A Map of Mrs. Kims | KSJ, KNJ, KTH | North: 01
🧭 Fic Masterpost and Schedule 🧭
Pairings: Jin x female OC, Namjoon x female OC, Taehyung x female OC
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 10k | read on ao3
Synopsis: Mrs. Kim is tired of being accosted in the grocery store, at her art class, and even in the country club restroom about her three incredibly gorgeous but stubbornly single sons. So many women are vying for a spot on Jin, Namjoon, and Taehyung’s arms, but these three boys are dead set against settling down. Hopefully, Mrs. Kim’s trusty map of the city’s fourteen top bachelorettes will finally guide them to true love.
Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Kim line as brothers, slice of life, enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers, friends to lovers, unrequited love, fluff, angst, smut
Author’s Note: This is my love letter to our funny, sweet, and heartwarming ARMY, and it is particularly dedicated to all of you who have been so kind and generous with your time, your laughs, your feels, and your own beautiful stories. Can you believe we’ve been building the AMOMK world together for nearly 8 months?! It has been a hilarious, wonderful, and meaningful ride, and as always, I hope you enjoy where we end up! If this is your first foray into the AMOMK world, you can read the original ask that prompted the idea, check out the asks and snippets that have followed, and follow #amomk to check out all the still-ongoing asks / snippets / drabbles!
Taglist: @acertifiedhoe @awinkies @babycoffeefire @btsarmy9593 @btseditsworld @dearbambideer @downbad4yoongi @dreamamubarak @dvalitaes @elyte @emmmui @greezenini @helenazbmrskai @imaginativedreams @jkkit @lynnlovesloki @m-yg93 @miscelunaaa @missbickerbocker @morti13 @purpleheartsfortae @purpuravm @raplinesmoon-main @reliablemittenmain @rurugoeson @skyys-universe @somewhereofftheglobe @sunnietee @takaiko @yuugehn @effielumiere
NORTH
Chapter 01
Jin is sure about two out of three things.
The first is that the minute she sees him, his mother will scold him for the crease in the back of his pants, crumpled by the uneven grooves in the metal, too-small bleachers.
The second is that the six women sitting just to the side are trying their best not to ogle.
They’re failing.
The bravest of the pack clears her throat to calm the giggling. She gives her girls a glance before sliding a little closer to Jin.
“You here for the Sunday tutoring sessions?” she asks, tossing her hair in the slight breeze and revealing her neck.
It’s a pretty neck. Long, and slender. Certainly kissable. Definitely suckable. Especially by Jin’s plump lips. But the sound of the woman’s tongue hastily licking her own lips makes Jin get the urge to hide said lips and crinkle his nose instead. He’d rather keep the scold-inducing wrinkles to a minimum, so he keeps his eyes on the sky quickly turning orange. Not wanting to be rude, he offers a quick, neutral nod.
The group of women starts to whisper.
And their leader’s eyes widen. “Wait, really?”
Tilting his head a little, Jin answers. Curt, but polite. “Yes.”
Jaw unhinging, the woman unleashes the collective’s words. “We didn’t think you— You don’t really seem like—”
Utterly flabbergasted by the response, the woman allows her body to be pulled forward until she’s hunched over, attempting to stretch around Jin’s immaculate profile to land dead center in his field of vision, tongue still working in an attempt to keep her drool at bay.
“Uh, you just look… different,” the woman finally explains, with a giggle that echoes the others’.
Jin is a handsome man. He’s also a numbers man. It’s the combination of those two identities that tells him that the women are now extrapolating data. Data like the cloth of his suit, which was worn to the office on what others usually take as a guaranteed day off. Data like the make of his luxury car parked in the lot a few yards away. Data like the flawlessness of his hair, eyes, lips, and skin. After triangulating all this data, they can’t help but wonder: why is a person like him in this neighborhood, much less waiting in the bleachers of a dilapidated baseball field of an old, rundown, public school?
“Different how?” he asks playfully. He knows it’s better not to engage. That he could end up in yet another risky situation. But Jin is still unsure of the third thing, which is whatever the hell is taking Namjoon so long. Faced with anywhere from seconds to hours, Jin supposes that a little stroking of the ego can’t be an unforgivable waste of time.
“Well, first off, I’ve only seen faces like yours on movie screens,” the woman replies, leading the rest of the group in another symphony of snickers.
“You’re too kind,” comes out of Jin’s mouth. But as he finally looks their way, the glimmer that his eyes shine on his rapt audience signals to them that he knows as much as they do that the woman’s words are more fact than opinion.
One woman, in direct line of sight, audibly gasps.
“Tell us more about you,” the first woman pleads.
Another woman smiles as shyly as her tentative giggle bounces toward Jin. “We’ve just been so curious about you since you sat down.”
He watches as the rest of the women crouch together, resting their chins in their hands. He could almost scoff at all the wedding rings on full display. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything!” the woman replies quickly.
Someone behind her mutters, “Everything!”, which is quickly buried by laughs.
With the breeze shifting, the woman’s hair lands around her shoulders again. She tucks some of the locks behind her ear, as if to make sure she’s able to receive the information she’s about to ask for. “Your name, for starters?”
His lips curl into a soothing smile. “Kim Seokjin.”
“And what do you do, Mr. Kim Seokjin?” This woman has the benefit of illusory brazenness now that the others have knocked the first door down. “Something as sexy as that face?”
Jin shrugs. “Depends on how sexy you think this face really is.”
One of the women actually grunts.
“Your wife just lets you roam free like this?” the first woman asks.
“Oh, I’m single,” Jin replies. “Never married.”
He’s pretty sure they’ve all borne children, so he isn’t exactly sure why the groan is so dramatically pained.
A burst of distant laughter momentarily takes everyone’s attention, and when Namjoon comes into view, herding a group of ten or so students from the school over to the pick-up queue by the baseball field, Jin stands and brushes away the bits of baseball diamond dust that have settled in his pant creases.
“Well, ladies, it’s been fun.”
More questions buzz around him like gnats. Does he have kids at the school? How many? Would he know their kids? Are their kids in the same grade, or better yet, the same classes? How come they’ve never seen him before? Will they see him again next Sunday? Will they ever see him again?
As Jin walks toward Namjoon, Jin smooths his hands over his bottom to wipe any remaining bleacher dust away.
And once Jin and Namjoon meet on the curb next to the start of the pick-up queue, Namjoon’s knowing chuckle confirms that the sound that the women made at the sight of Jin’s bottom, was, in fact, a wolf pack of howls, followed by more busily whispered assumptions. Of course. How could they not see it before? Kind, intelligent, middle school teacher Kim Namjoon is the only other man they’ve seen around here who looks like he should be on a movie screen instead.
Jin’s eyes fall to the middle seventh-grader at Namjoon’s side. The kid’s left laces are untied. An apt metaphor for his entire appearance, which is generally well put-together, with minor telling quirks. Messy hair. Baggy uniform. Backpack straps set at their longest slack, his books and other belongings too heavy and hanging too low, causing the kid to hunch forward to balance the weight. And that scowl. Worthy of a mother’s scolding. Jin would know.
“Who’s this uggo?” the kid demands.
After being hoisted so high into the air by all those compliments just a moment ago, Jin finds the thud with which his resulting frown lands on the dirty earth to be particularly disheartening.
“My brother,” Namjoon answers, with a somewhat amused smile.
“Thought you looked related,” the kid cracks.
Namjoon sighs as he absorbs the jab.
But Jin tightens. The kid’s audacity pries his eyes open wider. “Whoa. Dude. Can we ease up a little?”
The kid grins, eyes thinning into upside down U-shapes. “Bite me,” he responds, teeth bared and flashing.
“Lee,” Namjoon begins, seriously but gently, “I know you hate these Sunday sessions, but your father—”
“He can bite me, too. Fucking prick.”
Jin presses his lips together, finding it hard to stifle the oncoming laughter.
Namjoon sighs again. “Watch your mouth, Lee. Would you rather have detention?”
“Honestly, yes,” Lee replies, grabbing his backpack straps and looking up at Namjoon, “because then I wouldn’t have all this stupid crap to do all weekend and then wake up early for school the next morning.”
“I wish you’d seriously consider joining the debate team,” Namjoon goes on, raising his eyebrows. “You’re a good tutor.”
Lee rolls his eyes and folds his arms. “Whatever.”
“No, really.” Namjoon grins. “And you’ve been a really good practice opponent for us, highlighting key holes in arguments and finding quite elegant solutions to—”
“I see my fucking prick of a father pulling into the lot,” Lee interrupts.
His eyes follow a nondescript sedan swerving into the entrance and driving impatiently into empty parking spaces off to the side rather than safely joining the queue.
Lee looks back at Namjoon and Jin. His appearance might’ve been telling, but his actions speak louder. He at least bows slightly and mumbles a “bye” before jogging toward the car.
“So that’s the kid,” Jin remarks.
Namjoon nods. He narrows his eyes and peers through the windshield, trying to get a sense of what Lee’s father is like. Does he slump in his seat? Is his voice as sharp? Are his eyes as cold as Lee’s guarded scowl might indicate? But the car peels off, the roar of the engine ending in the squeals of the tire, which bleed into the giggles that come from behind.
Jin glances back to the women in the bleachers. Some of them have left, but more than a few linger and continue to ogle.
He gestures toward them with his thumb and looks over at Namjoon. “It’s really like this every day?”
When Namjoon sheepishly raises his eyebrows, sharing one half of a dimpled grin and one half of a lazy shrug, Jin rolls his eyes and clasps Namjoon on his raised shoulder. A gentle squeeze, a playful jostle, and Namjoon rocks back and forth on his heels a little.
“How do you stand it?!” Jin exclaims. As Namjoon laughs and rebalances, Jin adds, “Any longer and those bleacher vultures would have picked me off!”
“It’s why I never walk out here alone. Without Lee, I would have been completely defenseless. And without you, I would have been stuck.” Namjoon pats his brother’s resting hand. “Thanks again for picking me up. I should’ve gotten my car battery checked.”
“Like I said last weekend?”
“Yes, hyung, like you said last weekend.”
Namjoon gives a wave to the last of his students, the parents in the pick-up queue, and the rabid fanbase in the bleachers before turning and swinging an arm around Jin’s broad shoulders. They make their way over to Jin’s car. Their backs shield them from all the continued enamored screeches.
“The app, Joon,” Jin says, pointing a finger at him. “I can see when your car throws a trouble code. You had ample warning.”
“You look like Eomma when you do that,” Namjoon observes coolly, reaching for the passenger door handle, and, upon taking his seat, reveling in his expert ability to get Jin to shut up.
Jin’s car looks fancy because it is. It’s also strangely unfamiliar. A brand unknown to people not in the loop. The sportiest design. The softest leather. The smartest tech. More spaceship than car. Namjoon feels as if he merely has to think of Taehyung, and the dashboard is already video calling their youngest brother. But, admittedly, Namjoon isn’t sure if that’s the norm now. His loyal hatchback has served him extremely well over the decades.
“You really should get a new car,” Jin replies, pulling them out of the school’s parking lot and onto the main road. “It’s risky to keep anything older than ten years, nowadays. And if it’s a financing thing, then I can—”
“Your help will be much appreciated,” Namjoon says calmly, and decidedly, “when I ask for it. The tow was covered by insurance, and the shop says everything is fixable.”
Jin rolls his eyes just as Taehyung’s sleepy face pops up on the center of the dash. Taehyung’s smart screened speaker captures him from its place on his nightstand, broadcasting his sleepy body, sky blue hair curled up in his cloud white comforter.
“Taehyungie?” Jin asks gently.
Taehyung’s hand dreamily, if not clumsily, pulls away from the screen after having accepted the call, that same arm swinging over to the other side of the bed as he rolls over, facing away.
“Tae!” Jin bellows.
But Taehyung just burrows deeper into his blankets. “Mm?”
Namjoon smirks, but his voice is soft when he speaks. “Tae-Tae? Are you just now waking up?”
“…Mm?”
“Tae, we’re going to be at your place in half an hour,” Namjoon informs him.
After a stubborn pause that Jin and Namjoon know by now to wait through, Taehyung sighs and rolls back over to face his tiny elder brothers on the screen. He blinks a couple of times, nose scrunching and bunching as his nostrils flare to make room for a couple of deep, thirsty inhales. He sits up a little and pulls his pajama-sleeved arm out from under his pillow to check his watch. Having shifted during sleep, its face rests against Taehyung’s bony wrist. He presses the leather strap against his cheek as he sinks back down onto his pillow, rotating his wrist so that the face of his watch moves back into its proper place. As he struggles to pry his eyes fully open, he pulls down his jaw, corners tight.
“Weren’t you supposed to get me an hour ago?” Taehyung mumbles.
“Sorry we kept you waiting,” Jin remarks with a scoff. “Clearly we’ve inconvenienced you so.”
Taehyung narrows his eyes. “You have.”
“Which is why I said clearly,” Jin remarks.
“You don’t know my life,” Taehyung grumbles. “You don’t know how if I had a long shoot last night, or if I’ve even eaten today, or—”
“Car,” Jin says suddenly, “read Kim Taehyung’s posts from this weekend.”
Namjoon jumps at the surrounding sound of a friendly chime, and cowers a little in his seat as a friendly voice says, “Alright. Reading recent posts by KIM. TAEHYUNG.”
3:06 AM, today: Is there anything better than a post-fuck 20-Taco Takeout Box from Taco Town? The answer is no, except maybe the fuck.
12:15 AM, today: I don’t know who you are or where you went, but you gave me a gigantic boner. If you see this, slide into my DMs like your tongue slid into my throat. #whatelsethatmouthdo
10:49 PM, today: Alright y’all, just got to the club. Who wants to make out??
9:32 PM: What’s everyone up to tonight? Trying to decide between going out and reading some stupid book my hyung gave me.
Namjoon frowns. “I ordered The History of the Photographic Lens months ago. I thought you’d actually enjoy it. Y'know. Given what you do.”
“How do you know those posts were really me?” Taehyung dares.
“You still have cheddar cheese stuck to your cheek!” Jin exclaims.
Taehyung rubs his face into his sheets, but the cheddar cheese shard stays put.
Namjoon sighs. “Tae, just go shower and change. And bring one of your cameras. Maybe some lights. Eomma asked for them for tonight.”
Throwing the comforter off of himself and suddenly sitting up, Taehyung yawns and scratches his back. And his sides. And his stomach.
And then he scampers off the bed while still on the video call.
Completely naked from the waist down.
“Need you to sign.”
The delivery man holds out his barely-together clipboard.
Mr. Kim curls his finger around the dangling chain attached to the clipboard to retrieve the small, hanging pen. He gives a little sigh, scribbling his signature before receiving three, small, white parcels, tied together with a bit of white string. He notices something on the sticker on top of the first box, but the delivery man is already by his truck.
As Mr. Kim leaves the foyer, he smiles to himself, mentally patting himself on the back at the sound of the soft air leaking out of the hydraulic door closer as it slowly, gently shuts.
Mrs. Kim chuckles when he joins her in the kitchen and beams a dreamy smile at her.
“You and that door,” she mumbles with a fond grin.
Mr. Kim whistles. “It’s a real beaut,” he sighs.
“Never mind that it took you fourteen tries,” Mrs. Kim jokes.
Mr. Kim can’t hear her. “Like marshmallows landing on the ground,” he revels. He looks at Mrs. Kim and beams with pride. “Like your head hitting the pillow at night.”
Mrs. Kim snorts. “My handyman.”
“And, apparently, your secretary,” Mr. Kim replies, presenting her with the three white boxes.
Mrs. Kim sets a wooden spoon down, puts a lid on a pot, and wipes her hands on her apron.
A bright smile. The lightest giggle. The sound of a shiver through her body. Mr. Kim can only laugh when Mrs. Kim excitedly squeals, “Oooh! They’re here!”
She rounds the kitchen island, scooping up the boxes and bringing them farther away from the stove. She finds a clear spot on the counter and parks there for her inspection.
After untying the white string, she uncovers them, then thumbs through them, picking a candidate from somewhere in the middle of the second box. After looking it over, she picks the front card in the first box, and the last card in the last box. She holds them up to the light. Waves them in the air. Turns them over, and then back over again. Even sniffs them. Gladly, everything is up to snuff.
Three perfect stacks of the perfect business cards to use for her three perfect sons.
Mr. Kim hovers behind her, intrigued.
Moving her shoulder into his line of sight, Mrs. Kim asks, “Aw. Yeobo. What three words do I always tell you?”
“‘I love you’?”
“No.” She looks up at him. “‘Mind your business’.”
Mrs. Kim boxes the cards back up and pushes them to the back of the kitchen counter, next to the one remaining landline phone in the house.
Mr. Kim stays on her slender heels, which peek out from sensible, well-worn, muted rose, furry house slippers, the still-intact rubber soles of which are clop-clop-clop-ing back toward the stove.
“I just… well…”
“What?” Mrs. Kim asks, picking up the wooden spoon and stirring the nearly-there stew for what should be the last time. “You gonna lecture me again?”
“No,” Mr. Kim admits. “I just… well… don’t I get business cards too? I mean…” He smirks. “I did help make the boys.”
“Well, no one is accosting you at the club!” Mrs. Kim exclaims. She tastes her stew and frowns. “Damn.”
“I want business cards, too!” Mr. Kim pouts, bringing her back to the conversation.
A chorus of familiar voices break through Mr. and Mrs. Kim’s playful squabbling.
“Ma?”
"Maaaaa!"
Mr. and Mrs. Kim brighten at the sweet sound of Taehyung’s greeting and the teasing, echoing sounds of Namjoon and Jin.
“Boys?” Mr. Kim calls back.
From the lack of the sound of the door slamming, Mr. and Mrs. Kim assume their boys have just come in through the door and are still taking off their shoes. Mr. and Mrs. Kim smile happily at each other, walking over to the front hall.
They’re met with a flurry of kisses and hugs from their three sons, everyone’s bodies and limbs somehow knowing to dodge Mrs. Kim’s stew-covered spoon and comfortably settling into familiar pockets of space that feel just as much as home as this warm, lived-in, beautiful house.
“Was there lots of traffic?” Mr. Kim asks, clasping the shoulder pad in Jin’s suit.
“No, the roads were pretty empty,” Jin replies.
“It’s my fault,” Namjoon replies. “I got held up.”
“Taehyung also needed a minute or two,” Jin adds, causing Taehyung to narrow his eyes and frown.
“You boys didn’t even give your hyung a chance to change out of his work clothes,” Mrs. Kim chides, looking over at Jin.
“I’ll just pull something from my closet later,” Jin says, following his brothers into the living room to relax a little before dinner.
“Before you sit down, do you mind if you drive me to the store, really quick?” Mrs. Kim asks, following them. “I think I need to add more onions and peppers to the stew. It tastes a little bland.”
She offers Jin a lick of the stew from her spoon, and Jin nods, out of agreement with his mother’s assessment, as well as obedience to his mother’s request.
“Thanks, Seokjinnie."
Mrs. Kim looks at all three of her sons, standing there in the front hall. Eldest, charming Seokjin, so dependable that he works on his days off, and still so handsome in his well-tailored but slightly creased suit that she will scold him about later. Middle, charismatic Namjoon, a sight for sore eyes even if the lines of the nose pads of his glasses have dug into his skin a bit after kindly dedicating his time off to teach. Youngest runt Taehyung, so sweet, even with that ever-present cheeky smile connecting his fluffed up cheeks.
“Actually…”
Mrs. Kim’s contemplative pause causes the boys to turn and watch her with slight worry.
“Can all three of you come to the store with me?” Mrs. Kim asks. She turns to her husband, who perks up when her eyes land on him. “And can you just keep an eye on the stew while we’re out?”
“Really?” Mr. Kim says, judging, and cryptically, while cocking an eyebrow.
“Yeobo, don’t start,” Mrs. Kim warns, shaking her spoon at him as she heads back into the kitchen. “Let me just check the stew and set down my apron.”
Mr. Kim looks over at the boys, who look a little more worried, and now, confused.
He just sighs before following her into the kitchen.
And then, he returns almost as quickly as he disappeared, bringing with him a small, white box.
“Bring this with you,” Mr. Kim tells them, handing the box to Namjoon. “Be extra careful out there.” A weary look sets upon his face. “Godspeed, boys.”
The Kim brothers exchange glances, wondering whatever in the world would prompt extra speed and care for a simple trip to the store.
“This is getting ridiculous,” Jin mutters, as he leads the way.
He feels his mother grasp the back of his jacket, crumpling the fabric in her tiny fist.
“Eomma,” he complains. “My suit.”
“Oh hush,” Mrs. Kim hisses. “I can see the creases behind your knees. And is that sand between the folds?”
Jin gives a glance back at Taehyung and Namjoon, who smirk at their hyung from their places on either side of Mrs. Kim, the perfect V-formation that she has needed seemingly now more than ever.
Spring brings with it all sorts of life, all of it evident in the local grocery store: gorgeous flower arrangements on display at the front of the store; a new bundle of crops showcased in the produce section; and a cavalcade of young women in attire much too dressed-up for a quick errand, all of them flinging themselves (or being flung by their mothers) to the front of the Kims’ V-formation, on the off-chance that three lucky winners will make a strong enough impression to be chosen by the three most eligible bachelors for miles.
Tiny Mrs. Kim’s feet can’t keep up with her giant sons’ long and powerful strides, but she’ll gladly take ping-ponging within that V-formation over what usually happens. Without her boys here, Mrs. Kim would be blocked for hours in the check-out line, being inundated with questions about her sons.
Namjoon kindly wraps his arm around his mother’s shoulders and holds her elbow to keep her safe. She smiles at him in thanks. And then, she turns to a blankly staring Taehyung.
“Stand up straight,” Mrs. Kim whispers. “Are you passing out the cards?”
“Uh—”
Taehyung’s hands are firmly grasping the box, but he doesn’t need to do more than that. Streams of young women continue to rush past him and pick up business cards on their own, running back to their mothers and excitedly whispering about getting to see the boys in person.
“How do they always know when we’ll be here?” Namjoon asks, scanning the store. “Up until a few minutes ago, we didn’t even know we’d be here.” He can’t fully take in the scene around them. There are so many women, but they all wear the same uniform. Shiny, styled hair. Floral dresses. Red lips screaming against too-white teeth. “People, like, got ready?”
“I swear it’s like they can smell us coming,” Mrs. Kim grumbles.
“Maybe we don’t need more onions and peppers in the stew, then,” Jin jokes.
Mrs. Kim stops abruptly, her clear bags of onions and peppers swinging forward and bumping into Jin’s back, and then swinging back and bumping into her stomach. “Ooh. That reminds me. I need scented candles. I also fried some fish to go with the stew.”
Taehyung groans, Namjoon takes a deep breath, and Jin clears his throat insistently as he tries to maneuver their V-formation through the crazy crowd and back to the home goods aisles of the store.
They flatten into a straight line and step behind to allow Mrs. Kim to see what scented candles are available. She revels in the ability to shop uninterrupted. That her tall sons can pick the candles from the highest shelves when she requests. That she can ask them for their opinions, dismiss them, and then consider them again.
“You’re right, that one,” she says, after a little while. “The cinnamon apple. It’s the strongest.”
Jin steps forward and pulls the red candle from the shelf. “I told you.”
As Mrs. Kim lifts the lid of the candle and smells it for the eighth or ninth time, Jin looks around at the scene again. More of the same.
And then, something not same. But still familiar.
A face. One that he hasn’t seen in a long while.
It’s attached to a form at the other end of the aisle, almost shapeless in her hoodie and sweatpants, holding two cans of air freshener. She shakes one and sprays it. She takes in the scent, but she looks unimpressed. She shakes the other and sprays it, and immediately, she gags, sticking her tongue out and slamming the can back onto the shelf.
Jin chuckles. “Hey… Is that…?”
Mrs. Kim follows Jin’s gaze. Upon landing on an unkempt appearance and angry demeanor, Mrs. Kim tightens, and straightens, causing Namjoon and Taehyung to close their distance around her, just in case. “Don’t make eye contact,” Mrs. Kim instructs. “She’s a black circle.”
Jin turns back to her. “A—” He furrows his brow. “A what now?” he asks quizzically.
Mrs. Kim grabs the back of Jin’s suit again. “C’mon.” She gives the fabric a strong tug. “I thought of more stuff that we need. Back to the produce aisle. Lettuce. Tomatoes. Salad dressing.”
The Kim V-formation winds through more aisles. The Kim boys’ three pairs of arms pick up more items, and their devastating faces leave more destruction in their wake. Soon, Mrs. Kim is carefully checking off boxes in her mind as she watches the 24-pack of paper towels, the 12-count of toilet paper, three bottles of wine, a new peony arrangement for the kitchen table centerpiece, Taehyung’s requested snacks, the cinnamon apple candle, and the onions, peppers, lettuce, tomatoes, and salad dressing travel one-by-one across the cashier’s conveyor belt.
As Mrs. Kim moves to pull her credit card from her purse, Jin holds up a hand and swipes his card instead, earning a happy smile and loving pat on the back from his mother.
And while her sons scamper to the parked car in the distance, all the groceries in tow, Mrs. Kim waits in the shade by the front of the store, watching intently to make sure they aren’t hit by any careless drivers or rogue shopping carts.
Someone’s cart rattles next to her, and she turns to find a woman whom she’s seen around town. Mrs. Kim thinks that maybe she even taught one of her kids. Maybe that student is the pretty girl standing next to this woman, on the other side of the cart, gripping the handle to make sure it doesn’t veer off.
“Hi, um, excuse me,” the inquisitive mother replies, “are those your sons who are lugging your groceries to your car? Because I—”
Mrs. Kim rolls her eyes and looks down at her white box of business cards. She hastily pulls one out and just holds it in front of the inquisitive mother’s face.
“Ah,” the inquisitive mother replies, grinning. “You clearly get this question all the time, then, but, uh, well, I’d love it if my daughter here could introduce her—”
Mrs. Kim flips the card over in one smooth movement of her fingers.
The inquisitive mother blinks at the card before looking back at Mrs. Kim and taking the card from her.
“Thank you,” she says reverently, patting her daughter on the back and quickly heading to their car.
Mrs. Kim smiles after them, and as she looks down at her precious, genius business cards. The flowers that she had hand-painted. The pristine calligraphy.
“Bongseon, look how far you’ve come,” she whispers proudly to herself, as Jin’s spaceship of a car pulls up to the store’s entrance.
The kitchen isn’t exactly small, but with all five of the now-grown Kims crammed inside, along with Taehyung’s camera, stand, and several lights, the room is starting to feel a little tight.
“A photo shoot?!”
Jin frowns.
“We bought all of these groceries for a photo shoot?!” he continues, folding his arms as he watches an energetic Taehyung and a grimacing, bowl-handling Namjoon getting into position as instructed by a very determined Mrs. Kim.
“We’re eating the salad with dinner,” she says seriously.
Taehyung rummages through a nearby drawer. “I want a prop, too!” he whines, fingers causing chaos. “I look more natural in photos when I have something to work with.”
Jin crosses the kitchen, striding over to the drawer that Taehyung is digging into. “You’re messing up Eomma's system! Big to small, from left to right!”
“I want this!” Taehyung rings out, holding up a whisk.
“Does that even go with the theme?” Jin asks. He sorts the ladles from the spatulas from the skimmer spoons and the rest. “Namjoon’s holding up a salad bowl. Maybe salad tongs instead?”
They turn to see Namjoon plucking a tomato from the salad, eliciting a frustrated yelp from Mrs. Kim.
“I want this!” Taehyung insists, lifting the whisk higher in the air. “There can be a little suspension of disbelief with the theme. You’re not wearing pajamas.”
Jin winces, remembering the sight of Taehyung just hours ago. “You were only wearing half of them a little while ago.”
Taehyung smiles proudly. “Needed to air some things out.”
“Ugh.”
“What’s the trouble back there?” Mrs. Kim demands, turning her attention to Jin and Taehyung, as wide-eyed, hungry Namjoon sneaks another tomato while out of her gaze.
“Tae-Tae wants to hold a whisk,” Jin responds, “but we’re not holding anything that would require one?”
“Whip something up, then,” Mrs. Kim says, bringing Taehyung’s camera’s viewfinder up to her eye. Her eyelashes graze the small square as she blinks and focuses her vision. “Namjoonie, tilt the bowl up a bit? Maybe give me a little bit of a flirty wink, like, ooh, what do I have here, a nutritious salad that I’ve made for you from scratch?”
Namjoon does as told, and Mrs. Kim does her best to suppress her delighted giggles as she snaps the shot.
“Perfect!” she squeals. She confirms her assessment by pulling the camera away and checking the test shot in the camera’s screen. “Ah, I wanna shoot you at a different angle! Let me fix the tripod. You all look at me over here, off to the side, and we’ll do more candid types of shots. Ugh, Namjoonie, your dimples are too cute!”
Beside her is a grinning Mr. Kim, holding up one of Taehyung’s ring lights. “They are cute, aren’t they?” Mr. Kim chimes in.
Mrs. Kim whirls around and laughs at the originals of those dimples, dotting her sweet husband’s cheeks. She kisses them for good measure, and the ring light slips a little in Mr. Kim’s grip.
Taehyung blinks in the shine. “Ugh, Eomma, Appa, gross.”
“This is so fun!” Mrs. Kim exclaims, turning back to the boys, as Mr. Kim plants another kiss on her temple.
“What is this even for?” Jin asks, spooning some crème fraîche into a clear bowl.
“It’s just been so long since I’ve gotten to take your pictures,” Mrs. Kim replies innocently.
She stands on her kitchen step stool and angles the camera for peak dimple capture, and then she begins to scroll through more test shots of Namjoon and Taehyung, pausing momentarily on every photo, like she might do while flipping through all of the photo albums currently lining the bookshelves in her studio.
“No more Halloween costumes. Haven’t been to a formal event in a while, and the next one isn’t for a few weeks.”
She tries another test shot, and even though it’s of Namjoon preparing to flick a leaf of lettuce at an unsuspecting Taehyung’s cheek as Jin stares off into the distance, the beaming smile on Mrs. Kim’s face shows that she is completely convinced that this is another winner of an idea. It’s the same beaming smile that outshines the boys’ smiles in her photo albums, smiles that start out in all earnest eagerness, but slowly, and over time, turn into smiles of obligation.
She pushes her lips out as she climbs down her stool.
“Maybe we should do more of these. Create more content.” Her eyes widen when her left foot joins her right on the floor. “They could even go on fliers!”
“First business cards, and now fliers?” Mr. Kim remarks. A fond smile turns the corners of his lips into comet tails attached to his dimples, soaring higher and higher up his cheeks. “I mean, I know you love a good flier, yeobo—”
“Wait, fliers?” The last scoop of crème fraîche differs from all the others because not all of it ends up in the bowl. “Content??” Jin groans, the sound echoing from the hollow marrow of his bones. “The business cards were already a step too far, but now you want us to actively get involved in this whole scheme?”
Mrs. Kim stares at him. “So what if I am?” She rolls her eyes at Jin’s pleading, defeated look. “You know what? It’s good that we’re laying this all out. I’m tried of trying to gently encourage you. Why do you think I keep asking you to go to the store with me on Sundays? Why else would I ask you to change into your pajamas and robes before dinner?”
Namjoon shrugs, still cradling the salad bowl in his left arm. “So that we’d be comfortable?” He stretches his right arm out to his side, shaking out the sleeve of his red and gray flannel robe, tugging the fabric down his arm with his ring and middle knuckles so that the long sleeve straightens and grazes against his fingernail beds. “These really are so comfy,” he says, with a warm smile.
“Where’s your robe, Seokjinnie?” Mrs. Kim demands.
Jin gives Taehyung the bowl of crème fraîche, and Taehyung happily whisks it around, smiling to himself.
“I don’t know,” Jin replies, watching Taehyung whisking, and feeling himself quickly draining of energy. “Probably back at my loft or something.”
Mrs. Kim sighs. “Well, that’s fine, just take your suit jacket off and, y'know, straighten out your shirt — plus the creases in the back of your pants,” she adds, with a scowl.
Even while huffing and puffing, and while muttering that he can’t help that he has knees, Jin does as told.
Mrs. Kim grins again. “It’s a good thing I thought of this before your roots grew out too long,” she claims proudly. “Jinnie, Joonie, blonde really does suit you. And Tae-Tae, not everyone can pull off that wonderful, subtle mint!”
Taehyung blushes and grins, lips pressed tight, cheeks like little loaves of bread on either side of his face.
“Looks more like straw to me,” Jin mumbles, as Taehyung digs his elbow into his stomach.
“Alright, Taehyungie,, stay in the middle,” Mrs. Kim orders, before the boys jostle around too much. “Namjoonie, stand on the left. No-no-no, my left. Yes, good, and Seokjinnie, on the right, angle in just sligh—yep! Nice!” She wiggles her fingers in her graying roots, squinting her eyes. “Rub your hair like this, like you—” She fake-yawns, mouth hanging open. "Ahhhh! Y'know. A little disheveled.” Mr. Kim yawns for real, eyes glazing over. “Soft faces,” Mrs. Kim continues. “Well-slept. Getting ready to start a productive and meaningful day.”
“OK, so what I’m hearing is that we just woke up, and for breakfast, we’re having salad and sour cream?” Namjoon asks, puzzled.
“It’s crème fraîche,” Jin corrects, pulling his fingers out of his now slightly wavy bangs, “but the point stands.”
As Taehyung shakes his hair out, he scoffs and exchanges a look with Mrs. Kim. “Ugh. Models, right?”
“What does it matter?” Mrs. Kim asks, using Taehyung’s camera’s remote to click-click-click-click candid shot after candid shot. She smiles and laughs along with them to try and elicit her sons’ trademark smiles. After a few rounds, she holds up a finger and walks back to her stool, climbing up to the camera on the tripod and investigating the screen. When she sees that the camera has indeed captured their less-than-thrilled expressions, Mrs. Kim adds, “Why do you all look so mopey?”
“We’re annoyed,” Jin answers.
“We’re just a little tired,” Namjoon admits.
“And we’re hungry,” Taehyung mumbles.
“Well, the faster we get this shoot done, then the sooner you’ll be able to eat, OK?” Mrs. Kim asks, raising the camera to her eye. “Now, Namjoon, give me that wink from earlier.”
Mrs. Kim can’t help but let more delighted giggles out as she snaps Namjoon’s cheeky close-lipped smiles, or as Taehyung comes fully alive with props securely in hand.
But Jin’s shots keeping coming out a little lackluster.
Mrs. Kim sighs, looking into her eldest son’s eyes. He’s made it clear that he’s annoyed. And she knows he’s hungry. But he’s never looked this tired before.
“Jin?” she asks.
Jin furrows his brow, the bridge of his nose narrowing and crinkling a little under his mother’s studious gaze. “What?”
“Get in the middle,” she says, softly.
Jin scoots in as Taehyung backs up and makes room, while Namjoon comes around the two of them.
Mrs. Kim steps off the stool and walks over to her boys. She fixes their hair a bit, fingers swiping and curling here and there.
She places a kiss on each of their cheeks.
“I just like getting to see you happy,” she tells them, before turning back to Jin and holding his chin in her thumb and forefinger. “When you’re happy, I’m happy.”
Jin’s shoulders fall a little.
Easing.
Surrendering.
Taehyung closes in and cuddles up, and Namjoon places his contemplative hand on Jin’s shoulder.
And then, Jin’s face starts its magical transformation.
His lips fall open slightly, corners pulling back just a bit, forming his perfect, polite, trademark grin. A grin full of possibilities. The kind of grin that sparks instant curiosity, that drives a nearly insatiable hunger to learn more. Like how big the grin might grow when he’s really tickled. Or how contagious it is when he’s laughing with his brothers. Or how tiny it gets when he’s so happy that he can’t make a sound at all.
So many people have wondered about this grin and all of its stories. Just today, countless others who have seen it, like the leader of the pack of moms at the school, or the women at the store grabbing business cards out of his hands, have already been wondering what could have prompted it, or the ones on his younger brothers’ faces, and if they happened to be some of the lucky ones who might’ve even inspired them somehow. Making a Kim brother smile? One could live off of that energy. One could even feed others with it.
Mrs. Kim, renewed with the energy it takes to feed the three of them, zooms back up her stool steps, bringing her boys’ gazes up with her. She quickly places her eye behind the viewfinder and snaps the picture before the grin dies altogether.
“Ah, now this shot is a winner!” she sighs, admiring the mixes of younger versions of her and Mr. Kim’s hands, eyes, and lips in the frame.
But as she pulls her eye away from the viewfinder, and she checks the shot in the camera’s screen, she wonders what exactly has happened in the time between her thumb lovingly stroking Jin’s chin and her index finger hitting the camera’s shutter release.
Jin’s eyes still look so tired.
The additional time spent simmering has actually done the stew some good. The flavors are bolder, the spices warmer. Mrs. Kim smiles to herself as she takes and savors another taste. Another job well-done. A victory lap well-earned.
She ladles half the pot into a big serving bowl, which is perched atop a serving platter. They both have matching designs: navy, wavy, funny squiggles that make her think of high tide at Namjoon’s favorite beach. Jin’s first tailored suit. Taehyung’s eyes when he’s laughing.
Mrs. Kim carefully carries the stew as she rounds the doorjamb and joins her family at the kitchen table, where her boys are quietly complaining to their father about how far off the deep end she has jumped.
“I just wish you’d settle down sooner rather than later,” Mrs. Kim tries to explain, setting the bowl of stew in the center of the table.
Jin leads the chorus of happy sighs, eyes widening as she releases the bowl and makes space for him and his brothers to dig in. Which they hastily do.
“Looks perfect, Eomma,” he grins, watching the meat swim as he ladles.
“Like always,” Namjoon adds, beaming up at her with a bit of drool on his chin.
“Finally,” Taehyung groans, spilling a bit of his serving on the table.
“Did you three hear me?” Mrs. Kim leaves the table and walks back over to the kitchen, right to the sink, grabbing her rag before heading back out to the table. “Your father and I are getting older, and I just want to make sure you’re taken care of.”
“Oh,” Jin says, “we heard you. We just chose to ignore you.”
His brothers snicker along.
“You maybe wanna rethink that response?” Mrs. Kim asks. Her words are sharp but, luckily, still sheathed.
Jin shrinks a little. He looks cute with his tail between his legs. A nice trait for a husband to have. It’s certainly helped Mr. Kim throughout the years, that’s for sure.
“Getting married isn’t our only option,” Namjoon insists.
Mrs. Kim softens and mops up Taehyung’s spill with the rag.
Namjoon watches her. The rag dances across the tabletop in soft, fluid half-circles. “We’ve been through this, Eomma. We can take care of ourselves.”
Mrs. Kim says nothing as she folds the rag in half and takes it back to the kitchen before disappearing completely.
Mr. Kim looks over from the head of the table, grateful for a moment of quiet, and grateful to finally be able to reach for the ladle now that the boys are done. He looks at the top of their heads, their mouths slurping from their chopsticks and bowls. Shaking his head, he smirks to himself.
Familiar metal clicking between slippered feet shuffling captures all the Kim men’s attention.
“Maaaaa!” Taehyung groans. “No!”
Mrs. Kim emerges from the dark of her study at the front of the hall.
“I crunched more numbers,” she replies, setting up the easel.
“Crunched?” Namjoon asks tentatively.
“More like pulverized,” Jin notices, his eyes dancing around the notes, icons, and calculations on the page.
Mrs. Kim’s map triangulates the fourteen closest bachelorettes whose mothers have called to inquire about the boys’ dance cards. Always vacant, the boys say. And yet, somehow, whenever Mrs. Kim calls with a new prospect, they’re suddenly very busy.
“Honestly, we’re gonna stop coming home every week if you keep bringing those charts out,” Jin threatens, as Namjoon and Taehyung nod along. “And even if you execute stellar APA formatting,” Namjoon says, maintaining reverence in his annoyance. “I saw those standard error bars. Nice job, Eomma.”
Mrs. Kim can’t hide her small smile. It’s impossible to do around these three. She’s heard this threat before. Several times. But they always come. Every Sunday.
“Just hear me out,” she pleads. Her finger lands next to a heart sticker on the map. “I even changed the recommendation system. Hearts now denote the best matches, with as high as 93% compatibility based on the lists you gave me!”
“The lists that you, again, tricked us into giving you,” Jin replies, noodles hanging out of the side of his mouth.
“I was just asking some questions!” Mrs. Kim exclaims, as Jin slurps them up.
As Jin’s words continue to hang in the air, Mrs. Kim relents.
“Fine, no more tricks,” she sighs, “but I know you. I know you better than you think I do. Better than you know yourselves.” She ruffles Jin’s hair, threading her fingers through his bangs to fluff them up a bit, some of his forehead peeking out. “If you just give my map a chance, a real chance, starting with these top fourteen candidates, I promise you’ll be happy with the results!”
“The only result that we’ll be fully happy about is when you finally stop all of this,” Jin says.
“Seriously, Eomma, you’re being kind of, well, forceful,” Namjoon adds gently.
Taehyung gulps down his mouthful of stew. “It’s hard to manage on top of all of the other stuff going on.”
Grumbling, and growing frantic, Mrs. Kim adds, “Look, this isn’t just about you, OK? How do you think I feel? Constantly worrying whether you’ve eaten, or whether you’re relaxed, or whether you’ve got someone who can help shoulder your burdens? Plus! I’ve got all these ol’ biddies breathing down my neck at every turn! Accosting me in the grocery store, cornering me at my art class—”
“The ladies’ room at the club,” Mr. Kim says, without looking up from his bowl.
“The ladies’ room at the club!” Mrs. Kim remembers, slapping her hand to her forehead. “And not while I was powdering my nose, mind you! I was mid-stream!”
Taehyung groans and throws his chopsticks into his bowl.
“Appa,” Jin says painfully, raising his eyebrows at Mr. Kim, “a little help, here? ‘Mid-stream’? We’re having stew for god’s sake.”
Mr. Kim’s stern but present look has a way of grounding everything, and everyone. As he looks at his sons, they each let their wrists fall respectfully to the table.
“Have some sympathy for your poor, frustrated, but still incredibly eloquent mother,” Mr. Kim replies, giving her a tiny smirk as he raises his spoon to his lips. “She just wants what’s best for you, and you three don’t exactly make things easy.”
His gaze falls back onto his wild-eyed wife. He tries to speak as enthusiastically as he can while remaining as quiet as possible, shoving leftover air in hums at the end of his sentences. “So maybe we can pick this up later, huh?” he decides, glancing between her and their boys. “Save the map for after dinner, hmm?”
He rises noiselessly but definitively from his now-cold stew and joins his wife at her easel. He grips one side and holds Mrs. Kim’s hopeful gaze until it turns into one of acceptance. Together, they haul it back into the study, leaving the French glass doors open, and hearing the boys whispering in the kitchen.
With the boys’ hushed voices in the background, the easel clinks and clatters sharply as they set it down in the center of Mrs. Kim’s studio. She looks at her map, and then she looks up at the shelves of photo albums in her bookcases, the spines shining in the moonlight, happily announcing the Kims’ early years in bright neon labels with cartoon-y lettering, and the later years in perfect, sophisticated calligraphy. Her eyes then catch the wall, lingering on a frame, holding a photo of the boys on vacation juxtaposed against three smaller photos of younger versions of themselves.
Jin’s eyes are shining brightly in those pictures.
“Why did we have to make such handsome, wonderful, perfect boys?” Mrs. Kim asks, still peering up at the albums, fingers itching to grab at them, but her body choosing to rest her temple on her husband’s shoulder instead.
“They’re definitely handsome, and absolutely wonderful, but they’re not perfect,” Mr. Kim remarks fondly, though Mrs. Kim’s narrowed eyes make it clear that she thinks otherwise on that last point. “And they’re men now, yeobo.” He rubs her arm with care. “They’ve already done so well. We couldn’t possibly ask for more, right? Maybe it’s alright to let them be.”
Mrs. Kim pauses. And she listens. It’s been a while since she’s heard what “letting them be” sounds like, especially at the house, now that everyone has their own places to live. Apparently, “letting them be” sounds not like a sweet, happy, domestic utopia of three kind brothers sharing some homemade stew, but rather Taehyung making some kind of joke about the girl he took home the night before, and Namjoon and Jin weighing in with some comments, slaps on the table, and stories of their own. Mrs. Kim doesn’t fully know what all their words mean, or why exactly Taehyung is talking about finding cheese in the shower. As she feels Mr. Kim wrapping a comforting arm around her waist, she also feels him quietly letting out some impressed whistles. Though she probably wouldn’t be thrilled with the explanations, she supposes that this means that she could derive some sort of sense of accomplishment on their behalf. A different kind of victory lap altogether.
Even so, Mrs. Kim slumps against her husband’s frame.
And her eyes keep roving back to that easel.
Bongseon’s easel doesn’t fold up as neatly as she’d like. It was already cheap, and she bought it at a discount because of the faulty latch meant to keep the legs safely tucked away. It actually does the opposite, making it all the more difficult to haul across campus every day. But, like with everything in her life, Bongseon does her best anyway, grateful that she has an easel to haul at all.
Hugging the easel to her side, she takes a step back and looks up at the board full of flyers. Campus is always so busy, and it’s been weeks since she put her own flier up, so it makes sense that her simple request has gone unnoticed. Most of her page is covered up by other, more colorful and appealing messages anyway. Messages from sororities and fraternities. Invites to parties. Pleas from various student organizations to raise funds for school events. Things that are beautifully communal. Pretty petals in lavender, coral, cornflower, lemon, and viridian, fluttering in the breeze. If she were harder on herself, she’d have a sense of shame about interrupting this rainbow with her ripped piece of notebook paper and blunt message:
Need a male specimen to sit down and shut up for an hour. 50 bucks.
But this flier is not meant to reflect her art. It is meant to help her create it. If someone doesn’t take one of the makeshift tabs at the bottom of the page soon, she’ll have to get started on her backup plan. Which she really doesn’t want to do.
Campus is busy. It’s been weeks. And Bongseon has already gotten so used to trudging past the student center’s board full of flyers without seeing any evidence of an upcoming response. So she completely misses that the last tab, which was previously just hidden under the call for the Chuseok event planning committee, has been torn off.
It’s also why she’s so completely thrown when she hears her name echoing down the hallway.
“Excuse me, are you Pan Bongseon?”
There’s a pause. A murmur. And then, an, “Oh? OK, thank you.”
Bongseon’s arm freezes in position as she pauses to listen.
“Excuse me, are you Pan Bongseon?”
There’s another pause.
“Ah, sorry.”
Bongseon sets her charcoal down and wipes her hands on her sweater. She picks up her now-empty fruit juice cup and tosses it into the small trash can next to her easel. Her legs stretch, and she walks toward the entrance to her studio, arriving just as a fist is reaching up to knock on the door.
The punch is completely inadvertent, but it hurts all the same.
“OW! FUCK!”
“Sorry!” the owner of the voice cries out. Instead of retracting his hand, however, he reaches out with the other, placing his fingers on Bongseon’s shoulders gently and crouching down to inspect her face. “Are you OK??”
“Get off of me!”
“I was checking to see if—” He releases his grasp on her and takes a step back. “Wow, I’m so sorry! I turned to look down the hall and see how many more doors I had before—” He winces, his glasses rising as his cheeks puff up. “A-are you Pan Bongseon?”
Bongseon tosses her long hair out of the way, grips the bridge of her nose with one hand, and gives him the finger with the other.
“I am so, so sorry,” he repeats, hanging his head. “I just…”
He holds up a piece of notebook paper.
“I saw your flier,” he explains, “but you didn’t put any other contact information except that you’d be in one of the student spaces in the art building, so I’ve been coming here for weeks trying to find you…”
Bongseon glares at him, but that pesky shame starts to settle in. “Oh.” She sniffles back a little dab of blood. “Sorry.”
His eyes grow at the sight of red. “God, no, please, I’m so sorry—” He shakes his head at himself, muttering through grit teeth, “Ugh, why do you always— stupid arms— jeez, get it together—”
Bongseon places her hand on his upper arm, causing him to stop and blink. “It’s OK. Really. Anyway,” she says casually, as takes the piece of notebook paper from his hand and rolls it up before sticking it into her bleeding nostril, “I’m sorry I was so hard to find.”
He smiles weakly.
She pulls the door back more to let him into the small but vibrant studio. There are more books littered about than would be expected, but then again, artists must need all sorts of sources for inspiration. As well as many types of canvases to express that inspiration. One wall is decorated with paintings, photographs, and mixed media collages. But the rest of the studio’s walls are blanketed in gorgeous charcoal illustrations. A drawing of the student center. Some fruit bowls. Faceless silhouettes, seated at tables or sprawled out on the ground. Random body parts.
Hands.
Lips.
Eyes.
He looks into Bongseon’s.
“Wow.”
He smiles a little funny.
“You’re, uh…” He shrugs. “Wow.”
“What’s your name?” Bongseon asks, turning away to find her stool, in front of her easel.
“Kim Jihu.” His eyes get a little sparkly whenever he gets to say his name. “I’m a bio major! I’m hoping to get into med school after I graduate.”
The left corner of Bongseon’s mouth curls up as her nostrils flare. “I’m sure your parents are very proud.”
Jihu's grin shrinks a little. “Uh, yeah…” He clears his throat. “Well, how do we start? Like, do you need me to dress a certain way, or do something in particu—?”
“I haven’t decided if I’m going to use you yet,” Bongseon replies, glancing at the half-done edifice on her easel before setting her sights back on Jihu's awkwardly crouching frame.
“Well, how do you decide?”
“Straighten up. Let me get a good look at you.”
Jihu puffs his chest out and slowly turns in an irregular circle, shrinking back into that crouch once he finds Bongseon’s eyes again.
She scrunches up her face. “Hmm.”
Jihu frowns.
“Don’t take it personally,” Bongseon says lightly. “I’m just thinking through some stuff.”
“What are you thinking through?” Jihu's lashes bump up against his lenses when he blinks nervously. “What is this for, anyway?”
“A project.” Bongseon tilts her head and follows the line of Jihu's arm. He’s strong, but seemingly out of leisure rather than necessity. Most of the pre-med students on campus come from families in the top tax bracket. “I need a scholarship to stay in school. I’ve decided on a charcoal series.” She smiles. “They’re my favorite.”
“Oh.” Jihu shuffles his weight. “Uh, this isn’t like a nude modeling thing, is it?”
“Ew, no,” Bongseon says, shaking her head. “I hate that shit. The scholarship prompt just requires human subjects.” She reaches out for her easel and smudges a line that’s been bothering her. “To be honest, I didn’t want to work with models at all. But I’m terrible at drawing myself, I’m tired of sketching from reference photographs, and I’ve really grown to hate trying to capture people out in the world.” She huffs. “They always move when I’m not ready for them to.”
She isn’t really sure why Jihu chuckles, but when he does, her eyes snap to his smile. She follows the line of his cheek, bouncing as it had when he was profusely apologizing. Bongseon isn’t really sure why she’s so fixated on it. There isn’t anything particularly remarkable about his cheek, save maybe that little dimple.
“OK. Thanks for stopping by. I’ll let you know,” she replies, turning back to her easel and reaching for her charcoal.
“Wait!”
Jihu steps forward, reaching his hand out again, placing his hand on Bongseon’s shoulder.
“Look…”
Bongseon spins to face him. When their eyes meet again, Jihu pulls his arm away.
“50 bucks is a lot of money for me,” Jihu surprisingly admits.
Bongseon agrees. It takes more than a while to scrounge up enough coins to convert into one small, paper rectangle. And it’s outrageous that she needs 999 more of those rectangles to keep working in this studio. Or to keep working at all.
“I really need this gig.” Jihu continues softly, his body shrinking further, and his chest the most deflated it’s been.
Bongseon stops trying to imagine what a thousand small rectangles looks like. “When it comes to stuff like this, you can’t just choose anyone,” she informs him, moving to spin back around.
Jihu purses his lips and reaches out for her shoulder again to keep from losing her. Startled, Bongseon stares at his hand, and then glares into his eyes.
“I’m not asking you to choose anyone. I’m asking you to choose me.”
As Bongseon revs up with a breath, Jihu steals it.
“I’ve checked the board every morning.” He speaks quickly. Matter-of-factly. “Your flier is still there. You haven’t posted any updates. And it’s been weeks,” he keenly observes. And then he realizes something. “When’s your scholarship deadline?”
Bongseon sighs and stiffens.
Jihu grins again, glasses rising, round pupils dead-center in the lenses. “So, then, it seems like you need me just as much as I need you.”
Decisions are usually easy for Bongseon to make. She can find inspiration and motivation for anything, at any time. Especially when it comes to her art. Though it has taken decades of practice to transform skill into style, intuition still guides most of the process. When she gets the urge to sketch, a group of students on the quad usually does equally well as a building or a bowl of fruit.
Hesitance is not something that exists in Bongseon’s vocabulary.
So what is it about Jihu that makes her pause?
She tries to figure it out following the line of his cheek, down his arm, and down to his hand. Rougher than expected. Round knuckles that bulge a little. Fingers about as long as his palms, and about as long as each other. And still resting on her shoulder.
“Fine.” Bongseon’s shoulder rises, and, smiling in triumph, Jihu finally lets her go. “Meet me here tomorrow at 5.”
Jihu straightens, his chest puffing out a little more without having to be told. “Do you need me to bring something? Wear something? Do anything in particular? ”
“Just what the flier said to do,” Bongseon remarks coolly.
She turns a little, with the understanding that this is enough of a goodbye for them to part ways.
But Jihu leans forward again.
His measured fingers tickle at her nostril as they pull out the rolled-up, slightly red scrap of notebook paper from Bongseon’s nose.
And he turns and tosses it into the small trash can next to Bongseon’s easel, flashing her another dimpled grin before he goes.
🧭 Fic Masterpost 🧭 Drabbles
