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In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. This was highly applauded by critics, but later garnered criticism publicized via the printing press and three-star ratings on Yelp. Then there was the bit about the garden (lovely roses) and the tree (very tall) and Original Sin (it was a whole thing), and then there was a little shop on the outskirts of Busan.
The little shop had a chalkboard sign, where “BUY” was vaguely written in swirly lettering. Another sign reading “MAKE A DEAL” was posted above the striped violet awning, evidently the name of the store. Across the street, a man dressed in black leather sat on his motorcycle. He sat there in the morning, and then in the afternoon, and then in the night, and then in the morning again when finally the door to the shop opened and a little white dog toddled off to the sidewalk.
“Are you coming inside?” The shopkeeper, dressed in an oversized Chanel white shirt and Prada slim jeans, leaned against his door. The motorcycle rider eventually got off his bike.
“What do you even sell?” the motorcyclist asked.
“Sell?” The shopkeeper seemed as confused as his shop. The cabinets had been built for books, and did indeed house a few bestsellers for cool summer reads. But decorative trinkets, like sand in bottles and seashells sold on the seashore, sat beside lush houseplants and flowers. None had any indication of price tags on them. The shop counter lacked a register.
The motorcyclist took off his helmet in a sweep of flowing dark hair. His lips, apple red, and his earrings, silver crosses. He unzipped his leather jacket, revealing a baggy black T-shirt bought at Saint Laurent’s. His face would be described by humans as very beautiful and fantastically lovely, and those who saw him would carry a hop in their step for the rest of their day. What they didn’t see was his true form, which unfortunately would be like cramming a blue whale into a one bedroom apartment.
“There are other ways of calling me.” Jungkook held up his phone.
“I couldn’t have done that.” The shopkeeper seemed offended, peering over his rose-gold sunglasses.
The most common way to contact an angel was by prayer. The second most common way, by default of the only other recorded instance, was KakaoTalk via an Apeach sticker with the text, ‘Tea?’
“Is this about your debut?” Jungkook asked.
The shopkeeper held a chair out for him. Jungkook sat down with a leathery squeak, and the shopkeeper finished pouring the tea. He brooded for a long moment, steam erupting from his porcelain cup and masking his face. Finally, he said, “What do you know about the Apocalypse?”
“That it’s a big deal?” Jungkook sipped his tea.
“Yes. We all go to war, humans die, it’s very big.” The shopkeeper brooded harder. “And it’s coming.”
“Yes.” Jungkook stuck out his tongue, having burnt it a little against the tea.
“Tomorrow. The world is ending tomorrow.”
“What?” Jungkook raised his eyes, flabbergasted.
They say the devil was in the details. That might be true. But a demon was definitely sitting in a shop in Busan, and having tea with an angel.
---
The first time they’d met, Jimin had been struggling with a pomegranate on top of the wall. He pawed at the membrane until he finally got the seed. “Would you like one?” he asked Jungkook, who had been watching from afar.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to take things from you,” Jungkook said unsurely.
“Oh. You’re a new angel.” Jimin did seem disappointed, but he threw the red seed into the air and caught it with his mouth. “I was an angel once, too.”
“And then you fell?” Jungkook crept out a bit closer.
“Sure,” Jimin said, after a long beat. Jungkook finally sat beside him, cross-legged with his arms over his knees. This was back in the day when halos were still in fashion, and horns as well, so his halo clinked against Jimin’s horns when he bent his head towards him.
“You don’t sound sure,” Jungkook said.
“No. No, I mean, I fell. Of course I fell. I believe in free will, and fallibility. Choice, and evil. Yes. I definitely fell.” Jimin ate another seed, avoiding eye contact. “Definitely.”
“You sound like you’re lying.”
“Well,” Jimin said. “It’s not like I don’t believe in those things. People should know about good and evil, and then, when they choose good, that makes it all the more powerful. And when they choose evil, that’s good too. I mean, good as in better, not good as in good good. Anyway, all I said was that the fruit looked tasty. That’s all.”
“All right.”
“It’s just,” Jimin said wistfully, “I didn’t really fall. Which actually would have been very dramatic and very cool, I think.”
“I think so, too,” Jungkook said reassuringly.
“It’s more like I overslept.”
Jungkook laughed. And he laughed louder when Jimin leaned against him in a sulk, scowling and already whining about how it was dramatic in its own way, really, coming so close to him that the halo got tangled up in his small dark horns.
---
“I overheard them talking about it when I delivered my last report,” Jimin said. “Seokjin was talking about how he’d been successful with his project, which was to look very handsome and sexy around churches, and then he made a joke about he was like praying on them and then he started laughing hard-” Jimin struggled to keep a steady face, but dissolved into light chuckles. Jungkook patted him on the back.
“You can do it, baby,” he said, and Jimin finally ebbed into a few stray hiccups.
“And the lower-downs, the big bosses, said that he’d get assigned to a higher project soon, because the Apocalypse was going to happen tomorrow.” Jimin hesitated. “And that’s when I texted you, angel.”
“The Apocalypse,” Jungkook repeated. “Wow.” The Apocalypse was always vaguely known to be an event up ahead. The pearly gates of The Good Place and the eternal damnation of The Bad Place had some things in common. One similarity was a metaphorical watercooler where gossip and discussions of the trolley problem were held. Another was that the Apocalypse was generally regarded as something that would happen but was not currently happening, and therefore not their problem.
“Actually, I think Metatron might have mentioned this,” Jungkook said.
“Hoseok?”
“Yes.” Jungkook nodded. “He’s been troubled this past century. And I told him, ‘see you tomorrow,’ and he said, ‘You’re a good angel, Jungkook, and I hope your hands won’t be sullied by the blood of sinners.’ But that’s sometimes normal for him.”
“I like him,” Jimin said fondly.
“Is that allowed?”
“The whole point of being a demon is doing what you’re not supposed to do,” Jimin said sourly, a hint of a whine creeping into his tone. “So I can like him, and you, all I want.”
“Oh, you like me?” Jungkook tilted his head coyly, and Jimin’s scowl etched deeper into his face.
“No,” he said, stubborn. “Anyway, I was just thinking. We’ve reached a lot of compromises over the years, haven’t we?”
Jungkook nodded.
“So, maybe we can work together on this, too.” Jimin ran his fingers through his hair. Mortal humans, like those who accidentally wandered into the shop, would think him very cute and lovely. He immediately spoke like a friend who had known them for years, the kind who would call and check on their friends with precise timing yet a casual attitude when it turns out he had saved their lives. But the mortals who harped too long about their evil deeds would sometimes catch sight of his sharp-pupiled eyes behind his sunglasses, face suddenly cold and bored. He peered above his sunglasses to reveal those eyes now, though they were filled with sultry power instead.
“We’re on different teams,” Jungkook said. “Besides, isn’t it a good thing for the Apocalypse to happen?”
“It’s a thing,” Jimin said. “But imagine. No more banana milk. No more summers, no more going to the beach and just watching the waves. Can you take pictures in Heaven? Since you’re all connected by telepathic prayers, you probably won’t need your camera anymore. You’ll just bubu-bing the pictures over by your halo net, goodbye to all your nice black-and-white aesthetic shots.”
“That’s a very cute heavenly sound.” Jungkook hesitated, the fresh sips of banana milk in his mind inadvertently performing a small miracle on his cup and replacing the tea. “But it’s all in God’s plan. It’s inevitable. Ineffable.”
“If it’s already in God’s plan, then nothing we do is outside of God’s plan. In fact, you’d be destined to do the right thing. You’re an angel, everything you do has to be right.”
“What happened to free will?”
“It’s still there,” Jimin said, waving his hand ambiguously in the direction of the nearest department store. “But I think humans are cute, and I know you don’t hate them, either.”
“I don’t,” Jungkook admitted. “But even if we do this, how are we going to stop the Apocalypse? We’re just two celestial beings of dimensional might. We can’t do anything.”
“There are seven seals that have to be broken,” Jimin said. “What if we just popped some of them back on?”
“Does it work like that?” Jungkook stared at him over the tea, and Jimin gave an uncomfortable shimmy shrug. “Even if it did, the first seal is already broken. The Hellhound has been released to the Antichrist. They’ll be joined together and become unstoppable.”
“Well,” Jimin said.
“Though I know what you mean. We don’t have to seal off all seven. Just some of them.” Jungkook stroked his chin, somber as he sipped his banana milk. In an old CD player, Girls’ Generation was playing over the non-existent speakers. The slick sounds of ‘Run Devil Run’ flooded into the empty store.
When the bell tinkled at the door, Jungkook twisted in his seat. The fluffy white Pomerian toddled into the shop with the confidence of a small dog claiming ownership. Stopping at Jungkook, the dog sniffed at his boots, deemed him worthy, and hopped into his lap. The furry tail wiggled when Jungkook petted the dog’s head with great affection.
“I didn’t know you got a dog,” Jungkook said.
“Well,” Jimin said.
Dogs did tend to have deep eyes, but this dog had deeper eyes than most. When Jungkook framed the furry little face, the dark eyes of the dog resembled the depths of a leviathan, an incarnation of wrath and wilderness, horrors and dripping snarled teeth, muzzle wetted with fresh blood. The Pomerian barked once, and nuzzled Jungkook’s open hand for more pets.
He looked up slowly, to where Jimin was pretending to examine his nails in the light.
---
Over the years, they had fallen into a comfortable companionship. So much that, in the backstage of an awards show, Jimin’s face lit up when he saw Jungkook sitting on the couch.
“What are you doing here, angel?” Jimin asked, wedging himself close to him with their thighs touching. While the cameras had been strategically placed for the singers to shine, his smolder was significantly more visible than most.
“What are you doing here?” Jungkook squeakily repeated, which sent Jimin reeling back with laughter. Jungkook grinned shyly when he popped out his earbuds (Angel, by IZ). While the cameras had been strategically placed for the singers to shine, his glow was significantly more visible than most.
“I don’t sound like that,” Jimin squeaked.
“I released a single,” Jungkook said. “Did you do that, too?” Some angels and demons disliked suiting up in human vessels. Hoseok, for example, seemed to prefer to stay in the clouds and claimed he was the sun, radiating goodness to the earth. Seokjin, lord of the lies and flies, embraced any opportunity to meddle in mortal lands. Jungkook and Jimin, lower on the food chain of their respective companies, were mostly assigned to earth, but neither had complaints.
“Yes, to spread evil,” Jimin said. “‘Thou shall bring no false idols before me,’ right?”
“Oh, really?” Jungkook sipped at his water. Jimin opened his mouth for a squirt, but Jungkook drew back. “It’s holy water, you can’t have that.”
“I see,” Jimin said, shoulders slumping. Jungkook swapped his bottled holy water, sacramental and blessed from venial sin, for Perrier. He squirted some water into Jimin’s mouth, who brightened immediately.
“Anyway, the media industry has always been a pit of sin and greed.” Jimin leaned back against Jungkook. The halos and horns had gone the way of the nineties punk grunge style. Still acceptable, but very retro. The clinking sound had been nice when Jungkook was still getting used to the fact that Jimin’s closeness wasn’t about digging a dagger into his back or ripping out his heart, but now that he had grown accustomed to Jimin’s habits, he privately thought the absence of the halo was better for hugs.
Though he did miss the use of toasting bread on his head.
“I didn’t do any of that, by the way,” Jimin said, straightening up. “Humans always surprise me. It’s like they’re doing our jobs for us. But what are you doing here?”
“I want to provide a place of worship and community. You can deliver sermons from the stage, and there’s been loads of prophets who’ve sang the gospels.”
They exchanged a long, deep glance. Their meetings, in the beginning, had been coincidence. Noah’s arc, where Jungkook raised a feathery wing to shield Jimin from the rain. Or when Abraham’s sacrifice of his son turned into the sacrifice of the ram, and Jimin sat beside Jungkook and said he wouldn’t have been able to just watch that, either, and he was sure Jungkook did the right thing. Later on, if Jungkook traveled a bit further away and did a bit of Jimin’s duties, nobody really noticed. Or vice versa, if Jimin was going somewhere and he would do a few good deeds, the overall result was the same.
Nowadays, though, their meetings were almost incidental. “Did you do that?” “No, I thought that was one of yours.”
“Anyway,” Jimin said. “I’m sure this will be one of mine. I inspire a lot of lust.”
“Really?” Jungkook leaned on the arm of the couch. “Where? Here?” He opened the collar of Jimin’s white shirt a bit further, exposing his collarbone. His knuckles brushed against his bare sternum, and Jimin laughed and nervously clutched at his collar.
“I see my powers are already working on you,” he said, tapping Jungkook’s chin. Jungkook leaned over until he was pinning Jimin against the couch.
“Does that make you happy?” he asked.
Behind his sunglasses, the shapes of Jimin’s eyes had widened. When the call came for them to get on stage, Jimin wiggled out onto the floor when Jungkook gave no purchase of room, hurriedly buttoning up while Jungkook sipped at his Perrier and grinned around the bottle threads.
---
The question posed was, how many angels can dance on the head of a pin? The answer would be at least one, because Jungkook showed the world that at least one angel could learn the choreography and do body rolls, and that he was very good at doing so.
---
A white Hyundai Equus rolled down the street. The sparse road provided little room for the hulking car. A man sitting on a plastic stool began coughing as the car drove onwards. Near the riverbank, a woman in a pristine red jacket threw her cigarette into the rushing waters. A toothy child reached for a gore movie in the quaint bookstore.
His stage name was Agust D. His fans knew him as Suga. His friends knew him as Yoongi. His comrades knew him as Pestilence, and he had come to town.
He was a producer and a rapper, and he specialized in pollution of the mind. In the past, he had run wild with the pneumonia and polio, heart and cerebrovascular diseases. Nowadays, he had settled down into a recording studio and watched young people claw each other down, starve and steal, for a chance at the mic. The lyrics on the radio justified the hatred in the world, the jangles reinforcing the violent behaviors, the clever construction of empty friendliness adding to the bloated apathy and loneliness for those clenching their fingers over their headphones, hoping for their golden ticket to Babylon.
His side hustle was rapping, just because he liked it.
The Equus stopped in front of the little shop. His leather patented shoes tapped along the sidewalk, stopping at the chalkboard sign. He frowned vaguely, and then opened the door with a light tinkling of the bell.
The cluttered shop didn’t surprise him, nor did the demon leaning against the counter, nor the angel sitting on a nearby stool, sipping banana milk. He could tell they were human vessels containing an energy yet unknown, wings spanning far more than the width of the room, heavenly and demonic powers crammed together in a single space that didn’t make sense, that was playing songs from the ‘Devil’ album from Super Junior, and a little Hellhound was rolling around on the floor.
---
A few seconds ago, Jimin had hissed, “Come,” to Jungkook, while holding the Hellhound (Charchar, named after the charring aftereffects of hellfire, and also after Charles from All Dogs Go to Heaven) to the window. Jungkook joined him there to watch the car creep around the street corner.
“Nice ride,” Jungkook said. “Do you have a plan?”
“Plan,” Jimin repeated. Super Junior continued to play through the thick walls, evidence of a demon who idly flipped through a catalog and thought, ‘oh, it’d be nice to have music,’ without any knowledge about how actual speakers and sound systems worked.
Now, with Pestilence in front of them, Jimin’s idea of acting natural was to lean over his counter with that sultry look in his eyes and say, “Hello, welcome to the shop.”
“I’m here for my crown,” Yoongi said.
“Of course. I’ve seen you around, haven’t I?” Jimin fluttered his hair back, perching his hand against his cheek with coyness.
“I don’t come here often,” Yoongi said. “But I could.”
The regular presence of an angel, to a normal human being, was usually a pleasant, warm feeling. It inspired a base level of small joys, like discovering money in the pocket of a long-forgotten coat, or winning a contest for a better prize than anticipated, or that nice feeling when helping someone who turns and says, ‘Thank you, you were a big help.’ The glower of an angel felt like the rumbling of a righteous fury, a lightning storm on the horizon, the penetrating accusing sunbeam that hits like a burning mark against the skin.
Jungkook, with his black face mask tucked under his nose, was glowering now.
“Maybe I’ll take my crown and go,” Yoongi said. Jimin rustled through his cabinet for the crown, heavy silver swirls lacking the delicacy of noblesse oblige and traded for sturdy black dripping jewels with the force of those born to rule. Yoongi accepted the crown, which shifted into a plain black baseball cap with a vague white inscription of ‘the last.’
“Of course,” Jimin said. “Oh, you have a human persona, don’t you? A producer? Your works are wonderful. I’ve always thought we’d make good music together.”
The room grew significantly brighter. Jimin’s smile was unaffected, but Yoongi took a long sideways glance at where the angel seemed to glow with the force of a thousand nightlights. A healthy houseplant was scuttling across the counter, not from fear, but from the force of a celestial wingspan being pulled from another dimension and unfurling like the raised hackles of a cat. To note, Jimin's plants were not usually afraid, but they were the healthiest plants in the city. Whenever he found a spot of rot, Jimin would sadly say, 'Oh, how disappointing...' and somehow, the plants would gather up their muster and grow even more splendidly.
“Tempting,” Yoongi said. “But I don’t go after guys who are already committed. Besides, there’s the Apocalypse.”
“Right, the Apocalypse.” Jimin fluttered his hand against his cheek. “Theoretically, what if there wasn’t the Apocalypse? That sounds like a big fuss. A lot of work. I’d rather take a nap. Not necessarily alone, if you know what I mean.” He meant with a stuffed animal, because he quite liked the feeling of being surrounded by something warm, akin to snuggling with the flames of purgatory.
Jungkook was practically radiant.
“It’s sweet and stupid to appeal to a human side of me,” Yoongi said. “I’m not against it, but the angels and demons have been ready to wage the final battle for centuries. If you want to stop the Apocalypse, you’d be going against all of Heaven and Hell.”
“Let us take care of that part,” Jungkook said, looming behind Jimin.
“But just think about it,” Jimin insisted, doubling down with a seductive flutter of the eyelashes. “A nice, long nap.”
Pollution does not feel apathy, anger, or fear. But Yoongi was used to waiting, like an oil slick enfolding the expanse of the ocean, heavy droplets destroying the ecosystems, mangling the biome. And, to be honest, he had a dog at home. The little Pomerian peering up at him was quite cute.
“Even the meadows of Asphodel have flowers that can wilt,” Yoongi said. “If the Apocalypse truly comes, then it will come to my doorstep, no matter where I go.”
Jimin grew exuberant, a wicked little smirk on his face. Jungkook eyed Yoongi for a long while, and then there was a quiet pop that came with wings being pulled back into their celestial dimension. Like a challenge, he rested his chin on Jimin’s shoulder and watched Yoongi take his leave. The bell tinkled when Yoongi opened the door. His Equus hadn’t moved, but a crowd had gathered to marvel at the bodywork. Excited kids, mostly, a few women, a tall figure in black near the hood of his car.
“You know,” Yoongi said. “I don’t care, but my brothers are more human than I am. They’ll be harder to convince.” He ran a long finger over the dark brim of his cap, and left the shop.
---
Jungkook had been sitting on the balcony of a highrise, overlooking the sandy beaches of Busan. He’d booked a room on the 77th floor, which meant his feet dangled over beach umbrellas that looked like thumbtacks. The sun broke radiant shards over the ocean, because let there be light, and there was light, water separated from water.
A jogger beneath him bent over, panting. Jungkook leaned closer on his knees. A refreshing wind blew gently, and the jogger took a deep breath.
And then something flew into Jungkook.
He had to grab him by the waist to stop them both from toppling over the balcony, dropping instead to the hard floor and crashing into the sunbathing chair. Jimin didn’t move for a long moment, panting and sprawled over Jungkook.
“Did it hurt?” Jungkook asked.
“Did what hurt?”
“When you fell.”
“I didn’t fall,” Jimin said, indignant. “I just-- tripped.” He dusted himself off and tried to set the chair back to its proper position. It took a small miracle, with a wave of Jungkook’s hand, to fix the leg, but it worked.
“In mid-air?” Jungkook asked dubiously, looking upward at the cumulus clouds. But he allowed himself to be helped into the chair, and Jimin sat on the ground beside him, crossing his legs and looking laconic and simmering.
“It’s a little difficult, isn’t it?” Jimin said.
“No, flying isn’t that hard.”
“Not that.” Jimin swatted him on the leg. “But the thought of humans just doing things on their own, most of the time. My reports to Headquarters go on about how I tempted so-and-so, but really, all they need is the smallest push. I trip over the lighting system and blow out the fuses for five minutes, and the effects last for days.”
“Come on, baby.” Jungkook stroked his hair. “You’re not being outsourced.”
“Do you ever get frustrated?”
“Of course,” Jungkook said. “They forget about the good in the world so easily, no matter how hard you work for that strategic ray of hope and light. Then they turn around and do good things for each other without any prompting.”
“Yes, exactly.” Jimin stared down at the beach. “It makes me want to watch them a bit more.”
“My manager’s sending me to a world tour,” Jungkook said. “I’ll go and do a little mischief out there for your sake, too. Does that cheer you up?”
“How long will you be gone?” The water cooler talk for angels and demons, as mentioned earlier, ran very similar. It would be typical to hear them talk about the latest developments in politics and science, art and literature, world trends, but length of time usually wasn’t referred to any detail. The advent of the world was always ‘oh, a little while ago,’ and the Apocalypse had been considered ‘soon’ since the first human stepped on the earth. Wishful thinking on some parts.
But when centuries passed in a blink of an eye, human time length had different significance to them. The time when they watched a boy drop his ice cream cone could still garner more arguments and theoretical debates than any news-worthy event. So for Jimin to look at Jungkook rather lonesomely and ask for a meter of time did surprise Jungkook.
“I’ll give you my number,” Jungkook said. “I’ll be back here soon. Then you can come to whine to me again.”
“I don’t whine,” Jimin whined. “I didn’t come here today to whine, either.”
“You wanted to compare notes?” They each had a set of ephemeral notes, which they used to notate down their tasks for each other. In the beginning, a little while ago, they scrutinized each other’s actions with a teaspoon of judgment. Their reports to their higher ups would always be the most suspiciously detailed. Nowadays, the scrutiny and judgment had passed for a more casual note-passing in the classroom. Sometimes, Jimin would say, “Oh, that seems like more one of mine?” at Jungkook’s angelic actions, and they’d swap claims on what they did.
“No, I didn’t bring mine,” Jimin said.
“What did you want, then?”
Jimin frowned. “I just wanted to see you.”
The wings of an angel and demon were actually very similar, except that an angel’s wings were usually better groomed. For that day, though, they were about equal, since Jungkook set about to groom Jimin’s wings to his frantic blushing and befuddlement.
---
“Come on, baby,” Jungkook said. Jimin hurriedly finished sweeping out the last of the humans from his shop, who had been asking him how much things were, and his answers always being a confused tilt of his head and a guess in Galleons.
The slick cherry red bike rattled down the street. A bike fit better into the atmosphere than a car, but it was pure red. The man on top was always decked out in red, though his hair was a shock of platinum blond. No fighting cats followed his wake, no drawn guns or knives. But when he rode past, a wife finds a strange lipstick color in her purse. A girl drops a piece of her sandwich in between two anthills. In an apartment building, a landlord tacks up a sign.
His pen name was RM. His real name was Namjoon. Some of his friends knew him as Joon. All of humanity knew him as War, and he had come to town.
He had been a war journalist. He’d sat in the long hours of the trenches, visited the hospital rooms, taken notes in a room full of politicians, spoke with military officials over their big red buttons with white missile logos, interviewed the ammunition manufacturers. Curiously, wherever he’d left, the peace resolutions collapsed afterwards and a trail of bloodshed was left behind. Of course, he embraced the times of technology. He’d followed the arms race closely, but more importantly, he also ran a blog now.
The blog had been so successful that he could simply call himself a journalist instead of a war journalist. Gossip pieces about celebrities, editorial pieces about local governance, exposes about seedy underworlds could also be found on his blog. It generated a lot of hits, and a lot of inflammatory comments. Enough police agencies followed the blog that posting any small tidbit about how the nearest Nene Chicken skimped on the frying could generate enough interest for a few official check-ups.
He still called himself a war journalist.
And currently, he had ridden his bike into an electricity pole.
“Are you all right?” Jungkook knelt down beside him. Jimin, behind him, was ushering the last figure in black out the door before he joined them both on the street.
“That pole hit me,” Namjoon said.
“No harm done,” Jungkook said, straightening out the bike. The tire had been bent from the impact, but a brush of his hands straightened out the rubber and added a line of silver studded spikes on its red body.
“‘Oh Lord, heal this bike,’” Jimin whispered to him, which earned him a light whack to the chest. Since Jungkook had started, anyway, he also added a small rabbit insignia near the newly erupted basket.
“Was my bike always this big?” Namjoon asked. “And tacky?”
“It’s not tacky,” Jungkook said. “It’s haute couture.”
“It’s cute,” Jimin said defensively.
“Well, I do like it,” Namjoon said. “Anyway, I came here for a sword.”
“Yes.” Jungkook drew a sword out of his black bag. The flames licked the metal, burning in virtue and grace. The winged pommel glowed in his palm. When he tilted the sword to offer the hilt to Namjoon, the darkened edge revealed the Enochian insignias engraved down the sword. It was a sword of justice and righteousness, used to cut down putrid sinners and guard the Garden of Eden. When Namjoon accepted this, the sword shrank down into a fiery red fountain pen.
“I didn’t know it would be yours,” Jimin said.
“Oh, it’s all right. I don’t need it.” Jungkook smirked at Jimin’s awe. Namjoon, in the meanwhile, had slipped the pen into his jacket breast pocket. Upon finding a small piece had snapped off, he casually turned and frantically jammed the piece to the bottom of his pocket to hide the destruction.
“An angel’s generosity is always inspiring,” Jimin said, stroking Jungkook’s back.
“You guys are a sweet couple.” Namjoon picked up his bike from where it leaned against the offending pole. “Thanks for the sword. I look forward to seeing you at the end of the world.”
“I’m a big fan of your work,” Jungkook said.
“You’ve read my articles?” Namjoon leaned back on his newly studded bike, dimpling into a quick smile. Jungkook nodded, his intent gaze never wavering.
“Your latest work was very good. Layered with the bigger things, focused on the nitty-gritty. That one must have taken a while.”
“Not too long. But investigative journalism is fascinating in its own right. Tackling that from the aspect of identity to the masks that we adopt, the mannerisms adopted by birth, the necessity to interpret outlier signals in order for us to understand the interior self, all that stuff.” Namjoon nodded.
“I’ve always liked your honesty.”
“Thanks,” Namjoon said modestly. “It’s easier when you snub the facts, but if it makes no real difference in the end, I think being honest has a good ring to it.”
“I think so, too,” Jungkook said. “It was your realism in your article about the battles of youth that interested me. I’ve followed your works since then.”
“You like that one?” Namjoon rubbed the back of his neck. “That old thing? I was still immature then. That had a lot more bells and whistles than I needed, but I’m still proud of that.”
“I think we’re all still young and immature,” Jungkook said. “Even humanity.”
Namjoon nodded absently as Jungkook continued his earnest gaze. Jimin had leaned against the wooden pole. The pride of a demon emanated like an underhanded victory, the small thrill when performing a successful little prank, a vaguely sinister cleverness. He didn’t glow as much as smolder, smiling at Jungkook and War.
“I know what you’re saying,” Namjoon said. “If you’re appealing to my intrigue of how humans will continue to develop civil warfare against each other, then you’re not betting on the right boat.”
“The Ark?” Jimin asked, glancing at Jungkook who shook his head sympathetically.
“I do not have intentions,” Namjoon continued. “But I do have interests. Let me tell you one thing. If you’re hoping to circumvent the Apocalypse just because you’re cute, then you’re absolutely right. It works. You’re cute, and even Abaddon is never full. I have no reason to hurry.”
“He is really cute,” Jimin said, leaning on Jungkook’s shoulders. “He did a really good job.”
“Did I?” Jungkook glanced sheepishly behind him.
“Yes, of course,” Namjoon said.
“Wonderful job,” Jimin reassured.
Jungkook smiled. Namjoon returned his smile for a long moment, but his gaze turned towards the sunset thoughtfully.
“It doesn’t much matter to me,” Namjoon said. “But I’ll tell you this. My brothers aren’t so easily convinced by cuteness alone. If the Apocalypse really does come, I’ll be there, no matter where I’ll be. But thanks for the pen, that has all its pieces intact and in the right place.” He kicked off his bike, swerving to miss the pole again, and pedaled down the street. The dropping sun glinted off the bunny insignia, his white sneakers bathed in the orange glow until he seemed like he was burning.
---
There’s no rest for the wicked, but the good don’t need to rest that much, either. The little shop had a little backyard, inexplicably widespread despite the two neighboring stores. Like any good hellspace, a fire pit had been lit in the middle, and fairy lights strung between the trees. Jimin took the covered tray to the short brick wall, the flickering fire casting the shadows of their wings behind them.
“I’ve got the most delicious figs recently,” Jimin said, sitting down on a blackiron chair. “Would you like one?”
“I think I’ll go for the mousse.” Jungkook did take the small white cup, leaning melancholy towards the fire.
“What’s wrong, angel?”
“Are we really doing the right thing?”
“Of course you are, and of course I’m not. Remember? If everything is destined, then you can do whatever you like and not worry about anything. I’m the one who believes in free will, and you’re the one who believes in those muscles.” Jimin trailed a hand down Jungkook’s arm.
“I don’t think that’s how destiny works,” Jungkook said dubiously.
“Of course it is. Paradise found.” Jimin left his half-eaten fig on his plate, kneeling in the grass between Jungkook’s boots. He rested his head against Jungkook’s knee, smiling up at him. The fire crackled behind him.
In a museum, elevated from the floor in a climate-controlled interior room, was a painting that depicted a very similar scene. The details notated in a digitalized record called it ‘An Angel Subjugating A Demon,’ which never gained as much popularity as another painting of the time period nicknamed ‘Stop hitting yourself.’ But in the painting, a demon struggles with gnarled breath while an angel lords over him with a mighty presence and a flaming sword.
The painter had been inspired by a striking vision that came to him in a dream, though they didn’t have surround sound audio back then.
The reality was that Jimin was lying casually on Jungkook’s thigh and Jungkook was staring down at him without any expression on his face, or it would seem to be the case to anybody who didn’t know him. Hoseok, good friend and an entity in Heaven who could get anybody to hang off his words desperately, had taken him aside afterwards and whispered that he looked very flustered, was everything all right.
“We talked about this,” Jungkook said.
“Talked about what?” Jimin blinked up at him sleepily. Jungkook released a long, exasperated breath, and then began to stroke Jimin’s hair.
“I want to tell you something that you can’t tell anyone else,” Jungkook said. “Not even Seokjin.”
“Of course.”
“Heaven’s looking forward to the end of the world, because we’ll win.”
“Wouldn’t bet on it,” Jimin said, snuggling against Jungkook’s thigh like a pillow.
“But I think some of the archangels, they want the Apocalypse to come because it’ll wipe out humanity. We’re angels,” Jungkook explained. “We’re not supposed to feel anything. But I think there are some that are, envious, that humans appear to be the favored children.”
“It must be hard,” Jimin murmured. “The opposite of a prodigal son.”
“We do want to be obedient and good,” Jungkook said. “But I think Hoseok’s worried because, well. I think God hasn’t said anything in a long time.”
“It’s not like God’s hiding out there,” Jimin said, laughing a bit. He sobered and turned his chin to gaze at the cityscape. The buildings hadn’t dimmed their lights yet, spread over the dark landscape towards the crashing waves of the ocean. Radio towers glowed with throbbing red lights, cars moved like rivers of constellation, and the rooms lit in the apartment and business skyscrapers glittered like the stars.
“We’ll think we’ll win on our side,” Jimin finally said. “It’s not complicated for us. We’ve all chosen free will and all those things, evil, sinister, burning. Things like that. But it might be that one day, it’ll be us against them. Them being all the humans.”
“Really?”
“I know, it’s silly.” Jimin turned back towards him and reached up to stroke his chin. “No point in worrying about that now. They’re still very, very young. And nobody expects the young to always be obedient.”
Jungkook placed his hands on Jimin’s cheeks lightly, and then squeezed enough to make him laugh. “One more seal left, and then it’ll be more than half. Is that enough?”
“It’s enough, but even if it’s not,” Jimin said, “you’d follow me to the end of the world, right?” He laughed at his own joke, and Jungkook smiled softly and patted his hair.
---
“He’s coming,” Jimin said, sitting on his empty counter. Jungkook had returned from walking Charchar, unleashing the dog to freely flee into the mysterious backyard. Hoya’s Angel played through the walls, and Jungkook took a hesitant seat beside Jimin to watch the bus heave to a stop. The exhaust fumes rose up like a thin mist, the smoke clearing only enough to reveal a figure with a bulky dark jacket. The stranger had a map in his hand and a reusable grocery bag slung over his shoulder.
Nothing particular happened in town. The shops still heaved their unused produce into their locked dumpsters on schedule, a newscaster read aloud about the extraordinary restaurant in town, the bus rolled by with its flashy advertisement for a new album. The man, who had a slim face and dark eyes, checked the map once more before he finally entered the shop with the tinkling of the bell.
“Good morning,” Jimin said. “How may I help you?”
“Do you have a pair of scales I could use?” the man asked tentatively, and then when Jimin reached behind his counter, the man’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh, thank the reality of this situation.”
“Thank God?” Jungkook ventured.
“We don’t use language like that here,” Jimin said, holding a pair of scales in his hand. The golden pair of scales had a twisted base, attached to a dull gold platform. The scales themselves never tilted, balanced perfectly even when Jimin thumped it onto the counter. While the arms swayed and pivoted, they acted as if equal weights had been placed in both gold plates.
“I got lost and went to a supermarket,” the man said. “Everything’s gotten really inflated, hasn’t it? Used up most of my credit card funds for just some food. Remember how things used to be cheaper, just a little while ago?”
“Yes,” Jimin said. “Just five Knuts for everything.” Jungkook, sitting by the scales, shook his head slowly.
“I couldn’t help myself, though. The wheat bread and barley soup looked too good to pass, had to tell them to be careful when bagging the virgin olive oil and wine. Couldn’t help myself,” the man repeated. “I’m always hungry for something.”
In the farmland, miles away, he used to sit on the porch of his white house and gaze on his verdant fields. When a delivery truck arrived, pulling out boxes of goods to his doorstep, he would sign the form as ‘V’. Officially, according to the documents listed in the city, the farmlands were owned by Taehyung. Some of his struggling neighbors knew him affectionately as TaeTae. But those who truly knew him called him Famine, and he had come to town.
He had spent most of his last century at his farm, watching the smaller farms fall and the diseased plants produce pitiful crops. He still enjoyed visiting during the summer, straw hat perched on his head while he wandered his land. The produce would always fail to meet the needs of the people, but the farm still existed stronger than ever.
The last few years, though, he’d spent mostly in the city, working for an advertising firm. His role was unknown, but nobody ever thought to ask about his presence in the boardroom. He wasn’t a designer or a manager. He simply sat in the room and said, ‘We need to make them crave this,’ and ‘This should create a need in them that was not there before.’ His most tweeted hashtag was FOMO, but he was not a social media specialist. Nor was he a warehouse manager, but he would sit in the office and watch the piles of plastic wrap around their millions of products.
He hadn’t grown bored of famine, but he simply took up, as a hobby, the famine of excess. At restaurants, he’d sit and watch people eat endlessly, craving for something more, knowing that it wasn’t enough.
Now, he took the scales into his palms. The gold darkened into polarized panes, and he slid his new sunglasses over his eyes. He licked his lips and smiled.
“Thank you,” he said. “Then, I will see the two of you at the final battle.”
“Wait,” Jimin said. “Do you have to go so soon?”
“Are you not armed?” Taehyung asked. Jimin shifted his weight from foot to foot in his shop that was filled with buckets of thin-lined seashells, fanned mollusks and teethed cowry shells, from when he had walked on the beach with Jungkook beside him, fine granules of sand sifted in his feet.
“Well,” Jimin said hesitantly. “It’s not so much that, but, don’t you feel this is a bit too early?”
“No,” Taehyung said. “The world is starving and hungry. This will not last.”
“But aren’t you worried about anything? I’ll hear you out,” Jimin said.
“I suppose I have my concerns,” Taehyung said, “but none are about the end of the world. My purpose will be over, and I will rest.”
“Wouldn’t you want to be in this world longer?” Jungkook said, jumping in. “Humans still have a lot more to explore, the good and the bad, and you’ll be able to watch that. Nobody said you had to go so early, anyway, and two of your brothers might not be there at all.”
“It’s surprising that you’d try to say I should neglect my duties,” Taehyung said.
“Not neglect,” Jungkook said. “Just maybe, saunter away. For a little bit.”
“Think about the dogs,” Jimin said. He pointed to Charchar, who had wiggled back into the shop with a fluff of the tail. “Wouldn’t you want to pet more dogs?”
“And the destruction you could cause,” Jungkook added. “So much destruction.”
“I understand where you’re coming from,” Taehyung said. “I’ll take your considerations seriously. I know better than to ignore a married couple’s advice. But I must go to the Apocalypse, and it will all end. The war will finally begin.”
“But does it?” Jimin whined. He slid his hand into Jungkook’s, gripping it tightly. Taehyung’s eyes softened behind his sunglasses, and he shrugged his hands into his jacket.
“Like I said, I’ll listen to your advice. I still have another hour.”
“Don’t you want more?” Jimin asked, glancing at Taehyung and then Jungkook. “Don’t you want more, everything? To taste it all? To know more?”
“My greatest fulfillment is my duty,” Taehyung said. “Wouldn’t you two know that better than most?”
“We’re not mindless tools of good and evil,” Jungkook said. “And I don’t think you are, either. RM said he didn’t have intentions, but he did have interests. Don’t you have interests? Even if you’re just fueled by hatred and anger, isn’t that worthy enough to push you forward?”
“You bought food,” Jimin said. “It’s the end of the world, and you still paid at the supermarket for food. Fulfilling your duty is one thing, but you also planned for tomorrow, too.”
“It’s your free will,” Jungkook said. “It’s also in your destiny to choose.”
Taehyung was quiet for a long while. People still walked and talked outside, dressed in reds and greens and black, lingering near the bus stop. He took his golden sunglasses and balanced the bridge on his finger. As always, and like it always would be, the sunglasses kept equal weight.
“You’re right, I am always hungry,” he finally said. “And if the Apocalypse truly comes, then it will to me, no matter where I stay. Gehenna will burn even without my kindling.”
“Really?” Jimin asked, grinning exuberantly. The joy of a demon was much like a joy of an angel, radiating and bright. Taehyung slipped his sunglasses back on and shrugged, a long high rise of his shoulders and a quick drop downward.
“Why not,” he said. “Though, not that I care, that’s a curious good cop bad cop act. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my bus will be leaving in fifteen minutes.”
---
At the end of the day, Jimin swept his floor because that was what he assumed floor owners did. A trail of dog hair had been left behind, easily snapped away by Jungkook’s fingers, so Jimin could more easily sweep on empty tiles. IU’s It’s First Love played over absolutely nothing, but still resonated through the store.
“Did you always have a register?” Jungkook asked, gazing at the silver machine.
“Oh, does it have any money inside?” Jimin asked distractedly, hanging up his broom. Jungkook dug through the drawer and held up a note that read, ‘FOR SERVICES RENDERED.’ Jimin squinted at the note, shrugged, and pulled open the door to the backyard.
“I’ve booked a dinner reservation at the restaurant tomorrow night,” Jimin said.
“Will there be pork? Or pizza?”
“There can be anything you want,” Jimin said. “And wine.” He had a small dinner selection on the table, a fruit basket decorating the center.
“Will your management be mad at you?”
“They won’t have to know it was me,” Jimin said with a smirk. “For you, too, right?”
“I won’t tell them, but it seems like something they’ll figure out.” Jungkook plucked an apple from the centerpiece and took a large bite, talking while he chewed. “Anyway, now that the Apocalypse is over, we can talk about the important things. Like, did you miss me?”
The thing about the world not ending was that it did not end. Which may seem, of course, like a miracle. But the simple fact of the matter would be that the world has not ended more times than it has ended. The birds still sang, the rabbits still hopped, and the fisherman down the street who had seen the various supernatural activities at that strange little shop, with all those wealthy businessmen stopping by that nice couple's honeymoon home, was staring off into the distance, shaking himself off, and turning on the television because his favorite drama was starting.
This was not to say Jimin and Jungkook did not believe in miracles, especially everyday miracles. Diverting the Apocalypse was a Big Deal, but getting a new dog was also a Big Deal to them, as well. Simply put, Jungkook had figured out that every time Jimin laughed, he grew another feather, and he had grown quite pleased and perplexed at that. And Jimin had figured out that Jungkook smelled like Downy fabric softener, and he had grown quite pleased and perplexed at that. The Apocalypse was over, for now, yes. In the morning, they'd have to do paperwork and pretend that the horrid beast of a demon and that blood-thirsty angel had truly defied them at all odds, and then they'd return to their shop and marvel at the humans. But there truly were more important things than the world not ending.
“No, of course not,” Jimin said. “I made this shop, and I did a very good job with it. Look, there’s a roof and everything. Would someone who missed you do all that?”
“I missed you,” Jungkook said.
“Oh,” Jimin said. “Well, that’s all right, then.”
“If you say you missed me, I’ll give you something good.”
“I don’t think I should be making deals with you,” Jimin said uneasily. Jungkook smiled benevolently and held out the crimson apple. Jimin eventually folded himself into an adjacent chair and leaned forward for a small bite. His teeth made a snap crunching sound to it. He chewed while Jungkook leaned back, watching him with satisfaction.
“It’s your choice,” Jungkook said. “And we do have all the rest of the days ahead.”
It would be typical, then, for a bombastic announcement to erupt, or lightning to strike, or seven trumpets to sound. But the soft music continued to play over nonexistent speakers, and with a flustered face, Jimin drew nearer. Whatever he said was only a murmur in the soft shell of Jungkook’s ear, and whatever Jungkook did was hidden from both Heaven and Hell by the width of his feathery wings.