Chapter Text
Green pasture after green pasture, seldomly interrupted by narrow roads snaking through; whichever direction Namjoon turns, all he can see is more of the same view.
Slightly unsettled by the lack of civilization around, he turns towards the cab driver, “Are you sure the bus passes by–?” But the man either doesn’t hear him, or plainly ignores him, because in the next moment, he turns back to his car and slams the door behind him with a heavy clang.
Namjoon watches as the little red car drives away, getting smaller and smaller yet sounding as loud as ever. When, at the foot of a steeper hillside, the taxi takes a pause, Namjoon lets himself hope that the driver had realized the bad karma he was accumulating and would turn back any time now to beg for Namjoon’s forgiveness, invite him back into the car, and charge him half the fare for all the way to Dublin.
Alas, the rusty piece of machinery –which is, in all fairness, more likely to be even older than it looks– pushes through, engulfed in dark exhaust fumes as it is. Then the road continues downhill, and the car disappears from sight, leaving Namjoon by himself in the middle of rural Ireland with the sole company of his suitcase… Wait, where is his suitcase?
“ I’ll help you with the ‘case ,” the cab driver had said, after cheerily informing Namjoon that they’d reached their destination –a bus stop that’s apparently invincible to sane people like Namjoon– and promptly launching Namjoon’s mind into a freak out. The words swirl in his head as he looks around frantically, the knots in his stomach twisting even tighter.
At last, his eyes land on his poor suitcase, uncouthly handled and tipped on its front, lying perfectly camouflaged on the muddy edge of the field. Suppressing the urge to grind his teeth and curse at the stranger –and frankly strange cab driver– Namjoon appraises the damage, inspecting his luggage this and that way, looking for deeper damage than the wet dirt and grass blades currently decorating the precious italian leather.
Namjoon picks off most of the surface mud and grass, hoping that the good craftsmanship would entail no long-term harm to the suitcase.
With a deep breath in and a deep breath out, Namjoon composes himself, squaring his shoulders and straightening his back, unwilling to let a bit of bad luck upset the single most important goal of his life.
Twenty and three minutes pass before the bus miraculously appears on the horizon. Namjoon painstakingly counts another two while waiting for the bus to reach him and the so-called bus stop. Somehow, the bus manages to look more decrepit than the taxi, with groaning brakes and creaking doors. Namjoon figures that it’s good enough, as long as it takes him to Dublin, especially as the storm clouds above are plumping up. Not long after completing that thought, the first droplet of rain water lands on the tip of his nose.
“Oi, are you coming in or not?”
Namjoon focuses back on the person currently behind the wheel. The bus driver is regarding him with a raised eyebrow that has the ability to usher Namjoon inside faster than the spoken words before it.
“Baggage goes in the back,” the driver adds, as Namjoon waddles past him, unwilling to admit that he’s struggling to maneuver his suitcase around the tight space.
The bus is small and quite empty, save for himself, the driver, and another passenger in the second row, who’s laid back against the window and very absorbed on his game console.
True to the driver’s word, the last row of seats have been plucked out, leaving behind a rectangle of storage clearly marked with a handwritten sign of “BAGGAGE”. Quaint, but raising a very important question; is this the time Namjoon dies by way of flying suitcase to the head?
After a last, determined pull, his suitcase is finally nestled into the far corner, and of course the bus driver picks that exact moment to put his vehicle back into gear, lurching all of its occupants forwards along with it. Namjoon seeks to balance himself on the nearest row of seats, when a pair of hands engulf his waist, steadying him and thus making his search for more support null.
“You should secure that,” the gamer guy says, his breath fanning over Namjoon’s face, as he’s still gripping his waist. There’s a pause during which they both realize that, and the stranger drops his hands to his sides. Namjoon stumbles, as he’s suddenly left to fend for his own balance
“I would have if I knew how, or.. if there were instructions.. or something,” his rebuttal loses steam by the end of it.
“Here, see?” The stranger pushes against him to fiddle with the back of one of the seats, before straightening back up with a victorious smile. “You use this –” he tries gallantly to untangle the jumbled mess of whatever he retrieved, finally unraveling it to demonstrate a black elastic of some sort. “--to wrap around the suitcase, and–” he stretches towards the opposite corner, causing his face to come in close proximity to Namjoon’s hip. “--you hook it over here, and you’re done!” The man finishes his task and his explanation with a flourish, and gives Namjoon another bright smile for a job well done.
“It looks efficient,” Namjoon clears his throat, “Thank you.”
“No problem! I’m Jimin,” the man says, and offers his hand for a shake. Namjoon does the same, as basic etiquette dictates, but mostly because he’d rather walk all the way to Dublin than share the same ride with someone whose handshake he declined.
The gesture lasts a little too long for comfort, and he adds, “Kim Namjoon,” as an afterthought. Jimin unclasps his hand immediately, and tips his head to the front of the bus.
“Come sit with us. Long trips are more fun with company.”
Sure, Namjoon generally shares the sentiment, but this particular company seems a bit chattier than he’d prefer right now. Namjoon would rather pop in his earpods, put on some white noise asmr, and ponder his plan for the nth time, make sure everything is going to go exactly according to his taste.
Apparently, though, he’s unable to reject the stranger’s wish, and they’ve been standing inside a moving bus for long enough. Perhaps he can just pull the fallen-asleep trick, and just hope that Jimin will go back to his game or pick a conversation with the driver instead.
Time is irrelevant in this forgotten part of Ireland. Rain clouds cover any bits of sunlight that would otherwise peak through, so Namjoon would be unable to guess the time if he had no watch or phone with him. The scenery remains constant, they come across no other vehicles, and the bus is traveling at an unnervingly steady pace –so steady in fact, that it gives the illusion of slowing down.
“Come on, you stupid piece of shit– Not again! You. Better. Work.”
The combination of sudden yelling and the continuous cranking of the engine, peels the slumber right off Namjoon’s eyes. It’s only after he’s fully conscious that he realizes he’d actually dozed off while pretending to be asleep.
“It won’t magically work if you demand it like that,” Jimin says, and his tone betrays the matching roll of his eyes.
“Oh, should I ask nicely then?” the driver snarks, giving the wheel a pointed caress. “Start when you’re ready, sweetie, don’t worry, take your time,” his grip turns tighter and in the end he’s just shaking the wheel, “It’s not like we have things to do or footie to watch, you shit!” Namjoon watches as the driver gets off his seat, whirls around, and faces Jimin properly, all the while pointing a menacing finger at him. “I’m firing your boyfriend, effective immediately.”
Jimin snorts, and Namjoon doesn’t know the driver too long but he has a gut feeling that Jimin’s reaction is not the correct one. Jimin seems to be aware of it too, perhaps even drawing satisfaction from the whole exchange.
“It’s not Kook’s fault your bus is ancient, hyung.”
“It’s vintage ,” the driver mutters through clenched teeth.
“Admit it, you love it,” Jimin draws out the word, teasing.
“Keep it shut, and call Jeon to come pick this up.”
“Ay, ay,” Jimin salutes, as the other man picks his jacket from the hanger next to his seat.
“And I expect a discount.”
“You already get the friends and family discount, you greedy old man. You have no sympathy for a poor, young couple trying to save up for their wedding.”
“Nope,” the driver says, punching the button to slide the front doors open. “Now get out of my bus.”
Immediately, the chilly air wafts inside the contained space, ruffling Namjoon’s hair and sending shivers down his spine.
Jimin huffs, his breath billowing out of his mouth in a fog, and stands up, pockets his console, and pinches the driver’s cheek before descending the short steps and exiting the vehicle as requested.
The driver swats the offending hand away, and then turns to Namjoon. Logically, he knows he didn’t do anything wrong by simply observing the scene before him, but the man’s stare still makes him feel like he did. Surprisingly, the driver’s voice is calm and collected when he speaks up.
“The engine gave out,” he explains matter-of-factly. “It’s a small place, so I’m afraid you’ll have to wait til the only mechanic comes around, or the next bus passes through the village tomorrow morning. I’ll leave a note for Dan, so don’t worry about having to pay for another ticket.”
Namjoon nods, because yes, it makes sense to have the only available means of transport break down. He can’t even walk to Dublin, not while a storm is brewing overhead, even if he truly thinks it might be the only way for him to get there eventually.
“ Dublin is a bit out of my way, but I can take you up to Clonegal if you like, ” the taxi driver had told him, showing him a small dot on the map, situated halfway between Cork and Dublin, and Namjoon had stupidly said “ Alright ,” because he’d have plenty of time to catch a bus or another taxi to his actual destination, right? Of course.
Robotically, he follows the path Jimin took before him, stepping out into the road and getting slapped in the face all over again by the chilly humidity of the late February afternoon.
The pale greenery and naked trees, coupled with the quaint lights glowing warmth into the otherwise barren streets, promise for a very picturesque image during the warmer months. Objectively, one would likely call this a charming village.
If a bit creepy. The only establishment left open seems to be a local pub, and it’s not even half past six. Perhaps he’d have to persuade Yuno to visit during summer.
Faint noise slips through the cracks of the building, interrupted by cheers or loud laughter every now and then. Even if there was an alternative, Namjoon is pretty sure people would choose this place to spend their time in. It’s something about the soft light flowing through the curtained windows, perhaps even the heavenly smell of fried chicken, or maybe the sound of people simply having fun.
Namjoon pushes the door open, confident that his day couldn’t get any worse, and he’s immediately rewarded. Warmth engulfs his whole being, shooing the cold away and welcoming him into this safe haven.
After a quick sweep of the room, Namjoon finds Jimin occupying a table off to the side, staring fondly at the man sitting next to him, who’s trying to shove a huge bite of pizza into his mouth. The bus driver is also there, two tables away, engrossed with the soccer match playing on the TV. Namjoon has no idea how the man had eluded him, reaching the pub before him even though Namjoon had had a head start.
Reaching the counter, all of those thoughts dissipate, and Namjooon zeroes in on the menu card. “Hey, can I get a beer and a plate of fried chicken, please?”
The man behind the bar finishes wiping down some platters, and whips the towel over his shoulder before turning around to face him.
“Ha!” he exclaims, “what brings you here?”
Namjoon’s face grows fever-hot at the familiar face staring back at him. A very familiar, taxi-driving face. “You!” he explodes, pointing an accusing finger at the offending man, uncaring of the looks his behavior might gather him.
The man smirks. “Name’s Seokjin. Not you.”