

 

This: feeling

 

 


 

 

Ever since Taehyung was a child, he loved music. He liked the classics and oldies because they filled him with a dramatic air that told him he could do anything. They were laced with emotion, and suffering and joy and love, saturated full of everything he felt and it was the most liberating feeling. Something close to freedom.

So, as he drives down the darkening streets of his neighborhood, the humid Arizona air pouring through his open windows and Doris Day blaring, Taehyung tries to channel that feeling.

Freedom.

When he gets home, he makes a grilled cheese, and starts painting.

He spends something like three hours drenching every wall in his room with paint, some of his clothes and a few splatters on the floor. But it doesn’t matter. Because he’s painting, changing the same damn room he’s always lived in, into something… his. Something new.

Catastrophe strikes, however, on hour 4; in the form of a forgotten phone call.

From the one and only, Park Jimin.

Taehyung remembers around ring 7 and scrambles down the stone steps frantically, splattering paint everywhere, tripping multiple times, and manages to pick up the phone in his green-handed grasps just in time.

“Hello?!” His voice comes out stupidly raspy and desperate and he curses himself for not practicing or something goddamnit-

“Hey… Tae, I’m glad I caught you.” Jimin is calm and smooth as ever. Fuck him. “Sorry it’s been so long.”

“It’s fine,” Tae throws his hair out of his eyes, desperately trying to channel the sass out of his voice. “I have things to do anyway.” He didn’t. Nothing at all. He was a housewife with no husband to cook or clean for. No reason to do anything but just fade away and die. But that was beside the point.

“You’ve caught me at somewhat of a bad time…” Tae glances down at the paint that is coming dangerously close to dripping on the expensive rug Jimin got him last Christmas. It was a guilt gift because Jimin couldn’t make it home and Tae had spent all of Christmas eve with it wrapped around him, watching depressing Christmas movies.

Like the grinch.

“Why’d you call?” He asks quickly.

There’s a slight pause on the other side of the line and he can make out the faint ruffling of papers.

Not so smooth after all, Park Jimin.

“I uh… I just wanted to talk to you… And hear—hear your voice. It’s been so long Taehyung.”

He stiffens. That’s not how this goes. “I know.” Is all he says, forcing Jimin to sit in total silence. He knows Jimin won’t apologize, and he shouldn’t expect one and honestly, he doesn’t particularly want one. It won’t change shit, so why pretend?

“How are things?”

“Hot.”

“Oh.  Yeah… And uh… How’s the house?”

Taehyung doesn’t hesitate, not a drop of regret in his voice. “It’s changed. I’d be surprised if you recognize it.”

Jimin chuckles. He knows Tae too well. Anyone can hear the fear in that chuckle because an Angry Taehyung left alone to cope with just his imagination to keep him sane… Meant, well, change.

“I did…” Taehyung listens to Jimin gather himself patiently, “I did want to talk to you about something. Is now okay?”

Tae glances around slowly. Like he’s capturing the moment in time. The kitchen with its stone counter and wooden cabinets that are a little too rustic for the vibe of their modern home, the windows with their curtains drawn shut, the fire place that Taehyung almost insisted on removing because they live in fucking Arizona. Everything… untouched…

“What’s on your mind?”

Jimin is quiet again and half of Taehyung has to refrain from getting annoyed with him while the other revels in this feeling. It satiates a deep inner lust for revenge to hear him scramble.

“I know I’ve been ruining our marriage for a long time… Tae.” Taehyung’s breath hitches. He knew this was coming, known for a long time. That doesn’t make him any more ready to have the conversation though. “And while we both know that we’re both partially at fault…” Taehyung didn’t know, he didn’t know at all. Mostly because he wasn’t ready to accept it but—“I want you to know… I never wanted this life for you.”

He can hear Jimin’s voice start to shake, and it’s not the topic, it’s not the internalized pain or regrets that he’s held onto for years or even the frustration of having to deal with it all a million miles apart… it’s that shaking voice—the one of his best friend, despite everything they’ve been through—that causes the first tear to fall.

“I wanted something magical…” Jimin sniffles and it’s destroying Tae from the inside out. “Because you deserve magical, and wonderful and beautiful and…” he sniffles again. “frankly, you deserve everything…” Taehyung chuckles softly. It’s laced with pain that no one can recognize. “You’re my best friend Kim Taehyung. You’re my soulmate, my everything, my whole universe… and” He sniffled something monstrous. “I’ve let you down more than anyone.”

Taehyung is quiet for a long time, letting his sniffles echo those of Jimin on the other line, just trying to soak in the moment. The rawness with which they’re talking right now. They haven’t talked like this in years, just open and honest and so so present-

“I slept with someone, Tae.”

His hand slips.

Jimin is sobbing through the phone but he can barely hear it; he feels miles away.

“I—I never w-wanted this I never w-w-wanted to h-hurt you, Taeh-h-hyung you’re my e-everything I don’t know w-why I d-d-did i-it.”

Something is ringing in his ears, this low, melodic hum that draws him down under. He tells himself he already knew. That he assumed this had been happening for years and that he’s ready for it and that it’s not a big deal but god the humming…

“T-Tae. Please—” Another sob, “Please say something.”

It’s so loud.

“—please.”

He glances down at the carpet—which remains unstained because life is never as poetic as you wish it would be—and hangs up the phone.

His hands a shaking and he refuses to acknowledge that maybe just maybe the tears streaking down his cheeks are real.

He’s stronger than that.

He already knew

He already chose to move on

He already knew and he is strong

And he is still hurt.

And he hates it.

He doesn’t even bother to wipe his hands when he takes the stairs two at a time and finds himself back in their shared closet.

His and Jimin’s.

Doesn’t bother to wipe his hands when he grasps Jimin’s clothes and takes several trips until every last piece of clothing he owned is sitting at the bottom of their empty pool. Next, he hits the bathroom, decides against carrying a million fucking hair products and throws them all in the trash shaking so hard that most of them miss but he doesn’t care.

Takes a look at the bedsheets as he’s leaving and decides he’ll grab those too.

He’s honestly lucky that most of Jimin’s stuff is with him in Chicago.

He’s lucky that Jimin decided keeping the pool clean was a waste when no one was going to use it and emptied it two summers ago.

And most of all he’s lucky that the night Jimin left he wanted to have a barbecue with Taehyung and bought 2 gallons of gasoline.

But, as he lights a match and watches the remnants of his childhood love go up in flames, he thinks, that maybe the thing he’s most lucky for, is that Jimin is never coming back.

 

This. Feeling.

 

He thinks.

 

 

 

*. *    *

^^^^^^^^

 

 

 

 

Is: Everything Okay?

 

 


 

 

Taehyung wakes to the loud sound of banging on his front door. The sun is streaming in long warm beams through the crack in his living room window and as he rolls off the couch, he guesses it must be 9 or 10 in the morning.

“Hello, sir!”

He flings the door open, staring daggers at the… Firefighter.

“Sir we received a report of smoke coming from your back yard, everything okay?”

Taehyung’s face drops, and he scrambles to pull his robe closer around him. “Oh, oh, sorry… um,” he runs a nervous hand through his hair. “Yeah. Yeah it’s all good.” He flashes a reassuring smile at the fireman who’s giving him a critical look.
“Well,” He glances down at his feet and tries retreating back inside. “If that’s all—”

“Sorry sir, what was causing the smoke?”

Taehyung freezes. Freezes cause how… how do you explain…

And then it hits him. Hits him all over again the fucking phone call the fucking fire the… Everything.

He stands there for a solid minute staring into space before he just breaks down. His whole body racks with silent sobs and he hugs himself close. “G-g-god.” He cries, whispering as much as he can while he digs his nails into his arms. “I-I-I’m so s-s-sorry can you c-c-come back l-later?” He finally squeaks in between deeply gut-wrenching breaths.

The man stares at him, frozen between wanting to comfort him and wanting to run for it. “S-sir, I can’t just…” The man hesitates and glances between him and the truck evidently full of his other squad members, contemplating. “Okay, okay,” He finally says. “Why don’t you… um, take some time to collect yourself and come down by the station later today and file a report with me?”

Taehyung’s still shaking and manages to nod. “O-Okay.”

“Good?” The man gives a half-hearted smile and Taehyung thinks it’s quite nice actually. “If you don’t come down though, I’ll be forced to make another house visit so… You’ve been warned.” The man laughs nervously and then does an awkward bow. “Hope you…. Feel better.”

Taehyung clenches his jaw and purses his lips, trying desperately not to break down again because the man is being so nice and that would be well… not nice.

He waits until the man is back in the truck before swiftly slamming the door and dropping immediately to the floor.

He spends the rest of the morning into some of the afternoon collected in that same small ball, just waiting for Satan to come and gobble him up. His tears eventually fade and a headache replaces them in no time. He drags himself to the kitchen to down water and Advil and as he stands leaning against the counter the phone rings, so also, to unplug the phone.

It had been ringing all morning, just hadn’t seemed important enough to do anything about. He tries not to think that it was probably Jimin because that isn’t acceptable as of now, so instead he imagines that it must be France, calling to ask why he hasn’t come to visit. But then he gets sad that he won’t be able to answer and say ‘I was just heading over, can’t wait to see you,’ and so he sinks back to the floor.

Maybe he should just go to France. Doesn’t think it would do much, he’d be just as sad in France. With a croissant maybe and that might make it a little better but… Ultimately, he decides that here is good enough.

 

 

The next few days flutter past like falling leaves, insignificant but undeniably: there. He visits the fire station down the road. Files a report and partakes in a rather lovely, if not embarrassing conversation with the fighter who visited him. Asks for his number. Gets his number. His name is Hoseok. He has a nice smile.

Calls him five minutes after leaving the station and leaves a voicemail asking if Hoseok will join him for dinner at the restaurant in town with the large armadillo outside on Saturday. He smiles to himself on the walk home and calls it healing. Whatever ‘it’ is.

By the time midnight on Friday rolls around, he has had a total of four breakdowns.

The first was in the shower right after returning home from the fire station. The song that played at his and Jimin’s wedding came on. And the worst part was part of him knew that song had been on the playlist. Feels like sometimes his self-sabotaging streak shines a little brighter and he finds himself playing little games of Russian roulette with himself. He curled up in the tub and cried into his knees until it felt too unreal and he forced himself to climb out pathetically, sopping wet to lie on the bathroom floor. The stone was cold. Helped him feel real again.

And then his breakdown turned into somewhat of a freedom realization in which he proceeded to dance around the house buck naked and cook himself pickles. Because no one could stop him.

And that was like giving… well, Taehyung freedom.

He took to the realization for the first time in his life like wildfire. No one could stop him.

Spent the rest of the night at the local Goodwill, buying shawls and long flowy skirts and crocheted shirts and pants that made him look like a hippie plant mom and bought it all with Jimin’s credit card “for emergencies.”

When he got home and refilled his closet with just his clothes. With all the things he could never have with Jimin. Started—tried to fill the space that had been maintained beside him for so long… That’s when the second one hit.

Drove him all the way to the mega sized grocery store ten miles away and landed him in the ice cream isle. Ended up staring at ‘Chunky Coconut Creamy Caramel Coastline” for almost an hour before finally buying three tubs in a depressed stupor and driving home with silent tears rolling down his cheeks.

When he finally reached the safety and solitude of his home again… the tears got a little thicker and so he curled up with his tub of ice cream and a movie. And tried to blame the tears on the way Jim Sturgess kept fucking everything up.

It worked for a little while.

When he woke up in the morning, he walked outside to his back porch and stared at the scorch marks on the inner walls of the pool for a solid twenty minutes. After that it seemed like the tears would not come back. He felt dry. Like the pool. All burnt and singed on the inside.

Treated himself to breakfast at the local diner and tried to inhale five pancakes. When he got home, he threw up and spent the rest of the day curled up on the bathroom floor.

Decided then. That maybe it wasn’t going so well.

When the fourth breakdown hits, it’s on Friday morning. Nothing good can come when you wake up feeling unbelievably… good. He makes himself a margarita. Okay two. Well, three. Okay maybe a few more then he’s willing to keep count of, and starts painting. Paints nothing and everything and on a canvas this time. When it gets later in the day, he throws all the curtains and windows open and for the first time in weeks, receives some proper air circulation and sunlight. After a brief break however, he finds himself back in the bathroom. This time fixated on the mirror and with a tube of paint in his hand, contemplating how interesting it would be to paint his entire face blue.

Luckily. God fucking bless his nosy neighbors; he’s only just started painting the first streak down his cheek when there’s a loud banging on his door.

He glances between the tube of oozing paint and the paint brush and quickly drops them both in the sink and runs to open the door, seemingly forgetting about his face.

It’s Ms. Bonellia. Of course it is.

“Dear!”

She calls loudly and he groans to himself quietly before opening the door nice and wide and hitting her with his best, Everything Is Fine smile.

She screams.

Taehyung’s smile drops right off his face as he watches her scuttle back helplessly.

“What in heaven’s—? What is on your face!”

Taehyung frowns, brings a tentative hand to his cheek and flashes a dimpled smile. “Oh.” He tries to laugh but it comes out as more of a weak choking sound, “Have you ever heard of Laolu Senbanjo?”

She scowls and ignores the question. “Kim Taehyung what have you been doing for the past three days? First you ignore me and lock yourself away, then I see you lugging what must have been twenty trash bags out of here in the middle of the night and what on earth was that fireman doing over there asking you questions? Is everything okay? Is he single?”

Taehyung’s face falls a little and he takes a deep breath.

“Painting.”

She frowns.

“What?”

“I’m… painting. Would you like to see?”

She tsks disapprovingly and he adds, “The fireman isn’t single.”

Doesn’t add that the only reason that’s remotely true is because he’s taking Taehyung out tomorrow. Irrelevant details.

“Fine.” She purses her lips, “Show me what you’ve got.”

 

The two stand inside the dusty living room in total silence while she examines his paintings. Doesn’t say a word, but sometimes pulls a face at this or that. Taehyung is starting to regret a lot. Feels like parts of himself are on display for her to see that he hasn’t even seen himself.

She finally stands up straight after lots of craning her head and bending at odd angles and snaps, “Well. Do you like art?”

Taehyung shrugs. “Yeah, it’s alright. Do you want anything to drink?”

She shakes her head. “You could sell them on eBay.” She adds.

Taehyung quirks his head. “I never thought of that.”

He slurps his margherita obnoxiously. He could definitely use the money. Jimin’s credit card won’t last forever and who knows if he’ll keep sending Tae money now that they are… whatever they are…

He takes a long shaky breath in. He really been thinking about this at all. Were they going to get a divorce? Would Jimin want the house? Was Jimin coming back right now, on a plane to destroy Taehyung’s life?

“You know my son goes to the local high school; I could set you up with a work space there they have tons of classrooms—”

Taehyung feels like he’s going to start hyperventilating any minute now. “Get out.”

She blinks at him.

“Get out get out get out,” he starts shoving her towards the door, “I need you out, my—my muse is calling leave now!” He shoves her the last bit of the way with a grand flourish and slams the door shut on the sound of her pathetic, “Wait a minute!” and then promptly returns to the floor. Like he has every time someone opened that damn door.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. Jimin will want a divorce. He wants a divorce. He’s going to be completely broke. He’ll have to see Jimin again. He’s going to be divorced before he turns 27. He’s going to have to see Jimin. He’s going to be so so broke. What on earth is he going to do?