Chapter Text
And I am the idiot with the painted face
In the corner, taking up space
But when he walks in, I am loved, I am loved
December 4th, 2011
Seokjin hangs up the phone with numb fingers. It takes him a few tries to get the touch screen to cooperate, something wet persistently dripping on it.
Oh. Tears.
Seokjin chuckles to himself, something bitter and wet. “It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to,” he warbles.
He keeps singing to himself as he grabs the bottle of violently pink wine that a classmate had shyly presented to him as a gift, mumbling “Look Seokjin-oppa, it’s your favorite color.” She likes him, he can tell, and it makes him feel awkward just thinking about it. He’s not looking forward to when he’ll eventually have to turn her down. In the meantime, though, he might as well enjoy the free alcohol. He takes a big gulp straight out of the bottle, grimacing at the taste.
Maybe ‘enjoy’ is a strong word. But he might as well drink it. It’s overly sweet, and Seokjin can already feel the headache he’ll have tomorrow morning as he takes another sip. There’s some cups in the dorm kitchen, but that would involve leaving his bedroom and facing the people outside.
He can hear them now, still talking and laughing out in the common area. When his phone rang he’d stepped away to answer it, and it seems like no one is missing the birthday boy all that much. But he barely knows most of these people, throwing him a birthday party was more of an excuse. College students hardly need a reason to consume copious amounts of fried chicken and alcohol, but it’s a little bit more fun with the addition of birthday cake.
They can do without him for a bit longer. Just until he’s less red and blotchy, or until everyone else is too drunk to notice. Whichever comes first. Maybe Seokjin himself will get drunk enough to be less self-conscious, though that one is more of a long shot. Even as he feels the wine warm the pit of his stomach, a few more tears dribble down his face.
It’s not even that his mom had said anything all that bad. She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t tell him that he was a disappointment to the family or that she had nothing to add when her friends bragged about their sons. When Seokjin had picked up with a heavy stone in his stomach, she’d cheerfully sung the birthday song and asked if he’d had his seaweed soup yet. The cake being enjoyed in the common room had been ordered by her and his father, a delivery man from a local bakery bringing it by earlier in the afternoon. The frosting had been smushed a bit on one side, but it was still nicely decorated; a pale green with yellow frosting piped on the edge and “Happy 20th Birthday Seokjinnie!” written on top.
But after the birthday pleasantries, she had gone straight into listing all the internship opportunities he should apply for. At Seokjin’s weak protest that it was a bit early to think about summer internships, she’d just insisted that it was never too early. The list had about 6 different companies on it, all equally unappealing and soul-crushing in Seokjin’s mind. Despite his solidly average grades, with his father’s connections he’d have a decent shot at any of them.
The prospect is not as comforting as it should be.
The thing is that he hates business. It’s only been one semester, but he feels like he’s slowly drowning, treading water until an inevitable slip beneath the waves. He knew he was going to hate it, but the theater and acting programs he’d secretly looked at were never going to be allowed.
Seokjin had swallowed down his impossible dreams like he swallows down the terrible wine. Isn’t that what becoming a man meant? Accepting responsibility, being a good son and making his parents proud?
Peals of laughter sound from the other room, and he hears movement. Footsteps, a thudding knock on the door.
“Be out in a minute!” Seokjin calls, patting himself on the back mentally for how steady his voice sounds despite all the crying.
He won’t be out in a minute.
He’s halfway to drunk now, feeling flushed and miserable. When he rises from where he’s sitting on the side of his bed, he wobbles a little. Okay, maybe a bit more than halfway. He has to stare at his feet as he picks his way to the bathroom, stepping very carefully over everything strewn about the floor of his and Yoongi’s tiny room. His hairbrush, Yoongi’s sweatshirt, a sock that could be either of theirs. It’s usually tidier, but they’re both overwhelmed by their first experience with college exams. Yoongi hasn’t even been home all day, having left for the music building with a mumbled happy birthday hyung early that morning. He was supposed to be back for the party, but Yoongi likes people even less than Seokjin does. It’s not a surprise that he’s late.
Seokjin maneuvers around Yoongi’s unmade bed to their ensuite bathroom, the best thing about their dorm. It’s improbably big for Seoul, and there’s a bathtub rather than just a showerhead. It seems like an excellent place to hide for a while. He has to contort himself a bit to fit, his legs just a tad too long for the space, but he manages.
It’s blessedly quiet in the bathroom. The only downside is that it leaves Seokjin alone with his thoughts, which is something he prefers to avoid if he can. Maybe he should have grabbed his Nintendo off his desk. He could be playing MarioKart instead of wallowing, but getting up seems like a monumental task.
There’s the sound of the bedroom door opening. The noise of the party gets momentarily louder, then muffled as the door shuts again. Seokjin hunches down in the bathtub, but then he hears the familiar shuffling steps.
“Hyung? Where are y–” Yoongi pokes his head into the bathroom. “Oh.”
Seokjin’s head lolls on shoulders to look at his roommate. It’s odd to see him from this angle, Seokjin is used to being taller than him. Sitting in the tub, he’s at eye level with Yoongi’s knobby little knees, pale and pink in the ripped jeans he’s wearing.
“Hi, Yoongi-yah,” he tells Yoongi’s knees.
Yoongi crouches down, and suddenly Seokjin can see more of him. His bleach-fried blonde hair floats about his head in a disheveled cloud. There’s a concerned little crease to his brow as his gaze travels over Seokjin. He’s sure he looks a sight, red and puffy from alcohol and tears, curled up uncomfortably in the bathtub.
“Hi hyung,” Yoongi says softly.
There’s something about his tone, something that Seokjin has never heard from him before. It’s gentle, cautious, both things that he hasn’t known Yoongi to be in the few months they’ve been roommates. Yoongi is usually more caustic than that, a match ready to light at any moment. Bristling like an angry cat at perceived slights or potential disrespect. There’s a hunger in Yoongi that Seokjin hasn’t quite figured out how to sate. Thankfully, Yoongi doesn’t seem to expect him to– he seems happy enough just to have a hyung, even one as inexperienced at it as Seokjin is. Despite the prickly exterior, he’s shown his soft underbelly to Seokjin rather quickly. He’s even allowed himself, albeit a bit tentatively, to be taken care of. Trying to take care of Seokjin like this is new, though. It’s almost enough to make Seokjin want to cry again, eyes burning uncomfortably. He settles for taking another swig of the now nearly empty bottle of pink wine instead.
“You okay?” Yoongi asks.
“I’m excellent,” Seokjin slurs, making a cutesy face and raising a hand to cup his own chin like a flower. Yoongi doesn’t look convinced, instead easing the bottle out of Seokjin’s grip.
“You sure?” Yoongi prods.
“Mm-hmm,” Seokjin hums. He nods exaggeratedly, a big up and down motion.
“Can I join you?” Yoongi asks, gesturing to the other end of the tub.
Seokjin’s not quite sure how well two grown men will fit in one small bathtub, but he supposes Yoongi is rather short. Less legs than Seokjin. “Be my guest,” he says, waving his hand with a flourish and pulling his knees up to his chest.
Yoongi eases himself into the tub, lowering himself down slowly and carefully. Their knees knock together as he settles down in the mirror image of Seokjin’s position.
They’re quiet for a while, an occasional drip from the sink faucet the only sound breaking the silence. Seokjin makes a mental note of each one.
“What now?” Seokjin asks, after he’s counted about eight drips.
Yoongi shrugs. “We can talk about it,” Seokjin makes a face. “Or we could just be two jackasses in a tub. Either one.”
“Jackasses in a tub, please,” Seokjin answers.
Yoongi shrugs again. “Fine by me.” He takes a sip of Seokjin’s wine, wincing at the taste as it goes down. “Wow, that’s terrible.”
“It was free,” Seokjin mumbles. “Give it back, if you hate it so much.”
Yoongi hmms, considering Seokjin. “Nah, I’m kinda thirsty,” he says, taking another sip. His face scrunches up in frankly adorable disgust. Seokjin isn’t so far gone that he doesn’t realize what Yoongi is doing, finishing off the bottle for himself. Seokjin can’t continue to get self-destructively drunk if there’s no more wine left. It’s probably for the best, he already feels slightly like he wants to vomit.
“I can see the future that they have planned for me so clearly. It’s like a movie,” Seokjin bursts, and maybe the vomit feeling was actually just words. He can’t seem to stop them from coming now that he’s started. “But not one that’s very good. Won’t win any awards, I don’t think.”
Yoongi knocks his foot against Seokjin’s, a silent I’m listening, keep going .
“It’s obvious what job they’ll want me to have,” he continues. “Gotta put the business degree to good use, after all. If I’m lucky I’ll get to be in marketing, something at least adjacent to creativity. But I’ll probably end up languishing in accounting somewhere. At night I’ll go home to a nice girl, one that my parents picked too. I’m sure she’ll be perfectly pleasant. No crazy hair colors or piercings, no discernable personality beyond being polite. Maybe she’ll play tennis, and that can be the singular thing we have in common.”
“You play tennis?” Yoongi murmurs.
“I have a limited-edition Wario racket,” Seokjin responds proudly. Yoongi doesn’t say anything to that, just takes another small sip of Seokjin’s wine and shudders as it goes down. “But she’d probably be embarrassed by that, so I’d have to get rid of it. Choose some regular, boring racket instead.”
In Seokjin’s mind, she’s always dressed in demure pastel tones. Pretty, in an ulzzang kind of way. Bangs always neatly curled, cheeks always pink, and not a single shred of attraction between them. Maybe he’s not giving Imaginary Girl enough credit, or maybe he’s thinking about it all too bleakly, but he can’t seem to help it. When he thinks of the future, there’s nothing besides a vague feeling of dread sitting in the pit of his stomach.
“I can see the kids they’d want us to have, too,” he adds. “Probably a boy and a girl. My parents have always wanted grandkids to spoil, eomma has never been subtle about it. She talks about how cute I was a baby all the time.”
“That seems invasive,” Yoongi comments. “Pushy. What if you don’t want kids?”
“There’s a script to follow,” Seokjin explains. He leans his head sideways against the tiling. It’s cold, and feels good against his flushed cheeks. “And improv is not acceptable. The directors are very strict, you see.”
Yoongi frowns. “I see. I’m sorry, hyung.”
“I just don’t think that I’ll be very convincing in the role, Yoongi-yah,” Seokjin sighs. “People will be able to tell that it’s acting, that I wasn’t type-cast. I’ll just be wearing a costume that doesn’t fit.”
Yoongi is still gentle, achingly so, when he asks “Is there a reason for that, do you think?” He looks at Seokjin directly in the eyes, with a soft, knowing gaze.
Seokjin feels the words in his throat. It’s been getting more and more difficult to swallow around them, and at some point he knows he’ll have to say them. Just… not yet. He can’t say them tonight, tear-streaked and tipsy in the tub. Seokjin isn’t like Yoongi. Brave, stubborn Yoongi who had stared Seokjin down defiantly on move-in day, saying I kiss boys and girls, are you going to have a problem with that?
Not will that be a problem, or are we going to have a problem, but are you going to have a problem. It's incredible, how Yoongi refuses to hide any part of himself to make other people comfortable. It feels like that’s all Seokjin does. At this point, he hardly knows who he is.
There’s the other teeny tiny detail that maybe those words he hasn’t said became less of an idle thought and more of an inconvenient truth partially because of Yoongi. Not just because Yoongi is attractive, though he is that– but all of him. Parts of him that Seokjin feels privileged to get to see. Like the devastating way he is in the morning, puffy and whiny and his voice so deep and rumbly.
“I’m too handsome, Yoongi-yah,” Seokjin demures. “I’m built to be the most eligible bachelor, not a husband. I’m doomed by this face and these shoulders to be alone. Forever.”
Yoongi keeps staring, scrutinizing, and Seokjin feels vaguely like he’s being x-rayed. But then Yoongi huffs a small laugh through his nose.
“Tell you what,” Yoongi starts. “If you’re still single in ten years, when you’re thirty…” he pauses, swallowing with an audible click. “ I’ll marry you.”
“What?” Seokjin blinks.
“I promise that if you turn thirty and are still single, that I will marry you.” Yoongi repeats.
“It’s not even legal,” Seokjin protests, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.
Yoongi shrugs. “You never know what could happen in ten years. Maybe the government will get its head out of its ass.”
Seokjin stares at Yoongi. He’s not looking Seokjin in the eye, instead staring down at the skin poking out through the rips in his jeans. One finger picks idly at the loose strings, looking casual. It’s a joke, this marriage pact, it’s so clearly a joke. Seokjin isn’t laughing on the outside nor on the inside, but he totally gets it. Very funny, 10/10.
And one thing about Seokjin, is that he’ll be damned if he doesn’t commit to a bit. It’s just that usually, he’s the one coming up with them. He’ll seize onto any stupid gag he can find and ride it through to the end on sheer, silly tenacity. Yoongi gets dragged along, and is kind enough to play along and indulge him. He builds onto whatever joke or blatant falsehood Seokjin has come up with until it dissolves.
This one hasn’t dissolved yet. But Seokjin can play the long game, if that’s what Yoongi wants.
“Okay, Yoongi-yah,” he agrees. “Ten years from today, if we’re both still single, I’ll marry you.” His voice sounds entirely too soft for the situation. Time to double down. “Let’s make a blood oath. Fetch me a knife.”
Yoongi chokes on the last dregs of the awful wine. “We don’t have to do that,” he sputters. “We can just— sign something, I don’t know.”
“Alright.” Seokjin waves an idle hand. “Go get some paper. Maybe a notary. Is anyone at this party a notary? I think we’ll need one of those.”
“We can file it later,” Yoongi asserts. “Besides, I think everyone else has decided to go to the clubs by now.”
Yoongi struggles his way out of the tub, groaning as he gets up like he’s ninety instead of nineteen. He waddles off into the bedroom, slippers making a funny shh shh sound on the tile floor because he never picks his feet up all the way. Seokjin hears him rummaging around on their desks, until he comes back with a spiral bound notebook and pen. It’s one of Seokjin’s silly novelty ones, Gudetama melting down the side. It’s perfect to write a totally legally binding document with.
“Okay,” Yoongi says, sinking down onto the floor next to Seokjin’s side of the tub so he can see the paper. “What sounds official?”
“Hmm.” Seokjin thinks. “Try ‘we the undersigned.’ That always sounds very legalese.”
Yoongi nods and dutifully scrawls we the undersigned at the top of the paper.
“We the undersigned,” he mumbles. “Do agree that in the event of Kim Seokjin’s thirtieth birthday…”
“No, write ‘swear’,” Seokjin notes. “It’s got more oomph. More meat.”
“Do swear—“ Yoongi corrects, crossing out agree .
“Solemnly swear.”
“Do you want to write it?” Yoongi gripes, shoving the paper and pen towards Seokjin. Seokjin shakes his head, the room spinning slightly with the motion.
“No no, you’re doing great, keep going,” Seokjin urges. He doubts his handwriting would be very legible right now.
“We the undersigned, do solemnly swear that in the event of Kim Seokjin’s thirtieth birthday…” Yoongi reads, then starts adding careful characters on the page as he speaks. “Arriving without a romantic partner in the picture, we will marry each other…” he trails off. “This sounds clunky. No flow.”
“It’s perfect,” Seokjin declares. “Give it to me, let me sign it.”
Seokjin signs his name, then writes a big, stylized Jin too for good measure.
Yoongi glances at it, furrowing his brow in confusion. “Jin?”
Seokjin nods. “When I was younger, I practiced my autographs. I wanted to be an actor. Thought I’d be famous, like Brad Pitt, or Choi Min-sik.”
“You’d be a good actor,” Yoongi states, smiling something small and wry and a touch mischievous.
Seokjin’s puffs up his chest, ignoring the dull ache that reignites from hearing those words. “Thank you!”
“You’re very dramatic,” Yoongi adds. Seokjin shoves at him in retaliation.
“See if I marry you now,” he blusters. Yoongi laughs, raspy and quiet, taking the paper back and tapping below Seokjin’s signature with the tip of the pin.
“You’re locked in, no take-backsies.”
“I’ll eat the paper.” Seokjin grapples for it, but Yoongi leans away and holds it just out of reach. He scrawls his name next to Seokjin’s in bold characters. He pauses, then adds a big English SUGA below it.
“What’s suga?” Seokjin asks.
“You wrote your stage name, so I wrote mine too,” Yoongi explains. “It’s what I’m going to go by, when I produce.”
Right. Yoongi is following his dreams, damn the consequences. Not taking a safe route. The reminder feels like heartburn, but that might also be due to the wine.
“Well now I can’t eat that paper,” Seokjin says, throwing his arms up in mock disappointment. “Not when it’s going to go for millions at auction someday, the first autograph of daesang-winning music producer Min Suga.”
Yoongi laughs again, but his cheeks glow with a shy pink blush. Maybe the alcohol is getting to him, too. “There,” he tears out the page from the notebook, folding it neatly and tucking it carefully into the folder pocket in the back. “It’s a promise. I’ll meet you down the aisle in ten years, maybe.”
And it’s still a joke. It’s got to be a joke. There’s no way that his roommate, this boy from Daegu who he’s known for half a year, is really proposing to him. But maybe Seokjin’s whole silly little life is a joke, because his stomach still does a small flip at the words.
“Some twentieth birthday present this is,” Seokjin snorts. “I become a man and I get my first marriage proposal.”
“First?” Yoongi asks, raising one eyebrow. .
“I’m sure it’ll be just one of many.” Seokjin nods. “But not to worry, Yoongi-yah.” He pats the top of Yoongi’s head, ignoring Yoongi swatting at him. “They say you never forget your first.”
December 4th, 2021
As soon as he slides the door to the balcony shut behind him, Seokjin sags against the brick wall with a sigh. It’s a little chilly, but a little chilly in Los Angeles is a spring day in Seoul. Noise from the party filters out, muffled by the glass. It’s a stolen moment of quiet. It’s his birthday after all, and soon enough someone will be coming to look for him. Somehow, he always ends up sneaking away from his own celebration. He’s counting on the distraction of freshly-cut birthday cake and a steady flow of alcohol to buy him a bit more time.
He can’t help but think that maybe he’s getting a little old for this. Throwing a big party, with lots of friends and acquaintances and people even further removed from that. He didn’t even enjoy this kind of thing when he was in his 20s, but now it just seems like an unnecessary hangover. Plus, despite the hard work he’s put in to gain some level of recognition, he really hates to be the center of attention.
How long until it’s socially acceptable to tell people to go home? The glowing face of his watch tells him that it’s nearly two in the morning.
He’s been thirty for almost two whole hours. Strange. He doesn’t really feel all that different. Shouldn’t he feel different? So far, he’s feeling an awful lot like he did at twenty-nine, pretty similar even to twenty-eight.
His pocket starts to buzz, staccato bursts of vibrations. Fishing it out of his pocket, he sees an unknown number flashing across the screen. He thinks about just letting it ring but– a cheer arises from inside the apartment, loud and grating– this is an excuse to hide, just a bit longer. Might as well take it.
He clears his throat, pressing answer. “Hello?”
There’s a faint intake of breath on the other line, as though whoever it is didn’t expect him to actually pick up.
“Hello?” Seokjin prompts again.
“Hyung,” a familiar voice rasps. “Happy birthday.”