Chapter Text
I
Caretaker Park’s years of employment had taught him the art of handling complaints. The residents were amenable to most suggestions if phrased in a polite, considerate manner.
Sitting in the caretaker’s office of Riverside Complex, he examined the notes for the young man in 510: a reminder to avoid loud noises from nine at night to seven in the morning because as it happened, a neighbour had reported that perhaps the newcomer did not realise how easily sound carried – which, of course, was only natural! How could the young man know? And so Caretaker Park was informing him, as was his duty.
He had delivered similar complaints many times in his twenty-year career, but never, ah. Quite over a case like this.
He squared his shoulders.
Be informative and polite.
Stick to the script.
He fixed his collar and headed out.
He soon rang the doorbell of 510 of Building 104 and waited patiently, hands clasped in front of him. When the young man opened the door, Caretaker Park bowed and offered a greeting, and the man responded, pleasant as always but with a confused air.
The resident in 510 was a man in his early twenties, and even Caretaker Park had initially been taken aback by how handsome he was: dark black hair, long dark lashes, a small face and plump lips more fitting, in Park’s view, a young woman. That was likely old-fashioned of him, but men simply had not been pretty like this in his youth. Young people these days had trendy haircuts and were so fashion conscious, while Park himself owned two jackets: a thick one for winter and a thin one for summer.
It was nevertheless rare to come across young people raised properly these days, Caretaker Park thought. This handsome man in 510 had been a pleasant surprise in this regard – thoughtful and soft spoken since the day he’d arrived, just like his uncle had said he’d be, so of course Caretaker Park’s shock had been great when…
“Unfortunately I have received a noise complaint, but there is no reason to be alarmed,” he said – this was how he started the handling of every such complaint. This new resident, however, did not look aghast – only mildly curious. Caretaker Park steadied himself, willing himself not to think of the accusations. “You see, voice carries very easily between the floors and walls of this building, so it is quite common that this catches newly moved residents off-guard. It is not your fault by any means but rather a weakness in the building's design.”
The young man frowned. “Someone is saying I'm being too loud?”
“Ah, it is rather that this is a building that is better suited for gentler tones.”
“Gentler tones?”
“Ah, well, what I am trying to say is that henceforth it would suit all residents better if we were mindful of noise in order to create a harmonious and soothing living environment.”
There was movement behind the young man: two other youths, one with blond-dyed hair (quite unorthodox but trendy, Caretaker Park supposed) and the other with dark brown curls (also a striking choice). Music was playing – not too loudly.
“Seokjin-ah, come help me choose my outfit!”
“Just a minute, hyung!” the man called back, and to his credit he seemed to connect the dots between the current circumstances and the complaints. He nodded at the door behind Caretaker Park. “It was 511 who complained, wasn’t it?”
Caretaker Park flushed. It was vital not to reveal which neighbour had brought forward a complaint – conflict between neighbours was to be avoided.
“That is not pertinent—”
“Seokjin-ah, come already!”
“Yeah, I'll be right there! Ah, I am very sorry, I must go. But I of course did not realise how thin the walls are.” A polite bow, but not as deep as Caretaker Park would have liked. “Please tell Mister 511 that I will be more mindful in the future.”
“But—”
“Have a nice day, Caretaker Park, and thank you.”
The young man bowed again and closed the door with, “I’m coming, Jimin-hyung!”
Caretaker Park stayed where he was for a few beats, wondering if this truly had solved the situation or made it worse.
Such a seemingly polite young man… But a bit rash and— Even so, the man did not seem like the type to… but perhaps it was always the quiet ones who…?
Sighing deeply, he walked back to the lift.
That had nevertheless gone relatively well, considering that Doctor Kim of 511 had come to him that morning with a stern, stormy look on his face and said, “You gotta tell the boy in 510 to stop fucking so goddamn loud at all hours of the goddamn day!”
Such language and temper were wholly unusual for Dr Kim Namjoon!
Back in the caretaker’s office, Caretaker Park tuned the old radio to his favourite trot station.
* * *
Jeon Jungkook stalled outside Dr Min’s office on the second floor of the Department of Music. He’d done his undergraduate degree in the same place, and now he was back for a Masters degree.
Returning to campus as a graduate student made his shoulders rise. Some of these kids had been in school just months earlier, and they looked it too! Young and clueless, with no idea where to go.
But Jungkook knew the campus well, and he knew the music department exceptionally well. Staff recognised him and were still congratulating him for winning The Best Undergraduate Dissertation award. Dr Min Yoongi had been his supervisor for that. He hoped Dr Min would be his supervisor again.
Yet, standing outside the slightly ajar office door, Jungkook understood how little he knew. How Socratic of him! Dr Min, Senior Lecturer in Music Psychology, was talking to Dr Kim Namjoon, Lecturer in Contemporary Music, about Dr Kim’s new book. He couldn’t make out everything the two lecturers were discussing, but it all sounded smart and impressive. These were the people who wrote all the books students like him read!
He idolised them a little, that was true. Jimin teased him about it often.
Dr Kim said, “I feel like it’s not ready, but the university press is breathing down my neck.”
“Namjoon-ah, the manuscript was already ready when I read it last summer, and the reviewers’ feedback largely agreed. You have to let it go, you know that, don’t you? And look, the closer to publication this book is, the better it will look when you’re assessed for tenure.”
“But I just want to develop it a little further.”
“I’m telling you, it’s done. Listen to your elders. Now, what I don’t understand is why you printed out a three-hundred-page manuscript and scribbled in final amendments by hand.”
“Because my eyes hurt if I stare at a screen too long – you know that.”
“And, what, typing in the edits now won’t hurt your eyes?”
Jungkook checked his phone. It was now five minutes since his scheduled meeting with Dr Min, and he didn’t want Dr Min to think he was tardy. He knocked.
“Ah, Jungkook-ssi, there you are. Have a seat!”
Dr Min’s office was compact, with shelves full of thick books and framed music posters on every available space left.
“Jungkook-ssi, I heard you’re back,” Dr Kim said, giving him a slightly distracted smile as he arranged a thick book manuscript on his lap. Dr Kim had black hair parted in the middle and thick-rimmed glasses – a little bookish, as one might expect. He also had the body of a tall, muscular male model, and many of Jungkook’s peers had been desperately in love with him during their undergraduate years. In all honesty, Jungkook could not blame them. Those thick thighs… Those dimples…
Dr Kim smiled at him. “Don’t hesitate to book yourself into my office hours if you have any questions this year, alright? It’s a step up from undergraduate to postgraduate, but I know you work hard.”
“Thank you, Dr Kim. I’ve signed up to one of your classes for next semester!”
The manuscript was finally a neat stack. Dr Kim hummed looking at it, pleased. “You have? Good stuff. I look forward to having you. I’ll call you later, then, hyung?”
Dr Min nodded, while Jungkook was awed by how close the two men were. “Just do the edits and send the manuscript in, alright?”
Manuscript under his arm, Dr Kim sighed. “I’ll try, but working at home has been difficult. I’ve got that new neighbour and… Well, that’s enough on that for now.”
Dr Min smiled after the door closed behind Dr Kim, his black hair down to his shoulders like the mane of a rockstar. He wore a band t-shirt (Pink Floyd) and over this a chestnut blazer. God, he was so fucking cool. But no wonder, as this was the man who had written Korean Popular Music and Depression: the impact of music cultures on mental health. Jungkook had read it twice.
“Well, shall we get into it?” Dr Min said.
Jungkook was more than ready.
* * *
Mrs Choi had hired Seokjin based on his looks. She had told him so in no uncertain terms.
The luxury vintage shop was small and often quiet, down a side street in the student-filled district of Mapo-gu. Mrs Choi was hardly ever there – she travelled extensively and would send in her finds from Paris, New York, and Singapore. Old Flame was a pet project because Seokjin much doubted that they turned in a profit. Alison, the English girl with decent Korean who Seokjin had been hired to replace, said there were rumours of Mrs Choi’s late husband having been a millionaire.
Old Flame specialised in luxury brands, sustainability, and hot people. This was where Seokjin’s model-like looks had come in when he’d desperately needed a job some six months back. He’d moved into Riverside Complex, just a short twenty-minute walk away, a few months later. Now he rotated shifts with a girl who actually was a model, and a hot law student Kijung, who Seokjin had not succeeded in seducing. The man wasn’t bicurious and was in love with his girlfriend – what was Seokjin to do except admit defeat?
But the two were part-timers, whereas he had ostensibly become the manager and the king of Old Flame. The shop opened in the late afternoons when Seokjin had recovered enough from the previous night to show up, and he closed up shop when it was time to transition to one of the many nearby nightclubs.
All of this at the doorstep of his uncle’s apartment where he was staying under the agreement of Take Care of the Place and Water the Plants! Seokjin had truly and well landed on his feet, despite his parents’ dismay that he’d failed to graduate.
If only his parents knew how well everything was going for him! Jimin had worked at a bar three blocks down from Old Flame when he’d been a student, and because Jimin still knew the staff, they got drinks there at half price. This was where Seokjin usually met Jimin and Taehyung if the three of them were going out, which they did several times a week. Jungkook, who wasn’t much into clubbing, joined them a few times a month.
Fridays and Saturdays were a must for clubbing, of course. Thursdays, fondly known as ‘Little Fridays’, could make for a good night out, but a three-day bender was bad for Seokjin’s skin. Wednesday was a daring choice, and Tuesday was rebellious. Sundays and Mondays were usually skips.
Today was a Thursday, which saw Seokjin close up Old Flame around ten at night and head over to meet Jimin and Taehyung for a few pre-drinks. One of the benefits of working in a luxury vintage store was that Seokjin got first dibs on stellar items – and, sometimes, he would pull on a faux fur coat for the night, then return it to the store the next day, diligently cleaning it up before putting it to the clothes rack.
That day he’d spotted a 70s silk shirt with a flower pattern – blues and pinks. The garment hung over his toned upper body perfectly, broadening his shoulders, slimming his stomach and waist. Leave the top three buttons undone, pair it with ripped, black jeans. Brush his hair off his forehead, put some hairspray in to get it to stay. Golden.
He shivered in the cold despite the coat, with Seoul at subzero, but the outfit made him look hot, and he would not change it.
Jimin and Taehyung were already two drinks in when he got to the bar, the three of them sitting on barstools and getting tipsy on soju cocktails. “I hope there’s cute boys out tonight,” Jimin said, rolling his neck to limber up, like a tiger getting ready to hunt.
“Me too,” Taehyung said. Seokjin already knew that if these cute boys did not materialise, his two friends wouldn’t be too upset: they were in an open relationship and had each other. Still, it was dull to only have sex with one person, wasn’t it? Talk about suffocating a good relationship with forced monogamy. Taehyung and Jimin had no interest in that.
“Me three,” he said. He was a flirty drunk and had a high sex drive, and together with his friends they often compared notes of conquests and bragged about who had the highest body count. So far Jimin was in the lead, but Seokjin was not far behind. Men, more or less, threw themselves at him.
They were all in luck that night too. After some drinks and dancing at the club, Seokjin finally saw a man he wanted. Not all clubs allowed foreigners, but this one did, and a tall, blond, white man was now on the dance floor.
“I’ve always wanted to hook up with a foreigner,” he shouted to his friends over the music, eyeing up the man, imagining that body radiating heat against him. Top? Bottom?
Taehyung snorted. “Yes, you have. There was that French guy?”
“And that Spaniard,” said Jimin. “Or wait, that guy was Basque, wasn’t he?”
“Right, he made us all look it up on a map.”
“But they weren’t blond,” Seokjin pointed out, already on the move.
The man was Norwegian, exploring the mysterious and exotic Far East from what Seokjin could understand from his yelled explanations. Exotic? Mysterious? Pfft. But look, if they both were exoticizing each other to the same degree, then the exploitation was mutual – and that was the kind of cultural appreciation Seokjin could get behind.
Olaf (like the snowman from Frozen!) was staying in a shared room at a hostel, so naturally Seokjin had to take him home. The language barrier was high, but the man understood sign language, like Seokjin pressing a finger to his lips when they exited the lift on the fifth floor.
It was two in the morning.
They silently moved to the door of 510, passing the door to 511. Seokjin looked at his neighbour’s door, inanimate, silent.
Uptight piece of shit…
But he didn’t want any complaints to reach his uncle.
Soon Seokjin had a 190-centimetre tall and blond Viking descendant humping him into his mattress. They both moaned in languages the other could not understand, which was hot and made up for the lack of rhythm and Olaf orgasming disappointingly fast. The bed frame slammed against the wall with Olaf’s forceful climax-thrusts. Seokjin groaned, whimpered, moaned.
“Korean boys are so hot,” Olaf said, panting beside him afterwards. That much English Seokjin understood. “Thanks, Sock-jean.”
They woke up around five o’clock to fuck again.
Olaf left early. He was flying to Laos to find himself.
* * *
Caretaker Park looked anxious when Namjoon went into his office to ask if he’d had a word with 510. Caretaker Park had, and the young man had been very receptive to it!
"Sure, alright," Namjoon said, pinching his nose and then rushing for his nine o’clock lecture, which would be poorly attended, of course, because the lecture would be uploaded to the university intranet later, and students thought this meant they didn’t need to show up. Then why the hell did Namjoon bother showing up? Why not just upload an old recording from three years ago – what, would the students have felt cheated by that? Namjoon felt cheated, too!
Cycling through Mapo-gu towards campus, he tried to focus on the day ahead. But, at 2:23am: oh, ah, fuck me harder! 2:26am: take me to Valhalla! Namjoon was relatively sure he had misheard that one. 5:13am: a bit deeper, ah just a bit more! 5:17am: I’m gonna come, ah, ah!
How could anyone get any fucking sleep in that noise?
Namjoon was all about sex positivity, and clearly his new neighbour was a sexually active man getting fucked or pegged on the regular – the how of it all really wasn’t Namjoon’s business. What was his business was his sleep, which had been ruined for the past few months.
He’d let it slide at first. Maybe a young couple had moved next door, and they were in their honeymoon phase. It’d peter out, surely, and he’d slept through some of it initially, too.
But as it’d become clear from the groans and moans, it was not always the same two people. It was his neighbour, sure, and a rotation of Special Guests. His subconscious started anticipating the sex noises, and he now stirred from sleep at the first ‘oh yeah, fuck me’.
He hadn’t met the neighbour face-to-face but knew that the man liked having his hair pulled and his ass slapped.
This was not information he’d ever wished to know, for god’s sake. The mental image he’d constructed was of a cock-hungry twink with insatiable stamina and the IQ of a banana.
Namjoon, for his part, didn’t get it on at home, with a neighbour on the other side of the wall. He went elsewhere – to a gay sauna a brisk half an hour’s walk away, typically – as was proper and considerate. It was a good system that he’d set up after the breakup.
He reached campus and locked his bike outside the Department of Music, breath rising in the air as he walked towards the teaching hub for his morning lecture. Third years – twenty-eight enrolled into the class.
Five had shown up.
Exhausted, sleep deprived, and demoralised, he wasn’t sure why he even bothered. Twenty-three students, after all, didn’t think it worth their time to come to a nine o’clock lecture on a Friday.
He got the PowerPoint up, pressed record, and started giving the lecture anyway – trying to focus through the severe lack of sleep.
He’d have to confront the neighbour himself.
But when he knocked on the door of 510 that evening, there predictably was no answer.
* * *
“I really can’t stay long,” was the first thing Namjoon said to Hoseok when meeting him for a Sunday brunch. Namjoon was editing his book manuscript all through the weekend, but this was why Hoseok had intercepted him. Namjoon needed some fresh air and downtime! Besides, Hoseok missed his elusive, big-brained friend.
The popular brunch café was teeming with customers, and they sat by the window of the second floor, watching the cars slipping by on the street below. It was Yoongi who had tipped him off with: Namjoon needs a break. He’d texted back with, say less.
The three of them had been close friends for nearly two decades, which made Hoseok oddly nostalgic. Aish, maybe it was because he and Namjoon were both thirty-nine now, officially pushing forty, that Hoseok had been sentimental lately. How had life happened to them all so quickly?
He was living his best life at thirty-nine by a long shot. He ran a small jewellery company, and after a decade of hard work they were now not only financially stable, but making a notable profit. In the past few years they’d expanded considerably, and Hoseok could finally call the company a success. In a recent kdrama, the lead actress had worn their earrings, and the product had sold out the following day!
Business was booming, he was financially comfortable, and he was in good health, so no, he wasn’t angsty about turning forty, although of course he wondered about some missed chances in life. He wished he’d had more confidence when he’d been younger, but then again what was life if not growth to recognise that?
He worried about Namjoon, however, sitting beside him and shovelling pancakes into his mouth. Namjoon, who had barely taken a week off of work in the last three years and who lived on 7-Eleven meals. Namjoon, who took good care of himself in some ways – a regular at the gym and always a smile to give to his friends – but did Namjoon ever give himself the time and space to just… be?
“You really should come on holiday with us this summer,” Hoseok coaxed. “There’s space for a few more at the beach hut. Well, let’s be honest, it’s more of a villa.”
“Ah, I’ll have to wait and see. I just have so much work to do… Does the place have wifi? I could work remotely, I guess.”
“We’re going to a tropical paradise island – no work allowed.”
“But look, I have to peer review articles, catch up on research, revise articles, update the department’s feedback policy—”
“Namjoon-ah. You need to learn how to say no.”
Namjoon shook his head, chewing on pancakes. “I will once I get tenure. I’m nearly there.”
Hoseok convinced Namjoon to come shopping with him afterwards. There were excellent second-hand clothes dotted around Mapo-gu, aimed at hipsters and the notable student population, but also fashion-conscious shoppers like Hoseok. Namjoon finally seemed to relax, going through piles of jumpers and old jeans in basement thrift stores.
In a small shop down a side street, Hoseok found a tan leather jacket with an expensive price tag. Despite the sleepy and dusty atmosphere, the compact shop was upscale: only limited numbers of stylish items on display, with no t-shirt piles in sight. Vintage Gucci, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Hermes…
A young chocolate-eyed man with a model’s facial features and slender physique was standing behind the counter, looking like he could throw on any item in the store and hit the runway.
Namjoon was at the sunglass display, trying on aviator style glasses and checking himself out in the mirror. The shopkeeper – youthful and enviously stunning – was looking at Namjoon and then pretending like he wasn’t, turning to scribble in a notebook.
Namjoon had already noticed this. When the man looked down at his notebook, Namjoon sneaked a look at him. When the man looked up again, Namjoon instantly turned back to face the mirror.
Hoseok paused. Grinned.
“Do these suit me?” Namjoon asked, carding back his hair, sunglasses on – making a show of it on purpose. The shopkeeper sneaked another look at Namjoon. Let his gaze travel on Namjoon slowly.
Hoseok bit the inside of his cheek, the expensive leather jacket forgotten. He sidled up to Namjoon, muttering, “Well, you’re putting on a show.”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Namjoon said, taking the sunglasses off. As he picked out another pair to try, he glanced towards the counter. Put the next pair on. “He’s too young.”
Hoseok shrugged, pretending to examine sunglasses too. “Mid-twenties, I’d say? Go ask for his number.”
Namjoon adjusted the sunglasses with a slightly irritated air. “I don’t date, you know that.”
Cue another reason why he and Yoongi privately worried about Namjoon. They’d both been shocked when Namjoon and Sangwook had split up after a literal decade together – sweethearts since their undergraduate days. So settled together, and such a good match… In it for life, surely? When Sangwook had been offered a permanent job at a university in Osaka, the two had made long-distance work. Sangwook had flown back to Seoul regularly, in truth spending as little time in Japan as he could. The two had still seemed happy.
Then, two years into this arrangement, Namjoon had announced their breakup. “It was time I let him go,” Namjoon had said, which Hoseok thought was a ridiculous thing to say about the love of your life.
He’d found out about some of the cracks later. The long distance had been difficult, and after a mature discussion they’d given each other the freedom to fuck around. Sex was just sex, after all, and they were men with needs. If they were committed to each other, then what did it matter if they also slept with someone else here or there?
Maybe that had been their mistake – that they weren’t actually the ‘open relationship’ kind of people. Who could say? But eventually Namjoon had left Sangwook, who now lived permanently in Osaka. Hoseok was still friends with him on Instagram – Sangwook was living with a handsome Japanese film studies professor who had a greying beard, was fifty or so, and had that intellectual look to him.
Namjoon, meanwhile, had not dated since their breakup. Said, in fact, that he did not intend to date at all.
Of course Hoseok was worried. He remembered a twenty-two-year-old Namjoon saying he hoped to meet the love of his life soon. Romantic, hopeful.
Hoseok took another look at the shopkeeper sneaking interested glances at Namjoon. God, how good-looking! Was that natural or surgery? Cute button nose, pouty pink mouth, flawless, smooth skin. Men like them should be deeply flattered if someone that young and handsome looked their way even twice.
He pulled a price tag off a pair of Gucci sunglasses. “Go ask him how much these are. Just go! I’m not saying marry the man, just rizz him up a little.”
“Ri— What? What was that word?” Namjoon glanced at the man again. Made up his mind and headed over.
Hoseok slithered towards the counter to overhear the conversation, pretending to be feeling up the vintage silk scarf at the accessories section.
“Hey there. Busy day?”
The place was completely quiet apart from the three of them. Dust floated in the air.
“Overwhelmingly busy,” the man said, taking Namjoon in with obvious interest. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“You tell me,” Namjoon said – oh, how smooth! “I’m Namjoon, by the way.”
The man smiled. “Seokjin. Nice to meet you.”
The two stared at each other, and Hoseok sensed sparks flying. When their ogling turned from normal to awkward, Namjoon did his lethal shy chuckle, dimples employed, and averted his gaze. Seokjin blinked hard. Oh, a goner for sure!
Namjoon said, “Ah, I wanted to know how much these glasses cost.”
Seokjin took the pair. “Hmm… Well. What are you willing to pay?”
Namjoon tilted his head. Smiled. Weaponised those dimples of his. “Are they very expensive? Do you think I have a shot at, ah… getting them?”
Seokjin smiled. Leaned over the cash desk slightly. “Oh, I think you have a shot.”
Goddamn! Hoseok was observing the opening scene of a porno!
Namjoon’s alluring smile hardened slightly. “Before we talk numbers, can I ask you a personal question?”
Go on, my son! Get that phone number! Or wait, was that too old fashioned? Go get that TikTok handle!
Seokjin turned a little red, but his smile was seductive. “I love personal questions.”
How did someone have that kind of confidence at that age? Well, the neighbourhood was up-and-coming in the queer scene, and Namjoon had initiated the flirtation. More to the point, with a face like that, how could you not be confident?
Namjoon leaned closer, both hands on the counter. “Great. So, indulge me: does your birth year start with one or two?”
Seokjin frowned. He clearly had not expected such a question. “A two, duh. Why?”
“Just curious,” Namjoon said before he took a step back and took on a professional air. “Have a good day, Seokjin-ssi.”
Hoseok followed Namjoon out of the store, catching the shopkeeper looking after them in indignation. Snubbed by a dimpled hunk! Hoseok would have wounded his pride, too.
Walking back towards the main street, he said, “Why the hell did you do that? He was so into you!”
“I told you – too young.”
“Come on, don’t pretend you ID the men at that sauna of yours.”
“That’s different,” Namjoon argued.
Reason the Third he and Yoongi worried about Namjoon, who worked too much and refused to date: that the only men he seemed interested in were the anonymous hook ups at a gay sauna, and even then the interest lasted only for the twenty minutes it took for them to fuck in a playroom.
Hoseok didn’t judge – he’d been to gay saunas once or twice, always a good and sexy time – but Namjoon had lived this way for years now and refused Hoseok’s diligent attempts to set him up with people he could date and not just fuck.
Of course the Gen Z shopkeeper with the ‘fuck me’ eyes wasn’t Namjoon’s soulmate, but maybe Namjoon could go on a date or two? Cuddle? Hold hands? Have more of a human connection with quite literally anyone other than Nameless Piece of Meat of The Month?
Namjoon looked back over his shoulder, and Hoseok could tell he was still thinking about the young man. But because this wasn’t a darkly lit bathhouse, but midday on a weekend, with real names exchanged, Namjoon had walked away.
Hoseok would have to report all this back to Yoongi. Invite Yoongi around for a few beers so that they could really psychoanalyse their friend together. Maybe Yoongi might even spend the night.
“Have I told you about my sex addict of a neighbour yet?” Namjoon asked.
* * *
A week later, Seokjin pushed a note across the bar table for Taehyung to examine. “Can you believe the audacity of this man?”
Seokjin hadn’t noticed the note until he’d been leaving for work, and he wasn’t sure if it'd been slipped under his door last night or that morning.
Dear neighbour, it read. As we share a bedroom wall, it is very easy for sounds to carry through – I believe this has been brought to your attention already. If disturbances continue, I will make a formal complaint to the residents’ association. Sincerely, Dr Kim, Apartment 511
The letter was likely a direct response to an encounter Seokjin had just had with a cute gym bodybuilder type who’d been visiting Seoul for the weekend. When the man had showered post-sex, Seokjin had checked the time on the man’s phone. The lock screen image was of the man on his wedding day, kissing his wife.
Seokjin had laughed.
The man had worn no ring.
Well, why would he wear one to a gay club?
Not Seokjin’s business. Shit, what did he care?
But he’d breathed easier once the man had left his apartment.
It was not the evenings he feared.
It was the mornings.
After sleeping it off, he’d found the letter waiting for him.
The letter was a threat. 511 would make a formal complaint?! And signed by a Dr Kim. Doctor! Pulling rank like an arrogant son of a bitch!
He’d never met 511 properly – had seen a man go into the apartment once just as he’d stepped out of the lift, so he had a vague mental image of a tall, broad middle-aged man. Lived alone, of course. Probably bitter that Seokjin was getting down and dirty. Or! Perhaps the man was homophobic! Yes, that was it – the guy would have been masturbating to Seokjin’s sex life if a rotation of girls was dropping by, but no, no, the grunts were too low and masculine for his sicko neighbour to pleasure himself to.
“I mean, you probably need to make peace with the man,” Taehyung said, reading over the note. “You don’t want your uncle to hear about this. Either that or, you know, you start going to hotels.”
“Or this perv of a neighbour could just not listen,” he said, snatching the note back. Who was some total stranger to come and tell him what to do? He didn’t want to go to pay-by-the-hour love hotels, which were seedy and in which he always worried about hidden cameras. He had the right to fuck in his own home!
That night, however, he ended up hooking up with a guy around his age, and they split the cost of a hotel room for a two-hour rental. Two hours?! Ha! The guy lasted for two minutes, and Seokjin had to pretend he wasn’t disappointed. The guy was crazy hot, however, a really athletic type, so Seokjin still counted it as a win. Why go out if you weren’t gonna get laid? What was the point of it all if not to find new, cute boys to fuck?
When he came home at four in the morning and passed 511, he flipped off the door.
He took some painkillers – the guy had been rough, and he felt sore and a little down – and then hit the hay.
* * *
The replying note read: Dear neighbour, please find luxury earplugs outside the door. Sincerely, Mr. Kim, Apartment 510
True to his word, there was a small box on the other side of the front door, containing a pair of fancy looking earplugs.
Namjoon had to stop and laugh, looking at the door of 510 in astonishment. The arrogance!
He did not have time to go knock on 510’s door, however, as he had to go teach a seminar to his second years.
The seminar wasn’t a success – the students were unprepared – and Namjoon had a headache as he cycled to one of his favourite cafés afterwards to get some caffeine into him. As he sipped on his drink and organised the semester’s first set of marking, he prepared himself to stay in the café until closing time. He also wondered what to do about his neighbour. To his surprise, he was more amused than furious. Buying him earplugs...! It was so cheeky that he marvelled at Mr Kim of 510. The man must be a little mad.
He started reading through his students’ submissions – grammar abysmal, punctuation a mess – and focused enough to work through a decent chunk of them over the next few hours. But, of course, his thoughts and gaze wandered, and he found himself staring absently at a man bundled up in a camel-coloured winter coat and a chunky knitted scarf who was queuing up to get a drink. Dark lashes and dark eyes, thick black hair, button nose reddened from the cold. Achingly beautiful.
He was the man from that vintage shop – which, as Namjoon now realised, was only a few blocks away from his favourite cafe.
Namjoon stirred, sitting up straighter, feeling warmth in his belly. Still gorgeous.
Even Hoseok had realised that Namjoon was attracted to the man – him, at his age. This shopkeeper – Seokjin, yes he remembered now – would likely never be as handsome or desired as he was right then. A man with that kind of a face and physique could walk into any gay club and choose whoever he wanted. By the time you were thirty, most gay men considered you an antiquated has-been who couldn’t get it up anymore. Seokjin flirting with him even for a minute had done wonders for his ego.
Seokjin collected his drink and moved to sit at a table by the window, untying his scarf and unzipping his coat. He settled in and got out a notebook and started writing. A diary? Poetry?
Seokjin was absorbed in the task, whatever it was, with the time pushing ten o’clock at night.
Namjoon tried not to sneak glances. He knew he was attractive for his age. Every year a few students would crush on him – usually female students – because he wasn’t over fifty and overweight and wearing unflattering suit jackets like the other staff members. He was also popular at his regular gay sauna, where he was hardly ever turned down and got to pick which man to hook up with.
Still, there were categories that all gay men belonged to. A category determined by your age and height and body fat and dick size and bank balance. This category determined the pool of men you could hope to hook up with.
Namjoon had his pool. Someone like Seokjin had his own, and it was very likely to be infinite – a boy like that could get anyone. And so Seokjin acknowledging him at the vintage shop had been flattering – was he in Seokjin’s pool? Really? – but Namjoon was not a fool. He knew full well just how childish many people in their twenties were.
Fuck with kids, get kid problems.
He focused on ignoring Seokjin’s presence and marked another essay. Ten o’clock turned to eleven. Turned to midnight.
Seokjin was still there.
In fact, they were the only two people left this close to closing time, and Seokjin had noticed him – their eyes met when Namjoon next glanced his way. Namjoon refocused on his laptop screen, his throat tightening. When had Seokjin noticed him? Just now or an hour ago – or, even, from the moment he’d walked in?
Seconds later, Seokjin sat down at the empty chair across from him. “Aviator glasses guy.”
Namjoon stalled, unsure what to do. Flirt again or feign ignorance?
He pushed the laptop screen down slightly. “I prefer Namjoon,” he said, and Seokjin smiled almost sweetly – but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Seokjin’s coat and scarf were still on a chair across the café.
“What are you working on?” Seokjin asked with unprovoked familiarity, as if them remembering each other meant they were on chatting terms – or, perhaps, it didn’t occur to Seokjin that someone would not wish to talk with him.
“Grading student work.”
“Oh? You’re a teacher?”
“University. Lecturer in Contemporary Music.”
“Oh, like a professor?” Seokjin said, sounding surprised. “That sounds cool. And, like, a real job. I have a friend who’s doing a degree in music theory or something.”
Namjoon felt just as captivated by Seokjin’s beauty as he had been in the shop. Hoseok was right – he did not ID the men in the gay sauna. Usually the place attracted men from their late twenties into their late forties, so he often slept with men who could be anywhere from ten years older to ten years younger than him. Seokjin looked so full of youth and vigour, however, that he was definitely at the younger end of men Namjoon would go for.
Don’t do it.
He said, “And what about you? Why is someone like you hanging out at a café so late?”
Seokjin looked around the café, his cheeks ever so rosy. If Namjoon had to guess, Seokjin was not as confident as he pretended to be. Why pretend, then? Hubris? The folly and arrogance of youth?
Seokjin shrugged. “Living alone gets dull. And it’s a Monday. No one goes clubbing on Mondays.” Seokjin's gaze focused back on him so fast that Namjoon almost startled. “Also, what do you mean by someone like me?”
“You just seem like someone who’d be popular.”
Seokjin nodded. “I am. But even popular boys need downtime, right?” Seokjin smiled at him sweetly, seemingly fully aware of his charms. Namjoon chose not to respond as Seokjin leaned back in the chair, taking him in. “Since you asked me about my birth year, can I ask how old you are?”
Namjoon nodded. Only fair. “Thirty-nine.”
“Korean age or international?”
He held back a smile. “They abolished Korean age, remember?”
Seokjin laughed, brows knitting. “So what’s being practically forty like?”
“My back hurts but I finally have wisdom and money.”
“Ha. Witty.”
“Also comes with age.”
Seokjin’s eyes were warm and inviting as he leaned in closer. “And you’re not married? No? Plenty of older guys I meet have wives.”
Namjoon knew well the types of guys Seokjin likely met. He met them too at the sauna. Some of them took their rings off – many didn’t. A quiet, desperate hunger in their eyes.
Instead of admitting this, he said a measured, “Maybe you should meet different kinds of guys.”
Seokjin looked at him sharply. Were they chatting? Flirting? Namjoon wasn’t even sure.
“Maybe,” Seokjin granted and fixed his posture. “I was born in 2000. Hence that two.”
Namjoon nodded just as his laptop screen darkened from inactivity – work forgotten as long as Seokjin was sitting opposite him. So Seokjin was sixteen years younger than him. Too young, too young…
“Born at the millennium. The promise of a new era,” he said, softly.
Seokjin did not respond. Did not move – but watched him with dark eyes.
Expectation was thick in the air between them. Even if Namjoon hadn’t been flirting then, he’d made his interest known when they first met and could not take it back.
What to do with the desire that simmered in his belly?
He could take Seokjin home, of course. Make that arrogant neighbour of his listen to him have sex for once. He wanted to – could almost feel it and taste it already. The softness of Seokjin’s hair. The warmth of his body. The taste of his sex.
Take the boy home. Find out how good he is at taking cock. Maybe make him cry a little from overstimulation, twitching and moaning in mindless pleasure.
But to what end?
He cleared his throat, which to his surprise made Seokjin smile knowingly.
Seokjin bit on his lower lip. “I haven’t met someone playing hard to get in a long time. It’s interesting.”
This did not surprise Namjoon, exactly. Who the hell would turn Seokjin down?
Seokjin stood up, pushing his hair back with a casual air. “So, I work most weekdays and close up around ten.”
Namjoon’s crotch felt fuller than it had been a few minutes ago, a semi-chub there. Great. “Why are you telling me that?”
Seokjin cocked his hips. He was wearing a large, blue jumper and baggy sweatpants, but even in this outfit it was clear that he had a lean, boyish frame. “I think we both know.”
Namjoon was used to bold propositions. At the sauna, that was how everyone communicated: a hand slipping beneath a towel to grab a feel instead of saying ‘hello’. If one wished to speak, then a whispered “Wanna go to a playroom and fuck?” did the job. Straight to the point. No pretending they were there for small talk.
But somehow he could not bring himself to such directness here and with this man. Even if he wanted him.
They both knew that he did.
“Drop by soon, won’t you?” Seokjin said with one knowing look shot his way. A minute later, Seokjin had left the café.
He considered running after him – out into the cold and snow and all. Pin the boy into a wall and kiss him senseless.
He shook his head, getting the laptop going again. Who did he think he was – the leading man in a romantic drama? People of Seokjin’s age – namely his students – often took interest in him. He knew how to brush it off, even as he was flattered.
But he glanced back to the café door, restless.
Wanting.
* * *
Yoongi rolled his eyes and slapped his hands to his knees. This was his way to say he meant business.
“I can handle it, really,” Namjoon protested, but Yoongi was having none of it. He knew that Namjoon had a sex pest living next door and that there had been a back-and-forth of passive aggressive notes, but this? Sending Namjoon earplugs? Who the fuck did this guy think he was?!
Namjoon had that book of his to finish, and – this Yoongi did not openly admit to Namjoon – it was important that Namjoon got the work published. The two of them had had similar careers: Namjoon had started a bachelor’s degree in Music only a year behind him, and they’d become friends through the audio engineering club. A whole lifetime later, they both now had doctorates, worked in the same university and the same department, but. But.
Yoongi had gotten a scholarship that he did not truthfully need to fund his doctoral studies. His family was well-off, his mother a professor of economics back in Daegu, and his father the operations manager in a nationwide cultural heritage charity. They were a bookish, academic family – his father was doing a PhD now in his sixties as a ‘hobby’. Yoongi had always been heading for a similar path in life and enjoyed parental approval.
Namjoon, always a step behind him, was as brilliant of a scholar as he was. In truth, he suspected Namjoon was more brilliant than him.
But Namjoon was the first in his family to go to university and had received only a partial scholarship for his doctoral studies. He had subsequently worked part-time as a sound engineer throughout his studies to make up the difference. Since getting his doctorate, which had dragged on due to financial woes, Namjoon had been on a string of short-term lectureship contracts in three different universities in the Seoul area. Yoongi had landed a tenure-track postdoctoral position three months post-viva.
Namjoon needed this book on his CV to get that permanent contract he’d been working towards for over a decade now – and Yoongi was damned if some sex freak next door was going to ruin it for his best friend.
It was a Thursday morning, and they had met at Namjoon’s apartment because they were working on a funding bid for a conference. “What do you need these earplugs for?” he’d asked, and Namjoon had sighed – deeply.
Now the two of them were outside 510, and Yoongi was pressing the doorbell repeatedly.
“I can handle it,” Namjoon insisted behind him.
It wasn’t that Namjoon was too nice or anything like that – he was a big boy and not a fool. Namjoon was simply a lot more diplomatic than Yoongi was. Yoongi had spent much of his youth being angry at the world – fuck capitalism, fuck conservatism, fuck this, fuck that, and fuck you! – although he had largely grown out of it. But, when the occasion called for it, he could be as blunt and angry as needed.
“You look like you haven’t slept in weeks,” he said. Apparently, the man next door had had another ‘busy’ night just last night, keeping Namjoon awake from two to four in the morning. “I’ll just have a quick word with this man, that’s all.”
“Hyung, can’t you let me handle—”
The door finally opened. It was almost noon, but it was obvious that the man in the blue pyjamas had just woken up, squinting his eyes and trying to flatten his bedhead. He was young and incredibly good-looking. That, Yoongi figured, accounted for all the sex.
“Can I help you?” 510 asked through a yawn, blinking at them in confusion.
“I don’t know, can you?” Yoongi asked and lifted the luxury earplug box to eye level.
510 squinted. Smiled. Seemed to wake up a little. “Oh, are you Dr Kim? I hope the earplugs are working well!”
The boy said this with complete sincerity, surprising Yoongi. The earplugs were a clear ‘fuck you, dude!’ – a declaration of war! But here this Gucci model lookalike was, giving him a smile that was almost sweet. 510 was taller than Yoongi – Namjoon’s height nearly – and looked a little underfed and skinny. Perhaps the guy really was a model.
Yoongi was momentarily speechless, disarmed by 510’s lack of hostility.
Namjoon, however, stepped up. “It’s you.”
510’s gaze landed on Namjoon, and suddenly he seemed wide awake, confused and intrigued at the same time. “Oh. Hi? How did you, ah. What brings you here?” 510 flicked his hair and cocked his hip seductively, even with his mussed hair and rumbled pyjamas, and allegedly after having had sex all night long.
Sure, Kim Namjoon was an attractive man, but even so.
Yoongi looked between the pair in confusion.
Namjoon was visibly irritated. “What brings me here? I live next door.”
510 frowned. Then laughed. “What? You’re Dr Kim? Wait, then who are you?”
“Dr Min Yoongi. A friend. And you are?”
510 looked between the two of them, astonished. “Kim Seokjin. No PhD – or, well, any degree.”
Yoongi was clearly not on Seokjin’s mind as he took in Namjoon coyly. “Guess you never needed to come by the shop to see me after all. How funny is this? I thought the guy next door was some old loser, but we’ve been living next door to each other all along.”
Namjoon finally looked angry, the way Yoongi would have expected him to be over the earplugs. What shop? Where had these two met? Ah, Hoseok had told him about some young shopkeeper who’d tried hitting on Namjoon! Had it been this guy?
Namjoon took a step closer. “You know it doesn’t matter what kind of a person is living next door, you still have to be courteous. And I can hear everything that goes on in your apartment. You realise that, don’t you?”
Seokjin frowned, standing up straighter. Heat was creeping up his neck. “Well, surely not everything. Besides, I got you the earplugs!”
“Yes, everything. And no, the earplugs can’t make the bed frame ramming into the wall go away. All this time I kept wondering what kind of a person is dragging in one-night-stands – but now it makes sense, seeing how easily you throw yourself at people.”
Seokjin’s nostrils flared, and Yoongi sensed all this going very wrong very quickly. Seokjin studied Namjoon up and down, gaze despising. “Wow, you’re either pissed off because you’re sexually suppressed – which, frankly, checks out – or you’re angry that I never invited you over.”
Namjoon laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, you’ve tried inviting me. But it’s not a very exclusive invite, is it?”
“Are you shaming me for having an active sex life?” Seokjin asked, voice getting shrill and loud, and Yoongi glanced nervously along the corridor, hoping most other neighbours would be at work right then.
Namjoon scoffed. “Trust me, your sex life is of no interest to me whatsoever. And that’s how I want to keep it – understand?”
“Then move your bed to the other side of the apartment! And I’ll have these back, thank you,” Seokjin said, snatching the ear plugs from Yoongi’s hands. “Now please leave – goddamn weirdos.”
The door of 510 slammed shut.
Namjoon stared at the door angrily, chest rising and falling with deep, angered breaths.
Yoongi, who had kept his mouth shut for the entire exchange, said, “Well. That went horribly.”
* * *
Jimin watched Seokjin pace the living room of his and Taehyung’s Itaewon apartment, ranting about his obnoxiously handsome, sex-shaming, arrogant neighbour. “I can’t believe I thought he was hot – he’s an old, bitter creep! And you know what makes it worse? Is that he’s gay, or bisexual, or something else, I don’t know – down to fuck for sure. But I always thought the fucker next door was some straight loser! He’s not straight! You know what this all is? It’s internalised homophobia.”
Seokjin stopped to catch a breath and plopped down on the couch next to him, with Jimin’s other visitor Jungkook on the other side. Jimin and Taehyung were the same age, and so were Seokjin and Jungkook. Seokjin, born in December, was the baby of their friendship group. As such, Jimin felt some responsibility over him – they all did.
If Seokjin got kicked out of his uncle’s apartment, he had nowhere to go. Jimin knew Seokjin was far too proud to ask his parents if he could move back in with them. Seokjin could sleep on their living room couch, maybe, but the place at Riverside Complex was nice, twice the size of their place, and it would be a colossal loss for all of them if Seokjin got evicted!
At the same time, he was angry on behalf of Seokjin too. Who was some stranger to make remarks on Seokjin’s private life?
They all loved cock-chasing and finding the hottest men on any given night. Often, of course, that hottest man in his view was Taehyung. They’d been together for two years now and had been in an open relationship the entire time – this worked well for them, although of course it required work and basic ground rules. Perhaps Jimin had been jealous once or twice, but the same went for Taehyung, too. In the end, they were always reminded that while they fucked other guys, there was only one person they loved.
Seokjin’s neighbour sounded like the kind of man who was sexually oppressed – no question about that. Maybe one of those ‘monogamy is great’ types of gays, although Jungkook was one of those too, and they all loved Jungkook very much.
People wanted different things out of relationships and out of sex – Jimin had learned that a long time ago. Jungkook wanted commitment and exclusivity, he and Taehyung wanted commitment but no exclusivity, and Seokjin, well, wanted neither. He was in his slut phase, as he should be with that god-given face and body of his.
But now Seokjin’s neighbour’s complaints were risking his lifestyle.
Jimin liked puzzles. Problems. Balancing different people against each other and trying to figure out the outcome. Taehyung called this his cunning streak.
“I think the solution is clear,” he said, patting Seokjin on the shoulder.
Seokjin sighed. “I know. I have to—”
“Kill him?” Jungkook asked, frightened.
“Fuck him,” Seokjin said.
“Apologise to him! Fucking fuck, what is wrong with you two?” he asked.
Jimin had put their little friendship group together – an achievement of which he was proud. He and Taehyung had been inseparable since the first week of university, acting as a duo for a few years. Then he had befriended Jungkook at the taekwondo class he went to, concluding that the shy but sweet fellow Busanian needed friends. Besides, Jungkook was enviably handsome, and that would come in handy when going out clubbing. Around that same time he’d met Seokjin, who was even more handsome – they’d tried picking up the same guy at a club, and they had failed because the man already had a boyfriend. Jimin did not wish to have a rival like Seokjin, and so joining forces had seemed the best tactic.
That cunning streak of his.
And so his duo with Taehyung had doubled, and their group chat was active 24/7. Jungkook rarely came out clubbing with them because he was busy studying and because he thought clubs were too loud. Jungkook was still eager to hear all the gossip, however – who’d made out with who, who had slept with who, and so forth.
They knew all about Seokjin’s struggles with a middle-aged neighbour, who it now turned out was a well-built, sexy professor with internalised homophobia.
Seokjin shrugged, pouting. “I just thought that if I seduced him, he can’t complain about my hook ups anymore. Seeing as he’d be one of them, you know.”
Jungkook said, “But you just said how arrogant and rude he is. I don’t think you should sleep with someone you don’t like?”
“Maybe the burning hatred would make it hotter,” Seokjin said in a wondering tone, sounding worryingly intrigued by the idea.
“You need to focus on your uncle not kicking you out,” Jimin pointed out – the voice of reason. Seokjin’s uncle was chill, but was he ‘the neighbours say you’ve turned my apartment into a sex den’ chill?
“I don’t think this guy knows my uncle, thankfully,” Seokjin said.
Jimin got up to fetch his laptop. As he came back, he said, “Look, we’re gonna type up an apology. Like a real one, just to stop things from escalating. Trust me, old people love written apologies.”
Seokjin’s eyes narrowed. “I will not apologise to him.”
Jimin typed quickly, laptop balanced on his knees. “Luckily for you, you don’t have to.”
* * *
Dear Dr Kim,
I hope this letter finds you well. I want to sincerely apologise for the recent noise disturbances from my residence. I understand the impact it may have had on your peace, and I'm taking immediate steps to address the issue.
I am committed to being a considerate neighbour, and I appreciate your understanding as I work to rectify the situation. If there are specific concerns or times that are particularly bothersome, please let me know.
Thank you for your patience and understanding.
Sincerely,
Kim Seokjin
The note had been waiting for Namjoon upon his return, pushed under the door again. The letter had been printed and then folded in two and slipped into an envelope. The tone was polite, with just a hint of remorse that Seokjin had not shown at all when confronted.
Namjoon sighed, heading into the kitchen to prepare a cup of herbal tea. He drew curtains over his wall-length windows, hiding the winter dark from view. He was cold, tired, and regretted his confrontation with 510. He didn’t really know what had gotten into him.
Except that he did, and he was reluctant to admit it.
He showered, changed into loose boxers and a t-shirt that functioned as sleepwear, and read the letter again as he sipped on his cooled down chamomile tea.
510 turning out to be Seokjin, the cute shopkeeper of Old Flame, had surprised him completely. Yes, Seokjin had been flirty and confident with him, leaving little for misinterpretation. But the faceless man in 510 had been… well, someone easy and sleazy and arrogant. This Seokjin, who he had met only twice, had seemed sexually direct, sure, but also sweet. Scribbling into a notebook late at night. Blushing a little even as he confidently tried chatting Namjoon up.
Ah, that was why he’d lost his temper.
Because he’d romanticised Seokjin in his head already. Because he’d imagined himself dashing after him only to engulf him in a heated kiss – and then spending the entire night fucking him until he whimpered ‘hyung, hyung’ and nothing else.
Those naïve imaginings had shattered when Seokjin had turned out to be Mr Fuck-A-Lot. Namjoon, wanting to save face, had torn into him.
Now this letter.
To be fair, a few days had passed, and he had heard nothing untoward from next door. He had not moved his bed. Had Seokjin moved his?
But something about the tone… Something about how clinical the letter was… Like it said all the right things – exactly what you might expect to hear – without making any direct references to their confrontation.
No real substance.
Namjoon went to his home office, which in fact was a large mahogany desk placed in the corner of his living room, with full bookcases next to it. He now placed his laptop on the desk. He read the letter again, then opened ChatGPT. write a letter of apology to a neighbour over making too much noise, he instructed.
Text started to appear on the screen: Dear [Neighbour’s Name],
I trust this letter finds you in good health. I am writing to sincerely apologise for the recent disturbances originating from my residence. I understand that this may have caused you inconvenience, and for that, I am truly sorry.
I recognise the importance of maintaining a peaceful living environment, and I want you to know that I am taking immediate steps to address the noise issue. I value our neighbourly relationship and will do my best to ensure a more peaceful coexistence.
Thank you for your understanding and patience.
Sincerely,
[Your Name]
ChatGPT was not giving him an identical copy of the letter, likely because whatever prompt Seokjin had given it had been worded ever so differently – even so, the similarities were undeniable. AI, after all, had no creative brain to speak of.
He scoffed. Seokjin had gotten a goddamn machine to produce an insincere apology and thought he wouldn’t notice! But he did – reading AI produced student work had quickly trained his eye for the kind of vapid nonsense that ChatGPT produced. Last semester he had twice called a student into his office and told them to explain their thinking and argumentation for the essay they’d submitted. The students had panicked, unable to discuss the topic whatsoever – because they’d made AI write it for them.
And Seokjin had thought Namjoon wouldn’t notice!
He’d considered apologising to Seokjin. His comments on Seokjin’s, ah, sex life had been out of line, after all. He knew that.
Now, printed in front of him, was proof of how little this Seokjin truly thought of him – and most people, all in all.
Young, arrogant, vapid.
He balled up the letter and dropped it into the recycling bin.
Feeling agitated and full of restless energy, he considered the half an hour walk through the neighbourhood to the sauna – to blow off some steam. To take his mind off of this mess.
But visits to the sauna were most satisfactory when he was feeling himself, and that night he decidedly was not.
Exhausted, he slipped into bed.
Thankfully, it was a quiet night.
* * *
In the dream, Sangwook is there. He has that trademark boyish smile of his and the pearly white teeth, the artsy and messy black hair that he grew out during his doctorate, and the intelligent eyes. They’re at a family gathering – Namjoon’s family, his late uncle is there, miraculously alive again – and they’re holding some kind of a celebration, but Namjoon doesn’t know what exactly.
Sangwook is there with him, and they’ve gotten back together somehow. Namjoon isn’t sure how he feels about it: excited, content. Reserved and guilty.
He and Sangwook are in the bathroom of the house they are in, and they’re making out. They want to have sex in the toilet before the party starts, and Namjoon wonders if someone will notice them missing.
I love you, he thinks as he kisses Sangwook’s mouth. I loved you. Why have I taken you back? Was this inevitable? Were you really the only one for me – the only one I could ever open up to? The only one I could ever love?
He wants to fuck Sangwook but feels guilty for doing so. Feels guilty for still wanting him. Years have passed – why does he still want him? But they are back together, like they always were supposed to be. Sangwook kisses him. The party is about to start. Namjoon is a swirl of joy and shame.
When he wakes up, he doesn’t quite remember the dream, but then pieces of it come back to him. Sangwook. His desire for him. His longing. His turmoil.
He fears that he will always dream of him – always, until his old age, until his grave, as an emblem of the only person he ever had the courage to love.
It’s humiliating to dream of a man he knows he will never speak to again. Does some part of him still want Sangwook? Love him, even – or his memory?
He dreams of Sangwook and wishes he didn’t.