Work Text:
をさな名を人によばるゝふるさとは 昔にかへるこゝちこそすれ
The hometown / where they call you by your childhood name / is where you can return to the old days
There are no absent fathers in his story, neither mothers with words evil enough to shatter someone into shreds of glass. There’s just a house somewhere in Busan, the sound of waves and sand cracking inside his mouth after a day at the beach. Only sunny days filled with laughter and his grandparents’ warm meals, friends and a thousand hanja he never quite memorized. One of Jeongguk’s first memories is holding hands with his brother when he was merely three years old— his hand, which at the time seemed bigger than all of Jeongguk, wrapped around his own tightly, keeping him in place while waiting for the right moment to cross the street. Such an insignificant gesture became a constant in his life, despite the years added to their bodies and the cruelty with which the world raises boys.
There’s also somewhere in the suburbs of Osaka— an ill mother and a son willing to abandon a home for her. Jeongguk was too young to understand the weight of goodbyes when they were due, but he could read the determination behind his father’s eyes when he promised he wouldn’t give his childhood home away. The entire family would move across the sea, and the kids would grow up where he and his siblings did decades ago.
For a six year old boy, adding another thousand hanja— now kanji — into the mix was probably the biggest deal out of all of it. It seemed easy enough, back then. Just like when he’d entered school, he’d make friends and play after school with them. It’d be as if he had never left Busan.
The only other Korean kid in his school was Park Jimin. Looking back, it was only natural for their paths to cross the way they did. Jimin was two years older than him and had never stepped foot in South Korea; he could barely form a coherent sentence in the language. His parents had been born in Tokyo as well, second generation of war refugees. He was, by all means, the most japanese Korean that Jeongguk had ever met.
Neither of them cared. War isn’t a word known by children that grow shielded from it, and neither is the notion of identity nor nations, of crimson clover bloodshed and generational resentment. Jimin couldn’t speak Korean, and Jeongguk needed to practice his Japanese. Their fathers were old friends and they lived close-by, so, indeed, it was only natural. Fate had taken two little, ferocious kids, and pushed them towards the same direction.
x
Jeongguk’s grandparent’s house— now their home— was spacious for what seemed to be the standard around town, but the Park’s had a backyard with enough space for a garden where a lemon tree flourished every year. It was a marvelous ryokan built out of dark wood, and Jeongguk loved spending his Sundays doing homework with Jimin there. When the weather got warmer, they’d sit outside and listen to their moms chat over tea, the song of cicadas only interrupted whenever Jeongguk stumbled across a kanji he didn’t know. So much of Jeongguk’s current vocabulary comes from those spring days, his words a gift from his favorite boy in the world. Seeds that bloomed like the flowers in his backyard.
Today is also a Sunday, but Jeongguk is resting his back against the wall of Jimin’s university’s gymnasium, watching his dance team rehearse the same song over and over again. Jeongguk swears he could never get tired of watching the way Jimin’s body flows with the music, but his stomach is beginning to rumble. They’ve been here for hours.
When they take a five minute break, Jimin approaches him to pick up his water bottle, and Jeongguk pulls at his damp T-shirt, bringing Jimin’s face close to his lips. “Hyung, let’s go home,” he mumbles against his ear in Korean.
Over the years, Jimin has gotten good enough at the language so that he’s on the verge of fluency, but he never speaks it unless necessary. Jeongguk loves talking to him in Korean, though. He’s always the most honest when the words he’s speaking are in his mother tongue.
Jimin pushes him away softly, his pointer finger pressed against his forehead. “I’m staying at the dorm tonight, you can leave now if you want.”
Jeongguk swats his hand away and runs his hands through his bangs, covering his forehead with hair, and he huffs. “You promised we’d have dinner tonight!”
He glares at Jimin, who’s taking a chuck of water, wrapping his lips around the neck of the plastic bottle. The lights of the gymnasium make the sweat dripping down his neck glisten, and it annoys Jeongguk further. There is no logical explanation as to why Jimin looks so effortless no matter what he does. “You’re infuriating.”
“No, I just have an active learning assignment due at the end of the week,” Jimin says, capping the bottle while he smiles. “I’m not going all the way to Mitaka only to take the stupid Chuo line during rush hour tomorrow.”
“But I came all the way here for you.”
Jimin rolls his eyes fondly and leans over Jeongguk, extending his arm to reach behind him where he’d placed his bag at the beginning of his rehearsal. Jeongguk doesn’t move out of the way, eyes still fixed on his traitor of a friend. “And I appreciate it, but I did tell you to stay home today.”
“And miss superstar Park Jimin’s rehearsing his first solo dance? Never.”
“Just threw up in my mouth a little,” Jimin murmurs, but Jeongguk doesn’t miss the red dotting across his cheeks. He stays crouched, eyes leveled with Jeongguk’s although they’re focused on his nose instead. “We’ll be done in half an hour, okay? And then we can grab something to eat.”
“At mine.”
“No, near campus.”
Jeongguk shakes his head, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “Hm. My apartment is better.”
“The roaches under your laundry machine would like to disagree.”
Jimin’s shoulders begin to shake with the soft chuckles that escape his lips. Jeongguk’s grin turns into a small smile as he watches Jimin unravel with laughter, moving away from Jeongguk to let it travel across his body. It’s always been Jeongguk’s favorite trait of Jimin, how he seems to carry a bit of their childhood and the way they used to laugh with him even now.
The spell is broken by Jimin’s senpai clapping her hands, signaling the end of their break. Jimin throws Jeongguk an apologetic look that stands as a promise as well, and Jeongguk simply nods.
But Jimin reaches out for Jeongguk’s hand anyway, and he squeezes his wrist, whispering, “Just thirty more minutes.”
Nodding, he says, “Go,” and Jimin does, flashing him one last smile before running into his position.
Jeongguk holds his breath until he’s sure Jimin has started dancing, and then he lowers the sleeve of his jacket to expose the part of his wrist that Jimin had just touched. A burn mark rests against his skin, shaped like a fingertip.
The first time it’d happened, Jeongguk hadn’t given it much thought. He'd stayed the night at the Park’s house after a long day at the beach, and he and Jimin had dropped dead into his bed. They'd woken up just like that, limbs tangled and necks turned in uncomfortable directions, and Jeongguk's entire body had been burning, covered in rashes.
Jimin’s mother, despite the shock written in her features, had kept it all hidden, water boiling under a lid, while she gently talked over the phone with his parents so they could take him home. Jeongguk doesn't remember much of that morning other than being annoyed that he couldn't play with Jimin anymore in fear of whatever it was that he had being contagious.
Once at home, his dad had drawn him a cold bath and his mom had run a wet cloth down his arms, sometimes pressing it against his forehead. By the time he'd gotten out of the tub, all of the rashes had disappeared.
It wasn’t until a few months later, after the fevers and rashes had become recurring, that his parents had sat him down in their living room, the smell of mint relieving cream under the bandages in his arms still fresh.
That was the first time Jeongguk had heard the word. Soulmates. He was on the verge of eleven— it wasn't supposed to happen so soon, to burn the way it did. His mom had said it was good that he was bonded to such a good kid like Jimin, such a good friend. His dad had remained quiet although he nodded his head while she talked, and had only spoken when they’d gotten up from the couch.
“You can’t tell anyone about this yet, okay?” he’d said, hand on Jeongguk’s tiny, tiny shoulder. “Jimin needs to realize on his own.”
Now, after a few too many seaweed soups and springs spent together, Jeongguk continues to keep his promise. Jimin, the forever hopeless romantic, is a firm believer in destiny despite his hard exterior, and looks for his soulmate in every corner of Tokyo. Jeongguk’s learned to lean back and watch the way Jimin overanalyzes someone’s hand when it brushes against his during a packed train ride. It hasn’t been nearly as painful as some people describe it. For their bond to not be acknowledged, for it to not be romantic. His best friend is his soulmate, what else could he ask for?
But he knows it would destroy Jimin. Years of listening to his rants about finding his person have led to Jeongguk’s perpetual silence. He can’t do that to him; revealing that Jimin’s soulmate is merely platonic would make the palace he built out of fantasies to crumble in seconds. Jeongguk is not a monster.
It gets a little lonely sometimes, but Jeongguk fully blames it on the soulmate system. Leaving one to burn while the other is completely unaware— isn’t it too cruel? Shouldn’t it be reciprocal? For a bond as old as time itself, it hasn’t evolved much. Growing up also meant realizing it was painfully obvious that fate isn’t meant to be comfortable.
Jeongguk groans, letting his head fall against the script for the theater play he’s rehearsing. His school’s festival is barely a few weeks away, and second year Spanish majors like him are meant to organize an entire play by themselves. He’s playing Leonardo in Bodas de Sangre, a Spanish tragedy from the early 20th century about a wedding bound for disaster, as the bride is still hopelessly in love with Jeongguk’s character. They run away, but to no avail, as they die at the end. Jimin found it incredibly romantic when Jeongguk had told him about it, but Jeongguk has yet to see the appeal. It’s another reminder of how evil fate can be. He doesn’t need more of that in his life.
Jimin seems to have caught his movement from the corner of his eye, because he nudges Jeongguk’s leg with his foot, silently urging him to go back to studying. They’ve been sitting in the common room of Jimin’s dorm for the past three hours, powering through their assignments, but Jeongguk’s had enough.
“Stop whining,” Jimin chastises him, taking off his headphones. He shakes his head a little, letting his ashy blond hair fall into place. The left corner of Jeongguk’s lips curls at the sight. His best friend has always been the most beautiful, all plump lips and delicate gestures like this that make him half a dream, half a human. “The festival is only a few days away, isn’t it? You’ll be done with it soon.”
“Yeah, but gaigosai lasts an entire week. I have rehearsals until Monday, and then I’ll be dragged to every party until the closing ceremony. It’s going to be hell.”
Jeongguk’s school is known all over the country for its festival. Tokyo University of Foreign Studies— TUFS for friends and gaidai for lazy fuckers like Jeongguk— hosts a week-long event to celebrate every culture and language that its students major in, from pretty generic ones like English or Spanish, from dialects spoken by less than a thousand people. And while Jeongguk adores the diversity and drinking with his classmates, he’s not a big fan of getting shit-faced at the park near campus. He’s fallen into its lake a couple more times than he’d like to admit. It’s humiliating, and added to all the work he needs to put on for the performance, a death sentence as well.
“Oh, I’m sure being the star of your year and kissing pretty people in Nichome is such a nightmare, Jeongguk,” Jimin says with a roll of his eyes. “I feel terrible for you.”
Jeongguk exaggerates a gasp. “When have I ever kissed anyone in Nichome? It’s like you don’t know me.”
“Dramatic much?” Jimin mumbles, huffing a laugh. “I love how you’re not denying that you’re a star.”
“I would if it wasn’t true,” Jeongguk replies, leaning over the table with a playful smile. He looks up at Jimin through his eyelashes. “Will you come drinking with us after the play?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs, glancing down at his notes. “I’m pretty busy.”
“You’ll be there to see me anyway, and we can take the last train to my place,” Jeongguk presses. Going out isn’t as fun without Jimin by his side, even when every boy at the bar is trying to hit on him. Jimin turns them down politely every time, despite Jeongguk’s complaints when someone objectively hot walks away, but Jimin claims he’s there to spend time with him, not strangers. That’s why they work so well together. “Please, just one night to celebrate my starring role. Please, please, please .”
“Oh my God, fine, you big baby,” Jimin laughs, finally cracking. A grin spreads through Jeongguk’s face. “But you need to promise me we’ll take the last train, okay? I can’t pull an all-nighter, especially not in Shinjuku.”
“Pinky promise,” he says, lifting his finger in the air and shaking it lightly but without offering it to Jimin. Too risky.
Jimin brushes it off with a smile. He’s always too indulging. Too soft. It makes Jeongguk’s stomach feel funny, but it’s hard to say whether it’s signs of something else or just the guilt over hiding something so big.
“I’ll see you there, then.”
The play is not as much of a disaster as Jeongguk expected. His Spanish still needs some polishing, and God forbid he claims he’s a good actor, but the love for their work is there. For each other, for the spirit of gaigosai , for a future in which they understand every single word in their script. They get a standing ovation only because Jimin springs to his feet once the curtains are drawn.
After he gets rid of his costume and everyone is ready to go, they walk to the station closest to campus. Not without stopping by the convenience store first to get a drink, though. Jimin pouts at Jeongguk and makes him share a can of lemon sour. Jeongguk doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he hates that brand with a passion.
The ride to Nichome is always filled with a certain warmth— the area always promises a good night, and he likes the buzz of excitement that comes before. Chatting with his friends and being a little too loud, mimicking the station announcements and complaining whenever the train seems to have stopped forever in Mitaka. It’s even better when Jimin is there, lingering near him, their thighs pressed together. When Jeongguk’s friend is telling the group about one of her professors, Jimin isn’t really involved in the conversation— he goes to Waseda, what would he know? — but he’s in the seat next to Jeongguk. That’s enough for him.
Once they make it out of the train, though, it’s not so easy. Jeongguk knows Jimin gets handsy when he’s drunk, and it gets hard to avoid his best friend’s touch the longer they stay out. Jeongguk’s eye usually remains fixed on the clock so they can run to catch the last train, and it never gets too bad. Just close.
Tonight, however— tonight’s different. It may be the exhaustion catching up to him or the remaining adrenaline from being on stage, but he’s careless. He lets a guy with ugly designer glasses buy him and his friends some shots just because it’ll be fun if you flirt with him. An older woman approaches him and calls him pretty in a language he doesn’t understand, but her friend translates it for him and Jeongguk lets her buy him another drink, because why? Not? Maybe because it’s the last day of the festival and classes start again on Monday, because he’s lost all sense of purpose and finals are right around the corner, or maybe because Jimin keeps watching over him like a hawk and he hates the attention.
Sometimes, it’s as if Jimin could burn his skin only by staring. And sometimes Jeongguk decides it isn’t fair that fate chose this for him. Wouldn’t it be easier if someone at the club was his soulmate instead? They’d bump into each other and they’d leave a trace in Jeongguk’s skin, and he would chase after them. Then, they’d fall in love. Jimin would have someone to find, too. Someone that wouldn’t be his best friend.
The word friend tastes bitter in Jeongguk’s tongue.
“Can I get a highball please?” he asks at the counter, sliding a thousand yen bill to the waiter. In less than a minute, the drink and a bunch of 100 yen coins are in his hand. He stumbles his way back into the dance floor.
Jimin catches him before anyone else steals him away. “Are you avoiding me or what?”
Jeongguk bounces back slightly, being held back by Jimin’s grip on his arm. He double-checks in a wave of panic that he’s wearing long-sleeves, but he still untucks himself from his hold. “What are you talking about?”
Jimin crosses his arms over his chest, huffing. He looks pretty under the purple and pink lights, Jeongguk’s hazy mind adds uselessly. “You begged me to come here with you and you’ve barely said a word to me all night. I don’t know any of your friends, Jeongguk, what am I supposed to do if you fuck off somewhere else?”
“I haven’t—” he has. He knows he has. “I thought you wouldn’t care so much, you always find people to talk to.”
“ I came here for you. ”
Jeongguk gulps. Jimin takes his drink from his hand and takes a long sip, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand afterwards. “Tastes like piss.”
“ Hyung.”
“Just make it up to me, yeah? Let’s dance.”
Jimin’s hands are on his waist before he can even refuse. Not that he would, not when Jimin feels so warm even if their skin isn’t touching. Jeongguk sends the gods a silent prayer, and then he follows his lead.
The music isn’t bad. Not great, but barely enough to drown the anxiety rushing through Jeongguk’s body. Jimin seems to be enjoying himself, and he fits. He belongs right there, in that dance floor moving in harmony with the rest, but he belongs here, too. With him.
Jimin flashes him a smile. He throws his hands around Jeongguk’s neck and pulls him closer.
“ Are you okay? ”
“ I’m good. You? ”
“You’re too far away,” he clicks his tongue. “I don’t bite.”
“ But you could ” , he adds with a nervous giggle. There is something unsettling behind Jimin’s gaze, a haze that isn’t usually there. Nothing about Jimin is complex to Jeongguk, the one that knows him the most, yet this is indecipherable.
“Only for the right reasons. ”
Jeongguk likes Jimin’s voice, even more so when they talk in Korean. There’s vulnerability behind it, waves of emotions his ever-formal and valedictorian Japanese filters out. It’s their secret language, even when they speak it walking in the heart of Tokyo’s Korean neighborhood. Moments like these make him wonder if it’s about the language at all, where the complicity comes from. Maybe Jimin’s walls just come down that easily.
“You were flirting with that girl,” he suddenly says. Back to the fortress.
Jeongguk raises his brow. Where is this coming from? “She was hot.”
Jimin’s hand curls tighter around Jeongguk’s waist, and he knows it’s accidental because he’s never rough with him. He’s pissed off about something.
“You danced, too?”
“A little.”
“ Was she a better dancer than me? ”
“ Where is this coming from?”
Jimin shakes his head and looks away, eyes diving into the dance floor. Not so much avoiding Jeongguk than searching for something.
“Will you look at me?”
He seems to think about it, jutting his pretty lip out in the smallest pout, but he eventually caves in. Jeongguk wishes more than ever he could hold Jimin’s face in his hands, get him to stay where he wants him.
“I’m tired. And I came here for you,” he repeats. “You’re off with your friends and pretty girls and I’m alone and tired when I could be in my bed.”
Oh. The confession stings a little. “We can leave if you want to. I’m sorry I dragged you here—”
“No, I don’t want to go.” Jimin seems almost frustrated by the proposal, as if going home was totally out of the question. “I’m just annoyed. You know I get possessive over my friends, I don’t know.”
So it’s just that? Jealousy? “You’re jealous?”
“Shut up.”
Jeongguk breaks into a smile.
“ Want me all to yourself, hyung? ”
Jimin clicks his tongue, stepping dangerously close. Jeongguk likes to keep him at an arms length, where their skin won’t accidentally brush and reveal his best kept secret. Here, he feels like he can’t breathe. Jimin’s arms loop around his neck, a teasing smile on his lips, and Jeongguk waits to inevitably combust.
It doesn’t actually happen, but inside he’s a forest fire.
“Maybe, Jeonggukie,” Jimin says cheerfully. “So what if I do?”
Jeongguk gulps. He’s the bravest boy in the world. “You’ve never been good at sharing, anyway.”
Jimin throws his head back laughing, and Jeongguk’s hands fly to his waist to keep him from falling (to keep him this close, hip to hip.)
The song changes; it’s a slow Latin beat with a deep bass line that reverberates in Jeongguk’s chest. Jimin lights up immediately, and his body follows, surfing the melody in waves. If Jeongguk weren’t already a fire hazard for Jimin, he’s sure now he would be anyway— how can Jimin not notice what he’s doing to him?
Still, he tries to brush it off. Dance along, like a friend would do. He’s seen how Hoseok and Jimin dance at clubs, and nothing has ever happened between them. Jimin won’t see right through him if he indulges him just a little.
But he keeps getting closer. And closer. And closer. Until Jeongguk feels like Jimin is leeching off the little oxygen that he’s breathing and the walls of the bar are closing in on him. It’s a crab trap topped with a pretty bow.
His eyes are on him. Waiting. Jeongguk knows that look (he knows him, he knows him) and the implications. It’s always directed to someone else, someone better than him in one or more ways. It’s a look for a stranger, never a soulmate.
“ What are you doing? ” Jeongguk can’t hold his voice above a whisper.
“ Just looking at you. ”
They breathe in unison. Something quick flashes through Jimin’s eyes, emotion or regret or maybe both, and then his lips are on Jeongguk’s. His hands, tightly secured around his face, cupping it like water.
If one could experience the end of the world and live to tell it, Jeongguk would say it pretty much feels like this.
He kisses him back after a second. He could pull away and argue and run away, but their pull to each other is magnetic, as magical as it is forbidden by his books. Jeongguk doesn’t think about the consequences and the explanations or the inexorable heartbreak that awaits him. He just thinks about Jimin, his Jimin, right where he’s dreamed of him being.
Jimin’s lips glide against his, hungry.
Time is never real in Shinjuku, not with its endless flows of people coming in and out of the train station. The loud music coming from cheap speakers in businesses and trucks and their blinding neon lights. The smell of tobacco in Omoide-yokocho, the street of lost memories. Nichome nights exist within this time, only material enough to grasp them when they’re over, when the ramen is steaming your face and you have twenty minutes until the first train arrives.
Time is never real in Shinjuku, but Jeongguk counts the seconds of their kiss as if Jimin had created them only for him.
Jimin’s hands stay on Jeongguk’s face the whole time. Jeongguk slides his fingers through Jimin’s hair and pulls, opening his mouth into the kiss like they were sharing a singular breath. Ten, eleven, twelve,
Jimin pulls away with a gasp. (He’s never been a good diver.)
Jeongguk doesn’t dare open his eyes, giving himself that thirteenth second as a gift before it's stolen from him. Before Nichome is just Nichome, a corner in the heart of Tokyo just as lousy as the others he talks about with disdain.
When he finally does, he stares at the expression in Jimin’s face for a moment before he recognizes it from his nightmares.
“Your face,” he says, his lips trembling.
Jeongguk’s hand comes up to his own cheek, and he follows the burning traces Jimin has left behind. “Hyung.”
Jimin shakes his head, taking a step back. “Did you know?”
Jeongguk swallows. “I’m sorry, I can explain—”
“I think I’m done here.”
He turns and leaves. Jeongguk doesn’t bother following him— he knows he needs time, time he’ll never get in this place. Instead, he covers his face with his hands and waits for the burns to go away. It only ever takes a couple of minutes, but they’ve been touching for so long. He’s never let himself be this close to Jimin. It’s ironic to think of how apart they will be after this.
In the middle of the dance floor, he wonders if Jimin will ever forgive him.
Jeongguk steps over the plastic cup where his drink had been as he leaves the bar, and he spends the rest of the night asleep in a karaoke booth for one, Jimin’s contact information opened on his phone. He doesn’t call, just stares at his LINE profile picture. It’s him in a white linen shirt, sitting all pretty in front of a plate of soba somewhere in Kamakura. Jeongguk took that. They go every summer since they were kids, to make wishes on a pretty temple from where you can see the mountains and swim in the ocean.
He wonders if they’ll ever visit again.
x
On Thursday morning, someone knocks on Jeongguk’s door. At first, he furrows his eyebrows and listens closely, thinking it could be the wind knocking tree branches against his window. With the cold of November closing in, the leaves of the ginkgo trees outside his apartment have turned golden like daylight. The soft wind makes the trees dance and wave at him from his bedroom window, but the sound they make is much more gentle. When he hears the knocking again, it becomes clear it’s made with an urgency the trees’ ‘good morning’s’ have never known.
He rushes to the door, sliding his slippers against the floor. Did he order something online?
“ Kooko-chan. ”
Jeongguk’s hand freezes on the doorknob. He hasn’t heard that name since he was entering middle school, eager to prove he wasn’t a kid anymore. He swallows and opens the door.
“ Hyung ?”
Jimin’s lips curl into a coy smile. “Can we talk?”
Stumbling back, Jeongguk lets Jimin step into the tiny entrance of the studio. He takes off his shoes and walks down the hallway that leads to Jeongguk’s bedroom. The foldable table he uses is still set up in the middle of the room, adorned with an empty bowl of rice and natto and a half-empty cup of coffee. Jimin chuckles at the sight and sits on the floor next to it.
Jeongguk lingers at the end of the hallway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
After a deep sigh, Jimin starts talking. “I’m sorry I ran off like that. It was wrong, leaving you behind. I regret it so much.”
“You needed space, I understand,” Jeongguk mumbles. “It’s all my fault.”
Jimin shakes his head. “You must’ve lived with a heavy burden for longer than I can imagine. I’m sorry that I didn’t know, that I couldn’t help make your life easier.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“There must be a reason why you thought you had to hide it from me, though.”
Jeongguk runs a hand down his face. He never once thought he’d get caught. He’d always figured that Jimin would find someone he loved enough to be with even in spite of them not being his soulmate, and Jeongguk would… watch. From a distance. Die with the secret.
“You always sounded so excited about the idea of falling in love. Having a soulmate matters to you— in a way that I could never understand or honor. I thought finding out that someone like me was your soulmate would wreck you.”
“Someone like you?”
“A friend. Someone that’s been there for as long as you can remember is nothing exciting.”
Jimin furrows his brows, drawing the two littlest upset lines on each edge. “I can’t believe that's what you think. This whole time— you've been my best friend, a constant, this whole time, and you think it would kill me to know you’re the one I’m tied with. I mean,” he raises his hands in the air, letting out a huff. “Have you never read a romance novel? What’s wrong with you?”
Jeongguk blinks at him. Jimin scoffs at his blank expression, standing up. “Amy and Laurie? Katniss and Peta? Hell, Choi Seung-hyo and Baek Seokryu? No? And what do you think that night in Nichome was? Do you think I just go around kissing people?”
“No! I just thought that— maybe you wanted—” he slouches his shoulders, defeated.
Jimin paces around the room with his arms crossed. He glances at Jeongguk once, then twice, until the disappointed lines in his face passed down by his father fade into his mother's compassion.
“ Kookoo-yah. Don't be dense, yeah? Babo. Why do you think I kissed you?”
Jeongguk takes in a shaky breath. “Because you wanted.”
“For so long,” Jimin whispers, “I’ve been waiting for you for so long. And you were so caught up in this secret that you couldn't see me.”
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to protect you. I thought that, with enough time, the right person would come into your life and I wouldn't have to hide anymore. But it never happened.”
“You were already there. You happened to me, seventeen years ago.”
“Hyung—” Jeongguk’s voice cracks. “Hyung, can I touch you?”
Jimin nods. Jeongguk walks up to him, cautious, like when they used to catch fireflies by the river when they were kids. Hushed, slow steps that approached the thing he wanted the most. Something so delicate, volatile, that the smallest mistake would mean devastation.
His hands wrap around Jimin’s wrists, and he moves him to cup his face just like he had at the club. Jeongguk closes his eyes, breathing in. Jimin trails his fingers through his cheeks, his jaw and forehead, burning trails on his skin as if he were drawing an intricate map.
“You’re so beautiful,” Jimin whispers. The light of the marks he’s left behind dances in his wavering eyelids.
Jeongguk leans into the palm of Jimin’s hand, the warmth they’ve created. “You made me beautiful.”
When they kiss, this time doesn’t feel like doom. It’s not a lighthouse in the middle of a thunderstorm— it’s the land, a thousand lights coming from every household signaling they’ve touched the ground. This, right here, is safety. What they’ve always known. It's the sound of cicadas blaring down on them as they chased each other on their bikes through the countryside, floating clouds over their heads.
It’s long hours after school and practice tests. Prayers to foreign gods to get the grades they needed, to pass the interviews with university recruiters. The weight of each other pressing against their shoulders, firm and unwavering like love.
And it’s fate, fate pulling strings so that they end up in the right place at the right time: Tokyo, city of lights. City of new beginnings— (of floating clouds, following their every step.)