Chapter Text
If you feel just like a tourist in the city you were born in, then it's time to go.
There's a unique strangeness to returning to a place you always referred to as home, even if you haven't been there in years. Yoongi feels it as he drives toward his parents' home in the suburbs of Chicago. He's always referred to this as home, even though he hasn't lived there in nearly twenty years, even though he's created his own home on the east coast. He tries not to think too hard about it or feel too sentimental as he drives. The roads are familiar, even though the highways have expanded and the billboards have changed while he's been away. He doesn't need his GPS to guide him; the route home is embedded in his memory, etched deep in his bones. He's not sure he'd ever forget the way home, no matter how hard he tried.
When he got the call from his father two weeks ago, it had startled him. His father rarely called him unless it was an emergency. He preferred to send cryptic, typo-riddled messages. But a phone call meant something was serious. With shaking hands, Yoongi sat up in bed and cleared his throat before answering. "Dad? Is everything okay?" He hated how his voice cracked, how he felt small and scared, far from home like a lost little boy.
"Yoongi, it's your mother." His voice was tinny and flat, sounding far away and so unlike his usual voice, it made Yoongi's blood run cold. "She's had a bad fall." There were more details about hospitals and home care, and it all jumbled together as Yoongi scribbled down some notes in the half-dark of his room.
What Yoongi can remember clearly is the terrified way his father's voice sounded when he asked, "Can you come home?" There was no hesitation. Yoongi bought a plane ticket minutes after hanging up.
When things calmed down and Yoongi considered the facts, it was less dire than it sounded: his mother had a small stroke and had fallen, hurting her hip. After speaking with doctors and physical therapists, his father realized now would be a good time to sell the home to downsize to some place smaller and more accessible now that his mother would be less mobile. Things were manageable, easily divided up into checklists and phone calls and appointments.
Somehow, Yoongi had kept his panic at bay. He didn't dwell on the loss of his childhood home, didn't fret over how his parents might be able to afford some in-home care. Knowing he had a task kept him focused. He would go to visit for as long as they needed him, and he would help pack up the house and sort through their items to be donated or thrown away. It was the least he could do.
As he drives closer to home, he feels something forming in his chest—some sort of knot of nerves and sadness, an impending sense of doom, or maybe loss? The last time he was home, it was for Christmas two years ago, fresh off a break-up that his parents still ask him about. (His mother noted that at 33, it was time to get serious with someone. As if Yoongi hadn't desperately wanted that for himself, too.) The visit was short, but just long enough to get on his nerves like all visits home felt. He hated that tangled feeling: comfort and angst all at once, frustration at being treated like a child, but secret relief whenever he did receive some overly affectionate doting.
When the highways give way to suburban roads lined with lush trees, Yoongi feels a rush of nostalgia. Maybe it's the feeling of finality catching up with him, that this might be the last time he visits this home, but he can't help but clench the steering wheel. He remembers it all so clearly: the old K-Mart where he and his friends used to prowl before going to the movies, the Dairy Queen where he learned how to kick-flip in the parking lot. All these memories hovering around like spirits, clinging to the buildings long after they've been turned into something else entirely.
His old neighborhood is one straight out of the 1980's: cookie-cutter houses all designed to look the same, distinguished from one another only by the colors of their front doors and shutters. The lawns are all perfectly manicured, the trashcans neatly labeled and arranged at the side of every home. By anyone's standard, the neighborhood is perfect, the epitome of suburban American wealth. Yoongi's parents bought the home shortly after they married, just a couple years after they moved to the United States from South Korea. They never let Yoongi take anything for granted—the ice maker in the fridge, the dishwasher, the air conditioning that filled the house with aggressive arctic air. They never had such things where they came from, they reminded him.
Now, in his 30s, he considers this: all they sacrificed to give him a good life, how hard they worked to support him and build a new life in a new country when they were immigrants who hardly spoke English. All of it wrapped up in the home they would soon pack up and sell. Decades of creating a home and a life; how quickly they would dismantle it.
"Christ, Yoongi," he mutters to himself, pulling the car into the driveway. He's always been a bit too sentimental, a bit too maudlin, and he can tell it won't get much better while he's here. He can only hope the packing won't take an eternity; he knows he'll get lost in ruminating over every scrap of paper, every knick knack. He cuts the engine and takes a deep breath, leaning over the steering wheel to look up at the house. It's a simple brick facade, nothing noteworthy about it. The basketball hoop he had as a kid is long-gone, the screws from the backboard still protruding from the brick between the double garage doors. For a moment, he wishes it was still there so he could shoot some hoops, feel the rough, pebbled leather of the ball against his palms.
The front door opens, and his father steps out. He looks tired, smaller, older in a way that Yoongi hadn't expected. He feels a pang of guilt for not coming home sooner; so much can happen in two years. "Yoongi," his father calls, waving from the stoop.
Yoongi gets out of the car and gathers his backpack and small suitcase. He walks up the steps where he's greeted immediately with a hug. "Hey, Dad," he murmurs, patting his back. Thinner, too, he notes. "How's Mom?"
"Resting," his father answers, taking the suitcase from him. Yoongi knows better than to fight him for it. "She'll be happy to see you." They walk through the foyer toward the kitchen and living room. The walls are bare now that they've been stripped of all the family photos.
The kitchen is a mess. Boxes cover nearly every surface of the counters and kitchen table, each one overflowing with different kitchen gadgets and cooking tools. "Take what you want," his father says, gesturing at the boxes. "Your mom set aside some of her ttukbaegi if you want some."
"Ah, yeah, I'll have a look," Yoongi says, slipping off his backpack. The house feels downright surreal seeing it in this suspended state of packing. "You're further along than I expected," he says, peering into one of the boxes.
"The realtor says we could sell the place pretty quickly if we can get most of it packed away for staging. It's a seller’s market." He opens the fridge and pulls out a plate of leftovers covered in plastic wrap and puts it in the microwave. "Hungry?"
"I could eat," Yoongi answers. He watches as his father pokes around the kitchen, digging out a pair of disposable chopsticks. How had Yoongi missed his tremor the last time? He tries not to stare as his father's hand trembles. Yoongi clears his throat. "How are you doing, Dad? I hope you're resting, too."
"Nah, don't worry about me," he says, waving him off. "I can rest when we move. It'll be nice to have a smaller space. Less hassle to deal with." He smiles and turns back to the microwave to retrieve the dish. He slides it across the counter, and Yoongi takes a pair of chopsticks and digs in. His father eats too, and they eat in silence hunched over the bowl of noodles.
"Look at you two."
Yoongi's head snaps up, and he grins around a mouthful of food when he sees his mother watching them with a fond look on her face. "Mom."
She pads into the kitchen and pulls her robe around her shoulders and tightens her belt. "You both look like hungry teenagers inhaling that food. Let me make you something else—"
"—no, no," Yoongi says, batting away her hands. "I had plenty on the plane. This is just a snack." He hugs her carefully and squeezes her shoulders. "How are you? How are you feeling? Are you resting? I hope—"
"—honey, don't worry about me," his mother answers, patting his chest. "I'm resting plenty. Your father won't let me do anything."
"Doctor's orders!" he snaps, waving his chopsticks at her.
She rolls her eyes at him and turns back to Yoongi. "I'm glad you're home. It'll be nice to have you here for a bit."
"I'm happy to help." He glances around the kitchen and gestures at the boxes. "Looks like you've done quite a bit on your own."
"Oh, well we had some help," she says carefully. "You remember Seokjin, right?"
Seokjin. The name feels like a bucket of ice water drenching him, snatching the breath right out of his lungs. As if he could forget. Seokjin .
"Yeah," he mumbles, pulling away. He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck, surprised to feel the flush of warm skin. "What's he doing here? In town, I mean?" The last he heard, Seokjin was living on the west coast, working for a film company or ad firm or something where he could use his charm and wit.
"Well, you know his father died a few months ago—"
"—his father died?" Yoongi's eyes widen. "I had no idea." Seokjin and Yoongi haven't spoken in years, but he thought he'd at least hear about that from someone. All those years spent at Seokjin's house, he started to think of his father as another extension of his own parents.
"I'm sure he meant to tell you," his mother says gently. "Why don't you give him a call?"
"Oh, I changed phones so I lost his number," Yoongi lies. She doesn't need to know they haven't spoken in about fifteen years. It's more than he wants to unravel with her right now.
"I can give you his mother's number," she says, patting his arm. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear from you. He asked about you while he was here."
Yoongi bites back the urge to ask her more, to find out what he asked, how he looked, how he said Yoongi's name. "Well," he says abruptly, "I am going to take my stuff upstairs, maybe get started on my room. That okay?"
Nodding, his mother smiles. "Of course. There are boxes in the hall closet. I think your dad has some tape somewhere, too."
"Left some rolls on your desk," he answers. "Let's get you back to bed, hmm? Rest a bit and maybe we can get some take-out later?"
She nods and leans her head against his shoulder. "Sounds good."
Yoongi forces a smile and tries not to focus on the wobbly way she walks, like she's unsure of how to make her legs move. Instead, he watches his father's hand clutch her robe as he guides her toward the stairs, a smile on his face as he murmurs to her, encouraging each step.
***
In spite of all the blank walls and cluttered spaces filled with overflowing boxes, Yoongi's room still looks the same as it did all those years ago. His old Death Cab for Cutie poster still droops in one corner, the blue sticky tack staining the wall. The old stereo with CD changer is coated in dust, and Yoongi grimaces as he drags his finger through it. Curiously, he pops open the player to see what disc he left in there: Taking Back Sunday. He laughs and presses play, adjusting the volume until he hears the familiar guitar riffs.
Instantly, he feels like a teenager again—too big for his own skin, a little uneasy, brimming with curiosity and a little fear about the world beyond this room. It's strange to see everything in this new light now that he must consider what to keep and what to get rid of. Maybe he'd always assumed this stuff would exist in this room in this house forever, like some museum to his past life.
An old iMac G3 sits on the desk looking like a relic from an entirely different timeline. The turquoise monitor sits in a hulking mass on the desktop, the keyboard covered in dust and fuzz. Yoongi sits at the desk and pulls open the drawers, inspecting all the old ball point pens, dried up markers, and scraps of paper and photographs. It's all junk he should've sorted sooner, but it gives him hope that maybe there's not as much to clean up as he thought.
He pulls the entire drawer out, resting it on his thighs. He picks through old movie tickets, bent paper clips, faded receipts, some pads of Post-It notes. It would just be easier to dump the entire drawer, he realizes as he picks through the junk. He pulls out the trash bin under the desk and turns the drawer over, shaking until everything falls out.
An old Polaroid resting on top of the pile catches his attention, and he plucks it out carefully, brushing off the old pencil shavings and dust. Staring back at him are two gangly kids, faces smooth and unblemished, wide eyes lined in smudged eyeliner. He laughs, touching their faces. It's almost hard to remember being that young. But he remembers the photo clearly, remembers the day he took it, remembers the way he felt slinging his arm around Seokjin's neck.
They were at some punk show held in an old storefront in a strip mall. When they were kids, they spent a lot of time there goofing off with their friends, supporting each other's bands, smoking menthols and fooling around. They felt invincible back then—all reckless teenage swagger. They spent so many nights there, and Yoongi knows there's probably a box with countless other photos just like this one.
It's strange to see Seokjin's face staring back at him. This is the Seokjin that Yoongi remembers so clearly: his dark, wide eyes, shaggy hair pushed across his forehead, lips pouty and perfect. All clad in black, two suburban kids who fancied themselves tough punks when they really were just a couple of kids who always felt a little weird as the children of immigrants, who found some comfort in thrift store T-shirts and black beanies and the access it granted them to their friend group.
A knock at the door startles him, and he looks up to find his father hovering in the doorway. "Settling in okay?"
Nodding, Yoongi tosses the Polaroid into the drawer and slides it onto the track, closing it softly. "Yeah. Just cleaning out my desk. Easy stuff first."
"It means a lot to your mom that you're here," his father says, glancing around the room awkwardly. He's never been one for sentimentality or too much eye contact. "And me."
Smiling, Yoongi answers, "I'm happy to help. I should've come back sooner—"
"—don't worry about that," he interrupts. "You're here now, and that's all that matters."
"How is she, Dad? Like for real?" So much of what he knows about his mother's condition has been doled out in tiny bits, and each piece of information feels like it's been scrubbed free of the ugly parts.
"The stroke was mild. You probably noticed her limp?"
Yoongi nods.
"She lost a bit of mobility in her leg, but she can still move around." He laughs softly, his expression softening. "Still can talk just fine. She'll be fine."
"You know, I can stay longer if you need me too. I can do a lot of my work remotely or just take some time off. I have so much PTO." Yoongi wishes he had more to offer, anything to say he's sorry for being an absent son. He doesn't even have an excuse—no childhood trauma or angst caused by his parents. He just got busy. Built a new life somewhere else. Selfishly.
"We'll figure that out later." He clears his throat. "I'll leave you to it. Let me know if you need anything. If you want to keep anything, I can ship it to you if you can't take it back on the plane."
"That's great, Dad, thanks," Yoongi says, offering a smile. Their gaze lasts a little too long, and Yoongi clears his throat awkwardly, turning back to his desk. The door shuts quietly.
Already, it feels a bit like he's been home for too long. Knowing he's got a week or more ahead of him makes him feel a bit anxious. The thought of occupying his time seems too daunting. There's only so much Family Feud and old Korean soaps he can watch with his parents before his brain melts.
He pats his pockets and pulls out his phone. Until he learned about Seokjin being back, the only person Yoongi still knows in town is Namjoon. They haven't seen each other in far too long, and Yoongi knows it's entirely his fault. The phone rings, and he clears his throat, waiting for Namjoon to answer. Just as he's sure he's being sent to voicemail, the line connects.
"Hey, Namjoon, it's Yoongi," he says quickly. He paces around his room. It's weird to talk to Namjoon and feel nervous, even after all these years.
Laughing, Namjoon says, "Yeah, I heard you were in town."
"What? How?" Yoongi asks, flopping back on his bed.
"Your mom posted about it on Facebook," he answers.
"What the hell are you still doing on Facebook?" Yoongi scoffs.
He can practically hear the sheepish grin on Namjoon's face. "I dunno, I just like to check it occasionally. Besides," he pauses, "It's not like you were going to tell me you were back."
"Ah, come on, I called you just now, didn't I?" He knows Namjoon's right. He always tends to pop into town and leave without letting one know he's been there.
"True, true," he concedes. "What's up, man? Long time no talk. I texted you last time I was in DC, but I didn't hear back."
Yoongi cringes. "Ah, yeah, sorry, work got nuts." There's a long, awkward pause, and Yoongi's not sure if he should apologize for being a shitty friend or what. "Anyway, my parents are moving, so I'm here to help them pack up." He chews his bottom lip. "But you probably know that, too."
"Yeah, I was going to go over and help your dad clean the gutters, but Seokjin beat me to it." Namjoon clears his throat. "They told you, right?"
"Yeah, look, you wanna grab a drink or something? Catch up? I'll treat." He stares at the ceiling and the old glow in the dark stars stuck to it. Last time he was home, he was disappointed that they didn't glow as brightly as they used to.
"Sounds good. I'll text you a place," Namjoon answers. "Looking forward to it."
"Yeah," Yoongi says, nodding to himself, "me too."
***
The place Namjoon suggests is an old dive bar they used to sneak into as kids whenever they came back on college holidays. The bar's since been transformed into something a little too earnest with exposed wooden beam ceilings, taxidermy animals, and framed art prints that are supposed to seem cool and aesthetic but just look like a bad moodboard in a college dorm.
"Christ," Yoongi laughs, gesturing at the jackalope bust mounted on the wall. "This place has changed."
"Crazy, right?" Namjoon laughs, shrugging off his jacket. "It's the only decent place around here that isn't Applebee's though. Drinks aren't too bad."
"Did it take you long to get here?" Yoongi asks.
"Nah, it wasn't too bad." Namjoon looks grown up in a way that makes Yoongi feel a bit envious: a sharp haircut, thick-framed glasses, clothes tailored perfectly to frame his broad shoulders. He looks put together and handsome—a far cry from his days of cutting his own hair and wearing old oversized sweatshirts from the thrift store.
"You look good," Yoongi says, gesturing at Namjoon. "Didn't know professors made enough money to wear such luxurious clothes," he teases.
Beaming, Namjoon adjusts his glasses. "I just got tenure last spring."
"No shit?" Yoongi grins. "That's awesome. Congratulations."
Namjoon fills him in on the whole process of achieving tenure, pausing only when the waitress stops by for their drink orders. Watching him talk so excitedly about his job fills Yoongi with such satisfaction. He's thrilled his friend is so happy, building the life he always dreamed of, even as an awkward kid all those years ago.
Their drinks arrive, and they fall into an easy silence, each of them taking a long swig of beer. "So, what about you? What's happening in DC these days?"
"Not much, just keeping busy with the production team and my few adjunct gigs." He takes another drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "No tenure on the horizon for me, I'm afraid."
"Ah, well you never really wanted to teach though. I'm glad you're working with the film crew, though. That's cool," Namjoon offers.
"Hardly glamorous, but I do enjoy it. I've saved up a bit, finally got my own studio instead of having roommates. DC's just as bad as New York with rent these days." This is the boring part of small talk, Yoongi thinks. He hates laying out the boring details of his life: part-time adjunct at a community college, kind-of-sort-of-permanent-freelance-employee with a local film production company.
Namjoon seems to sense the way Yoongi bristles. "So, your parents. They doing okay?"
"Yeah, I mean, it's hard seeing my mom," Yoongi says, dropping his gaze to the table. He prefers to study the wood grain and avoid Namjoon's concerned face.
"That's great you came back. I know they really appreciate having you around."
"So Seokjin's dad died?" Yoongi asks, his eyes darting up to meet Namjoon's. "I had no idea. No one texted me."
"I thought about it, I did," Namjoon says quietly. "Just wasn't sure how to relay the news. Like, 'hey man, your long lost nuclear explosion high school sweetheart's dad died'?"
At that, Yoongi winces. Nuclear explosion is a bit of an exaggeration, he wants to point out, but nearly twenty years later, he's still sifting through the fall-out of these feelings, so maybe Namjoon's right. "Is he okay?"
"Ah, you know how he is," Namjoon says, shrugging. "He held it together through the service, cracked some jokes at the reception. He never really shows much emotion."
That hurts to hear. Yoongi still remembers the nights they'd have sleepovers, buzzing with too much soda and sugar. How Seokjin would go from giddy laughter to something quieter, somber, speaking in a whisper as his voice trembled. He hid so much from everyone, but he never hid himself from Yoongi. It hurts to think he'd hide it all in the face of his father's death.
Yoongi swallows down the lump in his throat. "I hope his partner at least consoled him. What was his name? Antho—"
"—they broke up," Namjoon interrupts. "Ages ago. Too bad, too. He was a nice guy." He finishes his drink and points the bottle at Yoongi. "You might have even liked him. Sound engineer with NBC Sports or something."
Yoongi forces a smile. "So Seokjin was alone?"
"I mean, I was there, Jungkook flew in from LA for a few days. We all hung out and kept him busy for a while. He loosened up. It was a good time, as good as it could be, I guess."
"I'm really sorry I wasn't there," Yoongi mumbles. Whatever's clawing at his chest feels too much like jealousy, and it makes him feel gross. "I should've been there." He can't help but wonder what Seokjin must have felt being surrounded by old friends and not even hearing from Yoongi.
"I should've texted, I’m sorry," Namjoon says. He clears his throat and leans back against the booth. "So, how long are you in town for? Think you'll call him?"
"Maybe I should? Is that weird?"
"Might be weird if you didn't," Namjoon answers. "I can give you his cell if you need it."
"Actually, yeah," Yoongi says, pulling out his phone, "that would be great." He hands his phone to Namjoon and turns to flag down the waitress for another round of drinks.
"Here ya go," Namjoon says, passing it back to him. "How's the packing going? Find any lost treasures?" He smiles, and it immediately puts Yoongi at ease.
"Haven't gotten very far. Just cleaned out my desk. You know, I kept all my essays from Mrs. Davey's class? She really let me get away with some bullshit." Yoongi laughs and shakes his head.
"God, I bet they are hilarious though. I should ask my mom if she still has all my stuff," Namjoon says. "My students might get a kick out of seeing some of my old stuff."
"I bet they love you," Yoongi says, settling back against the booth. "What's your favorite class?"
"Creative writing," he answers quickly. "The stuff these kids are writing..." He drifts off, looking around with a dreamy look on his face. "Really amazing stuff. It's such a nice break from grading all the analysis essays."
"I can tell you love it," Yoongi says, sitting up when the waitress returns with fresh drinks. "To loving what you do," he offers, raising his bottle to clink against Namjoon's.
Namjoon laughs and nods, clinking his bottle. "To coming home."
***
Sneaking into the house after drinking too much is an entirely different experience in his 30s, Yoongi realizes. It's a little absurd to tiptoe around the foyer, to take the stairs two by two (missing the creaky one at the top), and slinking down the hall unnoticed. He strips out of his clothes, kicking them aside, and slips into his bed. He's warm with alcohol and good company, his head a bit fuzzy from one too many beers.
It felt good to see Namjoon, to catch up on all he'd missed the past few months. He's not really sure why he's fallen out of touch. Even years later, he still feels like he's not quite worthy of his friendship, like somehow after college ended, there was some expiration date looming over them. He'll make a better effort, he tells himself.
Yoongi wakes the next morning feeling groggy and heavy all over. Drinking in his 30s feels more like a punishment than something fun, and he aches all over as he sits up. The twin bed is miserable—lumpy and soft in all the wrong spots—and his shoulders hurt from the floppy, deflated pillows. No use in complaining, he thinks, he'll be gone soon.
He showers and dresses and makes his way downstairs to find his mother and father seated at a clear corner of the kitchen table, sipping coffee and eating breakfast. "Oh, good morning, honey," his mother says, smiling and reaching for him.
He leans into her, hugging her gently. "Morning. Coffee smells good."
"Were you out late?" his father asks, glancing up from his crossword puzzle. "Didn't hear you come home last night."
"Not too late," Yoongi answers, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "I met up with Namjoon. Had a nice time catching up."
"Oh, I'm so glad, Yoongi," his mother answers. "He just got tenure, you know."
"I know," he replies, taking a sip. "He tells me you're Facebook friends." He grins and nudges her as he sits down.
"It's the only way to keep up with you boys," she says.
Is Seokjin on there? He fights the urge to ask the question. What good would it do to even look? He would just make himself sick looking at his pictures, trying to piece together bits of his life he knows nothing about. Yoongi hates social media and never bothers with it. Deep down, he knows he doesn't have a whole lot to share with anyone anyway. There's hardly anything glamorous about his job, and he doesn't travel much these days now that he's alone.
He takes a deep breath and forces a smile. "Ah, well, you know, we're all busy and working and stuff."
His mother tilts her head and studies his face for a moment. She's always been too keen, too quick to understand everything brewing under the surface of Yoongi's facade. "Will you be seeing Seokjin while you're here?"
"Maybe," he answers, and it's not a lie. He checked his phone earlier this morning to see if Namjoon had given him Seokjin's number, and it was there—clearly labeled and everything. He has no idea what to say if he calls or texts him, but at least the number is there , ten digits to agonize over if he really wants to torture himself. "Namjoon gave me his new number."
"I hope you get to see him while you're both in town. I'm not sure how much longer he's staying," his father says, putting down his pencil. He pulls off his glasses and glances at Yoongi. "He's always been a good kid. Parents really raised him to be a good man."
Nodding, Yoongi swallows the lump forming in his throat. After all this time, his parents still seem to have no idea the depth of their relationship, what they meant to each other during those awkward high school years. How could they? They were all so skilled at hiding things away from their parents, masking things and making them look presentable.
"Yeah, I plan to give him a call," Yoongi answers.
"Good, you two can clear out the basement. All your toys are down there. Wouldn't surprise me if he had some stuff down there, too." His father stands up from the table and pats Yoongi's back. "Would be a big help if you could knock that out soon."
"See if he wants to come over today," Yoongi's mother urges gently. "We've been meaning to clean out the freezer in the garage too. We can grill the last of the frozen steaks. Give Namjoon a call too."
"Was supposed to help me with the gutters," his father mumbles, rinsing out his coffee mug.
"He told me Seokjin beat him to it," Yoongi says carefully.
"He was always the flakiest kid..." he mutters.
"That's Dr. Flakiest Kid to you. He just got tenure." Yoongi knows his dad's only kidding, but he can't help but feel a tiny twinge of protectiveness for Namjoon. "He'd never blow you off, Dad."
"Anyway, call those deadbeats up and offer them some food. That'll bring 'em over," his dad teases.
Yoongi nods and laughs. "Okay, yeah, I'll call them."
Yoongi stalls and eats breakfast with his mother, listening to her chatter about the neighbors selling their homes, her plans for painting the basement and living room before the realtor starts showing the house. All the while, he tries not to stare at the slight droop of her face, how the right side of her face is pulled down, like an invisible string is tugging it.
She's always been beautiful to him: wide, dark eyes with a hint of mischief (that manifested itself as secret Pokemon cards or hidden junk food when he was a child), pin-straight hair always cut in a sharp bob until the gray streaks brought with them wild waves. She was the parent who was always smiling, laughing loudly at Yoongi's jokes, studying English late at night at the church, practicing with him until she was fluent enough to start quizzing him on his own vocabulary. There was always such a light to her, some wide-eyed wonder and adoration for her son and the ground he walked on.
It hurts to see it dimmed a little bit. There's a slight tremor in her hand, and he notices her nails aren't painted like usual. She always loved setting aside some money each week to get her nails done; she would proudly show off her wild array of colors, not caring that the men in the house showed little interest in them at all. (Fondly, Yoongi remembers when he used to paint his own nails black, how he felt sheepish and embarrassed to ask for her help finding nail polish at the drugstore. When they got home, she sat him down at the coffee table and painted his nails for him with long, careful strokes. She blew on his fingernails to dry the paint, and it was one of the first times that Yoongi saw her as a person, not just his mother.)
"My love," she murmurs in Korean, cutting her eyes at him, "you don't have to stare at me." She turns in her chair and pats his hand. "You and your father worry so much."
It's been so long since she's used any Korean with him, much less the term of endearment, and it takes his breath away. "Mom," he starts, but the lump in his throat gets in his way. He clears his throat and tries again. "Mom, I'm just worried about you. Does it hurt? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she says, swatting him. "Go call your friends." She raises her eyebrows, pursing her lips. "Call Seokjin. "
It's easier said than done. He excuses himself to shower, remembering all too clearly how many times he stood in the shower, touching himself and imagining he was running his hands over Seokjin's body. Back in his bedroom, he sits on the bed with a towel around his neck, scrubbing his hair dry and staring at his phone. After all these years, he's finally staring at Seokjin's number, and he's just supposed to call him up and ask him to sort childhood junk with him?
He takes a deep breath and hits the call button. He could text, but the thought of sending a message out into the void and hearing nothing is too stressful. The phone rings twice, then connects.
"Hello?"
"Hey, is this Seokjin?"
There's a beat of silence—agonizing and huge—and Yoongi can't help but imagine the scene on the other end of the phone. Is he smiling? Clutching his phone angrily? Disappointed to hear Yoongi's voice? It's been years since they last saw each other, and Yoongi can hardly put a face to the voice.
"Is this Yoongi?" The sound of his name feels like a sucker punch.
"Yeah, hey man, I'm sorry to just call you out of the blue," Yoongi begins. He bites his lip and sighs. "Yeah, so I'm in town."
"What? Like our town?" He sounds surprised.
"Yeah, I came back to help my parents pack up the house. Take care of Mom."
Seokjin hums in reply. "Ah, right."
He doesn't seem to want to give any more than that, so Yoongi continues. "Yeah, so anyway, my parents want me to clean out the basement, and my mom said you probably have some stuff down there or might want to help? She said she'd feed you."
"You should've led with the food, Yoongi," Seokjin answers. His voice is so unreadable, impossible to decipher.
"It's steak," he answers.
"Be right over." The phone beeps and the call ends.
Waiting for Seokjin to come over is a new kind of torture. Yoongi doesn't know whether to wait awkwardly in the foyer, peeking out the curtains, or if he should get started in the basement and wait for him to come down. How should he greet him? Should they hug? What do you say to someone you haven't talked to in over a decade?
He decides to wait in the basement. At least then he can look like he was working and not obsessing over Seokjin's arrival. He's deep in a back closet, dragging out cardboard boxes of god-knows-what when he hears the familiar thumping of footsteps coming down the stairs.
"Yoongi?" Seokjin's voice is bright and clear, warmer than what he heard on the phone.
"Ah, hey," he grunts, staggering out of the closet with a box in tow. "Thanks for coming over."
"That's it? I don't get a hug or a proper greeting?" He grins and grabs Yoongi, wrapping him in a tight hug. It's all too familiar: the press of his broad chest, the way he always squeezes a bit too tight. "Hi," he says, releasing Yoongi.
"Hey," Yoongi answers, a little embarrassed at Seokjin's enthusiasm. He certainly doesn't deserve it. "Look—"
"—before you dive into your monologue about being a shitty friend or whatever, why don't we save it and just do what your parents asked for?" He gestures at the box at their feet. "We have plenty of time for the other stuff. Let's just sort this stuff, and if we find anything that will make us rich, I get to keep it. Finder's fee." He claps Yoongi on the back and sits down in front of the box.
Of all the scenarios Yoongi imagined, it's not at all one that came to mind: Seokjin carefree and chatty, acknowledging that Yoongi owes him some kind of explanation, but gliding over it entirely. It's a bit of a relief, but storing it away just leaves it there to nag at Yoongi for the rest of the afternoon.
They dig through boxes and keep the talking superficial: where they're living (Chicago, DC), who they're dating (no one, no one), general small talk (they both still hate the cold, neither watched Game of Thrones ). Yoongi tries to accept it as a small mercy that they aren't digging into the bigger stuff yet. Sorting old Nintendo cartridges and TMNT action figures hardly seems like the right time to discuss the death of Seokjin's dad, the crumbling of their own friendship.
"Oh, shit ," Seokjin exclaims, pulling out an old zipper binder. He opens it and flips through the sleeves of burned CDs. "Treasure trove!"
Yoongi leans over to get a better look, and he grins, running his fingers along a page of CDs. "I dunno how these got down here." He turns a page. "Oh my God, do you remember this one?" He points to a neon pink CD covered in black scribbles with the words 'Namjoon's Techno Sex Remix' scrawled on it.
"Easily the worst make-out playlist ever made," Seokjin says, nodding.
"He really thought this was going to make shit happen at our parties," Yoongi says, laughing. He glances around the basement, clapping when he spots an old CD player. "We have to listen to it." He grabs it and sets it up, plugging it into the wall.
Seokjin plucks the CD from the sleeve and sets it in the player. "Are we sure we want to do this? You don't think it will summon some global disaster?" He raises an eyebrow and hovers his finger over the play button.
"High risk, high reward?" Yoongi says with a shrug.
"Here goes nothing." Seokjin hits play, and the CD whirrs for a moment before a song kicks in.
"Okay, so maybe Namjoon was ahead of his time," Yoongi concedes, flopping back on the floor. He nudges the volume knob with his toe and lets the music fill the basement. The song instantly takes him back to their old basement parties: hideous black light posters on the wall, a stack of mix CDs, someone's cheap smuggled booze.
"Queer emo kids growing up to love Britney unironically? Who would have guessed?" Seokjin chuckles and lays back on the carpet, folding his arms across his chest.
They stare at the ceiling, listening to the CD spin as it plays song after song, each one an odd punch of nostalgia, yanking them right back to 2004. Some songs are still familiar, fresh in Yoongi's memory, like he listened to them just this morning. Others are so far away from his memory, like the notes and lyrics have never passed through his ears. The song playing now doesn't sound familiar at all, but Seokjin seems to remember it.
He drums along with the beat, thumbs tapping on his chest. He hums under his breath, head bobbing with the song. His eyes are closed, and Yoongi allows himself to look, to take in the sharp features of his face. The boyish baby fat of his cheeks is long gone, and now he's angular and lean, the perfect slope of his nose giving way to plush lips that somehow seem more perfect than the last time Yoongi laid eyes on him.
He's still perfect, Yoongi thinks. Before he can look away, he's caught when Seokjin opens an eye and turns his head toward him. "Doing that introspective overthinking thing again, huh?"
"Fuck off," Yoongi scoffs, turning away quickly. "Yeah," he admits, keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling.
The CD skips, and Yoongi kicks the player lightly until it cuts off completely. The silence feels oppressive, like it could engulf them entirely.
Finally, Yoongi speaks. "I'm really sorry."
"For what?" Seokjin asks. He sounds genuinely curious, not like he's getting in some half-hearted jab at Yoongi.
"Your dad. I'm sorry I wasn't here." He exhales shakily. "I didn't know. I should've known, but I didn't. I should've been here."
Seokjin clears his throat. "Ah. Well. I may have asked the guys not to tell you."
There it is, Yoongi thinks, that anvil on his head that he had been anticipating all afternoon. How badly did he fuck up their friendship if Seokjin didn't want him to know about his dad's passing? He feels a small pang of anger and tries to tamp it down. "But your dad, Seokjin. I knew him too."
Sighing, Seokjin sits up, hugging his knees to his chest. "I don't expect you to understand. I was a mess. Totally blindsided. And the thought of you coming here? For that? For the first thing we talked about to be my dead dad?"
"I'm sorry, Seokjin," Yoongi sighs, sitting up. He pulls his knees to his chest and hugs them closer. He wishes he could make himself disappear entirely, get away from the sudden sadness and weight of it all.
The overhead lights flick on, and Yoongi's mother laughs, drawing their attention to the stairs. "You boys look like kids sitting there like that. I don't know how many times I found you sitting exactly like you are now."
Seokjin cracks a smile and turns to face her. "Yeah, real trip down memory lane looking at all this stuff."
"I'm sure," she says. "Find anything worth keeping?"
"A few things," Seokjin answers.
"Wanna take a break? Help me set up the grill?" she offers.
Standing quickly, Seokjin hurries to her side, offering an elbow. "I'd be delighted."
Yoongi follows them up the stairs, staying a few steps behind them. Seokjin chats effortlessly with his mother, drawing out her airy laughter. He's always been like this with Yoongi's parents—the epitome of a perfect son. Yoongi never felt like a bad one, but Seokjin has that way about him. If not perfect, then nearly.
It's warmer outside than expected, and the sunshine warms the deck. Yoongi's father is already adjusting the gas burners on the grill, muttering under his breath at the temperamental controls.
"Honey, let Seokjin do it," Yoongi's mother says gently. "Make these boys earn their supper."
Chuckling, he steps away from the grill and gestures with a sweeping motion. "All yours. I can't seem to get it to light."
"Come help me bring out the food and drinks," she says, motioning for him to follow her inside.
Yoongi leans against the patio table and watches as Seokjin crouches down to inspect the gas line of the grill. "Does it even work? I can't imagine they use it very often."
"Ah, yeah," he grunts, scrunching his nose and leaning closer, "yeah, the line just came loose. Easy fix." He stands up, wiping his hands on his jeans.
"Do you think we'll get a chance to talk? Like for real?" Yoongi asks, tracing the swirling pattern of the glass table. He can't even begin to count the number of nights they spent out on the deck—long summer nights filled with fireflies and gossip and card games. So many memories in every part of the house. They seem to hit him from every angle.
"Yeah, yeah, I think we should," Seokjin says with a nod.
Before he can say anything else, Yoongi's parents return to the deck with plates of food and a bottle of wine. Yoongi raises an eyebrow at the wine selection, and his mother shushes him. "We've had this bottle since the Dark Ages. Now seems like a good time to crack it open, don't you think?"
Yoongi laughs and nods. "Yeah, good idea, Mom." He reaches for the bottle. "Here, let me." He takes it from her and opens it with a satisfying pop of the cork. Seokjin and his father begin to arrange the steaks on the grill, swapping horrible puns and grilling advice.
Yoongi pulls out a chair for his mother and sits beside her. Pouring a glass of wine, he strains to hear Seokjin and his father talking. His mother immediately notices. "They've always gotten along, haven't they?" she asks, taking a sip of her wine.
"Hm? Ah, yeah," he mumbles. He takes a long drink of his wine; it's cold and tart against his taste buds. "Seokjin gets along with everybody, though. You know that."
"Yes, and you know your father doesn't get along with everyone," she answers. In the natural light of the afternoon, she looks a little more like her old self: playful eyes, a warm hue to her skin. Healthy. Happy.
Yoongi hums in response and continues sipping his wine. "Should I help them?"
"Nah," she answers, patting his arm, "Stay here with me. Let's pretend we're on vacation and we have two handsome men doting on us."
At that, Yoongi blushes and fumbles for the wine to top off his glass. As a kid, he'd always wondered if his mother knew how he felt about Seokjin. He wondered if she could see the moony way he looked at Seokjin, how he always laughed at his jokes or couldn't resist a chance to touch him. They never talked about it.
Clearing his throat, he tops off her glass too and nods toward the grill. "And where are we on vacation? Where should we go?"
"Santorini? Amalfi Coast? Somewhere warm and colorful. I'm not picky." She sighs dreamily and looks off in the distance.
"Why don't we go? This year, maybe even around Christmas? I'll look up some flights tonight if you want."
She turns to him, smiling and rests her hand on his arm. "Oh, sweetheart, I was only joking."
Yoongi shakes his head. "I'm not. I'll start researching tonight." The thought of taking her on a trip makes him swell with pride. It's what she deserves—to explore somewhere beautiful and peaceful, to dig her toes into some Mediterranean sand, to let her hair curl from the sharp salty air.
"Do we get to bring our handsome companions?" She asks, raising an eyebrow.
There's no way his mother can't see the blush washing over him. He forces a laugh and nods. "Yeah, okay. They can come too."
"You hear that, Seokjin? Honey? We're going on vacation. Yoongi's treat." She laughs and raises her glass.
Seokjin turns away from the grill, an amused look on his face. "Family vacation?"
"Not like you haven't gone with us before," Yoongi's father answers. The grill sizzles and pops, and he turns back to it quickly to flip the steaks.
"Are you almost done? I'm hungry," Yoongi asks, gesturing at the grill. The truth is, he's not hungry, doesn't care about the food, but he is tired of the conversation winding its way back to Seokjin. He's not sure he can hide his blush or his crumbling resolve. It's hard enough having the former love of his life charming his parents and looking so handsome and feeling so familiar. His parents' undying love for Seokjin only makes it harder to play it cool.
"Alright," Seokjin says, bringing over a platter from the grill. "Dinner is served."
It's an easy, comfortable dinner: wine shared between the four of them, conversation flowing easily between them. How many times had Yoongi dreamed of a scene like this—of sharing a meal with his parents and Seokjin by his side? Over the years, the fantasy had evolved, but at the heart of it was his one desire: to have Seokjin as his own, to be truly seen by his parents, to know that they had love and acceptance between them.
"Seokjin, how's life at the firm?" Yoongi's father asks, waving a fork at him.
"You know, I quit, actually, right after Dad." He wipes his mouth with his napkin and forces a smile. "Cashed out my PTO and decided to take it easy for a bit. Take care of Mom. Maybe help her sell the house. She's not sure she wants to stay in Chicago."
Nodding, Yoongi's father sets down his fork. "Such a shame about your father. We're sorry we couldn't be there to pay our respects."
"Oh, no, yeah it's fine," Seokjin says, waving him off. "It was so sudden—"
"—we were out of town and couldn't get back in time," Yoongi's mother interrupts.
Seokjin nods, his smile fading. "It's really okay. I'm glad I get to see you now. And Mom appreciates you staying in touch too."
"So where would she want to go?" Yoongi asks, looking up from his plate. It finally feels like he's getting some information about Seokjin's life. It's so much easier with his parents there to do the prying for him.
Shrugging, Seokjin answers, "She's flexible. I might look at some east coast jobs and take her with me. She's also thinking about going back to Seoul."
"East coast!" Yoongi's mother exclaims, turning to him with a wide smile. "You'd practically be neighbors."
Yoongi snorts. "The east coast is pretty large," he says.
"You're in DC these days?" Seokjin asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah. For now at least." He clears his throat. "If you end up out there for the job hunt, you can always stay with me. I mean, if you need a place to stay for a couple days."
Seokjin smiles—his sweet, beatific smile—and nods. "Yeah, that would be cool."
The conversation winds down, and the dusk settles. The last streaks of the orange and pink sunset fade into inky, purple. The warmth of the afternoon gives way to a slight chill. Shivering, Yoongi's mother turns to Seokjin and takes his hand. "Thank you so much for helping with dinner and helping around the house. We are so grateful to have you here."
Seokjin smiles and clasps her hand between his. "It's my pleasure, really, no problem."
Scooting his chair back, Yoongi's father stands and nods at the two of them. "You two mind cleaning up? I need to get your mom inside to rest and take her blood pressure."
"Yeah, of course," Yoongi answers. "We got it."
Yoongi's parents excuse themselves and shuffle inside, closing the sliding door softly behind them. He turns to Seokjin and exhales, puffing out his cheeks. "They really love to be nosy, don't they?"
"I don't mind it. It's nice to catch up," Seokjin says, reaching to stack the plates together.
"Do you need to head home?"
Seokjin looks up. "Are you asking me to stay?"
"Yeah."
Seokjin nods. “Then I’ll stay.”
***
The buzz of cicadas fills the awkward silence between them. Yoongi had found another bottle of wine—something too-sweet and too-warm—but they choke it down, sputtering and laughing. “My God, it’s nearly vinegar,” Seokjin gasps, wiping his chin.
Yoongi laughs and swallows the dregs of his glass, wincing and wiping his mouth. “I’m amazed we didn’t swipe this years ago, honestly.” He inspects the bottle, running his thumb over the cartoonish artwork of a valley of grapes.
“Feels weird to be out here like this,” Seokjin muses, swirling his glass and glancing around. Fireflies have begun to light up, occasional stars illuminating Seokjin’s face for a brief moment before going dark.
“Weird how?” Yoongi asks. He thinks he knows the answer.
“You know, man. A lot of shit went down here,” Seokjin says, eyes fixed on the inky darkness of the backyard. “I swear, I feel like I’m sixteen again sitting here.” He turns back to Yoongi with a sad smile. “Almost wish we were sixteen again.”
Yoongi forces a smile. “Can we talk for real, Seokjin?”
Seokjin nods. “Okay, you can talk first.” His voice is flat—all hints of humor faded. He looks tired, the bags under his eyes highlighted by the flickering shadows of the citronella candle on the table.
“I’m really, really sorry about your dad,” Yoongi says quietly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you. I’m sorry I’m so shitty you had to keep me away. You didn’t deserve that. I should have been here for you.”
Seokjin shrugs and smiles meekly. “It was all so hard. I’m not sure I could have faced you.”
“Are you okay? I mean, as okay as you can be considering?” Yoongi traces the stem of his wine glass, concentrating too hard on the feeling of the glass under his fingers. He can’t bring himself to look at Seokjin.
Clearing his throat, Seokjin sits up, leaning across the table toward Yoongi. “It felt, like, too big,” he says quietly. “The end of an era or something. My dad died and I, I just—” His voice breaks, and he swallows. “His death made every other heartache open up again.” He clears his throat. “I guess.” He reaches for the wine and pours the rest in his glass. “That probably doesn’t make sense,” he says before tilting the glass back and drinking quickly.
It makes perfect sense to Yoongi.
“Thank you for helping my parents,” Yoongi says, lifting his eyes to meet Seokjin’s. “Thank you for being here. I’m seeing a pattern from my absences.”
“Don’t do that,” Seokjin says, shaking his head. “You don’t have to be everywhere, Yoongi. You can’t be everywhere. Your parents are my family, too. I’m not going to abandon them.”
Abandon. The word lands like a slap. It’s too difficult to make out Seokjin’s face in the darkness, and Yoongi can’t tell how to feel about the statement.
“Did I abandon them?” Yoongi asks, feeling anger rising in his throat.
“I didn’t mean that,” Seokjin says quickly. “I just mean, you have your life. You deserve to have your life. You can’t be everything to everyone all the time. But that’s a sacrifice, right? You get some independence, and that means you have to let some stuff go, and you know…” He trails off.
Yoongi can feel a throbbing behind his eyes, some wicked headache brewing. It feels like they’re teetering on the edge of an argument. They’re still dancing around what happened fifteen years ago. For a moment, Yoongi wonders if Seokjin even remembers, if he has spent the last decade and a half playing everything over and over again, looking for where things went wrong.
“I know,” Yoongi lies. “Gotta let some stuff go.”