Columbian Brew

September in Seoul is uneventful. Intermittent traffic weaves sluggishly and monsoon winds refuse to let up, even after one too many balsams had toppled over in Garosugil. Joonmyeon figures he should be used to this.

"Jooho Hyung, look! Hyung!"

Then again, September in Seoul with Jongin is never uneventful.

"Jongin how many times," Joonmyeon pinches the bridge of his nose, fingertips drumming against the back of the steering wheel in staccato rhythms, to the fading cadences of some 80s reggae song Jongin has picked up a liking to, "have I told you not to call me that?" the complaint is punctuated with a violent thump against the gearshift. The traffic signal indignantly stays red.

"But Hyung, look! It’s so big! And there’s so much glass!" The much is said in English, with Jongin hesitating for the slightest moment before curling his tongue around the syllable and slipping it out. He looks up to Joonmyeon for approval, before swelling with pride when he receives a lengthy yawn and a lazy thumbs up.  Joonmyeon hums noncommittally to fill in the gaps between each smile Jongin keeps dropping. Tuition money doesn't come all that easy.

Jongin curves his eyes into blithe little crescents and points at the massive structure with all the excitement of an overgrown puppy.

Joonmyeon feels his heart crumble and pour down his jacket sleeve, pitifully.

“Yes, yes. It’s very big. And glassy, I guess.”

Jongin twists around in his seat, struggling with the seatbelt with little luck before huffing and letting it dangle off of his elbows.

“Hyung, do high school kids in Seoul really smoke? Because Baekhyun Hyung says they smoke right outside of class and that one of his friends who knew a person who went to school here said that kids dye their hair purple! Purple! And that the wild hooligans of Seoul sometimes-” Jongin rambles too fast and 8 AM is really too early to put up with overexcited freshmen boy talks so Joonmyeon nods absentmindedly and tunes out from the unreciprocated gusto. Jongin pauses for a beat and looks to Joonmyeon expectantly.

“So?”

“So.” Joonmyeon mumbles to the skin of his wrist.

“Is it true?”

Joonmyeon jerks from his motionless stoop over his folded arms and focuses on Jongin blearily. Kids, he rationalizes long-sufferingly.

“Wha-hey? Yeah? Yeah, that’s right.”

There is a pregnant silence before Jongin gasps too loud for the seven inch vicinity and widens his eyes in utter alarm.

“So they do mix hard drugs into their school lunches?!”

Joonmyeon sputters on air, scandalized, hands flailing uselessly to gesticulate that no Jongin they actually don’t mix hard drugs into school lunches what the hell is Baekhyun feeding you.

But all he manages is a pathetic croak and frantic shaking of his head for Jongin to slouch back in his seat, eyes still bulging from their sockets.

“Baekhyun Hyung said the seniors make you break into private clubs as a rite of passage or something.” He whispers dolefully, lips trembling from apprehension setting in place of the receding zeal.

Joonmyeon reaches around back, hands twisting awkwardly to grab for the nicely rolled Kimbap, courtesy of Jongin’s mother, before promptly shoving into Jongin still pouting mouth.

He lets his repressed streak of cruelty revere in the way that effectively shuts the younger boy up.

“This is Seoul Arts Jongin, not the seventh circle of hell.” He waits for the crack of thunder to counter his somber assertion. It doesn’t come.

Jongin gabbles incoherently through layers of seaweed and sticky rice.

“No, no. Baekhyun was wrong,” ing Mondays, Joonmyeon thinks with a silent grunt, “there is no rat infestation, either.” He then proceeds to crank the sound dial up to an acceptable volume to drown out whatever is left of Jongin’s admonishments and still be considered a civil citizen.

The signal lethargically flickers to green.

Jongin rips the roll out of his mouth and wipes the saliva off on his pristine new uniform slacks, much to Joonmyeon’s disgust. He shrugs half-heartedly and stuffs it inside his flashy yellow school bag, anyway. SOPA was stitched onto the top of the flap in obnoxious cursive, stamping the fabric with the tag of oh, one of those kids.

Kim Joonmyeon, one of those kids. He subtly fishes for an Advil in his pants pocket, to no particular avail.

Kim Jongin, soon to be one of those kids. Joonmyeon counts the pirouetting dust particles and wills away his impending migraine.

Jongin stays perfectly oblivious to Joonmyeon’s internal conflicts, running on no coffee and sodden English pancakes. He perks up at the sight of young stragglers donning similar attires and positively vibrates in his seat.

Kids, Joonmyeon confirms resignedly.

“I bet Seoul is going to be really different from Yongsan, huh?”

The question hangs in the air between them and festers away. Joonmyeon doesn’t dignify it with a response and Jongin doesn’t seem to need one. The whirr of the engine fills in the gaps between Jongin’s furrowed eyebrows.

Joonmyeon turns the curb, waiting for the exodus of highway traffic to ebb so he can pull into the school gates and card in. 

Jongin scrunches his nose up and tries again, wringing his hands more restlessly as the modest parking lot comes into view.

“So Jooho Hyung,” he elusively avoids Joonmyeon’s glower of disapproval and continues, unperturbed, “are you excited to be back here?”

Joonmyeon bites down on his tongue and tastes acrid pain.

The massive building looms like a threat, all glass panes refracting what little sunshine there is filtered from the heavy, overcast sky. Then he thinks about his one friend, a petite girl from advanced biology who occasionally loans him tiny erasers with band logos printed on both sides, for when he forgets his at home. She doesn’t mistake him for wallpaper on good days. At least there’s that.

 Joonmyeon sighs inaudibly.

“Thrilled.”

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A/N

Jooho - lame attempt at mashing Suho and Joonmyeon together. I don't know. Fond nicknames are a thing.

It could also be his stripper name. Plausible.