Beomgyu is talking to Soobin on FaceTime when he first spots Park Jimin rooting around in the sparkly thong bin.

Usually Beomgyu would pop up from behind the counter, all sunshine and clamor, launching into his Welcome to Vintage Ilaria spiel and pointing out all the new stuff they've got. There's a whole rack of 70s Gucci and Moschini that Jimin might particularly be interested in. He's one of their big media clients, always costuming some actor or model in big name shows and dramas, but Beomgyu resists.

He's not talking to Jimin today.

"Hullo?" Jimin calls, dropping a vintage Victoria's Secret thong back into the bin. "Beommie?"

Jimin is wearing a millenial pink suit and a distinctly flustered expression. Beomgyu spies on him from beneath the counter and knows that the frown isn't because of the fake rhinestones on the lacy lingerie he's now holding up. Jimin may look polished and bright, his face a transcendent paen to beauty, but Beomgyu's worked long enough in fashion to sniff out the purgatorial aura of corporate frazzle.

Something's wrong at work-again.

When Jimin spots the top of Beomgyu's head-this month a pale, faded purple-he begins to wave frantically.

"Beomgyu!" he calls, madly cheerful. "Fancy meeting you here."

The boutique literally belongs to Beomgyu and Taehyun, so either Jimin is going through some sort of incredible neurological crisis, or he's fucking desperate. Either way- Beomgyu tells himself-he doesn't care.

Jimin's not his problem.

"Don't ignore me, Beommie. I said I was sorry."

Beomgyu scowls a little and squeezes Blue tighter. The puppy nips at his finger in annoyance. "Ow. Thanks, dude."

"Are you talking to Blue again?" Soobin asks, then squints like he's trying to peer around the phone. "Is that Jimin hyung I saw for a moment there?"

"Nope."

"Hi, Jimin hyung!"

Jimin sighs resignedly. "Hi Soobin."

"Hyung, you should go talk to Jimin hyung."

"Nope."

"He looks like he needs help."

"I don't care."

"He can literally hear us right now."

Beomgyu blinks innocently. "Who do you mean? Is there someone in here?"

Blue barks unhelpfully, friendly and excited as he tries to see around Beomgyu for Jimin.

Soobin rolls his eyes. "Oh my god, are you still moping about last Wednesday?"

"Taehyun said it's okay if I ignore customers as long as they're not asking questions or buying something. We believe in non-assisted choice making."

Soobin smirks. "Jimin hyung looks like he's buying something."

"Not unless it's an 80s kiwi-print satin thong, he isn't," Beomgyu says, crossing his arms. "You're so useless, Soobin-ah. Weren't you supposed to be reading my cards?"

"I am, I am. I have a good feeling about you talking to Jimin hyung today," Soobin says, shifting a bit so that a ring of sparkling fairy lights suddenly flutter atop his head. He looks like he's in a badly positioned Snapchat filter. "A very good feeling."

"You just don't want to lose the standing invitation to dinner at his house on Fridays."

"No, no," Soobin's eyes begin to glaze over. "I see...change."

For a moment he looks like some of the elder witches; Beomgyu has run across during coffee-meets in Seoul-wise and gifted with foresight and actually magic, not Tumblr-taught like he, Taehyun and Soobin were. Beomgyu holds Blue a little tighter, eyes wide, wondering if this is a Moment somehow, like that one time he and Soobin were fucking around with crystals and a curtain randomly caught on fire. Or the other time when he and Taehyun messed around with a purported love potion, spilled it in the elevator, and had all of Beomgyu's apartment falling in love with his shoes.

But then Soobin swallows, visibly, and Beomgyu deflates. "You probably just see Taehyun walking around pant-less right now, don't you?"

"What? Uh-right. Yeah. It's distracting. Never mind that! As your conscience, confidante and singular coven-bro, I really foresee change for you, hyung. Good change."

Soobin ducks out of the screen for a second. Beomgyu distinctly hears a gentle smack and a loud giggle.

"I've got to go. Talk to Jimin hyung!"

"I don't want to-"

"Non-negotiable. Bye! Also, Blue is eating your Death card."

"Shit. Blue, no."

It's too late. Beomgyu wrestles madly for what's left of the tarot card with the angry ball of fur determined to swallow it. He's in a full-blown yipping competition with his dog by the time Jimin starts ringing the giant golden bell on the counter.

"Come on, Beommie. You can't ignore me forever."

Blue lets go of the card. The glossy midnight-blue stock is a mess of drool and the skeleton on the face-side has lost his skull. Beomgyu drops his head resignedly onto a pile of yellowing wedding dresses. They whisper lightly to him about heartbreaks and divorces.

It's only eleven in the morning. All he wants is peace and love and for Blue to learn to stop eating everything.

Jimin rings the bell again. He's holding up the kiwi thong. "Now you have to come ring me up, Beomgyu," he says, smug. "I'm a customer."

"Fine."

Beomgyu gets slowly to his feet and walks towards where Jimin's waiting. He checks himself in the ceiling mirror. With his hair under a snapback the Resting Bitch Face he's got on is impressive, but the effect is slightly ruined by the wriggling dog in his arms.

"Is this really from the 70s?" Jimin asks, when Beomgyu wordlessly rings him up. He checks the elastic a couple of times and looks unduly pleased. Then he reaches to pet Blue and the traitor lets him.

Beomgyu glowers. The thong is bright and gossipy, whispering loud about something in West Indies. He stuffs it in a bag.

"This puppy's grown so big," Jimin croons. "He was so small just a month ago!"

When Beomgyu doesn't respond, Jimin takes an exaggerated bite off what looks like a churro from that upscale bakery down the street Beomgyu can't afford. And then he holds up another greasy bag, like a ringmaster enticing a lion with a particularly delectable cut of meat.

"Come on. I got your favorites. I said I was sorry, Beommie-what more do you want?"

Beomgyu narrows his eyes. "What do you want?"

"Eat first," Jimin says, and pinches his cheek. "Every time I see you it's like you've become skinnier."

Beomgyu glares but takes the bag of bakery goods. There's something in there that's definitely strawberry flavored. Expensively strawberry flavored-Beomgyu can tell the difference.

Beomgyu smells a bribe.

"Not amused," he says, stuffing his face with a pastry, and Jimin just laughs.

For a few minutes it's just him and Jimin quietly eating beneath the canopy of feathers and fairy-lights Taehyun's strung together. Beomgyu sits on an overturned carton suspiciously looking over Jimin while the older man inspects a mannequin. Blue curls around Beomgyu's feet, uncharacteristically quiet.

"Yah, Beomgyu-ah," Jimin ventures, his eagle-eye picking out the moment Beomgyu bites into the strawberry cake. Jimin may look harmless, but Beomgyu knows very well that he's a gentle shark, fishing for vulnerability. "About last Wednesday..."

"You abandoned me, hyung."

"I was literally one room away."

"He called the boutique an over-hyped rag store."

"I know-"

"He called me an artless, snobbish, air-headed scam-artist."

"I know-"

Beomgyu's voice cracks and he hates himself. "He said I'm a spoiled, sheltered rich boy who wouldn't know the real world if it bit me on my ass."

Jimin's eyebrows furrow. "Since when do you care what other people say about you?"

Beomgyu fiddles with his embellished belt. He's wearing clothes he fixed up himself today: 70s rose quartz Gucci cargo pants that he painstakingly removed rust-stains from, a shiny belt he saved from a bin of rejects, a Versace shirt with primrose heart-shaped buttons that's at least three decades old. He's got a long, platinum earring on one ear to match, turquiose disco platform shoes, and he knows he looks unorthodox. He doesn't usually care. Beomgyu's been unorthodox all his life. His accent is odd. His interests, his quirks, his fashion-everything about him is odd. The fact that he talks to clothes and they talk back is odd. He's learned to ignore being stared at.

But there are lines he draws.

"I'm not stupid," he says. "I don't care about the other shit. I don't like being called stupid."

"You're gorgeous and smart and very enterprising," Jimin crows, patting Beomgyu's thigh. He sounds like he means it. Beomgyu sniffles a little and looks away. "And Yeonjun knows that. You know he knows that. He was just having a bad day. And then you started with the-uh, the magic-"

Beomgyu sighs. Choi Yeonjun is Jimin's best production designer-perhaps the best in the industry. When Jimin first asked Beomgyu to meet him to discuss a project, he and Taehyun had nearly vibrated out of their bodies in excitement. Most people in the industry knows him and Taehyun as the cool, eccentric BFFs with a great head for the vintage market. But in private, Beomgyu and Taehyun are incorrigible fanboys of a huge number of things-starting with fashion, detouring through anime, and tangled up all the way in Internet witchcraft.

Choi Yeonjun and his brilliant, evocative production work brings out the latter in them. They coo over the sheer visual artistry of all his advertising and drama work. Beomgyu has a huge poster of a make-up brand campaign Yeonjun's worked on- all shimmer on dark skin, a summer-in-Eden palette of a gorgeous autumn harvest-framed and hanging on his bedroom wall.

But then last Wednesday happened.

"He had a rack of Dior knock-offs," Beomgyu pouts now, rubbing the top of Blue's head. "I told him they were knock-offs. He didn't want to believe me."

"You told him these clothes aren't really speaking to me."

"Because they weren't!" Beomgyu protests. "They had no history. They were knock-offs."

Jimin sighs. "You told him I can't hear their stories."

"Hyung, you know I-"

"I know," Jimin says, firmly, finding Beomgyu's hand to give it a little squeeze. He runs his gaze once around the store like he expects the clothes to start speaking to him as well. "He thought you were being flaky and weird on purpose. That you were bullshitting him with your artsy hipster stuff."

"I'm not an artsy hipster."

"You run a high-fashion vintage boutique, buy green coffee and artisanal honey, and fuck around with herbs and crystals. You're weird people. Own it."

Beomgyu frowns, rubbing gently at his temples, trying to think past the fort of defensiveness he's constructed in his head. He supposes he can come off flaky and weird-sure.

It still doesn't warrant all the other shit Yeonjun yelled about.

"He didn't have to be so rude."

"His department paid a lot of money for those," Jimin says. "He thought you were making fun of him."

"Serves him right to buy a whole rack of mass-manufactured fakes without consulting someone who knows their shit first."

"That's exactly why we called you," Jimin sighs. "You know there's crazy money in this project. Yeonjun is a perfectionist-if the set demands vintage, he wants vintage and he wants it fast. You guys are the best wardrobe consultants in this field. Please just talk to him."

"I don't want to talk to him."

"Beomgyu," Jimin wails. "We're already so delayed! Netflix might pick it up if the pilot works, Taehyung is freaking out over production already, we need-"

"Take Taehyun. I'm not meeting Choi Yeonjun again. He hates me."

"He doesn't hate you, he just thought you were being waspish and new-agey and-"

"Stupid," Beomgyu whines, and swallows the rest of his cake. "Hyung, he thought I was a stupid, vapid moron who says LOL out loud just because I told him his stupid clothes are fake."

"You do say LOL out loud."

Beomgyu wishes Blue would try to eat Jimin instead of that hatbox he's presently nibbling.

"Do this for hyung," Jimin wheedles. "I'll buy you noodles. I'll make you my special japchae. I'll take you out for kebabs at that place you like."

"No food can sway me, hyung. Ask Taehyun."

Jimin sighs. "You know Taehyun won't go without you."

Beomgyu hesitates. This is true. Taehyun is the best at finding the good stuff-he'll jet it all over the world for a rare 20s Chanel dress or a Schiaparelli hat-but when it comes to dealing with costume designers and art directors, Taehyun just loses interest. You have thicker skin, he tells Beomgyu, you deal with them. This is true, in a way: Taehyun is too nice and considerate, often lets people walk over him. Beomgyu most usually doesn't give a fuck.

Unless, apparently, when it comes to Choi Yeonjun.

Beomgyu is still a fanboy. He's a fanboy who likes art and color and the clean, clear visual aesthetics of every single thing Yeonjun's worked on. He thinks Choi Yeonjun can make an ad for toilet paper belong in the Museum of Modern Art.

Maybe he gives a fuck.

Maybe it hurts that of all people, it's Choi Yeonjun who thinks he's a fluff-headed vapid fashionista with nothing to him but an over-blown sense of importance.

"Beomgyu-ah," Jimin says, wily and soft, "You're not scared of meeting Yeonjun, are you?"

Beomgyu knows this is bait. Jimin knows this is bait. Even Blue, running circles around Beomgyu now, knows this is bait. His angry brows are very expressive, and right now they're saying don't take the bait, don't be a stupid fish.

Maybe, when it comes to Choi Yeonjun, Beomgyu's kind of just a stupid fish.

"Fine," he says, through gritted teeth, trying not to focus on Jimin's smug look as he reels Beomgyu in, hook, line and sinker. "Fine. But tell him to get the stick out of his ass, first."

Jimin kisses his cheek. "I love you so much," he says, and bolts upright. "I love you so, so much. I'll really make you that japchae, Beommie, I promise!"

Blue stops running and sniffing to look at him, deeply judgmental.

"Don't you start, too."

Beomgyu wishes he could disappear into the earth-it's preferable over meeting Yeonjun again. But this is also his pride at question here, that single most annoying thing of not being taken seriously when he's built a life around something.

Beomgyu wants to prove himself.

He hates it, knows it's dumb and stupid, but that's what he wants. He's never been very good at ignoring his own impulses.

He grabs onto Jimin's pants when he tries to leave.

"At least buy your stupid kiwi thong, hyung."

***

"Your profile says you're into hobby witchcraft. What even is that?"

"It's an alternative to getting drunk out of my mind and dying at twenty seven," Beomgyu says, sunnily. "Your profile says you're Choi Yeonjun's personal secretary."

"I'm also his best friend and mood translator," Huening Kai says, smiling wide at Beomgyu. "It means that when he's fucking shit up by being in one of his ridiculous moods, I make sure the boat doesn't rock too much."

"Jeez. Where were you last Wednesday?"

Kai grins happily. "Right here. You handled that quite well."

Beomgyu blinks. "I stormed out."

He doesn't add while nearly bawling my eyes out, but Kai seems entirely comfortable in dealing with people who's found themselves caught up in a Yeonjun thunderstorm. Beomgyu thinks he already gets it. That knowing look definitely speaks volumes.

All Kai says is, "But you didn't throw your coffee at him, Beomgyu-ssi."

Beomgyu wishes he had known this was a regular occurrence.

"Should I have?"

"I don't know. Do you make enough money to support your expensive Starbucks habit?"

Beomgyu frowns at the venti cup in his hand. It's chai latte, he wants to say, which is sweeter, stickier, and therefore a better substance overall to throw at somebody. He thinks Kai will get a laugh out of it. But then he thinks of actually throwing it at Choi Yeonjun and his stomach does a horrible swoop again.

Kai turns to type something up on a computer. "Weren't there two of you?"

"My partner's in Japan, picking up some stock."

"Ah, Kang Taehyun. He's the procurer? The Minnie to your Mickey?"

"It's kind of the other way around. We're Vintage Ilaria."

"Cute." Kai croons. He's looking at a grainy magazine picture of them on the Internet, zooming in to see their faces. Taehyun has his arms locked tightly around Beomgyu in the picture, Beomgyu's cheek smushed up against the top of his head. They're both grinning goofily at the camera. "D'you two date?"

"No, he's more like my soulmate."

"Okay-but there's no way you haven't fucked. So friends with benefits?"

Beomgyu's used to forward, but Kai is something else. "Sometimes? He has a boyfriend."

Kai looks curious. "But what, it's an open relationship?"

"Yeah, I guess. We don't really define it. Does it matter?"

Kai winks. "It pays to be informed. Just wait right here. We're doing some work with set design today. I'll call when we're ready for you."

Huening Kai writes Beomgyu's name on a card, slips it into the most bafflingly ugly pouch Beomgyu's ever seen, and breezes through a giant glass door into the depths of the concrete giant that serves as Yeonjun's office.

Beomgyu waits. He walks around the reception, hands in pockets, looking at the art prints on the wall and the tasteful, modern chandelier spilling light from the recesses of long, onyx columns.

The last time he met Yeonjun, it had been in the studio Taehyun's media house owned. The personal office is more Yeonjun, has a bit of his touch, even if the biggest vibe Beomgyu is getting from it is that of Yeonjun saying he doesn't care for appearances.

Why show-off something with superficial assets when you've got the real talent?

The sofa looks old and worn and expensive-and whispers gently about sordid affairs that had taken place on it- but clashes with the carpet and the color scheme of the reception. A large decanter holds lemon water and is stood on a small, round table with stout legs. There's an art print of a dead octopus-which is weird-but artful and aesthetically pleasing still.

Everything matches, but nothing does. Everything is tasteful, but in a dark way, like Edward Gorey or David Lynch.

Beomgyu's a bit terrified. There's something...sardonic about it.

An inside joke. A gentle savagery.

"Get a grip," he mumbles to himself. "Get a fucking grip, Choi Beomgyu."

But it's pointless.

If Yeonjun's office is throwing him out of his depth, then he doesn't know what he's going to do when he meets the man. Their first meeting is a blur of color and memory and a burn of unwanted tears. Beomgyu's determined to keep his calm this time.

He's even wearing his favorite light taupe cotton jacket.

The fabric whispers to him.

The jacket is a bespoke creation that had been made for some actor to wear on a red carpet nearly forty years ago. He'd won an award that night, screwed some lovely starlet, and fallen in love with another lovely starlet who he later married. There's only good stuff associated with this.

"You've got this," Beomgyu mutters, pacing the carpet, touching the dead gazelle on the painting once for good luck. "You've got this. It's clothes. You know clothes. No one knows clothes as well as-"

"Beomgyu-ssi?" Kai is beaming at him. "Come on in."

Beomgyu dies a little in his head. His phone buzzes in his hand, and he looks down, sees a message from Taehyun: give him hell, Beommie.

Right. Sure.

Give him hell.

Beomgyu can do that.

He thinks even the octopus looks at him a bit pityingly. Considering it's dead, that's saying something.

***

See you next time, till then take care 💖💖