Archive of Our Own ^beta

He slowly blinks awake, sleep still heavy on his eyelids. The lights are on, overly bright and more jarring with every flutter of his lashes. He lifts a hand to rub at his eyes, elbow brushing past the warm body pressed close to him. His gaze falls on it, and he swallows.

Seokjin’s face, slack and peaceful with sleep, greets him, framed gently by ruffled dark hair and Namjoon’s own shoulder. His cheeks are a bit rosy, lips slightly parted, light, rhythmic huffs of breath tickling the side of Namjoon’s neck. Namjoon swallows again, suddenly hit with an impossible vertigo, something crazy rushing through his mind like it’s running away from his own rational thinking, desperate and thrilling. Did they—? 

But he blinks again and realizes that they are both wearing a respectable amount of clothes, and that the air between them only reeks of alcohol. Feels the wave of delirium and panic that was sweeping over him lose its momentum, receding like a splash of water falling back into the ocean. 

There’s a persistent buzzing, and it takes Namjoon a while to realize it’s not coming from inside his head. He tries to feel around with his hands without jostling Seokjin, and ends up finding his phone squished between his hip and the couch. There are three missed calls and a flurry of unread messages, all from the same person. 

SUGA
4:07am
at the clinic with jk

4:07am
kid’s been shot

4:07am
get here asap

His heart rate spikes up for an entirely different reason, dread washing over him like a bucket of cold water. As carefully as he can, he starts to extricate himself from the tangle of limbs that's him and Seokjin. But one single accidental nudge, and Seokjin is pressing even closer, hands curling into loose fists, grabbing at Namjoon’s shirt and holding on like a spooked animal. 

Namjoon can’t move. He stays there, frozen, watching helplessly as Seokjin buries his head in the crook of Namjoon’s neck, breath hot and feather-light on his skin. For a long, horrible moment, he forgets about the world out there. He wants nothing but to wrap his arms around Seokjin, press a kiss to his temple, and stay like this forever.

But the moment passes, and he comes back to himself. Quietly and slowly, he holds Seokjin’s shoulders and pushes him away, creating some semblance of distance between them. Seokjin grunts but eventually rolls over to the other side, soon fast asleep again. Namjoon takes the chance to roll off the couch, grabs the first jacket he sees lying around. He’s halfway to the front door when he takes another look back at Seokjin, who has now curled in on himself under the chilly air of Seoul’s dawn in late November.

Namjoon curses under his breath, turns back, goes into the bedroom to rummage for a blanket urgently. He tries to keep quiet as he pads across the floor, draping it over Seokjin, but Seokjin tosses around all the same, fingers twitching like he wants to reach out.

Namjoon leaves before he can do something he’ll regret.

***

He sees Yoongi first, who looks small and crumpled in the plastic waiting chair, dark circles under his hard, brittle eyes. Jungkook is in the seat next to him, dozed off—a weight lifts off Namjoon’s chest, but it settles right back down when his gaze drifts to the cast on Jungkook’s leg. 

Yoongi pushes himself out of the chair as Namjoon approaches, walks over to him with muted footsteps. “He’ll live. Just gotta take it easy for a while.” Yoongi whispers, once he’s out of Jungkook’s hearing range, “he lucked out, apparently. Hoseok said one more centimeter to the left and he wouldn’t be able to walk properly for the rest of his life.” 

Namjoon says nothing. Tastes the sourness of fermented alcohol in his mouth. Yoongi gives him a look, more exhaustion than anything, and the only thing Namjoon can say is: “go home and get some rest, hyung. I’ll take care of this.”

Yoongi holds his gaze for a second but doesn’t fight it, just puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes before taking off, and Namjoon finds himself waking a bleary-eyed, confused Jungkook, who seems to sober up as soon as he realizes who’s talking to him.

“Hey,” Namjoon says, hand clasping Jungkook’s shoulder with a little too much force and only just managing to keep his voice level, “come on, let’s get you something to eat.”

Jungkook remains silent as Namjoon helps him into the car, and then for the entire drive to the hole-in-the-wall jigae house. He‘s still unnervingly quiet when they are sitting across each other in a cramped corner of the dingy restaurant, fidgeting and head hung low, the steaming galbitang and bowl of rice in front of him untouched. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me what happened. Just eat something, alright? Your body needs it.” Namjoon says. It’s not okay, actually, but he feels too tired to push it. It’s six in the morning on a Saturday and Jungkook has been shot just a few hours ago. The fact is a heavy, bitter weight in the pit of his stomach, weighing his entire consciousness down. 

Jungkook chances a fleeting look at him before finally picking up his spoon. He eats heartily, as he always does, and Namjoon relaxes for a fraction. He’s picking at his own hangover soup when Jungkook speaks up.

“I went to see Taehyung-hyung and Jimin-hyung.”

It’s more or less what Namjoon expected, but his hand tightens around the handle of his spoon nonetheless. “Someone saw you?”

“...Yeah,” Jungkook pouts, defensive, “but I was really careful, I promise—” 

“No amount of careful is enough around those people and you know that,” Namjoon sets his spoon down, runs a hand through his hair, exhales. “We’ve been through this, Jungkook-ah.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me, jesus. You’re the one who were shot.” 

Namjoon leans back in his seat, tipping his head backward. For a beat, neither of them says anything, the silence quickly rolled over by the noise coming from the back kitchen, preparing for the morning rush. Jungkook lowers his head, pushes around the chunks of radish sitting in the cooling soup. When he speaks again, there’s a stubborn edge to his voice. “I just—I'm worried about them, hyung.” 

“I know. Me too,” Namjoon says, a light nausea pushing at the back of his throat, from the alcohol, the weariness, this topic every time it comes up. “And we’re gonna do something, okay? We’re gonna help them. Soon. We just gotta make sure everything’s figured out. So we have a better chance of getting them out—” he swallows the alive on the tip of his tongue, “so just—just sit tight for a little longer. Don’t pull something like that ever again, yeah?”

Jungkook looks like he wants to say more, but takes a glance at Namjoon’s face and bites his tongue. “Yeah,” he mumbles at last, sounding very small in the moment—sounding his age, for once. 

When they get back into the car, Namjoon sits in the driver seat quietly for a minute, unmoving. Thinks about the gun that’s currently sitting in the the glove compartment. Imagines wrapping his fingers on the smooth, cool leather of the holster and passing it to Jungkook like he’s just passing him a drink. The revolting feeling that comes with it almost stops him from opening his mouth, but then the images in his head morph into ones of Jungkook, lying on the ground bleeding out, or holding a smoking gun with a lifeless body in front of him. Both are equally awful, but at least in one of them, Jungkook has the chance of being the one left standing.

“You free next weekend?” He forces out at last. 

“Yeah,” Jungkook says, eyes wide, hesitant and just a tiny bit scared, “why?” 

“I’m teaching you how to shoot.” Namjoon says. He pauses for a beat, and rubs a hand across his face. “Shit. And we need to come up with an excuse for you for Jin-hyung’s birthday party.”

***

“I broke my leg,” Jungkook announces when he shows up at the door to Seokjin’s apartment. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Seokjin says, frowning as Jungkook makes his way to him. Jungkook's been getting better at using his crutches, and Namjoon trails behind, watching as Jungkook navigates the small crowd with relative ease. “What happened?”

Jungkook shrugs, as much as he can with the crutches holding up his shoulders. “Skateboarding accident.”

It’s unnerving, how small lies like this come to Jungkook so naturally now. It’s not executed seamlessly, though—if you watch closely enough, you can pick up on Jungkook's tells, the ones that Namjoon knows by now. Seokjin looks like he’s trying to watch closer. “I didn’t know you skateboarded.”

“Well, I can’t, now, anyway,” Jungkook shrugs again, the front getting flimsier before he abandons it entirely, “but enough about that. Happy birthday!” He tries to give Seokjin a hug that’s mostly just him knocking into Seokjin with his crutches. Seokjin complains loudly before wrapping his arms around Jungkook and squeezing tight anyway. “God, can’t believe you’re, like, almost thirty. That’s so old.”

“Yah, Jeon Jungkook! You came into my house, and you have the audacity to—” 

Jungkook snickers, hopping away before Seokjin could snatch one of his crutches and hit him with it. Namjoon’s eyes follow him all the way to the other side of the room, only relaxing when he sees Jungkook has found Yoongi and snuck up on him as a greeting. It’s stupid; they are at Seokjin’s birthday party, and everyone here is more or less a friend. There’s no reason for him to be on the lookout. But.

“You’re not actually his dad, you know.”

Namjoon snaps out of his own thoughts. “What?”

Seokjin is looking at him with something strange in his expression, a fleeting softness before it morphs into a familiar kind of amusement, so fast that Namjoon thinks he must have imagined it. “I get it. You let him out of your sight for two seconds and kid went and broke his leg. Still, Jungkookie’s a grown up. It’s not on you to look after him all the time.” 

What if it is? Namjoon wants to retort. What if it is, and I’m doing a terrible job? But he can’t say that to Seokjin, not without saying too much all at once. So he just shrugs, changes the topic. “Quite a party you’ve got here.”

Seokjin must have seen through it, but lets him anyway, not missing a beat in the easy way he replies. “Oh, you know me. All about the life of the party,” he says drily, turning to survey the sparsely occupied room, where most people are just chit-chatting while drinking beer or piled on the couch, watching TV. “Is this your roundabout way of saying my party sucks and you're withholding the happy birthday I deserve as my punishment?”

Namjoon feels a smile tugging at his lips. “It doesn’t suck,” he pulls Seokjin in for a brief hug, “I know it’s just the way you like it. Happy birthday, hyung.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Seokjin says, wrapping an arm on Namjoon's shoulder, chin dipping into the crook of Namjoon's neck, faux-smug with a warmth coursing underneath, “but thank you.”

Namjoon doesn’t let the hug stretch for long because he knows how weak he is. Still, when he pulls away, his skin tingles treacherously from Seokjin’s touch, the way it always leaves him feeling like a smooth piece of pebble wrapped in a loving palm. 

Seokjin points him to where the drinks are, then goes into the kitchen to check on whatever he has simmering on the stove. Namjoon grabs a can of cider and quietly loiters by the back of the room, until Yoongi walks over to join him. 

“Jungkook’s over there,” Yoongi tells him before he could say anything, glancing over to where Jungkook is now chatting excitedly with a few semi-familiar faces. He says it matter-of-factly, not like he’s placating Namjoon or judging his descend down the helicopter parent route. It reminds Namjoon again why he's grateful for Yoongi. “So what did he end up telling Jin-hyung?”

“That he broke his leg skateboarding.”

Yoongi makes a face. “And Jin-hyung bought that?”

“I dunno. Hopefully.”

Yoongi shakes his head, sips on the beer in his hand. “When do you plan on telling him?”

Namjoon is suddenly feeling a little less grateful. “Telling him what?” He mumbles.

Yoongi looks at him, unimpressed. “What we really do. What, do you think I’m asking when you’re gonna tell him about you big, fat crush on him? Because I could.” 

“Never.” Namjoon says, not bothered to specify and hating that he sounds more petulant than annoyed. “I thought we weren’t having this conversation again.”

“I’m just saying. Jin-hyung’s our friend. As long as that doesn’t change, there’s a chance for him to be dragged into this shit whether he knows about it or not.”

The thing is—Yoong’s got a point. Deep down, Namjoon knows keeping Seokjin in the dark isn’t necessarily going to keep him safe. They have known each other for the better part of the past few years, him and Seokjin and Yoongi, and even Namjoon has to admit Seokjin isn’t the type to be easily scared off by this kind of stuff. There’s no real reason he couldn’t tell Seokjin about what he does, what he has done—except then Seokjin would know he has killed someone. He would know Namjoon has lied to him, has done things Namjoon doesn’t even want to remember himself. Has wrapped his hands around Jungkook’s and taught him how to shoot someone in the head. 

He doesn’t realize how hard he has gritted his teeth until he tries to speak again. “I just—it’s more complicated than that.” 

Yoongi takes pity on him. “Hey, I respect your decision, okay?” He says, soft in a begrudging way, “even if it’s a stupid one.” 

And, luckily, that’s the end of that. They are soon dragged over to the circle of conversation by Jungkook, who enthusiastically demanded their opinions on the apparently critical matter of the merit of mint chocolate flavored ice cream. And then it isn’t long before the food is brought out, followed by the birthday cake. All in all, it is a pretty good party, with lots of laughter and giggles and cheers for the birthday boy, the birthday boy himself loud and exasperated the way he gets when he’s embarrassed but secretly pleased, and then finally enough leftovers for everyone to pack some home for tomorrow’s lunch. 

Namjoon’s absentmindedly tapping a makeshift beat on the plastic lid of the container that holds his share of the extra japchae (seriously, where does Seokjin keep all this tupperware?), waiting for Jungkook to come out of the bathroom, when his phone buzzes. The party’s wrapped up and people are leaving in flocks, with Seokjin sending them off by the door, a comforting background noise. He fishes for his phone, unlocking it and glancing at the screen on autopilot. 

Unknown Number
11:28pm
this is jaehyuk. we’ve been ambushed

11:28pm
a few of the guys are down

11:28pm
those people said they’d come back

Namjoon stares at the words. He’s typing before his eyes can refocus.

11:29pm
Get the guys to the clinic. I’ll be right there.

He puts his phone away and the first thing he feels is—a little gross. Like how he always feels whenever he has to reply to messages like this in Seokjin’s apartment. The rest of the emotions soon come rolling in—anger, frustration, anxiety—but the grossness lingers.

“Something wrong?” Yoongi asks in a low voice from next to him. 

“They came at us. Probably retaliation for going behind their back with the Chois. I’ll go take a look.”

The way Yoongi’s face hardens immediately is almost scary, if Namjoon hadn’t seen it so many times. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, hyung. You need to take Jungkook home.”

“I’m not letting you go alone,” Yoongi scowls.

“And I’m not letting Jungkook go home by himself.” Namjoon counters, as firmly as he can, but he also knows it’s damn near impossible to argue with Yoongi when he’s made up his mind.

“What’s going on?”

Namjoon turns around to find Seokjin hovering by their side, concern in his eyes. The doorway is now empty—apparently the others have all left already, and Namjoon has only now caught up on the quietness that has descended.

Yoongi gives him a pointed look from the corner of his eyes. “Nothing.” Namjoon says, “it’s—there’s this thing I need to go take care of and I was just asking Yoongi-hyung to get Jungkook home. Since, y’know, it’s kind of a pain for him to get around by himself right now.” That’s far from his main concern, but Seokjin doesn’t need to know that.

“I just think,” Yoongi says, perfectly calm to the ears of anyone who’s not intimately familiar with him, “that it would be easier if we all went with you, and you can drop us off when you’re done.”

“No,” Namjoon snaps, fierce and too fast. “I mean—the thing. It’s gonna take a long time. I’m sure Jungkook wouldn't want to sit through that.” He backpedals a little, chancing a glance at Seokjin to gauge how much he had just given himself out. Seokjin just looks pensive before opening his mouth. 

“Why don’t he stay over?”

Namjoon blinks. “Oh. That—”

Isn’t a bad idea, actually. Although a paranoid part in Namjoon is raising its head, glowering at the idea of possibly bringing danger to Seokjin’s home—but then, Namjoon is danger, and it’s not like he has been able to stop coming here no matter how hard he tried. Seokjin’s apartment feels safe—an illusion, maybe, but it’s on the other side of town, away from the sketchy neighborhoods that make up most of Namjoon’s world. It feels safe to be here, just like it feels safe to leave Jungkook here at this moment. Still, he can’t help but feel like that he’s mixing his two worlds together, staining this place into a gradience of grey.

Yoongi shoots a look over his direction again—if you don’t say anything then I’m going to—and Namjoon pushes the words out of his mouth. “That would be great. Thanks, hyung.”

“Of course,” Seokjin says, pauses, “Everything’s okay, though? You don’t need help or anything?”

“No, I’m good. It’s, uh,” Namjoon mumbles, already racking his brain for a good excuse.

“It’s okay, I’m going with him.” Yoongi says, definitive, and then, louder, “hey, Kookie!”

Yoongi brushes past them and goes to a wide-eyed Jungkook newly emerged from the bathroom, presumably to tell him what’s going on. Namjoon shoves his empty hand in his pocket, feeling awkward and restless by himself in front of Seokjin. 

“Hey,” Seokjin speaks up. Namjoon bites his lips before meeting Seokjin’s eyes, seeing the frown on his face. Is this where Seokjin finally confronts him? Asks him what on earth is going on, what’s he hiding?

Before anything, though, he feels a weight being lift out of his hand—Seokjin moves to take the container full of japchae from him.

“I guess this is gonna be a hassle for you to hold onto, then. I’ll tell Jungkookie to take it with him tomorrow, god knows that kid can eat. And I’ll text you when he leaves so you know, okay?” 

Namjoon stares, a little stunned. The frown is still there on Seokjin’s face, but there’s something else, too—a steadiness, an “I’ve got you”. Namjoon swallows, a horrible thought rising in the back of his mind, and it truly is the worst thing to think about because how heartless and selfish does he have to be to wish for something like that? But in times like this he wishes Seokjin wasn’t just a regular guy who always cooks too much for his friends. He wishes Seokjin had been there with him, when he was picked up off the streets by his old gang along with Yoongi. He wishes Seokjin had been there when they almost died making their way out of the gang and set up their own little clan, and when they took Jungkook in after the kid had followed their footsteps. 

He loves Yoongi, who has been the best partner in crime (literally) anyone could have asked for, but he looks at Seokjin and thinks, this is someone I can come home to. He wishes—

He just barely stops himself from going down that dangerous path. “Okay,” he says, thick with too much emotion, completely out of place. If Seokjin notices, he doesn’t say anything. 

***

Hardly a month passes before real trouble finds them.

The plan with Jimin and Taehyung had always been to sit tight. To wait for the right moment, and then tread lightly. Because you don’t just walk away from one of the oldest gangs in the city to start your own without consequences, and certainly not after you take in another former member who runs off following your footsteps. It scares Namjoon sometimes just to think about what would happen to Jimin and Taehyung if their connection to Jungkook and the rest of them got found out—but then, is it not scary enough, what’s already happened to them? Wasn’t that what made him and Yoongi decide to get out for good in the first place?

The only reason he and Yoongi stayed in the world of gangs and mobsters was because—well, because once you’re in you can’t really ever truly leave, but also because they wanted to help people like them, people who wanted out but didn’t know how. There aren’t many, because people like that don’t last long; they get killed, either right after making their escapes or before they even have the chance to. But they found Jungkook, and Jungkook led them to Jimin and Taehyung—kids who got recruited right after they left, who just wanted a roof over their heads and now have to trade for that with murders. And now they need to get them out before burning it all to the ground. Maybe then, they can finally dream about really quitting and living as normal people. 

“Do you really?” Young had asked him, when they were in the car that night, on their way back after a negotiation with a supplier that went surprisingly well—if everything worked out, it would finally put them in advantage in this tug of war. They had left with an expectant spring to their steps, and Yoongi had slouched in the passenger seat with an almost relaxed posture, staring into the distance, contemplative. “Think about putting it all behind?”

Namjoon had an answer to the question, and it had been embarrassing: occasionally before, and then entirely too much after he had met Seokjin. “Sometimes,” he had answered, aiming for casual, “you?” 

“Didn’t think I could. But—yeah, been thinking about it more these days. After putting some bullets in those old bastards’ heads.” Yoongi had replied, “what do I do after that, you know? Who knows, I might go to college. And it’d be nice to finally take up Jin-hyung’s offer to go fishing with him.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon had agreed, “that does sound nice.”

For once, neither of them had mentioned the big if it all hinges on—if they make it out alive.

He had dropped Yoongi off at Yoongi’s apartment. On the drive back to his own place, he had thought about what Yoongi said. Had thought about Jungkook and Jimin and Taehyung, hanging out in the park and messing around like kids their age (hell, maybe Jungkook would actually want to try out skateboarding); Yoongi, on a fishing trip with Seokjin, sunken into a folding chair like a content cat curled up in sunlight; a container filled with homemade japchae in Namjoon’s fridge, which he would take to work for lunch with a stupid little smile on his face.

If he hadn’t been distracted by these thoughts, he might have noticed the car that had been coming straight at him. 

And now—

Now Namjoon’s limping across the narrow street that’s all but deserted at night, illuminated only by the sparse but too-bright streetlights, making the throbbing in his head even worse. His left arm hurts like hell, but thankfully it can still move and nothing feels too out of place on the inside. He’ll live.  

He had crawled out of his overturned car to find no one around, no henchman waiting to finish him off, the car that had crashed right into him and knocked him over nowhere to be seen. Another warning, then. It would be a declaration of full-on war to straight up murder a gang leader, but something like this is sneaky—doesn’t kill him, leaves no evidence, a simple hit and run that will certainly be framed on some poor random guy later.

He stumbles a little, winces. It’s not far from here to the clinic and he’s fairly certain he can make it there himself, but he should probably call Yoongi first. He pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and promptly stops.

Jin-hyung
12:04am
namjoon

12:04am
where r u

12:04am
call me

12:04am
its an emergency

Fuck. His vision swims for a second, knuckles going white clutched around his phone. Did they get Seokjin? He thought he was careful, but—no amount of careful is enough, didn’t he say that to Jungkook just a month ago? What was he thinking, of course this was bound to happen, so stupid—he scrolls through his contacts with shaky fingers, hitting “call” as he struggles to breath.

The dial tone rings and rings and rings. Shit, shit—

“‘ello?"

“Hyung?” It’s Seokjin’s voice. A little slurred, but unmistakably him. “Oh, thank god. I thought—” Namjoon takes a breath, tries to ground himself, “what happened? Are you okay?” 

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, peachy.” A beat of silence. What sounds like a small burp, then giggles. “‘m just—well, ’s stupid so you can't laugh. I left my wallet at home an’ only realized after everyone had left, so now I’m standing in front o' the bar by myself like an idiot.” 

Namjoon feels his shoulders sag. Feels a bit of defeat and a lot of relief sink into his bones, making him waver slightly on his feet. “Sounds like a fun night.”

“Yeah, well, ’s not so fun anymore. ‘m freezing. You should come pick me up,” says Seokjin, triumphant like he’s proud of himself for thinking of the idea. Namjoon smiles a little despite himself, then grimaces.

“Sorry, I’m kind of—”

“Boooo,” Seokjin doesn’t let him finish. “What kind of important business are you takin’ care of this time? In the middle of the night? I should be your important business.” 

He’s all dramatic indignation and Namjoon’s hopelessly, miserably charmed. Wouldn’t it be nice, to live in a world where that’s true? He says nothing, and Seokjin seems to take that as a rejection.

“C’mon,” Seokjin whines. His whining moves from exaggerated to a little quiet and subdued, playfulness giving way to unexpected honesty. He must really be drunk. “I wanna see you.” 

Namjoon shuts his eyes. A breath stuck in his throat. The frigid night wind bites into his skin. Fuck, he wants to see Seokjin too. He wants to see Seokjin so much that the feeling hits him like a truck along with Seokjin’s words, leaving him breathless. 

The silence that follows seems to bother Seokjin, who coughs slightly and turns the dramatics back on. “Really, Namjoon-ah—You’re not gon’ abandon hyung when hyung needs you the most, are you?”

It’s so, so stupid to even consider. Namjoon should be calling Yoongi right now. Should get someone over to take care of the car. Should get to the clinic and get checked up, make sure nothing’s broken. 

“Okay, hyung,” he says, “I’ll be right there.”

On the way over, the cab driver keeps eyeing him in the rear-view mirror. Namjoon pulls up the front camera on his phone and tries to make himself look semi-presentable. By the time the cab pulls over, he’s able to wipe off most of the smudges and grease on his face, and then takes off his jacket that’s pretty much unsalvageable, balls it up and stuffs it under the backseat. He can deal with a few minutes of cold.

It’s not that bad anyway, when Seokjin’s eyes light up as he sees Namjoon and Namjoon feels warm all over. Seokjin’s leaning on a streetlight pole, arms wrapped around himself against the cold. Namjoon gently tugs on his elbow. “Come on, in the cab. Let’s get you home.”

“You didn’t drive here? What happened to your car?” Seokjin squints, frowns, “and why aren’t you wearing a jacket?”

That’s a lot of questions Namjoon can’t answer right now. He wordlessly guides Seokjin into the backseat before following suit, shutting the door behind him and giving the driver Seokjin’s address. The driver eyes them again; to Namjoon’s relief, she doesn’t comment.

Seokjin, on the other hand, doesn’t let him off that easy. “Hey,” Seokjin squints at him again now that he’s up close, trying to make out something in the dim lighting, “your face—is that a cut?”

He moves in closer, and Namjoon freezes. But luck must be on his side for once tonight, because the cab chooses this moment to take a harsh right turn. Namjoon steadies himself with a hand on the door, looks up to see Seokjin lower his head and curl in on himself a little, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth.

“Hyung? You okay?”

Seokjin gives a weak nod, breaths labored, not moving his hand away from his mouth. Namjoon instinctively reaches out and puts a comforting arm around him. To his surprise, Seokjin leans in, drops his head on Namjoon’s shoulder with a light thud.

“‘m fine. Jus’ need... a minute,” Seokjin mumbles, eyes closed, looking like he’s still recovering from the wave of nausea that hit him. 

Namjoon stills, carefully drops his arm so that he’s not tempted to pull Seokjin even closer. His hand brushes against Seokjin’s other hand that’s plopped down by his side in the process, and the sensation startles him. “Your hands are so cold.” He frowns, unthinkingly takes Seokjin's hand and curls his fingers around it, trying to warm the icy skin. 

His action only catches up to him a moment later, but before Namjoon can do anything, Seokjin murmurs a quiet “thanks”, nuzzles into his neck. His hand stays held securely in Namjoon’s, a delicate yet solid weight. Namjoon breathes out shallowly, feeling a little floaty yet inexplicably grounded, like a celestial body in its orbit, simultaneously put in motion and held in place by an all-encompassing pull of gravity. Seokjin’s breath fans out over the skin on his neck, warm and humid, tinged with the smell of soju. 

Drunk. Right. Seokjin’s drunk.

Seokjin doesn’t lift his head off Namjoon’s shoulder for the rest of the ride, presumably drifting off. When they pull up to Seokjin’s apartment building, Namjoon nudges him lightly, then tugs at their still linked hands when there’s no response. “We’re here, c’mon. You can sleep properly in your bed.” 

Seokjin grumbles, but lets himself be led off the car. Namjoon pays the driver before they make their way to the building entrance, keeping a hand on Seokjin’s waist since Seokjin’s still swaying a little on his feet. 

(Not because his hand now feels empty without Seokjin’s in it.)

Seokjin’s apartment always has a homey scent to it, which lingers in the air as they enter, familiar in a strange night like this. Seokjin trudges into the bedroom, and Namjoon stays back in the kitchen to get a glass of water. When he takes the water into the bedroom, Seokjin is sprawled out in bed, only raising his head slightly at Namjoon’s footsteps.

“Here,” Namjoon walks over to the bedside and extends his hand, passing the glass to Seokjin. Seokjin grunts, moving to push himself upright with some difficulty. He struggles a bit, almost falls back down, a hand flying out to grab onto Namjoon’s left arm for leverage.

Namjoon flinches, wincing hard. The pain has subsided into a numbing ache, but flares back up with a vengeance with the pull.

“What—” Seokjin blinks, finally sits up fully. “What’s wrong with your arm?”

“Nothing,” Namjoon says quickly, but it’s too late. Seokjin scoots forward, grip firm on his wrist, gently holding it in place while rolling the sleeve up with a surprising amount of coordination. Namjoon can only stand there and watch him, awkward and helpless with the glass of water still in his other hand. 

There’s a big, ugly bruise blooming on the side of his arm, stretching all the way over his elbow. Seokjin grimaces just looking at it. “Jesus. What happened?”

Yet another question he can’t answer, not in full honesty. “I knocked into something.” It’s not technically a lie—he did; it’s just that the something in question is his car and he knocked into it when it was tumbling sideways with him in it. 

Seokjin purses his lips and says nothing. He slowly drops Namjoon’s arm, rises to his knees so he’s at eye level with Namjoon. Namjoon sucks in a breath as Seokjin’s finger touches his cheekbone, the pad of Seokjin’s thumb drags lightly over a spot, eliciting a sting—Okay, so there is a cut there.

Seokjin leans forward, gaze traversing across Namjoon's face, studying. His eyes have that intensity that’s brought out by the alcohol, and Namjoon’s breath catches. There’s something in the way Seokjin’s looking at him that makes Namjoon feel defenseless; the things he has been desperate to hide tries to bubble out of him, rising from inside like a tidal wave, drawn by the unstoppable gravitational pull of the moon. He fights it, but it's a losing battle. Seconds pass. It feels like Seokjin’s eyes are never going to leave his face. He feels his mouth open on its own accord—

But then Seokjin turns away. Drops his hand, swings his legs off the side of the bed. Namjoon barely has time to reorient himself before Seokjin is getting to his feet, wobbling out of the bedroom. 

“Wait—Hyung! What are you—?” 

“You need to put some ice on that,” Seokjin mumbles without looking back, disappearing from Namjoon’s view with a frankly impressive speed given his inebriated state. Namjoon scrambles to follow.

When Namjoon catches up to him in the kitchen, Seokjin is already pulling out an ice pack from the fridge. He grabs a clean kitchen towel and wraps it up, then turns and strides over to Namjoon who’s just standing stupidly behind him, flustered and confused. 

Namjoon hisses the moment the cold compress touches his skin. Seokjin’s face softens. “Here, you hold it,” he says, finally taking the glass of water from Namjoon so Namjoon can press the ice pack against his arm with his other hand. Namjoon does as told, still a little dazed as he watches Seokjin sips on the water before setting it down on the counter. A lull follows as they fall quiet in the darkness of the kitchen. Seokjin’s posture slackens at last now that he stills, eyes glazing over before blinking a few times, shaking himself back into focus. Namjoon doesn’t miss it.

“Go to bed, hyung. I’ll let myself out when I’m done.” Namjoon dips his chin, signaling vaguely at his arm situation.

Seokjin narrows his eyes, as if there’s something wrong with that statement that he can’t quite put his fingers on. Namjoon was ready to backtrack—although he doesn’t know what’s wrong with what he said either—when Seokjin rubs at his eyes as if fatigue has suddenly caught up to him, nods haphazardly, turns and heads back to the bedroom, leaves Namjoon in the kitchen by himself.

Namjoon’s not sure what just happened, but it left him out of breath, unsteady, just a little bit crazed. He stands there, unmoving, for a little longer, until he feels like he has gotten his bearings again.

He removes the cold compress when the ice’s all melted, drops it in the sink, and makes his way to the front door. But—

The bedroom door hangs open as he walks past, and he stops. Feels the inevitable pull again. The day has worn his self-control down to nothing, and he gives in without a fight this time. Just gonna check in on him before I leave.

Seokjin’s lying in bed, not having bothered to change out of his clothes, elbows tucked and fingers curled into loose fists by his face, breath even. Namjoon keeps his steps light as he treads over to the bedside, carefully picking up a corner of the comforter that’s bunched up aside, draping it over Seokjin’s sleeping form.

“…Namjoon?”

Namjoon tenses, debates making a run for the door. Again—too late now. Seokjin shifts, eyes fluttering open. 

“Go back to sleep,” Namjoon says softly, “I was just leaving.” 

He didn’t expect Seokjin to stretch and reach out, taking a hold of his wrist. 

“Stay,” Seokjin says, voice raspy with sleep, eyes already half-closed again. 

It’s a loose hold, and Namjoon can shake it off easily if he wants to. But—well. It seems only fitting in a night full of bad decisions that he allows himself to be dragged down, falling into bed alongside Seokjin, who only makes a half-hearted effort to make space for him; his feet are hanging off the edge in attempt not to crowd Seokjin, but it still leaves their faces only a hair’s breadth away. Seokjin hums contently, fingers going lax around Namjoon’s wrist, and yet not letting go. 

“Am I gon’ wake up an’ find you gone again?” Seokjin murmurs, barely audible.

“I…” It’s harder to remember his excuses when his brain is all fuzzy like this. “I didn’t mean to. Something came up.”

“Mmm... I betcha say that t’ all the girls,” Seokjin says, the slightest hint of a pout in his small, sleepy voice. Namjoon wants to kiss him. It’s a dangerous thought, given how close they are.

He brushes a stray strand out of Seokjin’s face instead, runs his fingers gently through Seokjin’s hair. Seokjin sighs, a happy little sound, and nuzzles into the pillow. This is crossing all sorts of boundaries, but it’s okay, Namjoon thinks, because Seokjin will forget all about this in the morning. Just like how he has never brought up the night they got drunk on homemade somaek in Seokjin’s apartment and fell asleep in each other’s arms. Well, until just now. But then, Seokjin’s drunk, so it’s fine. He won’t remember any of this, so it’s fine if Namjoon doesn’t leave the moment Seokjin’s fallen asleep like he’s supposed to. It’s fine if he stares for too long at Seokjin’s beautiful face, graced by slumber and the dim shine of moonlight, runs his knuckles alongside Seokjin’s jaw, imagines cupping it, leaning in, and never letting go.

***

It all comes down to one day in late January. 

Namjoon gets a call. It’s past twelve and the drowsy quietness of the night has settled in, but his head snaps up immediately at the ring. He exchanges a quick glance with Yoongi—who’s here because they’ve been expecting the call—and answers. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s done, hyungnim,” Jaehyuk’s staticky voice comes through. “The Chois agreed to work with us. We can have their men for a day.” 

“Good. We’ll strike the day after tomorrow, like we planned. Tell everyone to get ready.”

“Got it, hyungnim.”

Yoongi raises his head as soon as he hangs up. “All set?”

“Yeah.”

They fall silent for a moment, listening to the sound of a car speeding through the empty streets. Yoongi rubs his nose. “Well, shit.” He says. “You ready?”

“Kind of have to be, right?” Namjoon answers, low and sobered. “After everything we’ve done to get to this point.”

Yoongi nods, a distant look in his eyes. “Can’t believe it’ll all be over two days from now. Can’t really wrap my head around that, y’know?”

It’s possible they’ll both be dead two days from now. Namjoon holds his tongue, though. “Wanna crash here? We can go over everything one last time.”

“Sure.” Yoongi pauses. “Wanna hit that noodle place for lunch tomorrow?”

A subdued nostalgia takes hold of the air between them at the mention of it. It's a small, run-down noodle shop at the cusp of their neighborhood that veers into the more lively university district. A shelter of some sort, where he and Yoongi used to go after particularly brutal brawls, bone-tired and bruised and disgusted at themselves, to get bowls of steaming hot noodles for two thousand won. Where they talked about leaving this life behind one day. Where they first started running into Seokjin, who was a broke college student back then. Where it all started. 

Of course it’s on Yoongi’s mind too, how tomorrow could be the last time they’ll ever have lunch together. 

“Yeah,” Namjoon says, over the bitterness in the back of his mouth. “That sounds great.”

“And—I won’t be around for the evening. Gotta take care of some stuff.” Yoongi says, casual, but the implications are hard to miss. “So, you know. You can go take care of some stuff too. It’s Friday so Jin-hyung won’t be working late.” 

Normally Namjoon would deflect, deny, change the subject, when Yoongi hints at his—thing—for Seokjin. He doesn’t this time, because there’s no trace of teasing in Yoongi’s words. He just looks at Namjoon, long and calm and understanding. Go say goodbye to him.

“I—Yeah. I will.” Namjoon can’t stop the way his voice cracks a little over the lump in his throat. “Hyung. Have I ever told you… I’m just really glad you’re here. In this with me. I wish you didn’t have to be, but—” 

“Aish, I knew you would get all sentimental on me,” Yoongi says, but doesn’t protest when Namjoon wraps his arms around him, squeezing tight; he squeezes back, an affirmation. I’m glad too. 

True to his words, on the next day Yoongi takes off around three, after they’ve had the noodles and gone through the plan for the hundredth time at Namjoon’s insistence. Before he leaves, though, he turns around like he had just remembered something: “Hey, you still got that extra piece?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Remember to pass it to Jungkook, then. You know he’ll follow us tomorrow no matter what we say, so better safe than sorry.”

“Right,” says Namjoon, a little hollow. He watches Yoongi go as the reminder fills his insides with an inevitable guilt heavy like lead, and it almost stops him from reaching for his phone. 

But—if, in the worst case scenario, he’s going to disappear on Seokjin, then at least Seokjin deserves to know what kind of person he really is beforehand.

(The kind of person that would put a gun in Jungkook’s hands.)

3:19pm
Hey

3:19pm
Free to grab dinner tonight?

Jin-hyung
3:20pm
sure. meet at my place at 7?

Namjoon had thought—well, he had thought they would just meet downstairs at Seokjin’s building and then go somewhere. That’s probably why it had seemed okay to carry the gun with him—he didn't feel good about it, but he was meeting Jungkook right after and they were going out so it didn’t hurt to be extra cautious anyway. 

Which is why he stills for a moment as he stands by the apartment complex that’s all too familiar by now and reads the text that Seokjin had sent him, telling him to come up.

He swallows, a hand instinctively moving to feel out the shape of the holstered pistol in his jacket’s inner pocket over the cloth. He can’t deposit it anywhere; his car’s still at the repair shop and he took the bus. And—frankly, it shouldn’t matter, right? This is who he is—someone who walks around with a gun in his pocket. And isn’t tonight all about coming clean to Seokjin?

Despite this, he wraps the jacket tightly around him when Seokjin opens the door.

“Hey.” Seokjin says. The curve to his lips looks a bit uncertain. “I had some produce about to go off, so I thought I would cook instead of going out. Is that okay? Do you mind?”

“Oh,” Namjoon says, at a loss for words for many reasons at once. When the uncertainty in Seokjin’s eyes threatens to spill over to his whole face, Namjoon hurries to add: “Of course I don’t mind getting a home-cooked meal for free. Sounds great.” He smiles, hoping it’s reassuring enough.

It must be, because Seokjin ducks his head and chuckles before letting Namjoon in. The aroma of food fills the air as Namjoon follows Seokjin into the dining area; dishes have already been laid out neatly on the table—pot of jigae, meat, rice, banchans. Enough to feed both of them plus a very hungry Jungkook, and then some more. 

“This is… Wow.” Namjoon stares, momentarily speechless again. “You really didn’t have to.”

“Aish, it’s not a big deal.” Seokjin waves him off, pulling his chair out a little too quickly. “Come on, let’s eat before the food gets cold.”

Namjoon takes off his jacket, careful in his movement as he hangs it over the back of his chair. The weight of the gun only serves to further throw him off now, because something’s definitely going on here. He’s acutely aware of the fact as he eats while stealing fleeting glances at Seokjin. Seokjin doesn’t randomly cook elaborate meals on a work day just because he has too much food in his fridge—well, he does, but if that was true he wouldn’t have looked so fidgety when he said it.

As always, the food is delicious. Namjoon is admittedly too distracted to pay attention to what he’s eating, but he can’t help the appreciative noise he makes as the soft tofu melts in his mouth and the spicy, savory soup warms up his stomach. 

He glances up to see Seokjin looking at him, a smile tugging at his lips. “Good?” 

“Of course it’s good—hyung, your cooking is amazing. I’m sure you don’t need to hear it from me at this point.”

“Well, I do.” Seokjin says, then pauses, looking a little embarrassed. He doesn’t try to take it back, though; just purses his lips, eyes flickering up to Namjoon’s face.

“Oh,” Namjoon answers, dumbly. “Then—yeah. It’s really good. Um. Thanks again for cooking.” 

The tips of Seokjin’s ears are slightly pink. He turns his head to the side, huffing a flustered laugh. “Now you’re all weird about it. God, this is just like the old times. Remember the first time I made you and Yoongi dinner and you wouldn’t stop thanking me?” 

Namjoon feels the back of his own neck heats up at the recollection. It had been just a few months after they started hanging out, and Seokjin had been appalled after learning Namjoon and Yoongi survived on nothing but ramyeon and cheap noodles—to be fair, it wasn’t like they had any capacity to cook for themselves in a shared gang dorm living situation, but of course they couldn’t tell Seokjin that. They shouldn’t have been hanging around a clueless civilian like him in the first place, but it just felt too... comfortable. Liberating. Easy, like finally being able to breath after being underwater for so long.

“It’s just no one had ever cooked for me before that.” Namjoon mumbles, taken hold, too, by the strange shyness that seems to be hovering between them.

“Yeah,” Seokjin says, “I know.” And there is the softness again—a gentle undulation in Seokjin's eyes before it settles back down almost self-consciously. The nape of Namjoon’s neck burns.

The rest of the meal passes in a blur. Seokjin recounts a ridiculous story from work, getting Namjoon to smile a few times around mouthfuls of food, but it doesn’t change the way the air feels charged around them, pregnant with something waiting to be said, making nerves thrumming under Namjoon’s skin. 

It only makes him stall more, the anxious noise in his mind too loud for him to think clearly. He’s still stuck as he follows Seokjin on autopilot, helps Seokjin bring plates and utensils back to the kitchen, put leftovers in the fridge. He eventually finds himself standing by the sink next to Seokjin, taking clean dishes from him and laying them on the drying rack. It’s a pretty mindless task, and Namjoon catches himself studying Seokjin’s profile, the familiar shape of his nose and shoulders and slightly crooked fingers, the way his favorite pink hoodie hugs his body loosely, making him look soft, touchable. The heaviness in Namjoon’s chest gets a little suffocating.

How is he supposed to say goodbye like this?

Seokjin rinses off the last plate, turns off the faucet, passes it to Namjoon. Namjoon puts it on the rack, hands falling to rest on the countertop after he’s done. The sudden stillness makes him feel out of place, restless, and he glances sideways—surprised, to find Seokjin’s gaze lingering on him. Their eyes meet, and for a second it’s just the two of them and this stilted silence. Seokjin’s Adam’s apple bobs, and—

Bang! 

A loud popping sound echoes through the room. It happens in an instant, but Namjoon’s body is moving before his mind can grasp what’s going on. When he blinks again, he realizes with a start that everything seems calm—no gunmen, no bombs, no danger. Only that the kitchen has fallen dark, now dimly illuminated by the light coming from the dining space. 

And he has an arm around Seokjin, drawing Seokjin close to him and essentially blocking Seokjin protectively with his entire torso. 

Now that he’s not half a second away from a fight or flight response, Namjoon can sense the quietness in the room. The faint, persistent buzzing of the fluorescent light nowhere to be heard.

“The light bulb.” Seokjin says, sounding just the tiniest bit of breathy as he stares up at Namjoon, their slight height difference somehow more pronounced close up. “I thought it’d probably go off soon.”

“Right. The light bulb.” Namjoon exhales. Tries hard to stomp down the residual shakiness in his voice. He takes a step back, but the distance still feels too close. Too revealing. “Uh, guess I just got surprised. Sorry.” 

Seokjin doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t step back, crack a joke, make fun of Namjoon like he usually likes to. His expression is unreadable. Namjoon’s heart thumps in his chest.

Seokjin licks his lips, straightening up like something has settled in him. “Namjoon?” He says. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Oh. Okay,” Namjoon says, because what else is he supposed to say to that? Wow, what a coincidence, I have something to tell you too that will probably change how you see me forever? His mind is already a mess, but there’s a gravity to Seokjin’s demeanor that makes it worse.

Seokjin clears his throat. “So, uh, I don’t know if you—ah, you know what, doesn’t matter. I just wanted to tell you, since...” He trails off, thumb rubbing at the back of his hand. His voice sounds thinner than usual, lonely in the darkness that envelopes the room.

“What’s going on?” Namjoon asks, concern overriding everything else, “are you okay?” 

Seokjin closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. ”Oh, fuck it.” Namjoon hears him mutter under his breath, and then—

The world screeches to a halt. Namjoon stands there, frozen, as he tries to take in what’s happening—tries to process the feeling of soft lips pressed against his. 

But it’s gone before he can even think. Seokjin draws back, cautious—too fast, too far. His eyes shine quietly in the dark, the shimmering of moonlight on a rocking ocean at night. A flush sits high on his cheeks, evident even in the shadows.

Namjoon raises his hand slowly, pressing the back of it to his lips. It’s so warm—his hand, lips, cheeks, the air. Everything tingles and burns.

“So. Yeah. There it is.” Seokjin says, attempting to shrug, which just looks like a nervous jerk of his shoulders.

“Wh—how—” Namjoon coughs, stutters. “Hyung, what—what are you saying?” 

Seokjin looks at him, exasperated like it’s a stupid question—and it is. There’s a part of Namjoon that understood it all the moment Seokjin’s lips touched his. The possibility of confessing may have never crossed his mind, but he’s not totally oblivious. The lingering gazes, the touches, the late night calls, the laughter, the crinkle of Seokjin’s eyes and the way they glint when they’re together—it can’t all just have been in his head.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t prepare him for the shock that comes with Seokjin opening his mouth and offering, quietly: “I’m in love with you.”

Neither of them moves, and nothing makes a sound. Seokjin just stands there, chest rising and falling, eyes fluttering shut in—not quite resignation, but—surrender. Baring his heart to Namjoon and let Namjoon do whatever he wants with it. The shock morphs into something else. Something sharp and scorching, a knife to Namjoon's windpipe. 

There’s nothing he can say. His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth with everything waiting to be unloaded, but he can’t. He can’t bring himself to part the lips Seokjin has just kissed and tell Seokjin all the horrible things he has done, or how the kiss made him feel, how Seokjin’s feelings are more than reciprocated, because Seokjin doesn’t know. He fell in love with the Namjoon who shows up at his birthday party and picks him up from bars at midnight, not the real Namjoon who has had to wash another person’s blood off his hands. And anyway, how cruel is it, to give Seokjin his words of love and promise when he could very well be dead the next day?

The silence stretches on, into something almost unbearable. Namjoon chances a look at Seokjin, who doesn’t avert his gaze despite the obvious tension in his posture. His face looks just this side of terrified. Namjoon’s heart breaks like it’s dropped, shattered on the ground all over.

“Fuck, I—” He croaks out, the words cutting through his mouth like shards of glass. “I’m sorry, hyung.”

He can’t do this. Forcing those words out of his mouth already feels like pulling off his own limb, and he can’t bear watching Seokjin’s expression or hearing the inevitable “it’s okay”. It will break him and his already crumbling resolution. “I’m so sorry, I—” He rasps before Seokjin could say anything, breaths coming out shallow. “I need to go.”

It’s out of pure survival instinct that he’s able to scamper out of the apartment on shaky footsteps, not looking back once. He runs until it feels like his lungs are on fire. He’s on the sidewalk, panting, hands on his knees, when it occurs to him.

He had left his jacket in Seokjin's apartment.

Namjoon groans, pushes himself up only to slump against the wall, letting his head fall back with a thud. It’s unthinkable to go back and face Seokjin now, but it’s worse to leave a loaded gun in his dining room.

He’s standing in front of the door to Seokjin’s apartment again twenty minutes later, after half a dozen unsent texts and unmade calls. He takes in a breath, trying to quell the churning in his stomach. If he’s going to be a coward, then he can at least go through with it. The doorbell rings, and—nothing.

“Hyung?” He calls out, hoarse, hanging his head in shame. “Are you there? I—I left something.”

Still nothing. Maybe Seokjin doesn’t want to talk to him, which is the last thing Namjoon can blame him for right now. But—fuck, the gun. He thinks about Seokjin feeling up the jacket and taking out the gun, and has to swallow back the bile that threatens to come up.

“Please, can I—? I just need to get my jacket.” He presses his forehead against the cold surface of the door, voice cracking weakly. God, he sounds pathetic even to his own ears.

Silence. Not even a single sound coming from the other side of the door. Did Seokjin leave? Did he lock himself in his room? Namjoon looks down, at the keypad that’s on the door lock. Seokjin had given him the door code a while ago, although he had never had a reason to use it.

He thought he was mostly just feeling numb at this point, but his hand is shaking so much as he enters the numbers that he has to try a few times before getting it correct. The door unlocks with a buzz, and he slowly pushes it open, poking his head in.

“Hyung? Seokjin?” He checks again, but no one answers. He walks in cautiously, keeping his steps light as he makes his way to the dining room. It’s empty there as well, just one sole celling light left on. It casts down on the table that they had just had dinner on, now empty, aside from… 

Aside from his jacket, folded neatly and sitting on the side of the table that had been Namjoon’s just now.

Namjoon is barely aware of his legs carrying him over to the table. He reaches out, touches the smoothed out fabric and feels the hard edges of the barrel. There’s no way someone could take the piece of clothing and fold it without realizing what’s inside.

He stands there, for god knows how long, until all that’s left in his head is white noise. He thinks about the way Seokjin always knows when not to ask questions, when to act like Namjoon isn’t disappearing to god knows where in the strangest of times.

He picks up the jacket, puts it on, and leaves. 

In the elevator, he waits until the door closes before giving in to his burning eyes, his throat closing up. Breathing gets difficult as tears roll down like they are squeezed out of him, and his body quivers with effort as he bites off a sob that feels like it’s being torn out of his chest. 

The elevator dings, reaching ground floor all too soon. He haphazardly wipes at his face, and pulls out his phone.

JK
8:09pm
hyung u still coming over?

8:12pm
Yeah. On my way.

***

It’s over.

Namjoon looks up from where he’s on the ground, his back against the coarse concrete wall. The night sky is a diluted mix of black and grey, heavy rain clouds only just beginning to disperse after a sudden downpour. The wetness of the asphalt is steadily seeping into his pants that's already drenched in blood. It’s cold, so cold that he can barely feel his limbs, barely keep his eyes open. But it’s over.

The leader of their old gang is dead, and his right hand man fatally wounded—for a gang whose power is so centralized, that’s enough to make it all fall apart. Now it will be easy for them to step in, take over, and set a new order. It won’t be sunshine and rainbows, but it will be better than forcing stray teens to fight and kill in exchange for food and shelter.

The cold and dizziness get worse. He presses down on the gaping wound on his side, but his hand is slippery with all the blood and he just doesn’t have the strength anymore. It’s okay, though. He had seen Yoongi ushering Jungkook, Jimin and Taehyung away amidst the chaos, into a car that would take them somewhere safe, and that’s all that matters. He won’t be able to see through the loose ends being tied up, but he trusts Yoongi and Jaehyuk will handle it well. 

The police should be here soon. For now, it’s eerily quiet. Just the faint sound of water dripping, his own ragged, shallow breathing, and—a set of footsteps. Closer and closer.

Is someone here still alive? An underling, loyal to the very end, sneaking back to make sure of his death? A—

“Namjoon?” 

He blinks, with great effort, but his view is too blurry. Someone is crouching down in front of him, leaning in. To finish him off? No, wait—

“Oh, fuck. Namjoonie—Can you hear me?”

He blinks again, until the person’s face gradually comes into focus.

“…Jin-hyung?” He rasps out. Talking feels impossible right now. “What… Am I in heaven?” 

Seokjin laughs, a short, wet, hysterical sound that’s not like a laugh at all. “No. You’re not dead, and it’s gonna stay that way.” A hand comes up to join his hand, pressing down on the bleeding wound. It should hurt like hell, but he’s mostly just feeling very floaty now. Everything seems surreal, even his own thoughts, but the weight of Seokjin’s hand is too solid to dismiss.

“But you… You can’t be here. ’s dangerous…” 

“It’s fine, Yoongi’s with me, he’s just one step behind. There’re only dead gangsters here anyway. The point is—help is on the way, so you gotta stay awake, okay?” Seokjin whispers, voice like it’s trying to hold steadfast in a raging storm—shaky with an almost frantic undertone. 

Namjoon wants to nod, but he doesn’t want to give out promises he can’t keep. It feels like his consciousness is slipping away by the second. “You knew all along, didn’t you?” He murmurs instead.

“Shh, stop talking.” Seokjin says, his other hand coming up to cup the back of Namjoon’s neck. There’s something in the way he speaks, a halting, nasal quality that finally sinks in on Namjoon after a few long seconds. He looks at Seokjin’s face and only just now sees the wetness, the telling shine in his eyes. His heart gives a weak thump.

“Hyung, you…” He tries, but doesn’t get to finish when Seokjin cuts him off, readily responding to something entirely different than what Namjoon was going to say.

“I know, okay? I know I’m just an outsider and you don’t want me involved. And I thought I could… you know. Do that. Say goodbye and just… let you be. But, fuck, Namjoon, I couldn’t. I was lying in bed and the image of you bleeding out in some back alley just… I had to call Yoongi and tell him everything and bully him into taking me here with him. And then… here you are. Exactly like my worst nightmare.” 

Seokjin makes that bitter, not-laugh sound again, and looks down. His bangs fall in front of his face, covering his eyes. A stray tear slithers down, hangs precariously on the tip of his nose. Namjoon wants to wipe it away, but his arm won’t budge no matter how hard he tries to raise it. So he just directs all his remaining strength into leaning forward, tipping his head and—kisses Seokjin.

It’s neither romantic nor refined; he has no finer motor control in this state, so his mouth just crashes into Seokjin’s unceremoniously, and the kiss itself tastes like blood, sweat and tears. But it feels right, like puzzle pieces sliding into place, a long lost place finally found.

Seokjin places a gentle yet trembling hand on his chest and pushes him back. He blinks at Namjoon, a little owlishly. It should be funny paired with the drying tear tracks on his face, but he just looks breathtaking. The most beautiful person Namjoon has ever seen.

“I... what are you doing?” Seokjin breathes, hand clenching softly on the front of Namjoon’s shirt like he’s scared Namjoon will disappear. Namjoon just feels light; lighter than he has been in a long, long time. It’s as if everything that has been plaguing him is stripped away in this moment, and the only thing he can sense is Seokjin’s eyes on him, amazed and afraid. It makes the words come incredibly easy. “Hyung,” he says, “I’m in love with you too. I love you.” 

Seokjin’s grip on his shirt tightens. Namjoon wants to see his expression, but his eyelids are too heavy. It’s like the admission has taken the last silver of strength left in him and his consciousness starts to slip through his loosening hold. His eyes are falling shut before he can stop it, the all-consuming fatigue rising up to overtake him.

“Wait, no, Namjoon—” A hand cups his cheek, shaky and urgent, but tender all the same. More footsteps are coming their way that he has no energy to identify anymore. “Don’t close you eyes. Stay with me, please.”

“Sorry,” he slurs, and the last thing he feels is Seokjin’s warm breath on his face before darkness submerges him.

***

When Namjoon wakes up, someone’s in his arms.

He slowly blinks awake, mind sluggish like coming out of a hibernation. It’s dark; no sound except for the steady hum of machines. A dull pain gradually cuts through the hazy fog in his brain, pressing weightily on his sore body. He tries to turn, then hisses at the way the pain flares up. 

The figure next to him stirs, breath stuttering as they're pulled out of their sleep before their eyes snap open and Namjoon catches a glimpse of their face. 

“…Hyung?” 

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I just—” Seokjin scrambles to push himself up, immediately moving to slide off the bed. Namjoon reaches out in a rush and grabs onto his hand—his joints feel like they are been rusted up forever and it hurts to move, but he manages. 

“Stay?” He gets out despite how parched his throat is. It sounds too much like pleading, but Namjoon finds little left in him to care. 

Seokjin looks at him then, pausing for a long second before slowly lying back down. He hesitates, and tentatively turns his hand that’s still in Namjoon’s, intertwining their fingers. “This okay?” 

It brings a warm, thawing sensation to his still half-numb digits. “Yeah,” he breathes, turns onto his side so he can get closer to Seokjin, but as soon as he does, the shooting pain makes him wince hard. 

“Hey, don’t—” Seokjin sits up in alarm, puts his other hand on Namjoon’s chest and pushes him back onto his back. “You’re not supposed to move yet. That doctor guy seemed nice but I'm pretty sure he would kill me if he saw you trying to do that.”

Namjoon stares up at the celling; it’s the familiar one in Hoseok’s clinic. “How long have I been out?”

“A day.” Seokjin’s arm twitches, as if moving to get up again. “How are you feeling? Maybe I should call someone over—” 

“Wait,” he tugs on Seokjin’s hand, “can we just—lie together for a bit?” 

Seokjin stills before his body sags, relaxing into the space next to Namjoon like it’s carved out specifically for him. His arm stays flung over Namjoon’s torso, a half-cuddle that leaves them nestled against each other on the cramped hospital bed. Namjoon's heart beats steadily under where Seokjin’s palm grazes over it, and he feels it must reverberate through Seokjin’s body too.

“You’ve—been here for the past day?”

“Yeah.” Seokjin shifts a little, his leg presses to Namjoon’s over the covers. “Yoongi wanted to stay and watch over you, but I guilt-tripped him into going home to get some sleep. They’re all okay, by the way. Yoongi and Kookie and the other two kids.” 

A tension that Namjoon didn’t realize had been there since he opened his eyes leaves his body at that. “How about you? Did you get any sleep? Is that why you were…” He can’t quite manage to gesture with his head, but the way his gaze falls on the spot Seokjin is lying in is apparently enough. Seokjin clears his throat, clearly embarrassed. 

“I was just gonna nap in that chair over there. But you looked...” His voice gets smaller, “I wanted to stay close.” 

Namjoon thinks about Seokjin staring at his lifeless body by himself for hours, about Seokjin climbing into the bed, careful not to jostle him, pillowing his head on Namjoon’s shoulder and lets his eyes fall closed. “Hyung? I know I’m supposed to stay still,” he says, hoarse with too many things all at once, “so you’ll have to move over and kiss me.” 

Seokjin doesn’t waste any time as he rises up on his elbows, maneuvers around and climbs over Namjoon gingerly in stark contrast to the urgency with which he presses their mouths together. It couldn’t have been very good, with how chapped Namjoon’s lips are and how uncoordinated he still feels. It doesn’t seem like it matters to Seokjin, though, who kisses him like he can’t breathe without it, until Namjoon starts feeling lightheaded again.

Seokjin pulls himself back almost forcibly when Namjoon finally breaks the kiss, lips wet and cheeks pink. “Sorry,” he whispers, “too much?” 

“No. Yes? I don’t know.” Namjoon breathes. He’s probably looking pretty stupid with the glazed over look that must be on his face.

Seokjin snorts. “Okay, I think that’s my cue to get someone to check up on you.” He moves to get up for real this time, despite Namjoon’s reluctant pout and pleading hold on his wrist. 

“Seriously, though,” Namjoon says, in the precious last few seconds he has Seokjin pressed close to him, “I know you said you knew, but… you don’t. Not really. I’ve… I’ve killed people, hyung. I’m not really the person you think I am. I was gonna tell you everything that night but I chickened out, because I don’t know how you would— if you would still—”

“Feel the same way about you?” Seokjin finishes for him, pauses in his track and turns back to lean over Namjoon. “Well, I still want to hear about everything. But that can wait after you’re healed up and out of this bed. Over a date, preferably. I’m expecting to be treated like a prince after what you put me through.” He sees the expression on Namjoon’s face and laughs, soft and fond, a real one. Namjoon wants to kiss him again. He’s getting addicted. “That was a joke. Not the date part, but—what I’m trying to say is, I know you, Namjoonie. Maybe not everything about you, but I know enough. I know you saved Jungkookie and those other kids, and that’s enough for me.” He traces his fingers over the curve of Namjoon’s neck intimately, and Namjoon blinks rapidly to fight the sting in his eyes. 

“I love you,” he whispers instead.

He’s said it once already, but Seokjin’s breath hitches nonetheless. “I love you too,” Seokjin says after a beat, like he’s overwhelmed in a really good way. “I’ll be back soon, okay?” He stops, looking uncertain for the first time of the night. “… Promise me you’ll still be here when I’m back?”

Namjoon thinks about all those times Seokjin would have woken up to find him gone. Thinks about what it must have felt like, being disoriented and in the dark and alone. Thinks about a clear day in the future, where Yoongi would doze off in a folding chair and the kids would be obnoxiously loud not far away, and he would look up from his book to see Seokjin, a hand on his fishing rod, turning to meet his eyes and give him a quiet, private smile.

“Yeah. I promise.” He answers, and means it.