Archive of Our Own ^beta

“It’s okay,” Yoongi nods to himself. “We’ll talk to her as soon as we get there, clear this up, and she’ll understand.”

Namjoon wisely refrains from commenting on how this is the third time Yoongi has mumbled those same words in the past hour. It’s unclear whether he’s trying to reassure Namjoon or himself, especially with Yoongi’s foot tapping a steady one-two, one-two-three-four beat on the floor of the metro carriage they’re sitting in. If this were any other day, Namjoon would put a hand over his knee to make him stop before the middle-aged man in a suit in the next row who’s been staring at them actually tries to engage in physical violence.

“Of course,” he replies instead, keeping his voice even. It’s his fault Yoongi has ended up involved in the whole mess. He has no right to feel any particular way about Yoongi’s apparent discomfort, which is why the way he feels about it all is as calm and serene as a placid lake.

“Misunderstandings happen.” Yoongi nods again, and Namjoon keeps his mouth shut.

The thing is—the thing is that Namjoon knows he messed up. He’s grown enough to admit it, at the ripe old age of twenty-four, and it takes way less effort to do so now than it did when he was at the beginning of university, or when he was a too-angry teenager.

That doesn’t make it any less embarrassing. When he’d closed the call with his mother the week before, he’d had to fight off a full-body cringe before turning to where Yoongi was making dinner in their shared kitchen, and starting what had the potential to be one of the most awkward conversations they’d ever shared. (Worse than the one they’d had after they’d both ended up bringing home hook-ups that were just a bit too loud, and that sure was a day Namjoon won’t forget any time soon.)

To his credit, Yoongi had taken the situation more or less in stride. He’d listened to Namjoon’s rambling explanation, and his stuttering retelling of the phone call with his mother that had taken Namjoon completely off-guard. He’d sat down at the kitchen table halfway through, without interrupting him.

At the end, he’d leaned back on the chair, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and told Namjoon that it wasn’t anything an honest conversation couldn’t fix. In the face of such solid conviction, bathed in their shitty yellow kitchen lighting, Namjoon relaxed enough for a sigh of relief to travel up from the bottom of his lungs and out of his mouth.

An honest conversation. That he could do.

They could do, actually, because Yoongi was supposed to come with him to dinner the next weekend anyway, even before his mom had called to discuss the new circumstances—and after the call, well. Now he had to be there to help Namjoon out of the grave he’d dug himself.

The metro doors open with a soft ding , and Yoongi interrupts his fidgeting for a short moment.

“One more stop,” he comments out loud. Namjoon leans back on his seat.

Walking out of the metro and into the streets of Ilsan takes them a few minutes of awkward fake silence, the kind you can only feel when you’re not talking to the only person you know in the middle of a noisy crowd. Namjoon had picked up Yoongi’s backpack for him just before their stop, and Yoongi had said thanks, and they haven’t spoken a single word to each other since.

Namjoon doesn’t even have the excuse of giving directions; Yoongi knows perfectly well where his house is, and they still don’t speak as they walk the few blocks that separates them from Namjoon’s childhood home, only stopping when they’re right in front of the entrance.

“It’s gonna be alright.” Yoongi bumps his shoulder to Namjoon’s, voice low and comforting. He sounds more settled than he had on the metro—probably because there’s no way he hasn’t noticed the way Namjoon is fiddling with the string of his hoodie, and he never misses a chance to put aside his own nerves to comfort someone else. But he’s right. It’s going to be fine. Namjoon’s mom will understand.

The door swings open right as Namjoon touches the doorbell, and he startles enough to lean back as his mother holds the front door open with the same slightly manic grin Namjoon has seen on his own face after an all-nighter.

“…Hi,“ Namjoon begins, and then the air gets punched out of him as his mother pulls him down into a hug.

“Hi, dear,” she says from where she’s hooked her chin over his shoulder, and he relaxes into her embrace with a smile despite it all, trying not to think about how every time he sees her it feels like he’s grown too much, or she’s somehow become smaller.

“Hi, mom,” he says again, and she pulls back to poke his forehead.

“I was talking to Yoongi,” she replies, and he lets out an overexaggerated gasp of indignation right as Yoongi snorts. When he turns to meet Yoongi’s eyes, Yoongi is raising his eyebrows at him, and Namjoon isn’t above petty retaliation such as discreetly giving him the finger behind his mom’s head.

“Hi, Auntie Sunyeong.” Yoongi ignores him, gummy smile turning bashful as she steps closer to him, one of her arms still around Namjoon’s waist bringing all three of them closer together.

“Look at you—look at your hair! You look so handsome! Namjoon, doesn’t he look so handsome?” she asks, gently touching the end of Yoongi’s hair that’s resting against the neckline of his sweater, and—there it is. If Namjoon didn’t know him so well, he never would have caught the way Yoongi’s smile freezes on his face for a fraction of a second.

“He—he does,” Namjoon agrees, because it’s true, and because he’s a little bit of an idiot. When he meets Yoongi’s eyes again, they’re wide and just the slightest bit panicked and they glance down at his mother with increasing alarm. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you—“

“Oh, we can talk all you want later—have you eaten? Come in, come in! Did I tell you your auntie is here too? She brought your grandfather along, you know how he is, he can’t sit still for more than a second, he’s helping your dad out in the garden right now—“

The whirlwind of words coming out of his mother’s mouth carries them both over the threshold and into the Kim family home, and before Namjoon knows it they’re sitting down in the kitchen and being given a handful of tangerines as Namjoon’s mom peeks out of the window and points out the two man standing out there surveilling the pots of flowers with their hands on their hips.

“Your father has become an old man as well,” she snorts, pulling back the curtain a little bit further so that Namjoon and Yoongi can see them better. “Look at them, they’re standing the same way.”

“Reminds me of someone,” Namjoon can’t help but mumble, just loud enough so that Yoongi hears him. It has the intended effect of making Yoongi elbow him in the side, a bit of the edge he’d had around his eyes ever since they rang the doorbell disappearing.

“He’s probably talking his ear off about the bird houses he wants to build. I’m not looking forward to him losing a hand trying,” his mother sighs, and Namjoon snorts. “I’ll ask your grandpa if he wants to help him out.”

“Your grandpa does carpentry?” Yoongi asks, voice soft, and Namjoon’s mom turns to face them again with a smile.

“He built a lot of the furniture in the house, actually. The cabinet in the hallway, and Namjoon’s bedframe—and some other pieces, too. He started as a hobby once he retired, and he’s kept it up ever since,” she explains, and Yoongi’s eyes light up in interest. Namjoon already knows Yoongi is going to expect a tour of all the handmade furniture in the house, just so he can ooh and aah and hum at the craftsmanship and overexplain to Namjoon the intricacies of woodworking in that excited way he gets where he starts to ramble and his voice rises in tone and he smiles, cheeks flushed—

“My favorite nephew!”

Namjoon’s trail of thought screeches to a halt as soon as his aunt walks into the room, arms spread out and clearly expecting him to give her a hug hello. He’s glad to do so—both because he’s genuinely missed her and because her intervention kept his brain from going down a trail of thought he’s been carefully trying to avoid. She squeezes him hard enough he can feel a few of his ribs crack, and then pats him down like she’s trying to make sure he’s still solid.

“Our Namjoon-ah gets taller every time I see him! How are you still growing?”

Namjoon looks down at where her manicured hands are smoothing down his hoodie with a laugh, relaxing in the face of her sunny smile. She looks so much like his mother, and the resemblance has always been comforting. It’s easy to smile back at her before realizing his grandfather is close behind her, quietly waiting for her to be done cooing over him to say hello.

“Hi, harabeoji,“ Namjoon says, and his grandpa gives him a little pat on the cheek as hello.

“How long has it been since you last visited?” is the first thing out of his mouth, a teasing curve to his smile telling Namjoon he’s not being too serious. Namjoon still tries to mumble his excuses anyway, and he gives him a second pat with a laugh.

“Kids these days,” he gripes to Namjoon’s father, who’s standing there trying not to laugh. Namjoon can tell when his attention shifts, though—from Namjoon to right behind him, where Yoongi is probably standing there quietly waiting to be introduced.

His auntie is staring at Yoongi already, smile still on her face, because of course she is. Namjoon turns around, his grandfather’s hand still on his shoulder, and he meets his mother’s eyes as he clears his throat. She looks—expectant, which isn’t a great sign.

“Hello,“ Yoongi says, with a polite bow, and takes a step forward that puts him side by side with Namjoon, shoulder brushing against the fabric of Namjoon’s hoodie. “Thank you for having me here.“

“This—this is Yoongi,“ Namjoon manages to get out, holding his mother’s gaze for a few seconds as he tries not to grimace at the way her eyes widen a little at his hesitation. He’s about to add something very stupid, like we live together or I can’t believe you hadn’t met him yet, he comes over for dinner pretty often, but his aunt beats him to the punch.

“We can finally put a face to the name!" she exclaims, smiling widely as she looks between him and Yoongi. “I’m Eunkyung. My sister has told us so much about you!“

“Good things only, I hope,” Yoongi replies, perfectly on script with his reply, and Namjoon has first row seats to the eyebrow waggle his aunt sends his way.

“Great things, actually! Almost nothing about how handsome you are, though, which is a shame. Namjoon-ah, are all your friends this good-looking?” she asks, with another eyebrow waggle and a special emphasis on the word friends that Namjoon’s heart misses a beat at.

Well, fuck.

“He hires us from a modeling agency,“ Yoongi stage-whispers, deadpan, and his aunt stage-gasps and lets out a dramatic I knew it! that makes Yoongi break out into a snort. She manages to stay serious for another full second before she can’t hold in her giggle anymore, and steps aside to leave room for Namjoon’s grandfather to introduce himself.

“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Yoongi says again, perfectly polite, and Namjoon’s grandpa smiles at him with a nod.

Did Yoongi not catch the weird atmosphere in the air? Has Namjoon’s mother already told his aunt and grandpa about—

“Good to meet you too,” his grandfather replies, and something in Namjoon’s stomach clenches at the smile on his face. “Sanghoon was telling me you were the one who helped out with putting together their library the last time you were here?“

“Oh, yeah—yes, I did,“ Yoongi replies, curling a strand of hair behind his left ear and giving a nervous tug to the silver hoops on his lobe. “It was no big deal, I just helped out.”

“It was a big deal,“ Namjoon’s mom replies. “ These two ,“ she points at Namjoon and her husband, “Somehow managed to lose the instructions and we were left with a pile of screws and nowhere to put them. Yoongi was kind enough to help us figure it out.”

“It really wasn’t much,“ Yoongi tries to add, but he’s in shit luck. No matter the situation they’re in, there’s no way Namjoon will ever let anyone downplay everything Yoongi does—including Yoongi himself. He’s just gonna have to deal.

“Hyung can build everything,“ he interrupts him, one of his hands finding his way on Yoongi’s shoulders. When his grandfather turns to face him, he almost feels like he’s watching himself from outside his body, wondering what it looks like to others when he stands like that with a hand on Yoongi’s back and a smile on his face. “He put together all the furniture in our apartment, too.“

The look Namjoon’s aunt gives them when he’s done talking is so endeared it accidentally brings him down to Earth again. Somewhere in the middle of his sentence—or maybe before he’d started talking—Yoongi has frozen, too, shoulders tight under Namjoon’s palm.

That answers his question, though. Yoongi has definitely noticed.

“I—I had the instructions for those. But—“ Yoongi manages to get out, only stumbling on the first part. “But they told me you made some of the furniture in the house? The cabinet at the entrance is really gorgeous.”

“Yoongi is really into carpentry, too,“ Namjoon adds, because apparently today he can’t keep his mouth shut.

“I haven’t made anything as complicated as actual furniture,“ Yoongi is quick to explain. “But I’d like to, at some point. Maybe if we had a bigger place,” he adds, almost absent-mindedly, but the shifting of muscle under Namjoon’s hand tells a different story.

“You two will have to keep that in mind when you're looking for your next place!" Namjoon’s aunt says, patting Namjoon on the shoulder. "I'd imagine you won't want to stay in your student apartment once you're earning a full salary. Maybe you can find something close to the city center."

“Maybe,“ Yoongi agrees, before Namjoon can open his mouth, and he almost doesn’t catch the way Yoongi’s gaze flicks up to meet his eyes for a fraction of a second. When Namjoon looks away from him again, he meets his mother’s eyes instead, her eyebrows high on her forehead as she looks between the two of them.

“Dad,“ she says, and Namjoon’s blood runs cold. “Why don’t you go show Yoongi the furniture you’ve made? Sanghoon, show him around, come on,“ she adds, shooing Namjoon’s father and grandpa out of the kitchen with little fanfare and even less subtlety. Yoongi can’t do much but follow, throwing one last look at Namjoon that spells out this is a problem before he disappears outside the kitchen, Namjoon’s aunt in tow.

(She pokes her head back in just to mouth oh, he really is so handsome, good job at him, like Yoongi’s attractiveness is somehow Namjoon’s accomplishment. He manages a weak laugh before she disappears, which he’ll take as a win.)

When Namjoon turns back towards his mother, he finds her sitting down at their kitchen table, gesturing at him to sit as well with a nod of her head and a soft smile on her face.

“I guessed you might want this back,” she tells him, pulling out a very familiar notebook from one of the pockets of her cardigan. It’s small enough Namjoon hadn’t noticed she’d had it on her all along, and she slides it over the table as he obeys and sits across from her, barely resisting the urge to snatch it and hide it away as soon as it’s in his reach.

“Oh,” he says, very eloquently, and the soft smile she had on her face dims slightly.

“I really didn’t mean to see it, honey,” she begins, hands reaching out to cover one of Namjoon’s. “The paper slipped out when I picked it up and I opened it without thinking. I’m just—glad to see you happy, you know that, right?”

Namjoon’s free hand flips the notebook open, and there it is, corners slightly bent, double sided, printed out and underlined in pen, with little notes on the margins in a handwriting crappy enough to be anyone’s.

A love letter.

When Namjoon had gotten the assignment for the creative writing class he’d started taking every Thursday, now that his thesis was done and he had all the free time in the world before officially graduating, he’d grimaced from his spot in the third-to-last row where he’d been sitting.

A love letter to yourself, from someone who loves you. Actually, truly is in love with you, platonic or romantic—it can be big and dramatic, or as cloyingly sweet as you can make it. I wanna see feelings, and I wanna see each and every one of you reflected in them, because you need to know your characters before you write them, and you know yourself better than anyone else. I’m not going to give you a grade, the professor had added, to everyone’s palpable relief. But if you can get past the embarrassment of writing something like this, you’ll be able to loosen up enough to write everything else.

Namjoon had raised his eyebrows at the sixty year old, no-nonsense professor teaching his creative writing class giving them an assignment that sounded more like therapy homework—five things you like about yourself, ten things you’re good at—until the day after, when he’d actually sat down at his laptop and tried to write.

Dear Namjoon , he’d started. And stared at the screen. And then stared some more.

When Yoongi had gotten back from work that evening, he’d found Namjoon sitting at the same spot on the couch where he’d left him after lunch, his laptop balanced on his knees in front of him and a still blank word document.

“I see you’ve made lots of progress,” he’d commented, deadpan, kicking off his shoes at the entrance before joining him on the couch and letting himself fall down on the cushions with an oomph.

“I hate how right she was,“ Namjoon had groaned. “I was expecting to cringe a little while writing it. I wasn’t expecting not to be able to even start.”

“Maybe you just need to figure out the angle first. Like,” Yoongi had mumbled, waving one hand in the air. “Who is it going to be from? If it can be platonic or romantic, it could be from your sister, or your mother, or a friend.”

“I already know what my sister would say,” Namjoon had replied with a snort, and Yoongi had let out a questioning hum from where he’d been trying to become one with the couch. “ Fuck you, oppa, for making me do the laundry for you that one time five years ago. Love, Kyungmin— ”

Yoongi had burst out laughing in that way of his where he almost made no sound, and Namjoon had tried not to stare at the line of his throat.

“She sure can hold a grudge,” Namjoon had kept going, and Yoongi had let out another snort as he poked him in his side as if to say look who’s talking. “So no sister. The friend idea is definitely better.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi had agreed through a yawn. “So there’s no added pressure of romantic stuff.”

“Would you write me a letter, hyung?” Namjoon had to ask, slowly tipping sideways to rest all his weight against Yoongi’s shoulder, who had braced himself with a sigh.

“I don’t think you deserve one right now,” Yoongi had mumbled, and made absolutely no effort to move either of them.

“Harsh,” Namjoon nodded. “But fair. You’d probably write about how I need to stop leaving my books around, or not walk out of the bathroom before drying myself off after showering—”

“It really is a horrible habit. I don’t wanna step onto wet footprints while I’m wearing socks, Namjoon-ah,” Yoongi had replied automatically, and Namjoon burst out laughing.

“See? I can’t work with this material. I’d have better luck with my sister,” Namjoon had straightened himself up, fighting off a yawn of his own. “I don’t even know what kind of material I do have.”

He’d been expecting Yoongi to snort again, and maybe tell him to stop fishing for compliments.

Yoongi had frowned, instead.

“You have a lot you could write about,” he’d replied, decisive, and Namjoon had turned to stare at the way Yoongi’s eyes were fixed on Namjoon’s hands on the laptop keyboard. “You have a lot of great qualities, and isn’t that kind of the point? You have to know yourself well enough to write something convincing.”

Namjoon had stared some more, until Yoongi had felt the weight of his eyes on him and met his gaze, just for a moment.

“So you are going to write me a letter,” Namjoon had tried joking, and Yoongi had rolled his eyes at him with a smile after a beat.

“I’m not the one with the assignment,” he’d replied, getting off the couch, and Namjoon had groaned again, the sound following Yoongi all the way to their shared kitchen, and that had been it.

Later that night, way past his usual bedtime, Namjoon had his laptop balanced on his knees while sitting up in bed, thinking about Yoongi’s face when he’d said you have a lot you could write about .

What would Yoongi write about, if he had to write about me, Namjoon had wondered, and before he knew it his fingers were flying above the keyboard, words falling out one after the other, and somewhere along the line, without him realizing, it had turned into what would I want Yoongi to write about, if he had to write about me.

A few hours later the sun was peeking out from behind the horizon, and Namjoon had a full letter he didn’t hate, and he’d put his laptop on his desk before falling asleep until lunchtime the next morning.

In a fit of what he now considers to be sleep-deprived madness, Namjoon had had the brilliant idea of printing the letter out, and bringing it with him on the metro ride to his parents’ house to have lunch with them, and adding things in black pen to make it flow better while waiting for his stop, and then rereading it again, and stupidly, impulsively—signing it yours, Yoongi.

He hadn’t signed it on his laptop. What had come out of his brain in the late hours had felt too self-indulgent and cheesy and way, way past platonic and even if he’d started writing it with Yoongi in mind it didn’t mean he was still thinking about it as he’d finished it—or at least that’s what he’d told himself before falling asleep.

Rereading it on the train had made it click for him, the same way the sun shines through train windows—blinding and fast like the light has got somewhere to be, leaving you blinking spots out of your vision. He hadn’t suddenly found enough inspiration to veer off his initial idea of a letter from a friend for no reason. He’d written—he’d written everything he wished Yoongi would feel for him.

Namjoon had known, intellectually, how attractive Yoongi was for years. If he had to be honest with himself, he’d had a bit of a crush when they’d first started rooming together, because Yoongi had been cool and intimidating and surprisingly kind, and as the years passed he’d thought his crush had simply waned into the kind of easy affection that made warmth curl in his chest whenever the two of them spent time together.

He’d been a fool.

The drop of his stomach down to the center of the Earth had coincided perfectly with the subway rolling to a stop. He hadn’t even had the time to process any of it, his entire body running cold as he got up on autopilot to join the crowd of people stepping out, and soon he’d found himself on his way to his parent’s house, dazed enough he’s sure his mom had assumed he’d been hungover.

He doesn’t remember folding the letter and placing it inside the cover of the notebook and inside his jacket pocket, or pulling the notebook out at any point—he does remember bending down to give Moni one last head pat before leaving, though, and thinking nothing of it until he'd patted down his jacket once he got back home and realized he'd lost his notebook somewhere.

His mother had called him the next day.

“I really am sorry,” she repeats, right now in front of him, and Namjoon shakes his head—both to reassure her and to try and forget the way her voice had almost cracked at the end when she’d told him on the phone she really hadn’t meant to read it in full —it really was a beautiful letter, sweetheart. I’m so happy to see you be loved the way you deserve. I did suspect something, but—nevermind. I’m so happy Yoongi is coming along with you next weekend. So we can meet him officially, you know. Not just as your friend.

Namjoon had been too busy trying to understand all those words together to try and explain that it had been just a huge, embarrassing misunderstanding—that it wasn’t like that between them,or maybe it was on Namjoon’s side, but not on Yoongi’s, and he’d only realized the extent of his feelings very, very recently, and the letter wasn’t actually a real love letter, and—

In the end, his mother had closed the phone call with an endeared laugh in the face of his stuttering, and Namjoon had resigned himself to having to explain it all in person. Which is the reason why he’s sitting here, in front of her, turning his hand palm up so he can hold hers properly.

“Mom, listen,” he begins, and she looks at him expectantly. “Yoongi and I,” he keeps going, trying not to lose momentum.

“Yoongi and I,” he tries again, and she nods encouragingly, lips pressed together to hold back a smile, and Namjoon internally grimaces at how he’s going to ruin this for her—she thinks he’s found true love . Namjoon doesn’t have the heart to disappoint her, confessing how it was all just a silly misunderstanding, but he has to. For his own sake, and for Yoongi’s sake, who really doesn’t deserve to be dragged into all of this because of Namjoon’s stupidity.

“Yoongi and I,” he goes for it for the third time, looking straight into his mother’s eyes, and his voice wavers. “We’re not—”

“Are you telling her without me?” Yoongi interrupts, and what the fuck.

Namjoon’s head turns towards the door fast enough he gives himself whiplash, mouth agape as he looks at the way Yoongi is leaning against the doorframe, trying to look calm and collected even as he obviously fidgets with his phone.

What the fuck, he tries to communicate with wide eyes, and all he gets back from Yoongi is a go along with it eyebrow twitch he’s learned to interpret after years of cohabitation and stupid shenanigans.

“I—” Namjoon tries to begin, and then doesn’t know how to end the sentence. He just stares, hand twitching in his mother’s hold, and tries to close his mouth as Yoongi takes the open seat next to him and smiles at his mother, easy as breathing, while his knee bounces up and down at a rapid pace under the table.

“We are thinking of looking for a new place together,” Yoongi tells his mother, and then he takes Namjoon’s free hand, and scoots closer on the chair, and their knees knock together.

Namjoon can only stare.

His mom gasps in delighted surprise, straightening up on her chair.

“Oh my—wow! Are you really? It’s definitely time, you’ve been in the same apartment for so long, it’s probably feeling cramped by now, isn’t it?”

Namjoon would love to reply, but none of his higher cognitive processes seem to be online at the moment. All his focus is on Yoongi’s clammy hand holding his, his thumb with horribly bitten cuticles swiping back and forth over Namjoon’s knuckles.

“Yeah, it’s starting to feel a little too small,” Yoongi agrees, and if Namjoon weren’t already aware of his bullshitting skills he’d be ready to give him an award for an outstanding acting performance. “Especially now that Joon is graduating, and he’s already getting job offers.” His expression is just the right mix of boyfriendly pride and bashfulness that Namjoon’s mother coos, endeared, and Yoongi’s lips spread into a smile punctuated by enough glances at Namjoon to pass off as the smitten boyfriend Namjoon knows Yoongi isn’t.

What the fuck.

“I’m—happy you wanted to tell me,” his mother replies, and when she glances down at the notebook, still on the desk, and then at their joined hands, Namjoon can feel Yoongi’s grip tighten for a split second.

“We were waiting for the right moment,” Yoongi mumbles with another smile, and Namjoon watches with increasing horror as his mother’s eyes start to glisten at the corners.

“It’s not really shocking news,” she smiles, blinking fast. “But still,” she adds, glancing down again at their hands, “I could never be anything but happy for you.”

The unspoken meaning between their exchange hangs heavy right above Namjoon’s head, and if this conversation doesn’t stop right now immediately he’s simply gonna have to dig a hole big enough to crawl into and disappear for the rest of time.

Yoongi’s hand squeezes his again, knees knocking under the table just a little harder, and Namjoon regains enough presence of mind to go along with the insanity.

“We still haven’t really started looking,” he stutters, “but we’re going to soon. I’ll tell you if we find something that suits us.”

The us is especially painful to get out, but Namjoon soldiers through, even managing to smile back at his mother when she pats his hand in encouragement, so clearly happy for the both of them.

“Of course, of course you will! Your auntie probably knows a few agencies you could ask to, you know, she could help,” she nods, and Namjoon can only nod back as she gets up to her feet, seemingly unable to stop looking between the two of them with a giddy smile on her face. “She used to work in real estate,” she explains to Yoongi, and he dutifully aah s in response like the picture perfect boyfriend he’s playing the part of.

Namjoon has had enough.

“It’s alright, Mom. We don’t even know what we’re looking for yet,” he says, aiming for neutral and missing it by several kilometers. “I’ll ask Auntie Eunkyung later, I don’t wanna bother her.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t,” his mother replies, right as Namjoon turns towards Yoongi with what he knows is probably an unhinged glint in his eyes.

“Do you wanna go and unpack before lunch?” he asks, hoping his face conveys the real meaning of the question, which is more along the lines of do you wanna get out of here and explain to me what the fuck are you up to?

If Namjoon hadn’t known Yoongi for more than five years, now, he never would have caught the way Yoongi swallows nervously.

“Yeah, sure,” Yoongi agrees, which is great, because Namjoon’s other course of action would have been to just physically drag him out of here.

“We’ll be back to help out before lunch,” he manages to mention to his mother before he all but drags Yoongi out of the kitchen anyway, shoving the notebook on the table inside his hoodie pocket. His mother waves them both away with a “Don’t worry about it!” that echoes down the hallway as they make their way towards Namjoon’s room, and this time he doesn’t have to hide the grimace that contorts his face.

Namjoon only realizes Yoongi had enough brain cells available to actually grab their bags from where they’d left them in the hallway once they’re inside, door clicking closed behind them, and he finds himself having to drop Yoongi’s hand.

“ What the fuck,” are the first three words out of his mouth, because it seems like it’s all his brain is capable of producing at the moment.

“Listen,” Yoongi begins, in the same tone he uses when he’s about to try and convince you that the sky is green or that sporks were actually invented by a Korean physics engineer. (Namjoon has been finely attuned to his specific brand of bullshit for years, now, but just because he usually can spot it from a mile away it doesn’t mean he doesn’t still fall for it on occasion.)

“Listen. Maybe we can keep this —” he says, gesturing between the two of them, “—up for two days. A day and a half,” he tells Namjoon, and Namjoon—Namjoon finds himself in the position of having to play the straight man to various shenanigans quite often, but those shenanigans usually don’t involve him directly, and Yoongi isn’t usually the main instigator.

“Are you on drugs? Did you hit your head—”

“I talked to your grandpa!”

“—did he hit you on the head? Because what the fuck?”

“ Nobody hit me on the head, ” Yoongi cuts him off, putting both hands on Namjoon’s shoulders and looking up at him with furrowed brows. “You grandpa talked to me about woodworking, and then he thanked me for taking care of you and told me I can come visit to see the woodworking station he’s set up in his garage, ” he all but growls, slightly shaking Namjoon. “I cannot disappoint this man now.”

Namjoon stares at him.

“Are you willing to pretend to be my—my significant other I’m planning to move in with because my grandpa told you he’d show you his fucking studio?”

Yoongi’s left eye twitches, despite it being a perfectly reasonable question.

“Didn’t I just say he thanked me —I just,” Yoongi begins, his grip on Namjoon’s shoulders starting to become a little uncomfortable with the way his fingers are digging into Namjoon’s delts. “Listen. Your mom clearly already told them, and she seems to think we’re—we’re together,” he continues, and Namjoon’s brain zeroes in on the hesitation, because he won’t let himself catch a break, ever.

“And she clearly told all of them already. How would you even start explaining  how they got it all wrong—”

“Not by telling them we’re looking for an apartment together!” Namjoon replies, a little (a lot) hysterical. “You were riding down an anxiety spiral all the way here and now you’re alright with this? Is this punishment for me fucking up?”

“It wasn’t an anxiety spiral,” Yoongi replies, because today he’s decided to be difficult on purpose. He’s still looking up at Namjoon, though, eyes wide, which is exceptionally bad for Namjoon’s blood pressure. “And this isn’t a punishment! You didn’t fuck up! We have to stay here another full day! Do you really want to deal with the awkwardness of explaining it all to them?”

“I did fuck up a little,” Namjoon disagrees, because it’s true, and Yoongi shrugs as if to say whatever . “And we definitely can’t tell them now after that scene with mom. Jesus.”

Yoongi’s hands finally leave his shoulders, and he drops them back to his sides without making any effort to move away from Namjoon.

“It’s just—your parents are really kind,” Yoongi mutters, playing with the hairtie around his wrist. “They didn’t even ask any questions, or try to pry too much—it wouldn’t be too hard. I don’t want to disappoint them.”

The happiness in his mother’s voice when she’d mentioned how she was so glad he was loved like that plays like a broken record inside Namjoon’s brain, and he can’t help but grimace again. The thought of hearing it turn into pity, or embarrassment for him, is more than a little devastating—especially because with the way he is, there’s no way he would be able to keep the real reason that the letter was signed yours, Yoongi from her. It would all tumble out of him like an avalanche of complicated feelings and a comedy of errors plot worthy of a B-list romcom without a happy ending.

“Fuck,” Namjoon eloquently sums up his feelings, and Yoongi nods in agreement.

“Yeah,” he replies, still looking up at him. Namjoon sighs, and pinches his nose, squeezing his eyes shut, but he still gestures at Yoongi he might as well sit down on Namjoon’s bed as he lets himself fall backwards on his desk chair.

“You know, this is what you get for being too good at writing,” Yoongi tells him a moment later, once he’s opened his eyes again and blinked spots out of his vision. “Next time, write an acrostic poem or something. Nobody would believe that’s romantic.”

“You haven’t read my acrostic poems,” Namjoon says, watching Yoongi settle cross-legged on the mattress, because there’s a corner of his brain that’s dedicated to bickering with Yoongi and it’s stuck permanently firing on all cylinders.

“I haven’t read your letter either,” Yoongi shoots back, eyebrows raised, as if he’s expecting Namjoon to just hand it over like that. “Was your ode to friendship really that intense? Because she really seemed convinced it couldn’t be anything but a love letter.”

(Namjoon hadn’t had the backbone to tell Yoongi the truth when he’d been explaining the situation to him. He’d kept it vague enough that Yoongi had assumed Namjoon’s mother had just mistaken easy platonic affection for romantic intent and ran with it. Namjoon had expected to be able to explain it to her, eventually, but here they are.)

“Ha,” Namjoon answers, because it’s easier than saying it wasn’t an ode to friendship, because I accidentally used it as proxy for my own romantic feelings, and you will never read it because I would need to leave the country immediately afterwards—and then cuts Yoongi off when it looks like he’s about to reply. “Maybe I’ll let you see it later.”

Yoongi hums, like he’s planning to hold Namjoon to it, which is kind of terrifying, and then he stares at him, leaning back on his hands on the mattress.

“So we’re doing this?”

Namjoon blinks at the image in front of him—Yoongi leaning back on his bed, looking up at him through his lashes—and swallows nervously. He used to be made of stronger stuff than this.

“Yeah,” he replies, feeling the back of his neck prickle with dread. The notebook with his letter in the pocket of his hoodie hangs heavier than a boulder. “We’re doing this.”

Nothing seems to have fundamentally changed when they make their way back to the living room—the universe hasn’t shifted, there’s no airplanes flying overhead with signs that say NAMJOON AND YOONGI ARE IN A PRETEND RELATIONSHIP, and none of Namjoon’s relatives seem to notice anything different, which was the whole point. They think nothing has changed, because they already thought they were dating, and now that they’ve agreed to fake date something has changed between him and Yoongi, except then again it hasn’t really because they’re not actually dating—

“You there?” Yoongi asks him, interrupting the russian doll of thoughts he’s been lost to for what’s probably an embarrassing amount of time. His mom had made them help her with setting the table for dinner, and Yoongi had been deep into a conversation with his auntie about his sound engineering job for Moulin Rouge’s last Seoul run, but they’re sitting close enough on the couch that he’s definitely noticed the way Namjoon’s leg has started twitching next to his.

When Namjoon comes back to Earth, his auntie is stepping away on a phone call, and Yoongi’s attention is fully back on him.

“Yeah, of course,” he answers, but Yoongi looks unconvinced. He opens his mouth to prod further, but he gets interrupted, and Namjoon has never been more glad to hear his mom yell his name.

“Namjoon-ah! Your sister will be here soon! Did I leave the extra duvet in your room?”

She did, in fact, leave the duvet in Namjoon’s room—he’d spotted it folded at the end of his bed, barely registering it due to the fact that Yoongi had currently been on his bed at the time, and Namjoon’s brain had priorities. He can see it with his mind’s eye now, though, and he quite literally jumps at the chance to have a moment to himself to breathe.

“Yeah, I’ll get it!” Namjoon calls out to her, and then turns to tell Yoongi “Be right back,” and leaves him on the couch to—probably take out his phone and scroll through his work emails, or cat videos. He doesn’t check behind him to see if Yoongi watches him go.

The entire process of getting the duvet, unfolding it, refolding it to gain another thirty seconds of solitude, and bringing it to his sister’s room right across the hall takes approximately two full minutes. He still takes advantage of his bedroom door at his back for a moment, though, breathing in and out as deep as he can, before walking back out. When he sets the duvet down on Kyungmin’s bed, he looks up to find his mother shooing him out.

“Go sit with Yoongi,” she whispers at him, and Namjoon throws a smile in her direction that he really hopes isn’t too strained. “Your auntie has asked too many questions already, she’s gonna try and wheedle theater tickets out of him next.”

“Knowing him, he’s already promised her he’ll get them for her,” Namjoon whispers back, his smile a little more genuine now, and he goes back to the living room.

He finds Yoongi in the same position he’s left him in, sitting on the couch with his elbows on his knees, head snapping up to look at Namjoon like he’d been gone for hours instead of a few minutes. Namjoon feels a flash of guilt about needing a moment alone—at least he’s surrounded by his family, even if he’s lying to them for a series of reasons that he can’t in good conscience classify as good , per se. Yoongi’s only connection to them is Namjoon himself. He’s already agreed to this disaster of a scheme—he needs to commit.

When he sits down again, trying to make his body function in a coordinated manner like he’s back to being sixteen and still growing into gangly limbs, he makes sure to be a little bit closer. He doesn’t check if Yoongi reacts in any way, and he doesn’t have the time to—his aunt comes back in, closing the call on her phone and smiling at them.

“You wanna go join your dad and grandpa? They’re out in the garden again, you could get some fresh air and show Yoongi your father’s work,” she tells them. “Lord knows I’ve heard enough for the day,” she adds, conspiratorially, and Namjoon snorts. 

“Wanna go?” he turns to ask Yoongi, and he finds him already looking at him, nodding with a shrug. They both get up from the couch with matching old man groans, heading to the garden with the sound of his aunt’s laughter following them.

The sun outside is still bright, the winter darkness finally retreating just a bit to allow for a bit more light as spring arrives, and Namjoon looks on as Yoongi joins his dad and grandfather in their discussion as soon as they get to the garden, allowing himself a bit of leeway to imagine what it would be like if their charade were real.

He doesn’t really register the conversation—something about how some of the flowers his dad has planted are gonna be faring better with the rise in temperatures—but he does notice the way Yoongi’s shoulders are still tight even as he waves his hands around to explain something to his dad, and the way his grandfather claps him on the back approvingly when Yoongi gets to his point.

The peacefulness of the moment is abruptly ruined by a sudden weight on his back, and a shriek he would recognize anywhere. He almost stumbles right under Kyungmin’s entire person that’s currently hanging on to his shoulders, cackling, but he straightens up just in time to avoid having them both faceplanting on the grass.

“Sh— Kyungmin! What the f— hell ! What the hell!” Namjoon stops himself just in time from cussing her out loud in front of their grandpa. The sound of excited barking is what alerts him to Moni running circles around the two of them as he tries to regain his balance, and soon enough Yoongi’s laugh joins the noise as he holds on to his sister’s legs before she ends up falling backwards.

“The gym really is working!” she replies, amazed, patting him on the head to tell him that she wants to get back down, and he bends his knees a little to carefully lower her down. A few feet away, Yoongi is crouched on the ground, monopolizing Moni’s attention away from Namjoon’s dad and grandfather as Moni tries to climb all over him and lick his cheeks.

“Hi dad, hi grandpa,” she calls out, from her spot on top of Namjoon’s back, once they turn around at the commotion. “I wanted to test your reflexes,” she adds once she’s back on the ground. “I can’t let you be the only one springing things on people,” she continues, angelically, and Namjoon—Namjoon can’t do much except stare at her, trying to muster up his best unimpressed expression.

“Hi, Yoongi-oppa,” she continues, a bit louder now, and just as beatifically.

“Hi, Kyungmin-ah. Is university treating you well?” he asks, smiling up at her from where Moni is still trying to lick at his hair, his face open and earnest.

“As well as university can,” Kyungmin replies with a half-grimace, and then she glances at Namjoon with a raise of her eyebrows before skipping over to say hello to their grandfather properly. A moment later, she’s back at Namjoon’s side, dragging him further away and elbowing him in his ribs as they both look on at where Yoongi has decided he might as well sit down on the grass to talk to their grandfather, since Moni isn’t planning to let him get away any time soon. Their dog is enjoying some belly scratches, lying down and probably staining his white fur green, and Namjoon has to sit and watch Yoongi’s endeared expression at Moni’s tail wagging furiously while he chats.

“You know, I really can’t say I didn’t see this coming,” Kyungmin comments, not loud enough for anyone but Namjoon to hear. “I knew it was only a matter of time. If you’d kept me updated I would have set up a betting pool.”

Namjoon is going to need a few more moments to process her words, but he isn’t above petty retaliation, so he elbows her right back.

“Who would join in on a betting pool about my love life?” he replies, trying not to let any emotion except annoyance seep through his voice. He’s supposed to be pretending they’re together, and that’s what he’s doing, and what does she mean when she said only a matter of time?

“Auntie would,” Kyungmin shrugs. “And maybe mom, too. You should have heard how happy she was when she heard the news,” she adds, and Namjoon almost flinches because he has heard it, actually, and it’s the whole reason while he’s standing there letting his sister tell him all about how she knew he and Yoongi would get together eventually.

“I can’t believe she told all of you,” Namjoon mumbles back, because he needs to shift the focus somewhere else before he loses his mind. “Auntie and Grandpa know, too.”

“Yup,” his sister confirms with another shrug. Namjoon already knew, but—he doesn’t want to picture the conversation his mother probably had with them right now, or ever. She really must have been so happy for him. He can feel a headache brewing behind his eyelids, and it’s nobody’s fault but his own.

“I think she wanted to vet their reactions, just to be sure you didn’t get hurt,” she adds, trying to keep her voice light even through the weight of the implications. She doesn’t look at Namjoon as she talks, staring straight ahead, and even though Yoongi sends them a few glances, he seems to realize they’re having a conversation he shouldn’t be privy to. “But they were happy to know you’re happy.”

“Were you?” Namjoon asks, elbowing her again lightly, because he can’t help himself, but also—if his little sister thinks he’s happy, and she’s happy for him, then it’s another reason to go through this whole thing. She elbows him back.

“Of course I was,” she shoots back, mouth curled into a pout. “Mostly because I knew it was gonna happen and I like being right almost as much as you do. But also because I want to see you happy.”

Kyungmin squeaks loudly when he pinches her in the side, and then again when he pulls her close to his side with an arm around his shoulders, letting out a loud coo as he rubs her back until she tries to physically push him off for being too annoying.

“Thank you,” Namjoon tells her once he’s let her go and stopped struggling, and Kyungmin doesn’t reply. She pokes his stomach with a small, hidden smile, though, and heads inside to help their mother out, and Namjoon smiles to himself despite the rollercoaster of a day he’s just head. There’s a smudge of guilt about lying to his family, staining his thoughts and every conversation he’s had so far, hovering over his words like a dark cloud—but he can’t help but push it aside in the face of their easy affection.

There’s another Kim Namjoon, somewhere in a parallel universe, that gets to have this without lying. The one in this universe is just gonna have to figure it out.

The buoyant, easy feeling carries him through going back inside with Yoongi, Moni at their heels, and helping out with dinner—setting the table, chopping vegetables under his mother’s supervision, getting gently made fun of by Yoongi for accidentally holding the knife blade-up and then wondering out loud why was it so dull. Yoongi and his mother end up swapping stories about Namjoon’s worst domestic incidents, and then Kyungmin comes in to contribute, and Namjoon’s embarrassed smile stays on his face until they’re ready to sit down at the table, food ready right in front of them.

They’d discussed what they’d need to do to seem like a believable couple in front of Namjoon’s relatives before walking out of Namjoon’s room, a few hours before that now feel like a lifetime ago. Namjoon had said hand-holding at most, and Yoongi had tried to joke about not a fan of PDA? and Namjoon had had to reply with I wouldn’t kiss you in front of my 80 year old grandfather, which had sent them both into a fit of slightly hysterical giggles. They’d agreed on not touching any more than usual, but maybe holding hands if the moment seemed right, and so far this seems like the best occasion—they’ll be sitting together, in front of Namjoon’s entire family, and it would be the best moment to look like a real couple.

It’s only when they’re all sat down and Namjoon’s dad is passing around dishes that Namjoon realizes that maybe hand-holding while eating isn’t the best or brightest idea. He knocks his knee against Yoongi’s under the table, instead, and raises his eyebrows at him when Yoongi looks at him, giving him the chance to back out as he wraps one arm around the back of Yoongi’s chair instead.

Yoongi stares for one long moment, blinking twice in his direction. The chopsticks he’s holding twitch in his grasp—and then he leans back against the chair and Namjoon’s arm, the long hair at the nape of his neck tickling Namjoon’s skin where he’s rolled his hoodie sleeves up. Yoongi shifts a little on the chair, too, just enough so that he’s that slightest bit closer to Namjoon, and Namjoon lets himself blush at the look his sister and auntie send him, one after the other.

Dinner is a peaceful affair—nothing like the ones they share with their friends, full of yelling and laughter loud enough to make their neighbors hate them, but it’s comfortable all the same. Yoongi talks a bit more about his job, and coos over the way Moni is lying at Namjoon’s feet, clearly expecting some of the food on the table to find its way on the floor.

Namjoon is the only one who notices the way his eyes get a little tight at the corners, and how he’s a bit quieter now than he’d been the rest of the day. He makes sure to turn towards his aunt and ask her about how their cousins are doing, and if she’s still arguing with her neighbor the way she’s been for the past decade, and soon enough the attention is off Yoongi and towards his auntie holding court and recounting the latest offense against her person perpetuated by her annoying neighbor.

He’s rewarded by the knock of a knee against his as thanks, and the warm weight of Yoongi’s leg stays there until they have to get up and help put everything away when they’re done eating.

“Would you two like something to drink?” Namjoon’s grandpa asks them once they’re back from the kitchen, and Namjoon can see his mother taking out his favorite liquor from the cabinet and a few tumblers. He can hear the sound of his dad and sister washing dishes, and his auntie directing them despite this being very much not her house, and the warm lightbulb makes everything look soft around the edges. Yoongi shoots him a glance, ready to sit back down again and say yes, of course , because he’s polite—but despite the weird calm that has settled over him while Yoongi looked increasingly more tense, Namjoon is also ready for the day to be over.

“I think we’re gonna head to bed,” Namjoon replies, registering the way Yoongi’s shoulders slump just the slightest bit in relief. Something in him makes him reach for Yoongi’s hand now, warmth traveling up from his palm when Yoongi squeezes his hand back. “Keep us some for next time, will you?”

“I won’t make any promises,” his aunt sing-songs on her way back from the kitchen, with Namjoon’s dad and Kyungmin in tow. “You sure?”

Namjoon nods, already stepping backwards to head into the hallway as the three sit down, and Yoongi yawns right on cue before she can insist. She just smiles, instead, and they’re followed by an echo of goodnight and sleep well and the clinking of glass against glass.

There’s no one in the hallway, but their hands stay together, all the way to Namjoon’s room where he has to drop it to unfold the new set of sheets his mother has left on the bed for—the two of them. Not just him.

The moment after the issue presents itself is when Namjoon realizes that he’s unequipped to deal with it. He goes through the motions of making the bed while Yoongi excuses himself to go brush his teeth and change, and then he only has to look for an extra set of blankets so he can maybe use those as a makeshift futon, since his sister is using it because their aunt is borrowing her bed for the night, and—

“Why is there a pillow on the floor?” Yoongi asks, stepping back into the room in his pajamas, toiletry bag in hand. 

Namjoon turns to face him, hands on hips, and finds himself in front of a Yoongi that’s somehow more devastating than usual — skin dewy from washing his face, hair pulled up into a bun, every feature and imperfection highlighted by the low light of Namjoon’s bedside lamp.

Namjoon had wondered, right after the Realization, how he couldn’t have noticed being in love. The answer is clear now, while he’s standing there in the same ridiculous way his mom does and Yoongi is in front of him, arms crossed and wearing his oldest pair of sleep pants, the ones with basketballs on them that he dares Namjoon to make fun of every time. He hadn’t considered the possibility that love could feel as simple as this: as a hushed conversation in his childhood bedroom, as Yoongi’s knee pressed against his all throughout dinner, as his reassurance that they could figure it all out eventually, just the two of them.

“I’m gonna take the floor,” he replies, instead of saying I love you , because he thankfully hasn’t lost all of his higher brain functions, and Yoongi frowns harder.

“Why?”

“Grandpa is gonna be sleeping in the guest room, Auntie Eunkyung is gonna be sleeping in Kyungmin’s bed, and Kyungmin has the futon, so,” Namjoon counts them off on his fingers. “I’m gonna get some extra blankets if you want more.”

“No, I mean—” Yoongi shakes his head, setting his toiletry bag down on Namjoon’s desk next to where he’s left their backpacks. “Why would you sleep on the floor?”

He looks a little more settled now that it’s only the two of them, which is a relief, but Namjoon can only look at him questioningly.

“Your shoulder?” he replies, and Yoongi looks back at him like Namjoon is the one who’s being weird. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable?”

“It’s your bed and you can’t sleep on the floor ,” Yoongi replies, sounding the slightest bit exasperated, and Namjoon watches as he rolls his shoulders as a reflex the way he always does whenever his injury is mentioned. “We can share,” he concludes, decisive, cheeks puffed out like he’s testing if Namjoon will argue with him. “It’s a double bed, and I don’t have cooties.”

“I mean, you never know,” Namjoon replies, because it’s easier to fall back on their usual back and forth of dumb banter than it is to face the idea of sharing a bed with Yoongi. It’s not the first time they’ve done it—there’s been trips with their friends, and the one time Yoongi’s bedroom had been repainted and he had a headache because of the paint smell but they didn’t have a couch yet, and that one time they’d fallen asleep on each other at a party and nobody had had the heart to wake them up. It’s the first time ever since Namjoon has figured out he loves him, though, which is going to be difficult if he’s meant to fall asleep to Yoongi close to him like the entire situation doesn’t make him want to change his name and flee the country.

“If I kick you in my sleep it’s because you deserved it,” Yoongi replies, both of them fully knowing Yoongi sleeps curled up into a little ball that in hindsight Namjoon should have realized he’s always found a little too cute. “Go change before your auntie changes her mind and drags us out to get drunk with them.”

Namjoon goes.

It doesn’t take him long to wash his face, swap his contacts for glasses, brush his teeth and change into the sweatpants and sleep shirt combo he’d grabbed from his drawers. The shirt is a bit small, and the pants a bit short, but he’s gotten used to having to revert into the clothes of high school Namjoon whenever he goes back home for a night.

Despite his insistence, when Namjoon steps back into the room Yoongi is standing around like he’s not sure whether he actually has permission to sleep in Namjoon’s bed. He’s fiddling with his phone, instead, yawning, his bare feet poking out from the too-long hem of his pajama pants. Namjoon takes all the horrible, horrible endearment he’s feeling and channels it into gesturing at Yoongi to get under the covers as nonchalantly as possible, sitting down on the other side of the double sized mattress and slipping under the blanket.

Yoongi takes his time leaving his phone on Namjoon’s desk, and taking his hair out of the bun, leaving Namjoon wondering if Yoongi’s hair is as soft as it looks. Before he actually forgets himself and reaches out to check, though, he places his own phone and glasses on his nightstand and reaches out to turn off his lamp, right as Yoongi slips into bed beside him with one last moment of hesitation.

It’s quiet for a second that stretches out a little too long, the noises from the rest of the house filtering back in now that the lights are off and both of them are silent. Namjoon can hear his grandpa’s voice, louder after drinking, and his sister’s laughter, and Yoongi’s breathing right next to him.

“That wasn’t too bad,” Namjoon comments tentatively, voice pitched low, and Yoongi hums.

“It wasn’t,” he agrees, and the tone is just the slightest bit off, the same way Yoongi has been the slightest bit off all night, only relaxing for real when the two of them were alone. The first thought that crosses Namjoon’s mind is—did the whole charade really make him so uncomfortable? Did the idea of the two of them being together made him feel truly this unsettled?

The second, and the one he actually voices out loud, is—”Are you alright?”

It’s not a question they ask each other often. Most of the time he just knows, and when he knows he makes sure he’s available to help if Yoongi asks, and helps anyway even if Yoongi doesn’t. Yoongi does the same, and their system has worked for the past five years they’ve known each other and lived together.

When they ask, it’s usually because something that warrants actual talking has happened — Namjoon’s grandmother passing away, Yoongi failing the last exam he had before graduation, Namjoon breaking up with his first ever serious girlfriend.

Yoongi doesn’t reply for a long moment, but then his shoulder brushes against Namjoon where they’re both lying down on their backs, the bed not quite big enough for them to have any real space to separate them.

“I’ll be alright in the morning,” Yoongi replies, which Namjoon knows is as good of an answer as he's going to get right now. It will have to do. He turns to his side and reaches out instead of replying, tracing down Yoongi’s arm until he finds his hand and takes it in his, squeezing.

“Goodnight, hyung,” he says, looking at the blurry shape of Yoongi’s side profile in the dark before closing his eyes. One moment later, Yoongi’s hand slips out from his grasp, and he barely has enough time to feel just the slightest bit sad about it before he feels weight shifting on the mattress, and an arm wrapping around his shoulders pulling him close into a hug.

It’s gone as quick as it comes, the warmth of Yoongi's body close to his fleeting as he retreats to his side of the mattress. Namjoon isn’t fast enough to reciprocate, but his eyes snap back open just in time to see Yoongi shifting back, curling into his favorite position as much as he can in the limited space, eyes stubbornly closed like nothing has happened.

“Goodnight, Namjoon-ah,” he still tells him, and his drawn up knees brush against Namjoon’s thigh. Namjoon bites back a smile and shifts once again on his back, closing his eyes.

“Goodnight.”

When Namjoon wakes up, the sunlight streaming through his room making him blink awake with a grimace, there’s no warm body next to him. The sheets are only slightly rumpled, though, like Yoongi had made sure to pull the blankets back up around Namjoon when he’d gotten up. He tries not to smile at the image of Yoongi tucking him in, but it’s a little difficult. He does enjoy the moment of quiet, though, taking his sweet time rubbing at his eyes before reaching for his glasses with a yawn. Yoongi couldn’t have been gone for long; the bed is still pleasantly warm from two people’s body heat, and he’s almost tempted to take his glasses off again and shove his face under the pillow to escape the sunlight and sleep some more.

Yoongi is either in the bathroom or having breakfast with his family, though, and the second possibility is what makes him resolve himself to stay awake. He better get dressed and keep him from having to interact with them all by himself—Yoongi can hold his own just fine, but their short conversation from the other night is fresh on his mind, and he can’t be sure his family won’t ask questions or make comments he’d like Yoongi not to have to hear.

As soon as his bare feet touch the floor, the door to his bedroom squeaks, and Namjoon turns towards the noise to watch as Yoongi gently shoulders it open, one mug in each hand. He clearly isn’t expecting to find him awake already, because he stops in his tracks to stare at him for a moment before walking in fully.

“I brought coffee,” he says, stating the obvious, lifting up one of the mugs. The scent of Namjoon’s dad’s favorite blend rises up from the steam curling above the mugs, and Namjoon reaches out towards the bitter, familiar smell of caffeine without thinking.

“Good morning,” Namjoon says once the mug is warm between his hands, looking up at Yoongi through the steam that’s fogging up his glasses.

“Good morning,” Yoongi replies with a snort, eyes flitting between the two lenses, pursing his lips so as not to laugh at him. Namjoon scrunches up his nose before taking a sip, used to the feeling of temporary blindness that always follows the first taste of any warm drink.

“Sleep well?” Namjoon asks, his vision clearing a little when he pulls his mug a bit further away from him, sitting back down on the mattress. Yoongi makes no motion to do the same, but he leans back against the door, and without the condensation on his lenses Namjoon can see the way the bags under his eyes are a little more pronounced than usual.

“Yeah,” Yoongi shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee. Namjoon doesn’t call him out on lying through his teeth—mostly because his shoulders are less tight than they’d been the night before, and there’s been an upwards curve to his mouth ever since he’s come into the room that Namjoon doesn’t want to erase. “Your mom made the coffee,” Yoongi adds, as if to explain the reason why he’s only a few steps away from bringing Namjoon breakfast in bed. “They just left to drive your grandpa back, and your sister is already out with your auntie.”

Namjoon squints through another sip of coffee, reaching out to tap at his phone screen on the nightstand and finding it dead.

“What time is it? Did I sleep in that much?” he asks, and Yoongi snorts again.

“Not even nine—I think your grandpa just wanted to get back home,” Yoongi replies. “I talked to him a bit this morning, too—with your mom as well,” he tacks on, aiming for nonchalant and immediately making Namjoon’s brain ring with alarm bells.

“Did they say anything weird?” He grimaces, glasses sliding off his nose. “Sorry about that. I’m gonna have to be fielding questions from them for the next few months,” he says, at the same time as Yoongi replies with “Not weird, exactly, but—”

They stare at each other for a long moment. Namjoon’s breath hitches in his chest as he waits for Yoongi to elaborate—did they make any comments on how Namjoon is obviously smitten—they should know, they’re his family, of course they can tell? Did they ask about them moving in together into a bigger place? Did his sister tell Yoongi about how apparently she’d been waiting for them to get together for years?

Yoongi’s pinky finger twitches against the handle of the mug, and he sets his shoulders like he’s steeling himself up for something, opening his mouth to speak, and—nothing comes out.

“You should vet questions before you take calls the way celebrities do in interviews,” Yoongi mumbles, which is a weak, weak attempt at changing the subject. The tightness around his eyes is back, and Namjoon watches as Yoongi takes another sip of his coffee and pretends like he never said anything at all.

Well. That doesn’t look promising.

Namjoon only finds something to say back when he sees Yoongi glancing at their two backpacks, sitting on the floor next to Namjoon’s desk.

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” he mutters, downing the rest of his coffee in one go and probably giving his esophagus third degree burns in the process. He gets up, stretching his arms above his head just a bit, and sighs when Yoongi sits back down on the mattress only once Namjoon is a few steps away from it. Grabbing his change of clothes is quick work, except for a second where he almost gets his and Yoongi’s backpacks mixed up and digs around in Yoongi’s clothes.

(It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve borrowed each other’s underwear, but right now—right now it would be a little too much.)

He’s already out of the room when he remembers his phone is still dead, and he should probably charge it before they get ready to leave and go back to Seoul. He sighs once again, heading towards the bathroom anyway with a shake of his head, and tries to stick a pin in the thought before it gets washed away by warm water and body wash. His brain refuses to cooperate, and runs with the other train of thought it had been chasing instead—the one that had zeroed in on the change in Yoongi’s behavior when he’d walked into his room, and whether it’s Namjoon’s fault or his family’s or the universe’s for putting them both in this situation.

Maybe the sound of the shower is loud enough to drown out the scream of frustration he really, really wants to let out.

He doesn’t test his hypothesis—he rinses all the soap suds off and steps out instead, drying himself off haphazardly before getting dressed, his shirt dragging against still damp skin. He can feel it sticking to his back when he goes back to his room after dropping his sleep clothes in the laundry hamper, and he scratches at his nape as he steps in, finding Yoongi in the same position he’d left him in—still sitting on the bed, scrolling through his phone.

Namjoon automatically reaches for his own phone like every young person in need of a distraction, walking to the other side of the bed, and then remembers that he’d literally just thought about having to charge it. He stares at himself in the dark screen, and then throws it on the mattress instead, and Yoongi glances at it as it bounces once before settling face-down on the covers.

“Hyung, can you pass me my backpack?” Namjoon asks, unplugging his bedside lamp to make room for his phone charger. Yoongi hums, reaching out to pick the backpack up off the floor and pass it over to him without looking but making sure it doesn’t touch the covers. Namjoon doesn’t share his same hang-ups about letting coats and bags and outside clothes touch their beds, but he still settles the backpack on his knees instead of on the mattress, unzipping it blindly as he yawns.

He can hear Yoongi going through his own backpack, and he rubs at his eyes under the glasses as he searches for the charger he swears he’d shoved in there before leaving—

His fingers brush against a cable, and he pulls it out without thinking. It’s tangled up enough in all the stuff in his bag—and since when did he bring so much stuff anyway? He doesn’t remember shoving in an extra hoodie — that it drags out with it a yellow legal pad, and several pieces of paper that flutter down to the floor at his feet.

“Oh, wait,” Namjoon says, out loud, and before he can lean down to pick those up and tell Yoongi he’s gotten their bags mixed up he hears a sharp, sudden gasp.

“ Don’t —” Yoongi’s breath hitches, and Namjoon stops halfway through the motion, one hand frozen and reaching down as he turns around to look at him.

Yoongi has one knee up on the mattress, one hand almost outstretched as if to stop him, holding on to Namjoon’s half open backpack. He can see his notebook at the bottom, tucked behind his folded jacket, and when his eyes snap back to Yoongi’s face he can see how wide his eyes are, and how pale he’s gotten in the span of a moment.

“Hoseok is right, we have too much matching shit,” Namjoon tries to make a joke out of it, so Yoongi can stop looking so terrified for no apparent reason, resolutely not thinking about how Yoongi could have found his notebook first. “There you go,” he adds, and reaches back down to pick up the spare sheets of paper that have fallen out.

He doesn’t mean to read them. Yoongi leaves random scraps of paper around almost as much as he does, with notes about his work and reminders about appointments and grocery lists. More often than not, Namjoon finds a scrap addressed to him on their fridge, telling him that the electricity bill has come in or that they need to call the landlord about some thing or another.

He really doesn’t mean to, but his eyes register the characters of his name at the top of the page before his brain does, and only then do his higher functions kick in. I really shouldn’t be reading this , he thinks, right before his eyes refuse to obey him and follow the rest of the sentence as the paper unfolds in his grip.

Dear Namjoon,

When I said you don’t deserve a letter—

“Namjoon,” Yoongi says, voice tight, and Namjoon turns around. Yoongi looks even more scared than he did a moment ago, and he glances between Namjoon’s face and the sheets of paper in his hands with the terrified expression of a caged animal.

“Uh,” Namjoon says, eloquently, because what the hell. He puts his hands down, keeping his eyes on Yoongi, not looking down at the papers with his name on it that he’s currently holding on to.

At the other end of the mattress, Yoongi stares right into his eyes, in a show of eye contact that’s so incredibly rare for the two of them that Namjoon forgets to look away — and then he deflates, all at once, like a marionette whose strings have been cut. He doesn’t curl into himself, though-just folds quietly, sitting back down, hands tightening on the fabric of Namjoon’s backpack in his lap.

“Is there any chance we can pretend that’s just our next grocery list?” Yoongi sighs, finally looking away. “Or just, maybe you can read all of that and then we can talk about it later when we’re home. Or never.”

He’s rambling, which is something Yoongi doesn’t do—he gets chatty when he’s trying to bullshit you, or when he’s nervous, and right now he sounds painfully sincere. Namjoon still doesn’t look down at the papers.

“Is—is this a letter?” He asks, because he has to know, and Yoongi’s arms cross in front of his chest as the backpack slips lower. “For me?”

“Do you have the monopoly on addressing letters to Kim Namjoon,” Yoongi sniffs, trying to deflect, and Namjoon tries not to stare at the pink pout of his lips. “I—yeah. Read it.”

“Are you sure?” Namjoon asks, because he’s very tempted, but—Yoongi had looked so scared.

“I meant to let you read it earlier, and then I—well,” Yoongi replies, words slipping out of his mouth with a harder lisp than usual, and Namjoon somehow just knows that earlier meant when he’d stepped into the room with coffee for two. He’s still fidgeting with his hands, and his ears are turning steadily more pink, and Namjoon knows him better than anyone else. He doesn’t want to hope for anything, but a little spark of it still burns in the middle of his sternum.

“Alright,” Namjoon says, for lack of more intelligent commentary, and then he opens the paper to read.

He gets past the first line, and then the second, and the first paragraph, and then—he giggles. Honest to god, childish giggles, bursting out of it bright and buoyant even as Yoongi turns his head sharply to stare at him, dumbfounded.

“Oh my god,” Namjoon whispers, delighted, eyes scanning further down the page, through every line of a letter where Yoongi—

“ Kim Namjoon ,” the man himself calls out, appalled, eyes dropping to the letter in Namjoon’s hands like he can’t quite believe that’s his reaction.

“ Hyung, ” Namjoon shoots back, the smile on his face spreading wide enough that his cheeks are starting to hurt. “You’re terrible. How are you this selfless? You were just going to keep this to yourself and go with this whole charade without saying anything?”

Yoongi stares back at his face, mouth agape, and looking at him feels like wearing glasses for the first time. His vision is finally clear enough to catch on to all the little details: the way Yoongi’s body is angled towards his, the flush in his cheeks, and a montage plays in the back of his brain of every gentle touch between them, every encouragement Yoongi has given him, every small gesture that made his stomach flutter and that, apparently, Yoongi meant in the exact way Namjoon wanted him to.

“I was going to tell you,” Yoongi argues back, because he can’t help but debate with Namjoon any time the opportunity presents itself. He’s furiously pink now, tugging on his hoop earrings, eyes dropping back to his hands, and Namjoon won’t have that. Not when he now knows how Yoongi feels, holy shit—

“You should read mine,” Namjoon says, sounding a little hysterical from how charged up he feels, like one of those wind-up toys with a key at the back that’s been loaded up a little too much. “It’s in the notebook, right there, just read it—”

“What does have to do with—” Yoongi tries to reply, but Namjoon lets his backpack drop to the floor and climbs up on the mattress until he’s kneeling up and digging into his backpack until he can shake the paper out of his notebook and carelessly throw the rest of it aside. Yoongi barely has the time to lean back, trying to avoid an elbow to the face, letting out a weak what that is completely lost to Namjoon’s ears.

“Just read it,” he says, unfolding the letter right there into Yoongi’s waiting hands, smiling at the way Yoongi’s eyes get just the slightest bit wider at their proximity, and the way Namjoon is hovering above him from where he’s on his knees and Yoongi is sitting.

He can pinpoint the moment where Yoongi goes along with his request, his back slumping down a little further, and he follows his eyes as they get through the letter, rereading his own writing from behind Yoongi’s shoulders. Shit, he really got cheesy.

“My mom was amazed at how I found someone who would write me something so sweet, so in tune with who I am, with everything I wanted to hear,” Namjoon starts speaking when he realizes Yoongi is more than halfway through. “And if you’d gotten along with our original plan I would have pulled her aside, just me and her, and told her I fucked up, and it was all wishful thinking.”

Yoongi’s head snaps up at him right before he gets to the end of the letter, which is a pity, because Namjoon really gave it his all in the conclusion.

“What,” he replies, barely even a question, and Namjoon laughs again in the face of his utter amazement. 

“Hyung, the whole letter is wishful thinking,” Namjoon grins like a fool. “All I’ve ever wanted to hear, and I signed it off with your name. What do you think that means?”

The paper crinkles in Yoongi’s hands as he sets it down, eyes never leaving Namjoon’s face, wide and a beautiful warm brown in the morning sunlight, happiness crinkling them at the corners as Namjoon’s words sink in and Yoongi smiles.

“That you have too much faith in my poetry skills,” Yoongi replies, not even bothering to try and hide his smile. “And that you owe me a love letter,” he adds under his breath as he leans into him, because of course he does, and Namjoon loves him.

“I’ll write you as many as you want,” Namjoon whispers back. When Yoongi pulls him down to kiss him, he tastes like coffee, and the faint smell of brand-new paper.

Dear Namjoon,

When I said you don’t deserve a letter, I lied. I’m not going to do your homework for you, but you do deserve one, even if you leave your shit everywhere and never dry off after you shower, because you're you, and you're great. The fact that you're finding this prompt so difficult means I'm not doing my job right. 

I haven’t written anybody a letter in years, not ever since elementary school when our class got signed up for a pen pal program and I ended up paired up with a kid in Busan that transferred schools mid-year and left me with nobody to write to.

(You’ve retreated to your own room to furiously type at your laptop as I write this, and you had that pinched look you get when you can’t quite figure something out. It makes you look like a sand fox.)

If I was writing your letter for you (which I am not, and I’m not sure when your assignment is due, but if you happen to find this before you have to send it in and decide to take inspiration I will sue for plagiarism) I would write about how kind you are. You’re the first to notice when I’m feeling down, which is infuriating because it feels like you somehow just know , and an even more infuriating way of not asking questions about it. You just sit next to me instead, and talk about documentaries or cats or spew the worst opinions about music out loud where I can hear you, until I forget to feel shitty for myself because correcting you is more important.

If I was writing you a letter, I’d write about how it makes me happy to see you’re home when I get back from work, and it makes me happy to know that home for the two of us is the same place. When we’d started rooming together, what feels like a lifetime ago, I never thought we’d click quite like this. We both had sharp edges that didn’t quite match—I thought you were trying too hard and pretentious and a bit annoying, and I know you thought I was a prickly dickhead who was always on your ass for no reason— until they got sanded down by time, so that now we fit together better than I could have ever expected.

If I was writing you a letter, I’d write about how the first time we had a meal together, I lied about how I’d accidentally cooked a bit too much for one person, so you might as well eat. It wasn’t really an accident. I’d left for class a little earlier than usual in the morning, and I saw you swerve on your stupid road hazard of an old bike to avoid a patch of dandelions growing from a crack in the street and almost ride your bike into traffic. It was a ridiculous scene, straight out of one of those Ghibli movies you’ve strong-armed me into watching, and the beginning of it all.

If I was writing you a letter I would write about how I’m glad you’re my best friend.

I can almost see your eyebrows rising as you read this. You’re probably thinking, “Wow, this sure sounds like Yoongi-hyung might have strong feelings for me.” You wouldn’t be far off the mark.

It’s not the first time I've tried to say something. I just hesitate every single time, for some reason or another, and then the moment passes, and the ground is steady once again under my feet, and I’m back to not wanting to rock the boat. There was that time you stayed up with me to help me revise before retaking the exam I’d failed, even though you were yawning hard enough I thought you might accidentally unhinge your jaw. There was that time I was falling asleep on you at a party, and instead of shoving me off you’d shifted enough so I could be more comfortable, and fell asleep right alongside me. I remember waking up with your arm wrapped around my waist, holding me tighter in your sleep when I tried to get up, and thinking about how I wanted to stay — but saying things out loud is difficult, and I don’t wanna mess anything up, just because sometimes we look at each other, and I think, well. Maybe? (But you treat everyone around you so well, it doesn’t feel fair to assume that I’m special.)

Ugh. Somehow that felt more uncomfortable to write than any of my old not-safe-for-work lyrics.

I might chicken out again, and chuck this in the trash before you see it. I might leave it somewhere obvious for you to find, and then still cross my fingers you don’t see it. (You miss enough reminders to do groceries that it’s a possibility.) I might decide to rewrite it on nicer paper than the legal pad I use to take work notes.

I still hope you’ll read it, because I want you to know I’d write a love letter for you if you wanted one, and I’ve wanted you to know how I feel for too long. Because sometimes you look at me in a way I think I recognize, because I think it’s the same way I look at you, and even if I'm wrong, and it isn’t: I still know you’ll be careful with this, like you are with everything.

And because by now I’m sure you can tell, but I still haven’t written it out — and what’s a love letter without a love confession? — here’s how I’m signing this off:

I love you,

Yoongi