#ncseokjin

@ncseokjin​

november, 2044.

there he is, pants pooled at his feet, head knocked back and mouth drooping wide open, knocked out from all the drugs he’s been doing. he’s got such a sad, sad look on his face, and hasn’t budged in the last half hour that bogum’s been watching from the next stall over. the voices from the adjacent building clamor together, crescendoing and swelling; bogum conjures the scene despite the distance that separates them: bodies crowding and shoving as they put down their wagers, a medley of dirt and sweat and the undulating scent of aftershave.

bogum peers over the ledge and reaches into his jacket. the pipe to the heating in the bathroom is broken—loose screw or busted pipe, the temperature settings have degenerated to a kind of arctic cold that leaves him with no choice but to rub his gloved hands together in some kind of belabored attempt to steady them for the inevitable. it’ll be over soon enough, buddy; the journey to god looks a little like antimony and lead.

he jumps over.

—

“hyung,” bogum’s hand lands comfortably on seokjin’s shoulder as he pulls out a chair at the table. he shakes his hand at the expectant dealer from across the way as he begins to disperse the next hand, no thanks. he turns back to his friend and, now comfortably seated, prods a single finger at seokjin’s lower left cheek; he indulges in the way the tender skin gives into the pressure. baby cheeks at twenty-four.