Work Text:
A painting hangs on the wall of a gallery.
It’s nothing special. A few stripes and splashes of colour, a canvas drowning in azure and crimson hues. Mounted against the stark white of the wall, it looks like nothing more than a stain.
A tiny piece of cardstock is taped to the wall below it, oil on canvas, 12 x 12.
Yoongi doesn’t care for the painting. It’s ugly.
However, there is a man, standing in front of it, leaning in and looking at it with an expression of wonder. He’s tall, and Yoongi would be tempted to describe him as lanky upon first glance, but upon closer inspection— his arms and thighs certainly contradict that adjective. The clothing he’s wearing looks comfortable, but still oddly stylish, and the natural hues compliment his tan skin nicely. His hair is short, an ash blond colour under the fluorescent lights of the exhibition.
The man’s eyes are perhaps the most striking, he thinks, as he steps forward to stand next to him and look at the art. So enamoured by something so boring.
“It’s a pretty simple piece, isn’t it?” Yoongi asks, striking up a conversation, though his eyes stay trained on the canvas. He can feel the man’s gaze move to him, then back to the wall.
“It’s beautiful,” He says, and Yoongi is taken aback by the happiness in his voice.
“Why?” Yoongi frowns, squinting at it, looking for the same beauty and coming up blank. “It’s just a bunch of colours. Not much special about it.”
The man turns to him with such an upset expression Yoongi would almost think the man painted it himself. Of course, he knows better than that. It’s his very own work, after all.
“Art is subjective. Even though it may not be special to you, it’s probably an important piece to the artist, right?” He begins with a troubled face. “Pieces like this are meant to provoke thought, emotion, elicit a response, trigger a memory. They’re not supposed to be the whole story told on canvas, you’re supposed to come up with that story for yourself when you look at it.”
“What story do you get, then?” Yoongi asks, face still revealing nothing.
The man pauses. “Love. Sadness. Summer and winter. Passion and depression. The fine line between them all.”
Yoongi laughs, and it’s a short, almost barking noise. “That’s pretty deep for what looks like a child’s finger painting.”
Exasperation upon the man’s face. “Why would you even come to a modern art exhibition if you were only going to complain about the art?”
Yoongi simply shrugs.
“I mean, honestly, you need to respect artistic expression,” he continues, making animated gestures with his hands. “Even if this piece doesn’t meet whatever your standards for art and all that, you should at least appreciate it for what it is. It’s pretty.”
There’s a slight lull in the conversation, the man’s shallow breathing the only noise between them. Sighing, Yoongi looks at the wall again. Squints again. Comes up blank again for beauty, but plus one for bad ideas.
“Well, if you like it so much,” Yoongi dismounts the painting from the wall, handing it over to him. “Why don’t you take it?”
“That’s...” He stares at the painting, fingers ghosting over some of the points where the paint is thicker before he pulls his hands away. He looks to be at a loss for words, which is understandable, but also incredibly entertaining. “Yeah, no, that’s definitely theft.”
“It’s not theft.” Yoongi reassures half heartedly.
“It really is.”
“Ah, so maybe it is,” he muses. “But who’s going to miss it?”
He doesn’t seem to have a witty reply prepared for that one, and Yoongi lets himself smile ever so slightly.
“Well?” He prompts, leaning in a bit.
The man swallows, looking to the vibrant reds and blues once more. “I’m sure the artist wouldn’t appreciate the sudden disappearance of their work.”
“How do you know that?” Yoongi presses. “Do you know SUGA personally? I’ve heard he’s incredibly elusive. And an asshole.”
“Then I’m sure the two of you would get along great,” comes the quick response, with a smile so forced Yoongi has to bite back laughter. “And no, I don’t know him personally, but I’m familiar with some of his works.”
“Oh, really?” Yoongi hums, hanging the canvas back up. “Do you own any of his pieces?”
“Ah, no, I definitely don’t have the money for that.” He chuckles, seemingly embarrassed.
Yoongi tilts his head. “All the more reason to commit some not-theft for this one, then. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“Is this like a hobby of yours, man?” He looks at Yoongi incredulously. “Do you just go to art exhibitions to complain and then coerce people into committing larceny?”
“It’s my preferred way to spend a Saturday night, yeah.”
“You are one of the most impossible people I have ever met.” The man begins rummaging around in the pocket of his bag, pulling out a crinkled receipt and a pen. He jots something down, and thrusts it into Yoongi’s hands. “Text me sometime.”
“Why would I do that?” Yoongi asks, though he carefully tucks the paper into his pocket.
“I want to change your mind about modern art.” He explains hastily, zipping up his bag again and slinging it over his shoulder. “You don’t have to text me— sorry if I was boring you or anything, I just—”
“I’ll text you.” Yoongi says without a second thought. “But there’s no way you can change my mind.”
“We’ll see, I guess,” the man gives him a smile, and it’s a little crooked, but perfect all the same. “Hope to hear from you soon, uh...”
“Yoongi. Min Yoongi.”
“Yoongi,” He echoes, though it seems to be more to himself. “Kim Namjoon. It was incredibly frustrating to meet you, Yoongi.”
And with that, he walks away, turns a corner and he’s gone.
Yoongi stares at the red and blue mess on a canvas. In the back of his mind, it’s love and sadness. Summer and winter. Passion and depression. The fine line between them all.
(Later in the evening, an elderly couple asks him if he knows if it’s for sale.
With the smallest of smiles, he informs them that it’s not.)
—
Kim Namjoon is much more interesting than the contemporary art he seems to love.
The art is boring, static. Kim Namjoon is so dynamic.
They go to museums and galleries together whenever their schedules are both free (whenever Namjoon’s schedule is free, but occasionally Yoongi will make an excuse to make it seem like he has an actual job).
He gives Yoongi lengthy descriptions on modern and abstract pieces, analyzing every little aspect of the works. (Yoongi knows for a fact half of the artists are just halfassing it, himself included.)
They go out for lunch sometimes too, whenever Namjoon isn’t too busy during the week. (He’s getting his graduate degree in something like biology, from what Yoongi’s gathered.)
Often, Namjoon will ask Yoongi to hang out late at night, just lounging at Namjoon’s just-big-enough and just-nice-enough apartment across town. They’ll chill, sometimes watch a documentary or a shitty movie or whatever. (It’s not a date, he insists to Hoseok. We’re like rivals. Sort of.)
It’s nice.
And if Namjoon thinks anything of the fact that Yoongi has never invited him over, never opened up about his career or his hobbies, he’s never mentioned it. And if he ever wonders how Yoongi can afford to pay for most of their outings, or get them tickets to exclusive galleries and events, he’s never asked. And if he ever notices any splatters of paint on Yoongi’s arms, on his clothes, on his face, he doesn’t say anything. (It’s gotten to the point where Yoongi’s not sure if he’s incredibly oblivious or just incredibly unintrusive. Either is fine, he supposes.)
Back to the point, and to make a long story short, they end up hanging out a lot. Yoongi’s stance on abstract art never changes, and Namjoon’s doesn't either.
Though maybe, just maybe, Yoongi starts to see a bit more of a story in his works.
It’s disgusting, really.
He only notices it after a few months of him and Namjoon hanging out have passed, on a late midsummer evening when Hoseok is crashing at his place.
“Your works have been so warm lately, Hyung,” Hoseok observes, and when Yoongi takes a step back to see all of them lined up in a row, he can’t help but agree. They dance in warm yellows and rosy pinks, the orange hues of sunrise and whites of the clouds.
“They have, haven’t they?”
Hoseok looks at him with a smile playing on his lips. “They make me feel happy.”
Quietly, he murmurs to himself, “I guess they make me feel happy too.”
Very, very gross.
Hoseok is a good friend to Yoongi, and Yoongi loves him to death. Not that he’d ever say it aloud (or sober).
“You’ve been seeing someone, haven't you?” Hoseok asks out of the blue, breaking Yoongi’s focus.
“Not really,” He mutters, sketching some vague shapes on the blank canvas. When he turns around, Hoseok’s face is no more than an inch away from his own. He startles slightly, but maintains his usual frown.
“What.”
Hoseok pulls away, squinting as he looks Yoongi up and down. “Liar.”
“What?”
With an overdramatic flair, Hoseok takes a seat on the couch. “Oh, nothing, nothing. Only that my best friend in the world is a big—“ Yoongi throws a brush at him and he just barely dodges in time. “big, dumb liar.” He finishes.
“I’m not lying.” Yoongi huffs. “I haven’t been seeing anyone.” Technically, he and Namjoon haven’t been ‘seeing eachother’, not in the way Hoseok is implying.
The universe is cruel, and karma is a bitch.
His phone decides to vibrate at the most inopportune moment, and before he can react, Hoseok swipes it from the coffee table. He shoots Yoongi a look of scathing betrayal.
“Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.” He reads, mock-anger melting as his lips quirk up into a smile. “Ooh, who’s Namjoon?”
“He’s not what you’re thinking. We’re just friends.” Yoongi explains, and ignores the rest of Hoseok’s questions.
Later that evening, and into the morning, Yoongi paints the canvas in burnt sienna and tangerine figures.
Truly incredibly repulsive, that whole emotion business.
On another note, it seems that however unintrusive Namjoon might be, Hoseok is intrusive enough to make up for it.
“You’re sure you’re not dating?” Hoseok asks for what must be the sixtieth time this hour, and Yoongi shoots him a cold look, and gives him the same response as the previous fifty-nine times he’s asked.
“I think would know if we were dating, Hobi.”
Hoseok hums in agreement, though not without apprehension. “I know, but— I mean, from what you’ve told me, it all seems pretty... couple-y.”
Yoongi doesn’t even spare him a glance this time, keeping his eyes trained on the canvas, a large brush dripping with green paint in hand.
His current piece is swamped in earthy tones, swirling together to just barely give the impression of scenery. He tries not to consider the familiarity of the olive greens and dark browns, the taupe and the tan hues. Brush to canvas, he continues to work.
Hoseok, unsatisfied with the lack of reply, seems hellbent on not allowing him to focus whatsoever.
“Are you in looove, hyung?” He teases. Yoongi takes a deep breath, setting the brush down so he’s not tempted to use it as a projectile. Then, calmly;
“If we’re so focused on love, then, let’s talk about your love life.” Yoongi fires back with a tight-lipped smile. “How’s Seokjin-hyung doing?”
“Oh, God, let’s not.”
Still, the question sticks with Yoongi.
Sure, Yoongi likes Namjoon (and if he were a thirteen year old kid, he might even call it a crush). Who couldn’t like Namjoon, though? He’s handsome, funny, and smart. He’s fond of small animals and plants. He’s so passionate about everything. He wants to make a change in the world, and Yoongi finds it admirable.
It’s strange, in contrast to someone like Yoongi, who felt like he was lacking in that passion and ambition. His art wasn’t meant to make a change. His art was meant to scam the shit out of rich motherfuckers who were all too eager to blow their money on dumb shit.
Lately, that purpose has started to change drastically, more care and thought going into his pieces. His pieces hold meaning now, and it’s harder and harder to part with them.
He blames Namjoon.
—
They’re out for coffee on a Sunday afternoon, Namjoon dressed somewhere between a chimney sweep and a model. Yoongi is swimming in a jacket thats about two sizes too big for him and a pair of jeans one size too small. They make a bit of an odd pair, walking along the street in late fall, but neither of them seem to care all that much.
Yoongi’s come to terms with the fact that he sort of really likes Namjoon. He’s also come to terms with the fact that he can’t keep lying to Namjoon about the whole “secret identity” (ugh, and isn’t that some Clark Kent bullshit). His fingers brush over the gift he brought along in a satchel slung over his shoulder.
Now or never. Well, not never, but— he’ll probably chicken out any other time, so—
“There’s something I need to tell you,” He cringes at the way he rushes the words out. “Or, rather, give you, I guess.”
Namjoon looks troubled for a moment, but nods. “Okay, sure. I kind of have something to tell you too,” he admits, and Yoongi can't help but wonder what it could be. “Um, do you want to go first?”
No.
“Yeah, I— sure, yeah,” He reaches into his bag, fingers gripping the edge of a canvas. With a sigh, he pulls it out, handing it to Namjoon.
Blue and red.
The wind blows the trees softly. The hum of a vehicle passing by. There's a quiet tension between them before Namjoon speaks.
“Did you buy this for me?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper, close to being drowned out by the breeze, and he’s looking at it with the same wonder he had the first time.
Yoongi tilts his head. “Uh, no.”
“Then, did you—“ Namjoon’s face seems to drain of colour in an instant. “Oh, God, please don’t tell me you stole it—“
“What?” Yoongi wheezes, and he can't help but feel endeared. “No, no, I didn’t. I, um. I painted it.”
Namjoon squints, tracing patterns in the brushstrokes gently. “Like, a replica?”
“No, it’s... it’s the original,” He laughs, and it’s bordering on shaky. “I’m SUGA, Namjoon.”
“Oh my God?” Namjoon says, sounding as if the air has been knocked out of his lungs. "You're joking— you,” he presses a hand to his brow. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not joking, Namjoon. Why would I joke about this?”
“Sorry, just gotta make sure, Mr. ‘theft-isn’t-even-that-big-of-a-crime’.”
Yoongi shoots him a gummy smile. “That’s fair, I guess.”
“Of course it's fair,” Namjoon mutters, shaking his head. “I just— not that I don't trust you! It's just...” he exhales. “Hard to wrap my head around.”
A look bordering on horror. “Oh, no, I've talked about your art so much in front of you like an idiot, I'm so sorry if I ever said any—“
“Relax,” Yoongi interjects. “You're fine. I like hearing your ideas about my art.
That doesn't seem to ease Namjoon's worries any, though. “Thanks, but it's still so embarassing. I mean, all of the analysis... um, were any of them ever right?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“To be honest, none of my art ever meant anything to me.” Yoongi walks a little faster so he doesn't have to keep eye contact. Namjoon catches up to him in a few steps anyways.
“Oh.”
“But I've been working on some new stuff,” He shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets, “And I think I know what you mean. About the whole... emotions and thoughts in the art... thing.”
“Oh,” Namjoon echoes again, and Yoongi turns to look at him.
He's smiling.
“So I was right, hyung.” His eyes are scrunched up into little crescent moons, cheeks flushed a brilliant shade of pink.
You were right, Namjoon.
“Ugh, I guess.”
Still, it seems to be enough to keep that goofy smile on his face.
Clearing his throat, Yoongi continues. “If you ever want to come over to my studio sometime, you can check it out.”
“I'd like that.”
“Good, good.” Yoongi huffs, shaking his head with a grin. “So, what did you want to tell me?”
“Oh, it was— it’s nothing, really.” Namjoon mumbles, taking his turn on avoiding eye contact. “It’s kind of... yeah, doesn’t matter.”
Yoongi frowns, unsatisfied. “Come on, really? I told you my little secret, the least you can do is tell me yours.”
“Don't you feel like we've had enough dramatic secret telling for one day?”
“Nope. Come on,” Yoongi pressures childishly. “Tell me, tell me.”
“Hyung,” Namjoon whines. “It's embarassing.”
“All the more reason to just get it out there.”
Hypocrite.
“Okay,” Namjoon chews on his lip. “Okay.”
“You don't have to if you really don't want to.”
“No, it's fine, so, um.” Namjoon pauses, running a hand through his hair. “So. We've been hanging out a lot.”
“We have.”
“And I'd say we're pretty good friends.”
“That we are.”
“And I kind of want to be. More. Than just friends.”
Yoongi's breath catches in his throat and he stops in his tracks.
“What?”
“I'm sorry, I know that's totally just— like, I get it, if you're mad, so—”
“Say that again,” Yoongi murmurs. Namjoon blinks owlishly.
“I get it if you're mad?”
Yoongi shakes his head vehemently. “No, no, the other thing.”
“Ah,” Namjoon laughs awkwardly. “I want to be more than friends with you.”
Oh my god.
“Do you mean it?” Yoongi asks, trying not to let his hopes get too high. “Do you seriously, truly mean it.”
Namjoon nods, wordlessly.
“Good, that's— that's good.” Yoongi exhales, feeling almost relieved.
“Good?”
“Very,” he affirms. “I would like that. To be more than friends.”
“Oh.” Namjoon's nervous expression melts into a grin from ear to ear. “Oh. That is good.”
“I'd maybe even say it's great.”
“In that case,” Namjoon stepping closer to him, “there's something I'd like to give you.”
“Well, don't keep me waiting, then,” Yoongi fires back, looking at him expectantly.
Without further ado, Namjoon leans in, pressing their lips together gently. It's a careful, chaste kiss. It's soft and it's sweet. As soon as it's there, it's gone, and Yoongi smiles.
“That was a much nicer gift.”
“Oh, that's good.” Exhaling, Namjoon lets his head drop, leaning against Yoongi's shoulder. “Is it all supposed to be this...”
“Weird?” Yoongi suggests, placing a hand on Namjoon's head. “Maybe not. But who's to tell us how it's supposed to be?”
Namjoon makes a muffled noise of agreement.
“Alright, get up, get up,” Yoongi urges half-heartedly. “We've got places to be.”
“Like where?” Namjoon asks into his jacket.
“Well, I know a cafe not too far from here that would be good for a date.”
—
It gets less weird as time goes on. It's as they were before, but just with more actual dates, and more hand-holding, and more kisses. It's as it was before, but with less of Hoseok teasing him.
Namjoon will often hang out at Yoongi's studio while he paints, prattling on about new crab species being discovered and the work he's been doing. Yoongi listens with a subtle smile on his lips, a brushstroke against the canvas for every word.
He's taken up painting portraits— well, it's really just the one he's finishing up right now.
A man, standing in front of a blue and red painting in placed on a white wall. He's dressed comfortably, but still stylish, in tones that compliment his tan skin and ash-blonde hair.
As he finishes the last few brushstrokes, he picks up a much thinner brush, dipping it in black paint. An artist always signs their work, after all. So, on the bottom right corner of the canvas, he signs;
Min Yoongi.