#ksj fluff

“You’re going to be late.”

You pop one eye open, the fat of your cheek pooled on your pillow. In front of you, an owlish blink, one side of a lip quirking up.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

“I’m filing a restraining order against you.”

“Now, now,” he chides, tearing the comforter off your bed. “Is that any way to speak to your husb—“

“Not just a restraining order.” You kick in his general direction, your prematurely exposed legs soaring through the morning-chilled air. “Divorce papers, too. And I’m filing for alimony.”

Unbothered, he strides over to the window. Tosses the blackout curtains open, and lets in a flood of natural light that nearly has you shriveling up and dying on the spot. “Of course you are. Who else is going to support you while you’re a broke law student?”

You clap your hands over your ears. “Aht, aht! Can I get a trigger warning, please?”

“You know I love our morning routine,” he sighs, tugging at your ankles, “but you really do have to get out of bed, honey. Orientation starts in two hours, and it’s going to take at least an hour to get there in rush hour traffic.”

You blink up at him. “But I’m taking the subway.”

He just crosses his arms at this, eyebrows furrowed, as if explaining himself to a particularly dense coworker. “Did you really think I was going to let you take the subway like a commoner on your first day? My wife, off to her first day of making the legal industry her bitch, being unceremoniously dumped off at a subway station with the rest of the stinky, sleep-deprived public? I don’t think s—oof—“

You’ve thrown your arms around him, burying your face in his neck, knees sinking into the mattress. Once he recovers from the shock, his arms come up to circle you, too, shoulders dropping.

“Thank you,” you mutter into his skin. “Thank you.”

Because for all his clowning, he knows. 

He didn’t take it personally when you postponed dates to study longer, picking you up at midnight from a dozen different study rooms and libraries and cafes all over the city. He held your hand while you finally submitted your slate of applications, and took you out to dinner afterward to celebrate. When your acceptance letter arrived in the mail the day after your wedding, he called everyone he knew to tell them the news himself, to brag about his super-smart wife, swatting you away when you tried to stop him, your cheeks burning with embarrassment.

He knows your stomach’s been in knots over this career switch—jumping from your perfectly safe and boring finance job into a sea of unknowns, going back to school when everyone else your age seems to have left that life behind, knowing you’ll be one of the older students there—and he fucks around with you endlessly, yes, but this is his way of being there for you.

His way of letting you know that some things will change, but not this. Not him.

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Alright, go brush your teeth. You stink.”

“Piss off,” you retort, but you’re laughing.

It takes you just under an hour to get ready—brushing your teeth, taming your hair, slipping into the outfit you'd ironed last night, double- and triple-checking the contents of your bag.  By the time you finally emerge from your bedroom, Seokjin’s waiting by the kitchen, fully dressed with keys in hand.

“What do you think?” you ask, twirling in place.

“I think,” he deadpans, “we are definitely going to be late if you don’t put your shoes on in the next three seconds.”

“Seokjin—“

He cracks a smile. “You look great. You always do.” He hands you a small fabric bag. “Here.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What is this?”

“Lunch. The gimbap should keep until then, and there’s a thermos of miyeokguk in there, too. I know they’ll probably have a cafeteria there, but… you know. Just in case.”

You look up at him, speechless.

You pout. Stick out your lower lip as far as it can go, for dramatic effect. Seokjin can't help himself—he releases his hold on your hip to slot your jaw between his thumb and index finger, pushing your cheeks together. 

"Aigo,” he laughs, tugging on your lip. "Is my honey upset about something?"

"What if," you insist, your words muffled into his thumb, “I get sick."

"Then I'll bring a box of tissues." Seokjin rubs against your slightly chapped skin. Reaches down, pulling the comforter up over your shoulder. "And some yuja tea."

"But what if I get everyone else sick."

"They'll live. And we'll pin the outbreak on one of my nieces."

"You're heartless." You close your fingers around Seokjin's wrist—wrap both your hands around one of his, relishing in the consistent warmth of it, and press a soft kiss to his knuckle.  "What if the car breaks down on the way to Gwacheon."

He snorts. Pulls you in a bit tighter so your face is nestled in his chest, your cheek pressing against the warm skin there, and you think you feel his heartbeat. Slow, steady. A bit like him. "We don't have to go to my parents' for Christmas, you know."

You sigh. "I know. But—"

"We could just stay here." His voice takes on that familiar tone. Light, teasing—his favorite thing to do to you. (Well... maybe his second favorite thing.) "Eat cup ramyeon and microwaved mandu for dinner. Disappoint my mother for the third year in a row. She'll recover, I'm sure."

You bite your lip. Hold back a sigh.

He's joking, you're aware, but still—the truth of the matter is that you've never been the type of girl that parents like, the kind of girl any respectable Korean family would want their son to marry.

For starters, you’re a complete novice in the kitchen. A little too shy, a little too awkward, interests a little too niche. Not all that close to your own parents, since they'd emigrated when you were a baby and left your grandparents to raise you. Not to mention that you’re not all that good with—nor thrilled about the idea of—children. And sure, you think you're pretty enough, but sometimes the tiny flaws in your features build up enough to eat at you, keeping you up at night.

Plus, you'll be meeting his whole family. All at once, for the first time. You'd met his immediate family soon after the engagement, per custom, and his parents and brother been nice enough, if a bit distant. But it's the prospect of meeting a million cousins and aunts and uncles and great-nephews-twice-removed that has your palms sweating. Has you praying for a biblical but ultimately harmless plague in hopes of getting out of the whole thing, which—oh, god, Seokjin deserves better than this, surely? A fiancée who can't even stomach the idea of meeting the family she'll be seeing for the rest of her married life?

Will they even like you? Are you even good enough? Fuck, do you even have the right to be this happy—to marry into a loving family you don't feel that you deserve?

"I can hear you thinking."

You bury your face into the bright blue cotton of his pajamas. Take deep, even breaths. Focus. Calm down. He smells like eucalyptus, like clean laundry. Home. "Sorry. I don't want you to feel like we shouldn't—ah, shit, like you have to—I want to go. I'm just—"

Man, you hate getting emotional. Partially because you don't enjoy being fragile, yes, but mostly because of the way Seokjin's face crumples when you do.

Because he'll joke. Tease you for being a baby. He’ll make fun, but you see him—really see him.

For a fleeting moment, you can see how much he hates to see you like this. How it breaks him, just a little bit, because he thinks it some kind of duty of his to keep you safe. 

What could you possibly have done in a past life to deserve someone like him?

"Yah, these are my favorite pajamas," he squawks, but you feel his arms closing around you. The way he pulls you even closer, throwing a leg over your hip to secure you in his embrace. "Don't get your snot all over them, now."

You hiccup through a giggle, but the tears keep flowing. You just feel... overwhelmed. Not enough. A lot of things, none of which Seokjin is responsible for, so the least you could do is suck it up, right? For him? Be brave, and try to be even half of what he deserves?

"Honey," he murmurs after a while, once your shoulders have stopped shaking. He strokes your back, pressing a tender kiss to your hairline. "What is it? I mean—I know you've been nervous about meeting everyone, but I don't mind if you really don't think you can swing it this year. Everyone will understand. You can just meet everyone for the first time at the wedding. They'll be over the moon to discover that I haven't been making you up."

You exhale a laugh. "It's nothing. I'm just...."

You take a deep breath. Because it's Seokjin, the single person who knows you inside and out, so you have no reason to hesitate to share your feelings. Still... admittedly, having cried it out, you feel a little silly.

"It's nothing."

"Tell me." Not a request.

You run a tongue over your lip, debating internally. Fuck, here goes nothing. "I just don't feel like I'm enough, you know? Like... there's this idea of a perfect spouse every family has in mind for their son, and I'm... not... that."

You feel Seokjin stiffen in your arms, but press on—can't stop now, not when you've already started. "I can't cook, I'm not all that maternal, I don't think I do nearly enough for you compared to every small and big way you show your love for me. I don't know how well I'll get along with everyone, or if they'll even like me—“

Without warning, Seokjin pulls back and looks straight at you, brows pulling together. His gaze burns so intense that your stomach knots itself, palms churning out sweat—you fear you've upset him somehow, and feel your heart rate picking up. 

Kind of the way you used to feel when your grandfather would ice you out for failing to come in first in your class at school. Kind of the way you used to feel when he punished you for a lot of things, whenever you fell even the slightest bit short—anything short of absolute perfection.

You don't realize you've started spilling tears again until Seokjin starts thumbing them away, and you catch that look in his eyes again. The utter devastation, before he quickly schools it into something less heartbroken. 

“God," he breathes, still holding your face in his hands. "Have I ever—I hope I haven't made you feel—"

"No, no," you interject, panicked. "It's a me thing, trust me—"

"—because, like, I know I'm ridiculously handsome and everything, a real catch, but if I've ever said anything to make you feel like you wouldn't be enough, I swear to you, I don't think that at all—"

"Honey," you say, trying to calm him down, but he won't listen.

"And, okay, you know I hate being serious, but I'll do it for you—I love you more than anything, I'd give up Maplestory for the rest of my life if it meant I could have you. I mean, I'd really have to think about it, of course, make a pro-con list and everything—"

"—Kim Seokjin—"

"—but I would choose you a million times over, and you're really too good for me if we're being honest, like I might be drop-dead gorgeous, but that's really all I've got going for me. Well—I suppose there's my universally beloved sense of humor, too—"

You don't have a choice. You cradle his delicate face in your hands and pull him down for a kiss mid-sentence, cutting off his ramble before he can get too ahead of himself. He makes a noise and deepens the kiss, slipping a hand up the back of your sleep shirt, and you hum with delight at his touch before he pulls back, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of his full mouth. 

"Thank you," you whisper, your eyes darting between his. You sweep a tuft of fringe off of his forehead. Soak in his tender eyes, his plush lips, his reddened ears. All of him—the person you would choose a million times over, too. 

The nerves might still be eating at you, sure, but what do you have to be afraid of when Seokjin's so entirely yours. What is there to fear when you have him, and he's devoted himself endlessly to making you feel his affection. To making you feel your worth.

"No." He leans forward to kiss you between your eyebrows, the swiftest peck. "Thank you. For trying. And for being you.” 

You let your eyes flutter shut and reach for him, feeling contented, but then feel a sting—a flick of his fingernails against your forehead, right where his lips were a moment ago. "Yah!" you exclaim, indignant.

"And that," he says—all smug, holding in a laugh—"is for talking badly about my fiancée.”

At eighteen, summer's been good to you. It always has been, as far back as you remember, each summer as idyllic and sun-soaked as the last. Waking up morning after hazy morning in your Sunjoo eemo's house by the water, picking up breakfast for everyone at Martha's before lazily trudging to the shore at noon. Watching Sunjoo’s twenty-year-old son, Seokjin, and your brother Namjoon push each other into the water and pretend to know how to surf. Bringing Seokjin lunch while he was on duty at the lifeguard tower, gossiping with his younger sister on spread-out beach towels and working your way through your stack of summer reading. Taking occasional shifts at the local gelato place, taking on the Sisyphean task of sweeping up the sand on the tile.

Later, dinners on Sunjoo eemo's patio—yangnyeom chicken, rose pasta, mulnaengmyeon, grilled salmon. Bickering with Seokjin over your knifework, going quiet when he helped you bandage your accidental cuts with shaking hands. Exchanging indecipherable looks over bonfires at night. Indulging in the thrill of him sneaking you sips of his beer.

At night, falling asleep with the windows open and the distant sound of waves crashing onto the shore. Dreaming of Seokjin seeing you as something more than a family friend, as more than a little sister—dreaming of his lips on yours, summer stretching into September, or perhaps forever.

Anyway, the last sunset of the summer—Namjoon begged off to hang out with the girl he’d been eyeing for months, your shift supervisor at the gelato shop, and Saerom had long left for her college orientation, so it’s just Seokjin and you standing at the end of the pier, the ocean spreading vast and endless before you.

And he stares at you, drenched in buttercup sunlight, skin burning golden. He's dyed his hair a radioactive shade of purple after some stupid bet he made with Namjoon, but you think it makes him even more beautiful.

He looks at you quietly, like he can't help himself, and you think that you could stand here forever, made precious by his attention. When he leans over and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek, you wonder what it means. You think it feels forbidden—doomed, even. 

Still, that memory used to linger. Sand at the bottom of a beach bag, the tack of black tar stuck to your heels. It would probably fade some day, disappear from view, but it felt far easier to try to forget it than scrub it away.

—

You had to let him go, then. Didn't really have a choice. The currents swept you in opposite directions—you were set to start classes at the state university at the end of the summer, while Seokjin headed back to his own college life halfway across the country. The texts fizzled out, and life got so hectic that you never managed to return to the beach house in the summers afterward.

And… if you’re being honest with yourself, running away felt a hell of a lot easier than coming back to find that things had changed.

As a dramatic teenager—and then as a dramatic twenty-something—your default state was longing, and you wasted plenty of years doing just that. Struggling through tedious dates with other men, looking for a wicked sense of humor and smiling eyes in all of them but never quite finding them. Wishing you could go back to that summer and tell Seokjin how you really felt. Wishing life could be as simple as it was on that beach, when all that mattered was washing saltwater out of your swimsuit and sand out of your hair.

You never dreamed the tide would bring Seokjin in again, after the two of you had grown up and graduated and found work in the same city, reconnecting as old friends do—like no time had passed at all. Never dreamed that he’d show up just in time, just as you thought you were getting over him.

And you really never dreamed of being back at the beach house again, a decade after that last summer, to marry him; never could have imagined that the tender affections of your teenage years would come back to you long after you’d let them go.

But life is funny like that, you suppose. They say that no one truly forgets their first love, and you’re grateful that you’ll never need to. That yours is good, alive and well, and back to stay.

—

Nearly a decade later, Seokjin has only gotten more breathtaking, and you almost hate him for it.

At thirty, he's radiant in a way no one his age should be. No more baby fat in his cheeks, but he still smiles with childlike ease, his plush lips stretching into a dazzling grin, and he still looks sculpted, his shoulders even broader under his tux.

Worst of all, he still seems wholly unaware of just how beautiful he is. Your mother walks up to him, exclaiming aigoo, our Seokjinnie's still so handsome, and he thanks her, his ears and neck going tomato-red.

It's endearing. He's endearing, and you’re hopelessly in love with him. 

Your family and a small group of your closest friends take their seats, and Namjoon—Seokjin had somehow bullied him into being the officiant—takes his place under the arch. You’ve been nervous about the weather, but now you can see that it’s the perfect day. Cloudless, sunny, the lightest breeze, the sun-baked wood of the pier creaking beneath you.

A bit cheesy, maybe, but Seokjin insisted on marrying you here. Said this was where he’d first fallen in love with you. You’ve found he’s oddly sentimental like that, for someone who doesn’t tend to linger in the past.

He reaches out and takes your hands. Gives you a red-eared, shy smirk, and you know it’s because everyone is staring at the two of you.

“Ready?” he whispers, just for you to hear.

“Ready,” you murmur back, smiling.

You always have been.

“Hoseok-ah,” you say sweetly. Christ, your words sound like melted butter—running into each other, unintelligible even to you. “Please give me back my phone.”

“Bitch!” he scoffs. “You’ll get your phone back once you delete his fucking number.”

You let out a noise between a groan and a whine. “Please. I miss him.”

Hoseok turns triumphantly to Yoongi, parked on the other side of you and aggressively unfazed by this entire interaction—he’s heard it all before. “Ha! That’s the twentieth time. Fifty bucks. Pay up.”

“You aren't getting shit.” Yoongi turns to you. Gingerly pats your back, like you’re carrying some viral disease he’s afraid to catch. “We’ve been over this, dude. You have to start seeing other people.”

“I want to see him,” you mumble. "I had a dream about him, you know. A-asked if… I wanted to try again."

Hoseok rolls his eyes. “That’s it. You know what? I came here to have a good night. Two dollar piña coladas! And instead, I’m being forced to bear witness to your third meltdown this week.” He slams your phone down on the bar, right by your face. “Here. Have the fucking phone. Call him, see if I care. Yoongi, can you make sure she gets home alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yoongi mutters, but Hoseok doesn’t even hear him. Is already slinking away, shimmying toward the guy who’d been making eyes at him earlier. 

Yoongi sighs when you reach for the phone. Watches as you thumb over to your contacts, scrolling past the “S”s - right down to the “X”s.

X DO NOT CALL X. Right beside it, a row of skulls and crossbones. A few red flags thrown in, for good measure.

“Nice,” he snorts.

You’re too drunk to really realize—courtesy of the fucking two dollar piña coladas—but deep down, you wish someone would stop you. Wish Hoseok would take the phone again, wish Yoongi would just take you back to the apartment the three of you share and tell you to go to bed.

Because anything—you think as you slip away from the bar, Yoongi calling after you—would be better than this: waving your white flag, admitting defeat. Finally bringing yourself to hit Call, but only because it might hurt less than the alternative.

—

Seokjin should be asleep.

Instead, he’s wide awake, staring up at the ceiling and clutching a stuffed alpaca to his chest. The alpaca that you'd given him for his birthday, the one you lunged for and cuddled every time you came over. It doesn't smell like you anymore, though—has long since given up its essence of green apple body wash, the jasmine-violet perfume he'd given you last Christmas.

In fact, lots of traces of you have vanished from his apartment over the last month or so. Your hair elastics swept into his trash bin; your photos tucked into an envelope; your notes to him folded up, tossed into a spare shoebox. His pathetic, half-hearted attempts to clean you up. Pack you away, like you're simply a discarded object he can hide from view.

Maybe he'll be able to look at all of it again, someday. When it stops hurting so much: the fact that you moved on, left him behind; the fact that his texts to you have gone unanswered, his missives languishing in cyberspace.

Me [01:22]: Can we talk?

Me [02:31]: I can't sleep, I can't stop thinking about you... about us, where we left things

Me [12:01]: I have a meeting near Yongsan today. Can I see you?

Me [21:08]: Ok... I can take a hint. Let me know if you ever want to talk.

He hugs the alpaca a little tighter, feeling acutely pathetic. Gets up and moves to his chair by the window, because he's wide-awake now, and something about staring out at the city lights helps.

Once he's settled, though, his mind wanders.

Against his will, it wonders what you're up to. If you've eaten, because you forget sometimes, especially when work gets busy. He used to make you dosirak on those days: gyeranmari, eomuk bokkeum, kimchi bokkeumbap.

If you've gone out, like every other twenty-something in this city on a Friday night. He used to remind you to take your hangover drink before heading out. Used to make sure you didn't forget your phone, wallet, keys—grew used to the way you pecked his cheek in thanks.

If someone will be there to take you home when the night ends—Yoongi, most likely, or Hoseok. Or… a stranger. He used to be the one to tuck you into a taxi after last call, to take you to bed and remove your makeup before spending the night. Used to lie a safe distance away—because you're a hot sleeper, so warm that he'd wake up drenched in sweat otherwise—but beside you nonetheless.

He's just started to drift off again, nodding off against his RJ, when his phone starts buzzing. Sends vibrations rippling through his entire body from where it sits in the pocket of his pajama pants, insistent.

Incoming Call

He jumps. Blinks. Stares at the screen, numb with shock—for too long, apparently, because as soon as your name appeared, it vanishes. 

Fuck. He taps his screen back to life, navigates over to his missed calls. No, he's not imagining it. That's your name he's reading. In red print—like a warning.

He taps it without thinking, watching as the screen goes dark for the outgoing call. 

—

To your surprise, Yoongi doesn’t follow you out of the bar. 

Which means no one is there to stop you when your phone starts ringing, over and over and over, right there on the startlingly quiet sidewalk just outside of the dive bar. 

X DO NOT CALL X.

But he’s the one who called, so… you pick up.

“Hello?” you answer, voice shaking.

You hear a sharp intake of breath on the other end, then—“Y/N.”

"Seokjin," you whisper, soft. 

"What—um. Did you call?"

It's crazy, the way his voice—strident and indignant with others, softened and honeyed with you—sends tears pricking at your waterline, almost instantly. You’re glad Hoseok and Yoongi aren’t here—that no one’s here, no one’s stopping you.

Because the second you hear his voice, it feels like home. 

“Yeah, I did.” You wipe the tears that have trickled down your cheek, collected below your nose. “I miss you, Seokjin. Can… can you come find me?”

“… Okay? I finally grew the balls to say the one thing I’ve been holding in for years, and all you have to say is okay? Jesus.”

God, you’re so dramatic. Relax. I just—I need to think for a second.

“What is there to think about? You either… you either love me back, or you don’t.”

Yah, I envy you. I really do. Only you could think emotions are that simple.

“… Did you just insult me? I feel vaguely insulted.”

As you should.

[ a brief pause ]

“… Are you done thinking yet?”

I don’t know. Could you just shut up for one second? Do you like the sound of your own voice that much? 

“Aish, forget it. I take it back. I don’t love you at all. You’re impossible, do you know that?”

… Okay.

“Again with the okay. I swear, if I’d known you’d be this difficult, I never would have let you take the seat next to me at orientation. I would have said sorry, I don’t feel like being relentlessly picked on and bullied for the next decade—“

Hey, if you shut up for long enough, you might be able to hear it when I tell you that I love you back.

“… Um, okay.”

[ mimicking ] “There you go again with the okay, I swear…”

“Shut up. Do you? ... Really?”

… Yes, obviously. Of course I do. It’s always been you. I’m just… scared.

[ a longer pause ] 

“Scared of what? What is there to be scared of? My pure and innocent visuals? Are you scared of how good-looking I am, is that it?” 

You know what? Forget it. I liked it better before you told me you loved me. I think you were about twenty percent less annoying before.

“… Wait. Okay.” [ exhale ] “Sorry. Talk to me. What is it?”

... I never want to lose you. Like, what if we get together and it’s great, and then one day… we don’t love each other anymore? I know we fuck around a lot, but… I actually don’t think I could take it if I lost you. [ a pause ] God, this is so weird. I can’t remember the last time I was serious with you. I think you actually might be allergic to seriousness. We’re allergic to seriousness.

“I know. It’s one of my favorite things about you.” [ a pause ] “You won’t lose me, you know.”

You can’t know that.

“Yeah. I also don’t know if I’ll wake up tomorrow, if I’ll get hit by a car on my way home tonight, or if the world will end in two minutes. But… that’s what life is, right? Taking chances? Saying fuck you to the what ifs?”

God, why would you even joke about getting hit by a car? That’s so awful. Really? Have you ever heard of manif—

“Hey, hey, hey.”

… Sorry. Just used to yelling at you, I guess.

“Can I ask you one thing?”

Sure.

“Could you just… take a leap of faith? Just believe that things will work out?”

[ a pause ] Huh. I’ve never done that before.

“I know. You’re always too busy having a coronary over everything. Like when you woke up two minutes late for work and you were convinced you’d be fired?”

I don’t know how you deal with me.

[ laugh ] “… I never have to deal with you, you know. It’s never a chore for me. I… I love you. All the time. Including. Despite. And yet.”

What movie did you rip that from?

“I can’t remember. Also, you’re so rude.”

[ laugh ] That’s what you love about me.

[ laugh ] “So… you think you can do it? Give it a try? Give us a try?”

Well, we already got this far. Would be kind of stupid to throw it all out now.

“Yah. You’re really never getting rid of me. No matter how hard you try.”

… If you ever actually get hit by a car, I’ll kill you.

“… Wouldn’t I already be dead?”

I’ll dig you up with my bare hands just to kill you again.

“That’s my girl.”

And tonight, when Jimin walked out of his room to catch you mid-cuddle during a movie yet again, he found it hard to keep himself together anymore, raising an eyebrow as he remarked how cute Seokjin looked with his girlfriend.

“He’s not my boyfriend, you moron!” you declared as you threw a pillow at his face. Seokjin tensed beside you, and you didn’t miss it as you watched Jimin groan and walk towards the bathroom grumpily.

Seokjin had had enough of these never-ending games. There was no way he’d wanted to hear this one sentence come out of your pretty mouth again. Gathering all his courage, he pulled you closer against his chest as he whispered, “why can’t I be? What if I want to be your boyfriend?”

His grip on you tightened and you looked over your shoulder to stare at him; his gaze was hard to decode - you couldn’t tell whether he was joking or not.

“Do you really?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he smiled, his eyes wandering to your lips as he came closer, his hands brushing over your arm, your mouths just inches away.