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Chapter Text

(Seoul, March 2011)

Jin hadn't truly grasped the meaning of a small kitchen until he tried rolling out kimbap on a countertop barely wider than his textbook. The dorm 'kitchen' felt more like a dare than a room: a rice cooker shoved in one corner, lone induction burner hissing in the other, and wedged between them, a first-year economics major hovered over a styrofoam ramyun cup, gripping his kettle like it held liquid gold. When Jin’s bamboo mat skidded off the slick surface onto the linoleum, he exhaled a silent curse.

Enough.

He rinsed his hands, dried them on a questionably clean kitchen towel, and swore he’d never again prepare food in a room where the refrigerator produced more noise than cold air. If he was going to survive second-year law, he needed a real kitchen one with four burners, counter space, and maybe even an oven that wasn’t older than the Constitution he was memorizing.

In a moment of weakness, he thought of his aunt's offer of a comfortable apartment, all expenses paid. No more financial acrobatics and budget concerns. She meant well, always warm and generous, but her kindness felt a little too much like a safety net he wasn't ready to fall into. Instead, Jin decided he just needed a better plan, practical and actionable. Getting a roommate to split rent was the kind of strategic approach that would open the door to improving his quality of life. That was a plan he could root for.

Step one: convince Min Yoongi to move in with him.

Step two: no, really, convince Min Yoongi.

Yoongi was not, on paper, an obvious housemate, but Jin had known him for years. Back in Busan, they’d been the high school music room’s resident outcasts. Back then, Jin was a senior escaping the pressure of college prep; Yoongi a junior who seemed to communicate exclusively through chord progressions. Jin had unofficially adopted him then, a dynamic that hadn’t changed much in Seoul. Yoongi was still a hermit with a Daegu accent that thickened when he was tired; still treated human interaction like optional software he hadn’t downloaded. But he and Jin shared a strange kinship; both of them spent more waking hours in the university arts building than their own departments, and both hated being told what to do.

Jin suspected that underneath Yoongi’s slouchy hoodies and monosyllabic grunts lived someone who valued comfort as much as he did; Yoongi just showed it by sleeping under piano benches instead of hand-searing pork belly.

So on Friday evening, armed with two convenience-store coffees and a Tupperware of homemade japchae, (bribery, pure and simple) Jin shouldered open the music room door.

Yoongi was exactly where Jin expected: headphone cord wrapped around one wrist, fingers ghost-drumming on the keys of an unplugged MIDI controller. He looked up, bleary-eyed.

“Jin-hyung, why are you here? Practice rooms are first-come, first-served.”

“I come bearing carbohydrates,” Jin announced, setting the japchae beside the laptop balanced precariously on a stack of theory textbooks. “And a proposition.”

“I don’t do group projects.”

“It’s not that kind of proposition.” Jin nudged the container closer, placing a packet of disposable chopsticks on top. “Taste first. Talk second.”

Yoongi arched a brow, cracked the sticks apart, and twirled a strand of noodles. The moment it hit his tongue, his shoulders sagged. “You didn’t buy this.”

“Of course not. Dorm kitchen or not, I still have standards.” Jin perched on the piano bench, ignoring Yoongi’s side-eye. “I’m getting an apartment. Two bedrooms. Maybe three if I’m lucky. Real stove. Real fridge. You should move in.”

“No.”

“What if it has a finished roof deck?”

“Still no.”

“I will cook every night. Better than that.” Jin lowered his voice, a dealer offering contraband. “I’ll pack lunch boxes labeled by macro-nutrition.”

Yoongi’s chin rose with a definite interest. “What’s the rent?”

“Cheap, if we split it two ways. Cheaper if we find a third.”

“I’m broke.”

“You’re a scholarship kid. And I know for a fact your parents send you an allowance.”

“That’s for emergencies,” Yoongi grumbled. “And the music program wants freshmen in dorms.”

Jin had anticipated this. He dug a folded pamphlet from his pocket. “Housing exemption form. Sign it, get your advisor’s stamp, you’re free.”

Yoongi blinked. “This is an ambush.”

“I refuse to spend another semester boiling ramen over a hot plate while a liberal arts major microwaves their soggy kimchi behind me.” Jin’s urgency leaked through his playful tone. “Look, we’re both drowning in work. You need a place where you can record at 2 a.m. without an R.A. banging on the door. I need counter space. This is symbiosis.”

Yoongi chewed slowly, thinking. “You really cook every night?”

“Every night. And I’ll do dishes most nights.”

A long pause. Then, Yoongi’s shoulders slumped in surrender. “Fine. But you pay all utilities.”

“Done.” Jin grinned, feeling the day tilt in his favor. “We’ll start hunting tomorrow.”

Their hunt began grimly. The first place was a semi-basement that smelled of damp socks and despair.

“It has a certain…ambiance,” Yoongi had muttered, looking disturbingly at home in the gloom.

Jin had vetoed it on the spot. “The only thing I'm cooking in there is a case of seasonal depression,” he'd declared, dragging Yoongi back into the sunlight.

The third place, however, was different. A second-floor walk-up in Mapo, all crooked charm and mismatched floorboards, but the kitchen—oh, the kitchen. Four gas burners, a full-size sink, and an oven big enough for a roast. Jin inhaled the smell of sawdust and possibilities and signed the lease before Yoongi could change his mind.

Move-in day arrived with spring rain and endless boxes. Jin’s textbooks weighed a metric ton; Yoongi’s equipment weighed two. They dragged it up the stairs, drenched and cursing, until the living room was a fortress of cardboard. The apartment itself was a testament to mismatched history: honey-colored floorboards in the main room gave way to dark, scuffed wood in the hallway. The windows overlooked a tangle of power lines and the rooftops of neighboring buildings, but the afternoon sun streamed in, making dust motes dance in the air. It was old and imperfect, but it was theirs.

Jin’s first act as resident: unpack the rice cooker. His second: order two extra-large fried-chicken sets because even he conceded defeat to exhaustion.

They ate cross-legged on the living-room floor, umbrellas dripping in the corner. Yoongi balanced a drum pad on his knee, tapping out rhythms between bites. Jin watched him, amused. “You ever stop working?”

Yoongi shrugged, not missing a beat. “I hear things in my head. Easier to get them out than ignore them.”

Jin understood. His own head buzzed with arguments, hypothetical statutes, and rebuttals that kept him awake at night. Different universe, same compulsion. “We still need a third roommate,” he said around a mouthful of chicken. “Someone who won’t mind your 3 a.m. beat drops.”

“Know a guy,” Yoongi said, pausing his tapping to reach for more rice. “Genius, but harmless. Wants out of his parents’ house. He’s younger, though.”

“Another first-year?” Jin asked, picturing another wide-eyed freshman who would inevitably treat their apartment like a 24-hour convenience store.

“No, I think this is his third year at university.”

Jin paused mid-chew. “A third-year who’s younger than us? How does that work?”

“Skipped a few grades,” Yoongi's tone turned deliberately casual. “Super smart. A bit awkward. You’d like him.”

Jin’s warning bells began to ring at his too casual tone. "A bit awkward is fine. How young are we talking? Don’t make me guess.”

Yoongi finally looked up, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He took a slow bite of chicken, clearly stalling. “This year I think he's... seventeen?”

Jin choked. Actually choked—chicken lodging somewhere between his windpipe and his dignity as he coughed, eyes watering. Yoongi watched with mild interest, making no move to help.

Seventeen. A minor. Jin's legal mind spiraled through liability scenarios, parental consent forms and a distinct lack of beer in the fridge. Babysitting a teenager, genius or not,  was not in his five-year plan. 

"That‘s a kid Yoongi-yah!" he wheezed once he could breathe again. "Do I look like I run a daycare center?"

"He finished his undergrad in two years," Yoongi said calmly, as if this were a perfectly reasonable defense. "Already published three papers and is a PhD candidate. Trust me, he won’t be a troublemaker.” Yoongi smirked. “And he’s taller than you. Think of the overhead cabinets.”

"I'm not worried about the cabinets! I'm worried about explaining to his parents why their minor child is living with two strange men!"

"He and I went to middle school together, and we're not that strange."

Jin gave him a look that could have curdled milk. "You are trying to recruit a teenager as your roommate because of kitchen storage."

"True," Yoongi smirked. "But his parents know me from back when I lived in Daegu, that's why they'll let him move out.” Yoongi paused as Jin stared at him. “Hyung, just meet him. You’ll see he’s harmless, and he’s got more brain cells than both of us combined. Trust me."

Jin rolled his eyes, but the argument was compelling. And the overhead cabinets were really inconvenient if Yoongi couldn’t reach them. "Fine. Invite him. But I'm not signing any parental permission slips, and you're handling any teenage drama."

"Deal."

Two days later, Kim Namjoon arrived with a camouflage backpack the size of a small planet and an apologetic smile. His first act as prospective roommate was to trip over the threshold, his hand catching and cracking the wooden door frame with a sickening sound.

“Hyung, I’m so sorry!” he blurted, adjusting his round glasses with a flustered swipe. “I swear I’m not usually—Actually, I probably am usually this clumsy. But I can fix the frame! Well, I can try—”

Watching him, Jin felt a wave of dread mixed with amusement. 

Yoongi leaned forward, his voice a flat command. “Namjoon-ah, breathe.”

Namjoon inhaled. Exhaled. Then offered Jin a formal bow that was somehow both graceful and milliseconds from disaster. “Kim Namjoon. Mathematics and cognitive science.” Another breath. “I brought tofu. My mother said it’s polite.”

Jin accepted the bag of tofu like a ceremonial offering. “Kim Seokjin. Law. I brought…a door frame. Mostly intact.” He stepped aside. “Come in before the ceiling collapses in sympathy.” Yoongi snorted; Namjoon flushed.

Once inside, Namjoon traced a finger along the wall outlet, frowning. “This grounding is unsafe. The voltage fluctuation alone could fry Yoongi-hyung’s equipment.”

Jin blinked. “Since when do math majors diagnose faulty wiring?”

“It's a combined masters/PhD program. Oh! and I minored in physics,” Namjoon said, as if this were as mundane as liking mint chocolate. “The equations for circuit stability are basically just—”

“No,” Yoongi interrupted, rubbing his temple. “I'm too hungry for this. You can geek out after we eat.” He shot Jin a look. “I told you he was a polymath," Yoongi muttered, nudging past them toward the kitchen. "Do us both a favor and don't ask him to prove it. ”

Jin’s eyebrows climbed. Right, smart enough to skip high school and his college career precedes that of Jin's own. Genius was not an exaggeration after all, but even a post-grad dual-degree track did not change the fact that he was a kid. A brilliant, clumsy kid.

When they finally settled at the new, blessedly wide kitchen table, something clicked. Jin laid out kimchi and braised tofu while Yoongi scooped steaming rice into three bowls. As they began to eat, conversation naturally turned to practical matters. Namjoon outlined his insane class schedule with startling precision: early morning lab sessions, afternoon seminars, late-night research blocks. This prompted Yoongi to admit his own nocturnal tendencies and suggest adding acoustic foam to the bedrooms so his late-night work wouldn't disturb anyone. Ideas bounced, intersected, and harmonized. Jin realized he’d stopped auditioning the kid by the time they were talking about rent splits.

“Condition of tenancy,” Jin declared, ladling seaweed soup. “I cook, you two clean, and nobody complains about my dad jokes.”

Namjoon grinned, dimples deep. “I think that violates the laws of social physics, hyung. For every dad joke, there's an equal and opposite groan.”

Yoongi pointed a chopstick at Namjoon. “Don’t encourage him.”

Laughter bubbled up in Jin's chest, warm and unexpected. The rain tapped the window, the soup steamed, and for the first time since he’d fled the dorm kitchen he felt space, literal and emotional space, expand around him.

Not roommates, he thought, watching Yoongi hide a pleased smile at the soup and Namjoon nearly upend his water glass. Not exactly. Something quieter, sturdier, and infinitely more dangerous to his heart was taking shape.

He decided not to name it yet. There would be time. For now, there was dinner, a cracked door frame, and the satisfying click of all four burners lighting at once, a small miracle, but one entirely their own.

Chapter Text

(Seoul, September 2011)

Jin had always been a dependable law student, not brilliant, not the kind of student professors remembered fondly in their retirement speeches, but good. Solid. The type who showed up prepared, took meticulous notes, and could craft a serviceable legal argument given enough coffee and quiet.

That was before Constitutional Law with Professor Hwang.

Three hours of sleep wasn't enough. Jin's eyelids felt weighted as he slumped in his usual middle-row seat, the words from last night's reading blurring together in his exhausted mind. He'd studied until dawn, rereading the same passages about due process until they became meaningless symbols on the page.

"The constitutional framework of due process," Professor Hwang droned from behind his rampart of casebooks, "requires not only procedural compliance but substantive justice. Can anyone explain the distinction between procedural and substantive due process in the context of Park v. Seoul Metropolitan Government?"

Jin's pen hovered over his notebook. His thoughts scattered like birds at a gunshot. The fatigue hit him in a wave, and before he could stop himself, his mouth opened in a silent yawn. He tried to cover it with his hand, but it was too late.

Professor Hwang's sharp eyes locked onto him from across the room. "Kim SeokJin." The professor's voice cut through the lecture hall like a blade. "Since you seem so... relaxed this morning, perhaps you'd like to share your thoughts on the distinction?"

Jin’s throat closed. Heat flooded his cheeks and radiated all the way to the tips of his ears. "I… It's... the substantive aspect relates to... Uh-" His brain sputtered, words dying on his tongue as Professor Hwang's eyebrows arched in barely concealed disdain.

"Perhaps if you spent less time catching up on sleep during my lectures and more time with your casebook, Mr. Kim, you might learn the proper answer."

The snickers from his classmates felt like tiny knives. Jin slouched lower in his seat, heat crawling up his neck. This was the second time this month he'd failed to answer one of Professor Hwang's direct questions. Constitutional Law was eating him alive.

By October, their apartment had developed its own peculiar ecosystem. Jin woke at six-thirty to the sound of Namjoon's alarm; always set fifteen minutes early because the kid somehow needed a grace period to remember he was human. Yoongi surfaced around noon, emerging from his room like a nocturnal creature blinking at unfamiliar daylight, usually clutching an empty coffee mug.

Jin had learned to navigate around both of them: brewing a full pot of coffee before Yoongi appeared (self-preservation), leaving color-coded study schedules for Namjoon on the kitchen table (the boy's organizational skills were inversely proportional to his IQ), and keeping a running grocery list because someone had to remember they needed actual food to survive.

"Hyung," Namjoon said one morning, stumbling into the kitchen round glasses, lopsided. "did you know that the optimal brewing temperature for coffee is between 90 and 96 degrees Celsius? Your method might be extracting bitter compounds."

Jin handed him a steaming mug. "Did you know I don't care as long as it prevents you from walking into walls?"

Namjoon grinned, dimples appearing as he took a grateful sip. "Fair point."

Jin reached out to ruffle Namjoon's hair, a silent, affectionate goodbye as his mind snapped back to his meticulous day: class, groceries, then braised chicken with vegetable stew for dinner. He should have known better than to expect such simple productivity.

Because Namjoon's coffee critique turned out to be the highlight of his day. Everything after that was a steady descent into academic humiliation, culminating in Professor Hwang's lecture that, once again, felt like a public execution.

By evening, Jin could barely drag himself through the apartment door, his carefully planned dinner menu forgotten along with his dignity. The grocery bags he'd planned to carry felt impossible; even the thought of cooking made him want to curl up and disappear. His exhaustion was instantly soothed by the sight of Namjoon already settled on the living room floor amid a constellation of what looked like a mathematical crime scene.

"Oh, Hyung!" Namjoon's greeting was bright, his dimples flashing. "Why are you sad?… did you lose your fried chicken coupons again?"

"No, but professor Hwang hates me." Jin flopped face-first onto their secondhand couch, groaning. "I'm going to fail Constitutional Law, drop out of law school, and end up serving fried chicken for the rest of my natural life."

"That's oddly specific," came Yoongi's dry voice from the kitchen. "Also dramatic, even for you."

"I'm not being dramatic. I'm being realistic." Jin rolled over to stare at the ceiling. "Every time he calls on me I fog up and my brain just leaks out my ears." He sighed "I’ve read this cursed casebook four, damn times."

Namjoon set down his mathematics journal, suddenly focused. "What's the reading for tomorrow?"

For the next two hours, Namjoon walked Jin through the constitutional framework with the patience of a saint and the systematic precision of a mathematician. He broke down complex legal concepts the same way he approached theorems, creating logical frameworks and drawing connection maps that turned legal chaos into comprehensible patterns.

"Legal language functions like formal logic," Namjoon explained, sketching diagrams on napkins. "Each word carries semantic weight. Think of it not as rules, but as a conversation centuries long. What's the core principle they're trying to protect?"

Jin stared at the neat, brilliant summary of three weeks' worth of confusion and realized he was incredibly grateful to have access to Namjoon's brain.

Their tutoring sessions became a fixture of their routine. Three nights a week, after dinner, they'd spread Jin's casebooks across the kitchen table while Yoongi disappeared into his room with his headphones. Jin's grades improved; more importantly, his confidence did.

If Namjoon was Jin's academic lifeline, Yoongi was his most persistent worry.

It started gradually, but by November, something was clearly wrong. Yoongi always nocturnal now attended fewer classes. His language of choice reduced to monosyllables and grunts as he spent longer hours locked in his room, and had developed the unsettling habit of emerging only to grab instant coffee and disappear again. The few times Jin saw him in daylight, Yoongi was like a cryptid squinting at civilization.

"He's composing," Namjoon said when Jin wondered aloud if their roommate had been replaced by a particularly antisocial ghost. "I can hear the MIDI controller through the walls. He's been working on the same track for seven days."

Jin frowned. "When does he sleep?"

"Good question."

Days blurred into nights. Jin would wake to the gentle, repetitive thud of Yoongi's drum pads, the faint glow from under his door an unofficial nightlight in their apartment. Jin began to leave food outside his door; sometimes it vanished; sometimes it was still there in the morning, cold and untasted.

The breaking point came on a Thursday night in late November. Jin returned home, weary from a grueling six-hour study session, to an apartment that was unnervingly silent. The bass was off. He knew that Namjoon was at the lab working on a research paper, but Yoongi was supposed to be home, his shoes were all at the entryway. No music though. No keyboard. No sign of Yoongi.

Jin knocked softly on Yoongi's door. No response. A prickle of unease ran down his spine. He pushed open Yoongi’s bedroom door, and his heart seized.

Yoongi was sprawled over his desk, like a marionette with cut strings. His head slumped against the MIDI keyboard, one hand still loosely gripping his mouse. He was asleep, but it was the sleep of utter collapse. The room was a disaster zone, a graveyard of empty coffee cans, crumpled energy bar wrappers, and notebook pages covered in musical notation. The air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and ozone from the overworked computer. Yoongi looked small and fragile in the glow of the monitor, like a soldier who had fallen at his post.

A wave of feeling, hot and sharp, crashed over Jin. It was more than annoyance, deeper than concern. It was a fierce, proprietary anger. An instinct so primal it felt like it had been carved into his bones. Mine to protect.

He didn’t wake him. He gently lifted Yoongi’s head, unhooked the headphones from around his neck, and half-carried, half-dragged his limp form to the bed, pulling a blanket over him. Then, with a grim sense of purpose, Jin grabbed his cleaning supplies from the kitchen and returned to the disaster zone, opening windows to let cold night air slice through the stale atmosphere. He gathered the trash, wiped down the sticky surfaces, as he quietly cleaned around his unconscious roommate.

The next morning, when Yoongi emerged looking marginally more human, Jin waited at their kitchen table, armed with seaweed soup and an intervention. Yoongi, however, was wearing his backpack, a clear and foolish attempt to flee the scene.

“Sit,” Jin said. His voice was steady, but it held the weight of a court summons.

Yoongi sat.

Jin waited until they'd both taken a few spoonfuls of soup before he calmly asked, "How many hours did you sleep this week, Min Yoongi?"

Yoongi's spoon paused halfway to his mouth. "I sleep enough."

"That is not what I asked."

"Hyung—"

"No." Jin leaned forward, his voice tight with restrained rage. "Yesterday, you did not fall asleep. You collapsed. That is not 'enough'. That is dangerous. So let me ask you again. Min Yoongi, how many hours did you sleep this week?"

"I don't know, hyung." Yoongi set down his spoon, shoulders tense. "I'm fine. Just busy."

"Yoongi-yah, help me understand, huh?" Jin pleaded. "You're working yourself into the ground. For a music theory grade? Why?"

"I don't give a fuck about the grades." The words came out sharper than Yoongi probably intended. "The program is not what I thought it would be."

Jin waited. Namjoon had taught him that sometimes silence was more effective than questions. It worked.

"They want us to compose in specific styles," Yoongi continued finally. "Classical structure, traditional harmonies. Everything has to fit their idea of what music should be. I try to add hip-hop elements, and the professor tells me my beats are 'rhythmically interesting but lack sophistication.'" His jaw tightened. "Jazz gets a unit. Hip-hop gets mentioned in passing. Everything I actually care about, everything I'm good at, gets treated like a hobby."

"So you're hurting yourself and risking your health to prove them wrong?"

"They had me analyze a baroque fugue for three hours." Yoongi rubbed his temples as if trying to chase the memory away. "The classes and homework consume most of my time, but my music is still there, in my head, so I work on it as much as I can, when I can. I've even thought about dropping out, but it's insane and it would be a waste."

"Being miserable for four years is also insane." Jin's voice softened, trying to reach him. "I've known you for many years. You're not meant to fit into anyone else's box."

He'd seen Yoongi like this in high school, when their music teacher had tried to force him into playing classical pieces exactly as written. Slowly, the pieces started falling into place for Jin.

"What do you want to do?" Jin asked quietly. "If you could do anything music-wise."

Yoongi's features relaxed, a softness settling over them that hadn't been there in months. "Produce. Work with artists who want to create something new. I don't think performing and analyzing is my thing. I just want to make music that matters."

"Then find a way to do that."

Yoongi stared at him. "It's not that simple, hyung. I have a full scholarship. I need the degree for job prospects. It would be a waste."

"Are you really sure about that?" Jin knew as well as anyone that the names on the back of hit albums didn’t have PhDs in music theory. They had talent and an inhuman work ethic, both of which Yoongi possessed in spades. “In your case, this degree is a safety net,” Jin continued, studying Yoongi with careful attention. “But sometimes, a net just holds you in place. You think you can fly without it?”

Yoongi met his gaze. “I know I can.”

"So," Jin said, his tone softening again. "We need a better plan, because this isn't sustainable. I want to see you succeed, not end up in a hospital." He leaned forward, meeting Yoongi's tired gaze. "Let's make a deal."

Yoongi waited, wary.

"You eat at least one real meal a day with us at this table," Jin proposed, his tone gentle but firm. "And the computer is off by 2 a.m. for some actual sleep. In return, I'll make sure there's always coffee in the morning and I won't nag you before noon. No more collapsing at your desk. Please?"

Yoongi stared down at his bowl, lost in thought. For a moment, Jin saw the familiar flash of resistance, that fierce independence that defined his roommate. But it was quickly replaced by something else: weary, grudging gratitude and the silent acknowledgment that someone cared enough to draw a line.

He gave a small, barely perceptible nod. "Okay, hyung." The faintest hint of a smile touched his lips. "Deal."

Later that day when Jin returned home from his Intellectual Property class, he found Yoongi and Namjoon huddled over a laptop, both looking more animated than he'd seen them in weeks.

"Jin hyung!" Namjoon looked up, dimples on full display. "You have to hear this. Yoongi-hyung's compositions are incredible."

Yoongi ducked his head, ears tinged pink. "Namjoon has some interesting theories about mathematical patterns in beat construction."

"Of course he does," Jin said fondly, ruffling Namjoon's hair as he passed. That boy could find equations in everything from subway schedules to soup recipes. "I'll start dinner while you two revolutionize music theory."

He busied himself in the kitchen, but kept glancing over at their heads bent together over the screen. Something warm and protective settled in his chest watching them.

"Hyung," Namjoon said over dinner, practically bouncing in his seat, "do you think we should try rap battles again?"

"Again?" Jin paused, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. "When did you two ever…?"

"Back in middle school," Namjoon grinned. "Yoongi-hyung used to call himself Gloss. He was legendary in the underground scene."

"We'll see," Yoongi said, but his smile was smug and fond.

Jin stared at them both. "Wait. You were going to rap battles in middle school?" He pointed his chopsticks at Namjoon accusingly. "You were what, five? How did you even get into those places?"

Namjoon looked down at his bowl, a sheepish smile on his face. "I was twelve. We told them I was the club owner's son."

"And they believed that?" Jin's voice went higher with disbelief. "You still look like you should be asking for homework help, not spitting bars."

"Hyung!" Namjoon protested, but he was laughing.

Yoongi snorted. "He had to stand on a crate to reach the mic."

Jin shook his head, ladling more seaweed soup into their bowls. "Unbelievable. I'm living with two rap prodigies and nobody thought to mention this?"

The conversation flowed around dinner, then continued as Jin cleared plates and Yoongi dried dishes without being asked. When Yoongi actually laughed at one of Namjoon's terrible rap puns, Jin found himself mentally calculating grocery portions for three, planning meals that would fuel Yoongi's late studio sessions and Namjoon's early morning classes.

Home, he thought, watching them argue over whether mathematical precision could improve freestyle flow. This felt frighteningly like home.

Over the following weeks, Jin watched Yoongi attend fewer classes and spend longer hours on his music. When Yoongi finally gathered them both in the living room one evening, announcing with quiet determination that he was dropping out to pursue music full-time, Jin felt no surprise.

Only pride.

That night became their first celebration as a family, though Jin would later swear under oath that he had no idea how that bottle of soju ended up in their apartment, and certainly didn't recall serving it to anyone who might hypothetically still be under the age of nineteen. Namjoon's bright red face and philosophical rambling about the mathematical beauty of music production were purely coincidental. As was Yoongi's rare, gummy smile that lasted the entire evening.

Some things, Jin decided, were worth a little selective memory.

Chapter Text

(Seoul, February 2012)

The Seoul Arts Center was exactly the kind of place that made Jin feel underdressed no matter what he wore. He adjusted his tie, checking his watch as he approached the imposing modern facade. All polished stone pillars and soaring glass, the kind of architecture designed to remind mortals of their place in the cultural hierarchy. He'd raced here straight from Civil Procedure, still carrying the faint chalk dust of Professor Kim's marathon lecture on tort liability. The contrast between the sterile law building and the elegant performance venue wasn't lost on him. Somehow, in thirty minutes he'd traveled from dusty case precedents to crystal chandeliers and marble floors.

A flash of photographers caught his attention near the main entrance, and Jin spotted the reason immediately. Kim Yujin was impossible to miss. Even five years out of the film industry, she moved through reporters as if she were gliding down a red carpet. Her manicured hand rested on thirteen-year-old Taehyung’s shoulder, her voice calm and pleasant for the questions reaching her from both sides.  She wore a deceptively simple black dress so perfectly tailored it looked sculpted for her, paired with pearl earrings Jin was pretty sure could pay his law school tuition for the entire year. Her smile was practiced, but the warmth behind it was real, the kind that had once earned her fan clubs across the country.

"Our Jimin has been dancing since he was seven," she was saying, her voice carrying that particular mix of pride and poise that came from years of managing public attention. "Tonight's contemporary piece is actually set to music composed by my dear friend Jo Yeong-wook"

Taehyung, all charm and effortless charisma, took to the blinding camera flashes like a professional, never once breaking the confident grin he wore so easily. He seemed to own the moment, standing proudly beside his mother, with an ease far beyond his thirteen years.

It was Taehyung who saw him first, a flash of pure joy breaking through his poised exterior. That one look was enough to make Jin remember why the kid's happiness was so contagious. Though he’d grown at least three inches since summer, all gangly legs and eager energy, his smile was exactly the same.

"Jin-hyung!" Taehyung broke away from his mother's side, practically bouncing across the marble lobby before Jin could even wave. “You came! Did you see the programs? Jimin-hyung's name is in really big letters, and I made sure they put his picture—"

"Taehyungie!," Yujin interrupted gently, excusing herself from the reporters with the kind of gracious smile that ended conversations without offense. "Let hyung breathe before you tackle him."

But Jin was already pulling Taehyung into a hug, grinning at the kid's boundless excitement. "Of course I came. Think I'd miss Park Jimin's big showcase? I've been bragging to my friends for weeks that my cousin is the next Baryshnikov."

"Who's Barysh—whatever-you-said?" Taehyung asked, then immediately moved on without waiting for an answer. "ChimChim got here before they even opened the doors, but he asked me to give you this if I saw you."

Taehyung thrust a crumpled piece of paper at Jin with the solemnity of a diplomatic courier. Jin broke the tape that folded it shut and opened the note to find Jimin's careful handwriting: Hyung, thank you for coming. Try not to let Taehyung smuggle any intermission cookies into the auditorium. No food allowed. —JM

Jin laughed, tucking the note into his jacket pocket. "Tell Jimin I'll guard the cookies with my life."

"Actually," Taehyung's eyes widened with sudden urgency, checking his phone, "I should go find him now. He sent me an SOS text five minutes ago about his costume being the wrong shade of blue or something." He was already backing toward the theater doors, talking faster. "Eomma, I'll meet you at our seats! Jin-hyung, save me some cookies!"

And then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd with the single-minded determination of a twin on a rescue mission, utterly unbothered by the photographers who were now shifting attention to some other chaebol family arriving behind them.

Yujin shook her head, watching her youngest son's retreat with fond exasperation. "He's excited," she said, turning back to Jin. "Both of them are. Taehyung keeps saying he wants to try dance next year too."

"Following in his brother's footsteps?"

"More like he can't stand being left out of Jimin's schedule, you know how they are." Yujin gathered her small evening purse, then looked toward the theater doors. "Shall we? I don't want to miss the opening."

Jin offered her his arm as they began walking toward the auditorium entrance. She accepted his support without ceremony, and Jin noticed her steps were a little slower than usual, the measured kind of pace that passed for elegance to outsiders but to him read as careful management.

"I'm sure Taehyungie will try to stay backstage" Yujin said as they passed through the elegant doorway into the theater proper. "I seriously think he's more nervous than Jimin himself tonight."

"Sounds about right," Jin smiled faintly as they made their way down the carpeted aisle toward the front of the auditorium. "Tae's always been Jimin's biggest fan."

"Second biggest," Yujin corrected with a meaningful look as an usher guided them to their third-row seats. "You should see the photo wall in Jiminie's room. Half of it is dance certificates, half of it is pictures of you three boys at family dinners. They know you are busy, but it means a lot for them that you came today. Thank you."

Jin felt warmth spread through his chest at that, the familiar tug of affection he'd always felt for his cousins. Where Jimin was focused and driven, Taehyung was spontaneous and warm. "Are they giving you a hard time?"

"They are just growing up too fast," Yujin sighed, then brightened. "But happily. Jimin's been accepted to the pre-professional program at his dance academy. And Taehyung..." She paused, thinking. "Taehyung is Taehyung. Brilliant and chaotic in equal measure. Last week he convinced his art teacher to let him submit a sculpture made entirely of origami cranes, and somehow turned it into a commentary on urban development."

"Thirteen years old," Jin marveled. "When I was thirteen, I thought putting extra kimchi on my rice was revolutionary."

Yujin laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. "You were adorable at thirteen. All gangly limbs and big dreams about becoming a world-famous chef."

"I maintain that was a perfectly reasonable career goal."

"Oh, it was. Your mother worried you'd never find something practical to pursue, but I told her you'd figure it out." She studied his face with the kind of attention that made Jin feel simultaneously seen and slightly transparent. "Law school suits you. You always did like arguing."

Jin winced. "Is it that obvious?"

"I think you were seven when I witnessed your first courtroom-worthy argument insisting that cake for breakfast was a balanced meal if it had fruit in it." Yujin squeezed his arm and they both giggled.

"How are you feeling, auntie?" Jin asked quietly, noting the faint shadows under her eyes that even expertly applied makeup couldn't quite hide. "You've been taking your medication?"

Yujin's smile softened. "Always worrying about everyone else, aren't you? Yes, I'm taking everything the doctor prescribed. The new cardiologist says there are some promising treatments if the current ones stop working." She patted his hand. "But enough about me. Tell me about university life. How are you holding up? Third year is brutal, I hear."

He opened his mouth to say fine, but reconsidered. She waited patiently as always. "Classes are hard, but I’ve been fighting back with excessive amounts of coffee and study time." He admitted with a sigh. "I'm struggling, but maybe slightly less than last semester." He paused, a small smile appearing. "My friend is a genius. He's been tutoring me, and it's actually helping."

"Namjoon was it? The mathematics prodigy?"

"Woah! You even remember his name?"

"Jin-ah, you spent twenty minutes at Chuseok describing his PhD thesis to your grandfather. In mathematical terms. I'm pretty sure you broke the poor man's brain." Yujin's eyes sparkled with mischief. "I knew finding your own apartment was the way to go, even if you wouldn't let me pay for it. I'm glad you found good roommates."

Jin felt heat rise in his cheeks. "They're good people."

"I'm sure they are." They'd reached their seats now, plush red velvet in the third row center.

Jin helped Yujin pick up the program that slipped from her left hand, noting the slight catch in her breath as she settled into her chair. He held onto her hand for a moment longer. "You're very good at changing the subject, auntie," he said, a hint of a smile in his voice, "but it's not working. Tell me, are you really okay?"

Yujin's smile was wry. "You're just like your mother. Very persistent." She patted his hand. "I'm fine, Jin-ah. Some days better than others, but it's manageable. The important thing is being here for nights like this."

The auditorium lights began to dim around them, before Jin could press further. He filed the conversation away for later. Yujin had always been the brightest person he knew, all energy and laughter and endless capacity for joy. The idea of her being anything else felt wrong, like a fundamental cosmic principle had been quietly rewritten.

But then the velvet curtain rose, and Jimin appeared in a pool of golden light. Jin forgot everything else.

The performance began in bursts of spotlight and shadow. Contemporary lines, elegant lifts, precise rhythm. A cluster of young dancers moved as one across the polished stage and yet, it was impossible to look at anyone but Jimin.

His cousin had always been graceful, but this was something different. This was artistry. Jimin moved like he was having a conversation with the music, each gesture deliberate and fluid and heartbreakingly beautiful. Jin felt his chest tighten with a recognition of talent so pure it felt like witnessing something sacred. Watching him, Jin forgot the stiffness in his tie and the monotony of tort liability.

Two hours later when the performance ended to thunderous applause, Jin found himself on his feet, clapping until his palms stung. Yujin beside him was radiant, her joy tangible as she cheered for her son.

"Encore!" Taehyung's voice rang out from somewhere behind them, earning chuckles from nearby parents.

As the curtain fell and the house lights came up, Yujin was crying.

"He's extraordinary," she whispered, not bothering to wipe her cheeks. "How did I get so lucky?"

Jin felt a strange sense of gratitude wash over him. For this moment, for his aunt's health holding steady, for the privilege of witnessing his cousins' talents unfold. For the family, both born and chosen, that surrounded him.

"Come," Yujin said, gathering her purse. "Let's go congratulate our star before Taehyung tackles him in the hallway."

Jin's key turned in the lock, and he walked into a familiar clutter: Namjoon was surrounded by a paper nest on the living room floor, glasses slipped halfway down his nose as he scribbled something furiously, while Yoongi perched on the couch, his laptop balanced precariously on his knees.

“Jin-hyung!” Namjoon looked up, energy bright. “Perfect timing. We need a tiebreaker.”

Jin dropped his bag by the door, nudged a rogue marker aside with his foot, and eased himself onto the other side of the couch, careful not to jostle Yoongi’s laptop. "What's the tie you need broken? And if you say the word 'Naruto,' I’m starting an eviction process."

"Open mic venues," Yoongi said, his eyes on the screen but his attention clearly split. “This brat wants to go to Itaewon. I’m telling him, Hongdae is where the ears are. No one’s just there to drink.” He gave Jin a pointed look, as if seeking backup.

“Itaewon has its own energy. Not everyone wants a high-pressure performance,” Namjoon replied, absently realigning one of the maps.

Jin raised an eyebrow. "Wait, you're actually getting back on stage?" He knew Namjoon had been attending rap battles as a spectator with Yoongi, but performing was different.

"I miss it," Namjoon admitted, his voice softer. "Sometimes you need a place to spill the kind of stuff that doesn't fit in a dissertation.”

"What kind of stuff?" Jin asked, genuinely curious.

"Self-identity, societal expectations, what it means to be eighteen and supposedly brilliant but still completely lost about everything that actually matters," Namjoon said, then looked slightly embarrassed. "Not exactly dinner conversation material."

"Perfect battle material," Yoongi replied with a hint of a grin. "You’ve got the words and the guts. Trust me, Hongdae will actually listen.”

"Aah." Jin felt the familiar mix of dread and pride. There was no point trying to steer these two geniuses "So, this isn't about career ambitions then?"

"No way," Namjoon laughed. "Although it would be hilarious to add rapper as part of my scholar resume." He grinned. "For me, it's just... about self-expression. And Yoongi-hyung is too busy composing to waste time on stage."

"Yah! It's not wasted time if you're good at it," Yoongi retorted, glancing up. "And you are damn good at it. I've been talking to people at these venues for months. There's real talent down there. Which is another reason why Hongdae is the main stage of the underground scene now."

"Fine. Hongdae it is." Namjoon grinned, "I think I might need a new stage name. Runch Randa feels a little... childish for what I want to say now."

"What were you thinking?" Jin asked, leaning forward with interest.

"Rap Monster?"

Jin blinked.

"You want to go from Runch Randa... to Rap Monster. To sound less childish."

He said it slowly, trying to connect the dots in Namjoon's prodigy brain and failing. He looked from Namjoon to Yoongi and back, waiting for the punchline. It didn’t come.

Yoongi considered it for a moment, then gave a slow nod of approval. “If you carry it the way you write, it lands.”

Namjoon’s dimples surfaced, relieved. “That’s the idea!”

Jin scoffed "I guess your ties have been broken, Rap Monster."

Yoongi's phone buzzed on the coffee table. He glanced at it and smiled with satisfaction. "Seems the track I'm working on with that indie label is testing well. They think it might actually hit the charts."

"That's huge!" Jin said, genuinely proud. "I thought you said it wasn't your style?"

"Not really," Yoongi admitted with a shrug. "More commercial than I'd normally go for, but it's good experience. And good connections." He looked back at Namjoon. "Friday night then?"

"Sure." Namjoon turned his dimpled smile towards Jin "Hyung, will you come with us for moral support?"

"Try and stop me," Jin said. "Someone needs to document Rap Monster's philosophical debut."

As Jin headed toward the kitchen to start dinner, he listened to them continue planning. Finding a place where Namjoon's brilliant, restless mind could work through ideas too big for textbooks, while Yoongi built the connections that would fuel his producing career.

Different dreams, same family support system.

Chapter Text

(Seoul, September 2012)

The apartment smelled like victory and Jin's homemade kimchi jjigae, a combination that had become their unofficial celebration signature. Jin nudged the door shut with his hip, balancing grocery bags and the premium soju he'd splurged on despite his student budget. The living room buzzed with an energy that had become more frequent over the past months. Namjoon sprawled across the floor with Yoongi's laptop, multiple browser tabs open to music charts and industry websites, while Yoongi sat cross-legged on the couch, his phone pressed to his ear.

"No, I understand it's a great opportunity," Yoongi was saying, his voice carefully neutral. "I'll need some time to consider... Yes, I have your contact information. Thank you."

He hung up and immediately tossed the phone onto the coffee table like it had personally offended him.

"Another congratulatory call?" Jin asked, setting the bags down and pulling out a soju bottle. "Or another offer?"

"Both." Yoongi rubbed his temples.

"Jin-hyung, check this out." Namjoon turned the laptop so the MelOn chart glowed up at them. It showed Luv Is by Lim Jeong-Hee featuring Suga, ranked at number three, with a small, upward green arrow indicating its climb.

“Number three?” Jin’s eyes widened as he started unloading groceries. “Yoongi-yah, didn’t your Lee Hyun ballad barely crack top twenty?” He then glanced sideways at Namjoon, who had begun gathering the shot glasses.

But Yoongi seemed lost in thought, didn't even register the question. His eyes held a flicker of a deep, unsettling weariness.

"Yeah," Namjoon answered for him, carefully balancing the glasses. "And even the song he did for GLAM only hit number seven. This is his highest yet." Jin watched the delicate procession with nerves he didn’t voice.

Once Namjoon placed the glasses safely on the coffee table, Jin joined them in the circle. "Yah, Min Yoongi," Jin began to pour the drinks, "you are officially the most successful college dropout I know. Our Suga-nim is unstoppable."

Yoongi gave a breath of a laugh but his gaze stayed locked on the chart.

“More like for sale to the highest bidder,” he muttered.

Jin paused, bottle hovering mid-pour. For a moment, the mood stilled. He considered softening the moment, but decided on simple honesty. "Doesn’t sound like you’re celebrating."

Yoongi's jaw shifted. "Lee Hyun's management wants to 'discuss future opportunities.' GLAM's label wants exclusive services. Dreamline wants to schedule lunch." He held up his phone. "Fifth call today."

Jin finished pouring, the smallest of frowns at his lips as he passed out the glasses. “That’s supposed to be good news, isn’t it?” He handed Yoongi a glass, then Namjoon, then settled in beside them.

Yoongi’s eyes lingered on the chart, unmoving, the numbers reflected faintly in his expression. “Every congratulation comes with a leash.”

“Their interest is to be expected.” Namjoon reassured him, his glass also untouched. “You are an independent producer who rapped his way to a top-three hit. The metrics on this are fascinating. The crossover appeal from Lim Jeong Hee’s fanbase combined with your established credibility from the GLAM and Lee Hyun tracks created a perfect storm of chart velocity. Doesn't mean you have to sign with them; offers are just that, offers.”

"Do you remember why I chose 'Suga' as my artistic name?" Yoongi asked suddenly, gripping his glass but not drinking.

"Shooting guard," Jin replied. "From your basketball position in middle school."

"Right. Shooting guard." Yoongi's expression grew thoughtful as he swirled the clear liquid. "A shooting guard creates opportunities, adapts to the game, and takes the shots that others can't. They don't sit on the bench following someone else's playbook." For a breath, even Jin fell silent. The celebration’s warmth pooled on the table, unsettled. "But apparently every major entertainment company in Seoul thinks I should be willing to do exactly that."

Something cold settled in Jin's stomach. "What do you mean?"

Without a word, Yoongi reached behind the couch and pulled out a stack of glossy portfolios and thick envelopes, dropping them onto their coffee table with a heavy thud. At least a dozen packages bearing logos Jin recognized from big entertainment agencies: Dreamline Industries, Phoenix Entertainment, Golden Tiger Media.

"These started arriving after Lee Hyun's track hit number one," Yoongi said, his voice carefully neutral. "The volume tripled after 'Luv Is' entered the charts."

Jin's eyebrows rose as he took in the sheer physical presence of the offers. He'd known this day would come, but seeing the actual pile was different. "How many serious ones?"

"Twelve with actual numbers attached," Yoongi said. "Four more that were mostly fishing expeditions." He picked up the thickest portfolio, Dreamline's leather-bound proposal. "The money is..." He paused, naming a figure that made Namjoon choke on his soju.

"That's more than most people make in a decade," Namjoon said, wiping his mouth and pushing his glasses up his nose.

"And all I have to do is sign away my artistic soul," Yoongi said dryly. "Every single contract has the same goal. They want exclusive rights to everything I create. Not just what I produce for their artists, but everything. Every melody I hum, every beat I tap out on the table, every random musical thought I have."

Jin reached for the Dreamline portfolio, eyes focused as he flipped through pages of dense contract language. "All musical works;" he read aloud, "including but not limited to melodies, compositions, arrangements, and lyrical content created by the artist Min Yoongi during the contractual period, under any and all names or pseudonyms, shall be the exclusive intellectual property of Dreamline Industries." He looked up at Yoongi. "They want to own your creativity."

"Exactly." Yoongi's voice carried a frustration that had clearly been building for days. "Dreamline is offering me my own studio space, creative control over production decisions, access to their entire roster of artists. Everything I thought I wanted when I first started dreaming about this career."

"That sounds incredible," Namjoon said slowly. "What's the catch?"

"Read the fine print," Yoongi said, gesturing at the contract in Jin's hands. "Any music created by Min Yoongi during the contract period becomes their property, whether it's credited to Suga or not. The 3 a.m. beats that keep me up because they won't leave my head? Theirs. The experimental tracks I make just for myself? Theirs. That song I've been working on about growing up in Daegu that has nothing to do with commercial appeal? Also theirs."

Jin continued reading. "The non-compete clause is brutal. Even after the contract ends, you'd be restricted from certain types of collaborations for three years."

"Phoenix Entertainment was more direct about it," Yoongi continued, pulling out another contract. "They want to rebrand me entirely, make Suga into this commercial hip-hop producer persona. They actually suggested I consider changing my stage name to something more 'marketable.'"

"Turn you into a product," Jin said, the words tasting bitter.

"A very profitable product," Yoongi admitted. "The Dreamline offer alone would set me up for life financially. I could send money to my parents, help them retire early. I could afford real equipment, work with artists I've only dreamed of collaborating with."

"But you'd be bound to release only music they approve," Namjoon said quietly, understanding dawning in his expression.

"for at least thirteen years, yeah." Yoongi confirmed. "And here's the thing that really terrifies me. I know I should just turn them all down. Stay independent, keep building what I've started..."

"But?" Jin prompted gently.

"But I'm the shiny new toy right now," Yoongi said, his voice dropping. "Everyone wants to work with Suga, because my tracks are charting. What happens when the next producer comes along with the sound everyone wants?" He ran his hands through his hair, a nervous habit Jin recognized. "The offers keep getting bigger, and they're getting more aggressive about exclusivity. Phoenix actually sent someone to one of the battles last week to 'chat' about opportunities, or else. It didn't feel like a casual conversation."

"As a threat?" Jin felt his protective instincts flare.

"Not threatening, exactly," Yoongi said carefully. "More like... making it clear that turning down everyone might not be the smartest business decision. The industry's smaller than it looks, hyung. Relationships matter. And if I get a reputation for being difficult to work with, for thinking I'm too good for partnerships..."

"That's emotional manipulation," Namjoon said firmly, setting down his laptop. "They're creating artificial urgency to pressure you into a decision that benefits them more than it benefits you."

"Maybe," Yoongi agreed. "But what if they're also right? What if independence is just another word for career suicide, and I'm too stubborn to see it?"

Jin studied his friend, sitting in the middle of legal documents that represented both his dreams and his potential nightmare. The weight of an impossible decision was written in every line of Yoongi's posture.

"What does your gut tell you?" Jin asked calmly. "Not what makes business sense, not what everyone's telling you to do. What do you want?"

"I want both," Yoongi said without hesitation. "I want the resources and the connections and the financial security. I want to work with incredible artists, have access to the best studios, not worry about whether I can afford rent next month." His voice grew quieter. "But I also want to keep creating music that's completely mine. Music I can put out under my own name someday, music that has nothing to do with what sells or what some A&R executive thinks will test well with focus groups."

"Those shouldn't have to be mutually exclusive," Namjoon said suddenly, something shifting in his expression. "And I don't believe it's unreasonable to want both."

"Well, that's how the music industry works," Yoongi said.

"What if it's not a binary choice?" Jin asked, a connection sparking in his mind. Corporate structures, intellectual property, the nuances of contractual assignment... legal concepts that suddenly felt less abstract. "IP protection is not a reactive measure but a pre-contractual imperative." Between his contract law textbooks and the very real problem in front of them, a new pathway, intricate but plausible, began to illuminate itself. "Let's say you approach contract negotiations with a pre-existing intellectual property structure in place, your very own Yuhan Hoesa, or LLC. It would require a proactive strategy that goes beyond a simple contract review, but it could work."

Each roommate looked at him with clear interest and confusion respectively.

"It's a solid strategy, and it would function as a segregation of assets. " Namjoon immediately reached for the laptop, his analytical mind catching Jin's direction. "A limited liability company builds a legal and commercial wall around his personal identity, making it much harder for a future employer to argue for ownership. Like a firewall."

"Exactly!" Jin felt excitement building as the idea crystallized. He then turned to Yoongi "You can register an LLC, creating distinct entities to protect different aspects of your work. Any contract you sign with Dreamline would be as Suga, the commercial producer. But your personal work, the experimental stuff, the music that's just yours, your art stays protected."

Yoongi stared at him, hope flickering in his eyes for the first time since Jin had walked through the door. "Is that possible? Can you just create a legal firewall around art?"

"It's incredibly complex," Jin admitted, his mind already racing through corporate law principles and IP protections. "The LLC builds a foundational layer of protection that fundamentally alters the terms of engagement. It's an entirely feasible approach, but we'd need airtight, precise contractual language. The operational separation between commercial and personal creative activities has to be bulletproof. If there's any ambiguity, these companies will exploit it."

"He can then enter negotiations not as a lone creator but as the head of a distinct business entity," Namjoon added, his face lighting up with intellectual fervor. "Suga signs the entertainment contract and produces commercial music. The LLC we create will own everything else that Min Yoongi creates as personal music and maintain its ownership."

Yoongi rubbed his temple again. "You keep saying 'we', like you're not busy enough with a second PhD and Jin doesn’t have a bar exam to study for."

Jin felt something warm and solid settle in his chest. "You don't actually think we'd let you navigate this alone, do you?

"We figured out Constitutional Law together," Namjoon said with a grin. "We'll figure out corporate law too."

Yoongi looked between them, and Jin saw the moment when the crushing weight of isolation lifted from his shoulders. "You'd really do this? Research corporate structures and entertainment law just to help me keep control of music I haven't even written yet?"

"Yoongi-ah," Jin said gently, "you dropped out of college to chase a dream everyone told you was impractical. You've spent years building extraordinary skills from nothing, proving that your music matters, that people want to hear what you create. How could we not help you protect that?"

"Besides," Namjoon added, "this sounds like the most interesting puzzle I've worked on in months. It's like applied mathematics with real stakes."

"It's beyond what I've learned in my classes so far," Jin continued, his mind already cataloging the research he'd need to do. "But Professor Ahn from my Intellectual Property seminar is one of the top entertainment lawyers in the country. He lives for complex challenges like this."

"A corporate entity founded on the principle of creative liberation," Namjoon mused. "We'd need a name that represents that mission. Something meaningful."

"Liberation," Yoongi said quietly. "Freedom from the restrictions that would control my creativity."

"Haegeum," Namjoon said suddenly. "It means 'the lifting of a ban' in Korean. Liberation from any restrictions that would control your art."

"Haegeum Enterprises," Jin said, testing how the name sounded. "Professional enough for legal documents, meaningful enough to remember why we're doing this."

"Haegeum Enterprises," Yoongi repeated; his smile was genuinely optimistic this time. "I like how that sounds. It sounds like something that could actually work."

"It will work," Jin said firmly, feeling the thrill of a complex legal challenge. "We'll make sure it works."

"How long do we have before you need to make a decision?" Namjoon asked.

"Dreamline wants an answer by the end of November," Yoongi said. "The others are being more flexible, but not by much. They know they're competing against each other."

"Then we have six weeks to become experts in entertainment law and corporate structures," Jin said, already mentally clearing his study schedule. "I'll talk to Professor Ahn," Jin continued, his voice firm with purpose. "Frame it as a complex hypothetical case study; an independent producer navigating industry consolidation while protecting artistic integrity." He grinned. "Trust me, he'll love the challenge. Probably turn it into a semester-long project for his advanced students."

As they sat surrounded by contracts that represented both opportunity and potential artistic death, Jin was determined to turn it around. They had six weeks to figure out how to protect everything that matters to Yoongi while still giving him access to the opportunities he deserved.

"So," Jin said, raising his soju glass, "to Haegeum Enterprises. And to proving that shooting guards don't have to choose between winning and playing their own game."

The three glasses clinked together, the sound carrying more weight than any celebration they'd shared before. Bound to protect not just Yoongi's career, but also his artistic soul.

Chapter Text

(Seoul, June 12, 2013)

Jin had never imagined that a stack of copyright registration forms could feel heavier than his constitutional law textbooks, but standing outside the Korea Copyright Commission office with three months' worth of legal documentation, he was acutely aware of the weight in his briefcase. Not just songs—an entire artistic soul. Yoongi's creative work, finally about to be permanently, legally, unquestionably his own.

"Did you double-check the work listings?" Namjoon asked for the fourth time, adjusting his glasses as he reviewed their meticulously organized submission documents.

"Every single composition from January 2010 to present day," Jin confirmed, patting his briefcase. "Forty-five original tracks, twelve collaborative pieces with you, and six experimental compositions that don't fit any commercial category."

"It's twenty-seven thousand, five hundred and twelve measures of music, all cross-referenced by key signature and tempo." Namjoon said, finally satisfied enough to close the binder. "Sixty-three works, and every single piece of music Yoongi's created since he started composing, all catalogued and ready for individual copyright registration."

"Why… Why would you need to count the measures?" Yoongi asked, though he looked more touched than surprised by Namjoon's thoroughness.

"Specificity matters, of course I counted them." Namjoon pushed his glasses up his nose, a habit that had become more pronounced during the intense three months of contract negotiations with Dreamline. " This is your entire artistic identity we're protecting."

Jin felt another surge of pride watching his friends. What had started as a desperate late-night brainstorming session in September had evolved into the most complex entertainment law project Professor Ahn had seen in years. The negotiations with Dreamline hadn't just been about Yoongi accepting their offer, they'd been about fundamentally restructuring how the contract worked.

Dreamline's lawyers had initially balked at the LLC structure, then spent weeks trying to find loopholes that would give them broader creative control. Professor Ahn had become their secret weapon, working late nights to make every clause legally airtight.

"The Dreamline revision meetings were worth it," Jin said, remembering the tense conference rooms where they'd fought for every word of contract language. "Professor Ahn's revised contract language is bulletproof. Dreamline gets exclusive rights to everything you create as 'Suga' for their artists, but your personal work, everything registered today and anything you create going forward under Haegeum will remain completely separate."

"The Suga name restriction still feels strange," Yoongi admitted, checking his own folder of registration documents. "Knowing that anything I release personally can never be credited to Suga."

"That's the trade-off," Namjoon said pragmatically. "Dreamline is paying for the commercial producer Suga, but Min Yoongi the artist keeps his freedom. If you ever want to release personal music, you'll need a different identity entirely."

Yoongi shrugged. "Future problem. Today is about making sure I have options."

The copyright registration process felt ceremonial in a way the LLC paperwork hadn't. Each composition had to be submitted individually, with Haegeum Enterprises listed as the rights holder. Yoongi had organized them chronologically, and Jin found himself reading track titles that told the story of their friendship: "3 AM Apartment Blues" from Yoongi's college burnout period, "Genius Kid" and "Basement Freestyle with RM," clearly inspired by Namjoon, "The Track I Made When I Wanted to Quit Everything." Sixty-three individual copyrights, each one timestamped and officially protected under the umbrella of Haegeum Enterprises.

When the clerk handed Jin the sixty-three individual KCC registration certificates, one for each of Yoongi's works, all bearing the date June 12, 2013, he felt something monumental had been accomplished.

"Congratulations," the clerk said with routine professionalism. "All works are now registered under your corporate entity."

Outside the copyright office, standing in the midday sun with their official documentation, the three of them just stared at each other for a moment.

"It's done," Yoongi said, his voice carrying a wonder Jin had rarely heard from him. "Everything I've ever created that matters to me is officially mine forever."

"And everything you create going forward," Namjoon added, his nervous energy from the morning transforming into pure joy. "Haegeum Enterprises is ready to shield your past and future works."

Jin looked at the registration confirmation in his hands, then at his two brilliant roommates who had spent months helping him turn theoretical legal knowledge into practical artistic freedom. "One-three-zero-six-one-two," he said suddenly.

"What?" Yoongi asked.

"June 12, 2013. The day your entire creative soul became legally bulletproof."

"It’s a true Milestone," Namjoon said with pride.

"Today we proved that artists don't have to choose between commercial success and creative freedom," Jin added, feeling the weight of their three-month legal battle with Dreamline's lawyers.

They celebrated with lunch at a tiny restaurant near the copyright office, the kind of place that served enormous portions of galbi and didn't mind when customers lingered over soju and talked too loudly about intellectual property law. Yoongi kept pulling out his phone to show them messages from his new Dreamline management team, scheduling studio sessions for his first official Suga projects.

"The contract signing tomorrow is going to be at 3pm," Yoongi said as they finally prepared to leave, the registration documents safely tucked in Jin's briefcase alongside copies for all three of them. "I guess I will be walking in as the head of Haegeum Enterprises instead of just Min Yoongi."

"You're walking in as someone who can't be owned," Jin corrected. "Because we've made sure of it."

That evening, Yoongi played them selections from his newly protected catalog. Jin’s favorite was an experimental collaboration with Namjoon from their underground days, and a haunting melody he'd composed during his worst burnout period. Each track was raw, personal, and completely his own.

"Sixty-three songs that belong to you forever," Jin said as the final notes faded in their living room.

"Sixty-three songs that belong to us," Yoongi corrected quietly. "This wouldn't exist without you two."

Walking to his bedroom that night, Jin felt the deep satisfaction that came from months of careful work paying off exactly as planned. June 12, 2013. The day they learned that love could be as precise as contract language, as protective as copyright law, as enduring as officially registered paperwork.

A date that deserved to be remembered forever.

(Seoul, August, 2013)

The math building's fluorescent lights buzzed against the August heat as Jin pushed through the main entrance, takeout bag in one hand and Namjoon's forgotten notebook in the other. Most of campus had emptied hours ago, but he knew exactly where to find his roommate: fourth floor, Lab 412, probably surrounded by whiteboards covered in symbols that looked like an alien language.

He wasn't wrong. Namjoon sat hunched over his workstation, headphones on, completely absorbed in whatever mathematical crisis was consuming his evening. His hair stuck up at odd angles around the headset, and there were eraser shavings scattered across the desk like snow. A small ink smudge marked his left cheek.

Jin knocked on the open door and held up the notebook. "Delivery service."

Namjoon looked up, blinking as he pulled off his headphones. "Hyung? How did you—" His eyes landed on the notebook. "Oh. I've been looking for that for two hours."

"It was on the kitchen counter next to your abandoned coffee mug," Jin said, setting the notebook down and unpacking the takeout containers. "Along with your phone charger and what I'm pretty sure were your lunch plans, since I didn't see you eat anything before you left."

"I meant to grab food on the way," Namjoon said, but his grateful expression suggested they both knew that was optimistic. "You didn't have to come all the way here."

Jin shrugged, arranging the containers on the lab's side table. "I was restless anyway. Figured I'd make myself useful." It was true; he'd been pacing their apartment for an hour, unable to settle into his bar exam prep materials. He told himself it was because he missed the intensity of the Haegeum project, all those late nights researching corporate structures and contract language.

They settled at the small table, eating shoulder to shoulder in the quiet hum of the lab. The silence felt comfortable, shared rather than empty. Namjoon's pen hovered over the margin of his thesis draft, then drifted back to his bowl.

"The measure I'm building won't stabilize unless I constrain the space differently," he murmured, more to himself than to Jin. "It's like trying to catch fog with elastic."

Jin blew on a spoonful of soup, pretending not to notice the ink smudge on Namjoon's cheek. "Then stop trying to catch it," he said mildly. "Build the room it would choose to stay in."

Namjoon paused, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. So Jin took the opportunity to insert a piece of radish in his agape mouth and cackled at the other’s surprise.

"You always do that." Namjoon said while chewing.

"What, feed you?"

"Translate what I'm trying to do into a sentence that makes sense." He glanced sideways, dimples appearing. "Then feed me."

"Adaptive service model," Jin said with mock seriousness. "Associate-level premium."

Namjoon laughed, reaching for his iced coffee. "How's the internship going?" he asked, and Jin found himself watching the way Namjoon's throat moved as he drank, the small sound of the straw against the lid oddly loud in the quiet lab.

"Good. Really good, actually." Jin pulled his attention back to safer ground. "Professor Ahn is letting me sit in on two entertainment contract reviews next week. He keeps using the Haegeum Enterprises structure as an example of innovative IP protection, especially after seeing how well Yoongi's commercial work is going under the new contract. Did he tell you? They’re even talking about making him a resident producer, with permanent royalty cuts. "

“No, I haven’t seen him in days. Our schedules have been completely upside down, and Yoongi-hyung's practically living at the Dreamline studios," Namjoon said, sighing as he organized his notes. "He won't even come home to sleep, but I guess that’s what happens when you hit three straight collaborations. I swear the success of our protection strategy is going to kill him faster than a bad contract." He paused. "I’m not sure he finished reworking that Daegu track.”

“Maybe he did,” Jin chewed slowly, unconsciously leaning closer as he spoke. "Yesterday I heard him playing the guitar, I asked if it was another Dreamline track. He said that he was just playing around with different arrangements while I was cooking dinner." His expression softened. "It's good to see him this excited to create just for the joy of it, you know?"

"He feels safe," Namjoon said softly. "That freedom is what matters the most for him."

"We did good work," Jin agreed, though something about that success felt bittersweet. "I miss it, actually. The project. All those late nights figuring out corporate structures and IP law."

"The stress and caffeine overdoses?" Namjoon teased.

"The collaboration," Jin said honestly. "The three of us solving problems together, but also..." He paused, not sure how to articulate it. "My focus is just not the same without you. I’m still amazed at the way we could take my half-formed legal theories and turn them into something systematic and irrefutable."

Namjoon studied him with that perceptive expression Jin had grown accustomed to. "You know we can still do that, right? Work on things together? We don't need a crisis to make it worthwhile."

"I know. It's just—" Jin gestured vaguely, unable to articulate why he felt restless, why his bar exam prep felt less engaging than usual, why he'd jumped at the excuse to bring Namjoon dinner instead of staying home to study.

Without thinking, Jin reached up and wiped the ink smudge from Namjoon's cheek with his thumb. The touch was brief, practical, but something in the moment after felt different. “Marker ink” he felt compelled to explain.

"Thanks," Namjoon said quietly, eyes meeting Jin's and neither looking away.

Jin cleared his throat, dropping his hand. "Can't have you walking around marked like a crime scene."

"Actually," Namjoon said after a moment, his voice carefully casual, "if you want to study together more often, I wouldn't mind the company. I'll be here most evenings for the next few weeks, working on this proof. You could bring your bar exam prep materials. Different subjects, same space."

Jin felt something ease in his chest that he hadn't realized was tight. "You wouldn't find it distracting? Having someone else here?"

"I find it helpful," Namjoon said simply. "Your presence. It helps me think more clearly, somehow."

Jin studied Namjoon's expression, looking for signs that this was just politeness, but found only sincerity. "Then yeah. I'd like that. Tomorrow night?"

"Tomorrow night," Namjoon agreed, his smile soft and genuine.

As Jin gathered the empty containers, he felt that warm satisfaction settle in his chest again. Something about the way Namjoon had asked him to stay, about studying in the same quiet space, about building a routine around each other's presence.

Walking back across campus, Jin told himself the anticipation he felt about tomorrow night was about productive studying and good company. He didn't examine why the prospect of spending more time with Namjoon felt more important than his actual academic goals, or why he was already planning what food to bring next time.

He just knew he was looking forward to it in a way that felt both familiar and entirely new.

(Seoul, November 2013)  

The hospital hallway smelled of antiseptic and floor wax. Jin clutched the bouquet of peonies, their cheerful pink blooms a stark contrast to the sterile white walls. It was easy to know the right room from the laughter. He found his mother sitting in a chair beside Yujin's bed, her crochet work abandoned as they cackled together. Yujin sat up in her hospital bed, looking remarkably elegant for someone in a standard-issue gown. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun, and she'd somehow managed to make the sterile room feel warmer just by arranging the previous visitors' flowers in order of color.

"There's my lawyer," Yujin said, beaming as Jin entered. Jin kissed his mother and aunt on the forehead, then settled into the visitor's chair, noting the constant beep of monitoring equipment and the IV line in her arm.

“Eomma, do you even know what bed rest is?” Jin said with mock exasperation “You’re supposed to be caring for auntie, not making it harder for her to breathe.”

"She's resting," his mother said, her voice still full of mischief. 

"Jin-ah, we’re just catching up." Yujin said, her voice a little weak but warm. "Come here and tell me about your internship. I want to hear everything."

"It’s going really well so far." he said, placing the peonies on her bedside table. "I couldn’t miss bringing flowers to my favorite auntie the night before she gets a brand new, high-tech heart valve."

She laughed, the sound a little breathy but still full of her characteristic light. "You make it sound like I'm getting a new car."

"A luxury model, I'm sure." Jin looked around as if double-checking “I half expected Jimin to set up camp here by now. How did you manage to keep them away? I know for a fact that Taehyung considers hospital vending machines a legitimate dinner option."

"Bribery and promises," Yujin admitted.

"The Chairman just left with the boys to have dinner,” his mom explained “He wanted to stay, and I could have taken the boys, but Yujin insisted he go with them."

"The boys need normalcy," Yujin said simply. "Tomorrow they'll go to school, complain about homework, and come visit me when I'm awake enough to properly appreciate their company. No need for them to sit in waiting rooms worrying needlessly."

Even facing surgery, she was thinking first about how to protect her children's emotional well-being.

They talked for a while, his mother joining in their banter, their conversation light and easy. Yujin asked for more details about his summer, about Yoongi's success, about Namjoon's dissertation. She spoke of her own surgery with a calm confidence that eased Jin's worry. It was a routine procedure, she insisted, a fix for a valve that had grown weak. The doctors were the best in the country. There was nothing to worry about.

When it was time for him to leave, Jin hugged her carefully.

"See you tomorrow, auntie," he said, gathering his jacket.

"See you tomorrow, Jin-ah. Bring me something interesting to read. These magazines are terrible."

He smiled back, his heart full. "I'll find you something good."

He left the hospital feeling reassured, the image of his aunt's bright laughter imprinted on his mind. He looked forward to visiting her the next day, to seeing her on the other side of this, back on the road to recovery.

Years later, Jin would think back to this moment, to the easy warmth of their conversation, to the confident light in her eyes. He would wonder what else he would have said, what other memories he would have shared, if he had known it was the last time he would ever see that smile.

Chapter Text

(Busan, November 2013)

Jin had packed three suitcases but couldn't remember putting anything into them. The rental car sat silent in his mother's driveway, engine ticking as it cooled in the late morning air. In the back seat, both Jimin and Taehyung had finally fallen asleep during the last hour of the drive, their fifteen-year-old bodies folded awkwardly in the cramped space. Jimin's head rested against the window while Taehyung curled up with his jacket as a blanket and his head pillowed on Jimin's lap. Like this, they looked like the teenagers they actually were instead of the composed, careful versions of themselves they'd become since the media circus that was Kim Yujin's funeral.

Jin stared at his mother's farm house through the windshield, its familiar yellow walls and black-tiled roof unchanged since his childhood. The normalcy of it felt surreal after the chaos they'd fled in Seoul's pre-dawn darkness. No reporters camped on the sidewalk. No camera flashes. No strangers shouting questions about old affairs and scandal cover-ups that reduced his aunt's life to tabloid headlines.

His phone buzzed on the dashboard. Several missed calls, two from Namjoon. Jin fumbled for the device to return the call, his hands still shaking slightly from gripping the steering wheel for four straight hours of highway driving.

Namjoon answered on the second ring.

"Hyung." Namjoon's voice was steady, grounding. "Did you make it safely?"

"We're here." Jin managed, his voice barely above a whisper. He glanced back at the sleeping twins. "They're both asleep. I don't want to wake them yet."

"Take your time," Namjoon said gently. "How are you holding up?"

Lost. Broken. Like I'm driving in circles with a broken compass. "I don't know." Jin said instead, because it was the only true thing he could manage. Jin closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the past week settle over him. He was so angry about what the press was saying about her, about what Jimin and Taehyung were having to hear.

"That's okay," Namjoon assured him. "You don't have to know right now."

"I'm heartbroken, Joonie. I miss her so much already."

"I know," Namjoon said simply. No platitudes about time or healing, just acknowledgment. "We were there, hyung. Yoongi-hyung and I. We came to the funeral."

Jin felt something distant stir, a vague impression of familiar faces in an ocean of strangers and flashing cameras. The funeral felt like something that had happened to someone else.  "I thought I might have seen you."

"The press was..." Namjoon's voice tightened, then stopped. "We stayed as long as we could."

Through the phone, Jin could hear the quiet sounds of their apartment: papers rustling, the distant hum of Yoongi's equipment. Normal life continuing while his world had stopped completely.

"I don't know how long we'll be here," Jin said, watching Taehyung shift in his sleep. "They needed to get away from all that chaos. And I needed..." He trailed off, not sure how to explain the desperate need to protect them from the viciousness, to find some place where their grief could exist without being dissected by strangers.

"You don't have to carry this alone," Namjoon said quietly. "I'm here. Whatever you need."

Jin felt something ease in his chest, a rare moment of relief in what seemed to be an endless nightmare. "I should wake them up. My mother's probably watching from the window."

"Let's talk tonight," Namjoon said. "I'll be here."

The call ended, but Jin sat for another moment in the quiet car, gathering strength. Through the rearview mirror, he watched Jimin's peaceful face and felt his heart tearing into a million pieces again.

She should be here, he thought desperately. She should be the one worrying about whether they're eating enough, sleeping enough, holding up under the weight of reporters shouting questions they shouldn't have to hear. But she wasn't here. She would never be here again.

Even if Jin had no idea how to be the kind of steady presence they needed, he felt the simpler, deeper need to help them find their way through this darkness.

He turned in his seat and gently touched Jimin's shoulder.
"Jiminie. We're here."

Jin's mother stood in the doorway wearing her favorite apron, the one with faded sunflowers that she'd refused to throw away for fifteen years. Her eyes were red-rimmed but steady as she reached for Jin first, her hands finding his face the way she always had since he was small. "You've gotten too thin," she whispered as they hugged.

When she turned to the twins, her voice cracked on the pet names she'd used since they could barely walk. "Jiminie. Taehyungie." She cupped their faces with gentle hands, her thumb automatically smoothing Taehyung's unruly bangs. "We'll take care of you..." 

Her breath hitched, and without another word, she opened her arms wide, the same encompassing gesture that had gathered scraped knees and nightmare tears and every small catastrophe of their childhood. The twins collapsed into her embrace like fifteen-year-old boys suddenly remembering they didn't have to be strong anymore.

Taehyung broke first, a sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest that made Jin's own throat close. A heartbeat later, Jimin crumbled against her shoulder, his whole body shaking with sobs he'd been holding back for a week.

"I know, my darlings, I know," she murmured into Taehyung's hair. Her voice cracked on the words. "She loved you so much. So, so much."

Jin felt his vision blur as he watched his mother hold them, her flour-dusted apron darkening with their tears. She was crying too now, silent streams she didn't bother to wipe away, one hand rubbing circles on Jimin's back while the other cradled Taehyung's head. His own tears came as he watched her fierce grip, holding them together as much as holding them close.

"We're going to be okay," she whispered, rocking them slightly like she used to when they were small enough to fit in her lap together. "All of us. We're going to take care of each other, just like she would have wanted."

Jin wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, throat burning with everything he couldn't say.

For a long moment, they stood there in the entryway, holding each other in their shared grief. Then his mother guided them inside with gentle pressure at their backs, the same way she'd herded them toward the kitchen for snacks during countless childhood visits. 

The house smelled of perilla oil and brewing tea, comfort prepared in advance for wounds she couldn't heal but could tend. Extra bedding lay stacked neatly on the couch, and three bowls of seaweed soup waited on the low table, still steaming.

The twins ate only a few spoonfuls of the soup before exhaustion overtook them. Jin brought their luggage upstairs to the small room that his mother had prepared. Within minutes, they were asleep, Jimin curled on his side facing the wall, Taehyung sprawled across the narrow bed. Jin watched from the doorway as his mother smoothed their hair one last time before quietly closing the door.

The house settled into stillness, but Jin found himself unable to rest. He joined his mother in her daily routine instead, washing the hardly used dishes as she dried them, setting out fresh tea cups, helping her tend the small garden behind the kitchen. The twins slept most of the afternoon, stirring only when his mother brought them fruit that they barely touched. 

As shadows began to lengthen across the kitchen floor, Jin found himself still moving through the gentle routines of care. The familiar rhythm of shared tasks offered small comfort against the silence Yujin left behind.

Later that evening, Jin heard his mother's footsteps return to the kitchen, the soft clink of dishes still full on the tray she carried. He didn't turn from where he stood gripping the counter, his gaze fixed on the wilting hydrangeas in her garden.

A muffled sob from upstairs reached them as his mother noted, "They're talking to Chairman Park. That poor man is just as broken as they are." She took a deep breath. "They're all going to need time. Away from all that ugliness in Seoul."

Jin nodded, thinking of the headlines that had driven them to Busan. "How long do you think before it dies down?"

"Weeks. Maybe longer. People love to tear down what they can't have." Her voice was bitter. "Your aunt was beautiful, successful, and happy. Some people can't stand that."

"I keep wanting to call her," Jin confessed, voice breaking. "Something happens with them, Taehyung won't stop crying, or Jimin won't eat—and I reach for my phone to ask her what to do. How to help them." He turned to face his mother, desperate. "I don't know how to do this."

His mother's eyes filled with tears. "Yujin might be your dad's sister by blood, but she was my sister in every way that mattered." Her voice caught. "Even after your father and I divorced, she stayed close to me. We chose each other as family." 

She wiped her cheeks, steadying herself. "She was my dearest friend, Jin-ah. I knew her soul better than my own, and she lived for those boys. Every decision, every worry, and every joy, it was all about Jimin and Taehyung. All that love she poured into them, it's still there in who they are." 

Her voice softened to a whisper. "She always knew exactly what they needed. That gift is the type of intuition impossible to replace. That's not your responsibility, my son."

"It doesn't make sense," Jin countered, his voice rough. "Even after I checked her medical records, all of it. I wanted to see myself if there was something they missed, something that the doctors or the hospital didn't do to keep her safe—"

His mother moved to stand beside him, her own grief evident in the way she held herself. "The anesthesia put too much strain on her heart. It was already weakened from years of medication." She reached out and squeezed his hand. "Dr. Kim said it was a one-in-a-thousand chance, Jin-ah. No one could have known. There's no point in picking at it. It won't bring her back."

"Then why do I feel so helpless?"

His mother was quiet for a long moment, her hand still covering his. "Because you love them," she said, "And love makes us feel responsible for things beyond our control. But you also need to grieve for her too. We all do." She squeezed his fingers.

"It's getting late. I told Namjoon I'd call him tonight"  Jin wiped the tears from his face. "He's been... he's been checking on me."

His mother's expression softened with understanding. "Good," she said gently. "I'll be in my room if you need anything."

The phone call was answered on the third ring this time.

“Jin-hyung,” Namjoon’s voice was a warm, almost soothing presence in the quiet evening. “I was just about to call you. How was your day?”

"Hard," Jin admitted, voice barely above a whisper. He swallowed, searching for firmer ground. "Tell me about your day. Please. I need to hear about something normal."

"Well, uh-" Namjoon said gently, understanding the request for what it was, "Yoongi-hyung has been at the studio as far as I know, but he should be home soon. I had class this morning, and then went to pick up my new glasses." A small pause. "I spent most of the afternoon at the library."

"Did you find anything good?"  Jin closed his eyes, trying to push away the echo of his last promise to his aunt.

Bring me something interesting to read. These magazines are terrible.

"I did." Namjoon's excitement was a grounding force. "One of my professors challenged me on something I'd dismissed earlier, and I ended up finding this book that... well, it's about growing up, I guess. About figuring out who you are when it feels like the world is split in two."

"That sounds..." Jin's voice cracked. "That sounds familiar."

"Would you like me to read some of it to you?" Namjoon asked softly. "I have it right here."

"Yes, please," Jin whispered.

There was the sound of pages turning, and then Namjoon's voice became softer, more intimate, as if he were sitting right beside Jin rather than hours away in Seoul.

He began reading about a boy who saw his childhood as two separate realms. The first world was his home, a place of light and clarity, of straight lines and parental love, where everything was warm and safe. The other was the world of darkness, of strange secrets and unsettling stories that existed just outside the front door.

Jin felt his eyes burn, but these tears felt cleansing rather than destructive. He knew that feeling too well. The bright, protected world Yujin had built for him and the twins, now shattered by the dark, incomprehensible one that had taken her away.

Namjoon continued reading, his voice a steady anchor in the cool night. The narrator in the book wasn't afraid of the darkness, not really. He was drawn to it, because he understood, even as a child, that both worlds were part of life. That to truly live, you had to learn to navigate both.

The thought didn’t erase the pain, but it shifted something inside Jin. It wasn’t about fixing what was broken, but about learning to live in this new, fractured reality.

"Joonie," Jin whispered, his voice thick.

"I'm here, hyung," Namjoon promised. "For as long as you need."

The thought of enduring the weeks ahead seemed impossible, a mountain of firsts that Jin couldn't imagine climbing. Namjoon's voice continued, a low and gentle murmur against the sounds of the countryside. His presence, that steady voice, made the darkness feel a little less absolute. A friend who knew the most practical thing to offer someone broken wasn't a fix, but permission to feel it.

Chapter Text

(Busan, last week of November, 2013)

One week into their Busan exile, Jin had settled into a routine as dependable as his rice cooker; it was familiar, essential and quietly holding things together. Every night, as the kitchen clock ticked toward nine, he'd wrap his mother's knitted throw around his shoulders and push open the door to the wide porch that wrapped around the farmhouse. He returned to the same spot each evening, phone in hand, to make the call that had become as necessary as his morning coffee.

His recent calls list had become embarrassingly one-note: several consecutive entries, all Namjoon. His thumb moved on its own, drawn to that single point of contact like a compass needle finding north. Somewhere, between those first desperate calls and tonight's routine check-in, Jin had rewired his muscle memory until reaching for Namjoon felt as automatic as breathing.

Namjoon answered on the first ring.

"You're actually waiting by the phone, aren't you?" Jin's mouth curved into something that might have been a smile if he'd had the energy. "That's very dedicated of you."

"I might have been reading next to it," Namjoon admitted, and Jin could practically see him adjusting his glasses. "How was today?"

"Better." Jin let his legs dangle from the platform's worn edge, the way he used to as a boy when his biggest worry was whether the persimmons would be ready before he had to go back to Seoul. "Taehyungie joined us for breakfast this morning. He also ate solid food instead of rearranging it into abstract art. We went for a walk, and then I suffered through three episodes of Digimon Adventures because apparently teenagers still have terrible taste in television."

Namjoon's warm chuckle carried across the distance like a small gift. "Progress."

"Baby steps," Jin agreed, tracing the familiar grain of wood beneath his fingers. "Jiminie helped my mother with dinner prep. I think he needs to keep his hands busy with something that feels normal."

Jin found himself cataloging these details the same way he'd once mentally planned grocery lists, as if tracking the twins' small improvements was the only way to measure time anymore. These calls had become Jin's anchor, the moment each day when his chest loosened enough to let him breathe fully.

"What about you?" Jin asked, settling deeper into the throw. "Any apartment catastrophes I should know about?"

"Define catastrophe..." Namjoon's voice carried that telltale note of sheepish confession.

"That's not reassuring, Joonie."

"The good news is we still have running water. The questionable news is that the bathroom sink has developed what Yoongi-hyung calls personality."

Jin shook his head, already imagining the scene. "Please tell me you haven't flooded anything."

"No, no." Namjoon defended, but Jin caught the slight pause. "The sink is just making a new sound. Like a dying whale, but more melodic. Please don't tell Yoongi-hyung I told you about this. He said you'd make him fix it."

Jin shook his head, forgetting that Namjoon couldn't see him. "Have you called the landlord?"

"I sent a text," Namjoon said, and Jin could hear the sheepish smile. "Oh, and we ran out of kimchi. While searching for alternatives, I discovered something in the refrigerator that might be achieving consciousness."

This pulled a genuine laugh from Jin, startling in the quiet night. "Please tell me you threw it out before it developed opinions."

"Yoongi-hyung wanted to name it first. I overruled him."

Their banter moved through familiar patterns, comfortable as worn furniture. For these few minutes, Jin was reminded that the world outside Busan still existed. He could almost pretend that he was away on a family visit rather than fleeing from reporters who'd turned his aunt's death into entertainment.

"Are you two heathens eating ramyun again?" Jin asked, falling back into the rhythm of worry that felt more like home than any other place.

"How do you have so little faith in us?" Namjoon protested, but his laugh was bright enough that Jin could almost see his dimples. "Yoongi-hyung bought tteokbokki cups. We're practically gourmet."

"Yaah! Kim Namjoon," Jin said, and even to his own ears he sounded more like himself than he had in days, "Just because I'm not there doesn't mean you get to live like feral creatures. Yoongi knows how to work the rice cooker, you should at least eat some rice. Just—add water and heat, that's not cooking, that's chemistry for kindergarteners."

"We miss you too, hyung." Namjoon said softly.

The words hung between them, gentle but significant. Missing. Such a small word for the way Jin had started planning conversations with people who would never answer again, for the hollow feeling that had taken up permanent residence in his chest.

"Would you like me to read to you tonight?"

"Yes," Jin whispered. "I'd like that very much."

The familiar sound of pages turning carried through the phone, and Jin closed his eyes, letting Namjoon's voice paint pictures of a perfect city celebrating in summer sunshine. When Namjoon paused, Jin found himself holding his breath, caught between the story of Omelas and the quiet sounds of night insects in his mother's garden.

Long after their goodnights, Jin remained on the porch, watching stars emerge over the persimmon tree. The pain wasn't gone, and probably wouldn't be for a long time. Tonight, wrapped in his mother's throw with Namjoon's voice still echoing in his mind, Jin allowed himself to believe that small comforts might eventually add up to something like healing.

Busan, December 2013

Jimin sat at the kitchen table, staring at his phone with the kind of intensity usually reserved for final exams or cooking disasters. A still full bowl of seaweed soup sat cooling beside him; Jin had made it that morning following his mother's stern rule that breakfast was not optional. It had been nearly three weeks since they'd fled Seoul, and while Taehyung had begun sketching and playing music again, Jimin had grown quieter, more watchful. Still picking at his meals like a bird with trust issues.

The morning light filtering through his mother's lace curtains caught the tension in Jimin's shoulders, and Jin felt that familiar prickle of dread. He paused in the doorway, basket of damp laundry balanced on his hip, he'd been headed outside to hang the clothes on the line before the December wind picked up.

"Jiminie," Jin said, keeping his voice casual as he set the basket down. "I thought you'd be upstairs playing with Tae."

Jimin looked up, his eyes holding the kind of weariness that had no business existing in a teenager's face. He clicked his phone screen dark and placed it on the scarred wooden table with the deliberate care of someone handling evidence.

"They're saying she was a homewrecker." His voice was flat, clinical, like he was reading from a textbook. "That Eomma destroyed a marriage for money and ruined her acting career because she was... greedy."

Jin's stomach dropped like a stone through black water. His Criminal Law class had covered defamation statutes, but there was no chapter on shielding grieving boys from a media machine that weaponized a dead woman's memory against her own children. Even if Chairman Park could file a dozen cease-and-desist letters, demand retractions, cite criminal defamation codes until he was blue in the face. None of that would matter when Jimin's hands were trembling.

"Can I sit?" Jin asked, already pulling out the chair across from Jimin. The wood creaked with the same familiar sound it had made during countless meals, game nights and craft days at this table.

Jimin nodded, shoulders rigid beneath his oversized sweater.

"Is that why the reporters were shouting those things at the funeral?" Jimin continued before Jin could speak, each word careful and measured. "About affairs and scandals? Is that why Appa didn't make them stop?"

Jin's indignation flared hot and useless, like a match in the wind. He'd rehearsed this conversation in his head a dozen different ways during sleepless nights, but facing Jimin's direct gaze made all his carefully prepared words scatter like startled birds.

What could he say? That their father had been too broken to fight back? That grief had turned him smaller, quieter, when his sons needed him to be a fortress? That sometimes love made people fragile instead of strong?

"Your father is drowning in his own grief," Jin said finally, the words tasting bitter as over-steeped tea. "And the press... they've been telling their version of your mother's story for years. To them, she's not a person who made breakfast every morning or worried about your math grades. She's just headlines. Something that sells papers."

"But is it true?" Jimin's voice cracked slightly, and Jin heard the child he still was beneath all that forced composure. "Did she—did they do something wrong?"

Jin reached across the table, covering Jimin's ice-cold fingers with his own. The question hung between them, sharp-edged and unavoidable as broken glass.

"Let me ask you something first," Jin said quietly, thumb rubbing circles on Jimin's knuckles the way his own mother used to do when he was scared. "Do you believe your parents loved each other?"

Jimin's nod came without hesitation. "Yes."

"Then that's what matters. That's your truth." Jin squeezed Jimin's hand gently. "The press writes about a version of her that never existed. They're filling gaps with assumptions because they never bothered to see who she really was. They never saw her check on you boys twice every night, or watched her cry during dog food commercials. They didn't know she loved to sing off-key at karaoke just for fun, even though she had one of the most beautiful voices in Korea when she wanted to use it."

A ghost of a smile flickered across Jimin's face at the last detail. Everyone knew Kim Yujin had been classically trained, that she'd taught her nephew and her sons to sing with perfect pitch and proper breath control. The idea that she'd deliberately sing badly just because it made her happy would shock anyone who'd only known her public persona.

"The truth is, Jiminie, no tabloid will ever know your mother the way we do. And the people who matter already know exactly who she was."

Jimin stared down at their joined hands, his thumb tracing the edge of Jin's knuckle. "I wish I could make all the articles disappear. She never defended herself, you know. I found old interviews where they asked her about it, and she just smiled and changed the subject."

Jin felt a rush of pride mixed with sorrow. Of course Jimin had gone looking for his mother's own words. His cousin was too smart and too stubborn to rely on other people's versions of the truth.

"Your mother understood something important," Jin said, glancing at the cooling soup that would need to be reheated if Jimin was ever going to finish it. "The people who mattered already knew her completely. The rest is just noise."

Jimin's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "But what if Taehyung sees what they're saying? He'll—" His voice broke off, and Jin saw it clearly now. This wasn't just about Jimin's own pain. This was about being the older twin by seven minutes, the one who'd always felt responsible for protecting his brother from sharp edges and harsh truths.

"Is that why you're asking me? To protect Tae?"

A small nod. "He still cries at night. He doesn't think I hear him, but he's loud even when he's trying to be quiet. If he reads what they're saying about Eomma..."

The kitchen grew quiet except for the distant sound of Jin's mother humming in the garden and Taehyung's muffled music upstairs—some melancholy ballad that had been on repeat since breakfast. This fragile peace wouldn't last much longer, Jin knew. Soon they'd have to return to Seoul, to school, to reporters who might corner them outside convenience stores and ask intrusive questions with bright, false smiles.

"The hurt you're feeling about these lies?" Jin said finally, choosing his words like stepping stones across a rushing river. "It's going to ache for a long time. But that pain isn't wrong, Jimin-ah. It's real, just like your love for her is real. And you won't be able to spare Taehyung from that pain, you can only share it with him. That's what family is for."

Jimin's phone buzzed against the table, screen lighting up with another notification. Jin caught a glimpse of a headline with words like "scandal" and "truth revealed" before Jimin flipped it over with practiced speed.

"Your father called this morning," Jin said, deciding to rip off this particular band-aid quickly.

Jimin's head snapped up. "He wants us back in Seoul." It wasn't a question. The resignation in his voice said he'd been expecting this call for days.

"Not immediately. Eomma convinced him to wait until after the holidays." Jin offered his best attempt at a reassuring smile, the kind his mother used to give him when promising that shots at the doctor's office would only hurt for a second. "That gives us a few more weeks here."

"But this will be our first Christmas without—" Jimin's voice caught, unable to complete the sentence that would make the loss real all over again.

"I know," Jin said simply, because there were no words that could soften that particular blow. Christmas would come whether they were ready or not, bringing its own special brand of grief wrapped in tinsel and old memories.

Jimin pushed his soup bowl in small circles on the table, apparently finding patterns in the movement that fascinated him. "When do we have to go back?"

"Not sure yet. Beginning of the school term, probably. You'll both need time to prepare." Jin watched Jimin absorb this information, knowing they'd have to face classmates who had surely seen the coverage, teachers who might look at them differently, a world that would always know them as the boys whose mother...

"I'll follow you back to Seoul," Jin promised, meaning it completely. "And we'll take it one day at a time. One meal, one homework assignment, one stupid question from nosy reporters at a time."

Jimin looked up with a fragile determination that made Jin's heart ache. "You were on the debate team for school, right? Can you show me? How to tell reporters to leave us alone? I mean… In case they corner us at school or something."

"We can practice," Jin said, already recalling the kind of polite-but-firm responses his aunt would use to shut down intrusive questions. "But I'm sure your father is arranging security detail too. At least for the first few months."

"Great. Another crutch." Jimin said simply, and his tone held an understanding far beyond his years.

From upstairs came the sound of a door opening, followed by Taehyung's voice calling out in that sleep-rough way that meant he'd finally crawled out of bed.

"I'm down here, Tae!" Jimin called back, already straightening his posture, smoothing his expression into something lighter.

Jin watched the transformation—Jimin carefully folding away his own pain to make space for his brother's needs—and saw echoes of Yujin in the gesture. She had done the same thing countless times, pushing aside her own struggles to create a safe haven for those she loved.

"Will you help us make cookies later?" Jin asked, seized by the sudden need to create something sweet in a world that had turned bitter. "We should start holiday baking if we're staying through Christmas."

"Taehyung will destroy the kitchen." Jimin smiled. A small, genuine smile despite everything.

"That's just half the fun, isn't it?" Jin replied without missing a beat. "The more flour he gets in his hair, the better the cookies turn out."

Footsteps clattered down the stairs, and Taehyung appeared in the doorway wearing a red beanie pulled down to his eyebrows and and eyes so puffy from either sleep or too much crying, most likely both.

"Are you talking about me?" he asked, voice raspy with suspicion.

"Always," Jimin replied, his tone already lighter, more like the boy he'd been four weeks ago. He pushed back from the table, abandoning his soup entirely. "Jin-hyung says we're making cookies later."

"With sprinkles?" Taehyung perked up immediately, shuffling toward them with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just discovered Christmas wasn't cancelled after all.

"With everything," Jin promised, watching as Jimin naturally shifted to make space for Taehyung beside him. "We're talking full chaos. Sprinkles, frosting, those little silver beads that are impossible to chew. The works."

Outside, his mother had stopped working in her winter garden to stare at the bare branches of the persimmon tree, her shoulders hunched against more than just the December chill. Inside, both twins were already bickering about cookie flavors, while Jimin's phone sat forgotten and silent on the table.

Their first Christmas without Yujin stretched ahead of them like a minefield of memories and traditions that would feel wrong without her laughter filling the spaces between. Beyond that loomed the return to Seoul with all its sharp edges and painful headlines.

But for now, there were cookies to plan and flour to spill and small moments to salvage from the wreckage. It wasn't enough, it would never be enough, but it was what they had. And sometimes, Jin was learning, what you had was exactly what you needed to take the next breath, and then the one after that.

Chapter Text

(Busan, December 20th 2013)

The KTX from Seoul was running exactly on schedule. Jin checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes, phone pressed to his ear as he scanned the crowded platform at Busan Station. The eleven o'clock train had come and gone thirty-four minutes ago without any signs of Namjoon.

Jin was already on his second call to Yoongi, pacing a tight loop near the station's arrival board. Beside him, Taehyung bounced on his toes like a child waiting for carnival rides, his red beanie askew and his breath forming small clouds in the December air.

"His phone goes straight to voicemail," Jin muttered into the phone, his stomach knotted. "What if he missed his stop? What if he gets lost and ends up in Gwangju by accident? He could be halfway to Mokpo right now!"

On the other end, Yoongi's sigh was a long, static-filled sound. "Hyung, he's a twenty-year-old with a genius-level IQ. I think he can manage a train ticket."

"Your genius locked himself out of the apartment just last week while taking out the trash!" Jin snapped, turning just in time to see Taehyung wobble dangerously with his arms stretched out wide, walking the narrow backrest of a steel bench like a tightrope performer. The sight sent a fresh spike of adrenaline through him. "Taehyungie, feet on the ground. Please." He lowered his voice, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Did Namjoon have the common sense to borrow a phone to call you? Send a text? No. He went to Ms. Kang in 2B, asked to borrow a book—a book!—and then he sat in that hallway for three hours!"

"True, but... he seemed pretty content to me," Yoongi countered, his voice a low drawl. Sleep clung to his words, and under normal circumstances, Jin would have launched into a lecture. But Namjoon’s potential whereabouts trumped Yoongi’s terrible sleep schedule. "Said the hallway lighting was better than our living room's. Look, he forgot his keys. I let him in, he went back to his book. He's fine, hyung. I'm sure of it."

"Well, let's hope you're right," Jin scrubbed a hand over his face, a gesture that did nothing to stop the litany of worst-case scenarios playing out in his mind. He was going to have to research the legality of microchipping Namjoon. Not as a joke. As a serious, practical measure to ensure the continued survival of a certified genius with the self-preservation instincts of a houseplant. Surely, there's a precedent for such a predicament. "Fine," he said into the phone, the words clipped. "But if he's not on the next train, I'm filing a missing persons report." He ended the call just as Taehyung’s daredevil performance ended in a yelp and a stumble. A few irritated glances shot their way. Jin stepped slightly in front of Taehyung, as a subtle shield.

"Sorry," Taehyung mumbled, righting his beanie. He jammed his hands into his pockets, and climbed back onto the bench without missing a beat. "Is he here yet?"

"Any minute now," Jin said, though the words were more for himself than for Taehyung.

An announcement overhead declared the next train's arrival in ten minutes. Jin forced himself to take a slow breath, the cold air stinging his lungs. Okay. He missed the eleven o'clock. He's on this one. He pulled out his phone, searching for a notification, a sign, anything he might have missed.

"Hyung, is your friend supposed to be a giant?" Taehyung asked suddenly, tilting his head toward the crowd. "Because that giant over there looks properly lost."

Jin scanned the crowd nearby, seeing nothing. Then he looked farther, and he gasped. There, towering above a sea of winter coats, he spotted a familiar shock of dark hair above a navy jacket. Kim Namjoon, looking exactly as bewildered as Taehyung had described, trying to navigate the throng with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and what looked like a large, cellophane-wrapped gift basket cradled protectively in his arms.

The frantic hum of worry in Jin's veins simply ceased. One moment it was a live wire, the next, nothing. The sudden silence in his own head was so profound he felt lightheaded.

"That's him!" Jin raised a hand. "Namjoon-ah!"

Namjoon's head turned, glasses catching the harsh station light. His face broke into a smile as he began weaving through the crowd toward them.

"Jin-hyung!" Namjoon called, slightly out of breath, as he reached them, his gaze quickly finding Taehyung perched on the bench.

 "There you are," Jin's voice came out softer than he'd expected, the knot in his stomach finally loosening. "Namjoon-ah, do you have any idea how many worst-case scenarios I've invented in the past hour? I was ready to call every hospital between here and Seoul."

Namjoon shifted the fruit basket, looking clearly embarrassed. "Sorry. The train was on time, but then... I realized my phone was dead, so I went looking for a payphone, and wow! Do you know how hard those are to find now? And on the way I saw a bookstore." He gestured vaguely. "They had a whole section on regional agriculture. I started reading about persimmon cultivation, but I took a wrong turn heading back and ended up by the taxi stands on the other side of the station." He let out a weary sigh. "It took me twenty minutes just to find my way back to the arrivals platform."

Jin just stared at him. "You got lost... inside the train station... because of a book about fruit."

"It was surprisingly detailed," Namjoon offered, as if this explained everything. "Oh, and I also stopped to get this." He hefted the basket. "For your mother."

"Thank you Joonie. That's… thoughtful," Jin let out a sigh "I just wish next time, some of that thought goes into charging your phone before a trip. It's not quantum physics."

The sudden stillness and lack of noise from Taehyung prickled at the edge of Jin's awareness. A quick glance to the side revealed his cousin, perched on the bench's edge with his feet drawn up, staring at Namjoon with wide-eyed fascination. He looked like a curious bird studying some new, interesting specimen.

"Hyung," Taehyung said finally, tugging on Jin's sleeve without looking away from Namjoon, "you said your friend was smart. You didn't mention he was basically a tree."

A smile tugged at Jin’s lips. "Taehyungie, meet my friend Kim Namjoon. Joonie, this is my cousin Park Taehyung. He has no filter and treats public furniture like his personal jungle gym."

Namjoon’s expression was utterly serious, as if greeting a fellow academic. "Nice to meet you. A sound tactical choice. The high ground always offers a strategic advantage."

The solemn validation was all it took. Taehyung scrambled down from the bench and began bouncing on his toes, practically vibrating with barely contained questions. The station's afternoon bustle pressed closer; announcements echoing overhead, the shuffle of winter boots on tile. A woman with a wheeled suitcase maneuvered sharply around their small cluster, her irritated sigh cutting through the noise.

"Come on," Jin hefted his keys. "Let's get you two out of here before Taehyungie polls half the station about your height."

As they started walking, Namjoon fell into step beside him. "For a train station their bookstore is very impressive." He smelled like coffee and winter air. "I ended up buying the book about persimmons."

"Of course you did." Jin couldn't help but laugh. This was exactly the kind of wonderfully ridiculous thing Namjoon would do. Jin should have known better. An hour of catastrophizing about hospitals and wrong destinations, when the answer was always find the nearest bookstore. He'd need to add this to his Namjoon-management handbook, right after charge your phone and directly above his upcoming research into the legality of microchipping a human.

Taehyung darted between them, rescuing the fruit basket from Namjoon's precarious grasp. "Did you really buy books about farming? Woah, That's so random. I love it."

"Just one," Namjoon admitted, hefting his bag. "And maybe a journal about soil composition. Jin-hyung mentioned you have persimmon trees here, and I wanted to understand the growing process."

"Eomma is going to adopt you," Jin warned, but he was smiling. "You've been warned."

The drive home became a symphony of Taehyung's enthusiastic commentary from the backseat. Jin caught glimpses of Namjoon in the passenger seat, nodding attentively as Taehyung described all the fruit trees in their backyard and the neighbor's cat who visited every morning for scraps.

"Wait, you've never been to Busan before?" Taehyung's voice pitched higher. "Never? Not once?"

"Never had the chance."

"Then we have to take you to the beach first! Even in winter, it's incredible. There's this spot where you can see the whole city, and the sunrise lights up everything, and there are these rock formations that look like sleeping dragons—" Taehyung's hands moved in expansive circles, trying to capture something too big for words.

"That sounds perfect," Namjoon said, and the sincerity in his voice made Jin's chest warm. "I'd love to see the ocean."

"We went last week! Jin-hyung, can we go tomorrow? Please?"

Jin caught Namjoon's eye. Something unspoken passed between them—gratitude, understanding, a shared awareness of the small miracle of Taehyung's animation.

"Sure," Jin agreed, already mentally cataloging warm scarves and the best route to avoid crowds. "The beach it is."

The living room felt different with Namjoon's presence filling it, though that might have been Taehyung's enthusiastic hovering adding to the bustling effect. The familiar space seemed both more intimate and more complete. Jin watched as Namjoon took in the room with quiet curiosity, the worn couch where his cousin liked to sprawl with his sketchbooks, the family photos his mother had carefully arranged on the wooden shelves. There was something both nerve-wracking and deeply satisfying about seeing his two worlds finally meet.

From the kitchen came the sound of his mother's footsteps, deliberate and assessing. Jin knew that particular rhythm. She was taking her time, gathering first impressions before making her entrance. For a terrifying moment, he felt like he was thirteen again, waiting for her verdict on some questionable life choice.

"Welcome, Namjoon-ssi," she said as she appeared, her voice carrying that perfect balance of warmth and maternal evaluation that had been intimidating friends since Jin was in elementary school.

Namjoon stepped forward without hesitation, executed a bow so deep it would have made his grandparents weep with pride. "It's an honor to meet you, ajumeoni. Thank you for welcoming me into your home." He straightened and offered the gift basket with both hands, the gesture so naturally respectful that Jin felt a surge of gratitude.

"Such thoughtfulness," she murmured, accepting the basket with both hands in the traditional manner, matching his respectful gesture. Her eyes lingered on Namjoon's earnest face, taking in the slight anxiety behind his polite smile. "My son has finally brought home a friend with proper manners."

The comment made Jin's cheeks warm. "Eomma, this is Kim Namjoon. Joonie, my mother."

"Thank you for your kindness, ajumeoni," Namjoon replied, his voice softer now, as if sensing the moment's shift.

"Aiish, no more ajumeoni," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "Makes me feel ancient! Since you're clearly going to be family, just call me what my son calls me."

"Yes, eomeonim," Namjoon conceded, and Jin caught the small smile that flickered across his mother's face at the immediate compliance.

The kitchen smelled like winter comfort with the rich broth simmering, garlic and sesame oil warming the air. His mother moved with practiced efficiency, checking the heat under the noodle pot and adjusting seasonings with the same passion that ignited Jin's own love for the culinary arts.

"Go wash up, both of you," she instructed, already turning back to her preparations. "The janchi-guksu won't stay warm forever, and I didn't spend all day making proper broth for it to get cold. Taehyungnie!" she called and waited for his cousin to look up, before adding, "Please fetch your brother."

Jin led Namjoon toward the narrow hallway, past the family photos that chronicled decades of birthday parties and school graduations. Behind them, Taehyung's voice boomed up the stairs with zero regard for indoor volume.

"JIMINIE! Jin-hyung's genius friend is here! Come down and be social!"

Both Jin and Namjoon paused, listening to the theatrical silence that followed. Namjoon’s eyes widened, and Jin had to bite back a laugh. That was absolutely not what his mother had meant by fetch your brother, but Taehyung approached everything with his own unique interpretation.

"No filter whatsoever," Namjoon observed with barely contained amusement.

"None," Jin confirmed, as they began walking again, he gestured toward the bathroom door. "You can wash up here. I'll put your bag in my room—well, your room for the week. I'm bunking with the two menaces upstairs."

The sound of footsteps thundering up the wooden stairs announced Taehyung’s direct summons, as he turned the simple act of fetching his twin into a contact sport.

When Jin returned to the kitchen, his mother was ladling steaming janchi-guksu into her best ceramic dinnerware, the ones she usually saved for New Year's. The thin wheat noodles swimming in clear, savory broth that smelled like childhood comfort, mixing with the earthier smell of winter kimchi and pickled radish. She'd added thin slices of egg and bright pickled radish, the colors cheerful against the white bowls.

"We're planning to take Namjoon to the beach tomorrow," Jin said, automatically reaching for the side dishes without being asked. "If the weather holds."

"Good idea," his mother replied, carefully arranging thin slices of boiled egg atop each serving. "Taehyungie already cornered me about packing kimbap for your adventure." She glanced up with a knowing smile that carried decades of watching him navigate friendships. "It was smart to invite him, Jin-ah. The house feels like it's breathing again."

Namjoon appeared in the doorway, looking slightly uncertain about where to place himself in the domestic choreography. Jin's mother immediately shifted into hostess mode, gesturing him toward the table while she served.

"My son tells me you study mathematics," she said once he was seated, the words 'my son,' landing with that deliberate weight that meant she’d placed Jin squarely inside her motherly protective fence line.

"Yes, aj— eomeonim. Among other subjects."

"Your parents must be bursting with pride," she continued, "Are you sure they don't mind you being away during the holidays?" The question was gently probing, wrapped in maternal concern rather than nosiness.

Namjoon's smile held no bitterness, just the matter-of-fact acceptance Jin had learned to recognize. "They're both doctors. Very dedicated to their work." He paused, the light furrow in his brow, told Jin that he was choosing his words carefully. "They've been covering holidays for colleagues with younger families since I started university. As I began to be more involved in research programs, spending holidays at home became... less practical. My parents encouraged me to make my own traditions."

Footsteps on the stairs announced the twins' arrival. Taehyung bounded in first, now wearing an oversized baby blue sweater that Jin was certain did not belong to him. Behind him, Jimin moved with his usual careful grace, curious but still cautious about new people.

"Jiminie," Jin said gently, "this is my friend Namjoon."

"It's nice to meet you," Jimin said quietly, offering a respectful bow before taking his usual seat beside Taehyung.

They settled around the table, Jin automatically taking the seat that let him keep both brothers in his peripheral vision.

"Jimin doesn't believe me that you skipped high school," Taehyung announced without preamble, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs from his twin.

"I passed the entrance exam after middle school," Namjoon explained calmly, unfazed by the sudden spotlight. "So I started university at fourteen, same age as you are now."

Both twins' eyes widened in perfect synchronization, a sight that never failed to remind Jin they were two halves of the same whole.

"We're fifteen... but wait," Taehyung shook his head, his expression shifting from impressed to confused, "if you started university at fourteen, shouldn't you be finished by now? How old are you exactly?"

"You're asking too many questions, Tae," Jin said, adding kimchi to Taehyung's bowl out of habit now. "Namjoon has multiple degrees, most of them focus in mathematics. Just eat before your food gets cold and let him eat in peace."

"Ew, math," Taehyung's face contorted as if he'd tasted something bitter. "Did they really not give you another option?"

"I enjoy math." Namjoon said simply.

Taehyung stared at him with fascinated horror, it was the same expression he made when watching nature documentaries about deep-sea creatures. "That sounds like masochistic tendencies to me."

"Park Taehyung," his mother's voice carried that gentle but unmistakable note of correction that had been curbing Jin's own impulses since he could walk.

"Sorry, Imo-nim." Taehyung said with automatic contrition, but his fascination wouldn't be deterred. "I'm just saying, choosing to do more math when you could literally study anything else seems like... well, like you enjoy pain."

Jin opened his mouth to deliver a proper lecture on manners, but Jimin beat him to it with an eye-roll so fond it made Jin's chest ache with recognition.

"Taehyung struggles with math more than your average human," Jimin explained apologetically. "Please don't take it personally Namjoon-ssi,"

"If you are insinuating that I am an alien again," Taehyung shot back, wielding a chopstick like a sword aimed at his twin's face. "You better thank my alien brain next time you come begging for creative solutions to get us out of Appa's company dinners."

"I do not beg—" Jimin started to protest, but the words dissolved into laughter as Taehyung lifted a finger to the side of his head pretending to adjust a nonexistent alien antenna.

Jin caught his mother's eye across the table. She was trying to maintain proper dinner decorum, but she pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. The normalcy of Taehyung's commentary, Jimin's fond exasperation, the gentle rhythm of their teasing, these were small signs of two hearts learning to heal.

Finally, the dinner table didn't feel like a place where someone was missing. It felt like a place where someone new had been welcomed home.

Chapter Text

(Busan, December 25th 2013)

The old wooden decking flexed with a subtle groan under Jin’s weight as he settled into his usual spot. He pulled his sweater tighter against the night air drifting in from the mountains. Christmas night had descended in a blanket of stars over Busan, clearer and brighter than any Seoul evening could offer. Namjoon sat cross-legged beside him near the sliding door, feet near the low railing. A well-loved copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy rested in Namjoon's lap, spine cracked from countless readings, his other hand holding a mug of tea.

"Optimizing Educational Delivery Through Predictive Cognitive Load Models." Jin read the title again, continuing their conversation from dinner. "Sounds like you're trying to bore everyone to death before you even start talking."

Namjoon's face scrunched. "It's academically precise."

"It's academically pretentious." Jin blew on his tea, watching steam curl into the night air. "It's a guest lecture, Joonie. They already gave you the degree—you can use normal words now."

"Fine. What would you suggest?"

"What's the lecture about?" Jin put down the draft for Namjoon's presentation.

"Mathematical modeling of cognitive load and information retention."

"Whoa, Kim Namjoon!" Jin's breath clouded in small puffs as he laughed. "Try again! and this time, like you didn't swallow a textbook."

"Using physics equations to map how the brain processes complex information under suboptimal conditions."

Jin set his mug down on the deck, studying Namjoon's earnest expression.

"Then how about," Jin tapped his chin, "Why Your Brain Gets Tired... A Mathematical Approach?"

"That makes me sound like a children's science presenter."

"The Mathematics of Mental Fatigue?"

Namjoon considered this, head tilting. "That's... not terrible."

"I should charge consultation fees." Jin grinned, knocking his knee against Namjoon's. The simple contact grounded him, a physical reminder that Namjoon was here, not a disembodied voice through his phone. For five nights now, they'd sat in this spot, Jin's usual calling perch, same time every night.

Namjoon adjusted his glasses. "You know you don't have to come to the lecture. It's the week before your bar exam."

Jin's stomach clenched. "About that," He stared at the presentation draft still lying between them. The words stuck in his throat. "I'm not taking it this January."

Namjoon set his mug down, giving Jin his full attention.

"I'm postponing until next year." The admission came easier than expected. "You were right. With everything going on... I need more time."

"That's a good decision, hyung."

"It feels like giving up." The confession tumbled out before Jin could stop it.

"It's not giving up." Namjoon didn't hesitate. "You're choosing what's sustainable. Anyone would need more time after what you've been through."

Jin huffed a small laugh. "Joonie, you have more degrees than most people get in a lifetime. It's hard to take comfort from someone who makes 'impossible' look easy."

Namjoon's ears went pink. He was quiet for a moment. Then his dimples appeared, soft and sheepish. "You make it sound more impressive than it is."

"Because it is impressive." Jin knocked his knee against Namjoon's again. "And you're terrible at accepting compliments."

"I learned from the best."

Jin snorted. "Touché."

"I'll be cheering extra loud at your graduation in February," Namjoon said, smiling. "And we're celebrating properly. No excuses."

Jin's throat tightened. "Joonie, it's a formality—"

"It counts, hyung. You worked hard." Namjoon's voice was gentle but firm. "I'm proud of you."

Jin smiled before he could stop himself. "Even if I haven't passed the bar yet?"

"Of course." Namjoon's voice was soft. "And you'll be there for mine in August. Even if it means surviving another long dissertation defense."

"Will it be three hours again?"

"Probably closer to two. No more than two and a half."

"I'll bring snacks then."

Namjoon laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "Deal."

Jin picked up his mug again to warm his hands.

"When are you coming back to Seoul?" Namjoon asked, his voice gentle.

"End of January. My mother will stay at the new penthouse with the twins for a couple months while they settle. At least until they get in a good routine and are back in school." Jin took a sip of cooling tea. "The press should lose interest by then, especially with the company announcement."

Namjoon raised his eyebrows.

"Their father will step down as chairman," Jin explained. "He's transitioning to an advisory role, at least temporarily. The official story is about health concerns, but..."

"But he needs time too," Namjoon finished.

Jin nodded. "I've been applying to firms. There's one specializing in entertainment and IP law that seems interesting."

"Because of Yoongi?"

"Partly." Jin smiled. "Working with Haegeum taught me I'm good at something."

Namjoon looked ready to argue, but Jin waved him off. "I know what you're going to say, but it's different. This is something that makes sense to me."

The sound of laughter drifted from inside the house. Taehyung and Jimin were watching a variety show with Jin's mother. The normalcy of it tugged at his heart.

"Thank you," Jin said. "For coming here. For making our first Christmas without her... bearable."

Namjoon's eyes softened. "There's nowhere else I would've been."

Another comfortable silence fell between them. Namjoon fidgeted, then reached into his pocket.

"I know your birthday was weeks ago, but..." He offered Jin a small velvet satchel. "I wanted to give you this before I leave tomorrow."

Jin took the satchel, surprised by its weight. Inside lay a keychain, the golden spiral curving perfectly into itself. Jin recognized the mathematical symbol φ etched at its center.

"It's the golden ratio," Namjoon explained, voice growing softer. "Phi. It appears everywhere in nature—in the pattern of seeds in a sunflower, the spiral of galaxies." His fingers brushed against Jin's as he turned the keychain over, revealing an engraving.

φ - Our Constant

"In mathematics, constants are fixed," Namjoon continued, a tremor in his voice. "Unchanging values we can rely on. They anchor equations, give them meaning."

Something warm swelled in his chest, making his ribs feel too tight. It was gratitude, Jin told himself. Just gratitude for being understood when everything else felt uncertain.

"The golden ratio represents perfect balance," Namjoon said. "Mathematically beautiful. Stable." A flush crept up Namjoon's neck. "Like you. You've been our constant, hyung. Through everything." His eyes remained on the keychain.

"Thank you, Joonie." Jin whispered as his vision blurred. He blinked rapidly, fingers closing around the cool metal that felt like it was burning into his palm. He smiled his biggest smile, not trusting his voice.

Namjoon smiled back. "I bought it months ago. Before... you had to leave. But it seems even more fitting now."

Words failed Jin. His chest ached with an unnamed pressure, something vast and terrifying. Everything felt amplified lately. He managed a nod, clutching the keychain so tightly its edges pressed into his skin.

Namjoon cleared his throat, reaching for the book beside him. "Should I start reading?"

Jin nodded again, grateful for the reprieve. He tucked the keychain into his pocket, his fingertips lingering on its spiral curve.

Namjoon opened to the first page. "Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun..."

Jin's eyes grew heavy, lulled by Namjoon's steady voice. The golden ratio pressed against his thigh through his pocket, a constant, unchanging, and reliable.

(Seoul, last week of January 2014)

The mahogany conference table seated twelve but suffocated with seven. Jin sat between his mother and a lawyer he didn't recognize, staring at documents that used 'estate distribution' and 'trust allocation' to describe his aunt's final wishes. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind Chairman Park's head, Seoul's skyline stretched gray and indifferent under winter clouds.

Jin wore the same dark suit from Jimin's dance recital two years ago, when the world made sense and arriving on time was his biggest worry. The fabric pulled tighter now, constricting. Grief had added physical weight he couldn't shake. The conference room's air conditioning ran too cold, raising goosebumps on his arms, but no one moved to adjust it. Four lawyers shuffled papers with practiced efficiency, the sound too loud in the sterile space.

The lead lawyer was an older man, with small beady eyes behind frameless glasses. He slid a document across the polished surface. Jin watched his own hand reach for the pen as if it belonged to someone else.

"The estate has been divided according to Kim Yujin-nim's explicit instructions." The lawyer's voice carried clinical precision that turned human tragedy into contractual obligation. "Kim Seokjin-nim receives direct disbursement. The minors' portions are held in their respective trust until majority age."

Jin's brain refused to connect the figures to reality. One-third to him outright. One-third to Jimin's family trust, and one-third to Taehyung's. More money than he'd seen in his life, reduced to neat rows of digits that somehow represented Yujin's love made tangible through financial planning.

She gave me this. Why did she give me this?

His mother's hand found his under the table, cold palm against his own. Across from them, Chairman Park sat rigid, staring beyond the lawyer's shoulder. His expensive suit hung loose—evidence of weight loss Jin recognized from his own reflection. The chairman's hands lay flat against the table, fingers spread like he was bracing himself against collapse.

"She wanted Seokjin-ssi to have options." Chairman Park's voice barely held steady, his gaze finally meeting Jin's. "Yujin always knew who to trust. Who would be there when..." His throat worked. "After these last few weeks... I see it now. She was right to trust you."

Jin's chest tightened. He managed a nod.

"She always thought ahead," Jin's mother murmured. "Always protecting everyone."

The second lawyer pushed forward a stack of documents. "We'll need signatures on each form. Initial here, please. Full signature on the bottom."

Jin signed. And signed. And signed. The pen was heavy and expensive, designed to feel important. His hand moved through highlighted sections. Countless initials, dates and witness confirmations. Each stroke of ink reducing Yujin to legal terminology that would be filed in climate-controlled storage somewhere. One lawyer gently corrected him when his signature drifted outside the designated line. Jin blinked down at the page, realizing his hand had been shaking without him noticing.

Why did she give me this? This inheritance felt like blood money, a consolation prize for losing someone irreplaceable. He couldn't process what it meant—only that Yujin would never again laugh at his terrible puns.

On the seventh document, one of the younger lawyers leaned forward. "Kim Seokjin-nim, the date—you've written November. It should be January."

Jin stared at the numbers. November. His hand had written November without asking permission. He crossed it out carefully, wrote January in its place. The correction looked messy against the pristine document.

This is real. She's really gone. I'm signing papers that say she's gone.

The numbness swallowed him again. His hand reached for the next document.

“Sir,” the lead lawyer began, turning to the chairman, “the press continues to request comment on the circumstances. Legal has prepared several response options—”

"We're releasing the full autopsy report," Chairman Park interrupted, his voice suddenly hard as steel. He looked at Jin's mother, not Jin. "All of it. Let them have their truth."

Jin tried to summon outrage, but his body wouldn't cooperate. The numbness was too thick, insulating. They're still writing about her. Even after— Then, he saw the resignation in Chairman Park's face. The terrible calculation of a father willing to expose his wife's final vulnerable moments to protect her memory from tabloid fabrication. Truth weaponized to buy silence.

"Are you sure?" his mother asked in shock. "Once it's public…"

"It's the only way to stop them from inventing stories." The chairman's voice cracked on the final word. "Yujin deserves better than their speculation."

Jin's mother studied the chairman's face for a long moment. "Will you tell the boys? That Yujin knew this surgery was riskier than she let on?"

"No." The answer came immediate, fierce. "They'll know their mother died of complications no one could predict. That's all they need to carry." He looked at Jin then, something desperate in his eyes. "They don't need to know she downplayed her own pain until the end."

The proceedings concluded. The lawyers gathered their documents, murmuring condolences. Jin heard the words without processing them. Chairman Park remained seated as the others stood, his gaze lost in the cityscape beyond the window, looking smaller in the expensive leather chair.

"Thank you for being here," he said to Jin's mother as the lawyers filed out. "For all of this."

"We're family." Her hand tightened on Jin's arm. "That doesn't change."

Chairman Park nodded slowly, then turned to Jin. "Will you join us for dinner tonight? At the penthouse?" His voice sounded thin, stretched. "The boys... they need normalcy. Whatever that looks like now."

Normalcy. Jin heard Yujin's voice in the word. Her insistence that Jimin and Taehyung maintain their routines even when she'd been hospitalized. She'd always been adamant about protecting their sense of stability, even at the cost of her own comfort.

"Of course," Jin said immediately.

They stood. Jin's mother gathered his copies of the paperwork into the official-looking folder while Jin tried to make his legs work properly. Chairman Park walked them to the elevator, then paused before pressing the call button.

"Jin-ah," he said, using the familiar form for the first time. "I mean it. Thank you. For everything you've done. For everything you'll do."

Jin's throat closed. He managed another nod. The elevator arrived with a soft chime that felt too cheerful.

His mother drove them both back to the city center, the inheritance folder balanced on Jin's lap. They rode in silence for several minutes, the early afternoon traffic moving sluggishly around them. At a red light, she glanced at him.

"You're gripping your phone," she observed gently.

Jin looked down. His left hand clutched his phone so tightly his knuckles had gone white. He hadn't even realized.

She reached over, touched his wrist briefly. "You should bring Namjoon tonight. To dinner." Her voice was carefully casual. "I think it would help. Taehyungie has been asking about him."

The suggestion pierced the cotton-wool numbness that had insulated him the entire morning. Jin's body responded before his brain caught up—shoulders dropping, breath deepening, his hands moving to unlock his phone with sudden purpose.

"Yes," he said, his voice hoarse. "What time?"

"Seven. That gives you time to rest first." The light changed. She accelerated smoothly. "Get some rest, Jin-ah. You look exhausted."

When they reached his subway stop, she patted his cheek before he got out, her palm warm against his cold skin. "See you tonight."

Jin descended into the station, grateful for the familiar setting. The subway was mercifully uncrowded. Jin found a seat near the door and pulled out his phone. The folder sat heavy on his thighs. He didn't think about the money or the lawyers or Chairman Park's haunted expression. He just typed.

Jinius: < Dinner at the penthouse tonight? 7pm? The twins would love to see you. >

He hit send before he could examine why this felt urgent.

The reply came almost instantly.

RapMonsta: < Of course. Should I bring any snacks for them? >

He stared at Namjoon's message for a long moment before setting his phone on top of the folder. His hand slipped into his pocket, thumb tracing the keychain's familiar spiral.

A constant, Namjoon had called him under Christmas stars back in Busan.

Jin traced the golden ratio's curve as the subway carried him home. Namjoon would be there. That was enough.

Chapter Text

(Seoul, March 29th 2014)

Jin folded the worn black hoodie with more care than the fabric deserved. The material had thinned at the elbows, and the hem was fraying in three places. He placed the hoodie atop the precarious stack on Yoongi's bed, knowing the pile would end up crumpled at the bottom of a box within the hour.

"You realize you don't actually have to fold everything," Yoongi said from the doorway, arms crossed. "That's what the boxes are for."

"You'd show up at your fancy new Gangnam studio apartment with everything looking like you stored it in the garbage disposal." Jin smoothed the collar of a dress shirt that hadn't seen an iron since purchase. "Our Suga-nim is too important now to look like he slept under a bridge."

Sunlight slanted through the window, catching on the leather of Yoongi's new jacket. The piece was subtle—black with minimal hardware—but the quality was obvious. Success had remade Min Yoongi. His shoulders no longer hunched toward his ears, and the shadows beneath his eyes had lightened. The constant twitch of his fingers toward phantom keyboard keys had slowed.

"It's barely Gangnam," Yoongi corrected, voice flat but eyes crinkling. "Just a studio. Twenty minutes away, not moving to Daegu."

"Twenty minutes in Seoul traffic is another country." Jin kept his voice light, but something twisted behind his ribs. Twenty minutes meant no more midnight kitchen conversations. No more waking to find Yoongi asleep at the dining table, laptop still glowing. No more fixing dinner for three.

Yoongi stepped into the room, running a hand over the wall where small marks showed where his keyboard had sat for three years. Just subtle shadows in the dust and faded paint. "I need the space," he said quietly. "The contract—"

"I know." Jin abandoned the laundry to face him. "Yah! I'm proud of you. We're proud of you. You built this. Every late night, every coffee fueled binge, —you earned this."

A blush crept up Yoongi's neck, and he ducked his head in that familiar way that meant he was pleased but uncomfortable with praise.

"They get Suga," Yoongi said, hands in his pockets. "I keep my freedom. That was our deal."

"Best deal you ever made." Jin picked up another hoodie, this one newer. "You know, some people would just hire movers."

Yoongi snorted. "Some people don't have friends who'd alphabetize their underwear if given half a chance."

Jin flicked the hoodie at him. "You're disgusting. I draw the line at underwear organization."

"Not what Namjoon told me about your sock drawer."

Jin's jaw dropped. "He told you about that? That little snitch." He glared at the open door. "Remind me to hide my organizational habits better when we're down to two people in this apartment." Jin's voice was dry, but he was already dropping another shirt into an open box. "Thursday and Sunday," he announced, as if Namjoon's tendency to overshare was exactly why they needed structure.

Yoongi blinked. "What?"

"Thursday and Sunday dinners. Here. Eight o'clock. Non-negotiable."

Yoongi's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "Hyung, I'll be working—"

"I don't care if you're producing the next chart-topper for Big Bang. Even you need real food twice a week." Jin let out a sigh. "I'm at the penthouse with the twins every Friday and Saturday. Sometimes Namjoon comes with me. But Thursday and Sunday, you better be here. Even if it's just for an hour."

The room fell quiet. Jin could see the gears turning behind Yoongi's eyes, processing the schedule, the expectation, the care behind the demand.

"Thursday and Sunday," Yoongi repeated, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "You're a dictator, you know that?"

"Someone has to make sure you pack more than existential dread and old takeout containers." Jin gestured toward the half-empty closet. "Finish this while I check if Joonie remembered to buy the soju."

Namjoon had, of course. Jin found three green bottles lined up neatly on the kitchen counter with a sticky note that read "For Yoongi-hyung's success!" in Namjoon's careful handwriting. The apartment felt different already. Not just because of the boxes stacked by the entrance or the empty corner where Yoongi's desk had been. The space felt too large suddenly, like their voices might echo against walls that had previously contained their lives in comfortable proximity.

The front door opened, and Namjoon's distinctive footfalls marked his arrival with cautious steps, as if constantly calculating the probability of collision with nearby objects.

"Sorry I'm late," Namjoon called, rounding the corner into the kitchen. "The department meeting ran long, then Professor Kang cornered me about research assistants for next semester." He set down a plastic bag that clinked with the promise of additional bottles. "I brought more soju. And those honey chips Yoongi-hyung likes."

Jin nodded toward the counter. "You already bought soju."

"Did I?" Namjoon looked genuinely confused, then broke into a dimpled grin when he spotted the bottles. "Oh! I forgot."

"How many sticky notes did you write to remind yourself?" Jin asked, unable to keep the fondness from his voice.

"Three." Namjoon's ears reddened. "One on my laptop, one in my notebook, one on the bathroom mirror."

"At least your system works." Jin gestured toward Yoongi's room. "He's almost done. Pretending he doesn't need help while secretly hoping we'll do it for him."

"Classic Yoongi-hyung." Namjoon leaned against the counter, watching Jin gather glasses. "How are you feeling about the move? Him leaving?"

The question caught Jin mid-reach for a glass. His hand stalled. How was he feeling? Proud. Anxious. Hollow and full simultaneously. "Fine," he said, the glass clinking against the counter. "It's a good move for him. Twenty minutes away isn't far."

Namjoon hummed thoughtfully but didn't press.

Yoongi appeared in the doorway, jacket draped over his arm. "Car's loaded," he announced. "Just need to grab the last box."

Jin noticed how Yoongi didn't look at the empty corner where his desk had been. How his gaze skimmed over the kitchen as if taking a mental photograph. The moment stretched, heavy with everything unsaid.

"We should toast," Jin said, reaching for the soju bottles. "To Yoongi. To all the success coming your way."

They gathered around the counter—no need for the table anymore. Jin poured, and they raised their glasses.

"To Yoongi-hyung," Namjoon said, serious and sincere. "You earned every bit of this. Your music deserves it."

"To telling the industry to fuck off and doing it your way," Yoongi added, voice dry but eyes warm. His laugh was short and genuine, crinkling at the corners.

"To both of you," Yoongi continued, voice rougher now. "To having people who believe in the long game. Even when I didn't."

They drank, and Jin felt the burn trace a path down his throat to settle warm in his stomach. This wasn't goodbye, he reminded himself. This was evolution.

Yoongi set his glass down first. "I should get going. The studio manager is meeting me there at six."

The walk to the door felt longer than the apartment's actual dimensions. Jin watched Yoongi slip into his shoes, bend for the last box. There were practical matters to exchange. Yoongi would keep the spare key, and his mail would be forwarded, but those details had been handled days ago. Now there was just this moment, standing at the threshold of a new chapter none of them had anticipated when they'd signed that first lease.

"Don't let this one flood the apartment," Yoongi said, gesturing at Namjoon with mock severity.

Jin snorted. "I make no promises."

"Take care of each other," Yoongi said abruptly, looking from Jin to Namjoon. "Jin-hyung will worry too much. Namjoon-ah, make sure he doesn't."

"I'll do my best," Namjoon promised, serious as a vow.

Yoongi stepped forward, enveloping Jin in a full embrace that caught him by surprise. Yoongi wasn't a hugger. Never had been. Jin felt the pressure of Yoongi's palms against his back, firm and grateful, before Yoongi pulled away.

Namjoon extended a hand, but Yoongi gripped his shoulder instead, a clasp between equals that shifted into something warmer, then a brief squeeze, recognition passing between them.

Then Yoongi was through the door, box balanced against his hip, pausing only to nod once before disappearing down the hallway.

Jin stood frozen, listening to the retreating footsteps, until the stairwell door creaked open and closed with a definitive click. He took a deep breath, and a hollow feeling settled in his center, a loss he refused to indulge. Still, he knew this was right. Yoongi would do great, and that made him fiercely proud.

"Just us now," Namjoon said quietly beside him.

""Feels different." Jin closed the door, turning the lock with deliberate care.

"Good different or bad different?"

Jin considered this, looking at the apartment that had housed their unlikely friendship for three years. "Just different." he said finally. "We'll figure it out."

Namjoon nodded, following Jin as he moved toward the kitchen. "What should we do for dinner?" He opened the refrigerator as if its contents might have changed in the past ten minutes. "I could help cook. If you want."

Jin turned to stare at him. "You want to help cook?"

"I mean..." Namjoon's ears reddened. "I could try. Moral support?"

"The last time you tried to help, you nearly set the dish towel on fire." Jin reached for the rice cooker. "While washing dishes."

"Okay, but—"

"And somehow you've burned water." Jin measured rice automatically, muscle memory guiding the process. He was still grateful for Namjoon's terrible offer. "You can set the table. That's helping."

"I'm good at setting tables," Namjoon agreed, relieved. "No fire hazards involved."

"Thanks, Joonie." Jin pulled out the kimchi and pork belly, the comfortable rhythm of food preparation grounding him. "I guess it's dinner for two." he said, the words still unfamiliar on his tongue but right in a way he hadn't anticipated.

Namjoon retrieved plates from the cabinet with exaggerated care. "I won't even drop these."

"Yah! talk about setting a low bar for success."

"I'm aware," Namjoon said, grinning.

* * *

(Seoul, April 11th 2014)

Jin's cubicle sat in a row of identical glass-walled stations on Miran Law Firm's seventh floor. The satellite office in Mapo housed interns and junior staff. Each station was separated by sleek aluminum frames and transparent partitions that created the illusion of privacy without actually providing any. The hum of photocopiers mixed with the muted clicking of keyboards, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter from the break room down the hall. His desk held three contract files, a half-empty coffee mug, and Professor Ahn's recommendation letter still pinned to the fabric bulletin board beside his monitor.

Attorney Kang appeared at the entrance to his cubicle, her tailored navy suit crisp despite the afternoon heat. "Kim Seokjin-ssi, do you have a moment?"

Jin stood, grabbing his notepad. "Of course."

"My office, please." She turned without waiting for confirmation.

Jin followed her down the corridor to the elevators. Her office occupied a corner two floors up, all floor-to-ceiling windows and polished hardwood. The leather chairs facing her desk were Eames knockoffs, good ones.

Attorney Kang closed the door and moved to her desk, pulling a cream-colored envelope from her top drawer. The firm's embossed letterhead caught the light.

"You graduated in February, is that right?"

Jin nodded. "Yes. I'm studying for the bar now."

"Congratulations." Her smile was measured, professional warmth without familiarity. She set the envelope between them. "Ahn sunbaenim rarely endorses interns. When he told me you had a gift for contractual vulnerability assessment, I had reservations."

Jin's grip tightened on his notepad.

"But I've been proven wrong." Attorney Kang tapped the envelope. "That loophole you identified in the licensing clause for the Lee negotiation? Impressive work, even for a junior associate. Your contract analysis has been consistently thorough during your time with us. Clean research, excellent attention to procedural detail."

Jin had built those skills through late nights with Professor Ahn and many months of methodical research, IP clause analysis, mapping vulnerabilities to protect Yoongi's artistic freedom. The same precision, applied to different clients.

"Ahn sunbaenim guided the strategy," Jin said. "I just mapped the vulnerabilities."

"Modesty doesn't suit litigators, Kim." Attorney Kang leaned back in her chair. "We're offering you a law clerk position at the main office starting next month." She slid the envelope across the desk. "Read the terms carefully, but here's what matters: this firm doesn't hire pre-bar graduates as clerks. Your performance convinced the partners to make an exception."

Jin picked up the envelope, the quality paper heavy between his fingers.

"Choi sunbaenim and Attorney Heo have already petitioned to bring you in as junior attorney. The moment you pass the bar, that position is waiting for you."

Three years of Constitutional Law nightmares and Namjoon's patient tutoring, Professor Ahn's mentorship. All of it had led here.

"I appreciate the opportunity."

Attorney Kang's expression sharpened. "Understand something. This offer raises the floor, not the ceiling. The partners are watching your trajectory now. Pre-bar clerks either justify the investment or wash out in six months. Excellence is the baseline expectation going forward, not the achievement."

Jin met her gaze. "Understood."

"Good." She stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Review the offer. Let me know by next week."

Jin bowed and returned to his cubicle, the cream-colored firm stationery with its embossed letterhead in hand. His eyes drifted to the address in the upper corner. The firm's address placed them in the heart of the business district, maybe fifteen minutes from Cheongdam. Close to the twins' penthouse.

He'd earned this. The observation lodged in his chest as he packed up for the day.

Jin pulled out his phone while waiting at the crosswalk, grocery bags balanced in one hand. Namjoon answered on the second ring.

"Hyung?"

"Joon-ah, the firm offered me a full-time position today!" Jin shifted the bags as the light changed, crossing with the evening crowd. "The entertainment law firm. Law clerk at their main office downtown. I'm starting next month!"

"Hyung, that's—" A sharp intake of breath. "Jin-hyung, congratulations! Do you know how competitive those positions are? Entertainment law clerks before the bar? That's exceptional. They're lucky to get you."

Jin snorted. "It's insane. I haven't passed the bar yet."

"You will." No hesitation, the certainty of someone who'd watched Jin mapping contract vulnerabilities and dissecting Law textbooks at three in the morning for three years straight. "January exam, right?"

"If I'm ready by then." Jin paused at the subway entrance. "It's a great position. Mostly patent litigation, and IP work. Similar to what I did with Professor Ahn."

"They saw what you can do. Smart move on their part." A pause. "You've earned this, hyung. You've been ready."

Jin exhaled. "I'm on my way to the twins' place now. I should text Yoongi, let him know."

"Thursday dinner's a celebration, then." Not a question. A declaration.

"Apparently."

"Hyung?" Namjoon took a breath. "I mean it. This is big. You're allowed to be proud of yourself."

Jin smiled. "Thanks, Joonie."

The twins' penthouse kitchen stretched twice the size of the entire Mapo apartment. Italian marble countertops, Miele appliances with touch screens, a Sub-Zero refrigerator that dispensed filtered water three ways. The space smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and the jasmine tea Chairman Park favored.

Jin set the grocery bags on the island, the polished stone counter cool under his palms. Chairman Park sat at the breakfast bar with his laptop, reading glasses perched on his nose. Four months of relentless speculation, finally ended by a half-brother’s engagement announcement. "Congratulations on Park Sung-Hoon-ssi's wedding announcement," Jin said, pulling vegetables from the first bag.

Chairman Park looked up. "Thank you, Jin-ah. My son has been very supportive, and the timing of his engagement has been... helpful." He closed the laptop. "The press needed something else to focus on."

Jin pulled scallions from the bag. Jimin and Taehyung's half-brother, the heir from the chairman's first marriage. Jin had met him twice, maybe three times. The twins barely more than that. Polite strangers at formal family events, sharing a surname and nothing else.

"Where are my sous chefs?" Jin asked.

"Taehyung's bedroom, last I heard," Chairman Park said with the hint of a smile. "Should I call them?"

"I'll do it. You looked busy."

Jin found the twins sprawled across beanbags, controllers in hand, their attention locked on some elaborate racing game. Jimin noticed him first, pausing mid-turn.

"Hyung! You're early."

"I'm exactly on time. You two are just absorbed." Jin leaned against the doorframe. "Come help with dinner."

Both twins set down their controllers. Taehyung reached the kitchen first, already opening the rice cooker without being asked. Jimin washed his hands at the sink.

Jin handed him the perilla leaves. "Same as last week. Wash and separate."

"I remember." Jimin's hands worked steadily now. Less hesitation.

"Hyung, the rice-to-water ratio is still one-to-one, even for five cups, right?" Taehyung measured carefully.

"For this rice, yes. Make it six cups." Jin smiled. Yujin had taught him that ratio when he was younger than Taehyung.

They worked in comfortable synchronization, the twins moving around the kitchen with increasing confidence.

"I got a job offer today," Jin said while browning the beef. "I'll be working as a Law clerk in downtown. Starting next month."

Jimin's head snapped up from the leaves, eyes bright. "Really? Hyung, that's amazing!"

Taehyung abandoned the carrots he was dicing to throw his arms around Jin's waist. "Our cousin is going to be a real lawyer!"

"Law clerk," Jin corrected, but he was smiling. "Until I pass the bar."

"Same thing," Taehyung declared with absolute certainty.

Chairman Park nodded once. "Congratulations, Jin-ah. Which firm?"

"Miran Law Firm." Jin watched recognition flicker across Chairman Park's face.

"Excellent reputation. Attorney Ahn Seung-cheol is special counsel there, isn't he?"

"He is. Ahn sunbaenim was my IP Law professor back in the day. His mentorship made this possible."

"That's wonderful! If you need any connections or recommendations going forward, please don't hesitate to ask."

Jimin tilted his head, frowning at his phone after searching the firm. "Downtown near Yongsan-gu? That's so much closer to us than your apartment in Mapo." His eyes widened. "Hyung, does this mean you'll move closer now?"

Jin paused, spatula hovering over the pan. He hadn't considered it consciously until Jimin voiced it, but the geography suddenly clicked into sharp focus. The firm downtown. The twins' penthouse in Cheongdam. Both on the opposite side of the Han River from the Mapo apartment. His commute would be brutal. The twins would still be too far away if something happened.

"I hadn't thought about it yet," Jin said carefully.

"You should," Jimin pressed. "It would make things easier, wouldn't it?"

Chairman Park cleared his throat. "I know an excellent realtor, if you're interested. She helped secure my office space downtown."

Jin's internal calculator immediately tallied the gap between what Chairman Park's realtor would show him and what his law clerk salary could actually afford. Penthouses versus semi-basements.

"Thank you," Jin said. "I'll keep that in mind."

Taehyung bounced, his enthusiasm undimmed by Jin's noncommittal response. "We could see you all the time! Not just Fridays!"

"We'll see," Jin said. The math started organizing—abstract and incomplete but present. Location. Proximity. Logistics.

They finished cooking together, the twins chattering about their week while Jin mentally mapped subway lines he hadn't paid attention to before.

Jin returned to Mapo after dinner, taking the now-familiar route across the Han River. The apartment smelled like Namjoon's perpetual coffee habit and stale air. Namjoon sat at the kitchen table surrounded by thesis notes, headphones around his neck. The papers looked deliberately organized, which meant he'd been procrastinating.

"How'd it go?"

Jin dropped his bag by the door. "Good. They're excited about the job." He pulled out a chair, sitting across from Namjoon. "Jimin asked if I'd move closer now. To the firm and their place."

Namjoon's pen stopped moving. He didn't look up immediately. "Ah. That makes sense, doesn't it? Logistically."

"Maybe." Jin sat close enough to notice Namjoon had been chewing his pen cap again—the blue plastic scarred with tiny teeth marks. "It doesn't feel right leaving you here alone, though. This place is too big for one person, and your survival skills are questionable at best."

Namjoon's dimples appeared. "I've been thinking about it too. Not about you leaving specifically, but rethinking my own housing situation."

The qualifier landed wrong. Jin studied his friend's face—no resentment, no hurt, just Namjoon's characteristic pragmatism analyzing the situation like a theorem that needed solving.

"You could always post an ad for a roommate," Jin offered.

"I could. Or I could finally embrace full hermit status." Namjoon pushed his glasses up his nose, leaving a small smudge on the lens. "Write my dissertation in my underwear, survive entirely on ramyeon."

"That's not funny."

"It's a little funny."

"Joonie..." Jin didn'tknowwhatto say. His hand unwilling gripping the edge of his chair.

Namjoon's expression shifted. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"Hyung." Namjoon's voice was quieter now. "You shouldn't stay just because you're worried about me. The twins need you close. Your job needs you close. Moving makes sense."

"That's true," Jin swallowed hard. "As long as Thursday and Sunday dinners don't change. With Yoongi. That stays the same." We'llbe fine.

"Of course." The relief in Namjoon's voice was immediate. "You made it clear those are non-negotiable."

Jin's shoulders dropped. They were going to be fine. Different apartments, different neighborhoods, but the structure would hold. Thursday and Sunday dinners, phone calls, celebration meals when someone's thesis finally cooperated or a bar exam got passed.

Their bond didn't require shared walls.

It just felt like it did.

"Okay," Jin said. "I'll start looking."

Namjoon nodded, turning back to his thesis notes. "Good. That's good."

Jin stayed at the table for another few minutes, watching Namjoon pretend to read the same paragraph while his pen leaked blue ink onto his thumb. The coffee maker beeped from the counter announcing that a fresh pot was ready,but neither of them moved.

They were going to be fine.