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Namjoon runs his palm over his face. His other hand holds his phone a hand’s width away from his head. Once the white noise on the other end settles, he presses it to his ear. “Now,” he says into silence, “wanna tell me everything you just said again, but without making me half-deaf?”
The server slides a mug of black coffee on a white saucer in front of him. He mouths thank you; she smiles back before tending to the other customers. He’s grateful there’s a diner attached to the gas station, even if he can only satiate his hunger with caffeine.
“Okay,” Hoseok exhales. “Maybe we can try this again. Maybe I’m missing something.”
“Shoot.”
“Where the fuck are you?”
“A gas station.” Namjoon looks around the diner. He takes the phone away from his ear and mutes it. “Excuse me,” he calls to the server behind the counter, “what town is this?”
“Chowchilla,” she offers, holding up a finger. “Just north of Fresco.”
Namjoon thanks her and unmutes his phone. He brings it back to his ear. “In Chowchilla.”
“Basically in Fresno. So three hours away.”
If Namjoon were in front of Hoseok in that moment, he knows the expression he’d see: tightly pressed lips, furrowed eyebrows with light wrinkling between them, and closed eyes with no visible emotion. They’re the type of eyes where, if he were to look only at Hoseok’s eyes, they would appear serene. “Now,” he says after a moment of silence, “How the fuck did you end up in Fresno?”
So maybe there are a few things Namjoon didn’t expect of himself during his trip to California for a wedding between his two closest friends. The first was to have a three hour flight delay. Namjoon never did make it to his hotel in Los Angeles, so he lost his deposit. Maybe that was for the best.
The second was booking a flight to Los Angeles in the first place. Yoongi and Hoseok’s wedding is in San Francisco. They also live in San Francisco. Namjoon doesn’t know why this didn’t cross his mind when booking the tickets. This led to him buying a rental car for a set number of days—only two—and he needed to return the car before Sunday evening or else he would be charged late fees. No one likes late fees.
The third thing was that the car’s tank was only half full when he drove it out of the shop. Namjoon didn’t think to check it before he left LA. The trip from there to San Francisco is almost six hours, and if he had a full tank, almost everything could have been avoided. He also could have made it to the city with six hours to spare.
The fourth thing—oh, this list doesn’t seem to end—is forgetting to notify the credit card company that he was planning to travel out of the country. Apparently one purchase with a car rental company some ten thousand kilometres away raises more suspicion than one would like, and as expected, they froze his account. He didn’t have too much in his chequings because everything was in savings instead, so he used his debit card to pull as much as he could from an ATM at the next gas station: a whole forty American dollars. He purchased half a loaf of near-expired bread, a small tub of butter, three bananas, and a case of plastic water bottles. He did not, however, fill up the gas tank.
The fifth thing happened when the empty tank light finally flickered orange on Namjoon’s dashboard. He made it to the next gas station with a few miles to spare, but the little booth was closed for the day, but he doesn’t understand why they would be closed at 11 in the morning on a Saturday. Instead, to keep the station running properly, there were security cameras and a card machine that required payment before using the pumps. Not a single one took cash. He is still three hours away from his destination, and his deadline is in four hours, at 2pm.
“That,” Namjoon concludes, “is how I ended up a little ways north of Fresno with almost no money and a rental car whose remaining miles are in the single digits.”
“Do you still have the rings, at least?” Yoongi calls out, far away from the pone.
Namjoon closes his eyes. “Yes, I do.”
“Why did we leave you in charge of them again?” Hoseok says, defeated. And, okay, maybe there was a sixth thing to add to his list of things he did not initially expect, but in a chronological order this would be considered the first thing: Hoseok and Yoongi decided to have their wedding rings crafted by a jeweller in Seoul—they even Skyped him to talk about the details. Namjoon lives the closest to the jewelry store, so he was given the task of picking up the rings, guarding them with his life, and bringing them over to San Francisco.
“I don’t know,” Namjoon says. “We all know that I wouldn’t even trust myself with something like this. I appreciate your trust in me, but this was a bad idea from the start.
“And no one said anything about it,” Yoongi pitches, still from afar.
Hoseok sighs. In a calmer voice, he asks, “Do you have a charger for your phone?”
“Yeah. I brought it into the diner with me.”
“Okay, good. I would transfer you money, but your cards are practically null.”
“Correct.” He can’t see it, but Namjoon smiles into his mug. “But thanks for the kind thought. I’ll let you know what happens and how things go along. Maybe you guys can wear fake rings until I show up to the reception with the real ones. I can probably work for three hours here and get cash for my help.”
“Knowing how things typically work out with you, you’ll figure something out. I’m stressed, but I still have faith in you, Joon-ah.” In the background, Namjoon hears a clattering sound and a yell for Hoseok from a frustrated Yoongi. Hoseok laughs. “I have to help Yoongi prepare festivities before he yells for me again. Keep me updated.”
Namjoon sends him off with a quick goodbye and Hoseok hangs up. In actuality, there’s no way for Namjoon to get to the wedding on time—let alone reach San Francisco—without selling the rings or his body. Or a part of his body. He read somewhere that kidneys and livers go for pretty high prices. He takes another sip of his coffee before sliding it away from him, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the tabletop instead.
“Excuse me.” Namjoon doesn’t lift his head off the table, but his eyes fly open. He had been speaking Korean the entire time he was on the phone; no one in that diner should have understood him. This stranger, sitting in the booth directly behind him, had pardoned himself in Korean. This stranger, sitting on the opposite side of Namjoon’s booth, had heard the entire embarrassing explanation of how he ended up stranded in Chowchilla.
“I couldn’t help overhearing,” the stranger continues. In Korean. “You sound like you’re in a bit of a situation, but I have an idea, if you’re willing to hear me out.”
This is how people get kidnapped or abducted, Namjoon thinks. This is how his life will end. But despite all the red flags in his mind, he has to admit to himself one key fact: he’s desperate. From his gaze against the tabletop, he says, “What’s your idea?”
There’s no answer right away. Namjoon hears shuffling from the opposite side of his seat, the clack of shoes, and then creaks from the worn leather across from him.
“You need money for gas,” the stranger starts, “and I need to get to an airport. If you’re willing to drive me into San Francisco—I can take one from there, no problem—and if we run out along the way or come into complications of any sort that require money, I’ll take care of it. I’ll even give you enough cash to last the remainder of your own trip, if your bank cards still aren’t working by the time we get to the city.”
Namjoon sighs. His breath fogs up the glass top. He slowly lifts his head off the table and straightens his back, but he still doesn’t make eye contact with the man in front of him. Instead, he pulls his coffee closer to him. Everything seems too perfect, especially because it’s coming to him like this in a time of need. “What’s the catch? It can’t just be that you need a ride to the airport.”
“Nope. That’s the only thing. I’ve already missed my flight. My phone is dead, so I’ve been stuck here. I’m a little surprised no one has an iPhone charger or a power bank on them.” He pauses. “If it makes you feel a little better, why don’t we say the catch is that I borrow your charger during the trip?”
There’s a man in front of Namjoon offering him money in exchange for a ride and a phone charger on a bright, sunny day, just outside of Fresno, inside a diner playing a happy rendition of Everybody Wants to Rule the World. Totally not horror-movie perfect. Before Namjoon says anything else, he decides it’s probably a good idea to look the man in the eye while he talks.
It’s safe to say that, on first glance, Kim Namjoon promptly chokes on his coffee. The guy in front of him holds a hand out and places it on his forearm. He hears a faint are you okay? followed by a choppy English-spoken request for a glass of water, and once he feels the cool glass in his hand he starts drinking it.
The stranger is practically model material, for lack of a better descriptor, and doesn’t look like someone who would end up stranded in the middle of California, practically labelling himself as a rich hitchhiker. His hair is a dyed blond and pushed away from his forehead, but a few strands fall forward and out of their styled place. His eyes are wide and round—mostly with worry, after Namjoon’s little episode—and his lips are disgracefully full. To make matters worse, he was wearing a full suit: tweed blazer, dress shirt, and a slim black tie. The clacking he heard probably came from dress shoes. From the hand still stretched across the table in worry, Namjoon made out a single diamond cufflink.
Meanwhile, Namjoon is still in his loose track pants, cheap plastic slides, and a band t-shirt he found sitting at the bottom of one of his drawers. It had a hole near the bottom hem, but travel clothes were meant to be comfortable.
Once his epiglottis begins to function properly, Namjoon takes a few deep breaths to steady himself. His face was probably bright red from that choking fit. The stranger tilts his head at him. “Are you all right?”
“That’s a relative term,” Namjoon says, his words coming out slowly. Once he feels like he’s regained enough of his composure, he finishes the rest of his water. “Thank you for grabbing me water.”
“You’re welcome. You won’t die on me, will you?”
“I’d rather not,” Namjoon deadpans, and the stranger smiles. The coffee in Namjoon’s stomach rises and falls. He prays there isn’t another grain of sugar lodged in his throat.
The stranger nods and leans over the table. In a quieter voice, he says, “I know you almost died just now, but I really do need your help, and I’m hoping we have some form of a deal. This gas station and maybe even this diner are to blame for my problems today, and we should leave immediately because I’m pretty sure it’s cursed.”
Namjoon blinks. “Cursed.”
“Yes.”
“You think a gas station is cursed.”
“And maybe the diner,” the stranger adds. “But it’s definitely possible, and I’d rather not stick around to test out my theory. What do you say to leaving while we can? You’re on a tighter deadline than me, after all. Aren’t you?”
“Ah…yeah, I am.” Namjoon looks around the diner. There are maybe ten other people—including the wait staff—scattered around the seating area, and the customers either have their eyes buried in their phones or are talking to the person across from them. No one pays the two of them any mind; Namjoon is now slightly more convinced that he isn’t going to be kidnapped. He sighs. “Okay, we have a deal. I’ll drop you off at the airport, you’ll give me the extra money to help me survive until I have to leave, and then I can return the rental car sometime after the wedding.”
The stranger’s eyes light up. “Really? So you’ll help me?”
Namjoon eyes him. “Please don’t look so surprised. You’re a very animated person. I feel like you’re going to pull a knife out on me while I’m driving and eat my innards.” Rather than be offended, the stranger laughs, and that wasn’t the reaction Namjoon was expecting. “Anyways, we’re both in tight situations. How come you’re stuck here, anyways?”
The stranger looks at his watch. “Maybe we should save the backstory for when we’re on the road. We still need to fill up the gas and make it to your chapel by—when?”
Namjoon shrugs and checks his phone. There’s one new message from Hoseok. “The service starts at 3, but my friend just told me there’s no service after theirs today, so they might be able to push it to 4.”
“I didn’t think moving a service time was possible.”
“Neither did I.” Namjoon stands up and stretches. “Well, that isn’t something to worry about right now. You can charge your phone in the car. I’ll pay for my coffee and then we can fill up the gas.”
“Okay. Hold on.” The now-acquainted stranger stands—Namjoon gauges they’re around the same height, so maybe he can lend this man some of his comfier clothes—and walks towards the server by the register. He throws his backpack over his shoulder, takes his receipt, winks at Namjoon, and rushes out the door without another word, which leads Namjoon to splutter out a thank you! before running outside after him.
“Wait—we haven’t even exchanged names yet!” Namjoon calls to the stranger’s back. He doesn’t seem to react; all he does is walk over to the station the rental car is parked in, insert his card into the little machine, punch in a few numbers, and lift the pump off the holster and into the car. With one hand. The other hand rests in his pocket like the suave businessman he’s making himself out to be. Namjoon’s eyebrow twitches. Maybe he’s the type of person that lounges around the house in slacks and an itchy polo shirt, too.
They stand there in silence—the man stares at the digital display above the pinpad; Namjoon stares at the man attractively doing the most mundane thing—until the gasoline pump goes back into its holster. Another receipt prints, the man throws it in the garbage, and then he walks up to Namjoon with his hand outstretched. Namjoon takes it. “Kim Namjoon.”
“Kim Seokjin,” the man responds, his smile holding something mischievous, “and the son to the CEO of Kim’s Kitchen Supplies. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
§
The first hour was nothing short of awkward. Namjoon’s hands—and his entire body, really—remained tense on the wheel with the knowledge that he was driving the son of a CEO back in Korea. Seokjin sat in the passenger seat, still in his full suit, and every few minutes he would check his still-charging phone for notifications. At one point Namjoon had asked him if he wanted to listen to some of the music he had downloaded, and Seokjin said sure, but he was silent as he scrolled through the selection, and when Namjoon took a glance at his face, he was grimacing.
Seokjin ended up deejaying between radio stations. Conversation between them ceased.
At the end of the hour, Namjoon pulled off the road so they could take a pit stop and go to the bathroom. (Seokjin doesn’t need to know this, but Namjoon has a horrible bladder.) He watches Seokjin step out of the car and adjust his suit. “Would you like a change of clothes, Seokjin-ssi?”
He looks up. “What do you mean?”
“Your...suit. It looks uncomfortable.”
Seokjin blinks. “My suit is Armani.”
“Armani isn’t synonymous with comfortable,” Namjoon says. “I can’t say much for your shoes, but I have sweatpants and t-shirts if you want to use those for the next two hours. We’re about the same in build. And you can just change back when we’re close to the city.”
“No, I—” Seokjin stops himself. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Do you have a garment cover and some hangers?”
“No,” Namjoon says, drawing out the vowel, “but you’re more than welcome to lay your items flat over my suitcase. Or have them catch on the backseat material. Or they can lay flat on the roof of the car.” He pauses for added effect. “Or something.”
“How do you travel without a hanger or garment bag?”
“How do you not have a hanger and garment bag in your backpack?”
Their eyes lock in irritation. Seokjin scoffs. “Okay, touché. I’ll lay them flat in the backseat afterwards, but I’ll take up your offer on comfortable clothing.”
He pulls out his suitcase from the trunk and feels around for the first t-shirt and bottoms he can find. They go to the bathroom together and Namjoon returns to the car first. It had only been an hour and a bit, and he still didn't know what to make of the CEO’s son. His wants his initial feelings towards Seokjin to be that of disgust, which is what he typically feels towards corporate kings, but his son is nice. Granted, he could be a lot more than nice, and maybe accept Namjoon's offline music instead of the radio station static they had listened to for at least half an hour.
A few minutes later, Namjoon catches sight of Seokjin’s blond head coming towards the car. The man sticks out like a sore thumb in the context of the empty countryside—could it even be called the countryside?—no matter what he’s wearing. The Armani suit was one thing, but Namjoon finds himself watching the way Seokjin moves in a pair of light grey sweats with tight ankles and a plain black t-shirt.
“I took the liberty of buying us something from inside,” he says when he opens the passenger door. He holds up a plastic bag with the stop’s gift shop logo on it.
“That’s kind,” Namjoon says, staring at the bag. Seokjin grins at him, his arm unwavering. “What, uh—what did you get?”
“Hats.” Seokjin finally puts the bag down by his feet. He pulls out two hats—one pink and one black—and hands Namjoon the black one. In embroidered cursive it reads Fresno, CA. “Consider them a keepsake for this interesting trip.”
“It’s only been an hour, you know,” Namjoon says, turning the hat around in his hands. He feels strangely happy over such a trivial item. “By the time we’re a half hour away from our destination, you’re going to regret ever buying me something.”
“That’s a dumb thing to regret.” Seokjin runs a hand through his hair to keep it back as he puts his pink baseball hat on. Namjoon raises an eyebrow at him, but he pays it no mind. Instead, he lifts his head higher in order to make eye contact with Namjoon. “Anyways, I look great in pink, so I had to get this one. And I don’t know what your favourite colour is, but you look good in black, so I went with that.”
Namjoon looks down at his black track pants. The sudden onslaught of chatter and compliments is throwing him off. “Ah, thank you?”
“You’re welcome. Now let's keep going.”
So they do. They listen to another twenty gruesome minutes of radio static before Namjoon finds the courage in him to turn it off. The silence goes on for two minutes.
“Do you dislike radio static as much as I do?” Seokjin asks. Namjoon doesn’t turn his head away from the road, but he eyes him as best as he can; the guy is staring ahead as he speaks.
Namjoon turns his gaze back. “If you dislike it, why did you let it play for half the time we’ve been in this car?”
“I wasn’t sure how to break the silence. I don’t have anything with me to keep me occupied.” He pauses. “My phone's still charging.”
“I have music on my phone.”
“Your music is... questionable.”
“I’d retort with ‘and yours isn’t?’ but you haven’t played any of yours yet.”
“I will once my phone is at full battery—until then, I got nothing.”
Namjoon doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Okay, how’s this for a little ice breaker: how did you end up stranded in Fresno?”
Seokjin barks out a single laugh. “It’s pretty stupid, actually. I have nothing to back myself up with, either. Just don’t kick me out of the car for it.”
“I wouldn’t do that—we made an agreement.”
“Fair. Okay.” Seokjin inhales. “My father sent me to Fresno for him to take notes for a conference going on. Apparently it was of the utmost importance that he attend, but he had another conference the same day where his attendance was metaphorically detrimental, so he had me take over for this one. He told me to take one of his cars with him so that went under with the plane’s cargo. Landed in San Francisco, drove to Fresno, made it to the conference... and then I decided to stop at that gas station on the way back.”
“You know,” Namjoon says, “the way you’re telling this story makes it sound like you’re either going to meet a serial killer or the love of your life.”
“And you’ll never know which one,” Seokjin says conspiratorially. He laughs. “Anyways, I stopped at the gas station the morning after the conference to fill up on gas and grab a bite to eat at that diner. I brought my backpack with me because I couldn't find my wallet fast enough. So I’m sitting there, eating my not-so-little American breakfast, when I see three guys practically come out of nowhere and crowd around my car.”
“You should have gotten up and talked to them.”
“No. Bad idea. Why would you suggest that?”
Namjoon shrugs. “Seems like the right thing to me.”
“You didn't see what they looked like." Seokjin visibly shudders. “But anyways, I just sort of sat there and narrowed my eyes at them and it was only when they started getting into my car that I realized they were stealing it.” A pause. “Three stupid teenagers hotwired my father's black BMW. And I was officially stranded.”
“Oh God—a BMW? Of all things? That’s horrible.”
“It really is. It was a 6-series and only from 2017—wait. Are you being sarcastic?”
Namjoon bites his lip to hide a smile. Their entire conversation consisted of both of them staring ahead at the empty road—if Seokjin had looked at him a few times, he couldn’t tell—but now he could feel the stare boring into his head. “I don’t know car models, but it sounds expensive.”
“You really built up my trust just to break it back down.”
“There isn’t even trust between us. What are you talking about?”
“This thing we’ve been building.”
“But I never lied to you.” Namjoon pauses. “I’m not denying that having your car hotwired and stolen is a horrible thing, by the way. But I also never explicitly stated any truths, so there is no building or breaking of anything.”
“That aside, I’m wounded. It was an important car.”
“I don’t think you get it, though.” Namjoon drums his fingers lightly on the steering wheel. They had reached another small down and were stuck at a stoplight. “Picture this: a beautiful blond Korean man walks into a small town diner wearing an Armani suit after parking his father’s BMW.”
“Beautiful Korean man, hm?”
“Not the point.” Namjoon ignores the heat rushing to his cheeks at an alarming rate.
Seokjin is silent. “I don’t see the point.”
“The point is that you aren’t exactly subtle.” The light turns green. “That’s part of the reason I offered you my clothes. You didn’t look comfortable enough to be travelling anywhere.”
Conversation takes off from there, and the last hour and a bit of the car ride is full of both music—from Seokjin’s phone and Namjoon’s—and little comments or questions that led to further discussion. By the time they were ten minutes from San Francisco, Namjoon began to feel a little sad about having to drop Seokjin off at the airport. He grew to like having his company around. Even the mildly upsetting conversation about whether a tiger or a shark would win in a water-based battle put him in a good mood. He wanted to ask Seokjin for his number, at the very least, but he didn’t know how to go about that, especially when there was the anxiety of Seokjin’s familial status. It doesn’t seem to be something that affects him beyond the material wealth he grew up with, but Namjoon comes to his own conclusion that maybe the two of them are best acquainted never speaking outside of their three-hour road trip.
“So,” Namjoon says, taking a ramp off the highway to direct him to the airport, “where exactly should I drop you off?”
“Ah—what?” Namjoon sneaks a glance at Seokjin. He looks out the windows. “We’re already at the airport?”
“Yeah, I mentioned it a while back. You were eating the last butter sandwich.”
“That explains why I don’t remember this. Those sandwiches were another level of distraction.” Namjoon snorts. “Anyways,” Seokjin adds, “I know you just got off the highway, but I think you should go to your service for your friends first. You can drop me off later.”
“Don’t you have to go home?” When there’s no answer, he adds, “Won’t your father wonder why you missed your flight?”
“Not really.” Seokjin shrugs. “I told him I missed my flight and would stay a few extra days in San Francisco. There’s no harm in it.”
“Ah. So… where should I drop you off?”
“Wherever you’re going.”
Namjoon steps on the breaks and the car screeches to a stop. In the midst of talking, he didn’t realize the stoplight changed to red. The car behind him honked. “Wait.” He turns to look at Seokjin, who still has the pink hat on. “What do you mean wherever I’m going? I have to go to the service. It starts in–in—”
Seokjin laughs, and Namjoon abruptly presses his lips together. The same car honks at him again—the light turned green—and Namjoon turns his gaze back to the road, cheeks flaming. “Let me backtrack. That was a little abrupt. Do you have a plus-one for this wedding?”
“A plus—I—” The strangest turn of events. “No, I don’t.”
“If it isn’t a problem to you, the rest of the service, the newlyweds… would it be all right if I were your plus one?”
“I—We’ve known each other for three hours, I’m—I mean, I was—giving you a ride to the airport—”
“But I like you, and I want to spend a little more time with you, if I can.” The car goes into silence, but Namjoon’s heart and brain feel as though they’re going into overdrive. He didn’t realize how reluctant he’d be to drop Seokjin off at the airport until he was pulling off the highway and it was voiced. “But,” Seokjin adds, “if you don’t want to, then I can change in the backseat and get out at the next hotel we pass. There’s actually one coming up on the right.”
Namjoon had to think fast. Real fast. To show up to the wedding alone (when, in reality, Hoseok and Yoongi were prepared to set him up with a friend of a friend and he turned the suggestion down) or to show up with a hitchhiker (that ended up being son to a CEO and not as stuck-up as Namjoon first assumed)?
“Ah, Namjoon-ssi… we passed the hotel.”
“I know.” Namjoon tilts his head in Seokjin’s direction. “It shouldn’t be a problem, actually. I have a feeling my friends left me with an empty spot just in case I found someone along the way.”
“How would they know—”
“Don’t ask.” He hands Seokjin his phone. “I need you to pull up an address for me. We should be close to the venue.”
§
Namjoon throws the door open with a ferocity he didn’t know he contained. It flies back against the wall with a thwack and continues to creak well after it had been touched. Both parties are in the room: Hoseok is sitting in a car with his cheek stretched from resting on the palm of his hand; Yoongi’s standing and pacing with his hands in his pockets. Neither of them notice right away that Namjoon was there, standing in the doorway.
Neither of them look up. Namjoon clears his throat. “I made it.”
At his voice, Yoongi freezes in his place and Hoseok’s head shoots up to look at him. He rushes over to the door. “Oh my God. Oh my God, Namjoon, you made it—why didn’t you text me where you were?”
“I had to use my phone for other things,” he says, offering an apologetic smile. “But I’m here now and it’s, like, 10 to 3, so it still works if we start a little later than normal, right?”
“I’m going to kill you after this,” Hoseok says, but there’s no bite to his words. He eyes the crumpled black gift bag in Namjoon’s hand. “Are those the rings?”
“You know it. But you’re not allowed to look until you guys are about to put them on each other. I’m going to give them to the pastor.”
“Are you going to change?” Yoongi asks.
Namjoon jerks his head in the direction of the door. “My plus one is holding it for me. I’m going to get changed in the bathroom. It’s a good thing I know how to tie a tie—”
“Wait,” Hoseok interrupts. “Your what.”
“Plus one.” Namjoon starts walking out the door. “Come meet him. You still have to give him a place to sit in the chapel. I don’t know where he’s going to sit.”
“What if we don’t have a place for him?” Hoseok says, following Namjoon. “You told us you didn’t want us to set you up, and now you just pull someone off the street?”
“I didn’t pull him off. We met three hours ago. He also hitchhiked in the rental car. But he has a suit, so formalities aren’t a problem. And,” Namjoon emphasizes, “I know you two. You left me beside an empty spot just in case I met someone last minute.”
Hoseok doesn’t say anything. As they walk up the stairs and into the foyer of the church—almost everyone is already inside, waiting for the main attraction—he hears Yoongi say to Hoseok in a quiet voice: “He’s right, we did leave a plate beside him.”
When they reach the top of the stairs, Seokjin’s standing there with a small smile on his face. He somehow managed to change back into his suit in the time it took Namjoon to grab the grooms from their private room, but he still has Namjoon’s suit draped over his forearm. He holds up his free hand in a single wave. “Hello.”
Namjoon holds a hand out. “Yoongi-hyung, Hoseokkie, meet Kim Seokjin.”
“Also known as the plus-one extraordinaire,” Seokjin adds, and Namjoon has to bite back a snort. He looks from Seokjin to Hoseok and Yoongi, the latter of which looks dumbstruck. “Nice to see you again, Yoongi-ah.”
“You too, hyung,” Yoongi says, blinking slowly. “Glad to see you’re doing well.”
Hoseok looks at his fiancée. “You know him?”
“University roommates. Didn’t expect to see him after those fourth year business courses, to be quite honest.” Yoongi shrugs. “You’re welcome to join us if you don’t have anywhere to be.”
“I can come?” Seokjin beams.
Hoseok beams back, equally as bright, but more mischievous than Namjoon would have liked to admit. “In more ways than one, potentially?”
“Hoseok, what the fuck—”
“Quiet, Namjoon.”
“Only if the other party wants it, too,” Seokjin says, and now all Namjoon wants to do is make sure Hoseok never sees Yoongi as his husband.
“Hoseokkie, you’re disgusting, but formalities are something for later. We need to leave. Hyung, feel free to take a seat in the second pew. Namjoon will be sitting in the first, but he has to get changed—can you bring the rings up to the priest instead?”
“Anything for the local kitten,” Seokjin says. He takes the little black bag out from Namjoon’s fingers, but Namjoon barely notices it. He’s too focused on the mortified look on Yoongi’s face.
“That’s not something to relive,” Yoongi finally says, stuttering over some of his words, but it comes out at the same time Hoseok says, “Local kitten?”
“No, Yoongi’s right.” The jeweller’s bag dangles between Seokjin’s thumb and forefinger. “That story is for another time, and by another time, I mean at the reception when I’m too drunk to remember my trivial promise from years back.”
“I will have your head on a bronze platter,” Yoongi hisses. He pushes Namjoon closer to Seokjin. “You. Put that suit on like your life depends on it. I’m telling the pastor we’re starting in ten.”
It’s the quickest Namjoon has ever put on a suit; his is a classic black set with a shiny tie and little gold tie clip, with the three characters of his name engraved on the end. He wets his fingers with water to slick his hair back in such a way that was sure to stay (or, at the very least, fall gracefully over his forehead) and runs out of the bathroom. The sound of his heels are silenced when he hits the carpeted floor of the chapel, and it’s at the moment Namjoon reaches his seat in the first pew that the priest’s voice echoes through the small space: “Rise.”
§
The reception is more lively than Namjoon expected. The service had been more tight-knit, but the banquet hall was full of people. When asking how many people were invited, Hoseok tilted his hand in mid-air and gave the vague answer of anywhere between two and three hundred because he lost count at some point.
“Another drink?”
“Something mixed and sweet this time, please.”
“Ah, you’re Korean?” The bartender asks. Namjoon wasn’t looking at him initially, but he turns his attention to the figure behind the counter. After mulling over his words, he didn’t realize he He watches as the guy places a small glass on the bar and fills it up with vodka and cranberry juice. Namjoon thanks him quickly and downs the drink in one go. Namjoon hands the empty glass back before the bartender has a chance to move onto the next customer. He blinks at the empty glass. In standard Korean dialect, he asks, “So what’s the reason behind the quick drink tonight?”
Namjoon blinks. “There’s a reason?”
“You’re not the first person to surprise me by chugging their drink, but it doesn’t typically go without reason.”
“Ah.” Namjoon thinks about this for a moment. Why was he drinking so fast? “It may have something to do with my plus one, but I’m not entirely sure why or what it is.”
“A classic problem, believe it or not. Which one’s yours?”
He points a finger towards the opposite side of the dance floor, where Seokjin is busy laughing and dancing with Hoseok and Yoongi. “The blond one.” As an afterthought, he adds, “we just met today.”
“Cute. Hold on.” His lips pull back in a knowing smile. He places two tall glasses on the counter and throws in clear liquid, a different clear liquid, and a red liquid. “Here. Two red-headed sluts. Be sure to offer him one.”
“A what now.”
“Red-headed slut.” When the bartender grins, his eyes disappear into little crescent moons and he reveals a set of pearly white teeth. “It’s not yellow, unfortunately—I ran out of Galliano—but it should still do the trick.”
“Thank you, ah…”
“Jimin.”
“Thank you, Jimin-ssi. I’m Namjoon.”
Jimin beams at him. “Any time, Namjoon-ssi. Now bring that drink over to the cute boy.”
Namjoon holds up both glasses in thank you before walking around the dance floor to where Seokjin was. Seokjin catches sight of him and shimmies off the floor before Namjoon has a chance to sacrifice his already-limited balance. “Glad to see you’re making friends with the bartender,” Seokjin yells over the sound of the music.
“He’s a good guy,” Namjoon says. “I was told to bring you a red-headed slut even though it isn’t blond. Ah, but it’s from me, not the bartender. Although I wouldn’t blame the bartender for giving this to you, either.”
Seokjin takes the drink with a smile. “You’ve had a bit to drink already?”
“You say already,” Namjoon says, “but I say it’s already 11:30. I barely even had anything.”
“Interesting.” He drinks half the concoction, takes a breath, and then downs the rest of it. “So you’ll dance with me?”
“No.” Namjoon answers, abrupt as humanly possible. He finishes his own drink—when had he started it?—and places the glass down on the nearby table. He pulls a chair out. “I don’t dance. Not even while drunk at weddings. I don’t have the coordination for it.”
“There’s no way you’re going to sit out an entire night while your plus one dances around shamelessly for the rest of the night.”
“I just can’t do it. No fast dances.” Namjoon holds up both hands in an attempt to wave him off, but because the universe has something against him, a horrible transition connects the previous upbeat song to a slower one: Our Night by Fromm. He isn’t sure if Seokjin hears him, but his lips move enough to utter a horrific “oh no.”
“Oh yes,” Seokjin croons. Namjoon keeps his hands up in denial, but Seokjin ends up grabbing either of Namjoon’s wrists to pull him off the seat. They stumble haphazardly onto the dance floor and Seokjin helps right them both, placing his hand around Namjoon’s waist, letting his right hand rest lightly on Seokjin’s left. He tugs Namjoon closer; Namjoon instinctively looks down at their feet.
“Don’t worry,” Seokjin says, his lips close to Namjoon’s ear. “I’m not the best at dancing either, but slow dancing is a whole other category.”
“You say this now,” Namjoon shoots back, but his voice wavers and his cheeks are flushed from more than just the alcohol. Close proximity wasn’t on the to-do list for the night. “You probably have some form of dancing history because of other weddings or something. The last wedding I went to, I was eleven.”
“And you didn’t dance with anyone? Not even the flower girl?”
Namjoon’s nose bunches up. “My cousin?”
Seokjin laughs. “I take that back.” They dance without speaking for a bit, but the Fromm song is one of Namjoon’s favourites, so he begins to mouth the words under his breath, not caring for singing out of tune. “But the slow dance isn’t a lie, you know. It’s a very simple one, two, three, four…”
Seokjin uses the numbers to his advantage, saying them out loud in a voice only Namjoon was able to hear in order to help them keep time with their feet. At one point Namjoon’s foot falls off tempo and he ends up scuffing Seokjin’s shoe—he doesn’t know the brand of it, but again, it looks expensive—but all he does in respond to Namjoon’s incessant apologies is tell him to stop talking.
Namjoon stops. He stops, but it’s only for another few seconds, because then an idea dawns on him. “Say,” he says, looking at Seokjin, “what do you say to staying in my hotel room for the night? In case you still aren’t in a rush to get home or anything.”
“I told my father I’d be staying more than one night, remember?” Seokjin says. “Did you even buy a round trip ticket? Don’t you have to go back to LA for that?”
Namjoon grimaces. “I’d be willing to buy another ticket from San Francisco at this point. Or trade in my ticket. Is that even possible?”
“That sounds like a tomorrow problem,” Seokjin says. “Anyways, a more important question—do you even have a hotel room?”
“No I do not.” The song comes to a close. “Might I suggest walking around the city in search of an open room?”
Seokjin’s lips quirk in a way that only mean good things, and Namjoon’s heart leaps a little further than he would allow himself to ever admit out loud. “I like the way you think, Kim Namjoon.”