Chapter 69: The Gallery Is Yours
The doors opened at exactly 7:00 p.m.
Golden lighting pooled across the polished white marble
floors of the exhibition hall. Shadows stretched across high ceilings where
slender beams of muted lavender crisscrossed above like painted constellations.
Walls were lined with canvases, each carefully spaced, each radiating raw,
haunting emotion.
Koo’s collection—The Silence Between Breaths—was no longer
rumor.
It was here. And it was undeniable.
Taehyung and V stood side by side near the center
installation, both dressed in deep shades of charcoal and wine,
custom-tailored, their commanding presence impossible to ignore. Not a single
camera was allowed past the gates, not a single journalist permitted to ask
questions. But still—everyone came.
Investors. Critics. Curators. Collectors.
They didn’t speak loudly. They didn’t dare to.
Because the air inside wasn’t just saturated with art—it was
heavy with feeling.
A single piece hung at the very end of the corridor. The
largest.
Swathes of deep navy, angry reds, trembling streaks of pale
blue blurred at its center. But at its heart—barely visible under the
layers—was the silhouette of a boy curled in on himself, hands over his ears,
mouth open in a scream.
And beneath it, a plaque read simply:
“The world doesn’t listen until you bleed in color.” —Koo
There were people who cried there.
Some stood in front of it for twenty minutes straight.
Others whispered prayers, or simply closed their eyes and
let the ache pass through them like water.
In the private viewing lounge above the main floor, Jungkook
stood barefoot.
Wrapped in a soft silk robe—violet, embroidered with silver
thread at the hem—he leaned against the balcony railing, quietly observing the
river of people below.
His lips were slightly parted.
Eyes wide.
Almost stunned.
“They’re… they’re all here for me?” His voice was a breath.
V stepped behind him silently, sliding arms around his
waist. “They’re here for what you gave them. What only you could give.”
Jungkook turned slowly, nose pressing into the older man’s
collarbone. “But I didn’t try to… I just…”
“You just existed,” Taehyung said from the side, gently
taking his hand. “You let your truth breathe.”
Jungkook's throat bobbed. He blinked fast.
“I feel weird.”
“What kind of weird?” V asked softly.
“I feel like…” Jungkook leaned forward, letting his head
fall against Taehyung’s chest now, heart thudding. “Like maybe I’m real. Like
Koo is real. And people actually saw me tonight.”
“You are real,” Taehyung whispered, pressing his lips into
Jungkook’s dark hair.
“And you’ve always been ours,” V added, tilting his chin up
just enough to claim a kiss—slow, warm, and grounding.
Later that evening, once the public event had drawn to a
close, the main floor was emptied.
Only a few trusted staff remained, moving quietly to reset
the lighting.
Jungkook tiptoed through the gallery barefoot, trailing his
fingers along the edges of his own frames. His eyes were wide, curious, tilting
his head this way and that like he didn’t quite believe these canvases were
his.
And in truth… he still didn’t.
He had no memory of painting half of them. Not the way others
would recall a brush or a color. It was more like emotion moved through him and
the image appeared.
“Dada?” he whispered suddenly, turning to find Taehyung
standing quietly nearby, sipping from a wine glass.
Taehyung blinked slowly, eyes softening at the nickname.
“Hm?”
“Is it bad that I wanna… paint more now? A lot more?”
“No,” Taehyung murmured, setting the glass down and
approaching him. “It’s beautiful. You should. You will.”
“I wanna do it here,” Jungkook whispered, curling both arms
around his middle. “This whole room. Just me. Music, candles, messy floors. You
watching sometimes.”
V appeared then, footsteps silent. “We’ll make this space
your studio,” he said with a small nod, looking around the now-emptied gallery.
“If that’s what you want.”
“I want Daddy to come sometimes too,” Jungkook mumbled,
cheeks pink. “I paint better when Daddy stares.”
V’s eyes narrowed slightly, lips twitching. “Do you now?”
Taehyung chuckled, ruffling Jungkook’s hair. “He’s more
productive under pressure.”
“Mm. Or under me,” V murmured under his breath, stepping
closer.
“Daddy!” Jungkook whined, but his grin was wicked now, eyes
shining.
“You started it, baby,” V whispered, gently tugging the belt
of Jungkook’s robe loose. “Don’t act innocent now.”
In the hours that followed, the gallery saw no more art
critics.
No more investors.
Only quiet moans swallowed into velvet walls, gasps pressed
into collarbones, and the sound of love—tangled, raw, and infinite—rising from
within the place that once held only silence.
Jungkook didn’t bleed anymore.
He bloomed.
Right there.
On his own terms.
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