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the only positive way jongdae can spin his divorce with mina is this—he can finally come back home to south korea, land of the best street food in the world, no matter what the food trucks in new york say.
he’s packing his suitcase inside their multimillion-dollar home, stuffing designer shirts and jeans in a way that will horrify anyone with an ounce of fashion sense. jongdae barely has a gram of fashion sense, much less an ounce, and clothes are clothes, honestly.
“honey,” mina says. she’s dressed nicely in red. she’s going out on a date. jongdae is envious. they have finalized the divorce three days ago and here his wife—ex-wife—is, meeting a man four years younger than she is. he needs to step up his game. “are you sure you’re flying back to south korea?”
jongdae shrugs, “not like i have anything much to do around here.”
his ex-wife scowls, “you’re leaving a high position at wells fargo.” she smooths out her dress, turning around and showing.
“you look nice,” jongdae comments out of reflex. her ex-wife beams at him and he says, “and i’m not leaving it. just taking a sabbatical year. besides, i have enough money to live comfortably for my entire life. i need some new air.”
his ex-wife shakes her head like jongdae is making the worst mistake of his life by going back to their homeland. he can’t say for sure now but he feels like it’s about to be a good thing. he tells mina as much and he’s met with a wary glance.
“where are you even going to stay?” mina sits down, perching herself on one of the cushioned seats in their shared closet.
jongdae grins, “my best friend from high school, kyungsoo. he’s offering me free lodging until i find a place of my own.”
mina hums. she has met kyungsoo—tiny man with wide eyes and baby-like features—during their wedding. she gives jongdae a smile, but it still seems skeptical, saying, “i hope you enjoy your stay.”
the thing about icn is that it’s nice—like, airport nice. jongdae has been in worse places around the world and the smell of home is comforting against the buzzing noises of travelers. he drags his luggage with him, the big one covered in stickers and not the pretentious louis vuitton suitcase he carries during business trips.
he pushes his sunglasses up, craning his head to various directions and trying to spot familiar big eyes. jongdae wheels his stuff with him and in a few seconds, he hears a loud “jongdae!”
he turns around and sees his best friend. jongdae opens his arms wide as the smaller male barrels into his embrace. he envelopes kyungsoo, even lifting the man off of his toes and twirling him around.
let it never be said that jongdae is not a dramatic man.
“i miss you so much, my kyungsoo,” he coos, putting the younger male down. he pinches one of kyungsoo’s chubby cheeks and wow, jongdae has missed this—kyungsoo himself not just the chubby cheeks.
“miss you too,” his best friend mumbles. his smile is heart-shaped and it puts jongdae’s mind at ease. he loops his arm around jongdae’s as he drags him out to the open air. it feels nice to be home, he thinks.
“i made lunch for you,” kyungsoo says as they head to the direction of a luxury suv in the parking space. “and then you can sleep—the guest bedroom is all nice and clean.”
jongdae smiles, pulling his best friend closer to him.
this is the best idea he’s ever had.
this is the worst idea he’s ever had.
jongdae wakes up the next day and he’s glad that the time difference and the jet lag barely affects him—perks of being a frequent flyer, he guesses. he barely has time yesterday to process everything as he kyungsoo shoves food down his throat before shoving him inside the guest suite. if jongdae is not so sleepy and full, he figures he’d have noticed the very suspicious state of kyungsoo’s apartment.
like the fact that it’s not just kyungsoo’s.
it’s eight in the morning, on a saturday, and he feels like a new man when he comes out of the bedroom. he’s freshly showered and his hair is tamed for once. his stomach is growling for kyungsoo’s home cooked meal.
and then, jongdae sees him.
there’s a tall man in the kitchen dressed—well, he’s not really dressed, jongdae notes, eyeing the wide expanse of the man’s back and the sweatpants hanging low on his trim waist. when the man turns around, eyes drooping down, jongdae momentarily feels the need to hit the gym because wow, those abs.
“who the fuck are you?” the man asks. he’s holding a brown mug with a cartoon bear face. on the counter, there’s a navy blue one with a penguin.
“who the fuck are you?” jongdae retorts. if anything, he could probably defend himself even if, he looks at the man nervously, this dude has biceps almost the size of his head.
the man looks confused then. he squints, “uh—kim jongin.”
kim jongin, jongdae tries the name on his tongue. it sounds familiar.
“what are you doing here, kim jongin,” he asks, hackles raised. what is this man doing in kyungsoo’s apartment? is he—
“i live here?” the man takes a sip of whatever is inside his mug.
jongdae takes the time to process that, eyebrows pinched together in confusion. “you live here? wait, what do you—”
they’re interrupted by the sound of yawing and a mumble of good morning and the two of them turn around at the same time to the sight of kyungsoo wearing a large shirt and mismatched socks.
“kyungsoo!” they both snap. the small male jumps at the noise as the grogginess instantly disappears from his eyes. “who is this man?”
kyungsoo blinks his wide eyes, slow before it becomes rapid.
“uh-oh,” he murmurs and jongdae suddenly has no idea what shit he’s in.
“how can you forget to tell me that you’re living together with your boyfriend of five years? how can you forget to tell me that you even have a boyfriend of five years?”
jongdae is gesticulating like a wild man. his hands are pointing towards kyungsoo who’s sitting down like a child being scolded, looking contrite. the man—jongin—looks like he could care less. he’s still not wearing a shirt.
“fiancé, hyung,” jongin drawls. never before has jongdae heard the word hyung being spoken with so much insolence. “i’m kyungsoo’s husband-to-be.”
and wow, jongdae has also never heard of another person be so proud of being a spouse-to-be.
“kyungsoo,” he barks, ignoring jongin. the man clicks his tongue and jongdae would have given that impolite son of a bitch a piece of his mind once he’s done wrangling the information out of his goddamn best friend.
“i told you about jongin!” the man replies, indignant. he’s still wearing a large shirt and jongdae’s eyes almost bulges out of their sockets when he realizes it must have been owned by kim jongin—kyungsoo’s apparent fiancé, what the fuck.
“i would have remembered if you told me about the fact that you’re getting married!”
kyungsoo flushes at that and he fiddles with his ring finger where, jongdae eyes it, there is no ring. his best friend probably removes it every night, putting it back when he’s freshly showered like the neat freak that he is.
“jongin only proposed to me two days ago,” he says, blushing, and that. that is another what the fuck moment right there. kyungsoo looks up at jongin and the taller man looks down and they share this look—this look that jongdae can guess the name of but he sure as hell knows, from the sheer devotion in one glance, won’t be enough.
he coughs. “well, introduce me now, kyungsoo.”
kyungsoo beams and he perks up. his hands point toward jongdae, saying, “jongdae, this is my fiancé, kim jongin.” he throws a smile at the tall male’s direction and introduces him back.
jongdae extends his hand and he makes sure their handshake is firmer than what it’s supposed to be.
it turns out that kyungsoo has told him about jongin. it’s just that the two of them have other more important things to talk about—like food, for example. or music.
it’s completely understandable. jongdae would rather talk about the rising popularity of kpop in the western industry than talk about kyungsoo’s hunk of a man. and jongdae says that with no less than a fuckton of sarcasm.
he’s seriously not salty. he isn’t. it’s not like he’s the divorced third wheel inside this gangnam apartment.
he tries to be patient, seriously, he does but what the fuck, he thinks in anguish—it’s ten minutes past midnight.
something is banging against the fucking wall.
the downside of living in apartments is that there is no room to have a separate wing for guests. now, jongdae is staring up at his ceiling wide-awake because there are loud noises in the room next to his.
jongin and kyungsoo’s room.
there’s a keening, “harder, jongin, fuck me harder, baby!”, before hears a high pitched, “faster! fuck me faster, plea—” that breaks off in a drawn out moan.
and jongdae here, he’s a child of god really, but that sound is not from kim jongin and he’s pretty sure it’s not from porn.
jongdae has never realized kyungsoo is this vocal in bed.
he stuffs his head under his pillow and the banging sounds do not stop. he prays to god and to jesus christ to put him out of this misery. he hopes to god the couple next door finishes early or better yet, he suddenly just drops dead—or becomes an amnesiac.
when he realizes that kyungsoo is sobbing while screaming about how good jongin is and how big his dick is, jongdae lets out a cry and considers his options. like suicide or, a much better alternative, murder.
he wakes up the next morning feeling like shit. a hangover is better than this.
jongdae walks into the kitchen and drinks straight from the almost finished bottle of orange juice. he has been with kyungsoo for less than three days and he’s already itching to go back to new york and drown himself in work to forget the memories of last night.
god, apparently, does not exist.
kim jongin walks out of the bedroom looking like he just had the best night of his life. judging by how long the noises are persisting last night and how vocal kyungsoo is, jongdae is willing to bet that jongin gets a lot of best nights.
oh and also—he’s not wearing a shirt. he looks like a bear got him.
idly, jongdae wonders how worse kyungsoo looks like.
“good morning,” jongin greets him with a smirk.
jongdae wonders what the smirk is for.
jongin turns his back to him, deliberate and calculated, to show the impressive array of scratches decorating his skin. he wears them like they’re battle scars and not like what they are—kyungsoo’s desperation to get fucked, if what jongdae has heard last night is to go by.
and then, realization dawns on jongdae.
“are you jealous?”
jongin freezes up and jongdae wants to laugh out loud. he has not been in south korea for 72 hours and he already has someone in a twist.
a record if he says so himself.
jongin gives him the stink eye and jongdae wants to laugh because the other looks like a petulant child. like this, he doesn’t seem like the rich investment banker that kyungsoo has waxed lyrical poetry about.
“jongin,” he snorts. “i’m the token straight friend in our group.”
the man’s lips quirk at that and jongdae watches the change in jongin’s expression. he grimaces at first—like jongdae’s heterosexuality is pretty offensive to him before it morphs into understanding and then, realization.
jongin grumbles, “i’m not jealous.”
“sure. sure,” he smirks—that one annoying smirk that never fails to send anyone into dreams of early retirement.
jongin’s face falls.
jongdae releases a loud laugh.
“and also,” jongdae lowers his voice. “i’m practically obligated to give you the shovel talk but if you ever hurt kyungsoo in anyway, remember—i know people.”
jongin grins at that, replies, “as if.”
the loud noises does not stop at night but jongdae deals with it with a pair of earplugs and soft, calming music. sometimes, he pulls up the sound of beach waves and pretends he’s in bali instead of seoul.