Those fatal bushes

They met while jogging in the park. Autumn had just begun to gild the leaves of old branchy trees, and the alleys were wet after the heavy rain that had hit Seoul in the early hours. Namjoon was running along his favorite route: around the duck pond, up to the hill, and down to a tiny coffee shop with outside benches and a generous helping of syrup in every iced americano. Lo-fi hip-hop in his airpods was setting a good pace. After saluting the tigress statue at the top of the hill, Namjoon wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and slowed down, muttering the end of the track under his breath. And in the pause between two compositions, he heard someone cursing and groaning in the nearest bushes. Namjoon stopped and looked around, turning the music off. Behind the neatly trimmed bushes, that someone hissed and started whining about troubles, falling on their head. The voice was nice — like a crystal bell ringing. Namjoon, as a future composer, appreciated it. Purely as a professional, of course. He left the alley, walked around the bushes, and found there a guy sitting on the wet grass with twigs and leaves in his bleached hair and desperately blowing on his bleeding elbow. “Um…” Namjoon made his presence known. The guy tossed his head, then tried to stand up and bow, awkwardly holding his elbow with a healthy hand. Namjoon stopped him with a gesture and squatted down. “Sorry, my leg is in pain too,” the guy said and added sadly, more to himself. “Sheesh, the performance is just in a week.” “May I?” Namjoon asked and after a short and timid nod from the guy, felt first the elbow, avoiding the wound, and then the ankle under the torn sweatpants. The guy responded with nothing but a quiet hiss. “Looks like just a bruise to me,” Namjoon concluded. “You need to put something cold on it, treat the wound, and go to the emergency room. Just in case. Try to get up, I'll help you.” Namjoon gently lifted him by his armpits — the guy didn't weigh much, despite the trained muscles — and introduced himself: “My name is Namjoon.” “Thanks, Namjoon-ssi. I’m Jimin,” the guy bowed and almost fell over on his side. “Usually I'm not that clumsy,” he blushed. “But I am,” Namjoon chuckled, mindful of his ability to break just everything. “Lean on me, we need to get down the hill.” Jimin thanked him one more time and muttered something apologetic. Namjoon put Jimin’s healthy arm around his shoulders and led him to the alley, holding him by his waist. Or rather, carried him. He helped Jimin down to the bench of the coffee shop and went inside to take some ice for bruises and an americano with hazelnut syrup for lifting the mood. “Here you go,” Namjoon put a plastic cup with ice on Jimin’s injured ankle and placed an americano next to him on the bench. “There's a drugstore around the corner, I'll be right back.” Jimin smiled sheepishly and nodded. Thus, Namjoon got his first-ever first aid kit. Three months later, Namjoon knew all the best plasters, bandages, and warming ointments, mastered the massage technique for aching muscles, and became used to keeping protein shakes and fresh peaches in the refrigerator. Morning jogs with Jimin, who’d successfully recovered from falling into the bushes, smoothly turned into late dinners and night marathons of kdramas. And… a first-aid after Jimin’s exhausting dance practices. “Dancing is beautiful but painful,” Namjoon informed Jimin, sticking kinesio tape on his shoulders. Sitting in front of him on a kitchen stool, Jimin sighed. “But it is beautiful.” “And painful,” Namjoon insisted, running his fingers over the bright orange stripe on the side of Jimin’s neck. “Credit week is coming, and then the winter holidays,” Jimin said dreamily. “Have you decided what to do?” Namjoon nodded, but realizing that Jimin couldn't see him, said: “I'll stay with my parents for a week, then come back. You? Going to Busan?” “No, be busy looking for a new place. My landlady’s getting renovations done in the apartment.” “You can stay here,” Namjoon suggested with no other thought, “and look after my flowers.” Jimin turned around, so abruptly that he had to put his palm on the aching neck. “Sure? Hyung, you’re the best!” And so, a second toothbrush appeared in Namjoon's bathroom. And just stayed there. More months passed. Namjoon's — and Jimin's — apartment got another living being. “Joonie…” Jimin, awakened by a quiet yapping, found Namjoon sleeping on his back in the darkness and patted his chest. “Joon…” Namjoon lifted his sleep mask to his forehead and blinked sleepily. “Your turn.” “No-o-o,” Jimin moved closer and nuzzled into his neck. “I took him out yesterday. I'll make breakfast.” “I don’t believe you. Your ears must be red now,” Namjoon grabbed his shoulders and pulled him closer. “You’ll sleep.” “Please… I’ll make us an om…” Jimin yawned softly, squinting his eyes in an attempt to catch the last bits of a fleeting dream. “Omelet. Promise, promise.” “Fine. Just five more minutes…” “Just five.” Before Namjoon had time to snore, and Jimin gently hit him for it, both of them jumped up on the bed, hearing a sound that meant only one thing. “No-no-no-no-no!” Jimin whined, turning on the bedside lamp. “Not on the carpet…” “Mochi, why…” Namjoon groaned. Sitting next to the puddle on the carpet, a tiny corgi stared at them with adoring eyes and twitched its ear. “Can you scold him?” Jimin asked in a whisper. Namjoon shook his head. “I cannot either.” He leaned out of the bed to grab Mochi. “Just look into those eyes,” he held out the puppy to Namjoon, showing its muzzle. Sighing, Namjoon scratched Mochi between his ears, patted Jimin on the head, and went to the bathroom to get some detergent and a mop. “Those fatal bushes…” he yawned loudly in the corridor. “We can hear you,” Jimin shouted back from the bedroom.