Chapter Text
It happens like this.
One day you meet someone and for some inexplicable reason, you feel more connected to this stranger than anyone else--closer to them than your closest family. Perhaps this person carries within them an angel--one sent to you for some higher purpose; to teach you an important lesson or to keep you safe during a perilous time. What you must do is trust in them--even if they come hand in hand with pain or suffering--the reason for their presence will become clear in due time.
Though here is a word of warning--you may grow to love this person but remember they are not yours to keep. Their purpose isn't to save you but to show you how to save yourself. And once this is fulfilled; the halo lifts and the angel leaves their body as the person exits your life. They will be a stranger to you once more.
-Angels, lang leav
The sky still glows blue-gray when Seokjin squints open and turns over in bed, curling into himself for warmth, the cool linens biting at his toes. The glowing green numbers on his bedside alarm clock tell him it’s almost 6:30, meaning he has a few more minutes to burrow in the warmth of his comforter and mentally prepare himself for the day (or let himself drift back into sleep until his phone alarm comes blaring at quarter ‘til. He chooses the latter today).
The highlight of his morning, like most mornings, comes in a white paper cup with “Seokjin” scrawled on the side in black Sharpie: a white chocolate mocha, more sugar than it is anything else. He’s been teased before for getting a teenage girl drink, to which he responded that drinks have no gender or age, and that he drinks it precisely because he’s a grown-ass adult and he can drink whatever the fuck he wants to drink. The person who teased him, a short blonde behind the counter, had been unfortunate enough to be anything but completely pleasant to pre-coffee morning Seokjin, a mistake they’ve never made twice. But this morning, no one hassles him about his coffee, and he sips it with revere on his stroll to the office.
It’s Friday, which means he has his weekly sales report summary presentation at nine. In the meantime, he sits at his desk and tries to look busy by opening his empty email inbox and drafting yet another email that will never be sent: Dear Mr. Choi, I want to say it’s been a pleasure working for you, but it hasn’t. If I have to look at your fucking houndstooth ties for one more day I might actually smash my head through the box monitor of the computer you so kindly provided for me. In fact, the piece of shit serves more purpose as something into which I will smash my head than it does running Windows 2007 (2007!!!!) and blacking out every time I neglect to save my spreadsheet.
Luckily, nine o’clock comes quickly enough (especially when the kid in the cubicle next to his, Jimin, challenges him to a paper ball throwing match), and his presentation goes well (as usual) despite Mr. Choi’s nagging (also as usual). His lunch is at 11:30, so he has another hour and change to burn. He considers sending Mr. Choi that email, or one of the other 202 drafts he has of similar emails saved in a folder. He considers actually bashing his head against the glass (glass!!) screen of the monster they call a desktop computer. He also considers stapling his own hand to see if he could get out of work for it.
As a less drastic option, he could always just take a sick day. A half of one, anyway. When he leaves for lunch, he can call in with the the typical excuse - “It’s coming out both ends!” - and take a little bit of a long weekend.
This he actually does, though he does nothing else on his list, for better or for worse. He pulls a book, a real paper book with dog-eared corners and a paper spine, off his bookshelf and gets lunch in his favorite quiet cafe. His phone stays in the car, and he eats his kongguksu slowly as he skims the pages. He should do this more often, he thinks.
He buys a cake before he leaves, absently planning his evening - a Netflix movie and a bath, maybe, or some wine and a home-cooked meal with beef - and he must not be looking because he bumps shoulders with someone dark-haired and broad, someone who jumps back and looks at him with wide, surprised eyes.
“Sorry,” Seokjin says with a smile.
The boy relaxes, but it’s a little delayed, and so are his words when he says, “No, no. I’m sorry. That was my fault.”
“No worries. I didn’t drop my cake, so we’re good.” Seokjin smiles again to let him know he’s joking before turning away and walking back home. Cute kid.
He spares no other thought on the kid for the rest of the day. He’s preoccupied by a run to the grocery store for beef and wine, then scrolling through inventive new recipes and cooking.
Rather than a movie, Seokjin ends up marathoning Law of the Jungle after his bath. The beef he cooks is better than usual, and he makes a note to bookmark the recipe in his permanent favorites. He drinks maybe a little too much wine, because he starts to get sappy and sad wishing someone else could have enjoyed dinner with him. Wishing someone could snuggle up with him on the couch and watch Law of the Jungle with him, kiss his neck, maybe, and touch him how he hasn’t been touched in so long. Sighing and corking the wine, he decides to go out next weekend and try his luck. He falls asleep, dizzy and cold and alone in his big bed.