Archive of Our Own

It’s only when the last heavy box is on the ground that Seokjin allows himself to breathe.

By the time he realised the elevator was out of order, the moving truck was already far. He had to haul all of his stuff from the entryway to the third floor, by himself. So now that he’s finally done, his breath strained and his arms sore, to say that he’s relieved is an understatement.

His socks shuffle quietly on the wooden floor (it’s not real wood, but made from the synthetic planks you clip together to make your floor look like a fancy parquet), as he goes to open the window, let in some fresh air. It takes a little bit of pushing and pulling, but once it’s open, the smell of timid warmth and freshly-bloomed flowers wafts into his apartment.

He sits on the sofa, a little stiffly, swiping his eyes across the space. On the floor of his new home sit all of his unpacked boxes.

His new home. That sounds a little strange.

He can see all of it from here. There’s only this kitchen and living area, and behind an open door, his new bedroom with its en-suite bathroom (fancy!). The kitchen is decently sized, thank goodness; although, not as big as his previous one, where he used to prepare feasts for his friends. There’s less countertop to work with, but he’ll manage, he thinks. He hopes. 

What’s really good in here is the lighting. Taehyung would love taking pictures here, without a doubt. The sun shines in through large windows, bathing the interior in a warm light - his mother would be pleased, Seokjin thinks, with how much she pestered him about it on the phone. Is it Southern exposure?, she’d asked for every single flat he’d visited. To which, at some point, he’d almost retorted that what he checked first wasn’t the exposure, but the rent.

He doesn’t really blame his parents. He knows they’ve supported him much longer than most parents do, even when he didn’t choose the easy path. He just wishes, sometimes, that they could put in a little effort to at least understand his struggles.

He tries not to imagine what the apartment will look like in Winter, when the light gets dim and all he has to rely on for comfort is heat. For now, it’s Spring: the sun is still high as the end of the day nears, and Seokjin thinks he doesn’t want to enjoy its last rays stuck inside, unpacking. 

Out of habit, he pulls out his phone, finds his last text conversation. He starts typing a message to Jimin, a simple one, asking if he wants to hang out. And when he’s about to send, he stops.

He pulls up his maps app, enters Jimin’s address, then his own. After the second it takes for the itinerary to pop up, he almost winces.

Okay. He didn’t remember living that far from him. Cool, cool.

He resists the urge to enter his old address too, locks his phone, and lets his head fall against the back of the couch. 

He considers crying, for a minute. But if he cedes, Jimin would call him dramatic, and the last thing he wants is to have his dramatic tendencies called out by Jimin, of all people. So he looks out the window, tries to find some beauty in the way the wind shakes the leaves. 

Maybe he’ll find that beauty one day. 

For now, the only thing passing through his mind is that he’s out of instant noodles, and he needs to go out and buy some.

He drags his feet to his bedroom, where he plans on getting his wallet, with a sigh. Maybe this is the perk of being a grown man living alone: he has the right to sigh out loud, if he pleases. Except when he does, it doesn’t feel as satisfying as it should.

It’s not like this is his first time living by himself. It’s already been two years since he’s stopped sharing a flat with Jimin. And of course, when his friend announced he was moving in with Tae, Seokjin’s proud, sarcastic self replied: good riddance. 

But even after Jimin moved out, they pretty much spent their days together, the three of them - always at each other’s place, getting lunch together, throwing impromptu pajama parties involving even more drama and wine than back in college.

It’s only now, when they can’t do that as often anymore, that Seokjin realises it. 

Okay, maybe he will let himself cry a little.

It’s fine, he thinks, as he plops down on his bed. Life is going to keep them all busier and busier, anyway. Jimin and Taehyung have their fashion thing going on, he has his… well, he’ll have his acting thing soon.

There’s no reason to feel sad about growing up and changing. No reason at all. 

There’s a thin crack in the ceiling. The more Seokjin fixates on it, the blurrier it looks - because his throat tightens, his eyes water. Just like that, he’s overwhelmed with sadness.

Tears are about to roll down his face when he hears it. 

A beat. It sounds like one of those percussion samples that producers play on loop to build on, a muffled drum rhythm that repeats over and over. 

He frowns. Has he left his music running? He fishes out his phone, but there’s nothing on the screen - not even one new notification -, and still, the beat is going on and on.

Please don’t tell me I landed next to a raver, he briefly thinks.

Except the music doesn’t sound like something out of a rave, or even a club. It’s more subdued, but it doesn’t sound like the typical lo-fi instrumentals he used to foolishly listen to, thinking they’d make him procrastinate less. 

It sounds… well… unique, really.

It sounds hazy and daunting, in a soothing way. Strange. The bass is upped, just a bit, enough to be obvious, and to resonate like a loudly beating heart. 

And sometimes, but just sometimes, a voice comes to accompany it. It’s timid and Seokjin can’t hear it too well, like it doesn’t really know where it should fit, or how. Sometimes the music stops and there’s just silence, cut through by a random hum or a few words; other times it starts again, not too loud, and the voice takes over, wrapping over perfect English syllables.

“All I need is me… all I need is me, I know… and all you need is - Mm... ” 

There’s some mumbling, some throat-clearing, some paper shuffling. Seokjin listens, and stares at the ceiling. What was an inconvenience has become a welcome distraction.

“All I need is me, I know, I know… but why do I feel lonely? I feel so lonely when I’m with me, I feel so lonely when I’m with me…”

Seokjin smiles a little. Sounds like his neighbour’s going through it. That makes two of them; sad on a weekday afternoon. 

It’s a weird thought, and Seokjin likes it. It makes him feel not so lonely, anymore. 

But as he’s starting to get used to the sound, the music stops; and the voice disappears, too. There’s just him, in the silent stillness of his bedroom. 

Loneliness rushes back. 

He lays there, basking in it, because it’s the only thing he has the energy to do. And he wonders how a voice can make you feel so understood, and then its absence so helpless, in a mere second.

He’s startled by a little ding and a buzz next to his hand. He unlocks his phone, and only then sits up with a smile.

from: jiminie ★

wanna come over on saturday? kinda craving your secret special pesto (that’s the only reason btw, don’t flatter yourself thinking it’s your pretty face i wanna see)

The two seconds it takes him to read already have him snickering, and looking forward to adding things to his grocery list.

Namjoon’s in the middle of his hallway, shoving his arms into the sleeves of his jacket while balancing a book and a box of pastries in his hands, when Jungkook calls.

For anyone else, he would’ve just ignored it. He’s already running late, and he frankly doesn’t have the time, nor the empty space required in his hands, to pick up. 

But it’s Jungkook calling. His tiny Kookie, his best friend whose doe eyes could get him anything, his quasi-little brother whom he’d do anything for, is calling.

He unceremoniously puts down the pastries, and picks up the phone.

“Hyung! How are you?”

Namjoon smiles upon hearing his cheery voice.

“Not bad,” he answers, because it’s technically true. “You?”

“Great!”, Jungkook pipes up - and then, wasting no time, asks: “Wanna hang out?”

As always, he’s got an impeccable sense of timing. 

“Your boyfriends ditched you?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook mumbles, faking sadness. Namjoon can hear his pout from the other side of the line. “They’re having a catch-up date.”

“I see,” Namjoon says - not wanting to imagine what that means. “Well, sorry, I can’t. I have a date too,” he answers.

“Interesting. Which app was it this time?”

Now it’s his mocking smile Namjoon can hear.

“Shut up,” he answers, holding his phone between his ear and his shoulder, while he tries to put on his shoes. “Let’s meet up later, okay? I’m free on…”

A slight buzz against his ear distracts him from the end of his sentence. He drops his shoe to look at the new message on his screen.

I’m sorry, Namjoon, I won’t be able to make it today :( This was great but I don’t think we’re meant for each other. Sorry again and wish you all the best!

When he sighs, it’s not even out of disappointment or sadness. Just… habit.

He puts the phone back against his ear.

“Change of plans. You can come over when you want,” he grumbles, knowing full well that on the other side, Jungkook’s repressing a laugh. 

When he shows up at his door, he looks as contrite as he looks amused.

“Sorry about your date,” is one of the first things he tells him as he waltzes into his flat and makes himself at home on his couch.

“It’s fine,” Namjoon says, surprised to find that he means it. “She probably didn’t like our first one. I don’t know.”

“You said she looked pretty happy the next morning?”, Jungkook asks innocently.

“Yeah, well… maybe I was wrong,” he shrugs. “Maybe she thought I wasn’t reliable or stable enough,” he adds. He’s once again reminded of how many times he’s heard declinations of that sentence - usually coming up whenever people found out about his career. 

Jungkook’s head jerks a little to the side, like he wants to say something. Something like a “maybe she’s not wrong”. Namjoon would rather not find out. 

Instead, he pushes the pastry box towards Jungkook, and relishes in the way his friend’s eyes light up. 

“At least, now you get this,” he says: a covert invitation for Jungkook to help himself.

“You bought these for her? Damn. You really are a romantic.”

“See where that gets me,” Namjoon chuckles.

“You should’ve told her you had food!”, Jungkook whines, shoving a puff pastry in his mouth. “She would’ve come running back.”

“I’m not creepy like that,” Namjoon replies with a shrug, picking one of them before they’re gone.

“Well, her loss and my win.”

While he laughs and Jungkook has a feast, Namjoon decides to keep his hands occupied, and goes to mist the young potted plants that are growing on his windowsill. Thanks to the way he’s arranged them, a nice ray of sun falls right on their small leaves. Once they get bigger, he thinks, he can gift one to the nice old lady on the first floor who always gives him leftovers.

The thought makes him smile.

It’s true that his flat doesn’t really look like him. It’s full of sunshine, greenery, life. It’s homey, inviting and warm, and Namjoon doesn’t really think all of that applies to him - no matter what his friends say. He’s indoorsy, sometimes a little too much; he just likes to stay at home, stay up much later than he should, and work.

It’s a blessing he likes working, because work isn’t something he lacks. 

“How’s your internship going?”, he asks Jungkook. He puts his spray bottle away and picks up a watering can, to tend to the huge climbing plant in the corner of his living room.

“I haven’t killed my boss yet,” Jungkook answers with a cheeky grin.

“I’m so proud.”

“I know you are,” Jungkook laughs. 

“I am, actually,” Namjoon says, more serious. He finally sets down his watering can to plop down next to Jungkook on the couch.

Jungkook nods with a shy smile, fiddles with his long fingers. It’s always fascinated Namjoon, how much unconscious love Jungkook gives to his hands. He takes care of them, adorns them with tattoos that must have been painful to get. They’re important to him, Namjoon knows - after all, they’re the first tool of his niche craft. Without the dexterity of his fingers, he wouldn’t be able to meticulously restore the old speakers and record players that so few can repair.

Sometimes Namjoon is a little jealous of that dexterity. His passion, at least, doesn’t require a lot of that.

“And you?”, Jungkook inevitably asks. Namjoon has to physically hold himself from cringing. 

“Uh… fine, I guess.”

He doesn’t tell him it’s going like any other freelance job; trying and tiring, underpaid and unstable, asymmetrical in nature. Jungkook already knows. His boyfriends, Hoseok and Yoongi, have tried to bail him out of that situation a few times - put in a good word for him at labels and hook him up with production agencies. But the field is exclusive, the stable spots are hard to grab, and it’s cheaper to hire a freelancer than a producer, anyway.

He tries to keep it in mind, but it usually ends up taking a toll on his self-esteem. Refusals feel like being told: you’re good, but not good enough. And maybe he just isn’t good enough. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t have a job.

He locks the thoughts away. He may not have a job, but he has work - a lot of it. He’s found that it’s better to focus on what he does have.

Jungkook doesn’t look like he knows what to say. Namjoon spares him the effort.

“Oh, yeah, speaking of that, I was going to ask you… can you just help me with something?”

“Sure.”

“Cool,” he says, standing up and motioning for Jungkook to follow him to his bedroom, where he’s set up a little studio on his desk. “I’m just going to play 30 seconds of a beat I was working on, could you do some random ad-libs on it? It’ll inspire me for the background track.”

It’s not an unusual occurrence at all; while Namjoon boots up his laptop, Jungkook is already pulling the mic towards him. But instead of just agreeing, he asks:

“I could. How much do I get paid?”

Namjoon stares at him, an eyebrow raised.

“According to copyright law, since I’m the author of the ad-lib, I should get compensated for it,” he clarifies, a playful little smile on his face. “Yoongi told me.”

“What does Yoongi know about copyright law?”

“Quite a lot now, actually. He’s reading a book about it. I think we could lend it to you, maybe then you wouldn’t let those companies rip you off -”

Namjoon scoffs.

“At least they’re paying me.”

“Yeah, but not enough.”

“Well - at least they employ me.”

Jungkook doesn’t have anything to retort. He still looks like he’s thinking about something to contradict him with. Namjoon beats him to it, with a sigh.

“Can you just please record this thing? Just this once?”, he asks, handing him a pair of headphones.

“Okay, genius tyrant,” Jungkook cedes with a little laugh, and puts the headphones on. “Is this for one of your songs, at least?”

Namjoon shrugs, pulls up his files.

“Depends on if I can pay my rent or not.”

Jungkook sends him a mildly disapproving look; but before he can start reasoning him about the value of his art, or how he shouldn’t give away what’s precious to his heart so easily, Namjoon presses play.

Jungkook’s ad-libs, as always, are some of the most beautiful and soothing sounds Namjoon has ever heard.

“Ding ding, waiter!! One deca latte with extra caramel syrup, and make it as hot as you are, please.”

Seokjin smiles. He turns away from the coffee machine he’s tending to, towards the much-too-energetic voice.

“The Park Jimin has time for a coffee?”, he teases, so happy to see his friend that his cheeks are numb. He tries not to notice that the tip jar is a little fuller than it was, a customer ago. They’ve already had that argument once; no use bringing it up again, and erasing that smile from Jimin’s bright face.

“Made by Korea’s favourite barista? Always,” he retorts, whipping out his card before Seokjin can tell him it’s on the house. And then, with his legendary tact, he adds: “You look tired.”

Seokjin grimaces while he starts on the preparation. He already knows he looks tired - that’s because he is. He’s tried to conceal the bags under his eyes, and for anyone other than his friends, it probably worked, but Jimin knows him and his face so well that he didn’t need half a glance to notice. 

For once, he wishes another customer would take Jimin’s place and cut the conversation short. But Jimin knows how to choose his break times: there’s almost no one in the café, despite it standing at a crossroads between the business district and an upper-class residential area. At this hour, everyone’s either working or doing God-knows-what in their fancy apartments.

“I had some lines to run yesterday,” he explains, hearing the tap-tap-tap of Jimin’s fingers on his phone halt. Seokjin doesn’t know if he’s grateful or embarrassed that he’s listening. “And then a self-tape to record, that I just couldn’t get right.”

He doesn’t add: also, my new neighbour’s been recording a song and it’s so good I lost sleep - which is a little annoying. I wish he didn’t choose the middle of the night to compose.

“When’s your audition?”, his friend asks.

He glances at the clock, feeling an inevitable twist creep in his gut.

“In four hours.”

“Break a leg.”

Seokjin has broken so many legs in the past year and a half that he doesn’t know how he’s still standing. 

He doesn’t say thank you, because he’s a superstitious mess, and if he’s learnt one thing in that year and a half, it’s that magic or a divine intervention might actually do better than practice if he wants to get a role. Instead, he sets a cup on the counter with an amused smile.

“There you go, sir. Extra, extra hot.”

Jimin laughs in delight, and all of Seokjin’s discomfort washes away.

“And steamy, I hope?”

“That’s… not guaranteed,” Seokjin laughs.

“Oh, I’m sure it is,” Jimin retorts.

Like with most of their running jokes, Seokjin doesn’t really know where it’s going, but he still plays along. They babble for a few minutes more before Jimin gets a call, and it looks important, because Seokjin can spot some nervousness in his face. That rarely happens. When he hangs up, they say bye-bye and see you later, a later that is soon, Seokjin hopes, as he watches his friend walk away. 

Seokjin ranks this audition okay-to-bad. It’s hard to tell. They were at least listening, which he appreciates; but when he slid his portfolio on the table, he thought he saw a familiar headshot - one of an actor playing in a drama that’s currently airing. When he looked it up on his phone right out the door (sometimes unhealthy temptations are too strong), he read somewhere that the show’s popularity is growing every week. Just his luck. 

On the way home, he watches the rushing darkness outside the subway, and he thinks about a running-joke from college. One of their teachers, a disillusioned former actress who seemed hell-bent on crushing their dreams, always harped on her 3 F's casting directors rule - Familiar Faces First. Upperclassmen would make fun of her, turn her phrase into derision, decline it into painfully realistic equivalents.

One of them was Fight, Fake, Fuck.

Seokjin doesn’t know which one’s truer. He doesn’t know which one he hopes is true. 

Both of them disserve him. Because he might have been naive, but he thought he could make himself a little place in this industry without taking part in its absurdity - the petty drama, the loss of dignity, the reputation and all of the unsaids. Ironic of him, the pretty face, to want to break out of that. Ironic of him to choose a job where he has to fake being someone else, when all he wants is to find some truth in what he does.

The more auditions he fails, the more people from this world he encounters, the less truth he sees.

He might have been naive, after all, and maybe that’s why he thought acting was all rainbows. That’s on him.

He’s drained when he dumps his bag somewhere in the hallway, kicks off his shoes. He falls down on his bed face first and draws out a long, long sigh. He’s sad but doesn’t want to cry. He’s tired, but can’t sleep yet. He’s hungry, hasn’t had a proper meal in hours (he can rarely eat before auditions), but he frankly doesn’t have enough energy to even boil water right now.

He still wants to do something. The thought of scrolling aimlessly through his better-off friends’ social media is depressing, and he isn’t in the mood for games. It might seem stupid, but he isn’t in the mood for something where he can lose. 

He lazily rolls on his back, turns his head. In the corner of his room sits his electric keyboard. He hasn’t touched it in a while, maybe once or twice since he’s moved in, a few quick-as-lightning weeks ago. He just looks at it, and he can almost feel the hardness of the keys under his fingertips.

Maybe he can take some inspiration from his neighbour, on this one.

He hauls himself to sit up and scoot to the edge of his bed, in front of his keyboard (it’s not the most recommended position, but his bedroom isn’t large enough to have it another way, and now that he’s lowered the piano just enough for this, it’s actually pretty cozy). He turns it on, and moved by muscle memory, his fingers play a scale. And then another. It’s pleasant, easy to find his old reflexes - to find what’s comfortable again. Before he knows it, he’s playing a song.

Hours go and Seokjin doesn’t see them pass.

He does this more and more, he finds, as the days go by. It’s an effort, but also a way to fill his mind with something other than what-if’s and what-now’s. He’s not the best but for once, he doesn’t care; he’s doing this for himself first, he doesn’t try to show off. He bitterly thinks, sometimes, that that’s what acting should feel like, too; he wonders when it has stopped being a joy, and started turning into a job. A failed job, at that.

He focuses on the music.

One night, he doesn’t play, and laying tirelessly in bed after an exhausting day, he doesn’t have any music to focus on, or distract himself with. Until a sound he’s come to know echoes, somewhere, not in his apartment. He’s not so surprised anymore: he hears it at night, mostly, roughly at the same times during the week. 

Ever since the first time, he’s been conflicted. Soon, thoughts like “what is this guy doing at this hour” and “I’ll go ask him to stop or wear headphones” turned into “this is kinda good”. And then, “this is kinda good” turned into “this is pretty soothing”; and so on, and so forth, until Seokjin starts wondering if it’s really a coincidence if he doesn’t play on those particular days.

Nothing beats the first thought he had, hearing it for the first time after moving in:

The voice is back.

Since then, when it comes, Seokjin smiles. Tonight again, the voice is back.

“In the cold morning air, I open my eyes without anyone knowing; the harmony of this city, it’s so familiar to me. Though my childhood days are far away, and it’s filled with buildings and cars only, now this is my home… Seoul, Seoul…”

The song is comforting (because when isn’t it?). It’s close to midnight, and Seokjin feels like the sun is rising. It might be because the voice is so soft, between rapping and singing - tinted with a tone one would use to gently nudge someone awake. And maybe, in a way, that’s what his neighbour’s doing.

When he actually starts rapping, Seokjin is, as always, a little shocked.

“Why would it be that your pronunciation is similar to soul, what kind of soul is it that you possess? What is it that holds me by your side like this, I don’t even have memories of you. I’m now so sick of you; the same old, ashy facial expression of yours. No, no, I’m afraid of myself, because I have already become a part of you.”

It’s fascinating, the intent he puts on each of his syllables, how well his pretty voice wraps around the words. He stumbles on them, sometimes, slurs them a little too; Seokjin does the same, when he’s reading new lyrics and getting used to them.  

When he gets to the chorus, he starts, then stops. Seokjin hears him find the notes, try out different melodies - all of them are amazing, elevated by his warm and breathy voice (raspy like it’s on the verge of breaking, just on the edge). He hums and Seokjin doesn’t know why it makes him want to hear more, why it’s making him lean closer to the wall, half-propped up on his pillows, in a position that isn’t comfortable at all.

He doesn’t know why, but once the melody’s found and the voice sings it out, none of that even matters.

“If love and hate are the same words, I love you, Seoul; if love and hate are the same words, I hate you, Seoul…”

Seokjin lets out a little breath that was stuck in his throat, and starts thinking again.

Why does his voice feel like a band-aid?

Ever since Namjoon graduated, his life has been scarily static. He thought his diploma would open new doors, let him try new things. He thought he could travel, maybe - find a job that’s flexible enough so he can work from home, and take flight to who-knows-where. He’s never been one to reach far, has always liked the bounds of his own country (and his own city, and his own home); but years of studying filled him up with new dreams he couldn’t even recognise. 

He hasn’t reached a lot of them. He hasn’t achieved much. He’s not an overachiever, per say (or maybe he used to be, judging by the pristine school reports his parents proudly keep in his childhood home); he just likes to achieve what he works hard for. And since he’s been out of college, the taste of failure is bitter.

So not much has changed. But still, Namjoon hangs on. He’s found how to get a taste of change: the only way he can feel it is through music. 

Music is constant change, simply because no two songs, no two verses are ever the same. Writing and composing mean entering a new timeline with every phrase, every note: they’re evolutive, they start one way and end another, they’re planned and still, up to chance. Working on music always feels like doing something new, to him. It always feels like he’s progressing.

It’s only fitting that the first real change in his life is a melody through a wall.

He remembers what he was doing the first time he heard it (partly because it was striking; partly because that night was particularly banal). He had a book in his hands (Kant, or maybe Plato, one of those heavy re-reads he often did to ground himself, remember why he’s here and why he deserves to be), he was propped up on his pillows with a fuming mug next to him, and he was so focused that he didn’t even hear the piano, at first.

It was just a melody, that night, a little unsure, but beautiful. It was a nice background noise for his reading, and at one point, it was so good that he even put his book down. He took off his glasses, closed his eyes, and listened.

It was over too soon. But about a week later, it happened again. And then again, after a few days more.

And today again, as Namjoon scrolls down Twitter with palpable boredom, some piano notes echo behind the wall. Unconsciously, he perks up his ears.

His mind freezes a little when a voice cuts in.

“When tonight passes, I’m scared that -”

The sound of someone clearing their throat. A few piano chords, to set the tune; and then the angelic voice, again.

“When tonight passes, I’m scared that I might not be able to see you.” 

Namjoon leans his head against the wall, unconsciously chasing the voice, and its sad whirlwind of a melody.

“The eyes that are ever so pure and clear, the touch that I have become so used to; the face that used to look at me and smile - now, will I no longer be able to see you again?”

Eyes closed, Namjoon listens. Something in his gut shifts; or maybe it’s in his heart.

“I with you every day, and you with me every day; when the moon goes down and the sun rises, you’re not with me…” 

Sudden high notes, clear as glass, sending delicious chills along his skin. 

“If I close my eyes, I’ll think of all the times we’ve been together… If I close my eyes, I’ll think of only happy memories...”

The piano stops after a few notes, and with it vanishes the voice. 

The voice. Namjoon has never heard anything like that voice before. It’s so unique - clear, but husky at times, when it touches on the low notes of the man’s impressive range; sounding so delicate it’s almost fragile, like it could trail off with just a misplaced breath - yet holding an unexpected strength once it soars towards higher octaves. A princely voice for lullabies and serenades, for rock songs and ancient sung tales. For crying, and healing, and smiling. 

His song is beautiful already. But Namjoon suddenly feels a physical, desperate need of writing a heart wrenching love song, with that voice in mind. For that voice, unpolished and perfect, needing no other remedy than its own.

He grabs the first piece of paper that he can find, starts scribbling the first words that come to his mind, fills himself with everything he heard in that voice - a melancholic kind of tiredness, a pained sentimentality. One of a lover played too often, of a hopeless romantic looking for happiness anywhere but where he stands. 

It would fit nicely with Jungkook’s pure tone. And also, maybe, Hoseok’s low range. Namjoon thinks about it, these voices harmonizing on an ostinato, their low and high timbres mingling.

Yes. Yes, Hoseok’s low range would definitely be a perfect fit.

The voice doesn’t come back that night. But he hears it again, later, sometimes. It’s always unexpected, and so fleeting it’s frustrating. It happens when speakers are on and he hears his neighbour belts on a random song; it happens when a shower’s running. 

Once, there are other voices Namjoon hears, and laughs over some music. He must have friends over: they improvise a duet, and then a trio, and despite how obvious it is that they’re being silly, their harmonies are still flawless. Namjoon can’t even complain about the noise, because it’s really not that bad - he just lets the music carry him through the days, like it usually does, except this time it’s not his own.

It’s a few weeks later, on one of those Spring days that are deceptively sunny, that his life changes a little more.

He’s ecstatic, that day - that day isn’t like the others. He’s found a bundle of old cassettes in the crate of a thrift store, and he’s taking them to Jungkook to check if they can be played. He wonders, as he skips down the stairs and reaches the entrance hall, what magical sound they hold, what kind of song has travelled through time only to be found by him. He likes to have thoughts like those: that maybe these cassettes were meant to cross his path, that maybe it was fate -

He pauses as soon as he steps foot in the hall.

There’s no big deal. None. This is just… 

There’s just the most beautiful human being Namjoon has ever seen, right here, a few meters away, in his field of view.

He looks like a prince. Actually - a king. He’s got the most delicate features and the most intense dark eyes; nothing about him is measured. Longest legs, most gorgeous face, most elegant posture and daintiest hands. He’s just so much, too much - and all of that, while doing a task as mundane as checking his mail. 

Namjoon’s first instinct is hiding back into the stairwell. He doesn’t really know why. It just feels like he’s not allowed to look at this guy for more than a few seconds - like if he stares, his retina will burn, or something of the sort. He’s not very superstitious, and resolutely atheist, but now he thinks he’s seen what divinity looks like: and divinity is both intimidating, and so not for him.

His second instinct is grabbing his phone. 

to: yoongi

oh my fuck, i just saw the most gorgeous guy ever. like godly gorgeous. and he lives in my complex i don’t know what t

He stops typing when he realises how ridiculous he’s being.

Yoongi probably cares more about the colour of his socks than the fact that he’s seen the most godly gorgeous guy ever in his building. And Yoongi’s probably right. He’s just the friend that is the least likely to make fun of him for this - which is saying a lot.

He deletes everything. He takes a deep breath, hears the elevator ding, and waits a minute more. He thinks: I’m being dramatic. This guy was not that hot. But then he thinks about his face again and his mind goes blank.

When he steps out into the hall again, the guy is gone.

Namjoon doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed.

Seokjin doesn’t think he likes routine. At least, not when it comes to boring stuff such as: preparing for an audition, worrying about an audition, starting to get excited about an audition, and then failing an audition. All of that, peppered with phone calls with an increasingly annoyed agency who’s getting less and less helpful (one day, Seokjin will sigh right back at them and tell them he’s as tired as they are; but for now, he’s playing nice - his survival instinct).

Routine was bearable when Jimin and Tae were by his side. It was even fun. He knew he wouldn’t have to worry about anything during the span of a lunch or a dinner, or he knew someone would barge into his apartment as soon as he got bored. And yes, they do hang out still - they see each other when Seokjin’s working, they meet at bars and restaurants where he tries not to wince at the menus. It’s just not the same as before.

Seokjin’s getting bored, and annoyed. Or maybe he’s not annoyed, but scared (scared that things he thought were temporary are starting to last. And vice-versa). The point is, time passes and it doesn’t feel good at all, to feel like he’s not evolving. It’s like he goes back to square one with every try, and he’s starting to wonder, now, if he’s flirting with the negatives. 

It’s one of those same old audition days: he isn’t home late, he could do so many things for the rest of his day, but he’s so tired he doesn’t even want to do anything. I haven’t touched the piano in a while, he sometimes thinks, dejectedly. I should do it soon. Except days are so similar that they blend into each other, and it’s not a surprise he always ends up forgetting. Today, too, he forgets. He makes dinner, gets absorbed into the void of the internet, showers, and before he knows, his eyelids are getting a little too heavy to handle. 

It’s not even that late, when Seokjin tucks himself into his fluffy sheets with a content sigh. He’s so ready to close his eyes, relax every muscle of his body, and finally give into a deep, invigorating sleep.

The universe has other plans, apparently. As soon as he lets his eyelids fall shut, he hears noise from the other side of the wall - a kind of muffled little yelp, and what sounds like fabric shifting.

He brushes it off. Or, tries to. But the voice-y sound comes to his ears again, a bit stronger, this time. Seokjin furrows his eyebrows, annoyed and intrigued; unsure if lending an ear is very polite.

It isn’t, but he does it anyway. And when what he can definitely identify as a female voice resounds once more, he feels himself physically cringe, and he shrinks back into his sheets like he’s been electrified.

Oh, no. Not this. Please, please, not whimpers and moans. 

Seokjin feels his face heat up, his whole body taken over by a cold chill. He feels unease down to every single one of his cells. And when a low male voice joins, it gets too much for him; he has to slip under his covers, face in his pillow, trying to shut out any of those noises that make his skin crawl.

This is already incredibly uncomfortable - but the fact that it’s him makes it worse, weirdly. It’s like he’s forgotten that the “voice” isn’t just a voice - but a human, with a life, and apparently, a girlfriend. Whom he knows how to love well, given the sounds she’s making.

Maybe it’s not a girlfriend. Maybe he’s one of those playboys who collects people because they can. It’s something Seokjin could do, something he’s considered a few times, but something he’s ultimately never had the energy to pursue. 

He settles in his bed, tries to push the sound and the thoughts away. But as he keeps just laying there, under layers and layers of pillows and blankets, and the rustling of his sheets stops, he can only hear the faintest sounds. If he didn’t know they were here, he probably wouldn’t have caught it, but he does; and after a little while, strangely, it’s not as jarring as it used to be. Slowly, he can even feel himself drifting towards unconsciousness. 

His brain wanders. He wonders when was the last time he was laying in bed, with someone touching him. He wonders what kind of body that voice has, and what it’d be like, to hear that low hum in his ear - to feel crowded and cared for. To have that voice say his name, have it for himself.

... What in the actual hell are these thoughts and why do I keep having them, he thinks.

He shudders, makes himself very small in his bed. Isn’t what he’s doing an invasion of privacy? And why on Earth can’t he just shake it off?

That’s how he ends up falling asleep. Confused, ashamed and a little aroused.

Namjoon is a creature of routine and habit; he’ll admit that much. He likes clear-cut goals, and he’s prone to scheduling everything. Mondays are for the work that got delayed on the week-end (not that he doesn’t work on week-ends, which Hoseok says he should stop doing, except Hoseok, unlike some, has a stable paycheck); Wednesdays are for errands and adulting, paperwork and sometimes family phone calls; Thursday nights are for dates who turn to one-night stands on Friday mornings… etc., etc.

Habits are good, and safe. They make Namjoon a little less lost, in this city that feels too big (not to mention this world; Namjoon would rather not think about the wideness of the world and the speck he is in it). They comfort him because he knows them, and he’s in control.

Was.

He was in control, he used to be, and he doesn’t know when it all went wrong, but now his neighbour who used to play and sing just doesn’t do it anymore, and what had shoved itself into his routine is gone.

It took him ridiculously little to become addicted. He’s never been addicted to anything, except work, and maybe finding comfort in the arms of others. But his neighbour played nine, ten times, belted in his shower and had fun with his friends, and it was enough for Namjoon’s habits to fall apart.

He stopped having people over during the night, in case he decided to play. He left home later than he usually did and came home earlier, chasing a sign from that voice he’s grown so attached to - that voice about which he knows nothing, except that it was here, and that now it isn’t.

But there are even worse symptoms of his dependency. Like the finished song folder that sits in his laptop - music sheets and instrumentals and demos, the whole package -, the one he’s been writing with Yoongi’s help, over the course of the past weeks. It’s sitting on his desktop and he’s feeling awfully stupid. 

And that’s just the voice. Because there isn’t just that. There’s also the guy - the one guy, the godly one, whom Namjoon sees sometimes in the complex and avoids like the plague (don’t ask him why). There’s the voice and the guy, and it’s as if the universe has sent him two threats, one inside of his apartment, one out; and now, what was his safest place, his home, is being invaded by guys and pretty voices. 

Namjoon hates it. A little. 

Now, his apartment isn’t safe. It’s subject to interruptions and disturbances; like when, one Saturday afternoon, as he’s just staying in like any respectable introvert would, a vigorous knock on his door sends his heart racing. 

He hesitates just a second before he scrambles to go get it, briefly wondering who would want to see him on a Saturday; and then, he opens the door. 

A pretty guy, much shorter than him, is standing here, phone glued to his ear. He looks like those people who are always busy, but give you all of their time; at least, the little bit of time they can chew off their 36-hour day. He’s wearing a stylish jacket that looks more expensive than his entire wardrobe, and Namjoon suddenly feels a little self-conscious about his comfortable T-shirt.

The guy frowns, his droopy eyes darkening only slightly, under the elegant swoop of his blond hair (crisp and natural - as in, this is his colour, and now Namjoon definitely feels insecure about his own haphazardly bleached hair). He looks surprised, like he’s not used to things not going as planned.

“Give me just a minute, Tae,” he says, pulling the phone away from his ear, before staring Namjoon down. “Hello, is Seokjin here?”

Seokjin. Namjoon’s heart makes a bizarre flip, his brain connects two dots. 

Seokjin; that’s his new neighbour, the one the concierge insisted on telling him about when he was in a rush, the other day. The one right next door, who sings like an angel… and looks like one.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He’s neighbours with the angel next door.

Composure - composure is what he needs right now.

“Oh,” he starts after a deep breath, his oh the most unnatural oh ever ohed. He points to the other door. “I think he lives right here? The apartment numbers are mixed up, they still haven’t changed them, but…”

“Okay, thank you!”, the guy cuts him off, a wide smile brightening his face again. “Sorry for bothering. Have a great day!”

It sounds like a polite dismissal, especially because, before Namjoon can answer, his phone is back onto his ear; so Namjoon just weakly waves. All he can hear, right before he closes the door, is a dynamic knock, a loud giggle, and a “Oh my, Jinnie, I thought I’d just met your new boyfriend!” .

So, in the span of a few minutes, he’s learnt a few things. Seokjin indeed lives next door; Seokjin has friends that are as gorgeous as he is; and Seokjin likes men. 

Like him.

Wait. Why does this matter again?

Behind the door, he cringes, because now he knows why this matters. He’s been writing a song for his neighbour. His neighbour is the gorgeous guy. And by the law of irrefutable, fatal logic, he’s been writing a song for the gorgeous guy, himself. 

This is… this is a problem.

Seokjin’s slammed the door and he didn’t even give a fuck. 

He’s had enough. Enough of working his ass off for days, weeks, for this. To end up ignored and devalued, looking dreadfully stupid in front of two casting directors who look like they’d rather be in jail than give him a chance.

He’s slammed the door, raced down the stairs and stumbled onto the street with a boiling rage, so unusual from him and his cold, measured anger. His phone is already on his ear, and he’s already talking, because all he needs is to let it out, all of this pent-up frustration.

On the other side, Taehyung almost sounds scared. There’s a lady on the street who looks scared too. Is he that awful?

“How did it go?”

“It went horribly.” 

“... I’m sorry,” Tae says, and he is - Seokjin can hear it. He’s sorry and sad and it makes him feel a bit better, and way worse. He can’t refrain himself from rambling on. 

“They just - they just stared at their papers the whole time, not once at my face, and then at the end, you know what they did?”, he asks, uncontrolled, laughing dryly. “Do you want to guess what they did after they let me embarrass myself?”

“No, I don’t know what they did, Jinnie,” Tae answers, sounding tired.

“They looked me in the eyes, and offered me a - a modelling job,” he laughs again - like it’s the most absurd thing in the world, because to be fair, it is. “A fucking modelling - I can’t believe - they had the nerve to offer me this, and not think for one second with their tiny little brains that I wasn’t auditioning to be a model, but a fucking -”

“Oh - oh, I’m sorry, Jinnie - I’ve got an incoming call, it’s pretty urgent… I’m so sorry, I’m calling you back as soon as it’s done, okay?”

Silence falls. Taehyung sounds so apologetic that Seokjin feels guilty.

“No, no, it’s alright,” he replies. “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you later.”

When he hangs up, he curses himself for being so selfish. He stands in silence, and realises he’s alone, in the middle of the street, on the verge of tears. He doesn’t know if he’s ever been so on edge. He’s not just angry, he’s also sad, and he feels a sense of humiliation he thought he’d learnt to tame. He hadn’t. It’s coming back to slap him in the face, along with the memory of all of the rejections.

He walks all the way home, to try to let off steam, and become less of a ticking bomb of anger. By the end, he’s just exhausted - but maybe that’s better than wanting to destroy everything that comes his way. 

Back in his flat, he’s on auto-pilot. He slips into a hoodie, under his covers, and he lets his body fall asleep.

He doesn’t know if it’s the sound, or his own body that wakes him. He doesn’t know what time it is, either; it’s dark behind his closed eyelids, and he’s in a haze, still in the strange world between his dreamless sleep and reality. Maybe he’s still dreaming, actually. Maybe that’s the only explanation for the low voice he hears, so close and out of his reach. 

“Like an echo in the forest, another day will come as if nothing happened, yeah life goes on…”

He perks up his ears. This is not a dream, though it feels like it. It’s his neighbour, sounding tired, his voice slow and raspy. Still as sweet and soothing as warm milk and honey.

“Like an arrow in the blue sky, another day will fly by. On my pillow, on my table, yeah life goes on like this again.”

The voice disappears into the night; but its memory lingers in Seokjin’s head. He wants to gently tap on the wall, ask to hear that beautiful song again, record that voice and listen to it, every morning, every night.

But the voice is gone, and tapping on the wall is weird.

Seokjin opens his blurry eyes. He fixes them on the ceiling, holding onto the melody; but he feels it slip from his mind. Instinctively, he finds only one way of catching it again.

“Like an arrow in the blue sky… another day will fly by… On my pillow, on my table, yeah life goes on like this again…”

He isn’t so sure about the tune, or all of the lyrics, but he still lets his voice spill out into the darkness of his bedroom, without thinking. 

His face goes red once he realises that singing someone else’s song, when you aren’t even supposed to have heard it in the first place, isn’t any less weird than tapping on a wall.

His body tenses up, as he wonders if his neighbour’s heard him; and if so, what he’d think of him. He also wonders why he suddenly cares so much, when he’s usually good at brushing off people’s unsolicited opinion. Maybe it’s because music is involved; one of those things close to his heart. 

He tries to perceive a sound from the other side, but all he gathers is a silence he can’t read into.

It’s been three weeks and two days. Three weeks and two days of silence. Namjoon knows because, despite himself, despite how strange it is, he’s counted.

His restlessness translates into his songs, whether he likes it or not. It’s not an urgent restlessness, more like the feeling of waiting for something that doesn’t come; he hears it in the way his songs have turned softer (or maybe, they’re softer since he’s rediscovered how powerful just piano can be). He’s usually not the best at finding melodies for words - it’s the other way around. But he finds himself humming more and more, just before he falls asleep, as if he needs lulling. (Maybe he does, ever since the piano and the voice are gone.)

Namjoon hums, but it’s just not the same as hearing his neighbour’s beautiful notes, and it’s been about four days since an idea has started ticking over in his mind - a dangerous idea. A pretext, if you will.

Four days are a long time when you’re restless; so on the fourth day, Namjoon finally seeks advice. When he decides he needs to call Yoongi, it’s almost seven at night, but the sun is still high. Birds are chirping, it’s beautiful outside, and it does not reflect Namjoon’s inner turmoil at all. 

Yoongi picks up and gives him a quiet, but smiling hi. 

“Hey, Yoongi? I’m just calling to ask something silly.”

His friend doesn’t say anything. Namjoon knows he’s nodding behind his phone. The old soul still hasn’t figured out that he can’t see him.

“Is it weird to gift your neighbour a song?”

He asks that, like it doesn’t refer to the song Yoongi’s been working on along with him for the past few weeks - like he’s just asking for a friend.

“Mm… I don’t know. Why are you asking?”

“You’re my referent song-giver. I know you’ve asked Hoseok out with a song at the end of your second date, and it worked. I just want to know if it’s feasible.”

Now, Yoongi’s probably shrugging.

“Well… do you plan on giving it at the end of your second date?”, he asks, before adding: “Have you had a first date?”

Namjoon takes one second too many to answer.

“... Not yet.”

There’s a silence.

“Namjoon,” Yoongi says, making him tense up by instinct. “Have you two talked before?”

“Um… no,” Namjoon admits bashfully.

“Oh, yeah, then it’s definitely weird,” his friend states. 

“Right? Exactly, that’s what I was thinking too!”, Namjoon lies, internally cringing. 

Yoongi hums, unconvinced. Namjoon feels like he can hear a tinge of laughter in there, but he’s not sure.

“I’ll ask again. Why exactly are you asking?”

“Oh, uh. No reason. I was just wondering.”

“You know… if you want to talk to your neighbour, you can just talk to him.”

“I know, I know,” Namjoon winces. Yoongi says it like it’s simple. It isn’t - not to Namjoon, anyway. “Well, thank you for your advice.”

“No problem. I know you probably won’t follow it anyway,” Yoongi says, with no hint of malice in his voice. (And what can Namjoon say? He’s right. That doesn’t mean he didn’t want to hear it first before fucking up.) “Oh, and Namjoon?”

Namjoon can definitely hear him smiling, now.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t worry too much. Sometimes weird is endearing.”

He doesn’t know if he should feel flattered, but coming from Yoongi, he’ll take it.

Namjoon absolutely doesn’t follow his advice. He waits two more days before he can’t wait anymore. And so, in the middle of a Thursday afternoon (of all times), he steps out of his flat and carries out his original plan with shaky hands.

He should really knock, and he doesn’t know why he just stands there, looking at the door, his laptop in his hands. It’s only now that he realises how creepy that he’s here, about to reach out to his neighbour who’s never seen his face - because who just turns up at people’s doors, with a demo of a love song they wrote while thinking of their voice, when they hadn’t even properly met?

No one but him. That’s who.

He’s about to turn around and leave - he really is. Three more seconds and he could’ve been safely back inside of his flat, avoiding any kind of embarrassment.

But the door opens.

His neighbour nearly jumps a whole step back when he sees him; his out-of-this-world face contorted in an expression of pure, raw horror. Once he seems to realise that it’s not a monster, nor a murderer, nor a wild animal, but just his stupidly awkward neighbour in front of his door, he lets out an audible sigh, and relief washes over his features.

His hands emerge cutely from under his overlength sleeves, to take off his earbuds, blasting what sounds like an angry rock song - so loud that Namjoon can hear fragments of it, from where he’s standing. He shoves his phone into the pocket of his powder blue hoodie, which is reaching down to the middle of his thighs, covering part of the skinny jeans on his never-ending legs. 

Actually, those legs do end in a pair of white Converse High tops; they’re just so thin and long they feel like an optical illusion.

Fuck that. Everything about him is an illusion: his fluffy hair and long lashes, his delicate half-moon eyes, and those dewy pink lips that he keeps pouting and licking and -

“Did you need anything or are you just going to stand here?”

His voice is a little harsh and a little annoyed, so different from his singing voice. Just as melodious, though, in the way he accentuates every single syllable intently.

Namjoon does not have time to think about what this voice could do, though.

“No, I was just - I’m sorry, I’m just going back to my flat,” he starts, stuttering, and motioning towards his own door. “I wasn’t standing there, by the way! It’s just that’s you scared me, and - I mean you didn’t scare me, I was just scared of the -”

“Oh, you live here?”

His rush of words trails off, and Namjoon just stares at his neighbour, a little taken aback - probably looking not unlike a surprised fish. He nods, and then points to his own door, adjacent to this one.

“Um, yeah. Right here.”

The guy leans his head in the corridor, and it seems like he’s thinking about something really hard, for a moment; like he’s just had some kind of realization, or he’s tying up loose ends, and finally getting the answer to something he was wondering about.

“What’s your name?”, he asks, brisk and confident.

“Kim Namjoon,” he blurts out.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Kim Seokjin. I’m in a bit of a rush, so I’d love it if you could let me out of my flat. But I’ll catch you later, okay, Namjoon?”

He’s smiling, and he’s so straight-forward, and firm, and it all makes him so hot that it takes Namjoon’s breath away.

“Sure,” he says in a mere whisper, stepping aside. And honestly, with this okay, Namjoon?, Seokjin could’ve asked him to lick the floor, and he would’ve gladly obeyed. “See you,” he adds, just as Seokjin steps out of his flat, closes the door, and walks off with one last smile.

Once more, Namjoon is left standing there. 

Oh god. Oh god. 

As hurried as his feet on the pavement, Seokjin’s mind races. 

Is this the neighbour? The one who raps and sings and makes girls whimper at night? Is this handsome - gorgeous dork the one he’s been lending his ear to, all this time? 

Of course it’s him. He’s seen it when he’s pointed at his door. He’s heard it in his low, raspy voice, soothing and tugging at his heartstrings. He’s felt it as soon as he’s seen him in the corridor, with his denim pants and his effortlessly stylish tee. 

It’s weird, seeing him like that. Not just because he was obviously standing in front of his door, holding his laptop, for a reason Seokjin is now painfully curious about. But also because Seokjin doesn’t know his neighbours well, and he realises he’s never seen him around before. For all the times he’s tried to imagine his face, he’s never envisioned this one. It’s evident, now - how his gentle eyes mirror his soft voice, a voice as beautiful as his honey skin, his bleached hair, or the way his lips stumble over syllables.

He hopes he didn’t throw him off. He doesn’t really know why. He can be too up front, sometimes, and if people get offended, he usually thinks that’s their problem. But there’s something that feels like fragility in this newly-met Namjoon, he’s perceived it the moment he’s seen him clutch onto his laptop for dear life. There’s something surprisingly cautious in the way he carries himself, and talks - something like careful softness hidden behind a nervous shell. 

It was just one glance, and Namjoon already seemed more delicate than he’d ever imagined. The last thing Seokjin wants is to break him, today, tomorrow, or ever.

He did seem a little shaken. Seokjin thinks, as he walks on, that he’ll have to be nicer to him soon (at least, show that he’s not a threat). Maybe he can try being a polite neighbour. He’s never really liked that - but maybe, just this once, he can make an effort.

Also, because he just happens to be (very) cute, and he’s the first (very) cute guy he’s seen in a while, not to mention in his own complex.

So, maybe Seokjin does adapt his routine, to try to catch Namjoon around. Maybe this is also because he’s new here, and he desperately needs a new friend who doesn’t live a commuting hour away. Maybe he lingers a little too long when he steps out of his apartment, and checks his mail more conscientiously. 

It’s just for the sake of politeness.

Catching Namjoon around reveals to be a feat. At some point, Seokjin even wonders if this guy goes out at all. Seokjin’s days aren’t the most typical - he leaves early in the morning and usually comes home not too late in the afternoon, avoiding most rush hours. But still, he never sees him, and Seokjin doesn’t know why he feels so betrayed when Namjoon has never owed him anything. 

Until he sees him once, weeks later, in the main entrance hall.

He’s got his arm shoved in his mailbox, checking his letters conscientiously. Seokjin doesn’t want to let this chance slip away; he makes a bee-line towards him, maybe a bit too determined. 

“Oh, hello!”, he greets. 

Namjoon’s head snaps up. He looks shocked, then he looks confused, and then tense. Finally, he smiles. Tensely. 

“Hi,” he answers, low voice catching on the syllables with hesitation. He’s wearing a thick wool cardigan that must be the softest thing in the world, and he doesn’t look like a rapper, nor a playboy. He does look like a boyfriend. Like a very huggable, soft and caring boyfriend. 

Now it’s Seokjin who stutters when he speaks. 

“How are you?”, and then, before he can refrain himself, “I’m sorry I was a little curt last time. I was just, um… in a hurry.”

Something like relief washes over Namjoon’s face. 

“Oh. That’s alright. That’s nice to hear,” he smiles. 

He smiles. And paired with his gentle voice that’s so different from when he raps, and the cardigan, and the dimples, the dimples he has when he smiles - Seokjin is awestruck. 

It’s been years since he’s wanted to flirt so bad. Years of aborted dates and boredom, and telling himself he didn’t have time for something that didn’t even excite him. Even Jimin had stopped trying to be his matchmaker, and that says a lot. But now there’s Namjoon in front of him, looking and sounding very soft, and Seokjin starts to remember the flirt he used to be years ago.

“Are you… are you alright? Do you need to check your mail?”, Namjoon’s voice pulls him back to Earth. He realises he’s been standing here all this time, and he’s blocking the exit to the little nook of letterboxes. And now Namjoon looks worried. Or concerned. (There’s a nuance between the two that Seokjin can’t put his finger on.) 

“Oh, no, sorry. I mean - yes, but take your time,” he winces, stepping to the side a little, at least to allow Namjoon to walk past him. 

It’s usually about now that Seokjin starts being chased after. Rare were the times where an exchange of words and an eyeful of his face weren’t enough for someone to ask for his number, or at least, initiate a conversation. It’s usually the most annoying thing in the world, but this time, for once, it’s not for a polite decline that Seokjin braces himself. 

Except Namjoon walks right past him with a smile. And that’s it. 

That’s it? 

Seokjin feels a sense of loss that really shouldn’t be this strong. This can’t be it. 

Before he can change his mind, he’s the one chasing after Namjoon. 

“Wait!”, he calls, a little too desperate to his liking. Namjoon turns around. “I - I was meaning to ask, since I’m still a little new here, uh… do you know if there’s a good… bakery around here? Something a little special that I’d want to try out?”

A bakery - that’s good. That’s common enough for Namjoon not to doubt his request, and vague enough for him to need some time to think. Which means: exchanging phone numbers.

But Namjoon’s eyes light up much too quickly. 

“Actually, yeah, there’s one right across the square, it’s really -”

“Oh, no, but -”, Seokjin cuts in, inching towards desperation again. “I meant - I meant a bakery who would take big orders, specifically. You see, I’m going to have to organise a… a big birthday party, soon, so - yeah.”

(He’s supposed to be an actor. Lying is supposed to be his thing. And still, he’s sputtering nonsense, all because of Namjoon’s almond eyes and his wool cardigan.)

“They need to be able to take care of that,” he finishes with the most natural smile he can muster.

Okay, so maybe he’s a little rusty at this. It doesn’t seem to work as well as it did back in college. But Namjoon’s eyes are wide and it looks like he’s thinking about it (he looks so naive… Seokjin feels a little sorry. He still wants him to take the bait). 

“Oh. I’m not sure if they do that kind of thing,” Namjoon says, apologetic. (Fuck, he is naive after all. It’s more adorable than it should be.) “Maybe I can… send you the names of a few of them? So you can make your choice,” he continues, voice gradually getting weaker, and weaker. “You could just… I guess… all I would need is your number.”

He’s red, he’s fiddling with the mail in his hands, his voice is so light that the last words almost get lost in the space between them. And he’s the most adorable person Seokjin has ever seen. A tall, soft, shy puppy.

“That’d be great,” he assures, getting Namjoon to look up again (and his eyes look so much more intense like that, with his head tilted down, of course they do) and smiling at him as politely, as pleasantly as he can, without doing too much. “That’d really help a lot.”

Namjoon smiles gently, apparently relieved. He tentatively offers Seokjin his phone; Seokjin retains from squealing out of victory. 

“Thank you so much,” he says once it’s time for them to part, and they’re still standing there. “I’ll see you around?”

It’s not really a question, as much as a warning about what’s to come. Because a few smiles were enough to confirm what was already lurking in his mind - Namjoon is cute, and Namjoon seems nice, and Seokjin (usually) knows how to spot an opportunity when he sees one. 

Namjoon nods, and then with one last smile, he goes; and Seokjin discretely watches as he disappears into the staircase.

Maybe he'll start taking the stairs from now on.

It’s been about a month since Seokjin has become Namjoon’s official neighbour - official, as in, he knows of his existence. Or, he knew of his existence before, but now he’s part of it.

He’s part of Seokjin’s existence. That is… strangely satisfying to realise.

In a few weeks, he’s surprisingly learnt more about this Seokjin, who used to be just a voice to him, than he did in the span of a few months. He’s learnt so many random things - that he’s an aspiring actor, that he doesn’t like coffee in the morning, that he likes bookstores for the ambiance rather than for the books. He cherishes every piece of information, probably more than he should.

He still doesn’t really know why Seokjin’s not ignoring him completely (especially after their disaster of a first meeting). He thought he’d run away as soon as Namjoon clumsily asked for his number, on that strange day where the opportunity presented itself; but he didn’t.

You wouldn’t catch him complaining. (Actually, his friends did see him complain; but that was just at first, when he was almost convinced Seokjin was tagging along just to spite him.)

When Seokjin started saying more than the mandatory hello, when he started asking how Namjoon’s day went or where he was heading, when his smiles turned cheerier and more genuine, Namjoon realised he wasn’t. He was just being polite, it seems to him now, because politeness is a trait of people like him: peppy, a typical social butterfly. A little too overbearing for Namjoon’s taste - in theory, at least, because ever since Seokjin started talking to him, he hasn’t once wished for him to stop. Quite the opposite. 

The point is, Kim Seokjin is now his official neighbour, and Namjoon his’: and this simple fact alone makes him feel less uneasy, less intimidated. It doesn’t stop him from thinking Seokjin has been sent here on behalf of some kind of deity - but it does help, to see past the handsome face, to start perceiving some flaws that make him feel realer, in Namjoon’s mind.

It does help that Seokjin seems more and more like a sweetheart, with every rare glance and interaction they share. (Even that one night, as Namjoon and Yoongi are coming back from a party with very drunk, very clingy Hoseok and Jungkook behind their back, and the two are being so loud Seokjin actually has to peek into the dark corridor. He looks a little ruffled from sleep, and absolutely gorgeous, and he just smiles and says good night - even when Namjoon cringes and blushes and apologises profusely; even when Namjoon can feel all of his friends’ inquisitive eyes on them.)

Summer settles in, and his routine only feels safer now that Seokjin’s in it. He finds that he enjoys his company, however short, even if it’s just a stolen hello from the other side of a hallway. He never stops working, but he starts taking pleasure in going out more, just so he can have a chance, maybe, to stumble upon him somewhere. More often than not, he doesn’t. But the simple thrill of a chance encounter is enough for him to do it again.

He doesn’t expect the chance encounter to happen right at his door. But one day, as he’s sending an umpteenth portfolio to an umpteenth agency that won’t hire him, he hears someone knock.

He frowns but goes to open it.

“Hello.”

Seokjin is standing in his doorway with a few sheets of paper in his hands, and a neutral expression on his face.

“Hi,” Namjoon greets, lips instantly stretching into a happy smile. Then his brain finally registers that it’s Seokjin here, and that he isn’t smiling; and just as quickly, his face falls. “Did you… want - need something?”

Seokjin nods, but he takes a few seconds to start speaking. It’s only then that Namjoon notices it: what he’s read as neutrality is clearly nervousness, from the way he’s clenching the papers and licking his lips. As to why he’s so nervous, Namjoon has no idea.

“Uh, yeah, I just wanted to say, well… I got your song, and…”

As Seokjin talks, Namjoon fixates on his face, his features shifting from one expression to another. His eyebrows quirk and furrow; his eyes widen before squinting again; his mouth keeps changing shape - from a pursed line to a small heart-shaped pout, from an o to a soft curve. Namjoon’s never really seen a face as expressive as his’; it’s fascinating to watch his perfect traits come alive, and that simple little thing already makes him feel, to Namjoon’s eyes, more human.

“... don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful, it really is, I played it and -”

Seokjin’s still talking, and it’s still bewitching, and Namjoon finds it so pretty that he doesn’t really focus on what he’s saying. 

Until he catches a word, and snaps out of it.

“Sorry - you got my what?”

Seokjin pauses, looks at him with wide eyes, and Namjoon’s stomach twists into a knot.

“Your… song?”, he repeats, shaking the papers a little, as if that would revive Namjoon’s memory. “The one you left in my mailbox?”

Namjoon freezes; blood rushes to his cheeks, and panic settles in his veins, making his heart hammer. 

“I didn’t… what?”

There’s a long silence. Seokjin’s mouth is pursed in a strict line, and he looks like he’s questioning Namjoon’s sanity. Which is fair, because right now, Namjoon is absolutely questioning it too.

“Okay, listen…”, Seokjin finally sighs. He takes a step to turn away. “This was clearly a mistake, or a prank, so… I’ll just -”

“No - no! Wait - it wasn’t a prank,” Namjoon stammers desperately, clearly startling Seokjin, who stops dead in his tracks. “I just… I…”

His mind races, trying to come up with some explanation, just for survival - just so he can stop Seokjin from leaving, and labelling him as the weird neighbour forever.

“I must’ve been… drunk, or something,” he finally blurts out, tongue working quicker than his brain.

To say he regrets it is an understatement. Out of all the reasons, this is the one he chose.

He is mortified.

“So you give songs to strangers when you’re drunk?”, Seokjin asks, face blank and tone even. Like it’s a normal question.

“No, I don’t… not usually, but I mean - I must have? Just this once? I think?”, he answers - feeling like he’s digging his own grave at every syllable.

“You think? You were so drunk you can’t even remember?”

“No! It wasn’t…”

Namjoon’s voice trails off, because in front of him, a little smile is tugging at Seokjin’s lips, the kind of little smile that sparks when you’re holding back a laugh. His eyes are mischievous, but not mean, and his cheeks are a little pinker than usual.

“... Why are you laughing?”

Seokjin shakes his head, caramel locks bouncing prettily.

“No reason,” he replies, which makes Namjoon pout. 

They just look at each other, not really knowing what to say, and not really minding it. Right now, nervously half-laughing and hardly hiding it, Namjoon finds that Seokjin looks as odd and awkward as him. Despite the overall absurdity of the situation, it brings him a little bit of comfort.

“Anyway, I don’t know how you did it, but you gave me this,” Seokjin shoves the topic back into Namjoon’s face, while waving the loose sheets in front of his eyes, for what feels like the tenth time. “And so, I wanted to tell you that -”

A phone loudly buzzes, and Seokjin is physically startled. His face pales, like he’s experiencing the most terrifying moment of his life; he nearly drops the papers as he rummages in his pocket, takes out his phone, mumbles a shit under his breath and picks up.

“Hi!”, he pipes up, a wide smile plastered on his face. Namjoon can’t hear anything on the other end, but it can’t be good - because slowly, Seokjin’s smile fades, and his eyes, now fixed at the end of the corridor, look emptier and emptier. “Oh? Yes, well I - see, I thought it was Haseul’s shift, and mine was - no? Oh my - yes, yes - I’m sorry, I’m coming right now, I’ll be here in 20… okay, 15 minutes!”

Amidst all of his sorry stammering, he’s shoved the papers into Namjoon’s hands. And before Namjoon can ask anything, he puts his hand on his phone’s mic, and rushes in a whisper:

“I have to go, I’ll just swing by later - see you!”

He bolts down the corridor like his life depends on it - because maybe it does -, and Namjoon stares at the music sheets, frowning. 

He still doesn’t remember if he actually sent them. Was he really that drunk on Friday, when he stumbled back from Yoongi’s flat?

Yoongi.

The answer’s right there. There’s only one person he worked on that song with, only one person who knows about the Whole Seokjin Thing.

“I fucking hate him,” Namjoon swears under his breath. 

Yoongi can thank the gods that he’s his best friend, because if he wasn’t, he’d get a taste of his fury.

Days pass, and Seokjin doesn’t swing by later.

Namjoon just doesn’t see him. He tries to look for him (casually), when he goes out. He gets the dangerous idea to knock whenever he passes by his door. But he doesn’t, because he’s a coward, and he’s starting to think that Seokjin’s avoiding him after all - that he doesn’t want anything to do with his creepy neighbour. The idea is a little absurd, a little degrading. He still believes it a little more every day.

He’s not mad at Yoongi, that’s for sure. He probably would’ve given Seokjin the song anyway. What he’s mad at is his own fear of rejection, and Seokjin’s absence. 

Days pass, and Namjoon’s starting to wonder why Seokjin’s silence hurts so much.

Seokjin has no idea what to do.

Every day, the sheet of the piano score he forgot to give back to Namjoon stares back at him defiantly. And every day, he tears his eyes away from it, and tries to ignore it.

He was shocked when he got it in the mail, naturally. Receiving a song from someone you’ve barely ever talked to is not a usual occurrence. It did seem a little strange, at first - but ultimately, to Seokjin, it feels more confusing than creepy. What he can’t conceive is why Namjoon would trust him with a song (and a song with those lyrics… but lyrics don’t mean much, right? They’re just… artistic words. They don’t have to reflect reality, do they?). 

But then again, did he trust him with it? He seemed as clueless as Seokjin, when he finally gathered the courage to ask.

It’s just a situation Seokjin never thought he’d see, and it’s just a little overwhelming. So, in face of adversity, he does what he knows best: not do or say anything at all, act like it never happened. A classic.

It’s not because he’s scared and mortified, of course not. It’s just because he doesn’t know how to bring it back up. And every time he sees Namjoon (which he’s starting to do again more, now that he doesn’t feel as awkward), the occasion slips right through his fingers.

He’s going out to meet up with Jimin, in the middle of a not-yet-hot Summer morning, when he sees him in the little common courtyard that serves as a garden. It’s not really a garden as much as it is a patch of grass with some plants here and there, but it’s the closest thing that looks like nature around. And Namjoon is tending to it, kneeling on the ground - Seokjin recognises his build from afar.

He’s not one bit ashamed as he walks up to him. It just feels natural to do so. He wants to say hi, so he will. What’s wrong about that?

“Good morning,” he greets. Namjoon looks up from whatever he’s planting (Seokjin never really got plants, don’t all plants look the same?) and smiles softly. His hair is a little messy, he’s got some dirt on his chin, and he looks really, really good after some physical effort. Seokjin has already seen him around, once or twice, clad in sportswear and visibly coming back from a jog; and he had to admit the glowing face and the legs he saw below the black shorts (reaching over the knee... over the knee) were much to his liking. 

In a purely observational way. Obviously.

“Hi,” Namjoon replies politely, bowing a little, which kind of makes him look like he’s worshipping him. Seokjin doesn’t complain. Namjoon seems to notice, though, and he sits up very straight again, sending one of his tools clattering to the ground.

“I didn’t know we had a gardener in the complex,” Seokjin states, trying to cut through the silence, and ease some of the tension that comes from who-knows-where. 

“Oh - that’s because I’m not,” Namjoon answers, standing up. He’s wearing a worn-out gardening shirt and he’s rolled up his short sleeves, giving poor Seokjin a full view of his golden arms - a purely observational view. “I just like to add a bit of life where I can.”

Seokjin doesn’t really get why he sounds so embarrassed, or why his eyes are fleeing his own like that. It sounds like a very admirable goal, especially through his words. He’s already seen it a few times, how much care Namjoon puts in the complex courtyard. It’s him who regularly leaves some cat food outside, so the cats of the neighborhood can come and go as they please. (It’s cute, but it also scares Seokjin a little; what if the food sits out too long? Isn’t there a risk of an infestation, or something? He doesn’t want mice in his complex. Ew.)

Now, Seokjin may not get plants, and he may be afraid of mice, but he’s not a heartless monster either (at least he hopes): and weirdly, he’s got a very sudden urge to convince Namjoon of that.

“That’s nice,” he says with polite fondness. Namjoon scratches at his nape, smiles a little, and dearest heavens, his smile’s the cutest thing Seokjin has seen in a while.

“I’m glad you think so,” he answers.

He’s being curt. Too curt. There’s some tension behind his smile, and the whole exchange, albeit nice, feels a little hostile. Like he’s being on the fence.

Snippets of their last conversations pass through Seokjin’s mind. Among all of them, a common point: completely avoiding the obviously pending topic - the song. Seokjin wonders if that’s why Namjoon’s so awkward, just like he is. He must’ve been too honest again, and now Namjoon must think he’s bitchy, or intimidating.

It’s not his fault he doesn’t feel fit for singing this song. It’s just too good for him. Maybe he should tell Namjoon that.

He opens his mouth, clutching at the strap of his tote-bag in an attempt not to fidget.

“So…”

“I’m sorry, but I have to finish this soon. I have somewhere to be. Can we talk later?”

Seokjin clamps his mouth shut. Namjoon’s tone, neutral but firm, feels like an ice shower.

His attitude has completely changed. His eyes are darker now (maybe Seokjin would like it if it wasn’t for this context), still tinted with that youthful stubbornness Seokjin picked up on, the first time they spoke. He doesn’t know where the shift comes from, why Namjoon feels so distant and cold - and why it’s so destabilising.

He guesses it’s just payback for his own bluntness. He hopes it is. 

“Okay,” he just concedes, managing a polite smile. “Have a good day,” he adds, because he’s not evil, and the last thing he wants is for this to escalate.

Namjoon smiles back, and gets back to his task. As Seokjin turns away, he’s not as angry as he thought he would be - just confused and a little hurt. 

So Namjoon wants to play that game of back-and-forth? They can. Seokjin’s ready to surprise him with unsuspected kindness.

A few nights later, he debriefs everything to Jimin and Tae between two sips of wine, over the jazz music of an overhyped bar.

To be fair, he hasn’t stopped thinking about the exchange. He just prefers to handle it with lightness. He’s come to the following conclusion: Namjoon’s a little cold towards me? Not a big deal. I can warm him up.

Once the story’s told, Jimin looks as confused as Seokjin’s amused. 

“So you’re telling me… your neighbour’s a handsome six feet tall genius composer, with a cute smile, and you -”

“And long toned legs,” Seokjin adds, laughing.

“Okay, a cute smile and long toned legs. He’s all that, and you still got on his bad side?”

Seokjin rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t get on his bad side. We just… had a politely cold exchange,” he shrugs. “And if I did, well, that wasn’t intentional. I think I have a soft spot for him.”

Yes, he’s had a few glasses already. He’d never say this otherwise.

“All the more reasons to get him to dislike you, I guess,” Jimin teases, his smile devilish.

“Hey! I’m sure he likes me just fine. He’s just… I don’t know, playing hard to get, maybe.”

Seokjin isn’t used to anyone playing hard to get with him. Jimin looks unconvinced. 

“How do you even know if he likes men?”, he asks. 

“He’s got gay friends. That’s already a good sign.”

“Having gay friends doesn’t mean you’re gay.”

Next to both of them, Tae silently chuckles. Seokjin starts again:

“Well, statistically…”

“There’s no correlation between gayness and having gay friends, Jinnie -”

“Well, how do you know? Did you run the study? I don’t think so,” Seokjin snickers. “Besides, look at us. I was convinced I was straight before meeting both of you.”

Jimin smiles, shrugs, and sighs in defeat. 

“Fair.”

There’s a little silence. 

“And are we just going to ignore the fact that he gifted you a love song? That doesn’t count as gay evidence?”, Tae casually intervenes. 

Seokjin flushes violently. Jimin looks intrigued and betrayed. 

“Excuse me - he what?”, he gasps. 

“You didn’t know?”, Taehyung answers. “He heard Jinnie sing and he wrote a song. Like… a full-on composition. With lyrics like, please make my heart beat again, please give me another chance… He even added references to gaming, probably because Jin always sets his volume so loud -”

“Okay, we get it,” Seokjin stammers. 

“No, we don’t?”, Jimin retorts. “He literally wrote you a song, and you didn’t tell me?”

He tries to sound angry, but his wide, excited smile betrays him. 

“Well, yeah, I wasn’t planning on telling you. Tae just found one of the sheets, and he wouldn’t leave me alone,” Seokjin grumbles.

“Why weren’t you planning on telling us?”

“Because - I don’t know, because it’s weird, right?”

“I’ve done weirder things,” Taehyung shrugs, while Jimin nods.

“Same here.”

“Your definition of weird doesn’t count.”

“Just tell us why, Jinnie,” Jimin pries.

Seokjin sighs. He goes to take a swig, but his glass is empty.

“... Because I don’t want to sing it. I don’t deserve it. I don’t know, it’s just… I’m acting like it doesn’t exist, because it shouldn’t, okay? Whatever he thinks, he’s better off not knowing how I sing.”

Taehyung has stopped laughing. He’s now squinting, a little menacingly.

“You do realise how stupid that reasoning is?”

“No?”, Seokjin answers, chewing on his lower lip. He’s suddenly very nervous, for a reason he doesn’t really grasp.

“He already heard you sing, Jinnie. If he spent time working on a song, don’t you think it’s because he liked it?”, Jimin asks, in turn.

Seokjin shrugs. He doesn’t know what to think.

“So, he gave you a song, and you don’t want to sing it, and you still left him hanging with no answer?”, Tae continues - and his eyes aren’t menacing anymore, just curious.

“I don’t…”, Seokjin starts. But then, he realises he doesn’t know what to answer. So he just goes with: “... Yeah.”

“You’re a disaster,” Jimin states with a laugh.

“Oh, yeah?”, Seokjin retorts, a little offended (even though he knows Jimin’s right). “Well, what do you suggest, genius?”

“Just tell him you liked it and you don’t want to sing it. Simple as that. Maybe after that, he’ll be nicer to you, and if he isn’t…”

“His loss. Yeah, yeah, I know. You tell me that at every audition,” Seokjin completes with a sigh.

“Because it’s true,” Jimin maintains. “So? Are you going to do it?”

His smile and Tae’s are amused, and vaguely threatening; and Seokjin feels that if he doesn’t concede, they won’t leave him alone about this - ever.

He rolls his eyes and pushes his empty glass towards them.

“Fine. Only if you get me a refill.”

Jimin doesn't lose a second to squeal, bounce excitedly on his chair, and call a waiter.

Namjoon doesn’t know if he’s disappointed, sad, or angry. He’s probably all of the above, ever since he’s found out that Seokjin does think he’s creepy, after all.

He doesn’t need him to say it - he feels it. He feels that something’s changed ever since he saw the song (and can he blame him?). He sees it in the way Seokjin avoids the topic - avoids him, too, sometimes. He can see that he’s trying to put on a brave, polite face, and talk to him when he doesn’t have to. (When he can, Namjoon spares him the trouble.)

He doesn’t like how much it affects him. In the past weeks turned into months, Seokjin has progressively taken up space in his life, more and more, so much that his absence is now leaving behind a new kind of emptiness. Namjoon doesn’t understand it, and he doesn’t think he’s noticed it until now. Most frustrating is that there’s no rational explanation to it. Why would he feel lonely when he, objectively, doesn’t know much about Seokjin?

In any case, he shouldn’t be surprised. Writing a whole love song for him was weird enough for anyone to run off on him. And now things are strange, especially since Seokjin’s started playing piano again. He doesn’t sing, but Namjoon can imagine him, focused, perfect, agile fingers finding the keys with ease; and Namjoon has to refrain from thinking about those fingers. 

(It usually only makes it worse, and all he can think about is Seokjin’s face and his mouth and eyes and fingers and it’s… it’s just a lot. It’s just too much.)

It’s frustrating that he can’t keep his thoughts in place, and when he tells his friends about it around a shared barbecue, it doesn’t end up being very helpful. To be fair, all the information he gives them is: my neighbour sings, I can hear him, and it’s annoying. Only Yoongi looks at him with a knowing smile as he speaks, and thank goodness Namjoon already knows he’s not going to say a word.

Jungkook and Hoseok try to cheer him up, their way: by trying to make him see the bright side.

“I think you scored,” Jungkook cuts in, at some point. “You could’ve had a loud, bad singer - but you’ve got a loud, good singer. That’s cool, right?”

“Of course there’s worse, but I still don’t want… I don’t know… I don’t want to hear him anymore. You know? It’s just awkward now.”

“Why is it awkward?”

Namjoon winces. He feels that he has to elaborate.

“Because I know he knows I heard him now, and it’s just… it’s so… it’s just awkward. Not to mention it’s like I’m… intruding in his intimacy.”

“And don’t you think he’s intruding in yours?”

Yoongi’s tone is strange. It’s the first time he intervenes. Namjoon frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“Just… think, Joon,” he continues, a smile creeping on his lips, despite how obviously he’s trying to hide it. “If you can hear him… don’t you think he can hear you?”

There’s a long and heavy silence. It’s what Namjoon needs to be hit with the realisation of what’s hidden under Yoongi’s words.

Well. His creep-o-meter is flying off the charts.

“Fuck,” he slowly says.

“Yep,” Hoseok punctuates with a smile.

“Fuck,” Namjoon repeats. “How have I never thought of that - this is just - I’m never showing my face again. That’s it. You’ll never see me get out of this flat again.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Jungkook whines, half-laughing. “What’s the big deal if he heard you fuc -”

“Stop! Stop, please, we’re okay with not hearing it,” Namjoon cuts him off. “I feel mortified enough as is, alright? I don’t need a reminder.”

They agree and stop teasing, and Namjoon loves them for it, but he also decides not to bring this up again. Which means he has to learn to live with his thoughts, on his own - which is hard when his neighbour lives right next door, and the possibility of bumping into him makes both his excitement and anxiety peak.

One morning, he’s pondering over his thoughts and drowning them under a cup of coffee, when he’s surprised by a knock on his door. He’s learnt, over the past months, that knocks on his door were traps he didn’t want to fall into; so he just sits very still and very much wishes to disappear.

He doesn’t know how long he waits - maybe 5 or 10 good minutes. It’s only after this time that curiosity overtakes him, and he prudently peeks outside his door. 

He looks down. There’s a grocery bag on his doormat (non-plastic, which he appreciates), with a post-it note stuck on top. He squints, carefully picks it up, and he doesn’t like how little time it takes for him to recognise the scratchy handwriting. 

can we talk? i’m sorry :(

It’s just a word and a smiley face. Literally, the simplest thing anyone could have ever written. It still feels better than it should to read it; especially just before Namjoon peeks into the bag.

There’s at least two weeks worth of canned cat food in there - the fancy kind. 

It’s just cat food and a post-it note. But it’s also more than that. It’s a sign of peace, a sign that Seokjin cares.

How can Namjoon try to dislike his neighbour when he’s so infuriatingly nice? He could’ve just texted, maybe let Namjoon ignore him. But he had to go out of his way to make his heart flutter.

He doesn’t know how to react. He doesn’t really know what to do, or say. He knows what’s expected of him is a text - but his pride is still hurt, and he’s never been good with apologising, or being apologised to. So instead he does, maybe, the most irrational thing he could.

He regrets it all day, afterwards. Until he gets a text.

from: seokjin

hi

how are you?

and why is there a box of pastries at my door?

He panics a little. Just a little.

to: seokjin

i don’t know

actually i do, i left it there

sorry

from: seokjin

i don’t mind, it’s sweet :)

i just don’t know why? 

and did you see what i left at your door? i hope no one took off with it

to: seokjin

i did see it, don’t worry about it

this is just payback 

Okay, he could have worded that better, he thinks with a grimace.

from: seokjin

that’s not how “payback” works, namjoon

This is the kind of thing Namjoon can almost hear Seokjin say with a laugh. 

to: seokjin

it just means that we’re even now, you know? i wanted to apologise too, i guess

i’m sorry i came across cold. i really am

from: seokjin

that’s okay, joon. i’m just really glad if we’re even :)

well, thank you

i hope the cats enjoy the food!! i know i’ll enjoy mine <3

Namjoon thinks, a stupidly big grin plastered on his face, that there’s no way being this cute is legal. 

He doesn’t even mind the dumb nickname.

Namjoon’s hosting a party.

Seokjin can hear its music and laughs as if he was there. Except he isn’t. He’s laying in his bed, and it’s nearing 1 in the morning, but he can’t sleep because the music is so loud.

That’s a lie. It’s not the music that’s bothering him. His sleep is usually heavy enough to let him drift away whenever he wants, and an earthquake in the middle of the night couldn’t even wake him up. Sound doesn’t keep him up; thoughts do. And unfortunately for him, tonight, he’s having many, many thoughts.

It’s been about a week since the last weird interaction with Namjoon (endearingly weird; Seokjin never says no to some good food). He still doesn’t really understand Namjoon’s attitude, but he’s glad he’s apologised. The only problem, now, is that he just doesn’t know where they are. Because if Namjoon didn’t want anything to do with him, he wouldn’t have bought pastries, right? But if he did, he would’ve surely sent a text by now? 

Seokjin is basically overthinking. He’s not used to it (except when it comes to auditions). It takes up so much space in his brain that he wishes he had free, just because he doesn’t know if the Thing with Namjoon is a peaceful coexistence, a hostile terrain, or a road that could actually lead somewhere. He was starting to get used to having Namjoon around, and now, he’s a little sad to think that he’d have to let that go.

So Seokjin’s thinking too much, which means that he can’t sleep, and the party next door doesn’t help. And it might be getting on his nerves, he might have too many of his brain cells occupied to make rational choices; it might be why he suddenly jumps out of bed and stomps out of his apartment, into the hallway, to stand in front of Namjoon’s door.

He thinks he can just ask him to lower the music (politely). It’s simple, it doesn’t even have to be a full conversation - just a short request. So it’s easy, right? Right.

He knocks before he can think (well, more like, before he can not overthink). And it’s only once the door opens that he realises where and how he’s here. In the middle of the hallway, barefoot and in his pajamas, probably looking sleep-deprived, crazy, or both.

But when he sees Namjoon, he stops thinking about that. His mind just goes: well, fuck.

It’s been a while since he’s seen him, and the last times, he looked either soft or cute. He doesn’t look like that anymore. He looks hot. He’s wearing black jeans and a shirt that seems like the kind of shirt a hot dad would wear (what the fuck?), short-sleeved and tight in all the wrong places. His hair is just messy enough, his dark eyes are a little shiny, just like his full lips. He’s got a little bit of a tipsy flush (it’s adorable).

“Hey,” he says, looking as confused as Seokjin feels - and still giving him a little unsure smile. Seokjin still can’t decide if he’s cute or hot, and it’s frustrating.

“Hello,” he answers, and thinks, why am I here again?  

Right. The music.

There’s an incredibly long silence when Seokjin realises he can’t say anything about the music. Because he doesn’t want to set Namjoon against him again. Because he’s seen a hint of his smile, and he can’t get enough.

He can’t say anything about the music, but he still really, desperately needs to come up with a good excuse, because this silence is really getting too long.

“I - I think a light’s broken in my flat,” he blurts out.

Wow, that was not a good excuse.

“I think a light’s broken and I don’t know how to fix it, so maybe… I don’t know, if you want to come look at it, that’d be nice? Because… you seem good with that kind of stuff?”

(He really doesn’t, but this is a desperate situation, and he’s already rambling anyway, so why not dig himself into a hole.)

Surely Namjoon will refuse. He’ll say he’s busy, or assure he’ll go check it out later. That’d be nice, actually - that’d be the best outcome.

But Namjoon is both tipsy, and too nice for his own good.

“Of course I can come! I don’t know if I’ll be very helpful but, um…”

There are laughs and shouts behind him, indecipherable because of the music, and Namjoon turns back. Seokjin can’t see what he’s doing, or who he’s talking to, because just a second later, he turns towards him again. 

He doesn’t question whatever’s happening; if anything, it could save him. But instead of excusing himself back into his flat, Namjoon pushes out and quickly closes the door.

Seokjin’s heart is racing when he asks: “Let’s go?”. And he’s just slightly panicking when he opens his door to him.

Namjoon enters his dim apartment, takes a few steps - apparently looking around, trying to find his perfectly working electrical panel. Meanwhile, Seokjin leans his back against the door, paralysed, trying to figure what kind of absolute dumb idiot he is. Because now Namjoon’s here, and he lied, and whatever he says, he’ll come off as royally stupid.

Fair enough.

His eyes drift to the electrical panel. Maybe if he distracts Namjoon long enough, he can tear out a cable or something, pretend he doesn’t know where that comes from. Or maybe he can just get electrified, and become an electrified dumb idiot.

He closes his eyes in frustration. What the hell are you doing, his mind screams at him; and what the hell is he doing, indeed.

The silence is long, long, long. With every passing second, it only grows more awkward.

“I lied,” Seokjin finally says, making Namjoon spin on his feet. His lips hang open a little, his brows are slightly furrowed, but he doesn’t look like he knows what to say.

“I… I lied about the light. Everything works fine,” Seokjin clarifies, as if that explains absolutely everything.

After a little while, Namjoon musters:

“... Okay?”

He doesn’t look like he understands. Seokjin isn’t sure he understands either.

Namjoon eyes him up and down, and Seokjin swallows thickly. Is he looking at me?, he thinks, ears and neck flushing at the thought. 

But Namjoon is still frowning. And soon enough, Seokjin realises it’s not him he’s eyeing. It’s his hand, still on the doorknob.

It’s only then that Seokjin gets how weird this all looks. Because he’s essentially lured his clueless and tipsy neighbour into his home, and he’s now covering the only exit, which only leads to so many rational explanations. Among them, one is that he’s about to commit a very meticulously-planned murder.

He jerks away from the door and takes a step to the side.

“I’m not a serial killer,” he blurts out, and immediately cringes.

“Um, yes, I know?”, Namjoon answers - which does relieve him, just a bit. “But… why…”

He trails off, unsure of what to say, and honestly, Seokjin doesn’t blame him. He decides it might be best to take it from the top.

“Well, I came to tell you to turn down the volume, but then I…”

“Oh, really?”, Namjoon interrupts, apologetic. “I’m so sorry - you could’ve asked me to turn it down, you know, I -”

“No, but - I wanted to, originally… but I changed my mind.”

Namjoon looks briefly surprised, then seems to accept it.

“Oh. Alright.”

There’s a short silence.

“Why did you ask me to come here, then?”

“To be honest, um… I… I guess I panicked?”, Seokjin explains, as if that makes any sort of sense. “I just… didn’t want to say goodbye and go,” he goes on, finding, with surprise, that he means those words more than he knew. “Because… you know… that would’ve made me look stupid. Though I don’t look exactly… smart, right now,” he concludes with a bitter laugh. 

“Wow… okay,” Namjoon says before he can worry, a small smile growing on his face. “That’s a little scary. Because - I mean - it’s totally something I could do,” he adds, now laughing, relieving the weight on Seokjin’s heart with every word. 

“Really?”, Seokjin asks, smiling when Namjoon nods. “Can I just say that we’re hopeless?”

Namjoon nods again, shifting on his feet. 

“Yeah… that’s fair,” he concedes. “And now… well, here we are.”

“Here we are,” Seokjin echoes. 

There’s a silence, filled with their unsaid questions and expectations, before Namjoon asks a little bluntly:

“Do you want to come? To… to the party?”

That’s unexpected. 

But he looks so shy, all of a sudden. So small and adorable. What’s Seokjin supposed to say? 

“Why not?”, he says. “Let me just, um… change first.”

And he practically runs to his bedroom, where he realises how hot he feels, and how strained his breathing is. 

For a few minutes, he stands in his bedroom, wondering, once again, what the hell he’s doing and what’s happening. Namjoon is right outside, waiting for him, still just as unbearably attractive as he was minutes ago. Looking not drunk enough to forget anything, and too drunk not to follow an impulse.

Seokjin steps out, still in his pajamas, with his racing heart stuck all the way up in his throat. 

“Actually, I changed my mind,” he says, a little out of breath.

Namjoon lets out a surprised laugh. It plumps up his cheeks, hollows out his dimples. He’s glowing.

“Well, you change your mind a lot, don’t y -”

Seokjin doesn’t even need to take one whole step to kiss him.

He feels Namjoon freeze, and thinks:

That was a stupid idea.

Because now, he’s got his hands cradling Namjoon’s face, holding his firm jaw, and their lips are touching, but Namjoon isn’t doing anything; and now, Seokjin realises that he had it all wrong, that Namjoon never liked him in the first place, and now he’s panicking and -

And now Namjoon’s kissing him.

He’s leaning into him and his arms are around his shoulders, and then his middle, and then his waist. His mouth is moving, firm and expert; and from the back of his throat, his voice makes a short, low hum that sets Seokjin’s body on fire.

He hasn’t felt like that in a while - if ever. Nothing’s ever felt as good: Namjoon’s tongue playing at his lips, his stupidly agile hands slipping under his shirt. Where cold silk leaves way for hot fingers, Seokjin feels his skin prickle, but he’s not the only one shivering - he feels it when he runs his hands down Namjoon’s bare arms.

They’re basically in his room already. All they need is a few steps. And when Namjoon gently pushes him in, when he looks at him and waits for him to say yes, Seokjin knows he’s ready to take them.

He kisses Namjoon again. Next thing he knows, they’re falling into his bed.

This might just be the best idea he’s ever had.

Namjoon wakes up to the sound of an alarm that isn’t his own.

Seokjin’s warm body shifts next to him - against his’ -, and he hears the lightest groan. A lazy arm reaches past his chest, towards the bedside table. As much as Seokjin tries to extend his hand, he can’t actually take the phone.

Namjoon rolls over to tap the screen, and the blaring alarm fades into a nice silence. It’s still early, but the sun is already seeping through the blinds. They forgot to close them the night before, in the chaos of their intertwined limbs.

“Thank you,” Seokjin mumbles, burying his face into his pillow again. 

Namjoon briefly wonders if he’s dreaming. This all feels like a fever dream - his cute neighbour in bed with him, clinging to him after a night well spent together. If he were to say this out loud, it would sound absurd.

Seokjin’s arm comes back to wrap over his torso, and, just slightly, pulls him closer. Namjoon’s face turns hot, and most likely a darker red than it already was.

“That said audition,” he remarks, voice husky with sleep. 

Seokjin looks up from his pillow, something like wonder and surprise passing on his face. His hand moves, brushing his collarbone, his neck, with the lightest touch. Namjoon swallows loudly; he thinks he can see, then, a hint of a smile in Seokjin’s eyes.

“Your voice is so low,” Seokjin states. His’ is, too. It’s sloppy and rough, and Namjoon wants to hear it again.

Okay. He needs to get back on track, back to the initial topic. The audition. He suddenly feels a little bad for keeping Seokjin there, when he lets his head fall again - against his shoulder, this time.

“Don’t you need to get up?”, he asks, though that’s the last thing he wants Seokjin to do.

“Technically. Do you want me to?”, Seokjin retorts, not opening his eyes.

Namjoon chews the inside of his lip. Seokjin nuzzles against his neck, lets his lips hover on his skin; he can even feel him smile.

“Not really,” he confesses - feeling guilty, and relieved when Seokjin leaves a kiss on his shoulder.

It feels so good to have him here, close. Namjoon is usually the type to slide out of bed as early as he wakes up, especially when there’s another body next to him. It’s not his fault that he’s uneasy with affection, that he always feels like he’s giving too much, too little. Maybe that’s why no one stays: because at some point, he’s stopped trying to give at all.

But now Seokjin’s here, and Namjoon wants to give him everything. He’s clingy and beautiful, and he seems to have no intention of letting Namjoon go.

Namjoon snakes a timid arm around his waist. Seokjin’s skin heats up, prickles with tiny goosebumps, and he shifts slightly - only to adjust his position, and snuggle even closer. With Seokjin laying here, half on top of him, it feels like there isn’t one part of their bodies that isn’t touching.

Since when have things become so easy with him? Everything was, last night, when they fell in bed together. But was it as easy before that, before the party?

Namjoon remembers the party he left, and winces.

“Shit. I don’t even want to know what my apartment looks like right now,” he mumbles, feeling a quiet laugh against his shoulder.

“Do you think your friends looked for you?”

“I don’t know,” he replies. As he does, he tries not to think about Jungkook yelling Go get your man, hyung!! behind his back. “Maybe for… five minutes, they must’ve thought you kidnapped me. Which, you know…”

Seokjin looks up from his hiding. His hair is a cute mess, his brows slightly furrowed. His cheeks look like the softest cheeks Namjoon’s ever seen.

“I haven’t kidnapped you, right?”, he pouts. “You don’t… regret… all of this - do you?”

He looks a little more serious, and worried. Namjoon can’t help but brush his thumb over his cheek, close to his pink bottom lip, looking even plumper than usual.

“I really don’t,” he answers, truthfully, and a little out of breath. 

Seokjin smiles. He looks relieved, and a little smug. Namjoon slowly swipes his thumb over his lip, gets a feel of the skin he’s been kissing so desperately last night. He looks only at it, the shiny crescent moon under his finger; and when he gets to the center of it, Seokjin’s mouth falls open, just a little. 

Namjoon is so flustered he has to let his hand fall back onto the pillow.

“Sorry,” he whispers, looking somewhere else.

Seokjin doesn’t say anything. He’s still smiling in Namjoon’s peripheral vision; he kisses his cheek, just briefly, and lays down. It feels like he’s giving him time. Namjoon appreciates it.

Silence stretches out for a while, and Seokjin doesn’t look like he intends to budge. There’s a little something bothering Namjoon, though.

“Will you send them a message?”, he asks, tentatively. 

“Mm?”

“Aren’t you going to send an email to excuse yourself from the audition?”

There’s a short silence, and then Seokjin shrugs.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not like they care that I’m not coming. That’s less work for them.”

The defeat in his voice hits a little too close to home. Namjoon knows it all too well, what it’s like to think everything’s lost before getting a chance to prove yourself.

“Maybe, but… if you just ditch them without saying anything, they might not recommend you, or something,” he gently reasons, nudging Seokjin a little. “Your industry’s a small world.”

Another silence, like the words are making their way into Seokjin’s brain.

“... You’re not wrong,” he mumbles. A smile tugs at Namjoon’s lips.  

Seokjin sits up in the bed, grabs his phone to type an email. The covers slip off his wide shoulders, revealing the smooth skin of his chest, tapering towards his slim waist. His hair falls in front of his eyes, focused and serious. 

Namjoon’s breath catches in his throat. 

He’s not doing anything, just typing. He’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. And he’s still right next to him, an arm-length away; so Namjoon cedes to temptation. He traces his fingers up his folded leg, lets his hand venture up his hip and the dip of his waist. 

Seokjin lips twitch into a little smile. That’s all he needs to settle his hand there.

“Done. Happy?”, Seokjin asks, putting his phone back screen down onto his bedside table.

“Very,” he answers, incapable of holding back a smile.

Seokjin lets out a small laugh. His bare thigh presses against Namjoon’s side, and as he bends down, his fluffy bangs fall in front of his sleepy eyes.

He cups Namjoon’s face, and kisses him. Namjoon isn’t really thinking when he wraps his arms around him, hands rubbing his back to pull him close; it’s just that this - this thing that’s too domestic, too comfortable - feels right.

“You’re very beautiful. You know that?”

The words spill out of Namjoon’s lips, and onto Seokjin’s, before he can think twice. Seokjin smiles again, laughs again, softer. It’s not even really a laugh, just a broken, quiet hum. Namjoon could kill to hear it again. 

“I’ve been told,” Seokjin shrugs, a touch of something like irony in his tone. 

Of course he’s been told, and now Namjoon feels stupid. He’s been told at least a thousand times. Namjoon’s time is just one more. 

Before he can worry too much, start spiraling into self-consciousness, Seokjin bends his body down again. He tucks his face on Namjoon’s shoulder. All Namjoon can see is his thick, soft hair. 

“Tell me again,” he asks against his skin. 

Something tugs at Namjoon’s heart. Who is he to refuse? 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, closing his eyes, and holding Seokjin tighter still. He thinks about Seokjin’s laugh, and the ease he has with words, how stubborn and persuasive he is. “Beautiful.”

Seokjin goes out of hiding, and kisses him again. He’s sweet and a little needy, like he hasn’t done this in a long time, or like he wants to hold onto Namjoon just a little more. Namjoon doesn’t know which one it is. 

“I didn’t know you liked me like that,” Seokjin says, after a longer kiss. 

Namjoon can’t believe it’s Seokjin, the most fascinating and confident person he’s ever met, who’s telling him this with a shy smile.

“Everyone likes you,” he replies.

“Not like that,” Seokjin retorts, fleeting eyes escaping his own. “Or maybe you don’t... I don’t know. You’re different.”

Namjoon’s heart makes a salto. 

“How?”, he asks timidly.

 “You’re just… gentle, caring. I don’t know how to explain. I wish everyone was like you.”

I wish everyone was you, Namjoon doesn’t say. 

Seokjin lays back down, and Namjoon has the very scary thought that he could get used to this. He thinks he should tell him what’s stuck in his throat - I like you, a confirmation, a truth he didn’t know until now. Something so simple that he still can’t say. He wishes he could. He’s always been so slow at things.

“Thank you,” he says instead. And then, “I’m sorry.”

Seokjin frowns.

“Sorry I made you miss an audition,” Namjoon elaborates.

“It’s fine, really. It was for a shitty drama supporting role, anyway,” Seokjin shrugs.

“Have you ever considered doing something else?”

There’s a tense silence, and Namjoon feels that he’s toeing a dangerous line.

“No,” Seokjin admits, finally. “I want to act. That’s all. This is what makes me happy,” he declares, his voice small but his tone determined.

“Okay,” Namjoon nods. “I’m not worried for you, then. If you’re passionate, things will come your way.”

Seokjin laughs a humorless laugh. His eyes escape towards the ceiling.

“I’ve heard that a thousand times…”

“I know,” Namjoon answers (because he does know). “But I really believe it. And I think you should hear it again. It’s just easy to forget that only your hard work can pay off. Especially in those industries - especially when you don’t want to play by their rules.”

Maybe he got carried away, and now he regrets it a little. He didn’t mean to turn this conversation - whatever it was - into a lecture that Seokjin probably doesn’t need.

But it also looks like Seokjin needed it. Because a second later, he’s looking at him again, his eyes softer.

“You’re in the same boat, aren’t you?”

He says that, and Namjoon hears: You’re like me, right? You understand. For once, he’s proud to think that he does.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m a mediocre composer in an industry where everyone’s a genius.”

Seokjin frowns. Under the covers, his hand finds his’; he tugs at it, gently but firmly, to intertwine their fingers.

“You’re not mediocre. You really aren’t,” he whispers. There’s some light in his eyes that makes Namjoon want to believe it.

“I loved when I got to hear you. I… I also loved your song,” he continues, taking him by surprise. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it before. It was beautiful, and I don’t know how many times I read the lyrics. You hid a lot of meanings in there, didn’t you?” 

Warmth spreads across Namjoon’s chest and cheeks. Seokjin sounds and looks so sincere. It’s been a while since he’s heard anyone, other than his friends, praising him; it’s a feeling he could get drunk on.

But. There’s always a but.

“I think you should give it to your friends. It would sound amazing recorded,” Seokjin concludes.

“It was made for your voice too,” Namjoon protests weakly. He knows he’s prying, maybe a little too much. But if Seokjin likes the song, why not sing it?

Seokjin looks conflicted. 

“I know, and… I’m grateful. It’s just… I’m not a singer.”

Namjoon quirks an eyebrow, not liking the dim tint in Seokjin’s voice. It’s obvious he’s being insecure about a label that doesn’t matter. Namjoon doesn’t want to force him - just let him see that he doesn’t have to doubt so much. 

“You don’t have to be a singer. You just have to sing.”

Seokjin looks up. He seems surprised, and open, like he’s finally envisioning a possibility he never thought about before. There’s a silence, too long, and Namjoon’s heart is beating fast when Seokjin finally says:

“... You’re right.” And then, eyes smiling: “Okay. Maybe I’ll do it. Just give me some more time, alright?”

Namjoon would give him all the time in the world.

When they part later, at the door, Seokjin slides a hand behind his nape, and kisses him again. Namjoon holds onto him - just because he’s unsteady. Not because if he didn’t, he’d swoon. Not at all.

“You’re not going to disappear?”, Seokjin asks.

The question sounds so absurd that Namjoon almost laughs. But it also sounds full of worry, spilling out of Seokjin’s lips.

All he does is softly smile, and motion towards his own door.

“What are you talking about? I’m right here.”

one year later

Seokjin is standing in the middle of the street, outside a building where his life has just changed. For most of the passers-by around him, for a million, a billion other people, today is just another day. For him, today is the best day of his life.

He’s already turning on his phone as he walks out the door, and he’s barely made it onto the sidewalk as he sticks it onto his ear, listening to the dial tone go for two short seconds. 

“Hi,” he says, when Namjoon picks up.

“Hey,” his low voice answers, only just a little muffled over the line. “Do you have good news?”

Seokjin quirks an eyebrow.

“How do you know?”

“You’re smiling. I can hear it from here.”

For that, Seokjin loves him.

“I do have good news,” he says, making his way down the busy street. “I was going to wait and surprise you, but… I just couldn’t.”

There’s some shuffling on Namjoon’s side. Seokjin thinks he’s gotten up, maybe. He does that sometimes, when he feels a strong emotion; his energy peaks and he can’t sit still.

“You got it?”, he asks, a little breathless.

Seokjin can’t bear to keep the suspense any longer.

“Yeah,” he announces with a big smile. It feels like a sigh of relief.

“Fuck, Seokjin, really? That’s so - I’m so proud of you, baby! You deserve it, I told you you’d get it! I’m so happy - are you happy?”

Seokjin laughs fondly. He enjoys the way Namjoon’s voice stumbles over his words, not out of hesitation, but an excitement he can’t contain. He hears the pride in his voice; he feels proud, too, of this role he’s just landed. It’s a good role, a stable one, and it finally feels like he’s doing something after years of… managing.

“Of course I’m happy! And I’m happy you’re happy,” he says with a snicker. “I couldn’t have done it without you helping me with my lines a week ago.”

“Stop it,” Namjoon groans. “You would’ve gotten it in any case, because there was no other way. You said it yourself, the role was made for you.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now that I got it!”, Seokjin protests. He hears Namjoon’s bright laugh (it’s starting to sound eerily like his’, the more time they spend together). “I say it was thanks to you. That’s all.”

“Sure,” Namjoon mumbles, before asking eagerly: “Tell me more about it. What did they say? Was the director here?”

“So impatient. I’ll tell you once I get home, okay? I’m on my way,” Seokjin replies. He’s as impatient as Namjoon - he just wants to see his eyes when he explains everything. He wants to feel his hands in his’. He just wants him there.

“Fine… see you,” Namjoon says. Seokjin hears him smile too.

In the subway, he thinks about his own words. He’s going home. It’s been a little while since he’s started saying (and thinking) that; coincidentally, ever since things have started going steady with Namjoon.

Their relationship was a little strange at first (but then again, they both are a little strange; so Seokjin wasn’t really surprised). And maybe, at first, Seokjin did take advantage of the closeness. Maybe he was testing his luck when he started showing up right next door a few times a week, too many times for two people who were at that weird stage (easy intimacy, kisses and long sunday mornings in bed, passion with a hint of doubt). 

Maybe he was being greedy, but he just wanted to see Namjoon again, and again - and it looked like Namjoon wanted it too. It looked like he was waiting. 

Seokjin knows now that he did want it; that he was waiting. He just needed to take things slower, so they did. And now, here they are.

Namjoon doesn’t even let him take off his jacket. Before Seokjin knows, he’s running to him and giving him the warmest hug. Seokjin relishes in it, and they stand there for a while, just holding each other in the middle of the narrow entryway.

“I’m so happy for you… I’m so proud,” Namjoon mumbles in the crook of his neck. His arms are firm around him; Seokjin could stay like this for hours. 

He feels his eyes prickle, suddenly. Those words mean more to him than he ever realised.

“I haven’t even told you anything yet,” he says, swallowing back the tears that tighten his throat. He smiles and takes Namjoon’s face in his hands, kissing him gently. His boyfriend (that word still feels new after months) kisses him back, before helping him out of his jacket; he motions towards the couch with a small bow, eyes playful.

“What are you doing?”, Seokjin asks with a small laugh, plopping down on the couch and pulling Namjoon down with him. He falls on top of him with a huff. It’s probably not the most comfortable position for him, laying down with his head pressed on his chest, but he doesn’t budge.

“You’re an actor now,” he says, looking up at him and wiggling his eyebrows. “You’re important. I need to take care of you,” he explains ironically.

Seokjin laughs, frowning.

“So I wasn’t important before I got the role? And you didn’t need to take care of me?”

“That’s not…”, Namjoon’s smile falters a little. “No, I don’t mean that, baby -”

“I know. I’m kidding,” Seokjin assures, leaning down for a quick kiss. “You know I like feeling important.”

“Oh, yeah… I know,” Namjoon hums, an amused smile blooming on his face again. He sits up and this time, he’s the one pulling Seokjin to him, into a comfortable half-snuggle. “You also like to keep me waiting, apparently. Are you going to tell me how it went?”

Seokjin finally does. And as he rambles on about what the director said and liked, about how excited he is about the role, and who he thinks the other actors are going to be, it all feels very familiar. It feels like they’re back to three months ago, when Namjoon came home with the best news in a long while: a stable contract, finally. That day, he had the same smile as the one he gave Seokjin, when he accepted to sing for him.

He doesn’t know why he resisted it for so long. It was through it that Namjoon and him got closer, and through it that Seokjin met new people he can now call his friends. It was an experience he’d live again, a thousand times, if he could, for the simple fact that it showed him he doesn’t just have to be one thing. He can be an actor and he can sing, he can be a boyfriend, or a muse, or he can do his own thing. This is only one of the things that being with Namjoon taught him.

Now, Seokjin knows he’s a part of every single song Namjoon writes. And maybe, unconsciously, Seokjin does it too - taking inspiration from him. Maybe he does it when he picks apart his boyfriend’s expression, the movement of his eyes and his lips and hands, the inflection of his voice. Maybe that’s what their love looks like: collecting little pieces of each other to cherish.

Life has started to smile at them, more than it did before. Seokjin often wonders if that’s ever since they got together. It doesn’t really matter, but he still likes to think it is; it’s comfortable to think that something clicked, that the universe is with them. Or maybe he’s just superstitious.

“Seokjin,” his boyfriend softly calls after a while, as they’re just sitting there, leaning on each other, basking in each other’s affection. He hums, looking up to Namjoon’s face, recognisably nervous.

“What would you think about moving in together?”

Seokjin’s heart swells. He’d lie if he said he didn’t think about this before; but hearing it from Namjoon’s mouth is making it stable, and real.

He smiles, and he knows by the relief in Namjoon’s eyes that he’s already sensed his answer. He still says it, because he can, and because he wants to see Namjoon’s smile - the wide, pleased one.

“I think it’s something I’d really, really want.”

The prospect of moving boxes doesn’t seem as awful as it used to.