Chapter Text
Businessmen, suitcases, toddlers: familiar airport scenery blurred into streaks of color as Seokjin dashed to the baggage claim. Disgruntled faces glared at him, but honestly, after a 14 hour international flight Seokjin cared about nothing anymore. Nothing but how disgustingly late he was going to be to Hoseok’s dance showcase.
“Shit!” he cursed, knocking into a sharp shoulder. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t see you there!”
“Obviously.”
A shorter man with tangled mint hair glared at him, exhausted. He brushed sweaty fringe out of his eyes. “No problem, though. Everyone’s trying to get home for the holidays.”
Seokjin bit his lip, nodded, mumbled more apologies, and sped off. He felt bad for brushing off the stranger, but he didn’t have the time to—Jesus, how long did he have until the showcase? Where was the baggage carousel? Would Hoseok commit murder if he showed up late?
Ughhhhhhhhh, his brain garbled.
Arriving frumpled and slightly out of breath, Seokjin shoved his way through a messy crowd to claim a spot in front of the baggage carousel. He stared, eyes itching, at every passing suitcase, wishing hopelessly that his would spin by next.
Goddammit, why didn’t I buy a pink suitcase? His eyebrows were furrowed, which he knew would mess up his beautiful face with wrinkles in the next 50 years, but Seokjin was frustrated . Fricking frustrated.
Because it felt like every single suitcase looked almost identical to his: black, with black details, and medium-sized; it felt like Seokjin was trying to spot one generic-looking suitcase in a sea of millions.
A suitcase that looked like a clone of his drifted by. Checking the tag to see that it was from his flight, Seokjin snatched it with a sense of triumph and ran off to hail a taxi.
Outside, the mint-haired man was slumped over his phone. Seokjin almost jumped out of his taxi to say a few apologies for ignoring him. But he didn’t. Every second counted, and death by angry Hoseok did not sound pleasant over Christmas.
Oh fuck.
Seokjin does not curse often, but this is definitely an “OH FUCK” moment. He’s checked into a dingy hotel room, ready to zoom off to Hoseok’s showcase (with twenty minutes to spare, huzzah!) but now also he’s about ready to break down into a crying, jet-lagged, hormonal blob. The carpet looks rather appealing right about now.
He did not, in fact, grab his generic black suitcase. He grabbed another generic black suitcase that looked exactly like his, but was stuffed with clothing that was not Seokjin’s.
Oh fuck? Right?
Worse, he wasn’t even at home: he was stuck in a stupid hotel, cities away from his own apartment—and closet. With a sense of dismayed urgency, Seokjin dug through the suitcase in vain.
“You have to dress nice, hyung! For me! For the showcase! To express your love!”
Seokjin feels a bit like a pushover, knowing that Hoseok is too kind to commit murder over Seokjin’s lack of clean attire. But his friend has worked so hard for this—sue him, but he wants this showcase to be perfect. For Hoseok’s sake.
And perfection does not include your best buddy showing up in a sticky sweater, reeking of an airplane lavatory and B.O.
Shucking hopelessly small clothes around aimlessly, Seokjin felt himself breaking out into a cold sweat. He felt kind of bad for throwing a stranger’s clothing around a questionably clean hotel room—but desperate times, desperate measures.
From the suitcase, he got the impression of a suppressed emo with decent fashion sense. There were ripped jeans. Lots and lots of ripped jeans. Many nearly-identical black shirts. Some snapbacks. A few white hoodies, one pair of discrete fuzzy socks, nice denim ensembles that Seokjin would like wearing if they weren’t way too small for him, some surprisingly fashionable shirts, dangly earrings, and an honest-to-God choker .
With a sad look at the clock—twenty minutes until the showcase started—Seokjin found a pair of ripped jeans that fit decently and threw on a tight-fight striped shirt. His shoulders ached to escape the confining fabric, and he probably looked ridiculous.
As an afterthought, he wore the fuzzy socks, too.
His hair was a mess, and his own jacket smelled like 14 hours on a packed plane—but it was good enough.
Fucking ten minutes left.
Twenty minutes away, in a hotel reeking of pathetic dreams, Yoongi threw himself over a bed. Dramatically--as melodramatically as possible.
“Oh fuck,” he groaned.
“ HOSEOK!!! HOBI!!! YOU! DID! AMAZING!” screeched Seokjin, barreling into his friend. Hoseok grinned back at him, dabbing at his sweaty face.
“I seriously thought you weren’t going to make it!” Hoseok teased, ruffling Seokjin’s hair.
Seokjin scoffed, mildly offended. “I told you that I wasn’t going to miss it for the world.”
Hoseok beamed and crushed him back in a bone-breaking hug. Seokjin felt undeniably proud and warm. “You seriously blew everyone else out of the water.”
Hoseok blushed, looking happy but a little embarrassed. “Jiminie did really well, too—“
“Hush,” Seokjin whispered. “I’ll tell your crush that after you’ve introduced me to him.”
His friend squawked, swatting Seokjin on the shoulder.
Seokjin breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness he didn’t notice .
And then--because of-fricking-fracking-course , Hoseok pierced him with a menacing glare. He slammed an unforgiving hand into Seokjin’s chest. It was terrifying.
“Anyways, there are other things to talk about, Jin-hyung.”
Seokjin went cold. Did he forget something? Flowers—oh, God, he should’ve gotten flowers, since now—
“What the fuck are you wearing ?!” Hoseok screeched. “Did you go shopping and just decide to buy everything three sizes too small? Your jeans look like they’re about to fall off your ass—but not in a cute, slutty way, hyung. And your shoulders!” he wailed. “They look like you’ve sentenced them to lifetime imprisonment!”
“That’s because they’re not his clothes,” called a voice.
Seokjin whirled around, mouth open in shock. He was literally just about to say that, so who—
“Yoongles!” cried Hoseok, pushing past Seokjin to ram into a short, cringing, mint-haired man.
Wait. Wait, what? The fuck?
“I totally thought you weren’t going to come! I’ve missed you so much, Yoongi, I can’t believe you’re actually here! Didn’t you have an international flight, too?” Hoseok gushed.
“Gimme some credit; of course I’d come,” muttered the shorter guy—Yoongi—rolling his fingers around what appeared to be one of Seokjin’s rings.
No way.
Yes way, his brain supplied. He looked closely at the baggy ensemble the other man was wearing: Seokjin’s favorite Metallica shirt, Seokjin’s cashmere pullover, Seokjin’s acid-washed jeans. The shirt hung loose around the shoulders, and the jeans were rolled up at the ankles. He looked positively dwarfed. Kind of cute, if Seokjin paused to think about it—except he didn’t stop to think about it. His brain promptly exploded.
“Wait,” blurted Seokjin, “you’re wearing my stuff?”
“You’re wearing mine,” Yoongi said, giving him a once-over.
Hoseok looked suspiciously between the two. “Do you…like, know each other?”
Seokjin shook his head vigorously. Yoongi nodded.
“Er,” cringed Seokjin, “I bumped into him at the airport.”
“Literally,” added Yoongi. “And then he stole my clothes.”
“I did not steal your clothes!” Seokjin sniped. “You took my suitcase.”
“I cannot believe this is happening,” Yoongi groaned, to which Seokjin agreed. “First, you bump into me, and our luggage just so happens to be on the same carousel. Then we take each other’s suitcases by chance? And then we both show up at Hobi’s showcase?”
“It’s not like I planned for it to happen,” Seokjin whined.
Yoongi huffed, puffing his cheeks out. “You look ridiculous in that shirt.” He continued to twist Seokjin’s ring, sending half-amused, half-annoyed glances at Seokjin.
“You look ridiculous in those jeans,” Seokjin shot back. “Actually, everything about this situation is ridiculous.
“I can second that,” said Yoongi, still twisting the ring frantically. Both of them pointedly ignored Hoseok’s increasingly demented look of glee.
Seokjin smiled nervously as Hoseok’s began to aggressively shake in place. “Let me start over. I’m Kim Seokjin—Hoseok’s buddy—and I’m terribly sorry for bumping into you at the airport, and even more sorry for both of our sakes that I took the wrong suitcase.” He held out a hand to shake.
Yoongi flashed a half-smile. “Min Yoongi. I couldn’t really care less that you bumped into me, and I also apologize for being part of this mess.”
They shook hands. Yoongi’s hands soft, bony, and cold against Seokjin’s. Seeing his ring on a stranger’s hand was odd, Seokjin thought he could live with it.
Hoseok crowed gleefully. “It’s fate, you guys, it’s fate.” He punched them both on the shoulder—any more of that, and Yoongi’s shirt is going to rip—pushing them together. “Now exchange numbers like good friends.”
Seokjin laughed and Yoongi cracked a smile. He liked it. He liked the mint hair, the short stature, the slight flush on his pale cheeks. He liked the quiet demeanor, faux sass, subtle devotion to his friends. As far as first impressions, Yoongi made a pretty interesting one.
So, obviously, when Seokjin punched in his number into Yoongi’s phone, he saved it as “Awkward Suitcase Man w/ Nice Shoulders (Seokjin)”
And when Yoongi laughed at that, Seokjin liked it too.
“Do you want your shirt back?”
Seokjin blinked as Hoseok peered at him, that nosy prick.
“Um, Yoongi, you called me just to say that? Of course not, you can keep it!”
“What about the pullover? The ring? Pants? Socks?” Yoongi was starting to sound—oddly enough—a little nervous.
He chuckled. “No, Yoongi, just keep the stuff. If you really want, give it back to me the next time we meet. Do you want your shirt back?”
There was a very long, strange, awkward silence.
“No, because you looked really cute in a really weird way when you wore my tight-ass clothes. And now that I’ve said you’re cute, doyouwannagooutonadate?” Yoongi’s words were garbled, dramatic, and frenzied—completely different from the suave, chill, brusque man Seokjin had come to know.
“Wha—“
“Okay, bye!!”
Hoseok cackled—
nosy prick!
—and Seokjin died.