WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 05
pairing: hoseok x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 11,5k | warnings: here genre: childhood bffs, grumpy x sunshine, emotional slow burn, smut
"midnight keys"
You don’t believe in soulmates, but apparently your type is ‘grumpy men who look like they hate their lives.’
next | index | taglist request | general masterlist
↦ author's note : BAHAHAHAHA okay so if you couldn't tell I have a marketing background, I hope you can now, because Capy is literally my spirit animal here. This chapter let me dive into so many of my favorite little narrative playgrounds and I had the best time. First of all—our little international community!!! You know I'm a sucker for the found family trope, but there's something especially delicious about that shared unity of being foreigners in a foreign country. Cliché? Maybe. Do I care? Absolutely not. You'll have to pry the joy of it out of my cold, dead hands.
And female friendships... please. Inject them straight into my veins. I will never, ever get tired of exploring them. We've had college friendships in FMU, teenage friendships in 5STF, and now here? We've got work friendships. Girlies supporting girlies, holding each other up, hyping each other up, and yes—if you don't like women supporting women, I'm sorry but you can leave my blog immediately. I've had my own pick-me phase, I'm not putting up with anyone else’s. I love women. Hopefully that's very, very clear by now.
Now, moving on—shut the hell up because I am such a SOPE whore. I've been dying to have a fic where both Hoseok and Yoongi get to be the chaotic besties to my main lead. Like. What do you mean I can't have both of them to sandwich me? Who made that rule? Certainly not me. Also, long-haired black-haired Yoongi? That's an attack. Capy, I understand you on a spiritual level.
Did you catch the little Japanese snippet?! You know I live for realism, so yes—Hobi and Yoongi speak Japanese to each other, but the moment Capy joins in (barely speaking it herself), they switch to English. And because I am me, I had to craft a narrative reason for Yoongi to speak English that would actually make sense. Honestly, I'm quite proud of how that little detail fell into place.
And the karaoke scene... tell me I'm not the only one who got butterflies at that sudden "When are you gonna pick me up?" text. Bold. Dangerous. Delicious. GIRL. I bet Hoseok choked on his drink and sprinted there, my simp king in full glory.
As for the ending? I am not—will not—apologize for pelting you with bittersweet melancholy wrapped in fluff. It's only going to get worse from here. <3
The stack of papers on your desk is about eight centimetres thick and radiating the kind of malevolent energy usually reserved for cursed objects in horror movies.
You’ve been staring at it for seventeen minutes, and it’s been staring back with what you’re pretty sure is personal animosity.
The top page reads ‘COLLAGEN EFFICACY ANALYSIS: COMPARATIVE MARKET POSITIONING ACROSS DEMOGRAPHIC SEGMENTS’ in Times New Roman 12-point, because apparently whoever designed this fresh hell believes that Comic Sans would make it too enjoyable.
Your job today—your actual, paid, professional responsibility—is to read through 127 pages of market research data about anti-ageing skincare and transform it into ‘compelling consumer-facing content that leverages core brand messaging while maintaining scientific accuracy.’
In other words: make boring science sound sexy without lying about it.
You’re pretty sure this violates several international laws about cruel and unusual punishment.
“That bad?” Yuki appears at your cubicle with two cups of coffee and the expression of someone who’s witnessed multiple corporate atrocities before 10a.m.
“I reckon my soul just filed a restraining order against my job,” you mutter, accepting the coffee like it’s lifesaving medication. “How did you know I was dying?”
“You’ve been making the same face my cat makes when I try to give her medicine. Also, you’ve been muttering under your breath in what sounds like three different languages.”
“Two languages. The third one was just creative cursing.”
Yuki settles against the edge of your desk, positioning herself so she can keep an eye on the departmental comings and goings.
At twenty-eight, she’s got the particular brand of workplace wisdom that comes from surviving four years in Japanese corporate accounting—which is apparently like regular accounting, but with more bowing and a suspicious amount of unpaid overtime.
“Let me guess,” she says, nodding toward your paper mountain. “Davidson handed you this with that face he makes when he thinks he’s being visionary.”
“He called it a ‘paradigm-shifting opportunity to revolutionize collagen narrative construction.’” You take a sip of coffee and immediately feel marginally more human. “I’m pretty sure he just made up half those words.”
“Oh, he definitely did. Last week he told Tanaka-san that we needed to ‘synergize our human capital optimization protocols.’ Tanaka spent twenty minutes nodding and taking notes before realising Davidson was basically saying ‘maybe we should communicate better.’”
The mental image of Tanaka—a forty-something HR manager who treats corporate buzzwords like sacred texts—frantically scribbling down Davidson’s nonsense makes you snort with laughter.
“Speaking of Tanaka,” Yuki continues, lowering her voice to conspiracy levels, “did you hear about the incident with the British delegation yesterday?”
“There was a British delegation?”
“Three people from the London office. Brianna—you know, the one with the accent that makes Davidson go all red and stammery—she spent the entire meeting asking very reasonable questions about budget allocation. Poor Tanaka kept trying to answer without actually giving her any real information, and she kept asking follow-up questions because, you know, she wanted actual answers.”
“Scandalous.”
“It gets better. Apparently she finally just said, ‘Look, are you telling me you don’t know where the money goes, or are you telling me you can’t tell me where it goes?’ and Tanaka had to excuse himself to ‘consult additional resources.’”
You’re grinning now, because the idea of someone cutting through corporate bullshit with direct questions is deeply satisfying. “What happened?”
“He came back with a spreadsheet that was basically just the same information formatted differently, and Brianna goes, ‘Right, so you don’t know.’”
“I think I love her.”
“We all love her. She’s like a corporate superhero whose power is asking obvious questions that no one else has the courage to ask.”
Your flip phone buzzes against your leg, and you fish it out while Yuki continues her Brianna appreciation society meeting. The tiny screen shows a new message, and you squint at the cramped text—fucking T9 predictive text making everything a goddamn puzzle.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:23 AM): 𝚀𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚛𝚎𝚏 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: 𝙼𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝙲𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚊𝚗? 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.
You glance at Yuki, who’s now describing Brianna’s methodical destruction of the quarterly projections meeting, and quickly press the tiny buttons to respond.
Takes forever to spell out ‘Persian’ with this piece of shit keypad.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:26 AM): 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚊𝚗. 𝙵𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌. 𝙱𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜.
The response comes back faster than you expected, but still takes a minute to appear.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:28 AM): 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙵𝙴𝙲𝚃. ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.
You shove your phone back in your pocket before you can think too hard about the ‘work so well together’ comment.
“—and then Adao from IT just starts laughing,” Yuki is saying. “Not like, polite business laughter. Full-on wheezing. Apparently he’s been waiting for someone to ask those questions for months.”
“Adao from IT?”
“Portuguese guy, works on the seventh floor? Very quiet, very good at fixing things, very bad at pretending corporate nonsense makes sense. Turns out he’s been keeping a private list of all the times Davidson uses made-up words in meetings.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Right? And Amelie from the Canadian branch was there too—you know, the one who always looks like she’s mentally calculating how much maple syrup she could buy with her salary?—and she just goes, ‘Oh good, I thought it was a translation issue.’”
The mental image of an international delegation slowly realising that Davidson’s meaningless corporate speak isn’t a cultural misunderstanding but actual meaningless nonsense makes your day significantly better.
“So basically,” you say, “our department is held together by confusion and the international staff being too polite to point out that our boss is an idiot.”
“Exactly. Which brings me to my next point.” Yuki glances around, then leans closer. “We’re going for drinks after work. Proper drinks. The kind that help you forget you spent eight hours pretending to care about collagen market positioning.”
“We?”
“Me, Brianna, Amelie, and maybe Adao if we can convince him to leave his computer long enough. You’re coming.”
It’s not really a question, which you appreciate because you’re not sure you have the energy to make actual decisions right now.
“I don’t know,” you start, but Yuki cuts you off with a look.
“You’ve been here two weeks and the most social interaction you’ve had is Davidson explaining synergy to you. You need human contact that doesn’t involve corporate buzzwords.”
“I have human contact—”
“Texting that guy who keeps asking you weird questions about cats doesn’t count.”
You pause, coffee cup halfway to your lips.
“How did you—”
“You get this specific expression when you’re typing responses to him. Like you’re annoyed but also trying not to smile. It’s very obvious.”
Fuck. Are you really that transparent?
“He’s just a friend,” you say quickly. “From back home. He’s… working on a project. Needs advice about… character design.”
“Character design?”
“He’s an artist. Freelance stuff.”
Yuki nods like this makes perfect sense, which it does if you don’t think too hard about what kind of character design requires urgent Maine Coon versus Persian consultations.
“Well, bring him along if you want. The more the merrier.”
“No,” you say, maybe a little too quickly. “He’s busy. Working on deadline stuff.”
Also, introducing your corporate coworkers to the guy who draws pornographic manga and convinces you to wear cat ears would probably raise questions you’re not prepared to answer.
“Your loss. Anyway, we’re going to some bar Amelie keeps recommending, and then we’ll probably do karaoke.”
“I don’t do karaoke.”
“Nobody does karaoke until they’ve had enough sake to forget they have standards. Trust me on this one.”
You look back at your paper mountain, then at Yuki’s expectant face, then around the office where Davidson is currently explaining something to Tanaka using what appears to be interpretive dance.
“Fine,” you say. “But I’m not singing.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Your phone buzzes again, the tiny screen lighting up with another message.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:47 AM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚢𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:48 AM): 𝚆𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗?
You stare at the cramped text on the tiny screen, heat creeping up your neck despite the office air conditioning.
“Everything okay?” Yuki asks, clearly noticing your expression change.
“Yeah, just…” You quickly flip the phone shut. “Work stuff.”
“Must be some very interesting character design work.”
“You have no idea.”
By 3 PM, you’ve made it through exactly nineteen pages of collagen research and feel like your brain is trying to escape through your ears.
The words are starting to blur together into meaningless corporate poetry: ‘synergistic enhancement protocols,’ ‘bioactive delivery mechanisms,’ ‘age-defying molecular architecture.’
You’re pretty sure you could write a drinking game based on how many times the phrase ‘revolutionary anti-ageing technology’ appears, but you’d die of alcohol poisoning before page thirty.
Yuki reappears at your desk like a caffeine-bearing angel.
“Lunch?” she suggests, even though it’s technically too late for lunch and too early for dinner.
“I need to drown my sorrows in sake,” you announce, pushing back from your desk. “I reckon I’m going to start sweating collagen at this rate.”
“That’s the spirit. Let me grab my purse and we can go find some carbs to absorb the existential dread.”
You follow her through the maze of cubicles, past Davidson’s office where he appears to be having an animated conversation with a potted plant, and toward the lift bank.
The seventh floor is not loud per se, but you can feel the restlessness in the air—that particular energy that comes from people pretending to work while not actually, you know, working.
“Oh good,” Yuki says as the lift arrives, “you can meet the others.”
The doors open to reveal three people who look like they’ve also been beaten down by various forms of corporate bureaucracy.
“Y/N, this is the international conspiracy,” Yuki announces. “Brianna, Amelie, Adao.”
Brianna is tall and sharp-featured with the kind of posture that screams ‘private school.’ She’s wearing an expensive-looking black blazer and has the expression of someone who’s just finished cutting through corporate nonsense.
“The one who’s been suffering through Davidson’s collagen obsession?” she asks, extending a hand. “You have my condolences.”
“It’s like he thinks if he says ‘synergy’ enough times, the skincare will magically become more interesting,” you reply, and her smile becomes genuinely warm.
Amelie is shorter and rounder, with curly brown hair escaping from what was probably a neat bun this morning. She’s got laugh lines around her eyes and the slightly manic energy of someone who’s been surviving on coffee and pure determination.
“Oh honey,” she says in an accent that makes you homesick for Commonwealth countries you’ve never even visited, “you look like you need a drink and a hug. Maybe not in that order.”
Adao is lean and quiet, with dark hair and the expression of someone who spends most of his time fixing other people’s mistakes. He nods politely but doesn’t seem like much of a talker, which you respect.
“So,” Brianna says as the lift descends toward freedom, “Yuki tells us you’re the one who’s going to save us all from dying of boredom.”
“I’m the one who’s going to die of boredom right alongside you,” you correct. “But we can die together, which is nice.”
“See?” Yuki grins. “I told you she was one of us.”
The lift reaches the ground floor, and you all emerge into the lobby.
“Right,” Brianna says, checking her watch, “four hours until drinks. Think we can all survive that long?”
“I give Adao the best odds,” Amelie observes. “He’s got that whole ‘dead inside but functional’ thing down to an art form.”
Adao shrugs. “I just fix computers. Computers make sense. They do what you tell them to, and when they don’t work, there’s usually a logical reason.”
“Unlike Davidson,” you say.
“Unlike most things in this building,” he agrees.
The afternoon crawls by with the special kind of slowness that only comes from reading about ‘bioactive collagen efficacy matrices’ while watching the clock tick toward freedom.
You’ve managed to transform approximately six pages of scientific data into what you optimistically call ‘compelling marketing copy’ and what any reasonable person would call ‘enthusiastic lies about face cream.’
The collagen peptides, according to your current draft, are not just anti-ageing ingredients but ‘revolutionary molecular architects working in harmony with your skin’s natural wisdom.’
You’re pretty sure skin doesn’t have wisdom, but at this point you’re just making things up and hoping no one notices.
Yuki stops by your desk at 5:15 with the expression of someone who’s just survived her own personal hell.
“Budget reconciliation meeting,” she explains before you can ask. “Three hours of Tanaka explaining why we can’t afford new computers but we can afford Davidson’s ‘innovation retreat’ in Hakone.”
“Innovation retreat?”
“Two days of team-building exercises and vision boarding. I’m pretty sure it’s just an excuse for him to practice his presentation skills on a captive audience.”
“Vision boarding?”
“Don’t ask. The less you know, the longer you can maintain your sanity.”
Your phone buzzes insistently, and you flip it open to see several messages from Hoseok. The tiny screen forces you to scroll through them one by one, which is annoying as hell.
“Popular guy?” Yuki observes.
“He’s having some kind of creative crisis,” you explain, quickly snapping the phone shut. “Probably not actually urgent.”
“Artists,” Yuki says with the tone of someone who’s dealt with creative types before. “They’re all drama queens until they need someone to do their taxes.”
which is probably fair dinkum , though you’re not sure what category Hoseok falls into beyond ‘disaster human who persuades you to wear cat ears.’
“Ready to go?” Amelie appears with her coat and purse, looking like she’s been watching the clock as intensely as you have. “Brianna’s already in the lobby threatening to start without us.”
“More power to her,” you say, shutting down your computer with unnecessary force. “If I read one more word about collagen bioavailability, I’m going to start screaming and never stop.”
“Save it for karaoke,” Yuki suggests. “Channel that rage into musical expression.”
“I told you, I don’t do karaoke.”
“And I told you, we’ll see about that.”
As you gather your things and prepare to escape into the neon-lit freedom of Thursday evening, you realise this is the first time since moving to Osaka that you’ve felt like you might actually belong somewhere. Not just tolerated as the foreign hire, but actually… included.
It’s a nice feeling.
Even if it’s happening in the context of collective corporate trauma.
Your phone buzzes again, but this time you ignore it. Whatever artistic crisis Hoseok is having can wait.
Right now, you’ve got collagen to survive and new friends to bond with over shared suffering.
Which is basically the foundation of all the best friendships, when you think about it.
The jazz bar is exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find in the narrow alleys of Shinsaibashi—dark wood, dim lighting, and cigarette smoke hanging in the air like a permanent fog.
The kind of establishment that probably hasn’t changed its decor since 1987 and isn’t planning to start now.
“This place is perfect,” Brianna announces, sliding into a booth that’s seen better decades. “Atmospheric depression is exactly what I need after today’s budget meeting.”
“Atmospheric depression is my natural state,” you mutter, claiming the corner seat where you can watch the room without being watched back.
Old habits from feeling out of place in every social situation since moving here.
Amelie appears with a tray of drinks that she definitely didn’t pay for with her own money. “The bartender took pity on us when I mentioned we work for Synergy International Marketing. Apparently we’re not the first corporate refugees to wash up here.”
“Smart business model,” you observe, accepting what appears to be whiskey that’s probably older than you are. “Cater to the professionally miserable.”
The place is busier than you’d expected for a Thursday evening.
There’s a low stage where someone’s setting up a drum kit as a person who actually knows what they’re doing, and scattered throughout the room are the usual suspects—salarymen loosening their ties, a few couples on dates that are either going very well or very badly, and the occasional person sitting alone at the bar nursing a drink and their existential crisis.
Like the guy three stools down from where your group claimed a small table.
He’s… interesting.
Not in the obvious way that makes you roll your eyes at yourself for looking, but in the subtle way that makes you keep glancing over without meaning to.
Dark hair that looks like he runs his hands through it when he’s thinking, sharp jawline, the kind of understated good looks that sneak up on you.
He’s wearing a simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and there’s something about the way he holds himself that suggests he’s comfortable being alone but not necessarily happy about it.
More importantly, he looks mildly pissed off at the general concept of existence, which is honestly your type in a way that’s probably concerning.
“Earth to Y/N,” Yuki waves a hand in front of your face. “You’re doing that thing where you disappear into your own head.”
“I’m observing,” you correct, taking a sip of whiskey that burns in exactly the right way. “It’s called situational awareness.”
“Mhm not like you’re staring at the cute bartender now, huh?”
You nearly choke on your drink. “I wasn’t—he’s not the bartender.”
“Oh, so you admit you were staring at someone.” Amelie grins with the predatory satisfaction of someone who’s caught you in something. “Details, please.”
“There are no details. I was just… noticing the demographic composition of the clientele.”
Which sounds ridiculous even to you, but you’re committed to the bit now.
“The demographic composition,” Brianna repeats slowly. “Davidson rubbing off on you now?”
“Don’t ever say something like that again.” You gasp. “I’m just a natural people observer.”
“You’re naturally repressed,” Yuki counters, “but we’re working on that.”
Before you can formulate a suitably cutting response, Adao returns from wherever he disappeared to with what appears to be a deck of cards and, by the look on his face, about to suggest something inadvisable.
“Cards?” he asks, setting them on the table with a soft thud.
“What kind of cards?” you ask suspiciously, because you’ve learned to be wary of seemingly innocent suggestions from people who spend their days fixing other people’s technical disasters.
“The kind that go well with alcohol,” he replies, which is both completely unhelpful and probably accurate.
Amelie claps her hands together as if she’s been waiting for an excuse to make questionable decisions. “Are we talking drinking games? Because I have strong opinions about drinking games.”
“Please tell me one of those opinions is that we’re too old for drinking games,” you say, already knowing you’re fighting a losing battle.
“Absolutely not. If anything, we’re exactly the right age for drinking games. Old enough to have good alcohol tolerance, young enough to survive the consequences.”
“I’m pretty sure my alcohol tolerance peaked at twenty-two and has been in steady decline ever since.”
“Only one way to find out,” Brianna says, reaching for the cards. “What are we playing?”
“Kings,” Adao suggests, which is when you realise that the quiet IT guy might actually be the most dangerous person at this table.
“I hate Kings,” you announce, because it’s true and because you’re obligated to at least pretend to have standards.
“You hate fun,” Yuki corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“I hate forced fun. There’s a difference.”
But you’re already reaching for the cards anyway, because despite your better judgment and your well-documented aversion to group activities that require emotional vulnerability, there’s something about this particular group that makes the prospect of ritualized drinking seem less horrible than usual.
Maybe it’s the shared trauma of surviving Davidson’s corporate nightmare. Maybe it’s the whiskey. Maybe it’s the way the guy at the bar keeps catching your peripheral vision and you need something to distract yourself from the fact that you’re apparently the kind of person who stares at strangers in bars now.
“Fine,” you sigh, settling back in your seat. “But I’m not doing anything that involves singing or confessing personal secrets.”
“Don’t give up so soon,” Amelie says with a grin that suggests your objections have been noted and will be completely ignored.
The first few rounds are relatively harmless—basic rules, creative interpretations, the kind of silly nonsense that feels ridiculous but isn’t actually threatening. You end up drinking more than you’d planned, which is concerning given that you’d planned to drink quite a bit already.
By the time someone draws the seven of hearts and declares a new rule about having to speak in accents, you’re warm and loose-limbed in a way that feels dangerous and comfortable at the same time.
Now that jazz music has started—actual live music from actual musicians who know what they’re doing—combined with good whiskey, decent company, and competent saxophone… You can feel your general resistance to human socialization dwindling.
“Your turn,” Brianna nudges you, sliding the deck across the small table.
You draw a card without looking and flip it over.
King of spades.
“Ooh, category,” Amelie announces. “This should be good.”
You stare at the card, your slightly alcohol-fuzzy brain trying to come up with something that won’t immediately reveal too much about your psychological landscape or current fixations.
“Things that are overrated,” you finally decide, because it’s safe and allows you to channel your natural pessimism into something productive.
“Easy,” Yuki goes first. “Team building exercises.”
“Quinoa,” from Amelie.
“Cryptocurrency,” Adao contributes with surprising vehemence.
“New Year’s resolutions,” Brianna adds.
The game continues around the table, with everyone getting increasingly creative and specific with their answers, and you’re actually enjoying yourself in a way that feels foreign but not unwelcome.
You’re reaching for another card when the door opens and someone walks in, bringing a gust of cool night air and the sound of Shinsaibashi foot traffic with them.
You don’t look up immediately—you’re focused on not knocking over your drink and maintaining what’s left of your coordination—but there’s something about the way the atmosphere in the room shifts that makes you aware of the new arrival without having to turn around.
And then you hear it.
A snort of laughter from the direction of the bar. Not polite bar-appropriate chuckling, but an actual snort—sharp and genuine and somehow familiar in a way that makes your stomach do something weird.
The guy you’ve been not-quite-watching is grinning now, looking up from his drink toward whoever just walked in, and there’s something about that smile that transforms his entire face from ‘attractively brooding’ to ‘actually devastating.’
You can’t help yourself. You look up to see what could possibly be amusing enough to break through what appeared to be a fairly solid wall of existential irritation.
And that’s when you see him.
Jung Hoseok.
Ott.
Standing near the entrance in a paint-stained blue hoodie and jeans that have seen better days, scanning the room with that particular brand of casual confidence that somehow makes him look like he belongs everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
The same Hoseok who’s been texting you increasingly unhinged questions about cat anatomy and artistic reference materials.
The same Hoseok you’ve been posing for for his ridiculous manga.
And he’s here. In this bar. Apparently friends with the guy you’ve been staring at for the past hour.
“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, which isn’t quite quiet enough to go unnoticed by your tablemates.
“Something wrong?” Yuki asks, following your gaze toward the entrance.
“No,” you say quickly, sinking lower in your seat and hoping the dim lighting will somehow render you invisible. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. Totally fine.”
Which is when Hoseok completely ignores your existence and slides onto the stool next to the guy you’ve been watching. Just sits right down like he owns the place, bumping shoulders with Mr. Attractive Grump in a way that suggests they’ve done this a thousand times before.
Of course. Of fucking course.
The universe has a sick sense of humor, apparently.
You watch as Hoseok says something that makes the bartender snort again—that same sharp sound that made your stomach do stupid things five minutes ago. Except now you know it’s connected to your ridiculous manga artist friend, which makes it infinitely more annoying and somehow infinitely more attractive at the same time.
“Y/N, you’re doing that thing again,” Yuki observes, dealing out cards for the next round.
“What thing?”
“The thing where you look like you’re mentally calculating the structural integrity of the building while secretly plotting someone’s demise.”
“I don’t plot people’s demise,” you lie, accepting another card and trying to focus on anything other than the way Hoseok’s hair is doing that stupid thing where it curls slightly at the nape of his neck.
Since when do you notice his stupid neck?
“Jack of clubs,” Brianna announces. “Truth or dare.”
“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter automatically.
“That’s not how you play,” Amelie laughs. “Pick one.”
You glance toward the bar where Hoseok is gesticulating wildly while telling what appears to be an extremely animated story.
Why are you like this?
“Truth,” you say, because dares inevitably involve human interaction and you’re already at your social limit for the evening.
“Boring,” Yuki declares. “But fine. Who were you staring at earlier?”
“I wasn’t staring at anyone.”
“That’s not an answer, that’s deflection.”
“Deflection is my natural state.”
“Fine, rephrase,” Brianna cuts in with the kind of tone that probably makes her terrifying in meetings. “Who in this bar would you hypothetically find attractive if you were hypothetically the kind of person who noticed attractive people?”
You take a long sip of whiskey and consider your options.
Lie and pick someone random, thus ending this line of questioning quickly.
Tell the truth about the guy at the bar, thus opening yourself up to endless harassment from your new corporate trauma-bonding friends.
“Dark-haired guy over there.” You grumble, nodding slightly in said direction.
All of them look. Of course they do, subtlety it’s not a mandatory skill in the job descriptions, clearly.
“Oh, he’s cute.” Amelie agrees with a smile.
“You think he’s a bartender?” Briana asks.
“If he is I should go over there and personally order a drink from him.” Amelie nudges her shoulder.
“The guy next to him is cute too.” Yuki joins in.
“Wait, you’re so right…”
You tune out the conversation and flip the phone in your hand before you fully realise what you’re doing.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (9:47 PM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝.
The response takes a few minutes, but when it comes back, you can see Hoseok across the room checking his phone.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:49 PM): ??? 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝?
You watch as he looks down to check his jeans. He twists slightly on the barstool, trying to see the back of his pants, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing out loud.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:51 PM): 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝??? (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚙𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚎? 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (9:52 PM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑. 𝙽𝚘𝚙𝚎. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝙼𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙺𝚎𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘.
You can see the exact moment he reads your message because his head comes up and starts turning like a confused owl, scanning the bar with increasingly frantic movements.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:54 PM): 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴?! ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:55 PM): 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞!
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:55 PM): 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐?
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:56 PM): 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐?? (◉ω◉)
His head is still swiveling when you finally give up and raise your hand in a small wave. The moment his eyes land on you, his entire face lights up with that stupid grin that makes him look like he’s ten years old and just found out school’s been cancelled.
He waves back with both hands like an overexcited golden retriever, nearly knocking over his drink in the process. The guy next to him—your former object of aesthetic appreciation—leans back slightly to follow Hoseok’s line of sight, and suddenly you’re being observed by two sets of eyes instead of one.
Great. Perfect. Exactly what you needed.
You give a much smaller, significantly less enthusiastic wave in return and immediately go back to studying your cards like they contain the secrets of the universe.
“They’re your friends?”
It’s Yuki who asks—but her tone is slightly softer, like she’s picking up on frequencies you didn’t realise you were broadcasting.
“The brown-haired one is.”
“He seems energetic.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Your phone buzzes again, the tiny screen lighting up with new messages.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:58 PM): 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎!
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (9:59 PM): 𝙽𝚘.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:01 PM): 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝?
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:02 PM): 𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸’𝚖 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:03 PM): 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢??? (つ﹏⊂)
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:04 PM): 𝙸’𝚖 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:05 PM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚈𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
You freeze, glass halfway to your mouth.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:06 PM): 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚈𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎.
You press send before you can second-guess yourself, then immediately regret everything about your existence.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:07 PM): 𝙻𝙼𝙰𝙾𝙾𝙾𝙾𝙾!!! ( ≧∀≦)ﾉ
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:08 PM): 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:09 PM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚞𝚜. ヾ(≧∇≦*)ゝ
You stare at your phone, unsure whether to be flattered or concerned that your nihilistic tendencies are apparently attractive to strangers.
“Everything okay?” Amelie asks, clearly noticing that you’ve been absorbed in your phone for the past five minutes.
“Yeah, just…” You glance toward the bar where Hoseok is watching you with poorly concealed curiosity. “My friend wants me to come sit with him and his friend.”
“The energetic one?”
“The energetic one.”
“Do you want to?” Yuki asks.
Do you want to?
That’s the question, isn’t it.
On one hand, you’re finally having a decent time with people who don’t know about your questionable life choices or your tendency to wear cat ears for money. People who think you’re just the new hire who’s good at roasting corporate buzzwords and bad at pretending to care about collagen peptides.
On the other hand, Hoseok is over there with someone who apparently finds your personality defects attractive, and your social battery is starting to run dangerously low from all this group interaction and forced fun.
And on the third, secret hand that you’re not supposed to acknowledge, there’s something about Hoseok’s energy that’s always been comforting when your social battery drops.
“I don’t know,” you admit, which is more honesty than you usually volunteer.
Yuki nudges you gently with her shoulder, the kind of casual physical contact that doesn’t demand anything but somehow communicates understanding.
“Go recharge your social battery,” she says quietly. “I’ll keep them entertained.”
Which is when you realise that Yuki might be more perceptive than you’ve given her credit for.
Or that maybe, possibly, you’ve been more transparent about your social limitations than you thought.
“You sure?”
“Please. After three hours of Hitoshi explaining budget allocations, entertaining this crowd is going to feel like a vacation.”
You look back toward the bar where Hoseok is now apparently telling Yoongi something that’s making him shake his head with what looks like fond exasperation.
Somehow, they look like people who’ve been putting up with each other’s nonsense for years, and something about that dynamic makes you curious despite yourself.
Also, if you’re being honest, which you’re trying to avoid, you want to know what Hoseok told this Yoongi person about you.
And whether the part about you being his type was serious or just the kind of throwaway comment people make when they’re trying to facilitate introductions.
You grab your drink and make your way across the bar, weaving between tables and trying to look like you’re approaching by choice rather than because you’ve been summoned by texts and curiosity.
Small fragments of conversation drift over from the bar through the jazz and general noise. Hoseok and Yoongi are speaking in rapid Japanese, and you can barely make out what they’re saying.
“…本当にそう思う？” (…do you really think so?) Yoongi’s voice, skeptical.
“いや、でも…” (No, but…) Hoseok sounds uncertain, running a hand through his hair. “…五年間も連絡してなかったし…” (…we didn’t contact each other for five years…)
You catch Yoongi’s dry laugh over the saxophone. “…お前がうざいって思ってるわけない…” (…there’s no way she thinks you’re annoying…)
“でも…” (But…) Hoseok’s voice gets swallowed by a particularly loud trumpet solo.
“…心配しすぎ…” (…you worry too much…) comes Yoongi’s response.
The music swells again, drowning out whatever Hoseok says next, but you catch his nervous laugh and something that sounds like “…昔のことだから…” (…it’s from so long ago…)
By the time you’re close enough to hear clearly, they’ve apparently finished their conversation, and Hoseok is back to his usual animated gesturing about something completely different.
“Capy!” he announces when you’re still three feet away. “You made it!”
“I was already here, you disaster.”
“Details.” He gestures to the empty stool on his other side. “Sit. Meet Yoongi. Yoongi, meet my capybara.”
“Your what now?” The guy—Yoongi—looks between you and Hoseok with the expression of someone who’s used to Hoseok’s nonsense but never quite prepared for it.
“Childhood nickname,” you explain, sliding onto the stool and immediately regretting every decision that led to this moment. “He thinks he’s hilarious.”
“I am hilarious,” Hoseok protests. “You laugh at my jokes.”
“I laugh at you, not with you. There’s a difference.”
Yoongi makes that snorting sound again, and you realise that up close, he’s even more attractive than he was from across the room.
Sharp features, the kind of understated style that suggests he put thought into looking like he didn’t put thought into anything, and eyes that suggest he’s cataloguing everything while pretending not to care.
“So you’re the one who’s been helping him with his… art projects,” Yoongi says, and there’s something in the way he says ‘art projects’ that makes you wonder exactly how much Hoseok has told him about your professional arrangement.
“Something like that,” you reply carefully.
“She’s very dedicated to accurate character reference,” Hoseok adds, which makes your face heat up for reasons you’re not ready to examine.
“Don’t listen to him,” Yoongi continues, gesturing at Hoseok with his drink. “He’s been talking about you nonstop for weeks. ‘My friend from home this, my friend from home that.’ Very annoying.”
“I have not been—” Hoseok starts, then stops when Yoongi gives him a look that could cut glass. “Okay, maybe I mentioned you. Once or twice.”
“Once or twice,” Yoongi repeats slowly. “Right. That’s why you spent twenty minutes yesterday talking about your capybara Wikipedia rabbit hole.”
You snort before you can stop yourself, which earns you an approving nod from Yoongi and an indignant squawk from Hoseok.
“That was legitimate artistic curiosity!” Hoseok protests. “Capybaras have very expressive faces! The way their eyes go all judgmental when they’re annoyed?!”
“Like yours right now,” you observe, and Yoongi makes that attractive snorting sound again.
“I like her,” he announces. “She gets it.”
There’s something about the easy way they banter that makes your chest feel weird and tight. Like you’re watching a dynamic that’s been years in the making, seeing a side of Hoseok that you missed entirely during your five years of minimal contact.
Which is stupid. Of course he made friends. Of course he has people here who know him, who’ve been listening to his random artistic rants and putting up with his chaos energy for years while you were… what?
Doing exactly what you’re doing now, just in a different city with different people who don’t know about his stupid laugh or the way he gesticulates when he gets excited.
“How did you two meet?” you ask, because you’re apparently a masochist who enjoys confirming how much of his life you’ve missed.
“Oh, this is a good story,” Hoseok grins, settling onto his stool like he’s about to perform. “So I’d been here maybe six months, right? Still figuring out the whole freelance artist thing, mostly surviving on convenience store ramen and whatever drawing gigs I could find.”
“Mostly the ramen,” Yoongi interjects dryly.
“Mostly the ramen,” Hoseok agrees. “Anyway, I’m wandering around Shinsaibashi at like two in the morning because I’d just finished this marathon drawing session and I was too wired to sleep. And I see this place—” he gestures around the bar “—and think, ’perfect, I’ll have one drink and then crash’.”
“Famous last words,” you mutter, because you know Hoseok well enough to know this story doesn’t end with one drink.
“Right? So I come in, and this guy—” he jerks his thumb toward Yoongi “—is behind the bar looking like he wants to murder everyone who’s ever existed. Just radiating pure ‘fuck off and die’ energy.”
“Still do,” Yoongi says mildly.
He does.
“Still do,” Hoseok confirms cheerfully. “But I’m an idiot, so instead of taking the hint, I sit down and start talking to him. About art, about Osaka, about how convenience store ramen is basically a food group…”
“He talked for three hours straight,” Yoongi adds. “Three. Hours. I’m pretty sure he didn’t breathe.”
“I breathed!”
Yoongi’s response is a mere noncommittal hum.
But you can picture it perfectly—young Hoseok, probably high on caffeine and artistic adrenaline, chattering at a bartender who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
It’s so quintessentially him that it makes your heart do something uncomfortable.
“And then,” Hoseok continues, “right as I’m getting ready to leave, this drunk businessman starts giving Yoongi shit about being Korean. Like, really nasty stuff.”
The humor drops out of Yoongi’s expression, something harsher replacing it that suggests this story doesn’t stay funny for long.
“So obviously,” Hoseok says, his voice going quieter, “I couldn’t just walk away. I mean, what kind of piece of shit would I be if I just left?”
“The smart kind,” Yoongi mutters.
“Smartness is overrated. Anyway, I may have… accidentally… spilled my drink all over this guy’s expensive suit.”
“Accidentally,” Yoongi adds.
“Totally accidentally. Very clumsy of me. And then when he got all aggressive about it, I may have mentioned that I’d been taking judo since I was eight and would be happy to demonstrate some techniques.”
“You’ve never taken judo in your life,” you point out.
“He didn’t know that! The important thing is, the guy left, Yoongi didn’t get fired for telling a customer to go fuck himself, and we bonded over shared disdain for racist assholes.”
“And then you kept coming back,” Yoongi scoffs.
“And then I kept coming back,” Hoseok agrees. “Like a stray cat. Eventually he gave up trying to get rid of me.”
“I never tried to get rid of you.”
“You literally told me you were closed when you were clearly still serving other customers.”
“That was… selective service.”
You’re watching this entire exchange with the growing realisation that these two have been taking care of each other for years.
Not in any dramatic, obvious way, but in the quiet, consistent manner of people who’ve decided that the other person’s wellbeing is their responsibility now.
It’s sweet. Painfully sweet.
The kind of friendship that makes you happy for Hoseok and desperately jealous at the same time, because you’re seeing proof of everything you missed while you were busy pretending his absence didn’t matter.
“So that’s how I ended up with this guy as my unofficial Osaka guardian,” Hoseok concludes, bumping Yoongi’s shoulder with his own. “Best decision drunk businessman ever made, really.”
“Debatable,” Yoongi says, but he’s almost smiling.
“And that’s also how I found out he’d lived in LA for four years,” Hoseok continues, apparently not done with his Yoongi appreciation speech. “Worked at this dive bar in Koreatown, did some session work for indie bands, the whole struggling artist thing. His English is actually better than mine.”
“Also debatable,” Yoongi replies, and something about the way he says it makes you pause mid-sip of your whiskey.
Wait.
You’ve been sitting here for the past fifteen minutes, in the middle of Osaka, having a dead natural conversation in English with a stranger. Not broken English, not the careful, formal phrases you’re used to hearing from Japanese people practicing their language skills.
Just… normal English. With an American accent.
“You lived in LA,” you say, less a question than a statement of dawning realisation.
“Four years,” Yoongi confirms, apparently amused by whatever expression is currently on your face. “Americans talk too much, so I learned if you speak fluent English, everyone assumes you want to have long conversations about their personal problems. Here, if I pretend not to understand, drunk salarymen give up faster.”
“Very effective customer service strategy,” Hoseok grins.
The conversation continues—stories about Hoseok’s early disasters in Osaka, Yoongi’s deadpan commentary on the local bar scene, the kind of easy back-and-forth that comes from years of knowing your friend.
And you find yourself relaxing in a way that surprises you.
Maybe it’s the whiskey, or maybe it’s the way Hoseok keeps glancing over to make sure you’re following the conversation, like your opinion on his historical adventures actually matters to him. Like he wants you to understand this part of his life, to see how he’s built something good here.
Like he wants you to be part of it.
“She was always the smart one,” Hoseok is saying, apparently in the middle of some story about your childhood that you missed while drowning in feelings. “Like, scary smart. Teachers loved her because she’d actually do the reading, but she’d also ask these questions that made them realise they didn’t actually understand the material.”
“I was not that bad,” you protest.
“You made Mr. Thompson question his entire curriculum when you argued that Banjo Paterson was deliberately using bush ballad forms to critique colonial social hierarchies.”
“He said ‘Waltzing Matilda’ was just a simple folk song. I had to explain the entire political subtext!”
“You were twelve!”
“Art doesn’t have an age limit, Ott.”
Yoongi snorts. “I definitely like her.”
There’s something about the way he says it—not like he’s flirting, exactly, but like he’s genuinely amused by your existence—that makes you feel weirdly validated.
As if you were passing some kind of test you didn’t know you were taking.
“She was also the only person who could make me sit still long enough to actually finish my homework,” Hoseok adds. “I’d get distracted halfway through math problems and start drawing in the margins, and she’d just… sit there until I refocused. Never made me feel stupid about it.”
Your ears automatically perk up at that, because the casual mention of his attention issues catches you off guard.
He’s talking so openly about it now.
He used to do the total opposite.
“Still draws in margins,” Yoongi observes. “I’ve seen his bar napkins. It’s like a gallery of tiny masterpieces and grocery lists.”
“Hey, those grocery lists are very artistic grocery lists.”
“‘Ramen’ written in calligraphy is still just ramen, Hobi.”
Hobi.
He calls him Hobi.
The nickname settles in your chest with a weird warmth, and you realise you’re staring at the way Hoseok’s hair catches the amber light from the bar.
Messy. He’s always so messy. His hair doesn’t escape the definition.
Yet, somehow, you find yourself thinking it suits him.
And suddenly you’re craving yuzu. Sharp, bright, almost bitter citrus that cuts through everything else and leaves this warm, lingering sweetness that you can’t quite shake.
Which is weird, because you haven’t had yuzu in months and you definitely weren’t thinking about citrus a minute ago.
“—always carrying around this sketchbook,” Hoseok is saying, still apparently telling Yoongi stories about your shared past. “And I’d draw constantly. During class, during lunch, probably during sleep if I could figure out how to hold a pencil while unconscious.”
“Some things never change,” Yoongi says, glancing at a cocktail napkin where Hoseok has apparently been unconsciously doodling during the conversation.
“The amazing part,” you find yourself saying, “is that his grades never suffered. He’d be sketching character designs during algebra, but somehow he’d still know exactly what was happening mathematically.”
“Photographic memory,” Hoseok says with a shrug. “Very convenient for academic multitasking.”
“Very annoying for people trying to catch you not paying attention,” you counter.
“You were never trying to catch me not paying attention. You were trying to make sure I actually learned something useful.”
The way he says that is stupidly fond, and you kind of want to flick his forehead just for the sake of it.
But it brings back those memories of you two sitting in the library while he worked through math problems, you reading beside him just in case he needed help focusing, the comfortable silence that meant neither of you had anywhere else you’d rather be.
Your flip phone buzzes against your leg, breaking the spell. You check the tiny screen to see a message from Yuki.
Yuki (10:23 PM): 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝟸 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚘𝚔𝚎. 𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐?
You glance back toward your coworkers’ table, where Yuki is watching you with raised eyebrows and what appears to be a significant amount of empty glasses.
“I should probably get back,” you say, though you’re surprised to realise you don’t actually want to. “My coworkers are about to embark on what I assume will be a tragic karaoke adventure.”
“Tragic karaoke is the best karaoke,” Hoseok grins. “Very emotionally cathartic.”
“I don’t do karaoke, mate.”
“Everyone does karaoke eventually. It’s like taxes or existential dread—unavoidable life experiences.”
“Speak for yourself.”
But you’re sliding off the stool anyway, finishing the last of your whiskey and trying to ignore the way both Hoseok and Yoongi are watching you.
“This was fun,” you say, which is more honesty than you usually volunteer. “Thanks for letting me interrupt your… whatever this is.”
“Mutual emotional support disguised as drinking,” Yoongi replies.
“Very sophisticated,” Hoseok agrees solemnly.
You’re turning around with a chuckle behind your teeth when Hoseok calls after you.
“Hey, Capy?”
You look back, eyebrow raised.
“I’ll be around,” he says, and there’s something in his smile that makes your stomach do that stupid fluttering thing again. “You know, if you need any more character reference consultation.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” you reply, hoping you sound more casual than you feel.
You walk back to your coworkers and their impending karaoke disaster, feeling his eyes following you across the room.
And for once, you don’t mind being watched.
The karaoke place is exactly as tragic as you predicted.
Amelie is currently butchering “My Heart Will Go On” with the kind of passionate conviction that suggests she genuinely believes she’s Celine Dion reincarnated.
Brianna is providing backup vocals that sound like a cat being slowly murdered, and Adao is maintaining his stoic expression while recording everything on what appears to be a digital camera for what you assume are blackmail purposes.
You’re wedged into the corner of the booth, nursing your fourth—fifth?—drink and trying to pretend you’re not constantly checking your phone like a pathetic teenager.
Hoseok hasn’t texted since you left the bar two hours ago.
Not that you care. You’re perfectly capable of enjoying tragic karaoke without input from your ridiculous manga artist friend who probably went home to draw more anatomically questionable cat girls or whatever the hell he does with his evenings.
Except you keep thinking about the way he said “I’ll be around” with that stupid smile that made you question why you hadn’t joined them earlier.
And you keep thinking about Yoongi, who definitely has the kind of dry humor and general misanthropy that you find attractive in theory but probably terrible in practice.
And about how spongy and soft and marshmallow-y Ott’s hair looked under the bar lighting and why you suddenly crave citrus every time you look at him, which is obviously just your brain making weird connections because you’re drunk and overthinking everything.
“Your turn!” Yuki announces, shoving the microphone in your face.
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on, we’ve all humiliated ourselves. It’s only fair.”
“I don’t do public humiliation.”
“Everyone does public humiliation eventually,” Amelie calls from where she’s collapsed dramatically across the table. “It’s like taxes or—”
“—existential dread,” you finish automatically, and then immediately hate yourself for quoting Hoseok.
“Exactly!” Yuki grins. “See, you get it.”
“I get that you’re all drunk and making terrible decisions.”
“The best kind of decisions,” Brianna declares, which is rich coming from someone who just spent ten minutes singing “Sweet Caroline” in what she claimed was a Cockney accent but sounded more like she was having a stroke.
Your flip phone sits on the sticky table in front of you, screen dark and mocking. You’ve been hovering over Hoseok’s contact for the past twenty minutes, typing and deleting messages like a complete disaster.
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙷𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕.
Delete.
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢.
Delete.
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚞𝚣𝚞?
Delete delete delete, what the fuck is wrong with you.
“Earth to Y/N,” Yuki nudges you with her elbow. “You’re doing that thing again where you disappear into your own head.”
“I’m not,” you lie.
“You’re staring at your phone like it owes you money.”
Fuck. Are you really that obvious?
“I’m just checking the time.”
“It’s 12:43 AM,” Adao supplies helpfully, glancing at his watch. “You’ve checked six times in the past ten minutes.”
“I’m a very time-conscious person.”
“You’re a very something person,” Yuki observes, but there’s no judgment in it, just a smile.
You sigh, which might have came off rather as a groan, and feel now the sake really sinking in.
The liquor has definitely made everything feel heaps cosier.
Proof of it is the fact that your coworkers have officially crossed from ‘work acquaintances’ into ‘people you actually like,’ which is dangerous territory for someone who’s been carefully maintaining emotional distance from most human connections.
But they’re not pushing. They’re not demanding explanations or making you sing or treating you like the weird foreign girl who doesn’t quite fit.
Which makes sense because, in a way, you’re all foreigners here.
But more than that it’s how they just… let you exist in the corner with your phone anxiety and your tendency to overthink everything.
It’s nice. Unusual, but nice.
“Fine,” you announce, grabbing your phone before you can second-guess yourself into eternity. “I’m texting someone. Happy?”
“Ooh, someone?” Amelie perks up with the interest of someone who’s been drinking steadily for three hours. “The someone from the bar?”
“There was no someone at the bar.”
“The someone you were definitely not staring at.”
“I wasn’t staring at anyone.”
“Right, and I wasn’t just murdering Celine Dion for the past five minutes.”
You look down at your phone, flip it open, and navigate to Hoseok’s contact info. The cursor blinks in the empty message field, and the alcohol has loosened something in your chest, made all your careful boundaries feel suddenly negotiable.
Fuck it.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:44 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚈𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚝.
Send.
Immediate regret floods your system, but it’s too late now. The message is out there, floating in digital space, broadcasting your drunk thoughts to someone who definitely doesn’t need to know about your aesthetic preferences.
Your phone buzzes almost immediately.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:44 AM): ???????? (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:45 AM): 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔?
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:45 AM): 𝙽𝚘.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:46 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚝.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:47 AM): 𝙸’𝚖 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚕𝚎.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:48 AM): 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:48 AM): 𝙰𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑. (・_・;)
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:49 AM): 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:50 AM): 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠?
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:50 AM): 𝙺𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:51 AM): 𝙰𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚞𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚖.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:52 AM): 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝙰𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎. (◕‿◕)
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:52 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙰𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:53 AM): 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚘𝚔𝚎.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:54 AM): 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚜.
You stare at your phone, grinning despite yourself. Even drunk and anxious and surrounded by the musical equivalent of war crimes, talking to Hoseok feels easy. Like slipping into a conversation you never actually finished.
Your next message types itself without conscious input.
Something you’ll probably regret tomorrow morning.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:55 AM): 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙?
So there’s that.
Your drunk fingers apparently have their own agenda, one that involves making assumptions about Hoseok’s evening plans and your own transportation needs.
The screen shows that your message has been delivered, but no response comes immediately. You stare at the tiny screen, waiting for the little envelope icon to appear.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:57 AM): 𝙳𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚙?
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:57 AM): 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:58 AM): 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:59 AM): 𝙼𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙼𝚢 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚁𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (1:00 AM): 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞?
You send him the location, then immediately panic about the implications of asking Jung Hoseok to come collect you from karaoke like you’re some kind of damsel in distress who can’t navigate Osaka’s public transportation system.
Except you are kind of drunk, and the trains have probably stopped running, and the thought of going back to your sterile corporate housing alone makes you want to cry a little.
Even if you’ll never tell anyone that.
“Leaving?” Yuki asks, apparently reading your body language like it comes naturally to her.
You nod, not trusting yourself to explain the situation without revealing more than necessary about your complicated feelings regarding childhood friends and their stupid attractive hair.
“Good call. I think Adao’s about to attempt something by The Cure, and that way lies madness.”
“The Cure is art,” Adao protests mildly, but he’s grinning in a way that suggests he’s absolutely planning to traumatize everyone with his interpretation of ‘Boys Don’t Cry.’
You’re gathering your purse and trying to calculate whether you’re sober enough to walk in a straight line when the karaoke room door opens and Brianna’s head pops up like a meerkat scenting danger.
“Hang on,” she says, and there’s suddenly something sharp and protective in her voice. “You’re not going home with some random Japanese guy, are you?”
The question hits different than it would coming from anyone else.
Because from what you’ve gathered tonight—Brianna’s been in Japan longer than any of you, speaks the language fluently, knows exactly what kind of shit foreign women deal with on a daily basis.
So her concern isn’t patronizing. It’s based.
“Not random,” you say carefully. “Friend from home. Known him since we were kids.”
“The energetic one from the bar?”
“That’s him.”
Brianna studies your face for a few seconds, and you realise right then and there that’s why everyone finds her so terrifying in business meetings. “You sure you’re okay with him?”
You don’t know why the question makes something loose in your chest.
It probably has to do with having someone check, having someone care enough to make sure you’re not making drunk decisions that you’ll regret in the morning.
“Yeah,” you say, and mean it. “I’m sure.”
Hoseok might be many things—chaotic, ridiculous, the kind of person who asks urgent questions about cat anatomy at inappropriate hours—but he’s not someone you need protection from.
If anything, he’s the kind of person who’d throw his drink on racist businessmen and then lie about his martial arts training to back up his friends.
“Okay,” Brianna nods, apparently satisfied. “But text when you get there, yeah? And if he turns out to be a creep, call me. I know people.”
“Noted.”
Your phone buzzes.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (1:02 AM): 𝙾𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎. 𝙱𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚎, 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (1:02 AM): 𝙱𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.
You hug your coworkers goodbye—actual hugs, which is foreign territory for you but feels surprisingly natural—and promise to suffer through collagen meetings together.
Then you’re out of the karaoke dungeon and into the cool Osaka night air, where Jung Hoseok is indeed waiting in the blue hoodie and jeans from when you last left him at Midnight Keys.
“Capy!” he grins when he sees you. “You look significantly less miserable than I expected.”
“The bar was low,” you reply, but you’re smiling despite yourself. “Thanks for coming to get me.”
“Always,” he says. “Want to crash at mine? Your place is like forty minutes by train, and you look like you might fall asleep standing up.”
“Yeah,” you hear yourself saying. “That sounds good.”
And maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the way he falls into step beside you like no time has passed at all, but for the first time since moving to Osaka, you don’t feel lonely.
Even if you’re absolutely going to regret every decision that led to this moment when you wake up tomorrow with a hangover and the memory of drunk-texting about his friend’s attractiveness.
But that’s tomorrow’s problem.
Right now, you’ve got Jung Hoseok walking beside you through the neon-lit streets of Shinsaibashi, and his presence feels like coming home to something you didn’t realise you’d been missing.
The walk to Hoseok’s flat is a blur of neon convenience store signs and the distant rumble of the last trains heading toward the suburbs.
Your head has that pleasant floating quality that comes from exactly the right amount of alcohol—not enough to make the world spin.
The same can’t be said for the multiple people laying around on the ground.
“You’re being unusually quiet,” Hoseok observes as you climb the four flights to his floor. “Usually you’re complaining about something by now.”
“I’m saving my energy. Your flat building has the structural integrity of wet cardboard. I need to concentrate on not falling through the stairs.”
“Hey, this wet cardboard costs me thirty percent of my income, thank you very much.”
“Thirty percent? Christ, Ott, what are you spending your money on?”
“Art supplies. Ramen. The occasional luxury of toilet paper that doesn’t feel like sandpaper.”
“Living the dream.”
“Absolutely.”
The familiar ritual of shoes off, keys in the little dish by the door follows.
Momo appears from wherever sugar gliders hide during normal human hours, chittering softly as she glides from her cage to Hoseok’s shoulder in one fluid motion.
“Hey, princess,” he murmurs, reaching up to scratch behind her ears. “How was your evening? Did you miss me?”
She responds with a series of soft trills that sound almost like conversation, and you watch as Hoseok’s entire demeanor shifts into something gentle and nurturing.
It’s the same voice he uses when he’s explaining difficult art techniques or when you’re having a particularly bad day—patient and careful and impossibly kind.
“Still won’t let me near her,” you observe, settling onto the couch and pulling your knees up to your chest.
“She’s working up to it. Trust doesn’t come easy for her.”
“How long did it take for her to trust you?”
“Six months. Maybe seven. She spent the first few weeks hiding in the back of her cage whenever I tried to feed her. Had to leave food and just… wait. Let her figure out I wasn’t going to hurt her.”
Momo settles into the hood of his sweatshirt, curled up like a tiny, fluffy guardian. She watches you with bright, curious eyes but makes no move to approach.
“Patience isn’t exactly your strong suit,” you point out.
“It is when it matters.”
He doesn’t look at you when he says that, but you find yourself glancing at him.
“So,” you say, because the silence is starting to feel loaded in ways you’re not equipped to handle. “What’s the entertainment situation? Please tell me you have something better than those nature documentaries you used to be obsessed with.”
“Hey, those nature documentaries were educational!”
“You made me watch two hours of penguin mating rituals, Ott.”
“And you learned valuable information about Antarctic breeding patterns!”
“I learned that you have questionable taste in educational programming.”
He grins and starts rummaging through a stack of VHS tapes next to his ancient television.
“How do you feel about anime? I’ve got some classics.”
“Define ‘classics’ because your definition and the actual definition have historically been very different things.”
“Cowboy Bebop. Neon Genesis Evangelion. Some Miyazaki stuff.”
You pause, genuinely surprised. “Those are… actually good choices.”
“I contain multitudes, Capy.”
“You contain multitudes of bad decisions and an inexplicable ability to find the one working vending machine in a three-block radius.”
“That’s a bloody specific and useful skill, thank you very much.”
He settles on Cowboy Bebop, which you’re fine with because you’ve seen it before and it doesn’t require much brain power to follow. Plus, the jazz soundtrack feels appropriate for your current state of mind—loose and wandering and slightly melancholy in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.
Momo occasionally pokes her tiny head out of Hoseok’s hoodie pouch to observe the proceedings with the judgment only a rescued sugar glider can muster.
You’re about fifteen minutes into the first episode when your feet start that familiar ache—the particular throb that comes from wearing shoes that looked cute in the store but were definitely not designed for actual human locomotion.
“Fuck,” you mutter, shifting position and trying to find somewhere comfortable to put your legs.
“Chuck us your feet,” Hoseok says without looking away from the screen.
You nearly choke on your own spit. “Excuse me?”
He turns to look at you with the expression of someone who’s just realised he said something that could be wildly misinterpreted. His eyes go wide and he starts laughing—that sharp, surprised bark that means he’s genuinely caught off guard.
“What? No! Jesus, Capy, I meant—” He’s still laughing, running a hand through his hair. “You always complain about your feet when you drink. Ever since we were like seventeen and you’d nick stubbies from your dad’s fridge and then walk around in those ridiculous heels you thought made you look sophisticated.”
Oh.
Right. House parties in your hometown where you’d spend half the night complaining about your feet and the other half refusing to take off the shoes because you were convinced they made you look older.
And Hoseok, who somehow always remembered these random details about people’s weird habits and quirks.
“That’s…” You pause, because it’s simultaneously sweet that he remembers and mildly horrifying that your drunk foot problems have been consistent for years. “That’s a deadset thing to remember.”
“I remember lots of weird things. Did you know that alcohol causes vasodilation, which leads to swelling in your extremities? And when you combine that with shoes that were already too tight because you buy them based on aesthetic rather than actual foot comfort…”
“Are you seriously mansplaining my own feet to me right now?”
“I’m providing helpful physiological context for why you’re sitting there making the exact same face you made at Sarah Chen’s Year 12 formal when you wore those silver strappy things that left marks on your ankles for three days.”
Fuck. He really does remember everything.
You look down at your feet—currently free but previously imprisoned in ankle boots that seemed like a good idea eight hours ago but now feel like medieval torture devices.
“Fine,” you grumble, swinging your legs up onto his lap before you can overthink it further. “But if you make it weird, I’m kicking you in the face.”
“Noted.” He glances at the boots near the entry. “Jesus, Capy, how do you even walk in those things?”
“Very carefully and with heaps of internal screaming.”
“Why do women do this to themselves?”
“Because we’re taught that suffering is the price of beauty, and also because these boots make my legs look good.”
“Your legs look fine without torture devices,” he says matter-of-factly, already working his thumbs into the arch of your foot.
His hands are warm when he starts working on the pressure points, and you have to bite back a groan of relief because holy shit, when did he get so good at this?
“Where did you learn to do that?” you ask, settling deeper into the couch cushions.
“YouTube,” he says cheerfully. “Went down a weird rabbit hole about reflexology when I was trying to fix my carpal tunnel. Turns out foot massage is surprisingly complicated.”
“YouTube University strikes again.”
“YouTube University is how I learned to cook eggs properly, fix my broken window latch, and identify seventeen different species of Japanese beetles. Very comprehensive educational institution.”
You close your eyes and let yourself focus on the steady pressure of his thumbs against your arch, the warm weight of his hands.
It’s nice. Comfortable in a way that feels both foreign and familiar—like muscle memory for friendship you forgot you had.
“So,” you say after a while, because you’re starting to feel too relaxed and that’s dangerous territory, “sleeping arrangements. Might as well address the logistics before we’re both too tired to think straight.”
He chuckles, not pausing in his ministrations. “You keep sleeping on the couch, so…”
“You’re so ungentlemanly,” you groan, though there’s no real complaint in it. “What happened to chivalry? What happened to giving the lady the bed?”
“What happened to feminism and women being perfectly capable of making their own sleeping decisions?”
“Don’t use feminism to justify your lack of basic courtesy, you disaster.”
“The couch folds out,” he offers, like this is some kind of magnificent compromise. “In case this becomes a regular thing.”
You open one eye to glare at him. “This isn’t going to become a regular thing.”
“Right. Completely one-time occurrence.” His voice has taken on that particular tone that suggests he’s about to be insufferable. “Except for today. And yesterday. And the day before yesterday when you came over to ‘help with character design’ and ended up falling asleep during that nature documentary about—”
“Okay, I get it. Shut up.”
He chuckles again, the sound vibrating through his chest, and you realise somewhere in the past few minutes you’ve basically turned into a boneless puddle on his couch.
Your head is resting against the arm of the sofa, your legs are still draped across his lap, and Momo has apparently decided you’re safe enough to venture closer—she’s now perched on the couch back, watching the anime with what appears to be genuine interest.
“Seriously though,” Hoseok continues, and his voice has shifted into something more genuine, “you can crash here whenever. I mean, if you want. If your corporate housing gets too depressing or your coworkers try to make you sing Celine Dion again.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes your chest feel weird. Like he means it. Like the offer isn’t just politeness but actual… friendship.
The real kind, where someone wants you around even when you’re a mess
“My housing isn’t that depressing,” you mutter, though even as you say it, you’re thinking about the beige walls and the fluorescent lighting and the way everything smells like industrial carpet cleaner.
“I’ll have to come see it,” he says. “Get the full experience of corporate-sponsored misery.”
You find yourself looking at his profile as he watches the screen—the way he’s concentrating on the anime like it’s actually important, the slight smile that suggests he’s enjoying himself.
It’s… nice. Having someone who wants to see your shitty living situation not because they’re judging but because they’re curious about your life.
“Yeah, sure,” you hear yourself saying. “But don’t get your expectations too high. It’s like your place, but ten times worse and with the bonus of a neighbour who practices violin at six in the morning.”
“A violin? Like, classical violin?”
“Very bad classical violin. I reckon she’s working through a beginner book. Slowly. With heaps of screeching.”
“That’s… actually kind of tragic.”
“Everything about my living situation is tragic. That’s why I keep ending up here, bothering you and eating your food.”
“You’re not bothering me, mate.” He says it quietly, still focused on the screen, but there’s something in his voice that makes you look at him more carefully. “And you barely eat my food. You bring your own snacks like some kind of considerate house guest.”
“I steal your coffee.”
“I buy coffee specifically because you drink it when you’re here.”
That stops you short. Because that’s… that’s not something you do for someone who’s just crashing occasionally.
That’s something you do for someone whose presence you enjoy.
“Thanks,” you say finally, and your voice comes out smaller than you intended.
“For what?”
You shrug, though he can’t see it with your head tilted back against the couch.
“For picking me up. For letting me crash in your space. For…”
For not forgetting me those five years.
But you can’t say that. Can’t admit that part of you had wondered, during the long stretches of minimal contact, whether you’d mattered enough to be remembered. Whether the friendship that had felt so essential to your teenage self had been as important to him as it was to you.
“For not being weird about it,” you finish instead.
His hands pause in their steady pressure against your feet, just for a moment, and when you glance up, he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read.
“Never weird, Capy. She’ll be right,” he says softly. “Just… glad you’re here.”
And that’s when you realise that somewhere between the foot massage and the comfortable silence and the way Momo has decided you’re trustworthy enough to share couch space, you’ve remembered why you used to be best friends.
Because he’s the kind of person who remembers your stupid problems and fixes them without making it weird. Who buys coffee specifically for you and doesn’t make a big deal about it.
Who makes you feel like coming home to yourself.
if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'◟(˃̶͈̀ o ˂̶͈́)◞'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode
next | index
—taglist @sanarin @hobis-sprite0218 @billy-jeans23 @ggukjugoo @jadestonedaeho7 @a-kookie-with-my-tae @mar-lo-pap @ironyatitsfinest @itsmollaylay @impossiblecopoaffire @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear @bettytta @ilikekpop-c @yuyu0y11 @amarawayne @sugak00kie134340 @cravingforbangtan @rpwprpwprpwprw @namgimini @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @j0cgr0c @kelsyx33 @nellbyy @seokjinthescientist @jazzluvrr
© jungkoode 2025
no reposts, translations, or adaptations
