Chapter Text
Park Jimin had a routine.
It was the same routine he followed every morning before work, from the time his alarm went off to the time he was walking out the door of his 10th floor apartment. There was the occasional alteration needed, usually when there was a morning meeting scheduled, but even then his routine was the same – just an hour or two earlier.
And so, perhaps, Jimin should have known this morning wouldn’t be like all the others.
It had been a simple change; instead of listening to the same workout playlist he always listened to, Jimin had chosen to shuffle through a Spotify-recommended playlist instead. The music had started out fine at first, but as Jimin went through his workout – some light cardio to warm up, followed by several sets of weightlifting – he found himself skipping over more and more songs, the vibe not quite suiting what he liked to listen to as he exercised.
Until a familiar voice started rapping in his ear, and Jimin immediately paused the music.
He swiped back to his routine playlist.
An hour later, skin flushed and dabbing at the sweat across his brow, Jimin returned to his apartment. It wasn’t a lavish apartment, though he could have afforded one with a little more opulence if he had wanted to, but it offered an unobstructed view of a small pocket in Gangnam-gu and the second bedroom was large enough to double as an office when Jimin needed to work from home. The brightly lit kitchen overlooked the dining and living, all open and spacious with neutral tones and minimal pendant lights coupled with LED lighting that framed the kitchen cabinetry.
He flicked the television on in passing, though he had no intentions of watching it. He liked the noise it filled the apartment with while he prepared breakfast, which he ate at the kitchen bench in front of his laptop. Another part of his routine; checking his emails. It was easier to brace for the morning if he glimpsed what would be waiting for him when he arrived at the office and there were the usual messages in his inbox, call requests, meeting requests, all of which his legal secretary would manage. Jimin mostly ignored those, instead checking for any matters of urgency. One of his clients had emailed him with a variety of receipts, of which she wanted to claim reimbursement from the husband she was divorcing, and Jimin flagged the email to peruse more once he was in the office.
Closing his laptop, Jimin rinsed his dishes and slipped them into the dishwasher beneath the bench before heading into his bedroom. Bigger than the second bedroom, a wide window continued the view of Gangnam with glass tinted on the outside to provide privacy and his bed was in the centre of the room, silver sheets and pillows already organised from when he had made his bed the moment he woke. The ensuite was neutral like the rest of the apartment, the shower spacious with a rainfall-like cascade of water that Jimin stood under while meticulously washing his blonde hair.
One side of his walk-in wardrobe was entirely made up of suits, varying in colours from black to navy to pale grey and all tailored to size. Jimin dressed in navy with a matching tie, a collared white shirt underneath and deep brown leather shoes and as he stood in front of his mirror, idly adjusting his suit jacket, Jimin heard his phone ring.
Picking it up, Jimin saw Kim Namjoon’s name hovering above the green Answer button on screen. He swiped up and brought the phone to his ear.
“Good morning, hyung,” Jimin greeted, grabbing his satchel from the hanger behind his door.
“Sorry to call you before nine o’clock, Jimin-ah,” said Namjoon, the apology genuine. He was one of the hardest working people Jimin knew, often working long hours himself, but he made a point not to disturb his employees outside the 9-5 day.
“You know I don’t mind. Is everything okay?”
“I received an urgent request from a new client last night and they’re coming in meet us at nine o’clock. I’d like you to be present for the meeting. Will that be all right?” Namjoon asked.
If Jimin was being asked to join the meeting, then the new client must have been entering divorce proceedings. His reputation was prolific enough in the legal world that most new clients came to Jimin directly, especially since Namjoon himself didn’t specialise in family law, but if Namjoon had been contacted first it was likely a high-profile client, or an existing client of Namjoon’s that needed further representation.
Curious now, Jimin said, “My morning is clear, so yes. I’ll come straight to your office when I arrive.”
“Thank you. I’ll send something through to Taehyung-ah so he knows to hold your calls.”
Taehyung, unlike Jimin, wasn’t nearly as pleasant on the phone if you called him early in the morning. He was the most efficient secretary Jimin had ever known, and even a little terrifying, so Namjoon knew not to call him with the request but rather send him a text message or email.
“Who is the client?” Jimin asked then, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“It’s going to be a big case. Have you heard of—” Namjoon cut himself off, a rustling sound filling the speaker instead. “Ah, sorry Jimin-ah. I’ve got another call I need to take. See you at nine!”
The call disconnected, leaving Jimin’s curiosity unsated. He slipped his phone into the side pocket of his tan-coloured satchel and walked back out into the living room.
“—It’s been confirmed that actress Lee Sujin will file a counterclaim against him as part of the proceedings to—”
Jimin shut off the television, ignoring the news broadcast, and packed a few more items into his satchel. He was on time for the 8:12am train from Gangnam Station, familiar faces filling the carriage that seemed to run their own routine like Jimin did each morning, choosing the same seats or the same corners to stand in, the same handles to hold as the train swayed slightly along the tracks. There was a small delay outside Seoul Station, not unsurprising given the peak hour but irritating nonetheless as Jimin glanced down at his watch. 8:38am.
Eventually, Jimin was out of the station and walking through the crowds of people hurrying to their own places of work. Kim Partners Law Firm was just one of many businesses which occupied a tall building in the city’s central business district, taking up the 6th floor with a relatively small team. The Kim Partners plague greeted Jimin as soon as the elevator doors opened, polished and silver against the white marble wall, and the second thing to greet Jimin was the reception desk that faced the elevator foyer, the name repeated across the front.
“Good morning, Jimin-ssi!” the receptionist greeted, a young woman with black hair braided like a crown around her head. She always had the prettiest hairstyles.
“Good morning, Yeri,” Jimin answered, and then he glanced aside to see Taehyung already at his desk positioned in front of Jimin’s office. He waved, but the response from Taehyung was indecipherable. He seemed uncertain about something, if the tense press of his lips together was any indication.
Jimin would have gone to him to suss out the problem, but it was 8:56am and Jimin didn’t want to be late. It was easy to get caught up talking with Taehyung, especially if he had gossip to share, so he headed for Namjoon’s office at the opposite end instead.
The firm wasn’t large, spanning only one floor and with a staff count of ten including the managing partners, Kim Namjoon and Kim Seokjin. Jimin was one of three senior associates while the rest of the firm consisted of secretaries like Taehyung and Yeri and the junior lawyers who had a communal, but spacious, office on the other side of the floor. In most firms, the office of the junior lawyers and interns would be referred to as the bullpen but Namjoon and Seokjin called it the engine room, having disliked the connotation that came with the common slang. Jimin agreed; the bullpen he had sat amongst at his first firm when he was an intern had felt like exactly that, though Jimin hadn’t been able to tell whether he was a bull waiting for slaughter or a bull waiting to be dragged out to perform.
Despite being a managing partner, Namjoon’s office was no bigger than Jimin’s. It sat behind a wall of glass that was frosted halfway from the floor, offering more privacy when he met with clients there, but Jimin could see the silhouettes of three extra people gathered around Namjoon’s desk. The secretary who assisted both Namjoon and Seokjin greeted Jimin as he approached the office, and although he knew Namjoon would be expecting him Jimin knocked on the door first, knuckles tapping along the glass just beneath the sign of Namjoon’s name and title.
Hearing the invitation, Jimin pushed open the door and stepped through. He saw Namjoon at his desk, rising out of his seat in greeting, and three others with their backs to Jimin where they remained sitting.
“Good morning, Jimin-ah,” said Namjoon, gesturing him forward.
Jimin offered a polite bow of his head. “Good morning. I hope I haven’t kept you—”
The others in the room turned around then, two of which were dressed well in standard black suits, one older and with a severe but not necessarily unfriendly expression, his age showing by the lines around his mouth and at the corner of his eyes, while the other was slightly younger but no more expressive. The third, however, Jimin recognised.
And the recognition felt like a knife, pushing slowly into his chest that had his heartbeat ceasing, his breath catching. Namjoon was talking again, introducing the three, but Jimin couldn’t hear all the words, everything suddenly muffled as the air around him was filled with the oppressing touch of the past, memories pressing in against him.
“— and you may know him already, but this is Jeon Jeongguk.”
Namjoon didn’t know the irony of his words, because Jimin did know the young man between them – but not for the reason Namjoon was expecting.
Jeon Jeongguk was Korea’s most popular rapper at the moment, famous for his success on the charts both here and internationally but infamous for his partying and his attitude. He wasn’t dressed like his companions, instead wearing an oversized flannel shirt with rips through the sleeves, a fitted white tank top and baggy denim pants over heavy, Balenciaga black boots. Beneath that flannel shirt would be tattoos covering his entire right arm, Jimin knew, and decorating Jeongguk’s ears were a few more piercings than what Jimin remembered, but everything about him was jarringly – painfully – familiar.
The moment their eyes met, Jimin looked away. It was like tearing himself from a pit of tar, his body feeling heavy and trapped as he forced himself to cross the office and stand to the side of Namjoon’s desk.
Jeongguk’s eyes followed him, burning with their intensity.
“Pleasure to meet you all,” Jimin said then, glancing only at the other two men before turning back to Namjoon. “What can I help with?”
Namjoon gave Jimin a look of surprise, as if perplexed by the question. “Jeongguk needs representation for his divorce proceedings, and his management have engaged us. Well, more specifically, you.”
The realisation of what Namjoon was about to say was like a hand, curling around the knife to push it deeper. Jimin felt cornered, the word no almost leaving his lips.
“Jimin-ah, you’ll be representing Jeongguk.”
He couldn’t stop himself then, his gaze falling back to Jeongguk just as the knife pierced all the way through, right into his heart, and Jeongguk’s expression was blank for just a moment before it shifted. His mouth curled upward, his brow lifted, and an arrogance wrote itself into the rest of his features as he stared back at Jimin.
“I heard you’re the best of the best,” the rapper said, relaxing into the chair. His voice brushed over Jimin, familiar and yet not, no hint of his Busan accent like Jimin remembered.
It was disorientating, standing in front of Jeongguk and pretending they didn’t know each other. Three years may have separated them, but four years had bound them together.
His hands were shaking.
Jimin slipped them into his pockets and said, “I try to be.”
The other men took over the conversation then, though Jeongguk’s attention lingered on Jimin a moment longer before they both diverted their focus. The other men were from Jeongguk’s management, IMPACT Entertainment, with Oh Limwoo being part of their legal team and Song Hujin being from the upper management. Jimin knew Seokjin had interactions with Impact previously, being an independent representation for some of the new idols who needed their management contracts reviewed, and given Jimin’s reputation in the family law realm it wasn’t surprising Impact had turned to Kim Partners.
Of course, Jimin had known Jeongguk filed for divorce. It had been all over entertainment media two weeks ago when the news broke out, but Jimin had perfected the art of ignoring news about Jeongguk three years ago so he hadn’t paid it any attention since. He would never have guessed Jeongguk’s management would seek outside representation, given their own in-house legal team, but as Jimin listened to Limwoo brief Namjoon on the situation it became clear Impact wanted to keep a certain degree of separation between Jeongguk’s situation and the company.
And, Jimin supposed, if the divorce proceedings didn’t go in Jeongguk’s favour then Impact’s legal team wouldn’t get the blame.
Jimin wasn’t sure what to feel, or even to think. If he took a step back and considered the client objectively, Jimin had no concerns being the representing lawyer. He had dealt with plenty of messy divorces, couldn’t be shocked by anything he saw or heard during those proceedings, and his success rate was exemplary, but this was different. So, so different.
Not only was Jimin going to be involved in one of the most public, celebrity-based divorces Korea had seen in the last decade, but he would be representing his ex-boyfriend.
The man who was, once, the love of his life.
The man who had broken his heart.
Slowly, Jimin’s gaze drifted back to Jeongguk. The rapper had lost interest in the conversation, instead scrolling on his phone with chipped black polish decorating his nails, and Jimin couldn’t help but notice the differences in him from three years ago. He seemed fitter, firm muscles outlined beneath his tank and there was a maturity in his face, yet at the same time he seemed older than he should be. Jeongguk was younger than Jimin by two years, but a downturn to his lips and a sharpness to his cheekbones betrayed that, added an age to him that shouldn’t be there.
Jimin couldn’t draw out any sympathy though. If he reached inside himself, searched through the memories and ghosts of feelings, he could only drag out anger.
When the conversation turned to costs, Hujin dismissed the topic with a frivolous wave of his hand. He wasn’t concerned about costs which, given Kim Partners wasn’t exorbitant with their fees like some of the larger top-tier firms, didn’t surprise Jimin. Jeongguk had been an endless supply of profit for Impact, despite his controversies, so money was clearly no issue for them.
And money wasn’t the issue, not for them or for Jimin. The only issue was the conflict of interest that no one other than Jimin and Jeongguk knew about.
But Jimin couldn’t bring himself to speak those words. If he did, then everyone would know.
Everyone would know about Jeongguk’s sexuality, and even though Jimin had done everything possible to avoid news about Jeongguk since their breakup he knew, at least, that Jeongguk had managed to keep his sexuality a secret.
“Send through a formal brief and Jimin-ah will provide his cost disclosure and retainer,” said Namjoon, standing just as the others did. He escorted them to the door, holding it open. “We will do everything we can to ensure the best outcome for Jeongguk.”
“We expect that you will,” Hujin responded, a sternness to the words as if they had no other choice but to ensure the best outcome.
Jimin knew Namjoon would want to talk over the matter more, but he retreated the moment he straightened from his bow, turning his back on Jeongguk to head for his own office.
“Jimin-ssi!”
Jeongguk’s call had Jimin gritting his teeth, but he didn’t turn around. Taehyung was out of his chair, concern alighting his features, and under his breath Jimin hissed, “Don’t let him into my office.”
Taehyung acted without hesitation, moving to put himself in front of Jeongguk just as Jimin escaped through the door. “I’m sorry but Jimin-ssi has a phone call waiting for him, Jeongguk-ssi,” Taehyung declared sweetly, while adamantly blocking Jeongguk’s path.
Jimin paused, his hand trembling where it rested on the doorknob behind him and he drew in a steady breath, hoping it would push down everything trying to claw its way out. Then he turned around and through the glass door, over Taehyung’s shoulder, his eyes met Jeongguk’s once more.
Jeongguk wasn’t pretending not to know Jimin now, because in his gaze Jimin saw the four years of their relationship. He saw the moment they ended. He saw the moment they fell in love.
He saw the moment they first met.
And Jimin wanted to forget it all.