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Seokjin’s in second grade and he’s desperately trying to memorize the multiplication table for his mother. He paces circles in his backyard, counting in his head. Eight times six is forty-eight, eight times seven is fifty-six. Eight times eight is .. is …
“Eight times eight,” he mutters aloud. Eight times eight is eight times seven plus eight. Fifty-six plus eight. He counts it up on his fingers. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty...
A rustling sound to his right distracts him and he loses his train of thought. He lets out a breath, frustrated. Mother will be mad again and shout at him. He hates it when he disappoints Mother.
He turns to where the source of noise came from and sees the boy from the family who just moved in last week peeking through a hole in the fence at him. Mother had brought cake to them as a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift and when she came back she told him about the boy just a year or two younger than him. The boy pulls himself onto the fence separating their yards, grabbing a nearby branch to steady himself. He blinks owlishly, eyes two full moons, surprised to see Seokjin glaring at him. “Hey,” he says uncertainly. ‘I’m Kim Namjoon.”
“You’re interrupting me,” Seokjin tells him crossly. “I’m busy right now. Go away.”
The boy - Namjoon - pouts. “You don’t look like you’re doing anything.” He hops off the fence, looking him over.
Seokjin frowns, annoyed. “I’m thinking ,” he explains slowly, like he’s talking to a kindergartener. He probably is. “I’m memorizing the multiplication table.”
Namjoon widens his eyes, evidently impressed. “Wow,” he says.
Enjoying the admiration of the younger boy, Seokjin rattles off the first few he knows. “Three times three is nine, four times four is sixteen, five times five is twenty-five. Six time six is, um, thirty-six, and seven times seven is forty-nine.”
Namjoon purses his lips. “But isn’t it boring, doing math? Let’s play soldiers,” he suggests. He grabs a nearby stick, swinging it around him so that it cuts through the air with a swish.
Seokjin’s about to refuse, to pull away and go practice his eights, but Namjoon peeks up at him and asks “please?” and Seokjin’s gone.
“Fine,” he says huffily. “But I get to be the general.”
“Aye-aye, captain!” Namjoon sings, and salutes him.
Seokjin grabs a stick off the ground and swats him lightly with the tip of his makeshift sword. “That’s only on pirate ships, stupid.”
x.
Sunset brings Seokjin and Namjoon curled up in their fort of branches and leaves, hiding from the enemy soldiers. Namjoon’s mom is calling for him and Seokjin opens his mouth to ask whether Namjoon should go home. Namjoon reaches out, placing his finger against his mouth. “Shh,” he whispers. “Don’t let her find us.”
Seokjin makes a face but closes his mouth obediently until her voice fades and the door shuts in the other yard. “Aren’t you going to be in trouble if you don’t go back?”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to go back, anyways. I like it much better here.” He pulls his hand away from Seokjin’s mouth. “Let’s just live here forever.”
Seokjin snorts. “You’ve only known me for a day. Do you even know my name?”
Namjoon bites his lip, considering this. “What’s your name, then?”
“You’re avoiding the point,” Seokjin sighs. “I’m Kim Seokjin.”
Namjoon brightens. “Woah! We have the same last names! That’s cool. Maybe we’re really distantly related!”
Seokjin doesn’t tell him that Kim is one of the most common last names in Korea. “Sure, kid.”
“Don’t call me ‘kid’,” Namjoon complains. “You’re as small as me, Jinnie.”
Seokjin flicks him on the forehead. “I’m a lot older than you! Call me hyung, kid.”
Namjoon sticks his tongue out at him and scrambles backwards to avoid being flicked again. “Never,” he vows.
x.
Nightfall comes and Namjoon’s mom comes out again, sounding irritated this time. Namjoon gulps and waves a hurried goodbye to Seokjin as he clambers his way over the fence again. “Bye-bye, Jinnie,” he chirps, perched nimbly on the top of the fence. “Oh,” he says, craning his head to look back at Seokjin. His small figure is outlined in bright moonlight, glowing and ethereal, like a creature of dreams and songs and poetry, come down from above just to honor him with his presence “Eight times eight is sixty-four.”
x.
Seokjin recites the multiplication table up to ten for his mother that night. He’s proud of himself - four times seven is twenty-eight - because it took him a week to memorize - six times four is twenty-four - and his tongue slips over the numbers easily, like they’re old friends. Eight times eight is sixty-four , he tells her, pleased because that’s what that boy - Namjoon - had told him. He marvels at how smart his neighbor is - younger than him and somehow smarter - and feels a sharp stab of envy because his mother would love him if he were like that. But he shakes it off.
He watches his mother eagerly, waiting for some form of praise or congratulations. He really just wants a good job, or a you’re so clever, when did you learn that? but to his dismay she fires back, “And what’s eleven times eleven?”
Seokjin’s stuck. He doesn’t know how to do multiplication over ten, but eleven plus eleven plus eleven plus eleven plus eleven plus eleven plus eleven plus even - wait, how many elevens is that? - and he’s frantically adding, desperate to answer her question and earn her approval. Eleven, twenty-two, thirty-three, forty-four…
His mother’s disgusted face hits him harder than any blow. “I thought you were smart ,” she says. “Now I know that’s not true. I guess that was just too much to ask for.” She turns back to her newspaper, and just like that he is dismissed.
x.
Namjoon is nine and he’s staying up, playing video games in his room with the sound down and the lights off so his parents won’t come up and shout at him for staying up late on a school day again.
He’s in the middle of trying to beat a particularly hard level when his window slides open. Namjoon freezes for a moment - is it a ghost no what if it’s a robber or a murderer and he was going to die oh god he’d never play video games after curfew if he would be spared please please please - and Seokjin climbs in.
Namjoon gapes just as his character is mercilessly slaughtered by the boss and he groans as the red ‘Level Failed’ flashes on the screen.
Seokjin’s eyes are red and Namjoon glimpses purple bruises on his forearms before he tugs his sleeves down. There’s a red cut slashed across his cheekbone, still new and stinging. “Can I stay here tonight?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, and Namjoon swallows back whatever he was going to say and nods. He opens his mouth to ask him if he’s alright, if something had happened, if he should call the police, but Seokjin curls into the mattress, facing away from Namjoon, and there’s a sudden chasm between them that’s never been there in the three years they’ve known each other.
The silence is suffocating but all he can do is sit there, looking down at porcelain-pale skin and red lips, a boy too delicate for this world. Oddly, he feels an urge to run a hand through his dark hair, to hold him close, but he forces himself to stay in place, not wanting to scare him away.
He promises himself he’ll keep him safe, no matter what it takes. He can’t bear seeing Seokjin hurt.
x.
At school, Seokjin is all smiles and pleasantries. When Namjoon skips fifth grade and enters sixth (ten and finally in his double-digits), naively excited at the adventure going into junior high would be, Seokjin is going into seventh. Namjoon is the nerdy math-freak and Seokjin is popular and beautiful, mature and too good at hiding his feelings, too far away already for Namjoon to catch up to.
Seokjin wears sweatshirts, long enough to pull over his hands, and Namjoon is the only one who knows about the long, jagged scars on his wrists. When the girls swoon and push to be near the handsome upperclassman, Namjoon wants to shout at them to leave him alone. He’s the only one who notices the slight flinch, the split-second where Seokjin looks vulnerable and frightened and ready to flee when they press too close. Seokjin’s not good with people, especially girls, and Namjoon’s ready to fight them off if he has to. He doesn’t notice that he’s taken a threatening step towards them and his hands have clenched into fists at his sides. He doesn’t notice the fearful glances thrown at him, contemptuous and distrusting. All he knows is Seokjin is hurting and he has to help.
But then Seokjin turns that kind, pleading you-don’t-have-to-do-this smile on him and Namjoon reluctantly steps aside, furiously ignoring the pointed fingers and the harsh whispers - look at that freak boy and why is he sticking so close to our Seokjin. He wants to tell them that Seokjin doesn’t belong to them, shouldn’t be treated like an object to be owned, but he bites his lip and only thinks about punching them.
There’s a difference between Namjoon’s scars and Seokjin’s scars. Namjoon’s scars are results of too many bottles of beer consumed by his father on a particularly bad day, when he wants to lash out at somebody, anybody, and his son happens to be the closest punching bag. Seokjin’s scars are wrought from being told he’s not enough, given a too-heavy burden and sky-high expectations to live up to. Where Namjoon’s scars are carved by his father’s fists of rage, Seokjin’s scars are crafted by his own traitorous hands.
x.
Namjoon’s fourteen and Seokjin’s sixteen. The dark bruises under Seokjin’s eyes have been even darker lately, and his clothes have turned more monochrome, like he’s not even trying anymore to pretend he’s fine.
Namjoon’s getting into more fights. He’s a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at the smallest trigger. He’s pent-up anger and rage, and sometimes he’s scared he’ll end up like his father. But he can’t help it. When someone shoots their mouth off about Seokjin’s changed appearance, calling him a druggie or gay or some unfounded insult like that, Namjoon finds his fists swinging of their own accord, seeking satisfaction that can only be found when embedded in someone’s face, in someone’s gut.
He doesn’t care if his knuckles are chapped and raw afterwards. It’s still nothing compared to Seokjin’s cuts and bruises.
x.
Seokjin’s mother isn’t home so they have a movie marathon, watching all the superhero movies they can find and eating bags and bags of microwavable popcorn. Seokjin is half-asleep by three in the morning, his head in Namjoon’s lap. He plays with the sleeve of his shirt, rolling it up and down.
Namjoon is startled from his avid movie-watching when Seokjin brushes his cold lips over the back of his hand. “Why do you have to hurt yourself like this?” he asks, running his fingers over the bruises. “I can’t watch you do this to yourself.”
He moves his hand away, stroking through Seokjin’s silky hair. “I’ll stop if you stop too.”
“Deal,” Seokjin replies, and they shake on it. It’s an awkward shake, Namjoon trying to grasp Seokjin’s vertical hand without twisting his elbow around too much. But it’s still a deal, a promise.
(They both know they’re lying.)
x.
“When we grow up, we’ll leave this place and move to the city.” They’re lying on their backs in Namjoon’s backyard under the large oak tree. They, stare up at the stars, brilliant tonight. “And you can rap and I’ll sing and we’ll never have to come back. We’ll be happy.”
Namjoon nods, making a small noise of assent as he curls into Seokjin. Seokjin throws an arm around him and pulls him closer, sheltering him from the night air and the bite of the cold breeze.
x.
Seokjin knocks on his window at ten past one in the morning and Namjoon slides it open. The sallow skin, pulled tight across his once-pretty features, the new wrinkles, the red eyes, scrubbed free of tears, all are starting to scare him. You need to go get help, he wants to tell him. But the last time he did Seokjin had pursed his lips and refused to speak to him for a week.
Seokjin doesn’t say a word to him and slips into Namjoon’s bed, immediately falling asleep. He sleeps with his arms wrapped around himself, like he’s expecting a hit and bracing himself for the impact. Like he’s falling apart and trying to hold himself together.
Namjoon finishes his homework quietly setting away his books and pens. He gets in beside Seokjin, careful not to wake him. He watches the moonlight play on Seokjin’s skin, making him look years younger. He throws a pillow over his head (goddammit, why did Seokjin have to be so pretty?) and forces himself to go to sleep.
But sleep doesn’t come easily and he ends up tossing and turning for hours. He’s almost fallen asleep - finally - when he hears the heavy stomp of feet on the stairs.
His father’s home, for the first time in a week. He’s probably been drinking. He’s always drunk these days, unpredictable and furious and incoherent all the time.
Namjoon expects his father to go to his room and sleep, but the footsteps stop in front of his door and he freezes, pushing himself up to a sitting position as the door swings open and hits the wall.
His father stumbles in. “Hey, boy,” he slurs. “Have you finished your homework?”
Namjoon feels the slow burn of anger and forces it down. “Yes,” he says patiently. “I finished it hours ago.” You would have known if you were home, he wants to say, but that would just get him a slap for disrespect.
“Good, good,” his father hums, uncharacteristically mellow, and flips through the books on Namjoon’s desk. “I have something to give you.” He stops talking and ambles across the room, looking through the bookshelf, glancing in his closet, like he’s been looking for something and can’t quite remember what it is.
“Dad,” Namjoon says cautiously. “I have school tomorrow. I need to get to sleep.”
‘Right,” he says, and walks over. “So I was thinking, you’re going to have to consider your future. What colleges and universities do you want to go to? Try not to go somewhere far away; your mother and I will miss you.” And Namjoon freezes, because his mother has been dead for years (cancer, he’s told everyone, which is partially true, but really because of years of protecting him from his father). “So I’ve started a bank account for you. I’ve already put a few hundred in there, and you can add to it when you get a job.”
“Thanks,” Namjoon says, but he’s still on guard and confused by how he’s acting. “It’s late. You should probably get to sleep too.”
“Mmhmm,” his father agrees, but he doesn’t move away. Seokjin’s caught his attention. “That’s a pretty thing, isn’t he? Where did you find him?”
Namjoon feels the fear running through his like an electrical current. He wishes his dad would just leave and never come back. “Nowhere. Dad, this is Seokjin. Our neighbor? Remember, he used to come over for dinner all the time?”
His father doesn’t seem to hear him. “I see them on the streets all the time. If you give them a little money they’re happy to please you.” He runs a hand through Seokjin’s hair, strokes Seokjin’s cheek. He murmurs something in his sleep, letting out a small sigh. “I wonder if he’s as good as them. He’s a little prettier than than usual, with that face of his. Hey, Namjoon-ah, wanna share? He looks like he’d make someone really happy.”
Something snaps inside of him and Namjoon slaps him. “Get the hell out,” he growls. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, waltzing in and pretending it’s all right but it’s not. I don’t want to fucking see you again, and don’t you dare even come close to me or Seokjin.”
His father holds his hand to his face and has the audacity to look hurt. “I thought,” he starts to say, then shakes his head and walks off.
Seokjin stirs and opens his eyes a little. “Who was that, Namjoon?”
He lays back down and wraps his arms around him, pressing his lips to the back of his head. “Nobody. Go back to sleep, Jinnie.”
If Seokjin notices crying into the back of his shirt later, he doesn’t say anything about it.
x.
His dad really doesn’t come back. It’s been months and he hasn’t stopped by, hasn’t called. He pays the rent occasionally but Namjoon works to make up the rest. The teachers at school ask him why he’s always asleep in class and why he never manages to turn his assignments in on time and why his father “can’t make it to this parent-teacher conference either”. He lies and tells them he suffers from narcolepsy, his printer keeps breaking down, his father is sick or busy or out of the country.
Namjoon doesn’t know whether to feel happy or sad.
x.
“What does it mean,” Namjoon asks conversationally as he sits between Seokjin’s legs (goddamn, how long were his legs) and finishes an assignment “when you really want to be with someone? Like you always want to be near them and even when they’re not there they’re still the only thing you can think about. Like you really only live to make them smile and laugh, and you can’t be happy if they’re not.”
Seokjin’s chin is resting on Namjoon’s shoulder and when he hums it vibrates through him. “Well, you’re probably in love. Who is it? Is it a girl in your class? Do I know her? How-”
Namjoon turns around and presses a kiss onto Seokjin’s lips before he loses the nerve. For one frightening moment Seokjin just sits there, frozen, and Namjoon is about to run away and probably avoid Seokjin for the rest of eternity. But then Seokjin’s hands drop to Namjoon’s lower back, drawing him in, and suddenly Namjoon’s fingers are tangled in his hair and Seokjin’s mouth is moving against his and Namjoon is falling down down down into him.
And then a car honks loudly in the distance and they spring apart as if doused with cold water, woken from a dream. Namjoon’s face is on fire and he can’t bring himself to look Seokjin in the eyes. “Just an experiment,” he mumbles.
“Yeah,” Seokjin echoes. “An experiment.”
x.
Things are awkward between them for a bit. Namjoon will open his mouth to call out to Seokjin at school, then close it and hurriedly turn away before Seokjin notices he’s there. Seokjin will jerk away if his hand accidentally brushes Namjoon’s when they’re talking (more like making really awkward conversation).
But they’ve been friends for a whole goddamn decade and they’re not going to let a tiny speed bump ruin that. Seokjin starts coming around more often again, or inviting Namjoon over for dinner because they both know he can’t cook for shit and has been living off of cup noodles.
Seokjin still jumps apart every time they get too close but half the time it’s also him who not-so-accidentally initiates contact.
x.
Namjoon’s been singing these days, channeling pent-up anger into song and harsh raps. Seokjin hears him humming under his breath when he thinks nobody is listening, sees the tracks he plays around with on Garageband before deleting them with a groan (and restoring them later).
He sings to Seokjin once, only because he thought he was already asleep and wouldn’t be able to hear him anyways. Seokjin looks up at those soft pink lips and wants to kiss them again.
x.
By Seokjin’s seventeen birthday Namjoon’s already practically as tall as him. Seokjin attributes it to a sudden growth spurt over the summer. When he hands over his gift (a mixtape and a gift card to Seokjin’s favorite restaurant) Seokjin realizes they now stand eye-to-eye and it’s slightly disconcerting.
But Seokjin likes it.
x.
Midnight on New Year’s Eve they’ve both had too many bottles of soju. Trying to cook ramen and noodles while drunk is absolutely great terrible when who really cares if that’s vinegar or soy sauce or orange juice he’s pouring in? The cupcakes and brownies they tried making turn out lopsided and burnt, but spraying whipped cream over it makes up for it.
God know how they end up there, sprawled them on the sofa, Seokjin half on Namjoon’s lap and the both of their faces painted over with frosting and rainbow sprinkles. The television is on, but neither of them are paying attention to the highlights of the year.
And then the announcer asks everyone to count down with him as the screen flashes down from ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one.
On zero Namjoon sets off a string of firecrackers. Seokjin tosses confetti everywhere and downs another glass of soju. It’s going to be a pain to clean up in the morning but he just rides the high of the moment and ignores whatever consequences there might be. He grabs Namjoon’s shirt, pulling him closer to kiss him, hungrily and desperately, like it’s something he’s never going to experience for another million years.
Namjoon pushes him down underneath him (god, when had his forearms become so muscular), Seokjin’s back pressed against the leather of the couch, and devours his lips just as eagerly. One hand is in Seokjin’s hair and the other is straying up his shirt, flat against his stomach. His face is flushed from too much alcohol and Namjoon tastes like beer and soju and a sweet aftertaste of cake and too much sugar.
Seokjin feverishly kisses him, pressing a line of sloppy kisses down his jaw before returning to his mouth. Namjoon’s shirt is somewhere on the ground and he’s got his hands down Seokjin’s boxers and if this is an experiment they must be doing something right because it feels like heaven.
x.
They’ve somehow migrated upstairs to Seokjin’s room and two o’clock is Namjoon nestled into Seokjin’s side, sleeping peacefully. Seokjin’s arm is draped over the younger boy’s shoulders, holding him close to his chest. He never wants to let him go.
And then he hears the sound of the garage door opening and the car backing into the driveway, a sound that’s always made his hopes rise ever since he was a child. But when his mother comes home she never comes to him. Her footsteps sound on the stairs and then in the hall, walking fast past his closed door. She never stops, asks how his day was, if he needs help with homework. To her, he’s not as important than her work and her thoughts and her problems. But he can never force himself to stop hoping.
So he’s surprised and delighted when for the first time in his life there’s a knock on his bedroom door before it creaks open. And he’s so pleased that he doesn’t notice at first the way his mother’s gaze sweeps the room, lingering on the way Seokjin’s arm rests on Namjoon’s shoulders, her mouth twisting in disapproval.
“How was work?” he asks, and his words are maybe still a little slurred but he hides it. He tries his hardest to be the model child, moving his arm away and sitting up, switching on the light. He makes sure his posture is perfect, back straight, head up. Why, out of all the days, are you here today? Did he do something right for once?
“Fine,” she replies curtly, and his hopes come crashing down as he examines her expression. “I just wanted to tell you,” she says, turning to the door, “to make sure you clean up that mess in the living room. I have clients coming over at eight thirty sharp tomorrow morning, so make sure it doesn’t reek like alcohol.” She doesn’t hide the contempt, the disgust in her voice.
She steps out into the hallway, heels clicking loudly against the wooden floorboards once before she stops and looks back at him. “I am very disappointed in you, Seokjin,” she says, looking pointedly towards Namjoon. “I had thought you would be capable of making the right decisions by now, but as usual I seem to overestimate your abilities.”
The door closes, leaving him there in the dark as she strides down the hall to the master bedroom, unsure to feel happy that she had thought he could do better or upset because of the dismissal.
He sits there, empty and hollow and his hands are itching to carve scars into his wrists, his thighs, because now he knows for sure that he’s never been worth anything. No matter how much he had hoped that she would finally be proud of him.
Namjoon shifts in his sleep and buries his face in Seokjin’s side, and his gaze softens. He slides under the blankets again and holds the sleeping boy and cries.
x.
Seokjin lives for the fleeting touch of their hands in the hallway when they pass each other in the hallways, quick kisses stolen in the car at red lights, strong warm arms around him keeping him afloat.
x.
Namjoon lives for brown eyes that light up when they meet his, the press of lips to skin, the sound of Seokjin’s voice when he sings him to sleep.
x.
But Seokjin is waiting in the quad during one of his prep periods, while Namjoon takes a calculus test inside. Namjoon’s talented, the youngest of his class, and all the teachers say he’s got potential. He could go to Seoul, to some prestigious university, and make a name for himself in the world. He deserves all of it.
And he’s been working hard to make his dream come true, to make both of their dreams come true. He’s studied every day the past week for this test, while juggling extracurriculars and research projects and volunteering at a local hospital.
Seokjin isn’t as good. He’s just trying to make it through high school, working multiple part-time jobs to make money to support them later, to maybe rent an apartment in the city. He’s just barely holding on. Even as his classmates send out applications and plan for interviews and dream about their future, there’s nothing he’s looking forward to except getting out of here. That’s his only goal.
x.
Valentine’s Day is a myriad of roses and boxes of chocolates and handmade cards. Namjoon had texted him earlier, telling him to come over later because there was a surprise waiting for him. Seokjin awaited the end of the last period eagerly.
But on his way out someone taps his shoulder and Seokjin glances back, confused.
Standing behind him is a girl with pretty (probably dyed) auburn hair slightly curled at the ends, long legs, and a shy smile on her glossed lips. “Um, Kim Seokjin-oppa, right?” she says, even though she clearly knows. “I’ve been wanting to meet you.”
Seokjin plants a hesitant smile on his face. “Yeah. Nice to meet you?”
“I was wondering,” she begins, “if you would accept these from me?” She offers him a box of chocolate wrapped prettily in gold foil and with a silver bow stapled on top. Probably homemade.
His mouth twists to the side. “I’m sorry,” he says politely. “I’m already seeing someone.”
Her expression darkens by a fraction and she grabs his arm with her free hand and pulls him out of the doorway and around the corner. “I know you’re seeing someone,” she hisses. “The whole school knows.”
Seokjin relaxes. “Then you understand why I can’t-”
“Don’t you see?” she interrupts, frustrated. “I’m giving you a second chance. Haven’t you noticed that people are ignoring you more now? Haven’t you noticed that people are treating you differently, now that they know? Haven’t you heard them talking about what they’d do to someone like you? They might not be touching you right now, because of your fanbase.” She sneers, like she’s so much better than the rest of them. “But just because you’re fine doesn’t mean your little boyfriend is.”
Seokjin moves to leave, but she holds on tight to his arm. “Are you blind?” she says. She smiles at him, almost sadly. “I’m giving you an opportunity to help him. It’s your fault, you know.”
When she lets go Seokjin runs.
x.
He meets Namjoon by the front of the school, where apparently he’s been waiting for the last twenty minutes. Namjoon doesn’t say anything, just looks at Seokjin’s face and doesn’t ask questions. Just lets him push him against a wall and kiss him, hungrily, forcefully, all pent-up anger and frustration and a weariness that Namjoon can’t kiss away.
But he lets himself flinch when Seokjin’s hands stray up his shirt, digging in a little to hard to the bruises on his stomach and chest and back, some purpling dark and ripe and some yellow and fading. He’s gotten tired of the circle of sneering boys who form whenever the teachers aren’t watching, and though he’d like to think better of them there are girls mixed in there with them too, throwing rocks and fists and harsh words.
He used to fight back, kicking and punching and scratching, but what use is this against a sea of hatred? He’s taken to bearing it with his head down, his mouth firmly shut, because the most he can keep is his dignity. Seokjin will be graduating soon, and maybe if he works hard enough a college will be willing to take him early. He won’t care what they say.
All beautiful things come at a cost, and if this is all it is, he’s willing to pay it. For Seokjin.
x.
Seokjin notices Namjoon tense under his fingers, feels him bite his lower lip as he winces. Slowly, he lifts the edge of his t-shirt and sees the sprawling map of bruises spread out across his tan skin, sees the trail of hurt.
And he understands.
x.
The girl doesn’t notice him leaning against the wall beside her until she’s halfway through her lunch. He watches the sunlight play in the golden highlights of her hair, making her red hair glow like fire. Her skin is white and pale and her lips are small and delicate. Her lashes are long and her eyes smile as much as her mouth when she listens to her friends joke around. He thinks it wouldn’t be difficult to learn to love her.
When she finally looks up, her friends asking her who it is waiting for her, she sees him. He feels cold and his palms are suddenly clammy and he has to take a breath before asking, “Your previous offer. Is it still open?”
Her eyes crinkle into a smile.
x.
It’s to protect Namjoon, he tells himself when he sees them in the hall, their hands linked. She’s talking to him about something but he can’t seem to hear because there’s a buzzing in his ears that drowns everything out. It’s to keep the bruises off his skin and that smile on his face.
It’s to protect Namjoon, he tells himself when he see’s his look of betrayal, the bewilderment sliding to hurt sliding to anger. She wraps herself around his arm and smiles up at him with her pink, glossed lips. It’s to give him a better life and a chance of happiness with someone else, someone better than Seokjin, someone he deserves.
It’s to protect Namjoon, he tells himself, as he pulls her in for a kiss. He sees her surprised look as he cuts her off in the middle of a sentence, but she purrs into his mouth and melts into him. She has to tiptoe to meet his lips, and he cups her face gently. It’s all for Namjoon, he tells himself as he hears his footsteps angrily storm off, because keeping his distance is Seokjin the only way he can keep him safe.
x.
She shows him off to all her friends like it’s an accomplishment, and makes him sit with her at lunch and walk home with her after school and carry her bags in the occasional shopping trip. She tries to love him, and he tries to love her. They don’t know why it’s so hard - she’s so beautiful and he’s so handsome and everyone says they look perfect together, but they don’t click. She feels nothing for him, despite the months she’d spent pining away for the person she thought he was. He feels nothing for her, because his eyes can’t help following Namjoon every time he sees him in the hallway. But they try their best to stay together and look perfect and be who everyone else wants them to be.
And even though everyone’s welcomed him “back”, blaming his going astray on Namjoon, and he’s got more friends than ever, he feels so empty inside.
x.
Seokjin’s taken to sitting in the grassy clearing behind the cafeteria during lunch, hoping that maybe Namjoon might show up and they might (coincidentally) meet. It’s where they’ve always sat during lunch, to eat and to talk about their classmates and teachers and to listen to music. But Namjoon doesn’t come anymore, hasn’t come to school for weeks. And Seokjin is starting to doubt this.
x.
Graduation is too long for his liking, and he burns inside of his long gown. The speeches are long and sentimental, even though this school isn’t half as important to any of them as they claim it had been. He keeps searching through the crowd - for whom, he doesn’t know. His mother? His friends? Namjoon?
His robes are stifling, and he can’t bear it a moment longer. He leaves the stage early, and people seem to think it’s to use the restroom. He walks to the parking lot, and just sits on the hood of his car, his cap beside him, the breeze running through his hair.
He doesn’t know what he expected from his high school experience, but this definitely wasn’t it. He wants to say he has no regrets, but he’s done so many things he wishes he could just take back.
“Hey,” he hears from behind him, low and smooth, like honey and water. Seokjin turns around too quickly.
Namjoon is standing there, mouth pulled into a straight line. Seokjin can tell he’s trying to look nonchalant. “You forgot your diploma. They were all looking for you, wondering where you went.”
Seokjin smiles humorlessly. “I didn’t forget it. I chose not to receive it. I couldn’t care less if they decided to honor me with a piece of paper or not.”
Namjoon lets the edges of his mouth tilt up, but he pulls them down again. “I-” he begins hesitantly, and Seokjin can feel his stomach tossing and turning. “I just want to know why. Was I not enough for you? Were you seeing her behind my back? I mean, I guess we weren’t officially going out or anything but I thought you would at least tell me.”
“It’s not your fault,” he says, voice unexpectedly hoarse. “None of this was ever your fault.” He clears his throat. “It’s just, I thought you would be safer without me. They only attacked you because you were with me; if I left, I thought you wouldn’t be hurt anymore.”
Namjoon’s eyes flash. “They didn’t attack me because of you. Don’t be so arrogant. They don’t even really care about you, the people who you call friends. They’re just looking for someone weak to target, to make themselves feel better and stronger and more righteous. They were looking for someone to hurt, and it just happened that I was the easiest target.”
“But it was because of me. If I hadn’t-”
“So what if you hadn’t?” Namjoon interrupts. “I chose this when I chose to love you. I could stand this; this was nothing compared to getting to love you. I told myself everyday that it was all worth it, because when I saw your smile I thought everything would be alright. Remember, Jinnie?” His voice softens. “We were going to leave her and find better lives for ourselves. I loved you enough to endure all this, but you gave up on me halfway through.”
“I love you too,” he whispers, the words sticking in his throat. But Namjoon just shakes his head.
“It’s too late for that now,” he tells him, and presses one last kiss to his lips before he’s gone.
x.
It takes ten years. Ten years for Seokjin to settle down in the bustling city of Seoul, to find a job doing what he loves and to find someone to love. To forget his brief high school romance.
“Yoongi,” he says, “I know you’re awake already.” He watches him turn over in bed and throw a pillow over his head, grumbling something unintelligible into the sheets.
“It’s already noon,” Seokjin says, sitting down on the bed, hand idly playing through the mint-green locks that Yoongi had kept because he had known Seokjin loved seeing it on him. “Remember? I manage to reserve a spot at that pretty restaurant downtown that’s always full. If you’re not getting up soon I’m taking your Kumamon plushie,” he says, picking it up and placing it in his lap.
Yoongi throws his pillow in the general direction of Seokjin’s head and misses by about a foot, but he pushes himself groggily off of the bed and presses a quick kiss onto the corner of Seokjin’s mouth. “Only noon? I hate you - it’s my day off. God, I should’ve never married an early riser like you.”
“I love you too,” he sings and he hears Yoongi laugh.
x.
The sky feels bluer today and the grass greener and the drab streets are bustling with life. Everything seems brighter when they can both get a day off and spend it doing anything - kissing lazily in bed, picnics in the park (Yoongi pretends to hate those), at the animal shelter playing with the animals they might adopt once they move to a larger, pet-friendly apartment.
Yoongi’s hair smells like shampoo and a hint of citrus. His hand fits in Seokjin’s like it belongs there. Everything about Yoongi is just right, his cat-like eyes and his pale legs and the way he talks, with a slight Daegu rumble.
And then he see the tall man beside him, waiting for the traffic light. He’s got a dark-haired man on his arm, all white-skinned and doe-eyed and red-lipped. He looks young, dressed simply in an oversized white shirt, black jeans, and Timberlands. He gestures animatedly with his hands when he talks, and his eyes seem to light up with passion. The taller man laughs, his dimples popping. He reaches in his pocket for something, but his wallet falls out.
Seokjin automatically bends down to pick it up and hands it to the man, but he sees dark eyes widen when they meet his.
He’s frozen where he stands, his hands tense in Yoongi’s, because he sees the hair he used to run his hands through, sees the fingers he used to interlace with his own, sees the lips he used to kiss. He sees the arms he used to wrap himself around, the shoulders he used to rest his head against.
But the spell’s not there anymore, the magic's gone. And he’s the first one to break the eye contact, smiling genuinely and bowing low. “I hope you have a great day,” he says, and straightens.
He sees Namjoon relax and smile back at him, grateful, before the light switches colors and Yoongi tugs Seokjin across the road.
“Who was that?” Yoongi asks, once they’re a suitable distance away.
Seokjin lets out a breath and lets his lips curl upward. “Just an old friend.”