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Three days after the BBMA, Ashley calls him.
She’d texted ahead. Their particular line of work necessitates it, and she ends up catching him at the perfect moment, when he’s just getting back to the hotel for a shower and about forty-five minutes of free time before dinner.
“Hi,” he says, holding the phone to his ear with both his hands. It’s embarrassing, almost, that he’s so eager to talk to her, that his voice has gone a touch breathy. “Ashley, how are you?”
Her laugh rings warm over the line. “Good, I’m good. My ankle hurts like a bitch, but I think today’s just vocal training and then an interview, so it should be fine.”
Namjoon makes a little sound to show he’s heard, then makes it again, because it was too quiet the first time. Flushes at himself for the ridiculousness of it all. Like a kid with a crush, he can almost hear Seokjin mocking, but at least there’s no one actually here to make fun of him for it, or make him confront how complicated his feelings actually are.
“How have you been? Did you get into too much trouble for sneaking out?”
He’d texted her a thumbs up, just a sign of life after the night they’d spent together, but felt too awkward saying anything more. It was a downgrade of sorts. Going back to text after spending so many minutes mapping each other’s bodies, and then longer afterwards having the kind of intimate conversation Namjoon didn’t think he was capable of with anyone outside of his group… it was a strange whiplash. Namjoon spoke with devastating honesty to his members and to the world and that was it, and that second one was still only a half truth.
Hell, all of it was half-truths if you looked at it from a certain angle. What does it mean to tell the fucking truth, anyway, if all it’s going to do is twist you into knots?
“No trouble,” Namjoon says, because he doesn’t want to get into the rest of it. He feels like a shaken up can of soda. Like he wants to either tell Ashley more or take it all back, and the in between is dizzying. “I’m good. We’re busy, you know. Um.” The English feels tired in his head. Always lands so heavy in the air between himself and another person. “Fine, yeah.”
That must have been the least convincing thing he’s ever said, especially considering the fact that they’re in the middle of a few free days between shows and travel, but Ashley doesn’t seem to notice. “Okay, I’m glad to hear that. I was worried afterwards. I know we were careful, but… usually I just tell the media to fuck off if they want into my personal life. Like, Jesus, leave me alone, it’s not your business. I didn’t want to do that if you were involved, though. That story probably would break a little differently, right?”
Namjoon doesn’t want to think about it. The differences— they’re hard to wrap his head around. It’s so hard to pull this thing apart, to think of the night they spent divorced from the conversation that followed. To think of a version that displays his messy heart, but not that part. That promises to know something of intimacy, but not that part. That would condemn him for some irresponsible tryst when all Namjoon could think of was the desperate desire to know himself better, and to know what to do in the future.
“Yeah,” he manages, “I guess so. But I haven’t heard anything so far.”
“Me neither.” Ashley sounds like she’s smiling wryly when she next speaks. “Think we’re in the clear?”
Never, Namjoon doesn’t say, because that’s too fucking bleak for however early it must be for her right now. “Maybe,” he says instead.
“Did you talk to any of the guys about it?”
It, Namjoon knows, could mean a lot of things in this context. He takes a breath, releases it slowly. Grounds himself. “Not really,” he says. “Jin knew we, um. Hung out. But no.”
“Do you think you might want to talk to them more?” Her tone is so light, so free of judgment.
Namjoon doesn’t know if he’s supposed to talk about this. If he’s supposed to share more, and with more people, or lock it up tight.
But what does he want?
Here is the most shameful secret of all: when Ashley had told him, hair mussed and sweat at her temple and around her brows, that the love he had to give wasn’t wrong, some inner part of him had come unshackled and begun to soar. It felt good. He wanted to tell her, even though his hands were shaking, and for a moment all he could feel was sickness, and then came the relief.
Namjoon would do a lot to feel that again, no matter who it hurt.
That’s the secret. That’s the shame.
“I don’t know,” he says, and holds himself very still.
“That’s okay,” says Ashley. “It doesn’t have to be now, but I think it could be nice, because we’re both…” she pauses as if searching for the words, and lands on, “so fucking busy,” with a little laugh at herself. “And I want you to be okay, but I also don’t want you to feel so alone, Joon. It’s hard to feel that way. If you trust the people around you, maybe it’s worth it to take a risk.”
Take a risk, Namjoon thinks, immediately derisive. Like it’s that easy. Like it couldn’t bring everything crashing down around him.
But, another voice whispers, what if it didn’t? What if you could be happy?
As a rule, Namjoon doesn’t cry easily, and he doesn’t now. But there’s an uncharacteristic tightness in his throat that he clears with a cough.
“Yeah,” he replies. “I’ll, um. I’ll think about it.”
“Text me,” she says. “Seriously, keep me updated. I’m not trying to like, micromanage you or whatever, obviously. That usually just makes things worse. Or maybe it’s just me that does the exact opposite of what people tell me to do out of spite. I don’t know. But I care about you, so—” Her voice goes muffled suddenly, like she’s leaning away from the phone— “Shit, I need to go. I just wanted to say hi.”
“Hi,” answers Namjoon, just to hear her laugh again.
She does with grace, and hangs up without much fanfare after that.
It leaves Namjoon alone in the hotel room. He still has some time before they call him for dinner, where the company has rented out a room in a restaurant nearby in between lunch and proper dinner services.
He spends it lying flat on his back and staring at the ceiling. I’m not straight, he imagines saying to literally any of the members, and feels his heart wobble precariously. He realizes, too, how little he'd asked her about herself, how she was really doing. He's not the only person in the universe that has problems. Not the only one who thinks deeply, or the only one who struggles with that. Has he been a good friend to her, these last few days? Likely not, but it doesn't seem as though she's holding a grudge about it. She'd be within her rights to though, wouldn't she? Will she end up resenting him for turning her into a sounding board, a confidant? Should she? God, it's all so fucking hard to parse.
I don’t want you to feel so alone, Joon, she’d said. And what a fucking paradox, to feel alone when you’re adored by so many, hated by so many, wanted by so many. But it’s cold here, a draft from the AC, and he pulls the duvet halfway over his legs just for something to feel.
He waits the next twenty minutes by himself, lonely and alone and wanting, and feels each aching moment of solitude like a slap in his own goddamn face.