Chapter Text
10:28 AM | 08/24/199X
Seokjin takes one, two, three shaky, shuddering breaths, fingers curling against the asphalt as he feels life pour back into his body.
He lets out tiny, choked sobs as mangled limbs and joints crack back to their right places with sickening sounds, before heaving as he suddenly feels his guts churn, blood pooling at his throat and tongue to trickle past his slightly parted mouth. He wondered for a moment if he was dying again; if the fates had played a cruel trick on him and the brief taste of life returning he’d felt was actually his last few moments.
There was blood crusted against what remained of his clothes and the ground beneath him, and his gun lay useless beside him, the muzzle and trigger now having been broken off. He feels his breathing stable somewhat after a few minutes and manages to barely lift his head, eyes crinkling against the sudden harsh sun. His eyes flit towards his left, where his once commander lay dead a few feet away, body still and silent except for the hum and buzz of flies.
He was without a doubt dead, had been for hours, and yet Seokjin couldn’t find it in him to look away; eyes trained on the other’s chest, waiting to see if it too would beat again, rise and fall, bring life back into where there no longer was.
10:28 PM | 08/23/199X
Jimin wakes from where he was sleeping with a gasp, his clothes and bed soaked heavily with his sweat.
He tries to stand and groans as phantom pains flare all over his body, the feeling of falling and having been shot still new and raw. He had felt him die; had been forced to bear witness as a bullet buried itself in his back, the impact sending him right onto an open window to fall to the ground a hundred feet below.
Jimin had been with him too when he took his first breath again, when his broken body fixed itself piece by piece, inch by agonizing inch. Jimin had wanted nothing more then than to force himself awake, to forget, to not feel as if he himself was being torn at the seams.
But their blessing and curse had held him still, forced him to remain and remember, to see and know him, like he could ever not. His plush lips, his broad shoulders, the dark hair framing his face and curling against his nape. His odd eyes, when he’d finally opened them, crinkling against the sun, one iris the color of the sky right before it rains, the other a warm brown the color of honey. He was beautiful, even in pain, always. He was as familiar to Jimin as his own body, his own name.
Jimin closes his eyes and lets himself ache and want for a few minutes, recalling past lifetimes when he had been like a moth to Seokjin’s light, remaining in the shadows to wait silently until he remembers, cradling him when he breathes his first after coming back. Even now the urge to run to him remains strong inside him, to pack and book a flight or to run, to take Seokjin in his arms and ease his confusion, kiss his worries and tears away.
Yet he steels himself, tells himself this is better for both of them. The last of the pain eases and Jimin moves off the bed to take a shower, hoping to wash all traces of the dream and the want away.
▬
They’d only ever met one pair who shared the same cruel fate as them before.
It had been their tenth cycle and Jimin had just found Seokjin, rescuing him after having been poisoned in a palace where he’d lived as an official taster for the king. Jimin had cradled Seokjin as he sputtered out what remained of the poison and had soothingly rubbed his back, before taking him far and away from the sudden chaos the incident had caused.
Taehyung and Yoongi had found them, took one look at their eyes, and gave them shelter until Seokjin fully recovered.
Yoongi had then explained how it worked:
- They both could never die so long as the other lived.
- When one of them dies, the other would feel it, live through it, share the experience.
- Their past lives; the lifetimes they’ve shared and the ones they haven’t, would be remembered by only one of them—leaving this person to solely be responsible for telling the other what they were.
- The other would forget about the shared memories that they’ve accumulated every time they die—leaving them with only memories of themselves before they’d met the other when they inevitably live again.
Jimin had long accepted his burden and his responsibility, knowing it was all worth it, if he only had Seokjin.
Yet almost a hundred years ago, on the eve of the fifth of December 1928, minutes before Seokjin’s birthday had ended, he had felt Seokjin die, and ran the opposite direction.
2020
Jimin makes it to Seochon just in time to book the last available room at the Nuwa.
He was pleasantly surprised, as usually all the rooms for the famous guesthouse was usually booked fully half a year before. The kind receptionist had told him that a room had became available only by mere chance, a stroke of luck as the couple that booked it had chosen to go elsewhere for their vacation, making the room his for a day and a half.
He says his thanks before making his way towards the hanok, letting out a pleased hum upon seeing it fully.
A well-furnished kitchen greeted him upon opening the sliding doors, and a glass wall perpendicular to it gave one an open view of the darkening sky outside and a tiny Zen themed garden below. A king-sized bed was tucked into the floor to the right, and a robe hung from a hook stuck on the wall beside it.
The bathroom to the left smelled of chamomile and lavender when he’d entered; fully equipped with a shower stall and a large granite tub. Scented oils, bath salts, and jars of various dried flowers occupied one end of the tub, and Jimin eagerly turned the faucet on, running a hand under the water and deciding to make a quick stop first to Molan and the nearest convenient store for his dinner before indulging in the bath and sleeping in for the night.
Molan was an antique store—a safe haven for antiquity dealers and collectors based on Seoul’s West Village. Online reviewers had compared and likened it to the shop in Stephen King’s Needful Things, due to its propensity to have the rare pieces of antiquities that can’t be found elsewhere, and some which a collector visiting didn’t even know they needed or wanted.
Jimin had known the owner since the latter was a small child, and was one of the few people in the world he’d trusted with his secret.
He pushes open the glass door into the shop and a bell tinkles high above him, a signal to Jonghwa (or sometimes his grandson Rowoon) that a customer had walked into the quaint store.
Despite not having set foot in the shop within the last twenty years Jimin was still stuck by the home-like familiarity of the place: earth tone cabinets occupying half the floor of the shop that was filled to the brim with pieces and curiosities, a myriad of paintings and rare ceramics and potteries set against one wall and urns placed atop pedestals, the smell of tung and linseed oil and dish soap that he knew was used to keep the antiques clean and seemingly new filling the air, the whistle of a kettle from someplace unseen.
The counter wasn’t manned and the countertop was filled to the brim with strings of twine and paper receipts, a small electric fan whirring beside it. The shop was an amalgamation of things gathered from different times and eras, their chips and damages a testament to how long they’d been made and used.
Each piece reminded Jimin of himself: a study in anachronism, created in times now long gone and left by the hands that had made them to remain for as long as time would tick, weathering wars and the march of history itself.
The familiarity of each piece made Jimin ache—a jarring reminder of the past he’d long tried to outrun—and he endeavored to get the vase he’d ordered as a gift for a co-worker as soon as possible and get out of the shop, hoping that Jonghwa would understand if he asked to get a drink instead someplace else.
He eyes the still empty counter and takes a moment to check out a table at the far back, eyes settling on a jade comb embossed with peonies for a moment before looking away (valiantly not thinking about how Seokjin had loved the color green, or that peonies had once been his favorite flowers).
In a different lifetime, Jimin would have worked and given all he had to buy Seokjin said comb—would have taken him into a grove where no one could see them and tucked it into his hair, or pressed the sharp ridges onto his skin the way he knew Seokjin liked, tracing the leftover ghosts with his thumbs. Seokjin’s ears would have turned red, from shyness and pleasure and warmth, and Jimin would have eagerly pressed his lips against his, tracing him inch by inch with his tongue.
He didn’t notice the door behind the counter opening, a young man slipping out with a wince after almost having burned himself when he’d heard the bells tinkle to signal that a customer had come in. He’d barely been able to apply a salve onto the tender skin before he’d gone out, and was now eyeing the stranger, taking notice of the blue hair tucked beneath a beret, the dark coat, the heeled boots.
The young man clears his throat and Jimin finally turns around, the eager smile on his face falling when he sees the room’s new occupant.
“Seokjin?”
“Hello! Do you need help with anything?” He moves forward, smiling and unaware, hand raised eagerly to show whatever piece may have taken Jimin’s fancy.
Jimin keeps backing away as he comes closer, confusion now rolling off him in waves. His long coat snags on a glass piece and it falls before he could reach it, shattering into a thousand tiny fragments behind him.
“I—” Jimin’s eyes flit towards the mess and back to Seokjin, heart beating fast, the need to run and the ache to touch warring inside him, wondering just how badly he’d messed up. What was Seokjin doing here? Why was he—based on the apron he’s wearing and the name tag tucked into his polo shirt—working at Molan of all places?
Seokjin opens his mouth to speak but Jimin beats him to it, hastily pulling out his wallet and taking Seokjin’s hand to place all the money he’d withdrawn yesterday in his palm, which should be enough to pay for the broken piece. He gives himself a second to look at Seokjin, take in his features, hoping the mere second was enough to tell him what he never could again, before doing what he’s always done best.
He runs.
11:41 PM | 12/04/1928
The party was on full blast behind them, and Jimin could barely keep his eyes open.
The supposed formal dinner had been thrown by a friend of a friend for Seokjin’s birthday; the latter having become famous in the weekend West Egg scene for his extravagant performances. The entire lobby and ballroom of the Pivoine Hotel had been splurged on and bedazzled; with gold lined place cards set atop the tables along with pale pink candlesticks and pristine table covers, huge centerpieces of gladiolas that have been set up overnight, and dozens of extra waiters hired that appeared seamlessly as if by magic, carrying trays of shrimp and fruit cocktails, Jell-O, and tea sandwiches.
He and Seokjin were currently primly sitting on the stairs, sharing glasses of highballs and gin blossoms that they’ve lost count of. The chandelier above them reflected the shifting lights below in a riot of colors, and a woman at the stage a few feet away was crooning goodbye to a blackbird, voice like velvet and smoke.
A few of their friends try to call them over back into the dance floor, but they both merely shook their heads, having already done their fair share of entertainment for the riotous crowd. He feels Seokjin pull him close and smiles softly to himself, turning towards the elder to fix his bow tie.
“I love you.” Seokjin whispers, soft and sudden as Jimin finished straightening his skewed tie.
Jimin grins as he feels warmth spread inside him, bubbly and all-consuming. He pulls Seokjin in for a kiss, a barely there grazing of the lips. “I love you too.”
They linger close for a few more moments, before Jimin notices their empty glasses and stands, taking in the glasses on one hand and holding the other out for Seokjin. “Come, love, let’s get these refilled.”
But Seokjin merely shook his head, loudly complaining that his feet now hurt, and Jimin playfully rolls his eyes before climbing down the stairs to refill it himself.
He had barely made it into the bar when the explosion thundered behind him; his eardrums shattering as the impact drives him right into the wall. Bottles of liquor fall right on top of him, the glasses breaking against his skin. He tries to sit up, tries to wonder where Seokjin was, if he was safe, alive—but the pain soon overwhelms him and he slips into unconsciousness.
Jimin wakes an hour later, the world still a wreck around him.
He hadn’t fully healed yet but he ignores the pain in favor of finding Seokjin, making his way towards the stairs they’d been sitting on before. He stepped over bodies and debris, overturned anyone that looked to be wearing a dark tux. He could feel him—barely there, hanging by a thread, slowly slipping into oblivion. Jimin gritted his teeth despite the phantom pains that ransacked his body, knowing Seokjin was dying and wanting nothing more than to stop it.
He wanted to cry at the unfairness of it all. Jimin had lived this same scenario hundreds of thousands of times and yet it never hurts any less: Seokjin dying only to live again; forgetting them, forgetting him, forgetting what they’ve made and created and been. It wasn’t Seokjin’s fault, he knew that. Yet he’d always wondered why he was the one cursed to remember, to always want and to ache—stuck in the shadows of their memories while Seokjin carried none of that burden.
He feels Seokjin die; and lets out a choked sob, stopping in his movements, turning towards the opposite direction.
He loved Seokjin.
He loved him, though sometimes it felt like a cancer inside him, all-consuming and helpless.
In an hour or two he would feel him breathe again, feel him push the debris off his body and stand, eyes clouded with wonder and confusion.
He knows what he’d think: My name is Kim Seokjin. I just died, but somehow I lived again. Knows he won’t remember him nor their shared apartment, and that he’d end up contacting the family he’d ran away to be with him for, who’d take him back easily with open arms, bemused yet pleased that Seokjin had seemed to woken up from his nonsense.
If he runs now—Seokjin would remember none of their past. He could go halfway across the world, carrying their memories with him alone forever. If he runs—it would spare both of them.
Jimin closes his eyes, whispers one last I love you.
And runs.
2020
Jimin makes it back to the hanok and immediately locks the door behind him.
He looks around, wondering if he should pack now and leave and forego buying the present Jonghwa had promised him. He was confused—Seokjin had been studying in San Francisco the last time he’d heard of him. When had he come to Seoul? What were the chances that he’d end up working in Seochon the very same time that Jimin chose to visit?
He thinks it must be fate finally getting back at him; for having ran, for never having told anyone he’d met since then about Seokjin.
It seems that in his desperation to ran he had forgotten one crucial fact: he and Seokjin were soulmates. They were soul bound by magic and forces beyond them—the same magic that had kept them living for hundreds of years. They both could run to the opposite ends of the earth and fate would still find a way to bring them together.
He walks over to the bathroom, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes. A dam was threatening to burst inside him. He stripped off his clothes, climbed into the tub, closed his eyes, and sank in until his head was fully underwater.
He thinks of Seokjin, recalls the look of offended bemusement in his face when Jimin had slipped the money into his hands. Knows how indignant (and lovely, his mind supplies unhelpfully) he would have sounded had Jimin not ran before he could speak. The feel of his palm and the knobs and ridges of his fingers were painfully familiar and right, even in that brief touch.
If he had not run then, would Seokjin have been here with him now, climbing into the tub to press his chest against his back? Pulling him close until there were no inch left untouched. Placing plush kisses against his hair, his neck, his shoulders as he always had. Whispering I love yous like it was the only thing he was certain of in the world.
(And it was, wasn’t it? Seokjin had always, upon learning and knowing him, knowing them, loved him with enough intensity to rival the sun’s glare itself. Loved him as if to make up for the years Jimin had had to live alone, waiting for him.)
Jimin opens his eyes, watched as bubbles floated above his line of vision.
If he lets his imagination run wild now he could almost imagine that Seokjin was peering down at him from above the water, the smile he’d only ever had for Jimin on his face, ready to cheekily ask if he could join in, to do everything Jimin had thought he would have done.
Jimin smiles ruefully to himself, before parting his mouth and letting the waters fill his lungs, helpless to Seokjin even in mere daydreams.
▬
In the end, Jimin decides to stay.
He forgoes dinner and heads straight to bed after his bath, readying himself for a long day tomorrow. He’d have to come back to Molan, see Jonghwa and still get his gift. He recalls his empty wallet and makes a mental note to stop by an ATM. He sinks into sleep and dreams fitfully of Seokjin—dreams whose contents he forgets when he wakes, yet rendered his skin tingling with phantom touches when he’d opened his eyes.
He enters the shop again during lunchtime the next day, belly and wallet now full. The counter was yet again unmanned, though now he could hear Bobby Vinton’s Blue Velvet playing from the speakers of a phone set atop it.
He brushes his fringe away from his eyes, placing his palms against the papers set on the countertop and trying to peer past the half open door behind it. He wonders if he should just slip inside, or if Jonghwa had gone outside for lunch. Hopefully if he did, Seokjin was with him.
He turns away from the counter when no one answers to his Hellos to slip further into the shop, impulsively deciding to get the jade comb he’d been eyeing yesterday. He walks past the last shelf before the table it was set in to find Seokjin crouching on the floor, humming along to the music.
The urge to run again was quick and sudden, yet Jimin stayed stock still, merely watching as Seokjin’s fingers flitted around the japanned chest he was retouching. He was outlining a crane’s wing with shellac-based acrylic, brush unwavering despite the constant bobbing of his head to the song now playing—Duran Duran’s Hungry Like The Wolf.
He turns to the side to dip his brush into a jar, still overlooking his now keen observer, and Jimin notices a dollop of paint that had gotten stuck on his right cheek.
Jimin was moving before he knew it, handkerchief in hand as he absentmindedly leaned over to remove the stain off Seokjin’s face. He stops and draws back only once he notices the other’s now wide-eyed stare, the surprise and shock in his face evident due to Jimin’s sudden actions.
Seokjin falls on his ass and Jimin immediately backs away a few feet, accidentally knocking against a table and immediately reaching to steady it before anything could fall. Seokjin was a flustered mess behind him, ears a pretty shade of red and stuttering indecipherable phrases.
Jimin was equally unnerved though he didn’t show it—instead internally berating himself for what he’d done. Touching Seokjin was muscle memory to him; though it seems he’d never learned from when he’d accidentally scared Seokjin off a few times before by his sudden touches, his seemingly intimate knowledge of the older.
“Sorry,” He finally turns back towards Seokjin and motioned a hand towards his own cheek. “You had a stain, here.”
“Right.” Seokjin replies, a beat too late. His ears were still red. He notices Jimin’s intense stare and straightened, tucking the paintbrush he was using behind his ear. “Thank you, then. Did you-did you need help with something?”
“I was actually looking for Jonghwa. He said he had a Qing vase ready for me.” Jimin says, watching as Seokjin reached down to pile the jars and saucers he’d used together into a wooden toolbox. He heaves them up into his arms, hugging them as if for safety.
“Oh,” Seokjin smiles at him, and keeps talking as he starts walking towards the counter, Jimin following closely behind. “you should have said so yesterday. He’d just left an hour ago to Yeouido, because Rowoon had an emergency.”
“An emergency? Is he alright?” Jimin walks after him, eyeing his plain white shirt and the flannel he’d thrown above it, the ripped jeans he’d worn. Seokjin was speaking too casually with him, as if he wasn’t a stranger, as if yesterday’s incidents had not happened. Jimin eyes the door and wonders if he should bolt rather than stay for whatever conversation is surely about to ensue.
“Yes, most likely. Sometimes Rowoon just does that when he secretly misses Jonghwa’s cooking too much.” Seokjin says as he moves papers off the counter and sets the toolbox down, shooting Jimin a quick and sly smirk, obviously amused by Rowoon’s antics and oblivious to Jimin’s internal conflict.
They move past the counter and into the door behind, which opened into a room that doubled as half a cozy kitchen and half a workroom. To the right was a wooden table laden with jars and saucers and brushes, filled with work tools used to keep antiquities clean and new. To the left was a kitchen counter and another table set with four chairs. Stairs leading to a second floor separated the two, and Jimin followed after Seokjin as he walked towards the kitchen.
Seokjin motioned him over to the table to sit and he does, watching the older closely as he moved around. Seokjin set a cup of Darjeeling tea in front of him before moving over to the workroom, seemingly rummaging beneath the table.
He takes dainty sips of the tea as he listens to Seokjin work: lukewarm, two sugars, and a dollop of honey, just the way he’d always liked it. He wonders if, like the way he’d absentmindedly rubbed the paint off Seokjin’s cheek, this was muscle memory to Seokjin too.
He hears Seokjin yell out an Aha! and stops drinking to turn towards the latter, who was now moving back next to him, carrying a closed crate marked fragile on the side. Seokjin sets it atop the table and opens it, pulling back flaps of bubblewrap to show off the piece inside. Jimin stands up and peers in, unable to stop from grinning as he sees the vase.
It was, to put it simply, stunning. A detailed, delicate porcelain vase with a narrow neck decorated with intricate concentric lines and flowers, while its body was inlaid with elaborate perforations and enameled cartouches that show off a colorful dance of deers, tigers, and cranes. It was beautiful, and Jimin knows fully that Heeyeon—the co-worker he’d promised the piece for her birthday for, would love it.
“What do you think?” Seokjin asks him, looking at him fondly.
“It’s exquisite. It’s wonderful, truly.” Jimin replies, grabbing Seokjin’s hands and giving them a squeeze, forgetting for a moment what they were, grateful when Seokjin only smiles and thinks nothing off the touch. (God, how had he managed to run from Seokjin for almost a century when he’s like this?)
Seokjin wraps up the vase again and they move to the counter to process their transaction, Jimin insisting on paying more than necessary and calling the extra money a tip. Seokjin finally accepts it and helps Jimin carry it to the door, where they both wait for a taxi to take Jimin to the station.
“Right,” Seokjin suddenly says, turning towards Jimin while they waited, holding up a hand for Jimin to take. “I forgot to tell you my name. I’m Seokjin.”
A multitude of emotions pass around Jimin’s face before it suddenly shuttered, emptying out. He takes Seokjin’s hand limply. “Jimin.”
If Seokjin notices the sudden change in his demeanor he says nothing of it, instead mouthing Jimin’s name and turning back away, knowing the other no longer wanted to make further small talk.
Jimin feels as if his heart was a champagne burn, the pain and ache once again heavy inside him. He wonders what would happen if he tells Seokjin about them, their shared history. Wonders if they could live close without fear nor worry of dying, of ever having to start again. If he ever has to feel Seokjin die again, or look at him as if he was a mere stranger—he thinks he won’t be able to bear it.
And if Seokjin learns of how he’d ran from him—what would he say?
The taxi soon arrives and they say their goodbyes and thank yous, Jimin getting into the car with a last request for Seokjin to say his greetings to Jonghwa as well once he comes home and to get in touch with him. He rests his head back against the car seat’s headrest and closes his eyes, hoping against hope that he never sees Seokjin again.
Seokjin stays outside and watches as the car gets further and further away before fully disappearing, heart heavy inside him for reasons he wasn’t sure of.
Jimin was a mere stranger and yet Seokjin had felt more at ease with him than anyone else he’d ever been with, the blue haired man achingly familiar yet Seokjin had been unable to place the memory he must have remembered him by since yesterday.
He turns towards the shop to enter when a sudden hand on his shoulder stops him, a stranger with a boxy smile suddenly calling his name and hugging him. He was quick to pull away in confusion, eyes darting between the stranger who’d hugged him and the other mint haired stranger who’d suddenly appeared next to him.
“I’m sorry—” Seokjin says, backing away from them and wondering if he should call the police. “Who are you?”