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wherethewildjinsare · 6 years

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Don’t Burn the Coffee - Ch. 6

It was just going to be one of those days…until Suga walked in.

Word Count: 2,452

We walk through the misting rain slowly, hand in hand down the sidewalk, the changing neon lights making my head hurt when mixed with the heaviness in my brain from trying not to cry. On the subway, we listen to music, though I don’t pay much attention. I’m too busy focusing on the warmth of his body against mine. The car is empty. A woman with sandy hair and veiny legs who looks like she’s ready for a hike and a man sleeping in a torn up hoody are the only others on the train with us. But the way we’re sitting, you’d think there weren’t enough seats and we’d tried to jam into a spot for one person. I bury my face in his shoulder as the train rattles past another stop. It’s coming too soon.

I’m not exactly sure where we are when we get off. Somewhere in downtown Manhattan. The hotel looks almost like a mansion, red-stone warmth in the middle of an industrial boom. Neither of us make a move toward it. Instead, we stand side-by-side, staring up at it from across the street, hovering in the shadow of the building behind us as if we’re hiding. Yoongi sighs next to me, his husky voice breaking through the weeds of my thoughts and the sound of the subway as it rumbles underneath the ground below our feet.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he swallows. “I don’t know how to make my feet move anywhere right now.”

I turn to look at him. His face is dark from the shadows, and I pull him by his hand, taking two steps backwards. He looks at me, confused, but he follows anyway. He looks more confused when I stop, and we face each other.

“What was that?” he asks, a breeze blowing his bangs to reveal his forehead. I reach up and gently push the hair further apart before moving to cup the side of his face in my hand.

“It’s me trying to help you move,” I say. I try to smile, but instead I feel the tears coming and I bury my face in his neck. “Sorry.”

He wraps his arms around me. “Ah, I only met you this morning, but I feel like I’m saying goodbye to my high-school sweetheart at graduation.”

“You had a high-school sweetheart?” I mumble into his neck.

“No.” He nuzzles my cheek with his nose. “I want to see your face.”

I look up. A tear must have fallen on my cheek that I wasn’t aware of, because he’s wiping it away with his thumb. And then he leans toward me, laying his lips on mine and holding me there, gently and unhurriedly planting chaste kisses on my mouth as he slowly moves his lips across mine. We’re interrupted by a buzzing noise. He pulls away hesitantly, his gaze lingering on my lips and eyes before pulling out his phone.

“It’s Jimin,” he says. “They’re close, he says. Want to know if I’ve had dinner so they can pick something up before they come.”

“I guess you should go.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t move.

“Go. I’ll text you when I get home. And I’ll see you on stage tomorrow.”

He chuckles. “Oh really?” I can’t tell if he’s happy or sad or a mixture of both. “It’s not goodbye,” he says after his chuckle has faded into a frown again. He looks down at his wrist and removes the watch he’d stolen earlier.

“A souvenir,” he says as he fastens it around my wrist.

All I can do is nod, unable to protest or do anything really except watch him. He gives my hand a squeeze and lets out a long breath. Then, he lets go of me and crosses the street, looking back at me before he heads inside.

I stand in the shadow, breathing in the night air. A car passes, startling me, and I turn, descending back into the subway. It takes one missed stop and countless deep breaths to get me home. And when I finally close my door and stand in the darkness of my apartment, it feels like none of it has happened. How could it have?

The next day, I make my way with a friend to K-Con. It’s just outside the city in New Jersey, so we take the train. I try to listen as Bonni talks about how excited she is, the different groups, Day6 and Mamamoo, but my mind wanders, only being snapped back when she mentions BTS and her oppa, Jungkook.

“You’re so much older than him, how is he your oppa? He’s still a teenager.”

“Stop making me feel like a perv, it’s just for fun, don’t judge,” she says in mock offense before launching on as though I’d never said anything.

“It’s too bad you didn’t come yesterday,” she says at one point.

“Why?”

“Because it was awesome! You missed Ailee crying on stage and Eric Nam being attractive.”

I laugh, despite myself. “I was fine yesterday. Today will be good.”

It isn’t good. It wasn’t awful either. But it’s hot. And I’m distracted, following Bonni as she weaves her way through the booths and throngs of people when all I can think about is Yoongi somewhere inside the enormous building where I’m not allowed to enter. I consider texting him. I had last night. And we had talked. He texted me this morning. But he hasn’t texted me back since I got on the train.

I sigh as I think about this, wondering what the point is to it. I decide to try to enjoy myself. And I get into it, until we’re sitting in the dark auditorium, the massive, curved stage spread out beneath us. And BTS is about to go on, the finale. Amidst the screams, louder for this group than all the others, deafening in fact, the auditorium bursts to life, the screens on the stage lighting up with flames as the boys’ song “Fire” begins and they rise to the stage on a lift on a lift. I see Suga, and my eyes follow him through the performance. But we’re so far away it feels unreal. And when they walk off with the night’s other performers, I feel numb. I can’t help but look for him as I filter out of the auditorium with the crowd, but, of course, he’s not there.

Later that night, after we’ve taken the train, transferred to the subway and then made yet another transfer, I shut myself into my room, throwing myself under the covers and closing my eyes. It had happened, I think to myself. It had happened, and that’s all there is. I repeat the phrase to myself over and over until it becomes a chant in my mind set to the quiet ticking of the watch on my wrist.

One Year Later

The first week of classes has been good. Good and hectic. I met my students two days after I arrived in Seoul in what felt like a whirlwind. Less than a year ago, I had been approved to teach English in Korea through a program on the condition I completed my TEFL before my departure, so the process was fairly quick. Now, one week down in my first year teaching English abroad, I’m surveying my one-room apartment, trying to think if I need anything else before I head to a coffee shop to do some writing. I’m still working for my company in New York on a freelance basis.

I shrug my backpack on my shoulders and sigh. BTS was set to have a comeback with the second Wings album, and I was assigned to write about it. Through their first album in the series, I watched the music videos, interviews and fan signings like a starved person digging through trash, hungry for any scrap of Yoongi I could get. We’d kept in touch, but as he and the boys became busy promoting Wings, the messages became further apart. The last time I’d heard back from him was the beginning of last month. I’d told him I was coming to Korea, and he’d told me to tell him when I got there. Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. When I got off the airplane, my hand went to my phone, but I held off, convincing myself I should wait until I bought a phone in the country. But even when I’d done that, I delayed.

Now, as I put my hand on the door, I pause, pulling out my phone. The last message I had received from Yoongi was an ecstatic looking cat sticker. The new phone has no such thread history on it, so I open a new message window. My thumb hovers over the screen. With a growl I thrust the phone back in my pocket and swing open the door.

I stand on the sidewalk across from Tieris, gazing at the window of the small tea house. Through the window, it looks like I’d have my pick of seats, which is not always the case for this particular spot. Still, I hesitate. I bite my lip and pull out my phone, turning around and getting the angle right. Then I hit Yoongi’s number. “Weather in Seoul is great today ^^ Time for some writing.” I attach the picture of me with the Tieris sign in the background before hitting send. I gasp when it’s done. Why had that been so hard? Why is my heartbeat echoing in my ears?

I cross the street after chastising myself thoroughly, order some tea to settle my nerves and sit down. I try to write, but my hand keeps running to my phone as I check to see if Yoongi has replied. He hasn’t. After the fifth check with no response, I throw my phone down a little too loudly, causing the person manning the counter to look up. I apologize and lean over my computer.

I don’t know how long it’s been when I hear someone step into the shop. People have been coming in and out, so I don’t pay much attention. I’m too busy massaging my eyeballs because I can’t get the structure to flow right for this article. When I take my hands from my eyes, I see a pair of thin legs in ripped black jeans standing in front of my table. I trace the form up until I see two cat-like eyes peeping from between a beanie and a black facemask. His hair, visible from beneath the beanie, is bleached white, a change from the green when we’d met and a stark contrast to the black color he sported for the last album. I don’t know whether to smile or not, so I try to keep my mouth straight, unsure where to look.

“White’s a strange color choice,” I say, looking back at my computer.

“It’s my favorite color,” he says from beneath the mask. His voice is as rough as I remember. I’m struck once again by how much deeper he sounds in person, if only because of how his voice resonates in my ears. Finally, I look up. He’s looking at me, and I wonder how long he’s been standing there. At least 10 seconds. That’s how long it’s been since I stopped rubbing my eyes.

“Well, are you going to sit down?” I ask. His eyes crinkle, and I know he’s smiling. Finally, he does. I close my computer and put it aside, moving my empty tea cup so I can put my forearms on the table. We’re just looking at each other again. Finally, I clear my throat.

“It feels strange to only see your eyes. But I guess that makes sense, being in public, you know. I don’t mean you should take it off, it’s just weird, you know, I don’t…”

“You don’t need to be uncomfortable,” he says. He says it softly, and with a hint of amusement too, I think. “I thought we got past that.”

I chuckle nervously, looking down at my hands on the table. I realize as I do so that I’m wearing the watch. It has become a part of my arm, I take it off so infrequently, so I’d forgotten it was significant that he might see it. I realize it’s too late when he reaches across the table and gently grabs my wrist, turning it toward him to look at the time.

“Ah, it only took me 35 minutes to get here,” he says, not letting go of my wrist. “I even took the subway.”

“You didn’t have to,” I say, looking back up at him but not moving otherwise. “I know you don’t like to go out.”

“Of course I did,” he says. “You came to Korea! Of course I did. How long have you been here? Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I could have met you at the airport.”

“No you couldn’t have,” I argue, ignoring his other questions. “With a new album coming up and your regular work load besides, I can’t believe you’re here right now. How would you have met me at the airport? And how are you here?”

“I pretended I was sick.” This time his eyes nearly vanished in the folds of his smile.

I laugh. “Classic.” We’re silent for a moment until I speak again. “You know, it occurred to me when you left that night, I had the watch to remember you by, not to mention seeing your face everywhere and hearing your voice in your music, but you didn’t have anything. To remind you.”

“I had text messages.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And I had your picture.”

I look up. “Oh, that’s right. The selfies.”

“Yeah but I took my own photos too. With my camera.”

“You jerk, you told me you didn’t get it,” I cry.

“And you believed me. So gullible.” He stops, becoming more serious. “I told you I wouldn’t just leave and forget.”

I nod. He looks around and pulls down his facemask, letting it catch under his chin as he leans forward. He brings his hand from my wrist to my palm, wrapping his fingers around mine as he removes his hat with his other hand. I realize the roots of his hair are black, peeping out amongst the white in stark contrast. I don’t have long to wonder at its significance before my eyes are pulled back to Yoongi’s.

“So, now that you’re here, what do you want to do?”

“Well,” I breathe in, smiling, “I have a list.”

He smiles his big, gummy grin. “Okay, but first, let’s get some coffee. And this time, I’m buying.”

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