𝙁𝘼𝙇𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙂 || [JINKOOK FF]

[4]

𝐊𝐢𝐦 𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐤𝐣𝐢𝐧:

Abruptly, Jungkook laughs. He pulls the card away and studies it incredulously. “Young Olympians? This is fucking hilarious. Where did you get this?”

“I—” I want him to give it back. I want him to get out a pen and say nice things about Ji-Hoon while he writes his name. Because that’s the guy I worshiped.

“How much do you want for it? I’ll beat whatever you were going to get on eBay, signed. I need one of these.”

“It’s not for sale.”

He holds the card up between two fingers, eyes dangerous, and for a second, I’m certain he’s going to tear it in half. “You have some fucking balls to show me this.” His other hand cups, like he’s still holding mine.

And without another word, he walks into the house.

  ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐉𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐤:

Threehoursearlier—

Every morning I wake up too early, sick to my stomach. I curl into a ball under the covers and scroll through my phone for an undetermined amount of time—celebrity gossip, people from TheBachelorette and Love Island that I know better than my own family. Then it’s straight to the pool. No piss, no breakfast; I don’t even bother to open my eyes properly until I’ve coasted along the bottom from one end to the other and back without taking a breath. Because the ache in my lungs, pretending I might not choose to surface this time, is the only thing that gets my heart pumping anymore.

But today, I stop dead in the doorway of the dining room I never use. I close my eyes and open them again, hoping it will make everything disappear. It doesn’t. There’s food all over my table—croissants, Danishes, crullers. A pitcher of orange juice. A vase of yellow flowers.

Whatever employee of my family delivered this shit must have let themselves right in when I didn’t answer. I wish I could nail boards over the door.

I dump one tray in the garbage before the doorbell rings. I wish I lived in a normal neighborhood so that maybe I would see a gang of kids running away, leaving a flaming bag of shit on the step.

Instead, it’s my father. I haven’t seen him in five years and eight months.

We stare at each other. He’s big and square in a big, square suit. My pajama shirt is a baggy tee with a ripped neck that says Salty Bitch over a picture of that Morton salt umbrella girl. He probably gets a good look at the ass of my neon yellow briefs as I turn around and walk away.

He bangs the front door shut as I strip my clothes and take a running jump into the pool. Hope he enjoys the fucking crullers. Hope he chokes on one.

The man is alive and well when I come back inside with a towel around my waist. He’s buttering a croissant and reading a newspaper he carries around in his suit pocket to remind people he’s a traditional, salt of the earth fellow who couldn’t speak English until he was fifteen but still came to South Korea and made billions.

I sit down at the far end of the table and rest my chin on my arms, watching him, waiting. A clock ticks in the next room. I forgot I had a clock. Time doesn't pass in this house.

“Are you or are you not going to accept my job offer?” I guess he means the one from six years ago for me to become some boot-licking manager in his tech empire. I was a little distracted at the time, what with the doping scandal of the decade and all. He pushes an empty espresso cup at me and I stand up automatically, turning on the dusty machine. I’ve had his obscenely complicated drink order memorized since I was twelve.

All the food is making me hungry. I dig a pack of gum out of the credenza drawer and chew on it as I wait for the coffee to brew. “Absolutely not.”

“You understand that if you never learn to run your family’s company, I won’t pass it down to you. I’d rather leave it to my dog.”

“Mhmm.” Hiking my hip up onto the table, I pick up  pastries one at a time and lob them at the trash. I’m no good at any sport besides swimming, so most of them hit the floor in a mess of crumbs and powdered sugar.

“This is your final offer.”

A cinnamon roll bounces off the can so hard it tips over. I raise my eyebrows at him.

“Very well.” Instead of leaving, he reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a folder, setting it on the table. I hold my breath. Nothing good comes out of that case. “I’m buying an Italian dating app.”

“I don’t think Mom uses those. You should have just kept her phone number.”

Finally, I look into his watery, slate eyes. “What?”

“You heard me. It’s time for you to bring something to this family.”

“No.” I stand up. I pour his espresso into the flower box by the window, probably killing whatever plant the decorator put there. “No. No, no, no.”

That’s all the power I have, all the power I’ve ever had, to repeat that two-letter word again and again. And just like every other time, no one listens. He taps the folder. “You signed your right of publicity over to me the day I gave you this house.”

It rained that day. I hadn’t eaten or even taken the blanket off my head in six days. I chewed my lips bloody so that I couldn’t cry as the Olympic opening ceremonies played on the TV in my dad’s penthouse flat. I was disgusting.

“We’re going to put this aside,” he said. “All of it.” He handed me the key to a safe place and told me I never had to come out again. But first he slid some documents across the coffee table, offering me a pen as I sat up, shivering. “These will allow me to manage your affairs, so you don’t have to worry about anything else.”

I thought I’d be dead in a month anyway, so it didn’t matter what they said.

“What can you do,” I ask, very slowly, my voice hoarse, “if I refuse?”

“You know the answer to that, son.”

I do. He owns my pathetic life, all the wretched secrets, and there’s nowhere safe in this world but the cage he built me.

“We’re having a press conference later this week to announce the sale and launch the campaign. Namjoon will help you prepare. Don’t worry about the rest of the details. You wouldn’t understand them anyway.”

I don’t have any pride left. I’d fall on my knees in front of him, if I thought it would change his mind. I’d beg. I’d lick the bottom of his shoes.

Some people like to see me do that.