Coming Home
Title: Coming Home
Recipient: SiobhanDeStele
Pairing: Yoongi/Hoseok/Namjoon
Rating: pg-15
Word count: ~21.3k
Warnings: slight violence, underage drinking, homophobia
Summary: For Namjoon and Yoongi, home isn't a place. It's a person.
Author's notes: written for bangtanexchange, also on ao3
Disappear here.
The neon sign flickers; the alleyway in Hongdae sinks into darkness for a second - a skipped heartbeat - before the dim red light illuminates it again. A cat jumps off a trash can, causing empty soju bottles to fall on dirty concrete. The glass doesn't shatter; bottles are made to endure slight turbulences and shaky fingers. Instead, it cracks, a spider web of lines running from the place of impact.
Noise can be heard from the busy streets, branching through Hongdae like veins. Instead of blood, they carry a never-ending tide of cars and people in their '20s - the best years, when mistakes are forgiven with the youth as an excuse for everything. The honking of cars - the drivers' patience wearing thin - echoes between the walls which protect the alleyway from curious passers-by.
It's a dead end; nowhere to go but down the rusty metal staircase and to another, maybe better, quite possibly worse, reality. A modern-day rabbit hole in the heart of the city with soul.
Few streets away, at the entrance to a metro station, squeezed between a flower shop and an abandoned building, there're young people sitting on the stairs leading to the platforms. They should head home, but staying late is tempting, company is good, alcohol running in their veins is heating their cheeks in the cold night. They can miss this train; another one will come.
At the far end on the platform, White Rabbit, wearing a white collar is waiting for the last train to take him home. His tie is loosened, his coat not warm enough to keep the cold away. His briefcase full of last month's reports and complains filed against useless interns. Glancing at his pocket watch, he sighs. He is running late, as always.
Alice is nowhere to be seen tonight. The dead-hour of the night is no time for kids to wander around.
Somebody else is ought to be lost this night.
This digital age Wonderland of glass skyscrapers and billboards, promoting everything from fast food restaurants to newest models of smart phones, doesn't need the Mad Hatter and the Cheshire Cat to be crazy; Tim Burton merely took the flashy parts of scenography advertised on city squares and tried to make the best out of it.
The neon sign on the brick wall in the alleyway oddly resembles a way out, an exit sign visible even through the thick layer of smoke in the building that's burning down to ashes because somebody was careless and left the heater on.
The red bleeds, dissolving the darkness. Shadows are dancing behind trash cans where stray dogs seek shelter from the cold weather. Winter is coming and the air is heavy, filled with smog and the stench of gasoline; it's getting harder to breathe. The wind isn't strong enough to lift up the ashes, above the buildings, the bridges. Soon Seoul will become Beijing; pollution will take it in its embrace and never let go. But before that happens, this year will end and a new one will come; people will celebrate, get drunk, make a thousand and one mistakes, kiss the wrong person, cheat on the right one, cry, laugh and forget, erase everything that hurts. Selective memory is a blessing; alcohol the means to make it happen.
There are more than twenty days before clocks will tick away the last minute of the year, and then Alice will be one year older than she is today. Maybe her sweet sixteen is just around the corner.
The dogs bark in the distance, interrupting the noise from the streets that barely sleep. A boy stops on the crossroad, waiting for the light to turn green. He puts his duffel bag on the pavement. It's heavy, filled with hopes and dreams; his shoulder hurts. The walk from the metro station was longer than expected.
A businessman stands a few feet away. His shift has ended late. Cold night air bites his cheeks and he pulls up the collar of his coat to protect himself from the dawning winter. He looks straight ahead of him and silently waits. His surroundings don't interest him, this city has long stopped being an unreachable and mystic place like it was when he came from the countryside as a student.
The street light bleeds green. Cursing under their breath, the drivers hit the breaks. The boy lifts his bag from the pavement, takes a step forward as a familiar weight settles on his shoulder. The man crosses the street quickly; disappearing in one of the many paths.
When the boy gets to the other side and the cars behind his back drive away, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. 2:30 in the morning, no new messages, no missed calls. He rereads the message with directions he received a few days ago, tries to figure out whether he's even on the right side of Seoul - of this metropolis that could swallow him whole.
His fingers are numb from the cold; his gloves forgotten on the train in a hurry. Cursing won't fix things, but he does it anyway. Nobody can hear him; streets are empty in this part of Hongdae, away from the nightclubs and restless youth.
He goes down the street, counting the alleyways he passes by. Shops are closed; only neon signs above their doors are still alive, full of colours. Sadly, these signs aren't arrows showing the right way.
A few minutes later he stops, peering into an alleyway. Red is bleeding in the distance - a good sign. Instructions mentioned it. He walks past brick walls with few graffiti decorating them; art of the concrete jungle, bright colours on the canvas of the grey reality. At the end of the alley a staircase leads to the underground, above it a neon sign in cursive, like the ones down the wide avenues of some American city he saw in a movie.
“Disappear here.”
Yoongi likes the sound of these words, the idea behind them and he takes the first step down the run-down staircase; a modern-day rabbit hole.
- - -
The phone rings; an obnoxious tune that Namjoon hates. Too cheerful and loud - it makes him pick up right after the first ring.
The sound echoes in the apartment, bounces off bare white walls. Groaning, he reaches for the phone on the nightstand.
His hand lands on a book instead. A miss.
On glasses he hates wearing. Another miss.
He lifts his head from the soft pillow, blinks a few times. First verse changes to chorus; a cacophony of high-pitched voices fills the air. Namjoon cringes and grabs his phone.
“Yes?”
His voice is hoarse. His head aches; the hangover is kicking in.
“Good morning, sunshine,” the voice on the other end of the phone says.
“Cut the crap, hyung,” Namjoon rolls on his back, staring at the ceiling. A shallow crack is stretching from the chandelier to the doorframe, barely visible but still there.
“Ouch... Sensitive much, Joonie?” Jiho laughs, loud and obnoxious, like he's above the world. Namjoon's lip quivers, a hint of a smile.
“Mhm,” he exhales and closes his eyes. It's early - way too early.
“I have good news for you; you'll be able to stop making covers of songs that were never a hit,” Jiho says. “I found you a producer, a real one, not those third class wannabes hanging on every corner of Hongdae. He's coming to see you next week, so play nice. You won't find a guy like this anywhere else. This guy is amazing. Trust me.”
“You never talk nice about someone unless they're a friend or a cousin. Which one is it?” Namjoon asks.
The other side of the bed is empty, cold, like nobody slept there for a very long time.
A lie.
It was warm when Namjoon returned home last night; Hoseok was there.
Jiho sighs on the other end of the line, “Am I that transparent?”
Namjoon nods even though his friend can't see him. “Yeah,” he says after a moment.
“He's a friend so you better not screw this up or I'll end you.”
“Fine. I'll be nice but if he's not good -”
“He's great. I wouldn't be dragging him all the way up from Daegu if he wasn't.”
Namjoon can hear the pride in Jiho's voice. It's amusing how he likes to pretend that he doesn't care for people unless he can benefit from them. They all wear this mask of arrogance and false superiority. Like it's in the description of their job, printed in bold letters on the first page of a contract no one of them remembers signing.
“Next Saturday. Don't forget,” Jiho reminds him before hanging up.
“I won't,” Namjoon says to the dialling sound.
When he opens his eyes, the white ceiling is staring back at him.
He puts the phone away, tries to remember how much he drank the night before, to predict how long the headache would last. He searches for warmth in cold sheets, remains of a heartbeat, a memory.
Hoseok never leaves things behind.
Namjoon pushes the past away before he crawls up. For a few seconds he does nothing and just sits there in the faintly lit bedroom. The last few rays of sunlight try to pierce their way in through heavy curtains, before the snow drowns them in endless night and fog rising from the Han River. Sounds of car horns and shouting of vendors from the street create much needed white noise. Namjoon massages his temples. The headache doesn't go away.
His hair smells like cigarettes; his tee is the same one he wore last night. He stands up, drags himself to the bathroom, leaving dirty clothes scattered on the tiles and gets in the shower. Cold water hits his skin, piercing it like a thousand of needles. Namjoon shivers.
He towel dries his hair, bleached strands falling in his eyes.
Hoseok suggested that he should dye it. “You look like Jack Frost,” Hoseok said when silver replaced black and Namjoon smiled in return.
He liked it back then. He still does. With bangs overgrown and roots showing.
On the kitchen counter there is a bowl of fruits he doesn't remember seeing yesterday. All the utensils Hoseok used are washed and put away; in the sink nothing but an empty cup Namjoon put there last night. Hoseok is gone as if he was never there. Namjoon isn't surprised, not anymore. The first time Hoseok left, he was back in three days. The last time Hoseok left was a year ago.
Maybe Namjoon should ask how long he'd be away, but he never does, because the answer would be a smile and a teasing “how much will you miss me”. Hoseok seems to believe that everything can be solved with a smile. Namjoon can't burst his bubble. After all it's easier this way, with no questions asked.
Namjoon pours himself a glass of pineapple juice, gets the bowl from the dish rack and cereal from the top shelf. He watches television while he waits for his cereal to get soggy.
News is on KBS, some idol show on MNET, documentary about the wildlife on SBS. He flips through the channels, reading fractions of headlines in the news. A car accident on a motorway leading to Gwangju. Rain storm in the south. Earthquake in Japan.
Namjoon turns off the TV. He's not hungry anymore.
At noon, he reaches for his phone, wanting to call Hoseok, to apologize for falling asleep in the middle of the conversation. He dials. Stops midway. The bold numbers glare at him. He hits backspace, stuffs the phone back in the pocket of his jeans, and heads out.
Namjoon gets off on the wrong bus station. He enters the first coffee shop he sees. The waitress smiles at him, asking if he's a student.
“You'll get a discount if you become our regular costumer,” she beams at him. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, a few strands falling on her neck. Her green apron fits her perfectly; the nametag on the breast pocket in a shape of an apple is catching the attention of every costumer. Namjoon doesn't even glance at it. The chances of him coming back are close to nothing, but he smiles when she hands him his coffee and wishes him a good day.
He takes the longest path to the studio. Today he's not in the mood for working, for any human contact at all, but as always something pulls him towards the familiar alley and the staircase on which he spent many months of his teenage years. When he gets there, he finds Donghyuk behind the mixing pult. A new track for whoever is the new rising star in the underground scene is in the making and Namjoon sticks around long enough to hear the finished product.
“You like it?” Donghyuk asks once the song is over.
“It's great, as usual.”
“It's for you, until you find a better producer.”
“Then I'm stuck with you for a lifetime,” Namjoon laughs. Donghyuk jabs him the ribs.
“Hey, don't hurt me, I'm just being honest,” Namjoon whines and Donghyuk rolls his eyes.
“According to Jiho, you'll get rid of me soon.”
“He said something to you?”
“Yeah, he talked about that Daegu guy. Bragged would be a better word,” he snickers.
“Another one of his charity cases?” Namjoon asks.
Donghyuk shrugs, “Probably.”
- - -
If spring smells like first love and cherry blossoms, autumn reeks of heartache and lost chances for redemption. Butterflies in the stomachs are replaced with graveyards in young mouths filled with words that have died on trembling lips. The hearts which haven't been broken yet have frozen, an eternal winter knitted between ribs.
And yet, some have the decency to say that autumn is a warm season with its palettes of browns and reds, bare tree branches soaring to the sky, colourful leaves on the pavements.
There is no red in the blocks of flats. Concrete buildings rise from the ground to the sky, a tsunami of lifeless grey in every shade between black and white. Working class neighbourhoods as the prime example of achromatic reality. Narrow streets branching through suburbs, leading to the end of the civilization.
Crows sitting on street lamps watch passers-by as they go to work and return home after 10 hours of being trapped in cramped cubicles. A strong economy for a strong country. Who cares that the children barely know their parents. Soon enough, “mum” and “dad” will be foreign words.
Hoseok never called his mother “mum”. That word is warm, gentle, full of love - everything she wasn't. She was always “mother” - cold, distant, sitting at the other end of the table during obligatory family dinners.
“Can you pass me the salt, mother?”
“My day was fine, mother. How was yours?”
“The parents' meeting will be next week, mother.”
Mother. Mother. Mother.
A punch to the stomach, a bruised heart. A rubber band around his wrist that keeps hurting his skin until it's red, veins pulsing in pain. Until it gets pulled too far - his mother's hand raised high in the air - and it snaps - the sound of his mother's palm against his cheek. The skin is red. It stings. No longer is she a mother to him, but a stranger like a million other people he meets on the streets.
The crow above his head squawks and his memories disperse. All that's left is fog clouding his vision.
In the blocks of flats, children do get bored and graffiti is blooming on the backside of the buildings; a patch of colour among the grey concrete, a reminder of juvenile rebellion and turbulent years. His tag should be among the hundreds of others. The paint cans in his duffel bag clank against each other, thin metal against metal. A familiar sound.
He's going down the same path like he did many years ago, his version of a boulevard of broken dreams. The crows watch over him like in an old horror movie. The scenography is almost the same - black and white. All that's missing is a madman or a businessman in a pressed suit with the tendency to kill in order to relieve stress from working extra hours. Korea's own psycho. Hoseok probably could fit the role of the victim, if he wanted to.
Every city he's been to has that one neighbourhood that is an exact replica of the one he grew up in. The similarities are striking - copy, after copy, after copy of the same blueprint with the same buildings and the same streets; only the names are different. And the birds sitting on street lamps.
An old man waits at the bus stop. Pulling his headphones out, Hoseok crosses the street without looking if any cars are coming his way. He sits on the bench, a few seats away from the old man and waits with him in silence until the bus appears around the corner. When the bus pulls to a stop, the old man gets up but he doesn't move closer to the now open doors. A kid not older than nine years old gets off the bus and Hoseok realizes that the man is not planning to leave the neighbourhood. The backpack on boy's shoulders is heavy, threatening to pull him backwards. The weight of education will pin him to the ground years before pre-exam stress and sleep deprivation. But for now, school is nothing but laughter during breaks and a loving teacher with endless patience for a million trivial questions. The boy smiles when he sees the old man and a high-pitched “grandpa” echoes in Hoseok's ears.
Welcome home.
Hoseok watches as the old man takes the backpack off the kid's shoulders and ruffles his hair.
Affection. Pride burning silently in black irises as the boy brags about all good grades he got today.
“Well done, Jimin, well done,” Grandpa says as they walk past Hoseok and he catches a glimpse of round cheeks and a toothy grin. It's awfully familiar yet foreign at the same time. Hoseok blames the name for all similarities he shouldn't have noticed. After all, it's just a name. The one echoing in the corridors of his childhood.
But he can't go down that memory lane, not again.
He looks at the sky, at heavy clouds rolling on blank canvas. There will be a downpour in the afternoon. Rain will wash away the vague memories like paint drops on dirty concrete, just like the waves wash away the footsteps on the beach.
- - -
Donghyuk collects the last few peanuts from the wooden bowl on the counter in his palm, throws his head back and tosses them one by one in the air. Namjoon gestures to the bartender to stop pouring alcohol in their glasses. The guy behind the counter nods in affirmation, as the first peanut hits Donghyuk in the eye. Next to him, Namjoon laughs, not loud enough to catch Donghyuk's attention. As expected, most peanuts miss his mouth, but one makes it and Donghyuk does a little victory dance as he chews it. Namjoon wonders how they managed to be friends for so many years, but before he can think of an answer, he's getting off the bar stool and bidding farewell to the half-empty bar.
“Where are you going?” Donghyuk asks as he pushes his empty glass towards to the bartender to fill it up.
“The studio. Jiho's amazing producer friend is coming tonight.”
“Can't that wait til morning?”
“According to angry texts I got in the last half an hour, I'll be dead if I don't turn up there tonight,” Namjoon laughs. Alcohol has heated his cheeks and his blood; he didn't even drink as much as Donghyuk.
With a wave of his hand, Donghyuk dismisses him and returns to the golden liquid in his glass. Namjoon pretends not to hear “what an amazing best friend, leavin' me hangin' because of some random guy” as he leaves the bar.
When he steps outside, cold wind bites his cheeks and clears his mind, and Namjoon breathes in polluted air that oddly smells like winter. He walks down deserted streets counting his steps as he rounds the familiar corners. It doesn't take him long to reach the studios; the neon sign flickers as he goes down the stairs. All lights are turned off; nobody trades precious sleep for extra hours behind the mixing pult. Nobody but him.
Namjoon turns on the lights in the hallway, in recording studios 3 and 5. It's a habit he doesn't seem to be able to get rid of. Studio 3 hasn't been used since Hunchul went to Gwangju five months ago.
Namjoon leaves the door of the studio open, tosses his jacket on the couch in the corner, and settles in the chair in front of a computer screen.
Blank text document, cursor that blinks in the first row. He lacks the right words, alcohol never does the talking for him. He stares at the white page, then at the ceiling. He's wasting time. Lately, he's been doing that a lot.
Namjoon pulls the phone out of his pocket. The clock shows 2:20 after midnight.
Half an hour, he thinks. He'll give the guy half an hour to show up.
- - -
“You're up in five. Don't chicken out!” the club manager shouts over loud music and screams from the audience. Hoseok smiles and yells back something between “We'll rock the stage” and “Don't worry, we're pros”. Namjoon doesn't want to hear any of it.
He's seventeen, his hands are shaking, palms sweaty, the mic could slip through his fingers at any moment.
The first performance in front of a crowd that isn't made just of his friends, on a stage that isn't impromptu stage in one of the many karaoke places they frequent. He looks over at Hoseok who's bouncing in the rhythm with the music, wide grin on his face, eyes sparkly with excitement and adrenalin - the natural high. He mouths something but Namjoon was never a good lip-reader and he moves closer - to Hoseok, to the stage, to the crowd of people waiting for them behind black curtains and transparent walls.
“Relax,” Hoseok says once Namjoon is close enough to hear him. “Everything will be okay. They'll love us.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Hoseok grins. “Because you're awesome and I'm fabulous.”
“Cocky much?”
“Nah, just confident. C'mon!” Hoseok heads to the stage, pulls Namjoon with him, his fingers around Namjoon's wrist - a jolt of electricity - and Namjoon frees himself before the audience can see them. He pretends not to see the hurt expression on Hoseok's face.
Once they're on stage, the music changes to the tracks Donghyuk produced from him and Namjoon finds confidence in familiar bass lines.
Their first showcase turns out to be a success - the crowd responds well to every verse, every bar. Hoseok keeps them hyped, adding a bit of oil to the fire. He feeds off positive energy, cheers and ovations. The stage is small, the audience close.
Namjoon feels waves of emotion crush over him and yet he doesn't drown, he stays afloat, on top of the beat. With every song, the lump in his throat becomes smaller and smaller until it disappears and the stage feels like home; audience like newly found friends. When the last song is over and melody gets lost in cheers, Namjoon smiles and thanks the audience for coming and not throwing tomatoes at them. Next to him, Hoseok facepalms, but Namjoon can see that he's laughing. Everybody is.
They don't get much money, barely enough to pay the electricity bill, but it's something. The manager says that they were good, for rookies, and that they should stop by next Saturday. Namjoon shakes his hand. It's a deal - they'll come.
“Why did you do that?” Hoseok says over a bowl of hot noodles.
“Do what?” Namjoon retorts between bites as the sound of metal chopsticks against ceramic bowls fills the air. The small restaurant - five tables, a bar with a couple of high stools and barely enough space to walk between them - is always full; popular with both students and workers. They're lucky they even managed to get a table tonight.
Hoseok accusingly points his chopsticks at Namjoon. “Cracked those bad jokes. That's my job, man!”
Raising his hands in the air, Namjoon mumbles. “Sorry” even though he really isn't. Hoseok rolls his eyes and continues eating.
The first performance turns into the second, the third. Few months are all it takes for Namjoon to be considered a monster rookie. His tracks on Soundcloud receive tens of thousands of clicks instead of barely a hundred, the number of his followers on Twitter increases after every performance, his notifications blow up. Donghyuk jokes about some big music company scouting him for their new boygroup because underground rapper turned mainstream pop star seems to be the latest fad and Namjoon buries his face in his palms. Hunchul ruffles his hair and sheds fake tears because his boy is growing up so fast. Namjoon takes this opportunity to jab him in the ribs and Hunchul winces.
“You need to tame your flatmate,” he says to Hoseok who looks up from his phone and the game he's been playing since he got to the studio.
“Sure thing, hyung,” he smiles and Namjoon sees mischief glimmering in his black orbs.
That evening, after the performance, Hoseok corners Namjoon backstage.
Small clubs in the outskirts have been replaced with those in the heart of Hongdae where stages are big, dance floors filled with the youth seeking affection and love with the help of alcohol and intoxicating music. They're done for tonight; they prepared the crowd for the main act of the evening. All that's left to do is to enjoy the benefits that fake ID cards carry, but they're not tipsy. They're high - on adrenalin rush and the crowd's ovations, on a performance that sucked the last joules of their energy and left them lightheaded.
Hoseok corners him in the passage way, unused equipment to their left, dimly lit hallway to their right. Nobody will come down here as long as music can be heard, as long as the night is still young.
Namjoon's thoughts are a mess that he's trying to untangle, but by the time he finds the right words, his back has hit the wall. Hoseok's kissing him - carelessly, hungrily, like the world will end tomorrow.
“They said you should be tamed,” Hoseok whispers, hot breath against heated skin. “Maybe now is the right time.”
His hands are on Namjoon's shoulders, chest, moving down, down, down. His lips have abandoned Namjoon's, moved to his jawline, his neck.
“What if it's the wrong time?” Namjoon gasps. Hoseok stills for a second, a skipped heartbeat. He looks at Namjoon, cheeks flushed, bangs sticking to his forehead. The lights are faint but strong enough for Hoseok to distinguish embarrassment from need, lust from reckless mistakes. Hoseok hopes that this won't be a mistake.
“You tell me,” and he's kissing Namjoon again. Slowly, painfully slowly. He licks his way in Namjoon's mouth, tasting cherry cola on his tongue.
Namjoon's hands are strong around his waist, sneaking under the oversized t-shirt Hoseok's wearing. His skin is hot under Namjoon's fingertips.
Every kiss melts Namjoon's resolve not to go further than friendship; every touch turns his world upside-down. He's changed his mind hundreds of times about Hoseok. He'll do it again.
Hoseok rolls his hips, and Namjoon almost chokes. Hoseok's fingers flick open the buttons of his jeans, and before long, they're wrapping around his hot hard cock, stroking and pulling with a solid touch.
Namjoon's breath hitches. Hoseok swallows a moan that escapes his lips a moment later. His knees are weak, he might crumble to the ground at any second. Hoseok's thumb flicks over the head of his cock with every stroke, making his hips jerk and writhe. Hoseok abandons his mouth, trails kisses along his jaw, tugs at Namjoon's earlobe with his teeth and whispers “Be a good boy, just for tonight”. He's set a rhythm, slow pace that has Namjoon gripping the wall behind him for support.
Somewhere, a small voice in his head is telling him that they can be caught, but before he has a chance to protest, Hoseok's dropped to his knees. Namjoon bites down hard on his bottom lip, drawing blood, tasting it on his tongue, when Hoseok takes the head of his cock into his mouth. Hoseok's tongue is flicking against the slit over and over, swollen lips wrapped hot and wet around his cock, and Namjoon can't stop shaking. His hips can't stop twitching up, and Hoseok graciously, slowly takes everything in, lips pulled tight around the hardness of his cock. It's slow, torturous, and absolutely maddening. Namjoon comes in spurts into Hoseok's sinful mouth. He groans loudly when he realizes Hoseok swallows it all down.
He doesn't remember the taxi ride home or climbing the stairs to their shared apartment because the elevator is out of function, but he remembers Hoseok's lips against his own as they stumbled inside, Hoseok's skin under his fingertips and the marks he left on Hoseok's collarbones.
He also remembers waking up in cold sheets and no notes left on the nightstand.
It's not the first time Hoseok has left without saying goodbye, and it won't be the last time either.
( pt. 2)
Recipient: SiobhanDeStele
Pairing: Yoongi/Hoseok/Namjoon
Rating: pg-15
Word count: ~21.3k
Warnings: slight violence, underage drinking, homophobia
Summary: For Namjoon and Yoongi, home isn't a place. It's a person.
Author's notes: written for bangtanexchange, also on ao3
Disappear here.
The neon sign flickers; the alleyway in Hongdae sinks into darkness for a second - a skipped heartbeat - before the dim red light illuminates it again. A cat jumps off a trash can, causing empty soju bottles to fall on dirty concrete. The glass doesn't shatter; bottles are made to endure slight turbulences and shaky fingers. Instead, it cracks, a spider web of lines running from the place of impact.
Noise can be heard from the busy streets, branching through Hongdae like veins. Instead of blood, they carry a never-ending tide of cars and people in their '20s - the best years, when mistakes are forgiven with the youth as an excuse for everything. The honking of cars - the drivers' patience wearing thin - echoes between the walls which protect the alleyway from curious passers-by.
It's a dead end; nowhere to go but down the rusty metal staircase and to another, maybe better, quite possibly worse, reality. A modern-day rabbit hole in the heart of the city with soul.
Few streets away, at the entrance to a metro station, squeezed between a flower shop and an abandoned building, there're young people sitting on the stairs leading to the platforms. They should head home, but staying late is tempting, company is good, alcohol running in their veins is heating their cheeks in the cold night. They can miss this train; another one will come.
At the far end on the platform, White Rabbit, wearing a white collar is waiting for the last train to take him home. His tie is loosened, his coat not warm enough to keep the cold away. His briefcase full of last month's reports and complains filed against useless interns. Glancing at his pocket watch, he sighs. He is running late, as always.
Alice is nowhere to be seen tonight. The dead-hour of the night is no time for kids to wander around.
Somebody else is ought to be lost this night.
This digital age Wonderland of glass skyscrapers and billboards, promoting everything from fast food restaurants to newest models of smart phones, doesn't need the Mad Hatter and the Cheshire Cat to be crazy; Tim Burton merely took the flashy parts of scenography advertised on city squares and tried to make the best out of it.
The neon sign on the brick wall in the alleyway oddly resembles a way out, an exit sign visible even through the thick layer of smoke in the building that's burning down to ashes because somebody was careless and left the heater on.
The red bleeds, dissolving the darkness. Shadows are dancing behind trash cans where stray dogs seek shelter from the cold weather. Winter is coming and the air is heavy, filled with smog and the stench of gasoline; it's getting harder to breathe. The wind isn't strong enough to lift up the ashes, above the buildings, the bridges. Soon Seoul will become Beijing; pollution will take it in its embrace and never let go. But before that happens, this year will end and a new one will come; people will celebrate, get drunk, make a thousand and one mistakes, kiss the wrong person, cheat on the right one, cry, laugh and forget, erase everything that hurts. Selective memory is a blessing; alcohol the means to make it happen.
There are more than twenty days before clocks will tick away the last minute of the year, and then Alice will be one year older than she is today. Maybe her sweet sixteen is just around the corner.
The dogs bark in the distance, interrupting the noise from the streets that barely sleep. A boy stops on the crossroad, waiting for the light to turn green. He puts his duffel bag on the pavement. It's heavy, filled with hopes and dreams; his shoulder hurts. The walk from the metro station was longer than expected.
A businessman stands a few feet away. His shift has ended late. Cold night air bites his cheeks and he pulls up the collar of his coat to protect himself from the dawning winter. He looks straight ahead of him and silently waits. His surroundings don't interest him, this city has long stopped being an unreachable and mystic place like it was when he came from the countryside as a student.
The street light bleeds green. Cursing under their breath, the drivers hit the breaks. The boy lifts his bag from the pavement, takes a step forward as a familiar weight settles on his shoulder. The man crosses the street quickly; disappearing in one of the many paths.
When the boy gets to the other side and the cars behind his back drive away, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. 2:30 in the morning, no new messages, no missed calls. He rereads the message with directions he received a few days ago, tries to figure out whether he's even on the right side of Seoul - of this metropolis that could swallow him whole.
His fingers are numb from the cold; his gloves forgotten on the train in a hurry. Cursing won't fix things, but he does it anyway. Nobody can hear him; streets are empty in this part of Hongdae, away from the nightclubs and restless youth.
He goes down the street, counting the alleyways he passes by. Shops are closed; only neon signs above their doors are still alive, full of colours. Sadly, these signs aren't arrows showing the right way.
A few minutes later he stops, peering into an alleyway. Red is bleeding in the distance - a good sign. Instructions mentioned it. He walks past brick walls with few graffiti decorating them; art of the concrete jungle, bright colours on the canvas of the grey reality. At the end of the alley a staircase leads to the underground, above it a neon sign in cursive, like the ones down the wide avenues of some American city he saw in a movie.
“Disappear here.”
Yoongi likes the sound of these words, the idea behind them and he takes the first step down the run-down staircase; a modern-day rabbit hole.
- - -
The phone rings; an obnoxious tune that Namjoon hates. Too cheerful and loud - it makes him pick up right after the first ring.
The sound echoes in the apartment, bounces off bare white walls. Groaning, he reaches for the phone on the nightstand.
His hand lands on a book instead. A miss.
On glasses he hates wearing. Another miss.
He lifts his head from the soft pillow, blinks a few times. First verse changes to chorus; a cacophony of high-pitched voices fills the air. Namjoon cringes and grabs his phone.
“Yes?”
His voice is hoarse. His head aches; the hangover is kicking in.
“Good morning, sunshine,” the voice on the other end of the phone says.
“Cut the crap, hyung,” Namjoon rolls on his back, staring at the ceiling. A shallow crack is stretching from the chandelier to the doorframe, barely visible but still there.
“Ouch... Sensitive much, Joonie?” Jiho laughs, loud and obnoxious, like he's above the world. Namjoon's lip quivers, a hint of a smile.
“Mhm,” he exhales and closes his eyes. It's early - way too early.
“I have good news for you; you'll be able to stop making covers of songs that were never a hit,” Jiho says. “I found you a producer, a real one, not those third class wannabes hanging on every corner of Hongdae. He's coming to see you next week, so play nice. You won't find a guy like this anywhere else. This guy is amazing. Trust me.”
“You never talk nice about someone unless they're a friend or a cousin. Which one is it?” Namjoon asks.
The other side of the bed is empty, cold, like nobody slept there for a very long time.
A lie.
It was warm when Namjoon returned home last night; Hoseok was there.
Jiho sighs on the other end of the line, “Am I that transparent?”
Namjoon nods even though his friend can't see him. “Yeah,” he says after a moment.
“He's a friend so you better not screw this up or I'll end you.”
“Fine. I'll be nice but if he's not good -”
“He's great. I wouldn't be dragging him all the way up from Daegu if he wasn't.”
Namjoon can hear the pride in Jiho's voice. It's amusing how he likes to pretend that he doesn't care for people unless he can benefit from them. They all wear this mask of arrogance and false superiority. Like it's in the description of their job, printed in bold letters on the first page of a contract no one of them remembers signing.
“Next Saturday. Don't forget,” Jiho reminds him before hanging up.
“I won't,” Namjoon says to the dialling sound.
When he opens his eyes, the white ceiling is staring back at him.
He puts the phone away, tries to remember how much he drank the night before, to predict how long the headache would last. He searches for warmth in cold sheets, remains of a heartbeat, a memory.
Hoseok never leaves things behind.
Namjoon pushes the past away before he crawls up. For a few seconds he does nothing and just sits there in the faintly lit bedroom. The last few rays of sunlight try to pierce their way in through heavy curtains, before the snow drowns them in endless night and fog rising from the Han River. Sounds of car horns and shouting of vendors from the street create much needed white noise. Namjoon massages his temples. The headache doesn't go away.
His hair smells like cigarettes; his tee is the same one he wore last night. He stands up, drags himself to the bathroom, leaving dirty clothes scattered on the tiles and gets in the shower. Cold water hits his skin, piercing it like a thousand of needles. Namjoon shivers.
He towel dries his hair, bleached strands falling in his eyes.
Hoseok suggested that he should dye it. “You look like Jack Frost,” Hoseok said when silver replaced black and Namjoon smiled in return.
He liked it back then. He still does. With bangs overgrown and roots showing.
On the kitchen counter there is a bowl of fruits he doesn't remember seeing yesterday. All the utensils Hoseok used are washed and put away; in the sink nothing but an empty cup Namjoon put there last night. Hoseok is gone as if he was never there. Namjoon isn't surprised, not anymore. The first time Hoseok left, he was back in three days. The last time Hoseok left was a year ago.
Maybe Namjoon should ask how long he'd be away, but he never does, because the answer would be a smile and a teasing “how much will you miss me”. Hoseok seems to believe that everything can be solved with a smile. Namjoon can't burst his bubble. After all it's easier this way, with no questions asked.
Namjoon pours himself a glass of pineapple juice, gets the bowl from the dish rack and cereal from the top shelf. He watches television while he waits for his cereal to get soggy.
News is on KBS, some idol show on MNET, documentary about the wildlife on SBS. He flips through the channels, reading fractions of headlines in the news. A car accident on a motorway leading to Gwangju. Rain storm in the south. Earthquake in Japan.
Namjoon turns off the TV. He's not hungry anymore.
At noon, he reaches for his phone, wanting to call Hoseok, to apologize for falling asleep in the middle of the conversation. He dials. Stops midway. The bold numbers glare at him. He hits backspace, stuffs the phone back in the pocket of his jeans, and heads out.
Namjoon gets off on the wrong bus station. He enters the first coffee shop he sees. The waitress smiles at him, asking if he's a student.
“You'll get a discount if you become our regular costumer,” she beams at him. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, a few strands falling on her neck. Her green apron fits her perfectly; the nametag on the breast pocket in a shape of an apple is catching the attention of every costumer. Namjoon doesn't even glance at it. The chances of him coming back are close to nothing, but he smiles when she hands him his coffee and wishes him a good day.
He takes the longest path to the studio. Today he's not in the mood for working, for any human contact at all, but as always something pulls him towards the familiar alley and the staircase on which he spent many months of his teenage years. When he gets there, he finds Donghyuk behind the mixing pult. A new track for whoever is the new rising star in the underground scene is in the making and Namjoon sticks around long enough to hear the finished product.
“You like it?” Donghyuk asks once the song is over.
“It's great, as usual.”
“It's for you, until you find a better producer.”
“Then I'm stuck with you for a lifetime,” Namjoon laughs. Donghyuk jabs him the ribs.
“Hey, don't hurt me, I'm just being honest,” Namjoon whines and Donghyuk rolls his eyes.
“According to Jiho, you'll get rid of me soon.”
“He said something to you?”
“Yeah, he talked about that Daegu guy. Bragged would be a better word,” he snickers.
“Another one of his charity cases?” Namjoon asks.
Donghyuk shrugs, “Probably.”
- - -
If spring smells like first love and cherry blossoms, autumn reeks of heartache and lost chances for redemption. Butterflies in the stomachs are replaced with graveyards in young mouths filled with words that have died on trembling lips. The hearts which haven't been broken yet have frozen, an eternal winter knitted between ribs.
And yet, some have the decency to say that autumn is a warm season with its palettes of browns and reds, bare tree branches soaring to the sky, colourful leaves on the pavements.
There is no red in the blocks of flats. Concrete buildings rise from the ground to the sky, a tsunami of lifeless grey in every shade between black and white. Working class neighbourhoods as the prime example of achromatic reality. Narrow streets branching through suburbs, leading to the end of the civilization.
Crows sitting on street lamps watch passers-by as they go to work and return home after 10 hours of being trapped in cramped cubicles. A strong economy for a strong country. Who cares that the children barely know their parents. Soon enough, “mum” and “dad” will be foreign words.
Hoseok never called his mother “mum”. That word is warm, gentle, full of love - everything she wasn't. She was always “mother” - cold, distant, sitting at the other end of the table during obligatory family dinners.
“Can you pass me the salt, mother?”
“My day was fine, mother. How was yours?”
“The parents' meeting will be next week, mother.”
Mother. Mother. Mother.
A punch to the stomach, a bruised heart. A rubber band around his wrist that keeps hurting his skin until it's red, veins pulsing in pain. Until it gets pulled too far - his mother's hand raised high in the air - and it snaps - the sound of his mother's palm against his cheek. The skin is red. It stings. No longer is she a mother to him, but a stranger like a million other people he meets on the streets.
The crow above his head squawks and his memories disperse. All that's left is fog clouding his vision.
In the blocks of flats, children do get bored and graffiti is blooming on the backside of the buildings; a patch of colour among the grey concrete, a reminder of juvenile rebellion and turbulent years. His tag should be among the hundreds of others. The paint cans in his duffel bag clank against each other, thin metal against metal. A familiar sound.
He's going down the same path like he did many years ago, his version of a boulevard of broken dreams. The crows watch over him like in an old horror movie. The scenography is almost the same - black and white. All that's missing is a madman or a businessman in a pressed suit with the tendency to kill in order to relieve stress from working extra hours. Korea's own psycho. Hoseok probably could fit the role of the victim, if he wanted to.
Every city he's been to has that one neighbourhood that is an exact replica of the one he grew up in. The similarities are striking - copy, after copy, after copy of the same blueprint with the same buildings and the same streets; only the names are different. And the birds sitting on street lamps.
An old man waits at the bus stop. Pulling his headphones out, Hoseok crosses the street without looking if any cars are coming his way. He sits on the bench, a few seats away from the old man and waits with him in silence until the bus appears around the corner. When the bus pulls to a stop, the old man gets up but he doesn't move closer to the now open doors. A kid not older than nine years old gets off the bus and Hoseok realizes that the man is not planning to leave the neighbourhood. The backpack on boy's shoulders is heavy, threatening to pull him backwards. The weight of education will pin him to the ground years before pre-exam stress and sleep deprivation. But for now, school is nothing but laughter during breaks and a loving teacher with endless patience for a million trivial questions. The boy smiles when he sees the old man and a high-pitched “grandpa” echoes in Hoseok's ears.
Welcome home.
Hoseok watches as the old man takes the backpack off the kid's shoulders and ruffles his hair.
Affection. Pride burning silently in black irises as the boy brags about all good grades he got today.
“Well done, Jimin, well done,” Grandpa says as they walk past Hoseok and he catches a glimpse of round cheeks and a toothy grin. It's awfully familiar yet foreign at the same time. Hoseok blames the name for all similarities he shouldn't have noticed. After all, it's just a name. The one echoing in the corridors of his childhood.
But he can't go down that memory lane, not again.
He looks at the sky, at heavy clouds rolling on blank canvas. There will be a downpour in the afternoon. Rain will wash away the vague memories like paint drops on dirty concrete, just like the waves wash away the footsteps on the beach.
- - -
Donghyuk collects the last few peanuts from the wooden bowl on the counter in his palm, throws his head back and tosses them one by one in the air. Namjoon gestures to the bartender to stop pouring alcohol in their glasses. The guy behind the counter nods in affirmation, as the first peanut hits Donghyuk in the eye. Next to him, Namjoon laughs, not loud enough to catch Donghyuk's attention. As expected, most peanuts miss his mouth, but one makes it and Donghyuk does a little victory dance as he chews it. Namjoon wonders how they managed to be friends for so many years, but before he can think of an answer, he's getting off the bar stool and bidding farewell to the half-empty bar.
“Where are you going?” Donghyuk asks as he pushes his empty glass towards to the bartender to fill it up.
“The studio. Jiho's amazing producer friend is coming tonight.”
“Can't that wait til morning?”
“According to angry texts I got in the last half an hour, I'll be dead if I don't turn up there tonight,” Namjoon laughs. Alcohol has heated his cheeks and his blood; he didn't even drink as much as Donghyuk.
With a wave of his hand, Donghyuk dismisses him and returns to the golden liquid in his glass. Namjoon pretends not to hear “what an amazing best friend, leavin' me hangin' because of some random guy” as he leaves the bar.
When he steps outside, cold wind bites his cheeks and clears his mind, and Namjoon breathes in polluted air that oddly smells like winter. He walks down deserted streets counting his steps as he rounds the familiar corners. It doesn't take him long to reach the studios; the neon sign flickers as he goes down the stairs. All lights are turned off; nobody trades precious sleep for extra hours behind the mixing pult. Nobody but him.
Namjoon turns on the lights in the hallway, in recording studios 3 and 5. It's a habit he doesn't seem to be able to get rid of. Studio 3 hasn't been used since Hunchul went to Gwangju five months ago.
Namjoon leaves the door of the studio open, tosses his jacket on the couch in the corner, and settles in the chair in front of a computer screen.
Blank text document, cursor that blinks in the first row. He lacks the right words, alcohol never does the talking for him. He stares at the white page, then at the ceiling. He's wasting time. Lately, he's been doing that a lot.
Namjoon pulls the phone out of his pocket. The clock shows 2:20 after midnight.
Half an hour, he thinks. He'll give the guy half an hour to show up.
- - -
“You're up in five. Don't chicken out!” the club manager shouts over loud music and screams from the audience. Hoseok smiles and yells back something between “We'll rock the stage” and “Don't worry, we're pros”. Namjoon doesn't want to hear any of it.
He's seventeen, his hands are shaking, palms sweaty, the mic could slip through his fingers at any moment.
The first performance in front of a crowd that isn't made just of his friends, on a stage that isn't impromptu stage in one of the many karaoke places they frequent. He looks over at Hoseok who's bouncing in the rhythm with the music, wide grin on his face, eyes sparkly with excitement and adrenalin - the natural high. He mouths something but Namjoon was never a good lip-reader and he moves closer - to Hoseok, to the stage, to the crowd of people waiting for them behind black curtains and transparent walls.
“Relax,” Hoseok says once Namjoon is close enough to hear him. “Everything will be okay. They'll love us.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Hoseok grins. “Because you're awesome and I'm fabulous.”
“Cocky much?”
“Nah, just confident. C'mon!” Hoseok heads to the stage, pulls Namjoon with him, his fingers around Namjoon's wrist - a jolt of electricity - and Namjoon frees himself before the audience can see them. He pretends not to see the hurt expression on Hoseok's face.
Once they're on stage, the music changes to the tracks Donghyuk produced from him and Namjoon finds confidence in familiar bass lines.
Their first showcase turns out to be a success - the crowd responds well to every verse, every bar. Hoseok keeps them hyped, adding a bit of oil to the fire. He feeds off positive energy, cheers and ovations. The stage is small, the audience close.
Namjoon feels waves of emotion crush over him and yet he doesn't drown, he stays afloat, on top of the beat. With every song, the lump in his throat becomes smaller and smaller until it disappears and the stage feels like home; audience like newly found friends. When the last song is over and melody gets lost in cheers, Namjoon smiles and thanks the audience for coming and not throwing tomatoes at them. Next to him, Hoseok facepalms, but Namjoon can see that he's laughing. Everybody is.
They don't get much money, barely enough to pay the electricity bill, but it's something. The manager says that they were good, for rookies, and that they should stop by next Saturday. Namjoon shakes his hand. It's a deal - they'll come.
“Why did you do that?” Hoseok says over a bowl of hot noodles.
“Do what?” Namjoon retorts between bites as the sound of metal chopsticks against ceramic bowls fills the air. The small restaurant - five tables, a bar with a couple of high stools and barely enough space to walk between them - is always full; popular with both students and workers. They're lucky they even managed to get a table tonight.
Hoseok accusingly points his chopsticks at Namjoon. “Cracked those bad jokes. That's my job, man!”
Raising his hands in the air, Namjoon mumbles. “Sorry” even though he really isn't. Hoseok rolls his eyes and continues eating.
The first performance turns into the second, the third. Few months are all it takes for Namjoon to be considered a monster rookie. His tracks on Soundcloud receive tens of thousands of clicks instead of barely a hundred, the number of his followers on Twitter increases after every performance, his notifications blow up. Donghyuk jokes about some big music company scouting him for their new boygroup because underground rapper turned mainstream pop star seems to be the latest fad and Namjoon buries his face in his palms. Hunchul ruffles his hair and sheds fake tears because his boy is growing up so fast. Namjoon takes this opportunity to jab him in the ribs and Hunchul winces.
“You need to tame your flatmate,” he says to Hoseok who looks up from his phone and the game he's been playing since he got to the studio.
“Sure thing, hyung,” he smiles and Namjoon sees mischief glimmering in his black orbs.
That evening, after the performance, Hoseok corners Namjoon backstage.
Small clubs in the outskirts have been replaced with those in the heart of Hongdae where stages are big, dance floors filled with the youth seeking affection and love with the help of alcohol and intoxicating music. They're done for tonight; they prepared the crowd for the main act of the evening. All that's left to do is to enjoy the benefits that fake ID cards carry, but they're not tipsy. They're high - on adrenalin rush and the crowd's ovations, on a performance that sucked the last joules of their energy and left them lightheaded.
Hoseok corners him in the passage way, unused equipment to their left, dimly lit hallway to their right. Nobody will come down here as long as music can be heard, as long as the night is still young.
Namjoon's thoughts are a mess that he's trying to untangle, but by the time he finds the right words, his back has hit the wall. Hoseok's kissing him - carelessly, hungrily, like the world will end tomorrow.
“They said you should be tamed,” Hoseok whispers, hot breath against heated skin. “Maybe now is the right time.”
His hands are on Namjoon's shoulders, chest, moving down, down, down. His lips have abandoned Namjoon's, moved to his jawline, his neck.
“What if it's the wrong time?” Namjoon gasps. Hoseok stills for a second, a skipped heartbeat. He looks at Namjoon, cheeks flushed, bangs sticking to his forehead. The lights are faint but strong enough for Hoseok to distinguish embarrassment from need, lust from reckless mistakes. Hoseok hopes that this won't be a mistake.
“You tell me,” and he's kissing Namjoon again. Slowly, painfully slowly. He licks his way in Namjoon's mouth, tasting cherry cola on his tongue.
Namjoon's hands are strong around his waist, sneaking under the oversized t-shirt Hoseok's wearing. His skin is hot under Namjoon's fingertips.
Every kiss melts Namjoon's resolve not to go further than friendship; every touch turns his world upside-down. He's changed his mind hundreds of times about Hoseok. He'll do it again.
Hoseok rolls his hips, and Namjoon almost chokes. Hoseok's fingers flick open the buttons of his jeans, and before long, they're wrapping around his hot hard cock, stroking and pulling with a solid touch.
Namjoon's breath hitches. Hoseok swallows a moan that escapes his lips a moment later. His knees are weak, he might crumble to the ground at any second. Hoseok's thumb flicks over the head of his cock with every stroke, making his hips jerk and writhe. Hoseok abandons his mouth, trails kisses along his jaw, tugs at Namjoon's earlobe with his teeth and whispers “Be a good boy, just for tonight”. He's set a rhythm, slow pace that has Namjoon gripping the wall behind him for support.
Somewhere, a small voice in his head is telling him that they can be caught, but before he has a chance to protest, Hoseok's dropped to his knees. Namjoon bites down hard on his bottom lip, drawing blood, tasting it on his tongue, when Hoseok takes the head of his cock into his mouth. Hoseok's tongue is flicking against the slit over and over, swollen lips wrapped hot and wet around his cock, and Namjoon can't stop shaking. His hips can't stop twitching up, and Hoseok graciously, slowly takes everything in, lips pulled tight around the hardness of his cock. It's slow, torturous, and absolutely maddening. Namjoon comes in spurts into Hoseok's sinful mouth. He groans loudly when he realizes Hoseok swallows it all down.
He doesn't remember the taxi ride home or climbing the stairs to their shared apartment because the elevator is out of function, but he remembers Hoseok's lips against his own as they stumbled inside, Hoseok's skin under his fingertips and the marks he left on Hoseok's collarbones.
He also remembers waking up in cold sheets and no notes left on the nightstand.
It's not the first time Hoseok has left without saying goodbye, and it won't be the last time either.
( pt. 2)