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Namjoon is in love. There are a few problems with this.
First of all, it’s his neighbour. And he might be achingly beautiful with a laugh fit to make angels weep, but even Namjoon isn’t fool enough to forget you don’t shit where you eat.
Even if Jimin were to live on the other side of the city, though, Namjoon couldn’t have him. This is due to the second problem: Jimin is taken. His boyfriend is called Junho and he is muscular and suave and effortlessly masculine. Underneath Namjoon’s definition in the thesaurus, where the antonyms go, is a picture of Jo Junho. This means that, even were Problems 1 and 2 to disappear, Namjoon would still not have a chance with Jimin, because he is very obviously not his type.
These are three quite forbidding issues and normally, as a man of (botanical) science, Namjoon would just give up the endeavour and wish himself a sympathetic “good try, better luck next time”. Jimin isn’t a particularly stubborn case of greenfly on a rosebush, though, and this course of action is ruled out by exactly the same problems again.
Jimin is his neighbour. Namjoon sees him most every day. His smile, his voice, his laugh. Namjoon sees it at his door, hears it through the walls. Jimin is part of his home and there is no escape.
The boyfriend is there more nights than not, a handsome, muscle-bound reminder of Namjoon’s hopeless predicament. He makes Jimin laugh, makes him shriek, makes him moan. Namjoon loves hearing Jimin’s voice break, his voice cracking in the throes of pleasure. But he hates it, too, because it cracks on the wrong name. On anniversaries, Valentine’s and birthdays, Namjoon has to evacuate his own apartment before he drives a fist through the papier mâché wall separating their bedrooms and is forced to take the subway to the hospital.
Love, Namjoon learns, is mostly not all it’s cracked up to be.
The walls in their apartment building can be described as laughably thin. In addition to Jimin and Junho’s happy coupleship, Namjoon can often hear the family below him as well, an exhausted mother just trying to get her three kids into bed before she keels over. The neighbour to his right seems to be a professional video game player (though Namjoon is forced to guess here, he’s never seen them), and upstairs live four very pretty girls who either own a pet elephant with a penchant for Red Velvet or make a hobby of practicing girl group choreographies together in the living room.
The only blessing in this entire situation is that Namjoon is an exceptionally deep sleeper. If not, he thinks he would have killed them all months ago. Apart from Jimin, obviously. Namjoon would gladly be kept awake by Jimin every night for the rest of his life if he got the chance.
It’s unlikely, he has to admit. Jimin likes him well enough, or at least does a good job of pretending when they encounter one another in the hallway, but there’s still Problem 3: Namjoon is very obviously not the type of guy who gets to have Park Jimin.
He’s often wished he could hate Junho, but he could never bring himself to. The guy is incredibly handsome and perfectly polite and Jimin loves every part of him more than coffee on a Monday morning, as Namjoon so often hears him say.
Namjoon has never been able to bring himself to hate Junho, but this time is different.
For all intents and purposes, it’s a normal Thursday evening. Namjoon comes home late and is loading up the rice cooker when he hears them.
“You can’t do this!” Jimin is screaming, his voice more piercing than Namjoon has ever heard it. “Where is this even coming from?!”
They're having a fight, Namjoon realises, the first real fight he's heard them have. Rice scatters over the tiles.
“Jimin, please calm down—”
“Do not tell me to calm down!”
“Jimin, I’m begging you. I never wanted to hurt you, never. But I have to be happy.”
“…I don’t make you happy?” Jimin’s voice is suddenly raw, hurt. It claws at Namjoon’s heart.
“It’s not you, Jimin, I just…” Junho trails off into an unintelligible mumble, far enough from the wall that Namjoon can’t make out his words.
Jimin, though, is closer, and his voice rings clear as a bell even through the pain. “Someone else. You’ve been cheating?”
Namjoon feels bile rise in his throat. Jimin sounds so empty, so completely broken for this bastard who never deserved him in the first place.
“I thought it was a one-time thing,” Junho says. “I thought it was just a mistake, but it happened again and again, and I love him, Jimin. I’m sorry.”
“You said you loved me, too.” Jimin is crying now.
“I did, once. I’m sorry,” Junho repeats.
There are footsteps, shouted protests from Jimin, and then the door opens and closes. Namjoon hears Jimin’s first sob and turns on his heel, rice cracking beneath his feet. He’s not hungry anymore, and if he has to listen to Jimin cry, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.
Namjoon is briefly concerned he’ll see Junho when he exits his building, because if he does he’ll have to kill him and there’s only one possible outcome to that fight. He doesn’t see him, though, ever again.
Days turn to weeks turn to months since Namjoon last heard Jimin’s laugh. Heard Jimin’s voice at all. He knows when he’s home, can hear him moving in bed, walking to his bathroom and back, going out for groceries, but he doesn’t call his friends anymore, doesn’t swear at Mario Kart, doesn’t do anything as far as Namjoon can hear.
It’s like Jimin’s become a ghost, and that’s just not right because his life was so much more than Jo Jun-Dickhead, but it seems to have as good as ended with their relationship anyway.
Namjoon leaves a package of songpyeon outside Jimin’s door at Chuseok. They’re homemade (by his mother, Namjoon is not a talent in the kitchen), filled with raspberry beans and sesame and pine nuts. Namjoon doesn’t know if Jimin ever sees them, but he has to throw them away after three days of sitting uneaten on the doormat.
Against his better judgement, he tries making his own batch. They’re too big and kind of ugly, but they taste acceptable, so Namjoon wraps them in his prettiest paper, pulls all his withered courage together and knocks on Jimin’s door.
He waits for a few moments. Nothing stirs.
Namjoon knows Jimin is home, heard him cough an hour ago. He tries again. Still no answer.
“Jimin?” he calls out, unsure. “…ssi?” he adds, embarrassed. “I brought you songpyeon. They’re not great, but you didn’t see the ones my mother made, so…” he trails off. Uncomfortable silence, if an uncomfortable silence can be one-sided.
Namjoon knocks again. “Jimin-ssi, I know you’re home.” He thinks he hears something. “Please open the door.”
He’s about to knock again when the door pulls suddenly backwards. Namjoon jumps out of his skin, immediately forgetting all the words he’d wanted to say.
Jimin looks tired, is Namjoon’s first thought after the usual oh god he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
He’s still figuring out what to say when Jimin points out, “Chuseok was last week.” His voice is soft and lilting as always, if a bit confused, and it’s making Namjoon’s insides rebel.
“I know,” he stammers, deeply uncomfortable. “But…I couldn’t help hearing you didn’t celebrate, so I brought you some my mother made. You didn’t see them on your doormat, though, and they dried out…”
Jimin blinks at this. “You left me songpyeon from your mother?”
It does sound like a bit of an odd thing to do for an acquaintance, now Namjoon hears it. His face flames. He ploughs onward. “I…you never took them, so I made you some myself. They’re ugly, I’m sorry.”
Jimin stares at him for a long while. “I think you’d better come in,” he says eventually.
He sits Namjoon down at the table and starts bustling around in his stained T-shirt and sweatpants, dangerously attractive. “Sorry for the state of the kitchen,” he says shamefacedly, gesturing at the dishes piled in the sink. “I…wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“It’s okay,” Namjoon says, because it is. He’d be okay hanging out with Jimin in a refuse heap.
“Do you want tea with the songpyeon?” Jimin asks.
“Um,” Namjoon says, begging his brain to tell him what the right answer is. “…yes, thank you.”
Jimin sets the kettle boiling and washes up two mugs. “Jasmine okay?”
“You bet.” An odd way to phrase that. Namjoon mentally kicks himself.
Jimin sets a mug before him three minutes later and sits in the other chair at the small table. Namjoon has opened his package in the meantime, his lumpy creations on proud display.
Jimin selects one and takes a bite. “They’re good,” he says quietly. There’s a sesame seed stuck his lip. Namjoon hurriedly takes a bite of his own. He thinks they’re a bit tough, personally, but he appreciates the tact.
“Namjoon-ssi,” Jimin says, “why did you bring me songpyeon?”
And really, Namjoon should have been expecting this question. Nevertheless, he is completely unprepared. The only thing coming to him is I’ve been pathetically in love with you ever since you moved in and now you’re sad and I can’t handle it and this was the only thing I could think to do.
Namjoon says nothing. He takes a sip of tea. “You didn’t celebrate Chuseok this year,” he answers eventually. He thinks this is good.
“You were listening?”
“Not listening, per se. You can hear everything through these walls. Thin.”
“You have to listen to hear something not happening, though.”
Namjoon has been caught. “Ah.” Jimin waits. “Okay, maybe I have been listening recently. I just…well, you’re probably aware that I know about…um…”
“Junho.”
Namjoon's intenstines shrivel inside of him. He wants to disappear. “…yes, Junho. And, um. I’ve been worried about you.”
Jimin is looking at him and his face is just a little bit sad, but also touched. “You have?”
“I’m sorry,” says Namjoon although this doesn’t even make sense in his head.
Jimin is quiet for a little while. “Thank you,” he says eventually. Then, “Do you want to play Mario Kart?”
Over the course of the next few weeks, Namjoon discovers that love can be friendship, too, even if that friendship does set your stomach on fire in the best of ways.
“I brought you cupcakes.”
“Wh…why?”
“You made me songpyeon even though it wasn’t Chuseok. I want to return the favour. I can’t bake, though. These are from Paris Baguette.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Can I call you hyung?”
“I’d like that. Do you want to come in?”
“I’d like that.”
“Hyung, can you come over real quick and help me open this jar? I overdid it at the gym and my arms are killing me.”
“…um. Maybe when I’m done in here.”
“Are you taking a shit?”
“Yes, Jimin, I am.”
“Gross.”
“Well, what were you expecting when you started yelling at me through my bathroom wall?”
“I didn’t think it through. Sorry. Guess this is a new level of our friendship, huh?”
“Yeah. A new level of friendship.”
“Merry fucking Christmas to me! Four more weeks and I’ll have been single for a whole six months, imagine that!”
“Jimin, maybe start taking it easy on the soju, yeah?”
“You’re not the boss of me. No one’s the boss of me. I’m free! Free to spend a couples’ holiday all alone!”
“…I’m here.”
“You know what I meant, hyung.”
“What do you think is a normal amount of time to be single after getting dumped? Like at what point does it start getting sad?”
“Jimin…”
“Yes, I know, I know, I’ll find someone when the time is right. Sparks will fly, romance will kindle. Nauseating. Not even sure I want it. Guess that’s for the best, though, it looks like no one wants it with me, either.”
“That’s not true.”
“There’s no need to look so serious, hyung, it was a joke. I’m fine.”
Namjoon can't tell him. He can't. He's so scared.
He hears Jimin crying at midnight.
Usually, he’d be asleep at this time, which is presumably why Jimin feels it safe to weep into his pillow so close to where Namjoon’s head is resting on his own. But Namjoon failed to properly hear a colleague asking him if he wanted coffee that afternoon and thought a “yes, please” would be a more sensible response than “excuse me?”, so here he is.
Namjoon listens to hiccup after choke after sob and feels his heart clench.
It’s none of your business, he thinks.
Fuck it, he thinks ten seconds later.
“Jimin?” he calls. The sobs don’t relent. He tries a bit louder. “Jimin?”
Dead silence on the other side of the wall.
“Jimin, are you okay?”
“…why aren’t you asleep?” His voice is thick with tears but he still manages to sound mortified.
“I have social anxiety,” Namjoon says.
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter. Do you want to talk about it?”
He hears the mattress shift beneath Jimin’s weight. “Not really.”
“Can I help you somehow?” To Namjoon’s horror, Jimin starts crying again. “What? No! Jimin, please tell me how to help you.”
Jimin doesn’t, only cries harder. Namjoon is seconds away from getting out of bed and breaking into his apartment when he chokes out, “You care about me.”
“Is that why you’re crying?”
“No. Yes. Not exactly.”
Namjoon sighs, looks at the clock. It’s twenty-three past twelve. He has to wake up at six. “I’m coming over.”
Jimin opens the door for him and refuses to look him in the eye, bats Namjoon’s hands away when he tries to force him. “I’m ugly,” he insists.
Namjoon hurts. “Never.”
He makes tea while Jimin sits at the table, sniffing periodically and dabbing his eyes with a disgusting tissue. Namjoon hands him a clean piece of kitchen roll with his mug, which Jimin accepts with a grateful, if small, smile.
“Please tell me what’s wrong,” Namjoon begs once he’s seated, too. “I hate hearing you hurt.”
Jimin’s eyes swim again, but he blinks it determinedly away. “I’m sorry.”
“Shut up.”
Jimin is quiet for a long while. Then he says, “I forget sometimes how much you care about me.”
Namjoon isn’t sure how to respond, so he doesn’t.
“I…ever since Junho left, I’ve been feeling down,” Jimin admits. “Not all the time, but when it gets late and I’m alone in the bed I bought with him in mind…” He chokes up, face crumpling. Namjoon’s heart crumples with it. “I’m just so scared I’ll always be alone,” Jimin whispers through tears. “That no one will ever love me again.”
Namjoon closes his eyes, fights down the pain. “Jimin…of course someone will love you.”
“You don’t know that,” Jimin sobs, “you can’t know that, hyung, please don’t lie to me!”
Namjoon stares at him across the table. This beautiful man who genuinely believes he’s ugly and unlovable. And yes, Namjoon has been scared. He’s still scared. But that doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is Jimin.
“I do know,” he says, and his voice is incredibly steady for someone with a windpipe completely obstructed by their heart.
Jimin looks at him, eyes red and pained and confused.
Namjoon can’t look at him anymore. Not now. He’s too scared. “Jimin…” He swallows, eyes sliding closed. “I’ve loved you since I met you.”
There’s silence. Not even a breath escapes into the room. The only thing Namjoon can do is go on, eyes still clamped firmly shut.
“I’m in love with you. I’ve always been in love with you. So—” His voice breaks. He clears his throat and carries on. “So don’t you dare say no one will love you again. You’re so…good and you deserve the world and that fucker was never good enough for you anyway, even with all those musc—”
“Hyung.”
Namjoon’s mouth snaps shut. His eyes open slowly, terrified.
Jimin is staring at him with eyes still bright with tears, nose dripping and cheeks crimson.
Namjoon swallows. “So don’t let this break you,” he finishes, somewhat lamely.
Jimin doesn’t seem to hear him. “You’re in love with me?”
This is Namjoon’s worst nightmare and he’s done it to himself. It was worth it, though. Jimin’s stopped crying.
“Yes. I’m in love with you.”
Jimin lets out a shaky breath.
“I…I can go, if you—”
“No. Don’t.” He’s begging. The irony of it almost punches a laugh out of Namjoon. “Please, just…you love me?”
Namjoon’s hands are shaking now. He hides them in his lap. “Yes.” He takes a breath. “I love you.”
Jimin’s eyes slide closed. “I think…” His lips curve into a tiny smile, “…that makes me happy.”
They take it slow. They have to. But it’s okay. Jimin is healing and Namjoon is, too. They’re happy, in their quiet little way.
They kiss after two months. Namjoon stays the night a three weeks later. Their first anniversary is spent under the sheets, breathing and sighing against one another.
They’ve been tentatively together for three years when Jimin asks Namjoon, under a canopy of fairy lights and roses, if he wants to move in.
Love, it turns out, isn’t about pining and empty and longing. Not about jealousy or tears. It’s not even about butterflies, or romance, or sex. Love, for Namjoon at least, is about warmth, and calm, and home. Love is Jimin.