Chapter Text
Jimin: 25 years old, South Korean citizen for 11 days.
Jimin was born and raised in the northeastern city of Hyesan, into a family of four with a reasonably good songbun*. His mother's predecessors have sided rightly during the Korean War, a grandfather's grandfather even doing commendable service during the Japanese Occupation. Jimin's father, in turn, was a decorated military official in the air force--a man who often gets called to Pyongyang to attend various military-related functions. Their good standing has landed Jimin the opportunity to even study Dance in the capital, a privilege to be able to pursue a career he actually dreamed of. Jihyun, his younger brother, has expressed wanting to follow him into the capital, with his aspirations aligning towards the military like his father.
He lived in a happy household. His home was a standard two-room house with an amazing view of Yalu River, equipped with a generous backyard that his mother converted half into a vegetable garden. Whenever his father left for Pyongyang, Jimin and Jihyun often found themselves squeezing in bed with their mother, the burning kerosene lamp a source of heat during cold winter nights. Winters in Hyesan were harsh--crops few and far in between as they live in a region with scant arable land, the city surrounded only by mountains of spruce and pine, the river too cold and too solid to fish. Yet, they continued to survive. People of Hyesan were known to be hardy folk.
"I think this is good for today, Park Jimin-ssi."
Jimin blinked as the man in front of him pressed his recorder to a stop, his other hand busy scribbling notes from today's session. Min Yoongi was a man who did not dally around, often asking him the most straightforward questions and staying quiet as Jimin tried to slur out the words that formed his rather, in his opinion, messy storytelling.
Yet if there was one thing Jimin valued the most about the man in front of him, it is his ability to listen.
"Straining you from telling too much will just be counterintuitive," Yoongi explained before Jimin could even ask. Jimin closed his mouth and nodded, breathing a sigh of relief. "Now, let's proceed with your lessons."
Lessons consisted of a crash course in World and South Korean history, a virtual tour of modern Seoul, as well as a part of contemporary culture that Yoongi often asked him to pick. They often did this once a week, complete with recordings and workshops that'll boost his capacity to understand and navigate properly as a citizen in modern South Korea. For the past few weeks, Jimin has been briefed about the Internet and has been introduced to the concept of a smartphone. He did, however, prefer to stick to the more conventional type with buttons, as the newer models were too much for his brain to handle.
Yoongi quizzed him on topics they discussed the past week and Jimin answered properly, confident in his ability to retain information. He could see a small pleased smile blooming on Yoongi's lips as they progressed towards the review and, as their session nears its end, Yoongi asked him about which topics interest him these days.
"K-pop," Jimin responded after much thought, making the elder man gawk at him like a fish. "I...was supposed to be a dancer back ho--" He stopped himself. "Back in North Korea. And, sometimes, I heard my contemporaries talk about K-pop."
Yoongi sighed and scratched his head, his hesitation evident.
"K-pop...can be a bit too much, Jimin-ssi," he said with a frown. "Aish, and I'm not knowledgeable enough to discuss it." It was a murmur, yet Jimin heard the sentiment all the same.
Thinking if he should retract his initial request, Jimin frowned and sighed, opening his mouth to do so.
"But," Yoongi stopped him. "I can have someone else to teach you. If you're comfortable with that."
Jimin nodded and bowed low, words caught in his throat and unable to thank the elder man. He watched as Yoongi slipped on his shoes and headed out the door.
--
Jimin wakes the next day at five in the morning. It's a habit, so deeply ingrained in him, that even bodily exhaustion could never shake. There were days in his exile that he stayed up as late as the roosters began to call the dawn and yet still finds himself jolting awake at the same time. Twenty years of doing so can do that to a person.
He would still do the exercise routine in the hollow space between his bed and the bathroom door, mind half-awake as his body navigated through attuned movements. He could hear it, in his head, the low thrumming of the marching band song they played every morning in his home town. Jimin never missed a day of morning exercise in his life. Not even during his sickest of days.
He made his way to the kitchen to boil a pot of hot water, a kettle conveniently provided for him. His half-awake state mindlessly searched for charcoal for the next few minutes, before he remembered that the stove generates fire by itself. It hasn't failed to amaze him how electricity in Seoul is in abundance, and that they had no need to do power outtage during the mornings.
He made ramyeon in the way Yoongi taught him three days ago, when they discussed the concept of instant foods. Pouring the proper amount of hot water and waiting for the noodles to cook, he stirred the powdered seasoning in. Yoongi left him with a pack of instant rice, as well, and Jimin decided to open one before he sighed, forgetting that he had to microwave it first.
God, living in South Korea is hard.
Finishing his meal, Jimin cleaned and decided to prepare himself. He took a cold shower in the middle of February because he forgot how the heater worked, and managed to finish in a record of three minutes--teeth clattering due to the cold. He dressed in haste and boiled himself some water to warm himself, about to drink it before he realized that he had tea in the pantry.
The abundance was one of the first things that gave Park Jimin whiplash--and it still does.
Truth be told, Jimin did live a rather abundant life in Hyesan, as well, a life not a lot of the North Koreans were given the opportunity to achieve. His parents were highly favored in their community and that came with a some benefits. They were even allowed owning a pet. And yet, despite the leeway provided to them by their government, his father was a man of simple ways and joys that he instilled a modicum of living similar to families living in their pine-shrouded city and Jimin and Jihyun lived a simple, yet contented, life.
He has heard stories, of course. Stories of defectors like himself who found it difficult to comprehend the abundance of the open world, the options provided by free trade. The smugglers he met at Senyang had spoken broken Korean, yet they tried to ease him into the truths of worlds beyond the Communist regimes. Jimin, too shaken and too afraid, was unable to comprehend as much.
He was just finishing folding his dirty laundry when he heard the faint yet familiar knocking on his door, the pattern only indicative of Yoongi. Jimin righted his clothes and opened the door, blinking owlishly as he glanced at his mentor's companion.
The man was tall, taller than both him and Yoongi. Waves of dark curly hair fell on his face, pale skin reddened with a blush from the biting cold of Seoul winter. His face was so strikingly sharp despite the scarf that swallows half of it, and all Jimin could see was the curiosity swimming in his big doe-like eyes. A part of Jimin thinks if this guy was Korean, at all.
He invited both men inside and watched as they removed their shoes and coats, remaining silent as they righted themselves. Yoongi shivered the moment he did so and Jimin blushed, unable to verbally admit that he, once again, has forgotten how to work the household heater. He watched as his mentor turned towards the heater by the living room and turned to Jimin, hand already poised towards the dials and he found himself walking towards Yoongi.
"The numbers indicate the temperature in Celsius," Yoongi explained as soon as Jimin arrived by his side, voice devoid of judgment. "You just have to press this green button here, turn it to your desired temperature and let the heated do its thing."
"Thank you, Yoongi-ssi."
As the room grew steadily warmer, Jimin decided to take the kerosene lamp by the kitchen. He motioned for the two men to sit on his now warm living room, remaining quiet as he waited for them to start the conversation. Jimin, in this new and overwhelming world, still maintains a level of silence in the presence of South Koreans, afraid of saying something that could jeopardize his station in a country that was closest yet farthest from home.
"Jimin-ssi, this is Jeon Jungkook," Yoongi introduced the man beside him, who immediately did a bow. Jimin returned the gesture, hands placed tightly on his lap. "He will be orienting you on K-pop."
"It's nice to meet you, Park Jimin-ssi."
Jimin noted how his voice was not as low as Yoongi's, yet not as saccharine as his own's. The man was broad, he also noticed, sitting in the heated living room without all the layers of his winter clothing and only in clad in a dark blue sweater. Jimin could trace the outline of muscular arms beneath the fabric and his gaze landed on the man's hands--big, capable, and most likely laden with strength, although uncalloused and unbruised.
"You are young," Jimin found himself saying, making the man look up with eyes wide and reddened lips opening in surprise. "Younger than me."
Jimin could tell a man's age based on the lack of bruises in their body. He could tell whether or not they have done their duty to their country just by the slight postures and the roughness of their hands. Jimin, wfter all, was the son and brother of two military men.
"That he is," Yoongi answered with a dry chuckle. "It's why I got him to teach you stuff that even I'm too old to comprehend."
"I am twenty-two this fall, Park Jimin-ssi," Jungkook replied with a forced smile and Jimin nodded, noting how the younger man's shoulders tensed and relaxed in the slightest of movements.
Somehow, the age comment seemed to have irked the man before him.
--
Park Jimin was a boisterous child. He attracted people to him like moths to a flame, his smiles so blinding that some of their neighboring ahjummas called him Hyesan's Hyeon--sunshine. He was good friends with the city minister's two sons--Taehyung and Namjoon, often finding themselves walking along the riverbanks during humid summer days. Taehyung would speak a mile a minute about the things his mother got off Chinese traders beyond the Yalu River, while Namjoon looked below bushes and upturned some of the river rocks in search of an insect or a frog. Summers in Hyesan were filled with bounty and life, a sharp contrast to the biting and harsh winters they experience, and Jimin had always spent these moments outdoors.
Park Jihyun, in contrast, was a quiet and meek child. Jimin loved his brother, endeared with how much the younger chose to spend his summers cooped up inside their home with his mother. Jihyun enjoyed music and literature, the lull of the summer heat as he read and painted by their garden. He was, in every word, so similar to Jimin's father that people often remark how his mother barely got anything of herself into their youngest child, to which his mother would pettily respond that Jihyun got her nose. Whenever Jimin finds himself home as the curfew bells ring, sun-kissed and sweaty from his outdoor activities, Jihyun would welcome him with the sounds of the sitar or the brushing of pages from a book and Jimin would find himself at peace once again.
Somehow, Jeon Jungkook reminded him of Jihyun. They would be the same age, now that he thought about it. He was quiet as Yoongi went through the standard interviews and recordings, taking anything Jimin was willing to disclose about his life up in the North and even, in time, the reasons of his defection and escape. He could see the confusion and curiosity in Jungkook's eyes as he narrated his stories--childhood memories of a warm hearth and a complete family: hugs from his father as he arrives at Hyesan Station, warm meals at the dinner table despite the darkness from lack of electricity, Jihyun's soft laughter during the dead of night as they tried to contain themselves speaking about the ridiculousness of their friends. Jimin knew that he painted a picture different from the usual North Korean defector, lived a life so bountiful by their standards that it confused Yoongi at the start, and now, Jungkook. He spoke of fond memories, of amazing views, voice full of longing and reverence for a nation that the outside world predominantly called evil.
Jimin knew that they were waiting patiently for him to tell the story of his defection, to put a why towards his actions. Did he learn the truth about the world? Did his family do a mistake so ghastly that made them lose their high songbun? Were his family killed, maimed, beaten? Why, would someone like Park Jimin, who seemed to be living a blissful and bountiful North Korean life be driven to travel all the way to the South, accompanied by fear and persecution?
Yet neither asked nor did Jimin share.
--
"You will be doing your first excursion tomorrow, Jimin-ssi," Yoongi reminded him as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. "Jungkook-ssi will be taking you."
Jimin nodded mutely as he watched the two men wrap themselves in their coats, scarves and boots by the doorway. The session today was a success, Jimin liking how patient and accommodating Jungkook has been with their lessons. Yoongi mostly observed and quipped his opinions on specific matters from time to time, yet he mainly let the rapport happen between Jimin and Jungkook. Yoongi mentioned, in passing, that he will be leaving for Daegu in a few days and Jungkook will be his replacement mentor for the duration of Jimin's assimilation period.
"We'll just be riding public transportation to and from the grocery," Jungkook assured him with a soft smile that Jimin found himself returning. "I will pick you up at nine."
They left him with provisions as they left and Jimin found himself making his own dinner. He showered as he left the stew to boil, hot water running through his body as he remembered how to operate the heater. Finishing his bath, he microwaved a cup of instant rice and poured over his stew as he ate in relative silence.
It was barely two weeks now, that he had officially set foot in this foreign yet familiar land. Two weeks since he was transported from Shanghai, via plane, into the southern nation that he was led to believe to be inferior. And as Jimin ate, he finally gave himself the freedom to cry tears--
--of longing, desperation, hope, relief, Jimin did not know. All he could think of at that moment was he didn't forget how to turn on the stove, didn't forget how to work the heater, didn't forget to microwave his instant rice.
And maybe, despite his heritage and upbringing and struggles, he could find footing in this nation, too.