Chapter Text
A man is a method, a progressive arrangement; a selecting principle, gathering his like to him wherever he goes.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Namjoon finds out about the wedding the way most people find out bad news: via a trending topic.
It’s pushing two in the morning, and at this point he’s basically running on fumes, sustained only by energy drinks and cheap, greasy takeout that just makes him feel worse for having eaten it. He and Matthew have been in the studio for hours now, and he’s beginning to realize that he isn’t a kid anymore, unable to pull these all-nighters as easily as he did when they were in university. But the album is so close to being finished, it almost seems silly to waste time on something as trivial as sleep.
They’ve hit a lull in the recording now. Matthew stretches out on the old leather sofa, sagging and warped with age, and blows smoke toward the ceiling, a sour smell filling the room. It stings Namjoon’s eyes, his contacts dried out and in desperate need of re-wetting. It’s a struggle just to keep his eyes open at all, lids heavy with exhaustion.
To keep himself awake, he fiddles with his phone, scrolling aimlessly through his timeline. His trending topics are a confusing mix of English and Korean—he keeps his settings set to display the trends for South Korea, his way of keeping abreast of what goes on at home—and it takes him a minute to parse out what’s currently trending at number one, but when he does, he almost drops his phone.
Trending for you
Kim Seokjin (3.5k Tweets in the past hour)
A spike of panic shoots through him before he can think, his heart hammering against his ribs. He forces himself to take a deep breath, pushing aside his immediate reaction of is he dead to think rationally. There are many reasons his brother’s name could be trending in Korea—if something truly bad had happened to Seokjin, someone would have surely called him and told him before this exact situation could occur. Besides, he tells himself, wasn’t their youngest brother’s name in the news just a few weeks ago? Namjoon hadn’t panicked then.
Of course, Taehyung is always in the news for some reason or another. This is different. Seokjin has always tended to stay out of the public eye as much as possible. Steeling himself, Namjoon taps his brother’s name, unable to fathom what could possibly be happening to create such a buzz on social media.
The first thing he sees is a paparazzi shot of his brother—tall and broad and handsome as always, the trademark Kim family beauty everyone is always raving about. He looks politely detached, the way he does in all such photos, but there’s something about him—a tightness around his eyes, the slight downturn of his mouth. Namjoon knows him too well not to recognize when Seokjin is upset about something, and he looks downright infuriated in the photo, if one knew what to look for.
He’s so worried about Seokjin’s expression that he doesn’t even register the words at the bottom of the picture at first. When he does he blinks several times, just to make sure his blurry contacts aren’t playing tricks on him.
Billionaire Kim Seokjin announces his engagement!
Namjoon’s brows shoot into his hairline. There is a woman standing next to Seokjin in the photo, but they’re far enough apart that Namjoon just assumed she was an unlucky bystander caught in the shot. She has shoulder-length dark hair and sharp, delicate facial features; her clothes high-end and tasteful. The sort of girl his mother would be ecstatic for him to bring home. She’s attractive, yes, but she isn’t Seokjin’s type—being a she and all.
Scrolling down, Namjoon clicks on the first article he sees.
Kim Seokjin, CEO of Kim Industries and one of Seoul’s most eligible bachelors, announced he was officially off the market in a statement released by his company early Monday evening—
“Did you fall asleep over there?” Matthew croaks, bringing Namjoon back to reality.
“No, I—sorry,” he says, rubbing his face, suddenly so much more exhausted than he had been a moment ago. “I just found out my brother’s getting married.”
“Uh, congrats?”
“The gay one.”
“Oh. Right on,” Matthew says. Namjoon just sighs.
Despite having lived in South Korea for a year during university—it’s how he and Namjoon met in the first place, Namjoon being chosen at random as Matthew’s guide around campus during his first week of classes—Matthew has always been, at his core, quintessentially American, prone to forgetting that cultural norms are a thing, and that they don’t always mesh with his own. Though same-sex marriage has become almost universally legal in recent years (barring a few ultra-conservative holdouts), it’s still frowned upon by certain people, especially in places like Korea, and especially for people like Seokjin.
Let a regular man marry his partner and hardly anyone would bat an eye, but if Seokjin were to do the same, all the bigots would come crawling out of the woodwork. He’s just too visible—the price he pays for having been born a Kim.
But that’s too much for Namjoon to try and unpack at two o’clock in the morning. “I think we should call it a night,” he says, and Matthew exhales another plume of smoke in response. Namjoon gets it, he really does—they’re so close to being finished that he can practically taste it, on the cusp of the culmination of a year’s worth of blood, sweat, and tears, but there’s no way he can continue tonight. Not until he deals with whatever’s going on at home.
Matthew speaks up as he’s gathering his things, voice hoarse from the smoke and hours of spitting the same lyrics over and over into the microphone. “I might stay,” he says, gaze fixed on the ceiling. “I’m still not happy with that last track.”
The last track sounds good, but Namjoon understands. Matthew’s a perfectionist. It’s why they work so well together. “Don’t work too hard.”
He moves to leave, but as he passes the couch Matthew’s hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around his wrist. He looks down—Matthew’s eyes are red and a little teary, his brows drawn in worry. “Hey,” he says. “Don’t let them drag you back into their shit, okay?”
Namjoon freezes. He and Matthew have known each other a long time. Sometimes he lets himself forget, but there was a time when Matthew had a front row seat for all the petty bullshit, the screaming matches and the constant bickering. Those university years had been rough. If there’s anyone capable of understanding Namjoon’s complicated relationship with his family, it’s Matthew.
“I’ll try,” he says, squeezing his friend’s shoulder. It’s the best he can do.
It’s nearing three by the time Namjoon makes it back to his condo, which means that it’s around seven in the evening in Korea. He’s disappointed, but not surprised, that his phone hasn’t rang yet. After all, his parents aren’t on speaking terms with him, and his brothers—his brothers are probably dealing with the fallout of the announcement.
He toes off his shoes at the door and moves through the quiet room, familiar enough with the layout to steer clear of any furniture in the dark. He goes to the balcony and steps outside, shivering in just his t-shirt at the breeze that comes off the water. The ocean is black, and if it weren’t for the reflection of the moon glittering on the still water, he wouldn’t be able to tell where it ended and the sky began. He loves this place, bought it sight unseen after learning that it had a view of the ocean and its own private stretch of beach.
He’s really going to miss it.
Sighing, Namjoon takes out his phone, dialing a familiar number.
“I take it you’ve heard the news,” is the first thing Yoongi says, no hello Namjoon-ah, how have you been, but Namjoon figures that’s to be expected. He can’t remember the last time he called Yoongi just to chat.
“How is he?” Namjoon asks, and it might be a dumb question, all things considered, but Yoongi is Seokjin’s personal assistant, closer to him than almost anyone else, and if anyone’s going to know Seokjin’s actual feelings about something, it’s Yoongi.
Yoongi sighs, the sound rattling down the connection. “He’s—about how you’d expect,” he says, which isn’t an answer. “I haven’t seen him since he left the office.”
“Shit.” Knowing Seokjin, he’s probably left the city by now. He could be holed up anywhere.
“Hyung—” he starts, but the words hang in his throat. He forces them out, even though they taste like bile. “I need a plane ticket.”
Yoongi is silent for long enough that if Namjoon couldn’t hear him breathing, he would worry that the call had dropped.
“Are you sure you want to do that, Namjoon-ah?” Yoongi finally asks, voice gentle.
“I don’t have a choice,” he says, closing his eyes. Sure, he didn’t leave Seoul on the best of terms, and sure, he’s spent the last year avoiding that fact, but things are different now. His brother needs him. Despite everything else that happened, Namjoon loves his brothers, and he would do anything for them.
Including going home, even when he swore he wouldn’t.
“All right,” Yoongi says, and Namjoon lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Yoongi’s never been one for small talk—he doesn’t like to waste words—and he ends the call after promising to email Namjoon his ticket and itinerary once he books him a flight.
Namjoon stares at the water until he starts to shiver and then goes back inside, shedding pieces of clothing as he makes his way to the bedroom before finally collapsing, half-dressed, onto the bed. His bones feel heavy, and he suddenly realizes how tired he is, a tired that has nothing to do with lack of sleep. And there’s something else, too, something scratching just beneath the surface, clawing at the inside of his chest like a rodent inside the walls.
Dread.
--
I have good news, and bad news.
Namjoon wakes up to a text from Yoongi and groans, because it’s too early to be dealing with this.
Okay?
The good news is I booked you a flight.
The bad news is that the only flight I could find on such short notice has a layover in Beijing.
Namjoon sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It’s fine, he types out, because really, it is. As far as he’s concerned, the longer he can delay the inevitable, the better. He’s brushing his teeth when his phone chimes again with confirmation of his flight details.
Now comes the unpleasant part, but he waits until he’s had a cup of coffee before he texts Matthew.
Can you water my plants for the foreseeable future?
uh sure bro
wait
why
Namjoon sighs. Might as well just bite the bullet.
I’m kind of
Going back to Seoul
Don’t know when I’ll be back
Namjoon isn’t surprised when his phone starts ringing, a selfie of Matthew making a goofy face lighting up his screen.
“I’m not going to say anything,” Matthew says when he answers. “I just wanted to make sure you’re cool.”
It’s his endearingly frat-boyish way of asking if he’s all right, Namjoon knows. His parents had never liked Matthew—he was too western for their taste—but Namjoon had always thought that was part of his unique charm. “Yeah, man,” he says, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I’m cool.”
Namjoon only has a few hours to pack, but it’s not like he’s taking much. He has no idea how long he’s going to be in Seoul—hopefully only long enough to talk Seokjin out of this ridiculous marriage—but there are plenty of things in storage there should he somehow run out of clothes. By late afternoon he’s locking his door with an air of finality, not bothering to leave the key under the mat because Matthew has his only spare.
It’s still early, but he stops for dinner at one of his favorite barbecue places, the food there always reminding him of all the best parts of home. Matthew meets him, and they share a bottle of soju before he has to leave for the airport.
“Please don’t kill my plants,” Namjoon says as they bid each other goodbye on the sidewalk.
Matthew pulls him into a rough hug, tight enough Namjoon thinks he might suffocate. “I make no promises.”
--
It’s when he’s walking down the dim corridor of his flight gate that it really hits him—he’s going home.
He stumbles to a halt, not even realizing he’s stopped moving until someone bumps into him, a mumbled watch it reaching his ears as though they weren’t the ones who ran into him. It’s enough to get him moving again, pushing himself forward because he doesn’t have any other choice, too late to turn back now.
The flight attendant that greets him as he steps onto the plane looks as tired as he feels, no amount of makeup able to completely hide the dark circles under her eyes, but she still smiles brightly as she bows and welcomes him aboard.
He’s one of the first to board but apparently one of the last to buy tickets, his seat in the very back row, separated from the economy seats by a narrow hallway and a set of lavatories. He settles in, thankful for the extra leg room, and checks his phone. He has several unread texts from Taehyung, in varying degrees of excitement, and one from Yoongi, confirming what time to pick him up once he lands in Seoul. No word from Seokjin yet, but that’s not surprising. He answers Yoongi and then scrolls through his thread with Taehyung, a small smile playing on his lips as he reads his brother’s reaction to the news that he’s coming home. As much as he dreads returning to Seoul—and he does still dread it, that same unsettling feeling clawing at his insides—he can’t deny that he’s looking forward to seeing his brothers again.
Even if the circumstances are less than ideal.
Behind him, he hears the voice of the flight attendant as she greets more passengers. Namjoon sighs as she directs them towards the front of the plane. “First class is right through there, watch your step.”
Someone shuffles past him, and he huffs in annoyance as their backpack, slung haphazardly over their shoulder, jostles him. The person turns around with a gasp. “Did I get you? I’m so sorry—”
Namjoon glances up—and freezes, his breath hitching in his chest.
He’d first noticed the man standing above him in the first class lounge while they were waiting to board, but he’d been all the way across the room, and Namjoon had been trying to concentrate on the book he’d brought, hoping if he kept his mind occupied he’d be able to sleep better once on the plane. Still, it was impossible not to notice him when he walked in—his hair is a striking shade of pink, although to see it now, the plane’s overhead lights bring out the shade’s orange undertones. Like a California sunset, Namjoon can’t help but think, reminded of evenings spent on his balcony, watching the sun burn the ocean orange as it sank below the waves.
Even from across the room Namjoon could see he was attractive, but he’s breathtaking up close, with plump lips and a jaw that could cut glass. Namjoon can hardly help the way his gaze naturally travels down, taking in his narrow waist and thick thighs hugged by tight black jeans. His ensemble is all black, topped with a fluffy red cardigan that should clash horribly with his hair but somehow doesn’t—probably because of the confidence that seems to practically ooze out of him.
He’s pretty and self-assured enough to be a model, and Namjoon thinks that must be why he’s in Los Angeles in the first place. Then he realizes he’s been staring—maybe even drooling—and that the man is waiting for him to say something, anything, instead of just sitting there with his mouth agape.
“It—it’s fine,” Namjoon says, clearing his throat, and the man’s lips quirk up in an amused smirk as he drops into the seat directly across the aisle from Namjoon’s. As he settles, he peels off his red sweater, and Namjoon catches a whiff of—perfume, the scent too sweet to be cologne. It smells like citrus, but not as sharp. Peaches, he thinks, breathing in. The man smells like peaches.
Boarding right behind the man with the pink hair is an older man, his salt-and-pepper hair and deep frown lines putting him on the wrong side of fifty. He’s obviously some sort of corporate executive if his tailored suit and leather loafers are any indication, probably a branch manager or department head returning home after a business trip abroad. He climbs awkwardly over the pink-haired man’s lap and settles in the seat next to him.
Namjoon frowns, watching out of the corner of his eye. They certainly seem an unlikely pair to be traveling together, but his doubts are put to rest when the businessman reaches over and curls his hand possessively around the pink-haired man’s thigh. An unlikely pair indeed, but he’s not going to judge—he’s seen a lot weirder, living in L.A. for the past year. Still, he looks away, suddenly feeling like he’s intruding.
He turns his attention back to his phone and sends out a quick group message—even to Seokjin, who will hopefully still read it even if he doesn’t respond. Just boarded, see you in 20 hours.
As the clock ticks closer to takeoff, a few more passengers board in first class, and a couple from economy upgrades their seats at the last minute. Soon the pilot is thanking them for flying with Air China and reminding them to keep their seatbelts on during takeoff. Namjoon grips the armrest as the plane begins to taxi down the runway. This is it, then—the point of no return. He really is going home.
Once they’re in the air and the seatbelt sign goes dark, most of the people around Namjoon start preparing themselves for sleep. Not that he blames them—it’s the middle of the night, and they have a long flight ahead of them. He wants to sleep, too, but he can’t get comfortable, his mind too busy for him to truly relax, too much bubbling just beneath the surface, worry for his brother and anxiety at being back in Seoul mixing into the perfect storm in his mind. Sighing, he digs his journal out of his carry-on bag. He’s had it for years—it was a gift from Seokjin, now that he thinks about it—and carries it everywhere, its cover soft and malleable with age, the weight and feeling of the worn leather comforting in his hands.
It’s a habit he picked up when he was young, too many afternoons spent with no company but his own: writing out his thoughts, stringing words together in patterns that roll easy off the tongue. It took him years to realize he was writing lyrics, hundreds of songs piling up in notebook after notebook, compositions no one would ever hear. It’s not that he wouldn’t like to release one, someday, but there’s always been something holding him back, this fear—irrational or not—that no one will be interested in what he has to say.
He writes for a while, just letting the words flow, penning whatever comes to his mind with little resistance—until the sound of loud, obnoxious snoring breaks his train of thought.
Frowning, he glances over. The businessman has leaned back in his seat as far as it will allow, a neck support pillow perched on his shoulders, head leaned back and mouth hanging open. He bites his lip to keep from laughing and makes eye contact with the businessman’s pink-haired seatmate. For a moment they simply look at each other, and then the pink-haired man bursts into quiet giggles, covering his mouth with his hand. He has small hands, Namjoon notes, but pretty, just like the rest of him, delicate fingers laden with silver rings. When he smiles, his eyes disappear into crescents.
“I’m Min,” he says when his giggles subside.
Even his name is pretty. “Namjoon. Nice to meet you.”
“Sorry for trying to take you out earlier.” Min nods towards Namjoon’s shoulder. He lifts his arm, moving it back and forth as though testing the joint.
“Seems to be in working order,” he says. “I think we can let this one slide.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Min says, smiling again.
It’s mesmerizing, that smile. Namjoon has never really cared about someone’s smile before, but Min’s is just so beautiful, the way it blooms slowly and lights up his entire face, the sort of smile you’d do anything to make appear again and again.
“So.” Min rests his elbow on the armrest, tucking his chin into his hand. “Were you in L.A. for business, or pleasure?”
“Neither,” Namjoon answers. As he talks, Min shifts in his seat, trying to get comfortable, and crosses one long, shapely leg over the other. Namjoon’s mouth goes dry, momentarily distracted by the sight, and he clears his throat, trying not to imagine what those legs might feel like wrapped around him. “I live there. I’m on my way to visit family.”
On Min’s other side, the businessman snorts, loud in the hush of the plane. The sound is like a splash of cold water to the face, bringing Namjoon back to reality. Right, he thinks. Min and that man are—something, obviously, and Namjoon shouldn’t be having inappropriate thoughts about someone who appears to be taken.
Min smirks again, almost like he can read Namjoon’s mind—or maybe he just knows what sort of effect he has on people. “That’s nice,” he says, sounding genuinely interested. “You must be excited to see them.”
“Not really,” Namjoon answers honestly, and cringes, realizing how he must sound. “I mean—this whole trip was kind of spur of the moment.”
“Not an emergency, I hope?”
“No. At least, nothing life-threatening.”
Min hums in acknowledgement, and Namjoon finds that he really, really wants to keep talking to him. There’s something about his silver-bell voice—soft and a little breathy—that’s incredibly soothing.
“What about you?” he asks. He can’t help but glance around Min to the man snoring next to him. “Business or pleasure?”
“Ah—business,” Min says carefully, his tone void of any inflection.
There’s a beat of silence, and Namjoon—Namjoon’s always been sharp. He had thought they were an unlikely pair, hadn’t he, and it isn’t hard to make the leap to the most obvious conclusion. He wants to ask, is dying to ask, but he doesn’t want to be—what? Rude? Insensitive? At the very least, he doesn’t want to go poking his nose into anything that isn’t any of his business.
“It’s okay,” Min says, and shit, maybe he can read minds. “You can ask.”
Namjoon licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “What kind of business?”
Min leans forward until he’s practically hanging out of his seat; this close, Namjoon’s senses are full of nothing but peaches, and when he speaks, his voice is pitched low so as not to carry across the cabin.
“I’m an escort,” he says, quirking a brow as though daring Namjoon to say something about it. “I accompany lonely businessmen on trips abroad, so they don’t have to worry about, ah, acquiring companionship in a country where they don’t speak the language.”
His words are calm, measured, but there’s a tense set to his jaw and a hard gleam in his eye. It’s a test, Namjoon realizes. He’s waiting to be judged, or shamed.
“Okay,” Namjoon says, and Min blinks, surprised.
“Okay?”
Namjoon shrugs. “Do you enjoy what you do?”
Min visibly relaxes, his lips curling into a soft smile—and Namjoon lets himself relax, too, because he passed the test. “I do,” he says. “I do enjoy it. And—” here he pauses, his gaze sweeping over Namjoon. “I’m good at it.”
Namjoon shivers as those eyes roam over his body, leaving him feeling almost too exposed, and something warm uncurls in his gut, spreads out through his body in a shallow wave as he realizes what that look means.
He shifts in his seat, his pants suddenly feeling a little too tight, and Min zeroes in on the movement, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.
“I mean,” he continues, still leaning so close. The scent of peaches is starting to make Namjoon dizzy—or maybe that’s all the blood rushing south. “I get to visit places I would never have the opportunity to otherwise. I stay in luxury hotels, eat in five-star restaurants, and shop to my heart’s content. All on someone else’s dime.” Namjoon flinches when he reaches over, running the tips of his fingers softly down Namjoon’s arm, his touch raising goosebumps on the sensitive skin.
“If I have to give a blowjob or two in exchange for all that, it’s a relatively small price to pay, don’t you think?”
Namjoon sucks in a breath. He can’t help the image that comes to him, Min on his knees, those sinful lips wrapped around Namjoon’s cock, the way he’d look with his mouth stretched around him. His skin feels clammy, the air in the cabin suddenly too warm as Min smirks, patting Namjoon’s arm as he leans back into his seat. Namjoon almost whines at the loss of contact, head spinning as he takes a deep breath, feeling like he can breathe again now that there’s a somewhat safe distance between them.
“So,” Min says, smirk turning mischievous. “What do you do?”
Namjoon blinks, thrown by the sudden shift in conversation. “You tease,” he groans. Min just grins.
They settle into an easy conversation about Namjoon’s work, and why he moved to Los Angeles in the first place. He’d almost refused when Matthew called him and begged him to help produce his debut album, but it had only taken one dinner with his parents—listening to all the reasons why working with Matthew would be a poor career choice—to change his mind. The fact that he would be moving to the States was the final straw for them, and the reason they haven’t spoken to him in a year. Truthfully, Namjoon had had one foot out the door anyway. He just needed a little push.
Things flow naturally from there to what sort of music they listen to and what television shows they’re currently binging. Min is easy to talk to, an attentive and engaged listener, and Namjoon even finds himself discussing his family, just a few of the more entertaining anecdotes, although he’s careful not to mention anyone by name. It’s a miracle Min hasn’t recognized him yet, but he has been gone for a year, and away from his high-profile relatives, his face is no longer plastered all over the news and social media daily.
“Call me hyung,” he says at one point, tired of hearing himself addressed as Namjoon-ssi after so long in a place where honorifics aren’t even a thing, and besides, he wants to know what the word sounds like when spoken with that voice, if it will sound as good as he hopes it does.
Min laughs. “How do you know I’m not your hyung?”
“I’m twenty-eight.” Namjoon raises an expectant brow.
“Ah—twenty-seven, hyung,” he concedes with an exaggerated eye-roll. Namjoon grins triumphantly.
It sounds even better than he’d hoped.
And yet, despite how much he enjoys talking with Min, Namjoon still finds himself partially distracted the entire time—every time the other man flicks his tongue out to wet his bottom lip, or crosses his stupidly long legs, or runs his fingers through his hair, leaving it disheveled as he glances over at Namjoon with a small, knowing smile, Namjoon’s blood runs a little hotter, and he rubs his thighs together, hoping for the tiniest bit of friction to ease his growing problem. They still have so many hours in the air—Namjoon is going to lose his mind long before they land.
“Please excuse me,” he says the moment there’s a natural break in the conversation, feeling Min’s eyes on him as he shoots out of his seat and makes his way to the nearest lavatory.
In the cramped space between the toilet and the sink he stares at himself in the mirror, at his flushed face and blown pupils, his hands gripping the edge of the basin so tight the plastic cuts into his skin. The pain’s good, though; it helps clear his head.
He washes his hands, patting water on his face and neck to cool himself down. “Pull it together,” he says to his reflection, taking a deep, steadying breath before he pushes open the door.
When he gets back to his seat, it’s to see Min curled up with his eyes closed, his lips puckered in a pout and his chin tucked in his hand, his other bunched up in a small fist near his face. He looks—cute, Namjoon thinks, struck by how different he looks when he’s sleeping. The duality is enough to give him whiplash, and he wonders, briefly, if he’s talked to the real Min at any point tonight.
Feeling a little like he’s dodged a bullet, Namjoon drops into his seat with a sigh. He reaches for his journal, abandoned in the empty seat next to him—
—and the next thing he knows, the pilot is announcing their descent over Beijing.
Namjoon sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’s vaguely aware of Min stretching across the aisle, and he cuts his eyes over just in time to see the other man arch his back, a sliver of skin showing as the hem of his shirt pulls up. Namjoon looks away quickly, swallowing hard. Goddamn it.
As soon as the plane rolls to a stop and the seatbelt light goes off once more, Namjoon is out of his seat, desperate to get off the plane and put some distance between himself and Min. It’s a four-hour layover, but at least he gets to spend it back in the first-class lounge. While the others mill over the snack bar and raid the mini-fridges, Namjoon finds himself a quiet spot in the furthest corner of the room and pulls his book out once more. It’s one he’s read a dozen times, but he’s always found Murakami’s words comforting.
He tries to ignore what’s going on around him, but he can’t help being hyper-aware of Min’s movements as he and his client make their way, chilled bottles of water in hand, to one of the fancy dining tables with their barstool seating. It’s the pink hair, he tells himself. It’s naturally distracting.
Grinding his teeth, he glares at the words on the page, forcing away any and all thoughts of full lips and bedroom eyes.
After a while he does manage to lose himself in the familiar story, allowing the rest of the room to fade away, and it’s not until he’s progressed several chapters that he realizes he really, really has to take a piss.
The bathroom is deserted—thank god for small favors—and he steps up the urinal and unzips his pants with a sigh of relief. It isn’t until he’s washing his hands that he hears it: the sound of someone gagging.
He freezes, his eyes scanning the stalls behind him in the mirror. There, the stall at the end—leather loafers, and a pair of tailored pants pooled around ankles. Knees on the cold tile floor. The soft sounds of gagging, slurping, bitten-back moans. A single high-pitched whine.
Through the cracks in the stall, Namjoon sees a flash of pink.
“Are they gone?” a gruff voice asks.
There’s a lewd pop, and then a familiar voice, soft and breathy and absolutely wrecked, answers, “I think so.”
Namjoon bolts.
Fuck, he thinks, making his way back to the lounge, holding his bag awkwardly in front of his body in hopes no one spots the massive tent in his pants. Fucking hell, things were already bad enough, but now—now he knows what Min sounds like when he’s had a cock down his throat.
He’s breathing like he just ran a marathon by the time he returns to his claimed corner of the lounge, and he forces himself to take a deep breath, trying to calm his hammering pulse. He pulls out the Murakami, opens it to his marked page—and spends the next half hour watching the door. By the time Min and his client return, looking a little more rumpled than they had before, Namjoon is wound so tight he’s practically vibrating, the sound of Min’s ruined voice a broken record in his head.
This layover can’t end soon enough.
Finally, finally, they’re called to board. He’s got the window seat this time, and as he settles in he sees Min’s client sit in the row directly in front of him, the seat beside him already occupied. Please, no, he thinks as his heart rate spikes, wondering how he could possibly be this unlucky. Not him, please, anyone but—
Min drops into the seat next to him, flashing a small smile.
Namjoon keeps his eyes forward, boring holes into the back of the seat ahead of him. It’s a short flight to Seoul from here, just two hours. He can ignore Min for two hours.
Right?
Those damn peaches fill his senses as Min leans close, close enough that his breath tickles the shell of Namjoon’s ear. “You heard us, didn’t you?”
Namjoon grits his teeth. Be strong, Joon, he tells himself, even as his stomach flutters nervously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters.
Min hums, his tone casual as he says, “Someone walked into the bathroom and heard us, and now you won’t look me in the eye.” Namjoon flinches as he reaches out, resting his hand just above Namjoon’s knee.
His hand is warm, so warm, the air around them thick and hot and between that and the smell of peaches Namjoon can’t breathe.
“Did you enjoy it, hyung?” Min asks, his voice dropping in pitch, and fuck, Namjoon almost loses it then and there. “Eavesdropping on us?”
“No,” Namjoon answers honestly, finally looking at him. Min’s brows are furrowed, obviously taken aback by his answer.
Fuck it, Namjoon thinks.
“I was jealous.”
Min inhales sharply. There’s a rumble as the plane begins to taxi down the runway but neither of them pays it any mind, Min’s hand inching a slow trail up Namjoon’s thigh, stopping just below the groin. His cock twitches at the proximity; there’s no way Min doesn’t feel the shift of fabric. He’s so close to where Namjoon needs him to be; the slightest pressure and he could fall apart right here, coming in his pants like a teenager, and maybe Min can sense how close to the edge he is, because he never moves his hand, keeping it a warm, steady presence at his inner thigh.
When the seatbelt sign goes dark, Min stands without a word, and heads back to the lavatories.
Namjoon waits a beat, two, and then he follows.
There’s a moment, standing outside the lavatory door, where it occurs to Namjoon that what happens next is entirely up to him. He could go back to his seat, act like he’d never intended to follow Min. Eventually Min would figure out he wasn’t coming and would be none the wiser. A part of him thinks that’s what he should do; that would be the responsible thing to do.
He knocks lightly on the door.
Their eyes meet as Min opens the door, and there’s a beat of silence, each of them daring the other to make the first move. Namjoon opens his mouth to say something—he has no idea what—at the same time Min reaches forward, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and hauling him inside.
Min is on him immediately, pressing their lips together in a bruising kiss. Namjoon barely has enough presence of mind to reach behind himself and make sure the door is locked, his arms suddenly full of clingy, beautiful boy, Min’s tongue running along the seam of his lips, seeking entrance. Namjoon moans at the slide of their tongues together, but he can’t stop the image of what he’d seen in the bathroom from rising to the surface, the knowledge of what Min had been doing in that stall.
“W-Wait,” he pulls away, grabbing Min’s shoulders to stop him as he tries to follow the kiss. “What about—I mean, aren’t you—” Working, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to say it.
Min blinks, the dazed look in his eyes clearing a bit. “Oh,” he flushes, cheeks coloring. “I—I’m off the clock.”
Namjoon growls, his lips finding Min’s once more, walking them backwards until Min’s back hits the opposite wall. Caging him against the wall, Namjoon realizes for the first time just how much bigger he is than Min—almost a head taller and twice as broad. Warmth pools in the pit of his stomach as he reaches down and wraps his hands around the backs of Min’s thighs, swallowing his gasp as he lifts him up, those long legs immediately wrapping around Namjoon’s waist.
He trails kisses along Min’s jaw, reveling in how responsive he is, little mewls in Namjoon’s ear as he just barely scrapes teeth across his pulse point. He feels Min nod against him and this time he bites, sucking a bruise just beneath his ear. “Hyung,” Min moans, squeezing Namjoon’s waist with his thighs as he bucks up, seeking friction.
“Yeah, Minnie?” Namjoon presses a kiss to his lips, puckered in a sweet pout. “What do you need, baby, tell me—”
Min gasps, that same dusting of pink spreading across his cheeks. “O-Oh, I—” he swallows hard “—call me that again.”
Something in Namjoon’s brain short-circuits. “Baby,” he murmurs against Min’s mouth, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth and then soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue. He likes the sound of that. He really, really likes the sound of it. “Baby,” he says again, thrusting up so that their clothed erections rub together, electricity running up his spine as he drinks in Min’s soft whimper with another kiss.
For a brief second Namjoon regrets that they don’t have time, because he could spend hours kissing Min—he’s so soft and pliant and responsive, sweet and sultry all at once, and if only he had the time, he could see himself becoming addicted to the feel of those lips against his. But he’s so turned on already—has been all night—and practically on fire where Min’s fingers graze his skin. He’s not going to last much longer.
He pulls back, stroking Min’s bottom lip with his thumb, red and kiss-swollen and so pretty. “Baby, can I fuck you?”
Min groans, eyes rolling back. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Namjoon lowers him to his feet and then they shuffle around, Min bracing himself against the sink. He meets Namjoon’s look in the small mirror. “In my back pocket,” he says, “I have—”
Namjoon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom, and a small packet of lube. He raises an eyebrow in question, and Min just shrugs nonchalantly, although the tips of his ears are red. “Can’t blame a boy for hoping,” he says.
Something warm blooms in Namjoon’s chest as he reaches around Min, popping the button on his jeans and hooking his thumbs in the waistband as he pulls them down. Then his mind goes blank, his mouth practically watering at the sight before him.
Every inch of Min is perfect, from his narrow waist to the rounded swell of his ass, his smooth honeyed skin and those thighs that Namjoon feels the urge to sink his teeth into. “Beautiful,” he whispers, the word slipping out almost involuntarily. There are dimples at the base of Min’s spine and he presses his thumbs into them, his fingers catching on the hem of Min’s shirt as he lifts it, wanting to see as much of him as he can.
The shirt is halfway up his back before Min reaches behind and catches Namjoon’s wrists, a delayed reaction, like he only just realized what was happening. “No.”
Namjoon pulls his hands away, letting the shirt fall back into place. “Okay,” he says, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. He won’t press the issue, content not to see whatever it is Min doesn’t want him to see. He rubs Min’s knuckles soothingly before pulling out of his grip, leaning back to give him a little space. “Why don’t you spread yourself open for me, baby?”
With shaking hands, Min reaches back and grabs his ass cheeks, spreading himself open to Namjoon’s gaze. He bites his lip at the sight; Min’s hole is as pink and pretty as the rest of him, and he finds himself unable to look away, his cock twitching in interest as he watches the tight ring of muscle flutter and clench around nothing.
“Fuck,” Min hisses, glancing at the mirror. “The way you look at me, I—” he cuts himself off, choking on the rest of his sentence as Namjoon presses the pad of his thumb against his hole. Slowly, he presses inside, groaning when he’s met with almost no resistance.
“I won’t, uh—won’t need much prep,” Min confesses, sounding embarrassed.
Namjoon’s eyes snap up to meet Min’s in the mirror. There’s a white-hot burn in his chest—jealousy, but he has no right to be jealous.
Holding Min’s gaze, he tears open the packet of lube and lightly coats his first two fingers, setting the crumpled tube in the sink for later use. Circling the rim with the tip of his finger, he slowly pushes inside. Min’s breath hitches at the breach and he hangs his head, shoulders tense as Namjoon works his finger in carefully, until he’s down to the last knuckle. He leans forward to mouth at the nape of Min’s neck. “You’re still tight,” he mutters, lips not leaving Min’s skin. “Maybe he didn’t fuck you good enough, huh, baby?”
“Hyung,” Min whines, pushing back against his hand. “More, please, I need more—”
Namjoon sucks an answering bruise into the skin just beneath his ear, purple blooming after just a few seconds. He bruises like a peach, he thinks with a shiver, mouth watering at the thought of all the other places on Min’s body he could mark. “All right, baby,” he says with a breathless chuckle as Min squirms against him, impatient. “Only because you said ‘please.’”
He adds another finger, feeling Min trembling around him as he rocks the digits back and forth gently a few times, slowly scissoring them apart. He goes to repeat the motion but Min reaches back and grabs his wrist, stopping him. Namjoon hums in question, worried he might have hurt him somehow, but Min just leans back and rests his head on Namjoon’s shoulder, rolling his hips as he begins to ride Namjoon’s hand and this—this must be how Namjoon dies, arms full of the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, listening to his desperate keening as he rides Namjoon’s fingers with all the enthusiasm as he would a cock.
“Shh, baby,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to damp pink hair. “You don’t want everyone out there to hear, do you?”
As he speaks he wraps an arm around Min’s waist, halting the movement of his hips as he crooks his fingers inside him, stroking the bundle of nerves he finds there. Min bites his lip against a scream, the sound dying in his throat.
“Cheating,” he croaks, voice wrecked.
Namjoon strokes his prostate a few more times, until Min is a writhing, blubbering mess in his arms. “Please, please, please,” he keens, small fingers squeezing Namjoon’s wrist hard enough to bruise. “Fuck me, hyung, I need it—p-please—”
He doesn’t need to be asked twice—he’s so hard he can barely see straight, cock straining against the confines of his jeans. He tips Min forward, extricating his fingers as the other man braces himself with his hands on either side of the sink. Namjoon pops the button on his jeans and pushes his underwear down, hissing in relief as his cock springs free. He rips the condom wrapper with his teeth and quickly rolls it on, squeezing his cock at the base so he doesn’t come from even that slight pressure, and uses the remainder of the lube to slick himself up. Anticipation is thrumming in his veins as he finally aligns himself with Min’s entrance. “Are you ready?”
“If you don’t put your dick in me right now—” Min starts just as Namjoon pushes in, and his words are cut short by a high, broken whine. He slaps his own hand over his mouth as Namjoon freezes.
“Are you okay?” he asks, squeezing Min’s hips reassuringly.
“You’re—ah—even bigger than I thought you’d be,” Min says, voice thick and wet-sounding.
Namjoon closes his eyes. Min truly is going to be the death of him. “Baby,” he grinds out. “Are you a size queen?”
“Shut up,” Min snaps. “Just—give me a second, okay?”
Namjoon forces himself to hold still as he rubs calming circles along the base of Min’s spine, waiting for him to adjust. After a few seconds he nods, and Namjoon resumes the agonizingly slow slide into that tight, wet heat. He lets out a low moan when he finally bottoms out, his chest flush against Min’s back. Glancing at the mirror, he notices Min’s lips puckered in a pout, a crease between his brows. He presses a soft kiss beneath his ear, smoothing the damp pink strands from his forehead.
“You’re doing so well, baby,” he rasps. “So good for me.”
Min lets out a wet breath, but his expression smooths out a bit, the praise working just as Namjoon suspected it would. “You can move now,” he says, voice wavering.
Nodding, Namjoon drops his forehead to rest against Min’s shoulder as he rolls his hips, almost pulling out completely before slowly pushing back in, and he repeats the motion once, twice, until he feels something in Min give way, and the accompanying whimper he hears isn’t one of discomfort but of pleasure. “Oh, god,” Min gasps, and he takes that as permission to begin thrusting in earnest, strokes quick and shallow.
He knows he isn’t going to last—Min feels too good around him, too tight and warm, his sweet whimpers like a punch to the gut. He pushes back against Namjoon to rest his head on his shoulder once more, gasping at the change of angle, rolling his hips back to meet Namjoon’s thrusts. His lips pucker in a silent plea for a kiss which Namjoon gives him, gasping into each other’s mouths as he buries himself deep.
Min wraps delicate fingers around his cock, flushed and pretty as the rest of him, clumsily chasing his own climax. “Hyung,” he moans. “I—I’m going to—”
“Come on, baby,” Namjoon urges. Reaching down, he completely covers Min’s hand with his own, controlling his movements as he helps Min jack himself off. “Come for me.”
Min cries out as his orgasm hits, back arching as he clenches around Namjoon, white spurts of come coating their joined fingers as Namjoon continues to help stroke him, his movements uncoordinated as he feels his own release building at the base of his spine.
“You, too,” Min whispers, clenching down again. “I want to feel you.”
Namjoon’s own release takes him by surprise, his vision whiting out as he comes with a growl, the force of it sending tremors throughout his body.
He slumps forward, pinning Min beneath him as he struggles to catch his breath.
“Fuck,” Min says, still trembling. He shifts slightly, and Namjoon shivers as the movement sends aftershocks through him. “That was—”
“Yeah,” he agrees. He’s no stranger to one-night stands and random hook-ups, but this—this was something else entirely, and the words are out before he can think to stop them. “How much do I owe you?”
They both freeze, staring at each other in the mirror. Namjoon feels a spike of panic—how could he have been so stupid—but then Min smirks. “This one’s on the house,” he says. There’s a beat of silence, and then they both dissolve into quiet snickers.
“I’m not—” Min starts, wincing slightly as Namjoon begins to soften and slip out of him. “I’m not normally this unprofessional.”
“I believe you.”
Namjoon pulls out slowly, rubbing Min’s spine as he hisses in discomfort. Once he’s disposed of the condom and cleaned himself up, he turns Min around, strangely pleased with the way Min lets him maneuver him as he pleases, sweetly obedient. He uses toilet tissue to clean Min’s fingers, pulling his pants up for him and fixing the wayward strands of his hair. Min seems happy with the attention, practically preening beneath his hands. He looks so sweet that Namjoon can’t help himself—he presses a kiss to Min’s mouth, lips parting on a sigh when Min lets him.
“I’ll go out first,” he eventually says, pulling away. “You wait a few minutes and come out after; if he’s noticed we’re both gone, hopefully he’ll think we’ve been in different lavatories.”
The reminder of his client is like a splash of cold water to the face, bringing Namjoon back to reality. He doesn’t know what passes over his face, but it makes Min smile wryly.
“Fun’s over,” he says, pecking Namjoon’s lips one more time before slipping out into the hallway, leaving Namjoon staring at himself in the mirror, sweaty and disheveled and, suddenly, looking a little lost.
--
By the time Namjoon sets himself to rights and returns to his seat, Min is already settled, eyes closed and a pair of earbuds in his ears. He doesn’t look up as Namjoon awkwardly climbs over him to get to his own seat—not that he’d expected him to. Fun’s over. The words ring in Namjoon’s ears. He’d thought…
He doesn’t know what he thought.
At least Min’s client doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss. Namjoon would have hated trying to explain had the man seen them guiltily slinking back from the bathroom. Or at least, seen Namjoon guiltily slinking back from the bathroom. He’s sure Min probably looked the picture of innocence, totally unaffected.
He’s not sure how he feels about that.
His head’s a jumbled mess, and normally he’d pull out his journal, write out his thoughts until his mind was clear and the thoughts were trapped on the page, but for some reason he doesn’t. Maybe because Min is so close, and despite everything they’ve done, what lies in those pages is far too intimate for Namjoon to be comfortable with him seeing it.
Fun’s over.
He attempts to nap, leaning his head against the window, trying to put as much space between himself and Min as possible. He must manage to doze off at some point, because the next thing he knows there’s a chiming sound, a smooth voice coming over the sound system.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We will be landing at Incheon International Airport in approximately twenty minutes. The weather in Seoul is currently 14°C with a chance of showers. Local time is 4:15 a.m.”
Seoul. Namjoon looks out the window, and for a moment it’s too dark to make anything out, but then the plane begins its descent, breaking through the cloud cover. Seoul rises to greet them, sprawling and neon, the inky black ribbon of the river snaking through it.
Namjoon takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the way his heart seems to beat faster the closer they get to the ground.
As soon as the taxiing plane comes to a halt, Min is out of his seat, gathering his things without a word. Namjoon tries to ignore the sting. Fun’s over, and Min doesn’t really owe him anything. However, when he looks over, he notices something in the empty seat.
A business card.
Namjoon picks it up. It’s heavy, cream-colored card stock. Min is all it says, the letters embossed gold. Beneath that is a phone number.
Namjoon pockets the card, feeling a thrill of—something.
Standing at the gate, the other passengers shuffling bleary-eyed past him, Namjoon briefly considers buying himself another ticket—he could hop the first plane back to LAX and pretend he had never come home at all. Leave his family to deal with their own mess. But he would never do that to Seokjin. No, he made the decision, he came home, and now he has to see it through. He pulls out his phone and sends a single text to the group.
I’m here.
He waits with the phone in hand, counting the seconds—three, four, five—and the phone begins to ring, caller ID flashing on the screen. Seokjin is calling.
“Hello, hyung,” Namjoon answers, bringing the phone to his ear.
“Namjoon-ah.” Seokjin sounds like shit, not the just-woke-up-tired but the never-went-to-bed-to-begin-with tired, the hasn’t-slept-in-weeks tired. “How was your flight?”
“Long.” Namjoon’s gaze sweeps the crowd before he can stop himself, and he realizes he’s looking for a familiar flash of pink. He rolls his eyes, shaking his head at himself as he starts toward baggage claim.
“You must be exhausted,” Seokjin says. “I’d offer for you to stay here, but….”
He trails off, no need to finish. They both know there’s no way in hell Namjoon would stay under the same roof as their parents.
“I’ll be fine at Yoongi hyung’s,” he says.
Seokjin just sighs. “You shouldn’t have sold your apartment.”
Around him the airport is bustling, even at this early hour. Namjoon keeps his phone pressed between his cheek and shoulder as he navigates baggage claim, brows furrowing as he searches for his own bag in a sea of suitcases.
“You know I didn’t really plan on coming back,” he mutters, finally spotting a familiar bag coming his way on the conveyor, if only he could get through the swarming crowd to retrieve it.
“I know.” Seokjin’s voice only holds a trace of disappointment. He hadn’t been happy with Namjoon’s decision to leave Seoul, either, but unlike their parents, he had supported his brother’s choice—at least outwardly. “I’m glad you did, though. It—means a lot.”
Namjoon makes a noise of triumph as he finally manages to grab his bag, and as he turns, he catches a glimpse of pink somewhere in the crowd. He scans the people currently milling around baggage claim, but of course Min isn’t among them. Namjoon’s eyes are just playing tricks on him; he needs proper rest, in a real bed.
“Namjoon-ah?” Seokjin questions, and Namjoon realizes he’s been silent for a while.
“Of course,” he says, clearing his throat. “Anything for my favorite brother.”
Seokjin chuckles, and the sound is so wrong that Namjoon freezes, something cold running down his spine. Gone is the peculiar squeaking inhale he and Taehyung used to tease their hyung for. This laugh, if it can even be called that, is reserved, mirthless, and Namjoon can’t even begin to fathom the amount of stress Seokjin must be under, with the—the wedding looming over him.
“Don’t let Taehyung hear you say that,” Seokjin warns, and there’s a hint of the brother Namjoon remembers, a slight mischievousness to his tone.
Namjoon rolls his eyes, but the small smile on his face is fond. He hadn’t realized just how much he had actually missed them until now.
“He won’t know what you don’t tell him,” he says as he makes his way, bag in hand, toward the exit.
Outside the manufactured coolness of the airport, the early morning air is muggy, heavy with the promise of rain. After so many months in the dry California heat, it feels especially damp and oppressive. Namjoon can feel it clinging to his skin, that sticky air that seems to be particular to Seoul. No city in the world feels quite like this one. Namjoon had almost forgotten how much he hates it.
“Alright, I’m outside,” he says once he’s standing on the sidewalk, scanning the line of cars waiting to pick up passengers.
“Yoongi will probably be there any second, so I’ll let you go. Thank you for coming back, Namjoon-ah. Really.”
Promising his brother that he’ll see him later in the day, after he’s rested, Namjoon ends the call, tucking his phone into his pocket and hiking his bag further up his shoulder.
Seokjin is right on the money—no sooner has Namjoon put away his phone than a sleek black car is pulling up to the curb in front of him. The back door opens, and despite the circumstances surrounding their reunion, Namjoon can’t help but grin at the man who steps out.
Min Yoongi has been a near-constant presence in Namjoon’s life for as long as he can remember. Yoongi’s father worked for Namjoon’s father, so Yoongi was always around. Being between Seokjin and Namjoon in age, Yoongi had been their playmate as children, and then, as they got older, their classmate at the pretentious private school their parents had insisted they attend. When Seokjin went off to university to pursue his business degree, it had only seemed natural that Yoongi would follow. No one had been surprised when Seokjin, in his first official act as CEO of the family corporation, had hired Yoongi as his personal assistant.
Compared to Namjoon and his brothers, Yoongi is small, almost delicate. Pretty, too—one would have to be blind not to notice. He looks sharp in his black suit, with his dark hair and his dangling silver earrings. The picture of poise—Seokjin would expect nothing less of someone so closely associated with him.
“Welcome home, Namjoon-ah,” he says, inclining his head politely. They stare at each other for a moment, and then Yoongi breaks into one of his rare but infectious grins—eyes crinkled, gums on display. He wraps his arms around Namjoon, who only tenses for a moment before returning the hug. He never knows quite what to do with physical affection, which makes things difficult when those closest to him are the affectionate type.
Namjoon detangles himself from Yoongi when he notices the driver waiting patiently off to the side, nodding gratefully at the man as he takes his bags, loading them into the trunk while he and Yoongi slide into the back seat.
“Thanks for letting me stay at yours, hyung,” Namjoon says once they’re settled in. He sinks back into the plush leather seats and sighs. It’s not a bed, but for right now it’ll do.
“It’s no trouble,” Yoongi says as the driver gets back behind the wheel, the engine purring to life. “I figured you wouldn’t want to stay with your parents and suffer all the—wedding preparations.”
Namjoon doesn’t miss the slight hitch in his voice. “Tell me about her,” he insists. He should probably know something about this woman his brother has so foolishly agreed to marry. He’d seen a few more pictures of her online after the first initial bombshell, but he’d been too shocked to retain any information about her. But he isn’t necessarily curious about her as a person—he wants Yoongi’s read on her. Quiet and observant, he often knows a person’s true colors long before they reveal them.
“Jung Wheein, age twenty-eight,” Yoongi says flatly. He sounds like he’s reciting the findings of a business report, not talking about the woman his best friend since childhood is going to marry. “Her father is on the Board of Directors for the company—he used to butt heads with President Kim all the time. He thinks marrying off his daughter to the CEO will give him more power within the company. And your father—well, we know very well why your father agreed to such a thing.”
Yes, Namjoon does know why Kim Yeongjin would agree to such a thing—because he’s never come to terms with the fact that his eldest son, his heir, likes men.
Namjoon can’t help the guilt that burns at the back of his throat. Perhaps if he had stayed—perhaps if he had never gone to Los Angeles to begin with—he might have been able to prevent this, somehow. He isn’t sure exactly what he could have done to prevent it, but if only he’d been here, at the very least he could have tried to talk Seokjin out of it.
“Fucking Seokjin,” he mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “Always so eager to please, even at his own expense.”
There’s a bitter twist to Yoongi’s mouth as he stares out the window—Namjoon can just make it out in his reflection, half-hidden in shadow. “I tried to talk him out of it,” he says. “But you know how sajangnim is, once he puts his mind to something.”
“Sajangnim?” Namjoon questions. In all the years he’s known him, he can’t ever remember hearing Yoongi refer to Seokjin so formally outside the office. “What happened to ‘Jin hyung?’”
“It doesn’t sound very professional, does it?” Yoongi asks, not looking at him.
Silence falls inside the car as they leave the airport behind, broken only by the soft crooning coming from the radio as they drive toward the heart of the city. Namjoon angles his body into the corner of the seat, pressing his forehead against the cool glass of the window. Seoul passes by in a neon blur, distorted by the water droplets that gradually begin to dapple the glass. Chance of showers, the pilot had said. It’s only teasing rain now, but soon enough the storm will come.
Namjoon doesn’t remember falling asleep, but one moment he’s watching the cityscape outside the window, and the next Yoongi is shaking his shoulder gently. “We’re here, Namjoon-ah.”
Yoongi lives in a very nice apartment complex, not far from the Kims’ own penthouse. The entrance to the parking garage is at street level and requires a passcode to open the barred gate with its Private Access sign. Namjoon waves off the driver’s offer to carry his bags as he exits the vehicle, following Yoongi onto the elevator.
As they ascend to the top floor, Namjoon leans against the mirrored wall. He glances over at Yoongi, and underneath the fluorescent lights he sees what had not been visible in the pre-dawn light outside the airport: Yoongi’s puffy eyes, the bags under them deep purple. Even his skin, usually smooth and flawless, has lost its glow. Shit, he’s been so worried about Seokjin that he didn’t even stop to think about Yoongi.
Yoongi’s apartment looks exactly the way Namjoon remembered it—simple, clean lines, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a park on one side and the city skyline on the other. Dark accent colors against stark white walls. Yoongi’s sense of interior design has always mirrored his fashion sense.
“I’m sure you remember where the guest bedroom is,” Yoongi says once they’re inside, toeing their shoes off by the door. “Extra towels and blankets are in—”
“The closet, yeah, I know,” Namjoon nods. His eyes droop slightly and he sways on his feet, Yoongi righting him with a hand on his arm.
“Get some rest, Namjoon-ah,” Yoongi says gently.
He thinks of the bags under Yoongi’s eyes, the way he seems even smaller than normal, like he’s shrinking in on himself. Namjoon isn’t the only one here who needs rest. “What about you?”
“Ah, I’ll be heading to the office soon,” Yoongi says. He gives a wry grin at Namjoon’s incredulous look. “Don’t worry about me. Rest. I’ll see you when I get home.”
Waving goodnight—good morning?—to Yoongi, Namjoon stumbles down the hall to the guest bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it’s dark but comforting. Charcoal bedding compliments dark accent walls and a gray-tiled floor. The large windows look out over the neighborhood park, which Namjoon is grateful for. He’s always liked being able to see nature around him, especially when he rests. It relaxes him.
He dumps his bag into a leather armchair in the corner and doesn’t even bother getting undressed before falling back onto the bed. And yet, despite the exhaustion weighing him down, sleep is slow to come. His thoughts are still a jumbled mess, but they keep circling back to one thing: the wedding.
It isn’t as though he thought Seokjin would never get married—he had assumed it would happen eventually. Even though Seokjin has never officially come out, Namjoon always imagined him as the sort who would never mention being engaged; he would just show up one day with a spouse. The fact that this isn’t something Seokjin has chosen for himself—that this is their father’s way of pulling the strings of a company he technically isn’t in charge of anymore—makes Namjoon’s stomach turn.
Even as a child, Seokjin was always eager to please their father. He idolized the man and would do anything Yeongjin asked of him. Though the idolization had thankfully faded as Seokjin got older, the habit of doing whatever it took to make their father happy never did. Once during a family dinner, Seokjin had mentioned offhandedly that he wanted to pursue a degree in acting. This had prompted a screaming match between Seokjin and Yeongjin while the rest of the family sat around the dinner table, pretending they couldn’t hear a thing. When Seokjin finally applied to university, it was as a business major.
But even so—a degree is one thing, and a marriage is something else entirely. Namjoon can’t believe this hadn’t been the thing to make Seokjin finally put his foot down.
Just as he’s drifting off, Namjoon remembers the card in his pocket. He reaches for it, but the room is too dark to read it. He traces the indentions on its surface with his finger and then sleepily rises to tuck it between the pages of his journal, catching a glimpse of a phrase he’d written on the plane before he snaps it shut.
Why do you sound like ‘soul?’
--
The rain still lingers over the city that evening as Namjoon hails a taxi outside Yoongi’s apartment complex, directing the driver to a small hole-in-the-wall bar in Itaewon. The clientele—and surrounding neighborhood—are made up mostly of western expats and foreign tourists. Namjoon and his brothers had always found drinking here more enjoyable than at any of the city’s more upscale establishments; hardly anyone ever recognized them, and the bar’s owner has been generous enough to keep their tab permanently open.
Namjoon ducks inside just as a party of loud, very inebriated westerners are leaving. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting inside, but after a moment he spots his brothers, sitting at their usual table in the furthest corner of the room, half-separated from the rest of the bar’s patrons by a folding screen that has clearly seen better days.
“Where’s Yoongi hyung?” is the first thing Taehyung says as Namjoon reaches the table, craning his neck as though expecting the smaller man to be hiding behind Namjoon’s broad frame.
“Uh.” Namjoon glances between the two of them, puzzled. Taehyung just looks at him expectantly, but Seokjin won’t even meet his gaze, eyes directed at the sticky surface of the wooden table. “I thought this was a brothers-only reunion.”
“Yoongi hyung is included in that, obviously!” Taehyung huffs.
“Maybe it’s better that he’s not here,” Seokjin finally speaks up. He looks just as bad as Yoongi, if not worse—dark circles under his eyes, face pinched in perpetual worry. Nothing like the brother Namjoon last saw a year ago.
Taehyung turns to his eldest brother with a frown, and Namjoon wants so badly to ask—first Yoongi’s use of such an impersonal title when he spoke of Seokjin, and now Seokjin doesn’t even want his best friend around? What could have happened to cause such a rift between them? Is all this just because of the wedding, or has it been going on for a while, and Namjoon just wasn’t there to notice?
He takes a seat between them as Seokjin signals for the bartender to bring them another round—it’s evident they started without him, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. Idly he reaches up to tug at a strand of Taehyung’s hair, but catches himself at the last second, his hand falling on Taehyung’s shoulder instead, fingers squeezing briefly. “Last time I saw you, your hair was blue.”
“Yes, well.” Taehyung runs a hand through the dark brown mop. “This is less conspicuous.”
Namjoon huffs a surprised laugh. “Since when do you care about being conspicuous?”
Taehyung and Seokjin exchange glances, their silence pointed as the bartender appears, setting a tray in the middle of the table.
“Am I missing something?” Namjoon asks once the man is out of earshot.
The two of them seem to have a silent conversation across the table. It isn’t anything new; they’ve been communicating like that since they were children, some strange telepathy between the eldest and youngest that Namjoon, being the middle child, has never been privy to. He tries not to be bothered by it, the feeling of being left out of the loop. He never quite succeeds.
The longer they go without explaining, the faster his heart begins to beat, the first stirrings of panic. Even though he’s been off in a different country, someone would have surely told him if something horrible happened to Taehyung. Right?
No one told you Seokjin was getting married, he reminds himself. You had to find that out from social media.
“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” he presses.
Seokjin nods encouragingly at Taehyung, who, instead of speaking, grabs the nearest shot glass off the tray, wincing at the burn as he downs its contents. He immediately pours himself a refill, grimacing all the while.
“I lost my job,” he blurts out, concentrating on pouring, avoiding Namjoon’s gaze.
Whatever Namjoon was expecting, it wasn’t this. “What? How?”
Taehyung purses his lips. He seems—embarrassed, which isn’t a look Namjoon is used to seeing on him. Taehyung has always been the most shameless of the three of them; or at least, the most indifferent. Even when he messes up, his name—and their father’s money—is usually enough to sweep things, for the most part, under the rug. So the fact that he’s embarrassed is—disconcerting.
It’s Seokjin who breaks the hesitant silence, taking pity on Taehyung: “Someone had an affair on the set of their television show and got caught.”
Taehyung flinches, and Namjoon’s brows shoot up into his hairline.
“You make it sound like they caught us fucking on set,” Taehyung whines, covering his face with his hands. “It was an innocent date!”
“That Dispatch happened to take and post pictures of online,” Seokjin says.
“They were allowed to publish them?” Namjoon can hardly believe that. Their father practically funds the tabloid with how often he pays them to keep certain family dealings—whether scandalous, or just private—under wraps.
Taehyung nods miserably. “Abeoji didn’t help me at all,” he says. “Told me I had to clean up my own mess for once. I met with the network, but in the end, they decided they couldn’t risk their ratings. Can’t blame them for that, really, especially since they weren’t going to be getting a Kim family payout.”
Another stab of guilt hits him like a knife to the gut. Hadn’t he seen Taehyung’s name trending online just a few weeks before the wedding announcement? He hadn’t paid much attention because Taehyung’s always making headlines about something, it’s what he does. He should have looked, should have checked on Taehyung instead of just assuming it was nothing.
“I’m sorry, Taehyungie,” he frowns, burning up with thoughts of how badly he’s managed to let down Taehyung—and Seokjin, too—since he’s been away.
“Stop that.” Taehyung reaches across the table to squeeze his brother’s hand, recognizing the pinched, pensive look on his face. “I made my bed. Unfortunately, this time I actually had to lie in it.”
“Were they worth it, at least?”
Taehyung smiles bitterly into his drink. “Are they ever?”
The conversation trickles on from there, mostly focused on what Namjoon has been up to in Los Angeles, all of them skirting around the elephant in the room. Still, despite a couple of awkward bumps, things go smoothly, and as the conversation—and the alcohol—flows, Namjoon feels himself begin to relax. He really has missed them, so much, and sitting here with them, talking and laughing and drinking, it almost feels like he never left at all.
It’s during a lull in their reminiscing that Taehyung’s phone vibrates with a message. “Ah,” he says, glancing down at the screen with a frown.
“What is it?” Namjoon asks, not liking his tone.
Taehyung glances briefly at Seokjin. “Eomma wants us at brunch tomorrow,” he says, then cuts his eyes over to Namjoon. “All three of us.”
Namjoon just sighs, accepting his fate. He knew he would have to see his parents sooner or later. He’d just hoped it would be later, rather than sooner.
“It won’t be all bad,” Taehyung says, trying to lighten the mood. “Just think—I’m definitely third place in the favorite child ranking now.”
A fierce competition when they were children that devolved (mostly) into a joke as they reached adulthood, the brothers are fond of evoking the ‘favorite child ranking’ any time one of them does something particularly disappointing. Namjoon assumed relocating to the U.S. would put him permanently in third place, but he supposes having an affair with a costar and getting fired from a popular television show probably trumps that.
“Does that mean I’m in first place?” he muses, unable to remember the last time he was on top of the imaginary leaderboard.
Seokjin barks out a laugh. “Please,” he says, throwing back his drink. “I’m marrying a woman of Abeoji's choosing. I’m in first place for life.”
The two younger Kims freeze. It’s the first time all night Seokjin has mentioned his impending marriage directly. They exchange glances, unsure of what to say.
“Hyung—” Namjoon starts, but Seokjin cuts him off.
“Don’t,” he says. “Not tonight.”
Mouth a thin line, Taehyung stands. “I think we’re going to need another round,” he says, ambling off towards the bar.
Namjoon watches him go before turning back to Seokjin, concern etched on his features. “Are you okay?” he asks. It seems too simple a question to encompass everything Seokjin must be feeling, but it’s the best he can do, jet-lagged and teetering on the edge of drunk.
Seokjin smiles, but it doesn’t reach his watery eyes. “Ask me again tomorrow.”
Namjoon feels he should say something else, but he can’t even begin to think of what—what can one even say in a situation like this—but then Taehyung comes back with another round of drinks, wobbling slightly on his feet as he sets them down.
“Drink up, boys,” he says, and they do.
--
Namjoon stumbles out of the bar, struggling under Seokjin’s dead weight. Ahead of them Taehyung hails a passing taxi, turning to help Namjoon dump Seokjin unceremoniously into the back seat.
“You sure you don’t want us to drop you off at Yoongi hyung’s?” he asks, leaning against the open door of the taxi.
Namjoon looks around. The pavement is still damp, but the rain has mostly stopped, leaving behind air that’s unseasonably cool. “I think I’ll walk around a while,” he says. “I’ll call for a ride when I get tired.”
Taehyung squints at him dubiously, as if he’s not entirely happy with that answer, and then he lunges forward, wrapping his arms around Namjoon before he can think to dodge the younger’s reach.
“I missed you.” The words are muffled, spoken into Namjoon’s shirt. Namjoon hesitates a moment too long to wrap his arms around Taehyung in return, but Taehyung’s used to it, a lifetime of putting up with Namjoon’s skittishness when it comes to physical affection, and he just squeezes harder. “Hug me back, you ass.”
Namjoon sighs, arms coming up to circle Taehyung’s back. “I missed you, too, Taehyungie.”
He stands there outside the bar, hand raised to wave at the taxi as it turns the corner and disappears. Then, shoving his hands in his pockets, he starts on foot in the opposite direction.
For a while he allows his feet to carry him, mindlessly wandering through the streets, refamiliarizing himself. Seoul, like Los Angeles, is a city that never truly sleeps, but it’s a different kind of sleeplessness. Los Angeles is fast paced, everyone racing somewhere, to the next party, the next high. Seoul is softer, in a way. Or maybe it’s only softer because it’s familiar, colored by nostalgia and the tinge of homesickness he was never quite able to rid himself of. He thinks of the words he scribbled in his notebook, written over and over until the page was filled with nothing but that single question. Why do you sound like ‘soul?’ He can’t help but think that the city—and his return to it—has a bittersweet feel to it. His family are here, his friends, the people he cares about most in the world, and yet he’s never felt so lonely as he does here.
Eventually Namjoon finds himself at the river, walking the bike path that runs through a small park overlooking the water. In the distance he can see Dongjak Bridge, traffic still zipping along it even at this hour, nothing but pinpoints of light in the darkness. Out here the light pollution is less, and Namjoon can see patches of stars as the clouds from earlier begin to clear out.
He finds a bench and sits down, letting the sounds of the night wash over him: the rushing of the water, the distant whoosh of traffic, the metallic clicking of a couple of night cyclists as they ride past. Somewhere off to the side he hears approaching laughter; he turns and catches sight of two young men—not teenagers, but younger than himself—walking side by side, their clasped hands swinging between them. He finds himself almost enraptured by them, so carefree, obviously on a date. Then one of them looks up and makes eye contact with him; he pulls his hand free of his companion’s like he’s been burned.
Namjoon sighs as they hurry past him, now walking at least a foot apart. At least they have the luxury of being together, even if it’s only here in the dark.
Navigating relationships—as high-profile as Namjoon and his brothers are—has always been a bit tricky. Namjoon and Taehyung, at least, did have it a bit easier; they both liked women as well as men, had each had a handful of girlfriends to appease both their parents and the media. Poor Seokjin, though—every relationship he’s ever had has had to be hidden, until it got to the point where he just stopped trying to date altogether. Even so, whoever the three of them have found themselves dating over the years, man or woman, it’s always been difficult to find somebody discreet, someone who didn’t want them just for their money or the fame.
Namjoon scoffs at this train of thought, looking out over the black water. He’s had too much to drink, that’s all. Alcohol always makes him a bit maudlin. Still, he can’t stop thinking about those boys on their date. Is it selfish of him to want that, even just for a night?
Unbidden, he thinks of pink hair and plush lips, and a business card tucked between the pages of his journal. He could call—god, he wants to call—but he won’t.
Fun’s over.
“Pathetic,” he whispers to himself, the word swallowed up by the night breeze.