Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

At ten years old, oblivious to the future, a chubby-cheeked Namjoon stood by the doorway to his room, his eyes wide with surprise. Grandma Heeyoung is sat on his bed, with a little box on her lap, giving him a tiny smile. Her eyes do not crinkle when she smiles like the last time, when they saw each other and he found the Big Dipper by himself in her backyard. 

“Is that a gift?”

She laughed a little, which made him smile, too. His grandmother beckoned him over, and he closed the door behind him. He could hear his mom talk to someone on the phone, but it’s muffled now. “I was going to give you this the next time you visited, but I wanted to see you.” 

They sat on his bed as she handed him a small velvet box, and he opened it dutifully when she nodded her head. Inside sits a stone shaped into a crescent moon – a pendant, with a simple silver chain. He couldn’t tell what color it was, but Namjoon has seen this before. 

“It was your father’s,” she said, touching the stone a little before hugging herself, like she was suddenly cold. The ten year old stared at the stone some more, thinking about its color while she talked. 

“I gave it to him when he was your age, but he always hid it in the box by the piano when you came along. He never got to-” 

Namjoon looked away from the stone for a moment when her voice broke off. She was staring at the stone with tears in her eyes, the shape of them the same eyes that he saw in the mirror, but before he could ask if she was okay, she was wiping them away with the back of her hand and smiling at him. 

“And now it’s yours.”

Namjoon looked back at the stone. He saw a little bit of silver, and a little bit of white on the slightly opaque stone. It reflects a bit of other colors too, a little like the prism his science teacher showed them at school, but muted. Pretty. 

(Five years later, he would call its color moon-like. Someone, somewhere, would giggle from the irony.)

“This is amazing, halmeoni, thank you.”

His grandmother pushed the box closer to his chest, and gently closed her hand over his wrist as he stared at the stone, still figuring out its color. “Take care of this for me, will you?” 

He nodded in response, and did not look away from the box, touching the edges of the moon lightly. “I will wear it, every day.” 

Namjoon did not hear her relieved sigh, but he did feel her let go of his wrist. She put a hand on his knee instead, a gentle pressure. 

“Open your heart to the moon, Namjoon. He’ll keep you company.”

It is quite impressive how his mom could go on and on gossiping with his aunts all night, even if they weren’t exactly her blood relatives. 

It was Christmas Eve, and the Kims were a family big enough to fill a dining hall. They had their dinner and had the hall to themselves for four more hours to mingle, but Namjoon was not exactly the mingling type. He was the type to sit by himself and eat more food somewhere his mom wasn’t, panic-texting Yoongi on one hand and a fork on the other. Namjoon saw his grandfather take the microphone, and knew this night was going to be long. The hall was littered with so many tables and Christmas decorations, an obscene amount of glitter, too bright lights and too many people.

There were too many people, most of which Namjoon did not recognize. He wasn’t the most sociable out of the cousins, and he lived too far away to get to know them anyway. He bit down the tired sigh when a family friend and his daughter approached him, and after all the merry christmases he had to say, made an excuse to get out.

Namjoon was wandering by the corner of the room when he spotted halmeoni looking right at him, nodding to the doors of the balcony, and walking out before Namjoon could follow.

His mom would probably get mad at him for sneaking out again, but he was too tired to think about it.

The doors to the balcony were barely shut behind him when his grandmother, back against the railing, teased him. "You tired, boy?"

It was as if she knew exactly how his mother had to call him before he could forget about that evening, and that Namjoon was thinking about the boxes he has yet to unpack when he gets to his new apartment. 

Namjoon only snorted and stood beside her, leaning against the railing, and smiled sheepishly at his grandmother. She was wearing her new favorite blouse for Christmas, but she was shivering slightly when the wind blew. Her knowing smile is still the same, though, and it made him smile wider, shrugging off his jacket. 

“Just fine, halmeoni. Needed some air.”

He would make a quip about her teaching him her evil ways of avoidance, but she only turned to gaze up at the moon, so he let her be. After a few moments, Namjoon draped his jacket over her shoulders, the plain black rental against her too-thin printed blouse.

Namjoon and his mom visited Heeyoung as much as they could. His grandmother (who lived in the outskirts of Seoul and was only less than half an hour away) was happy to babysit Namjoon when he was younger, when mother was busy with work. They would watch the stars in her backyard at night, loved laying down on the grass and tracing constellations with her. 

She told him stories about warriors and gods and impossible beings. They seemed even more real, with the way she told him of the stories like she was there, like she saw them with her own eyes. While their family celebrated and the two of them gazed up at the sky – at the moon that seemed to brighten every time Namjoon looked up – he realized a part of him was still ten years old and believing, after all these years. 

“It’s been quiet, recently.” 

Heeyoung hummed in reply, cozy in his large jacket. If it were anyone else, they would say it was far from quiet – he could hear his family talking over one another, and grandfather drunkenly singing a Christmas song – but Namjoon knew she, of all people, would understand what he meant.

She gave him his father’s moonstone ten years ago, after all.

“When did you last speak to him?”

“It’s been a while,” Namjoon admitted, leaning back against the railing, looking down at his shoes when she turned to him with a hand on his arm.

His grandmother only hummed. “Is that why you’re hiding out here with me?”

“I think I said something wrong, halmeoni," Namjoon said with a wry grin.

She laughed with the wisdom of someone who has held on to the moonstone for even longer than he was alive. “What did you say? Did you scare him off?"

Namjoon hesitated for a moment, then shook his head, sighing in defeat. “… I asked for his name.” 

Chuckling, she only patted his shoulder before walking back into the dining hall. “You have a good heart, Namjoon-ah. But you are too hard on yourself.” 

The family, especially those who inherit the moonstone, call the man on the moon the Guide. 

Before Namjoon, it was his father who kept the stone. Before him was his mother, Heeyoung, and before her it was her mother, and so forth. They choose who keeps it and who passes it on, but only few of them understood what it was. Before Heeyoung, they only treated it like a piece of jewelry, to be worn only when the occasion merits. His father kept it in a box covered in a layer of dust, forgotten. 

Heeyoung wore the moonstone for forty-five years. She never knew the Guide’s name.

She knew that the Guide gave up his name to save that friend’s life. 

She knew that for the moon, names are worth more. It is an identity, a name unique to each being, something so uniquely yours it held power, and giving up your name meant they took you.

The Guide gave his name in exchange for the breaths Kim Gunoo took, and if the moon willed it, he could come home in exchange for something of equal value. 

A life, a name, or a love. 

She knew the moon granted wishes. That the Guide feared the moon. 

She did not know what would happen to her if she gave in to the moon’s wishes. 

The Guide does not have a name, not anymore, and only had crystals to keep him company.

The moonstone, which keeps him tethered to the earth, 

and its pair, with the friend he loved, the one he left on earth, passed down from generation to generation. 

Namjoon lost his grandmother almost a year later after that encounter at the balcony. Namjoon would do this same thing every time he looks up and misses her: he holds the chain up to let the pendant dangle, until it's big enough in his periphery, big enough beside the real thing. Beside the moon in the sky. 

Far away but not far at all. 

?You’re safe up there, aren’t you

?Are you afraid of anything

I’m scared of a lot of things.

But I’ll be okay!

!When I get you out of there, I’ll keep you safe

You promise?

.I promise

Who’s Jimin?

.I’ve been thinking of nicknames for you

You don’t have to. 

I don’t have a name.

?Do you like it

.Jimin

I do.

...It scares me.

?What

?What does

I’m scared that I’ll like it too much.

?There’s a way to get you out

?Jimin, why won’t you tell me

Because I asked Heeyoung to keep it from you.

.Just tell me, Jimin

I won’t let the moon hurt anyone else.

It’s too risky.

.I’ll do it. Whatever it takes

...That’s what terrifies me Namjoon.

I can't let them hurt you, too.

.She’s gone, Jimin. She’s gone

.They said she passed in her sleep

.I hope you forgive me

.Please let me help you

You can't.

I’m sorry. 

At twenty-three he has three quarters of a bachelor’s degree in Astronomy and Space Science, a dependence on black coffee, and a very stubborn roommate in the form of an acting major who is still somehow ridiculously beautiful even if the man does nothing but play video games until the early morning when he doesn’t have a schedule.

Said roommate is puttering around the kitchen making dinner, often peeking through the doorway with his eyes narrowed at Namjoon in the 'If you don’t take a study break for an hour while I’m cooking us dinner I will throw all your things out of a window’ way. 

Seokjin made him sign an agreement form for it, too. Actors are so dramatic, honestly. Namjoon was half tempted to see what he would do if he ripped the offending paper in half. 

After a few minutes Seokjin plopped down on the other end of their shared couch, but not before stealing the notebook Namjoon had been scribbling in for twenty minutes. His protests met deaf ears, because Seokjin, while dodging his attempts at stealing the notebook back, is already reading through its pages. 

He can’t keep secrets around him, certainly not after three years of sharing rent and a living space.

“Namjoon, are these… lyrics?”

Namjoon only slumped tiredly against the back of the couch, then hugged a pillow to hide his face. The ‘fuck off’ was muffled against the pillows, but doesn’t think Seokjin would hear with the way he’s tearing into the pages of his notes with wonder. He looked up and watched Seokjin read the completely filled pages, even held it sideways to read the illegible notes in the corners Namjoon tends to leave. He’d written that page a month ago after the last time he talked with Jimin, feverish with lack of sleep, and his roommate seemed awfully invested in it. 

When Seokjin closed the notebook and sat up straighter in his seat, Namjoon only sighed. 

“Please don’t send them to Yoongi.”

“I’m sending these to Yoongi.” 

It’s telling how Seokjin ignored him in favor of texting Yoongi (when did he get his phone out?) but really, Namjoon does not have the time for this. 

“Hyung, you know I can’t.” 

“Not if I can help it,” Seokjin said, taking photos of his lyrics. He heard the ping of the notification bell no less than ten seconds later, and his roommate typed in a quick reply. Yoongi worked fast. “These are good, and you guys could get Taehyung from music to do the vocals-” 

Seokjin knew he didn’t have the time for this. Seokjin, who was the second person outside of his family to know about the moonstone, knew out of all people that Namjoon didn’t have the time for this. 

Yoongi was the first to know about the stone, but never understood why he quit music, never understood why he can’t do anything else, not until he saves his friend.

Seokjin did understand, because he was there when he saw Namjoon talk to himself late one night, clutching the stone that hung around his neck, and was the first to think Oh, wow instead of What the fuck? He was there when Namjoon decided to study astronomy so suddenly after almost getting a degree in music and understood that it was something Namjoon had to do. He was the one who picked him up after late nights at the library, who reminded him to sleep when Namjoon ended up staying up too long on the roof of their building, who kicked his ass in video games that Namjoon never played before, who cooked him jjigae while Namjoon frantically studied for his finals and forced him to take breaks every once in a while.

Namjoon does not have the time for this, and Seokjin knew this the most. He shouldn’t have brought his notebook out. 

“-and did you know Jungkook could sing? Because I didn’t. Isn’t he an astronomy major, too? I think his voice would fit well with Taehyung’s because his register is actually really high-” 

Has Seokjin been talking the entire time he zoned out?  When did his roommate start pacing? 

“Hyung.”

“-actually, no, don’t put them in the same room. I think they’ll give Yoongi an aneurysm and he already has a chronic headache called Jung Hoseok hovering over him. Without you they would be like the three musketeers and their disgruntled mom. They all miss you, you know? Just-

“No, I really-”

“-time and think about it, you know? You were so close to getting that music degree and Yoongi said you were at the top of the class in mixing and songwriting, he was so pissed about it too and he’s never been grade-conscious before so it was hilarious to see him pout-” 

“You know exactly why, hyung!” Namjoon immediately regretted raising his voice, but he didn’t know how else to stop Seokjin from going on a full rant. 

To his luck, Seokjin stopped and sighed, holding out his notebook, seemingly reluctant to give it back. He pulled when Namjoon tried to grab it, like the man-child his roommate really is. 

He sat beside Namjoon in the middle of the couch, his eyes boring into Namjoon’s without an ounce of doubt in them. “You know you had the best years of your life making music with me and Yoongi, because even though it was difficult, we sang of hope."

When they were fresh out of high school, they had too many words spilling onto pages and pages of would-be songs, too many voices with not much of a chance to speak. The three of them turned to music, as all lost souls do. 

“We were doing so much good, and you could do a lot more with these lyrics.” He propped up the notebook and waved it at his face before handing it back. To Namjoon it only reminded him of the first time they met, his hyung reading Namjoon’s lyrics for the first time on Yoongi’s couch, the three of them excited at the thought of creating something good.

They don’t talk about it anymore. They’ve had that conversation way too many times before.

Namjoon clutched the notebook in his hands and stood, tired and weary and sad all at once. 

“Jimin’s up there, somewhere and all I have left of him is a shitty stone and a moon that’s three hundred thousand kilometers away.” 

He swallowed down the dread he felt in the apple of his throat. “I’m studying as much as I could, gathering all the clues I could find, learning and reading and finding and looking  but it’s all dead ends and coincidences-- how-- I--” 

“You’re miserable, Namjoon.” 

Namjoon snapped his mouth shut, sitting back down and turning away, familiar with the signs of an incoming Talk. 

“I know you care about him,” Seokjin started, the words from his mouth slow, guarded, but sure and steady now despite the initial hesitance. “But Namjoon, this isn’t making you happy.”

Namjoon was expecting it, but he flinched anyway, and Seokjin powered through it.

“Hoseok says he has to drag you to lunch in between classes. Jungkook texted me asking about you, because you were freaking him out while you were in the library the other night.” Namjoon took a moment to wonder how Jungkook had his roommate’s number and winced, because Jungkook had to drag Namjoon home before he himself passed out in exhaustion and eventually crashed on their couch.

Seokjin continued. “He said you were mumbling about space storms and eclipsesand he had to poke your cheek with a pen to get your attention and you flinched so hard your books fell and the librarian was mean to him because the noise came from the table he was in. She was mean to Jungkook, Namjoon-ah. Don’t get me started on Yoongi.”

“Hyung,” Namjoon could barely get the words out, and rested his head on his hands. He felt a little unraveled, like speaking softer would keep him from coming apart completely.

(It scares me, a voice says, somewhere.)

“If I don’t get him out, then who will?”