Chapter Text
The shop is in a nice part of town, with a name you can’t quite recall (you’re pretty sure it was Kim & Kim) and a garden living in its windows. There’s always a bowl of untouched buttercream by the door, along with a few packets of salt from the café down the street. If the shop has an address (which, logically, it should) then you don’t know it, because a friend brought you here once and you’ve been taking the same path ever since.
The inside is a treasure trove, with plants drying in bundles from the ceiling and narrow aisles constructed by shelves neatly cluttered with carefully labelled paraphernalia. You’ve found a whole section of dried lizards before. But, you’ve also found glass bluebells and bottles of strawberry wine. It’s actually kind of charming, in a claustrophobic sort of way. You like their aged starlight – it soothes your nerves.
None of the items have price tags, and bargaining is always acceptable. It is, in fact, encouraged, as stated in cursive on the sign hanging on the back wall. The man behind the counter will smile beatifically and offer to take your coming November instead of your first kiss. He’s gorgeous, but you won’t let it distract you. You’ve seen people step out with kaleidoscopic eyes, only to find them colourless upon closer inspection. You hold on to your November, and instead hand him the pearlescent button that once came off a dress shirt, that you’ve kept in your wallet ever since.
As you re-enter the muggy summer air outside, you glimpse the door that the two staff members only ever seem to exit from. You get a brief flash of short-cropped minty blue hair, and then you’re on a street that seems entirely unfamiliar.
But then you recognise the second-hand bookstore down the block and wonder how you always seem to forget where you are. In the back of your head, you could’ve sworn the shop’s front door was burgundy…
“Hyung, have you seen Kafka?”
“He’s by the snapdragons, where you last left him,” Seokjin replies, dark blood seeping out from the rapidly fluttering heart in his hand and dripping down his elbow. “Pass me the bottle labelled ‘hysteria’, will you?”
Namjoon hands him the bottle, watches Seokjin squeeze out every last drop with focused precision and idly comments on its nice deep colour before wandering towards the windows.
Sure enough, balanced precariously on the edge of Namjoon’s reading stool, is Kafka. He settles down, clearing his throat before resuming where he left off, snapdragons swaying in time with his voice. They looked better already – they had been a little wilty this morning.
“Oh, hyung, I nearly forgot, we’re almost out of nap pies,” he calls, pausing his reading while he waits for a reply.
Emerging from behind one of the displays, Seokjin slides his now clean hands into the pockets of his apron and regards him. “Did you restock the powdered comfort?”
Namjoon makes a face.
“You forgot.” Flat. Unimpressed.
“Can’t you just use cinnamon?”
Seokjin rolls his eyes, pushing himself off the glass and disappearing behind some ceramic candle holders. “Just because they taste similar doesn’t mean you can substitute one for the other.”
Namjoon groans. “The weather hasn’t been cooperative recently, you know how finicky it is to grow that stuff.” He slides off the stool, tucking Kafka into one of the shelves below his plants. He’s almost done with this particular book; he’ll have to remember to bring another one next time. Perhaps some poetry? It’s been a while since they’ve had poetry.
“Shouldn’t you have some dried ones left over from last time? When we had that thunderstorm?”
Straightening, Namjoon vaguely recalls tucking some away into the cupboard filled with the rest of his dried flora. An image comes, unbidden: a glass jar filled with crinkly, soft orange blooms, near the back with the aurora extract. Looks like he even labelled it. “Oh, I think you might be right.”
Surely enough, when he opens up the cupboard, the stoppered jar is exactly where he knew it would be. Carefully, he sets each bloom alight, catching the ash in the the little painted dish he keeps for this purpose. He then places it on the counter where Seokjin is methodologically dicing up apples.
“Need anything else?” He nabs an apple slice, narrowly avoiding losing one of his fingers in the process.
“No. Although, your ferns have been getting rather chatty lately. Maybe you should trim them.”
Namjoon laughs. “Yeah. Maybe.”