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Thursday nights usually go like this:
Yoongi and Namjoon actually attempt to get shit done for once; abandoning the couch, the sharp static of the television, and the comfort of tangled legs for the smooth wood of their work desks.
Namjoon’s hunched over a textbook or two, inches thick into the pages and scribbling on sticky notes. Pink, yellow, green. One’s on his forehead and another is stuck to Yoongi’s back. Profanities on his sweater, encircled by lopsided hearts pressed too hard into the paper. It’s orange.
Yoongi’s doing something. Less books, more writing, and crosses out words and lines and rips out entire pages from time to time, missing the trash can in lieu of scattering the little sheets across the floor. His legs are tucked up into the spinny chair with the notepad over his knees, and a crease has worked its way between his eyebrows.
Music plays; thick with bass that thrums through the walls and under the door of their shared flat, and it’d make either of their heads swim if they weren’t already occupied. It chokes out any unnecessary noises, prime for productivity, and it takes a perfectly timed gap between songs to hear someone screaming from across the hall.
Jesus Christ.
Yoongi pauses the track to Confirm, ears straining to pick up on the familiarly pitched shrieking. It’s legitimate. Shit.
Hoseok.
He's in Namjoon’s year. Has the smile of a sweetheart, and the most oddly juxtaposed pessimistic disposition Yoongi’s ever seen on anyone that radiant. His habit of working himself up into a tizzy is endearing enough to not turn Yoongi away, but it didn’t make it any less vicious to deal with.
He’s wormed himself a little soft spot in Yoongi’s heart and made a home in Namjoon’s ages ago, but Yoongi’d be stupid to admit to it.
“Joon-ah. Namjoon.” It takes Yoongi shaking his shoulder to stop Namjoon from bobbing his head to music that isn’t playing anymore, and even more passive-aggressive jostling to get him to get up.
It might’ve been easier to tell him what was going on, but it isn’t like he doesn’t have ears of his own.
“Hyung, do we have to?” Namjoon whines, voice rough from disuse, but he’s rising from his seat anyway, chair hitting the back of his knees and rolling backwards.
“Either we’re at his door or he’s at ours. Take your pick.” But there’s no option, not really, because their room is hotter than a hot mess, and it’d be a marvel if Hoseok even took a step inside, let alone ever let them hear the end of it.
They both shuffle out of the room—Namjoon first at Yoongi’s insistence—still house-slippered and PJ-clad because dressing up to console the local crybaby on a Saturday night isn’t really a thing that people do, especially when they’re right across the hallway.
A jab to the small of his back (“what the fuck, Yoongi,”) prompts Namjoon to knock on the door, right at the same time Hoseok’s opening it up, and the brief glimpse of panic on his face before he’s shoving it right into Namjoon’s chest goes straight to Yoongi’s chest.
He’s fucked.
Hoseok’s loop around Namjoon’s middle is impossibly tight, and it takes a lot for Yoongi not to openly laugh at how constipated his expression is as a result, hiding his mouth behind his knuckles while his eyes show his grin. “Hoseok-ah, can you talk? Tell us what happened, okay?” His voice is breathy, suppressed, but Hoseok doesn’t seem to notice.
Namjoon holds still, ramrod and vaguely uncomfortable. Does he put his arms around? Does he not touch?
Touching seems to be the right answer, because as soon as his fingers graze the small of Hoseok’s back, his grip loosens, and he sniffs, rubbing his face against the fabric of Namjoon’s shirt. It takes him a while to work his way up to words, shaken enough by whatever it was that getting all teary in the middle of the hallway doesn’t seem to evoke any embarrassment on his behalf.
He only pulls his face back enough to murmur an answer, mostly eaten by the cotton.
“Hobi, you gotta speak up or we’ll be out here all day.”
He groans then, fingers tangling into the back of Namjoon’s shirt “—spider.”
It’s hardly enough context, but it’s about as much as Yoongi has the patience to get, slinking behind them and into Hoseok’s room.
Namjoon’s not foreign to the concept of taking care of a wet-eyed Hoseok, but that doesn’t make him a pro by any means, and both of them spend a long time lingering outside of the doorway, Namjoon afraid of jostling poor Hoseok, and Hoseok with no intentions of letting go any time soon. He steps forward after much deliberation, gently prodding the elder into the doom without stepping on his feet, and asking him to lift them up so they both don’t trip on the upstep of the entryway.
As clichély attractive as the prospect sounds, it’s also really fucking dangerous, and things never “accidentally” end up saucy if it involves Namjoon and tripping.
A loud smack—vaguely distant, still impressive—, and a little cheer is enough to get Hoseok’s cheek off of Namjoon’s left nipple, and he looks over his bicep as Yoongi rounds the corner, smugly holding up his palm.
It’s smudged brown right in the middle and Hoseok makes a face like his entire family was debauched right in front of him.
The grin slides from Yoongi’s lips. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to wave around metaphorical dragon guts in front of the maiden you just saved. Maybe.
“Oh my god, don’t come anywhere near me until you wash that all the way off and then some,” he says, and releases himself from Namjoon’s embrace.
Yoongi rolls his eyes and makes his way to the sink, scoffs when Hoseok hops up onto the countertop to watch.
“Good yet?”
“Not purged enough, keep going,” Hoseok drawls, peering over at the sink. Yoongi’s hands are squeaky clean, verging on pruned. They’re more than fine, but this is ample entertainment.
“For someone scared shitless just a minute ago, you’re fuckin’ cheeky. Wouldn’t be surprised if y’ pissed your pants either.” Yoongi turns the tap off with a huff, shaking most of the water off his hands and dragging the rest down Hoseok’s t-shirt.
Hoseok’s feigns offense, shaking his head and pouting. “You come into my house, kill my spiders and use my sink, and then have the audacity to use me as a human towel. I could’ve died. Amazing, Min Yoongi, those are real balls.”
More eye rolling commences, possibly to a painful degree, only to be interrupted by Namjoon loudly sifting through the freezer for something.
Hoseok babbles through the noise, and only stops when Yoongi leans up to kiss him. Poor appeasement in reality, but hey, it worked.
He’s away from the counter before Hoseok has any time to ask for more, crowding up into Namjoon’s personal space. “The fuck are you lookin’ for, making that much noise?”
“Ice cream—” Namjoon starts, and Yoongi bumps him out of the way with his bony-ass hip before he can finish. Or, tries, at the very least.
“I’ll look, go clean up the spider guts. On the wall next to the bed. Thank you, love you,” Namjoon looks over as soon as Yoongi finishes talking, and they mouth relay, Namjoon leaning down for his own peck before sulking to his fate.
The ice cream is literally right in the front, red bean, right for Yoongi to snatch out and rummage around in drawers for a spoon. The container is a little freezer burnt but the inside is perfectly fine, decently carved out of, actually, and Yoongi scoops out a sizable spoonful to shove into his own mouth first.
“Hyung, you should feed me,” Hoseok singsongs, looking down at Yoongi and batting his eyelashes. It looks less cute than it does irritating, and Yoongi digs the spoon back into the carton, scoops up some more.
“Here.” He’s holding out the spoon, handle in a way that makes it easy for Hoseok to grab, but (of course,) cranes his head and licks it up instead.
It’s a sorry attempt, aborted halfway when the ice cream slips off the spoon and onto the empty counter between his legs, and his chin is smeared with the faint pink.
“You’re impossible.”
“I try.” and Hoseok beams so bright Yoongi has to cough and look away.
He’s saved by the bell that is Kim Namjoon when he informs the general public that he’s finished cleaning up the spider remains, and Yoongi hastily seals up the ice cream, dropping the spoon into the sink with a clatter and putting the rest back where he found it.
“Hear that? Time to go to sleep. Clean up after yourself, Jung.”
Yoongi dips out of the kitchen as fast as he can, leaving Hoseok to wipe up the mess between his legs and join them in the bed afterward.
He does; almost takes so much time that Yoongi has his mouth hanging open in complaint before he appears in the doorway, all small smiled and pleased. “Did you miss me?”
“Hardly,” Yoongi scoffs, and Hoseok noses into bed between him and Namjoon, cozying up between their bodies.
“Even a little is enough,” he says, mutedly, and gives Namjoon his hello kiss.
Which turns into numerous hello kisses, peppered over lips and cheeks and jawbones, and even Yoongi receives a few to compensate for the ones he gives out.
They get warmer but never quite progress to hot, sweltering. Spit is swapped but it stays lukewarm, comfortable, Hoseok sighing between them as they exchange affection and the faint earthy taste of red bean ice cream.
“Thank you,” Hoseok breathes, finally, when he has time. His eyes crinkle pleasantly, and it’s cute beyond belief, has Namjoon burying his face into a pillow and mumbling ‘sleep time’ into the cushion.
Too much.
Yoongi ruffles his hair to hide the affection that punches him in the gut, and pulls the covers up around them, flicks off the lamp.
“Yeah.”
Yeah.