*

 

Yoongi comes home to the sound of early 2000’s R&B and the smell of spicy deep fried chicken.

 

Min Yoongi lives alone.

 

He leaves his bag in the hallway, putting it down as softly as he can, before he shuffles into the living room. He isn’t startled: his mother had acquired the habit of visiting at random times ever since Yoongi had told her he sometimes skipped meals – this had been last Christmas. The neighbours had a spare key, in case of emergencies, but Yoongi had a better guess at who his guest was. Something deep inside his chest flutters lightly at the thought.

 

A blob of mahogany hair peeks out from behind the stove. Yoongi walks closer, footsteps now audible on the tiles of the kitchen floor. He swallows as he notices the other’s hair is kept and that the colouring looks recent.

 

Good signs.

 

He doesn’t even notice he’s been holding his breath until Hoseok turns around and Yoongi can gaze into pupils that aren’t blown, can tell the other man’s hands aren’t shaking.

 

‘Hey,’ he breathes, and it feels like Yoongi pushes out all of the thoughts he’s been holding back in that one gust of air. He feels lighter, like the sword of Damocles has been lifted from his shoulders, that looming shadow vanished.

 

The other man perks up at the sight of him, 1000 Watt smile in place. Of course, Yoongi thinks, that smile – it wouldn’t ever not be there. There’s a pang deep in his chest at the regret he feels at still not being able to surrender to happiness as easily. Yoongi has learnt to be careful over the years.

 

‘Hey! Working late again, huh?’ Hoseok chirps, stealing a sip of the spicy dipping sauce that’s still simmering on the stove with his pinkie finger. Out of the corner of his eye, Yoongi notices that the kitchen table has been set for two, a tea light flickering sheepishly in the middle.

 

He walks over to the stove to where Hoseok is standing.

 

‘Chicken for dinner?’ Yoongi asks, pointing to the two familiar red-yellow boxes that stand on the countertop.

 

‘Thought a skinny boy like you could use some protein,’ Hoseok figures.

 

And then, finally – laughter.

 

It’s Yoongi who starts, but it’s never long before Hoseok can resist to follow; not when Yoongi’s smile makes something glow inside his chest like he’s hurting in the best way. Yoongi feels the knots in his stomach loosen, the tightness in his muscles fading. He allows himself to feel, rather than think.

 

‘Seriously, have you been working too much again? Look at you,’ Hoseok takes one of Yoongi’s wrists in his hands, circling it with his own fingers, holding it up for the other to see. They’re small, like a girl’s. When Hoseok’s fingers first reach his skin, Yoongi nearly jumps at the sudden touch. Hoseok’s hands are exactly as they always have been: long, wiry fingers; thinner than his own, warm to the touch – but it had been a while since he’d felt their heat.

 

He lets his arm fall from the other’s hold.

 

For a moment, neither of them says anything. Yoongi takes in the plumpness of Hoseok’s lips, a slight pink in his poorly-lit kitchen; the strong arch of his heavy eyebrows; the sharpness of his nose, all the way to his eyes.

 

Those eyes. Deep charcoal burning with a passion for life. Yoongi never wants to look away from that gaze.

 

‘What about you?’ he asks, voice almost a whisper.

 

Hoseok doesn’t say anything.

 

‘You’re doing well?’

 

The other doesn’t answer. Yoongi can see the want in his eyes; they’re cloudy, like black pearls. It reminds him too much of something else.

 

He looks away.

 

It’s Hoseok who leans in first, hands curling around Yoongi’s upper arms, lips drawing open Yoongi’s own, their chests pressed together. They go slow, catching up where they’ve left off, ripping open old wounds and healing them at the same time. There is far too much to say for this conversation. Yoongi could string together a book of sentences he’d like to utter; would get lost in the thing he wants to draw out and hear, drown in that waterfall of his thoughts. It won’t fit.

 

He breathes against the other’s lips.

 

Yoongi’s never been a man of many words anyway.

 

*

 

‘Hey! Where do you think you’re going?’ a voice calls Jungkook from behind, halting him in his step.

 

The boy twirls around to find Taehyung standing in the doorway of the staffroom, uniform still on, beckoning his friend.

 

‘Aren’t you watching the film with us?’ the other demands once Jungkook is close enough.

 

Jungkook’s puzzled expression tells Taehyung that the boy has no idea what he’s talking about.

 

‘Jimin, Namjoon, Yoongi and I, we’re watching a film in theatre 3,’ the older boy explains, ‘I thought Namjoon invited you! Wanna join?’

 

Jungkook grasps the strap of his backpack a little stronger, stealing a glance at his watch. It reads 23:30 already; his mother had told him she didn’t like him cycling home too late at night, hand on her heart as she shook her head at the thought of that railroad tunnel he had to cross.

 

Yet Jungkook recognises Taehyung’s proposal for what it is: an invitation to something more than an evening of film – an invitation into the tight-knit inner circle that consisted of that group of four: Namjoon, Yoongi, Jimin, Taehyung. Jungkook had already been ecstatic at being added to their Facebook chat group, even if nothing much happened there except for Taehyung sharing viral videos and Twitter memes at ungodly hours of the morning and Yoongi cursing at the younger to go to sleep.

 

He likes Jimin for his kindness. Namjoon and Yoongi seem friendly, despite their cold – and sometimes intimidating – exterior.

 

And Taehyung is… well, Taehyung is something.

 

Though he would be embarrassed to voice it out loud, Jungkook has been a little envious of their friendship. So he beams a smile at his new friend.

 

‘Sure!’ he decides, making a mental note to send his mother a text message as soon as possible. He wouldn’t want her to worry.

 

The tanned boy instantly chirps up, a grin plastered on his face. An arm is easily slid around Jungkook’s shoulders, something which catches him by surprise, though it isn’t exactly unpleasant. He’s noticed how clingy the older boy gets around the others. A koala, he’s heard Yoongi call the dark boy before, grumpily and over a cup of coffee. Taehyung has told him he attends an all-boys school: Jungkook chalks his chumminess up to this fact.

 

The other smells nice, like sweet coconut shampoo and the tangy scent of cheap bubble-gum Namjoon keeps telling him he isn’t allowed during worktime.

 

As Taehyung catches his gaze, Jungkook realises he’s been caught staring. He trains his eyes on the popcorn-speckled floor, cheeks heating up.

 

‘What’re we watching?’ he thinks to ask.

 

‘Yeah, about that, it’s Namjoon’s turn to pick the movie,’ Taehyung sighs apologetically, dramatically hanging his head to the side. Then he shrugs, paradoxically, ‘this time’s not too bad, I guess. Brokeback Mountain.’

 

Jungkook admits he’s never heard of it. He’s barely ever heard of any of the films his colleagues mention, 60’s westerns and obscure 90’s indie films amongst many others, and he’s started to feel like quite the philistine – has realized Jackie Chan won’t cut it with this crowd.

 

‘What’s it about?’ he asks, as Taehyung leads him through poster-plastered walls to theatre 3, the older boy’s arm still resting somewhere snuggly in between the back of Jungkook’s neck and his black Eastpack.

 

‘Issa love story. Two men, rural America. It got an Oscar, I think? A nom, at least. Surprised you haven’t heard of it,’ the older muses.

 

Jungkook almost misses a step. ‘Two men?’

 

He waits for Taehyung to mention something, to tell him he’s heard wrong, but the other boy seems to think it’s nothing of it. The only response he gets is another shrug. ‘It’s American,’ comes the retort, as if this is an all-compassing explanation to Jungkook.

 

Jungkook wonders if his shock has something to do with his being a country boy. He’s never considered himself particularly closeminded, but he’s never seen a romantic film between two men. He supposes he’s always known those kind of people existed, sure, but more vaguely than anything else: somewhere in the realm between Jungkook’s world and that of Other People. Far, far away from home.

 

His mind goes in circles. Was Namjoon gay? Jungkook recalls overhearing the older man talking to Yoongi about some girlfriend. You don’t have to be like that to enjoy those films, he supposes. It’s fine.

 

As they pass the snack counter, Taehyung slips behind the slush machine and cooks up a rainbow-coloured concoction. ‘Get whatever you want, but Yoongi says we have to pay for it,’ he tells the younger with a roll of the eyes, grudgingly shaking some small change out of his pockets.

 

The drink is tall and impossibly bright: all food colouring and tooth-devastating syrups. As the boy slurps loudly on his straw, Jungkook imagines how the sugary liquid would taste sweet on his tongue. Taehyung’s lips are awfully full and red next to the blue of the straw; almost as if mimicking the haughty colour of the syrupy drink.

 

They’re beautiful, Jungkook supposes.

 

He feels silly for noticing, yet he hasn’t been able to stop recognizing how good-looking Taehyung is since he overheard a group of middle-school girls gushing about his appearance in giggly, hushed tones; whispering how ‘he looks like an idol!’

 

It would be a lie to say Jungkook wasn’t jealous. He couldn’t look like that in a million years: he’d never have groups of girls gushing over him like that. Jungkook brings his fingers to his own lips. He wonders what he looks like to Taehyung.

 

He shakes his head. ‘Not thirsty.’

 

*

 

That night, long after the lights at the theatre had been dimmed and Yoongi had locked the place up, Jungkook lies awake.

 

He can’t stop thinking about it.

 

Turning his body over to the side, Jungkook wishes the pillow smothering his ears could be used to push away his thoughts as well. He can’t help himself –doesn’t know why it keeps occupying his mind, but it does. Perhaps it’s the way the others had all seemed so casual about it; perhaps it was all just his own narrow-mindedness that worried him so much. A small voice in the depth of his mind shouts out, unwanted and unwelcome, that it’s something else. Jungkook decides to be deaf to that voice.

 

As he remembers the warmth of Taehyung’s arm slung around his shoulders during the viewing, a spike of heat rushes through his body, twist at the pit of his stomach.

 

He had let his gaze flutter to the side at the scenes of the two men kissing. It had been too much – too unfamiliar, too shocking all at once. Though he hadn’t wanted to let on, Jungkook couldn’t pretend to himself he was fine with it like Namjoon, Yoongi, Taehyung and even Jimin were. The latter had come from the countryside, like himself, but though Jungkook had carefully inspected his face for any moment of surprise or disapproval, it hadn’t come.

 

It was Wrong, Jungkook had always been told. Reasons were never given, but were never demanded either – it just was, an inevitable fact of life, just as the sky was blue and summers by the seaside were hot. Lying in bed that night, Jungkook isn’t so sure he can accept that anymore. If there were reasons to say it was right, there should at least be arguments given to oppose that view.

 

Yet, as he sways around the covers, Jungkook doesn’t think he could ask his parents. The thought alone makes him want to run far away.

 

As he stares at his ceiling, Jackie Chan stares back at him with a sly grin, unafraid and without worry. Jungkook groans in frustration and hugs his pillow a little closer, eyes tightly shut as he wills himself to sleep.

 

*

 

‘So that’s what happened,’ his mother sighs. There’s some relief in her voice, relief at the truth finally having spilled out, no longer stuck in . Her eyes look a little dull; the usual sparkle absent. There’s a slight shadow underneath them too, but nothing that would make Jungkook worry too much. They had always been light sleepers, his mother and him.  

 

‘Does hyung know?’ he asks.

 

His mother nods. ‘We told him a couple of days after, over the phone.’

 

A pang of hurt strikes through Jungkook’s body at the idea of being somehow an afterthought, of his parents caring less to tell him than his brother. Yet he knows this wouldn’t have been their intention: perhaps in their mind he still appears too young for these kind of things. Whatever the reason, it would be useless to bring it up. So he leaves it, pouting a little, the hurt not quite abided yet, swept underneath the rug to crop up some other time.

 

‘So what’s dad gonna do? I mean, during the day…’ he mumbles, not daring his voice to be too loud for this kind of conversation.

 

His mother leans forward, her arm just missing the scalding teapot that stands on the coffee table as she cradles her son’s hand in her own. Her pupils are big and impossibly black in her small almond eyes, like currents in Jungkook’s morning porridge. Her touch is warm and comforting.

 

‘Nothing is going to change. Your dad will look for another job. Just for a while, we’ll have to be economical, okay? So if you want new Adidas sneakers, you’ll have to buy them out of your pocket money for now,’ she tells him, looking a little sorry.

 

Jungkook laughs lightly, then shakes his head. He runs his thumb over the back of his mother’s hand, drawing circles there. ‘Ah, what do I need a new pair of sneakers for, mom…’

 

His mother smiles. The fine lines by her eyes move in tandem with her lips, as if on a string puppet. The spring sun comes through the window weakly, a watered down version of its vigour a couple of months from now.

 

She pats his hand. ‘It’ll be okay, Jungkook.’

 

*

 

The smell of gochujang and sugar greets Jungkook before the front door has even closed behind him, a familiar scent that will never stop being so inviting. He can already hear his stomach grumbling slightly, his mouth watering at the thought of stuffing his face. As Jungkook hops out of his dirty shoes and discards his rained-upon coat in the hallway, he hears Seojin call out his name.

 

 ‘Is that you?’ the woman notes, face peeking out from behind the kitchen door as he shuffles into the living room.

 

As soon as she notes the state he’s in, taking in his soaking wet polo and the damp jeans sticking to his legs, her face spells thunder. ‘Jesus, did they let you cycle through the rain again?’ she cries.

 

Jungkook laughs at her disapproving frown. He doesn’t want to tell Seojin he minds, not when she’s being so nice to him anyway, doesn’t need her to fuss over him. His mother has covered that.

 

‘It’s okay! I’m not cold,’ he assures her. The look on Seojin’s tells him it’s very much not okay.

 

‘Call me the next time it’s raining! What’ll I do if you catch a cold?’ she grumbles, snapping off her apron as she does. Jungkook invites himself to the kitchen table as the beep of the kitchen timer signals the tteokbeoki that had been simmering on the stove is ready. Outside it’s raining still, pouring rather than drizzling, and the sound of the rain tapping against the glass window is calming. Jungkook hopes it’ll keep raining. He always finds sleep better when listening to the rain.

 

‘There’s some men’s clothes on the foyer, change into those. I can’t have you sitting here in those wet clothes,’ Seojin tells him, beckoning towards the hall.

 

‘After dinner,’ Jungkook decides, eyes trained on the pan before him as she takes the lid off. The smell of spicy red peppers and sweet syrup reaches his nose, and Jungkook wants to sigh in delight. This is why he loves Friday nights.

 

He looks up at Seojin, sitting opposite of him, as she grants his plate with a generous serving of sweet spiciness. She had been living next to them for five years now, had been his babysitter (his mother’s words) for two.

 

Her apartment is like a mirror vision of theirs; all the rooms are echoed. The only difference seems to be Seojin’s devotion to pink, predominating the interior. Even the chopsticks he’s holding now are speckled with pink dots, he notices, and has to resist a smile.

 

Jungkook liked being here. It was almost like being home: he’d always navigated around the place with ease, the wooden planks underneath his feet bouncing with the same spring as home held. Seojin had made a promise to his mother to show him how to cook a little, in preparation for the future, college and more. In return, Jungkook showed Seojin the secret passages in Mario Kart.

 

turns red from the candy-coloured syrup of the rice cakes. Jungkook imagines his own is much the same, just like the way it gets whenever he eats tomato soup. Seojin’s lips are soft and subtle, curved slightly outwards like a peach. Her nose strikes a straight line and her eyes are almond and round. She’s pretty, Jungkook supposes, though looking at her he doesn’t feel much more than that. He wonders if he should.

 

The image of the other day strikes into his mind, of Taehyung’s lips, cherry red and full, wrapped around his straw. Taehyung is pretty as well, he decides. His eyelashes are long, too. He gazes upon Seojin’s mascara-covered eyelashes, little clumps of black sticking to some. Jungkook wonders whether that feels uncomfortable.

 

A napkin is handed out to him. Jungkook finds Seojin beaming a smile at him, the twinkle in her eye holding something similar to his mother’s maternal pride. ‘What are you so deep in thought about?’ she laughs. ‘Tired from work?’

 

Jungkook nods a little awkwardly, embarrassed at his own thoughts. He takes the napkin with a thankful nod. ‘Yeah. Tired.’

 

Then, as the thought pops into his mind, thinks to add: ‘Why do you have men’s clothes?’

 

He doesn’t miss the way Seojin stops her chopsticks half-bite, in mid-air. She leans over to tap him on the forehead with her spoon. ‘Quit thinking so much. Eat your food.’

 

*

 

It’s not that Jimin doesn’t like the new kid, he just finds it very hard to tell what he’s thinking. Jungkook appears to have decided he’s intimidating, or something, because he doesn’t talk to him as easily as he does with Taehyung. Instead, the younger seems to disappear from whatever room Jimin walks into as if Jimin is the bearer of the black plague.

 

Now, he knows from personal experience how welcoming Taehyung can be – but he likes to think he’s not so bad himself. His name isn’t Min Yoongi, after all.

 

Jimin’s determination to make conversation hasn’t played out well so far.

 

Jungkook is slurping his way through a pack of ramyun opposite of him, the both of them sitting outside the SevenEleven two streets from the cinema, their thick coats keeping the cold of March at bay. Jimin has his hands clutched around his hot chocolate still.

 

‘When did you move to Seoul?’ comes the query this time. He’s been throwing questions at Jungkook for the past thirty minutes. One of them is bound to stick. Eventually he’ll find something to pull Jungkook out of his shelter. The other must have wanted to get closer to him: he wouldn’t have agreed to hang out if he didn’t, Jimin muses.

 

The boy looks up, all wide eyes and ears red from the cold, poking out from underneath his Adidas beanie. He stops eating for a minute, nose poked up to the smog-packed sky, remembering.

 

‘I was… nine back then. We used to live by the sea,’ he explains.

 

Jimin nods. Another sip of chocolate. A car comes racing past, a thick SUV with even thicker darkened windows and fat wheels. The sound it makes is so overwhelming Jimin almost thinks he’s hallucinated the boys question. But he hasn’t.

 

‘Me? I’m from Busan. Well – I say Busan, I mean some tiny dump near Busan,’ he laughs, ‘but you wouldn’t have heard of it anyway.’

 

The boy nods, expression showing he’s listening tightly to every words Jimin says. Jimin has to suppress a laugh. It’s kind of cute.

 

The younger seems a little more relaxed now, hands by the side of his ramyun cup, feet tapping softly underneath the table in a habit Jimin doesn’t think the other is aware of. Perhaps all it takes to take the edge off Jungkook is half a pint of cheese ramyun, Jimin figures, and decides to try another question.

 

‘So you like living in Seoul?’

 

‘Sure. But I like going back to the countryside too. That’s – whenever I’m free, my family tends to go back there for periods.’ The boy explains. His pupils jitter from side to side, not quite daring to stop at the older boy. Jimin smiles warmly. He understands Jungkook’s hesitation a bit: he used to be a shy child too, preferring to be immersed in the way sunlight would fall upon his leather shoes rather than other people’s eyes.

 

‘Mhmm. Sounds nice. We don’t go back a lot. I like living in the city. At least there’s always something going on.’

 

‘That’s right!’ the boy chirps up suddenly, a sudden burst of excitement taking Jimin by surprise. ‘Back home I couldn’t practice material arts anywhere. There’s so many gyms here, though. Arcades too. Cinemas. I like that about Seoul.’

 

A waterfall of syllables, finally spoken at something other than a mouse’s decibels. It’s the first time the boy has spoken like this to Jimin. There’s quite a thick accent lingering there still, nine years of language clamping onto his tongue.

 

Jimin folds his arms together, leans back a little in the plastic chair.

 

‘Which material arts? I did notice our polo looks good on you – your arms are so muscular,’ he notes, recalling the way Jungkook had easily carried 20kg boxes of ice cubes into the freezer.

 

The boy smiles. Not a polite, thin smile, but a wide grin, teeth in full display. ‘Yeah? Here, feel,’ he tells Jimin, shrugging off his coat before tightening the muscles in his upper arm. It’s a rush of bravado Jimin is happy to see. He leans forward, palm spread out to touch. It has been no exaggeration: Jungkook’s muscles truly feel like steel.

 

‘Woah!’ he cries out, laughing as the boy does. ‘That’s no joke!’

 

‘It’s the result of Wing Chun,’ Jungkook explains with a shrug, bragging like it’s nothing, though the pride beaming off him belies his modesty. He wriggles his coat back on, hands shooting up to adjust his beanie, thumb rubbing over the Adidas logo so that it’s facing the front.

 

‘That’s cool.’ Jimin says honestly. Their breathing comes out in puffs of white mist due to the early-spring chill. Jungkook watches it disappear, wishing he could gaze upon it just a bit longer.

 

‘I used to do taekwondo, a long time ago. Stopped when I entered high school. Too little time.’ The older boy reveals.

 

The other nods with compassion, telling Jimin he understands the stress of school and how having a part-time job makes it harder. His face looks young, younger than his body with his muscular arms and wide thighs, and Jimin takes in how his pupils are impossibly big and dark – as if filled with the night sky that hangs over them. So that’s why Taehyung had taken a shine to the new boy, he figures. He gets it.

 

Their conversation comes to a halt once more, though this time it’s not unpleasant. Jimin gulps down the remainder of his chocolate, watching Jungkook play with his ramyun more than anything else, lukewarm soggy noodles and half-melted cheese curling around his chopsticks like worms caught inside a web. To his surprise, Jungkook is the first to speaks up again.

 

‘Hyung,’ the boy begins, voice a little calmer now, a little softer, ‘can I… ask you something?’

 

Jimin signals for him to go on.

 

The other shifts in his chair, clearly a little uncomfortable, at unease with the thoughts and words streaming through his mind. He catches his lips between his teeth, worrying. Eventually, he settles on: ‘Well… you and I, we’re both from the countryside, right? So, the other day… when we were watching that whatever Mountain film, did you not think that was a little weird?’

 

The question flies out in the air. Jimin can sense Jungkook is waiting for him to catch it, tense as he waits for his judgement: disapproval as much as approval, as long as it’s something for him to hold on to.

 

He remembers the film. He understands the meaning in Jungkook’s question.

 

‘Why?’ he demands, a little rougher than he would’ve wished.

 

Taken aback, Jungkook’s eyes seem to widen even more, just for a split second. ‘I just mean… two men, doing that…’

 

Jimin shrugs. ‘It surprised me, at first. But I’ve been living here for so long. We’re all people, Jungkook. Does it matter?’

 

The younger boy slowly shakes his head. ‘No, I never thought that… it was wrong, or anything. I guess I was just thrown off. I didn’t know what to make of it.’

 

‘Some things just are.’

 

There is silence. Jimin can tell the younger boy is still working his mind over, wide eyes trained on the plastic table in between the two of them, the cold March wind rustling the green store flag that stands a handful of steps removed from them, ticking its wings against the iron pole. Truthfully, Jimin is nervous too. Whatever Jungkook makes of this matters to him, too. He doesn’t want anyone to make Taehyung upset – not even in a possiblity.

 

Finally, the boy gets up from his chair, throws his chopsticks into the pack of ramyun. He cleans up Jimin’s cup too, rummaging through his coat in search of something. ‘Thanks, hyung,’ he breathes. ‘I guess you’re right.’

 

From his pocket, a bunch of coins emerge. ‘Since you treated me to ramyun, do you want some ice cream?’

 

*