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“It’s such bullshit,” Hoseok grumbles, shivering slightly in his thin coat as a breeze ripples past. It’s the end of the fall semester and temperatures are near freezing, but he had predictably chosen fashion over warmth. His best friend, Kim Namjoon, is cozily bundled in a padded jacket next to him as they walk through campus. He still looks good, somehow, despite the stupid jacket—it must be the height, and the tanned skin, and the silvery hair. “It’s a university library, it’s not like it’s a real library.”
“Finals are next week, Hoseok,” Namjoon retorts, a fond smile tugging at his lips.
“But enforcing twenty-four-seven quiet hours? C’mon. They already have a dedicated quiet floor,” Hoseok pouts as he recalls how the library attendant—a student, probably younger than them, the nerve—had come over to inform the pair that the on-campus library was under quiet hours so that students could prepare for exam week, and could they please quiet down or they would be asked to leave. Hoseok was unable to keep his mouth shut while reading the book that he had been assigned in his Survey of Sci-fi class, and so they’d been kicked out.
“The quiet floor is packed the week before finals.”
“Joon! Stop defending the enemy,” Hoseok whines, stopping in his tracks to scowl at his friend.
“I’m messing with you, Seok. But we could just work on the green and be as loud as we want.” Namjoon nods in the direction of the expanse of greenery in front of the student union. It’s a popular study spot during the spring, but is mostly brown and dead now that they’re on the cusp of winter.
“Sounds miserable. Plus, I’m freezing.” Hoseok shivers to emphasize the point.
“Well, if you’d stop wearing that coat…”
“It’s the exact same shade of auburn as my hair!”
“You’re ridiculous.” Namjoon rolls his eyes, but he’s smirking. “Okay, where to, then? Maple?” Maple Cafe, their go-to coffee shop right across the street from campus, is also a popular study spot. The atmosphere is just right, the noise level is perfect, and the dirty chai (Hoseok and Namjoon’s drink of choice) kicks ass. Even better, their friend Jimin works there, and is usually able to secure them a table during peak hours.
Hoseok groans. “Don’t tempt me. I can’t afford overpriced coffee and Jimin can’t get us free drinks anymore. His manager’s been watching him like a hawk.”
Namjoon would offer to treat him, but he knows that Hoseok would end up stubbornly paying him back. “Okay, no Maple.”
“We could always go back to my dorm,” Hoseok suggests, knowing the answer he’ll receive.
“You know I don’t like studying in dorms,” Namjoon grumbles.
“You’ve only ever been to my dorm for like five seconds at a time and you’ve never even tried stud-”
“We could try the public library,” Namjoon interrupts.
“Isn’t the whole idea to find a place where we can chat?”
“I went there to check out a book once and it was pretty chatty, at least on the ground floor.” Namjoon shrugs. “It’s only a five minute jog from here.”
“Jog?” Hoseok asks, but Namjoon’s already picked up his pace.
“You’re the one who needs to warm up!” Namjoon calls over his shoulder. Hoseok tries to conceal his grin as he runs after his friend. For reasons that Hoseok will never understand, Namjoon has always loved spontaneous jogs. It’s a silly, endearing habit for a boy who is usually far too serious. Even if the jogs usually end with Namjoon mildly injuring himself—the man is truly a disaster on legs—Hoseok can’t bring himself to chide his friend.
As expected, they’re only a minute from the library when Namjoon trips over a lip of the concrete sidewalk. He doesn’t fall, but the momentum is enough so that a strap from his backpack whips around and smacks him in the neck, leaving a bright red mark. Namjoon scowls and rubs at the mark as Hoseok giggles, holding the library door open for the both of them to enter.
Hoseok wasn’t expecting much, but the library is surprisingly cozy on the inside. It smells overwhelmingly of books and wood, the lighting is warm but bright enough, and there’s plenty of open tables tucked between bookshelves. Namjoon was right about the noise, too—it’s quiet, but not uncomfortably so. There are a few conversations being had here and there.
Hoseok nods his approval. “I like it.” He plops his backpack down on the nearest table, and Namjoon follows his lead.
“I finished my reading for Survey of Sci-fi right as we got kicked out, so I think I’m moving on to our final for Poetry Workshop. The one about seasons,” Hoseok explains. Namjoon and Hoseok are both third year English majors, so they have at least one class together every semester—this time it’s Advanced Poetry Workshop. Namjoon’s more of a poet than Hoseok, who prefers writing long fiction pieces, but poetry has grown on him over the years thanks to some good professors.
“That’s what I was doing right as we got kicked out,” Namjoon hums, amused. “What are you thinking, Seok?”
“I was thinking of doing mine on the transition to winter. On the mixed emotions of it, because it’s the holiday season and everything feels so magical, but also it’s getting colder and you can’t afford heating.” Hoseok smiles and Namjoon smiles back, but he’s clearly a little uncomfortable.
Unlike Hoseok, Namjoon grew up with money. His dad is one of the most respected interior designers in Korea, and his mom is a physics professor at a prestigious university. They spent a lot of money to send Namjoon to the US for college. Hoseok, on the other hand, moved to the US with his single mom when he was a toddler. She picked up a job as a waitress and worked long hours to make ends meet. Hoseok is not jealous of Namjoon’s upbringing—from what he knows of it, Namjoon’s parents maintained an impersonal relationship with their son, and Namjoon still feels distant from them—and he doesn’t mean to emphasize the difference between their families, but it’s hard to not reflexively make jokes about growing up without money.
Hoseok clears his throat. “What about you, Joon?”
“I was going to take ‘seasons’ metaphorically, and do mine on the seasonality of love. How we fall in love, fall out of love, and it’s all cyclical. And then I might link it to actual seasons, I don’t know.”
“Fuck. I hate that you’re a genius.”
“Shut up, your idea sounds great.” Namjoon tries to hide his pleased smile.
“I hate to give you credit, but you know my poetry’s only half decent because you spent so much time helping me in freshman year.”
Namjoon blushes. He hates praise. “Let’s work, Seok.”
They’re twenty minutes into full-focus mode when Hoseok’s train of thought is rudely derailed by Namjoon shaking his shoulder.
“What?”
“Look over my shoulder at the boy shelving books.”
Hoseok looks. Behind Namjoon, a few rows of bookshelves down, is a boy around their age. His black hair falls around his face, unstyled, and his petite frame is swallowed up by a huge beige cardigan. He’s also wearing black slacks and a pair of glasses with thick black frames. He’s pushing a cart full of books to be shelved.
“Holy shit, Joon, he can dress. He’s hot.” The two of them are both looking now. “I call dibs.”
“No way, you can’t just call dibs like that,” Namjoon whines.
“Remind me which one of us is attracted to men,” Hoseok counters. He's expecting Namjoon to giggle and say that he was just being argumentative for the fun of it, but there's just silence. Namjoon is looking at the table between them.
“Wait…” Hoseok draws his brow, confused. “Were you not joking about the ‘I think I might be bi’ thing?”
Hoseok had come out to Namjoon as gay after about a week of hanging out with each other, and Namjoon had been really supportive. Namjoon himself, however, had frequent one-off sex with girls despite being a massive nerd. In freshman year, it became a running joke that Hoseok could go out with Namjoon, but he wouldn’t come back with him—some girl would always take him home by the end of the night. Then Namjoon met a girl in sophomore year who he started dating. Soon enough they were pretty serious, but it had fizzled out about a month ago. When Hoseok asked why he had ended it, Namjoon had responded that he had some things to figure out about himself, that he thought he might be bi. Hoseok, for whatever reason, had presumed that the bi thing was a lie, or a joke, or-
Namjoon blushes fiercely, unable to look Hoseok in the eye. “No. I wasn’t joking.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”
“I’m really sorry for thinking that you were joking, Joon, that wasn’t o-”
“It’s fine, Seok, I knew it didn’t make a difference to you-”
“It does. Make a difference. It’s important, you know?”
Suddenly Namjoon’s eyes go wide as he detects the sound of footsteps coming from behind, the discomfort falling from his face. “Seok, he’s coming over here.” Sure enough, the pretty librarian is approaching the shelves between which their desk is located.
It’s go time. “Excuse me?” Hoseok asks the librarian, doing his best to be sunshiney and warm in the way that he knows people find attractive. The librarian meets his eye, and his heart leaps a little in his chest. He’s so cute. “Could you point me to the fiction section?”
“Yeah, sure, it’s over there,” the librarian responds in a velvety, deep voice. Sexy. He points to the bookshelves across from them. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Just something to read while I’m taking breaks from this assignment. If it inspires wintery imagery, that would be even better.”
The librarian chuckles. “That’s… specific. All I can think of off the top of my head is Game of Thrones, but I don’t think you’re the Game of Thrones type.”
“Why, do I look like I only read Hemingway and Tolstoy?” Hoseok smiles and the cute librarian smiles back.
“Something like that.”
“Well you’ll be glad to know that I love Game of Thrones.” Hoseok winks and the librarian looks down at his feet. One of his fingers picks at the skin around his thumb. So cute. Ridiculously cute.
“I’m Hoseok, by the way. This is Namjoon,” he says, laying a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder. “The kind of guy who really does only read Hemingway and Tolstoy.”
“Hey!” Namjoon exclaims. “That’s so untrue and you know it.”
“I’m Korean too. Min Yoongi,” the librarian—Min Yoongi—says.
“Oh! Are you older? We were both born in ‘94,” Namjoon eagerly pipes in.
“Yeah, born in ‘93.”
“Oh, can we call you hyung?” Hoseok asks.
Yoongi blushes, nods.
“I have to get back to work, but uh, it was nice meeting you two,” Yoongi smiles. “Not many students come around here.”
“Oh, we’ll have to keep you company more often, hyung,” Hoseok chirps.
“Sounds good,” Yoongi responds shyly. “I’m always around.” He starts wheeling his now-empty cart back to his desk.
“Nice meeting you, hyung,” Hoseok calls out. Yoongi nods, then rounds a corner.
Hoseok and Namjoon look at each other, grinning like idiots. Hoseok sighs dramatically and leans back in his chair.
“Oh my god, Joon, I’m in love. We have to come back tomorrow.”
“I cannot be your wingman after you told him that I only read Hemingway and Tolstoy, when you know damn well that I think-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, old white guy lit is boring and we should pay more respect to contemporary writers who are still making a living from their craft or whatever. But if you really don’t want to be my wingman...”
Hoseok smirks, holds out a hand.
“May the best man win over the Yoongi.”
“I don’t think that’s how the expression goes,” Namjoon replies as he clasps his hand in Hoseok’s.
They shake.