Chapter Text
2005
On Namjoon’s last winter in Beijing, it didn’t snow, but it rained.
Namjoon sat still as everything else sped by him: a bow-tied waiter balancing a tray crowded with empty champagne flutes, a couple in their shiny evening attire, the trumpet player making a beeline for the washroom before the next set. Midnight, Jungkook had said.
Namjoon had no business in Beijing anymore, a city that tasted like a wet cigarette, but it was difficult to leave when he’d poured his life, heart, and savings into making this work.
And Jungkook said midnight.
A split second glance at his watch moistened his palms. It was ten minutes to twelve. He could feel the tick in his wrist like a pulse.
Namjoon shook his head and took a sip of his draft beer. The trumpet player marched by him on his way back to the stage, his floppy suit cuffs brushing Namjoon’s elbow. Beer sweat ringed the river table top. Namjoon swiped it dry with a napkin and placed his glass on a paper coaster.
In that exact spot, on the communal table, Jungkook first spoke to him five years ago.
Five years. Namjoon was new to the city back then. A foreigner who spoke formal and awkward Mandarin. He had arrived from Seoul only that morning, spent the entire day sleeping, and, as soon as the sun went down, headed straight to the 80th floor of the Shangri-La, to the famed Atmosphere bar.
On the 42nd floor, Namjoon’s ears popped. When he reached the 80th, the elevator doors swooshed open revealing a tall woman standing on the other side behind a podium. Wearing a maroon qipao and an elegant, procedural smile, she ushered Namjoon to the entrance. He didn’t know it back then, but Mondays were Gentlemen’s night, 10% off on signature cocktails. Beer was still regular price though.
No reservation, Namjoon told the hostess. Gentlemen’s night was for office executives in their stiff suits and unwrinkled pencil skirts, and for tourists on holiday who had lost track of what day it was. And here was Namjoon, a transplant from Seoul, in need of a nightcap before crashing, before all the introductions and orientations he would be receiving at work in the following weeks.
The hostess told him that the only available seats were at the long, communal table. From the entrance of the bar, Namjoon eyed the lone seat in the middle. On one side, there was a couple huddled together, on the other, a trio of men. Namjoon didn’t mind this. He just wanted his beer, maybe two, and then go.
While passing the foyer, the points and curves of the Beijing sprawl greeted him with its blinking lights and sheets of neoned fog. The last of the daylight sinking behind the curves and columns of the city’s shiny corporate architecture. Namjoon loosened the tie that he had just tightened in the elevator, and ran his fingers through his hair. The CCTV Tower and the Forbidden City blended in with his reflection on the glass: on his chest the yellow-tiled symmetry of the north-south axis, sprouting front his shoulder was a three-dimensional cranked loop. Seoul to Beijing. Funny how things could change in a week, even in a day, or in a minute.
Still in the same clothes as the ones he wore on the flight, a button-up and grey trousers, he unclasped the cuffs and bunched up the sleeves to his forearms.
The hostess led him to the communal table. A long slab of wood that looked like it was freshly cut from a sequoia tree. Namjoon supposed that was the look the designer was going for: raw, unpolished edges.
As soon as he had settled in his seat, the very seat he would find himself five years later, a waitress clicked her way to him in pointed kitten heels. She took his order, and hurried back to the bar.
“You should’ve gotten one of the signature cocktails,” a voice from Namjoon’s right had said.
It was dark. All Namjoon could see of his face was a vertical strip: an eye with curled lashes, a corner of a mouth, a slope of a rounded nose. The man elbowed closer with a bottled water in his hand. The overhead lamp yellowed his face and illuminated a heart-shaped locket hanging from his neck. Namjoon was taken by his eyes first, how round they were, how they shone independent of a headlight. He had perpetually shocked eyes and a mouth that looked like a child’s drawing of a bird in flight. Very cute. Very much Namjoon’s type.
“Any recommendations for me?” Namjoon asked in his formal Mandarin.
“Smoked negroni,” the man said with a flip of his wrist.
A waitress materialised, elbowing the man speaking to Namjoon. In his ear, she said: “Your boyfriend’s here.” It was a hushed whisper, but with the jazz band on break, Namjoon heard it.
“I don’t have one of those,” the man responded to her, and turned back to Namjoon. “So, the drink. Get a negroni.”
Namjoon coughed, summoned more Mandarin to his throat. “That is just like regular negroni, isn’t it?”
“Oh?” The man’s eyes rounded even more. He inched closer.
“Why? What is it?” Namjoon asked.
“Not from around here, aren’t you?”
“No. I’m not.”
“Where from?”
“Seoul. Just got here this morning actually.” Namjoon rubbed his arm.
The man’s eyes lit up. He pointed to himself. “Busan.”
“Amazing. What are you doing here?” Namjoon asked, switching to Korean.
“Well,” the man paused, pursing his lower lip in thought. “This.”
The guy was so cute that Namjoon wanted to respond with something cheeky like: this? Flirt with men in hotel bars? But he didn’t get the chance to when the man stood, walked up to the platform, and took the mic.
The band’s frontman. Ah.
He sang an English song. Like a sweet summer sonata in the middle of winter, sweeter than the diazepam Namjoon had crushed up and snorted in his room earlier.
That night, Namjoon nursed a third beer until the singer’s set was up. He asked for his name, for his number, and told him to expect a call. Jungkook smiled. They were so young back then.
2005
It was ten minutes past midnight now. Namjoon concentrated on the song, on the bass in the speakers, on the dignified background chatter. He hadn’t been in Atmosphere in a long, long time. It was December, so Jungkook was 25 now. The jazz band had a female vocalist tonight. She slinked across the stage in a blinding sequin dress.
Another glance down at his wrist: fifteen past midnight. Jungkook was always late.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” Jungkook had said back then. That was on their first date five years ago during the winter of 2000. Back then, Jungkook didn’t own a phone. The only way to contact him was through a landline in his shared apartment. With all the girls he lived with, the line was always busy.
Snow dotted Jungkook’s black hair as he arrived at the ice skating rink half an hour after their agreed upon time.
“It’s okay,” Namjoon had said.
This was on the weekend after their first meeting. Being the Beijing local between them, Jungkook had picked the place, the time, and the activity. Ice skating on an artificial lake.
A cold breeze stung Namjoon’s face. He pulled his scarf higher to cover his chin. A murder of crows crashed into a ginko tree, emerging on the other side. Young people held hands. Skates sliced through the ice. Children laughed.
Despite Namjoon’s reluctance, Jungkook paid for both of them to make up for his lateness. He didn’t know it then, but this would be one of the many, many times Namjoon would give in to whatever Jungkook wanted.
As soon as they put their skates on, Jungkook slid on the ice like he had been tethered his entire life.
On the ice, Namjoon was well acquainted too, effortlessly carving out an 8 with his skates. Jungkook, similarly skilled, looked disappointed for some reason.
After they had returned their skates, they walked a scenic route, circling the artificial lake. They passed by university students laying flat as shadows in the snow.
Unlike their first meeting, Jungkook was unusually quiet as they walked. He had his head bowed. They found a secluded spot on the snow and sat down.
“Are you okay?” Namjoon asked, nudging Jungkook’s shoulder. “You look a little sad.”
“No. It’s silly,” Jungkook said shyly, but proceeded to explain anyway. “I didn’t know you knew how to skate.”
That confused Namjoon further. “Yeah, you didn’t ask. I’m great at it actually.” He smiled, scratched the back of his head.
“Yeah, I know.”
“And why would that make you sad?”
“I had this whole plan,” Jungkook confessed.
When he didn’t say anything else, Namjoon asked: “And that was?”
A look of contemplation, and then: “I’d guide you on ice and we’d hold hands the entire time.”
An image of the pair of them holding hands as they skated on the ice. Suddenly, Namjoon wished he didn’t know how to skate.
“Oh my god, Jungkook,” Namjoon cried with an uncharacteristic burst of energy. “That is adorable.”
“Make it up to me.”
“Make it up to you? For knowing how to skate?” Namjoon asked incredulously, a small amused chuckle escaping from his lips.
“Yes,” Jungkook said simply. “Make it up to me and kiss me.”
Normally, Jungkook was the type of guy Namjoon actively steered clear of, someone brash and unrestrained, someone born with these kinds of easy looks and charm. These men were experts at inflicting pain; they always got away with it too.
“Kiss me,” Jungkook had said. The memory of it pulled Namjoon back. This was the moment their budding friendship had completely rerouted with one foot on the accelerator. Namjoon tilted his head, leaned in for a chaste kiss. He captured Jungkook’s petal lips in his, kissed the top lip and then the plush bottom one. When they parted, he could feel Jungkook sigh into his mouth.
“If I could, I’d have you now in the snow,” Namjoon said, surprising himself.
“No way.” Jungkook giggled. “I’d freeze my ass off!”
“There’s no good having that,” Namjoon said, disinhibited by the valium he had crushed and snorted up before their date.
“No. We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Jungkook agreed. His words sounded sexual even though Namjoon couldn’t find any double entendre. Namjoon clawed at the snow.
Jungkook leaned in this time. His tongue licked at Namjoon’s lips, begging for a deeper kiss. Namjoon folded Jungkook into his arms, ran his hands down his spine, the snow crumbling down his back.
When they parted, Namjoon took the plunge. “Let’s go to my apartment.”
—
“It’s a bit messy.” Messier than he had remembered. “I haven’t unpacked everything yet.”
“It’s huge! How do you afford this place?”
“Ah.” Namjoon rubbed the back of his head. “Company provided.”
“You must be high up for them to give you a free apartment.”
“It’s not free. Technically. Almost, though.”
“Lucky!” Jungkook twirled in the living room, arms stretched out. “I live in half a shoebox.”
“Oh, really?” Namjoon sat on the couch. Jungkook nodded. He bumped his hip on one of Namjoon’s empty shelves.
“Okay, hyung, listen,” Jungkook started, he plopped down beside Namjoon. “I’m not gonna say anything like ‘I don’t usually do this on the first date’,” Jungkook said the words with air quotes. He paused, bit his inner cheek. “Well, because I have.”
“Thanks. Got it,” Namjoon deadpanned.
“Oh, what’s this?” Like a livewire, Jungkook hopped onto his knee, attention suddenly elsewhere. His weight indented the couch cushion. Namjoon eyed the place he was pointing to: the side table. On it was Namjoon's bottle of valium; one of many bottles purposely littered around the apartment, like a shortcut to a lifeline.
“Are you this nosy with everyone too?” Namjoon asked, half-joking. “Or am I a lucky guy?”
Jungkook took the bottle in his hands, cradled it like an injured bird. “Can I have one?” He was adorable.
“Sure.”
“Two?”
Namjoon looked at him, observed the ease and confidence of an experienced drug user like himself. “Okay.”
Jungkook took two, placed them on his tongue. “Mmm. Tastes like home.” He chewed and cracked the tablets like hard candy. Namjoon watched the bob of his throat. “I haven’t seen my mother in a long time,” Jungkook blurted out of nowhere, seemingly without his permission. He looked away, focusing on Namjoon’s empty shelves.
“Me too,” Namjoon confessed.
“You and I are alike, aren’t we?” Jungkook asked, his voice full of wonder.
“I suppose,” Namjoon said.
“Here take one with me.” Jungkook's eyes gleamed. He shook the pill bottle. It sounded like a pair of maracas. In his other hand, he pinched a blue pill with two fingers, placed it on his tongue.
“Didn’t you already take—?” Namjoon sighed. Quick fingers. Just like that, Namjoon was out three tabs.
“Take one,” Jungkook said.
“I might not get hard if I take too much.” Namjoon’s way of saying he’d been high the entire day.
Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “You won’t be able to fuck me good?”
Namjoon smiled, shook his head. “So vulgar.”
“Fuck. Damn. Shit.” Jungkook laughed. His face was innocent and pure even though his mouth wasn’t. Namjoon laughed too.
“How much longer are you gonna make me wait, huh?” Jungkook murmured through a pout.
“Come here.” Namjoon urged him to straddle his lap.
They sat face to face. They were so close; Namjoon’s breath lifted the baby hairs on Jungkook’s face.
“I know we just met but, can you…” Junkook started. Shyly, he pressed his body close to Namjoon, and in his ear, disclosed all the things he wanted Namjoon to do to him.
When they parted, Jungkook had a searching, sweet look on his face. Namjoon was gone to him right there.
By the time the third pill kicked in, Jungkook was no longer shy. His clothes were a puddle on Namjoon’s living room floor, and he was on his hands and knees on the couch.
Namjoon rolled up a sleeve. And as Jungkook had earlier requested, he knelt behind him.
His ass was perfectly fat and muscled. It jiggled when Namjoon palmed a cheek, so perfect it made Namjoon breathless. His hole was waxed bare and the same colour as his nipples. Namjoon feels like a fucking pervert just staring, ogling, feels like he’s committing a crime. He isn’t. Namjoon parted Jungkook’s cheeks and leaned in. Just like earlier by the lake he leaned in for a chaste kiss. Jungkook squeaked and Namjoon paused, awaiting any complaint. When there wasn’t any, he parted Jungkook’s cheeks again and kissed his hole, nipping at the puckered flesh there.
It was such an intimate position for someone he had just met the other day. But this was what Jungkook wanted. And Namjoon wanted what he wanted. Maybe they were both desperate.
Namjoon added more oil to assist the penetration as he sank his finger deeper. Jungkook had the tightest little hole Namjoon ever had the pleasure of fingering. He moaned as Namjoon added a second finger, watching the liquid trickle out obscenely.
An over intake of diazepam makes time skip. Namjoon blinked and he was naked, sitting on the couch with Jungkook straddling him. Jungkook palmed Namjoon’s hard cock, lined it with his open hole, and sat down. Namjoon gasped as Jungkook sank deeper on his dick. Jungkook’s eyes were squeezed shut; sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping down either side of his temples. Wordlessly, Jungkook lifted his weight up, and then down; he rode Namjoon slowly, purposefully. Namjoon wrapped his arms around Jungkook’s slender waist, kissed and sucked his chest, hissing when Jungkook squeezed him on a downward thrust.
Jungkook’s plush ass met Namjoon’s thighs, his ass swallowing his cock whole. Once Jungkook got his bearings with one arm on Namjoon’s shoulder, he started bouncing. Namjoon let out an embarrassing moan. It was forgotten in a second. He was hypnotised by the pleasure, by the sight of him. Not knowing where to focus but desperately cataloguing each sensation, each image. Jungkook rode him so wonderfully; the devastating choreography of a lithe and tight body seeking pleasure on Namjoon’s lap. With the clean, dangerous lines of a dancer in motion, Jungkook bounced. Namjoon felt exorcised.
Namjoon barely knew him, but he did know himself, and he knew he was about to get addicted.
A high-pitched moan cut through the air in the empty room. Namjoon held Jungkook close. Surrounded by his things in unpacked boxes, they finished together. The barest thing in the bare room.
2001
A few months after that, after Namjoon had acclimated to the city, to his new office, to his new company-provided apartment, and to his new friend, he was back at the highest artificial peak in Beijing.
Monday. Gentlemen’s night with Jungkook on stage singing into the microphone like he was making love to it. Namjoon always wondered why they had a male jazz singer on stage for Gentlemen’s night. But looking around seemed to answer his question: men, women were enamoured by the siren on stage.
After his set, Jungkook sat beside Namjoon at their usual spot at the communal table.
“Wonderful. As always, Jungkook-ah,” Namjoon said. They spoke exclusively in Korean. It helped quench Namjoon’s homesickness. Later on, he would find out it did the same for Jungkook.
Jungkook put a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder, popped the first two buttons of Namjoon’s shirt open. His fingers grazed a collarbone. Namjoon gave him a questioning look.
“It’s after hours,” Jungkook said with a coy smile, as if it were explanation enough.
“Right,” Namjoon said.
Jungkook leaned in, whispering into Namjoon’s ear: “Let’s fuck in the bathroom.”
Namjoon choked on his own saliva, thrown into a coughing fit.
“Come on, hyung.”
“You’re completely serious, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. We haven’t in a while.”
“Here? Let’s take a cab to my apartment.”
Jungkook pouted.
“I’ll get us a room downstairs.”
“Why spend money when we have a perfectly good spot right here?”
Namjoon smiled, shook his bowed head, the word ‘no’ slowly disappearing from his vocabulary.
2005
Namjoon eyed the very same men’s bathroom. The memory felt like a needle stabbing at his cornea. He looked away.