Blackjack

Chapter 9

Namjoon enters first, holding open the door as you pass through from the hall. It is a space you have not entered before – dark, secluded and oddly cozy at that. Bookshelves line the walls, stained glass lamps light the floor, but these are the only sources of light, no natural.

"There aren't any windows," you remark, taking a seat. Realizing you are still holding the knife, you drop this quickly and let it fall to the desk. Your fingers are cramped from holding on too tightly, reddish lines crisscrossing your palm from gripping the handle. Curling and uncurling your fingers, you fight to keep your remaining breath calm.

Namjoon nods, crossing the room to stop before a decanter of whiskey. He picks up a glass, then pauses – there is blood on his hands and, setting the glass back on the table, he moves towards the sink. You did not notice this before; a tall, porcelain basin set against the wall. Somehow, it does not seem out of place. Beside it are a variety of ointments and salves; bandages, gauze, dressings and more. Namjoon's gaze finds each one before sighing, turning the handle and allowing water to flow.

Red mixes with clear until the sink runs pinkish with blood. Namjoon cleans himself quickly, efficiently until there is nothing remaining but memory. He returns to the drink cart, picking up where he left off and painstakingly removing the top of the decanter. A small drop of blood remains on his glass – your gaze fixates on this before Namjoon delicately wipes it away.

It is easier to watch him, than to consider yourself in this matter. The fight is still there in your mind, pressed against a thin, filmy boundary – it exists on the narrow path between conscious and subconscious and its weight threatens to overwhelm, heaving closer with each breath that you take. Still, you hold out.

First, this conversation must happen.

Then, whatever comes next.

"Thank you for agreeing to talk." Namjoon settles into the chair opposite, placing both drink and decanter on the felt-green before you. He stirs his ice casually, though his expression remains guarded – all traces of laughter are gone, disappeared in the wake of the fight. "And," Namjoon adds, glancing at the door. "Thank you, for agreeing to talk alone."

This is the other thing that is different – Jungkook is not beside you. Almost on reflex, you glance at the empty chair to your right. Jungkook wanted to come in but Namjoon requested otherwise; why he asked this, you do not know. It was not a request you wanted to fight and besides, there are some things which must be done on your own.

Facing your past happens to be one of them. Jungkook seemed displeased by the notion (perhaps displeased is the wrong word – worried, might be better), but he did not push back and for that, you are grateful. Tonight has been hard enough without a fight between him and Namjoon. Still, you know Jungkook will not have gone far. A ghost of a smile crosses your lips, imagining him slouched in the corridor with his legs spread before him.

It is a ridiculous image. More likely, he went to clean up, or to talk to Jimin and Hoseok. Either way, he is not in this room. You and Namjoon are alone.

When he pushes a glass your way, you lift this to your lips. The whiskey burns going down, a sensation which seems oddly appropriate, given the context of tonight. Your emotions hardly seem like your own – worry and discomfort, anger and fear. It all twists and coils, burning with a spark you fight to keep from igniting.

The drink dulls all this though, so you gratefully take another sip.

Following your lead, Namjoon drinks. "Well," he exhales, setting his glass on his desk. "I suppose you have a million questions. I'll admit, I'm surprised you haven't sought me out before."