*

 

The sun blares down on Jungkook, illuminating the stretch of asphalt road before him. A warm summer wind ruffles his white T-shirt, drawing bell-like sounds from the leaves of the maple trees behind him. Jungkook stands at the bus stop, one hand clutching the strap of his backpack, the other shoved into the pocket of his jeans. He squints into the distance in the hope of spotting a familiar silhouette, but all he finds is the empty road and the low-roofed houses on the bottom of the hill. The water of the sea glistens in the far distance, blinking back at him as it’s kissed by the sunlight.

 

Registering this emptiness, Jungkook’s confidence falters further. His stomach drops. The young boy grips the strap of his backpack a little tighter.

 

He glances down at his watch. The hands read 17:13 – meaning his bus will come any minute. The hope he had had of the other coming (hope he hadn’t wanted to admit to) diminishes, like air rushing out of a balloon. Soon it will be too late. He’ll have to take the bus on his own, as he had feared he would.

 

A wave of disappointment comes over him. Suddenly, Jungkook has to fight the overwhelming want to cry. Fat tears well up in his eyes. Desperately he tries to blink them away, because to cry now would be pathetic. Embarrassing. He balls his fists and bites down hard on his bottom lip. For the first time in a long time, Jungkook actually feels sorry for himself. He feels anger too, for blindly believing that the other would come. In the end, he had turned a ‘maybe’ into a promise. Foolishly, he had held onto hope he knew he shouldn’t have had.

 

Another burst of wind comes over him, sweeping his bangs to the side. His hair is a little long, Jungkook notices now; it pokes his left eye as it is pulled by the wind. Perhaps he should have gone to have it cut. Not that it matters now. It’s too late.

 

An engine roars off in the distance. Jungkook listens to it as it drowns out the chime of the wind. A moment passes – and then he sees the bus turning around the corner, into the street on which Jungkook stands.

 

Instantly, the boy’s heartbeat speeds up. His blood pumps hot and hard in his ears. All he can feel for a moment is the raging of his heart inside his chest, thumping faster and faster, and all he can hear is the ringing in his ears. The bus is nearing closer now, only a couple of meters away. He has to make a decision.

 

Jungkook dares another glance down the hill.

 

There, in the far distance, is a figure bolting towards him. His heart skips a beat.

 

 

*

 

TWO YEARS EARLIER

 

*

 

PART ONE

 

*

 

 

Jungkook is fifteen when he gets the job at the cinema.

 

For Jungkook, film had all started with that one videotape: Titanic, 1997, released the same year he’d been born and re-watched over and over again in the Jung household. Jungkook doesn’t remember the film so much as the family’s old living room, fleeting images floating into his mind: the TV cabinet which stood proudly in the centre of their living room, the bookcase next to it boasting pictures such as The Lion King and Dumbo the Flying Elephant. There was his mother and her 90s perm flying somewhere above Jungkook, her warm hands at times kindly ruffling his hair; and his father, glasses covering most of his forehead, on his hands and knees in front of the video recorder, fumbling with the tape. Finally, there was his older brother, sipping cherry-red lemonade through a Mickey-Mouse-shaped-straw.

 

Jungkook remembers the first time he went to a movie theatre. They’d been showing Stuart Little then, and though looking back at it he must not have understood a thing, he remembers feeling so overwhelmed: the life-like size of the actors up there on the screen (if he just stretched his arms out a little, he could almost imagine being there), the sounds which overwhelmed him so much Jungkook couldn’t do anything but sit in the red seat threatening to swallow him up, large eyes pried open to stare at the story unfolding before him.

 

It was magical.

 

As the lights went out for the last time and the ending credits came rolling onto the screen, sitting there in the darkness, Jungkook felt something special. For the first time in his life, he felt part of something bigger than himself. That night, all he could think of were that little mouse and the adventures he’d take, and for a moment real life was forgotten.

 

Later, when he was deemed old enough to visit the theatre by himself, his older brother showed him Enter the Dragon on a VHS tape older than Jungkook himself. An obsession followed with Way of the Dragon, Game of Death and House of Flying Daggers: his eyes following the snappy movements these men made like a hawk, the flashy swoosh of their arms, balled fists, and the straight lines their bodies made as they jumped from rooftop to rooftop, avoiding the attacks of enemies with as much ease as a fish gliding through water. Jungkook looked at these muscled men, using their strength and power to not just get what they wanted, but to protect and retain their respect, dignity and families – and saw in them a person he wanted to be.

 

So he set aside reality once more and began building up his muscles, one Taekwondo lesson at a time, dreaming that perhaps one day he might himself be some sort of Bruce Lee himself. Later came Die Hard, Indiana Jones and even The Terminator: by the time Jungkook reached the age of fifteen, he’d become into the world of film.

 

His own life is unlike the fluorescent colours of day in these films. He has never felt love as intense as the one shared between Jack and Rose, and his conversations do not entail the gripping dialogues written by the pen of Tarantino. He is simply Kim Jungkook: fifteen years old and living in a rackety apartment in the suburbs of Seoul.

 

Jungkook searches and searches. He seeks for something in life that could make his heart beat as fast as the of his favourite film. But for now, Jungkook remains perched between his TV and his bed, the comfort of his wide headphones snuggling his ears the only thing that is real.

 

*

 

‘Taehyung, what did I tell you about not scaring the new co-worker?’ Min Yoongi barges into the staff room, flipping through the file in his hands.

 

Jungkook recognises the older man as the proprietor of the place; the one that had interviewed him for the job, owner of a Daegu accent rougher than that of the tanned boy standing next to him.

 

The dark-skinned boy shakes his head adamantly. ‘I wasn’t doing anything weird! I was just showing Jungkookie where everything is,’ he pouts, turning to the younger boy. ‘Right?’

 

Jungkookie.

 

Jungkook smiles at his boss, the strict manager he’s already figured out he has to keep his step careful around, and waves his hand. ‘That’s right. Taehyung was just showing me where the lockers are.’

 

Min Yoongi lets his gaze slide slowly from Taehyung to Jungkook, then back once more, coming to rest on the eldest of the pair. He nods calmly, expression still a little unconvinced. ‘Alright then. Clock in once you’re done here,’ he tells them, and with that his figure disappears once more through the swing door.

 

The grand tour continues. Taehyung shows Jungkook around the popcorn machines and the ice box, shows him how to work the till (‘see, this green button here, ‘delete all’, it doesn’t work, so what you gotta do…’) and how to scrub the floors inside the theatres when sticky popcorn and pitiful fallen m&m’s have stuck to it. Today, Jungkook will have to man the cash register; by the time Taehyung has pinned a name badge on his chest, he’s forgotten nearly everything the older has told him and is as nervous as he is excited.

 

‘How old are you?’ the brown-skinned boy asks him as he’s putting in 10,000 won notes into Jungkook’s till.

 

‘Fifteen.’

 

‘Cool! I’m sixteen, so let’s be friends,’ the boy shouts out. He’s a little like a puppy, Jungkook thinks, as he takes in the lights in Taehyung’s eyes – all energy and no fear.

 

Jungkook had been scared on his bike-ride to the cinema; afraid his colleagues would be mean and demanding like his classmates had told him theirs were. He’s happy to have Taehyung be kind to him at least, even if the rest turn out to be nasty.

 

‘What kind of films do you like?’ the younger boy decides to ask, in a flurry of courage. He is usually shy around strangers, but for some reason he finds his own confidence sparked by that of the older boy. For some reason, it doesn’t seem like there would be a wrong thing to say around Taehyung.

 

The elder thinks for a second, finger at his chin and the blonde bangs that nearly reach his eyes flopping to the side. Jungkook has to suppress a giggle as the image of a puppy once more crosses his mind.

 

‘I’m not really into films as such… I like documentaries more. Did you see Born to Be Blue?’

 

Jungkook shakes his head. The other boy gasps as if Jungkook has committed a crime.

 

‘You should come and watch it at my place sometime! It’s really cool.’

 

Blush creeps up Jungkook’s cheeks at the forwardness of the other boy. He supposes he could see it as refreshing, how Taehyung doesn’t bother with the usual social rules and restrictions.

 

So he smiles.

 

‘Sure, that sounds good.’

 

‘Taehyung, what did Yoongi hyung tell you about not bothering the new kid!’ a voice shouts from far away. Both the boys’ heads sweep around in the direction of a tall man standing by the steps to the theatres, wearing thick black-rimmed specs.

 

‘I’m not!’ Taehyung vehemently shouts back.

 

‘He’s not!’ Jungkook chimes in. His heart thumps quickly in his chest; he doesn’t know what’s overcome him that he can be so brash – he would normally never have dared to shout something at a stranger; let alone someone older than him.

 

When he locks eyes with Taehyung the boy laughs triumphantly, and the both of them burst out in chuckles.

 

The tall figure gives them an unamused look. He lets out a deep sigh before walking away with a shake of the head, appearing to be as unconvinced as Yoongi had been. Taehyung leans in to whisper in Jungkook’s ears, his breath warm: ‘That’s Namjoon hyung. You should never ask him for film recommendations. Unless you like to suffer.’

 

‘Why? What kind of films does he like?’

 

‘You know the kind of films people always imagine art-house films are like? With people opening doors to find someone, like, counting matches, and they just go: ‘Oh, Sebastian… oh. And then they shut the door and there’s nothing but a ten-second shot of a flower?’

 

Jungkook bursts out in laughter. He doesn’t know what Taehyung is talking about at all, yet it makes perfect sense.

 

The older wrinkles his nose in disgust as he watches the tall figure leave. ‘Well, that’s the kind of films Namjoon hyung likes.’

 

The younger boy beams a smile at the tanned boy. ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

 

*

 

Namjoon finds Yoongi counting 50,000 won bills in the tiny office adhering to the staff kitchen. He knocks on the door twice, knuckles tapping against the glass, the sound as clear as the blue of a summer sky.

 

‘Open!’ his friend calls from inside, the maroon of his dress shirt all Namjoon can make out. He pries the door open, the thing creaking with every inch that it’s turned.

 

‘When did we say we were gonna fix this damn thing?’ he mumbles, pushing against the bolts that form the turning mechanism of the door with an open hand. Yoongi doesn’t reply – as Namjoon expected he wouldn’t – only continues muttering under his breath. 200,000, 250,000, 300,000…

 

Leaving the door, Namjoon flops down next to his friend and spreads out the dossier of last month’s earnings from the restaurant on the desk. He takes a deep sigh as he adjusts his glasses. Checking numbers was never his favourite chore, but it was probably the most important.

 

‘Did you see Taehyung scare the new kid yet?’ Yoongi asks as he’s polished off the 50,000 stack, turning to start on the 10,000-wons.

 

‘Yeah,’ Namjoon laughs, ‘didn’t introduce myself yet. New kid gave me some cheek too, actually.’

 

A smirk curls itself around Yoongi’s mouth. He his finger as he rakes through the full stack of 10,000-won bills, counting on the go.

 

‘Really? Kid didn’t strike me as a rebel during the intake,’ he chuckles.

 

‘Well, you know Taehyung manages to bring out the worst in people,’ Namjoon sighs, one eyebrow raised as he recalls what a good kid Jimin used to be when he first started working last summer. Before he decided to become bffs with Kim Taehyung. The two friends both laugh heartily. It’s not in bad spirits – they both know Taehyung to be a lovely kid.

 

‘Let’s see how he does on his first day. He looked nervous this morning,’ Yoongi notes.

 

‘The kids always look nervous when you’re around, hyung.’ Namjoon shoots back. The older elbows Namjoon in his side without a word, drawing out a hearty ‘oof!’ from the other man, whose grin remains in place.

 

‘As they should be, damn brats,’ Yoongi laughs. His best friend shares his smile.

 

Silence falls over the two. For moments, all that’s heard inside the tiny office is the ticking of Namjoon’s fingers on the calculator as he checks that week’s inventory and the sharp sweep of bills as Yoongi continues to count the cash registrar’s earnings down to the last 1,000 won. Namjoon has always loved the silence in moments like this; how it’s almost tangible, like a third person in the room. People tell him he’s sentimental – Namjoon doesn’t really care.

 

For how long have they been doing this, he wonders? Hell, five years at least. Namjoon remembers Yoongi and him sitting behind his computer in college, one of those big 90’s refrigerator things, and how the ticking of Yoongi’s fingers on his synthesizer sounds similar to the sound of the calculator now. Their clothes were different then – worse, probably (but damn if Namjoon didn’t still love that neon-pink windbreaker). They’d had bigger dreams, too. But things always turned out right, even if they didn’t always turn out as they’d expected.

 

Something aches in his chest at the memory. It’s both fondness and regret – at the preciousness of the memory itself, but of the impossibility of ever returning to that moment as well.

 

About twenty minutes later, by the time he reaches the row of paper napkins, Namjoon feels his eyelids get heavy. He lifts his thick specs, rubbing the skin underneath.

 

By his side, Yoongi glances at the younger man.

 

‘Tired?’ he observes.

 

Namjoon fights hard to suppress a yawn.

 

‘Yeah. I’ll be glad when I clock out of here. I’m taking Seojin to that new Italian place that opened up in by the station, opposite of exit four, you know?’

 

‘Mmm. Heard it was nice.’

 

‘It’d better be. She’s been cranky about me not having enough time for her lately.’

 

‘You should be good to that woman,’ Yoongi notes, ‘you lucky bastard.’

 

A breathy laugh is knocked out of Namjoon. He knows Yoongi’s words hold no venom, and it’s true. Seojin probably is a better person than Namjoon ever was. Unbearably kind, unbearably beautiful and unbearably good for this world. They’d been having a rough patch lately – which Namjoon knew was really all his fault, but that made it cut all the more. He had to turn the tide on this thing, before he lost Seojin over something as silly as his work.

 

He catches a glimpse of Yoongi hunched over a stack of coins, the small, white-gold ring on his left hand glistening in the light of the office. Namjoon grasps the pen out of his shirt pocket, reaches over to write a total on the bottom of the page.

 

‘How about you?’ he tries asking casually, feigning ignorance. It doesn’t come out as smooth as he’d liked. Namjoon supposes there is no way to breach this subject without a hint of caution; not when they’ve known each other as long as they have. The question is not just a question: it’s a collection of difficult times they’ve dragged each other through, of secrets softly whispered over the comfort of a beer, of subjects that aren’t suited for daytime conversation.

 

(Or at least Namjoon knows that’s how difficult his best friend finds it; he’s never had much problem with talk of emotions.)

 

‘What about me?’ Yoongi urges, voice sounding different.

 

Tense.

 

‘You and Hoseok,’ Namjoon presses, ‘all is good?’

 

He knows he doesn’t imagine the way his best friend’s fingers falter for just that fraction of a second.

 

‘Yeah, it’s good. He’s been… he’s been good, lately.’

 

Silence.

 

Namjoon sees Yoongi out of the corner of his eye, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, fighting the emotions that Namjoon knows are boiling up inside of him. His hands move more quickly than before, faster than Namjoon knows Yoongi can count.

 

‘Of course, you can never quite tell when he’s… you know, when it’s natural or when it’s because he’s… well – you know. So, that’s difficult, I guess,’ he cracks a bitter smile.

 

‘That’s tough.’ Namjoon replies softly, earnestly.

 

A shrug.

 

‘If there’s ever anything, anything at all – you know Seojin and I…’

 

The older man nods rapidly; that tick Namjoon knows his best friend has never been able to shake. Nothing much has been said, but Namjoon knows it has been enough. Yoongi lifts his face, finally looking him in the eye.

 

Then, a genuine smile. ‘I know, I know. Thank you, Namjoon.’

 

‘Anytime.’

 

*

 

To my dearest,

 

I ask you not to burn this letter. Do not tear it up. Do not throw it, in a fit of unwanted rage, in the nearest bin. Even if, when you are nearing 80, it remains unread, I want you not to delete this letter from your existence.

 

This I ask of you.

 

I know it is a selfish request, and I would not blame you for feeling nothing but anger at this moment. But I ask you to allow yourself to have to chance to read this, if you ever feel the urge to. You never know who you will be in a couple years’ time – this I know as any person ever will. Though it is the most senseless request I will ever make: please allow me to at least foster the hope that you will read these words.

 

I almost feel your anger as I write this, as I have felt it often before. You must be asking yourself: why did I write this? And due to recent events, I cannot blame you for any scepticism you might have.

 

Laughable as this must sound to you now, please know that I have decided to write this letter out of nothing but love for you.

 

*

 

Jungkook kicks off his trainers once he enters the house, backpack bouncing behind him as he practically jumps up the steps. Grabbing a cookie from the coffee table as he rushes through the living room, he can hear the soft thud of his own feet landing on the wooden floor, entire body still filled with excitement of his first day at work. He feels strung like a wire – and he wants all this energy to come pouring out.

 

An extra session at the open-air gym next to the playground by the river, he has decided, already bouncing to get into his work-out kit when Jjangu comes trotting into the living room to greet him with soft, pesky barks. Jungkook crouches down in order to pat the dog’s curly brown fur, its tail wagging against the boy’s leg.

 

‘Hey,’ Jungkook coos through a mouthful of chocolate-chip, ‘did you miss me? Diya miss me?’

 

The dog gladly his owner’s hand, one paw on the boy’s hand, urging Jungkook to go on. Jungkook laughs, ruffling Jjangu on his crown one more time before getting up, swallowing down the last of the cookie he’s just devoured.

 

He looks out into the hall. It’s quiet in the house, which isn’t unusual in itself – it’s been like this ever since his older brother had gone up to Seoul to take the civil service exam – but it’s almost too quiet. There’s no clanging of the dishwasher, no water running off in the distance, no music playing absentmindedly from the radio.

 

‘Mom?’ he calls.

 

Jungkook sheds his backpack on the couch, leaving Jjangu behind to find what’s behind closed doors. He tries his own room first, which holds no clues except for the fact that it’s been tidied up since he left for work.  

 

‘Mom?’ he tries again, calling a little louder this time.

 

The kitchen door opens with a bang.

 

Jungkook turns around to find his mother standing in the doorway with a look on her face he can’t read. Instantly, he’s alert, ears perking up like a deer’s at night. There’s something off; it hangs in the air all around him, presses down. It’s stifling.

 

Then Jungkook sees the redness in his mother’s eyes.

 

‘Mom, are you okay?’ he asks, voice soft. Taking a step closer, he finds his father sitting at the kitchen table behind his mother, not meeting his gaze. Something in Jungkook’s psyche switches from alert to worse.

 

The guesses pour out: ‘Did something happen at dad’s work? Did something happen to hyung?’

 

His mother firmly shakes her head. She walks over to him, leaving the kitchen door hanging a chink open; his father’s gaze is still fixed on the table, unwavering. The hand of his mother lands on his face, a gesture that is soft and warm and all too familiar. One finger rubs his cheek soothingly.

 

She smiles. ‘It’s nothing like that, Jungkook. Your father and I just have to have a talk about something. Why don’t you get some fresh air, hm? Just for a couple of minutes.’

 

Jungkook halts. He steals another glance at his father through the crack in the door. The feeling that something’s not right gnaws at him, and he knows his instinct doesn’t lie. Yet Jungkook also knows his mother, and he trusts her not to ever hide something that would potentially hurt him more than knowing would.

 

So he nods. ‘I was thinking about going for a run…’ he mumbles.

 

‘Why don’t you do that, and then when you come back and have a shower, you tell me all about your first day? Doesn’t that sound nice?’

 

Jungkook shakes off the doubt that still rests at the back of his mind, and beams his brightest smile at her.

 

‘Yeah. Sounds good,’ he decides.

 

*