Chapter Text
it all starts when namjoon meets yoongi. namjoon is nonbinary and yoongi is a trans man.
it’s a bookstore where climber plants grow everywhere and around you when you take place in any of the many couches, and it’s where namjoon works.
but the shop also becomes a little like a second home to them. on some days, it’s quiet enough to study, and other days, they curl up in a corner.
something shifts in the air when yoongi walks in.
he wasn’t even that big of a reader, yoongi had told them. maybe there is such a thing as destiny, namjoon had suggested, but yoongi had looked disgusted and namjoon had admitted defeat.
on that first night, after the store had closed and endless cups of coffee, even the dark couldn't scare them away. the only monster seemed to be having to go home and risk the other not wanting to meet again.
despite this,
they both know.
i want to be a writer.
do you have a dream?
you know i’m trans, right?
how would i. no. i am as well.
i am, too. a lot of things.
what kinds of things?
do you know what my dream is?
you haven’t told me yet.
giving back to our community. i wish it came naturally. mental health is a bitch.
you have a good heart. i can see it.
i can't cook for shit.
but i can.
it turns out yoongi lives in a house all by himself, and soon namjoon spends most nights there instead of in their tiny apartment.
the house is bigger than they could possibly need and yet it takes too long before they gather the courage to share it.
it feels safe, and they're scared to lose that feeling.
/
they meet hobi for the first time on instagram, because apparently, she has a lot of followers. there is a highlighted story on her profile, in which she is slowly pulling off fake lashes from her eyelids. then she smiles. gently, gently. a text box says: looking for housing! for me and a friend. we’re both trans and it’s urgent,
sometimes it's simple.
they meet hobi for the second time, and third time, and then she moves in. she sleeps for seventeen hours.
/
of course, everything was always going to be changing. but the change is so vivid: how they are alive and together and it feels new, powerful.
and namjoon, who always wanted but never dared to try makeup on their own,
this namjoon falls head over heels. hobi is colorful and eccentric and her femininity inspires namjoon to do reckless things that they never thought they would.
it's weird: namjoon is asexual.
the pull they feel toward hobi is not sufficiently put into words.
it's a late evening when she pulls out her collection of bottles and brushes and orders namjoon to a chair.
when she threads a headband on their head to push back their hair, they shiver. and namjoon thinks, this was stupid. they're not ready to be this close to her.
really, she says, if you want to learn to do this by yourself, you should sit in front of the mirror so you can see what i’m doing.
and of course,
but that would be impossible.
namjoon is almost already falling apart.
being cared for like this, paid attention to, it's just too much and still not enough.
so they stay just like that. very still.
and hobi looks at their face, learns their features, how the light falls, deciding what shades to use,
after painting and blending forever, she says open your eyes for me and her face is very close to theirs, and namjoon knows that she’s thinking about art and not them, but namjoon is not thinking about anything other than her, and she’s the literal sun, and she says,
that's beautiful
and namjoon would've wanted her to say you're instead of that's
(cause then they could've said you too)
but she says ok now close your eyes and they wait for her to dip her brush in the eyeshadow, rest her hand on their cheek, the soft brush on their lid, the spots where skin finally meets skin almost on fire–
namjoon doesn't learn shit about makeup.
/
just when the bus that will take hobi home after a long day appears around the corner, yoongi texts her a list of groceries he wants and she was just never good at saying no to people she cared about.
in hindsight it’s not possible to be mad because this is how she meets jin.
jin is the person sitting on the bench at the bus stop when she returns from the store, looking like someone stepping right out of one of those glass globes that children long for at tourist traps where the snow is glitter and you just have to keep shaking it for the snow to never stop.
jin: what the hell are you staring at?
breathtaking beauty.
(that's not something you say to complete strangers.)
hobi: your nails. they are the best thing i’ve ever seen. where do you get them done?
jin: do i look like someone who goes somewhere to get my nails done?
hobi: maybe, a little bit? you look rich. you could afford making new nails every single day, i would guess.
jin: well, you’re wrong about 2 things. these nails are made by myself. and i’m not rich, i just like pretending. but you’re right about 1 thing. i will give you that. sometimes i do make new nails every day.
is this your bus?
it could be
jin: it scares me to not have a gender.
hobi: you don't need one. you're still a person.
jin: others would disagree.
jin: this is where my parents used to live.
hobi: do you want to hold my hand until we've passed it?
jin: yes, please.
jin: do you want to let go now?
hobi: do you?
hobi is fierce and jin feels like a failure beside her.
jin: was it easy for you? how did you know?
hobi: i mean, not everything. not always. but figuring it out was not the problem.
jin: when i think about gender, it just feels empty. black. void. space.
hobi: but space is quite a lot of things, isn't it?
it's a punch in jin’s stomach and hobi leaves not before giving jin her number and something resembling hope.
/
later that evening, it’s yoongi, namjoon and hobi on one couch each, because there is still too much of everything for three people.
hobi: i met someone today.
jin takes the biggest room of the available ones.
hobi likes that room and the bed in it and the person sleeping in it. suddenly her own bed is small and cold and empty.
jin and hobi are beet red when yoongi and namjoon one morning announce that the walls are not as thick as they think.
/
the next addition to the queer little household would be jungkook, big, buff jungkook, who hides his body under binders and baggy clothes, jungkook the tattooer, who brings boxes of ink into the house and installs themselves comfortably, who is always either tattooing himself or asking if anyone else wants a tattoo. the only one who looks like they have a hard time saying no is namjoon, and it is only a matter of time before they surrender to the temptation.
(for namjoon, you see, had never dared to believe they could do whatever they wanted with their body. this new family, getting to know people who did it all, who simply decided that they wanted to recreate themselves and then did, was life changing to namjoon.
do with me what you wish. i want it all, too)
gender envy for trans people >>> gender envy for cis people.
it's the second night in the house that jungkook can't sleep.
yoongi has long lost count of his sleepless nights.
they meet in the kitchen. not yet speaking, they make tea.
i am sorry if this is intrusive, jungkook starts.
don't worry, yoongi says. it is so dark, i won't notice.
you are a trans guy, right?
they drink tea and jungkook’s voice trembles.
i’ve never met another trans guy before. tell me everything. if you’re comfortable.
yoongi tells him everything. jungkook cries and it helps.
yoongi's hand is there, wiping.
his voice is there, soothing.
his body is there, bearing witness. promising that it gets better.
/
but jungkook has a hard time not drowning in dysphoria and dark hoodies. some days, drowning feels like the least painful alternative. and hobi is always right there.
jungkook: hobi.
jungkook: will you hold me?
arms wrap around his body and they lay there not counting time.
she opens her eyes when she feels his binder through his clothes.
hobi: how long have you had this on now?
he can’t remember, or it doesn't matter. he’s been crying. he's sweaty and a mess. too long, but it doesn't matter.
hobi: do you trust me? will you let me help you out of this?
jungkook: can we take a shower?
will you wash my hair?
it should be about taking care, not judging each other’s bodies. he knows hobi is better than that.
but hobi is so beautiful.
so much envy for that flat, pretty chest, that looks like something it would be easy to breathe in. to run, dance, live in.
it’s so unfair: to both desire exactly what the other has and not be able to switch bodies with them.
it’s one of those days when everything is wrong.
hobi: can i try to change your mind?
jungkook: won’t stop you.
hobi: your biceps are so hot. i'm not just saying it because you're sad, i promise.
it feels like she’s saying it because he's sad, but at the same time, it’s just what he needs. the way it is usually a comment reserved for guys is affirming and hobi, of course, knows what she's doing.
he lifts a hand and places it on the other bicep, to feel something that is good. something that is guy.
hobi: how many pushups can you do?
he smiles.
jungkook: i don't do pushups with my biceps
hobi: … of course not. i know that.
jungkook: you do?
hobi: i did!
jungkook: you did!
hobi: whatever! how many can you do?
jungkook: seventy-eight as of last week.
she looks like she was expecting them to say twenty-five, would’ve been impressed had they said thirty-two.
hobi: seventy-eight? bro, you’re kidding.
jungkook: i’m gonna reach a hundred by the end of the year
cold air surrounds them when hobi turns off the water.
hobi: can you show me?
jungkook: what, like right now?
hobi: we’ll finish the shower when you’ve done as many as you can.
as in: you can have candy when you’ve cleaned your room.
in the middle of a shower?
but jungkook is nothing if not triggered by challenges. who is he to turn this down?
they go to put on a sports bra and a pair of shorts. their body is still wet and they struggle with the synthetic material getting stuck halfway to the right place. but as always, when they’ve had a binder on for too long, they are surprised by how soft the bra feels in comparison. how the garment is supposed to give support but rather feels like wrapping their tired ribs in a blanket, almost softer than not wearing anything at all. they return to the bathroom where hobi sits in a bathrobe on top of the toilet.
jungkook: i’ll probably not break my record now that you’re watching
hobi: you probably will.
okay.
jungkook plants his hands on the floor and steps his feet back into a plank.
muscles lock him in shape. he loves this.
this is Boy.
jungkook: this is ridiculous.
hobi: i know. let’s go.
from the sixty eighth push up, hobi starts counting down instead of up.
nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one
he does one more.
hobi cheers.
he keeps going.
he's fucking invincible.
eighty three, eighty four, eighty four and a half
after that, he doesn’t get up. he lays down on his stomach on the wet bathroom floor. but he smiles.
hobi: bro.
their spaghetti arm tries to smack hobi’s lifted palm, but it's too weak to make a sound.
how can it feel so good to have a body, and so terrible at the exact same time?
hobi: bro. your biceps are so hot. wanna keep showering now?
/
taehyung brings art and anarchy, refuses to define and be defined, refuses logic and ideals. he dances through the world and the corridors in their house, turns trash into interior design and gender into trash.
in a way, it feels like he was always there. they know he wasn't, but they can't remember how it was without him.
later, taehyung will say: i once read a poem that said something like:
some autistics feel like “autistic” is the only way to answer the question “what's your gender?”
and that's when i surrendered
and namjoon will say: when i first found the word nonbinary i thought it was this absolutely neutral middle ground, i believed everyone who didn’t really know what their gender was could be safe there. i am sorry that it’s not like that.
taehyung: don’t be sorry. i’m not.
namjoon: but when you say it like that poem did, to me, it sounds deficient. like you would wish for a better way to answer the question or more inclusive labels.
taehyung: oh. not at all. i don't want to be an absolute middle ground. i don't wanna be safe. i don't wanna be included in some universal thing.
namjoon: what would you want to be, then?
taehyung: that’s the thing, namjoon. i wouldn’t.
and jungkook will say: can you show me the poem? preferably asap?
(months later, when this is long forgotten, taehyung bursts into jungkook's room: i found the poem!!!
jungkook: that's great! but what makes you think i know which poem you're talking about?
taehyung starts reading: a growing appreciation for having a body that works, muscles and skin and nerves, one that serves me–
and there is jungkook, with all his sorrow for things that could have been but aren't, for bodies that torture their owners relentlessly but still do what they can, eighty four pushups and the poem is long but taehyung reads all of it and they cling to each other and it's beautiful to be alive but it hurts so much)
/
hobi: do you remember the story on my instagram where i was looking for housing? that i asked for me and a friend?
yoongi: of course. what about it?
hobi: what would you say if i told you she had changed her mind?
/
the night jimin arrives is a late summer one, dark but humid and warm. hobi picks her up. she is tired and angry and relieved and she wants to cry. the feelings don’t even have the courtesy to replace each other, they attack him all at once with a force that makes it impossible to sort between them.
the abstinence from nicotine doesn’t help either, but even the idea of starting to look through her bags for cigarettes is exhausting.
she puts her arms in front of her on the kitchen table, laying down her forehead on the back of her hands, hitting her fingers a little too hard.
jimin: ow.
jimin: does anyone here smoke?
hobi: the answer to that changes too often to keep track of. but taehyung is outside, so i would say there is hope.
jimin does not know what any of it means. but he lives here now. he has to be brave.
hobi gestures with her head toward the glass doors leading to the backyard. a big bug crashes repeatedly on one of the doors.
jimin stands up and the chair is close to falling behind him.
jimin: are you coming?
hobi: i don’t smoke.
jimin: yeah, but–
hobi: jimin. taehyung is an angel. just go outside and ask.
a little like the voice of a tired parent, urging their child to be brave and independent for the child’s sake as much as for their own peace and quiet.
the bug has given up. jimin takes off her socks. dew has settled in the grass, and her leg twitches when her foot touches the cold.
and taehyung turns around and taehyung must certainly be an angel. he smiles and he looks old and wise and young and carefree and jimin’s heart skips a beat.
jimin: can i steal a cigarette?
taehyung: sure.
in taehyung’s hands are a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. he fidgets with it, flicks the wheel lazily without producing a flame, hands long and lean and nails painted green. when jimin sits next to him, he gives her a cigarette and she puts it between her lips. the familiar feeling, the anticipation, his hands. he holds the lighter up to meet the tip of her cigarette with a flame. she inhales, holds the smoke in her lungs and it’s like one could hear her heart rate slowing down.
jimin: thank you.
taehyung: you’re jimin, right? how old are you?
jimin: twenty-eight.
taehyung: hell yeah. me too.
jimin: how long have you lived here?
taehyung: only two months, i think. i was the last to move in. the room next to mine is the available one, so unless you want to start by fighting someone for a better room, we’re neighbors– wow, taehyung, could you shut up for three seconds? give people space for three seconds?
jimin: i don’t think fighting is for me, actually. what’s wrong with my room?
taehyung: nah, me neither. it’s mostly jin and jungkook who fight each other. but you shouldn't worry too much, it’s mostly on the weekends.
because she never knew how to laugh if not with her entire body,
jimin’s back is now wet with dew.
(and taehyung falls in love too easily.)
jimin: you’re so full of shit.
taehyung: i know. it’s true though. i heard they found each other as soon as they got here.
jimin: found, as in, they’re together?
taehyung: honestly, no idea. it’s not unlikely. but i also think everyone here is kind of in love with each other. jin and hobi aren't exactly discreet. namjoon and yoongi have to be in love, it’s obvious to everyone except those two. but really, i think it has to do with what we’ve all been through, being trans and queer and all. we have some weird relationships with our bodies and we try to make this space one where we can just be in our bodies and help each other be comfortable. so sometimes it’s romantic or sex, but mostly it’s really just care and comfort. anyways! hi. you’re really pretty.
jimin: you’re really pretty too, taehyung.
jimin: mind if i take another cigarette?
taehyung: please do. i was planning on finishing them all tonight. i’m gonna stop after this.
jimin: that’s not very convincing. why this determination?
taehyung: how will i ever stop if no one believes in me?
jimin: well, do you believe in yourself?
taehyung: i don’t have to – i don’t even smoke! but there are always packs of cigarettes in all of my pockets! i don’t know who buys them! it’s too bad you just got here, so i can’t blame you.
/
for every person that moves in, the house looks more like a home. namjoon hangs posters on the walls and jin cooks for everyone and makes new nails for hobi every day and yoongi plays on the piano in the living room and jungkook leaves little doodles on yoongi’s sheet music and in namjoon's books and on receipts and his own hands and everywhere he goes. taehyung hosts spontaneous poetry readings that mostly namjoon shows up to and tries his best to stop smoking and hobi is hilarious and everywhere with her hugs and contagious laughter. with jimin’s arrival, the bedrooms on the second floor are filled, like it was meant to be or some corny bullshit.