Namjin Smut

Render Unto Caesar

Written by: Anna (pineconepickers)

Warnings: Internalised and societal homophobia; critique of Christianity and scripture re: homosexuality; mild violence, self-destructive behaviours, discussions of suicide and eating disorders.

Summary:

As the president's son, nothing can taint Namjoon's spotless, filial public image – except, perhaps, being a closeted gay man secretly dating a drag queen.

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카이사르의 것은 카이사르로 – Yun by RM

...καὶ τὰ τοῦ Θεοῦ τῷ Θεῷ. – Matt. 22:21

1.

He had power, but he tried not to be drunk on it.

He was first aware of it in middle school, around the time he became a minister's son: teachers were inexplicably kind to him and let him get away with wrongdoings that the other kids didn't. When he messed up a biology exam, the teacher gave him a good grade anyway.

By high school, also kids paid attention to who was who: the pecking order on the school grounds was a silent, deadly force. Some kids were hesitant to talk to him, would turn their heads and whisper; others flocked to him, eager to be friends, saying quickly who their parents were – but no parent was ever as noted as his mother.

The public appearances started around that time: weekends spent at rallies or other events, clapping on stage for the speeches his mother made.

When he finished high school, his peers called him The Future King. This was half-jest, half-sound judgement.

During the enlistment that followed, he was asked what role he wished to take on – he got to choose, whereas no one else in his squad did. This was never put to him so explicitly: privilege is often offered in platitudes and meaningful pauses. "Having finished your five weeks' training, I wondered what position you see yourself taking?" his commanding officer asked. He answered truthfully. A smile was flashed at him. "Ah, how well-perceived of you, because that role is exactly what I had in mind for you!"

When he returned to civilian life, he was the Prime Minister's son. He was proud and held his head high – that was still a time when life had been simple for him. Before it got dark.

Amidst the hell that was university for him, he was asked to give the occasional interview for a magazine or a newspaper, and he would do photoshoots for family portraits because he had been doing them since age fourteen. They would stand in their garden: his mother in the middle, him to one side, his younger sister – the future politician herself – on the other. Smile at the camera. End up all over his mother's campaign website and leaflets. Circulation in the tens of thousands.

He was recognised on the streets. On campus. In restaurants. He received media training in the evenings at his mother's behest.

The noose tightened.

Sometimes he wished he was like everybody else.

When he graduated, the job offers came in the dozens, before his mother even won the election. It was a narrow call: 53% to 47%.

"The men in this country have always feared female power," his mother said when fixing her suit jacket on the day of the election. She was likely right because this time men feared her enough to vote for her.