Chapter Text
If anyone were to ask, Namjoon would say that the worst part of his life was how accident prone he had always been.
Opening the door to the room for his first interview only to have the said door fall right off its hinges. Having the brakes on the golf cart he was driving suddenly fail, causing him to fall right into a ditch. The chair on a date losing its legs the moment he sat down after helping the lady to hers. Spilling his juice all over himself and then all over his crush and then all over the floor in front of his crush so that he fell down and broke two fingers and kept a twenty foot radius between himself and Namjoon after that until he transferred schools.
The list could go on.
He also couldn’t stand mistakes. Unlike accidents, which, as the word suggested, were usually just that, things that happened outside of, or at least seemingly outside of, his control, mistakes could always be traced back to human error. And usually that error was Namjoon’s.
A perfectionist and workaholic by nature, Namjoon couldn’t abide mistakes, and he hated having accidents.
However, he had been around the block enough times to know that sometimes mistakes and accidents could bring a positive result.
Sometimes.
Once the humiliation passed.
He got the job despite breaking the business’ door—it was chalked up to a faulty screw, anyway, and Namjoon’s “strength.” Falling into the ditch on the golf course had meant avoiding crashing into his boss who was playing on the hole. The date was apparently delighted by Namjoon’s cute clumsiness, and she invited him back to her place after dinner. And the crush—well, he never would have treated Namjoon right, anyway.
So that was why, on one afternoon when he wasn’t being meticulous enough, he read the address that his best friend Yoongi sent him incorrectly and showed up at a vastly different building than his friend intended.
Namjoon had picked Yoongi up from odder places before, at least in his mind, and the name Little Wanderers fit Yoongi—he was small and never seemed to stay in the same place for more than a week—so Namjoon asked the taxi driver to wait just a minute and hopped out to get his friend, not thinking much of the sidewalk full of rainbow colored little footprints that he stepped right over.
Not being aware of his surroundings enough is perhaps one reason why Namjoon was so prone to accidents, and that afternoon was no different. He approached the lady at the desk like he would at any hotel or hostel or police office or hospital and said,
“Good afternoon, I’m here to pick up Yoongi.”
“Yoongi?” the lady said, picking up a sign-in sheet. “And you are?”
“Namjoon. Kim Namjoon. He texted me about an hour ago. I’m sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find the place.”
“Kim Namjoon?” the lady hummed, frowning at the clipboard before putting it down. “I don’t have you down for an appointment. And the boy’s name is Yoongi?”
“Oh, yes. I didn’t know I had to make an appointment. I’m not staying. He was. I’m just his ride.”
“His ride—” the lady said, her frown growing. “I’m sorry—what is Yoongi’s last name?”
“Min. Min Yoongi.”
“We don’t have a child by that name here. Are you sure you’re at the right place?”
“Well,” Namjoon said, pulling out his phone again before he froze. Yoongi was small—not as small as Namjoon liked to say he was, but shorter and thinner than him, certainly—but not small enough to be mistaken as a child. “A child? No, Yoongi’s an adult. He’s older than me.”
“Sir,” the lady said, looking awkward now as she gave him a smile, “this is an orphanage.”
“An orph—oh my god,” Namjoon blinked as he locked his phone again and finally took in his surroundings. The lobby was colorful and bright. Through a bunch of glass windows and a large open door he could clearly see children running around on colorful mats and screaming as they wrestled on the floor. He could hear the noise from a TV and children arguing over what to watch.
“An orphanage. Of course,” he said with horror-stricken eyes toward the lady as he bowed a little, “I am so sorry for bothering you.”
“Not at all, Mr. Kim. Can I help you find your friend?”
“I’m at the wrong address. I must be at the wrong address,” Namjoon said as he backed away. “I’m so sorry again! It won’t happen ag—”
“Miss Chelsea,” a child with a long face and, for some reason, an adult-sized blazer hanging off of his shoulders and arms said as he came in with a pout on his extremely round bottom lip, “Matthew changed the channel again, and while I get that he doesn’t want to watch Pan Man, he doesn’t get to change the channel whenever he wants! There are other people here! Do you think he would like it if I changed the channel when he’s watching Moon Girl? I don’t think he would! I think the right thing to do would be to take turns. I think—”
“Yes, yes, alright Seokjin, I’m coming,” the lady at the desk said as she stood up with a sigh.
“I’m only saying—” the small boy filled with plenty of ideas of how watching TV should work, apparently, said as he turned around, his flopping hands completely hidden by the blazer’s long sleeves.
“Have a good day,” the girl said over her shoulder before she ushered the boy back into the room.
“Right,” Namjoon said, his eyes fixed on the way the small kid huffed and then stood by the boy in front of the TV with his hands on his hips until the other boy moved.
He hadn’t meant to pull up in front of the orphanage or get out and walk inside that day, but all accidents happen for a reason. Namjoon just had no idea yet how much good that one happy accident would bring him.
Namjoon had met Yoongi by accident, too.
Of course, no one really plans to leave their apartment and find a guy curled up, passed out on the floor without any shoes on and nothing but a bathrobe covering him up. Namjoon was so busy looking at his phone and planning for his day, that he probably wouldn’t even have noticed the guy if he hadn’t literally tripped over him.
Inviting a stranger into his apartment was just asking for trouble, and with his track record, Namjoon just knew he’d come back to the guy dead in his bathtub or something if he let him in, so he did not invite him in, and he did not stay to apologize or make it up to him as he rushed off to work. But Yoongi was still there later, merely shrugging and saying he had no where to go and no one had kicked him out yet, and Namjoon knew he was asking for trouble, but he wasn’t heartless.
He had a guest room at the time that was rarely used, and he told Yoongi he could stay there whenever he wanted.
That was two years ago, and while Yoongi didn’t stay there every night, because he didn’t want to “be a burden” or pay rent, he was there often enough to keep most of his clothes and belongings there.
Namjoon found that he didn’t mind at all. In fact, with his hectic schedule and inability to make time for people, accidentally tripping over Yoongi had resulted in finding a friend who gave Namjoon company when he was feeling extremely lonely and was there to remind him to eat because Yoongi would sit sipping coffee slowly with an empty plate in front of him, waiting expectantly for Namjoon to put something on it.
Not that Namjoon could cook.
Yoongi figured that out pretty quickly after trying to watch him cut an onion once, but Namjoon could use the microwave, and Yoongi was never picky in the mornings about food. Everything else, though? Yoongi was sensitive about everything—fabrics, noises, light or dark roasted coffee, a difference Namjoon knew nothing about before the guy showed up, being called “hyung,” sunlight, being touched at all, feeling obligated or indebted to people, and on and on. Yoongi was extremely hard to please, but that wasn’t what Namjoon was there for.
They co-existed, and while they rarely talked to each other, Namjoon truly did consider him his best friend after a couple of years. The two just understood each other like no one else had ever gotten Namjoon, and he took to worrying about Yoongi when he came home and the man wasn’t there. Still, they lived their own lives, and Namjoon certainly had no right to keep Yoongi around. In a way, he felt like he lived with a cat some days, and he wondered for a long time if he should get a pet to keep him company on days when Yoongi wasn’t around.
Still, it felt like it would be unfair to the dog or cat, leaving it there all alone while he went off to work.
Namjoon didn’t adopt a pet, then.
And he had no intention of adopting a kid, which was a much bigger responsibility.
It’s not something you accidentally do, either.
Namjoon had first met Seokjin on accident, but he definitely adopted him on purpose.
He had wanted to look nice. Slacks and a button-up. It was a little like a job interview, after all. He had to impress them. He had to make a good first impression to prove he was a capable adult who could take care of another living human being.
That idea had gotten him a little stuck, though, and he had spaced out in the back of the taxi—just another reason why driving had always been too dangerous for him, as doing anything monotonous tending to make his mind drift away, plus, you know, the whole accident prone issue could become actually life-threatening if Namjoon was driving a car—so much that when he got out he tripped on the curb, he tried to steady himself and save his phone by dropping to his knees immediately. Of course, that meant falling right into a puddle, the rainy season still not quite over, and evidence of the dirty street ended up on Namjoon’s pants and splattered onto his shirt.
So now he looked like someone who, well, just fell into a puddle, and he can only hope they’re understanding. Accidents happen, after all. They’re used to kids, so surely they’ll understand.
At least he was punctual!
They definitely appreciated that as they greeted him, and they didn’t comment on the stain on his shirt or pants at all, though his slacks probably concealed the dirt better than his light blue shirt.
He had done a lot of research since the last time he walked through the orphanage’s walls. He knew they were understaffed and underfunded, like most organizations that worked with children were, and had been in operation for over thirty years at their current over-capacitated location. They specifically only took newborns through children who were six and worked with foster parents and those looking to adopt. They had no scandals attached to their name, and even if he felt a little sleazy doing it, Namjoon had made a large donation before he showed up. In his mind, that way, even if they said no to him as a good match for any of the kids, he had already helped and wouldn’t feel as lousy afterwards.
The idea that they ignored his dirty shirt and were so polite to him simply because he had given them money made Namjoon’s mind go a little hazy while he sat in the office, so by the time they stepped out, he wasn’t exactly sure what was happening, but he followed the director, a sweet older lady with graying hair and a heavy weight clear on her sinking shoulders, into the room where most of the children were gathering.
Some were coloring on the floor, pages strewn everywhere in a chaotic mess with broken crayons and uncapped markers nearby. A few girls were playing quietly with a bunch of brightly pink toys in the corner. And one boy sat in front of the TV, his neck craning as he leaned forward and stared with his mouth agape at the moving images.
“This is Seokjin,” the lady said as they approached the boy, “who you saw last time.”
“Ah, yes,” Namjoon nodded, his hands holding each other awkwardly behind his back as he stood looking at the boy who didn’t even look up at them as they came nearby until the director knocked on the TV.
“Seokjin, this gentleman would like to speak to you. He might want to adopt you. So turn this off for a moment, would you?” The way the boy’s head turned so he could look up at Namjoon from under his choppy bangs made Namjoon clear his throat and stand up straighter for some reason, like it was this kid he was trying to impress, not the lady in charge.
“Do you have a TV at home?” the boy asked. Namjoon had done a lot of research, but it was hard to know what a kid would want to talk about, so he wasn’t quite ready for such a question. Still, it was easy enough, so he answered honestly,
“No,” because he had never been one for TV. He much preferred reading.
“No thank you, then,” the boy said, his face turning back to the TV.
“Seokjin,” the director said, a similar sigh to the one the girl had used the last time Namjoon was there, “don’t be rude.”
“It’s alright,” Namjoon said quickly, though he was a little flabbergasted at the boy’s quick decision. “Do you like TV that much?” he said to the boy, watching as the little head bobbed but didn’t look up at him. “More than anything else?”
“I love food more,” the boy admitted.
“Well, I have lots of food at my house,” Namjoon said, and the idea seemed to intrigue the boy, though he still didn’t look back up until there was a commercial.
“What kind of food do you have?”
“Oh, uh,” Namjoon stuttered when the boy looked at him, because he actually didn’t know what was in his cupboards.
“Do you have gummies?”
“Uh, no, I don’t keep gummies at my house, but,” Namjoon added quickly as the boy started to look away, “I can buy gummies!” Again, the boy looked at him, seeming intrigued, so Namjoon continued. “I can buy all the food you want, though! I eat out a lot, and order take out, and eat all kinds of yummy foods. What’s your favorite?”
“Do you have ants on a log?”
“Ants on a—” Namjoon blinked, shaking his head in confusion at the boy.
“Ants on a log,” the boy said seriously as he turned toward Namjoon, his hands flapping and completely visible as he was wearing a normal t-shirt today, “aren’t actual ants. I don’t like insects. I know a lot of boys do, but I think bugs are pretty gross, so I don’t actually want to eat ants. Ants on a log is a snack. It’s—it’s a snack—you take celery and put peanut butter in it, like, it’s a little boat, and then you put raisins on the peanut butter. And I know that doesn’t really sound good,” the boy rushed, his face scrunching up in disgust, “because celery is super gross by itself. And in soups! It gets all stringy, and they try to sneak it in, but I can always taste it.” Sticking out his tongue, the boy shuddered before continuing with a raised finger.
“But with peanut butter! And I know people think raisins are gross, and they honestly kind of are. They’re just shriveled grapes! Did you know that? If you leave a grape out long enough, it’ll just shrivel up!” the boy said, shaking and holding his arms to his chest as he shrunk himself. “But they’re really good with peanut butter. Not grapes. Raisins. Shriveled, dry grapes. Which is a little weird, because you’d think one form of a food would be good with the other food no matter what, but it isn’t! You can’t make ants on a log with cooked celery, after all. That would be gross! But it goes well together. I promise. So you put the peanut butter in the celery,” the boy continued, demonstrating by pantomiming making the snack, “and then plop, plop, plop, the raisins go on top! They’re the ants. Not real ants! You can eat it! And it’s really delicious, even if you think all the ingredients don’t go good together. It’s really tasty. Have you ever had ants on a log? Do you have the ingredients for ants on a log?”
“I—” Namjoon said, feeling like he needed to breathe as the little boy did. “I can—I can buy the ingredients for ants on a log.”
“Really?” the boy said, looking somewhat awed but also suspicious as his eyebrows rose and then narrowed.
“Really.”
“If you can buy ingredients for ants on a log, then you could buy a TV,” the boy reasoned, and Namjoon cracked a smile, knowing it wasn’t worth it to explain how celery cost less than a dollar while a TV cost hundreds because the boy’s logic made sense. If he could buy ingredients for a snack, he could buy a TV.
“I could,” Namjoon nodded then. “Yes. I could buy a TV.”
“Would you buy a TV for me?”
“Seokjin,” the director said sternly.
“A TV and ingredients for ants on a log?” Namjoon asked, cocking his head a little, feeling his smile widening as he played with the boy.
“Well, I know that’s a lot to ask,” Seokjin said, biting on his bottom lip for a second and glancing at the TV where his show had come back on before he raised his finger again, “but consider this! I can make the snack myself and then make some for you, too! So I could do the work, and that would be a way to pay you back!”
“I—you don’t need to work to pay me back. It would be my job to give you food and things you want,” Namjoon said, his smile fading a little at the boy’s serious face.
“But that is what kids are for.”
“For?” Namjoon said, looking over at the director, but she looked as lost as Namjoon felt. “What do you mean?”
“Kids are for working. All people are for working. Kids have to grow up to be adults, don’t they? And adults work. So in order to be a better adult, kids should work. Right?” Seokjin asked. The way the boy spoke was always in a rush, and Namjoon took a second to comprehend what he was saying before answering.
“Who told you that?”
“I don’t know,” Seokjin shrugged. “But isn’t that right? I’d have to work if I came home with you.”
“No,” Namjoon said, finally squatting down so the boy’s neck wouldn’t start to hurt. “You might have some chores, of course, like making your bed, and there would be rules, like only a couple of shows a day, but you’re just a kid. You just have to play and have fun.”
“I don’t know,” Seokjin said warily, his lips twisting. “That sounds too good to be true.”
“If I bought you ingredients for ants on a log, you wouldn’t have to pay me back. You could make it yourself if you want. And you could make some for me if you wanted to.”
“But you wouldn’t be upset if I didn’t make you any?”
“I wouldn’t be upset.”
“But food is for sharing,” Seokjin said. “If I could, I would make ants on a log for everyone,” he said, spreading his arms wide and looking around the room. “Except most people don’t like that snack. But if they ate it when I made it, I bet they would love it! I could make a different snack, too, if you don’t like that. Do you have things I could make other snacks with?”
“I could get things,” Namjoon said, smiling again.
“Well, I guess we could try it out,” Seokjin said, actually standing up and brushing off his pants as Namjoon looked back up at the director.
“Ah, Seokjin,” she said, a sad look on her face, “Mr. Kim only came to meet you, not necessarily take you home today. You have to give the other kids a chance, don’t you?”
“Oh,” Seokjin said, the boy almost at eye level as he stood in front of Namjoon now. “Your name is Kim?”
“Kim Namjoon,” Namjoon nodded, sticking out his hand for the little boy to shake. He had a pretty firm handshake, surprisingly, though he hid his hands behind his back and cocked his head again at Namjoon when he pulled away.
“I’m a Kim, too. Kim Seokjin. We could be related.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it.”
“Why not? We could be. I don’t know anyone else named Kim.”
“Ah, well, I do,” Namjoon said gently as the boy looked genuinely surprised again. “It’s a pretty common name."
“So we’re not related?”
“I doubt it. I only have one sister, and she isn’t married yet.”
“Are you married?”
“I am not,” Namjoon said, waiting for the boy’s reaction, but he didn’t seem bothered at all, as that wasn’t what he was really after.
“But you’re going to have a kid.”
“Ah, well—”
“So you don’t have to be married to have kids. So we could be related.”
“I see. Well,” Namjoon said, chuckling softly at the boy’s logic once again. “I guess you are right. We could be. But I do doubt it. I could look, if you want.”
“Look at what?”
“My family tree.”
“Your—you live in a tree?” Seokjin asked, his eyes the widest Namjoon had seen them now as the boy’s mouth fell open.
“No, no, I live in an apartment,” Namjoon said, trying not to smile or frown with the boy as his face fell. Compared to living in a tree, a boring four-walled apartment did sound lame now that Namjoon said it. “A family tree is where you track who your ancestors were. Your mother and father, your grandparents. It shows you who married who, who had kids, who they married. Et cetera.”
“Oh. Do I have one of those?” Seokjin asked, the question making Namjoon pause as he realized his mistake.
“Well, of course you do. Everyone has one.”
“Can you look mine up, then? I’d like to know who my parents are.”
“Seokjin,” the director said, her tone making Seokjin look up at her.
“I’m only four,” the boy said, a frown on his face as he looked back at Namjoon so seriously Namjoon had to nod at him. “But I know I’m an orphan. If you adopt me, you won’t have to lie to me. You can just tell me I’m adopted. I won’t mind. I’d rather you not lie to me. I don’t like being lied to. It’s why I’m glad you told me you don’t have a TV. I’d rather only live somewhere where there is a TV, but at least you told me you don’t have one. And that you could buy me food. I hope you’re not lying.”
“I’m not lying,” Namjoon said, reaching out awkwardly only to retract his hand when Seokjin looked down at it oddly. Seokjin seemed to scrutinize him for another moment, and then his little finger was pointing at the stain on Namjoon’s shirt, the spot that the director hadn’t noticed or had been polite enough to not draw attention to.
“How did that happen?”
“I fell. Outside. Getting out of the car. Into a puddle,” Namjoon said, feeling like there was no point in lying to the kid, especially after his little speech.
“Do you fall a lot?”
“Well—yes, actually.”
“Do you have an ear problem?”
“An ear problem?”
“Yes,” Seokjin nodded, pointing at his own ear like Namjoon didn’t know where his were. “If you can’t hear right, you lose your balance. It’s why superheroes have really good hearing. Because they have really good balance. Or they have good balance because they have good hearing. Spiderman has really good balance and hearing, but I think that’s because of his spider senses. He doesn’t just hear well. He senses things, too! Hearing is a sense, though, isn’t it? So his other senses are—well, I don’t know what they are. Do you?”
“I don’t,” Namjoon had to admit, having no idea what Seokjin was talking about.
“We’ll move on for now,” the director said gently before Seokjin could continue, though, the little boy’s mouth shutting as he sat back down promptly and turned back to the TV. “Say goodbye to Mr. Kim.”
“Goodbye,” Seokjin waved as Namjoon stood up and did the same.
It didn’t matter who else they talked to that day, though, the girls giggly and cute and wanting Namjoon to brush their doll’s hair, a skill Namjoon had absolutely no confidence in. After he broke the handle of one and handed it sheepishly to the girls, they talked to some other boys, too, most of them too loud or rude for Namjoon to have much of a conversation with. So it didn’t really matter, because Kim Seokjin had made an impression on Namjoon, and it was him that he kept coming back to visit for another month or so.
It was easy to find out a few things about little Seokjin.
The orphanage did know who his parents were, at least who had signed his birth certificate, but all they could tell Namjoon was that they did not wish to be contacted, so his first promise to Seokjin became a lie, as he would never be able to help the kid make his family tree. At least not one with his biological family. He could be added to Namjoon’s family tree, though, a little line under Namjoon’s name for Seokjin to put his. If he wanted to.
Because one thing that Namjoon learned about Seokjin is that he, like Yoongi, was picky. But, unlike Yoongi, Seokjin was opinionated. He had no qualm telling you what he liked and didn’t, even if it meant disagreeing with you. He was easily appalled and confused when someone didn’t like what he liked or liked something he despised, and while it was a little cute, the way his face got so surprised and his little voice started to ramble about how he must be the one who was right, it concerned Namjoon a little.
As did the boy’s obvious obsession with watching TV. It would be a hard habit to break if Namjoon did adopt him. He could understand why the boy liked TV, to a certain extent. Seokjin didn’t seem to have many friends in the orphanage, and there wasn’t too much to do, and the TV was flashy and exciting and a way to escape from the crowded room he was in. Namjoon, who loved to read, could understand that aspect of the TV. The stories were cliché and a little questionable, but Namjoon had years of only spending time on quality movies or shows, and Seokjin was only four. Of course he didn’t know what was good yet.
Except he insisted he did.
“Pan Man is totally better than Moon Girl, and I’m not even against girls! I like to play with the girls, except they usually don’t like me to. I just think their baby dolls are ugly. Real babies are ugly, though, did you know?” Seokjin explained one afternoon when Namjoon was sitting on the floor beside him as kids ran around them. “They come out all scrunched and slimy looking like aliens from the smog—”
“Bog.”
“Bog?”
“You mean bog. Like a marsh. Smog is a polluted cloud in the air.”
“Oh. Bog. They come out looking like little shrunken aliens from the bog! So the baby dolls are pretty realistic, but apparently the girls don’t like for me to say that. They always say I can’t play with their other toys, either, even though I don’t know why they can play with them when I can’t. The boys don’t let them play with their cars, either, which I also don’t get. Besides the color of them, the toys are just toys, aren’t they? And shows are just shows. So I don’t like Pan Man better because he’s man, do you understand?”
“Sure,” Namjoon nodded. He had learned to stop being surprised by Seokjin’s logic already. Sometimes what the boy said was extremely wise. Other times, Namjoon could see what the boy meant, even if his logic had gone wrong somewhere along the way with one misheard or misremembered fact, but still, the boy made Namjoon smile.
“She’s just a lame character!”
“Why’s that?” Namjoon asked, already settling himself in for a long explanation. Because that was what else Namjoon had learned about Seokjin.
The boy could talk.
More than Namjoon ever thought possible.
He would just ramble and rant and go on and on, only stopping occasionally to suck in a breath or wait for Namjoon to ask him a question or agree with him, and his stamina was truly impressive. He was nothing like Namjoon or Yoongi in that sense.
So Namjoon thought he had figured out what kind of kid Seokjin would be, except one day when he showed up the boy was sitting quietly in front of the TV, a blanket by his side, and his thumb in his mouth.
“He’s having a day,” Chelsea, the girl at the front desk whispered when Namjoon immediately turned to her to ask what was wrong. “And we never know what causes it or why he gets like this. It’s just like some days he runs out of batteries. It’s all extremes with that kid. He talks twenty-four seven with one day where he just shuts off. He’s fine, though.”
Namjoon wasn’t so sure, as Seokjin’s quietness felt a little eerie when he barely even looked up at Namjoon as the man sat down next to him like he had been doing every weekend for over a month now. But then Seokjin looked up at him, his eyes softer than Namjoon was used to, and then he looked at his chest or his hands or something, and then he was looking back up to his face, and Namjoon leaned in close like they had secrets with each other.
“What? What’s wrong?”
Instead of answering, the boy just looked at Namjoon’s lap before climbing into it, his blanket trailing behind him and his thumb still stuck between his lips, and Namjoon only lifted his arms to keep them out of the way, too surprised to do anything else until they got tired and he had to put them down.
Namjoon thought he knew what to expect from Seokjin, but he had a lot to learn about the boy, and a lot to learn about kids.
He was having one of those days when Namjoon finally adopted him, too. That was when Namjoon first hesitated, first wondered if the boy’s quietness was a sign of his extreme displeasure.
But it felt more like nervousness, and Namjoon couldn’t blame him. He was nervous, too, more nervous than he ever had been. More nervous than his first day at work. More nervous than when he told Yoongi he could live with him if he wanted to. More nervous than when he broke up with his girlfriend because he realized he didn’t like women as much as he thought he did. More nervous than that first time Seokjin had climbed into his lap without a word and sucked on his thumb while they watched TV together.
Seokjin wasn’t a baby, but Namjoon had practically baby proofed the house, though that was mainly to keep himself safe as he was positive he was going to trip more now with the kid around.
The boy just stood there, his blanket trailing behind him and his thumb in his mouth, while Namjoon held his bag and signed the final paperwork and nodded and nodded and nodded as he listened to the director’s final words of advice.
And then Seokjin was climbing into the back of the taxi, looking out the window as Namjoon made sure he was buckled in and his blanket was safely in his lap. And the ride home was quiet, silent, even, as Namjoon held onto his own seat belt tightly with one hand and Seokjin’s bag with another, the fact that all the boy owned could fit into one small duffle making him feel even more nervous as they got closer to his apartment.
The boy’s eyes were wide as he took everything in, but he was quiet through the lobby and on the elevator ride. Namjoon didn’t offer to hold his hand, and Seokjin didn’t take his or offer his own. His hands were occupied, anyway, one still attached to his face while the other one held his blanket closely, and he seemed so much smaller than Namjoon had ever realized when he first opened his door and Seokjin stepped in softly.
The room felt huge, as Namjoon tried to see it from Seokjin’s perspective. Living alone meant, besides for his copious amount of books and work he always brought home with him and the potted plants thriving in his windows or clumped in the corners of his bedroom or hanging out together on the dining room table, Namjoon didn’t own a lot of possessions. His place felt and looked a bit empty, but to Seokjin it must have looked so vast and yet filled with everything he could have ever wanted.
Namely, a giant TV Namjoon had had delivered and set up in the living room. And a kitchen stocked with all the gummies Namjoon could find because he didn’t know which brand Seokjin liked as well as raisins, peanut butter, and plenty of celery in the fridge. He had even gotten Seokjin a little stepping stool that could rest against the kitchen counter so he could climb up and reach the top, and that was where Namjoon brought the boy back to after showing him his room.
He had transformed his office space into a bedroom for the boy, his desk being moved to his own room, and he hadn’t known how to decorate it, so it still looked sparse, boring, and impersonal, but Seokjin had walked around reverently, touching the empty shelves and the bedspread before going back to sucking on his thumb when the inspection seemed over.
Namjoon could see his eyes light up, however, when he showed him the stool and stood behind the boy as he climbed up it. Seokjin didn’t need help, though, as he often told Namjoon. He was big enough to do it himself, and while Namjoon was not ready to give him a knife yet with any sharp edge, he gave him a butter knife and a spoon, watching as the boy took out his thumb and put his blanket down to pick them both up.
He looked ready to eat everything in sight. To fight out the enemy Hunger as he wielded the utensils. And once Namjoon put the ingredients in front of him that Seokjin had wanted, the boy’s smile appeared as his mouth fell open before he got to work.
And soon, Namjoon was leaning against the counter eating ants, though they weren’t really ants, as Seokjin grinned at him with peanut butter on his cheek and on his wrist and raisins clumped together on the counter and the strings of celery discarded in the trash that were deemed too gross for the young boy.
If anyone was to ask, Namjoon would say that the best part of his life was adopting one Kim Seokjin.
It would bring a lot of accidents, a lot of tears, a lot of lows, but somehow, just like how all the ingredients of ants on a log didn’t seem to fit together but made a delicious snack when put all together, the two were going to have so many good times together that Namjoon couldn’t complain at all about the messy celery strings their lives would leave behind.