Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Where’d he go?” Namjoon asks when he kicks off his shoes. As so often, he is the last one to make it into the dorm, having stayed behind to talk to their manager about tomorrow’s schedule.

“To his room, I think,” Hoseok tells him. After this day, even he looks pretty beat. Namjoon can’t blame him. Sometimes, the days that are crammed with heading from vocal lessons to a meeting with management to an interview to a photoshoot are more draining than those filled with rehearsals leading up to concerts in the evening.

Namjoon sighs, twisting his head from left to right to make the vertebrae crack and ease some of the tension.

“You think he’s good to talk?” Namjoon wonders aloud and Hoseok shrugs.

“With you? Probably. He sent Jinnie-hyung a death glare, though, and I didn’t even try.”

Namjoon nods, not overly surprised. Both Seokjin and Hoseok usually opted for humor, trying to lighten the mood. But sometimes, one just has to withdraw to his room and wallow in self-pity.

“I’ll take care of it then,” Namjoon tells Hoseok, clapping him on the shoulder as he passes by him. Hoseok just clicks his tongue and moves into the direction of the kitchen where Seokjin is no doubt already getting dinner started.

Namjoon shuffles down the hallway, taking the time to drop off his bag inside his own room and shrug off his jacket, before moving on to the last door on the right. He knocks once, twice. Listens.

“Hyung, it’s me,” he calls finally, waiting for an answer. They had all long since agreed that no answer was an implied yes, just in case of emergencies. So far, Namjoon hadn’t managed to walk in on anyone jerking off and he thanked his lucky stars for it.

When he pushes the handle down and peeks inside, the room is mostly dark, except for the desk lamp casting long shadows onto the walls. It takes Namjoon’s eyes a moment to adjust but then they immediately dart toward the far corner where Yoongi is lying face-down on top of his bed.

He’s wearing one of Namjoon’s sweaters, the one that he had bought but never worn because the sleeves were too short for him. It fits Yoongi, though, not perfectly, but comfortably, and he’s taken to wearing it around the house whenever it’s too chilly.

Now, he is motionless, almost lifeless, like a puppet with its strings cut.

“You okay, man?” Namjoon asks. He isn’t too worried, really, but he wants to make sure Yoongi knows he’s there for him.

“Ugh,” Yoongi only groans, the sound of it muffled by the pillow, and Namjoon chuckles to himself.

It’s not a direct invitation but he also isn’t being turned away, so he simply crosses the room and sits down at the edge of the bed, placing a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder.

“You handled that really well today,” he says because offering verbal validation is what he does, for all the members. “I’m proud of you.”

Yoongi doesn’t react, probably just letting the words sink in, so Namjoon rubs his shoulder as he waits. With Yoongi, it’s always best to have some time and patience, to give him a moment to come out of his shell again.

Namjoon lets his eyes glance through the room, taking in the clothes thrown over the chair in the corner, the dirty dishes on the desk, the empty soda bottle on the window sill. They are all little reminders that, for all their fame and fortune, they are all still just seven guys in their twenties rooming together and letting shit mold in their fridge and fighting over who forgot to update their shopping list.

By now, Namjoon’s hand has moved up to the back of Yoongi’s neck, a casual one-handed massage, threading his fingers through the dark strands. For a while, Yoongi’s hair had been so brittle, made coarse by bleach and too much heat, but now it is lush and soft again.

When Namjoon gives a teasing tug, Yoongi finally rolls over onto his back. Like this, Namjoon’s palm rests atop his heart, but he is more focused on how exhausted Yoongi looks.

“You want dinner?” Namjoon asks. Seokjin had said something about whipping up something simple, and Namjoon had told him he’d let Yoongi know.

“Nah.” Yoongi shakes his head. “In a bit.”

“Alright,” Namjoon says and moves to stand up, pushing off the mattress. Suddenly, though, Yoongi’s cool fingers are around his wrist.

“Can you- stay?” Yoongi asks. His eyes are on Namjoon but then avert themselves to look up at the ceiling instead. “Just… for a little while.”

Namjoon smiles. It’s not often that Yoongi asks for company so openly, and Namjoon knows better than to carelessly rebuff him, even if there were still a couple of things he had planned to get done this evening. But this is more important.

“Sure,” he says easily and, on a whim, lays down on the bed as well. He wriggles around a little to get comfortable, stuffing one of the pillows underneath his head and settling on his side. This side of the comforter is cool and he shivers slightly in response.

Yoongi is still lying on his back, chin tilted back, his Adam’s apple jutting out. It’s a rare angle for Namjoon to see up close and he allows himself to idle on the slight upturn of Yoongi’s nose, the pout of his lips.

“Stop staring,” Yoongi complains before he even cracks one eye open, his glare slightly diminished by his squint.

Namjoon scoffs. “What else do you want me to do?”

“I dunno, just-“ Yoongi rolls onto his side so that he is facing Namjoon, punching his pillow to fluff it up and wedging it between his ear and his shoulder. “Close your eyes or something.”

Namjoon makes an exaggerated noise as though this were the biggest chore, but then does as he is told, letting his breathing even out as the bed warms up around him, the goosebumps on his bare arms dying down.

The dorm is quiet. He thinks he can hear the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen and music coming from somewhere else, but it’s just background chatter, more of a lullaby, and easy to ignore. He could fall asleep like this, easily; it wouldn’t be the first time.

After a handful of minutes of dozing like this, he opens his eyes again, only to catch Yoongi looking at him.

“Now you are staring,” Namjoon points out, smiling sleepily. He’d regret this miniature nap later; it will totally mess up his regular sleep cycle, considering that it’s nowhere near his bedtime yet.

“Hmm,” Yoongi hums. He seems more awake than before, almost alert. It’s a definite improvement to the weariness that had been sitting in his spine before.

“Better?” Namjoon asks, just to make certain, but Yoongi only hums again. Namjoon cocks an eyebrow.

“You want a hug?” he asks, because sometimes you just have to bluntly offer these things for Yoongi to accept them.

And still Yoongi hesitates, just for a moment, before he nods. He stays in place, though, and so it falls to Namjoon to scoot over and close the distance between them, slinging one arm over Yoongi’s waist and snaking the other under him, even though he knows it’ll probably cut off his blood flow.

Yoongi makes a tiny noise, like of surrender, before just faceplanting into Namjoon’s chest, and Namjoon has to bite his lip to keep in his laughter. But his shoulders shake, so Yoongi might still know.

Namjoon is so used to Yoongi in his orbit, at his periphery, at his fingertips. But holding him is always different from embracing Jin’s broad shoulders or hugging Jungkook who’s usually too energetic to stay still for long and just bounces off after only a few moments.

Yet when Yoongi needs affection, he yields, completely. There is no resistance, no sarcasm. It’s a side of him that few people get to see, and thus Namjoon considers it his privilege.

They used to do that a lot, he recalls, letting his eyes slide shut again as he, too, relaxes into the embrace.

Not in the beginning, really, when they half thought of each other as rivals, when they were always hungry and tired and frustrated, when they thought this whole kpop deal would never pay off. They had snapped at each other a lot then, had disagreed over stupid things just to have a reason to start yet another argument and blow off some steam.

And then Namjoon had lain awake listening to Yoongi’s stomach churning in agony because he hadn’t been able to afford dinner again. He had seen the way Yoongi dodged questions whenever the conversation turned toward his family. He had caught him angrily crying in the bathroom when he was wedged between the burden of constant disappointments and delays and his own stubborn pride preventing him from giving up.

And Namjoon had known that, for all their disputes, he and Min Yoongi had had a lot in common, but during that time he had also understood that Yoongi probably had it a little harder.

It took a while for them to accept each other as friends, to understand that they were both in this for good. As they did, Yoongi gradually warmed up to him and then to the other members joining them.

Nowadays, Yoongi is so much more liberal with his affections. He ruffles Jungkook’s hair, holds hands with Jimin, goofs off with Hoseok. But, as the second oldest, it had taken him a long time to let on that he sometimes likes being mollycoddled. So it usually happens behind closed doors, when few eyes and no cameras are around to witness his perceived weakness.

They all have their own ways of expressing their love for each other, ranging from ridiculous to understated. Taehyung bites people, gently, like a dog might. Seokjin carries food around in case someone gets hungry. Jimin bickers and teases and smiles until you cannot help but smile back.

Namjoon and Yoongi had always been both more blatant and more casual than that. A choked up ‘I love you’ has the same impact as Yoongi hooking is fingers into Namjoon’s shirtsleeve, or of them dumping clothes on each other that never fit them to begin with.

Cuddling is good, too, though. Especially since Namjoon feels relatively certain that Yoongi doesn’t do much of this with anyone else. There’s a lot of hugging and leaning against the others, sunken in on the sofa or in the back of the van. But this quiet Yoongi, who tugs his fists close to his chest and curls up on himself, is something a bit more telling.

Because yes, Yoongi likes being mollycoddled. But he does not like being seen as weak or needy or vulnerable.

Instinctively, Namjoon tightens his arms around him and Yoongi lets out a sigh. He seems half-asleep again, the way he smacks his lips and nuzzles closer, tilting his head back to nudge his nose against the underside of Namjoon’s jaw. It tickles a little, the automatic smile dimpling Namjoon’s cheeks, and he leans back a bit to tell Yoongi as much.

But the angle is off, the distance too small, and suddenly their mouths are too close for comfort.

“Oh,” Namjoon says, about to crack a joke and laugh it off, expecting Yoongi to grumble and roll his eyes, roll out of his arms maybe.

Only Yoongi’s eyes are tiny slits, barely seeing, and he cranes his neck as though to get closer instead, his breath dancing along Namjoon’s skin and-

“Hyung?” Namjoon asks, slightly strangled, because this is getting a bit strange, a bit too personal. Suddenly Yoongi’s eyes snap open, before he wretches himself free and throws himself all the way across the bed.

Namjoon just stares. Stares at the way Yoongi curls up again, but this time with his back turned, with his shoulders hunched up and his spine wound tight like a coil, with his fist aimlessly punching against the wall, once, twice, with his voice hitching out of him in a contained eruption, a single word, sharp and poignant.

“Fuck.”

Just that, just that and nothing more. No explanation to why Yoongi is so upset, no maudlin complaint aimed at Namjoon, no excuse of being too tired, too sleep-addled, too dream-dazed.

Namjoon clicks his mouth shut and swallows. His throat is painfully dry.

“Hyung?” he tries again and, when that receives no answer, tentatively reaches out a hand to touch Yoongi’s shoulder.

Underneath his fingers, Yoongi positively flinches. Namjoon jerks back as though burnt. In his chest, his heart is tripping over itself and he doesn’t even know why, just that the sudden surge of adrenaline makes his pulse jump in his throat, the blood rush in his ears.

After a few long moments, some of the tension seeps from Yoongi’s body, until his neck no longer looks like it might snap itself.

“Joon-ah,” Yoongi says. He sounds defeated. Desolate. “You should- you leave now.”

Under other circumstances, Namjoon would respect his hyung’s request without question. Sometimes Yoongi just had enough of everyone. Sometimes, even if he felt miserable, he preferred dealing with it on his own.

But this, right here, is doubtlessly something different.

Because, for an odd, off-kilter moment it had almost seemed as though… Yoongi had wanted to kiss Namjoon.

The thought settles underneath his sternum like something solid, something tangible, and Namjoon knows he couldn’t let go of it even if he tried.

“Yah,” he says quietly. He hates how the word breaks on his tongue, making him sound hesitant. Carefully, he pushes himself across the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. This time, when Namjoon touches him, Yoongi seems to expect it. He doesn’t wince, but his bones sit beneath his skin like something poised for a fight.

Helplessly, Namjoon rubs his thumb over the wool of the sweater. He had bought it because it felt so soft, had been slightly disappointed when he couldn’t wear it, but happy that Yoongi got to enjoy it instead.

“Yoongi-yah,” he says, gently pulling at Yoongi’s shoulder. Yoongi resists for a moment but then he lets himself be rolled onto his back. His eyes are open, but his face closed off, blankly staring up at the ceiling.

Rather than the visceral flinch from before, it’s this non-reaction, this bleakness that finally makes realization dawn.

Yoongi had not almost kissed Namjoon because he had him confused, because he was dreaming, because it was some sort of twisted physical instinct. He had almost kissed him because he had just barely managed to stop himself. Otherwise that little almost would have been erased.

Otherwise, they would have kissed.

Namjoon’s mouth falls open with a sharp inhale and he thinks he can see a muscle in Yoongi’s jaw jump in response. They’ve always been able to read each other so well.

“How long?” Namjoon asks simply, watching as Yoongi’s eyes slide shut, as though they could no longer bear to see Namjoon’s face. Not so close. Not so distanced.

“A while,” Yoongi says, vague enough that it hurts because now Namjoon’s thoughts are driving themselves wild with speculation, with consternation.

He had first known about Yoongi in the way he wove through conversations, sidestepping questions and ignoring demands. Then he had known in the silences and subdued demeanor whenever the topic came up. And finally, when the hour was late and their nerves frayed, he had known by how Yoongi’s fingers clenched around his elbows, arms braced in front of his belly, in the halting explanation that was both lacking and too blatant at once.

It had fallen to Namjoon then to fill in the blanks. Only now, it seems, he hadn’t considered all of it.

Now, Yoongi is in love and Namjoon had stumbled over his feelings so clumsily, so carelessly, it’d be a wonder if he didn’t manage to break a heart in the process.

But Namjoon, clumsy, yes, but considerate and curious and confused, knows that life is never a simple binary choice.

And so, with his elbows shaking, he brackets both of his arms on either side of Yoongi’s head, hoping it won’t come off as threatening or confining, even as his shadow falls across Yoongi’s still face. And, when he leans in, he gives Yoongi ample time to open his eyes and push him away if he wants to.

Yoongi does not push him away.

Instead, Yoongi leans his head back, like he’s accepting the inevitable, like he’s welcoming it, and a moment later Namjoon’s presses their lips together.

It’s brief. Perfunctory. Odd, in an anticlimactic sort of way.

Though, Namjoon admits to himself, perhaps he shouldn’t expect so much when he himself offers so little.

So he angles his head to the side so their noses won’t collide. So he leans in again and this time he dips his tongue between Yoongi’s lips, shy and shallow. It’s warm. Wet. It’s like any other kiss. It’s not.

Yoongi’s hand comes up between them and bunches up the fabric of Namjoon’s shirt in a tight fist. He makes a small aborted noise that might almost be a moan if Namjoon were inclined to think that something as simple as a kiss could undo Min Yoongi so completely.

But it cannot last for long. Reality catches up with them and then Yoongi is pushing against Namjoon’s chest instead, pushing him away.

“Joonie,” he says simply, his eyes still shut. “Stop.”

“Why?” Namjoon asks. He can think of a thousand different reasons, but he wants to hear Yoongi’s.

Underneath his gaze, Yoongi’s mouth is still very pink but his face is pale.

“If you’re just doing this out of some- some misplaced sense of friendship or duty,” Yoongi says resolutely, “Then I don’t need it.”

Namjoon swallows. They probably shouldn’t be having this conversation with their bodies still so close, but pulling away seems like an even worse idea.

“We could try, if you want to,” Namjoon tells Yoongi tentatively. “I don’t mind.”

At that, Yoongi glares up at him but it’s a feeble little thing.

“This is not a experiment for me,” he hisses and it is strangely reassuring to see that he hasn’t lost his claws.

“I know,” Namjoon hurries to say. “I know, just… I don’t wanna reject the idea outright. I just need more data.”

It sounds more clinical than intended, terribly impersonal. But Yoongi has long since learned to translate the odd ideas that happen to fall out of Namjoon, and so he only sighs.

“I hate your brain sometimes,” he says. It sounds like a capitulation.

Namjoon smiles. “And what don’t you hate about me?”

Perhaps he’s taking it too far. Because that is the crux that sits at the core of this. Yoongi not hating Namjoon. Yoongi liking him a little too much.

For a long moment, Yoongi is silent, long enough that Namjoon begins to regret his callous words.

But then Yoongi surprises him by playing along.

“I don’t hate your stupid dimples,” he says and Namjoon can only smile wider. The members praise his dimples all the time, but he still finds himself terribly pleased by Yoongi admitting to it so bluntly, so intimately.

“I don’t hate how tall you are,” Yoongi says and that is a surprise because, if anything, Yoongi tended to complain about Namjoon’s ungainly limbs. “I don’t hate how distracted you get when you are reading. I don’t hate how you are a walking disaster with accidents waiting around every corner.”

As if without his permission, his gaze drops down to Namjoon’s lips.

“Your mouth,” he adds. “I don’t hate your mouth.”

The strangely worded compliments tumble around in Namjoon’s mind, weaving themselves together into the picture of a Yoongi who might watch him when Namjoon is not looking, who lets his gaze linger on the line of his back and fights to not get lost in his eyes.

And Namjoon knows that he is an idol and that he cleans up nicely and that there are a lot of people who would gladly throw themselves at his feet. But he also knows that he and Yoongi and Hoseok consider themselves the Ugly Line of the group for a reason. Kim Namjoon is many things, but he generally does not count being conceited among them.

Now, though, vanity climbs into his chest and makes him bold.

Because Min Yoongi - who knows him best and has seen him at his worst - still looks at him and wants .

This time, Namjoon does not wait for Yoongi’s permission, just dives right in and kisses him, letting himself go with the flow.

It’s still a bit like going through the motions. There’s this mental list that he cannot help but check off and he’s afraid that he’s so caught up in the theory of this that the practical approach might be lacking.

He settles himself on his elbows, his body aligning itself with Yoongi’s, and then he tangles his fingers in Yoongi’s hair. It’s much shorter than what he prefers on girls, but this is not about a girl, so it’s only an errant obsolete thought, quickly dismissed in favor of licking into Yoongi’s hot mouth.

Namjoon lets his hips roll, his pelvis nudging up against Yoongi’s groin. Yoongi gasps into the kiss and his thighs splay open, making room for Namjoon.

It’s too sexual too quickly, especially since they have barely talked about this and Namjoon doesn’t know whether he even wants it to go this way.

But the thought is not off-putting. Not disturbing. Instead, there is a sense of danger laced through it, of risk and also, wholly incongruent, of ease.

What would be like to have sex with someone who trusts you so completely, when you have no fear of embarrassment or abandonment? What is fucking like when there is love at its root, and friendship and certainty?

In spite of himself, Namjoon cannot help but moan at that abstract thought and he feels himself harden inside of his skinny jeans. It’s impossible to hide from Yoongi who, almost as if in belligerence, bucks up again Namjoon, only to end their kiss, their lips parting with a wet sound.

“Do you need more data?” he asks wryly, but his flat tone is ruined by how he is very obviously just as flustered as Namjoon is.

Namjoon takes a couple of deep breaths, hoping to calm himself, though it is more difficult than expected.

The truth is, he doesn’t want this to be an experiment in which he get results and Yoongi gets heartbreak. He doesn’t want to reconfigure their dynamic and potentially that of the whole group, just because he’s too curious for his own good.

But he still wants to keep kissing Yoongi.

What the fuck, he thinks vaguely. Because, until half an hour ago, the thought had never even occurred to him, but now it makes a sense in a way that has little to do with logic.

Maybe it’s the stress. Maybe it’s the fact that he rarely ever gets the chance to really let go.

“Okay, back off a little,” Yoongi says when Namjoon has been silent for too long. He knees him in the gut, albeit gently, to make him move faster. Namjoon sits on his haunches, the denim pulled bitingly tight across his crotch.

All of a sudden, Namjoon is the fragile one, the one who has given away too much of himself, and Yoongi has the power to decide what happens next.

“Lemme guess,” he drawls out, his nose crinkling a bit. “You’re realizing you’re not as straight as you thought you were.”

“Uhh,” Namjoon says, trying to will down his arousal. “Basically.”

“You think you could do this with me but you don’t wanna hurt my feelings, in case things don’t work out.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon admits, clears his throat. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Yoongi blows his fringe out of his face, an unusually whimsical thing for him to do. “I’m a big boy, Joonie, I can handle a breakup. The fact that you are considering this at all is good enough for me.”

Namjoon’s mouth falls open at that, at the word ‘breakup’ because it implies there being an actual relationship, a situation in which they are dating and kissing and fucking.

He swallows. “Does anyone know? About…?”

“Hyung, probably.” Yoongi shrugs. “And Hobi is a nosy fuck. But the kids have no idea, I think.”

That’s a relief, at least. It’d be terrible embarrassing to be the last one to find out about Yoongi’s feeling for him. And yet.

“I wouldn’t want to keep it a secret,” he says. “If we…”

He trails off, uncertain.

Yoongi, however, just buries his face in his palms and then- starts laughing?

“This was such a shitty day,” he groans. “And now we are hypothesizing on being boyfriends.”

The moment he says it, the air seems to flee from the room. Namjoon’s lungs constrict and Yoongi’s hands lower, and then the two are just staring at each other.

A small noise escapes Namjoon, something like a wheeze because he doesn’t think he is breathing properly. His vision narrows down to only Yoongi who looks equally as stunned.

“We could date?” Namjoon wonders aloud. “Like, properly?”

“I dunno,” Yoongi says. His fingers are fidgeting, picking at his cuticles. “Could we?”

“Not… not openly,” Namjoon knows. It’s be too much of a gamble, for various reasons. But it’s not like anything would have to change on the outside. They just ought to be careful about it.

“Joonie,” Yoongi says. He sounds oddly weary, like he is trying to be an adult about this. “Let’s not… get ahead of ourselves. You don’t love me and-”

“Of course I do!” Namjoon cuts in, surprising both of them with his vehemence.

“I may not be in love with you,” he concedes, lowering his voice again because this is not exactly a conversation he wants anyone to eavesdrop on. “But I do love you.”

Yoongi’s smile is small but fond, as though Namjoon’s philosophical quibbles were just another thing he adores.

“I know you do,” he says. “But it’s not the same.”

And that’s when Namjoon has had enough. He’s sick of Yoongi talking himself down and trying to sidestep the consequences of his accidental confessions. He’s sick of always being the one who makes wise decisions and putting himself last. He’s sick of- frankly, quite a lot of things.

So, for once, he does not talk things out calmly. He does not give Yoongi some space. He just throws himself at Yoongi, physically pushing him up against the wall on the side of the bed and holds him there with his entire body.

It’s like every dumb kabedon joke they’ve ever done. It’s Yoongi’s thighs squeezed around Namjoon’s hips and his eyes wide at the sudden attack. It’s Namjoon surfing the high of the adrenaline in his veins and his hair falling into his face.

Yoongi is so much smaller than him but Namjoon thinks, if he were allowed, he could be rougher with him than he had ever dared to be with a girl. He thinks Yoongi might be willing to try.

“People date all the time for the wrong fucking reasons,” Namjoon tells him. His voice is pitched low, his mouth close to Yoongi’s ear. “And they fight about who loves more or who doesn’t love enough. And that’s so stupid because- because what matters is that there is someone who loves you and whom you can love back.”

“You are- fucking insane ,” Yoongi complains. He’s wriggling around like an angry cat but he does not actually try to free himself. He was so soft when Namjoon first stepped into this room, so easily contained and manageable. Yet something about this volatile Yoongi, this mercurial Yoongi who wants Namjoon but doesn’t take any of his shit makes it all the realer.

Namjoon grins sharply.

“So what, hyung?” he whispers, just a rough exhale, and, curiously, Yoongi stills. Namjoon touches the tip of his nose against the shell of Yoongi’s ear and traces the tiny labyrinth.

This time, it’s Yoongi’s hands that bury themselves in Namjoon’s hair, pulling at him until their foreheads are pressed together.

“I’m not gonna be like some- some cute little girlfriend,” Yoongi warns him.

“I know,” Namjoon says, because he does.

“Not a cute little boyfriend either.”

“I dunno,” Namjoon teases. “You’re pretty cute.”

For that, Yoongi bites him with a kiss, tugs at his lower lip until the skin might split, and it hurts, but Namjoon will take it because this is the first kiss that Yoongi has initiated.

“Still cute,” Namjoon says when Yoongi finally pulls back. “The cutest.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Yoongi says but he is blushing now, his cheeks red from either excitement or embarrassment, and Namjoon finds he quite likes that look on him.

“You don’t have to change,” he still finds the need to add. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

“Good,” Yoongi says - and kisses him again.