Chapter Text
Jimin
Park Jimin is not proud of his desperation.
He likes to think that despite everything he doesn’t have, money, purpose, a muse, he has his pride. He likes to think that his dignity and moral compass are what keep him afloat, always searching for that light at the end of the tunnel, even while he drowns.
But he found that pride is easily traded when homelessness is on the cards.
“Listen, kid, you sound sweet, but the place is fully occupied now. I stopped advertising a good five months ago. I don’t know how you kept hold of it for that long.”
Jimin had held the crumpled listing in his hand tighter. “Please, sir. I need this. I can feel it. It’s perfect.”
“There are already six tenants living there. Do you really want to live with six other people? There are only three rooms.”
He looked around at his loft, the tall walls and laminated floors, all that space just for him. Jimin was foolish to have aimed so high so quickly, too naive in thinking his dream would be enough to keep him going. Jimin’s savings had been bled dry and so had his energy. Everything in the city is too expensive.
“Yes, I do. I’ll even sleep on the sofa if I need to, all while paying rent.”
There was a moment of silence. “...You really want to live there?”
“I need to. It's the only thing I can afford.” He unravelled the cut-out listing once more, reading the same line over and over again. Three-bedroom apartment located in central Seoul
One kitchen, one bathroom, looking for a sixth tenant if you don’t mind sharing rooms.
No pets, no smokers.
Great for those needing to find a little piece of home.
“...What do you do?”
“I’m an artist.”
“Kid. How do you make money?”
“Oh, I work in a convenience store.”
“Full time? You get monthly wages? No casual work?”
“Yes. It’s a full-time, contracted job.” He doesn’t tell that it pays poorly, because it pays just enough. He can afford the new rent and have a little leftover for food and supplies.
“...alright. Fine. Give me your email, I’ll send over a contract.”
Jimin now stands outside the apartment he had begged for, a few boxes to his name, and a set of rusting keys dangling from his finger.
The complex itself is rundown. It makes sense, considering the price, and he tries not to think about the smell of damp in the stairwells and the peeling paint on the doors. He merely stands there, at the entrance, heart beating out of his chest. He can still feel the hope of the morning air on his cheeks, the blessing of dawn seeping into his bones. It’s early enough that the birds still sing.
The landlord had met him outside, and Jimin was surprised to see a rather young man with a smile bigger than most, and a light in his eye that was usually drained by the city's polluted skyline.
“Sorry about the keyring, my mate would kill me if I ever got rid of it.”
A little plastic turtle clinked against the keys. Jimin stroked it, endeared by the heirloom. “Why not just add it to your own?”
“Nah, he belongs there. Just don’t lose him, alright?”
With shaking hands, he unlocks the door with the turtle keys and steps into his new home.
The first thing that hits him is the smell. It isn’t a bad smell as such, but it’s still wafting through the air, lingering, the smell of cooked food. It’s open plan, everything exposed, like a festering wound. The kitchen is overflowing, mugs left on counters, food unable to fit the cupboard space and abandoned, protein shakes half drunk, toast missing a bite, plates with crumbs. There is a mountain of dishes in the sink, cups balancing off one another, bowls wedged into the tower. He dreads to think how long some of them have been there.
Jimin peers at the fridge door. Empty. Not even a magnet.
He places a box down. It feels like he is disrupting the ecosystem, the clear peace that’s been established in those early waning hours. Carefully, he drags the rest of his boxes inside, wary of snagging the carpet on the floor. When he finally clicks the door shut, the apartment starts to come alive, churning slowly. That click echoes.
“Um, hello?”
Jimin jumps, looking to the hallway where a boy stands. Young, too young, bleary-eyed and rubbing at his face. He can see acne hidden under his chin, and Jimin stops himself from rubbing at his own faded scars.
“Hi?”
“Give me a sec,” the boy says, leaving Jimin standing there rather hopelessly.
He can hear some muttering from the hall.
“What do you mean we’re being robbed?”
“There’s some random guy standing in our living room.”
Jimin cringes at the knowledge that he is the random guy.
“Fantastic. Stay here then.”
Jimin waits for the next person to come out, this time a man, not a boy, and he looks a little irritated. He seems annoyed, probably assuming this is some kind of joke at such an hour. He does a double-take at the sight of him. There’s a twitch in his hands.
“I’m not robbing you! Just to clarify!” Jimin interrupts before anyone throws punches.
The man squints his eyes at him. “Then what are you doing?”
“Did the landlord not...never mind. I’m Park Jimin, your new roommate.” He bows, hoping at least his good manners will get him some much-needed redemption.
At this, the boy from before comes back, rolling his eyes. "A new roommate? That’s worse than being robbed.”
“Shut up Jungkook,” the man hisses, pushing said Jungkook back to hide Jimin from his scathing glare.
“Are you sure this is the right place? We’re full, there isn’t any room here.”
“Yes, this is number 56, right? The landlord met me outside this building. He knows it’s a little busy in here, but well-,”
“He’s let you rent it anyway? Even though there are already six of us here? Is he insane?”
“I’ve signed a contract,” he all but whispers, unsure what else he can say. Maybe this was a mistake.
The man seems to take somewhat pity on him. He unfurls his hand, “Do you have any proof?”
Jimin perks up. “Ah yes, let me just-,” he rummages in his bag for the contract he got a copy of, fingers shaking a little.
“What if he faked the contract,” Jungkook says.
“Don’t you have school to be getting ready for?”
Jimin brandishes the contract like it’s made of gold, beaming at the stranger with as much friendliness he has left in him, before Seoul ripped it away and left him bare. He has his old Busan charm in him, buried deep under all the survival instincts he’s had to acquire to get by.
The man takes the contract, reading it silently. Morning light is seeping through the closed curtains now, setting him aglow, the edges of his skin painted golden. The man is a burst of colour against the mundane greys, a beating heart in the silence.
“He really did rent it out,” he says under his breath, “right, well, welcome, I guess. I’m Kim Seokjin.”
Jimin feels tension slowly bleed out of his shoulders, “Nice to meet you. I’m sorry about the confusion.”
“It's fine. The boy you met with the moody attitude is Jungkook. I’d love to stay and chat, but I have work to get ready for, and intercepting a potential robbery was not on my agenda for this morning.”
Then, Seokjin disappears down the elusive hallway.
Jimin doesn’t know how to start unpacking, if he really will be sleeping on the sofa, or if he’ll end up with a bed at some point. He doesn’t have much, not anything important, but he has things he would like to look at. A picture of his family, a ceramic paint pot made by his brother when childhood still clung to the fat in their cheeks and hope in their eyes. He has clothes he would like not to get too wrinkled, if he can help it. But he can’t very well go and wake anyone up to ask.
So he moves around the living room. It seems oddly unused. The kitchen is a mess, life spilt on every surface, but the living room is cold. The TV in the corner is surrounded by tangled wires, and it doesn’t look like it’s been turned on for a while. The sofa is worn, a dark red colour that went out of style in the 70s, but still persists even now. Despite this, it doesn’t seem very well loved. There is dust on the coffee table. No one uses the communal area. No one uses the fridge door to hold mementoes, and no one gathers around the living room to talk.
Jimin pulls open the curtains.
Seoul is laid bare before him, waking up with the morning sun. This is why he’s here. He needs to stay.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
New voice, new face.
He’s dressed in work clothes, an ironed shirt and a navy tie. Chains of a corporate life. Jimin doesn’t envy him.
“Yeah. It is.”
“Kim Namjoon.” He says, no frills, just facts. Namjoon is tall, like Seokjin, but his face is dull and sunken, tired and lifeless. There is a mechanical nature to the way he speaks, like he’s bored with the words before they have even left his mouth, a routine that traps him in a cage. He looks far too tall for the small apartment, far too mature to be renting with six other men.
“Park Jimin.”
“Yeah, Jungkook just told me.”
“Right.” It's awkward, and Jimin starts pulling the tape off his back for lack of anything else to say.
Namjoon still stands there. “Where are you planning to sleep?”
“Uh, the sofa? For now? I’m not sure there is much room anywhere else.”
“That would be bad for your back.”
“Not sure I have any other option?”
“Guess not. Do you work?”
Jimin feels like he’s under an interrogation light. “I work at a convenience store.”
“Daytime? Nights? Weekends? What is your rota?”
“It depends on the week. Is this important?”
“Me, Seokjin, and Jungkook tend to be the ones up early mornings, meaning we’re all quite used to a schedule of who is using the bathroom at what times, and how long. I wanted to be prepared if that was changing.”
“Oh right, uh, I see, efficient. I’ll look at my upcoming shifts and let you know?” Jimin tries, not quite sure what the right answer is.
Namjoon nods stiffly. “Alright.”
They stare at each other for another moment, Jimin in his bright jumper and paint-stained jeans, Namjoon in his suit and lanyard. Seoul wakes up around them, and he wonders how many other people are unlocking doors into unknown territory. Jimin knows what he must look like, frayed, unsure, a little scared, his entire life’s value weighed up in a few boxes.
Their silence is thankfully brought to an end by Jungkook coming back into the room, his school tie too loose and his hair not brushed. He’s rustling through the cupboards, taking out random packets of food that look somewhat edible and stuffing them into his pockets. Jimin is the most unnerved by him. Men like Namjoon he expected, but a school kid? It feels wrong that he’s holed up here, in the underbelly of Seoul, where light seems to reach less, instead of at home.
But then, home may not be anywhere at all.
“Don’t take my granola bars.” Namjoon snaps without looking at the boy.
“Like I would touch your cardboard shit.” Jungkook mumbles.
Namjoon’s attention is finally dragged from him and to the snappy teenager in the kitchen, and Jimin lets out a little sigh and slumps back into the shadows.
“Someone’s been taking them.”
“Ain’t me, I hate that stuff. Why do you always assume it’s me?”
“Maybe it’s that track record of shoplifting you have.”
“Prick,” Jungkook says before slamming the cupboards shut and grabbing his bag, swinging it over his shoulder and leaving the apartment. Namjoon shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about teenagers before picking up his own things and following after him.
Jimin wonders if there will be a point where he can explore deeper into the apartment, if he could see the elusive rooms, have a snoop around the bathroom and find a place to keep his toothbrush. Even though he now has equal rights to the apartment as the others, he feels like an intruder, barging in and disrupting their peace.
Jimin sits on the sofa and tries to relax a little. If this were to be where he sleeps, he can make do, right? Maybe he can get the TV set up and put up some of his thrifted posters and watercolour pieces, if the others don’t mind. He can buy some pillows at a charity shop, get a new blanket.
“Listen, we’ll need to talk properly later on, will you be here?” Seokjin comes rushing back in, picking up his keys as he rushes towards the front door. Jimin immediately stands back up.
“I have a shift at midday, but I’ll be back at eight.”
“Okay, that works, we’ll talk then. You probably haven’t bought any food yet, right? I think I have some milk left and a bit of cereal, it’s the box with my name on it, help yourself for now, okay?”
Jimin stares at the empty space where Seokjin was, feeling pathetic for the way tears spring to his eyes at the words that wriggle their way under his skin. It's the first glimpse of kindness he’s experienced in the city, a moment of care, of thought, of selflessness. His stomach rumbles uselessly, and he lets the first few tears fall.
Jimin cherishes that good deed, because he isn’t sure if there will be many others, and he’s been starved.
-----------
His shift at the convenience store goes too quickly.
He’s usually desperate for it to end, bored and restless, the fluorescent lights hurting his eyes and the humming of the freezer giving him a headache. But today is one of the rare occasions when Jimin doesn’t want to leave, because leaving is going back to uncharted waters. At least here, he understands his role, limited and lifeless as it is. Here, he knows how to work the cashier, he knows when someone is shoplifting and where he can pretend to look so it’s plausible he didn’t notice when his manager inevitably looks back through the cameras.
But back at the apartment, he’s shiny and new.
All day he’s been thinking about his first impression, how he wished he could have been stronger, not come across as a deer caught in headlights. Seokjin and Namjoon were clearly professional businessmen, and he didn’t want them to think he was going to be trouble.
He walks home slowly, the plastic bag dangling from his fingers, leaving red marks from its weight. Jimin watches his shadow under the streetlights, hollow and void like him, with just as much meaning as him. Sometimes Jimin feels more like his shadow than he does a human, invisible and quick to disappear, impossible to catch, impossible to feel light, destined for darkness. At least as a shadow, he wouldn’t be haunted by the emptiness he feels. He would just be.
The turtle on the keychain is smooth in his hand. Jimin has a sudden urge to throw it away, overcome by the sight of it, but he forces the urge down like swallowing the lump in his throat. With every step he takes, the more he feels like this was a mistake. The building looms before him, all its creaking stairs and damp halls. Jimin looks at all the faint lights glowing behind certain windows, warm yellow, hospital white, a soft red up high, an ocean blue on the bottom floor. Curtains drawn, curtains half open, no curtains at all. Jimin thinks he can spot his window, the light just peeking through.
When he enters the apartment, he’s surprised to see people waiting.
There’s no Jungkook or Namjoon this time, but there is Seokjin. He’s not in work clothes, instead a worn-out hoodie and sweats, instantly more human than he was this morning. He’s got a calculator out, face concentrated.
The new man, someone he must now live with, looks up. He’s holding a bowl of steaming noodles, which he’s slurping in a rather undignified manner. “Oh, you really weren’t joking, were you?”
Seokjin scoffs but also looks to Jimin. He offers a small smile. “No. Do you think I’m sitting here sorting out the bills and talking to the landlord for fun?” Seokjin looks to him now. “Hi Jimin.”
“Hi,” he whispers back, tentative as he slips his shoes off by the rest.
Noodles Man pulls out a seat for him at the kitchen counter. Jimin sits and can feel his stare.
Seokjin finally puts his pen down, and Jimin gets a brief glance at all the calculations on his page in messy ink. There is a bit more of a comfortable quietness in the evening, everything feels softer compared to the sharpness of this morning. The harsh sunlight is gone, replaced with the twinkling night, and only dim lamps cast light. Seokjin is friendly enough, and this new man is much less intimidating than Namjoon and Jungkook.
“Alright, Jimin, I’m just going to get straight to it. I spoke to the landlord, and he said you were pretty desperate to stay here, and ultimately, it’s his decision who he rents out the place to. So, welcome. I’m going to go over a few things with you, because I know Namjoon wouldn’t have.”
Jimin nods, and it feels like he’s in school all over again, about to be berated by his teacher, or his parents are about to give him a lecture.
The man, who has migrated behind Seokjin to continue eating, clears his throat loudly. Seokjin rolls his eyes. “Oh, and this is Taehyung.”
Taehyung salutes him. Jimin offers a nervous smile back.
“Right, first up,” he pushes the paper towards him, “bills. I’ve calculated what you will need to pay each month, and with seven of us living here, it’s actually pretty cheap.”
Jimin leans forward, studying the page. It’s a mess of quick maths, numbers that have been scribbled out and rewritten. But what catches him is not the totals. It’s the fact that the cost has only been split between six.
His finger hovers above the page. “You’ve only divided this by six…”
Before Seokjin can respond, Taehyung lets out a little huff from behind his bowl. “Yeah. Jungkook doesn’t pay rent.”
Jimin blinks. “Oh. Right.”
It did make sense, considering Jungkook is in school. But why is he here?.
“He’s a named tenant,” Seokjin clarifies. “The landlord knows he’s here. But yeah. He doesn’t pay. The rest of us do. I handle all the bills and send the landlord the money at the end of the month. You’ll transfer your part to me.”
Taehyung slurps the last of his noodles obnoxiously loudly.
Seokjin glares at him but focuses back on Jimin. “Electric, water, gas, internet. It doesn’t usually fluctuate too much, but winter’s a bitch, so expect that spike. Keep showers short, five minutes a day. Don’t leave things plugged in. We don’t use the heating unless someone’s dying. And if something breaks, you tell me first. Not the landlord. He’s cheap, and he’ll ignore it unless I hassle him.”
“Got it,” Jimin says softly, nodding. He’s acutely aware of the sound his own breath makes in the stillness. “Do we- do you all eat together? Should I buy groceries for the flat, or-?”
A laugh, short, surprised, barks from Taehyung’s throat.
“Eat together?” he echoes, setting his empty bowl in the sink with a clatter. Someone has cleaned it up from this morning, and Jimin wonders if that was for his benefit or if it just became unbearable. “Mate, we barely speak to each other. Food is separate. That cupboard there’s mine. Don’t touch the tofu, I write my name on it for a reason.”
Jimin glances at the cupboard in question. It's already overflowing. Every cupboard is, and he can see some of it is filled with the same stuff, things that could be shared, things that can save space. But Jimin isn’t here to change things.
“Everyone’s got their own cupboard,” Seokjin adds, voice a little gentler now. “Kitchen’s shared, but not… communal, if that makes sense. Most of us are just doing our own thing.”
There’s a pause. Jimin isn’t sure what expression is on his face, but Seokjin gives him a look that might be mistaken for sympathy if it weren’t so exhausted.
“We’re not a family. Just tenants,” he says. “Don’t take it personally.”
The flat creaks above them. Pipes shifting, someone moving behind one of the closed doors. The walls are thin here.
“Anyway,” Seokjin stands, stretching slightly, “I’ll text you the total and my account number. You’ve got your spot on the sofa for now. We’ll see about something better later, because I don’t think it’s fair.”
“Thanks,” Jimin murmurs anyway.
“And Jimin,” Seokjin adds, pausing by the door. “You’ll survive here. It’s a good place to do that. Just don’t expect too much from anyone.”
Jimin doesn’t know what to say to that. He nods, and Seokjin leaves without waiting for anything more.
Taehyung stays behind, standing at the sink and rinsing out his bowl with one hand, the other texting on his phone. The water is too loud, running too long for just a single dish, but Jimin doesn’t mention it.
“Don’t worry,” Taehyung says suddenly, not looking up. “We were all like you once. New and soft. I think we all come here expecting some sort of miracle, but it’s all the same. Surviving is surviving, no matter where you are.”
Jimin wraps his arms around himself, suddenly cold.
“What happened to everyone?”
Taehyung shuts off the tap. Drip. Drip. Drip. Jimin winces at the sound.
“They got tired. The city it’s faster than any of us can keep up with.”
And with that, he disappears too, bowl still damp and left to dry.
Jimin is alone again. Just him and the fridge hum, and the muffled traffic outside. He thinks about sleeping. He thinks about staying up all night. He thinks about that plastic turtle, and whether he has the right to hold onto something that once belonged to someone else.
He wipes his face with the sleeve of his jumper. He doesn’t cry this time.
Instead, he puts his milk back in the fridge, writes ‘Jimin’ on a scrap of paper, and sticks it to his own cereal box.
Namjoon
Namjoon’s favourite time of day is his commute home.
It’s long-winded and sweaty, but he enjoys the moment in between. His life has come to feel like a video game, a dull one at that, where his only goal is to get from A to B, rinsing and repeating, a landscape he knows all too well with no secrets left to find. He has exhausted the map, the novelty wearing off and leaving him to wander mindlessly and mechanically.
Once, the map of Seoul was unknown and exciting to him. A paradise of skyscrapers and cramped streets. Now, he wonders if he will ever break out of his cycle. Wake up, shower, brush teeth, get dressed, pick a tie, pack lunch, walk to subway, listen to the same songs, get to work, work, work, work, work, come home, eat dinner, sleep, wake up, shower, brush teeth...
But the commute home it’s his one moment of true peace. Of there being no rush to get anywhere on time. He melts into the seats, the subway always less busy on his way back, watching the city blur by into nothing but muted shapes. He likes watching the streetlamps slowly flicker on in winter. He likes being on his own.
Sometimes he sees Seokjin walking back from work too, but he never runs to catch up with him. They’re not friends, just people who share the same walls and misfortune. Namjoon doesn't need any more friends in his life; he doesn’t need to think about more people. He needs to keep going, to not trip and fall, to walk his path until he’s running without looking back.
If Seokjin sees him, he doesn’t stop either. Seokjin, in that regard, is good. He’s easy to live with, never too in his business, always civil, and the first to deal with any potential discussions that need to be had to save them all the hassle of convening. If something breaks, he handles it. Namjoon doesn’t remember the last time he saw all his roommates together in one space. Maybe when Taehyung moved.
His routine has been severely fractured in recent days, and all because Jimin, the new tenant, is sleeping on the sofa.
Originally, Namjoon had no qualms with the idea. Where Jimin sleeps or doesn’t sleep is none of his concern, and the living room is never used for him to be a nuisance. However, he doesn’t enjoy feeling like an intruder in his own home. Walking in to see him napping there, a room without a door, where everyone can see him. Jimin hasn’t said anything, and Namjoon knows Seokjin has given him the rundown, but the situation can’t be comfortable.
For anyone.
No one wanted another roommate. Namjoon didn’t want the extra three he ended up with, but they really didn’t need one more body in their sardine can.
“So, he’s just been sleeping there?” Hoseok asked him yesterday, when they passed one another in the hallway. Namjoon was ready for bed, and not quite wanting to go over this again. But Hoseok hadn’t bumped into Jimin yet, and his curiosity was palpable.
He shrugged. “Yeah.”
“No one has offered him a bed?”
“What bed is there to offer?”
“Well, we can find one, can’t we?”
“And put it in the living room?”
Hoseok huffed. “I was thinking one of our rooms.”
Namjoon rolled his eyes. “Good luck finding space.”
On day three, Namjoon starts to consider Hoseok's idea. Coming home to Jimin asleep on the sofa, curled in a ball, can make even the coldest of men break a little. Namjoon doesn’t care about him, doesn’t want to know him, but he also wants him to sleep in a bed. Plus, if he had a bed in a room, Namjoon wouldn’t have to fear interaction, and he would blend into the background like the others.
He finds Hoseok that evening in the kitchen. “We need to get Jimin a bed.”
The man hums, scribbling in that notebook of his while the noodles boil. “Finally gained a conscience, huh?”
“He’s getting on my nerves sleeping on the sofa.”
“Imagine how he feels, sleeping on that old thing,” Hoseok finally looks at him. “Where is he going to go? With you and Taehyung?”
Namjoon shakes his head, thinking of how horrific it would be to squeeze anything else into that room. Taehyung is a bit of a hoarder, a stark difference from how Namjoon lives. Namjoon collects nothing; he throws away clutter and doesn’t understand the sentimentality Taehyung has to the oddest of things. The man has a box under his bed full of oddities, paper cranes yellowing at the edges, small plastic figurines, random shells, broken necklaces.
There’s simply no room for anyone else's memories.
“Seokjin and Yoongi?”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure Yoongi will be thrilled with that idea. Does he even know about Jimin yet?”
“I left him a message, but there was no response. Seokjin hasn’t seen him since.”
“What about you and Jungkook?” He tries.
Hoseok frowns. “Our room isn’t that big.”
“It feels like our only option.”
The man bites his lip and runs a hand over his face. “Fine, I’ll speak to Jungkook if I can. Are you free to go looking for this bed tomorrow, then?”
Namjoon doesn’t want to, would rather spend his Saturday on his own, enjoying peace and quiet, but sometimes routines have to be broken to be gained again. And he would rather do this with Hoseok than anyone else. Taehyung would chat too much, Seokjin would take control, Jungkook would cause trouble, and Yoongi would rather be caught dead.
Hoseok is the best option by process of elimination.
“Yeah, sure.”
They leave together the next day, slipping out without so much as a sound, and Namjoon already dreams of his bed to return to. Hoseok sips a canned coffee, and Namjoon chews on gum that should have been binned a good twenty minutes ago.
“Usual spots?” Hoseok asks as they get off the bus.
The first shop they enter smells of mildew and despair, and Namjoon is almost warmed to think this hasn’t changed. He remembers when he had to haul his current chest of drawers out from the pile like Jenga. It’s a place where most things come to die.
Namjoon stands still while Hoseok weaves between dressers and chairs. He taps a mattress, and it makes a crunching sound. They both blink at it.
“This one might have a body in it,” he muses, reeling back.
The second shop is marginally better. The furniture is less haunted, more just tragic. One bed frame is rusted and missing a leg, and he really wonders why the person who donated didn’t just do the world a favour and burn it. Another has a headboard with obnoxiously carved cherubs, and it’s so absurd that Hoseok takes a photo.
They try lying on one with a suspiciously floral mattress. Hoseok flops down, legs splayed.
“Verdict?”
“Smells like cat piss.”
They do this three more times. One shop remembers Hoseok and then tries to sell them a princess canopy bed covered in glitter and old fairy stickers peeling at the edges. Hoseok pretends to be tempted for longer than necessary, either out of politeness or for the entertainment, Namjoon can’t tell. He leaves halfway through the conversation.
By late afternoon, they’re both running low on patience. Namjoon’s feet ache, and he’s starting to fantasise about his spot on the subway.
Then they stumble across it. A bed in the back of a charity shop, nothing grand, but decent. Wooden frame, slatted, no mystery stains. A mattress is still in plastic. It’s a twin bed, which works considering the lack of room.
Namjoon runs a hand along the frame. “This one doesn’t look like it’ll give you a disease.”
When they enquire, the bed and mattress are still available, and at a decent price. It’s when the payment is done and he, Hoseok, and the cashier are all standing looking at the bed. No one has moved, and he wonders what everyone is waiting for.
Finally, the cashier breaks. “So, uh, are you going to take it or what?”
Shit . “Do you not do delivery?”
“Delivery? We’re a charity shop, not a chain. You've got to get it back yourself.” Then, she walks off, leaving them with the bed, which might now kill Namjoon.
Namjoon and Hoseok keep looking at this bed. “There’s no way we can get this back.”
“Not on our own.”
He groans. “I really don’t want to call anyone else.”
“What are our other options, genius? It’s fine, I’ll just call Seokjin.”
Hoseok’s already scrolling through his contacts, and Namjoon doesn’t stop him.
The phone rings once, twice, and then connects. Hoseok puts it on speaker.
“Hello?” Seokjin sounds confused. He probably doesn’t get many calls from Hoseok.
“It’s Hoseok,” he says.
A pause. “...Right.”
“We need help.”
“Right.”
“With a bed.”
Another pause. Seokjin sighs. “...A bed?”
Namjoon leans against the wall of the shop, the gum in his mouth long since turned to tasteless rubber.
“We’re at that shop near the dry cleaner’s.”
“Do you have any idea how vague that is?”
“You’ll find us,” Hoseok says, unbothered.
Seokjin groans, then hangs up.
He arrives twenty minutes later with the face of someone who regrets every life choice that led to this point.
“What is this?” he asks, gesturing to the bed. “You want me to carry this? In public?”
“Yes,” Hoseok says. “It’s for Jimin. He can’t keep sleeping on the sofa.”
Seokjin turns to Namjoon, looking disbelieving. “I’m surprised you’re even here.”
“He’s disturbing my routine.”
They don’t speak much after that.
They dismantle the bed as much as they can. The slats come away easily, and the legs don’t take much effort, but the cashier advises them very cautiously not to take apart any more of it. Namjoon ties the slats together with some spare rope the store had, while Hoseok and Seokjin shuffle out the door.
They look ridiculous. Three grown men are dragging a single bed frame and mattress down the pavement. Hoseok keeps whistling, which results in Seokjin glaring, yelling in frustration when Hoseok trips and they almost drop the bed. (“ You try walking backwards!”) Namjoon has resigned himself to carrying the slats and legs, which keep jabbing him in the ribs.
No one talks, because there’s nothing to say. They’re all here now, and that’s punishment enough.
A child on a scooter overtakes them and turns to stare. Seokjin flips him off.
They reach the building just as the streetlights buzz to life, a flickering chorus of yellow above their heads. The mattress scrapes against every available surface on the stairwell up.
“What on earth are you boys doing?” Their nosy neighbour, Miss Lee, asks, head poking out her door.
“I feel like it’s really obvious what we’re doing, Miss Lee.”
“Well, you’re making an awful racket.”
Seokjin loses his patience. “Oh, well, you’re welcome to help us if you’d like, think you can get it up another flight of stairs in silence? Show us how it's done?"
Miss Lee huffs and slams her door shut.
Their arms are raw and aching by the time they reach the landing, the bed wedged awkwardly between them, and Hoseok kicks the door open with a dramatic grunt, probably expecting a straight path through to the living room.
He gets Yoongi instead.
It's such a rare sight to see Yoongi, a nocturnal being who tends to live in the shadows, surviving off energy drinks and spite. Namjoon liked Yoongi enough when they first moved in together, he stayed out of his way and didn’t do anything too offensive. But the man can be hot-headed and tunnel-visioned. He’s blunt in a way that’s different from Namjoon.
Yoongi is standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, hair askew like he’s just woken up, which he probably has. His face is pinched, eyebrows furrowed, as he stares at the sofa. Or more specifically, Jimin sat on it. It looks like they’ve been introduced then.
“Who the fuck is this?” Yoongi says, nodding toward Jimin.
Jimin looks a little peeved, and it’s the first time since he moved in that Namjoon has seen anything other than sheepishness on him. “I’ve told you my name.”
Yoongi ignores that. Seokjin, already behind the mattress, tries to vault over it. “Wait, wait, wait, don't-”
“Seriously,” Yoongi continues, not looking away, “someone explain why there’s a stranger on our sofa. Is he robbing us? Because I’ve got nothing worth stealing.”
“Yeah, and I took a nap mid-burgle,” Jimin bites, clearly quite fed up with the robber accusations.
“He’s not a stranger,” Hoseok starts, shoving the bed forward, trying to get it through the frame. “He’s the new tenant. Hi, I’m Hoseok, by the way.”
Yoongi turns to them, incredulous. “The what ?”
Namjoon lets the slats drop to the floor with a wooden thunk. “New tenant. Moved in a few days ago.”
“Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me?”
“I did tell you,” Seokjin huffs, clambering awkwardly over the bed to get to him, as if Yoongi is a feral animal that might rip Jimin to shreds any second. “I left you a voicemail. And a note on your dresser.”
“I don’t listen to voicemails. I didn’t see the note.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
Hoseok also interjects, “I also left you a message.”
Yoongi scowls and points at Jimin again. “So, this guy, he lives here now?”
Jimin’s still on the sofa and stands up so he’s eye level with Yoongi. “I’m literally right here.”
“Don’t worry,” Hoseok adds, still dragging the bed in, “we got him a bed. He won’t be on the sofa any longer.”
“You got me a bed?” Jimin echoes, looking less angry and more confused.
“Yeah,” Seokjin breathes. “So, you don’t have to keep sleeping like a corpse in an open casket.”
“We carried it,” Namjoon says flatly, “up five flights.”
Yoongi looks between all of them like they’ve gone collectively insane. “So we have an unwanted new roommate and a bed blocking the kitchen? Fab.”
The word unwanted echoes off the walls, and Namjoon feels it clatter around his chest. Jimin almost flinches at it, and Seokjin, always a bit softer, scolds. “Do you have to be so fucking rude all the time? That’s an inside thought.”
“So you’re thinking it too?”
“It’s not an ideal situation, but he’s here, and you can be a little nicer about it.”
“There’s no room!”
“There was no room about two roommates ago!”
Jimin’s eyes flick up to meet Yoongi’s properly. “I get that you don’t want me here, but there’s no need to talk about me like I’m not here. If you have something to say, just say it to my face.”
Yoongi doesn’t hesitate to round on Jimin, his eyes sharp enough to cut, his fury hot enough to burn. Namjoon notes that they’re the same height, but Jimin feels smaller, in the way his confidence sparks out when faced with Yoongi’s, the way he hunches and tries to disappear. Yoongi isn’t an intimidating figure, but his aura is suffocating. Namjoon thinks even he would be scared of rowing with him.
“I don’t want you here.”
Jimin stands his ground. “Take it up with the landlord.”
“Maybe I will.”
Everyone knows he won’t. That requires an energy Yoongi doesn’t have, time he doesn’t want to waste. That would require Yoongi being up at a reasonable hour, it would require him putting in effort, and it would be a sign that he cares about something other than sleep and music.
They stare at one another, something bristling in the air between them. Namjoon doesn’t care to mediate. He just steps over the mattress, feet dragging, and heads straight for his room.
Let them sort it out. He’s done enough today.
Hoseok
He leads Jimin to his room because Hoseok knows that he’s the only one weak enough to allow it.
Hoseok curses inwardly at his easy nature, at how quick he is to succumb to selflessness when someone so much as sheds a tear. He doesn’t want another person in his room; he can barely tolerate sharing with Jungkook and his smelly socks and food wrappers. But Namjoon isn’t one to often show acts of kindness, and the whole bed fiasco was just a way for him to get his routine back.
Seokjin might have considered if it wasn't for the clear distaste Jimin and Yoongi now have for one another, and Taehyung would probably enjoy it if it wasn’t for Namjoon. So, by process of elimination, Hoseok has to do it. He has to step up and silently take the burden and pretend it’s nothing. Jimin helps with getting the bed into the room, looking guilty and ashamed.
They manage to wedge it in, pushing up against the farthest wall. It looks absurd, three beds forced into such a small space, a game of Tetris, but it’s the best they can do. Jimin may even be able to get a small bedside table if he’s so inclined, and Hoseok counts that as a win. He pats the bed frame, which creaks just a little, and finally sits down on his bed after a long day.
Jungkook’s bed remains empty.
“Is he going to be okay with this?” Jimin asks, pointing to his unmade duvet.
Hoseok shrugs. “I never know with that kid. Probably won’t care, he’s rarely here anyway.”
“Where does he go?”
Guiltily, he shrugs again. Jungkook’s promise to them was to stay in school, but they never had any discussions about what he did with his free time. Namjoon once mentioned that he’s a bit of a pickpocket, thieving about in the streets out of habit, but there is no evidence to back this. Seokjin swore he saw him at a local library once, but that seemed so out of character for Jungkook that they all dismissed it.
Jimin doesn’t ask any more questions after that, and so Hoseok relaxes onto his bed, watching.
He doesn’t seem to have many things, unpacking a few items like a blanket, his pillows. Eventually, he pulls out a photo, faded at the edges. “Do you have any tape?”
“Yeah,” Hoseok tosses it over.
Jimin tapes up the photo, a lone object marking his corner, and the sight of it calms him down, the earlier tension seeping out of his shoulders the longer he looks. Hoseok doesn’t bother to ask who it is, because there isn’t any point. Jimin must already know the dynamic that has settled upon them like dust, the apathy, the indifference. Hoseok used to hate it, the way they existed around each other like ghosts, but after years of dripping sinks and sharing hot water, the idea of connection loses its appeal.
If Jimin was hoping for it, he’ll lose that hope soon enough.
They all did.
He’s sure Jimin is nice. He’s sure he has some tragic backstory, or maybe none at all, he’s sure he has dreams, ambitions, fears and woes. He’s sure they would have things in common if they tried; he’s sure that they could have a laugh, have a drink, and bond over something trivial. He’s sure Jimin is interesting. But he’s also sure that none of it will matter.
Hoseok gets ready for bed without another word, doesn’t wait up for Jungkook, and simply turns off his lamp without so much as a goodnight. The exhaustion of carrying the bed starts to weigh down on him, and he falls asleep without tossing and turning, simply falling into the darkness. At some point, he registers Jungkook coming back, slipping into the room and not so much as looking over at Jimin.
Hoseok wakes up to the morning traffic and sunlight peeking through the blinds.
His ankle hurts, just a little, and he heads to the shower to burn the pain away. Hoseok likes being a weekend worker because his morning isn’t disturbed by Jungkook searching for his school uniform, or Namjoon sticking strictly to the shower schedule, or Seokjin humming while he brushes his teeth. They all have an allocated five minutes a day for showering, calculated by Namjoon himself when they were using too much hot water.
On Sundays, Hoseok has an extra minute, because no one knows otherwise.
He lets the water run the hottest it can, watching the way his skin will glow bright red and feeling the way the pain ebbs out of his ankle. He dresses quickly, looking over and seeing Jungkook snoring in his bed. Jimin is a quiet sleeper, which is good.
Grabbing a banana and his protein shake, he leaves as quickly as he can.
It’s bright and early, and he is always two minutes early to the bus stop, giving him time to sort out his music and untangle his headphones. The same people are on his commute, always the same, and there is a weird, unspoken civility between them all, an acknowledgement. Hoseok sits in the same seat as always, no one ever takes it, and rests his head against the window, closing his eyes for eight stops.
The kids are energetic today, he notes when he walks into the studio. They all clamber to their feet when he enters, babbling about their week at school, about the amount of homework they have, about their annoying siblings, about the new move they can do. Hoseok listens aptly, trying to put his things away as they talk to him.
“Jesus, were you all fed sugar for breakfast?” He laughs.
Iseul, a seven-year-old with a knack for tripping over her own feet, smiles brightly. “My parents don’t give me sugar, Mr Jung!”
“I’m finding that hard to believe right now. Right, come on, you all know the drill, stretches first!”
Teaching children has come with a sense of euphoric bliss and crushing disappointment. Hoseok loves to see their smiles when they make improvements, when he praises them for the hard work, and sometimes he thinks that maybe his injury, that stupid injury, was a blessing in disguise. That maybe this is what he’s always meant to have done. But then Minjun would perform a routine, and Hoseok could see his future like a premonition. He could see the dance schools, the scholarships, the competitions, the starvation for more, the want to be something great. He feels that ache deep in his chest.
Their parents will all bow to him after, saying how lucky their kids are to have such a wonderful, talented teacher, and he takes it all in with a plastic smile. Wonderful, talented, limited, broken.
To them, this is just a Saturday morning, just a few hours of their lives. To him, it’s the only thing keeping him sane, the only thing keeping him from turning homeless. To them, he is a mentor who will fade into obscurity once they make it big.
Hoseok takes his time returning home, buying some cheap snacks from the local store, and catching the same bus. On the way back, he opens his notebook and takes note of all the progress each student made, jots down how they can get to their desired status, doodles some routine ideas. He gets off at the same stop.
As expected, no one is around when he gets in. Namjoon is probably holed up in his room, Taehyung is out, Yoongi is asleep, Seokjin is doing whatever it is that Seokjin does on a weekend, and Jungkook is crawling the streets.
Jimin, it seems, hears him come in. He wanders into the kitchen like a scared cat. “Hi.”
Hoseok briefly glances at him as he puts his stuff away. “Hi.”
Jimin pauses, considering, then, “How’s your day been?”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“But I want to?”
He doubts it, but caves, like always. “It’s been okay. Just work.”
“What do you do for work?”
“I teach dance to kids, hip-hop on weekends, technique on weeknights.”
Jimin’s eyes light up at this. “Oh! I used to do dance classes when I was a kid.”
This makes him pause, turning fully to face him. “You did?”
“Yeah! It was ballet and contemporary, and I stopped once I became a teenager, but they were always fun.”
“Why’d you stop?”
Jimin plays with the thread on his jumper. “I had other things to focus on, you know?”
Hoseok, despite himself, becomes curious. “What do you do, anyway?”
“I work at a convenience store.”
“Not how you make money, what do you do?”
“Oh, I’m an artist. Watercolours, oil paints, pastels, that sort of thing.”
Hoseok likes Jimin just a tad bit more, knowing that. He nods. “Nice. Don’t get any paint on the carpet, yeah?”
“I-I won’t!” Jimin calls after him because Hoseok escapes the conversation.
Hoseok looks at Jimin’s things, or the lack of, and can see the paintbrushes and canvas now, even the small paintings stacked in the box, all different kinds of mediums, a burst of colour in the otherwise grey room.
He stares at the box and thinks that maybe, a little paint on the carpet isn’t such a bad thing.