Chapter Text
“Migraine, hyung.”
“It’s Seokjin-hyung, actually, but we can work on that.”
Namjoon groans pitifully. At least, Seokjin is pretty sure it’s Namjoon. Without sight of any actual human body part, he really can’t be sure it’s not a deep-voiced and respectful blanket monster making itself at home on the master bed. Whatever it is, it shifts, turns around, and resettles in a position which leaves a rather large lump pointed in Seokjin’s general direction. Lovely.
“Lights on or off?”
“Off please.”
Seokjin flicks the switch, and a dishevelled Namjoon emerges to face him, whining a little in the back of his throat.
Seokjin considers whether or not he should be counting these noises in his game, and decides against it. That please, certainly, but the grunts and huffs are more response than statement.
“Quiet or normal?”
“Normal. Low, though.”
It’s a little game Seokjin plays as he goes about attending Migraine Namjoon, a much less talkative and somewhat more helpless edition of his beloved Regular Namjoon, to see just how few words his usually oh-so-long-winded lover really needs to describe his entire experience.
For the record, he’s at seven, and Seokjin has almost all of the basic information down: a migraine sent him home partway through the day; he wasn’t sensitive to light at the time he established his Illness Nest in the master bedroom, though at some point he became so and retreated to the dark safety of a blanket mount rather than stand up and walk across the room than get the light; he has mild sound sensitivity, so Seokjin can speak at a normal volume, so long as he doesn’t do anything high-pitched, like operating the microwave. Or laughing. (Which, actually, wouldn’t be a problem if he had Namjoon’s voice, all rich and deep and smooth and other adjectives with which one might describe a river of chocolate, but as it turns out, we can’t all be so lucky.)
Seokjin sits down on the edge of the bed, and Namjoon attaches himself to Seokjin’s waist with a whine. (Scratch that, maybe Seokjin’s fine with his pitch. Namjoon’s whine is weird.)
Seokjin’s voice softens as he places his hands over the ones wound around him. “How long?”
The head behind him shifts toward the clock on the nightstand, tensing partway. “Four.”
Eight words, four hours and counting, and Namjoon has a stiff neck that’s restricting his movement.
“Have you taken something recently?”
Ah, a small nod. Still eight. Maybe Namjoon is unbeknowingly going for a new record.
Seokjin steals a pillow from the edges of the mound of bedding and props himself back on the headboard, manipulating a pliable (Blob of Namjoon. Namblob? Blobjoon? Blobjoon.) Blobjoon around to rest his head on Seokjin’s thigh. Blobjoon settles, curling the blankets around himself and keeping his neck in a pretty neutral position with decent wiggle room.
“Hungry?”
Blobjoon shakes his head.
“Nauseated?”
Nods.
“Dizzy?”
Of course, hyung, and I might throw up on you, but from now on you’ll still jump at the chance to deal with my migraines because you’ll always be trying to figure out if I can say all of this again in less than eight words, Seokjin reads off the expression in his lap.
Regardless of the fact that that couldn’t possibly been what had been intended, Seokjin sighs, “What am I going to do with you?”
Blobjoon grunts. Seokjin twirls dyed hair between his fingers, and grimacing lips twist up into a small smile. Well played, Blobjoon, well played.