Archive of Our Own

“I hope when people ask what you'll do with it, you’ll say 'carry it with me, as I do everything that matters.'”

Namjoon tapped his pen against the wooden desk, eyes wandering over the stacks of ledgers and receipts and order forms piled in front of him. He could feel the beginnings of a headache building up behind his eyes and he dropped his pen, bringing his hands up to rub against his temples, trying to massage out the frustration.

The tediousness of running the store—filling orders, balancing the register, paying bills-- was something that he hadn’t anticipated before he opened it. He was trying hard to not let it suck the joy out of his job, this wild brainchild that had brought him so much peace and fulfillment over the past few months. Casting his eyes around the place he felt a small bubble of pride rise up in his chest.

The bookstore was filled to the brim with books, both used and new, everything from large encyclopedia volumes to design magazines to thin books of poetry and thick fantasy novels. To make up for it’s small size, the bookstore was packed with shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, all bought second-hand, different colors and sizes and widths. The aisles were narrow, too narrow for Namjoon to stretch his elbows out fully, but it gave the place a maze-like feeling that made you want to wander and get lost. That was exactly how Namjoon wanted his customers to feel, like they could step in here and lose track of time, just like getting lost in a good book.

And after a few months of being open, the store managed to attract a decent number of customers, many of them regulars. It was never crowded, and there were some days when only one or two people would come in, but despite his initial misgivings, the store did alright. Well, even. A sizeable number of people seemed just as taken with the place as Namjoon, and even if they never exchanged more than a few words, his customers helped ease some of the tension in his chest, the feeling of drifting unmoored that often lodged itself right beneath his heart.

Up until last week Namjoon had placed every book on each shelf himself, a point of pride on his part, but as the books in the back room piled up and the shop got busier and busier, he found himself less and less excited to wake up in the mornings. When he brought this up to his therapist she had gently prodded, “And what do you think a solution to this problem might be?”

“Sell the shop?” He had responded miserably, but as the words left his mouth he felt panicked and looked up at her with wide eyes.

She smiled but her eyes twinkled with held-in laughter, “Well, why don’t you just try hiring someone else, Namjoon.”

And so he had done just that, a wide-eyed, eager-to-please college student named Jungkook who had followed him around the first few days like a puppy dog. “Namjoon-ssi, where do the science fiction books go? In science, or fiction?” “Namjoon-ssi, what if I can’t tell if a book is in French or Spanish and I put it in the wrong place by mistake?” “Namjoon-ssi, what if I have more questions and you’re not here?” “Namjoon-ssi--”

Exasperated, Namjoon had run a hand through his hair, “Just call me hyung, please. If you have any questions when I’m out, just write them down and I’ll answer them later. If it’s an emergency, you can call or text me.”

“Nam—Hyung, how will I know whether it’s an emergency or not?”

Namjoon shrugged, “I trust you.” At that, Jungkook’s chest swelled with pride and Namjoon took half a day off, his first break since the store opened. But otherwise, they mostly worked together, with Jungkook coming in for a few hours each day after his classes finished.

Lost in thought, Namjoon was startled out of his daydreams by the chiming of the clock on his wall. Eight pm, time for the shop to close and Namjoon to go back, alone, to his apartment. He sighed and gathered up the papers on his desk, deciding that he would just do them tomorrow. Maybe if he was feeling up to it tonight he could order in and try and get some words written for the novel he was working on—otherwise known as the Bane of his Existence or the Bad Mood Novel, as his mother had come to refer to it.

The shop was silent, and Namjoon stepped carefully towards the back to lock up the store room when suddenly a small movement caught his eye behind a row of bookshelves to his left. He turned and peered around the corner to find someone—a man—curled up in the back corner of the store, between the photography and music sections.

He had seen him two or three times before, always coming in to wander around or buy a book in a different genre. He must have eclectic taste, Namjoon thought.

And every time he came to the counter, Namjoon couldn’t help himself as his cheeks reddened and the words got jumbled in his mouth. Who could blame him—the man had a rough kind of charm that Namjoon found oddly cute. Plus, it had been a while since Namjoon had been with anyone. Like, an embarrassingly long time.

But the man also seemed a little flustered by Namjoon, too, Namjoon noticed with a thrill. The last time he had bought a book, he dropped his credit card on the ground and spent a solid two minutes trying to pick it up with short nails bitten to the quick. “It’s fine, I got it,” he kept mumbling under his breath while Namjoon awkwardly shifted behind the counter.

The same man was currently asleep on his floor. Namjoon stood there dumbly, trying not to be creepy, but also desperately trying to figure a way out of this situation.

One of his knees was pressed to his chest and the other laid on the floor, his back propped up against the bookshelf. His neck was bent at an odd angle as he slept, head bobbing slightly up and down; this movement must have been what caught Namjoon’s eye, he thought. The man held a book loosely in one hand and it had fallen to rest against his chest. Namjoon noticed with amusement that it was a romance novel—one usually bought only by his middle-aged, female customers.

Should he tap him? Drop a book on the floor and pretend like it was an accident? The man looked so small curled up on the floor, and Namjoon glanced back to the clock again. Guiltily, he leaned down and gently touched the man’s shoulder, “Excuse me, sir.”

The man started, his eyes flying open, long black bangs getting tangled in his eyelashes. Namjoon jerked his hand back, feeling his face heat up, “S-Sorry, I didn’t—didn’t mean to scare you.”

The other man jumped up, pale face quickly flushing red as well. He reached up as if to rub his eyes and the book in his arms dropped to the ground. Both of them quickly bent down to get it up and Namjoon felt their heads knock together. They both jerked up and then, upon realizing the book was still on the ground, awkwardly made to reach for it, still giving the other person a wide berth.

Finally, the dark-haired man picked it up and held it out to Namjoon, cover facing up. They both looked down at it—a tall, muscular man on horseback leaning down to cup the face of a sultry, scantily clad woman in pseudo-period clothing—and the other man turned it over so fast that Namjoon thought he would drop it again.

“Do you—Do you want to buy that?” Namjoon stuttered awkwardly as the man’s face, unbelievably, turned even redder than before.

“No—it’s fine—I’m fine,” His voice was low and rough. He turned around to try and find the place for the book on the shelf, hand fluttering around for a minute before realizing he was in the wrong section. He turned back to Namjoon apologetically, mouth set in a grimace.

“Here, I can take it.” Namjoon held out his hand and took the book from the man, awkwardly tagging behind him as the man picked his way through the bookshelf maze to leave the store.

The man pulled at the hem of his oversized shirt, raising one hand in a half wave as he practically flew out the door, head turned towards the ground, pink still dusting his cheeks.

“Thanks for coming in!” Namjoon half-heartedly called after him. As soon as the door closed Namjoon collapsed against his desk, burying his head in his hands and letting out a groan. It was truly amazing he didn’t just combust from embarrassment, right there, and he was thankful that Jungkook hadn’t been here to witness all that. He cursed his awkwardness the whole way home—he was truly hopeless.

The next week passed by in a neutral daze, leaving Namjoon feeling wary, as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. His therapist would say that this was progress, that he didn’t have to always expect his mood to sink so dramatically that it would leave him feeling like he was stranded and drowning.

However, he couldn’t feel like he was happy when he had barely talked to anyone other than his parents in months, when everyone was constantly telling him to put himself out there when he wasn’t sure he even knew how to do that. He hadn’t put himself out there his whole life, what was he supposed to do now? Compared to his old classmates, he was stuck, never moving forward or progressing. Owning a bookshop. His only dream, to others, just a disappointment. Even the book he was working on was coming along at a snail's pace. Namjoon hadn’t had inspiration in months, and his characters felt flat and disappointing. Art reflects life, Namjoon thought to himself. He couldn’t have been a more boring person if he tried.

Lost in thought, he gathered a stack of books from the back room, winding his way through the walls of shelves to sort them in their appropriate place. He heard the door chimes ring and shouted a “Welcome!” from across the store, finishing placing the books in his arms in the appropriate place—autobiographies, historical fiction, self-help.

He grabbed another stack from the back room and set about putting these ones back in place, lost in this mundane task that, he was embarrassed to admit, was just as fulfilling as any of the work he had done in college.

Turning the corner, he picked up a new literary fiction novel from the top of the stack, until he realized someone was already standing in front of the shelf. And not just anyone—the guy from before. Slightly long, dark hair, dressed in an oversized sweater that reached right above mid-thigh, making him look even smaller than he actually was. Today he was wearing a thick-rimmed pair of glasses. Namjoon subconsciously pushed his own pair up his nose as he watched the man stand up on his toes to try and reach a book at the top of the shelf. Something funny fluttered in Namjoon’s chest.

“Are you gonna help me, or…” the man turned towards him, a small smirk playing on his lips. Namjoon felt heat rise to his face and he fumbled with his stack of books as he rushed to put them on the ground.

“Yes—Yes, of course, which one…?”

The dark haired man silently pointed to a thick volume in the center of the shelf, one of Namjoon’s favorites. “This one? Really?” The last part slipped out before Namjoon could get proper control of his tongue.

The other man scoffed and crossed his arms, leaving Namjoon standing with the book in his hand, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. “Well, I couldn’t have you thinking that the stuff I was reading last time was all I read.” The man looked up at him at him through his bangs, just a brief flicker, and Namjoon let out a bark of laughter.

“Hey, no judgment here, I’m the one who stocks this store and there’s a reason that I keep those romance novels on my shelves.” Namjoon paused, “And it’s not just because they sell.”

The man snorted and followed Namjoon to the cash register, “Is this all you’re getting today?” When he nodded, Namjoon rang him up and wrapped the book in a paper bag. Namjoon could still feel his heart beating erratically in his chest, no matter how much he was doing his best to play it cool. There was just something about him—his sleepy eyes, his scratchy voice, the way Namjoon had found him curled up small in a corner of the bookstore as if he belonged there.

“How long has this place been open?” his voice was low and quiet, but it commanded Namjoon’s attention all the same.

Namjoon tilted his head thoughtfully and decided to answer candidly, “I opened it a few months ago, but it’s something I dreamed about for a long time.”

The man nodded and then hesitantly picked up his book. “Well. Thank you.” He nodded at the book and slowly turned to go.

Namjoon felt his heart drop a little bit at the end of the conversation, “Be sure to come back in when you finish!” It came out playfully but the loneliness in the pit of his stomach crawled its way up to his throat and he swallowed painfully.

The man nodded and then took one, two steps towards the door before he whipped around. “Actually, would you like to get coffee sometime?” His expression was determined, even if he couldn’t quite meet Namjoon’s eye. He stuck out his hand, “My name’s Yoongi.”

Namjoon took his hand, “Namjoon. And I would love to get coffee.” He felt a smile spread across his face before he could stop it, and Yoongi looked like he was trying to fight off a smile as well, but was doing a much better job than Namjoon.

“So, when do you get off?”

“Usually, eight, but I have someone else come in around four if that would work better?”

This time Yoongi smiled for real, a smile that lit up his face. “Alright, would four tomorrow work?”

Namjoon’s heart rate picked up as he nodded, “Yeah, that works.”

“Well, I’ll meet you here tomorrow?” And with that Yoongi picked up his book and waved, shooting him another smile before he disappeared out the door.

“Yeah, see you tomorrow.” When Yoongi was out of sight Namjoon sunk down I the chair behind the desk, head in his hands. His heart beat erratically from the conversation, a whirlwind that had ended with him getting a date. An actual, real-life date.

Later, closing the store, Namjoon fervently wished the hours between today and tomorrow would stretch themselves out like a rubber band so he wouldn’t have to wake up in the morning and face the fact that he had a real-life date with a real-life person. A real-life person named Yoongi, with puffy eyes and round cheeks, who dressed in oversized clothes, and, despite all of his false bravado, could only sometimes meet Namjoon’s eye. Namjoon groaned. He really couldn’t do this.

But the night came and went, and Namjoon woke up the next day with a pit in his stomach that didn’t go away until he stepped out of the shop at four, reassuringly calling “It’ll be fine, everything’s fine, you’re gonna do great” over his shoulder to a very nervous Jungkook who flitted between the counter and the door as Namjoon left.

It was pouring outside, and he grabbed his umbrella from the rack outside the door as he made his way to the street to wait for Yoongi.

The bookstore was in a skinny alley in a hip, up and coming part of Seoul. The neighborhood was full of small treasures—quiet art and design cafes, handmade jewelry and clothing shops, Japanese izakayas tucked in small street corners. When he first passed this place—wooden façade painted a navy blue, unfinished window boxes out front, sunken stairs and a crooked roof that somehow added to its charm—Namjoon knew it was perfect. And even in this torrential downpour, the street still looked perfect, shiny and coated in a thick layer of water that ran down the sides of buildings and rushed down towards the drains by the street. Leaves that had fallen from the trees lay stuck flat to the pavement, and he could barely hear the sound of the cars over the beating of rain on asphalt.

His reverie was interrupted by frantic footsteps splashing towards him, the owner a very out of breath, very wet Yoongi clutching a clear plastic umbrella.

“Sorry—late—rain” He put a hand on his knee to breath, giving the umbrella a little swirl to emphasize the poor weather.

“You’re—you’re all wet.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Yoongi shot a weak glare through bangs that dripped down his face.

“But you have an umbrella?”

“Yeah, I literally just bought it,” He pulled the tag that dangled off the handle and stuffed it into his pocket, “I got caught in the rain on the way here.”

“Are you still okay to go somewhere?”

Yoongi shrugged and gave a half-hearted swipe at the hair plastered to his forehead, “As long as we can find somewhere warm.”

The café Namjoon found was as warm as it got, but by the time they ordered and sat down Yoongi was still shivering.

“Really, Yoongi-ssi, if you need to go, I won’t be mad.”

Yoongi cut him off with a wave of his hand, “I’m fine, I promise,” but when the waitress brought over the hot tea they had ordered Yoongi lunged for his mug and cradled it tightly between his hands. “Also, call me hyung. I am your hyung right? I’m ’93.”

Namjoon nodded numbly, “’94.”

Yoongi had started to talk about why it took him so long to get here, something about having to run home from the studio and take his dog out and then forgetting his wallet and going back home, only to be caught in the rain. Namjoon tried to listen really, but this person—this adorable, soft-spoken, charismatic person in front of him was real and this was not a drill.

“Namjoon?”

Namjoon snapped back, his brain still running miles ahead of him, which is probably why he blurted out possibly the dumbest question he could have asked. “Hyung, is this a date?”

Yoongi raised his eyebrows, “Um, yes. I mean, if you want it to be at least.”

“Yes, yes, sorry.” Namjoon responded quickly eyes wide, “I mean, yes I want it to be one.”

The corners of Yoongi’s mouth twitched and he brought the mug to his lips, mumbling something that sounded like “Good” into his tea.

“Also, did you say studio?”

Yoongi laughed and scratched the back of his neck, “Yeah, um, I’m a music producer. Freelance, for now, but it’s going okay.” Namjoon could tell by the pride that leaked into Yoongi’s voice, the way he was practically glowing despite shrinking down in his chair, that Yoongi loved his job.

And so they talked, for almost 2 hours. Namjoon learned Yoongi was from Daegu, had come to Seoul right after high school to study music and music production, but had dropped out of college. Instead, he had started producing freelance on his own, and from there things had slowly improved.

“I dropped out too.” Namjoon had admitted, sheepishly. Yoongi’s eyebrows shot up.

“Really? You seem like the type to enjoy all that.” He waved his hand in the air, “school, studying, the like.”

“I mean, I did, I do, but,” Namjoon chewed on his lip, “I completed my undergrad early and got into the PhD program of my dreams. I wanted to write and be a lit professor.”

“What happened?”

Namjoon shrugged, “It was all too much, I guess. Something snapped. I kind of. Had a breakdown. Went to live with my parents for a few months. Then took all my savings and opened the shop.” He left out how he had been admitted to a psychiatric facility, how for almost a year prior his thought spirals had been so bad he hadn’t been able to write a word in his dissertation, how he had worried constantly he had disappointed everyone—his classmates, professors, parents.

“Are you happy now, at the shop?” Yoongi’s voice was quiet, eyes trained carefully on Namjoon. There was something warm and understanding on his face.

Namjoon gave him a small smile, “Yeah, I… I’m getting there, I think. I’m still worried I’m disappointing everyone, but… The store is kind of my baby.” He didn’t mention his failed writing, the still, ever-present gnawing fear of failure, how sometimes he couldn’t sleep at night because he couldn’t stop thinking about how his parents probably hate him.

Yoongi laughed, “I get that. I think…I think that’s how music is for me.”

And then something strange happened. The straw Yoongi was twirling between his fingers fell to the table, Yoongi’s fingers going limp. Yoongi’s eyes fluttered closed, chin dipping slightly, and then falling to rest on his chest.

Namjoon sat there until after almost 30 seconds Yoongi took a deep inhale and jerked his head up, looking startled, eyes darting around the café. He flushed red.

“Sorry, I—Sorry.” He looked flustered and uncomfortable, “I think I better text my roommate. To come pick me up.”

Namjoon hesitated, “Are you okay?”

Yoongi grimaced and waved off Namjoon’s worry, “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just. Maybe I should go. Feel a little sick.”

Yoongi picked up his wallet and new umbrella, “I can just—I can just wait for my roommate outside.”

Namjoon hurriedly stood up as well, almost knocking his chair over the in the process. “I can wait outside with you, if you want.”

Yoongi shrugged and then nodded, still not meeting Namjoon’s eye, and they exited the café. Yoongi sunk down into a wet bench outside, burying his head in his hands. Namjoon carefully sat down next to him, “Are you sure you’re okay?” It had looked like Yoongi had just fallen asleep at the table, mid-conversation. It had obviously freaked him out, which had in turn made Namjoon jumpy and anxious.

Yoongi nodded into his hands before promptly falling asleep again, shoulders slumping forward, breathing slowing down, head turning slightly to the side to rest against his left palm. Namjoon couldn’t help but noticing how adorable he looked, in a weird way, lips pursed, bangs falling into his face.

Before long, a car pulled up to the curb and a tall, broad-shouldered man jumped out, making a beeline for Yoongi and, be extension, Namjoon, who was curled up awkwardly next to him on the bench. The man was unbelievably handsome, dressed in jeans and a pastel pink jumper, and he caught Namjoon so off guard it felt like whiplash.

He shot a tight lipped smile to Namjoon before picking his way over the puddles to Yoongi. He gently shook Yoongi on the shoulder, whispering “Ah, Yoongi-yah,” eyes soft. Yoongi blinked slowly awake, looking miserable. “Let’s get you home, Yoongi-yah.”

Yoongi nodded, slowly standing up, his roommate’s hand still on his back. He shuffled his feet awkwardly before looking at Namjoon. “Sorry I—I’m gonna go. This was—it was nice. Sorry.” His face scrunched up on the last word and he turned to go.

“Wait—hyung—wait,” Namjoon fished a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, one he had put there before he had even left to meet Yoongi. “I don’t think we ever exchanged numbers. If you ever want to… do this again…” he trailed off, suddenly embarrassed. “Well. Yeah. Here.” He thrust his hand out.

Yoongi looked up at him, eyes wide. He slowly reached out and took the paper from Namjoon, and Namjoon gave him a gentle smile. “I’ll see you.”

Yoongi nodded dumbly, giving Namjoon another small wave before climbing into the passenger seat of the car.

Namjoon watched them pull away, and suddenly felt very small and very stupid. He took a very brisk walk home, hoping the cold would clear up some of the confusion and embarrassment that swirled around in his head.

Yoongi
Hey
Thanks for today. Sorry about how it ended.

Namjoon
Today was great!
Are you alright?

Yoongi
Yeah I’m fine
It just happens sometimes
I can explain later
Only if you want tho

Namjoon
Hyung are you
Asking me on a second date??

Yoongi
Don’t get cocky
But yeah, I am.

The next time they met was at the Han River, on Yoongi’s request. They would take a walk, and then maybe get a bite to eat afterwards.

The weather had gotten colder over the past week, and when they met Yoongi was all bundled up in a thick black coat and green scarf. His nose was red from the cold, and he gave Namjoon a sheepish grin and waved him over when Namjoon exited the subway station.

“Hey, Namjoon.” Yoongi looked up at Namjoon through his eyelashes and Namjoon’s chest tightened.

“Hyung, hey.” He grinned brightly which just seemed to embarrass Yoongi even more.

“Let’s walk, yeah?” They set off towards the riverside walkway. There were hardly any people out, and the sun was starting to go down, dusting the riverscape with the pastel colors of dusk. Bicycles passed them as they walked in silence for a few moments, enjoying the atmosphere.

“I’m surprised you agreed to go on a second date with me.”

Namjoon turned to face Yoongi, shocked. “I’m surprised you agreed to go on a second date with me! You don’t know how rare this is.”

Yoongi shook his head, looking almost shy. “Why wouldn’t I want to go on a second date? It was great.” He paused a beat, “Except, I feel like I kind of messed it up. So, sorry for that.”

Namjoon knitted his eyebrows together, “Hyung…you didn’t mess it up.”

Yoongi laughed a self-deprecating bark of laughter, “I literally fell asleep during our first date. Twice, I think.” He grimaced and Namjoon shifted uncomfortably before he continued, “I have, like, a sleep disorder. Narcolepsy. So I fall asleep without meaning to.”

Yoongi shot a glace out of the corner of his eye at Namjoon, who nodded, before continuing. “I thought… I thought I would be okay. But.” He shrugged, “To be fair, sitting in a warm café probably didn’t help.”

Namjoon nodded, picking his words carefully. Yoongi already looked so unhappy, curled up into himself, like he hated talking about this, and Namjoon didn’t want to make him feel worse. “So, is this better?”

“What?”

“This,” Namjoon gestured to the scenery around them, “Walking, talking. Or do you think—do you think you’d fall asleep here to?”

Yoongi shot him a wry look, but the corners of his lips turned up, “I just might fall asleep Namjoon-ah, watch out. But yeah. This is much better.”

And Namjoon didn’t know what took hold of him in that moment, but in a sudden rush of bravery he reached out and took one of Yoongi’s hands in his own. Yoongi started, and then leaned into Namjoon, “Warm.”

They moved in fits and starts, both too nervous and unsteady to make the jump into a relationship but still craving days spent together at cafes and at the bookstore. Yoongi’s studio was on the same subway line at Namjoon’s store and Yoongi started coming over after work, or when he needed a break.

And that’s how, slowly but surely, Namjoon’s days began to be filled with Yoongi—with Yoongi bringing him coffee, with Yoongi texting him random pictures from his day, with Yoongi curled up in a corner of the bookstore on weekends, napping and slowly working his way through a book Namjoon had picked out a week after they first met.

That day, when Yoongi had called Namjoon and shyly asked his coffee order, he wandered into the bookstore and gave Namjoon the still-steaming cup. As he passed it to Namjoon, Yoongi had leaned in conspiratorially, whispering, “Namjoon, can I tell you a secret?”

Namjoon had hesitated, “Well sure, if you want, I guess.”

Yoongi looked at him levelly, something playful in his eyes, “If I’m being honest, I haven’t finished a book in almost two years.”

Namjoon had clutched his chest and feigned shock, “Wow, you really know how to hit me where it hurts, hyung.”

Yoongi slapped him lightly on the arm, but then leaned a head in his hand, propped up on the counter, “I’m being serious.”

“Well, why not? Do you like to read?”

Yoongi scrunched up his nose, “Of course I do. I’m just never able to stay awake, it’s frustrating. And then I feel like I can never remember what happened.”

Namjoon had hummed and promised to pick out something good, and later that week the perfect novel turned up. When he gave it to Yoongi, he had looked doubtful, “YA? Isn’t this a little…young for me?”

Namjoon shrugged, “It’s quick, easy to follow. Lots of action. Just try it—I think you’ll like it.” And then he elbowed Yoongi, “It’ll be better than that romance novel you were reading when I first met you.”

“Hey!” Yoongi blushed, pink dusting the top of his cheeks, “I was experimenting, okay. I thought something a little more…spicy would keep me interested.”

“Did it work?”

Yoongi slumped, “No. And the lit fic novel was even worse.” He flipped the YA book over in his hands, “I want to read things that are more substantial but I just…can’t right now.”

Namjoon shrugged, “Reading is a muscle too, you have to practice and train your brain. Start with something easier and work your way up.”

And so Yoongi was trying, and later he had quietly thanked Namjoon for his help and Namjoon had felt the same swell of pride he always felt when he helped a customer. Times like this, he was so overwhelmed with gratitude that he was able to turn his passions into a job that brought him such fulfillment. Even if it did mean disappointing everyone around him.

All the while, Namjoon struggled through trying to find his voice in writing. With Jungkook helping with the shop, Namjoon had more free time to think about what kind of writer he wanted to be.

In his PhD program, he had mostly been writing about writing—dense research essays about voice and gender and characterization in modern fiction. He loved writing about writing because it gave him perspective, and more than once his professors had scolded him when he began waxing poetic in his papers.

But Namjoon also loved fiction, and he felt like he hadn’t written creatively in years. So he began doing what all good little writers do when they’re trying to start something—he kept a journal, he started getting words out every day, no matter what they were. He kept reading. He listened to music that Yoongi showed him.

Jungkook was fascinated by the process, always making extra rounds in the store to peek over Namjoon’s shoulder when he wrote in his notebook or typed in his laptop.

“What’re you writing now, hyung?” He would ask, wide-eyed. He had a habit of sneaking up on Namjoon, who was lost in thought, and scaring him out of his mind.

“Jesus Christ, I thought I told you not to do that anymore!” Namjoon exclaimed.

Jungkook jumped back, alarmed, “S-sorry, hyung. I was just curious.”

Namjoon ran a hand through his hair, trying to clear the fog writing had left in his brain, “No, no, you’re fine. I’m just writing now. Nothing in particular.” He gave Jungkook a wry smile, “Maybe one of these days you could help me out and give me an idea or something.”

Jungkook nodded, always earnest and eager to please. He had taken a liking to Yoongi too, and whenever Yoongi stopped by, Jungkook would briefly stop following Namjoon and instead tail Yoongi, asking him questions about his music and producing and his studio. It was cute, and Namjoon was happy to have someone around, especially someone who seemed to care about this place just as much as he did.

After Namjoon and Yoongi’s third official date—a photography exhibition that Namjoon had been wanting to go to, followed by Thai food—they took a walk and somehow ended up in front of Namjoon’s semi-basement apartment.

“It’s really messy hyung, just a warning,” Namjoon had said before he opened the door, Yoongi pushing at his back, teeth chattering, to try and escape the cold faster.

“Wow. Usually people just say that but this is—this is pretty messy.” Namjoon felt heat rise to his face. The walls of his apartment were lined with stacks of books he had pilfered from his own bookshop, or ones that he planned to relocate to the bookshop but just never got around to. It was possible to see almost the entire apartment from the front door, and Namjoon cringed internally at the pile of clean clothes he had left on his bed before he left. At least it was better than the pile of dirty clothes that had been living in his open closet for almost two weeks prior.

After throwing off his shoes Yoongi immediately made a beeline for Namjoon’s crowded desk, picking his way through carnage on the floor. Stacked on top of the desk was Namjoon’s dad’s old record collection that Namjoon had been meaning to donate for a few months, but just ever got around to it.

“Do you even have a record player, Namjoon?” Yoongi picked up each record, examining the front and back, sometimes sliding them out and checking their condition. His face had lit up as soon as he had seen the records, and there was a lively openness in his eyes that endeared Namjoon to no end.

“No—No, I’ve actually been meaning to donate them.” Namjoon ran a hand through his hair and grimaced.

“Really? There’s like, some really good stuff in here. You could probably get a lot of money for some of these” Namjoon snuck up behind Yoongi and looked over his shoulder, shrugging.

“I don’t know much about music; it doesn’t really matter to me. Hyung, if you want any just take them.”

Yoongi whipped around, mouth agape. “Are you serious?”

Namjoon laughed, “Of course. Take all of them if you want, it’s not like I’m going to use"— Before he could complete his sentence Yoongi stood up on his tip toes and threw his arms around Namjoon’s shoulders and kissed him.

At first Namjoon was too shocked to move, and Yoongi pulled back, “Sorry, I should have asked before"— but this time it was Namjoon’s turn to lean back in, forcefully putting his mouth on Yoongi’s.

They stumbled back a step. Yoongi’s shoulder knocked against the stack of records and it rocked precariously back and forth. They changed directions, angling themselves towards the couch. Yoongi tripped over a fan in the middle of the room and their teeth clacked together briefly, Yoongi cursing a quiet “shit” into Namjoon’s mouth which Namjoon found kind of hot.

“Sorry hyung,” he came up for air, straightening up, Yoongi’s breath hot in his face before Yoongi pulled his sweater over his head. Namjoon ran his hands up Yoongi’s bare arms as he collapsed onto the couch, pulling Yoongi into his lap after him.

“Hyung, are you really that turned on by a stack of records?” Yoongi was working Namjoon’s hoodie off and he finally pulled it over Namjoon’s head, collapsing back on his chest afterwards.

“Of course not, been wanting to do this for a while.” He kissed Namjoon’s collarbone, “But the records did help.”

The first time Yoongi took Namjoon to his studio, Namjoon was honored and slightly overwhelmed. He knew nothing about music, or music production, but when Yoongi picked him up from the subway station he was practically buzzing as he dragged Namjoon to the space he rented.

Yoongi, who usually moved at a snail's pace with half-lidded eyes, whose energy was calm and consistent, who showed his affection with gentle touches, who weighed his words carefully, was suddenly a ball of nervous energy. Namjoon watched his boyfriend—boyfriend, that was new— with raised eyebrows as he grabbed Namjoon’s wrist and marched them down the street.

Yoongi stood outside the door of his studio with his hands on his hips, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, “I hardly every bring anyone here, so you better appreciate it, okay?” Namjoon bit his lip to keep from smiling. Anything that gave Yoongi this kind of energy was something he would appreciate for sure.

Yoongi unlocked his door with a keypad, and then fished a card scanner out of his wallet and pressed it to the second lock above the door. He noticed the look Namjoon was giving him and rolled his eyes, “Can never be too careful. You don’t know how fucking persistent some of my friends can be.”

When the door finally swung open, he ushered Namjoon in, “Where the magic happens, or something like that.” He studied Namjoon’s face nervously, “I know it’s not much, but I practically live here. This is like, my life’s work. Literally.”

The room was small, with a huge desk, soundboard, and ergonomic chair on one side of the room. The speaker system next to his computer was big and expensive enough to even make Namjoon let out a low whistle. On another wall was an electric keyboard and an assortment of other instruments, microphones, and recording equipment. There was also a ratty old couch, with stacks of blankets neatly laid on top. A card table was folded up and leaning against a wall, but Yoongi busied himself with getting it down. When Namjoon still hadn’t said anything he deflated a little, “It’s nothing compared to your bookshop but”—

“Hyung”— Namjoon lunged forward and grabbed him around the waist, putting his hands around Yoongi’s narrow hips. “It’s wonderful. I love it. I’m so honored you brought me here.” A surprised blush had started to spread on top of Yoongi’s cheeks and he averted his eyes at Namjoon’s praises. In response, Namjoon leaned down until their noses were almost touching, “I’m so happy that you have a place that makes you happy.”

They stood like that for a moment, Namjoon could practically feel their hearts beating in sync in their chests, listening to the other breathing. Yoongi was just so beautiful, Namjoon couldn’t get over it. Yoongi leaned closer and opened his mouth, “Namjoon. Do you want to make out in my studio?”

Namjoon snorted, “Isn’t that why you brought me here, hyung?”

And so they did, Namjoon pressing Yoongi’s back to the door, and then maneuvering them over to the couch, their hands roaming over each other with a frantic, breathless energy.

After a few minutes Yoongi pulled away, breathing hard and putting one hand on Namjoon’s chest, “Wait, I almost forgot, I ordered us chicken.”

“Great, sounds great,” Namjoon impatiently leaned forward and pressed kisses to Yoongi’s neck, his jaw.

Yoongi leaned his head back, “No, I mean, I think it’s here. My phone’s buzzing.”

“Hmm, that’s what that was.” Namjoon was still preoccupied while Yoongi fished his phone out of his back pocket, and sure enough, the chicken delivery was calling.

“Let me up, let me up,” He pushed Namjoon off of him and they both collapsed against the couch cushions before Yoongi hauled himself up, throwing his shoes on before running downstairs.

A few minutes later they were sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch, hunched over the card table, eating marinated chicken and drinking Pepsi.

“Ugh, hyung this was such a good idea. I was starving.”

Yoongi shot him a wry look. “You could have fooled me. The delivery man was so annoyed by the time I actually got down there.”

Namjoon pulled a face and pretended to wipe his dirty hands on Yoongi’s sweater before reaching past him and getting a napkin. It was all so comfortable, so natural, both of them talking and eating and making out and spending time together. Because he was putting himself out there, Namjoon thought. Because it was Yoongi.

And Yoongi slowly began to introduce Namjoon to his friends. Namjoon had come over to Yoongi’s apartment for dinner and met Seokjin, the tall, intimidatingly handsome, unbelievably affectionate roommate who had picked up Yoongi from their first date. Sitting in their living room and watching Yoongi and Seokjin good-naturedly fight in the kitchen as they cut up ingredients was cute, but it couldn’t stop the small seed of jealously that sprouted in Namjoon’s stomach. Yoongi had friends and he didn’t, Yoongi had the type of easy-going relationship with a roommate that Namjoon thought he would never be able to have.

But before he could work himself up about it Seokjin had called over his shoulder to Namjoon, asking him to bring the plates over so Seokjin could stack them with enough curry and rice to feed an army, and then Yoongi had tugged at his sleeve and told him where to sit and shot him a smile that chipped away at some of the anxiety that had crystallized beneath Namjoon’s skin.

Seokjin worked at a café and dreamed of starting his own bakery one day, so he immediately began quizzing Namjoon about his bookstore—the rent, overhead costs, his employees. “Jin-hyung, give him a break.” Yoongi swatted his roommates arm and Seokjin pretended to be offended and clutched his heart.

“Yah, Yoongi-ah, we’re bonding. Over shared interests. But fine, if you insist, I know another interest we share— Namjoon-ssi, what’s your favorite thing about our Yoongi?”

And after Seokjin had succeeded in making both Yoongi and Namjoon go spectacularly red, Yoongi let him talk about whatever he wanted for the rest of the night. And then later, when it was decided that Namjoon would stay over for their weekly movie-night, Yoongi let Seokjin pick the movie too.

They ended up watching a rom-com that left both Namjoon and Seokjin in tears by the time the credits rolled. Yoongi, meanwhile, was fast asleep curled up on the couch, arms wrapped around a pillow and cold toes shoved under Namjoon’s thighs to keep warm.

Seokjin turned off the TV and Namjoon wiped his eyes and stretched, “Well, I guess I should get going.” Both of their eyes drifted to Yoongi, who was breathing heavily against the couch arm.

“He—he really likes you, you know.” When Namjoon turned to look at Seokjin, Seokjin was looking intently at him, lips pressed into a firm line.

Namjoon cleared his throat, feeling his ears turn red, “I—I think the feelings are mutual.”

Seokjin fixed him with a stern look, “Good. Yoongi’s had… a hard time. And you seem to really care about him. I hope you’re good for him.”

Namjoon shrunk into himself and nodded. Later, when Yoongi showed him out, rubbing his eyes and shuffling to open the door, he noticed something was off. “You okay?”

Namjoon shrugged, opened his mouth, and then thought better of it. He shot Yoongi a weak smile, “It’s nothing.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes, “Did Seokjin give you the shovel talk while I was passed out?”

“Not exactly. I think he meant well. He can just be a little…” Namjoon trailed off.

“Scary?” Yoongi smiled. “Trust me, I know better than anyone. He’s a little protective, that’s all. He just wants what’s best for me.”

“Hey, I do too, I hope you know that.” Namjoon carefully reached out and brushed the edges of Yoongi’s bangs with his fingertips, moving them off his forehead, heart pounding in his chest. “You’re…you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a while.”

And Yoongi took Namjoon’s hand and squeezed it, “You deserve so much, Namjoon.” After Yoongi showed him out, after he had caught a taxi home, after he had showered and was lying in bed with fresh sheets and a clean room, he could still feel the warmth in the pit of his stomach. He chanted it to himself, quietly, and for the first time in a long time the words seemed to have some truth in them. You deserve so much, Namjoon. You deserve so much.

“How do you do it, hyung?” Namjoon was lying on the ratty couch in Yoongi’s styudio, counting ceiling tiles, while Yoongi was bent over his desk working on music. He turned his head and watched as his boyfriend cradled his MIDI machine, and then turned to his keyboard, and then turned to his computer. It was as if Yoongi’s hands couldn’t move as fast as his brain and he was constantly trying to keep up.

But at Namjoon’s question, Yoongi paused. ‘What do you mean?” He spun around to face Namjoon, bringing his knees up to tuck them under his body. He looked so cute and small, but Namjoon was almost too miserable to notice.

“How do you, like, just keep working? Like where does it come from?”

“Where does what come from?” Yoongi’s eyes twinkled with laughter but he kept his face straight, “My energy? My drive? My desire to not starve?”

“No, your inspiration.” Namjoon ran a hand over his face and groaned. He knew he was being dramatic, but for the past two weeks he had barely been able to write anything. The words that used to come so easy to him somehow got stopped up between his brain and his fingertips, and what did come out never came out sounding right. It always sounded boring. Stilted. Like his own personality, he thought.


“Namjoon,” Yoongi’s voice was soft, a little chiding, “Be patient with yourself.” He stretched his arms, rolled his shoulders. “Besides, sometimes inspiration is a myth anyways. You just have to push through. Write a bunch of shitty stuff and then polish it up again and again until it looks halfway decent.”

“Inspiration always seems to come for you.” It sounded almost accusatory, and Namjoon felt guilty after he said it, guiltier still after Yoongi’s response.

“Namjoon, do you know why I dropped out of college? Part of it was because I couldn’t play piano anymore, could barely do anything without being dizzy, or falling asleep, hell, half of the day I wasn’t able to move my fucking hands. And so the whole time, I couldn’t make music.”

“Hyung,” Namjoon started, but Yoongi raised his hand, cutting him off.

“And now, I’ve just recently been getting back into it. Because for a while afterwards, it was all stopped up in here.” He tapped his chest, somewhere near his heart. “And I’m guessing your writing is stopped up somewhere here, too. Or maybe here.” This time he smiled, and tapped his head. “We all get like that sometimes, but you can’t let that feeling win.”

Namjoon weakly returned his smile, “I just feel so useless, you know?”

“You’re not useless.” Yoongi turned back to his workstation, but not before shooting another gentle look at Namjoon, “You’re a kind person, you own your own business, and you make other people happy. What’s more useful than that?”

Namjoon was glad when Yoongi put his headphones back on so he could sniffle in peace, wipe his eyes, and marvel at this person who had just stumbled into his life.

Namjoon learned about Yoongi in fits and starts, and each time Yoongi opens up to him Namjoon feels his heart expand bigger and bigger and bigger.

One night around dinnertime, Yoongi texted Namjoon, Can you come over? And Namjoon raced over to the apartment, trying not to look too excited.

But when he got there he found Yoongi at the door, one arm wrapped around his middle, looking small and tired. His other hand clutched an icepack to his chin, which was starting to bruise.

“Hyung, are you okay?” Namjoon reached a hand out to gently brush Yoongi’s cheek when one of Yoongi’s knees gave out, sending him pitching forward until Namjoon caught him around the middle. “Whoa--I got you, I got you,” he whispered into Yoongi’s scalp, toeing off his shoes before picking the smaller man up and bringing him inside. Yoongi let out a noise between a sigh and a whimper and Namjoon’s chest tightened.

He sat down on the couch, propping Yoongi up against him, arms still around his waist. When Yoongi’s arms went limp, he guided the icepack back to Yoongi’s chin. “What happened, hyung? Are you okay?” Namjoon fought to keep his voice steady. He had seen Yoongi tired before, had seen him fight to stay awake, the awful emotions warring on his face when he was too exhausted but didn’t want to fall asleep. But he had never seen Yoongi like this, so out of it and unresponsive and it scared him.

“Jin hyung…not home.” Yoongi’s voice was slurred and he squeezed Namjoon’s arm, trying to anchor himself somewhere and not slip into unconsciousness again. “Fell in the bathroom. Hit my chin. Texted you.”

Namjoon kissed Yoongi’s head again, “I’m glad you texted me.”

Yoongi nuzzled his chin into Namjoon’s chest, “Didn’t want to… be alone.” Namjoon’s heart stuttered at his vulnerability, at how much Yoongi trusted him.

“You never have to be alone.” Namjoon re-adjusted his arms around Yoongi, “I’m going to take you to bed, okay? Let’s go to sleep.”

Yoongi nodded and then went still in Namjoon’s arms, asleep. But then, just as Namjoon was about to pick him up again, he woke up and shook his head, making a choked sound in the back of his throat, “wanted to…get work done tonight.”

Namjoon rested his chin on Yoongi’s head, rubbing slow circles on his arms, whispering into his hair, “I’m sorry, hyung.”

“Hate this.” And then there is a small, wet sound from where Yoongi had his head pressed against Namjoon and Namjoon realized with horror that Yoongi was crying. His heart froze. He had never seen Yoongi cry, had never even seen Yoongi close to tears, and while he knew that this was from frustration and exhaustion it freaked him out and made him suck in a breath.

“I got you. I got you.” He held Yoongi tighter and the crying stopped as Yoongi’s head relaxed, his shoulders slumping briefly, before he startled awake. Another shaky, tearful breath, and then Yoongi’s head was bobbing down again.

He rubbed Yoongi’s arms, whispered comfort and praise into Yoongi’s hair, and finally he fell asleep and stopped trying to fight it. Namjoon felt rubbed raw from seeing Yoongi in such obvious distress, all of the emotions and struggles that Yoongi constantly fought to hide from him laid out all at once. Carefully, Namjoon picked Yoongi up and brought him back to his bed, tucking Yoongi under the covers.

Namjoon stood there for a beat, and then two, trying to decide whether to stay or not. He squeezed himself between Yoongi and the wall, trying to shift the bed as little as possible. He laid on top of the covers and watched the rise and fall of Yoongi’s chest until he, too, fell into a fitful sleep.

The next morning Namjoon woke up to Yoongi’s thin fingers wrapped around his wrist, opened his eyes to see Yoongi’s tired ones staring back at him. Yoongi was still tucked under the covers, but during the night he had curled up much closer to Namjoon.

“Good morning.” Namjoon whispered.

Yoongi didn’t respond immediately, eyes searching Namjoon’s face. Namjoon noted, with dismay, that the bruise had spread and darkened to a deep purple across Yoongi’s chin and along one side of his jaw. Finally, in his raspy morning voice, Yoongi responded, “You stayed.”

“Is that okay?” Suddenly worried he overstepped, Namjoon pulled one arm back to push himself up and get off the bed until Yoongi tightened his hold on his wrist and pulled him down.

“No, I mean,” Yoongi’s face twisted, “Thanks. For staying.”

“Oh. Of course. You were--” what was he? Sick? Hurt? Upset? All of those things, but Namjoon knew Yoongi won’t like hearing any of them. He settled on, “That was really scary.”

Yoongi brought Namjoon’s hand up to cup his face and Namjoon’s heart melted just a little. Namjoon ran his thumb across the soft edges of Yoongi’s cheeks, “’M Sorry I scared you.”

Namjoon shook his head, “No, not what I meant, just—you know if you ever need anything, all you have to do is call or text. I’ll come. Just like last night. Whenever you ask, I’ll be there”

Yoongi closed his eyes and released one great, shuddering breath. “Thanks, Namjoon.”

“Just…stay with me, okay? Until I wake up.” Yoongi had told him once after he collapsed at another cafe, picking at the hem of his shirt, voice tight. Namjoon didn’t think he could ever leave Yoongi like that, anyways.

So when it happened, Namjoon took a deep breath and waited. And they would sit there for a few moments or a minute or two or three.

One night Yoongi collapsed in Namjoon’s bedroom, half-clothed, drowning in one of Namjoon’s shirts and Namjoon sat down cross-legged next to him, running a hand through Yoongi’s hair. Yoongi looked scary—jaw open, tongue pushed to one side, eyes moving as he tried to restart his body.

When the cataplexy freed him, finally, he blinked his eyes frantically, bringing a limp hand up to swipe at his face. He shook his head violently to the side, once, twice, trying to get rid of the confusion that often followed this kind of attack.

“Where…” Yoongi’s voice was still a little slurred.

Namjoon laid down on the floor next to him, “We’re in my room, hyung. In my apartment.”

“Oh.” They laid there in silence, looking up at the plastic glow in the dark stars that Namjoon had stuck up in a bout of insomnia, in the few blurry weeks after he had first moved in. They spiraled out into shapes of constellations both real and made up, a dull, comforting light.

Namjoon crept his hand across the floor to grab Yoongi’s. He squeezed Yoongi’s hand once, running his thumb gently across the inside of his wrist, and Yoongi squeezed back.

They had talked about it, of course. About a month after they started dating officially, after Namjoon had emerged from Yoongi’s bedroom one morning and rounded the corner into the living room without announcing himself. He had startled Yoongi, who promptly collapsed onto the floor. Seokjin had dropped his spatula in the kitchen where he was frying eggs to try and catch him before his head hit the side of the rickety kitchen table.

And, after some pointed glances from Seokjin, Yoongi had pulled Namjoon aside and talked him through everything his condition entailed, face screwed up the whole time like he was sucking on a lemon. Daytime sleepiness, cataplexy—sudden loss of muscle control—dizziness, insomnia.

The cataplexy was the scariest. It happened whenever Yoongi was angry or stressed or happy or startled. Any strong emotion, Yoongi had told him. He would laugh too hard and then slump forward, suddenly losing muscle tone. Or, they would be bickering playfully, or Yoongi would be making fun of Seokjin, and then right in the middle of it Yoongi’s head would loll, mouth going slack. It never lasted long—a few seconds to a few minutes, at most—but Namjoon hated it and Yoongi hated it and Seokjin, judging from the way his mouth would set in a hard, straight line, hated it too.

Slowly, the pieces of Yoongi were coming together to form a complete picture.

It was spring and they were walking around the park by Yoongi and Seokjin’s apartment. The trees were just starting to sprout green leaves and the air was slowly loosing its crispness. Namjoon loved this time of year, right as spring was gaining momentum, just waiting for the right moment to push everything into full bloom.

Yoongi and Seokjin were arguing and laughing, about what, Namjoon doesn’t remember. He had been looking out across the wide expanse of green grass when Yoongi’s laughter stopped abruptly in a gasp of air. A scuffle, and then, Namjoon turned around to see Seokjin with his arms full of Yoongi. Yoongi had gone completely limp, and Namjoon rushed over to help Seokjin carefully lay him on the grass.

Yoongi’s eyes were droopy but unmistakably open, his mouth slack. The only moment came from the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Seokjin murmured sweet nothings under his breath, brushing back Yoongi’s bangs from his forehead, picking a stray piece of grass off the shoulder of his coat.

“Yoongi-ah, we’ll just sit here for a few minutes, alright? At least the weather’s nice.”

Namjoon’s silence stretched taut while Seokjin filled the air with meaningless small talk. He looked at the boy he was falling in love with and felt useless.

One minute passed, and then two. Seokjin checked the time on his phone, “Come back to me Yoongi-ah.”

Yoongi began to stir. His fingers twitched, he rolled his neck slightly, blinking. He hummed under his breath as he worked his way into a sitting position, and Namjoon recognized it as one of the many ways Yoongi tried to keep himself awake.

“That was a long one.” Seokjin’s smile was gentle as he hauled himself up and Namjoon did the same, both of them waiting until Yoongi stood up before they kept walking.

But the feeling of uselessness stayed with Namjoon the whole day, dragging his mood down and making his thoughts circle round and round in his head. Useless Namjoon You can’t do anything right Namjoon you’re a waste of space Namjoon no one needs you here Namjoon no one wants you here Namjoon.

Yoongi must’ve noticed something was off by the gentle nudges he kept giving Namjoon under the table during dinner, and the gentle way he slid his hand into the crook of Namjoon’s elbow as they were walking home.

Finally, when they had said goodnight to Seokjin, Namjoon crawled into Yoongi’s bed and let out a deep, shuddering sigh. The pressure on his chest that he had been carrying around all day suddenly felt like too much.

“Joon,” Yoongi curled up small next to him under the covers, sticking cold feet in-between Namjoon’s thighs, “What’s up?”

Namjoon pulled a face, rubbing his knuckles hard against his chest. Yoongi’s voice softened, “You’ve been a little off all day. Are you okay?”

Oh god, he ruined their day out. No one had fun because he couldn’t keep his shit together. He was selfish—worrying about himself when Yoongi was the one who had collapsed. Seokjin was trying so hard to be friends with him and he was just fucking it up—

“Namjoon, talk to me.”

“Sorry,” Namjoon choked the words out, “Sorry, I was off today. I ruined it.”

“Oh,” Yoongi reached up tentatively to touch Namjoon’s jaw, his cheek, “You didn’t ruin anything, Namjoon. That’s not what I meant.”

“Just feel useless.”

Yoongi hummed and moved closer on the bed, thumb tracing a gentle curve over Namjoon’s cheekbone, “Why do you feel useless?”

“Because you fell and I didn’t help you.”

Yoongi’s face did something complicated, moving from fond to pained to pinched and sad, “What do you mean?”

“Seokjin always knows what to do. And I can’t—I can’t do anything.” The words tore out of Namjoon’s chest, painfully.

Yoongi breathed out long and slow and steady as he collected his thoughts, “Seokjin’s known me a lot longer, Namjoon. Seokjin’s careful and overly protective because there was a time where I needed that from him, and more. But—but I don’t need that from you, not now. Not unless I ask. All you have to do is stay with me. Okay?”

Namjoon eyes searched Yoongi’s, “Okay.”

Yoongi gave him a wavering smile, “And Namjoon—I—I’m going to fall, okay? And sometimes I won’t be okay for a while. And sometimes I’ll have bad days. But that is not in any way a reflection of how good you are for me.”

Tears welled up in Yoongi’s eyes and he wiped them away, a little angrily. “You’re so good Namjoon, okay? You are kind and smart and you care so much about others. You’re nice to me even when I’m in a bad mood and being a jerk. So don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not good enough, including yourself. Especially yourself.” Yoongi set his jaw and looked away, a little embarrassed.

Namjoon watched his boyfriend, a little in awe of how the universe had conspired to bring them together, how all of the little things had led to this. To this person.
“I love you.”

“What?” Yoongi jerked to face him, startled.

Namjoon was startled too, by the words that had tumbled out of his mouth, but he said them again, “I love you.”

Yoongi barked out a single laugh, “God, I love you too, Namjoon.” And then, just to even things out a bit, “You’re an idiot.”

But still, Namjoon began to feel happier. He started getting meals with Jungkook, who looked at him with such stars in his eyes that Yoongi jokingly told Namjoon that he needed to remind the kid that his boss had a boyfriend already.

Namjoon also got closer to Seokjin, who's stamp of approval meant that suddenly Jimin and Hoseok and Taehyung were all fighting to spend time with Namjoon too. He was added to a group chat, and then one day when Jungkook tagged along to a party with all of them, Jungkook was swept up in the madness too.

A few months later Yoongi would take his hand as they watched all of the boys fight over space on the couch in the apartment and raise his eyebrows at Namjoon, “Did we do this?”

“We’ve created a monster.” Namjoon would nod, solemnly, watching as the oldest got in on the dramatics, not to be outdone.

But that was still months away, and yet—and yet, Namjoon was less lonely. He called his parents and talked to them candidly for the first time in months and they immediately told him to come home for the weekend. They wanted to spend time with him, and later, they wanted to spend time with him and Yoongi together.

Oh. Oh. Namjoon hung up the phone, momentarily speechless. It felt like he had taken a breath for the first time in months—he was no longer drowning.

“I feel like this giant weight has been on my chest for almost a year now, but maybe… maybe it’s gone. I don’t know.” He was lying in bed with Yoongi tucked into his side. Yoongi propped himself up on his elbows to look at Namjoon’s face, bringing one hand up to trace patterns on the bare skin of Namjoon’s chest.

“I don’t know, Namjoon, maybe it’s still there. Maybe it’ll always be there.” Yoongi hummed a little, fingers brushing Namjoon’s collarbone, “Maybe now you just know how to carry it.”

“Maybe.” Namjoon’s reply was breathless, eyes tracing the curve of Yoongi’s nose, the shadows his eyelashes threw across his cheekbones. He wanted to press his thumb against the light smattering of freckles on his nose, the ones he could find by memory.

“I don’t know if you want to get rid of stuff like that completely. It’s kind of… a part of you, in a way. But you don’t have to let it hurt you anymore.”

“It doesn’t hurt anymore. Not that much.” Yoongi nodded, eyes still cast down. He looked up and met Namjoon’s eyes, a smile spreading across his face. It was one of those special smiles, that Yoongi only saved for these quiet moments, that made him look years young, and cute and a little silly.

Namjoon tugged Yoongi down into his chest, bare skin flush with each other. Yoongi buried his head a little deeper in Namjoon’s shoulder, his voice a little muffled, “Gonna fall asleep.”

“That’s fine. Go to sleep, hyung.” Namjoon rubbed his fingers through Yoongi’s hair and Yoongi hummed in response, eyes already fluttering closed.

Time quickened and slowed, moving fast during good moments and slow and sweet in the better moments. Namjoon wrote in his journal and in the notes on his phone, jotted down essay ideas on extra receipts and carried a stack of books as high as his waist back to his apartment for research.

Namjoon’s days were the bookstore and hot chocolate with Jungkook and then Friday movie nights with all of the boys. It was early mornings, slipping out from underneath Yoongi to make a cup of coffee and curl up on the couch to type on his laptop in a few stolen moments of peace, before everyone else had quite began their day.

The words didn’t flow fast or easily, however. It was like chipping away at a block of granite, not knowing what was going to come out of it but hoping for the best. But he didn’t feel all choked up anymore. If he had something he wanted to write, he wrote it, labored over it, put in so much work and effort that he couldn’t imagine not feeling satisfied at the end, no matter the result.

And so, he felt good. His mind was quieter than it had been in a long time, and maybe that left a little room for some fear and anxiety to settle in. Because, really, Namjoon was anxious about feeling good. He was anxious about not feeling good in the future.

It was almost six months since they had gone on their first date. Namjoon wanted to plan something special, but Yoongi hadn’t been feeling well all week so he decided to wait to mention anything. Yoongi was stressed out over a composition and a deadline, wanted to make it perfect, was worried about the reception it was going to receive. He stayed up late one night and the stress, the disrupted sleep schedule, and general insomnia had created a vicious cycle that kept Yoongi restless and awake at night and then fighting to keep his eyes open during the day.

Namjoon came over at the beginning of the week twice to try and play a new board game--TV shows and movies with just the two of them were out of the question, and even on their group movie nights Yoongi almost always fell asleep in the first 15 minutes.

The first night, Yoongi had tried to fight sleep for half an hour, the cards slipping out of his hands as his head dropped to his chin before he would scramble to pick them back up again.

The second night Yoongi had dropped a mug of tea on the tile, shattering it all over the floor much to the distress of Seokjin, who had burst out of his room to see what all of the commotion was. So they packed up the board game and decided to save it for another, better, week.

Then, Namjoon had gotten busy with the bookstore, and Yoongi had promised to text Namjoon after he had finished the song. They texted and talked and Namjoon thought everything was normal. Everything was fine. Until it had been five days since they saw each other, until the deadline for Yoongi’s song had passed and they had no plans for the upcoming weekend.

Namjoon felt the bubble of anxiety rise in his chest, overtaking him suddenly and stealing his breath away. It was times like this where the intrusive thoughts were the strongest—when they caught him off guard. Thoughts of what if Yoongi doesn’t actually like me? Some dark place in his brain confirming his worthlessness, confirming that no one could possible want to see him. He was boring, friendless, not meant to be around other people.

Namjoon pictured the decline of their relationship. This is how it would go: Yoongi too polite to tell him the truth, so instead the time between their dates would get longer and longer. They would stop texting every day. Suddenly, Yoongi would be too busy to meet as often, too busy to text. Then one day, after a long, drawn out separation, Yoongi would gently break the news to him. It just wasn’t working out.

The thought made Namjoon’s stomach twist, but he caught himself. He thought about what his therapist would want him to do as his thoughts spiraled down down down out of control. So he picked up his phone with shaking fingers.

“Hello?” Yoongi sounded tired, muffled.

“Hyung?” Namjoon fought to keep the breathless panic from his voice, but Yoongi heard it anyways. He was immediately alert. “Namjoon? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just,” Namjoon fought to take a steady breath but it caught in his throat on the way in, pitifully. “I just,”

“Namjoon, where are you?”

“Home.” Namjoon managed. His chest was tight and he knew he was panicking, bad. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to maintain control, any sort of control. His brain was on over drive, he was thinking so fast all he could hear was a buzzing in his head. His breathing came in short gasps.

“Namjoon, I’m on my way over, okay? I’ll get a taxi—I’ll be over in a few minutes. Namjoon, answer me.”

“Okay.” His own voice was quiet and echoed in his ears.

And then Yoongi was over, kneeling next to Namjoon to try and get a better hold around his chest, around his shoulders. Yoongi’s skinny arms pressing in between Namjoon’s shoulder blades. Namjoon imagined that Yoongi was keeping him together, was keeping him from breaking apart right there on the couch, and he let himself relax.

“Namjoon. Namjoon.” Yoongi was trying to call him back, but his voice sounded like it was underwater. Another wave of anxiety hit Namjoon and he doubled over, putting his head between his knees. His teeth chattered together.

And then Namjoon was talking, even though he didn’t know why, or when he had started. His worries about Yoongi, his insecurities about their relationship seemed small all of a sudden, dwarfed by the real problem that had been looming over his head for weeks, if not months.

“I feel so good these days, Yoongi. I feel so good. I’m so scared.” He felt Yoongi’s hand hesitate on his shoulders.

“I—I’m glad you feel good, Namjoon. So why are you scared?”

“What if I get worse again?” He spat the words out. The felt like bile in his throat. “Every day I’m so scared that I’ll wake up and feel like I did before. This is all just temporary and I don’t want it to end, you know?” A sob worked its way up and tore through his throat. “And part of me feels like I don’t even deserve to be this happy forever, so of course it will get worse. It’ll get worse because this shouldn’t be my normal, you know?”

Namjoon was shaking all over and Yoongi pressed his body against Namjoon, trying to offer more physical comfort. “Namjoon. Namjoon.” Yoongi said his name over and over, sweetly, reminding him to come back, reminding him where he was, reminding him that he was still himself despite the feelings that had taken over his overstimulated brain.

“What am I even doing?” Namjoon pressed the heels of his palms hard into his eyes, Yoongi’s hands trailing behind them, fingers pressed to his wrists to try and keep Namjoon from hurting himself. “What am I even doing with my life?”

“You’re doing the best you can, Namjoon.” Yoongi whispered to him, “We’re all doing the best we can. And you’re doing it so well.”

Namjoon took a breath and rode the anxiety out to the end. Just like he always did. Just like, deep inside he knew he could.

Later, much later, they were lying in Namjoon’s bed, eating ice cream. Yoongi was curled up warm by Namjoon’s side, head resting on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” Namjoon repeated again, even as Yoongi hit him lightly on the chest. He couldn’t stop apologizing. His anxiety had passed but his whole body felt like a dull ache, worn out from all of the worry. “I know, I know. Stop apologizing. I just feel so stupid; you know?”

“’S not stupid.” Yoongi shifted hesitantly beside him. “I think about stuff like that all the time, too.”

“Really?” Namjoon breathed out softly, slowly, willing Yoongi to continue. There was a stretch of silence.

“Yeah,” Yoongi breathed out, shakily, airily. “I was really sick about three years ago. Everything just kept getting worse—I couldn’t sleep at night, could barely stay awake during the day. I passed out constantly. I was scared to be alone.” Yoongi ran a hand over his face and Namjoon tightened his grip around his shoulders.

“My then-boyfriend had already become kind of an asshole. Or maybe he always was. But anyways, he was distant, cruel. He said I was just being dramatic, that I was embarrassing. And then one day we were out shopping and I passed out and broke my arm.” At that, Namjoon drew in a sharp breath that made Yoongi smile.

He poked Namjoon in the side, “I’m fine now, but—he brought me to the hospital, brought me home, and then broke up with me. He said he could never be with someone so helpless, said that no one would ever want me. He said some pretty shitty stuff, and I was just sitting there, pretty out of it from painkillers. Seokjin came home in the middle of it.” At that Yoongi smiled and let out a breathy laugh. “Seokjin heard a lot of it from the stairwell, and then he came in and saw me pretty banged up and he—he punched him. Right in the face.”

Yoongi was grinning now and even Namjoon let out a noise of disbelief, despite his churning stomach. “He really hit him?”

“Yeah, it was the one and only time I’ve ever seen Seokjin do anything like that. It was great.”

“Well, he deserved it.”

Yoongi’s face darkened, “Yeah, but I was already in a bad place and that was the final straw, you know? I got really down. And stayed like that for a long time.”

There was a beat of silence and Namjoon asked, hesitantly, “So what happened?”

Yoongi snorted, “Seokjin basically saved me—he called my mom.” Namjoon laughed, knowing what a force of nature Yoongi’s mom was. “I went back to my therapist, visited my specialist for my narcolepsy. They changed my medication. I changed my diet, went to physical therapy and got an exercise plan. Stopped drinking coffee. It was horrible.” He groaned dramatically and Namjoon ran a hand through Yoongi’s hair affectionately. “But, you know, here I am. I know how to deal with my narcolepsy. I mean, it fucking sucks, but it’s better than it was before.”

“But sometimes it scares me how good I feel. How something could go wrong—I could mess up, or it could just happen randomly. And I’ll be back at square one again.”

“And—well,” Yoongi paused, and swallowed, suddenly nervous. His voice got quieter. “And since then, I’ve met you. I made new friends. I’m making more songs, getting more recognition. And sometimes I think, this isn’t the real me. If everyone knew the real me, saw how sick and horrible and worthless the real me was, you wouldn’t like me anymore. So this week wasn’t great and I felt tired and I didn’t want you to see me because I was scared. I was scared you wouldn’t like me anymore. So…I’m sorry.” Yoongi huffed out the last part.

“Oh.” Yoongi’s confession sent Namjoon’s mind reeling and he had to wait a minute for his brain to catch up. “I—Yoongi, I would never…” He couldn’t fathom not liking Yoongi anymore, not wanting to be with Yoongi. The thought threw him off, made him feel like he was floating, untethered. “I could never…”

Yoongi must have seen it in his eyes though, because he reached up and cupped Namjoon’s cheek, eyebrows furrowed seriously. “Yeah, I know. You’re so good, Namjoon.” And Namjoon nodded dumbly, and Yoongi sat up to kiss him, throwing one leg over Namjoon so he was straddling his waist. Namjoon wrapped his arms around Yoongi in response and they laid there for a long time, their ice cream long forgotten and melting on the bedside table.

While it was happening—while Namjoon was falling in love with Yoongi—he couldn’t help but think how lucky he was. How lucky he was, in all of his loneliness, to get to feel like this. The first time he told this to Yoongi, they were laying in bed, Yoongi’s head resting on his chest, right above his heart. Namjoon ran his fingers through Yoongi’s hair and Yoongi hummed in response, turning to face Namjoon. Namjoon knew, that from this angle, he probably had about five chins, that Yoongi was probably looking straight up his nose, but he didn’t care. The prospect filled his heart and made him warm all the way down to his fingertips.

There was one moment in their relationship that Namjoon played over and over in his head, a small moment for Yoongi but a big, heart-stopping moment for Namjoon that would affirm and re-affirm their relationship again and again. It was a few nights after Namjoon had told Yoongi he loved him for the first time, and they were lying in bed together. Namjoon couldn’t tell if Yoongi was really asleep or not, but he whispered his name all the same.

“Yoongi,” Yoongi’s eyes fluttered open and he smiled, the big, open, vulnerable smile that, when it made its rare appearance, always made Namjoon’s heart skip a beat.

“Yoongi, I feel so lucky.” He whispered it into the air like it was something precious. Because it was. All of this—precious.

Yoongi’s eyebrows drew together, “Why?”

“Because…because I get to feel so happy. Here with you.” Namjoon was confused. How did Yoongi not understand?

Yoongi drew himself up so their chests were pressed together. He looked Namjoon in the eyes, thinking deeply. “Namjoon… you deserve this. You’re supposed to feel happy.” And Yoongi swallowed and looked somewhere above Namjoon’s head, voice choking, “I’m… I am really glad you’re happy though. But you deserve to feel like this all the time.”

And then Yoongi had his arms wrapped around him, his hands wiping the tears that rolled down Namjoon’s cheeks. Was he crying? When did he start crying? Yoongi’s hands held his face tight as he whispered in Namjoon’s ear, recounting their favorite memories, telling Namjoon everything he liked about him, chanting I love you’s like they were prayers.

But Yoongi was right—Namjoon did deserve this, everything. And it wasn’t Yoongi, curled around him, cradling his head and running his fingers along his cheekbones, that was keeping him together. It turns out Namjoon had been doing pretty damn well by himself all along, and Yoongi was here to remind him of that. Again and again, over and over. Hopefully, well—hopefully forever.