Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Seokjin has always been aware that he’s good-looking.

It’s not arrogance. It’s simple fact. He’s lived with it long enough to see how the world reacts before he even opens his mouth. Aunties smile at him on the street. Strangers offer him free drinks when he doesn’t ask. People gravitate toward him in any room he walks into—especially in school. Especially now, in college.

It doesn’t always feel like a blessing.

Sometimes it feels like an expectation he didn’t choose. Like being told he’s already something before he’s had a chance to become anything.

Especially here—in architecture—where he wants to be known for his ideas, not just his face.

The architecture building at Haneul University is a six-story fortress of glass and concrete that buzzes with ambition. Seokjin had imagined it romantic—he’d dreamed about drafting rooms and night studios, the smell of coffee and chipboard in the air, late critiques filled with deep questions about space and light and form.

In reality, it smells like stress and glue.

And it’s much harder than he expected.

But he’s stubborn. So he shows up every day, early when he can, with sharpened pencils and sleeves rolled up and a polite smile in place. He listens. He works. He tries. And he pretends he doesn’t notice the way some of his blockmates still talk to his face like it’s the most impressive thing about him.

Until one morning, he notices a stare.

Not the usual kind. Not one that flicks up, assesses, and flicks away.

This stare lingers.

It’s the first week of the semester. Orientation has passed, studio desks are still being claimed—territories marked by masking tape, cluttered cups, and boxes of model scrap. Seokjin steps into Studio 3A with a roll of trace paper under his arm and a coffee still too hot to drink.

He’s halfway through the door when he feels it.

A stare.

It cuts sharp across the room—not unfriendly, not even particularly intense. Just… present. Quietly insistent.

He follows it.

Two rows over, hunched over a sketchpad, sits someone Seokjin hasn’t really noticed before.

He’s dressed plainly—dark hoodie, black cap, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, one foot hooked around the rung of his stool. A mechanical pencil is tucked behind his ear. His hands move over the paper like he’s writing music instead of drawing floorplans.

And he’s staring.

Not pretending. Not subtle.

Their eyes meet.

The boy doesn’t blink.

Seokjin does.

When he glances back, the boy’s already returned to his sketch. Like he’d just needed to confirm something.

Seokjin sits down slowly, unsettled in a way he can’t explain.

He finds out the boy’s name during the roll call.

 “Min Yoongi,” the professor says.

Yoongi raises a hand without looking up.

Of course. Seokjin has heard the name—quietly, in corners. Top of their entrance batch. Legendary with spatial reasoning. Rumored to have built his own laser cutter in high school. A few of the girls in studio whisper about how intense he is, how “cool,” in that strange and intimidating way.

Now that Seokjin knows, he can’t seem to unnotice him.

He’s not loud. He’s not flashy.

But he’s always there.

He works fast, clean, precise. His boards are brutally minimalist. His lines are confident. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to.

But he watches.

And when Seokjin catches him doing it again—midway through site analysis presentation—Yoongi doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

It’s like he’s sketching Seokjin with his eyes.

And it unnerves Seokjin more than he cares to admit.

The studio is a living organism—everyone staking out their space, settling into patterns, building small rituals.

Seokjin quickly earns a reputation as someone who’s easy to work with. He’s fast with foam cutters, good at presentation slides, and keeps an emergency kit of painkillers and fabric band-aids in his drawer. People like him. Professors smile at him. Studio assistants ask him to help first-years.

He’s doing everything right.

But he keeps catching Yoongi watching him like none of it matters.

Not in a mocking way. Not in a critical way.

Just... watching.

Like Seokjin is a structure under analysis. A puzzle to solve.

“Don’t look now,” Taehyung whispers to him one day during critique. “But Min Yoongi is totally staring at you again.”

“I know,” Seokjin mutters.

“You okay?”

Seokjin taps his pen on his sketchbook. “Just trying to figure out if he hates me or wants to borrow my blood for some weird architectural ritual.”

Taehyung hums. “Plot twist: he’s in love with you.”

Seokjin rolls his eyes.

But the thought lingers.

Two weeks in, the professor announces a paired exercise.

A week-long model challenge—partnered groups to develop a scale sectional study of a theoretical hillside house. All students groan. Seokjin braces himself to be paired with one of the loud boys who never brings their own tools.

Instead, the professor calls, “Kim Seokjin, Min Yoongi—you’ll be together.”

Seokjin’s head snaps up.

Yoongi looks unmoved. But when their eyes meet, Seokjin swears—swears—he sees a flicker of something in Yoongi’s gaze. Not surprise.

Recognition.

They don’t speak for the first half hour.

Yoongi sets up neatly. Seokjin adjusts his station. They trade glances over the design brief, working in silence.

Until Yoongi finally says, “Do you want to start with massing or circulation?”

His voice is low. Calm.

“Circulation,” Seokjin replies.

Yoongi nods once.

And just like that—they begin.

Working with Yoongi is like learning a new language.

He doesn’t ask obvious questions. Doesn’t explain what he’s doing. But he listens. And when Seokjin points out a contradiction in his floorplate layers, Yoongi doesn’t argue—he just adjusts.

They work late that first night. The studio empties around them. Seokjin starts to understand Yoongi’s rhythm—the way he taps his pencil twice before a major cut, the way he layers bass-heavy jazz in his headphones when he’s modeling.

“Why this song?” Seokjin asks at one point, motioning toward Yoongi’s phone. “Feels like I’m in a noir film.”

Yoongi glances over. “Helps me focus.”

“Does it work?”

Yoongi smirks faintly. “You’re still talking to me, aren’t you?”

Seokjin bites back a grin.

Okay. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

Halfway through the week, Seokjin cuts his thumb trying to bevel a piece of chipboard.

It’s nothing serious—but he curses loud enough to make Yoongi look up.

“You okay?” Yoongi asks, already standing.

“Yeah, just—ugh. Rookie mistake.”

“Let me see.”

Seokjin raises a brow. “You a medic now?”

But he lets Yoongi take his hand.

Yoongi doesn’t flinch at the blood. Just pulls out a band-aid from his pencil case—neatly folded into a paper pouch, like it’s something he prepared. He wraps it with steady fingers.

“You do this often?” Seokjin asks.

Yoongi doesn’t look up. “I don’t like when things get messy.”

“I’m pretty messy,” Seokjin admits.

“I noticed,” Yoongi murmurs.

It shouldn’t sound fond.

But it does.

By the fourth night, Seokjin’s brain is mush.

He’s hunched over a baseplate, eyes sore, glue smudged on his cheek. Yoongi is still going strong, hands precise, expression unreadable.

Seokjin leans back and groans. “I think I just fell in love with this glue gun.”

Yoongi doesn’t look up. “I think that’s illegal.”

Seokjin snorts. “Only in some countries.”

Pause. Then—

“You’re weird,” Yoongi says.

“You’ve said that before.”

“I meant it both times.”

But he’s smiling. Barely. Almost.

Seokjin doesn’t know why it makes his chest feel like it’s filled with helium.

They finish the model on Friday.

It’s rough in places, but ambitious. Organic. Full of mistakes they learned from together.

When they present it the next day, the professor nods approvingly.

“I like the circulation,” she says. “And the sectional light play. Good collaboration.”

Seokjin thanks her. Yoongi stays quiet, as usual.

After, they pack up in silence.

Yoongi hands him a note. Folded, scrawled in all caps.

GOOD WORK.
YOU THINK LOUD.
I LIKE IT.

Seokjin folds the note, tucks it into his sketchbook.

When he looks up, Yoongi is already walking away.

That night, Seokjin lies in bed, eyes on the ceiling, replaying the week.

Yoongi’s voice. His quiet steadiness. The way he stares without flinching.

It’s not the kind of attention Seokjin is used to.

It’s something else.

Something slower. Deeper.

Something he might want to keep learning how to read.

And Yoongi’s stare?

It still lingers.

Chapter Text

The second time Seokjin falls asleep in studio, it’s unintentional.

The first time doesn’t really count. He’d only closed his eyes for a minute while waiting for glue to set. But this time—this time he genuinely conks out, head on his arms, the rhythmic tap of pencils and the low hum of Yoongi’s music lulling him into dreamless silence.

When he wakes, it’s past 2 am, and Yoongi is gone.

But there’s a blanket over his shoulders.

It’s not from the studio stash. It’s soft and worn at the corners, smelling faintly of cedarwood and clean laundry. It’s Yoongi’s.

And somehow, that makes everything worse.

They’re not friends. Not really.

Sure, they’d worked together last week. Sure, they’d talked. A little. Yoongi had wrapped his hand when he cut himself and sent him a cryptic note afterward that Seokjin had read too many times.

But still. They weren’t friends. Yoongi barely talks to anyone. He doesn’t show up to class events or join in the afternoon snack runs. He wears the same hoodie in every studio meeting, drinks his coffee black and silent, and glares at the printer like it’s personally offended him.

And yet.

There’s the blanket.

There’s the coffee cup with a post-it on it that shows up on Seokjin’s desk Tuesday morning—his exact order, no note, but Yoongi’s familiar handwriting:

“Don’t fall asleep this time.”

There’s the moment during Wednesday’s concept board crit when Seokjin says something self-deprecating and Yoongi frowns like he’s offended on his behalf.

“You don’t have to talk down your own work just to sound humble,” Yoongi says quietly.

Seokjin blinks at him. “You were listening?”

“I always listen.”

It sends a weird flutter up Seokjin’s spine.

They don’t get paired again formally, but something shifts anyway.

They start sitting closer in studio. Not always right next to each other—but close enough that they can see each other’s desks. Close enough that Seokjin starts to memorize Yoongi’s sketching habits, and Yoongi starts to mutter architectural criticisms under his breath that Seokjin answers without thinking.

It’s not friendship yet.

But it’s something.

Seokjin starts arriving earlier to studio. Not by design. He just… happens to get coffee quicker. Happens to need to “recheck” his perspective drawings. Happens to bring extra snacks that somehow always include things Yoongi likes—black sesame crackers, spicy rice chips, cold brew in a carton.

Yoongi doesn’t say thank you. But he eats them.

Sometimes he leaves Seokjin notes in return.

“Page 3, column spacing’s inconsistent.”

“That sketch on the far right? Looks better without the top heavy shading.”

“Stop using Comic Sans in joke slides. I’m begging you.”

Seokjin saves every note in his sketchbook like a middle schooler with a crush.

It’s humiliating.

And kind of thrilling.

One Friday, the studio holds a casual pin-up session—everyone’s early concept models displayed across a row of tables for critique.

Yoongi doesn’t pin anything up.

He stands at the back, arms crossed, watching.

Seokjin wants to ask why, but doesn’t. Instead, he does his own presentation, talks through site context and elevation studies, half-expecting Yoongi to disappear halfway through.

But Yoongi doesn’t.

He stays until the end.

And afterward, when everyone’s packing up, he walks up beside Seokjin and says, “That stepped courtyard you designed?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s the first thing you’ve made that looks like you.”

Seokjin turns, heart skipping. “Like me?”

Yoongi shrugs, looking away. “Bright. A little dramatic. Open in the middle.”

And then he walks off like he hasn’t just set off fireworks in Seokjin’s chest.

They don’t talk about feelings. God, no. That would be ridiculous. They talk about everything else.

About brutalist forms and solar shading, about cantilevers and spatial sequencing. About professors they like, concepts they hate. Seokjin makes Yoongi laugh once—really laugh—when he compares the design studio kitchen to a crime scene with no bodies but plenty of leftover takeout.

Yoongi starts offering him new songs to listen to when they sketch.

Seokjin starts timing his breaks to when Yoongi stretches his neck and leans back, because he likes watching the way the tension eases from his shoulders.

It’s not flirting.

It’s not anything.

And yet.

One night, Seokjin brings a miniature projector to studio and sets it up quietly near the back corner of the room. He doesn’t ask anyone to join—just cues up a looping playlist of architectural walkthroughs and ambience.

He does it because he likes atmosphere. Because everything’s better with light. Because he wants to feel less alone.

Yoongi watches from across the room, then slowly stands and drags his stool over.

They sit together in silence, the projector casting warm orange light across their feet.

“You like film scores,” Yoongi says.

“How did you—?”

“The last four songs you played are by the same composer.”

Seokjin blinks. “You always this observant?”

“Only with things that interest me.”

Seokjin swallows.

Doesn’t answer.

It becomes a routine.

Late nights. Quiet music. Drafting in tandem. Barely speaking.

And yet, the silence is never empty.

Yoongi’s presence is sharp, electric, grounding. Seokjin starts missing it when it’s gone. He starts noticing when Yoongi isn’t in studio. He starts worrying. Stupidly, he starts missing a person he’s barely allowed himself to call a friend.

One Sunday night, when Seokjin stays late alone, he catches himself looking toward Yoongi’s desk four times.

Yoongi doesn’t come.

The next morning, Yoongi shows up with bruised circles under his eyes and a slight limp in his step.

“Are you okay?” Seokjin asks before he can stop himself.

Yoongi just says, “Fell asleep in the library stairwell.”

Seokjin stares.

Yoongi shrugs. “Didn’t make it home. Don’t worry about it.”

Seokjin worries anyway.

That night, he brings an extra blanket.

Yoongi doesn’t comment, but when Seokjin wakes the next morning, it’s covering both of them.

The first time Seokjin dreams of Yoongi, it’s just hands.

His own, sketching.

Yoongi’s, reaching.

Helping. Holding. Guiding.

He wakes up warm. Embarrassed.

And more than a little confused.

They start exchanging sketches.

At first it’s technical—elevations, joinery suggestions, roofline critiques.

But it grows.

They start drawing on each other’s work. Sketching tiny figures into each other’s floorplans. Leaving small, hidden additions—a bird on a wire, a stray cat under a cantilever.

Seokjin finds a page in his sketchbook one day with his own plan overlayed by Yoongi’s tracing. The lines are gentle. Considerate.

The figure standing in the courtyard?

It’s wearing a long coat.

Like Seokjin’s.

He doesn’t say anything.

But he redraws the plan the next day—and keeps the figure in place.

It’s a Tuesday when Yoongi sits beside him without asking.

They’re working on different projects, but Seokjin feels the heat of him, the focus, the quiet way his pencil never hesitates.

At one point, Yoongi leans close, frowns at Seokjin’s paper.

“You’re fighting the form,” he says.

“I’m trying to be innovative.”

“Being confusing isn’t innovative.”

Seokjin narrows his eyes. “Well, maybe your concept is too minimalist to make sense.”

“It’s not about making sense. It’s about feeling right.”

“Since when do you care about feelings?”

Yoongi looks at him then.

Really looks.

“Since I started paying attention.”

Seokjin doesn’t ask what that means.

But he can’t stop thinking about it.

By the end of the semester, Seokjin has learned a few things.

Yoongi keeps emergency matcha packets in his bag.

He stretches his right wrist every thirty minutes, quietly, like it hurts.

He hums when he’s designing things that make him proud.

And he always—always—notices when Seokjin walks into the room.

They haven’t had a conversation about any of it.

But Seokjin’s sketchbook pages are full of Yoongi’s handwriting.

And Yoongi’s concept models have started to curve in ways that feel strangely familiar.

Like smiles. Like soft things. Like maybe he’s building around something instead of away from it.

Seokjin doesn’t know what they are.

But when he looks at Yoongi now, he doesn’t look away.

Chapter Text

The first time Yoongi brings Seokjin coffee, he doesn’t say anything.

No note. No smile. No “here, I thought you could use this.”

Just walks into studio fifteen minutes after Seokjin’s arrived, places a large cup next to his drafting board, and goes to his desk like it means nothing.

Which, to be fair, it might.

But Seokjin sits there for three minutes, staring at it like it’s some kind of hidden message.

Because it’s not just any coffee. It’s his order—iced americano, two shots, no sugar, in a cup from the café across the street, the one Yoongi had once muttered was “too pretentious for real caffeine.”

And yet.

Here it is.

Seokjin lifts it slowly, takes a cautious sip.

Perfect.

Of course it is.

He glances over. Yoongi’s at his desk, earphones in, head tilted slightly forward, scribbling notes into his sketchbook with that tiny, jagged handwriting Seokjin’s come to recognize even from a distance.

Seokjin turns back to his drawing.

He doesn’t smile.

But he drinks the coffee down to the last drop.

It becomes a quiet habit.

Once a week, maybe twice, a coffee appears beside Seokjin’s workstation. Sometimes it’s americano. Sometimes it’s cold brew. One time it’s matcha, and he texts Yoongi at midnight—really? matcha? am i dying?

Yoongi replies:

you said once it keeps you calm during model week.

Seokjin had said that.

In passing.

Two weeks ago.

And Yoongi remembered.

That thought stays with Seokjin longer than the matcha.

Their dynamic shifts subtly after that.

They still don’t talk much during class. But outside critiques and deadlines, they start gravitating toward each other—like two objects in orbit, slowly closing in.

They work quietly. They share cutting mats. They trade sketches.

But most of all, they watch.

Seokjin catches Yoongi watching him when he’s lost in design, fingers smeared with graphite and lip tucked between his teeth.

Yoongi catches Seokjin watching him when he stretches—arms raised, hoodie riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin before falling back down.

Neither of them mentions it.

But neither of them stops.

Their professor announces the first major group review of the semester, and chaos explodes in studio. Everyone’s scrambling for concept boards and site models. There’s tension in the air thick enough to cut with a precision knife.

Seokjin doesn’t sleep for two days.

On the third, he shows up to studio at 7 am, trying to get a head start on tracing.

Yoongi is already there.

Asleep, somehow, with his head down on the table, hoodie pulled over his face like a curtain.

Seokjin pauses.

For a second—just a second—he lets himself look.

At the way Yoongi’s fingers curl inward, tucked near his sketchbook. At the faint ink smudge on his wrist. At the soft rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes.

He looks… gentle. Not fragile, but softened.

Seokjin’s heart twists.

He turns away before it gets worse.

They end up presenting side by side during the review, their boards pinned up two meters apart.

Yoongi’s concept is sparse, composed, almost brutalist. Clean lines, heavy shadows. His models are painfully exact.

Seokjin’s concept is messier. Fuller. Focused on narrative and movement, on how light might spill into interior courtyards and play across curved walls.

The professor raises an eyebrow at the contrast.

“You two have remarkably different sensibilities,” she comments. “But oddly… you seem to speak to each other’s work.”

Yoongi doesn’t react.

Seokjin pretends not to feel a rush of something like pride.

Or maybe something more dangerous.

After the review, everyone trickles out in clumps—some to drink, some to cry, some to pass out on dorm beds.

Seokjin stays behind.

He’s re-pinning a fallen image when Yoongi appears beside him.

“You hungry?” Yoongi asks.

Seokjin startles. “What?”

“Dinner. Or lunch. Or whatever meal it is when you haven’t eaten for thirty hours.”

Seokjin blinks. “You’re asking me to eat?”

Yoongi shrugs, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“Is this concern I hear?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

Seokjin grins. “Too late.”

But he follows Yoongi out anyway.

They end up at a small noodle place near campus, tucked between a stationery shop and a secondhand bookstore. It smells like sesame oil and garlic and salvation.

They sit in the back, bent over bowls of jjajangmyeon, and for once, they talk.

Really talk.

About architecture. About pressure. About growing up wanting to build things instead of destroy them.

Seokjin tells Yoongi he used to build cities out of cereal boxes as a kid.

Yoongi tells Seokjin he once tried to make a model entirely out of ramen noodles because he had nothing else at home.

Seokjin laughs.

Yoongi watches him with something unreadable in his eyes.

They don’t talk about the coffee.

Or the stares.

Or the way Seokjin’s knee has brushed Yoongi’s under the table five times, and neither of them has moved away.

But they finish their bowls.

And they leave together.

Studio continues.

Assignments pile up. The exhibition deadline creeps closer. Everyone becomes a little more feral, a little more sleep-deprived, a little more honest at 3 am when the only thing keeping them conscious is bad music and worse convenience store snacks.

But in the middle of it all—Yoongi becomes a constant.

He sits beside Seokjin more days than not. He edits Seokjin’s renderings without being asked. He pulls Seokjin’s chair back when he forgets to move before wheeling his cart of materials past.

Seokjin starts bringing two cups of coffee instead of one.

He doesn’t say why.

Yoongi doesn’t ask.

One night, the studio is nearly empty. Rain hammers the windows. Seokjin’s listening to some lo-fi playlist and working on a section cut when Yoongi nudges his ankle with his foot.

“You hum when you concentrate,” Yoongi says.

Seokjin stops. “I do not.”

“You do. It’s off-key.”

“You’re off-key.”

“Brilliant comeback.”

Seokjin laughs, rolling his eyes. “Well, since you’re so observant, what else do I do?”

Yoongi tilts his head. “You tap your pencil three times when you’re about to change your mind.”

Seokjin blinks.

“You chew the inside of your cheek when you’re nervous.”

He blinks again.

“You get really quiet when something makes you happy.”

Seokjin doesn’t respond.

Not because he’s offended.

But because he feels so seen it almost aches.

Yoongi looks at him. Shrugs. “I notice things.”

“I’m starting to get that,” Seokjin murmurs.

They go back to work.

But something has shifted.

Two days later, Seokjin finds a sketch tucked between the pages of his site notes.

It’s not signed, but he knows it’s from Yoongi.

It’s a rough concept perspective—soft lines, quiet shadows, the curve of a rooftop terrace. And in the corner, drawn with tender precision, is a lone figure leaning against a railing.

It looks a lot like him.

He stares at it for a long time.

Then folds it carefully and places it in the same sketchbook where he keeps Yoongi’s notes.

He doesn’t say anything.

But he starts looking at Yoongi differently.

Like maybe he wants to be seen.

Like maybe he wants to be known.

By him.

Chapter Text

Seokjin’s not used to feeling like this.

Not with anyone. Not in studio.

He’s used to being liked—loved, even, in a casual way. People are drawn to him. They compliment his designs. They want him in their group chats and want him to speak first in critiques. He knows how to work a room when he needs to. He knows how to smile when he doesn’t.

But Yoongi looks at him like none of that matters.

Like he sees something past all that.

And now that Seokjin’s started to want that kind of attention, that quiet, pointed awareness—he doesn't know how to un-want it.

It happens slowly.

After the concept review, Seokjin feels it—an undercurrent in their interactions that hadn’t been there before.

Yoongi gets quieter, even for him.

He doesn’t offer to share reference images anymore. Doesn’t nudge Seokjin’s foot when he’s overthinking. Doesn’t linger at Seokjin’s station unless they’re assigned together.

He still brings coffee.

But he sets it down without meeting Seokjin’s eyes.

And it starts to gnaw at Seokjin in a way he can’t quite admit.

Until someone else notices.

“You and Yoongi had a fight?” Taehyung asks casually, leaning against the studio sink.

Seokjin blinks. “What?”

Taehyung points his chopsticks at him. “He used to look at you like you hung the moon. Now he barely looks at all.”

Seokjin tries to laugh it off. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being observant.”

“Maybe he’s just busy.”

“Sure. And maybe you’re not completely losing it every time he walks in the room.”

Seokjin stays quiet.

Because it’s true.

Because Taehyung is right.

And because Seokjin has no idea what he did wrong.

The tension finally snaps during a model review.

They’re each presenting to a visiting architect—some slick professional with horn-rimmed glasses and a too-perfect voice. He pauses by Seokjin’s model, gestures at a curve in his form study.

“This,” he says, “this is thoughtful work. The way you’ve split the interior volume—it’s bold. Risky.”

Seokjin flushes. “Thank you.”

“You ever consider interning with a firm focused on experimental housing?”

He hadn’t. But he’s about to nod when he catches Yoongi’s eyes from across the room.

Yoongi’s jaw is clenched.

His hands are shoved into his pockets.

And when the architect moves on, Yoongi walks straight past Seokjin without a word.

Later, when the studio thins out, Seokjin finds him in the back corner, alone, sketching too hard into a sheet of vellum.

“You good?” Seokjin asks, tentative.

Yoongi doesn’t look up. “Fine.”

“That architect was kind of intense, huh?”

Silence.

Seokjin shifts, hands in his pockets. “You didn’t like what he said?”

Yoongi exhales through his nose. Still not looking at him. “It’s not about what he said.”

“What, then?”

Yoongi finally turns. His eyes are dark, unreadable. “It’s about how fast you believed him.”

Seokjin reels back like he’s been slapped. “Excuse me?”

Yoongi shrugs, but it’s stiff. “You were glowing. Like you’d never been told you were good before.”

“Maybe I haven’t—by someone who actually mattered.”

Yoongi’s mouth twists. “Everyone thinks you’re perfect already, Seokjin. Do you really need one more person to worship you?”

The words hit too hard, too clean.

Seokjin feels the blood rush to his ears. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer.

So Seokjin says, voice trembling, “You act like I asked for this. Like it’s my fault people look at me.”

“I don’t care who looks at you.”

“Then why are you so—?” Seokjin stops. Breathes. “Why are you so mad?”

Yoongi finally meets his eyes. “Because I don’t like watching people touch something I—”

He cuts off.

Too late.

The silence stretches between them like a snapped string.

Yoongi turns away. “Forget it.”

Seokjin whispers, “Yoongi.”

But he’s already gone.

That night, Seokjin doesn’t sleep.

He thinks about the way Yoongi had said something I— and stopped.

He thinks about how many times they’ve nearly said things.

And how many times they’ve pulled back.

Maybe they’re both cowards.

Maybe they’re both waiting for the other to jump first.

And maybe—just maybe—Yoongi’s been holding on to something this whole time.

The next few days are cold.

Yoongi still comes to studio. Still works. Still finishes his midterms with clinical precision and earns praise from professors.

But he doesn’t speak to Seokjin.

Not unless he has to.

Not even when Seokjin leaves an extra energy drink on his desk with a note that says in case you forget to eat again.

Yoongi drinks it.

But the note is gone when Seokjin checks back later.

No reply.

No smile.

Nothing.

It hurts more than Seokjin wants to admit.

He doesn’t even know when it started—this ache, this need to be noticed by Yoongi and no one else.

Maybe it started with the coffee.

Maybe it started with the sketch in his notebook.

Maybe it started the very first time Yoongi stared at him across the studio and didn’t look away.

All Seokjin knows is that now, without that attention, without that quiet presence beside him—everything feels off-balance.

Like part of his floorplan is missing.

Like he’s building something on the wrong axis.

On Friday, Seokjin gets caught in the rain walking back from the laser cutting lab. He doesn’t have an umbrella. Doesn’t have a jacket.

He arrives in studio soaked, shoes squelching.

Yoongi is already there.

And for the first time all week, he looks up.

Their eyes meet.

Yoongi doesn’t move.

But he doesn’t look away either.

Seokjin sets down his drenched materials. Tries to pretend he doesn’t feel cold and miserable and sad in a way he can’t quite name.

He starts unrolling his model base.

Yoongi stands slowly.

Walks to him.

And without a word, places his hoodie—that hoodie—over Seokjin’s shoulders.

Then he walks away again.

And this time, Seokjin doesn’t stop him.

He just closes his eyes.

And lets himself hope.

Chapter Text

There’s something about silence that becomes a sound of its own when it’s been going on too long.

Studio is buzzing, people moving through the final stages of prep for their exhibition. Plotters hum. Spray adhesive clouds the back corner of the room. Someone’s crying over foamboard in the hallway.

But between Seokjin and Yoongi?

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind. Not anymore.

It stretches like tension wire, tight and waiting to snap.

Seokjin’s had enough.

It’s been three weeks since Yoongi stopped talking to him.

Three weeks since that fight.

Three weeks of coffee cups left untouched, of messages read but unanswered, of seeing Yoongi laugh at someone else’s joke and feeling like something inside him is being carved out.

He can't stand it anymore.

So one night—3 am, when only a few stragglers remain—Seokjin corners him by the window ledge overlooking the back quad.

“You’re avoiding me,” Seokjin says.

Yoongi doesn’t look up from his sketchpad. “No, I’m working.”

“You haven’t said more than five words to me since the model review.”

“Maybe I didn’t have anything to say.”

Seokjin swallows. “You could’ve at least told me you hated me.”

Yoongi flinches.

“Because this?” Seokjin gestures at the space between them. “This hurts more.”

Yoongi closes his eyes.

And says nothing.

Seokjin exhales sharply. “You told me once you notice things. So notice this, Yoongi. I’ve been here. I’ve been showing up. I don’t know what else you want from me.”

“I didn’t ask you to do anything,” Yoongi says quietly.

“That’s exactly the problem.”

Yoongi finally looks up. His eyes are tired. But his voice is sharp. “You want me to apologize for pulling back?”

“I want you to be honest.”

Yoongi laughs once, bitter. “You really want honesty?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” He straightens, standing fully. “I’ve been pulling back because I care too much. And I hate it.”

Seokjin’s breath catches. “What?”

“I hate how you make me feel,” Yoongi continues, voice low and cracking. “Like I’m seventeen again and terrified of wanting something I can’t have.”

“Yoongi—”

“I hate that you make it easy to care. I hate that I like your stupid smile and your loud jokes and how you defend people during crit even when you’re scared.”

Seokjin’s heart pounds so loud he can barely hear the rest.

“I hate that I look for you before I look for anyone else,” Yoongi says. “That I want your opinion first. That I keep hoping—”

He stops.

Swallows.

That silence again.

Seokjin steps forward, closing the space between them.

And when he speaks, his voice is steady.

“I keep hoping too.”

Yoongi blinks.

Seokjin takes another step. “I’ve been hoping since the night you left that blanket on me.”

“I thought you didn’t notice.”

“I noticed everything.”

They’re close now.

Breath close.

Seokjin reaches out. Not to touch. Just to be there.

“You were always the one I was waiting on,” he says. “I just didn’t want to say it first and ruin everything.”

Yoongi’s voice is hoarse. “You couldn’t ruin it.”

They don’t kiss.

Not yet.

But Yoongi nods once, sharp and small, like the weight of everything is finally sinking in.

And Seokjin leans in just enough to let their foreheads touch.

For now, that’s enough.

The next day, things are different.

Not dramatically. Not to anyone else.

But Yoongi stands next to him at the print station again. He rolls Seokjin’s renderings without being asked. He steals one of his snacks and doesn’t look away.

Seokjin doesn’t push.

He just smiles.

And Yoongi—finally—smiles back.

In the quiet days that follow, they fall into step again.

Not like before.

Something deeper now.

They don’t talk about labels. Don’t talk about what this is.

But Seokjin finds another sketch slipped into his sketchbook—this one of two figures standing together under a light-filled awning.

Their hands are almost touching.

He doesn’t say anything.

But he traces the lines of the drawing for a long time.

Then tapes it above his desk.

One night, when most of the studio has cleared out, Seokjin sits beside Yoongi on the floor, sharing a half-eaten sandwich.

“Do you ever think about the future?” he asks softly.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “All the time. We’re architecture students. It’s literally our job.”

Seokjin nudges his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer for a while.

Then says, “Yeah.”

And after a beat, adds, “Sometimes I imagine building something that doesn’t fall apart.”

Seokjin turns to look at him.

“I think we’re building something,” he says.

Yoongi doesn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he says again. “I think we are.”

Chapter Text

The studio buzzes with end-of-semester chaos.

Final boards are being mounted, models touched up with trembling fingers, nerves held together by caffeine and duct tape. Someone in the corner is arguing with the plotter. Someone else has burst into tears over misplaced foam.

Seokjin sits at his desk, rereading his presentation notes. He knows his concept. He knows his space. He’s spent the last four weeks refining his model until it feels like a quiet extension of himself.

But all he can think about is Yoongi.

Yoongi, who hasn’t said much all day.

Yoongi, who’s been focused and calm, helping others before even touching his own presentation board.

Yoongi, whose last glance toward Seokjin had held something deeper than words.

The exhibition space is set up in the department’s gallery. Long white walls. Spotlights. Tables lined with work arranged by group. The energy is electric—professors circling, students whispering, parents pointing with proud eyes.

Seokjin’s project is second in line.

He steps forward when called. Speaks clearly. Explains the flow of light, the relationship between interior thresholds and spatial narrative. His voice is steady. His hands don’t shake.

He sees Yoongi watching from across the room.

It makes him braver.

Later, after the presentations have ended and people have started to drift away, Seokjin wanders toward Yoongi’s setup.

It’s… stunning.

Minimalist. Poised. Each element considered and intentional.

And yet—

There, tucked near the base of the final model, is something different.

A miniature figure.

Standing alone in a shaft of light.

Not architectural. Not scale-accurate.

But familiar.

Seokjin leans closer.

The figure wears a long coat.

Hair swept slightly to the side.

It’s him.

His breath catches.

He doesn’t realize Yoongi’s beside him until a quiet voice says, “You weren’t supposed to notice that so quickly.”

Seokjin turns. “You put me in your model.”

Yoongi looks away, like he’s not sure whether to defend it or apologize.

But Seokjin smiles.

“You put me in your concept.”

Yoongi shrugs. “You’ve been in it the whole time.”

Seokjin’s heart does something traitorous.

He steps a little closer. “You gonna pretend that doesn’t mean something?”

Yoongi sighs. “I’m too tired to pretend.”

“Good.”

Seokjin waits.

Lets the quiet settle between them.

Then suddenly says, “You could’ve told me.”

“I didn’t know how.”

Seokjin considers this. Then, gently says, “Show me.”

Yoongi looks up.

For once, there’s no hesitation.

He steps into Seokjin’s space—not enough to crowd, but enough to feel it.

And says, soft and certain, “I like you.”

Seokjin exhales.

Then laughs, quiet and stunned.

“I know,” he says. “I’ve known.”

Yoongi’s mouth twitches. “Took you long enough to call me out on it.”

“I wanted to be sure.”

“And now?”

Seokjin leans in, forehead almost brushing Yoongi’s.

“Now I’m sure.”

They don’t kiss—not yet. Too many people, too much noise.

But later, when they’re alone—back in the empty studio, coats draped over chairs, leftover snacks on the floor—Yoongi brushes his fingers against Seokjin’s and says, “You’re not just in my concept.”

Seokjin smiles, fingers curling back around his.

“Good,” he whispers. “Because you’re in mine, too.”

Chapter Text

The apartment isn’t big.

One bedroom. Tall windows. A draft that sneaks in under the balcony door when it rains.

But it has sunlight in the mornings, and enough wall space for sketches, and a small corner where Yoongi keeps his old models stacked like memories.

It’s home.

And it’s theirs.

Seokjin wakes up first.

He always does.

Not because he’s a morning person, but because Yoongi isn’t.

He pads into the kitchen barefoot, yawns his way through boiling water, and lines up two mugs on the counter.

By the time Yoongi stumbles out—hoodie half-on, hair unbrushed—Seokjin has the coffee ready.

“You look like a sleep-deprived intern,” Seokjin says, handing him a mug.

“I am a sleep-deprived intern,” Yoongi mutters, taking a sip.

Seokjin smiles.

They’ve both graduated. Both working at different firms now—Yoongi in a small, minimalist-focused studio; Seokjin in one known for curving façades and bold interiors. Their styles still clash, but their mornings don’t.

They find balance here, in the slow rituals.

Coffee. Shared glances. Silences that speak.

Some nights, they come home at different hours, burned out and covered in graphite or sawdust.

Sometimes they argue—about deadlines, about dishes, about whether or not architecture is just a very expensive form of masochism.

But at the end of the day, they always end up in the same place.

On the couch.

Side by side.

Legs tangled.

Yoongi’s head on Seokjin’s shoulder.

A design magazine forgotten on the floor.

One evening, Seokjin finds Yoongi sketching by the window.

“Working on something?” he asks, flopping onto the couch.

Yoongi hums. “Just… thinking.”

“About?”

Yoongi flips the page around.

It’s a concept drawing.

Not for a public space. Not for a building.

A small house. Sloped roof. Light spilling from tall windows.

Two figures standing on a balcony.

Seokjin stares at it.

Then meets Yoongi’s eyes.

Yoongi shrugs, almost shy. “Someday. Maybe.”

Seokjin crosses the room.

Kisses the top of his head.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I think so too.”

They don’t need grand declarations.

They don’t need rings.

Not yet.

What they have is quieter.

Yoongi’s jacket draped over Seokjin’s chair.

Seokjin’s water bottle on Yoongi’s side of the bed.

Sketches with both of their initials in the corner.

A life built, not all at once, but beam by beam.

And on the nights when the city quiets down and the models are done and no one’s asking for revisions, Seokjin looks over and finds Yoongi watching him.

Just like before.

Just like always.

“You’re staring,” Seokjin teases.

Yoongi doesn’t look away.

“I always will.”