Chapter Text
“I can’t get closer to you;
there’s no name you can call me.”
- BTS,
‘The Truth Untold’
i.
He dreamt of his sister last night.
This in itself was not unusual; she was a constant companion in Jeongguk’s dreams, ever since they were children. A sixth sense, his mother had always said. They had known each other for longer than they’d even known the world, shared a womb, shared every waking hour, of course their dreams would be no different.
Even after she died, Jeongguk saw her constantly; skinny arms and thin hair and big brown eyes staring at him from every corner he turned. She was inescapable.
Jeongguk had never wanted to escape her before, but then—as he was coming to learn—things could change so quickly. Even things you had always thought would be immortal.
Last night was different. Last night she had been whole once more. She had been fly-away hair and too-loud laughter and sweet lemonade in the back garden. She’d smiled at Jeongguk and leant close, and said in her strong, melodic voice, “Guk, why are you so serious, huh? There’s nothing to be so serious about.”
Give me a smile, she used to say, whenever Jeongguk was sad. For practice, give me a smile, just so I know you haven’t forgotten how.
He had to admit, he was somewhat out of practice since she’d gone.
“Ah, Jeon, you’re already here, perfect.”
Like a genie summoned from its lamp, Dae appeared at his shoulder. As usual, her fitted blazer fell perfectly on her, not a stray hair in sight, her shoes polished to a shine that glinted even in the dull office light. Trusty pen in hand, she grinned down at Jeongguk so that all her blinding teeth were on show. Who was she trying to impress? Surely not him.
“Morning, Dae.”
“Jeon,” she said, a habit Jeongguk hated. Every time she spoke, she insisted on saying his name. Why? Did she think he’d forgotten it? Would she forget it, if she didn’t say it out loud? Perhaps she thought Jeongguk would simply cease to be, if she didn’t speak him into existence with every other word. “I have a job for you.”
She clicked her pen. Click-click.
Jeongguk spun in his desk chair to face her fully. The office was still quiet. Since he had arrived only two other people had appeared, taking their seats on the opposite side of the open-plan room. They had nodded to each other, as they did every day, and returned to their busy work, coffees in hand. Coffee. Heaven forbid anyone discover that hidden in Jeongguk’s cardboard cup wasn’t the black-coffee-no-sugar that people seemed to assume, but a frothy hot chocolate (with a shot of hazelnut syrup, if it was a Friday). His one vice.
“Once you’re settled in, of course, Jeon,” Dae continued. “Come see me in my office.” She smiled again. Click-click.
“But I am settled. I’ve been here for half an hour already.”
“Half an hour?” Dae’s brows raised, her fingers drumming an off-beat against the desk. “Jeon, it’s not even eight o’clock yet, do you sleep here?” she chuckled.
“Just, uh, like to get ahead of the traffic.”
The truth was Jeongguk never liked to linger at home. She was there in his dreams. Out here in the world, at least he could pretend she was one of the crowd.
“If only we could all be like you, hey, Jeon?” Dae joked, folding her arms.
It was a joke she liked to make. Often. Are you after my job, Jeon? We’re not paid by the page, Jeon, you know! Good God, Jeon, don’t you have a home to go to?
“I enjoy the work,” Jeongguk replied.
Click-click.
“Yes, well. Give me twenty, I have to do the rounds.” She pushed away from the desk and headed back towards the corridor, where the private offices were tucked away. As she left, Hobi arrived.
“Jung,” Dae cried, beaming. “So many early birds this morning.” She winked at Jeongguk and he, uncomprehending and perhaps a little unwilling, merely blinked in return. Hobi grimaced, sailing past her. Dropping his gaze, Jeongguk could see Dae’s thumb click, click, clicking away as she, in turn, vanished through the double doors.
“Kill me,” Hobi groaned, dropping against the desk next to Jeongguk’s.
Jeongguk hummed. Reliable Hobi, as dramatic as usual. “No, I think I won’t,” he said. “Too many cameras in here.”
Hobi pouted, the sight forcing out of me a faint upturn of Jeongguk’s lips; the most that could be expected from him these days.
Jeongguk had met Hobi (Jung-Hoseok-call-me-Hobi) on his first day in the job. Fresh out of university and eager to please, Hobi had taken Jeongguk under his wing. He was just the kind of person Jeongguk wanted to be: competent, charming, easy-going. He now knew, of course, that half of that was just for show. Hobi had only been at the company for six months when Jeongguk arrived, still desperate to find a friend there to share in his utter bemusement at the world in which he’d found himself in. The real Hobi was something of a performer, but still everything Jeongguk had first thought, and more. Empathetic, observant, determined. A true friend. More than Jeongguk deserved.
“... was packed, I don’t know how people survive like that,” Hobi was saying. Jeongguk zoned back into the conversation just as the other man had pulled off his jacket and slung it over the back of his chair. “What are they all doing up so early?” he asked.
Jeongguk wrinkled his nose. What had he been talking about? The gym, right? Swimming. His hair was still a little damp at the ends.
“Why did you go? I thought you did lengths after work?” Jeongguk asked. “New Year’s resolution?”
“Oh, no. It's just I won’t be able to go tonight, will I? Didn’t want to get out of the routine.”
Routine. That was perhaps the one thing that kept Hobi on the outskirts. Sticking to a routine had its benefits, of course, but when Hobi clung to his plans so doggedly, it was seen by the higher ups at work as something more like … inflexibility. We need managers who can adapt to new environments, new challenges. We just don’t feel that you quite meet that specification at the moment, Mister Jung. Perhaps next time.
Still, it meant he stayed out on the main floor with Jeongguk, so he never pushed him too hard.
“Why can’t you go tonight?” Jeongguk replied, wondering what could have possibly motivated him into such a drastic change.
“Joon’s lecture.”
Joon’s lecture. Namjoon’s lecture. That was tonight. Shit.
“You forgot, didn’t you?” Hobi drawled, clicking his tongue at Jeongguk as he shook his head. “I knew you were going to forget. Jin sent a message to everyone this morning.”
“I didn’t forget,” Jeongguk lied. “I just wasn’t thinking. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Right, sure you are,” Hobi fired back, laughing. “Well, I’m picking you up, so you better be ready. Really. Six p.m.”
“Right.” Something flittered in the back of Jeongguk’s mind. He’d been deliberately pushing thoughts of the lecture aside, hadn’t he? Why? “You’re bringing someone, aren’t you?” he asked, slowly. “Didn’t you say? Uh, friend from - Wuh-what was it?”
“New neighbour, Park Jimin. He’s moved in across the hall,” Hobi nodded, smiling as he rolled himself closer to his desk. His dimples were on show—a full smile. Either Jeongguk had been entirely forgiven already for his faux pas, or this Park Jimin was delightful enough to clear his name for him.
“You’ll like him,” Hobi said as his screen flickered to life, lighting up his face.
Jeongguk took a heavy breath. Liking people wasn’t really a thing he did any more. “If you say so,” he offered into the silence.
“Right. I do say so,” Hobi replied. He wasn’t looking at Jeongguk, wasn’t talking to him, really. It had already been decided in his mind—Jeongguk had no choice in the matter.
ii.
“What is ‘truth’?” Namjoon asked the crowd.
He looked nervous, gripping the sides of the podium with firm fists. The lecture had started five minutes late, something that Jeongguk knew would have caused Namjoon no end of worry. The four of them managed to get seats decently near the front, having arrived early, but the hall had filled up since then. Jeongguk was honestly surprised (and then perhaps a little ashamed about feeling so) that so many people attended. When Namjoon had first explained to them about his guest speaker slot in one of the evening lectures at the university, Jeongguk’s first thought had been, who goes to those? Public lectures?
Namjoon was forever trying to teach them about Korean literature. It was his great passion, something Jeongguk rather envied. How wonderful, to have a passion that was just your own, that couldn’t be spoiled by other people, or taken from you without warning.
On the screen behind Namjoon, in clear black letters, were the words, ‘Folklore and its Impact on Modern Korean Literature’. Jeongguk willed him to do well. If he was poorly received tonight, he would think of nothing else for weeks.
“In storytelling, what does ‘truth’ mean?” Namjoon continued. Immediately to Jeongguk’s right, Hobi shifted in his seat. When he turned his head to him, more out of instinct than anything, his eyes instead met Jimin’s, just on Hobi’s other side. Jimin smiled, wide and perfect. Jeongguk was drawn in even as he tilted his head, regarding him for a moment, before turning away.
Jeongguk hadn’t spoken to him, really; hadn’t said more than ‘hello’ when Hobi had picked him up, letting Hobi and Jin take a hold of the conversation once they’d arrived at the hall. Jeongguk remembered his voice, when he’d greeted me, though. A sweet, musical sound; a tenor in a sea of baritone.
There was the sharp jab of a pointed elbow between the ribs on Jeongguk’s left flank and he jolted, facing the front once more, all too aware of Jin’s narrowed eyes on him.
Tuning back into Namjoon’s speech, Jeongguk caught him asking, “Is it objective?” His voice was a little steadier now that the crowd had made themselves comfortable. “Is it about historical accuracy? Is it more about the moral of the story we’re telling? Think of modern day adaptations.” He must have seen them then, for he huffed out a small laugh. Perhaps he hadn’t believed Jin when he’d promised that they’d all attend. Jeongguk watched as Namjoon cleared his throat, eyes flitting along the back rows. “I’m going to give you an example,” he said. “There is one fairy tale that I always loved as a child. ‘The Princess of the Flower Kingdom’, has anyone heard of it?”
Jeongguk’s stomach clenched. Why had he not thought of this? The lecture was about folklore. Folklore and fairy tales.
Jiyeong had loved them so much; mystical tales full of magic and love and good overcoming evil. Of course, it sounded infantile to put it that way. Jiyeong wasn’t a child, she was infinitely smart, so much smarter than Jeongguk. She could have done anything she wanted to. Still, she’d loved the hope in those stories; the adventure, the honour, the sheer boundlessness of them. They both had.
Since she’d gone, the limitations of the real world had become all too clear to Jeongguk.
“Good,” Namjoon said. “I can see the twinkle of recognition in some eyes. In ‘The Princess of the Flower Kingdom’ we have the story of two warring kingdoms. The Flower Kingdom, and the one whose name everybody forgets, because it’s not in the title -” A smattering of polite laughter rippled up the aisles. Jeongguk felt stupidly proud, despite his discomfort. Namjoon inclined his head. “The prince of the untitled kingdom makes the terrible mistake of stumbling across a woman, bathing in a river near the border of his territory. Immediately, he sees her and he falls for her charms.” Namjoon's eyes glimmered with a smirk. “Her feminine wiles.
“It just so happens that this beautiful woman is the princess of the Flower Kingdom. She seduces the prince and convinces him to put down his weapons, so that her father the king may win the war. Naturally, this does not go down well with king number two, father of the prince. He beseeches the prince with his fatherly wisdom to return to the nameless kingdom and once again pledge his loyalty. On hearing his father’s pleas, the prince acts to free himself from the princess’ spell. How does he do this? Well, by slaying her where she stands, of course. True love,” Namjoon sighed. “And as a reward? For his heroic actions and demonstration of his loyalty, he is blessed with eternal youth.”
Namjoon clapped his hands. At Jeongguk’s side, Jin startled. “So,” Namjoon declared. “What truths can we glean from this tale? Where does this story come from?”
There was a pause and Jeongguk wondered for a moment if Namjoon was actually waiting for an answer. Thankfully, it appeared that he was simply leaning into the dramatics of the stage as he finally continued, “No takers? Well, that’s fair, as the answer is, we don’t know. Scholars are divided on this one, have been for years. That brings me back to my original point, though. We don’t even know if this story is based on any kind of reality at all, if the journey is quote-unquote real. But -” Namjoon raised one finger where his hands were steepled together. “Again, is it any less true? No, we can’t claim in big letters on a cinema screen that it was based on real life events, and yet - Why has this story lasted for a thousand years, where the story of when old King Whatshisface back in the year eight-hundred and something moved the entire capital of his territory two hundred kilometres to the west, so that his fish in the morning would be fresher, has been entirely forgotten?
“It’s not a trick question, don’t look so scared,” Namjoon chuckled. Hobi let out an answering snort. “The story of the king who liked his morning fish may have happened, but retelling that does not ring true to us. It is not universal, it is not something that we, a thousand years later, can understand. Being taken in by a liar with a pretty face, however? Not seeing eye to eye with our parents? Struggling to carve out your own individuality under the weight of what others want from you? These are all truths. These are all things that we can relate to.”
Pausing for a moment, Namjoon once more took in the room, the silence of it, much more thoughtful now. Jeongguk thought over the words. He knew all the fairy tales, all the folk stories, practically by heart. His mother had read them aloud almost every night; beware of the dokkaebi, or the gwisin, or the gumiho. As children, Jeongguk and Jiyeong had dutifully adored them. All Jeongguk could see now were tall tales designed to scare the impressionable, however. There was no truth in those stories. What did it matter what the journey was? You were still left with nothing to show for it at the end.
Of course, these were not thoughts he would be sharing with Namjoon any time soon.
“That is what I mean,” Namjoon said, his voice cutting through Jeongguk's ruminations, “when I ask ‘what is truth’? That is how literature starts, not from retelling historical events, but from recounting the journeys we take.”
The remainder of the lecture was interesting, moving on to universal themes in folklore from across the globe, and further matters of alterations made to stories throughout the centuries. Jeongguk found himself somewhat blocking it out, however. The whole thing had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d never disagreed with Namjoon on anything before; not on anything more serious than where in the city sold the best bulgogi, at least. This wasn’t fundamental, Jeongguk knew—how often did the accuracy or importance of fairy talks come up in everyday conversation?—but something about it troubled him. It felt too sensitive, like a scab that was too fresh to pick at.
And yet, pick at it he did.
They waited out in the foyer for Namjoon to meet them. Twenty minutes later the man ambled out from a side door, a bashful smile plastered across his face.
“You came!” he called. “I wasn’t sure that you’d make it.”
“Of course we came, we said we would,” Seokjin replied with a grin, clapping Namjoon’s back as they embraced.
“Guk forgot,” Hobi piped up, sparing me an impish smile.
“Hobi!” I cried. I turned to Namjoon, entreating, “I didn’t forget -”
“Don’t worry about it,” he waved off, pulling me into a hug. “You’re here aren’t you?” He’d always secretly loved Namjoon’s hugs. It was the way he seemed to invest every part of him in that moment, that touch, that completely engulfed all thought and feeling. When he stepped away it was like being left out in the cold. “What did you think?” Namjoon asked them, wide-eyed. “Was it awful? I thought I was going to throw up the entire time.”
Over a smattering of good-natured chuckles, Seokjin assured, “It was brilliant, Joon. You did really well.”
“Oh, no, you’re just saying that, I know,” Namjoon demurred. He ducked his head, running his palm across the back of his neck. “You’re too nice to me. You have to tell me, if I messed it up.”
“I would tell you,” Seokjin replied. “And you didn’t. You should be more confident.”
“I thought you were fantastic,” Jimin spoke up, leaning his head forward to smile at Namjoon.
Namjoon blinked. “Thank you, that’s - You’re kind.”
“No, he’s Jimin,” Seokjin said. He was biting down on a grin, clearly delighted to stumble across such an opportunity so early in the evening.
“Jin -” Jeongguk groaned (his expected reaction—he knew the lines for this one).
Taking the introduction in his stride, Jimin stretched out his hand to Namjoon. “Park Jimin,” he said, as Namjoon shook it. “Hoseok invited me.”
“He’s just moved to the city and I’ve promised him we’re going to become the best of friends, so don’t let me down,” Hobi said, resting his hand on Jimin’s shoulder. “And, please, call me Hobi.”
Seokjin hummed, looking down at his phone. “Hoseok was his father. Come on, I have a table booked.”
“Seventeen Eonju Street, right?”
“Naturally.”
The walk to Seventeen Eonju Street—their default haunt, when not attempting to ‘broaden their horizons’, as Seokjin put it—was at least twenty minutes. They’d have been there in no time at all if they’d taken the subway, but Namjoon was still feeling a little queasy, and insisted on the fresh-air.
Jeongguk only cursed him a little as Jimin fell into step by his side at the back of the group.
“Hoseok, er, Hobi said you two work together?” he said, politely, as they waited for the lights to change at a crossroads.
Jeongguk grimaced. Small talk had never been his forte and after everything he had somehow—rather impressively—got even worse.
“Yes,” he replied, clearing his throat and wincing at the crack in his voice. “Five years now.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
It was a perfectly ordinary question, of course, but as the light turned green all Jeongguk could think was that he hated it with every fibre of his being. The crossroad chimed, urging him to move. Beep-beep. “I - Well, I mean, yes, but - It’s a job, isn’t it? Anything gets a little dull day in, day out.”
“I suppose,” Jimin sighed. “I’m part of a dance company here,” he went on without prompting. “New, obviously. It’s why I moved to the city. The opportunities here are just so much better. I’ve got my first show next season, though. You should come and see it. I’m not the lead or anything, but I do have some parts, you know, in the limelight.” He had his hands in his pockets, looking up at Jeongguk through long lashes, with the streetlights dousing him in a faintly orange glow. The whole effect was rather ethereal.
“Oh, uh - I think I’m actually pretty busy at the muh-moment. With, uh, stuff at home,” Jeongguk replied, stiltedly. Why did it sound like a question?
“Right, of course.” Jimin’s smile flickered and Jeongguk felt, all of a sudden, as if he’d made some kind of monumental error. “Some other time.”
Thankfully, once they were seated at the restaurant,heI was able to hide much more successfully in the company of the others. Always fairly quiet, Jeongguk knew he had retreated into himself in the past few years. The others knew it, too; they let him get away with it. Jeongguk wondered, sometimes, if they’d forgotten how he used to be entirely. Still, as he listened to their chatter, surrounded by their warmth, Jeongguk knew it was better than the alternative; home alone in his small flat, just the sound of the city and his own thoughts for company.
“Is it really your favourite?” Jimin said later, after they had all eaten their fill and were leant back against their chairs, sipping at their drinks. “‘The Princess of the Flower Kingdom’?”
Seokjin grunted in agreement, swallowing his wine. “Yeah, Namjoon, I mean really?”
“What?” Namjoon chuckled.
“It’s awful.”
“It’s not awful!” he protested. “It’s a seminal classic!”
Neither Seokjin or Jimin seemed persuaded. “My dad used to always use that story, whenever I disagreed with him,” Seokjin carried on. He lowered his voice, pushing his shoulders up to his ears. “‘Listen to me, Jin, you’ll live forever.’”
Hobi laughed, brightly, leaning his head closer to Seokjin’s shoulder. Jeongguk caught his eye across the table and Hobi smirked at him, eyebrows raised.
“You got the story wrong, anyway,” Jimin added. “With the princess, I mean.”
“Excuse me,” Namjoon spluttered. Splotches of red had burst across his cheeks and he grinned wide, dimples deepening. “No I did not.”
“You did!” Jimin crowed. He tipped his bottle of beer in the other man’s direction. “The prince doesn’t murder her at the end.”
“Of course he does,” Seokjin said. He was frowning a little as he spoke, concentrating on his words in the way he always did when he’d had a drink. “Then it breaks the spell she’s put on him.”
Hobi leant forward, almost draping himself over the table. “No, no, I’m with Jimin,” he said. “It’s a love story. The princess dies because she’s been away from her flowers too long. The prince ends up living forever, getting older and older, because he’s too ashamed to die and face her.”
Everyone at the table stared at Hobi for a moment, who sent them a small bow.
Too ashamed to die? Jesus.
“Oh, yes, well, that’s the version of the tale further South, I think,” Namjoon replied, straightening his chopsticks next to his cleared bowl. “A more depressing version, I’d say.”
Jeongguk had to agree. More depressing and just like a Goddamn fairytale.
“No, but, I like it,” Jimin replied, unbothered. He gave Namjoon a playful smile and Jeongguk watched as the other man’s blush spread further, reaching towards his ears. “It’s like, how love is never permanent, you know? It’s fleeting, but it still lasts forever, just in a different way.”
Jeongguk scoffed, regretting it the minute everybody turned to him. “If I were the puh-prince I wouldn’t bother,” he continued, deciding it was better to power through. “Feeling guilty for all eternity? He’d be better not meeting the princess in the first place.”
A small frown appeared on Jimin’s face before Hobi laughed, “Guk, no! Where’s your sense of romance! Really, it means that love is even more valuable when you do find it.”
“Joon’s version is the one my mother used to tell us,” Jeongguk muttered with a shrug. “Jiyeong -” He caught himself, a pang of something stabbing at his chest.
“‘Jiyeong’ what?” Seokjin asked, gently.
Shit.
Jeongguk coughed. “Uh, she always used to say it was more like a curse than a gift. Eternal life.” He licked his lips. “She thought the king was the villain.”
“Smart woman,” Jimin added, after a moment. Jeongguk let out a breath. For a second, he thought Jimin might ask him who Jiyeong was. “The king’s definitely the villain. Poor princess, murdered by her own love. No,” Jimin let out a sigh. In the low light of the restaurant, his skin seemed to emanate a soft glow of its own, earrings shimmering and eyes twinkling. He smiled at Jeongguk and leant closer. “I much prefer my version, don’t you think?”
For the longest time, Jeongguk didn’t know what to say.
iii.
Several weeks went by where Jeongguk didn’t think about Jimin at all. HeI let the image of him fall into a box, alongside all that fairytale nonsense, and packed it away in the back of his mind. He was all the happier for it. February had announced itself with great fanfare, a storm of snow covering the city in a cosy white blanket. The whole world seemed to be reduced down to middle-aged men grumbling about driving through the thick flurries, children running gleefully through the parks, their legs all but vanished in the deep banks, and tired office workers, dragging themselves through the early morning cold, clutching their hot drinks close to their chests.
“Are you staying much longer?”
“Huh?”
Jeongguk tore his gaze away from the large window where his eyes had been following the floating path of flakes against the dark sky.
Hobi stood by his desk, coat on, bag slung over his shoulder, and large woollen mittens in hand. “Are you staying late?” he asked. “Me and Jimin are going to try to watch that film, you know, the scary one with the girl and the hair.”
“You don’t like scary films.”
“No,” Hobi pouted. “But safety in numbers. Jin kept saying how good it was. You can swing by, it’d be nice to see you some more.”
“Oh, uh, Maybe. I’ve just got to finish this report.”
Jeongguk didn’t have to finish the report; the deadline wasn’t until next Wednesday. There was a part of him, though, that knew he wouldn’t be able to handle an evening with Hobi and Jimin. Hobi had been dropping hints about the other for a while, hints that Jeongguk was steadfastly ignoring. Several hours confined in a small space with him, though, and Jeongguk wouldn’t be able to avoid addressing it. Even so, Friday night watching films with Hobi had been a staple in the past and Jeongguk was keenly aware that Hobi had been trying to restart it. He scratched the desk, digging at an imaginary bit of dirt.
Hobi let out a strange, strangled sort of noise. “Alright, don’t make me say it.”
“Say what?” Jeongguk asked, peering up at him.
He pouted again and then said, voice pitched high, “Please come, I’m going to be terrified and I need you to hide behind so I don’t embarrass myself. Besides, it’s officially the weekend now, and, you know, Jimin’s been asking about you. I’m sure he’d like to see you.”
Jeongguk turned back to his screen. “I have to finish this. If I’m done in time I’ll come over.”
“My hero,” Hobi grinned. “The sooner I leave you, the sooner you finish, right? See you later,” he called over his shoulder, already heading to the door.
“Maybe!” Jeongguk shouted back, but Hobi waved him off.
With the office now empty, Jeongguk leant back in his chair and ran his hands over his face. The thing was, he liked Jimin. He’d only met him once and, although he had been actively ignoring any mention of him, Jeongguk couldn’t erase the memory of the strange flutters he felt in his chest the night they met. He was beautiful, and charming, and the small part of him Jeogguk had seen gave every indication of being just the kind of person that he’d imagined himself ending up with.
Except those flutters—flutters that in a past life had sent a thrill of excitement up his spine—were now followed only by the reality of one absolute certainty: that the more people you loved, the deeper you loved them, the more it would hurt when you inevitably lost them.
So, no, Jeongguk would not be spending the evening with Hobi and Jimin. He would not be opening up his heart to him, not even a little. He had to protect himself from any further grief. Any more and he’d be liable to break.
The minutes ticked on and, though the sound of traffic on the ground below was as present as ever, Jeongguk knew it was late. Too late, really, to be in the office, even with his facade of dedicated employee. His stomach rumbled and he pushed away from his desk, heading towards the small kitchenette in the corner.
“Up in this magnificent blue sky,” he sang under his breath and reached into the cupboard for a packet of ramyeon. “Come into the magic garden.”
With the packet of flavouring one hand, chopsticks in the other, Jeongguk was engulfed in darkness as every single light in the office went out all at once.
He startled.
“Uh, hello?” he called out, wondering if perhaps the cleaning staff had mistakenly thought nobody was left on the floor. When no answer was forthcoming Jeongguk set everything back down on the counter and strode over to the wall. The moonlight outside was bright enough, reflecting off the snow through the window, that he could still make out the outline of the light switch. He flicked it back on. Nothing.
Just as he was considering whether this was a sign that he should really go home—even the building itself had stopped working—a loud gust of wind had him frozen in place. Normally, Jeongguk would consider himself a fairly unflappable person (there was a reason Hobi had wanted me to hide behind during his film, after all) and a gust of wind was really nothing to be alarmed about.
Except.
It had been so very loud. Like it was inside the building. Like it had been right behind him. Panic inducing, almost; a kind of desperate howling that ricocheted through your body and into your heart. Demanding and unrelenting and unavoidable. Even after it had ended, in the quiet once more, Jeongguk could still feel it.
He forced out a laugh. What was he thinking? Monstrous gusts of wind. He’d been awake too long, and the weather outside was making him claustrophobic, that was all. Time to call it a night.
Turning on the spot, Jeongguk had every intention of dumping the ramyeon in the bin and heading out.
The wind roared again; quieter this time, more like a breeze. It was definitely inside now, though, there was no mistaking it. He stood, stupefied, in the middle of the kitchenette, staring at the entrance to the corridor where the noise came from.
“Come on, Jeongguk,” he muttered to himself. “Come on.”
He edged closer. It was probably just an open window, right? The floor was pretty high up—the eighth storey—the weather would be loud outside, what with the wind tunnels forming through the streets. Jeongguk repeated this to himself as he approached the corridor, simultaneously relieved that nobody else was there to see his overreaction, and desperate for somebody to investigate with him.
Usually, around the corner, further down the corridor, all that could be seen were doors. Doors to a supply closest, the toilets, and one of the floor’s smallest meeting rooms. There had never been anything remarkable to note about this corridor whatsoever. Jeongguk must have walked this path a dozen times a day without even thinking about it.
Now, though, as he stepped out beyond the wall, he saw something very odd indeed.
One of those doors—the one that led to a tiny closet full of pens, paperclips and spare staplers—was glowing.
Not the door itself, but between the cracks, light spilled onto the floor, cutting through the air. It was as if, behind the door, a powerful light was pushing its way out, bursting at the seams, desperate to escape, to be free.
Stupidly, Jeongguk felt like he might cry. Without thinking about it, he ran his thumb across the chain around his neck, feeling the ridges against his skin until the locket dropped into his hand. The weight of it calmed him. There was nothing to fear. Nothing could hurt him anymore.
The rays of light that seeped from the gaps around the door had an odd quality to them. It took Jeongguk a moment to pin it down—it was like summer. Those warm rays of summer sun that had such a particular feel, so out of place in the frozen shadows of the office. Dust floated in the air, glinting like jewels in the non-existent sun.
He took a shaking breath and pressed his ear to the door.
If he closed his eyes, he could be in a forest, or a mountainside, or resting by a lake. The wind from before was there, less terrifying now; more like a gentle breeze, cooling against overheated skin. He could hear birds singing, the delicate trickle of running water, the chirp of cicadas in the trees. Was he imagining it? But, then, the fresh fragrant smell of summer flowers filled his nostrils, too. Sweet honey and tall grass and damp soil.
Jeongguk pushed away, eyeing the wooden door, which stood there so still, mocking him, almost. The dust swirled and danced in the light around him.
This wasn’t real. This wasn’t normal. This was something altogether … He bit hia lip. He didn’t want to think it, but what else could it be? It was magical.
With a heavy breath, Jeongguk flexed his fingers just once and heaved the door open.
A store cupboard. A perfectly normal, dark and dusty cupboard.
He slumped, bewildered. But, then, what had he been expecting? A forest trapped inside one small room? A lagoon in the floor, revealing some underwater kingdom? A gateway to a mystical land, filled with birds and mountains and flowers?
What a fool he was. A sleep deprived, driven to distraction fool.
A feeling of utter disappointment consumed him and he turned his back to the cupboard, ready to swing the door shut with a satisfying slam, before something caught his eye. In the corner, on the floor, tucked away behind several boxes of paper: a golden glint.
Jeongguk narrowed his eyes, disappointment already forgotten. Crouching down, he reached forward, letting his fingers travel over the dusty floor until they reached it. A tapestry, he thought, feeling a little hysterical. Something like his grandmother used to make, sat in the corner of the living room for hours on end while the rest of them watched television, needle and thread working away. Yes, a tapestry, with its worn texture; somehow rough and smooth at the same time.
Grunting, Jeongguk tugged it free and stumbled backwards into the corridor and the light. He hadn’t even noticed the buzzing tubes overhead, one once more and flickering weakly. The fabric in his hands was old, whatever it was. The piece depicted, from what he could tell, a forest scene, with flowers and trees and wild animals filling the small piece, barely larger than a sheet of paper.
What on earth was it doing here?
Jeongguk peered closer, spotting something in the centre. Camouflaged in the treeline, a wooden door sat in the woodland, out of place and yet perfectly serene. Above the scene, in rough gold thread, the words, ‘Death shall not greet you, for you are not his friend. Age shall not know you, for you cannot be seen. Love shall not defeat you, for you are hard of heart.’
“Death shall not greet you,” he muttered to himself. He knew those words, better than he wanted to. They were from that story, the one Namjoon had mentioned in his lecture, the one Jiyeong had loved so well. Age shall not know you, for you cannot be seen. It was the spell the king’s mage had cast on the prince; the spell for eternal youth.
A coincidence, surely, that it should appear to Jeongguk now, just when he had been forced to bring it to mind once more?
He turned on the spot, struck with the urge to make sure he was alone. Perhaps he was going mad? He was hearing noises that weren’t there, seeing lights where there were none and now, somehow, ugly old rags were presenting themselves to him for no earthly reason.
But, then, they were such pretty words. Jeongguk let his eyes run over them once more.
Death shall not greet you.
Fairytales, they were full of that kind of thing, weren’t they? Life and death and eternity. Death was nothing, in those stories. It could be avoided, undone, defeated in the blink of an eye. Had it been real, what he’d heard on the other side of the door? Was this real? Could this spell be real?
God, what the hell even time was it? How long had he been in here, staring at this tapestry?
Grabbing his phone to check, Jeongguk was greeted with a barrage of notifications, all of which he was sure had not been there before he’d left his desk earlier.
+82 5685 983461 ~Park Jimin
Hobi said you’re coming over? I’m excited to see you again 😊 I hope that’s not too forward?
+82 5685 983461 ~Park Jimin
It’s Jimin by the way Namjoon gave me your number a while ago
Hobi ☀️
films about to start! get you and your muscles over here!
Hobi ☀️
jeongguk!
Hobi ☀️
you’re not coming are you?
Hobi ☀️
you know we’re all worried about you. you can talk to us
Hobi ☀️
don’t work too late 👐 xx
Fabulous. But, then, it was done, wasn’t it? He’d deal with the fallout tomorrow. The lights flickered above his head. Tonight, he had other things to think about.
Just after Jeongguk shoved his phone back in his pocket, pushing away any thoughts of what Hobi meant by we’re all worried about you, it vibrated against his leg. For a wild second Jeongguk thought maybe it was his mother; she used to call him every evening it felt like, but, of course, she hadn’t done so in a while now. Not after their argument. Funny, though, that for that second, Jeongguk was almost pleased to speak to her, pleased to tell her that he might have found an answer. Instead, Seokjin’s face beamed at him from the screen. He gnawed at his cheek, standing in the corridor still, the small tapestry clasped in his hand.
The vibrating stopped.
Then started once more. Jeongguk answered it straight away this time.
“Jin,” he snapped. “I’m working, wuh-what could be so important?”
On the end of the line Seokjin remained silent for a moment. Then, dry as the desert, he started, “And good evening to you, too, Guk. What a polite young man you’ve grown up to be.”
“Jin, I’m busy,” Jeongguk huffed, shifting his weight on his feet.
“Yes, alright, we’re all very busy and important, I know,” the other man’s voice came through the speaker, tired and worn. “Listen, what’s your goal here?”
Jeongguk blinked. “Excuse me?”
“With Jimin. What’s your goal? Because from where I’m standing it appears to be making yourself out to be one of the biggest arseholes in the entire metropolitan area.”
“Jesus,” Jeongguk scoffed. “I just passed on a film night, that’s all.”
That wasn’t all, but Seojkin didn’t need to know any of that.
“And the dinner at mine last week, and the game night at Hobi’s the week before, and I know Joon’s invited the pair of you out for coffee more than once. We’re used to you flaking out -” Jeongguk bristled at that. ‘Flaking out’? Is that what they all thought he was doing? “- but Jimin’s not. You know he’s taking it personally.”
Jeongguk was lost for words. He’d been sure, so sure, that he wouldn’t be called out for any of it, that none of it would be noticed in between his usual hesitance. Though, how often was it that any of them made a new friend? Of course the others were invested. He was the odd one here; the achor, tying everyone else down.
“It’s not personal,” Jeongguk ventured. “I don’t even know him, how could it be personal?”
Seokjin sighed on the other end. Jeongguk could picture him, on his sofa or at his kitchen bar, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like it always was, just waiting for him to offer an olive branch. “I know it’s not, but it is starting to look like you’re deliberately avoiding him. We can only cover for you for so long.” There was a pause, before, tentatively, “He’s a nice guy. You’d like him. Jeongguk, I know you’ve had a tough time -”
“Seokjin,” Jeongguk winced. He didn’t want to hear this. Not ever, really, but especially not now. Not when -
“- and I don’t want to push you, none of us do. But, Guk, there comes a point where your unkindness starts to outweigh your sympathy, you know? I’m not saying - I just think you might want to start thinking about where that line is for you. Nobody’s angry with you, nobody’s - No damage has been done, but, just, it might be, if you carry on the way you’re going. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, Seokjin,” Jeongguk replied, voice thick. Throughout Seokin’s little speech, his eyes had started to burn. He willed them to stay dry. “Time to stop being sad about the person I loved most in the whole world dying, right? I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was such an inconvuh-vuh-venience for you all.”
“No, Guk -”
“I’ll try to do better in the future. Goodnight, Jin,” he rushed before hanging up. Almost immediately, several message notifications pinged on his screen.
Kim Seokjin
I’m sorry.
Kim Seokjin
I love you. I’ll call you tomorrow ❤️
Shit. Jeongguk leant back against the wall, sliding to the floor, and dropped his gaze to the fabric in his hand. Stupid. A flush crept up his neck at the very thought of it. The mere idea of seeing Jiyeong again, just the tiniest notion and he’d jumped head-first into the deep-end. Magic? Really?
No.
It was a fairytale, nothing more, and nothing that Jeongguk needed. What he needed was to speak with his friends and move on. As hard as that would be, it would undoubtedly be harder if he kept clinging to the past.
That thought swam in his mind as he stalked back down the corridor and towards his desk. With a clatter his drawer opened beneath his palm and he reached for the large pair of scissors sitting amongst the ocean of junk. It took only seconds for the tapestry to fall to the desk in shreds, Jeongguk’s hand as steady as his breathing was not.
There you are.
He dropped the scissors once more.
Some fairy story.
Beyond the window, the snow continued to fall. Jeongguk tugged on his coat and his bag and swept the remnants of this ridiculous evening into the bin beneath his desk, determined to think no more of it. As he strode through the office floor, he ardently ignored the entrance to the corridor.
Jeongguk lived in the real world, where people died and stayed dead, and there was nothing he could do about it. What he could do was pull himself together, stop dreaming of the past, and get over it. And, even if he couldn’t let himself fall in love with Park Jimin, he could, at the very least, be his friend.