She had held his face at age seven, talking about his dimples and his eyes. He didn’t understand at the time why it made him want to back away and find his box at the corner of the closet. He should have been happy that Nari was holding his face in her thin bones and calling him cute, darling, but even children can tell the difference between their mother and someone else.
Namjoon first learned that adults could lie when his father slapped Kijung so hard across the cheek she fell and the blood of her head from the edge of the table mixed with her snot and tears. She said she was okay, but she wasn’t, and he tried to hold her hand like she would hold his. She dripped snot and tears and blood on her shirt and dragged herself to a healer. And didn’t come back for days upon days. He watched the sunsets with his hands pressed to the windowsill and focused on the color purple instead of the breath of the monster in the other bed.
At seven, he became well-acquainted with knives.
A stranger slapped him so hard across the cheek he lost himself completely. He was somewhere among the white stars and feminine acid. The stranger murmured at his ears as he was thrust from the ground, not bleeding, not crying, snot clear from his nose. Words like “disgusting,” “slut,” a beautiful array of Korean words and more were not to be forgotten at age seven. Hands that should not have been intimate raised themselves in his mind and tickled the backs of his thighs. Shame and tarnish speckled his gold skin like age spots, like smears of blood stroking across his genitals. It was not the first time his young mind wished his acquaintance with knives had simply rid him of every filthy spot on his body.
He was only seven.
And the stranger had slapped him, thrust him from the ground, called him undesirable in no few words, and dragged him to a table he’d only seen hold machines. He felt like one, wanted to be one, because machines could break but at least they didn’t know why they screamed.
“I love you,” the stranger said, and the ends of her hair tickled his tucked, tense dimples as the maple in his chest cracked and creaked in an effort to get further and further away on the metal tabletop. He remembered the smell of her breath. It smelled like the rotting roots of shrubs during monsoon season swirled with ink and coffee. Namjoon had learned not to flinch from touches under his shirt, to tongue against his nipples. He had learned not to scream, even as she bit so hard his skin finally started to leak. The maple in his chest just became smaller, is all, cradling the light in tears. “So pretty, Jelly.” The smell of rot and ink and coffee could be traced to the slick stripe on his cheek. “Why’d you have to do that, hm?”
The ceiling was still clear and pale, faded with black around the edges where the light couldn’t reach. “Disgusting,” she said, voice as liquid and squelching as her saliva making tiny puddles of his bony body. The table was cold against his bare thighs, bare backside, and he tried to breath as the maple shrunk and the light became too small and a plea started snagging at his frozen throat. “Where did he touch you?”
Namjoon shook his head, and first became acquainted with a knife. Later, he knew it to be the pretty one that was engraved with ivy, shining silver and a polished black.
He screamed before he cried, wanting to say everywhere, everywhere, everywhere but only finding words for, “Eomma, eomma, please.”
The ivy kissed his skin, and metal tinted his nostrils a regular shade of copper.
“You never scar, baby boy. But I can see it, hm? He touched you here—” Her fingertips tickled amidst the blood and his shaking muscles, sweat freezing him to the tabletop. He bit down on his tongue. “—and here…” The knife point dug into his navel and he started to cry, then, a scream bouncing in the corners of the tech lab like a pathetic ping pong ball that wouldn’t stop going. “… and here.” A sob ripped at his throat before she touched him there and his fingernails made a mess of his palms.
“I’m sorry, sorry eomma.” The cuts resembled a wishbone, and the stranger didn’t have to snap it. She just left, the tips of her hair red. The ceiling bled into Van Gogh’s swirls, nonsensical and a sheep’s wool white. Salt mixed with rot and ink and coffee, but never reached the cooling pools gathering around his thighs. His vision faded with his dimming breath.
The farm had always left an earthy peach scent on his clothes, spots of sap and juice-clinging dirt staining his jeans, and Namjoon could smell it even as the trees were just scrub in the distance. Every inch of him remembered which pavement led where, though he was accustomed to the whir of his wheels and the pressure in his chest sinking into the beat of his lungs and then nothing. The pressure stayed, this time, a sort of lopsided throb as his fingertips paced the edge of his phone in his back pocket. The number was imprinted on his temporal lobe, ticking in mantra as his eyes flicked along the trees lining the road. Having a phone meant wiping it every hour if any sort of message cropped up at all. His mind held most of what he needed, but if he could have kept pictures, he would have.
A single truck rolled by, exhaust mixing with flying pebbles, and his heart rate spiked as if the owner of the mantric number would be lounging in its bed. Instead, it turned the next corner, a dog snout and nose settled on the open window, letting its tongue drip like the truck’s pipe, and Namjoon pretended like every vehicle hadn’t made his nerves spark.
Despite the breeze climbing down his stretched neckline, he was sweating—palms and all—by the time his thumb pressed into the farmhouse doorbell. He heard the ring and stood in oppressive silence as the wind tickled the walls and his fingers fiddled with the strap of his backpack.
“Can I help you?”
The sudden question from behind had him seizing up, but the vague, Korean inflection was more familiar than dangerous and relief swallowed him as he swallowed surprise in turn and faced the figure. “Noona,” he sighed, smiling and dimples peeking as he gave a bow in greeting. Park Byul was glowing as she was wont to do, the heel of her palm wiping at the sweat beading at her temples. She and her brother shared so many of the same features that it almost felt as if he had already gotten it over with. One Park sibling was enough.
“Oh!” She smiled, returning his bow and delving into the language of home. “You’re tall now, huh?”
The inside of the Park home had never stopped being strange, and it had baffled him ever since he placed it that homes had energy. This one was lived in, affectionate, and so unfamiliar in that feeling that he felt almost cornered. There were dirt-caked shoes by the door (now accompanied by his old, threadbare converse), photographs on the entrance table with a love note left for “eomma-ma” written in a mix of languages and stray crayon, warm wooden floors underfoot, and a deep smell of spiced pastries permeating his lungs like powdered sugar. The home tingled against his skin, strange, and he rubbed his arms, inhaling deep.
They passed children’s drawings framed on the walls as Byul led him down the hall, and his heart constricted, heartbeat a slow and soft pattering. One was signed “Jimin P.” in clumsy letters, the picture all anxious, precise lines and wild colors. Namjoon resisted a smile, kneading his fingers at the corners of his mouth as the fondness teased him. “Is Jimin home?” he asked, finally, and tried to imagine that she would say no.
“Yes!” Namjoon’s stomach felt like it took a violent stroll down and out his anus like something possessed. “He’s taking a shower. Has a date this evening or something,” she continued, raking a hand to tousle her hair back, hairband now snug around her wrist. His ears were registering the sound of trickling water through pipes when she cast him a look that was far too clever for his possessed stomach. “Do you want me to go get him?” she asked, and they stopped at the door between the kitchen and the end of the hall.
A smooth smile breathed into his expression and he shook his head. “That’s okay. How long will you be here?”
She made a small noise and her gaze left him, but that smile lingered. “Just for the weekend.” She knocked on the door and tried the handle, peeking in to the sunlight-drenched office. “Appa, when will you ever answer the doorbell? Kim Namjoon is here.”
Namjoon heard the scrape of chair legs against the floors and a revealing, guilty, “Ah, that’s right—“ before Byul moved for them both and he could properly bow to his old employer.
“Sorry for the intrusion.”
Mr. Park was no different than his children, something deep and warm emanating from him like cider. “You’re welcome anytime.”
It was a short conversation as far as business went—he only needed a signature or two—but there was a reason why he came in person. It was polite. The Parks had been persistent in their kindness, so to only go to them for business through email or letter felt like a slight. They exchanged pleasantries, Namjoon got him to smile more than once, and he was lucky enough to hear about the family, the fruit, the bees.
“Jimin is home. Did you get to say hi?”
This time, his stomach didn’t drop. “No, sir. I don’t want to be a bother.” His fingertips slid along the edges of the papers, straightening them so he could put them back in the folder and then in his backpack.
Mr. Park spun his wood pen between his fingers, eyes smiling. “I’m sure he would love to see you—ah.” Running footsteps could be heard coming down the hall beyond the door and Namjoon curbed his rising blush /hard/. “There he is.”
“Namjoon!”
The door almost slammed against the back wall and as Namjoon turned in response to his name, he could hear the continued smile in Mr. Park’s voice. “Remember to knock, Jimin-ah.”
“Sorry.”
Jimin didn’t look sorry, but he did look radiant. It was a genuine disservice to Namjoon’s nerves. He smiled anyway. “Hi, Jimin.”
He hadn’t seen Jimin in anything but small-screened selfies for a year or so, and it seemed to have made a difference he had issues coping with. A freshly-showered Jimin also didn’t help. His skin was rosy in the evening light, his hair still damp and haphazard in a messy tousle, and it was endearing. But his shirt also clung a little to his smooth torso and his pants were being kind to the curves and muscles of his thighs, and Namjoon remembered well, now, why the thought of seeing him again was borderline anxiety-inducing.
Checking Mr. Park’s son out in front of him was the worst thing he had ever brought himself to do. Pink lips stretched in an unapologetic smile and that warmth bursting through the crease under Jimin’s dark eyes and Namjoon couldn’t even get himself to regret tipping Byul off that he would like to see him. Just that, again, he was checking Mr. Park’s son out right under his nose.
Write a self para about your character of at least 1800 {total is 2684} words about their love life and/or their wished for love life. {a day late but i’m not trying to qualify so eh}
Peaches irreparably reminded him of Ares—from that first day he spoke to him, the first time he dipped down to touch lips and tasted traces of homemade peach ice cream left from it, falling asleep during his lessons under the peach trees... There was a tendency for the three of them to compare Ares to an angel. In some ways it was a joke, because no people knew better than them what Ares could be like, but it was also hopelessly genuine. Peaches and angelic smiles. That full-body laughter that made Namjoon’s heart ache like it’s too small to hold so much warmth. Those looks Ares gave him sometimes, like he was the whole world in some ways, and Namjoon was sure, absolutely sure, that he would die for him. Maybe die because of him.
Jazz was a king, the gentlest man, the youngest, silently still, soft stars. He was more than skin and scars and tattoos could contain. Meeting him was a fluke, and inarguably a brilliant blip in time. Those deviations persisted until he could feel harmonies singing under his blood. Jazz was his strength in ways he could never imagine, given that he saw him a few days a week past midnight like the universe’s most beautiful, captured dream. He imagined his fingers interlocked with his when he hadn’t quite learned for himself what steady hands were, and Jazz’s were the steadiest. There were fences he didn’t realize he could climb until Jazz was on the other side, asking him whether he had the strength to come along. He did, he found out, and wanted that love that didn’t leave him gripping the edge of the sink and sobbing. That love that was tucked into the soft smile Jazz got, that forgave him for things Namjoon hadn’t even gotten to yet, that asked him questions and sought answers he hadn’t realized were worth giving. Where Ares was still yet an unreachable seraphim, Jazz was tangible and more than enough. More than enough to realize his perspective on support and smiles was completely wrong. Love wasn’t a fluke like first meetings could be, it wasn’t an act of providence, it wasn’t just in passerby or just the local angel. It was close by and steady as a rock, even when its cracks showed.
There were laws in order that suggested when paths intertwined too many times without meaning, the world would conspire to make them meet. Burned cheeks under layers and layers of sunscreen, hands awash in painted rainbows like a gay pride parade, and the distinct memory of laughter caught under his tongue and an earnestness to know. There was a humor to Hazel that was aglow in the boniness of his arms, defiance and strength met head-on that had seen things Namjoon simply hadn’t yet. In so many ways, Namjoon yearned to be loved. He asked it of Hazel, and somewhere, somehow, he’d given it over because he was gentler than Jazz and sweeter than Ares under his bruised, grumbling eyes. He could have met him amongst honey bees, or under Jongup’s steady hands and ink, but he met him alone, surrounded by sunlight and brick and an almost-toppled glass of water. For a time, he was most afraid of failing him, of being less than Hazel had imagined him to be—especially when he had a moat, a cave, a whole decrepit childhood castle of worthlessness and injury—but somewhere, somehow, he realized he’d failed to see Hazel as so, so, so human. And that’s when he fell in love, sitting at the apartment table across the room and doing nothing. Nothing of import.
They’d snuck into his heart like he’d never had walls there in the first place, and he was pretty sure he’d let them. If there had been a fight, they bore no bruises. No stretch marks (no, he’d been to slow for that). Just him trying to remember when, exactly, he’d given them the key to the front gate one by one, and how they managed to see him broken and bleeding and bruised and sobbing and still wanted him.
Calling it a miracle wouldn’t do them justice.
Eventually, they’d find and ask about the journal he’d forgotten about, with entries so old his handwriting was not only chicken scratch but almost completely illegible. But they wouldn’t know about its companion for some time, and Namjoon kind of preferred it that way. It wasn’t that it was filled with horrors and nightmares. It was, in fact, the first’s exact opposite. Writing out all the bad things to make sense of them was nice in theory, but once the pages started being filled deep into the latter half of a hundred, the negativity was overwhelming. So he’d been given a second journal where the first twenty-three pages were in smudged lilac pen and the rest would make do in varying shades of purple. Most of the lilac pages were crowded with Kijung, sometimes Kitae or Jiha, and he’d memorized the pages where his parents had made it in so he never had to read them until he was ready.
But around when the magenta fountain pen had started being used, and what was Korean turned into shaky English, there were mentions of Ares. Right when the violet pen started running out came Jazz, and with the pinky-lavender was Hazel. He had a vague idea of what he was doing when he wrote about them, harboring a suspicion that if he looked back on these things he’d want to hide this journal both from himself and somewhere deep where no else one could find it either.
So he usually wrote with as much maturity as he could muster for the sake of whatever future self decided to self-inflict embarrassment, but still things like, “He’s so cute I’m going to vomit” made it in there. Luckily, given most contexts, he couldn’t really blame himself. It was still relatable and applicable and probably always would be.
2011/8/8
Didn’t mean to not write for so long. Hyunja locked me out of our room. The roof is better than sleeping next to him, anyway. There are some really bright stars even with all the street lamps on. Maybe I can sneak out to visit the library? To look up constellation names or something. Kinda need sleep, though, and the shingles aren’t exactly God’s best mattress.
Work was gross today (temperature was in the high thirties and I wanted to peel my skin off), but the peaches are really pretty. They get this kinda reddish color. I expected them to be lighter for some reason. More pinkish.
I met Park Jimin yesterday. He’s younger than me, I think? I was really embarrassing, but he made me smile. Some guy was being dumb and Jimin-ah punched him. I’d let him punch me, too. If he wanted. Forcing me to take credit for the peaches he picked was as close as I’ll get, though, probably. Equally as humbling. I was kind of thinking of his ears the whole time because I said some stupid things (I didn’t really expect him to speak Korean, actually, which I guess was pretty stupid of me) but he also has nice ears. If he blushes they go more pink than the peaches. The whole of him is really nice though. And I mean whole. He punched someone but I would have, too, if I were him, and he’s really nice. About as nice as his parents, so I guess it runs in families, huh? Gotta wonder about me, then. But if Jimin-ah liked me okay, I must be nice enough, too. (Consensus: “nice” is the word of the day)
Remember when I said I thought maybe I could be gay? He was really cute. I wonder if he’s okay being called that? It’s probably not better to call him pretty, but. Yeah. It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to if I see him again.
2011/8/9
On a scale of petty, where would I lie for locking Hyunja out of our room? Just hypothetically, really. I don’t feel like getting scalped today. Or ever.
Update: Jimin-ah’s laugh just about killed me today. He still hasn’t punched me, but I’m waiting. It’s an open (unspoken) invitation. For the record, he did laugh that first day but I was kinda distracted by how embarrassed I was to be me. Existence is a real struggle.
I’m fully prepared for this crush. But he’s not too distracting, which is nice. I mean, he’s distracting if he can be distracting, but I’m still getting plenty of work done.
Accidentally broke some shit today and was ignored, which is better than literally any realistic alternative.
[...]
2011/9/3
Hey, America? English sucks.
Kim Namjoon Kim Namjoon Kim Namjoon Kim Namjoon Park Jimin Park Jimin Park Jimin. He has good p a handriting. That looks wrong.
I didn’t He’s really, really nice. I think noona would have liked him? I miss It was cooler out today because it rained last night. Grass grows really fast. There’s already some green everywhere, so I hope it rains again (even if I can’t go out at night). I miss the flowers.
[...]
2011/12/20
Somehow no one has noticed I d have my ears pierced. It has been more than two weeks. Eiht Eighteen days. They said six to eight weeks, so I will listen to them. My ears feel okay, though. It will be worth the money to buy earrings. Small circles? Hoops. If Hyunja sees them, I think he will rip them out, but I have been sleeping out on the roof again. I forgot the word, sorry.
I was right. Jimin looks nice. I do not know how to describe him. Not in English, but I promised I would practice. Verb tenses are worst. Writing this has taken a long time.
He looks at me sometimes and I do not think it. I freeze up and want to cry kind of. I have to leave this job soon, though, and I do not want to. I will miss the peaches. Jimin goes to the same high school as me. I will not miss him as much. Because of him I am far in my English classes even though it is not my language, but it still takes time to read assignments. I do not have a lot of time. The CHSPE does not need good grades before though. I will do my best.
[...]
10/21/2012
I still think America writes their dates... stupidly.
I just took the CHSPE and I’m sending Jimin kisses for all he’s done for me (like I’ll ever kiss him aha). And my English teachers, of course. The test didn’t go so bad, but it’s hard to tell until we get the results back. I have to wait for those and pretend like someone’s not going to have my hide if I end up failing. The math was easiest, but I feel an okay sort of confident.
It still sucks not having any classes with Jimin, but I never have. Also, Halloween still makes me laugh. If Hyunja goes to answer the door this year I’ll hit him with a frying pan. He can keep his gross hands off of the children dressed like Darth Vader and stuff.
They’re so little every year oh my god.
I mean I have my nieces and nephews but it’s different. Plus mine don’t dress up like Snow White, you know?
[...]
2/28/2013
okay okay okay okay
I’m so gay it hurts.
I’m okay.
So I met someone on one of my midnight things. It was the frozens section and I was embarrassing as usual but oh my god he had the cutest smile and I’m still hurting.
His name is Moon Jongup, which I’m writing down so I don’t make a fool of myself when I see him again. I had to show him something so I asked him to find me on the street off of where I went when I was avoiding the dead body in our room. Which is morbid I guess but the place is really pretty, and it’s not like I’m going to tell him why I went there? I hope he likes it. It’s far enough from home that we should be okay. I wasn’t really thinking when I asked and now I’m really nervous. But what’s done is done and I’ll meet him. Bring a book, maybe, just in case he doesn’t show up. Which would make sense. I’m reading a really good book right now. I’ve been reading it for ages, though, so it’ll be nice to have an excuse to maybe get past chapter seven.
I haven’t seen Jimin a lot lately, but sometimes he’ll drag me to sit with him at lunch if he finds me cleaning. Someone should tell him he’s beautiful since I’m in too deep to properly do it. He might hear it all the time, actually, but telling someone their appearance is beautiful is different than telling someone their personality is beautiful, you know? I’m usually really tired by lunchtime because I don’t know what sleep means, but he brightens my day if he’s there.
3/3/2013
So I had another gay awakening with Jongup, right? But that’s kind of whatever, because he’s just really easy to talk to. And that’s better than any gay awakening. We have to keep agreeing to meet each other because he doesn’t have a phone (he’s younger than me, which like wow. Where does he get off looking like that at 15? That feels really young, by the way, but only when I realize I’m 16, which still doesn’t feel real).
He told me about constellations. We didn’t end up waiting for sunrise because the sky was cloudless and those sunrises are kind of boring, but it was a really nice night to look at the stars, and he seems really passionate about those. It suits his family name really well.
Also, he has a few tattoos already and I know not to ask about them, but he’s kind of amazing. For making decisions like that already, and they’re really good looking. They’re just these small details, and I obviously can’t know if the ones I’ve seen are all he has visible because it’s cold as balls at night still and long sleeves are a survival measure, but yeah. They look good on him.
[...]
8/19/2014
I told Jongup about the artist who’s painting the side of the restaurant, and even if I didn’t make the artist laugh, I made Jongup laugh. So I’ll settle.
Which yeah by the way, there’s an artist painting the side of the restaurant. Because I think there was some miscommunication about lunch, I ended up giving him some of mine. I don’t know the details, but it was super gross outside, so I figured he’d want something. Water and stuff. His art is really beautiful. He was painting this lily when I went out to talk to him first and... I guess I wouldn’t peg him as someone who paints flowers, but it’s really beautiful so far. I can’t wait to see it finished.
Also, I hope he doesn’t get heatstroke. If I had a standup umbrella or something I’d bring it for him.
Think I can make him smile? It’s gonna be a feat when it looks like he’s been running on two hours of sleep and has been sitting out in the sun for hours on end, but I kind of want to see it.
[...]
13/19/2014
GUESS WHO MADE HIM SMILE. It took fucking forever and he’s just about done with his mural but hey guess what. It’s really cute. Turns out grumpy artists paint the best flowers and have the best smiles.
I gotta go but I had to make that announcement at least. Bye!
Kim Jiha: Magical Engineer specializing in mood magic; age 28; spouse to Maeng Jongil, exorcist; mother to Maeng Chulwoo, age 8; sister to Kim Sua, Kim Kitae, Kim Hyunja, Kim Kijung, and Kim Namjoon, all living; daughter of mother, Jeon Nari, living, and father, Kim Haeryong, passed.
Normally, Namjoon would be working anywhere but a family-shared space, but Hyunja had demanded the bedroom for his processes on lust and Namjoon was giving that a wide berth. Being more attracted to his boyfriends than he already was sounded completely unnecessary, and if it backfired and he lost the ability to appreciate Jimin’s ass, Hyunja would learn what a broken nose felt like. So he was in the kitchen, working on finances at the table until Jiha decided to drive him out as well.
She was humming as she chopped the carrots, the knife sliding across the cutting board back and forth, back and forth.
When she started muttering, his eyes flicked up. Her thin hair was sliding off her shoulders as they hunched. The stew murmured back at her sluggishly as she lifted the cutting board.
“Noona.” Namjoon stood up, setting down his pen. “You already put the carrots in. Those won’t cook.” He hadn’t thought about why she was cutting carrots again. She shakily put the cutting board down, and something dropped from his chest as he watched her fingers scrabble around the ties of her apron.
“The stew is done, then?”
“No, noona.”
“Should I call everyone to dinner?”
“Not yet.”
“How long do I have to wait?” Her voice came out thin and high, strained into a pitch she didn’t adopt too often.
“Not long. Do you want to come sit by me?” Namjoon could see her fraying, and sometimes sitting closer to other people could help any member of his family. It was something about the contrast of isolation, maybe, and having some mass of human flesh inches from you.
She shook her head, rolling the chopped carrots along the cutting board clumsily from the sound of it. He couldn’t see her face. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to sit next to you—”
“Okay.”
“—I don’t want to sit next to anyone. Let alone you.”
Namjoon hesitated. “Okay.” Things like that... they didn’t hit as hard as they used to, and it didn’t hit at all, now. Not right at that moment. She was losing patience, and it was harder to do anything with her back to him. “What do you want to do, noona?” he asked instead.
She shuddered, and he could see her spine under the sheerness of her shirt. “I want to scream. I just want to scream, I—” Jiha’s whole body tensed like she was about to, and if she wanted to scream, that was okay. She could do that. It might wake Hyunmi or make anyone else who could hear it worse for wear, but there were more worrisome things she could do than scream, certainly. His sister began to laugh, instead, in that high and thin voice that warbled into a sob, and Namjoon had to actively fight against freezing up. She inhaled like a wheeze, then jerked her hands to the left, yanked the handle of the stew on the burner, and flung the entire pot across the room.
The floor splattered with still-hard vegetables and sodden meat, and Namjoon flinched as she let out a scream. His heart beating rapidly, now, he shoved all his paperwork in a pile and dropped it onto his chair where her tantrum might do less to ruin them. “Noona—”
Her thin hair flicked as she spun to face him, and he could see little in her eyes that felt like his sister. “Don’t talk to me!” He wasn’t prepared when she threw the cutting board at him, all the carrots thudding to the countertop and floor as her fringe stuck to her face. “Stop calling me that!” The cutting board hit the far edge of the table, leaving the smallest of dents, and his mind began to scatter in surprise.
Maneuvering around the table, he tried to keep himself small as he picked up the cutting board and she began to tear at her hair. She was opening cabinets, their contents spilling out, and her whines were strangled shrieks as black threads clung to her fingers where they had left her head.
He inhaled, standing slowly and carefully. “When does Jongil come home, Jiha?” he asked, steadying his voice as best as he could. A bowl shattered, and he could hear Hyunmi begin to cry in earnest from the other room. He approached her slowly. “Jiha? When does Jongil come home?”
“Who?” It was a scream, and she turned toward him again. He tried desperately not to flinch as she flung a bottle of cinnamon at him. It exploded behind him in a puff of powder. She was sweating at her upper lip, strands of hair in her mouth and runs of pink lining where she had started to claw at her face. “What do you want from me?”
“Your husband, Jongil. When does he come home?”
She didn’t hear him, but her hand slid to the spinning knife on the countertop and his grasp on the cutting board became slippery as his hand began to sweat. His mind muted Hyunmi’s shrieks, touching on every white knuckle and ragged breath his sister drew instead, the flash of silver as the knife spun coming to an abrupt halt.
“Jiha, put down the knife.”
“What knife?” she asked, and cast her dark eyes toward him over her trembling shoulders. “This knife?” Jiha brandished it and took a step toward him. “This knife, Jelly?”
And the broad slash of steel had his heart jumping to his throat.
Namjoon had woken up that morning and seen and heard Jazz’s breath rise and fall in his chest. Hard Hitter’s cheek pressed against the tattoos with his pink hair in his eyes. Yoongi passed out cold on the other side of the bed, his fingers curled into the sheets.
Jimin and he got their ears pierced six years ago. He could still remember the first time he had made Yoongi laugh, and what his fingers felt like interlaced with his. Jongup branding their history into his thigh as they talked about jellyfish and sea stars.
And Yoongi was leaving in just a few days to find an apartment. And Jimin had already told him the plans for dinner. And he’d yet to ask Jongup about his day.
Namjoon’s was not his family’s life to take.
He swung and felt the crack of his sister’s wrist hit the cutting board. She cried out in pain and he slammed his foot down on the handle of the knife clattering to the tile.
“Sit down, Jiha.”
“Bite me.”
“I fucking will, I swear to god, and you will sit down, do you hear me? I will break your wrists if you threaten my life again, so sit. Down.”
Her breathing shuddered, thin fingers clutching at her wrist, and she dropped to a cross-legged sit right on the ground.
He set the cutting board on the table, grabbed the knife and set that on top of the cutting board, then sighed. “You’re sitting in the stew.”
