Chapter Text
“You know you don’t have to wait for him to make the first move, right?” Seokjin asks languidly from where he’s lounging on the sofa, “Right?”
He doesn’t actually expect Jimin to answer him, since this wasn’t the first time he’d stated something in a similar vein and he knew he was going to be met with stone-cold silence. The question hadn’t exactly been prompted by anything either,- they'd both been working quietly on their own things, sat in companionable silence.
Seokjin was helping, however. He just knew it. He was on a mission, here.
He was subtly, with the force of one inconspicuous statement at a time, treading his way into, his younger friend, Jimin’s subconscious; wearing down his walls until he became more recipient to the idea of actually doing something about his years' long crush on one grumpy-cat incarnate.
There's some high-level psychology shit going on; he doesn’t expect any itty-bitty spectators to truly appreciate his masterful plan.
Jimin, currently sitting cross-legged in front of the coffee table, with his head bent over a large stack of assignment sheets, steadily working his way through his coursework, spares him a grunt. Predictable, he thought. He knew this kid like the back of his very own and very beautiful, somewhat crooked fingered, hand.
“Jiminnie, you’re an idiot,” he says, sighing heavily.
Another grunt is Jimin’s helpful contribution to their meaningful conversation.
Hm. “Jin Hyung-nim is the best,” he states royally, a test.
"Mm."
Seokjin, "…"
“Park Jimin,” he starts, slowly gaining steam, “if you don’t tell me exactly what I last said, I swear on my roguishly handsome face, I’m not feeding you din-”
“Jin Hyung-nim is the best,” intones back Jimin, ever dutiful, without even looking up.
But of-course he was listening. After all, no one could ever quite not pay attention to him, he was Kim-goddamn-Seokjin. (He steadily and artfully ignores the miserable non-existence of his own love life, really, nothing to see here, people.)
Briefly, he considers spicing things up a bit, maybe saying a different sentence to truly test Jimin’s attention- No. There’s no need, it’s only the starkest of truths: he is the best hyung ever.
It wasn’t as if this was the same sentence that poor Jimin has been parroting back to him as the proof of his attention to Jin hyung’s words for years now.
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“You know you actually have to tell the person you like that you want to date them, to actually date them, right,” asks Min Yoongi, his genius at work. Slowly, to make sure that it actually does register in his friend’s (sometimes unbearably) brilliant brain, “Right?”
After listening to the man talk about nothing but Seokjin said this, Seokjin did that, Seokjin-, it was soon turning out to be a grand test of Yoongi’s not inconsiderable amount of patience. Honestly, he loves Seokjin hyung, he’s been a close friend to him for as long as he can remember; in fact, he’d been the one who'd introduced Namjoon to him. But he heard enough about Seokjin from Seokjin hyung himself, he wasn't sure he could handle hearing it all over again from even a single person more. And frankly, this man’s intense distance pining was getting a bit ridiculous.
Min Yoongi was officially too old for this shit.
“Hyung,” the younger of the two whines piteously, sloppily dripping ketchup over their office lunch table and making Yoongi smother a wince (honestly, he couldn’t wait to dump him over to Jin-hyung and wash his hands off this ongoin calamitous disaster in humanoid form), while attempting to sprinkle it evenly onto his fries, “It’s not that easy, you know? Every time I think I might be ready to tell him, he just, goes right on ahead and does something or the other that never fails to remind me that he’s way out of my league and then I remember that time when he, -you remember when he?- invited his work friends over for dinner with us? Did you see them, hyung, d’you remember how they looked?” He sighs forlornly, picking at his fries with his recyclable chopsticks (whoever taught him to eat french-fries like this, Yoongi would like to have some serious words with them, preferably behind a deserted factory's parking lot- the kid’s dropping every fifth piece he picks up, Yoongi’s been keeping count) and continues, “I’ve always thought that the ultimate difference between success and failure is never giving up. Isn’t it ironic, that I feel like I’ve been defeated, hyu-.”
“Joon,” Yoongi cuts him off. Firmly, but not unkindly, he says, “You can’t philosophize your way out of feeling insecure, man.”
Namjoon purses his lips and Yoongi knows the man well enough to know that he’s fighting hard against the urge to snap out something impudent and undeservingly harsh (perhaps something along the lines of ‘fucking watch me’), so as not to be disrespectful to his only friend still willing to suffer through his pitiful, love forlorn existence.
“I know,” he says at length, calmly enough. His phoenix eyes are narrowed but at least he’s not grinding teeth. That’s always a sure fire giveaway for him.
He’s a good person, this Kim Namjoon. Smart, dedicated, hardworking. Kind, too. Prone to over-analyzing and over-thinking most matters, but a good man, neverthess. And it makes Yoongi proud to see him actively working towards better handling his words, their sharpness and direction. Mostly, he’s just really glad: he doesn’t want a repeat of what used to happen often enough back when they were still in college.
A fire in their hearts, the constant need to prove themselves right, their edges sharper, likelier to catch and make each-other bleed. Even when they didn’t want to. (Especially when they didn’t want to.)
But that was before they found their equilibrium. Before they found their sound. Before they added Hoseok to the little group, making them a trio.
(The Triple Threat, the media had taken to calling them, back when their music and their beats and their raps were tearing down the idol industries’ music charts. Throwing the kings and queens off their pretentious social ladders, leaving them dumbfounded, wondering- just who the hell are these hellions?)
“Are you nearly done with the base track for Taehyung? He wants to test record at least one demo before moving ahead with the song; he’s really worried about recording alone, hyung,- honestly, as if the other two won’t already be waiting in the studio for him. Neo-soul, right? He’s going to sound incredible,” Namjoon starts and continues on about his ideas about some other tracks he’s been working on.
Yoongi allows the completely blatant and unsubtle subject change, but only because he doubts his ability to tread lightly and to not step on too many raw nerves. He's never been that good of a dancer, anyway. That’s more Hoseok’s forte, if anything. He’s pushed enough for today.
For now, he just sits and finishes off his food, calmly and solemnly listening to his younger friend’s constant stream of consciousness (and that’s what it is, really, the man is one second talking about how he saw a yellow leaf fall from a tree and watched it float down slowly, “it was beautiful, hyung, so lyrical, I almost can’t describe it,” and talking about the unstable political structure of their country, the affected foreign relations, the next) and watching him steadily destroy his food and the table alongwith it, spilling a hazardous amount of ketchup with every other bite. Yoongi truly believes that it’s nothing short of a miracle that Namjoon manages to keep his clothes relatively clean. Everything around him, however… is a lost cause.
He’s making him clean up after them, he vows.
Yoongi has mostly finished the base track for Taehyung’s solo. But he knows he’s long ways to go from the final track, and that’s okay. He knows he’s going to need some sound bytes of Taehyung singing in the desired pitch to completely understand the requirements of the song, further fine tuning until he’s satisfied and Tae is happy with it. Taking out his phone from his hoodie’s pockets (he didn’t have any meetings scheduled today, so what he’s dressed comfortably for work, bite him), he pulls up his schedule, “When does he want a session; did Sungjin-ssi give you a date and time?” he flicks Joon a glance, referring to Taehyung’s manager.
“Well, he… did. Day after tomorrow. But, uh…” Yoongi groans in honest despair.
“Not again, not before at least 11, dear God,” Yoongi knows it’s fruitless, but he tries anyway, feebly, “I’m the boss, shouldn’t I have a say in this?”
“Not unless you want to completely rearrange your schedule for the whole week, perhaps even longer; you’re packed. You have a meeting with SKTel’s PR rep at 11.30 and I doubt you’d want to reschedule that.” Namjoon at least has the decency to look somewhat regretful while he says this. “So… should I send a confirmation? I won’t be there, though- I have a meeting with Jihook PD-nim, about the boys’ MBC Gayo Stage Collab with RxC. Their solo stage is set, but don’t worry- I’ll send you the data packet when all the details are finalized, with the contract.
“So, yeah. Recording with Taehyung at 9, sharp. Done?”
Puppy eyes do not suit Namjoon.
They have no fucking business being this effective.
He knows he can say no. He knows it’ll cause some discomfort but they’ll re-schedule Taehyung at a later time and date (they’re not running against any deadlines) and that he’ll accept it without complaint, but… “Yeah,” Yoongi sighs, “9am, day after tomorrow, got it.” Grumbling to himself quietly, and steadfastly ignoring Namjoon’s dorky smile, he enters it into his schedule, sets an alarm (and a reminder, for good measure; he’s not going to be held responsible for accidentally forgetting a session just because it was set at a time he’s usually dead to the world) and stuffs his phone back into his pocket.
Mind distracted, he packs up his trash and stuffs it into the recycled bag Joon brings just for this purpose. Standing up, he thinks about the track waiting for him in his studio and the paperwork that’s steadily piled up on his desk. But,-- wait.
He suffers the mental equivalent of a wince, mind focused again, staring at his younger friend with unblinking and sharp eyes. “Namjoonnie,” he starts, making him look up with a raised eyebrow, it’s not everyday that Min Yoongi, with a tongue that could either cut you open or send you to Hong Kong uses cute nicknames to address you, “Ever heard of George E. Woodberry?” At Namjoon’s confused but interested nod of assent, he continues, “well, he once said: ‘Defeat is not the worst of failures. Not to have tried is the true failure.’”
With that, he knocks on the table twice before heading towards the door.
He’s back inside his studio when he remembers it, so he pokes his head out the door as he, quite cheerfully and loudly, reminds Namjoon to,- “Clean the table before you go, will you?” before slamming the door shut. The room is sound proof, so he doesn’t exactly hear it, but he knows it in his bones that the man is groaning miserably outside. Serves him right, he thinks with no little satisfaction, I’m too young to be this old.