Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The keypad beeped, causing Seokjin to shift on the sofa bed. He kept playing Tetris on his phone, dropping a square in the righthand corner as Namjoon walked into – or rather stepped into – their ant-sized studio apartment, toeing his shoes off with a groan. Seokjin didn’t react, although a smile was already forming on his lips, with warmth spreading through him.

They rarely bothered folding their pull-out bed back into a sofa during the day, but for once Seokjin had done so when searching for his headphones. Said headphones were now hanging off Namjoon’s neck as he crossed the distance from the door to their sofa in three large steps, climbing onto a sprawled out Seokjin and promptly collapsing on top of him, nuzzling into his chest with a dramatic whine.

Seokjin couldn’t bring himself to reprimand Namjoon, whose arms were wrapping around his middle greedily. “Hi baby,” Namjoon said.

Seokjin fought off a smile, gazing down at the short mint hair. “Hi yourself.”

He raised his knees, parting his legs, to let Namjoon lie between them fully. Namjoon groaned his appreciation, cuddling into him fervently. This should have been unwelcome in the August heat, their two modest windows cracked open as shouts from the neighbourhood echoed in, but the onslaught of warm, sweaty man on him felt comfortable.

Namjoon said, “What’d you do today?”

“Nothing,” Seokjin returned easily. In fact, he’d ordered Namjoon something for his twenty-second birthday: had spent all of his extra won on a rare book on botany that, out of all things in this world, Namjoon had talked about for weeks now. He tapped on the phone screen, sliding a four-block bar into a gap on the left, and said, “And you? How’d it go?”

“I dunno. The editors seemed nice, but I hate interviews. I nap now.”

“On me?” he checked, one hand settling in Namjoon’s short hair, slowly scraping over the scalp in the way that Namjoon liked.

“Husband privileges,” Namjoon argued.

Something warm fluttered in his heart. “Okay, you mint teddy bear. You nap now.”

“Perfect,” Namjoon said, craning up with puckered lips, and Seokjin gave in and met him in a fond kiss, the taste of Namjoon a constant drug in his veins. Content, Namjoon settled on him again, all of his seventy kilos pressing Seokjin down, tall frame shielding him from the wayward world outside and protecting the two of them in their haven of a small apartment where their clothes stayed in suitcases due to the lack of space.

Seokjin kept trying to play the game with one hand, brushing the short strands of Namjoon’s hair in soothing circles, the wedding band on his finger pressing gently to Namjoon’s skin.

Namjoon was asleep within minutes, the small studio filling with his steady breaths and the faint sound of traffic, the hum of their small mini-fridge, the voices of neighbours echoing through the walls – summer ticking away with sluggish beats, leaving Seokjin’s young heart full and content. When his phone began to buzz in his hand, Seokjin blinked, startled, and he cancelled the call from his father, protectively pulling Namjoon closer against him.

Namjoon was snoring when a second call came, and Seokjin switched his phone off entirely. Those kinds of calls weren’t welcome in this cocoon, where the two of them perhaps did not have much, but they had each other – and this studio, and the sofa bed, and the Seoul summer heat.

And Seokjin was happy. That was what he remembered years later: that he had been so devastatingly happy.

These days, there were still some mornings when Seokjin, half-asleep, would marvel at how comfortable their sofa bed actually was, thinking he must tell Namjoon this – before waking up properly, to find himself alone in his king-sized bed, in the spacious apartment fit for a well-to-do investment oversight managing director, aged thirty-three; an unmarried businessman. Nothing mint in sight.

So it goes sometimes, right? So it goes. He’d stretch and get out of bed.

The day that Seokjin found out he was married was a busy day, as all his days were. He had to make a call to his insurance company because his assistant couldn’t do it for him, and as he talked to the unhelpful advisor, phone squashed between his ear and shoulder, he kept typing out emails.

“Your excess has been adjusted to the household earnings,” the insurance lady said, trying to weasel out of paying what they owed him for his flight delay claim. Not on his watch!

“I am my household,” Seokjin corrected, while rounding up a strongly worded warning to the junior associate of sales. It was Friday night, seven PM – he’d clocked fifty-five hours already that week and planned to stay for a few more.

“Our records say you are married. Has this recently changed?”

This, finally, gave Seokjin pause. He frowned and took a hold of the phone. “No?” he said. “I’ve never been married.”

At the words, he glanced at the large painting by his office door that he’d bought at an auction, called ‘The Waves of Spring’. It showed a dramatic sea landscape of blue waves crashing onto high cliffs somewhere in California – it was summer; the hills were green and dotted with flowers, leaving a calming impression.

“Why do you ask?” he asked, turning on his charm. “Are you offering your hand in marriage?”

The woman did not respond while he chuckled at his own joke. After a pause, she said, “According to our records, you have been married since the thirteenth of June 2013.”

Seokjin stilled, staring at his landscape painting, suddenly not feeling calm at all – as if expecting his father, now retired, to burst into his office. How did she have that date? How did anyone have that date, from over a decade ago now?

He squeezed the phone. “E-Excuse me?”

She was all business, however. “To, let’s see…”

Don’t say it, don’t—

“Ah, Kim Namjoon. Oh. Like the author!”

Seokjin’s elbow slipped from the desk and he nearly smashed his face to the tabletop.

“Sir? Hello? Hello?”

He clutched the phone for dear life. “Wait, I’m married?!”

Look, there was a perfectly logical explanation as to why the Globe Insurance Company was under the false impression that he, Kim Seokjin, was hitched to Korea’s darling author Kim Namjoon. He just wasn’t entirely sure why this misinformation was on their records, and yet they insisted it was there in black and white.

He brewed over this on the way home. Despite being a division managing director in his father’s firm, he still used the subway; everyone else had chauffeurs, and he’d had one too for a while, after the accident, but he’d been hopelessly stiff in the backseat, unable to even loosen his tie. Exiting their offices in the heart of Gangnam and joining the stream of commuters let him disappear into the crowds at the end of each day; allowed him to loosen his tie and exhale.

Yet that evening’s subway ride was spent stiff, on-guard, and on his phone, requesting a file on himself from the government’s marriage registrar. Apparently, this would be emailed to him within fifteen working days. Fifteen? Absurd!

He was so out of sorts that he got off at the wrong station, intending to change to Line 5 to take him southwards, before he recalled that he had not lived that way in years, and that it was Line 1 that took him home directly. He muttered to himself angrily – caught sight of a tall and broad man from the corner of his eye, in an oversized khaki jacket with the hood over his head, and his hands began to sweat. It was someone he had never seen before, of course.

Finally home, he poured himself a generous scotch, restless and annoyed, before he conscientiously checked his email and managed a few more queries from contacts. He absently examined his not-so-modest view of Seoul from his expensive two-bedroom apartment, the urban sprawl stretching as far as he could see. “Ideal for a bachelor,” the agent had told him at the viewing some years earlier. “There is a laundry service in the building for busy men such as yourself!”

Yup, that was him alright.

He considered calling Yoongi or Hoseok, but the two were so busy planning their wedding that he didn’t want to disturb them. Hoping for a distraction, he plopped down on his leather couch, propped his feet up on the glass coffee table, and turned on the TV. The huge 75-inch monitor flicked on to whatever channel he’d left it on and a talk show came on—

—and one Kim Namjoon was seated on a couch as one of the guests, giving a warm yet professional dimpled smile at the host.

Seokjin choked on his scotch.

On Namjoon’s left sat a veteran actress Seokjin recognised, and the three were discussing the state of contemporary art in Korea. Everything Namjoon said was charming and insightful.

Seokjin shouldn’t have been surprised: Namjoon had his name on posters on the subway whenever a new book came out; and this time Namjoon had a play premiering.

“But in London,” the host said, and Namjoon nodded. His hair was a honeyed brown, and he was dressed in a simple black turtleneck that showed off his chest and arms, both much more defined than when Seokjin had known him. Round glasses on his nose, hair pushed off his forehead: the image of a young intellectual if there was one.

For some godawful reason, Seokjin was hit by a vivid memory of himself sitting in Namjoon’s lap, kissing him desperately – panting and grinding as Namjoon worked one of their many toys into him; lube dripping, leaving Seokjin an absolute mess – while Namjoon smacked his ass and said, “That’s it, baby, keep fucking yourself on it, there you go…”.

He gulped, staring at the screen. God, was there anything more awful than a semi-famous ex?

The middle-aged male host said, “You’ve written this play in English. Are you going to self-translate this as you’ve done with some projects in the past?”

“Maybe,” Namjoon granted, with a charming, white-pearled smile. “I mean, I lived in New York, then London for such a long time – via Germany, yes – but using English for this play came naturally. And this play is about the English: their small absurdities, the class micro-aggressions. Koreans would see some echoes there too, but recontextualised. There is cultural intertextuality to play with.”

Seokjin snorted on his couch, forcing away the image of a younger Namjoon with dark eyes, cheeks flushed and skin sweaty, staring up at him hungrily. Oh, Kim Namjoon, such an intellectual! The most prolific young Korean author of the last twenty years, living abroad but gracing South Korea with his presence sporadically.

They’d both lived entire lives since they’d last seen each other – meeting only once, unintentionally, at a birthday party that Hoseok threw the year after Seokjin finished military service and Namjoon happened to be in the country, but that was it. Their brief reunion had been as awkward as one could imagine: Seokjin was dating someone new, so was Namjoon. They exchanged some forced pleasantries before Seokjin rushed to find his hunk of a boyfriend, clinging onto him fiercely, and Namjoon left the party shortly after, and Seokjin was so upset over it all that that he ended up in a massive fight with his boyfriend – over what, he didn’t even know.

He and Namjoon were memories to each other now, and that was all. Yet his hands were clammy, his stomach in knots, as he thought of a mint-haired boy with goofy smiles and loud cackles, nuzzling into him. He saw no traces of that man on the TV screen, and he nervously played with the chain that he habitually wore, always tucked underneath his neatly pressed shirts, with the locket pressed to his chest.

When the host asked Namjoon what he would work on next, Namjoon said he was spending the rest of summer on his next full-length novel, in a writing retreat. “Here in Korea?” the host asked, and Namjoon shook his head: “A remote location abroad.”

When had the show been taped? That week, presumably. So Namjoon was, or had been, in Seoul, as happened maybe once or twice a year. It made no difference to Seokjin, of course: he’d asked their remaining mutual friends to avoid inviting him to something Namjoon might be at. It was just better that way. And so he pieced this together with Hoseok not having messaged him for two days, and knowing Hoseok could not lie whatsoever, he texted: hey just curious what did you do last night

Hoseok texted back nearly instantly: …we had dinner with namjoon.

figured, he responded.

Hoseok took a few minutes to reply: sorry, i thought it was just easier not to mention it, was that okay???

yea of course you know that, he typed back – he preferred not to be told, really. lunch sometime next week?

He shut the TV off tiredly. How absurd it was for anyone to think he had any entanglements with the ever-popular Kim Namjoon anymore.

After a shower he even went on a dating app and swiped left and right monotonously, matching with a relatively cute guy who immediately messaged him with, wait hold up, let’s summarise your profile: you’re absolutely stunning, you head your own division, you cook, sing, like to go fishing, I mean how are you single??

I guess I work too much to really meet people, he typed back honestly.

yeah?? Bet you’re hung as hell too

So much for candid reflections, then.

I don’t mean to brag but yeah that too, he responded, staring at the screen with no real enthusiasm.

you sure you don’t have a wife and kids you’re hiding? 😉 not that i give a shit lol, let’s meet up

I might be married, it’s a bit unclear right now.
I shouldn’t be. I mean I’m not ACTIVELY married but maybe accidentally I am?
and I mean even if I am then who cares right
like sometimes you are married and don’t know?

The guy unmatched him.

Seokjin poured himself another scotch. It was fine. Sometimes the past was just a little more present than he wanted it to be, that was all – and it’d been a tough year. A tough few years. He wasn’t at his prime; that, he was certain of.

He went to bed, alone – and woke up knowing exactly where he was.

“Work’s great,” he told Hoseok and Yoongi over dinner the following week. “Busy as ever, but the annual asset re-evaluation went smoothly.”

They were at the fried chicken place they’d all frequented since their university days that, although it was down a backstreet in Gwanak-gu, often had queues outside. Walking through the door to the scent of sizzling fat always pushed a sense of nostalgia onto Seokjin, who became keenly aware of how long it had been since they had been carefree students.

He tore off another piece of the chicken tiredly, having come straight from work at eight PM.

His two friends were looking at him with the same air of concern they’d surveyed him with since he’d started working for his father, a whole five years ago now? Who even knew anymore, but Seokjin had gotten used to it. Yoongi and Hoseok worried, and Seokjin worked.

“Hyung,” Hoseok said, looking sympathetic. “Maybe you need a holiday? Didn’t you say you have weeks and weeks of leave to spend up?”

“I mean I do, but no one uses the leave they accumulate,” he said, face scrunched up in disdain. “It’d be selfish to just take time off. Besides, I hate travel.”

Yoongi shrugged. “Stay at home and play video games, then.”

“Childish,” he said, motioning in the air with a drumstick, ignoring the endless hours he’d enthusiastically spent gaming when younger. “The video games, that is. Look, work is great. How’s the wedding planning going?”

Hoseok and Yoongi kindly allowed the deflection – Seokjin’s schedule had been busy with weddings since the legislation passed, but perhaps this one he was genuinely looking forward to. Seokjin did not have many – or any – other friends who reached back a whole decade like Hoseok did, and Yoongi too, by now.

Yoongi and Hoseok were investing in their wedding: they’d booked the banquet hall of a five-star hotel by the river, spending a hell of a lot more than a traditional wedding hall ceremony would cost. Yoongi said that since they were finally able to marry, he was going to make a fuss about it. Hoseok giggled at this brightly, eyes scrunched up, lips in a heart-shaped smile – they had a glow about them these days, with the wedding impending. Seokjin had been given a plus one invite but had no one to bring.

Maybe life would be more joyous if he and Youngmoo hadn’t broken up – probably his most serious boyfriend in years. What had been not to like? The Jaguar that Youngmoo drove, the amazing steak that he cooked? The generous cock that, fine, Youngmoo perhaps had not quite known what to do with, but together they’d made significant improvements? But their relationship had been bland, even a year and a half into it: unseasoned oatmeal, just like everything else seemed to be in life.

Sometimes he thought that he was still waiting for someone to sweep him off his feet. How childish.

Seokjin paid for their meal, insisting it was his treat. He was in better spirits heading home, too, until on the subway he unluckily sat opposite a young woman who was reading London after Hours: an accidental diary. Her eyes were glued to the page. Couldn’t be that good, could it?

Seokjin stared at the author’s name on the cover, a bitter taste in his mouth. Should Seokjin lean across and say ‘hey, fun fact? That’s my husband.’ Hilarious, sure. He’d considered bringing up Namjoon to Hoseok and Yoongi too but then hadn’t. Just because he hadn’t spoken to Namjoon in years didn’t mean his friends couldn’t see the man on his brief visits to Korea. Tactfully, his friends never mentioned those reunions either – this was how they had awkwardly co-existed for years.

He managed to push the whole thing out of his mind until he got out of a contract negotiation three days later, and as he returned to his office, he checked his emails: and ah, finally, he had been sent the documents he’d asked for. Well, this would clear it right up, this—

The first attachment was a copy of his resident register, which listed him as married. Spouse: Kim Namjoon.

His stomach dropped. What in the living…?

The second pdf explained why the Republic of Korea was under this delusion: it was a scan of a certificate of marriage from Las Vegas, Nevada, all in English, from 13 June 2013. Signed by himself and Kim Namjoon. He stared at the scan, a hollow ache in his guts: he hadn’t seen this piece of paper in years. The loud noise of a casino now echoed in his ears, the flashing lights blinding him, the warmth of Namjoon’s large hand squeezing his, the taste of cheap beer on his tongue – on Namjoon’s tongue. The laughter, the excitement… The goddamn Elvis impersonator in the chapel!

Well of course a document like this might suggest to the uneducated that Seokjin was married when truly he was not. What a ridiculous mix-up!

He called in the newbie of their legal team, and Jeon Jungkook appeared five minutes later with a nervous air to him, wearing a smart white dress shirt, burgundy tie and black trousers, sticking to their dress code politely – even if the dress shirt looked ready to burst from the young man’s gym addiction.

“Ah, Jeon Jungkook-ssi, please sit down,” he said, and the man obeyed with a polite nod, slightly overgrown black hair tucked neatly behind his ears.

Seokjin then hesitated, wondering how to word it as he sat behind his desk: wondering how to ensure the partners, let alone his father, never heard of this error in the files.

“I’ve called you in for something confidential,” he said at length, motioning for Jungkook to put away his pen and notepad. Jungkook blinked owlishly but did so. Seokjin sucked in a breath, formed his words, then said, “It’s a– a sensitive topic, about someone working here, so you cannot repeat what I tell you outside of this room. Is that understood?”

Jungkook looked scared but nodded.

Seokjin exhaled. “Okay, good. Excellent. Well, you see, we have a colleague in slight trouble. It turns out that he got married in Las Vegas years ago, and now the state lists him as married.”

“What?” Jungkook frowned. “They. Hang on, if– if a colleague got married in the US, they’re married here too. That’s how it works.”

Seokjin sucked in a breath, unsure what Jungkook may have picked up on his private life – although it was an open secret in the company these days, much to his father’s annoyance. The old man had come around with time, too – had seemed approving of Youngmoo, a corporate lawyer with a big yacht. A Virgo, again! Seokjin should have known from the get-go it was doomed. When that fell through, his father asked if Seokjin needed setting up with the pansexual son of Samsung’s vice chairman? A real catch, and really the rumours of the nineteen-year-old’s clubbing lifestyle and drug habits were exaggerated. Seokjin was not looking to babysit, dear god.

Seokjin pushed this all aside, thought of how, back in June, Jungkook had not-so-subtly worn a tie matching the bisexual pride flag, and said, “This colleague married another man. Understand? In the US years before Korea had legalised same-sex marriage.”

“Ah, I see,” Jungkook nodded, back on track – not too shocked, thankfully. “My aunt and her wife did that, too – married in Hawaii. It was a wonderful ceremony!”

“Yes, precisely,” he said, relieved. “Yes, good for them, you understand – excellent! So it was a symbolic marriage but not legally binding under Korean law. You understand, wonderful.”

“A lot of people did that,” Jungkook said with a well-meaning smile. “I think it’s nice people did, even if it was symbolic back then – that for them it was real anyway.”

“Ah, no, this one wasn’t real! No, no,” he said quickly, disturbed. “It was just the kind of marriage that you got when you were in Vegas with your new boyfriend and he was all tall and cute, and you were twenty-three and an idiot, and he had these cute dimples, deep like the ocean, and there was a chapel right there at the casino…”

Seokjin stared at the large painting on his office wall, lost in a memory: the painted waves were the colour of the bowtie on Namjoon when he’d taken Seokjin’s hands in his and looked at him so very fondly and, firmly and with such heavy meaning, said, “I do.”

Seokjin snapped out of it. “And– and I digress, Jungkook-ssi, but the point is that such marriages are not legally binding in Korea now because they weren’t then either.”

“Um,” Jungkook said, looking serious. “I’m afraid they are.”

Seokjin stared at their junior legal advisor. “What.”

Jungkook pulled on his collar, visibly uneasy. “When the government, um, legalised same-sex marriage at the beginning of the year, they recognised the unions that Korean citizens had gotten in places where marriage equality already exists. So, then, our colleague is officially married. To, uh, his husband – as of first of January this year.”

Seokjin was still staring. “Wha…?”

Jungkook perked up. “Unless they divorced?”

“But why would they divorce!” he cried out, hands thrashing through the air. “It was a sham wedding! Shouldn’t they have said that somewhere? If they were going to legalise the other stuff too?”

“They did?” Jungkook said timidly.

“Did they? I didn’t see it!” Seokjin barked, but he’d paid very little attention to the marriage bill to begin with, while Youngmoo had been dropping hints and Seokjin had decided to end things. “Why would they not call– call our colleague to say so!”

Jungkook frowned. “Uh, if our colleague does not want to be married, he can file for divorce, of course.” Jungkook was trying to be helpful, but Seokjin was freaking out. “I expect there is a scandal we’re hoping to avoid?”

“I– You”— deep breaths, deep breaths —“need to send me the exact legislation on this ASAP, our colleague needs it! And I need a divorce. The colleague! He needs a divorce! So I need you to draft divorce papers now, right now.” He tapped at his desk furiously. “Go, go – dash, Jungkook-ssi, a divorce won’t write itself!”

Jungkook fled his office like a frightened hare, but twenty minutes later had emailed him a copy-paste of the legislation he’d referred to. Seokjin looked it up and read it once – twice.

And it turned out that his Nevada marriage from years earlier had been formally recognised by the Korean government for eight months now. And for eight months he had been legally married without the faintest idea.

He noted some thoughts on this:
1) He was married.
2) To his ex Namjoon.
3) He was married to Namjoon.
4) Namjoon was married to him.
5) What.
6) The.
7) Oh fucking shit fuck shit fuck hell shit
8) Shit shit SHIT!

Now, Seokjin didn’t object to marriage as such. Marriage was fine if you liked that sort of thing. It was just that he hadn’t seen his… husband… in seven years. He had also, apparently, committed rather heavy-handed adultery. And Namjoon had also committed adultery. What a fucked-up marriage they had!

Was it supposed to be funny? Seokjin struggled finding humour in it. It was as if air had been punched out of his lungs, and he was so furious with his twenty-three-year-old self, and with Namjoon too, sauntering into the chapel in Las Vegas like absolute dickheads. They had never filed for divorce because why would they? Seokjin had assumed that their symbolic union ceased to exist just like their relationship had, on the day Namjoon moved to New York without him, all those years ago.

But anger didn’t solve the current problem – and Seokjin was a man of action, the kind who didn’t stall when he discovered he was a little bit married to his ex. Within days he had figured out how to process an uncontested divorce, which their seven-year separation eased considerably. Jungkook had given him a draft of all the paperwork, explained to him what to fill in and what further documents their “colleague” would need to show – Seokjin was ready to divorce!

He was just missing one thing: Kim Namjoon, the author of best-selling fiction, including A Sordid Winter and Parcels for Caretaker Park, and non-fiction like The Unassuming Flower: A Cultural History of Bonsai Trees, A Thousand Fists: Korean history through marginalised voices and even the autobiographical memoir London after Hours: an accidental diary.

Because, alas, Seokjin could not divorce Kim Namjoon without Namjoon knowing about it.

He’d have to contact Namjoon in London – maybe Namjoon had a PA who could break the news?

“Oh, but he’s actually in New Zealand now,” Yoongi told him over the phone, which was news to Seokjin. “Yeah, he’s writing his new book somewhere with peace and quiet, rented a house out there or something.”

“Oh?” Seokjin asked, throat tightening.

But Namjoon had been relatively settled in London, hadn’t he? With a nice British man… who had no idea Namjoon was married – fuck, what a mess.

“Look, please don’t ask me why,” he said carefully, “but I need to get in touch with him. It’s uh, well. It’s a practical matter. Personal.”

A pause on the line. Then, “Hyung, are– Hyung, are you okay? Are you sick?” Yoongi sounded alarmed. “Hang on, we’re coming over, I’m—”

“It’s not an STI and I don’t have cancer,” he hurried to say. He understood Yoongi’s concern: he didn’t talk about Namjoon and had never asked after him in all this time. Why now, all of a sudden? “I just need Namjoon to co-sign some paperwork, for some stuff from– from back when we were, uh. Living together. That’s all. We made some investments, and now there’s dividends.”

Yoongi sounded disbelieving. “You two invested some money? We were all broke as hell back then, especially the two of you. Like, I still don’t know how you two fit in that tiny studio together.”

“Surprise,” he chuckled awkwardly. “The early bird catches the won.”

Yoongi sounded doubtful but gave him an address for a town in New Zealand that he’d never heard of. Seokjin finished the call with, “I’m just going to pass the details on to my financial advisor.”

But in actuality Seokjin signed himself off work, unexpectedly, and bought flights to Christchurch. He wanted this done with as little fuss as possible, and without anyone finding out – because if his parents caught whiff that their “doomed to bachelorhood” son had been married all this time to that mint-haired journalism major who had turned out to become one of Korea’s most prolific authors, then… the world would explode? Implode? Seokjin was not sure and he did not care to find out.

“I’m going to a nice spa resort in Thailand,” he blatantly lied to Hoseok when they met up for coffee a few days later. “I’ve earned a break from work – and you guys are right, I think I’m close to burning out. I have to take care of myself now that I’m approaching, uh, my mid-thirties.” He almost winced saying it. So old!

“You’re going alone?” Hoseok asked, and Seokjin wasn’t sure what Hoseok was implying. Hoseok’s eyes widened. “Oh, is it like. A resort resort?” Hoseok made a vague wanking gesture. “You gotta be careful not to, you know.”

Seokjin reeled. “Did Yoongi tell you I have an STI? Because I don’t.”

His love life had been rather non-existent as of late – he wasn’t sure why everyone thought he’d had time to be catching anything. But Hoseok wished him a good trip and said he definitely had earned a break.

And so, as Seokjin had covered his bases and turned on an Out of Office reply, he boarded a flight heading south, south, south.

New Zealand was absurdly far away: the flight there was even longer than a flight to London. Seokjin pondered this furiously, trying to piece together world geography, as he emerged from Christchurch Airport into cool, crisp air. He felt mildly surreal, as one did when boarding a plane and suddenly finding themselves on the other side of the world completely. The world shrank yet expanded at the same time: apart from the handful of Asian countries that he travelled to for work, Seokjin had only been to the US once, and to Paris as a child. He was a homebody: give him Seoul forever, for the rest of his life, and he would be content.

This clearly could not be said of globetrotter Kim Namjoon, who had always talked of travel: a few months in Singapore, then swing by Mumbai, go to Marseilles for the summer… That appeared to be the life Namjoon had, too, and Seokjin felt alienated by the thought.

And while it was summer in Korea, New Zealand was in the midst of winter. No, Seokjin did not understand how planet Earth worked at all.

He rented a black Toyota SUV, checked out the map on his phone, and started driving. Namjoon was on the other side of the South Island completely and Seokjin couldn’t understand why Namjoon had chosen such a remote place to stay – yet, as he drove towards the Southern Alps in the distance, green fields all around him, the towns cute and picturesque and sheep on the pastures by the roadsides, he admitted that this seemed like a good place to get some quiet and tranquillity for a writing project.

He turned on music, refusing to think about where he was going – and who he was heading to meet, and especially why.

As evening began to fall, he found a motel in a lakeside town and stumbled through booking a room in unrehearsed English, but the owners were friendly and even knew a few Korean phrases, and he got a nice double room upstairs.

Even so, he struggled to sleep, staring at the ceiling with restless sighs, trying to relax. He was so used to the office life, the commute after work, the habit of getting out his suit for the next day, that being abroad in a comfy jumper and old jeans while trying to rectify the mistakes of his youth felt like an out-of-body experience. He felt guilty about all the work he wasn’t doing, all the projects and decisions that now had to wait for his return, about his father’s displeased “oh I see” when he’d called to say he’d be out of the country for a while.

Yet he had good reasons, and he clung onto that as he fell asleep.

When he woke up, it was the day he was going to see Namjoon for the first time in years. Not only this, he had to tell Namjoon that they were, well, married. He groaned, wondering if he could stay in bed longer still and, like, never move.

Yet he set out, after a hearty breakfast of eggs and toast – although what he really wanted was some ramyeon. And yes, he knew that on the outside it looked insane that he was halfway across the world to hunt down his ex like a goddamn stalker, without calling Namjoon to explain, but there were reasons why he and Namjoon had not spoken in years. No, this was best done in person so that Namjoon couldn’t avoid him – and it was more discreet, too.

But, dear god, why was Namjoon lurking up god’s backside? Excuse his language, but Seokjin was driving along a narrow road leading up through the mountains, dark heavy clouds looming over him. The motel owners had warned him of bad weather, but thankfully he didn’t get rained on as he navigated the (admittedly breath-taking) mountain pass that was dotted with piles of snow – driving on the wrong side of the road to boot.

He finally made it to Haast in the early afternoon: a small township of not much on the West Coast. There was a petrol station with a small grocery shop, a tiny post office, and a motel, but that appeared to be it. Had Yoongi tricked him? Had he come to this miniscule village for absolutely nothing?

Feeling on edge, he parked the car amidst campervans outside the motel and headed to the small café next to the motel reception that catered to hikers. They had places like these in Korea, too: remote towns that lived on tourism and not much else. And, because it was winter, the tourists were few except for a loud gang of Taiwanese teenagers on some kind of a survival hiking trip. Thankfully, the kids were filing back onto a bus, excited to go on their adventures.

As Seokjin’s phone was unable to pinpoint Namjoon’s exact address, he bought a map. The black-bearded motel owner drew an X at the end of a dirt road a short drive out of town. “Are you visiting Namjoon?” he beamed, friendly, and Seokjin flinched. “He didn’t tell me he was expecting anyone!”

God, he was in the right place. How he wished he wasn’t.

“Surprise visit,” he explained awkwardly.

The man said something more – about the weather, motioning at the skies – and Seokjin nodded, yes, fine, rain was expected, and the wind was picking up.

Seokjin got himself a room at the motel for the night: he wasn’t sure how long it’d take to break the news to Namjoon and then get Namjoon to sign the divorce papers, for which they needed two witnesses anyway. The whole ordeal seemed like a lot to take after years of silence, and Seokjin nervously huffed around the small motel room with a single bed. He showered quickly and calmed his nerves.

Namjoon had always been such a city kid – Seoul, Los Angeles, New York, London… Namjoon loved the crowded markets, the mix of languages – the “melting pot”, as he’d always enthused – so finding Namjoon in a remote New Zealand town was confusing. He’d imagined Namjoon in London, of course: in the park by Buckingham Palace, hand in hand with that pretty English boy (Craig? Greg? Graham? Graeme? What a stupid language!), writing his books and giving the occasional Korean interview, but thinking back to Seoul little. Certainly not thinking of him at all. Hell, Namjoon was probably on that soap box in Hyde Park every weekend for all he knew, delivering lectures on the state of the world.

And Seokjin, well, he’d spent two years in military service after their break-up, after which he’d joined his father’s firm and started climbing up the ranks. Four promotions in five years. What else was life for except work? An endless task of building up capital from paycheck to paycheck: two years until a mortgage, a year until a car… An endless litany of purchases that somehow made sense of living for work. Before he knew it, he’d be forty or fifty and comfortably on the property ladder, and then what? Ah, save up for retirement, of course! An endless scramble for money and then you died.

He frowned: these thoughts were not his own – he liked work, enjoyed the effort of it. Work gave life value! Measured a true man. God, these other thoughts were Namjoon’s: idealistic, spoken by a twenty-one-year-old who of course thought he knew so much more than the rest of the world combined.

Well, perhaps not even Namjoon had expected to find himself living in the middle of nowhere in New Zealand. Seokjin pulled on a fresh blue jumper and tight jeans, blow-dried his hair, and – with the divorce papers in his messenger bag – got back into his SUV and followed the marked map further into town and then out of it: the tarmac road changing into a dirt track, crossing wide plains before entering the surrounding forest.

But, as the motel owner had explained and Seokjin had just about understood, there were no other houses along this track, and so the road curved up and finally narrowed around a bend, ending outside a large and expensive-looking wooden cabin. It was elevated on a hillside, with huge windows and a wide deck surrounding it on all sides, with steps leading up to the decking. A bike was resting against the deck steps next to a stack of firewood, and Seokjin exited the car as his breath rose in the air, birdsong echoing in the trees.

It was peaceful. Beautiful. The ground scrunched under his feet.

The elevation from the deck gave a view far around the cabin, out over the trees and grassy lowlands, while off in the distance the Southern Alps broke the view. Seokjin had spent years staring at the high-rise buildings of Seoul each night – he blinked, stunned that not a single house, no sign of human habitation or construction, was in sight from where he stood.

Shoes lay abandoned by the main door: muddy wellingtons, dirty hiking boots – discarded, hastily kicked off, and Seokjin recognised the sight with a heavy heart.

He wasn’t ready. Ha. How funny was that?

He absently tugged at the chain on his chest, for comfort as he often did, trying to calm down.

He had flown halfway around the world to see Namjoon again, and here he was: still not ready.

But he’d never been ready when it came to Namjoon. Wasn’t that why he’d stayed away and turned down Hoseok’s early attempts of “Hey, Namjoon will be in Seoul next month, you could come for dinner with us – for old time’s sake, you know…”? He couldn’t do it, especially after their lone encounter at Hoseok’s birthday party that had made it so painfully obvious that they resented each other now. He couldn’t face Namjoon, who already had his first two books out and had a new boyfriend in New York, and no. Seeing Namjoon was not something he could endure.

It’d been too raw, then. Throw in a year, then another, then another – let the scab grow thicker and thicker. Pull it off seven years later. See what bleeds.

The sun was setting, and Seokjin accepted his fate solemnly. Get in and get out – keep your head on. Don’t let Namjoon distract you with all of his big words and wild philosophies. Don’t fall for the dimpled smile and scrunched up nose. Stay focused! Namjoon’s not that impressive, for god’s sake – remember when he ruined the frying pan trying to cook an egg?

But the memory was tinged with nostalgia, of the two of them flailing in the kitchenette as the pan emitted smoke and the alarm blared. He pushed it aside – and knocked. No response. He knocked again – and the door swung gently inwards, not even locked. He hesitated before he stepped inside, almost tripping on a further pile of shoes by the door. He pushed his own shoes off, looking around the large open plan living area that had enormous wall-length windows, intended to maximise views of the deck and the wilderness outside. All the furniture was wooden yet modern, evoking simplicity but wealth also. A large fireplace stood in the back, full bookcases near it. The floor beneath his socked feet was warm, and a radio was playing classical music quietly somewhere. “Hello?” he called out, unbuttoning his long beige coat. Then he called out to someone he had lost years ago: “Namjoon-ah?”

After all, what was one more “Namjoon-ah” to the thousands of his youth?

No response.

The kitchen was part of the open-plan living room, with a random collection of discarded, half-finished coffee cups on the kitchen island. Seokjin knew those too. Random stacks of papers lay here and there: on the couch, on the armchair, on the coffee table, with chewed-up pens. The sight was eerily familiar, and painful. Guess not everything changed.

He followed the sound of the music: maybe Bach or one of those guys – Seokjin had never bothered learning who was who. But Namjoon had always enjoyed writing to that music, hunched over his laptop, mint hair bright like ice cream, typing away furiously, eyebrows knitted together in concentration and eyes shining bright with his vision.

And although Namjoon no longer had mint hair, but longer brown locks, and although Namjoon was not sitting on their sofa-bed in a tiny Doksan-dong studio, but rather at a large pine desk in a spacious study with grand mountain views – in spite of these differences, Namjoon was still listening to classical music, hunched over, typing away furiously with knitted eyebrows and bright eyes fixed on the laptop screen.

And Seokjin stood in the now open doorway, almost seven years after they had parted, with only one unhappy chance encounter since.

Namjoon looked up from the screen. Froze – eyes widening.

Seokjin let a small, saddened smile form on his lips. “Hi, Joonie.”