Chapter Text
EPILOGUE :: THE END OF LOVE
City of Seoul General Hospital: Kinetic Abilities Unit
Hannam-dong, Yongsan-gu
SEOUL, South Korea
10:53 AM
You’re going to be okay.
The soft, sweet, whispered words were the last thing Jimin remembered hearing, though he had admittedly drifted in and out of consciousness for a good portion of the conversations that had taken place. But Jeongguk’s voice and his gentle touch, his soft lips on Jimin’s forehead, were going to be etched into Jimin’s mind for a long time.
Jimin knew that he was in the hospital before he even opened his eyes. The angle of his bed, the way the sheets were tucked beneath his arms, the way he could feel the IV—all dead giveaways. Every inch of his body ached, from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes. He hadn’t endured the beating that Jeongguk had. But his internal organs, his entire system, had been ravaged with a poison that could have killed him. It almost had.
Dying was an interesting feeling to Jimin. It wasn’t one that he had ever anticipated experiencing so young and so violently, but he had been able to feel everything in excruciating detail, down to the molecule. He had felt his organs shutting down and giving up the ghost. His blood had moved like shards of glass in his veins. The pain in his head had been unbearable while his kinesis had been stripped away. Every breath had felt like all he had was a straw through which to inhale. And yet through all the pain, all the internalized agony from a life unlived, Jimin had thought only of the ways that he had failed Jeongguk.
Gradually, Jimin opened his heavy eyes, blinking in slow motion until his world swam into view. It took only a few seconds of assessment for him to realize that he was in a private room. After another moment, he realized that the door of his room was opening just seconds after he had awoken.
Jimin had been expecting a doctor or nurse. Instead, Jeongguk stepped into the room and slipped his hands into the pockets of his comfortable black pants, the door closing on its own behind him. His hair was pulled back messily and he had visible bruises littering his face, but a few cuts on his face had been bandaged and were healing. He wasn’t scowling or frowning, and Jimin considered whether or not this was one of the first times he had ever seen Jeongguk so calm.
Jimin desperately wanted to speak, but his throat betrayed him. Jeongguk shuffled further into the room, eyes trained on the floor, and then he stopped by Jimin’s bedside. The chair from the corner of the room slid over behind him, and he sat down with a small sigh. He lifted his head, and then he gave Jimin a full visual inspection, eyes narrowing like he was checking to make sure that the hospital staff had done a good job thus far. Even in his injured state, Jimin felt himself smiling. Finally, Jeongguk took a deep breath.
“You look like hell,” he said, and Jimin choked down a laugh, knowing it would hurt if he let it happen.
“Well, you’re ugly,” he fired back, his voice so hoarse that it didn’t even sound like him. The corners of Jeongguk’s mouth turned up with a hint of a smile.
“No I’m not.”
“Be nice to me.” Jimin blinked owlishly. “I almost died.”
“Boo-hoo,” Jeongguk murmured, and finally, they both surrendered and exchanged a fleeting, genuine smile. Jeongguk sniffed and folded his hands together, elbows on the edge of Jimin’s bed as Jimin turned his head on the pillow with care so he could look at the man who had saved his life.
“How are you here?” he whispered.
“Oh.” Jeongguk let out a breath through his nose that sounded like a laugh. “Director Nam and I are best friends now. He gave me VIP access to your room. I think he’s going to give me a job at the DKR.”
“Bullshit.”
“Ninety-five percent bullshit,” Jeongguk confirmed, sounding amused. “He was here three hours ago to check on you before going into work. He gave me a look. But he didn’t seem to mind that I was here. He just seemed to mind that I had the entire hospital staff under my control so I could walk the halls freely.”
“Mm. That’ll do it.”
Jeongguk nodded with a small smile, suddenly silent. Jimin watched as he fiddled with his fingers, itching to reach out and hold his hand, maybe reinforce that everything was going to be okay even though Jimin had no clue if it would be. But Jeongguk broke the silence first.
“I’m leaving.”
“You’re… What?” Jimin whispered, his heart skipping. Jeongguk nodded again.
“Leaving. I’m done. I did everything I wanted to do. My little crusade is over. Seven years I planned this out, and that plan went to shit the moment we linked up. But it still ended up working. I’m finished. So now I’m going to go. I’ve never been out of the country before.”
“You’re… You’re leaving,” Jimin whispered, grappling with the words coming out of Jeongguk’s mouth and letting them settle as best as he could manage. Accepting. Trying to wrap his head around the concept.
“Mhm.” Jeongguk glanced back up at Jimin. “I’m twenty-four. I’ve never had the chance to… I don’t know. Be twenty-four. So I’m going to go. The others have already left. I hung back to come here and say goodbye to you.”
“Others?” Jimin rasped.
“Yeah. Namjoon and Yoongi are—well, I don’t actually know. They ran off the other night when I told them to, and I haven’t heard from them since. But they’re under my protection, so they’ll be fine,” Jeongguk explained. “And Taehyung, he’s… well, he had something he wanted to do. He’s been waiting for a long time. So he’s gone, too.”
“So… So it’s just… over,” Jimin whispered. “Just like that.”
[the end of love] :: florence + the machine
“Well, for us,” Jeongguk said with a small shrug. “For you, it’s probably just beginning. Maybe for Seokjin and Hoseok, too. They’re both fine, since I know you’re going to ask. They were in and out of the hospital in twenty-four hours. Both recovering at home. Both… kind of in limbo, but so far, free from prosecution.”
“And… And TRACK…”
“Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day,” Jeongguk said with a touch of irony. “But the trusted members of the NIS recovered Jo Chansung’s body and all the footage of our ordeal. His confession. Everything. They’ve seized all his assets, and, uh… yeah. Slow process. But a lot of world leaders and important people are going down for this. We don’t even have a sitting president right now. The world is in chaos.”
“Chaos over control,” Jimin murmured, and Jeongguk chuckled, nodding.
“Mm. TRACK has been shut down indefinitely. Director Nam is leading the charge. I appointed him. You’re welcome.”
“Oh, thanks,” Jimin said, his voice cracking as he smiled tiredly. But then his smile vanished, because he remembered exactly how the conversation had started. “You’re leaving.”
“I am. Figured I’d use my abilities to travel the world instead of burning down an entire city,” Jeongguk commented. “Seems like a good slap in the face to Jo Chansung, don’t you think?”
“Jeongguk,” Jimin whispered, and Jeongguk stopped joking, pursing his lips. “I… You… It’s not… even worth it to ask if… I’m not enough to make you stay, am I?”
“No. Because it’s not about you,” Jeongguk said plainly, which Jimin knew. “And you probably know that. I don’t want to stay.”
“But you’ll come back, right?” Jimin asked quietly, feeling his eyes begin to burn. “You… You won’t leave me like that again, will you? I’m—I’m not—Not that I’m depending on you for anything, I just…”
“I get it. You don’t have to explain,” Jeongguk insisted. “I know you’re not dependent. Neither am I. I’m not leaving you. I’m just leaving Seoul.”
“Just… Just promise me that you’ll come back,” Jimin whispered, the first tear slipping from his eye.
“I can’t promise anything, hyung,” Jeongguk said, and Jimin closed his eyes for a moment. As he did, he felt gentle fingers brushing at his cheeks to wipe away the tears, and his heart cartwheeled in bittersweet affection. He heard Jeongguk say “psst,” so Jimin opened his bleary eyes. He then watched as the petals of a red rose slowly unfurled and settled, the stem growing just another inch before Jeongguk pinched it between his fingers and presented it.
Flowers were a form of communication for Jeongguk, Jimin figured. Ever since they were young, Jeongguk had always pulled flowers out of thin air or tickled Jimin’s ear with one just to make him smile, and always to cheer him up or brighten his day. When he hadn’t been able to find the words to say, he had always let something bloom before Jimin’s eyes. Even when Jeongguk had been filled with nothing but jaded disappointment and rage as a teenager, he had still created beautiful things for Jimin. But now, after everything they had been through together, it hurt even more.
Jimin accepted the rose and pressed it to his chest right over his heart, closing his eyes again with a small sniff.
“I should be the one giving you flowers,” he murmured, feeling his face crumple again. Then he heard Jeongguk shift, and a forehead pressed to his, two hands braced on the bed beside Jimin’s thighs.
“You being alive is enough,” Jeongguk whispered.
“I lost you for seven years, Jeongguk,” Jimin whispered in return, frozen with the rose over his heart. “I… I barely got you back. Don’t—Please don’t be gone for seven more years. Please. I—I can’t go seven years without seeing you.”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” Jeongguk replied. “I want to enjoy what the world has to offer. That will take longer than two weeks.”
“Jeongguk,” Jimin whispered tearfully, because he suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of not rolling over in bed and throwing his arm around Jeongguk’s waist, even on the nights when they had been at odds. A year ago, Jeongguk had Jimin in a chokehold in a prison, spitting venom at him, and Jimin had balked at the very thought of Jeongguk. Now, because they had taken the time in the midst of the pandemonium to re-learn each other and grow into each other, Jeongguk was going to carve a hole in Jimin’s heart and his life by leaving.
“No promises,” Jeongguk reiterated, and then he brushed his nose against Jimin’s and leaned back, still bracing his hands on the mattress. Jimin rolled the stem of the rose against his sternum for a moment, tears still welling in his eyes. Then he gave Jeongguk a wry smile.
“There’s no real future for us,” he whispered, letting the words carve themselves into his heart. Jeongguk’s eyes flicked downward momentarily, but he said nothing to confirm or deny right away. Instead, he just looked back up, locking eyes with Jimin. And instead of ripping into Jimin’s mind through direct gaze, he just searched Jimin’s eyes like he was seeking answers to unspoken questions.
“Hope can be dangerous for someone like me,” Jeongguk said softly. And in one sentence, Jimin knew that Jeongguk was summing up the very core of their disjointed relationship. Hope. Too much of it now, too little of it before. A constant seesaw, neither of them willing to be the first to hop off and admit to anything, let alone failure.
“It’ll always be you,” Jimin whispered. “You know that, right?”
“No.” Jeongguk shook his head. “Don’t say that. You have a real life ahead of you, hyung. You could find someone who could give you everything that you’ve ever wanted. A normal life. Don’t get hung up on—”
“No,” Jimin interrupted firmly. “No. You think I want a normal life after this? I don’t care what you say. It’s always been you, and it always will be, no matter how much you try to run away from it. So—So if you’re gone for seven years, I’ll kill you.”
“Six and a half?”
“Jeon Jeongguk.”
Jeongguk chuckled lightly, bowing his head, hands still braced on either side of Jimin’s thighs. He was quiet for a moment, and then he looked back up. Jimin’s tears had begun to dry, even though he still felt waterlogged with emotion.
“I have to go,” Jeongguk said, and Jimin’s heart slowly sank, fluttering into the pit of his stomach. But he nodded, because he knew that this was the right thing. No matter how much it hurt him, Jimin was certain that leaving Seoul was the best thing for Jeongguk to do, or else he risked having to see the messy clean-up. He risked being hunted and never living in peace. And more than anything, Jimin wanted Jeongguk to be happy.
“I want you to be happy,” Jimin whispered. “Please. That’s all I want. I just want you to be happy, Jeongguk.”
“You know you’re the closest I’ve ever been to feeling happy, right?” Jeongguk asked in a rhetorical fashion, as if he could break Jimin’s heart further. He seemed to hesitate, but then Jimin got the feeling that this was truly Jeongguk’s goodbye, and he wasn’t holding back. “You make me feel things. I don’t like feeling things. It’s confusing. But I think…” His eyes searched the sheets briefly before returning to Jimin. “Maybe I’ve always been in love with you. I just never really learned how to love someone. I’m sorry.”
Jeongguk straightened up as he carded his fingers through Jimin’s messy hair, holding it back as he kissed Jimin’s forehead. His fingers trailed down Jimin’s cheek until the pads of his pointer and middle fingers came to rest underneath Jimin’s chin.
“Goodbye,” he whispered, letting the sentiment hang in the air and choke Jimin.
“No,” Jimin rasped, shaking his head. “I’m not accepting ‘goodbye.’”
“Then what will you accept?” Jeongguk asked.
“See you later,” Jimin decided, because it hurt far less and it wasn’t as final. Jeongguk mulled it over, and then he nodded.
“See you later,” he agreed, and then he lifted one hand to cup Jimin’s cheek, fingertips curling at the back of Jimin’s neck. Jimin’s eyes fell shut as their lips met, a few more tears silently escaping as he reached up and gripped the front of Jeongguk’s black t-shirt with one weak hand. When would he ever get to kiss Jeongguk like this again? So he deepened the kiss, foolishly thinking that perhaps it would never end, that if he held onto this moment for just a second later, it would become infinite.
But the illusion shattered. Jeongguk pressed one final, feather-light kiss to Jimin’s lips, knuckles brushing Jimin’s cheek, and then he straightened up. With one final deep breath, Jeongguk nodded with his lips pursed, and then he slowly turned and began to walk towards the door. Jimin watched, his chest aching.
“Jeongguk?”
Jeongguk paused with his hand on the doorknob, twisting his upper body to look as Jimin called him. They weren’t in a stand-off at opposite ends of the hallway anymore. There was nothing red about the moment. But this goodbye, Jimin decided, was the hardest.
“I love you,” he said, his voice breaking. “So much.”
Jeongguk’s brow furrowed slightly as he absorbed the words Jimin said. The moment they registered, his expression softened. Jimin swore he saw Jeongguk smile, but it was fleeting. His eyes flicked downward, but when he looked back up at Jimin, he was at peace. It was immediately noticeable in his body language, in his eyes.
Red was the color of anger, passion, and rage. But it was also the color of love.
With one final glance, Jeongguk nodded. And then he disappeared out of the private room, leaving Jimin with a single red rose and a seemingly endless stream of tears to dry.
National Intelligence Service
Naegok-dong, Seocho-gu
SEOUL, South Korea
08:32 AM
6 months later
“Good morning, Special Agent Park.”
“Hey. Good morning,” Jimin said casually, shoving his sunglasses up into his hair and snatching his iced coffee from where it was floating in mid-air in the elevator. “You think he’ll mind that I’m late?”
“No, Special Agent Park. You’re a guest of honor. That means everyone else is early,” the young agent declared, and Jimin snickered.
“I can tell you’re new,” he joked as the doors opened. The agent visibly blushed, but she quickly guided Jimin around the familiar bullpen of the DKR, bustling as usual, but in a far different manner than Jimin had been used to in the past. As he walked the perimeter, he saw two agents bent at a computer screen, but there was a notebook hovering with a pen on the paper, taking bullet-point notes. The DKR had been purged completely five months ago, and it had been Jimin seated at Director Nam’s right-hand side during interviews to determine who could be woven into the new fabric.
“Special Agent Park, Director,” the agent announced, opening the meeting room door with a bow. From his position at the head of the conference table, Director Nam stood up, and Jimin came to a halt.
“Well, don’t stand up on my behalf,” he said as his coffee slid onto the table by itself. With a half-hearted smile, Jimin then sidestepped until he could embrace Seokjin, who was seated in one chair, his hair almost fully white-blonde now with a few streaks of dark brown left. Hoseok was across the table, so Jimin scooted around and gave him a quick hug in greeting, too, since it had been a few weeks since the last time all three of them had been together.
“Take a seat,” Director Nam directed.
“Gang’s all here,” Hoseok said wryly. “Usually I say that to myself. In a mirror.”
“Boo-hoo,” Seokjin griped jokingly, but Jimin managed a weak smile. The air was tense, but old habits died hard. Six months had passed since they had been nearly killed in the makeshift line of duty, and it seemed to have thrown the future trajectory of their lives into a rather sharp light, especially in public service.
All three of them had been pardoned within two weeks of Jimin’s full recovery. That much had been a no-brainer, and in fact, the interim government (spurred on by Director Nam) had seemed almost eager to clear their names. The fight had happened when Director Nam had assumed that he would have all three of his heroes back in the saddle at the DKR. Jimin had been the first to outright refuse, and that had seemed to encourage Seokjin and Hoseok to offer terms and conditions.
Hoseok had agreed to return to the DKR only if given a significant pay raise and the role of team leader, and only if he was allowed to work without restrictions but within moral reason. Director Nam had swiftly agreed. The NIS and interim government had asked meek questions about it, including bringing Hoseok’s mental state of mind to the table. But Hoseok had met with the interim president herself and the remaining trusted members of the NIS, and that single meeting alone had put a stop to all of the bellyaching.
Seokjin, though, had openly admitted that he was far too bitter about everything that had happened to just jump right back in like nothing changed. He had chosen instead to take a paid “sabbatical” with no guarantee of return, and with no other choice, Director Nam had agreed. Jimin had had dinner with Seokjin a few times over the months, but they had never talked about what happened. Yet he was here now at the DKR, so something must have changed his mind.
Jimin had taken an entirely different route. Being the DKR’s prized hero and poster child had taken its toll on him, and with Jeongguk gone and out of contact, Jimin had chosen to use his quiet bitterness to do something he had never dared to do before. He had taken himself right to the top of the pyramid, interviewing for one of several vacancies (courtesy of the total government purge) at the NIS as a special agent in the field. Previously, kinetics had been banned from becoming special agents, citing their lack of reliability and their immense power. But Jimin had proven himself to be an excellent marksman, an excellent fighter, and a quick thinker—all things the NIS had currently lacked. Despite many raised eyebrows, he was now Special Agent Park, the first kinetic (and anomaly) employed with the NIS in a special agent role.
Jimin had assumed that his team would be wary of him. But the three men and two women he worked with had welcomed him with open arms, albeit admittedly terrified of what he could do. Though he was not banned or deterred from using it, Jimin was meant to not use his kinesis in the field unless the situation called for it. His team had only ever heard rumors of what Jimin could do.
It hadn’t been until their first assignment in the field when they had realized the benefit of Jimin’s presence; a suspect had rigged the building they had just entered to blow in order to take them all down in one go. Though they had all been too late to realize that there was a bomb present, Jimin had intervened without hesitation. He had hurled the bomb clear through the window and into open air using telekinesis, and once it had gone off, he had used nearly all his energy to contain the fiery explosion and reel in the shrapnel, collapsing and losing consciousness for a few minutes but waking up to a bewildered and grateful team, no casualties or injuries reported.
Jimin had never had a time in his life when he had been a contributing member of society on his own terms; even though he was only two months into his new role, there was a strange sense of newfound purpose that came with the independence. But it was precarious and potentially temporary; he had to find a good balance.
“Well, let’s all have a seat,” Director Nam recommended, so the four of them settled in. As Jimin wiggled his chair back and forth, all he could think about was over a year ago when the four of them had sat in the very same conference room, and Director Nam had passed them case files on Jeongguk. The entire world had been turned upside down since then.
“So. Why have we all been gathered here today?” Hoseok wondered, one leg crossed over the other.
“Because, Hoseok-ssi, the dust has finally settled,” Director Nam declared. He eyed Jimin and Seokjin specifically. “I know you both have been away from it by choice, which I respect. Hoseok hasn’t been too excited about rebuilding an entire government program by himself. But now that we have an interim president and a few of the nation’s finest behind bars, I think—”
“Uh, more than just our nation’s finest,” Jimin interrupted with a dry laugh. “Name me one country that wasn’t in Jo Chansung’s emails asking for updates.”
“Antarctica,” Seokjin deadpanned.
“Right. Well, with things slowing down a bit,” Director Nam continued, the corners of his eyes crinkling in what looked like a proud smile, “I think it’s time to make a few offers and put people into position. Hoseok has already accepted his position as team leader.”
“Of me, myself, and I,” Hoseok said proudly, reaching around to pat himself on the back.
“But we still have vacancies,” Director Nam pointed out. He seemed to hesitate, but then he turned his chair to look at Jimin. “I know you’re doing field work now. You travel often. But you’ve been indispensable to the DKR, Jimin. I’m not asking you to return to your position. I would never. But I will ask if you would be willing to continue your work as ‘Phoenix.’ If you would be willing to take a consulting position with us here. With Hoseok. No strings attached. Just on the tough cases or emergencies where we believe you may be the best fit.”
“And if you call me and I say no?” Jimin set one elbow on the armrest of his chair, three fingers lightly pressed to his chin.
“Then we continue without you,” Director Nam said. “It’s a consulting position. That will come with a pay raise and little responsibility to the DKR. You would be a valuable asset to call in, and we would be sure not to disrupt your work with the NIS.”
“Easy,” Hoseok muttered, avoiding eye contact. Jimin could immediately tell that the consultation position had been Hoseok’s idea; he didn’t want to lose his friend and teammate. And Jimin was already employed with the NIS.
“I won’t work with restrictions,” Jimin stated, and Director Nam nodded.
“Of course not.”
“And I’ll only consult when I want to.”
“Of course.”
“And if I don’t think it’s working out, I’ll quit.”
“Naturally.”
“I do this my way or not at all.”
“Yes,” Director Nam agreed, and Jimin took a deep breath. A year ago, he never would have dared to set his term and conditions with such detached, levelheaded confidence. But if there was one thing Jeongguk had taught Jimin, amongst a bevy of life lessons, it was that if Jimin let the government get on top of him and he said nothing, he was as good as silently saying that it was okay with it.
“Okay. On my terms,” Jimin decided, and Hoseok cracked a smile, though he turned his chair slightly so that Jimin couldn’t call him out on it. “I’ll continue to be Phoenix, but only when I’m consulting with the DKR. Otherwise, I don’t want to hear that name.”
“Fair enough.” Director Nam patted his hand on the table gently with a deep exhale, and then he turned his chair to Seokjin. “You may be thinking that I’m about to ask you to do the same.”
“And my answer is no,” Seokjin said without hesitation.
“As we assumed. Five months ago, when you rejected my offer to return, you said that unless something was done about TRACK, you would never give the DKR the time of day again,” Director Nam recalled, and Jimin raised his eyebrows, impressed. He had given a rather scathing refusal as well, calling the government a “bunch of pathetic bastards gambling with kids’ lives” and “nothing but fucking cowards with both a superiority and inferiority complex.” But Seokjin, it seemed, had been focused on TRACK.
“That’s not all I said,” Seokjin mumbled.
“No, not at all. You and Jimin both had sparkling reviews to offer,” Director Nam stated, and finally, all three of his former heroes managed to laugh. “TRACK has been dismantled entirely for six months now. TRACK Plus is permanently closed. It was utter hell day after day containing the trainees and finding them some sense of normalcy. But a new school term begins in two months, and the government would like guidance on how to re-establish TRACK and re-open. And we need a director.”
Silence reigned. Jimin pitched forward and rested both of his elbows on the table, hands covering his mouth as he stared at Seokjin. Hoseok stopped wiggling his chair. And Seokjin, who had been brooding for a good reason the entire meeting thus far, finally cracked. He sat up with wide eyes, unable to mask his surprise at the casual offer that had been placed on the table.
“You’re kidding, right?” Seokjin searched Director Nam’s face for a sign of betrayal. “I’m not a politician. I was a government-hired hero who stood on the steps of TRACK and told you to piss off when you were trying to arrest three of the nation’s most wanted men. And you’re telling me that everyone is just okay with you offering something like this to me?”
“TRACK has had two directors in its history, Seokjin-ssi, and neither of them had the children’s best interests at heart. They took the position with a personal agenda to fulfill, and neither of them had kinetic abilities,” Director Nam listed. “I may only sleep a collective twelve hours a week at this point, Seokjin, but I can tell you one thing—it’s worth it if I can look the president and the director of the NIS in the eye and mention your name, and both of them agree that I should make the offer.”
“I don’t know how to run a government program,” Seokjin whispered.
“Neither do I,” Director Nam said in a gentle voice, and suddenly, Seokjin’s eyes became glassy. His jaw clenched, and he took a few breaths through his nose, trying to swallow down the tsunami of emotions that were surfacing. Jimin considered, and then he shoved his chair over closer to Seokjin.
“Hyung,” he said softly. “You can rebuild TRACK how it should have been all along. You can create the right programs for these kids. You can hire kinetics as staff. You can help rewrite the law when it comes to how the government treats us.”
“Yeah, but it shouldn’t be me,” Seokjin hissed, sniffing and blinking furiously so that the tears didn’t fall. “You should be the one getting offered the role.”
“Why? I don’t want it,” Jimin said with a short laugh. “I never would have interviewed with the NIS if I wanted the role of director. I can’t do a desk job. I have to be out in the field. I have to be busy. If my life isn’t at risk these days, I’m bored. So being the director of TRACK isn’t the role for me.”
“I don’t think this is the kind of responsibility I should have, given my actions and interests,” Seokjin whispered, but Jimin stifled another laugh.
“Jo Chansung was experimenting on his son and murdering his wife and injecting hundreds of kids with a fake vaccine,” he said. “The bar is in hell. You can’t possibly do any worse.”
“Hyung, TRACK here in Korea is the blueprint,” Hoseok piped up. “If you set these kids up for success, other TRACK facilities around the world will follow your example. You could finally work towards an integrated society. You have to try. Please.”
“Hyung.” Jimin paused, considered the company in the room, and then lowered his voice to a whisper so soft that he was sure only Seokjin could hear. “You know he’d laugh and tell you to take the job.”
Seokjin’s hand slowly curled into a fist on the table as he bowed his head, taking a deep breath. He dominoed his fingers quickly, and Jimin didn’t miss the fleeting sparks of electricity between them before his hand turned into a fist again. Jimin was likely the only one who knew that Seokjin had been using his electrokinesis at higher levels than normal over the last six months, likely as a result of emotional instability. It was the same reason why Jimin had run a high fever every day for two months before finally calming down.
“Then I guess I have to try, right?” Seokjin murmured, and then he cleared his throat and looked up at Director Nam. “Fine. It’s not like you gave me an official letter of offer or anything, but okay. I’ll try. I’m not committing to it just yet. But I can at least try it out.”
“I’ll take it,” Director Nam said immediately, and then he stood up and offered his hand. Seokjin blew out a breath and stood as well, reaching across the table to shake his new peer’s hand. “I look forward to working with you.”
“Yeah.” Seokjin nodded, and then he found some sense and bowed. “I’ll work hard.”
Hoseok grinned and cracked his knuckles, looking rather pleased. Jimin felt himself smiling genuinely for the first time in months. And Seokjin, who still looked rather bewildered, looked up at Director Nam with his brow furrowed.
“Okay, but—oh. Sorry.”
“No, no. Continue,” Director Nam requested, setting his phone down after finishing off what was likely a text or an email.
“That doesn’t really resolve things for Hoseok,” Seokjin pointed out. “I’m not on the team. Jimin’s only consulting, so he’ll be scarce. Hoseok is still on his own.”
“I mean, I can manage,” Hoseok said with a shrug. Director Nam gave Seokjin a knowing smile.
“I said that I would be making significant changes to the line-up,” he said. “And I meant it. Hoseok can’t do this alone. A team leader without a team isn’t very effective. So I figured—”
“Shit, that door is heavier than I thought. Oh. Sorry. Hi.”
“You’re joking,” Jimin said loudly with a heavy touch of glee as Lia stumbled into the conference room, shoving the door open with her shoulder and then lowering into a bow. She straightened up, ponytail flopping to one side of her head, and then she winked and shot Jimin a finger gun, a small spark flying from her fingers.
“At my request, Lia has privately taken her field test, and she’s passed with flying colors,” Director Nam declared, and Jimin’s grin widened as Hoseok stood up, jaw dropped, eyes sparkling. Seokjin looked rather proud, though also shocked. “As of the first of the month, she’s been promoted to DKR kinetic field agent. Alias—Static.”
“I’m a little clumsy, but—also, sorry I’m late,” Lia said, interrupting herself with another bow to Director Nam. “Hoseok-ssi, I’m kind of—we can work around that, right?”
“We can work around anything, Static, ” Hoseok said with a laugh. Lia looked rather flattered, her ears a bit pink as she settled into the chair that Hoseok offered her. She folded her hands on the table, and then in her lap, and then she crossed one leg and quickly decided on the other, switching and hitting her knee on the table. She caught Jimin’s eye, and she full-on blushed when Jimin raised his eyebrows at her, trying not to laugh.
“Okay, but that begs the question,” Hoseok said, holding up a hand. “Who’s going to take Lia’s place? I mean, obviously Lia can do some of her work out in the field, but we’ll still need someone in our ear. We can’t go in blind.”
“I’ve also worked out a solution for that,” Director Nam said, and then he leaned to the side and beckoned, since the conference room door was still open. Jimin spun his chair at the same time as Seokjin, and Hoseok jumped to his feet when Hwang Yeji showed up in the doorway, clutching her phone in one hand and with a few case files under her other arm.
“Yes, Director?” she said, because it was clear that she had been summoned.
“Meet Lia’s replacement,” Director Nam stated. Yeji beamed, her eyes no longer sunken, her face no longer pale. “The perfect fit, I believe, since our field agents are geokinetic and electrokinetic. And Yeji, so I’ve heard, is both.”
“Well, isn’t this just the perfect little wrap-up to a shitty situation,” Jimin commented with a grin. He had walked into the DKR feeling rather despondent. But now, with a team established and with Seokjin in the position of director, there seemed to be a small flicker of hope growing. A potential new beginning.
“I’ll work hard,” Yeji said breathlessly, sounding pleased. “I—Well, actually, I need to go back and work on—”
“Dismissed,” Director Nam interrupted good-naturedly, so Yeji bowed in departure and rushed off, turning left to go back to Lia’s old office, now her new office.
“I got fitted for my suit yesterday,” Lia announced, bobbing her head back and forth with a grin. “It’s going to be dark purple. I got to pick.”
“It’ll be nice to have a woman on the team to kick some ass for a change,” Hoseok said with a grin, and Jimin snorted with laughter.
“Lia won’t be afraid to actually kick ass, either,” he said with pride as Seokjin nodded in silent agreement. There was a collective sigh, but then Jimin noticed the way that Seokjin seemed to be deep in thought, completely removed from the conversation. He glanced at Hoseok, and Hoseok gave him a little nod.
We need time.
“Can you excuse the three of us for a moment?” Jimin requested.
“Oh—absolutely. Lia, come with me,” Director Nam requested, taking the hint immediately. “We have a few things to discuss, I’m sure. Let’s give them some privacy.”
Lia shoved her chair back with a smile, and she set one hand on Seokjin’s shoulder as she passed by before exiting the room. Director Nam closed the door behind the two of them, leaving the trio in a soundproof room, a vacuum of silence.
“Hyung,” Jimin said, but that was all he needed to say.
“It’s stupid, right?” Seokjin spoke to the table, not making eye contact, leaning sideways against the armrest of the chair. “I just got the promotion of a fucking lifetime. I shouldn’t be—it’s a stupid thing to just…”
He trailed off, but Jimin understood, because his chest immediately ached, a reminder of the hollow void that Jeongguk had left behind.
“I haven’t… seen him. Or talked to him. Since that night.” Seokjin spoke in fragments, frowning as he pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and pointer finger while he spoke. “He said he was leaving to do something. So I made him tell me.” Seokjin finally looked up, locking eyes with Jimin. “He said that Jeongguk knew where his family was. So he left to go find them.”
“Shit,” Hoseok murmured with a sigh as Jimin slowly nodded.
“And you haven’t heard from him,” he said, and Seokjin’s silence was enough confirmation. “Yeah. I get it. Jeongguk came to the hospital to say goodbye. He left, too.”
“Where did he go?” Hoseok wondered.
“He said he just wanted to leave Seoul. That his crusade was over. That he wanted to see the world and be a normal twenty-four-year old,” Jimin recalled, hating the way his heart hurt just thinking about it. “I haven’t heard from him, either. I have no clue where he is.”
“Have you heard from them?” Seokjin rounded on Hoseok, who raised his eyebrows. Seokjin snorted. “Don’t give me that look. I’m not an idiot. I may have been on the brink of death, but I saw you that night.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hoseok said coolly.
“When we walked out of that room, the two of them just—Namjoon and Yoongi. They were hugging you. I saw the way they worried about you. And how you threw yourself in front of them. You’re not fooling anyone.” Seokjin stared at Hoseok without blinking, snapping his fingers at Jimin. “Stare at him until he breaks, Jimin. He did it to us.”
“I’m not—okay.” Jimin glanced at Hoseok, and the moment he did, Hoseok threw up one hand and slumped in his chair, scowling. He was silent for a moment, and then he closed his eyes. When he opened them, Jimin almost regretted staring at him. He was masking it well, but Jimin recognized the little cracks in his facade all too well.
“I haven’t…” Hoseok tapered off, chewing some dead skin from his bottom lip. Then he conceded. “I haven’t seen or heard from Yoongi. But… But there was a night five months ago. Just… It was only five minutes. But he knocked on my door. Namjoon.”
“What did he say?” Jimin prompted, his heart skipping.
“Nothing.” Hoseok frowned, but then he sighed. “He was just… stopping by. He was in a hurry. He said he and Yoongi were leaving. That Yoongi said hi. And that he just wanted to see me one more time before he left. That’s all I’m saying.”
“And you don’t know where they went,” Seokjin said, and Hoseok shook his head, crossing his arms.
“He wouldn’t tell me,” he murmured. The silence made Jimin’s ears ring, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Whenever he did, he swore he could still feel Jeongguk’s touch, his warmth, his lips, everything. A phantom feeling. It would never fade.
“It’s stupid, right?” Seokjin asked again with a humorless laugh. “I mean, look at the three of us. We all just got promoted, and we’re sitting here being pathetic about…”
“It’s not stupid.” Jimin’s voice was firm, to his surprise. “Not pathetic. It just… hurts. I don’t know. They’re not like us. They don’t have the attachments that we do. None of us were enough to make them stay. Not that we’re the problem. They’re just… yeah. Not like us.”
“We didn’t change them. They ended up changing us,” Seokjin muttered. There was another pause, and then Jimin rubbed at his chest with a few fingers and glanced up.
“I just keep telling myself that he’ll come back,” he whispered, knowing Seokjin and Hoseok could hear him. “There’s nothing else I can do. I just have to sit here every day and hope he didn’t forget about me.”
“So it’s not just me,” Seokjin said, and Hoseok shook his head.
“No. It’s not just you.”
“None of us really got much of a happy ending, did we?” Seokjin asked with a wry smile. “Thought the heroes were supposed to have a fairytale romance. Save the world and get the girl. Or a homicidal maniac of a man. Whatever.”
“I think those homicidal maniacs had nothing to lose, which means we don’t get a fairytale ending,” Jimin pointed out. “We just… got to be a part of whatever they were doing. Figure things out about ourselves. And now look. We don’t have to work with restrictions. We’re not slaves to the system anymore. Things are changing.”
“Is it weird to you guys?” Hoseok chimed in, suddenly changing the subject as he lurched forward in his chair. “That it’s just… over? That Jeongguk just killed Jo Chansung and left it up to Director Nam to clean up the mess? That the three of us just completely detached from it all until now? Is it weird how it all ended? Just like that?”
“Yes and no,” Jimin decided as Seokjin hummed in what sounded like agreement. “Jeongguk only ever needed to get to Jo Chansung. Few speed bumps, but he managed. But it’s weird because now everything is changing. They completely fucked with our lives. I don’t know whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing yet.”
“It just felt like a cop-out,” Hoseok said with a short laugh. “Like he didn’t…”
“Like he didn’t die violently enough,” Seokjin supplied, voicing Jimin’s own thoughts. “Yeah. I wanted a piece of him, too. I think we all did. Or I think we all just wanted to watch it happen. But none of us even saw it. So it didn’t feel real.”
“But it’s over,” Jimin stated, letting the words sink in. “Or maybe it’s just beginning. Could be both. We have a hell of a lot of work to do still. But hyung’s right.” He glanced at Seokjin. “They changed us.”
“Yeah, well, at least we still have each other,” Seokjin said with a sigh. That seemed to be the final sentiment. Jimin could have said a thousand more things. Hoseok looked like he needed a drink and a good, long chat. But there was a silent understanding between the three of them, like the well-oiled machine that they had always been and still were, that the conversation was over. The trauma was permanent, and so were some of the scars. But they had a lifetime to continue talking about what they had been through. There was a time and a place, and right now, what they needed was to just be with each other. Be present.
Jimin remained at the DKR for the rest of the day. He helped clean out his office and moved Lia into it. Seokjin requested a nameplate change to his official title for his door, because he didn’t want to work in any other office. And even as level eight bustled around them all, even though it seemed nothing had changed, Jimin stood in the corner and watched life happen. He soaked it all in and came to the stark realization that everything, indeed, had changed. This was not the life he knew. This was not the life he had lived a year ago.
And maybe it was for the better.
Instead of taking his car home, Jimin chose to hop on his motorcycle and speed through the city that he once protected, that he had chosen to still watch over for the foreseeable future. For sporadic days months ago, Jimin had called Jeongguk’s apartment “home,” foolishly hoping that his presence would lure Jeongguk back. It hadn’t. But Jimin had slept in the bed, keeping Jeongguk’s side unmade and untouched, just like he had left it.
You make me feel things. I don’t like feeling things.
Jimin chose to climb the stairs to his apartment instead of taking the elevator. Sometimes, he could still hear Jeongguk’s voice in his head. He was omnipresent in Jimin’s life, a strange ghostly constant that Jimin couldn’t seem to shake. Maybe he was in too deep and Jeongguk had already moved past everything that had happened. After all, Jeongguk was emotionally attached to just about nothing in his life. If he was traveling the world and out of contact, then maybe he was happy. And ultimately, that was all Jimin had wanted. So even if it was hard to breathe some days, Jimin still managed, driven only by the idea that Jeongguk was somewhere in the mountains, soaking in life.
Jimin reached his floor and walked down the quiet hallway, shifting his bag on his shoulder carefully. But when he approached his door, he noticed that there was something resting against the door on top of his doormat. Curious, Jimin shuffled forward with caution, and then he crouched down. Almost instantly, his heart lurched.
Seven red roses.
With shaking hands, Jimin picked up the bouquet of roses, seeing that there was a note attached to them. He staggered into his apartment and threw his bag onto the floor, and then he set the flowers onto the countertop and pinched the note between his fingers. Carefully, he opened the small card:
Forever flowers. 7 of them to make up for 7 years.
I’m with you.
-JK
:: :: ::