Work Text:
Namjoon wakes up to the smell of cooking sugar. It means hotteok, which is the first indication that his day is going to be excellent. He had worked late, scratching out edit after edit until he had been sick of looking at his own untidy scrawl and had wanted to go back to the original version all over again. Writing was like that, sometimes. The planned, edited sentences never sounded as good as the deluge of word vomit that had come out in a fit of inspiration. It wasn’t perfect, but he was working on letting his unedited thoughts flow out more. And anyway, it had been enough to inspire a bike ride past midnight, just because it was the perfect sort of eve.
It had been a clear moonlit night – the kind where it seemed like you could almost see a sky full of stars, even in the middle of the polluted city – and he had lost track of time, biking beside the river listening to the hum of a city that was home now fold its arms into sleep. It was gentle and safe and boundless, even though he could just imagine the horror on his mother’s face at the thought of the abandoned streets. And all of that was before he’d come home to the apartment thrown in darkness with a niggling bug of inspiration needling him, to a lone kitchen light highlighting the covered plate lying on the table with a purple post-it stuck to it.
But it is morning now and he’s awakened suddenly, for no discernible reason. His mouth is dry and the air is thick with the aroma of coffee and cinnamon and sugar, thick and sweet and warm. There’s dried spit crusted on the side of his mouth and nothing but a tangle of slept-in sheets beside him. The cat curled up at the foot of the bed lifts her head to give him a single beady-eyed look of supreme disdain when he flips his side of the covers off himself, jostling her, so Namjoon pauses to scratch her head a little, cooing at her until she tucks her head under one front paw and goes back to purring contentedly. Yuna the tabby is half-asleep again when he finally stops scratching her and follows the delicious breakfast smells into the kitchen.
He’s ruffling the hair at the back of his head with one hand, scratching his belly absentmindedly over the sliding hem of his sweatpants, when he walks into through the doorway and promptly loses his mind. As in, his gaze finds his boyfriend and his brain has to go through the five stages of grief in zero point six seconds, only it’s more like the five stages of living with Jung Hoseok.
They go something like this:
- shock because woah, legs;
- stress that it’s the teeny orange shorts again, oh god it’s the return of the infernal skimpy shorts;
- bargaining because why would he do that, why would he make such controversial choices so early in the morning;
- acceptance because, to be fair, it isn’t like there is any way for him to not look perfect;
- and then delight that, oh, heh, he gets to love this delightful creature, this is his boyfriend right here.
It’s a full range of emotions in the span of less than half a minute, and it leaves him feeling a little floored, if he’s honest. Truly, it is a hard life, but somebody has to do it. He’s more than willing to be that somebody—especially when Hoseok is singing along and wiggling his butt in time with his music.
Glaring sunlight streams in from the kitchen window, sheer curtains flutter in the light spring breeze, the music piping out of the mint bluetooth speaker on the counter sounds poppy and bright, and Hoseok is resplendent. Untouchably beautiful, one would think, except the moment he turns and notices Namjoon, the brightest smile spills across his face and Namjoon is— he’s speechless.
Not for the first time since he blurted out his awkward messy terrifying verbal vomit excuse for a confession and was met with the softest Jung Hoseok he’s ever encountered, Namjoon is arrested by just how wide his heart can open. He is filled to the brim with warmth so intense it staggers him a little, that he can be surrounded by contentment and comfort and silly pictures of his friends stuck to the fridge and his boyfriend crossing the kitchen to tug him into a kiss.
Hoseok’s hands are cool when they drag through the hair at the back of his head, and his kisses drift languidly, brushing against Namjoon’s lips, his cheeks, his forehead, his dimple that pops into space at Hoseok’s affection. He’s a tiny spark of the brightest light in Namjoon’s arms, leaning against him on his tiptoes and coaxing him into a slow lazy kiss with a hand firm on the back of his head and the other braced against his bare chest.
“Morning, baby. Still sleepy?”
Namjoon shrugs, wildly aware of the warmth that leeches into his face at the endearment. “Li’l bit. I was gonna try going to bed on time for once, but then I got an idea and wound up whacking out another 3000 words.”
Hoseok snorts a laugh and releases him with a final wet smack against his mouth. A mug is passed over to him, mint and pink and covered in tiny octopi. “Well, I’m glad you got some work done because you probably won’t get much done today. Jungkookie called, wanted to know if we’re free tonight and have had a chance to go to Yeouido Festival yet. I think the kids are planning on ambushing you again and that was his way of warning us.”
And of course it was. Jungkook is a brat most of the time, but he’s not inconsiderate and even his surprises have to be polite. Namjoon groans, folding against the counter where Hoseok’s gone back to poking at the rice as Hoseok laughs at him. Obviously, he finds it hilarious that the three youngest members in their friend group have appointed themselves honorary protectors of Namjoon’s social life or something. They show up with alarming frequency whenever he’s been spending too long inside his head and drag him out of the apartment, even if it’s just to get ice cream at the 7-eleven three streets down. It’s both adorable and heart-warming, and makes him feel a little like a smothered child.
Complaining to Hoseok about it is completely useless—he’s worse than a fond aunt, smothering their cheeks in kisses and inviting them back for dinner, showing Namjoon out the door with a tweak of his jacket collar and a pat on his butt. And it’s just a lot to handle, sometimes. Not in a bad way; just in a way that he doesn’t know what to do with his limbs with so much love and attention focussed on him. So he does the only thing he can think of in the moment: he reaches over and turns the volume up on the speaker.
Hyuna streams out, bright and sassy. Hoseok follows her with marionette precision, hips swinging to the beat already. Namjoon has to catch his breath for a second, brain still not awake enough to process the bright smirk levelled on him. Hoseok dances shamelessly. It’s a joy to behold—twerking around, hips popping and smirk wide, mouthing “I got a fancy lip and hip” and winking saucily at him. And then he’s actively dragged into the dance, Hoseok’s hands eagerly reaching for him.
They’re both still half-laughing as Hoseok leads his hips into matching his own move for move, hands firm and sure on his skin where his sweatpants have slipped low on his waist. It’s deliriously hot and Namjoon is lost, tripping over his own feet until Hoseok pulls him even closer. There is laughter in his eyes that Namjoon’s a little drunk on, not sure if it’s the rhythm of Hoseok’s body leading his or the simple joy in his easy smile that is so intoxicating. All he knows is that Jung Hoseok is looking at him like there is not a single soul but the two of them, and in the moment, Namjoon believes him.
The sun is shining, his heart is full, and he’s absolutely, desperately, inconsolably gone for this wonderful boy who embodies everything this beautiful spring morning stands for.