Chapter Text
Seokjin looks out the window, watches people in their pastel-colored hats and billowing scarves as they sip cocktails by the pool. Women in their afternoon dresses, all gauze and chiffon, men in their crisp suits: cotton, linen--Seokjin himself is dressed in all-white, the collar of his polo shirt opening up to frame the hollow of his throat in the palest of silks. The sun is setting over the Hollywood hills, the deep orange yolk-like against the clear sky, the pool below dazzling like a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, empty when held to the light. Piano music filters through the air, seeps in through the cracks under the door.
“Well, I could ask my secretary to pick you up,” Seokjin says into the phone that he’s holding to his ear. “Then I could ask the chauffeur to bring you to my hotel room. Maybe you could do some shopping or check out some of the sights. I could have my secretary put together an itinerary, then we could meet up for dinn-”
“--I didn’t realize when we got together that I was going to date your secretary,” Yoongi’s voice comes in through the phone. Seokjin can imagine his blank expression, his lips pressed into a thin line. He’s angry.
“--hey, now don’t be like that, baby--” Seokjin says, watching a woman by the pool take a sip of her glass of champagne, the way that the wind plays with a man’s ascot as he looks out over the hills.
“--I don’t want to go to Hollywood with you just to overhear a dozen conversations.” Yoongi’s voice is resolute. There is none of the signature waver, the tremble and hesitation of their previous fights. “I don’t think I can do that anymore, Seokjin.”
Seokjin takes a deep breath, already knowing what’s coming. “What are you saying?”
“This isn’t working out for me.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” Seokjin feels a sinking feeling in his heart--but it is not new, not sharp or poignant but the dull ache of a scenario having repeated itself one too many times. Another one bites the dust. “I understand what you’re saying.”
“Do you want some advice, Seokjin?”
“No but I get the feeling you’re going to give it, regardless.”
“Next time you ask someone out, next time you make a fucking commitment, next time you ask someone to move in with you, make sure you aren’t just looking for someone to have at your beck and call. I’ll leave the key to the apartment with your secretary. I’ve seen her more than I’ve seen you the past few months.”
“I’m really sorry about how this has gone, Yoongi.” A business negotiation gone sour.
“I’m sure you are.”
The tone clicks in his ear as Yoongi hangs up. Seokjin sighs, checks his reflection in the mirror nearby. There are three prospective clients at today’s cocktail party--the very reason that he’s come to Los Angeles for the next two weeks. The three head officials of Gamja, Gamja & Sons, Inc., one of the wealthiest, but most embattled Korean-American jewelery empires, were in Hollywood for a series of meetings. Seokjin wasn’t technically on the itinerary but he’s been doing the buy-and-sell thing long enough to become a name to be reckoned with, to know how to squeeze himself in--and with the help of his cousin and lawyer, Jungkook, they’d managed not just a meeting but a series of meetings with prospective creditors who could help them convince Gamja, Gamja & Sons Inc. to sell.
The door opens a crack and Jungkook peeks through the doorway. “Hey, Seokjin-hyung?”
“Yes, Kookie?”
“Mr. Gamja, Sr. has left the building--I hear he’s on his way to a bistro dinner not far from your hotel. I’ve gotten you a reservation and everything should go well if you can get there on time which doesn’t give you a lot of time, really. They only had a slot for 6:30 PM so that’s what I booked. Gamja Jr. is still here but I hear that he doesn’t know anything about the latest diamond deal so he’s kind of useless. Gamja III is flying in tomorrow, according to our contact at United--” Jungkook looks at the phone in Seokjin’s hand. “--oh sorry, were you talking to Yoongi-hyung?”
“No,” Seokjin says, making for the door as well. “I don’t think I’ll be talking to your Yoongi-hyung for a very long time. Please get my secretary to send him a bouquet of blue tulips, to hire a delivery service to help him with his things when he moves out.”
“Another one huh? I liked Yoongi.”
Seokjin smiles sadly. “I liked him too. Now. Lend me your car. If I wait for the chauffeur to get here from the Wilshire, we’ll miss Gamja Sr. for sure.”
Seokjin reaches into the pocket of Jungkook’s blazer and finds the keys.
“But hyung--”
Seokjin trots down the stairs, into and across the foyer, and out the main door, pressing the auto-unlock button on the keychain once, locating Jungkook’s brand new silver Maserati Ghibli as it beeps in response. “I’ll park it back at the hotel and leave the valet stub at the front desk for you to pick up. Leave me the bill for your Uber and I’ll reimburse it--”
Jungkook watches in horror as Seokjin opens the driver’s seat and makes to get inside.
“--meanwhile, you stay here and butter Gamja Jr. up. Talk to him about the high-revenue of doing business online and how the Amazon model has really worked. Make sure you get the convenience factor along and how none of his colleagues are bothering with all of the hassles of having physical shops these days--”
“--but Hyung--”
“--what?”
“You don’t have a US license.”
“Has that ever stopped me from doing business before?”
Seokjin grins, closes the door, and starts the engine.
Hoseok cocks a hip to the right and straightens his blonde wig--very much, he thinks, in the fashion of 1990s Nick Carter. In short, cute but smokin’ hot. He sighs as one of the convertibles drives by slowly and then zips on past. It’s a slow night. Despite the fact that he’s worn his favorite unbuttoned glittery polo shirt (it has a few holes in the hems but no one could see when tucked in the right way) over leather pants and knee-high boots that were usually a hit, the night’s been a pretty disappointing one. He glances at his watch. Almost seven-thirty and still, nothing: other people wouldn’t usually worry but Jung Hoseok is the shit , especially in those boots, and he knows it. He wonders what’s up with tonight, if it’s a bad omen that’s going to follow him around for the rest of the evening. Thus far, all he’s gotten is one blowjob proposition that he’d refused because the guy was friends with their former pimp and Hoseok is done messing with guys like that--the pimp had gotten in a pretty bad altercation with Taehyung last time he’d asked for what they were due, plus bonuses. These days, he and Taehyung are going indie, as Taehyung likes to put it--their own men, no sharing, no more paying someone else for things they could very well do themselves.
He watches the lights play on Hollywood Boulevard--hot-pink and royal violet, neon-green and iridescent yellow. He makes a mental count of the money that he’d seen in their rent envelope back at the apartment before he left for the night: eighty dollars total, meaning twenty short of rent, fifty short of what he’d left there last time. He does the math--he’ll have to earn at least a hundred by tonight to be able to send money back home, make rent, and put a little in Taehyung’s secret art school fund.
“Hobi!”
Hoseok turns to see Kim Taehyung, his roommate and best friend for the past three years, sauntering down the boulevard in one of the best outfits he’s come up with yet: a jean jacket worn over nothing but a black mesh tank top, denim jeans ripped a bit too high in the thighs, cowboy boots with little rigs that jiggle when he walks.
“TaeTae! C’mere.”
“Rough night?” Taehyung asks, reaching into his back pocket and handing Hoseok a couple of twenties. “I’ve done alright so far. Two guys, one of them on discount but that’s because he was crying. You know me. Such a fucking sap. I took a bit from the rent money--I felt like painting this morning and you were still asleep so I thought it wouldn’t hurt to take a little if I gave it back. I bought watercolor paper. Here’s what I owe you.”
Hoseok feels a pang in his chest. He and Taehyung had met at one of those independent creative-people-doing-creative-things meetings three years ago when both of them were new to Los Angeles. Taehyung was looking to start art school but had lost his scholarship because he couldn’t make the reservation fee in time, Hoseok had initially had an apprenticeship at a dance studio but the place had closed down due to an issue with permits--they were both down on their luck, short of ideas, until Taehyung had come up with a pretty brilliant one (or so it seemed to them at the time). He’d asked Hoseok if he knew that Stars song: the one that went when you have nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire. Hoseok said he knew the one and Taehyung had said: when you have nothing left to spend, you spend yourself. That night they’d gone on their first foray down the boulevard and had left two hundred dollars richer than nothing. Three years later, and here they were. It was pretty good money but not every night was like the last and they had palms to grease (figuratively) to keep themselves safe, in the know on gossip along the boulevard, not to mention having to pay rent. It kills Hoseok not to be able to dance but not so much as it kills him to see Taehyung not be able to paint. Their apartment is covered in his beautiful swirls of watercolor--his motto being: if we’re going to be hookers, we have to make sure we do it in style.
“Nah, keep it,” Hoseok says, smiling up at the dusky June sky. He’ll make it work. They’ll make it work. A couple of jobs tonight and fifty, forty dollars would be watercolor under the bridge.
Taehyung looks down at the money being handed back to him, hesitates. “But--you worked for most of our rent already and I--”
“--come on, Tae. We’ll make it back. Put that toward your art supplies. I want a painting of something festive. Maybe flowers.”
“But Hobi--”
“Consider it a birthday gift.”
“My birthday is in December.”
“Life’s short. Take it.” He stuffs the bills into Taehyung’s hand.
Taehyung grins sheepishly, folding the bills into a neat square and putting them back in his pocket. “You’re too good to me, Hobi.”
“Ah, well. You’re the number one pain in my neck so I have to take care of you.”
Hoseok looks at Taehyung but Taehyung isn’t paying attention to him anymore, is instead staring at something behind him. Hoseok raises an eyebrow, turns around, and sees what Taehyung is looking at. Sputtering slowly down the street is a new silver 2017 Maserati Ghibli. Taehyung lets out a low whistle. Hobi swoons; he’d grown up in Brooklyn, his parents moving there from South Korea when he was a kid, and growing up he’d helped out at his dad’s shop, helping restore old vintage cars. The new Maserati, well, it was something: 404 hp, 3.0-liter turbocharged engine, if Hoseok remembers the catalogue correctly.
“You think he’s looking to buy?” Taehyung asks, nudging Hoseok.
“Too good to be true,” Hoseok says. “Someone owns a car like that, you know they can afford better than someone from around here--”
They both stop short, standing stock-still as the car pulls up in front of them, brakes screeching. Hoseok winces at the sound--what a terrible sound for such a beautiful car. The window rolls down and they both lean forward, trying to cover up their surprise with charm, their hopes with sexiness. Hoseok leans forward.
“You looking for something?”
He tries not to let his jaw drop as he sets his eyes on the guy--no, the man--sitting at the wheel, dark hair parted to the side but ruffled around his beautiful face, as if it had been swept up or down earlier in the evening. He’s wearing a white chiffon shirt with ribbons that are delicate, lending him an odd, angelic look.
“Yes I am actually,” he says warily, frowning at his phone that’s opened up to a navigation app that is blinking red--he’s going the wrong way. “Would you happen to know which way the Beverly Wilshire is?”
“Oh,” Hoseok says. “Fancy. Don’t go saying that hotel’s name around here. People will rob you blind. I’m kind enough not to rob you but the next hooker won’t be.”
The guy looks up, meets his eye, and his lips crack into a smile. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Of course. Nice ride by the way. How’s the 404 hp feel? Must be torture driving down the avenue like that , all ‘cause you can’t find a stupid hotel.”
“Well I don’t really have a choice, I don’t have a license--”
“Hey,” Taehyung cuts in. “Are you going to take him or what? You’re cute and you’ve got a nice car but time is money. If you’re taking advantage of him, I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave. You want time, you start the timer. You get me?”
The man laughs. “Well, I’m sorry for wasting your time, then. I would love to pay you for directions if you--”
Someone beeps loud, rolls their windows down and yells at the top of their lungs. Start moving, motherfucker!
“--don’t mind him. You don’t have to pay me for directions that’s ridiculous. Okay, so you go straight--”
“--actually, your friend is right. Rule number one of business: never do anything for free. That advice is payment for your warning about not mentioning the Wilshire.”
Hoseok grins. “That’s ridiculous. You got a pen? I can draw you a better map than your stupid app thing.”
“You know what. Okay. Your friend said time is money so how about I pay you to get in with me and show me where the Wilshire is and I’ll pay you when we get there plus the cab fare back?”
Hoseok gives him a once-over, takes in the soft-looking hair, the deep-set eyes, skin like strawberries in milk, lips that look like they could kiss soft and then destroy you. For a moment, he’s a little bit sad this isn’t a job, well not the kind of jobs he usually did anyway.
“Fifty dollars,” Hoseok says. “I want fifty plus cab fare.”
Hoseok glances at Tae who shoots him a thumbs-up before mouthing text me when you get there. Hoseok nods, turns back to the man in the car. He’s smiling.
“Deal.”
With that, Hoseok gets into the Maserati, slamming the heavy, silver door behind him. This is going to be a good ride, at least.