1 Part 1

There are so many ways it could have all turned out differently. Imagine if Jungkook hadn't forgotten the book. He wouldn't have had to run back into the house while Mom waited outside with the car running, the engine setting lose a cloud of exhaust on the late-day heat.

Or before that, even: Imagine if he hadn't waited to try on his suit, so that he might have noticed earlier that the sleeves were too long, and Mom wouldn't have had to haul out her old sewing kit, turning the kitchen counter into an operating table as she attempted to save the poor lifeless swath of black cloth at the very last minute.

Or later: if he hadn't given himself a paper cut while printing out the ticket, if he hadn't lost his phone charger, if there hadn't been traffic on the expressway to the airport. If they hadn't missed the exit, or if he hadn't dropped the quarters for the toll, the coins rolling beneath the seat while the people in the cars behind them leaned hard on their horns.

If the wheel of his suitcase hadn't been off-kilter.

If he'd run just a bit faster to the gate.

Though maybe it wouldn't have mattered anyway.

Perhaps the day's collection of delays is beside the point, and if it hadn't been one of those things, it would have just been something else: the weather over the Atlantic, rain in Seoul, storm clouds that hovered just an hour too long before getting on with their day. Jungkook isn't a big believer in things like fate or destiny, but then, he's never been a big believer in the punctuality of the airline industry, either.

Who ever heard of a plane leaving on time anyhow?

He's never missed a flight before in his life. Not once.

But when he finally reached the fate this evening, it's to find the attendants sealing the door and shutting down the computers. The clock above them says 6:49, and just beyond the window the plane sits like a hulking metal fortress; it's clear from the looks of those around him that no one else is getting on that thing.

He is four minutes late, which doesn't seem like all that much when he thinks about it; it's a commercial break, the period between classes, the time it takes to cook a microwave meal. Four minutes is nothing. Every single day, in every single airport, there are people who make their flights at the very last moment, breathing hard as they tow their bags and then slumping into their seats with a sigh of relief as the plane launches itself skyward.

But not him, who lets their backpack slip from his hand as he stands at the window, watching the plane break away from the accordion-like ramp, its wings rotating as it heads towards the runway without him.

Across the ocean, his father is making one last toast, and the white-gloved hotel staff is polishing the silverware for tomorrow night's celebration. Behind him, the boy with the ticket for seat 18C on the next flight to Seoul is eating a powdered doughnut, oblivious to the dusting of white on his blue shirt.

He closes his eyes, just for a moment, and when he opens them again, the plane is gone.

Who would've guessed that four minutes could change everything?

Airports are torture chambers if you're claustrophobic.

It's not just the looming threat of the ride ahead, being stuffed into seats like sardines and then catapulted through the air in a metal tube, but also the terminals themselves, the press of people, the blue and spin it the place, a dancing, dizzying hum, all motion and noises, all frenzy and clamor, and the whole thing sealed off by glass windows like some kind of monstrous ant farm.

This is just one of the many things that Jungkook is trying to not think about as he stands helplessly before the ticket counter. The light outside was starting to disappear and his plane was now somewhere rover the Atlantic, and he can feel something inside of himself unraveling, like the slow release of air from a balloon. Part of it is the impending flight and part of it is the airport itself, but mostly - mostly - it's the realization that he'll now be late for the wedding he didn't even want to go in the first place, and something about this miserable little twist of fate makes him feel like crying.

The gate attendants have gathered on the opposite side of the counter to frown at him with looks of great impatience. The screen behind them has already been switched to announce the next flight, which doesn't leave for another 3 hours, and its quickly becoming obvious that he's the only thing standing between them and the end of their shift.

"I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do but to try to get you a later flight." One of them says, a suppressed sigh evident in her tone.

He nods glumly. He spent the past few weeks secretly wishing this very thing might happen, though admittedly, his imagined scenarios have been a bit more dramatic: a massive airline strike, an epic hailstorm, an immobilizing case of the flu, or even the measles, that would prevent him from flying. All perfectly good reasons why he might have to miss his father's second wedding.

But being four minutes late to his flight seemed just a little too convenient, maybe a tad suspicious, and he's not at all sure that both of his parents will understand it wasn't his fault. In fact, he suspects this might fall onto the very short list of things they agree on.

It had been his own idea to skip the rehearsal dinner and arrive to Seoul the morning of the wedding instead. He hadn't seen his father in more than a year, and he wasn't sure he could sit in a room with all the important people in his life - his friends, his colleagues, the little world he's built for himself an ocean away- while they toasted to his health and happiness, the start of his new life. If it had been up to him, he wouldn't even be going to the wedding itself, but that had turned out to be nonnegotiable.

"He's still you dad" Mom kept reminding him, as if this were something he might forget. "If you don't go, you'll regret it layer. I know it's hard to imagine when you're seventeen, but trust me. One day you will"

He wasn't too sure.

The flight attendant is now working the keyboard of her computer with a kind of ferocious intensity, punching at the keys and snapping her gum. "You're in luck. I can get you on the twenty-four. Seat 18A. By the window."

He was almost too scared to ask the question, but he asks it anyway: "What time does it get in?"

"Nine fifty-four tomorrow morning."

He pictures the delicate calligraphy on the thick ivory wedding invitation, which has been sitting on his desk for months now. The ceremony will begin tomorrow at noon, which means that if everything goes according to schedule - the fight and then customs, the taxis and the traffic, the timing all perfectly choreographed- he'll still have a chance at making it on time. But just barely.

"Boarding will start from this gate at nine forty-five, have a wonderful flight." She says handing him over the papers, which are all neatly bound in a little jacket.

He edges his way toward the windows and survey the rows of dean gray chairs, most of them occupied and the rest sprouting yellow stuffing at their seams like well-loved teddy bears. He props his backpack on top of his carry-on suitcase and dig for his phone, then scroll through the contacts to find his dad. He's listed simply as "The Professor" a label he bestowed on him about a year ago, shortly after it was announced he wouldn't be returning to New York and the word dad had become an unpleasant reminder each time he opened his phone.

His heart quickens now as it begins to ring; though he still calls fairly often, he's probably dialed the professor a handful of times. It's past midnight there and when he finally picks up, his voice, slowed by sleep or alcohol or maybe both.

"Hello?"

"Hey. It's me, I missed my flight." He says, adopting the clipped tone that comes so naturally when talking to his father now, a side effect of his general disapproval of him.

"What?"

He sighs and repeat himself. "I missed my flight."

"Well did you get another one?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't get in until ten."

"Tomorrow?"

"No, tonight. I'll be traveling by comet."

"That's too late. It's too close to the ceremony. I won't be able to pick you up." He says, and there's a muffled sound as he covers the phone and whispered something to Chan, his wife to be. "We can send Aunt Hanni to get you."

"Who's aunt Hanni?"

"Chan's aunt."

"I'm nineteen. I'm pretty sure I can handle getting a taxi to the church."

"I don't know, is your first time in Seoul. Do you think your mom would be okay with this?"

"Mom isn't here. I guess she caught the first wedding." He says

There's silence on the other end of the phone.

"It's fine, Dad. I'll meet you at the church tomorrow. Hopefully I won't be too late."

"Okay," he says softly. "I can't wait to see you."

"Yeah, see you tomorrow." He says, unable to bring himself to say it back to him.

It isn't until after he hung up that he realized he didn't ask how the rehearsal dinner went. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

For a long moment, he stands there like that, the phone still held tightly in his hand, trying not to think about all that awaits him on the other side of the ocean. The smell of butter from a nearby pretzel stand is making him slightly sick, and he'd like nothing more than to sit down, but the gate is chocked with passenger who've spilled over from other areas of the terminal.

People are staking out their territory, laying claims to sections of the waiting area as if they plan to live here permanently. There are suitcases perched on empty chairs, families camped out around entire corners, greasy McDonald's bags strewn across the floor. As he picks his way over to a man sleeping on his backpack, he is keenly aware of the closeness of the ceiling and the press of the walls, the surging presence of the crown all around him.

When he spots an empty seat, he hurries in that direction, maneuvering the rolling suitcase through the seas of shows and trying not to think about just how crushed the black suit jacket will be by the time he arrives tomorrow morning.

The plan was to have a few hours to get ready at the hotel before the ceremony, but now he'll have to make a mad dash for the church. Of all his many worries at the moment, this doesn't rank particularly high on the list.

He's pretty sure that regret is too slight of a word to describe his feelings about agreeing to be a groomsman, but he had been worn down by Chan's incessant emails and dad's endless pleas, not to mention Mom's surprising support of the idea.

"I know he's not your favorite person in the world right now, and he's certainly not mine either. But do you really want to be flipping through that wedding album one day and maybe with your own kids, and wishing you'd been a part of it?"

He really didn't think he'd mind, actually, but he could see where everyone was going with this, and it had just seemed easier to make them happy, even if it meant enduring hair spray and the uncomfortable dress shoes and the post-ceremony photo shoot.

Out the window, the sky is a dusky pink now, and the pinpricks of light that outline the planes are beginning to flicker to life. He could almost make out his own reflection on the glass, somehow already looking as a careworn and rumpled as if the journey were behind him. He wedges himself into a seat between an older man flapping his newspaper so hard he half expects it to up and fly away and a middle-aged woman with embroider cat on her turtleneck, knitting away at what could still turn out to be anything.

Three more hours, he thinks hugging his backpack, then realize there's no point in counting down the minutes to something he's dreading; it would be far more accurate to say 2 days. Two more days and he would be back home. Two more days and he could pretend this never happened. Two more days and he'll have survived the weekend he's been dreading for what feels like years.

He readjusts his backpack on his lap, realizing a moment too late that he didn't zip it all the way up and some of his things have tumbled to the floor.

He reaches for the chap stick, then for the case of his glasses but when he goes to reach out for the heavy black book that his father gave him, the boy actors the aisle reaches it first.

The boy glances briefly at the cover before handing it back and Jungkook catches a flicker of recognition in his eyes. It takes him a second to understand that he just thinks Jungkook is the kind of person who reads Dickens in the airport, and he very nearly tells the boy that's not the case, in fact, he's had the book for ages but never cracked it open. But instead he smiles in acknowledgment, then turn quite deliberately toward the window, just in case the boy might be thinking about striking up a conversation.

Because he didn't feel like talking right now, not even to someone as cute as the boy is. He didn't feel like being here at all, if he was being honest. The day ahead of him is like something living and breathing, something that's barreling towards him at an alarming speed, and it seems only a matter of time before it will knock him flat on his back. The dread he feels at the idea of getting on the plane - not to mention getting to Seoul- is something physical; it makes him fidget in his seat, set of legs bobbing and his finger twitching.

The man beside Jungkook blows his nose loudly, then snaps his newspaper back to attention, and Jungkook hopes he's not sitting next to him on the flight. 14 hours is a long time, too big of a slice of the day to be left to chance. He would never be expected to take a road trip with someone he didn't know, yet how many times has he flown to Chicago or Denver or Florida besides a complete stranger, elbow to elbow, side by side, as the two of them hurtled across the country together? That's the thing about flying, you could talk to someone for hours and never even know their name, share your deepest secrets and then never ever see them again.

As the man cranes his neck to read an article his arms brushes against Jungkook's, and he stand abruptly, swinging his backpack onto one shoulder. Around him, the gate area is still teeming with people, and he looks longingly towards the windows, wishing he was outside right now. He's not sure he can sit there for three more hours, but the idea of dragging his suitcase through the crowd is daunting. He edges closer to his empty seat so that it might look reserved, then turn to the lady in the cat turtleneck.

"Would you mind watching my bag for a minute?" He asks, the woman holds her knitting needles very still and frowns up at him.

"You're not supposed to do that" she says pointedly.

"Is just for a minute or two" he explains, but the woman simply gives her head a little shake, as if she can't bear to be implicated in whatever scenario is about to unfold.

"I can watch it." Says the boy across the aisle, and Jungkook looks at him- really look at him- for the first time. His dark hair is a bit too long and there are crumbs down the front of his shirt, but there's something striking about him too. Maybe it's his eyes, or the twitch of his mouth as he tried to keep from smiling, a hint of dimples showing. But his heart dips unexpectedly when the looks at him, his eyes skipping between Jungkook and the woman, whose lips are set in a thin line of disapproval.

"It's against the law," the woman says under her breath, her eyes shifting over to where to gully security guards are standing just outside the food court.

Jungkook glances back at the boy, who offers him a sympathetic smile, this time dimples show. "Never mind," he says. "I'll just take it. Thanks anyway."

He begins to gather his thing, tucking the book under his arms and swinging his backpack up from the other shoulder. The woman just barely pulls her feet back as he maneuvers the suitcase past her. When he gets to the end of the waiting area, the colorless carpeting gives way to the linoleum of the corridor, and the suitcase teeters precariously on that rubber ridge that separates the two. It rocks from one wheel to the other, and as he tries to right it the book slips from under his arm. When he stops to pick it up again, his sweatshirt flutters to the floors as well.

"You've got to be kidding me" he murmurs to himself. Blowing a strand of hair from his face. But by the time he has gathered everything and reach for the suitcase again, its somehow no longer there. Spinning around, he's stunned to see the boy standing beside him, his own back slung over his shoulder. Jungkook's eyes travel down to where he's gripping the handle of the suitcase.

"What are you doing?" He asks, blinking up at him.

"You looked like you might need some help."

Jungkook stares at him.

"And this way it's perfectly legal," he adds with a grin, his full dimpled smile threatening to give Jungkook a heart attack.

He raises both eyebrows and he straighten up a bit, looking somewhat less sure of himself. It occurs to Jungkook that perhaps he's planning to steal his bag, but if that's the case is not a very well-planned heist; pretty much the only things in there are a pair of shoes and a suit. And Jungkook would be more than happy to lose those.

Jungkook stands there for a long moment, wondering what he could've done to have secured himself a porter. But the crowds are surging around them and his backpack is heavy on his shoulders and the boy's eyes are searching his with something like loneliness, like the very last thing he wants is to be left behind right now. And that's something Jungkook can understand, too, and so after a moment Jungkook nods in agreement, and he tips the suitcase forward onto its wheels.

An announcement comes over the loud speaker about a passenger missing from his plane, and he can't stop the thought from tiptoeing into his head: What if he were to skip out on his own flight? But almost as if the boy can read his mind, the boy in front of Jungkook glances back to make sure he's still there, and he realizes he's grateful to have some company on this of all dust, unexpected as it may be.

They walk past a row of paneled windows that face out the tarmac, where the planes are lined up like floats in a parade, and Jungkook feels his heart pick up speed at the thought of having to board one soon. Of all the many tight places in the world, the endless books and crannies and corners, nothing sets him trembling quite much as the sight of an airplane.

It was just last year when it happened for the first time, this dizzying worry, a heart-thudding, stomach-churning exercise in panic. In a hotel bathroom in Aspen, with the snow falling fast and thick outside the window and his dad on the phone in the next room, he had the sudden sensation that the walls were too close and getting closer, inching towards him with the steady certainty of a glacier. He stood there trying to measure his breathing, his heart pounding out a rhythm in his ears so loud it nearly drowned out the sound of Dad's muffled voice on the other side of the wall.

"Yeah," he was saying, "and we're supposed to get another six inches tonight, so it should be perfect tomorrow."

They've been in Aspen for two whole days, doing this best to pretend this spring break was no different from the others. They rose early in the morning to get up the mountain before the slopes were too crowded, sat silently with their mugs of hot chocolate in the lodge afterward, played board games at night in front of the fireplace. But the truth was, they spent so much time not talking about Mom's absence that it had become the only thing either of them could think about.

Besides, he wasn't stupid. Dad didn't just pack off to Seoul University for a semester, spent his days teaching a class and suddenly decided he wants a divorce without good reason. And though Mom hadn't said anything about it - had, in fact, grown nearly silent in the subject of Dad in general- Jungkook knew that reason must be another woman.

He had planned to confront his dad about it on the ski trip, to step off the plane and thrust an accusing finger at him and demand to know why he wasn't coming home. But when he made his way down to baggage claim to find dad waiting for him, he looked completely different, with a reddish beard that didn't match his hair and a smile so big that Jungkook could see the caps on his teeth. It had only been six months, but in that time, he'd become a total stranger, and it wasn't until Jungkook stooped to hug him that he came back again. Smelling like cigarette smoke and aftershave, his voice gravelly in his ear as he told his son how much he missed him. And for some reason that was even worse. In the end, it's not the changes that will break your heart; it's that tug of familiarity.

And so Jungkook had chicken out, instead spending those first two days watching and waiting, trying to read the lines of his face like a map, searching for clues to explain why their little family had fallen apart. When he'd gone off to Seoul last summer, they've all been thrilled. Until then he'd been a professor at a small mid-tier college in New York, so the idea at a fellowship in the University of Seoul had been irresistible. But Jungkook had been just about to start college, and Mom couldn't leave her little wallpaper business for four whole months, so it was decided that they'd stay behind until Christmas, when they'd join Dad in Seoul for a couple of weeks of sightseeing and then they'd all return home together.

That, of course, never happened.

At the time, Mom had simply announced that there was a change of plans, that they'd be spending Christmas at his grandparents' house in Maine instead. Jungkook believed his dad would be there to surprise him when they arrived, but on Christmas eve it was only Grandma and Pops and enough presents to confine that everyone was trying to make up for the absence of something else.

For days before that, he had been overhearing his parents' tension-filled phone calls and listening to the sound of his mother crying through the events of their old house, but it wasn't until the drive home from Maine that Mom finally announced that she and Dad would be splitting up, and that he'd be staying another semester in Seoul.

"It'll just be a separation at first." She said, sliding her eyes from the road over to where he sat numbly, absorbing the news one incremental thought at a time -first, Mom and Dad are getting divorced, and then, Dad isn't coming back.

"There's a whole ocean between you," Jungkook said quietly. "How much more separated can you get?"

"Legally, we're going to legally separate."

"Don't you need to see each other first? Before deciding something like that?"

"Oh honey. I think it's already been decided."

And so just two months later, he stood in the bathroom of their Aspen hotel, his toothbrush in hand, as his dad's voice drifted in from the next room. A moment earlier he'd been sure it was mom calling to check in and his heart lifted at the thought. But then him heard his say her name. Chan. Before lowering his voice.

"No, it's fine. He's just washing up."

He felt suddenly cold all over, wondering when his father had become the sort if man to whisper to foreign women on hotel phones, to take him on a ski trip as if it meant something, as if it were a promise, and then return to his new life like it had never happened.

He took a step closer to the door, bare feet cold on the tiles.

"I know" he was saying now. His voice soft. "I miss you, too honey."

Of course, he thought, closing his eyes. Of course.

It didn't help that he was right; when had that ever made anything better? He felt a tiny seed of resentment take hold inside of him; it was like the pit if a peach, something small and hard and mean, a bitterness he was certain would never dissolve.

He stepped back from the door, feeling his throat go tight and his rib cage swell. In the mirror, he watched the color rise up to his cheeks, and his eyes felt blurred by the heat of the small room. He wrapped his fingers around the edge of the sink, watching his knuckles go white, forcing himself to wait until he was off the phone.

"What's wrong?" Dad asked when Jungkook finally emerged from the bathroom, walked past him without a word and then flipped onto one of the beds. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine."

But it happened again the next day.

As he rode down the elevator to the lobby the following morning, already warm beneath the layers of ski gear, there was a sharp jolt, and then came an abrupt stop. They were the only two people in there, and they exchanged a blank look before Dad shrugged and reached for the emergency call button.

Jungkook jabbed at the buttons randomly, lighting up one after another as a rising sense of panic welled up inside of him.

"I don't think that's gonna do anything. . ." Dad began to say but he stopped when he seemed to notice something was wrong. "Are you okay?"

Jungkook tugged at the collar of his ski jacket, then unzipped it. "No. Yes. I don't know. I want to get out here."

"They'll be here soon," he said. "There's nothing we can do till-"

"No, now, dad." He said, feeling slightly frantic. It was the first time he's called him Dad since they've gotten to Aspen; until that point Jungkook pretty much avoided calling him at all.

His eyes skipped around the tiny elevator. "Are you having a panic attack?" He asked, looking a bit panicky himself. "Has this happened before? Does your mom-"

He shakes his head. He wasn't sure what was happening; all he knew was that he needed to get out of there right now.

"Hey," Dad said, taking him by the shoulders and forcing him to meet his eyes. "They'll be here in a minute, okay? Just look at me. Don't think about where we are."

"Okay," Jungkook muttered, gritting his teeth.

"Okay," he said. "Think about someplace else. Somewhere with open spaces."

He tried to still his frenzied mind, to bring forth some soothing memories, but his brain refused to cooperate. Jungkook's face was prickly with heat, and it was hard to focus.

"Pretend you're at the beach" he said "Or the sky! Imagine the sky, okay? Think about how big it is, how you can't see the end of it"

He shuts his eyes and forced himself to picture it, the vast and endless blue marred only by the occasional cloud. The deepness of it, the sheer scope of it, so big it was impossible to know where it ended. He felt his heart begin to slow and his breathing grow even, and he unclenched his sweaty fists. When Jungkook opened his eyes again, Dad's face was level with his, his eyes wide with worry. They stared at each other for what felt like forever, and he realized it was the first time he allowed himself to look him in the eye since they arrived.

After a moment, the elevator shuddered into motion, and Jungkook let out a breath. They rode down the rest of the way in silence, both of them shaken, both of them eager to step outside and stand beneath the enormous stretch of western sky.

Now, in the middle of the crowded terminal, he pulls his eyes away from the windows, from the planes fanned out across the runways like windup toys. His stomach tightens again; the only time it doesn't help to imagine the sky is when he's thirty thousand feet in the air with nowhere to go but down.

Jungkook turns to see that the boy is waiting for him, his hand still wrapped around the handle of the suitcase. He smiles when Jungkook catches up, then swings out into the busy corridor, and Jungkook hurries up to keep up with his long strides. He's concentrating so hard on following the back of the blue shirt the boy is wearing that when he stops, Jungkook very nearly run into him. He's taller than Jungkook by a few inches, but he ducks his head to speak to him anyway.

"I didn't even ask where you're going."

"Seoul" Jungkook say, he laughs. That's a nice laugh.

"No, I meant now. Where are you going now?"

"Oh," Jungkook says, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. "I don't know, actually. To get dinner maybe? I just didn't want to sit there forever"

This is not entirely true; he was heading to the bathroom, but he can't quite bring himself to tell him this. The thought of him waiting politely just outside while Jungkook stands in line for the toilet is more than he can bare.

"Okay," he says tilting his head to the side, his dark hair falling across his forehead. When he smiles, you notice that one of his dimples is slightly bigger than the other, and there's something about this that makes him seem endearingly off-balance.

"Where to, then?"

He stands on his tiptoes, turning in a small circle to get a sense of the restaurant choices, a bleak collection of pizza and burger stands. He. wasn't sure whether the boy will be joining him, and this possibility gives the decision a slightly frenzied feel; Jungkook can practically feel him waiting beside him, and his whole body is tense as he tries to think of the option that's least likely to leave him with food all over his face, just in case he decides to come along.

After what seems like forever, Jungkook point to a deli just a few gates down, and he heads off in that direction obligingly, the red suitcase in tow. When they get there, he readjusts the bag on his shoulder and squints up at the menu.

"This is a good idea; the plane food will probably be bad."

"Where are you headed?" Jungkook asked as they join the line.

"Seoul as well"

"Really? What seat?"

The boy reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and produces a ticket, bent on half and ripped at one corner.

"Eighteen-C"

"I'm eighteen-A" Jungkook tells him, he smiles.

"Just missed."

Jungkook nods at his garment bag, which is still resting on his shoulders, his fingers hooked around the hanger. "You going over for a wedding, too?"

He hesitates, then jerks his chin in the first half of a nod.

"So am I." He says, "wouldn't it be weird if it was the same one?"

"Not likely" the boy says, giving Jungkook an odd look, and he immediately feels silly. Of course, it's not the same one. Jungkook hopes he doesn't think that he is under the impression that Seoul is some kind of backwater town where everyone knows everyone else. He's never been out of the country before, having grown up in New York all his life even if his parents were Korean. But he knew enough to know that Seoul is enormous; it is, in his limited experience, big enough to lose someone entirely.

The boy looks as if he's about to say something more, then turns and gestures towards the menu instead. "Do you know what you'd like?"

Do I know what I'd like? He thinks to himself.

He'd like to go home.

He'd like for home to be the way it once was.

He'd like to be going anywhere but to his father's wedding.

He'd like to be anywhere but this airport.

He'd like to know the boy's name.

After a moment, Jungkook looks over at the boy.

"Not yet," he says. "I'm still deciding."

Despite ordering his Turkey sandwich without mayo he can see the white goo oozing onto the crust as he carries the food to an empty table, and his stomach lurches at the sight. He's debating whether it would be better to suffer through eating it or risk looking like an idiot as he scrapes it off, and eventually settles for looking like an idiot, ignoring the boy's raised eyebrows as he dissects his dinner with all the care of a biology experiment. He wrinkles his nose as he sets aside the lettuce and tomato, ridding each disassembled piece of the clinging white globs.

"That's some nice work there," thee boy says around a mouthful of roast beef, and he nods matter-of-factly.

"I have a fear of mayo, so I've actually gotten pretty good at this over the years."

"You have a fear of mayo?"

He nods again. "It's my top three of four."

"What are the others?" The boy asks with a grin. "I mean, what could possibly be worse than mayonnaise?"

"Dentist," he offers. "Spiders. Ovens."

"Ovens? So, I take it you're not much of a cook."

"And small spaces," he says a bit more quietly. The boy tilts his head to one side. "So, what do you do on a plane?"

Jungkook shrugs. "Grit my teeth and hope for the best."

"Not a bad tactic." The boy says with a laugh, that's a nice laugh. "Does it work?" He doesn't answer, struck by a small flash of alarm. It's almost worse when he forgets about it for a moment, because it never fails for come rushing back again with renewed force, like some sort of demented boomerang. "Well," says the boy, dropping his elbow on the table, "claustrophobia is nothing compared to mayo-phobia, and look how well you're conquering that." The boy nods at the plastic knife in Jungkook's hand, which is caked with mayonnaise and bread crumbs. Jungkook smiles at him gratefully.

As they eat, Jungkook's eyes drift to the television set in the corner of the cafe, where the weather updates are shown over and over again. Jungkook really tries to focus on dinner but can't help sneaking sideway glances at the boy every now and then, each time, his stomach does a little jig entirely unrelated to the travesty of mayo still left on the sandwich.

He's only ever had one boyfriend, Mitchell Kelly: athletic, uncomplicated, and endlessly dull. They dated for much of their senior year, and though Jungkook loved watching him on the soccer field (the way he'd wave at Jungkook on the sidelines), and though Jungkook was always happy to see him in the halls at school (the way he'd try every time to lift Jungkook off his feet when they hugged), and though Jungkook cried when he broke up with him four months ago, the brief relationship now strikes as the most obvious mistake in the world.

It seemed impossible that he could've liked someone like Mitchell when there was someone like this guy in the world, someone tall and lanky, with tousled hair and striking brown eyes and a speck of mustard on his chin, like the one small imperfection that makes the whole painting work somehow.

Is it possible not to ever know your type- not even know you have a type- until quite suddenly you do?

Jungkook twists his napkin underneath the table. It occurs to him that you've been referring to the boy as Dimples in his head, and so he finally leans over across the table scattering crumbs from the sandwiches, and ask his name.

"Right," he said with a grin, showing his dimples. "I guess that part does traditionally come first. I'm Namjoon. And you?"

"Jungkook"

"Jungkook" he repeats, "I like it"

Jungkook knows he's just talking about the name but he's still unaccountably flattered. Maybe it's the way Namjoon is looking at Jungkook with such interest right now, but there's something that about him that makes Jungkook's heart quicken in the way it does when surprised. And he supposes that might just be it: the surprise of it all. He has spent so much energy dreading this trip that he hadn't been prepared for the possibility that something good might come out of it, too, something unexpected.

"You don't want your pickle?" Namjoon asks, leaning forward and Jungkook shakes his head and push the plate across the table to him. He eats it in two bites. then sits back again. "Ever been to Seoul before?"

"Never" Jungkook says a bit too forcefully.

He laughs. Jungkook really likes the sound of his laugh. "It's not that bad."

"No, I'm sure it's not," Jungkook says, biting his lip. "Do you live there?"

"I grew up there."

"Where do you live now?"

"New York, I guess," he says. "I go to Columbia."

Jungkook is unable to hide his surprise. "You do?

"What, I don't look like a proper Columbia student to you?"

"No, it's just so close."

"To what?"

Jungkook hadn't meant to say that, and now he can feel his cheeks go warm. "To where I live" he says, completely embarrassed now, but Namjoon was smiling.

"I just finished my second year there."

"So how come you're not home for the summer?"

"I like it over here," he says with a shrug. "Plus, I won a summer research grant, I'm sort of required to stick around."

"What kind of research?"

"I'm studying the fermentation process of mayonnaise"

"You're not" Jungkook says, laughing and Namjoon frowns.

"I am" he says "it's very important work. Did you know that twenty four percent of all mayonnaise is actually laced with vanilla ice-cream?"

"That does sound important" Jungkook replies, "but what are you really studying?"

A man bumps hard into the back of the chair as he walks past, then moves on without a apologizing and Namjoon grins. "Patterns of congestion in US airports"

"You're ridiculous." Jungkook says, shaking his head with a smile on his face. "But if you could do something about these crowds, I wouldn't mind it. I hate airports."

"Really?" Namjoon says. "I love them."

Jungkook is convinced for a minute that Namjoon is still teasing him but then realizes he's serious.

"I like how you're neither here nor there. And how there's nowhere else you're meant to be for a while waiting. You're just sort of . . . suspended."

"That's fine, I guess" Jungkook says playing with the tab on the soda can. "If it weren't for the crowds."

He glances over his shoulder. "They're not always as bad as this."

"They are if you're me." Jungkook looks over at the screen displaying arrivals and departures, many of the green letters blinking to indicate delays or cancellations.

"We've still got time," Namjoon says and Jungkook sighs.

"I know, but I missed my flight earlier, so this sort of feels like a stay of execution."

"You were supposed to be on the last one?"

He nods

"What time's the wedding?"

"Noon"

"That'll be thought to make."

"So, I've heard. What time is yours?"

He lowers his gaze. "I'm meant to be at the church at two."

"So, you'll be fine"

"Yeah," he says. "I suppose I will."

They sit in silence, each looking at the table, until the muffled sound of a phone ringing comes from Namjoon's pocket. He fishes it out, stating at it with a look of great intensity while it carries on, until at last he seems to come to a decision and stands abruptly.

"I should really take this," he tells Jungkook, sidestepping away from the table. "Sorry."

He waves his hand away. "It's okay, go" Jungkook says.

Jungkook watches as Namjoon walks away, picking a path across the crowded concourse, the phone at his ear. His head is ducked and there's something hunched about him, the curve of his shoulders, the bent of his neck, that makes him seem different now, a less substantial version of the Namjoon he's been talking to, and Jungkook wonders who might be on the other end of the call. It occurs to him then that it could very well be a girlfriend, some beautiful and brilliant student from Columbia who wears trendy glasses and a pea-coat and would never be so disorganized as to miss a flight by four minutes.

He's surprised by how quickly he pushes that thought away.

He glances down at his phone, realizing he should probably call his mother and let her know about the change in flights. But his stomach flutters at the thought of how they parted earlier. The ride to the airport completely silent and then the unforgiving speech in the departure lane. He knows he has a tendency to shoot his mouth off, dad used to joke about how he was born without a filter.

"He's your father" mom kept telling him. "He's obviously not perfect, but it's important for him that you be there. It's just one day, you know? He's not asking for much."

But it seemed to Jungkook that he was, that all he did was ask: for his forgiveness, for more time together, for him to give Chan a chance. He asked and asked and he asked, and he never gave a thing. Jungkook wanted to take his mother by her shoulders and shake some sense into her. He'd broke their trust, he'd broken Mom's heart, he'd broken their family. And now he's just going to marry this woman, as if none of that mattered. As if it were easier to start over completely than to try to put everything back together again.

"I know it's hard to believe. But it was for the best. It really was. You'll understand when you're older."

But Jungkook's sure he understands it already, and he suspects the problem is that it just hasn't fully sunk in for Mom yet. There's always a gap between the burn and the sting of it. For those few weeks after Christmas, Jungkook would lie awake and listen to the sound of his mother crying; for a few days, Mom would refuse to speak to Dad at all, and then she'd talk of nothing else the next. Back and forth like a seesaw until one day, about six weeks later, she snapped back, suddenly and without fanfare, radiating a calm acceptance that mystifies him even now.

But the scars were there, too. Sejin, the guy Mom has been dating for over a year, had asked her to marry three times. Each time more originally and romantic than the last but each time Mom said no. Jungkook was certain that it's because she still hasn't recovered from what happened with Dad. You can't survive a rift that big without it leaving a mark.

And so this morning, just a plane ride away from seeing the source of all their problems, you woke up in a rotten mood. With everything going wrong you were in no mood for Mom's eighty-sixth inquiry about tour passport.

"Yes, I have it." you snapped.

"I'm just asking"

"Sure you don't want to march me onto the plane, too?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Or maybe you should escort me all the way to Seoul to make sure I actually go."

There was a note of warning in Mom's voice. "Jungkook"

"I mean, why should I be the only who has to watch him get married to that woman? I don't understand why I have to go at all, much less by myself."

Mom stayed quiet and walked away, utter disappointment in her eyes.

Later, they rode to the airport in silence. And by the time they pulled up to the departure area, every part of his seemed to be tingling with a kind of nervous energy.

Mom switched the engine off but neither of them moved.

"It'll be fine," mom said after a moment, but her voice was soft. "It really will."

Jungkook swiveled to face her. "He's getting married, mom. How can it be fine?"

"I just think it's important that you be there-"

"Yeah, I know. You've mentioned that." He said, cutting her off.

"It'll be fine." Mom said again.

He grabbed his sweatshirt and unbuckled his seat-belt. "Well, then it's your fault if anything happens."

"Like what?" Mom asked wearily, and Jungkook - buzzing with a kind of anger that made him feel both entirely invincible and incredible young - reached out to fling the door open. "Like if the place crashes or something," he said, not really sure why he was saying, except that he was bitter and frustrated and scared, and isn't that how most things like this get said? "Then you'll have managed to lose both of us."

They stared at each other, the awful, unrecallable words settling between them like so many bricks, and after a moment Jungkook stepped out the car, swinging his backpack up onto his shoulder and then grabbing the suitcase from the backseat.

"Jungkook" Mom said, jumping out on the other side and looking at him from across the hood. "Don't just - "

"I'll call you when I get there," he said, already heading toward the terminal. He could feel Mom watching the whole way, but some fragile instinct, some mistaken sense of pride made him refuse to turn around again.

Now, sitting in the little airport cafe, his thumb hovers over the button on his phone. He takes a deep breath before pressing it, his heart pounding in the quiet spaces between the rings.

The words he spoke earlier are still echoing in his mind; he isn't superstitious by nature, but that he so thoughtlessly invoked a plane crash right before his flight is nearly enough to make him sick. He thinks about the plane he was supposed to take, well on its way across the ocean by now, and he feels a sharp sting of regret, hoping that he didn't somehow mess with the mysterious workings of timing and chance.

A part of him is relieved when he gets mom's voice mail. As he starts to leave a message about the change in plans, he sees Namjoon approaching again. For a moment he thinks he recognizes something in the look on his face, the same tortured worry he can feel within himself right now, but when Namjoon spots him something shifts, and he's back again, looking unruffled and almost cheerful, an easy smile lighting his eyes.

Jungkook trailes off in the middle of the message, and Namjoon points to the phone as he grabs his bag, then jerks his thumb in the direction of the gate. Jungkook opens his mouth to tell him he'll only be a minute, but Namjoon's already off, and so he finishes the message hastily.

"So I'll call when I get there tomorrow." He says into the phone, his voice wavering slightly. "And mom? I'm sorry about before okay? I didn't mean it."

Afterward, when he heads back to the gate, Jungkook scans the area for Namjoon's blue shirt but he's nowhere in sight. Rather than to wait for him amid the crowd of restless travelers, he circles back to use the bathroom, then poke around in the gift shops and bookstores and newspaper stands, wandering the terminal until it's finally time to board.

As he falls in line, he realizes he's almost too tired to even be anxious at this point. It feels like he's been here for days now, and there's much more ahead of him to worry about, too: the closeness of the cabin, the panicky feeling that comes with no escape route. There's the wedding and the reception, meeting Chan, and seeing Dad for the first time in over a year. But for now, Jungkook just want to put his headphones on, close his eyes, and sleep. To be set in motion, sent careening across the ocean without any effort on his part, seems almost a miracle.

When it's his turn to hand over the ticket, the flight attendant smiles from beneath his mustache. "Scared of flying?"

Jungkook forces himself to unclench his hand, where he's been gripping the handle of the suitcase with white knuckles. He smiles ruefully.

"Scared of landing," he says, then step onto the plane anyway.

By the time Namjoon appears at the top of the aisle, Jungkook is already sitting by the window with his seat belt fastened and his bag stowed safely in the overhead bin. He's spent the past seven minutes pretending he wasn't interested in his arrival, counting planes out the window and examining the pattern on the back seat in front of him. But really, Jungkook's just been waiting for him, and when he finally arrived at their row Jungkook finds himself blushing for no good reason other than Namjoon's quite suddenly looming over him with that tilted grin of his, showing a hint of his dimples. There's a kind of unfamiliar electricity that goes through Jungkook at the nearness of him, and he can't help wondering if Namjoon feels it, too.

"Lost you in there." he says, and all Jungkook could manage was a nod, happy to be found again.

Namjoon hefts his hanging bag above before scooting into the middle seat beside him, awkwardly arranging his too long legs in front of him and situating the rest of himself between the unforgiving armrests. Jungkook glances at him, his heart thudding at the sudden proximity, at the casual way he's positioned himself so close.

"I'll just stay for a minute," he says, leaning back. "Until somebody else comes."

Jungkook realizes that a part of him is already composing the story for the benefit of his friends: the one about how he met a cute guy with a great smile on a plane and they spent the whole time talking. But the other part of, the more practical part, is worried about arriving in Seoul tomorrow morning for his father's wedding without having slept. Because how could Jungkook possibly go to sleep with Namjoon beside him like this? Their elbow brushing and their kneecaps are nearly touching; there's a dizzying smell to Namjoon, too, a wonderfully boyish mixture of deodorant and shampoo.

He pulls a few things from his pocket, thumbing through a pile of change until eventually he finds a lint-covered piece of wrapped candy, which he offers to Jungkook first, then pops into his mouth.

"How old is that thing?" he asks, his nose wrinkled.

"Ancient. I'm pretty sure I dug it out of a sweet bowl the last time I was home."

"Let me guess," Jungkook says. "It was part of a study on the effects of sugar over time."

He grins, his dimples showing fully and Jungkook's heart skips a beat. "Something like that."

"What are you really studying?"

"It's top secret," he says lowering his voice, his face utterly serious. "And you seem nice, so I don't want to have to kill you."

"Gee, thanks," Jungkook says, with an eye roll. "Can you at least tell me your major? Or is that classified too?"

"Probably psychology," he says. "Though I'm still sorting it out."

"Ah, so that explains all the mind games."

Namjoon laughs. "You say mind games, I say research."

"I guess I better watch what I say, then, if I'm being analyzed."

"That's true, I'm keeping an eye on you."

"And?"

He gives Jungkook a sideway smile. "Too soon to tell."

Behind him, an elderly woman pauses at their row, squinting down at her ticket. She's wearing a flowered dress and has white hair so delicate that Jungkook can see right through her scalp. Her hands tremble a bit as she points at the number above them.

"I think you're in my seat," she says, worrying the edges of her ticket with her thumb, and besides him, Namjoon stands up so fast he hits his head on the air-conditioning panel.

"Sorry," he says as he attempts to maneuver out of her way, his cramped overtures doing little to fix things in such a tight space. "I was just there for a moment."

The woman looks at him carefully, then her gaze slides over to Jungkook, and he can almost see the idea of it dawning on her, the corners of her watery eyes creasing.

"Oh, I didn't realize you were together." She drops her purse on the end seat. "You two stay put; I'll be just fine here."

Namjoon looks like he's trying not to laugh, but Jungkook's busy worrying about the fact that he just lost his spot, because who wants to spend 14 hours stuck in the middle seat? But as the woman lowers herself gingerly into the rough fabric of her seat, he smiles back at Jungkook reassuringly, and he can't help feeling a bit relieved. Because the truth is now that he's here, Jungkook can't imagine it any other way.

Now that he's here, he worries that crossing an entire ocean with someone between them might be something like torture.

"So, how did you two meet?" The woman asks, digging through her purse emerging with a pair of foam earplugs.

They exchange a quick glance.

"Believe it or not, it was at an airport" Namjoon says.

"How wonderful!" She exclaims, looking positively delighted. "And how did it happen?"

"Well," he begins sitting up a bit taller, "I was being quite gallant, actually, and offered to help with his suitcase. And then we started talking, and one thing led to another. . ."

Jungkook grins. "And he's been carrying my suitcase ever since."

"It's what any true gentleman would do," Namjoon says with exaggerated modesty.

"Especially the really gallant ones."

The old woman seems pleased by this, her face folding into a map of tint wrinkles. "And here you both are."

"Here we both are" Jungkook finds himself blushing and looking away at the thought of it all.

He's surprised by the force of the wish that swells up inside of him just then: He wishes that it were true, all of it. That it was more than just a story. That it was their story.

But then Namjoon turns to face him again and the spell is broken. His eyes are practically shinning with amusement as he checks to be sure they're still sharing in the joke. Jungkook manages a small smile before he swivels back to the woman, who has launched into a story about how she met her husband.

Things like this don't just happen, he thinks. Not really. Not to Jungkook.

". . . and our youngest is forty-two," the old woman is saying to Namjoon. The skin of her neck hangs down in like folds that quiver like jell-o when she speaks, and he brings a hand to his own neck reflexively, running his thumb along your throat. "And in August it will be fifty-two years together."

"Wow, that is amazing."

"I wouldn't call it amazing. It's easy when you're with the right person."

The aisle is now clear except for the flight attendants who are marching up and down on seatbelt patrol, and the woman pulls a water bottle out her purse, then opens her palm to reveal a sleeping pill.

"When you're on the other side of it," she says, "fifty-two years can seem like about fifty-two minutes." She tips her head back and swallows the pill. "Just like when you're young and in love. A fourteen-hour flight can seem like a lifetime."

"Hope not" he jokes, but the woman only smiles.

"I have no doubt. Enjoy the flight." She says as she stuffs a yellow earplug in both ears.