Chapter Text
(Seoul, March 2011)
Jin hadn't truly grasped the meaning of a small kitchen until he tried rolling out kimbap on a countertop barely wider than his textbook. The dorm 'kitchen' felt more like a dare than a room: a rice cooker shoved in one corner, lone induction burner hissing in the other, and wedged between them, a first-year economics major hovered over a styrofoam ramyun cup, gripping his kettle like it held liquid gold. When Jin’s bamboo mat skidded off the slick surface onto the linoleum, he exhaled a silent curse.
Enough.
He rinsed his hands, dried them on a questionably clean kitchen towel, and swore he’d never again prepare food in a room where the refrigerator produced more noise than cold air. If he was going to survive second-year law, he needed a real kitchen one with four burners, counter space, and maybe even an oven that wasn’t older than the Constitution he was memorizing.
In a moment of weakness, he thought of his aunt's offer of a comfortable apartment, all expenses paid. No more financial acrobatics and budget concerns. She meant well, always warm and generous, but her kindness felt a little too much like a safety net he wasn't ready to fall into. Instead, Jin decided he just needed a better plan, practical and actionable. Getting a roommate to split rent was the kind of strategic approach that would open the door to improving his quality of life. That was a plan he could root for.
Step one: convince Min Yoongi to move in with him.
Step two: no, really, convince Min Yoongi.
Yoongi was not, on paper, an obvious housemate, but Jin had known him for years. Back in Busan, they’d been the high school music room’s resident outcasts. Back then, Jin was a senior escaping the pressure of college prep; Yoongi a junior who seemed to communicate exclusively through chord progressions. Jin had unofficially adopted him then, a dynamic that hadn’t changed much in Seoul. Yoongi was still a hermit with a Daegu accent that thickened when he was tired; still treated human interaction like optional software he hadn’t downloaded. But he and Jin shared a strange kinship; both of them spent more waking hours in the university arts building than their own departments, and both hated being told what to do.
Jin suspected that underneath Yoongi’s slouchy hoodies and monosyllabic grunts lived someone who valued comfort as much as he did; Yoongi just showed it by sleeping under piano benches instead of hand-searing pork belly.
So on Friday evening, armed with two convenience-store coffees and a Tupperware of homemade japchae, (bribery, pure and simple) Jin shouldered open the music room door.
Yoongi was exactly where Jin expected: headphone cord wrapped around one wrist, fingers ghost-drumming on the keys of an unplugged MIDI controller. He looked up, bleary-eyed.
“Jin-hyung, why are you here? Practice rooms are first-come, first-served.”
“I come bearing carbohydrates,” Jin announced, setting the japchae beside the laptop balanced precariously on a stack of theory textbooks. “And a proposition.”
“I don’t do group projects.”
“It’s not that kind of proposition.” Jin nudged the container closer, placing a packet of disposable chopsticks on top. “Taste first. Talk second.”
Yoongi arched a brow, cracked the sticks apart, and twirled a strand of noodles. The moment it hit his tongue, his shoulders sagged. “You didn’t buy this.”
“Of course not. Dorm kitchen or not, I still have standards.” Jin perched on the piano bench, ignoring Yoongi’s side-eye. “I’m getting an apartment. Two bedrooms. Maybe three if I’m lucky. Real stove. Real fridge. You should move in.”
“No.”
“What if it has a finished roof deck?”
“Still no.”
“I will cook every night. Better than that.” Jin lowered his voice, a dealer offering contraband. “I’ll pack lunch boxes labeled by macro-nutrition.”
Yoongi’s chin rose with a definite interest. “What’s the rent?”
“Cheap, if we split it two ways. Cheaper if we find a third.”
“I’m broke.”
“You’re a scholarship kid. And I know for a fact your parents send you an allowance.”
“That’s for emergencies,” Yoongi grumbled. “And the music program wants freshmen in dorms.”
Jin had anticipated this. He dug a folded pamphlet from his pocket. “Housing exemption form. Sign it, get your advisor’s stamp, you’re free.”
Yoongi blinked. “This is an ambush.”
“I refuse to spend another semester boiling ramen over a hot plate while a liberal arts major microwaves their soggy kimchi behind me.” Jin’s urgency leaked through his playful tone. “Look, we’re both drowning in work. You need a place where you can record at 2 a.m. without an R.A. banging on the door. I need counter space. This is symbiosis.”
Yoongi chewed slowly, thinking. “You really cook every night?”
“Every night. And I’ll do dishes most nights.”
A long pause. Then, Yoongi’s shoulders slumped in surrender. “Fine. But you pay all utilities.”
“Done.” Jin grinned, feeling the day tilt in his favor. “We’ll start hunting tomorrow.”
Their hunt began grimly. The first place was a semi-basement that smelled of damp socks and despair.
“It has a certain…ambiance,” Yoongi had muttered, looking disturbingly at home in the gloom.
Jin had vetoed it on the spot. “The only thing I'm cooking in there is a case of seasonal depression,” he'd declared, dragging Yoongi back into the sunlight.
The third place, however, was different. A second-floor walk-up in Mapo, all crooked charm and mismatched floorboards, but the kitchen—oh, the kitchen. Four gas burners, a full-size sink, and an oven big enough for a roast. Jin inhaled the smell of sawdust and possibilities and signed the lease before Yoongi could change his mind.
Move-in day arrived with spring rain and endless boxes. Jin’s textbooks weighed a metric ton; Yoongi’s equipment weighed two. They dragged it up the stairs, drenched and cursing, until the living room was a fortress of cardboard. The apartment itself was a testament to mismatched history: honey-colored floorboards in the main room gave way to dark, scuffed wood in the hallway. The windows overlooked a tangle of power lines and the rooftops of neighboring buildings, but the afternoon sun streamed in, making dust motes dance in the air. It was old and imperfect, but it was theirs.
Jin’s first act as resident: unpack the rice cooker. His second: order two extra-large fried-chicken sets because even he conceded defeat to exhaustion.
They ate cross-legged on the living-room floor, umbrellas dripping in the corner. Yoongi balanced a drum pad on his knee, tapping out rhythms between bites. Jin watched him, amused. “You ever stop working?”
Yoongi shrugged, not missing a beat. “I hear things in my head. Easier to get them out than ignore them.”
Jin understood. His own head buzzed with arguments, hypothetical statutes, and rebuttals that kept him awake at night. Different universe, same compulsion. “We still need a third roommate,” he said around a mouthful of chicken. “Someone who won’t mind your 3 a.m. beat drops.”
“Know a guy,” Yoongi said, pausing his tapping to reach for more rice. “Genius, but harmless. Wants out of his parents’ house. He’s younger, though.”
“Another first-year?” Jin asked, picturing another wide-eyed freshman who would inevitably treat their apartment like a 24-hour convenience store.
“No, I think this is his third year at university.”
Jin paused mid-chew. “A third-year who’s younger than us? How does that work?”
“Skipped a few grades,” Yoongi's tone turned deliberately casual. “Super smart. A bit awkward. You’d like him.”
Jin’s warning bells began to ring at his too casual tone. "A bit awkward is fine. How young are we talking? Don’t make me guess.”
Yoongi finally looked up, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He took a slow bite of chicken, clearly stalling. “This year I think he's... seventeen?”
Jin choked. Actually choked—chicken lodging somewhere between his windpipe and his dignity as he coughed, eyes watering. Yoongi watched with mild interest, making no move to help.
Seventeen. A minor. Jin's legal mind spiraled through liability scenarios, parental consent forms and a distinct lack of beer in the fridge. Babysitting a teenager, genius or not, was not in his five-year plan.
"That‘s a kid Yoongi-yah!" he wheezed once he could breathe again. "Do I look like I run a daycare center?"
"He finished his undergrad in two years," Yoongi said calmly, as if this were a perfectly reasonable defense. "Already published three papers and is a PhD candidate. Trust me, he won’t be a troublemaker.” Yoongi smirked. “And he’s taller than you. Think of the overhead cabinets.”
"I'm not worried about the cabinets! I'm worried about explaining to his parents why their minor child is living with two strange men!"
"He and I went to middle school together, and we're not that strange."
Jin gave him a look that could have curdled milk. "You are trying to recruit a teenager as your roommate because of kitchen storage."
"True," Yoongi smirked. "But his parents know me from back when I lived in Daegu, that's why they'll let him move out.” Yoongi paused as Jin stared at him. “Hyung, just meet him. You’ll see he’s harmless, and he’s got more brain cells than both of us combined. Trust me."
Jin rolled his eyes, but the argument was compelling. And the overhead cabinets were really inconvenient if Yoongi couldn’t reach them. "Fine. Invite him. But I'm not signing any parental permission slips, and you're handling any teenage drama."
"Deal."
Two days later, Kim Namjoon arrived with a camouflage backpack the size of a small planet and an apologetic smile. His first act as prospective roommate was to trip over the threshold, his hand catching and cracking the wooden door frame with a sickening sound.
“Hyung, I’m so sorry!” he blurted, adjusting his round glasses with a flustered swipe. “I swear I’m not usually—Actually, I probably am usually this clumsy. But I can fix the frame! Well, I can try—”
Watching him, Jin felt a wave of dread mixed with amusement.
Yoongi leaned forward, his voice a flat command. “Namjoon-ah, breathe.”
Namjoon inhaled. Exhaled. Then offered Jin a formal bow that was somehow both graceful and milliseconds from disaster. “Kim Namjoon. Mathematics and cognitive science.” Another breath. “I brought tofu. My mother said it’s polite.”
Jin accepted the bag of tofu like a ceremonial offering. “Kim Seokjin. Law. I brought…a door frame. Mostly intact.” He stepped aside. “Come in before the ceiling collapses in sympathy.” Yoongi snorted; Namjoon flushed.
Once inside, Namjoon traced a finger along the wall outlet, frowning. “This grounding is unsafe. The voltage fluctuation alone could fry Yoongi-hyung’s equipment.”
Jin blinked. “Since when do math majors diagnose faulty wiring?”
“It's a combined masters/PhD program. Oh! and I minored in physics,” Namjoon said, as if this were as mundane as liking mint chocolate. “The equations for circuit stability are basically just—”
“No,” Yoongi interrupted, rubbing his temple. “I'm too hungry for this. You can geek out after we eat.” He shot Jin a look. “I told you he was a polymath," Yoongi muttered, nudging past them toward the kitchen. "Do us both a favor and don't ask him to prove it. ”
Jin’s eyebrows climbed. Right, smart enough to skip high school and his college career precedes that of Jin's own. Genius was not an exaggeration after all, but even a post-grad dual-degree track did not change the fact that he was a kid. A brilliant, clumsy kid.
When they finally settled at the new, blessedly wide kitchen table, something clicked. Jin laid out kimchi and braised tofu while Yoongi scooped steaming rice into three bowls. As they began to eat, conversation naturally turned to practical matters. Namjoon outlined his insane class schedule with startling precision: early morning lab sessions, afternoon seminars, late-night research blocks. This prompted Yoongi to admit his own nocturnal tendencies and suggest adding acoustic foam to the bedrooms so his late-night work wouldn't disturb anyone. Ideas bounced, intersected, and harmonized. Jin realized he’d stopped auditioning the kid by the time they were talking about rent splits.
“Condition of tenancy,” Jin declared, ladling seaweed soup. “I cook, you two clean, and nobody complains about my dad jokes.”
Namjoon grinned, dimples deep. “I think that violates the laws of social physics, hyung. For every dad joke, there's an equal and opposite groan.”
Yoongi pointed a chopstick at Namjoon. “Don’t encourage him.”
Laughter bubbled up in Jin's chest, warm and unexpected. The rain tapped the window, the soup steamed, and for the first time since he’d fled the dorm kitchen he felt space, literal and emotional space, expand around him.
Not roommates, he thought, watching Yoongi hide a pleased smile at the soup and Namjoon nearly upend his water glass. Not exactly. Something quieter, sturdier, and infinitely more dangerous to his heart was taking shape.
He decided not to name it yet. There would be time. For now, there was dinner, a cracked door frame, and the satisfying click of all four burners lighting at once, a small miracle, but one entirely their own.