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The first time Yoongi saw Namjoon, he almost missed him.
With his eyes glued to his ratty sneakers and music blaring from his earbuds, he was wholly preoccupied with trudging the last few steps to school when a sudden movement drew his eye. There was a boy stumbling to his feet, clumsy fingers fumbling with the straps of his discarded bag– bulging with what Yoongi could only assume to be books. It was March, chilly enough to warrant a sweater, and yet he was wearing the standard white uniform shirt. Why? Yoongi thought absurdly before he spotted a group of kids nearby, tugging a woollen brown sweater between them like a chew toy.
He’d seen the same scenario back in Daegu. The stream of students around him flew onwards and upwards, and he knew they’d seen it all before as well. Huh.
Yoongi dragged his gaze away and stared back down at his feet, not surprised to see that they had stilled. Someone jostled his backpack, someone else bumped into his side. With a jolt, he kept on moving, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. He didn’t need to get caught up in the wrong kind of trouble, especially in a new place. It was a shitty thought, a shitty sort of rule to live by, but it rung true.
It was enough, he thought, that he stopped to look back before walking through the school gates, straining for any sight of a brown sweater, maybe a wrinkled, lanky frame. There was no sight of them though, so he turned up his music and kept on walking.
The second time Yoongi saw Namjoon, he noticed his godawful perm. The correlation between the first sighting and the second didn’t quite click until he saw the boy stumble over someone else’s foot and into the corner of a desk with an almost comically exaggerated wince, curls flopping minimally but with great presence.
Was the boy in Yoongi’s grade? He was tall enough to be, but somehow Yoongi doubted it. He didn’t look as if he’d grown into his own clothes yet, much less his own skin.
The general consensus Yoongi had come to concerning stereotypes was that they were a load of bullcrap. They were often products of ignorance, just generalizations made to be swallowed blindly, and yet the first thing that came to mind, staring at the boy, was: nerd. He was a hypocrite but the part of him that hadn’t gotten over the perm refused to apologize. Huh.
The chatter of the classroom died down as the teacher entered the room, her head held in an almost disquieting alignment with her back. She turned to face the crowd of students with a stern face, opened her mouth, and began to talk, English interspersed with snippets of Korean marching off her tongue. Yoongi studied the boy and noted he was in possession of his sweater again. It might’ve been stretched but he couldn’t be certain.
The teacher ended her sentence with a long pause, spared a second to scan their faces, and began to talk again. The boy’s eyes were fixed to the chalkboard behind her but something like understanding lingered on his face in stark contrast to the bored or overly attentive students around him. Maybe it was something in the quirk of his brow. Yoongi dragged his eyes from the boy to stare uncomprehendingly at the teacher’s mouth. It stretched oddly. Her tongue flicked out occasionally to press against her top row of teeth, exaggeratedly slow. Despite the many differences between Daegu and Seoul, Yoongi supposed that school wasn’t one of them.
When Yoongi had first moved over the break, he’d been nigh obsessed with documenting those differences. It hadn’t been a conscious thing at first, he’d just started and forgotten to stop. First, it'd been the new shape of his bedroom. Next, the silent floorboards of their apartment. The way people talked: flat, without any of the harsher tones that’d nurtured him. The mad press of the crowds, the shimmering fabrics, the sharp rise of the buildings, the colour.
Seoul, he’d learned, had a different type of vibe. It was a heart constructed, pulsing with the frenetic energy of millions. It was distant yet alive, a stream of people (their thoughts beliefs ideas feelings) rushing right by you. Yoongi had reckoned it the type of place to evolve while you slept, so for the first few nights, he hadn’t slept at all.
Now though, Yoongi found himself looking down (a reoccurring theme that was worrying at best) and let his spine melt into the back of his chair with a sigh. There were some things, he knew, that never changed.
Coming into Seoul, Yoongi had known his new school was going to be big. It was a logical assumption looking at the population of the capital vs. the population of Daegu. A bigger city meant bigger schools and bigger schools meant more people. Even walking to school, making his way through fluorescent hallways, eyeing the size of his class, he’d been aware of the change. And yet–
He took one look at the cafeteria and turned right around.
No way. It’d been but a glance, but a glance had been enough to reveal the winding lunch lines, and rows and rows of packed tables. The very idea of entering the room and sitting next to a bunch of strangers had his palms slick with sweat.
He’d just… find somewhere else to sit.
Cursing harshly under his breath, Yoongi readjusted his backpack and made his way away from the cafeteria entrance, bumping blindly into others as he went. It was fine, though. Really, it was. He’d passed just as many people huddled in the hallway, rows of students sitting alone yet 3 feet apart. Maybe he could find an empty classroom and shut the door before others got the same idea. Maybe he could try and find a music room.
Having vaguely decided on a destination, Yoongi quickened his pace and wandered. He passed people and lockers and rooms he hadn’t seen before, turned down hallways once, twice, and then doubled back. He even trotted down a flight of stairs before forging bravely onwards, ears straining for any hint of music. Somewhere on the first floor, he noted an arrow pointing towards the music hall and puffed out a short breath of relief.
A faint melody drifted towards him, something like violins and maybe the sweet tune of a flute. Most of the rooms seemed to be occupied– something that might’ve bothered him if not for the piano that started up, draining the tension from his shoulders. It was almost funny, the way the hall had the same scuffed tiles and monotone plaster as the rest of the buildings, yet it emitted a totally different sense of comfort. For that, Yoongi was grateful.
“Sorry Joonie,” someone said. Even though the words were muffled, Yoongi flinched and glanced behind him. Stupid. He peered cautiously into the room to his right and paused. There were two boys in the room, and while he didn’t recognize the one who’d spoken, his eyes caught on a familiar mop of hair. They’d never talked, never even made eye contact, but Perm was probably the only person Yoongi would be able to recognize. He stayed.
The boy who spoke smiled brightly, mouth curving into a heart. Yoongi was momentarily blinded by his teeth, straight and white like something out of a toothpaste ad.
“I have to go to guidance and figure out what’s up with my schedule. You’ll be alright?”
“Yeah of course. I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” Perm said. His voice was deep but not as deep as Taehyung’s, crisp in pronunciation yet almost raspy in delivery. Yoongi almost would’ve like to listen more, but the rustling of bags and the sound of footsteps approached. He quickly dropped to the ground, leaned against the wall, and bowed his head as White Teeth walked by.
Forehead to his knees, bag clutched to his chest, he waited until the footsteps receded, and then rested his head against the cool wall behind him, heart thumping softly in his chest.
He was tired. It’d be wrong to say that it hit him all at once, but sitting alone in a strange hallway, the sound of the piano lulling him into a daze, Yoongi couldn’t remember what it was like to feel awake. Big, bright Seoul seemed more like a dream than his new reality. There was a static in his head, a buzzing undercurrent he didn’t want to shake. He hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, and the persistent weight tugging at his eyelids was almost enough for him to cave. What was he even doing? How cliche would it be for him to question how he got here?
There was a dull thud.
“Oh shit, fuck, shit darn!”
Perm (Joonie?) swore like he was trying to be quiet but didn’t know how. Yoongi blinked himself into alertness and decided that Perm probably did everything like that. Shifting, Yoongi turned to peer into the music room again, careful to hang back out of sight.
Perm had dropped a binder on his foot. The thing was huge and black, but Yoongi could see silvery lines where pencil marks might be. It was stuffed to the brim with papers (some stained, some torn), and had little sticky notes poking out. There seemed to be a thin stack of smaller notebooks in the binder pocket, the plastic stretched prominently over their imprint. Yoongi watched as Perm gingerly picked it back up and placed it on a nearby table, muttering under his breath.
There was a bulky laptop open on the table, whirring softly. Its display was dark, but only for a few seconds. Perm ran a finger tenderly along the mousepad and Yoongi blinked in surprise to see a music production app pop up, a file in progress splayed across the screen.
In hindsight, it made complete sense that Perm made music in the music hall. At the time, however, Yoongi was stunned (maybe would like to be stunned) by the revelation that he and Perm had something like that in common. What type of music did he make? Yoongi leaned in unconsciously as he squinted at the computer screen, trying to guess. Classical? Pop? Funk? Trot?
Perm tugged at his sweater sleeves, flipped to a sticky note near the back of his binder, tapped a button on his computer and proceeded to rap.
Yoongi’s first reaction was to snort and lean back and then– well.
It started slow at first. It started slow at first and then it built and Yoongi’s weary head snagged on the turns of phrase, desperately tried to encapsulate the beat before it faded and crashed into something more. The sentences fitted awkwardly at times, but there was something there, something lingering underneath that revealed itself in the flick of Perm’s tongue, the daring lilt of a word.
Oh, was really all he could think. Oh. Yoongi closed his eyes and let the boy’s voice accompany him as he drifted off to sleep.
Yoongi’s second day at school started much like the first. Having finished the tiny amount of review given the night before, things like waking up and eating breakfast passed without much stress. His mom had already left for work earlier that morning, and so he busied himself with packing lunch and straightening out the living room. Finally shouldering his backpack, he made his way out of the apartment and began the walk to school, a comforting drag to his feet.
Their building wasn’t far from school. That had been one of the requirements his mom had insisted on when they’d been looking for apartments. Something to ease the transition, something to make up for it. If he could get to school faster maybe it would facilitate some sort of growth in his grades, cut out unnecessary transit time in favour of studying or other activities beneficial for his future. Apartments near school were more expensive but she’d insisted and remained adamant in her stance. Yoongi had never been much good at arguing with her.
He was grateful in a guilty sense. Glad to enjoy the perks yet all too aware of the weight the decision carried, even now.
But his feet carried him onwards and he quickly merged with the rest of the crowd. Yoongi fiddled with the volume of his music till it drowned out the sounds of the city. The cars and buses raced by, but instead of their roar, there was the thudding of the bass. It was odd, watching people flap their mouths and hearing nothing. It was kind of funny. Yoongi found himself scanning those around him, not looking for anyone, just–
Perm was standing by the school gate. He shifted from side to side, bounced on his toes, ran his gaze through the approaching crowd absently as he tugged at the straps of his backpack. His hair stood proud and bounced stiffly with each sharp turn of his head. Was he looking for White Teeth?
Yoongi resisted the urge to look too and lowered his gaze to spot the same small group of boys from the day before, just in front of him. It had to be the same group. Shoving at each other, they swaggered their way towards Perm in a manner that made Yoongi’s nose wrinkle.
Before he really realized what he was doing, Yoongi moved forward and cut across their path, tripping the boy in the back on his way. Ignoring the soundless cry of anger, he shouldered right through the rest of the group with an irritated grunt, something red and hot thrumming through his fingertips. Dickheads.
Yoongi paused at the school gates for a fraction of a second– just long enough to see White Teeth had arrived– and then kept on walking.
The music room was in the same place it was the day before. It wasn’t that he’d expected it to move or anything, but part of him expected it to appear different somehow. He didn’t really know. Maybe Yoongi just figured that in the light of a new day, a different day, it’d feel a bit different too. Maybe the hall would energize him, disappoint him, do anything. He wanted it to mean something.
But it was just quiet, sleepy, and pretty much empty. He was alone for lunch again.
It was what he wanted but he wasn’t tired today so napping wasn’t an option. And so Yoongi hovered in front of the partially closed door and listened. He could hear someone moving around. Maybe it was Perm, maybe it was White Teeth, maybe it was another stranger taking comfort in their solitude. Would it hurt to know?
Yoongi hated the unfounded uncertainty of it all. He hated the way his thoughts ran uselessly into the same damn wall, swerved to run down his legs into his jittering feet. It would be nice to silence them for once, but he didn’t know if it would help or leave him blank, something much worse. It didn’t really make sense, but he was good at stalling, at delaying action when he wanted to.
Before leaving Daegu, he’d turned to Taehyung and declared that his first plan of action in Seoul would be to keep his head down.
“Hyung, no!” Taehyung had sputtered. The younger had been “helping” him clear his room of all his junk and they'd decided to take a small break on the stripped surface of Yoongi’s mattress. It was, Taehyung had declared, the perfect time to talk. Just for old time’s sake, as if they weren’t ever going to see each other again. It smelled like an excuse to Yoongi, but he’d indulged in him. “You’re moving to Seoul! There’ll be so many people! What’s the point if you aren’t going to talk to anyone?”
Taehyung had always been the more outgoing of the two. You could tell simply from the way he dressed, the way he talked and smiled. Yoongi could be goofy, could be loud, could talk for ages about things if he felt the need, but Taehyung made friends wherever he went and he could bask in company long after Yoongi felt the need to retire. It felt only right that Tae would focus on the “bright side”.
“I didn’t say I’m not gonna talk to anyone,” Yoongi had scoffed, picking at a piece of lint. “I just don’t plan on getting too attached or involved. I have you. There’s really no need, y’know?”
“Ah.” A smile had spread across Taehyung’s face: small and fond and sad enough to ache.
That had been their last day. They’d sat in silence as the sun draped its last trails of light along the windowsill, as it illuminated all the dust he’d no longer have to clean, and Yoongi could remember so clearly, the way the tears had never fallen, the naive way in which he’d thought This will be enough.
What was he doing now?
Yoongi watched his hand move forward, heard the soft hiss of flesh against metal, saw the veins in his forearm flex as his wrist flicked clockwise.
And he opened the door. Simple as that.
A blink and the room came into focus, revealing Perm. He was hunched over, attempting to gather a bunch of papers, but he froze as Yoongi appeared. His head rotated to face the door but the rest of his limbs stayed where they were, giving Yoongi the absurd impression of a frog.
They stared at each other. It was awkward. Yoongi felt awkward, but he was pretty sure that Perm felt more awkward. That was enough for his worries to melt away.
“Hey,” he said lowly, clearing his throat. “Let me help.”
He set his bag down by the door and went to kneel by the pile of papers. Perm nodded jerkily and then moved back a bit to watch as Yoongi silently gathered them in his arms and squared them off. He left them on the ground and sat back on his heels. They stared at the papers for a moment but neither made a move to take them.
“Than–”
“Wha–”
Yoongi closed his mouth with a snap and turned to face Perm, whose hands were hovering in the air like he wasn’t sure whether to grab the pile or facepalm.
“Sorry, what were you going to say?” There was a laugh bubbling up somewhere in the back of Yoongi’s throat.
“Thank you,” Perm said. “Thank you, that’s what I was going to say.”
“Right. No problem.”
A silence fell over them again. Yoongi picked up the pile and got to his feet, wincing slightly at the way the blood rushed back to his calves. Perm got up too after a second and Yoongi turned to hand him the stack, a small smile on his face.
“Here you go. What’s your name?”
Perm blinked at the pile and then took it with a matching smile. Yoongi couldn’t quite pull his gaze away from the boy’s hair, but his hair and his head were in the same vicinity anyway. It really didn’t matter.
“Kim Namjoon. It’s nice to meet you…?”
“Min Yoongi. We’re in the same English class.” Namjoon probably hadn’t noticed him, but it wasn’t like that was a surprise. They’d been at school for a grand total of two days and Yoongi had only recognized Namjoon because of the people bothering him and well, his hair. It probably wouldn’t be best to mention either at this point. “But you aren’t in my grade, are you?”
Namjoon laughed and scratched the back of his head. It was stupid how pleased Yoongi felt at having drawn out a laugh, even if he hadn’t made any joke.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Maybe,” Yoongi said after a pause. He resisted the urge to give the boy a once-over and settled for stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets. What did he say to that? You just seem younger? I look closer than most? You make me look closer than most? “I just moved, was going off a hunch.”
“You have an accent,” Namjoon said, nodding. Yoongi’s muscles tensed up before he fully registered the words. It was almost automatic, how his defenses rose. But there was no glint of mockery in Namjoon’s eyes, nor an obnoxious twist to his lips. No judgement, just the same sort of understanding Yoongi had observed in English the day before.
“Do you do music or do you just spend lunch here?” Yoongi asked, instead of commenting. He already knew the answer of course, but it was probably better to ask. Some people kept their stuff private. Plus, he didn’t exactly want to admit he’d watched the younger the day before. That just sounded creepy.
Namjoon’s face split into a wide grin. He had dimples.
“I do! Do music!” Namjoon was practically bouncing, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. His eyes glowed, even in the shitty light of the music room, and Yoongi couldn’t help but smile back again. It was obvious how excited he was to talk to someone– anyone– about his music, even if it was Yoongi, a stranger he hadn’t known just minutes prior. How often, Yoongi couldn’t help but wonder, did he get a chance to talk about what he loved in the first place?
“Me too,” Yoongi volunteered. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type to–”
He stopped. Namjoon had frozen, smile still in place.
“You know, it doesn’t matter. Sorry.” Yoongi kicked at the floor once, cursed himself. “I don’t know you. It’s not my place to like ‘peg you’ as anything. Hey, what kinda music do you do? Or listen to?”
It was such an awkward bridge, a sore attempt at reconciliation, but it was enough to bring Namjoon’s joy back in full force. Maybe Yoongi hadn’t fucked things up just yet.
“I rap! Hip hop! And uh, I’ll listen to pretty much anything if it’s good? Do you…” Namjoon paused and scrunched up his face. “Do you know Drunken Tiger? They’re one of my favourites!”
“Yeah, I do! Do you know Epik High?”
And Yoongi was excited. It might’ve been stupid getting hyped over something so small but he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and the small flicker of warmth in his chest at the idea of talking to someone who might be able to get it, get him, provide some semblance of company. Was it selfish to think about him that way? Use the possibility of Namjoon to buoy up his spirits, make him feel something akin to progress? Then again, wasn’t that what company, what any sort of relationship was about? What others could do for you?
In the moment, Namjoon’s face seemed like an open book. There was a vulnerable, almost tentative type of joy in the way his eyes crinkled, in the tilt of his head. Maybe, Yoongi thought. It doesn’t really matter.
The next day, after trading numbers, they met in front of the school gate. Yoongi was far from a morning person, but he dragged himself out of bed just a little bit earlier. He didn’t know how often the group of kids bothered Namjoon, but he reckoned it’d be better to get to the gate before them. There was the possibility that they’d simply start bothering him too, but somehow he doubted it.
So he went about his normal everyday routine. He woke up, got breakfast and lunch ready, ate, and then trudged out the door with a yawn. The walk to school passed by in a blurry haze. Namjoon was already at the gate by the time Yoongi got there, and the second he registered the other’s presence, he was ready to head to his first class. Maybe if he got there fast enough there’d be time to catch a few extra minutes of sleep.
“Wait,” Namjoon said as Yoongi turned to go. “We gotta wait for Hoseok.”
“Hoseok?” Yoongi questioned, far too tired to do the math.
“He’s my other friend! I don’t think you’d know him since he’s in my grade…” Namjoon let his sentence trail off with a small hum. “Ah! There he is–” He cupped his hands around his mouth, thumbs beneath his jaw. “Hoseokie!”
Yoongi followed Namjoon’s line of sight to where White Teeth stood, one hand raised in an enthusiastic wave. They waited in silence until Hoseok reached them. Yoongi tried to brush away any remaining nerves in favour of giving the other a stolid peace sign. Hoseok laughed and threw up a peace sign of his own.
“Yoongi, right?”
Caught off guard, Yoongi blinked before puffing his cheeks out into a small smile.
“Yup, that’s me. And you’re Hoseok.”
“I’m Hoseok!” he confirmed with another laugh. Yoongi didn’t think he was that funny, not enough to warrant that many chuckles in such a short time frame (damn, why did people keep laughing at his not-jokes?) but Hoseok seemed like he laughed a lot regardless. Beside him, Namjoon was watching them interact in an almost proud manner. “I had to deal with my schedule again yesterday, but I’ll join you guys at lunch from now on!”
And just like that Yoongi had another friend.
Later that night, he facetimed Taehyung.
Since the break Tae had kept him updated on everything. He talked about the daily shenanigans of his siblings, the latest treat his mom had whipped up, his progress on Candy Crush, even the gossip of the neighbourhood seniors. In return, Yoongi told him about what little he could of Seoul. Even if it wasn’t the grand adventure Taehyung might be expecting he tried to spin as good a tale as he could.
The first day he’d moved Yoongi had offered to help the movers unpack some boxes, but he’d been shooed away. Without much else to do, he’d went for a walk and called Taehyung while he was at it, narrating every new thing he saw. There was a lithe calico cat that liked to sunbathe outside his apartment, a bright convenience store right across the street, a different way of walking to each person that passed by. He’d tried to imitate the new accent. It hadn’t been much of a success but he’d made Tae giggle.
Ever since school started though, they hadn’t been able to call. Texting had dried out a bit too, though the customary “good mornings” and “goodnights” had been present, as well as the occasional picture of a cute animal. It just hadn’t worked out, with Taehyung adjusting to life at high school as well as babysitting his siblings.
In the middle of last period though, Yoongi had received a celebratory text message informing him Taehyung was free at last. Rejuvenated, he’d sent back a single heart and settled back into studying mode, even as his smile stayed in place. For the first time since he’d arrived in Seoul, it felt like he actually had something to talk about.
“Woah, hyung, you did it!” Taehyung gasped as Yoongi quietly recounted the events of the day and the day prior. “I cannot stress how proud–”
“Shut up Tae,” Yoongi said, sticking out his tongue. The younger had evidently just gotten out of the shower. His brown hair was plastered his forehead and there was a small towel still slung around his neck, droplets of water spattered across his t-shirt.
“I mean first you get friends, then you get enemies and the next thing you know you’re partying every night,” Taehyung said solemnly.
“Partying every night? What do you know about partying?”
“Plenty more than you I bet!”
Yoongi gave him a mock glare and settled back into his pillows. It was nice to hear a familiar voice. “The fuck are you implying, huh?”
Taehyung just snickered in response, eyes narrowing into crescents.
“Tell me about high school. You replace me yet?” Tae’s face lit up, and Yoongi settled back into his pillows to listen. He would sleep well that night.
Lunch with Hoseok and Namjoon was always an interesting affair. Yoongi was cautious at first, fearing the worse or at least expecting some sort of awkwardness to ruin the mood, but Hoseok was loud and friendly and kind and it didn’t take long for Yoongi to warm up to the other, to reciprocate, and even start conversations.
The first time they staged an impromptu jam party, he learned that Hoseok could not only dance (with insane bodily control) he could sing and rap decently too. He tried to copy one of Hoseok’s moves jokingly at first, but the third time he completely failed it started to sting at his pride. Eventually, Namjoon had joined in, but even with Hoseok attempting to teach them, they were no more skilled than when they started. It had been the first time Yoongi really laughed in Seoul.
Some days they were loud and obnoxious and other days they were quiet. Yoongi had to focus on school more and more as the days progressed, especially considering it was his last year. There were projects and homework and the dreaded university applications, and so countless lunch periods were spent sprawled across the floor of the music room studying or hunched over at the table trying to get a project done. Sometimes Namjoon gave him tips for English. The younger was so ridiculously good at it Yoongi thought he might even be close to fluent. He himself probably wasn’t the best judge though.
Other times they crowded around a laptop and fiddled with tracks. Hoseok didn’t know much about music production at first, but the more Namjoon and Yoongi talked about it the more interested he seemed to get, delighting in playing with the different sound effects.
Namjoon wouldn’t rap in front of them. He would talk about rap and he would fool around with beats but he wouldn’t rap in front of them, not seriously. On the rarest of occasions, he would approach Yoongi with some bare snippet of a song or nigh undecipherable scribbled lyrics, but the full product was never revealed. Sometimes he updated them on the gist of what he was working on and sometimes he wouldn’t say anything at all.
The first time he went to Yoongi it took a bit before the other boy even understood what Namjoon was asking.
“HiYoongi-ssicanyoupleaselookthisoverIwouldreallyappreciateitfeelfreetonot,” he said in one breath.
“…Huh?” Yoongi squinted at him. Namjoon had bent himself at a 90º angle and clutched a single piece of paper to his chest, but he stood up just bow again. “Namjoon, what?”
“I-I’m sorry!” He said, eyes glued to the ground. “I won’t ask again.”
“Wait, no! I didn’t hear you properly. What did you want to ask?”
Namjoon opened his mouth.
“Slower this time, so I can hear you,” Yoongi reminded him.
“Right! Okay. I have… a thing? Yeah, a thing. And I uh, wrote it but it’s wrong somehow and I was wondering if you could look it over. You don’t have to! Not at all! But it would be nice if you could?”
Yoongi stared at him. He was almost positive Namjoon had broken a sweat.
“In conclusion, thank you Yoongi-ssi.”
And wow. Namjoon was asking him to help him. Help him with something he hadn’t shared before. He was asking him to help him like it was some huge favour, some unimaginable deed, and yet, Yoongi was the lucky one.
“Of course. I’m honoured.”
“Woah, really?” Namjoon’s eyes widened. “Don’t joke.”
“I’m not joking. I really am honoured.” Yoongi laughed softly and smiled. “And don’t be so formal oh my God, just call me hyung.”
So that became a thing. Yoongi didn’t have as much time to write or rap with all the school work, but seeing Namjoon working, seeing the progress and fruits of his effort was invigorating. It was good. There was a rhythm to life, and Yoongi was happy.
By the time April rolled around it was cherry blossom season.
“You’ve never seen them in Seoul, have you?” Hoseok asked Yoongi one day. It was a lazy day, a quiet day, the sky a piercing blue. They’d turned off the lights in favour of drawing back the dusty curtains and opening the windows to let in a soft ruffle of wind– a positive change when compared to the usual stale air. “The cherry blossoms!” Hoseok elaborated upon seeing Yoongi’s blank stare. When he shook his head, Hoseok just smiled widely and bobbled his own head, drummed his fingers against his thighs.
“Is it different here?” Yoongi asked, tilting his head to the side to peer up at the younger. On his back, toes upturned to the darkened ceiling, he resisted the urge to sneeze.
“Not really,” Namjoon answered for Hoseok after a pause, somewhere beside him. “I don’t think it is?” Yoongi snorted.
“Have you even seen Daegu’s cherry blossoms?”
Namjoon leaned over him with a sheepish grin.
“Ew, move over you’re blocking the view,” Yoongi muttered, eyes twinkling. “I don’t wanna see your nose hairs.” He reached up to shove his palm in Namjoon’s face, but the younger just licked it.
“Ah!” Yoongi let out a wounded cry and rolled away from him to bump into Hoseok’s knees. “I’ve been hit!” He whined lowly, cradling his injured hand to his chest.
“Shut up you guys,” Hoseok snorted, swatting limply at Yoongi’s tousled hair. “I’m building up to something big!” With a grunt, Yoongi flipped Hoseok off and rolled away once more, into a sitting position.
“What are you building up to, then?” Namjoon asked, shuffling over till he was on Yoongi’s left. There was a small 4-cm gap between their knees. Yoongi stared at it for a moment before moving to close it with a huff. Namjoon had a habit of hovering, edging closer but never actually initiating contact.
At first, Yoongi hadn’t really noticed. It wasn’t like there was anything missing, and they never engaged in much or any skinship in the first place. Namjoon would go to Yoongi for help with songs and he would tell Yoongi about his existential crises and sometimes he would stare at him with stars in his eyes but he wouldn’t move to touch him. Namjoon would wrestle with Hoseok, sling his arm around his shoulders, occasionally slap his thighs, cling when he laughed. And he didn’t do that with Yoongi. That was cool. Seriously. Yoongi knew it didn’t have to mean a lot, just maybe he wasn’t as comfortable around Yoongi yet or just… didn’t want to touch him, That was cool, that was chill, that was a-ok.
But still, the thought had niggled at Yoongi’s brain and he’d started paying closer attention. Namjoon would scoot close, close, close, close enough that Yoongi could feel his fucking body heat. And then he’d stay there. Namjoon would lift his hand to bring it down on Yoongi’s back or neck or legs. And then he’d stop and retract. He wasn’t even subtle about his retreat either, seemed completely oblivious to the fact that Yoongi could see him.
One time Yoongi had put his hands on Namjoon’s shoulders when they were waiting for Hoseok in the morning. It had been a light touch, just like he’d do to Tae back home. Something casual, something easy to get out of if one wished. Maybe, he’d thought. There hadn’t really been a thought to continue after that.
Namjoon had jolted, stiff as a board, and right as Yoongi was going to move his hands, he’d melted into the touch.
So the idea Namjoon didn’t want to make contact was probably off the table. Namjoon didn’t initiate contact but once he got some he was reluctant to let go. Yoongi was almost tempted to ask him why, just to see if Namjoon was as aware of his habits as Yoongi was, but he didn't. It seemed a bit too private a subject, a bit too prodding an inquiry, and Yoongi had some idea of why anyways. He didn’t like the idea of rejection much either. Instead, he’d made it his own little personal mission to close that gap when he could, the best soundless reassurance he could give.
Namjoon– like always– tensed at first before pressing his knee lightly against Yoongi’s. Yoongi smiled down at his lap. When he looked up Hoseok was smiling too, but he didn’t dare look left and see if Namjoon was doing the same. Instead, he cleared his throat and tugged on an earring.
“Yeah, Hoseokie, What’re you trying to say?”
“Oh! We should go see them!” His grin was wide and infectious. “I know I go every year– so does Joonie– but we should go together! A ‘Seoul welcomes you’ kinda thing.”
Yoongi had never seen cherry blossoms outside of Daegu. Pictures and anime scenes didn’t count. The very thought leaked creeping nostalgia at first, but logically, Yoongi knew that they’d probably still look the same anyway. In any other scenario, he probably wouldn’t be super thrilled, but Hoseok’s enthusiastic urging and the warmth of a knee against his own was enough to light a little spark of excitement.
“Sure. Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “Let’s go.”
The next day they met up in front of the school and travelled to Yeouido Park. The cherry blossom festival itself would start in a few days time, and though not all the trees had blossomed yet, the crisp air and the– blue sky, bluer than ever– made for beautiful scenery. It was easy to walk along the side of the road and lose yourself in the sight of the flowers unfurling delicately in the breeze, nearing white in colour.
They filled the journey to the park with the usual chatter, but once they passed under the trees their words died down into silence. To Yoongi it was almost a sign of reverence or respect.
Most of the others in the park were students like them, but there were also joggers weaving their way through the trees and lots of families going for strolls with pets or picnic baskets. It was all very picturesque, very idyllic: the blanket of serenity that rested over the place.
“What do you think?” Hoseok asked after a few minutes of quiet, eyes shining.
“It’s pretty nice,” Yoongi said, turning his face up to the sun. A different sort of Seoul, he privately mused.
“It makes me want to take a nap,” Namjoon added, punctuating his statement with a yawn. “Can we lie down?”
Hoseok let out a squawk of indignance and slapped Namjoon on the arm, but he persisted.
“C’mon we can still reflect and enjoy! I’m very interested in reflecting and enjoying! It won’t take away from this lovely experience, it’ll only enhance it!”
Yoongi nodded emphatically in agreement. Hoseok narrowed his eyes at them in mock disappointment, even as he angled his path towards the nearest grassy knoll.
“Okay, fine. You guys are just lazy.”
Yoongi snorted. “I’m sorry, it’s just the generation I grew up i–”
“No, Min Yoongi, don’t try to become one of us!”
“Huh? The fuck does that mean?” Yoongi shoved Hoseok into the hill, and he gracefully rolled into a sitting position, hair mussed.
“You’re old. That’s what it mea– oh no.” Hoseok quickly tugged his phone from his pocket as it began to vibrate, smile transforming into a wide-mouthed look of horror. “Oh no, hi Eomma! Forgot to call you!”
Namjoon slumped to the ground and laughed. “You forgot to tell her we were coming here, didn’t you.”
Hoseok slashed his hand across his throat with a mighty scowl and waved goodbye, already backing away. Namjoon just laughed louder and waved back with an exaggerated pout. Yoongi waved too and joined Namjoon on the grass with a sigh, knees knocking as he flopped onto his stomach.
They lay there in silence. There was wind gently sweeping his hair to the side, rustling through the blades of grass, and whistling high above them. Yoongi’s ribs pressed into the ground with each breath. He didn’t go to the park very often, mostly because it was out of his way, but the earthy scent so present now was familiar in a way nothing else in Seoul had seemed before. Yoongi breathed in deeper.
“Yoongi-hyung?” He turned his head to the side to squint at Namjoon and his fiddling hands.
“Yeah?”
“Um. Welcome to Seoul.” Namjoon’s smile was big and goofy and warm, radiant enough that heat rose to Yoongi’s face.
“Thank you,” he said belatedly, after maybe more seconds than acceptable had passed. Yoongi didn’t measure the distance between them, just moved to awkwardly pat at Namjoon’s head before settling back on his stomach. He fell asleep like that, basking in the light of two suns.
“Jung Wheein.”
Slap.
“Min Yoongi.” There was a sharp click of heels, and then–
Slap.
Yoongi glanced down at his paper and sighed. The English test results were back and he’d passed, but he’d forgotten to ask Namjoon for help, and it definitely showed. His mom wasn’t going to be too thrilled. Yoongi’s mood dampened at the very thought. There was no use dwelling on it though, so instead, he pushed the negativity aside and straightened in his seat to stare pointedly at Namjoon. It was useless to ask the other what mark he’d gotten– perfect or at least a high mark no doubt– but perhaps they could make eye contact and Yoongi could get some sympathy.
Namjoon was in the process of patting at his hair and frowning at his paper but after Yoongi had stared long enough, he turned around to his raise his eyebrows at him. Success.
Yoongi quickly rolled up his paper into a tube and slid away from his desk, sending a cursory glance toward the teacher at the front of the room. There was usually an unofficial period of time in which students could discuss their marks, but because of the unofficial status, Yoongi had been scolded before. This time the teacher let him go, and so with a fleeting sense of triumph, he beelined for Namjoon’s desk at the front of the room.
“So?” Namjoon asked. Yoongi booped him on the head with his paper and sat down on the surface of the desk, neatly edging a pencil away from the edge.
“Terrible, awful, horrible, deplorable–”
“And totally avoidable,” Namjoon continued with a laugh. It was a nice laugh. “You’re like actually smart you know? You just need to study more.”
Yoongi smiled but pulled a face.
“Nah, not really. I do need to study more, though.”
“You don’t need to study though, do you?” It was a different person, a boy from the next seat over. His gaze was fixed on Namjoon in an almost accusatory manner, and his hair was swept up in a way that might’ve defied gravity. Yoongi eyed him quietly. He couldn’t remember his name, was pretty sure he’d never bothered to learn it. There was a beat of silence and the boy’s face grew stormy. “Well?”
“Uhm, I do study,” Namjoon said, gaze dropping even as his shoulders rose. “It’s good. Studying. It uh, prepares me for my future you know, so I do it a lot. I’m good at it.” Yoongi frowned. He’d seen Namjoon nervous before. He’d seen Namjoon nervous plenty of times. It was then that he tended to vibrate in place, expend restless energy through the tapping of his feet, the drumming of his fingers, the shifting weight of his gaze. It was hard to catch Namjoon still except for when he was concentrating, and even then Yoongi usually found him humming.
But Namjoon wasn’t moving now.
“You’re good at it. Okay.” The boy laughed, but it wasn’t a very joyful laugh. It just made Yoongi tired all over again.
“Why’re you laughing? Is something funny?” he asked with a tilt of his head. “Why’re you butting into a conversation you weren’t invited to?”
The boy’s eyes hardened, but Yoongi turned around to face Namjoon with a roll of his eyes, paper clenched in his fist. Namjoon was still looking at his desk, face drawn. Something in Yoongi’s chest twanged at the sigh, and he knocked his hand gently against Namjoon’s forehead.
“Hey Joon-ah, wanna come after school? You can give me your wisdom.” Namjoon looked up at him blankly but didn’t say anything, and Yoongi tsked. “I have food?”
Namjoon chuckled lowly. “Sure, okay.”
“Good.” Yoongi said.
“Namjoon-ah,” he prodded from across his doorway, shoes half-toed off. “Are you going to come in?”
“Uh huh,” Namjoon said.
“...Ok.” After a moment of stillness in which Namjoon didn’t move an inch, Yoongi sighed and straightened out his shoes on the mat. Namjoon would come in when he felt ready. Probably. He’d been fine earlier on (had even glowed, with a high flush on his cheeks and a bounce in his steps), but the second they’d began to approach Yoongi’s door he’d clammed up with an almost audible snap of his jaw. The flush was still there but his confidence and joy had all but vanished.
He was still again. The way Namjoon hunched in on himself was alien and too reminiscent of how he’d been in English class. It left a bitter taste in Yoongi's mouth, the idea of Namjoon being anxious or even frightened around him. He didn’t really understand it, not when they spent nearly every minute they could together. Maybe Namjoon didn’t consider them particularly close yet, but Yoongi didn’t think it was that. Maybe he was still feeling down.
“Do you want something to eat or drink? Yoongi dropped his bag at the foot of the sofa and headed for the kitchen, absently cracking his neck to the side. Whatever the reason for Namjoon’s odd behaviour, he didn’t want to push too much, especially when the other seemed so unwilling to vocalize any problem. The only thing Yoongi could really do was try and make him feel as comfortable as possible.
The door clicked shut. Yoongi smiled to himself as the tentative pad of socked feet sounded behind him.
“No thank you,” Namjoon said, voice cracking.
“Are you sure?”
“Uh, actually could I have some water?”
Yoongi laughed and grabbed two glasses from the overhead cupboard. Namjoon didn’t speak as he turned on the tap. He didn’t enter his line of sight either, just hovered behind him like an awkward sort of spectre.
“Here you go,” he said, turning around to hand Namjoon his glass. The other muttered out a thanks and dipped his head once.
“Are you… okay? I don’t wanna like make you feel like you have to tell me but I mean I know something’s wrong.”
“I’m fine,” Namjoon said after a paused, voice firm. “Sorry, I’m just being stupid. About being in your house. It’s a new surroundings thing?” He nodded so vigorously Yoongi wanted to plant a palm on each side of his face and hold him still.
“Okay. Don’t stress it,” he said. Namjoon had been to his house before. It’d just been once, but he Yoongi and Hoseok had hung out on the couch and talked and played Animal Crossing for hours one weekend. Maybe it took a bit longer for Namjoon to get used to things.
“Let’s just go upstairs now? We can I dunno, chill, whatever.”
Namjoon laughed. “What about studying? I thought I was here to impart wisdom. I was also promised food.”
“Wisdom doesn’t have to equal studying,” Yoongi shot back, turning to walk out of the kitchen toward his bedroom. There wouldn’t have been enough room for three teenage boys, but with just Namjoon the fit would probably be alright. “And I should have some food in my room. Unless you want to eat now.”
“Oh. Um right. In your room. It’s okay, I’m not hungry now?”
Yoongi laughed and pushed open the door to his bedroom. “So you demand food but when I offer you’re suddenly not hungry?”
“And what about it?” Namjoon said with a sniff. Yoongi laughed again and flopped down onto his bed. It’d been a long day, and the blankets were soft enough to die for. It probably wouldn’t be polite to fall asleep immediately (he had invited Namjoon over on the assumption that they would actually hang out) but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a small rest.
Namjoon didn’t join him. Yoongi propped himself up on his elbows and scanned his face for any hint of glaring discomfort, but he just seemed a little unsure.
“C’mon, you can lie down.” He shuffled away from the centre of the mattress and patted at the bed until Namjoon sat down to join him, eyes still darting around the room as if he was afraid to stare too long.
It felt like calling to a stray cat, like clicking his tongue and painstakingly waggling his fingers till Namjoon approached. Odd, since Taehyung had often likened Yoongi to a cat, but a source of empathy for all the wrong reasons. Yoongi didn’t quite know what to say. Was there anything to say? Yoongi didn’t like to bother with speaking for the sake of speaking, for the sake of filling the silence. Still, this sort of silence (tense, weighted, terribly uncertain) was in a sense, almost louder, more disruptive than small talk.
There were some things about Namjoon that stuck out for the oddest reasons. Yoongi knew how to count them by heart. It hadn’t been a conscious thing, he’d just started and forgotten to stop. It had been the way he walked, the way he tugged at his shirt, the way syllables dripped from his mouth, and recently– the way he retreated at the wrong words, at any pointed provocation.
There was a question Yoongi wanted to ask, but it wouldn’t be the right one. Not now. He blinked up at the ceiling.
“Namjoon, why’re you so good at English?” The boy in question inhaled noisily and shifted beside him. “I mean, you’re on a whole other level of fluency compared people our age. Or my age?”
“I study.” His voice was soft but there was an underlying steel to it, a sharp edge in the way he flicked his tongue.
“But I study too!”
Namjoon snorted and Yoongi turned to slap him on the shoulder. He settled there, head pillowed on his hands and smiled.
“Shut up. No, but like I study. Other people study. You’re not just ahead, you don’t even really need to be taking English y’know? I’m actually curious, not just trying to get at your secrets or whatever.”
“You…” Namjoon screwed up his face. “Really?”
“Yeah, really,” Yoongi said with a quiet laugh, There was no need to whisper, not with just them in the house, but he found himself lowering his voice anyway. It felt nice to keep things small. There was some unknown appeal in hushed conversations, in simple words that gained mass in the absence of volume.
“Oh, it’s pretty boring. I uh, got into English shows. You know Friends?” Namjoon coughed into the back of his hand. “And I learned from those. My parents wan– well, I’m going to be in business or something later on so English is a good skill to have.”
“So you learned,” Yoongi said. “It’s not that boring. I think it’s cool how people learn things and like develop when it comes to things they’re interested in. It’s not boring at all.”
There was something tugging at his eyelids, a drowsy warmth in his chest that could’ve been the room or something else and Namjoon was quiet again, though this time Yoongi didn’t think it was a bad thing. It would be the perfect time to fall asleep but Yoongi didn’t really want to anymore. Instead, he sat up and pulled off his bulky hoodie, huffing under his breath as it mussed his hair and tugged up his shirt. Cooling down would help. He bundled his hoodie into a makeshift pillow and settled back into his previous position, a bubbling yawn escaping before he could cut it off.
Namjoon hummed softly. The low timbre set off sparks along Yoongi’s fingertips. His gaze dropped to the space between them, the scant centimetres. It was another habit by now, almost a compulsory component of any of their interactions. Yoongi knew Namjoon looked too. A shift of the eyes, a flicker of the tongue, a twitching crook of a finger. Did he look like that? Did Namjoon see?
“Yoongi-hyung?” Namjoon’s eyes were wide and at some point, while Yoongi had been thinking too much, he’d flopped down on the mattress and smushed a cheek into the duvet. He looked young. He looked young with his senseless perm and the little acne scars dotting his cheeks and again, it was easy to wonder if he looked like that too. Who the hell did Namjoon see looking back at him?
“Yeah?”
Namjoon opened his mouth, closed it. It should’ve looked stupid (to anyone else it probably would’ve), but all Yoongi could focus on was the way his lips parted. Huh.
“I–” he stopped as soon as he’d started and dropped his gaze. “I, uh, you… Do you know what you’re doing next year? Where you’re going?”
Yoongi blinked slowly. Senior year had been so far dominated by the presence of Namjoon, Hoseok, and schoolwork. Their grades were to be a top priority for the future and to an extent (for Yoongi had a remarkably short attention span for that which he wasn’t interested in) he’d taken that to heart. Paid attention, worked hard, studied harder, etcetera. And yet there was no dream university. There was no big plan outlined. It was weird, weird that the topic had come up, weird that the topic hadn’t come up before, weird that he’d never thought much about it in the first place.
That’s what you want to ask? Yoongi wanted to say. But knowing Namjoon he’d backtrack immediately and fumble and get bad-quiet again and it wouldn’t even be his fault that Yoongi hadn’t even considered having his shit together. Yoongi couldn’t do that, couldn’t say that.
“No, I guess I don’t,” he said instead.
“Oh.”
“Do you…” Yoongi wet his lips. “Do you have any wisdom for me?”
“Me?” Namjoon sounded almost scandalized at the thought. “I mean I can give you study tips if you want. Or a list of universities and programs?”
“Wisdom doesn’t have to equal studying, remember?”
“Well. Yeah. Of course, but–” he cut himself off, visibly flustered. Yoongi laughed at the sight of his reddened face. Cute.
“Why does it feel like I’m instructing you on how to give me advice?”
“Because you are! Don’t ask me about this kind of stuff.”
“Why not? It doesn’t have to be good advice.”
Namjoon scoffed. “Why would I give you bad advice? Why would you ask me to give you bad advice? That doesn’t make sense.”
Yoongi shrugged. “It’d be your advice. It’d at least be worth hearing, even if it wouldn’t necessarily be ‘good’ or whatever. Just… tell me what you’d tell anyone. Hoseok, your mom, yourself.”
“Okay fine. I don’t know. Just work hard and keep your options open. I bet there are plenty of things or place you’d enjoy, and plenty more you’d be good at.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah!” He was picking up steam. “Like you’re growing. You’re still growing and you’re still learning, you shouldn’t– shouldn’t stuff yourself into a hypothetical role or dream if you aren’t sure yet. Don’t do that for the sake of having to “fight” for or work toward something. You’re like a- an embryonic stem cell. An embryonic stem cell is a baby cell and it goes through the same process as every other embryonic stem cell but at the end of the day it’ll differentiate into any other sort of cell with a specific purpose. It goes through the same basic cell cycle and some types of cells may take longer to form but they’ll still transform into their intended state. They keep on working and sustaining themselves and they don’t rush the process or try to be another type of cell due to like peer pressure or something. That would be stupid of the cell. The cell will work with the surrounding cells the way it’s meant to be working and it’ll have children and those children will do what they’re meant to do eventually! It all works out!”
“Wow,” Yoongi said.
“I know,” Namjoon said. “My analogy had a lot of holes. I think my science facts did too.”
“Maybe so,” said Yoongi. “But no, that makes sense. Thank you.”
“Does it really?” Namjoon said with a wince. “Because it barely does to me and I’m the one who said it.”
“Really. There’s no point in going through all this stress for the sake of feeling on top of things because that won’t really work. I don’t want to like, work hard for nothing but I also don’t want to find something I don’t care about and work hard for it for the sake of working hard. It’s okay for someone to not have a grand goal or to say that what they want (even if it’s not what others want for them) is something small or still otherwise unknown as long as they’re happy. It’s okay.”
“It’s okay,” Namjoon parrotted, except it seemed more like a question than wisdom or reassurance.
Yoongi laughed and then Namjoon laughed and then they lay there grinning like fools. Namjoon’s smile was wide and young and maybe a little bit wise and Yoongi was fond fond fond. If his heart was visible it’d surely be glowing like a blowtorch. Whoever Namjoon saw looking back at him, Yoongi at least knew they were happy.
In the following days, Yoongi looked at Namjoon differently. He didn’t know if it was a crush. Yoongi didn’t want to call it a crush, didn’t want to label it in fear of what would or would not happen afterwards, but it was there and it wasn’t going away.
He could function around Namjoon just fine. That wasn’t an issue. He could joke and talk and touch him per usual, but there was a something tingly in his fingers, in the pit of his stomach whenever Namjoon looked at him. Namjoon didn’t even have to be looking at him. Namjoon could smile or whistle, carry his bag, trip in a weird way, and then Yoongi would light up (internally and unfortunately, externally), feel the glow from his feet to the tip of his nose. Little things.
Namjoon didn’t seem to notice anything different (even if Hoseok and Taehyung did), and honestly, it was nice. Yoongi didn’t want to call it a crush or an infatuation or anything that’d have some sort of criteria, and as such, it didn’t matter if his feelings (whatever they were or weren’t) were returned. There was no crush, no pining, just him, Namjoon, and a coincidental warmth that trailed wherever the latter went.
Yoongi didn’t know if it was a sudden change, didn’t know if it was a gradual change, didn’t know if it was a change at all, but it was good. It was good, they were good.
Until he was late.
Yoongi didn’t make a habit of being late. Back in Daegu, he hadn’t been known for his punctuality, and that had been a given. Back in Daegu, he hadn’t had much use for punctuality. But in Seoul, well– it all felt like a then vs. now type of thing, a constant seesawing of the mind that failed to serve much purpose. Still, the comparisons and the reasons for them were quite constant. In Seoul, Yoongi had to get out of bed and make it to the gate on time because Hoseok lived far and Namjoon was always there early, waiting. In Seoul, he had to get out of bed and make it to the gate on time because Namjoon was always there early, alone.
So when Yoongi– who’d stayed up facetiming Taehyung the night before– stumbled out of bed late, his alarm still blaring, he panicked.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, blearily pulling on pants. Hair tragically knotted, Yoongi yanked on socks, slid into the bathroom, and stuffed his toothbrush into his mouth, phone bouncing in hand as he squinted at the time. Getting ready was normally a blurry affair but this was even more so. Somewhere between his half-buttoned shirt and slice of bread flapping frantically from the corner of his mouth, Yoongi was out the door. He barely remembered to grab his bag before he left.
Maybe he would’ve stopped to wallow in his own disapproval for a while longer but he was still flying on adrenaline.
“Sorry, excuse me, excuse me, sorry!” Yoongi, having slung his bag across his back, dropped the remains of his bread in a nearby trash can and attempted to unobtrusively shove his way through the crowd. Yoongi would make it to class on time but Namjoon would still be alone and the assholes would be there and Namjoon would be alone and he couldn’t be alone. He couldn’t.
“Please move, I need to–” Yoongi pushed hast the last disgruntled group of people and paused.
One of the first things Yoongi had noticed about Namjoon was the way he existed, the ways he did and did not take up space. Namjoon could be loud and quiet, large and meek, open and inspired, observant, and sometimes completely and utterly unaware. The very first adjective that came to mind, though, was tall. Namjoon was tall, and so even with his back against the gate, ringed by the Assholes, Yoongi could see his face shutter close, clear as the blinds of a window.
Ever since he’d become friends with Namjoon and Hoseok, Yoongi had decided he didn’t want to see Namjoon hurt, cornered, or painfully ironically small. With he and Hoseok around, the bullies hovered, but most of the time they didn’t interact. It wasn’t because they were threats. Yoongi knew that. They weren’t the type others would back away from, weren’t the type others were afraid to mess with. It’d just be simpler not to bother them, just be easier not to deal with that.
And that made Yoongi mad.
Because the people who decided it was too much effort to bother him and Hoseok looked at Namjoon, and they didn’t see who Hoseok saw, they didn’t see who Yoongi saw. They only saw– well, Yoongi didn’t know, couldn’t fully fathom. A target? A physical manifestation of their insecurities? An easy way to take out their anger (on the one person who didn’t deserve it)?
Recently the sight of Namjoon had brought warmth, but this time it brought heat, the searing weight of something angry, something heavy in chest tightening dangerously round his heart.
“Move.” With a harsh shove, one of the boys stumbled to the side. “You too. Move .” Another one toppled.
Yoongi planted himself in front of Namjoon and stared coldly at the group, scanning for any signs of immediate aggression. Behind him, there was a surprised squawk. He was tempted to turn around and look, to reassure the other with a smile or a pat on the shoulder or anything at all, but his fingers had curled into fists somewhere in the space between the Assholes and Namjoon and he couldn’t afford to let go of his anger just yet. Instead, Yoongi stood and glared, gaze sharpening when he spotted the boy from English.
“Fuck off.” Nobody moved. Yoongi swallowed, the heat burning his throat dry. “I said, fuck off. Show some sign of comprehension.”
“What? No, we were here first,” English said, face warped by a sneer.
“And I’m here now. Beat it.”
English stepped forward. His hair was still stupid as ever, and it was that fact alone that allowed Yoongi to keep his composure. Before the other could open his mouth again, Yoongi held a shaky finger up for silence.
“I know you’d like to ask Namjoon for help with your homework but he can’t take questions or tutor at this time. He has a very busy schedule. I hope you can understand.”
“Excuse me?” English’s voice was a growl. Ridiculous, Yoongi thought distantly. Yoongi was a wimp through and through but even English wasn’t intimidating. He wasn’t intimidating. He wasn’t.
“Shoo. Go. Begone. Leave. Exit the premi–”
Bam.
There was a moment of silence in which Yoongi stumbled back, and then the surrounding boys broke into riotous song, a discordant mass of jeers that rang oddly in his head because right, he’d been punched. It stung. The side of his face stung and he was cupping his jaw, cupping his cheekbone, patting uselessly as the metallic tang of blood flooded his mouth, dribbled down his bottom lip. It was almost sobering, the pain, but fuck, it mostly just hurt.
“Hyung!”A hand clamped down around his wrist. He tried to tug it away in vain but his face stung like a bitch and his hands were still trembling, shivering. “Yoongi! Yoongi, oh my God, come with me!” It was Namjoon. Right. Namjoon.
It was Namjoon tugging at him desperately and Namjoon that he followed as they shoved their way past the ring of Assholes, and then past all the other assholes who had gathered to watch Yoongi get punched in the face. They went up the stairs and through the gate, into the school and past Yoongi’s homeroom.
Namjoon usually walked fast but this time he walked faster, dragging Yoongi along with an iron grip. His fingers pressed almost uncomfortably against the jutting bone of Yoongi’s wrist. He was in the right position to snap it. Despite that, Namjoon’s lips were fluttering and Yoongi got the sense Namjoon was the one about to break.
The bell rang. Namjoon slammed open a door with a bang and dragged Yoongi along till they were standing in the shadow of a staircase. It stank vaguely of must and their footsteps echoed oddly, so when Namjoon exhaled a shaky breath Yoongi felt the remains of it rattle around, ricochet about his head. Namjoon was still holding onto his wrist.
“Are you okay?” he asked once it became clear the other wasn’t going to speak just yet. It hurt to talk, to work his jaw around the words. Namjoon didn’t show any signs of injury but adrenaline could hide a lot. Even if they hadn’t touched him, you could hurt people without lifting a finger.
But there was only a stony silence and rattling breaths. The inside of Yoongi’s cheek hurt. He’d probably cut it on his teeth.
“Joonie, are you okay? You gotta tell me if you’re injured or hurt.”
Namjoon shook his head and his perm bounced and Yoongi’s head pounded and it wasn’t funny, Namjoon’s hair had always made him chuckle made him smile but it was the farthest thing from funny Yoongi could imagine.
“Are you sure? We should go see the nurse or–”
“Shut up,”
Yoongi shut up with a frown but Namjoon didn’t say anything else.
“Namjo–”
“ I said shut up! Just– just shut up! What the fuck was that? Why would you–” He cut himself off with a sharp jerk of the head and glared at Yoongi with fierce watery eyes. “Why would you do that?”
“Do what?” Yoongi said exasperatedly, eyebrows drawing together. “ Help you? ”
“Help,” Namjoon scoffed. His voice was dry but his eyes were wet and Yoongi couldn’t tell if he looked big or small, tough or soft, fine or not. “You call that help?”
“Yeah, I call that help! What’d you expect me to do? Leave? Let them do whatever they wanted?” Was that what Namjoon thought of him? Was he the type of friend to walk away without a care? Yes, a part of him said, the part that had done it before.
“I expected you to let me handle it myself! It was fine! I was fine! They were just–” Namjoon closed his eyes, visibly attempting to calm himself. “It doesn’t even matter. You got punched in the face, Yoongi! And you’re asking me if I’m fine? That’s not fucking help!”
“That wasn’t anywhere close to fine, what’re you even talking about?” That something in Yoongi’s chest wound tighter, squeezed a laugh out of his chest. “They were just what, huh? They were just gonna, I dunno, steal your stuff and kick you? Just gonna carry out their daily Asshole duties like they always do? Of course I helped! And it was help. Yeah, I got punched, but better me than you.”
“You…” Namjoon dropped Yoongi’s wrist like it burned and took a step back, eyes wide. It was the first time Yoongi could remember him ever initiating contact, and though his wrist carried a faint, throbbing ache, all he wanted was for Namjoon to wrap his fingers around it again. “You know. You knew.”
“I know. Knew,” Yoongi confirmed softly, rubbing at his wrist. “You know I knew. That we knew.”
It was another unspoken thing between him and Hoseok. Yoongi watched over Namjoon in the mornings and during English, and Hoseok watched over him in the classes they shared. Neither left him alone for too long and neither said anything because Namjoon never said anything.
He had to have known, though. With the way they hovered, there was no way he didn’t.
“Fuck.” Namjoon rubbed at his eyes with a sniff and retreated till his back hit the wall. It was dark but there was enough light to reveal the wet shine of his cheeks, how his lips compressed into a trembling line.
Yoongi wrapped his arms around himself to give them something to do, so they wouldn’t hang limply to the side, useless. What now? Approach Namjoon? Yoongi would like to do that, but Namjoon was there and Yoongi was here and what would come after that anyway? Would he give him a hug? Apologize?
Yoongi wasn’t going to apologize. He wasn’t sorry for stepping in.
He wasn’t sorry for stepping in but Namjoon was still curled away from him in a literal, dank dark corner, and Yoongi couldn’t just leave him there.
Slowly, he peeled the soles of his feet from the tiles and walked forward till his eyes met the curve of Namjoon’s chin.
Standing next to Namjoon sometimes made Yoongi feel small, but now there was the urge to get even smaller, to sit down. Yoongi wanted to sink to the floor and hug his knees and listen to the rasp of Namjoon’s voice, the absent tap tap tap of his fingers, the sound his lungs and heart made in tandem. But he couldn’t do that. That’d just be awkward. Not that it wasn’t awkward already but Namjoon was either processing or plain out ignoring him and Yoongi didn’t want to make things worse.
That was a thing he did a lot, Yoongi realized. Something about Namjoon had him walking on eggshells. It shouldn’t have been a new realization but it felt like one. Maybe it was a day of revelations.
“I’m not going to apologize,” Yoongi said, just to be contrary.
Namjoon peered down at him balefully. Perhaps his newfound candour wasn’t appreciated.
“Maybe you won’t apologize but you should be sorry. Now they’re going to notice you.”
“So?”
“So, it wasn’t worth it.” Namjoon was staring him down, more fire than water in his eyes. He was standing in the dark and yet Yoongi could practically see him burn, had the illogical urge to back off in the face of such defiance. It was the boldest Yoongi had seen him, and in another scenario maybe he would’ve felt a hint of pride. Instead, it was it just ironic how what brought out that confidence was Namjoon’s adamance on denying his own value. It was ironic but it was more sad than ironic and more awful than sad.
“It was, though. Even if you can’t see why, it was worth it to me. I felt it mattered so I did something.”
“‘Something’ meaning getting hit!”
“I know! I know I got socked in the face!” The evidence throbbed as he fucking spoke. “But you know what? I don’t fucking mind. It was– is important that I do something. Anything. It’s important to me.” You’re important to me.
There was silence. They were toe to toe and Yoongi didn’t realize he’d stepped forward until Namjoon looked away, jaw set. Yoongi ached. Not just his face. It was his neck, his feet, his back, his swollen heart heaving within the confines of his ribcage.
“It’s important to me. I think it should be important to you too,” he said, voice a near whisper. It was okay that Namjoon wasn’t looking at him as long as he heard. “You’re trying to tell me what to value but it’s my turn now, okay? You should be important to you too.”
“You…” Namjoon’s adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed. “You should go see the nurse.”
Yoongi exhaled and stepped back. There really wasn’t anything more to say, was there?
“Okay.”
“Okay,” Namjoon repeated, straightening. They didn’t touch as he walked past. Yoongi stayed just to stare into the shadow of the staircase, just to breathe. The door clanged shut.
“Hold still,” the nurse said. She leaned forward to dab something on Yoongi’s cheek and he gritted his teeth at the sting, the cotton pad stuffed into his mouth uncomfortably dry.
He’d never been to the nurse’s office before. At least not in Seoul.
It wasn’t anything special though, just a small but neat room with a basic cot and some motivational posters plastered to the wall. A bit too bright for his tastes, definitely boring in any other case, but an adequate distraction from his thoughts.
The nurse swiped at his face again and Yoongi jerked away with a startled hiss.
“Yah! Hold still, I said!” She straightened and propped her hands on her hips. “You should be glad I’m not pushing you on what happened. At least cooperate with me on this. I can’t help you if you keep moving about like that!”
“Sorry,” Yoongi muttered, ducking his head.
“Interrupting my lunch break too,” she clucked. “Just stay put.”
They fell into silence again and as she turned away to pull out some band-aids, Yoongi kicked at the floor and let out a breath. Beside him his phone vibrated, knocking against his leg. It was probably Hoseok.
What had Namjoon told Hoseok? Had he told him anything at all? Maybe it was cowardly of Yoongi to hide at the nurse’s but Namjoon had basically told him to anyway. And he wasn’t the one at fault. Namjoon was the one who’d blown up when Yoongi had defended him. Fucking defended him! It wasn’t something to be mad about, much less fight someone over. Namjoon was just bullheaded and prideful and stubborn and stupid and he couldn’t get his head out of his ass long enough to realize how amazing he was and–
Yoongi got it. He did. It sucked but Yoongi got it, and maybe that was what made his blood burn, what angered him most of all.
“Popular.” The nurse said with an exaggerated nod towards his phone. Yoongi grabbed it, let it buzz against his clammy palm.
“Not really,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing more. Yoongi tilted his head to let her stick on a band-aid. The nurse might’ve irritated him previously with her nosy nagging but it was almost nice to have her bustling presence taking up residence. It was a small comfort at the very least.
“There. All done!” Yoongi gingerly patted at his face. There were two band-aids crossed below his cheekbone, one extending to the line of his jaw. Yoongi was pretty sure he hadn’t bled much, but they were a sort of comfort too.
“Do you have ice?” he asked.
“Ah, right! Yes. Here you go. Now you can move along.” She flashed a grin and Yoongi nodded back at her. He took the ice pack and pressed it to his face, idly swinging his feet against the cot. The phone was still clutched in his grasp but it had stilled for a moment of respite.
He didn’t really want to move. The cold seeped into the lines of his palm, ran down his forearm, spread from his cheek to his neck to the curve of his jaw. It felt good. The nurse tapped her feet, clearly waiting to get rid of him. That was fair. Yoongi sighed and shifted his gaze to where his bag rested at his feet. Okay.
“Thank you,” he said, sliding off the cot. Quickly stuffing his phone into his bag, he slung it across his shoulders and bowed, one hand still holding the ice pack to his face.
“You’re welcome,” she said, already turning away. “Stay out of trouble next time.”
“Always.”
“And kid,” she said as he knocked against the door on his way out, hand numb. “Answer your phone.”
“Yoongi?” Hoseok’s voice was tinny through the speakers but coloured with concern nonetheless. Yoongi could almost picture his face, the way his forehead might fold in on itself. It was enough to make him feel slightly guilty, but it couldn’t really be helped now. Instead, he hummed and snuggled further into his cocoon of blankets.
“Hey.” Hoseok had left 13 missed calls and countless messages. Where was he? Why wasn’t he in the music room? Why was Namjoon acting weird? Did Namjoon know something? Had they fought? Was he sick? Was he okay? Yoongi had head home straight from the nurse’s unwilling to deal with class. Plus, his head still hurt, and he’d spent the time between Namjoon and the nurse curled up under the stairs anyway. There’d be no work done.
Despite his best efforts, his phone had occupied his mind the entire walk home. Was it pressed against his binders? Vibrating useless, lodged between textbooks? He hadn’t checked it, hadn’t even opened his bag again, but it’d been pointless to avoid his phone any longer once home.
“Hyung! Are you okay? You didn’t answer any of my messages or calls! Not a single telepathic cry,” Hoseok stressed.
“Ah… I’m sorry.” There really wasn’t much else to say. Hoseok deserved better but painstakingly reiterating the fight was the last thing Yoongi wanted to do. He was sorry though. There was no doubt Namjoon had been in a bad mood as well, and Yoongi had just bailed on them without a word. It must’ve been horribly tense at the very least. “I’m fine. But yeah, I won’t skip lunch. It won’t happen again.”
“I’m not worried about that, Yoongi.”
“Well then what are you worried about? I told you, I’m fine.”
“Where were you then? If you’re fine.”
“I don’t have to tell you that, Seokkie.” Yoongi tipped onto his side and curled into a fetal position. “It’s not that important, trust me.”
“If it’s not that important, why not tell me?” He sounded infuriatingly calm. Yoongi didn’t say anything.
“Look,” Hoseok sighed. “If you were hanging out with other people–”
“No!” Yoongi interjected quickly, eyebrows shooting up. “No! That’s not it. I swear. I’m not– I wouldn’t just ditch you guys! Oh my God who would I even talk to anyways?”
Hoseok snickered. “You’re right, sorry. I forgot how much of a fucking loser you are.”
“Shut up,” Yoongi mumbled, too tired to come up with anything wittier.
“No, but even though that sounded like it came out of nowhere, it was a legitimate concern! I swear! Namjoon was all weird and moody and grumpy and you weren’t there and I figured maybe you ran off with some people in English never to return.”
“I didn’t even go to English! Don’t worry about that. And if I were to run off with other people, they certainly wouldn’t be from English. I was just…”
Honestly, was there even a point to trying to hide things? From Hoseok ? He wasn’t the type to take sides immediately or jump to conclusions (even if his recent suspicions said otherwise) and he was one of Yoongi’s closest friends, one of the few people in the world that probably gave a shit. Maybe he’d have insight or something. He’d said Namjoon was acting weird, so he at least knew what Namjoon was up to. It was more than Yoongi could say.
“I was just at the nurse’s. Getting my face fixed.”
“Your face fixed? What does that even mean? Did you trip? Did Namjoon accidentally punch you in the face? Someone else?” Hoseok started to laugh nervously.
“Uh yeah. Got punched.”
Hoseok stopped laughing.
“What the fuck. What the fuck Yoongi. Why would anyone punch you?” There was a rustling noise, like Hoseok had run a hand through his hair. “Who punched you? Can I punch them?”
“They were bothering Namjoon again. I ran late and they were bothering Namjoon again so I tried to stop them.” It sounded rather plain when voiced out loud, but there was nothing to dress up. It was such a small and innocuous act of– of what? Kindness? Yoongi hadn’t been motivated by kindness. Yoongi didn’t think he’d been motivated by kindness, anyway. He hadn’t been kind the first time he’d seen Namjoon and he definitely hadn’t grown that much as a person. Maybe it’d been a type of selfishness. A type of frustration? Empathy where there’d been none before?
Hoseok exhaled slowly. “And you went between them and Namjoon.”
“Yeah.”
“And then someone punched you.”
“Yeah.”
"Well. That would explain why he’s been so… off.”
“Really?” he said skeptically. “Does it really? Cuz it all seemed pretty straightforward to me and then he went and blew up in my face. What does it explain? He doesn’t– he just– he– ugh!” Yoongi pitched forward into his blanket and groaned, frustration levels rising again.
“He got all pissy about how I got punched in the face! It’s my face! I did it for him! Why the fuck should Namjoon get to be mad about me getting punched in the face? Reminder, it’s my face, and if I want to let it get punched then I should be able to get punched without him getting all stupid about it!”
A noncommittal hum. “You let yourself get punched in the face? What a power move.”
“And then he acted like he… wasn’t worth it? What kind of bullshit it that? He was all ‘oh don’t make it a big deal’, talkin’ bout how I should’ve let him handle it but–” Yoongi cut himself off, chest heaving. Funny how dealing with Kim Namjoon got him shorter on breath than actually fucking rapping. “You know how he handles it.”
Maybe Yoongi had had no grand motivation. Maybe he just hadn’t wanted Namjoon spitting out blood.
“Hey, I get where you’re coming from. I mean, there’s a reason we’ve been trying to keep them away from him. But there’s also a reason we haven’t really directly interfered, remember?”
Yoongi remembered.
“I’m just saying. Well.” Hoseok paused, and Yoongi almost hated for a second, how calm he seemed to be. All those frantic texts and his excitable nature and he was still more put together than Yoongi, miserably gnashing his teeth in his blanket tomb. “Try to see it from his perspective too. Namjoon has a difficult relationship with pride and uh self-esteem. And…”
“And?” Yoongi found himself almost clinging to Hoseok’s words, his steady brand of reassurance.
“And he cares about you a lot. So much. He cares about what you think, about what you think of him.”
Yoongi’s chest deflated but his heart swelled. “He shouldn’t.”
“He shouldn’t,” Hoseok agreed. “I mean you’re great, you’re amazing, you have I dunno, nice opinions, but he shouldn’t. At least not to the extent where it gets in the way of you two having a decent, actual conversation about your issues.” Hoseok coughed. “Relationship issues.”
“Hahaha,” Yoongi said. “But yeah, sorry bout that. It’s not your job to talk me through my feelings or be the person in the middle. You shouldn’t have to put up with this.”
Hoseok laughed. “No, I shouldn’t. But I don’t think your fight or whatever will last too long.”
“No?”
“No. He was weird and off but it was like a brooding sort of moody. You know how you can always tell when Joon’s thinking? He was thinking. There’s some prime wisdom he’s yet to process or something along those lines. He’ll talk to you, you just gotta give him some time.”
“Okay,” Yoongi said, biting back a yawn. “Thank you.”
“Go to sleep,” Hoseok said. Yoongi’s head felt fuzzy, his skin loose.
“Okay, he said again, letting the phone slip from his hand. “I’ll sleep.”
The weekend was a blessing. Hoseok had said to give Namjoon more time, and honestly, part of Yoongi felt he needed more time too. He needed to do things that didn’t lead to mulling over the same damn questions, chasing the same trains of thought.
So he stayed in his room and studied. He tidied the house, did the dishes, ate with his mother and asked about her day, her work, her experience in Seoul. It’d been a while, too long since he’d sat down and properly talked to her. At first, it’d been almost awkward but he was glad he did it.
He slept in till 10, till 11. He ate lots of snacks, went out to the convenience store and got groceries. He played iMessage games with Hoseok. He lost most of them. He also listened to music.
Yoongi listened to a lot of music. Listening to music made him think about Namjoon, but not in a bad sense, not in the way he wanted to avoid. Avoiding anything that made him think of Namjoon was pretty much impossible and it felt wrong, almost overdramatic to try and stave off thoughts of him anyway. He wasn’t dead or gone, he was just sorting out his shit while Yoongi sorted out his.
So Yoongi went about the weekend and listened to lots of music and thought about Namjoon some of the time, but not all.
He made an effort to reach out to Taehyung as well. They facetimed throughout the day. Sometimes they talked and other times they would quietly study together, the occasional hum or loud scratch of a pencil breaking the silence.
Taehyung had startled at the sight of his face, concerned at first, and then awed at the fact that Yoongi had an actual bruise from actually being punched in the face. Yoongi didn’t tell him much about how he got it but it seemed like Taehyung knew, even after a mere sentence or two. He’d always been rather perceptive. It was hard to hide secrets from Taehyung, but often Yoongi found there was no need for secrets in the first place.
“I’m in a fight,” Yoongi found himself saying Sunday morning. He was hanging half off his bed, staring at the laptop on the floor where Tae was visibly procrastinating. The younger was supposed to be doing math homework but he’d begun to doodle some sort of dinosaur. It might have also been a platypus or a hybrid of the two, but it was hard to tell.
“A fight?” Taehyung didn’t look up, just added an extra eye to his creation. “I thought you finished your fight on Friday?”
“Not when I got punched. I dunno if that counts as a fight. Was pretty one-sided,” Yoongi said, shifting so his chin rested against the edge of the mattress. “I’m in a different fight. With Namjoon.”
“He’s the one you like?”
“Yeah.” Yoongi had never actually told Taehyung he liked Namjoon, but it wasn’t a surprise that he knew. Yoongi wasn’t in much of a position to deny his feelings at this point, and Tae knowing honestly made it easier. Yoongi didn’t know if he would’ve been able to spell it out anyway.
“Are you sure you’re in a fight?” Taehyung let out a soft ah as he put down his pencil and looked at the camera, hair falling into his eyes.
Yoongi laughed, more out of surprise than real amusement. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t seem very angry, that’s all. Maybe contemplative or quieter but nothing super weird.”
“Do I have to be angry to be in a fight?” What emotional requirements did you have to meet before you could call yourself angry? What sort of conversational boxes did you have to tick before a conflict turned to a fight? Yoongi knew anger and yet–
“So you aren’t angry?”
“No, I’m angry. I’m still angry. I just– don’t know?”
“Is the anger the same as it was on Friday?” Taehyung asked. The air whooshed out of Yoongi in one breath. “Have you talked to him since?”
“No, I guess not,” Yoongi said.
“There’s your answer,” Taehyung said decisively, turning back to his masterpiece.
“Right,” Yoongi said, “There’s my answer.”
That night Yoongi dreamed.
“Hey. Are you there?” Namjoon had his eyes closed. His arms were outstretched and his head was completely bald. His scalp had some stubble but Yoongi didn’t really focus on that. Namjoon was wearing their usual school uniform but the buttons on his shirt were done up all wrong. “Yoongi? Hello?”
“Namjoon. Here, I’m here,” Yoongi said, stepping closer.
“Where?”
“Here.” he reached out to grab his hand but Namjoon stepped back before he could make contact, leaving his fingers flapping in the chill air.
“What do you mean? Where are you?”
“I’m right here.” Yoongi tried to grab him again but Namjoon flickered and then vanished. Something cold cracked over Yoongi’s head, trickled down the back of his neck, and then ran around the base of his throat, dripped down onto his collarbones. He didn’t have a shirt. Maybe he didn’t have clothes at all but Yoongi didn’t really focus on that.
“Hey. Are you there?” Yoongi spun around and saw Namjoon again. He was standing right in front of him, eyes closed. His arms were outstretched and his head was completely bald. Logically he knew Namjoon had hair, but he couldn’t picture him with hair anymore. “Yoongi? Hello?”
And then everything was white, just like that. It was hard to open his eyes properly, much less focus on Namjoon.
“I’m here. Can you come to me?” The light shifted, It was one big movement, a heaving wave of shadow washing over everything before settling back to white. There were colours blooming behind Yoongi’s eyelids. His head hurt. His stomach turned once then twice then once more.
“I’m trying, but it’s hard.” The light shifted again.
Yoongi tried his best to open his eyes but the light was closer this time. He could see the shape of Namjoon through the glare, see the imprint of his feet, his long legs, the vaguest suggestion of his hips, but his face was completely covered. He was so bright, but suddenly it hurt more to close his eyes than keep on looking. The light emanated from Namjoon’s hair. Namjoon didn’t have hair– that Yoongi was certain of– but it came from his hair nonetheless.
“You’re bright,” Yoongi said.
“I know,” Namjoon said back. “It’s the hair. Sorry.”
Yoongi woke before his alarm. He was sweaty– abnormally so– and there were only thin stripes of sunlight peeking through his blinds. The rest of the room was dark, and though he had his blankets pulled up to his chin, there was a lingering chill to the air. The sheets were clinging to his heels, pressed into the fold of his knees. It was easy to be aware of himself. The shivering rush that scraped through him, the press and weight of his thighs around his sticky hands, the dry hair tickling at his forehead.
Could he stay home? The weekend had just passed but he already missed the freedom it had afforded him. There’d been a lightness to his mind he lacked now. Would staying home do anything to help?
Yoongi inhaled deeply and squinted at his window.
It wouldn’t.
And so he got ready for school. There was no struggle to stay awake, no rush for the toothbrush or the door. Instead, there was the rustling of his pants, the soft thud of his feet against the floorboards, the sound of his breath cutting through the cozy gloom. His mom stirred in the next room over. Yoongi quickly fixed up an extra bowl of noodles and set it on the dining room table as he slurped up his own.
Yoongi’s bag was lighter today. He’d managed to neatly organize his papers the night before, had emptied out all the crap packed into his bag. The door clicked shut behind him, and he only fumbled with his key for a second or two before setting off. The sun was already high in the sky. Yoongi basked in the sunlight as it soaked through the thin fabric of his uniform, laid a warm palm atop his head. There was no music today.
Everyone was far away. The cars and buses raced by and Yoongi could hear their roar, their honking, the faint shouts of complaint as they overtook one another. He fell in with the crowd and kept his hands in his pockets, eyes on the bowed head in front of him. Another car honked.
“Yoongi-hyung!” It took a moment for the words to even register.
“Huh? Ho–”
“Come with me!”
Hoseok grabbed ahold of his arm and pulled him to the gate with a huff. His hair was a mess (defying gravity on one side, oddly flattened on the other), his bag hung precariously from one shoulder, and though his mouth was tense, there were traces of something like toothpaste at the corner of his lips. Had he just woken up? He was early.
“Hoseok… what?”
“Sorry!” The other boy laughed and pushed his hair back from his face with a long exhale. “I didn’t mean to be so aggressive, it just kind of happened.”
Yoongi snorted. “It’s fine. But why?”
“Oh! You gotta stay here. Don’t go in yet.”
“...Why?”
Hoseok flashed his teeth and put his hands on his hips. “We gotta wait for Joonie! Don’t go in yet.”
Yoongi flinched at the words and eyed Hoseok warily. He was obviously up to something, but he wasn’t even trying to be subtle. Instead, there was a familiar steel to his haze that told Yoongi all he needed to know: he wouldn’t be leaving till Namjoon got here.
He didn’t necessarily have any huge objections to that, but it was an anxiety-inducing prospect.
“When I said that you don’t have to deal with our issues I meant it.”
“I know,” Hoseok said. “But I’m just helping him out. Trust me. I’m just here to make sure you don’t run away.”
“He wants to talk to me?” He didn’t even bother to hide the hopeful lilt to his voice.
Hoseok just levelled him with a nasty glare and Yoongi ducked his head, the beginnings of a smile starting to creep across his face.
“Joonie! ” Yoongi spun around to face the crowd at Hoseok’s shout, heart thumping in his chest. Where was he? People kept flowing along but Namjoon’s familiar head of hair was nowhere to be seen. Yoongi swallowed thickly. He spared Hoseok a glance and saw that he was still waving. What?
A lanky arm rose out of the crush of people and–
What the fuck.
Namjoon was there. Hoseok hadn’t been waving to the wrong person or playing some distasteful prank. Namjoon was there and he was standing tall and waving back and walking towards them and his perm was gone.
It shouldn’t have shocked Yoongi as much as it did. Namjoon was not his hair and his hair was not him and it was just a simple change in appearance. It was just a change of hairstyle, and yet every memory, every image Yoongi had of Namjoon was tied to his perm. It had naturally become a fact of Namjoon. Namjoon was tall, Namjoon had dimples, Namjoon was smart, Namjoon was passionate, Namjoon was big and small in the best sort of way, and Namjoon had an objectively terrible perm.
Except… that wasn’t it anymore. That wasn’t right, that didn't line up with the new reality, and Yoongi could only gape.
So fixated on the space above Namjoon’s head, Yoongi almost missed the group of boys trailing behind him.
“Hoseok,” he said, eyes glued to the approaching figures. “They’re back.”
It was pathetic. They were pathetic, and yet the sight of them filled him with a familiar dread, the rage that curdled inside him almost a friend. They were pathetic and yet Yoongi was scared. How did you dress up fear?
Hoseok sucked in a breath. “It’s okay.”
“Okay? ”
“He can handle it, remember?”
Yoongi did remember. He remembered the way Namjoon had curled in on himself, remembered the way they had sneered, remembered the way his voice had trailed into nothingness, remembered the way he’d looked clutching at his bag that very first day.
But he also remembered the way he’d felt the first time he’d heard Namjoon rap, remembered the way he’d said “wisdom”, remembered the way his eyes had wavered in the shadow of the staircase, the sharp crack of his voice: Why would you do that? Help? You know?
So Yoongi clenched his fists and kept his eyes on Namjoon. He watched as one of the goons went to sling an arm around Namjoon’s shoulders, watched as Namjoon shrugged him off without a second glance, watched as Namjoon kept on walking. Yoongi watched as Namjoon waved again, followed his path with his eyes as he stopped in front of them with a hesitant smile. He scratched the back of his neck. It was such a familiar action Yoongi felt the impact of the metaphorical sucker-punch in his gut.
“Hey,” Namjoon said.
“Hey,” Yoongi said back.
“Can we…” His voice was still perfect. “Can we talk?”
They were back at the stairwell. It was inexplicable, the way in which Yoongi wanted to cry.
“I’m sorry,” Namjoon said. He was speaking to the floor, bent over in a bow. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, rising to look Yoongi in the eyes. Remorse tugged at the sides of his mouth. Yoongi couldn’t stop staring.
“I’m sorry too. I’m not sorry I stepped in but I’m sorry I didn’t… at least try to see where you were coming from.” He was sorry. It had been easy to be mad at Namjoon, but blaming him had been far from the right way to go about things. It wasn’t his fault, Yoongi knew now.
“No! Thanks, but don’t apologize. Not right now anyways? I just– just wanna get this out.”
Yoongi nodded once.
“I’m sorry for being stubborn and getting mad at you for, well, helping me. I wouldn’t,” Namjoon scrunched up his face. “I wouldn’t have dealt with it in the right way then. And you got punched for me.”
Yoongi laughed softly and Namjoon joined him.
“You were still stupid for doing that but I was even stupider. And I… thought a lot. About what you said. I thought a lot about what you meant and I thought about what I wanted it to mean and about, I don’t know, how I was really dealing with stuff.”
“Did you think about value?”
“I thought about value,” Namjoon said with a nod. He had a sad smile, a knowing smile, a smile that could rival the sun.
“And then?”
“And then I uh, got a haircut.” Namjoon waved his arms vaguely around his head as if afraid to touch. Another laugh bubbled out of Yoongi’s chest, some of the pressure deflating.
“It looks good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” It did look good. It looked really good. The first time Yoongi had seen him he was too focused on the absence of the perm to realize what the presence of the new hair meant for Namjoon’s face. Now, though, there was plenty of time to observe.
His hair was straight now, parted in such a way that a section fell across his forehead. It was still cropped near his neck, but it was fluffy. His hair looked fluffy and he looked good. It made him look softer yet older. It made Yoongi want to swaddle him in blankets and kiss him senseless.
“I…” Namjoon licked his lips and Yoongi followed the motion as subtly as he could. “Are we good?”
“We’re good,” Yoongi confirmed, stepping closer with a small smile. “We’re also pretty dumb."
“What do you mean?” Namjoon was blushing, his cheeks tinged the prettiest sort of pink. With Yoongi so close he had to look down to meet his gaze, eyelashes quivering.
“You’re amazing. I hope you know that. You’re so fucking amazing, and I wanna make it clear that when we fought, it was because you didn’t seem to see it. I don’t wanna invalidate how you felt, how you might feel, but that was dumb of you.”
“Oh,” Namjoon said. “And what about you?”
“Me?”
“You said ‘we’re’ dumb.” His voice wavered and Yoongi giggled. “Aren’t you dumb too?”
“I guess we’ll see.” Yoongi took one more step. “Can I ask you a question?”
Namjoon nodded jerkily and wet his lips again. Yoongi didn’t even try to hide the way he stared.
“Namjoon-ah, can I kiss you?”
“Yeah,” he breathed out, eyes wide and full of wonder.
So Yoongi slid a hand along his jaw, cupped the back of his neck, and rose onto his tiptoes to close the distance, to kiss him.
At first, their lips barely brushed, a butterfly kiss. Yoongi nosed lightly against Namjoon’s cheek and felt him shudder, felt the faintest exhale against his skin. The second time he pressed their lips more firmly together and let his eyes flutter shut, felt the warm drag of Namjoon’s lips against his own. Namjoon smiled into it and then pulled back to kiss him again, to gingerly slide his palms about Yoongi’s waist and then he was pressed against Namjoon, sharing breaths with Namjoon, wrapped in Namjoon, and Yoongi melted: the thud of his heart in time with the buzz of his lips, the tingling warmth that followed the curve of Namjoon’s fingers.
“That’s okay?” Yoongi asked breathlessly, knocking his forehead against Namjoon’s. Namjoon smiled wide and trembling and reached out to intertwine their fingers, already leaning in again.
“That’s perfect.”