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It’s halfway through Boy With Luv that the world tilts. The audience splits into two where his vision shifts like tectonic plates, but then someone bumps into his back and startles the cloudiness out of his eyes.
Taehyung is by his side, expression giving nothing away, but Namjoon sees the slight furrow in his brow. They back up to let Jungkook take his spot centre-stage, and Namjoon mouths, "What’s wrong?"
Taehyung pointed to his ear and it takes a couple seconds, but Namjoon sees that his earpiece is missing. It must've fallen out during one of the more intense dance moves and could've been broken beneath their feet.
He removes his own (had the itinerary memorised anyway, it was no big deal) and presses it into Taehyung's hand. He curls his fingers around it, blinking, before staring up at Namjoon with wide eyes.
"Put it on, hurry," he mouths. Whether or not Taehyung understood, he fumbles to slot it onto his ear before he had to slide through the boys to start his next line.
The next song goes by slower than Namjoon would like. Despite himself, although he knows he knows everything that's gonna happen in this concert, his heartbeat thrums uncomfortably in his chest, worried he'll forget something, worried something bad will happen off-stage and he won't know about it, worried about everything possible.
But nothing bad happens. He feels drops of sweat falling from his chin when they finish their performance, turns to swipe them off while the others wander the stage to wave at fans.
Everything is fine.
They're all tired when they have an interview the next morning, they've all only had a few hours of sleep.
He knows that. But when he translates the interviewer's question and the others just hum before looking back at him, he has to swallow the irritation and force a sharp bark of laughter to fill the awkward bit of silence between translations.
He repeats the questions the journalists regurgitate in every other interview, and it's moments like these he questions his abilities as a rapper, as a musician, as a writer. Being asked celebrity crushes, stories about crazed fans, surface level curiosities that have nothing to do with music.
Didn't his words speak to anyone?
But thinking those thoughts during interviews helped no one, and he had to focus on translating and making sure everyone spoke equally. For all Jimin's flashiness, he didn't often put himself out there to answer questions. Taehyung's English was so much better and Namjoon wanted him to show people. Jin had so many talents besides being handsome and needed to make those known.
"So, you're becoming pretty big now," the journalist starts, and Namjoon tilted his head, trying not to make a face. Becoming ? Maybe in the west. They were already an established, renowned band, had gone through a lot to get where they are; to have that diminished by the suggestion that they were only starting to gain notoriety now was frustrating. But it was part of the package in being idols, so he waited patiently for her to finish he question. "You guys must get a lot of hate. How do you deal with that?"
Wow, really? Maybe he should've been grateful for the empty questions about collabs. He glanced at his band and he must've let something show, because Taehyung grabbed his shoulder and smiled uncertainly.
He couldn't repeat the question.
Offering Taehyung a shaky smile in return, Namjoon looks back at the interviewer, tries to suppress memories of the press flashing through his head (articles saying Namjoon was too ugly for K-Pop, too brash and angry for an idol, too chaotic for leadership), blinks back the memories of fans at signings skipping him to meet another member, forces away fragmented words he'd read online about how his writing was too angry to empathise with or dance to.
Instead, he says: "No matter what, you receive hate. You don't have to be famous. People don't need reasons to be cruel. But I think you've just gotta remember that everyone's going through something, and maybe they're suffering, and maybe some other kind of music helps them through it." Which he really means, because that's what he told himself to stop the pain whenever he read about how he still wasn't good enough.
The interviewer coos and he tried not to be annoyed. "That's so sweet," she says, then follows it up with: "but surely some things you can't overlook? What are some of the worst things fans have ever said to you?"
Had she listened to anything he'd just said? Fighting back a sigh, he said, "Thankfully, ARMY have been nothing but golden for us. Our real fans are more supportive than we could ever hope for." It wasn't a lie; while there were countless people who were shitty, their actual fans were what made them who they were today, and he couldn't be more grateful.
Thankfully, that was it. She thanked them for their time and they shook hands and only when they'd left the studio does Namjoon slump against the nearest wall and bury his face in his hands.
"Joon-ah, are you okay?" Jin grabs his shoulder.
"Yeah," he says, already feeling better. When the cameras were off and his band mates could be themselves, everything felt calmer. Jin noticing his not-quite-breakdown was embarrassing, but he kind of really appreciates it. When they first started BTS, Namjoon was too full of anger and self-hatred and assumptions that he couldn't act anything but tough in front of them. He was so, inexplicably happy he had them, that he'd changed with them.
"What was that last question?" Jin asks. "You should've translated for us. We would've helped." He frowns.
Namjoon's sigh was shakier than he expected and he must've expelled too much air, because he swayed against the wall and had to shut his eyes for a second. "Nah, it was stupid. Really," he adds, at Jin's pointed look.
Jin sighs but drops it. "Okay," he agrees, sliding an arm around Namjoon's shoulders. "Come on, your hyung will treat you to coffee."
"Oh? Rare of you to act like you're actually my hyung." Namjoon laughed. Jin smacked his ass as they clambered in their van, and he smiled as he watched his band, his friends, talking and laughing together.
It was nearing the end of the tour and they were tired. But there were only three days left, and it'd be fine.
"—Joon!"
Namjoon jolts awake, heart hammering hard enough that it felt like it could break through his rib-cage. Black specks fizzle along the edges of his vision and he falls back against his pillows, blinking rapidly to erase the blurriness from his eyes to find Yoongi squinting back at him.
"Joon-ah, we're gonna be late," Yoongi says, tossing a thermos to him. "It's coffee. Drink it, get ready, we've gotta be at dance practice in half an hour."
How? Namjoon had set three alarms. He grits his teeth and knocks his head against the wall. "Idiot," he hisses to himself, throwing himself out of bed—and then finds himself on the floor. Black eats at his vision from the sides and he blinks rapidly, until it eventually fizzles away and he's staring at his fingers buried in the red carpet.
His head feels fuzzy when he stands, but he does it slowly enough that he doesn't fall over again.
"Namjoon-hyung, we're leaving!" Jungkook calls.
He downs the coffee, pulls on his clothes without paying much attention to what he out on, and stumbles into the van with them.
Hoseok's telling a story about a fan meeting, but Namjoon can't stay awake to hear the end of it. His head is swimming and he leans against whoever's next to him.
"Joonie, c'mon, we're here."
A hand ruffles his hair and he whines. The movement stops, which is abrupt enough to stir him awake. Jimin is staring at him with a sad smile.
"Sorry, I didn't want to wake you," he said.
"Nah, 's good, we've gotta practice." Me especially, he thinks, wondering if to check the fancams of him but quickly resolving not to.
"You're great at dancing, Joonie."
He snorts as they disembark the van and head up to the studio. "Thanks, Jimin."
"I mean it." Jimin grins. "You've got jams, Namjoon." He pauses, eyes lighting up. "Jamjoon."
"No," he says, immediately, but erupts into laughter. Jimin's lilted chuckles harmonise with his, and Namjoon feels a little better.
Then they're in the dance studio and their instructor is barking orders. Namjoon wishes he'd be a little more patient, but knows all the BigHit staff are stressed throughout tours, so he doesn't want to diminish anyone's anxiety with a flippant "calm down."
So when the music is cut off halfway through his rap solo and he stumbles out of the dance move he was in the middle of and the instructor snaps, "Namjoon! I've told you a hundred times now: start with your left leg, then spin on your right after the arm gesture! How many more times?"
Namjoon bites back the venomous retort that would've spilt out during his trainee days and just nods sharply. "Sorry," he says, because they're all ready to pass out.
The instructor deflates and looks guilty. He waves a hand. "Take five minutes, guys."
Namjoon reaches a wall and slumps against it, knees caving in. He runs a hand through his hair and tugs it. "Fuck."
Something cold touches his head and he squints through his hand to see Jin holding a water bottle out to him. "Drink," he says, and Namjoon does.
"Sorry," he mumbles around a swig. "You guys have got it down and I'm holding you back."
Jin pokes his cheek. "You've been practising so hard, Joon-ah," he says. "You're part of the reason I continue to improve my own dancing. You're formidable."
Formidable, huh? He's never felt that way in his life. But he's relieved he manages to maintain such an image, no matter how decorated a mask it is. (Comments online about him being the group's caretaker, babysitter, sometimes even - yikes - a "dad," did nothing to instill confidence, just reminded him he had to be reliable in interviews, that he couldn't miss anything happening onstage, that he needed to improve himself in order to direct the others.)
"Thanks, Jin-hyung," he murmurs, too quietly in the echoing dance studio.
Jin frowns. "Namjoon..." He presses a hand against his forehead. Namjoon leans into it without thinking, then blushes when he realises what he's doing. "You're a little warm. Don't overdo it."
For a second, he wants more; wants to be treated like a dongsaeng, just for a little while, until he has to be a leader again—
"Can you two shut up for five minutes?"
He blinks. Jin's hand slides off his forehead and they both look towards where Jimin's voice came from.
"Calm down, Jimin," Taehyung replies, standing up to loom over his hyung. "We're just trying to help."
Jin stands and Namjoon follows suit; they're both older members, so it's their job to interfere. He puts his leader face back on as he beelines for the maknae.
"Okay, what's going on?" he asks as they approach.
"Why don't you just mind your—" Taehyung starts, but stops when he looks at Namjoon. Some tension melts from his shoulders and Namjoon silently drinks it into his own. "Namjoon-hyung..."
"Me and Tae were just messing around and Jimin just snapped at us," Jungkook rushes out.
Namjoon opens his mouth.
"Don't just believe them because they're the maknae," Jimin hisses, a stark contrast from the soft eyes and dulcet tones when they walked in together earlier. "Of course someone would get annoyed when everyone's putting their all into this choreography, and you guys decide to fuck around." He didn't shout, mindful of the backup dancers meandering around the room, but there was steel in his eyes.
"We're on a break!" Jungkook retorts, glaring. "This will probably be our last free five minutes today; we just want to enjoy it. Go ruin someone else's day."
"Hey, calm down, there's no need for this—" Jin interjects.
"You're not a part of this," Jimin snaps. "Go do your choreography; you need all the practice you can get."
"Jimin," Namjoon says, his name leaving his mouth in a sigh.
"You're taking Jungkook's and Taehyung's side too," Jimin scoffs. "Of course. Everyone always does."
"You're all being immature," he replies. Taehyung winces and Jungkook clenches his jaw. Jimin's eyes are too bright, and Namjoon is kind of upset that he has to do this, especially after Jimin consoled him earlier. "Guys, we're all tired. I know you're not feeling great, and I'm really fucking sorry that there's nothing I can do about it. I'll speak to Bang-PD and request a longer break. You can visit your families if you want, or just chill at home, whatever you want, yeah? I'll threaten to change my hair to that black toothbrush style if they refuse."
Taehyung and Jungkook's lips twitch at that. "Please don’t go that far," Jungkook says.
"Jimin, I really appreciate how much of yourself you put into dancing," Namjoon continues, grabbing his arm. He doesn't pull away, which he counts as a win. "You're amazing at it, a fucking demon on stage. Seeing you motivates me every day. Jin, too—it's unfair that you were as bad as me and now you could go on a damn dancing show."
Jin smiled. Namjoon really hoped he didn't take Jimin's words to heart; he was just upset. But Namjoon knew all his boys were overly critical of themselves, remembered censure before praise.
"But it's fine to take breaks, okay? You're human and there's nothing wrong with that." That was what he told himself in the bathroom mirror every night for weeks after the Beijing concert. It took a long time to start believing it, but living with six other guys who seemed perfect but still had moments such as these, well, it made it believable.
Jimin's brows furrow and his eyes shine. He glanced away before looking back at Namjoon. "I just... want to make sure I—it's perfect."
"Jimin," he says, almost shocked by the gentleness hat his voice exuded. He never thought himself capable of such softness. "No one is perfect. We might be better than others at certain things, but no one is the best. Everyone does things differently, but in no way less valuable." He taps Jimin's cheek. "We're a team, Jiminie. If you slip up, we're right beside you. You'd do the same for us, right?"
Jimin sniffs suspiciously and swipes a hand under his nose. "Yeah," he breathes.
"Now go grab some water and sit down for a few minutes, okay? Jin, you too," Namjoon says. When Jimin steps away, he leans over to Jin and says, "Make sure he eats something, yeah?"
Jin nods, squeezing his shoulder, and jogs over to Jimin. Namjoon turns to Taehyung and Jungkook, who stare awkwardly out the windows.
"If you're trying to look disinterest, you'd be more convincing looking in the mirror," Namjoon says, cracking a smile. They relax slightly, Jungkook letting out a weak chuckle—and it strikes him, suddenly, how much they’ve grown. They’ve known each other for so long, have lived together as a family; of course they’ve all had their share of arguments. But Jungkook and Taehyung used to tear up at the first sign of conflict and Namjoon had initially worried they were too emotional for idol work. He was so wrong. All his brothers in BTS were the strongest men he’d ever met.
“I’m sorry, Namjoon-hyung,” Jungkook offers first, rubbing his neck. “Just. We’ve been working hard and just started messing around. To ease the tension, I guess.”
“Normally Jimin joins in or something. We didn’t think we were annoying him,” Taehyung pipes up, biting the inside of his cheek.
“Guys, it’s fine, don’t worry so much,” Namjoon says, just proud that none of his band mates held grudges. They always felt awful as soon as they snapped at each other. It was a far cry from the friends he’d had growing up, the guys who would laugh whenever he wore pink, tear books out of his hands and read passages like it was an embarrassing hobby, sing his lyrics like they were generic poems on the front of cards. But BTS weren’t like that. “Like I said, we’re all exhausted thanks to the tour. It’s been hard; it’s okay to be irritated. Just be professional, do your best, and remember how far you’ve come at the end of the day.” He claps them both on the shoulders—and they immediately grab him and yank him into a tight hug. It knocks the breath out of him, but he laughs, half out of shock from how damn strong they are, half out of relief.
“Namjoon-hyung, you’re too good to us,” Taehyung said and maybe it was the lack of sleep, but Namjoon’s eyes stung. To give himself a hot second to get that mess back under control, he laughed a loud ha ha ha and buried his face in Taehyung’s shoulder as he hugged them back. These two were nearly as tall as him, it was… ridiculous, honestly.
“Okay, guys, let’s get back to it.”
The moment breaks and the boys all pull away from each other. Namjoon didn’t realise how much weight he was leaning onto them, but he stumbles as soon as Jungkook’s arm unwinds from his waist. He catches him by the arm right away, eyes wide, and Namjoon has to grab his shoulder to steady himself. “Namjoon-hyung, you okay?”
“Yeah, sorry,” he says, hoping if he blinks fast enough the specks of light will disappear. Instead, they just flash different colours. His head hurts and he rubs it, then shoves his fringe out the way. “Just… tired, I guess.” He grimaced. “I know you guys are too. I’m just—” He waved a hand awkwardly, letting go of Jungkook. “I’m just clumsy, you know me.” He laughed.
Their concerned expressions didn’t fade, but they both nodded. “Be careful, hyung,” Taehyung said, patting him on the back as they went to get into their starting positions and practice this dance one-two-ten more times before tomorrow morning’s concert.
He fucks up three times despite concentrating so hard not to. He memorised the steps, had been practicing in his room alone because he knew he needed to, but sometimes he still took one move too slow, didn’t turn enough, was a couple feet away from where he should’ve been. It made his heart feel like it was going to escape from the confines of its ribcage with how it beat so furiously. He knew Jimin and Hoseok had the dance perfected, only had to keep doing it so the others could fall into step with them. Suga, Taehyung, and Jungkook looked like it was second nature to them now; hell, Jin had only messed up once. They had long since dismissed the back-up dancers, and their instructor left ten minutes ago, but they kept going because they had to get this right.
Namjoon had to get this right.
“One more time, then,” Hoseok declares, trying to sound cheery, but it’s forced and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m kind of dizzy,” Jimin mumbles, voice small. “I might need to sit this one out.”
“I’ve gotta get something to eat,” Taehyung says. “Wanna find a vending machine?”
They both look at the others, before finally settling on Namjoon. He hopes his smile isn’t as strained and Hoseok’s. “All of you go, it’s fine. I’ll do it a couple more times,” to make sure I don’t fuck everything up on stage .
“Joon-ah, you’ve gotta eat too.” Yoongi frowns, unfolding his arms and kicking away from where he’d been leaning on the wall.
“I will, I will, I’ll practice another twenty minutes then head home.”
Yoongi huffs a sigh through his nose but nods once. “Gimme a call when you’re leaving. We can meet up for some food.”
Namjoon smiles. “Will do,” he says, a little too softly. He can’t help it; Bangtan are too good to him. Have always been too good for him, but helped him become better too.
(Memories of high school friends laughing at him when he got detention and just leaving, stealing some of his lunch because “that’s what friends do,” and never returning the favour, taking photos of him during PE and posting them online with captions that made Namjoon punch his wall because he wouldn’t cry over words.)
“See you soon, Joonie!” the boys chorus as they leave. The door clicks shut and the raucous chatter becomes muffled, until they’ve disappeared in an elevator and it’s silent in the dance studio save for the ticking clock.
His sigh is a bit too shaky when he leans over to turn the music back on.
He staggers back into his first position and tries again, and again, and suddenly it’s nearly midnight and he has three missed calls from Yoongi, 23 group chat messages, and one voicemail from Bang PD-nim. So the others wouldn’t worry, he tapped out a quick message.
Namjoon
shit sorry guys I got carried away here, leaving now (11:32)
But because work was work, he opened the voicemail as he tugged on his jacket. He wondered, fleetingly, if he could grab some takeout on the way home.
“Namjoon, hi. Sorry to disrupt you, I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now. Listen, the staff need to rundown tomorrow’s schedule again and have to ask you a few things. Could you pop over to the address I texted you tomorrow morning before the concert? It’ll be around 6am—oh, I’m being called, sorry. Call me if you need anything, and sorry to give you more work. Take care, Namjoon. Oh, and I promise you’ll get that rest you asked for after this. Thank you for your hard work. See you later.”
He closed his eyes against the sting that sprung up and rubbed his temple to try and force back the headache that pulsed in waves. It was already 11:38pm; he’d probably get to their hotel after 12, and he’d have to wake up at 5 at the latest to get to that impromptu meeting tomorrow. He clenched his fists hard and chewed his lip.
Beep!
The notification noise startled him and he unfurled his hands to grab his phone.
Tae
We got Panda Express! Come back quick, hyung. (11:38)
Hobi
AND SPRITE!! (11:39)
Yoongi-hyung
want me to come meet you joon-ah? (11:41)
Kookie
no offense but maybe i should meet you, i’d be a better bodyguard than a 5’0” gremlin (11:41)
Yoongi-hyung
that’s gremlin-hyung to you, dickass (11:41)
Jin-hyung
Kookie there’s no point saying no offense if you intend full offense (11:42)
Kookie
ah you’re right hyung (11:42)
Kookie
*full offense but maybe i should meet you, i’d be a better bodyguard than a 5’0” gremlin :) (11:42)
He breathes a small laugh.
Namjoon
don’t worry guys, I’ll be fine. Be there in about half an hour (11:43)
He jams his earphones into his phone and starts a playlist, ignoring the myriad of notifications that follow because it’s just Jin and Jungkook bickering now. His jacket presses against his sweat-soaked shirt and makes him shiver, then he steps out into the brisk night air and has to force his teeth not to chatter. Shouldn’t it be warmer this time of year?
He waits for his taxi for fifteen minutes before he has to give up because he’s actually started shaking. He almost wants to ask Yoongi to come pick him up, but no, they have a concert tomorrow and it’s stupidly late and he couldn’t ask that of anyone.
So he gets out Maps and trudges to the nearest train station.
When he gets back to the hotel, the receptionist’s head is pillowed in their arms. Namjoon creeps past them and goes to hit the button for the elevator—and belatedly realises there’s an Out of Order sign beside the doors. He groans and smacks his head against the cold metal. “Of course you are,” he mutters, then tears himself away to pull himself up to their room. Hey, could be worse, he tells himself, you could’ve got stuck in there.
His mind helpfully plays a short film of what would happen if he had been in there when it broke down. He saw #RescueRM trending on Twitter, fancafé updates including a photo Jungkook would take of him stuck in there on CCTV, and oh, god, what if he really had to pee when he was in there? Or worse, what if he’d be in there long enough to miss the concert—
He realises he’s beginning to stress out over an imaginary scenario and forcibly derails the train of thought as his aching legs come to a halt on the fifth floor. He slides his card through the slot and enters their hotel room.
“Guys, I’m—back…” his voice drifts into silence when he sees his bandmates all over the living area, Jimin, Jin, and Taehyung nestled on the sofa and all close to falling off, Yoongi in the plush armchair with his feet up on Hoseok, who’s on the floor beside a pot of half-eaten noodles (Yoongi kicked him off the chair for sure, Namjoon realised solemnly), and Jungkook…
Where’s Jungkook?
Namjoon slides his backpack off his shoulders and traipses through their suite. He knocks on the half-open bedroom door but receives no response. He pokes his head around the door, squinting through the dark, and sighs in relief upon seeing the silhouette of a sleeping Jungkook on the bed. He snores lightly and rolls over and his phone screen illuminates the room. Namjoon notices the earphones connected to it and huffs a quiet laugh. He hesitates just a second – what if I wake him up? – before tip-toeing across the room to gently peel the earphones from Jungkook, pausing his playlist and winding the wires up to set it aside.
He pauses when he sees mono. on the screen and feels his heart stutter in his chest. He turns off the screen and doesn’t bother fighting back his smile since no one’s awake to see it.
For just a moment, he debates just falling asleep right here, but decides he can’t sleep before showering after dancing for so long. Sighing, he drags himself out of the bedroom and goes to turn on the shower.
Which is absolutely freezing.
He stares at it, waiting for it to warm up. Two minutes later and it’s just as cold as before. He plays with the dial, but it doesn’t change at all. But he’s coated in a blanket of sweat and can’t sleep like this, so he strips and steels himself and gets in anyway.
“Holy shit, that’s cold,” he hisses, gritting his teeth as he grabs whatever shampoo the hotel stocks. He scrubs as thoroughly as possible with how quick he’s trying to be and how much his fingers are shaking. As soon as he’s washed all the suds off himself, he scampers out of it and scours the bathroom for towels. There’s only one left, but it’s something, and he dabs off the icy droplets—and then realises he didn’t bring clean clothes in with him. They’re in his suitcase in the room Jungkook’s sleeping in.
For just a second, he entertains the idea of just spending all night in a damp towel, but decides that that’s a shitty idea, and wills himself to pad back into the bedroom to find clothes. He rifles through his suitcase, grabbing whatever feels like a shirt and boxers, and just pulls on the first ones he finds because he’s too fucking tired to bother fumbling through darkness.
Guess I’ll go take another bed since everyone else fell asleep in the living room, he decides, privately fistpumping for joy because he really, really wanted a bed tonight.
He stands back up—and his vision goes black. He blinks rapidly until the blackness fades and he can see the soft blue moonlight highlighting the furniture in the room. White spots dance in his vision, flickering like lights, and his head feels light enough to float away. He’s about to stand up again, but his fingers are shaky and he feels a little sick. Not wanting to risk it, he slumps down beside Jungkook.
I’ll just—I’ll get up in a bit. Just five minutes, he tells himself, clenching his eyes shut and willing away the throbbing in his head. Just five minutes.
Then the screech of an alarm clock has him nearly falling out of bed at 05:00 and he scrambles to slide it off. He stares at his phone, wondering why the fuck he set his alarm for 5am, before remembering Bang PD-nim’s voicemail yesterday. When the adrenaline of the loud alarm dissipates, he groans.
A snore makes him jump and he glances behind him and oh, shit, he’d fallen asleep here. He winces. He really hadn’t meant to, and he didn’t want to risk waking Jungkook - especially because their final concert of the tour is later tonight.
Quietly, he slides off the bed, shivering a little when his feet hit the floor. He grabs some clothes and heads into the bathroom to change. He washes his face and brushes his teeth before taking his shirt off—and realises it’s one of Jungkook’s. He stares at it for a while, bewildered, and then realises he must’ve grabbed that last night while trying to find one of his own. (Honestly, in the back of his mind, he assumed he would’ve known if he wore someone else’s, because he was the tallest so all their clothes would probably be too small for him. But Jungkook’s shoulders must’ve been wider than he thought, because the sleeves had been slipping down when he’d put it on.)
Well, that was kind of embarrassing, but he could pretend that never happened. He only slept in it for, like, four hours.
He folds it as neatly as possible before getting dressed in his own clothes, then goes to tuck Jungkook’s shirt into his suitcase. He’ll toss it into the washing machine when they get home and no one will know. (It wasn’t a big deal really; most of the guys ended up wearing someone else’s shit at some point. It’s just—Namjoon didn’t? He and Yoongi had a couple matching shirts, but he never actively wore any of their clothes and he was maybe low-key worried they’d take the piss out of him if he did.)
He shakes his head. Why was he worrying about such dumb shit?
He slipped a blazer over his shirt and tucked his pants into his boots before creeping out of the hotel room to attend the meeting. Maybe if he was lucky, it’d end early and he could nap before show prep.
(Bold of him to assume he’d ever be lucky.)
It didn’t end early. They finished chatting two hours later and Namjoon had downed three coffees to keep himself attentive during the meeting. It was the usual stuff, really, but they wanted to talk security, translators, technicalities: a lot of topics Namjoon struggled to keep up with on four hours worth of sleep. They outlined back-up plans for anything backfiring during the show (stage lights not working, potential injuries, music starting late) and Namjoon tried to stay patient even though they went over this every single time. It was important; he was the leader; he had to suck it up.
“Namjoon-ssi, we’ve called a taxi to take you straight to the concert hall,” one of the ladies from the meeting says, flicking her manila folder shut.
He smiles. “Thanks, I appreciate it,” he says, while inwardly he kind of wants to punch a wall because it’s so fucking early and it’s hours until the concert starts; why can’t he sleep before going there?
But he just grabs another coffee from a vending machine as he half-jogs out to the taxi, running through choreography in his head on the way.
He’s the first one there and is immediately whisked off into hair and makeup. He likes to think he’s usually attentive with the makeup artists; he’s earnestly appreciative of their efforts, and they’re brilliant at applying subtle makeup. (When they first debuted and he had to drown his eyes in kohl liner, he never mentioned it to anyone but Yoongi, but it made him feel kind of sick. He wanted to desperately to appeal to the hip hop scene, and it really twisted something inside of him when he heard ridicule over their makeup. He hated smokey eye looks for a long time, but now? He’s more than gotten used to it. Honestly, he doesn’t mind makeup at all; he only ever disliked people’s reactions to it, but he’d long ago realised that letting that minority of people influence your opinions was more toxic than swallowing snake venom.) Today, though, he’s just too tired.
“Namjoon-ssi?”
He jumps when one of the makeup artists pats his shoulder. Laughing awkwardly, he says, “Sorry, what? I didn’t catch that.”
She looks concerned, but smiles back. “Don’t worry, I know you’re tired,” she replies kindly. Honestly, what did Namjoon do to deserve such kind people working with him? “Your makeup and hair are done and the others aren’t going to be here for another—um.” She checks her watch. “Half an hour or so. You can take a quick nap if you want? We’ll send someone to wake you when they’re here.”
God, he could hug her—but his arms were trembling (probably from so much coffee) so he just shoots her a shaky smile and a feeble attempt at a wink. “I really appreciate that, you have no idea.” He chuckles. “Thank you so much. I, yeah. I think I will do that.”
She beams and gives him a little pat on the arm. “Strong power!” she says.
He laughs, manages to add a: “Thank you!” and stumbles into another room with sofas. No doubt when the rest of Bangtan are here, it’ll be a cacophony; for now, though, he can sleep, at least for a little while.
He isn’t immediately sure what wakes him up, but there’s noise and movement. He forces himself to blink his eyes open, wincing as they burned in protest, and dragged himself to sit up.
“I told you you’d wake him,” Yoongi mutters.
Namjoon rubs his eyes and stares through shadows to see Yoongi’s scowling face. “The lights are off,” he says, a little hoarse.
“Yeah, we were gonna let you sleep another ten minutes,” Yoongi says, shooting a disapproving frown over Namjoon’s shoulder, “so we left them off.”
“Thanks for thinking of me,” Namjoon says, smiling, but even that is hard to do. God, he just can’t be bothered, but he doesn’t have a choice; they have a concert now—their last one on this tour—and he can’t sulk in front of their fans, who have come so far and paid so much to see them. Not just because he’s tired; it’d be childish.
Jungkook and Taehyung drop themselves on either side of him and the others all busy themselves around the room. A soft lull of conversation brightens the room’s atmosphere and, sure, he’s tired, but it’s so much more relaxing to be surrounded by these guys than it is to huddle in the dark by himself. (Which, he sometimes stops to think, should be weird: when they debuted, he soaked up as much alone time as he could; the only person he’d been comfortable around back then was Yoongi. He isn’t sure when the others wormed their way into his space, but he is… really glad they did. His life would be a hell of a lot less vibrant without them in it.)
But he can’t keep up with their conversation; all the words blur together into a vague sound. It’s bad, he knows; he should be giving them a pep talk, running down their schedule, doing something . But Yoongi’s face is blurring before him and he can’t hold his own head up; it’s just so damn heavy.
So he gives up, just for a moment. Just a minute.
“—which is when Jimin drops hi—” Taehyung cuts himself off in the middle of his sentence when he feels something tap his shoulder. Glancing to his right, he feels warmth bubble in his chest at the sight of Namjoon slumbering against him. His cheek is squashed a little awkwardly, and Taehyung tries to move enough so that he won’t have any marks on his face from his jacket.
“God, he’s so tired,” Jungkook mumbles, eyes wide. “Did he—did he come back last night? To the hotel?” He grimaces. “I meant to wait up for him, but I fell asleep…”
“We all did,” Yoongi mutters, brows furrowing. “But, yeah, he came back. Jimin heard him shower, and he left his socks in the bathroom.”
Jin leans over the sofa Yoongi’s on, propping his chin up in his hand. “I don’t think he ate anything. The noodles we got him were still in their box when we cleaned up this morning.”
“Wait, what?” Jimin pipes up, tugging an earphone out.
Hoseok looks up from his phone. “We’ve gotta wake him, then. He’s got to eat something.”
“Not it,” Jungkook and Taehyung declare in unison.
“He’s on your shoulder, Tae,” Hoseok says as he stands and jogs into the corridor.
“That’s true,” he concedes. Jungkook stares at him as if to say ‘how does that mean anything?’ but he doesn’t actually mind. He’s probably had the most experience in waking Namjoon up, anyway. Sometimes he’d boop his nose or tickle him or suffocate him with cuddles on good days, but after they’d had rough nights he’d just jostle him gently. So he thread a hand through his hair and half-pet his head. “Joonie-hyung, you’ve gotta wake up,” he says quietly, barely above a whisper. “The concert’s starting soon.”
That works. Namjoon blinks rapidly, as if forcing himself to stay awake. He pulls away from Taehyung’s shoulder and raises a hand to run through his hair—and prompt drops it, remembering the stylist had already finished it. God, he wants to rub the itchy, sore sleepiness from his eyes, but that’d mess up his makeup.
Hoseok returns to the room again, holding a bottle and an apple. “Joonie, here. It’s not much, but I grabbed water and fruit,” he says, pushing them into Namjoon’s hands—which, he realises, are trembling slightly.
“I’m not hungry,” Namjoon sighs.
“Joon-ah, if this is because of our diet, one apple won’t—” Jin starts, but Namjoon raises a hand.
“It’s not, I swear. I just—” feel sick , he nearly says, but he finally looks at his band members and the unprecedented, unveiled worry on their faces. Jimin looks uncomfortable and Namjoon grimaces. Conversations about their diets are always a heavy topic. But he’s the leader and, as such, must lead by example; ignoring the churning in his stomach, he takes a bite out of the apple. Jin’s shoulders slump in relief and Hoseok beams, so he suppresses the feeling of bile fighting its way up his throat, and swallows. “Thanks, guys.”
Minutes later, staff come in to collect them, run over their directions, and they go through the usual itinerary. Then, in what feels like seconds, they’re filtering out onto the stage. Namjoon feels somewhat dazed, feels like he lost time in the few minutes between waking up and being out here.
But then his face materialised on the big screens behind them and cheers erupted throughout the crowd, glow sticks waving wildly.
“Kim Namjoon! Kim Seokjin! Min Yoongi! Jung Hoseok! Park Jimin! Kim Taehyung! Jeon Jungkook! BTS!”
He smiles. Yeah, he can do this.
Halfway through Boy With Luv, he was allowed to disappear off-stage for a precious thirty seconds during Jungkook, Jimin, and Hoseok’s part. God, he couldn’t catch his breath. He was actually pretty confident with the dance, honestly; he’d practised his heart out, had gone over the routine relentlessly, had asked Hoseok to watch him and instruct him on how to improve. He knew he could do it, but —
Fuck me, I’m exhausted , he thinks, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve.
He glances to his right to see Jin wringing his hands and feels a pang. He wishes his hyung wasn’t so worried, but some people were quick to critique his and Namjoon’s dancing, no matter how much they improved. Some days, Namjoon thought they did so well that they matched the others in a mirror fashion; others, he wanted to hide away and cease being part of the choreography forever.
He nudged Jin’s shoulder and smiled. “We can do this, man,” he breathes.
Jin blinks, surprised, before returning the smile. “Yeah,” he agrees, “we can.”
“Stay close to me?” Namjoon says teasingly, but maybe sort of means it.
Jin chuckles and gives him a quick one-armed hug. “Always, Joonie,” he promises.
Then it’s their queue to get back on stage. Inhaling deeply, he dashes back out, dipping into a dance move.
He can feel sweat drip from his chin and hopes it doesn’t look gross on camera. He tries to keep his expressions under control even though he feels like gritting his teeth and wincing, tries to move fluidly through the dance and do his best so no one can say he isn’t trying, tries not to stumble when light flecks his vision and his head spins.
The rest of the boys split down the middle and, fuck, it’s his part. He licks his lips and powers through it, fighting back a wince when he sounds breathless as he raps “elevated halls,” and tries to cover up any slip-ups by moving his free hand and pointing finger-guns at the audience. “Let me—fly!”
And, blessedly, the rest of BTS filter in and almost hide him as they continue the choreography. He’s not sure how well he’s doing it now, but he’s more focused on not falling over every time the ground beneath his feet slips and looks like the ceiling.
Raucous cheering choruses in the arena and he finds it in himself to bow before they all disappear off-stage before the next song.
“My throat kind of hurts,” he hears Jimin say.
“Already?” Hoseok asks.
Jimin cringes.
“Hey, it’s cool,” Namjoon interjects. Hoseok didn’t mean anything bad by that, he was probably just concerned and didn’t have the best filter—but Jimin could jump to conclusions and Namjoon needed to prevent that before it could happen. He snags two water bottles from one of the staff passing them out and tosses one to Hoseok and passes the other to Jimin. “Of course it hurts; this is the final day of our tour and you guys have worked really hard—I appreciate your efforts, really.” He smiles, beckoning them to drink. Jimin smiles tentatively and does. “Me and Jin are hurting from dancing, so don’t worry too much if your throat hurts. If it gets too much, sing softer and Jungkook can help with backing vocals.”
Jimin gives a pained smile. “I want to try and do it on my own,” he says, “but thanks, Joonie. That—that’d help.”
He claps him on the shoulder. “No worries. You guys take a breather; we have a minute left.”
He pops over to Jungkook and requests that he keep an eye on Jimin; if he looks like he’s struggling, just throw in some backing vocals. He agrees easily, then asks: “Are you okay, Namjoonie-hyung? You look pale.”
Taehyung looks up.
He blinks. “Oh—yeah, I’m good, Kookie, don’t worry.” But he’s kind of really touched that he noticed, that he asked.
“I can try to rap if it’ll help you, hyung,” Taehyung offers jokingly, but Namjoon is fairly certain he’d actually do it. He laughs and Taehyung smiles.
“That means a lot, man, but I’m good. I’ll let you know.”
Taehyung nods solemnly and throws back his water, which reminds Namjoon he hasn’t had any yet. He can’t see the assistant who was handing them out and sighs; he’ll have to grab a bottle after the next song.
It was their last song, finally .
Guilt twisted in his stomach; he didn’t want to want it to be over, but he was torn between lightheadedness and nausea and wasn’t sure if it’d be worse to faint or throw up on camera. He decided both were terrible outcomes and that he just really wanted to be finished and sleep for a week straight.
They were ending the concert with Make It Right , which means they can (mostly) stand still. Or, at least, there’s no dancing. Even so, he’s slightly dreading walking up the stage, but it’ll be fine. He’s barely listening when Taehyung starts the song but he’s just aware enough to feel bad about it: the knows the vocal line have worked hard; that Taehyung, despite his naturally deep voice, nails the high notes in this, and Namjoon truly loves the song. But he can’t focus and all the music sort of blurs together with the cheering into one cacophony of headache.
One of the spotlights flashes in his eyes and he drags his gaze over to look at his friends instead. He sees Hoseok bopping to the music and realises he normally does too, but he’s worried that if he moves his legs might cave in, so he just plasters a smile on his face and tries to pay attention to who’s singing and how far they are in the song.
Hoseok steps forward, rapping his verse, and Namjoon watches him for a second before thinking, oh, fuck, I’m meant to go with him, and tries to integrate some careful gestures and almost-dancing as he follows him. Hoseok’s eyes land on him and he takes it as his queue to start and thank fuck for years of working on autopilot, because somehow he pulls it off without sounding like he could pass out right now.
He barely registers the rest of the song as a mantra of smile and nod smile and nod smile and nod rolls through his head like a steam train.
He wants to be done. He wants to go home. He wants to sleep.
He gazes out into the blurry crowd, hoping he gave a worthwhile performance even though he’s so weirdly out of it. They’re screaming their names though and he’s struck, as he often is, by how many people support them now, after years of being told they’d never make it.
It’s ARMY’s support and his gratitude for it that keeps him going. So he stands through the cheering, laughs as the others mess around, until finally the laughter fizzles out and Jimin turns to him.
“Time for RM to close the show!”
What?
Oh.
“Ah, but Jiminie, you’re the show-stealer, aren’t you?” he jokes, and the others laugh. “Why don’t you just blow ARMY a kiss? I think they’d like that.”
He does it easily and, not to be outdone, Jin produces a rose from seemingly nowhere to toss out into the crowd.
“Where did you even get that, man?” he asks, and Jin winks. “ARMY,” he says, turning to all the people there holding up their lights, “as always, thank you so much for your support. For believing in us. For letting us continue to make music. It’s weird, y’know: I write so many songs, but I can’t find the words to express how grateful I am for this. So I hope that, at the very least, we gave you all a good time tonight.”
ARMY screams agreement and he catches a few waves of “we love you, Kim Namjoon!” which makes him smile. His cheeks hurt from it.
“Be safe getting home, guys! Thank you again for being here tonight.”
“We love you, ARMY!” the rest of the boys chorus. They wave as they walk backwards, occasionally leaning down to give an errant fan a highfive, Jin doesn’t stop blowing kisses, and Hoseok dances his way off-stage. Jungkook winks at a camera.
And it’s over.
Namjoon throws one final wave before stepping off stage. He’s so dizzy. Spots speckle his vision in black holes and everything keeps tilting. His knees feel like they won’t hold him up much longer, almost caving with each step. He makes it all the way down the corridor before everything just stops.
Taehyung stretches his shoulders when they get off stage. The tour’s been so incredibly fun and, maybe it’s because they’re so much more used to it now, but it had been a bit less stressful than the last one or the one before. Sure, they were overworked and exhausted, but none of them had locked themselves in their hotel rooms to have private anxiety attacks, and that must’ve been some kind of plus.
“I can’t wait to sleep,” Jungkook breathes just behind him, maybe to himself. His voice is a little hoarse and Taehyung slows down to let him fall into step beside him.
“Because you’re old,” he retorts.
Jungkook stares at him. “I am literally two years younger than you.”
“It’s a state of mind,” Taehyung replies. “Jin-hyung is the oldest but you treat him like he’s younger than you.”
Jungkook pauses. “You’re right,” he concedes. “I am tired as hell though.”
“Me too,” he admits. “We’re flying back to Korea tomorrow though. We can all sleep. Tonight, though!” He claps. “We’re gonna get Panda Express!”
“Our diet doesn’t—”
“We just finished our tour; I’m finishing my diet for at least a week,” Taehyung says wistfully.
Jungkook makes a face. “I’m down for Panda Express,” he says, “but a week?”
“Namjoon-hyung’s only eaten an apple today,” Taehyung says. “He’d probably enjoy it.”
“Let’s get Panda Express all week,” Jungkook decides.
He grins back.
Thunk.
They both look up at the dull thud and halt abruptly. Jimin crashes into Jungkook’s back.
“Guys, what are you—”
Namjoon slumped against a wall, head banging against it.
“Joon—” Taehyung starts, but then Namjoon crumples to the ground.
“Namjoon!”
He isn’t sure who said it; maybe it was all of them. It didn’t matter. He bolts over to Namjoon and winds an arm around his shoulders to prop him up.
“Namjoon-hyung?” he says quickly. “Joonie-hyung!”
“He’s unconscious,” Yoongi says from somewhere behind them. “I’ll go—I’ll get someone.”
“We can’t just leave him on the floor,” Jungkook snaps. “Let me carry him to a sofa.”
“You can’t lift him on your own,” Jimin interjects.
“You want a bet?” Jungkook snaps.
“I’ve already got him anyway, let’s just do it together to be safe,” Taehyung offers, but he’s ready to drag Namjoon by himself if the others decide to argue.
They don’t. Jungkook slides another arm around Namjoon’s waist and takes a lot of his weight like it’s nothing. They head into the room they waited in earlier and lower Namjoon to the sofa.
Jin slides Namjoon’s hair out of his face and grimaces in sympathy. “He’s sweating so much. He feels way too hot as well.”
“That could just be from all the dancing,” Hoseok tries, but he looks scared. “He’ll be fine soon—we’re heading home tomorrow, and…”
“He passed out, Hoseok,” Taehyung feels the need to say. They couldn’t make light of this.
Hoseok’s shackles rise defensively. “I know that, I’m worried too! I just—I’m trying to stay calm, okay?”
“All right, shut up, all of you,” Yoongi cuts in, and medical staff rush in, ushering the boys out of the way as they inspect Namjoon. “If Namjoon-ah wakes up and hears you’ve all fallen apart, it’ll be embarrassing for me and Jin-hyung to tell him we couldn’t keep you in line.”
It’s the sort of thing he says jokingly, but there’s an underlying severity to it that forces them all to let the almost-argument evaporate.
“Is he okay?” Jimin asks urgently after a couple of minutes.
One of the paramedics looks up. “Well,” she says, “he should be fine. He’s clearly exhausted - he likely passed out from overexertion, dehydration, overheating, or possibly a lack of food. When did he last eat?”
With us last night, Yoongi nearly says, but realises with a grimace that that isn’t true. “He had an apple earlier. I don’t think he ate anything since yesterday afternoon though.”
The paramedic’s lips press together. “That’s certainly a bad idea,” she says. “Does he have a history of skipping meals?”
“No,” Yoongi says. He has done it before, but never intentionally: it’s always when he’s overworking and forgets to look after himself. He glances up as several other medical professionals enter the room, along with some BigHit staff.
“That’s good,” she says. “Well, he has a moderate fever, but it’s manageable and it should break easily as long as he rests. We’re going to take him to the nearest hospital, but he’ll probably be discharged tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“Hospital?”
“Is it that serious?”
“Can we come?”
The boys bombard her with an array of questions and she shakes them off to focus on Namjoon. The paramedics move him onto a stretcher and lift him up.
“We’ve gotta go too—” Jungkook follows them, but is stopped by one of their managers.
“Sorry, guys, but you can’t. You’ve gotta head back to the hotel, okay?”
Jungkook’s eyes widen. “What? No, we have to go with Namjoon—”
“We don’t want to make a big thing of this, okay? Let them get him to hospital quietly. The sooner they do, the sooner he can leave.”
He scowls. “But…”
“Kookie, listen to him,” Yoongi mutters, despite how his palms itch with the need to go after Namjoon and hold his hand until he wakes up.
Jungkook grits his teeth and clenches his fists, ripping his shoulder out of the manager’s grip and turning to go stand elsewhere.
“When will we find out if he’s okay?” Jin asks, chewing the inside of his lip. How had he not noticed Namjoon was feeling so unwell…? Stick close to me, Namjoon said earlier and, fuck, he really should have.
The manager offers a weak smile. “Within the next hour, I promise. Some of our team has gone with him, they’ll update us as soon as they know anything.” When no one speaks, he pats Jin on the arm and heads for the door. “Your cab will be here in twenty minutes.”
The door clicks shut, and they sit in silence.
Namjoon wakes up to the sound of beeping.
He leans over to turn off his alarm. “‘M up, ‘m up,” he grumbles, fumbling for his phone but he can’t even reach his bedside table. “Nnn… where ‘s it…?” If only he was still rooming with Taehyung; he’d turn it off. It was hurting his head. Actually, he was hurting all over, and he was way too hot. He kicks off his blanket with a huff and opens his eyes, moaning at the bright light that immediately makes the thumping in his head boom louder, making his eyeballs ache. Why is it so bright? Who turned on the light?
“Mr. Kim? You’re awake, that’s good.”
Who the fuck—? Mr. Kim? He bolts upright, only for his vision to fizzle out and he collapses back into the pillows. “Ahh, shit…”
“Yes, I imagine you feel quite bad.”
He blinks until his eyesight returns and finds a man in a—doctor’s coat? Jin? he thinks. Did he go find their Dope outfits or something? Is that why it was so bright? But then the blurriness vanishes and it’s a stranger holding a clipboard.
“What—” God, his voice is so airy and hoarse. He clears his throat. “Where am I?”
“The hospital,” the man answers, flicking through the clipboard’s papers before looking up at Namjoon. “What do you remember, Mr. Kim?”
Oh, right, they were still in the US; that’s why he was calling him ‘Mr. Kim.’ He tries to shake of the lethargy—and once he does, he jolts. “I’m in hospital?” Then he remembers: swaying on stage, blackness dotting his vision, feeling like he could throw up—“Did we finish the concert?”
“Ah, you remember that, that’s good news,” the doctor says, smiling, but Namjoon doesn’t feel patient enough for empty praise.
“Did we?”
“Yes, you got backstage before you passed out. You gave your co-workers quite a scar, I hear.”
“Friends,” he corrects without thinking. “Sorry.” He winces.
The doctor just smiles. “That’s all right. They’re worried about you, apparently, so it’s good you’re awake; I can let them know.”
“They’re—” not here? “Ah, uh. Yeah. Okay, cool. Thanks, sir—um, may I ask when I’ll be out of here?” He pauses. “And how long I’ve been here?” God, English is harder when he’s just woken up.
“You’ve only been here two hours, and we’ll conduct a few quick tests soon. If we think you’re okay, someone will drive you to your hotel.”
He exhales a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. Thank god. “Thank you.”
The tests only take about ten minutes, and they determined he was fine. With some warning words on staying hydrated, getting enough sleep, and the usual lecture, he was free to go. BigHit staff escorted him to the hotel and the elevator had been fixed, thank god. His head still feels a little to airy and his eyes hurt, so he’s pretty relieved he doesn’t have to trek up the stairs.
He slides the keycard in the door, kicks it open, and is immediately enveloped into a hug.
“Uh. Hi, Tae.”
Someone else bounds up to join it, and then someone else, and then it doesn’t stop and he laughs.
“Hey, guys, not that I don’t appreciate this, but I might fall over in a second—”
They tear themselves away from him, but Jungkook stays, holding onto his arm. “I’ll carry you to bed,” he offers.
Namjoon splutters. “No?” His laugh is a little too high. “I’m good for that.”
“Kookie, that’s so lewd, at least buy him dinner first,” Jimin chides.
Jungkook blinks before flushing. “Fuck off.” He looks at Namjoon, tuning out the others. “I really can though, if you need help.”
“I got here, didn’t I? I’m fine, I promise.” He smiles.
Jungkook lets go of him slowly and he plants his feet into the ground because he can’t let himself look unwell after saying that.
“Have you eaten?” Jin demands from somewhere else in the suite.
“They gave me some oatmeal—”
“Disgusting, no. Here, Yoongi brewed tea, and I made stew and rice.” Jin carries two small bowls into the living room and Yoongi goes to grab the pot of tea.
“You didn’t have to…” Namjoon says, tugging awkwardly at his sleeve.
“Let us look after you, Joonie,” Jimin insists, gently, and grabs him to tug him over to the sofa.
To avoid their gazes, he grabs the soup and starts eating it. “‘S good,” he mumbles. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t look up, he’s too embarrassed; he worried all of them, showed a weak side no leader should have, and now they were doing all this for him. He purses his lips. His younger self could never picture being surrounded by such painfully kind people.
“Don’t cry into my stew,” Jin teases, but cards his fingers through Namjoon’s hair.
“I’m not ,” he says, laughing tiredly. “I would never tarnish your precious stew with my tears.”
The banter and conversation flow easily after that, and Hoseok turns on the TV for some background noise. Shows came and went until Namjoon finds himself fighting to stay awake, heading bobbing down and then flinching back up when he caught himself.
“Joonie-hyung, everyone else is falling asleep too,” Taehyung murmurs softly, deep voice doing nothing to stir Namjoon into wakefulness. He pries his eyes open to see Jimin splayed across one chair, face buried in his arms; Yoongi was curled up on another; Jin was passed out with his legs thrown over the top of one sofa; Hoseok was on the other end, squinting at the screen but losing the battle to stay awake; Jungkook, on Namjoon’s other side, was snoring softly, pressed against his side.
“Ah,” he replies.
Taehyung chuckles and weaves an arm around his shoulders, tugging him so his head falls onto his shoulder. “Sleep, Joonie-hyung.”
Taehyung’s shirt is so soft and he’s so warm and smells like vanilla shampoo, he can’t help but nestle further into his neck. He thinks he manages to stay up a whole five more hot seconds before his eyes fall shut.
God, he loves them so much.