Archive of Our Own

It doesn't help that it's summer in Seoul—summer, when the heat haze already makes it feel like the whole city is wreathed in a dream, when the magic that creeps into daily life feels all the more surreal.

The morning is normal enough, with Namjoon finally crawling out of bed to deal with the humidity gluing his t-shirt to the small of his back in uncomfortable bunches. He douses his face in cold water, peels off his clothes for a black tank top and shorts. June, reminds the calendar tacked above his work desk. Red-circled deadlines obscure the days of the week. The air conditioning cranks up automatically as Namjoon trudges through the hallway. He stifles a yawn, sleepily debates between the granola cereal in the pantry or the leftover takeout japchae he knows is behind the juice in the fridge, and—stops. Blinks. Rubs his eyes with his knuckles until his eyes sting with static.

Namjoon admits that his apartment is nice—he has a separate room for his studio with more than enough space to wheel around in circles on his chair, a bathroom with a tub that his friends honestly use more than he does, and ceiling-to-floor windows that do wonders for natural lighting—but the living room he walks into this morning, though, is so spacious it's jarring. The light wooden flooring that covers his entire apartment just—cuts off. The space extends past where a wall should definitely be, except as tan carpeting instead—as someone else's living room, as if the spaces have been spliced together with knife-like precision. There's another couch across the "room" that's a little stained on the cushions, another coffee table holding up a mess of cookbooks and a half-full glass of Coke. There are souvenir mugs drying on a much smaller kitchen counter. There's—

—another person, a shorter young man frozen in the midst of buttoning up his white dress shirt, staring at Namjoon with the widest eyes imaginable. 

A dream. It has to be a dream, or a summer mirage. 

"Good morning," Namjoon says, because it's only polite. "I'm, uh, Kim Namjoon?"

"Park Jimin," replies the stranger in his-but-not-his apartment. His sweet voice is strangled. "What the fuck."

In another world, Namjoon and Park Jimin sit on their respective couches, consider each other from across the room, and try to break things down together. Maybe they trade numbers, maybe they stumble upon some mutual friends and crack an awkward smile or two, maybe Namjoon fumbles with his words and Jimin’s soft face breaks into laughter.

In this world, though, Park Jimin clearly has places to be. His hands shoot up to neaten his pink bedhead, and the glance he gives Namjoon is panicked but apologetic. “Listen—I know this is all really weird, but I’m gonna be late for work if I don’t go now so—” In this world, he still shoots Namjoon an awkward smile that seems right at home in his soft face. “We’ll talk if you still exist when I get home?” 

Then the front door—Park Jimin's front door—slams shut behind him, and Namjoon is left standing barefoot and speechless in the living room that is no longer just his.

It’s with a strange, detached feeling that Namjoon eyes the clean line where his own apartment ends and Jimin's begins, warily edges away from it. He's not too keen on wandering over an origami fold in the time-space continuum and accidentally losing a leg. He inches over to his fridge to grab breakfast instead, but can’t stop shooting glances over to Park Jimin’s apartment—still a thing despite Jimin not actually being in it—as his japchae slowly rotates in the microwave. The knitted blanket folded next to the couch, the Nintendo Switch tucked next to the small television—it feels voyeuristic, somehow, to look at all this proof of another person’s daily living, put on display like Namjoon’s personal gallery. With a twinge of guilt, Namjoon grabs his food from the microwave after the second beep and scuttles back to the safety of his studio, not stopping even when the ceramic starts burning his fingers. He drops into his swivel chair, stares at his dark reflection in the monitor. Then he pulls his notepad towards him and rips off a page of crossed-out lyrics to start afresh.

what is going on, he scribbles. He considers it, then adds, we’ll talk if you still exist, because it makes for a damn good lyric out of context. He adds quotation marks just because it feels weird to omit them when he can hear Park Jimin’s light, rushed voice in his head, and then he twirls the pen in his fingers, thinking. 

It's not the first time he's heard of Seoul's scattered bursts of magic, of course—Namjoon's called the place home for so many years—but it's always been someone else, and something deep inside of him has never believed the stories, not really. Magic dwells in strange, subtle places, and Namjoon's life has never been one of them—until now.

“There’s another living room in my living room,” he tries saying aloud, which—wow, he feels stupid even saying it. He lets out a groan before snapping upright again and clicking open his most recent MIDI file, because fuck this, at least deadlines make sense.

That’s how he spends the day—with his head stuffed in a pair of headphones and a cloud of experimental beats, Park Jimin a wisp of a thought. His phone vibrates a few times from where it’s buried under papers, but Namjoon grimaces and flips it over, keeps working until the evening casts his hand in warm tones, shadows stretching across his notepad. He registers, then, that his stomach feels like an empty void, and so he heads back to the living room on autopilot, ready to collapse on his couch to scroll through take-out options on his phone. 

What he finds instead is Park Jimin kicking off his shoes at the door—Park Jimin, who crosses the line between his apartment and Namjoon’s without hesitation and hoists a plastic bag full of food onto Namjoon’s coffee table, like they’ve known each other for months.

“I brought dinner,” says Jimin. “Just in case you still existed.”

Namjoon eyes the plastic bag. “I'm a big fan of this contingency plan."

Jimin laughs—a startled, beautiful sound—as he unknots the bag to pull out bibimbap in styrofoam boxes. “Food really is the way to a man's heart."

Namjoon flushes. "Sorry." He pauses. "But, um. Thanks for the food, Jimin-ssi."

Jimin taps him on the head with a small stack of napkins. "Don't worry too much," he teases. “Just keep talking. You tell me things about yourself, then I’ll tell you things back, and hopefully, by the end of the night, we won’t be strangers anymore.”

Namjoon cracks his chopsticks apart. Jimin makes it sound so simple, and he tells Jimin so with the slightest petulance.

“Maybe it just is,” Jimin says. “I mean—it’s sort of not, because—” He taps a foot against the border between carpet and wood. “But if you think about it, it all just boils down to having a new roommate, even if that roommate lives in…?"

"Gangnam," Namjoon supplies. 

“Cool! I’m in Hongdae. Moved here a few years ago from Busan for school and work.” Jimin makes jazz hands, as if to say, tada! “See? Easy.”

It’s Namjoon’s turn to laugh this time, his hand coming up to cover his mouth before he can spit rice in Jimin’s face. Jimin claps him on the back when Namjoons starts to choke a little, and maybe Jimin laughs too, in a way that unbalances his whole body. Maybe they talk until the lightbulb in the lamp by Namjoon’s couch is burning to the touch. Maybe Namjoon relaxes, in a deep-set way he hasn’t felt in a very, very long time.

Sometimes, Namjoon feels too real. Sometimes, his thoughts are too loud and his body too awkward, too solid, and so he'll tear himself away from his desk or his meetings with producers and directors and go for a walk to lose himself. 

The feeling hits him again mid-June, and he spends two hours wandering the stone paths of Dosan Park, ducking underneath the camphor trees once in a while to escape the brunt of the sun. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck to be soaked up in his shirt. Namjoon breathes in the summer air, feels it wreath in his lungs like a dry fireplace, and almost forgets that he's Kim Namjoon, sentient human being with too many thoughts rustling in his skull like iron leaves. Instead, he imagines that he disappears into the heat altogether, just for a moment.

He comes home in the late afternoon, summer still baked into his skin. It still catches him off-guard to look up from taking off his shoes and see Jimin sprawled on the carpet, his Switch raised high above his face with outstretched arms.

"Welcome back, Namjoon-ssi," Jimin says absently. "Someone, uh, rang your doorbell earlier with a package? I left it on your coffee table."

"Thanks," Namjoon says on autopilot, then sputters, "you moved this yourself?" when he tries lifting the cardboard box to move to his studio, only for it to smush his fingers against wood. 

Jimin glances down from his game. "Yeah? Do you need help?"

Namjoon wonders just how much muscle Jimin must be packing in that lithe body of his. "It's fine," he says, opting to crack it open on the spot instead. He smiles—the note laid on top of the contents has Hoseok's name on it in his familiar loopy scrawl.

Namjoonie~ Gwangju's been great, but my parents dragged me out biking by the Yeongsangang River the other day and I couldn't stop thinking about how much you would've loved it! So I got you this. Think of me whenever you water it :) I sure hope it doesn't die on the way LOL anyway Mickey says hi! The gangjeong is his idea. (He still calls you tree man btw. I can't change his mind.) — Hobi

Under the note is a lovely asymmetrical stone with lush moss coating the peak. Namjoon loves it. With a grunt, he carefully maneuvers it to a slightly shaded corner of his studio, right next to his bookcase. The colorful rice puffs left in the box have remained miraculously un-squashed in transit. Share them with your friends, an additional post-it on the cute packaging reads. 

Namjoon folds up the note, thinking. Then he heads back to the living room with the rice puffs in hand and a Jimin-ssi! already falling from his lips, because the delineation between an acquaintance and a friend is fuzzy, but Jimin isn't the only one who can feel the cold stare of the unknown against his neck and still take a step over the line.

It's the beginning of July, and Namjoon watches curiously from his couch as Jimin comes home from work with a small take-out box that smells suspiciously like meat, only to make a beeline for his small kitchen. "My friend made a bet with me at work today," Jimin explains, elbow-deep in his spice shelf. "I have to make a rice puff that tastes like fried chicken."

"A rice puff, huh?"

Jimin ducks his head, leaving Namjoon to wonder if he'd imagined the way his cheeks had flushed pink. "I may have—mentioned it. That you gave me the gangjeong the other day. I hadn't had it in a while, so—yeah." He straightens. "But Tae was like, what if you took the sauce of crispy fried chicken and poured that on rice puffs instead of honey?"

"Sounds like an interesting friend."

"Some call him strange. I call him magical," Jimin says, eyes smiling.

Namjoon glances at the takeout box. "Is that what the chicken's for?"

"Partially. I also just really wanted chicken."

"That's fair," Namjoon says, then looks back at the computer in his lap. He'd planned just to work for a bit and then hit the sack early, but—he closes his laptop, now, goes back to his room to palm his notepad before settling his long legs over a kitchen barstool he brings over to Jimin's side. "If you don't mind, Jimin-ssi," he adds belatedly.

"You're good!" Jimin beams, muffled around the syrupy chicken in his mouth. He's already tying on his apron, a green cartoonish leaf with a blush stitched to the front pocket. It's objectively adorable. "I like cooking," he explains with only a hint of shyness. "When there isn't much of a crowd at the teahouse, my boss lets me take a break from waiting on people to make snacks and small dishes for them instead."

Namjoon, loosely enthralled, watches Jimin stir sweet sticky rice batter and mix honey with simmering gochujang in a saucepan—watches Jimin create—and finds his hand move his pen across the notepad as if with a mind of its own.

it's in the small things, in the daring things

in honey gochujang

Namjoon doesn't know what it is. Maybe art, or magic, or whatever word suits the quiet admiration currently curling up in Namjoon's chest. It, though, still exists, and somehow Jimin does too, in this strange space that Seoul's decided should be for the two of them. It exists, Jimin exists, and if Namjoon does too— 

"—Jimin-ah," Namjoon tries, and for a split second there's the squirming worry that he's being too comfortable too familiar too fast—

—but then Jimin just wipes a red chili pepper flake off his cheek with a sleeve and promptly says, "yeah, hyung?" and a smile twitches on Namjoon's face like a spark of electricity in his skin.

"It's nothing," he says. can't ignore it even if I try, he scribbles, and retracts his pen with a click. 

In short:

Jimin has a certain energy, good-natured and sweet and genuine, and Namjoon doesn't mean to get so attached, tries at first to see Jimin as an amicable roommate he casually talks to over dinner, that he greets in the mornings and tells good night hours before either of them actually go to bed— 

—but then Jimin's calling his name on a Saturday afternoon because he's just baked some lemon bites, the sugary smell wafting through their rooms like warm incense, and he's going to hand them out to friends but Namjoon should try some before they get cold— 

—and then Namjoon's in his studio side-eyeing the time in the corner of his monitor and wondering with mild concern if Jimin is up yet, doesn't he have to be out the door and racing to work in, say, two minutes ago—?

—and then Jimin's singing in the shower across their apartments and Namjoon slides off his headphones just to listen, sometimes even joins in under his breath, careful never to sing so loudly that he isn't able to hear Jimin's honeyed voice as it rises over the spatter of water against shower glass— 

—and then there's a dance cover on Namjoon's recommended feed with a solo that's impressively fluid, at least to Namjoon's eyes, and Jimin's mentioned before that he learns choreography he likes, so Namjoon saves the video to show Jimin when he comes home—

—and then Namjoon’s walking home from the company building and snagging four potato pancakes from a food stall instead of two because he remembers Jimin craving it at midnight the other day, and Namjoon watches the vendor slide the four golden, crispy treats into a cute paper bag and realizes, then, that he’s truly being drawn to Jimin like a moth to a flickering flame.

"I think I've made a new friend," Namjoon says idly to Seokjin and Jungkook, the three of them strolling through the Myeongdong night market shortly after the sun sinks below the horizon. 

Their recording session had gone smoothly, but none of them had eaten since the scattered snacks that made for company lunch earlier that day, so Jungkook had dragged them out to the night market to hang out and indulge in all the tastes and sizzling smells the busy street food stalls have to offer. He's got his mask tucked under his chin now as he gobbles up a lamb skewer, the meat still crackling from its time on the grill. Namjoon idly spins his own skewer between his fingers and waits for it to cool in the summer night air.

Beside him, Seokjin ducks around a particularly packed food stall and shoots Namjoon a curious look. "A friend? From the company?"

Namjoon shakes his head. "No one from work."

"Then how did you meet them?"

"He kind of just… appeared in my life," says Namjoon. He bites down around the first orb of meat on his skewer, slides it off with his teeth. "I was—confused, at first, but he's so warm and talented and sweet that I kind of…" He shrugs. "...forgot to be freaked out, I guess." 

Seokjin squints. "You haven't brought a frog home again, have you?"

"What? Hyung!"

"I'm just saying, this wouldn't be the first amphibian you've gotten all buddy-buddy with—"

"Jimin's human, I swear." Namjoon pauses. "Though I'll have you know that frogs make perfectly good friends and I think it's a little rude to dismiss an entire sociable species—"

“Yes, of course, my utmost apologies,” Seokjin teases. He tries to bite into his egg bread only for Jungkook to barrel into him, teeth snapping to steal a savory bite for himself, and Seokjin yelps, “Fuck no, Jungkookie, get your own—” 

“You let me have a bite earlier!” 

“And if you think I’m gonna share any more than that—”

“C’mon hyung, at least buy one for me, just to show me you love me, please?” 

“That's what you said last time!” 

Namjoon smothers a choked laugh, fondly turning away from their bickering to take in the night market sights. The crowd buzzes around them like the cicadas on the trees. Spatulas scraping across grills, oil snapping like firecrackers, knives chopping a steady rhythm through the noise—food festivities are everywhere, and Namjoon thinks that Jimin must adore places like this.

The three migrate down the street, pausing at clothing racks and jewelry displays and holding often ill-fitting souvenir shirts against each other's torsos with no small amount of amusement. They laugh harder whenever they come across Seokjin or Jungkook merchandise, their faces plastered on things from plastic fans to phone cases, and somehow no one sees through the masks and recognizes the singers themselves. Namjoon buys a necklace with a metal floral charm hanging from the cord, and pointedly doesn't mention it when he spots Jungkook sneaking a purchase of long silver earrings while Seokjin's distracted, only to then divert attention altogether by looping his arms around theirs, whining for hotteok, and tugging them over to a stall with dough bubbling on the grill.

While Jungkook's waiting for their food, Seokjin softly knocks his and Namjoon's heads together, taking Namjoon by surprise. "You do seem happier lately, Namjoon-ah," he says. His voice is quiet but fond. "Seems like I have this Jimin guy to thank."

Namjoon lets Seokjin ruffle his bleached hair. I want to thank him too, he thinks, and slips the necklace snugly into his front jean pocket.

“I’ve never seen you use your kitchen,” Jimin comments.

It’s a July weekend, and Jimin’s legs are thrown over the armrest of his couch and kicking idly against the side. Offended, Namjoon gestures from the kitchen sink, where he’s struggling to eat a mango popsicle that’s melting so quickly it’s unfair. 

Jimin laughs, a sound sweeter than the sugar coating Namjoon’s fingers. “That doesn’t count—I mean for actual cooking. I’ve never seen you fry an egg or boil noodles. Don’t tell me you order takeout everyday.” 

Namjoon tries very hard not to draw attention to the trash can, which is nearly overflowing with little food-stained plastic boxes. “I’m supporting local businesses,” he defends.

“You should support local markets, too.” Jimin twists in the couch so that his stomach is pressed into the cushions and he can peer over the armrest in a textbook cobra pose. “Actually—you should do it. Like, today. Go out and buy some groceries and make use of your awesome kitchen.”

“My cooking isn’t… great, Jimin-ah.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

Namjoon pulls a face, thinking of the way his microwave still smells like burnt popcorn from the time he’d wanted his butter just a tad bit melted for his toast. 

Jimin pouts. “I’ll help! C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

—and so Namjoon finds himself in a local grocery store minutes later, empty blue shopping basket bouncing against his shin as he walks through the aisles. Jimin had cheerfully waved him off at the door. We can cook whatever you want, so just buy what we need, he’d said, which sounded easy enough, except—Namjoon scans the massive array of vegetables, now, and realizes he’s not exactly sure what goes into, say, cold noodle soup. Eventually he gives up and picks up a vague assortment of things. Potatoes, spinach, pork belly, rice, green onions… he even spends an embarrassingly long time wondering whether different colors of bell peppers actually vary in taste. Red is sweeter, Naver claims. Namjoon buys one of each color, just to try for himself. It's not as daring a move as Jimin's experiments in the kitchen, but Namjoon's content to dabble in the smaller adventures in life.

“I hope you know what to do with all this,” he says to Jimin helplessly when he winds up back at home with five stuffed bags of groceries sitting on the countertop. 

Jimin picks up an onion, tosses and catches it. “We can work with this,” he beams. 

His leaf apron is back. He's also pulling out a knife that looks the length of his forearm. Namjoon is both endeared and mildly terrified.

They spend the next few hours inching through a few stew recipes in one of Jimin's cookbooks, with Jimin at the helm and Namjoon trying his honest-to-goodness best. Namjoon likes to think he doesn't do too badly—his cutting is a little choppy, but he gets the job done—and Jimin is bright and encouraging the whole time, which gives Namjoon's confidence a boost. Jimin throws on a playlist and grooves to it while Namjoon painstakingly measures two teaspoons of sesame oil, and Namjoon keeps his mouth shut whenever songs he's helped produce filter out of Jimin's bluetooth speaker, though he's not sure if it's out of humility or embarrassment. Maybe both.

With Jimin, conversation is easy. Namjoon goes on a long tangent about wood— olive trees are difficult to properly grow and maintain, and they're super durable but they've still got these intricate veins and grain patterns and the duality is amazing—and Jimin keeps asking questions, his eyes sparkling when he looks at Namjoon. They make too much stew, though Jimin claims you can never have too much stew and stacks the leftover bowls in Namjoon's fridge for later. They eat, and Namjoon's never felt so full in his life. They watch a movie, because Jimin puts on The Wind Rises and it's been ages since Namjoon's last watched it and he's gravitated towards the open spot on Jimin's couch before he realizes what he's doing.

"Do you believe in magic?" Namjoon asks quietly, though he knows it's a strange question to ask only meters away from the time-space anomaly that glues their apartments together. 

Jimin's eyes glint in the dark from the light of the television. The floral charm hanging around his neck glints too, the cord resting gently against his collarbone. "It's hard for me not to," he says vaguely. "Do you?"

"I don't know."

Jimin shifts on the couch so that his tucked knees brush against Namjoon's leg. "Do you believe in dreams, hyung?"

Namjoon frowns. "I—I believe they happen, yeah."

"And you believe in reality."

"Yes."

"Then if I told you magic is just what happens when dreams drift a little too close to reality… if I told you that, would you believe in magic then?"

Namjoon glances at Jimin, suddenly very aware of him as a warm, warm existence against his shoulder. Jimin isn't smiling, but his voice lilts just so, like he's privy to some kind of cosmic joke that isn't so much funny as it is just beyond Namjoon's reach—ethereal, in that particular way Jimin always is, but not elite. 

I'm no better than you, Jimin's voice seems to say, I just can't explain to you why. 

"I guess I would," says Namjoon.

On-screen, the main character Jiro has another dream about magnificent planes and clouds close enough to touch and an Italian aeronautical engineer asleep continents away. "What a beautiful dream," says the mustached Italian, and Jiro takes his hand, not wanting to wake up just yet.

Whenever Jimin has friends over, Namjoon locks himself in his studio and plugs his ears with music to prevent himself from eavesdropping. 

It's not that Namjoon dislikes Jimin's friends (though he does wonder, confused, if Jimin's just—used to it, used to the way that looking at Taehyung for too long feels a bit like staring at the shimmer that hovers over pavement on a hot day, as if his body is always a second away from being another flitting trick of the light). It's just that Namjoon and Jimin have been skirting around the topic of their lives beyond the apartment, in almost unspoken agreement. They haven't traded phone numbers or arranged to meet each other outside… Namjoon's never even used Jimin's door to Hongdae, as convenient as it would be. 

(A quiet voice in the back of Namjoon's head tells him that they're both afraid of what they might find.)

So—not much mingling with friends. So—when Taehyung bursts into the apartment after Jimin on a late July weekday and Jimin apologetically explains, hyung closed shop for the day to cleanse his cups after a customer's bad vibes soured the mulberry tea leaves, Namjoon says, I see—as if he understands—and shuts himself alone in his studio while Taehyung and Jimin chatter cross-legged in the living room over a pot of tea. 

For the most part, everything goes as usual. Namjoon's unsent song drafts play through his earbuds, his own voice a little raspy in the demos. He's recently picked up a book about some French painter named Daubigny, so he cracks it open to his bookmark and keeps reading. 

He's about two-thirds through when his earbuds die without so much as a sad droopy sound for a warning. 

The audio that's playing—one of Namjoon's unfinished songs—explodes from his phone speaker mid-paragraph, and Namjoon jumps, fumbles with the screen and mashes the pause button until his phone finally registers his finger, which takes at least a mortifying twenty seconds. Jimin and Taehyung are silent for a beat. Then the cheery sounds of conversation buzz through the wall again from the living room, and Namjoon plops down on his chair again. His heart thumps wildly against his chest. I hope that didn't interrupt them, he thinks, and shakily lifts his book again.

—except then he emerges from his studio after night falls to see Taehyung out, because Taehyung insists on saying bye to Namjoon every time despite barely knowing him, and Namjoon can't refuse those puppy eyes. Taehyung hugs Jimin tightly, as if they aren't literally going to see each other at work tomorrow, then turns to Namjoon and says, "Bye, Namjoon-ssi! Also, we liked that song from earlier—wish I could've heard more of it."

Namjoon sputters. "I—thanks?"

Taehyung nods sagely. "You should've seen Jimin dancing to it, it was so cute."

"Tae—!" Jimin snaps, a lovely pink dusting his face, but Taehyung's already disappeared into the Hongdae evening with a bright, squarish grin, the door swinging shut to cut him off from the consequences he's wreaked. 

"I mean," Namjoon says, breaking the silence that follows, "I would've liked to see it." When Jimin falls back against the couch, face buried in his hands, Namjoon has to try very hard to fight back a grin. "What? I like watching you dance."

Jimin peeks out between his fingers. "You've seen me dance?"

"Ah—besides the times you wiggle a little to the radio?" Namjoon loses the war with his smile. "I may have, uh, caught you practicing in the living room more than once. You're always so into it, so I try not to interrupt…"

"I thought you were working in your studio!" 

"Whoops." Namjoon scratches his neck. "You—um—look really good, though. Dancing. And otherwise."

A brief battle wages behind Jimin's expression before he gives in, leaning forward on the couch and looking very much like a wren perched on a branch. "Well, what about you, hyung? Hiding a secret career as a singer or something? That was definitely your voice in the song."

"The demo," Namjoon clarifies sheepishly. "I don't sing, I just—produce for singers who actually know what they're doing."

Jimin perks up. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah."

"That's so cool, hyung." Jimin cocks his head. "If… if I promise to show you what I freestyled, would you let me hear that song again? From the beginning?"

Namjoon balks. "What? Why?"

"Because you wrote it," Jimin says simply, his lips twitching into a smile. "And, well. Tae wasn't joking when he said we liked it."

If Namjoon's honest with himself, there's not much he can say to that, so he gives in and pulls out his phone, finger scrolling to the temporary MP3 file. It's a song he's been working on for a while, an R&B track with placeholder lyrics for Jungkook to supplant later. It's unlikely that most of Namjoon's lyrics will make it into the final version, but he's carefully written them with his own honest thoughts anyway, as is his process. Pressing play now feels a bit like stripping a protective layer off his heart and waiting for Jimin to judge its exposed insides, but—it's Jimin, so Namjoon lets the song play.

(If it's Jimin, Namjoon will let him see his heart and more.)

Jimin sits still for the first playthrough, listens with rapt attention and little sways to the beat. It's only when the song begins to loop that he rolls his body, his torso unraveling upwards until suddenly he's on his feet, and then his feet are sliding to the side as his arms snake outward in controlled pops that come in and out with the background reverb. Namjoon's lips part in blank amazement at some point and he doesn't bother closing them when he notices. There's a private pang in his chest too, watching Jimin dance in between Namjoon's own low, scratchy tones—his music, his words. 

Besides Jungkook and the other producers, Namjoon realizes, no one else will hear this demo. The song will be different when it's released. In this moment, this song hangs like a lantern between him and Park Jimin only, in this spliced space they've made theirs.

"Whoa—" Namjoon yelps suddenly as his arm is yanked forward, and he's centimeters from Jimin's teasing smile now, Jimin's face tilted upwards to meet Namjoon in the eyes.

"Dance with me, hyung," says Jimin, and pulls him to the side.

Any protests of I don't dance seem to die in Namjoon's throat. Jimin's hands are steadying and warm, and his forehead is at such a height that Namjoon could bend just barely and press his lips there—if he wanted to, anyway, though Namjoon isn't sure of the answer. At Jimin's encouragement, Namjoon starts out with an awkward attempt at the wave, then some kind of half-spin that has Namjoon almost tripping on an ottoman and rattling the teaset on the coffee table, but then they're slow dancing on wooden planks to the smooth major key.

July moonlight streams through the windows. Shadows slide across their living rooms, under their footsteps. Daubigny had drifted into the ocean on a humble boat many times in his effort to capture the melancholy moon, and this is how Namjoon feels now—adrift, with Jimin's hands in his, swaying back and forth with the music of the tides and wondering if he'll ever truly be able to make this memory timeless.

"There are some things that are hard to put in simple words," says Jimin lightly, before the bridge of the song. "I dance, cook. You make music. Do you understand?"

"One time for the present, two time for the past."

"I'm trying to," Namjoon says. It's almost a whisper, almost reverent, and Jimin's eyes shimmer in the moonlight. Namjoon will loop that image over and over again in his mind later that night when he sprawls on his duvet and stares up at his dark ceiling for hours.

Namjoon takes to bringing his work into their joint living room in the afternoons, when Jimin's off waiting tables somewhere in the city and Namjoon has their apartments all to himself again. He makes a cushioned place for himself on the floor, right in the corner made by his ceiling-to-floor windows and the carpet-to-wood border. Black ink fills the pages of his notepad now, none of them torn off to be tossed into the trash but none of them making it into his files either.

Here, at this junction between Jimin's space and his, the sunbeams from their windows clash and intermingle. same city different lights, Namjoon scribbles absently. the words I hear that don't make sense here might make sense one step away. The words don't fit in the peppy track he's been assigned to right now, but he writes them anyway, for some undesignated future.

"—one step away," he mumbles to himself in half-joking sing-song, then, "I wonder if hyung would want to collaborate on a rap ballad anytime soon."

(if 'dream' and 'dance' end the same way then I never want this dance to end)

At sunset, the peach and lavender hues blend on the floor under Namjoon's legs, on Jimin's cheeks when he pushes through the door with a hummed I'm home, like the sweetest smoothie from the sky.

August comes easily, like its cooler breezes. It comes easily, but Namjoon looks at Jimin with each passing day and wonders if he's imagining the fog that seems to tug Jimin's mood down in weighted blanket layers.

I'm okay, Jimin might promise, or maybe he'll shrug and smile blankly after coming home from work as he offers an I'm gonna take a nap until dinner and not reappear for hours.

Okay, Namjoon says, and tries to cook meals once in a while to take some manual labor out of Jimin's packed schedule.

He's very, very carefully frying kimchi and rice in a pan one night for a hopefully edible midnight snack (fingers crossed) when he hears the staggered knocking on Jimin’s front door. He shuts off the stove—checks twice, just in case—and steps over the border between their living spaces with only the smallest of held breaths before he fumbles open Jimin's door. 

"Hi, hyung," Jimin says on the other side, cheeks flushed a little red. The Hongdae noise and lights splatter the dark streets behind him. "I forgot my keys."

He's clearly been dressed for a night out, and Namjoon can't help gingerly grasp Jimin's shoulders as he helps him inside, afraid to rumple the two-tone collared shirt when it fits Jimin so beautifully. "Did you come home alone?"

"'m not drunk. Don't get drunk easily." Jimin pats Namjoon's cheeks with both hands. "I just had my fill of fun for the night and decided to come home early, no biggie."

"You could have…" You could have called me, except it occurs to Namjoon that they've never traded numbers, never met up with each other outside the strange boundaries of their co-apartment, and Namjoon swallows back the words. "You could have asked a friend to help you back."

"I didn't wanna bother them." 

Hands still awkwardly on Jimin's shoulders, Namjoon helps him over to Jimin's bedroom, though he hesitates at the door, only pushes inside when Jimin whines a it's fine it's just my room into his shoulder. Namjoon turns on the lights and Jimin collapses on his bed, and his nice shirt is definitely rumpled now. 

Jimin's room is small but cozy (like him, a mushy part of Namjoon's brain supplies). The bed is tucked away in a corner to make room for the squashed beanbags chilling with a few well-loved plushies under the soft light of a lamp. Books and comics cover his desk, and a mirror hangs over the back of the door. Jimin wiggles his legs. He's still wearing dark jeans that cling to his skin with a vengeance, and Namjoon doesn't say anything but imagines it can't be comfortable wearing those to sleep.

"Don't you have work tomorrow?" asks Namjoon.

Jimin doesn't answer at first, instead makes grabby hands at his closet. After some guessing, Namjoon eventually tosses him a very fluffy-looking blanket from a shelf. With a satisfied thanks, Jimin snugly wraps himself until he looks like a croissant right out of the oven.

He looks up at Namjoon, head tilted just so, and says, "Sometimes I feel like I don't exist."

A drop of sadness plips into Namjoon's chest. "Oh."

"Yeah. Like what I'm doing is tiny and inconsequential and doesn't make anyone happy." Jimin wriggles in his blanket. "Not even myself. Do you ever feel like that, hyung?"

Namjoon lowers himself into the pulpy embrace of a beanbag, thinking. Jimin deserves honesty, but something keeps the truth—that more often, he feels like he's too real—shackled to Namjoon's tongue. "It's hard to say," he manages through the taste of iron, which is honest enough. "Do you… feel like that now?"

"It was worse earlier. I’m okay now, though.”

They’re silent for a long moment—Namjoon because he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if there is a right thing to say, and Jimin because his eyes are drooping shut, alcohol and exhaustion lulling him to a dreamworld. 

“I’m glad you’re here, hyung,” Jimin mumbles sleepily. “I like comin' home and seeing you here. It's like a dream come true.”

There's something not quite carefree in those words, and unease prickles Namjoon's senses like lightning fuzz. He tries to smile. He isn’t sure if he succeeds. “Me too, Jimin.”

Jimin doesn’t respond, his breathing already evening out in soft exhales. Namjoon gets up without a sound, flicks off the lights, and quietly closes the door behind him.

When Jimin pokes his head into Namjoon's open bedroom, Namjoon isn't sure what to expect, but it's definitely not the casual I have to go to Insadong today do you want to come with that comes out of Jimin's mouth. There's a moment of silence where they meet each other's gaze, both too aware of the tension of what Jimin's asking of them—the opening of Schrödinger's box, the bracing for what they'll be beyond the apartment walls.

Sure, says Namjoon. (Let's open the box.)

They decide to leave from Namjoon's end because it's a shorter walk to the nearest station. Jimin walks over the threshold first, and he watches Namjoon intently afterwards, like he's waiting for him to disappear at any moment—but neither of them do. Jimin seems to relax with every step that takes them further from home, and by the time they reach the station, Namjoon is relieved to see Jimin pointing excitedly at the underground shop displays, his sweet smile back where it belongs.

Insadong is beautiful. Namjoon buzzes silently with the urge to check out all the small museums they pass and Jimin notices with laughter in his voice as he tugs an embarrassed Namjoon to the ticket booths for general admission. Jimin takes pictures of Namjoon with mock-serious backlighting, of the pigeons that flock in the outdoor museum plazas, of Namjoon's face when a frog jumps out of a fountain and lands on the back of his hand. In between museum detours, they wander the traditional trinket shops and little eateries, stopping by one of Insadong's many teahouses so Jimin can finally complete his errand for his boss and pick up a paper bag of artisan balhyocha leaves. 

Insadong is beautiful, and—so is Jimin, Namjoon thinks, admiring the way his face glows in the lantern light of the cozy streets. 

"It's getting late," Jimin eventually says, looking a little disappointed. "Should we head back?"

Namjoon absently twirls their souvenir bags one way, then another. "What if we make one more stop when we get back to Gangnam?" 

So when they emerge from the subway ride back, Namjoon pulls Jimin away from the streets proper and heads to his favorite park. The trees cast shadows on the pebbled paths, and the cicadas' droning surrounds them with the sounds of summer. They keep walking past the occasional couple or dogwalker until they reach a small grassy grove, one with a wooden bench underneath a branching alder tree. Jimin plops down on the bench and pats beside him until Namjoon joins him with a sigh of satisfaction, his sore legs rejoicing.

"Why here?" Jimin asks quietly, after a moment.

"This is where I usually come to lose myself when I get too caught up in my thoughts. I guess you could argue that going somewhere familiar to lose myself is a little counterintuitive," Namjoon says sheepishly, "but it works for me."

"It's peaceful. It suits you, hyung."

Namjoon ducks his head, even in the dark. "I like it a lot, so I wanted to share it with you." He tries to say more, but because I like you, too gets swallowed up in molasses on the way out his throat, and he ends up with an awkward cough instead.

Jimin nods anyway, staring out into the forested night. "Thank you, hyung," he says eventually. "For showing me this. For coming with me today. I… had a lot of fun." He turns back to Namjoon, voice soft. "I'll always remember this."

When they walk back home hand-in-hand, Namjoon almost doesn't notice the way Jimin's hand is tense and shaking, just barely, in his.

Jimin asks Namjoon a lot of questions. Whether or not you know, you always have an interesting answer, explains Jimin shyly, and Namjoon grows to look forward to them, the little lilt in Jimin's voice when starts, hey hyung, like a nudge given sound.

Do you think chili peppers could taste good in a cake, when Jimin tries introducing Namjoon to basic baking and they find that they're one egg and many strawberries short of making a strawberry cheesecake.

In what way is time travel not a long-term investment, when Namjoon's watching Jimin play Animal Crossing and frowning every time he exits to settings and alters the date just a little, just a lot.

Do you believe in free will, when they're sharing a bent box of chow mein one night when they're both too exhausted to even crank on the stove for instant ramen, Jimin hanging over the edge of the sofa with a scarily slug-like consistency.

Do you think she did the right thing, when they're watching another movie and Jimin's head is a comfortable weight on Namjoon's shoulder and the heroine sacrifices her happiness to save her mother's, complete with dramatic orchestral music and a zoom-in on her clenched teeth.

Can you give me a hug, when Jimin takes a day off work to fend off a migraine and Namjoon peeks into his bedroom with a bowl of watermelon cubes, which he places on Jimin's desk so as to not stain Jimin's blankets with juice when Namjoon hesitatingly wraps his arms around Jimin's smaller body and pats his hair to a rhythm that he's been mulling over for a while, that he hopes Jimin finds comforting.

Namjoon doesn't always know if he has the right answer, but for Jimin, he'll always try his best.

"Tae's coming over tonight," Jimin tells Namjoon in the morning. He says it offhandedly, over his shoulder as he pulls on his shoes at the door—the start to a normal day.

"Cool," Namjoon replies from the hallway, squeezing toothpaste onto his brush. "Want me to make dinner?"

"Nah, I was gonna buy something. Might as well get your favorites. How does pork belly sound?" Namjoon visibly perks up, toothbrush in his mouth, and Jimin smiles at his excitement, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes—but Namjoon must be imagining things, because Jimin's smile bleeds into his voice when he continues, "then I'll see you later, hyung," then leaves for work.

The day, too, passes as normal: Namjoon plays with different percussion sounds for the company's current project, then experiments with melodies and lyrics, his voice sinking into the studio walls. In the afternoon, he tends to the healthy green mossy rock in the corner of the room. He gets a message from Hoseok later asking what he's done to deserve the spammed pictures of the rock from fifteen different angles, to which Namjoon replies with a sunglasses emoji and a green heart, just to match the rock. He eats up the evening reading one of Jimin's cookbooks in the living room, wondering why something as small as a macaron can be so complicated to make. A part of him bravely considers attempting the recipe on his own one of these days and surprising Jimin with the sweet bite-sized pastries, which remind him of Jimin so much.

When Jimin's front door opens, Taehyung's the first to sing-song a we're back, hyung! as if he's right at home. Jimin follows with takeout bags, though one plastic bag is unlike the others.

"I got you something," says Jimin, and Namjoon all but gasps when he pulls out a small plush of a stingray from the odd bag out, complete with a pseudo-smiling face on its underbelly.

"What the hell, Jimin-ah, thank you," breathes Namjoon, placing the cute toy delicately on his lap. "How did you know I liked—?"

"You talk about sea creatures enough, it wasn't that far of a stretch," Jimin teases. "Also, uh. You know how you snore at night? Sometimes you sleep talk about wanting to kiss 'sea pancakes', too."

Namjoon shrugs, though he's flushing. "Doesn't everyone?"

"Sure, hyung, whatever you say."

"Thank you," Namjoon repeats, eyes fixed on the plush.

Jimin looks down, seemingly embarrassed. "Yeah, well. You've been on my mind lately," he mumbles. "Just a thank you, I guess. Wanted to show my appreciation for… everything."

He looks like he has more to say, but there's a beep from the kitchen Jimin has to bolt over to stop Taehyung from putting a spoon in the microwave, fuck not even Namjoon-hyung does this Tae not all fire is like foxfire— 

(Normal. Confusing, but normal.)

One averted crisis later, they've all crowded around the table and its spread of meats and side dishes. They discuss Jimin and Taehyung's antics at work and listen to music in the background. Jimin jolts upright from the floor when a familiar song comes on, a steadier voice singing different but no less genuine words in Namjoon's place, you produce for Jeon Jungkook hyung are you kidding me? Namjoon presses his napkin against his mouth to keep potato from falling out his mouth in his laughter, shoulders shaking even when Taehyung tries to pry the napkin away from him, Namjoon-ssi what the hell can you get me an autograph?

"Call me hyung," Namjoon tells him, and he's sure that if Taehyung had a tail, it'd be wagging up a storm. 

—so it confuses Namjoon later when Jimin asks Taehyung to come with him to his room, wanna show you something Tae, and the two return somber what feels like ages later, with Jimin blinking rapidly and Taehyung looking like he wants to bite something and never let go.

"Are you sure, Jiminie?" Taehyung asks, his deep voice small. "Because I don't know, but—if it's what you've decided—"

Jimin nods, looks at Namjoon like he's scared, like he's drinking it all in one last time. "I'm sorry, hyung," he whispers. "Thank you."

Bewildered, Namjoon opens his mouth to ask him what's wrong, but then a sorrowful Taehyung dashes forward with glowing green eyes and then—

—Namjoon wakes up, slumped in the embrace of his on his couch.

His head is tilted back, tousled gray hair splayed against the pillows. There's a blanket draped over him, and when he pulls it off he finds that he's still wearing the white Supreme hoodie and black shorts from yesterday and his socked feet are propped on the coffee table. A stingray plush Namjoon doesn't remember owning rests against his chin. It falls onto Namjoon's lap as he sits up, dazed, and—something's off, maybe even eerie, like the sudden blue tint the world gains when clouds shroud the sun from view. 

Where is— Namjoon thinks, but the thought falters, his brain coming up empty. He shakes his head, silently tries mouthing a name he doesn't remember.

There's a wall stretching from one side of his living room to another, like always. He's alone in his apartment. Nothing is out of place.

Jungkook pokes Namjoon with his tiny plastic spoon a week later, talks through a mouthful of creamy red bean. "Uh, hyung? Your ice cream's melting."

Namjoon blinks. Indeed, his ice cream looks more soup than solid. "Sorry," he says absently, slurps up a spoonful. They're loitering outside an ice cream store, just the two of them under the shade of the eaves. Jungkook had all but dragged Namjoon out to get dessert with him a few blocks away, whining through his mask that he missed him, we never hang out anymore hyung I haven't seen you since our last recording, and as much as Namjoon's been feeling strangely empty all week, he never has the heart to say no to the kid. 

Still, his mind quickly drifts off again to thoughts about his notepad back home, filled with scrawled thoughts and lyrics he doesn't remember writing. He's spent hours trying to decode his own words and still can't make any real sense of them.

"—Jin-hyung's smile and the way his cheeks go all poomf like mini clouds," Jungkook is saying with a stupid smile, even as he steals a tiny scoop of Namjoon's pear ice cream soup.

Namjoon grabs a napkin and wipes stray ice cream from the corner of Jungkook's mouth. "Just ask him out already."

"I'm trying," Jungkook whines. "Also, wait for me, I'm gonna get seconds."

"Jungkookie, you got triple scoop with like, three different kinds of sprinkles."

"You can never have too many ice cream toppings," says Jungkook, very seriously.

Namjoon shakes his head, watches Jungkook scuttle back to the cashier as he mulls over some of the lyrics again.

Red is sweeter, we'll talk if you still exist, do you understand? 

He doesn't understand, but—he's trying.

Namjoon tells no one but his notepad, but—now, when he's feeling tired from his marrow to the barest patch of dry skin, when his songs come out very heavy and not-quite-sad but not-quite-happy either, when he's not stuck but he's not moving the way he wants to either—now, when he's staring listlessly at his wall again, he almost swears he hears socked feet pad into the living room like phantom steps. 

His heart skips a beat every time, and he doesn't know why.

Seokjin calls him twenty-two times one morning, and Namjoon only stretches his arm from under the blankets to pick up on the twenty-third.

"Oh thank fuck, you're alive." 

"But I sent in a demo for your new song yesterday," Namjoon mumbles. Putting his phone on speaker, he curls up in his round mass of blankets again and sinks the side of his face into his plush pillow.

"That could've been a robot for all I know. Maybe you have a backlog of drafts that get sent to the company on a schedule. I'll be at your bedside, trying my damn best not to cry because I want to be strong for you even when you're in a coma, and then I'll get a call from my manager saying she got the latest Top 40 hit in her inbox, 'tell Namjoon I'm glad he's feeling better already!'"

Namjoon snorts. "Hyung, please."

"I'm just saying." There's distant yelling on the other line. "Jungkook says he calls dibs on being your bedside-crier. Little does he know I reserved the spot long before he was even born."

"I met Jungkook first.”

"I fail to see the problem."

"Don't tell me you're calling just for a mourning check, hyung."

Seokjin pauses. Namjoon can imagine him now, can see the way Seokjin’s face must even out, all serious beauty and narrowed eyes. “...it's the song you sent.”

Namjoon's stomach drops a little, and his fingers catch in his blankets. "Is it bad?"

"What? No, the rap ballad's beautiful. Ten out of ten would cry—would, as in I didn't.” A pause. “But hypothetically, if I did cry, I might have called just to, like. Check if you're okay."

It's just a song, Namjoon wants to say, but he knows Seokjin would see through the lie before the bitter aftertaste even hit Namjoon's tongue. "I'm fine," he says, which is true. "It fits your voice," he adds; also means, if there's anyone I trust with it, it's you.

Seokjin makes a flustered sound that he tries to cover up with a laugh. “Ah, look at you, trying to butter up your hyung."

"I mean it," Namjoon says, voice carefully light. "Give me your input when you can and we can record our parts together within the week."

"Alright, alright, I’ll let my manager know. And Namjoonie?" Crackling comes through the speakers. “The file you sent—it just had a placeholder name, ‘jm.mp3’? Is that short for something?”

Namjoon’s heart gives a phantom clench. “I don’t know,” he whispers. But it feels important.

“Ah, uh… did you have a different title in mind?” 

Namjoon buries his head under his duvet completely, pulls his phone into the pillowy darkness to stare at the blinding screen. The light reflects off the black eyes of his stingray plush. "Maybe… ‘honey gochujang,’” he says softly, because there’s a spicy aroma ghosting his memory, a sweet voice he can’t quite seem to grasp, no matter how hard he tries.

They have "honey gochujang" recorded and released before August ends. It shoots up in the rankings and Seokjin's schedule fills up close to bursting with broadcast appearances and there's a spike in online comments demanding that the returning featured artist RM release a mixtape, do a face reveal, anything.

Instead, Namjoon stays home, plays the song in the living room when the sunset is coloring his floor in pastels one evening and wonders why he has the urge to make the stovetop crackle to life, make dinner for two. He doesn't cook, after all.

It takes a while for Namjoon to spot Hoseok standing under the Lotte Outlets sign at Seoul Station with his black suitcase and pet carrier, but thankfully not long enough for the slushies in Namjoon’s hands to have melted in the afternoon sun. Namjoon hurries over to the shade and taps Hoseok’s cheek with the plastic cup in greeting, leaving condensation droplets on his skin.

“Thanks, I think the AC broke on the train ride here,” says Hoseok. He takes a long sip of the green slushie and his face scrunches up. “Green grape chillers?”

“From the McCafé inside,” Namjoon confirms, also bringing the straw to his lips. “Tastes fake, but I had to for the crunched ice.”

“Fair enough.” Hoseok brings him in for a tight, one-armed hug, smiling brightly even though they’re both sweating buckets. A few barks come out of the pet carrier at Hoseok’s feet. “Ah, Mickey says hi to you too, tree man.”

Namjoon bends down to peer at the panting white and brown Shih Tzu. “Hello yourself! Thanks for the snacks.” He glances back up at Hoseok. “And for the rock, it's grown nicely since the last time I sent an update, I have so many pictures—"

“—which you can show me after we find a place to eat with a working AC," laughs Hoseok, pressing his icy drink to his neck.

Despite the lunchtime rush, they manage to snag a table for two at a tofu soup place nearby. Namjoon thinks he's doing fairly well at keeping his smiles on-point and holding up his end of the conversation, so it takes him by surprise when Hoseok's brow furrows in the middle of his own story about something his sister did last week.

"—and—actually, no," Hoseok says. "What's going on in that head of yours? You've been a little off since the station." 

Namjoon picks at the last bits of tofu in his stone bowl. "I know," he says. "I'm—fine. Really. I've just got some things to figure out, I think." Slumping in his seat, he strays his gaze to Mickey, who's gnawing on a meat bone in his carrier. "You sure we don't need to order anything for Mickey?" he asks, trying to divert the conversation. 

"I see what you're doing, Namjoon," Hoseok warns, but relays the question to Mickey anyway. Mickey woofs, wags his tail. "Mickey says he's good with just the bone, though he's very excited that the tree man cared to ask."

"Why does he call me tree man again?"

Another relay, another woof. "He says, uh, 'you shouldn't ask stupid questions, silly tree man.'" Hoseok shakes his head. "That's all you're probably getting from him."

Namjoon pokes a finger through the fenced carrier door and scratches Mickey under the chin. It's strange—he's never really believed in magic, privately dismissed it as placebo or intuition whenever someone else brought it up, but now a part of Namjoon listens to Hoseok speak for Mickey and believes that this small dog chewing away at a bone has called Namjoon tree man for the four years he's known him, believes that Hoseok has truly heard his dog's voice all this time. 

"You never told me how this whole dog whisperer thing happened," Namjoon says.

"Ah, well—" Hoseok looks down at Mickey fondly. "I'm not really sure myself. Not a lot of cases of magic back home, so when I woke up a week after moving here to find Mickey standing on my chest demanding food in words, I thought I was losing my mind. Like, I was super homesick already! I barely knew anyone at the dance studio and I kept getting lost, and I thought that maybe I was so lonely that I had made up Mickey talking to me like some kind of imaginary friend." Hoseok munches on some spinach before continuing. "So I started spending a lot of time outside. I told myself I was just exploring the city, but really I was trying to avoid Mickey, because he was proof that there was something wrong with me, or that I wasn't good enough to live here in Seoul on my own."

Mickey barks this time, just loud enough for their table to get a few stares.

"I said I was sorry," Hoseok says, petulant. "I bought you a steak and everything!"

Namjoon stares. "But when I first met you, you seemed so—I don't know—settled? Happy?"

"That's because I got some really good advice," replies Hoseok. "I was wandering the city, right? Visiting tourist spots, checking out cafes, anything to see other people and feel like I was making the most of this new place. And at some point I ended up at this teahouse and the owner looked at me and somehow knew that I'd been 'visited by magic,' as he put it. Next thing I know I'm telling him everything—how I felt about moving to Seoul, the whole thing with Mickey—and he's got this frown on his face but he's listening and also he's brewing me this really tasty tea and then he goes—" Hoseok leans in close for dramatic effect. "'—that's not how magic works.'"

"I—what's not how magic works?"

"I thought I'd made up Mickey's voice, but I wasn't thinking about Mickey. I was thinking about myself, my problems. I took Mickey for granted because—you know, he's my dog, and we always assume pets can kind of understand us, which they can. But Mickey? Right now, he understands what I say completely." Hoseok grins. "The magic didn't make it so I could understand him. It made it so we could understand each other. Because Mickey was homesick and lonely and lost too, and the magic knew we needed each other more than ever."

Namjoon falls silent. It all feels too good to be true, the idea of magic as a pseudo-sentient entity—energy—that goes around giving people what they need deep inside, whether or not they know what that is. He has the strangest sensation of a puzzle piece clicking into place despite the other pieces all being invisible on the table—and yet Namjoon feels it, can almost grasp the other connected pieces, if he just stretches a little harder—

"Where was this teahouse," Namjoon breathes.

"Hongdae, I think. I don't remember the name, but—"

Namjoon slaps some bills on the table and scrambles out of his seat. "I gotta go, use those to pay and keep the change if it's too much, if it's not enough let me know later—I'll talk to you later—"

Alarmed, Hoseok straightens in his seat. "Namjoon, what—?"

But Namjoon's already shoved his way out the restaurant, his heart pounding in his ears.

The subway ride to Hongdae takes less than ten minutes, and in that time, Namjoon discovers on his phone that teahouses are more of a rarity in Hongdae, the area being more of a hotspot for trendy cafés than quiet rooms with steeped tea leaves. For a split second, he considers that maybe Hoseok meant the more artsy Insadong, but—no, whispers something in the back of Namjoon's mind as he stares at the subway window, that feels right, he's in Hongdae, he has to be.

(Namjoon doesn't know who he is, but he holds fast to the thought like a lifeline.)

Driven only by instinct and adrenaline, Namjoon searches the crowded streets. He goes in and out of coffeehouses and dessert shops, walks past endless storefronts blaring the latest hits from their speakers, and it’s only when he ventures into the sloped side streets as the streetlights start to flicker on that he sees it—a teahouse peeking out of an alley like a novella in a packed bookshelf, its storefront a cross between tinted glass and traditional lacquered wood. The interior teems with the fragrance of tea leaves and whispers. A young man hurries over in a dark blue apron, the hanja for tea stamped in minimalistic white strokes on the front, but stops short when he sees Namjoon's face up close.

"Hyung," the employee says, startled, and—it doesn't seem quite right (yet also so familiar), the way the edges of his body seem to fizz against the fabric of reality. "Yoongi-hyung!"

"Bring the customer in first," replies an annoyed voice, and Namjoon finds himself being ushered deeper inside the shop.

Yoongi turns out to be a shorter man manning the less traditional bar counter, mint green hair bright against the jars of tea leaves filling the shelves behind him. He takes one look at Namjoon and huffs. "Ginkgo biloba," he murmurs to himself, and glass clatters gently as he rummages through the jars for one in particular. "Go on, have a seat. Taehyung-ah, stop staring at the customer and get this red tea to the old couple at table two."

Taehyung rocks on his heels by Namjoon's side. "But hyung, this is—"

"I know, Taehyungie. I'll handle this and see how it goes, okay?"

Perplexed, Namjoon perches himself on a barstool and watches the employee—Taehyung—stick out his tongue before scuttling off with a tea tray in his hands. There aren't many customers, he notes, and Taehyung and Yoongi are the only ones with aprons on.

Yoongi fills a teapot with boiling water and lifts the teapot to let the steam escape in wisps. "So you're Kim Namjoon."

If there were any doubts in Namjoon's mind about whether he's in the right place, they quickly dispel at the cryptic words. "You know me?"

"You're here, aren't you?" Yoongi replies with a raised eyebrow, which—doesn't answer Namjoon's question, exactly, but Namjoon swallows, doesn't push the matter.

The soft gurgle of the stream from a teapot cuts him off, and Yoongi pushes the freshly poured cup across the dark wooden counter. The woodsy scent tickles Namjoon’s nose as he cradles the teacup in his hands, and he lifts it to his lips, savors the warmth that sinks, suffusing, into his chest. It feels like a fireplace. The heat makes him feel closer to the summer heat outside, a strangely grounding sensation, and he sets down his cup with a warm exhale.

Yoongi props his elbows on the counter. “Better?”

Namjoon nods as he casts an eye around the shop. "I… thought you would have had more staff."

"What makes you say that?"

"A—feeling, I guess," Namjoon says quietly, because that's really all it is, a pulling in his gut that has him hearing a voice that isn't there, expecting things that never come, and he braces himself, wondering if he's crossed some kind of line of etiquette by questioning Yoongi's management. He hasn't even technically ordered anything, he realizes in dismay.

But Yoongi just nods. "We do have more staff. Not everyone has come in to work lately, though. Paid leave."

"Oh,” Namjoon says. His fingers curl around his teacup.

Yoongi considers him. “That worries you.”

Namjoon doesn’t even try to deny it, the phantom pang of worry that snakes around his heart. “But I don’t know why,” he manages, staring into his pale reflection in the tea—and suddenly everything comes tumbling out, just as Hoseok said it did for him. “I feel like I don’t know anything these days. I want—I want something, I’m chasing shadows every second of the day, I keep turning around and feeling like something’s terribly wrong, something’s missing, and I stay home but that just makes it feel so much worse, I—” Namjoon gulps down a breath of air, shuddering. “I just don’t know what to do.”

Taehyung plops down on the barstool next to Namjoon, looking at him with anxious eyes. “Hyung…”

Yoongi’s shoulders slump, his expression pained. “Shit. I knew it. He made a mistake, Taehyungie.”

“He didn’t know,” says Taehyung, looking miserable.

“I’m not blaming him, but look.” Yoongi gestures at Namjoon, who looks between the two with growing confusion, feeling out of his depth. “The magic isn’t a fucking variable right now and he still feels like this. It’s not the magic. It was never the magic.”

Taehyung cocks his head, hair flickering like candlelight. "But he found his way here," he says, more resolutely this time. "We can fix this, right?"

"We can help," Yoongi corrects. His narrowed gaze slides back to Namjoon. "But in the end, it's up to you, Namjoon-ssi. You need to find what's missing for yourself."

Namjoon's throat goes dry despite the tea. "What do you mean?"

Yoongi slides the jar he'd used earlier between them on the wooden counter, jostles it so the dry tea leaves inside rustle like autumn. "Ginkgo biloba tea. Why would I brew this for you?"

It feels like a test. Namjoon teeters at the precipice of—something, takes the plunge. "It's one of the oldest tree species in the world," he says numbly, because maybe if he rattles off everything he does know, he'll eventually land in that vacant space of what he doesn't, might get close enough to reach into the void and hold on tight. "It's—one of a kind, it dislikes shade, it grows yellow fan-like leaves in the fall and loses them within weeks, and they say that when you make tea with those leaves it helps with—memory." Namjoon shakes his head. "But that was proven—"

"—to be false," Yoongi agrees. "Placebo, they said. Because at the heart of it, the people who improved wanted to be cured. That's the root of magic: what people fucking want." He leans in close, grabs the front of Namjoon's shirt and shakes him, just enough to make Namjoon's head bobble a little. "What do you want, Kim Namjoon? What did the magic give you, and what did it take away?"

—and Namjoon shoves Yoongi away, not because he wants him gone but because his own head is pounding, now, phantom sensations and memories trickling into his mind like steeped tea. What I want, he thinks achingly. No—who I want— 

(A voice as light as cream, smaller hands in Namjoon's own, I'm glad you're here hyung it's like a dream come true.")

The barstool wobbles dangerously before slowly righting itself back in place. Namjoon looks up from his feet—when had he gotten up, it feels like a blur now—and looks at a carefully blank Yoongi with wide eyes.

"jm.mp3," Namjoon rasps. "That's—I wrote that about Jimin."

Tension deflates from Yoongi like a sigh. He looks relieved, now, retrieves Namjoon's now-empty teacup from the countertop. Taehyung presses a slip of paper into Namjoon's palm, curls his fingers back around it and wraps Namjoon's loose fist with both hands, like a prayer. "Sorry for everything, Namjoon-hyung," he says, but his shaky smile glows. "Good luck."

Namjoon is panting by the time he reaches the address scribbled on Taehyung's note. It's strange, seeing Jimin's apartment from the outside. The building is set on a slope, and houseplants sit on the patio outside, leaves glossy under the streetlamps.

The lights are on. 

Jimin, Namjoon thinks, clutches the name like a treasure. He knocks on the door once, twice—

The door swings open right before Namjoon's knuckles make it to the third, and there he is: Park Jimin, looking up at Namjoon with a whirlpool of emotions on his face. He's in his home clothes, just a white t-shirt and black shorts with a little rip in the bottom seam, and there's a grain of rice on the corner of his mouth. Namjoon suppresses the urge to wipe it off with his thumb.

"Hyung," Jimin says, and somehow he sounds breathless, even though Namjoon is the one who's just raced through the night crowd with adrenaline churning a steady ba-thump, ba-thump in his chest. "You're… actually here."

Namjoon realizes his fist is still raised for a knock. He lowers it abashedly. "Jimin-ah. Can I… can we talk?"

Jimin steps away from the door—a silent invitation—and stumbles a little on his shoes in the doorway, as if he can't tear his eyes away from Namjoon's face. 

If Namjoon thought it was strange seeing Jimin's apartment from the outside was strange, then seeing it from inside is even more disorienting. There's the worn couch, the carpet, the Nintendo Switch. The television is still on, playing some mystery drama with a tense instrumental. The apartment is tidier, and there's a tea set on the coffee table with cushions that have seen some use, but—it's still Jimin's familiar apartment.

He puts a hand against the wall where his own place would've been. 

"You remember," Jimin blurts out. 

Namjoon lowers his hand, doesn't miss the way Jimin's eyes track the movement. "Sort of," he admits slowly. "It's all a little hazy, but it's coming back to me in small waves." It feels right, he doesn't say. It feels like coming home. You feel like coming home.

Jimin places a hand on Namjoon's chest, fingers spread. "Please tell me you're real," he says. His eyes are wet. "I don't care if it's a lie anymore, please just tell me you're real."

"I'm real," Namjoon says, but there's still worry swimming in the depths of the way Jimin holds himself—confined, like he's still bracing himself for a bomb he's decided already exists. "It's not a lie, why would it be a lie?'

Jimin's fingers fist the front of Namjoon's shirt, as if holding on for dear life. "I thought that—" Jimin swallows before he continues, voice small. "I was worrying about it from almost the very beginning. That you weren't real. That I'd made up someone just as not-real as me because I wanted it so badly. Like, another apartment glued to mine? Really?"

—and Namjoon feels understanding seep into the edges of his awareness, now. "We'll talk if you still exist," he echoes.

"Yeah." Jimin laughs hollowly. "And you were still there, so I thought—okay, I can indulge myself, my little fantasy. What do I have to lose?" His hand loosens, slides down Namjoon's shirt. "Except then I got attached. Then I started to… I suddenly had everything to lose. You were real, it was so obvious that you were real, but what about our friendship? I was so happy when we hung out in Insadong that day, when you brought me to the park at night, but was that the magic talking? Did you only start to like me because the magic made you become exactly who I needed? What would I even do if I found out it was all just a long, perfect dream? Too much of a dream for reality to take?"

Tears are sliding down Jimin's cheeks uninhibited, now. Something in Namjoon's chest tightens painfully at the sight.

"Then I fucking fell for you and I thought, okay, that's enough. This isn't natural, none of this is real, I can't do this to him. So I convinced Tae to help and eat the magic away, and the wall reappeared, and I went to bed that night telling myself it really was a dream, that I'd done the right thing, that when I fell asleep, I would be waking up and you would be free and that would fucking finally be the end of it all." Jimin furiously swipes at his eyes with his forearm, leaving wet streaks across his face. "So I don't understand. You were supposed to forget everything the magic changed, you were supposed to forget me—"

"And it worked," Namjoon says hoarsely, and Jimin snaps his mouth shut, lips pale and trembling. "I forgot you, Jimin, but everything felt wrong because a part of me didn't. I made a song and everything, I don't know if you heard it—"

"I heard it. I love it," Jimin whispers. "Of course you produce for Kim Seokjin too, I can't believe you. I told myself I wouldn't listen to it but I did, over and over again." He sniffles. "I didn't know you could rap."

"Guilty," Namjoon says, tries to smile. He's sure Jimin can hear his heart thumping in his chest, loud and scared and him. "So this whole time, you thought the magic was making me—like you? As a friend or otherwise?"

Jimin nods shakily. Namjoon dearly wants to hug the sadness out of him.

"But I wrote that song about you, even without the magic. I'm here, even without the magic. I talked to a friend who's had experience with magic, and I went to the teahouse. I talked to Yoongi-ssi. Magic is mutual, Jimin-ah." Namjoon finds Jimin's hands, wraps his fingers around Jimin's smaller ones like a lifeline. "I wanted someone, too. I wanted you."

"Shut up," Jimin warbles, with no real heat.

"I think I fell for you too," Namjoon says softly. "But I'm—not sure, it's there but I can't pin it down yet, maybe I didn't fall for you at one moment, maybe I've been slowly free-falling all this time. Is it unfair? To you? To promise you a love that I still can't completely remember?"

Jimin lets out a choked laugh. "Unfair? Hyung, I'm the one who took those memories away."

"You made them in the first place," Namjoon argues. "But that's not the point. The point is that maybe I have feelings for you and maybe you don't reciprocate but—what I do know is that I love hanging out with you. I love seeing you stumble out of your room in the mornings looking like death, I love trying not to burn things while you're watching over my shoulder like a hawk in an apron, I love dancing and laughing and talking with you. I missed you even when I couldn't remember you were ever in my life, and—fuck, this is coming out messily, I'm sorry, I really didn't come here with a plan and maybe none of this is making sense but—"

"I love you," Jimin blurts out, and there it is—a watery smile, glowing so softly it almost breaks Namjoon's heart in two and sews it together anew. "I love you, hyung."

Namjoon's heart swells like the crest of a waterfall, and he pulls Jimin close, hugs him tight. "You do?" he breathes, then flushes. "I mean, I know you said it, and implied it too, I guess, but—?"

"I love you, Kim Namjoon," Jimin repeats, voice muffled in Namjoon's shirt. "Now say it back to me before the adrenaline wears off and I remember to be terrified."

"Shit. Sorry." Namjoon bends down, threads his fingers in Jimin's rosy hair. "Park Jimin," he says tremulously, "I love you so fucking much. Please, please don't let me forget that ever again."

"Never again," Jimin says wetly, and gets on his tiptoes to plant a toast-warm kiss on Namjoon's nose. 

Namjoon takes it with a frustrated but endeared sound. "I'm serious. We have to communicate, if you're having an existential crisis then tell me so we can work through it—"

"Okay," Jimin agrees ashamedly, kicks some cushions over and tugs Namjoon down to the floor with him, where they splay their limbs in a complicated, beautiful mess. "But for now, can we just lie here for a while? Please?"

Namjoon feels too real sometimes, too real with his too-loud thoughts and his too-awkward body. He feels too real now, so real he's fit to burst with the pressure of existing, but—it's okay, he thinks, fireworks popping gently in his throat, because Jimin is real, too.

Dating Jimin feels natural, with Namjoon coming to visit Jimin at the teahouse on workdays and Jimin barging into the company with food and clinging hugs when recording sessions go a little too late at night. They sleep over at each other's places often, cuddling in bed more and more as summer officially unravels into a chillier autumn, like dried chrysanthemum bulbs in Yoongi's tea.

Namjoon doesn't think he'll ever really understand magic. That's how it should be, Yoongi tells him quietly over the countertop, arms folded as he fondly watches Taehyung and Jimin fool around at closing time. Taehyung breathes magic like fucking air and even he doesn't get it, not really. People don't need to understand everything about magic. What makes them human is what they do when it happens.

Then what about you, Namjoon asks, but Yoongi smiles with a little teeth and stays silent, and Namjoon knows that's all he's getting—for now.

For now, Taehyung pulls him aside and taps his own belly with a knowing smile. The magic I ate back then isn't in here anymore. Give it time, hyung. 

For now, Namjoon wakes up one morning to the sound of sizzling and the aroma of something sweet, something spicy. When he emerges from his bedroom and hurries down the hallway, he sees a living room that's so spacious it's jarring (just as it should be). Jimin is sitting on Namjoon's kitchen counter—their kitchen counter—munching with cute, bulged cheeks. His pink hair is a tangled mess and his t-shirt is awkwardly hiked up from sleep and Namjoon loves him.

Jimin swallows, waves shyly. "Welcome back, hyung."

Namjoon's eyes sting. "I'm home," he says, and Jimin's delighted hiccup tickles Namjoon's cheek when he goes in for a good morning kiss.