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Namjoon’s life is fairly quiet, fairly calm. He spends most of his days encased by the smell of fresh paper, of books and ink and thoughts and words and thoughts and thoughts, and it’s nice, a very nice change from another life he long forgets. He never complains, regardless of Jimin insisting that Namjoon is letting his days slip between his fingers. He begs to disagree, holding the fact that he’s never felt so at peace with his life in a while secure in his hold. It was nice to settle. To surround himself with the things that make him content.
It’s another one of those quiet, calm days when the front door of the bookshop violently swings open.
A flash of bright blue hair skids through, slamming the door behind him, leaning his back against it, closing his eyes.
Namjoon stares, mouth popping open.
The Blue Hair is breathing hard, eyes flying open upon hearing a sound that evidently sailed by Namjoon’s ears. He pushes off the door as he had been burned, twisting around to stare hard, almost fearfully, at it.
Namjoon’s mouth closes, opens.
“...Welcome?” He says hesitantly, and the boy’s head swivels over to where he stands behind the counter, as if he had forgotten he wasn’t alone.
“If the police ask it wasn’t me,” Blue Hair manages between heavy intakes of breath. His voice is spiked with anxiety, but there’s a calm behind his eyes, distinct and clear as day against the whites and grays swirling outside, against the worry lines creasing his face. “If they ask, I’m not here.”
Namjoon’s wide eyes turn towards the door, to the sound of vague yelling he can now distinguish flying past the bookshop front.
“Can I ask what you did?” Namjoon speaks up after a moment of silence, after all the yelling and colorful lights have passed them by.
“I did nothing,” Blue Hair says.
Namjoon is bewildered. “Okay...can I ask what you didn’t do?
It seems to do the job. “I didn’t steal the dog. I didn't. It’s not stealing if it’s for good.”
Namjoon blinks hard, stares hard. “You’re joking, right?”
“He wasn’t being treated right,” the boy insists, idly carding a hand through his hair, shaking the rain out. Namjoon watches the droplets scatter across the floor. “His owner treated him like shit. He was always so skinny, so I secretly brought him food everyday. When I came around this time he was whimpering and looked in so much pain I just — I couldn't take it anymore.”
Namjoon, frankly, doesn’t know what to think, still attempting to give his brain room to digest the fact that there was even a tall, blue haired stranger in his bookshop in the first place, much less a tall, blue haired stranger who also liked to rob dogs in his free time.
“Can I ask where he is now?” he musters through the brief static in his brain.
“Somewhere safe,” the boy nods, more to himself than anything. “I'll come back for him. He’s strong, he’ll be okay. I'll take good care of him.”
“Nobel of you,” Namjoon murmurs, trying to shake off enough bewilderment to digest the information.
“No,” the boy disagrees. “Being decent isn’t nobel. Can I stay here for a bit?”
“Uh,” Namjoon blinks, “Sure?”
The boy nods, rubbing his arms as he looks around for a moment, before carrying himself into a corner of the shop, tucking himself in amongst the pages and books. He’s in the history isle, Namjoon recognizes it instantly upon skimming a few of the books he had arranged there last week. His eyes flitted back down to where the boy was curled into Namjoon’s favorite bean bag.
He's quiet for the rest of the day. Quiet enough that Namjoon almost forgets he’s there, until he glances back up from his book again an hour or so before it’s time to close, to find the bean bag empty.
The boy is back the next day, swinging through the door again, albeit gentler this time.
Namjoon looks up upon hearing the door, cocking his head in surprise. “Oh, it’s you again.”
“Yup,” the blue boy agrees, shutting the door behind him. A streak of sunlight from outside had slid in, warming Namjoon’s cheek for a brief moment before slipping behind the closed doors. “It’s me again.”
“Was the service yesterday satisfactory?” Namjoon closes his book around a bookmark, watching the blue boy slide up to the desk with a small smile in his eyes.
“It was,” the boy says, leaning his elbows against the counter. “Very warm, surprisingly. Nice lighting. Exceptional bean baggery.”
“Bean baggery?” Namjoon breathes a chuckle through his nose.
The smile warm in his eyes spills onto the boys face. “Exceptional, I tell you.”
“Well, I’m honored.” Namjoon sits back, giving the boy a small once over. “Be sure to leave all of that in the form of a very kind, small, positive review on our website. Twelve point font and double spaced, if that’s not a hassle.”
The boy lets out a giggle, something akin to what the bells on the shop’s front door sound like when the wind sweeps through them. Deeper maybe. Deeper, absolutely. It catches Namjoon off guard a little, raising both another small chuckle of his own and a pleasant, warm flush at his neck.
It becomes a somewhat normal occurrence, the boy’s appearance in the shop, a pattern as easy as taking in oxygen, as stepping one foot in front of the other.
“How’s the dog going?” Namjoon asks idly one day, flipping another page in his book. The boy borrowed a wheeled chair from behind the counter, and is now using it to propel himself back and forth around the shop with the same tangible energy of child who just rediscovered the world.
“He’s doing great!” He calls from the science fiction isle. “He’s growing a little bigger now. He looks more alive.”
Namjoon glances up, finding the boy had wheeled himself back into the entrance, and is sat with the backrest of the chair between his legs, looking right back up at him.
“Does he have a name yet?” Namjoon asks, turning away. The boys hums thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, no he doesn’t.”
The boy discards the chair, stretching up to lean against the counter while Namjoon busies his nerves with sorting behind-the-counter books.
“I think I’ve seen you move that specific book three times now,” the boy speaks up, teasingly. Namjoon’s fingers stumble a little, and his eyes dart to the side, before focusing on the books again.
“You’re just seeing things,” he murmurs, staring hard at the Japanese book he has clutched like a lifeline in his hand.
“Are you nervous?” the blue boy queries, and Namjoon scoffs instantly, face starting to burn, trying to cook up a quick retort to save himself. The blue boy continues before he can spit it out though, “Is it because I stole a dog? I can promise you I’m not a criminal. I’m a good person.”
Namjoon puffs out his cheeks, lets it out in a slow breath. “I’m sure you are,” he says, and the boy leans forward, as if trying to grab a peek of Namjoon’s face around his shoulder. “You don’t sound so sure.”
“I assure you I am.” Namjoon turns around fully, only mildly confident that he’s successfully schooled his features.
Or maybe not, judging by the way the blue boy grins when their eyes meet. Namjoon glances away again with a huff, neck warm, fingers warm, face warm, insides warm, everything warm, warm, warm.
It’s a comfortable warm, a comfortable pattern, one he can get used to.
“Whatcha doing?” Namjoon peeks his head into the history isle after tending to a customer, a college freshman searching for study material.
The blue boy smiles up at him. “Drawing.”
“Drawing what?” Namjoon leans up against the edge of the bookcase, peering down at him.
“Things,” the boy answers, glancing back down at his sketchbook to add a few more strokes to the paper. “Lips, mostly.”
“So you really don’t come here to read.”
“I’m not good at reading,” The boy purses his bottom lip apologetically, before Namjoon can backtrack. “I don’t think I’m great with words at all. Never was. That’s why I draw.”
Namjoon’s contemplative look lingers on him, bent over his sketchbook, hair long and falling into his eyes.
“Can I see?” He says into the silence, and the boy glances back up at him in short surprise.
“Oh, sure.” He scoots over, patting the rug beside him. Namjoon hesitates, before dusting himself off and tucking himself into the corner beside him.
The sketchbook is medium sized, warm brown, solid. The page it’s opened to is scattered with doodles, unfinished thoughts strung out in lines and scribbles, scratch marks, swirls, blotches of color.
It’s beautiful, oddly, abstract too. Namjoon feels like he’s looking right into his mind, laid out in stone.
“You draw lips a lot,” Namjoon notices, and the boy hums in confirmation. “they’re the first thing I notice when I meet someone new.”
Oh, really. Namjoon subconsciously catches his own bottom lip between his teeth. The boy is watching him, when Namjoon looks back up at him, and something in his eyes, teasing, gentle, knows exactly what Namjoon is thinking.
“I’ve been calling you Blue Boy in my head for a while now,” Namjoon spills out into the slight tension. “Do you have a real name I could replace that with?”
“Taehyung,” the boy supplies, batting his eyelashes prettily. Namjoon scoffs, pushing at his knee. Taehyung giggles again, pleasant, even now, his head toppling over, ghosting Namjoon’s shoulder. “And what’s yours? I’ve been calling you Pretty Boy in my head for a while now.”
Namjoon’s mouth falls open, and Taehyung fully laughs, entire body crossing the line, the warm one that separated their bodies from pressing into each other, falling into Namjoon’s space, into Namjoon’s body.
“You can’t do that,” Namjoon sputters in protests, face burning warm, warm, warm. Taehyung’s laughter, fairy dust, rings pleasantly through his body.
“It’s Namjoon,” he says from behind his book, peeking over it towards where Taehyung was strung out across the carpet. Taehyung glances up at him, eyes wide, mouth popped open in confusion. It clears in a moment, though, where his smile unfolds like paper on his face. It’s a comfortable kind of warm, one Namjoon could get used to.
The days are getting warmer when Taehyung asks for Namjoon’s email.
“Why email?” Namjoon inquires, cocking his head to the side. “Old fashioned I see.”
Taehyung plays with his hands while he responds, twining and untwining, twisting, nervous. It’s more endearing than it is disconcerting, given that Namjoon doesn't think he’s seen Taehyung nervous a day in his life. “Well, I wanted to ask for your number but I was told that’s too forward.”
“Told by who?”
“A friend.” Taehyung clears his throat. “I don’t have a lot of experience with this stuff like he does so I asked and he said I should take it slow so I thought — I thought…”
Namjoon is stunned, a little flushed. His throat catches a little. His smile is fond, soft. “Oh.”
Taehyung leaves with Namjoon’s number in hand.
He holds it for a while, too.
Unknown number
[1 Attached image]
found the prettiest lips today!!!
8:18 PM
first of all
good evening to you too
second of all
who in the world are you
third of all
that’s a very good drawing. thank you for sharing
fourth of all
8:19 PM
Unknown number
i’ve never heard anyone go further than second
8:21 PM
well there’s a first for everything
i’ve never received a random text claiming they “found lips” either
what does that even mean
i’m mildly concerned??
also again who are you
8:25 PM
Unknown number
bookshop boy
taehyung
have you forgotten me already </3
8:25 PM
ahhhhhh yes
Bookshop Boy
what of course not
how could i
8:26 PM
.....
hey you still there
8:40 PM
bookshop boy
:~)
don’t worry, i only kidnap dogs, not lips
that was a joke
kind of
8:42 PM
thank you for sharing
8:43 PM
bookshop boy
that sounded sarcastic
8:45 PM
it wasn’t
the lips are pretty, you’re right
8:48 PM
bookshop boy
mine?
no wait i meant mine as in mine the
Drawing
8:51 PM
yeah i
both are pretty
8:55 PM
bookshop boy
both of what
8:55 PM
i think i’m about to die
you already know
don’t make me say it
8:56 PM
bookshop boy
pfttt i know i’m kidding
you’re cute
thanks hyung
8:58 PM
you’re horrible
of course
9:00 PM
—
bookshop boy
i’m drawing a cashier’s lips today
they were red
sharp but soft
soft at the edges
if u looked close enough
9:23 AM
i’m sure you were looking
9:46 AM
library boy
i sure was
i think he thought i was hitting on him
9:47 AM
i mean
were you
9:50 AM
bookshop boy
nope
but he was pretty
really pretty actually
9:56 AM
oh
well
10:01 AM
bookshop boy
is something wrong
10:02 AM
not at all
can i see it? when it’s done
10:02 AM
bookshop boy
[1 Attached image]
just finished
10:20 AM
it looks really good wow
you’re good
you have an eye for this stuff
10:23 AM
bookshop boy
thank you hyung
i’m blushing <3
10:24 AM
are you really
10:28 AM
Picasso’s son
yes
although a little less now since it’s been six minutes
10:30 AM
can i see anyway
10:31 AM
Picasso’s son
like facetime?
10:32 AM
yeah
if that’s okay?
10:34 AM
Picasso’s son
of course it’s okay
i’m excited wtf
okay calling
are you ready
well too late i’m already calling
10:36 AM
Jimin is behind the counter when Taehyung comes around one day, reading over Namjoon’s shoulder. Taehyung’s eyes are bright with a smile until he spots them, dimming instantly in confusion. Namjoon looks up upon his entrance, ready to wave hello, before catching his expression and faltering. Taehyung seems to be evaluating the situation before him, in a detached, disinterested way that tells Namjoon that he was very interested, that he cared more than he would let himself let on. Namjoon thinks he understands, under the weight of Jimin’s body draped over his back, head leaned against Namjoon’s.
He hears the question before Taehyung asks it.
“Oh, hey, is that your boyfriend?”
Namjoon still sputters anyway, while Jimin lets out a good-natured laugh.
“No, not at all,” Jimin fills in for Namjoon. He gently pushes off of him, bowing towards Taehyung. “I’m Jimin, Namjoon’s best and only friend, as far as I’ve known until now. And you are?”
“He’s not my friend,” Namjoon grumbles, pushing his chair away from Jimin. “He just helps around. Against my will. He’s currently trespassing. I was just about to call the police before you came.”
He thinks it did the job to ease the slight tension as Taehyung’s easy grin is back, sweeping into his own little bow. “Hello Jimin, Namjoon’s friend. I’m Taehyung. Also Namjoon’s friend.”
“Guess we already have something in common then,” Jimin notes. He turns to Namjoon, then, and says very unashamedly, “He’s pretty, I like him. You’ve got my blessing.”
Namjoon’s irritated blush hasn’t cured when Jimin leaves finally, to “give the two of them privacy,” whatever that means.
Namjoon knows exactly what it means.
(He thinks Taehyung might too.)
“I never thought about that, actually,” Taehyung notes, drawing along the patterns on the counter, looking back up at Namjoon. “Do you really manage this place on your own?”
Namjoon shrugs. “For the most part. It’s no big deal, though.”
Taehyung’s hand flattens against the surface. He leans forward eagerly. “Hire me.”
Namjoon falters. “What?”
“Hire me.” Taehyung’s hands curl into fists, excited ones. “I want to work.”
“Are you sure? Jimin the only one who ever lets himself get trapped here. I agree with him, it might get boring. I could help you find a really good job, a better one, if that’s what you want—”
“Hyung,” he unfolds his hands on Namjoon’s arm. They burn hot. Namjoon looks up at him, and Taehyung holds his gaze firm. “You’re not hearing what I want. I want to work, work here. I want to work here with you.”
Namjoon opens and closes his mouth, and understands, understands a little too much, a little terribly, a little exhilaratingly. Taehyung seems to notice the moment he does, because he continues, with a small smile, “Is that okay?”
Namjoon exhales easy. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
Namjoon smiles easy, smiles back. “Okay.”
It’s a comfortable kind of warm, one Namjoon has gotten used to.
The days are cooling down again, but he doesn’t feel it under the weight of Taehyung slinging an arm around him in greeting now, resting his chin into the crook of his neck, leaning into him when he laughs. It’s a comfortable kind of warmth, one that settles deep into his marrow, into his smile, into his routine. Taehyung falls into him easy, or Namjoon falls into him, or they fall into each other, a muddled, forgotten line.
Discarded.
(Space is lost between them,)
Nonexistent.
(Time is numberless, strung into days full of coffee, of books, of coffee, of Taehyung)
It’s a comfortable kind of warm, one Namjoon has gotten used to.
“Have you named your dog yet?” It’s another wet day, reminiscent of when Taehyung first stumbled upon the shop, upon him. Taehyung is seated across from him, in another wheeled chaired, nose stuffed in his sketchbook. He responds from behind it, “I actually have. His name is Yeontan.”
“Oh, cute.” Namjoon leans forward, resting his chin in his palm. “And when do I get to meet him?”
Taehyung is silent for a moment, hands stilling. He lowers the sketchbook into his lap.
“You can,” he says quietly. “After this shift, maybe? When we’re closing up.”
Namjoon hums in agreement, watching him for a moment longer when he shifts his attention back to his sketchbook.
He doesn’t know what he was expecting, when Taehyung leads Namjoon down a block or two, until they reach the town’s park. Taehyung maneuvers them towards a car, a black one, parked to the side of the road, near the benches, the trees. It reminds Namjoon, vaguely, of Taehyung’s first appearance in the shop, tucked away into the corner, curled into himself. The thought leaves a funny taste on his tongue.
The taste grows strong when Taehyung calls out softly for Yeontan. The dog, small and fluffy, bounds toward them and into Taehyung’s crouched figure, sending them both careening.
It takes a minute for it to dawn on him, while Taehyung is chuckling and whispering sweet words into Yeontan’s fur. It takes a moment for it to dawn on him.
The taste isn’t funny anymore, when it does.
“Taehyung,” Namjoon says slowly, eyebrows creasing. “You’re…?”
Taehyung glances up at him, before looking back down at Yeontan in his lap, stroking his head softly.
“He’s heard so much about you,” Taehyung says quietly. “Say hello.”
“Taehyung,” Namjoon starts again, but only Taehyung shakes his head with a smile. “I didn’t want you to worry. I knew you would. I know you will, even after I tell you not to, right?”
“Of course I will,” Namjoon says, biting down hard on his bottom lip. “Ease them then, please? I have a spare room, I wouldn’t mind.”
“I couldn’t,” Taehyung waves him off light heartedly, but he’s won’t meet his eyes anymore.
“Yes, you could,” Namjoon insists, pleads. “Please.”
“Hyung—”
“Taehyung.”
It’s silent for a moment, where Taehyung’s hand is stoic on Yeontan’s head, where Taehyung’s mouth is pressed downward, stressed, worrisome. Namjoon wonders for a moment if maybe he shouldn’t have pried so hard, that maybe there was a reason Taehyung hadn’t said a word about it in the first place.
“Fine,” Taehyung relents, petting Yeontan one last time, before setting him back down onto the ground before him. He uses his free hand to haul himself up, to dust himself off. “Just for one night, and that’s it.”
One night drags into the morning, where Namjoon wakes up to happy barking in his ear and Taehyung yelling about breakfast,
Which drags into days, day Taehyung spends printing his warmth gesture by gesture into every corner of Namjoon’s home,
Into weeks,
Into—
Namjoon finds Taehyung curled up on the couch one evening, sketchbook in hand as usual. When Namjoon peers closer, he sees that Taehyung has almost reached its end.
“Whatcha drawing?” Namjoon asks, sliding into the empty space next to him. His body is warm where it rests against Taehyung’s.
“More lips, as always,” Taehyung answers easily, leaning into Namjoon’s space to let him see better. Namjoon hums in affirmation, taking in the new page. “Whose are they this time?”
“The costumer from yesterday, the one with the pretty cupid’s bow? Small lips, almost cherry red. He smelled like strawberry lip balm.”
Namjoon makes a noise when he remembers. “Ah right, him. He was cute, wasn’t he? Super shy.” He traces the curve of the customer’s lips on the sheet with his eyes, dipped in a blush of red, a swirl of vague lines, pieced together like a neat bow. “Super sweet, too.”
Taehyung grins at him. “I think he thought you were cute.”
Namjoon draws back in surprise, before shaking his head in disagreement. “No way. His eyes were all over you .”
“Or maybe it was Jimin,” Taehyung murmurs thoughtfully. “He seemed to forget how to speak when Jimin emerged from the back. It was the cutest thing.”
Namjoon cocks his head. “You’re observant. How would you describe Jimin’s lips?”
Taehyung purses his bottom lip in surprise. “Well...they’re...plump, doll-like. Pouty. He had pink lip gloss on today. It went great with his outfit.”
Namjoons hums. “I agree, I’ve been telling him he should try pink hair dye. The color looks cute on him. How would you describe your own?”
Taehyung is giving Namjoon a look, which he meets halfway. His hand has stopped moving across the page. Namjoon angles his head again in anticipation.
“Well,” Taehyung starts slowly, letting himself think for a moment. He wets his lips absentmindedly, swallows when he catches Namjoon catching the movement. “Mine are pretty wide, I think. Rectangular. Obscure. They look darker lately. I have a mole on my bottom lip.”
“You bite them a lot,” Namjoon says lightly, as if the tension wasn’t thick enough, “Maybe that’s why? But they’re unique. Pretty. How would you describe mine?”
Taehyung’s mouth closes, opens. Their bodies are warm, warm, warm, pressed against each other the way they are. He becomes hyper aware of every movement, Taehyung’s fingers when they skim across the space between his and where Namjoon’s lay, his eyelashes when they flutter, his mouth when it moves.
“Pink,” he says. “Rosy, plush. Warm, maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Impossibly close, a breath away. Namjoon is warm all over, thinks he could burst, melt, sink in it. “Do you want to?”
“Maybe,” Taehyung starts, “yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes,” Taehyung murmurs, eyelashes fluttering against Namjoon’s nose.
Warm, sweet, Namjoon lists in his head, words Taehyung forgot to add when describing his lips. Warm sweet, sugary. He tastes of mint toothpaste, of coffee, of rain. Taehyung sighs into his mouth, soft, pretty, and Namjoon decides, melting into Taehyung’s hold, he could tell him later.
“You said being decent isn’t nobel,” Namjoon asks idly, spinning around his chair. He plants his feet, stopping the motion so that he’s facing forward again. The sunlight outside paints itself in streaks across the carpeted floor. “On the day we first met. If it isn’t nobel, then what is it?”
“It’s human,” Taehyung glances up from the book he was studying on the floor across from him, encased in the light, crowned by it. He smiles, earnestly. “It’s human, hyung.”