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"Oh god."
Namjoon looks up from his spot on the floor to find Hobi just inside the kitchen, staring at him. The sheer horror on Hobi's face sets Namjoon on edge and he twists around to look over his shoulder, expecting to see a spider crawling on the cabinets behind him or a ghost or something. But there's nothing there so far as he can see, and he turns back to Hobi, confused. "What?"
"Oh my god. Is that a knife?"
Holding one lemon in his left hand, Namjoon glances down at the knife in his right, blade poised over the cutting board lying between his crossed legs, and his shoulders drop. He can already see where this is going.
When he looks up again, there's a hint of a smile on Hobi's lips as Hobi steps in closer. "Who said you could have a knife?"
"I own one-seventh of this knife," Namjoon argues.
Hobi shakes his head and drops into a crouch, grinning as he grabs one of the lemons from the bowl to Namjoon's left, palming it. "You own however many spoons and ladles and tongs it takes to balance out any ownership you may otherwise have for anything sharp and pointy."
It's all in good fun, Namjoon knows, but he can't help the pout that curves his lips as he lowers his lemon to the cutting board and centers the knife down the middle. "I'm being careful."
This time, Hobi doesn't argue or grumble in protest, but asks, "What are you even doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?"
"Trying to creatively chop off your own fingers?"
"I'm making lemonade," Namjoon huffs, not bothering to hide a light flicker of genuine irritation. Because, yes, he's a little clumsy, and yes, he does have an unfortunate predisposition for accidental destruction, but he's not a child. He can handle cutting a damn lemon in half.
Hobi's smile slips a little then, brow furrowing in what looks like genuine confusion. "Why?"
"I don't know," Namjoon admits with a shrug, eyes on the lemon as he slides the knife through the skin, cutting it cleanly in half. "Saw a video earlier and thought I'd try."
"Can't you just buy some?"
"It tastes better if you make it yourself."
"I don't think that's actually true," Hobi argues, still eyeing the knife warily. "Does Jin know about this?"
"For fuck's sake, he's not our mother," Namjoon snaps, arms falling to his sides, knife still tightly gripped in one hand. "I'm twenty-three years old. I'm fully capable of cutting fucking lemons without adult supervision."
"Still," Hobi says, hiding a smirk as he reaches across the cutting board. "How about we just play it safe, hmm?"
"Seriously?"
"For your own good."
"Hoseok, I swear to god."
Several things happen at once. One, Namjoon jerks back, knife clutched tightly in his right hand and wrist twisted; two, Hobi leans forward faster than Namjoon's expecting which; three, knocks the bowl of lemons over, spilling them across the kitchen floor in a cascade of rolling yellow.
Namjoon makes a noise, something between a whine and a whimper as he lunges to try to catch the scattering of lemons, and then Hobi makes one, too: a sharp, bitten off hiss before immediately rocking back, holding his hand close to his chest.
"Oh no," Namjoon says, staring at the trickle of red slowly beading along the back of Hobi's hand.
"Fuck, fuck," Hoseok mutters, holding his hand by the wrist as he jumps to his feet. Horrified, Namjoon drops the knife and rises with him, rushing to follow Hobi to the kitchen sink, heart in his stomach as he rattles off apologies.
"I'm so sorry," he whimpers as Hobi turns on the water, and Hobi shakes his head, brow furrowed as the clean water turns faintly pink after flowing over the cut.
"Not your fault, Joonie."
"You were just saying how dangerous I am. And you're right. Fuck, I can't believe I cut you."
"Stop being dramatic, you didn't cut me," Hobi argues, attention still on his hand.
"You're fucking bleeding."
"It's fine. It'll heal."
Namjoon grumbles under his breath, lifts a hand to grab his hair in frustration. Hobi's pulled his hand from under the faucet, brushes a thumb over the wound as a fresh line of red wells free.
"Fuck, at least let me–"
Cutting himself off, he spins on his heels to dart out of the kitchen, nearly tripping over three lemons one the way.
Someone's in the bathroom when he gets there but, as is the house rule, the door isn't locked and Namjoon spares only a second to knock before barreling inside.
"Someone's in– What the–" Jimin squeaks from his spot on the toilet, quickly shoving the manga he's reading to his lap and clamping his legs shut.
"Band-aids," Namjoon says, immediately opening the medicine cabinet and rifling through the bottles of shaving cream and toothpaste and medication. Luckily, he knows exactly where they are, though in his haste he manages to knock the box off the shelf, the little cardboard container hitting the tiled floor with a faint thud.
"What happened?" Jimin asks as Namjoon bends to gather the few bandages that fluttered free in the fall.
Namjoon shakes his head, still gathering the Band-aids and stuffing them in the box, his stomach tight with worry and guilt.
Jimin's voice is quieter when he says, "Hyung?"
With a huff, Namjoon straightens again, box clutched in one hand as he grabs a small, clean towel from the closet. "I stabbed Hobi," he mutters, head lowered as he quickly steps back into the hall.
"You– What?" comes Jimin's muffled voice behind the closed bathroom door.
Hobi's still at the sink when Namjoon returns, glancing back over his shoulder at the sound of Namjoon's footsteps.
"Here," Namjoon says, setting the box down. Hobi pulls his hand out from under the stream of water and turns toward him, hip against the counter and lips curved in a faint frown. Hobi's skin is a light pink from the cold water, but there's no more blood at least. Namjoon steps in closer, carefully taking Hobi's hand by the wrist and turning it palm down, brushing his thumb carefully over the damp skin just below the cut.
It's not a deep wound, at least, that much he can tell. But it's long, about five centimeters from end to end. Guilt rolls tight in Namjoon's stomach as he lightly dabs at the area around it with the towel, trying to dry as much as possible without inflicting any more pain. Hobi's skin is really soft, his fingers long and slender and delicate, a fact Namjoon's never failed to notice.
He doesn't fail to notice it now either.
Someday, he thinks. Someday, he'd like to spend a bit more time admiring Hobi's hands in detail. Preferably without having cut his skin open first. He'd like to trail his fingers over Hobi's knuckles and cuticles, trace the swirls of his fingertips. Taste them.
"I was joking, you know," Hobi says quietly after a moment, and Namjoon carefully keeps his head lowered, very of the heat rushing to his cheeks. Hobi's hand is still limp in Namjoon's grip, flinching briefly only when Namjoon lightly brushes the towel over the wound itself.
"Sorry," Namjoon murmurs, then adds, "You were not."
"Well," Hobi says, a tinge of humor in his voice then. "Mostly joking."
Satisfied that Hobi's skin is as dry as it needs to be for bandaging, Namjoon sets the towel aside and grabs a Band-aid from the box, still holding Hobi's hand. He has to use his teeth to rip the bandage free of its paper packaging, but he manages before carefully centering the padding and then laying one side of the adhesive strip over clean skin, slipping off the paper on the other side so it lays flat.
"Hang on," he adds, because the one he grabbed isn't quite wide enough to cover the wound and he quickly pulls out another, laying it right next to the first.
Hobi's quiet the entire time, hand motionless and trusting under Namjoon's care.
Once he's certain the wound is completely covered, Namjoon slides his hand around so they're palm-to-palm, giving a light squeeze before ducking to press his lips against the bandage.
He's not quite sure what compels him to do it, whether it's the desire to quiet his own anxiety with some weird nostalgic comfort or if he's simply hoping to break the tension under his skin by making Hobi laugh. But he regrets it almost as soon as it's done, heart thudding in his chest at the quiet, strangled sound that escapes Hobi's throat.
"All better," Namjoon says feebly, gently lowering Hobi's hand.
Hobi's staring at him again, eyes wide and lips parted. It's not the look of faux horror from earlier, no sign at all that Hobi's about to quirk a smile and start teasing him. It's sincere and piercing and Namjoon has to pull away, all too aware he's inadvertently given himself away.
He finally lets go of Hobi's hand entirely to gather up the scraps of the Band-aid wrappings. "I'll clean up," he says, referring to the mess of lemons strewn across the kitchen floor, the knife still where Namjoon had dropped it. He doesn't really want to waste the lemons, especially the ones he'd actually managed to cut successfully, but he's lost all desire to finish his project at the moment. Jin could maybe use them in something. He makes a mental note to mention it later as he turns to drop the paper slips into the trash, still studiously avoiding Hobi's gaze.
But there's no dodging it when he turns back, Hobi suddenly stepping in close, eyes narrowed and focused. Determined. Namjoon's seen that look on Hobi's face countless times, in the studio and during practice. It's the look he gets listening back on a track they're busy mixing, when he's laying down a rap line, memorizing. It's the look he gets before stepping out on stage, before every interview, anytime there's something big and important on the line.
Namjoon swallows, guilt and fear and anxiety spiking as he opens his mouth to apologize.
Hobi doesn't give him a chance.
It's a quick kiss, light and soft and warm and off-center, Hobi's nose bumping Namjoon's before Hobi pulls back just a little, their eyes locked.
"Uh," Namjoon says stupidly before finally snapping his mouth shut.
Something flickers in Hobi's expression, determination melting into something much more uncertain, his gaze dropping to Namjoon's mouth again. Namjoon doesn't breathe, doesn't move, terrified of shattering the moment, of breaking whatever spell they're under.
Again, it's Hobi who moves first, slower this time, more deliberate. Namjoon stays completely still as Hobi presses another kiss to his lips, warm and lingering. It's dry and sweet and hesitant, and the second Namjoon feels Hobi pulling away he makes an entirely undignified sound and surges forward, grabbing Hobi's forearm to keep him close, their lips smashed together.
"Hyung, is everything– holy shit."
They jump apart, Namjoon's heart leaping into his throat, wincing as he knocks his hip against the lip of the counter when he whirls around to find Jimin standing wide-eyed just inside the doorway.
"Holy shit, were you–"
"We're making lemonade," Hobi interrupts, dropping to the floor and scooping up three of the scattered lemons.
Mind whirling, Namjoon glances down at Hobi's bent form then at Jimin who looks entirely unconvinced, his mouth hanging slightly open. He has no idea what to say, less idea what to do so he decides to follow Hobi's lead, dropping to a crouch and reaching for the knife.
With an impressive lung, Hobi beats him to it, snatching the blade with his good hand and throwing him a significant look as he rises to his feet.
"Hyung said he stabbed you," Jimin says, tone suspicious.
Hobi looks over at him, knife in hand. "Not on purpose," he says, sounding strangely defensive.
"Well– obviously," Jimin snorts. He glances down at the knife, then down further to where Namjoon is busy placing the last of the scattered lemons back into the bowl. "Are you really making lemonade?"
"Yes," Hobi says at the same time Namjoon replies with, "Not anymore."
They glance at each other, wary and tense. Namjoon's nerves are on edge, his lips still tingling from the press of Hobi's kiss, the kiss Jimin saw. He has absolutely no idea what to do about any of this, doesn't know if he and Hobi should talk or just pretend it never happened. Doesn't know if there's something here apart from a weird set of circumstances, has no idea what exactly is going on in Hobi's head right now, if maybe he was just thanking Namjoon in a really weirdly intimate way or if he feels the same as Namjoon does every time they're close.
Now isn't really the time to try to figure it out, but Jimin's a fucking little shit so he isn't likely to let this drop, a point that's proven exactly half a second later when Jimin says:
"Oh, are you planning on making out a bunch instead?"
The question hangs for a long moment, ringing through the silence. Namjoon outright refuses to look at Hobi, his eyes locked on Jimin whose lips are twisted in a smirk. He clearly doesn't possess any bit of self-preservation, doesn't care that Hobi's still wielding a weapon because he steps in further, heading for the fridge.
"Let me at least grab a Milkis first."
Namjoon doesn't move. He's too aware of Hobi standing right behind him at the sink. Too aware of the overbearing silence as Jimin pulls a single can from the fridge, shuts the door, and then gives them a wave with four tiny fingers before heading back down the hall.
"How long do you think we have before he's told everyone?"
Namjoon's shoulders sag as he lets out a breath, holding the bowl of lemons tight against his chest. He rubs his forehead with his other hand. "Depends on how long it takes Yoongi and Jin to get back."
"He might text them," Hobi points out as Namjoon finally turns enough to see Hobi placing the knife carefully in the sink.
"Fuck," Namjoon groans miserably. "Yeah." He moves his hand to his hair, tugging roughly at the short strands as Hobi turns to face him. Namjoon suddenly doesn't know what's worse: the idea of trying to explain to everyone what's happened, or trying to pretend that it didn't.
In comparison, explaining how he'd stabbed their dance leader will be a piece of cake.
He places the bowl of lemons on the counter, a third of them chopped in half, the rest still whole. He considers putting the chopped ones in a container for later so they don't dry out, but he's not sure what he'll ever do with them. He can tell Jin, he reminds himself. Jin can make some kind of cake or something, probably.
"I have an idea," Hobi says then, and Namjoon realizes he's stepped closer, that he's reaching for Namjoon with his bandaged hand, catching the loose front of Namjoon's shirt with his fingers.
Frowning, Namjoon stares at said fingers, at the light brown plastic bits stuck to the back of Hobi's hand before he finally raises his head to meet Hobi's eyes.
Hobi's smiling very faintly, just the tips of his lips curved upward, cheeks a light pink. He cocks his head to the side and says, again, "I have an idea."
"Okay?" Namjoon says. He feels very dumb. It's not an unusual sensation for him at all, particularly when he's around Hobi. But he just can't understand why Hobi's smiling, why Hobi's touching him. He can't understand why Hobi seems so calm when Jimin is undoubtedly seconds away from telling absolutely everyone exactly what he saw. Even if it was nothing, even if they deny the whole thing entirely, it's still going to be a big, stupid Thing and, fuck, all Namjoon wanted was to chop up some stupid lemons to make some stupid lemonade and now he doesn't know what's happening.
"Why don't we tell them?"
Namjoon stares. Frowns. He still doesn't understand.
Hobi steps in closer, trails long, slender fingers from the front of Namjoon's shirt down to his side.
"Tell them–" he starts, his voice breaking embarrassingly. He clears his throat and starts again. "What are we telling them?"
Hobi's full-on smirking now, even huffs a laugh, that one Namjoon recognizes as quiet, fond exasperation. And then they're kissing again. Or at least Hobi's kissing him. It takes far too long for Namjoon's brain to catch up, too long for him to parse through the tangle of thoughts inside his big, stupid head.
He still doesn't really understand what's happening when instinct finally kicks in, but he's past the point of caring. Because Hobi's lips are soft and sweet and the whimper he lets out when he parts them is easily the best sound Namjoon has ever heard in his whole life. Their tongues brush and Namjoon can feel it down to his toes, has to grab on to Hobi's hips to keep himself from crashing forward. Though Hobi steps back anyway, his butt against the edge of the counter as he pulls Namjoon in closer, head tipped back so that they never stop kissing, so that Namjoon can lick deeper, taste more.
At some point Hobi sneaks his hands beneath Namjoon's shirt, dances cool his fingertips up Namjoon's sides, and the touch is finally enough to knock some small bit of clarity into Namjoon's skull.
"What are we doing?" he asks as he pulls back, eyes wide and chest heaving.
Hobi's smile doesn't falter at all, but he does pull one hand out from under Namjoon's shirt, reaching up to curl it around the back of Namjoon's neck and drawing him closer.
"Making lemonade," he says, leaning up for more.