Archive of Our Own ^beta

— The playlist.

The week before Christmas, all trains departing from Seoul are delayed due to heavy snow on the tracks. Now that Jimin is out of a job, he can’t afford to be flying in and out of Busan (not in this economy, anyway), so he sits in an uncomfortable steel chair surrounded by his bags and a coat that’s too warm— just like the rest of the suckers in the station— until they’re allowed to leave.

Starting his first week of unemployment with a ticket to his hometown and his entire life packed away in a suitcase is far from ideal. Jimin would rather be one of those people that love the city and quit their job to change career paths. A climber, a high-achiever with a thirst for knowledge or recognition, or a penthouse in Gangnam. But he’s twenty-seven, and all he has is a failed career in Finance and mold in his bathroom wall. There’s nothing left in Seoul for him.

Not that his hometown has much to offer; it’s a little fishing town with more boats than people, but at least he has a home to come back to. A loving family and some friends— the ones that don’t hate him now—, and the sea. He has to believe that he’ll be alright.

His parents are asleep when he finally arrives, so he doesn’t even get a warm welcome like the ones in the movies. It’s the following morning when they see him, all curled-up in an old blanket as he brews some coffee. A couple of days pass just like this: he sleeps in half the day, makes coffee, watches TV with his mom. He helps with dinner and falls asleep before his parents. 

In the meantime, his father watches him wordlessly. This morning, his disapproving gaze is no different, but he finally dares to speak.

“Unemployment looks bad on you, son.” 

Jimin blows on his coffee, leaning his hip against the kitchen counter. “I missed you, too.”

“I’m only pointing out facts. You’re acting like this is a holiday resort, rolling around all day. You could use a shower, too.”

“Didn’t even say good morning,” Jimin grumbles. “Can I have breakfast first, or am I supposed to pay extra for that?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” he walks up to Jimin and takes the cup from his hands. “I’ll make you some decent breakfast while you shower. You’ve forgotten how to feed yourself in that damn city.”

Jimin sighs, resigned. The last thing he wants is to eat fish soup and rice at seven in the morning. There were times when he’d yearn for it, when he first moved, but after a while he'd gotten used to the taste of soggy cereal and bitter coffee every morning before work. He can almost taste the metal bars of the subway if he focuses hard enough, the smell of the sewage coming up after rainy days. 

He showers. He burns his tongue with the soup and scrapes the rice bowl until there are no grains left. He curls up on the couch after and dozes off, only cracking his eyes open when his father drapes a blanket over his body, gnarling under his breath. Jimin listens to his footsteps until they leave through the door, and falls back asleep while the ghost of his childhood wanders around the room. 

Jimin only wakes up an hour later, forced back into reality by the sound of impatient knocking on their front door springing him up to his feet. He rubs his eyes, cracks his back like the fishermen he grew up around and waddles to the entrance. 

His dad must’ve forgotten his keys— his mom has been complaining about his absent-mindedness for a while now. Time also passes in this house, even in Jimin’s absence.

He pulls the door open, bracing himself for the cold that will inevitably seep into his bones, sneaking through the thin fabric of his sweater. 

“ Appa , why are you—”

“Jimin?”

The world comes to a stop. A swirl of nausea hits Jimin, powerful enough to make him stumble back. Standing on his tiptoes, he looks past the man standing in front of him, waiting for the hidden cameras filming this sick joke to reveal themselves.

His hair is longer than the last time they saw each other. It’s funny that that’s the first thing that Jimin notices, cares about, as if he weren’t facing the person he called home before home was the vicious, ash-gray Seoul. As if his fists weren't clenched at the sight of him. 

Jimin lingers at the door, still holding onto the knob. “Jeongguk? What are you…?”

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Jeongguk’s gaze pierces straight through him, shutting down any kind of resistance building up inside of Jimin. His hair is disheveled and his cheeks are red, but whether it’s from rage or the cold, Jimin can’t tell. He’s dressed up in his winter clothes, the same old puffer that Jimin used to nag him about and a bright red scarf around his neck. It would be an endearing sight in a different circumstance, but the Jeongguk before him looks worn down, despite the angry front. As if time had finally gotten to his spirit. “You show up here after three fucking years and you don’t even care to maybe—oh, I don’t know—give me a heads-up? A little warning? Or were you planning to avoid me the whole time you were here?”

“Um.”

“You don’t have the balls to text me, is that it? Does it scare you that much to act like a decent—”

“Can you just—” Jimin raises his voice over Jeongguk’s. He can’t stand it any longer. He didn’t come here for this. “—shut up for a second? Slow down.”

Jeongguk clamps his mouth shut, shockingly obedient yet still shooting daggers through his— stupidly big—brown eyes.

“I didn’t think it was necessary,” Jimin hisses through his teeth. “I’m only staying for the holidays, anyway.” He hasn’t bought a return ticket yet. “I don’t know why you’re going off like this.”

Jeongguk scoffs. “You don’t know why I’m going off at you. You don’t know,” he laughs, but Jimin doesn’t think he finds it funny in the slightest. “Are you fucking with me?”

“I’m—”

“No, now you shut up and listen to me,” he says, taking a step forward. Jimin wonders if his mom can hear them yelling at each other from the inside of the house. If there’s anyone around to eavesdrop. He almost thinks to ask Jeongguk to take this somewhere else, if only to save himself the embarrassment of being caught arguing so publicly. “I get that it’s been three years. That you stayed in Seoul. And that’s fine, I don’t care anymore. What I care about is that you know our families and everyone in this goddamn town thinks we’re still together because we agreed not to tell anyone for my sake. How can you just show up without telling me after all that? Make my own mother be the one who tells me you’re home? Do you know how weird it is that I don’t know what my alleged boyfriend is up to?” He takes a deep breath, chest swelling with air as if he were just coming out of the water. “You realize where that leaves me?”

“You could’ve said we had a fight, or something,” Jimin mumbles, but his cheeks are burning up. He’d been so swarmed up by his own misery that he hadn’t even considered the life he’d left behind was waiting for him. “I had other things to worry about.”

“Clearly.”

“It’s not like I’m moving back forever, anyway. I’m just visiting my family. I’ll be out of your hair after New Year’s.”

“That’s not enough for me.” Jeongguk’s voice raises again, making Jimin flinch. God, he hopes nobody is listening. “You shouldn’t be here. If you wanted to be in Seoul so much you should’ve stayed there.”

Jimin huffs. “This is my home, too. And besides—” he looks down to the hinges of the door, almost annoyed by this. By the absurdity of it all. “—we’re broken up. Where I decide to spend my time has nothing to do with you anymore.”

“No,” Jeongguk says, “you left, Jimin. I didn't. You left me here. You got to experience the big city and make new plans that didn't include me while I was trying to fill in the absence of you. So, no, you don't get to tell me how I feel about you coming back. You don’t get to say coming home has nothing to do with me when it does . It does.”

Jeongguk turns his head to the side, reaching out to loosen his scarf, but Jimin can’t seem to take his eyes from him, from the way his chest heaves. It stings somewhere deep in him, to see him like that, and Jimin hates it. That it didn’t matter how far he went or how long he stayed away, because the minute he’s near Jeon Jeongguk again every bit of his heart shatters.

“No, you’re right. I’m sorry. I should’ve said something. Still, I understand it’s frustrating but I don’t know what you want me to do about it now— I’m already here. It’s done.”

“Oh, it’s not anywhere near done,” Jeongguk scoffs, turning to face Jimin again. He cocks his head to the side, placing a hand on his hip. “Don’t act like you don’t know this shit’s gonna spread like wildfire. My mom gossips. Your mom gossips. If you wish to have any kind of peace while you’re here you’ll have to help me cover this up.”

“Wha— just tell them we had a fight!” Jimin splutters, face heating up. “Or say we broke up a few weeks ago but it’s still fresh so we need some space.”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes. Actually rolls his eyes, as if Jimin had said the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “Seoul has done irreparable damage to you. Space, really? My parents should’ve gotten divorced twenty years ago. Ask them how space went.”

Jimin bites his lip. “Okay, maybe that’s not going to work.”

Their eyes lock momentarily, but Jimin doesn’t know how appropriate it is to laugh. They both know what the gag is here— couples trying to fix their marriage with a kid rather than therapy. A promise they made to each other once they were old to understand the damage. Their homes were never a refuge; they were to each other.

Jeongguk pushes his tongue against his cheek. Jimin almost flinches at the sight, violently reminded of all of Jeon Jeongguk’s mannerisms that he memorized with time. 

“I know it’s going to sound crazy, but-”

Jimin holds a hand up. “No, I already know what you’re going to say. Hard pass.”

“Jimin, please.”

The lack of honorifics feels like a slap to the face. Far too familiar for someone standing at an acquaintance’s distance.

“You’re crazy.”

“You said it yourself. You’ll only be here for Christmas, and then we can go back to how things were before. But the dinner–” Jeongguk pauses to inhale sharply. Inadvertently, Jimin holds his own breath as well. “I’m hosting this year.”

Jimin’s heart makes a sudden drop. The Jeon family has hosted a large-scale New Year’s celebration at their house for almost two centuries now. Before there were roads and fumes covering the skies near the port, while poverty and war split the nation apart, and through the many years where those dinners served as covers for clandestine rendezvous in the fight for democracy, the Jeons cared for their community. 

Jeongguk’s family has historically held positions of power at city hall; they’ve worked endlessly to ensure the citizens of this small village, lost by the South coast, got the livelihood they deserved. The expectation for Jeongguk is nothing short of such achievements, and this is the first step: holding a successful New Year’s dinner, earning the respect of their neighbors. 

It seemed like such a foreign concept to them, back in college. It permanently hung over Jeongguk’s head, a looming sense of responsibility that he could never shake off, but Jimin still remembers their conversations in bed, how they’d repeat that they still had time like a mantra. Today more than ever, it seems like those four years flew by. Before they knew it, Jeongguk had come back. 

Jimin stayed.

“Please. You know how important it is to me.”

He does. If the news about their breakup were to reach the town now, it would be all everyone would talk about, staining Jeongguk’s debut dinner forever with baseless rumors and a sense of disappointment. 

Jimin chews his lower lip, deep in thought. It’s not his problem if Jeongguk gets in trouble. If he faces the embarrassment of keeping a lie for too long because he’d rather keep his feelings to himself than be honest. It shouldn’t worry Jimin in the slightest that this is going to explode in Jeongguk’s face, because a sick, bitter part of him believes that he deserves it. 

Jeongguk got to stay in his comfortable life and forget about Jimin from the warmth of a home that was ready to embrace his inability to move forward. Meanwhile, Jimin lived with his grief, a pestering roommate that would knock on his door with reminders that his world, as he knew it, didn’t exist anymore. That he was alone. Nobody was coming to save him.

He thinks back to their childhood, all the times he heard Jeongguk’s mother yelling through the walls. Reprimands, expectations, perfectionism. There was not a single speck of dust in that house; it cowered under the scrutiny of her, hypervigilant and demanding. The family dinner was just another perfect job that she felt the need to parole around, much like her sons and daughter. If those memories have remained vivid in Jimin’s memories, they must be sewn to Jeongguk's skin. 

Jimin runs a hand through his hair, sighing. He wonders briefly when it’ll stop— the worrying. The love. (They’re the same.) “You have to promise me that you’ll tell them after New Years.”

Jeongguk’s face lights up. “So you’ll do it?”

Jimin’s heart sinks again. “Fuck, Jeongguk. Yeah. I’m not a monster.”

Jeongguk lets out a sigh of relief, and Jimin has to look away. His hands ache from the cold as his body comes to his senses. The details of the background materialize in front of him, the dead trees, the snow and Jeongguk’s wet mountain boots. His beat-up truck parked down the road. It’s far from Jeongguk’s hazy apparitions in his dreams. He’s real, and so are his feelings, the reality of where their journey stalled. 

“Thank you.”

“It’s for the best.”

Jeongguk nods, pressing his lips together. “You should come around at some point, say hello to Mom. It’ll make things easier for both of us.”

Jimin can’t argue with that. He runs his fingers over the door frame, a less sore sight to the eyes than his ex-boyfriend. The sting of the rough wood against his dry skin keeps him awake.

“Sure. I’ll drop by tomorrow before lunch.”

Jeongguk makes a sound of disapproval. “I’ll be at work then.”

“Even better. We won’t have to see each other.”

He doesn’t check if Jeongguk is clenching his fists, trembling from the effort to constrain his anger. Jimin knows him well enough to be sure that he hasn’t changed the way he copes with disagreements, swallowing the seeds of his disappointment until a forest of resentment cracks his ribs as it looks for a way out.

“Have it your way.”

Jimin’s fingers close around the handle of the door. “Don’t show up unannounced again.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Asshole,” Jimin mutters.

“Oh, fuck you.”

They stare at each other. Jeongguk’s eyebrow is raised, and Jimin wants to bury the arrogance of the gesture where he can’t see it so that it doesn’t nail to his skin like a crawling animal. He could slam the door closed and avoid Jeongguk until the dinner, but his whole body freezes under his gaze, the fierceness that he’d been craving since it disappeared from his life.

“Happy holidays to you, too.”

Jimin catches the hint of a smile as Jeongguk turns away, pretending to adjust his scarf to cover his mouth. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and spares Jimin one last glance, cautious and gelid.

“I’ll see you around.”

The soft thud of the wooden door closing echoes through the hall, the only company to Jimin and the heaviness that’s forced its way into his chest. He rests against it, catching his breath. 

He knew coming home was a mistake, but he has nowhere else to turn. Dirty laundry can’t be buried forever.

x

Jeongguk’s home still smells the same. A wave of nausea hits Jimin, the traces of burnt wood and Jeongguk’s mom’s cinnamon candles. The warmth engulfs his body almost violently, rushing to his cheeks. He itches to take off his coat.

As promised, he’s shown up at the Jeon family house front door, freshly showered and with his hair neatly combed, in clothes that don’t scream that he’s recently out of a job and on the verge of a mental crisis. He brings a bag of goodies, an apology in disguise, alongside practiced small talk and fabricated lies. 

He’d considered going against Jeongguk’s wishes and showing up while he was at work, but the sun has long set when the front door opens. Now, Jeongguk hangs his arm, waiting for Jimin to hand him his scarf and coat. 

Jimin does so in a daze, eyes trained on the decoration of the walls. Some of the pictures he remembered have been swapped out for more updated versions of Jeongguk’s siblings and their partners. He spots Jeongguk’s sister holding a baby and Junghyun and Jeongguk posing in the snow, taller and stronger than the baby version of themselves that’s framed underneath. 

“Eomma, Jimin’s home!” Jeongguk calls, lacking any sort of excitement in his voice. Jimin can't blame him.

Footsteps approach them, the sound of slippers hitting the wooden floor at a hastened pace until a figure rounds the corner. Jeongguk’s mother is holding a thick cardigan closed with her hands, wrapping it around her body. There’s not a single grey hair in sight as usual, and her skin is flawless, like time had simply graced past her. She’s still the same as ten, five, three years ago.

“Oh, Jimin, look at you,” Chunghye exclaims, letting go of the cardigan to approach him and hold his face in her hands, forcing Jimin to crouch down slightly. “You’re alive and breathing!”

She shakes his face slightly, eyebrows furrowed. The worry behind her eyes doesn’t help Jimin feel any less sick. 

“You’ve lost so much weight,” she clicks her tongue. “Your cheeks are barely here anymore. What are they feeding you over there, huh?”

Jimin flinches, hearing his dad’s voice in her words. Everyone seems to have something to comment on his weight, his body. 

“I’m eating well, eommonim . It’s nice to see you after a while.”

She lets go of him with a glare and her arms cross over her chest. “Why haven't you come visit, huh? Do you know how many times I’ve asked—”

“Mom,” Jeongguk sighs. “He just got here. Cut hyung some slack, yeah?”

Jimin blushes. He wants to blame it on the heat, but the truth is he hasn't heard Jeongguk call him hyung in ages. Even during their senior year of high school, he’d already dropped honorifics, comfortable in their relationship in a way that didn’t seem rational for older generations. He’d still kept the act around their parents to avoid getting chastised, so ‘hyung’ quickly turned into a term that Jimin associated with family dinners and weekends away where his dad would drag Jeongguk to fish, an arm around his shoulders and a story everyone had heard a million times.

“Aren’t you glad he’s here?” 

The irony in Jeongguk’s tone doesn't go unnoticed by Jimin. He clenches his jaw.

“Of course I am.” Jeongguk’s mom pats Jimin’s side affectionately, sighing. “Come on inside, tell me all about that fancy job. Jeongguk never wants to talk about what you do.”

Jimin chuckles, albeit awkwardly. Of course Jeongguk wouldn’t want to mention Jimin’s evil, capitalist soul-sucking job. He floated far above it, sitting in his throne of righteousness. 

“My job’s pretty boring.”

“Don’t say that, with how hard you’ve worked. All your mom ever does is boast about you,” Chunghye says as she leads them inside, waving her hands animatedly. “We’re tired of hearing from her.”

The layout of the living room has been shuffled from the last time Jimin was here. The couch now faces the fireplace, and the TV has been moved to a different corner. There are at least three vases with various wildflowers and dried plants from the season. By how neatly they’re organized, color-coded and all, Jimin guesses it’s Jeongguk’s doing.

There are also boxes of crayons on the coffee table, scrambled on top of colorful scribbled pages and a butterfly coloring book that has been left open in the center. Jeongguk’s sister’s kids must be three, now. The realization slaps Jimin’s face, and he grabs his stomach as if it could stop him from throwing up.

Chunghye looks at Jimin like he’s a starved animal, a pitiful, emaciated dog that's been abandoned on the side of the road. “Are you hungry?” 

He smiles, shaking his head. “Just a little sick from all the traveling.”

She nods in understanding, ushering them to make themselves comfortable on the couch. Jeongguk sits at an arm’s length from Jimin, and Jimin gives him a look—a glare; he can’t control himself—to which Jeongguk replies by crossing his arms over his chest, deeming the conversation over. He always gets away with what he wants.

Chunghye milks details about his life in Seoul from Jimin until she’s satisfied, curious in a way that is inexplicable to him. It’s as though he’d simply come home from a long vacation, with souvenirs and a light tan. She never understood Jeongguk’s apprehension towards the corporate life, and Jimin vividly remembers her conversations with his son over the phone during the two years they spent on their job search, wearing suits and running from interviews to seminars and back to their apartments for an online one-to-one. 

Jeongguk would come home to her prying questions, forcing his chest open until the last bit of his patience snapped and they argued about duties and the shiny future he was throwing away. She never seemed to think Jeongguk was fit to take on local politics or responsibilities around the town, unlike many other family members before him. The curse of being the youngest.

Once she’s satisfied with Jimin’s answers, Jimin places the paper bag he’d brought on his lap, smiling at his ex-mother-in-law.  

“I got this for you, eommonim.” 

She tries not to let the excitement show on her face as she unwraps a bottle of Japanese sake and a box of chocolates. Jimin’s company had given them a generous holiday basket that Jimin had selfishly brought back home, clinging to the last remnant of his corporate life. He had no use for all the fancy brands and grown-up foods, but he’d assumed his parents would enjoy something like that. After Jeongguk had showed up at his door, he knew he couldn’t visit his family empty-handed. 

“Thank you, darling.” She extends her hand out to him, and Jimin feels her age for the first time, now holding her fragile wrist, bony fingers interlocking with his own. “I know I gave you a bit of a hard time, but it’s really good to have you back.”

“I’m happy to be here,” he replies, shocking himself with the sincerity that his words contain. 

Jeongguk is watching the exchange silently, an unreadable expression behind his eyes. It unnerves Jimin, feels like claw marks on his skin.

“You have to come visit more often. Jeongguk has been insufferable ever since you left.”

“Mom, please—”

“He comes back from Seoul sulking like a kicked puppy. He really misses you.”

Jeongguk coughs. “I think hyung knows that.”

Jimin raises an eyebrow at Jeongguk, curling the corners of his lips into a teasing smile. “Oh, does he?”

Chunghye watches the silent glare war between the both of them with a confused look on her face, and she turns to hit Jeongguk’s knee with a click of her tongue. “Don’t tell me you don’t let your own boyfriend know you miss him. With all the work he’s doing… all by himself… Jeon Jeongguk, did I raise you like this?”

Jeongguk blushes a dark shade of red, pretty and wide-eyed like the version of him that Jimin loved. He wonders what Chunghye meant by saying Jeongguk comes back from Seoul sulking. He makes a mental note to torture Jeongguk about it later.

An hour passes by as Chunghye shows Jimin a photo album full of pictures of her grandsons. Jeongguk brews warm tea in the meantime, pushing a steaming cup in Jimin’s hands when he was too busy cooing over the babies to notice. They only get up from the couch when Jeongguk’s father comes home and Chunghye remembers she wanted to cook something special for dinner. 

The exchange with Jeongguk’s dad is awkward and short, like every other interaction they’ve had. He’s a quiet man— kind-hearted at his core, but he’s never known how to treat Jimin, someone equally as shy as him. 

Jeongguk walks him to the door. The air is thick between them, heavy with a million conversation starters that feel ridiculous, and their resentment, ever-present. 

“Thank you for coming,” he eventually says, eyes trained on Jimin as he slips back into his coat. “I haven’t seen her this happy in months.”

“I’m just trying to make things easier.”

“I know. Still, thank you. I wasn’t the nicest to you yesterday.”

They haven’t been nice to each other in years. Jeongguk’s apology feels misplaced and Jimin doesn’t know what to do with it— should he apologize as well? Brush it off? Pick another fight so that their conversation doesn’t end yet?

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do besides, y’know, showing up on New Year’s.”

Jeongguk hums. He looks good today, with his hair long and brown, kissing the sides of his face. Jimin aches with the knowledge that he missed seeing Jeongguk grow his hair out after he’d talked about it, ever since high school. He wonders what other achievements he won’t get to see, and if Jeongguk would think about him in those moments. Want him back, even for a second.

“You’re staring.”

“Huh? Oh, sorry,” Jimin blushes to his core. “I was— I blanked. Haven’t slept much.”

Jeongguk laughs under his breath and leans past Jimin to throw the door open. Notes of bergamot, white musk and a creamy almond embrace Jimin only to be gone in seconds as Jeongguk pulls away. He wants to bury his nose on his neck and smell his perfume, ask why he changed the passionfruit and bitter oranges for something so homely— so unlike him. 

The question follows him until he falls asleep, the powdery smell stuck to his skin despite not having worn the perfume himself. Haunting, much like Jeon Jeongguk and their past.

x

When Jimin’s ancestors came up with stories of the man that always tripped over the same rock, they were probably having premonitory dreams of the person Jimin would become. He curses his entire bloodline as he adds another item to the pile of food that he’s quickly collected in his arms, damning the moment he decided to walk past the baskets by the entrance of the supermarket. ‘A few things’ are never a few.

Jimin huffs and shuffles, attempting to balance the products in his arms to reach for a bag of snacks on the shelf in front of him. He takes a hold of it with his two fingers, but the block of butter stocked on top of all the other food he carries suddenly drops to the floor, bringing down a few more items with it. 

Jimin swears under his breath. He crouches down to the floor and puts everything down, holding frustrated tears back. All he can think about is how many people will have watched him make a fool of himself, how many more times he’ll embarrass himself before reaching the registry. Who goes shopping without a bag? Seriously, what’s wrong with him?

“Let me help you with that.”

A pair of boots stops in Jimin’s line of vision, and he’s soon being joined by hands that Jimin would recognize with his eyes closed. He snaps his head up and sees Jeongguk, far closer to his face than he should be. His hair is falling over his eyes, covering the pink flush of his cheeks from the cold. Jimin resists the urge to flee.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to,” Jimin mumbles, unsure of what to do with his hands. Jeongguk is neatly stacking the items on top of each other, paying no attention to the distress oozing from Jimin. “Jeongguk, seriously—”

“You always do this.” Jeongguk clicks his tongue, gathering Jimin’s groceries in his arms and standing up. Jimin follows him, stumbling a little as he loses his balance. “I’ll put them in my cart.”

“That’s really not necessary.” 

Jimin wants to scream. Where did he even come from? It’s like Jeongguk has a sixth sense to ensure that he’s surrounding Jimin at every moment, physically or mentally. When he’s not yelling at him, he’s walking down the same street, and when he’s not that, he’s circling Jimin’s thoughts like a vulture, gawking reminders that Jimin should feel guilty for the choices he’s made.

Jeongguk gives Jimin an unimpressed look before dumping his groceries inside his cart. It’s already pretty full with fresh vegetables and various kinds of meat along with bottles of fancy alcohol. He must be doing last minute shopping for the New Year’s day dinner. It used to be something that his mother took care of while he and Jimin ran around grabbing snacks and, as they got older, sneaking bottles of soju into the pockets of their coats. Now Jeongguk is calling the shots, with no one to rely on for a second opinion on which piece of beef will taste better or if the wine should be Spanish or French. 

He must’ve spent longer than he realized looking down at the cart, because Jeongguk cocks his head to the side and watches him, silently amused. Jimin’s eyes widen at the sight and he turns around swiftly, feeling the heat rising to his face.

“C’mon, it’s not a big deal. Don’t be stubborn.”

“It’s fine,” Jimin grits through his teeth, annoyance crippling under his skin. “I was almost done, and I’m sure you have a lot left to buy. I don’t want to bother you.”

He doesn’t want Jeongguk following him around, either, but he keeps that to himself.

Jeongguk pushes the cart past him as if Jimin’s words were irrelevant, and he shrugs, eyes glued to the snack shelf. “Then help me out. I’ll be quicker to get out of your hair.”

Jimin scoffs out a laugh, but Jeongguk doesn’t wait to hear his response. He walks towards the next aisle and Jimin hastens the pace of his steps to catch up to him. They walk silently for a while, walking slowly through each aisle. Now that Jeongguk is here, Jimin feels too self-conscious to keep grabbing things, as if it’d prove Jeongguk’s point that Jimin needed his help. He doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. 

He can come back, no matter how far away the market is by foot (he hasn’t driven his dad’s car in years. The roads are tricky this time of year, frozen and dark. Nevermind that he used to go on drives to the beach at night, most times with Jeongguk riding shotgun. Nevermind that he used to know this town like the back of his hand.)

“What are you even looking for?” Jimin asks, seeing Jeongguk turn yet another corner.

“Gochujang paste,” he replies, “but the big containers. And some other spices. Oh, I should probably grab the octopus first—”

“Octopus?” Jimin glances at the cart, and for the first time, he notices how misplaced everything is, as if Jeongguk had gone back multiple times to grab things he’d forgotten or suddenly thought of after passing their aisle. “How long have you been here, Jeongguk?”

Jeongguk slows down his pace, and Jimin watches how he gnaws at his lower lip, avoiding eye contact with Jimin.

“Dunno. I lost track of time.”

Jimin scoffs, flabbergasted. “Did you even bring a list?”

Jeongguk opens his mouth and closes it, caught off guard, and Jimin’s instincts want him to reach over and ruffle his hair. He wonders if it would feel softer in his hands, now that they’re not roughed up from harvest seasons and summers volunteering at the farm. Maybe Jeongguk wouldn’t like it as much, his touch, because it’d belong to someone that accommodated. Does he still believe that Jimin sold his soul for a comfortable nine-to-five? Is he repulsed by the person Jimin became?

“I must’ve left it on the counter,” Jeongguk mumbles. “I should call my mom.”

Jimin immediately shakes his head. “And admit defeat so quickly? Where did your spirit go, Jeon?”

A flash of anger crosses Jeongguk’s gaze. Jimin’s stomach churns, a feverish heat rising to his cheeks. He doesn’t waste time feeling ashamed over his reaction, but he doesn’t understand why it excites him. It used to be the opposite. Jimin would fold under soft touches, an overflowing affection that belonged only to him. 

Nobody else got to see that side of Jeongguk, the first petals of his adulthood. The tenderness that could only belong to a young man who loved another man. Jeongguk never reserved any of the violence of boyhood for Jimin. Instead he externalized it, pouring it into the emotional turmoil that defined his teenage years. 

Jimin secretly yearned for it. He must still do, considering the way his body reacted. It is a terrible thing to wish for. If Jeongguk were aware of the images playing in Jimin’s mind—getting shoved against a wall simply for the sake of feeling Jeongguk’s resentment in the tremor of his bones—he’d be horrified. He’s always been drenched in a sense of shame that denied him from having any sort of self-compassion. If he’d expressed even an ounce of that anger that Jimin desires so, a lot would’ve turned out different.

“No, yeah. I only need those things I mentioned,” Jeongguk says, a fair attempt at convincing himself. Jimin stifles a laugh. “It should be fine. I can always come back.”

Now, Jimin really laughs at that. The genuinity of his laughter throws his body back, and Jeongguk looks at him like he’s finally lost it— but the parallels are amusing. They’re both as stubborn as they were before, that much hasn’t changed. It’s stupid, but reassuring in its own twisted way. 

Jimin doesn’t mention that he had the same childish reaction, or cracks a joke about Jeongguk’s car, that old thing. He only shakes his head, chuckling to himself. Every minute in this town is an elaborate scheme to get him to lose his mind.  

“Sure you will,” Jimin says. “What was it that you needed, again?”

“Uh… octopus, gochugaru, sunflower seeds…” Jeongguk scratches his neck. “I should probably get flour to make dessert—”

Jimin groans. “For the love of God. Stop. Just— go get that octopus before you forget.”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes, and there’s the disdain that Jimin so clearly remembers from their last days together. It’s easier to be in front of this version of him. 

They make their way to the fish mongery first. Jimin tags along a few steps behind, attentive to the confidence with which Jeongguk walks around the market, starkly different to how he used to take up space before, hesitantly, as though he didn’t feel worthy enough of receiving attention. 

There’s a considerable line of people before them, but Jimin sneaks to grab a ticket as they turn around to greet Jeongguk. Everyone is far too stressed about the holidays to engage in small talk, but he’s grateful that they don’t seem to notice his existence. The less interaction, the better. 

But when it’s finally their turn, Jimin recognizes the man behind the counter. It’s one of the fishermen that used to work with his father before he retired, halfway through their junior year. His hair is grayer than Jimin recalled, but when his face lights up at the sight of Jimin, he looks as young as he was when Jimin would visit the port, holding onto his mother’s hand.

“Would you look at that?” the man, Heesung, laughs cheerfully. “The kid’s still alive!”

“Ah, Heesung-ssi,” Jimin looks to the sides, desperate for an escape. “Long time no see. Have you been doing well?”

Jeongguk snickers beside him, and Jimin feels the urge to dig his elbow into his ribs. Heesung inches closer to the counter. 

“Every day here is the same,” he laughs, “but I can’t complain. How are you, kiddo? I haven’t seen your father in ages.”

“We’re both doing well. I’m just visiting for the holidays. Uh, actually,” he turns to look at Jeongguk. “We wanted a full octopus, maybe two?”

He waits for Jeongguk to chime in, but he looks at Jimin dumbfoundedly. He has no idea, does he? 

“Ah, for the dinner? I was so shocked to see you that I didn't notice Jeonggukie.” Heesung is now moving to the other side of the counter, putting a slippery, thick octopus from the display into a basket with ice. “Let’s make it two. Your boyfriend’s gotten so popular with the ahjummas , Jimin-ah. Better watch out.”

“Oh my God,” Jimin mutters. “I don’t doubt it.”

“He’s the first ever attractive village chief in our history, you have to understand the women.”

Jimin laughs wholeheartedly at that, earning a curious look from both Jeongguk and Heesung. Jeongguk crosses his arms over his chest, amused. “What, you don’t think I’m attractive, Jimin-ssi? Such a boyfriend you are.”

“No, I mean— I just— chief is a little too much, isn’t it?”

“But I am the chief.”

Jimin snorts. “Sure you are.”

“Babe,” Jeongguk grits through his teeth, stealing a wary glance at Heesung. Jimin flinches at the pet name. “You’re being silly. I’ve been chief for months, now, remember? And you missed the ceremony because you had a work trip?”

Jimin opens his mouth only to close it shut. There’s no way. Village chiefs are men over fifty who are too old to keep working the land or go into the sea. The only time a new chief is appointed is because the previous one died at 95. Jeongguk’s father had taken over his grandfather, and in thirty, forty years, Junghyun would take over him. Jeongguk had resigned to the way things went, and Jimin would console him, saying that he was meant for bigger things, anyway. 

Heesung clears his throat. “Jeongguk-ah, that’ll be 150,000 won for the two.”

“Right,” Jeongguk gives Jimin a look before he reaches into his pocket for his wallet. He rounds the counter and, with the help of Heesung, they place the ice box inside the cart.

“Give me a call if you need anything else, Chief,” Heesung tells Jeongguk as the younger bows repeatedly. “Don’t stress out too much about the dinner, yeah? Enjoy the little time you have with your Jimin.”

Jeongguk stutters a thank you and then he’s walking away, forcing Jimin once more to hasten his pace to catch him. Jimin follows him with half a mind, replaying the scene that just took place. I’ve been chief for months. You missed the ceremony. 

Chief, chief, chief, 

your Jimin. 

He doesn’t speak for the rest of their time in the supermarket. Just nods along to the small comments Jeongguk makes, crossing off items from the list he’d secretly typed out on his phone. He tells himself he did it only to get out of there faster, that he’s not even the slightest bit proud of Jeongguk for remembering everything.

It’s colder outside than he thought. Jeongguk gives him a look when he shivers, but doesn’t make any comments. They load the truck, leaving Jimin’s groceries for last, which resemble a tragic university student meal more than anything else. He’s never quite grown up in that sense, learned how to balance his diet and create a recipe book like the one he’s sure lays open in Jeongguk’s kitchen. 

“That was so embarrassing.” 

Jeongguk’s voice is soft, soft. Something about it irks Jimin, but he can’t pinpoint what. He just wishes he’d stop talking. Chief for months.

“How come I never heard about this?”

Jimin’s question seems to take Jeongguk aback. His sheepish smile morphs into a frown, shoulders tight. 

“Didn’t your parents mention it to you?”

Jimin tries to think about how many times he’d talked on the phone with his mom in the past six months. He’d send money, accompanied by a text to check if it’d arrived, and it would always follow the same three sentences. How are you? I'm good, busy. You and Dad? Healthy as always.

He never asked further. It made it easier to navigate his guilt, or at least that’s what his psychiatrist said. He stopped going, picked up a seminar at his company instead, convinced a promotion would fix his problems.

“When was this?”

“My dad got sick in July.”

“Your dad is sick?” He looked fine to me , Jimin wants to say, but the words don’t come out. They sound cruel even in his head.

“Well, he’s been sick for a while, technically,” Jeongguk mumbles. The trunk is still open, and Jimin wants to slam it shut. “But things got worse in July. He needed someone to step up.”

Jimin doesn’t ask about Junghyun. Somehow, he thinks he knows the answer. It’d been standing in front of his face for a while, back when he was still grasping at the straws of their failing relationship. It couldn’t be possible, he thought, that Jeongguk wanted to leave Seoul— magnificent, complex, endless Seoul— for their village lost to the hand of God. What would he even do there?

“Does it make you happy?”

Jeongguk’s mouth falls agape. He glances at the car, the rumble of the engine. He’d turned it on to get the hot AC running and clear the foggy windows. His eyes fall on the bags and bags of groceries, the box full of ice.

“Are you busy after this? Do you need me to drive you home?”

“Huh? No, I’m not doing anything after.” Jimin furrows his eyebrows. “I can walk myself home.”

“That’s—” Jeongguk bites his tongue and looks at Jimin. “Do you want to go to the beach with me?”

“The beach?” He can’t be serious. “It’s about to start raining.” 

Jeongguk arches his brows. He’s read right through his lie. 

Then, he tugs at Jimin’s sleeve. Jimin itches with the impulse to reach over, touch his elbow and get closer, murmur until Jeongguk caves in and spills everything that he didn’t know how to voice out. He’s not allowed to do that anymore, but old habits die screaming.

“You’ve been gone for a long time. I think,” Jeongguk sucks in a breath, and he sounds so much like his father. “I think we should talk.”

x

The ride to the beach is short, ten minutes at most. Jeongguk’s car smells like his perfume, the one Jimin can’t get out of his head. He wonders if it would cling to his clothes, in some alternate universe where Jeongguk picked him up after work and early on the weekends. His previous cologne was never lasting enough.

The sound of the sea is raucous when they reach the shore. It allows a perfect view of their hometown, of its dead trees and colored houses that once were vibrant. To be fair, their town has always been painted in the same colors– a muted grey, lifeless shades of blue that blend into the fog that surrounds the coast. Even the wet sand that clings to Jimin’s boots is a dirty beige. 

He buries his face further into his scarf, a pale dark brown that contrasts the vibrant red of the one wrapped around Jeongguk’s neck. He’s always been a technicolor daydream, the only splash of life in the vastness of their hometown. His skin flushes with the cold, a gorgeous shade of pink that covers his round cheeks and the tip of his nose. He licks his lips, leaving traces of red.

“You know, it's comforting,” he suddenly says, breaking the silence that had settled between them. He can’t stand it any longer. “Knowing that this place is as depressing as ever.”

Jeongguk chuckles, leaving the traces of his amusement in the cold air. Jimin watches the vapor disappear in swirls of light grey. 

“Aren't you glad to be breathing clean air again, at least?”

“Yeah, because the fumes of the fishing boats are much better for your health.”

Jeongguk bites the inside of his cheek to suppress his smile. The greediest side of Jimin wants to see it blooming fully across his face. It’s a sight he yearns for, still. 

“You haven't changed much, either.” Jimin wants to argue, but Jeongguk follows. “Not where it matters, at least.”

Jimin hesitates. “What do you mean?”

Jeongguk shrugs. “I thought it would be harder to be around you again, like you’d be a much higher, smarter version of yourself completely out of my reach. But you’re still you . Older, yes, but still Jimin. Not a stranger.”

Jimin nods, although he can’t quite agree. He’s a stranger in his own body, how can he not be one to Jeongguk? “Well, Seoul isn't some evil, all-powerful life-altering experience. It’s just a city.”

He sounds like a liar.

“A city can change you,” argues Jeongguk.

Not if your heart is stranded somewhere else , Jimin wants to say. “If you let it consume you, yeah.”

“Is that why you left? So that it wouldn't eat you?”

Jimin pauses to think about it. The smallest of waves crash against the shore, but the sound is deafening in his ears. They walk past the imprints of a seagull’s feet, and Jimin’s own footsteps swallow the mark that they’d left, erasing any traces of the bird’s tracks. As if it was too insignificant against the size of a human.

“Maybe,” he admits quietly.

 He isn't sure if he was too late. Was he the seagull before, or has he always been the man, destroyer of worlds? Was Jeongguk the seagull? 

“Was it worth it?” he asks Jeongguk instead. “Staying, I mean.”

It all goes back to the same question. Are you happy? 

Jimin turns his head to watch Jeongguk’s expression attentively, how he furrows his eyebrows as he attempts to conjure an answer. Words never came to him as naturally as they did to Jimin. He used to wait for him after he’d finish writing his exams, knowing Jeongguk would need to use the full time that was provided. 

“I like my life here.” When he speaks, his voice sounds like the waves. “It's familiar. Predictable.”

“Doesn't it get boring?”

Softly, Jeongguk shakes his head. “Not if you make small goals for yourself. I’m saving up for a down payment. I’ve already visited the house, drawn up the plans for the renovation. It’s not much, but it’s exciting. To have something of my own. In Seoul nothing belongs to you.”

He glances at Jimin as if waiting for him to argue, but he stays quiet. It’s true. When he first left for university, his entire life fit inside a suitcase. When he came back this time around, the suitcase returned with him, as if time hadn't passed at all. As if the years Jimin spent trying to make it big were a fragment of his imagination, merely the dust that covered his childhood bedroom’s windowsill.

“It should be enough to belong to oneself, shouldn't it?”

“That’d be the dream.” Jeongguk laughs, and Jimin hates that it rings with familiarity. “But in the end, don’t we always owe one another something?”

His fingers rub against each other absentmindedly, and Jimin suddenly remembers the pack of cigarettes stuck between the door handle of the passenger seat. Does he smoke now, just like his father? Did they bond over that? Did he laugh at Jeongguk with paternal disdain, reminding him of all the arguments they had over his health during high school?

“We’re tied, humans,” Jeongguk continues, “always in debt to each other. It’d be infinitely easier if we were on our own.”

‘Maybe then life in the city would work’ , is what he doesn't say, but Jimin doesn't need Jeongguk to remind him of his own failures. The thought that he hates how Jeongguk stands out against the grey of the ocean invades him. He can’t help it even now, to be the center of attention. Jimin wishes Jeongguk would let him drown in his own mediocrity without a reminder that some people—like Jeongguk, the golden boy— are naturals. That some don’t have to try and try and try. 

“Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“You know it’s not.”

“So, then?”

Jeongguk sucks in a breath. “Did it surprise you that I’m the head of the village now?”

Jimin takes a second to think. “No.”

Jeongguk seems relieved by that, and it confuses Jimin. Why isn’t he angrier? 

“He can’t breathe properly,” Jeongguk says. Jimin struggles to catch up, but soon understands he’s talking about his father. “It’s all the smoking, plus the fumes, plus age. Then the city council started digitizing all the paperwork and that was the last straw for him.”

Jimin nods, understanding. Jeongguk’s father never loved his job, but the people trusted him. He’d studied, worked at a bank for years and before that he’d taken every job under the sun in the fields. He was quiet, but hardworking. He always told the same story about how he drove for hours to reach Gwangju and stand in solidarity in the 80s and it changed his life.

Jeongguk shared that passion with him, except he expressed it fiercely. Even if Jimin would’ve wanted him to stay in the city and pursue a bigger career in politics, deep down he knew where his heart laid. 

“And to answer your question, yes, I’m happy.” Jimin looks up to find Jeongguk already staring at him. It knocks the air from his lungs.  “It’s tiring, but I wouldn’t change it for anything else.”

There it is. “I know. You haven’t changed all that much, either.”

“You think so?”

“For starters, you’re infuriating as ever.”

“Right.”

“And you’re… focused, in a way that you weren’t when I last saw you, but I knew you always had it in you.”

“Not focused like you, you mean.”

There’s a challenging look in Jeongguk’s eye, a hunter’s gaze as he watches Jimin fall into his trap. The accusation lies there, half-hidden under a sheer coat. Jimin’s seen this film before.

“That’s not what I said.” The voice in his head sounds younger, angrier. Confined between the four walls of their apartment in Seoul. “Do you think I look down on you?”

“Well, don’t you?”

Jimin clamps his mouth shut. He can't find the voice to defend himself, but he wants to tell Jeongguk how wrong he is, how much more to the story there is.

“We chose different paths,” he says with determination, as if it would help convince himself of it, “and it worked out fine for both of us, no?”

“Fine is a way to put it.”

Jimin wants to rip his hair out. Maybe push Jeongguk into the water. Would he bring him down with him?

“Why are you being so difficult?”

Jeongguk’s steps come to a halt, and so do Jimin’s. Unable to look away from him, he thinks that Jeongguk wouldn’t need to pull him down. He’s the tide. Jimin, the water. 

“Be honest with me. Don’t you miss me?”

No, Jimin wants to scream. Because he doesn’t— didn’t, he didn’t until he stepped into this god forsaken town and its unchanging scenery and memories that he can’t shake off. Because you can’t miss something that hasn’t left you, even if the only way you can remember it is by having it haunt you.

He swallows. It’s too much. He keeps repeating the same thing to himself, and it never seems to change anything, but he didn’t come here for this. Not to become the seagull.

“We should head back.”

Jeongguk glances at him. He’s watching. That's all he’s done today, watch Jimin like he's a circus animal. It makes him feel sick, sick.

“Okay,” he agrees, instead of fighting for five more minutes like he used to. He’s grown now. “Let’s get you home.”

x

Jimin’s doom scrolling on social media gets interrupted by a call. It’s still relatively early, and he hasn’t moved from the floor, letting his back rest against the warmth of the ondol heating.

He puts the phone to his ear, already dreading what’s going to come out of it. “Hello?”

“Do you want to come over in a bit? The hyungs are helping me make kimchi for tomorrow.”

Jimin checks the name on the screen again. “Did you call the wrong number?”

Jeongguk laughs on the other side of the line. “I’m asking you, Jimin.”

This wasn’t a part of their deal. He’s been successfully avoiding Jeongguk since he ran into him at the market, hoping to rot in bed and avoid thinking about his future for the few days left before New Year’s. If he’d known that Jeon Jeongguk would be knocking on his door every day since that first morning, he would’ve hijacked the town’s speakers himself to announce their break up. 

“I think six people are more than enough to make kimchi.”

Jeongguk chuckles again. Jimin has the sudden urge to put his fist through his phone. “I’ll see you at three.”

“Jeongguk—”

The line drops. With a groan, Jimin wiggles around on the couch until he’s face down, screaming into the pillow. He hates that Jeongguk still has the same overconfident, insolent attitude he did when they were teens. He only seems to have grown more confident in his knowledge that every version of Jimin, even the Seoul-ified one, will always end up surrendering.

Jeongguk’s house is vibrating, alive with the presence of their friends and the rhythm of the music that plays in tune with the sound of their voices. Jimin’s palms sweat as Jeongguk walks him to the living room. He’s pushed his hair back today, tied it up neatly in a small ponytail that hurts every inch of Jimin’s soul. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, letting his tattoos peak out. The view is almost distracting enough to keep Jimin from spiraling about seeing their high school friends.

If Jeongguk wasn’t lying, the five of them should be here. They were a part of what Jimin abandoned when he left, too; remnants of who he was in this town, the part of his heart that he was killing to survive away from it. He’d pretended to keep in touch with them for a while, sending birthday and holiday wishes, liking their instagram posts, but he’d faded little by little, like he had with everything else. Like Jeongguk, they have their reasons to resent him. To want him anywhere but here.

“Jimin-ah!”

He’s tackled into a rib-crushing hug before he can register to whom that voice belongs. He waits for an impact that never comes, and then he’s swayed back and forth, pressed impossibly tight against a couple of bodies.

He can’t see their faces, but he’d recognize that fragrance mix everywhere— fresh cedarwood and apple being swallowed by a rich, earthy wave of orchids and spices. His two best friends, day and night, a breeze and a hurricane.

“Taehyung-ah, you’re crushing me,” he manages to let out. 

The two men pull away, murmuring apologies, and Jimin readjusts his scarf. Kim Taehyung stands in front of him, awaiting, with Jung Hoseok glued to his back, flashing him a heart-shaped smile that tugs at each of his strings. Hoseok hasn’t changed much, radiant and mature and buzzing with an energy that Jimin was eternally jealous of, but, oh, Taehyung. 

His same-age friend, now with features and muscles so defined that Jimin struggles to see the scrawny kid he used to skip classes with. Jeongguk was a year younger than them while the hyungs varied— Hobi and Joon were only a year older, while Seokjin and Yoongi were two. Nobody but Jimin and Taehyung understood what they meant to each other. For a minute there, Jimin also forgot.

“I can’t believe he’s real,” Taehyung says. How has his voice gotten deeper ? “Are you guys seeing him?”

“Yup,” Hobi says, “try putting your hand through him, maybe he’s a ghost.”

Jimin covers his chest with his arms, defensive. “I’m very much real , thanks.”

“Could’ve fooled us,” a voice that can only belong to Min Yoongi, slurred and gravelly, says. 

Jimin looks for him until he finds him standing by the door of the living room, a shoulder leaned against the frame as he watches them. His hair is even longer than Jeongguk’s, so contrasting to the buzzcut he had when he and Jimin first met. It’s dark, healthy, pushed behind his ears that are no longer covered in piercings. His lotus flower tattoo peaks from under the hair that caresses his neck, starking black ink that matches the one on Jimin’s ribs.

All that Jimin can feel at that moment is shame. An asphyxiating wave of shame for who he has become, the irreparable damage he’s inflicted on others. How dare he show his face here, or allow himself to let Taehyung’s scent linger in their hug? 

“Hyung,” his voice waivers, pathetic and cowardly. 

As if he’d read through him, Yoongi shakes his head. He moves, and Jimin follows until their chests collide in one of those hugs they used to laugh at for being too masculine, as if men couldn’t hold each other with tenderness. In the midst of it, though, Jimin understands how the pats in his back and the pressure against his rib say the words neither of them can get out. It’s okay, now. 

“You guys are so dramatic.”

“Oh, let them be.”

It’s Seokjin and Namjoon respectively, bickering gently as usual. They navigate the crowd surrounding Jimin as if they were parting the red sea, and then Namjoon’s strong hands are on Jimin’s shoulders, squeezing him. His oldest hyung isn’t as forgiving.

“It’s good to see you, Jimin-ah,” Namjoon’s words wash over Jimin like warm water. “Hyung is just grumpy, don’t listen to him.”

“ Yah, I’m not grumpy!” Seokjin exclaims, gesturing vigorously. “The last time he texted me was so long ago I’ve graduated three times since then! Acting like he went to Siberia and not the city next door—”

“Hyung,” Jimin says, reaching out to bring Seokjin’s arms down. “I’m sorry, okay? I am.”

Seokjin glares at him, all dignified, but it’s a ruse and they both know it. He huffs and pushes Jimin off him, but even that gesture is soft-hearted like the hyung Jimin remembered. 

“I didn’t realize that we were taking turns receiving a public apology from Park Jimin.”

If record-scratch sound effects could be applied in real life, Jimin is pretty sure they could all be hearing it now. Jeongguk wears a tight-lipped smile as he pushes past them into the kitchen, and the rest of the guys just look at each other, sort of pretending to not be exchanging looks with everyone but Jimin.

With a sigh, Seokjin follows Jeongguk, and they all trail behind him. The conversation quickly shifts around kimchi, about having picked the clothes they never wear to come do this because the smell never leaves them, about how their backs will crack from kneeling (because they’re older now.) How it’s been years since they haven’t gotten together for this, and it’s nice, bringing traditions back. Nobody mentions the reason why, and Jimin is thankful.

Jeongguk’s family house is big, a generational wealth type of big, but any place can look small with seven grown men standing in it. Like every other year they gathered to make kimchi, they wear their aprons and plastic gloves, pushing their hair back. Hoseok hands them out hair clips with Sanrio characters in them, fondly explaining that they were gifts from his youngest students. He’s a secondary school province teacher now.

It’s chaotic from the start. The rest of them seem to be synched in a rhythm that Jimin now struggles to catch up with, but he’s familiar with the loud bickering and the tangle of hands over the kitchen counter. It’s easy to pretend he’s not so out of the loop while they cut up radish; he’s not quiet because he can’t find the moment to step into the conversation, he’s just preoccupied. 

He listens to them, tries to fill in the gaps where the stories lack context he’s sure everyone else has, but thankfully, they’ve always been great storytellers. Namjoon talks about working for the local museum as an archivist, his exciting new job a lot closer to home; after graduating, they all moved to the heart of the city for work, which is about less than an hour away by car from the village. Except for Jimin, who crossed the entire country, and Jeongguk, who stayed. Jimin envies their balance.

They move to the floor and dump the paste into buckets with cabbage, the most physical yet fun part of preparing kimchi. Somebody begs Jeongguk to put on some music and he pulls out one of his dad’s vinyls from the 80s, a collection of ballads and metallic, dreamy beats titled Love is like a glass . Everyone groans and begs him to play something from this century, and Jimin doesn’t have the guts to admit he likes that album. Jeongguk’s voice suited its tone the best.

While a random Spotify mix plays through the speakers, Yoongi nudges Taehyung with his foot. “You’ve been awfully quiet. How’s the prep going? Is it actually happening?”

Everyone turns to watch Taehyung, whose face grows gradually redder at the attention. He sneaks a glance at Seokjin and smiles. “It’s… coming together. We think we can do it.”

“For real?” Jeongguk asks, grinning. Taehyung nods bashfully. 

“That’s amazing, you guys,” Namjoon says, and everyone else echoes their congratulations. 

With a wavering voice, Jimin asks: 

“Do what?”

A few heads turn towards him, as though they’d just realized that Jimin was there. He shrinks into himself a little, internally cringing at being the recipient of that much attention all of a sudden, but Taehyung gives him a kind smile, pushing him forward.

“Jin hyung and I have been talking about opening a café in town for a while now, but we think it might be actually happening next year. It’s still in the beginning stages, I mean, we have the money but no real idea on how to do it. We just think it’d be nice for the economy, revitalizing the town and all that.”

“That sounds really nice,” Jimin says, and he means it. He and Taehyung used to talk about the stagnation of their hometown often, but they had different points of view. Jimin never thought the village could change; he’d be the one to remove himself from the problem, find a new place to be from. Taehyung wanted to be the change, similarly to Jeongguk. His words now fill Jimin with a sense of pride. At least he made it. “Have you thought of a name yet?”

“We have concepts of an idea,” Seokjin says, making the group laugh. “Some good, some bad, we’ll see. What we’re mostly worried about is finances. We have no real experience with business, so it’s…”

“Overwhelming,” completes Taehyung. “To not call it a shit-show.”

“Well, you’re talking to the right guy,” Yoongi chimes in, looking at Jimin. “Mr. Big Finance Job here.”

Jimin’s eyes widen and he shakes his hands, flustered. “Oh, I’m just a regular office worker, I don’t—”

“Oh my Gosh, you should totally join us,” Taehyung’s gaze is already glistening with excitement, and it terrifies Jimin that he’s actually considering this. “With your brain, hyung’s charisma and my sick macchiatos we’ll make history.”

“Again, I think you’re overestimating me—”

“What even are your plans for next year, Jimin-ah?” Hoseok asks, “It’d be fun to have a little side quest, don’t you think?”

“Um, well,” Jimin laughs awkwardly. 

He hasn’t gotten as far as to have a plan . He’s been telling himself he has time to think about where his life is headed after New Years— his lease won’t be up until February, and he has money saved up. That’s all he ever did, save up for an imaginary future he barely liked. The truth is much uglier, much more cruel and pressing. He has nowhere to go, nowhere he wants to go; he’s just running away.

“Aren’t you due for a promotion? You’ve been working there for a long time already,” says sweet, earnest Namjoon. Jimin almost feels bad for how much faith he seems to have in Jimin’s abilities.

“Ohh, our Jiminie is about to make bank ,” Hoseok exclaims, and they all laugh, delighted, but Jimin is full-blown panicking now.

“Yeah, yeah,” Yoongi snorts. “In a couple of years he’ll show up here with one of those sports convertibles, throwing bills to the plebs.”  

“Guys—” Jimin tries to speak over them, but to no avail. They’re laughing, genuinely excited over the image of a successful, rich Jimin. Someone he isn’t and will never be, and probably never was to begin with. It’s so deeply humiliating.

“You’re assuming he’d even visit,” Jeongguk snides, making Jimin’s blood run cold. “He’ll be too rich to even remember we exist.”

Seokjin scoffs. “The bastard’s already doing that! Jimin-ah, do you have a trust fund we’re not aware of?”

Jimin gapes. “Trust fund— what? What are you guys—”

He can’t seem to breathe. Expectations crush him, again and again and again, no matter where he runs off.

“No, you don’t get it, hyung,” says Namjoon, “he’ll be the one making the trust fund.”The guys’ voices overlap in a flurry of ideas, each crazier than the other, and laughter, joy so unfiltered it feels like mockery. Jimin’s lost his grip on the reins, unable to redirect the attention away from him. He can’t breathe at all. 

“Um, I quit my job, so,” Jimin raises his voice over the chaos, flinching. “Yeah, I don’t know.”

Silence falls over the room like a death sentence. Jimin looks to the floor in time to miss the grimace on Seokjin’s face, pitiful and pained. The pungent smell of kimchi paste invades Jimin’s nostrils, and he envisions violent images of him hurling over the buckets of their hard work, drowning in his own misery.

“You quit?” Jeongguk speaks up way more softly than Jimin would’ve anticipated. He doesn't dare to check his expression, afraid he might find compassion in it. “When?”

Jimin opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water, scrambling to put words together that’ll explain the last few months of his life. Exploitative schedule, abusive boss, drinking alone to put himself to sleep. Where does he start?

Melodic knocking on the front door makes everyone’s heads turn around, and Jimin breathes a sigh of relief. He finally lifts his head, only to see Jeongguk sporting a frown.

“Were you expecting someone?” Namjoon asks.

Jeongguk shakes his head, wearing a slight pout. He looks offensively cute in his confusion. “No, hold on.”

He shuffles to the door, and the guys shift their bodies to look down the hall, struggling to get a glimpse of who the surprise guest might be. Jeongguk’s shy greeting reaches them, and Hoseok, the closest to the door, hangs his mouth open.

“It’s Huh Yunjin,” Hobi whispers, covering his smile with his hand. Taehyung slaps his knee and they fall on each other, silently laughing. Jimin frowns.

“Of course it is,” says Seokjin, rolling his eyes as he turns to Namjoon, who’s snickering under his breath.

Huh Yunjin, as in Yunjin from tenth grade, as in Jeongguk's first kiss. She’s an old family friend, and Jimin’s oldest enemy. He was in a constant fight for Jeongguk’s attention back then, divided between his crush and his best friend . Needless to say, whatever friendly relationship he and Yunjin had before was destroyed when Jeongguk ended up choosing Jimin.

Why the fuck is she back in the picture?

“You really didn't have to,” Jeongguk's voice gets closer as the two of them walk into the living room. 

Admittedly, Yunjin looks gorgeous. Her hair has dark blue undertones that make her pale skin stand out. She's got her head covered by a red scarf balaclava, and underneath her coat is a skirt, dreamy and feminine and perfectly paired with her leather boots. Jimin hasn't seen her since he left for college.

She's carrying what seems to be a pack of milk bottles and a bag of chestnuts. Jeongguk is eyeing them warily, but not out of worry that she’d drop them— she's always been strong and secure in herself. No, it’s the face he makes when he over thinks or believes that he isn't worthy of something.

“You can leave those here,” he mutters, pointing at the counter. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Are you kidding? This seems fun! Hi boys,” she says, flashing them a smile.

The rest of them echo their greetings, Jimin’s quieter than everyone else's, but it doesn't take long for Yunjin to notice his presence. His eyes have been boring through her since she arrived.

“ Wait , Park Jimin?”

Jimin forces a smile. “Hey. It’s been a while.”

A blush creeps up her neck as she returns Jimin’s bow. She glances at Jeongguk, who’s staring at Jimin, and then back at him.

“I didn't know you’d come back, uh, Jeonggukie didn't mention anything to me.”

Jimin narrows his eyes. Jeonggukie. He feels Hoseok’s nervous gaze on him, moving back and forth between the three of them. “It was a last minute thing.”

“Right, right, sorry,” she giggles nervously and glances at Jeongguk again; he’s now busying himself with the milk, pulling the bottles out from the box. “I don't know why I assumed you were broken up.”

Jimin’s mouth hangs open. This can’t be happening to him. Before he can think of what to say, Taehyung jumps in.

“Oh, these two? Please, they’re stickier than ever.”

“Yeah, yeah, such lovebirds,” Seokjin adds, forcing a laugh. “Jiminie is just really busy with work, you know how it is.”

“Uh-uh,” Jimin gulps. He can’t even bring himself to look at Yunjin, let alone Jeongguk. “Still together.”

“Well, I’m happy for you.” She sounds strained, like she doesn’t really believe her own words. “You guys are cute together.”

“Thank you.”

“Jen, did you need anything else?” Jeongguk glances at Jimin as he asks her the question. Jimin glares back. “We wouldn’t want to keep you.”

“Oh! No, I’m— yeah, no, sorry,” her face flushes. “I should’ve called, I would’ve come at another time if I’d known you’d have company.”

If I’d known Jimin would be here , is what she means to say. Her words prickle with annoyance under Jimin’s skin, even though he doesn’t really understand why. He watches Jeongguk smile at her with a tight throat, how he puts a hand to her shoulder as he leads her out of the house and whispers rise between the group once more. It’s white noise again, camera flashes capturing Jimin’s humiliation.

“Sorry about that,” Jeongguk mumbles as he hurries back into the kitchen. He looks apologetic, almost guilty, as if her presence was something to be ashamed of.

“It’s all good, man,” Namjoon says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Like everyone else in the room, he can feel the pressure of things left unspoken. 

Jimin can’t stand it any longer. He takes out his gloves and fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Yeah, don’t sweat it. Uh—” he fumbles with it, turning the screen on and off. “I actually have to make a call, so… I’m gonna step out for a sec.”

Everyone can tell it’s a lie just from the way he avoids eye contact with them and practically runs off with his phone in hand. His heart is beating so fast that he forgets to grab his coat to go outside, and the cold hits him all at once.

“Fuck,” Jimin curses, shivering violently. 

Tears spring from his eyes, and he gasps for air. The sun has almost set and it paints the snow on Jeongguk’s backyard in an orange so warm it almost makes Jimin forget the minus ten degrees temperature. It’s lonely outside, but not quiet. He can perfectly hear the crows caw, the flutter of their wings as they scramble for food. Breathing deeply, Jimin closes his eyes and tries to focus on their symphony. 

What was that thing his therapist told him? Count three things you can hear, two you can smell? He can smell the humidity in the air, the scent of the trees— he used to make fun of city people who’d visit the countryside and take a deep breath, clamoring about ‘clean air’, but now he gets them. Somebody must be lighting a fireplace nearby, because he smells the burning wood, and can almost taste the smoke in his mouth.

There was more to the technique, but he can’t remember. He never really tried any of the advice he was given to soothe his anxiety. He regrets it now, all his skepticism, but he secretly feared that therapy would make him hyper aware of how deeply unhappy he was and he’d do something drastic, like shaving his hair or quitting his job. 

Jimin opens his eyes and exhales shakily, watching the steam of his breath dissolve into the air. It’s almost night now; the sun has abandoned him in a matter of seconds. Or maybe he’s been thinking for far too long. God, he acted crazy back there. He should’ve known it was a bad idea, that he shouldn’t have let Jeongguk corner him into seeing everyone again when he’s not ready, but some foolish part of him thought it’d be good . As if the forgiveness he received would lift the weight from his shoulders instead of crushing his bones.

He puts down the pockets of his jeans, desperate to find his pack of cigarettes, and he curses. He must’ve left it in his coat, but he can’t go back inside. The guys will hear the door creak open and will call him and ambush him with questions. Are you okay, Jimin-ah?, they’ll say, and he won’t find the words or the courage to keep lying to them. 

He fidgets with his phone to keep his hands busy as he thinks of what to do. He could leave. Call Jeongguk and apologize, saying his parents needed him for an urgent matter. He’ll disappoint him again, but it’ll be better than going back inside and being the recipient of worried looks and the subject of a silent conversation he wouldn’t know how to decipher because he’s not their friend anymore. Maybe someone will bring Yunjin up, and he’ll be forced to watch the way Jeongguk’s cheeks blush at the mention of a name that isn’t Jimin’s. He can’t think of a worse punishment.

“I thought you’d left.”

Jimin’s head snaps back and he finds Jeongguk, slipping into his jacket as the door falls close behind him. He’s taken off the clips Hobi gave them, so two pretty strands fall on his face, up to his cheeks, and he looks just like he did when they spent their first Christmas together as boyfriends, on freshman year. They’d stayed in Seoul for that, to see the lights and eat chicken and kiss under the snow with no obligations but each other. Jimin often misses the warmth of another body in his bed, but he tends to miss Jeongguk indefinitely, like a ghost limb.

“I’m sorry, I’ll be back in a sec, I just needed to take this,” Jimin says.

Jeongguk raises his eyebrows. “Don’t bullshit me. There’s no call.”

Jimin swallows the knot in his throat. “Yeah, sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Jeongguk shrugs. The porch lights are dim, outlining his side profile as he stares into the distance. “The hyungs were worried that they made you uncomfortable.”

“They didn’t, I just needed some air.”

“We took the joke too far,” Jeongguk admits, and Jimin’s mouth forms a small ‘o’. “It was stupid, resentful. They’re all proud of you.”

Jimin wants to ask if he is, too, but he knows he’d only be humiliating himself further. He knows the answer, as bitter and painful as it is.

“Did you really quit?”

“Don’t act like it’s shocking.”

“It’s not. Maybe a little,” Jeongguk adds, sounding apologetic. “Are you— I mean, yeah. Are you okay?”

Jimin takes a second to think of what to say. He doesn’t want to talk about it, not with Jeongguk of all people, even though he was the first person he thought of calling when he handed in his resignation letter, if only to hear him say ‘ I told you so’. 

“It’s just a job,” he replies, and then pauses. “I will be, eventually.”

“You don’t always have to be strong, you know,” Jeongguk says quietly. Jimin’s heart skips a beat. “You can be sad and not be okay when something good ends.”

Jimin looks down at his shoes, pressing his lips into a thin line. Hearing those words from Jeongguk stings because they both know it was never about the job. Every choice they’ve made, good, bad, staying or leaving, walking or running— it’s always been about each other. They can’t escape it, or hide it, and Jimin can’t take Jeongguk’s advice without being angry that it’s only coming now and not when he needed it. 

“You should date her,” Jimin blurts out, and he immediately feels the heat of embarrassment rising to his cheeks but he can’t stop now, “Yunjin, I mean.”

Jeongguk furrows his brows. “Who said I want to date her?”

“I’m just saying that if you want to, you should.”

Jeongguk stares at Jimin for a moment, like he's trying to read through him, understand the way that he is. Eventually, he sighs, shaking his head slightly.

“You don't get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“Nothing, hyung.” He runs a hand down his face. “Do you want to go back inside, or do you need me to drive you home?”

They live barely ten minutes away from each other, but the question isn't foreign to Jimin. This is what they used to do, find excuses to spend more time together, stick to each other like birds of a feather.

Still, Jimin refuses the offer and walks home in the dark, taking every sting of the cold like a punishment for having let go of the one good thing he had before loneliness swallowed him.

x

from: Kim Taehyung — 4:13 p.m.

Hey, Jimin-ah. I just wanted to say I’m sorry if that was overwhelming, back at JK’s.

it wasnt our smartest move

but we all wanted to see you

why don’t you come over on Friday? me and hyung would love to talk to you in a more relaxed setting. hope that’s ok.

think it over and let me know ok? 

love you :)

Taehyung and Seokjin’s apartment smells like opening a cabinet full of tea and sweet spices. It’s warmly-lit, covered in quirky art and trinkets and crystals and moon-shaped decorations. It’s so painfully domestic and welcoming that Jimin feels like an intruder, him and his disillusioned heart. 

There are three steaming cups of coffee over an orange gingham tablecloth on the kitchen counter, and one of Taehyung’s jazz CDs is playing softly. Jimin might combust at any given point, overwhelmed by all the love and comfort.

“Thank you for coming,” Seokjin tells him. He’s sprinkling some shredded coconut on top of a batch of fresh cookies, and Jimin forces himself to not lick his lips. “We weren’t sure you’d show up until you knocked, to be honest.”

“I can go if you want,” Jimin teases, pointing at the door with his thumb.

“Are you scaring our guest off already, hyung?” Taehyung calls as he walks in, holding their cat in his arms. It’s a tabby, a bit chubby and grumpy. They found him stealing food from their trash years ago, when they all still talked. In hindsight, he thinks it’s what made Taehyung and Seokjin go from just roommates to falling in love. Taking care of an animal, so loving and delicate and in need of a home— it brings souls together.

Taehyung lets Gyeoul jump from his arms, and she runs off to where Seokjin is standing to rub against his legs. Jimin chuckles, endeared by the way Seokjin pretends to hate that she’s asking for a snack, but still reaches out for a treat. 

“She’s so grown now,” Jimin says, looking at Taehyung. “How old is she, four?”

“Yeah, almost five. Crazy, right?” Taehyung takes a seat next to Jimin and squeezes his thigh in passing. “How are you doing, Jimin-ah?”

“Could be worse.” Jimin doesn’t want to lie to Taehyung. He’s been wasting too much energy in lying, keeping up appearances. The coffee on the table isn’t to make small talk over it, like strangers at a business meeting. It’s a rope, a life-saver being thrown at the sea. “I need to start looking for a job after New Years, and there’s this whole thing with Jeongguk— did he tell you?”

“He called us in hysterics when you came home,” Seokjin says, “we’ve heard all about it.”

“I didn’t mean to make it a big deal,” Jimin mumbles. He fidgets with the corner of the tablecloth. “I needed to get away from Seoul.”

“You’re both doing what you can.” There’s a worried line between Taehyung’s eyebrows, and his lips are downturned. The view is unbearable. Jimin feels undeserving of every second of their time. “We, well, me and hyung were worried you had no one to talk to.”

Jimin doesn’t know what to say. He fears he’ll crumble, seem weak in front of them. He owes them strength even if he doesn’t have it. He wore down their friendships, neglected their love. The least he can do is spare them from his self-inflicted misery, but he’s so lonely . 

Seokjin washes his hands on the counter, finally done with the batch of cookies, and he sits down in front of them. A couple of grey hairs grow in between his thick dark locks, like two friendly visitors, but that’s the only sign that he and Jimin have been apart for more than a weekend. “Why’d you quit, Jimin-ah?”

Jimin lets out a shaky exhale. “I got prescribed antidepressants a few months ago. Can’t even remember when because it was so fucking awful. And I, God, this is so embarrassing,” he presses his hands against the table to stop them from shaking, but his voice trembles, “I got hooked on them. I couldn’t sleep without a pill, but work had me so busy I could barely sleep anyway. It was just— it was so bad,” he whispers.

“Oh, Jimin,” Taehyung’s hand covers Jimin’s, and it’s cold to the touch, but it’s more physical affection that he’s had in years. The first tears stain the orange and white squares of the cloth and wet Taehyung’s skin, but he doesn’t move away. “Why didn’t you call?”

“I wanted to do it on my own,” he says, high-pitched and wobbly, “I felt so ashamed, I was a terrible friend to all of you and I— I wanted to prove that I had it in me.”

“We were never angry at you,” Seokjin says firmly. “Never. Hurt, yes, but we understood you needed space. If you’d call we would’ve been there for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“This isn’t to make you feel bad, hun,” Taehyung rubs circles with his thumb on Jimin’s hand. “We just want you to understand we’ve never resented you and you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

“Yeah, and fuck Seoul,” Seokjin points his index at Jimin, a dancing fire behind his eyes, “You don’t need to prove anything to any of those silver spoon nepotist salary men. You don’t need them.”

Jimin sniffles. He wants to laugh, but he’s always taken himself a hint too seriously. “And what am I supposed to do, hyung? It’s all I’ve known.” 

“That’s not true,” Seokjin argues, “Your skills and value as a professional don’t simply disappear when you move cities or change jobs, are you hearing yourself? I know it’s terrifying, but you can start again a million times. You’re much too lonely in Seoul, Min-ah. Wouldn’t you like to move back to the South? Get a job closer to us, your parents, the sea.”

Of course, the idea had crossed Jimin’s mind countless times before, but returning so far has only felt like an incessant reminder of his failures. All people will ever remember when they see his face is the potential that he wasted away, impaired by his youth. He yearns for connection, for familiarity, a shoulder to cry on when the world’s cruelty appears too obvious to ignore, but he also wishes to be a stranger, to not be perceived. Those two equally greedy monsters coexist within Jimin, and none of them allow him to be truly happy. There’s always a piece that’s missing.

“Look, we don’t want to scare you away,” Taehyung says, glancing anxiously at Seokjin. “But we have a proposal for you that we’d like you to hear. We don’t need an answer right now, but we’d want you to at least consider it.”

The noise of Jimin’s spiraling thoughts halts suddenly. “What is it?”

Taehyung nudges Seokjin, passing the torch to the eldest. “The coffee shop has been years in the making, but now that we’re actually close to starting the real thing, we have our fair share of worries. It’s mostly finances, making sure that it’s profitable and we won’t be running our savings to the ground without even noticing. Tae and I have been doing our best but we simply just lack knowledge and that natural instinct for business.”

“We’re far too emotional, basically,” Taehyung adds, “I’m scared that we’ll get attached to a business destined to fail and go bankrupt trying to save it.”

“So you’re looking for a bookkeeper?” Jimin asks.

“More like an accountant. Someone that knows their shit,” says Seokjin, staring into Jimin’s eyes. “Who can advise us on taxes, make hard decisions for us, and ultimately make the shop thrive and grow alongside us. We can’t be baking and making drinks and cleaning all day only to go stare at numbers we don’t understand all night.”

“No, that’ll kill you,” Jimin mutters. 

He knows what they’re asking him, and knows that he could do it, but it scares the life out of him at the same time. He’d worked as a financial consultant in Seoul, so none of this would be new to him, only the level of responsibility. At the company, he was just one more pawn from a team of equally qualified young people, just another face. It was dehumanizing but reassuring at the same time. Here, he’d be in charge of his friends’ dreams and hopes, taking the lead.

“We can’t pay you what you were earning before, but we can offer you a decent salary to start,” says Seokjin, “and if things go well, it’ll increase. This would be a total partnership; we’re asking you to join us. We wouldn’t do it if we didn’t trust you, love you or think you weren't capable, but we have so much faith in you, Jimin.”

“Just think about it, okay? We can talk after New Years.”

 Jimin swallows the lump in his throat. “Okay, I’ll give it some thought. Thank you for taking me into consideration, I know how important it is for you guys.”

“There’s no one we’d rather have.” Taehyung squeezes Jimin’s hand, and Jimin squeezes back, a silent I love you. 

x

It’d be a lie if Jimin said he hasn’t been thinking about Taehyung and Jin’s offer almost obsessively since they talked, but he keeps spiraling. He can’t conceive the idea of coming back, all the efforts he made in vain. Would he live with his parents, or should he try the city? It’s small, ridiculous compared to an actual city like Seoul, but it’s more than the three goats that live in their ghost town. What would his parents think? And what would that mean for him and Jeongguk?

His voice still echoes in Jimin’s head. That’s not enough for me. If you liked Seoul so much you should’ve stayed there. Would Jimin be ruining his peace by returning? Is it even possible for Jeongguk to resent him more than he already does?

When Jimin’s phone starts vibrating in his pocket, he knows who’s calling before checking. Speak of the devil, and the devil shall come.

“Hey.”

“Hi, are you home?” Jeongguk asks. There’s some ruffling on the other side of the line, similar to the brush of a coat against someone’s hands. 

Jimin closes his eyes for a second, breathing in the sound of Jeongguk’s voice. Despite seeing him so often now, Jimin finds himself longing for details of him. The sound of his voice, the rattle of the charms that hang from his rearview mirror, or his touch, cold and raspy on winter days.

“Yeah, why?”

“Good. I’m coming to pick you up in ten.”

“Uh, excuse me?” Jimin chuckles, incredulous. This can’t be happening again. “Why?”

“It’s Christmas,” Jeongguk says, as if that explains it. “We’re boyfriends, remember?"

“Ugh.”

“Yeah, ‘ugh’ is right. My mom burst into my room and asked me why I wasn’t taking you out tonight. Terrible boyfriend this, lazy excuse of a son that. You know her deal. I need to get out of here.”

“Can’t you go on a solo date? I’m in my pajamas.” It’s not technically a lie, but Jimin could change into decent clothes if he wanted. He’d just rather not deal with what seeing Jeongguk entails. 

“Glad you asked: no.”

“Oh, c’mon, Jeongguk, you can’t keep showing up unannounced at my house.”

“Are you gonna stop me?” 

Jimin is seeing red. He hates it when Jeongguk is right. “Fuck you.”

“See you in a bit, hyung.”

“I don’t know how I always end up here,” Jimin says, pulling the door of Jeongguk’s car closed. It’s warm inside, and there’s that smell again, homely in a sickening way. “What even is your plan? Aside from kidnapping me.”

“We have a fender-bender at five thirty and abandoning you in a ditch at six,” Jeongguk jokes with a roll of his eyes. “I thought we could go to the cliffs, for old times’ sake.”

“Oh.” Jimin hates that he can’t find it in him to make a snarky comment. If there’s anything he’s missed about their hometown, it’s the cliffs, the sound of waves crashing against them. It became their spot after Jimin got his license, all those years ago. “Won’t it be too cold?”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

He can’t argue against that. The road there is tricky, all small curves and dark, so they don’t speak much on the way. Jimin watches Jeongguk take what used to be his place, confident in the route even when he’d spend their rides playing around with Jimin’s CD collection, much more up to date than his own. He wonders if Jeongguk went to the cliffs alone after coming back from college. The question lingers there, ‘ did you come here whenever you  missed me?’ but he isn’t brave enough to ask. He isn’t Jeongguk.

They don’t get out of the car when Jeongguk parks, but the view is perfect up here, with the sun melting into the brave sea. The waves, white when they break, are tenacious, merciless where they snap against the rocks. The sound of the wind filters through the window of Jeongguk’s beat-up car and sways it gently. Jimin knows better than to open the window, but he longs to smell the salt in the air and get cuts in his cheeks from the cold.

Jeongguk watches the ocean attentively, with his eyes slightly squinted. His silence doesn't surprise Jimin– they don’t have much to talk about, do they?– but it feels weighed tonight.

“Are you okay?”

Jeongguk turns his head slowly. “Sorry, I’m just thinking. Do I look too out of it?”

Jimin hesitates for a beat. “A little, yeah.”

“It’s just my mom.” Jeongguk picks at his lips, pulling the dead skin. Jimin wants to swat his hand away. “She’s… you know how she is. It’s hard to do anything with her buzzing around, controlling and disapproving.”

“Is she giving you a hard time about the dinner?”

“Yeah. Like— fuck. She has something to say about everything. The menu, the cutlery set I picked, the color of the napkins… it’s impossible to be around her these days. That fucking house, God,” he mutters, “It only got worse after I graduated.”

“I don’t think it’s any worse,” Jimin says, “you learned what life looks like away from it, and you can’t ignore the things you once looked past. Why do you think I never visited?” 

“I honest to God thought you did it only because you didn’t want to see me,” Jeongguk snorts, but it comes across slightly deprecating, a little flat. “I’m that conceited, I know.”

“You’re not. It was a part of it, just… not all.”

Jeongguk hums, but doesn’t add anything else. His gaze stays trained to the water moving, its repetitive back and forth. From the corner of his eye, Jimin sees a seagull settle on one of the rocks nearby. It spreads its wings, stretching them after a long flight, and shakes some of the water from it. Then, it turns its small head in their direction, and its minuscule, pitch black eyes seem to look straight into Jimin’s for a second. As if it recognized one of his own, or perhaps saw in him an enemy, a threat to its peace. Jimin’s breath hitches, and the seagull flies away.

“Are you going to accept their offer?”

Jeongguk asks the question leaning into the steering wheel, head resting on top of his hands, relaxed, as if it were casual conversation. As if Jimin’s life wasn’t pending on that choice. Before, Jimin would’ve been furious. This would’ve started a fight, escalated into screaming, blurred vision and tugs at each other’s shirts to pull their bodies closer. 

Their arguments always seemed to end in a desperate grasp for the other’s presence, a promise that they had one another, and yet, here they are. Sitting together, hearts miles apart.

The Jimin of today, however, is exhausted. “I don’t know.”

“There’s something better waiting in Seoul, isn’t there?”

Jimin scrunches his nose in distaste. “No.”

Jeongguk turns his body to face Jimin, crossing his arms over his chest. “No? That’s news.”

“I think my days in Seoul have run their course,” Jimin mumbles, each word bitter to the taste. 

“I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“Yeah,” Jimin replies, pursing his lips. “Me neither.”

Jeongguk shifts in his seat, as though itching to get closer to Jimin, maybe inside his skin. Jimin recognizes that anxious twitching, the uncomfortable relocating of his crossed legs and folded hands, unfitting and agitated. 

“What changed your mind?”

Jimin thinks back to Seokjin’s words, ‘ you’re much too lonely in Seoul.’ It might be all there is to the story. His loneliness. There’s a story to tell somewhere in there, about how he, too, was struggling to fill the absence of someone and how he lost himself in the process as well, but he thinks Jeongguk might not enjoy it. It’s an old tale, and Jimin isn’t searching for a pity party. All he truly desires is to forget.

And maybe, after the tide washes it all away, to be held.

“I’m not sure.”

“Oh, c’mon, Jimin, there must be something,” Jeongguk argues, leaning closer. Jimin is backed against the door, with nowhere to run. “You were crazy about the city, and now it has nothing to offer?”

Jimin turns his face away. “I changed my mind, that’s it.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m telling you there’s nothing special to it,” Jimin says, voice growing tight. He doesn’t like to be pushed. “Drop it, will you?”

“I will if you tell me why you came back,” Jeongguk insists.

“I told you already, I quit my job.”

“Yeah, but the Jimin I know would’ve stayed in his cold apartment for Christmas and found another job within the month, so tell me what changed.”

“Nothing changed,” Jimin replies, strained. 

“Jimin, tell me.”

“I’m saying nothing changed, Jeongguk!” Jimin exclaims, “Not everything has some— some deeper meaning or reason why — ”  

“Hyung—”

“—And I don’t have to give you an explanation on all the choices I’ve made, you know? Sometimes shit just happens— ”

“Jimin! Hyung,” Jeongguk whispers, kind and understanding and beautiful, here in the blue hues of dusk, and Jimin’s world stops. “Why did you come back?” 

Jimin breaks into tears. “I missed my mom.”

Jeongguk pulls him into a hug, and the words just spill out of him, almost at the same speed as his tears.

“I hate Seoul, I hate it, I hate it. It’s so lifeless and cold and my boss was fucking cruel to me. But I kept going, thinking one day all of it would be worth it, right? I think I only ever liked it because you were there.”

“Oh, hyung,” Jeongguk strokes the back of his head, running his fingers through Jimin’s dry and tangled hair. Does he like it like this as well, longer and unkept, so unlike the Jimin he knew? 

“You worked hard. You worked hard,” he repeats like a mantra, and Jimin can only cry harder, letting all of the ugly things that lived inside him spill uncontrollably. 

The worst part is that Jeongguk receives it all without a complaint. He listens to his wretched sobs, the sound of Jimin’s chest ripping open, and he takes on the burden like it’s not rotten work.

“I’m sorry,” Jimin says, grabbing the front of Jeongguk’s sweater, damp from his tears. “You gave me the best of you and I ran it to the ground.”

He feels Jeongguk still for a moment, and then he shakes his head softly. “No, you loved me the way you knew.”

“If I’d loved you enough, you would’ve—” Jimin’s voice breaks, unable to finish the rest of the sentence. He’s not sure he knows what comes next. “You were so sweet, so sensitive,” he ends up saying in a thin, barely audible whisper, “I’m scared I ruined you.”

Jeongguk tips Jimin’s chin up with a gentle hand. His eyes are as tenacious as the sea when he speaks, “You loved me, hyung. Love doesn’t ruin people.”

And maybe it’s the silver moon high above their heads that pulls Jimin forward, or maybe it’s Jeongguk’s gravitational force, as enduring and vigorous as the Earth itself, calling Jimin’s name; he can’t remember. All he understands is the moment their lips collide, because he’s familiar with the sound of waves crashing.

White foam soaks their bodies, sizzling and salty as it vanishes. Jeongguk pulls Jimin further into his arms, impossibly closer to his mouth, seeking one last hint of warmth before the current washes them adrift. Jimin holds onto him like he’s the last sign of life on Earth.

Love, then, and perhaps every day since it grew between them, from the days where they drove to the cliffs every week to the moment Jimin made the decision to come back, is a lifeline pulling them to the shore.

x

On the morning of the 31st, Jimin wakes up at the crack of dawn, covered in cold sweat. He puts his head on his hands before getting out of bed, the whole room spinning around him. He still has these nightmares, flashes of familiar yet unrecognisable faces chasing him down, a sense of urgency that he can’t shake off his bones. They always end in the same way: he falls, falls to the bottom. Sometimes, he’s being pushed by a friend, a boss or an uncanny clone of himself.

He’s out of the house in less than an hour, with a bag full of his best clothes and some of his make-up. He shows up at Jeongguk’s house with a runny nose and red cheeks that Chunghye immediately notices when she opens the door for him.

“You should’ve asked Jeongguk to pick you up,” she reprimands, taking his coat. She’s still in a house robe, fuzzy and worn. In this light, she finally looks her age in Jimin’s eyes. Something about it makes his heart heavy.

“He has enough on his plate for today,” Jimin replies, “I didn’t want to bother him.”

“You talk as if you didn’t know who you’re dating,” she clicks her tongue. “He jumps at the most ridiculous chance to spend more time with you, even a two minute ride.”

Jimin smiles at her, but doesn’t say anything. The guilt of knowing she’s right is heavier than his shoulders can take. He’s not even sure of how he’s going to stand by Jeongguk’s side the whole evening without combusting into flames or bursting out crying. He doesn’t think he can’t look him in the eyes at all.

He’s standing with his back turned when Jimin walks into the kitchen. The kimchi containers they filled days ago are on the counter, around the rest of the ingredients. Jimin freezes by the door, unable to utter a word. He watches Jeongguk slowly stirring the contents of a pot, pouring all his care into the motion.

“I can feel you staring.”

Jimin jumps on his spot, startled. Fuck . “Sorry, I didn’t want to distract you.”

Jeongguk sighs. “Too late. Come here and help me?”

He sounds defeated, and if Jimin knows him at all, heartbroken. And it’s all his fault. Once again, Jimin thinks of the metaphor of the man tripping on the same stone. 

Swallowing, he rushes to Jeongguk’s side. At the end of the day, he’s here to play his part of the deal. After tonight, everything will be over, for better or for worse. All he’s wanted here for is to do what he was asked, help make Jeongguk’s dinner successful.

They spend the entire morning cooking in silence. Jeongguk tells him what to do, and Jimin listens. He hears Chunghye rattling with the dishware in the living room, setting their kilometric dinner table with the centerpieces that Jeongguk prepared beforehand. At some point, Jeongguk’s siblings drop by to help. Jimin keeps a polite smile the whole time, ignoring the looks Jeongguk’s sister shares with his husband, not-so-subtly pointing her head at Jimin and Jeongguk as if asking, what’s wrong with these two?

Once the afternoon hits, they stop briefly for lunch. He eats Jeongguk’s food quietly, listening to the family chatter and the gentle shifts in Jeongguk’s tone when he addresses the kids. They return to the kitchen for the finishing touches, plating and one last spoonful of salt or sugar, and then it’s time to get ready.

He takes a shower in Jeongguk’s bathroom. It’s covered in all kinds of scented products, eccentric body washes and floral shampoos. Jimin goes through each of them to find the one that smells the closest to Jeongguk, and uses them on his own skin, if only to get one last trace of him before this whole thing ends.

Jeongguk is buttoning the sleeves of his dress shirt when Jimin walks into his bedroom. He’s standing by the mirror, a serious look on his face as he struggles with his cufflinks. There’s a pile of dirty laundry by his feet, in the space between the wardrobe from where the mirror hangs and the bed, a rare sight for someone as neat as Jeongguk. How long has it been there?

Without lifting his head, Jeongguk says, “We can talk about it if you want to.”

“Talk about what?” Jimin asks, lifting his shirt over his shoulders. He dreads the clothes that he brought with him, all black and serious, so unlike the pretty silhouettes and statement jewelry he used to celebrate in before.

“The kiss,” Jeongguk replies, “I’m just saying it doesn’t have to be this big, unspoken thing between us.”

Jimin coughs, trying to mask his embarrassment. “Why are you bringing this up now?” 

“You seem troubled by something, that’s all.”

“I’m— It’s fine,” he says, cheeks burning. “We’re both stressed enough as it is, I think we can put the whole thing behind us.”

Jeongguk looks at Jimin for a second. “Are you ashamed of me?”

“What? No, why would I—?”

“Then why don’t you want to talk about it? That night wasn't ‘nothing’. Things are not fine. I want to talk about it, anyone reasonable would.”

He takes a step forward, and Jimin backtracks. Jeongguk squints.

“C’mon, Jimin. There must be a reason why you wanted to kiss me,” he says. His tie still hangs undone around his neck, and with the first couple of buttons of his shirt open, it’s nothing but overwhelming. Everywhere he looks, he sees Jeongguk, like a flashback in a film reel about their lives. “I just need to hear it from you, why you did it, that there's still something there. Anything.”

Jimin turns his head to the side. “It doesn't matter what I feel— felt. It was unwise.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jeongguk scoffs, the last string of his patience snapping. “Unwise? I’m not one of your fucking job reports. Talk to me like a real person.”

“Fine,” Jimin puts his arms in the air, frustrated. “Let's have it your way, just like everything else! Pry me open, don't even bother with the stitches.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Guess we’re both covered in it, then.”

Jimin's chest heaves as he holds his gaze locked on the wall, the old photos of their high school graduation covered in dust and the silver medals for Taekwondo that matched Jimin’s golds. His are in a box under his bed. 

He hears Jeongguk footsteps, but he doesn't move until his hands are grabbing his shoulders, forcing him to stare into Jeongguk’s eyes. 

“It’s me. I’m still me , for fuck’s sake, Jimin.” His hands are trembling. “Why can't you talk to me like you used to? What did I do to make you hate me this much?”

They're as close as they were in the car, but under the light he can see every detail of his features. He could map them with his hands from memory, but it would never compare to the real thing. It escapes Jimin how such a thought could cross Jeongguk's mind. Yes, they’ve fought and hurt, hurt more than anyone could try to comprehend, but Jimin’s heart has only ever had one return address. Isn’t it obvious?

“I don't hate you,” he whispers, looking at Jeongguk's face. 

“I don't know if I can believe you.”

Jimin's fingers shake where they curl around the fabric of Jeongguk's shirt. “Then don't.”

It doesn't surprise him when they kiss, but it still knocks his breath away. Jeongguk kisses him like he has two hands holding Jimin's ribcage open out in the cold, and Jimin lets him. Tears spring from his eyes, and Jeongguk brushes them away with his thumbs before biting his lip harder. 

It’s a game of submission, an interrogation room. Jimin is a key at the bottom of the ocean, and Jeongguk, the rust that grew around it. He pushes Jimin’s back against his bed, making the old wood complain, and kisses down the column of his throat. 

“We shouldn’t—” Jimin tries to say. “God, Jeongguk .”

“Yes, yes, say my name,” he mumbles against his skin, pushing the sides of Jimin’s undone shirt off his chest. He slides his body down, pressing his weight against Jimin’s leg, and it pulls a whimper from him. He can’t remember the last time he was touched.

“ Jeongguk .”

As much as he knows that this is a bad idea, he can’t bring himself to feel shame. The shape of Jeongguk’s body over him is familiar, perhaps the last thing that feels like so. In the brief moments that they collide, Jimin feels more comforted than ever, as though he was being cradled by gentle waves. Jeongguk here, right now,is the closest to home Jimin has been in a long, long time.

He puts his arms around Jeongguk’s neck, pulling him closer. His hands trail alongside the stretch of his torso, caressing the skin that’s taut against his ribs as if it were something worth adoring, worth loving. 

Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes and threaten to fall before one finally does, leaving a streak down the side of his face. Jeongguk, close enough to feel it wet his own skin, kisses the rise of his cheekbone. As if Jimin’s pain were his own, as if they ached and bloomed together all the same.

One of Jeongguk’s hand hitches Jimin’s leg up, forcing the friction between their crotches. They gasp in unison, curses whispered against their lips. Jimin wants to say something, wants Jeongguk closer . He’s about to open his mouth to make another mistake when they hear the sound of the doorbell cutting the air.

They both freeze, holding their breath. Then, Jimin is squirming away from Jeongguk in a second, standing up as if the bed was now made of thorns. His hands start shaking uncontrollably as he paces in circles.

“Fuck, fuck , I knew this wasn't a good idea—”

“Don’t start with that again, I’m begging you.” Jeongguk huffs out as he fixes his clothes.

“Listen, I think— fuck, I don't know what we're doing, Jeongguk-ah.”

“And that's okay,” Jeongguk says. He gets up, moving hurriedly towards Jimin like he was scared he’d run away otherwise. He hesitates centimeters away from where he wants to hold Jimin close, with arms around his waist. “I still think we should maybe talk, no? Sit down, be honest with each other? Would that be so bad?”

Jimin purses his lips, pensive. If he wants to give Taehyung and Seokjin the answer he’s almost decided on, the one thing he owes to himself and Jeongguk is closure. New beginnings for the new year, a new life. This could be what Jimin’s been looking for all along.

“I’ll stay after the party,” he says, swallowing. “We can talk, then.”

“Stay the night.”

Jimin’s mouth goes dry. “Jeongguk—”

This time, he reaches for Jimin’s hands, cutting his words off. “Hyung, don’t fight it. Aren’t you tired? Because I’m exhausted.”

Jimin nods slowly, unable to look up from the floor. “Do you believe me now?”

Jeongguk pulls at his tie, loosening it before eventually deciding to toss it away. “I’m getting closer.”

Lively yet muffled chatter reaches their ears then, shoving them back into reality. Jeongguk gives Jimin an apologetic look, and he flashes him a smile. It’s nowhere near reassuring, but it’s a compromise. He’ll stay and they’ll get to talk, but for now, the show must go on.

The party is perfect. Neighbors from each side of town flock into the Jeon family house, greeted warmly by mother and son. Jeongguk is radiant, comfortable in his skin in a way Jimin has never seen him. He has a knot on his throat for the first hour of the event, where guests eat the appetizers they prepared and chatter over drinks in the living room. 

He trails closely after Jeongguk, playing pretend and staring at the house where he grew up. In a way, Jimin was also brought up between these walls, but there’s a different weight on Jeongguk tonight. Each picture frame, each piece of furniture from another time is a reminder of how important his role is. 

Jimin wonders if he’s secretly freaking out. He didn’t even ask Jeongguk how he was feeling. He’s managed to make this entire thing about himself when it was meant to be only about Jeongguk in the first place. He needed Jimin to cover for him, play a good boyfriend for a night and leave him alone, yet he can’t seem to stop barging in, knocking stuff from the shelves of his newly organized and mature life. 

What are people thinking about him when they see him with Jeongguk? Are they glad to see him, or do they think Jeongguk could do so much better? The rumors that he quit must’ve gotten out already. Jimin can already imagine their train of thought: Kang Chunghye’s youngest son, village chief at twenty-five, is still dating his high school sweetheart. A man with no money and no prospects, leftovers of the corporate life. It must be humiliating for Jeongguk.

It’s easier to get out of his doom of spiraling when their friends arrive. Taehyung is bright and cheerful in a way that stuck-up ahjummas consider impolite, but he welcomes Jimin in his arms with a boxy smile and smelling of cinnamon. He gets dragged away from Jeongguk by the rest of the guys, who claim to be saving him from hosting duties, but all of them know the real reason.

After some time, everyone goes out into the garden to eat the main course. They’ve set up electric heaters and small, whimsical candles across the table that light up the place like a fairytale. The centerpiece is made of dried flowers and branches, and seashells decorate the empty spaces of the tablecloth, a tribute to their land and the sea that nurtures and keeps them safe.

It’s beautiful. It takes everything in Jimin not to cry, not wanting to make a scene while he’s sitting elbow to elbow with Jeongguk, but he can’t help getting emotional, and feel slightly ashamed that he missed seeing Jeongguk grow up into who he’d always meant to become.

Everyone goes their own way around the house after dessert is served, with the promise to reunite in the garden ten minutes before midnight. The guys try to convince Jimin to join them for a drinking game in Yoongi’s car, big enough to hold the six of them, but he refuses. He should stay, for Jeongguk. Even if they’re not speaking, he needs to keep his promise.

So, he lingers. Jeongguk flutters from guest to guest, smiling widely and gleaming in the center of the room as though he were the only source of light. On the other hand, Jimin sits by a corner, sourly sipping on wine that’s too bitter for his taste. 

He feels pathetic, like a child coming down from a tantrum, but he doesn’t know how to approach Jeongguk without bursting into tears. It’s not like staring will magically let him read Jeongguk’s mind, but he can’t stop searching for any signs that will give out his thoughts. All he can do is wait for when the party’s over and hope for the best, but what if his idea of best is not what Jeongguk wants? What will he do, then, with all the love?

“He’s a natural, isn’t he.”

Jeongguk’s dad announces his presence with a cloud of smoke. It seems that he’s saved his cigarette of the day for the last hour of 2024— he’s trying to quit, that’s what he heard at the dining table earlier, but it’s not easy, the transition. Going from smoking one pack a day to nothing at all is like quitting an ex-lover: excruciating, painful and guilt-ridden. Jimin would know. 

He’s staring at his son, who’s now talking animatedly with some of their neighbors. One of them, an ahjussi that cycled around the town selling bread on the daily when they were kids, has his arm around Jeongguk’s shoulders as they speak. The scene makes Jimin’s eyes teary.

“Yeah, he is,” he replies softly. “You must be really proud of him.”

“I always knew he had it in him. His mom took some time to accept the news but it’s impossible not to see all the good he’s bringing to the community. We need young people like you to keep history alive, y’know?”

Jimin thinks of the bakery, then. The sparkle in Taehyung’s eyes as he told him their plans to promote the business and bring young customers from all across the province. They wanted to be as close as possible to the sea because of how pretty it gets around springtime. Summers, too. Jimin missed his home the most during June and July, the greenery and the salt in the air. That feeling of youth could never be replicated somewhere else, especially not in Seoul.

He opens his mouth to speak, ready to mention the plans to open the bakery, when he sees a flurry of navy blue curls in front of him. It’s Yunjin in a sparkly black dress, holding onto Jeongguk’s arm as she throws her head back laughing. Jeongguk is staring at her affectionately, cheeks dusted in pink. They look undoubtedly good together.

Jimin feels sick to his stomach. What was he expecting? Jeongguk was right. He showed up here without a warning, expecting Jeongguk to be as miserable as him. A girl as sweet as Yunjin can give him more than Jimin could ever offer— why would Jeongguk choose him when she’s right there, ready to love?

“Abeonim, can I have one of those?”  The man frowns, but he extends the packet out for Jimin to take the cigarette out. “Thanks.”

He’s spinning on his heel to leave when he hears Jeongguk’s father's voice calling his name. With an impassive look on his face, he tosses Jimin his lighter. Jimin is too embarrassed to do anything but splutter a thank you and sprint out of the garden.

x

“What are you doing here?” 

Jimin clenches his jaw. He’s taken refuge in the kitchen, sat in a chair by the corner with a glass of wine that makes him nauseous. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m getting out of the way.”

“Out of the way? What do you mean?”

“Three is a crowd, and you and Yunjin seemed cozy. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Jeongguk scoffs, and it makes Jimin’s blood boil. He must think he’s a joke, and maybe he is, letting Jeongguk drag him around like a puppet, a shiny thing to show off in front of the town and his family but to shove in a drawer when someone new comes around. Once again, Jimin bitterly thinks he didn’t come here for this, not to be the dirty laundry piled up on the floor of Jeongguk’s childhood bedroom. 

“You need to let it go.”

“Me? I need to let it go?” Jimin throws his head back laughing. “I’m not the one pursuing my high school crush while their partner is in the room, but what do I know?”

“She’s not— you and I are not together anymore,” Jeongguk hisses, stepping closer. He must’ve been freezing out there, without a coat and the first few buttons of his shirt undone. “You’re making a scene. Why does it bother you so much?”

“It doesn’t bother me.” He feels lightheaded at the thought that anyone could hear them arguing about something so insignificant. He’ll become the talk of the town, subject once again to their judgement.

“Yes it does.”

“It doesn’t,” Jimin repeats stubbornly.

“You’re a terrible liar, Jimin.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Jimin says, “Look, you can do whatever you want, but what will others think, huh? If they see you with her? Do you realize how humiliating that is for me?”

“Oh, now you want to talk about humiliation, funny.” Jeongguk pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “You’re three years late to the conversation. It’s so like you to come crashing down now that I’ve finally started to rebuild my life.”

Jimin huffs. “Me coming here had nothing to do with you.”

“And you still managed to make this impossible for me,” Jeongguk’s voice raises as he becomes more agitated. “What is it to you, huh? If your visit had nothing to do with me, if you’re so over us, why are you throwing a fit over me talking to someone? Do you see how unfair you’re being?”

“You’re the one who wanted me here!” Jimin exclaims. “You insisted that it’d be best not to tell our families, and the one who came crawling for my help because all that lying caught up to you. You insisted on how important me being here is only to go around flirting and making eyes at some— some girl when I’ve been trying my best to even withstand being near you,” heat rises to his cheeks, impossibly flushed. “Fuck you, Jeongguk, seriously.”

“I’m not making eyes at her! I don’t—” Jeongguk runs an exhausted hand down his face. “Do you really think I could want anyone else? That I’d look at anyone that isn’t you when you’re in the room?”

Jimin’s breath hitches. “I don’t know what you think anymore, Jeongguk.”

“Clearly,” Jeongguk mutters, and Jimin wants to cry all of a sudden. It’s rage, mostly, but something akin to devastation presses against his chest. “You haven’t bothered to ask in years, hyung.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” argues Jeongguk. “It fucking is, and we both know it. You were so stubborn about your future and who you thought you had to be, and I had no space in that world you’d built for yourself. You made all of those choices unilaterally, left me here with a hole in my chest and a life to re-imagine around your absence. And it stings, still, you know? That you just stopped replying after. You stuck to your decision— you'd moved to the city, and that was the end of us. I waited for an apology until I couldn't move, until I realized you didn't feel any remorse for how you handled it.”

“You don’t get to say that.” Jimin’s voice trembles. He feels pathetic and small, faltering under the pressure of it all. “You don’t get to decide how I felt about my decision.”

“Enlighten me, then. What was I supposed to think? You abandoned me here.”

“I abandoned myself!” His voice is loud in his ears. He can picture them already, the heads turning, the curious stares. He burns with shame, but the last string holding him together has snapped. “I didn’t stay in Seoul because I didn’t love you, I stayed because I thought that was all I was good for. I had no other purpose in life, no real sense of direction, and you knew that. You knew it, and you still let me call all the shots because it’d be easier to blame me than to accept that we were too different.

“You were my home, Jeongguk. You were what I was afraid to lose, the one thing I didn’t want to let go. For you to sit here and tell me how I felt, as if you were the only one that lived that relationship— it’s cruel. I don’t think I deserve that.”

“Jimin—”

“And you know what, maybe I did come back for you. The most homesick, aggrieved part of me always seems to be reaching out for you. And I've waited,” he says, swallowing the tremor of his words, “to pull your tide long enough to forget everything but the wave of you,” he whispers, “I’ve waited for so long .”

Jeongguk calls his name again, and Jimin buries his face in his hands, as if the gesture could console an entire body recently pulled out of the water, trembling and soaked to the bone. He recognizes the broken tone of his voice, but he can’t face a crying Jeongguk tonight.

“You should go back inside, attend to your guests,” Jimin says, using every ounce of strength in him to pull it together. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Jeongguk sucks in a breath. “You can’t keep doing this to me, ending conversations when they get too hard. One of these days you’ll have to talk to me. Please.”

Jimin presses his lips together, and he points at the door with the hand that’s still holding a cigarette. Jeongguk looks at him, defeated and teary-eyed, but Jimin shakes his head. He hates that he’s right, hates that all he’s ever known is running away. Fated to be the bolter, cursed to be the tide. 

x

“Jimin? Honey, are you in here?”

Jimin wipes his tears away and sniffs before he turns around, putting on a smile. His mom is standing by the kitchen door, frowning at the sight of him.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I was just—” Jimin sniffles, feeling the tears prickle at his eyes again. “—taking a little break.”

“Jeonggukie is looking for you,” she says, eyes still narrowed. “The countdown’s starting soon…”

“Oh, we should go, then.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

 Jimin’s castle crumbles. Tears well at his eyes, and his mother wordlessly opens her arms for him. Jimin molds himself into her arms just like he did when he was a little kid, when he still accepted her love as something unconditional and not a reward for his success.

“Oh, Mom,” he breaks into a sob. “I feel—I feel so miserable .”

“Honey, why? What’s wrong?”

It pains him to hear the worry— the love, all the same— in her voice. He wants nothing but to keep her from it, but there’s no return point; he’s been holding onto his secrets for far too long. “I don’t,” he hiccups. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I’m so-so utterly lost and I wish I could stop the world from moving for even a day, a day where you could— I don’t know, wash my back and hold me and I wouldn’t have to think about money, or a job, or-or— Oh, God—” 

“What, what? What’s the matter, darling?” she asks, embracing Jimin tighter as his words overtake him. 

“I lost him, Mom,” he holds onto the thin sleeves of her cardigan. “He wants nothing to do with me.”

“Jeonggukie?”

Jimin nods, and everything spills out of him. The lying, how long they’ve kept it up, how he isolated in an attempt to kill himself slowly, fading and fading until nobody remembered. How he’s a terrible lover and a worse son, and how he hopes she can forgive him. He can’t vocalize that he missed her, or how much he loves her— not yet. The words get stuck at the base of his throat, choking him.

“My Jiminnie, oh, my kid. I’ve known all along,” she talks like she’s sharing a secret she’s been dying to tell. Her smile is audible in her voice as she caresses Jimin’s back, a scene so particular to a mother’s affection. “Taehyungie spilled it all out to me once, a year or so ago.” 

Jimin is petrified in her arms, unable to do anything but keep crying. She lifts his face and wipes Jimin’s tears just like she did when he’d scrape his knees at the park for running too carelessly. “I’ll tell you what. After all this is done, we can go home and sleep. I’ll wash your back and your hair, and I’ll make tteokguk and tea, yeah? You don’t have to rush, Jimin-ah. Everything you want is right in front of you if you’re willing to take it. Love is not over, darling.”

He nods, trying to keep a straight face. He fights the tears when she kisses his temple and links their arms to go out together. It feels like an impossible feat, not crumbling under all the love, but he puts on a brave face for her. It’s not so hard to walk when you have someone to share the burden.

In the crowd, his eyes search frantically for Jeongguk. He spots Yunjin first, holding his breath before he realizes that they’re not together. She’s holding onto her sister, jumping slightly to keep warm outside, and Jimin can’t help but see himself in the gesture. Yunjin is just looking for love in every corner like everyone else, and he’s got nothing but well wishes for her. His jealousy blinded him, but only to stop him from seeing his own lackings. 

It’s easier to find Taehyung and his honey blond locks. The rest of the group flutters around him, and Jeongguk is there as well, anxiously looking around his backyard. Then, their eyes meet.

Jeongguk gives him a small smile, tight-lipped but sweet. An acknowledgement. Jimin’s heart might jump out of his chest.

“Jimin-ah! Finally,” Taehyung says, reaching out for him. “The year’s almost over! Have you thought of your wish?”

Jimin shakes his head. His eyes travel rapidly from Taehyung to Jeongguk, unable to fully look away from him. “Not yet, you?”

“Obvi,” Taehyung, much unlike his partner, has been an avid believer of destiny since Jimin met him. “You still have twenty seconds, make them worth it.”

“Fifteen, now,” Namjoon says, grinning widely. Hoseok squeezes his arm, squealing excitedly, and Yoongi smiles at the sight.

“Ten,” Seokjin says loudly, running to envelop Taehyung in his arms as everyone around them starts the countdown.

Panic settles in Jimin’s stomach. He looks at Jeongguk, not knowing any better. He’s already staring, mouthing the numbers as everything around them blurs. 

“Six, five, four,” they count in unison. Jimin remembers his mother’s words as Jeongguk closes the small gap between them. 

Love is not over.

“ Three, two, one—”

Jimin closes his eyes when the fireworks explode in hues of red, green and golden, waiting for impact. The ocean crashes against the rocks, salty soft lips against his own. The touch of two hands cupping his face is enough to convince him he’s truly worthy of being loved for the second they hold him. 

When Jeongguk moves away,  Jimin pulls at his sleeve, bringing him back for another kiss. A wave so relentless and grand that, even if briefly, washes the years of labor and fears away. There’s only the two of them and all the love that so stubbornly remains.

x

“Oh. You’re still awake.”

Jimin closes the door gingerly and makes his way to the bed. Jeongguk is lying on his side, covered up to his shoulders with a couple of blankets, eyes lidded. He looks like a painting composed of gentle, wide strokes and a soft color palette, warm and milky tones like the ones in a portrait of a baby resting in a crib.

He sits at the edge of the bed, feeling the worn mattress dip with his weight. Jeongguk shuffles, making space for Jimin, or maybe simply moving away from him. Both options sting.

“Barely,” Jeongguk smacks his lips. “Are you leaving?”

“Hm? No, no.” Jimin doesn’t know why he’s whispering. “I said I’d stay.”

Jeongguk hums. His voice comes out quieter, too. “Good.”

Jimin turns his head, unable to face the sight of Jeongguk’s lashes fluttering as they fight the heaviness of sleep. He aches all over, as though he’d just come down from a fever that’d left him bedridden, calling for his mother. 

In a way, that’s what Jeongguk is. A wretched reminder of the ending of his childhood, the loss of the familiar. Except he’s still here, bright and unwavering, and Jimin can’t seem to remember why he isn’t his anymore.

“Are you still upset?”

He doesn’t know why he asks that. He could’ve easily pretended that their fight didn’t happen, just like he did during their entire senior year until the last string holding them together snapped. Jeongguk would’ve played along, too hurt to not close off completely. 

Jeongguk rubs at his eyes, moving at an unhurried pace, as if he were moving inside a cup of jelly. Ever since Jimin came home, he’s been painfully aware of how disparate time moves in the countryside. He walks, speaks, eats, thinks too fast. Nobody here seems bothered by the concept of time, as if the hours that slipped from their hands weren’t as valuable as the minutes that Jimin seemed to be unsuccessfully grasping. He’s beginning to think that this way of living is much more nobel. Sustainable.

“We can forget about it,” Jeongguk says, clearing his throat after. “It was a stressful evening.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

Jeongguk sighs. “I won't hold it against you, if that's what you need to hear.”

“I ruined your party.”

“You saved my party. I wouldn't even have had one to begin with if you hadn't come.” Jeongguk snuggles closer to his pillow, as if seeking warmth. Jimin wishes he could give it to him. “They’ll write it off as a lovers quarrel.”

Jimin fidgets with his fingers, not quite satisfied with Jeongguk's answer. His eyes have closed again, breathing evening out, and another wave of guilt crushes him for taking up more of his time.

“I embarrassed you in front of your family. That’s not okay. I behaved like a crazy obsessive ex, like a jealous person that doesn't know how to let go,” Jimin’s eyes sting with humiliation. He is, irredeemably so. “You deserved a night where everything went smoothly, a perfect chance to prove yourself, and I stole that from you. All I’ve done since I got here is make things worse for you, and I’m sorry.”

After a minute with no response, he glances at Jeongguk again. “Jeongguk-ah? Did you fall asleep?”

Jimin’s shoulders drop in defeat. He watches Jeongguk breathe for a moment, the slow rise of his chest and his features completely relaxed, rid of that frown that seemed to have stuck forever. What does Jimin have to do to get Jeongguk to feel this much peace around him? He would do anything to go back.

Unable to help himself, he brushes a strand of hair away from Jeongguk’s face with two fingers, letting his thumb graze against his cheek on the way. Jimin’s hand trembles when he reaches out again to caress his hair, overtaken by his own desire to show him. 

Show him the love that, like a rock by the shore, remains. Love that, like a pebble, gets carried away by the waves only to return to where it belongs, over and over until its edges erode into oblivion.

He forces himself to get up from the bed and change into the clean set of pajamas that Jeongguk prepared for him. With exhaustion settled into his bones, all he can do is slip into the bed through the opposite side and lay on his back, listening to Jeongguk’s steady breathing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, unsure of why he’s speaking at all. “I shouldn't have tried so hard to get you to stay. It only drove you away from me.”

Tonight, Jimin makes the choice to be the pebble, not the seagull or the man. Jeongguk has always been the ocean.

When he opens his eyes, he finds Jeongguk watching him. He slowly comes into focus, all of the soft lines that trace the outline of him, his pretty eyes and the sweet smile on his lips. For a second, Jimin thinks he must be dreaming, remembering a morning from many years ago. Then, Jeongguk brushes Jimin’s hair away from his eyes, lifting it gently with one finger, and it dawns on him just how real he is, gorgeous and celestial but tangible all the same.

Blushing, Jimin turns on his back and glances at the ceiling. 

“Good morning,” Jeongguk says softly, stifling a laugh. The covers shuffle as he moves closer. The warmth of his body radiates against Jimin’s back.

“Morning,” Jimin mumbles against the pillow. Memories of his emotional outburst last night are circling his every thought like vultures. He’s too embarrassed to look up. “What time is it?”

“Dunno.”

“Are your parents home?”

Jeongguk hums. “No, I think they’ve gone to pick my sister up.”

Jimin rolls over to face him. “Then why are we whispering?”

Jeongguk shrugs, an easy smile on his lips. “Something about this moment feels delicate, don’t you think so?”

“I don’t—” Jimin’s shoulders slouch. After everything that happened yesterday, there’s no point in fighting him any longer. “Yeah, maybe. It’s weird being in this bed with you. I feel seventeen again.”

“I know. Remember the night before Suneung, when you slept over? And we were giggling hysterically because you were freaking out.”

“God, yeah,” Jimin covers his face with his palms. They were having their final study session before the university entrance exam that would break or make their futures.  “Your mom was so sick of us. Your whole room smelled like cheese noodles and energy drinks.”

“ You’re throwing your futures away, you rascals! ” He mimics his mother’s voice, waving a pointed finger in the air. 

The resemblance makes them burst into laughter, grasping their aching ribs as they gravitate closer to each other. When Jimin opens his eyes, Jeongguk is there again, smiling with a fondness only someone that loves him could gather.

“Do you ever miss it?” Jeongguk asks quietly.

A pang of pain hits Jimin’s chest. Unable to help himself, he cups Jeongguk’s face in his hand. “Of course I do. We grew up together, Jeongguk-ah. I’ve loved you for half of my life; three years can’t erase that.”

Jeongguk’s eyebrows crease. His eyes search for something in Jimin’s expression, perhaps proof that he’s still dreaming.

“I know,” he says, “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you before.”

“It’s okay. I hurt you.”

“What’s the point in holding a grudge?” 

His lips twitch into a smile. Jimin gets overwhelmed with the need to kiss him. This wave of desire is much gentler than the ones he’s felt around Jeongguk before, a craving for a caramel syrup morning and melting into each other’s skin; becoming one with their love.

“Will you stay for breakfast?” Jeongguk asks in a whisper. “There’s still so much I want to tell you.”

Jimin brushes his cheek with his thumb and nods. “Will you make me pancakes? For old times’ sake.”

The first time Jimin had stayed over at Jeongguk’s as his official boyfriend, he’d woken up to the smell of maple syrup and butter emanating from the kitchen. He’d found Jeongguk already showered and changed into fresh clothes, cooking a batch of pancakes big enough to feed an entire army. If Jimin hadn’t already known Jeongguk was a forever person, he would’ve realized it then.

Jeongguk grins, wide and boyish. “For old times’ sake.”

To their surprise, there’s already breakfast on the kitchen counter. New Year’s soup, rice and kimchi, laid out all pretty next to a note from Jeongguk’s mom, a reminder of all the chores left to do before the rest of their family arrives. 

The traditional dishes and fruit baskets displayed across the table are just the tip of the iceberg of Seollal celebrations. Jimin’s parents aren’t hosting any family this year, but he should hurry back home, anyway. His mom will want to hold a prayer for their ancestors and spend the day watching TV, like they used to when he was younger.

“I can’t get a break in this house,” Jeongguk sighs, sitting in one of the stools. He gestures vaguely towards the fridge. “Feel free to take any leftovers if you’re hungry. I’ll probably take half of those containers to city hall later.”

“Our generous chief,” teases Jimin, taking a seat next to him. Their knees briefly knock together. “I still can’t believe they let you take charge of a whole town.”

“If it were up to my mom I’d be unemployed forever,” he rolls his eyes. “The only reason she’s not here yelling at me over every mistake I made yesterday is because you stayed over.”

“You were perfect last night, Jeongguk-ah. She knows that.”

Jeongguk makes a noise of disapproval. “I don’t know about that.”

“Well, your mom can criticize you all she wants, but everyone I spoke to yesterday had nothing but praise for you. Your dad came up to me and his shoulders were as high as the sky when he talked about you. You’re made for this, and everyone can see it.”

“Even you?”

Jimin’s heart jumps in his chest. “Of course. If anything, I felt bad that I couldn’t be of any help to you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he clicks his tongue. “I needed you here. I mean, aside from getting everyone to think we’re still together. Knowing you were there for my first New Years’ Eve dinner mattered more than you realize. I know we haven’t really talked about it, but,” he looks up at Jimin, tentative. “I always imagined you by my side for it. Even if it wasn’t under ideal circumstances, I’m glad you came.”

“I’m glad I did, too,” Jimin replies, surprising himself with how easy it is to admit it. “For so many reasons, I— I don’t think I have the right words to explain it.”

“Try anyways.”

Jimin takes a deep sigh. “The way things ended between us haunted me. As much as I was scared to come back, it made me understand how much I left unresolved, from us to our friends and even the neighbors that watched me grow up. Three years is barely anything in the scale of a lifetime, but it’s enough time to realize you’ve made a mistake.

“I don’t want success if it means I have to give up on the things that make me human. If I have to leave behind my community— my friends, my family, the ones who care for me— or the places that saw me become an adult. I want to find a way to be happy where my roots are. And I don’t wanna lose you,” he adds in a trembling voice, “Not again.”

“You don’t have to.”

His hand covers Jimin’s, warm, safe. The offer lingers between their gazes, unspoken. Jimin envisions a life with Jeongguk, then one without him. He remembers low tides and how cruel summer can be. You’re much too lonely in Seoul. 

“What would it take for you to have me back?”

“Anything,” Jeongguk says in a heartbeat. 

Jimin’s eyes well up with tears. He turns his head to the side, blinking them away. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Jeongguk-ah. I’m serious.”

“So am I. It’s your turn to believe me now,” Jeongguk smiles, squeezing Jimin’s hand. “I guess the only thing I’m curious about is whether you’re serious about wanting to stay. I know it’s a lot to ask now, but, hyung, if we’re gonna do this, we’re talking about forever. My entire life is here, and this time I can’t follow you. You understand what I’m saying?”

Jimin’s heart rate spikes. “Forever?”

Jeongguk looks into his eyes. “As long as you’ll have me.”

Jimin gnaws at his lip. “I’m accepting Taehyungie and Seokjin hyung’s offer. I want to live in the city, though, at least for a while. Would that be an issue?”

“Not at all. We could probably use some space, anyway. I’m scared I’ll suffocate you again,” he confesses, “Make you run away.”

Jimin shakes his head, lacing their fingers together. “No, hey. You didn’t suffocate me; the expectations I’d built for myself did.”

“So you don’t resent me? For coming back home.”

“You’ve always known what makes you happy, and what doesn’t. Honestly, I don’t think you would’ve come to Seoul if I hadn’t applied to university there in the first place.”

Jeongguk chuckles. “Probably not.”

“Look, for the longest time, I didn’t understand how much of a sacrifice you were making. How much of us being there together was only about me and what I needed. I thought you’d come to your senses eventually, and we’d have the picture-perfect life I’d planned out for us without your approval.”

“I felt so… lonely in my decision,” Jeongguk says. “My mom obviously didn’t agree, and Dad was still healthy so I spent months shadowing him aimlessly. And I couldn’t turn to you. All these years I thought you felt the same way Mom always did, and that’s why you’d never bothered to chase after me. That I was the reason you wouldn’t come home.”

His voice breaks at the last word. He wipes two traitorous tears with the back of his hands, sniffling. “I know it was never like that, I’m just sharing it because it’s lived in me for years and it feels good to finally voice it out loud. To let it go.”

“Of course,” Jimin whispers.

“I guess we’re even now,” says Jeongguk, chuckling. “With crying like babies in front of the other.”

“Oh, shut up,” Jimin huffs out, blushing. 

They lock gazes again, and burst into flustered laughter, giddy with excitement. Jimin can’t remember the last time he felt this happy without brazing for the inevitable fall that would follow. 

“So you really mean it?” Jeongguk asks. “You wanna try again?”

Jimin bites down a smile. “I do. We should take it slow, though,” he warns, cautious of the mischievous glimmer behind Jeongguk’s eyes. “Ease into it.”

Jeongguk clicks his tongue playfully. “You’re no fun. I still have the home alone for a couple more hours, you know.”

Heat rises to Jimin’s cheeks, and he springs from his seat as if it were burning. “Oh, no, absolutely not.”

Raising an eyebrow, Jeongguk gets up and walks up to Jimin, backing him into the counter with a dancing smile on his lips. He places his hands on each side of Jimin’s hips, leaning in, and Jimin doesn’t have it in him to pretend he’s not enjoying the proximity.

“C’mon, Jimin,” he says against his ear, sending a shiver down Jimin’s body. “Taking it slow doesn’t mean we can’t kiss a little. For old time’s sake, and all.”

“You’re so ridiculous, oh my God,” Jimin stutters. “I’m not having rebound sex with you in your parents house.”

Jeongguk shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Fuck off,” Jimin pushes him away weakly, barely managing to escape. “I’m going home.”

“Fine, go eat your cold soup.” Jeongguk calls as Jimin rushes to the front door. While he hastily grabs his coat, Jeongguk takes out a cigarette from the pocket of his shirt and puts it in his mouth. “I’ll stay in my big, warm bed all by myself. Your loss.”

Jimin presses his lips together and steps close, snatching the cigarette from between Jeongguk’s lips. “Have you gone insane? Your mother will kill you if you smoke here!”

In the blink of an eye, Jeongguk’s fingers are curled around Jimin’s wrist, holding him in place. Jimin struggles, pulling away, to no avail. He takes the cigarette from him and puts it back in his pocket with an amused smile.

“What do I have to do to get you to stay, hyung?” he asks, moving until they’re chest to chest. Jimin’s stomach swoops. “We’ve talked. You know me better than anyone else. What else do you need?”

“There’s still so much to consider,” Jimin argues, “I can’t simply throw myself at you and forget about the rest! I have to call Tae and Seokjin hyung. I need to go home to my parents, be a good son. Oh, and I need to call my landlord. See? A million things to figure out. Jeongguk, I just— I need more time to think.”

“You think too much and feel too little,” Jeongguk’s breath is warm against Jimin’s lips. “Why can’t you let your heart do what it yearns for?”

Jimin shakes his head, attempting to move away, but Jeongguk’s hands come up to hold his sides, keeping him close.

“This is all too much, Jeongguk, I can’t.” 

Can’t handle the immensity of his heart’s desires, the greediness. What if he asks for too much? What if he can’t be the person Jeongguk wants? How could he ever allow himself to take and not be able to give— to be this selfish? 

“No it's not. It's not too much.”

Of course Jeongguk, ever-so selfless and kind and wide-eyed Jeongguk, could find no crime in Jimin’s wishes. Of course he grants him redemption. He’s always been the better part of Jimin.

“It’s not too much, hyung. Stay with me.”

Jeongguk presses their foreheads together, and Jimin closes his eyes. Their breaths sync, taking in the weight of the world in unison. Jeongguk’s thumb caresses the dip of his waist; the warmest touch he’s ever known.

“Stay,” Jeongguk whispers, “stay.”

ONE YEAR LATER

The sun streams through the open windows of the café, barging in with the full force of spring. Jimin runs his finger through one of the tables, checking for dust. Satisfied with the outcome of his inspection, he moves a chair over to lean over the window, letting the humid air cling to his face.

From up here, the road that leads to the pier fades into the distance, each curve becoming smaller until it merges into waves crashing against the rocks. Jimin squints his eyes and checks both of his sides, but he’s disappointed to hear nothing but the sweet tune of cicadas, announcing the edge where spring bleeds into the rains of early summer.

“Ten minutes!” 

Seokjin’s voice snaps Jimin back into reality. He smooths his clothes and runs to the bar, where Taehyung is finishing off the blackboard that reads the pastries available for the day. Jimin runs a hand down his back, gentle.

“It looks amazing, Tae.”

Taehyung turns around, eyebrows threaded with worry. “You think?”

“They’re gonna love it.”

“Thank you, Min-ah.”

“I’ve been telling you that,” Seokjin grumbles, “Why can’t you believe me? I’m your partner!”

Taehyung puts the tiny blackboard down in front of the cashier and reaches for Seokjin’s face, who’s crossing his arms across the other side of the bar. “Don’t be mad! Jimin is just so… serious and business-y, hyung. It’s hard not to believe whatever comes out his mouth.”

“Well, thank you,” Jimin beams. “But you should trust both of us. Plus, we have a literal line out the door. I promise our customers won’t care if your handwriting is wobbly, they care about much scarier and niche things like where your coffee beans are from.”

“Oh, God,” Taehyung drops Seokjin’s face to grab Jimin’s shoulders in a panic. “Our coffee is ethically sourced, isn’t it?”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “For the millionth time, yes—”

“Five minutes!” Seokjin calls. “Jimin-ah, where the hell is your boy?”

“He should be here any minute now,” he replies, anxious. 

Jeongguk had promised to help out on opening day. The social media accounts they’d made to promote the coffee shop had gotten an overwhelming positive response, so they were expecting much more people than the three of them could handle. Jeongguk would be there for the morning rush, and the rest of the hyungs would drop over after their shifts to help with closing. 

Jeongguk’s unexplained absence isn’t exactly strange— there’s always something he needs to fix, someone that requires the town chief’s presence— but it’s nerve wracking all the same. 

“One minute! I swear to God—”

“I’m here! I’m here.” Jeongguk bursts through the door, holding a box of fresh tangerines in his arms. “I’m so sorry— hi, baby.”

He leans over to peck Jimin on the lips. Jimin pulls away in a daze, blinking. “What’s this? Where have you been?”

“What? Oh, this?” Jeongguk lifts the box. “You know Mrs. Kang, the widow that lives down this hill? Well, she—”

“Jeongguk, we don’t have time for your stories! Put that away and get your ass over here!” Seokjin orders, batting his clipboard in their direction. 

Jeongguk shoots Jimin an apologetic look, silently promising to come back with the rest of the story. Jimin can only smile at him, his heart shrinking at the sight of him under the daylight.

He cups the side of his face with one hand and drops a chaste kiss to Jeongguk’s cheek. Jeongguk leans into the touch, a wave lapping forward into the sand that just as swiftly retreats, already anticipating the pull of the tide that brings the ocean and land together. 

 Jimin had always wondered what it would be like to be loved by the ocean, the gentle caress of the current. Looking at Jeongguk as he rushes to his friend’s side, sea salt clinging to the creases of his sun-kissed skin, it’s clear it’s always been this.

It’s always been him.