Work Text:
“In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?”
_ _
“...the rain continues this morning, marking the thirty-seventh day of precipitation. Fortunately, rainfall has not been heavy enough to cause major flooding, but the water levels of the Han River are being closely monitored and the city is directing resources to protect vulnerable neighborhoods. The cause of this weather phenomenon remains unknown. Stay tuned for updates. For now we turn to-”
Click.
Static.
_ _
Yoongi is looking at him, across this table at this rundown restaurant they’ve retreated to (because the dorm is full of eggshells and the heavy concern of their bandmates), and all Namjoon can see are the bags under his eyes, the down-turned corners of his mouth, the furrow along his brow. He looks too thin and washed out, like he’s already become a ghost in Namjoon’s life. If it weren’t for the magic Namjoon can feel moving between them like a live wire, he wouldn’t believe this specter of Yoongi was real at all.
But the bond is there, tying his magic to Yoongi’s, his heart to Yoongi’s, his future to Yoongi’s. Nearly three years and it decided to form now. Out of the blue. And Namjoon wishes he could understand, wishes he knew what his magic wanted, but the way it whispers to him sounds so foreign - a language he’s never been fluent in.
(Do you know why languages die, Namjoon-ah? Yoongi asked him six months ago - in the studio after they’d born witness to the sunset and the sunrise and the music was still refusing to cooperate.)
So now here they are, with a bond neither of them want, formed by magic neither of them understand, and the future they clawed and bled and sacrificed for in jeopardy.
Here they are, in this god-forsaken restaurant, with a slowly-flooding city beyond the dirty windows and an ocean in the form of a table between them, and Namjoon has no idea what to say.
(Because, hyung, he’d answered then, people stop speaking them.)
_ _
Wait.
Rewind.
_ _
Magic.
It still exists - the hum of it in Namjoon’s bones is proof enough - but it’s dying. Fading slow with each new generation. No one remembers where it started, centuries or millennia or worlds ago. A different race, some myths say - like the Fae in fairytales - or perhaps humans have always possessed it. It probably doesn’t matter. The origins of so many things are lost to time and legend, because humans live short and fleeting lives and often their memory grows faulty long before their bodies do.
So magic is here - a part of this world. A select few people can still feel it, an even smaller group can wield it, but it’s often prone to instability - like all this power wasn’t meant for a mortal frame and is constantly trying to escape, back into the earth or the sky or wherever it came from, leading to chaos or destruction or even death. So that’s where the bonds come in, tying two magic users together, usually for the remainder of their days.
The bonds form, science says, when two people’s magical energies are particularly compatible and can balance each other out. It’s deeper than that, society insists. It’s a soul connection. This is the person you’re meant to be with forever, so how can that be anyone but your soulmate? The media is full of stories of star-crossed lovers meeting each other on crowded train platforms or city streets and feeling their magic sing. Looking into each other’s eyes and knowing: this is my destiny, this is love.
Namjoon watched those dramas, as a child. Read those books. Listened to his parents talk about their own meeting: in an elevator of an office building in Seoul, and it only took a few moments to understand, to recognize each other - just the distance of four floors.
Like fireworks, his mother said, her eyes bright at the memory.
Sparks, his father agreed, taking his mother’s hand.
And Namjoon wanted that so badly. Dreamt of it at twelve, fourteen, then sixteen when he moved to Seoul to chase his other dream - a far scarier one, in many ways. He tried to picture what she would look like, his soulmate. How he would meet her. At school, maybe? Or walking home from the train? Would their eyes meet in a crowd? In a cafe? However it happened, he was certain it would be a grand love. A great love.
Soul bonds always are, everyone says - those who don’t have magic sighing with envy.
The greatest love you can ever hope to experience.
_ _
When he first met Min Yoongi in November of 2010, he hated him. Looking back, he can’t remember why exactly. Maybe it was just a part of being sixteen and desperate to prove yourself - you automatically end up angry at anyone you perceive as better than you. And Yoongi, with both his magic and his music, just seemed so much better.
So Namjoon hated him. And Yoongi met Namjoon’s fire with fire of his own and they fought constantly, hating the fact that they lived together in a tiny blue-walled apartment and worked together in an equally tiny studio with outdated equipment. They fought over important things - the future, their music, the uncertainties plaguing them both - and mostly over stupid things - the last of the toothpaste, dirty dishes in the sink, a broken doorknob, the food in the fridge.
Hoseok, when he arrived with wide eyes and hands that shook as much as theirs, tried to balance them out, but eventually it was Yoongi who came to him. Yoongi who said they needed to learn to get along, if this was going to work. Yoongi, who expressed concerns about their magic reacting to all this negative emotion and causing damage. Yoongi, who bowed and vowed to follow Namjoon’s lead, even though he was two years older.
That knocked some of the pride loose in Namjoon’s chest, enough for him to offer up his own apology. To promise to do better for them both and this future they wanted to so badly. And Yoongi smiled at him - this soft thing that showed off his gums - and he looked almost cute with his ears sticking out from underneath his beanie and his oversized hoodie that he bought two weeks ago at a thrift shop and carefully washed free of stains.
Maybe that was the start of it all: the realization that they had nothing, but they had each other.
_ _
They want to make us an idol group, Yoongi snarls to him in 2011, a few weeks after Jeon Jungkook - tiny and scared and so, so talented - and Kim Seokjin joined the company. Nothing has been officially announced yet, but they’re all sensing the change in the wind. The shift in focus.
I know, Namjoon replies, wishing he knew what to feel. He’s dreading the prospect of dancing and choreography and makeup and sparkly outfits. None of that feels like him and all of it feels like selling out on this dream he’s had since he was a kid and started writing lyrics in his notebooks at school. He knows the things that will be said about both of them, but they’ve come so far and he doesn’t want to give up yet. Still can’t really imagine doing anything else.
It’ll be okay, he tells Yoongi even though in this moment it feels like a lie. We’ll make it work.
_ _
It’s rare, BigHit tells them in 2012, to have so much magic in a single group.
They say it because they’ve officially added Park Jimin to the Bangtan’s roster - practically brimming with magical energy and so ethereal Namjoon isn’t entirely sure the kid is human - and that will bring the tally of magic users to four: Jimin, Taehyung, Yoongi, and him. Most groups only have one or two because of the concern about magical instability. Sometimes, the more magic you put in proximity together, the more volatile it gets.
Namjoon isn’t sure if he should count, though. Most days his magic feels like a dying ember inside of him - barely detectable. It whispers, but it isn’t a language he can understand. Sometimes it will wake him in the middle of the night, humming along his bones, but he never knows if it’s the moon or the rain or the wind that’s ignited it, or if he’s imagining it all. Sometimes the expanse of the sky over him seems to call, to rattle in his chest like old china, but he thinks maybe all humans feel like like that about things that seem endless: the sky, the ocean, the desert.
He doesn’t have the Fae-like qualities that Taehyung and Jimin and even Yoongi possess. He’s tall and gangly and never quite grew into his limbs. Most days, he feels painfully ordinary. And at eighteen, his magic has yet to react to anyone else, denying him the soul bond he’s been craving since childhood.
But he doesn’t give voice to any of these insecurities because they are less than a year away from debut - from the future he’s been clawing towards for almost three years now - and he refuses to do anything that might jeopardize that. Just promises the company that they’ll keep an eye out for potential instability, and there shouldn’t be any worry about bonds.
Those only form with the person you’re going to fall in love with, after all.
That won’t be a concern for any of them.
_ _
The bond forms on a Monday, waking Namjoon up at three in the morning with its flare of magic, with the wire he can suddenly feel running from his chest straight to Yoongi’s - curled up two bunk beds over. He presses a hand to his heart in shock, wondering if he’s dreaming. But no, Yoongi is sitting up now with a quiet gasp and fingers clawing at his own breastbone, and Namjoon can almost feel the spark of his distress. The way it mirrors his own - both of them bleeding into each other.
By unspoken agreement, they get up and move into the their tiny living room. Moonlight is streaming in through the open windows, catching on Yoongi’s dark hair and pale cheeks, highlighting the wideness of his eyes - the terror in them.
This can’t be happening, Namjoon thinks desperately. Not now. Not this.
“Can you feel it?” Yoongi whispers, fingers still curled in the front of his ratty sleep shirt.
“Yeah,” Namjoon whispers back. “I don’t understand.”
Their magic hums, as if in reply, but it’s a language he still doesn’t speak. Why now? Why, after three years of living on top of each other - their magic and everything else in their lives hopelessly intertwined - does a bond form now? They haven’t done anything differently. Spent yesterday the same way they have for the last week: holed up in the studio working; sharing the desk and the crappy computer and ordering takeout from their usual place two blocks away; curling up on the couch to eat, and forgetting the time. Namjoon fell asleep, at some point, with his head on Yoongi’s shoulder. Woke to Yoongi gently poking him in side and whispering that they should head back.
That was only two hours ago, technically. And now this.
“It must be a fluke,” Namjoon blurts, missing the subtle flinch that runs through Yoongi. “Maybe our magic is mistaken.”
Because he’s not in love with Yoongi. Yoongi isn’t the one.
“How is it mistaken?” Yoongi asks, raking a hand through already messy hair.
“Because neither of us wants this,” Namjoon points. Yoongi’s gone on before, about how stupid the idea of bonding is - the way it’s been elevated in society to some grand romance when really it’s just science. Just magical stability. And beyond that, bonds between idols are forbidden. Especially between two members of the same group. How can you be seen as available to your adoring fans if you’re romantically bonded to one of your bandmates? Who also happens to be the same sex as you?
Recipe for disaster.
They debut in four months. This can’t happen now. This can’t happen at all.
(Yoongi isn’t the one.)
“We should just ignore it, then,” Yoongi decides. He’s gone back to rubbing his chest. “Maybe it’ll die on its own.”
Namjoon’s never heard of that happening, but it’s worth a shot. “Fine,” he agrees. “We ignore it.”
They exchange a nod and retreat back to their separate beds. Namjoon pulls his covers over his head and pretends he can’t still feel Yoongi on the other end of this strange connection: his presence, his fear, the dim beat of his heart beneath the rush of his magic.
Outside, it starts to rain.
_ _
It doesn’t go away. They ignore it and ignore it and ignore it, but the connection stays. Namjoon aches when he’s away from Yoongi for too long, can always feel his presence even when they’re not in the same room. It’s frustrating, so ignoring the bonds turns into ignoring each other. They book different studio times, stay as far apart as possible during dance practice, perform an intricate dance in their cramped apartment that results in as little direct contact as possible. Different bed times, making sure never to be there for dinner on the same night, looking away if their eyes happen to meet while crossing the living room - it’s ridiculous, probably, but what else can they do?
The silence between them is a black hole planted in the middle of their lives, slowly sucking everything in, but Namjoon doesn’t know how to stop it. Doesn’t know what to do with the worried looks that the kids start shooting them or the way Jungkook’s eyes get big and sad whenever they give each other the cold shoulder. Doesn’t know what to do with Hoseok's frustrated glares or Seokjin’s pointed stares.
So he ignores all of that, too, and a week ticks by. Then two. Then three. Then four.
_ _
(“This isn’t helping,” Hoseok hisses to him at midnight, two weeks in, crammed together in their kitchen that’s really more than a closet in size. “And it’s affecting the whole group. You need to fix it.”
“We don’t want to be bonded to each other,” Namjoon argues back, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “What else are we supposed to do?”
“Actually talk about this? Ask him what he wants? Have you done that?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Hoseok shakes his head and leaves without answering. Namjoon goes to bed gritting his teeth against the pull of his magic towards Yoongi’s. Wishes he could reach inside of himself and rip it all away.)
_ _
It continues to rain, drenching the city and its people, pooling in the streets. Namjoon watches the water fall and rise and feels it in his bones. As thought it’s raining inside of him, somehow, and his lungs are flooding like the Han River.
Soon, he thinks, they’re all going to drown.
_ _
Just like three years ago, it’s Yoongi who caves first. Who seeks him out and says, quiet, “we need to talk.”
Honestly, Namjoon would rather stick his head in the metaphorical sand and keep ignoring this. Because deep down, he’s a scared fucking kid who’s so close to his future he can almost taste it. Because what if they can’t come back from this? What then?
But Yoongi’s looking at him, almost pleading, and he’s right. So Namjoon nods and then nods again when Yoongi says “not here.”
So now here they are, in this restaurant - nearly forty days away from the start. Yoongi is picking at his napkin, tearing it into tiny shreds on the table. His nails are bitten practically to bloody stubs.
“I think I should leave,” he says at last, glancing out into the rainy night.
Namjoon can’t have heard that right. “What?”
Yoongi looks at him and that’s his determined expression. The one that tenses his jaw and furrows his brow slightly and hardens his eyes. Namjoon used to want to punch that expression whenever he saw it because it meant Yoongi had dug his feet in and wasn’t going to be moved for anything. He was dying on this hill, whether it was over the beat on a track or whose turn it was to clean the bathroom.
Don’t look at me like that, Namjoon wants to say now, but he’s been swallowing his words for over a month and now they’re all tangled up in the back of his throat.
“I think I should leave BigHit,” Yoongi says, picking up another napkin to shred. “I’ve been researching and the only way for the bond to die is distance. We need to be further away from each other. For a long time.” He shrugs, trying to seem unaffected, but his fingers are trembling as he rips the napkin in half. “Bangtan can’t live without you. So I should be the one to go.”
No, Namjoon wants to say, because that isn’t true. Yoongi’s built all this with him, to the point where this no longer just feels like his dream. It’s both of theirs and it won’t be fulfilled without Yoongi by his side, whatever debut and the future brings.
He wants to tell Yoongi that. He should. Words have never failed him like this before.
“Besides,” Yoongi continues, mouth twisting into something between a grimace and a frown, “I’m tired of you looking at me like I’ve killed your future.”
“No,” Namjoon finally gets out. “I’m not mad at you.”
He’s mad at his magic, at the Universe or whatever the hell decided the two of them should be bonded. He’s mad at the apparent destruction of a childhood dream - the death of the great love he was once so certain he would have, promised to him by all the books and the dramas and the online articles. By his own parents and the love they radiated.
Yoongi arches an eyebrow at him, disbelieving, and Namjoon doesn’t have any further counter argument. He doesn’t want to be bonded to Yoongi and maybe that’s colored too much of their friendship now, without him realizing.
He needs to say something. He needs to fix this. Yoongi can’t leave. It would be the death of Bangtan and the others would never forgive him for letting it happen, especially Hoseok.
Maybe it isn’t about wanting, he realizes. Maybe the love only develops after you’ve leaned into the bond and maybe their resistance is what’s keeping it from happening. Maybe -
“I think we should have sex,” he blurts out.
Everyone says that bonds thrive on intimacy. It’s why they’re touted as romantic connections - the person you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with. Marry.
Yoongi’s mouth actually drops open slightly and his eyes blow wide with disbelief. “What?”
Namjoon shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s just … maybe we need to lean into this? Just … let it happen?”
“So what … we have sex and then the bond will make us fall in love?” Yoongi asks, voice rising like he’s getting close to hysterical. He’s just clutching the half-torn napkin in one timorous fist now. “Are you even attracted to men?”
“I don’t know,” Namjoon admits. Whenever he pictured his soulmate, he imagined it to be a woman, but that could just be societal norms. He’s only slept with one person before coming to Seoul, back in high school, and yes that was a girl, but sexuality is supposed to be fluid, right? “I’ll find out?”
Yoongi laughs - a horrible, grating sound that scrapes like nails against Namjoon’s skin. “Okay, we fuck and we fall in love and then what, Namjoon? That’s it? The company doesn’t kick us out?”
“The company doesn’t have to know,” Namjoon says even as his stomach churns with the potential weight of such a secret. Of having to keep it for years if they’re successful. But, he tells himself, it wouldn’t be any different if he met someone else.
Liar, a voice whispers in the back of his mind and he stubbornly ignores it.
“I can’t believe this,” Yoongi whispers, scrubbing a hand across his face and dropping the remains of the napkin onto the table. “You want to have sex.”
“It’s worth a try, right?” Namjoon says. “And it’s just sex.” He’s a believer in romance, sure, but that one time in high school hadn’t been particularly memorable. A physical act, and nothing else. They hadn’t even been dating at the time - just a little too drunk at a house party they’d snuck out to (one of Namjoon’s few moments of rebellion) - and they hadn’t really spoken to each other after.
Yoongi actually looks a little sick. He wraps his arms around his middle, hunching his shoulders in, and he looks small, practically curled up in his seat. There’s a stain on his black shirt, right near the collar, from dinner last night because he’s been wearing it for three days in a row. Because none of them seem to enough clothes or enough food or enough money or enough time. Looking at him, Namjoon has the stupid urge to protect him, even though he knows Yoongi - so fierce and unyielding - would never allow it.
“Right now?” Yoongi asks.
“There’s a hotel up the street,” Namjoon says quietly. “I could book us a room.”
A long pause and a silence that’s near suffocating - perforated only by the beat of the rain against the windows and the street outside. Then Yoongi nods. Chews his thumbnail. “Okay,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t sound sure at all.
“Okay?”
Yoongi blows out a sharp breath. “Okay. Let’s fuck. Why the fuck not?”
Namjoon nods, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that’s telling him this is a terrible idea, and gets up to pay the bill - also ignoring Yoongi’s faint protests that he’s the hyung.
“You can pay next time,” Namjoon says, and he feels stupid, so stupid, but he holds out his hand tentatively to Yoongi.
And Yoongi takes it, intertwines their fingers. His palm is warm against Namjoon’s and in his blood, Namjoon’s magic hums - seemingly delighted by this development. Maybe he’s actually on to something.
They just have to lean in and the magic will do the rest.
The hotel is only a few blocks away, but neither of them brought an umbrella, and the rain has picked up in intensity. They dodge puddles as best they can, almost hopping up the water-logged street - hands still firmly connected. By the time they reach their destination, they’re both soaked and Namjoon can feel his teeth chattering from the early spring cold - a distraction from the butterflies that have taken up residence in his stomach and are fluttering up a storm of their own.
The hotel is rundown and seedy-looking, which also means cheap, and the lady at the desk barely spares them a glance as she hands them a key and takes the change Yoongi passes over. “Third floor,” she says in rasping voice and turns back to her magazine.
The elevator is broken, so they ascend the creaking stairs, surrounded by peeling wallpaper. The carpet beneath their feet is filthy and there are stains on the ceiling that Namjoon would rather not contemplate.
“Romantic,” Yoongi mutters when they reach their door - room 305 - and Namjoon has to shove his shoulder against it to get it to open.
“We’re broke,” he reminds Yoongi, stepping aside to let him in. The room is spartan - more peeling bland wallpaper and an ancient brown carpet. A bed shoved against one wall with a blanket that was probably last washed months ago and a TV from the 1950s on a stand in the corner. One lamp in the other corner - shade a putrid green - but mercifully a radiator beneath the window that Yoongi makes a beeline for, turning it on.
Namjoon tries the TV, just for the hell of it, and the sound of static floods the room as soon as he turns the dial. He’s tempted to leave it on, hoping it can drown out the nerves and the doubts and the voice that’s still insisting that they’re making a mistake. His magic has gone quiet, though he can still sense traces of Yoongi’s own trepidation from where he’s crouched in front of the radiator, coaxing it to life.
Gradually, it begins to spit warmth into the room, and Yoongi stands. Turns to him with hair plastered to his forehead and an expression of vulnerability on his face that Namjoon’s never seen before.
He looks as scared as he did when the bond first formed, like Namjoon is some kind of wild animal instead of someone he’s known and lived with for three years.
It’s only me, Namjoon wants to tell him, but that feels like hypocrisy when his own nerves are running tremors through his hands that have nothing to do with the lingering chill.
“So,” he starts, but the rest of his words die - lost in that tangle again.
Yoongi takes another deep breath and pulls his sopping shirt over his head. He isn’t wearing anything underneath and the pale expanse of his chest makes the air catch in Namjoon’s lungs.
“Come here,” Yoongi says and his voice shakes, but his expression is iron stubborn. “Kiss me.”
It’s three feet to Yoongi, but crossing the room feels simultaneously like it takes an eternity and no time at all. Namjoon doesn’t let himself think as he slides a hand over the rain-slick skin of Yoongi’s side and lowers his mouth to press against Yoongi’s. Yoongi’s shorter than him, always has been, and he has to bend down into the kiss. It doesn’t feel that different from kissing a girl, really. Yoongi’s lips are slightly chapped, but he parts them easily. Lets Namjoon in.
It doesn’t feel different, but it doesn’t feel right, either. No fireworks. No spark. If anything, the bond seems agitated, vibrating between them like a plucked guitar string.
Maybe just a little more.
Namjoon deepens the kiss and pushes Yoongi’s backwards, towards the bed. Tells his hands to wander, to drift over Yoongi’s stomach to his hips. To the buckle of his belt that it takes Namjoon a fumbling minute to undo. He shifts his mouth to Yoongi’s neck as Yoongi’s fingers curl in the sides of his shirt and clutch on tight. He’s making no move to touch Namjoon beyond that, but he tilts his head to give Namjoon better access and sucks in a sharp breath when Namjoon unzips the fly of his jeans.
Maybe they’re moving too quickly? But Namjoon mostly wants to get this over with. His stomach feels like balled-up lead and his heart is hammering so loud he can barely hear the rush of rain still permeating everything.
He dips his fingers lower, skimming along the bones of Yoongi’s skinny hips, into the waistband of his boxers, and slides his mouth to Yoongi’s bare shoulder - a scrape of teeth along fragile skin. The radiator is sputtering, making the room almost too warm now, but Yoongi still feels cold against him. Everything about this feels cold, like the bond itself is freezing and the rain is turning crystalline outside, and when Namjoon starts to ease Yoongi’s underwear down his legs, along with his soaking pants, several things happen at once:
The bond cracks, like thunder in the room -
Yoongi gasps out “no” -
and shoves Namjoon hard.
Namjoon staggers backwards and trips over Yoongi’s discarded shirt, crashing to the floor.
“I can’t do this,” Yoongi hiccups, frantically zipping up his jeans and grabbing his shirt. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”
“Hyung,” Namjoon says, pushing himself up. Yoongi won’t look at him as he wrenches the shirt over his head, so Namjoon glances at the wall and … holy shit.
Vines. Vines have sprouted from the wall, curling up towards the ceiling and across the bed, and he realizes that there are plants blooming from the carpet too, on all sides of him. Flowers and more ivy, though it all looks sickly and brown - like it’s already dying.
Between them, the magic hums in distress.
“Yoongi,” Namjoon tries again as Yoongi fumbles for the door. “Wait.”
But he’s gone, leaving Namjoon alone in this shitty hotel, feeling cold down to his marrow and sick to his stomach. He staggers to his feet and just makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up in the toilet.
_ _
Outside, the rain falls harder.
_ _
“ ...water levels rising today as rainfall gains intensity. A flood watch has been put in place for the entire city, but especially neighborhoods close to the Han River, whose levels rose dangerously overnight. Residents in the districts of Mapo, Yongsan, Seondong, Seongsu, Gwangjin, Gangseo, Yeongdeungpo, Dongjak, Seocho, Gangnam, Songpa, and Gangdong are advised to remain on alert for further announcements. We will be monitoring the river and continued rainfall, but future evacuations may be necessary. Now, we turn to-”
Click.
Static.
_ _
Namjoon slogs his way from the dorm to the company building the next day, his waterproof jacket flimsy armor against the downpour. Dance practice is on the schedule for the afternoon, once Jungkook, Jimin, and Taehyung get back from school, which leaves the morning free. Normally, he would spend it in the studio, but Yoongi’s barricaded himself there. So he snags Hoseok to run through some choreography, deciding it’s probably best to give Yoongi a wide berth at the moment.
He’ll ignore the pain in his chest - the hook/pull sensation that wants to tug him towards Yoongi - and the frantic whisper of his magic and the ache in his head from a sleepless night. Maybe if he dances enough, he’ll be so exhausted he won’t have to feel anymore.
But Hoseok is in an equally terrible mood, all patience gone. He snaps at Namjoon for messing up a step and then snaps at Seokjin for the same thing two minutes later. Only Seokjin snaps right back and then they’re sniping at each other, all harsh words and angry expressions that look out of place on their faces.
“Enough,” Namjoon says, stepping between them and immediately Hoseok’s rage twists and narrows in.
“Yeah.” He crosses his arms over his chest, glaring harder than Namjoon’s ever seen. “I agree. When the fuck are you gonna fix this?”
Namjoon winces. Seokjin has taken a step back, not intervening. From his posture, though, he’s suddenly on Hoseok’s side. “I’m working on it.”
“No you’re not!” Hoseok practically yells, echoing in the empty space of the practice room. “Fixing it isn’t Yoongi coming home last night more upset than I’ve ever seen him. Or locking himself in the studio this morning and refusing to tell me what’s wrong. Whatever you did, you made it worse.”
Yoongi doesn’t talk to anyone, Namjoon wants to point out, when he’s upset like this. But that isn’t really true. Usually, no matter how bad it gets, Yoongi will talk to Hoseok.
Which means, in so many ways, they’re in uncharted territory.
“He won’t talk to me, either,” Namjoon argues.
He tried, knocking on the studio door this morning, but there was only silence from within. Trying the handle proved his assumption that it was locked. He’d given up after that, lacking the energy to stand there and yell like an idiot, especially knowing it wouldn’t convince Yoongi to let him in.
“You’re the leader,” Hoseok says, as if he needs reminding. Hasn’t woken up every day this month feeling like a complete failure, especially when he catches sight of the other members’ despondent faces, notices how quiet Jungkook, Jimin, and even Taehyung have gotten - like someone has cast a spell on all of them that they can’t break, melancholy sweeping in on the rain. “It’s up to you to fix it.”
“I know,” he says, more harshly than he meant to, a little hurt that everyone is on Yoongi’s side when both of them are hurting. When with each passing day it feels like someone is reaching inside his chest and scooping out all the vital pieces of him, one by one. The bond burns and he wants it gone. “I’ll try.”
Hoseok shakes his head again and stalks from the room - practice session apparently over. Seokjin, at least, squeezes his shoulder on the way past, then departs as well, mopping sweat from his brow.
Namjoon sprawls out on the scuffed hardwood floor. Stares up at the faint cracks running across the ceiling and wishes the answers would just … manifest. His magic whispers - a faint murmur - and he scowls.
“I don’t understand you,” he snaps to the empty air. “Don’t you get that? I don’t understand.” He taught himself English using only a television show and subtitles, but he’s never been able to teach himself this. He was born with magic, and yet there is no one to help him learn - not when so much knowledge is gone.
Languages die because people stop speaking them.
He throws his arm over his eyes and lets his mind drift. They could sever it forcefully, instead of just trying to let it die. There are plenty of back alley shops in Seoul that provide services like that, and yes the internet warned that forced severance could result in extreme pain or even death. Better, all the articles advised, to distance yourself from your bondmate and let it naturally fade.
Just like Yoongi proposed.
But that means letting Bangtan die with it and Namjoon can’t accept that. He still forces himself to imagine that future: Yoongi packing his bags and leaving; the accusing gazes of the kids, who love him so much; getting a different trainee to be their seventh, not as good at rapping, nowhere near as brilliant in a studio, but enough; debuting as that new group, less than they should have been. It would hurt. It wouldn’t be right.
But what are the other options? Sex didn’t work. They’re not magically in love with each other, like the stories say it should be. So do they just exist like this? In this … this stalemate? Play nice for the cameras and avoid each other as soon as they stop rolling? Avoid each other even in a tiny apartment, a tiny practice studio - the other five a barrier between them from now until whenever their star fades (if it even rises at all).
Both of those futures seem terrible, seem incomplete. Are not what they’ve fought and bled for. And yet-
“Has anyone ever told you,” a familiar voice says, “that you think too much, hyung?”
He cracks his eyes open, dropping his arm, and sees Jimin crouched over him - still in his school uniform.
“All the time,” Namjoon mutters and sits up, ignoring the ache in his back from lying on the hardwood floor for so long.
Jimin snorts and drops into a sitting position, as well. He’s got his bag sitting next to him - apparently came straight here instead of heading back to the dorm to change before evening practice, like usual. So far, the kids have kind of been ignoring both him and Yoongi, probably afraid to get caught up in the tension, so Namjoon’s wary of this break in routine.
“Do you need something, Jimin-ah?” he tries to keep his voice calm, not to sound too dismissive, because Jimin is still so fragile in many ways - their newest trainee and desperately uncertain of his place here, of their love and acceptance of him. Even after almost a year.
Some things, it seems, take a long time.
Jimin hesitates, gnawing at his lip. He’s got drops of water on the dark blue sleeve of his jacket - rain that got around the barrier of his umbrella - and sometimes, looking at him or Taehyung or Jungkook, Namjoon wonders if he’s ever been this painfully young. Worn all his emotions messy on his face like they do, kept his heart pinned to his sleeve like he sees Jimin’s sometimes, spilling blood everywhere.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Jimin finally starts, still cautious. “That this happened. I know you … you wanted something different. Yoongi-hyung, too.”
“Are your parents bonded?” Namjoon finds himself asking, because even though they all live on top of each other, plenty of things slip through the cracks, especially history.
“No,” Jimin says, surprising him. “My mother was before. But she ended it.”
“Ended it?” Is that … something that actually happens on a regular basis? Everything he’s read, or heard from his parents, presented failed bonds as a rarity.
“Yeah.” Jimin shrugs. “Bonds are - they’re not everything, you know? Society builds them up so high, but really it’s just who your magic is compatible with. That could be plenty of people. So my mom was bonded in college, but they wanted different futures. Too much to compromise for each other. So they ended it. And then she met my dad a few years later and he’s got magic, but not enough for a full bond. She still fell in love with him and they got married and now-” He waves his hands to himself, as if to say ta-da!
Namjoon frowns, considering. Jimin huffs, picks at some loose threads along the hem of his pants. “Tae and I are bonded,” he blurts after a few moments of silence and all of Namjoon’s thoughts immediately grind to a screeching halt.
“What?” he asks, snapping his gaze back to Jimin, who looks scared and defiant in equal measure. “Since when?”
“Two months ago,” Jimin whispers. “We weren’t going to tell anyone, but. You should know. As our leader.”
“Jimin-ah, the company-” Namjoon starts, but Jimin shakes his head.
“I know, hyung. We both do. This isn’t - we’ll keep it quiet, I promise. We’re young - we have no idea how long it will last, but for now it helps us both. A lot.” He looks at Namjoon, gaze pleading and young young young. “Please don’t take it away.”
“I won’t.” He wouldn’t dream of it, really, and now, looking back, he’s surprised he didn’t see it. Taehyung and Jimin have been attached at the hip since joining, only a few months apart from each other. Everyone even jokingly calls them soulmates, without opening their eyes to the truth of it.
Maybe it was inevitable after all: these bonds forming. Maybe BigHit’s always anticipated that.
Fuck, he has a headache.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he reassures Jimin a second time. “And, look, if you ever need anything-”
He has no idea what he could actually do to help, but feels he needs to offer, as a leader and a hyung.
“Thank you,” Jimin says and squeezes his hand. “We’ll be careful. And, you and Yoongi-hyung…” he bites his lip again. Then, almost too hopeful, “don’t give up yet? Even if it’s not what you wanted - maybe it can still be good?”
“Maybe,” Namjoon agrees because he doesn’t have the heart to crush Jimin’s spirit.
Jimin nods and, lightning quick, leans in to wrap Namjoon up in a hug. He’s so affectionate, Jimin - so free with all of the love inside of him - and Namjoon gives in to it. Rests his chin on top of Jimin’s head and lets himself be held, be comforted, because it’s hard, trying to keep everything together, everything inside of him, when he feels just as lost as everyone else. And Jimin probably sees more of that struggle than he lets on.
“Thank you,” he whispers when Jimin pulls back.
“Anytime, hyung,” Jimin says and collects his bag. His sneakers, wet from the street outside, squeak loudly as he crosses the practice room. It’s a miracle Namjoon didn’t hear him approach.
Once Jimin is gone, Namjoon hauls himself to his feet and checks the clock. He has some time before practice. Enough to go to the studio and try again.
_ _
“Yoongi,” he says five minutes later, knocking loudly. “Hyung, please, we need to talk about what happened-”
“No we don’t,” Yoongi’s voice answers, sounding right on the other side of the door. Namjoon can almost picture Yoongi leaning against it, like he’s afraid the lock won’t be enough. Like he’s afraid Namjoon will try to break it down.
When did you become so afraid of me?
But Namjoon can’t ask that - won’t get an answer if he does. “Everyone’s worried,” he says instead. “We need to resolve this…”
“We know what the resolution is,” Yoongi says. “I can talk to Bang Sihyuk-nim in the morning and-”
“No,” Namjoon blurts, curling his hand into a fist against the door. “No, I won’t accept that.”
“Then what the fuck do you want from me, Namjoon?” Yoongi snaps, harsh and cold.
“I don’t know,” Namjoon hiccups, hating the tears that are gathering in his eyes. He’s so tired. The last month has been hell and he misses Yoongi - the friendship that they worked so hard for. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You don’t want to be bonded to me, either,” Yoongi points out. “You can’t have it both ways.”
Namjoon rests his forehead against the door, wishing he could see the expression on Yoongi’s face. Wishing Yoongi would trust him enough to let him in. “Why did you run away … at the hotel?”
A long long pause. So heavy that Namjoon can practically feel the weight of it against his back, on his tongue.
“I don’t want to have sex with you,” Yoongi says at last, voice cracked and almost broken. “I … I don’t want to have sex with anyone, Namjoon-ah. I thought maybe the bond would change that, but it didn’t.”
Namjoon struggles to wrap his head around this. “You don’t … like sex?”
“No.” Now Yoongi sounds close to tears, as well, and Namjoon’s whole chest aches. The bond is pulling, wanting the barriers gone, wanting to comfort Yoongi. “No, I’ve … I hate it, Joonie. I hate it. It doesn’t feel good and I tried, back in high school, but I’ve never really wanted it. Wanted anyone that way. I’m sorry. Maybe - maybe this would have been easier, if I wasn’t like this. But I am. I can’t change it.”
“Is that … is that why you didn’t want a bond with anyone? Why you’re so against them?”
“They’re stupid for a lot of reasons, but yes,” Yoongi says. “I was afraid … of someone expecting that from me. Of disappointing them. I guess … I never thought that you would want that.”
Namjoon flinches, the words landing like a blow. Fuck, he never meant … but - “I’ve always wanted someone I can fall in love with,” he says, forehead still pressed to the cool wood. “I’ve always thought it would be someone I would marry … have kids with. Like my parents.”
“I can’t give that to you,” Yoongi whispers - raw and flayed open. The bond is practically shaking with distress - notes on a treble clef pinging from him to Yoongi to him in an awful feedback loop. “So I have to leave. Maybe … maybe I can come back after it’s died. But I have to leave, Namjoon. Neither of us can live like this.”
“This is your dream, though,” Namjoon protests.
“You think I don’t know that?” Yoongi actually hiccups, choking on sob. “I want this more than anything, but not - not like this. With this barrier between us. I don’t want to ignore a bond for years. I don’t think it will let us. So I’m leaving, okay? You’re the leader and I’m - I’ll find another way. I’ll survive. Don’t worry about me, Joon-ah.”
That’s a stupid request. An impossible one. But Namjoon doesn’t see another way out of this.
“Okay,” he says, ignoring the way the ache sharpens into stabbing pain. “Okay.”
Open the door, he begs, wondering if Yoongi might be able to hear him somehow. Please open the door.
But Yoongi doesn’t. Namjoon can hear him slide down it - the thud of him hitting the ground. Vines crawl through the crack between the door and the carpet, brushing against Namjoon’s shoes before they start to wither. He can’t tell if it’s Yoongi’s magic or his, if the rumble of thunder outside is real or just an echo in his own head.
It feels like more than just the plants are dying, more than just the city’s drowning.
Namjoon forces his feet to turn and his legs to move. To walk away.
_ _
Outside, it rains rains rains.
_ _
He thinks about wandering, venturing out into the city, but he ends up back at the dorm instead. Yoongi will probably just sleep in the studio before requesting a meeting tomorrow. In the meantime, he has to find a way to tell the others. It’s his responsibility as a leader, no matter how much his heart recoils imagining the devastation this will cause. Jungkook cried last year, when Hoseok decided to leave, and this will be so much worse.
He toes off his shoes in the entryway, stuffs them on the already full rack.
“Namjoon,” Seokjin says. He’s standing in the middle of their blue-walled living room with his arms crossed over his chest and an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. “Come here and sit the fuck down.”
Namjoon blinks. Seokjin nods to a spot on the floor around what started as a coffee table, but is now effectively their dining room table instead - all of them crammed around it, accidentally elbowing each other and precariously stacking dishes so they all fit on the too-small surface.
“Sit down,” Seokjin repeats and Namjoon does - too shocked to offer any protest.
Seokjin’s always been content to hang back, let Namjoon take point. Said, early on: you’re the leader, Namjoon-ah, they need to respect you first. They joke, often, that he’s their honorary maknae - so much more childish than Jungkook, who thinks he’s all grown up at sixteen - but also acknowledge the ways he looks after them. Drives Jungkook to school, makes them food, tells stupid jokes until they’re laughing again.
He seems truly angry now, though, and Namjoon actually can’t remember having that directed at him before.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters as he sits down across from Namjoon. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”
“Do what?” Namjoon asks.
“Pull the Eldest Hyung Card,” Seokjin says. Then levels Namjoon with a Stare. Namjoon suddenly feels like a child that has deeply disappointed a parent. “Namjoon-ah, you’re very smart, but right now you’re being an idiot.”
Namjoon blinks. Isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. Fortunately, Seokjin doesn’t seem to want his input.
“You have all these expectations - and I get that. We always hear about how special magical bonds are and they’ll help you find the one, blah blah blah, but you seem to have forgotten that most of the human population isn’t magical. And we do fine! My parents met at a work function twenty-seven years ago and they’re still married. No magic involved.”
“What … what are you saying?” Namjoon asks and Seokjin sighs.
“I’m saying, Namjoon-ah, that love is an ocean. And you’re trying to narrow it down into a river. Hell, maybe even a puddle. You think love is so … so rare that you can only experience it once? With one person?” Seokjin actually reaches across the table and smacks him on the shoulder. “Just because a love isn’t what you expected doesn’t mean it can’t be great. Maybe, Kim Namjoon, you just need to let go. ”
Namjoon’s vaguely aware that his mouth his hanging open, catching flies, but he’s never heard Seokjin talk like this before. He half thought Seokjin was actually physically allergic to emotional sincerity. But here he is, gaze piercing and face a little flushed from the force of his words, and Namjoon has no idea how to respond.
“Let go?” he asks eventually.
“Yes,” Seokjin says. “Let go. You’re always comparing magic to a language. Well part of learning to speak a language is listening, right? So maybe you just need to shut up and listen for once.” He stands. “And that’s all I’m saying. I’ve fulfilled my Eldest Hyung quota for at least the next year. You can figure the rest out.”
“Yoongi won’t talk to me,” Namjoon protest. “Not really.”
Seokjin sighs. “Yes, Min Yoongi is also a stubborn idiot when he wants to be. You two were clearly made for each other. Think about what you want, Joon-ah. Then try again. Maybe he’ll listen.”
Then he retreats to the bedroom, grumbling about being “too old for this bullshit,” even though he’s only twenty-one.
Namjoon sits in the living room for a long moment, soaking in the rare quiet since the kids and Hoseok are all still out, but soon a restless shiver runs through his limbs and he needs to move. He needs to think.
So he gets up and he follows the urge back out the front door - pausing to collect his boots and a coat that he thinks is actually Seokjin’s - and into the rain-soaked evening. The water has turned the street into a miniature river, running over the tops of his shoes and soaking into his socks. The various shop signs glow bright neon in the darkness, and when he opens his umbrella the drumbeat of the rain against it is almost soothing.
He’s always loved the rain, ever since he was a boy. Would spend hours out in it, until his parents dragged him shivering inside and scolded him for being too careless. There was something just … comforting about it. The way it soaked the earth to fuel growth, the way the drops hit his skin and bounced off the roof of the house, the way they ran in rivers down the glass of his bedroom window. And when he was sad, it felt like the very sky was crying with him, making him feel less alone.
It feels a bit like that now, as he sloshes up the street without a real direction in mind. Somewhere quiet, he thinks, even though the streets are mostly empty. He can still hear the honking horns of cars from the main road - the sound of their tires slicing through the water as they rush towards their various destinations. Normally, he would go to the river, but it’s completely flooded and the news programs are warning people to stay away from the banks.
So he lets his feet carry him on a random, winding path through Gangnam, turning Seokjin’s words over and over in his head.
Let go. Is that what he needs to do? Languages die because people stop speaking them, but what about when people stop listening? Believe that they can never hope to understand and so don’t try at all. Maybe, he thinks, that’s what happened with his magic. It’s knowledge, old and fading, but it’s a part of him. It’s in his blood.
So maybe, maybe , like Seokjin said, he needs to just listen.
He stops in the middle of an empty sidestreet, water rushing around his ankles and neon bathing everything purple and green and blue and red, and takes a deep, aching breath. Squeezes his eyes shut.
Okay, he says to the magic humming in his bones, okay, I’m here.
Talk to me.
He imagines floodgates inside his heart, his mind, keeping everything controlled, keeping the ocean at bay. And then he imagines opening them one by one - water rushing in like a tidal wave, crashing over him. He nearly goes to his knees from the force of it. This sudden connection.
He can feel the sky above him, the sparks of life in the rain still falling, sizzling along his skin. He can feel the pull of it, the expanse of it - clouds and beyond that stars and moons and planets, all connected by something so ancient and powerful it defies the confines of time itself. It’s so big and he’s so small and there is so much life. In the millions of souls in this city, and the billions beyond it. In the rain and the earth and the beating, frantic heart in his chest.
Magic, he thinks, dizzy, is in everything. It hovers in the buzz of the neon signs, pools in the water collected on the asphalt, sighs in the wind that’s biting into his face. Humans have stopped listening, stopped speaking the language, but magic is still here. Was before them and will be after them and there is a galaxy in his ribcage, pressing against his bones. Beautiful and dark and all-consuming.
It’s so much, too much, he can’t -
He gasps, clutching his chest, and then he feels it: an anchor, a barrier, pushing the overwhelming force away. Quieting it down into something mangable - a calm sea instead of a tsunami. He blinks down with hazy eyes and sees a thread of pulsing magic extending from his chest, right over his heart, and disappearing around a corner.
If he followed it, he’s certain it would lead him back to the studio where Yoongi is probably curled up on that shitty sofa, trying to sleep.
Bonds, he thinks, wanting to laugh. Or maybe cry.
Because he can feel the love here, too. It’s still blooming, like a flower reaching for the sun. It’s not star-crossed, fireworks, sparks, eyes-meet-on-a-train-platform kind of love. It hurts. Him and Yoongi have been building it, he realizes, brick by agonizing brick, and their magic reacted to that - added to the foundation they’d already laid in place.
It’s not what he imagined, not what he planned, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe he needs to stop thinking about forever and just focus on the next step. Maybe he can love Yoongi right now, and tomorrow, and day after that and maybe one of those days that love will stop or fade or run out and it will be okay. Because there is magic in everything, life in everything, and so much love left in this dying earth that he could drown in it.
Don’t you see? his magic whispers and he does. He does.
He wants this future. He wants Yoongi up on that debut stage with him. He wants whatever they’re going to become after that.
“Okay,” he says to the rain and the thread and his own aching bones, “okay, I’ll try. I want to try.”
The thread hums, as if in pleased agreement.
Namjoon clutches his umbrella tighter, heart a staccato rhythm in his chest, and follows it home.
_ _
He realizes, by the time he reaches the studio, that he’s been out for hours. Long enough for his phone battery to completely die and a chill to seep through his clothes and skin and straight to the core of him. He forgot to bring gloves and his pants and shoes are soaked through, but he ignores the stiffness of his joints in favor of pounding on the locked studio door.
There are still vines beneath his feet, withered and dead.
Earth and sky, he thinks somewhat hysterically, just as Yoongi finally swings open the door, blinking at him with exhausted eyes.
“What now?” Yoongi mutters. His hair is a mess and there’s a pillow imprint on one cheek but it doesn’t look like he’s actually slept. Over his shoulder, Namjoon can see computer screens piercing the darkness, illuminating decaying plants that have sprouted from the black walls.
It seems Yoongi’s magic is as distressed as his has been.
“We need to talk,” he says, also vaguely aware that he’s still clutching his umbrella and he’s steadily dripping a pool of water onto the hardwood floor of the hallway.
“We have talked,” Yoongi says, exasperated. His grip on the edge of the door is so tight it’s bleaching his knuckles white. “We’ve avoided each other and talked and tried to fuck - what more is there? It’s two in the morning, Namjoon, what do you want from me?”
He doesn’t yell the question - Yoongi’s never raised his voice to anyone that Namjoon can remember - but his voice cracks right down the middle, all these fault lines. Namjoon can’t see the thread anymore, but he can feel it between them. Hear the distressed murmur: fix this fix this please fix this…
“Please, hyung,” he says and puts his hand over Yoongi’s on the door, amazed at the immediate spark of warmth. “Just one more talk.”
Yoongi deflates, because Yoongi always gives in to them in the end - loves them too much to do anything else. “Fine. But you’re literally shaking, Joon-ah. Dorm first.”
“I was out walking,” Namjoon says and the look Yoongi levels him is amused and almost fond, enough to spark more warmth along his skin.
“No shit. C’mon.”
They lock up the studio and make the short trip back to the dorm huddled together under the umbrella. Namjoon fights the urge to put his arm around Yoongi’s shoulders and pull him in - press him against Namjoon’s side until there’s only warmth between them and none of this terrible distance.
The apartment itself is quiet - everyone asleep except for Jungkook, who regards them with wide eyes from his spot on the floor, drawing something at the table. He’s been up far too late on far too many nights recently - probably stressed about this rift between two of his hyungs. He always reacts so much more strongly to any of them hurting than himself.
“Go change,” Yoongi whispers to Namjoon, then crosses the room to crouch next to Jungkook.
Namjoon watches them for a moment - the way Jungkook immediately shifts closer to Yoongi and Yoongi’s arm snakes around Jungkook’s back and Jungkook relaxes, bending further into Yoongi’s hold.
Stupid, to even consider doing this without Yoongi. To think that any of them could.
Namjoon creeps into the bedroom, leaving Jungkook and Yoongi whispering to each other, and peels off his damp jeans, exchanging them for sweatpants. Rummages around until he finds a fresh pair of socks for his freezing feet. His upper half is mostly dry, so he leaves that, and ducks back out into the main room.
“Go to sleep soon, okay?” Yoongi is murmuring to Jungkook, petting the back of his head. “I’ll see you in the morning, kid.”
“You’ll still be here?” Jungkook asks, because sometimes he’s far more perceptive than they give him credit for, especially when it comes to any of them.
“I’ll still be here,” Yoongi promises and ruffles Jungkook’s hair before rising back to his feet.
“It’ll be okay, Kook-ah,” Namjoon adds quietly, reaching down to squeeze Jungkook’s shoulder. He’s been a terrible leader this past month, putting all this strain on the kids, and he wants to fix that, too. “I promise.”
And Jungkook trusts them (maybe too much, sometimes) so he nods. Squeezes Namjoon’s hand right back. “Okay. Goodnight.”
“Night,” Namjoon echoes.
“Night, Jungkookie,” Yoongi says.
Jungkook tucks his sketchbook under his arm and shuffles off towards the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.
“Ready?” Namjoon asks Yoongi and gets a nod in return.
He stops Yoongi by the front door, though, and stubbornly helps him into a raincoat, in spite of his grumbling that he’s fine.
“Just … let me take care you, hyung,” he murmurs. “Just this once.”
Yoongi blinks at him, shock flickering briefly across his face, and stops protesting. Just follows Namjoon out the door in silence.
_ _
And so here they are, back at this rundown restaurant what feels like an eternity later, sitting across from each other at the same table as before.
This time, though, Namjoon finally knows what he wants to say.
“I’m sorry.”
Yoongi looks up from his bowl of noodles with a surprised expression. “For what?”
“Being an idiot.”
“How have you been an idiot?”
He traces a pattern on the cracked tabletop, trying to order his words right in his head. “I brought too many expectations into this. I was too focused on those to actually see what was right in front of me. Jin-hyung said that love is an ocean and I was trying to narrow it down into a river.”
Yoongi’s mouth drops open. “Jin said that?”
Namjoon manages a weak laugh. “I know. It surprised me, too.”
“Always knew he was holding out on us,” Yoongi mutters.
“He was right, though. I was trying to do that. I had a … a picture in my head of what I thought love should look like. And I got upset when you - when this bond - didn’t fit that picture. And that was unfair to you. To both of us.”
Yoongi fidgets in his seat. “What are you trying to say?”
Namjoon takes a deep breath and reaches across the table, across the ocean, for Yoongi’s hand. Threads their fingers together tight. The bond sings again - warmth and light - and Yoongi sucks in a sharp gasp.
Intimacy, Namjoon realizes, with a mental kick to himself. This kind. That they both want.
“That I want this. That I want you on that stage with me when we debut in June. You said that Bangtan could live without you, but you know that isn’t true. We wouldn’t be Bangtan anymore. We wouldn’t be anything. Whatever this future is, I want you in it. For however long you want to be there. Or life decides to keep us together.”
“What about marriage?” Yoongi asks softly. He’s still gripping Namjoon’s hand. “Kids? Soulmates?”
“I don’t know,” Namjoon admits. “Maybe someday our futures will no longer be on the same path and this will die. I was putting too much pressure, though, on what this bond should be. You’re - you’re my best friend, Yoongi. I love you. And that counts, right? That’s enough for now. To start with?”
Yoongi’s eyes look wet in the dim light and his expression is open, young. “I was so relieved,” he says, “when it was you. Because I already loved you. And I thought nothing had to change. And then everything did.”
“I’m sorry,” Namjoon repeats, guilt like shrapnel in his stomach.
Yoongi shakes his head. “No. I was stupid, too. Should have really talked to you from the beginning. Explained things. But … you really mean all that? You’d be okay if we never have sex or even fall in love?”
“I mean it,” Namjoon says because this feels like enough. This bond and Yoongi’s hand in his and the future unfolding big and terrifying and exhilarating in front of them.
Anything is possible, he’s learning. Who knows what they’ll become.
He can’t wait to find out.
Yoongi blows out a long breath and reaches for Namjoon’s other hand, too. Holds them both on top of the table and the contact is twin flares of warmth in Namjoon’s blood. “Then I want this, too. I want to debut with you and be in this stupid group with you and whatever else we end up being.”
Yes, Namjoon’s magic breathes - a long sigh of relief.
“So you’ll stay?”
Yoongi smiles, gummy and almost fond. “I’ll stay.”
Namjoon squeezes his hands hard. Doesn’t think he wants to let go any time soon. Doesn’t think Yoongi does, either.
And maybe that’s okay.
They can just hold on, and keep each other from drowning.
_ _
“....pleased to report that after nearly forty days, the rain has finally stopped, giving the city its first glimpse of sun this morning. Water levels are slowly sinking back to normal, but city administrators are encouraging citizens to be cautious and heed warnings in the coming days. Flood watches are still active for several wards, especially close to the banks of the Han River. We will keep you posted on updates as they come in. Thank you for tuning in.”
_ _
Now.
Forward.
_ _
He’s still buzzing from the energy of the crowd. From an entire stadium of people screaming their names, singing their songs. Five years and he’s still not used to it - doesn’t think he’ll ever be, completely. Sometimes, he still expects to wake up back in the cramped bedroom of their third floor apartment in Nonhyeon-dong instead of a fancy hotel room in some bright-light, faraway city, and all of this will have been an incredible dream.
Tonight, the city is Tokyo and next week it will be Osaka. Two months ago it was Los Angeles and New York and Paris and Berlin and so many others that they’ve all started to blur together into an incredible haze.
The door to his hotel room clicks, startling him from his thoughts and admitting the only other person who has a key.
“It’s raining outside,” Yoongi announces as he shuffles further into the room, peeling his coat from his shoulders. The kids wheedled him into drinks at a nearby bar and his cheeks are flushed with alcohol and the fall cold. Namjoon’s stomach does a familiar flip at the sight of him and the bond flares up briefly in greeting.
“That’s not always my fault,” Namjoon insists, getting up from his spot near the window to wrap Yoongi up in his arms, because even though they just spent three hours on a stage together, it’s been a while since he’s gotten to hold Yoongi like this. He’s been missing it.
From the way Yoongi immediately melts into him with a pleased sigh, he’s been missing it, too.
“I know,” Yoongi murmurs.
“The plants are usually yours.”
They still bloom sometimes, when Yoongi is especially emotional, on the floor or the walls or the ceiling - Yoongi’s magic creating fleeting life out of plaster and concrete and dead wood. They always fade completely within an hour or two, but Namjoon loves the sight of them all the same.
“Can’t help it,” Yoongi says, face pressed against Namjoon’s neck.
“I never said I minded them.”
A soft hum and a few beats of comfortable silence. Then, “‘m tired, Joonie.”
“Want to go to bed?” Namjoon asks, stroking a hand down Yoongi’s back.
“Will you be in it with me?” Yoongi asks.
They don’t always share - usually get separate rooms, actually, so they have space to unwind and work on music - but sometimes they need the closeness. Sometimes, all Namjoon wants to do is cuddle with Yoongi in a soft bed and forget about the rest of the world.
“Yeah.”
Yoongi pulls back to smile at him. Reaches up to brush Namjoon’s product-free hair off his forehead. There’s a silver band glinting on the ring finger of his right hand - a gift from Namjoon two years ago, after they won their first daesang at the MMAs and couldn’t come back down for weeks. After Namjoon kissed Yoongi careful in the studio and said so I’m in love with you and vines curled across the ceiling in response to Yoongi’s grin. It’s a promise, of a sort. Since marriage isn’t an option. Since neither of them know if that’s what they would want if it was. This future is more incredible than they ever could have dared dream, but still so uncertain. Still hard and challenging and forever is something Namjoon long ago stopped caring about.
Be with me tomorrow? he asked Yoongi as he slid the ring onto his finger. Until we run out of them?
Yes, Yoongi said, catching Namjoon’s hand to peer at his matching ring. Yes.
“Sap,” he says now when he notices Namjoon staring at the ring.
“I just like that you still wear it,” Namjoon admits, taking Yoongi’s hand to spin the ring around on his slender finger.
“I haven’t taken it off for two years, Namjoon,” Yoongi points out, still smiling.
“And I like that.”
Yoongi shakes his head. “Come on. Bed.”
They go through their routine in comfortable silence - changing into pajamas, brushing their teeth in the truly ostentatious bathroom, and then climbing under the covers. Namjoon wraps his arms around Yoongi as soon as they’re settled, pressing his cheek to the top of Yoongi’s head and sighing in contentment at the way the bond goes warm and hazy in response to the closeness.
(You can sleep with other people, Yoongi told him, in 2015 - the first time they dared to think they might be in this for the long haul, might have years with Bangtan instead of uncertain months. I would never keep you from that.
By then, Namjoon had consumed a veritable online library about asexuality, including three hard copy books still sitting on the shelf in his studio that Yoongi shook his head at but borrowed to read, too.
I know, he said, because Yoongi loves him and that love has always been wonderfully selfless. But I don’t think I want to.
That might change, everything might change, but until then he was happy. Yoongi was enough.
Yoongi still is.)
“Want to go out with me?” he asks Yoongi. He can’t remember the last time they had a chance to do that - just get lost in a city together. Maybe Los Angeles back in September, maybe years ago. Time has become a strange, elastic thing. “We have a free day. We could do something?”
“You asking me on a date, Kim Namjoon?” Yoongi mumbles, voiced slurred with the beginnings of sleep.
“Yep. Sorry, is that moving too fast?”
Yoongi huffs a raspy laugh and twists around in Namjoon’s arms. His dark eyes are sparkling with amusement. “Way too fast. It’s only been five years. What are you thinking?”
Namjoon laughs, too. Rubs his thumb over Yoongi’s temple, all gentle affection he sometimes doesn’t know how to contain. “You’re right. Forgive me? And still say yes?”
“I guess,” Yoongi says, mock grumpy. “Fine. I’ll go on a date with you.”
“Thank you. I’m honored.”
“Shut up.”
Namjoon giggles and burrows closer to Yoongi. Holds him and listens to his breathing slow with sleep, the distant rush of the city beyond the windows.
And above all of that, the rain on the roof - a steady, comforting rhythm.
_ _
“At night I dream that you and I are two plants
that grew together, roots entwined,
and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth,
since we are made of earth and rain.”