Chapter Text
to drink the dying stars
"I'm fascinated," Seokjin says, tugging gently at the damaged roots of his favorite client Haemin. He tugs and tugs. Haemin's head rolls every which way under the lax position of his neck. "I'm truly fascinated. Haemin, do you want to know what I find so fascinating?"
"I really don't know why you bother asking," Haemin says. He's bashful, the playful sort. He's been getting his hair done by Seokjin since he was in his teens and he knows he's in for a lecture after what he's done to his hair.
His hair had been naturally curly once upon a time. For a while, it was a thing of disgust to him. He hated the way it swooped and curled, the way it was so different from everyone in his family, different from everyone he went to school with. He'd wanted what he thought was the ideal: silky smooth straight hair that did whatever it was supposed to do when asked, pressed or brushed into submission.
The first time he went to the salon to get his hair done, Seokjin was on his way out. But he'd overheard, with one foot out the door, Haemin telling the first hairdresser that he wanted to do whatever was necessary to get rid of his curly hair for good. Seokjin, who didn't know him from Adam, stepped back inside and asked in a tone, one chiding and familiar, that made Haemin feel as if they'd been friends always.
"What on Earth would compel you to get rid of those beautiful curls?"
Haemin, then sixteen, stuttered an uncertain answer that was sullied in self-pity. "It's hideous."
And then Seokjin, the complete stranger that he was, strode up to Haemin in the first chair, took hold of his seat and twirled him around so he could see his reflection in the mirror. "Is there a parasite in your brain making you see things that aren't there? Because if you think this is hideous, I fear there's no hope for your fashion sense."
With that being their first introduction to each other, Haemin quickly came to anticipate that each interaction he had with Seokjin would somehow lead to a loving lecture. There were angry lectures. There were insulting lectures. Seokjin had only ever given him the loving kind, teasing him and chiding him with jokes at his expense with the only aim ever being for Haemin to love himself a little bit more. If, at any time, he accidentally let something slip, something akin to self-hatred or the like, Seokjin would widen his eyes cartoonishly, lean over as if he hadn't heard properly and say something like, "I know that wasn't self-deprecation I just heard."
Today, he'll be getting another lecture.
Because he's ruined his hair and Seokjin will not let him live it down.
Seokjin paces around the chair. Haemin switches between watching the older walk around him, eyeing his reflection in the mirror of Seokjin's station and then letting his eyes wander over the contents of Seokjin's station.
There had been plenty of times that Haemin had to get his hair done from somebody else at the salon, on days that Seokjin went out of town to visit his grandmother or had a vacation, and they always did a wonderful job. They each nurtured his hair and he came to understand that it must have been in the job description: a loving touch that heals. But still Seokjin was his favorite. It was partly because, for a long time, Seokjin had been the first step he'd taken toward loving himself and the other part was that he simply found Seokjin's station to be very warm.
Because the salon had an island relaxation sort of theme -- plenty of pictures of water falls, plenty of plants, plenty of relaxing music that made one dream of swimming in deep seas -- all the stations were rather uniform. There were little things, however, that set the stylists apart from one another. Tiny things they'd keep at their stations, be it photographs or coffee mugs.
Seokjin kept pictures at his station. One of his grandmother, one of his best friends Heeyeon and Jiyoo. One of a Maltese Poodle pup that he got from the internet because he didn't actually have a dog though he swore up and down he'd get one soon. Then, four or so years after Haemin first started coming to the salon, Seokjin added another picture.
It was a polaroid type. The old school kind where the lights are too bright and the blacks are pitch dark, where everything is sort of blown out and soft in a way that makes every subject of the photograph look amazing. It was a picture of a young man standing at a kitchen bar. In front of him sat a pot of something hot, steaming. He was frozen with a spoon held just in front of his mouth which was puckered, like he was about to do a taste test when the picture was taken. His eyes were wide in surprise, as if he wasn't expecting to have his picture taken. He wasn't smiling but there was a lightness behind his eyes, a mirth that made Haemin feel as if, right after the picture was taken, he burst into laughter.
A swoop of dark hair had fallen partly over his eyes. He wore a short sleeved shirt, a black button down with the buttons undone (revealing a white Bauhaus t-shirt underneath) and his arms were covered in tattoos.
It was with pride, affection and a softness in his voice that Haemin didn't think he'd heard before that Seokjin said, upon putting the picture up at his station, "That's my boyfriend."
"Fascinated," Seokjin says again, hands on his hips, "as to what possessed you to even think for a second that you had the permission to undo all of my hard work."
"Do we really have to do this?" Haemin asks, good-heartedly. "Can't you just fix it?"
Seokjin gawks, lays his hand down on his chest and looks around the salon as if waiting for the other stylists to confirm that he'd just heard the most ridiculous thing in his life. "That's my point, Haeminie, look at this."
Once again, Seokjin pulls gently at his roots. His hair is stark straight, unnaturally straight, and about as smooth to the touch as sandpaper. He feels like his hair is made of hay. It looks awful but it somehow feels even worse than that.
"Honey," Seokjin says again in that sweet voice of his. "What am I supposed to do with this? I don't even understand, what was wrong with your beautiful hair?"
"I just wanted to bleach it."
It might as well be a suggestion to murder an innocent person because the offended gasp that cuts through the salon, from every stylist in the building, chills him to his spine. Clicks of disapproval sound out and he wants to sink into the floor.
"Haemin, sweetie, when you want to bleach your hair, leave it to the professionals," Seokjin says. "Leave it to me. You wouldn't try to take your own tonsils out, would you?"
Haemin doesn't dignify that with an answer. Or, really, he doesn't attempt to answer because it's one of those questions that doesn't need an answer. Maybe he just doesn't want to give Seokjin the satisfaction.
"Come in tomorrow," Seokjin murmurs. "I'll see what I can do then. Until that time, keep your hands away from it."
"You can't do it tonight?"
"My shift is ending in three minutes. Not even a miracle worker could fix this in three minutes."
"But you said you didn't even have your car. You might have time."
Seokjin laughs a little. "Jeongguk's never late. I'm off in three minutes? He'll be here in two."
And, sure enough, when Seokjin is still gathering up his things from the day -- unplugging his charger, putting his phone away, making sure he has his wallet, sweeping up around his station once again -- a loud engine starts to rumble as it pulls up to the building. Haemin doesn't really need to look to know that it's Jeongguk but he does for some reason. And when he does, his expression changes to shock so quickly and so apparently that Seokjin can't help but notice.
Then he looks out of the window and Haemin is thrilled when he sees the stylist's reaction because he's never in his life seen Seokjin speechless before.
Instead of Seokjin's old Hyundai Stellar, which was dying and really needed to be replaced for the good of the environment, there is something else outside. Not another car. A motorcycle. Jeongguk is straddling a motorcycle. Even though he still has his helmet on when he puts the bike in park and turns to look through the large window, Haemin can almost see the sheepishness in his expression, the "Before you say anything" in his shoulders.
Seokjin is still standing, almost frozen, when Jeongguk gets off the bike, removsd his helmet and walks inside. But not before running his hands through his hair, attempting to get his unruly locks to smooth down. The bell rings as he enters the salon and has barely finished sounding off when Jeongguk speaks:
"I know," he says and his smile is almost blinding. "I know but isn't it beautiful?"
"I thought you were getting your license," Seokjin says, tilting his head and crossing his arms. They're the first motions he's managed to make since seeing the bike.
"I was. I did. I just got my Class M at the same time."
"Uh-huh..."
It's only then that Jeongguk seems to notice there are other people in the salon because he suddenly looks shy. He glances around at everyone, slightly nodding in acknowledgement. He kneads his hands together, rocks back and forward.
"I can't believe you," Seokjin says. If there were other people in the salon, other people who didn't know Seokjin better, they may have thought he was genuinely upset. But everyone knows him better than that and everyone laughs when he, as expected, breaks into a smile. "Passing two exams in the same day, brag much?"
Then Jeongguk smiles and he offers Seokjin the helmet held under his arm. Extending the helmet with one hand and reaching for Seokjin with his other, Jeongguk gently urges him out the door.
Their hands touch and it seems magical to Haemin though he can't place why. Seokjin seems to float out of the salon, waving to the others as he goes. "If you don't hear from me tomorrow, blame him."
Once the couple has retreated outside, there's no room for observing or guessing. Haemin can only sit back for the last few minutes that the shop is actually open and feel a small shade of gratitude pass over him, thankful that someone who taught him how to love himself is so loved by others.
Outside, Seokjin stands on the sidewalk. Resting his right elbow on the back of his left wrist, he lays his chin atop his knuckles and observes the bike. He knows very little about bikes, he's not even keen on the different types of bikes. He wouldn't be able to differentiate a cruiser from a sports bike if his life depended on it. What he does know, what he looks for, is that the bike looks good. It looks to be fairly new or, if not new, in fairly mint condition. It's clean, sleek and such a deep shade of purple that it takes him longer to realize it's not black. Jeongguk stands on the street next to the bike, out of the way of the cars passing, waiting with bated breath.
"I know you think I should have gotten a car," he says after letting Seokjin observe in silence for long enough. "And maybe I should have. It's more practical, maybe? But I ... the bike was just calling to me and every time I tried to talk myself out of it, I pictured what it would be like to ride it with you. Like before."
Like before.
Like before, it echoes of a time that felt so far away but, really, was only two years ago. A time when they were closer to strangers than lovers, a time when Jeongguk was afraid of what it would mean to fall in love, so far gone from what has become now: of him embracing love with both arms and no hesitation. So much had changed between now and then, now and before, but in a lot of ways, nothing had changed at all. As it was, as he saw it, he had still fallen in love with the sun. The only difference was now, he had no fear of being destroyed.
They come to a point where now they don't always have to speak if they don't want to, where they can know what the other is thinking, where they know how to read each other's eyes like the best books culture had to offer. There are still moments though, like now, where Jeongguk can't tell what Seokjin is thinking. He can read the hesitance in his stance, the uncertainty with which his eyes roll over the body of the bike, the reservation in his bitten lip. What's he thinking?
"Is it safe?"
And Jeongguk smiles because of course that was the thing on Seokjin's mind. Not whether his choice was respectable. Not to question the logic of getting a motorcycle over a car. Not to wonder anything apart from whether or not he would be safe riding on it.
"The safest," he answers. As if to demonstrate, he walks round the bike and straddles it. "It's a Yamaha V-Star 250 which is, apparently, one of the best beginner bikes ever made. It's not too heavy, it's easy to manage. The engine is a five speed which means something good, I think."
Seokjin, wearing that familiar bent smile, scoffs through the side of his mouth and looks away momentarily. His gaze returns to the bike and then to Jeongguk. He shrugs. "I don't have a helmet."
Jeongguk widens his eyes. He even has the gall to look perturbed. "Don't offend me."
"Offend?"
"You really think I'd go out to buy a bike that I pictured riding around on with you and I wouldn't grab a second helmet?"
It's only then that Seokjin seems to realize there's a helmet hanging on the right handle, only then that he notices that Jeongguk's helmet is still under his arm. It's a wonder how he misses it. Its turquoise shade, marble print and overall zest would have caught his eye immediately but perhaps the sight of the motorcycle had taken all of his attention. And if Jeongguk didn't know him any better, better than he'd come to know anyone, he would think Seokjin was blushing.
"What do you think?" Jeongguk asks, extending his arm and, with it, the helmet. "Would you like to get on this bike and make me the happiest man in the world? ... Again?"
Rolling his eyes, Seokjin reaches out and takes the helmet. Before putting it on, he clicks his tongue and chides, "Sweet talking won't get you far in life."
"As long as I'm going with you, I don't need to go far."
The ride home.
It's a complicated thing, home.
Jeongguk had gone from not knowing what a home was to having so many homes that when he said something like "I'm heading home" or thought something like "the ride home," he had to pause to consider which home he meant.
Before, when he lived with his parents, home was only a house and his room was merely a room. His room never felt like much more than a place where he slept, dressed and kept the secrets he hid so well. He discovered home first in Casi Cielo, then again in the arms of a love so fierce, so easy, he often caught himself wondering where the catch was. Upon discovering what home had the potential to be, he also discovered that he'd never known -- not truly -- what a home was.
Now, he understands home intimately.
He understands it in the key that still hangs around his neck, the key to his first home. The rent he shells out for his apartment ensures that he spends a lot of time at his home. Still, however, the nights he spends in the little but lively apartment in the little but lively Casi Cielo, nights with a judgmental fish called Donna and early mornings set to Sister Sledge, are anything but rare. He may have moved out, found new bearings, created a home of his own but he spent so many nights at Seokjin's, it sometimes felt as if he'd never moved out at all.
He's also come to understand home in the plants Taehyung has set up in the living room, nurtured and watched bloom with the utmost affection. The two of them only technically lived in an apartment. Really, they lived in a jungle. They each had their own journeys to take in learning to define what home meant for themselves. Taehyung told him once that the first home he ever knew was the sound of ocean waves in a tiny house miles away from the place he was supposed to call home. Now, home, in his own making, is awaking to the sight of all the wildlife he's nurtured. The peace lily in his bedroom, the swedish ivy in the living room and the plethora of succulents dotted around their kitchen.
Jeongguk understands home in evenings with Aecha, at work with Hyunjoo and in the safety of his bedroom which feels like a perfect cocoon of everything he holds dear to him.
Once, while lying in bed, listening to a new album and nursing a steaming mug of tea, he opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. He let his gaze roll toward the pictures on the wall, the candles on his bedside table and the cozy mess of things lying about on the floor. And he smiled. Because it was his. Because he felt safe. It was then that he understood just what made a house a home. It wasn't enough for it to have running water and heating (though he was thankful to have those). Love was required and, perhaps just as imperative, one needed, as he felt then, to feel safe in a house for it to be a home.
The ride home tonight is to Seokjin's place.
He rides the bike fast enough for the wind to kiss their skin with vigor and passion but slow enough to make it last. To enjoy the vibrations of the engine, the peacefulness of the evening and the arms wrapped lovingly around him from behind. Slow enough for him to commit it all to memory. He wants to yell for Seokjin to remember this moment, to feel all the details he can't catch so that when they're old and reminiscing, they won't have half pictures of this moment. They'll share their halves and remember it whole.
Once home, they toe their shoes off at the door, drop their belongings not far from there and drag their feet to the bedroom. And though the soft mattress with all of its warmth, blankets ready to roll them into safe cocoons, calls for them to collapse into the sheets, they never forget the golden rule. They shower first, leaving a mix of pineapple and orange blossom scents mingling in the air after the fact.
By the time Jeongguk gets out of the shower, Seokjin is already in his pajamas, under the covers and on the cusp of slipping from the edge of consciousness. As quietly as he tries to step into the bedroom, Seokjin still stirs as soon as he crosses the threshold, bleary eyes peeling open to appraise him, lips spreading into a fond smile. They've seen each other's bodies so often, have grown so familiar with the landscapes of each other's skin that they could make a map of it in their sleep. Jeongguk would include in his map a portion that landmarked every birthmark. In Seokjin's, a guide to the exact spot on the back of Jeongguk's neck that makes him shiver no matter what. Trail fingers up into his hair, trail fingers slowly down, use index finger to circle the skin around vertebra C7, trail up diagonally and to the left. Congratulations, you've found it.
Familiarity didn't dispel fondness though. And, upon seeing Jeongguk enter the room with his towel hanging around his waist, Seokjin feels fond. It's not a sex thing. It's not even purely an attraction thing. Because he's not gazing at Jeongguk's body, not really. He's marveling at the stories inked on his skin, marveling at how beautifully he's bloomed.
His voice is already groggy, like he's been asleep for hours, when he sighs, "That one's my favorite."
"What, the turtle?"
"Well, yes. That one's my favorite but I'm talking about my other favorite."
"And that one is?"
Saying nothing, Seokjin simply put a finger to his own chest, mirroring the spot on Jeongguk's body where the image of storm clouds interwoven with cherry blossoms. The clouds had taken a while to fill as Jeongguk wanted them to be completely black in order for the shape of the flowers to stand out.
Jeongguk smiles, toweling his hair and looking through the dresser drawer for something clean. "Do you ever miss the way it looked before?"
"Should I?"
"No, it's just...I read that sometimes. Some people think after a certain amount of tattoos, you're just hiding yourself."
He finds what he's looking for -- a pair of sweats from his last visit and one of Seokjin's sweaters -- and towels his hair again before plopping into the bed at last. He moans out loud at being sucked into its welcoming warmth. If he so wanted, he could fall asleep at that very second.
"That's dumb," Seokjin reaches out and traces his finger alongside one story in ink. "I think it's the opposite."
"How's that?"
"The more of yourself you cover, the less of yourself you hide. Even if they're just images, they all tell a story about the kind of person you are. Your sense of humor, what looks beautiful you, all that. I think it suits you. You've always worn your heart on your sleeve."
Sleep has its claws in them now. They wrap up in each other, minds drifting, words quieting.
He has the clarity to ask one more question. "Why's that one a favorite?"
"'cause it reminds me of you. Storms may roll in but you see beauty in the rain, see the chance for something beautiful to grow because of it."
"Sweet talking won't get you far in life."
In his half sleep, Seokjin snorts a laugh and quiets, consciousness dripping out of him like smooth honey. It's a pleasant drifting. "Shut up, I'm bored."