Chapter Text
Jimin can’t wake up.
He fucked up at work — really, really fucked up — and this time, he’s not waking up. How did he misread a piece of paper that badly? The order is going to be late thanks to him, and even when Namjoon said it should be fine, his expression communicated what Jimin already knows: everything is clearly not going to be fine. Not when Jimin got the orders for this week and the next mixed up, with a handful of customers waiting to pick up their sweets in the next day.
“Hey...” A soft knock shakes him from his thoughts, and he swivels to Jungkook leaning on their cubicle wall. Biting his lip, Jungkook hands over a sheaf of papers. “I’ve got the ovens going on the souffle cakes, and luckily we have extra dough so we can get started on the red bean buns at the same time.”
Jimin slumps onto his desk. He didn’t even know they still had leftover dough; it would’ve taken an entire day to make from scratch. “Thanks, Jungkook-ssi,” he smiles with relief. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Jungkook rocks back on his toes, tilting his head. His hair’s grown longer recently, now brushing past his eyes. “Of course,” he says. “We’re a team, after all. There’s just the puddings left, right?”
“And a bundt cake,” Jimin sighs. “But I can make that tomorrow, and the pudding before I leave so it has time to cool.”
“Are you sure? I can help—”
“You’ve done great,” Jimin ruffles Jungkook’s hair with a tired grin. “You shouldn’t stay too late when you’re still a junior. Yoongi-hyung will yell at you if he sees you.”
Jungkook scowls. “He yells at you for working too late, too.”
“Ridiculous. He’s never yelled at me, ever.” Jimin stands up to stretch, wincing as his spine cracks in protest and conveniently ignoring Jungkook’s eye-roll. “Also, I’m still your boss, brat. You’ll make me look bad if you pull too many all-nighters.”
“Whatever,” huffs Jungkook. His eyes soften when he tosses Jimin a small plastic bag. “Fighting, boss!”
Jimin opens his hand to see a ziplock bag of strawberry gummies, and matches Jungkook’s cheeky grin.
After Jungkook finally packs his bags and heads out, Jimin takes a look at his email inbox: nonstop inquiries from clients, the warehouse asking about the last-minute changes, a note from Sunmi regarding rush shipment fees. The words blur together as if they’re underwater.
“Well, maybe Jimin would be better suited for something else. He’s never had the same kind of fire the rest of us do, and you can't train someone that.”
Jimin slams his laptop shut and marches to the greenhouse.
By the time he reaches the Eastern wing, he’s waist-deep in water and trudging against the current. The roar of the sea pounds against his head. Salt water gurgles in the back of his throat. When he inhales, all he smells is burnt driftwood.
“Rotten magic comes from rotten people.”
Jimin’s feet slow when he passes the main corridor. A couple feet away, the lights in Seokjin’s office are on. Which doesn’t really matter, because Jimin isn’t here for Seokjin — he’s just walking past to find Taehyung — but, Jimin stops again after another step.
What is Jimin here for? What is he looking for? Why is he here?
Instead of continuing his trek to Taehyung’s corner, Jimin pivots and strolls into Seokjin’s office.
“Hi,” Jimin says.
Seokjin swivels from where he was hunched over a flower pot. He peers at Jimin for a moment, and Jimin considers leaving, but Seokjin gestures at the empty chair across from him. “Please,” Seokjin sings out, tucking the plant away in another one of his ever mysterious time-space pockets.
Jimin eases into the seat and lets the sensation of sinking into something solid take hold of him. His feet tap against the floor, relishing the sturdiness of the ground. In the entire building, Seokjin’s office is the only place that feels like dry land.
“Hello, Park Jimin-nim!” A white, battered sheep plushie pops up in Jimin’s line of sight. Jimin blinks at it, then attempts to peer at Seokjin, but Seokjin determinedly holds the toy squarely in front of his face. “Welcome to RJ’s Magic Shop! Please take as long as you need to look around!”
Hysterical laughter bubbles in the back of Jimin’s throat. “Are you... Supposed to be RJ, then?” he wheezes. The question is meant for Seokjin, but the sheep’s head pushes down in a nod.
“Yes, sir! RJ the wizard alpaca!” Clearing his throat, Jimin attempts to nod seriously for only a second before snorting. The alpaca plushie, Seokjin’s high-pitched squeak… it’s all just too ridiculous.
It’s infantilizing. Humiliating.
“Forget about it, then.” Jimin stands up. An odd sense of disappointment settles in his stomach, because this was exactly why he came to Seokjin’s office instead of choosing to be coddled by his well-meaning friends, which is ridiculous now that he thinks about it because, really, who even is Seokjin—
“Wait,” Seokjin says, voice cracking as it changes back to its normal sound. “Wait, wait, look, sorry, I thought that would cheer you up but clearly that didn’t do the trick, okay? Come on, sit back down.”
Jimin remains standing. “I’m fine. I didn’t come here to look for cheering up, Jin-ssi.”
“Okay,” Seokjin agrees easily. “Okay, come sit down and let your hyung feed you instead.”
Still frowning, Jimin slowly eases back into the chair. Across, Seokjin sets aside the alpaca and instead pulls out a large paper box and a tea set.
“Oh, let me,” Jimin instinctively reaches for the pot, but Seokjin smacks his hands away.
“Yah, what did I just tell you? Listen to your elders and sit down,” huffs Seokjin.
Jimin doesn’t take his eyes off Seokjin as he pours tea for him. He’s dressed casually today, Jimin notes idly, taking in the dark-rinse jeans, light blue sweater, and bright red ears.
“Thank you,” Jimin murmurs, suddenly shy. Seokjin nods briskly, eyes turned away. To avoid making further eye-contact, Jimin turns to the brown package. “What is the box for…?”
“Ah,” Seokjin fiddles with the ends of his hair. A splash of rose reaches down his entire neck. “They’re hotteok.”
Jimin doesn’t get it. “Oh… from a street vendor?” The box’s wrappings look like they come from another catering company, much more intricate than something picked up from a stall.
“No, like. Ssiat hotteok. From Busan.”
Jimin’s thoughts on packaging design come to a halt, and he stares at Seokjin. “What.”
“I... I just got them, as thanks, from someone, really they shoved it at me and I couldn’t say no, and I just happened to remember you’re from Busan too, and thought you might like a snack—”
“Thank you,” Jimin interrupts. He swallows, and then: “Hyung.”
Seokjin eyes him, then nods sharply, practically shoving the box across the desk. The hotteok is still hot, and the sunflower seeds stuffed inside crunch against his teeth as Jimin bites into the chewy dough. For a while, they eat in silence, only the sound of chewing and napkins wiped against their mouths echoing in the room.
“I haven’t been back to Busan since I moved here,” Jimin suddenly confesses. He squeezes the hotteok in his hands, watching the caramelized brown sugar drip onto his fingers.
“How long has it been?” Seokjin hands him a napkin.
“Seven years.”
Seokjin lets out a low whistle. “That’s a long time.” There’s no reproach or disappointment in his voice.
“I left home when I was 18, and never looked back.”
Humming, Seokjin refills Jimin’s cup of tea. “Someone told me that Busan’s known for cooking magic. Did you learn your craft growing up?”
“You could say that.” The memories of the ocean crash into Jimin all too easily. “Most people specialize in fried foods and broths. Lots and lots of soups,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “My parents always said it was lucky that we had the sea to cool off — the fire in our kitchens never went out.”
“That’s awesome, to live in a town full of magic like that.”
“I guess.” Jimin closes his eyes. “I never really fit in. There wasn’t even a bakery near where we lived.”
“Oh, I always thought there’d be a bunch, since both you and Jungkookie lived there.”
“Jungkookie’s just been good at everything,” Jimin says casually. “But, well.”
He remembers the constant look of confusion and disappointment in his parent’s eyes when he first tried to make his mother’s pork soup, only for it to turn out sweet. How one mentor wouldn’t let him touch the ingredients because Jimin’s magic was “tainted." How, when he packed his bags and told his family he was planning to move (despite not securing a job or an apartment or anything), his family didn't argue.
“It’s not that I didn’t want Busan,” he lets out. “It’s that Busan didn’t want me, I think.”
What does a person do when their own roots reject them?
Jimin is haunted by his home. It follows him, the scent of the seaside lingering on his clothes no matter how hard he washes, the water pulling him in every time he is reminded that his magic is a reflection of himself: and so, one day, when he inevitably spoils everything he touches, when the fruit turns rotten in the core despite how perfect it looks—
Rotten people make rotten magic.
Seokjin doesn’t say anything, drinking his tea in silence.
“Jimin-ssi,” he finally says. “Did you always make sweets? Or did you come to it, suddenly, when you turned 18?”
“...What do you mean.” Jimin squints at Seokjin in confusion. Sure, there are some who come to their power in adulthood, but most magic is passed down.
“It’s hereditary?”
“Of course,” Jimin snaps, irate.
“Respectfully,” Seokjin says with a smile. “I think you’re wrong.”
What.
“What are you talking about?”
“Look,” Seokjin remains infuriatingly calm. He points to Jimin’s mouth. “Busan accent, especially when you get angry which, let’s face it, is most of the time.” His finger moves to his face. “A face from Busan, which we all know is true judging from the family photo you have in your cubicle. Seokjin’s hand moves to hover over Jimin’s fist, pausing before resting right next to it. “And most of all, magic from Busan.”
“My magic isn’t the sam—”
“Details, details,” huffs Seokjin, face bright red. “What, does your magic come from thin air? You said it yourself: you’ve had it since forever. You had to get it from somewhere, didn’t you?”
“But.” Jimin starts, but doesn’t know what to say.
“Sweets,” Seokjin says, “are different from any other kind of food, because they weren’t created to keep people from starving, but to make them smile.”
“Do you really think that a place could give you such a gift if it didn’t cherish you?”
Jimin swallows.
Here is the truth: Busan is not haunting Jimin. Jimin had lied when he said he never looked back; he is the one who can’t give up Busan, who clings to what little he remembers of the shore, of the always smokey air, of home, home, home.
“You don’t know that,” he says thickly. “Not much cherishing when I fucked up everything today.”
“Okay, you got two stacks of papers, that look exactly alike by the way, mixed up because you work too fucking hard.” Seokjin rolls his eyes. “That’s hardly the same as losing your magic.”
“That could happen, too.”
“No it can’t.” Jimin doesn’t know how Seokjin knows for sure, but Seokjin says it with so much confidence in his voice that Jimin wants to believe in it, too. “You’re a good egg, through and through, even if you’re kind of a brat.”
Letting out a watery chuckle, Jimin cracks a smile.
“Now, I’m really sorry for doing this… but if you don’t mind.” Seokjin abruptly begins to clear his desk. “I’m pretty sure I’m actually allergic to sunflower seeds.”
“Wh— are you okay?!” Seokjin’s had at least three of the hotteok.
“Not to worry, I’m just going to grab a coffee from Yoongichi.”
“...What about medicine? Do you need an ambula—”
“Nope! Coffee’s the ultimate cure-all! Okay, see you!” Jimin stares dumbly as Seokjin suddenly dashes out of his office.
“I— okay, bye...” Jimin waves slowly. He turns back to his half-empty cup of tea, and notices RJ still slumped on Seokjin’s desk.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says petulantly. “I didn’t do anything.”
——————————————
If nothing else, Jimin thinks of himself as a decently considerate person. His best friend is — not avoiding him, per se — but clearly needs some space, and Jimin is happy to oblige as a very decent, very considerate person.
“Are you ghosting me?” Jimin demands as soon as he manages to corner Taehyung, three weeks after their last real conversation.
“I— what,” Taehyung laughs, not meeting Jimin’s eyes. Taehyung’s never been able to make eye contact when he lies. “Of course not, I’ve just been busy!”
Jimin’s scowl deepens.
“If I did something to piss you off, just tell me,” he snaps. “I can take anything you’ve got, Taehyungie.”
“Can we talk about this, like, not at work?”
“How, when you’ve been avoiding me—”
“You’re going to wake the plan—”
“Do you not want to be friends anymore?” Jimin’s voice drops to a fierce whisper. In the silence that follows, angry tears prick at the corner of his eyes. He’s always hated how much of an easy cryer he is.
Not hearing a reply, Jimin raises his head to gaze at Taehyung and sees the saddest face he’s ever seen on his best friend. A rush of guilt washes over him, and Jimin steps closer.
“Oh… Oh Tae, baby—”
“I’m in love with Yoongi-hyung,” Taehyung blurts out, the bottom of his palms pressing against his eyelids.
Jimin halts in his steps. “I — sorry?”
“I’m so sorry, it was just going to be a one-night-stand, but then we started making it a thing and I started to actually like him, but I felt so awful, like I was betraying you so I tried to— I don’t know, un-like him but that didn’t really work, and so I just.” Taehyung doesn’t stop for a single breath. “I was trying to think of a way to talk to you, but no matter what I didn’t want to hurt you, but I feel like I still did and I’m so sorry and I don’t want to lose my best friend— ”
“Taehyung, Taetae, my baby, Tae,” Jimin interrupts, rushing to hold Taehyung’s hands. “I’m right here. You know me. I’ve always been right here.”
Wiping his nose with his sleeve, Taehyung sniffles. “Mm’sorry, I didn’t mean to avoid you. I just… forgot how to talk to you.”
Jimin swallows. “It’s okay,” he lies. It’s not okay that he was left out by himself at sea for three weeks, but Taehyung is crying, and. Taehyung is crying. “I just wish you would’ve said something. Even if you just said you needed space. I would’ve given you anything.”
“I didn’t know if I deserved that.”
“Of course you do,” Jimin scolds. “Anyone should have space if they need it, and you deserve everything.” He searches his pockets to pull out a few napkins. “Blow,” he holds the tissue to Taehyung’s nose.
They sit together on the floor of Taehyung’s corner for a while, sides pressed together, enjoying each other’s warmth, before Taehyung clears his throat.
“Are you mad? About Yoongi-hyung?” he asks. “I know… you used to like him. Big Like, with a capital L.”
Jimin rocks back onto his heels, and searches his chest. There’s a tiny bittersweet ache in a dark crevice, but he thinks that will always be there. One never forgets their first love.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised,” Jimin says slowly. “But... I think Yoongi is a very special, very kind person. I think you’re one of the best people, objectively, on the face of this planet. I think… I think that Yoongi would be lucky to have you by his side, and that you deserve someone wonderful like him.”
“Jiminie!” Taehyung wails, lunging across to tackle him in another hug.
“Wait.” A buried memory surfaces, and Jimin scrunches his face in confusion as he quickly sits up from where he started to lay down on Taehyung’s lap. “But. Hoseok-hyung and Yoongi-hyung…” He twists to squint at Taehyung as he remembers a certain lunch, many weeks ago. “You and Hobi-sunbae?”
Taehyung blushes, and the gears in Jimin’s head spin.
“You…” he jabs a finger at Taehyung’s chest. “...and Yoongi-sunbae...and Hobi-sunbae?” A nod. “All together?” Another series of nods.
Jimin falls back onto Taehyung’s lap with a ‘oomf’. “That...makes so much sense, actually.” Taehyung’s heart has always been too big to love only one person.
Fingers coming through Jimin’s hair, Taehyung shrugs. “We’ll figure it out. Yoongi-hyung and I are just waiting for Hobi-hyung to realize he’s in love with us.”
“Uh...huh,” Jimin says, remembering the deer-in-headlights face Hoseok had in the executive meeting. “Sounds messy. Good luck.”
“Speaking of mess…” Taehyung waggles his eyebrows. “Promise no more secrets?”
“Promise,” Jimin answers. “No more ghosting either.”
“Promise,” Taehyung agrees easily, before his mouth stretches into a boxy smile. “So what’s going on with you and Jin-nim?”
Jimin sits up, shooting his best friend a sour look. “Nothing.” At Taehyung’s unimpressed raised eyebrows, Jimin elaborates, “Nothing much, at least. We’re… coworkers?”
“You literally visit his office every other day,” Taehyung deadpans. “I may have not hung out with you, but I still work in this building. I have eyes. ”
They glare at each other in silence before Jimin deflates. “Look, I don’t know, it’s—” He runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Complicated.”
“Okay.”
“He gave me snacks, Taehyung. From Busan.”
“Oh, okay.” Taehyung’s eyes widen. “I see. Complicated.”
“He’s nice. He’s funny ,” Jimin whines at the realization. “Oh my god, I think he’s actually funny.”
Taehyung pats his back comfortingly. “Hey so, since we’re not keeping secrets anymore…” Taehyung fidgets. “Can I confess something?”
Jimin tilts his head in question. Taehyung isn’t one to usually dance around subjects, but they’ve had an interesting day of firsts.
“I don’t know the first thing about traditional magic,” Taehyung blurts out. “And I’ve never touched the flowers in my life.”
Oh, cool, today is just ‘Fuck Park Jimin Up’ day, isn’t it.
“I need to get back to work,” Jimin announces, standing up, but Taehyung pulls on his sleeve. Jimin avoids his searching gaze, but when Taehyung loosens his grip, Taehyung’s eyes light up with realization anyway.
“You knew?” Taehyung asks. “Since when?”
“I didn’t know, not for sure,” Jimin mutters. But even as he says that, the back of his mind protests. The clues had all lined up — he just never wanted to deal with it. What would he have done? What is a person supposed to do with that knowledge?
“I don’t get it,” Jimin finally mutters. “Why is he being so nice? To me?”
“Well, do you want the speech about you being someone who deserves nice things, or do you want me to actually point out that Jin-nim’s a kind person?” Taehyung asks, unbothered. “Cause both are true. Even if you hate hearing the last part.”
Jimin peeks through his hands to throw a dark look at Taehyung. “I don’t hate hear—”
When Taehyung just crosses his arms with a raised eyebrow, Jimin groans again and throws his arm over his eyes.
“You picked that look up from Yoongi-hyung,” Jimin grumbles. He mulls over the past month, and then even earlier: year-old memories that refuse to stay buried in his conscience. “I guess...” he slowly allows. “I’ve been mean.”
“You’re not mean.” Taehyung hesitates. “Just maybe...Unfair.”
Letting out a heavy breath, Jimin falls back to the ground. Solid ground, he notes idly, with no water in sight. “I love you, Taetae,” he sings. “Love you, love you, love you.”
“Love you, too. Want to come with me to water the strawberries?”
“Sure.” Jungkook can take care of the kitchens for the next hour. Probably.
——————————————
Jimin read, once, that hummingbirds beat their wings up to 80 times a second. They burn so much energy that they are forever hanging on a razor-sharp edge, only hours away from starving to death, only so that they can hover in one place.
He drums his fingers against the metal counter. By the time he made his decision and headed downstairs, the kitchen had cleared out for the day. Jimin studies the bag of chestnuts and fiddles with the cover of his recipe book.
There are no hummingbirds in Busan. Instead, more than a hundred thousand migratory birds take the sky. Flying from the arctic, they rest at Nakdonggang River for what it seems like only a minute before taking off again to China, Mongolia, Siberia. Every year, struggling to make a journey across the sea and land despite their wings not beating a fraction of the speed of a hummingbird. Plowing forward, because that is what it means to live.
Jimin snaps the book shut and shoves it back into its place on the shelf. Taking a deep breath, he pulls out a mixing bowl and two jars of flour. One was recently delivered as thanks from Gyeongsangnam. The other, something Jimin had personally ordered from a millinery near Busan.
For the first time since moving to Seoul, Jimin doesn’t bother cross-checking his recipe notes or making sure his measurements are right. Instead, he lets his hands knead what his heart refuses to say into the dough.
His ankles splash against water as he works. The sea will follow him always, probably. And maybe some days the water will rise just enough to threaten to drown him, on the days when he questions if what he’s doing is right, on the days when he questions if what he has is good.
But the sea is also home, no matter how far away he moves. And though Jimin is human, he, like the cranes and eagles that pepper the sky, also hails from Busan — and so when he breathes, when he moves, it must be to keep pushing forward.
The workroom where Jimin first bumped into Seokjin many mornings ago looks haunted now, without daylight to brighten the space. He drifts past the empty cauldron and table full of tea leaves, soaking in the aroma of citrus and mint, and places the plain white box on the only stool in the room before closing the door.
"For Jin-hyung"
——————————————
Seokjin hasn’t shown up to work in almost a week.
“He asked to work from home,” Namjoon had shrugged when their Thursday morning meeting was one person short. “I figured it’d be fine as long as he checked with you, Hoseok-ssi.”
“Yup!” Hoseok squeaked out, smile just a little too large. “Chatted with him on Monday! Totally fine!”
Jimin knows Seokjin came to work for at least long enough to see his gift because the stool had been empty when Jimin had swung by the workshop the morning after. But Seokjin’s office stayed empty that entire day.
Now, Jimin glares at the calendar on his desk reminding him it’s Friday already, a whole 6 days since Seokjin disappeared. There’s a clump of salt wedged between Jimin’s ribs despite how badly he wants to just brush it off. This sucks . He’s sick of people ghosting him and sick of the push-and-pull game Seokjin’s led him into. Seriously, no note of any sort or call to say ‘hey, I got your message,” or “I miss you” even just — a “thank you”?
The rejection stings more than Jimin cares to admit, so he does what he does best and channels his hurt into something more productive: vindictive fury.
On his computer screen, a multi-paragraph long e-mail sits in his drafts — he had started a very unprofessional note to Seokjin before rational thought once again gripped his shoulders. He grabs his phone and begins to type a blistering text, only to throw it back onto his desk when he realizes he doesn’t even have Seokjin’s number.
“Hobi-sunbae,” Jimin raps on Hoseok’s door. “Can I take a half-day today?” He doesn’t have it in him to make anything sweet.
“Oh shit, you don’t look so good.” Hoseok immediately leaves his desk to fuss over Jimin. “Yeah, go ahead and take off. Can I help you with anything?”
“Nothing,” mumbles Jimin. “Unless you can kill Jin-ssi for me.”
“Please don’t tell me anything about killing anyone,” Hoseok immediately shuts him down. “Why, what’s up? I thought you’d be happy with him out of your hair for a couple days.”
“He hates me.”
Hoseok’s eyebrows shoot up. “Uhm, pretty sure that’s a very big exaggeration.”
“No like, look, he’s always mocked me,” Jimin scowls at the desk. “Did you know the first time we met, I flirted with him and he just started to pull a flower-chain out of his pocket? Like those tied-scarves in the circus?”
Hoseok lets out a snort even as Jimin throws a post-it pad at him. “He was probably just shy.”
“Uh, yeah, okay. Seokjin, shy? I’d have a better chance believing you if you said you were in love with my two best friends.” Jimin slowly puts a hand to his mouth, eyebrows raised comically high. “Oh, wait.”
“You.” Hoseok jabs a finger at Jimin. “You are terrible. A fiend. We are not talking about this.”
“Okay, then admit that you knew Seokjin’s ditching work to avoid me.”
“... Well—”
“See!” Jimin yells, falling back into his chair with a huff. “I knew it. I don’t care if he doesn’t like me, if he doesn’t want to be my friend or—” Jimin pauses. “I just want him to tell me, so we can move the fuck on and continue to be professional co-workers who hate each other.”
“There’s no way he hates you,” Hoseok insists. “He fucking joined the company just to meet you.”
Silence echoes in the room as Jimin and Hoseok exchange stares — Jimin, incredulous; Hoseok, in horror.
“I didn’t mean that,” Hoseok finally manages to squeak out.
“What did you just say.” Jimin utters. “What does that even… mean… “
“I don’t know! I don’t know anything! It was just a slip of the tongue.”
“Jung Hoseok-ssi.” Jimin, like everyone in the world, is a man with strengths and weaknesses. Coincidentally, a terrifying smile is one of his strengths. “Tell me or I’ll call your mom and tell her about that time you missed four days of work because of a streetwear sample sale.”
“You’re a fucking demon. You do know you’re blackmailing me? The head of HR? Does anyone in this building remember that I'm HR?”
Jimin just flashes another smile.
——————————————
According to Park Jimin, this is how his first meeting with Kim Seokjin went:
They met two and a half years ago, when the weather was just getting cold enough for Jimin to have his hands full, literally, of steaming stuffed buns and crispy fish-shaped pastries. It was Seokjin’s first week, and Jimin remembers exactly how devastatingly tight his black waxed jeans — waxed jeans! They were basically skin-tight leather pants! — were, how well the silk shirt fit across his broad shoulders.
Jimin had all but pounced, slithering across the room to greet the handsome newcomer with a flirty smile. But Seokjin, instead of blushing or stammering like anyone else would at Jimin’s antics, instead took a step back and yanked out a vomit of flowers from inside his suit.
“Nice to meet you,” Seokjin had sung with a grin, the petals falling around them like confetti. “I’m excited to grow our budding relationship!”
Everyone in the room had laughed, except Jimin who had decided Seokjin was absolutely bad news, and persisted to hate him ever since.
But.
It isn’t until today that Jimin registers that was, in fact, not their first meeting.
Most of his apprenticeship passed by in a blur and Jimin barely remembers even the moments that did stick out at the time. He was preoccupied with struggling to survive on a barely livable paycheck, a barely present department manager, and a barely manageable workload every day.
In other words, it makes sense that Jimin had forgotten bumping into Seokjin one rainy day a year after moving to Seoul, until now.
“Yeah, he said he wasn’t even a customer at the time, but you ran into him while making deliveries,” laughs Hoseok. “It apparently made a big impression on him.”
“I remember,” Jimin says softly. “I gave him a bag of tea cookies. He looked like he needed it.” It was crumpled inside his jacket, one of the few things he had the chance to make between scrubbing pots and running errands. Apprentices weren’t allowed to bake things for clients directly, so he was just going to eat it himself at home. With a copious amount of alcohol, probably.
But there was a gorgeous man standing on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette by himself even though the awning barely covered his shoulders from the rain.
“Here,” Jimin had offered, hastily flashing the uniform under his windbreaker to show that yes, he does work in a legitimate bakery, no, this isn’t poisoned food, and hopefully this isn’t actually that weird of a thing to do. “You look like you need something sweet today.”
The man — Seokjin, Jimin realizes now — had given him a bouquet of fresh flowers in return.
“He told me he had quit his job that day,” Jimin says, more to himself than Hoseok.
Hoseok shrugs. “Well, I guess this was his next stop. He said he wanted to work with you, specifically, when we interviewed.” He lunges across the desk, grabbing Jimin’s sleeve. “Don’t you dare tell him I told you,” he hisses.
Jimin ignores him. “I need to talk to him,” he says, pulling on Hoseok’s arm. “Please.”
Hoseok shoots a look at Jimin before falling back into his chair with an exasperated sigh. “The things I do for my friends,” he mutters as he pulls out his phone. “This is why we need an actual HR department.”
“Are you texting him?”
“Yeah, he’ll be here tomorrow.”
That was fast. “Did he reply already?”
“Nope,” Hoseok rests his arms behind his head. “I just told him we’re cleaning out his personal space — you know, that one room next to storage that he’s basically made into a second office? — tomorrow. He’ll definitely come back.”
——————————————
Seokjin does show up to work the next day but, as Jimin learns with increasing frustration, remains incredibly hard to track down considering they’re in the same building.
“Jin-ssi,” Jimin yells as soon as he spots the suit-clad heathen on the other side of the hall. “I have something to talk to you about!”
Seokjin glances up, and bolts.
“What the f—” Shoving the box in his hands to Jungkook next to him, Jimin takes off without a second thought. “Seokjin-ssi. Kim Seokjin-ssi. KIM SEOKJIN!!!”
“Yah! Stop yelling my name,” Seokjin finally wheezes from the opposite end of a wide table. Jimin clutches the edge, eyes laser focused to catch which way Seokjin will turn next. “You’re going to wear it out.”
“Then stop! Running ! AWAY !” Jimin grits.
“I can’t stop running if you don’t stop chasing me!”
Jimin fists his hair in frustration. “That doesn’t even make sense, hyung! I just need to talk to you!”
Seokjin’s face flushes red. “I— We shouldn’t talk about personal matters at work!” Before Jimin has a chance to respond, Seokjin darts left, then pivots right into another hall.
Ignoring the startled looks of coworkers, Jimin runs after him. This time, he doesn’t mind doing the chasing — not when he’s starting to just understand the way Seokjin treats everything and everyone so cautiously. Not when Seokjin’s been waiting for him for all this time.
Seokjin’s hands hold everything carefully, carefully, carefully. It makes sense, then, that he holds everything inside just as carefully, sealing every crack to make sure nothing falls apart.
It isn’t until Jimin manages to finally grab Seokjin’s arm and drag him into the nearest room away from prying ears that he realizes they’re, in fact, in the utility closet.
“Listen, I appreciate your 500 meter sprint, clearly you’ve never stopped practicing for the track meet, but I’ve been out of the closet for over a decade and have no intentions of being back here.” Seokjin wheezes.
Jimin isn’t fooled. “I want to ask you something.”
“Technically, that’s already a question—” At Jimin shooting him a withering glare, Seokjin puts his hands up in surrender. “Well, fine, since you’ve already locked me in a closet! I guess I have no choice! Ask away!”
There are a lot of things Jimin wants to ask, to say, to do, in this quiet and dark space.
“The tea on my desk the past few weeks… it was from you,” Jimin says, instead.
Seokjin averts his eyes. “That’s not a question,” Seokjin rebukes, but his voice is no louder than a whisper.
“Did you get the chance to eat the Mont Blanc?”
When Seokjin finally looks up, Jimin takes a step closer.
“How did it taste?” Jimin watches, mesmerized by the way Seokjin bite his lips. “Did you like it?”
Seokjin gazes back at Jimin for a moment before finally saying so softly Jimin has to strain his ears, “It tasted delicious. As delicious as I remember.”
“Does my magic taste different now,” he asks, “from those tea cookies I gave you, all those years ago?”
Seokjin ducks his head.
“What do you like best about my cooking?” Jimin presses, strolling towards Seokjin with a teasing, knowing smile.
“Jimin-ssi, please.” Seokjin’s voice cracks.
Jimin stops in his tracks, and drinks in the sight in front of him. Seokjin’s face is covered with his hands, but still Jimin catches the rosy red flush on his face. Catches the way red blooms across his skin like the lilies peeking out from his shirt pocket, the carnations that had started to blossom near their feet, and the tendril of hydrangea slowly wraps itself around Seokjin’s wrists. Not unlike that first time -- or, no, the second time they met.
Oh. Oh.
Hoseok had called Seokjin shy.
Taking a trepid step forward, Jimin’s hand stretches out to hover next to Seokjin’s. Like this, his hand caresses the air between him and Seokjin’s covered face. Gentle, careful. “Hyung,” Jimin swallows. “Is it okay if I…?”
Seokjin reaches forward and, as their hands brush against each other somewhere in the middle between them, they kiss. Slow and sweet, like this is something they've both been waiting for.
Feeling something move against his wrist, Jimin pulls back to see that the hydrangea has grown to make room for him, draping itself around their intertwined hands. Seokjin’s hands have always been beautiful, made for holding things with gentleness and care. Things like flowers, things like people’s hearts.
The afternoon light bounces in from the square window, illuminating the otherwise dark closet, and Jimin soaks in the way golden beams catch against Seokjin’s hair in a rosy haze like something holy, something magic.
They’re probably going to need to talk, a lot, later. About work-life balance, and how to make this work so that Hoseok doesn’t get an aneurysm, and if there even is something to work out. But for now, Jimin thinks as he breathes in the scent of hydrangea and rose, they don’t need to hash every little detail out.
For now, Jimin looks at Seokjin’s lips, at the makeshift garden they’re surrounded in, at the way Seokjin blooms like spring. Like something beautiful can grow out of anything, despite anything. Seokjin blooms, Jimin thinks, like all the important things left unsaid in the space between them.
“Jimin-ssi,” Seokjin says, voice soft and cheeks flushed. “I think we’re going to end up getting along just fine, after all.”