Work Text:
gold spoon couturiers
mens tailors | bespoke shirtmakers | cloth merchants
“finery for the modern gentleman”
***
hoseok has always savored the glide of scissors through silk, the satisfying snick and drag, the flutter of fabric across his table when he frees it from itself. he sweeps the bundle up into his arms, crossing the room to hold it up to the early morning light.
he says, “the wild silk really is beautiful, don’t you think?”
yoongi glances up from his measurements. “is it green or blue?” he asks.
“it’s aegean,” hoseok tells him.
“oh,” says yoongi, mumbly from lack of sleep. “what pattern is that one for?”
“the robe,” hoseok says, distracted as he clips the fabric up in the window for added effect. he steps back, considering.
“i’ll get it out,” yoongi says, standing to rifle through their haphazard filing system. it’s not so much a system as it is a bankers box stuffed full of paper patterns, but yoongi can’t ever seem to draw himself away from his usual work for long enough to organize it.
--
“do you have the measurements yet?” yoongi asks from across the room. it’s not a large room, not at all, but hoseok is so often occupied by his own thoughts that yoongi feels the need to speak a little louder to get his attention.
hoseok has his hands flat on the cutting table, staring at the yard of cranberry-red wool draped over its surface. “for what?”
“the robe,” yoongi reminds him.
“oh,” says hoseok, distractedly. “i was thinking about putting it up for sale, but…”
yoongi watches him with a knowing expression. “jimin?” he asks.
hoseok, to his credit, has the decency to look at least a little guilty.
--
jimin has never made it into the tailor shop on time, not even once, in his whole life.
when he does show up, though, he glides through the front door wearing large circular sunglasses that belong in milan in summer, and a scarf that’s perfect for seoul in winter, and all-black otherwise. the bells twinkle above him as he enters, and he settles on the velvet couch with his coffee.
“yoongi,” he sings melodiously, waking the room up from its drowsy morning drone. “i brought you an iced coffee.”
yoongi looks up. in the space of a single second, he’s hovering beside the couch, drinking deeply from the straw. “hoseok wants us here too early,” he mutters.
jimin’s face glows with bright laughter. “right,” he says.
“you don’t even come in until ten-thirty, though, at least. i’ve been here since seven.”
jimin grins mischievously. “i had to pick up our coffee orders,” he says, as if that explains three and a half hours of lost time. “hoseok, i got you one, too.”
luckily for jimin, hoseok has a habit of losing track of time when he works. “oh!” he says, startled, pleased. “thank you. oh, jimin, i’ve been making something for you this morning…”
--
hoseok opened this tailor shop years ago, after spending his early twenties as a dancer. when he decided to settle down into a more stable career, he didn’t want to give up flow and movement and beauty, so he turned to silks.
yoongi joined him a year or two later, a disgruntled university student who needed some extra money on the side. he’s good with numbers, but he’s even better at pacing his workflow. he’s diligent, and focused, and quiet. he has cut out what must be thousands of patterns by now; even after all this time, hoseok can’t recall yoongi ever making a mistake. measure twice, three times, ten times. cut once.
jimin’s role at the tailor shop is, if vague, unspeakably important. he is hoseok’s live model, his muse, his mannequin. he doesn’t do much apart from that besides fix sewing machine snags with his small hands, but he’s very pretty. hoseok doesn’t pay him for labor; he pays him for the privilege of observing him in the sunlight that streams in through the shop windows. the daily coffee deliveries are just a nice touch.
--
they have clients, just enough to keep a small shop like this one open all year round, but hoseok delights most in his passion projects: the green-blue robe; the plum-patterned highwaters; the screen-printed scarves. each is made according to jimin’s measurements, to hoseok’s intuition, to their shared vision of utmost elegance and taste.
as hoseok pins the robe for final adjustments, jimin stands as still as a stork on the scuffed wooden fitting platform. hoseok flits around him, gathering, tucking, sticking him with pins.
jimin swats his hand away, a few times. “you pricked me,” he says, laughing, like he doesn’t mind at all.
finally, after the hems have all been done up and the darts sewn in, hoseok takes jimin by the shoulders and wheels him over to the grand mirror on the long wall by yoongi’s workstation.
“what do you think?” hoseok asks, beaming at their shared reflection.
jimin turns from side to side under hoseok’s hands, admiring. he spreads his arms; he places his hands on his hips. he looks pleased.
“hoseok,” jimin says, hugging himself and meeting his tailor’s bright eyes over his shoulder. “i love when you drape me in silks.”
--
“well,” says jimin, after a long work day of about four hours. “i’m going to take a nap on the couch. if you need me, don’t wake me up.” and, with that, he kisses yoongi and hoseok sweetly, crosses the room, and falls into a deep slumber amongst the velvet throw pillows.
when the streetlamps click on outside, blotting the seoul streets with warm pools of light, yoongi shakes jimin’s shoulder. “we’re locking up,” he says.
the three of them make a night of it, chasing soju with more soju, laughter ringing up and over their heads.
hoseok makes sure that his boys are comfortable, warm enough, buzzed enough. he mothers them, in a way, and always has. he’s the story-teller, the coat-giver, the cab-caller. he loves them deeply, and they reciprocate in kind.
yoongi gets funny when he’s like this, his voice taking on comical characteristics that make him the best impressionist that the others have ever seen. his smile is rare in the drag of the early morning, but blooms like a light-shy moonflower at night.
jimin always tucks himself close to one of them in the booth after a few drinks, usually yoongi, because under the arm of his soft black hoodie is a more comfortable nesting place than against hoseok’s bouncing leg. he spreads his legs across hoseok’s lap, though, because he wouldn’t want him to feel left out, and because hoseok likes to stow his drink between jimin’s knees as he talks, hands gesturing wildly around his head like he’s starring in a pantomime.
when it’s time to go home, they split off, waving and calling to each other, until they’re all out of sight.
--
when jimin steps into the shop at eleven-fifteen on a tuesday, hoseok is pulling drawers out of the bits and bobs cabinet, and yoongi is cradling an armful of manila pattern paper.
“hoseok,” says yoongi, “our coffee prince is here. i’m putting these down.”
“of course, of course,” says hoseok, lost in a whirl of inspiration.
yoongi sets the pattern papers down on the floor as carefully as he can. the warped floorboards groan and creak as he makes his way to the couch, and when he settles in, jimin seats himself on his lap, pressing the tip of the straw to yoongi’s lips. he drinks, deeply, while jimin plays with yoongi’s hair.
“that’s enough,” jimin teases, and tips the cup away from yoongi, the straw spurting a little as it flies out of his mouth. yoongi quickly goes stormy-eyed, and jimin beams. “i’m just kidding. here.” he pokes yoongi’s pout with the straw again. “open up, grouchy.”
yoongi pinches him, and jimin squeals.
by the time hoseok uncaps his spiced latte to savor the aroma, his boys have already returned to work. that is, if their work looks like yoongi doing the books and jimin jeté-ing around the shop with four yards of priceless luxury fabric pinned at his throat like a cape.
hoseok supposes that, in all reality, it does.
--
every year like clockwork, ever since hoseok opened the shop, someone new has been drawn into their little world through necessity or happenstance or fate. first, it was yoongi, yawning and dull around the edges from academic burnout, who gave hoseok someone to talk to, an agreeable witness to his inspired mania, a stickler who remembered to pay the building’s light bill. jimin came next, the third tailor-shop regular, begging hoseok to draw up flowy costumes for his dance recital solos; hoseok had done it all in record time, for free, as a favor to a fellow dancer (and to entice jimin to return, because he couldn't let a boy with an aesthetic like that walk out the door for good).
last year, a boy moved in upstairs. his name was jeon jungkook, and he was hoseok’s best (paying) customer. he was their fourth.
--
late at night, yoongi fumbles with his keys on the sidewalk. the shop sign swings above him, careening in the wind and rattling its chains.
he slots the key into the lock, clicks it to the right, and stills.
“hey,” says a voice from above him.
yoongi looks up.
ten feet above his head, a boy is hanging out of the window, waving down, all but featureless in the dark.
“hello,” says yoongi. “i didn’t know that anyone lived up there.”
“it’s my studio space,” says the boy. “my name’s jungkook. i’m a freelance photographer. do you work at the tailor shop?”
“yes,” yoongi says.
“great. do you do custom pieces?”
--
as the year wears on, all three of them wait for the mysterious fifth boy, promised by precedent, to darken their collective door. but spring and summer and fall had passed without meet-cute dramatics, and eventually, the winds of winter sweep up the autumn leaves and carry them away, down the street and out of sight. it’s winter now, and time is running out.
as always, they continue their routine. hoseok unlocks the shop in the morning, and yoongi locks it back up at night. somewhere in between, jimin floats in and out, like he, too, is beholden to the whims of the wind outside.
hoseok buys denser fabrics, thicker weaves, stronger thread. yoongi locates the most popular winter patterns, sets them on top of the box, will (not) organize them later. jimin starts wearing a shock of faux fur around his collar, an oversized cape-coat over a black turtleneck, tall boots that lace up to his knees.
“you know,” jimin says, upon his arrival at two-thirty in the afternoon, “i should start buying hot coffees.”
“no,” says yoongi.
“please,” says hoseok.
yoongi frowns. when jimin goes to the cafe next door, he buys two hots and one iced.
--
jimin perches on yoongi’s table, ankles crossed, while the sullen seamster picks through his dinner order of japchae and rice. when the bell above the door twinkles brightly, all three of them turn their heads.
it’s not their fifth; it’s their fourth.
“hello,” says yoongi.
“hi,” says jimin.
“jungkook!” says hoseok, ever the enthusiast.
“i’m here to pick up an order,” jungkook tells him. he is a truly beautiful creature, adorned with heavy silver earrings and black-ink tattoos, and the second-most beautiful face that hoseok has ever seen. “it’s a red wool coat.”
“ah, yes.” with a wide smile, hoseok brings the coat up from behind his table to hang it over the jungkook’s shoulders. “what do you think? i want to ensure that you’re entirely happy with it,” hoseok says, more as a formality than anything else. in five years, no one has ever once issued a correction or lodged a complaint about his work.
“it’s perfect,” jungkook says. “what do i owe you?”
“hm,” says hoseok, “yoongi, could you—?”
“let me ring you up,” yoongi says, waving jungkook over to his station. “just the coat?”
“if you have a packet of extra buttons, i’ll take those as well,” jungkook says.
yoongi nods. “jimin, could you—?”
“here,” says jimin, moving from the couch to the bits and bobs cabinet and then over to the desk. he tucks the bag of buttons into the wool coat’s pocket, pats it neatly, and gives jungkook a wink.
“thanks,” says jungkook, and smiles back.
“that’ll be 720,000 won,” says yoongi, carefully adding the total into his leather-bound ledger.
jungkook hands him his card while jimin tucks the coat into a box, nestling it amongst entirely too much crinkly paper.
--
as the air outside the shop grows ever chillier, the display windows brushed with frost and fog in the early morning, more client work begins to fill their day-to-day. the winter season is settling in all across the city, and the interior of hoseok’s shop will soon host a flurry of activity fit to match the swirling snow outside.
each winter, hoseok dreams and sews, and yoongi cuts and counts, and new faces come in and out to solicit and collect hoseok’s creations. meanwhile, jimin brings the coffee, and basks in their collective swell of inspiration, and gets professionally dressed up a little less frequently than he would like.
this winter is colder than the last, but it’s good for business.
“there’s nothing like the first frost to encourage people to buy a new coat,” hoseok exclaims to yoongi, every time that they ring in a new order.
the days march on. they're still waiting for their fifth.
any new client could be the one.
--
winter is the season of constructed coats and structured suits. professional bespoke pieces are a different kind of challenge for hoseok, who would deal solely in flowy satins and expensive silks if he could. but the majority of their clientele are businessmen, low-level politicians, or, less commonly, affected society men who don’t always ignore jimin when he flirts openly with them in the waiting area of the shop.
it’s a good challenge, though.
in the same way that soft fabrics flow like water, tweeds and wools bunch like earth. hoseok revels in the little details that are possible to tuck away, half-hidden, in an otherwise-predictable piece: a brightly-colored buttonhole, a subtly-embroidered collar, a nonstandard jacket lining, a precise monogram.
he’s cutting out the lapels for a blazer when yoongi clears his throat.
“we just got an inquiry,” he says. “it’d be a pretty big order.”
hoseok comes close, crowding yoongi’s personal space and looking over shoulder to scan the printout in his hand. his eyes widen. “oh,” he says. “that is a big order. who’s it for?”
“‘kim namjoon,’” yoongi reads, slowly. “i don’t know him. do you?”
“no,” says hoseok, wonderingly.
“i do,” says jimin, fittingly, from where he’s lounging on the couch across the room. he seems to know every wealthy man in the city, for one reason or another. “well, i know of him. he’s an agent, you know, for models.”
hoseok and yoongi exchange looks.
“well, let’s bring him in for a consultation,” hoseok says. “yoongi, could you—?”
“i’ll call him,” yoongi says.
--
the next week, jungkook comes back.
this time, he’s here for a consultation. hoseok presents him with a massive catalogue of diagrams, sketches, and dreams. all four boys crowd together on the couch to muse over them, poring over the scrapbook-like tome on jungkook’s lap.
“i don’t want just anything,” jungkook says. “i want this piece to be authentic.”
hoseok nods. “is it for you or one of your models?”
“me,” jungkook says, his eyes bright, meeting hoseok’s gaze. “it’s for an instagram self-portrait series.”
yoongi rolls his eyes, fondly. jimin hums, his head resting light against jungkook’s shoulder, his fingers trailing up jungkook’s sleeve to trace the skin there.
hoseok’s gaze follows jimin’s hand, gears turning as jimin’s finger traces over the intersecting black-ink letters above jungkook’s wrist.
rather be dead than cool.
make hay while the sun shines.
“i’ve got it,” hoseok says.
--
“hoseok,” jimin pleads, one afternoon. “please put me in something, it’s been so long since you made me something nice. you’ve been working on jungkook’s thing all day.”
hoseok smiles, fond and warm. “is that right?” he says.
“yes,” jimin says, and casts himself down into hoseok’s chair, one leg over the arm, one arm over the back. “look at me, a pauper, laid supine before you.”
“and in need of knitwear, i think,” says hoseok. “yoongi, could you—?”
“i’ll measure him,” says yoongi. “it’s been a few months.”
jimin takes his place on the fitting platform, and yoongi swipes the sewing tape from around hoseok’s neck. predictably, hoseok doesn’t even notice.
“help me slip into something more comfortable,” says jimin, as yoongi tugs his outerwear off and casts it away onto the shop floor. jimin is in luxurious loungewear today, all royal purples and wine reds, matched with fur-lined mules and a knit hat. his clothes hang loose and casual on his small frame, and he shows no signs of modesty despite the fact that yoongi is undressing him in full view of the shop windows.
yoongi gets to work. he bunches jimin’s roomy shirt up over his practiced hands, encircling his waist with the tape and marking the resulting number down. he does the same for jimin’s chest and around his hips, hiking the tape up over the curve of his ass.
yoongi spends fifteen minutes quantifying what it means to be tantalizing, alluring, lovely. he traces the lines of jimin’s body with thin white tape, shoulder to shoulder, elbow to wrist, hugging the tape around his calves and thighs, shifting jimin’s clothes out of the way for a more precise placement.
jimin spreads his legs when yoongi goes for the inseam. yoongi kneels, and jimin can’t help but giggle.
--
two days later, hoseok adds the finishing touches to jimin’s winterwear, and yoongi finds the time to call kim namjoon about his order inquiry.
“mini,” hoseok calls across the shop, pleased with himself, pressing his hand-stitching needle into a pincushion with finality.
“mr. kim,” yoongi mumbles into the phone, doodling swirls and loops and curls on the notepad in front of him.
“let me fit you,” hoseok says as jimin comes close, fawning over the slouchy acorn-colored sweater, the crisp white shirt tucked underneath, the oversized lavallière bow.
“we’re very interested,” yoongi monotones, and jots down the information that kim namjoon provides.
“there,” says hoseok, stepping back.
“goodbye,” says yoongi, hanging up.
jimin is there, in front of the mirror, angelic and prim as always. yoongi thinks the sweater is reminiscent of the coffee that jimin hasn’t bothered to bring them yet today.
“you spoil me,” jimin says, and hoseok beams, his chin resting atop jimin’s crimped curls.
--
on thursday, kim namjoon walks into the shop to the sound of twinkling bells.
hoseok looks up from his sewing.
yoongi looks up from his ledger.
jimin looks up from his nails.
“hello,” namjoon says. “i’m here to discuss our long-term contract.”
with fourteen days left in the year, they had found their fifth.
--
as it turns out, kim namjoon is the proprietor of a talent agency. it’s a small company, one that hasn’t yet marketed anyone of note, but namjoon is optimistic. his latest breakthrough is a lanky boy with broad shoulders and an old-money face; the headshots that namjoon shows hoseok are stunning.
“i can give you his measurements,” namjoon says, clicking through his phone to pull up the model’s information. it’s a touch-screen, but the haptics make it sound much more tactile than it is. “he won’t need anything until the new year, he’s booked out for commercial work until then.”
“that’s perfect,” hoseok says. “i’ll need some time to source fabrics for an order of this size.”
namjoon nods. yoongi slides a contract form across the surface of his workstation.
“do you need a pen?” he asks.
namjoon pulls one from the inside pocket of his sport coat. “i’ve got one,” he says.
--
that night, hoseok takes them out dancing and drinking. hoseok does the dancing, yoongi does the drinking, and jimin does quite a bit of both.
“he’s having a good time,” yoongi muses over his drink.
“he always does,” says hoseok, happily.
“is that jungkook?” yoongi asks, and it is.
jungkook is laughing, dancing in the crowd. he has jimin by the waist, leaning to say something against his ear. hoseok graces yoongi with a knowing smile. it’s hard not to feel that, no matter where they stand, the world pulls inward towards jimin, an all-consuming black hole of teasing temptation. hoseok knows it; yoongi knows it. jungkook knows it, now, too, and when jimin hauls him back to their table, they tuck up close to each other like teenagers at a school dance.
“i didn’t know you guys came here,” jungkook says breathlessly. “what a coincidence.”
“the shop’s thirty feet away,” yoongi says, because it should be obvious. “you live above us.”
hoseok lays a hand on his arm, fixing yoongi with a context-laden smile. yoongi goes back to his drink, the shadow of an apology evident in the flat line of his mouth.
jungkook, as always, looks starry-eyed. “how lucky, right?” he says.
“yes,” hoseok says, and touches his ankle to yoongi’s under the table, covers jimin’s small hand with his own. “we’re very lucky.”
when they leave the bar, they walk jungkook home.
“come in?” he says. “you can all stay over since it’s too late for the train.”
jungkook’s studio apartment seems to be, more precisely, two-thirds studio and one-third apartment. where there should be a couch, there are half-assembled softbox lights. where there should be a table, there are apple boxes stacked together and littered with hand-scripted notes.
where they had been expecting a super-single bed, though, there is a welcoming queen, piled high with blankets and decorative pillows. they fall into it together, drunk and lucky, lucky, lucky.
--
yoongi finishes his business degree with little fanfare. he drops off his rented textbooks, cleans out his bag, and skips graduation in favor of a lunch of lamb skewers.
when he opens the door to the tailor shop on monday, hoseok and jimin yell, “surprise!”
there’s a cake, and a gift, and an eccentric party hat made of felt and ribbon.
“it’s not my birthday,” yoongi says, perplexed.
“happy graduation,” hoseok says, as jimin pulls yoongi into a hug. “we’re so proud of you.”
caught off-guard and feeling overwhelmed, yoongi buries his face against jimin’s shoulder to hide his shy smile. when he pulls away, hoseok fits the felt hat onto yoongi’s head and brushes his shoulders off, doting.
later, after the cake from jimin has been reduced to crumbs and the hat from hoseok has been lovingly set aside, hoseok turns to yoongi on the velvet couch.
“we hope you’ll stay,” he says.
“what?” yoongi asks, nose wrinkling in confusion.
“we don’t want you to go get some big-shot job and leave us all alone,” jimin says.
“oh,” yoongi says, shocked and horrified at the prospect. “no, no, i hadn’t even thought about it.”
“good,” hoseok says.
“good,” jimin says.
yoongi can’t believe that he gets to be so tolerated, so loved, so celebrated. he’s surprised to find that, sometime over the last five years, he has started to believe that he deserves that kind of thing.
back at his dark apartment, he opens the gift.
he scans the piece of paper at the bottom of the box.
immediately, he bursts into tears.
--
“hoseok,” yoongi says, as soon as he arrives the next morning. “are you sure?”
“of course,” hoseok says. “you’re wonderful.”
“hoseok,” yoongi starts.
“you’ll make a great business partner.”
“hoseok,” yoongi cries, too thankful for words.
“it’ll look good to have a co-ownership on your resume so soon after graduation.”
“i don’t need a resume,” yoongi says insistently. “i’m not going anywhere else, not ever.”
hoseok beams. “good. now, i’ve been trying to find my gold fabric scissors for ten minutes.” he pauses, hand on his hip. “yoongi, could you—?”
“they’re in the top drawer,” yoongi says, faking exasperation to hide his gratitude.
--
on mondays, they cut patterns.
yoongi sorts through the pattern box, laying the manila pattern paper out over the uneven floor for labeling. hoseok selects the fabrics for the week, stacking up bolts of blush pinks and turmeric yellows and bottle greens. jimin traces around the edges of the patterns with tailor’s chalk, sketching errant designs in the middle of the paper when hoseok looks away.
this time, there are more patterns than ever before, all thanks to kim namjoon’s model wardrobe redux.
“it’s going to be a long winter,” hoseok says.
“mm,” yoongi hums. “are you sure we can do all of this on time?”
hoseok considers the yards and yards of pattern paper, the stacks of fabric bolts, and the rare labor of their luxurious layabout jimin, who is currently cutting their work out for them with hoseok’s best scissors.
“perhaps we should consider hiring a seasonal employee,” hoseok wonders, tapping his chin. “just for a month or so.”
“don’t look at me,” jimin says, nearly frantic. “i’ll go upstairs and ask jungkook. do you have his self-portrait thing ready? i can bribe him.”
“it’s in the box by the sewing machine,” hoseok says, beaming.
--
“jungkook,” jimin calls through the door, hugging the garment box to his chest. “delivery from downstairs.”
“come in,” jungkook says, muffled behind the barrier. “anytime, really. it’s always unlocked.”
jimin lets himself into the studio. he slides out of his mules and nestles against the pillows on jungkook’s bed, the box still in his arms, looking like a prince and an angel and a nymph all at once. when jungkook finishes snapping a new lens onto his camera, he tests it by pointing it right at jimin and — chk-chk.
“you’re beautiful, jiminie,” jungkook says, a little breathlessly, as he lowers the camera. “did you know?”
“tell that to kim namjoon,” jimin says. “he’s one of our clients, he owns some modeling agency.”
“you’d be perfect for it,” jungkook says.
“he actually just called in a ton of orders,” jimin says. “hoseok wants to know if you’ll come down and help.”
“me?” jungkook asks, eyes wide and bright in disbelief. “hoseok wants my help?”
“you love clothes almost as much as he does,” says jimin. “you won’t be doing anything complicated, just cutting fabric out and things like that.”
“i can sew,” jungkook says, eager to be useful. “before i moved to seoul, i made all my own clothes for shoots.”
“of course you did,” says jimin, fondly.
--
the shop itself is small, less than a thousand square feet, and it’s far longer than it is wide. the grand front windows draw the light in; it bleeds over the uneven, creaky hardwood floors, over the red velvet couch beside the door, the coffee table there, the armchair tucked against the left wall. this space is sparse, but it’s cosy. its intended functionality as a waiting area for clients has been made secondary; it is jimin’s domain now, more or less.
yoongi’s workstation is located at the midpoint of the room. it sits perpendicular to the front door, tucked up by the mirror against the right wall. his antique wooden table faces the center of the shop, its surface protected by an oversized cutting mat grounded in place by the weight of the credit-card machine. his chair is always draped with a black hoodie, his desk perpetually cluttered with paper and pens and order forms. his backpack slouches against the side of the desk, no longer filled with textbooks, not yet filled with the debris of some new purpose. yoongi’s not sure what should be in it anymore, but he brings it anyway, because it would feel odd not to.
hoseok’s small village of tables crowds up the back third of the room, his dress forms stashed oddly and haphazardly between each surface. the actual display mannequins line both side walls, but their stock is often sparse; hoseok would much rather sew up little bewitching blouses for jimin than mock-ups of jackets and ties. but there they sit, never refreshed, never remade, and somehow, yoongi makes sales anyway. the back wall houses their haphazard attempts at organization, from jimin’s bits and bobs cabinet to hoseok’s fabric shelves. the area is uniquely messy compared to the minimalism of the rest of the space; hoseok navigates it expertly, in the way that all geniuses inhabit mess in some way or another. hoseok delights in it.
when jungkook takes up residence in the middle of it all, laying his fabric-cutting materials out around him in an arc of high order and precision, it makes the place feel busier, messier, but so much brighter, too.
--
at the start of the new year, the street outside glitters with light and levity. hoseok has done his best decorative work on the wood-paneled façade: glass baubles twinkling around the shop windows, trimmings of gold, and everything else red, red, red.
inside, the shop has not slowed down. hoseok toils long hours at his industrial sewing machine, guiding fabric under the needle with the duality of precision and speed that comes only from years of mastery.
“yoongi!” he exclaims one thursday afternoon, holding up a tweed jacket with artfully-frayed sleeves. “it’s done, the last one’s done.”
“for mr. kim?” yoongi asks, mouth full of kimchi fried rice.
“yes, finally,” hoseok says, affixing a brooch to the lapel.
“i’ll call him,” yoongi says. “after lunch.”
--
by the time that kim namjoon returns to the shop, the snow has melted and the trees have begun to blush green once more. the world is unfurling, reaching up from its wintry cower, lighting the lamps of spring.
jimin sweeps in ahead of namjoon, coffee carrier in hand, gold rings glinting in the midday glow. “hoseok,” he says, hurriedly. “on the street, i just saw him, namjoon’s on his way here.”
all at once, hoseok flies into a needless frenzy. he flits about the shop, tidying things that were already tidy, placing things that already had places. “yoongi,” he frets, “get ready, it’s almost time!”
yoongi looks up from his ledger.
he scoots the credit card machine closer.
“i’m ready,” he says.
“excellent,” says hoseok, distractedly, gratefully. “jungkook, the dress forms—”
jungkook is affixing the very last tie clip to the mounted looks when namjoon steps over the threshold of the shop. in his wake is the boy with the old-money face, the model from the pictures.
“this is kim seokjin,” namjoon says. “he’ll need to be fitted, more than likely.”
“of course,” hoseok breathes. “welcome, welcome, both of you. let’s get started.”
--
as usual, hoseok’s work is flawless. namjoon and seokjin are perceptively picky, but as they assess shape and fabric and color and feel, hoseok does not worry; he likes the fastidious customers the best. only they can see what hoseok sees, the detail, the intention, the vision. they, too, live an examined life.
at the mirror, seokjin turns. “the grid-stripe blazer is amazing,” he says.
“thank you, hoseok,” namjoon says, shaking hoseok’s hand. he turns to hand yoongi his credit card. “i may have more for you in the future. i’m recruiting a few new people at the moment, but this particular campaign is proving difficult to fill. there’s a very specific look that i want.”
“we’d be happy to help however we can,” hoseok says.
“excellent,” namjoon says, guiding seokjin towards the door.
all at once, he stalls.
he sees jimin, denim-clad legs stretched across jungkook’s lap, adorned in custom-fit emerald silks and a mess of gold jewelry. he sees him in the light from the window, in the softness of the late morning. he sees his hand, resting gracefully on the velvet cushion, and his wrist, milky-white, and his ear, small and studded. his face is ethereal, his expression passive. in the sum of it all, he sees potential.
“what’s your name?” he asks.
jimin tilts his head to meet namjoon’s eyes. “park jimin,” he says.
“how would you feel about a test shoot, park jimin?”
--
when jimin is away on preliminary shoots with namjoon and seokjin, jungkook buys the coffee.
it’s lonely in the shop without jimin, but jungkook is talkative enough, pretty enough, that it feels less barren than it might otherwise. hoseok likes dressing jungkook, too, and he certainly doesn’t mind when jungkook insists on thanking him by punching in his own transaction on yoongi’s credit card machine. he does more work around the shop than jimin did, too, but they all miss their mutual muse, the ringing cheer of his midmorning greetings, the floral-and-citrus notes that hung in the air whenever he floated past.
today, jungkook buys two hazelnut lattes and one black iced coffee.
he doesn’t sit on yoongi’s workstation, like jimin would do, nor does he sit on hoseok’s lap, like jimin often does. instead, he sings to himself while he shoots promotional stills for the shop’s website, forgetting his coffee cup on every possible surface every single time he puts it down to take a picture.
“i like him,” hoseok says, when he and yoongi go out for drinks and dinner that night.
“he’s helpful,” yoongi says. he takes a sip, and softens. “he’s nice.”
--
on the third day of jimin’s shoot with seokjin, hoseok is called in to serve as a wardrobe consultant. jungkook tags along, leaving yoongi more than happy to watch the shop in peace.
the studio room is all whites and yellows and pinks, and jimin sits with seokjin in the middle of it all, bracing himself atop the arm of a wingback chair, legs over seokjin’s lap. while hoseok picks at the clothes, jungkook picks up his camera.
“jimin,” he says, to call his attention. chk-chk.
jimin, rosy-cheeked and warm under the bright lights, beams like a soft sun. “you want me to pose this time?” he asks.
while hoseok fiddles with the final touches of the wardrobe for the next backdrop, jungkook tests a few angles, tries a few lenses, takes more than a few shots.
jimin is a natural. the newly-minted models pose together: seokjin reclines with jimin’s head bowed and tucked against his shoulder, the tallest lounging in the seat with the smallest perched on the arm of the chair. they complement each other, two inverse sides to the same sort of strange magnetic, otherworldly elegance, each a different kind of prism for panache to bend through. they are mirrors with paradoxically distinct reflections, twins far from identical, born into the same grace. jungkook is sure that, if the studio bulbs were gone from this room, these figures would cast some kaleidoscopic pattern along the floor in place of shadows, would brighten the room in place of lights.
they appear to him as idols: jimin, a porcelain statuette; seokjin, a marble sculpture.
jungkook captures them, over and over and over, in a case of glass and mirrors.
--
the cherry blossoms burst into bloom just as hoseok begins to feel as though he’s standing on the precipice of something big. it’s just a feeling, but fate has never led him astray before.
while he waits, he works.
now that the photoshoot has wrapped, the usual suspects are back at the shop. jimin is in his designated place on the couch, hoseok is sorting an array of buttons from a jar, and yoongi is bent over a bowl of jjajangmyeon at his workstation. jungkook is there, too, like he always seems to be nowadays. he works from the couch more often than not, clicking through pictures on his camera, editing footage on his laptop, letting jimin nuzzle his neck and press kisses behind his ear.
on a whim, jungkook sends the final versions of his photos to kim namjoon. behind the scenes of your shoot, he says in the email. you really put together a beautiful set.
jimin has his mouth on jungkook’s collarbone by the time that namjoon replies.
incredible, he says. they’re better than our finals. i’d like to use them in the campaign, if you’d allow it.
jimin’s hands are in his hair now. they’re all yours, jungkook replies, and turns back to what is, in this moment, all his.
--
hoseok’s hunch, as always, is borne out in short order. this time, it happens in the form of a series of contract signings, the receipt of flight vouchers, and a collective swell in the kind of faith that can be practiced only by the young and the reckless.
the photos streak down a line of propitious contacts, from jungkook’s hard drive to namjoon’s phone to investors’ projector screens. in a matter of days, the tranquility that had once felt ever-present at the tailor shop gives way to a new kind of auspicious vibration in the air, some kind of atmospheric foreshadowing, the air hanging heavy with some shapeless significance.
hoseok trusts the order of the universe, but he is impatient. the winds of fate breathe down his neck, taunting him with promises just out of reach. while he waits, he works.
when hoseok finally gets the call, he says yes right away.
--
“i just have a feeling that this team will work,” namjoon says earnestly, on their first day of their official partnership. he has hired them all on in various capacities for the spring/summer season, prompting hoseok to hang a be back soon sign on the door of the shop, pack everything they would need for an extended trip, and ferry them all onto an airplane destined for dubai.
now, they’re eating olives and drinking wine at their project house, and it’s all so perfect.
“everything’s already right here,” namjoon continues, still reeling, still gathering the threads of what’s to come. “the clothes, the models, the photos, the business, everything. building a brand from scratch has been so hard, and — when i walked into the shop, i feel like i found everything i needed to make this work all in one place. it’s unbelievable.”
“it must have been fate,” hoseok says.
--
namjoon’s right: it does work.
for the short time that they’re shooting at the project house, everyone has a well-defined role. hoseok drapes jimin and seokjin in flattering colors and shining fabrics, weaving them into the backdrop of yoongi’s meticulously-arranged sets. the models move through poses as jungkook huddles behind his camera. once the stills are captured, namjoon sends them out into the world. then, the industry takes over.
once they’re out there, it all happens so quickly.
--
there’s something magical about it, some unpredictable effect of their perfect partnership, that catches the eye of the people who matter. in the space of three months, namjoon’s once-unheard-of agency erupts onto the world stage, booking deals with brands and magazines and fashion houses. the boys criss-cross the globe on chartered flights, in hired cars, against all possible expectation.
in may, jimin’s perfume ad goes up on billboards around the world.
in june, he sees himself on a magazine cover for the first time.
in july, he becomes a brand ambassador for chanel.
in september, when yellowing leaves catch enough chilly air to chase each other down the city streets again, when the fashion lookbooks shift from spring/summer saffron-and-florals to fall/winter emerald-and-houndstooth, jimin decides to go home.
well, they all do.
the shop has laid dormant for half a year, the be back soon placard on its door growing ever more ironic with each new glint of morning sun glittering in the windowglass.
when they return, though, it feels like nothing at all has changed.
for a moment, they simply stand on the sidewalk outside, staring up at it. the past six months still feel like a fever dream, but that time has left its mark: they live a new life now, one of recognition and opportunity and chance. it will be good for them, and it will be good for business, too. that, they had always known, was their utmost priority, in the end. they might come and go in future months, but they know now that they will always return to ring the bell above the door. it has always been there, just the same, just for them, and it always will be.
even from far away, something about the ambiance of the tailor shop called them back to it, a siren song, a remedy for their collective restlessness. in the chaos of it all, the shop had been reminiscent of a quiet, fulfilling routine, a perfect inverse of their new and grueling schedule. it had come to them on dark nights, long flights, cab rides, shoots, and it came to them in different ways: hoseok would say, i hope the fabric in the windows doesn’t fade too terribly, and yoongi would say, the orders must be piling up, and jimin would say, i miss that place, don’t you?
in any case, the lure of the shop had won out. they had never wanted to leave it for long anyway.
the autumn breeze picks up. the near-sweet scent of sun-warmed hardwood overwhelms them as hoseok unlocks the door. yoongi takes down the placard, clicks the lights on, checks their voicemails. jungkook jogs upstairs to stow their bags in his studio apartment.
jimin steps out to buy the coffee.
--
“hello,” jimin says to a familiar face behind the counter.
taehyung, as his name badge identifies him, looks up and, then, can’t look away. “jimin,” he says, finally. “it’s been so long.”
“i’ve been out of town,” jimin says, by way of explanation. “i’ve been missing your coffee, but we’re all back now. can i get our usual?”
taehyung punches the tailor shop’s order into the register; it’s reflexive by now. he steps to the side, hands working quickly at the espresso machine. “i saw you everywhere,” he says, breathlessly. “on billboards, on television, in magazines. i wondered if it was you. i thought, no way it’s the guy from the tailor shop next door, but it was.”
jimin’s smile spreads across his face, bright and familiar. “it was all six of us, really. hoseok, the tailor, and yoongi, our shopkeeper. and jungkook, of course, from upstairs.”
“he bought the coffee for a while,” taehyung remembers.
“right,” says jimin. “we got discovered by kim namjoon, this guy who runs a talent agency. we shot a campaign in dubai with him and kim seokjin, and everything just worked out. it was like destiny.”
“wow,” says taehyung, wide-eyed.
there’s something about taehyung’s face then, something that reminds jimin of what they had missed while they were away. half a year had passed, and they hadn’t met their seventh, their final fated friend. somehow, it’s hard to believe: how better to meet the right one than to step out beyond the same street that has housed them for so long?
jimin watches taehyung trap the coffee steam under plastic lids, watches him scrawl hangul characters across the top of each: 호석, 윤기, 지민, 정국. jimin is suddenly struck by the fact that, six months on, taehyung still knows exactly what to make and for whom. he knows them, knows them intimately. for years, he has measured out their lives in coffee spoons, but jimin has never counted him before.
he furrows his brow. perhaps they hadn’t been too busy to meet their seventh after all; perhaps, years ago, they already had.
“hey,” jimin says, slowly, curiously. “make one for yourself, too.”
taehyung looks up.
“go on lunch,” jimin says, leaning on the counter, “and come over to the shop. i think you belong with us.”
“what?”
“just trust me,” says jimin. “do you believe in fate?”