Chapter Text
It wasn’t a crack of thunder that made Yoongi jump out of his skin, but the resounding bang that followed just before a streak of lightning lit up the room.
But lightning strikes before thunder, he thinks, remembering reading it in a textbook during a Maths lesson because he liked to rebel in small increments and did this by studying for subjects in the wrong classes. Then, years later, sitting on a studio floor coated in crumbs and energy drink cans, Namjoon had said something like, “Sound travels slower than light, so if anyone can’t see a light at the end of the tunnel… maybe they just missed it. Maybe our music can help ‘em catch up.”
And Yoongi had — well. He had snorted and shoved him and said, “Man, that’s gay,” and Namjoon laughed like he’d been joking, but. Yoongi had had to turn the volume up to pretend he was focused on whatever they were watching, because he was so fixated on Namjoon’s words. Back then, he only ever came out with stuff like that on paper, too shy to say it aloud in case… in case someone responded like Yoongi had, but without teasing.
(Even just as teasing, it was still harmful; Yoongi knew that now and cringed every time the memory floated back up to the surface.)
“You’d better not be planning on coming in with your shoes on!” comes Jin’s voice from somewhere in the apartment.
Yoongi blinks and threw an arm over the back of the sofa, turning to see Namjoon with one boot-clad foot frozen over the threshold. Oh, so he was the one who slammed the door. Namjoon visibly sighed, scowling at nothing as he kicked off the chunky boots (Aren’t those Jungkook’s?) and then edged around the rug in his sodden socks, which made wet squelching sounds as he walked. His hair was dripping wet and so were all his clothes, leaving a trail of tiny puddles behind him.
Yoongi stares at his wet, sad looking boots that seemed to wilt under the weight of water and he thought Namjoon looked a bit like that too. So, with a sigh, he heaves himself up, lamenting the loss of a comfy evening spent lounging on the sofa; a rare gift. Still, Namjoon is more important, so Yoongi pads down the hall in his slippers, avoiding the puddles Namjoon had left in his wake.
The house is quiet today: Taehyung was spending some time at his other apartment; Jungkook had gone out early this morning with other friends, and Jimin and Hoseok had left for a meeting with their lead choreographer around midday and ended up going some other place afterwards. Only Jin and Yoongi had been home, until Namjoon just stormed through the house. But despite the whirlwind entrance, Namjoon was silent as soon as he stepped inside.
Yoongi raps his knuckles against Namjoon’s door. “Namjoon-ah,” he calls, voice a little rough from disuse; he had planned on spending his day off in the solace of his own, quiet company, and that’s what he’d been doing. No answer is forthcoming and, to be fair, maybe Namjoon hadn’t heard Yoongi — but Yoongi can hear rustling fabric and soft things falling over. Curiosity piqued, he clears his throat and tries again: “Joon-ah, you good?”
But Namjoon still doesn’t reply and Yoongi’s getting a little worried by the silence. Normally Namjoon would at least brush off concern with a yeah, don’t worry. However little Yoongi believed it when he said that, at least it was something; a tiny acknowledgement that Yoongi hoped meant Namjoon would come to him if something was wrong. Because he had been getting better at that, lately: sharing his feelings.
So, why wasn’t he now?
Thoughts driving a mile-a-minute like a freight train headed for the worst possible destination, Yoongi’s restraint dissolves and he pushes the door open to find — darkness.
He squints, as if that will activate his night-vision, and barely makes out the shape of several lumps stacked on Namjoon’s bed, outline barely illuminated by the streetlight filtering through the one gap in the curtains. "Why're your lights off, Joon?" Yoongi mumbles, fumbling for the light switch.
The rustling halts. "Hyung, don't—" Namjoon blurts just as Yoongi hits the switch.
He's about to turn it off again with an apology on the top of his tongue — but it fizzles away when he finally looks at Namjoon.
Namjoon stares back at him, eyes impossibly wide, from where he's curled up on the bed. Surrounded by mountains of blankets, pillows, and plushies, he's practically enveloped in a cacoon of quilts with barriers on every side.
"Are you sick?" he asks; it's his first thought, with how Namjoon has swaddled himself with a quilt and surrounded himself with what looks like every blanket in the apartment. His face is brightly flushed, too, so it makes sense.
But Namjoon flinches like Yoongi slapped him and drops his eyes into his lap as he jerks upright. He whispers something Yoongi doesn't catch, picking at bobbling fabric on his fuzzy pyjamas.
"Huh?" Yoongi asks, stepping closer.
Namjoon shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he whispers, voice hoarse.
He must be ill, Yoongi thinks after hearing the pained lilt to his voice. But apologising? He raises an eyebrow. "You didn't get sick on purpose, Joon-ah, it's okay," Yoongi says, half teasing, but also half serious because Namjoon looks seconds away from panicking.
"It's not," Namjoon breathes.
Yoongi opens his mouth to ask what the fuck he's on about, but the words die in his throat when Namjoon sniffles wetly and swipes at his eyes with a too-long sleeve. "Joonie," he says softly, awkwardness evaporating and leaving pure worry behind. He rushed over to him--
"Don't," Namjoon gasps, voice high and airy, and he finally looks at Yoongi but he has beads of tears teetering on his lashes, ready to spill over. "Please don't sit down."
Baffled, Yoongi freezes a couple strides away from Namjoon's bed. "Fuck, Joon-ah, you're scaring me," Yoongi admits, ready to call Jin in to help. "What's—" wrong? he's about to ask, but Namjoon cuts him off with:
"I'm sorry."
Yoongi just shakes his head, uncomprehending.
This only seems to make Namjoon worse. "I know it's wrong," he adds, gaze flickering between his lap and Yoongi's chin, as if he can't bring himself to meet his eyes. "It's weird, or whatever, but. It just — it makes me—" He winces, head dropping, and his shoulders shake when he says, yet again, "I'm sorry."
Yoongi huffs and shoves his hair out of his face. "Fuck's sake, Namjoon, sorry for what?" He doesn't mean to snap, but it's just so weird for Namjoon to act so nervous and upset and it's putting Yoongi on edge.
But then Namjoon's breath hitches and he feels like shit right away. Yeah, Namjoon isn't normally so quick to get so sad, so obviously there must be a good reason and Yoongi isn't helping by getting worked up.
"Joon-ah," he says again, softer this time, "hey, can you look at me?" He kneels down as he says it, resting his hands on Namjoon's knees.
Namjoon responds better to that, dragging wet eyes up to meet his.
"That's it." Yoongi smiles, raising a hand to ruffle Namjoon's hair. It's soft; softer than it was when he used to do this.
Then he realises: it's been a while since he'd done this. He used to rustle Namjoon's hair and Namjoon would huff and bat him away and grouse, but his ears would go pink and Yoongi would catch a dimple as he turned away. That was back when Namjoon's hair was a totally different texture and Yoongi doesn't know when or why he stopped, because it feels fluffy now and Namjoon's shoulders are deflating like the tension's filtering out from the touch.
"Namjoon-ah," he says again, moments later, and Namjoon stiffens again, but keeps his eyes fixed on Yoongi's. He's good at that: confronting his fears. It's something Yoongi's always admired in him. "I think we're misunderstanding each other," he admits, surprised at his own honesty. How many fights would they have vetoed in the past if they had used those words? "You think I'm pissed."
Namjoon nods.
"Can you tell me why?"
Namjoon grimaces, clutching his Shooky plush tighter. Yoongi thinks if he realised he was holding it, he'd throw it across the room. "Uh…" Namjoon tries, then bites his lip. "I, um…"
Yoongi waits.
"I… just…" Namjoon sighs, a quick frustrated burst of air, then shakes his head once.
"Okay," Yoongi says patiently, squeezing his knee. "Tell me what's weird. That's what you're sorry for, right? Something weird?"
Namjoon's eyes snap back up, and now he's starting at Yoongi with furrowed brows over wet eyes. He still looks like he might cry, but also like he wanted to punch Yoongi. Which, that? He could deal with. Sad Namjoon hours? Not so much. "Don't take the piss, Yoongi," Namjoon snapped, and Yoongi would snap back if Namjoon wasn't cuddling his plush tighter and curling up like he wanted to disappear. "What, it isn't humiliating enough already?"
Yoongi shakes his head, wanting to shout, but knowing he shouldn't. Namjoon wasn't angry; he was scared of something. "I don't understand," he says calmly.
Namjoon's laugh is bitter. "Of course you don't, it isn't normal. Water isn't dry, spiders aren't insects, and Alphas don't make nests. It's fucking weird and creepy and gross and I never meant for anyone to see it, I—" but a sob cut off his tirade and he smashed his palms into his eyes to rub the tears away like sandpaper.
And, oh.
Oh.
His bed, piled with blankets, steeped with pillows… just like Jungkook's and Jin's when they were stressed, or when their pre-heats hit.
Namjoon had made a nest.
Yoongi had almost entered it without asking; without waiting for Namjoon's go-ahead.
But he knows that this was what Namjoon doesn't need: Yoongi realising what Namjoon had done and freaking out and trying to pretend he knew from the moment he'd walked in.
Besides that, though? It really shouldn't be a surprise. Every late night they spent in one of their studios together, when they had a deadline they had to meet, Namjoon would surround them with a horizon of quilts and cushions. Whenever they had a long journey, Namjoon draped his chair in plushies and steal the sweaters of whoever discarded theirs. When Jin or Jungkook's heat was due, Namjoon would accumulate the entire vicinity's bedding and buy extra blankets and fresh, fluffy pillowcases.
It wasn't surprising for someone less oblivious than Yoongi.
"Spiders aren't insects?" Yoongi asks, shocked. "What the hell are they then?"
"Hoseok would say hellspawn," Namjoon mumbles, breath hitching and rubbing his eyes harder, "but they're arachnids. They're in the same family as scorpions."
Yoongi files that away for later, but right now he gently takes Namjoon's wrists and tugs his hands away from his face. "You'll hurt your eyes, Joon-ah," he reprimands with the voice he only tends to use when the youngest members get particularly emotional.
But Namjoon's his dongsaeng, too. And even if he wasn't, he was still his friend.
Still, Yoongi thinks, Namjoon likes being reminded he's not the oldest, sometimes.
"Joon-ah," he murmurs, kneading circles into the back of his hand. Namjoon stares, lip wobbling. "I don't care if you like making nests," he says, a little exasperated and a lot fond.
Namjoon has the gall to look surprised. "What?" he breathes, voice a bit wrecked from holding back tears.
"Namjoon." Yoongi sighs. "You've low-key been nesting since I've known you. You'd barrel into my studio in, like, twelve layers of clothes, then take most of 'em off to make a bed for yourself on my sofa. Then you'd take my jacket, too." He glanced over Namjoon's heaped pile of fabric and then squinted at him. "Have you taken any of my clothes for this one?"
Namjoon's eyes widen and a couple thick tears spill out. "Huh?" he asks, baffled, but then flushes red and stammers, "No! No, I wouldn't, not without — I wouldn't without asking…" He drops his gaze to the bed, picking at fabric, and sighs again. "Man, I. This is so weird, hyung, 'm sorry. Can we just — I'm sorry you saw, but you aren't obligated to stay and make me feel better. I know you find this sort of thing awkward."
Yoongi huffs, irritated but unable to stop himself from smiling. No matter how mature Namjoon got; no matter how articulate he was; no matter how fans and critics alike put him on some proverbial pedestal, he was still Namjoon. Yoongi's dongsaeng; Yoongi's little brother; Yoongi's best friend, who was shy when he was vulnerable and vulnerable when he was shy. He was able to cut you apart with words one minute, then look to you for approval the next. He could thrash you at any game when he was focused, but was happy to fumble along and laugh when he lost.
His edges had eroded from the Namjoon Yoongi first met, but he was still the same awkward, thoughtful, sharp-one-minute-and-soft-the-next Namjoon he had known when he first met the kid.
"Joon-ah, you idiot," he says gently, tapping his chin with his forefinger until Namjoon looks him in the eye. "You're my friend. I care about you, moron, even if I'm shit at showing it."
Namjoon's eyes widen again and a couple of tears spill out without permission. "You're not, hyung." He puts both his hands over Yoongi's that are still resting on his knee. "I think we're both just clumsy with comfort that's not indirect," he says softly. "With each other in particular, because we've been friends since we were going through our ugly duckling stages. Both in terms of my hair and our shitty attitudes."
It's a weak shot at a joke, but the fact that he is feeling calm enough to do it is reassuring. Yoongi feels his lips curve into a lopsided grin that has Namjoon smiling shyly back. "My hair wasn't much better," he offers.
Namjoon looks unimpressed. "Hyung," he says flatly, "please don't outright lie to me."
Yoongi snorts. "Well, it suits you better in its natural texture," Yoongi settles on, never good at being anything but truthful. "Every colour looks good on you though, Joon-ah." Yoongi ruffles Namjoon's silver-blond hair. When he drops his hand, he sees how flushed Namjoon's face is. He snickers. "Getting shy, Joonie?"
"Hyungie, st—" He halts, eyes widening, and his cheeks burn red.
Yoongi feels his own face heat up. Fuck, it's not fair when Namjoon acts like this, he thinks weakly. Whenever Namjoon drops his public persona, when he lets himself be himself , he'll do little things like this: ask Yoongi what he's eating, eyes wide because he obviously wants a bite; pout at Jimin when he teases him, even though on stage he'll often just roll his eyes; beg Taehyung to do something with him, because he's too scared to do it by himself.
Yoongi's newest addition to this list of Things Namjoon Does When He's Soft is, apparently: Namjoon calls Yoongi hyungie.
He's only done it jokingly before, and even then only a handful of times. He must be thinking this too, because he's so red his face resembles Tata's head.
So Yoongi says, "You're so red you look like Tata right now."
Namjoon's jaw drops and Yoongi barks a laugh—
Pomf!
—only to be hit by a pillow in the very next moment.
The pillow slides off of his face and he blinks. Once. Twice.
Namjoon chuckles.
"Kim Namjoon," Yoongi says with more patience than he has ever portrayed, "pass me a pillow, or I will go steal one of Jin-hyung's."
Namjoon's eyes widen. Yoongi knows he knows the ones he's talking about: those hard back-support ones.
He takes a few seconds too long so Yoongi sighs a long-suffering sigh and says, "Aight. Guess I'mma head to get one of Jin's—"
"No, hyung, just — you can—" Namjoon fumbles, then tosses Yoongi a pillow.
Yoongi catches it easily, a smirk lighting up his face. "Good choice, Joon-ah," he praised, fabric scraping under his nails as he grips it tight.
Namjoon stares.
Yoongi raises the pillow — and brings it down.
Namjoon squawks, dodges out of the way and grabs a different pillow. Yoongi launches another attack, only for Namjoon to shield himself with his latest baby pink one. As Yoongi draws back for another hit, Namjoon rolls further back onto the bed.
Yoongi huffs. “Cheater,” he says, but he knows he's smiling, “I can't reach you there.”
Namjoon smirks back, but it's one of those shy ones, the amusement belied by the tiny dimple and rosy cheeks that tell Yoongi he's actually flustered right now, however cocky he tries to act. “You better come get me then,” he taunts, “since your arms are too short to reach.”
Yoongi’s jaw drops. Did Namjoon really just—?
He grabs the nearest pillow, takes a deep breath, and then launches himself onto the bed and pelts Namjoon with it. Namjoon squeals, trying to save himself by hitting back, but since Yoongi’s an Alpha, he has pretty much equal strength behind his blows, so Namjoon finds himself being shoved down into his massive nest of pillows and—
Wait.
Yoongi freezes.
Namjoon’s pillow pomfs him right on the head, then slides slowly off. Namjoon stills, realising Yoongi didn’t react to being hit with an offended squawk, and sits up on his elbows to regard him with no small degree of concern. “Yoongi,” he says carefully, eyes flitting from one side of Yoongi’s face to the other on repeat, “is everything okay?”
And Yoongi realises Namjoon looks too worried for it to just be about Yoongi’s mental state; he’s probably overthinking something stupid like how Yoongi must actually be grossed out despite having a pillow fight with him, but really it’s just because — “You let me in your nest.”
Namjoon’s eyes widen and they get that little shine in them that they always do when he opens them that much. “Um.” He mustn’t be able to look away, because he’s still staring at him despite how steadily his ears are flushing red. “I… I guess.” He clears his throat.
“I,” Yoongi starts, stops; reconsiders how to phrase his thoughts when his thoughts are run-on sentences that are running so fast they’re out of his reach. “I didn’t ask if I could, though. I’m — shit, Joon, I—”
“Hyung,” Namjoon says, somehow sounding exasperated even when he’s anxious; he even rolls his eyes as he drags a cushion to his chest to hug it. “You said I’ve kind of always nested without even realising it.” He pauses. Yoongi nods after a moment, and that must be what Namjoon wanted, because he continues, “Well, for as long as I’ve been throwing together shitty nests, you’ve been barrelling into them.” He shifts awkwardly, cuddling the pillow closer, and Yoongi almost wishes he picked Shooky back up. “So… y’know.” He shrugs one shoulder, trying too hard to look nonchalant; the whole manoeuvre is belied by how red he is and it’s making Yoongi feel stupidly, painfully soft towards his tall dongsaeng. “I think I’ve always been fine with you being in my nests,” he finally manages to say, staring at his pillow intently.
Then he looks up and looks worried for a second and Yoongi realises he started making a weird noise in the back of his throat. He clears it, feeling his own face warm up. Namjoon was just acting so… cute. “I — Joon-ah, that means a lot,” he says, a bit hoarse. “Can I sit next to you?”
Namjoon scuttles deeper into his nest, only for the back wall of pillows to collapse in on itself. He grunts, scowling, and goes to fix it. Yoongi meets him half-way, slotting the last cushion back into place, and then nestles against Namjoon’s side. Namjoon feels a little tense; Yoongi can feel how he’s holding himself up straight, how he twitches back when their shoulders brush.
With a huff, Yoongi wraps an arm around Namjoon’s back and yanks him against his side. “Just relax, kid.”
“Don’t call me ‘kid.’ I’m only a year younger than you,” Namjoon retorts, but he obliges and melts against Yoongi’s side. He sighs softly, so quiet Yoongi isn’t sure he was meant to hear it.
“‘I’m only a year younger, hyung,’” Yoongi corrects. “A year’s a year. You remind Jimin and Tae often.”
“That’s different,” Namjoon says, waving a hand. Yoongi takes the opportunity to pass him Shooky back, guiltily gratified when Namjoon takes it without thinking and hugs it close, too distracted by their conversation to pay attention to what he’s holding. “Those two – and Jungkook – they’re the babies. The ‘maknae line’, and all that.”
“Mm,” Yoongi hums, sliding a hand up to card through Namjoon’s hair. Namjoon melts even more, eyes falling shut, and he pushes his head against Yoongi’s hand. Ah, my heart stopped, Yoongi thinks with an alarming level of calmness. “You’re practically part of the maknae line too, Joon.”
Namjoon tenses. Yoongi feels his eyes shoot open where his lashes tickle his arm and hears the sharp intake of breath. He resumes stroking Namjoon’s hair, deliberately casual, and Namjoon eventually relaxes again and breathes a little chuckle. “Not really,” he finally says, too delayed for it to really be flippant; he’s clearly thought about it before. “I’m a ‘94-liner, like Hobi. We’re the middle children.”
“Go on, call Hobi ‘hyung’,” Yoongi half-teases, “he’ll like it. I bet you can make him do anything for you if you call him that.”
“Hyung!” Namjoon tilts his head back to grin at him, mirth shining in his eyes. He snickers. “That’s so—” He shakes his head, smiling. “No way.”
“I dare you,” Yoongi says. “And I bet you ₩10,000 he’ll do anything you ask when you call him it.”
Namjoon snorts, shaking his head. “Sure, fine,” he grouses, but he sounds amused. “Buy me coffee when you’re wrong and he makes fun of me for the rest of forever.”
Yoongi hums in agreement. “Sure,” he says easily, resuming his stroking of Namjoon’s hair and smiling when Namjoon slumps against him, “and you build me a nest in my studio during our next all-nighter when you’re wrong.”
Namjoon whines and buries his face in Yoongi’s side and Yoongi counts this conversation as a win.
They lie there for what feels like hours, too cosy and warm to move, especially with the domestic sounds of Jin cleaning cutlery in the background. Yoongi feels himself begin to drift off to sleep when he hears Namjoon whisper, “Thank you for being you, Yoongi-hyung.”
Then Namjoon nuzzles his arm, sighs quietly, and slowly goes limp. Yoongi can’t stop smiling as he falls asleep.