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It’s the little things, he thinks, the little things that he’s learned to -- tune in to. Looking back at the hours and the minutes, the soft wash of pale-cloud-bank sunlight against yellow-quilted comforters, the whisper of conversations from the three-table coffee shop on the northeast corner of the block, the rattle of someone’s distant radio blaring out the morning news.

Little things like -- the long mismatched rows of repurposed teacups lining the windowsill and the shelves beneath it. Holes and cracks and broken handles and chipped saucers, the soft ashen brown and gray of potting medium, the scattered out-of-place pieces of pumice. Rounded corners against the spikes and spines, succulent leaves in many strange and pretty shades of green, and -- oh, he wonders if today’s the day for the littlest ones to start blooming. Spike-shaped buds sticking themselves out into the warmth of the morning, their uppermost corners slowly unfurling. Hints of five petals, of bright flower-eyes.

Little things like -- the books piled onto the nearest desk he can see. He remembers -- the food stalls placed well and cautiously away from the tables and overflowing boxes. A food market next to a book market, and people wrapped in scarves to fight off the last of the sharp snow-scented winds, now that spring is well on its way, and -- hands combing, sifting, selecting. Leatherbound old volumes and their beautiful elegant typefaces; creased and loved paperbacks tumbled together; the thrill of spotting a complete set of Yoshimoto’s books even if they had all been different editions from different printers. Complete, nonetheless, and two more pairs of arms to help him haul the whole thing home, and he’d dropped the books into a disordered stack, spine-printings in a soothing mismatch.

Little things like -- nearly two dozen pop-culture figures arranged like an admiring crowd, like a colorful little audience, on top of the upright piano in the corner opposite the windows. No respect in that huddle, no rhyme or reason, superheroes all mixed together and the occasional cartoonishly leering villain. Primary colors popping against the plain wallpaper, against the weathered grain of the wooden frame -- so of course his eyes are drawn to the pale-golden fennec perched right on the exposed keyboard. Its head is tilted so it looks like it’s listening for nonexistent music, and he thinks he’ll have to break the little habit he’s forming, of rubbing his thumb over its head, over its pretty black-button eyes.

And little things that he can’t necessarily see. Instead he feels them, in soothing small vibrations, and so he drags himself out of warmth, out of sleep, and he reaches out for the nearest source of those feelings, of those sounds. A slow melody, deep lilt, low in the belly and low in the bones. It might sound different, at cypher-speed, or it might never be intended for spitfire verses -- he won’t know until he asks and he doesn’t really want to, not and lose the haunting quality of it, a soothing kind of drone.

So he contents himself with making contact with -- warm skin and blanket-creases, and he frowns at the edge of a bruise and finally hauls himself upright to -- check. “Seok,” he says, coughing around the drowsy rumble of his own voice. “Still got this?”

“Doesn’t hurt any more.”

He does regret that the hum has to go away. He settles for leaning toward that offered shoulder instead, temple pressed to bare skin, because Hoseok is weird and likes to sleep in tank tops even when the nighttime weather forecasts talk about the possibility of -- fog, at least, or rain and cold breezes. Hoseok throws off warmth and the smells of movement, the smells of practice-spaces, and he presses a kiss to the shoulder-end of Hoseok’s collarbone, in appreciation.

“I’ll be careful, hyung,” he hears Hoseok add, after a moment, after the weight of Hoseok’s arm snug and bracing around his own shoulders.

“Jiminie’ll kill you first if you hurt yourself now,” he drawls, rubbing at his nose, trying to get around the slight feeling of clog in the right side of his face. “And then he’ll do me a favor and bring you back from the dead so I can have a turn.”

Snort of laughter that isn’t Hoseok’s, responding, and the dip and creak and wheeze of the bedframe as it gives beneath one more weight. One more presence, one more source of little things to figure out: which in this case is two hands wrapping around one of his, and he doesn’t have to open both eyes to figure out what’s driven Namjoon from this bed. The vivid stains all over his fingertips are the dead giveaway, because he’s stopped being content with workaday blue and black ink in his pens and now he’s taken to filling the pages of his notebooks in markers. Ideas taking shape, flowing out of the deep well of him, in colorful reckless strokes.

“Yah,” and he turns his cheek in Namjoon’s direction, expectant. The kiss he gets smells a little like peppermint tea and a little like the pillows still scattered around them, in shadow-soft heaps. “What was it this time?”

“Good dreams,” is the quiet answer, and then there’s a series of grunts and shifting noises and Namjoon more or less ends up sprawled across his lap and Hoseok’s, taking up the available space against limbs and joints and languid warmth. “I’ll think about some of it. There’s a song in there somewhere.”

“There’s always a song somewhere in you,” and Hoseok beats him to the fond comment, beats him to the kiss as well, that lands in the snug corner between Namjoon’s mouth and the plane of his cheek. “And you’re all sorts of places. All sorts of songs.”

Blush, that he reaches out to, tracing the other cheek and then up to the pulse that he can feel, gently keeping time at Namjoon’s temple. “I’ll look forward to it, Joonie.”

Somehow they all -- slide closer together, time passing syrup-slow in this morning and he has to try and remember why, and then he grins to himself when it comes back to him. There’s a sort of short holiday-ish break going on -- maybe five days isn’t that much when it comes to going on vacation but he knows every single one of the others has taken the opportunity and run, four bright grins scattering after the night of a showcase, after the night of Yoongi debuting a new recital piece and also something very much like an art-song. Something inspired by Sassoon, and -- he looks at Namjoon now and smiles and shakes his head because -- what are the actual chances he can convince him to get into the entirety of that performance?

“When you smile like that I feel like I need to run. And I feel like I need to sit the fuck down and wait for you to do something good,” he hears Hoseok say, and that’s nothing if not an invitation and he’s laughing, huffing it softly against his throat and the stretched neckline of his shirt -- he sways so easily into Yoongi, eager and sweet and invited. Moving with him like he’s water, like he’s flowing wind, warming and warming even as he moans very quietly. Sound caught in the back of his throat.

And in counterpoint, Namjoon, smiling. Saying, “Could watch you two all day.”

“We’ve got that don’t we? Don’t we?” Yoongi mutters, coming at him next, smirk brushed against Namjoon’s fluttering eyelids and then pressed into an equally lingering kiss. How easy it is to make him yield: the same mouth that unleashes torrents of words, wild wicked verses, giving in to him. Falling open, leaf-scented, and he takes his time, nips and teases, drinking in the deep bass of Namjoon’s sigh -- and he grins down at him, unrepentant, because Namjoon’s on the pillows and closest to the headboard and that’s exactly where he wants him.

“Hey, what about me,” and then Yoongi laughs, softly, as Hoseok shoulders into his space. Loud smacking sounds all over his head and the flyaway tangles of his hair, that he’d had to dye back to black for his showcase and he deeply, deeply envies the other two. Hoseok’s abiding redhead glory, darker now, with several shades of copper interlaced into the brightness; Namjoon’s nearly white, brilliant now that he’s in a patch of sunlight.

Hoseok is making chewing noises against his throat and Yoongi gives in to the helpless cackle of him, pushes at him so he’s on Namjoon’s other side, so he can smack those same comedy-kisses against Namjoon’s ear and cheek and neck and shoulder.

Which -- doesn’t last, not really. Again, the little things herald the change. The two of them bumping noses -- blinking at each other wide-eyed in the slanting morning-glow -- the thought that must pass through Namjoon’s head, whatever it might be that makes him shiver. Hands coming up to hold on to Hoseok, curved against the lines of his jaw, pulling him into a long sigh of a kiss, the wet sounds of them humming as they catch each other’s breaths.

Yoongi smiles, sneaks his hand up beneath Namjoon’s t-shirt, strokes upward and in circles at the same time. Counting up the shapes of his ribs, left-side warmth and the hammering rhythm of his heartbeat, that gets him a groan and a sloe-eyed hiss, almost like a question. “What.”

“Keep going,” he says, and then he’s fitting himself against Namjoon’s back. Weight pressing him forward into Hoseok, and the immediate tangle of their legs knees feet. His hands wandering, eventually, pulling and twisting against stretched fabric so he can play with Namjoon’s chest, hot hard points of his nipples and the heave of slowing-down needing breath.

He’s also aware of Hoseok’s smile, that turns greedy and knowing -- he knows immediately what he’s trying to do when Namjoon freezes in the now-joined circle of their arms. Shaky words. “Trying to kill me?”

“Doing our best,” and Yoongi hooks his chin over Namjoon’s shoulder, eager to watch: tongue and teeth teasing, down down, and Hoseok’s eyes nearly slitted like he’s really enjoying himself -- and that’s before he pulls Namjoon’s shorts away, down his legs and Yoongi finishes the gesture with his feet, kicks the garment free, without ever taking his eyes off of them.

He feels the groan that shudders through Namjoon, really, all the way into the heat building somewhere in his gut, the pleasant fire of it that claws at his skin from the inside. The abortive lift of his hips, the way he’s nearly fighting to stay still, stay where he is, and -- Hoseok going down on him, taking him all the way and making it look easy, and Namjoon’s heart pounding beneath Yoongi’s hand.

“Look at him,” he mutters, after a moment, “you know he wants you watching him.”

“Are you trying to make me come?”

He laughs, licks a long stripe up Namjoon’s neck, gets his teeth into the sensitive spot behind Namjoon’s ear. “Well. Eventually. Yes.”

“Not too soon,” trailing off into a whine.


Yoongi pets the movement of Hoseok, deliberate, hair coming disheveled and tears springing from the corner of his eye. “Pretty.”

“Too much.” Namjoon does not sound like he’s complaining -- but just to make sure, Yoongi slides his other hand over the small of his back -- stops right above the curve of his ass, and pinches, hard, at his spine. Nails in play.

The shout that bursts from Namjoon’s throat almost echoes around them -- but it’s Hoseok’s voice he hears, pulling off and sounding wrecked and getting undressed. “Fuck -- ”

He’s only almost clumsy in bed, looming closer, biting harshly at Yoongi’s mouth -- so Yoongi grins back, licks at his lips before pushing him away. He’s the last to strip, and when he looks back Namjoon’s got his hand on Hoseok and is stroking him off, deliberate pace that doesn’t change, not even when Hoseok punches him weakly, fist banging against Namjoon’s shoulder. “Come on, come on -- I need -- ”

“Yeah? You didn’t want to be nice to me,” Namjoon is saying, breathy fierce, and Yoongi catches his breath as though he’s the one being touched, watching as Namjoon adds a familiar twist of his wrist into his movements. “Why should I be nice to you?”

No answer, just smaller and smaller groans.

“Namjoon,” he says. Pause in the action, just long enough for Yoongi to fit his hand around Hoseok’s cock as well. Hoseok is almost sobbing as he thrusts into their combined grip, wet with precome, smoother and smoother glide until he -- stops himself.

Stares at them both. Wrecked question. “Please?”

He whispers to Namjoon: “What do you think?”

Quirk of his eyebrow. The long-drawn-out tease of pretending to think it over, and then he doesn’t answer -- just moves his hand -- therefore moving Yoongi’s hand too. Tight around Hoseok and it’s a matter of a handful of strokes before he comes, mouth wide open, and the harsh sound of exhaling against Namjoon’s throat.

“Fuck,” he hears Hoseok sob, as he curls in on himself. Flush that clashes wildly with his hair, and the grin that reappears on him, dazed now.

“You?” His attention is claimed by Namjoon, then, and Yoongi returns his earlier gesture, though he knows he’s nowhere near as elegant when he raises his eyebrow. “How do you -- ”

He taps Namjoon’s mouth, by way of answer: and then they’re both laughing softly as they get into position, his knees bracketing Namjoon’s head on the pillows and the relief of -- sinking into his mouth, and Namjoon’s taking him so well, he’s suddenly way too close to his edge --

Nod, when he looks down: still he’s careful as he fucks Namjoon’s mouth, still he keeps things controlled until he can’t hold on to it any more, until he has to close his eyes and now he’s starting to see lightning-flashes and oh, gods, Namjoon is humming around him, so low so good --

He doesn’t want to know what kind of noise he makes this time, as he comes down Namjoon’s throat.

Hands on his hips, pulling him away gently, guiding him up against Hoseok’s chest and -- “Waiting for an invitation?”

Little things, little things. The daze of it, watching Namjoon go dark red in the cheeks as he takes himself in hand, short hard fast strokes, and Yoongi doesn’t know where he gets the coordination to lean in, to bite at Namjoon’s shoulder -- and Namjoon comes with a loud gasp, shaking and shaking against his mouth.

Cleanup is slow and clumsy, and after it’s been half-managed he bears Hoseok back down into the pillows, and yanks Namjoon in too. “Sleep.”

“Still have practice later,” but Hoseok sounds half-hearted about it.

“Don’t go,” he hears Namjoon mutter. “Both of you.”

“Where am I going?” But he’s not sure he gets all the question out: he’s stuck on the kiss that Hoseok is pressing to his forehead. He’s stuck on Namjoon’s arm settling heavy and welcome around his waist. Little things, like the two of them grabbing at each other, closing in around him and that’s all he wants, they’re all he wants.