𝙁𝘼𝙇𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙂 || [JINKOOK FF]

[2]

𝐊𝐢𝐦 𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐤𝐣𝐢𝐧:

At the end of July, it happened. She was a completely healthy woman, until she wasn’t. And because of the way it all went down, what happened to Ji-Hoon , not a single member of my extended family offered to help a scared eighteen-year-old take care of his mom.

I never went to college, let alone vet school. But of course, that first day is one of the things she can’t seem to forget. So now I work at a nameless vet clinic, day in, day out, forever. Because if I tell her the truth, all the things that are her fault even though she can’t be blamed…there’s just no fucking point.

The doorbell finally rings. I shove on my boots and hold the door open. “Morning, Min-soo noona.”

“How are we today, Ajumma” The petite older woman ignores my grimace as she waves at Eomma. I’ve made it clear just what I think of all the cheery voices, the we this and we that, the memory games and activities. Like Eomma’s a preschooler. But Min-soo noona wins because she makes my mother happy and bills my insurance the lowest rate she can.

“You girls have fun,” I call, blowing Eomma a kiss before running for my truck. It always takes a few tries to get the thing started, and I can’t afford to be late.

  ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

As soon as I open the front door of Emerald Lawncare’s shitty office, my boss Min-Seok hyung shoves a work order into my hands and points to the company truck, already loaded up with tools. “Gangnam client; I want it done before noon. Make us look good.” Some of the richest people in South Korea aka the “chaebols” live in Gangnam, on the neighborhoods of Cheongdam-dong and Apgujeong-dong, South Korea’s Beverly Hills.

The other guys are watching cat videos and eating breakfast burritos. Eun-Jae gets up and hands me one as an excuse to read over my shoulder. “Holy shit. Why does Seokjin get all the celebrities?”

I push his arm off my neck. “Because you stole a squeaky dog toy from Lee Jae-yong’s (Jay Y. Lee) yard and tried to sell it on eBay.”

“Uh-oh, guys.” He minces back across the room. “Daddy Seokjin’s mad at us again.”

I open my mouth to bitch about why doing my job makes me a downer with a stick up my ass, but the name written on the work order makes everything else disappear.

‘Jeon Jungkook’

It can’t be. He’s more elusive than Bigfoot, more controversial than Tonya Harding. The sheet of paper in my hand is the only evidence I’ve seen that he’s even alive.

I re-read the name, like I might be mixing it up with some other Jungkook who isn’t the gay swimming prodigy that captured the imagination of the entire world. As teenagers, my cousin Ji-Hoon and I watched every one of his competitions and interviews, wondering how someone our age could be so fucking cool when we were busy dealing with acne and braces.

My bisexual closeted ass idolized his effortless confidence about his sexuality. And the way his lips twitched into a smile when an interviewer cracked a joke and the beauty mark underneath his lower lips did something indescribable to my stomach. Hell, I had a life-sized poster of him on my bedroom wall.

On his eighteenth birthday, the day his plane was scheduled to take off for the Rio Olympics, he failed his dope test—not just a little, but catastrophically. He earned a three-year ban from the sport, went on a cocaine-fueled bender, and disappeared off the face of the earth.

****

Anyone would miss the mansion at the end of the cul-de-sac if they weren’t looking for it. The glass and concrete box, set far back from the front gate, fades into the perma-gray sky. My gate code works, so I pull my trailer up the long drive. There’s an imposing Bentley parked to one side with the engine still warm. According to my instructions, I’m supposed to hit the backyard, re-shape the hedges, clean up the edges of the lawn, and leave again.

The salty air feels tight and breathless, like something important is about to happen. Like it matters that I’m here. I chug the butt end of whatever energy drink Eun-Jae left in the cupholder and drag my wagon full of tools around the house.

Even though it’s wrong, I stop and look through the windows at the cold, slightly threatening mid-century modern furniture and abstract paintings. I can’t help it. There’s no way the universe would bring me here, like this, and not give me at least a glimpse of the man whose poster I used to lean against and talk to about my problems. Sure, I ripped up the poster after he got ejected and stuffed it into the trash, under the dog turds and moldy leftovers, but part of me has always believed that he’d redeem himself and come back better than ever.

This is my chance to find out.

The backyard slopes toward a boat house on the lake, framing the brooding Gangnam skyline on the far side. He hasn’t given up swimming, because there’s a black-tiled pool behind the house, surrounded by cedar-colored composite decking. Keeping far away from the water, I tackle the untidy topiaries under the back windows.

But my eyes don’t stay on my work, and the first window I look into isn’t an office or a kitchen. It’s a massive wet room of veined, off-white marble, divided in half by a clear pane of suspended glass. Jeon Jungkook stands wrapped in a spray of shower water, back arched and hands deep in his messy, blond hair. His toned perky ass sports a blatant speedo, like that’s all he wears. I don’t even know how you get a milky skin like that in the South of the (Han) River.

I must be gaping like an idiot when he turns around. My eyes don't travel any lower than the toothbrush hanging out of his mouth before I scramble backward like a dog with its head stuck in a paper bag.

The pool makes a terrific splash when I hit. To most people it would be just a mishap, a few strokes to the ladder, climb out, apologize. But I haven’t been in the water since the day at Hoedong-suwonji with my Eomma and Ji-Hoon and the end of the world, and my whole body just shuts off and becomes a block of concrete that unfortunately has my soul tied to it.

I'm coming, Ji-Hoon.