Chapter Text
All Namjoon wanted was to find a quiet place to study.
Which should have been easy, really, given that the Empire Academy had four libraries and over a dozen study halls – if he remembered reading the brochure correctly. Today was only his first day in school, and already he was beginning to get an idea of how… unique… this school was compared to his previous one.
Empire seemed a very fitting name for it, since the campus was large and majestic enough to put even ancient European castles to shame. Unlike typical universities in Korea, which were usually grey and rectangular and nondescript, Empire spanned the length of five football fields put side by side and had towering golden roofs with spires that reminded Namjoon of old gothic movies. The spiral staircases were covered by lush red carpets. Tea rooms and cafeterias – if you could even call it that, because they looked more like restaurants in Namjoon’s humble opinion – boasted the finest leather and Persian rugs. The school even had a rooftop helipad of its own. Rumor had it that some students preferred coming to school via their private helicopters, because limousines made them “woozy”.
Mother in heaven, Namjoon mused, watching his schoolmates compare Hermes bags and complain over the state of their unkempt yachts in Jeju. The students here are treated like royalty.
He supposed that some people were just lucky enough to be born with silver, golden and perhaps even crystal spoons in their mouths. Empire Academy was elite, very much so, but not because they produced top scorers or held outstanding sports team records.
It was a school for the rich bastards of Seoul.
And Namjoon, well, Namjoon felt very much like a cheap can of sardines in a buffet spread of premium salmon specialties.
All he wanted was to settle down in a quiet place to study, but in every room he peered into, he found only pompous chatter and unnecessary noise that even his earphones couldn’t block out.
“Graduate,” he muttered under his breath. “I just have to graduate.”
Dragging his feet across the narrow hall connecting the East and West wings, he noticed that the floors were made of white marble, polished as if the school was built yesterday. Glancing up, giant chandeliers and candelabras loomed over him, hanging from the vaulted ceilings. Namjoon half-feared he’d get lost on the first day of school, but the desire to get away from people triumphed everything else, so he kept walking, searching, hoping for silent reprieve.
There were less people milling about here – likely because the classrooms were concentrated around the East and North wings. The West was saved for more special occasions and housed the arts-related spaces like the theatres and studios, and as such, all the music rooms were here, too.
Reaching the end of the pillar-lined corridor, Namjoon turned left, and found himself walking down a line of – yes, music rooms.
There was no sound coming from any of the rooms, not even that of a piano. Namjoon’s heart gave a little cheer. Had he found what he’d been searching for? Was he finally going to be able to study without hearing millennials prattling on about their boring summer break spent in their private islands off the coast?
Edging close to the one with a sign overhead labeled, ‘Music Room #3’, Namjoon pressed one ear over the brown mahogany door. Not a single sound. It must be empty, then. He reached for the brass handle. Not locked. He smiled, relief and excitement dancing in his veins. Here was a discovery. Here was a rare opportunity to be alone in peace!
Turning the knob, he pushed the wooden door open, and found it… not empty after all.
“Welcome.”
A breeze caressing his cheeks (where did that come from?); rose petals tangling in his hair (where did those come from?); classical music filtering through the air from some unseen speakers in the ceiling. There was a blinding flash of white as Namjoon’s eyes took their time getting accustomed to the overwehlming brightness of Music Room #3, and when his vision finally adjusted, he was met by the sight of not one, not two, but six men gathered—no, draped—around a sofa, lounging around as though they were models posing for a magazine. One of them even had a rose in between his teeth.
Namjoon’s breath caught in his throat. His first thought was: Wow.
His second thought was: Am I still in school?
“Oh?” gasped a boy with strawberry-blond hair, sitting to the far left. He was of slight stature, slender and lithe like a ballerina, and he was peeking over at Namjoon from behind another guy’s shoulder – one with black hair and a steely gaze that sent chills down Namjoon’s spine. “It’s a little early, don’t you think?”
“E-early?” Pulse spiking, Namjoon pressed himself against the mahogany door, hands trembling lightly on the doorknob, ready to bolt. Wrong room. He looked around him – pink walls, pink tiles, pink velvet curtains. This was no study hall, or even a regular music room conducive for getting paperwork done. Wrong room!
What was this place? Had he inadvertently stepped into a fraternity zone? Or perhaps this was a secret gathering for yaoi activities? His mind ran rampant with all sorts of ideas. Namjoon reminded himself to appear nonchalant. “Early for what?”
“The Host Club doesn’t open until 3p.m,” quipped another one of the guys, the one with sunset-orange hair and rimmed glasses over his nose. His eyes flicked down to his wristwatch. “Taehyung, Jungkook, did you leave the door unlocked before operating hours again?”
Namjoon didn’t know who those names belonged to, but judging from the way two of the guys reacted – by grinning at each other and shrugging – he could make a wild guess who they were.
“Oops.” Both red-haired and standing beside each other, Taehyung and Jungkook gave Namjoon a customary once-over and said in unison, “But look, Hoseok-hyung, it’s a boy.”
A boy? Namjoon wondered why that sounded so surprised. So what if he was male? He opened his mouth to speak, but someone beat him to it.
The Glasses Guy – or Hoseok, whatever – nodded. “I know, I have eyes.” To Namjoon, he smiled, not unkindly, and said, “You’re the new honor student in my class, aren’t you?”
Namjoon gulped. He should just go. He really should. The doorknob was right there. Something told him if he answered, he would sorely regret it.
And yet. “Uh. Yeah, I am. Hi?”
Perhaps Namjoon was a little curious about the war zone he’d walked into. Now that he was studying Hoseok more closely, he did remember seeing this guy’s face in class earlier. Huh. So they were classmates then. Namjoon stepped away from the door, now more at ease since it didn’t look like he was in trouble. Now that logic was kicking in, he thought that maybe he’d just stumbled into a random after-school club. Yeah, that must be it.
At his answer, the young man sitting in the middle of the sofa like a king – pink hair, red lips, blue eyes holydamnshit – bolted to his feet and sputtered, “What?” The rose that had been in-between his teeth slipped out of his mouth at his sudden outburst.
Namjoon looked at him, and realized he was unable to tear his gaze away. He looked like a prince. Tall and regal and broad-shouldered and oh fuck Namjoon should not be having strange thoughts about strangers so early from first impression alone but here he was.
The young man in question had his eyes blown wide, lips parted as though he’d just heard the most shocking statement of his life. “An honor student!”
Blinking, Namjoon said cautiously, “Yes…? I’m here as Empire’s first ever scholarship student.”
Blue Eyes stood up and approached him, circling him as though he were a shiny new toy, and hummed in acknowledgement. “So you’re the famous Kim Namjoon we’ve been hearing about.”
The famous… what? “Sorry but-“ Namjoon shook his head, not quite understanding. Who were these men, anyway? They were students of Empire, sure, but what was their business in an unused music room and most importantly, how did they know exactly who he was? “How do you know my name? Who are you?”
Blue Eyes balked at him as if he’d asked something horrid and offensive, before throwing his head back and laughing. His laugh was… well, his laugh reminded Namjoon of his dad’s windshield wipers on a rainy day. “Allow me to explain,” he said once he’d calmed down, wiping away the tears shining in his eyes.
(Namjoon wondered what was so funny.)
“The Empire Host Club is where handsome boys, such as myself, with too much time on their hands…” he paused for effect, “…entertain and charms girls and boys alike – we’re not fussy – who also happen to have too much time on their hands.” Blue Eyes flicked his cherry-pink hair over his ear. “It’s the school’s own personal playground for the elite and privileged and I, Kim Seokjin, am the founder and club president. Welcome to our world, commoner!”
Namjoon stared. Commoner? He was dead certain he was dreaming all of this up. What were the odds of boys like Kim Seokjin actually existing outside of Korean dramas and shoujo mangas? “So um. In other words, you guys are like a PG-rated brothel?”
Seokjin stepped back, gasping as though he’d been slapped in the face. Then his face crumbled and he let out a cry of, “Hobi! Hobi, he called our club a brothel!” He scuttled to one corner of the music room and huddled his knees together, sulking.
Hoseok patted his shoulder soothingly and sighed. “I’m sorry,” he told Namjoon. “Our club president can be a little… sensitive, at times.”
“He’s like a piano,” chimed in the most silent one of the group, the small one with pale skin and raven-black hair. “Always pressed.”
“Oh,” Namjoon said, bristling under Seokjin’s bruised gaze. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”
Much to his surprise, Seokjin sobered up quickly. He straightened up and bounced back on his feet like an uncoiling spring, all smiles once more. “Apology accepted. I must forgive you, since you are Empire Academy’s hero.”
Namjoon’s eyebrows knit together. “Hero?”
“Yes!” Seokjin sauntered over to him, hands resting on his hips. “Despite your lowly circumstances, you managed to scavenge your way into Empire Academy, and even though you are a scholar, you are still the poorest person in school. How amazing is that?” He sniffled into a floral handkerchief, eyes swimming with sympathy and a sort of admiration that Namjoon couldn’t possibly accuse of being false. “And for that reason alone, you must be celebrated! All hail Namjoon!”
“All hail Namjoon,” the other guys chorused, raising their hands mid-air.
Mother in heaven, Namjoon prayed. Please wake me up from this bizarre dream.
He reached behind him to try and grasp the doorknob, only to remember that he wasn’t leaning against the door anymore. Instead, he was standing in the middle of the music room. Huh. When did his feet bring him here?
I need to get out of this weirdness. Slowly, so as not to raise alarm, he inched his way towards the door at the corner of the room.
“So, what is your preference?” Seokjin inquired, voice like melting honey over a pot of gold. “The cool type?” He pointed to the quiet guy with black hair. “That’s Min Yoongi for you.”
Namjoon tilted his head to one side. “Huh?”
“Or perhaps Hoseok, the wild type?” Seokjin continued. “Then again, you might be into the Loli-Shota type – in that case, Jimin’s your man.”
The first guy who’d spoken up – the one who looked like a ballet dancer fresh off a stage – flashed Namjoon a shy smile with a small wave. When he grinned, his eyes crinkled into half moons.
Fuck, he’s cute, Namjoon thought. Like my little cousin.
“Or how about the Little Devils type?” Seokjin wandered over to Taehyung and Jungkook, slinging one arm around each boy’s frame. “These fraternal twins have got you covered.”
All at once, understanding ripped through Namjoon like a streak of lightning, and mortification heated his cheeks. Seokjin thought he was a host club customer? “It’s not like that!” he cried, backing away. “I was just looking for someplace to study-“
“You can study with us,” Taehyung deadpanned with a shrug. “Our guests come to us primarily to seek company.”
“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” crooned Jimin, grazing his upper teeth over his lower lip.
The next moment went by in a blur of irregular heartbeats and supposedly un-gay panic. Before Namjoon realized it, Seokjin had rushed up to him and leaned close, taking his chin in-between his fingers. “Or maybe… you’re looking for someone like me,” Seokjin murmured into Namjoon’s red-tipped ears. “Would you like to try me?”
It was too much – Seokjin’s proximity, his warm breath fanning against his cheeks. It was sensory overload. Namjoon wasn’t into guys – he was one hundred percent sure he was straight – and yet without his permission, his heart seized up and his breath caught in his throat. What in the world. What the hell.
When his brain finally regained control of his muscles, Namjoon scrambled backwards, squirming out of Seokjin’s grip and flailing about with his arms to keep balance.
Too bad for him, he didn’t see the vase on a countertop just right behind him. Perhaps heaven was having too much fun watching him struggle. With a panicked sweep of his arm, Namjoon accidentally knocked the blue, porcelain vase off its place.
Crash.
Horror. Pure, unadulterated horror threatened to swallow him whole. Like watching a slow motion video, Namjoon could only stare as the artifact shattered into a million tiny smithereens, every nerve in his body short-circuiting.
The following silence was even more deafening than the crash.
“Uh-oh,” Jungkook remarked, not sounding worried at all.
“Ah, what a pity,” Hoseok tutted with his tongue. “That was a 16th century Joseon piece worth fifty million won.”
Namjoon choked on his breath, and he staggered back, nearly tripping over his own two feet. “Fifty…” his words trailed off.
Fifty million won, gone just like that. That was a lifetime’s fortune of tuition fees, food supplies and rent bills! Terror gripped Namjoon, and a sheen of sweat beaded his forehead. He was sure not even his own life insurance was enough to cover that amount. Just how privileged were these kids that they could leave priceless artifacts lying around in the open air just like that, anyway?
Without thinking, he blurted out the only thing his mouth could come up with: “I’ll pay you back.”
“Could you even?” the twins countered, not in a boasting manner but with genuine curiosity. “You can’t even afford the Academy’s uniform.”
It was true. Looking down at his basic jeans-and-pullover outfit, Namjoon felt shame creep over him. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t have the funds to buy a uniform! It was optional anyway, and he assumed that just like every other university, every student would prefer to wear their own clothes. (That didn’t turn out to be the case for Empire – people loved walking around wearing the uniform like a grand statement.)
“Hmm?” Seokjin hummed, folding his arms. His cheery, hospitable demeanor vanished, replaced by a cunning glint in his eye that had Namjoon worried about his scholarship status at the Academy. Would Seokjin ask him to compensate with his education?
“Please, I’m terribly sorry,” Namjoon implored, face distorting with despair. He couldn't let himself fall into debt so early in his life. “I… I’ll do anything! Whatever it takes.”
“Anything, you say?” With a low chuckle, Seokjin settled back down on the luxurious sofa and crossed one leg over the other. “Have you heard of the saying, ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’, commoner?”
Namjoon swallowed down the brick of a lump in his throat.
“If you can’t pay your debt with money you don’t have, then pay with your body,” Seokjin declared, pointing an index finger at Namjoon.
All around them, a series of gasps erupted.
“From today onwards, Kim Namjoon, you are a member of the Host Club.” Seokjin grinned, teeth pearly white, flexing his fingers. Standing up, he made his way to the double mahogany doors.
“And with this, I now announce that the Host Club is open for today’s business.”