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The rain came suddenly, cold and hard against Namjoon’s face. His dirty sneakers soaked it up and he felt his socks getting wet. He thought about how, if he could, he would give up the little he had left for a blanket and hot chocolate. But he couldn’t go back home, not now. So he kept walking, letting his socks and jacket get soaking wet. Water was dripping from his bangs onto his cheeks, and he thought it was actually quite nice, that his body refused to cry but nature still somehow made him.
Hongdae was bustling with life, girls in short skirts screaming playfully and running for cover, people in restaurants laughing behind wet windows. Namjoon didn’t know where he was heading, let his feet drag him through the familiar city, wandering without purpose. His mind was clouded, that one scene playing out over and over again in his head and filling his body with a cold feeling incomparable to the cold caused by the rain. Somewhere halfway across the busy district he came up with a new lyric.
He kept walking, and there was still the rain accompanying him, which was almost comforting. Suddenly, there was also the buzzing of his phone in his jean pocket, which he ignored. He was pretty sure it was the person he least wanted to talk to right now. His wet feet led him through the city, through streets he had wasted his youth away in, past convenience store he had bought his first bottle of alcohol at, the alleyway he had his first kiss in. And before he knew it, onto the street he had visited countless times as a child, as a teen, where he had fallen off skateboards more often than he could count, where he had shared laughs and where he had cried. Now, there was nothing left there for Namjoon. Hoseok’s parents had moved out of the city, and Hoseok had moved into a tiny apartment, the neighborhood now silent and unwelcoming.
Namjoon mindlessly walked further into less familiar areas, the rain still pouring down onto his face, his hair. He felt more miserable by the minute, like he was going to cry, scream, or throw up. But he didn’t do any of those things. He just kept walking for what felt like hours, getting colder and colder, more and more miserable. And then, suddenly, he was in front of Hoseok's door.
He thought it was kind of funny how, somehow, even when he wasn’t in control, he would always end up being pulled towards Hoseok.
His knuckles stilled, hesitating a little before hitting the hard wood three times. When the door swung open his friend was there, hair tousled, wearing sweatpants and a worn T-shirt. He took Namjoon’s form in, scanned him from head to toe, before looking at his face with concerned eyes.
“Joon-ah?” he said, uncertain. “Are you okay?”
Namjoon stared at the toes of his shoes, which were touching, and shook his head.
“No.” His voice cracked, but he didn't cry.
Without saying or questioning anything, Hoseok let the door swing open and stepped aside for Namjoon to enter. He toed off his soaked sneakers and stood there for a while, wavering, not wanting to make his friend's floor wet.
“Take them off,” Hoseok said. “I’ll get you some dry clothes.”
So Namjoon changed into his friend’s clothes, an old, baggy tee with chipped print, a pair of pink socks, and a pair of sweatpants with legs that rode up to halfway past his calf when he sat down on the couch, next to Hoseok. At last, he looked up from his toes and into his friend’s eyes, which were swimming with worry. There was so much Namjoon wanted to say. So much that needed to be said, and yet, his mind came up completely blank. No words could begin to cover what he was feeling (hurt? scared? betrayed? empty?) and he had barely even processed what had happened. He hoped Hoseok would understand that.
And of course he did. Of course he knew the other’s tells, he always had, and Namjoon knew he always would.
“You don’t have to talk,” Hoseok said. “But if you want to, I’ll listen.”
He made his friend tea with honey, talked to him about the past week, showed him projects he’d been working on, tried to take his mind away from that dark place. They ended up under Hoseok’s warm duvet, Namjoon’s head on the other’s chest, listening to the rain on the bedroom windows. He didn’t talk at all that night, and Hoseok understood.
Namjoon thought about how, all those years ago, the universe had somehow guided him to the right elementary school, where he met the loud but sweet boy who played with him in the playground when nobody else would. How the universe had made them meet each other again after years of no contact. And how tonight, it had led him to this apartment, straight into the warm embrace of the most important person in the world.
He thought about how Hoseok always somehow made his way into the lyrics he wrote. About all the art, music and landscapes he compared to the boy. About the countless times he had been able to fall back on him. About how none of his other friends ever stuck around, but Hoseok did.
He thought about the idea of a soulmate, and realized that it hadn’t been the first, or the second, or the third person he’d dated. The universe had always led him back here.
Namjoon finally understood it had always been, and would always be, Hoseok.